Chapters Dollhood: A Woman's Choice Book 3 Chapter 35
October 2050
The bustle of the ballroom grew to a healthy din far before I saw the gathered throng, but I could certainly hear the crowd assembling from a changing room just off the main hall. The men were rowdy, the women meek; the latter heard only by their clicking heels. They were all here to celebrate me, but I knew that they were Jack’s people, Father’s people, maybe even Chittenham’s people; a whole host of available Societymen and heavy-handed financiers with their Ladies and Dolls in tow, getting pliant and well-lubricated by the open bar at my Husband’s expense.
It’s simply what one does at such an occasion — I know that full well — but to me the raison d’etre of this whole affair was hardly cause for celebration; for that night was the Finissage event for one Chastity Collins, loving wife of Jack Collins. It was the last hurrah for a Doll soon to be reacquainted with the Dollmakers of Great Ormond Street Hospital and refashioned in whichever image Jack desired. Chastity was soon to be no more, but what would replace her was a mystery even to me, the recipient of such designs.
I was horrified, scared, and quiet; I followed my training and soothed myself with knowledge that a man’s desires were inevitable, and I was but a silent passenger.
Standing idly in the quiet backroom, this guest of honour remained obedient and compliant as her maid — the one with a ‘C’ on her face — hiked up all the skirts and petticoats, exposing slender, timid legs wrapped in fine hosiery and well-secured ballet heels, before turning aside with the other hand to reach for a massive cage of metal and mechanery in the shape of a bell. The Doll only watched, of course. It could’ve been called a crinoline, if such things stood rigidly on their own. This crinoline — six feet wide, maybe more — was set upon soft, quiet casters, like a servant’s cart, and so it rolled effortlessly closer. I could not look at its workings, but Dear Reader I did not even flinch as the cage slipped around my legs and surprisingly cupped my sex, a somewhat familiar saddle shape supporting me underneath — a shape decidedly unlike a crinoline. The seat nudged my gifts deeper within my lower holes, before the lattice snapped closed around my wide hips and my rear, the flesh of which was gently cupped and held by the curve of the chilly metal, tempered by padded leather to meet the skin on better terms.
Confident that the clasps were secure and that I was properly anchored in the metal knickers which now joined me to the frame, my maid let my dress fall around the wide crinoline, not the widest I had seen by any stretch, but the strangest. I thought we were complete, but she began pumping her foot near the hem of my skirts which surprised me, as the apparatus rattled and raised a fraction of an inch, then another, then another! The saddle underneath slowly jammed my familiar companions deeper inside me than even an over-tightened understrap could. Eventually the tight metal band around my waist supported not only my nethers but the bottom of my corset as well. Together the dancing attire conspired to not only keep my proud body upright upon this seat, but also sweep me off my feet!
I stared at the changing room’s old wardrobe mirror and saw little difference, even as I felt myself lift upward in the tiniest increments. I was raised until just the tips of my toes grazed the wooden floor underneath, begetting me only the smallest drifting movement forward if I tried to reach. Indeed, I could bend and swing my weak legs in the empty space below and the saddle took all my weight, holding me aloft! It was like the doll stand but mobile, and if I could have emitted a squeak from the aching pressure below, I would have.
My automaid was well-finished with my hair, make-up, and the like — that had all been prepared at home — but still she fixed and fidgeted with my gown. I watched absently via the mirror as she continued to fiddle with something just below my waist.1 When she was finished I could only quickly admire what seemed to be a pink hook near to my hips, perhaps an offshoot of the crinoline lattice underneath, jutting forth like a stamen through a tiny embroidered flower hole in my coral-coloured dress. This was all far less revealing than the dresses Jack usually bought for me — a ball has certain standards that even he will bow to — but the symbolism of my pink bud amidst the petals was still on full display, circled and highlighted by the leash that led, coiled, and hung from it. I realised then I was to be pulled and proffered around the event that evening via a symbolic but direct line to my clitoris, and dearly hoped this wasn’t foreboding a more literal attachment in my future.
