Chapters Dollhood: A Woman's Choice Book 2 Chapter 16
June 2049
The well-conditioned hospital air coursed over my skin, giving me goosebumps, as ten or twelve of us stood in two rows, naked and on display in front of the assembled Dollmakers in their spectacles and white coats. Chief amongst them in the communal recovery room was Doctor Eaton, a man of considerable reputation. Royals, celebrities, well-informed foreigners, and nearly all of England’s Dolls came through his dedicated Auxiliary Wing at Great Ormond Street Hospital to get work done, and though he obviously didn’t touch every one of us personally, with many doctors and nurses and even some newer automaids running the operation, he remained the lead innovator without a doubt. You might imagine him as part fashion designer, part scientist, part philosopher on the female condition, for what he was doing was revolutionary and we were truly overjoyed to be in his presence!
Or I should have been overjoyed, if I had been a good Doll, an object of empty mind, but I was not. I don’t know what coursed through my body in higher dosages; fear or despair? For I was not only a Doll in mind or on paper, I was now a Doll in the flesh!
I remember it like it was yesterday, the moment I woke up in bed after a seemingly-endless slumber, a void that stretched for days, weeks, months, I could not say at the time. Upon waking my eyes blinked wide open, suddenly flooded with a bright white light prompting fiery pain that slowly faded to a dull ache from disuse, but as much as I tried, they would not close! They absolutely would not let me return to the safety of my dream! No, they just blinked away, automatically, endlessly, staring at nothing, refusing even to focus on the panel ceiling above me.
At that moment I knew my transformation was complete. Irreversibly complete.
I wasn’t privy at the time, but nearly three months had passed since our graduation, during which we had been mostly unconscious or in various states of ‘diagnostic trance’ which I could not remember, recovering from the myriad of surgeries and operations which had changed us, altered our bodies to this ideal, pure unit of womanly essence in which I was now entrapped.
My body wouldn’t move. Even though I felt completely unbound, no corset, no neckwear, no bracelets, resting on a spartan hospital mattress with just a light sheet over me, nothing above my waist even twitched. I could move my legs, but even that felt strange, like somehow the musculature was all off; different, weaker. There would be no eloping to the countryside in my future.
I didn’t feel gagged, so reflexively I called for help, but I heard nothing but a consistent beeping from bedside machines to my left. Of course, I chastised myself, this mouth wasn’t designed to do such things anymore. Nonetheless, morbidly curious even as true panic simmered under the surface, I tried screaming as hard as I could, and nigh but a soft whistle like the wind past an open window escaped the hole in my neck. No air travelled through my mouth or nose, leaving my altered tongue useless whilst my thick, pouty lips kept the swollen channel warm, wet, and inviting inside.
I stared at the ceiling and flexed my feet, of which only my toes wiggled slightly, wondering if one of the other beeping machines in the room was hooked up to my sister. Or Althea. Or maybe they were elsewhere in the ward.
It took a couple hours for a nurse to notice that I was awake, and luckily I was quite practised in waiting by now. This one wasn’t an automaton, but she didn’t talk much more than one, going about most of her routine checks as if I weren’t even here.
Fingers in front of my face, “Follow it.” Instinctively I tried, but there was no response, my eyes refused to even focus.
“Gooood.”
A tickle in my feet which made me squirm from the waist down whilst my face simply stared off.
“Gooood.”
Another tickle against my cold, unshielded armpits. Inside I was giggling desperately, begging her to stop, but she saw none of that, merely my legs gently shuffling at the sheets, my hips tilting and twisting so slightly, so enticingly, testing their new limits.
“Gooood.”
And then this woman, with her gall, pinched my left nipple between her thumb and forefinger as hard as she could, like a vice! I kicked out with all my might, my upper body shaking around, jostling something heavy on my chest which must have been my new breasts, but still my spine remained rigid on the bed, my face remained coy and undisturbed, my eyes blinked away at the blurry, shaking image of the nurse looking down at me from up high, and my throat automatically swallowed the sweet, musty, excess saliva that I hadn’t noticed accumulating in my puffy, toothless hole of a mouth.
