The Ladies of Hetherington Hall: Part 1

The Ladies of Hetherington Hall

Copyright © 2018, Dave Potter

This story was written by me, Dave Potter, but thanks must go to Cafter Homme for the editing and corrections which have made it a better tale than it was originally.

 

Chapter 1

Lucy couldn’t believe how well things were going. Of course, she’d long looked forward to the day when she would go to uni to study history, her main passion in life, but even so, she had never believed it would be so much fun! She loved the parties and the nightlife, the new friends she had made. Why, she even liked the lectures! And it was about to get a whole lot better. Her new friend Jane whom she had met during Freshers’ Week (and whom, she struggled to admit, even to herself, she found rather cute) had just made her an incredible offer. “Why not spend the summer holidays with me?”

Why not indeed. Ever since her parents had died in a tragic motor accident two years’ before, Lucy had hated going home for those occasions which the world deems as “family”. She was an only child and her grandma was in a home, what was the point anymore? Before the accident things had been so very different. She recalled the love and the warmth, the days out and holidays at the beach. But after the initial rush of relatives surrounding the funeral, she was left alone and, essentially, uncared for. She was surplus to requirements, a reminder to aunts and uncles of just what they had lost. And that house, those relatives, merely brought that emptiness back to her. That was why she had leapt into uni life with such eagerness. There she was a new person, a blank canvas without teenage trauma and dark memories. She could now live! And how lucky she had been; she loved the campus and the vibrancy of life there. But most of all, she could not believe how fortunate she had been in meeting Jane Unsworth.

It had happened in her very first week of lectures. This strange girl had come into the lecture theatre a few minutes late and so slipped onto the back row. “Is this seat free?” she had whispered. And that was how it had started. They had gelled immediately and were soon meeting up every other day, then more often than not. Jane wasn’t in halls but instead had a room in a private rented house on her own. It was hard to believe that she was a first-year too, for she seemed so independent in her lifestyle and attitude. Although they were both nineteen, she felt almost like a big sister. A rather sexy big sister too; all the boys liked her and when they went out clubbing guys were always hitting on her, but she brushed them all away and instead stuck with her friend. At the weekends they would go out to cool places together and Jane would encourage her to try new experiences, some of which Lucy would never have dared to go through on her own. Her heart missed a beat when she remembered whizzing down that zipline in a quarry in Wales and then she blushed when she recalled the day they both went to get their nipples pierced. She fondled the little stud in her left nipple through her blouse and smiled. Yes, Jane had definitely changed her life.

And so, although many of their friends were thinking of backpacking in South-East Asia, and although Aunt Sarah had offered for her to stay at their place in Bournemouth, neither appealed. Indeed, only one destination did appeal to her, so when her cool new friend offered for Lucy to join in on her family’s festivities deep in the countryside, she couldn’t say no. It didn’t hurt that Jane was loaded. Lucy usually didn’t think much about such things but Jane had an unconscious flashiness that gave her the feeling those stories of a 17th century mansion all to herself wasn’t a fantasy story. She had heard so much about the old house, so full of character and history, that she simply couldn’t wait to see it, and besides hoping for more with her new schoolmate, it was an opportunity Lucy just couldn’t pass up!

On the final day of the academic year, with many of their friends off on travel experiences or doing some work experience to prepare them for the harsh realities of life after study, the two girls packed up their bags and then made their way to the train. It took two changes before the local stopping service arrived at the isolated halt of Hetherington, where Jane assured Lucy there would be a car waiting. Which indeed there was, but what her friend had not warned her of was just what kind of car it would be. A 1960s Silver Shadow! Wow! She had never known such luxury! A uniformed chauffeur got out, bowed to Jane and said, “Welcome home Miss Unsworth, and to you as well, Miss. Please get in.”

