Chapters Dollhood: A Woman's Choice Book 3 Chapter 30
August 2050
In the autocarriage, my chaperone Jack looked up from the tablet he had been so engrossed with since our departure, muttering something about ‘sodded fools’ which I could not discern, but now he glanced my way.
“Dear, can I see your shoe?”
With a few weeks of blessed sleep behind me, I had no intention of breaking our truce-of-sorts with petty refusals. I tried to raise my leg up to his lap, I truly did, but it was too strenuous, my back pressing into the cushioned seat, my knee raising just a few sorry inches, the heel not much further off the carriage floor.
Jack sighed at my frailty and grabbed my ankle roughly, bringing it to his lap with a huff directed at the charging automaid seated quietly beside me. As the carriages passed, the signage and buildings too, the urban fabric became thinner and more irregular, before patches of green became dominant in my periphery.
The burly man fiddled with the thin laces securing the steep travelling boot — delicate, but quite secure. Knots didn’t really make sense to me, dear Reader, how a couple strings could hold each other like a clasp of leather and metal, strong enough to compress the life from my chest, yet delicate enough for Jack to pull one end so easily and release the firm hold about my ankle? I imagined slipping a toe or a stiletto heel through one of the two big loops down there, but my fumbling with the pen all those weeks ago — with John’s help, no less! — was proof enough that these feet were quite useless for such improper ideas, even bare. Perhaps it was a lack of practice, but to be truthful I knew it just as likely to be another artificial constraint of my body, insurmountable by determination alone. So, the heel stayed tied and firmly in place until he willed it open, like men were wont to do.
Slipping the shoe off, he took my delicate, en-pointe foot and generously massaged those firm muscles and immobile joints, my toes flexing in some sort of lazy pleasure as my ankle did not.
Enjoyable as it was — uncharacteristic as it was — my wide eyes only blinked at the old man, who was for all intents and purposes my husband. Beyond him outside the carriage’s tinted panes passed fields, fences, hedgerows, and groves I soon began to recognize — blurry as they were — as the countryside roads outside Reading. And before long the autocarriage slowed, at gates… familiar gates…
The gates of the Hodgkinson Estate!
Jack hadn’t told me where we were heading; there was usually no point. I came hither where guided, and I arrived where I was sent, without debate or struggle — anymore. He did not explain his intentions to me unless he wanted to play with my emotions, and I had no doubt this lack of explanation was for the same purpose, for my heart was indeed aflutter!
Jack opened the carriage door as the metal gates slowly separated, and reached out to the ground to fetch… something.1 He seemed to shovel that something into my travelling boot before refitting it and retying that mysterious bunny-eared knot, yet again.
Once I had my foot on the carriage floor, and we were proceeding up the manicured gravel drive, crunching underneath, I realised what had occurred. At the bottom of my near-vertical heel, my husband had deposited a small rock between my sensitive foot pad and the sole, a sharp intruder in a space already a size too small.
And he had gifted me with this simply for my discomfort.
“The earth from whence you came, my dear. Only you and I will know.” he chuckled to himself, tapping his nose like I was a child, before his attention drifted again.
As the hazy form of my home grew larger behind this cruel gent, I could only pull my breath back from the edge of an audible sigh, and chastise my tongue for even twitching in curiosity at whatever filled him with such mirth.
For the first time since John and I had departed for our honeymoon, I arrived giddily under the porte-cochere of my Father’s stately home. My spirits were astir as I imagined the long, familiar halls, the winding garden path, and well-appointed rooms — and the people I loved inside, of course! An elaborate fantasy played out in my head of being dropped off here, to live the rest of my days in peace with the two dolls who I envisioned waiting for me by the door, just inside. It was heaven itself.
Even as I alighted the carriage, breath heavy from the strenuous act of simply rising, my tiny waist held firmly by my maid, I did not mind the pebble digging between my toes; for the grand doorway swung open wide and the hazy form of my Father, confident and considered, strolled forth to greet my captor, shaking his hand firmly.