No arms came to the rescue, and they never would again.
“Gooood.”
She stopped her harsh test, but the pain never received the telegram. As the blood slowly returned to my teat, pins and needles remained, and I squirmed silently side to side, my phantom arms reaching, pawing at nothing to rub it better. The nurse noticed my shuffling and didn’t like this behaviour, slapping my cheek firmly! I couldn’t even flinch.
“School rules still apply, young lady, knees and heels together until we come to take you for a walk, or we’ll have to tie you down.”
I had no desire to cooperate after the myriad trials they had put me through, or what was left of ‘me’, but I knew there was no hope in petty resistance here and there. Actually, now that I had even a moment to think about what had happened, what I’d finally become, there was no hope at all. Every element of my daily dress and strict training had been internalised, forever, and I would never escape from that which was of my body. After returning to proper pose, or what parts I still had control over, the nurse straightened my covers and then fluffed my pillow a bit.
“Good girl. Now who wants her first real meal as a Doll?” she asked, but the nurse wasn’t foolish enough to wait for a response which would never come.
A large object from some tray out of my sight, clear so as to reveal the puréed meal inside, was held up for me to inspect, and Dame Henderson’s lessons came flooding back. This was a ‘decanter’, a crystalline phallus in all but name, the soft plastic spear approximately the size of a cucumber, interrupted by the subtle ridges of a glans on one side to indicate which end the beige nutriment leaked from when sufficiently encouraged.
The nurse held it there for but a short moment, my eyes still refusing to even focus for me, before the decanter was slowly but firmly pushed into my mouth, my lips acting like an elastic ring, my jaw opening as if on springs, engulfing the intruder and keeping a tight seal around it, as my toothless mouth expanded to accommodate the girth and length of the vessel, but kept contact with it all over. In it went, deeper, past subdermal bumps and ridges it couldn’t enjoy, past where my gag reflex should have been, and within a few moments my throat and mouth were flexing, pulsing, vibrating; my tongue uncontrollably dragging it’s shortened tip down the underside of the soft plastic, coaxing the wet meal out of the cock and down my throat whilst all I tasted was the flavour coating on the plastic; something salty, semisweet, mild; something oddly reminiscent of Sir Wainwright’s seed.
I want you, dear Reader, to think about your unconscious breathing. See? Now you’re breathing manually, able to hold it or take as deep of a breath as you like. But as soon as you read on, mind elsewhere than your bodily functions, you don’t suffocate, do you? No, your lungs return to their rhythm, some other part of the brain taking over behind the curtain. That’s what this was like, except much of the pulsing was not in my control. I could take over for my tongue, I could stop it for a moment or push a little harder, but lest my mind wander it was back to its job, licking and swirling away, massaging the object in my mouth with a slow rhythm that somehow never repeated. And it didn’t stop when the food was gone, no it wasn’t that smart. Only when the nurse came back about half an hour later and pulled out the empty vessel, my mouth-hole emitting an indecent, wet, slurping sound as air rushed past my drooling lips to fill the void, was I finally given some peace from the vibrations and undulations, conducting loudly in my ears. And with the exit of the tip, my jaw closed and my lips returned to their elastic pout, the leftover spittle dripping from my lips the only indication anything had even happened.
To put it bluntly and quite unladylike, it was disturbing. And to think, I had wanted the Dollmakers to work their magic on my body for so long! I had desired it deeply, desperately, ever since Chastity and I were but tiny girls under the impression it was literal magic — a swish and a flick — which had made our Mummy the way she was.
