Chapters Dollhood: A Woman's Choice Book 3 Chapter 32
Honestly, Dear Reader, I couldn’t patch together an ounce of surprise, as I had known from the moment he pounced on the Doctor in the foyer that my time as a Society Standard Doll was nearing its end, and there was no indication he might reclaim his rightful wife and transform her instead.
My howls of WHY ME went unheard, responded to only by the doctrine occupying more of my mind than ever… For you are the uncut diamond a Man will pour his efforts into shaping, so you can shine your brightest.
“You should take the opportunity to spend some time with your daughter.” Jack suggested, in what felt almost like a threat. He gripped the stem of me and jostled a bit like the puppet I was, an inch at my waist shaking my head a fathom, and my tits almost as much. “You may be seeing…less of her, in the future.”
It took a moment for us all to grasp his meaning, and Father nodded. He merely nodded!
“I admit I’ll miss her as she is.” Father gave me an unreadable glance. “They bloomed so beautifully, after such a long wait.”
“You always have the spare.” Jack jested, a good-natured tone twisting wicked words. “And besides, when I’m through there’ll be no danger of mixing them up.”
“Ha!” Father barked a laugh and raised his glass. “I relied on their lockets for that once, but they each have a much more obvious accessory these days — one they are just as rarely without. Chastity’s is much older and fatter than her sister’s, to her initial dismay, but she seems to have grown quite accustomed to him.”
“Indeed she has!” My ‘accessory’ — no, Chastity’s — laughed, patting my milky thigh with well-feigned affection, his hand reaching between my legs, tracing the leather strap that kept my gifts from being expelled by a simple push. Inside I winced at his touch, and the cruel irony of the joke. “We make quite a pair.”
“And yet I find her appearance much improved when unburdened by her husband’s rather oafish visage.” Father’s inhibitions were falling away as his tongue loosened behind a distracted grin, amusing himself by trading gilded barbs. “In the spare moments he allows for a father and daughter to spend together, that is.”
“Alan, you wound me!” Jack bantered back. “I know how important the bond between you two must be. In fact I think you’ll find that I have done everything in my power to encourage it…
“Speaking of private time,” he added, an aside which from his tone I immediately knew would be closer to his true aim than all this chaff, “I would appreciate a more intimate inspection of Mrs. Hodgkinson’s new toy before hors d’oeuvres,” out of my periphery I caught his gesture, reaching around me to direct his glass at Cushions and Cuddles, “as charming as this demonstration may be.”
Whilst I hadn’t known of this oft-monthly arrangement, or its terms, Jack was being oddly insistent on bedding Cuddles considering how infrequently he requested me for such occasion — less than his son, if that could be believed — and considering how quickly he used and discarded me when he did, taking what he required from that soft place I held at my lower end, before I was walked back to bed alone with his seed running down my thigh.
Was he simply trying to give Father and I space for this indecent collision course he had set us on? No… supposedly he had been enjoying her for a long while. I had to ask myself: What unique attraction did Althea — or Cuddles, rather — inspire in Jack? Did he admire her near-complete limblessness? Was that my predestination under Doctor Eaton’s wicked scalpel?
Or was it like he had said, the farce of enjoyment upon an impenetrable mask? Honestly, I could provide that for him already.
“Don’t be sour about your hostess being indisposed, she will be joining you upstairs in time.” Father, too, gestured to the steady oscillating beneath the fine fabrics. He took another sip of his libations, his cheeks flushed already, and I could do nothing to stop him. I was waiting for my life to present to me an exit from this tragic comedy I was a part of, but none were keen to reveal themselves.
Ever able to make me the fool, even when he couldn’t possibly know my thoughts, my husband imposter grabbed the box from my lap, unlatching it.
“What is this then?”
“Oh I do believe those are Vox Angeli,” Father said, far too casually for the significance of his words, “…or ‘vox gags’ as most societymen have taken to calling them…”
My gut twisted within its laced confines. Vox gags!? The secret to my freedom had been simply laying in my bare lap, this whole time!?
