Stories Dollhood: A Woman's Choice

2018–2023
Cafter Homme
149180 words
12 hours
DeviantArt
#M+/f+
#bondage
#school
#amputee
#bimbofication
#leisure
#doll
#future
#alternatehistory
#DavePotter

This is my second story in Dave Potter’s Alternate Britain, revolving around a Neo-Victorian culture that expects its women to trammel themselves as a status symbol. In this world, certain men expect even more, they appreciate surgical transformation, where the question of consent is not even considered.

Taking the previous entry as a jumping off point for an expanded world, we follow the upbringing of the Hodgkinson twins, two young ladies born into the Society of Dolls with full expectation of following their mother’s example.

This can be considered a tangential sequel to An Artist’s Masterpiece, which I recommend reading first, even if it is tonally different. With this story, I aimed to flesh out the world these girls live in, and go into far more detail than in Masterpiece, layering emotional complexity and intrigue. This has resulted in a much slower tale, but hopefully more stimulating.

Thanks to Dave and Slothargy for storyline guidance.

1. Introduction A note in response to An Artist's Masterpiece.
Book 1
1. Chapter 1 In which we meet young Hope and Chastity, the Hodgkinson twins.
2. Chapter 2 The first step for a young Lady, and a lesson in grace.
3. Chapter 3 Hope's many earnest questions are thankfully silenced.
4. Chapter 4 Further adaptations must be made to allow for true dependence.
5. Chapter 5 Receiving her first corset, Hope is doubtful of what lies ahead.
6. Chapter 6 The twins leaving for school gives rise to an emotional day.
7. Chapter 7 A mistake is made on the way to St. Werburgh's.
8. Chapter 8 The school's expectations and a young Ms. Burns are introduced.
9. Chapter 9 A student's morning routine in the unquestioning care of a maid.
10. Chapter 10 A lesson in a Doll's body, with Dame Henderson as the specimen.
11. Chapter 11 Hope makes a visit to the Headmaster's study.
12. Chapter 12 Christmas brings with it gifts of new family.
13. Chapter 13 A rendezvous in the night begets Hope a heart-to-heart with Althea.
14. Chapter 14 Hope is betrayed and Althea is given an ultimatum.
15. Chapter 15 The twins graduate and Hope begins to regret her fate.
1. Appendix to Book 1 An interlude to remark on diverse paths of the Class of 2049.
Book 2
1. Chapter 16 Hope awakens to the reality of her aspirations.
2. Chapter 17 Alan fetches his daughters following their recuperation.
3. Chapter 18 Hope's new routine at the Hodgkinson Estate is written in stone.
4. Chapter 19 Jack Collins and his son John are introduced to the Hodgkinsons.
5. Chapter 20 Facing impending arrangement, John courts Hope while Jack gets familiar.
6. Chapter 21 Hope receives an engagement gift, and Chastity has much to say.
7. Chapter 22 Hope is prepared for her wedding day (and night).
8. Chapter 23 The happy couple are wed, and the union is consummated!
1. Appendix to Book 2 Commentary on the story so far from Headmaster Wainwright.
Book 3
1. Chapter 24 A flaw in the clockwork appears, the first hiccup.
2. Chapter 25 Priscilla's activism creates waves at the Berkeley Gardens Social Club.
3. Chapter 26 The aftermath of teatime sends Hope reeling into another man's arms.
4. Chapter 27 Hope is introduced to Jack's household, and begins her re-education.
5. Chapter 28 Hope clings on, barely, in the wake of her new life's many challenges.
6. Chapter 29 John tells of home life and disarray, with two women to handle.
7. Chapter 30 A visit back home brings reunions and a plea.
8. Chapter 31 Recovering from rejection, Hope finds herself the trap of a long-running gambit.
9. Chapter 32 The secret to Hope's liberation is plopped inside her mouth.
10. Chapter 33 Hopes dashed, our Doll gets a minor reunion before the trap is set.
11. Chapter 34 Alan finally exposes himself to his daughter, revealing doubt and lust.
12. Chapter 35 Resolved to her fate, our Doll meets it with a bang not a whimper.
Book 4
1. Chapter 36 After all hope is almost lost, our Doll is welcomed back home!
2. Chapter 37 John takes Hope to be assessed for restoration, as fears loom large.
3. Chapter 38 A scorned father awaits the couple after their transgressions.
4. Chapter 39 A heat returns to the Collins home, and Hope must face her fears.
5. Chapter 40 Hope reflects on her time with Chastity as they approach her auction.
6. Chapter 41 John and Hope get into the rhythm of their new partnership.
7. Chapter 42 Chastity's exhibition commences, as Alan's backup plan falters.
8. Chapter 43 The long-awaited finale!

Introduction

Aug 8th, 2018

837 words

July 2049

Emily the doll stared mindlessly ahead, perched on the edge of her seat in the fine drawing room of the Hodgkinsons’ home, her gargantuan chest heaving up and down, each breath tugging on her two remaining wedding rings making her ever-sensitive nipples even sorer than they were before. Across from her sat Chastity and Hope Hodgkinson, the two daughters of the house. They both stared vacantly ahead, they both had heaving breasts, they both had minute waists, and they both were devoid of their arms. All three wore elaborate fleur-de-bouches in their mouths to stop the drool from exiting. All three had been modified into dolls.

Two automaids entered in their fineries, accompanied by a third pushing a cart, which carried their daily meals. In the corner of her locked vision she saw the two girls shift a bit in their place. Were they new to this, or perhaps even eager? Emily was neither. Upon the cart lay three clear rubber phalluses, revealing a core made of the finest looking nutritional mush this side of London. Her maid released the false flower in her mouth with an embroidered cloth placed below to prevent the discharge from falling onto her prominent chest and down her stays. Without further ado (for none was needed or offered), her attendant lodged the sizable feeding apparatus into her mouth. Her tongue and supplemental muscles went to work reflexively, slowly massaging out her food, and with nothing better to do but stare into empty space and guess which Hodgkinson doll would finish first, her thoughts drifted to the past…

The right-hand Hodgkinson Doll finished her meal first. I know because I remember which attendant removed its charge’s decanter first, because that Doll was me: Hope Hodgkinson. Well, that was my name before I married. Now I am Hope Collins, loving wife and property of John Collins. I am his wife but I am not a woman.

I am a Doll.

I remember Emily. Once upon a time, I envied her, I sincerely did. She was the example of a perfect woman, a happy woman, a true doll, and Father rightly believed that having such an example around once in a while would be good influence on my sister and I, so she was paraded before us by Father’s friend, Mr. Battersby, every other Sunday, and truly we all longed to be her. Of course, none of us remotely guessed how unhappy she was inside, as was to be revealed years later in her writings and activism. How could anyone be unhappy when they looked, moved, and behaved so wonderfully, so refined and elegant? How could anyone be unhappy if they were a Doll with a man to love them, and beyond that an estate as luxurious as Humphrey’s?

Yes, we were quite naive.

Why did I shift a little in my place when our food was brought by the automaids? Was I trying to adjust my frozen gaze? Was I disturbed by it? Was I eager? Even now that question is hard to answer. That was a long time ago, and I was still a new Doll at that time; “fresh out of the box” as the saying amongst the dolling community goes. I was eager because I was told that one should be, that this was what every girl wanted, that swallowing puréed food like that was the height of delicacy, efficiency: consumption without moving a voluntary muscle, refuelling for our singular purpose.

Yet I was disturbed too, troubled; for I was beginning to sense that maybe, just maybe, everything they had told us might not be entirely accurate. For the first time in years I was bursting with questions, unafraid of the consequences, but only after losing the voice I had been given by God to ask them with. Why did the size and shape of the feeder feel so degrading; why did I miss my arms by my sides; why did I miss having the energy and ability to walk and run freely; why did I miss being able to converse and express my emotions?

Why did I miss my life before it was “perfect?”

These days, I am much more content. There is little that I miss and nothing that I regret. I am still a Doll and I am still John Collins’s wife, but much has changed. And so I offer you this chronicle as my quiet rebuttal to Emily Rivers (neé Lowood)’s writings on our community. She may wish to abolish the entire practice of Dollhood, and surely I see how her experience may inform that position, but I implore the reader to make their own opinions after reading my tale. This life is not without its unique joys.

But I am getting well ahead of myself. Instead, I should go back, way back, twenty years back, to when my beloved sister Chastity and I were still small children playing in the nursery, and our darling nanny was reading us a story…

Book 1 Chapter 1

Aug 9th, 2018

915 words

“…and so, the Lily stayed where the Gardener planted her, for He knew best. He would come along, every day, and shower her with water. Not too much, and not too little, because He was so wise, He knew exactly what she needed.

“Little Lily the Perfect Flower just gathered the rays the sun gave out as it admired her glow, making herself even more beautiful for all who walked through the garden. And the guests smiled, smelling the roses, and the chrysanthemums, until they finally came to the Perfect Flower. They would look at Sweet Lily, and wish that their gardens were so pretty, but they never knew the secret of her beauty. No, only she knew the secret.”

“What is it? What is it!?” We chimed in. Chastity and I had heard this story many times, but it was more fun when we pretended it was brand new.

Nanny smiled down at us, cross-legged in the garden, we couldn’t have been older than six or seven years old, “Well, the secret was that Lily always did what she was told! How could she be a Perfect Flower without the Gardener’s grand design? What if she had moved her pot to where she thought best, and then no sun had shone on her petals at all? No, it was His job to think, and hers to be silent and beautiful, because He said so. And Lily the Flower was happy, because she accepted this, and had made Him truly proud.”

Chastity giggled and clapped. This was her favourite story, and she was especially giddy once it reached its end.

“Now go along to the playhouse, girls! You have a little bit of time before your Pappa gets home.” With that, Chastity dashed off, but I remember taking my time, holding back. “What is it, Hope?”

This was one of those moments. As much as our Nanny treated us like we were her own flesh and blood, she still had to glance at the engraved ‘H’ on the monogrammed locket about my neck sometimes to see which one I was, so absolutely identical were Chastity and I.

So I was never one of a kind, really.

“Miss, why aren’t you a Doll like Mummy?” I remember the look on my nanny’s face like it was yesterday, a mix of puzzlement and restraint, like she had been preparing for this question since we were born, even though it quickly disappeared to the warm smile we always knew her for as I was picked up onto her lap. “Well I can’t be, no matter how much I want to. To be a true Lady, not of Leisure but of Dollhood, like your Mummy, an honourable nobleman would have to whisk away alllll my silly worries, pay for my changes, clip my wings, and then take care of me like I take care of you girls. Like the Strong Knight in yesterday’s story, remember? Or your husband someday. But that’s not my place, little one, that’s for good girls like you and your sister. You’ll understand when you grow up.”

I thought I understood then of course, like all kids do. That evening when we all sat in the drawing room watching the telly, that is, my whole family, I looked up from the plush rug to Mother seated on the chesterfield next to Pappa. She didn’t look down at me, I knew she couldn’t, but Father always told us how proud of us she was, how happy she was when we were behaving, or spending time with her. He would kiss her on the cheek often in those years, one hand holding her close and playing with her breast, as her only signs of life — blinking and breathing — would get faster and deeper as he did.

One of my warmest memories is getting up and sitting at her side, and resting my tiny hand on the semi-glossy plastic skin of her finely-manicured ones, daintily tied together in her lap with a white lace bow¹. She couldn’t move her arms to reciprocate, nor tell us her love first-hand, but Pappa always told us she could still feel and hear everything, and he communicated for her, so we did our best to be on our best behaviour in her presence. You might think, as a Doll, silent and still, she wasn’t really a mother to us; I mean it’s common knowledge that Dolls need a surrogate to have children in the first place, but Chastity and I held our mother in the highest regard, like something expensive and fragile, like a silent angel watching over us. Oh how we wished to be her, to be a good wife for an honourable Knight, a careful Gardener.

This was the style before the dolling innovations of the 2030s and 40s. The skin treatments were not so refined then, and arms were almost never removed wholly, or “clipped,” just deadened to the motor signals of the brain. You might be inclined to know that even this was not always successful, as Mother had a twitch in her left thumb. These surgical inconsistencies, the aesthetic legacy of the reverse prayer, and other changes in contemporary fashions led to the rise of the cleaner “venus look,” which you are familiar with from the armlessness of Emily Battersby and countless others from 2040 onward. ↩

Book 1 Chapter 2

Aug 9th, 2018

1476 words

We grew along with these tales and this life for many years, and our childhood was like anyone else’s, really; quite carefree for the most part. Pappa rarely let his business influence us, and only took Mother with him to events or dinners, at the bank or otherwise, so our large estate was like an oasis we rarely left, nor did we really want to. Living in the big city like I do now with John, I often miss those days just for the quiet. Early on, I had a deep-seated dream of travelling the world, like the adventurous men we saw during our thirty minutes of family telly-time after dinner, but a drive in the autocarriage with Nanny to the shops in Reading was usually enough to satisfy me. Wearing my small training gag and a bow around my wrists as we walked down the streets, I remember the stares and murmurs just out of earshot, which only got more prominent the older I became.

I knew why they stared, though: they just wanted to be like me: nearly nobility and a future member of the exclusive Society of Dollhood. But all of them were like Nanny, who walked beside me with a hand against my back, free to do anything she liked, whether it was driven by noble intentions or those of lust, hate, jealousy, sloth, anything at all sinful. As much as they wanted, these people simply did not have the means to become a true woman; an untainted, essential woman, and I thought that was really sad. To tell you the truth, I was usually uncomfortable in public for this reason, a sort of guilt I carried around when I saw all those unlucky people in town, so my yearnings for travel and adventure faded with age.

Chastity on the other hand had taken to the nursery stories of untamed wilderness and proletariat horror much faster than I did. I think she felt unsafe just stepping over the threshold of our front gate, to be frank. Even an untended garden at the home of one of Father’s work colleagues was enough to unsettle her, and if you had asked her in those years, it would have seemed to her that the Soviets and the destitute and a live polar bear (long extinct, of course) were all right outside of those gates at the end of our drive. That said, I was not so immune myself, and so we held onto the simplicity of childhood for as long as we could. Days of study were interchanged with etiquette training, feminine values, and play in the expansive grounds of our estate. We wrote endless lines — such as, “I love my Husband. He is so handsome and thoughtful. When I am a perfect Doll and he makes me his wife, I will say ‘I Do.’” — practicing our handwriting until it flowed perfectly. We were taught womanly crafts like fine embroidery, but not with the intention of mastery, of course there was no time for that, just pleasant recreation.

And truly, we wanted for nothing.

Yes, those early years were carefree and insulated, but we had always known there was a role for us to play, and Chas and I were getting antsy. At age thirteen, finally, we were given our training gloves, made of fine white leather, one for each of us. I still remember that day clearly. I was sooooo excited! That was the day we began our transition, ceasing to exist as children and starting our journey to be adults, well… women, well… Dolls.

Our Mother was led to the chesterfield across from us to watch. It wasn’t ceremonial per se, but it was still an important moment in every young Doll’s life. You wouldn’t believe it, but her pleasantly empty, blinking stare always kept us on our best behaviour, in a way that only our Nanny’s rarely-used yardstick came close to.

The gloves themselves were made out of the finest undyed, full-grain leather and they both looked and smelled wonderful. I let Nanny waft it under my nose first like a rose, breathing in the aroma of the finely-worked material deeply before I obediently placed my arms behind my back, clasping the two hands together and let her work this new, magical, big-girl item onto me. I locked eyes with my Mother for the whole time, staring, head held high in pride, smiling with my lips parted slightly, imagining I was her already!

That was the beginning. The introduction. The day when I began to have my independence taken away and my reliance on others increased. To some people that must sound like a nightmare, but to Chastity and I, brought up as we had been to embrace the Dollhood ideal from before we could even walk, it was like heaven. Real ladies were totally dependent because they could be. Poor ladies wished to be like that but did not have the option; the privilege, the responsibility to shed all responsibility. We did so because we were blessed, and also obligated to be an example for the rest of Britain.

Even so, when Nanny started to work the glove properly onto me, securing the strap that went across my collarbones and then beginning on the laces that ran the length of it, for a moment, a second or more, I did not feel quite so blessed. My smile faltered and inside, I panicked. It hurt! The strain on my arms and shoulders as the laces slowly but surely brought those two wings, formerly so free and mobile, together was unexpectedly severe. There began a dull ache in my shoulders, and within moments it grew. I yearned to cry out but I did not, I couldn’t let myself. This was what I had longed for! So I bit my lip and tried to put on a false face for our Nanny, for Mummy.

Nanny knew me too well, though. That and the fact that a solitary tear had escaped my left eye against my best efforts. “Now, now then,” she said softly, ceasing the lacing and stroking my hair. Then she got out her handkerchief and wiped that tear away. And in that simple gesture I finally understood, and my heart leapt with joy! She had wiped it away because I was unable to, just like Mummy! I was becoming a Doll, a real living Doll! I looked across at Chastity who was patiently waiting to be fitted after me, hands eagerly clasped behind her, and she smiled too, “You can do it, sis!”

Nanny did not lace me up any further. She declared that it was tight enough for my first day and moved on to fasten Chastity. When she had finished, we stood up and stared at one another, mirror images that we were, aside from our golden lockets. My sister looked so feminine and elegant in her pink satin skirt, her arms drawn behind her like that so, from the front at least, she appeared to be totally armless.

We quickly ran to sit beside Mother, leaning into her warmth. We were becoming closer and closer to her every day!

Later that day, both Chastity and I were feeling the glove’s effects, trying to help each other redistribute the pressure, but it was no use. As much as we tried to rub our backs together, neither of us could massage away the tight pain the monogloves caused us in our shoulders and arms.

“My darlings,” said Nanny after she had found us fiddling, “I know it hurts a little, but be strong; the pain will deaden with time and one day, when you both truly graduate as Dolls, that pain will be gone completely, as too will those infernal arms that caused it. Until then though, you must endure with femininity and grace, as all women in the Kingdom do.” With this, Nanny laid her hand against her corseted belly.

Knowing our sweet Nanny was right, we both smiled and curtseyed. I went to her to give her a hug but then stopped myself, realising that I could no longer perform that action of affection. It made me sad. Being helpless for some things was an honour and a privilege, but I still wanted to show love somehow.

We went downstairs to present ourselves to Pappa when he arrived home from work, but when the doors were opened, to our surprise, a huge party had assembled in secret in the gardens — friends and relatives, Ladies of Leisure, and many Living Dolls! Pappa gave a speech about the start of our journey and we danced and smiled and, when we wished to eat or drink, someone in Nanny’s staff always fed us. It was strange yet fun, disconcerting yet enjoyable.

And it was only the beginning.

Book 1 Chapter 3

Aug 9th, 2018

1201 words

We had been wearing our gloves for around a year and had celebrated our fourteenth birthdays in them when the next stage in our dollification came. By this time our behaviour had already altered considerably. Gone were the desires to do things for ourselves, the subconscious attempts to pick something up, or hold someone, before we would realise yet again that such acts were now impossible. Gone too was the pain. Our arms were totally numbed for most of the time these days; the only time they sprang into life was each evening when the glove was removed and our assistant maids massaged them thoroughly. As the nerves unpinched and the blood rushed back into them, so too did the pain, and it was far from pleasant. I recall, early on, balking at this one evening, tears in my eyes, and asking why it was necessary since we wouldn’t be using them anyway. After all, why wake them up when there was no work to be done?

“My dear,” Nanny had replied, “you are quite clever, which is nice in its own way, and truly it makes my teaching easier, but cleverness is not becoming in a young lady who aspires to become a perfect Doll like her Mummy. You should empty your mind of questions and thoughts like that; they are quite unfeminine.”

I remember feeling ashamed when she said this and I apologised quickly, but she merely smiled and hugged me, as my tingling arms rested at my sides, the instincts of reciprocation long forgotten.

“But,” she continued with a wink, “since you asked; I assure you, my dove, the massages are quite necessary, for although your arms are no longer needed and you won’t be using them, you must remember that they are still attached to your body, and still your burden as a young Doll-to-be. If they were left restrained all the time, then they could become infected and gangrene could set in which is very very dangerous.”

“Why not just clip my wings now then, so I can become more ladylike?” I asked, before realizing that this was yet another of those sort of questions that Dolls do not ask.

“Because of the law, my darling. Silly men in the government have decided that it is illegal to let little girls become Dollies before they are sixteen, and so amputations and the other wonderful modifications that you shall soon be blessed to receive are not allowed yet. They think that it is bad for the women themselves and so you must choose to become a Doll, which means that you must be a big girl and give your formal consent, or marry a husband who gives his. An early arrangement would have solved this, but last year they made the age of marriage sixteen as well. These are silly people, followers of stupid ideas like communism and socialism and liberalism and a whole host of other silly ‘isms’ that unfeminine people like.”

This revelation was a shock to me. Fourteen years old and never before had I even heard a hint that there were some people who not only didn’t want to be Dolls (or want their Ladies to be Dolls), but who would actively stop others from doing so, too! In my heart I hated them for keeping my future from me, and I made a silent promise to God to never take notice of any silly “isms”. I also prayed for my permanent transition to come with more haste so I wouldn’t be able to ask any more silly questions again and therein accidentally become unladylike before I realised it. My chances for a proper husband were soon to be on the line!

My dream came partly true that year. One day in Spring we were called into the drawing room where both Mother and Father were waiting for us. Mother sat silently, staring into the mid-distance with a lavender fleur-de-bouche blooming from her mouth, her enormous chest rocking with every breath, and her useless hands clasped in the waist of her flowing dress, but Father warmly greeted us, kissed our cheeks, and then announced proudly that, because we had both been such good girls and laced our armbinders fully with our elbows touching, he had decided to move the next stage in our dollification forward by a couple of months. We would have clapped in glee if still able or inclined, I tell you!

And there and then we were presented with a beautiful gag each. Of course, we were overwhelmed and gratefully kissed both him and Mother before he ceremonially fitted our new, big-girl items on our innocent faces.

We had worn practice gags before, of course: small, hard balls of white or pink rubber fastened with a strap that we wore with pride at social gatherings or when we were out for a stroll on the high streets in nearby Reading. But they did not really silence us and could, if we wanted, be pushed out partially with our tongues. These new gags were different affairs entirely, and I watched with excitement as Chastity was fitted with hers first. The glorious item consisted of a white leather panel edged in lace, with her name stitched into it in gold thread, which covered the entire lower part of her face, obliterating her pretty mouth and lips completely, and was fastened with two straps behind her head. Once in, a pump was attached to it and the bulb squeezed repeatedly, inflating the gag behind the panel until her cheeks bulged like a squirrel’s. After that the bulb was detached and she was left silenced and elegant. Testing it slightly, just a few utterances, a nursery rhyme too, and realizing just how little could be heard past the mass in her mouth, Chastity twirled on the spot, sending her dress blooming through the air, after which her eyes alone were full of beaming joy! Then came my turn.

As the gag was fitted I noticed indentations for my teeth which must have been from the casting taken at the dentist’s office the month before. The straps were tightened around my head and the leather panel fit quite comfortably below my nose, from ear to ear. At this stage the gag was no problem, but when the pumping began and it expanded inside my mouth, it felt quite strange indeed and also a little scary, particularly when my mouth became so full that I could make no sound at all and my eyes watered. But this discomfort was more than offset by the pride inside me: pride in the fact that I was becoming such a Lady and so dependent that I was now old enough to live without the use of not only my arms but also my mouth!

We bounced up and down in front of our parents in silent excitement before Father sat us down next to Mother and took our picture. I thought I felt her lean into me then, just a tad, but I couldn’t be sure, and indeed I couldn’t ask.

It made me glow all the same, and I returned the gesture, leaning gently into her rigid warmth…

Book 1 Chapter 4

Aug 9th, 2018

2028 words

Many Ladies of Leisure take breaks from their gags once safely in the company of other Ladies, and so I feel obliged to mention that the lot of them were lowly in our eyes; noncommittal. If you are going to entrust your body to the man in your life, which all English women must do by law now anyways, it must be fully wrested from your control! That is the only way to express your true devotion: so we were taught, and so it is.

So after that day, my gag stayed put nearly all of the time, pumped thoroughly so as to suppress noise and any movement of the tongue. Nanny told us that when we grew up and became educated Dolls-to-be, they would be replaced by elegant fleur-de-bouches, but since we were very much still in training, a gag was more appropriate as these could be locked shut and not spat out. And indeed, I must confess, during those first few weeks in particular, had I been wearing a fleur-de-bouche instead, I probably would have spat it out!

It was so frustrating you see, not being able to communicate with anyone. I couldn’t ask for anything, nor tell people things that I wanted them to know. At first, on countless occasions, I tried, the only result being an unfeminine groaning noise. Chastity adapted easily and I think she only groaned on two or three occasions after our fitting, always followed by apologetic eyes, but for me, who was always the more headstrong, I did it time after time before catching myself.

At first Nanny chastised me, but when the problem continued past the first week, she instituted a regime whereby every groan or whimper resulted in five paddles on my bottom that evening. After a week or two of a sore bum, it worked, and within a month even the thought of trying to speak left my head. That is how dollification works, I see it now; through repeated behaviours, routine, for better or for worse.

Unable to speak (save at mealtimes) and unable to use our hands, gradually our days changed. Running had never been encouraged, any young offenders finding themselves with their anklets linked by a short chain so as to keep each step tight, close, feminine. But now we would have been frightened to rush around, lest one of us took a spill with no hands to break the fall. We played less, talked and sang not at all, and instead began to just sit there, in whatever room we had been left in, unable to open any door, locked or not. Games of ‘Hide and Seek,’ ‘Blind Man’s Bluff,’ or even ‘Tea Time’ became far less frequent as we replaced them with ‘Doll in the Dollhouse’ or ‘Best Mummy.’ And with this change in focus, came more changes in lifestyle, or at least, in dress.

The first change came the very next day after we were first fitted with our gags. We awoke in the morning — still gagged, I may add — with our golden bracelets¹ clipped to the headboard, and after bathing and attending to our toilette, after our arms were laced into their glove but before we donned our day dresses, our maids fitted us with something most unexpected: a pair of padded, absorbent cotton nappies each. I longed to ask quite why we were to wear something that we hadn’t needed since we were toddlers, something babyish, not adult at all, but I could not and so I simply assented as I always did. However, later that day during our morning lesson, Nanny explained: since we could no longer speak nor open doors for ourselves, then it may be that if we needed the toilet, we could not attract the attentions of a maid or servant, and so the nappies were there to prevent accidents.

I should add here that regarding our toilet habits, at no point had we been expected to clean ourselves, or use the lavatories of men and servants. From the earliest days of childhood our maids had wiped and perfumed our bottoms after discharging waste, and rinsing enemas were routine, commonly followed by a scented pessary to keep even our most unrefined places tamed. Thus it was that there was no significant change here after we started to wear our armbinders. I’ve been told recently that this is not the norm beyond the upper classes.

It was only the very next day that I was forced to use my nappy, as the maids had failed to notice the desperation in my silent eyes as they led us to a visit with Mother in her Doll Room. Unlike before the gag, when we would have hinted our need to “refresh ourselves” like any proper lady would, I had no idea how to signal my needs save for an improper stomping fit right there in the hallway, which surely would have resulted in a harsh paddling or perhaps even the rarely-used cane. So I was left in the bright pink Doll Room with Mother and Chastity, silently emoting to the maid’s back as she closed the door behind her with a fateful click. I sat there for a while, but the pressure only kept building until I could no longer focus my eyes on the wall with the correct level of sultry indifference. I promptly stood up, and began to pace about as gracefully as I could in my well-trained glide to distract myself from what was now likely inevitable.

Mother was of course no help, as she stood silently on her doll stand, the phallic massager buzzing away, muffled under the layers of her dress, as her forceful breaths escaped from under the lovely pink lace choker about her neck, chest rising and falling as she trembled. The doll stand, which she was put on twice a day to save her from the endless sitting of her sedentary lifestyle, held her between the legs like a penetrating saddle, much like a Doll’s special toilette.

At that age we didn’t really understand what was happening to her, save for that it was “normal maintenance; terribly necessary for Mummy’s well-being,” as Father had put it. Please remember that, while of course we didn’t understand, witnessing stimulation such as this was quite normalised for us, as even though we were not always present, Mother had upheld this standing appointment twice-daily for our entire lives, and continues to do so today, whilst visiting Ladies often had alarms, reminders, or messages from their husbands set to little buzzes barely heard beneath their dresses. Titillation was as much part of the decadent life of Leisure as music or refreshments.

And so I looked to Mummy’s pouting face, blank as always, the only expression I had ever seen, blinking away automatically even as it took on a rosy glow from her exertion. Her eyes did not focus on me, they never had, but I knew she could still see me. So I silently asked from behind my embroidered golden ‘Hope’ for her to somehow tell me how she managed all day, every day. It was like a prayer to God asking for strength, as the chances of a reply from our idol was as good as one from on high.

And there and then I filled my nappy.

The second change came only weeks later, when Nanny stepped into our playroom only to find us far from Best Mummy like we had been assigned to play, but something else, something long-forbidden.

I can just picture how we must have looked; splayed out on the carpet with our shoes and socks pulled off, dresses bunched up around our hips trying to play Patty Cake silently with our bare feet one day. Chas had of course been mortified when I suggested it, kicking her and gesturing with my eyes in our secret language, but we were sisters and best friends so she would never have tattled on me, and besides; I could tell that even Chastity was getting bored with Best Mummy. It did not take much skill to stare at a point on the wall and keep as still as possible, and my unladylike impatience made her the easy winner every time. But using our feet was strictly taboo, and we knew this. Bare feet were only to be seen at bedtime, and we had always been told: “A pen outside of the right hand only ever wrote what the devil was thinking.” Even as big-girls, with right and left hands numb in their restraints, we dared not stoop that low.

But her boredom and my curiosity met halfway, and so we kicked off our shoes and plopped ourselves down on the playroom carpet like kids again, helping each other remove our socks with our toes. Using our bound arms as support behind us we raised our legs, silently giggling as we tried to ‘clap’ our feet in the old rhythms, myself even going so far as to moan the nursery rhyme behind my gag to keep us in step, though it overrode my newly-ingrained instincts with difficulty. But, if we were going to go through with this, we had to do it right.

And that’s when the door opened.

When Nanny found us committing our shameful act, we received twenty paddles each with our nappies pulled down, plus ten more for me when I moaned at her. I had merely been trying tearfully to tell Nanny it was all my fault, to spare Chastity, but she cared not and I learned a valuable lesson about Dollhood. Oh, I can feel the soreness of my behind like it was yesterday. Afterwards, we never wore slippers and socklets that we could kick off again. Instead we were always clothed in light sheer stockings or thick thigh-high socks (depending on the weather) which were securely clipped to new garter belts over our nappies. This covering was accompanied by new shoes with both a lockable buckle and a significant heel.

This brought our days of skipping about, and the essence of our childhood, to a close. The tight heels, whilst much much lower than the steep shoes that Mother wore, kept our once-confident steps trepidatious and mincing for months. What’s more, it seemed that whenever we grew comfortable in our new footwear, we would be greeted the next morning with slightly higher heels, increasing ever so slightly, keeping us on our toes, so-to-speak. Of course, Chastity and I had always begged to wear “heels like Mummy” when we were younger, so we were only appreciative and proud once the punishment was long forgotten.

And in the end, Chas and I got what we had really wanted in the first place. After our charade nearly flew under the radar, we were rarely left alone to play Best Mummy anymore. Oh no, now we spent much more time with Nanny and our maids, keeping us far more active either in the gardens, or the drawing room, and we were even taken with Mother to the township for her visits to Layton’s² along with all the other Ladies and Dolls of the area, though we weren’t old enough for anything but the nail and hair salon and those refreshing, tinctured enemas and pessaries. But just becoming more active, in our own way, left us quite content with our lives.

And of course we never tried to use our feet again.

For those who are unaware, these bracelets are pretty golden rings that clip on tightly, blocking any signals from the wearer to their hands, and some still allow feeling back, though ours didn’t. I’m afraid I never asked how they worked, it’s not important for a young Lady to know such things. I’m sorry to not be more of a help. ↩
You can learn more about the experience at Laydon’s in Allison Becomes a Lady of Leisure. It is a longstanding establishment well worth a visit! ↩

Book 1 Chapter 5

Aug 9th, 2018

1874 words

Our fifteenth year was quiet, and we had less and less influence to change it too, as our Nanny had us focused on gait training, etiquette, and other preparations for our departure to St. Werburgh’s Finishing School for Young Ladies. At that fine establishment we would be given the education and training our resident nanny and governess could not, for she was not a Doll herself. Like all new Dolls, Chas and I had always been expected to spend the last of our formative years at the West London boarding school, as the educators there would refine us into a shining example of pure womanly values — and teach us some things that were not so pure, but necessary for our future roles — so we were very eager indeed!

Our preparations for that departure started one cold January day during reading time. I was perched on the edge of a lounger next to my own personal automaid, a Christmas gift from Pappa who had let our common maids go the day before. Oh you wouldn’t believe those early generations, they had such class! She was the newest model, he had boasted proudly to us, and her handmade porcelain mask had rouged cheeks and a lovely carved relief of a woman with her eyes closed, a gentle smile upon her face. She was wonderful! And, as a cherry on top, her forehead had been inscribed ornately in my old handwriting with a monogram ‘H’ just like on my locket, and my gag, to alert all that she was mine, all mine! Of course Chastity’s was adorned similarly with a golden ‘C,’ hers a tad more graceful without any compound curves to deal with. Listen to me still jealous of her calligraphy, posh!

Oh, you should have seen how quickly we stepped toward Pappa on that Christmas morning, even on our clicking, unsteady heels, crying silently in joy and gratitude as his burly arms hugged us tightly, exactly what we had wanted to do in return.

Ah yes, preparations.

As I was saying, about a month later I was seated next to my new maid in the drawing room, who had been instructed by Nanny to run a five-star massage program on my shoulders and neck and then my feet as I read a pre-selected book. This was of course a luxury we had not been afforded before, only able to watch quietly as our Mother was lavished tirelessly by her own automaid all day. Keep in mind, like in Emily’s tales, they were still quite new then, and expensive even for Father, but the Society had deemed them a necessity for all Dolls just a few years before and in the long run they were far cheaper than a real maid.

Trying my best to be still and quiet under the heavenly touch of my servant’s vibrating plastic fingers, I tapped my heel against the floor to request for her to turn the page. The book, A Concise History for Dolls, was written a tad simply for my tastes, but I knew Chastity had a hard time keeping up. Had she been a boy, where complete comprehension was a requirement for acceptance into a proper college, I’m sure she would’ve been raising her hand to ask questions, but instead she simply squinted at a word she did not understand, as her automaid soon flipped the page without her cue to keep her moving along. Chas looked over and signalled to me in our secret language of nods and gazes that she would rather just hear it from the telly, and I couldn’t help but agree politely, even though I felt quite the opposite. I wanted to ask a million questions and read another book about this page alone.

Nanny called for us, and in perfect unison our automaids closed our books, put them back on the shelf and returned to help us rise gracefully onto our heels, so we could be led in silence up the stairs and to our bed and dressing rooms.

When we got there I gave a sharp intake of breath and glanced across at Chas. For there, lying on our beds in extravagant boxes were two special garments that we had both looked forward to wearing for so long: our first stays!! This was it, this was what years of weighing and meal planning and measuring had all been for.

In moments we were eagerly shuffling into position by the bed so the automaids could fit those beautiful garments around our young and yet-unformed, budding bodies. I remember feeling like such an adult when Nanny did up the busk clasps, thinking, “This is what real Ladies and Dolls must wear.” Gone was the simple padded trainers of my underdress, I was a child no longer!

But with maturity comes responsibility: the responsibility to maintain our figures. This subject Nanny explained as we were slowly laced up, how to many potential owners our worth would be directly related to our hip to waist ratio. At first it felt good, like a hugging embrace, warm and welcoming, stirring my unformed fantasies of being embraced by a handsome boy. But then I began to worry; I was struggling to catch my breath as the laces slowly forced the metal-ribbed stays inward, the dreamy embrace becoming relentless. I started to panic, my eyes darting around frantically as I panted, hyperventilating through my nose.

“Come now, child! Breathe from your upper body only!” Nanny instructed. But what does that mean and how does one do it? I know now of course; the tiny intake of breath that I enjoy today is always gained that way, but back then I was still young and inexperienced.

And still the laces closed further, inwards and inwards, strangling the life out of me.¹ I heard cracks and creaks and wondered if they were my bones being broken, wondered if this was not my transfiguration under duress. They weren’t broken of course; instead only the sounds of the corset itself adjusting, but I was scared and my breath was coming in ragged gasps. Eventually Nanny ordered the laces be tied off and I was allowed to recover a little. But how could I, for now I realised how rigid real stays forced me to be. I tottered around the room on my heels, rocking from side to side, trying to adjust. It was hard. Yes, perhaps that was the first moment when I truly began to realise that life as a living Doll was going to be very hard indeed. Much harder than I had previously imagined. Much harder than all my lessons had ever indicated.

It was in the months that followed that first fitting of a corset that I started to have doubts and unease. They were slight, nothing major, but they were there. Before, all had been clear, proper, and perfect: I was born to be a Doll and to be a Doll was the very best thing that a young Lady could aspire to, for the only truly happy Lady is a Doll.

Just as we had written in lessons dozens of times, it was simple! Other Ladies may glimpse happiness from time to time, but a Doll lives it each and every day. She sits there, rigid and beautiful, the very vision of perfection for her owner until he wishes to enjoy her as is his wont to do, and it is truly marvellous. She loves it, she is never bored, and she is never uncomfortable.

She simply is.

But after that corset was fitted, along with all the other restraints once again, all was not perfect. Try to imagine it if you can, and I understand that you most probably cannot, but please, try anyway: Only a few years before this I had been a child, a young girl, living much as you did most probably when you were that age. I played games, ran around and lived in a wonderful world of make-believe. But then I had the use of my arms taken away from me and after that my voice. Actually, ‘taken’ is the wrong word: I eagerly gave them away. And scarcely had I come to terms with that when my feet were trained to perch unsteadily on heels, which meant that free movement came to an end and the best I could ever do was an unsteady mince — far harder without one’s arms to steady oneself, I can tell you!

This was all well and fine, to be honest. An adjustment I was prepared and eager for, certainly, but not a test of my resolve like what I tell you now. Before, there had been respite from the discomfort in my feet upon sitting, relief in my mouth when eating, relief in my arms when they were unbound and clipped to the headboard at night. But now there was no escape from this, for every breath was an effort, the slightest movement an exertion, a constant pressure around the middle that caused one to sit ramrod straight at all times.

Nanny would say, “with dignity.”

Easy chairs were out of the question, only standing fully relieved the pain, yet that caused similar discomfort to the feet after little time. My days were now sedentary, a constant internalised battle to achieve an impossible modicum of comfort. My nights were now restless, the evening stays only a hair more forgiving than those worn during the day. The books for young Dolls-to-be had never trained for this. They had surely warned it was taxing, but that description had been oft followed by others, such as ‘royally elegant,’ ‘absolutely essential’ or ‘reminiscent of a man’s embrace.’

Yet even at this stage, I thought the problem was me. I should not have been looking for escape from the most joyous experience a young woman could have! Certainly, Chas had adapted well and did not shift so much as I did, and I could tell by her small gestures that she was happy in a way that I was not. But I knew the cause, I knew it well, my shame: I was simply not as feminine, as assenting, as submissive as her; as any virtuous woman should be. The path that we were following was the correct one, but it was I who was falling short. In other words, I needed some more training, a proper education.

Which was all well and good, for that April we were both enrolled at St. Werburgh’s School for Girls, the principal academy for producing Dolls in England.

Looking back now with the experience of years, I understand just how light and loosely-laced that first corset was. Since that day I have been perpetually corseted in some way, save for the bath, and the corsets that I wear - have to wear in fact, for any abdominal muscles that I once had have now atrophied somewhat - are long and extremely tight. Since I was sixteen years old, my waist has not exceeded that many inches, with fifteen being more common, and fourteen on special occasions. ↩

Book 1 Chapter 6

Aug 9th, 2018

1597 words

April 2048

I recall the day that Chastity and I left for school most vividly, and not for the reasons you would expect. Yes, our final day at home was terribly exciting; with friends and family all visiting, wishing us the best on our journey toward Dollhood. So many people came that the front doors were practically left open! Of course, with us being domestic hostesses in training and the centre of attention today, Chastity and I stood in our heels all morning, silent behind our monogrammed namegags to ease the confusion of our likenesses, nodding along to courteously uncomplicated questions. Nanny had us on our absolute best behaviour, curtseying for each guest that visited, even as our feet grew tired and our chests grew warm. It did not matter: we were silent and overjoyed in the celebratory air, breathing it all in with our short gasps, for soon we would be gone.

The men were raucous; uncles, neighbours, and coworkers patting Father on the back and shaking his hand on a job well done, a select few even taking us aside to assess our stock for a potential marriage before the heat of next year’s Society Season! Oh, he was so proud! Pappa insisted on a visual assessment only, but the large hands of our potential fathers-in-law and even a couple Society Scouts still ended up on our newly-sensitive areas. The women, whether they were Ladies or Dolls, were all silent and demure of course, but I noticed expressions of warmth and respect from the Ladies who could give it, and that warmed me significantly, reaffirming my inner desire to live up to theirs and my family’s expectations.

One Lord Chittenham, whom we had not previously met, arrived in a sports-carriage and greeted Pappa quite warmly, unexpectedly so, but Chastity and I almost forgot to curtsey upon the sight of his Doll. As Chittenham raved on to us girls about our father’s previously unheard-of excellence on the college rugby pitch (a complex game that mystifies me), my wide eyes could not stray from her chocolate skin¹. But her complexion itself was truly not what held my gaze wide in shock, it was how much of it we could see! His Doll, who we later heard him call Belle, would have been arrested for indecent exposure if she had been left on her own in public².

She was clad in not the densely woven and layered fineries of most contemporary ladies but instead in merely a shawl of delicate white lace, which hung over her fashionably empty shoulders and shone brilliantly in contrast to her African complexion, and left nothing to the imagination. Her severe corset covered her midsection but had quite mis-sized cups, or so we thought with naivete at the time, as they left her gigantic breasts exposed as if on a shelf for their display, valentine heart-shaped areola and all.

Belle’s nether regions were on similar display, but we dared not look too closely. Such interest from another woman was deviously improper, nevermind the impropriety of such tempting display in the first place! Belle’s bare legs led down to vertical ballet heels, continuously stepping as she balanced precariously on her toes, even as her face showed not a hint of the exertion she must have been under, a thick-lipped smile frozen on her plasti-skin face. Her eyes too were more joyous than most Dolls, perhaps frozen in that design to juxtapose the internal shame she must have felt at being left effectively nude at such a formal occasion.

We noticed Mummy shake at the sight and click her heel but no one heeded her save for Pappa’s “Hush now, darling.” I don’t believe she approved, looking back, but to which part I have no idea, probably all of it, ethnicity included. Chastity and I were far too shocked to opine, but even our sheltered minds knew that this was not the promised future we had been looking forward to. Father had told us stories of men such as this, and how important it was to pick a proper husband for Dolls, as defenceless as we are, but those cautious stories were mostly for the purpose of our understanding of his responsibilities, not ours, as we knew we would be quite incapacitated by the time talk of betrothal was a serious concern; and what a silly thought, a woman picking her own husband!

Pappa looked Belle up and down, eyes settling on the leash in her husband’s hand, and remarked to Lord Chittenham, “The years haven’t tamed you one bit, old boy, have they?”

I could see the landed man chuckle wryly. Though both were in their mid-forties, he was actually surprisingly handsome, and far fitter than Pappa. “Alan!! I’m hoping they haven’t tamed you, old friend. I have a proposition for you and your Lady now that your roost is emptying— Oh! My apologies, girls, grown-up affairs.”

I remember Pappa looking uncomfortably curious, gesturing the man and his exotic wife to his personal study so they could talk privately. Chastity and I had only a moment to look at each other nervously before more visitors arrived to join the others all lunching in the garden out back.

Pappa and Chittenham emerged nearly half an hour later rip-roaring in laughter, Pappa adjusting his belt as if just relieving himself in the washroom as men do on their own, Chittenham’s Doll strutting precariously behind, and I noticed Mummy beside me shift from foot to foot, she didn’t seem to like Lord Chittenham at all. All I heard before our departure was mention of a couples vacation to one of Chittenham’s estates under the Mediterranean sun.

Our mother’s unrefined behaviour following that news was shocking to the both of us — she almost kicked Pappa a couple times with her heel for his attention — especially since in all of our years we had never seen her misstep from perfect Doll mentality save for during a few slight injuries and ailments. But we could not have asked her for her opinion if we tried, and truly she should not have been trying to give it. It was not our place as Dolls! Besides, who doesn’t want a vacation? After Pappa became impatient, a short spanking there in the hall set her straight, for a while at least.

The rest of the morning was mostly uneventful, with continued pleasantries as guests joined and departed. This said, there was still a sizeable gathering present when it was time for us to depart, and so around noon we silently watched the automaids haul out our brand new travelling trunks to the waiting autocarriage in the driveway and Pappa unlaced the silk-ribbon bow around Mummy’s dainty arms which usually held them in front of her so politely. Holding her limp hands, Pappa ushered us between the two of them and we had a big family hug as a photographer snapped our picture.

This is when the trouble started.

Just when we thought her inelegant tendencies were behind us, Mummy suddenly tottered forward unaided and unbidden and stood between us and the door of the autocar, her untied arms swinging crudely by her sides. We looked at one another, at her and at Pappa, silently asking the question: what on earth had gotten into her? We could see her breath quickening but her face of course showed no hint as to her motives, and she was as silent as ever. At the time, Pappa simply laughed and jokingly said, “Oh darling, you don’t want to see your two baby dolls leave, now do you? Well neither do I, but if you love them as I know you do, please don’t embarrass them so! Not here in front of everyone.”

Mummy’s stance softened as she twisted to align her frozen gaze with the party of guests, watching with curiosity and fright from the grand entrance, and Pappa took that moment of indecisiveness to grasp her by the shoulders and direct her strongly until she was in the hands of her automaid, now left to struggle against the iron grip around her corseted midsection. And struggle she did even as weak as she was, but once Mummy had been moved to one side, Pappa motioned us, Nanny, and our automaids into the running autocar, our school’s address already pre-set in the dashboard.

At the time, I thought Mummy’s last stand had something to do with her silent displeasure earlier in the day, but looking back retrospectively, I do wonder if it was in fact an act of rebellion, an attempt to show us that she knew what our fate was to be and she wished to prevent it. Perhaps so, or perhaps not; I have often wondered.

What I do know, and Chastity did not see this for she was seated forward in the driverless carriage, but as I looked back on the waving mass of our small Society, I saw Pappa’s genial smile falter when he turned back to our silent Doll mother, still stamping her heel in the perfectly-tended white gravel, and their relationship was never the same.

Quite a rarity in these circles even as I write this, many years later. ↩
Though if she were treated so irresponsibly as to be left unattended, he would have much larger problems from the Society. I assure you we are protected in grace. ↩

Book 1 Chapter 7

Aug 9th, 2018

1832 words

The ride wasn’t too long — just under two hours to get from our home near Reading to St. Werburgh’s in Chiswick in the women’s lane of the M4 — but the time ticked away. Nanny was quiet, peering out the window at the autocars in the standard lanes zipping by, our automaids were charging from the fuel cells, and Chastity and I were taking a much-needed rest (or as much rest as our elaborate travelling wear allowed).

I looked over at Chastity who had her eyes closed, but I could tell she wasn’t asleep. Her head was proudly upright like mine and her panel gag was moving slightly, no doubt suckling on the inflated bulb which silenced her. Chastity liked to practise kissing boys, which was rather silly: real Dolls don’t kiss back, we are designed to receive passion and embody it, induce it in others, not give it actively. Chas knew that, everybody knows that, but I left her to her fantasies of the future. No doubt the talk of potential marriages earlier in the day had her head abuzz like it did mine but — and I say this as a sincere compliment — Chastity was always more easily entertained. For this I have always been jealous: simpleness is a virtue for a Doll.

For example, though we were both brought up to appreciate the fineries we wear, Chastity really loved fashion, whilst I only cared enough to keep up appearances (not that either of us had any choice in the matter anymore). But knowing her, Chastity probably loathed our new school outfits: they were far too plain for her tastes. I’ll describe the costume, you may agree.

Her sandy golden hair ran down over one shoulder in gentle ringlet curls, the only colour on a black and white dress suitable for an underage Lady-to-be that covered not only her chest and lower neck entirely but also her monoglove in the back in a single large sleeve. The dress came to six inches above her ankles, which like mine had been further elevated to the school’s minimum heel height of five inches only two weeks prior. Over top of all sat a dark grey travelling coat, a sleeveless cover of firm, warm, felt padding that sat on our shoulders and zipped down the back. These always made me feel like fine furniture being moved, which was such a lovely, endearing thought! Not so lovely was the discomfort of reclining into the seat with our arms bound behind us, a rare but familiar predicament from our day-trips to Reading. How did Ladies of Leisure live like this for their whole lives? It was a true shame the Dollmakers couldn’t just take these useless appendages already!

My gaze settled on the autocars for a while, then on Nanny. We would not be seeing her for quite some time, as only mechanical help, Dolls, and Dolls-to-be were allowed inside St. Werburgh’s doors, save for during celebrations, graduation, and the like. Her simple grey coat covered the simple maid’s uniform she always wore, and though I had grown used to the woman’s firm but caring guidance my whole life, I only now realised how much I was going to miss her, and the home I had grown up in, and my youth, which was about to come to an end. I began to tear up, looking at her, and wanted so badly to tell her how I felt, thank her for the years of being a common mother to Chastity and me, but tongue depressed as it was by the inflated gag, I never got the chance. Nanny’s attention was occupied with reading her tablet when I saw her brow furrow sharply, “Oh dear.”

Only a few minutes later we were off the motorway, onto the high street, and turning at the grand, gated archway leading into the courtyard of St. Werburgh’s Finishing School. And Nanny was quietly panicking. She had tried to reset the destination to go back to the Hodgkinson Estate but it was no use, it was controlled by Pappa’s hands only, as the law stated the autocarriage must be. It seems we were missing a part of the required outfit, but I of course could not ask which.

Even as Nanny fumbled about, activating the automaids on the back of their necks, Chastity and I were looking around at the courtyard of our new home wide-eyed, until she curtly commanded, “Heads up, eyes forward, girls. Hope, I’m quite serious. Unfocused and inviting, like we practised. As far as I’m concerned, from here on out you two are Dolls, and so you must behave like such. This school is not known for its leniency, any misbehaving will be heard by me and your Pappa. Understand?”

We did not signal our understanding in any way, save for a gentle tapping of our heel on the carriage floor.

“Excellent, my doves. I’m going to miss you both so very much.” I stifled another tear as she stepped out of the large door, followed by each of us, unsteady on our heels but supported by a strong hand from our automaids.

Upon rising, we saw a Doll and her help by the main doorway step toward us. She had quite an imposing figure for a Doll, not rail-thin like most, but at my mother’s age (or perhaps older, it’s so hard to tell with the plasti-skin), she must have grown up just before maternal vitamins coaxed the genetic tendency toward undue weight gain out of us born to be Dolls and Ladies. This stated, her breasts looked far more natural because of these curves, even though they were probably double to triple what they would have been if she were an unmodified commonwoman, and her extreme waist training was impressively severe for such a physique. She wore a more elegant version of our student’s uniform, blue slate grey with white lace, with no sleeves of course, and she wore no neck rose or fleur-de-bouche. Instead her neck featured a very utilitarian silver ring keeping her breathing hole open, and her thick-lipped O-mouth was filled with a strange ball with a perforated texture quite like on the telly’s hi-fi back home. And from it came:

“Good day, Hodgkinsons!”

If our mouths hadn’t been inflated full already I’m sure our jaws would’ve dropped. A Doll, speaking! We both looked at the oddity, wide-eyed. Of course her face remained pleasantly frozen as she noticed our glances, “Ah ah! Perfect Doll form, please. You do not want to start off on more of a wrong foot than you already have, young ones.”

We didn’t need to be told twice, and Nanny spoke for us. “I’m terribly sorry, Dame Henderson, it was an oversight on my part. I will return swiftly with Chastity and Hope’s neck corsets once current ones can be made.”

“You mean to tell me that these girls don’t even own ONE of such an essential item for their training? This is entirely unacceptable! It seems the Headmaster and I were wrong about admitting Chastity and Hope at all, if their family presents them in such poor standing. We expect the girls we admit from proper Society families to be a step above the rest, that is why they do not enroll for the full three years like the others! How do you think young Hope and Chastity here would fare at the Society Season two years past their prime?”

Nanny was more flustered than I had ever seen her before, “No no, oh dear, I apologise sincerely, my Lady, my Dame. They grow up so fast! We ran into some… The mistake was not their parents’ but mine.”

The buxom Doll’s heels clicked on the granite and marble paving stones as she toed gracefully to stand in front of me. No longer in the edges of my peripheral vision, I realised that this woman had an entirely unpredictable form of agency, for even though her voicebox was quite emotive and commanding, her face remained as blank as my mother’s, albeit with a more modern plasti-skin, with less of a sheen. The closest I can describe it to is a soft silicone, coloured to match fair English skin. It was the oddest feeling, that as surely as I knew her eyes were locked in a mid-distance lazy stare like mine were voluntarily, I could almost feel her peripheral gaze piercing me, inspecting me, assessing my worth as my father’s — and one day, my husband’s — property.

Nanny continued making excuses, “I assure you they have been trained…” but Dame Henderson just stamped her heel on the ground, breasts and bouffant bun jostling away, sharp puffs escaping the silver ring in her neck due to the exertion. “Ah ah! No more from you, governess. These lovely twins will not suffer for your sake.”

A sigh of relief escaped from all three of us.

“Or shall I say they will suffer no more than necessary, no more than to make it very clear that such unrefined presentation will not be tolerated within these walls. Maid, get the training collars.”

Returning from inside moments later, the Dame’s automaid presented ours with two hideously unfashionable leather posture collars, who then fastened them to our necks, making any movement quite impossible. This was not the first time we had worn such a device by any means, but the first we had been shamed with such a thing. Usually a neck corset was a piece of finery like any other, thin and rigid, it’s restrictive nature merely part of the fashion, to be worn with pride, but these crude elements left no mystery to their sole purpose, much like a dog’s collar.

Finally, Dame’s maid connected the ostentatious leash ring on the front of mine onto Chastity’s, with just enough slack that we could stand shoulder to shoulder.

“They will remain like this until you return with the appropriate apparel, so you should proceed with haste. Hodgkinsons, with me.” she stated simply before turning around and strutting smoothly inside the elaborate institution. Our maids bade her will as they were pre-assigned to, ushering us along, and with the rough collar choking me I could not even look back upon Nanny for the last time as we followed our new teacher past the threshold.

We later learned that Nanny was promptly fired upon returning to the Hodgkinson Estate, even after all those years, and over the next several months our home’s entire staff was replaced one by one with mechanical help: automaids, cooks, labourers to keep up with the times¹. We received our new neck corsets three days later in the Express Post at Pappa’s great expense.

Please refer to AutoServe’s forthcoming informational books on converting an estate staff over to an automated system, it’s really quite an interesting process. ↩

Book 1 Chapter 8

Aug 9th, 2018

2540 words

Sir Henry Wainwright’s voice echoed in the Great Hall, addressing our year:

“You girls… you Dolls-to-be… YOU are the future of our great Society. Yes you are! And I’m happy to say that this year’s class is even larger than the last, and 50% larger than a decade ago. Our virtues are contagious, and like the Leisure Boom of the 2010s, I see in you lot a fine future for us and our ideals.

Pray you, just look at our Prime Minister’s wife! A fine Lady, and the first to know nothing else but Leisure since her youngest years. And let us not forget the Queen herself, the leader of that Boom’s avant garde. You young ladies here do not know the days of my youth, when there was finally a complete acceptance of refinement, of Leisure, but still we Dollers faced the ostracization of our people! To become a Lady was controversial, but to become a Doll was taboo. Alas, leisurely ideals have swept our nation’s highest ranks, and what are we but those ideals’ most devout practitioners? His Majesty’s parliament has recognised this and even given myself and Miss Henderson their top honours for investing in the future of our glorious Kingdom. And by the looks of this here class of 2049, our future looks very, very promising, indeed.”

“Do not tell anyone,” the lionlike Headmaster chuckled to himself, his cheery eyes sweeping over the two-hundred-fifty-some girls in front of him, each gagged in some way, “but when I was receiving my knighthood, I caught a whisper, a rumour in the crowd. It seems the young Princess Elizabeth is considering becoming not just a Lady of Leisure, as expected of her, but the very first Royal Doll!”

A great rustling rolled through the lecture hall, the old church pews creaking at the prospect! Chastity and I glanced at each other for a moment but the collars and link reminded us not to break form, so we resisted the urge to react to the glorious news. A Royal Doll?! How wonderful! Such a conversion would grant us all a certain level of prestige, and encourage many to join. Perhaps a Doll Queen could be in the Kingdom’s future, even though Her Royal Highness was third in line behind her brothers. These were grand tidings indeed, and surely my classmates’ thoughts were as aflutter as mine, but the commotion was brought to an end by a loud stomp on the podium stage from the Dame, standing off from the Headmaster with the other Doll Teachers.

“Thank you, Lilyana.”

“Sir.” she curtseyed.

The headmaster paused, as if inspecting each and every one of us before another utterance. “I understand you girls, oh yes, more than many of you may think a man could. But after decades extolling the virtues of Dollhood to young Ladies such as yourself, I have become acquainted with the female condition quite closely.”

I felt his eyes on me, perhaps drawn by the crude linkage between Chastity and I, but I dared not adjust my gaze to check.

“‘The woman Eve is weak, but holy in her weakness and must be saved from herself. She must not partake in the fruit unless it is fed unto her.’ So says the good book of our Church, and I am not one to disagree with the Lord. Your mind and ethic will be improved whilst you are here, so your bodies can be later remade into arks of weakness, a healthy respite for the strong men that decide to include you in their important lives. It will be a sacrifice, but you girls have been chosen by circumstance to follow this path, and just look at Dame Henderson, honoured just as I have been by the King himself. Yes indeed, there is grace, honour, and distinction in this life, the life of a Doll.”

With that, Sir Wainwright bid us God’s graces and stepped down from the podium, opening the floor for our Head Teacher, who began our education immediately. Dame Henderson stood behind the lectern, but she did not fiddle with notes like the Headmaster, no— this speech must have been from memory, for she had no other option, staring into nothingness above the assembly.

“Thank you, Sir. For the new girls in the crowd who are not aware, this is a sacred place, a Dolls-only establishment, the only one in the whole United Kingdom I may add, and so Sir Wainwright is the only man permitted within these walls, but he keeps to his blessed role captaining our ship. If each of you behave, you may not even hear from him until your graduation.”

The old gentleman nodded assuredly, slightly quelling our apprehension about his style of discipline, but I hoped not to make any more waves than this afternoon. How hard could that be? Dame Henderson continued:

“Now, even forgoing the building’s long religious history as a nun’s abbey, St. Werburgh’s is an ancient institution. The school as it is today was established in the Victorian Era as an elite finishing school for young ladies, and then in the Latter Elizabethan Era when dolling as a practice first appeared, our curriculum switched emphasis to the new direction.

“Back then of course, Dolls were very different to what I was created to be, or what you lovely girls will become. The technology we have today just wasn’t there, and I must admit that I feel deeply for those poor girls who desired perfection just as much as we do now, but could not attain it. Skin treatments were unheard of, as too were ‘wing clippings’, airway improvements, and the like. And as for the proper doll functions we will automate for you, so you mustn’t worry yourselves ever again about the likes of speaking or eating or taking care of your husband and owner, oh I assure you, a mere pipe dream! Far too many legal and scientific barriers stood in the way.

“Instead those first Dolls, those pioneers, were transformed utilising a far different approach: they were covered in all-encompassing latex suits, coloured like flesh and sealing them off from the world so that they appeared so completely fake that one may have thought these women had been constructed out of rubber in the first place. The only openings in these suits were at the mouth, nostrils (for they still breathed like commonwomen, not like myself), and finally for those most-intimate entryways down below. Even the eyes were obscured behind special lenses which maintained the same vacant expression I hold today without such fakery.

“However for some models (all at St. Werburgh’s in fact), even these holes were sealed off and instead, a complex waste recycling system was devised wherein the liquids from one’s front hole had to be routed into one’s bottom and then up to one’s mouth so that it may travel through the body again. Yes, your history books may have glazed over that. Dressed in such a way, the Dolls subsisted for a week before being taken out of their suits, cleaned and changed and then resealed. And therein lies the deficiency of the old latex approach: it can only ever be temporary, and even though the Dollgirls were usually unconscious as their suits were changed, everyone knows this lack of permanency is what stops a pure Doll mind from being fully cultivated.

“Surely, I hope this is a review to you girls who have joined us today, but please, take a moment, imagine your classmates who do not come from a good family such as yours, a Society family, your classmates who were only introduced to our way of life two years ago, but who have spent two more years than yourself at this institution. For them, the life of a 20th century Doll was quite real, I assure you, for that life was their initiation into our lovely Society!”

I nearly gasped. Oh how awful! Just imagining being encased in that boiling costume, sucking my own waters out of my bottom like an archaic doll-woman aspirant, it was enough to make me thank God Himself at that very moment!

“Yes, for six whole months your classmates lived that way, to be taught the lessons your parents and guardians taught you over many years, to be taught your place in our Society, in our Kingdom, in the World! So I want none of you Society girls to imagine yourselves more legitimate in your devotion than your peers. I myself was born in an orphanage and then adopted and raised by the Headmaster, all of us Teachers were. So when you graduate proudly from St. Werburgh’s, know that regardless of your upbringing, or your treatment, you girls are all equal, worthy, proper, you are all Dolls.”

We dared not try to look around at our classmates, not until we were led out of the Great Hall in double-file, students and their maids, toward what we found to be the upper-years’ Dining Hall, and an awaiting meal perfectly proportioned for our constricted waists and reduced appetites. Here, one of the Teachers allowed us to make small-talk whilst our gags were removed for feeding, a luxury we thought was far behind us. And so I met a few of my classmates in-between spoonfuls from my automaid.

I exchanged pleasantries with one Vanessa Firdale directly across the table from me once her gag was out, the most natural option due to our bound necks and corsets. Actually, she was alarmingly short of breath, and when I asked her why, I barely got an audible answer out of her.

“We… huh… myself and the others… huh… the other girls in our class… just arrived at our proper waist size… huh… it is… quite severe.”

I smiled warmly. “Oh, but you all look positively radiant! I assure you, it will become quite manageable,” I lied. With every movement and breath I felt held in place, resisted against. Like a rigid board I was forced to stay completely erect from my hips to my head. I felt the lower edge of the corset dig into me when I sat improperly. I felt the bust hug my slight chest so tight the meagre curves were almost remarkable, if sore. But I wasn’t supposed to think that. “I truly would’ve never known, you all hold yourself quite well!”

“Yes… I’m sure we do,” Vanessa smiled back, but I could tell that my response did not satisfy her. I pressed on after a spoonful of soup, for I was nervous. Chas and I weren’t used to talking to other girls our age, or talking at all, and I didn’t want to make a poor first impression. “Truly, I was surprised to hear that most of the class has been here for so long. You are all so lucky!”

I noticed Vanessa look off to the Teacher down the long table as she was fed another bite by her maid, the same model as mine save for the faceplate, hers was blank and worn, a school-provided model no doubt. But my new acquaintance didn’t respond, focusing on her meal, and her breath. I took no offense, I knew how hard it could be with new stays. I noticed her roll her shoulders, as if to flex her bound arms. Of course all Dolls-to-be know that doing so only makes them hurt again later, the only real solution is to simply let them go numb, to forget they exist, but something inside stopped me from telling her that.

A hushed voice to my right, “Do not mind Vanessa. She doesn’t enjoy all this as us proper Dolls do.”

I couldn’t turn my head to evaluate the source of the comment, but I took a chance, whispering back, “So it appears! We should thank God everyday that our bountiful futures include the joys of Leisure and Dollhood.”

My neighbour chuckled as my maid leant down to feed me another bite. “And a heaping of great sex on top of all that nonsense.”

I nearly spat out my food, and even Chastity heard that as I felt her lean her ear closer.

“What, you’re not really in it for the look are you? The best part of the whole arrangement is what the Dollmakers at Great Ormond Street will do to our you-know-whats!”

I struggled to look to my right to gauge if she was serious, but a gentle hand from my maid reminded me not to strain myself. “Uhm… well I am aware we will have to keep our owners company and satisfied, yes…”

A scoff. “You Society girls really are clueless aren’t you? Oh no, I don’t mean any offense, but if you don’t know already, Dame Henderson will explain in your classes. All I can say is… the only reason I’m submitting myself to this chastity is the payoff that’s coming after our graduation!”

Before I could utter a word I heard the clicks of a Teacher’s steps behind us, making her rounds. I wasn’t foolish enough to assume that her ears were as useless as her mask-like face, and I rightly surmised that such a perspective on Dollhood would not be encouraged, so I silenced myself until my automaid finished my dinner, refastened my panel gag, and led me and Chas from the table. Guiding my eyes over rightward once I had the opportunity, I found a raven-haired girl, uniquely beautiful in her own right, as her gag expanded in her mouth, leaving only her beaming eyes to tell of her mischief.

And that’s how I met Althea Burns, who would become my friend and confidante in this place before long, impressionable as I was. It helped that we were placed beside each other in nearly every class and meal, so the friendship grew quite naturally. Althea told me eventually that she had been raised in a brothel, an unplanned daughter of an escort who later went missing, and that the life of a Doll was her only way out of the same fate, even if her lack of proper upbringing and useful familial ties would exclude her from the more affluent husbands, except under one condition. “Hell, even if I’m a Companion Doll, I don’t care as long as I get some action.” I think, looking back, she would come to regret those words.

Regardless, dear Reader, you have no idea how truly fulfilled I felt that night in our new bedroom, blindfold and gag letting me focus on the fluffy pillow beneath my head, golden bracelets and anklets tied to the head and footboards, fresh sheets kissing my skin, left to listen to the quick, corseted breaths of Chastity and my other roommates nearby. Even in forced solitude I felt a connection to them, like I was finally home, part of a community that valued my desires and encouraged my betterment, who would teach me how to be a proper Doll, and perhaps would even teach me how to enjoy being improper, if the girl from dinner was to be believed.

I slept with not a care in the world, but with a strange, pounding excitement in my body, perhaps for the days ahead, like a good Doll should.

Book 1 Chapter 9

Aug 9th, 2018

1247 words

As I mentioned before, our neck corsets arrived a few days later, and by then we were in the thick of classes, and quite relieved to be untied from each other. I love my sister dearly, and we are obviously very close after years with no friends but each other, but bumping shoulders and feeling her every movement tug upon my neck was a little too close for comfort.

After that change, our morning preparations became quite similar to back home, if earlier. At seven o’clock the automaids would come in, batteries freshly charged for the day, uniforms impeccable as always, though we would only hear the clicks of their heels on the wooden floors until they removed our blindfolds. Our wrists and ankles would be unclipped soon afterwards, motion and feeling returning quickly once the special golden bracelets were removed. Still, I would refrain from moving my arms, for I knew the more I did then, the more I would want to later in the day.

Best not.

Of course with our night stays we needed help sitting up and getting out of bed. I don’t know about the others, but there was always a moment before having our slippers put on, when I would just hate sitting on the edge there, dressed in nothing but my stays, panel gag, and nappy, hands limp at my sides, toes on the cold floor, feeling the used nappy between my legs lose heat to the open air. I remember always wanting to be freshened up quicker, much quicker: swaddled, held, bound once again in purity, because — if I’m being honest with you, dear Reader — I was concerned that if left unrestrained like this for very long, I may get a taste for it. But I always strove to ignore this feeling, before I was stood up and guided to the powder room for my cleaning.

The rest was always a blur. Lean over the padded bench, straps tied down, nappy off and a scented wipe to clean my liquid waste off my skin, my rear plug removed and replaced with the enema hose, left for fifteen minutes for numerous cycles before a fizzing pessary was placed deep inside — ginger mint today, oh dear! — tiny plug back in, untied, back up to our feet, corset off, into one of ten baths in this wing, a deep cleaning by my maid, a shave if needed, a shampoo. Of my own accord I moved not an inch, save to look at the other girls in their own routine.

Some girls had vastly different schedules, being made into different kinds of Dolls than I, than the Society Standard Enhancement Suite, as it’s called. I never saw them there in the baths, or anytime other than meals, really. They must have had very different routines, but truly I don’t know. I will try to illustrate their various stories in a forthcoming chapter if I can.

Regardless, those girls I shared my morning with would sometimes look at me from behind their gags, or I at them. Some would be practicing their doll-gaze, trying to see me without looking directly or focusing. Some saw my nudity with indifference, others less so. We didn’t try to speak. Not only had the reflex been weaned out of us, the vibrations uncomfortable, the sound of any vocalization when not explicitly permitted was an easy way to get a visit from a Teacher and her maid. I don’t know how they heard us, but whenever one of the three-year troublemakers struggled, or even one of the brattier Society daughters, there would be but moments before help arrived. Well, help and punishment.

So we would sit in silence, in a mute building, feeling our maids massage as they wash us, lift here, scrub there. I would often find myself wishing my automaid would focus on certain places, but even then I always did my best to dispel the thought. We should not want, all is provided for! I would tell myself, but I have to be honest, my piety was usually ineffective. I would close my eyes, let a deep, silent sigh escape through my nose, and then sometimes even open my eyes to see Althea across the room in her own clawfoot tub, looking at me intently. I didn’t always avert my gaze.

Out of the bath, we would be dried and perfumed, powdered below, another flavoured pessary inserted before our plugs, and swaddled in new nappies, ones we would wear until our pre-luncheon check. Then the lot of us would inevitably be fitted back into our standard corsets before being placed in front of the auto-lacer, which I can assure you, being the cohabitant of one even these days, is a cruel marvel. The speed it works at makes the fitting less of an ordeal, but rarely is there a morning (even these days) that I am not slumping into my maid’s arms and being brought back to God’s green earth with smelling salts.

Not long after this, we would don our rigid neck corset, always matching the stays below, and farther down thigh-high socks, a requirement for not all the girls but for Chastity and I and a few others a must, which were securely attached to our hips with garter clips. I later found out that the girls who didn’t wear socks (all the three-year sponsored wards and then some) were restricted in a different way: strong surgical adhesive between the toes to keep from slipping heels off and grabbing anything. Nanny had threatened such a treatment if we ever wrote the devil’s way, and we had worried it would be done after the Patty-Cake incident, but I had no idea it was the default for so many. Well, purity has a cost.

Back up we would step into our heels for the day, which would be buckled tightly closed. Then would come the loose stockings, camisole, and our uniform dress. Soon afterwards our arms would be guided into their proper hiding place, our gloves tied behind us until our elbows touched, covered with the dress’s rear sleeve, and sweet numbness would soon set in for the day. Some girls from other Society families wore their arms in strict reverse prayer, hands tucked up behind their necks and elbows touching, but Pappa and Nanny had never deemed it necessary, since we were only going to lose them and that effortful trained skill eventually. After all this, nothing would be left save for hair and light makeup, which would keep us all from the breakfast table for a long while, until everything was just perfect, as it should be.

I remember looking in the mirror, at the details of the face God gave me, as my maid would comb and curl my sandy blonde hair, just as she does now with my platinum blonde wig. I still miss that face, there is no denying it, but it would not have aged as well as my plastic one has, and for that I am grateful.

After a silent breakfast inhabited only by the soft clinks of silverware on porcelain as our help fed us, our classes would begin: Living with Grace; Embracing Nothing; Restricted Charm and Manners; Doll Theory, History, and Philosophy; Automatic Functions and Bedroom Affairs.

Dame Henderson taught that last one herself, and I think that is what you’re most curious about, so I will leave the rest as largely self-explanatory.

Book 1 Chapter 10

Aug 9th, 2018

2048 words

One morning in just our second week at St. Werburgh’s, we started our day off with Dame Henderson. Every day had a rigidly-set schedule, start and finish, rise and shine, wakened and retired; but our individual classes were entirely randomised, only our Teachers and the central AutoServe system knew the schedule. We had been told by our Embracing Nothing instructor, Teacher Eleanor, that it was an ongoing lesson in relinquishing control and expectations, but at this point I felt this lesson was simply disorienting. I had relinquished agency long ago! At least our classmates remained the same, so Althea strutted in front of me and Chas behind.

Well, if they had wanted to break down our expectations they thoroughly succeeded, for in Bedroom Affairs that day we walked in to see a half-nude Dame Henderson, standing in front of the class at rigid attention. Her maid stood off to the side, a cane perpetually in one hand, like always, just waiting for one of us to break our doll act without permission.

I’ve mentioned that our Head Teacher was curvy, but seeing her without her usual attire, dressed only in hourglass girdle, lace underwear, mules, and hosiery revealed just how severe her waist really was in proportion to her bare breasts and thighs, the former of which apparently needed very little support, and the both of which had been augmented drastically. Her ratio must have been lower than mine!

“Class, take a seat. We have much to discuss. Good. There. Now you may adjust your gaze.”

We were all so anxious to get a closer look at what a Doll looked like under her dress, that we could not restrain ourselves for the sake of modesty. I assure you every pair of eyes in the room save the Teacher’s own were on her. We found that the Dame’s soft silicone skin treatment continued from her face to every inch of her body, but that was expected. As her coyly attractive face remained inhumanly still, so too did most of her armless, unprotected torso, as usual to the procedures that lock the spine into it’s regal pose, but I noticed her legs stepping, balancing, even shivering a touch in the cold room.

“Girls, this is your future. You have seen many Dolls now with proper attire on, but this is what your Husband and Owner shall see when he unwraps you at the end of his day. Be proud in your elegance, in your vulnerability! But I digress, all this we have already discussed. Today we skip the theory, the video instructions and diagrams. Today I show you how I function, and how you will too. Maid, run rehearsed lesson programme.”