“Jack! Welcome! I’m glad you made it. You didn’t pass the ruckus at the park on your way out of Kensington, did you?”
“I thought not, avoided it entirely. I heard they were quite loud, and such exposure wouldn’t do our girl any good, would it?”
“Quite right, glad to hear it.”
The two didn’t pause to explain this in the slightest, but they did remember I was standing right there, staring into the distance. I turned my hips slightly and my locked torso and shoulders and breasts and neck and head and eyeline followed until I could focus on Him! Father set his sights on me, meeting my locked gaze desperately boring into his chest, before his voice warmed into that familiar way he talked to us Dolls.
“Chastity, my darling girl! It’s so good to see you… and… so much of you!”
It was true. As we stood there in the carriageway, a stray breeze brought my attention to how scantily-clad I was. No longer was I a well-covered, virginal daughter of the household, nor a chaste student of a regimented school, nor the wife of a respectable royal scientist (in training): instead I was costumed in the role of the libidinous ornament of Jack Collins’ reputation as a financial shark, meekly following in his wake. Whilst I was not so bare as Lord Chittenham kept his Doll, Belle — her body seared into my memory — my dress did leave terribly little to the imagination.
It was a silken lavender number featuring such a wide decolletage I was almost bare-chested, save for two firm cups like twin doors ajar, exposing the entirety of my cleavage down to where my bustless corset properly began. The dress left my delicate collarbones and shoulders bare, but those smooth corners were covered by the tiniest farce of a traveling jacket, a matching sleeveless shrug which threatened to fall off — if only I could do such a thing as ‘shrug’. A sense of vertical symmetry left the usual skirt and petticoats also split down my lap, scandalously revealing the gap betwixt my shivering legs — clad only in white lace stockings and garters to keep them up. I had no idea if Father could see the ends of the two ivory gifts down there or if they were nestled deep enough. I could only blush and hope the leather strap hid my delicates from view as each tendril of the summer wind tickled my fertile valley.2
It was hardly proper travelling wear.
Father stepped close and looked down at me, holding one padded shoulder in his warm hand and running his other thumb along my cheek, feeling the silicone skin, admiring the bold red lipstick framing the white flower which erupted below my blank expression. My body began to warm to his presence, an effect he was still unaware to inflict upon me, and I begged my holes not to clench about my gifts, not today, lest I lose all focus and squander this visit in intolerable heat.
He sighed. “It’s quite difficult for a father to see his girl like this, dollification being what it is. You’ve grown so much, it is plain to see… but underneath all these accoutrements, you will never look much older than the day I picked you up from the hospital! But don’t listen to me prattle on, waxing nostalgic! Now you’re a married Doll, and what an… erhm… striking choice of dress, shall we say? Even more revealing than last time.”
He glanced at Jack, who shrugged. “It was her choice indeed, one of the few variables I allow them.”
“‘Them?’” My Father inquired, whilst I subtly shook at Jack’s slip. “Have you found Chastity a companion since we last met?”
Jack was on the very periphery of my vision, but I could hear his voice stammer almost as badly as his son’s. “N-no, that would be quite tasteless. Your daughter and I are only just wed, after all.”
Father nodded curtly, “Quite right,” and my heart fell again. I will never escape this lie! Yet deep in my gut, compressed all about and then stuffed full from below, I knew I had to at least try to communicate with my Father this fortuitous afternoon; pray he might understand. I daren’t make a scene here, though.
Father pushed up his glasses. “We missed you dearly last month, Chas, you must know! I couldn’t bear to tell your mother how you fell back into old habits, and she made such a fuss when no visitors arrived. Cuddles too…”
Althea. I admit in my struggles with Jack and his re-education schedule, my once-companion had not crossed my mind in quite a while, but it would be good to see her — or good to see Cuddles, as it were. Mother too. Yet Father’s mention of a missed meeting confused me: it must have been around the horrid swap, when my fire had not yet been quenched.
