Chapters Dollhood: A Woman's Choice Book 1 Chapter 5
Our fifteenth year was quiet, and we had less and less influence to change it too, as our Nanny had us focused on gait training, etiquette, and other preparations for our departure to St. Werburgh’s Finishing School for Young Ladies. At that fine establishment we would be given the education and training our resident nanny and governess could not, for she was not a Doll herself. Like all new Dolls, Chas and I had always been expected to spend the last of our formative years at the West London boarding school, as the educators there would refine us into a shining example of pure womanly values — and teach us some things that were not so pure, but necessary for our future roles — so we were very eager indeed!
Our preparations for that departure started one cold January day during reading time. I was perched on the edge of a lounger next to my own personal automaid, a Christmas gift from Pappa who had let our common maids go the day before. Oh you wouldn’t believe those early generations, they had such class! She was the newest model, he had boasted proudly to us, and her handmade porcelain mask had rouged cheeks and a lovely carved relief of a woman with her eyes closed, a gentle smile upon her face. She was wonderful! And, as a cherry on top, her forehead had been inscribed ornately in my old handwriting with a monogram ‘H’ just like on my locket, and my gag, to alert all that she was mine, all mine! Of course Chastity’s was adorned similarly with a golden ‘C,’ hers a tad more graceful without any compound curves to deal with. Listen to me still jealous of her calligraphy, posh!
Oh, you should have seen how quickly we stepped toward Pappa on that Christmas morning, even on our clicking, unsteady heels, crying silently in joy and gratitude as his burly arms hugged us tightly, exactly what we had wanted to do in return.
Ah yes, preparations.
As I was saying, about a month later I was seated next to my new maid in the drawing room, who had been instructed by Nanny to run a five-star massage program on my shoulders and neck and then my feet as I read a pre-selected book. This was of course a luxury we had not been afforded before, only able to watch quietly as our Mother was lavished tirelessly by her own automaid all day. Keep in mind, like in Emily’s tales, they were still quite new then, and expensive even for Father, but the Society had deemed them a necessity for all Dolls just a few years before and in the long run they were far cheaper than a real maid.
Trying my best to be still and quiet under the heavenly touch of my servant’s vibrating plastic fingers, I tapped my heel against the floor to request for her to turn the page. The book, A Concise History for Dolls, was written a tad simply for my tastes, but I knew Chastity had a hard time keeping up. Had she been a boy, where complete comprehension was a requirement for acceptance into a proper college, I’m sure she would’ve been raising her hand to ask questions, but instead she simply squinted at a word she did not understand, as her automaid soon flipped the page without her cue to keep her moving along. Chas looked over and signalled to me in our secret language of nods and gazes that she would rather just hear it from the telly, and I couldn’t help but agree politely, even though I felt quite the opposite. I wanted to ask a million questions and read another book about this page alone.
Nanny called for us, and in perfect unison our automaids closed our books, put them back on the shelf and returned to help us rise gracefully onto our heels, so we could be led in silence up the stairs and to our bed and dressing rooms.
When we got there I gave a sharp intake of breath and glanced across at Chas. For there, lying on our beds in extravagant boxes were two special garments that we had both looked forward to wearing for so long: our first stays!! This was it, this was what years of weighing and meal planning and measuring had all been for.
In moments we were eagerly shuffling into position by the bed so the automaids could fit those beautiful garments around our young and yet-unformed, budding bodies. I remember feeling like such an adult when Nanny did up the busk clasps, thinking, “This is what real Ladies and Dolls must wear.” Gone was the simple padded trainers of my underdress, I was a child no longer!
But with maturity comes responsibility: the responsibility to maintain our figures. This subject Nanny explained as we were slowly laced up, how to many potential owners our worth would be directly related to our hip to waist ratio. At first it felt good, like a hugging embrace, warm and welcoming, stirring my unformed fantasies of being embraced by a handsome boy. But then I began to worry; I was struggling to catch my breath as the laces slowly forced the metal-ribbed stays inward, the dreamy embrace becoming relentless. I started to panic, my eyes darting around frantically as I panted, hyperventilating through my nose.