Of all the AutoServe devices in the room, somehow only hers knew to activate, and after handing it’s cane to another, the faceless machine began to further undress it’s mistress.

As the maid replaced her speaker ball with a classic fleur-de-bouche, an inflated pear with a lovely rose erupting from it’s end and eventually, her lips, Dame Henderson’s speaker continued from the nearby tabletop, “You may notice the stream of saliva which just dripped when my gags were switched. This is quite important, girls. The heaven-sent Dollmakers have made our mouths just as pleasurable as our other orifices for the men in our lives, so Dolls need more lubricant above to service them. This saliva is unlike yours, though. The actual production gland is altered to produce more performant lubrication, similar in every way to mimic your wetness down below, so it’s all-natural! Do not worry though, this is what our gags are for.”

I remember having a question in the back of my throat which I was not supposed to ask, or even to think: “Pleasurable for whom?” but the maid pulled down the Dame’s satin hose and then her underwear, and I forgot my silent query, for nestled between her hairless labia was a strange, silver object.

“Ah yes, well this is probably quite unusual for you girls, but let me explain. A Society Doll Wife is customarily left with highly-detailed replicas or direct castings of her husband’s erect manhood filling her for most of the day whilst he is busy. The first of these is given as an engagement present, and they can range from simple rods to complex electronic devices. See, mine are quite different. Since I am a faithful servant to the School, I shall never be wed, and therefore I shall never be used in this way. But as the Headmaster says, ‘Eve is weak,’ and I assure you, the dollification process makes us weaker. Both of my passages below have a nearly-inhuman desire to be filled… used, just as yours will once you are complete. The phallic inserts — either your custom ones or my generic — imbibe equal parts relief and frustration, but without them some Dolls have gone quite mad. Mine, as you will see, are also locked in place to protect my purity.”

The robotic assistant walked to the desk and pressed on the intercom, which crackled to life with a familiar voice from the main office. “Hello? Room 14b, oh, is this my sweet Lilyana?”

The speaker ball on the table replied for the Doll, and it took on a very different tone than the stern benevolence we were used to from our mentor. “Yes, Headmaster! Sir, may I please have my chastity taken out for demonstration, Sir?”

“Of course, darling.” And nearly as soon as the line was dead, we heard an audible click from between our Teacher’s legs, and a small hiss, during which something inside happened that made her seamless silicone legs shudder. The flowery coy smile and stare remained completely still as a breathy moan came out over the speaker, the maid pulling the two-pronged object out oh-so-slowly. I glanced over to Althea who raised her eyebrows back. This was what she was really here for. There was something about this, the physical reaction of our Teacher, that lit an intense fire in her eyes. I didn’t understand it at the time but her resulting dedication I did understand, and I idolised her for it. We refocused on the show when the maid wiped off the dual-pronged device and held it up for inspection, its lower casing and inner tips a shiny metal, while the rest was a flexible plastic, obviously much less flaccid once locked in place.

Even as her breathing came in ragged desperation from her artificial airway, sending breasts jostling, the esteemed Dame Henderson described with her simulated voice how it behaved: quite like a fleur-de-bouche, automatically inflating until it was lodged inside, except this object required a remote to be pressed elsewhere to release the pressure, as we had just seen, otherwise it would electrocute the hand that tampered with it, whosoever’s hand that may be.

Reader, I’ve worn such an object several times in my life, the first of which was shortly after one of those lunches with Emily Battersby, when I was a new Doll in need of an Owner. Many suitors came by the house, young and ageing, old money and new, and each one that passed Pappa’s initial tests received their courting time alone with me or Chastity, time to evaluate if we would be a good match. I tell you, and my instructors would use the cane on me for this if I were still a girl, the behaviour of many of those men made me thankful to have my defenceless virginity locked away. And even with his failings in those years, Pappa was good to us. Though he alone was responsible for our future, he would occasionally ask me afterwards to signal if it went badly. Many of them did, but together we pressed on, and now I’m the luckiest Doll alive. But we’ll get to that.

Every class with the Dame from that day on, my peers and I watched from behind our gags as our Teacher demonstrated a doll stand, a special penetrative toilette, a shower mount, a phallic feeder, a ceiling-track-mounted leash, even a suspension harness for different positions in the bedroom, all to show how our bodies would function after the Dollmakers were done with us. Of course I had seen my Mum use some of these things, but I had rarely been explained how it worked to this level of detail.

It was largely helpful, easy to understand, but we had some moments of shock. About a month in, Vanessa and some of the other three-years outright rebelled at the sight of a new training regimen, an oral trainer which we were intended to spend twenty to thirty minutes practicing with every class. I didn’t understand why. Indeed, it was uncomfortable to practise in front of each other, but these skills would please our husbands immensely! Our new mouths were going to have automatic functions, surely, but I was pleased to know at least parts of my tongue would still be able to communicate my own true devotion, and we only had several months left to practise!

Still, that was a hard class. Even besides the disobedient students, who were subject to a severe bare-bottom caning up front after they tried to yell and leave the room (both quite unsuccessfully I may add), I found it quite odd resting my knees on the padded mat, looking at the plastic phallus hanging off of Althea’s hips (over her dress), and then having the bulb of my panel gag replaced with its girthous shaft as she thrusted. As an improved Doll with our airways rerouted, unfortunately we wouldn’t be able to use suction in our servicing, but Dame Henderson promised us the rolling pulses of our throat muscles would go above and beyond that sensation, and because of the rerouting there would never be a limit to how long they could stay inside us!

Yes, dear Reader, I thought that a worthy trade-off too!

But taking the trainer in my mouth wasn’t quite as enjoyable as all the theory told us it would be: the way it filled me till I could barely breathe, or the way it prodded at the back of my throat, it was not so pleasant, nor spiritually fulfilling as we had read. And this seemed to be a recurring theme of my upbringing and education; nothing quite satisfied the way Nanny or the Teachers said it would, and I was beginning to think that even sex would disappoint me. Not a subject Chastity could help me with, I knew that, she didn’t understand why I had so many questions and concerns, sexual or not. It was Althea’s devious eyes that kept me going, hoping that she was right.

About once a week, Sundays usually, we would be allowed to speak at dinnertime, and if Chas didn’t have my ear it was Althea on my other side, who would tell me about her life back home as I told her of mine: about all her aunts, the women who collectively raised her in the brothel’s back rooms; about what charity school was like; about what walking around London alone was like; about flirting with working-class boys; about her mother; about her wayward father who peeked in every so often, only as long as to ease his conscience. Her stories were better than telly-time back home, a life with rough edges and adventure! My old dreams of travelling the continent returned with a flourish, though now I imagined my suitor to be a handsome explorer who needed accompaniment of a Doll on his grand tour…

I enjoyed talking with her immensely, and sometimes when I would remember what was planned for my voice, and hers, I would feel very bad inside. Yes, guilt for being ungrateful for the Dollmakers’ touch, but something else too. I dispelled it. I had to.

Althea also enjoyed our chats. She had no idea what it was like to live outside the city; to be home-schooled; to not have to count every ha’penny; to grow up expecting to become a Doll from the start. In hindsight, I think my innocence shocked her, and I also think she enjoyed corrupting me, but my inquisitive mind couldn’t help itself.

Eve is weak.

Book 1 Chapter 11

Aug 9th, 2018

990 words

By the time Christmas break rolled around, Chastity and I had spent just over seven months under the strict tutelage of St. Werburgh’s. Chas had been feeling acutely homesick as we got closer to the two-week visit home, and I must say I was eager as well, but we shouldn’t have been, for in our absence our home had changed immeasurably.

By this time Althea and I were good friends, and when one of our Teachers mentioned that the three-year wards did not get holidays like us, I took the chance during free-speech Sunday dinner to get the attention of the supervising Doll.

When one is only allowed to speak once a week, perhaps even a couple more times in class, you learn to choose your words and intonation very carefully, so somehow I was convincing enough to receive an audience with the Headmaster the next day in his grand study.

“So, Teacher Margaret tells me that you wish to invite young Althea Burns home with you for the holidays. I must say that this is exceedingly unusual, but the mere request piqued my interest.”

I sat there behind my gag in proper form, looking toward him but not at him. Sir Wainwright had not gestured for it to be removed yet. He continued, smoking an electronic pipe.

“Yes, perhaps this is an opportunity to integrate these classless children into the homes of proper Society folk! I will entertain your idea for next year’s class.”

The ensuing moment of silence crushed my hopes. What use would next year do for me? But I maintained my gaze and posture as he had not allowed otherwise.

The moment dragged until he finally acknowledged my presence with his gaze, which coursed up and down my body, from the rigid neck held high to my severe waist and seemingly-empty shoulders, and finally lingering on my budding chest. I wasn’t too nervous that I was behind some of my classmates in that regard, it was nothing the Dollmakers couldn’t solve.

“But this leaves you in the cold, my dear, and we simply can’t have that. And I’d need a pilot program, a test. Yes, I think I can make an exception this time…”

I nearly jumped for joy, but against every lowly human instinct still in me I kept my composure, eyes still glassy and expression politely good-natured. Seven months of practise was not going to fail me now!

“…if you can pass an oral test. Maid, remove her gag and place a floor pad down in front of my chair. Do not break form, m’dear, or else I will have to reconsider.”

Briskly, I was led in front of the Headmaster’s grand leather chair, behind his mahogany desk, placed with knees on the floor, and my gag was removed, all by my obedient helper. Even though my instinct was to inhale deeply, I knew my severe stays would never allow it, so my lips instantly puckered into a mimicry of my mother’s, of Dame Henderson’s too. Inside, I was a little shocked at the casual nature of his request, but I just assumed this was some sort of supplemental education he regularly assigned. Quality control. It made sense to my indoctrinated head back then.

Fishing in his trousers, the grand old man’s already-growing penis erupted out of its fabric prison and I struggled to keep my gaze indifferent to the first real spear I had ever seen in my life. It was so big! And nothing like the trainers! The veins and wrinkles pulsed with need as it grew in front of my very eyes. He gave me a moment to take its hefty measure in my unfocussed gaze before tangling one of his huge hands in my perfect hair, and bringing my head down toward it. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t ready for the warmth, the velvet smoothness, the musty smell. Unable to bob my neck like a common girl doing this important task, he directed my movements for me, forcing my head up and down over his prize, me bending at the hips as my arms strained from their glove, my lungs straining from the exertion, each breath thwarted by my constricting stays. Deeper it went into me with each thrust, and I realised that months of the trainer had made my gag reflex much more manageable. I was doing it! I was being so good! Like a real Doll!!!

“Oh darling, yes use your tongue, suck a little, no teeth. Harder, dear. Yes you’re doing very…ugh…very well!”

Sir Wainwright coached me, citing that skilled fellatio before the conversion would only help me once my mouth was duly improved.

I desperately wanted to thank him, praise him for tutoring me one-on-one, but still I kept sucking, staring straight ahead into his zipper and the tangled bush inside, appearing joyfully indifferent to the sensual violence occurring, until he finally erupted into my mouth!

“Swallow dear, swallow like a good Doll.” And so even though I didn’t much care for the new taste, I did as I was told, just as my new reflexes would make me in mere months!

“I must say, Hope, my Dollgirls are quite nice, especially Lilyana, but with some practice and the Dollmakers’ touch, you could be even better at this. I’ll speak with your father about hosting Althea for Christmas break, you have my word.”

Elated to have this generous man on my side, I rested with his cock buried in my mouth to the hilt until it softened, before being lifted to my unsteady heels by my maid and whisked out the door to a powder room to be cleaned up before I returned to my classes. It was only once I was sitting in front of an edge-lit mirror, seeing my smeared makeup and destroyed hairdo, that I realised I hadn’t said a single word in that whole ordeal.

I hadn’t even told him ‘thank you!’

Book 1 Chapter 12

Aug 9th, 2018

1866 words

Later that December, six elegant figures alighted their autocarriage and assembled in front of the the main house of the Hodgkinson Estate, three of which had fine winter travelling coats covering them completely like piano-shrouds, gagged faces peeking out to the snow-covered grounds from beneath heavy hoods.

I was surprised to see another automaid by the door and not Nanny; she had never missed greeting a guest personally, never mind the homecoming daughters of the household, but instead of a flurry of questions we were led in silence past the threshold into a house that looked quite the same, but felt markedly different. Colder, quieter. Until Pappa came out and wrapped us in a bearhug!

Overjoyed as we were, our Teachers had made it quite clear that our automaids were still reporting back to St. Werburgh’s over the break, and Pappa had to specifically allow us to break form lest we be punished once we returned. He did no such thing, so we remained still and passive even as our insides melted being engulfed in our parent’s warmth again after so long. It was during these last few months that I started to realise what extended time without human touch or physical interaction can do to someone, so you must understand how overwhelming it was, and delightful, to have formality and etiquette broken even for a moment, even if we dared not reciprocate in any meaningful way.

After Althea was silently introduced to Pappa via a written Christmas card held out by her maid, us girls were finally unwrapped from our toasty coats and led into the manse proper, as three or four other mechanical servants unloaded the carriage.

Still, the house felt off somehow, and I realised: Mummy and Nanny were nowhere to be seen. I panicked a little as a thousand tragic possibilities coursed through my head, but my expression barely changed. I hadn’t been allowed to ask.

It was later that day that Pappa mentioned casually how Nanny and the other staff didn’t live with us anymore. He said it even as he was admiring our elegant neck corsets. And still he didn’t tell our automaids to remove our gags. Not until dinner, but as we had still not been permitted to break form, that dinner was spent chewing quietly and listening to all about Pappa’s travels with Lord Chittenham and some other new friends, about work going splendidly, and about his petty troubles programming the new house staff.

He spoke nothing about Mother’s empty seat, and at one point he looked at Chastity, at her pleasant stare at the far wall while she ate her peas, and mumbled something about St. Werburgh’s being a “magical place.” It was obvious to me then: he finally saw us as Dolls, not young women, and normally I would have rejoiced at such a sentiment, but I was burning to break form and speak with him like the Pappa I used to know before I was gagged.

Surprisingly, he also took an instant liking to Althea, and by the third day of our vacation, it seemed he was making the school-provided automaid unnecessary with his chivalry, guiding her and adjusting her hair and gown when it became unkempt. Just like he used to do for Mother when we were young.

Before St. Werburgh’s I would have glanced toward Chastity, made an expression of disapproval, that he was having more real interaction with my friend than I was, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be a real girl who had these kinds of concerns, and the Teachers had taught me that sharing such thoughts or judgements was disrespectful not only to those I disparage but also to those I corrupt with my worthless opinions. Besides, I had no idea if Chastity would even acknowledge my break in protocol. She had taken the last few free-speech dinners off at school, her eyes glued to the far wall, maintaining the act which was soon to be our whole life, whilst Althea and I went on talking on and on, satiating our appetite in preparation of each forthcoming week of silence. It seemed she was abandoning me, but in my heart I knew that wasn’t true. She was just being my model sister once again, being my perfect example.

So I used Chas as my strength, and St. Werburgh’s as my rulebook, and I kept quiet, I kept still, I kept proper and pure. I kept my eyes forward, my lips pursed if my gag was off, my knees together under the folds of my dress, my heels on the floor, my voice silent. And I felt the rigid corsetry from my hips to my chin holding me in place, I felt my shoulders straining behind me, numb past the edge of the monoglove, felt the gag’s bladder filling my mouth entirely, felt the heat between my legs trapped in the diaper I wore.

And I cleared my mind. I trusted that Pappa would explain what happened to Mother eventually. It was not my place to doubt my owner, as Teacher Helene would say, and our owner was Pappa until he married us. But the question persisted in the back of my dedicated mind until the day it was answered: Christmas itself.

We had arrived around the eighteenth of December, so Christmas Day lay near the midpoint of our time at home. Of course Chas and I were elated, though you wouldn’t have been able to tell save for our hurried steps down the stairs to the blazing hearth and electric tree, quickly followed by our guest. Wholesome excitement sometimes bent the rules of grace, and so the clacking of our bedroom mules thundered through the empty house, past the new autobutler, past the cleaner-bots scooting along the floor, until we rounded the corner to find Pappa in his chair, sipping on an Irish coffee, ready to dole out the glorious bundle of presents left by Father Christmas whilst we were asleep. The three of us allowed ourselves to be arranged in a row on the chesterfield, still in loose silk nightgowns on this special day. I hoped Althea would enjoy this, it would be her first Christmas in a proper Society household.

Slowly presents were unwrapped for us and announced, usually by Pappa himself but sometimes by our silent maids, and slowly a pile of goodies accumulated around each of us, even some for Althea! Corsets, perfumes, neck trainers, makeup, hair ornaments, gift cards to the spa at Laydon’s and the Doll Parlour, the list went on, and I could sense Althea growing uncomfortable next to me, before Pappa came over and wiped away a tear she had let slip.

“It’s quite alright, dear. You’re part of the family now.”

The generosity made me proud of my father, and so happy for Althea, that I strained against my better judgement to look over at her and share our love with smiling eyes, immediately receiving a stern hand and reminder from my maid behind me. Father, on one knee, noticed but said nothing, nothing that would free us even temporarily, before he stood up and addressed the largest box in the room, what could’ve been a seven-foot-tall obelisk encased in wrapping paper, but instead was anyone’s guess.

But Pappa must have known.

He read the tag aloud for us, “To Alan, my old friend made new again. Chittenham.”

And moments later the wrapping paper was off, torn away, revealing a brand new Doll in a bright pink plastic box visible through a glassy panel. I was shocked, confused, and immediately furious, all goodwill dispelled, evaporated. How could Pappa just abandon Mother like this! This was strictly against Society rules! This was… wait… this was my Mummy!

I could hardly recognise her, so many changes had been made. Her face had been reshaped, shaving her jawbone, making her cheeks look more plump, her nose more petit and button-like. These changes were dwarfed by her lips and eyes, both expanded and boosted in such a way to make them look truly inhuman, like a porcelain figure blinking away. Where before she had been a plastic woman, now she was a Doll given breath. Her skin no longer had its sparse wrinkles, nor the shiny lustre of passé skin treatments. No, Mother looked like the newest Dolls out of Great Ormond Street, like the recent St. Werburgh alumni whose husbands brought them back to demonstrate to us Dolls-to-be what lay in our future. And she looked as young as them too, the sun’s rays through the windows muted against soft peachy silicone, with not a freckle or flaw in sight.

And there was less skin to see, for her shoulders were properly empty as had been the style for some years, making her increased bust size even more apparent, once more almost cartoonish. The dress she wore matched the box, so even once Pappa had opened it up to retrieve her, she was still clad in golden ringlets and pastel pink. But it was the eyes that still shone with the same hazel colour, even frozen as they were, blinking steadily, to let me know that my mother was in there somewhere. As if I needed any more confirmation though, I watched her mutely try to leave Pappa’s support, step toward us unsteadily on reinforced ballet boots reminiscent of Belle’s. I leant forward to be stood up, one of the few things I could confidently communicate to my automaid, and with some assistance I was standing with my Mother, leaning into her impossible embrace, almost supporting her unstable gait in footwear a mere modicum less precarious than hers.

I’m reminded now of Emily Battersby’s telling of meeting Anne for the first time after her sister’s conversion, as even though I was overjoyed to see her, to feel her warmth near me, my Mother was breathing heavily, emotional in a way that I could not console, and even if I could ask, there was no voice left to reply to me, that had all been given up long before I was born. Was she just overjoyed to see us again, or was this the same passion which overtook her the day we left?

And out of the blue Chastity joined us too, nearly jumping for joy in a way that made me certain she did not understand the bittersweet nature of this reunion, and Mother calmed and mimicked Chastity’s gentle bouncing, sending her amply-augmented bosom into fits.

And Pappa wrapped his arms around us. “Awwe, dearest, she’s happy to see you. Now, my love, I told you this would all be worth it! Ladies, meet Cushions. Clarice is gone, this is your mother now.”

Cushions took a cautious step back, curtseyed to us, and I nearly cried.

I later learned that Pappa had sent his Doll, our Mother, to an unnamed rehabilitation centre in Wales, one much less gentle than St. Werburgh’s, as most of the re-education and enhancement clinics are. This institute specialised in behavioural adjustment and very fast returns, and it must have been worth the cost, as our new mother, “Cushions,” never overstepped her place again.

Book 1 Chapter 13

Aug 9th, 2018

2052 words

After Christmas Day and an admirable showing of family numbering in the low dozens for dinner and Mass, our day-to-day routine at home was largely uneventful. Such was the life of a Doll, the constant lessons and classes of St. Werburgh’s were the exception, not the rule. When not in mealtimes, Althea, Chas, and I would join Mother in the pink and cream Doll Room upstairs, sitting silently on the edge of the chaise whilst Mother was on her stand, buzzing away. We were not yet designed to accept the inserts on the saddle, nor were we in need of its effects, according to Dame Henderson. It would break our virginity, and we were only allowed such penetration once our ownership and marriage was consummated. This led me to the realization that, modified as I would be that coming April, until I was promised and wed to a husband, my body would receive no relief in the interim weeks, perhaps months if I was unlucky. To a young woman already swimming in amplified hormones, this was not something I was looking forward to.

The last seven months had been life-altering in that department. It was like my body was suddenly awake to its own needs, and many nights had been spent spread out in security and purity, wishing the emptiness between my legs was filled, wishing that just one of my bracelets would unlock, run its energy dry, something; anything to see what it felt like down there. I found myself in bed on such a wistful night when there was a fumbling hand at my door, and a gentle open and close. Now remember that Chastity and I slept with our gags in, with our eyes covered, so I was momentarily frightened of an intruder in the night before I remembered I was home, so it could only be Pappa or a maid, until it very surely wasn’t.

A whisper in the blackness, “Hope! Hope!”

It was Althea, tip-toeing on the floorboards, half for stealth and half because her achilles tendons had probably shortened a bit over the two-plus years of constant heels, like mine had. I realised she probably couldn’t tell which twin was which, so I shook my head to the room but dared not make a sound.

And then I felt her warm, unrestrained body join me under the covers. Oh my.

She removed my blindfold and I lifted my head to allow her to unfasten my gag. As the pressure slowly released in my mouth I tested my strained jaw, before whispering to the classmate cuddled up to my splayed out body in the tiny single bed. “What is the meaning of this visit? How did you get free?”

She used my outstretched arm as a pillow and looked up at me, wearing nothing but a nightgown, loosened stays, and the impressions of the day’s strict attire still printed into her fair skin. “Your old man visited me after I was put down for the night. Don’t worry, he didn’t do anything indecent, we just talked, or he talked to me I should say, but he didn’t secure the bracelets correctly when he put me back in bed, and our watchers are still charging for the night.”

This was the first time I had been able to speak with Althea since our arrival nearly two weeks before, so a million thoughts blazed through me, all vying for priority. Laying there, I wanted out of my own bonds, but I knew not of the unlocking codes, and of course neither did she. Althea had been terribly lucky.

I noticed Althea was holding onto me tightly in a way I wasn’t used to. Actually I wasn’t used to having this much contact with anyone, and it felt almost overwhelmingly good. But there was something more to her touch, something which my education had taught me to be very fearful of; yet I realised fearful was not an apt description of the feelings in my chest at that moment. “Wait, pray tell what my Pappa discussed with you!?”

She looked pensive. “Well, it just so happens that he would like me to be Companion to your mother after our graduation. I’m under no illusions of what that would entail, seeing her picture from before… and then now… so I don’t know. I’m not like you, Hope. My chances of a respectable husband picking me are very slim, and your Pappa seems like a good man. And… don’t think me pitiful, but there’s something I haven’t told you, part of the agreement I made back home to get away…”

She traced her fingers across my clavicle, her mind elsewhere.

“Living there for my childhood, having a roof over my head once my Mum was gone, I was racking up a debt I could never pay off, the same kind of debt she had, that my aunts have. If I don’t find an owner, my aunts’ souteneur¹ will try and claim me for the brothel, and with the Delights and Property Act passed a few years ago, he would have a legal right. That’s why he let me accept the scholarship, because having a house Doll was too good of an opportunity to pass up.”

This was all a shock to me, but in hindsight there had been signs of both Pappa’s request and the nature of Althea’s predicament. I didn’t know how I felt about such an offer, Althea being the same age as me, but objectively I knew that such age disparity was far from abnormal in the Society, or in Leisurely marriages for that matter. Then there was the factor of my mother, who now lived in a new body, in an empty nest, surrounded by silent maids. She could use the company. But then again, Althea had… desires. I could feel the heat of her body pressing into me and almost imagine what a man must feel when looking at her, or any of us. I had never thought of my father, with his thinning hair and glasses, as one to sate such things.

But then I remembered that I shouldn’t think at all, I should just be happy for Pappa and Mummy and my friend. This would surely keep her close in my life!

“Oh my!! I don’t know what to say!” And I didn’t, her life was so complicated whereas all my decisions were made for me well in advance. Maybe that was the solution, to simplify things. “My Pappa decides my arrangements, but as a scholarship recipient, who selects yours?”

Althea’s hands were absent-mindedly drawing on my chest now and I could barely concentrate.

“I’m not sure. Some of us are sponsored, so whoever paid for our schooling decides. Those girls usually go to that household. But my scholarship came from the St. Werburgh Trust. Maybe the Headmaster? Yes, I think so.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. The weight of responsibility was indeed on neither of our shoulders. “Sir Wainwright is a good man, he will know where you belong.”

Althea got quiet. “But, Hope… I… I already know where I belong.”

If there was any doubt left to what she meant, her tightening hold on me under my covers left none. It wasn’t a moment before I gasped, pulled at my bracelets, and her lips were about to join mine. I followed my training, ceased my struggling, and went to proper doll form, staring at the ceiling with lips plumped as much as I could.

“No, not like that.” she said, using her tracing hand to direct my face back downward. I gave in and looked back into her eyes. “That’s not how real people do it. I’ll show you.”

And she kissed my lips deeply, cradling my cheek in a gesture so serene that I folded into my very human desires, and kissed her back. There was no owner or owned, user or used, just the two of us, and it felt so good, especially when her hand started exploring my virgin body, when it drifted from my small breast down over my stays to my womanhood, ripping off my dry nappy to get access to that sacred place. I had never been touched like this. I had never even had a chance to touch myself like this. And it was doing things to me that dispelled all doubt, cleared my mind. This. This was how I was going to get my bliss, to be good like Chastity.

I returned her kiss as deeply as I could manage but broke away to look at her. “Althea, we can’t. It’s wrong, it’s a sin.”

She didn’t stop, actually she started to circle two fingers around a weird little bump down there in a way that drove me mad, pulling at my bracelets as hard as I dared, desperate to retrieve my numb hands and feet from their traps, though if they were unbound I don’t know whether I would have stopped her or tried to return the favour.

“It is, my dear, innocent Hope. But it’s worth it, I promise. One of my aunties taught me how when I was getting my first… uhm… urges.” Her fingers sped up and I almost cried out, so close that she even put my gag back in, albeit hastily inflated and still untied. Now I couldn’t even ask her to stop, as she kissed at my neck and pressed herself closer.

Whether I wanted it or not, I was a Doll in that moment. Receiving pleasure and desperate to return it, yet unable to do so, but it didn’t feel contrived or hollow. It felt real. Shockingly real and full and overwhelming and then I felt myself climax for the first time! Oh it mustn’t be sinful, I saw God!

She laid with me there for a while, held me as I came back to earth, and I tell you, keeping myself quiet in that climactic moment was one of the hardest things I had ever done in my life. But I eventually calmed, and even though I wanted to reciprocate, tugging at my unfeeling hands and feet, locked without a hope, Althea told me there would be time for me to learn how.

“When? We are destined to be Dolls, we may never get this chance again!”

And she looked deep into my eyes and smiled. She had a plan, a plan to get us out and free and live a normal life. She kept on calling it ‘a normal life’ but such a fantasy was the farthest thing from normal to my ears. How would a girl like I, who had never even cleaned her own behind, fare in the world of commoners? What would I do without the protective eye of Pappa? Of the Society? She laid out her plan to smuggle me out the next chance she got, to hide us away in the backrooms of her brothel home, wait for a man to scramble our identity implants, then move out to the countryside, more rural than even this estate, to change my name, get me some plain clothes, to live as lovers.

Lesbianism is of course illegal in the King’s domain, but she just told me we would cross that bridge when we came to it. I see the plan now as it was, two naive girls heatedly whispering about our confident futures after our first throes of passion, but at the time she had my heart. She told me it would be worth giving up her chance at climbing the social ladder, worth giving up her aunties’ plans for her to escape their circumstance too, we would just elope the old-fashioned way.

She left in the thick of the night, and though my gag and blindfold were reseated correctly, sweet Althea forgot to put my nappy back on. Thoughts and possibilities racing as they were, I did not think of it until the morning when it was much, much too late.

Also known as a guardian or owner, but those terms are more closely tied to wedlock or familial responsibility. A brothel-owner and manager. A pimp, if we are being crass. ↩

Book 1 Chapter 14

Aug 9th, 2018

1016 words

Chastity told Pappa everything. Silent and proper as she was these days, easy to overlook, my sister had been very much awake in the next bed over, listening in her bound darkness to our unholy fiddlings and our conspiracies against the defined future set in front of us.

Of course Pappa had been alerted immediately the next morning when my automaid found me lying in a soiled bed. I remember trying my best to hold it in, but us girls were used to the early rise at school, not the lenient wakeup time Pappa had generously allowed. And I hate to say it, but as one gets used to constant protection, their continence does suffer from lack of practice. This had left me with almost two endless hours to lay in bed, awake, desperately needing the toilet.

Oh, I had never seen him so furious. I refused to explain the discordant states I was left and found in, feigning ignorance as best as I could, but my efforts were useless. I had never lied in my life, how could one lie with no privacy to protect? In Pappa’s eyes I saw the newfound fire that had resulted in Mother’s second transformation, and I couldn’t help but cry. She sat right next to me, almost a stranger, mute and still, but perhaps I felt her lean into me slightly with her armless shoulder? Her wide breasts were hard to avoid, and as for parsing her vague behaviours, I had no idea what was Mother and what was “Cushions” anymore.

Then he asked Chastity, popping out her gag.

“The whore’s daughter came in the dead of night and debased Hope, bewitched her like an ungodly fricatrice would, and I fear Hope is still under her spell. They were going to live as commoners in the farmlands and hide away in their sapphic sin. Please help her see reason, Pappa!”

My eyes were wide, a squeak of betrayal escaping past my gag. After weeks of attempting to connect with her at Sunday dinners, laboring and failing to see any recognition float across her face, this is where she decided to open her big mouth! How could my own sister sell me out like this?? And if that wasn’t enough, she concluded with a quiet, “Can I have my name-gag back in, please?” A thankful nod from our father and the maid had her sealed up again, sucking away like an overinflated pacifier.

I tried desperately to tell him that’s not what happened, that it was not an act of harm but of love, but he would have none of my pleading, personally re-gagging me too, overfilling the air-bladder until my jaw ached. This left Althea, in only her nightwear but restrained as usual with neck corset, gag, and glove, sitting across the room from us under the close watch of her maid. She knew our plan was beyond hopeless now. She wouldn’t look me in the eye. Pappa stood in front of her, between us.

“Now, young lady, I invite you into my home on my daughter’s generous request, I include you in our yuletide gatherings, I even propose an arrangement which would leave any other girl at Werburgh’s on their knees in gratitude. And you sully your honour and ours by behaving so impurely! Did you think I didn’t know from whence you came, little temptress, or what you were? Your door swings both ways, it’s all in the background report Sir Wainwright sent me. Yes, they know too. And do you know what we Societymen do to Dolls-to-be suffering from such afflictions when they act on them? Yes, we take the desire out. All of it.”

Eyes wide, Althea was on her knees in front of him in a blitz, fallen from her perch, begging past her gag. She was broken, emitting a muffled, “Please Mr. Hodgkinson, Sir! Anything! Anything but that!!”

I saw then and there just how much my father had changed since our departure, and even if that was Lord Chittenham’s doing, the blame did not rest solely on that hedonist’s shoulders, but on the weak ones of our patriarch.

“Yes, Ms. Burns. Now you know what’s at stake. Now you both know what’s at stake.” He said, addressing me as well. His eyes melted a little at my tears. He was hardly practised in disciplining us, Nanny had always seen to such things. He looked down to the tearful girl at his feet, groveling as far down as she could with her rigid attire. “But the rest of your file shows you to be a worthwhile investment once graduated, especially once we quiet that conspiratorial tongue and put it to more appropriate uses, so I’ll give you what most men in this country wouldn’t: a second chance. Nuzzle, right here,” he pointed to the zip of his trousers, and what lay within, “if you don’t want the school to hear about this.”

There wasn’t a moment of hesitation before her gagged face was pressing against my father’s privates, debasing herself. I had no idea he could be so classless and cruel, but here we were.

“You will behave, and if by the slightest chance you are permitted to opine upon your own future, you will tell your Headmaster how overjoyed you are about my offer, or else we’ll cut the centre of your perversions out when you graduate and you won’t go back that half-rate whorehouse you call a home, no; I’ll donate you to the House of the Enhanced Venus for them to remodel you into their monthly special, whatever that may be. Ah yes, I thought you would recognise that name.”

I barely understood this last part, but I knew the threat worked, for she was distraught, broken. When Father finally picked Althea up from the ground, he whispered something in her ear, a threat or pact I will never know, and as much as I cried and begged for my friend back, she remained like Chastity in the perfect doll act until our graduation three and a half months later.

Book 1 Chapter 15

Aug 9th, 2018

2298 words

The Spring of 2049 was very lonely. My eyes were beginning to open to the life laid out before me, laid out for all of us in the dorms at St. Werburgh’s School for Girls, but still I returned to my proper place as best I could.

For one, we had returned to school, which as an institution was an unrelenting test in behavioural endurance. A glance toward a friend, a heel step too loud, wriggling slightly to scratch an itch, it was all noticed by our automaids. Personal or school-provided, it made no difference, every single one had been instructed and programmed from the first day to keep us on our best behaviour. An articulated plastic hand on the shoulder was enough to remind me of my attendant’s presence and duty, to keep me in proper doll form, and if I did not cease my disturbances, well, a cane was never far away.

Secondly, dear Reader, what was the alternative? I write this now at an age that a commonwoman would consider adulthood, obviously still unknowledgeable of a great many things, but my naivety back then was dramatic. A necessity for my upbringing, for the insulation and protection our Society provides to its young. Regardless, if I had known a way to escape with Althea into the great unknown during those final months of our education, I undoubtedly would have. But I’m sure you know how flawlessly a well-oiled machine can run: there were no independent bodies here to mess it up, to improperly secure a bracelet or a gag. It was only by then that I fully understood the reason for St. Werburgh’s signature house rule. Anything with an unsteady heart and wilfulness was silenced and bound effectively, pacified so as not to complicate the system (other than Sir Wainwright, who stayed out of the day-to-day affairs). No, not one uncaught hitch that entire Winter and Spring, and whilst I was not necessarily dwelling on escape, deep within my shell I had hoped for it.

So I found myself at my graduation in April of 2049, sitting between the two Dolls-to-be who had previously been my sister and my best friend, or at least that’s how I saw it then. The third-year Dining Hall had become ever quieter on Sundays as the weeks ticked by. Perhaps there was less to discuss, or perhaps it was less strain on the mind to simply remain in our prescribed mode of being, to chew our food politely and wait for our gags to be put back in.

I had stopped pestering Althea by late January, and had come to some semblance of peace with Chastity’s betrayal shortly afterwards, filling my weekly break with stilted, unenthused discussions with Vanessa across the table. Though I loved my breaks, she was quite unskilled in the art of sustaining a conversation, a subject definitely not taught under that roof, so I unknowingly said my final words in early March before I too receded into the act. Something mundane about that evening’s meal, but I can’t quite recall. Isn’t that funny that I can’t remember the last words I made with my own voice?

So I too was a committed Doll-to-be along with my withdrawn companions, dressed to the nines and arranged in the old church pews when a man and his gorgeous Doll ascended the stage at our graduation, one of the many guest speakers. She was pretty steady on her heels but I could immediately tell that she had never attended St. Werburgh’s. It was easy to spot with a well-intentioned but imperfect strut like that. Otherwise she looked the part, wearing a slim but lovely dress suitable for the ceremony and the reception afterward, a gentle rouge number which lifted her massive breasts to frame her two roses beautifully. The man announced himself as Humphrey Battersby, along with his wife, Emily.

Yes, the one and only.

Humphrey’s speech wasn’t particularly inspiring, but he was there as a new donor to the school’s trust, “so that more fine girls can get closer to God and our blessed ideals of Leisure!” Such over-exaltant pronouncements were starting to ring hollow to me, even then, but I thought nothing much of him at the time, nothing at all to hint at his private sadism and entrapment.

It was during the fine reception afterward that Lord Chittenham, Father, and Mr. Battersby all chummed together through the bustle of excited families and the clinking of porcelain and glass, joined by a young man I deduced much later to be Branwell Lowood, his leery eyes scanning the crowd for potential brides. It seemed they had all vacationed together the previous year whilst Chastity and I were here and Mother was in Wales. Father and Mr. Battersby got along quite well, it turned out, well enough to lead to our biweekly visits from the Battersbys, and to the introduction of my tale.

If I were a trained storyteller and had not given my life to Dollhood, I may end this first Book back in that room, with Chastity and I fully converted, transformed, refined, sculpted, and sitting across from Emily in what was surely your first experience reading about the life of a modern Doll Wife in the late 2040s. But what is a passing reference for Emily Rivers the Damsels in Distress advocate, the author of the four most controversial articles in our country’s recent history, the woman surely villainised in many a Societyman’s thoughts, is not my story.

True, this mention, this connection, is why I was personally selected by the Society to be allowed to speak to you people of our fair Kingdom in such an unprecedented fashion, but it is not my whole story.

My story, the one that will make you understand the multitudes and complexities of our fair Society and the decision to become a Doll, only just begins as I ascend the stage to accept my Certificate of Wholesome Quality, following just behind my righteous sister Chastity, trailed by my defeated love Althea.

After each of us in that long line had curtsied to Dame Henderson and our ever-present maids had received our certificates from hers, we were then guided across the stage to our Headmaster sitting behind a small signing desk, who we curtsied to again in respect.

“As a newly-certified young Lady, freshly refined yet still impure and capable of sin, do you, Hope Hodgkinson, willingly sacrifice your womanhood to join your sisters in Dollhood, and your future owner in the light of our great Society?”

I didn’t immediately do what I was told. I didn’t curtsy in agreement. But I also didn’t break form. My gaze did not shift a millimetre. Sir Wainwright continued to read the legalese, an eye on me every other moment. I could see it written on his face: was I being dumb or uncooperative? Neither, yet. I was nervous. Was this the right choice?

“Ahem! Do you renounce your personality and consent to being reformed into an object dedicated to fulfilling your owner’s every desire, and in doing so, bring your family closer to the King’s favour, and therein God?

I thought about Mother. What would she think if I refused to commit to my life’s goal? What would Father do after he invested so much to get us to this moment? I couldn’t do it. My doubt was inherently self-criticizing. My unhappiness was not enough to ruin my family name. I acquiesced, I curtsied, and Sir Wainwright quickly signed an X in my place before I was hurried offstage to make room for Althea and all my other classmates behind me, and as I returned to level ground all I could think was,

“What have I done?”

According to Teacher Dottie, before a Hall full of witnesses, that simple ‘X’ did many things. It made me property of my father, to be traded and sold as he wished, most commonly to an appropriate husband. His natural guardianship was already in place, but that wasn’t true ownership and the right to complete control of me as an object, it was responsibility of me as a person. Now he had both. In the unfathomable case of his sudden and unplanned incapacitation, it made me property of the Society itself, my future under their discretion. It also made my legal birthday exactly sixteen years before the time of signing¹, a requirement for the rest and a symbolic reminder of when I was reborn.²

Most importantly, signing allowed the Society’s esteemed Dollmakers to start their work on me.

Heels clicking down the back steps, my maid guided me down to the standing room and placed me next to Chastity, where we stood, silent and still, lungs straining against our formal event stays (two inches tighter than usual), and waited for the end and the ensuing flood of people through the doors. Finally, once all fifty or so were finished and Sir Wainwright had made his closing speech to the families about how well-behaved we all had been in his care, the doors opened.

Here we toasted, or should I say, they all did, the men, for there were but five women in the crowds who were not committed Dolls, and these were Ladies of the strictest variety, with arms in reverse prayer, useless hands sometimes even entwined with a rosary, chins raised to various degrees by neck corsets galore, and waists to die for. Mouths filled by fleur-de-bouches, these women used their remaining facial expressions liberally compared to the Dolls’ complete inability, and if I could have refocused my gaze to look at their wilful beauty all night long, I would have. These were the norm, the legally enforced minimum once their guardian or husband claimed any shred of nobility, but they would not be the majority for long if St. Werburgh’s had its way.

Eventually I found myself standing beside Mrs. Battersby, her quite a bit taller and older than I, just outside the raucous circle of men hurrawing the labours my sister and I had gone through to get the framed certificates Father was waving about. As I silently bumped shoulders with this blank woman next to me who could not even look at her husband, never mind show him the love I then thought must be coursing through her veins, I realised finally, now that it was far too late, that I didn’t really want to be a Doll, that this was wrong, so very wrong, and I had made an irreversible mistake.

But before I could take even one pathetic step toward the door, Sir Wainwright swooped in to our group to make an announcement, wrapping me in one arm and nearby Althea in another, and announced to the reception hall: “I have grand news to announce, just grand! This young Doll, Hope Hodgkinson, has done an extraordinary thing during her short time here at St. Werburgh’s: she has made friends with one of our reformed deviants, one Althea Burns, before any other would consider her worthy of such love and respect. Such generosity of spirit from this girl. From what I hear they are inseparable. Truly, truly wonderful!

“On top of this, in dedication to his daughter, Mr. Hodgkinson has also seen to it that Althea will be provided a place at the Hodgkinson Estate in Whitchurch-on-Thames as ‘Cuddles, loving companion to Cushions Hodgkinson and ward of Alan Hodgkinson’, a placement beyond prayer, and a true blessing for an outsider to our just Society. But we must remember it was Hope’s open-hearted generosity that saved this poor girl from a sorry life.”

A wave of unwelcome applause came crashing into me, nearly making me break form. Cuddles!? I felt as though I was going to be sick.

“Oh and one last thing, we will be instating a new program I have devised for integrating our three-year pupils into Society homes come next winter. You can read about it in the next Doll Society Bulletin!”

With all the men coming up to talk at me, to congratulate my father, their wives curtseying in silent recognition of my achievements and dedication while it was still my choice to do so, I was left no time or breath to ponder any of this before the reception came to its close, for us at least. Upon a resounding stomp from the Dame and her teaching staff in perfect unison, our maids manoeuvred us to the centre of the room in our standard double-file, girl and servant, fully trained and certified and ready to saunter wherever we were guided.

This time it was down the hallway and out the front door to a waiting parade of London autotaxis in the courtyard, each one predestined for the Great Ormond Street Hospital Auxiliary Wing to meet the Dollmakers in residence. The fifty-long caravan was a sign of opulence, of status, like everything else in our lives, and as I reluctantly stepped into the cab with my maid, I knew that my fate was sealed.

END OF BOOK 1

Which would be upheld by any judge in the country if within eight months of the real birthdate. ↩
It also relinquished my claim to a myriad other common laws both national and international, even including some special passages that made sure I would be respected as a Doll in most of Europe, though the UK is still considered a hermit kingdom even as I write this. John says trade is free and plentiful, and surely we have the colonies, but personal travel is far from it. ↩

Appendix to Book 1

Aug 9th, 2018

1524 words

Author’s Note: While Dave and I brainstormed the early plot of Dollhood and I brought it to fruition, this section was written almost exclusively by him in a sudden burst of inspiration, and it was too tonally distinct to dilute in pieces into the main story.

Please consider this appendix as bonus content, all semi-canonical.

Written by Dave Potter and edited by Cafter Homme.

Of course, the stories of all the pupils at St. Werburgh’s did not mirror those of Chastity and I completely. Whilst most were broadly similar, the Society Standard education and dollification, there were also some notable exceptions and, if you’ll indulge me here, I’d like to talk about a few of them. Some of these stories were spread by my classmates, others I saw myself. Maybe, with these notes you’ll begin to understand the virtues of our Society, especially those of diversity and acceptance.

The first concerns a young lady named Emilia Delany who came from a wealthy family somewhere in the west of England. A new student in the three-year program when I started my one-year, she was a pretty thing with cornflower blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair, and one might say she was halfway along the road to the Doll ideal already. But whilst God may have blessed her physically, mentally, it was a different story completely. Right from the first day she rebelled against the Doll ideal and her parents’ wish to make her follow that road, a road they’d chosen for her so they could join the Society. She deliberately walked in an unfeminine way, her gag was not removed at mealtimes unless one wanted unholy obscenities shouted in the dining hall, and she somehow managed to think of clever ruses which kept her dresses perpetually stained, damaged, or at least unkempt. Things really came to a head however on the day when, during her dressing, she somehow managed to disable the automaid that was dealing with her. No one knows precisely how this happened, but the rumour going around at mealtime held that, prior to arrival at the school, Emilia had acquired a male admirer back in her hometown who worked for AutoServe, and he had secretly provided her with some voice commands that overrode the Teachers’ control.

Regardless of how, it all happened in the evening of the day when Dame Henderson had informed her that her marriage to a Dr. Aspley of Nuneaton had been arranged and that, following her graduation and final modifications, she would henceforth be legally known as “Bubbles”. Well that night, Emilia decided she had had quite enough, somehow disabled her automaid and escaped, running away from the school reportedly clad only in her undergarments. We were all shocked of course, but deep down I was pleased for her. Whilst the Doll ideal is the highest that a girl can aspire to and she should have embraced it, at the same time it was clear that she had not done so in the slightest, and I did not want to see a sister unhappy (and by this time I was aware that Dolls could be unhappy with their lot, like Vanessa and a few of the others). So she gained her freedom and that was that… or so we thought.

Completely unexpectedly, during the gathering after our graduation ceremony, the Headmaster announced that we would be joined by a special guest, and into the reception hall was brought none other than Bubbles Aspley, wife of one Dr. Aspley of Nuneaton. We all knew in an instant that it was old Emilia; she was recognisable, but at the same time the changes made to her were extreme. Most Dolls are altered greatly of course, but Bubbles was on a whole other level; she was no longer an example of beauty but instead an utter parody of it. Her lips resembled a full-size plastic doughnut extending at least to her chin and well over her nose, whilst her completely spherical breasts were so enormous, each the size of a healthy autumn pumpkin, that she needed an automated cart rolling in front of her to cradle them and support the extreme weight. She tottered about on ballet boots behind the apparatus, and it was crystal clear that she had no ability to speak or even shift her eyes from their crossed and fixed gaze downward, forced to watch her own wobbling mammaries with a frozen expression of sexual intensity.

It was also clear from the tears that were still allowed to fall from those eyes that she was both unhappy with her lot and humiliated at being shown off to all her former classmates like so. I shuddered inside, especially when the Societymen all whooped and cheered, their approval more than evident.

The story of Heather Ferguson was completely different to that of Bubbles Aspley. As I’ve mentioned, not all the pupils at St. Werburgh’s came from families of significant means like Chastity and I, a sizable minority were what we called “scholarship” pupils, girls taken from orphanages or impoverished families and given an elite education that they could otherwise never aspire to. Althea was a recipient of such a scholarship.

Well, Heather Ferguson — or Jamila Murphy as she was then known — was also one of these. Her background was so low that she was in fact of mixed race, a concept that quite alarmed us, brought up as we were in the ideal of marble-white beauty. Rumour had it that her father was some sort of seaman from the West Indies and her mother a low-class prostitute like Althea’s.

Jamila was sponsored to attend St. Werburgh’s by one Lord Ferguson, an ageing peer whose previous Doll wife had passed away the year before. He sponsored her because he wished to create a perfect Doll replacement for his former spouse and Jamila came extremely cheaply. With no family to pay off and an evaluation by the Society quite appropriate to a woman of mixed race, she was nigh more expensive than her tuition and hospital bill. Regardless, over the course of her schooling we saw her visibly transformed, her dusky skin slowly bleached china-white, freckles tattooed on her face and her final wig being of flame red so that, at her graduation she was completely unrecognisable from the brown, black-haired girl that had started her schooling with us, and instead appeared as the very stereotype of a Highland dolly wearing only tartan dresses and shawls. We all felt so pleased for her of course, being able to become so beautiful in a way impossible without such serious modifications. What she thought of it however, naturally we never knew. All the “special order” girls were not treated with the same leniency as us; they received no mingling time and did not partake in free-speech dinners, and their transformation was gradual, with many visits to Great Ormond Street throughout their education.

But if we were pleased for Heather Ferguson, then we felt only horror and pity for Sandra Rowe. She was another scholarship pupil, arriving as a wild-haired and uncouth urchin from the backstreets of Manchester with a broad accent and huge command of obscenities. But her sponsor, a Japanese business tycoon named Takayama-san, had a quite different fate in store for her, and she was taken out of our classes most of the time and both trained and modified in a completely different fashion to the rest of us. We watched in horror as progressive operations to her eyes made them more oriental-looking whilst her hair was first dyed then at some point replaced with a jet black wig. Her ability to speak was removed very early on, and she was taught entirely in Japanese whilst from her second year onwards she was dressed only in lavish silk kimonos, albeit still in the muted colours of the St. Werburgh uniform.

Upon graduation and certification, her legal documents renamed her Takayama Yukiko and married her to her sponsor whom she was shipped off to the very next day, her physical dollification complete just as ours was beginning. Like Heather, her previous identity was erased completely, yet unlike that lucky girl she was transformed into a lesser race, not a higher one. None of us could understand why Takayama had not simply used a Japanese girl for his desires.

Years later I received an answer which would have shocked me then: Dolling is illegal in many countries, although bringing over a foreign-made Doll to Japan is not. Apparently, quite a few Asian and African devotees of the Leisurely and Doll ideals do the same as was done to Yukiko, even some Russian comrades in the Kremlin if rumours are to be believed, though they more often consult with expedited modification clinics than with a full boarding school like St. Werburgh’s, where the utmost refinement and a tailored curriculum mark it as world-class — with a tuition to match.

Aficionados from the continent are relatively common, while the Americans have their own strange methods, so they rarely purchase brides from England, but that’s another story.

Book 2 Chapter 16

Mar 22nd, 2019

4202 words

June 2049

The well-conditioned hospital air coursed over my skin, giving me goosebumps, as ten or twelve of us stood in two rows, naked and on display in front of the assembled Dollmakers in their spectacles and white coats. Chief amongst them in the communal recovery room was Doctor Eaton, a man of considerable reputation. Royals, celebrities, well-informed foreigners, and nearly all of England’s Dolls came through his dedicated Auxiliary Wing at Great Ormond Street Hospital to get work done, and though he obviously didn’t touch every one of us personally, with many doctors and nurses and even some newer automaids running the operation, he remained the lead innovator without a doubt. You might imagine him as part fashion designer, part scientist, part philosopher on the female condition, for what he was doing was revolutionary and we were truly overjoyed to be in his presence!

Or I should have been overjoyed, if I had been a good Doll, an object of empty mind, but I was not. I don’t know what coursed through my body in higher dosages; fear or despair? For I was not only a Doll in mind or on paper, I was now a Doll in the flesh!

I remember it like it was yesterday, the moment I woke up in bed after a seemingly-endless slumber, a void that stretched for days, weeks, months, I could not say at the time. Upon waking my eyes blinked wide open, suddenly flooded with a bright white light prompting fiery pain that slowly faded to a dull ache from disuse, but as much as I tried, they would not close! They absolutely would not let me return to the safety of my dream! No, they just blinked away, automatically, endlessly, staring at nothing, refusing even to focus on the panel ceiling above me.

At that moment I knew my transformation was complete. Irreversibly complete.

I wasn’t privy at the time, but nearly three months had passed since our graduation, during which we had been mostly unconscious or in various states of ‘diagnostic trance’ which I could not remember, recovering from the myriad of surgeries and operations which had changed us, altered our bodies to this ideal, pure unit of womanly essence in which I was now entrapped.

My body wouldn’t move. Even though I felt completely unbound, no corset, no neckwear, no bracelets, resting on a spartan hospital mattress with just a light sheet over me, nothing above my waist even twitched. I could move my legs, but even that felt strange, like somehow the musculature was all off; different, weaker. There would be no eloping to the countryside in my future.

I didn’t feel gagged, so reflexively I called for help, but I heard nothing but a consistent beeping from bedside machines to my left. Of course, I chastised myself, this mouth wasn’t designed to do such things anymore. Nonetheless, morbidly curious even as true panic simmered under the surface, I tried screaming as hard as I could, and nigh but a soft whistle like the wind past an open window escaped the hole in my neck. No air travelled through my mouth or nose, leaving my altered tongue useless whilst my thick, pouty lips kept the swollen channel warm, wet, and inviting inside.

I stared at the ceiling and flexed my feet, of which only my toes wiggled slightly, wondering if one of the other beeping machines in the room was hooked up to my sister. Or Althea. Or maybe they were elsewhere in the ward.

It took a couple hours for a nurse to notice that I was awake, and luckily I was quite practised in waiting by now. This one wasn’t an automaton, but she didn’t talk much more than one, going about most of her routine checks as if I weren’t even here.

Fingers in front of my face, “Follow it.” Instinctively I tried, but there was no response, my eyes refused to even focus.

“Gooood.”

A tickle in my feet which made me squirm from the waist down whilst my face simply stared off.

“Gooood.”

Another tickle against my cold, unshielded armpits. Inside I was giggling desperately, begging her to stop, but she saw none of that, merely my legs gently shuffling at the sheets, my hips tilting and twisting so slightly, so enticingly, testing their new limits.

“Gooood.”

And then this woman, with her gall, pinched my left nipple between her thumb and forefinger as hard as she could, like a vice! I kicked out with all my might, my upper body shaking around, jostling something heavy on my chest which must have been my new breasts, but still my spine remained rigid on the bed, my face remained coy and undisturbed, my eyes blinked away at the blurry, shaking image of the nurse looking down at me from up high, and my throat automatically swallowed the sweet, musty, excess saliva that I hadn’t noticed accumulating in my puffy, toothless hole of a mouth.

No arms came to the rescue, and they never would again.

“Gooood.”

She stopped her harsh test, but the pain never received the telegram. As the blood slowly returned to my teat, pins and needles remained, and I squirmed silently side to side, my phantom arms reaching, pawing at nothing to rub it better. The nurse noticed my shuffling and didn’t like this behaviour, slapping my cheek firmly! I couldn’t even flinch.

“School rules still apply, young lady, knees and heels together until we come to take you for a walk, or we’ll have to tie you down.”

I had no desire to cooperate after the myriad trials they had put me through, or what was left of ‘me’, but I knew there was no hope in petty resistance here and there. Actually, now that I had even a moment to think about what had happened, what I’d finally become, there was no hope at all. Every element of my daily dress and strict training had been internalised, forever, and I would never escape from that which was of my body. After returning to proper pose, or what parts I still had control over, the nurse straightened my covers and then fluffed my pillow a bit.

“Good girl. Now who wants her first real meal as a Doll?” she asked, but the nurse wasn’t foolish enough to wait for a response which would never come.

A large object from some tray out of my sight, clear so as to reveal the puréed meal inside, was held up for me to inspect, and Dame Henderson’s lessons came flooding back. This was a ‘decanter’, a crystalline phallus in all but name, the soft plastic spear approximately the size of a cucumber, interrupted by the subtle ridges of a glans on one side to indicate which end the beige nutriment leaked from when sufficiently encouraged.

The nurse held it there for but a short moment, my eyes still refusing to even focus for me, before the decanter was slowly but firmly pushed into my mouth, my lips acting like an elastic ring, my jaw opening as if on springs, engulfing the intruder and keeping a tight seal around it, as my toothless mouth expanded to accommodate the girth and length of the vessel, but kept contact with it all over. In it went, deeper, past subdermal bumps and ridges it couldn’t enjoy, past where my gag reflex should have been, and within a few moments my throat and mouth were flexing, pulsing, vibrating; my tongue uncontrollably dragging it’s shortened tip down the underside of the soft plastic, coaxing the wet meal out of the cock and down my throat whilst all I tasted was the flavour coating on the plastic; something salty, semisweet, mild; something oddly reminiscent of Sir Wainwright’s seed.

I want you, dear Reader, to think about your unconscious breathing. See? Now you’re breathing manually, able to hold it or take as deep of a breath as you like. But as soon as you read on, mind elsewhere than your bodily functions, you don’t suffocate, do you? No, your lungs return to their rhythm, some other part of the brain taking over behind the curtain. That’s what this was like, except much of the pulsing was not in my control. I could take over for my tongue, I could stop it for a moment or push a little harder, but lest my mind wander it was back to its job, licking and swirling away, massaging the object in my mouth with a slow rhythm that somehow never repeated. And it didn’t stop when the food was gone, no it wasn’t that smart. Only when the nurse came back about half an hour later and pulled out the empty vessel, my mouth-hole emitting an indecent, wet, slurping sound as air rushed past my drooling lips to fill the void, was I finally given some peace from the vibrations and undulations, conducting loudly in my ears. And with the exit of the tip, my jaw closed and my lips returned to their elastic pout, the leftover spittle dripping from my lips the only indication anything had even happened.

To put it bluntly and quite unladylike, it was disturbing. And to think, I had wanted the Dollmakers to work their magic on my body for so long! I had desired it deeply, desperately, ever since Chastity and I were but tiny girls under the impression it was literal magic — a swish and a flick — which had made our Mummy the way she was.

And plenty of the girls in this room laying stock-still on all the other beds were probably shaken but undoubtedly delighted to finally be transfigured into the body they had always dreamt of! I wasn’t so sure I still understood them or their dreams, but there was no option now but to go along with it all, as whatever I thought or believed was no longer anyone’s concern. I was not unlike a vase, undeniably beautiful but with a singular purpose, a vase to be sold to a husband Father deemed appropriate. I hated to see it this way, the same as before now through a tainted and cracked refraction, but my eyes were open — irreversibly so — and this was my life now.

That afternoon I went for my first walk. The first visitor from my past life, my automaid, came in with her ‘H’-engraved faceplate, dressed in a temporary white Auxiliary Ward uniform, and gently patted my now-cherubic cheek to get my attention, though it was hardly needed. Anything other than the blurry ceiling and the idle sounds of my recovery room were raucous news. Much like the nurse before her, she held up a fleur-de-bouche which Nanny had long-promised, and in it went to seal my drooling ‘O’-mouth, after which she lifted my proud torso up and shifted my legs over the edge of the bed, much like every other morning when I had worn my rigid night stays. This time though there was no wet nappy, nor were there hands laying unused by my sides. I was complete, and as regretful as I was then about the whole affair, I assure you a significant part of me still felt complete indeed.

The other part of me was struggling with the new weights on my chest, a burden I had never had to consider with my young, undeveloped mounds. Catching two pink nipples in the bottom of my vision, I yearned to look down and check them for myself, but I knew from our preparations all a Doll really had to: that they would be perfectly proportioned for cradling and appreciating in my man’s hands, and in the slight chance that he didn’t have them enhanced further, they would stay perfectly pert over my lifetime. All this despite the marvellous fact that the tissue was wholly natural, all me, triggered by two months of localised genetic growth injections. Not so natural was the process which had dyed my areolae a distinctive shade of pink, a shade I remembered from the nether lips of Dame Henderson during her demonstrations, a shade that was most likely replicated on the other end of my torso in a place I would never lay eyes on again. My free teats still jutted out far enough to penetrate the bottom of my gaze toward the mythical horizon, though, as the injections would leave my nipples permanently erect and hypersensitive for years to come.

Even though I could not look downward nor indeed any direction but straight ahead, upright as I sat, I could see the two rows of other Dolls beds arranged along the lengthier walls, about a dozen or so in this room, undoubtedly more elsewhere. All were lying quietly, some with eyes open, blinking and fluttering their lashes every so often, others still asleep. It seemed that gaze was the only indicator to which, for they all rested the same way: flat, hairless, silent, armless, still, pure, with legs together, toes pointed downward in line with their shins. Their undisturbed bedsheets were each tented by a bosom multiple times their original endowment, erupting prominently upward but spread gently by gravity, their new bodies ready to be owned and enjoyed like a proper woman’s should be.

As my maid slipped my feet into some old training heels from home, for I couldn’t wear flats anymore if I tried, I attempted to direct my gaze toward the face of the Doll in the bed next to me, I tried with every ounce of concentration I had, but my eyes just blinked mindlessly, refusing my commands. All I could tell from my peripheral vision was that she was bald, ready for a wig, and her lips, eyes, and breasts looked much like mine felt. Was that Chastity? Althea? Someone else? If it was Chastity, did her and I still look the same?

I got my answer later on my walk, as my unsteady legs strained to keep up with my maid’s pace around the Auxiliary Ward’s many halls. I was exhausted by the first lap but we did five, coaxed on by gentle taps on my now-prominent rear that threatened to not be so gentle if I slowed any further. Each time we passed my recovery room I wanted to direct my tiny mincing steps toward the door, but it didn’t take much effort on my maid’s part to imply that my choice or feelings were of no consequence here, and we would continue on other lap, my groans and sighs and frustrations left completely silent upon the air that puffed out of my neck. On the way back though we stopped in front of a mirror, my loose hospital gown removed quite unceremoniously, and I was left to gaze vaguely at the Doll I had become, albeit unclearly…

And she was beautiful!

I too was bald, as had been made obvious by my chilly scalp, but not only that, I was entirely hairless, my fluttering eyelashes long and obviously fake, and my eyebrows carefully drawn onto my fake-looking skin. Upon seeing my face, I knew I was finally my mother’s daughter, and by that I don’t mean Clarice. My innocent doe eyes and over-inflated lips reminded me of hers, and my nose had been made so cute and button-like I doubted it was still functional. Luckily, I had a new way to breathe. The hole in my neck drew unnaturally-cool air into my lungs, skipping the warming process of the sinuses and throat. It was bare now but would be filtered and decorated with its own small, plastic flower soon enough.

I tried to smile, to frown, to speak, to even blink, but not a single thought escaped the confines of my head. This foreign Hope Doll just gazed at me with wanton desire and thoughtless, suggestible innocence, like she was waiting for me to answer a question about whatever inconsequential concerns floated around such an empty skull. Actually, she looked as though she had never had a care or concern since her birth in some factory mould.

And I couldn’t look away. So I used my blurry periphery again.

Below, my now-useless shoulders were still prominent, still there, but made more delicate, less wide-set, as if they had never had a purpose but to hold up the straps of a dress, though in reality they held up something else, and for this reason my spine and collarbones had been fused in such a way to force my augmented chest forward and my boosted behind back, not unlike the dramatic S-bend corset styles that gained popularity in the 1910s and were making a comeback lately. In my worthless opinion, this enforced figure made me look not elegant but salacious and peppy, like I was eager to offer my brand new bust to any passerby who cared to pay attention to me for even a moment. I tried my best to recall our prayers for mindlessness we had practised in sunday service.

Speaking of corsetry, though, my waist was now shockingly slim, thanks to two rows of removed ribs, and although I would still need constricting stays to get down to my standard fifteen-to-sixteen inches, it would be easier, and I would look much better without them, if my future husband was so inclined behind closed doors. Though the slighter waist fooled my eyes, I could swear that my hips were noticeably wider, and it wasn’t just the same padding that filled out my bum. My thighs, though a bit heartier than the youthful twigs they had been before, seemed to be actually wider-set now, and because of this they didn’t actually touch until my knees met, leaving my new, plastic petals open to the cool air as we strutted away from the mirror, my thin gown draped around me once again, covering my drawn-back, limbless shoulders and the temporary tattoo of my name and Father’s emergency contact info along my clavicle. I guess us girls were easy to mix up now, as my worry about twindom had been unfounded: barring differences in height and I suppose eye colour, I could’ve been sisters with any of my classmates. Indeed, in a sense we were sisters.

All this was not my final form, I knew this. Wigs were still to be glued on, new corsets to be fitted, and the hormonally-induced growth done to my breasts and behind would continue to grow naturally with age as I fully matured into an adult, for these were not simple, 20th century implants. On top of this, my features had not been deviated from the Society Standard Enhancement Suite, the same template enacted on Emily Battersby in her story, but my husband would be more than welcome (indeed encouraged) to return me here for custom enhancements at any time after our marriage, as most were wont to do.

But it is important to acknowledge that the Society Standard is a code of aesthetics, not a strict recipe, and it had changed about a year after Emily’s final surgery, as it often did as Doctor Eaton practised and perfected new techniques for the Society’s property. This chapter started off with me and my class about to learn about this new addition, three days later.

At attention we stood entirely nude in front of Doctor Eaton and his Dollmakers for their team inspection, backs arched to gently present what had once been youthful curves; now full, natural, gravity-defying breasts projecting off our chests, lining the bottom of our peripheral vision along with our ruby red lips and fleur-de-bouche flowers. Our bare plasti-skin featured not a blemish nor a scar, save for when some freckles had been ordered here and there.

Doctor Eaton cleared his throat, and though our faces did not change, the master had our utmost attention.

“Now which group is this one? Ah yes, Werburgh Class Four. Now, let me offer my apologies in advance: this is going to be new and important information for all of you, but I’ve given this demonstration three times today already and countless times before. I’ll try not to miss anything, sorry if I do. Now, do we have any volunteers to be my guinea pig for the class?”

Silence. Well, actually just the small padding noises of our mules against the linoleum floor, trying our best to stay upright. None of us would be quite adjusted to our new centre of gravity for some time yet.

“No? Okay how about this one?” he said before grabbing the Doll next to me and guiding her forward to stand in front of us all. It was only a moment later, with her ID marks passing just by my field of focus, that I realised that he had picked Chastity! Thank God! From all accounts she was still a mirror image of me, and me of her, even in our new image; and though I still hadn’t quite forgiven her, we were family — more importantly twins — and I was desperate to keep that unique bond, even through this.

“Tell everyone what your name is, sweetheart. No? Okay so surely you lot notice that… what is it here… Chastity Hodgkinson… well she’s a completed Doll like you are, and I know your teachers did a fine, fine job explaining how your bodies will work now, but I’ve added a couple… uhm… features that they weren’t expecting. You’re the first graduating class to get this, and I think I’ll keep it exclusive to certified Werburgh Dolls like you for a while. Anyways, listen up and watch if you can.”

Without further adieu, he lifted Chastity’s round butt up onto a large, padded display table, and laid her down flat with legs together as Dolls were supposed to properly rest if not presenting themselves for amatory usage. Rotating the table, we could see open air under her inflexible back, with only her head, shoulders, and supple bottom actually resting on the flat surface.

“You’ll notice that this Doll’s backbone, like all of yours, has more of a curve than most of you are familiar with. The way you walk will still be refined and elegant, I assure you, with some practice. I will suggest to your owners the softest mattresses and a specially-moulded pillow to support you, do not worry.”

After this, he let his hands run down the many accentuated curves of Chastity’s new body. While these were all medical professionals, I suddenly felt as though my body were the specimen of this demonstration in front of all my peers, and in a way it was. Doctor Eaton continued his inspection until he reached one of her delicate, unbending ankles. Another Dollmaker grabbed the other one, and we all silently gasped in surprise as they pulled her straight legs in separate directions quite unnaturally until Chastity was doing a perfect splits, exposing her pink, picture-perfect, sculpted plastic labia and permanently-swollen lovebud to all of us, even as she simply stared at the ceiling with that blank, coquettish smile at the edges of our thick lips, seemingly-oblivious to being on display. Was that a hint of red on her cheeks? Could we still blush? Knowing my sister, oh she must’ve been so embarrassed!

Doctor Eaton continued. “You all may have noticed it was a little tough to walk about these last couple days, and I know it’s been hard, but be thankful: we have actually devised a new way to add some flexibility to you girls!

“The life of a Doll is largely sedentary, as you know, and compared to common girls who can be active in such womanly endeavours as housework, equestrian pursuits, and ballet, your joints and muscles can become stiff and limited when you get older from sitting in one position. Our rearrangement of your ligaments and muscles makes you a bit weaker, harder to step forward, I know, but just look at what we have accomplished!” he gestured toward my sister’s extended legs.

The doctor looked as if he had expected some fanfare. “Well, none of you are going to be running around, anyways,” he said more toward his colleague than to us, and the two of them shared a chuckle that I didn’t appreciate.

As if this was all inadequately shocking, the two doctors told us to pay attention and began to pull even farther, past where a body’s natural limits should have been, and after two soft pops that could only have been her hips or some mechanism within, Chastity had her straight legs and en pointe toes touching against her armless shoulders, the elastic silicone skin of her strained inner thighs pulling, spreading her nether lips and exposing what recesses the class hadn’t already seen of mine and my sister’s likely-identical genitalia.

It started with someone in the back, but the class began to ‘clap’ for the Doctor’s riveting display by lightly clicking their heels on the linoleum floor, something we had been taught at school to do in only the most worthy occasions, as I stared blankly towards the Dollmakers bowing their heads in pride and gratitude, absolutely appalled.

Book 2 Chapter 17

Mar 23rd, 2019

2282 words

After a few more days of getting used to our new bodies, walks around the ward, inspections, functional tests, and of course long stretches of silent repose, Father finally arrived to retrieve us, his autobutler laden with boxes and bags of new corsets, dresses, shoes, all perfectly moulded to our new forms. I realised with much sorrow that all my favourite dresses at home would have to be discarded due to my new measurements, which of course had changed dramatically, my slim almost-angular figure resculpted into alluring curves which needed to be highlighted in my wardrobe henceforth. Before our transition, this was the kind of event that would’ve occupied Chastity’s thoughts for days, and so too our conversations. Now she kept such concerns and excitement to herself.

Our hair had been affixed the day before: new, flawless blonde locks like Mum’s, glued semi-permanently to our plasti-skin scalps, but otherwise all we had worn that week of recovery were our hospital gowns and undecorated, utilitarian fleur-de-bouches, and the relative freedom therein. You might not think this luxurious, especially with the elegant prison that my body had become, but given this time without my wardrobe and it’s constraints, I was not looking forward to returning to the endless routine of extreme waist-training.

And surely, as soon as Father’s warm embrace was over and the semi-believable, unanswerable compliments and well-wishes were behind us, I was unwrapped from my hospital gown and the inspection of his new purchase began. His pliable sense of decency did nothing to restrict his large hands from checking the plumpness of his own daughter’s behind, from testing the elasticity of my jaw, from inspecting my slight, empty shoulders for scars, from encircling my waist with newfound ease; from checking to see if his investment had been sound.

He refrained from touching my breasts, letting a visual check for symmetry suffice, which I was truly thankful for, as whatever infusion or bath that had chemically altered the outer layer of my skin had also made it incredibly sensitive, and I was already tingling in all the places he had grabbed me. Indeed, the soft plasti-skin treatment left me so sensitive that I started to become quite warm, flushed, and quick of breath, a reaction I didn’t yet fully understand, but I had a strong feeling that I didn’t want to be so affected by my own father. I wasn’t comfortable at all with him seeing me naked in the first place, never mind the rest, but such checks seemed prudent, and a Doll’s concerns matter not.

A quiet, involuntary swallowing motion, the first audible greeting he had received from my blank face, must have made him aware that my mouth was readying for its new purpose with him so near, that my new body did not distinguish one man from another, that it cared not of societal mores, and with a quick readjustment of his spectacles he stepped away and gave the cue for our maids to dress me. I instinctively went to reach for the lacing bar, but nothing happened, and no one noticed.

Oh I remember wanting to cry then and so many times in those first months, but my body just refused. Heavy breathing, quivering legs, a slight blurring of my already near-useless vision; that was it, that was all that resulted of my internal hurricane of emotions. Nothing else responded, and such simple gestures kept eluding me for a long time, until I gradually stopped trying. Where once I would’ve snuck a glance here or there, now it was impossible. Where before I might have flexed my shoulders or stretched my back, testing the limits of my braces and corsetry when none were looking, now the very thought was beyond me, the recipe was lost. And even though I had always been passive whenever my servants dressed me, bathed me, or cleaned my behind, it had always been customary, a privilege, a luxurious choice. That choice was gone now; utterly gone.

Such were my thoughts as my new corset was brought out of its box, cleared of fine tissue paper, fitted with a protective liner, and wrapped around my bare, defenceless torso. From the corner of my eye it looked a tad more elaborate than my old stays, with straps and metal clips hanging, but I was unaware of their purpose until the quick-clasps on the front were closed and the gradual tightening began from behind. For one difference, the corset had large cups to push up my new chest, and as the air was squeezed from me and my foreshortened ribcage allowed my waist to become slimmer than it had ever been before, I felt my engorged nipples uncomfortable resting, grazing across the edge of the bust, pointing out and likely to make any fabric overtop tent indiscreetly. But once the laces were tied off, my lungs participating in their eternal battle for air once again, chest heaving as short breaths puffed out of my neck, my automaid carefully lifted my now-substantial left breast and reached beneath into the cup to retrieve an elastic strap with a spring-loaded clip, and snapped the rubber-coated teeth onto my now-thick pink teat, HARD!

Oh the pain! It felt like when my ears were pierced as a little girl, multiplied, amplified, and the pain seemed to have no plans of ebbing or ceasing. After my experience with the nurse, my poor nips just couldn’t catch a break! I stamped my heel and bent at the waist, saliva pooling behind my gag as my useless tongue moved around, trying to scream, trying to beg my servant to take it off, to rub the pain away, but I could only stand there breathing heavily and gaze into nothingness with a look of empty happiness on my face as a thousand sewing needles seemed to thread into me.

It seemed my protestations garnered some attention, though it was not of the nature I desired.

“For god’s sake, Hope! Stand up straight!”

Father ceased inspecting Chastity, strode over angrily and grabbed me by my slender neck, lifting till I was standing straight again, my perched feet still stepping weakly, but his grip was much too firm to ignore. The three of us were in a private changing room with just our personal staff, but he spoke to me in hushed tones all the same.