Dear Reader, I can not properly tell you how many nights in my plain white cell of a room I had lain awake, either staring at an entrancing screen or at the ceiling just waiting for my eyes to flutter closed, dreaming of another life; safe, happy, one where I had told John when I had the chance, “Yes, (thigh squeeze), please get me a prosthetic voice. I want to learn how to speak again. Teach me what to say and how to be cordial. Keep me within whichever limits you set, just keep me and know who I am inside…”
Now my chance was right there! Right there! A possible substitute for my lost voice was mere feet from me and I could not even look at it, nevermind reach out, shove it in my mouth, and howl or tweet the single word I had fantasized in the hall! I only tensed my thighs in anticipation and sat where I had been placed.
“Let us try them.” Father smiled with uncharacteristic energy at Jack.
“W-what? And let them speak like commonwomen?” Jack’s voice wavered like his son’s, all the confidence from before evaporated in a second. It was plain to see; he knew full-well the risk in allowing me to air my inner thoughts and accusations. “But doesnt the Society object to such devices?”
“My friend, Doctor Eaton might as well be the Society, and these are a gift direct from the source, a generous one at that! Besides, the girls’ teachers all wore them, they’re perfectly safe.”
“Their safety is not my concern. I’m surprised you would be so willing to discard their privacy…”
Father scoffed, and Jack corrected course. Behind closed doors, propriety eroded fast. Our privacy was hardly a concern for our owners, after all.
“Their purity…”
That wasn’t quite right either, considering the scene before us. Jack took another mental leap.
“Their, er, simplicity,” he landed, and with a grandiose hand flourish managed to salvage some of the performance. “…and for what? No. I believe I will have to refuse for my wife on moral grounds.”
No! Give it to me! Pappa!!
I couldn’t do it, with further alterations now on the table; I couldn’t let my hope die already. It was right there! And Jack was being so transparent about his sudden change of heart. The snake found himself on such a high horse all of a sudden, I hoped Father could see his quiet desperation as he walked the edge of his own lies.
He did. Somewhat.
“Who was just lecturing who on transgressing morality?” Father chuckled. “What, not interested in what lies behind the poker face you derided so? Not willing to test your luck?” Father took one of the gags and tossed it in the air like a ball, white porcelain and silver grille flashing as it spun in the air, my stomach subject to about as many flips merely imagining the fine mechanism smashing on the floor.
Jack was none too enthused, “I will not be baited by reverse psychology. Perhaps we can see which of us is correct about Cuddles’ true feelings?” Jack suggested and my Father mulled the idea.
“Perhaps later. For the moment she is much too busy.”
“Cushions, then. The Lady of the house should have the pleasure, it is only appropriate.”
Father could not argue with that, and shrugged in acquiescence. “I suppose. I must admit, I am trepidatious as well, but let us see.”
It was so abundantly easy for Father to walk over, make Cushions’ mouth available with the press of a button, and replace her fleur with the tiny speaker. With it, she looked every ounce the part of Dame Henderson, with all her wilful potential, laden with the ability I had waited my whole life to share with her… a simple conversation.
It could be about how she liked the maids versus her old help, or what decorations she would like added in her Doll room, or which birdsong simulation she preferred at midday in the drawing room here. Of course if she was a proper Doll she would not have such preferences, but I surely wasn’t. I could ask her about that: Doubt. Or something utterly inconsequential, for surely Chastity and I had talked her ear off about the most inane subjects before we were of age to follow in her footsteps. It could be anything. Anything at all! As sour as I had been with her earlier, I had to put it aside for such a momentous opportunity.
We waited with bated breath, but the words… did not come.
“Speak, darling.”
Cushions’ breathing seemed to accelerate, but whether from effort or her lady’s aide down below we had no sign, because she failed to produce a sound.
“Perhaps it’s defective?” Father pondered aloud.
“The gag or your wife?”
With a disapproving glare, Father fished the ball out of Mother’s elastic pout again and turned it in his hands, inspecting the surface, one side a speaker, the middle porcelain frame all intact, the other side a soft plastic nipple which, if pressed— “Good afternoon!” a middle-aged woman called out, crystal clear, with a gentle excitement running over calm, sultry tones like a trickling stream over the riverbed.
