Chapters Dollhood: A Woman's Choice Book 2 Chapter 18
If I thought home had been quiet during Christmastime, the word gained new meaning once we returned from our dollification. Us girls had been completely silenced and made as elegant and passive as one can aspire to be. Nanny and the rest of our bustling staff were long gone, replaced with servants whose joints whirred and said no more. Now that several months had passed since their installation, the staff all knew their routines quite well, keeping them out of sight and mind, save for our automaids. While I missed Nanny dearly, in need of her sober wisdom and caring now more than ever, it made sense that Father would make this transition while we were away. He had made himself not unlike our Headmaster, the only free variable in this grand machine sustaining our prosperous and refined lifestyle, and when he wasn’t at the bank, Father retreated to his study for much of each day.
Everything was in perfect order, and truly the songbirds outside were louder than us.
This left us to our new schedules, daily rhythms that made our school life seem positively vibrant. Every day would begin at eight, whether or not we had awoken earlier to stare pointlessly at the plaster ceiling, or were still dozing. Three gentle slaps to the cheek, and without a moment to shake the sleep from our minds, our maids would unbind us from the bed, sit us up, slip some high-heeled mules on our feet, bring us to standing, and then lead us to the Doll’s toilette. Their iron grip made any thought of dalliance inconceivable.
Usually I was first, turned around, my rear hole aligned carefully with the cool tip of the toilet’s plastic spear, before my maid would lower me toward the resting saddle, the seat, my remodeled anus reluctantly expanding to accept the long cleaner. With my modified legs, their musculature seemingly rearranged, elasticised, and then weakened by weeks of sedated bedrest, I was quite unable to resist or lift myself back off the invader, instead feeling it ceaselessly penetrate my rear, deeper and deeper, as I could only wait for its distinctive click once I had bottomed out, cheeks touching the cool seat. That click signified that the tip had attached to the valve deep inside what used to be my rectum. Once that connection was secure, I would wait for the steady jet of slightly-cool enema solution to flush yesterday’s meals and drink out of me, each internal rinse taking a minute or two, held and released back down the probe’s central conduit. This would be followed by a single rinse for the outer rectal cavity, which had been remodeled quite like my vagina and mouth, and then a dissolving pessary to leave my once-foul orifice smelling as fresh as a Lady’s should be.
As an unwed Doll, I was not allowed nor really required to experience a similar rinse in my new vaginal canal, and so once my internal cleaning was complete, I would be promptly lifted up off the impaler and led to the showers whilst Chastity had her turn.
Glad to warm it up for you, sis…
With our method of breathing now open and quite unprotected from foreign substances, our luxurious baths were deemed far too much of a drowning risk, so my maid would shed me of my nightie, overnight stays, shoes, and fleur-de-bouche, before leading me on my unstable tiptoes into the large shower, only to secure me in a wide, rigid belt set off about a foot from the wall, which firmly grasped me by the waist and kept me from wandering or falling over.
Like all the bonds in my life, this waist-cincher would’ve been trivial to remove for a man or a commonwoman, anyone with hands to release the simple clasp. But for me it was quite secure — utterly impenetrable in fact — so I would usually be left there for a moment, free to shift my weight between the balls of my feet and stare blankly whilst my open lips drooled uncontrollably down my chin and dripped between my tits, my front and rear holes both slowly leaking similar juices down my thighs.
You see, this amount of discharge may have been prompted by the feeling of the toilette entering me, but wetness was my new normal. It had begun with the inspections, then my father’s touch in the dressing room, and then it had simply stayed, settled on my skin like pollen on the carriageway, tingles and yearning reincarnated at the slightest trigger. It felt ridiculous, but I simply couldn’t shake the desire, the feelings of emptiness inside which before had only visited me in the most restless of nights, cuffed to my bed at school.
