Chapters Dollhood: A Woman's Choice Book 3 Chapter 34
I strutted back into the drawing room, bosom bouncing with each step, each movement carefully choreographed by my maid and agonisingly pleasurable.
I approached Father’s commanding figure seated next to his wife, carefully pipetting sweet nectars in her open mouth. The vox gag had apparently been put away and I couldn’t help but think, ‘Good riddance!’ Mine was of course still in play, but my conversation partner was at least free of its drivel, and I of hers.
Cushions’ elastic lips were stretched wide open by something plastic, an uncomfortable device less like a dentist’s lip retractor1 and more akin to a gynaecological speculum, used once or twice in the testing phases of my release from Great Ormond — in multiple places.2 It widened what aperture was usually tight enough to fit just a finger inside.
Like he had on special occasions for us girls before our betrothals, Father was dripping diluted honey on Cushions’ tongue, that wilful organ dancing in pleasure whilst her eyes stared at nothing. I could see her throat swallowing compulsively behind the many ridges and bumps that framed this delicacy, but gravity instead delivered the excess sweets and unneeded lubricants out and down her chin, into a proffered handkerchief he held beneath. It would not do to have her ingest the sugars and throw off her careful diet of nutritional mush.
I thought of Jack’s offer then — freedom, for my participation in his manipulations, for betrayal of my Father, my own blood — and the moral conundrum that offer presented to a Doll who should have to face no decisions in what had been prescribed to be a ‘simplified’ way of life. Life had hardly been simple since graduation.
Similarly here sat another conundrum, the man to which this entire estate belonged and was indebted to; a man who would berate his daughter for being wanton, yet restrict his ladies to such forms of behaviour and absolutely dote on them. I had not been wanton in the hall earlier, but now… now I could not say the same.
I had little time to ponder. A passenger as ever in my maid’s iron hands, I was led to them both and made to curtsy, legs quivering, before my voice spilled forth.
“Hello Pappa! Hello Mummy!”
“Hello, dearest.” Father returned my greeting, looking flushed of cheek and elevated in spirit, quite unlike the look of a drunkard; something more excitable, something I had seen in my husband’s eyes on our wedding night, and felt for myself that very moment in far more potent form.
With no retreat from my maid, he looked at me expectantly and I figured quickly that ‘embracing nothing’ had never really been an option. I licked to proceed.
“Pappa, I apologise for the delay. Mr. Collins had not the time to properly punish this Doll since you had mentioned its transgressions to Him. Nonetheless, He needed a moment to make abundantly clear the terms under which He would conduct himself should this Doll not behave.”
Father nodded, “Quite right…” but he looked perturbed. “Chastity, dear, can you refrain from referring to yourself like ‘this and that’?”
“Absolutely, Pappa! I’m quite pleased to be able to talk with you plainly!”
“Good, I as well. I know it is the fashion and the curricula of the Society as of late, but such fashions come and go, and I do not see you so strictly unwomanlike.”
If I could have choked out a chuckle I would have, for he undoubtedly did! It was foolhardy to predict my Father’s pragmatic and romantic sides, and which would win out in their game of musical chairs.
Another gap came as he refocused on Cushions and her gaping mouth, yet I was still presented here by my maid, standing painfully upon my en pointe boots with the tiny pebble deep in its well, my vaginal walls pounding not by autonomic means, simply the rush of my heartbeat. With a sigh — for I knew this could not be good — I licked.
“Actually, Pappa, I do not feel right about this transgression. I propose you punish me instead, to inspire a healthy fear of moral authority. As a lady I daren’t say it aloud…” yet these words of self-sabotage only lowered to a mock whisper, “…but a caning on the bits seems appropriate, does it not?”
I tried to twist and deny these words with a shaking of my chest, but my maid held me still, and that was probably for the best. I did not aim to give him any more incentive than what already stood dripping in his midst. But I was horribly afraid of such discipline, down there, now of all times. My body was alive, feeling every graze of fabric and every square inch constricting my midsection. If he struck me now… Please Pappa, don’t!
He regarded me again, and this time his eyes hovered on the gap in my dress, and perhaps the thin ‘V’ which my squirming thighs created, unable to close entirely or cover that nervous tissue which had just been vacated. I sought to ignore the pang of emptiness, and think of myself as simply a man’s daughter, but it seemed this was as difficult for myself as for him, us both being under certain influences.