And plenty of the girls in this room laying stock-still on all the other beds were probably shaken but undoubtedly delighted to finally be transfigured into the body they had always dreamt of! I wasn’t so sure I still understood them or their dreams, but there was no option now but to go along with it all, as whatever I thought or believed was no longer anyone’s concern. I was not unlike a vase, undeniably beautiful but with a singular purpose, a vase to be sold to a husband Father deemed appropriate. I hated to see it this way, the same as before now through a tainted and cracked refraction, but my eyes were open — irreversibly so — and this was my life now.
That afternoon I went for my first walk. The first visitor from my past life, my automaid, came in with her ‘H’-engraved faceplate, dressed in a temporary white Auxiliary Ward uniform, and gently patted my now-cherubic cheek to get my attention, though it was hardly needed. Anything other than the blurry ceiling and the idle sounds of my recovery room were raucous news. Much like the nurse before her, she held up a fleur-de-bouche which Nanny had long-promised, and in it went to seal my drooling ‘O’-mouth, after which she lifted my proud torso up and shifted my legs over the edge of the bed, much like every other morning when I had worn my rigid night stays. This time though there was no wet nappy, nor were there hands laying unused by my sides. I was complete, and as regretful as I was then about the whole affair, I assure you a significant part of me still felt complete indeed.
The other part of me was struggling with the new weights on my chest, a burden I had never had to consider with my young, undeveloped mounds. Catching two pink nipples in the bottom of my vision, I yearned to look down and check them for myself, but I knew from our preparations all a Doll really had to: that they would be perfectly proportioned for cradling and appreciating in my man’s hands, and in the slight chance that he didn’t have them enhanced further, they would stay perfectly pert over my lifetime. All this despite the marvellous fact that the tissue was wholly natural, all me, triggered by two months of localised genetic growth injections. Not so natural was the process which had dyed my areolae a distinctive shade of pink, a shade I remembered from the nether lips of Dame Henderson during her demonstrations, a shade that was most likely replicated on the other end of my torso in a place I would never lay eyes on again. My free teats still jutted out far enough to penetrate the bottom of my gaze toward the mythical horizon, though, as the injections would leave my nipples permanently erect and hypersensitive for years to come.
Even though I could not look downward nor indeed any direction but straight ahead, upright as I sat, I could see the two rows of other Dolls beds arranged along the lengthier walls, about a dozen or so in this room, undoubtedly more elsewhere. All were lying quietly, some with eyes open, blinking and fluttering their lashes every so often, others still asleep. It seemed that gaze was the only indicator to which, for they all rested the same way: flat, hairless, silent, armless, still, pure, with legs together, toes pointed downward in line with their shins. Their undisturbed bedsheets were each tented by a bosom multiple times their original endowment, erupting prominently upward but spread gently by gravity, their new bodies ready to be owned and enjoyed like a proper woman’s should be.
As my maid slipped my feet into some old training heels from home, for I couldn’t wear flats anymore if I tried, I attempted to direct my gaze toward the face of the Doll in the bed next to me, I tried with every ounce of concentration I had, but my eyes just blinked mindlessly, refusing my commands. All I could tell from my peripheral vision was that she was bald, ready for a wig, and her lips, eyes, and breasts looked much like mine felt. Was that Chastity? Althea? Someone else? If it was Chastity, did her and I still look the same?
I got my answer later on my walk, as my unsteady legs strained to keep up with my maid’s pace around the Auxiliary Ward’s many halls. I was exhausted by the first lap but we did five, coaxed on by gentle taps on my now-prominent rear that threatened to not be so gentle if I slowed any further. Each time we passed my recovery room I wanted to direct my tiny mincing steps toward the door, but it didn’t take much effort on my maid’s part to imply that my choice or feelings were of no consequence here, and we would continue on other lap, my groans and sighs and frustrations left completely silent upon the air that puffed out of my neck. On the way back though we stopped in front of a mirror, my loose hospital gown removed quite unceremoniously, and I was left to gaze vaguely at the Doll I had become, albeit unclearly…
And she was beautiful!