Oh yes, dear Reader: waiting for my maid to pull off her uniform and join me in the shower, I’m in heat already. I realise now that the Teachers fed me half-truths and incomplete explanations to make me feel like I understood my future, like I was in some way prepared for the dollification procedure, but no. Who could be truly prepared for such a change? I know my place in these bodily processes but I have no idea how they work, or what exactly was conducted during my long slumber to make me this way, so I can not explain to you exactly why I need a boy — no — a man to fill me so desperately right now, only weeks after our dollification and enhancements. I thought I would have more time before it became this difficult, much much more time.
Moments later I would be joined by Chastity, entirely nude as well, a form I was quite less ashamed of seeing by now, since we were prepared together every morning. Was she suffering from this desperation as well? How could I tell? How would you ever know from looking at us? No, you would have to take two or three of your large fingers and do a wetness check, plunging them in between my— excuse me, dear Reader, it is so easy to get carried away. Even now, years later, with a husband and regular sessions on the doll stand, my desires have not abated.
Where was I? Oh yes.
I was dripping because I was ready for my servant’s hands to clean my new body; the body which not only wasn’t allowed to touch itself, but had indeed been formed around that forbidding decree. I had been given no chance to learn the dark art that Althea had enacted with her fingers upon me that fateful December night, no, even my inner thighs now had such a wide gap as to make any rubbing or shifting completely ineffectual. They hardly even grazed what Dame Henderson had called my clitoris, the nub which she said would be enlarged as to always peek past my outer folds. So considering this and my new plasti-skin, every chance to be held, to be touched anywhere, was now a rare and irresistible treat. Emily only wrote about this urge a few times in her autobiographies1, but I assure you it was (and still is) always present. That need for nonsexual contact is almost as urgent as the need between my legs, and indeed the two are inexorably linked, two facets of the same fiendish implant or snipped wire that dictates my new body’s desires. I stare across the shower stall at Chastity, drooling too.
So I would wait for the water to come on, too cold at first then often too warm, and eagerly watch my maid lather up the washcloth and exfoliate every square inch of me with precision. Those hands held no passion or sensuality as they cleaned me, I know this, but with no alternatives this cleaning was the closest thing I had to release. Our maids often spent a little extra time between our thighs, wiping away the dried traces of yesterday’s frustrations, as if they knew how much we leaked in desire but were conscious enough, sadistic enough, to keep millimetres away from our most sensitive parts, sentencing me to another day of staining my inner legs with my leakage, throwing off rich pheromones my perfumes barely managed to hide.
Our showers always finished much too quickly, and upon shutting off the water our maids would dry their waterproof shells first, each hard panel connected by flexible skin substitute not unlike our own, except purely synthetic and clinical white in colour. My maid would then reach up to her featureless mask and polish the golden ‘H’ which curled across her custom visage, and only then, once I had drip-dried, would the two maids towel-dry Chas and I, then plug our mouths again, unclasp our standing brace, and lead us to the wardrobe for lacing and dressing, and then the vanity for hair and makeup.
Such were our mornings, dried and dressed, clipped and tied, prepped and pampered, until we were ready to reveal ourselves to the main floor of our house. Each day we descended to join Father and his other Dolls for breakfast at nine-thirty, the four of us placed around the lesser dining table, waiting silently for him to finish his breakfast before he allowed us to begin ours. Apparently he found the slurping and rumbling we used to coax the nutritional mush down our throats quite distracting; unappetizing even.
You don’t say.
I wonder if Chastity missed scrambled eggs and vegan diet bacon as much as I did, never mind the real strips Father got to scarf down. Oh, to even draw fresh air through my nose and smell such quotidian bliss was an impossibility now. But whilst he ate whichever delicious morsel he had on his plate, he would discuss his day ahead, sometimes read the morning paper aloud, and update Chastity and I on the status of our potential suitors.
“Oh Chastity, darling, the Archibalds might not have the appropriate funds after their company’s stock took a steep dive last week. Far too much competition in the software markets these days, I told Richard such years ago, he should have diversified!”
Did he expect us to know what stocks were? Soft-what?