I hoped it was merely those influences.
Father handed the cloth and pipette off to Cushions’ automaid, stood up, and grasped me by the hourglass waist, my maid acquiescing to his command. Standing so close, I could only admire his chest straight ahead, and fear his touch and following words, but they came out soft as he kissed my forehead and… inhaled heavily upon the scent of my hair?
“Chastity… I do not want our ever-so-infrequent meets to be occupied with solely punishment and critique, and I’ve already let my tongue fly for the latter.” he let out a sigh, “Actually… my dear daughter… I’ve been thinking of a proper apology.”
Surprised by this turn, yet warmed that my Father had not lost his characteristic softness — in a most conflicted way, in light of my reluctant mission here — it was by his firm direction he pulled me to his side and sat me down on the chesterfield, opposite Cushions, so he could address me closely whilst her mouth was closed, plugged, and tidied up.
My maid returned to hand him another drink, undoubtedly laced. Knowing this, I aimed to kick his shin and cause a spill, but my weak leg never reached its destination. Whilst walking had been manageable under guidance, I did not have such resolve on my own. The sensations in my hips were only bearable in stillness, and even then…
He didn’t even notice, accepting the cocktail without hindrance. Frantically, I tried a different avenue, aiming to cut off his thoughts with this voice, licking my gag, but I hadn’t yet learned that old lesson: Silence is superior.3
“I do not believe a Man ever has to admit wrongdoing to a Doll.” My voice intoned; comforting, a little breathy. “We accept everything as it is presented.”
He sipped in consideration and I whined silently, having failed again. His cheeks were growing redder, his eyes flitting between my placid face and my bosom. “I… I… uhm… I don’t think that is true, Chas. If your mother’s struggles to produce even the semblance of a thought via that gag elicited anything in me, it reminded me of my… responsibility for her state, and for yours. I… I feel this weighing on me as I am notified of your coming metamorphosis, so very soon.”
I could not let myself cry. I had to control my emotions, and wait for my moment. I would not let myself cry. Even if tears could not fall from my eyes, I couldn’t miss a beat, not now.
Father put his arm around me like Jack would. He did not test my behind, but he undoubtedly felt its firm curve testing him.
“Did you know…” his voice hurried, “Your mother and I used to have a code? A way of speaking?”
I was taken aback. My own father, devout societyman, had inquired into a Doll’s inner thoughts? I flexed my exposed thigh rapidly, but alas, he didn’t notice.
“I always told you and your sister to behave, ‘Mummy is watching, you know, and she whispers in my ear!’ Well, it wasn’t far from the truth. It was her tongue. Up, down, loops, and such. Most basic ideas or responses had an equivalent,” he paused and a quiet mirth came into his voice, “and when she wasn’t sure, Clarice would even do this little swirl on the underside of… my thumb…” he glanced down obviously and touched his groin, the memory stirring in him something I feared, even as I revelled in this… unique recollection. I dared not interrupt, lest the gag volunteered me to become fluent in that private language.
Refocusing, he continued. “I asked your Mother about your first armbinders, your training stays, your namegags. I would ask her ‘Are they ready, Clarice?’ but of course you were always ready to walk down the path we laid for you. Your sister less so, but she came around. You two looked so adorable, fine young Ladies. Dolls-to-be!” he paused, words exultant but bitingly sardonic.
He admired the vista beyond our windows, blurry green mess for me, but likely picturesque for him.
“She never spoke after her unboxing the Christmas of ‘48.”
I licked, and it finally mirrored my thoughts. “Why is that, Pappa?”
“I initially thought it was me. My getting reacquainted with her old flame, Chittenham — and his Dolls. We hadn’t been speaking frequently for a few months, I admit,” he paused to sip on that man’s aphrodisiac, ironically. “But Eaton did a number of inspections today, not just on Cuddles, but on your mother too.”
I couldn’t move, but to say I was on the edge of my seat was apt in all senses of the phrase. It was oddly comforting that I couldn’t summon the strength to grind my loins into that edge, either, and so couldn’t interrupt with my indecency. This singular day notwithstanding, Father had never deigned to talk to me so much as at me, around me, or about me. With this voice, I could almost imagine he was hearing me, and I him. I wanted to listen patiently, as much as my body and that damn paste was making that less and less feasible.
