Chapters Dollhood: A Woman's Choice Book 4 Chapter 40
March 2051
Though the following weeks were some of the most pleasant and joyous of my life as of yet, an end to our arrangement was inevitable. Even with Father’s blessing, it was quite improper for a young man like John to have so many young women under his roof, and whilst Priscilla couldn’t care less for her standing, Chastity’s reputation was growing increasingly murky with each and every day.
So too our living situation impinged upon my husband. After many weeks cooped up inside whilst he finished his latest research paper, an easing of the scholarly cycle and a kick or two from Priscilla had him escorting us out-of-doors for a taste of the Old Smoke and it’s labyrinthine streets; sometimes just with me, and sometimes just him and Pris — for they had stronger legs than I. The few times we left the house altogether as family, whether to go to the nearby Royal Albert Hall for the symphony orchestra or admire the many museums in South Ken, we found a couple unfortunate implications of our lifestyle and arrangements.
For one, those passersby who did not stare at two identical Dolls with wonder and shock stared instead at their meek guardian with derision. Their imaginations clearly drifted to the improper, incestuous, and polygamous, for who else could be to blame for such deviancy than their young guardian? They likely thought he could wave a magic wand and untangle us dolls from our fashionable bondage, but how naive the thought! Add atop this the presence of an accompanying maid who spoke not, but now admired John with open affection, and you have in some good Christian eyes the equivalent of a harem of the Orient.
Dear Reader: the accuracy of their imaginations — after a certain hour in the Collins home when work was done, blood was hot, beds begged to be shared, and doting eyes and helping hands began to wander — was entirely happenstance and beside the point!
Now public perception is one thing, but it came to an uncomfortable head one night out at the opera, when John ran into professional colleagues: members of the Royal Society of London who had a heavy hand in funding his research. Since the success of my rescue and recovery, the spurning of his father’s caustic influence, and his inroads with Priscilla romantically — at my request and allowance, surprise surprise! — John had made great strides, and now spoke with confidence and self-assuredness to match most British men.
Yet in this impromptu meeting between acts of Turandot, the cordial chatter quickly drifted not to his important works but instead us women. In that casual way men discuss our inner lives whilst we sit there voiceless, the scholars were most inquisitive about our extreme measurements and a Doll’s unmentionable abilities. One of the bookish gentlemen even wished to encircle Chastity’s waist with his hands, but John put a stop to it… and so too the conversation. He was proud of me, undoubtedly, but he had never defined his worth by his possessions; and so he found himself losing an opportunity to advance his career for the spectacle of his “budding collection,” as one of the gentlemen put it.
Such attentions strained our little foursome, but like I said, an end to our arrangement was inevitable.
By that Spring, Father had been searching for Chastity’s match for quite some time, and from his grams — or John’s retelling — the process and response from the community couldn’t have been further from our courting as virgins. Contrary to everything we had been led to believe, whether because of our severe refinements or the cost of our upkeep, there happened to be a limited market of high society men who actually desired Dolls, even as a companion to their Lady wife. Fewer still wanted the legal overhead of disputing custody and marriageability with a now-infamous rogue such as Jack Collins, Sr.
So by Society bylaws, the dispute over Chastity Collins née Hodgkinson came to an auction, a private affair colloquially termed “Repatriation.”
By the dawn of spring, we found ourselves in John’s repaired autocarriage, far from the endless grey bustle and smog of London, rolling up the quaint little road outside Reading which led to the Hodgkinson Estate. As the anbaric motors whirred, three fanciful dresses rustled in the cabin under travelling cloaks whilst their wearers said not a word.
Patches of green flew by the windows, tight shrubberies growing wild and opening up to rolling pastures behind the rows. I longed to look and admire them, but we were all following perfect form; and not merely the Dolls. With the threads of our lives dangling upon the knife’s edge of this one event, John was dressed to the nines and Priscilla sat idly by Chastity, across from John and I; chaste and reserved, hiding her nerves and the tender closeness we now shared. Whatever support she wished to impart upon us had either already been given back at home, or was now redirected toward the Doll next to her.
