Chapters Dollhood: A Woman's Choice Book 4 Chapter 37
It might surprise you to know, the return to my husband’s heart and home did not cure me of all my ills, especially the fears instilled by his father. Those were ingrained far deeper than I could have ever expected. Even the luxury of sleep in our safe marital bed was not a salve for night terrors, my eyes flicking open at untold hours whilst John rested away. So familiar was I with the telly’s alarm, fetching me from my dreams’ embrace with an ear-piercing sound, it seemed every time I succumbed to my weariness, a sudden fear of punishment would keep my eyes open and alert, even if I had nothing but the dark ceiling to offer my pupilage.
I was safe and sound, but my heart didn’t yet feel it.
Gentle and understanding as he was — ‘talking’ with me for much of the evening to an extent we hadn’t before, touching me softly, telling me he would never lose me again — I had assured him that he could once again use my chest as a pillow to his dreams. That is, after I recovered from the peculiarity of being asked at all. I had forgotten how that felt: the touch of his hand on my thighs, feeling for a response I used to loathe giving. Now, I eagerly flexed, “Yes! Hold me!” and shook my chest, “These are yours!”
But my eagerness to resume my role as his dutiful wife belied the terrible truth: once he settled, the sensation of his weight and presence was not all that dissimilar from the memory of Jack’s drunken slumbers upon me, and the twisted solace I found pinned under that boor. Not only that, the nakedness with which we laid entwined felt wholly insecure compared to the tight weave of lace that had bound me in place back there. Of course, I could only lay still whilst he snored lightly, as visions of old cock filled my head, and the sting of a cane on my pert buttocks still tickled my skin.1
With our lines of communication open but not without significant friction, I was reluctant to tell him all this, and as you know, dear Reader, it was quite easy to hold my tongue. He knew I was unwell in myriad ways, but he couldn’t imagine what depths I had sunk to. Even that first evening, I wanted to spread my legs and offer him everything I had, but I couldn’t… and what’s more, I couldn’t admit to myself I wasn’t ready, either.
I told myself all I needed was a voice to feel secure, but that quickly proved non-trivial. As John avoided his father’s telegrams — accusations of theft and damages, riddled with threats of lawsuits and disownment — he chose to instead ferry me to a medical institute lacking the glamour and prestige of Great Ormond Street Hospital. Not that he found such a place on his walks to and fro the College, mind you!
The Damsels in Distress Restoration Centre was in a decidedly less fashionable part of town, south of the Thames, far from the Georgian townhomes we lived in. After overhearing John and I discussing our fruitless plans — or John agreeing with me about my needs, yet having no ready salve — one dreary autumn day, Priscilla had disappeared, returning that evening with nothing but a runny nose and a card for this Centre, handing it to John without a word before going to wash off the docklands air. Calls were made by the man of the house, an appointment was set, and luckily Priscilla knew to shroud me well, even going out of her way to purchase me a bonnet with a lace veil so I would not be seen going into such a place; an organization she had somehow discovered in a past life which could not be elaborated upon.
The subtle disguise was necessary. We Dolls were eye-catching to say the least, and like all ladies, our reputation was paramount, not just for us, but for our men. I wasn’t clueless in this respect, but John would’ve been, and I found the only way to thank my new maid for all her assistance was on occasion leaning into her slightly, brushing my shoulder and breast against her just a bit, or nudging her knee with mine if we were seated. She understood this as a damaged Doll seeking contact and affection that was long overdue, and I couldn’t tell her — or myself — that she was misinterpreting whenever the stocky woman, a head taller than I, embraced me; or pecked me on the cheek; or leant a hand on my smooth shoulder to say she understood.
And from what I garnered from John, Priscilla did understand. Months without a voice, shunned by those who recognized her collar and misunderstood by the rest, entirely hampered from any academic pursuit; she had softened significantly from the brusque figure lashing her tongue at Ladies of Leisure, or scoffing at my life of Dollhood. It seemed that I was no longer an object of her derision, but instead her new pet project, and she showed me considerably more affection than my sister, who was prepared separately and sat facing the corner so I would not have to acknowledge her presence more than necessary. With no way to directly communicate beyond touch, and Pris reading as many handbooks on the proper function of a ladies’ maid as she did papers and journals for John’s consideration, we got along surprisingly well.
But the new woman in me, wilful and eager to connect, recognized that this could all be improved markedly by the very purpose of my visit to this institution, Damsels in Distress; one whose existence was likely a secret to most if not all graduates of St. Werburgh’s.