Of course this did not appear to faze me in the slightest. Above the waist I was as docile as ever — frozen face pouting at nothing, breasts surging with this minor excitement — body perfectly prepared to offer this indecency to anyone that strayed in my line of sight.
To my surprise, I saw the tiniest twitch of my bare shoulder aside the ball gown’s bustline, the tiniest hint of a woman inside this rigid body of strict decorum and objectile femininity. I bade it stop, for to pine after Hope was too much; the girl that sought her own patriarch’s cock didn’t deserve to get it, didn’t deserve to go back to that sweet life. No, I felt in my heart that, whatever Jack announced in an hour or two, at the climax of tonight’s gathering celebrating His ownership of me; I deserved it.
When my maid was complete, I was not unlike a girl riding a wooden pony, barely able to touch the ground, at the whim of the twin sister rocking her faster and faster. Or perhaps this was more akin to my wedding brace, rolling me down the aisle to my true love.
I blink a breath and blank we breathe our worries clean so as not to think.
Pushed forth into the hall, I found that I glid far more gracefully than I ever had since my dollification, as — other than a few flaws in the floorboards sending deep rumbles up through my hips — my procession to the ballroom was smooth and unhindered. My exercises in graceful movement at Werburgh’s and before had never involved mastering such techniques as the ballet dancer’s bourrée en couru, for the same reason I was not encouraged to pursue the reverse prayer. In the Society, grace was merely expected of the Doll and imparted by the Dollmakers… men I would soon meet again.
The doors of the ballroom opened before me and my presence was announced aloud to a round of applause. The quadrille band on the far end even halted and began a new piece to symbolise my entrance. With all the apprehension running through me, I almost cried, but that thundering surge of emotion begat only a rosy shade to my cheeks, and the only reaction in my locked, glassy eyes was merely the twinkling reflection of the two massive chandeliers hanging over the space, and the myriad decorations below them. Jack had really outdone Himself, for this was far more opulent than the departure party, or our graduation, or indeed even the wedding! He had no doubt hired a firm who planned everything so flawlessly, for it was even scheduled in time for the beginning of the London Season as well as Parliament, so the room was packed, and I found myself the centre of much attention.
A now-familiar arm reached into my field of view and grasped the leash from my erect bud. “Hello m’dear, don’t you look lovely!”
In an instant I was pulled from the care of my maid to my Husband, Jack, rolling without friction toward the stocky old man already stewing in His refreshments. I stared at His chin as He offered slurred compliments about my outfit, even reaching out to grab my breast to assure me He was pleased with the dress He had approved a week ago. The whole ensemble was by a designer2 that my sister would have dreamed of being a muse for — or merely a mannequin for — but alas, even in trying to be her, I just felt the rough hand on my prominent teat.
Other than the rolling frame and blooming flower, the centrepiece(s) were indeed my breasts, proffered up and out by the special corset I wore, padded to look quite a few measures larger than they already were, whilst the dress’s edge ended just above my nipples, giving but a slight peek of the areolas — as was customary.
Suffice to say, in a room where Dollhood was remarkable but not surprising, I was still exhibiting quite a show to the passersby. Like most young girls dream of, I was the centre of attention, dressed to remember. I was a sight to behold who could not give even a glance in return. I was on offer to be dragged around and eaten up. And this was to be my last outing as anything remotely resembling Hope or Chastity Collins.
No one knew or cared what was happening behind this blank gaze, but I tried to enjoy it all, whilst being dragged about by my Husband.
Now let it be clear, Dear Reader. I still knew factually that Jack was not the husband I had committed my life to in my vows, but after months of this lie — endless months now punctuated by another insomniatic era to rattle the foundations of what is right and true — I had accepted Him as my Owner, Guardian, and Husband; in practice. And after my debasement in John’s presence, and my weakness of character before my own Father, I did honestly believe it to be the lie I deserved.
