Chapters Dollhood: A Woman's Choice Book 4 Chapter 42
Autobutlers arrived after the maids had departed with their charges, setting chairs around the room with a long gap in the middle. It looked akin to a wedding setting, except the chairs were facing inward to the ‘aisle’. Another servant arranged a circle of heavy metal stanchions at the end, to which I did not see the purpose. It wasn’t unlike the setting for a fashion show, and I wondered if perhaps Chastity would enter mounted in an apparatus akin to the motorised Parisian rolling cages we wore to our wedding, or cradled within the wide crinoline cage from my near-finissage.
“Son,” my Father touched John’s arm, “I think Hope should depart to join the other Ladies and Dolls in the garden. It’s not appropriate for her to see this.”
John relayed my simple retort: “Respectfully, sir, whatever you gentlemen have in store, I am c-confident she has seen worse.”
“I really must—”
John lowered his voice but spoke for himself, sincerely. “If you think Hope will go willingly into the hands of an automaton after what has happened to her, alone, taken to the garden where her mouth was violated out of wedlock, then back to the drawing room where she was coerced into offering her—”
“That’s enough.” Father snapped, visibly nervous and dismissive but trying not to make a scene. ‘She won’t be alone, there’s plenty of other fine D—”
“Alan, I mean no disrespect,” John steadied, “b-but you don’t know the repercussions of sending her away at this crucial juncture. It would undo all my hard work in repairing her delicate mind. You know how women are, she is on a knife’s edge. Do you not see that?”
Father looked at me — at the simple, pleasant pout hiding the woman within. He reached out to cradle my cheek, and my only response was a flushness that rose to meet his touch, a vibration in my throat and a tense swallow of salivary lubricant. My gaze remained steady and my fleur bobbed in and out as I suckled like Chastity would. I trembled, and it was undeniable I knew he was thinking of Mummy then.
He noticed his own pulse quickening and let me go, looking back to John. “I suppose I have my… blind spots. I’m sorry, Hope.”
Father quickly averted his eyes and nodded across the room to Sir Wainwright, who clapped his hands to call the room’s attention, just as the headmaster had in our assemblies in St. Werburgh’s Great Hall. There it had been to make us schoolgirls flinch or look, to earn us a sharp correction or even a bit of detention. Here the rubber necks of a few dozen gentlemen looked his way with open curiosity, and he announced,
“As head secretary of our fair Society, I call this Repatriation of Chastity Collins neé Hodgkinson to order! As you have all surely heard, we’ve had a rogue in our midst, one who preyed not just on our coffers but the unconditional love and servitude of one of my star pupils, a gem even among the consistent output of St. Werburgh’s-certified Dolls you men ogle at year-in and year-out.
“Chastity is a lightly-used 2049 Eaton Standard, no custom deviations. This vintage sports the unique flip-hip joint innovation, along with the devotional clockwork model they’ve been developing for years over on Great Ormond Street. She’s practically a blank slate for a remodel, with reliable internals! Aside from all that, Chastity is an obedient young doll whose eagerness — however potent and true — rarely escapes her plastic shell, and I assure you she has been raised right upon the edge of purity, and desires nothing more than your satisfaction.
“Her pedigree is long, and already provided on your invitation, so I’ll offer only the gist: her mother Cushions comes by the way of our former head secretary Lord Chittenham, encouraged by his private tutorship’s strict curriculum — and the chance of marrying an eligible beau as reliable and true as Alan here. Of course you all know Mr. Hodgkinson, who is a leader of British finance and served as our treasurer for three consecutive terms, bringing us back into the black in the tumultuous ‘30s, and in so ensuring the survival of traditions and customs such as our gathering here today. These are paragons of our Society’s ideals, who raised their twin girls in a near-perfect vacuum, with the sole dream of becoming that which we all desire: Dolls.”
Wainwright glanced toward John and I from across the room. He undoubtedly knew of our consultancy with Damsels, and yet there we stood as a model couple shining well upon the Society. The hint of suspicion he’d held since my reluctance onstage at graduation was overridden by his appreciation that I’d never caused him much of a fuss.
“The saga of Chastity’s betrothment is a sour one, a tragedy that will spoil your appetites, but one honest truth I must implore we remember is: Jack Collins abandoned the wife we entrusted to him to take another, and that abandonment — of not only sweet Chastity but his prime responsibilities as a man — is the foundation of our argument for repossession and repatriation. Miss Hodgkinson, if I may call her that again, deserves better.
“You can be her better. Please take your seats so the exhibition may begin.”