They drove for several miles through beautiful yet isolated countryside before turning down a long gravel drive bound by woodland on either side. The car tyres crunched as they rolled along and then the trees opened up and the house came into view. Lucy gasped. “Welcome to Hetherington Hall,” said Jane. And it truly was a hall, like something out of a BBC costume drama… well, without the costumes of course.

They came to a halt at the front door and the chauffeur opened the car door for them. Jane jumped out and threw herself into the arms of the man waiting at the door. “Papa, I’m home!” she cried. The man, who looked to be in his fifties and very well-dressed, greeted his daughter warmly and then turned to the newcomer. “This is my friend Lucy Parkinson whom I told you so much about,” said Jane. The man eyed her up and down and then smiled. “Miss Parkinson, I am charmed,” he said. “I hope you will enjoy your stay here at Hetherington Hall.”

“I’m sure I will, sir,” she replied, still wide-eyed, struggling to take it all in.

The girls went inside, through a huge hallway and up a grand staircase to the bedrooms. Jane’s room was huge and Lucy was to occupy a smaller one next to it, though even that one was occupied by a four-poster bed. They showered and changed out of their traveling clothes, and then went down for dinner. Lucy found Mr. Unsworth polite and friendly, if not a trifle reserved. She also noticed how he stared at her when he thought she wasn’t looking, which Lucy found slightly disconcerting but she brushed it to the back of her mind as nothing to worry about. He was her friend’s dad after all.

Following dinner the girls went upstairs together. They sat in Jane’s room in front of a roaring log fire and hugged each other tight. After a moment in the embrace, Lucy felt warm, and not just from the burning wood. She moved closer to her friend and put her head on her lap. Jane bent down and kissed her on the lips. Lucy wondered if more would follow but then the other girl withdrew and smiled. “So, how do you like Hetherington Hall?” she asked.

“It is truly marvellous, I cannot believe it. I keep thinking of all the people who must have lived here in the past and find myself imagining what it would have been like, living as a fine lady in that era with a beautiful gown, perhaps waiting for my Mr. D’Arcy to call.”

“You imagine such things?”

“I know it’s silly, but it’s hard not to in such a place.”

“No, it is not so silly at all. I do the same. Would you like to have lived back then?”

“I don’t know if I would full-time, but some aspects, yes. I’d love to wear one of those wide dresses, you know the type, a bit like Belle in Beauty and the Beast, and go to a ball with the local nobility.”

“But why imagine when it can be real?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I never told you before, but I… well, Papa and I, have a little hobby. We have a passion for history as do you, but we especially like period dress. In fact we regularly have events where we don costumes from the Victorian Era – that is our favourite, particularly the 1850s and 60s – and pretend that we are here over a century before. There is no event planned this summer, but if you’d like to, I can arrange for us to dress as Victorian maidens tomorrow.”

“Could you really?”

“If you’d like it.”

“I’d love it.”

“Then we’ll do it.” And with those words she gave her friend another light kiss on the lips.

 

Chapter 2

The following morning Lucy awoke, swaddled in the huge four-poster bed she had been granted at Hetherington Hall. She smiled at the realisation that this was not a dream, that she was actually staying in a place that was both old and big enough to star in one of those television adaptations of a Dickens or Austen novel. She drank it in happily as she considered what her friend had said the night before. Not only would Lucy be staying in a costume drama house, but she was also going to be wearing one of the costumes! She imagined herself striding down the wide corridors in a huge, flouncy gown and felt excited all over. Then she thought of her friend Jane dressed in a similar fashion and, without her realising it, her hand strayed down below.

Lucy was not a lesbian. Or at least, she had never thought of herself that way before. But there was something about Jane that she found unbelievably sexy. She was a pretty girl of course, with her shining hazel eyes and gorgeous long chestnut hair, but it was more than that. She was sassy, cool and wonderfully eccentric. She would’ve made a good lead for a Disney film and she was already in the correct setting. Jane looked great now, but in a huge Victorian gown she would look amazing, like a real-life princess or something.

Before she knew it, her fiddling was not so absent-minded, and Lucy had reached a shattering climax.