There were many such untruths I had come to accept as fact-in-practice recently. In the weeks following my visit to the Hodgkinson Estate, I — ‘Chastity’ — had been held accountable for my shameful actions that day, both in failing my Husband’s errand and for disgracing myself by trying. As a rule, I was treated with lesson plans from St. Werburgh’s Continuing Education six nights of the week. The remaining evening and most afternoons were spent entertaining my Husband Jack as a proper Doll wife should; kneeling with Him filling my restless mouth as He assessed the markets; or being mounted to a doll stand oscillating away whilst dressed in scant corsetry and lace, facing the vast window wall3 as He paced and berated someone on the bell; or sometimes even drifting to precious sleep under His crushing weight after my rear passage had performed exceptionally well.
My primary hole was no longer used. Ever. Part of being held accountable was never experiencing a climax again, and even the aphro-paste had been removed from my gift, replaced with some capsaicin tincture that spurt inside if I clenched or attempted to derive any pleasure down there. The doll stand was still a marked challenge but one I couldn’t fail. Even though it brought me to the edge reliably, I couldn’t let myself release for fear of the repercussions. Even when I was fed up and wanted a treat, a reprieve, I found I simply could not climax — paralyzed by fear. A Doll’s prescribed release was not really necessary, according to Jack, and I was trained to care far more about the unmentionable services I provided Him than what affects it had on my desires, which still raged unchecked. Like a proper wife.
A significant untruth was that I was thankful He kept me so active, regardless of my treatment. Jack told me of my sister’s boring life in His son’s home, in the pink doll room furnished just for her, and how that was a life I should be thankful not to suffer. Unused and alone. He bade me click my heel to confirm I was grateful. He asked that often, as He kept me so ‘active’. Click once to signal enjoyment. Click once for thankfulness. Click once to stay.
Subsequent clicks and taps were merely exclamation points on the statement. There was no code or key for any further comment, and there had never been a ‘no’.
And indeed, my maid kept me quite ‘active’ with other activities whensoever Jack was occupied; such as ‘memorising’ posters and pamphlets set before me on a prayer kneeler which I could not look down and read, or listening back to deportment lessons read incorrectly by a schoolgirl, and most importantly being tested on such materials and caned on the soles of my feet for my answers — one caning for right, one for wrong, and two for refusing to answer at all. It made no sense, but it wasn’t meant to.
My nights were a marathon of learning and my days a sisyphean task of unlearning. I had to fully relinquish any belief that there was sense to be made of it, or that an end was in sight.
Jack said I was of heartier stock than my sister but regardless, he wouldn’t let me recede toward simplicity and good behaviour so easily. He wasn’t going to ‘overcook’ me as He had my sister — like Father had done to Mummy — but I believed this Husband of mine was already halfway there, and virtually resolved myself to that eventuality. This life was barbaric and unjust — the worst possible outcome for a Doll, save disownment — and there had to be a breaking point. If not in my circumstance then inside me, for my body was supposed to be pliant and accepting. But I also could not fully retreat toward senselessness. Not of my own accord. Even sleep deprived and silently whining in pain, I was still a perfect passenger for whatever Jack had in store, and he used that. I remembered Nanny remarking on my unbecoming curiosity and obstinance, and I knew I couldn’t let go of reason, not completely — not even when I tried to will myself to simply let go at three o’clock in the morning, after days of blinking and training and—
There was no end, except for perhaps in what awaited me shortly, under a knife.
And so that evening of my finissage ball I was obedient and compliant, happy to be in the presence of others where Jack might behave, but also morbidly eager. Remarkably, I somewhat enjoyed the feeling of His hand groping me, even as it pulled on my nipple clips; the last bastion of modesty keeping this ensemble together. I enjoyed His touch, and it wasn’t even a lie. I tried to revel in that last evening, this celebration of my end.
I began drifting around the room, feet gliding under the rolling crinoline, ‘greeting’ many partygoers as the guest of honour. This all happened as a blur, but I tried my utmost to be present, to not let this final night slip by. I humoured the ceremony of it all; the well-wishes, the curtseys and heel-clicks, the immediate diversion to Jack for actual conversation. I tried to look from behind my mask of polite surprise at the women across from me in each discussion; the subtle nestling against their man’s arm, or the cold distance; the insufficiently hidden grimaces at my Husband’s crudeness; the shock (and then sometimes curiosity) at my unnatural stillness, and then always the tease of the gag, a subtle movement of a tongue behind wanting to act, even if just in formalities. But the men had the floor, mingling.
