Free Puppet On A String by Lizbeth Dusseau Page A

give them.
           Funny, how deprivation changes the mind about a lot of things. Judgments cease. Longings take new forms. Any sort of touch can be welcome. And small favors – a bite of fresh baked bread, a stolen sip of wine, the scent of sweet perfume, a breath of fresh air – this was what she lived for.
     
    Then one day…
          
Shelby
was marched from the cell by two guards and was taken to the shower room. She’d been there before when they blasted her with hoses, and laughed at the way she danced frenzied and screaming as alternating bursts of hot and cold water exploded against her skin. Just as before, one of the guards took pleasure in roughing her up with soap. Before, the scent of it had been foul and the smell lingered on her body for several days after. This time, the soap smelled of lilacs and honeysuckle. The heady scent seemed to tap an endorphin all its own and she smiled, cheered for the first time since her captivity began. This was a sensuous surprise to enjoy, though undoubtedly it was only meant to taunt her with a promise that would be left unfulfilled. Such scents were for lovers to savor and there was no lover to savor the sweet scent of her flesh.
           Before, when she showered, she’d been left to drip dry in her cell. This time she was handed a large scratchy towel and told to dry herself. Then there was scented cream to rub into her skin and a comb to smooth the tangles from her hair. The soft wavy hair framed her face when she was finished and for the first time in days, she blushed as the guards gazed at her nude body. Was she even more appealing to them now?
           “Here, put this on,” one of them handed her a dress: a bright print with a collage of colors vivid enough to shock her eyes. After so much gray in a long series of foggy days, she’d wondered if the world had turned black and white. She was thankful to see that it had not.
           The dress was small, covering little of her flesh. Her breasts were pressed so tightly against the fabric that her nipples poked out like bullets, while the short hemline had her honeysuckle scented pussy peeking out from underneath.
           “And these.” The same guard shoved a pair of red high heels into her hands. “He wants you wearing these. And you’d better walk like a whore.”
           “Who wants me to walk like a whore?” And how does a whore walk?
           “Don’t ask questions. You’ll have your answers when you get there.”
           “So Jessup’s prostituting me tonight. Is that it?” she sarcastically bit off. Buoyed by the normality of dressing in real clothes, she took a chance with her haughty retort. “I always figured it would wind up like this.”
           “You’re wrong,” the guard answered curtly. “And don’t even talk, unless you want to get slapped around again, or you want to be gagged.”
           “Sorry,” she replied, having been immediately reminded of her status in this house of horrors. She sheepishly bowed her head in shame, knowing this was exactly what they wanted to see, and it was easy enough to give them.
           Then they marched her down the hall, the pretty prisoner with her fresh-washed hair and fancy flowered frock and tall high heels. Walk like a whore. She did her best, bouncing her hips back and forth, letting her lips part like a sexy runway model’s. They should have given her lipstick to paint her mouth and mascara for her eyes if they wanted her to be a whore. But maybe this was good enough.
           A few corridors here and there, enough for her to lose her way, and she was shoved into a room, almost stumbling on a carpet so thick that her heels sunk in a good half inch. She righted herself and peered at the bewildering sight of a living room, chairs, a sofa, tables that looked like vintage 1950. Mid-century lamps were lit around the room, casting a yellow fog of light over everything