And part of me understood why, for this ‘Restoration Centre’ was supposedly dedicated to the undoing of all the refinements noblemen prescribed to their women — making them plain once more. Their very name implied that us Dolls and Ladies were naught but helpless maidens in need of rescue, which was only palatable to my sensibilities now that I had experienced true distress and need.
All this considered, Damsels in Distress were not anti-Leisure — they did not lobby against the Queen’s Mandate, for that would be a fool’s errand — but they did have a religious mission to restore altered individuals to their God-given forms. Even if those forms would still be trammeled and conformed to a polite shape through the more standard means of corset and sleeves and binders and bracing.
It was a place I wouldn’t have been caught dead going into, before, and I admit John still had to nudge me just a bit at the very last moment, as I pondered what my Mummy would have once thought of this. But Mummy was gone, and there was no way to communicate my trepidation when I had already set this plan in motion, and we entered regardless of my concerns.
For once, this worked in my favour.
Regaining my confidence, I put one heel before the next, guided by John’s steady hand toward the consultation office for our appointment with a Mr. Rivers — conspicuously not a ‘Dr.’ Rivers — who looked taken aback when I glid through the door slowly and delicately, before being set down and my veil finally lifted: pouting face bare as the crests of my décolletage, a modest fleur-de-bouche complimenting my cornflower blue attire.
I blinked blankly at him — or at the bookcase behind him, but that would do.
“My my.” Mr. Rivers shifted in his seat as he saw the air passing through my neck, fluttering the decorative petals there. “I have to admit we have not yet had a Doll arrive at our doors. Many a Lady; with voices shrill or whisper-like, bosom or behind far too pronounced, or even arms trimmed or weakened in some fashion. But never a Doll such as yours, Mr. Collins, I admire your courage to stand against your ‘Society’.” He remarked warmly.
“W-w-w-well… I— I don’t know if we— ”
Hearing how John waffled at such a simple implication of conflict, I clicked my heel, and with a pause and a breath of renewed determination, he steeled himself. “I do not want to rock the b-b-boat, Mr. Rivers, and I do think my wife here stands with me in this. W-w-we are seeking some liberties that were… previously taken.”
I clicked in agreement, and the consultant looked at me queerly, then seemed to re-evaluate John. “I understand, sir. You mentioned in your ‘gram that Hope here was a doll, but I had a look in the registry of women, and you neglected to say she is a St. Werburgh’s doll? Highest calibre, and possibly the most restrictive of all the refinement and preparatory academies in the kingdom! She must have cost a pretty penny, and now you wish to cut this Gordian knot? Well, suffice to say, you do not seem much akin to the lot of them in your ‘Society’, Mr. Collins.”
It was hard to see John whilst wearing the bonnet like a horse’s blinkers, but I think he looked at me. “Neither of us are, but some recent events have brought clarity to the situation. I would like to see what can be achieved to improve my wife’s sense of… uhm, agency, without raising suspicions.”
“Agency?”
“Uhm, I m-m-mean to say, independence.”
“I know the meaning of the word.” Mr. Rivers stroked his short black beard, thinking. “Inconspicuously? Not much. Your wife is without her God-given arms, sir. To remedy that, we have contacts in the Union of Sov—”
Against all my good manners, I clicked twice to cut off the kindly man mid-sentence, but John understood. “Hope does not desire her arms restored with any facsimile of flesh or automata, but there are many… ahem, internal changes we want to discuss.” He had brought my owner’s manual with him, and deposited it with a thump on Mr. Rivers’ desk, opening to the logbook of alterations completed upon my graduation.
“Good Lord.” Mr. Rivers gasped. “There is little left of you that’s you, dear! Where would we begin…”
“B-b-by you informing us what you can and can’t assist with, sir.”
I smiled inside, as John seemed to take charge when it came to my well-being. He just needed a little assistance. A beacon to bring him to clarity.
“Well I’m afraid the hypnopaedic suggestions are well outside our scope. You said she has been attending remedial classes as well? Without them I fear a young woman like Hope could not face the lot she has been given… best leave that training intact.”
John lent me his hand, and I pondered what margin of me was well-trained Doll and what was me, at this point. Being raised with Dollhood as my only identity, that threshold was far too blurry to fathom.
“And this— Lord help me— “libidinal and sensorial amplification” is using grey matter splicing of a calibre that only a few practices in the kingdom may be able to comprehend, but those would be the clinics listed here to complete or maintain such a change, not undo it. I do not believe there is any intention in their research for reversal. I—”
I clicked my heel twice, and John spoke for me. “Hope does not want to lose her increased sensation or libido.”