“And I’m sorry to say, the son of Duke Heston did not find you suitable during your private courting last weekend, Hope. He requested further enhancements I considered rather… unsavoury.”
The only response I could offer was a barely-audible growl of hunger, well insulated under the stays and many layers. I let out a short breath from my neck, a frustrated sigh, and with it my silent thoughts: “Not suitable, you say?!”
If I recall correctly, the future-Duke waited until we were alone in the garden to remove my fleur-de-bouche and begin testing how much of his clenched fist he could fit in my new mouth, mentioning how my father was a “bastard” for locking away my nether holes, even though this kind of debauchee was precisely the reason he had done so.
And many of the other courting sessions were similarly degrading. A gentleman caller who generously offered to massage my tired feet, but overstayed his welcome and became lost staring at them. A nouveau riche businessman who wanted a companion for his twelve-year-old son, “so the boy can enjoy his adolescent years without uncertainty, anxiety, and rejection.” Even by then, growing up with the lessons I had, I initially sympathised for the young man and wanted to help, to fulfill that almost-motherly role, until I took a moment to remember what they really wanted me for, what the man was saying between the lines.
Oh, Chastity would be appalled to hear such words if I could utter them, but no, I did not see total submission and unthinking devotion as my duty anymore, never mind “a pleasure to be of interest to any man.” That ship had sailed once I awoke, clear-eyed, in this new body. Now I simply existed. I had not been blessed nor perfected, I was changed and entrapped. So if they wanted a Doll, they would get a Doll, a passenger. Eagerness? Just take a look at my face, that’s all they’d get from me now. The Society had claimed my body, undoubtedly, but they had deemed my mind largely irrelevant to that conquest, leaving it for me to have all for myself.
How noble I sound. I assure you I only held my head so high because my neck was fused like so.
As soon as the clear decanters were buried in our mouths and we were mindlessly sucking on our breakfast, Father would rise, take an appreciative glance at all of us, his harmonizing choir of debasement buzzing away, perhaps squeeze Cushions’ breast in lieu of her removed hands and peck her cheek, and then leave for the office. What remained behind were four obedient objects doing what they were told: Chastity next to me, usually dressed in pink with her locket hanging off her neck, myself dressed similarly but in tones of violet or indigo, and then across from us Cushions or Mum, though I still had a hard time identifying her as my mother after such drastic changes done to her face, arms, bosom, and by Father’s telling, her personality. That left only Cuddles.
Oh my love, what had they done to you?
Cuddles, formerly my sweet Althea Burns, had arrived at the Hodkinson Estate about two or three weeks after we did, as Father had said she required some additional work beyond the Society Standard. Additional work indeed, as I could see absolutely none of my former co-conspirator and friend in what sat across from me, save for the luscious wig which imitated her once-natural, raven-black hair. Whereas the new faces Chas and I now bore were exaggerated, dollish caricatures of our old ones, Cuddles’ visage had been completely remodeled to be a mirror image of our mother, including the button nose set between large doe eyes which flapped their lashes dumbly. And whilst our lips were quite pronounced, taut with collagen, and immovable, they still looked like two distinct lips; but our classmate had been bestowed with the same continuous, fleshy ring as Mum had, so thick it would’ve almost occluded her nostrils (if she actually needed those to breathe anymore). To our blurry peripheral vision the two women’s faces were completely identical, which was truly shocking considering they had no familial ties and nearly twenty years between them.
That is where the similarities ended, though. Along with the identically-styled yet darker hair, Cuddles had much larger breasts than any of us, ones that Father once mentioned he used as pillows in bed. How he managed this I had absolutely no idea, as thankfully I had never been called to his bedroom as some other girls in school had insinuated of their homelife and duties. Unlike my breasts, which I thought were quite unwieldy but begrudgingly tasteful in proportion to my slight frame, there was no hope of Cuddles’ tits’ unbearable size existing unsupported, and so her corsets featured ridiculous busts, much like bowls set out for her overflowing flesh. Luckily she needed no walking cart like Emilia Delany, no, in some senses it was worse.