I too was bald, as had been made obvious by my chilly scalp, but not only that, I was entirely hairless, my fluttering eyelashes long and obviously fake, and my eyebrows carefully drawn onto my fake-looking skin. Upon seeing my face, I knew I was finally my mother’s daughter, and by that I don’t mean Clarice. My innocent doe eyes and over-inflated lips reminded me of hers, and my nose had been made so cute and button-like I doubted it was still functional. Luckily, I had a new way to breathe. The hole in my neck drew unnaturally-cool air into my lungs, skipping the warming process of the sinuses and throat. It was bare now but would be filtered and decorated with its own small, plastic flower soon enough.
I tried to smile, to frown, to speak, to even blink, but not a single thought escaped the confines of my head. This foreign Hope Doll just gazed at me with wanton desire and thoughtless, suggestible innocence, like she was waiting for me to answer a question about whatever inconsequential concerns floated around such an empty skull. Actually, she looked as though she had never had a care or concern since her birth in some factory mould.
And I couldn’t look away. So I used my blurry periphery again.
Below, my now-useless shoulders were still prominent, still there, but made more delicate, less wide-set, as if they had never had a purpose but to hold up the straps of a dress, though in reality they held up something else, and for this reason my spine and collarbones had been fused in such a way to force my augmented chest forward and my boosted behind back, not unlike the dramatic S-bend corset styles that gained popularity in the 1910s and were making a comeback lately. In my worthless opinion, this enforced figure made me look not elegant but salacious and peppy, like I was eager to offer my brand new bust to any passerby who cared to pay attention to me for even a moment. I tried my best to recall our prayers for mindlessness we had practised in sunday service.
Speaking of corsetry, though, my waist was now shockingly slim, thanks to two rows of removed ribs, and although I would still need constricting stays to get down to my standard fifteen-to-sixteen inches, it would be easier, and I would look much better without them, if my future husband was so inclined behind closed doors. Though the slighter waist fooled my eyes, I could swear that my hips were noticeably wider, and it wasn’t just the same padding that filled out my bum. My thighs, though a bit heartier than the youthful twigs they had been before, seemed to be actually wider-set now, and because of this they didn’t actually touch until my knees met, leaving my new, plastic petals open to the cool air as we strutted away from the mirror, my thin gown draped around me once again, covering my drawn-back, limbless shoulders and the temporary tattoo of my name and Father’s emergency contact info along my clavicle. I guess us girls were easy to mix up now, as my worry about twindom had been unfounded: barring differences in height and I suppose eye colour, I could’ve been sisters with any of my classmates. Indeed, in a sense we were sisters.
All this was not my final form, I knew this. Wigs were still to be glued on, new corsets to be fitted, and the hormonally-induced growth done to my breasts and behind would continue to grow naturally with age as I fully matured into an adult, for these were not simple, 20th century implants. On top of this, my features had not been deviated from the Society Standard Enhancement Suite, the same template enacted on Emily Battersby in her story, but my husband would be more than welcome (indeed encouraged) to return me here for custom enhancements at any time after our marriage, as most were wont to do.
But it is important to acknowledge that the Society Standard is a code of aesthetics, not a strict recipe, and it had changed about a year after Emily’s final surgery, as it often did as Doctor Eaton practised and perfected new techniques for the Society’s property. This chapter started off with me and my class about to learn about this new addition, three days later.
At attention we stood entirely nude in front of Doctor Eaton and his Dollmakers for their team inspection, backs arched to gently present what had once been youthful curves; now full, natural, gravity-defying breasts projecting off our chests, lining the bottom of our peripheral vision along with our ruby red lips and fleur-de-bouche flowers. Our bare plasti-skin featured not a blemish nor a scar, save for when some freckles had been ordered here and there.
Doctor Eaton cleared his throat, and though our faces did not change, the master had our utmost attention.
“Now which group is this one? Ah yes, Werburgh Class Four. Now, let me offer my apologies in advance: this is going to be new and important information for all of you, but I’ve given this demonstration three times today already and countless times before. I’ll try not to miss anything, sorry if I do. Now, do we have any volunteers to be my guinea pig for the class?”