At breakfast Jane spoke to her father. “Pappa, Lucy and I were speaking last night and I told her all about our hobby. She wants to give it a go.”

Mr. Parkinson smiled and looked across at Lucy. “You would like to dress up in period costume, Miss Parkinson?” he asked.

“Well, if it’s not too much trouble, sir.”

“It’s no trouble at all and, please, call me John. We’re closely acquainted now so we don’t need the formality.”

She smiled. She was warming to this man whom she had found slightly creepy the day before.

“We do have a number of outfits that I believe may fit you. Our family have been costume aficionados for many years now and, I am afraid to say, we have spent a considerable amount of money on having some accurate reproductions of period dress items made by expert dressmakers, milliners, corsetieres and the like. Jane here has been donning costumes from a very early age and she loves it, don’t you, Dear? However Lucy, I must warn you: wearing Victorian costume is not easy. We do not just throw things on here, we do it properly as they would have done and dressing in those times, particularly for a lady, was a time-consuming and sometimes difficult process. However, if you’re up for it.”

“I’m sure it won’t be too arduous… John, and besides, when in Rome.”

“That’s the spirit. I shall arrange for Meakes to attend to you this morning in order that you may be ready for lunch. Jane, would you like to dress-up as well?”

“Of course, pappa!”

“Then it shall be arranged. Off you two go and enjoy the grounds while the costumes are sorted and be back in your rooms for, shall we say ten, to get ready.”


At ten the girls did return to their chambers. Jane went to her own, of course, and so Lucy was left alone with Meakes who turned out to be a maid dressed in a small black and white period uniform. Sizing her up, Lucy reckoned that if she ended up looking half as good, it would be worth it.

“Right Miss Parkinson,” said Meakes, “let’s get you ready. To start with you need to strip completely, even your underwear. I believe that Mr. Unsworth has informed you that we do things properly here at Hetherington Hall and back in them days there were no bras and panties.”

A trifle embarrassed, Lucy did as she was bid until she was standing naked in the middle of the floor. Then Meakes produced a white cotton shift which she lowered over the girl’s head which at least reinstated her modesty. Then she picked up a garment which was most unexpected.

“This is a corset, miss. Have you ever worn one before?”

“Err, no, I haven’t.” And it was true. Lucy knew all about corsets of course, as a student of history, they were mentioned as being de rigueur for ladies back in Victorian times, but she had never thought about wearing one even though some of her friends occasionally donned one for a night out clubbing.

The corset was fitted around her middle. It was a beautiful creation made of white silk and strengthened with metal. It sat on her hips, diving down in a V shape towards her private parts, whilst it stretched up to cover her breasts, ending with trimming of fine lace and a pretty ribbon. Meakes did it up using a series of clasps at the front and then ordered Lucy to turn around in order that it could be laced.

And that was when things began to get difficult. At first it was all fine, but then the laces started to squeeze and restrict her to a degree that felt uncomfortable. She began to worry about getting her breath and so said, “Please, stop, that is enough. I shall suffocate if you lace me any further.”

The response from the maid though, was not what she had anticipated. “I’m sorry Miss, but I cannot. As it is, none of the dresses will fit as your waist is too broad. And besides, we wouldn’t let you suffocate. You can be laced down a couple of inches more and be fine.”

And so she suffered a few more tugs but then, her breathing very short indeed, she spoke again: “Please, stop now! This is ridiculous! It is killing me!”

Meakes however, merely replied sternly, “Then we may as well take it off and tell Mr. Unsworth that, after requesting to wear Victorian costume and putting us all to the trouble of getting them out and preparing them, you have now changed your mind. As it is, the dress will not fit and you were warned that dressing was not an easy process back then!”

Lucy felt chastised and silly, so she meekly replied, “Please, continue, I’m sorry.” Meakes went on pulling and, when Lucy was genuinely beginning to feel faint, the maid tied off the laces and got out a tape measure. “Twenty-three inches. That will suffice for the broadest dresses although, to wear the nicer ones, you’ll need to reduce significantly. Now for the rest; please sit down on the bed.”

