Chapters Dollhood: A Woman's Choice Book 2 Chapter 23
Overwhelmingly distracted as I was, the next moment I remember clearly enough to describe was Chastity’s ceremony.
Like Father mentioned, Chas hadn’t been the same after the engagement. Above the waist she was the perfect girl she had always been, without a doubt, but below was a far different story. For the past two weeks she had struggled in the shower, stomped around, tried to stand up on her own or walk wherever she desired; like her attempt to walk on the grass toward our favourite oak tree! I mean surely I wanted to as well, but the first step off our paved strolling path had resulted in her heel sticking in the grassy mud and breaking off, causing her to stumble into the lawn, staining her dress and nearly breaking her ankle! It was all so ungraceful, almost purposefully so. As I had seemingly been tamed and demoralised by my dollification — I had to admit — Chastity seemed to now see it as a free pass. She seemed to think that there was no worse outcome than what had already transpired. But couldn’t she see how Mother had paid for her transgressions? Or what of Althea?
I wanted to warn her that we were still vulnerable to change, to further enhancements, that her new husband would not take lightly to such bratty behaviour! And I can’t say it was pure altruism which made me concerned for my sister’s well-being, for we were still beholden to Father’s twin rule, the one we had made him pinky promise to when we were only kids: any modification to either of us must be enacted on the other, identically, to uphold our sisterly bond. But how to communicate such a complex warning?
I could not handle such questions, as my nethers spasmed in greedy need and my mind drifted yet again.
For her ceremony there had been murmurs of a restraining wheelchair to lead her down the aisle, but everyone agreed that such a crude device put the holy union and the families in poor light. Instead, a special brace was imported from Paris post-haste, a relic of the 2030s, when it was first deemed unfashionable for couture models to actually walk themselves down the runway. Made of sleek chrome, it held her legs together tightly, all the way up to the waist, toes en pointe, and was anchored by a heavy, motorised base that could be driven remotely.1 With the appropriate dress it would look as if the woman inside was gliding effortlessly down the aisle, but for a Doll it was a restraint of the last limbs we could control, leaving the wearer much like Cuddles, braced to her self-driving seat.
Chastity was secured in hers almost as soon as we could get inside the church, due to her attempts to nudge the doorknob of the vestry open with her hip whilst we were being changed, and her loud, incessant kicking when that failed to work. What I had not been expecting was the spare runway frame waiting for me to get inside too. Mind you, I didn’t fight like her. Just walking in from the carriage, my legs had quivered like the first time I strode down the hospital ward, and they had almost given away from under me multiple times from the oversensitive spasms radiating from my pubis. The sensations coursing out whenever I moved my hips but a millimetre were heavenly and excruciating, not unlike the tense, pounding feeling of a limb coming back to life after laying oddly for too long, and to make a single step was much further than a millimetre, I tell you! I knew I needed help down the aisle as well.
Mounted side-by-side in our runway stands, completely immobile in every way, we had but minutes before I heard the first notes of Pachelbel’s Canon through the doors, and Father put his hand on the bustle of Chastity’s white dress (where the controls for her standing frame were hidden) and they began their gentle procession out the door and down the aisle.
I was left in the back room with my silent maid, listening to the Minister preside over the ceremony Chastity and I had dreamt about endlessly since we were children. Was this how I had thought it would happen back then? My forbidden bits spasmed again and my eyes would have rolled back in frustration if they had the choice, but instead they blinked silently in their pleasantly-docile stare at nothing. The window was in my line of sight but it was too far, out of focus, the trees outside mere ghosts of green on a bright blue sky.
I should have left with Althea that night.
No! I couldn’t let myself go down that road again! Passionate dreams and what-ifs, that’s all that remained there. Indeed, this was not how I had imagined my wedding day, not in the slightest, but there was no use pining for the past, for the impossible. I focused on thoughts of my fiancé to drown out the noise and the worry.