Pleasantly surprised with his speech, I obediently followed my husband’s directions as the gaggle dispersed. John reserved me a seat near the end of the mock runway, set me down, and turned me so I was looking down most of its length. What good it did me, though. With the way a Doll’s eyes are fixed, most of the room was hazy and unclear, but I was still thankful to get an idea of the set. Father sat on my opposite side, and laid a hand on my lap, gripping my dress as he might have held my hand when I was young. He was nervous, I could feel it running through him like an anbaric charge, and just as any girl would when seeing her father so full of doubt, I couldn’t help but feel that nervous energy run through me too. He had assured us today was only a formality, then why—
My thoughts were silenced like the rest of the room when an automaid entered from the hall, dressed in its most formal attire, and stepped slowly down the mock runway. I had only seen this outfit worn a few times, but it featured most notably a solid white veil only bordered with lace, ‘blinding’ the machine and exhibiting its artificiality, for the faceless automaid remained entirely unhindered by the blindfold. It knew exactly where it was headed, and what it was doing. As it got closer to my plane of focus, I realised the maid held in its plastic grip a lasso of white cord, and with each measured step, it released a little bit, ensuring the line stayed taut back behind it, leading toward somewhere unseen in the hall like a bright white strike across the room, glinting with the midday light which poured in the windows past the many eager men on the edge of their seats. As it walked mechanically, the line barely wavered from about waist-height, and never drooped, yet as the maid passed us and turned to lean against the cord, the line did rise slightly, and we could discern from its subtle complaints, the rope was under a great deal of tension.
It was at that moment I noticed a figure down the line, one who had just entered. The figure was blurry… but she was entirely unlike the well-dressed and well-covered maid who had just entered. She was svelte, armless, and entirely nude! I gasped silently, for the white silken line led from the automaid’ mechanical hands all the way down the runway and directly betwixt my sister’s legs! This was the “exhibition,” apparently, and once Chastity had stepped in past the door frame, and the crowd of societymen could plainly see her slim curves on open display and how the tensioned rope ran directly through her nether lips and back out into the hall, that crowd erupted in applause, dozens of lascivious eyes feasting on my sister’s — and effectively my own — body.
My thighs tensed as I imagined that cord running right along my defenceless sex, and with so much male attention on my vulnerable form. Nonetheless my eyes only blinked blankly and contributed to that rapt attention as I watched my sister do her best bourreé; stepping so quickly she seemed to float, the line barely wavering as she proceeded deeper into this den of drooling wolves. It was somewhat like an out-of-body experience, but I knew — identical as we were — this was another creature walking that tightrope.
In all of my experiences before a crowd I had baulked, but here Chastity simply excelled.
Whilst we had both learned this technique in school, I had no idea to what extent my sister had perfected it, and to think— with a rope threading her sensitive bits! The restraint necessary was unbelievable, whilst her confidence showed in each step. There was no quivering or doubt or affectation, of course impossible with her proud upper body, but not even in the legs!
I felt foolish thinking Father might have had her mounted in another metal rolling frame, for that would have proved nothing. Being dragged down a runway by a machine spoke to potential suitors of nothing save for the squashing of disobedience; and that there was disobedience here in need of squashing. The Doll before us dragging herself down this runway spoke of discipline, devotion, and a careful grasp upon one’s desire.
She was effectively trapped by the guiding line of the automaid, skewered by its puppet string of control. Perhaps on my steady flat feet I could have lifted my leg over the devious rope and escaped to either side, but a Doll like Chastity in her perfect and unsullied design needed both delicate feet perched upon the ground to keep from falling. Without her own arms to outstretch, or a gentleman’s hands to steady her, only the rope running along her cunt kept my sister upright.
The message was clear, though: unlike me, Chastity was happy and content to follow wherever the strings led.
As she grew closer I was somewhat relieved to find her nudity only a titillating hint, for she was actually wearing a thin elastic skinsuit in the exact same tone as our complexion, which allowed her the least modicum of modesty, and protection from indecent exposure ordinances. Whilst most of the curves on display were her own — such as the swell of her hips or the rounded angle of her empty shoulders — the ridges and boning of a waist cincher were just visible beneath the tight fabric, leaving the vision of a perfect woman, an hourglass walking delicately and dutifully toward her exhibition as a display piece, a finely-crafted object of pleasure.
Yet I couldn’t be too relieved, for whilst her bright pink nipples were hidden beneath the fabric, those firm little buds tented beneath, erect and jutting out and just asking for a pinch or a nibble. Similarly, whilst our matching vulva was shrouded by the undergarment, the rope digging deep into her cleft left a prominent outline for all to admire. Though made technically legal by the covering, in truth anything hidden was laid bare, and any part of Chastity once held safe and private was either on full display or being assaulted by the rope, woven threads and striations rubbing her hidden crooks as she strutted forth.
Dear Reader, you may think this display an indecent travesty, especially compared to the many layers of dress and modesty usually required of us women to maintain our propriety and good standing in British high society, but after the raucous applause a hush befell the room as the men all stared in awe, even my father and husband. And even though I’m sure they were all hopelessly aroused by the sight, and even though she walked the line laid out for her without any chance at dalliance or deviation, Chastity held in herself a peculiar sort of ownership there in that drawing room as she stared out at nothing and silently strutted forward, the only noise the padding of her ballet shoes, lifted into a vertical en pointe by her fixed ankles. The Doll before us held the room’s attention precisely at the barely-covered meeting point of her legs, the white cord, and the way it ran right through her cleft, across her clitoris, grazing her private petals through the skinsuit, and out the back to highlight her supple behind.
