Chapters Dollhood: A Woman's Choice Book 2 Chapter 17
After a few more days of getting used to our new bodies, walks around the ward, inspections, functional tests, and of course long stretches of silent repose, Father finally arrived to retrieve us, his autobutler laden with boxes and bags of new corsets, dresses, shoes, all perfectly moulded to our new forms. I realised with much sorrow that all my favourite dresses at home would have to be discarded due to my new measurements, which of course had changed dramatically, my slim almost-angular figure resculpted into alluring curves which needed to be highlighted in my wardrobe henceforth. Before our transition, this was the kind of event that would’ve occupied Chastity’s thoughts for days, and so too our conversations. Now she kept such concerns and excitement to herself.
Our hair had been affixed the day before: new, flawless blonde locks like Mum’s, glued semi-permanently to our plasti-skin scalps, but otherwise all we had worn that week of recovery were our hospital gowns and undecorated, utilitarian fleur-de-bouches, and the relative freedom therein. You might not think this luxurious, especially with the elegant prison that my body had become, but given this time without my wardrobe and it’s constraints, I was not looking forward to returning to the endless routine of extreme waist-training.
And surely, as soon as Father’s warm embrace was over and the semi-believable, unanswerable compliments and well-wishes were behind us, I was unwrapped from my hospital gown and the inspection of his new purchase began. His pliable sense of decency did nothing to restrict his large hands from checking the plumpness of his own daughter’s behind, from testing the elasticity of my jaw, from inspecting my slight, empty shoulders for scars, from encircling my waist with newfound ease; from checking to see if his investment had been sound.
He refrained from touching my breasts, letting a visual check for symmetry suffice, which I was truly thankful for, as whatever infusion or bath that had chemically altered the outer layer of my skin had also made it incredibly sensitive, and I was already tingling in all the places he had grabbed me. Indeed, the soft plasti-skin treatment left me so sensitive that I started to become quite warm, flushed, and quick of breath, a reaction I didn’t yet fully understand, but I had a strong feeling that I didn’t want to be so affected by my own father. I wasn’t comfortable at all with him seeing me naked in the first place, never mind the rest, but such checks seemed prudent, and a Doll’s concerns matter not.
A quiet, involuntary swallowing motion, the first audible greeting he had received from my blank face, must have made him aware that my mouth was readying for its new purpose with him so near, that my new body did not distinguish one man from another, that it cared not of societal mores, and with a quick readjustment of his spectacles he stepped away and gave the cue for our maids to dress me. I instinctively went to reach for the lacing bar, but nothing happened, and no one noticed.
Oh I remember wanting to cry then and so many times in those first months, but my body just refused. Heavy breathing, quivering legs, a slight blurring of my already near-useless vision; that was it, that was all that resulted of my internal hurricane of emotions. Nothing else responded, and such simple gestures kept eluding me for a long time, until I gradually stopped trying. Where once I would’ve snuck a glance here or there, now it was impossible. Where before I might have flexed my shoulders or stretched my back, testing the limits of my braces and corsetry when none were looking, now the very thought was beyond me, the recipe was lost. And even though I had always been passive whenever my servants dressed me, bathed me, or cleaned my behind, it had always been customary, a privilege, a luxurious choice. That choice was gone now; utterly gone.
Such were my thoughts as my new corset was brought out of its box, cleared of fine tissue paper, fitted with a protective liner, and wrapped around my bare, defenceless torso. From the corner of my eye it looked a tad more elaborate than my old stays, with straps and metal clips hanging, but I was unaware of their purpose until the quick-clasps on the front were closed and the gradual tightening began from behind. For one difference, the corset had large cups to push up my new chest, and as the air was squeezed from me and my foreshortened ribcage allowed my waist to become slimmer than it had ever been before, I felt my engorged nipples uncomfortable resting, grazing across the edge of the bust, pointing out and likely to make any fabric overtop tent indiscreetly. But once the laces were tied off, my lungs participating in their eternal battle for air once again, chest heaving as short breaths puffed out of my neck, my automaid carefully lifted my now-substantial left breast and reached beneath into the cup to retrieve an elastic strap with a spring-loaded clip, and snapped the rubber-coated teeth onto my now-thick pink teat, HARD!
Oh the pain! It felt like when my ears were pierced as a little girl, multiplied, amplified, and the pain seemed to have no plans of ebbing or ceasing. After my experience with the nurse, my poor nips just couldn’t catch a break! I stamped my heel and bent at the waist, saliva pooling behind my gag as my useless tongue moved around, trying to scream, trying to beg my servant to take it off, to rub the pain away, but I could only stand there breathing heavily and gaze into nothingness with a look of empty happiness on my face as a thousand sewing needles seemed to thread into me.
It seemed my protestations garnered some attention, though it was not of the nature I desired.
“For god’s sake, Hope! Stand up straight!”
Father ceased inspecting Chastity, strode over angrily and grabbed me by my slender neck, lifting till I was standing straight again, my perched feet still stepping weakly, but his grip was much too firm to ignore. The three of us were in a private changing room with just our personal staff, but he spoke to me in hushed tones all the same.