What’s curious about being locked in a body, with no control over one’s own trajectory or direction, is that it is quite easy to see the world around you like a film, one which you are subject and party to, but have no influence over.4 I often found that feeling quite unsettling but finally it seemed to click. Perfect passivity was truly attainable when it was allowed: no caning or questions. Jack just made that true Dollhood very difficult. Intolerable, even. As for films, this one wasn’t bad. I tried to save this reel, save it well.
Another curiosity about being led around is the complete decimation of one’s mental geographies and orientation. We seemed to weave through the crowd — myself rolling along behind like a boy’s red waggon — endlessly greeting the throng, until Jack finally reached the elegant display. Supposedly, it was a painting of my new design, flanked by massive bouquets and covered for now.
It was at that point of the evening when I realised I might be actually saying farewell to all these people. Somehow, I still looked forward to what was under the sheet.
That is, until I saw John. Oh how I wished he hadn’t come. As the dapper young man walked slowly with my sister in his arm, I imagined our life together as it should have been. Well-tended and cared for. She was walking on sensible shoes given her steady gait, prepared in a slimmer gown than most with only a sliver to imply she had breasts, and from her mouth spouted a tiny bud of a rose, not the garish flower that covered the whole of my lower face; all in keeping with John’s more modern and minimalist tastes. On her neck she wore my locket, but in my heart I tried my best not to fret when I saw the ‘H’ glint in the warm light.
“H-hello Father. It seems c-c-congratulations are in order.” he nodded his head politely.
“Atta boy, I knew you would show. It’s important you pay your respects!” Jack guffawed. He had been most cavalier about the swap since He ceased pretending with me; and now, with victory in hand and a few scotches to lift His spirits, He was playing.
“You d-d-did threaten my livelihood if I did not attend your little b-b-ball, Father, as you are oft wont to do.” John smiled thinly, ready to move to the corner and let this night pass him by.
But his wife jerked from his arm and stepped forward, as close to me as she could get with this extravagant frame blooming out around me. Eye-to-eye we blinked in silent acknowledgement of each other, and the contrast between my surging chest and her modest décolletage communicated all I had to say to her. How wildly differing our lives had spiralled out from underneath our feet. Which one of us had won Best Mummy, I could not say, but I knew then I did not harbour ill will toward her, not really. After all, I had walked in her shoes now, and to recover my own life was to subject her to this one once again, was it not? I wished for a similar moment as I had been provided with Althea — well, not similar, but similarly cathartic — but instead she simply curtseyed and returned to the safety of John’s embrace. A safety I had just the faintest memory of.
“Charming.” Jack mumbled, “You couldn’t have given her something a bit more stimulating to wear, boy?”
John looked at me — no, not me; at the breasts thrusting out before me, which occupied more of his view than my face — with some mix of derision and pity, and scoffed, “Stimulating? F-f-for whom? A-Actually, Hope chose this for herself—”
“Nonsense!” Jack bellowed, amused. “I trained her better than that!”
My breath hitched, but John just looked at his Father’s half-filled glass and muttered, “You m-m-must be seeing d-double, sir.”
Jack seemed to realise His slip and diverted attention with a flourish to the covered portrait. “Well, uhm— I think it’s high time we realised why we’re all here, eh?” A round of clicking heels emanated out from us in a wave and shushed the room, bidding all the gentlemen quiet and listen to their host for the fine evening. John followed suit, as always, never one to make a scene.
“Thank you everyone, for joining the Collins family, for attending my dear wife’s Finissage.” He butchered the french pronunciation but most were too polite to bat an eye. “I would like to thank Chastity here for standing by my side, and her father for raising such a beautiful pair of girls, dutiful and pristine in their youth.”