“Come now, child! Breathe from your upper body only!” Nanny instructed. But what does that mean and how does one do it? I know now of course; the tiny intake of breath that I enjoy today is always gained that way, but back then I was still young and inexperienced.
And still the laces closed further, inwards and inwards, strangling the life out of me.1 I heard cracks and creaks and wondered if they were my bones being broken, wondered if this was not my transfiguration under duress. They weren’t broken of course; instead only the sounds of the corset itself adjusting, but I was scared and my breath was coming in ragged gasps. Eventually Nanny ordered the laces be tied off and I was allowed to recover a little. But how could I, for now I realised how rigid real stays forced me to be. I tottered around the room on my heels, rocking from side to side, trying to adjust. It was hard. Yes, perhaps that was the first moment when I truly began to realise that life as a living Doll was going to be very hard indeed. Much harder than I had previously imagined. Much harder than all my lessons had ever indicated.
It was in the months that followed that first fitting of a corset that I started to have doubts and unease. They were slight, nothing major, but they were there. Before, all had been clear, proper, and perfect: I was born to be a Doll and to be a Doll was the very best thing that a young Lady could aspire to, for the only truly happy Lady is a Doll.
Just as we had written in lessons dozens of times, it was simple! Other Ladies may glimpse happiness from time to time, but a Doll lives it each and every day. She sits there, rigid and beautiful, the very vision of perfection for her owner until he wishes to enjoy her as is his wont to do, and it is truly marvellous. She loves it, she is never bored, and she is never uncomfortable.
She simply is.
But after that corset was fitted, along with all the other restraints once again, all was not perfect. Try to imagine it if you can, and I understand that you most probably cannot, but please, try anyway: Only a few years before this I had been a child, a young girl, living much as you did most probably when you were that age. I played games, ran around and lived in a wonderful world of make-believe. But then I had the use of my arms taken away from me and after that my voice. Actually, ‘taken’ is the wrong word: I eagerly gave them away. And scarcely had I come to terms with that when my feet were trained to perch unsteadily on heels, which meant that free movement came to an end and the best I could ever do was an unsteady mince — far harder without one’s arms to steady oneself, I can tell you!
This was all well and fine, to be honest. An adjustment I was prepared and eager for, certainly, but not a test of my resolve like what I tell you now. Before, there had been respite from the discomfort in my feet upon sitting, relief in my mouth when eating, relief in my arms when they were unbound and clipped to the headboard at night. But now there was no escape from this, for every breath was an effort, the slightest movement an exertion, a constant pressure around the middle that caused one to sit ramrod straight at all times.
Nanny would say, “with dignity.”
Easy chairs were out of the question, only standing fully relieved the pain, yet that caused similar discomfort to the feet after little time. My days were now sedentary, a constant internalised battle to achieve an impossible modicum of comfort. My nights were now restless, the evening stays only a hair more forgiving than those worn during the day. The books for young Dolls-to-be had never trained for this. They had surely warned it was taxing, but that description had been oft followed by others, such as ‘royally elegant,’ ‘absolutely essential’ or ‘reminiscent of a man’s embrace.’
Yet even at this stage, I thought the problem was me. I should not have been looking for escape from the most joyous experience a young woman could have! Certainly, Chas had adapted well and did not shift so much as I did, and I could tell by her small gestures that she was happy in a way that I was not. But I knew the cause, I knew it well, my shame: I was simply not as feminine, as assenting, as submissive as her; as any virtuous woman should be. The path that we were following was the correct one, but it was I who was falling short. In other words, I needed some more training, a proper education.
Which was all well and good, for that April we were both enrolled at St. Werburgh’s School for Girls, the principal academy for producing Dolls in England.
-
Looking back now with the experience of years, I understand just how light and loosely-laced that first corset was. Since that day I have been perpetually corseted in some way, save for the bath, and the corsets that I wear - have to wear in fact, for any abdominal muscles that I once had have now atrophied somewhat - are long and extremely tight. Since I was sixteen years old, my waist has not exceeded that many inches, with fifteen being more common, and fourteen on special occasions. ↩