Glad that she ordeal was over but panting at the restriction, her breasts heaving up and down just below her eye line, she made her way over to the bed. There though, she found a new problem. Sitting made her waist want to expand which increased the pressure even more. Worse than that though, the corset seriously affected how she could bend and so she found herself lowering down rigidly towards the sheets.

Once she had sat down, Meakes brought out the next items: a pair of fine white silk stockings that were drawn onto her legs and held in place by tight garters which cut into her thighs. After this came a pair of boots. These were in white leather and reached up to her ankles. What was disconcerting though, was that they had heels of several centimetres. Lucy never wore heels, being a bit of a gym bunny who liked shoes that enhanced her physical performance and she felt unsteady on these. “Do you not have anything lower?” she asked. Meakes looked surprised at the question. “Miss, these are the lowest available!” she replied sternly.

Then came a series of petticoats, five in all, which caused the volume and weight of her outfit to increase considerably. And after this was a pretty white corset cover, then a blouse and then another unexpected item.

It looked like a cage, a series of hoops linked by ribbons. It went around her waist where it was tied tightly. Meakes explained it was called a crinoline and necessary to give the skirt its shape. Lucy now realised how those costumes were so big.

Then came the dress itself, a gorgeous creation in pink satin line with black geometric designs along the hem and at the sleeves and with black buttons up the front.

Lucy thought that she was now dressed but Meakes was adamant that she was not. “Your hair, miss, is unacceptable. As an unmarried lady it should be styled in ringlets but I fear that it is cut too short.” This comment surprised Lucy as she had always worn her hair long, down to the shoulders in fact, but Meakes continued saying that it was the norm in Victorian times for a girl’s hair to reach her bottom. Now it made sense why Jane’s hair was so long. “We shall be able to remedy yours with time, miss, but for now I shall braid it and style it like that of a married lady.”

This took some time as the hair was combed, parted down the middle, carefully braided and then pinned up. At last, Lucy thought she was finished, but there was one final item to add: a pair of white kid leather gloves. Meakes explained that Victorian girls were never ungloved in public. That as may be, but these were exceptionally tight and, when buttoned at the wrist, considerably reduced her motor control. ‘Oh well, one must suffer for fashion,’ she thought to herself in an affected, Elizabeth Bennett type voice.

Leaving the bedroom, she found moving and walking in this costume a whole new experience. The width was the first thing. She had to be careful not to bump into things whilst her high heels made her unsteady. The wide skirts also blocked her vision which presented a real problem when descending stairs, but most of all, the tight corset caused her to be constantly short of breath and her middle to feel quite rigid and inflexible. She moved slowly and in a stately manner which befitted the role she was subconsciously getting into. This would not be for long but she was determined to enjoy it.

Downstairs she found Jane in a dress of similar size but in blue. She noticed that her friend now had her hair in sausage curls which looked cute in a kind of Elegant Gothic Lolita steampunk Victorian way, whilst she also noted that the other girl’s waist was considerably narrower – and sexier – than her own. Jane jumped up to greet her and hugged her warmly. “You look great!” she exclaimed. “Give us a twirl!” Lucy obliged and Jane clapped her gloved hands before taking that of her friend and leading her to a couch with a rigid back. They sat together holding hands and talking whilst Meakes and another maid brought tea and Lucy felt like she truly were in a fairy tale.

They ate lunch with John who was most enthusiastic about the change in Lucy’s attire and encouraged her to try and wear some of the “more elaborate” dresses whilst also commenting that he would “arrange a solution to the hair issue”. Then they returned to the drawing room, but, since the weather was clear (though a trifle chilly) Jane suggested they go for a walk around the grounds. Lucy agreed and so Meakes was summoned. She returned bearing even more clothing, namely a fur-lined cloak in deep royal purple, a matching muff and a poke bonnet. Now even more encumbered, the girls set off and spent a wonderful hour strolling around the gardens, although Lucy found her tight corset kept her continually out of breath and, despite the sedate pace, they had to stop several times to regain their composure. This was a real shock to the system to the girl who was used to running 5km minimum during every gym session.

