Her thumb strokes you again, slow and deliberate now, not testing anymore but claiming. The pad of her skin is so warm it almost burns, ridged and soft at once, dwarfing your whole torso. Her pupils are blown wide, her mouth parted slightly as if she’s thinking a dozen things at once.
She glances over her shoulder. The line of riders is distracted, laughing and splashing at one another, no one looking closely at her hands. The noise of the park roars all around but up here it feels like you and her are in a bubble.
“You’re alive,” she whispers, a rush of breath washing over you. “A little person. In my hand.” Her lips curve, the smile darkening. “And nobody else knows.”
She turns slightly, cupping you in both palms now, hiding you from view. The movement jostles you; you tumble against the crease of her hand and her fingers close reflexively around you. Five walls of warm skin press you in, soft but immovable. The faint scent of coconut lotion and sun-warmed skin fills your lungs.
Her voice is low, a secret rumble. “You’re mine now. My little secret.”
Her thumb rises and traces your face. It’s a mountain of flesh, the pressure feather-light but still enough to pin your head against her palm. “Don’t be scared,” she says, though her eyes sparkle with something between hunger and fascination. “I’ll take care of you.”
You twist, shouting up at her, but your tiny voice is a squeak lost in the ambient noise. To you it feels like a defiant yell; to her it’s a kitten’s mew. She tilts her head, smirking. “Oh, you make sounds. Cute.”
Her fingers close more firmly, encasing you. The warmth, the scent, the sheer weight of her touch is dizzying. You can feel the slickness of sunscreen against your skin, her pulse thrumming faintly through her thumb where it presses you. She brings you close to her face again, eyes narrowing in delight.
“I could put you down right now,” she says softly. “But then someone else would see you. Take you. Hurt you.” Her voice dips lower. “Or I could keep you safe. Right here.”
Her breath hits you again, humid and sweet. Her lips part slightly, showing a flash of teeth. “You’re too small to make the rules now,” she whispers. “You don’t get to run away from me.”
You’re trembling. Her words fall over you like a net. She draws you closer to her mouth until your feet brush the softness of her lower lip again. The faintest pressure leaves your legs slick with moisture. “See?” she teases, “I can feel you shiver.”
Her fingers shift, curling you into her palm, her thumb stroking your back. It’s gentle but undeniably possessive, a gesture that says mine without a word. She looks down at you like a cat studying a captured bird.
“Do you understand me?” she asks at last. “I’m not going to hurt you. But you’re staying with me. You’re mine now.”
Her words thrum in your chest. The world outside her hands is bright and noisy and huge, but inside her fingers it’s warm, dark, and smells of sun and salt. You can feel every line of her skin under you, every slight shift of her pulse. This is the moment: you can either go limp and let her cradle you as her “living doll,” or thrash and yell, insisting you’re a person and she can’t just keep you.
She lowers you slightly, hiding you behind her thigh as another guest climbs past. She glances down at you one more time, her eyes burning. “Little doll,” she murmurs. “What’s it going to be? Are you going to behave for me… or are you going to make me hold you tighter?”
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