“Dear, you have the knack of dishonouring us seemingly every time we’re in public together, don’t you? You’re your mother’s daughter, without a doubt! But my patience is thin. Do you realise how hard it’s been to secure proper suitors for you and your sister after your little charade on stage last Spring? No? Of course you don’t. Dim or difficult, that’s how you came across on that stage, and neither are becoming of a girl as blessed as you. And to think, after the leniency I showed you this Christmas! Your actions continue to reek of inconsideration, disrespect, and ungratefulness for all I have given you. I could have sent you off to some Swiss boarding school for years, I could have enforced reverse-prayer from age eight as the Hartfords next door did with their daughter, but no; I was lenient. Well no longer! Now stand up straight and return to proper form!”

He released his hold, keeping his eye on me, and then deliberately secured the other clip himself, depressing the spring all the way before letting it snap down on my right nip. Shocked and terrified by his pent-up tirade, I dared not move. My thighs flexed, my toes curled, my whimper was already suppressed, but under his testing gaze I dared not budge, even if my whole body wanted to convulse.

And then he softened, like he always did, his face still resolute but caring, and he began to rub the pain away, receiving my body’s lewd offering in his hand, massaging me, abandoning modesty for his daughter in distress. “My dear Hope, my sweet girl. You should get used to this. It would make life easier for all of us.”

I wanted to grab onto my Pappa, embrace him, cry into his chest, tell him how much I hated this new life, how much I didn’t want his hand on me there, how much the clips still hurt yet how preferable of a sensation they were to the flushness I felt at his mere touch, that he should just hide me away until we could work on reversing what the Dollmakers had done. But I did not. My eyes did not plead, my voice failed to whimper, my phantom arms grabbed at nothing. They couldn’t, nor did I try this time. I had been naught but a Doll in his eyes for years now, regardless of certification or actualization surgery, and it would’ve been utterly fruitless. I knew that now.

So instead of reacting to the pain, or silently pleading to God for my freedom in futility, I simply swallowed the tangy lubricant that had built up behind my fleur-de-bouche and did what he told me to, like a good Doll should.

He nodded to himself as much as me, and left my maid to fiddle below my line of sight. Slowly I felt my breasts pull into their new homes, my pinched nipples seemingly hooked on fishing lines, dragging down inside the firm, silken bust material so their immodest yearning would be hidden, and stay that way. They continued to throb in protest, pulsing with my heart beat, straining as every laboured breath sent my chest up and down pulling at their anchors, but nothing was to be done about it. My limited hyperventilation eventually eased.

I felt halter straps grazing my bare thighs, and something else, something longer, hanging down like a tail between my legs, which my maid grabbed and brought forward to buckle in the front. Dame Henderson had once said this underbelt was very important to keep wedding gifts and other accessories inside us, but virgin as I was, the tight belt simply pressed into my altered womanhood teasingly, reminding me of my night with Althea. This didn’t help at all.

Speaking of which, where was she?

I was then sat down, my mules removed, and stockings were rolled up my legs, clipped into my garters, after which I was helped into proper footwear: heeled travelling boots which took full advantage of my tightened achilles tendon, all before I was lifted to standing once again by two firm, mechanical hands around my compressed waist. Following this, a petticoat, a simple slip camisole and a lavender travelling dress were pulled over my head and zipped up. No sleeves, just like Mum.

The whole process was over much sooner than I was used to, for without a flowing chemise under the new stays, nor drawers, nor even the now-superfluous nappy, I found myself in far fewer underlayers, bringing to attention my sensitive nethers which were now merely covered by the leather strap under my long dress, subject to the eddies and winds underneath. What’s more, my daily makeup had been permanently painted on my expressionless face, leaving little to do in that department but powder and highlight.

My maid held onto a padded overcoat of rich violet, saving it for later. I had never much cared for violet or lavender, but tracing it back now, I had only ever told Chastity that. Oh well, no one was ever going to ask again. My hair was touched up, my monogrammed locket was draped across my chest, nestled in my now-ample cleavage, and we began our laborious trek through the halls of Great Ormond toward reception and the porte cochere.

Every step was a struggle, first to pull my knee forward, then to set my foot down and get my toes and ankle stable, then to transfer my weight over onto a leg I didn’t fully trust anymore, only to repeat seemingly ad infinitum. Chastity wasn’t much faster, and we minced slowly along with our maids, showing no external signs of our tiring effort except for a slight blush in the cheeks and the rapid, desperate wind fluttering the roses set into our necks. It would take some time to recover the graceful glide that we had perfected at school.

We were almost rid of this horrid place when Dr. Eaton himself rounded the corner and my impatient Father was suddenly all business and smiles, thanking the architect of our silicone prison for all his hard work. A short discussion, an exchange of business cards, and a handshake later and we were free… or not.

“Now, girls, how about you show your appreciation by giving the esteemed Doctor a kiss on the cheek?”

Without a second to spare, our maids deflated and removed our fleur-de-bouches, freeing our mouths to rest in that plump, not-quite-closed ‘O’ shape that this man had designed, before pushing us forward to simply press our swollen, lips onto his cheek whilst he entertained us by bending down to make it easier.

“Well aren’t you pretty Dolls so sweet! And well-behaved, my my. Mr. Hodgkinson, Alan, is it? You’ve made a wonderful investment entrusting your daughters to St. Werburgh’s and to my ward, I’m just glad I could do my part in getting your girls ready for a proper marriage, and a pure life filling their proper holes— I mean roles, sorry— in our Society. Ring me if you experience any unexpected issues.”

The two shook hands before the good Doctor lilted, “Bye bye, now!” making sure he was in our area of focus as he patronised us, waving as one would to infants or pets before heading on his merry way.

Book 2 Chapter 18

Mar 26th, 2019

3410 words

If I thought home had been quiet during Christmastime, the word gained new meaning once we returned from our dollification. Us girls had been completely silenced and made as elegant and passive as one can aspire to be. Nanny and the rest of our bustling staff were long gone, replaced with servants whose joints whirred and said no more. Now that several months had passed since their installation, the staff all knew their routines quite well, keeping them out of sight and mind, save for our automaids. While I missed Nanny dearly, in need of her sober wisdom and caring now more than ever, it made sense that Father would make this transition while we were away. He had made himself not unlike our Headmaster, the only free variable in this grand machine sustaining our prosperous and refined lifestyle, and when he wasn’t at the bank, Father retreated to his study for much of each day.

Everything was in perfect order, and truly the songbirds outside were louder than us.

This left us to our new schedules, daily rhythms that made our school life seem positively vibrant. Every day would begin at eight, whether or not we had awoken earlier to stare pointlessly at the plaster ceiling, or were still dozing. Three gentle slaps to the cheek, and without a moment to shake the sleep from our minds, our maids would unbind us from the bed, sit us up, slip some high-heeled mules on our feet, bring us to standing, and then lead us to the Doll’s toilette. Their iron grip made any thought of dalliance inconceivable.

Usually I was first, turned around, my rear hole aligned carefully with the cool tip of the toilet’s plastic spear, before my maid would lower me toward the resting saddle, the seat, my remodeled anus reluctantly expanding to accept the long cleaner. With my modified legs, their musculature seemingly rearranged, elasticised, and then weakened by weeks of sedated bedrest, I was quite unable to resist or lift myself back off the invader, instead feeling it ceaselessly penetrate my rear, deeper and deeper, as I could only wait for its distinctive click once I had bottomed out, cheeks touching the cool seat. That click signified that the tip had attached to the valve deep inside what used to be my rectum. Once that connection was secure, I would wait for the steady jet of slightly-cool enema solution to flush yesterday’s meals and drink out of me, each internal rinse taking a minute or two, held and released back down the probe’s central conduit. This would be followed by a single rinse for the outer rectal cavity, which had been remodeled quite like my vagina and mouth, and then a dissolving pessary to leave my once-foul orifice smelling as fresh as a Lady’s should be.

As an unwed Doll, I was not allowed nor really required to experience a similar rinse in my new vaginal canal, and so once my internal cleaning was complete, I would be promptly lifted up off the impaler and led to the showers whilst Chastity had her turn.

Glad to warm it up for you, sis…

With our method of breathing now open and quite unprotected from foreign substances, our luxurious baths were deemed far too much of a drowning risk, so my maid would shed me of my nightie, overnight stays, shoes, and fleur-de-bouche, before leading me on my unstable tiptoes into the large shower, only to secure me in a wide, rigid belt set off about a foot from the wall, which firmly grasped me by the waist and kept me from wandering or falling over.

Like all the bonds in my life, this waist-cincher would’ve been trivial to remove for a man or a commonwoman, anyone with hands to release the simple clasp. But for me it was quite secure — utterly impenetrable in fact — so I would usually be left there for a moment, free to shift my weight between the balls of my feet and stare blankly whilst my open lips drooled uncontrollably down my chin and dripped between my tits, my front and rear holes both slowly leaking similar juices down my thighs.

You see, this amount of discharge may have been prompted by the feeling of the toilette entering me, but wetness was my new normal. It had begun with the inspections, then my father’s touch in the dressing room, and then it had simply stayed, settled on my skin like pollen on the carriageway, tingles and yearning reincarnated at the slightest trigger. It felt ridiculous, but I simply couldn’t shake the desire, the feelings of emptiness inside which before had only visited me in the most restless of nights, cuffed to my bed at school.

Oh yes, dear Reader: waiting for my maid to pull off her uniform and join me in the shower, I’m in heat already. I realise now that the Teachers fed me half-truths and incomplete explanations to make me feel like I understood my future, like I was in some way prepared for the dollification procedure, but no. Who could be truly prepared for such a change? I know my place in these bodily processes but I have no idea how they work, or what exactly was conducted during my long slumber to make me this way, so I can not explain to you exactly why I need a boy — no — a man to fill me so desperately right now, only weeks after our dollification and enhancements. I thought I would have more time before it became this difficult, much much more time.

Moments later I would be joined by Chastity, entirely nude as well, a form I was quite less ashamed of seeing by now, since we were prepared together every morning. Was she suffering from this desperation as well? How could I tell? How would you ever know from looking at us? No, you would have to take two or three of your large fingers and do a wetness check, plunging them in between my— excuse me, dear Reader, it is so easy to get carried away. Even now, years later, with a husband and regular sessions on the doll stand, my desires have not abated.

Where was I? Oh yes.

I was dripping because I was ready for my servant’s hands to clean my new body; the body which not only wasn’t allowed to touch itself, but had indeed been formed around that forbidding decree. I had been given no chance to learn the dark art that Althea had enacted with her fingers upon me that fateful December night, no, even my inner thighs now had such a wide gap as to make any rubbing or shifting completely ineffectual. They hardly even grazed what Dame Henderson had called my clitoris, the nub which she said would be enlarged as to always peek past my outer folds. So considering this and my new plasti-skin, every chance to be held, to be touched anywhere, was now a rare and irresistible treat. Emily only wrote about this urge a few times in her autobiographies¹, but I assure you it was (and still is) always present. That need for nonsexual contact is almost as urgent as the need between my legs, and indeed the two are inexorably linked, two facets of the same fiendish implant or snipped wire that dictates my new body’s desires. I stare across the shower stall at Chastity, drooling too.

So I would wait for the water to come on, too cold at first then often too warm, and eagerly watch my maid lather up the washcloth and exfoliate every square inch of me with precision. Those hands held no passion or sensuality as they cleaned me, I know this, but with no alternatives this cleaning was the closest thing I had to release. Our maids often spent a little extra time between our thighs, wiping away the dried traces of yesterday’s frustrations, as if they knew how much we leaked in desire but were conscious enough, sadistic enough, to keep millimetres away from our most sensitive parts, sentencing me to another day of staining my inner legs with my leakage, throwing off rich pheromones my perfumes barely managed to hide.

Our showers always finished much too quickly, and upon shutting off the water our maids would dry their waterproof shells first, each hard panel connected by flexible skin substitute not unlike our own, except purely synthetic and clinical white in colour. My maid would then reach up to her featureless mask and polish the golden ‘H’ which curled across her custom visage, and only then, once I had drip-dried, would the two maids towel-dry Chas and I, then plug our mouths again, unclasp our standing brace, and lead us to the wardrobe for lacing and dressing, and then the vanity for hair and makeup.

A young woman in a corset with a blank look sitting on the edge of her bed, half-naked. — Hope, half-dressed.

Such were our mornings, dried and dressed, clipped and tied, prepped and pampered, until we were ready to reveal ourselves to the main floor of our house. Each day we descended to join Father and his other Dolls for breakfast at nine-thirty, the four of us placed around the lesser dining table, waiting silently for him to finish his breakfast before he allowed us to begin ours. Apparently he found the slurping and rumbling we used to coax the nutritional mush down our throats quite distracting; unappetizing even.

You don’t say.

I wonder if Chastity missed scrambled eggs and vegan diet bacon as much as I did, never mind the real strips Father got to scarf down. Oh, to even draw fresh air through my nose and smell such quotidian bliss was an impossibility now. But whilst he ate whichever delicious morsel he had on his plate, he would discuss his day ahead, sometimes read the morning paper aloud, and update Chastity and I on the status of our potential suitors.

“Oh Chastity, darling, the Archibalds might not have the appropriate funds after their company’s stock took a steep dive last week. Far too much competition in the software markets these days, I told Richard such years ago, he should have diversified!”

Did he expect us to know what stocks were? Soft-what?

“And I’m sorry to say, the son of Duke Heston did not find you suitable during your private courting last weekend, Hope. He requested further enhancements I considered rather… unsavoury.”

The only response I could offer was a barely-audible growl of hunger, well insulated under the stays and many layers. I let out a short breath from my neck, a frustrated sigh, and with it my silent thoughts: “Not suitable, you say?!”

If I recall correctly, the future-Duke waited until we were alone in the garden to remove my fleur-de-bouche and begin testing how much of his clenched fist he could fit in my new mouth, mentioning how my father was a “bastard” for locking away my nether holes, even though this kind of debauchee was precisely the reason he had done so.

And many of the other courting sessions were similarly degrading. A gentleman caller who generously offered to massage my tired feet, but overstayed his welcome and became lost staring at them. A nouveau riche businessman who wanted a companion for his twelve-year-old son, “so the boy can enjoy his adolescent years without uncertainty, anxiety, and rejection.” Even by then, growing up with the lessons I had, I initially sympathised for the young man and wanted to help, to fulfill that almost-motherly role, until I took a moment to remember what they really wanted me for, what the man was saying between the lines.

Oh, Chastity would be appalled to hear such words if I could utter them, but no, I did not see total submission and unthinking devotion as my duty anymore, never mind “a pleasure to be of interest to any man.” That ship had sailed once I awoke, clear-eyed, in this new body. Now I simply existed. I had not been blessed nor perfected, I was changed and entrapped. So if they wanted a Doll, they would get a Doll, a passenger. Eagerness? Just take a look at my face, that’s all they’d get from me now. The Society had claimed my body, undoubtedly, but they had deemed my mind largely irrelevant to that conquest, leaving it for me to have all for myself.

How noble I sound. I assure you I only held my head so high because my neck was fused like so.

As soon as the clear decanters were buried in our mouths and we were mindlessly sucking on our breakfast, Father would rise, take an appreciative glance at all of us, his harmonizing choir of debasement buzzing away, perhaps squeeze Cushions’ breast in lieu of her removed hands and peck her cheek, and then leave for the office. What remained behind were four obedient objects doing what they were told: Chastity next to me, usually dressed in pink with her locket hanging off her neck, myself dressed similarly but in tones of violet or indigo, and then across from us Cushions or Mum, though I still had a hard time identifying her as my mother after such drastic changes done to her face, arms, bosom, and by Father’s telling, her personality. That left only Cuddles.

Oh my love, what had they done to you?

Cuddles, formerly my sweet Althea Burns, had arrived at the Hodkinson Estate about two or three weeks after we did, as Father had said she required some additional work beyond the Society Standard. Additional work indeed, as I could see absolutely none of my former co-conspirator and friend in what sat across from me, save for the luscious wig which imitated her once-natural, raven-black hair. Whereas the new faces Chas and I now bore were exaggerated, dollish caricatures of our old ones, Cuddles’ visage had been completely remodeled to be a mirror image of our mother, including the button nose set between large doe eyes which flapped their lashes dumbly. And whilst our lips were quite pronounced, taut with collagen, and immovable, they still looked like two distinct lips; but our classmate had been bestowed with the same continuous, fleshy ring as Mum had, so thick it would’ve almost occluded her nostrils (if she actually needed those to breathe anymore). To our blurry peripheral vision the two women’s faces were completely identical, which was truly shocking considering they had no familial ties and nearly twenty years between them.

That is where the similarities ended, though. Along with the identically-styled yet darker hair, Cuddles had much larger breasts than any of us, ones that Father once mentioned he used as pillows in bed. How he managed this I had absolutely no idea, as thankfully I had never been called to his bedroom as some other girls in school had insinuated of their homelife and duties. Unlike my breasts, which I thought were quite unwieldy but begrudgingly tasteful in proportion to my slight frame, there was no hope of Cuddles’ tits’ unbearable size existing unsupported, and so her corsets featured ridiculous busts, much like bowls set out for her overflowing flesh. Luckily she needed no walking cart like Emilia Delany, no, in some senses it was worse.

Whilst her waist had been likely deribbed like mine and laced to a fashionable fifteen inches or so, her hips had been structurally widened, padded, implanted, something, maybe all of the above, to give her one of the most dramatic hourglass ratios I had ever seen, rivalling or even exceeding Dame Henderson, not like I could ask. This was very important, as she would need her wide bottom to be very stable as she sat almost constantly from now on: for her thighs only extended for about a foot or so from her pelvis, their ends rounded and soft-looking, just peeking out from under the frills of her miniskirt, wrapped in custom stockings laden with little hearts and bows. The legs which had coyly and covertly reached over to kick me under the table at St. Werburgh’s were now just long enough to keep her from falling forward due to the considerable weights cultivated from her chest, now part of her, forever.

Yes, my love was now almost totally limbless, suffering a far more debilitating fate than I had previously imagined possible, and though I had expected those wonderful fingers to be discarded by Eaton and his assistants, I had not expected Father to take away her chance to walk alongside me too. She now sat on a finely-decorated ottoman, which Father had called an ‘auto-man’ as a jest toward it’s unique self-driving capabilities. She had no backrest to lean against, even though leaning was usually forbidden for us Dolls anyways on the grounds of such ‘slouching’ being lazy and unrefined (as if we could even enjoy the luxury of slouching our erect torsos now). No, instead of a backrest, there was a small bracket which attached securely to the rear of her corset, unifying the two, making sure her top-heavy torso was kept firmly upright on her new throne as it moved her to and fro without question.

Left in this state there was very little Althea was able to move anymore, and the only way we could see her displeasure at her new form was the little tantrums she would throw sometimes, kicking her tiny stumps up and down in frustration, resulting in little more than a jostling of her tits, an upsetting of the carefully-laid miniskirt, and a swift punishment from her maid which usually involved those sensitive mams. I think Father liked such shows of resistance, but even now he made strides to hide it.

Faced with such a radical suite of modifications, I wondered what Father had found unsavoury about the future-Duke’s request, and where exactly he drew that line for his daughters, for he had obviously left no line uncrossed for that sweet, lovely Companion which he had deemed no more than an “infectious lesbian wagtail” that cruel December morning.

And so, once we were done slurping, massaging, and coaxing down our second decanter — this one filled with water, vitamins, medication, and who-knows-what-else; tasting of some artificial, plasticky facsimile of chamomile or mint — Cuddles would often be the first to retreat from the table (not of her own volition, mind you), and we would soon be lifted to follow her wheels at our own mincing pace toward the drawing room, unable to look down and see where our toes stepped, our maids both imploring us to move with steadiness and grace unbefit to these burning calves, yet ready to catch us if we were to fall.

I will not describe to you the hours of waiting, sitting on this lounger or that chesterfield, yearning for a distraction or a touch with as much detail as I have given to the rest. On good days, if no one tripped or stamped or struggled (namely myself or what was left of Althea), we would enjoy massages, pedicures, classical music, or even a radio play on rare occasions. We may have sat in the garden under parasols if it was fair-weathered, or instead gone for an exhausting walk along the one grounds-path which had been paved in a grand loop for our simplified, unadventurous enjoyment; of course primarily meant to strengthen our legs somewhat and smooth out our gait like the old days. On some Tuesdays we would be joined by Emily Battersby for our activities, as her husband and Father had decided we should ‘socialise’ more. Eventually we were joined by her sister Anne as well, whom Mr. Battersby had saved from ‘unwomanly pursuits.’²

Such life persisted for many weeks, each day feeling endless, endless, repetitive, endless. That is, until the Collins men came to visit…

Such as when Humphrey holds Emily close to review Anne’s progress in her dollification, I believe she mentions such deprivation and yearning. You may find it here. ↩
Or so Mr. Battersby said, for we know full well of their troubles now. ↩

Book 2 Chapter 19

Mar 28th, 2019

2210 words

Jack Collins — or John Collins Sr. as no one called him — was a business associate of Lord Chittenham’s from my limited understanding. Father had been searching fruitlessly for months in pursuit of a financial advisor or a lawyer or whatever Mr. Collins was, having almost as many meetings and interviews for this role as for our future betrothals, but both hunts had been going quite poorly up to this point. Why he didn’t use his reputable bank associates I don’t know, but even in my indignation I did not suppose to understand such nebulous things as ‘business.’

Anyhow, Jack visited Father one weekend and, as was de rigueur for all guests on their first visit to the Hodkinson Estate, the four of us Dolls were presented in a neat row in the foyer, with Mother standing closest to the door as the silent matriarch and hostess. Behind us stood the whole waitstaff, autobutler and maids all present, so when Father greeted Jack at the porte cochere and walked him in, the man was visibly taken aback by us, curtsying one by one as we had practised (except Cuddles, whose ottoman scooted forward and back in lieu).

It was readily apparent our guest was not a Societyman as we had expected.

“Alan, you didn’t say you had such a lovely wife and family here waiting for my arrival. I would’ve been more punctual!” The middle-aged man looked shrewd, but still caught himself searching for a hand to kiss on Cushions’ statuesque form standing in front of him. “This is too much, good man, I thought we were going to have a casual chat or the like. Instead I’m greeted by such… such flawless elegance and etiquette!”

I swear I saw the twinkle of a salesman in my father’s eye. “Oh we are, Jack, we are. But being a guest in the house of a Societyman, the Society of Dolls I should say, well it comes with some formalities, touches of Victoria’s time that are in our hands to keep alive. You must know about this; your late wife was a Lady of Leisure, was she not?”

“Aye she was, before the mandate too… but… between you and me, her passing soured much of my taste for such pageantry and performance, and that was many years ago. Building the firm and raising John became the priority.”

“As it should, as it should…”

As modern negotiations hinged upon keeping up appearances, Mr. Collins continued. “As you are seeking out my services, Alan, you must already know I have been quite successful in my practise. Overwhelmingly so. So do not imagine me and my boy hard-pressed by our simpler way of life, I just keep our considerable assets relatively liquid. Speaking of, we just replaced our older AutoServe staff with brand new models!”

Upon the mention of staff, they began discussing topics about our maids much too technical for me to follow, until a lull in the conversation came.

“I will admit though, our terrace in Kensington has indeed lost that feminine touch that once made it a home, despite my son’s best efforts programming our smarter automatons.”

“Well, Jack, I do believe I can help you with that. You brought your pipe?”

“Of course.”

“Then let us retreat to my study.”

At this, my father guided him past the entryway and into the house proper, after which we followed, slowly, trying to hear them over our clicking heels.

“Did you know my boy will be starting his PhD this autumn, they grow up so fast!”

“Try raising girls, my friend. You have no idea…”

As the two men turned down the hall, our guides made it quite clear that we were to proceed elsewhere, back towards the doll room to resume our strict schedule, my favourite hobby of eavesdropping thwarted without a second glance.

Later, as I stood on my very own doll stand alongside my mother and sister, it’s phallic stimulators tragically removed, the saddle’s surface electrodes fired into me, sending tiny currents through my loins, tensing this muscle and that to keep my behind pert and firm in my days of inactivity. During this I was left standing, staring, inactive, much safer than if I were to do something immodest like exercise. Yes, lucky me was locked away upstairs again as little pinches ran over my inner skins, when what I really needed was a deep pounding to quench my fire, or perhaps just something to fill the emptiness below, to smoulder the flames. I was an unused Doll, and with every day I became more and more desperate for release. Had I been like this before my enhancements? It was proving difficult to see that chaste period of my life outside the lens of desire that now saturated my perspective. For not the first time or the last, my mind desperately cried out for some real stimulation, or at least a distraction, behind my innocent face. Visiting guests were the only event that broke the monotony: why were we being deprived of this too?

Little did I know then, but Father was laying the groundwork for our futures in this man he deemed quite respectable, gently educating him about the virtues of Dollhood and how a marriage projected trustworthiness upon young bachelors. Each time they met to discuss their business arrangements, Father would gently increase our presence and involvement. Perhaps Cuddles was allowed to sit next to the guest whilst the two men drank scotch, or perhaps Chas and I were doing our gait training off-schedule, albeit perfectly timed to pass them by as they strode along the grounds, to which Father would remark, “…you know they aren’t wearing bustles under those dresses.”

Sure enough, Mr. Collins seemed to warm to us quickly, soon wrapping his arm around whichever Doll was placed beside him, teasing them with his closeness, his warmth. Before long his hands were wandering whenever my Father glanced away, though I doubt he would have stopped our guest unless it was our mother in his grasp. Meanwhile, this deal of theirs seemed to go off without a hitch as papers were signed and hands were shaken only a few weeks later, after which Father held a celebratory dinner and invited a small group of friends, including some select few from the bank and their Ladies, Lord Chittenham and Belle, Mr. Battersby, Emily, and his new Doll Anne, and of course Mr. Collins, who happened to bring his son, John Jr.

John was… different. Different than any young man I had met before.

Fitted into my nicest stays, my waist compressed to an exhausting fifteen and a half inches, my dress and hair impeccable, I was sitting pretty in the drawing room with the other Dolls in my family, entertaining our guests as we were often left to do before dinner. Entertaining in this case meant listening silently to a selection of chamber music recordings that us Hodgkinsons must have heard nearly a hundred times by now. Father’s work associates, their leisurely wives, and the entertaining gossip that usually poured forth from their untamed mouths were yet to arrive, so it was just us Dolls as of yet. My maid had placed me so I was staring vaguely toward Cuddles and Chittenham’s Doll Belle, the latter of which — dressed about as scandalously as the last time we met — was not-so-subtly inching her well-rounded rear over toward my vase-like friend as if silently asking to ‘play’ when I heard the door open behind me.

A young man’s voice. “Oh dear. This is definitely the wrong room.”

The gruffer voice of Jack Collins interjected, rustling through the doorway and shutting it behind them, “No no, this is fine, I think they are deaf or something, maybe imbecilic.”

“Father, that’s not… p-please, let me return home to my studies.” he sounded like he wanted to say twenty things at once yet couldn’t muster enough courage to say anything decisively.

“Nonsense! We just arrived! No no, that won’t do.”

“B-but you have never needed me at one of these before, it’s true… uhm… especially not to arrange a simple offshore account. W-why am I even here?”

“Because of this, dear boy!”

John the younger grew nervous, obviously wanting to avoid the subject. “I’ve seen countryside manors before, Father.”

“No, look not at the house but what it houses. The furnishings, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, they’re absolutely horrendous. Straight out of the late 30s and that gaudy nu-rococo…”

I heard a sharp clearing of the throat that ended the effeminate critique. Then a short silence. A faint sound of a light clicking on.

“No… No. Father, please! I told you! I have no use for women in my life, I am much too busy! Does limitless energy mean nothing to you? The work I’m about to begin could take us into the 22nd century!! And these? Wha… what do I even do with them?”

The patriarch cracked a laugh. “What do you do with them!? My dear boy, I’ll show you what you do.”

Now the two men strode into my field of view, and I could assess John for the first time. It surprised me to find that he was properly dashing, far more so than I had expected from the complete vacuum of confidence in his voice, and more so than the vast majority of suitors who I had entertained before. Somewhere in his mid-twenties and impeccably dressed for a dinner such as tonight’s, the young man had a lean build and tall stature, both good indicators for my real interest in the superior sex these days. They quickly turned the opposite way though, facing Althea; Cuddles.

Mr. Collins leant down and released the valve in her fleur-de-bouche, deflating and pulling out the gag only to let the fine item drop to the floor haphazardly.

Behind my eyes I balked. How crude! Now it would gather dust from the carpet and who knows what else! Whereas the old Hope might have collected the nerve to stomp at the man for his carelessness, I knew my maid was somewhere nearby, out of sight, always watching. That said, they knew full well not to interfere at a time like this.

I watched in perfect docility as the man then shoved two of his meaty fingers into Cuddles’ awaiting mouth, all the way to the knuckles, and let her throat activate and perform its new functions, before looking at his son. “I imagine you get the picture, now?”

John was visibly taken aback, more so than anyone I had ever met. “That… that’s entirely unnatural. D-does she mind?”

“Well I have a feeling she might, but who cares? Do you hear her complaining? Do you see her even notice?” He pulled his wet fingers out and wiped them off on Althea’s dress as her dollified face betrayed nothing. As if on cue her open lips started to drool steadily, her wide bosom there to catch each and every drop. I could almost see her short thighs tense, trying to endure this treatment.

As Mr. Collins laughed at the sight, John stepped back in shock, “Father I… I can’t… I won’t!”

“Listen here, boy. You will be marrying someone, something,” Mr. Collins pointed directly at Cuddles now, perched on her stool, “because you’ll be marking yourself as a degenerate otherwise.”

“I’m not queer, Father. We’ve talked about this.” John asserted under his voice.

“Yes, yes, we’ve also talked about how you can hardly even look a woman in the eye, never mind court her. What about that pretty thing I saw you with last month?”

“What?? Priscilla!? I’d never! She’d never. It’s… I…”

“Now now, I’m trying to help you, son. Look at this one here.” He gestured to Chastity, seated somewhere to the right of me. “Isn’t she a picture of beauty? And behind those eyes is a girl absolutely devoted to you, if you want her.”

“D-do you really think so?”

“Yes. No. Who knows? With a face like that it doesn’t even matter! Listen, you can obsess over the ethics all you like, but you’re not going to sabotage my arrangement here, boy. I’ve worked long and hard to get in with these people, and if the tabloids are right about Her Royal Highness, the Society of Dolls is going to be clamouring with wannabes any day now.”

John was as silent as us, obviously unable to say what he was thinking, so his father wrapped his arm around him roughly.

“John, you can see this as a favour, or a decree from on high, it makes no difference to me, but you will be on your best behaviour tonight, and you will be marrying one of these girls if Alan offers her hand as I believe he will. And don’t test me, your tuition relies on it.” A pause. “And if you truly don’t need a woman in your life, these won’t give you much trouble.”

At that the pair walked out of my view and I heard the door close, and I’m sure the only thing keeping the room from devolving into a gossipy furore was our complete debilitation.

Book 2 Chapter 20

Mar 30th, 2019

3928 words

Indeed Father did offer John the prospect of marriage later that evening whilst the men were sipping on their digestifs in the study, but such courting was a long road, for we hardly even knew the young man. Father began his meetings with John the next week, testing the boy and measuring his character, and despite obvious social hangups, Father seemed to like his intelligence and candour, and approved John and us to begin ‘dating’ (the newer term enjoyed by the common girls).

Then came the great question: which one of us would marry John? Previously Father had split his prospects between us almost equally, though generally Chastity received the opportunity to court with the more well-placed suitors due to her flawless behaviour, but John had expressed an interest in testing the waters with both of us before he made a decision, though how he would discern between two utterly mute, identical twins I had no idea.

I remember as clear as crystal that first ‘date’ with John, for it was so unlike all the others that I had endured. It was a sunny day and I was sitting in the drawing room, oddly alone, staring into space and doing kegel exercises as we had been taught in school when, out of the corner of my blurred vision, I saw the door open and someone walk in. I did not know who it was at first because I could not turn, although I could tell that it was a man from the speed and steadiness of his movements and the sleek stylings and sombre colours of men’s suits. Man or not, I also realised this was someone who was entirely unaccustomed to being around Dolls.

Experienced gentlemen, mostly Societymen, always stand in front of us Dolls at first so that we can see who is addressing us. This also allows us the opportunity to witness the lecherous depravity play off across their faces as our bodies affect them so, often as they address our open bosom instead of our faces. A rather intrusive fondle or an unwelcome kiss to the cheek, while brazen and recklessly uncouth with a Lady who will undoubtedly snap back at first ungagging, is irreproachable with a Doll designed merely to enjoy such refreshing breaks to her monotonous life. Such is the doll’s lot.

But this man was different. To put it simply, he hadn’t a clue.

The man approached awkwardly and sat down next to me, out of my eyeline, shuffled a bit, cleared his throat and then said, “Hello Hope, I am so… delighted to be here with you. You look… uhm… you look lovely.”

I instantly recognised John’s voice and that, despite his words, he did not sound happy at all. In fact, he sounded decidedly uncomfortable and uneasy, and the compliment was a far less convincing courtesy than most, enunciated very carefully as if I was dim or hard of hearing.

“Father says we would be good together… I mean, not just him. We probably would, no, we will be good together, I am sure we will. You are a nice girl I’m sure, I think, it’s just…”

His voice trailed away. He sounded petrified and I didn’t know what to do. What I even could do.

“Normally I would take you by the hand but then, well…” His voice trailed away again.

A puff of air escaped my neck silently, a sardonic laugh. As callous of a reminder as that was, I could tell I was not the butt of the joke in his eyes. This boy — nearly eight years my senior and I couldn’t help but refer to him as a boy — was harmless.

“I just had a date with your sister. I don’t know if that went well. She didn’t really respond… Oh you don’t want to hear this.”

He was right about that.

“H-Hope, I would like to get to know you. I would like to talk… I mean… how to say it… we will get on I think but I want you to show me how… but…”

He seemed so terrified of me, of saying the wrong thing, that for minutes he didn’t really say anything at all, just stammers and half-thoughts. I just wanted to put him at ease, except any movement would surely alert my maid… but perhaps since John was here she would be lenient and I would not be punished later with corner-time, capsaicin in my mush or, god-fearing, a caning? A Doll could hope.

With all my effort I shuffled my arse over toward him, unavoidably jostling my chest, my face still staring blankly out the window. But the moment I did so, his body recoiled like a bolt of lighting had been sent through it, scooting away and defeating the few inches I had fought for. Perhaps I scared him even more by moving. I couldn’t seem to win with this man, but thankfully he approached me again, cautiously, and rested his hand chastely on my lap, and I cannot lie, even that muted contact through my dress made me eager.

“You… you’re in there, and you want to talk? But Father said you took a vow of silence? You must really fancy me, at least a bit?.”

He wasn’t quite right but it’s not as if I could correct him, scooting closer again.

“You do fancy me! I never thought… I mean… girls… I’m not very experienced… and Dollgirls, well, I’ve seen them once or twice but I… I never thought a Doll would—”

What he was about to say I never found out because the door opened again and two more figures entered, followed by an entourage of Dolls and maids. This time I knew exactly who they were, for they both came directly in front of me and bent down to kiss my cheeks. Father did so quickly, but Jack Collins let it linger as his hand grazed my breast, first in passing and then firmer once he remembered he could as he damn well pleased.

I told you such things were common, dear Reader, and it seems when presented with our utter vulnerability, men like Mr. Collins simply could not restrain their desire, even in such moments when my father was right there. He withdrew and turned to his son:

“Whilst it’s nice to see you two lovebirds enjoying yourselves so much, why don’t you take little Miss Hodgkinson for a stroll around the garden? It would be quite romantic… and it would give me a little time alone to converse with her equally-charming sister.”

If I could have glanced at Chastity, I would have done. Was Jack a potential suitor as well? No one told me anything these days, even about my own prospects, I was so confused.

Father agreed, “Yes, Hope, you keep John here entertained. I feel that I have neglected my darling Cuddles for too long. By the by, Jack, have you ever considered renaming?”

“I have, and I’ll be honest, I’ve always had a soft spot for Chestley or Swordsheath. `Tad dramatic I know, but that said I don’t think I can beat what you’ve done already. How can I better Chastity here? The irony is delicious! Indeed, it’s what made me choose her over the other one…”

What they spoke about after that and what my poor sister and one-time friend then had to endure I cannot say, for John had helped me up, put his arm gingerly around my waist and was now guiding me out of the room.

I was glad to leave. For the first time in my adult life, a man had taken me away from that… that salacious jesting so often at our expense. I had no idea that option was open to us, perhaps only in the arms of a true gentleman. John was virtuous, it seemed, and I found myself smiling inside.

The sun in the garden was glorious. John led me carefully, his hand around my hardened waist where I could barely feel it. He said nothing and patiently slowed down to my snail-like pace. Partways there, when my breasts really began to heave and I could feel myself growing faint, he asked, “Do you need a rest?”

I curtseyed slightly and we stopped for a minute to catch my breath. He glanced once or twice at my breasts rising and falling in such quick and eager gasps, but I could hardly blame him reacting to my flurry. When I clicked my heel we moved on again, but only as far as the bench on the terrace that overlooks the main lawn, the lawn I could no longer explore save for one short path, remembering how I used to frolic as a little girl by the oak trees, farther than I could now see. He sat me down quite adeptly, and I felt the sun’s warmth on my face. For some moments he sat in silence and then, timidly, he began to speak:

“I thought I had a choice… uhm, Hope… that is your name, isn’t it? It is a lovely name. My father might like Chastity… but I prefer Hope. It is more uplifting and… uhm, hopeful…” He paused and fidgeted. “I guess that was a pretty stupid thing to say. I’m not as dim as I sound, it’s just… I’m a physicist, a top-rate one too, or I will be once I finish at Imperial College, but I do sound dim around women, I admit. Father is the opposite; he loves them and he’s so confident. But me, I don’t know, I just never know what to say. There is one girl at the university. She is really smart and we were on the same lab team, I don’t know if she’s been accepted again for her doctorate. Her name is Priscilla and she is older than you. My age. She is really nice and beautiful too I suppose, but I never know what to say to her. About work and study I know of course, we get on quite well, but beyond that, I haven’t a clue, I lock up, you hear it. She is very confident you see, always the boss of the team if the professor is open-minded like that. I don’t think she notices me much in that way, although she is always friendly I suppose. Anyway, she is about the only girl that I know and have spoken to much.”

While he spoke I was imagining this Priscilla: confident, intelligent, in control, a fizzi— I mean a scientist. All the things that I could never be, and I found myself hating her! What a uppity cherry, to ignore a man like John who, whilst admittedly a bit wet and rather childlike, was still a thousand times better than all those other lecherous oafs who had courted me so far. I wished there and then that she would get married off to one of them and they would transform her into a Doll with enormous tits and no legs just like Cuddles, but almost as soon as I considered what my imagination had wrought, I felt ashamed of myself for such thoughts and proffered an honest retraction. Was I truly so fallen from the right and true Doll mind to consider Dollhood a punishment? I didn’t even know this girl! Anyhow, jealousy befits no one and besides, it seemed I would be the one marrying John, not her!

“I guess that was stupid of me, talking about another girl again when I should be talking about myself… or not myself, that’s rude… us. I should be talking about us. By God, I really am bad at this. How old are you? I know you’re younger, but your chest… I… I’m sorry that’s improper. I wish you could help me and guide me but I’m guessing you can’t talk at all, or turn your head or anything, right? I heard some of you can nod, but… I hope you can feel too and are not as vacant as you appear. I am sure not. Whatever the case, if you don’t mind, I will talk to you. I don’t know what else to do…”

Again, his voice trailed off. We both sat in silence. Then he said, “Actually, I do know what I should do: you should kiss a girl you like. But I’ve never done it before. My father would have done it. He’d have stuck his tongue right in there and probably done other things. He’s like that. I saw how eagerly he greeted you… and I’m sorry. I am eager too, don’t get me wrong, you are very… Yes, we should kiss… but then… I only want to if you want it. But how can I ask you?”

God, his deliberations exhausted me. Yes I wanted him to kiss me, I had been desperate for such a simple thing for weeks now, months even! Luckily he resolved himself only a moment later.

“I know what! Lean into me if you would like me to kiss you.”

Using what little flexibility I had left in my lower spine, I leant over and let my statuesque upper body fall into him, his strong arm wrapping around me to catch what would otherwise be an unrecoverable tip, to hold me close. Quite unable to look up at him in my slowly budding affections, I instead simply revelled in the warmth I could feel through his shirt. This time when I made my feelings known, it did not feel like a bolt of electricity had hit him.

“You… so you would like a kiss! Oh my! Uhm, well, I’m glad you don’t hate me at least. But I’m not very good at this… not good at all. Still, I can try.”

And so he finally bent down, removed my small gag and let his lips touch mine.

I felt like I had entered paradise. It was not my first kiss of course, you know of the other one, but it was the first in my new body and the first where I had been asked permission, as strange as that thought was. Even though my lips could not kiss him back, it was bliss!

When he finished and pulled away, he said softly, “I want to be happy with you. I want you to be happy with me. I don’t really have a lot of say in this arrangement and nor do you, I am guessing. You probably wouldn’t pick someone like me if you had a choice, I’m sure, but I will try. I will try to make you happy. And if you try to like me, not even love, just like, then that is enough for me. Thank you Hope, thank you.”

I was speechless, and not for the reasons you already know. No one had ever spoken to me in such a way, not even close, especially since my graduation. It was odd, it felt wrong, but the butterflies in my stomach told me ‘wrong’ wasn’t the right word. I had nearly fainted from the rush his lips gave me, but his words made my spirits turn up. Perhaps this life wasn’t as hopeless as I thought.

I had several more dates with John after that, each much the same as the first; him shy and uncertain, myself just sitting there, silent and passive. Each time he would reach an impasse of pent up anxious insecurity, I would simply fall into him, and he would wrap his arm around my empty shoulders, hold me close, maybe tell me about his life in the big city, maybe just sit there admiring the verdant view. Even then, we knew that we would be married.

Knowing relatively little about the stronger sex, save for the veneration Nanny and my Teachers had always impressed upon us, and Father, our shining example for so long, I had always had the understanding that men were entirely free to do as they pleased. Perhaps that was true, in relative terms, but I caught the distinct feeling that John was as entangled by others’ decisions as I was.

The dates were a charade, a game to be played for the amusement of my father and his. We were merely puppets to be operated for their pleasure or profit.

Never was that more apparent when, on the day before our engagements were announced, Mr. Collins decided to take me out for a walk in order to get to know his future daughter-in-law better, whilst John was ordered to stay behind with Chastity who was, after all, to become his sister-in-law and step-mother soon enough.

Although it was but another walk in the garden, the two experiences could not have been more different. Whereas John always kept to my pace and handled me with care, Jack grabbed me roughly and hurriedly pushed me along at the speed he desired. And when I grew weak, short of breath, and began seeing stars, he merely pushed harder before he finally huffed and picked my petite frame up and threw me over his shoulder as I blacked out.

I awoke on the bench with my future father-in-law sitting beside me. As I came round he was fondling my breasts and kissing at my neck. Not even a moment conscious and I was flush, my breathing heavy, my body reacting to this attention as it was designed by God (and my doctors) to do.

“My dear, you’re back!” he exclaimed with a smile when my eyes blinked open to indicate I was conscious. “I have waited too long to have this little chat with my future daughter-in-law and sister-in-law rolled into one, though I think I’ll call you daughter, I always wanted one.”

He continued groping my tits, silently refusing to even make an excuse. Oh goodness, I was so turned on, I knew I didn’t want this from my father-in-law behind his son’s back, but part of me was happy I wasn’t a commonwoman who had to constantly defend her honour: I was property, there was nothing to do but acquiesce to his rough hands, so I could just submit now. The other part of me hated that admission. Both parts of me had to acknowledge the wet patch growing on the underside of my dress as I leaked in yearning for him.

“I apologise for our earlier show in front of you and your family weeks ago, your father has set me straight, informed me that you girls indeed can see and hear us, and what’s more he mentioned begrudgingly that you were quite bright before your graduation. A perfect candidate for Dollhood, it seems! My late wife was also whip-smart, and she took quite readily to the ideals of leisurely living, but my my, you don’t really have a choice but to accept do you?”

He spoke in a tone so casual that my usual displeasure for his lack of tact and manners simmered into fear, desperately hoping we weren’t entirely out of sight from the main house, even though I knew in my stomach we were…

“I knew about you lot, of course everyone does, but not like this. A man like me would be lucky to see a single Doll out in public, maybe a few at the fête, and I had no idea how beautiful and… capable you girls are. A shame my boy probably won’t dare to touch you, never mind fuck you like you need.”

Mr. Collins was right, I had been worried about John’s lack of vigour, but at this moment I was more concerned with how my tender nipple was being teased under my bust, how his other hand wrapped around me to grope my behind.

“That’s alright, dear. I know, I know. I’ll be here whenever you need to enjoy a taste of what your sweet sister’s pussy will be getting every single night. Hell, you and I could even work out a secret signal for when my useless son has driven you to the edge of your wits. My my, how I will enjoy welcoming you into our little family. Or perhaps, why don’t you welcome me in your own special way?”

And with those words he clumsily deflated my fleur-de-bouche and forced me off the bench and onto my knees, my flowing dress the only padding I had against the hard garden pavers. Mr. Collins quickly unbuttoned his crotch to reveal an erect, straining member, and there was no way for me to stop staring at it’s girth as my doll body responded appropriately.

I was transported back to St. Werburgh’s, when I was coaxed into an ‘oral exam’ with Sir Wainwright behind his grand mahogany desk. I knew now what was coming and yet that did not make it easier. Within seconds he had grabbed my head and impaled it upon his waiting cock, groaning and gasping as he pumped me up and down and my tight hole of a mouth went to work on his penis. I tried to blank my mind like they taught us at school, I tried to imagine that this was John and not him, but it was no good. The taste was slightly different but no better than the Headmaster’s had been last year. Even so, my tongue eagerly lapped at the underside of his spear whilst my subdermal vibrators and throat muscles milked this tormentor, the helpless passenger inside this shell forced to stare unflinchingly at his hips thrusting at her face over and over…

“My God, girl, you’re good! They do make bloody good Dollies these days, and you’re far better than my first wife. Why, I’m almost tempted to think that I’ve picked the wrong Hodgkinson twin!”

And then, to my surprise, he stopped, pulled my face off his cock with a needy slurp, and stared straight into my joyful, blinking eyes. “Or then again, no,” he said. “I’m happy with my decision. Fact is, there is no right or wrong Hodgkinson twin. You’re both bloody identical, two peas out of the same pod. Or off the same production line. You look the damn same and you suck the damn same; yes I’ve tested her too, darling Hope. And later, once your cunts are unlocked, we’ll find out if you fuck the damn same too. But for now, a present from your new daddy!”

Leaving me with the distinct mental image of my sister getting railed by this brute, Mr. Collins proceeded to stroke himself to completion, erupting all over my face.

I saw it coming right at me and couldn’t even shut my eyes before I felt the ropes of warm, sticky mess cover my cheeks. He stood up, buttoned himself up, took a photo with his pocket camera and then walked away with a smile. And I was left there with his seed dribbling down my face and into my heaving cleavage, too weak to even move from where he had left me, ass on the pavement and my legs doubled over and splayed to each side of my double-jointed hips.

From somewhere closer to the house I heard him again, faintly, “…attend to Lady Hope and make sure Alan doesn’t see.” By the time an automaid had escorted me back inside and I could fully appreciate what he had left me with in the mirror, his seed had dried into a white crust on my eager, plastic face.

Book 2 Chapter 21

Apr 1st, 2019

3275 words

The next morning I woke up earlier than my maid. By then I was quite used to the several-second delay my body gave me before my eyes opened wide, and thankfully the lace curtains were drawn in my room, diffusing the morning light so I could adjust. I felt slightly parched as my tongue flexed against the fleur-de-bouche’s inflated ball pinning it in place, my mouth’s altered lubricant sticky and sour, a tad dehydrated. I was eager for breakfast and my special water, well-used to its delivery method by now. But I must’ve woken up quite early, as I couldn’t even hear the staff in the halls yet.

Not that I could check the time. My eyes were trained on the plaster ceiling, immobile as always. I counted the seconds, I remembered nursery songs, every line, I tried to remember Nanny’s version of the Perfect Flower word-for-word. Anything to avoid thinking of my time with Mr. Collins in the garden the day before.

I tried to stretch the sleep from my legs, but after Althea’s dance in the dark during Christmas break there had been stricter measures put in place. Ever since our arrival home from Great Ormond Street Hospital, Chas and I had worn a thin sleeping sack from the waist down, made of much the same sheer material as our hosiery in the daytime. This kept my legs tightly bound together whilst thankfully not making me overheat in the night. I couldn’t tell Father that it was unrealistic to imagine me rising from the bed of my own volition anymore, never mind turning a simple doorknob, but then again I doubt he would’ve listened if I could.

On top of me, a thin sheet had been laid out and zippered in place somewhere over the edge of the mattress, but the sheet was stretched so tightly that I was pressed into the ultra-soft twin mattress, unable to manage much more than a pathetic squirm. A normal summer duvet in floral print was laid over that, making a landscape of my breasts and curves, hiding how bound we truly were below the covers.

This left me as I was now, swaddled and trapped, wishing I had even the puffy nappies of yore to fill the gap between my thighs and press against the yearning emptiness between.

Emptiness.

Incompletion.

An utter lack.

Reader, assuming you are not a Doll yourself being read this memoir by your owner, you can’t understand the latent desire in the back of my mind, ever-present, quietly seeping into the foreground whenever I was left alone like this. I couldn’t shake it on my own, my mind must’ve been weak like Sir Wainwright had said.

At this point my theory that my desperation was just due to natural teen hormones and my new skin was almost completely disproved. Doctor Eaton and his team must have weakened my resolve further, making me even more flawed than Eve, tampering not just with my body but with my mind.

I knew consciously I hadn’t wanted to enjoy Mr. Collins’ advance the previous day, I didn’t want to desire his manhood in me now, and to a lesser degree I didn’t even want to desire John yet, nice as he was; but I was trapped in this body with this obsessive hysteria, and oh how I wanted them deeply. I can see how a happier Doll like my sister Chastity would think this wanton desire to be normal, or a simple result of our education, and embrace it wholly as a natural reaction, but my doubt was persistent. Why couldn’t John just fuck the doubt out of me already?

Surprisingly enough, in a sense, my prayers were about to be answered.

It took some time but the house began to whir softly as Father’s fleet of autoservants began the day. Our maids entered, patted our cheek three times, and then began to unfasten all that kept us safely cocooned in bed. Once we were up, though, we were not led naked to the toilette but instead covered in simple chemise nightgowns, so fine they were nearly transparent, and led down the hall to Father’s bedroom. Butterflies filled my tummy, along with my unreleased bowel contents that were beginning to give me cramps. We had not been inside the master bedroom since we were young girls, keen to run around the house, hiding in wardrobes amongst implements of our future restraint, or waking our parents for Christmas or Easter morning. Inside we found Father dressing for work, sorting through his cufflinks, but I could hardly concentrate on him with the scene laid out on his massive bed in the centre of the room.

Within the rich wooden bed frame, the headboard split in two and united by a complex framework of metal in the shape of a woman, was a woman. Or parts of one. She was covered in what looked like a plush quilted silk, head to toe — or head to thigh stumps, I should say — more like a form-fitting cover than an article of clothing, save for her bare ass that shone bright against the royal blues of the silk. Over this cover was the metal lattice, holding her tightly, the centrepiece in the room’s dominant piece of furniture like a gemstone set into a ring. This backside was towards me so I could not see Cuddles’ face, but from the hemming and tightness of the fabric it looked as though her entire head was encased anyways. Beyond the headboard laid Mother, Cushions, left haphazardly on her side facing away from us but completely naked on a sea of the same royal blue silk. The deep shock I felt was not seeing my mother’s naked form, though; it was that her head rested not on pillows but on one of the overflowing mammaries of my best friend! Indeed they were the only other part of her that was uncovered, leaving no doubt in my mind what Father prioritised on his companion toy.

My face couldn’t cast even a shadow of my internal shock, so Father didn’t think twice about the hedonistic scene behind him. “Oh my darlings, good morning! I have the most splendid news and even though I’m in a rush to work, it really couldn’t wait until this evening, so I told your maids to bring you here as soon as you were up! See, Jack Collins and I have come to an arrangement, and your engagement has been set!”

Chastity began to click her heel and bounce slightly in muted celebration, the first sign of life I had seen from her since before our graduation, and Father just laughed, “Yes my dear, it is marvellous, is it not? You’ll be wedding Jack in two weeks’ time!” and her bouncing stopped.

He looked at me. “And you, my troublesome princess, will be marrying John on the same day, shortly after, and may I say the young lad is smitten! See what the joys of Dollhood can bring, girls?”

Then, to my complete surprise, Chastity seemed to just… break.

She minced backwards in shock before she stamped and hollered, and I say ‘hollered’ only because we could practically hear the unquavered air rushing through her neck like a geyser. Father was appalled, but even with his mouth hanging open in surprise, he gestured for the maid to not intervene this time, to let her tire herself out. Together, him and I watched Chastity’s fit as she stomped weakly and then pointed with her knees to Mother and the degenerate bed arrangement, the tantrum inside her head resulting in naught more than stumbling out here where we could see, as her face still silently begged for use and her breasts jostled wildly, unrestrained above her bustless night stays. She didn’t care. My perfect sister couldn’t give a damn. Althea and I had expressed our displeasure at times over the last several weeks at home, but not Chastity, never her. This was our mother’s hot fury from our departure day, reborn in her daughter, whilst the husk of her lay awake but unresponsive on the bed. It was that complete inactivity whilst her daughter raged at the unfairness of life that later convinced me that our mother was not truly ‘home’ anymore; but I wasn’t joining in either, could I say the same for myself? There was no way to ever tell with us Dolls.

Chastity wandered dejectedly over to Father, her shaking diaphragm the only outward sign of what would’ve been body-wracking sobs, and she crashed into him, begging for embrace. I should’ve known my sister hadn’t been blind all this time. She had conducted herself with complete discipline so that this very result wouldn’t happen, because she knew exactly what kind of man Jack Collins was. She had idealised our patriarch, thought he would give her a choice. But how had she not seen the signs? Jack had obviously fancied her from early on, and of course John had reserved a choice, maybe she had believed my future husband would save her. We couldn’t know, but she obviously despised the man she was to be sold to in but a fortnight.

Father embraced Chas tightly as she cried silently, and we stood there for a while waiting for her to calm, but before long his face hardened, and he uttered, “Enough.” and let her stand alone. No tears stained her face, indeed one would’ve never known her distress but for her ragged breathing and a deep blush that made her cheeks glow.

“I expected better from you, Chastity, I really did. That outburst was not befitting a young lady hearing such joyous news, never mind a Doll. Do you know what you achieved with that tirade, little lady? Nothing. Nothing except a double dose of capsaicin in your breakfast to remind you of your immodesty for the rest of the day and a spanking tonight with the paddle to give you sweet dreams of improving your attitude.”

My sister’s quivering legs collapsed and she fell to the floor, rocking back and forth, begging something unheard at his feet.

“Did you think I would call off this engagement with one little tantrum, darling? If your mother had given me a son, perhaps we would be selecting suitors for the bulge in their trousers and their serenading skills, but no: I need to entrust my fortune to a capable steward who won’t squander it before one of you bears a grandson to inherit my estate. So you both will marry the Collins men, and you will serve them dutifully.” As I was standing the closest to him, Father caressed my cheek, admiring my pouting lips. “I know you will.”

He turned. “Chastity, leave us, you’ve ruined the moment and you won’t receive your engagement gift until I see you’ve fallen back in form.”

But Chas refused to respond, sitting on the floor much as I had been left in the garden just the day before, and it took both her maid and mine to lift her and drag her uncooperative legs back to our room to prepare for the day.

This left me alone with Father, who changed his shirt for one less smeared with makeup and drool before guiding me to his study downstairs. I was still wearing nothing but my night stays and a satin nightgown that cascaded over my perky nipples to brush against my thighs, but he had seen me like this many times since my enhancements, so I wasn’t worried about how scantily clad I was next to him. No, any concern I had there was overshadowed by my curiosity about what John had gotten me as an engagement gift. I was already a Doll, so rings were unfashionable with nowhere to wear them, though he might not know that. I didn’t learn about Emily’s nipple-teasing wedding rings until reading her tale years later, hidden as they were in her bust. Pieces of clothing and mouthwear were also deemed a low-effort gift, as such things would be expected from a husband for the entirety of a Doll’s life.

Once we were in the study though, behind closed doors, I realised I would be following in the footsteps of a Lady of Leisure. Father presented me with a rich cherrywood box inlaid with an abalone ‘Hope,’ and being quite unable to open it, he did so, revealing a very realistic white phallus set upon a bed of velvet.

“It’s ivory. Very dense and heavy, silky smooth, and getting more valuable everyday with the wildlife reports coming in from the Raj and the dark continent these days. Your new husband had many reservations about this gift, but Jack and I insisted, for it’s the customary gift of a Leisurely engagement, and what is a Doll but a Lady’s essence purified? You learned that line in school, I’m sure. Anyways, he didn’t enjoy the casting one bit either, even though to my recollection getting one made for your mother was quite fun back in the day. Here, it seems it’s just us now, with your sister so demanding, so I’ll help.”

And so he bent me over his desk until my breasts were smushed under me, and lifted my nightgown up to reveal my curvy behind to the empty room. Dame Henderson had mentioned something about these gifts but that felt like ages ago, and Father was uncharacteristically silent, and then (ah!) I felt him rub the tip of the ivory cock down my lower lips. I couldn’t believe this was truly happening! Simultaneously I was wondering why he couldn’t just wait for my maid, and why he couldn’t just thrust it into me with every ounce of strength he had in him. Why was he teasing me so?

“Oh wait, I forgot new Dolls don’t need extra lubrication back there anymore. Apologies, darling, I’m used to your mother.”

And then the feeling was gone, before he inserted it with little resistance into my equally-inviting anus.

“Nooooo!! Not there!” I wanted to scream, but instead I just stared at the lacquered desktop pressed against my nose, and tried not to stamp my feet in frustration. To see the object in my periphery had been one thing, but to feel it embedded in me, splitting me in twain was quite another. Was John truly this big? The tip didn’t quite make it all the way up to the valve that my toilette attached to, but it was girthier than that routine device, without a doubt. I worried I would have never been able to take this much before I was a Doll, and the good girl in me thanked God for that blessing.

Why couldn’t he just put it in my— wait, what’s that vibration? Oh it stopped. Oh there it is again!

“There, dirty deed done. You’ll want to mind that your new companion doesn’t slip out when you’re without your understrap, dear. You’ll have to walk carefully until you get your proper stays on that can hold it in. Oh I can hear it working already. Well… I shouldn’t phrase it quite that way, that’s not the gift, dear, that’s you.”

What?! He pulled me back up to standing so I could look at him, or at his chest, out of focus, but close enough.

“The same instinct that recognises your mealtime decanter in your mouth recognises this gift in your behind, and so too will recognise John’s member when he finally makes you his wife. But there is something about this gift; and apologies, dear, they’re designed by Dr. Eaton himself, and that science is well beyond your bean-counter old man, but somehow your body knows that this isn’t the real package, so your arse doesn’t endlessly try to milk semen from a stone, so-to-speak. But it doesn’t quell itself entirely either. What you’re left with is this little reminder of your new fiancé, isn’t that lovely?”

I felt it again, and sure enough, there were the same rolling muscle contractions in my behind as in my throat at breakfast, accompanied by a similarly autonomous vibration, felt strongly through my vaginal wall, and a little, just a little bit of that vibration made its way to my clitoris without diffusing through my hips.

Oh the goddamn teasing wouldn’t end!

“Speaking of John, it seems he has fallen for you, or as much as one can in such short time, and I know that you have broken proper form around him too, for it’s my job to know such things about my girls, but I’m not displeased…”

The vibrations started again and I tried to concentrate on what was being said. I felt full down there, yes, but empty where it really mattered. It wasn’t enough!

“Indeed I’m happy, because for once you broke form for exactly the right reasons! I’m sure you know as well as I that he would have never been happy with Chastity. Or perhaps not with your sister as she was behaving before her ungrateful outburst this morning; now I’m not so sure. Anyways, he is far too conservative and prudish for his age, and for our innovative Society: I’m waiting for his old man to bring him ‘round. But you broke through his shell with your limited abilities, and I’m very proud of you, my dear.”

The stimulation stopped again, and every fibre in me contorted in need! All I had really heard was that I wasn’t in trouble, and that was good. The pulsing vibe started again and my toes pressed into the soles of my slippers. Don’t move, don’t move, Hope, he is happy and proud and not punishing you. I was dripping again, I knew I was, right down my inner thigh, right in front of my father. Would he notice? My nightgown was short and fluttered gently. The cool morning air was blowing past my glistening petals. I tried to move my hips just a little bit as I stood there in front of him, but he noticed and tut-tutted at me, wagging his finger.

“That’s very immodest, Hope.”

Was he serious?! The contradictions between his words and actions were driving me mad! I was nearly naked and standing with the facsimile of a young man’s raging member up my arse that he put there, and he was calling me immodest?! I autonomously swallowed some saliva and my arse contracted around the gift, another bout of short vibrations just barely tickling my emptiness.

“I know what you need, dear, and I understand it’s hard for you, but I’m also a God-fearing man and your Pappa. Do not try and seduce me, I will not give you that…”

I wasn’t— ew! No that’s not what I was trying to—

“…but don’t you worry, Chittenham and I have a plan for how to get John out of his shell so your wedding night is one to remember. So just you wait your final two weeks, and behave! You’re so very close, Hope. I love you, dear, and you know, even in marriage, you’ll always be my daughter.” He nodded toward my maid who had just opened the door, and gave me a pat on the behind, jostling the intruder and setting another storm of tic-like cramps and vibrations. “Now shoo and get ready for your day, I have to run to work.”

I can’t look backwards, my neck locked as it is, but I’m sure he watched my spread buttocks as I tried my best to saunter away toward my maid’s steady support without John’s gift falling out of my dilated behind.

Book 2 Chapter 22

Apr 3rd, 2019

3097 words

September 26th, 2049

My wedding day: the most spectacular moment in a woman’s life, the defining moment when she is passed from her father to her husband; it’s all a haze in my memory.

I was there, as were countless other people who can attest to my attendance, but my mind was not. I was a Doll, present but not present, caring not for the sip of champagne I was allowed to taste, nor the bit of icing John had me suck off his finger, nor the japes and double-entendre from my now father-in-law. I can tell you it was lovely, it was fashionable and chic, but it was also torturous.

It all began earlier in the day just before Chastity and I had been fitted into our wedding dresses, completely made up and prepared with fourteen-inch waists that made me thankful for the rib reduction included in my enhancements, otherwise it would’ve taken days, a week, maybe even a fortnight of progressive lacing to fit us into our dresses. Not to say this was a walk in the park: I was at my absolute minimum waist size and had to be brought back around with smelling salts multiple times — held at my neck of course, not my nose — once during lacing and twice over the course of that special day. The cruel embrace of my corset was truly unforgiving, especially since I already had no mobility above my waist save for my breathing. Indeed, Collins Sr. had gotten into the habit of calling Chas and I his ‘trophy wives’ due to our enforced poses. Tightlacing on Dolls was more aesthetic constriction than posture enforcement like before, but the final result was worth it and I wasn’t getting any younger. Even if my face showed no age, by my twenties I would be lucky to reach this measurement again, and I wanted to impress John, my man, my owner-to-be.

All of our preparations were to be expected: hair, makeup, jewellery, as well as the refitting of our engagement gifts in our behinds.

I had grown somewhat accustomed to the eternal tease over the previous two weeks, as accustomed to intermittent vibrations as one could get, but I was still flush and needy most of the day and the fragile handle I had once had on my sex drive was absolutely gone now. With every vibration and spasm, gentle or devastating, I was reminded of the object which occupied my behind, and the man to which it belonged to, who I was soon to belong to. Indeed some days I felt like naught but a simple ambulatory carrier of this mass of ivory inside me, a decorative accessory wrapped about this piece of my fiancé, rather than the inverse. And if I was scheduled to greet John the next day, or Chastity Mr. Collins, then we would even sleep with our gifts overnight, bound like Sleeping Beauty on the telly, and I use the term ‘sleep’ lightly, for who can sleep with such vibrations tickling their unspoiled flowers, or with the faint sound of the same torment coming from the other bed, mere paces away?

I won’t pretend I did not fantasise my sister and I helping each other like we used to when our gloves were too tight, or gush at the idea of the Althea I used to know opening that door again to give me another taste of what could’ve been, for what does one do with hours of edging in this way? But my main fantasy was John, growing a pair and using them on me, as unlikely as that was. On our first date after Father inserted my gift, just three days later, I would have thrown myself at John and begged him to plough my empty cunt if I could have, but instead the soft, timid man threw himself at me instead!

As I sat there in the drawing room, hoping I wasn’t making another wet spot on the chesterfield — for Father had threatened nappies if I stained the cushions again — my fiancé nearly cried into my lap when he heard the low rumbles emanating from my hips, randomly turning on and off so I could never grow used to a pattern, or desensitised to the faint teasing.

“I’m so sorry, Hope! They made me, I didn’t want to, I wanted to get you a new locket with our photos, oh I didn’t want the sculptor to touch me there, or for you to have to go through this, you’re so much better than this, my angel, will they know if I take it out? Should I? Darling, I can help, send me a sign!”

I didn’t strive to respond though, for his apology pained me. He only saw me as a victim, an innocent girl ensnared in this depraved body, but such things were not so cut and dry. He had no understanding of a girl’s sinful needs, never mind the needs of a living Doll; I don’t even think he knew what was truly vibrating! It was me, Hope the Doll, clenching what muscles she still had control over so that the lovely sensations could travel farther through her pelvis and bring her the climax she had been waiting days, weeks, months for.

The truth is, I wasn’t “so much better than this.” By the time I had spent a single day and night with the spear inside me, I didn’t want him to take it out, no! I wanted more first, more of him. To be honest, I was impressed by the sheer mass of my new toy compared to our small trainers in school, and it had piqued my curiosity how a man so well-endowed had become so insular and weak-willed. But such curiosities were a privilege for a clear-headed woman. I wanted his warm manhood to fill me up along with the ivory lookalike left inside my rear, and then after I received my long-awaited gift, my real engagement gift; a single, blissful orgasm… oh dear… then we could end this torture.

Oh, an end? Such is not a Doll’s lot in life.

Once the ivory phallus was buried in me yet again, secured in place, and my maid had left to fetch my dress, I was visited by two guests, Father and Lord Chittenham. I tried not to squirm. Father seeing me in only my stays and fine hosiery was fine, better than nearly nude as before, but I had no desire for Chittenham’s leery eyes to feast on me, undressed as I was.

Yet against my will, as always, my rectum clenched and vibrated and I grew hot and panting. Each breath limited by the shallowness of my severe bridal corset, the rise and fall of my breasts became faster and more passionate, my gagged mouth pooling with drool. Such was the effect of their gaze, their purely masculine presence, and with their presence came an instinct to just give in to my body. A Doll shouldn’t worry about such things when a man is present, any man. It was so nice to see both of them, yes it was, yes it was, just like Teacher Dottie said…

“Oh Hope, congratulations on your engagement!” the well-groomed snake said, squeezing my useless shoulder warmly. “I am so thrilled to see you and your sister walk down the aisle today. Oh, where is Chastity anyways?”

I couldn’t respond, nor even indicate I heard him. Some thick saliva slid down my throat unhindered, and I reflexively swallowed. Father answered.

“Our routine has gone to the dogs this morning with two ceremonies in one day. Chastity is in the bedroom eating her breakfast and drinking her normal hydration tonic whilst the automaids finish Hope here. On that topic, I tell you old friend, I’ve doubled the dose of antidepressants in her tonic and she still refuses to cooperate as she once did so eagerly. Chas has been very… troublesome since the engagement.”

Chittenham was shocked, “Not Chastity, certainly?! But she’s been your pride and joy since her first heels, has she not?”

“Aye, it’s disappointing.”

I was sitting right here, how could he just outright call Chas his favourite? And on my wedding day, no less!? The men seemed to notice this on their own and convened in hushed tones, but they were standing right there in front of me and the bustle of our staff preparing for the reception downstairs was but a gentle din up here in the dressing room. Besides, my eavesdropping skills were wonderful, it being the only hobby left to me.

“Well the antidepressants are a good start, maybe an extra dose of nutri-mix every other day to perk up her energy, but not too much or she will put on the pounds. Increase the aphro-supplements next— now, Alan I know you’re a traditional man, but daughters or not, the true heartstrings of a woman are in her loins—”

“I would rather we not discuss this in front of Hope, both of them have a very healthy dose already, and really after today it’s on their husbands to untangle the puzzle that is a woman’s will.”

I was in shock, my father had been drugging me this whole time! But what could a Doll do but slurp up her meals eagerly, even knowing they were laced? Of course I had known my daily mush had vitamins to complete my diet and hormonal supplements to make up for my missing child-bearing organs, but full-bore aphrodisiacs! At the sharp intake of air that should’ve been a gasp, their eyes glanced at me and their voices became overly-cheery yet again, ringing with falseness and patronization.

Lord Chittenham slid forward. “Right-o old chap, of course! Hope! Do you ever walk into a room and forget why you came in the first place? I’m here because your Pappa is concerned about young Johnny Collins and his— erhm, let’s say his gentle sensibilities.”

He would have hated being called Johnny, I thought to myself.

“Honestly, none of us are sure if the boy is an eccentric genius or a goddamn pederast.”

“Language, George!”

“Excuse me, dear. Let’s look on the bright side, shall we? Maybe it’s both! Either way, his father is a gentleman, and a wizard at evading the King’s coffers, so here we are. But I have a possible solution, a trick we can play to entice him. Now Alan, Jack, and I are going to implore the young lad to consummate the marriage tonight, under threat of it being null and void otherwise. Jack has him under such a vice with the expenses of his education, it seems the boy will do anything he’s told, but not too enthusiastically it seems, eh? So we have him try you out, give your snatch a whirl — sorry, Alan — and with what the good doctors prepared down there, he won’t know what hit him!”

Okay this all made sense, though I hadn’t expected my Father and his cohort to be involved in this part of my wifely duties.

“Or… perhaps the little prude has a more pietistic understanding of betrothal, and other than tonight and his session with a birth surrogate in a few years, the boy keeps his ‘affairs’ to himself, leaving you to go about your daily and nightly routine in peace but completely unfulfilled.”

“No! No! I don’t want that at all!” I thought. With that horrifying possibility laid out before us, Chittenham reached into his jacket pocket to extract a squeeze tube of some unknown substance and some latex gloves.

“That’s where this comes in. What I have here is a powerful aphrodisiac and stimulant, well past the legal potency here at home, though it’s naught but a trip to the chemist’s when I’m at my château in Nice. I use it on Belle almost daily, and your mother and I experimented a bit with it when we were young, well before she dollified herself for your Pappa.”

What?? I was suddenly struggling against my frozen face to mouth the question on the tip of my tongue, but nothing happened, air travelled through my neck a tad more vigorously than normal. I had no idea Chittenham even knew my mother, nor that they were partners or friends or the like! Father was too busy eyeing the vial in Chittenham’s hand speculatively, of course such a revelation must have been old news to him, and no one could see the shock I was in. What history between the two of them could have made Mother react so dramatically to his reappearance all those months ago? Had Chittenham had a hand in her original dollification?! Was he perhaps why we were all subject to such customs? I had no time to ponder, for the landed man was already spreading my knees and unclipping my understrap.

Father looked away, he didn’t want any part of this, but he was there nonetheless. Perhaps some part of him didn’t trust Chittenham alone with me, friends as they were. Who could know? I wanted to close my legs and protect my most sensitive flesh from this man I had every reason to distrust, but I couldn’t make myself do it. The gift was driving me mad, I needed his fingers to touch me, please, please, please!

But I had no true understanding of madness, not yet.

His tampering being far below my field of view staring straight ahead at his virile beard, he narrated his actions. “Now, dear Hope, I’m not going to violate your virginity at all; your hymen will be intact, surgical artifice that it may be after your transformative enhancements, I know it’s important to some.”

Father cleared his throat.

“Ah yes, well, no need for me to opine. I have this gel, or a paste, really. I’m going to spread it on your labia and clitoris, and attempt to press some up your vaginal canal if I can.”

Oh! It was cooler than his fingers… his gentle but firm fingers… his firm, strong fingers running up and down my silicone-infused lady lips, coating them in the stuff. Oh just touch my little Doll clit, your Lordship, please! And then he did! Oh just a few swirls, and a smirk! He knew what he was doing to me, this deviant! Wait, no, I don’t want that, I want the truth! What did he do to Mummy?

And then it began to tingle, and grow warmer, and warmer, and grow tight and engorged and tingly and wet and— oh my God, what did he do to ME?!

“There, see? I can already see it working. Alan? There, look, her kegels are spasming— no, no, you should really see. There’s an autonomic one for her ass… there’s a rolling contraction… that’s all programmed in, no… there! There’s a good ol’ vaginal clench! That’s not dolly functionality either, that would require something inside just like her tusk. It is reflexive, yes, but it’s all her. God’s design! That would be our Shangri La if we had mere Ladies to deal with. Good girl, Hope! Good girl! That’s what our boy is going to feel the moment he gets himself inside, but the main event will be when this gets into his bloodstream too. Now, Hope, I hate to subject you to this so far in advance of your consummation, my dear, but today shall be busy, very busy, and you sisters are going to be the stars! We can’t have Johnny suspecting anything with a sudden absence during the festivities.”