Chastity was not part of our little ménage à trois, of course, but my sister and her maid shared the more proper form of familiarity: of a servant and her leisurely mistress, eternally helpless. Not that my sweet and stubborn Priscilla would ever see it as such! To that modern mind, the work of her hands was charity, and also a challenge. From Chas’ first broken words upon that letterboard, Priscilla’s purpose had been renewed: lessons on spelling and grammar and history and the liberal cultures of continental Europe spouting from the doll room’s hi-fi all day long, reminiscent of when I had first come out of my shell. My proud sister learned quickly to hush her concerns about a woman’s place, our flowering lesbianism, and the weakness of a commoner’s will; lest she get put to bed in her too-tight daytime stays without sexual release or supper!
Yet over the weeks the two had grown close — begrudgingly — and by that carriage ride Pris was sorry to lose a pupil; I was sorry to lose a sister, and John was sorry for our entire situation, resolved to never allow his poor girls to be strung along by other men’s whims ever again.
We arrived at the gates, and still not a word had been spoken aloud.
Yet John could hear me and reply. “You wish me to do what, darling? But that’s absurd!”
My eyes and neck were in their dollish state, fixed and frozen, and I wore an elaborate fleur-de-bouche in lieu of my vox gag; yet a little radio whine could be faintly heard from John’s ear. I repeated my request, and alas, he heard me loud and clear.
My husband dutifully followed my instructions and lifted Chastity’s steep travelling boot into his lap, untying the infernal laces and slipping it off. Priscilla gave him a look of confusion but he nodded toward me and acquiesced, offering my sister a tender foot massage as we approached our destination. I knew just how tense and sore our feet could get — fused and frozen en pointe. Just because I had been freed from the strain doesn’t mean I had forgotten, not one bit.
“This is to say that you are loved, Chastity.” John spoke my thoughts aloud. “No matter what transpires today, do not punish yourself for what happened. Hope has cherished her time speaking with you again after all these years.”
I simply stared across the cabin at my sister: two mirror images of perfect Dollhood, sitting pretty. Regardless of who claimed her that day, those talks were likely to be our last. John continued his tender but firm caresses from my phantom hands, until the carriage came to a stop before the gate, when he opened his door and reached out to the ground to fetch… something. He seemed to shovel that something into my sister’s travelling boot before refitting it and retying that mysterious bunny-eared knot, yet again.
“This pebble you feel isn’t punishment. It’s a… reminder that J— my F-father will never be the gardener you desire. He will… plant you in the shade, water you sporadically, and wager upon how long it takes you to wilt.” John gulped, processing the words as he recited them for me. “I know you remain true to him, but he will never respect nor return such devotion.”
The carriage pulled down the gravel drive.
I had expected Priscilla to object to this minor cruelty, but she knew precisely how devoted Chastity had been throughout the past weeks, first pleading the swap had been a misunderstanding or malfunction, then finally admitting Jack had told her to “behave” whilst away. My sister was plenty ready to admit guilt, but never once seemed cognizant that Jack was guilty of putting her in that horrid position, and never once offered critique nor doubt in him for his actions against us. None of my assurances could allow her to admit in letters that he was anything less than her perfect husband.
I had chalked her loyalty up to fear — instilled by the cane and sleeplessness and re-education I knew so well — but it had been John who argued that Chastity might remain a true believer in the Society tenets. He argued she may not have needed so much coaxing and training, explaining why his father had lost ‘interest’ in her.
In the end the truth was likely somewhere in the middle, but only one window into her experience was left for us to inspect… only one crack in the facade of her immaculate Dollhood: the reaction to her betrothal in Father’s bedroom. John and I theorised for days over the reason for Chastity’s pre-marital tantrums at the idea of marrying a man like Jack Collins, Sr.
Could it have been his brusque behaviour so early on? Had he forced her to give him a “tour of the gardens” as well? Had his meaty hands ventured further than they should have? Had he shown her his early plans to recreate his sweet Carrie-Anne?