“That can’t be her voice, can it?” Jack asked.
“I suppose so, I… wouldn’t know.” Father frowned at the gag, then at my mother, his wife. “I’ve never heard her speak.”
“What do you mean, you’ve never heard her speak?”
Father turned to Jack, “Well it’s much the same as yourself and Chastity. It would be improper to arrange suitors before the girls are ready, as their womanhood could only tarnish their immaculate image after dollification. You have never heard Chastity, and neither have I her mother.”
“So you’re a purist, then.” Jack said, leaning us both back on the sofa and taking a deep, reminiscent sigh. “One of Carrie-Anne’s closest friends had a husband that way; the two were quite liberal— unseemingly so, with her claiming the title of Lady but leaving her arms down for much of the day. Talked enough to wear out our parlor, she did. But whenever her husband came into the room, she wouldn’t utter a peep. As peculiar as can be. I never asked if that ‘wouldn’t’ was a ‘couldn’t’… but a man wonders.”
Father was amused enough, but shook his head. “I cannot claim such a flair for the dramatic. Lord Chittenham arranged our pairing when he and I were only school mates, him having his Victoria at home, already with child and already quite incapacitated in their unique ideal of a Leisurely mother’s role — two steps from Dollhood herself, mind you — and he heard I was looking for a suitable wife after some pressure from the firm to put my best foot forward.
“By then, Clarice was already a Doll, through and through. She had put in her three years at St. Werburgh’s, graduated and certified with high honours, and was Companion to Lady Victoria Chittenham for but a few short months; and the Lady wanted her gone. Chittenham was rather friendly with Clarice, it seems. The two grew up closely, so… he would know her voice, but I do not.”
“What does this ‘Victoria’ think of our boy Chittenham walking about with the young Belle on his leash? I’ve never even heard her mentioned.”
Father looked lost in thought, before snapping back. “Oh her? No, she is in no place to pass judgment now. He has the run of the roost from what I gather, and his seven growing boys have the run of her, if you catch my drift.”
I didn’t, until I was much older.
“He is a bit of a loose sail, that one. Is that old ‘friendship’ why you do not leave her alone with him?” Jack pried, like words sprung from my own mind, for I was rabid with curiosity of my Mother’s origins.
But Father didn’t answer.
“Good afternoon!” he tweaked the button again, before pushing the ball back inside his wife’s tight mouth-hole.
“Speak, darling. We both know your tongue is plenty functional.”
There was no change in Cushions’ demeanor, no spark of understanding in her ever-empty stare, but there wouldn’t be: she was a Doll, and her shell, soft and supple as my own, was designed to be penetrated from without, not within. But then, unmistakable in its origin, that same sultry voice asked,
“Hello, my love. What would you like this Doll to say?”
I heard Jack’s sharp intake of breath even as I felt it against my ear.
Father’s smile split his face, enough expression for them both. A husband and wife, speaking for the very first time. “Say whatever you wish, dear. Let us hear your thoughts after all these years.”
Cushions went silent again, only the wet sounds emanating from beneath her dress and the slight whistling of her shallow, frantic breaths coursing out her neck. After some time, she repeated her question.
“What would you like this Doll to say?”
Father’s smile dimmed a fraction. “Why, anything at all! It’s up to you. Don’t horse around with such a significant moment, darling. Your daughter is here.”
That did not catalyze anything. There was another long pause, and the question repeated again. “What would you like this Doll to say?”
“Are you sure it works like that?” Jack probed. “Maybe she can only say what you tell her to.”
“No, no. I’ve seen Dolls hold full conversations with these things, independent of instruction.” I could see it on his face, blurry to me as it may have been. My father may have simply shrugged at such an idea only the day before, but now that he had tasted a drop, he was disappointed. The novelty alone had him wanting more.
“Well, perhaps she can’t decide. Her mind must be overflowing with possibilities!” Jack offered from his recline. “Or long run dry.” he added, low enough to reach my ears alone.
“Or perhaps she’s simply overstimulated at the moment. Cuddles, enough!” he raised his voice to get through the many layers dividing them. “Your mistress has other business to attend to.”