Before too long the applause and cheers rang out, and Father had come back to lead me down the aisle too, towards my new owner, John. With a slow start my fixed perspective changed as Father effectively drove me out of the room alongside him, the only thing static in my view being my gorgeous white fleur-de-bouche blooming from my mouth. In the main hall, the people stood again, faces too unfocused to discern. The light shone through the stained glass in strong beams of colour. And as I rolled, no, glided between the crowded pews without a twitch of my own volition, my man came into focus, dressed to the nines as I was, with a nervous smile on his face. He was positively dashing, and I wanted him so badly. I could be far worse off, I thought to myself, whilst imagining his father who was standing with his thick arm around Chastity’s waist by the cross.
An automaid stepped out from behind the altar and helped Father with something below, and the frame articulated at the knees and toes in such a way that I was lowered to a prayer kneeler set beside John, my knees on the padded stool, my breasts grazing the bible stand. The movement, the vibrations travelling through… oh Lord, save me from what’s happening betwixt my legs!
As property, I was not to be standing when the Minister was present, especially not when being wed. There would be no more complications like my dalliance on stage at my graduation, none at all. Who knows, maybe some of the staff from St. Werburgh’s were in the audience I could not look upon, if so I hope this made up for my indecision then, this white flag I wore so elegantly. Either way, I needed to show John, the Minister, God, and everyone in attendance today that I was devoted, utterly devoted to my new owner and husband, and in him the Society too. Everything had to go perfectly, or else… or else this deep emptiness between my legs might never go away!
When John said, “I Do,” it brought my attention back with a shake and my heart swelled. This was it, and he didn’t sound reluctant! Actually, he said it so confidently, determined to accept me as his own and provide me with a proper Doll’s life, that my womanhood swelled too, or did it? My emotions were a complete mess with that sinful sauce spread down below. I wanted him so badly, I was so close to him, Just touch me, my shoulder! Touch me where I never will again, please John! But the Minister continued on with the proceedings undistracted, for my begging cries echoed solely in the confines of my own head. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry!
I simply kneeled next to him in utter devotion, wishing I felt as calm and placid as my face looked.
Our Minister gestured for John to ‘read my last words,’ a tradition in the Society to receive the Doll’s final response. When he reached down to release the air from my fleur-de-bouche and took out the drool-covered bouquet gag to look at what was printed on the inside rubber bladder, much like a fortune, he received my reply:
“I Do.”
Two words I could not say myself whilst drool dripped viscously down my chin and into my bare cleavage, staring pleasantly forward at the Minister’s groin. But my thoughts were not tethered to my gaze: I had only a mind for my husband standing beside me, an obvious smile in his voice as he read it aloud for the congregation.
It was in calligraphic script, elegant, perfect, the same handwriting that was inlaid on my automaid’s faceplate: it was my practised handwriting from when I was thirteen, not yet woman enough to understand the gravity of the lines Nanny had instructed us to practise for years by then.
“I love my Husband. He is so handsome and thoughtful. When I am a perfect Doll and he makes me his wife, I will say ‘I Do.’”
John then took two golden rings, one for himself which he put on his finger, holding it where I could see — he was so thoughtful — and one which he put on my locket’s chain, now nestled between my breasts, close to mine heart!
And when the Minister pronounced us man and wife, John and Father lifted me back up together, until the brace locked my knees straight again with a click. With a caressing wipe of his thumb to rid me of my embarrassing juices, John leant in to kiss my eternally-pouting lips, the ones that couldn’t kiss him back but felt every single iota of that union, his hands cradling my cheeks so gently, but firmly. I blinked dumbly at his closed eyes even though my heart was swooning.
I was his Doll now, in all ways but one.
That night, once the applause from Father, Lord Chittenham, Mr. Battersby, and the many other Societymen had long faded from my ears, and the silently-curtsied congratulations from my silicone classmates and acquaintances had been forgotten, I found myself alone in bed waiting for John, listening to the raucous reception downstairs go on for hours after my prescribed bedtime.