“I see.” Mr. Rivers looked at us with wary eyes, like we had transitioned from victims to accomplices just by this one statement, but he returned to professionalism shortly thereafter and resumed his assessment. “Well, the skin treatment… changes to musculature… nerve response… orificial structure… hip replacements… the blasted skeletal fusing… —most everything listed here is nigh-upon-permanent. Regardless, if you wish to remain a doll for the sake of keeping up appearances, it is also certainly necessary. That said, I believe some small but significant changes to your quality of life are achievable. A loosening of the achilles tendon, perhaps, to allow walking about unassisted. A loosening of the rods in the neck to allow a nod or shake of the head — perhaps more, but I cannot say for certain. A disabling of the… ahem— stimulation devices in your unspeakables—”
John gestured to speak but Mr. Rivers didn’t entertain his interruption. “Let me finish, son.”
I wanted to giggle at that, but settled for an amused huff.
“…a possible removal of the nerve block affecting proper eye function — and I do say that tentatively — and of course, a solution for her speech. I take it you speak loudly with those heels, young lady?”
I clicked them once, and John clarified. “We have been using a letterboard, in which I scan the alphabet aloud and she signals letters which I compose into phrases. It’s not too complex, but slow and immensely frustrating, sir.”
“That is… understandable, Mrs. Collins.” He said directly to me, realising I was the one driving this conversation. “You are a marvellous young woman— courageous for letting yourself be heard. There are… rumours of the methods used at your alma mater to dissuade even these subtle signals. Of course, no word gets in or out of those walls, so I have hardly an idea, but it’s admirable that you are here today, regardless.”
I clicked once, not only flattered but flustered at the very notion of being praised for explicitly moving against my upbringing. It made my stomach turn inside its tightly-laced confines, but not necessarily in a bad way.
John thanked him for me, and Mr. Rivers nodded and continued. “Now, of course, there’s a reason that St. Werburgh’s is so airtight whilst even the Irish Catholic finishing schools2 aren’t immune from controversy these days. As you know full well, Mrs. Collins, your natural voice was taken from you. I’ve been told the Society picks its words quite carefully — what is it, ‘silence was bestowed upon you’? Suffice to say, I do not subscribe to such tosh. The remodelling of your throat looks… ahem— significant. Suffice to say there aren’t any vocal organs left to rehabilitate. I am sorry.”
My heart sank slightly, but I couldn’t say I was surprised. Had I not been told time and again that my mouth was no longer made for such things?
Mr. Rivers looked more affected than I was, as he flipped page after page, more disgusted than sad — but not with me. No, he seemed more committed to help us with each lick and flip of the pages, his frown growing and gears turning.
“Let’s see— We have a number of foot pedal devices for wives of your status, who live under the Mandate. Either single buttons, installed discretely around the home, with tap patterns for a few different phrases at most, or a more elaborate system can be assembled in your sitting room, with a large board of buttons at your disposal.”
Seeing our unenthused expressions — well, John’s — Mr. Rivers continued, “I am wary to suggest this, but we have also dabbled in some signalling devices… under the dress… you understand, ma’am. It would allow you dictation even whilst upright— with some practice, of course. You could communicate to a small reading device in Mr. Collins’ pocket.”
Regardless of whether I held such mastery over my nethers, it felt wholly indecent to speak my thoughts through the tremors of my sex. What’s more, like every Lady of Leisure, I knew full well it was not proper to let my voice be heard in mixed company, but I would’ve rather that returned to a matter of etiquette, not ability. To go to all that trouble, and still communicate in a way only John could interpret would render our efforts all for naught! This was quite the opposite of what I had wanted to hear.
I clicked twice and John spoke for me again, thanking Mr. Rivers for his ideas, but instead recounting what I had told him arduously, letter-by-letter, of Cuddles’ changes at the Hodgkinson Estate — namely her ability to look about — and the voice I had been lent temporarily.
“Eaton himself, eh?” Mr. Rivers leaned back. “I know the work, not the man. We’ve adapted vox gags before; tricky things. It would involve connecting you with a qualified surgeon for an implant to broadcast your thoughts to the device…”
John perked up, “And I will be able to hear my wife’s real voice?”
I turned slowly and gently nudged him with a knee through my dress skirt, just to feel him there. He was so unbelievably sweet.
But Mr. Rivers pulled back on our reins. “Hmm, I must say, we don’t have access to such luxuries as your recorded voice. From what you have told me, that may be in the Society of Dolls’ archives, perhaps inside the clockwork of the gag itself. What we can provide instead is a range of donated voices from pious young women!”