Thankfully he continued as our small procession left the clear-but-brisk day to afford me the same warmth as those fully clothed. “Though I keep my Dolls quite active, they so dearly look forward to this rendezvous every month, it is plain to see.” he added, “And since your sister’s husband cannot spare an inkling of time to visit us here, I find myself equally delighted by this arrangement, Chastity.”
As my bosom heaved at the challenge of a few stairsteps up to the door, my mind found a sliver of focus between the rubbing gifts below and I realized; for all his faults, Jack had connected my sister with family with much greater regularity than John had.
It wasn’t a guarantee for a Doll to retain contact with her family after betrothal; it was solely up to the husband, as all concerns were, and any terms of marriage he had with the father or previous guardian. As mentioned, I had not been to my former home since our wedding, and even returning for the holidays had become a bridge too far for John, who found himself working at the laboratory over Christmastime whilst I sucked on some mush of rosemary and cranberry, admiring the twinkling lights and carollers out the window. Father had come to visit my pink room in London quite a handful of times, and sent telegrams too, but for the first time in weeks — months! — I actually envied Chastity in a way.
Now I had become her, enjoying the good like slivers of gold discovered amongst rivers of struggle.
Inside the foyer I bent a silent curtsey, greeting my mother Cushions, who had been presented with her maid, alone. Idly wondering where Cuddles was, I longed to approach her closely, much like the day she was unboxed, pressing myself up close and connect, but Mother had been dressed in an old-fashioned crinoline that cascaded outward in an obnoxious plume in all directions. It had become highly unusual to wear such a massive bell skirt, maybe since the ‘30s, but I knew from my sordid trysts in Jack’s bedroom that older men had their own contemporaneous tastes in fashion, and we were naught but their perfect, accepting models — or mannequins. Nonetheless, I could only imagine its weight, and hoped the crinoline hoops weren’t too rigid, lest she wouldn’t fit into the drawing room!
“You’re looking quite elegant today, Mrs. Hodgkinson!” Jack bellowed, his eyes drawn to her bosom, quite a bit larger than my own but also more modestly hidden, before he looked up and down the entrance hall quite theatrically. “But where is the lovely Ms. Burns? I’ve so looked forward to spending some quality time with her.”
He turned around to Alan with a more serious inquiry. “Cuddles hasn’t fallen ill, has she? You should have sent a ‘gram.”
Father chuckled with a hint of sharpness. Sardonic, if he wasn’t being so cordial. “Well then you wouldn’t have brought our girl, would you? Let’s be quite honest with each other; we’re family now, after all.”
Now it was Jack’s turn to laugh, but though I couldn’t see their faces, I felt a sudden tension in the air. He wasn’t answering. He didn’t have a witty remark or deflection. What did Father mea—
It clicked. Yet again I had fallen for the surface niceties of the English tongue, the polite compliments that hid whatever real thorns were being traded. I knew Jack was well-versed in this parlance, as I listened at his side whilst other businessmen and minor dignitaries attempted both compliment and insult almost within the same breath. Of course, as his Doll and wife, I was only present for a sliver of such deliberations, but my ear had grown more attuned, indeed. The sliver of respect I held for the lecher evaporated as I realized Jack had arranged to bring Chastity home routinely, yes, but in exchange for bedding my mother’s companion! The dearest of friends, who my own Father stole from me!
Fuming, I swallowed autonomously and my holes vibrated about my gifts as I stared at Mother’s blank face, as unopinionated as my own. Could she notice my feelings overflowing into naught but a rosy blush?
“She is not ill,” Another man’s voice called from down the hall, oddly familiar. My maid turned me sharply to face the blurry figure, approaching, and I at first imagined Lord Chittenham, but this man didn’t have his lazy cadence, far more imperative. “Ms. Cuddles Burns is actually quite well-recovered from her alterations,” informed the respectable Doctor Eaton, resolving in my view, undeniable.
I was bade to curtsey by firm mechanical hands.
The men all greeted each other, and my creator bowed his head toward me. “Ah, the young lady of the household! Or formerly, no? You’re one of mine, aren’t you? What a pleasant surprise!”