I didn’t know Father was in attendance, but the cheers skipped the maid of honour and went to wherever he was standing behind us, somewhere; likely avoiding me, which I did not mind in the least.
“Son, will you help me remove this veil?”
Put on the spot, John entrusted my sister to another man’s steady hands and ascended the small stage to the opposite side of my Husband. I was turned by someone behind me, rolling until I was facing — or staring vaguely at — the reveal of my own future. With a count of three the cloth was ripped free, and an exquisite giclée was revealed depicting… no… it was too far… too unfocused in my damned doll eyes… too unbelievable…
The crowd gasped and clapped, clinked glasses, and clicked heels, as Jack beamed and John just stood there with the silken sheet in his hands, shaking, looking at the portrait. “Father you c-c-c-c— you c-c-c-an’t!”
My poor John was shaken, because up on that dais, the Dollmaker’s mockup renditioned in oil and gold foil was a portrait of his mother, Carrie-Anne, regally posed in front of Jack’s penthouse view of London with a silver lustre to the skyline in place of the customary soot. I recognized her of course from the large portrait Jack had of her in His bedroom, but the face was younger, more artificial. She was still pretty, and while I would loathe to lose my identity in memoriam of a woman I had never met, there were worse fates.
But John simply stood there, aghast, with the gossamer sheet clutched in his grip, tense as a violin, looking half a mind to cry or run. I knew the look, for I had felt it before, but quite unable to do either. I presumed he was angry that Jack would reincarnate his deceased mother in a Doll, and I understood that was a bit tasteless… but as a young woman with a doll mother herself, I’ll admit I wasn’t as shocked as the expression painted on John’s face.
I swallowed reflexively, preparing myself for this makeover, before Jack tilted the frame so I could see the figure from where John had been standing. “Like what you see, darling?”
Someone behind me gasped in a less rejoiceful tone.
The painting had changed and shifted as He twisted the image — the layers of fine fabrics and frivolity dissolving, discarding the elegant dress to reveal the sculpted measurements beneath; an aggressively-slim corseted waist, likely an inch or two slimmer than my own, accompanied by a similar corset on the neck, lengthened slightly for a proud, noble posture. But those were only what I could perceive first in my blurry vision. Jack bid someone behind roll me closer, and the picture frame sharpened, and I admit if I still relied on nappies they would’ve been utterly soiled that instant.
The woman depicted, “Carrie-Anne”, was indeed younger and slimmer than her namesake; but also likely much lighter, for hidden under her dress she lacked anything resembling legs! Sitting upon a similar device to Cuddles’ ottoman, she even lacked that doll’s residual thighs. Instead, below the bottom edge of her corset the hips grew fleshy and wider and then curved smoothly underneath, completely devoid of a usable limb. Not unlike my shoulders, expanding slightly but then smoothly retreating from the possibility of influencing the world around me.
This alone was my worst nightmare, one I had fretted over since I learned of Jack’s fascination with my old friend Althea at the Hodgkinson Estate, but seeing that change was only a confirmation of fears. I had turned it over in my head enough times over enough sleepless nights, the idea even felt oddly right; appropriate. Of course this monster would desire such a change.
The face though, that inspired new fears; fresh, unimagined nightmares. For in the familiar visage of Jack’s departed wife, there were no eyes.
At first I thought my eyes were deceiving me, but with nowhere to look but straight ahead at my future, I could plainly see that the irises which sparkled with intelligence in Jack’s portrait here instead sparkled only with gold. The new and improved Carrie-Anne exhibited smooth golden orbs set behind a blank, blinking expression.
What’s more, her pearl earrings hung not from the lobes but something gold stuffed inside her ear canals; presumably permanent, but who could ask?
Enough was clear to understand, though: He intended me to be entirely isolated and objectile of the mind! He intended my life with Him to be merely silence and dark, punctuated by touches upon my skin and invasions of my flesh! He intended for my reality to consist solely of His presence, like dew drops in the desert, with memories of running water — if He even allowed me those!
