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“I know.”
“And you’ve drugged my breakfast.”
“Yes.”
He looks at the plate, then at the coffee. “With what?”
“Something milder. It’ll make you tired and slow. I want you awake today. You need to meet Jamie.”
His gaze stays on the tray. I know what he’s doing. He’s deciding whether refusing is worth whatever happens after he refuses.
“It isn’t optional,” I tell him.
He sits quietly for another few seconds before asking, “Does Jamie eat it too?”
“He takes his pill himself now.”
Oliver looks at me for a long time. His eyes move from my face to the shocker on the table and then to the breakfast.
I don’t hurry him. He’s allowed to think about it. Thinking isn’t disobedience. Refusing after he’s finished thinking will be.
Eventually he stands. He’s steadier than he was last night, although there’s still a little stiffness when he closes his bandaged hand. When he reaches the bed, he looks down at the tray without touching anything. “How long will you drug me?”
“Until I don’t.”
He doesn’t like that answer. Dolls aren’t required to like anything.
Oliver eats the eggs, then some of the toast, and drinks half the coffee while I put away the shocker and choose his clothes.
I don’t take long. Dark trousers and a green shirt. I consider a sweater, but I want the shirt today. I set both on the bed with clean underwear and socks.
Oliver watches me do it. He finishes another piece of toast and leaves two strawberries on the plate. Jamie didn’t eat enough his first few days either. New dolls are often fussy eaters.
When Oliver puts down his fork, I take the tray and set it aside. “Get up.”
He does.
“Sleep pants off.”
His eyes move to me before he hooks his fingers into the waistband. “You’re staying.”
“Yes.”
He looks at me for another moment. I wait. He steps out of the pants, picks them up, and folds them once before putting them on the bed.
I take my time looking at him.
Oliver stands perfectly still, chin level, eyes on mine. He thinks stillness belongs to him.
I circle him slowly. I touch the places clothing usually hides, the line of his spine, the inside of his thigh, the silver bar through his nipple. When I come around front again, his cock hangs heavier than it did before.
I haven’t stroked him. I’ve only looked.
Oliver becomes even stiller.
I close my hand around him and hold it there until his body gives me another secret. “You may put on your underwear.”
He puts them on. I hand him the trousers next. He waits until I tell him before he steps into them and fastens them.