That night they were stripped of their garments save for the shift and, to Lucy’s surprise, the corset. Jane explained that it was usual for Victorian girls to wear their stays (another name, apparently, for corsets) 23 hours a day as otherwise they could never reduce enough to fit into fashionable dresses. This all sounded rather strange to Lucy but Jane said she understood completely and would provide her with some historical books that explained it all and which would also help with her degree. Since Lucy was studying twentieth century ideology and conflict as her major, she doubted this, but was happy to learn nonetheless and the two girls spent a pleasant evening cuddling on Lucy’s big bed whilst pretending to be real Victorian maidens who were about to marry a handsome lord like Mr. D’Arcy. When she returned to her own room though, Lucy found the corset a real impediment to sleeping and tried to undo it but, wearing the tight gloves (which had been replaced by Meakes after washing and filled with some sort of cream which would be good for the skin) she couldn’t undo the tight knot. Of course, the solution to that would be to remove the gloves, but that too proved impossible because of the tightness of the fastening at the wrists and so, in the end, she fell into an uneasy sleep still corsetted.

And so the days continued. Every morning Lucy awoke in the wonderful bedroom dressed like a girl from over a century ago. She was then prepared by Meakes, had breakfast with her friend, and then spent the day in “feminine pursuits” such as needlework and embroidery (difficult in the tight gloves), “promenades” around the grounds when dry, reading or just drinking tea and chatting. The clothes were difficult to wear. They weighed her down and restricted her and whenever the corset seemed to get a trifle easier to bear, Meakes would promptly tighten it further, but they looked incredible and she loved the fact that she was actually living out history.

And doing so in the presence of Jane.

Some things did change though. On the second day of Victorian wear, she found, to her surprise, that a hairdresser had been summoned to the hall and she was led to her bedroom and her braids undone. Then, the stylist attended to her, adding significant hair extensions so that, like Jane, her hair now reached all the way to her bottom. This meant, of course, that she could also sport elaborate and time-consuming styles involving sausage curls or other ringlets, but the added weight was another trial to bear. With a heavy head, constricted waist, wide and weighty skirts and high heels (these seemed to increase as the waist decreased) she found that she could only move slowly and in a ladylike fashion. Oh well, it was only for a couple of weeks.

On the fourth day though, she found herself again summoned to the bedroom where a number of strangers were waiting. They were revealed to be a dressmaker, a corsetiere and a bootmaker and all were there to measure her for new outfits, in particular for the wedding. Slightly confused, Lucy later talked to Jane about this.

“Well, the clothes that you’re wearing now are mine really, so they don’t quite fit. Victorian maidens of a certain class always wore specially-tailored outfits to match their precise proportions so why not you as well?”

“Yes, but we only have a few weeks and then we have to return to uni!”

“We do but then there will be the Christmas holidays and the Easter break. I’d love it for you to come here again and live as we do now although, of course, if you’re finding it boring…”

“Oh no, not at all. Wearing this stuff is difficult, that I do admit, but it is marvellous too. I really feel transported back in time and I do like being with you as well.” They looked at one another and winked. Most nights now they had enjoyed more than a quick peck on the lips although neither had openly said anything.

“Besides, there is the wedding and you must look your best for that!”

“But what is this wedding that I have heard mentioned several times?”

“Pappa is remarrying. Mamma died years ago and he has been so lonely since. However, he has managed to find a girl who shares the same hobby as we do and so has decided to take the plunge. The wedding is in mid-September and it will be amazing. The gowns that will be on show you cannot believe, as everyone will be dressed in period costume.”

“What is she like, his fiancee?”