John’s reaction now made complete sense, a deep disgusting feeling settling in my core. Jack was not only recreating John’s dearly departed mother, but defiling her image and erasing whatever wit and intelligence he remembered so fondly. Sitting before me in the frame, my new reflection looked back at me, sightlessly. What Jack wanted was a feminine figure with three warm holes, and somehow the society standard hadn’t been neutered enough for His tastes.
The voices closest to me started to murmur, and I heard one man’s voice whisper, “I mean leave the little peach something…” but the man on the dais heard not or cared not. He was beaming with joy at this design He and Doctor Eaton had concocted finally being revealed.
“Do you like what you see, darling?” He asked in that familiar way, laced with expectation. I automatically clicked once, my en pointe boot tapping the floor beneath, making the murmuring grow around me, enough for Him to finally notice. “Well, let’s get on with the ball, shall we? I will take the first dance with my dear wife— while she still can, aha!”
And so I was pulled by my leash away from the horrid sight, yet still it remained in my vision, mixed and tainted with the memory of John’s face so crushed and abhorred. I rolled forth into a clearing, and drifted into my Husband who looked at me, smug and satisfied, perhaps already seeing His new Carrie-Anne in His arms there, somehow dancing with Him. When the band began again, He looked lighter and more joyful than I had ever seen, having His deepest desires realised and out in the open for all to see.
He turned out to be a passable dancer — albeit rough and unromantic — with His hands about my miniscule waist, and after a number of measures of twirling that made me dizzy yet unable to vomit, the rest of the guests joined in. Around us I saw for the first time, Ladies without arm bindings, holding their men and smiling in their eyes and behind their fleur-de-bouches as they slowly waltzed on more modest heels than usual. Dolls with stronger legs than I danced of their own accord, pressed up to their men for stability. These women were all happy in their restrictions, and whilst I know the proverbial British noblewoman has a mountain of great expectations upon her shoulders, these looked joyous as they danced.
I was the farthest from them in that moment, from the life I had wanted or been promised, instead being tossed around by an overweight money miser with leering eyes and perverse ideas in His fingers. “Oh, how I will enjoy you tonight, my darling Chastity. You will receive me inside your tasty little twat for that performance back there. You deserve it — to feel true bliss one last time before the good doctor seals that passage forever.”
I twirled and twirled, numb. My morbid fascination had taken me this far and could not bear me any further. What Jack wanted was a feminine figure with two warm holes, unable to garner any ounce of succour from the life that would pass her by. He would take not only my senses, but my sex. I twirled some more.
As my gaze swung around the room, I realised that this was my final night to experience anything save for the still, blank quietude of an object. Lady Kettering had been incorrect: this was the final form of femininity led to by Leisure, and Dollhood, and it made those two lifestyles pale in comparison. I had only ever desired to become a Doll; asked of nothing but to be pretty and compliant and enjoy my provided life, but Jack wanted even less. He wanted me to be so terrorized by consciousness that I would just be. No sight to appreciate the beauty and decadence, no hearing left to appreciate the companionship of a man, and no orifice that served any purpose other than His pleasure.
It became abundantly clear: I truly had been saying goodbye to all those people. But there was one man I had not had the agony of giving a farewell to: John.
Eventually, Jack seemed to get tired of rolling me to and fro, perhaps even frustrated I did not react like my upset tummy wanted me to, and eventually what He considered dancing finally ceased. I was led by my tether over to a man sitting on a bench with his head in his hands, a Doll by his side sitting there passively.
“M’boy, you’re missing the celebration!” Jack chuckled, weaving my leash between His hairy knuckles.
But John was paralyzed. He looked up at his father and tried to speak, but all he got out was “I c-c-c-c-c-c—” and then had to reach for the nearest glass and take a drink. Of water or something harder, I do not know.
“Well if you’re not going to take this sweet girl for a spin, I shall.”