Let down slightly, John put his hand on my lap, feeling the slim leg flexing, ‘Yes, please,’ through my petticoats and skirt. “Let us m-m-move forward with the implant, regardless.”
“Excellent, sir. We are likely looking at a few weeks delay, while we find an accredited surgeon who will accept such a unique case, but I know of one Dr. Hawthorne who was Eaton’s apprentice for a good while before becoming disillusioned with the work they were doing in the Auxiliary Wing. Regardless, it will take some convincing.”
John caught the hint and fetched his chequebook from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, cutting Damsels in Distress a significant donation. I would later learn that, estranged from his Father’s support, this donation was nearly the entirety of his reserve funds.
All for me. A simple, damaged Doll he hadn’t even wanted upon first sight.
“Marvellous.” Mr. Rivers smiled. “Let us find you a solution for the meantime.”
On the drive back to Kensington, John pored over Mr. Rivers’ proposal far too intently to chatter like he had that morning. Basking in the glow of my coming salvation, I found myself giddy to refamiliarize myself with my husband’s peculiarities. His nervous energy before our appointment had escaped as a frantic attentiveness, whilst now his studious mind was on full display, with not an eye for my bosom nor my thigh; far more attracted to parsing out the details of this arrangement — silent, focused.
Men were such a different breed.
Alas, dear Reader, with hindsight and age, I can see that both of those styles of ownership were a fashion of caring; for I did feel the urgency of base needs like touch and attention — as always — but far more pressing of a concern was the news that yet another piece of foreign clockwork was soon to be implanted within my head, and there were many details to consider.
Just a mere two years before, I wouldn’t have considered such details, like a lady does not consult an exquisite hairdresser on his practice and technique. She appreciates the experience, the result; but she is liable to be far more concerned how her neighbour might consider the look after she arrives home sporting the filigree and weight of such an art piece atop her head. To explain to a woman why each cut and curl was made… such exposition would be beside the point for her, and wholly lost on ears unconcerned with silly questions as ‘why’ and ‘how’.
I had once entrusted empty platitudes such as ‘refinement’ and ‘simplification’, but how I would be refined or simplified were merely footnotes in the many lessons. But now, after the surprise— nay, betrayal of waking up to a body changed exactly as promised yet far more ruthlessly than expected, limiting every aspect of my life…
I felt a peculiar desire to ask how a doctor’s tampering could keep my eyes trained straight ahead, with nothing more than a steady blink to prove life lived underneath… or to ask which mechanism detected the veracity of a warm male phallus filling and spreading any of my holes, above or below, and knew to proffer stimulating vibrations in response? I knew that I would not understand a lick of it, that I was educated in far less substantial matters, but these matters were all I had to concern myself with, and… I was curious. Reader, I cannot admit a more unbecoming quality in a Doll than curiosity, as you heard Nanny chide me about so many chapters ago. For that reason, my only opportunity to be curious had been shooed and shied away from, and now there remained no way to reach across this tiny autocarriage cabin to ask how my private thoughts could arrive in a tiny hifi ball placed between my lips, and I could not even read the paperwork John held in his hands, elaborating upon how some of my other ‘features’ would be undone.
Yet if everything went to plan, that would soon change! For now I appeared silent, demure, pliant, and accepting; as designed. But underneath…
The travelling cloak and veils had been lowered over my bonnet again, obscuring the world and hopefully me from it, but underneath I was left to my own excited thoughts. Blinking blankly at the hazy lace and the city passing by, I shivered with glee!
A few weeks! In a month or less, I might be able to look about and meet my husband’s gaze, and perchance even tell him how grateful I was to be his: words I had wanted to utter since shortly after our wedding, and doubly so since he saved me. It was almost too stimulating to consider, as I estimated all the words he might say back to me in thanks for my devotion, and then I might recant words I had never needed as a girl, that would sound quite appropriate moaned amidst the throes of John’s member filling my—
A flash of Jack came unbidden, a memory of his blurry form atop me, using my body precisely as I now desired to be used.
A blink and the waking nightmare was gone, but the shallow breaths of excitement turned to ragged gasps of panic almost instantly, and John put a hand on my lap. “I know, darling. Do not fret.”
He didn’t, he couldn’t know any of the dozen things swirling behind this expressionless face, but I loved him all the more for trying, and with his touch I reeled myself in, just.
Soon. I could speak soon.
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I had asked him if he could see any evidence of the firm hand I had lived under, but he only remarked on my smooth, artificial complexion, if a little rosy. ↩
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More about the numerous tribulations of Catholic novitiates of the Leisure Ideal can be found in St. Brigid’s School for Young Catholic Ladies and Lead Us Not Into Temptation. ↩