Chapters An Artist's Masterpiece Book 3 Chapter 1
April 2047
When Emily awoke, it was unlike any time before. She was not in Great Ormond Street Hospital as she had been promised, or at least not that she could tell. The fine mouldings and decoration of her recovery room was gone, and now that she thought about it, so was the bed! Instead she felt her body tightly strapped down to a gurney positioned nearly upright. Her pointed feet weren’t supporting much of her weight but rested into something with a heel, as was necessary now. She couldn’t look down for the strap on her forehead, but when she tried to wiggle and feel her body for changes, she had the strangest feeling: freedom! Not from the obvious attachments but from her damned corsets, the neck restraints, the underwear that usually filled her. She couldn’t feel her arms so they must be pinned behind her, but just the feeling of cool air on her abdomen was enough to cry for joy, but unlike in the past, no tears came.
Actually looking around, she saw a new autonurse, all dressed in the greys of a lesser establishment, with the same doll face as her maid at home. She tried to call for assistance.
“…”
There was no noise. Actually, Emily hadn’t even moved her lips. She felt a numb tightness when she tried, and her tongue had shaped the sound, but no noise came from her mouth. Instead she heard a little wheezing from somewhere else. A great terror took Emily in its grips, and she shook, oh how she shook against the bonds of her upright prison, until she was surprised by a cool drip of liquid onto her monstrous breasts below her, and another. She looked up to the ceiling to see what could possibly be the source of this damn leak, before she realized that something about her mouth was very, very wrong. Her tongue felt off, shorter, but even then as she moved it around, her mouth felt tight, wet, smooth, and… ribbed. With great terror she explored further, finding no teeth, no gums, just a long circular open hole with which she now greeted the world. Her terror peaked, and even without her stays she collapsed into her supports, fainted.
When she awoke next she saw a familiar face. Doctor Eaton was standing there, addressing the nurse in a hushed tone. Emily bucked against the straps until he noticed. Sending it away, his business-like demeanor faded into the gentle tone he had always greeted her with. Only now did she start to realize this was not out of kindness, he was speaking to her quite like a too-friendly uncle does to his young niece. With this realization she hated him, hated the system which would allow this to happen to a young girl not even past her 20th birthday. But that patronizing voice brought her back.
“…and so that is why we could not do all of this work in the main hospital wing. Some of this was approved by the Royal Augmentation Auxiliary only last year and, frankly, we think these kinds of improvements too sensitive for the other patients. Now I wish you to brace yourself, dear.”
With that the doctor brought ‘round a full scale mirror for Emily to see herself, no not herself: something else. She didn’t know where to begin, and started hyperventilating and shaking until the doctor rested his hand on her bare shoulder and told her to stay calm. The sense of touch against her bare skin reminded her of her husband, and even through her seething distrust of both of them she felt a deep calm wash over her. She started from the top.
Her hair was gone. The long, brunette locks she had always struggled with as a child were shaved clean and her head was bare, smooth like the rest of her body. She was told that it wouldn’t grow back, but she would have new hair by the next day. Oddly enough, this fell flat compared to her next modification: her face. This was not her face. Blending into her smooth skin looked the same silky silicone skin that covered her genitalia, yet now it covered her whole visage. She tried to scream, nothing happened: she tried to shut her eyes tight, yet they blinked mercilessly, mindlessly: she tried to cry, now that she really deserved it, yet that was beyond her reach. Her face, like an artist’s depiction of her, was a numb mask with a blank expression, a button nose, and full, puffy lips held enticingly open by a jaw she could not close. A hint of a polite smile rested upon them to mask the tight, vulgar ‘o’ shape, and from them came a steady drip of saliva.
“That’s your own fault for moving your tongue around so much. We had to augment your salivary glands: your mouth doesn’t naturally lubricate like down below.”
She couldn’t smell but her taste was still there: her saliva tasted like when Humphrey had made her clean her own womanly juices off his prick. She looked at Eaton with a deep hate, but none of it showed, not a tear, not a sweat; and when she tried in futility to lash her vicious eloquence at him, all she heard were exasperated gasps from her neck. He nodded, almost understandingly, and gestured further down. In the lower middle of her elongated neck, lay a little false rose set into a tracheotomy, which fluttered as her breasts heaved up and down. They had bypassed her vocal cords, removed them completely for all she knew, for she couldn’t ask.
So long in her Lady’s attire, she had forgotten that she felt no restraint on her hands! She had to get out, strike this man, commit this sin for she was desperate. But as she silently dreamed of escape her shoulders merely twitched. For when Doctor Eaton had rested his hand on her bare shoulder, it was where her arm should have been. They were gone, not merely pinned behind her, but entirely replaced by a smooth contour and an exposed armpit that like the rest of her would never grow hair again. Emily’s tits blossomed out into the cool air as her only upper appendages, as she felt the drip of her sweet juices fall down periodically onto them.
“A fleur-de-bouche will help you there, dear, but I’m informed you’re already accustomed. Now for the final points, we fused your shoulder blades, collar bones, and spine so that with or without your stays you will hold your chest as proud as when your hands sat behind you. I assure you this will help with the weakness we reported last time you visited. Your health and comfort are our utmost priority.”
This last line was too rich, but once again all he received was a few gasps and a drip from her. In fact, as she dissociated, the doll in the mirror looked like it wanted to suck him off in gratitude.
The next morning she received her hair, a platinum blonde wig that was glued to her smooth head. It wasn’t styled yet, but the sultry bedtime curls that fell from her head made her want to rip it off. Her husband was scheduled to arrive at two, so about an hour beforehand Doctor Eaton came in to do finishing touches, and found her sitting, waiting, as she was wont to do now. As her disproportionate behind splayed on the edge of the chaise lounge, she was busy looking at the bottom of her field of vision at the prominent, immovable, ruby red lips that covered her former face, and beyond that, her compressed cleavage rising and falling. She had tried to look down but found her free neck’s range of motion to be severely limited, perhaps just enough to nod in greeting.
The good doctor sat down next to her and she nearly flinched, but no sign remained on her appearance; her brow could not furrow. Without much ado (“Excuse me, dear.”) he pressed a finger to her temple and she heard a deep click in her head. Suddenly, her vision was limited, no not limited, locked would be a better word. She silently cried as control of her eyes was stolen from her. They came to rest focusing about 3 feet away directly forward, leaving most of the world in her blurry periphery. She had long given up the hope of university, but the thought that her ability to read her precious books could be taken away horrified her the most, for what would she have left?
Emily blinked automatically, for its utility. She was now a doll.
