My doll.

That is what he is.

I dress him in the most expensive fabric; I wrap him in jewel-toned silk and encase him in supple black leather. Smoothing the silk over his slender form, oiling the shiny leather, I give myself the opportunity to stroke him through the fabric. I feel his skin move and shift under my hands while still encased in its second skin. This ritual makes my blood pound, my heart race.

As he sits perfectly still, the scarlet silk draped over his rich olive flesh, I begin to paint my masterpiece. His eyes, black and glittering like onyx, I carefully etch with kohl, thick lines that frame his bottomless gaze. I powder his cheeks, hiding the exotic cast of his skin, only to apply a second brush to the muted olive, adding crimson to his cheekbones. I then choose a gloss the same brilliant shade as the short robe he wears, and I slick his luscious mouth. His hair is carefully plaited, a waterfall of obsidian, sparkling with gems and iridescent ribbons, and his nails are meticulously varnished. I stare at his reflection, at the reflection of my prized work of art.

He is a raven cloaked in slippery, shimmering scarlet, and his eyes burn with an eternal lust. I offer him my hand, pull him toward the bed. My gaze never leaves his beautiful, glistening form. As he grasps my hard cock with a well-manicured hand, I groan, prepared to beseech my glorious painted god for all the pleasures of Heaven.

He is my doll, and I... I am his slave.

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