Chapters Dollhood: A Woman's Choice Book 3 Chapter 24
June 2050
The hum of the doll stand permeated the room, pink and white and lavender all the way from the closed door to the chesterfield, from John’s fresh bouquet beside the HiFi to the fine lace curtains letting in only diffuse light and the faint but persistent din of the city.
I stood there, silently, unable to move as the invader betwixt my legs pumped in and out of my plastic nethers. The muscle stimulators fired away, tensing this muscle or that in my thighs and my pert behind, but my legs couldn’t do much more than shiver, for they bore little of my weight. No, most of me rested upon that saddle, that doll stand in the corner, my hips pressed firmly down such that my mons felt every vibration that rolled up from that lovely appliance!
I could feel my womanhood pulsing along too, spasming, gripping my second lover. I felt tighter now, quite fit: my most sinful friend with a mind of her own was in far better shape than she had been on my wedding night just a few months earlier, of that I was sure. Plenty of blissful exercise was to blame for that! Here in my proper place I felt like such a good wife, exercising my husband’s favourite hole even whilst the morning’s tension left my body, the whisper in the back of my head finally drowned out by sweet release. A buzzing, glowing warmth spreading out from my hips, my body finally succumbed to the onslaught of sensation and released. Ah! It was this feeling, oh God this blissful contentment, and the satisfaction from John’s moans of ecstasy every time he used me that made it all worthwhile.
As my lungs fought the warm embrace of my corset, puffs of silent moans and sighs escaping my neck, I clicked my heel to signal to my maid I was done. The ceaseless plunging seemed not to be slowing in the slightest, and after two consecutive climaxes I was properly perky, content, and quite finished with this.
She didn’t respond.
Where was my automaid? I could only stare vaguely toward the window, my attendant outside my field of view. Had she left the room? No, I would have heard her walk out. She must be behind me, dusting the shelf, or simply on standby, I thought.
As I clicked my heel again, I imagined reaching a single finger below to trip the switch off, but I knew such daydreams to be futile now. My proud chest and my smooth shoulders held no possibility of rescue, nor even a shrug, as my face pouted and stared at nothing. All was as it should be to please him.
Yet still I remained.
Oh dear! The vibration and oscillations of the shaft were beginning to send me on another tour! I needed to get out of this, fast. I knew my rebuilt vagina could take it, but I was getting tired and sore, and by now I was far more concerned with staying conscious, waist constricted so. I clicked my heel a third time.
It was about as helpful as the first two signals.
Whilst I had enjoyed the last twenty minutes or so quite still upon my perch, in proper form save for some slight hip gyrations, by now I was squirming my legs about, trying to kick one of my heels up and hit the off switch, but weak as they were, I knew I wasn’t getting these bound feet any higher than my knees. The petals of my fleur-de-cou fluttered as my upper body shook like a stiff board, unable to free my poor ladyhood from the pounding assault.
My heels clicked repeatedly against the metal baseplate, legs tensing as I came again, hard, my eyes blinking, my throat swallowing, my thoughts of John gripping and kneading my sensitive breasts sorely unrealised. My head clearing once again, I bid to lift myself but I simply had no purchase, and no strength. What wasn’t frozen and fused was clumsy and weak.
I came three more times before my automaid graced me with her presence, turned off the pulsing, lowered the saddle, and let me mince forward on my shaky heels. Every step was agony as my oversensitive sex ached and pulsed almost as badly as the intoxication I suffered on my wedding day.
Not again! I was the lady of this house and this would not stand!
Turning around, I intended to chastise my servant like I had seen the other ladies do during afternoon tea, but of course I remembered I was not them, I could not even glare petulantly at my faceless maid like the other girls my age, so I resolved to go for a little walk to regain my proper doll mind whilst my automaid busied herself cleaning my fluids from the stand.
Each tiny ladylike stride had my mind clearing a bit more. I headed for the window and it only took a minute or two of careful motions, mincing, taking care that my near-vertical heels didn’t catch the carpet, yet quite unable to look down to check. Ironically it was there to soften any tumbles, and when my maid was at my side this was no concern. The veils over my window eventually tickled my nose as I attempted to look outside, but I knew it was for naught.