“Oh, she’s lovely. I really get on with her and she will be the perfect wife for pappa.”

“I should like to meet her.”

“You shall, do not worry about that.”


As the days passed though, there was one aspect of her new life that Lucy began to feel a little, well, uneasy about. It was the reading material. Jane had promised to educate on how Victorian maidens lived by providing her with suitable reading material on the era and so, every afternoon, an hour or more was dedicated to reading in the drawing room. At first these writings were innocuous, like diaries of young maidens or some romantic novels from the period, but then they began to get a little stranger. The first was a series of accounts from a magazine entitled ‘London Life’ which seemed to be focussed very much on corseting of an extreme nature named “tightlacing” where girls tried to get their waists down to impossible dimensions. This seemed to be connected to a sexual theme with bondage elements like skirts that hobbled them and excessively high collars or tight sleeves. Then came an essay entitled ‘Victorian Yearnings: Enforcement of Disciplined Formality’ which went even further, referring to women repeatedly as “the weaker sex” and recommending spankings for breaches in costume decorum. Finally though, came another essay, ‘Corsets, Collars and Chains: European Practices of Yesteryear’ by one John Francis Trelawney. This was a survey of all the methods used to “enforce discipline” on young ladies in Victorian times, from tightlacing to masks and even pouches that bound their arms. Rather shocked, that evening in bed, Lucy spoke to her friend about it.

“Jane, have you read that ‘Corsets, Collars and Chains’ thing that you gave me?”

“I have. Why do you ask?”

“Well, it’s rather… extreme, don’t you think?”

“It is, but it is also rather exciting, don’t you think?”

“Exciting?”

“Yes. Imagine being tightlaced like that, or disciplined with spanking or even wearing one of those single glove armbinders like Lady Ardmore?”

Lady Ardmore was discussed in the essay. She sometimes wore an armbinder that kept her arms together behind her back in a single sleeve, palm to palm, elbows touching, tightly.

“I don’t know… maybe.”

Jane snuggled up to her and kissed her on the lips. Her tongue lingered longer than it should and her gloved hand slipped down to stroke her friend’s bottom. “I really like you,” she said.

“And I really like you…”

The stroke became a caress and the hand moved towards a more intimate place. “We’re being a bit naughty…”

“We are.”

“But before we go further, I must tell you something. It’s not just the costume. I have another passion. You mentioned extreme and maybe it is, but I like things that restrain and confine me. Like the corset. I also have a single glove like Lady Ardmore… and other things. If we are to become naughtier together, then I would like to share this passion of mine as well. Are you game?”

With her friend’s gloved hands on her breasts and a hot feeling down below, Lucy did not feel that it was in her power to say no.

 

Part 2

First Kiss

First Kiss

Copyright © 2018, Dave Potter

With thanks to Cafter Homme for the editing and suggestions.

Author’s note:

The following story is extremely different from most of those I write in both tone and content. I thought it up after reading some of the erotica penned by the famous author Anaïs Nin and was inspired to write something more in line with the length and tone that she writes in. That said, this is not a Nin tribute nor even a tale written in her manner: I am me and she was she and our tastes differ. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy it.

Dave Potter

 

Michael had always had the feeling that he should have been born in a different age. Perhaps it was because he had parents who were National Trust members and so spent half of his childhood being whisked through one stately home or another. Or possibly it was because he loved reading adventure stories involving knights and castles or World War I fighter pilots involved in daring dogfights. Whatever the reason, he always knew that where he should not be was in Year 12 at Trentham Road High Sixth Form in 1996.

What was the problem? The problem that every boy of that age has I suppose. Girls. He’d discovered them. He loved them. They hadn’t noticed him. His days were spent in a hormone-induced daze, gazing at the cleavage of Julia Jenkinson or the legs of Hannah Baines or the absolute complete perfection of Jenny Watkinson knowing that all were well and truly out of his reach. Even the middling Becky Robinson hardly casted a glance in his direction. It was excruciating.