My automaid had prepared me in one of our house’s many guest bedrooms, as John’s flat and my new home was all the way in London2. Strange, I thought; the last time I’d been in that room, Chas and I had been playing hide and seek, long before the heels and the gloves, the elegant restraint; before I was remade, distilled, perfected; before I knew what desire really meant. To think, the girl that I once was could’ve been standing over the Doll I am now, looking down. What would I have told her?
“I—”
I heard the door open and my heart leapt, it was Him! It was the sweet man I was going to spend the rest of my… wait…
“Well don’t you look just marvellous, my dear… or should I say, ‘Daughter!’” Mr. Collins Sr. strode up to the bed, still in his tuxedo but obviously quite deep in the cups, collar undone, his hair disheveled.
I did look marvellous, but not for him! My maid had stripped me down to my corset, garters, and hose, before Cuddles’ maid had joined and helped pull my legs wide apart, all the way until my hips clicked and my calves were touching my shoulders, my toes pointed due north, and my lower lips were pulled taut against the sealing tape that kept that evil substance inside of me.
Mr. Collins saw all of this laid out before him, and his hands immediately reached for my nearly-bare vagina, the southern terminus of my body, completely vulnerable with no legs to get in the way of the deepest possible invasion. But he only rubbed me through the seal, teasing as ever.
“Chittenham, that jolly sadist, he had a few too many at our reception afterparty, couldn’t help but divulge what was waiting for my boy up here. It was a brag more like, how he fouled the most innocent girl in the room, and on her wedding day with her Pappa watching, no less! I can’t even imagine the lust which must be coursing through you after hours of this treatment, my dear.”
And still he rubbed my special little bump, sending waves of pleasure through me which, without muscle control of my double-jointed legs, only externally expressed itself by my toes wiggling somewhere above my head and my heaving chest struggling for every whiff of air it could get.
I need to climax. I need to cum. I need to cum or I swear I’ll go insane!! I screamed in torment, and naught but a soft breath could be heard, fluttering the rose petals in my neck.
That’s what they wanted though, for me to break. It wasn’t enough that I liked John, that I was pleased to be his Doll wife. They needed me to be like Mother after she returned from Wales, or Belle with her endless supply of this topical hell, or perhaps Althea, for I still knew not if my friend was of sound mind inside that mockery of a body. No, they strove to cultivate a Doll mind, utterly devoid of any thought save for devotion and need, endless need! They needed me to be as empty as I looked.
“I didn’t come up here to play with you, though. Oh, I’m so dearly sorry,” he cooed condescendingly, “I know you must be simply devastated in there, but not this time, it’s your wedding day after all! No, Chittenham spoke so highly of this substance but he was fresh out! More likely saving the last drops for himself, I reckon. I need to see what all the fuss is about.”
And so, as I blew kisses at the ceiling like the good doctors designed me to, Jack pulled the tape off painfully, slowly, just enough that I felt a big glob of mixed ointment and vaginal juices pour out, which he scooped up with his finger and sucked on. “Vanilla, an excellent choice of pessary, m’dear! Oh my… that does have a kick, doesn’t it?” And with a sudden rush of energy he bolted up and paced the room for a moment, before coming back for more of my runoff, shoving his coated fingers down his trousers.
“I surely hope your sister is prepared for me as you are! These legs, oh my, you Dollgirls are just full of surprises! We shall have our fun soon enough, daughter; I haven’t forgotten our little arrangement…”
Satisfied with the deeply embarrassed blush on my cheeks, he departed to join his own wife, and my tingling, hot flower was left untended to yet again. Oh no! Had he closed the tape or was I still leaking? I couldn’t discern by sensation through the nervous mess, and I surely couldn’t look. I just had to wait and see. Damn that man!