In a way, Chastity’s simple dedication — which she had bored John, Priscilla, and I with over the last few months — now made jaws drop, and I understood that my sister really was the model doll I never could be.
And she was undoubtedly happy in the life laid out for her, for once she had proceeded all the way down toward our seats, I could clearly see the outline of her delicate contours was a shade darker due to her ravenous desires leaking out, yet you still couldn’t discern the tension under which she held herself up, precariously balanced upon her feet and almost certainly upon the precipice of a massive climax.
Chastity finally stopped upon a knot a few feet from the end, a marker she would surely feel. Another maid, the unseen anchor in the hall, followed from behind and took up any slack on the long line, and I could almost see Chastity’s fleur-de-cou flutter with a silent gasp as the silken cord was lifted even further into her sex. Once at the end, the two maids began walking in a circle, with Chastity turning on axis as a model on display, after which they led her over to the curious array of stanchions and threaded her white lead through the metal posts, one by one.
Chastity dutifully followed and offered no resistance as she too was threaded over the ring, and entrapped by the tying of a simple knot, completing the loop. Testing her new silken prison, the Doll minced along her tight little track, sliding over each rounded brass knob, beginning to shake a little more as each rubbed upon her mons and slipped through her thighs. Already on her tiptoes, there was no way to escape the sturdy knobs, one after another after another. The patina of the brass was worn away right across these points of contact, telling me Chastity was not the first Doll to walk this circuit.
Only a metre or so in diameter, her legs quivered as she made a full lap, then kept going. There she was left to her own devices, free to walk in endless circles and even pleasure herself whilst doing so, but never allowed or able to get off the ride.
By Eaton’s hand and scalpel, she couldn’t even ask.
By the certification of St. Werburgh’s, she should never want to.
The two maids bowed before the crowd, their arms open and gesturing at the art piece which had just been installed for every societyman in attendance to enjoy.
Our reverence was interrupted by Sir Wainwright announcing the beginning of the bidding, and the silent respect which had held the room in anticipation devolved into thunderous applause. The men hollered all around me before throwing up coloured paddles and shouting numbers too high to fathom. Chastity was a hit, a triumph, and her performance begot an intensity in the eyes of men which I had only seen once before: an expression which John had sported laying atop me in our wedding bed, answerable only by thrusting and grunting to completion. And (presumably) these men weren’t intoxicated beyond their libations!
Chastity’s vision had them by the balls.
Yet as the bids grew larger, Father grew more and more squirrelly, shifting and glancing at the doors, the hallway. Eventually a maid arrived and handed him a gram amid all the hubbub, and though I could not turn my head to discern the note nor his reaction, the way he suddenly gripped my dress left me more than concerned. I prompted John to ask.
“Alan, what do you have there, is it bad news?”
Father handed him the paper slip across me, past my frozen gaze, and John read it aloud just for us, amid the storm.
“‘Lord Chittenham pronounced deceased by county coroner. Stop. Deemed natural causes, cardiac arrest—’! Oh Alan, I’m sorry for your loss!”
But Father wasn’t mournful. He was frustrated, and angry.
“The damned fool! We had full warning. He knew Battersby succumbed to the stimulant paste, yet he refused to stop using the stuff! Said it wasn’t the same without it. Went on with some asinine poetry about the ‘colours not shining like they used to.’ He was an addict, through and through, and a fool, a bloody fool at his age… And I’m a fool for trusting him.”
John blinked. “I don’t understand.”
Father looked at us with actual fear for a moment. “Chittenham was part of my plan— damn it, he was the plan! He was going to outbid everyone here by a country mile and add Chastity to his collection. She would be his wife, legally, but she would have plenty of companions and maids to keep herself busy. Reputation be damned, I knew he would provide a good home for her.”
The floor fell out from under me. By this point I had suspected Father to be a poor judge of character, but he all but confirmed it then. He had planned to entrust Chastity to the man who seduced our mother into this society, who introduced us to foreign substances which left us unable to think clearly, who would bring half-dressed dolls like Belle to formal gatherings just to see eyebrows raise?! That was his grand plan to save my sister?
I became lost in the fervorous calls around us, recognizing the familiar voices of societymen who had once courted Chas and I when we were virgin dolls, newly certified, fresh out of the box. I could hear them so close; Lord Hambroke who had talked to my feet as he stroked them, Mr. Kilgrave who seemed utterly committed to the idea of his meaty fist finding its way into my mouth or other cavities, and Dr. Benson the hobbyist sculptor who wished to enshrine me within apparatuses of marble and metal, to spend my life rolling between exhibitions such as this one.
These were the sort of societymen who might claim ownership of my sister today, and now we had no safe harbour left to us. Father hadn’t thought to concoct a backup plan, no, for why would a self-confident nobleman doubt his own ability to steer our world to his whims?!
Just as hope seemed all but naught, heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway, the hustle of bidding coming to a halt as a booming voice called out, a voice that would haunt me for the rest of my life.
“You wouldn’t deny a man his God-given rights to property, would you?”