With no further preamble, Jack hiked up my skirts and petticoats right there in the ballroom, unclasped the framework gripping my hips, and extricated me from the rolling crinoline with a lift that seemed almost easy for Him. When I was set back down, my petals had all wilted, the dress heavy and far too long without its underframe, and my legs quivered upon en pointe tips. Unsupported by metal nor maid, I minced forward and almost fell off my precarious footing, but John stood suddenly and caught me. “Are you okay, Ch-ch-ch— mmmm!!!” he growled, frustrated with himself, and settled for giving me his seat. Of course, in the commotion Jack had already stolen away my sister for a dance, so John just plopped himself down beside me, deflated once again.
I’ll admit I was too shell-shocked by my misfortune to recognize that I was seated beside my real husband. In hindsight it was foolish, but it also serves as a perfect example of how well-trained I had become. All of my hope had been syphoned away by the screen and the stick, and what remained was tainted and stained. If I had even thought twice about it, I might’ve even seen John as a trap more than my potential saviour! That is how deeply imprisoned I was.
But I was there, and so was he.
John was much too preoccupied to acknowledge me, though. It was quite unlike him to be so impolite, but I understood. We were both in utter shock. The man’s clockwork was turning as he sat, reserved and silent; that much was exactly the John I remembered.
Lost as he was, he just eyed his father spinning his wife aggressively on the dancefloor, the crowd pushed back by the garish display, put off by his boisterous nature, and even thinning somewhat. Not like I could look about and see for myself, but the announcement didn’t seem to be sitting well with the present company. John most of all.
“He w-w-won’t ever simply appreciate what he has.” he finally muttered, still not quite looking at me. I was a captive audience: that much he had learned in the intervening months of my absence. “When I was a b-boy I walked in on him with a maid, t-twice. It became a running joke amongst the staff, and my mum found out quickly.”
I stared and listened, heart slowing a bit, breath almost caught; breasts no longer surging up and down as busily. It was simply invigorating to hear his voice after so long, even quivering in such a defeated tone. Shaky as it may have been, he gradually spoke without stutter, like he always had when it had been just the two of us…
“She accused him… and I remember watching through a keyhole as they fought and fought, until finally he grew sore and tired and simply… g-g-g-gagged her! Just stopped her rightful critique of him in an instant! I mean… I thought they were truly in love when I was little, and he would still tell you they were, but he seemed to become infected with an idea when he stuffed my mother’s mouth full and tight: an idea that he was utterly without reproach!”
My true husband wrung his hands in his lap, the words just pouring out of him in the weakest of tones; flowing out like a hydrant long stoppered. I longed to hold him, but that was not a possibility.
“That is when the backroom dealings started too, as far as I can tell. Dealings which led me to your family— your sister. Oh Chastity, I had such a hard time looking at you and Hope, with the gag already inside you— part of you both. I wanted no part of it, but Father was resolute… and he always gets what he wants, even if it’s wrong, so wrong!”
He paused and took another sip from the nearest glass.
“And he wanted her to behave… but what is a Lady to do!? In those days especially. You met my friend Priscilla, she would’ve never achieved even a minor certificate in the sciences back then. We’ve come a long way…”
I caught myself wondering what I might’ve become, given twenty more years and maybe a hint earlier that the Society wasn’t as all-powerful as I had been led to believe — then I cut that thread, for fear of where it may have led.
John too glanced back at the portrait: the scissors that would cut this line short.
“…but not far enough… Anyhow, he truly grew to neglect her — my Mum, that is — and you see, she grew quiet and reserved, two qualities that only a fleur-de-bouche could enforce, before. At some point, she was introduced to a maid who thought herself a chemist, who provided her with a cocktail or some such that let her escape.”
He paused, and breathed heavily.
“It took her will and then her life, Chas, but even after he had that maid dealt with, he never understood: she didn’t start the decay, it was him.”
Him. My Husband and Owner, and soon to be my whole World after this next set of alterations.
Finally, he averted his eyes from the man who had raised him, who his fortunes rested upon, who was spinning his wife like a top. He looked down and put his head back in his hands, and I might have heard him cry, punctuated by, “I m-m-miss her… every-d-d-d-day…”
Not knowing what to do to provide comfort to my man from under all these layers of disguise and pretence, I simply let myself fall like a chess piece over into him. It was clumsy and crude, but it was the only gesture left to me at that moment: A Doll resting on her man.