For days I begged her to admit that not all was rosy and perfect as her broken words said, I even admitted how I had once idolised her. “Perhaps you realised back then that this life was not what was promised to us.” I recall professing. “You saw with clarity I had yet to achieve. You stormed and thrashed like Mummy! You were so brave… Please tell me what was going through your head whilst Pappa presented you with that announcement, that throbbing gift! I long for you to recapture an ounce of that spirit now! Why did you finally reject passivity when you heard Jack was to be your wedded husband?”
Chastity said nothing for a time, as she always did when our questions shone too negative or disagreeable upon the Society or its men. Then the clicking began, the letters arriving one by one from John’s translation, finally signing simply,
“T-O-O… O-L-D… F-A-T… M-E-A-N…”
All of us listened with surprise on our faces — mine frozen that way — as Chastity left us with only that frivolous criteria, before John and Pris erupted with laughter. I admit I berated her with my indignation, that she could accept his torturous behaviour yet find such superficial reasons to object to! Of course her tantrum had only been that: a childish tantrum, and I had been projecting my myriad doubts upon her for years and years.
The three of us could plainly see that my increasingly independent and inquisitive nature had never been inspired nor encouraged in my sister. She did not take to Pris’ educational records nor my pleas for understanding. She appeared to be a model Doll through and through, passive and accepting of all, happy to fulfil her sole purpose and enjoy her body being taken by a man’s whims and desires. With her thoughts uncorked she often asked to be of service to John, her holes unfilled and aching for use. Morning, day, and night; after each and every meal, each and every parade around town; she would offer herself in thanks. We always translated and listened, wanting to encourage more meaningful communication, but dear Reader I admit it did wear on. It was gratitude, but also gratification. That was her primary concern, simmering in the back of every shallow conversation; desire to be used.
My childhood jealousy roared back: how simply she saw her little world! Of course I felt the same: by the twisting of my clockwork I would always be driven by an unnaturally potent Desire, but I no longer coveted such simplicity. I knew by that carriage ride with certainty that we were on truly separate paths, and I could not coax her to reject her well-trained, objectile nature.
In truth I had forsaken my efforts with Chas a week prior to that carriage ride, for without the support of John and Priscilla, and a home as fertile with discourse and love, if it even took root inside my sister, my doubt and wilfulness would surely fester in the confines of her head and rot her out like Mummy.
I simply required her to have enough self-preservation to not return to that monster! If bidding stalled, and by some horrid chance they allowed her to return to him— I couldn’t bear the thought!
“Do you understand why we will aim to keep you from him?” John asked my silent sister. The elaborate white fleur-de-bouche bobbed subtly in and out, her silent suckling a signal she had something to say. Priscilla popped the expanding gag out of her puffy mouth-hole and John reached across to occupy the vacancy with his thumb. We had taught her a simplified rendition of Father and Mummy’s secret language when the letterboard proved too laborious, and with the Hodgkinson home fast approaching, expediency was necessary.
“‘I… love… you… Hope. I am… sorry I not be better sister.” John recited, interpreting each letter by the deft swirls and licks within, doing his best to ignore the rhythmic sucking she couldn’t help. “‘Promise… never… ask… this Doll… act… speak… again… for my owner… I will be… perfect flower.’” He sounded more confused with each word, but I understood: a perfect flower like in the story Nanny had always read for us, tended to by the gentle gardener who knew best. It was abundantly clear Chastity was a committed Doll, and nothing more. She would go where the will of Men took her.
I reached out to run my leg against hers. As if I would let that happen!
“Hope says she understands.” He looked at me, bittersweet, before adding, “Chastity says… ‘Gag… please.’”
I had hoped for better, but in the end I whispered only, “as she wishes,” into John’s ear. His thumb slipped out with a wet noise, followed by Pris filling the Doll’s hole again with her self-inflating fleur. She reached over and touched my lap sincerely before remembering her place as our silent maid and pulling back to give Chastity her final preparations.
We had arrived.