And nowhere worse than A-level English. Was it his fault that God had made him a man with a passion for literature? The only man with a passion for literature. Four times a week, for an hour and ten minutes, he had to sit at a table with the aforementioned holy trinity of Trentham Road womanhood, plus eight more gorgeous babes whilst being lectured to on modern women’s poetry, George Eliot and Dorothy Wordsworth by Mrs. Cooper whose husband had just left her for a younger model. The moral of each tale seemed to be that all men are bastards and, as he was clearly the only bastard in the room, a dozen pairs of feminine eyes fixed upon him with thinly-veiled disgust.

And to make it worse, that discarded old maid had decreed that he be partnered with Jenny Watkinson, the most delectable of them all, and that every time they sat together, almost touching, her cute dimples when she smiled, her silky blonde hair, her sparkling blue eyes and her tantalising cleavage sent him into some sort of demonic mash-up of heaven and hell. And just to add insult to injury, in the evening when they were having their dinner, his mum would pipe up, “How was school today, son?” and “Are you still in the same group as Sandra Watkinson’s daughter. She’s quite a bonny lass, is she not? I went to school with her mum and she was pretty too. You should try asking her out one day, you know. They’re a lovely family.”

Ask her out? If only! He longed for what he could not have. To take Jenny Watkinson, nay, any one of those girls in English in his arms, to plant a kiss on her rosebud lips just as Stephen Guest does with Lucy Deane in ‘Middlemarch’, now that was beyond a dream. Their curves and smiles, smooth skin and sparkling eyes tempted and teased him continually, night and day, allowing no escape. They haunted his dreams and his waking and his member strained in his pants whenever he thought of them.

 

And being born in the wrong period, he looked to the past for relief. ‘Oh, if I were to just get married!’ he sighs to himself. He envied the Asians who have their marriages arranged for them by their parents. Wouldn’t that be easier! His mum and dad pick a suitable girl of the right class and it would be happily ever after. No embarrassment, no awkwardness. If only!


That Sunday they go to a National Trust property. While his mum and dad take gran to the tearoom, he wanders off on his own, through the dining rooms and drawing rooms. And as his feet wander, so too does his mind.

He imagines that 1996 is but a distant dream of the future and instead it is 1856. His mind transports him to that more genteel era when those lavish furnishings were new. Gone are the ‘Here to help!’ volunteers and the camera-laden pensioners and instead he is a guest at the local baronet’s annual garden party. He is a dapper young man of seventeen in a pressed morning suit whose parents have recognised that he is of the age; that they need to marry their son off to a suitable maiden so that he can start a family of his own. But who is the correct girl to choose? They have scoured the town for suitable candidates and have talked to the fathers of all the eligible girls. Michael is middle-class; they need a girl whose family are of similar standing. But Michael is intelligent too (he is expected to pass all four of his A-levels) and so they need a girl that will challenge him. But she should be kind and gracious also, well-mannered, healthy and, if possible, pretty. And, having done their work well, they know that only one girl fits the bill. He recalls the awkward first meeting with Miss Jennifer Watkinson in the sitting room of her house. She smiles at him and his heart melts. She is dressed in her best day dress, a delightful tiered creation in blue-grey satin with lace on the flounces, held wide by a large crinoline before diving into a delightfully tiny waist. He remembers the almost imperceptible creaks in the quiet room caused by her breathing against the strictures of the tight corset that created that wonderful waist and their polite yet nervous conversation with one another.

Feeling his rod stiffen, he heads outside.

He passes through the formal garden and into the maze. He wanders through the hedged pathways thinking only of the delightful maiden who will be his wife. Still in a daze, he reaches the centre where the bench stands under an arbour of roses and there, to his surprise, is his betrothed, his desire. She is wearing a walking dress of tartan print and has her bonnet on her head, her delightful face being framed by the large black bow that is tied under her chin. She too his lost to the world but, upon his arrival, she looks up.