It was hardly pleasant for me, my heart fluttering, my head spinning, simultaneously starstruck and repulsed by the man who had crafted this gilded cage within and without me. So much had happened since the last time we had crossed paths, so much had changed. It was a cascade of conflicting emotion indeed, yet the world around me did not notice nor wait for the flurry to settle.
“…the young doll is just in the drawing room, waiting for you all. I have seen to it that she is perfectly functional, and healthy as the day she arrived in my care! Mr. Hodgkinson, I left a parting gift on your desk alongside the implement you ordered. I greatly appreciate our luncheon and the peek at my competition’s handiwork.” he said with a glance toward Mother. “This, alongside the face matching on Ms. Burns, is some of the finest remedial work I’ve seen yet from Sant Isfael’s. If they can continue producing pieces of this quality, at this pace, then I may have a true competitor on my hands soon enough!”
“That you might, but don’t doubt we’ll save the more interesting requests for your team at Great Ormond Street,” my Father assured him. “You’re far closer, at the very least. And I will be in touch should the issues you mentioned with some of their previous work manifest in Cushions or Cuddles down the line.”
The good doctor nodded. “Be sure to, or if Lady Cushions shows further signs of wear.”
I blushed, imagining what kind of wear they must be discussing.
Eaton gave his thanks, before asking, “Might I hear your thoughts on the demonstration in Hyde Park today? Ghastly sight, isn’t it? On the King’s lawn, at that!”
Both Jack and Father shifted their gaze to the women in the room, much too conspicuously.
“Ah yes,” Doctor Eaton caught the gist, “Well, I must be off. Alan, I would greatly appreciate another visit if you can spare the time. I’m far from an urbanite, you see, and I can’t tell you the last time I drank air so sweet.”
Father assured him his doors were always open, the ones Eaton had his eye on… until my husband Jack left my side, hungrily. “Doctor, I’d like to consult with you regarding some alterations, and… let us say, their feasibility? Would you have a moment before you depart?”
“Well of course!” The grand designer, surgeon, and salesman smiled and the two left us Hodgkinsons alone.
Father took over for my maid, leading me to the drawing room, with Mother’s clicking heels following behind us.
“I’d say you should prepare yourself for some changes, Chas,” he hinted, but whilst Jack Collins’ secrets themselves were well-guarded, his intentions were already so easy to read you could still call my useless eyes literate!
Knowing I was doomed to the whims of this man I loathed was no relief, though! I was still trapped, and hearing my own Father call me ‘Chas,’ made me want to scream, but my silent pout said, ‘Yes Pappa,’ and my mincing steps just barely kept apace. Here I was, finally alone with him, and I couldn’t catch my breath long enough to think of a plan; how to communicate my true identity!
“You might not care what your old man thinks now, but I must say with your figure, the Society Standard fits you well.” I knew he was looking down at my nearly-exposed bosom, and I felt odd having Father leer at me so. “I do hope Jack is tasteful. Eaton’s catalogue is two inches thick and can have better men than Jack losing the plot, creating wives with more gimmicks than grace. Did you hear about the Hartford girl down the lane? Poor thing was married to a housewares magnate who entombed her in a Delft blue vase with only her head exposed from the porcelain like a bouquet! That’s all well and good, quite refined and ingenious, I admit, but her father confided in me how the man wouldn’t see reason, kept adding alteration upon alteration. Last I heard, now her mams sprout out as well, and reportedly tremor so significantly it’s cracking the vessel!”
My mind reeled at the mere notion of such a transformation, wondering how large the vase must be, or inversely how little must be left of the girl I had played with all those years ago, and whyever her breasts would— oh no, that was clear enough. What’s more, her family wasn’t even of the Society of Dolls! Without the proper acclimation to the notion of objecthood, Angelica Hartford had grown up expecting to become a Lady of Leisure and nothing more; trained her arms into the tightest reverse prayer in the county, practicing her dancing and posture, yet now she was made even more reduced and feminine than I!