Silence. Well, actually just the small padding noises of our mules against the linoleum floor, trying our best to stay upright. None of us would be quite adjusted to our new centre of gravity for some time yet.
“No? Okay how about this one?” he said before grabbing the Doll next to me and guiding her forward to stand in front of us all. It was only a moment later, with her ID marks passing just by my field of focus, that I realised that he had picked Chastity! Thank God! From all accounts she was still a mirror image of me, and me of her, even in our new image; and though I still hadn’t quite forgiven her, we were family — more importantly twins — and I was desperate to keep that unique bond, even through this.
“Tell everyone what your name is, sweetheart. No? Okay so surely you lot notice that… what is it here… Chastity Hodgkinson… well she’s a completed Doll like you are, and I know your teachers did a fine, fine job explaining how your bodies will work now, but I’ve added a couple… uhm… features that they weren’t expecting. You’re the first graduating class to get this, and I think I’ll keep it exclusive to certified Werburgh Dolls like you for a while. Anyways, listen up and watch if you can.”
Without further adieu, he lifted Chastity’s round butt up onto a large, padded display table, and laid her down flat with legs together as Dolls were supposed to properly rest if not presenting themselves for amatory usage. Rotating the table, we could see open air under her inflexible back, with only her head, shoulders, and supple bottom actually resting on the flat surface.
“You’ll notice that this Doll’s backbone, like all of yours, has more of a curve than most of you are familiar with. The way you walk will still be refined and elegant, I assure you, with some practice. I will suggest to your owners the softest mattresses and a specially-moulded pillow to support you, do not worry.”
After this, he let his hands run down the many accentuated curves of Chastity’s new body. While these were all medical professionals, I suddenly felt as though my body were the specimen of this demonstration in front of all my peers, and in a way it was. Doctor Eaton continued his inspection until he reached one of her delicate, unbending ankles. Another Dollmaker grabbed the other one, and we all silently gasped in surprise as they pulled her straight legs in separate directions quite unnaturally until Chastity was doing a perfect splits, exposing her pink, picture-perfect, sculpted plastic labia and permanently-swollen lovebud to all of us, even as she simply stared at the ceiling with that blank, coquettish smile at the edges of our thick lips, seemingly-oblivious to being on display. Was that a hint of red on her cheeks? Could we still blush? Knowing my sister, oh she must’ve been so embarrassed!
Doctor Eaton continued. “You all may have noticed it was a little tough to walk about these last couple days, and I know it’s been hard, but be thankful: we have actually devised a new way to add some flexibility to you girls!
“The life of a Doll is largely sedentary, as you know, and compared to common girls who can be active in such womanly endeavours as housework, equestrian pursuits, and ballet, your joints and muscles can become stiff and limited when you get older from sitting in one position. Our rearrangement of your ligaments and muscles makes you a bit weaker, harder to step forward, I know, but just look at what we have accomplished!” he gestured toward my sister’s extended legs.
The doctor looked as if he had expected some fanfare. “Well, none of you are going to be running around, anyways,” he said more toward his colleague than to us, and the two of them shared a chuckle that I didn’t appreciate.
As if this was all inadequately shocking, the two doctors told us to pay attention and began to pull even farther, past where a body’s natural limits should have been, and after two soft pops that could only have been her hips or some mechanism within, Chastity had her straight legs and en pointe toes touching against her armless shoulders, the elastic silicone skin of her strained inner thighs pulling, spreading her nether lips and exposing what recesses the class hadn’t already seen of mine and my sister’s likely-identical genitalia.
It started with someone in the back, but the class began to ‘clap’ for the Doctor’s riveting display by lightly clicking their heels on the linoleum floor, something we had been taught at school to do in only the most worthy occasions, as I stared blankly towards the Dollmakers bowing their heads in pride and gratitude, absolutely appalled.