I wanted to scream at him, tell him to stop looking at my lady parts like a science specimen, beg him to wash it off, beg Father to make it stop, but no… my legs just shivered in anticipation… maybe he would touch me again… I blinked, and struggled to take in enough air with my waist compressed as it was… it was getting harder to keep track of their words, care about what they were saying, even though they were Societymen and all our Teachers had made it very clear that Societymen — or any Man really — was ALWAYS deserving of our utmost attention… my attention… I couldn’t focus on anything beyond the heat, the tingle, the yearning!

It was as if I was perched on the precipice of climax, stuck there — What’s that word Althea used? Oh yes! Cumming! — stuck there, unable to cum nor relax. Why wasn’t I cumming?! How did Belle survive this every day? Or had she not? Was she merely an empty shell, personality destroyed with this never-ending lust? The only saving grace was my contractions, my vibrations, it all triggered another pulse in my womanhood too, oh yes! Maybe this would send me over the edge? Just a little— NO!

Chittenham pulled John’s ivory cock from my ass before setting it on the dressing table amongst my powders and perfumes, leaving me empty once again but no less on edge.

“I know this was probably just reseated, but I have to take his gift out for today, Hope. We have to seal you up or you’ll drip away the potency before he gets in here, and you’ll stain your wedding dress while you’re at it.” He intonated like it was common sense, whilst he applied some kind of sticky plastic tape onto my front hole and betwixt my cheeks over my rear, pressed thoroughly to make sure the adhesive seal was seamless, and then resecured my understrap tightly, pressing into my vulva. Oh God in heaven, I remember when that understrap was the most teasing part of my sorry life!

He winked, patted my thigh, and bade me good luck, leaving with Father once my maid had returned with my wedding dress for the final test fitting.

I’ll tell you something, dear Reader: sometimes it feels as if I can feel the arms I lost, the hands I was encouraged to willingly discard. Dame Henderson called it phantom limb syndrome, quite normal but usually reduced or infrequent thanks to our special vitamins. Well, at that desperate moment I could feel them without a doubt, and believe me, they were reaching for my altar of venus, desperate to touch, fondle, rinse, wipe away whatever was sending me to the moon right now.

But they were swatting at nothing, feeling naught but the emptiness of the beyond. A faint twitch could be seen at my right shoulder, but not by me.

Book 2 Chapter 23

Apr 6th, 2019

4294 words

Overwhelmingly distracted as I was, the next moment I remember clearly enough to describe was Chastity’s ceremony.

Like Father mentioned, Chas hadn’t been the same after the engagement. Above the waist she was the perfect girl she had always been, without a doubt, but below was a far different story. For the past two weeks she had struggled in the shower, stomped around, tried to stand up on her own or walk wherever she desired; like her attempt to walk on the grass toward our favourite oak tree! I mean surely I wanted to as well, but the first step off our paved strolling path had resulted in her heel sticking in the grassy mud and breaking off, causing her to stumble into the lawn, staining her dress and nearly breaking her ankle! It was all so ungraceful, almost purposefully so. As I had seemingly been tamed and demoralised by my dollification — I had to admit — Chastity seemed to now see it as a free pass. She seemed to think that there was no worse outcome than what had already transpired. But couldn’t she see how Mother had paid for her transgressions? Or what of Althea?

I wanted to warn her that we were still vulnerable to change, to further enhancements, that her new husband would not take lightly to such bratty behaviour! And I can’t say it was pure altruism which made me concerned for my sister’s well-being, for we were still beholden to Father’s twin rule, the one we had made him pinky promise to when we were only kids: any modification to either of us must be enacted on the other, identically, to uphold our sisterly bond. But how to communicate such a complex warning?

I could not handle such questions, as my nethers spasmed in greedy need and my mind drifted yet again.

For her ceremony there had been murmurs of a restraining wheelchair to lead her down the aisle, but everyone agreed that such a crude device put the holy union and the families in poor light. Instead, a special brace was imported from Paris post-haste, a relic of the 2030s, when it was first deemed unfashionable for couture models to actually walk themselves down the runway. Made of sleek chrome, it held her legs together tightly, all the way up to the waist, toes en pointe, and was anchored by a heavy, motorised base that could be driven remotely.¹ With the appropriate dress it would look as if the woman inside was gliding effortlessly down the aisle, but for a Doll it was a restraint of the last limbs we could control, leaving the wearer much like Cuddles, braced to her self-driving seat.

Chastity was secured in hers almost as soon as we could get inside the church, due to her attempts to nudge the doorknob of the vestry open with her hip whilst we were being changed, and her loud, incessant kicking when that failed to work. What I had not been expecting was the spare runway frame waiting for me to get inside too. Mind you, I didn’t fight like her. Just walking in from the carriage, my legs had quivered like the first time I strode down the hospital ward, and they had almost given away from under me multiple times from the oversensitive spasms radiating from my pubis. The sensations coursing out whenever I moved my hips but a millimetre were heavenly and excruciating, not unlike the tense, pounding feeling of a limb coming back to life after laying oddly for too long, and to make a single step was much further than a millimetre, I tell you! I knew I needed help down the aisle as well.

Mounted side-by-side in our runway stands, completely immobile in every way, we had but minutes before I heard the first notes of Pachelbel’s Canon through the doors, and Father put his hand on the bustle of Chastity’s white dress (where the controls for her standing frame were hidden) and they began their gentle procession out the door and down the aisle.

I was left in the back room with my silent maid, listening to the Minister preside over the ceremony Chastity and I had dreamt about endlessly since we were children. Was this how I had thought it would happen back then? My forbidden bits spasmed again and my eyes would have rolled back in frustration if they had the choice, but instead they blinked silently in their pleasantly-docile stare at nothing. The window was in my line of sight but it was too far, out of focus, the trees outside mere ghosts of green on a bright blue sky.

I should have left with Althea that night.

No! I couldn’t let myself go down that road again! Passionate dreams and what-ifs, that’s all that remained there. Indeed, this was not how I had imagined my wedding day, not in the slightest, but there was no use pining for the past, for the impossible. I focused on thoughts of my fiancé to drown out the noise and the worry.

Before too long the applause and cheers rang out, and Father had come back to lead me down the aisle too, towards my new owner, John. With a slow start my fixed perspective changed as Father effectively drove me out of the room alongside him, the only thing static in my view being my gorgeous white fleur-de-bouche blooming from my mouth. In the main hall, the people stood again, faces too unfocused to discern. The light shone through the stained glass in strong beams of colour. And as I rolled, no, glided between the crowded pews without a twitch of my own volition, my man came into focus, dressed to the nines as I was, with a nervous smile on his face. He was positively dashing, and I wanted him so badly. I could be far worse off, I thought to myself, whilst imagining his father who was standing with his thick arm around Chastity’s waist by the cross.

An automaid stepped out from behind the altar and helped Father with something below, and the frame articulated at the knees and toes in such a way that I was lowered to a prayer kneeler set beside John, my knees on the padded stool, my breasts grazing the bible stand. The movement, the vibrations travelling through… oh Lord, save me from what’s happening betwixt my legs!

As property, I was not to be standing when the Minister was present, especially not when being wed. There would be no more complications like my dalliance on stage at my graduation, none at all. Who knows, maybe some of the staff from St. Werburgh’s were in the audience I could not look upon, if so I hope this made up for my indecision then, this white flag I wore so elegantly. Either way, I needed to show John, the Minister, God, and everyone in attendance today that I was devoted, utterly devoted to my new owner and husband, and in him the Society too. Everything had to go perfectly, or else… or else this deep emptiness between my legs might never go away!

When John said, “I Do,” it brought my attention back with a shake and my heart swelled. This was it, and he didn’t sound reluctant! Actually, he said it so confidently, determined to accept me as his own and provide me with a proper Doll’s life, that my womanhood swelled too, or did it? My emotions were a complete mess with that sinful sauce spread down below. I wanted him so badly, I was so close to him, Just touch me, my shoulder! Touch me where I never will again, please John! But the Minister continued on with the proceedings undistracted, for my begging cries echoed solely in the confines of my own head. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry!

I simply kneeled next to him in utter devotion, wishing I felt as calm and placid as my face looked.

Our Minister gestured for John to ‘read my last words,’ a tradition in the Society to receive the Doll’s final response. When he reached down to release the air from my fleur-de-bouche and took out the drool-covered bouquet gag to look at what was printed on the inside rubber bladder, much like a fortune, he received my reply:

“I Do.”

Two words I could not say myself whilst drool dripped viscously down my chin and into my bare cleavage, staring pleasantly forward at the Minister’s groin. But my thoughts were not tethered to my gaze: I had only a mind for my husband standing beside me, an obvious smile in his voice as he read it aloud for the congregation.

It was in calligraphic script, elegant, perfect, the same handwriting that was inlaid on my automaid’s faceplate: it was my practised handwriting from when I was thirteen, not yet woman enough to understand the gravity of the lines Nanny had instructed us to practise for years by then.

“I love my Husband. He is so handsome and thoughtful. When I am a perfect Doll and he makes me his wife, I will say ‘I Do.’”

John then took two golden rings, one for himself which he put on his finger, holding it where I could see — he was so thoughtful — and one which he put on my locket’s chain, now nestled between my breasts, close to mine heart!

And when the Minister pronounced us man and wife, John and Father lifted me back up together, until the brace locked my knees straight again with a click. With a caressing wipe of his thumb to rid me of my embarrassing juices, John leant in to kiss my eternally-pouting lips, the ones that couldn’t kiss him back but felt every single iota of that union, his hands cradling my cheeks so gently, but firmly. I blinked dumbly at his closed eyes even though my heart was swooning.

I was his Doll now, in all ways but one.

That night, once the applause from Father, Lord Chittenham, Mr. Battersby, and the many other Societymen had long faded from my ears, and the silently-curtsied congratulations from my silicone classmates and acquaintances had been forgotten, I found myself alone in bed waiting for John, listening to the raucous reception downstairs go on for hours after my prescribed bedtime.

My automaid had prepared me in one of our house’s many guest bedrooms, as John’s flat and my new home was all the way in London². Strange, I thought; the last time I’d been in that room, Chas and I had been playing hide and seek, long before the heels and the gloves, the elegant restraint; before I was remade, distilled, perfected; before I knew what desire really meant. To think, the girl that I once was could’ve been standing over the Doll I am now, looking down. What would I have told her?

“I—”

I heard the door open and my heart leapt, it was Him! It was the sweet man I was going to spend the rest of my… wait…

“Well don’t you look just marvellous, my dear… or should I say, ‘Daughter!’” Mr. Collins Sr. strode up to the bed, still in his tuxedo but obviously quite deep in the cups, collar undone, his hair disheveled.

I did look marvellous, but not for him! My maid had stripped me down to my corset, garters, and hose, before Cuddles’ maid had joined and helped pull my legs wide apart, all the way until my hips clicked and my calves were touching my shoulders, my toes pointed due north, and my lower lips were pulled taut against the sealing tape that kept that evil substance inside of me.

Mr. Collins saw all of this laid out before him, and his hands immediately reached for my nearly-bare vagina, the southern terminus of my body, completely vulnerable with no legs to get in the way of the deepest possible invasion. But he only rubbed me through the seal, teasing as ever.

“Chittenham, that jolly sadist, he had a few too many at our reception afterparty, couldn’t help but divulge what was waiting for my boy up here. It was a brag more like, how he fouled the most innocent girl in the room, and on her wedding day with her Pappa watching, no less! I can’t even imagine the lust which must be coursing through you after hours of this treatment, my dear.”

And still he rubbed my special little bump, sending waves of pleasure through me which, without muscle control of my double-jointed legs, only externally expressed itself by my toes wiggling somewhere above my head and my heaving chest struggling for every whiff of air it could get.

I need to climax. I need to cum. I need to cum or I swear I’ll go insane!! I screamed in torment, and naught but a soft breath could be heard, fluttering the rose petals in my neck.

That’s what they wanted though, for me to break. It wasn’t enough that I liked John, that I was pleased to be his Doll wife. They needed me to be like Mother after she returned from Wales, or Belle with her endless supply of this topical hell, or perhaps Althea, for I still knew not if my friend was of sound mind inside that mockery of a body. No, they strove to cultivate a Doll mind, utterly devoid of any thought save for devotion and need, endless need! They needed me to be as empty as I looked.

“I didn’t come up here to play with you, though. Oh, I’m so dearly sorry,” he cooed condescendingly, “I know you must be simply devastated in there, but not this time, it’s your wedding day after all! No, Chittenham spoke so highly of this substance but he was fresh out! More likely saving the last drops for himself, I reckon. I need to see what all the fuss is about.”

And so, as I blew kisses at the ceiling like the good doctors designed me to, Jack pulled the tape off painfully, slowly, just enough that I felt a big glob of mixed ointment and vaginal juices pour out, which he scooped up with his finger and sucked on. “Vanilla, an excellent choice of pessary, m’dear! Oh my… that does have a kick, doesn’t it?” And with a sudden rush of energy he bolted up and paced the room for a moment, before coming back for more of my runoff, shoving his coated fingers down his trousers.

“I surely hope your sister is prepared for me as you are! These legs, oh my, you Dollgirls are just full of surprises! We shall have our fun soon enough, daughter; I haven’t forgotten our little arrangement…”

Satisfied with the deeply embarrassed blush on my cheeks, he departed to join his own wife, and my tingling, hot flower was left untended to yet again. Oh no! Had he closed the tape or was I still leaking? I couldn’t discern by sensation through the nervous mess, and I surely couldn’t look. I just had to wait and see. Damn that man!

Noting to myself that there was nothing actually tying me down, I was trying quite ineffectually to move my legs — resulting in naught but useless flexes, shifting the nylons slightly, feeling my useless shoulders by myself for the first time, I think — when the door finally opened and my love strode in, a tad more steady-footed than his father.

“Oh Hope, oh dear!” He rushed over and placed his hand on my prone thigh, making me shiver earnestly at his touch, a rolling spasm teasing me below. “Is… is this normal?”

“This is supposed to be sexy, you dolt!” I couldn’t help but think impatiently, before I chastised myself: the Dame would have disapproved of such presumptuousness, even within our isolated Doll minds.

Standing over me — for he had learned some manners — I could see John’s handsome face roll through a hundred moral quandaries, but what could be more earnestly communicated than my lower holes exposed for his deepest possible penetration? Slowly, my new husband’s touch turned from tight and concerned to calm, sensual, appreciative of the very contact we had, the privacy for the first time, the ownership he now had over me, and his eyes looked me up and down.

“I haven’t… you know…”

I wished I could reply. “That’s okay darling, neither have I, come now, use me, use this Doll, it’s all yours now.” The pulsing in my nethers was intensifying by the second with his hand on me, with his body so close, I wished I could still smell him.

“I mean I’ve… touched myself… of course, but…” he began to unzip and fish his growing manhood from his trousers, I couldn’t see it from my fixed gaze, but it took him a second to get out and that boded well for me. Then his eyes glanced to my sealed vagina. “Am I not allowed to use you there?”

“No!! Please take it off! I need relief!” I shuffled my legs desperately, or at least I thought I did. Something about that dislocating click in my hips meant all John saw of my desperation were my wiggling toes, which his eyes jumped to and lingered on.

“Hope… don’t be offended… you… you look so delicate and vulnerable. I don’t know how you feel about Dollhood, about your time at the school and… after… but I think I… I think I like you this way…”

John began to stroke himself and I felt hungry for it. “That’s okay, that’s good! Put it in, please! I’m made for this!” I wanted to plead.

He obviously wanted me, I could see it out of the corner of my eye by the furious grip on his eager penis, but some damage inside kept him from being the man I needed; kept him from just taking what he wanted, what was his now by will and law; this Doll with her legs spread begging for his prize!

“Yes, I think I do, I mean I do, definitely! Oh heavens, I’m so bad at saying what I mean. You… your situation, it gives me the space to work it out… work out my words. You’re so patient… that’s not the right word but… but when we get to my— to our new flat, I’m going to pore over the owner’s manual from Great Ormond Street and figure out how to communicate, I promise, okay? I can’t live with a woman and not know what she holds in her heart, but I also want you… like this… silent, helpless, beautiful, libidinous. Oh, Hope I’m so sorry, I’m going to use you as designed. If I wait for your consent… Father said our union may be invalidated and… and… I want to keep you, I want to provide for you, I simply… I just… I want you!!”

I practically laughed in exasperated joy inside as his hand finally let go of its tense deliberations and targeted the seal on my lower holes, peeling it off like a man would a new handheld device. I loved it about him, his endless care, but it also frustrated me endlessly: he had finally made it, but I needed him to understand the carnal urgency I felt in his presence! Perhaps upon contact with Chittenham’s salve dissolved inside me, John would learn what urgent need felt like, what it felt like to be me.

With the seal off I felt my labia pull wide open and a puddle of thick juices spill forth again. He must have thought that was normal, because for once as he shed his clothes and climbed over his new toy, immobile on the bed, he did not pause: he grabbed his hearty cock and brought it to my slit, pushing in almost instantly (ah!) due to how soaked I was from my entire day of edging torment.

Oh God! I was made complete! This was beyond Althea’s touch, this was miles beyond servicing men by mouth, this was everything! For a blissful moment I forgot how hard it was to breathe. The limitations of my body— no, my entire being was centred about the nerves in my pubis, that place I had never touched myself and could never reach again, and he was satisfying all of them, satisfying months of denial, weeks of engagement toy teasing, hours of chemical edging. He was thrusting clumsily but forcefully, beginning to get a rhythm, and beginning to moan and grunt and huff as his own desire escalated thanks to my special features pulsing, spasming, stroking him.

“Oh Hope, I had no idea it would feel this good! I… I can’t stop!” He called out between grunts, pounding deeply into me as my frozen face grew flush and my breasts shook back and forth, nipple clamps pulling sharply — though that was more of a pleasure than a pain at this point. He was finally with me, there in the moment, his hands cradling my cherubic cheek, thumb invading my mouth and triggering my other autonomic responses, the muscles of my face-hole rolling, greedily sucking, vibrating, my tongue swirling about his digit, showing him what this body could do.

His wet thumb slid out and I could not chase it with my shortened tongue, as his caring touch ventured downward; my rose’s petals like palms in a hurricane: surging chest; supple silicone skin joined by his lips just above my bustline, searching for the entrapped, pinched teat within, before his hand made a firm grip about my neck to my surprise! He was being so bold! Thanks to my tracheotomy I did not feel my breath leave me, but I did feel utterly owned and mastered as John used that stranglehold as a love handle, his other hand vice-like on my upstretched calf, forcing my rigid torso down into the soft mattress and steady whilst he rammed his hips into mine without concern, without legs in the way, filling me deeply, using me, now fully caught up in my nectar’s delirium.

His lips left my breast and finally met mine, and just as on the altar in front of all those people, I was lit afire with warm sensations that would have never graced my natural body. Finally, the puzzle pieces had all fallen into place! I had been made a vessel for pleasure, to incite desire in others, an ark of weakness, and a precious, delicate Doll — a ‘fuck toy’ as Althea would’ve put it crudely — an object indeed, but a prized possession! John had gifted me his cock, a ring, and a home, but I was giving him everything, all of me, and he did not take that vulnerability for granted as many others might. And so I say to you, dear Reader: we Dolls may be subject to dastardly whims in our midst, but in virtuous arms the Society’s theories are sound! Every Lady of Leisure in our great United Kingdom should experience the fulfilment I did in that beautiful moment!

And then I finally came, crying in joy as every tense fibre in my body released and I saw the light of the Doll mind: feminine simplicity, contentment, satisfaction! The Dame had told the truth! My life’s path wasn’t a farce, a prison, and the goal wasn’t eternal need, it was about reaching this bliss! If but for a sweet second…

My face blinked calmly as all this washed over me, staring at the ceiling in pleasant delight, unable to look my man in the eye; a rolling, milking spasm the only sign to him I had even climaxed, which he noticed grip his cock and could only gasp, “Oh, darling!”

But perhaps it was best I could not coo to him and beg for more, as such a confronting and earnest gaze would have surely given him a timid fright anyways; for as I was now, he liked that, he liked Hope the Doll, he liked the only me I was ever going to be, and truly I thought I might be the only girl who could set his soft heart free to be the way he was now, handling me like a proper man should with his devoted wife. Yes, I had a feeling I might be the key to his happiness, and he might be more of a gentleman than I could have ever expected or indeed imagined possible.

As John came inside me, drunk on aphro-paste and champagne, he loved me, and I loved him, and I loved being his Doll.

END OF BOOK 2

Such devices have been replaced with a simpler conveyor belt system in Paris these days, the designers and production managers forgoing the bulkiness of braces for a simple threat; that if the models moved a millimetre more than a manakin would, they wouldn’t be seen on another runway for the rest of their lives. Due to this competitive environment, it was rare to see even a blink from the girls as the increasingly-elaborate runway setups tried to throw them off their game, and this secondary sport had become an unspoken sideshow of Paris Fashion Week. ↩
Now that John and I have travelled the country for his lectures, Reading to London seems trivial, but this commute was the furthest I had ever been from home at that time. ↩

Appendix to Book 2

Dec 19th, 2019

729 words

Chiswick, London
July 6th, 2057

From the esteemed desk of the Headmaster,
St. Werburgh’s Finishing School for Young Ladies,
Sir Henry Wainwright,

Head Secretary of the Royal Society of Dolls,
Mr. Leonard Oakridge,

I have read the tale of the young Collins (neé Hodgkinson) Doll you had commissioned and sent to my office for review. As I am no longer the Head Secretary, I can only implore you to reconsider releasing this tale to the general populace. The titillating elements serve us no good in the eyes of the Church, and I am surprised your team could not procure a less controversial tale from Hope or any other Doll. Indeed her sister, Chastity, seems an ideal candidate!

I am aware of the leniencies in Hope’s Dollhood which allow her to dictate such a story for us, and her tenuous connection to the thorn in our side, Emily Rivers, which if more substantial could have been useful, but I impress upon you to try again. Do not attempt to twist her words, I have no doubt we could silence her again through one of the many vulnerabilities revealed here, especially in John Collins’s career, but such an endeavour would result in nothing more than a bald-faced marketing package, which was the antithesis of this project.

We need a real, true Doll. One who was raised in a less complicated household, and perhaps avoid another author? I found myself reading into the witching hours, few will have the patience for such a hefty story.

We here at St. Werburgh’s have seen our attendance and enrolment slide markedly after the publishing of Ms. Rivers’ incendiary articles “How I Became An Artist’s Masterpiece”. Our Society numbers are still up, but the scholarship rates have declined rapidly. The girls are of course not privy to how popular the bitter woman’s story has become, and frankly I wonder if I shouldn’t have a discussion with Dr. Eaton regarding supplementing the Society Standard with further sensory limitations. Both Hope and Emily seem to have refined ears and this worryingly indicates our property picks up far too much. In the ideal kingdom we envision, this is not a concern, that eavesdropping should entertain them and die with them, but with Damsels in Distress attempting to reclaim and rehabilitate every unregistered Doll, we must take every precaution. I am convinced experiences akin to Emily’s are not the norm for our girls, but we must ensure they do not muddy the waters of our progress!

Please note that this entire scandal would not have occurred if the Society’s registry had been up to date, and such independent Societymen like Humphrey Battersby had known to procure the official documents entrusting their human property to the Society upon untimely passing.

I would also like to update you on the small matter you wished me to look into, the disappearance of one Branwell Lowood. It seems after Ms. Rivers highlighted her brother as the prime cause of her forced dollification, there have been many in the press finding naught but a headstone, with no explanation anywhere in Ms. Rivers’ four volumes about her ungentlemanly nemesis’ passing.

I do believe there to be something awry in his absence, as the death certificate was not notarised properly, and there is no presiding officer listed at the sight of his carriage crash. If this is true, if a Doll was allowed to regain her womanhood then assault or murder a Man! Well, not only would she be prosecuted under the full extent of the Gender Mandate, but this may be the nail in the coffin for her reputation, and our ticket to proceeding with our long term program post-haste.

I will have my sources continue their investigations, but in the meantime please find a more useful testimonial. Let the Collins Doll continue and conclude, so as not to hurt her gentle sensibilities, but shelve the story in our archives once complete.

At worst, this whole affair will blow over in a year’s time, as more of the young royals are set to join us as both Dolls and Societymen. I have taken the time to ensure their enrolment in this tumultuous saga, so I do implore you to start pulling your weight, old chap!

All the best, Henry

Book 3 Chapter 24

Dec 20th, 2019

2875 words

June 2050

The hum of the doll stand permeated the room, pink and white and lavender all the way from the closed door to the chesterfield, from John’s fresh bouquet beside the HiFi to the fine lace curtains letting in only diffuse light and the faint but persistent din of the city.

I stood there, silently, unable to move as the invader betwixt my legs pumped in and out of my plastic nethers. The muscle stimulators fired away, tensing this muscle or that in my thighs and my pert behind, but my legs couldn’t do much more than shiver, for they bore little of my weight. No, most of me rested upon that saddle, that doll stand in the corner, my hips pressed firmly down such that my mons felt every vibration that rolled up from that lovely appliance!

I could feel my womanhood pulsing along too, spasming, gripping my second lover. I felt tighter now, quite fit: my most sinful friend with a mind of her own was in far better shape than she had been on my wedding night just a few months earlier, of that I was sure. Plenty of blissful exercise was to blame for that! Here in my proper place I felt like such a good wife, exercising my husband’s favourite hole even whilst the morning’s tension left my body, the whisper in the back of my head finally drowned out by sweet release. A buzzing, glowing warmth spreading out from my hips, my body finally succumbed to the onslaught of sensation and released. Ah! It was this feeling, oh God this blissful contentment, and the satisfaction from John’s moans of ecstasy every time he used me that made it all worthwhile.

As my lungs fought the warm embrace of my corset, puffs of silent moans and sighs escaping my neck, I clicked my heel to signal to my maid I was done. The ceaseless plunging seemed not to be slowing in the slightest, and after two consecutive climaxes I was properly perky, content, and quite finished with this.

She didn’t respond.

Where was my automaid? I could only stare vaguely toward the window, my attendant outside my field of view. Had she left the room? No, I would have heard her walk out. She must be behind me, dusting the shelf, or simply on standby, I thought.

As I clicked my heel again, I imagined reaching a single finger below to trip the switch off, but I knew such daydreams to be futile now. My proud chest and my smooth shoulders held no possibility of rescue, nor even a shrug, as my face pouted and stared at nothing. All was as it should be to please him.

Yet still I remained.

Oh dear! The vibration and oscillations of the shaft were beginning to send me on another tour! I needed to get out of this, fast. I knew my rebuilt vagina could take it, but I was getting tired and sore, and by now I was far more concerned with staying conscious, waist constricted so. I clicked my heel a third time.

It was about as helpful as the first two signals.

Whilst I had enjoyed the last twenty minutes or so quite still upon my perch, in proper form save for some slight hip gyrations, by now I was squirming my legs about, trying to kick one of my heels up and hit the off switch, but weak as they were, I knew I wasn’t getting these bound feet any higher than my knees. The petals of my fleur-de-cou fluttered as my upper body shook like a stiff board, unable to free my poor ladyhood from the pounding assault.

My heels clicked repeatedly against the metal baseplate, legs tensing as I came again, hard, my eyes blinking, my throat swallowing, my thoughts of John gripping and kneading my sensitive breasts sorely unrealised. My head clearing once again, I bid to lift myself but I simply had no purchase, and no strength. What wasn’t frozen and fused was clumsy and weak.

I came three more times before my automaid graced me with her presence, turned off the pulsing, lowered the saddle, and let me mince forward on my shaky heels. Every step was agony as my oversensitive sex ached and pulsed almost as badly as the intoxication I suffered on my wedding day.

Not again! I was the lady of this house and this would not stand!

Turning around, I intended to chastise my servant like I had seen the other ladies do during afternoon tea, but of course I remembered I was not them, I could not even glare petulantly at my faceless maid like the other girls my age, so I resolved to go for a little walk to regain my proper doll mind whilst my automaid busied herself cleaning my fluids from the stand.

Each tiny ladylike stride had my mind clearing a bit more. I headed for the window and it only took a minute or two of careful motions, mincing, taking care that my near-vertical heels didn’t catch the carpet, yet quite unable to look down to check. Ironically it was there to soften any tumbles, and when my maid was at my side this was no concern. The veils over my window eventually tickled my nose as I attempted to look outside, but I knew it was for naught.

As exciting as metropolitan life may be for some, all I ever saw from my little room was the pavement and carriageway below, some perfectly trimmed shrubberies, and the other block of cream stucco Georgian terraces across from ours; the whole lot of it blurry, featureless, and interlaced with the periodic batting of my eyelashes. I had once tried to align my dumb gaze as far down the road as I could, turning my body, pressing my chest quite indecently against the glass, but all I had seen were the same columned houses, left and right, as far as the eye could see, which admittedly wasn’t very far for a doll, before it all dissolved into a blur. Autocarriages often passed by, which was quite different from back home where the whirr of an electromotor and crunch of the gravel drive either meant a visitor or the post, but here you heard them at all hours, whizzing by or honking at the others. To be truthful, the noise still gets to me, even after all these years.

It seemed at the time that I had traded my peaceful provincial life for that drab London experience. Whilst I often wondered what was flowing through Cuddles’ head as she was keeping my mother company back in Reading, or what my sister’s home life was like with Collins Sr. but a few miles away, I had more pressing activities to occupy my day. Of course, barely seventeen (following my new birthday as a Doll, of course), I had but a hint that Kensington was as aristocratic a place as any in the United Kingdom, a hotbed of the sparring elite; I was neighbours with Lords and Ladies of great import, and I was lucky to have been accepted warmly into the Berkeley Gardens Social Club.

Speaking of which, surely it was time to go by now? It wasn’t proper to have a clock or pocket watch in sight of a doll, so it’s not as if I could check, but I usually left for Lady Kettering’s promptly after my first standing appointment! I turned away from the street to find my maid still polishing the doll stand, first stroking the shaft then wiping the myriad silver electrical pads one by one, then again and again, as if on loop.

How odd.

She did it again, froze, and repeated.

Oh no! No no no no no!

Standing there, a helpless doll who could not even sit for fear of being unable to rise up again on her own, I began to get very afraid. For I had entrusted my entire life to servants, machine or real, and it’s not as if I could go ring John for help myself. Besides, the door to my room was closed. Not locked, mind you, but such was more than enough.

For the first time in months I felt truly vulnerable again, and a doll should not feel this way! We shouldn’t be put in such a position!

I sauntered over to my automaid, who was kneeling, wiping the phallus for the seventh time now, her natural movements interrupted by pauses here and there, breaking the illusion, revealing her as no more than dutiful automata. I missed my Nanny, she would never have entrusted me to a sole machine like Father had, she would have known how to fix this. I waited, thinking in quite an unwomanly fashion about what to do next. I didn’t want to misbehave, especially since I hadn’t given John much reason to alter her strictness and punishment settings since Father transferred ownership, but I had no choice.

I had no choice.

I stamped my heeled shoe in the carpet, but it was muffled and ineffective. My maid kept on with her sinful obsession, running the cloth up and down the stimulator, gesturing in such a lewd way that John would have balked. Then again, he knew how to adjust their programming, could he be behind this strange behaviour? Had he been tweaking her clockwork? Knowing him and how delicately he had cared for me ever since our marriage, it was unthinkable. Perhaps by mistake, but never would he knowingly subject me to such uncertainty in my care!

I got closer, such that my crinoline-spread dress brushed her. John had deemed “the flower gag” excessive since my neck also held its own smaller fleur, and I suspect he liked the look of my gently pouting lips wrapped around the self-inflating ball-gag itself, so the only thing that blocked my peripheral view downward was my décolletage, the bare cleavage of my breasts projecting forward, held tightly by my corset and the nipple clips inside.

Deeming myself close enough, I broke every rule in the book and kicked my maid.

Being a doll, it likely felt like a tap. I struggled to regain my balance for a moment then kicked again, harder this time, and I thought I saw her hand pause, longer now, before resuming, polishing each pinching, teasing electrode. There was definitely something awry, as I could only imagine what punishment I should’ve been receiving for my insolence!

I tried for the third time and felt the delicate heel break out from under me, putting me on my back, strewn across the ground! It all happened in slow motion, lost in the air with no way to break my fall, and suddenly there I lay, head knocked up a bit and stuck staring at the ceiling yet again. I shifted my legs in the hope of rising, but dear Reader you must know how fruitless that proved.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched my entrusted servant continue her sacred rite until she exhausted her cells and came to a statuesque stop, groping the now well-worn phallus.

John found me hours later, after getting home late from the laboratory.

“HOPE!” he rushed in, cradling my cheek, staring into the eyes that did not meet his. “Are you alright? Are you hurt? Oh dear!” He checked me all over before looking at my legs, for my right thigh to tense and lift just enough to signal yes, I was okay.

Our way of talking was not hard to decipher.

Lifting me up to sit on the chesterfield, John held me tightly with his strong arms, and inside I wept in relief. My utter helplessness hadn’t been revealed like this in a long time. It took us nearly half an hour to get the story out, my eyes staring out the window, now filled with the glow of streetlights, the day gone, my mouth still filled with its gag, my thighs tensing as he read letters off a plastic board, each flex allowing me to speak in a way, piece-by-piece.

It was agonizingly slow, and I absolutely refused to conduct myself in such behaviour most times he offered, but such traumas were precisely why we had established this tenuous line of communication: an emergency. He surely believed such breaches of dollhood should be more commonplace but in this my opinions were clear, as were the Society’s policies.

He spent all night in his study with my recharged automaid, returning to my room every so often to walk me to the powder room to be flushed, to feed me with some special mash he prepared, to flip the record filling the otherwise still and silent room with a distracting tune, and back to his study he would go to continue his work. It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t my maid — we skipped dinner at the table that night as he got lost in another project — but other than my fright and my curiosity I was filled with adoration for this man stepping up to the task.

I did wish he would take me to his study, to be closer, but I knew the chairs in there were horribly uncomfortable, it was not my place to ask for such accommodations, and besides; I didn’t want to distract him. Or shall I say, I desperately did, but knew he needed his focus.

Finally John came to put me to bed, but unfamiliar with my routine and how to dress (or undress) a lady, I was laid down completely nude for the first time since my stay in Great Ormond Street Hospital with my class of dolls, almost a whole year before. Covered with a duvet, a normal one that did not zip or clip closed, my legs left unbound, I was filled with an odd feeling in my tummy. It was an unbelievable treat to be so unencumbered, but to not have the tightness and security of my night stays and layers was unsettling. This feeling in my tummy took me aback. Was it that I was free? Or just more aware how — even unbound — there was no such state for me anymore?

John knelt down beside me. “I can’t make heads or tails of this error, dear. I sent a datagram to my father and he knows a technician who can stop by tomorrow afternoon and take a look. Hopefully he can get to the bottom of it.”

Good. The sooner I could resume my routine, the sooner I could cease my worrying, cease this horrid unfeminine thinking. It was of course the source of my problems and discontent, I was sure of it. Dame Henderson had been right about so much, the past weeks and months so blissful and fair, the marital union so pure, and my unrealistic thoughts had been growing few and far between. I simply needed to follow the St. Werburgh way.

He rested his hand on my lap, and let the other trace my pouting lips, parted slightly and the tight hole between left ungagged, unfilled. Oh, if only he would put his— “Darling, I d-daren’t think what could have occurred if your automaid had left the stove alight and became stuck, or p-perhaps if you had even become the object of its… its wanton obsession! If only you would discuss prosthetic voices with me, it took many favours to find the manufacturer of those gags your teachers wore at St. Werburgh’s.”

I tensed my left thigh under his touch. NO. I should have never told him of those devices. I no longer wanted any part in sullying the proper form of this dollhood. Both our fathers would have our heads, and I knew John would look at me very differently if I became wilful, he would undoubtedly close himself to me, become as meek as before our wedding night, as shy as he still was with others. It was like Nanny always said, in that singsong way, “He couldn’t possibly love me properly, if I became more than his property!”

Oh how I wish Nanny was here instead of my useless automaid!

“No,” I flexed. I didn’t even want to be able to say no, to say anything, but I had to. For his sake.

“Alright, Hope darling. We’ll talk about this another time,” John said, rising before I could tense a steadfast ‘no’ again.

He shed his suit and tie, brushed his teeth and climbed into bed next to me, resting his head on my smooth shoulder, his lips barely kissing one breast and his large hand cradling the other. Staring at the ceiling like I had all day, I could do nothing to return his tired affection but wait for if my man desired using me tonight, fully nude as I was, but he seemed too drained from the day’s trials. Sinfully I was thankful, as the pounding earlier had left me quite sore. Instead he just muttered half-asleep, “Oh… since I have to be in the laboratory bright and early, I asked Priscilla to be your companion tomorrow.”

I stared at the ceiling silently.

Lovely.

Book 3 Chapter 25

Jan 9th, 2020

4736 words

I watched my companion and caretaker fidget with her hair out of the corner of my eye as we stood upon the porchway to the Kettering residence. After a short stroll down the precisely manicured street, passing a few Ladies out for a gentle stroll with their help guiding the way, their silent nods meeting my slow curtseys, the few steps up had left me winded, my chest heaving visibly even under my fancy street dress, but I was calm, relishing the fresh air coursing past the fleur-de-cou in the nape of my neck. It would be good to see my new friends again. Perhaps my companion would tell them of my harrowing saga from the previous day! Perhaps I’d finally have something to contribute to the idle chatter! That is, if she could get the chip off her shoulder.

Priscilla Barnes, my help for the day, had been extremely apprehensive all morning, unfamiliar with autolacers and toilettes and even just caring for someone who was unable. Her calling was not this, I assure you. What’s more, she was closer to Althea’s temperament than that of the aristocracy. She played the game, dressed a certain way (though frugally), held herself as proudly as she could, surely, but every marble column we passed seemed to aggravate her further.

And so here I was, left with a commonwoman, a feminist of all things, on the former Chancellor of the Exchequer’s front porch waiting to join his wife for tea. It was an arrangement only my dear husband could stumble us into.

“Entirely daft of John not to mention your daily social is hosted by Lord Kettering’s wife. I mean honestly! I’m hardly dressed for the occasion!” Priscilla uttered, patting at her nearly-flat chest and boyish figure as if to iron out the wrinkles visible even from my limited eyesight. She was correct. Indeed it seemed while some social clubs rotated through their members hosting, Lady Annette Kettering had such means as to host for the block, and quite enjoyed doing so.

Priscilla was muttering something about a black autovan parked on the street behind us when the front door opened wide to reveal an autobutler and automaid, nodding in silent welcome before the maid helped me in the door and the butler handed Priscilla a golden card.

“What is this? ‘As ordered by Her Royal Highness Queen Georgia’s Leisure Mandate of 2013, all noblewomen with means must follow the statutes of Leisurely Living henceforth…’ yes yes, I know the law but I am not of the nobility, my father is but a barrister and holds no peerage!”

I stopped to listen, the maid holding me steady like Priscilla had kept forgetting to do on our stroll over. The faceless, voiceless butler turned over the card, pointing, prompting a huff from my guest as she continued.

“‘As ordered by the Right Honourable Bryan Chambers in the Vicinity Act of 2048, the Leisure Mandate will henceforth apply to all women without a functional role within designated properties.’ But that’s absurd! What is a ‘designated property’? That could mean anyone, anywhere!” She looked to me for support, someone who must know more about this system, this life she had skirted for so long, but found only a blank gaze and a soft gulp as I swallowed excess saliva behind my flowerless gag. I turned my hips, and therefore my whole upper body toward the foyer, indicating it was time we got on with it. She was beginning to make a scene.

She pleaded with the automaton, “Please, I’ve been tasked with caring for Mrs. Collins here,” but the butler insisted, gesturing at the maid’s iron grip about my corseted waist, quite safe and secure, before he fetched a monoglove and simple cloth gag from the cabinet.

“Oh heavens, welcome welcome!” Lady Kettering bubbled from her seat. “We were beginning to wonder if our punctual little doll friend had grown ill, and you’ve brought a guest to make up for yesterday! What of your maid?”

I curtseyed in front of the hostess but otherwise did not respond as I was led slowly to an open seat, to perch my well-padded behind on the edge.

“In lieu of the unable, would you care to introduce yourself, young lady?”

Priscilla was obviously very uncomfortable with the bindings on her arms as the gag was removed as quickly as it had been donned by the maid. Leisurely doctrine proclaimed it only necessary in public and mixed settings, foyers and transitory spaces as such, or if the Lord came home, but she would not be so lucky getting the monoglove taken off. Shrugging a bit to ease the strain, Priscilla stared around the opulent room at the ornate designs and furnishings as well as the women of the block all gathered, ten or so, all eyes on her.

I sighed silently, wishing I could tell her not to gawk, thankful my body had not allowed me such breaches of etiquette upon my first visit.

“Ahem.” Lady Kettering cleared her throat slightly and raised her eyebrows.

“Ah, uh… My name is Priscilla Barnes, Madam. Excuse me, you have a lovely home.”

“Well isn’t that nice of you to say, but surely you mean my husband does? Not a worry, I can see plainly that this is your first experience in person with Ladies of Leisure.”

“Well yes, Madam, it is—”

“Annette, please!” Lady Kettering interrupted. “We don’t trouble ourselves with such rigidity past introductions.”

I heard Priscilla pause, obviously trying not to make a smart remark on ‘rigidity’ upon seeing the Lady herself wearing such strict corsetry at her midsection and neck to hold up an elaborate arrangement of greying golden hair, arms bound in the vintage gigot style, doubled under the puffy sleeves with gloved facsimiles resting uselessly in her lap. This was an old fashion, leaving her hands wrapped to her shoulders uselessly, yet quite invisible under the elaborate dress. I held my tiny breath but Priscilla withdrew what was hanging on the tip of her tongue.

“My apologies, you’re quite right, I am not of this world of yours. Indeed, I was asked to attend to Hope’s needs by John— uhm, Mr. Collins, but instead I have been bound in the leisurely style quite unnecessarily by your butler.”

“Oh, well it was only following the guidelines my husband has put in place for his home. We don’t see commonwomen around these parts often, and the Lord being who he is, safety is of utmost priority. Relax and enjoy yourself! The young Mrs. Collins here will be quite comfortable until we are finished today and she is placed back in your care.”

Priscilla shrugged a bit, fighting the ache in her arms, forced to hold her meagre chest so proudly, but she bowed her head slightly, acquiesced.

Another woman piped up, Renee Linscombe from a few doors down. “It’s quite unfashionable to have an actual maid these days, as AutoServe products are better and quieter than any human help—”

“Oh please save us the sales call, dear. Harry isn’t here to impress.” Annette bit, before looking back to Priscilla, “Excuse our dear Renee, her husband is the young heir to the company that manufactures our staff here and, well, everywhere! What she means to say is, you… work? And as a maid? We have not hired ‘real’ household staff in several years now.”

While I stared at the far wall, I tried to focus on the women in my periphery, all bound in various ways, proper decorative Ladies for whom the idea of “work” or labour was foreign to all. Whilst I had only gathered bits from my old discussions with Althea, I understood there was a hierarchy to things, a respect, much like life in the affluent nobility, and I could tell Priscilla was bristling at being referred to as a lowly maid.

“Actually, I am only helping my friend’s doll here for the time being, as her automaid malfunctioned yesterday.”

“Impossible!!” Renee squealed while the rest of the room shuffled a bit. I could understand her worry, her arms in a tight reverse prayer and almost as helpless as I was.

“Uhm, it is possible,” Priscilla implored, “This is the risk with firing human staff, all machines break down eventually. Trust me, I’m a scientist.”

With the finery tightly bound around her neck, Annette could no more turn her head than I could, but her eyes pierced Priscilla. “I do not take lightly to liars or talespinners in my home, dear. Honestly there is no shame in being a companion or help to the young mistress here.”

Priscilla was getting angry at these accusations. I tapped my heel to change the subject but no one heard, or maybe they thought I was simply shifting my weight. It was useless, I could only watch this play out.

“Excuse me, Madam, but I was educated as a particle physicist at Imperial College for the last four years. I am no liar.”

“Surely you jest??” A large-chested lady piped up with poorly-hid envy in her voice. Gertrude, I think her name was.

“I am also curious.” Lady Annette admitted. “If you are a fizzy-sist, as you say, then why are you here with our dear Hope? Surely the kingdom needs your mighty mind.”

The sarcasm had been ladled on thick by the end and Priscilla was nearly breaking in indignance and shame, but this was the Lady’s home and to spar with her was out of the question. Annette’s accusatory glare said as much.

“I… was not accepted to continue.”

Indeed, my help for the day had not been accepted to the graduate program at Imperial that John had. Four years they had been colleagues, as odd and wrong as that may sound to you civilised folk reading this. Priscilla being a woman of the continental style, independent and wilful, one of just a handful to get into any respectable London college, and John being a very open-minded gentleman, they naturally gravitated toward each other. I had asked him once, soon after we figured out the letterboard system, if he fancied her.

Arranged as we had been by our fathers, with John not even a Societyman prepared to own a Doll like myself, it was not an unwarranted question. Of course by asking I was giving into that jealous womanhood I knew I had to shed, and Teacher Margaret or Eleanor would likely implore me to remember men had every right to sow their passions as they pleased, but it was a question that would tear at my insides if left unasked.

But John hadn’t turned into the stammering wreck I had expected, saying resolutely, “I don’t fancy her, dear. I respect her, and enjoy our discussions. She is smarter than me in some of these subjects. If she were born with a… you know… then she very well might have my place in the Fusion Laboratory.”

I don’t know if that settled my nerves or made my blood run hotter. But why? Did I want to be that for him? Of course not, I couldn’t, it was wrong!

But pointless hypotheticals aside, Priscilla didn’t have a cock, and she obviously hadn’t knelt in front of enough at Imperial, as she was given some small honours for her first degree and not invited back. So her once-lenient father had made his position very clear:

“Even though I am twenty-four and well past my best matchmaking years, my father has decided my place is in marriage, to be a traditional homemaker, and has ceased his support until I abandon my studies and succumb to his reasoning. Back to the countryside, back to old-fashioned boys and dances and socials. Back to pretending to be honoured by a banker’s son showing interest in my ‘child-bearing hips.’ So… when a friend calls for help with his wife, I’m not going to refuse, unemployed as I am.”

“So you help your friend here to make ends meet, I understand,” Annette clearly skirted the notion of John and her being improperly familiar, of her scoffing at motherly duty, she skirted every controversial element as if it had not been uttered, and she surely did not understand such financial precarity at all. “…but your father must be a smart man, and it isn’t our place to meddle in their affairs, including their plans for us. Our delicate dispositions are simply not suited for it. I’m happy to hear your mentors wanted the best for you, though, casting you out from such unwomanly pursuits, setting you on a proper path before it’s too late. You know, I’d be happy to make some calls for potential suitors in your… shall we say… calibre, if you so wish.”

I beamed inside. Such an offer from an upstanding Lady was more than generous to someone as plain and brusque as Priscilla! But I could practically feel her anger radiating from beside me on the sofa.

“Perhaps. I appreciate the offer, but I have not given up on my studies.”

From the room came a few little gasps. It might as well have been a slap on the face to refuse so directly. “How could she be so careless?” I thought to myself, but Annette took it in stride.

“Suit yourself, dear. Do tell us, what happened to Hope’s automaid?”

“Well it seems to have broken down yesterday, stuck on a… well… a cleaning loop, leaving Hope here unattended on the floor of her room for hours, unfed and alone. Mr. Collins found her like that last evening.”

“Oh how awful!” I heard a squeak from across the room. It could only be Audrey Fentiman, an extremely fair girl, just older than me. If I recall correctly, she had been reared and educated in an extremely pious Catholic finishing school in Ireland, St. Brigid’s something¹, where all the students were bound in the Leisurely style from childhood, hands in prayer behind their necks with rosaries entwined in their useless fingers before the stiffness of age set in, eyes brought skyward with special braces and weighted hair-ties pulling their chin up toward the light of God. Now eighteen, the young Lady could no longer move her neck nor her arms, regardless of bracing, and held her face straight up, so as to never see the shame of original sin upon her chest nor between her legs. Much the same justification had been used to ensure I could never look down at my enhanced body either, though which one of us was more dramatically altered was up for debate. At least she could still look around upward and speak her mind, though with induced puberphonia, her words came out in the most innocent voice of early adolescence, quite juxtaposed with her very adult body.

I had been called to her residence once, before she realised how impossible it was to exchange pleasantries with a Doll, before she realised there was no point to ask my gag removed but to make a mess, and I must say her ceiling was decorated like the Sistine Chapel, with not even the powder room spared from elaborate oil paintings for her to admire. It was a shame I could not gaze up at it. Today though, she wore her elaborate hair upright upon her face and was left even more blinded than usual.

“This automata is getting out of hand!” Audrey chirped. “I had my wedding gift malfunction just last week, I’m sure you all heard it humming away under my dress for minutes at a time, I tried to be discreet, I did, but it was just unbearable!”

Renee turned to look at Audrey, or rather look at her long neck, dainty chin, and proud décolletage, “Yes you could hardly steady your nerves, I thought your husband was simply sending you telegrams, and I didn’t want to ask. Mine sends me nearly to my knees with a simple ‘hello, dear.’”

As if on cue, my gift triggered a loud spasm through my pelvis, a rumble I knew could be heard by all, whilst my cheeks flushed red. Priscilla was aghast at such casual discussions, and looked at my lap, horrified, as if only just realizing where that subtle noise had been originating from all morning. My body still reacted to the occupiers between my legs, randomly, teasingly, and I wondered if my tea companions knew that I was more alike to their toys and gifts than like them.

A few giggles could be heard, along with a few sighs from the women whose husband’s gifts were either quite inert or too small to entertain.

Gertrude spoke up, herself a more standard Lady of Leisure, rigid hourglass waist and neck corset, arms in reverse prayer and her husband’s taste for large breasts readily apparent on her chest, “You have little experience with Dolls too, I presume?”

Priscilla glanced over while the room envied her free neck to look where she pleased, “To be entirely honest, I was initially abhorred to learn my colleague had married a Doll.”

The women made tiny gasps, constrained by their tight corsets. The open claim of being a ‘colleague’ to a man, offering critique of a man’s affairs with his own home and property, and the speaking of ill wills in general! Of someone sitting right next to her no less! Such was well beyond fodder for a tea social, and Annette stepped in, “And pray tell, what if she had simply followed the leisurely tenets? What judgement have you then?”

It seemed my attendant couldn’t take two breaths without putting her foot in her mouth, and what’s more, she was taking the bait…

“Well that I expected, knowing his father’s aspirations and the Mandate, it would be unavoidable. It’s been a century, almost half of which the lifestyle has been mandatory for you lot; Leisure is entrenched in our culture now, to uproot it would be impossible, but this…” I could only feel the disdain that emanated from my companion as her eyes pierced through me somewhere to the left of where my Doll face stared, obliviously.

There were murmurs in the room, “Uproot?!”

I tapped my heel hopelessly. What was she thinking? Priscilla had to cease such discussions at once!

“Have you no restraint nor care for your charge’s feelings?” Annette chastised.

“Well according to the Society of Dolls, it seems she shouldn’t have any feelings!” Priscilla snapped back. “This young woman’s identity and thoughts have been erased, even more than yours, don’t you see?”

Audrey whined toward the ceiling, “No, my hubby said they’re still in there, just being very very good! You’re going to hurt poor little Hope if you keep saying such mean things!”

Indeed I was hurt, entirely unsurprised but hurt all the same. Priscilla had made her opinions quite clear to John after returning from our honeymoon, that I was nothing but a plastic toy and a threat to women’s independence across the United Kingdom, that John was a scoundrel like his father Jack, just like the rest. It had taken a long while for them to reconnect, and only once John had explained the circumstances of our marriage, showed her the letterboard and his efforts to establish a way of speaking, to subvert my dollhood, only then had she begun to visit him again and coax him on toward my “liberation”, much to my chagrin. I was confident what had been done to us dolls was irreversible, and attempting would only bring strife and malfunction, I knew it.²

Alas, were she truly fighting for my independence, even against my unspoken desires, Priscilla would not have hurt me so. In truth, I was naught to her but a symbol, a dirty -ism, and Nanny had been right about those dangerous, unpleasant things. I don’t know if my tea companions saw that. I surely didn’t, young as I was. I thought she hated me.

But Annette saw it, and she had entertained this agitator long enough, “Read the room, dear. These gentle women came here for pleasant chatter and refreshments, to fill their quiet days with mirth and good company, not to be incited by Bolshevik propaganda from the continent! Do you think us an entrapped class even when our lives are so carefree? Renee, what’s the first thing you would do if your hands and arms were yours to do with what you wish?”

“Me?!?” the young woman exclaimed. “But they are! I wish them to remain in their proper place, out of sight and out of mind!”

“Yes, dear, but what if they weren’t?”

Renee scoffed, brows tensed in thought, “Well I’ve no idea… what an odd question! Perhaps hold my own teacup? No, I’d surely spill. Or touch up my lipstick afterwards? But what’s the point? My maid can do it better than I ever could, and she is designed to be at my beck and call! I… Don’t prompt me with such ridiculous scenarios, Annette, just look at how fashionable they are like this! Men fancy a bare, weak shoulder on their women, it’s true! The man on the HiFi said so last week! You know, I’ve proudly held reverse prayer since I was eight!”

Audrey made a high-pitched scoff, “I highly doubt such claims.”

“Of course I have! Well… ugh… fine! In public I have, but at night I wear my bracelets anchored to the bed. Are you happy? We can’t all be human statues like you and Hope, a stretch here and there feels marvellous.”

“I’m sure it does.” Audrey bleated righteously. Her neck, shoulder joints, and arms were calcified in position after years of training and bondage, like the Dollmakers had done to me seemingly overnight. She had likely never known the idea of free arms, to ask her would garner an even less-substantial answer.

Renee glared at Audrey but the girl’s upturned face and covered eyes missed the sting, “This is all entirely beside the point! They’ve still been unused for nigh-fifteen years, as they should be! I don’t know what I would do with them just… there, blocking the view of my hard-fought waist measurements, but I do know I would look atrocious, and Harry would surely not approve, never mind old Mr. Linscombe. If I didn’t have my prayer binder back there wound around my forearms, or the dress sleeve, if they were just… ugh… loose… well, I would likely request a similar enhancement as Hope has had done to her shoulders. By the way, they look lovely, honey!”

I blushed happily, a small pulse rippling through my hips teasingly as if in response. Unable to chat along with the others, I received many compliments simply as a means to make me feel included, but you wouldn’t hear me complaining!

Annette thanked Renee for submitting herself to the thought experiment and continued, her glare drilling into Priscilla, who was uncharacteristically quiet, shocked by Renee’s genuine lack of imagination.

The nigh-elderly Lady took on a new tone with my companion, some parts maternal, others threatening, “You see, Ms. Barnes? Surely you must understand now that Leisure is not just a costume and gag which can be donned on and off like you have today. It’s the grand idea and intention behind our culture, and your little friend Hope’s too.”

Priscilla glanced over at my blank face, confused. “I don’t see the connection, she is more artifice than woman now! Do you all not feel threatened by her very invention? Aren’t you afraid you’ll be next?!”

The room laughed, and Audrey piped, “Afraid of cute little Hope? Whatever for?”

Annette was not laughing, “Though I’m well aware not all fine women in His Majesty’s Kingdom can afford to live and behave like we do, and Leisure inspires much adoration, ridicule, and gossip amongst the commoners, here in this house you must reverse your perspective.

“Look at the rest of London from the view of us devout ladies, if you will: exclusion from the Mandate based on financial means is a social program, a system of welfare, a temporary allowance for the delusion of independence amongst commonwomen whilst the ability to live in a way most in line with our rightful place under the King and his subjects is democratised by the private market.”

Priscilla gulped, our hostess’ meaning crystallizing into a dark future in her head, one of fully mandatory Leisure, refined bondage for nearly all women in the United Kingdom, working-class upward. All made possible by advancements in technology, seamless control as men enjoyed the spoils, the once-economically-necessary women replaced and served by automata.

“Do you… really reckon as much, Madam?”

“Do I reckon?” The silver-gilded Lady repeated with a short, corset-constrained laugh, “Dear, the Lord of this house laid out this very plan with Renee’s father-in-law years ago. The multi-decade project is nearly written into law with support from the King and both the Lords and Commons, and long after I’m gone, your children’s generation will know nothing else but refined objecthood amongst its fairer sex. When you call your little companion ‘abhorrent’, you insult us all, everyone in this room and our futures, and you sully what our good men have been working toward so diligently!”

Priscilla was despondent, unable to fight Lady Annette’s surprisingly articulate line of reasoning, whilst the other girls were all looking at each other. No one in the room had expected a lesson quite like that, but then again we didn’t usually have radical commonwomen for tea, either! Priscilla was despondent, yes, but soon she was angry again, a gut response. “You’re off your rocker, you’re a fanatic, I’ll tell the papers, the press! There will be revolt!”

But Lady Annette had put up with enough. “Maid, please replace Ms. Barnes’ gag so we may have our shortbread and refreshments in peace.”

“You can’t do this, I’m going to— UNFF!”

Bound as she was, Priscilla had no chance, and was silenced almost immediately by the automaid, mouth pumped and overfilled like a young girl’s would be for spouting such nonsense. She tried to stand up and leave but the automaid’s gentle but iron hand kept her down, kept her tantrum contained. Eventually she settled and joined myself and two of the other women in muffled silence, whose husbands had deemed their voices not to be heard even in the presence of just other ladies. One listened raptly as we did, the other being a lovely Theresa Redmill, who additionally wore special earplugs at all times and had spent the whole dramatic affair nodding and smiling (around her gag) to nothing in particular.

With Priscilla’s performance interrupted, myself left quite embarrassed and unable to apologise, with not even an automaid to help me rise and curtsey to the hostess, the group resumed their idle chatter.

Renee piped up, “Harry just installed an AutoTrack for me. Hope, you must try it if you’re experiencing these troubles! The solitude is simply divine, left in peace to decorate the room, or up and about exercising my legs and behind for him, a simple tether attached to keep me from improper areas of my husband’s home, like stairs or his private quarters. I must say, I feel safe and sound, and it’s exciting too! A simple pull upward and onward, along with a nudge from my gift, and I instantly know when he needs me!”

The women giggled, knowing exactly what the handsome Harry would need with his beautiful wife.

“The maids still fuss about of course, but I can read to myself, undisturbed, with my fleur in much more often, and that’s such a blessing.”

Audrey scoffed. “And have all that metal crisscross my beautiful ceiling?! Well I never!”

After reading the account of Audrey here, Dave Potter has done some research into the history of St. Brigid’s School for Young Catholic Ladies. ↩
Or so I thought before reading Emily’s tale, dear Reader, and to be frank I still believe such half-measures are a corruption of our perfect form. Emily and her sister never regained facial expression nor their real voices, and to my mind that would be the whole point. But I am getting ahead of myself. ↩

Book 3 Chapter 26

Mar 2nd, 2020

7920 words

John’s steady hand held my foot as I sat in my room, gaze locked in the general direction of the Doll stand and it’s damaged phallic massager. I was already feeling the tickle of need growing in the back of my head, making my thoughts drift to John or even sometimes that one fateful night with Althea, as awful as the fallout had been. But even though John assured me he didn’t include any of the aphro-supplements Father had once decreed part of my feed, there would still be no respite from my endless desire until either the device was fixed or John had his way with me, and as of late he seemed to only require my pleasure every week or so, leaving me quite unused.

I tried to tense my foot, keep my leg steady as the pen held between my toes dragged along the drawing pad he had placed on the ground. This was wrong, so wrong! Nanny would have spanked my bottom raw for such improper behaviour! The only respite I held from my surely sinful act was that it was not my own doing. Indeed without a gaze which could look down, and with my leg as weak as it was, the “writing” John was trying to have me practise was purely for his benefit.

The pen fell out from between my toes and I shook a bit in frustration. My feet weren’t made for this! My ankles were almost entirely immobile and my toes had barely had a respite from overly-tight and dainty shoes for years now. Indeed the Patty-Cake Incident had been the last time I had tried to “use” my feet for anything, and for good reason.

John sighed, “You’re being positively difficult, dear! I… I thought we had agreed, we must communicate! Or else you are simply a thing I own with a life entirely separate from mine, and I cannot — I will not! — tolerate that from my wife.”

It would have sounded commanding if not for the shiver in his voice. I moved not a muscle. That had been before! Before my sweet release on our wedding night! Before I learned just how right Dollhood was!

“Hope, I beg of you. If you will not speak, please just tell me what happened to Priscilla, and then I will leave you be.”

No, I couldn’t. They would arrange his expulsion from Imperial if he found out, who knows what else if my passionate husband acted rashly. The well-dressed men in the black caravan had said so when they arrested my companion and escorted me home.

“Lord Kettering is far too busy to reply to my telegrams, his wife the same, and you won’t speak with me. What am I to tell Pris’ father?”

I reminded myself that my mouth wasn’t made for such things anymore, I had been misled by my doubt into thinking I needed to communicate. And yet my lower holes spasmed again and I for a moment I did want to speak, to beg John to use me, fill me, hold my neck firmly like he fancied and ram his manhood deep inside where I could do what I had been designed to!

But the man on his knees in front of me was in despair, and I still felt awful for being unable to assist him in the affairs of commonwomen and men.

The door opened behind me and John hurried to push the writing implements under the chesterfield I was sitting on.

“I have good news, dear boy!” I heard Jack boom behind me, and within moments I was greeted by my father-in-law’s leery glare and my automaid, following along in perfect step as if no betrayal had ever occurred. “Frank finished up just moments ago and I sent him on his way. Seems like the maid had a leak behind her mask which damaged her core clockwork. Makes sense, this inlay being hand-done. Brilliant work, I must say. Alas, her core had to be replaced. Lucky enough you had protocol backups, she’s good as new.”

“They’re not clockwork, Father. It’s not 1850.”

The man made a throaty laugh. “Are you calling me old, boy? Who here knew the man who could fix your precise problem?”

John looked at my blank face petulantly, as his father had no idea what his real problem was.

“Well, what are you doing on your knees there, boy? I didn’t take you for a foot man!” Oh how such casual critiques made my husband leap, as he did to his feet to refute his bully of a father.

“Apologise, maid.” Jack snapped, before my once-trusted carer dipped her head and curtseyed in front of me. “Good, I hope this error has not broken your sense of security, my darling. Now call for Chastity to be sent over, maid, and have the autocar wait. I think a spot of dinner would lighten everyone’s evening.”

I could tell John wanted to decline but it was true, Jack had helped, and for some reason he was behaving very well. Brusque as always, but one had to accept what presents were given.

“I suppose…” my husband muttered, fiddling with the pen still in his hand. We weren’t finished, him and I.

“Marvellous!” the elder Collins smiled, patting his son on the shoulder as they strode out of the room, Jack’s raucous voice still quite audible even as they closed the door and went to John’s study for a drink. “By the way, peeking over Frank’s shoulder I was chuffed to see my son still using the St. Werburgh rulebook for his maid! Surely you’re aware we can change the rules set out for our ladies, spice things up just a tad…”

I was left to my own devices for a while after the men left the room, while I remained to think back on my one maidless day, and the disaster it had been. Priscilla had made a grave misstep, surely, but did she deserve to be detained? Would she be put on trial? What precisely had been her crime? Gross indecency, surely, but in a naive way, was it not?

Oh, the damned questions would never end! Couldn’t the Dollmakers have taken those too?

My maid returned and bent down before me, whilst I sat there quietly, my chest heaving with each shallow breath and my head spinning, as she had noticed my foot left bare by John’s foolhardy experiment. I expected her to replace my dainty lace sock and reimprison it back in my shoe, but instead she removed the other to massage my tired feet. First one, then the other.

Ah, that was nice. It was good to have my servant back.

I thought about it for a moment, sitting there, and remembered what Teacher Eleanor had once said during our Embracing Nothing litanies: “My automaid is my closest friend.” It occurred to me then just how right the good mistress had been. It would be lovely to see my sister Chastity in a bit, we barely crossed paths anymore. Althea was living with Father and Mother at the Hodgkinson Estate, to which I had not returned since John and I left on our honeymoon. The girls at the block social were polite and inclusive, but had not known me before… this.

Yet my maid was the one who awakened me every morning and prepared me for bed at night. She was the one who fed me and moved me, washed my face, applied every brush of makeup, kept my life perfectly on schedule (recent events notwithstanding).

For a Lady to fraternise with her help of lower class would be improper, but for a Doll to befriend the personification of her husband’s rule of law was only right! Indeed this automaton knew more about Dollhood than I did, yet had no mouth to evangelise the purity of her devotion toward the protocols which defined her. I had no name for my closest friend, save for the elaborate golden H and the sculpted faceplate set upon her head.

Was such a pure connection all because of a backroom deal between the King’s government and a great titan of industry? Surely they knew how to run a whole country better than a single fizzicist, and a woman at that? Pris had erupted at Lady Kettering upon hearing about the automaids becoming more common, and that part still confused me. What could be the issue with an arrangement or a plan that allowed for such a high level of care for Dolls like me? For Ladies? For everyday women across the Kingdom? Why wouldn’t they want that ‘closest friend’ if they had the opportunity?

The whole lot of it was beyond me at that age, and all I wanted to do was enjoy the doting from my returned automaid, which luckily she was obliged to provide.

After paying some much needed attention to both feet and the unused muscles in my locked shoulders and neck, the maid ‘looked’ at the doll stand, her smooth monogrammed mask as unrevealing as ever to the machinations within, as if remembering her own misdeeds just yesterday. After rising to inspect the damaged device, the phallic probe’s satin finish worn not so badly to render it unusable, but surely not advisable to put back inside my body and break down further, she returned and knelt before me again. This was odd, was she going to massage me again?

Oh heavens no! Was she on another unbreakable loop?!

Thankfully not, as instead my dutiful servant slipped a hand under my dress and gently touched (ah!) my ever-swollen clitoris with her soft plastic fingers. Wait a moment, I thought, no maid had ever stimulated me directly! And yet here she was, starting to move her cool fingers, to caress and touch in slow methodical circles about my special button, and with each calculated little movement, my concerns over the irregularity of the situation blurred and faded away, just as they should. She dipped one fingertip inside me just enough to wet it, just enough to remind me what it felt like, before continuing a gentle, teasing stroking. I squirmed my legs in both delight and agonizing desire, but the maid merely pried them back open and indicated with her iron grip I should not move.

“Yes, Madame,” I recited to myself as though the Head Teacher were watching over me now. Proper form, as always. Luckily, my Dollhood made this request very easy, as above the waist my reaction to this unexpected stimulation and excitement was merely a quickening of breath and a glow to my cheeks, along with a markedly increased flow of lubricant behind my gag, though only I had the pleasure of tasting that sweet, tangy substance. Below, my training was almost enough to keep my legs from shaking in pleasure, yet with my feet luxuriously unbound I relished in gripping the carpet with my toes as a common girl might’ve with her hands, holding on for dear life. Inevitably I felt a routine pulse and vibration, and my imagination strayed to the occupier filling my arse and to the thought of its identical twin, John’s erect cock. I swallowed the excess saliva reflexively and blinked. Noticing this, my maid’s free hand pressed the valve on my gag, releasing the pressure which had plugged my tight, inviting mouth-hole all day. She set it aside precisely, and inserted two of her plastic fingers between my parted lips, sending the muscles inside aflutter as they tightened and suckled at the stale-tasting digits.

All the while I was beginning to grow flush by this treatment, possibly the least passionate pleasuring I had ever received and yet my Doll body responded regardlessly, eagerly without question, licking the plastic fingers, dragging my tongue, tensing each set of muscles my mouth now sported from front to back, coaxing the fingers deeper before the back of my tongue and my palate began to vibrate. Excess saliva escaped past the tight pucker of my lips and dripped from my chin to the open bosom below, meanwhile my lower holes surely leaked torrentially, eliciting the sweetest of sensations from my maid’s slippery fingers. Still the delicate and lovely assault continued until the warmth built up in my hips, my breath was ragged and I felt every inch of my stays constricting, insulating that heat, before the tenseness deep inside grew, and with a flood my climax burst forth, my thighs tensed slightly, the gusts from my fleur-de-cou stopped. I felt like screaming out but the room remained still, the strings removed from my harp long ago.

My maid removed her fingers with a soft, perfunctory pop of suction and my spring jaw closed again with nothing to fill the emptiness inside, my face completely unaware its possessor had just orgasmed with great intensity save for a mess of spittle dripping from my lips and chin, curious why we couldn’t have another go.

It seemed this was the procedure for a good Doll’s head-clearing relief if their appliances intended for such were out of commission. Or was this an apology? Indeed I couldn’t complain.

After wiping her messy fingers with a spare handkerchief, cleaning my face and bosom, reseating my feet in their heels, and reinflating the gag just behind my lips, I was risen to standing and led to my armoire and vanity to be prepared for a night out in the city, legs shaky, quite securely in the afterglow of such lovely treatment. Whilst my maid refreshed my lipstick and fragrance, inserted new dissolving pessaries, my mind couldn’t help but wander, though.

I was being taken care of, safe and sound, here in my proper place, but where was Priscilla at this very moment? Was she in a jail? Sitting before an inspector’s desk? Or perhaps somewhere worse which I had not the worldly imagination to fathom?

The men in black had been so courteous, walking me home, opening the door and leading me to rest in the safety of my room. And yet Priscilla had reacted so improperly to another serviceman’s request for her information, struggled so fiercely even against the meagre monoglove and gag the Kettering residence had gifted her, even as they put her in their black van and drove off to God-knows-where. Admittedly, my escort had allowed himself to feel the firmness of my breast whilst I could say not a word of the matter, but he had also taken time out of his important schedule to assure my safe return to our now-empty flat!

And then threatened me not to reveal the whole affair.

Why did men make it so difficult to think them infallible and trustworthy as I had been taught?

I wondered at the time what neighbourhood watch this must have been — likely some fancy service for the London well-to-do, I surmised — though now I know full well it was none other than the King’s unspeakables, His Majesty’s Security Service.

I found myself wondering after Priscilla’s well-being for much of the night, even as Chastity arrived, quite docile and well-behaved since tying the knot, surprisingly dressed in my precise outfit, one of several dresses Father had bought us after graduation that he found easier to just tell the seamstress to make two of. She made no apologies or curtseys, looking just past me at the wall as I did the same.

Hello, dear sister.

“A fashion emergency, my dears!” Jack roared jovially, holding firmly onto mine and my sister’s bare armless shoulders, making the sensitive plastiskin tickle and my lower holes tighten unconsciously, flush and ready yet again. “Maids, won’t you go and fix these fine Collins women so they actually match; hair, makeup, the works! I feel like drinking enough to see double tonight. What do you say, boy?”

John had that same expression he always had with his father, that of holy pain and persecution, but he only nodded in agreement, much too distracted to care. Thus the pattern of complete domination by the elder man was upheld, and I was given the opportunity to show John’s home to Chastity, of which she had little to say, staring at whichever brushed landscape, dollhood appliance, untouched bookcase, or tasteful wallpaper lay directly in front of her, teetering right behind me as I glided with great struggle (all hidden by our well-trained grace, of course). I could not fool myself though, we were making the motions, my freshly-reinstated maid guiding me from room to room, and silently gesturing at this or that expensive heirloom as if a hostess were reciting each entire storied history, though the only noise was the quiet whirr of her motors and the echo of men talking back in the foyer.

Chastity was gracious and patient as “I” gave her the grand tour of a flat much smaller than hers. Remarkably well-behaved. What had my father-in-law done to tame my sister from the muted anguish I had seen at the chapel all those months ago, I could only wonder…

When we eventually stepped back into the foyer, having ended our tour in my dressing room with a thorough scan through my armoire and wardrobe for the right accessories, prepared to the exacting standard of a mirror, my simple gag upgraded to a proper fleur-de-bouche blooming from my mouth, with even my shoes replaced with ones far tighter to match my sister’s footwear, Jack just burst out laughing, “Now that’s remarkable, what a beautiful dessert we have here! Just delectable! I can’t even tell which cake I left my icing inside last night!”

John glared at this latest dollop of crudeness before he donned his jacket and turned to the door. His whole body and demeanour announced to the room, “Let’s get this over with, then.”

“BOY! What has come over my well-mannered son?! Walk your wife to the carriage, they are ours to treat with respect!” He said this even as I noticed his hand wrapped around my sister for support, yet firmly cradling his wife’s breast. Like the watchman had held me today. She of course stepped dutifully along with him out the door, onto the city street at his brisk pace.

He hadn’t changed a lick since using me in the garden last year. Not a lick. And Chas was all his to do with as he willed. Poor sister…

I stared out the front door, held open by our autobutler, awash with the memories of our wedding, of the garden I was used— no, raped in. Such a dirty word, another one of Althea’s breadcrumbs.

“Escape.”

The word rang through my head like an unwelcome guest as I waited for John to come hold me, a vagabond concept I hadn’t spotted betwixt my ears since our wedding and the many joys that came afterward. And yet I had just been outside earlier today, why was the door calling to me so? It seemed to only do so when I found myself unhappy, unresolved, unsatisfied; when I let my mind stray to the recurring fantasies Althea strung up in my imagination. But why was I suddenly uncontent, even now that the automaid incident had been all but resolved, when even my persistent carnal needs were being paid attention to?

This was wrong! These were thoughts of mine from before I made the conscious decision to enjoy my new life. Before I decided to be his perfect Doll wife, like St. Werburgh’s had taught me to be; like they had granted me the tools to be. Before I came to the resolution that questions and worry and thought had been the true culprits as to why the intervening months in Reading had been as awful as they were. Before I decided I didn’t want to make that mistake again, to live in constant self-doubt in this new house.

And yet I could see my husband there in the periphery, sulking even whilst he re-tied one of his shoelaces. My act of silence and restraint to proper form was draining the light out of him. Now, dear Reader, I was never taught the old bunny-ear method, nor really any method. Nanny had always tied my shoes, even whilst I still had free and innocent hands. But for some reason I suddenly wanted to tie his shoes, to kneel in front of him and assist him with something, as if such a gesture would show him where my heart lay, would wipe away my obstructions. This inability to make one foolish little gesture made me so intensely sorrowful all of a sudden, that I started to cry.