I was pondering how I would cope if Jack asked for my legs to be removed, thinking of Cuddles, when Father stopped us in the hall by his favorite painting, the Turner. “Chastity, I must ask, because I know how Jack can be…”
I held my shallow breath, waiting for him to ask of my living conditions; my treatment.
“…did you truly choose this lovely dress for today? Of all days? I’m flattered, but dearly hoping this isn’t another ploy of yours. This is a sultry wrap best suited for a special night between the two of you, is it not?”
My fleur-de-cou shivered with my sigh.
Of course it had not been my choice; or a farce of a choice, as it were! Whilst John had always allowed me to pick from two or three respectable outfits, Jack did the same: he simply made one of the options subtly inappropriate, whilst the other was an utter fool’s costume. That morning, the bevy of choices had been either the current ensemble — revealing my bare shoulders, the cleft of my bosom, and nigh my entire vacuous thigh gap — or a musty toga3 he had saved from an ‘enlightenment’-themed fête in his prime. Knowing I was travelling that day, Dear Reader, my choice was clear.
And here I stood, that subtly-more-modest choice of attire still putting my nubile, helpless body on offer; and to my own Father, of all people! It was just the latest of so many persistent denigrations, so many stains on my armor, so many tiny, surgically-precise incisions upon my fragile self, and I… I… and I cried!
Even without tears I sobbed. I broke down under the weight of this cursed life and broke through formality and etiquette, and I rushed toward my Pappa and closed the small distance without a maid to stop me! I sought to bury my face in his chest, to get close to the gentleman who had kept me safe for so many years! My mouth could not plead, my eyes could not cry, I could only stamp my boot, lift my thigh and flex it weakly against him. ‘Yes’ ‘Yes’ ‘Yes’ ‘Yes’ ‘Yes’ He wouldn’t know John’s code but he must know I was trying to—
He pushed me away from him at once and backed off, readjusting his glasses over top the sheer embarrassment and strain on his face, asserting “No! Heavens, no!”
I stumbled back and almost fell, almost, before his eyes settled upon my chest, and my slight waist, and my perilously high heels, finally refocusing above with great restraint. He silently gestured an automaid to hold me still, even reseat one of my heaving breasts in my scant dress. In my distress it had escaped its place, as had I.
With none of my despair visible on my face, my confusion and shame was also hidden, so Father scolded the Doll standing before him, “Chastity, must you subject us both to this sinful appeal every time you visit? Every bloody time!?”
He paused, collecting his anger. What did he mean?
“It’s as if you are constantly under the influence of that devil paste! And perhaps you are — I know how Jack enjoys its effects, and some method must have been found to overcome your uncharacteristic obstinance at the start of your union. Whether by that French poison or the rest of his lascivious lifestyle, he has clearly corrupted your troubled heart. But you should know better than to press your allure here! Or have you forgotten your girlhood in these halls? Is there nothing left of that girl but this wanton shell? Your lustful soul may be so hollow that you would look even to me to fill you, but it is not my place — I have Cuddles and Cushions to pour my passions into!”
I was a crying girl, standing there by Father’s favorite Turner, trying to call forth some words Doctor Eaton’s team hadn’t surgically removed from me, trying to tell him and myself this all wasn’t true.
“And let it be heard Above, your promiscuity will be the tool those regressionist puritans in London will use to tear our Society down! Behave like a Lady, for I am your father! Do not press your breasts upon me so, do not lust at me with your loins, and — now that I know your sole intentions — don’t you dare dress so provocatively in this home again! Or else your husband will be made aware of this gross indecency, and your attempts prior, and I know that he will deal with you more harshly than I can bring myself to, even now!”
My heart dropped as fast as my stomach. My appeal could not have been more misconstrued, and my silent sobs at his accusations, however true for Chastity herself, only showed as further bounces in my chest as I stood locked in place by my own form and the automaid’s hands.