The dress ceased dancing about at once, never mind the cessation of rude noises, subtly replaced with a wheezing breath under there, quietly panting. Father asked his wife again, approaching closer to a commandment now, but the same question came back from the same blank face.
“What would you like this Doll to say?”
Father threw his hands up.
“Give the other one to Cuddles, then.” Jack cut in, not allowing my Father to wallow long in his obvious frustration. “Let’s see if they both don’t start chatting. They’ve been awfully familiar, they must have something to speak of. Pleasantries, if you will.” He chuckled at his own half-joke.
I couldn’t help noticing I was still being excluded from this planned conversation. While that wasn’t abnormal — a Doll being talked around and about — I couldn’t allow this moment, like all the rest, simply pass me by! Simultaneously, I had to concede, and lower my heel from its impending click, that I couldn’t make a mess like earlier in the hall. I had to wait for my moment. I might not have many left.
Father thought Jack’s suggestion as good as any, so he lifted the dress and hauled Cuddles out unceremoniously with a grip of her hair. His movements were energized and impatient, less the effects of one drink than its illicit contents — sloshing around the bottom of the glass in his other hand.
She instantly looked up at him, blankly accusing him with his own dripping cock cast in a creamy white stone, which he removed from her mouth with a handkerchief on one circumcised end and an inelegant slurp on the other, restowing it under his wife’s dress for the time being before letting her skirts down.
Cuddles’ back was still to me, but when the gag filled her mouth she began speaking immediately.
“Good afternoon, Master Hodgkinson! I am currently performing my role as your wife’s companion. Would you prefer me to entertain your guests, or perhaps yourself?”
If my mouth was not already ajar in its persistent pout, held in place by compliant springs, I imagine my jaw would have dropped. That was… Althea! That was her voice! That was how she had sounded at mealtimes, telling grand tales of commoners’ trials; that was how she sounded breathing into my ear in bed, just upstairs; and how she had sounded weeping on the floor not far from where she now sat!1 How could that device possibly know how she used to sound? How indeed, when that sultry, sly street girl had been silent for longer than I!?
Father wasn’t as taken aback. “Entertainment of a different sort, for now… Mr. Collins and I have a bit of a wager to settle. It’s quite a daft question, but have at it: Are you ‘happy?’”
“Why, yes of course, sir!” She replied promptly.
Father spun her around fast enough to give that bottom a rug burn, presenting her to the room. The time spent under her mistress’ dress had left her makeup running, her wide decolletage as shiny and slick as her face, the copious juices almost obscuring a single tear running down her cheek as she frantically tried to look up at Father, from her lowly vantage as high and mighty as he must have felt.
“That settles it.” He tousled Cuddles’ hair, a proud owner whose pet had produced the desired trick.
“Indeed it does.” Jack said with a grin in his voice I hadn’t expected from the loser of that particular wager. “I think I’m fine with Chastity taking this device for a spin after all.”
My kegels clenched in glee, a subtle vibration and a lean into him my only thanks.
Father looked at Cushions, who had remained silent, and then back to Cuddles. “Excellent. Perhaps her daughter’s voice will stir something which this harlot failed to. I admit I care far more to hear Chastity again than be further reminded of Cuddles’ time as an ungrateful houseguest.”
With that he plucked Cuddles’ voice from her for the second time in her life, and strode to me. He was about to plop it betwixt my lips, but upon second thought he gave the tiny orb a summary wipe with his handkerchief before pushing it inside my waiting mouth. His care hadn’t hidden Cuddles’ taste in the slightest — nor what I could only surmise was a hint of my mother — but I honestly couldn’t have cared less! I daren’t believe my luck, that Fate had finally laden me with the opportunity to free myself from this odious lie!