Whilst her waist had been likely deribbed like mine and laced to a fashionable fifteen inches or so, her hips had been structurally widened, padded, implanted, something, maybe all of the above, to give her one of the most dramatic hourglass ratios I had ever seen, rivalling or even exceeding Dame Henderson, not like I could ask. This was very important, as she would need her wide bottom to be very stable as she sat almost constantly from now on: for her thighs only extended for about a foot or so from her pelvis, their ends rounded and soft-looking, just peeking out from under the frills of her miniskirt, wrapped in custom stockings laden with little hearts and bows. The legs which had coyly and covertly reached over to kick me under the table at St. Werburgh’s were now just long enough to keep her from falling forward due to the considerable weights cultivated from her chest, now part of her, forever.
Yes, my love was now almost totally limbless, suffering a far more debilitating fate than I had previously imagined possible, and though I had expected those wonderful fingers to be discarded by Eaton and his assistants, I had not expected Father to take away her chance to walk alongside me too. She now sat on a finely-decorated ottoman, which Father had called an ‘auto-man’ as a jest toward it’s unique self-driving capabilities. She had no backrest to lean against, even though leaning was usually forbidden for us Dolls anyways on the grounds of such ‘slouching’ being lazy and unrefined (as if we could even enjoy the luxury of slouching our erect torsos now). No, instead of a backrest, there was a small bracket which attached securely to the rear of her corset, unifying the two, making sure her top-heavy torso was kept firmly upright on her new throne as it moved her to and fro without question.
Left in this state there was very little Althea was able to move anymore, and the only way we could see her displeasure at her new form was the little tantrums she would throw sometimes, kicking her tiny stumps up and down in frustration, resulting in little more than a jostling of her tits, an upsetting of the carefully-laid miniskirt, and a swift punishment from her maid which usually involved those sensitive mams. I think Father liked such shows of resistance, but even now he made strides to hide it.
Faced with such a radical suite of modifications, I wondered what Father had found unsavoury about the future-Duke’s request, and where exactly he drew that line for his daughters, for he had obviously left no line uncrossed for that sweet, lovely Companion which he had deemed no more than an “infectious lesbian wagtail” that cruel December morning.
And so, once we were done slurping, massaging, and coaxing down our second decanter — this one filled with water, vitamins, medication, and who-knows-what-else; tasting of some artificial, plasticky facsimile of chamomile or mint — Cuddles would often be the first to retreat from the table (not of her own volition, mind you), and we would soon be lifted to follow her wheels at our own mincing pace toward the drawing room, unable to look down and see where our toes stepped, our maids both imploring us to move with steadiness and grace unbefit to these burning calves, yet ready to catch us if we were to fall.
I will not describe to you the hours of waiting, sitting on this lounger or that chesterfield, yearning for a distraction or a touch with as much detail as I have given to the rest. On good days, if no one tripped or stamped or struggled (namely myself or what was left of Althea), we would enjoy massages, pedicures, classical music, or even a radio play on rare occasions. We may have sat in the garden under parasols if it was fair-weathered, or instead gone for an exhausting walk along the one grounds-path which had been paved in a grand loop for our simplified, unadventurous enjoyment; of course primarily meant to strengthen our legs somewhat and smooth out our gait like the old days. On some Tuesdays we would be joined by Emily Battersby for our activities, as her husband and Father had decided we should ‘socialise’ more. Eventually we were joined by her sister Anne as well, whom Mr. Battersby had saved from ‘unwomanly pursuits.’2
Such life persisted for many weeks, each day feeling endless, endless, repetitive, endless. That is, until the Collins men came to visit…
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Such as when Humphrey holds Emily close to review Anne’s progress in her dollification, I believe she mentions such deprivation and yearning. You may find it here. ↩
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Or so Mr. Battersby said, for we know full well of their troubles now. ↩