Noting to myself that there was nothing actually tying me down, I was trying quite ineffectually to move my legs — resulting in naught but useless flexes, shifting the nylons slightly, feeling my useless shoulders by myself for the first time, I think — when the door finally opened and my love strode in, a tad more steady-footed than his father.
“Oh Hope, oh dear!” He rushed over and placed his hand on my prone thigh, making me shiver earnestly at his touch, a rolling spasm teasing me below. “Is… is this normal?”
“This is supposed to be sexy, you dolt!” I couldn’t help but think impatiently, before I chastised myself: the Dame would have disapproved of such presumptuousness, even within our isolated Doll minds.
Standing over me — for he had learned some manners — I could see John’s handsome face roll through a hundred moral quandaries, but what could be more earnestly communicated than my lower holes exposed for his deepest possible penetration? Slowly, my new husband’s touch turned from tight and concerned to calm, sensual, appreciative of the very contact we had, the privacy for the first time, the ownership he now had over me, and his eyes looked me up and down.
“I haven’t… you know…”
I wished I could reply. “That’s okay darling, neither have I, come now, use me, use this Doll, it’s all yours now.” The pulsing in my nethers was intensifying by the second with his hand on me, with his body so close, I wished I could still smell him.
“I mean I’ve… touched myself… of course, but…” he began to unzip and fish his growing manhood from his trousers, I couldn’t see it from my fixed gaze, but it took him a second to get out and that boded well for me. Then his eyes glanced to my sealed vagina. “Am I not allowed to use you there?”
“No!! Please take it off! I need relief!” I shuffled my legs desperately, or at least I thought I did. Something about that dislocating click in my hips meant all John saw of my desperation were my wiggling toes, which his eyes jumped to and lingered on.
“Hope… don’t be offended… you… you look so delicate and vulnerable. I don’t know how you feel about Dollhood, about your time at the school and… after… but I think I… I think I like you this way…”
John began to stroke himself and I felt hungry for it. “That’s okay, that’s good! Put it in, please! I’m made for this!” I wanted to plead.
He obviously wanted me, I could see it out of the corner of my eye by the furious grip on his eager penis, but some damage inside kept him from being the man I needed; kept him from just taking what he wanted, what was his now by will and law; this Doll with her legs spread begging for his prize!
“Yes, I think I do, I mean I do, definitely! Oh heavens, I’m so bad at saying what I mean. You… your situation, it gives me the space to work it out… work out my words. You’re so patient… that’s not the right word but… but when we get to my— to our new flat, I’m going to pore over the owner’s manual from Great Ormond Street and figure out how to communicate, I promise, okay? I can’t live with a woman and not know what she holds in her heart, but I also want you… like this… silent, helpless, beautiful, libidinous. Oh, Hope I’m so sorry, I’m going to use you as designed. If I wait for your consent… Father said our union may be invalidated and… and… I want to keep you, I want to provide for you, I simply… I just… I want you!!”
I practically laughed in exasperated joy inside as his hand finally let go of its tense deliberations and targeted the seal on my lower holes, peeling it off like a man would a new handheld device. I loved it about him, his endless care, but it also frustrated me endlessly: he had finally made it, but I needed him to understand the carnal urgency I felt in his presence! Perhaps upon contact with Chittenham’s salve dissolved inside me, John would learn what urgent need felt like, what it felt like to be me.
With the seal off I felt my labia pull wide open and a puddle of thick juices spill forth again. He must have thought that was normal, because for once as he shed his clothes and climbed over his new toy, immobile on the bed, he did not pause: he grabbed his hearty cock and brought it to my slit, pushing in almost instantly (ah!) due to how soaked I was from my entire day of edging torment.
Oh God! I was made complete! This was beyond Althea’s touch, this was miles beyond servicing men by mouth, this was everything! For a blissful moment I forgot how hard it was to breathe. The limitations of my body— no, my entire being was centred about the nerves in my pubis, that place I had never touched myself and could never reach again, and he was satisfying all of them, satisfying months of denial, weeks of engagement toy teasing, hours of chemical edging. He was thrusting clumsily but forcefully, beginning to get a rhythm, and beginning to moan and grunt and huff as his own desire escalated thanks to my special features pulsing, spasming, stroking him.