Not cry, really, you already know we Dolls can’t partake in such shows of emotion, but for my eyes to blur and my breath to hitch in quiet sobs that fluttered my fleur-de-cou, that sorrow had me in its grips. Every repressed desire for my lost independence burst forth into me, making not a lick of difference to my environs, my paroxysm of despair entirely contained behind these ever-surprised and eager eyes that peered over the flower erupting from my mouth, toward the blurry twilight void of that open door.

I stepped out of line, weakly edging away from my maid, who thankfully let me tiptoe toward him, unable to wail as I truly wanted, and yet he noticed, the good man noticed me. “Hope? Oh dear, you’re so excited! Whatever is the matter?” I could not tell him like this. “Do not fret, it’s going to be okay.” He held me with both hands on my featureless, feminine shoulders, and I felt his warmth.

Standing there, close, wishing I could look up at him instead of staring at his chest, I was flexing my thigh desperately to try and say I needed to speak, to say I needed the letterboard from where it lay discarded in my room. But I had also been denying his efforts to communicate for weeks now: hidden under my elaborate pink dress he didn’t notice my signals in the slightest, whilst he made those puppy-dog eyes of pure care and empathy down at my blank face, inspecting me for traces of my internal struggle which he should have known he would not find there.

“Hope, it’s just one dinner with him, and your sister is here, isn’t that grand?”

He sounded like he was trying to pep himself more than me, and it wasn’t very convincing for either of us.

He sighed, “It’s going to be alright. Or… or is this about something else. Is… is it about Pris?”

No, no! It was about everything! It was all wrong, I had messed it all up! I was a worthless object in my lover’s eyes, that’s why he was mad, why he didn’t even use me with frequency, why I needed a machine to give my dirty female mind it’s prescribed release! And this object had endangered his friend by her very existence, the friend he had a real relationship with! Oh, I had been so wrong to shun him, I should have known better!

But yes, first I needed to tell him the truth, tell him the gentlemen in black took her, tell him that Lady Annette had called for Priscilla and I to be escorted home at the end of our social, tell him she had whispered something else to the man, tell him that his best friend (sob) Pris was–

“Oi! Johnny boy! Get yourself and your sweet little lady out here, I’m famished!”

It was enough of a whip-crack to distract my man, who confirmed we were almost ready at the top of his lungs, and looked back at me but for a moment before sighing, kissing my forehead, and resuming our departure. My coat was put on over top of me, my flexing thigh hidden under yet another layer, and my husband led me out to the waiting autocar with his arm around me, holding me close the whole way to a place Jack called ‘Rules.’

We were given a square table in a dimly-lit restaurant of gold and amber, and my sister and I were sat crosswise so we could properly enjoy each other’s company as Dolls should, silently staring at the blank faces our makers had left us with, in this case akin to being sat before a mirror. Our men pushed our chairs in and then took the other two seats and ordered some drinks, an ale for Jack and a ‘John Collins with gin’ for, well, John Collins.

Alas, whilst performing the act of a proper doll wife, listening to Jack berate my husband for his choice of bubbly, effeminate drinks, my mind was still reeling guiltily as it had been since we left home. I resolved to tell him everything the next time the chance befell us.

Meanwhile, I was distracted by the sudden sense that everyone in the restaurant was staring at us, more precisely at Chastity and I. It’s not as if we could look around to check, but I did see one man behind Chas who couldn’t keep his eyes on the wife he was spoon-feeding, who herself looked as though she would have struck him with one of the arms pinned behind her back if she could have…

It was not wholly unsurprising, as going out for drinks and dinner was more of a man’s pastime in the Society. Boys went to prep school and fine colleges, they may even live in dormitories as I had, but they could stroll down to the shops or the pub as they pleased. Dolls were largely left at home unless a proper ball or banquet were happening, or it happened to be a personal call to another’s home, a home with the amenities required for a Lady, as most were these days but not all.

Indeed, the only reason I was allowed to walk to my afternoon tea appointment was due to our neighbourhood being so posh, and the Kettering residence being so close, otherwise Society rules dictated a human chaperone and autocar at all times, with minimal exposure to the elements. Such restrictions caused us Dolls to be a rare breed in public. There may have been a few guided strolls down highstreets here and there, a group visit to Laydon’s or the Parlour, but seamstresses and corsetieres largely made house calls, or John would use the telephone in his pocket in some unknown method to expedite the process. Our mother was a perfect example of this life in-of-doors.

Dear Reader, we Dolls were ‘homemakers,’ as the Society diction stated, building off long-standing Leisurely tenets. We made a house a home by our very presence, and should largely remain there when not being put on display by our husbands, as we were now.

That said, it surprised me to find so many Ladies here, with either their maids or their men feeding them fine wines and delicacies — in petite portions, of course. They did not seem to have the same restrictions as us Dolls, as the bound Ladies had become so commonplace that their very presence did not cause a stirring in the entire restaurant, for they themselves were a large portion of the restaurant, and to leave such fine folk at home would not only mean losing out on business, but coming home to many a question from those swaddled girls who had nothing to do but wonder what their men were up to all night.

The second reason we were rarely spotted at these establishments was our refined way of eating; hands-free, low-maintenance. The large objects which we suckled and massaged our sustenance from, all on our own, were similarly foreign to the public, and caused our mouths to emit such noise that Father and many other men ate before or separately from their girls. Indeed, I had not partaken in any of the refreshments at the earlier tea date, performing such ‘refuellings’ in public would be quite improper.

John noticed this and politely asked the waiter, “Uhm sir… in addition to my salmon and the steak for my father, I… I wonder if you may have some selections for our Ladies here.”

The waiter hesitated. I couldn’t see his face standing to my side, but his voice made it clear how hard he was straining to not make an improper glance down at my bosom, pushed up by the cups of my stays. “My apologies sir, we do not have the equipment to provide meals for Doll Society… uh… ladies.”

Jack interjected, “Now that’s just bollocks, mind my tongue…” He pulled a banknote, I have no clue how much or indeed which colour is which, and handed it to the waiter. “Good lad, your saucier will concoct or blend a selection of five liquid treats for our little women here, each delicacy prepared on two tea spoons for the ease of feeding, and we expect that ten minutes before our main course, no later.”

The waiter nodded, affirming eagerly. It must have been a large sum.

“And one last thing, I expect not to need to explain this next time I bring my wife to your establishment. That is all.” I heard the waiter’s footsteps trail away and the din of the dining room came back into focus.

I was stunned, and so was John. “That’s quite gentlemanly of you, Father.”

“Well they’re just sitting here, might as well give them something nice to suckle on whilst I imagine I’m the spoon.”

John popped a smile. A real one. I thought I must be dreaming. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Well you don’t hear these two cracking jokes! Nor those two charging their cells in the back, such troublesome units.”

A swish of ale and gin followed in each’s hands as I stared at Chas and she stared right back.

“A faulty seal, can you believe it? That’s all it took! I bet you the same damn shoddy linesman likely affixed both. I say, for Alan to get his daughters’ servants tailor-made masks, what’s the point? These old money types might as well tip their hearths for good service. I’m having our dollmaid checked tomorrow. If there’s a single flaw it’s to the fires of hell with that one, I will not risk harm upon my girlie here.” I saw Chas shake just a tad at that, but remained still.

John was taken aback but agreed, “I think… that’s very proactive.” He paused in contemplation, swirling his glass. “T-to think… a single drop of water could send my wife’s day reeling towards abandonment, sending our lives to t-t-total disarray…”

Jack glanced up from his pint. “Eh? Surely your pops saved the day?”

John paused, sighed, finished his glass. “It’s Priscilla…”

“The treat from Imperial I keep spotting you with?”

John nodded, unable to bring himself to explain her sudden disappearance and how it pained him, and Jack being Jack, he just laughed and smiled knowingly.

“My boy… an active mind breeds an active bed, I see!” John balked at the assumption of infidelity, but Jack kept on, “Y’know it’s a proper shame you’re married already, son. She would make for an excellent blank to mould as you like. Smart! Smart enough to know when she’s been had. Pretty enough. Prettier after she heads to Werburgh’s. No, my mistake, too old. Sant Isfael’s in Wales, I heard Alan sent the girls’ mum there a while back, on Chittenham’s dime, and you’ve seen that peach, o’course!”

I was sitting right here! Part of me couldn’t believe he would make such a remark, proposing my alternative as though I had been an unlucky draw. The other part of me, who had joined Jack in the garden, who wanted dearly to talk to my husband at the earliest opportunity; well she was entirely unsurprised.

Every ounce of short-lived levity had flown from John’s demeanour as the waiters brought the men’s first course, he bit his tongue and then hushed, “Against… her will, like that? Pris? I would never! I mean how could you even speak of putting someone so bright into this…” John looked at me and drifted off, suddenly very aware of where that hypothetical was heading, as was I.

The two Collins men were quite a pair, I must’ve thought at the time, unable to self-correct my potent frustration.

John cleared his throat and continued, “That would be an entirely ridiculous proposition. Lady C-C-Cushions wanted this, H-Hope and Chastity submitted wilfully to their dollification at Saint, uhm… Werburgh’s. Believe me, I’ve pored over every page looking for a legal avenue for reversal, I know it to be true. Priscilla… she wouldn’t want any part in such a life. Getting her to even take care of Hope was like pulling teeth, nevermind this!”

Mouth half full, Jack guffawed, “You think every Doll strolls onto that assembly line at Great Ormond Street with a smile, boy?”

“I… I don’t know? Of course! They both seem so mild-mannered, and Hope quite enjoys herself when we…”

“HA! Oh I bet she does!!” Jack laughed, slapping my breast playfully. John seemed offended but realised he had walked right into that one.

“Wait… are… are you saying? That—”

“That a not-insignificant sum of Dolls in England have either been entrapped or never given the choice over their involvement in the Society? Don’t be silly, boy! Of course! It was much the same in the early days of the Leisurely lifestyle over a century ago now. Your mum, rest her soul, was an ardent supporter of the lifestyle even before I met her, and she herself told me that snippet! ‘It’s necessary for any movement to get on its feet,’ she once said to me.”

He tsked and held up his glass. “I do miss that woman.”

I saw Chas shift at the mention of her predecessor, but nothing more.

John was stricken, taking a large swig of his second drink, looking at us girls sitting prettily, seemingly unaware of this revelation. Oh, I was aware. I had suspected it since my time with the sponsored girls at St. Werburgh’s, talking with Vanessa specifically. She had never unduly revealed her own forced involvement but her demeanour spoke volumes. I seem to remember her being at my wedding, along with her husband, who had decreed she receive a hearty smile at the lips and raised brows on her now-plastiskin face, to make up for the taciturn girl inside. As a Doll she behaved much like the rest of us, of course. How much despair can a pair of legs communicate?

Jack coughed on his drink and cleared his throat. “Now our girls are different, Alan did a fine job of raising two dutiful daughters who eagerly begged their headmaster to sign away their womanly rights, I heard they even kissed their surgeon in thanks!” He laughed and snapped at the waiter for a refill.

The way he was spinning our lives for John’s consolation twisted my stomach into a knot. Perhaps Chastity had been happy to do such things but I had not! Oh dear, I had almost forgotten how sick with indecision and disillusionment I had been back then, over a year ago now, two even. So much had happened since!

John looked at his Doll and brushed my cheek with his thumb, and I leaned just slightly over into his touch, a flurry of spasms below triggered by such a sincere gesture. He smiled guiltily. “Yes, Hope is… devout in her practice, I know it. She has b-been quite ardent about maintaining ‘perfect form’ as the school handbook calls it… even… against my wishes.”

Jack looked at his son sharply. “What do you mean to say?”

“I mean she has decided it best she maintains her Dollhood in every sense of the word. This little lean is the most I’ve gotten from her… in quite some time. Well, uhm, save for the incident yesterday of course. And oh how refreshing it was, even under such circumstances. But the truth is, I’ve been trying to get her to speak to me. To engage as a real wife should!”

“By God, why would you do such a thing?! And why is it up to her?!” He hushed and leaned into the table, eyes dashing about. “Do you want the full wrath of the Society down upon us? If Alan or another Societyman were here tonight, listening to this, our girls would be recollected into ‘more responsible’ hands before you or I could say squat! I worked hard for this arrangement and you want to just throw it away?”

“Not to worry, Father. As I said, she has upkept her education like a model Doll should,” he laced with sarcasm, quite unlike him. “Signals, boards, pens and paper, it’s all useless. I… normally wouldn’t speak of such a thing with you, but I’m at my wit’s end! I’ve been trying to get Priscilla’s whereabouts out of her all afternoon. They went to tea together and when I arrived home from Imperial, Pris was nowhere to be found…”

Jack leaned back. “Serves you right, boy. And what a good girl you are, Hope, for keeping my son in line! I wish I could reward you properly for such fine behaviour!” He reached for my chest yet again, but—

“Easy with my wife, Father!” John flared, for what seemed like the first time ever. The room came to a halt, and John realised he was standing, fists white as they clutched his serviette. He wilted at the attention and fell back in his chair, and the good men and women of London returned to their meals and conversations.

Jack was still restrained, hushed, unimpressed with his son. “Easy yourself, boy, or I’ll tell Frank to come back and rubbish your dollkeeper’s head, and you’ll be having no quids from me to buy a replacement! Who do you think pays for ‘your wife’?!”

A silence reigned between the two which rivaled mine and Chastity’s.

Once another round of drinks had been poured, the two reconciled and discussed what facts John knew, and Jack took on a more conciliatory tone “Look, I’m sure she is fine, maybe her plans changed. You know how unmoored women can be.”

Indeed, unmoored was the right term, I thought as we sat in the carriage on the way home. After her performance at the Ketterings’ she had been taken by tides quite out of her control, yet I found myself still worried about her. She had been brash, yes, but this was all my fault. With a simple voice I could have told her not to test the Lady. With two free arms I would not have needed a chaperone!

I sat across from John who looked glum as ever, still tasting the essence of blackberry compote upon my short tongue, a treat to be sure but one I now felt I hardly deserved, Jack’s praise of my good behaviour hardly making up for my complicity in a woman’s disappearance today. It mattered not whether I actually liked the woman I saw as a likely temptress of the man across from me, with her wits and -isms aplenty; she didn’t deserve her treatment today, not one bit. I blinked dumbly toward my good husband, hoping my delayed information could help once we were dropped at home by the drunkard in the other seat, Jack Sr.

It turns out I would never get the chance.

John’s eyes lit up once we arrived at our block in Kensington and home appeared in his view. I could not turn my head, nor turn my gaze to follow his, but he had his eyes locked on something by our front door as we pulled up, and before the autocarriage had even stopped he alighted, running to our terrace.

“Priscilla!!!!”

It took our maids getting us upright on the pavement before I saw her, a blurry mass, cowering on our front step. Jack ran ahead to open the door as John carried her inside, but we did not immediately follow. I felt a touch at my neck and my locket being re-adjusted well below my locked eyesight, the blooming flower blocking most of it. A few adjustments to my hair followed, whilst I begged time itself to move faster. Only then did our maids ferry us inside, so we could see what mess had been wrought.

I immediately regretted every jealous thought I had ever held of Priscilla when I saw her sitting on the chesterfield in our small drawing room, for she had been treated terribly; her plain dress torn, her hair in disarray, makeup running down her cheeks and spittle dried around her overinflated gag. She was still wearing the same simple leather monoglove the Ketterings’ staff had bound her with, but John was busy inspecting something else, a gold choker wrapped around her neck.

Pris looked at Chas and I when we entered, back and forth, obviously shocked by our identical appearance, then at our lockets to discern who was who. Then she remembered she was still gagged and bound, and had a mini tantrum there on the seat to tell John to remove the infernal wares. He did, but once she was free her tired hands flew to her neck. The thin collar would not budge, and she could not utter a sound.

“Hold on, don’t touch it.” Jack advised before stepping in to get a better view. “Don’t mess with it. This is a Songbird, or that’s what we called ‘em when I was in the Forces. Well, it looked different then, not as flashy, but we put ‘em on prisoners so they couldn’t be getting chatty together. These were dangerous folk you see, homegrown cells, most with Bolshevik affections and funding, trying to destabilise His Majesty’s government…”

It reminded me of the bracelets I wore in my youth, the ones that numbed my hands after I was put to bed, and once I focused on my periphery more I realised she was also wearing those too, the same thin golden decorations.

“Why are they called Songbirds?” John asked his Father, peering at her wrists.

“You’re much too young for this, boy. Even before my time, before the trains of coal and the soot that followed, the King’s country was full of birdsong, you hear it mentioned in Shakespeare and the like. Well, the world has changed. The pea-soupers are long gone but the birds that sing haven’t returned, don’t ask me why. I expect it was named thus in a fair bit of jest… Don’t tamper with it, without the code all three are quite unremovable, without lasting damage.”

Priscilla was crying again, screaming out loud in heavy, silent breaths. I felt for her in that moment, I really did. It reminded me of my first moments as a Doll, as if I needed any more reminders today.

Seeing as Priscilla was unable to name her abductors, I committed myself to action, to help. I tried to strut toward John as I had in the foyer earlier, but my maid held me in place this time, her handle on my waist quite foolhardy to think escapable. Chastity and I could only stand there, held upright by our maids behind us.

Pris gestured for a notepad, a pen, and Jack went to fetch some.

She sneezed audibly then reached out for the pen and paper. These objects she held fine, but once the pen met the paper with her intent of writing, her hands seemed to write mere gibberish. She looked at the inky trail of meaningless cursive with shocked silence, before she dropped the implements and held herself, her traitorous wrists, and cried with renewed terror.

Jack tried to get her to make symbols with her hands. That failed.

John retrieved the letterboard he had slipped under the sofa in my room and had her point at each one, and though we thought this was working at first, she was shaking her head with tears as they went on, the songbird somehow making her pointing hands go limp as she tried to construct even her first word. How it did this, no one knew. Indeed both men had never seen such technology, Jack having only experienced the muting system.

We couldn’t know what Priscilla had gone through that day. John started to discuss options, levels of communication that were slow but might circumvent the system, methods he had devised for me, and it did seem that nodding or shaking the head worked fine, but Priscilla was much too tired and distraught to try looking or blinking, or any of the more tedious methods. It seemed yes and no would have to suffice for the time being.

After a while of sitting and staring at the ornate parquet floors, trying to speak or hum, beating her torn dress in frustration, Priscilla looked up at Chastity with intensity, shed her broken heels, and crossed the room to where we were being stood in diligent waiting to embrace her as though there was no tomorrow!

I was left entirely confused, as Pris then pulled back and looked intently into my sister’s eyes as if to say, “I’m sorry, I understand now.”

“Oh Hope, how grand!” John elated. “I thought you two would never see eye to eye.”

Wait.

What?

They were all looking at Chastity as he said this, and surely Priscilla would have no reason to hug my sister, whom she had never met before?

John approached the two and brought them both into a firm embrace, telling both he was “sorry, so sorry.” He of course had no idea that Lady Kettering had called the watch on her, this fact was locked behind our now-shared muteness, but he still felt guilty for putting her in whichever unknown position had caused this as-yet-untold series of events, which indeed he had.

Many tears were shed from the two as my sister just stood there in the embrace, stock-still, breasts getting pressed, emotionlessly staring at Pris’ cheek or something.

I was a few feet over, being held in place by my maid, her hands an unbreakable clamp about my waist… or was it truly mine behind me? For the maid which had held Chas had her mask obscured to my foggy periphery. I begged my eyes to look over, to let me see that mask, or indeed the locket and effective nametag my sister was wearing, but they refused of course, blinking and ogling a nearby lamp.

Wait, if they think Chas is me, then—

I felt an arm roughly wrap around my shell of a corseted waist, a large hand resting on my larger rear through the pink dress, and even without the ability to look over I immediately knew Jack Senior was holding me close to him and his portly frame. “Isn’t that a lovely sight, dear? You know I almost thought we might find the poor lass in the Thames, but for your sister being delivered home safely, how strange! What a mystery!”

As if I needed further confirmation this waking nightmare was real, I felt his hand grope my curvy rear even tighter, rougher than he would dare touch his daughter-in-law in front of his son and a guest, and his beer-soaked breath cascaded across my neck as he whispered in my ear,

“We’ll count our blessings tonight, won’t we, love?”

Book 3 Chapter 27

Aug 19th, 2020

4373 words

“The way you conducted yourself this evening was entirely unbecoming! Never again! Never! I will not tolerate that from my wife, do you understand me?!”

I tapped my foot once on the hardwood of Jack’s high-ceilinged penthouse, the echo cavernous in this austere and minimalist space. I had been here before, surely. I had looked out the massive glass panes over London, with its third-revival gothic spires reaching for the sky, intricate tessellations of brick and steel and glass etched in my mind yet blurry and formless from my dollish eyes, thinking of books I could no longer read and remarks I could not contribute at a dinner party for the well-to-do, yes I had stood here before.

But never as the lady of the house, never by way of such a terrible misunderstanding!

“And even after I gave you a treat at dinner! Incorrigible! Chastity, your teenage malaise and disobedience baffle me to no end! To interrupt such a beautiful scene for one of your many tantrums, what is the matter with you? I mean, I know the malady, just not the salve! I…” he sighed. “I thought we had resolved this!”

I tried to keep myself from squirming in place, standing at attention as he sat by the fire. The matter at hand happened to be: I wasn’t his Doll!! He had taken the wrong one of us home! I needed to tell him that we had been swapped by the automaids, by some malfunction or malintent, that I was meant to be with his son, that I needed to get back, but how!?

I had tried there in our drawing room, to stomp my feet and breathe in hyperventilant, shallow cries, to mince toward John and push him off Chastity, but he had merely recoiled in fear. “Oh my, Father? What is awry w-with Chastity? Why is she rubbing her chest upon us so… lewdly?”

No!? Surely my own husband would recognise me? “John!” I had screamed out, begged silently, my breath fluttering only my fleur in docility and enforced grace. This was unbelievable, I could not believe I had fallen for a fool of a man who could not even discern his doll from another… until I thought of Chastity and I both set in front of my vanity mirror, so similar the glass could have simply been cracked in two. We had not always been absolutely identical, indeed Chas had a slightly different brow arch, though I think that had been corrected by the dollmakers at Father’s request. Oh, and she had always smiled with a slight…. oh it didn’t matter anymore!

Of course he would not know such human differences, he had never known us before we were refined, and it wasn’t the Society’s way to keep pictures of our old bodies out in the open, lest we get “unduly sentimental.” Now with flawless silicone skin and dresses and roses and hair to match, Chas and I were apparently so identical that a simple necklace swap was enough, and where that once made me feel prideful and connected, now it was biting me in the rear. What’s more, my necklace had John’s wedding ring on it, and now it hung from my sister’s rigid neck like some unworthy jewelry bust!

“And don’t think I didn’t notice your slip at the mention of my dear Carrie-Anne. You must know that you fill a very different hole in my heart, or perhaps the reverse is more apt!” he scoffed, “Grow yourself a voice and a wit and give me a son, for God’s sake, and maybe we’ll see you compete with such a fierce woman as she was!”

I didn’t care about his wife, nor Chastity’s slightest of movements at dinner, whether they had been discomfort or even related to the discussions at hand, perhaps it had been a poorly timed sneeze! It was hardly important!

“I want you to really think about what you’ve thrown away by your lapse in form tonight, dear.” He scoffed. “And to think I was going to reward you for your past month of diligence! That is now out of the question, young lady!”

I stomped again in defiance now, not agreement. I didn’t need his reward, whatever it was, and he could have Chastity back and do with her as he wished, my pity was dried up. Throughout my entire struggle in my husband’s drawing room and my husband’s foyer, she had not moved an inch! She may as well have thrown me to the wolf in the room, and bid me good luck! No, I was through with her: this was the second time she had betrayed me. Sisters, either of blood or dollhood, were not meant to commit such sins against each other, and we were both! I could remember when we had been a team!

Jack didn’t appreciate this attitude one bit. “You will behave this instant or I will send you to the telly!”

The telly? Well, I hadn’t watched a television program since before Werburgh’s, with Father having moved the set to his study and John thinking them nothing but a distraction (which he failed to realise my whole life consisted of). A little telly would have been nice, what was the harm in that? I was about to stomp again when my rectum vibrated to keep me alert and remind me of John.

That’s it! John’s gift! I smiled inside and realised I had been saved by that occupier filling my rear hole all day, every day. Every spare distraction and teasing reminder was validated in this moment, as I remembered it was an exact replica of John’s cock, and if Jack saw the gift and didn’t recognise it as his own, he would realise I was not his Doll wife!

I strode forward slowly, making Jack take his cigar out in confusion, and I turned around, directing my curvy behind toward him, before bending over as far as I could, which without these extended stays would have meant jackknifed in half, head to toe, but I settled for just halfway as the bottom edge of the rigid garment dug into my thighs painfully, teetering on unsteady heels, face staring down as I offered my rear.

“My my, Chastity, you must know me better by now! What makes you think a simple tour in your back pocket would soften your punishment? Especially when your motives are so plain to see!?”

Oh this was beyond embarrassing, dear Reader, but you have no idea what it’s like to live in a body where offering your very-full arse to be ravaged by your abductor is the best option available. Even just the thought of Jack’s meaty hands on me was undesirable, but for him to use me back there? I shuddered thinking of his taste when he had taken advantage of our solitude in Father’s garden, weeks before we would become family. If I didn’t act quickly my entire life would become a reprise of that frightful scene! I shook my butt again, making my dress sway. I dared not back up for fear of losing my balance, hoping he was suitably convinced.

“Well let me deliberate for a second…” he intoned, before throwing the tail of my dress up and over my back and head, exposing my bare cheeks for his enjoyment. I don’t know what he saw in that moment but I imagine it was something akin to two pert cheeks, not globular as I had seen given to other Dolls like Cuddles, but curvy and toned, skin not-quite natural in its perfection, cut vertically by two garter straps and spread by a massive circular base pressed up to my rear bud by the leather strap running between my legs. That’s what it felt like I sat on all day, at least…

Pull it out, pull it out, pull it out… I begged the hardwoods below me, licking at the thick drool building up behind my gag. Thick curls of my fake hair hung like curtains around my gaze and my breasts felt like they remained in their cups solely thanks to my nipple clamps.

He grabbed my right bum cheek with his thumb and forefinger and worried at the meat, sending tingles all through my body as I became warm and accepting, my legs shaking and my breath hitching in desire to feel his fingers— No! I have to focus, I thought. I heard him stand up and unbuckle his trousers and I gasped, a slight draft of air he heard course into my neck.

I spoke, just to myself, blinking blankly and waiting: Please just pull this cork out of me like a bottle of champagne, use me if you have to! I don’t care, as long as you see the shaft, feel its size and virility, as long as you get the evidence I’m imploring you to see, I just want to go h— OWIE!!

Without any ability to look behind, the bastard had blindsided me with his belt-strap to my bum, the stinging blow only amplified by my dollified skin! Oh dear, this was so much worse than that old paddle Nanny had used without prejudice in our younger years! Worse than the cane at school! My arse was lit on fire as he struck my rear four more unrelenting times. I could not flinch, my body designed to receive whatever was offered or bestowed upon it, and Jack Collins had decided his wife needed some pain to encourage her to fall into line.

I almost lost my balance from the impact, and I tried to step away, but he merely yanked my hair, my body rising up again with the glued locks, held close to his stocky frame, fire-bright butt pressing into his tenting groin. He whispered in my ear. “You won’t take me for a simpleton, my dear Chastity. Your plea for mercy was heard and denied!”

He stepped away, exposing my seat to the cool air which made the raw skin tingle again in the worst way, before marking it five more times with his belt. I sobbing inside when he let me go, shooing me to waddle to my automaid— no, not mine, Chastity’s. One of those useless machines which had started this whole mess!

“You disappoint me, dear. I really thought we had ironed out your issues weeks ago now. Maid, put my ungrateful wife to bed and reassemble the telly for her to enjoy tonight.”

Grabbed by the waist and knowing better than to resist in this nigh-helpless body, I was guided away from Jack as he lounged by the fire, tsk-tsking to himself.

I don’t know why he put on the show, we were behind closed doors now, and contrary to his assertion, he was the one taking me for a simpleton! Who else would have instructed our maids to switch lockets so arbitrarily when none but the faded stars and streetlamps were watching? Who himself boisterously requested Chastity and I to dress up identically after a simple coincidence of costume? Perchance even the original coincidence was staged! It was childishly simple, the whole affair, and if it weren’t for our complete vulnerability as dolls and twins, it would have failed. Yet here I was, and it seemed I was going to be spending the night here at the least. Jack was the scoundrel I had always known him to be, and it seemed he had won.

But why was he keeping up the ruse? Where was the conniving laugh and masterplan pouring forth with pride? I was left with anything but answers, as my tongue was designed for everything but questions.

I was led upstairs in my father-in-law’s two-story penthouse flat to a room marked ‘Chastity’ in floral pastel cursive, but the writing on the door belied the true contents past it’s threshold.

Rather than fineries and lace and silk and flowers and cushions and the many comforts of a girl’s room, the spacious doll room Jack had set aside for Chas was colder, more clinical than anything, with simple white moulding, plaster fleur-relief walls, bleached white sheets, and alongside the single bed and side-table, a lounger that looked firmer than a park bench, there were installed a collection of Society-approved appliances like an autolacer and a stand in much fairer shape than mine, left out in the open. Unlike the floor-to-ceiling glass panels in the spacious drawing room and library, there were no windows to be found, instead the room was lit evenly with neutral light, giving a distinctly sterile feeling. Whereas I could entertain guests in my Doll room back at John’s, it seemed this room was designed solely for Chastity’s functional needs, with not a lick of stylistic flourish or fancy.

As I was walked to the dressing room to be disrobed, I couldn’t shake the feeling I was in the prison I had imagined for Priscilla just earlier today. Here, the automaid’s calculated movements felt less regal than cold in this setting. Thankfully stripped of that damned deceiving pink outfit, I was ungagged, unstrapped, and decorsetted before the latter was replaced with simpler night stays.

Now bottomless, my freshly-stricken behind must have glowed red hot against the monochrome decoration, hot as it felt, stinging in the open air.

As I was led to the autolacer to cinch the stays closed, it seemed for a moment as if Chastity’s night routine would be similar to mine, but as the laces were gradually, unrelentingly tightened again by the hooks behind me, quite a bit more severely than John or Father had ever decreed for simple bedtime accoutrements, my maid retrieved something that would prove just how wrong I was.

Standing there, still locked in the autolacer, I could no more inspect the glinting silver of the forceps in her hand than move my head to avoid them as the metal pincers approached and invaded my pouting lips, just preceded by two of the maid’s fingers to jack open my springy jaw. Looking at their blank faceplates, our maids didn’t seem to have eyes or cameras, but it convincingly seemed as though the silent servant was peering in to get a better view of my bumpy, ribbed, puffy suckhole, before clamping my shortened tongue and pulling, hard!

To my surprise, it came out quite a ways, well past my lips, spilling drool with it. I realised then that it hadn’t been shortened, per se. The muscles which allowed Chas and I to stick out our tongues at each other as teasing kids had just been severed or numbed. It made sense; to remove the chance of pushing a gag out or making a mockery of the face of perfection, yet keep the articulate oral skills for its new purpose. Continually surprised by the changes to my own body, I was brought back to the present by another painful tug. The maid’s grip on the forceps was unyielding as it held steady, before snapping a metal alligator clip down on my defenceless tongue!

I jerked a bit against the machine still hooked in my laces and Chastity’s maid slapped me across the face with the hand not holding my poor tongue out like a lapping dog. Caught off guard by the strike and all the rest, I was left confused. Was that for shivering in pain? I couldn’t ask and it didn’t dwell on the transgression. I would have been appalled by this breach of etiquette between wife and servant, if not for my painful preoccupation with the clip’s biting little teeth!

Unfortunately, I was soon made aware that the little devil was just one of three, attached to a central ring by fine silver chains, and I could do nothing but huff in fear as each breast of mine was lifted to bring my pink nipple in reach of the cruel clips, first one, then the other. The maid simply removed her hands, letting each heavy breast hang by its most precious, sensitive part, both pulling at my lolling tongue, the biting pain cutting even harder with the tension.

Silence hung as my toes curled, as these were quite unlike the plastic clips in my corset. No, these were sharp, designed solely for punishment. Oh how I remembered the first time I had felt those tame jaws’ pinch; a far cry from these biting incisors. It was almost as if God had seen me taste those sweet delights at dinner and provided me with a spoonful of divine justice for partaking in that simple pleasure. Or perhaps it was a larger correction, as I was beginning to realise just how bountiful and easy my lot in life had been for the past months with John, the reality of Jack’s cruelty spilling forth in front of me now.

Unhooked and breathless again, I was led into the ensuite powder room, a vanity to my left and a phallic toilette and walk-in shower to my right. Once again, I couldn’t help but note the sparseness, the bare necessities. Did my sister truly live in such deprivation when the rest of Jack’s expansive flat looked like any other merchant king’s, with its dark hardwoods and elaborate moulding, ornate chandeliers and fine art?

I couldn’t wonder too deeply, as every mincing step sent a hearty bounce through my breasts, sending another sharp electric ache through my nipples and tongue, bringing me back to the punishment at hand.

As I approached the toilette, it’s spear sure to draw all eyes but mine toward it’s fearful length, I awaited my last chance, my backup plan. Would the maid recognise the last adornment which marked me as Hope Hodgkinson: John’s ivory cock rammed up my rear?

No. Surely not. The same maid who had conspired to swap my locket now laid my heavy engagement present on a tray to be washed, before leading my raw arse toward the cleaner’s cold plastic tip, and pushing me down until I heard that sealing click.

Being laid down in Chastity’s bed relieved the tension on my tongue and teats somewhat, but I was by no means out of the woods. While this single mattress was comparable to my virgin sleeping arrangements — before I had the luxury of joining John in his bed unbound (or indeed, truly naked like the night before) — it had a myriad metal rings erupting through the contoured padding; tiny eyelets all anchored in an outline of my body in repose with my legs set apart. The maid leant over me, tying fine lace ribbon to and fro in an ornate weave, cinching my already-helpless Doll body tighter into the plush prison I was resting on.

The process took nearly half an hour, the automaton tireless in her craft, making me wonder if my sister was ensconced in such a way every evening or if this was merely part of my punishment, and my father-in-law’s bed lay waiting for me.

I knew the latter part of that question must be true, and I swear I felt my sore arse throb a degree or two hotter as I felt equal parts dread and need course through me, imagining that monster getting ready for bed… without me. Shocked at my own idle imagination, I spent the rest of the time ruminating on how this body continually betrayed me.

By the time I was firmly in place, I could not even shimmy my hips and legs side to side, never mind raise them. I was not covered, per se. Instead, a dense lattice of ribbon wrapped me from neck to toe, my chest left exposed to tug on my tongue with every autonomic breath straining against my night stays. Not that I could look down at the treacherous maid’s handiwork, I merely felt it like a net, hugging my sensitive skin all over. I waited patiently for the covers.

There was a knock on the door. Was it Jack? Would he come in to wish his wife goodnight, perhaps wander freely about the room as men do? My heart was full of hollow hope he would see my foreign gift resting in the powder room, realise or reconsider this horrid situation, and send me home.

It was not to be.

Instead his autobutler strode in rolling something large, from the sound of it. My unwavering view of the white ceiling was soon interrupted by a large oval panel cantilevered over me from a stand beside the bed. With both of the servants adjusting and fidgeting with the massive device, all of a sudden it shone brightly down at me, lighting my pouting face and sending my irises to pinholes as I saw a series of crosses and circles, and the strange telly was raised and lowered until the crosses came into focus in my locked vision.

How they knew what was in-focus for me was a mystery, I only knew I wanted to look anywhere but the blinding screen, but still I just batted my lashes dumbly at the new appliance filling my field-of-view almost perfectly. Set about a foot and a half above me, no part of my periphery could see the room beyond, nothing but the optical test pattern and the knowledge I was trapped in my sister’s bed with a husband downstairs who wasn’t likely to be giving me a reward right now. Yet my curiosity outweighed my fear: a critical flaw in my Dollhood.

Once the crosses were within a stone’s throw of sharp, I heard rustling about my pillow and suddenly felt the gentle clamping of two pads set upon my ears. Were these… headphones? I don’t think I had worn such instruments since one of our recurrent Living with Grace assignments at school, wherein we were distributed amongst the many wooden benches in the many labyrinthine halls of St. Werburgh’s, made to listen to the sounds of the Dame, Headmaster, countless unnamed but smooth-talking suitors, even our family members calling our names, challenged not to react in the slightest to the sudden stimuli of clapping or a stone skipping down the empty hall. We were even treated to the awful clanging of a fire bell one lesson, a test I promptly failed.

Something about the tiny speakers — much smaller than a HiFi’s — made each sound feel as though it were real; close, far, around the corner, or about to exit the next classroom door. It had been so convincing that I have to admit I grew a bit of a crush on one of the voices who would whisper so close to my ear about loosening my stays.

“All you need to say is ‘yes’, darling…” he would offer; the temptuous cove. The headphones had been so realistic, oftentimes I would have sworn I could feel his breath fluttering my hair against my ear! Of course I was politely gagged with that once-familiar leather panel, so no honest answers could be given to the man in the headset nor any other ghost.

There in bed though, a little chime confirmed my suspicions, a tinkling bell growing closer before circling around my head in a chaotic, pendulous movement. The chime grew closer, a bit loud but I could not protest. The telly screen I stared at faded to a pure white, alike to the rest of the room, before blotches of watercolour slowly painted the scenery of… the Great Hall?

Echoes of pews creaked all around, and it was only the total constriction of my body to the mattress and the biting clips on my tongue and nips that reminded me I was still in Chastity’s cold room. This was quite unlike any tube I had watched before. Not only was it the clearest thing I had seen since my transformation, it was clearer than my reality, if that makes any sense. Unable to avert my gaze from the false dais, crest, and banners presented in front of me on the photovoltaic surface, I had no idea if my maid was still near, or if the servants had turned off the light and left me to this presentation alone.

The distinctive footsteps clipping across the stage announced her before she came into view, our honourable Doll governess, Dame Henderson, standing at the podium, her eyes staring… at me? Was I standing in this scene? I must have been propped upright in the centre aisle, held in place much like the runway brace that had rolled me down the aisle at my wedding, or so it felt. Her locked eyes bore into mine before her vox-gag piped up.

“Welcome to St. Werburgh’s School for Young Women, Continuing Studies via Wireless! We are proud to broadcast into hundreds of Society homes every night, the most up to date teachings and corrective curriculums for our troublesome pupils.

“Dolls, you have brought disappointment and inconvenience to your owner, and, as a Doll certified by this storied and prestigious institution, we can’t have that.

“Now now… who do we have in class this evening? Seems all the regulars, but there is one returning student… Chastity Hodgkinson! Again? I’m sorry to see you are falling back into your poor habits.”

I was perplexed, she was talking directly to me! Could she see me lying here. Was this… real? Was there a mechanical eye in the Great Hall all those miles away, our Dame pulling a night shift, or was this all a farce? Cinema magic? Or did it even matter? It seemed more vivid and crisp than any moment since I departed that hall more than a year ago, and indeed I blushed at the embarrassment of being singled out, even in front of a class I could not see. My eyes were locked on hers and hers on mine. Bearing down into me, telling me what I needed to hear…

“Where did we leave off? Oh yes! ‘Techniques in passive thought!’ Shall we begin?”

An armless blonde bimbo stares blankly toward a circular screen hanging over her bed. A mechanical maid waits by the door, filling the darkened space with light. — Hope under Jack Collins new training regimen, by Slothargy

Book 3 Chapter 28

Nov 13th, 2020

3134 words

Morning light flooded the dining room, shining upon all His possessions. My loving Husband slurped His coffee as I sat still in my seat to His left, perfectly dressed and prepped and eager for Him to touch me or admire me or perhaps just read aloud the paper He held in one hand as He shoveled His mouth full with the other. I wished— Knees together, heels on the floor, perfect form.

I kept my thoughts on Him, my man, ready for any request of me, attentive to each stray remark He let forth from His lips. I wanted— The night before is inconsequential, the day ahead is yet to be. Only now, only here, only He matters.

I stared ahead, toward the massive windows flooding the space with light, my plasti-skin complexion impassive and resistant to any attempts to corrupt its placidity with desire or intent. I couldn’t— I blink a breath and blank we breathe our worries clean for not to think.

And yet my blinking eyes felt like they were ready to burn out of my head.

Yet another night had been spent under the renewed tutelage of St. Werburgh’s finest, and yet another night I had slept not a wink. These eyes simply refused to close with such activity set before them, as my Teacher orated directly to me — to all the Dolls laid under those oppressive windows to the unreal, for that matter — with each word projected in bright, bold letters behind. It was quite unlike my lectures and classes when I boarded there, and not just for the extra visual stimuli. There was a cadence and rhythm to this doctrine, a metre which lulled the mind somewhat.

It was not merely my affixion to the bed which ensured I was a slave to the lesson, and around the fifth session of the night, once Teacher Eleanor usually ascended to the podium and the gentle dawn light was peeking into the Great Hall, maybe I would pass out from exhaustion, but not without the unbearable siren banging my eardrums and shocking me back to alertness — or just enough to keep these Doll eyes dutifully trained on their instructor yet again… the flashing words I could not consciously read… punctuating every point my Teacher made… as I stared at her and she stared at me…

My belly rumbled faintly under my corset and I held my breath, but He just laughed.

Jack Collins glanced over at His silent wife for the first time that morning. “Chastity, darling, would you care for some breakfast?”

Of course, dear! I chimed along in my head, but he didn’t hear that, just another well-timed rumble.

“Oh, you’re a hungry one, I know you are. Here, come, let Daddy feed you.” He said with a scoot of His chair back from the table.

My maid, the one with the golden ‘C’ on her face, pulled my chair away from the table as well and grabbed the back of my slim neck firmly, before pushing forward so I fell off the seat and onto my knees where a devoted wife like me belonged.

She silently implored me with an ever-tightening grip to waddle the few feet to my Husband, my bruised knees aching, my dress dragging under me, before she released the pressure in my bright dahlia fleur-de-bouche — unleashing an embarrassing outflow of my liquid eagerness from behind it to whet my compressed bosom — and buried my face into His groin. The zipper was down, but His manhood was still hiding in its burrow of synthetic cotton. It was my very special duty to coax the boy out of the man’s pants, and my maid let go so I could do this all by myself!

I obviously couldn’t turn my neck one bit — up, down, side to side, anything — but still I used my legs to push my inanimate Doll face clumsily against Him, my taut silicone lips dragging on his soft package, distorting before bouncing back to that eager, parted pout. I found it strange that— The reason behind a man’s desires are but smoke, folly to reason, only solid once on the brink of true satisfaction.

My eyes stared as they always did, my shoulders held their perfect drawn-back posture, my heavy chest agitated with every fumble of my face against His groin. With each inelegant pass of my lips, rubbing my nose and cheeks on the present growing against His thigh, I longed to simply look up at Him and see if He was enjoying my pitiful attentions or simply still reading the paper…

His reactions were above me, though. I had to keep my concerns on a Doll’s level. My only read on Him was the now-prominent bulge in His trousers, which He finally fished out for me, using His other hand to grip my hair and pull me back just far enough to align the head of His glorious cock with my lips and slam my face down, burying it inside me; feeling it spread my elastic lips, jaw, throat; feeling its now-inarguable stiffness confirm precisely how ready He was to enjoy me, His Chastity.

That taste.

My mouth did what it always did and proceeded to make quick work of my Husband’s erection, to release His pent up masculine energy and let Him continue with his day in a more rational, confident, and level-headed manner. I joined the contributions of my perfected body and swirled my tongue underneath, teasing His frenulum just as He liked. I had to. It is important for a Doll to give all that can still be given.

The light shone on me in the garden.

I am an essential part of His well-being, that is why He purchased me from Pappa, that is why He has invested once again in my education after I failed Him by making up lies, thinking I was a person with a name other than the one He called me by. I need to relinq—

I consciously swallowed and felt every section of my mouth and throat tighten about His turgid spear, feeling little give or weakness in Him anymore, just the solid mass I had been pining for. He was getting very close.

I reveled in the moment, being filled up top just as I was below. The plugs I wore on the daily were both of Him, of the real treasure I held in my mouth, heavy identical sculptures filling me in both front and rear, around which I constantly leaked in anticipation for a moment like right now, here, with Him!

I dared not exercise my kegels in need. Enjoy what He has offered and nothing more.

My weak knees scuffed on the pavers.

My name is Chastity and I must stay attentive to Him, I thought. Attentive to His many needs.

It was a Saturday; He was not leaving for work. Lick a little harder, swirl, all your womanly choices occur between your tongue and palate. He would recognise when it was my tongue’s routine alone and not me, I don’t know how but he always knew. He! I mustn’t become distracted!

The feeling of his dry seed on my expressionless visage as I worry about what Pappa will think.

I will be His entertainment for much of the day. It is my honour after such a long week for Him. I’ve waited so long to show Him the attention—

I wonder what John will think.

I suddenly felt incredibly short of breath. It’s too much to bear, Jack! You’re choking me! Even as the air blew easily past my fleur-de-cou as designed, the ‘blockage’ in my mouth and the constraints of my stays made me gasp silently in terror, I can’t die here, I need to get home! John! I’ve had my mouth full for too long! I need air! Please!

But the Doll on its knees wasn’t choking, and couldn’t ask. Jack sighed and pushed himself deeper into its throat as his breath hitched, his meaty hands tangled up in its prim and perfect hair, shoving the emotionless doll face deeper into his groin until its button nose was tickled by his wiry pubic hair, its legs shuffling feebly under the mess of a dress on the floor, entirely silent in its protestations save for the ungodly noises originating from its busy mouthhole.

I could feel this deep revulsion, my old body dearly wanting to throw up, but my gag reflex and the muscles that allowed such evacuation were gone or repurposed now, so my trembling nauseous convulsions merely resulted in a flurry of swallowing waves, lips to throat, concentric tightening, sucking him in, milking him more. He grunted once before my struggles and rhythmic convulsions sent him over the edge, spurting his seed down my throat before pulling my hair hard, his cock halfway out, so my tongue could meet his glans and tip alone, and be coated in the dribbles that followed. That deposit was for me to savour and enjoy, and his taste would send my reflexes a-tizzy for a few minutes, my simple Doll mind thinking I had more to swallow, sucking him over and over like a baby would a teat. It was a Doll’s aperitif before her actual breakfast.

With a deep sigh he finally pulled my head all the way back and off him, my lips appreciating every last inch of him tightly, my thick lubrica-saliva creating milky-white strings I could only stare down as his cock wilted slowly, spent and satisfied. One by one, the residuals broke off and fell, cool on my open bosom, and my mouth leaked even more. Jack was breathing deeply, and I could sense a smile in him, but I knew I had not passed his test.

“You’re getting much better at this, dearest. Until that hitch at the end, I felt that. I believe an additional week of education may be required.”

I cried silently, my cheeks beet red and my legs weakly struggling to simply scoot away, to cease my staring obsession of his wrinkled, hairy mess. Why was it always held perfectly in my plane of focus when so much else passed by as a blur? I had tried to be what he wanted, I had tried to rid myself of who I was, to stuff Hope deep within until she had the chance to truly escape this monster, and yet it didn’t work! Like a new layer of paint, the veneer I had applied simply chipped away at the slightest agitation. And now, all I had secured for myself was another week of torturous review and theory and doctrine to carve away further at my sanity!

If I had once reveled in St. Werburgh’s leaving my mind, whilst they surgically ensured my physical compliance, I was now eating those words with a cherry on top…

No, no more. Please. I need to sleep.

“That said,” the deep voice overhead considered, “I don’t want to repeat the mistakes of the past. You girls can get… overcooked, so to speak. It’s been… what?… four weeks since we re-enrolled you in continuing studies, hasn’t it?”

I knelt there between his legs, silently counting the days which all ran together, but my waking sleeps and unreliable memory made it impossible to keep track. The monotony of my days whilst Jack was working painted my recent history in broad strokes, punctuated only by moments of crueler-than-usual treatment which became less and less noteworthy as my time trapped in this mirror life — this waking nightmare — proceeded without salvation.

Had it really been a whole month?! Had it really only been a month?!

“Back when I was first buying your special telly, the brochure they provided explained why rest is not permitted. I only recall the gist, but…”

It’s essential that a Doll uphold her wifely duties whilst her behaviour is being remediated, as she evidently squandered the first opportunity to become truly refined, to learn in care and luxury, and to offer such a retreat again would be dishonourable to the institution that certified her and unfair to her husband who invested in her and who should not be deprived because of her womanly failings. A St. Werburgh’s Doll must make St. Werburgh’s proud, I recited internally, my head aching terribly.

“Whilst I appreciate the patronization, I expect it’s mainly to turn your noggin to porridge so those lessons finally stick, what do you think m’dear?” he said as his cock dripped, inches from my face.

I hated when he pretended I could respond. It always made my unresponsive mouth tingle like a dripping dam, barely holding back a reservoir of unspoken thoughts. The guaranteed lack of a breach or burst merely soured me further, and I slipped a sigh into my laboured breaths. He only asked me for my unspoken agreement when he was right, and when he enjoyed how the fact in question impacted my restrained life.

He was correct by all likelihood. I had caught myself slipping deeper and deeper into not only the fantasy of being Chastity Collins, perfect Doll wife, but also the reality of a mindless husk that my blank expression had implied for so long now. The endless hours were giving way to hallucinations both in my sight and hearing, a complete lack of will, and an inability to imagine anything but that damned hall, the podium, the Doll eyes gazing into mine…

“Well…” he paused, his dick pulsing lazily, “Perhaps a break is in order.”

I think I shook in surprise, I couldn’t believe it!

“Those old maids run a tight ship, and I can see you’re trying to be good. Truth be told, I don’t want to entirely douse your fire, dear.”

Shocked by his uncharacteristic generosity, I immediately moved to make my appreciation known, leaning forward to revive his flaccid cock with my lips yet again, but he simply touched my forehead with the back of his hand, pushing me back as easy as shooing a fly, keeping me inches from my only reliable, socially-accepted method to communicate my endlessly screaming, weeping ‘thank-you’s which were reverberating inside my golden cage of a head!

“Ah ah ah, John should be here any moment, so we will have to save any expressions of gratitude for later. We’ll see where you are in a week or two, and then perhaps resume, I haven’t decided!” he chuckled as the autobutler held out a tray with a warm cloth which he used to stroke himself clean. This man, older than my father, cleaned himself right before my eyes, yet did not extend such luxurious treatment to me, instead zipping himself and having his butler push in his chair. Being in the way, I frantically shuffled backwards, hitting my head on the table before ducking forward and underneath the box apron.

Jack hadn’t done this to me in a week or two, but him knowing I was under the table for this coming meeting — with my actual husband, no less! — my hair and outfit disheveled, my fine preparation entirely undone by his manhandling; it all excited him to no end, and I was naught but a tool to live out every last one of his fantasies, wasn’t I?

My maid climbed under and hastily wiped the jissom around my face with a dry handkerchief, which was summarily stuffed betwixt my tits to soak up the drool and other runoff, before popping my fleur-de-bouche back in my mouth so it could auto-inflate. The massive bladder imprinted the taste of Jack’s cock and seed onto my tongue, now pinned in place by the pressure, its raison d’être satisfied for now.

She reached under the mess of fabric around my legs and gripped my ankles, pulling my stockinged legs out from under my butt so I could get lower to the floor and fit under the fine oak furniture with greater ease. With my pelvis bottomed out to the parquet floor, legs still bent double but splayed out to my sides, the objects in my lower holes made a proper thud of impact, my body weight pushing them deeper within. In the front, the one avenue I had to true pleasure without reservation, Jack’s circumcised tip jammed into what once must have been my womb’s gate, but now was just the end of the road. The potential discomfort from such a deep penetration was only pleasure now, but still I recoiled from the instinct to clench or tense down there, those most critical of muscles I still had some influence over.

It was of utmost importance I did not try to pleasure myself on these solid chunks of ivory and temptation. Yet another rule this Doll had to keep in her worn-out mind, but perhaps that would get better with some proper rest… perhaps…

Even the warm waves that emanated from a simple jostling, the two loads rubbing through the thin vaginal wall, filling me, going deeper before slipping out until my underbelt allowed no more slack; I couldn’t let such stimuli affect the delicate grasp I maintained on my libido. My daily dose of ‘vitamins’ helped none in this quest. I had been spoiled by John’s reticence to fiddle with my hormones like Father had, but those rules had changed. Even in the first few days here, pining for my real life from this luxurious perch in the high-rises before the sleep deprivation really took its toll, I had to admit I felt like Jack had dumped a chemist’s cocktail in me, but no matter how good I felt inside, one rule was crystal clear:

Under no circumstance could I squeeze the twin cocks inside of me, lest they ejaculate forth their internal dosage of Chittenham’s horrid paste, the Nicean aphrodisiac! Especially not now, not with my husband coming to visit, I needed to stay alert!

In front of me I saw Jack’s hand slap his leg, and his voice reverberated from above the table. “Here, babydoll, rest your weary head on Daddy’s lap.”

I smiled inside… before catching myself. He was the reason for all my suffering, I could not praise him for relieving my sorrows! And yet I relished in being put in position with my cheek resting against his thigh, eyes still staring at his groin now all closed up again, blinking away… feeling his warmth… blinking… blinking… blink… blink—

A door opened somewhere far off, and in strode the echoing sound of two confident shoes. They were distinct from the short clipping of my steps, and the maids’ strut was nigh-unheard, so I knew it could only be Him. The man in question didn’t sound as confident as his steps though, mumbling, “Hello, Father.”

John!

Book 3 Chapter 29

Nov 13th, 2020

4988 words

John!

His very voice made my heart swoon and my stomach turn at how much time we had lost apart from each other! The worst element of this whole affair, beyond the hardship and uncivilised treatment, was the cruel irony: He didn’t even know he had lost me.

“My boy! Here take a seat, don’t tread on the dress, she’s collected enough dust down there as is.”

A chair somewhere to my right pulled away and John stuttered out toward the mass of bows, frills, lace, and corset curves below the table, “H-h-hello Chastity, I h-hope you are doing well.” before seating himself mere feet from me.

Every time he saw me, and said my name, my heart broke anew and fractured other integral parts of my clockwork…

It’s okay. I could be Chastity if he says so. The doll in John’s house is Chastity. And I am also Chastity. There is no Hope. There is no hope. Only Chastity…

I snapped my mind away from the banks of true unmooring and the strong currents of insanity and loss. Even though I couldn’t be warmed by seeing his face down here betwixt his father’s legs, I had to stay anchored in truth… real Truth… truth is your Husband’s word… no!

Yet my heartbeat raced at the possibility of my real husband seeing me like this, and what he would think of me… remember who you are… what he would think of his Doll, Hope, when he found out what my mouth had done how many… oh Reader, my addled head had lost count! So many times! I dared not think of it!

In modern England, a woman’s infidelity was grounds for divorce and total social ostracism by any familiar with her sin, but a Doll’s crimes? I faced something far less passionate, if my owner found me too tarnished to keep or repair: an instant disownment quickly followed by Society auction, with the slim hope that Father may buy me back before another party — qualified only by the looseness of that suitor’s chequebook. And no one spoke of what occurred when the lot was bought-in, when we Dolls went unwanted and unbid. It was hardly polite to mention the auctions at all, nevermind the latter scenario.

Even though a Doll could not resist any advance, like a Lady in her secure garments, her purity was a foremost virtue. Once John inevitably found out what I had done with the father he hated so — regardless of whether I had submitted merely to prevent an improper outfit amongst company, or capsaicin in my meals, or cigar smoke in my face, or his firm hand on my rear, or the cane, or the clips, or corner-time, or closet-time, or the doll stand until it revolted me; or whether I had even submitted at all, for we are designed to accept whatever is given… it mattered not! I was irrevocably soiled by his father’s touch! Even as I begged God to deliver me back into my husband’s strong arms, the horrid idea of disownment from the love of my life was a very real possibility!

If my bedtime routine hadn’t already included being strapped down and glued to the telly, such worries would have kept me up at night, but for now he lived in ignorance.

“Isn’t she uncomfortable down there?” John asked.

I panicked, there was no way I could let him see my horrifically unkempt appearance by sitting at the table now! I nuzzled deeper into Jack’s crotch and he laughed, “Oh no, this is her favourite spot!”

I blushed hard behind the crusty trails of foundation and jissom. There truly were no good options…

“Don’t look so glum, m’boy! I ask of you a mere day a week to visit your old man, is that too strenuous?” Jack’s hand came down to caress my thin straight neck, to trace the edge of my fleur, my exhalations moistening his fingers.

I could hear the answer in John’s pause, but he recovered. “I merely wonder if you t-treat your wife a l-l-little roughly, F-father.”

Jack’s fingers took hold of my neck firmly, quite out of sight, and he spoke with that erratic fire that arose when any of his business partners questioned his methods on the latest ‘Maltese account,’ or indeed whenever his son stepped out of line. “I will do with my property as I please, as I allow you with yours!”

Silence reigned between the two, his anger flowing solely into my vulnerable neck. Whilst each shallow, automatic breath fluttered the petals easily, his grip was so tight my head began to pulse, growing fuzzy, but he released just in time, and I leaned my cheek harder into his thigh in gratitude for his restraint.

He chuckled, perhaps at me, mercurial as ever. “Speaking of which, are either of your birds tweeting yet?”

A sigh followed, “I’m afraid n-not. I… appreciate your allowances on the matter ever since I b-brought it to the fore, but Hope has been entirely unresponsive since Priscilla’s incident. Back to her usual self, I s-s-suppose.”

“So, all is well in the Collins residence!” Jack bellowed, petting my head in a way that I regretted to enjoy. I didn’t want to listen to this but my ears were desperate all the same for news from home.

“I w-wouldn’t say that.” John sighed. “I can’t blame her after the incident with her maid, left to… I can’t imagine… b-but Hope still puts on a tantrum whenever she is left upon her stand. Her Upkeep Manual said it would make her more agreeable, but it has only proven the opposite thus far.”

My mind raced, my two feet quite literally in my sister’s heels. But of course Hope— I mean Chastity… of course she would hate the stand, just not for the reasons John assumed!

It wasn’t a bad guess: I had been immensely fearful to retake my position atop the stand again, mere hours after my first sleepless night here, especially with an untrustworthy maid as my sole chaperone. But Jack’s AutoServe protocols gave me an entirely new reason to loathe the device I once had garnered so much heavenly release from.

That first day, distraught and confused, I had sought some solace in a visit to the true Doll mind, locked in that white room with its cold fluorescent glow.

Standing over top with my legs spread like a good Doll, the saddle was raised to slip inside me and then lift me just off my toes. I had been perturbed to feel Chastity’s maid’s hand clasp around my slim neck all of a sudden, her rubbery fingertips digging in just a bit, as her other hand turned up the vibration and electrode strength. The first time I let myself succumb, I’m ashamed to say I actually enjoyed the constriction that coincided with my soaring heartbeat.

Different, but perhaps I could grow more familiar with it, I had thought naively.

Only at my peak, that reservoir of steam inside my tummy quite agitated and pressurised after a long night of heavily-veiled treatise on love, fealty, and desire, my nerves needing a proper rest from their constant worry; only then did I release my foil-thin wall of resistance, only then did I let the escaping burst tickle my deep need for contentedness and distraction from my plight; and only then were the oscillations turned all the way down, my high ruined on the spot, my ankle grabbed and lifted behind me out of my sight, my shoe unbuckled and cast aside, and a cane’s edge brought down hard on my soft white sole!

Voiceless gasps cut short by my vice-like waist measurements, I could do nought but squirm, held up by my privates alone. With each strike came waves of fear, flooded with fresh memories from the last misadventure with this machine!

The whistle and the sear made it abundantly clear; the choking was not intended for my security, nor was it a punishment in itself, but a warning about Mr. Collins’ golden rule; one I was supposed to know full well already, as his Doll. The automaid had been checking my pulse for a climax.

And so Chastity Collins would stare pleasantly at the white wall, unable to twist or turn, as the vibe down below, deep inside, was turned higher and higher, the pinching electricity tightening her rear, and she was monitored by her beating heart, expected to resist its temptations for an entire hour, her phantom arms desperately reaching out again as they hadn’t for so long, as she would climax with unbelievable intensity and disappointment, again and again, and she would be taught the golden rule, again and again…

Until the training caught on.

Whilst it took immeasurable restraint and I still failed quite often, in just a handful of sessions I had managed to temper my needs, to keep the kettle lid sealed for longer stretches, and indeed walking away from that corrupted instrument was now an exhausted stumble rather than an agonizing mince across hot coals. Regardless, I was but a frayed-lace, well-used pair of bloomers ready to be tossed, yet I was encouraged by my maid’s firm grip to trundle on toward whichever endurance test my good husband had in store for me next.

Over time, I came to wonder if I would ever feel safe just letting myself feel that ecstasy again without the threat of great suffering, but the tunnel’s end was but a twinkling star against the lights of the city, it wasn’t worth the precious energy to ponder…

Chastity had spent months here in Jack’s household, and in Jack’s household reaching a climax from anything but his manhood was entirely forbidden. What’s more, in the month that I had spent as his consort, Jack had never once used me vaginally, largely requesting my mouth, and using my rear all the rest. The few visits I had made to what should have been his and my sister’s marital bed were of absolute terror, before and during, being clad in dated dresses even Mummy would have found unfashionable, before each would be ripped off and my supple body ravaged and thrown about, testing how far a Doll could be bent and contorted along the few joints that moved, or how much that Doll could ache in silent protest, before Jack would inevitably shove his cock — liberally coated with paste, mind you — deep into my rear and pummel my petite frame hard enough I could feel my head rattle, until he invariably cried out for John’s mother and deposited his seed inside me. Of course, infused with the aphro-paste now running through my head, I would be maddeningly libidinous and entirely unsatisfied, my holes near-identical for Jack but wildly different in sensation for me. With his male needs sated, I would be discarded to the floor in a weakly squirming heap, my three empty holes spasming traitorously, before a maid or butler removed me back to my regularly scheduled programming.

I listened to my husband talking of Chastity’s fear, and I understood, and yet my hate for her matched and outpaced my empathy every day, for as I knew quite well we were but pawns in these men’s illustrious lives, she alone had the power to be heard by open ears! Yet she refused to give up this ruse!

John shuffled in his seat, restless. “Father, it is exactly as I feared last year, the first t-time I met the Hodgkinsons. Hope is j-just this unfeeling, docile accessory I am saddled with now. I will not recant my love for her, I c-c-cannot disregard her utter devotion, but there is little to love these past few weeks. Why couldn’t you have let me marry a simple girl like Priscilla?”

My heart dropped. Chastity was truly running my life aground in my stead, and I could do naught but hear of it, helpless to change even the slightest detail! Did she not understand that passivity was a ruinous course of action with my man? And for him to pine after Pris… it was a nightmare come true!

Jack would have none of it. “Priscilla’s father isn’t the CFO of the country’s second oldest bank, that is why. How naive can you be, boy? Isn’t it plain to see after all these tireless machinations? We are a hair’s breadth away from establishing our own financial dynasty here, and you simply don’t care. By God, you better beget me a grandson with a level head!”

The son mumbled something unheard, Jack begged it said aloud, but he refused, meanwhile I wondered what a ‘Seea Foe’ was. Maybe some Welsh honorary title, or an indigenous word from the colonies? Was it bad? Was Father in trouble? To be honest, I couldn’t even recall the name of Father’s place of work, save for ‘the bank’. I felt very foolish having never inquired further, but then again, Dolls needn’t know such things, for whom would they tell?

“…but I seem to remember you whinging about that girl whenever the subject arose.” Jack cut through my thoughts, gripping my plaited hair so tightly I worried it might come unglued. “‘I-I-I would never ever!’” He mocked with a short laugh. “Now look at you, you have a toy wife and the girl you fancied living under one roof! And not a thanks my way, eh?”

“I— No! I don’t fancy her! I— it was just a— p-p-poor example. She’s my friend, Father, voiceless and set on a b-b-bloody leash! I thought it the right thing to do!”

I shook a little. Priscilla was living with John? Kneeling there under the table, I could only swallow the accumulating drool and beg my enhanced holes not to spasm as John recounted how he had taken that downtrodden young woman in.

From his telling, Priscilla still found it all but impossible to communicate anything more complex than a yes or a no without miming in the crudest fashion — a fate worse than death for a woman who had thought herself level-headed, reasonable, and independent enough to bridge the spheres and contend with men in any trade, never mind the sciences! John and the ageing Mr. Barnes had come to an understanding that Priscilla should move back in with her widowed father in Southend-on-Sea… that is until she threw a silent tantrum upon learning of this decision made in her stead.

Donning her travelling wear - proper boots, a change in dress, a bonnetted hat, and a jacket — the woman had left hastily for her lodgings at the local YWCA, one of the few homes in London for single working women, only to be berated by the matron upon arrival for severe impropriety: Priscilla had missed a myriad of curfews and morning prayers, and with no voice left to refute such claims, no academic enrolment to excuse her absence, and John hot on her heels, the rumours had been all but confirmed and elaborated by his wedding ring and her lack thereof, summarily ending her room lease in that house of chaste and moral young women.

With her possessions in trunks and cases, Priscilla had retreated to Kensington, and the two men — both quite used to letting women have their way, Jack pointed out whilst stroking my cheek — had acquiesced to her staying in John’s spare room, under the extraordinary circumstances. The incident had occurred in London, and answers would likely spring thereforth.

Mr. Barnes had initially been staunchly against the arrangement, arguing none of his arranged suitors would find this living situation acceptable in the slightest. Seeing as the provenance of his daughter’s collar and bracelets was still a complete mystery, and she had no potential means of income in women’s work without a voice, he was simply trying to expedite her betrothal to secure her a good home. But Priscilla was still fluent in body language and it was clear she wanted to stay, and clear she was losing the argument with a father who could do with her as he willed, lest she convince his judicial mind completely.

It was only upon her lifting her dress to reveal the most humiliating part of the locked songbird ensemble, one she had kept hidden for days, that Priscilla wordlessly quieted all doubts of her and John being improperly familiar. Under her petticoats gleamed a metal chastity belt of the most restrictive variety, the edges plated with gold highlights in keeping with her bracelets and collar. Her natural curves were abruptly halted and oppressed by the unforgiving metal plate. There was no slack for a pinky to slip under, and no hint of a keyhole nor manufacturer’s mark.

With that momentary indecency as payment, the proud girl had left the men to stammer as she went to unpack.¹

Left to her own entertainment as John continued his seminars and laboratory work and Mr. Barnes investigated what had befallen his daughter — and who may still accept her — Priscilla had refused to leave the townhouse for weeks. She isolated herself in John’s study where she could read books in peace and forget her plight; his small library dogeared but much broader than the few essential texts she still had from her degree. Gradually, Priscilla had learned not to attempt taking notes, for her hands would betray her without fail and it led to nothing but the furthering of her depression.

It’s by the grace of God that those so refined as Dolls don’t feel such prolonged sadness, I thought at the time, staring at my captor’s groin whilst I eavesdropped tales of my husband growing closer to another damsel-in-distress — an intellectual too, however hindered. I didn’t fully understand this word “depression” at the time, as if it were a simple mood, able to be driven away by the meditative practices St. Werburgh’s had left me with, or perhaps a hysteria solved by amatory attentions. Dear Reader, if I had held such tools for self-analysis then as my husband allows me now, I would have seen my own depths of hopeless despair.

Gradually, Priscilla became bored. She had tried helping John with his coursework — it being her dream to be in his position, his shoes, regardless of how unfit the female mind was to such tasks — but her lack of communication left little to do. He learned to air his thoughts aloud with her as he had with me, keeping the house alight, but Priscilla did not accept her inability to respond with my entrained grace. Nor had I expected her to, knowing how she reacted to the gag at the Kettering residence!

I heard the clinking of John’s coffee cup as he tapped the table above me nervously, telling of the day before, secondhand from the constable who had returned her home.

Priscilla had taken it upon herself to get dressed up in her better travelling clothes and go on a stroll to the market. John said she needed to be useful — which I understood, in a sense — so he had provided her a small list, nothing complicated or in need of any custom request.² Of course, Kensington was one of the safest areas of London, the pavement practically sparkling, but still a young woman did not just go out in the city alone, especially one with the Collins’ status and image to upkeep. But then again, she was hardly his ward. It was all so… improper… and complicated. Two qualities I found myself despising, before I realised I was beginning to sound not unlike my sister…

Regardless, Priscilla had silently refused the accommodation of a maid, and left for the nearest market on her own. Bewildering. I did not have to be as prescriptive as my sister to know, a lady without accompaniment is as queer and sour as a single petal on a bloom!

From John’s reconstruction of events, all went well for much of the outing: grocers were kind and understanding, the apothecary had been called ahead to expect a pickup, and an accommodating shopkeep had hidden his distaste at Priscilla’s pointing at the tea varieties set behind the counter, out of reach, once her hindrances became more apparent.

It was only after her errands were completed, a surplus visit to the bookstore with a flash of her father’s well-worn permission slip leaving her bags laden even heavier, that Priscilla felt as if she could find some shred of normalcy within her golden chains. Liveable perhaps, even encumbered so. The thin smile of a hopeful sceptic on her face, she wandered into a fine china shop, and began admiring the gold-lined sets; the kettles, the pots, the cups.

Holding one exquisite piece, quite outside her budget, trying not to think of anything symbolic or lexical to trigger her hands’ tendency toward punitive paralysis, something… happened, or so John said.

The shopkeep heard a loud crash, and swiftly rushed to ascertain the cause of the commotion, only to find a dark-haired woman crouched on the ground amidst the plumage of her plain dress, surrounded by her strewn baskets and bags and the shattered remnants of the teapot. She was grasping desperately at a golden necklace, tightly constricting her neck, the skin of her face flush, the jewellery obviously choking her. Flustered, unable to locate the woman’s husband, attendant, or companion anywhere, the shopkeep panicked and scurried back to his counter to call the police. It was only on his way to the phone that he caught sight of another woman, a finely-wrapped Lady of Leisure no less, collapsed against the entrance doorway to the store. Her automaid silently gripped the woman by her hourglass waist, and escorted the fine lady away from the shop she had wanted to see, back into the high street’s commotion and crowd. A faint, relieved cough sputtered out of the first woman at the back of the store, Priscilla, but this was all too much for the old man. He made the call, all the same.

Hope could hear John taking a long sip. It strained him to simply tell this story.

The constable had escorted Priscilla home in his autocar along with a bill for the broken ceramic, both of which John meekly accepted, before grunting, “Seems a tad irresponsible to let a songbird wander around on her own, don’it? You wouldn’t fathom the depravity of the working man when they find a lone woman who can still call for help, ne’er mind your lady.”

John of course asked him what he knew about Priscilla’s bonds.

“You mean you’re not even receiving the stipend? Good Lord, lad, you’re daft! She’s been silenced! New laws all hush-hush maybe seven— eight years ago now? Y’don’t see ‘em often, most birds end up Leisurely and the like, and good for them! You’d be singin’ the same if you saw how jails are burstin’ at the seams, they are! You should be getting a pittance for your job as her warden… or p’haps not, for letting her within sight of another bird in that china shop.”

Shocked by this entirely, John pried further, but the policeman couldn’t shed light on Priscilla’s case specifically, he simply didn’t know, “Its highest order, that is, but by my estimation your lady’s been accused of treasonous action or slander to the King’s name! No surprise, that one has a ripe temper, she does. Slander, that’s always the charge… That or she just knows something she ought not to.”

John had thanked the police officer, but was left with one last warning: “Don’t go prying for what’s locked in ‘er head. They don’t put gold on us blokes…”

The ideas locked in my head had me reeling by the time the Collins men resumed their bickering over what should be done, and what John had already messed up. I couldn’t believe Priscilla had been roughed up and made as silent as a Lady or a Doll, just for some nothing about automaids! And I couldn’t believe Priscilla, for being so insolent in one of the most powerful domiciles in Britain! She had made her own bed entirely, hadn’t she?³

But upon my third loop between blaming myself, Priscilla, John, Jack, Lady Kettering, the King, Doctor Eaton, and God Himself, I wondered: who had been the other girl in the shop, forbidden to be under the same roof as another silenced woman? Could it have been Audrey, Renee, Gertrude, or any of the other Berkeley Gardens Ladies? Were they just as entwined in this mess, chained in gold along with their standard fashion, to doubly protect this valuable plan? Was I the only one who had not received a visit from these men in black?

But I had! My escort home from the tea social, over a month ago, now shone in an entirely different light, that of the plainclothes government man ensuring my Dollhood was complete, that I would not— could not drool a word. He had not been merely delivering me home: I had been two steps away from the lion’s maw, yet completely oblivious! Indeed, only my Dollhood had saved me.

Yet only my Dollhood had ensnared us all in such a mess in the first place…

My head ached terribly, and I truly didn’t know what to think anymore. I held dearly onto the hope I would get some sleep tonight, I just had to make it the rest of the day. No petulance, no scrambling to get John’s attention, no hesitation at Jack’s requests; just be Chastity, just be a Doll, perfect form, blankness is elegance…

John was still agonizing over what secret Priscilla’s useless tongue may be holding back, or what vitriol that tongue had cast against the blessed King, his inquisitory nature getting the best of him. I listened as always, imagining his face somewhere up there rather than the predator’s bulge in front of me, my captor fishing in his pocket.

I was lost in this daydream of John, enjoying his voice, calming, drifting off to sleep….

…when I suddenly felt the two heavy gifts inside me jostle to life! They began vibrating energetically with little ramping nor warning, setting off my lower holes’ tics and spasms, which cascaded through my hips, making me instantly dripping and ready! A great reflexive tensing clamped down on the two rods, a slip in my resistance simply inevitable at this point, and I distinctly felt the armed and pressurised shafts give in with a popping, bursting, deep into the recesses I could never reach, the unmistakable feeling of being flooded with seed!