As exciting as metropolitan life may be for some, all I ever saw from my little room was the pavement and carriageway below, some perfectly trimmed shrubberies, and the other block of cream stucco Georgian terraces across from ours; the whole lot of it blurry, featureless, and interlaced with the periodic batting of my eyelashes. I had once tried to align my dumb gaze as far down the road as I could, turning my body, pressing my chest quite indecently against the glass, but all I had seen were the same columned houses, left and right, as far as the eye could see, which admittedly wasn’t very far for a doll, before it all dissolved into a blur. Autocarriages often passed by, which was quite different from back home where the whirr of an electromotor and crunch of the gravel drive either meant a visitor or the post, but here you heard them at all hours, whizzing by or honking at the others. To be truthful, the noise still gets to me, even after all these years.
It seemed at the time that I had traded my peaceful provincial life for that drab London experience. Whilst I often wondered what was flowing through Cuddles’ head as she was keeping my mother company back in Reading, or what my sister’s home life was like with Collins Sr. but a few miles away, I had more pressing activities to occupy my day. Of course, barely seventeen (following my new birthday as a Doll, of course), I had but a hint that Kensington was as aristocratic a place as any in the United Kingdom, a hotbed of the sparring elite; I was neighbours with Lords and Ladies of great import, and I was lucky to have been accepted warmly into the Berkeley Gardens Social Club.
Speaking of which, surely it was time to go by now? It wasn’t proper to have a clock or pocket watch in sight of a doll, so it’s not as if I could check, but I usually left for Lady Kettering’s promptly after my first standing appointment! I turned away from the street to find my maid still polishing the doll stand, first stroking the shaft then wiping the myriad silver electrical pads one by one, then again and again, as if on loop.
How odd.
She did it again, froze, and repeated.
Oh no! No no no no no!
Standing there, a helpless doll who could not even sit for fear of being unable to rise up again on her own, I began to get very afraid. For I had entrusted my entire life to servants, machine or real, and it’s not as if I could go ring John for help myself. Besides, the door to my room was closed. Not locked, mind you, but such was more than enough.
For the first time in months I felt truly vulnerable again, and a doll should not feel this way! We shouldn’t be put in such a position!
I sauntered over to my automaid, who was kneeling, wiping the phallus for the seventh time now, her natural movements interrupted by pauses here and there, breaking the illusion, revealing her as no more than dutiful automata. I missed my Nanny, she would never have entrusted me to a sole machine like Father had, she would have known how to fix this. I waited, thinking in quite an unwomanly fashion about what to do next. I didn’t want to misbehave, especially since I hadn’t given John much reason to alter her strictness and punishment settings since Father transferred ownership, but I had no choice.
I had no choice.
I stamped my heeled shoe in the carpet, but it was muffled and ineffective. My maid kept on with her sinful obsession, running the cloth up and down the stimulator, gesturing in such a lewd way that John would have balked. Then again, he knew how to adjust their programming, could he be behind this strange behaviour? Had he been tweaking her clockwork? Knowing him and how delicately he had cared for me ever since our marriage, it was unthinkable. Perhaps by mistake, but never would he knowingly subject me to such uncertainty in my care!
I got closer, such that my crinoline-spread dress brushed her. John had deemed “the flower gag” excessive since my neck also held its own smaller fleur, and I suspect he liked the look of my gently pouting lips wrapped around the self-inflating ball-gag itself, so the only thing that blocked my peripheral view downward was my décolletage, the bare cleavage of my breasts projecting forward, held tightly by my corset and the nipple clips inside.
Deeming myself close enough, I broke every rule in the book and kicked my maid.
Being a doll, it likely felt like a tap. I struggled to regain my balance for a moment then kicked again, harder this time, and I thought I saw her hand pause, longer now, before resuming, polishing each pinching, teasing electrode. There was definitely something awry, as I could only imagine what punishment I should’ve been receiving for my insolence!
I tried for the third time and felt the delicate heel break out from under me, putting me on my back, strewn across the ground! It all happened in slow motion, lost in the air with no way to break my fall, and suddenly there I lay, head knocked up a bit and stuck staring at the ceiling yet again. I shifted my legs in the hope of rising, but dear Reader you must know how fruitless that proved.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched my entrusted servant continue her sacred rite until she exhausted her cells and came to a statuesque stop, groping the now well-worn phallus.
John found me hours later, after getting home late from the laboratory.