“Oh Hope, I had no idea it would feel this good! I… I can’t stop!” He called out between grunts, pounding deeply into me as my frozen face grew flush and my breasts shook back and forth, nipple clamps pulling sharply — though that was more of a pleasure than a pain at this point. He was finally with me, there in the moment, his hands cradling my cherubic cheek, thumb invading my mouth and triggering my other autonomic responses, the muscles of my face-hole rolling, greedily sucking, vibrating, my tongue swirling about his digit, showing him what this body could do.
His wet thumb slid out and I could not chase it with my shortened tongue, as his caring touch ventured downward; my rose’s petals like palms in a hurricane: surging chest; supple silicone skin joined by his lips just above my bustline, searching for the entrapped, pinched teat within, before his hand made a firm grip about my neck to my surprise! He was being so bold! Thanks to my tracheotomy I did not feel my breath leave me, but I did feel utterly owned and mastered as John used that stranglehold as a love handle, his other hand vice-like on my upstretched calf, forcing my rigid torso down into the soft mattress and steady whilst he rammed his hips into mine without concern, without legs in the way, filling me deeply, using me, now fully caught up in my nectar’s delirium.
His lips left my breast and finally met mine, and just as on the altar in front of all those people, I was lit afire with warm sensations that would have never graced my natural body. Finally, the puzzle pieces had all fallen into place! I had been made a vessel for pleasure, to incite desire in others, an ark of weakness, and a precious, delicate Doll — a ‘fuck toy’ as Althea would’ve put it crudely — an object indeed, but a prized possession! John had gifted me his cock, a ring, and a home, but I was giving him everything, all of me, and he did not take that vulnerability for granted as many others might. And so I say to you, dear Reader: we Dolls may be subject to dastardly whims in our midst, but in virtuous arms the Society’s theories are sound! Every Lady of Leisure in our great United Kingdom should experience the fulfilment I did in that beautiful moment!
And then I finally came, crying in joy as every tense fibre in my body released and I saw the light of the Doll mind: feminine simplicity, contentment, satisfaction! The Dame had told the truth! My life’s path wasn’t a farce, a prison, and the goal wasn’t eternal need, it was about reaching this bliss! If but for a sweet second…
My face blinked calmly as all this washed over me, staring at the ceiling in pleasant delight, unable to look my man in the eye; a rolling, milking spasm the only sign to him I had even climaxed, which he noticed grip his cock and could only gasp, “Oh, darling!”
But perhaps it was best I could not coo to him and beg for more, as such a confronting and earnest gaze would have surely given him a timid fright anyways; for as I was now, he liked that, he liked Hope the Doll, he liked the only me I was ever going to be, and truly I thought I might be the only girl who could set his soft heart free to be the way he was now, handling me like a proper man should with his devoted wife. Yes, I had a feeling I might be the key to his happiness, and he might be more of a gentleman than I could have ever expected or indeed imagined possible.
As John came inside me, drunk on aphro-paste and champagne, he loved me, and I loved him, and I loved being his Doll.
END OF BOOK 2
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Such devices have been replaced with a simpler conveyor belt system in Paris these days, the designers and production managers forgoing the bulkiness of braces for a simple threat; that if the models moved a millimetre more than a manakin would, they wouldn’t be seen on another runway for the rest of their lives. Due to this competitive environment, it was rare to see even a blink from the girls as the increasingly-elaborate runway setups tried to throw them off their game, and this secondary sport had become an unspoken sideshow of Paris Fashion Week. ↩
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Now that John and I have travelled the country for his lectures, Reading to London seems trivial, but this commute was the furthest I had ever been from home at that time. ↩