Enjoying the pressure and fullness of the gag, of its glorious potential; I imagined I must have to concentrate very very hard to elucidate my thoughts to the magic device, so I collected every last bit of resolve and focus left within me, tuned out the rumbling gifts, the binding corset, and even the digging little rock in my shoe. I had to circumvent all the myriad distractions and dollish concerns, remembering what my tongue had once felt like, flicking off the backs of my front teeth, running along my hard palate, before it was retired to this care-free life in a soft tube of pulsing, drooling, spongy flesh, with plenty of tiny bumps and ridges to run along instead; that is, when it wasn’t simply pinned in place by a more oppressive gag; out of sight, out of mind. I had to remember what it felt like to find my throat vibrating in singsong tones so easily, lilting poems and tunes which Nanny had taught us well, before she presented us with the stopper.
I had to cease my reminisces. The whole room was looking at me, waiting.
“Well go on, love.” Jack implored, that same amused inflection in his voice from behind me. Why was he so smug? This was my chance to ruin him!
My breasts were rising and falling like jostling southern seas, I had to calm down lest I faint. I focused on three words, three very special words:
I. am. Hope.
I flicked the soft nipple with my stunted tongue… and it spoke!
I couldn’t believe my ears. It was… my voice! It wasn’t Chastity’s, I was thankful of that much, but the timbre did not belie the small source from whence it came, either. It was my voice, but it did not say my words.
“What a marvelous day we’re having! Pappa, Mummy, Cuddles, this Doll has missed you so!”
I couldn’t lift my foot high but I stamped my boot hard enough that the damned pebble must have pierced my skin, the little devil. I was inconsolable, the storm in my lungs refusing to cease, I couldn’t catch my breath. This saviour of mine was merely a… a… a toy!
“Chastity!” Jack scolded, holding me steady in my tantrum. “I know you are excited, but please behave!”
I didn’t even touch the gag, and yet my voice spilled forth regardless! “Oh dear, this Doll seems to have stepped out of line. Whatever can it do to make this right, Sir?”
Jack laughed at my blush, Father catching the blank cheque between the lines as well.
“I believe we can allow this outburst to slide, don’t you, Jack? Perfect form, Mrs. Collins.” He instructed with a saucy wink quite unlike him.
“Yes, Pappa.” I intoned against my will, accepting it along with the crushing defeat I felt aching within my tummy, bringing my cold knees together again, wanting to curl up even further.
Father looked back at Cushions, just sitting there silently with a paperweight in her mouth, and put his hands on his hips. “Nothing, dear? Nothing? You haven’t heard Chastity’s voice in ages! You used to love hearing their giggles streaming down the hall, did you not? I know I did, though I almost forgot the sound!”
He must have, for we did not sound quite the same and this was plainly my voice, as it had been. Somehow, the gag knew whose mouth it was truly occupying…
“What would you like this Doll to say?” the line repeated.
Jack let his drink clack against the glass table in front of him. “We want you to talk to your daughter, damn it!”
“Oh, well why didn’t you say so, my love?” the voice streamed forth, sounding like someone’s idea of a Clarice, I could only assume as accurately as mine and Althea’s. She continued, “This Doll’s tongue is all tied up! Suffice to say, it is so good to see you Hope, dear!”
My heart stopped, and Jack audibly choked behind me. How could— But the voice doesn’t even— I don’t know— I had no idea what was happening.
Father was still unimpressed. “What are you on about, cupcake? I know they look alike but this is Chastity! Bah! These gags must be rubbish.”
His words were like ice in my heart. He still wasn’t seeing what was right in front of him!
Jack was on high-alert, but happy enough to allow Father to keep thinking that. “Well they’re not real, my friend. Whatever gags you saw are not these… gimmicks. As I mentioned before, I enjoy a peek or two through the facade, and none of these fine Ladies would utter a word like this, not after years of silence! The gags just know what gentlemen like us want to hear, I’m afraid. I’ll admit it’s remarkable at guessing who is in the room, what’s going on, and what have you — but not perfect.”
“S’pose so.” Father slurred a bit, disappointed. “Well, girls— er, Dolls… take it away, and… relax yourselves.”
My voice came to life even without prompting from within. “I say, Mummy, I do care for a chat! Perhaps a bit of current events? It has been… years since we last spoke! Would you care for a discussion after all these years? Perhaps Pappa will let us keep our Vox Angeli by AutoServe if we do!”