He coughed, finding his words.
“Her mind is deteriorating— has deteriorated. We don’t know if it’s progressing further, and we don’t know if the wear of twenty silent years resulted in a break…” he stroked her cheek, “or her remodelling at Sant Isfael’s went deeper than I had anticipated.”
I begged my focus to pause and give this revelation the attention it was due; a confirmation of my theories about Mother, finally! And not what I had hoped to hear, not at all! Yet like an insect to a light, I was drawn toward more carnal concerns. His hand upon my empty shoulder did not help, nor the caresses that played on that sensitive expanse of absence, lack, and severed nerves.
“…I wanted a simple, happy life for you. Leisure and Dollhood! A woman’s life, as it should be! Clarice was simple, but she was full of worries, hiding just under the surface. Worries about your sister ever letting go of her womanhood, or of you getting the husband you so deserved. I never realised until she let loose that once. I… I had them all flushed out, so she could be as happy as I’d always imagined her to be. But now she is further gone than I had ever wished, and what’s worse is: I know it was my intervention which was to blame.”
As his touch made my skin glow and my breathing hasten, something else rose inside me which I had never felt before, not since a flicker the day he accosted my friend Althea in this very room.
Loathing.
I couldn’t find an ounce of sympathy for Father. He was right from the beginning: he was responsible for her state, and for mine, for all of this. As women we entrusted ourselves to Men, there was no other way in this Kingdom. Yet Father had invested significantly to have that distinction between the sexes written into our skin; into our heads. He had moulded his wife, my friend, and both Chastity and I into the ideals of our Society, ideals that were not as common as I had been led to believe, ideals he had chosen for us. He had broken his wife, my Mummy! And what’s more — as much as I loved John — he had sold his hobbled daughters into an undistinguished family fraught with a capricious, treacherous patriarch.
For the first time in my life I realised I was not merely sad or distraught about the happenings and handling of events, I was furious about them! Furious with him! Furious to know that he had so awfully failed in his guardianship! And furious that I couldn’t fathom a way out of this quagmire he had situated us in, a mess he was just cluing in to.
A man who had done all that should not have been permitted to have second-thoughts, to doubt like me. Otherwise, it risked the sacrifices and struggles of his dependents losing all meaning! But who would hold him to that measure and standard? Who indeed, when his daughter — the object he had commissioned from the innocent body of a young girl — could only patiently listen to him admit to ‘flushing’ her mother’s thoughts away, yet still desire to lay with him so badly her hips ached? Who indeed.
I licked, my instincts to protect him finally faltering to my sole chance at self-preservation.
“A Doll is a Doll. She must be a happy wife, with a happy life. Right, Pappa?”
He pondered, his hand now gliding up and down the bulge on the inside of his thigh, idly. “I suppose. I do not know if there is room for joy in her anymore. No, that is not right. There is plenty of room, but it seems she has little to fill it with besides a rote lust.”
Indeed, I hadn’t noticed in my passionate fever, but with treat time all cleaned up and Cushions’ fleur back in her mouth, the inflated gag was gently moving in and out.
I knew from first-hand experience we did not have an idle sucking routine or instinct carved in our clockwork, not with our gags. I was reminded of Chastity’s suckling on the bulb of her panel gag on the day of our Mummy’s outburst, the day of our delivery to St. Werburgh’s — in hindsight, self-soothing.
It was now obvious that Cushions — or ‘Mother’, for I couldn’t stay mad at her — was horribly anxious about what trials she had just been subjected to with our vox gags. Any drop of decisiveness had been so effectively wringed out of her that a lick out of line was simply too much too bear.
For a second, my fury at Father subsided and I admired her. Her life was much simpler than mine, forcibly so, and if any of us Hodgkinsons had reached the Doll Mind, it was her. I remembered how much I had longed for that solace of simplicity, once. But pity swelled past that admiration and longing, like my anger at Father had, seeing his indecision further impacting her wellness. In her state, after all he had done, it was so much easier to stay within that simple life, and simple mind. And she had embraced it.
With a lean forward, Mother’s maid helped her slip off the lounger and kneel on the floor like she had in the hallway, kneeling and staring at Father’s hand idly rubbing himself, as if to say, ‘I am here. That is my purpose.’