“HOPE!” he rushed in, cradling my cheek, staring into the eyes that did not meet his. “Are you alright? Are you hurt? Oh dear!” He checked me all over before looking at my legs, for my right thigh to tense and lift just enough to signal yes, I was okay.
Our way of talking was not hard to decipher.
Lifting me up to sit on the chesterfield, John held me tightly with his strong arms, and inside I wept in relief. My utter helplessness hadn’t been revealed like this in a long time. It took us nearly half an hour to get the story out, my eyes staring out the window, now filled with the glow of streetlights, the day gone, my mouth still filled with its gag, my thighs tensing as he read letters off a plastic board, each flex allowing me to speak in a way, piece-by-piece.
It was agonizingly slow, and I absolutely refused to conduct myself in such behaviour most times he offered, but such traumas were precisely why we had established this tenuous line of communication: an emergency. He surely believed such breaches of dollhood should be more commonplace but in this my opinions were clear, as were the Society’s policies.
He spent all night in his study with my recharged automaid, returning to my room every so often to walk me to the powder room to be flushed, to feed me with some special mash he prepared, to flip the record filling the otherwise still and silent room with a distracting tune, and back to his study he would go to continue his work. It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t my maid — we skipped dinner at the table that night as he got lost in another project — but other than my fright and my curiosity I was filled with adoration for this man stepping up to the task.
I did wish he would take me to his study, to be closer, but I knew the chairs in there were horribly uncomfortable, it was not my place to ask for such accommodations, and besides; I didn’t want to distract him. Or shall I say, I desperately did, but knew he needed his focus.
Finally John came to put me to bed, but unfamiliar with my routine and how to dress (or undress) a lady, I was laid down completely nude for the first time since my stay in Great Ormond Street Hospital with my class of dolls, almost a whole year before. Covered with a duvet, a normal one that did not zip or clip closed, my legs left unbound, I was filled with an odd feeling in my tummy. It was an unbelievable treat to be so unencumbered, but to not have the tightness and security of my night stays and layers was unsettling. This feeling in my tummy took me aback. Was it that I was free? Or just more aware how — even unbound — there was no such state for me anymore?
John knelt down beside me. “I can’t make heads or tails of this error, dear. I sent a datagram to my father and he knows a technician who can stop by tomorrow afternoon and take a look. Hopefully he can get to the bottom of it.”
Good. The sooner I could resume my routine, the sooner I could cease my worrying, cease this horrid unfeminine thinking. It was of course the source of my problems and discontent, I was sure of it. Dame Henderson had been right about so much, the past weeks and months so blissful and fair, the marital union so pure, and my unrealistic thoughts had been growing few and far between. I simply needed to follow the St. Werburgh way.
He rested his hand on my lap, and let the other trace my pouting lips, parted slightly and the tight hole between left ungagged, unfilled. Oh, if only he would put his— “Darling, I d-daren’t think what could have occurred if your automaid had left the stove alight and became stuck, or p-perhaps if you had even become the object of its… its wanton obsession! If only you would discuss prosthetic voices with me, it took many favours to find the manufacturer of those gags your teachers wore at St. Werburgh’s.”
I tensed my left thigh under his touch. NO. I should have never told him of those devices. I no longer wanted any part in sullying the proper form of this dollhood. Both our fathers would have our heads, and I knew John would look at me very differently if I became wilful, he would undoubtedly close himself to me, become as meek as before our wedding night, as shy as he still was with others. It was like Nanny always said, in that singsong way, “He couldn’t possibly love me properly, if I became more than his property!”
Oh how I wish Nanny was here instead of my useless automaid!
“No,” I flexed. I didn’t even want to be able to say no, to say anything, but I had to. For his sake.
“Alright, Hope darling. We’ll talk about this another time,” John said, rising before I could tense a steadfast ‘no’ again.
He shed his suit and tie, brushed his teeth and climbed into bed next to me, resting his head on my smooth shoulder, his lips barely kissing one breast and his large hand cradling the other. Staring at the ceiling like I had all day, I could do nothing to return his tired affection but wait for if my man desired using me tonight, fully nude as I was, but he seemed too drained from the day’s trials. Sinfully I was thankful, as the pounding earlier had left me quite sore. Instead he just muttered half-asleep, “Oh… since I have to be in the laboratory bright and early, I asked Priscilla to be your companion tomorrow.”
I stared at the ceiling silently.
Lovely.