Father wasn’t finished, running his hand through his thinning hair, exasperated. He had more to say to my sister bottled up inside, and now the seal was off.
“I mean, honestly! I laid out a life in front of you with one singular need, and gave you a husband I knew would meet it! I might have expected gratitude, once, but your childish fit at the engagement news last year disabused me of the notion that you are any better than your sister! I never should have told you that you were my favourite. It may have been true, once, but the naked greed you have displayed on these visits worries me that I spoiled you beyond what even St. Werburgh’s could repair. I will not indulge you further, not in that way, no matter how you deign to tempt me!”
As if in response to his accusations, my holes vibrated and gripped Jack’s gifts filling me below. I’m sure Father heard the buzz, proving his point.
Father himself adjusted his belt, before feeling something and glancing down, drawing attention to a distinct tenting in his trousers I had seen Jack brandish many times. If my eyes could open any wider, they would have. Beside that was a wet stain. His eyes flicked to the gap in my dress, at my legs, and I knew in the pit of my stomach I had not only aroused my own Father, but also leaked on him in my plea! I shuffled my knees and — yes — my inner thighs were slick even as my crying, staring, blinking eyes were bone dry.
My cheeks burned red, the siliconized skin rosy as can be, and he took this as an admission of guilt.
“See what you have done!? You harlot! You—”
Mother, who had been standing idly by this tirade, minced forward, in between Father and I, cutting him off with her uncharacteristic wilfulness. With all her usual, rigid grace, she was never held so tightly by her attendant as I, and so she easily interrupted Father’s continued insults, giving me an armless shoulder, facing him, silently imploring him to stop. Her massive dress itself spread us apart, de-escalating the row, and my thoughts turned to her silent protest at our departure for St. Werburgh’s, years ago now, her last meaningful action as Clarice — my Mummy!
Suddenly I felt less alone. Even if she couldn’t know Chastity and I had been swapped, she stood there with me, her daughter either way, and I realized that even us Dolls could support one another in our—
Mother kneeled, and I thought her silently begging, until the maid deflated and extracted her fleur-de-bouche without needing any other cue. This was obviously routine for the Doll and her keeper.
I could only watch from behind with confusion, then utter shock, and then betrayal and revulsion, as Mother began rubbing her puffy pouting lips upon that bulge which had sprouted in Father’s trousers, moving her whole body just to shimmy those lips across him, coaxing it out as I had been made to do for Jack so many times. But she had done it willingly! And right in the moment of her daughter being chastised mercilessly! I winced inside as Cushions’ lips met the stain of my desires, and — though any duration of time seeing your own mother licking up your vaginal fluids is horrifying — she focused there for far too long.
Father himself looked utterly embarrassed, stopped quite abruptly in his tracks, and he was obviously affected by her actions, but he backed away swiftly and shook his head, avoiding the judgment in my blank stare.
“Not the time, Cushions! Not the time! Chas, I…” he held himself on the verge of an apology, but bit it back. “I trust we understand each other. Both of you, on to the drawing room. Your mother needs seeing to. And I… need to change.”
He paused, as if he was waiting for me to look down at my toes in shame, yet he knew I couldn’t no matter how dearly I wanted to look away from him — and away from the hard evidence of how I had tempted him.
I clicked my boot heel, feeling the pebble dig deeper into my sole, and did what I was told.
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Dear Reader, I hope you appreciate how difficult it is to narrate my life from an immobile and blurry gaze. I am most commonly left to patch these notes up based on details that only become apparent minutes later. I am quite lucky in some respects to have hindsight, writing these memoirs. ↩
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I say ‘fertile valley’ poetically, in the way my body inspires others to do unto it what they would most desire. I myself can no longer bear children, though a small number of my eggs are in cold storage for children of my own someday, via surrogate. ↩
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I will reveal, I chose the toga one day just to spite Jack, thinking it would be airy and relaxing compared to my usual attire. The man only smiled as he starved the fireplace, reduced the heating, and personally ensured I was laced an inch tighter than the norm. ↩