My doubled legs quivered as the heat in my mons rose, my pulse quickening and my breath growing short. It was much too late.

“Good Lord! What is that b-b-buzzing?” John wondered above the table, whilst below I was staring, blinking, silently crying at Jack’s hand on a tiny metal remote held right before my eyes.

“Chastity?!” Jack admonished me, “What has gotten into you, darling?! We have a guest! This is hardly the time for such vulgar displays!”

I had never known him to be such an actor before this whole affair. Mere inches from my blank gaze, his thumb rubbed on the shiny little pebble, corresponding to a drastic increase in intensity even as he chided me again.

I… couldn’t care less, as sinful as it sounded. I couldn’t focus. My inhibitions crumbled, mind gone, letting my pelvis sink and dig the butt ends of those twin cocks deeper in, and out, just a desperate, pitiful inch of movement. It was almost nothing, but still I couldn’t cease grinding my unspeakables into the fine parquet floor.

I could hear the rhythmic, ‘vvvVRMMmmm… vvvVRMMmmm… vvvVRMMmmm…’ rumbling as I humped the ground with the accessories sticking out of me, and the whole room hummed with me.

I could hear Jack apologising for my lack of restraint.

I could hear John’s chair scoot away as he realised what debauchery was now unfolding, seeing through the ruse — or at least the inconsequential surface layer of deception in front of him, like peeling away my blush and leaving the deep well of embarrassment within entirely undisturbed. It must have been clear to see, up there in the land of men, the lecherous father having clearly lost interest in discussing the important matters at hand.

I could hear the sound of thinly-veiled disdain as John excused himself; disdain for his father, and for me. I sobbed silently. I couldn’t hear even a whisper of my old voice calling out in desire and desperation. Help! John! Please! Ohhh!

I could hear his echoing footsteps fade until they were awash in the buzzzz, my lover and saviour leaving again.

But I remained, in a losing battle with this man and this body. Here in this hell, I remained.

I’m not aware of Chastity’s reaction to this arrangement, John never mentioned her, like he never mentioned the grandfather clock in his small foyer. It wasn’t relevant to his story. ↩
I had never considered where such mundane household items and staples originated; the help was responsible for all procurement, so once again Priscilla’s actions were quite peculiar to me. ↩
I never understood this saying, but now I get it! Making your own bed is always foolhardy, you should leave such tasks to your maid or your man, for otherwise you’re sure to do it wrong, make a mistake of some sort. I’m happy to have cleared this up! I believe I used it correctly, but whoever edits this will assist. ↩

Book 3 Chapter 30

Sep 12th, 2021

5035 words

August 2050

In the autocarriage, my chaperone Jack looked up from the tablet he had been so engrossed with since our departure, muttering something about ‘sodded fools’ which I could not discern, but now he glanced my way.

“Dear, can I see your shoe?”

With a few weeks of blessed sleep behind me, I had no intention of breaking our truce-of-sorts with petty refusals. I tried to raise my leg up to his lap, I truly did, but it was too strenuous, my back pressing into the cushioned seat, my knee raising just a few sorry inches, the heel not much further off the carriage floor.

Jack sighed at my frailty and grabbed my ankle roughly, bringing it to his lap with a huff directed at the charging automaid seated quietly beside me. As the carriages passed, the signage and buildings too, the urban fabric became thinner and more irregular, before patches of green became dominant in my periphery.

The burly man fiddled with the thin laces securing the steep travelling boot — delicate, but quite secure. Knots didn’t really make sense to me, dear Reader, how a couple strings could hold each other like a clasp of leather and metal, strong enough to compress the life from my chest, yet delicate enough for Jack to pull one end so easily and release the firm hold about my ankle? I imagined slipping a toe or a stiletto heel through one of the two big loops down there, but my fumbling with the pen all those weeks ago — with John’s help, no less! — was proof enough that these feet were quite useless for such improper ideas, even bare. Perhaps it was a lack of practice, but to be truthful I knew it just as likely to be another artificial constraint of my body, insurmountable by determination alone. So, the heel stayed tied and firmly in place until he willed it open, like men were wont to do.

Slipping the shoe off, he took my delicate, en-pointe foot and generously massaged those firm muscles and immobile joints, my toes flexing in some sort of lazy pleasure as my ankle did not.

Enjoyable as it was — uncharacteristic as it was — my wide eyes only blinked at the old man, who was for all intents and purposes my husband. Beyond him outside the carriage’s tinted panes passed fields, fences, hedgerows, and groves I soon began to recognize — blurry as they were — as the countryside roads outside Reading. And before long the autocarriage slowed, at gates… familiar gates…

The gates of the Hodgkinson Estate!

Jack hadn’t told me where we were heading; there was usually no point. I came hither where guided, and I arrived where I was sent, without debate or struggle — anymore. He did not explain his intentions to me unless he wanted to play with my emotions, and I had no doubt this lack of explanation was for the same purpose, for my heart was indeed aflutter!

Jack opened the carriage door as the metal gates slowly separated, and reached out to the ground to fetch… something.¹ He seemed to shovel that something into my travelling boot before refitting it and retying that mysterious bunny-eared knot, yet again.

Once I had my foot on the carriage floor, and we were proceeding up the manicured gravel drive, crunching underneath, I realised what had occurred. At the bottom of my near-vertical heel, my husband had deposited a small rock between my sensitive foot pad and the sole, a sharp intruder in a space already a size too small.

And he had gifted me with this simply for my discomfort.

“The earth from whence you came, my dear. Only you and I will know.” he chuckled to himself, tapping his nose like I was a child, before his attention drifted again.

As the hazy form of my home grew larger behind this cruel gent, I could only pull my breath back from the edge of an audible sigh, and chastise my tongue for even twitching in curiosity at whatever filled him with such mirth.

For the first time since John and I had departed for our honeymoon, I arrived giddily under the porte-cochere of my Father’s stately home. My spirits were astir as I imagined the long, familiar halls, the winding garden path, and well-appointed rooms — and the people I loved inside, of course! An elaborate fantasy played out in my head of being dropped off here, to live the rest of my days in peace with the two dolls who I envisioned waiting for me by the door, just inside. It was heaven itself.

Even as I alighted the carriage, breath heavy from the strenuous act of simply rising, my tiny waist held firmly by my maid, I did not mind the pebble digging between my toes; for the grand doorway swung open wide and the hazy form of my Father, confident and considered, strolled forth to greet my captor, shaking his hand firmly.

“Jack! Welcome! I’m glad you made it. You didn’t pass the ruckus at the park on your way out of Kensington, did you?”

“I thought not, avoided it entirely. I heard they were quite loud, and such exposure wouldn’t do our girl any good, would it?”

“Quite right, glad to hear it.”

The two didn’t pause to explain this in the slightest, but they did remember I was standing right there, staring into the distance. I turned my hips slightly and my locked torso and shoulders and breasts and neck and head and eyeline followed until I could focus on Him! Father set his sights on me, meeting my locked gaze desperately boring into his chest, before his voice warmed into that familiar way he talked to us Dolls.

“Chastity, my darling girl! It’s so good to see you… and… so much of you!”

It was true. As we stood there in the carriageway, a stray breeze brought my attention to how scantily-clad I was. No longer was I a well-covered, virginal daughter of the household, nor a chaste student of a regimented school, nor the wife of a respectable royal scientist (in training): instead I was costumed in the role of the libidinous ornament of Jack Collins’ reputation as a financial shark, meekly following in his wake. Whilst I was not so bare as Lord Chittenham kept his Doll, Belle — her body seared into my memory — my dress did leave terribly little to the imagination.

It was a silken lavender number featuring such a wide decolletage I was almost bare-chested, save for two firm cups like twin doors ajar, exposing the entirety of my cleavage down to where my bustless corset properly began. The dress left my delicate collarbones and shoulders bare, but those smooth corners were covered by the tiniest farce of a traveling jacket, a matching sleeveless shrug which threatened to fall off — if only I could do such a thing as ‘shrug’. A sense of vertical symmetry left the usual skirt and petticoats also split down my lap, scandalously revealing the gap betwixt my shivering legs — clad only in white lace stockings and garters to keep them up. I had no idea if Father could see the ends of the two ivory gifts down there or if they were nestled deep enough. I could only blush and hope the leather strap hid my delicates from view as each tendril of the summer wind tickled my fertile valley.²

It was hardly proper travelling wear.

Father stepped close and looked down at me, holding one padded shoulder in his warm hand and running his other thumb along my cheek, feeling the silicone skin, admiring the bold red lipstick framing the white flower which erupted below my blank expression. My body began to warm to his presence, an effect he was still unaware to inflict upon me, and I begged my holes not to clench about my gifts, not today, lest I lose all focus and squander this visit in intolerable heat.

He sighed. “It’s quite difficult for a father to see his girl like this, dollification being what it is. You’ve grown so much, it is plain to see… but underneath all these accoutrements, you will never look much older than the day I picked you up from the hospital! But don’t listen to me prattle on, waxing nostalgic! Now you’re a married Doll, and what an… erhm… striking choice of dress, shall we say? Even more revealing than last time.”

He glanced at Jack, who shrugged. “It was her choice indeed, one of the few variables I allow them.”

“‘Them?’” My Father inquired, whilst I subtly shook at Jack’s slip. “Have you found Chastity a companion since we last met?”

Jack was on the very periphery of my vision, but I could hear his voice stammer almost as badly as his son’s. “N-no, that would be quite tasteless. Your daughter and I are only just wed, after all.”

Father nodded curtly, “Quite right,” and my heart fell again. I will never escape this lie! Yet deep in my gut, compressed all about and then stuffed full from below, I knew I had to at least try to communicate with my Father this fortuitous afternoon; pray he might understand. I daren’t make a scene here, though.

Father pushed up his glasses. “We missed you dearly last month, Chas, you must know! I couldn’t bear to tell your mother how you fell back into old habits, and she made such a fuss when no visitors arrived. Cuddles too…”

Althea. I admit in my struggles with Jack and his re-education schedule, my once-companion had not crossed my mind in quite a while, but it would be good to see her — or good to see Cuddles, as it were. Mother too. Yet Father’s mention of a missed meeting confused me: it must have been around the horrid swap, when my fire had not yet been quenched.

Thankfully he continued as our small procession left the clear-but-brisk day to afford me the same warmth as those fully clothed. “Though I keep my Dolls quite active, they so dearly look forward to this rendezvous every month, it is plain to see.” he added, “And since your sister’s husband cannot spare an inkling of time to visit us here, I find myself equally delighted by this arrangement, Chastity.”

As my bosom heaved at the challenge of a few stairsteps up to the door, my mind found a sliver of focus between the rubbing gifts below and I realized; for all his faults, Jack had connected my sister with family with much greater regularity than John had.

It wasn’t a guarantee for a Doll to retain contact with her family after betrothal; it was solely up to the husband, as all concerns were, and any terms of marriage he had with the father or previous guardian. As mentioned, I had not been to my former home since our wedding, and even returning for the holidays had become a bridge too far for John, who found himself working at the laboratory over Christmastime whilst I sucked on some mush of rosemary and cranberry, admiring the twinkling lights and carollers out the window. Father had come to visit my pink room in London quite a handful of times, and sent telegrams too, but for the first time in weeks — months! — I actually envied Chastity in a way.

Now I had become her, enjoying the good like slivers of gold discovered amongst rivers of struggle.

Inside the foyer I bent a silent curtsey, greeting my mother Cushions, who had been presented with her maid, alone. Idly wondering where Cuddles was, I longed to approach her closely, much like the day she was unboxed, pressing myself up close and connect, but Mother had been dressed in an old-fashioned crinoline that cascaded outward in an obnoxious plume in all directions. It had become highly unusual to wear such a massive bell skirt, maybe since the ‘30s, but I knew from my sordid trysts in Jack’s bedroom that older men had their own contemporaneous tastes in fashion, and we were naught but their perfect, accepting models — or mannequins. Nonetheless, I could only imagine its weight, and hoped the crinoline hoops weren’t too rigid, lest she wouldn’t fit into the drawing room!

“You’re looking quite elegant today, Mrs. Hodgkinson!” Jack bellowed, his eyes drawn to her bosom, quite a bit larger than my own but also more modestly hidden, before he looked up and down the entrance hall quite theatrically. “But where is the lovely Ms. Burns? I’ve so looked forward to spending some quality time with her.”

He turned around to Alan with a more serious inquiry. “Cuddles hasn’t fallen ill, has she? You should have sent a ‘gram.”

Father chuckled with a hint of sharpness. Sardonic, if he wasn’t being so cordial. “Well then you wouldn’t have brought our girl, would you? Let’s be quite honest with each other; we’re family now, after all.”

Now it was Jack’s turn to laugh, but though I couldn’t see their faces, I felt a sudden tension in the air. He wasn’t answering. He didn’t have a witty remark or deflection. What did Father mea—

It clicked. Yet again I had fallen for the surface niceties of the English tongue, the polite compliments that hid whatever real thorns were being traded. I knew Jack was well-versed in this parlance, as I listened at his side whilst other businessmen and minor dignitaries attempted both compliment and insult almost within the same breath. Of course, as his Doll and wife, I was only present for a sliver of such deliberations, but my ear had grown more attuned, indeed. The sliver of respect I held for the lecher evaporated as I realized Jack had arranged to bring Chastity home routinely, yes, but in exchange for bedding my mother’s companion! The dearest of friends, who my own Father stole from me!

Fuming, I swallowed autonomously and my holes vibrated about my gifts as I stared at Mother’s blank face, as unopinionated as my own. Could she notice my feelings overflowing into naught but a rosy blush?

“She is not ill,” Another man’s voice called from down the hall, oddly familiar. My maid turned me sharply to face the blurry figure, approaching, and I at first imagined Lord Chittenham, but this man didn’t have his lazy cadence, far more imperative. “Ms. Cuddles Burns is actually quite well-recovered from her alterations,” informed the respectable Doctor Eaton, resolving in my view, undeniable.

I was bade to curtsey by firm mechanical hands.

The men all greeted each other, and my creator bowed his head toward me. “Ah, the young lady of the household! Or formerly, no? You’re one of mine, aren’t you? What a pleasant surprise!”

It was hardly pleasant for me, my heart fluttering, my head spinning, simultaneously starstruck and repulsed by the man who had crafted this gilded cage within and without me. So much had happened since the last time we had crossed paths, so much had changed. It was a cascade of conflicting emotion indeed, yet the world around me did not notice nor wait for the flurry to settle.

“…the young doll is just in the drawing room, waiting for you all. I have seen to it that she is perfectly functional, and healthy as the day she arrived in my care! Mr. Hodgkinson, I left a parting gift on your desk alongside the implement you ordered. I greatly appreciate our luncheon and the peek at my competition’s handiwork.” he said with a glance toward Mother. “This, alongside the face matching on Ms. Burns, is some of the finest remedial work I’ve seen yet from Sant Isfael’s. If they can continue producing pieces of this quality, at this pace, then I may have a true competitor on my hands soon enough!”

“That you might, but don’t doubt we’ll save the more interesting requests for your team at Great Ormond Street,” my Father assured him. “You’re far closer, at the very least. And I will be in touch should the issues you mentioned with some of their previous work manifest in Cushions or Cuddles down the line.”

The good doctor nodded. “Be sure to, or if Lady Cushions shows further signs of wear.”

I blushed, imagining what kind of wear they must be discussing.

Eaton gave his thanks, before asking, “Might I hear your thoughts on the demonstration in Hyde Park today? Ghastly sight, isn’t it? On the King’s lawn, at that!”

Both Jack and Father shifted their gaze to the women in the room, much too conspicuously.

“Ah yes,” Doctor Eaton caught the gist, “Well, I must be off. Alan, I would greatly appreciate another visit if you can spare the time. I’m far from an urbanite, you see, and I can’t tell you the last time I drank air so sweet.”

Father assured him his doors were always open, the ones Eaton had his eye on… until my husband Jack left my side, hungrily. “Doctor, I’d like to consult with you regarding some alterations, and… let us say, their feasibility? Would you have a moment before you depart?”

“Well of course!” The grand designer, surgeon, and salesman smiled and the two left us Hodgkinsons alone.

Father took over for my maid, leading me to the drawing room, with Mother’s clicking heels following behind us.

“I’d say you should prepare yourself for some changes, Chas,” he hinted, but whilst Jack Collins’ secrets themselves were well-guarded, his intentions were already so easy to read you could still call my useless eyes literate!

Knowing I was doomed to the whims of this man I loathed was no relief, though! I was still trapped, and hearing my own Father call me ‘Chas,’ made me want to scream, but my silent pout said, ‘Yes Pappa,’ and my mincing steps just barely kept apace. Here I was, finally alone with him, and I couldn’t catch my breath long enough to think of a plan; how to communicate my true identity!

“You might not care what your old man thinks now, but I must say with your figure, the Society Standard fits you well.” I knew he was looking down at my nearly-exposed bosom, and I felt odd having Father leer at me so. “I do hope Jack is tasteful. Eaton’s catalogue is two inches thick and can have better men than Jack losing the plot, creating wives with more gimmicks than grace. Did you hear about the Hartford girl down the lane? Poor thing was married to a housewares magnate who entombed her in a Delft blue vase with only her head exposed from the porcelain like a bouquet! That’s all well and good, quite refined and ingenious, I admit, but her father confided in me how the man wouldn’t see reason, kept adding alteration upon alteration. Last I heard, now her mams sprout out as well, and reportedly tremor so significantly it’s cracking the vessel!”

My mind reeled at the mere notion of such a transformation, wondering how large the vase must be, or inversely how little must be left of the girl I had played with all those years ago, and whyever her breasts would— oh no, that was clear enough. What’s more, her family wasn’t even of the Society of Dolls! Without the proper acclimation to the notion of objecthood, Angelica Hartford had grown up expecting to become a Lady of Leisure and nothing more; trained her arms into the tightest reverse prayer in the county, practicing her dancing and posture, yet now she was made even more reduced and feminine than I!

I was pondering how I would cope if Jack asked for my legs to be removed, thinking of Cuddles, when Father stopped us in the hall by his favorite painting, the Turner. “Chastity, I must ask, because I know how Jack can be…”

I held my shallow breath, waiting for him to ask of my living conditions; my treatment.

“…did you truly choose this lovely dress for today? Of all days? I’m flattered, but dearly hoping this isn’t another ploy of yours. This is a sultry wrap best suited for a special night between the two of you, is it not?”

My fleur-de-cou shivered with my sigh.

Of course it had not been my choice; or a farce of a choice, as it were! Whilst John had always allowed me to pick from two or three respectable outfits, Jack did the same: he simply made one of the options subtly inappropriate, whilst the other was an utter fool’s costume. That morning, the bevy of choices had been either the current ensemble — revealing my bare shoulders, the cleft of my bosom, and nigh my entire vacuous thigh gap — or a musty toga³ he had saved from an ‘enlightenment’-themed fête in his prime. Knowing I was travelling that day, Dear Reader, my choice was clear.

And here I stood, that subtly-more-modest choice of attire still putting my nubile, helpless body on offer; and to my own Father, of all people! It was just the latest of so many persistent denigrations, so many stains on my armor, so many tiny, surgically-precise incisions upon my fragile self, and I… I… and I cried!

Even without tears I sobbed. I broke down under the weight of this cursed life and broke through formality and etiquette, and I rushed toward my Pappa and closed the small distance without a maid to stop me! I sought to bury my face in his chest, to get close to the gentleman who had kept me safe for so many years! My mouth could not plead, my eyes could not cry, I could only stamp my boot, lift my thigh and flex it weakly against him. ‘Yes’ ‘Yes’ ‘Yes’ ‘Yes’ ‘Yes’ He wouldn’t know John’s code but he must know I was trying to—

He pushed me away from him at once and backed off, readjusting his glasses over top the sheer embarrassment and strain on his face, asserting “No! Heavens, no!”

I stumbled back and almost fell, almost, before his eyes settled upon my chest, and my slight waist, and my perilously high heels, finally refocusing above with great restraint. He silently gestured an automaid to hold me still, even reseat one of my heaving breasts in my scant dress. In my distress it had escaped its place, as had I.

With none of my despair visible on my face, my confusion and shame was also hidden, so Father scolded the Doll standing before him, “Chastity, must you subject us both to this sinful appeal every time you visit? Every bloody time!?”

He paused, collecting his anger. What did he mean?

“It’s as if you are constantly under the influence of that devil paste! And perhaps you are — I know how Jack enjoys its effects, and some method must have been found to overcome your uncharacteristic obstinance at the start of your union. Whether by that French poison or the rest of his lascivious lifestyle, he has clearly corrupted your troubled heart. But you should know better than to press your allure here! Or have you forgotten your girlhood in these halls? Is there nothing left of that girl but this wanton shell? Your lustful soul may be so hollow that you would look even to me to fill you, but it is not my place — I have Cuddles and Cushions to pour my passions into!”

I was a crying girl, standing there by Father’s favorite Turner, trying to call forth some words Doctor Eaton’s team hadn’t surgically removed from me, trying to tell him and myself this all wasn’t true.

“And let it be heard Above, your promiscuity will be the tool those regressionist puritans in London will use to tear our Society down! Behave like a Lady, for I am your father! Do not press your breasts upon me so, do not lust at me with your loins, and — now that I know your sole intentions — don’t you dare dress so provocatively in this home again! Or else your husband will be made aware of this gross indecency, and your attempts prior, and I know that he will deal with you more harshly than I can bring myself to, even now!”

My heart dropped as fast as my stomach. My appeal could not have been more misconstrued, and my silent sobs at his accusations, however true for Chastity herself, only showed as further bounces in my chest as I stood locked in place by my own form and the automaid’s hands.

Father wasn’t finished, running his hand through his thinning hair, exasperated. He had more to say to my sister bottled up inside, and now the seal was off.

“I mean, honestly! I laid out a life in front of you with one singular need, and gave you a husband I knew would meet it! I might have expected gratitude, once, but your childish fit at the engagement news last year disabused me of the notion that you are any better than your sister! I never should have told you that you were my favourite. It may have been true, once, but the naked greed you have displayed on these visits worries me that I spoiled you beyond what even St. Werburgh’s could repair. I will not indulge you further, not in that way, no matter how you deign to tempt me!”

As if in response to his accusations, my holes vibrated and gripped Jack’s gifts filling me below. I’m sure Father heard the buzz, proving his point.

Father himself adjusted his belt, before feeling something and glancing down, drawing attention to a distinct tenting in his trousers I had seen Jack brandish many times. If my eyes could open any wider, they would have. Beside that was a wet stain. His eyes flicked to the gap in my dress, at my legs, and I knew in the pit of my stomach I had not only aroused my own Father, but also leaked on him in my plea! I shuffled my knees and — yes — my inner thighs were slick even as my crying, staring, blinking eyes were bone dry.

My cheeks burned red, the siliconized skin rosy as can be, and he took this as an admission of guilt.

“See what you have done!? You harlot! You—”

Mother, who had been standing idly by this tirade, minced forward, in between Father and I, cutting him off with her uncharacteristic wilfulness. With all her usual, rigid grace, she was never held so tightly by her attendant as I, and so she easily interrupted Father’s continued insults, giving me an armless shoulder, facing him, silently imploring him to stop. Her massive dress itself spread us apart, de-escalating the row, and my thoughts turned to her silent protest at our departure for St. Werburgh’s, years ago now, her last meaningful action as Clarice — my Mummy!

Suddenly I felt less alone. Even if she couldn’t know Chastity and I had been swapped, she stood there with me, her daughter either way, and I realized that even us Dolls could support one another in our—

Mother kneeled, and I thought her silently begging, until the maid deflated and extracted her fleur-de-bouche without needing any other cue. This was obviously routine for the Doll and her keeper.

I could only watch from behind with confusion, then utter shock, and then betrayal and revulsion, as Mother began rubbing her puffy pouting lips upon that bulge which had sprouted in Father’s trousers, moving her whole body just to shimmy those lips across him, coaxing it out as I had been made to do for Jack so many times. But she had done it willingly! And right in the moment of her daughter being chastised mercilessly! I winced inside as Cushions’ lips met the stain of my desires, and — though any duration of time seeing your own mother licking up your vaginal fluids is horrifying — she focused there for far too long.

Father himself looked utterly embarrassed, stopped quite abruptly in his tracks, and he was obviously affected by her actions, but he backed away swiftly and shook his head, avoiding the judgment in my blank stare.

“Not the time, Cushions! Not the time! Chas, I…” he held himself on the verge of an apology, but bit it back. “I trust we understand each other. Both of you, on to the drawing room. Your mother needs seeing to. And I… need to change.”

He paused, as if he was waiting for me to look down at my toes in shame, yet he knew I couldn’t no matter how dearly I wanted to look away from him — and away from the hard evidence of how I had tempted him.

I clicked my boot heel, feeling the pebble dig deeper into my sole, and did what I was told.

Dear Reader, I hope you appreciate how difficult it is to narrate my life from an immobile and blurry gaze. I am most commonly left to patch these notes up based on details that only become apparent minutes later. I am quite lucky in some respects to have hindsight, writing these memoirs. ↩
I say ‘fertile valley’ poetically, in the way my body inspires others to do unto it what they would most desire. I myself can no longer bear children, though a small number of my eggs are in cold storage for children of my own someday, via surrogate. ↩
I will reveal, I chose the toga one day just to spite Jack, thinking it would be airy and relaxing compared to my usual attire. The man only smiled as he starved the fireplace, reduced the heating, and personally ensured I was laced an inch tighter than the norm. ↩

Book 3 Chapter 31

Sep 15th, 2021

4567 words

The angry words of my Father rang out in my head, looping on some infernal tape, as I minced down the hall.

A hollow, wanton shell.

I knew one of those.

Furious, I wanted nothing more than to strut, chest-first, into the Doll stepping gingerly beside me, just enough for her to fall down. With her heels as precipitously steep as my traveling boots, it mightn’t have been hard. I wanted to ask her where my Mummy had gone; what had become of the woman who had stood up for her two innocent daughters all those years ago, before we were privy to what was truly expected of us. I found I wanted to hurt Cushions — perhaps jostle loose a shred of the Doll I had idolized so dearly whilst growing up, perhaps just ruin her immaculate life as mine had been — but after my ‘displays of passion,’ there was little chance my automaid would allow me to divert from the set course.

This urge eventually left me, as all unfeminine thoughts did, whilst the concerns of the quotidian took their toll. The gifts, my constrained breath, my unsteady step; you’ve heard this all before, Dear Reader.

My heart only mourned, and thanked my body for keeping such vengeful sin bottled up inside, for it would have changed nothing, and I would have suffered greatly by Jack’s hand for overstepping so. Besides, it was not Cushions’ fault, as hurtful as her actions had been. She had been serving her owner like a good Doll should, addressing a need, releasing their masculine energies. She simply wasn’t my Mother anymore.¹

If I could only speak. If I could cross into womanhood for a moment, convince this mouth not to sing or lilt, just to advocate but a whisper; if I had one word — maybe two, but one would do — what would I even say to my Father?

Hope… Mistake… Betrayed… Switched… Favourite—

I stopped myself, treading into unproductive fantasies. How long had I known Father saw me — Hope — as the troubled child? He had confirmed as such on my wedding day, and now… How long had I buried it? I sought to do so again, for I needed to focus on escape; that word I once thought poisonous.

Yet I couldn’t muster hope of such reprieve and revelation, I just couldn’t. Father had spurned me so thoroughly, not only misunderstanding but assuming the worst of me, it left me almost believing his words. My filled holes could not disagree with him. I had dripped upon mine own Father! I couldn’t imagine anything more embarrassing, even after all I had suffered…

Truth is, pleading with him had been a grave mistake. He saw only the empty desire writ upon my face! I knew then I could not communicate with anyone… John, Father, Jack, Pris; anyone, without exuding this cursed silent sexuality which Doctor Eaton and his Dollmakers had infused with my body! Simply panicking again, like the horrific moment I was swapped, stolen: how foolish was I to think this could work on Father if not my own husband? I had only proven yet again that a Doll could neither beg nor plead for anything… anything except more of whatsoever their Man had in mind; in my case, mistreatment.

I would not try again. Father didn’t know how effective mentioning Jack was, as I had no intention of subjecting myself to more of St. Werburgh’s Continuing Studies — if it could at all be avoided — lest I risk losing my last shred of self entirely.

What worried me further was the threat posed by Jack’s current discussion with Doctor Eaton, to which end he surely had waiting in surprise, like this very trip. Busy with keeping myself of sound mind through these many trials, I had largely avoided the thought of my plain outward appearance. As Father had said, I was tastefully augmented — from afar some might even mistake me for a woman! — but I could hardly see Jack settling for such. A spiral of intense worry in my heart began each time a snide comment of inadequacy was made at dinner, as I dreaded whatever refinements my guardian and abductor had in mind for permanent alterations; alterations that would make a return to normalcy nigh impossible.

So even as my hysterics raged, I returned to total passivity. I needed give Jack no excuse to alter me to his designs, surely enlarging some parts of me and reducing others.

Making our progress down the hall, slow and steady, the drawing room doors opened wide ahead of us, and a perfect specimen of such reduction sat idly on a settee on the far side of the room. Seeing the blur of my old friend was all it took for my heart to flutter, yet I did not deign to step any faster than my guide deemed proper and refined. Eagerness be as wilful as resistance, albeit sweeter.

As she resolved in my periphery, I couldn’t remark upon any changes to Cuddles’ form. She was perhaps dressed more divergently from my M— from Cushions, but then again her outfits had always skewed to the more infantile. She still had the most pronounced chest of us all, that was without a doubt, so I struggled to discern what precisely Doctor Eaton had actually altered.

Then she looked at me.

My lungs compressed as they were, I nearly fainted from the shock, stumbling slightly and needing to be caught by my handler. It was not proper to curtsey to the companion of the house, and so my trajectory ended at my own seat rather than closer to my friend, but as soon as I had been lowered and regained my breath, she had every ounce of my invisible attention.

The limbless beauty didn’t dare move her short thighs, for even on a stable surface she was pendulously top-heavy, but now in lieu of those old symbols of disagreement and distress, she had her head! Eyeing me in a way I could not reciprocate, Cuddles looked at me with her head and neck, glancing at Cushions too before nodding subtly to us both.

I clicked my heel in reply.

This was considered practically revolutionary in communication for us Dolls, and even though Cuddles’ face remained inert in expression, her unsteady movements were communicative enough. They at least told of a person beneath the perfect complexion, who was overwhelmed by the inflated flower gag in her mouth; who looked out the window wistfully; whose sharp gaze I had once seen so much depraved intention behind.

But we couldn’t speak.

I clicked my heel again, and it indeed caught my old friend’s attention. Her head whipped around, manicured hair bobbing, fleur-de-bouche fluttering, and she eyed me, then just stared at the floor, before looking out the window again.

I strove to recall the language Chastity and I had fashioned as bound girls together, a code made of gestural nods, eye expressions, and declarative gazes; in our years smothered by the panel gags that announced our names and nothing more. It would serve me no good though, as I could not instruct her from inside my shell, nor did her face emote at all, simply blinking with that blank pout in whichever direction she now pleased.

Besides, I doubted she had any pleasant words in store. It took me a moment to remember who I was to her; who she saw sitting prettily in perfect form in the scandalous dress. She hadn’t liked Chastity much even before the Christmas Fiasco; I can’t imagine what seething hatred she held by then — either dulled or fermented sharply — for the Doll sitting across from her. I was lucky to have received a nod.

Regardless, it inspired hope that Althea was somewhat sane and good-natured inside that gratuitously-refined body, having reached some sort of peace. I could no longer take that assumption for granted after Cushions’ behaviour and my partial re-education, imagining where further might lead…

We waited quite some time, as Dolls do…

The door opened behind us, and in strode our good men. Cuddles straightened her head to match our posture, but her eyes were so wilful in their wandering, sneaking glances at their wont, more and more as the men came closer; I could already taste the capsaicin from St. Werburgh’s.

Father’s calm cantor echoed amidst our silence. “…I swear that fellow is a genius, and what’s more, it’s refreshing to see such a success resting not upon his laurels but his continual good wit.”

“Wit indeed.” Jack agreed. “Eaton brought forth concerns in my plans I hadn’t even pondered; flaws, if I am being honest.”

The two of them wandered into my field of view, Father holding a flat wooden box. Cuddles had graduated her peeks to staring now, tracking them both in a way that felt almost indecent.

“Quite satisfies my concern over the cost of his services!” Jack added.

Father sidestepped the impolite topic of money, lecturing, “Yes, you’ll come to learn the Society favours a strong partnership between owner and those artisans, and you must allow them to guide you toward a design that fits your lifestyle whilst also respecting the Doll’s right to a simple, purposeful life. Chastity relinquished herself to your care — by proxy of course — and I assure you she has nothing but devotion in her heart. We repay that in kind.”

“And pray tell, what if my lifestyle does not adhere to your—” Jack halted, noticing the elephant in the room. “Alan, did Cuddles just…?”

Father chuckled, and lent over to deposit the box upon my lap, “You’ll hold this for me, won’t you dear?”

I gave him a heel-click in eager service; anything to make our last conversation water under the bridge, even if it wasn’t truly. His trousers were changed, but little else between us had. My dress split down the front as it was, the skirts outspread to the sides like opening wings, leaving my smooth, stockinged legs emerging quite bare, and quite catching his eye, too. With a moment of hesitancy he set the box down. It wasn’t insubstantial but neither was it a burden — not that I could look down and inspect it.

He teased my chin and eagerly resumed banter with his guest.

“Yes, my friend, she did. Do a little walk around.”

Skeptical, Jack took a step forward and back, his steady step now faltering under intense scrutiny of the sex object in front of him. It was difficult for me to discern, but it looked like—

“She can’t look away.” Father noted. “Her focus is locked on any men in the room, by order of proximity or perhaps stature, I don’t precisely know the logic.” He snapped his fingers and Cuddles’ whole focus trained on Father, unblinking.

He stepped closer, her head craning up to him, and then at a certain point when it seemed she might fall back off her precarious seat, her eyeline snapped to not his face… but the center of his masculine energies: a tweed bulge not a foot from her crimson face. Her head twitched slightly, but it was quite apparent she was as transfixed on his manhood as we were on nothing, and my envy of her allowances evaporated.

“That’s marvellous!” Jack roared, “I think such a spectacle demands a drink, does it not?”

“A better idea I haven’t heard today!”

Jack served a double, brushing the autobutler away from the drawing room’s liquor cabinet. The two men saluted Doctor Eaton before enjoying their spirits.

“So, you simply wanted a change?” Jack prodded. “I won’t lie, it’s ingenious, it is, but I find her attentions quite… uncanny.”

“Ah no,” the elder Hodgkinson paused, “if I altered my Dolls with every passing fancy, Clarice would have become Cushions long ago! No, it’s actually an accoutrement to her more important alteration: the limbering of her neck. See, I must admit the horrible accident with Hope at home in London quite shook me.”

“Accident?”

“Well yes, don’t you recall? It was only a month ago your son’s wife was found abandoned in her own home!”

“Ah yes, of course. The accident.” Jack sipped.

His delivery of that line spun my head in circles but I had no time to ponder the implications. Was he just that callous? Or… was my maid’s sudden abdication of her responsibilities… premeditated? Collins Sr. had offered John his AutoServe technician to come by so generously…

“Yes, well it truly shook me, thinking of her stuck like that. I’ll admit, it’s quite an exciting thought — until it happens to your own daughter, that is! I assure you that clears the head like smelling salts. And so I ventured to explore an alternative to the doll stand.”

The twitching of Cuddles’ head increased, but she remained transfixed as Father leant down to pick her up, before thinking twice about his back and her laden mammaries, instead snapping at a maid to reposition her instead.

It took only a moment, but I watched Cuddles get lifted like a babe and carried across the room by strong mechanical hands, still desperately trying to look at the nearest of the two men, before her wide base touched down on the floor at the foot of Cushion’s elaborate crinoline, the limbless torso looking up at Father blankly in what might’ve been mandated by her new mental constraints, but also looked not unlike a curious, uncertain baby girl on the floor pleading high above with her Pappa for guidance.

It was a view I couldn’t help picturing, hazy as the memory had become after so many years, and so many changes, and so much p— I was suddenly titillated by my gifts, distracting me for a moment.

Father strode over to me and fetched the box from my lap, clicking open a simple latch right before my eyes to reveal two silken compartments in the rich wood, one harboring two strange porcelain balls, and the other with two ivory spears I recognized well; a set of engagement gifts which most likely mirrored the size and shape of my Father’s— I couldn’t avert my eyes fast enough, or at all.

He seemed to realize this unfortunate positioning shortly thereafter, turning aside with a timid grunt. “Hmmph, seems the Doctor left us with a gift indeed. A pair. I have an inkling what those trinkets might be. You will love it, dear, but one thing at a time.”

Father left me with the half-empty case in my lap again whilst finicking with the heavy dual spears, affixing their bases back-to-back with an audible click. Jack strode over to join me on my seat, reclining into the lounger in a way I was most jealous of from my perch on the edge. His hand tested the roundness of my bottom through my salacious dress whilst I stared blankly at the scene playing out in front of me, Father doffing Cuddles’ fleur-de-bouche only to replace it with the phallic gift deep into her mouth, more than tickling her throat. Cuddles of course swallowed her half of the shaft dutifully with naught but a wet sound of acceptance, the mirrored half still sticking out.

I could plainly see what was about to occur, and I daren’t believe he would allow it to be performed in the light of day.

While Father was busy with his demonstration, a whisper came from the man who had joined me in seat, shifting his heavyset frame on the delicate furniture, his heavy breath tickling my ear. “Your dear old dad is quite the devious chap, far from the square I estimated when he and I began our dealings. I say, I think he is as chuffed to show you as me… now whether he is ready to admit that, who can say? Oh, speaking of… how did that dress work on him? Did he fancy it? He did, didn’t he!?”

Perhaps my blush gave enough away but I did not answer, not a click.

“No matter, he won’t be able to get enough once he finishes that drink,” Jack said ominously. “I mixed in something special to… loosen him up.” He fluttered a tube of Chittenham’s horrid paste in front of my dumb gaze before returning it to the safety of his pocket, leaning back again with a wicked chuckle.

No! This demon’s machinations knew no bounds! Father would notice, would he not? He would notice he was under the influence of… whatever that substance was! Wouldn’t he?

Well, John hadn’t.

After our passionate wedding night, after my lower holes intoxicated him, coaxed him into sensual lovemaking upon my rigid form for… hours… my true husband had awoken in the morning only to blame the champagne. Chittenham’s plan had worked without detection. Sure enough, following that night John had exuded a new confidence that brought the two of us ever-closer² — my current abduction notwithstanding. And now, the deception was liable to happen again! How far was Jack willing to go? Was this a mere prank or was he truly intent on corrupting mine — or Chastity’s — relationship with Father? Were those even separate in this boor’s twisted mind?

My eyes were stuck somewhere near the man I couldn’t warn, who was taking another contaminated sip before he bunched up the folds of Cushions’ elaborate gown and lifted the hoops high, exposing the numerous petticoats and empty air beneath; exposing his wife’s delicate plastic sex to the room for her Companion to service.

He wasn’t even under the influence yet, and I could see — however blurrily — my mother’s privates. Exposed! In the drawing room!

For the first time, I feared my own Father for his lust, and where it may make him stray.

But the demonstration was only beginning. Cushions’ eagerly-spread legs suddenly captivated Cuddles’ rapt attention like a pointer dog. It was as if her sapphic nature had finally taken hold, and the ivory cock erupting from her luscious lips was a compass that coaxed her forward magnetically, as my old friend began to waddle her short thighs side to side, shuffling her buttocks along the ground in a most unladylike fashion, agonizingly slow, inch by scooting inch. Her pendulous breasts tottered side to side, as her spine twisted in a way a standard Doll’s refused to, every part of her tiny body engaged in this process of moving a foot or two forward along the ground… until she was safely inside the covers that Father let down over top.

A few pats and prims from her maid, and Cushions and her wide bell skirts looked a perfect picture. There wasn’t a hint of what — or who — lay beneath.

For a moment.

Then the dress’s lap began to unsettle. The sudden, wet sounds from inside were muffled so much by the many layers, a proper conversation could still be held. Indeed, it was a measure more discreet than the buzzing of the stand — if it weren’t my former schoolmate stimulating my mother across from me.

“…and what’s remarkable is the endurance! Cuddles is compelled to continue for a set amount of time, she shan’t avert her focus until that’s complete, but she also isn’t an automaton. She will tire and cease shortly thereafter, when she realizes the compulsion is gone — if she realizes; you know her kind. This is quite unlike a simple doll stand with a switch that can be left unattended. I bid you see how safe and discreet this is! Cushions can entertain guests without worrying about her scheduled maintenance, and if Cuddles is already prepared in place below, the other Dolls will be none the wiser! Who knows, it may become a trend of its own! Doctor Eaton was quite intrigued by the idea!”

“Is Cushions entertaining much these days?” Jack quipped.

“Just the young Mrs. Battersby and her sister once a week… and of course Chastity, when you occasion to bring her around. You will be staying for dinner, I trust?”

Jack bristled behind me. It outwardly seemed he was still chewing on staying or heading back to the city, providing one of his famous excuses, but alas he didn’t provide one. The wolf had been invited inside, and he was plenty happy to see how his scheme would eventuate. “Of course we will stay. It is but once a month; who am I to deprive you of time with your little girl here?”

It almost sounded sincere, but naturally he had to ask, “How enduring is she under there?”

Father laughed along, “I’ve been assured Cuddles is quite spirited, almost unthinkable for a Doll, but she was cut from the cloth of a brothel’s bedsheet, so take that under your consideration when you measure her enthusiasm.”

“A performance I’m sure. I’ve never known a happy whore.” Jack joked.

Father raised his drink in wry retort. “That may say more of you than them.”

“Only that I am not easily fooled, my friend. Not even by a Doll’s puckering poker face.” Now well-practiced, his fingers popped out my fleur and gripped my cheeks, exaggerating my ‘natural’ pout until my lips distorted and propped apart. Once, twice… blowing kisses in my Father’s general direction.

“A poor metric of your purported abilities. Chastity hardly made her initial reluctance a secret. Say what you will of common prostitutes, but I’d think a girl with such a pedigree bucking against the very prospect of sharing your bed illuminates your character.”

“Who doesn’t enjoy a good bucking?” Jack’s sly grin slithered into every word.

“Clearly my daughter, more so than she, or I, expected. She thinks of little else these days from what I can tell. She takes after her mother in that way.” The men admired Cushions’ shaking dress and her blank gaze, breasts rising and falling like belaboured bellows designed to deflower that poor fleur-de-cou just holding on in the midst of such passions.

And then they followed her probing stare to admire her daughter, an apple mere feet from the tree, my chin wet in obvious dumbfounded desire — not possibly Jack’s manual stimulation of my mouth… no! Of course not!

“I’d praise you for bringing her around,” Father added, “but I’d imagine her re-training had more to do with that.”

“Oh regardless, she has little else to concern herself with, so she’s more than willing these days. Insatiable appetite, this one.”

Father took another drink, conspicuously staring at my bared lips, painted cherry red, and the tight darkness within.

“Yes, she wants to be taken every which way. Your girl is no innocent dove, I tell you; Werburgh’s girls, they make proper wives! You did right by your daughters, sending them there. Chastity here bent in half before me one night not long ago, proffering her arse with little abandon. I was not even aware she had such flexibility at her disposal!” Jack boasted, before stage whispering, “Not that she could get herself out of such a pickle. I sorted to that.”

Father went as red as my rear had been that first night, without even knowing how far Jack had twisted that particular tale. Yet he remained silent, his glass half empty.

“There’s less conquest in it now, I fear.” Jack continued, leaning back. “You understand, I’m sure. You’ve a taste for conquest, yourself.”

“What are you implying?” Father shifted his gaze deliberately.

“Hmmm? Oh, I was speaking of Cuddles, of course. You have told me before how contemptuous she was of your initial offer …well, any man can brush off such disrespect from a mere girl so young and unawares… And yet you forced the issue anyway. Whatever your illusions about her current opinion, that was the initial appeal, was it not? Asserting yourself. Taking what you want. And I daresay, it paid off.” He didn’t need to point, just listen to the muffled, wet noises of her eager service under the covers of her Lady mistress.

“Perhaps you are right. I wouldn’t have used those terms, no… but perhaps you are right. I have never enjoyed her more than that first time, when the memory of her refusal was still fresh for us both.” Father resigned himself, spectacles catching the light.

“Yes, such a threshold can only be crossed once, and it is always the sweeter for it. Especially when there’s outmoded morality to overcome. These are Dolls, after all. Who’s to say how they’re played with, or what is forbidden?” As if to reinforce his point, Jack’s hand reached around my tiny waist and cradled the cup of my dress, holding it firmly enough I could feel his ownership, but not enough to upset the fabric.

There was a great deal of leeway between the line they were speaking of and the one he seemed determined to tempt my Father across. Yet Father side-eyed that hand not as disapprovingly as I expected, before clearing his throat. “Those damn purists in Hyde Park think otherwise, calling us a bunch of hedonists as if they’re right angels. But I know Cuddles. She adores the new life her former self so stupidly spurned. I scooped her out of the gutter and provided her with purpose, and a fine roof over her head. How could she feel anything but gratitude?”

“Well, it’s certainly all she can express. I have my doubts of how she’s feeling inside, but she’s far more fun that way. As I said, I am not so easily fooled… but I am easily amused. I think I will enjoy watching her dance on these new, loosened strings.”

Jack and Father admired the show in front of them in the quiet room, before Father put on some quiet music on the HiFi. “Yes, you seem to have taken a fancy to her.”

“Hmmm, pity she is so lowborn. Though I am learning quickly that a Societyman makes his wife rather than finds her, and you have groomed such a lovely canvas for me here, Alan.”

Father nodded, before looking out the window as wistfully as Cuddles had been. “You know, Hope and Chastity once made me swear, when they were just little things, that I would make sure they stayed identical. Their heads were filled with fairy tales of course, but I always went along with it, even paying Eaton extra upon their graduation to ensure it.” He glanced at Jack piercingly. “Knowing you and the smile you were wearing after that little consultation… you’re going to make me break my promise, aren’t you?”

Jack was sitting beside me, outside my field of view, but I felt his shrug of admission resonate in my very bones.

Dear Reader, I will tell you, that realization would sting far longer than I could foresee then, as no one else acknowledged that my mother had obviously passed at that horrid Welsh clinic. ↩
Until I began retreating into the Doll identity like a fool. It hurt too much to even fathom what incidents could have been avoided if not for my obstinance and misguided devotions to the ideals I already knew had entrapped me… ↩

Book 3 Chapter 32

Sep 18th, 2021

5934 words

Honestly, Dear Reader, I couldn’t patch together an ounce of surprise, as I had known from the moment he pounced on the Doctor in the foyer that my time as a Society Standard Doll was nearing its end, and there was no indication he might reclaim his rightful wife and transform her instead.

My howls of WHY ME went unheard, responded to only by the doctrine occupying more of my mind than ever… For you are the uncut diamond a Man will pour his efforts into shaping, so you can shine your brightest.

“You should take the opportunity to spend some time with your daughter.” Jack suggested, in what felt almost like a threat. He gripped the stem of me and jostled a bit like the puppet I was, an inch at my waist shaking my head a fathom, and my tits almost as much. “You may be seeing…less of her, in the future.”

It took a moment for us all to grasp his meaning, and Father nodded. He merely nodded!

“I admit I’ll miss her as she is.” Father gave me an unreadable glance. “They bloomed so beautifully, after such a long wait.”

“You always have the spare.” Jack jested, a good-natured tone twisting wicked words. “And besides, when I’m through there’ll be no danger of mixing them up.”

“Ha!” Father barked a laugh and raised his glass. “I relied on their lockets for that once, but they each have a much more obvious accessory these days — one they are just as rarely without. Chastity’s is much older and fatter than her sister’s, to her initial dismay, but she seems to have grown quite accustomed to him.”

“Indeed she has!” My ‘accessory’ — no, Chastity’s — laughed, patting my milky thigh with well-feigned affection, his hand reaching between my legs, tracing the leather strap that kept my gifts from being expelled by a simple push. Inside I winced at his touch, and the cruel irony of the joke. “We make quite a pair.”

“And yet I find her appearance much improved when unburdened by her husband’s rather oafish visage.” Father’s inhibitions were falling away as his tongue loosened behind a distracted grin, amusing himself by trading gilded barbs. “In the spare moments he allows for a father and daughter to spend together, that is.”

“Alan, you wound me!” Jack bantered back. “I know how important the bond between you two must be. In fact I think you’ll find that I have done everything in my power to encourage it…

“Speaking of private time,” he added, an aside which from his tone I immediately knew would be closer to his true aim than all this chaff, “I would appreciate a more intimate inspection of Mrs. Hodgkinson’s new toy before hors d’oeuvres,” out of my periphery I caught his gesture, reaching around me to direct his glass at Cushions and Cuddles, “as charming as this demonstration may be.”

Whilst I hadn’t known of this oft-monthly arrangement, or its terms, Jack was being oddly insistent on bedding Cuddles considering how infrequently he requested me for such occasion — less than his son, if that could be believed — and considering how quickly he used and discarded me when he did, taking what he required from that soft place I held at my lower end, before I was walked back to bed alone with his seed running down my thigh.

Was he simply trying to give Father and I space for this indecent collision course he had set us on? No… supposedly he had been enjoying her for a long while. I had to ask myself: What unique attraction did Althea — or Cuddles, rather — inspire in Jack? Did he admire her near-complete limblessness? Was that my predestination under Doctor Eaton’s wicked scalpel?

Or was it like he had said, the farce of enjoyment upon an impenetrable mask? Honestly, I could provide that for him already.

“Don’t be sour about your hostess being indisposed, she will be joining you upstairs in time.” Father, too, gestured to the steady oscillating beneath the fine fabrics. He took another sip of his libations, his cheeks flushed already, and I could do nothing to stop him. I was waiting for my life to present to me an exit from this tragic comedy I was a part of, but none were keen to reveal themselves.

Ever able to make me the fool, even when he couldn’t possibly know my thoughts, my husband imposter grabbed the box from my lap, unlatching it.

“What is this then?”

“Oh I do believe those are Vox Angeli,” Father said, far too casually for the significance of his words, “…or ‘vox gags’ as most societymen have taken to calling them…”

My gut twisted within its laced confines. Vox gags!? The secret to my freedom had been simply laying in my bare lap, this whole time!?

Dear Reader, I can not properly tell you how many nights in my plain white cell of a room I had lain awake, either staring at an entrancing screen or at the ceiling just waiting for my eyes to flutter closed, dreaming of another life; safe, happy, one where I had told John when I had the chance, “Yes, (thigh squeeze), please get me a prosthetic voice. I want to learn how to speak again. Teach me what to say and how to be cordial. Keep me within whichever limits you set, just keep me and know who I am inside…”

Now my chance was right there! Right there! A possible substitute for my lost voice was mere feet from me and I could not even look at it, nevermind reach out, shove it in my mouth, and howl or tweet the single word I had fantasized in the hall! I only tensed my thighs in anticipation and sat where I had been placed.

“Let us try them.” Father smiled with uncharacteristic energy at Jack.

“W-what? And let them speak like commonwomen?” Jack’s voice wavered like his son’s, all the confidence from before evaporated in a second. It was plain to see; he knew full-well the risk in allowing me to air my inner thoughts and accusations. “But doesnt the Society object to such devices?”

“My friend, Doctor Eaton might as well be the Society, and these are a gift direct from the source, a generous one at that! Besides, the girls’ teachers all wore them, they’re perfectly safe.”

“Their safety is not my concern. I’m surprised you would be so willing to discard their privacy…”

Father scoffed, and Jack corrected course. Behind closed doors, propriety eroded fast. Our privacy was hardly a concern for our owners, after all.

“Their purity…”

That wasn’t quite right either, considering the scene before us. Jack took another mental leap.

“Their, er, simplicity,” he landed, and with a grandiose hand flourish managed to salvage some of the performance. “…and for what? No. I believe I will have to refuse for my wife on moral grounds.”

No! Give it to me! Pappa!!

I couldn’t do it, with further alterations now on the table; I couldn’t let my hope die already. It was right there! And Jack was being so transparent about his sudden change of heart. The snake found himself on such a high horse all of a sudden, I hoped Father could see his quiet desperation as he walked the edge of his own lies.

He did. Somewhat.

“Who was just lecturing who on transgressing morality?” Father chuckled. “What, not interested in what lies behind the poker face you derided so? Not willing to test your luck?” Father took one of the gags and tossed it in the air like a ball, white porcelain and silver grille flashing as it spun in the air, my stomach subject to about as many flips merely imagining the fine mechanism smashing on the floor.

Jack was none too enthused, “I will not be baited by reverse psychology. Perhaps we can see which of us is correct about Cuddles’ true feelings?” Jack suggested and my Father mulled the idea.

“Perhaps later. For the moment she is much too busy.”

“Cushions, then. The Lady of the house should have the pleasure, it is only appropriate.”

Father could not argue with that, and shrugged in acquiescence. “I suppose. I must admit, I am trepidatious as well, but let us see.”

It was so abundantly easy for Father to walk over, make Cushions’ mouth available with the press of a button, and replace her fleur with the tiny speaker. With it, she looked every ounce the part of Dame Henderson, with all her wilful potential, laden with the ability I had waited my whole life to share with her… a simple conversation.

It could be about how she liked the maids versus her old help, or what decorations she would like added in her Doll room, or which birdsong simulation she preferred at midday in the drawing room here. Of course if she was a proper Doll she would not have such preferences, but I surely wasn’t. I could ask her about that: Doubt. Or something utterly inconsequential, for surely Chastity and I had talked her ear off about the most inane subjects before we were of age to follow in her footsteps. It could be anything. Anything at all! As sour as I had been with her earlier, I had to put it aside for such a momentous opportunity.

We waited with bated breath, but the words… did not come.

“Speak, darling.”

Cushions’ breathing seemed to accelerate, but whether from effort or her lady’s aide down below we had no sign, because she failed to produce a sound.

“Perhaps it’s defective?” Father pondered aloud.

“The gag or your wife?”

With a disapproving glare, Father fished the ball out of Mother’s elastic pout again and turned it in his hands, inspecting the surface, one side a speaker, the middle porcelain frame all intact, the other side a soft plastic nipple which, if pressed— “Good afternoon!” a middle-aged woman called out, crystal clear, with a gentle excitement running over calm, sultry tones like a trickling stream over the riverbed.

“That can’t be her voice, can it?” Jack asked.

“I suppose so, I… wouldn’t know.” Father frowned at the gag, then at my mother, his wife. “I’ve never heard her speak.”

“What do you mean, you’ve never heard her speak?”

Father turned to Jack, “Well it’s much the same as yourself and Chastity. It would be improper to arrange suitors before the girls are ready, as their womanhood could only tarnish their immaculate image after dollification. You have never heard Chastity, and neither have I her mother.”

“So you’re a purist, then.” Jack said, leaning us both back on the sofa and taking a deep, reminiscent sigh. “One of Carrie-Anne’s closest friends had a husband that way; the two were quite liberal— unseemingly so, with her claiming the title of Lady but leaving her arms down for much of the day. Talked enough to wear out our parlor, she did. But whenever her husband came into the room, she wouldn’t utter a peep. As peculiar as can be. I never asked if that ‘wouldn’t’ was a ‘couldn’t’… but a man wonders.”

Father was amused enough, but shook his head. “I cannot claim such a flair for the dramatic. Lord Chittenham arranged our pairing when he and I were only school mates, him having his Victoria at home, already with child and already quite incapacitated in their unique ideal of a Leisurely mother’s role — two steps from Dollhood herself, mind you — and he heard I was looking for a suitable wife after some pressure from the firm to put my best foot forward.

“By then, Clarice was already a Doll, through and through. She had put in her three years at St. Werburgh’s, graduated and certified with high honours, and was Companion to Lady Victoria Chittenham for but a few short months; and the Lady wanted her gone. Chittenham was rather friendly with Clarice, it seems. The two grew up closely, so… he would know her voice, but I do not.”

“What does this ‘Victoria’ think of our boy Chittenham walking about with the young Belle on his leash? I’ve never even heard her mentioned.”

Father looked lost in thought, before snapping back. “Oh her? No, she is in no place to pass judgment now. He has the run of the roost from what I gather, and his seven growing boys have the run of her, if you catch my drift.”

I didn’t, until I was much older.

“He is a bit of a loose sail, that one. Is that old ‘friendship’ why you do not leave her alone with him?” Jack pried, like words sprung from my own mind, for I was rabid with curiosity of my Mother’s origins.

But Father didn’t answer.

“Good afternoon!” he tweaked the button again, before pushing the ball back inside his wife’s tight mouth-hole.

“Speak, darling. We both know your tongue is plenty functional.”

There was no change in Cushions’ demeanor, no spark of understanding in her ever-empty stare, but there wouldn’t be: she was a Doll, and her shell, soft and supple as my own, was designed to be penetrated from without, not within. But then, unmistakable in its origin, that same sultry voice asked,

“Hello, my love. What would you like this Doll to say?”

I heard Jack’s sharp intake of breath even as I felt it against my ear.

Father’s smile split his face, enough expression for them both. A husband and wife, speaking for the very first time. “Say whatever you wish, dear. Let us hear your thoughts after all these years.”

Cushions went silent again, only the wet sounds emanating from beneath her dress and the slight whistling of her shallow, frantic breaths coursing out her neck. After some time, she repeated her question.

“What would you like this Doll to say?”

Father’s smile dimmed a fraction. “Why, anything at all! It’s up to you. Don’t horse around with such a significant moment, darling. Your daughter is here.”

That did not catalyze anything. There was another long pause, and the question repeated again. “What would you like this Doll to say?”

“Are you sure it works like that?” Jack probed. “Maybe she can only say what you tell her to.”

“No, no. I’ve seen Dolls hold full conversations with these things, independent of instruction.” I could see it on his face, blurry to me as it may have been. My father may have simply shrugged at such an idea only the day before, but now that he had tasted a drop, he was disappointed. The novelty alone had him wanting more.

“Well, perhaps she can’t decide. Her mind must be overflowing with possibilities!” Jack offered from his recline. “Or long run dry.” he added, low enough to reach my ears alone.

“Or perhaps she’s simply overstimulated at the moment. Cuddles, enough!” he raised his voice to get through the many layers dividing them. “Your mistress has other business to attend to.”

The dress ceased dancing about at once, never mind the cessation of rude noises, subtly replaced with a wheezing breath under there, quietly panting. Father asked his wife again, approaching closer to a commandment now, but the same question came back from the same blank face.

“What would you like this Doll to say?”

Father threw his hands up.

“Give the other one to Cuddles, then.” Jack cut in, not allowing my Father to wallow long in his obvious frustration. “Let’s see if they both don’t start chatting. They’ve been awfully familiar, they must have something to speak of. Pleasantries, if you will.” He chuckled at his own half-joke.

I couldn’t help noticing I was still being excluded from this planned conversation. While that wasn’t abnormal — a Doll being talked around and about — I couldn’t allow this moment, like all the rest, simply pass me by! Simultaneously, I had to concede, and lower my heel from its impending click, that I couldn’t make a mess like earlier in the hall. I had to wait for my moment. I might not have many left.

Father thought Jack’s suggestion as good as any, so he lifted the dress and hauled Cuddles out unceremoniously with a grip of her hair. His movements were energized and impatient, less the effects of one drink than its illicit contents — sloshing around the bottom of the glass in his other hand.

She instantly looked up at him, blankly accusing him with his own dripping cock cast in a creamy white stone, which he removed from her mouth with a handkerchief on one circumcised end and an inelegant slurp on the other, restowing it under his wife’s dress for the time being before letting her skirts down.

Cuddles’ back was still to me, but when the gag filled her mouth she began speaking immediately.

“Good afternoon, Master Hodgkinson! I am currently performing my role as your wife’s companion. Would you prefer me to entertain your guests, or perhaps yourself?”

If my mouth was not already ajar in its persistent pout, held in place by compliant springs, I imagine my jaw would have dropped. That was… Althea! That was her voice! That was how she had sounded at mealtimes, telling grand tales of commoners’ trials; that was how she sounded breathing into my ear in bed, just upstairs; and how she had sounded weeping on the floor not far from where she now sat!¹ How could that device possibly know how she used to sound? How indeed, when that sultry, sly street girl had been silent for longer than I!?

Father wasn’t as taken aback. “Entertainment of a different sort, for now… Mr. Collins and I have a bit of a wager to settle. It’s quite a daft question, but have at it: Are you ‘happy?’”

“Why, yes of course, sir!” She replied promptly.

Father spun her around fast enough to give that bottom a rug burn, presenting her to the room. The time spent under her mistress’ dress had left her makeup running, her wide decolletage as shiny and slick as her face, the copious juices almost obscuring a single tear running down her cheek as she frantically tried to look up at Father, from her lowly vantage as high and mighty as he must have felt.

“That settles it.” He tousled Cuddles’ hair, a proud owner whose pet had produced the desired trick.

“Indeed it does.” Jack said with a grin in his voice I hadn’t expected from the loser of that particular wager. “I think I’m fine with Chastity taking this device for a spin after all.”

My kegels clenched in glee, a subtle vibration and a lean into him my only thanks.

Father looked at Cushions, who had remained silent, and then back to Cuddles. “Excellent. Perhaps her daughter’s voice will stir something which this harlot failed to. I admit I care far more to hear Chastity again than be further reminded of Cuddles’ time as an ungrateful houseguest.”

With that he plucked Cuddles’ voice from her for the second time in her life, and strode to me. He was about to plop it betwixt my lips, but upon second thought he gave the tiny orb a summary wipe with his handkerchief before pushing it inside my waiting mouth. His care hadn’t hidden Cuddles’ taste in the slightest — nor what I could only surmise was a hint of my mother — but I honestly couldn’t have cared less! I daren’t believe my luck, that Fate had finally laden me with the opportunity to free myself from this odious lie!

Enjoying the pressure and fullness of the gag, of its glorious potential; I imagined I must have to concentrate very very hard to elucidate my thoughts to the magic device, so I collected every last bit of resolve and focus left within me, tuned out the rumbling gifts, the binding corset, and even the digging little rock in my shoe. I had to circumvent all the myriad distractions and dollish concerns, remembering what my tongue had once felt like, flicking off the backs of my front teeth, running along my hard palate, before it was retired to this care-free life in a soft tube of pulsing, drooling, spongy flesh, with plenty of tiny bumps and ridges to run along instead; that is, when it wasn’t simply pinned in place by a more oppressive gag; out of sight, out of mind. I had to remember what it felt like to find my throat vibrating in singsong tones so easily, lilting poems and tunes which Nanny had taught us well, before she presented us with the stopper.

I had to cease my reminisces. The whole room was looking at me, waiting.

“Well go on, love.” Jack implored, that same amused inflection in his voice from behind me. Why was he so smug? This was my chance to ruin him!

My breasts were rising and falling like jostling southern seas, I had to calm down lest I faint. I focused on three words, three very special words:

I. am. Hope.

I flicked the soft nipple with my stunted tongue… and it spoke!

I couldn’t believe my ears. It was… my voice! It wasn’t Chastity’s, I was thankful of that much, but the timbre did not belie the small source from whence it came, either. It was my voice, but it did not say my words.

“What a marvelous day we’re having! Pappa, Mummy, Cuddles, this Doll has missed you so!”

I couldn’t lift my foot high but I stamped my boot hard enough that the damned pebble must have pierced my skin, the little devil. I was inconsolable, the storm in my lungs refusing to cease, I couldn’t catch my breath. This saviour of mine was merely a… a… a toy!

“Chastity!” Jack scolded, holding me steady in my tantrum. “I know you are excited, but please behave!”

I didn’t even touch the gag, and yet my voice spilled forth regardless! “Oh dear, this Doll seems to have stepped out of line. Whatever can it do to make this right, Sir?”

Jack laughed at my blush, Father catching the blank cheque between the lines as well.

“I believe we can allow this outburst to slide, don’t you, Jack? Perfect form, Mrs. Collins.” He instructed with a saucy wink quite unlike him.

“Yes, Pappa.” I intoned against my will, accepting it along with the crushing defeat I felt aching within my tummy, bringing my cold knees together again, wanting to curl up even further.

Father looked back at Cushions, just sitting there silently with a paperweight in her mouth, and put his hands on his hips. “Nothing, dear? Nothing? You haven’t heard Chastity’s voice in ages! You used to love hearing their giggles streaming down the hall, did you not? I know I did, though I almost forgot the sound!”

He must have, for we did not sound quite the same and this was plainly my voice, as it had been. Somehow, the gag knew whose mouth it was truly occupying…

“What would you like this Doll to say?” the line repeated.

Jack let his drink clack against the glass table in front of him. “We want you to talk to your daughter, damn it!”

“Oh, well why didn’t you say so, my love?” the voice streamed forth, sounding like someone’s idea of a Clarice, I could only assume as accurately as mine and Althea’s. She continued, “This Doll’s tongue is all tied up! Suffice to say, it is so good to see you Hope, dear!”

My heart stopped, and Jack audibly choked behind me. How could— But the voice doesn’t even— I don’t know— I had no idea what was happening.

Father was still unimpressed. “What are you on about, cupcake? I know they look alike but this is Chastity! Bah! These gags must be rubbish.”

His words were like ice in my heart. He still wasn’t seeing what was right in front of him!

Jack was on high-alert, but happy enough to allow Father to keep thinking that. “Well they’re not real, my friend. Whatever gags you saw are not these… gimmicks. As I mentioned before, I enjoy a peek or two through the facade, and none of these fine Ladies would utter a word like this, not after years of silence! The gags just know what gentlemen like us want to hear, I’m afraid. I’ll admit it’s remarkable at guessing who is in the room, what’s going on, and what have you — but not perfect.”

“S’pose so.” Father slurred a bit, disappointed. “Well, girls— er, Dolls… take it away, and… relax yourselves.”

My voice came to life even without prompting from within. “I say, Mummy, I do care for a chat! Perhaps a bit of current events? It has been… years since we last spoke! Would you care for a discussion after all these years? Perhaps Pappa will let us keep our Vox Angeli by AutoServe if we do!”

There was an unseemly delay, something the women of Berkeley Gardens Social Club would have looked down upon, before… “I don’t see why not!”

My imitation voice didn’t take up the response initially, not this time, until I tested the nipple with my tongue and— “Well I do think the city is growing rather unseemly for vulnerable things like you and I. Have you heard about the current events in the city? I can tell you all about them.”

Another bout of silence filled the air, with the two men looking at each other.

Father interjected lazily, “Cushions, I know you haven’t the foggiest, but can you please follow the conversation regardless?

“Of course, Alan darling!” the quickest response yet confirmed. “My dearest daughter, I would so enjoy hearing about the goings on in your hometown of London. Also, please update me on how your husband Mr. Collins has been faring!”

I wondered for a second which Mr. Collins she was referring to…

“Oh wonderful, Mummy! I am so happy you agreed to discuss the goings on in my home of Kensington, London as well as my husband! Those are my two favourite subjects!”

I hated this. It was a farce. My mother and I still couldn’t speak, I couldn’t ask her why she had tried to service Father in front of me, nor why she had really acted out before our departure for school so long ago; I couldn’t settle anything of consequence, and yet we were prattling on about nothing, just for the enjoyment of our owners.

Regardless, I licked again, using that repurposed muscle to keep up the charade.

Our discussions varied from how often the shrubberies were cut on our block to the new building going in down the lane and what shoppes and emporiums might be taking up in their empty leases… places I would never visit because my “glorious, considerate husband” kept me in a sparsely-decorated room when he didn’t need me on his arm for whichever meeting or dinner party. We discussed a closing of a street in Eastwick which had been improperly registered and had an autocar try to drive it unpaved, and the Lady passenger who was quite shaken after the affair. We discussed how “Mr. Collins’ studies” were going — another earmark for the attentive — though the men were busy with their own discussion about how the gags could possibly know our voices, which I just barely overheard.

Apparently this farcical — albeit accurate — facsimile of my voice had been the entire impetus for the weekly free-speech dinners at school. Father had signed the permission slip along with the recording release form, and my yearning talks with Althea between bites had all been fed into a voice imprint saved by the Society… apparently for novelty’s sake and nothing more.

I tried to follow their conversation further, but my own mouth seemed so loud and jarring after being held silent for so long, and besides, I had to keep up with the cues. Cushions had a free pass, her voice speaking when spoken to since she still refused to play along, but mine needed that miniscule act of participation, letting my tongue graze the backside of this gag when it was my turn to respond politely; lest the men get distracted and snap their fingers in my unflinching face to “behave.” But there was no off ramp to the conversation, it simply flowed from one topic to the next, filling the space more than our minds…

And then Cushions asked if my husband and I had been inconvenienced by the ‘abolitionists’ in the park.

“Oh no, Mummy, I have not been to the site of recent protests for… ever.”

A good save from the ridiculous device. I had never been to Hyde Park. As a child I once asked to go, enticed by its depiction in my picture books with the King himself standing on a balcony and looking out over the greenery, ponds, swans, and his finely-dressed subjects, but Father would not even entertain the idea. Apparently, it had grown a touch unsafe since those were written. By then, I lived but a stone’s throw, and hadn’t thought of the place in years, not till that visit home, when it became so hush-hush with all the men. But to tell of it, I didn’t even know what these ‘radicals’ were so upset about!

“Delightful! I am pleased to see my daughter fulfilling her role in the home, as it should remain. Surely you do not need to trouble yourself with the concerns of those scoundrels. They find one whiff of this AutoServe affair with the former chancellor and Sir Wainwright and suddenly want to ban the institution of Dollhood altogether. These exposés are nothing but gratuitous!”

Ban Dollhood? I almost laughed. What a ridiculous thought!

“Oh, what a ridiculous thought, Mummy!” I said a bit uncannily, “A whole way of life cannot be banned nor abolished. Our fair Society may be small but it is not unlike a steady ship, sailing honest and true, for the distillation of all women to our objectile essence, for our own good!”

Wait… small? These words pouring from my own mouth — felt preposterous. Every event I had attended my whole childhood and adolescence featured a healthy showing of men holding both Dolls and Ladies by their sides or on a lead, whether hosted in that very house we grew up in, or with Jack in the city, making vague financial arrangements for other Societymen. Naturally we knew more Dolls than Ladies, with Father being such a prominent member of the community, but we had our own school for goodness sake! A school for the refined, the creme de la creme, what leisurely women and commoners alike could only dream of being… Perhaps we were small, I thought then, but so too the avant-garde had to be, to establish the Doll Ideal, right? Or…

The term for this I learned years later in my readings: ‘cognitive dissonance.’ How could the world I had been raised in be elite and exclusive — exorbitant in cost for creation and care — and also the powerful and inevitable continuation of women’s Leisure? If one takes a step back and remembers Lady Kettering, how could such a complicated procedure be enacted upon all of womanhood, even the upper half? Surely London was a large city, I had no idea how many houses had how many wives and daughters and maids, and Great Britain itself seemed to go on forever, boundless, even though I had seen its shape on a map once or twice.

None of this I grasped then.

Dear Reader, back then I was quite confident we weren’t of some fringe caste like Audrey Fentiman from the Social Club, head arched skyward in her unique form of Catholic piety. In truth, the Society was not much larger than that peculiar denomination, an insular community of well-endowed families keeping this vision alive. That was why Jack Collins married himself in, a scavenger ingratiating himself with the untrustworthy old Society families. What Dolls I had met were almost all there were, save for some sprinkled about the countryside, locked in playrooms in fine manors with far less pretense. All that only emerged later: the reality that my mistreatment was far from unusual. I had grown up thinking Dollhood was a righteous and common alternative to Leisure in the mainstream, a healthy evolution of the Mandate. I thought there were many, so many, watching and following in my mincing footsteps…

If I had known we Dolls were famous not for our ideals but for our mistreatment, I would have chosen differently on that ceremony stage. If I had known.

Yet still in my heart I was sure some of my former classmates must be living that ideal. I surely wasn’t, and my trust was in tatters, but I couldn’t grasp the full picture whilst locked away and entertaining my father-in-law captor’s every twisted whim.

I licked, regardless.

“Mummy, I am rather scared. We are only harmless Dolls, what can we do about these antagonists?”

“Well it’s quite simple, dear. We need to hold ourselves to what tenets we know to be true. You and I and Cuddles here are essential for our good men to steady their wills and passions, for they are instrumental in maintaining the Society as it is. Our duty is only to maintain perfect form and remain in our designated role as angels in the home. Such outbursts as when you were fresh out of the box would distract and tarnish our reputation as the most ardent supporters of the Leisurely lifestyle.”

This was… odd. If this conversation was prepared for us, why was it warning us not to act out? How could we?

I flicked my tongue. “Naturally Mummy, I wouldn’t want to make a scene in public and risk causing a stir.”

“No, with over a thousand reported commoners already causing such unrest, that would be unwise.”

“I wholeheartedly agree with your assessment, Mummy!” my voice cheered on, as I wondered what a crowd of a thousand people looked like… and all to protest… us?

“Yes, take it from your mother, it is not our place to worry about our place in the current discussions about a Doll’s place in Britain. Calls for a ban on Dolls and our reversion to lowly Leisurely standards are culturally insensitive to our way of life and must be—”

“Cushions!” Alan called from his seat by the window, clearly concerned. “Should you really be discussing this… matter?”

Cushions replied promptly, “I currently have zero forbidden topics of discussion, darling!”

I desperately did want to hear more of the men in the park and their -isms and ideas, and I triggered my voice to interject or distract with: “Pappa is right, Mummy. We should add these topics of ‘politics’ and ‘social dynamism and unrest’ to our list of permanently forbidden topics of discussion.”

“You’re quite right, my princess. I would instead love to propose to tell you about the seventeen new species of flora that went into the garden this Spring and their closest textual descriptions in poetry from the early 20th century, since we can no longer enjoy their heavenly scents directly.”