“Oh wonderful! Wonderful!” Father said to John as he alighted under the porte cochère and helped each of the Hodgkinson daughters out onto their unsteady heels in the gravel. Father was obviously delighted that we were well-dressed and on our best behaviour — most likely delighted I had left the vox gag at home, if we’re being honest.
Mummy stood behind him and curtseyed a greeting, so deeply one of her prominent breasts escaped her dress and had to be repositioned for her, whilst Cuddles’ tiny body was presented on her rolling ottoman, staring unwaveringly up at Father.
They were leashed together by a delicate lace lead that ensnared both of their necks — far longer and more refined than the one Chas and I had been forced to wear for our first week at St. Werburgh’s, but any tethering of that nature was likely too close for comfort.
Father reseated his wife’s teat whilst smiling at us. “Oh she recognises her girls! Welcome, welcome, let’s make sure you’re both in good hands.”
A number of faceless automaids approached, but John waved them off. We thought we had the arrival covered, with him and Pris to guide us Dolls by the waists inside, but just as she alighted the carriage behind us, Priscilla suddenly grasped at her neck, a look of horror befalling her: the golden collar was choking her! A simultaneous murmur of distress erupted from inside the foyer, and if my blurry sight could be believed, the elaborate floral dress of one Lady Kettering faltered, her distinctly anachronistic wooden arms swinging and clunking about uselessly as she too asphyxiated.
The clockwork turned within my head until everything clicked into place.
The Ketterings must have been the previous guests to arrive, and Priscilla’s incident months prior in the china shop immediately came to mind: these Songbirds couldn’t congregate or mingle within a certain range of each other, lest they further conspire. But why would the great Lady herself be a Songbird too? I had no time to follow that ponderous thread.
“She can’t be here, John.” I thought clearly amidst the confusion, and within moments John had informed the autocar of its new destination, shut the door, confirmed our maid’s relief through the glass, and instructed the vehicle to take her home.
“Son,” Father patted John on the back as if we had a brother. “How you’ve grown! What resolve and action! You knew just how to handle that little affair!”
John flicked his eyes at me before remembering to take credit. “Why thank you Alan, sir, it’s a sorry state. I merely hope to save the woman from any further embarrassment.”
“Right you are, she is the Chancellor’s wife after all! Serves us well to keep him happy.”
John chose not to correct him on where our care and attention actually laid, instead glancing inside to see if the older couple were alright, but they were lost to the mingling crowd. There were many people already arrived for the event; men with their wives and daughters listening to them chum from behind elaborate gags, whilst they filed through the foyer and down the hall. He was leaning to look, close enough that Cuddles’ rigid attention suddenly locked to him, my man. Her soft little thighs tensed and ‘kicked’, upsetting her short skirts, and making us both pause. John returned to my side and she resumed staring longingly at my father whilst we heard a small buzzing resume, smaller than she deserved for living in such a body.
Oh Althea.
“Alan,” I had John query, “It’s w-wonderful to see Mrs. Hodgkinson here, but shouldn’t Cuddles be put away? I d-don’t believe these potential bidders need any ideas on what to do with your daughter, sir.”
Cuddles shook a bit in the spring breeze, which is to say her twin pillows shook and jostled primarily. They caught the eyes of Father and John and every other man within sight, and I had to keep my sister’s future my priority today. Althea’s was already set in stone.
But Father just laughed. “Oh you do always worry yourself silly, son! I assure you, no daughter of mine is going to become a mere companion.” He said the last word with subtle disdain, even whilst Cuddles’ stared up at him with forced adoration. “This is all mere ceremony, going through the motions. You think I would leave a day like today up to the fates? No no, I have a place for my girl all lined up, you’ll see. Isn’t that right my darling little Doll!?”
John nodded and guided Chastity — now without chaperone — into her father’s open hands, for him to admire her and then myself.
“My sweet girls, finally returned to the nest! Your mother and I have missed you both dearly. Hope, I hear you have been a consummate hostess these past months, and Chastity, I suppose you’ve learned a thing or two about companionship after all, eh?” He poked her nose and winked at John, who looked flustered until I told him to be steady and laugh along. “Don’t worry, my dear. That’s quite enough of that. We’ll be finding you a forever home today, and we won’t be requiring Ms. Barnes while we’re at it. Alas, I’m afraid her peers downstairs wouldn’t have made for very good company!”