It caught him off guard, and he looked at me quizzically even as he brought me closer, into his embrace.
“Oh Ch-chastity, thank you,” he wrapped an arm around me in an overly-familiar way that most men could not get away with in polite company, but I didn’t care, and neither did he. “Oh, I should be comforting you, sister-in-law! My father is a cruel man, and you do not deserve this. You don’t. I w-w-wish there was something I could do!”
I did too, but at that moment merely being held was enough. It was something. Once again, John had talked to me like a person. Like I was more than the sum of my holes. And I couldn’t have asked for a better goodbye.
In our final moments, John never rested his hand on my thigh, nor asked me anything answerable by the clicks of a heel. Chastity had rejected every opportunity or imploration to communicate, and so he had ceased his attempts months prior. Compared to his wife, I was certainly a lost cause.
Jack rested His hand on my thigh, though. That night on the drive home He had nothing on His mind save my alluring body hidden under all my layers of dress, and what little of it would be left after my trip to Great Ormond Street Hospital in the morning. By the time the elevator had reached the penthouse, the pink leash that had been pulling me along all night was wrapped about my fused neck, and I was stumbling along behind Him on heels with one of my breasts hanging out, having escaped its clip with a sharp pang.
I stumbled and stamped all the way to His bed, an armless doll still in denial about her coming fate, trying to glean the most from her senses even amidst their abuse. Who could want their last sight and sound to be the urgent thrusting of an ageing man’s half-flaccid phallus in and out of her compliant mouth? But I was still hungry for stimuli, regardless of the poetry of it all, and when He burst inside my throat, breaking His promise of using my vagina one final time, I even struggled and squirmed just a little to hear Him bark at me. Just to hear the sound.
But eventually He had His fun, and fell asleep atop me in such a way I could not be extricated by a maid to return to my room, my breasts but firm pillows for his head. That evening — my last — I did not sleep a wink, and counted every blink at the dim ceiling lit only by the metropolitan glow, and heard every stuttering snore in my ear. My stomach growled, muffled within my corset, as I had not been fed for a day in preparation for the morning’s operations. I knew I would hear none of it soon.
I was still, as always, and I thought of John, and what could’ve been, and the sacrifice I was making for my sister. I prepared my heart for waking up in its new home, one I would never see myself, but only feel — alone. After tonight, if John were in the room, I would never even know. If he perchance happened to touch my sensitive skin, I would only ever feel the presence of a Man who reduced me, the only Man who was soon to matter in my small, quiet world.
Dear Reader, it is difficult for me to recall this part, solely for the feelings it makes well within my heart.
In the morning I was cleaned summarily but dressed in one of my nicest outfits — one that would never fit me again. My maid led me out to a waiting autocarriage, after which Jack made His way out and sat Himself beside me with a book in His hands— nay, a full plan of my alterations and operating procedures. He was intending to do some light reading on the way there.
“Are you excited, m’dear?” He coaxed, but I refused to click this one last time. I was too terrified.
With our destination to the hospital already dialled in, Jack commanded the autocarriage to leave, and began reading aloud from the list of procedures scheduled for me over the coming weeks — most of which I would not be conscious for. An anbaric engine revved in the distance, quite unusually, and as we pulled out onto the street, the whirs of motors grew louder and closer and the sharp sound of glass breaking suddenly filled the carriage cab as I was shaken from my seat. With no way to break my fall, my world went black, much earlier than expected.
END OF BOOK 3
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A mirror was necessary. Naturally, my breasts would’ve been in the way of my blurry periphery otherwise! ↩
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A designer who had apparently cut his teeth in the Hart House! ↩
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I could only pray that the glass building was coated in a reflective treatment, or perhaps he paid the local constable to overlook any reports of indecent exposure — for it was indecent! ↩
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I have been told this feeling is called ‘disassociation,’ but I didn’t know it then. I’m not aware if this phenomenon was a side-effect of my training, or the main intent. Likely the latter. ↩