Or can you consider a limbless woman standing tall as proud as a limbless woman sitting pretty? ↩

Book 3 Chapter 33

Sep 21st, 2021

3672 words

With Cushions and I quite busy with our winding conversation — a medley of stories not unlike what Father used to read to us from the newspaper, alongside what seemed to be Society-prepared, scripted conversations — Cuddles had been left all on her own, sitting at the foot of her mistress’ skirt tails, voiceless, watching us converse about nothing of substance as the wet mess across her plastiskin face dried up. She looked down at her prominent bosom every so often, and even with brows unfurrowed, I knew she was annoyed by her mouth being left open, dripping down her chin. I even heard a foolhardy attempt to suck it back, and then to wipe her pouting hole on her covered shoulder, but a maid firmly stopped her from marking her outfit, to which the little Companion gave a weak tantrum, since the automaid had not solved the actual source of her problem.

I kept ‘talking,’ watching in my periphery, amazed by how much wilful action Cuddles was allowed, and how little it improved her lot.

It was remarkably difficult to follow foreign words erupting from my own mouth, dear Reader. I felt as if I was listening to a radio play on the HiFi, save the speaker was my own head and the lead actress had a remarkably familiar voice. I usually drifted in radio plays, when I once had that luxury. Jack preferred silence at home.

But I was also annoyed by the alien words and how their unceasing exchange drowned out my attempts to eavesdrop on Jack and Father’s more intriguing conversation.

“Eaton says the newest fashion is…”

“…hardly, I wasn’t aware of that implant’s design. Can she really…”

“You truly ought to try… one sticker on her… compliant for hours!”

Truly, I would do anything to distract; to avoid; to avert my gaze from Cushions’ eyes perfectly locked with mine.

I’ll admit, even though our education at St. Werburgh’s prepared us for alterations being a natural part of life, with regular touch-ups being seen as a necessary step in keeping up with the times — and our men’s tastes — it was more difficult than ever to see my Mummy in Cushions. While the same dopey-eyed face was sculpted upon Cuddles, her and I had always expected to see each other through new eyes and a plastic smile. Althea was in my life for less than a year and in school I rarely had the freedom of movement to look over toward her, anyways; she was memorialised more as a voice in my ear, whispering silly, sinful things. Mummy had been my rock, the idolic figure I admired growing up, and especially after her attempted servicing of Father in the hall, the Doll talking to me now hardly matched that holy vision.

What’s worse was, I knew full well that once Jack had his way and sent me back to Great Ormond Street, I would likely be changed just as drastically, and then… would Mother ever recognize me? Would Althea? Would Chastity?

Would John?

If somehow it was revealed to all involved that I had been Hope all along, not Chastity, would anyone still see me as either if I had a face defined not by mimicking the real but catering solely to men’s whims? What could be done then to rectify this ruse?

Not much.

I triggered my next response with my tongue, and thought of the women that had raised Althea; her many ‘aunts.’ Given the chance, they would surely see nothing of that sweet, mischievous girl now, except perhaps the black hair colour, and that was hardly unique. Cuddles was all soft curves and silently-offered relief now, a woman’s essence without the restraints of propriety. This was obviously how Father saw his wife Cushions too, but in Cuddles’ case the vision was unhindered by good-standing… and so she would never be required nor allowed to stand again.

What truly saddened me about my dear friend Althea, is how — for all her meagre social climbing and struggles to apply for the St. Werburgh’s scholarship, her unique passions and her desire for more than her God-given circumstance — she found herself serving the same function as her aunts in their brothel, or her mother before her, save in this case devoted to one client, and with no reprieve from that identity of sexual service. All pretence of being a chaste Companion for a Lady, to keep her from growing lonely; all that had been dropped by her mere design. Her purpose was stained into her flesh; and though her meals were steadier, no longer living off her aunts’ table scraps, she surely missed the flavour of Life.

Though I couldn’t have known what would transpire, I still felt responsible she hadn’t gone to a more respectful owner… a man who wouldn’t think her merely an appliance for another Doll. Maybe she hated not just Chastity but me too, in a softer sense. I couldn’t ask.

Between her attempts to stymie the flow of sweet lubricant from her mouth, Cuddles’ focus repetitively drifted to the men by my side like before their arrival, Jack’s heavy arm still around me, but she sat far enough away it wasn’t a staring contest yet. Eventually though, she grew as tired as I of harvesting the few dew drops of substance off of our scripted conversation, and her glances toward the man beside me became more frequent.

It was halfway through my vox gag’s lengthy monologue about a newly-released hairdresser automaid which I apparently “couldn’t live without,” that my old friend sprung to life and remembered she didn’t have to remain where placed anymore. Resorting to that rocking-jerking motion I had seen her use earlier to enter my mother’s dress, Cuddles set off across the grand expanse of parquet and fine rug toward Jack and I. She moved ever so slowly, and carefully, pushing off with her short thighs, her chest wobbling so flagrantly it almost inspired my gaze to shift.

I was surprised Jack didn’t immediately notice her waddling approach. He must have been facing the other way, toward Father.

“…of course I will do my best to soothe her worries through this transitional period, Alan. You have my word, I’ll show her everything I am to change so she has ample time to process— Oh, and who is this little sweetheart?”

While Cuddles initially looked down every so often to check her footing — so to speak — once Jack left my side to meet her halfway and pick her up in his arms, she was locked on him, and could not even nod or shake her head when asked if she was looking for an escape from our “stuffy conversation.”

He looked over and behind me with Cuddles held like a babe on his hip, the remains of her legs straddling him, asking, “Any further demonstrations, commandant?” but Father must have waved him off without a word.

Overjoyed, the terror looked like a child in a sweets shoppe as he bounced the Doll gently. He tried to give her a kiss on the cheek, avoiding the mess of juices around her drooling mouth, but her unrelenting stare made it difficult, with her lips facing him however he approached. “God, Alan, you didn’t give her much play in this new form, either, did you?”

“She is still a Doll, my friend. However lenient her new form looks, it must be upheld. Strictly. It’s for her own good.”

Jack shrugged, and made sure his arm under her bottom was secure before freeing his other hand to grip Althea firmly by the chin and forcibly turn her face away, practically licking her neck in his snog.

“You’ll find the northeast lookout room prepared for you.” Father politely shooed the brute, who was all too happy to take his leave.

“Chastity, darling, will you join us for a short moment?”

I was aghast at this request, and apparently so was Father, but even as I was being stood up to follow, Jack was laughing, “Oh no, Alan, not like that. I simply need a word.”

Following him out to the hall, my focus was split between not catching my heels on the floor, and Cuddles — particularly the small gyrations she was doing with her hips whilst she admired my abuser so closely. A small, weak part of me wished he would show the same favour to his wife as he did this new toy, but I shook that thought from my head. No matter how my nethers quivered at the thought, I should not have wanted him. I should not!

In the hall and out of earshot, once again by the J.M.W. Turner, my pseudo-husband turned around with another woman in his arms and peered at me critically.

“Those gags are a treat, aren’t they?”

So conditioned to a lifetime of useless gags occupying my mouth, I had almost forgotten what I held in my mouth, tweaking the backside to say, “Yes, sir. I do hope you enjoy my company. Perhaps you would consider purchasing—”

“Oh save me the solicitation!” he cut me off, thankfully. “Quite incessant, is it not?”

I clicked my heel in the affirmative. He spied me through my blank shell.

“Your outburst in there did not go unnoticed. You thought these devices to be real?”

My stomach turned, reminded of how high my hopes had been. I clicked my heel again.

“Hmmm. Does make me wonder if those Doll teachers your father was on about— Dame Something-or-other, met her at the wedding— Makes me wonder if those fine spinsters aren’t just on a bit o’ sophisticated clockwork like yourself.” he amused himself as I stood there horrified at the thought of being taught by a… a… some higher power behind a veil. It was terribly, terribly plausible.

“I’ll admit I was fooled too, for but a moment. What a rush! Almost gave up the game, di’n’ it?” he winked.

I would have fallen backwards, fainted outright, if my automaid did not have my waist within its grips. It had been several weeks in the ‘care’ of Jack Collins — nearly two whole months — and he had not acknowledged his larceny of myself from my rightful husband, not once. It had been left long enough without remark that I had begun to wonder if he was even the culprit — no thanks to my nocturnal studies and their devastating effects on my mind. But no… I was right… this bastard had done it! And all in the name of a… a game!?

“You’ve done well. Your father informed me about your sorry attempt at seduction; said I ought to rein you in. Ha! Do you think I need a tighter grip, dear?”

My feet remained in their unsteady perch, without reply, but my mouth was not so restrained. I accidentally grazed the rubber nipple, prompting. “If you think so, sir, I would gladly comply. Your hands are very strong and I greatly enjoy their grip about my—”

“Lovely to hear. Expected a different reception from daddy dearest? Well of course! You’re picking up where your sister left off. It was actually her idea, in a sense. The delightful little airhead wouldn’t stop trying to get Alan’s attention and it was… let’s say… coming on a little strong. So desperate, so urgent, but she didn’t want to keep playing once I was involved, not at first. Well, I had her giving it her best effort before too long…” he reminisced with satisfaction, before adding, “That said, Chastity’s best wasn’t good enough. Not to say I took you merely for this wee project, but it’s part of the fun.”

Gradually, the limbless Doll in his arms ceased her subtle gyrations and began to struggle silently, Cuddles’ voluptuous body twisting and bucking ineffectually.

“Oi girl, you want me to drop you or something?! God, he really did mess with perfection by loosening your spine.” Jack passed the Doll off to a waiting maid who held her not as gently. “What’s wrong with you? You loved this idea of getting back at the old man when I suggested it!”

Cuddles couldn’t stop staring at him with her doe eyes and her pouting open hole of a mouth, forced devotion punctuated by the subtlest of shakes, but her body below was furious, prompting the maid to tighten its mechanical grip until she ceased, wheezing from her neck.

“Oh I see…” Jack considered, chuckling, “Now, here I surmised that if a dumb broad like Cushions caught on, you surely would. Maybe you’re no longer as bright as Alan says you were, Cuddles! If you couldn’t tell, this is your Lady’s other daughter, lest no one speak her name.” he paused, looking between the two Dolls. “No? Okay let’s get the reunion over with, I know you two were as queer as two bonbons in one wrapping. Maids, let these two kiss and get it out of their system.”

My maid popped out the vox gag and gripped my neck steady, as the baby Doll Companion Cuddles was brought toward my face, her lips even larger than my own, with no commissure or seam in the inhumanly circular, inflated hole that approached. Naturally, her oversized tits preceded her, pressing into mine first, causing a shy gasp in forbidden contact as well as pressure, as the maids forced our faces together and our bosoms to be crushed between.

Even so close, Cuddles’ head desperately wanted to turn and admire the nearest man, eyes straining to the side in vain, but a familiar hand of unforgiving plastic and metal held her true, until her lips met mine and we were pressed together.

Though we were as close as dolls could be to one another, trading spit and breath, our loins readying to the point of leakage: it was… empty… utterly devoid of the urgency and passion we had both been imbued with that cold winter night almost two years prior. Even writing this, I only use the word ‘kiss’ for lack of a sorrier word. Our soft plastic lips rubbed across the other’s, but did not pucker nor pout anymore than they had been sculpted to. We were now just two figures of pliant plastic, senses afire, feeling everything but unable to offer anything — not a twitch. Perhaps two years held so close could make up for two minutes back then, but neither of us had such good fortune.

I stared at her eyes, averted, crying subtly in a way I could not — from the mental strain, the cruelty of our predicament, who could say — and I blinked blankly, watching her struggle against the imprinted obsession with men so ironically bestowed upon her by my father, struggle and claw in some internal war until finally— finally! Althea was looking at me…

Althea, my friend and provocateur, victorious over whatsoever insidious compulsions commanded her now… the flame of recognition alive in both of us.

So rigidly fused and trammelled and held, I could not offer my body or lips any closer, but I strained with my tongue to reach… to touch some part of her that was her, not these grotesque pillow lips. My tongue wagged up and down, side to side, even backwards to compulsively swallow, but it had no function left to extend past my lips. Who knows why… To thwart a funny face? To offer no resistance to invading gags and phalluses? The seams of my prison were polished like Napoleon’s mausoleum, each brick lapping at the next, constructed with not a millimetre of play. I screamed inside my head, so eager and near, yet leagues away from true contact.

Yet suddenly hers rushed through, inside! The same tongue she had used so deftly and noisily on my mother was now exploring me, unhindered, and we merely stared at each other, all emotion dammed up behind frozen facades.

And in the smallest gestures, we danced.

I’m sorry for entrapping you in this life. I said in what little language was left to me. Who knows if she understood, but I did receive something akin to desperate, saccharine communion in reply, a mirrored flick of the tongue, and took it for the absolution my heart so dearly wanted… needed.

The whole moment lasted a painful instant, and we were pulled apart… asunder once again.

“See, I have my moments, don’t I?” Jack’s perverted gaze ate us up, before gesturing to the maid holding my dearest. “Take Cuddles up to the room, mess her hair up, strew the sheets, and stimulate her little bud just enough to have her thighs slick and sliding. I want it to look like I gave her the time of her sorry life!”

The maid moved to depart and my words erupted into the air, “Wait!” but they were Jack’s.

“Set up a tablet on the bureau to call Viscount Foerster. We had an agreement to sign an hour ago, but open with a ‘gram explaining I had pressing matters at hand. If he can see the bed, I’ll have less explaining to do.”

With that, Cuddles was taken away and my vox gag was reinserted. I was left alone with Jack, by the Turner. He adjusted my breasts back into their precarious coverings in this ridiculous dress, my seething hatred almost steadfast against his touch, yet every resistance of will was sabotaged by a vibration about my gifts.

“You have some… detritus on you, darling.” His cracked fingers brushed roughly at my face, my lashes batting repeatedly, flinching reflex on the fritz. Dried little flakes of something dusted off my brow until Jack was satisfied with my complexion. “There. A girl should not have her mother’s essence upon her own face, but a father should partake in her flesh once or twice I think. To be frank, I always fantasised of it, but alas Carrie-Anne and I had only John. Still, I’ll live vicariously via our charades tonight!”

Even though I knew what he was referring to — the dress, the paste in Father’s drink — I refused to actively participate. This was a bridge too far! I stomped my heel hard, twice. I would not seduce my own father! Not only was it abhorrent, it was a fool’s errand. Father had made it abundantly clear; he was not that kind of man!

“Oh you will behave!” he gripped my proudly presented breast firmly, but I would not budge, no matter how it pained me. “I have sought leverage on your father for months. Squeaky clean doesn’t tell you the half of it, and what do I have to show for my efforts? Nothing incriminating that wouldn’t also incriminate myself. A man in my business knows what getting bit in the arse feels like, and when there is not a crown charge of tax evasion but a legacy on the line? It goes without question that I would secure my— wait, why am I explaining myself to a Doll?”

He stepped back.

“Maid, take this,” he fished the tube of wicked paste out of his pocket, “and infuse any libations Mr. Hodgkinson requests until the deed is done. Refill his glass promptly.”

My maid accepted and stored it in the tiny pocket in her apron, out of sight.

“Good, now remove Lady Chastity’s gifts and make sure the understrap is refastened one notch too tight.” He said that last bit looking into my eyes, whilst the maid did as commanded, slipping the twin ivory gifts out of me with a wet sound and leg-shaking pleasure, leaving my vagina and rectum distractingly empty.

“Halt a moment,” he thought aloud, inspecting the slowly-collapsing aperture of my elastic womanhood relaxing closed around his finger. This minor penetration triggered the beginning of a tension/vibration cycle which made my hips gyrate just slightly even as I stood there. He pulled his finger out quickly, causing my hips to still and my breath to hitch, seeing it glisten with my juices; copious, but an ordinary amount for a Doll.

“You’ve gone all day without setting this off?” Jack grabbed the recently-ejected gift with his ‘load’ still primed inside.

I clicked my heel, proud of my own restraint and meagre accomplishment, yet within a second of flurrious motion he had jammed the tip right back inside my vaginal canal and squeezed his own veiny shaft firmly, jettisoning the few ounces of concentrated aphro-paste deep inside me, undoing all my efforts.

No, no, no, no, no! I breathed wordlessly, as the familiar effects slowly spread from my slit, the warmth radiating out and making me tense and tingly. I knew I had lost all composure when I almost fell over upon the understrap cinching closed firmly by his hand, one notch too tight as he had promised, digging into my inner petals and clitoris like baling wire.

A wicked smile crossed Jack’s face, but he retained his focus, unlike me.

“Vox Angeli.”

“Yes, sir?” my voice answered, unbidden.

“You’re a surprise to be sure, but a welcome one. Say whatever her father wants to hear.”

“I always do, sir.”

“Excellent. And Chastity?” Jack looked from my mouth to me, and added with a wink. “Do what you do best. Nothing.”

My pride stung as I was locked along the gauntlet set forth before me.

“Are you all just loitering in the hall?” my father’s beckoning from afar intersected with the paralyzing, shivering tenderness in my sex, the implications I had naught the time for, as Jack yelled back that I would be coming shortly.

He leant into my ear, “Let’s see if this body and this dress finally seal the deal, tramp. If it does inspire him to defile you — and I’ll expect you to deliver the evidence — I’ll take Chastity back and make her into my masterpiece instead, and you two will never get mixed up again. If not… well…” he looked past me at Father. “She’s all yours, Alan!”

Book 3 Chapter 34

Sep 24th, 2021

4563 words

I strutted back into the drawing room, bosom bouncing with each step, each movement carefully choreographed by my maid and agonisingly pleasurable.

I approached Father’s commanding figure seated next to his wife, carefully pipetting sweet nectars in her open mouth. The vox gag had apparently been put away and I couldn’t help but think, ‘Good riddance!’ Mine was of course still in play, but my conversation partner was at least free of its drivel, and I of hers.

Cushions’ elastic lips were stretched wide open by something plastic, an uncomfortable device less like a dentist’s lip retractor¹ and more akin to a gynaecological speculum, used once or twice in the testing phases of my release from Great Ormond — in multiple places.² It widened what aperture was usually tight enough to fit just a finger inside.

Like he had on special occasions for us girls before our betrothals, Father was dripping diluted honey on Cushions’ tongue, that wilful organ dancing in pleasure whilst her eyes stared at nothing. I could see her throat swallowing compulsively behind the many ridges and bumps that framed this delicacy, but gravity instead delivered the excess sweets and unneeded lubricants out and down her chin, into a proffered handkerchief he held beneath. It would not do to have her ingest the sugars and throw off her careful diet of nutritional mush.

I thought of Jack’s offer then — freedom, for my participation in his manipulations, for betrayal of my Father, my own blood — and the moral conundrum that offer presented to a Doll who should have to face no decisions in what had been prescribed to be a ‘simplified’ way of life. Life had hardly been simple since graduation.

Similarly here sat another conundrum, the man to which this entire estate belonged and was indebted to; a man who would berate his daughter for being wanton, yet restrict his ladies to such forms of behaviour and absolutely dote on them. I had not been wanton in the hall earlier, but now… now I could not say the same.

I had little time to ponder. A passenger as ever in my maid’s iron hands, I was led to them both and made to curtsy, legs quivering, before my voice spilled forth.

“Hello Pappa! Hello Mummy!”

“Hello, dearest.” Father returned my greeting, looking flushed of cheek and elevated in spirit, quite unlike the look of a drunkard; something more excitable, something I had seen in my husband’s eyes on our wedding night, and felt for myself that very moment in far more potent form.

With no retreat from my maid, he looked at me expectantly and I figured quickly that ‘embracing nothing’ had never really been an option. I licked to proceed.

“Pappa, I apologise for the delay. Mr. Collins had not the time to properly punish this Doll since you had mentioned its transgressions to Him. Nonetheless, He needed a moment to make abundantly clear the terms under which He would conduct himself should this Doll not behave.”

Father nodded, “Quite right…” but he looked perturbed. “Chastity, dear, can you refrain from referring to yourself like ‘this and that’?”

“Absolutely, Pappa! I’m quite pleased to be able to talk with you plainly!”

“Good, I as well. I know it is the fashion and the curricula of the Society as of late, but such fashions come and go, and I do not see you so strictly unwomanlike.”

If I could have choked out a chuckle I would have, for he undoubtedly did! It was foolhardy to predict my Father’s pragmatic and romantic sides, and which would win out in their game of musical chairs.

Another gap came as he refocused on Cushions and her gaping mouth, yet I was still presented here by my maid, standing painfully upon my en pointe boots with the tiny pebble deep in its well, my vaginal walls pounding not by autonomic means, simply the rush of my heartbeat. With a sigh — for I knew this could not be good — I licked.

“Actually, Pappa, I do not feel right about this transgression. I propose you punish me instead, to inspire a healthy fear of moral authority. As a lady I daren’t say it aloud…” yet these words of self-sabotage only lowered to a mock whisper, “…but a caning on the bits seems appropriate, does it not?”

I tried to twist and deny these words with a shaking of my chest, but my maid held me still, and that was probably for the best. I did not aim to give him any more incentive than what already stood dripping in his midst. But I was horribly afraid of such discipline, down there, now of all times. My body was alive, feeling every graze of fabric and every square inch constricting my midsection. If he struck me now… Please Pappa, don’t!

He regarded me again, and this time his eyes hovered on the gap in my dress, and perhaps the thin ‘V’ which my squirming thighs created, unable to close entirely or cover that nervous tissue which had just been vacated. I sought to ignore the pang of emptiness, and think of myself as simply a man’s daughter, but it seemed this was as difficult for myself as for him, us both being under certain influences.

I hoped it was merely those influences.

Father handed the cloth and pipette off to Cushions’ automaid, stood up, and grasped me by the hourglass waist, my maid acquiescing to his command. Standing so close, I could only admire his chest straight ahead, and fear his touch and following words, but they came out soft as he kissed my forehead and… inhaled heavily upon the scent of my hair?

“Chastity… I do not want our ever-so-infrequent meets to be occupied with solely punishment and critique, and I’ve already let my tongue fly for the latter.” he let out a sigh, “Actually… my dear daughter… I’ve been thinking of a proper apology.”

Surprised by this turn, yet warmed that my Father had not lost his characteristic softness — in a most conflicted way, in light of my reluctant mission here — it was by his firm direction he pulled me to his side and sat me down on the chesterfield, opposite Cushions, so he could address me closely whilst her mouth was closed, plugged, and tidied up.

My maid returned to hand him another drink, undoubtedly laced. Knowing this, I aimed to kick his shin and cause a spill, but my weak leg never reached its destination. Whilst walking had been manageable under guidance, I did not have such resolve on my own. The sensations in my hips were only bearable in stillness, and even then…

He didn’t even notice, accepting the cocktail without hindrance. Frantically, I tried a different avenue, aiming to cut off his thoughts with this voice, licking my gag, but I hadn’t yet learned that old lesson: Silence is superior.³

“I do not believe a Man ever has to admit wrongdoing to a Doll.” My voice intoned; comforting, a little breathy. “We accept everything as it is presented.”

He sipped in consideration and I whined silently, having failed again. His cheeks were growing redder, his eyes flitting between my placid face and my bosom. “I… I… uhm… I don’t think that is true, Chas. If your mother’s struggles to produce even the semblance of a thought via that gag elicited anything in me, it reminded me of my… responsibility for her state, and for yours. I… I feel this weighing on me as I am notified of your coming metamorphosis, so very soon.”

I could not let myself cry. I had to control my emotions, and wait for my moment. I would not let myself cry. Even if tears could not fall from my eyes, I couldn’t miss a beat, not now.

Father put his arm around me like Jack would. He did not test my behind, but he undoubtedly felt its firm curve testing him.

“Did you know…” his voice hurried, “Your mother and I used to have a code? A way of speaking?”

I was taken aback. My own father, devout societyman, had inquired into a Doll’s inner thoughts? I flexed my exposed thigh rapidly, but alas, he didn’t notice.

“I always told you and your sister to behave, ‘Mummy is watching, you know, and she whispers in my ear!’ Well, it wasn’t far from the truth. It was her tongue. Up, down, loops, and such. Most basic ideas or responses had an equivalent,” he paused and a quiet mirth came into his voice, “and when she wasn’t sure, Clarice would even do this little swirl on the underside of… my thumb…” he glanced down obviously and touched his groin, the memory stirring in him something I feared, even as I revelled in this… unique recollection. I dared not interrupt, lest the gag volunteered me to become fluent in that private language.

Refocusing, he continued. “I asked your Mother about your first armbinders, your training stays, your namegags. I would ask her ‘Are they ready, Clarice?’ but of course you were always ready to walk down the path we laid for you. Your sister less so, but she came around. You two looked so adorable, fine young Ladies. Dolls-to-be!” he paused, words exultant but bitingly sardonic.

He admired the vista beyond our windows, blurry green mess for me, but likely picturesque for him.

“She never spoke after her unboxing the Christmas of ‘48.”

I licked, and it finally mirrored my thoughts. “Why is that, Pappa?”

“I initially thought it was me. My getting reacquainted with her old flame, Chittenham — and his Dolls. We hadn’t been speaking frequently for a few months, I admit,” he paused to sip on that man’s aphrodisiac, ironically. “But Eaton did a number of inspections today, not just on Cuddles, but on your mother too.”

I couldn’t move, but to say I was on the edge of my seat was apt in all senses of the phrase. It was oddly comforting that I couldn’t summon the strength to grind my loins into that edge, either, and so couldn’t interrupt with my indecency. This singular day notwithstanding, Father had never deigned to talk to me so much as at me, around me, or about me. With this voice, I could almost imagine he was hearing me, and I him. I wanted to listen patiently, as much as my body and that damn paste was making that less and less feasible.

He coughed, finding his words.

“Her mind is deteriorating— has deteriorated. We don’t know if it’s progressing further, and we don’t know if the wear of twenty silent years resulted in a break…” he stroked her cheek, “or her remodelling at Sant Isfael’s went deeper than I had anticipated.”

I begged my focus to pause and give this revelation the attention it was due; a confirmation of my theories about Mother, finally! And not what I had hoped to hear, not at all! Yet like an insect to a light, I was drawn toward more carnal concerns. His hand upon my empty shoulder did not help, nor the caresses that played on that sensitive expanse of absence, lack, and severed nerves.

“…I wanted a simple, happy life for you. Leisure and Dollhood! A woman’s life, as it should be! Clarice was simple, but she was full of worries, hiding just under the surface. Worries about your sister ever letting go of her womanhood, or of you getting the husband you so deserved. I never realised until she let loose that once. I… I had them all flushed out, so she could be as happy as I’d always imagined her to be. But now she is further gone than I had ever wished, and what’s worse is: I know it was my intervention which was to blame.”

As his touch made my skin glow and my breathing hasten, something else rose inside me which I had never felt before, not since a flicker the day he accosted my friend Althea in this very room.

Loathing.

I couldn’t find an ounce of sympathy for Father. He was right from the beginning: he was responsible for her state, and for mine, for all of this. As women we entrusted ourselves to Men, there was no other way in this Kingdom. Yet Father had invested significantly to have that distinction between the sexes written into our skin; into our heads. He had moulded his wife, my friend, and both Chastity and I into the ideals of our Society, ideals that were not as common as I had been led to believe, ideals he had chosen for us. He had broken his wife, my Mummy! And what’s more — as much as I loved John — he had sold his hobbled daughters into an undistinguished family fraught with a capricious, treacherous patriarch.

For the first time in my life I realised I was not merely sad or distraught about the happenings and handling of events, I was furious about them! Furious with him! Furious to know that he had so awfully failed in his guardianship! And furious that I couldn’t fathom a way out of this quagmire he had situated us in, a mess he was just cluing in to.

A man who had done all that should not have been permitted to have second-thoughts, to doubt like me. Otherwise, it risked the sacrifices and struggles of his dependents losing all meaning! But who would hold him to that measure and standard? Who indeed, when his daughter — the object he had commissioned from the innocent body of a young girl — could only patiently listen to him admit to ‘flushing’ her mother’s thoughts away, yet still desire to lay with him so badly her hips ached? Who indeed.

I licked, my instincts to protect him finally faltering to my sole chance at self-preservation.

“A Doll is a Doll. She must be a happy wife, with a happy life. Right, Pappa?”

He pondered, his hand now gliding up and down the bulge on the inside of his thigh, idly. “I suppose. I do not know if there is room for joy in her anymore. No, that is not right. There is plenty of room, but it seems she has little to fill it with besides a rote lust.”

Indeed, I hadn’t noticed in my passionate fever, but with treat time all cleaned up and Cushions’ fleur back in her mouth, the inflated gag was gently moving in and out.

I knew from first-hand experience we did not have an idle sucking routine or instinct carved in our clockwork, not with our gags. I was reminded of Chastity’s suckling on the bulb of her panel gag on the day of our Mummy’s outburst, the day of our delivery to St. Werburgh’s — in hindsight, self-soothing.

It was now obvious that Cushions — or ‘Mother’, for I couldn’t stay mad at her — was horribly anxious about what trials she had just been subjected to with our vox gags. Any drop of decisiveness had been so effectively wringed out of her that a lick out of line was simply too much too bear.

For a second, my fury at Father subsided and I admired her. Her life was much simpler than mine, forcibly so, and if any of us Hodgkinsons had reached the Doll Mind, it was her. I remembered how much I had longed for that solace of simplicity, once. But pity swelled past that admiration and longing, like my anger at Father had, seeing his indecision further impacting her wellness. In her state, after all he had done, it was so much easier to stay within that simple life, and simple mind. And she had embraced it.

With a lean forward, Mother’s maid helped her slip off the lounger and kneel on the floor like she had in the hallway, kneeling and staring at Father’s hand idly rubbing himself, as if to say, ‘I am here. That is my purpose.’

This time, Father was so resigned in his self-pitying attitude — or perhaps he was proving a point crudely — he simply unzipped his trousers, and with a natural ease one should not have in his daughter’s midst, slipped his cock out.

I wanted to avert my eyes less than I could admit, my knees shaking in place more than my pupils. His hand was still on my padded rear as Mother, a blooming mess of golden ringlets, layered fabrics, and womanly curves buried herself in between Father’s legs, her mouth taking the entirety of him inside and staying there, utterly still, as the faint noise of her mouth’s ministrations began.

Father, though visibly relieved, looked at me with that same resignation. “You can understand— oh m-my… why I react so poorly when I recognize the same rote lust in you?”

I could not fathom a response to such hypocrisy, with the scene in front of me playing out, Father gasping, patting Cushions’ head and telling her softly not to bring him to completion yet, as his eyes wandered not downward but to my cleavage, slipping his hand from my tingling shoulder down to cup my breast — that which he had avoided even at our reunion at the hospital. He groped and cradled my tit, and my fire was suddenly not centralised in between my legs, but… everywhere. Containment and measuring myself was over. A Doll could not come back from such manipulations to sit prettily and steadily in thought as I had been, barely.

I licked again, this time to beg, “I am unbearably lustful. Right, Pappa?” I didn’t feel any better hearing these words professed from my own mouth, than I had whilst humping the floor with John present the last time I saw— heard him. But I had to remember who I was trying to get back to with these infidelities. And the gag was right. I was lustful.

“I know you are, Chas, I know you are. And who am I to chastise you for your lusts? I understand how difficult it must be for you, to feel the same love you have always had for me and yet have it all confused with your new purpose.”

I wanted to say ‘no’, to defy this feeling on principle, but even if in anger I submitted myself to this sin to spite him and save myself, I had to admit a sliver of me — this Hope Doll — felt the way he supposed.

“It’s alright, dear, it’s alright. I do not feel the same way, but it’s wrong for me to not show you attention in the sole language I have left you with.”

With Mother busy between his legs, his hands were free, and this damned indecent dress offered no resistance to his explorations making my skin tingle everywhere he touched. My steady blinking stare did not falter as much as my raging lungs, the whistle of my breaths and the flushness of my skin communicating my desire on my behalf.

“Don’t feel bad about this, darling. It’s natural in your state… Hope asked for it too, you know. On the very day I presented you with— ah, with your engagement gifts.”

‘I did not!’ I shook, momentarily defiant, as I imagined setting him straight, but my breasts rose and fell urgently gasping for air as usual, silent. That shudder was my only reply.

“Yes, I know it’s quite surprising! And I’ll admit, I nearly gave in then. But I held back. I held myself back.”

My recollection of that visit to Father’s study was foggy — primarily dominated by the profound disappointment I had felt, left unfulfilled and empty whilst also spread wide by the image and idol of Mr. John Collins. I was surprised he had remembered. By the urgency of his touch — pulling me closer and gripping my pliant rear through my skirt and petticoats, kissing the smooth expanse where my arm had once been — he had clearly ruminated upon it far longer than I had.

I would not leave unfulfilled and empty this time. ‘Please don’t hold back.’

I licked. “You don’t have to hold back, Pappa!”

“Of course I do. You will not, cannot. Your bodies are designed to please,” he breathed into this embrace, “and designed to accept. It would have been for the wrong reasons. A father should not engage in that way. That kind of love is… tempting, and… hah… dangerous.”

‘And liberating, for it will save me from Jack, since you won’t do anything to stop him.’

I spread my legs slightly, leaning into him what little my rigid spine would allow. I could feel it in his touch, the insidious need to go further, fuelled by the paste. I felt it too. He was being so principled as he held my breast and ran his lips upon my shoulder, never drifting down where I truly needed him. I just had to blink, stare, vibrate, and wait for the ‘but.’

“But… I fear under Jack’s hand and Dr. Eaton’s scalpel you will go the way my sweet Clarice went under me.”

‘Then save me! Or inseminate me! Please!’

“Jack has already made exactly out of you that which I imagine you knew he would, back on that day you had your little tantrum in mine and Mummy’s bedroom. And I can feel how you’ve embraced it.”

I settled into Father’s warmth as he embraced his own desires, the paste exposing years of denial, as Jack had predicted. I knew I had been given no choice, left under that terrible telly so many nights in a row, and I assume Chastity in my place had suffered longer in re-education. Perhaps she was made aware of St. Werburgh’s Continuing Education by Jack’s teasing tongue when the two were getting familiar, before promises were made and gifts were cast. Perhaps she just loathed him and saw the flaws in his character as well as I, as well as everyone but Father.

Father. He had so many flaws himself, and so much blame on his shoulders… Why did I still adore him? His lips found my cheek as the man I had looked up to all my life finally spoke to me honestly.

“Chastity,” he uttered the wrong name, the one I still had to escape, “I want nothing more than for you to feel truly loved before you are not you any longer. And I know exactly how you need it shown to you now. Take this gift and apology, my dearest girl.”

I licked. “I’ll be glad to receive it, Pappa!”

Father paused and plucked the orb right out of my mouth, dropping it to the floor to roll out of sight. “Enough with this infernal device!” he breathed, almost with anguish, the tension in him belabouring each word.

And with the gentlest touch, leaving my body, he pushed Mother off his cock and aside and stood proud before me, raging erection sprouting from his trousers, dripping with some mix of both of them. It was perfectly in focus as I sat there in proper form. I was ready.

Father let his fingers caress my Doll face — cherubic cheeks, pouting lips, big innocent eyes; the plastiskin yielding to everyone but me. His two hands, firm and commanding, gripped under my ears and cradled my fused neck.

And his manhood retreated from my sight when he bent down and laid a kiss upon my lips. Whilst I was wholly unable to reciprocate, he poured everything inside of him into that kiss — regret over years of delegated care; fatherly worry; the blind devotion to what he thought was ‘best’ for us; and the doubt he now held.

He kissed me as deeply as John had in our first nights together.

And then he left me, walking aside and leaving me with only his inappropriate apology.

‘What…?’

After coming mere inches from my salvation, his cock had just… left my sight!

I could not turn my head like Cuddles, but I distinctly heard the wet buzz of Mother’s mouth begin again, and Father grunt as he neared the summit of his release.

‘No, no, no! Use me! Please!’ I cried, unsure if the paste was speaking or my fear of what Jack had in store for me.

I leant forward, enough for my maid to understand I desired to join Mother on the floor, but I didn’t aim to take her place. Such service wouldn’t satiate the pulsing, aching need I felt down below, nor secure the proof I required for my freedom from Jack’s plans. If Father deposited his seed into my mouth, then I would be compelled to swallow it down and have nothing to show for my efforts — no, that would not do. That would not do at all! Slipping down to my knees, I did not know a surefire way to coerce my Father, to communicate myself — the core of every problem I’d had all my life — yet this was a simpler code. I leaned back and offered myself to him in the crudest terms.

With a click in my joints, I found myself back on the floor again, staring at the ceiling like my sabotaged maid had left me two months ago. With any luck, my split dress had splayed apart like my doubled legs, exposing the punishingly-tight underbelt cinched into my delicate quim.

“Oh Chas,” I heard Father snap his fingers, and the figure of my maid bent or crouched down to fumble with the buckle on my corset’s lower edge. Once its hands managed to tighten, unbuckle, and release the belt, letting loose a flood of sparkling ache into my unfettered clit, I barely squirmed, for even my hyperflexible legs were drawn like a bow in this position with my boots meeting my rear. If this didn’t work, I had no way of recovering, getting up, asking another way. Supine like this, there was nothing impeding his entry. Nothing at all.

I licked… but there was nothing in my mouth. No voice. Nothing more to coax him with. I was empty.

“You are everything I envisioned you to be. I’m sorry, darling.”

I may be misremembering this, dear Reader, as I have not had the need to visit such a place since my mouth was made soft and pliable. ↩
In the recovery ward, medical practises and sanitation were sound and robust, but there seemed to be no need to use a new speculum for each orifice. My rear was stretched, swabbed, stimulated, and inspected; before my front hole, and then what remained of my mouth. Having never tasted my (or any others’) secretions before, this is how I learned that the Teachers had been right, my mouth now truly tasted no different than my other holes, a tangy sweetness that I grew familiar with. Eventually. ↩
I would offer an altered version of this Society edict, “Silence can be louder than words.” I believe that’s original, who can say? ↩

Book 3 Chapter 35

Feb 13th, 2022

7035 words

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

A mirror was necessary. Naturally, my breasts would’ve been in the way of my blurry periphery otherwise! ↩
A designer who had apparently cut his teeth in the Hart House! ↩
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! ↩
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. ↩

Book 4 Chapter 36

Mar 24th, 2022

4057 words

When I awoke, my eyes blinked open as they always did; suddenly and unforgivingly. The steady, familiar, automated blinking began — and yet they ached with sudden brightness! I… I could still see!

Out of focus, it took me a moment to understand what was before me, but the creamy white plaster ceiling of my Doll Room at John’s home became unmistakable — therefore, I knew I was still dreaming. Jack allowed so few sleeping moments, and fewer deep enough to enter the place of my fantasies, but when I wasn’t chasing my sister through the halls of the Hodgkinson Estate, I was most commonly here in the safety of this room of lace and filigree and pink and lavender! But that just wasn’t possible. With those moments of sweet release so few and far between, dreams became real and the real became dream-like. This was all normal. I just needed to enjoy it before I would inevitably awaken.

I blinked again… and again… and again… and yet I did not return to reality. I laid here staring at the ceiling of a place I couldn’t be, turning the possibilities of what had happened. What was reality for me at this moment? The carriage! We had crashed into something… was this the afterlife? Had God provided me a heaven even after my sin? Or was I still on his earth? Had I made it to Great Ormond Street unconscious, my senses taken from me, and this was my clockwork providing something comforting in the silent darkness?

Another, stranger idea came to me as I blinked, staring at that same ceiling texture which I had been left to admire by a malfunctioning maid all those months ago. Was this perchance not a dream, but my waking life? Had the dream been instead the life in Jack’s penthouse, masquerading as my twin sister for a sadistic terror? Had I only just fallen after kicking my broken helper, knocking my head on the floor? When I pondered it further, I did find it hard to remember specifics of my time with Jack for long stretches; gaps which I had attributed to lack of sleep. But perhaps I had been resting while dreaming of never being given rest, perhaps I—

“HOPE?”

I blinked. Is that—?

“Hope!” John called from the doorway before rushing in, cradling my cheek, staring into the eyes that could not meet his. “Are you alright? Are you hurt? Oh, dear!” He checked me all over before looking at my legs, for my right thigh to tense and lift just enough to signal ‘yes’, I was okay.

But I didn’t know what was going on. This all felt so… familiar, and yet…

“It’s alright… W-w-we… you’re home, you’re safe. Hope, it’s over.”

Lifting me up to sit on the chesterfield, unkempt locks of golden hair fell around my view, and my head ached dearly, but John held me tightly with his strong arms, and inside I… was still so confused. To hear my name said aloud was like music to my ears! To feel his attentions on me, his focus, and recognition… it was over?

But how could this be? How had my transformation been avoided? For the past four months, every ounce of effort to escape my destiny had been met by equal or greater punishment. I had resigned myself. I had been entirely doomed, but— The sound of glass crashing around me ricocheted through my memory, and I realised John… saved me!

My legs shivered with excitement and relief and I practically threw myself into him — which did not amount to much, but he held me all the same. A torrent of relief — its volume and intensity indescribable in words — coursed through me and in that moment I felt truly inhuman in my inability to hug him and look him in the eye and thank him. Instead I just thrust my soft breasts firmer into him, in silent beseechment to hold me tighter. Tight as my corset, so I would truly feel it.

And he did. John understood and wrapped his strong arms around my tiny little frame, hands meeting my empty shoulders from behind… he kissed my cheek and my neck and — after brushing some specks of glass from my hair — he kissed my head.

“My dear Hope. I find myself in utter contempt of our marriage.” He whispered to me, like saying it any louder would resonate and fracture the ring on his finger. “What’s more, I feel an utter fool. After my self-pitying monologue yesterday evening… my inaction on your plight, my inability to see you for the woman I wed; even as you faced unimaginable changes, your generous spirit leant over to comfort me.” He was smiling in the most bitter way. “And it still took me until dawn to see the light. When I— I mean, I raced! I simply had to get to you before your appointment at the hospital. I saw Father’s carriage pulling out, and I just—”

He embraced me even tighter, fresh out of words. So it had indeed been him, the timid scientist whom I loved had come to save me! I admit at the time I could not understand what struck his memory, but with some rest I remembered: the silly way of asking for a kiss on our first courting, sitting in the garden and leaning over! A simple gesture between a young man and a doll with no way to reach out and beg — for either sex or salvation. I had simply cuddled closer and spurned some change in the world that chained me so tightly…

What I understood then, but couldn’t articulate, was that I could never let that be my only method of communication ever again. Living like a flower petal in the breeze, being blown around as the winds changed; I could never feel secure again.

Dear Reader, sometimes I still don’t.

Regardless, I needed to believe that there was a way for us Dolls to speak and not be spoken for. I needed to talk to John, and if my wilfulness soured our union — as I had worried when we married — his rash and heroic action saving my life only instilled in me confidence that he was not so fragile as I had once feared.

Truth be told, it was untenable; this rigid body designed for hollow idealism and carnality. With every curvy pliant muscle left in me, I needed to speak! I had hundreds of questions, all left stale and useless upon my twisting tongue, but the frantic squeezing of my thighs couldn’t really ask them, not without assistance. He noticed this time, thankfully.

“I admit… I p-p-put the letterboard away. Your sister didn’t take to it. I should have known— I have to go look in my study, but I will be back in just a moment, I promise.” He said with a kiss. “I need to know how this… how he stole you…”

I wanted to beg him not to leave, even just to bring me with him so I could be close; but if I was to explain what had happened — or indeed ask for a voice — I needed that old letterboard I had once spurned. Besides, I could not hold onto him or ask him to stay. John left me with a shake of his head, a Doll in a Doll’s room, and other than the bustle of the city out the window, the room became silent. I was left alone with fineries and the now-repaired vibrator stand in the corner.

Then I heard a click behind me.

At first fearful to move, the click repeated and I slowly recalled that John did not enforce those same strict protocols for his women as Jack or Father. There were no punishments just for shifting my seating or moving from where I had been set. Regardless, I remained in place for quite some time, mustering the courage just to turn around. I had been trained thoroughly, without hesitation, and each lapse in proper form was seared in my memory.

The click repeated.

I slowly moved my weak legs — feeling new aches and bruises from the crash — turning my vision by mere degrees until… there she was. My identical twin sister, perched on the other settee, vaguely facing me: prim and proper and dressed in the violets I had always been accustomed to, before. Of course she was here, this had been ‘her room’ for many months, but now — even dressed in my colour — she was at best a guest. Her face pouted and blinked at me blankly, with a deep blush to the cheeks on either side of the stopper filling her mouth. Across her forehead was a strip of off-white paper tape, scrawled with words I could not immediately discern: “NOT HOPE, DO NOT TRUST.”

“Shame on you.” I thought, responding with a little stamp of my heel. “How could you let this go so far?”

I wanted to ask John when he returned to put her somewhere else, out of my sight… but we were not in a country estate. John’s flat was posh but small. It only had a half-dozen rooms! Such was appropriate for a young man still making a name for himself, surely, but this was the ‘Doll’s Room’, and that is what we were. There was no better closet to stuff her inside, and I convinced myself out of my request even before he returned.

Dear Reader, when you are rendered voiceless for such a long time — even without education in stillness and passivity, I reckon — you find ways to convince yourself it was never necessary to have one… I was beginning to see this as I argued with myself.

Regardless, as angry at this traitor as I was, a trace of my resignation and acceptance from the prior evening still held true. Yet as I shivered and shook, the reality of how close I had come to annihilation still reverberated through me, making my stomach turn. I had to believe that my sister hadn’t had such an escape… that she ceased to be; that Jack excised her womanhood underneath the telly, like he said he had. Or that he drowned her in so much Society doctrine to snuff out any individuality left inside. I was left to assume that what sat across from me was the shell we had both once striven to become, and that which I now feared most. To think otherwise… I couldn’t ponder such betrayal.

And yet I did. I sat there and she clicked her heel and I stamped mine and it meant nothing and I couldn’t help but be furious with how she had resolved to be Jack’s pawn even in the safety of my home. With my name. With John’s ring hanging from her neck. With his cock thrusting in and out of her wicked nethers whenever he needed relief from a difficult equation…

I leant forward subtly, and heard the familiar steps of a maid coming in to lift me to my feet. I shuddered as those familiar hands of unforgiving clockwork gripped my waist and held me up, this time supporting me in my weak little mincing steps, not directing them; hopefully not stopping me when my goal was to inflict just a modicum of the pain I suffered under her husband. I felt furious and wilful and quite unlike the polite girl who curtseyed away her womanhood over a year before. Several steps was all it would take to bridge the gap before I could kick my sister and hurt her and—

The maid stopped me within a single step from my goal, and a hand reached out to grab the tape from her forehead and stick it to mine.

No no no no! Not again! I screamed inside my own head. With every ounce of strength left in this useless, ornamental body, I twisted my legs to wrestle myself from the maid’s grip! I stamped and struggled, but I could do almost nothing to push against the faceless automaton which had enforced my every move — made sure I was leisurely and proper — for the past three years. Something in its clockwork was making it do this, but I couldn’t ask and it couldn’t tell. There was no debating an automaid, it just made you comply. Either through gentler means, like a suggestive touch toward the right way to sit; or the strictness of school, gripping and forcing and reporting every minor infraction; or indeed the torturous jailor routine Jack had employed, almost caning for caning’s sake as long as the marks remained hidden from view.

In the futile struggles, my gag slipped out of my mouth and tumbled to the floor. Loose strings of lubricating drool splattered about as I blinked calmly, fighting for my life! I can’t go back! I can’t go back!

But the maid’s faintly whirring joints, if not quick, were iron in their inflexibility. Once it had two inert hands on my shoulders, gripping me on the symbols of my helplessness, I knew that I had lost. Any further kicking or jerking only sent my breasts flopping out of their measly cups in my half-torn dress. I began to silently sob again and felt my legs shaking and giving way under me—

And then an arm wrapped around my corseted waist from behind, whilst another — a woman’s arm with glove and all — reached past me and touched a particular spot on the back of my faceless servant’s neck, and it immediately released its grip, wavered, then collapsed, splayed out on the floor. Smitten with surprise, I could only blink at the open air where that malicious actor had stood mere moments ago, wondering who was holding me, saving me, putting me down on the settee next to my sister.

The woman didn’t say a word, and she didn’t let go either. She sat with me and held me until my fleur-de-cou had ceased its fluttering and my chest returned to a steady but shallow pace of breath. I felt her modest chest pressing against my side, and her soothing presence too, and I longed to turn my head to see, but—

John came rushing in, “Wha— oh, Priscilla, I thought you were studying! W-w-what happened?!”

The house remained silent and no one answered. Of course, I had to remind myself: This was Pris! She was still beholden to the Songbird collar, and neither I nor my sister could make a peep, either. John was the lone voice in his home — as the Society would have approved of.

Some deep-seated assumption in me shook loose, an understanding that wasn’t so understood. It was as if I was now conscious of that part of me, explaining… Well, who needs a voice when he can plainly see the automaid on the floor, with the tape label in one hand and our two lockets pouring out of its apron pocket… or, more succinctly, What needs explaining when I have a Man to take care of my every need?

But even as obvious as it seemed, as red handed as my automaid was, as brilliant of a mind John had as a fizzycist; he looked at me, then at Priscilla holding his emotional wreck of a Doll, and said, “So I p-p-presume we need a new automaid.”

No! I breathed, a fresh string of drool spilling from my bottom lip. My subtle shake was communicative enough, and Priscilla stood up — still dressed in meagre fashions, counterbalanced with a unique confidence I had never commanded — and wagged her finger at my husband. What followed was an elaborate game of charades, using every gestural trick and facial expression left to her — all the body language I lacked — to tell him what had just happened.

“The maids swapped out the lockets… and it was their doing all along? Oh, of course… the incident… the technician Father hired!” John stroked his chin. “He must have given them a new instruction-set whilst I was— oh my carelessness! That snake! Yes we will get a new one and start with a clean slate. How I will afford such an expense I cannot fathom but we can—”

Priscilla hit his forehead lightly with the heel of her palm, and I would’ve yelped in surprise if I could’ve. “She didn’t!” To treat a man with such irreverence, well, it wasn’t only impossible for me, it was unthinkable!

But the fierce woman’s face said it all, her ever-furrowed brow and free arms akimbo: John was being more than a bit unimaginative. She pointed at me and then crossed her arms as if she were cold— no, scared. A gesture to the appliance on the floor then me, then a slice across the throat: “How do you not see? One of those automatons forced your wife to submit to your wretched father for months, and you still think she will feel safe with one caring for her?”

He looked at me then at his feet. “Yes… I see what you mean,” and then gesticulated with the letterboard, “but these girls— they can’t even feed themselves, Pris. They need a carer.”

The woman who had once scorned my way of life now raised her hand, then pointed to herself. “I will.”

I so dearly wanted to hug her at that moment.

“You?! Pris, what about our work? I have grown used to— you’re an essential part of my laboratory, even if no one knows it. And you don’t need the money, what with the stipend—”

Priscilla grabbed his hand and held a finger to her neck, a gesture I admit would’ve been too intimate for my tastes if John hadn’t recoiled at the implications himself. She touched mine, feeling for a pulse, and then gestured back and forth. After a moment of him feeling the rhythm of her heartbeat, the message was clear: “Hope needs a person to care for her, with flesh and blood. A person.” She pointed to the mass of plastic, metal, and finery on the floor, and made a gesture of separation. “If not, dolls beget dolls. She will never recover.” Her hands flew to her chest, her heart, to reiterate, “I will do it.”

The ‘H’ calligraphed across my maid’s white face seemed to have lost some lustre, and I swung out a heel to kick it just for good measure.

The two adults in the room couldn’t help but straighten up and laugh at that — remembering they weren’t alone in this — and John knelt before me. “Well Hope. What do you think?”

He placed his hands on my thighs, and said, “Right for Yes, Left for No,” as if I had forgotten; as if I hadn’t been waiting for this opportunity for months. He was asking me for what thoughts were hidden behind this simple, blank expression. He saw me.

The Lady in me recoiled, like it had the last time he asked me… so long ago… but that loose brick in the foundation of my sense of Dollhood and self, it fractured and came unmortared. I finally saw something Priscilla already knew: I wasn’t ever going to be a Doll again, not like I had once wanted, or expected to be. I had been treated too harshly and without recourse for far too long to ever trust again. Even John — looking at me with his empathetic, querying eyes — I couldn’t even fully trust him after his blindness to my suffering. It pained me to admit this, but it was true.

I squeezed my thigh, over and over, a signal to him I had more to say. John almost looked giddy to hold the letterboard up again and start scanning the alphabet like we had practised back then.

“T-H-A-N— Thank you, P-R-I— Priscilla.” he finished for me.

My new caretaker sat beside me, patting my shoulder gently in acknowledgement, and tried pointing to the letters on the alphabet board before me, but within moments her hands were clenching and touching her throat until a little cough escaped her. Quiet, but loud with implications.

John intervened. “Pris has to speak with her b-b-body, in a way you cannot. Any time she tries to communicate in codes and letters… her collar… it seems to know.”

Priscilla recovered and put her hand on my lap reassuredly, close to John’s, and I wondered for not the first or last time if they had grown intimate in my absence. But that was not an urgent matter.

I signalled again, and John translated.

“I-M-I-S-S— missed? Y-O— me?” His face grew ashen as he realised, with untold guilt, that he could not say the same. “I… truly worried after you when you— no, when Chastity shut down in your stead. Before, I could feel you on the verge of opening up to me. With Chas, there was just… nothing. Priscilla told me not to bother, but I couldn’t let you go. I kept trying with the letterboard, day after day, but… I admit your sister has spent little time outside of this room in recent weeks. I still cannot fathom what Father did to her… and to you too—” Priscilla seemed to bristle and John stopped his train of thought. “Right. What matters is… I still love you, Hope. You never ceased being my wife, and you still are, regardless of what happened.”

To say a weight fell off my delicate shoulders, well… such was doomed to understatement. In my abduction, with every thrust of Jack’s cock deeper into my holes, with every vibration around his gifts; I had agonised about my sinful spoiling for my true husband. I had been bedded out of wedlock countless times, and I was undoubtedly an adulteress in some form of the word. My willingness was irrelevant in that regard, but what was worse; to say I never desired it after weeks of denial would have been a lie.

It was complicated, messy, in a society that viewed virginity and purity in very black and white terms.

Now that my survival was ensured… with an honest man and the luxury of morals, I couldn’t help but remember I was still the girl who had rubbed her own nethers on the floor in his presence! He hadn’t yet, it seemed, but I could hardly live with myself; with my actions and the actions taken on me! With this stain inside me! All the sensual skills I had been taught or compelled into for my husband’s use had been perverted and abused by Jack. I could see now on John’s face: he wasn’t comfortable with the knowledge his father had lain with and used his Doll… but he also wasn’t disowning me. He was touching me gingerly, not like a spent and soiled object, but with the intention of healing; moving forward.

But what of Jack? Had he been injured in the crash? He would certainly not abide by being left wife-less! Did Father know of my plight? What were we to do with Chastity? There were far too many questions for this simple panel with letters being recited one-by-one…

I jostled my knees and he began again. “I-N-E-E— you need? What do you need? You need me? That is hardly love— why, we— ” I stomped my feet and furiously cut him off, a tantrum I hadn’t allowed myself for… a long while. I needed so many things… I needed comfort, safety, love. I needed to be of service to him and used regularly to fulfil my role. I need to be— yes, I still needed to be a Doll, of sorts. But after so many years of others speaking for me, completing my sentences, assuming my approval, and taking without a care for what I thought of it: this was exactly the point I was trying to make!

With a reproachful glare from Pris, he waited for my legs to settle, and apologised to his blank little dolly. “I’m sorry, dear. Let’s try again. ‘I need… A-V-O-I-C-E.’” This time he didn’t cut me off, or guess. He just nodded. “Yes, Hope. I think that’s long overdue.”

Book 4 Chapter 37

Jun 19th, 2022

3883 words

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.

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. ↩
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. ↩

Book 4 Chapter 38

Jun 30th, 2022

4948 words

November 2050

Winter in London always felt colder than in the countryside. The trim hedges and trees lining the winding streets did little to buffer the corralled wind, blustering down the row.

My feet trembled and shook, ankles afire as I ascended the few measly steps from the pavement to our cream-white townhome; heels clicking differently from concrete to granite to finally the marble landing. My breasts rose and fell, asunder as I laboured every too-frigid breath through the hole in my neck.¹ Even just the adventure of this special secret appointment to the Restoration Centre imparted an aching impression that I hadn’t been home in ages, and it was a happy sight to see our piano-black door yet again, even if it remained hazy through my veil. That same door which had once called to me to ‘escape’ now beckoned me inside, a symbol of sanctuary and relief; and seeing it again meant that our excursion was over and I could return to my proper place as a fixture in the home. It meant that I could once again feel safe doing so, having taken some necessary steps toward a Dollhood on my terms. It also meant perhaps I could get my husband alone to myself, and provide that relief in kind!

Whether he was imagining our coming night together, or simply appreciating the successful progress led by Mr. Rivers; I could just faintly feel the smile John held in his visage and his step as he opened the door and guided me into his home, our safe space, a careful hand on the bustle of my dress and the leash grip hidden there— Only for a familiar voice to echo down the modest foyer.

“John! How are you doing, son? I hope you don’t mind, your maid let me in.” I shook in surprise, our ounce of peace dissolved in a split second.

“M-m-mister Hodgkinson!” John stuttered. The smile in his voice vanished and the strong hand guiding me at my back transfigured into a nervous grip, holding on for dear life, even as I heard a stamp somewhere unseen from our disgruntled ‘maid’.

“Now, John, what have I told you about calling me that? It’s Alan… or ‘Pappa’ to this little one.”

A figure approached, stooping as two hands lifted my veil, and sure enough: standing before me was my ‘Pappa’ with his gentle eyes and smile, far more composed and sober than our last encounter.

You recall: when he admitted my Mummy was no longer herself, fondled my breast, and succumbed to, then rejected, my eager sex with a kiss of apology for but a fraction of his failings. Yes, dear Reader, that encounter!

My breath hitched and fluttered at my fleur-de-cou, but he thought nothing of it. As far as he was concerned, that intoxicated tryst-of-sorts had been with Chastity, and so he admired my identically blank stare and pout with fatherly love of a platonic nature I could no longer fully trust. Yet I couldn’t help but feel that childish swell of joy to be the sole subject of his attentions, and to some degree I revelled in the way he looked upon me through his spectacles, stooped down, winking, touching my nose, admiring how I scarcely flinched. He still saw me as his innocent little girl, Hope untarnished; whilst when I had been Chastity — the doll to whom he had entrusted his shame in the belief it would die with her — he had been too sheepish to even wish me good tidings before I was ferried off to true objecthood.

I shuddered at the precipice I had avoided so barely, and leaned toward John, my saviour, but ‘Pappa’ held my armless shoulders steady with those strong warm hands I loathed to enjoy, a tingle of phantom sensations being washed away by my instinctive reaction to his touch: flushness and a rush of wanton ideas. “Oh don’t catch a chill, dear! Where is your muff? The mink one I gave you, do you still have it? What errands have you two youngins traipsing around the city on such a dreary day?”

Under the pleasantry, the question held a bite I had not heard in Father’s voice in a long while; it was a critique, a question of responsibility. Why was John bringing his delicate wife outside on a windy winter day? Where had we been that required the privacy of a veil? Why was my husband shivering when the door was closed behind us and the cold no longer at our backs?

Father wouldn’t like the answer, not one bit, but he had to learn some sorry part of it: the swapping of us Dolls, at least. I had wanted to tell him for so long how I was abducted, lied to, abused. Would John tell him for me? Unlike the business with Mr. Rivers, we hadn’t had time to plan this in the slightest.

“I-I-I… yes, sir— Alan, I mean. What brings you into the city proper?”

Father ceased toying with me and stood tall, only to let out a weary sigh. “The same as always; business. Alas, the bank does not run itself.”

“I s-suppose not. Can I offer you a—”

“Yes indeed,” Father replied, curtly, clearly feigning politeness for my sake.

Even so, John kept me around as he led Father to his study, quite the contrast to Father’s private domain at the Estate. Here the well-stacked shelves were not merely wall decoration: half the books were askew or off the wall entirely, stacked in small teetering towers with labels and notes sprouting from them like feathers. Upon John’s desk rested a gleaming metal armature, which looked almost frighteningly gothic and irregular. A part of my husband’s anbaric machine, surely; but what Doll could ask, nevermind comprehend the answer? I was set down behind it, upon John’s leather chair — for most of the other seats held stacks of paper and literature, especially Priscilla’s reading nook in the corner which looked overgrown with research in colour-coded stacks. It felt like an esteemed place for a doll, but I assure you my rear had more padding than the creaky thing.

John poured spirits and Father inspected the state of the place. “The bank is one matter, but I must admit, I didn’t expect for the running of my son-in-law’s household to grow just as complex an enterprise as to need my direct involvement.”

“But you don’t—”

“Clearly I do.” Father turned, impatiently eyeing the decanter, as John poured faster. “A family man of means, one with no son of his own to pass his legacy onto; he has many responsibilities in this day and age. He is alone in bearing them, until one special day, when his girls are of age.”

He stepped over to the armature and gestured to prod it with a knuckle. Peering behind the device at me and my dress overflowing comically from the masculine seat, he flashed a quick smile I later interpreted as, “Sorry dear, the men are about to get quarrelsome,” before turning to continue:

“Now, I believed that, on that special day, I had delegated my most precious of those responsibilities properly— I believed that I had brought two stewards into the family, but here I am; settling a squabble between father and son!”

John stood abruptly, libations in hand, entirely unprepared for this onslaught. “Alan—”

“No, I think ‘Sir’ is more appropriate, indeed.” Father took the glass, downed the amber liquor and used the same hand to point exasperatedly at John, right in his face. Unlike me, he did flinch, as my father’s good nature ran dry in an instant. “You think yourself a saviour, do you? Was one of my daughters not enough for you, son? What right do you have to abduct Chastity from her home?”

“I d-didn’t…” he stammered, trying to find his words. John had been growing so confident these last few weeks, standing tall as Priscilla and I leaned on him for support, but Father was seething with the same energy as his critique of me in the hall at the Estate: he had kept decorum long enough, bottled his thoughts up, but now he would be heard.

“Do you think I enjoyed that garish display, Jack remaking your mother? It was unconscionable, and the man will reap what he has sown— putting such crass indecency on display in that ballroom… especially right as our Society is at its most critical juncture in the public eye! Bah! That is the kind of design you dedicate to your wife’s companion, or a private ward out of sight, it is… unconscionable, but Chastity is his by marriage and that is Society Rule.”

“I t-think if you see—” John tried to get a word in, but Father wouldn’t let him.

I wanted to help him, but I couldn’t. I shouldn’t.

“Now I’ve stayed out of this affair, trusting you two Collins boys would come to your senses. Even after your own garish display, endangering my girl with that crash— just like your Father, you are— I made excuse after excuse for you, son, because I knew you once to have a light hand and take good care, and you’re a sharp lad, but now— the gall!” Father was furious now, not even hiding it for my sake. “Now I receive word from the head secretary’s office that you have been seen visiting Damsels?! That house of high and mighty do-good Christian meddlers? With my daughter?!”

“Sir, I’m t-t-trying to save—” he begged.

I knew I shouldn’t make a fuss, but he needed me.

“—Save!? How!? I haven’t even seen a proper maid since I arrived, and don’t you dare count the charity case out there! I gave you a well-maintained automaid, trained off the very woman who raised these girls, yet where is it? All this rash irresponsibility makes me second-guess my judgement of you, son. You’re lucky I don’t take Hope back home with me now— No, I won’t, it would be the same crime as your larceny here— but this little experiment in polygamy or whathaveyou has long outrun in its course. I am here to take Chastity back to Jack, and he will—”

“No, thank you!” An innocent little voice tweeted and chirped from the gag in my mouth.

Father turned to look at me, aghast, as I sat otherwise docile and pretty behind John’s lean, functional bureau plat desk, staring at nothing. He second-guessed his own ears, eyeing my fleur-de-bouche — or at least eyeing the full-bloomed violet covering the speaker grille inside, belying its true nature.

“Was that…” Father stopped mid-sentence, dumbstruck, unable to even fathom that I had just spoken for myself. “Hope?”

I hadn’t wanted to reveal this so soon, or in such impromptu fashion, but the men had been yelling… and I felt so helpless again… and the words just coalesced and… and blurted out! Even if they weren’t quite right.

It was a far cry from my old voice, and just as Mr. Rivers and Dr. Hawthorne had informed me that morning as I arose from the recovery bed and spoke my first sentence in years — complete nonsense, really — the implant would take a great deal of practice. Focus and calm were essential to resolve the correct thoughts to be spoken aloud, and neither of those I held in any significant capacity with John and Father fighting over me. Yet I had to try.

“Yes, sir!” I answered dutifully, focusing as best I could. “Chastity…stays! Unsafe!”

I breathed a sigh of relief, finally letting my thoughts escape this shell of a body… finally helping these men see the monster in their midst… but it was as if Father hadn’t even heard me.

“So this is where your money goes, the undoing of my life’s work?” he snapped at John, before turning back to me. “Young lady, I do not know what silly ideas this boy is putting in your head, but you do not talk to me, or anyone, even behind closed doors! It is wholly improper! You are to be seen and not—”

“Yes! No! I don’t think so?” I spoke in riddles, clicking my heel twice in defiance to make it clear. A twinge in my stomach greeted me as I interrupted him so crassly, and my heart began to flutter. For a Doll, more suited to the quiet still of patient idleness, this fast-flowing argument and my sudden involvement in it was nigh-upon panic-inducing, but I settled my heaving breasts, only just. Dear Reader, I was wholly unused to rebellion, and the vox gag was — at this point — a clumsy weapon of my will. Not only had I been raised to see disobedience as fruitless, my lessons under the telly made that twinge almost sharp like the alarm in my ears. But… I had to make a stand. John, for all his sweetness and good intentions, was like a leaf in the wind, and Father just didn’t understand.

’Tell him,’ My mind implored John, but he only stammered whilst this gag muddied the waters with, “Recite us some poetry, dear!”

John looked at me, earnest and bewildered, whilst Father fumed. “Perfect form! I have no time for such nonsense! I’ll take that vox gag right out of your mouth if you—”

“This is mine!” I chirped back, unintentionally goading him on by violating one of my earliest lessons.

“Hope…” Father pinched the bridge of his nose, “You forget yourself. You forget your place. A doll cannot hold, and cannot own. Everything within and without her body is a gift. She—”

I couldn’t take this rote mantra anymore, the same words I had listened to for hours on loop under the telly at Jack’s. I couldn’t go back!

“No, thank you! You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I had to take a sharp breath. John was as frozen as I was, knowing full well that one does not speak to their father so impetuously, Doll or not. Whilst what I had said was true — Father didn’t know why we had been driven to this transgression — this voice, shrill and frank; it was like a firehose, interpreting my thoughts almost unfiltered. His ideal Doll would never even think these thoughts, yet here I was: half-broken or half-free depending on your beliefs, entirely unpracticed in the art of conversation not involving fellatio, and eagerly exhibiting my rough edges. To him I must have seemed… horrific.

I held my tongue as best I could, watching his reaction in my periphery, but Father refused to yell. He refused to argue with a Doll. He simply muttered, “Enough.”

He set down his empty glass and strode over, intent on shutting me up and putting me in my place, but John moved quicker, and with a clumsy press to the left temple, to the subdermal button Dr. Hawthorne had implanted there just the day before, I felt… loosened…

I looked at him.

My eyes turned, I changed my gaze, and though my face remained placid, refined, and unaffected, my lips still plastic and pouting around this flower in my mouth; my shaky, wandering eyes pierced him.

John helped me stand on my teetering heels, raw and unsteady due to my freed ankles. He had never enforced locking buckles or padlocked anklets, so I kicked off one shoe, then the other, and dropped a few inches as I planted my sole directly on the cool hardwood floor — a wholly nostalgic sensation which rooted my stance with long-lost solidity and confidence, even if it ached to stretch my foot in such an unfeminine form, even if my legs remained weak and dollish. I took a step, my chest held proud by force, but my dress swaying under my own direction.

Father was speechless, frozen midstep as I strode unsteadily… then more confidently toward him with quite a strident gait, sure of my footing for the first time in years. With the temple button having released my upper neck along with my eyes, and my reliance on those high heels nothing but a feint, I could strut around the desk but still look up at my Father, my once-protector and guardian, over a foot taller than my lithe little form. I—

I gasped as I suddenly faltered, a sharp pain shooting through my neck, with muscles and bones and mechanisms-unknown grinding, having been locked and immobile for so long since my graduation. No arms arose to break my fall, save those of the two men in the room who caught me in time. John caught the handle in my bustle — there for good reason, apparently — whilst Father grasped me firmly by the waist, his large hands almost encircling my middle completely.

Both men cared for me in their own ways, but as I regained my strength, Father steeled, looking over me to John. “What have you done?!” he asked, incredulous, but I gazed up at him, directly, staring, blinking steadily as I had for almost two years straight.

“I’m sorry, Pappa.” I recited with this loaned voice, high and sweet and innocent, as I recalled when that innocence had dripped in diluted white paste onto the floor, my legs spread and left untouched. “You are everything I envisioned you to be.”

Father slowed, and furrowed his brow, then let out a belaboured breath— a gasp, really. Disbelief filled the room on all fronts, as I couldn’t believe the line had arrived unscrambled, crystal-clear from such a potent, shameful memory, and it took him a heartbeat or two to recall the phrasing from weeks prior. From our ‘visit.’

“Chastity?!” Father blurted, guilty and incredulous, inspecting me for the subtle differences in our old bodies, long gone, even as he avoided my beseeching eyes.

“No, this is Hope, sir. Her voice is clearly unpracticed. The d-doctors say she might speak indirectly for some time yet.”

John of course didn’t know to what I was referring, and I didn’t much care for him to find out. A part of me agonised over him discovering yet another instance of my utter humiliation and debasement, but another part remembered I could speak and shift the focus! What revelation!

“You don’t know the matter was it! I cannot happen to this is what I—” I stamped my bare foot with not a click but a dull thump, the force of my frustrations finally clear and reverberant. “We pair attacked, in the much danger!” I tried again, but it came out wrong. It was all coming out so wrong.

“…it’s a tad bit rough,” John offered, “but we had to—”

“HAD TO?!” Father washed his hands of me and retreated to the bar, pouring himself another drink, pulling his words together. “I was warned, you know, that seeking suitors outside the Society brought certain risks. I thought your father was the one to worry over. And perhaps I was right. But this…this is far worse.”

“But sir,” John held my shoulder to say he was in control. “My father tricked us all. He stole Hope back in June and left Chastity in her stead! You said yourself that what he was going to do to her was ‘unc-c-conscionable!’”

I stood as proudly as I could, looking at John then at Father. It was out! He knew! Finally!

There was a pause in his pour, a glance at me with an ounce of pity, before he kept serving himself. “What a mess…” I heard him mutter, swirling his glass before asking, “And Chastity… all this time here… she made no effort to reveal the truth of this affair?”

“What? No.” John held me tighter. “Hope said my father removed her will.”

Father sipped, his eyes low, defeated. “Then at least I have one daughter who can be salvaged.”

All this time… the agony… I couldn’t believe my ears. He didn’t… care! I piped up as the words came to mind, my filter barely holding together. “I am still daughter! I save Chastity! Jack hurts! Jack cheats! I can’t go back! I can’t go back! I can’t go back!” I almost hyperventilated just from the panic — of going back, of my sister suffering that fate, of Father’s chivalry evaporating from under me — but John held me up, and as the air filled my shallow breaths I stood fast again.

Father glared at me, plainly insulted by my words rather than hearing them. He downed his drink then eyed John. “I can’t hear myself think with that racket. How could you sully my little Hope Doll so?”

John’s brows furrowed as he saw the man my father was, and his voice held a steady tenor for the first time all day. “Actually, sir, I failed in that regard.”

He lifted my chin toward him and enjoyed my shaky pupils looking into his for the first time. No expression passed my brows or cheeks but my adoration was there, and so was his.

“I have been striving to convince your daughter to relinquish it all. To even accept d-donor arms from the continent: become a woman again. I asked her on the bridal tour, I told her I admired her as a d-doll, but we could find a way to restore her; and she refused. I asked her when she arrived here for the first time, if she would learn some signs and signals; and she only entertained the letterboard long enough to beg me dispose of it. I asked her again… I believe the day she was stolen from me,” he paused, breathing, calming himself, “I lost my temper… t-told her I could not tolerate such absence from my wife, and she held fast!

“Even after all the abuse and terror my father put her through, now that she needs these minor concessions to feel secure, I’ve tried to convince her to go further and she has refused me at every turn. She was raised with your ideals, sir, and wants to provide those here, to me. Hope is still a Doll, by choice this time. I assure you.”

Father laughed bitterly. “I hardly feel assured! She refused you? She speaks? She requires concessions? These qualities does not a Doll make.”

“But she has lost faith and trust. In men. In everything I think.”

“Perhaps because you lost her.” Father snapped, and John almost recoiled as the salt rubbed in his fresh wound.

“Because my father is a snake, sir. Are you not aware he is looking for any way to swindle you out of your estate? Pull the rug from under your feet? Discredit you so wholly that your wealth falls to your girls? To him?”

“I am the chief financier of a crown bank! He must be smarter than that!”

My gaze luxuriously flitted between the two men, even as the crook in my neck grew sharper. Father was laughing, treating this like a joke! He had to be made to understand, but how? Of course, there was only one way…

I savoured the love in John’s eyes, the admiration I had never expected to earn. Perhaps he might see me differently after this, but I had to say what I knew.

“I was trick. No. Trap… I fuck Pappa. Cunt. Trap.”

Both men blinked at my horrendous language — a ripe seasoning which had slipped down my throat alongside Jack’s sweat and seed whilst he chaffered with business associates on the phone — but something in Father chipped away and his curiosity got the better of him.

“What do you mean to say?” He had to grit his teeth before adding, “Speak like a Lady, now.”