“Dear, you have the knack of dishonouring us seemingly every time we’re in public together, don’t you? You’re your mother’s daughter, without a doubt! But my patience is thin. Do you realise how hard it’s been to secure proper suitors for you and your sister after your little charade on stage last Spring? No? Of course you don’t. Dim or difficult, that’s how you came across on that stage, and neither are becoming of a girl as blessed as you. And to think, after the leniency I showed you this Christmas! Your actions continue to reek of inconsideration, disrespect, and ungratefulness for all I have given you. I could have sent you off to some Swiss boarding school for years, I could have enforced reverse-prayer from age eight as the Hartfords next door did with their daughter, but no; I was lenient. Well no longer! Now stand up straight and return to proper form!”
He released his hold, keeping his eye on me, and then deliberately secured the other clip himself, depressing the spring all the way before letting it snap down on my right nip. Shocked and terrified by his pent-up tirade, I dared not move. My thighs flexed, my toes curled, my whimper was already suppressed, but under his testing gaze I dared not budge, even if my whole body wanted to convulse.
And then he softened, like he always did, his face still resolute but caring, and he began to rub the pain away, receiving my body’s lewd offering in his hand, massaging me, abandoning modesty for his daughter in distress. “My dear Hope, my sweet girl. You should get used to this. It would make life easier for all of us.”
I wanted to grab onto my Pappa, embrace him, cry into his chest, tell him how much I hated this new life, how much I didn’t want his hand on me there, how much the clips still hurt yet how preferable of a sensation they were to the flushness I felt at his mere touch, that he should just hide me away until we could work on reversing what the Dollmakers had done. But I did not. My eyes did not plead, my voice failed to whimper, my phantom arms grabbed at nothing. They couldn’t, nor did I try this time. I had been naught but a Doll in his eyes for years now, regardless of certification or actualization surgery, and it would’ve been utterly fruitless. I knew that now.
So instead of reacting to the pain, or silently pleading to God for my freedom in futility, I simply swallowed the tangy lubricant that had built up behind my fleur-de-bouche and did what he told me to, like a good Doll should.
He nodded to himself as much as me, and left my maid to fiddle below my line of sight. Slowly I felt my breasts pull into their new homes, my pinched nipples seemingly hooked on fishing lines, dragging down inside the firm, silken bust material so their immodest yearning would be hidden, and stay that way. They continued to throb in protest, pulsing with my heart beat, straining as every laboured breath sent my chest up and down pulling at their anchors, but nothing was to be done about it. My limited hyperventilation eventually eased.
I felt halter straps grazing my bare thighs, and something else, something longer, hanging down like a tail between my legs, which my maid grabbed and brought forward to buckle in the front. Dame Henderson had once said this underbelt was very important to keep wedding gifts and other accessories inside us, but virgin as I was, the tight belt simply pressed into my altered womanhood teasingly, reminding me of my night with Althea. This didn’t help at all.
Speaking of which, where was she?
I was then sat down, my mules removed, and stockings were rolled up my legs, clipped into my garters, after which I was helped into proper footwear: heeled travelling boots which took full advantage of my tightened achilles tendon, all before I was lifted to standing once again by two firm, mechanical hands around my compressed waist. Following this, a petticoat, a simple slip camisole and a lavender travelling dress were pulled over my head and zipped up. No sleeves, just like Mum.
The whole process was over much sooner than I was used to, for without a flowing chemise under the new stays, nor drawers, nor even the now-superfluous nappy, I found myself in far fewer underlayers, bringing to attention my sensitive nethers which were now merely covered by the leather strap under my long dress, subject to the eddies and winds underneath. What’s more, my daily makeup had been permanently painted on my expressionless face, leaving little to do in that department but powder and highlight.
My maid held onto a padded overcoat of rich violet, saving it for later. I had never much cared for violet or lavender, but tracing it back now, I had only ever told Chastity that. Oh well, no one was ever going to ask again. My hair was touched up, my monogrammed locket was draped across my chest, nestled in my now-ample cleavage, and we began our laborious trek through the halls of Great Ormond toward reception and the porte cochere.
Every step was a struggle, first to pull my knee forward, then to set my foot down and get my toes and ankle stable, then to transfer my weight over onto a leg I didn’t fully trust anymore, only to repeat seemingly ad infinitum. Chastity wasn’t much faster, and we minced slowly along with our maids, showing no external signs of our tiring effort except for a slight blush in the cheeks and the rapid, desperate wind fluttering the roses set into our necks. It would take some time to recover the graceful glide that we had perfected at school.
We were almost rid of this horrid place when Dr. Eaton himself rounded the corner and my impatient Father was suddenly all business and smiles, thanking the architect of our silicone prison for all his hard work. A short discussion, an exchange of business cards, and a handshake later and we were free… or not.
“Now, girls, how about you show your appreciation by giving the esteemed Doctor a kiss on the cheek?”
Without a second to spare, our maids deflated and removed our fleur-de-bouches, freeing our mouths to rest in that plump, not-quite-closed ‘O’ shape that this man had designed, before pushing us forward to simply press our swollen, lips onto his cheek whilst he entertained us by bending down to make it easier.
“Well aren’t you pretty Dolls so sweet! And well-behaved, my my. Mr. Hodgkinson, Alan, is it? You’ve made a wonderful investment entrusting your daughters to St. Werburgh’s and to my ward, I’m just glad I could do my part in getting your girls ready for a proper marriage, and a pure life filling their proper holes— I mean roles, sorry— in our Society. Ring me if you experience any unexpected issues.”
The two shook hands before the good Doctor lilted, “Bye bye, now!” making sure he was in our area of focus as he patronised us, waving as one would to infants or pets before heading on his merry way.