Father laughed at his own joke as the faceless automaids got closer, and the tended gravel rustled under me as my legs shook. “Please don’t let them touch me.” I begged John. After countless nightmares of those automatons abducting me again, we had taken certain precautions by inviting a couture tattooist from Chelsea — the latest craze — into our home for his most modest job in his career: to ensure my smooth Doll skin was marked with my monogram, permanently, in certain areas only John or Priscilla would see. That did nothing to prevent outright abduction, of course.
All in all, with Father having upped security on his household protocol, there was little chance of a repeat offence, but the memory of their cold plasticine hands still made me shiver, my trust in those statuesque machines utterly shattered.
John heard me, and squeezed firmly through the corset, answering and comforting.
Father noticed my shivers, but attributed them to the early Spring air. “Oh but you must proceed inside, and Chas, we have to get you ready for your little exhibition. Why don’t you two bid each other adieu?”
All credit to John, he had become quite adept at appearing to force my movements like a marionettist; like a true Societyman. Within his grasp, I was both safe and subservient to his will as he turned me around toward my twin sister, and both he and Father controlled their young dolls, directing our unsteady steps to press our chests together in a traditional dollhood ‘embrace’, letting us feel the rise and fall of each other’s flurried breaths, letting the grazing of sensitive skin inspire passion within us, letting us stare into each other’s glassy eyes and blink a final farewell.
Father even did a little wave for Chas saying, “Buh-bye, sis! Oh she is going to miss you, Hope, I can feel it.”
I just stared. And blinked. And swallowed what liquid desire puddled behind my gag. I was thankful we’d had a chance to say our real goodbyes before this farce.
But Chastity had chosen her path, to return to the grip of men who put words in her mouth, to remain a blank slate for their ideas and desires. In the intervening weeks, John and Priscilla and I had given her every opportunity to run away with Damsels, to let John accept the repercussions, but as we heard in the carriage, dear Reader, my perfect Doll sister had made her choice.
We were held there for a moment, before we greeted Mummy in a similar fashion, and Cuddles as well, the tug of her Lady’s leash keeping her close. No words were traded as we huddled together, only touch as we were greeted by the eager pressure of Cushions’ far more prodigious breasts. John’s hands shook but he performed his role perfectly, holding me there as close to my family as I could get. I thanked him, and the shaking stilled. Their silent warmth did fill me with a certain glow, but it wasn’t in my heart.
Father signalled for an automaid to take Chastity away for preparation, along with our mother for moral support — her companion pulled behind by the neck — and ushered us inside. I caught him looking expectantly down the drive, then at his watch, but it’s not as though I could ask why.
As soon as he was out of earshot, John handed our heavy travelling wear to the nearest butler, and spoke to me under his breath, quietly. “I am sickened here sometimes, dear, and yet you steady me. Thank you. This little lifeline was a marvellous idea.”
Staring ahead with fleur erupting from my stuffed mouth, breasts held high on my svelte armless body by a fashionable-yet-modest day gown of peach lace and silk, I looked properly docile and cute and harmless and pliable as I secretly sent my thoughts and opinions into his ear. “Remember what I said after the awkwardness at the opera, my love. You are entitled to dominion over us women, and here you must flaunt it. Revel in it. Ogle and enjoy what you see and do not step on anyone’s toes for doing so to me. Think of it simply a performance, keeping up appearances as you just did. And do not worry or fret. I know your true heart. I know it well.”
John idly played with my wedding ring as I spoke to him, reminding me how his love and devotion once again dangled from my neck, before he acknowledged my advice by touching me firmly upon the shoulder, rubbing his thumb into my collar in the way he knew set my sensitive skin ablaze and my tightly corseted breaths even shorter. Knowing we were united in this, he grabbed my waist and guided my mincing steps to the drawing room, where we would join the many guests here to take part in the spectacle of my sister’s Repatriation.