It wouldn’t have shown on my expressionless face, but I concentrated hard, trying to find the memory; the words Jack had said in that hall by the Turner. I resisted my clockwork blinking for the first time in years to close myself from the world on command and just think… and the words seemed to come clearly:

“Jack… sought leverage… for months… nothing incriminating… not a crown charge of tax evasion but a legacy on the line… paste in your drink… use this body and this dress to seal the deal… defile me… Jack expects evidence… inside… Jack will take Chastity back… make her into his masterpiece instead… we would never get mixed up again…”

Both John and Father were stunned by my recollection, as patchy as it came from the little hifi speaker grille in my mouth. I opened my eyes and looked at John, ashamed and frightened that my infidelity would sour us, but his face showed only pity, regret, and a sliver of pride as he held my armless shoulder and nodded, quietly, “Good, you’re doing so well.”

Whilst John was supportive, Father fumed, his ire almost unquenchable. “Let me get this straight: Jack bid you attempt to seduce me in exchange for escaping his gratuitous remodelling? He made you — a Doll — choose your Pappa’s dignity or your own?”

I closed my eyes again, “Yes, sir… Impossible choices… everyday… with him.”

Dear Reader, who could have expected this to be the detail which prompted Father to finally soften towards me, but he did. There was no condoning of our actions to be had, but no longer was I the party of grossest misdeeds; for to him I had escaped choice and wilfulness as a revenant to warn them of Jack’s malicious nature.

Instead he worried and paced about the room…

“…but Jack already advised me to invest in one of his Malta accounts… quite successfully, I must admit… I deposited more than I originally intended after one spirited evening. I simply don’t understand.” He looked to John, almost desperate. “Why would he be collecting extortionate materials if he already has his margin?”

“I’m not a financier, sir. I don’t know the d-details, but my father takes his cut at the top… and in scandals down the line. He finds ways to ensure there are few withdrawals from his firm’s books. I thought this time would be d-d-different. He has never married into a con or ploy, and I had never been roped into his lies before, besides the family man routine.” John collected himself. “Suffice to say I underestimated the depths to which he would abuse those around him.”

Father paced in a line back and forth in the room, much like John when he was pondering a difficult equation. Indeed, he walked precisely the same path; where the lacquer had worn from the floor in a half-shade. He did not speak for a time, but eventually revelation came, softly: “…but if both my daughters are Collins wives, and he has your finances in his grips, then in essence he already retains the whole of my estate once I perish? My Berkshire lands, the accounts, Cushions, Cuddles, the lot! Why twist my daughter’s arm and conspire against me?”

I had no arm to twist, he and his ‘proper Society upbringing’ had ensured that, but I held my tongue.

John hesitated and looked at me, returning my same regret and shame, bubbling under the surface, finally ready to admit his own secret: “I have long suspected that the Malta accounts are not investments, but instead Father’s personal piggy bank, and well…” he looked off toward my Doll room, thinking perhaps of Chastity sitting there in perfect form, but in hindsight I suppose his late mother. “He has never been hesitant to bleed those closest to him dry.”

Father sat not unlike Rodin’s Thinker, more uncertainty in his posture than I had ever witnessed, and it dawned on me then: my marriage was a sham. John hung his head, knowing his namesake’s true nature, knowing this to be true. “I have had the paperwork for emancipation d-drawn for years. I never wanted his ill-gotten gains, I just couldn’t be rid of him until I became a fellow of a reputable college with a stipend and accomodation and the life I know I can sustain us… Sir, we have discussed it before. I am within spitting d-d-distance, but this has gnawed at me since I was old enough to ask from where our new wealth sprung.”

Father stood suddenly, far more imperative than panic in his step. “I was on this errand on that rogue’s behalf, to ensure Chastity’s safe return, I… I am such a fool. File your papers, John, and we will find Chas a more suitable husband. That will rid this villain from our lives.”

He lent my husband a supportive grip on the arm, a touch oft not extended among men. “I am not destitute from this affair, and you are not to blame, son. Take care of my girls and I will support your endeavours.”

The two nodded in understanding, then he looked down at me. “We will soothe your worries, Hope, and return you to perfect form in time. This can all be rectified. I must depart.”

I had no time to refute him, as my Pappa left to rally the Society and wage war against my abductor.

Teacher Dottie once said that cold winter days were a Doll’s worst, for whilst a Doll’s shortcut through the neck for air supply left the oral cavities free for higher purposes, those parts of the airway lent commonwomen a buffer from the sharp, bitter air. She recommended staying indoors or wearing a muff or scarf, and remembering we were delicate accessories and our men would care for us. ↩

Book 4 Chapter 39

Sep 24th, 2022

6429 words

January 2051

All was calm and quiet in the household of John Collins. Whilst he worked diligently in his study — tweaking and twisting the dials and screws on his latest project, taking measurements, utterly focused on the task at hand — he was accompanied by two ladies of the household.

His assistant Priscilla sat in her corner, a sharp woman humbled and softened, reclining on a lounger with John’s latest Royal Society paper in hand, sighing and scoffing in equal measure as she marked sections of John’s research which required refining and further evidence. Even if she couldn’t accompany him to the laboratory or continue her own research, she understood every line, and what missed her understanding would likely miss with the fellows at Burlington House.

She laid there languidly in her loosened stays and simple dress overflowing onto the floor, her unbound fingers idly following the edge of the hard, golden bands tightly binding her body under those meagre folds. I could see them — or their unforgiving impressions — glinting through her nightie whenever John was too busy to put me to bed, and I knew how they bothered her — perhaps even more than her muteness by that point, though she would never admit as much. Priscilla seemed to be someone who had never harboured much desire before, or had learnt ways to routinely rid herself of it to focus on higher-order concerns. I can only fantasise upon what a commonwoman does in the evenings with her hands unbound — as Althea once demonstrated for me — to temper her flame and allow her to focus on what tasks and pursuits the Society deemed out of my hands. Of course now her fire was trapped where it could not be satisfied, and it burdened and distracted her as my unquenchable desire did me, and I could see why Society doctrine prescribed women to devote themselves solely to honing that desire.

Her gaze drifted from the text to its author every so often, especially as he hummed and hawed about some new technical issue. He would not notice her attentions, far too engrossed in his work.

Aside from his assistant, his Doll sat passively on her plush chair in the opposite corner of the study, a new addition I had requested to be closer to him, especially after seeing Priscilla’s station here. Unlike John, I noticed her attentions, and they left me quite conflicted. I couldn’t forget the way my mother had stamped and strayed when Father emerged from his study with Belle all those years ago, but I had to trust; I had to remind myself of the ring hanging on my locket chain, nestled in my bosom — the promise John had made to me — as well as Priscilla’s diligent care and friendship these past few months. She might have seen me once as no more than a piece of arm candy, or some bedwarming appliance, but, well, at the time that’s all I had sought to be. Now her companionship was somewhere between having a nanny and a big sister. We had grown into a very odd but loving family, and I couldn’t judge Priscilla for the same feelings I held in my loins. Besides: with her gold-plated undergarments, it was a non-issue.

I relaxed, enjoying Brahms’ second symphony on headphones — once a marker of my time under the telly, and now having become a crown of sorts: a herald of overcoming my fears. I had been growing ever more confident in the weeks since my unlocking, and the night prior John had even walked in to find me arranged upon his bed in the nude, with my legs hyper-extended, feet up by my ears — a reprise of our wedding night, but by choice this time.

With such a provocative pose, he had not required my vox gag, set upon the nightstand, to tell him I was finally ready. Neither had he required that Nicean paste! Though I am confident he was tired from a long day in the laboratory, my display of eager readiness — taking this pose as my own — aroused him so fully as to make me sorely tender in the morn, something I had not felt since…

Dear Reader, sometimes I must stop my reveries to keep them untainted. The walls around my time with Jack are still fragile, even now.

Truth is, John’s touch harboured none of the malice of his father, and yet was still filled with such urgency — a result of the months of patience during my healing — that I was not left wanting in any way by the time he collapsed aside me and pulled my armless body close. He even touched my temple so I could freely rest my head on his arm, look him in the eye, and give him the adoration he deserved. A kiss on the forehead, away from my dollified lips, summarised his thesis since my rescue: that his wife was not solely her body, and though that body had been redesigned to appeal to the eye and the loins, what appealed to him most of all was the girl inside.

Now of course, I could not have presented my cunt in this display alone. Quite unlike an unopinionated automaid, I recall Priscilla’s wincing as she pushed my satin-stockinged legs far enough apart to click and dislocate, visibly doubting every assurance that I was fine, that I was once as unsettled as she was, that I was thankful as always for her assistance. Yet I also recall, later: the peculiar longing with which she had looked upon my entirely exposed, spread, and unprotected nethers from the doorway before departing. And I recall how the innocent girl in my gag had moaned and cooed from her velvet box on the nightstand with every thrust¹, and how that must have reverberated through our modest home; how Pris had prepared me that next morning with fidgeting hands, how even though John had cleaned my lower holes as best he could after rising for work, I recall the way his essence leaking down my thighs had been a point of repeated, flustered glances by the lady’s maid, before I had to remind her to wash it away.

So to see her idly tracing her chastity belt and admiring him so lustfully there in the study, it was only a mirror of my own desires. It seems my offering had set in motion plenty of daydreams and infernal tensions, now that everyone was well aware what the man of the household was capable of.

The headphones were pulled off right before crescendo and I realised John had strode over to me whilst my eyes had been closed, whilst I had been daydreaming.

“Keep that up and I’ll have to get your special seat reupholstered within a few months of purchase, lovely.” He couldn’t help but smirk, and I realised the two scholars had been listening to my hips shuffling and rocking and squeaking upon the cushion in my libidinous reverie. They had just been too polite to remark upon it.

My cheeks blushed bright red, and my hips stilled.

“My apologies, sir. I will refrain from such indecency.” I spoke with clarity and earnestness, for in the weeks since my unlocking I had become quite eloquent, yet I kept my good manners and almost never initiated conversation. I didn’t want to be a bother.

“Enough with the ‘sirs’, dear. I’m not lord of the manor,” he lowered his voice half-convincingly, “I’m your husband. I hear how you speak freely with Pris, or how you speak when it’s just us in bed. Come on.”

Even though I had been left unlocked, I held perfect form, but John hooked a finger under my chin, and I couldn’t help but look up at him. He would find no expression across my plastiskin face, but by those days John could already read me so well, especially when I was pouting. He said it was all in the eyes. “Well?”

“Sorry, John.” I let slip quietly, as if it was a bad word. “It feels so wrong to simply call you by your… name. It’s dishonourable. In my head, you’re my Husband, in gold leaf letters! You’re my Owner with a capital O! You’re the centre of my world. Dolls don’t—”

“Hey, none of that school talk.” He kneeled so I wouldn’t have to arch my neck so far, which still ached some days. “Perhaps on paper, but you and I are man and wife first and foremost. Let’s say I take you to a scholarly function, and you call me ‘Sir’. They’d be liable to think I have a stiff hand with you!”

“I’d take a stiff anything at this moment.” I heard the gag in my mouth utter, before shaking my head contemptuously. “I didn’t mean that! I’m ashamed of my own sinful thoughts, sir!”

John was blushing as much as I was, and Pris had a wicked grin on, but they weren’t mad.

“I think you did, dear. Though perhaps it’s best we abide by the Mandate out-of-doors for the time being?” He joked as if it was a choice. I would not dare brandish this firehose of thoughts where it could tarnish his reputation! He rested a hand on my lap to still my mind, and in doing so my corset seemed to grow a size too tight. “Now away with the ‘sir’s! Besides, you don’t go around saying, ‘Ms. Barnes’ anymore, now do you?”

I looked over at Pris, who was still amused, tut-tutting me without a word. No, I had given that up within the first couple of weeks. I had graduated from single words like ‘hungry’ and ‘tired’ to formal addresses so quickly, I had completely skipped common speech, but with her not able to respond verbally, it had seemed unnecessary. Besides, she was just a lowly— I stopped myself. More ‘school-talk,’ as John called it, though it went so much deeper than that.

“No,” My whole mouth tightened, trying to swallow the ‘sir’ along with my excess lubricant. “No, we don’t.”

Pris stood up from her lounger and did her best impression of a noblewoman, clasping her hands behind her back, pouting her lips and gliding towards us. Even silent, she was ever a critic. John understood instantly: these were the antics I would receive those days I tried to be too formal, rigid, and reserved. Pris was always touching her chin to prod me to ‘speak’, or bringing me bits to read aloud — near-gibberish from their scholarly texts, or books on history which read nothing like the picture-books of my youth — pushing me further as she had before with my letterboard. And afterward, I would get a hug, or a touch on the shoulder, or a hand on the lap; and a smile to show she was as proud of my progress as John was — albeit more bittersweet since she couldn’t say it aloud. At first her warmth and familiarity was uncomfortable, especially compared to the automaids or even Nanny, but now…

I still wasn’t used to hearing the giggle from my vox gag, but John was laughing too, and so was Pris, in her own way. She swayed closer and put her hand on my shoulder, giving me a reassuring wink, before she nodded toward John. He hadn’t even gotten to his point yet.

“I know what you require, Hope. You’re quite awful at hiding it, but you need only ask. You remember our deal? Pris and I need you to speak up if you want something. We can help you, and we do not mind, but you must say it aloud.”

But I couldn’t say it aloud, I was far too embarrassed. A man commanding me to attend to my own relief in a side-room was quite another matter than me asking my husband or best friend to help shove a faux-cock inside where I couldn’t. Yet as it so happens, I couldn’t lie either. It was like if the thoughts weren’t earnest and true, they just wouldn’t cross the airwaves between my mind and mouth.

“Alright, then. Have it your way… How is your music, darling?” He asked quite out of the blue.

“Oh it’s heavenly!” My vox gag sang out my stream of consciousness, “The violins and cellos are my absolute favourite!”

“Lovely! See? So easy. Now just tell me what you need, dearest. It’s been a long time and you showed me last night that you’re ready. I mean, your care manual prescribes at least—” Priscilla nudged him, and he shut his mouth and let me speak. I wasn’t like other dolls.

He was right, as usual. It took me a moment to gather myself and focus, and the tiny speaker behind my lips almost whimpered.

“The doll stand.”

“Excuse me? Louder, there.”

I looked him in the eye and squeezed my legs together. “I need to relieve my excess desires with the doll stand, sir.”

John laughed, “Close enough,” and nodded toward the door. “On with you now.”

I stood of my own accord, excited by how easily my words changed my schedule, my day, my life! It felt marvellous! But the doll in me checked herself, and the once-captive in me gave him an eye of suspicion. Perhaps it was too easy. “Are you sure it is alright for me to be penetrated by—?”

“Yes, p-p-permission granted, yes!” he almost shouted. “I’m not going to keep you sated, I haven’t the stamina. Please!”

Properly reassured, I swayed cutely, batted my lashes like a Lady behind her gag might, and tip-toed to kiss my husband on the cheek in thanks — pressing my chest into him earnestly so his stamina might return in force that evening — and then I practically danced out of his study, skipping down the hall in my newest low-heeled shoes toward the doll room. My constrained lungs worked double-shift to keep up with my legs, even for such a short stretch, but I cared not. I turned on point once I arrived at the pink door, letting my dress bloom out around me as I twirled, waiting for my silent companion to catch up and open the pesky door knob: still quite unassailable for my empty shoulders.

Priscilla followed at her own pace, giving me a smirk and a peculiar eye. I couldn’t tell if she was watching for fear of me tripping without arms to break my fall, or eyeing my bouncing bosom for fear of my nips slipping out: we were trying new adhesives and fixative devices that would keep them in their fashionable shallow cups without those infernal nipple clips. At least those were the reasons I had supposed for her wandering gaze, if not for her… blushing? I bounced a little in place to show my excitement, the subtle buzzing of my lower holes reinforcing that statement, and Pris averted her gaze.

Curious.

She placed her hand on the knob, yet paused and looked down at me, giving my chin a playful tap, “speak up,” so I politely asked her to open the door with another bubbly half-skip.

But once that door was opened all my girlish energy evaporated, for not only was the gleaming white shaft and saddle of the stand waiting for me with all of our sordid history, but also Chastity — speaking of sordid history — trying her damndest to mount said shaft. With automatons banned from the premises, and us ladies accompanying John, my sister had been left to her own devices in this soft pink room, and somehow she had risen up upon her en pointe heels without assistance! We arrived to find the doll awkwardly thrusting her hips toward the saddle with her blank face flushed and sweaty, hairdo a mess, and one breast hanging exposed. Her eyes blinked blankly, staring ahead at nothing even as her body’s desires were on full display. She had evidently been trying to satiate herself for some time, but with her many-layered outfit in the way I doubt she felt much more than a firm nudging upon her sensitive bits.

Priscilla rushed past me into the room, snapping her fingers and clapping loudly at the errant doll, grabbing her rigid waist, pulling, and ceasing the pitiful display. Due to her principles — and what I had divulged of my time with Jack — Pris refused to use pain as punishment for the slowly evolving misbehaviour of Chastity Collins, the doll no one quite knew what to do with. Whilst the scholars treated me as a cherished pet, Chas was like our unwanted mutt. Aside from my sporadic attempts to get her to communicate, I left her be; John was ambivalent beyond ensuring her upkeep was handled; and Pris saw her as a chore, all the hard work of my own care without connection or warmth to make it worthwhile.

I loathe to say this now, but we lived our lives without her. Without breaking her training, none of us could find closure with her complicity in Jack’s trickery, especially when these two good samaritans had been striving to eke but a single word out of her the entire time, and she had still refused. John says the last month together before my rescue, Chas remained untouched in bed due to his disinterest, and since then she hadn’t even had the privilege of gifts to fill her lower holes. I knew how desperate she must have been for release to her one purpose, not the least because, when dressing my sister, Pris had begun eschewing knickers and bloomers in lieu of padded nappies, calling back to our youth. Now, Chas was still a doll — more than I was by then — and so her ability to soil or wet herself was entirely removed. It was the leakage and the odour of her wanton desire that required addressing. Though I retained little sense of smell, John had termed the scent “not unpleasant but significantly distracting,” which I presume was by design.

Yet still her hips thrust and shook into the open air as our attendant held her away.

“Quite unbecoming of you, Chastity!” I snipped, but Pris gave me a disapproving look.

A twiddling of her forefingers accompanied her shaking head. “We are not to continue this cycle here.”

“You’re right, Pris. I’m sorry. Could you please put Chas back in her corner?” I asked the only woman in the household with arms. One of the punishments at St. Werburgh’s had included a darkened wardrobe closet only large enough for a student and her ever-watchful automaid, having to remain in perfect form with no sight or sound to stimulate. Heaven help the girl who thought she might lean against the encroaching walls or nod off. In comparison, I had to tell myself we showed restraint.

Besides, did she really wish to watch me climax?

I had enough to contend with in my own head without Chastity staring my way. I strode to the stand and looked over the edge of my soft décolletage toward the unwilting shaft, focusing my eyes — such a luxury — down upon the glans near its upward tip. There are no words for how dearly I wanted to feel myself impaled upon its girth, for it had been so long, and yet it frightened me in equal measure.

Once my sister was settled in her place and a silent promise not to misbehave again had been exchanged, Priscilla returned to lower the saddle, lift my dress, and release my understrap and gift. I found more comfort in wearing only one plug in those days, though it had taken weeks to realise I could determine precisely how full I felt in my womanhood, and in what fashion my devotion to John might take. They were right, all I had to do was ask; and so as Priscilla pulled the slickened ivory from my nethers, making me empty and available, I shuddered at the vacancy and let my thoughts escape this doll body.

“Please don’t leave me whilst I remain held here, Pris. Please. I was abandoned on this device once before, right before we met, and that began one of the worst chapters of my life.”

Pris cradled my cheek and nodded sincerely, for neither of us had many happy memories from the year prior.

“Thank you…” I uttered automatically, before clarifying, “for understanding me.”

She embraced me in one of those few moments which still derive a pang of loss for my arms, and then — as I pressed chest and cheek into her earnestly — as if to emphasise my point, she held me twice as tight, before breaking and nodding. “Alright, on to your afternoon massage, then?”

Pris lifted my dress once again as I guided myself over the doll stand, so the tip could graze and tickle my entrance, and only when I nodded in the affirmative did she then tap the footswitch to raise the device, slowly, so it would properly kiss me below before slipping inside, spreading me within my womanhood and then without, bowing my legs, lifting me so my soles left the soft floor and my entire weight bore upon the saddle. Save for my head looking around, I was almost entirely immobile whilst the spear pinned me there, greeted my deepest recesses inside, reminding me of my rightful throne and how long I had been missing from it, and it from me. My vox gag simulated a gasp of pleasure, whilst Priscilla gasped too.

She hadn’t operated this device other than the one time all those many months prior, and I have to assume she was shocked by how normal I looked — blooming skirts hiding the sybaritic appliance underneath — or perhaps how easily the massive cock entered such a petite figure as mine, and how eagerly my vagina began pulsing and convulsing upon it, somewhere inside my corseted waist. My eyes closed with another sensual moan from the gag, but that was undignified.

“Please lock me again, will you Pris?”

With a touch at my temple and a click — so effortless for her — my eyes flew open to stare straight ahead, at nothing, and my neck firmed and straightened. It was that familiar isolation from any physical expression, my wilfulness being stripped again by my own request. It was my perfect form returning, held by choice. It meant I sat squarely upon the saddle, shoulders drawn back, breasts rising and falling with each hot breath through my fleur-de-cou as my heart fluttered apace with the convulsions below. There would be no indecent squirming or expressions of enjoyment, only acceptance…

We are designed to accept whatever is given, and to give all that we now are.

My vox gag moaned and then giggled at my self-serious school-talk slipping into my thoughts, but I blinked blankly and focused within, below, getting ever-tenser and tender and tingly in all the right places. My clitoris pressed firmly right where it should be, upon a special bump which vibrated just like I did inside, making my moans sound less realistic, stuttery and simulaic. As the growing sensitive heat infused my mound and hips, my love passage committed to constrict and twist and tease and refamiliarize itself with every inch of this practice cock, I was once again feeling like a proper Doll.

I was being taken care of… and surely giving my all…

The steady buzz changed to short ramps of intensity as Priscilla adjusted the dials, a pattern I had never felt before but enjoyed immensely!

The purpose of the stand is the proper upkeep of our most important feature… our enjoyment is secondary.

I blinked. More school-talk, and unbidden this time. And untrue. I was submitting to this appliance, fitting snugly atop my custom-moulded resting place as small electrodes in the saddle tickled my inner thighs to keep my rear pert and well-toned — yes, surely — but Nanny had always said I would need regular relief and replenishment from the stand to soothe my fire… ever-needy by design…

I wanted it inside, and so I had asked. Simply. Politely.

I had done just as my Owner instructed, asking for this exercise to be returned to my daily routine. Asking to be penetrated and filled so as not to pester him further.

We are remade as a vessel for pleasure, to incite desire in others, an ark of weakness with hunger enough for a dozen men, yet promised to one…

The lessons were becoming eddies in my mind, pulling me into their cadence. Flashing lights.

I knew John was busy with important matters, yet I found myself wanting him here to watch me, wanting to see John out of the corner of my eye with his manhood in hand, stroking slowly, eyes on me.

Instead I saw His legs from beneath a table.

I mustn’t misbehave… I mustn’t seek release…

No! I was getting so close, so close! But my thighs tensed and my thoughts turned darker.

My holes were acquired at great expense, and to my Owner goes the spoils. I am a byproduct, an unnecessary passenger, there is no… No!… no Hope…

My feet flexed frantically in the air below, every brush with my petticoats a whisper warning of a mechanical grip and the sting of the cane: Jack’s cane, brandished by an automaid simply following instructions.

“Stop! Please! I won’t cum, I promise!!” My new voice begged aloud from the ball behind my puffy lips!

For a moment I was mystified how she had heard my fears come to life, but Priscilla immediately turned down the dials and lowered the stand just enough for me to touch the ground, cease the stimulation, and regroup… but I didn’t want that. Even as she looked at me softly with worry and fear, I was so frustrated. I had been so close! I wanted this! I had missed the satisfaction and relief from my urges so dearly these past months of recovery. But the scholars’ care and attention had made the flashbacks duller, fewer, and farther between. John had used me the night prior, and all had been well! I was fine! Cured! Wasn’t I?

“I… don’t understand how that slipped out. Please, I… want to try again.”

Pris looked so doubtful, and rosy of cheek, but slowly she pierced me again, raised me up, and twisted the dials behind my growing climax.

We tried thrice more, yet every time the glow from my cunt spread out, filling me, inspiring me to crash over that edge; my mind would flinch away, my body would shake, and my voice would scream out into the tiny room.

“I didn’t mean to!”

“Please! Let me sleep!”

“I can’t go back!”

I was quite ready to quit after that, and not for lack of trying. My lower hole wasn’t sore at all but my heart was, and I was exhausted from being reminded of my trials with Jack. For months he had trained me to never allow myself true pleasure and relief except by his touch — which rarely ever intended to give that sweet relief either — and even there in the safe space under John’s roof, I was still tainted by that training.

A Doll is designed to serve, not enjoy itself. Pleasure without purpose is pointless.

My remedial education felt written in stone. Flashing lights behind a Teacher’s glassy, blinking eyes.

But Priscilla Barnes was also an educator, and though until then her curriculum had consisted only of reading comprehension, speech therapy, and the acceptance of choice and will, she also had a bullish pride and strength to her, as well as newfound grace — begrudging acceptance at what lot she had been given — that I had much to learn from. We were both stuck with changes our old selves couldn’t live with, and yet here we stood, together.

She raised the stand again, without a word, and turned the stimulation to a level I could enjoy but not ride to climax. At first I was annoyed, asking to be let down, saying it was hopeless, but instead I felt a warm hand on my bare shoulder, lighting up the nerves ending there, before she got close, lips by my ear.

“Tell me what’s the matter.” I swear I heard on the tips of a breathy whisper. “I’ve got you.”

It was so faint, yet even so Pris’ hand left my shoulder to touch her throat, responding to a constriction for a minor infraction. She had spent some of her own comfort for my assurance, before her hands lit my desirous skin again. Each touch from behind, where I could not see, was an embrace to say that I was safe, loved, wanted.

“It’s so silly…” I began, the sound slipping out of my gag as if I was talking about violins and cellos. “When we met, and I was at my most devoted to this ideal of Dollhood, I used to find the blank doll mind at the end of a phallus, but… He took that from me. Now I don’t know if I can arrive there in peace. My automaid used to— If I climax, I will get a caning.”

I didn’t know why that last part came out in present tense, and Priscilla tut-tutted me, a sound that didn’t require her voice.

“You know you won’t,” she meant to say. “Don’t be foolish.”

The vibrations raised ever so slightly, and I shuddered as my lower holes clenched and rumbled around the immovable spear, driven to faun over this invader whilst I still couldn’t get higher than a simmering pleasure from my service.

Priscilla touched my chin. “Speak up. Keep going.”

“She— It would hold my neck, feel the pulse, and make sure I didn’t reach my peak, lest I wanted to suffer in reparation.” I wanted to cry and yet dear Reader, you know this doll body cannot do so. Locked still as I was, my emotion was auditory alone.

Priscilla stepped closer behind, her chest pressing against my back, her warmth so close as her hands caressed everywhere not covered by my dress. They traced my drawn-back shoulders, the faint line of my clavicle, then hesitated to move downward… before skimming over my fleur-de-cou, the steamy exhalations gathering on her hand as she softly gripped my neck. Choking me, her weight subtly leant in, pressing my hips firmer into the vibrations.

I moaned, and realised that her hand felt nothing like an automaton’s: it was warm, and forgiving, and flowed with me in a fluid motion impossible for clockwork mechanery to match. And yet it was still firm, inescapable; I just had no need to escape from her caresses.

“I want to feel it, too.” Pris said with her fingers, reminiscing on sensations lost to her sealed sex. “I want us both to get there.”

Her breath caught my hair and tickled my ear. She was so close.

“Can you show me it’s alright, Priscilla? Please.” I nearly begged.

Like her arms were my own, jutting forth from behind my narrow, useless shoulders, she kept her left grasped around my slim neck, before taking the right and prying my breast from its cup, freeing the nipple so her fingers could tweak it, cup me, hold me so close to my heart. She leant down to kiss my neckline, my shoulder, sending sparks across my skin.

Still she leaned more into me, the buzzing upon my clitoris intensifying, and all I could do was stare straight ahead at the satin curtains and the flat winter light pouring into this warm doll room. Well, that and accelerate my shallow breaths, and oh yes: speak!

“I didn’t know you were an—” Priscilla shushed me for the first time ever, and by the dismissive rise and fall of her chest pressing into me, I could feel her shrug.

“I don’t know what I am; what this is. Don’t give it a name yet.”

Her left hand released my neck just as a fog had been building in my head, and suddenly I felt a rush… and then a click. I could… look around again! That hand let a finger hook my dainty chin and bade me look at her — the imposing figure with a face full of critique and scorn and worry written in wrinkles even in her youth, dark hair escaping her simple bun in wires of desire. Her eyes were speaking for her, looking at my seamless, carefree, plastiskin face up close, then at my full lips and the vox gag filling my mouth behind them. That finger expertly slipped into my fleshy hole and popped out my voice, nestling the ball in my bosom, freeing me for an exhilarating kiss laden with unabashed lust.

My elastic pouting lips couldn’t kiss her back, and I felt her pause, remember my lack of reciprocation was hardly for lack of passion, and then renew with tongue slipping in to discover the gently pulsing passage, toothless and ready for anything inside. I responded with a flick of the tongue, then a swirl. A certain greeting.

It felt so incredible: my autonomic muscles below performing a complex symphony conducted by the doll stand, both of my… Priscilla’s hands cupping and kneading my breasts, and her lips on mine, kissing me almost like John would but longer and more… decadent in intent.

After all her disdain when we first met, my disregard too, we still had no reason to love each other the way we did, but every day she coaxed me to do more; watered my passion for knowledge and subtle independence. I was her star pupil, and John’s doll wife, and I was okay with this — indeed I was better than ever — designed to accept whatever was given, and finally it was love.

She slipped one hand downward, over my unyielding corset to press on my petticoats and skirts and garter, all that fanciful fabric; softly pressing my mons firmer into the vibrations, my clitoris becoming married to the stimulator. I thought I would remain silent in this exquisite sensation but my eyes rolled up and fluttered as my voice moaned from its place in my cleavage, muffled by those heavy twins. Priscilla didn’t release her kiss but alas I felt her nod and breathe a silent, “It’s alright, Hope,” finally allowing me to soar over the walls put up in my head and simply come.

It was pure, happy, untainted.

The loneliness I had felt since standing silent with my dollified classmates in the hospital, unable to commiserate with one another, now dissolved away as I felt Pris there with me; wherever this was.

And then we returned to our soft little prisons.

My body shook, but stayed immobile as always, continuing its due diligence with that unnatural hum inside even as Pris turned off the stand. I admit as the appliance lowered and slipped out of me, my legs gave way, and for the first time in weeks I did require my attendant — and so much more — to grasp my corseted waist and guide my shaky steps over to the chaise to recover in her arms.

I declined to break our silence for a long time, my eyes flitting between the gleaming, dripping shaft catching the light, and her hands wrapped around me. Her hands moved steadily, slowly reassembling what parts of my dress had been torn away in the heated moment, the fidgeting from before now gone, and I knew then that — in some way — Priscilla had finally found satisfaction too.

“We must tell John this evening,” my voice muffled out from my cleavage, as my face blankly implored. Pris noticed and replaced the heavy speaker ball inside my mouth, sealing my dripping hole with the symbol of my will.

She nodded. He deserved to know.

A soft stamping in the carpet came from the corner as we looked to Chastity, who had been present for the whole affair as well — at least the sound of it — and a torrent of memories returned of the last words I heard her speak aloud, accusing me of impurity and tribadism and sapphic delusion. After what she just witnessed, I almost thanked the dollmakers for taking her voice, but then cursed myself. I wanted her to speak! I wanted her to escape the many layers of indoctrination heaped upon our delicate shoulders. I wanted her to go to a loving home!

My sister leant her plastiskin face against the wall she had been set toward, blinking blankly and gently smiling at nothing, and shook as her weak legs lifted, the two points of her vertical heels and her forehead offering stability as she slowly rose to standing.

Pris made to get up and deal with the situation, but I told her not to bother. “Let her be. We are much too comfy here to worry. Besides, is she not seeking the release you and I just found? If she gets there on her own, she’ll be ahead of me in unweaving herself from that codger’s horrible rules.”

Pris nodded and smiled, pleased with my maturity, but Chastity surprised us.

Her mincing steps slowly passed by the doll stand, even though we had left it lowered and Chas easily could have rubbed herself against it to her heart’s content. No, she wandered further to the in-built shelves housing our record collection, and, after pausing to catch her breath from such a trek, she began rubbing her prominent chest against the albums: nudging, rustling, softly panting in the clumsy effort.

Priscilla did finally rise to set the doll straight, as she was surely misguided, acting so indecently. The maid was only a few steps away when something thin sheet of hard plastic fell to the ground, and Chastity clicked her heel on it urgently, turning to pout and blink in our general direction.

It was my letterboard.

We left this speaker turned on, for John had expressed in our many discussions after my unlocking how he wanted to hear me as I came to climax. For some odd reason he was preoccupied with my pleasure! I still find this equal parts charming and preposterous today. ↩

Book 4 Chapter 40

Apr 7th, 2023

4252 words

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.

Book 4 Chapter 41

Apr 7th, 2023

3126 words

I’ll admit I required the support taking those steps, keeping upright.

As Doll and Owner, we felt a burden of silence and decorum in public that was immediately eschewed at home. With John’s many allowances, I was growing quite used to confident strides about our halls with only the simplest flat slippers on, just as the sound of my free speech filling the place from my tiny speaker had become almost natural. As a Doll, I was still weak and somewhat short of breath even with half-loosened stays, but over the intervening weeks — and, I admit, after a night at the Royal Ballet — I had taken an affinity to gestures of dance: subtle twists and swirls that caught my lovers’ eyes and inspired their passions more than my stilted and over-formal words could ever do. I resolved that, if my face would never emote again, then I would let my body. In so I gradually became stronger and more connected with what flexibility remained in this armless body, elegant by design. I had even managed once or twice to raise one leg like a heron and twist a doorknob with my toes, though I only learned to do so for emergencies.

No such independence could be revealed here, however limited.

Now I was back in near-vertical heels with my wilfulness utterly contained and restrained; my old self on display. The click-clack of those heels traversed the hallway as the murmuring of company grew. Familiar faces passed by in the blur, and my parade continued as my face and decolletage grew more flush with each step.

Thanks to Priscilla and John, I was no longer struck with a feeling of entrapment or panic when locked and silenced by that now-familiar press to my temple, but it was… annoying to now be so hindered again as I traversed the event incognito, and unable to look around the Hodgkinson Estate at the many Societymen and any newcomers, scouting candidates for my sister’s suitor.

To think my bodily limitations were now just mere inconvenience marked a measure in my recovery, to be sure, but John had made it clear how he felt about women’s silence and the Mandate. He was not a radical, he would conform to the laws of our status and class, and respect other women’s propriety, but I was his, and he wanted all of me, not just my shell. John had put it frankly one day whilst admiring a painting by a chiaroscuro master at the Victoria & Albert Museum, both of us observing silently, separately: why would he not desire to hear my thoughts? In theory, as my husband he had as much right to them as he had to my body. In practice, he had earned everything I had to give, everything I was, for his gentle love and support.

The idea for a private communication method between us had begun to form early after these outings, but we believed such devices were the realm of fantasy. The decision to consult with Damsels in Distress again — more discreetly this time — to commission the design of a hearing aid with the functionality of my vox gag only percolated after we found a second rationale: this Repatriation event.

At this crucial juncture, I needed to have a say in my sister’s destiny, and I was absolutely certain Father would never see me as more than a Doll. He had said as much with words and actions alike throughout the years. My ideas and motives were never objected to, it was merely objectionable for me to have ideas and motivation at all!

Yet John remained out of his element in the Society of Dolls. As I needed support to simply walk down this hallway, he needed support to enable his burgeoning confidence to flourish here, in this den of wolves. Without that support he was adrift… but with our unified knowledge, my social graces, and his inherently male abilities… we had a chance.

So I was in his ear, and his strong hands were wrapped about my waist. In one aspect I was subservient and weak, yet in another I was indecently empowered, directing my own steps forward; left then right then left. To think, I had once believed my words would tear us apart!

Now we ventured into the drawing room together, and instead of fear, I was filled with determination, asking John to steer us toward an older couple, a rotund moneyman engorging himself on hors d’oeuvres whilst his Lady wife stood idly and politely, her hourglass waist slight but respectable for her age, contrasted and complemented by puffy gigot sleeves and wooden hands tied by delicate ribbon in her lap. She might have been the only Lady present without a fleur-de-bouche, instead displaying her ruby lips wrapped around a massive delft blue porcelain ball. Undoubtedly uncomfortable, with the way her jaw appeared locked open wide to fit the ornamental bauble, but quite in keeping with her vintage style. She recognised me immediately and shook her head, tiny perforations in the gag allowing a jingling bell inside to tinkle and alert her husband to our approach.

The men shook hands and us ladies curtseyed, and I spoke through John.

“I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience upon our arrival, sir. I didn’t know—”

“Nor should you, lad.” Lord Kettering spoke around his fingers. “It’s been quite an adjustment for my dear Songbird and I’m sure for your…” he regarded John for a moment.

“My assistant, she is a ref-f-formed intellectual-type, aspirationally.” John said, flicking his eyes at me. The words were acrid on his tongue, I knew. “Ms. Barnes used to be quite the radical, but t-t-thanks to her silencing, she has settled into a proper role nicely, t-t-taking care of mine and my wife’s… needs.”

“John, this is how you gain trust with boorish men,” I added just for him. “I have listened to hours of your father’s calls from between his legs. I know what they fancy, what they want to hear.”

Lord Kettering guffawed, taking a shine to my innocent stare and what unspoken ‘needs’ I might have. “Well then not all is unpleasant about this sore business! Huzzah for her reform! We shouldn’t hold it against the poor girl, not really. Women are so easily led astray without a firm hand.” He thumbed something in his pocket and his stately Lady shook and huffed in a silent moan, her gag’s jingling the only sound she could make to politely disguise the buzz emanating from under her skirts. “I do believe your ‘assistant’ set the kindling, but in truth my own wife overstepped that day, and whilst the Berkeley Gardens Social Club is now a far quieter affair with mingling of its members disallowed, I fulfilled my obligation to ensure all parties were tight-lipped, in perpetuity. You understand women, all they do is chatter incessantly behind closed doors.”

John baulked at ‘in perpetuity’ but I steadied him. “I can’t say I do,” he jested, and I told him to nod toward me.

Lord Kettering let out a hearty chuckle, “Well that’s quite right, I suppose. Exactly why Hope herself doesn’t have one of these golden chains about her lovely neck as well: you lot already did it for me!” He reached out and flicked the fleur-de-cou filtering my breath, sending an uncomfortable tickle through my airway. “I really do admire you Society men. Good lads, leading the charge on our little revolution toward a more modern stock of women! Meek, deferential, and mighty fine!”

His wife smiled around her gag and nodded in agreement, but the former Lord Chancellor only had eyes for my artificial lustre, young and radiant, as he downed his drink. “Damn shame those Battersby memoirs riled the commons and put a stopper to it all, we had such a good wind blowing! Now the crown has cold feet and even the old tinkerer Sir Linscombe is of two minds. He has those quarrelsome trade groups hounding him and Autoserve about their maids taking the ‘human touch’ out of servantry, but I suspect the heart of the matter to be, well, he doesn’t much enjoy us collaring his daughter-in-law Renee for naught.”

Within a hurried breath, I saw our chance. “Well, not knowing what p-p-precisely you fellows had in store that’s so hush-hush — and I don’t need to know, so keep me on the straight and narrow — if the project is shuttered ‘for naught’, then might we simply dispose of these collars and bracelets and nonsense? I do think our housegirl m-m-might be more useful if she could—”

Lady Kettering’s eyes lit up, and so did her husband’s, for vastly differing reasons.

“Well you see, lad, that’s why you need an automaid! Dispose of the raff, and whatnot. Now, I agree the cohabitation restrictions are well over the top, but we must appreciate the King’s men and their willingness to provide a solution on such short notice. What an honour it is to take such a crucial device in the protection of His Majesty’s lands from bolshevik sympathisers and ruffians, and refashion it into the height of Leisure! My Annette has been getting so many compliments on her lovely jewellery, haven’t you darling?”

The once-dignified Lady Kettering nodded her head curtly, the bell inside her mouth jingling in agreement.

“It is a m-m-marvellous look,” I prodded John to lie, “but perhaps—”

“No you’re absolutely right, lad. We can do away with the little proximity reminders, how else will this new fashion take off if our ladies cannot entertain each other and spread the word? — er, pardon my phrasing. What say you, madam?”

He looked not at his wife or me, but above and behind me at new arrivals, and the matronly voice of many a sleepless night spoke from her tinny vox gag. “If it pleases the Headmaster, I do think this could quell some of our most troublesome new students, and even has the potential to bring the most basic tenets of Dollhood to countless other Leisurely Ladies!”

I bid John turn me around, and sure enough, Dame Henderson was standing right there, her curvy and rubenesque body barely contained in modest grey governess’ attire, but of course she couldn’t be without escort. Firmly holding a handle in her dress’ prominent bustle, Sir Wainwright himself had deigned to preside over this event, and the bearded lion smiled warmly at us all.

“That’s a marvellous idea, Lilyana. I’m sure I can just ring up the Security Service and order a batch!”

The men laughed heartily, with even John giving a half-believable chuckle. He didn’t have the luxury of hiding behind a blank mask like mine, which albeit could barely contain the anxiety of being so near to the source of Society doctrine. Here my illicit words could affect many voiceless young women; perhaps for good, but these mere jibes and jests over refreshments seemed eager to slip and stumble into a new layer of restriction for the countless Ladies and Dolls to come after me. Could this Songbird system become the revolution that Emily’s memoir had stopped?¹

I contented myself with having steered Lord Kettering toward minor improvements for Priscilla. Regardless, we quickly lost control of the conversation — if we had ever held it at all — as Sir Wainwright shook John’s hand. “Ah the young bombardier, I was happy to see your car arrive at the front door in one piece!”

A few men nearby laughed, and it was made readily apparent that the tale of my rescue had travelled far and wide. I could sense John’s tension, wanting to explain himself, but I steered him toward a response with more levity. “Well you may recall I’m a learned scholar, and I recently made a fortunate discovery… autocarriages do in fact drive themselves!”

The men chuckled and the mood stayed light, and I could sense John understanding a little, of how to parry and spar with his tongue, unlike his usual tendency to bristle and retreat as he always had with his father. I believed in him, for I knew what that tongue could do after all!

Lord Kettering gestured to me, appreciating my petite and slender design, and nodding with approval. “You had plenty of motivation, lad. Seeing your lovely wife here today, I must say I understand. At times we men are obliged to take drastic steps for the well-being of our property!”

“Heroic action,” Sir Wainwright added. “It’s a shame what happened to you. Not that I agree with the spectacle, but I like to hope I would have your courage if any of my girls were in harm’s way.”

Kettering added between mouthfuls, “And what tasteless designs at that finissage last autumn! For a wife? Ungodly!”

Wainwright nodded. “There’s a distinct difference between fun and games, and what your father did here under cover of darkness. And to Alan, the societyman who vouched for his inclusion in our affairs! No man less deserving. No Dolls less deserving either, as I remember your girl being a remarkable pupil, her sister too. Quite a model student in her practical exams.”

I shouldn’t have been shocked, but Dear Reader I almost believed the headmaster’s well-wishes until that last double-entendre. He even eyed my pouting lips as he said it, not that I could eye him back.

Blank and perfect as ever, the once-familiar feeling of judgement from Dame Henderson’s emotionless gaze piercing me, even as she stared quaintly into the mid-distance. Had she known about my time under the headmaster’s desk all those years ago?

John didn’t, and so he replied naively and sweetly, as is his way. “Thank you sir, Hope here is truly remarkable, she has made great strides since her return.”

“Strides?” Dame Henderson queried.

“W-w-well…” John began to panic, so I spoke into his ear calmly and steadily. I had him deflect, deciding a bit of salesmanship was in order. “Well as you said, sir, her sister Chastity is indeed a model Doll. You’ll be pleased to know, at no point throughout the whole affair did she break perfect form, not once! Even with her sister in my rogue father’s clutches. As a newcomer to the Society and to the alumni of your academy, I have to admit your methods are remarkably effective! The dedication to Dollhood you instilled in her is quite m-m-magnificent.”

The other men noted their admiration to such a disciplined young woman, and assured him that someone would step up and give her a home, but a passing comment of, “I thought this one was Chastity, where’s the one that’s on offer?” made those well-wishes ring hollow.

Sir Wainwright sighed. “Wouldn’t it be grand if all of our students were as well-behaved and clear of mind as Hodgkinson daughters! With those damned memoirs stirring the pot, we’ve had to disallow free-speech dinners for fear of the gossip running rampant. Luckily our attendance has not yet taken a hit, but the young ones have so many more doubts these days, and doubts precede disobedience. With fewer Teachers than ever, liberties must be sacrificed.”

There happened to be quite a few young Society members there that day, a few older boys dragging their graduated sisters around by leash, announcing eligibility for marriage and learning what it takes to be men. Just in my entrance I had seen a few young girls skipping around their doll mothers’ skirts, whilst the more behaved teenagers stood still and proper, those untamed and curious eyes wandering about the gathering from behind well-pumped training gags. They were the future of the Society, and we were all leading by example. What kind of example I wanted to set… that was as yet unclear.

“It does sound like your hands are full.” I said to the educators through John. “Apologies for the turn of phrase, madam.”

Dame Henderson curtsied silently in recognition, whilst Lord Kettering and Sir Wainwright mourned the downturn the Society of Dolls had suffered in the public eye due to the former Doll now known as Emily Rivers.

Dear Reader, that our consultant Dr. Rivers had married a Doll of his own and restored her even further than I — even giving her russo-german arms with which to write her memoirs without transcription or censor — had been a complete surprise! It had also brought great attention to the work of Damsels in Distress, which I assume was Dr. Rivers’ intent. Though I identified with her struggle, I had no desire to follow in her footsteps — to me, the idea of being a natural, full-bodied woman was as foreign as to be a man — yet I was happy for her freedom in recovering what elements of womanhood were still available to her.

I was alone in this sentiment.

“That awful creature could have found a way to broach her complaints with us, and we would have given her a comfortable life under a more suitable man, like we will for young miss Collins today. This is why we have Repatriation in the first place…”

I was just trying to parse the ridiculous idea that any societyman would see a Doll’s nonverbal complaints as more than mere tantrums to be corrected, when the sound of the grand doors opening hushed my thoughts and everyone else.

Father’s voice announced, “My cherished guests, might I invite you to allow your ladies to depart for a tour of the gardens, before refreshments in the drawing room? The proceedings will soon begin.”

Two files of automaids marched into the room in perfect lockstep, their hands offered forward to escort the women out. I shook at the sight.

“Don’t let me go.” I begged John, who looked at me directly and without thought or reason responded. “Of course, darling.” before recognizing his fault and biting his tongue.

Dame Henderson must have heard, noticed, suspected, for whilst the men were blubbering on about ‘fallacies and embellishments’ in Emily’s memoirs — for they had all read through Humphrey Battersby’s exploits multiple times — she strode over and planted herself so close her bosom filled my field of view, and spoke down to me in a certain tone, hushed but curt. “I should have recognised you in my evening lessons, Hope. Where it matters, you and your sister are nothing alike.”

With that cryptic admonishment, our fearsome teacher let herself be taken by an automaid and escorted out of the room.

Our secret was no longer ours alone.

Dear Reader, I cannot say. Such events are outside the scope of my tale, and still in motion. ↩

Book 4 Chapter 42

Apr 7th, 2023

3225 words

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?”

Book 4 Chapter 43

Apr 7th, 2023

5660 words

Jack Collins himself stood there in the doorway, and I cried so loudly within my own head John had to wince at the noise piercing his ear. He was as taken aback as I was, for his father had arrived to the event without an invitation or a penny to his name: dishevelled, unshaven, unwashed — and John will add to my recollection that he absolutely reeked of liquor, even from across the room. The liquor cabinet is indeed the first thing he targeted, rather than my sister or I, as the societymen all gawked, murmuring that he even had the gall to make an appearance.

“You’re not welcome here, Jack.” Father bellowed, “How did you get past the household staff?”

Underneath all his swagger and machismo, Collins Sr.’s hands shook as he poured himself a gin, straight.

“You fellows must know by now, I have my ways with automatons.” He snarled around a swig and a gulp. “Besides, did you all think I’d just let you give away what’s rightfully mine?”

Sir Wainwright cleared his throat, “After your, ahem, misappropriation of our funds, Chastity has been repossessed for today’s auction.”

“She was never put up as collateral, especially not for this.” He gestured his glass toward the Doll walking in her little circles, not a care in the world, taking more time climbing over each stanchion bollard, her cheeks growing increasingly flush. “I don’t think the courts would agree with what you blokes consider ownership, if a man’s girl can be—”

“You abandoned your wife when you abducted Hope,” Wainwright corrected course. “That much is crystal clear now. Our Society doesn’t look kindly on men that eschew their responsibilities, and—”

“Oh bollocks!” Jack whinged at Wainwright’s pretentious tone. “Chastity was left in good hands! Or so I thought before I saw how my boy drives!” Jack added as a jab.

“F-father, s-s-stop!” John called out, simmering from a long-kindled flame within. “Your g-game is up. You have nothing left, stop d-digging your own g-g-grave.”

The room was quiet, and I could not look his way, but Jack was obviously glaring. I whispered a quiet, “I believe in you,” before the elder Collins’ tirade began.

“So you’re truly siding with these fucking fetishists, are you boy? Over your own flesh and blood? I made you! I gave you that little bitch to play with, and you know full well that pretty things like her don’t come cheap. And you repay me in such a dramatic fashion over simply entertaining myself with the one I take a shine to? They’re Dolls! They’ve got just as many holes between ‘em.” He paused to take a hefty swig. “Well, be pleased with yourself, Johnny boy, it’s all gone. Seychelles, Malta, all of it! Your inheritance is down to pennies and it’s all your fucking fault. How are you going to get by, ever think of that in your pansy search for ‘love’ with a piece of plastic? By God, she was just a perk of the job! A toy to throw around that couldn’t complain! And you discarded all my hard work, for a toy— a masturbator on legs! How will you survive on meaningless research that’s never going to see the light of day, while the real men change this kingdom in their image?”

John stood up and gripped my armless shoulder for stability, and for comfort. He didn’t need my voice to know I was hurt by such comparisons, and perhaps if Jack had just admonished him alone, John would have wilted again, but Jack had woven me into his tirade, and John trembled in long-repressed fury. I remember this confrontation clearly, for my gentle, honourable husband was shaking… but not speechless, not anymore. He had something on the tip of his tongue, a truth he had long known: “I’m doing just fine without you.”

“Excuse me, boy?!” The elder Collins roared.

“Speak up, darling.” I egged him on, feeding his months of earnest encouragement right back to him.

“I am more fulfilled without you in my life than I’ve ever been, Father.” John kept his chin up, and his hand locked on me. “My latest paper — if you ever cared to read them — revealed a breakthrough that might bring plentiful energy to light London’s streetlamps again, and make our Kingdom prosper. Not only that: I have the kind of companionship you never let me foster under your shadow. I have a wife who loves me, a wife you knew adored me and yet stole away all the same! I—”

He was momentarily stunned by the sheer enormity of his father’s betrayal those months before, wound fresh again, but he continued, “I am done. My carriage colliding with yours and my refusal to engage further should have been enough to say that loud and clear. Full stop. I am clean of your cons, your ploys, and your sin, and I am done!”

Jack was uncharacteristically silent, clearly hurt by the plain truth, the reaping of his own manipulations leaving only a bitter taste in his mouth. And he bit back. “Your mother would be ashamed.”

John’s grip on me tightened as he was wounded, but he stood strong. “Is that all you have left, Father? Jibes? Leave us, you failed.”

But Jack remained rooted, and a smile crooked his curmudgeonly lip.

“I wouldn’t pay all you fancy fucks out here in the sticks a visit just to air our dirty laundry. That toy girl there is mine, so says the Church of England, and so will you once we’re through here. You all think Chastity Collins is the perfect Doll, flawless within and without. None of you want that perverted little peach. Why do you think I swapped her for her sister?”

The societymen all murmured, especially the ones who had already bid on Chastity. One of them called out, “What precisely are you getting at?”

“Well see, Mr. Alan Hodgkinson over here, upstanding man you all know him to be, alas, happens to enjoy Dolls a bit on the younger side.”

The room took a heavy pause, and I noticed a few societymen’s faces pale, some of them fathers of my peers at St. Werburgh’s who had hinted at visits to their parents’ bedrooms. But we were never that sort of family! Butterflies fluttered in my compressed waist, as I knew exactly what kind of web Jack was spinning. He was going to take his attempted corruption, something we as a family had barely avoided, and turn it back on us regardless.

“Treat a girl a certain way long enough,” Jack continued, “touching places a god-fearing father’s hands shouldn’t be and… well… it’s quite natural she learns to crave that touch.” I could almost hear the grin in Jack’s voice, as he wandered out of my fixed view and wove his web of half-truths, dead-set on taking us down with him. “I’ll tell you this: Chastity was never quite ‘right,’ all things considered. She would perform avidly here in this house of untold secrets, but for me alone in our marital bed, she tantrummed like you wouldn’t believe. I strived to correct her. I put her under Werburgh’s night classes. I followed the Society-advised discipline procedures. Nothing quite stuck.

“Yet I saw a pattern emerging. The little tramp kept trying to get up and close to Alan on holidays, or on monthly visits here to this home, which Alan specifically requested in the marriage contract. Quite unusual, no? I knew something must be afoot, a sickness of the mind I couldn’t well entertain. You understand, gentlemen.”

“These are lies.” Father muttered, before saying louder for the room. “Lies alone! I have never touched my daughters in such a horrid way. Never.”

I knew then Jack had us ensnared. For even if he had been under the influence of that libidinous paste, and even if he had not completed the deed within me, Father and I had shared a moment in this household that should never have happened. He wasn’t guilty of Jack’s accusations, but he surely wasn’t innocent either.

As if on cue, waiting for that denial, Jack strolled past me and deposited a diskette upon the hi-fi. “Gentlemen, please enjoy the internal record of the attending automaid to my lady wife, from the last weekend visit Alan and Chastity shared before I put a stopper to it.”

(idle talking, sombre, unclear)

“Chastity, I do not want our ever-so-infrequent meets to be occupied with solely punishment and critique, and I’ve already let my tongue fly for the latter.” The hi-fi let out a sigh. “Actually… my dear daughter… I’ve been thinking of a proper apology.”

(rustling sounds)

“You can understand— oh m-my… why I react so poorly when I recognise rote lust in you?”

“I am unbearably lustful. Right, Pappa?”

(suckling sounds)

“It’s alright, dear, it’s alright. I do not feel the same way, but it’s wrong for me to not show you attention in the sole language I have left you with. Don’t feel bad about this, darling. It’s natural in your state… Hope asked for it too, you know. On the very day I presented you with— ah, with your engagement gifts.”

“You don’t have to hold back, Pappa!”

(suckling sounds)

The men gasped, hearing nothing but the most incriminating phrases: from how Father worried about our Mummy’s health and sanity, to his muffled words, “I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t,” before the wet slapping sounds of a Doll mouth fulfilling it’s singular purpose ended in a male groan of release, joined by the final, “I’m sorry, darling.”

It was damning enough that Father offered no response or rebuttal, aghast that this lapse in judgement, self-control, and propriety had been put on the record. The implications of Autoserve devices recording the goings-on of private residences was left for another day, as the room turned against our father, and in so too the Hodgkinson family name.

But I had John stand up in our defence. “We don’t know the origin or provenance of this recording. It could have easily been concocted or doctored. What is this Doll’s voice we hear, it couldn’t be the silent Chastity standing before you all. In truth, I do not believe Alan to have committed this act.”

Oh how I wish it had been doctored or stitched, for it would have hurt less.

Of course at this point John knew of how his own father had influenced this bit of inappropriate father-daughter behaviour, but we were in a bind. Could we refute the accusations and save my sister… without correcting them to say that Chastity was pure because it was actually I who was there offering my inflamed nethers, ruining my reputation in the process? This was all quickly erupting into a horrible scandal, and there seemed to be few doors left to our escape in the eyes of our peers in the society.

And Jack was committed to closing us in and sinking our ship like the shark we knew him to be.

“Well we do have one other witness.” I saw him rummage through his fraying pockets, paper grams and receipts pouring out like IOUs, before a familiar click of his silver remote triggered a whirring somewhere else, down the hall.

The whirring grew louder, and into the gathered throng rolled Cuddles on her ottoman, with our mother Cushions in tow, stumbling behind as the finely-woven leash pulled her along after her little companion. As Cuddles rolled in, her eyes locked on this man and that, unable to stop herself from admiring the gentlemen before her, even as I knew she must hate well-attended events such as these with a passion. Those wide eyes watered as her head whipped side to side, curvy body jostling under its strange rules, until it finally rolled past John and I, and then Father, locking with him for the longest; and in those eyes of surgically-enforced adoration I spotted just a hint of… it couldn’t be…

Fury.

Summoned by the remote, she finally rolled right up to where Jack stood, so close her focus targeted his groin rather than his face, and he laughed. “Let’s give the girl some space, no?” Jack and any nearby societymen stepped back, and suddenly Althea was… free. Thanks to Father’s own custom design, she could direct her head and eyes wherever she pleased. That remodelled face remained blank and almost-affable, and the black fleur she wore hid the permanent pout of her mouth underneath, unable to produce a peep of noise; but it was enough.

Enough for Jack’s question, after he had replayed her the sounds of Father’s fawning over me.

“Is this the sound of my wife Chastity and your owner, Alan Hodgkinson?”

Cuddles— Althea let her free eyes glance at me for a second, before she nodded toward Chas, her jet black hair bobbing in agreement.

I was befuddled, sitting there with John. She was lying! She knew it was me who visited on that unpleasant day, for Jack had told her before we kissed. Not only that, my Althea hadn’t even been there in the room when this charade had occurred. Then I remembered… Jack had spoken to her knowingly, openly. The two of them had been conspiring together to ruin my father: Jack had said as much in his ‘encouraging’ speech in the hallway. How she could assist his aims had been unclear to me then — as had much else — but now I could see it plainly.

The little Doll with a lesbian heart, the face of my mother, two massive mammaries, and no arms or legs; she’d had enough of being Father’s plaything. She had clearly never forgiven him for reducing her to even less than the object she had desired to become, and now she — like Jack — had absolutely nothing to lose.

With my obvious adoration to John, she didn’t even have what connection her and I had once shared. I had brought her home that Christmas, unwittingly ensnared her in a bitter companionship where she could only exist in eternal punishment for our youthful tryst, then continued on with my life. Not that I had been given much choice, but in a sense Althea had been abandoned, and even since my recovery I admit I had paid her little mind.

With that perspective, of course Althea wouldn’t care who got hurt, me or Chas or Cushions or anyone else: Alan had to be disgraced.

“She wasn’t even in the room when it… almost happened.” I confided in John once I had processed Althea’s betrayal, and he turned that into a question. “How could she know? Only Mrs. Hodgkinson — Cushions — was mentioned in your audio, Cuddles was never referred to.”

Jack only laughed, and I admit our defence was weak. “What societyman addresses their toys until they’re of use to him? Alan was clearly well-occupied with his daughter, he had this girl — just as young and supple, I may add — to play with every other day of the month.” Jack looked down at the plush little doll, and asked. “Cuddles, m’dear, did you see this happen yourself?”

The Doll nodded again without hesitation, and looked directly at Father, blank, accusingly.

Chastity had by now ceased her looping parade, but by design could not vouch for her own innocence when she had just polished the ring of brass stanchions clean with her quest for sexual gratification, nude and on display. She hadn’t been there on this occasion when Father had finally succumbed, but I had told her once of what happened, seeking some sort of— I don’t know… perhaps advice, maybe just understanding. Chas had offered nothing in return but rote doctrine of our many uses to the men in our life, but she had heard me. I knew it.

Chastity’s legs shivered as indecision gripped her within, yet finally she let out a single stomp of her heel on the parquet floor, reverberating through the drawing room. The Doll of great debate caused a stir among the crowd as it opened a crack in the otherwise perfect finish, eliciting gasps from the audience.

Cushions, standing closely behind Cuddles due to her tether, shook silently in what I realised could only be fear, as her daughter produced an echo of how she had once stamped and struggled in our gravel drive, warning us not to go to St. Werburgh’s, not to follow in her mincing footsteps. That brief spark of spirit had flashed bright that day, and was now so dimmed — it was of Clarice, our Mummy, and this was only Cushions. And yet she brought her foot down once again. Weakly, more a plea than a defiant protest, but it registered in her daughter’s, and her husband’s, defence.

I stamped too, though I was seated atop carpet, and I sorely missed the thunder I could’ve made if my feet were instead free and firmly planted on the floor. I rest assured that my thoughts and manipulations that day were louder than my heels clicking.

Father looked at the three of us, and sighed in thanks to our timely breaking of the silence he had imposed upon us. He knew his failings, yet all his women stood with him in this moment. In truth we stood together, but Alan Hodgkinson was our raft through this storm.

Another stamp of a high heel joined us in our limited defiance.

“It seems the Hodgkinson Dolls have established a jury of protest, and there is certainly discord.” Dame Henderson’s iconic tinny voice spoke from the doorway. “I do not consider this man Jack Collins trustworthy, what by his haggard appearance nor the way he holds himself, it seems plain to see. Excuse my tongue, but why you boys are still listening to this proven charlatan is beyond me.”

Jack’s eyes shifted, entirely unsure how to handle a woman with such determination and poise openly contradicting him.

Wainwright motioned to take her back to the drawing room with the other Dolls but Dame Henderson strutted right past him, no arms to waive him away and none required. “Not now, Henry. I saw this dirty rogue sneak in through a window but half an hour ago, amongst the maids who seemed to see nothing, amongst us Dolls who could see everything but raise no alarm, and I can attest he stopped to coordinate with Ms. Burns here on what to say to you gentlemen. The Hodgkinsons speak wisely. That little brothel-born companion of theirs is a liar, along with Mr. Collins here.”

The room devolved into a mess there and then. As Jack saw the jig was up, he dropped his glass with a shattering crash and moved toward Chastity to drag my helpless sister out of the room with his own two hands. Who called them I cannot say, but a pair of autobutlers met the shaggy shell of a man halfway to his prize, grabbing him by the arms and dragging him out of the room, as he drunkenly cried, “That cunt is mine! Mine!”

Dear Reader, you might think after that monster was dealt with, all would be well and bidding would continue, but like societymen are wont to do, many did not see our signalling of protest as meaningful, thinking us too simple to opine, or not worthy of opinion. Many dropped their bids merely due to Chastity breaking perfect form, even in her own self defence against Jack’s slander. The rest were confused. The raucous energy from before was long gone as the recording from Jack’s automaid remained something the men couldn’t unhear.

Nearly all of it remained damning in some way, and the talk of guilt and erasure, and Mummy’s mental degeneration, did no favours to the mood.

The few societymen who remained in the bidding didn’t for long, as the idea of a wildcard such as Jack Collins trying to “claim” Chastity again seemed far too high. The entire exhibition had been an attempt at tone-setting, removing the stain upon Chastity’s image, but with Jack pleading his case and dragging her through the mud with his accusations of incestuous misbehaviour, my poor sister had been reduced back to secondhand goods.

Some men shook Father’s hand as they left, many did not, but in the end only us Hodgkinsons remained, along with John by my side, Sir Wainwright, and Dame Henderson. Chastity had been freed from her rope prison and dressed again, and Cuddles had been sent to Father’s study to stare at a shelf-size replica of Michaelangelo’s David and stay out of everyone’s hair. She would be dealt with later.

Wainwright touched Father on the arm. “I’m sorry for this utter mess, old friend. I need to meet with old man Linscombe and see how Jack could have bypassed your staff. It marks a great vulnerability for our school, if nothing else.”

“Yes, keep me abreast of your findings, I don’t need any further pestering from the likes of that scoundrel.” Father rubbed his neck, wondering how this house of cards had come tumbling down in such a dramatic fashion, before he looked at my sister somberly. “What do we think is realistic for Chastity here?”

The dejected Doll had been perched on the edge of a chaise lounge, staring at nothing, her fleur-de-bouche bobbing in and out subtly as she suckled. She undoubtedly knew how much of a failure the Repatriation had been, even if she could not express herself in any way save for that nervous reflex of hers. I asked John to sit me next to her, and though our plentiful skirts bunched up around our bottoms, intent to keep us slightly apart, with a gentle lean to the side I strived to get closer, and John tipped her slightly toward me to split the difference. When we touched, I felt her bare shoulder press against mine, little twitches of those clipped wings being our only method of communication without indecent assistance. So too did our heads and breasts collide, and I felt her close, the rise and fall of a doll’s shallow breaths irregular and hiccuped. She had been crying.

Other than her choice to offer a single stomp of denial, my sister had been a perfect Doll the entire night — a Perfect Flower — and yet that hadn’t been enough.

“Well as you know,” Sir Wainwright began, “she is still your daughter, and seeing as our attempt at recouping losses failed, she is effectively without a tangible selling price. I’d say she can stay with you indefinitely.”

“As a spinster.” Father added, biting his cheek.

“Well, yes, the word will get out to the others of what happened today, I doubt you’ll receive many reputable offers, and not from decent men. But you all could be quite happy here. Unless Jack scrounges together enough money to hire a barrister and make your life a living hell. Best case scenario: she lives here with her mother,” Wainwright glanced at the hi-fi and eyed Father, “without stimulation or male attentions but in the wholesome care of her family, until the end of your days when she is bequeathed to someone else as part of your estate, or sent to Langton Grange.”

“What is Langton Grange?” I had John ask.

Whilst the two older men both looked too apprehensive to answer the question in front of us Dolls, Dame Henderson answered. “Young Mr. Collins, did you never consider where your wife might go if you became infirm or were no longer around to care for her?”

“Well I…” John waffled.

Sir Wainwright coughed, embarrassed, “What has gotten into you today, Lilyana? You never talk to men in such a brusque fashion.”

The Dame turned slightly toward me. “Today has been a trial for us all. I do not wish for any further stains upon Dollhood as there already are.”

Sufficiently reminded how emphatically she disapproved of my secret voice channel with John, and how she almost certainly knew this kind of question was from my lips not his, I listened closely as Dame Henderson turned toward my husband to answer us. “The Society has an agreement with an almshouse in the countryside, where widowed Ladies of Leisure are already admitted when their husbands and estates have withered away. From my understanding the Dolls are not treated quite as well, with four or more to a room at times.”

Sir Wainwright quickly added, “It must be regarded as a final resort, and we strive to abstain from entertaining such hypotheticals at the school. We always impress upon our Dolls-to-be that if they conduct themselves fittingly, there will unfailingly be a gentleman with inclinations to be satiated, who is prepared to both purchase their companionship and propose marriage.”

Father looked at John, “But it’s always been a white lie. I have funds set aside for Cushions to go to a much nicer home if I pass, but the concept is much the same.”

John’s eyes went wide and he looked at the other adults in the room. “But Chastity doesn’t deserve anything of the sort! She has been a remarkably well-behaved Doll throughout this whole ordeal, positively dull and devotional to your societal doctrine, I’ve heard it—” he caught himself, “I mean you can almost hear it echoing out of her with every curtsey! Honestly, the tantrums and misbehaviour near the beginning of her and my father’s betrothal were likely due to how he treated her, and what he wanted her to do, entrapping and extorting her own father.”

“I’ve come to a similar conclusion,” Henderson agreed, her tinny voice taking on a hint of affection, “Chastity was a remarkably diligent student, with her attendant maid offering only a few minor corrections in her entire time at St. Werburgh’s proper. Not only that, from my recollection she never struggled under our nightly tutelage, as some young Dolls do.” She turned toward me again.

Wainwright smiled, “Yes, when she was young Miss Hodgkinson, Chastity was a true belle, an avid pupil! Mighty remarkable too how she made her rounds nearly a dozen times whilst Jack prattled on. That was disciplined, it truly was.”

I wanted to ask Chas if she too had spent a class period or two under the headmaster’s desk, but I couldn’t. I simply felt my sister resting against me begin to silently swell with pride, her breasts warm and her breaths steadying. She swallowed and buzzed at the praise, and something came to my mind, an idea that would never have escaped it without the special connection John and I shared.

My words elicited a smile from him, which he couldn’t quite conceal. If Dame Henderson noticed, she didn’t say.

“What if Chastity was perhaps retained by the Society as a teacher at St. Werburgh’s?”

Father and Wainwright both emitted a simultaneous, “Huh?” before Wainwright clarified, “John, you must consider that our candidates are typically drawn from a… ahem— lesser stock than your sister-in-law. It wouldn’t be a position of honour but a place of servitude. You are proposing a challenging occupation for a lady of ornamental refinement.”

“I know, but Chastity was an ‘avid pupil’, you said so yourself, sir.” John began to get excited by the idea. “Not only that, my father enrolled her in months of your remedial studies. Save for her time living with me, in effect she never left your school. Chastity must know your curriculum inside and out by now. You couldn’t pick a more devoted Doll!”

“Well I…” Sir Wainwright hummed and hawed, but John wasn’t going to take no for an answer. I was only feeding him half his lines, he believed in this solution as much as I did.

“And you said yourself earlier today, sir, you have fewer teachers in your staff than ever, in this time of tribulations influencing our fair society. You need all the help you can get, and Chastity here is available practically without acquisition cost.”

Father looked at John, then at me, and — I still can’t believe it to this day — smiled. “I think that’s a marvellous idea, son. Henry, this will help us recoup the losses with Jack, offsetting the conversion cost Great Ormond Street Hospital would charge for a scholarship girl suited for the task.”

The Headmaster looked to his second in command for assistance, any argument against this impromptu arrangement, but Dame Henderson offered none. She strutted over to Chas and I, and stared at the empty air above us before Chas sat herself upright, leaving my touch. A lean forward signalled a maid to lift her to standing, whilst John lifted me up himself.

“Chastity Collins, will you join my staff and renounce your family name within the former convent that is St. Werburgh’s? Be aware you will be owned by no man, but the school itself, and entertain no suitors. You will receive food and board that is not luxurious, but appropriate. You will be paid for your diligent teachings in delicacies and titillations that other Doll wives and your students will take for granted. You will be tightly scripted for your first two years, with limited methods of expression for the next three before we fully entrust you with a voice of your own.” She turned slightly to me in that remark, before refocusing on my sister. “You will listen to our sacred words — whether speaking them or not — day and night, and use those words to carve and shape proper Dolls from the blanks of young women who enter our walls. You will be sealed for purity without exception, and likely leave the school grounds fewer times than you can count on the fingers we had disposed of for you.

“Do you accept this offer?”

Chastity Hodgkinson silently curtseyed before the Dame, having made her choice.

I sighed silently in relief, for I too had made mine; choosing wilfulness over withdrawal from the life that passed by my glassy doll eyes, once thought forever out of reach. I whispered to John my love and thanks for saving my sister and I, as Father found an old dual-pronged propriety protector in his bureau drawer and let Sir Wainwright fill, seal, and lock away Chastity’s lower holes for safe travel to her new home.

Postscript

Afterward Dame Henderson approached me alone, and told me to follow her to the window, where we could appreciate the blurry green of the gardens, hazy in our unwavering gaze. There she scrutinised me from behind her perfect doll mask of a face, before stating quietly,

“You’re welcome, Hope. I’m going to assume you truly cannot speak at this time and juncture, and surmise that you are undyingly grateful for my saving of your sweet, simple sister.

“Hmm, why did I acquiesce even if I knew the idea sprang forth from a mind which should be far more disciplined than yours is? Because now you are indebted to me, and we are entwined.

“When I was originally offered a voice I found it an affront to our way of life, but I took this important role as an exception to our society’s rules, for the embetterment of young Dolls-to-be. Your voice, however quiet, is merely an affront. But you did embetter one life today, and I respect that. Against all my desires and wishes, you are my only near-equal in this society, the only other Doll who understands.

“All this is to say: someday soon I will call on you, I may even bring your precious sister with me for a visit, and I will ask something of you: the making of a memoir. Emily Lowood has made her new voice crystal clear, and yours will undoubtedly strike a different tune, for I see in you a respect for our way of life that tells me I did not entirely fail in teaching you.

“That is all.” She concluded, and rejoined Sir Wainwright, who had just been informing Father what establishment Althea Burns had been born in, and once escaped from.

“Excellent. I shall give the owner a ring. He hasn’t met her as Cuddles yet, and I’ve no doubt he’ll be plenty interested in settling the rest of Jack’s debts, in exchange for her unwavering attentions.”

It was almost a whole year before our doorbell rang and Dame Henderson called on me to repay her and the Society, and it has taken me nearly another six to recount this entire tale, so that Priscilla’s freed hands may transcribe it for your reading pleasure, dear Reader. With John’s newfound fame, we travel often for his speaking engagements, his devoted Doll always by his side — and not always writing — but accordingly, he hasn’t stuttered in years.

Chastity has become a perfect Teacher, a role model for young dolls-to-be as our dear mother once was to us. In the end, ‘Best Mummy’ was a draw — a split we both now share. The image of Clarice as we had imagined her, the perfect Doll onto which we projected our love, is reflected by Chas. And that secret fire, that spark of spirit which glimmered only briefly on the surface, lives on in me.

I find myself twenty-five years old — nine in Society terms — with mind and bosom grown greatly since I first awoke in this elegant body. Whilst it has taken ages to recount, the separation of years does make the retelling easier; far less abrasive to the soul.

Dear Reader, you’ve been privy to my highs and my lows, but these days, I am much more content. There is little that I miss and nothing that I regret. I am still a Doll and I am still John Collins’s wife, but as you now know, much has changed.

Thank you for reading.

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