This time, Father was so resigned in his self-pitying attitude — or perhaps he was proving a point crudely — he simply unzipped his trousers, and with a natural ease one should not have in his daughter’s midst, slipped his cock out.
I wanted to avert my eyes less than I could admit, my knees shaking in place more than my pupils. His hand was still on my padded rear as Mother, a blooming mess of golden ringlets, layered fabrics, and womanly curves buried herself in between Father’s legs, her mouth taking the entirety of him inside and staying there, utterly still, as the faint noise of her mouth’s ministrations began.
Father, though visibly relieved, looked at me with that same resignation. “You can understand— oh m-my… why I react so poorly when I recognize the same rote lust in you?”
I could not fathom a response to such hypocrisy, with the scene in front of me playing out, Father gasping, patting Cushions’ head and telling her softly not to bring him to completion yet, as his eyes wandered not downward but to my cleavage, slipping his hand from my tingling shoulder down to cup my breast — that which he had avoided even at our reunion at the hospital. He groped and cradled my tit, and my fire was suddenly not centralised in between my legs, but… everywhere. Containment and measuring myself was over. A Doll could not come back from such manipulations to sit prettily and steadily in thought as I had been, barely.
I licked again, this time to beg, “I am unbearably lustful. Right, Pappa?” I didn’t feel any better hearing these words professed from my own mouth, than I had whilst humping the floor with John present the last time I saw— heard him. But I had to remember who I was trying to get back to with these infidelities. And the gag was right. I was lustful.
“I know you are, Chas, I know you are. And who am I to chastise you for your lusts? I understand how difficult it must be for you, to feel the same love you have always had for me and yet have it all confused with your new purpose.”
I wanted to say ‘no’, to defy this feeling on principle, but even if in anger I submitted myself to this sin to spite him and save myself, I had to admit a sliver of me — this Hope Doll — felt the way he supposed.
“It’s alright, dear, it’s alright. I do not feel the same way, but it’s wrong for me to not show you attention in the sole language I have left you with.”
With Mother busy between his legs, his hands were free, and this damned indecent dress offered no resistance to his explorations making my skin tingle everywhere he touched. My steady blinking stare did not falter as much as my raging lungs, the whistle of my breaths and the flushness of my skin communicating my desire on my behalf.
“Don’t feel bad about this, darling. It’s natural in your state… Hope asked for it too, you know. On the very day I presented you with— ah, with your engagement gifts.”
‘I did not!’ I shook, momentarily defiant, as I imagined setting him straight, but my breasts rose and fell urgently gasping for air as usual, silent. That shudder was my only reply.
“Yes, I know it’s quite surprising! And I’ll admit, I nearly gave in then. But I held back. I held myself back.”
My recollection of that visit to Father’s study was foggy — primarily dominated by the profound disappointment I had felt, left unfulfilled and empty whilst also spread wide by the image and idol of Mr. John Collins. I was surprised he had remembered. By the urgency of his touch — pulling me closer and gripping my pliant rear through my skirt and petticoats, kissing the smooth expanse where my arm had once been — he had clearly ruminated upon it far longer than I had.
I would not leave unfulfilled and empty this time. ‘Please don’t hold back.’
I licked. “You don’t have to hold back, Pappa!”
“Of course I do. You will not, cannot. Your bodies are designed to please,” he breathed into this embrace, “and designed to accept. It would have been for the wrong reasons. A father should not engage in that way. That kind of love is… tempting, and… hah… dangerous.”
‘And liberating, for it will save me from Jack, since you won’t do anything to stop him.’
I spread my legs slightly, leaning into him what little my rigid spine would allow. I could feel it in his touch, the insidious need to go further, fuelled by the paste. I felt it too. He was being so principled as he held my breast and ran his lips upon my shoulder, never drifting down where I truly needed him. I just had to blink, stare, vibrate, and wait for the ‘but.’
“But… I fear under Jack’s hand and Dr. Eaton’s scalpel you will go the way my sweet Clarice went under me.”
‘Then save me! Or inseminate me! Please!’
“Jack has already made exactly out of you that which I imagine you knew he would, back on that day you had your little tantrum in mine and Mummy’s bedroom. And I can feel how you’ve embraced it.”