There was an unseemly delay, something the women of Berkeley Gardens Social Club would have looked down upon, before… “I don’t see why not!”
My imitation voice didn’t take up the response initially, not this time, until I tested the nipple with my tongue and— “Well I do think the city is growing rather unseemly for vulnerable things like you and I. Have you heard about the current events in the city? I can tell you all about them.”
Another bout of silence filled the air, with the two men looking at each other.
Father interjected lazily, “Cushions, I know you haven’t the foggiest, but can you please follow the conversation regardless?
“Of course, Alan darling!” the quickest response yet confirmed. “My dearest daughter, I would so enjoy hearing about the goings on in your hometown of London. Also, please update me on how your husband Mr. Collins has been faring!”
I wondered for a second which Mr. Collins she was referring to…
“Oh wonderful, Mummy! I am so happy you agreed to discuss the goings on in my home of Kensington, London as well as my husband! Those are my two favourite subjects!”
I hated this. It was a farce. My mother and I still couldn’t speak, I couldn’t ask her why she had tried to service Father in front of me, nor why she had really acted out before our departure for school so long ago; I couldn’t settle anything of consequence, and yet we were prattling on about nothing, just for the enjoyment of our owners.
Regardless, I licked again, using that repurposed muscle to keep up the charade.
Our discussions varied from how often the shrubberies were cut on our block to the new building going in down the lane and what shoppes and emporiums might be taking up in their empty leases… places I would never visit because my “glorious, considerate husband” kept me in a sparsely-decorated room when he didn’t need me on his arm for whichever meeting or dinner party. We discussed a closing of a street in Eastwick which had been improperly registered and had an autocar try to drive it unpaved, and the Lady passenger who was quite shaken after the affair. We discussed how “Mr. Collins’ studies” were going — another earmark for the attentive — though the men were busy with their own discussion about how the gags could possibly know our voices, which I just barely overheard.
Apparently this farcical — albeit accurate — facsimile of my voice had been the entire impetus for the weekly free-speech dinners at school. Father had signed the permission slip along with the recording release form, and my yearning talks with Althea between bites had all been fed into a voice imprint saved by the Society… apparently for novelty’s sake and nothing more.
I tried to follow their conversation further, but my own mouth seemed so loud and jarring after being held silent for so long, and besides, I had to keep up with the cues. Cushions had a free pass, her voice speaking when spoken to since she still refused to play along, but mine needed that miniscule act of participation, letting my tongue graze the backside of this gag when it was my turn to respond politely; lest the men get distracted and snap their fingers in my unflinching face to “behave.” But there was no off ramp to the conversation, it simply flowed from one topic to the next, filling the space more than our minds…
And then Cushions asked if my husband and I had been inconvenienced by the ‘abolitionists’ in the park.
“Oh no, Mummy, I have not been to the site of recent protests for… ever.”
A good save from the ridiculous device. I had never been to Hyde Park. As a child I once asked to go, enticed by its depiction in my picture books with the King himself standing on a balcony and looking out over the greenery, ponds, swans, and his finely-dressed subjects, but Father would not even entertain the idea. Apparently, it had grown a touch unsafe since those were written. By then, I lived but a stone’s throw, and hadn’t thought of the place in years, not till that visit home, when it became so hush-hush with all the men. But to tell of it, I didn’t even know what these ‘radicals’ were so upset about!
“Delightful! I am pleased to see my daughter fulfilling her role in the home, as it should remain. Surely you do not need to trouble yourself with the concerns of those scoundrels. They find one whiff of this AutoServe affair with the former chancellor and Sir Wainwright and suddenly want to ban the institution of Dollhood altogether. These exposés are nothing but gratuitous!”
Ban Dollhood? I almost laughed. What a ridiculous thought!
“Oh, what a ridiculous thought, Mummy!” I said a bit uncannily, “A whole way of life cannot be banned nor abolished. Our fair Society may be small but it is not unlike a steady ship, sailing honest and true, for the distillation of all women to our objectile essence, for our own good!”
Wait… small? These words pouring from my own mouth — felt preposterous. Every event I had attended my whole childhood and adolescence featured a healthy showing of men holding both Dolls and Ladies by their sides or on a lead, whether hosted in that very house we grew up in, or with Jack in the city, making vague financial arrangements for other Societymen. Naturally we knew more Dolls than Ladies, with Father being such a prominent member of the community, but we had our own school for goodness sake! A school for the refined, the creme de la creme, what leisurely women and commoners alike could only dream of being… Perhaps we were small, I thought then, but so too the avant-garde had to be, to establish the Doll Ideal, right? Or…
The term for this I learned years later in my readings: ‘cognitive dissonance.’ How could the world I had been raised in be elite and exclusive — exorbitant in cost for creation and care — and also the powerful and inevitable continuation of women’s Leisure? If one takes a step back and remembers Lady Kettering, how could such a complicated procedure be enacted upon all of womanhood, even the upper half? Surely London was a large city, I had no idea how many houses had how many wives and daughters and maids, and Great Britain itself seemed to go on forever, boundless, even though I had seen its shape on a map once or twice.
None of this I grasped then.
Dear Reader, back then I was quite confident we weren’t of some fringe caste like Audrey Fentiman from the Social Club, head arched skyward in her unique form of Catholic piety. In truth, the Society was not much larger than that peculiar denomination, an insular community of well-endowed families keeping this vision alive. That was why Jack Collins married himself in, a scavenger ingratiating himself with the untrustworthy old Society families. What Dolls I had met were almost all there were, save for some sprinkled about the countryside, locked in playrooms in fine manors with far less pretense. All that only emerged later: the reality that my mistreatment was far from unusual. I had grown up thinking Dollhood was a righteous and common alternative to Leisure in the mainstream, a healthy evolution of the Mandate. I thought there were many, so many, watching and following in my mincing footsteps…
If I had known we Dolls were famous not for our ideals but for our mistreatment, I would have chosen differently on that ceremony stage. If I had known.
Yet still in my heart I was sure some of my former classmates must be living that ideal. I surely wasn’t, and my trust was in tatters, but I couldn’t grasp the full picture whilst locked away and entertaining my father-in-law captor’s every twisted whim.
I licked, regardless.
“Mummy, I am rather scared. We are only harmless Dolls, what can we do about these antagonists?”
“Well it’s quite simple, dear. We need to hold ourselves to what tenets we know to be true. You and I and Cuddles here are essential for our good men to steady their wills and passions, for they are instrumental in maintaining the Society as it is. Our duty is only to maintain perfect form and remain in our designated role as angels in the home. Such outbursts as when you were fresh out of the box would distract and tarnish our reputation as the most ardent supporters of the Leisurely lifestyle.”
This was… odd. If this conversation was prepared for us, why was it warning us not to act out? How could we?
I flicked my tongue. “Naturally Mummy, I wouldn’t want to make a scene in public and risk causing a stir.”
“No, with over a thousand reported commoners already causing such unrest, that would be unwise.”
“I wholeheartedly agree with your assessment, Mummy!” my voice cheered on, as I wondered what a crowd of a thousand people looked like… and all to protest… us?
“Yes, take it from your mother, it is not our place to worry about our place in the current discussions about a Doll’s place in Britain. Calls for a ban on Dolls and our reversion to lowly Leisurely standards are culturally insensitive to our way of life and must be—”
“Cushions!” Alan called from his seat by the window, clearly concerned. “Should you really be discussing this… matter?”
Cushions replied promptly, “I currently have zero forbidden topics of discussion, darling!”
I desperately did want to hear more of the men in the park and their -isms and ideas, and I triggered my voice to interject or distract with: “Pappa is right, Mummy. We should add these topics of ‘politics’ and ‘social dynamism and unrest’ to our list of permanently forbidden topics of discussion.”
“You’re quite right, my princess. I would instead love to propose to tell you about the seventeen new species of flora that went into the garden this Spring and their closest textual descriptions in poetry from the early 20th century, since we can no longer enjoy their heavenly scents directly.”
-
Or can you consider a limbless woman standing tall as proud as a limbless woman sitting pretty? ↩