I settled into Father’s warmth as he embraced his own desires, the paste exposing years of denial, as Jack had predicted. I knew I had been given no choice, left under that terrible telly so many nights in a row, and I assume Chastity in my place had suffered longer in re-education. Perhaps she was made aware of St. Werburgh’s Continuing Education by Jack’s teasing tongue when the two were getting familiar, before promises were made and gifts were cast. Perhaps she just loathed him and saw the flaws in his character as well as I, as well as everyone but Father.
Father. He had so many flaws himself, and so much blame on his shoulders… Why did I still adore him? His lips found my cheek as the man I had looked up to all my life finally spoke to me honestly.
“Chastity,” he uttered the wrong name, the one I still had to escape, “I want nothing more than for you to feel truly loved before you are not you any longer. And I know exactly how you need it shown to you now. Take this gift and apology, my dearest girl.”
I licked. “I’ll be glad to receive it, Pappa!”
Father paused and plucked the orb right out of my mouth, dropping it to the floor to roll out of sight. “Enough with this infernal device!” he breathed, almost with anguish, the tension in him belabouring each word.
And with the gentlest touch, leaving my body, he pushed Mother off his cock and aside and stood proud before me, raging erection sprouting from his trousers, dripping with some mix of both of them. It was perfectly in focus as I sat there in proper form. I was ready.
Father let his fingers caress my Doll face — cherubic cheeks, pouting lips, big innocent eyes; the plastiskin yielding to everyone but me. His two hands, firm and commanding, gripped under my ears and cradled my fused neck.
And his manhood retreated from my sight when he bent down and laid a kiss upon my lips. Whilst I was wholly unable to reciprocate, he poured everything inside of him into that kiss — regret over years of delegated care; fatherly worry; the blind devotion to what he thought was ‘best’ for us; and the doubt he now held.
He kissed me as deeply as John had in our first nights together.
And then he left me, walking aside and leaving me with only his inappropriate apology.
‘What…?’
After coming mere inches from my salvation, his cock had just… left my sight!
I could not turn my head like Cuddles, but I distinctly heard the wet buzz of Mother’s mouth begin again, and Father grunt as he neared the summit of his release.
‘No, no, no! Use me! Please!’ I cried, unsure if the paste was speaking or my fear of what Jack had in store for me.
I leant forward, enough for my maid to understand I desired to join Mother on the floor, but I didn’t aim to take her place. Such service wouldn’t satiate the pulsing, aching need I felt down below, nor secure the proof I required for my freedom from Jack’s plans. If Father deposited his seed into my mouth, then I would be compelled to swallow it down and have nothing to show for my efforts — no, that would not do. That would not do at all! Slipping down to my knees, I did not know a surefire way to coerce my Father, to communicate myself — the core of every problem I’d had all my life — yet this was a simpler code. I leaned back and offered myself to him in the crudest terms.
With a click in my joints, I found myself back on the floor again, staring at the ceiling like my sabotaged maid had left me two months ago. With any luck, my split dress had splayed apart like my doubled legs, exposing the punishingly-tight underbelt cinched into my delicate quim.
“Oh Chas,” I heard Father snap his fingers, and the figure of my maid bent or crouched down to fumble with the buckle on my corset’s lower edge. Once its hands managed to tighten, unbuckle, and release the belt, letting loose a flood of sparkling ache into my unfettered clit, I barely squirmed, for even my hyperflexible legs were drawn like a bow in this position with my boots meeting my rear. If this didn’t work, I had no way of recovering, getting up, asking another way. Supine like this, there was nothing impeding his entry. Nothing at all.
I licked… but there was nothing in my mouth. No voice. Nothing more to coax him with. I was empty.
“You are everything I envisioned you to be. I’m sorry, darling.”
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I may be misremembering this, dear Reader, as I have not had the need to visit such a place since my mouth was made soft and pliable. ↩
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In the recovery ward, medical practises and sanitation were sound and robust, but there seemed to be no need to use a new speculum for each orifice. My rear was stretched, swabbed, stimulated, and inspected; before my front hole, and then what remained of my mouth. Having never tasted my (or any others’) secretions before, this is how I learned that the Teachers had been right, my mouth now truly tasted no different than my other holes, a tangy sweetness that I grew familiar with. Eventually. ↩
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I would offer an altered version of this Society edict, “Silence can be louder than words.” I believe that’s original, who can say? ↩