“You came!”

“I could not wait!”

 

“It is so hateful there, all those people talking and staring. I so wished to get away, to be alone… with you.”

“I too, my darling.”

“Sit with me.”

He sits on the bench and smells her scent. Cautiously, he takes her gloved hand in his and squeezes it. She smiles, inviting more. He snakes his hand closer, around that rock-hard waist, caressing the stays and material that keep him from his desires. She gasps and moves her face towards him. “Michael, my love.”

“Jennifer, I shall always be yours!”

Their lips meet and he dissolves into bliss.

“Michael Shingler! What the fuck?”

He looks up. He is alone on the bench, his hand clasped around his penis, not her waist. But Jennifer Watkinson is there in front of him. The 1996 version.

He gasps and blushes. His rod collapses with the shock despite the flesh and blood sight of her in tight jeans and a figure-hugging top.

“Jenny! I… I was just… it wasn’t what it looks like and…”

“You were calling my name, declaring undying love and playing with… that.”

“I’m sorry, I, err… I thought I was alone and… don’t tell anyone, please.”

After a moment she smiles wickedly and strides over to him. He fumbles at his crotch trying to put the straining monster away but she places her elegant hand over his to stop him. “I won’t say anything if you tell me exactly what you were thinking of.”

“I wasn’t thinking of anything. Well, I was but…”

“The truth, Michael, the full truth or else! I heard you call my name from practically the other side of the garden, was it me?”

“Well…” He turns things over in his mind. Can he tell the truth? Will she mock him mercilessly? Will he ever be able to meet her sky-blue eyes again? Yet what could make things worse than now? He plunges into the icy water.

“Ye…yes, it w…w…was you. I was f…fa…fantasising about you. We all… I mean, all… all the boys do. But th…this was d…di…diifferent. It was you but… but not you… if th…that makes sense, which I… I know it doesn’t, but…”

“Tell me more. I am intrigued.” She sits close to him on the bench. Her hand has not moved from his crotch. He stiffens even further.

“It was you but not you now. I was in the past, a hundred and fifty years ago. Victorian times. This place, this house and gardens and everything. Our times are so crass and shallow. People screw each other and talk dirty. They bare all to the world and don’t care about anything. But back then, when this place was built, when women wore crinolines and corsets and people were polite; back then when the books we read in Mrs. Cooper’s class were written. Back then things were nobler and purer and… better. And in my fantasy we lived then. You were wearing a glorious dress with a wide crinoline and tight stays. I was dressed in a suit with a cravat. We were engaged; our parents made the match because we are the same class. We came to this place because it is private. On this bench we stole out first kiss and… and then…”

“…and then I came.”

“Yes. You came.”

She moves closer to him and he feels her breath on his cheek. She is breathing heavily as if her middle is constricted by a corset yet she wears only a t-shirt. She leans over to him and her hand encircles his tool. “In all those English lessons I wondered,” she whispers. “I wondered if anyone else was as entranced by those stories, if anyone else shared my fantasies, escaping to those simpler times. I never guessed that you were the one who did so completely, Michael Shingler, never in a thousand years. I never saw you as being so romantic.”

“Really? You… You… Yeah I always have wanted things to be like that. I was born in the wrong time.”

“Me too,” says Jenny Watkinson climbing on top of him. “Now, what were you saying about our first kiss…?”

 

 

Yabu

Yabu

This story was written by me, Dave Potter, but thanks must go to Cafter Homme for the editing and corrections which have made it a better tale than it was originally.

Author’s note:

This story was inspired by the following description of the lives of women in traditional Korean society written by Isabella Jane Bird in her 1895 travelogue ‘Korea and Her Neighbours’.

It is also worth the reader acquainting themselves with traditional Korean dress. These diagrams may help:

c5e4711cce05ca9eaa2ad590aac44861e710bd67_hqce31f5f8822dca2e171c7f8191b790e7

The information on traditional Korean hairstyles comes from this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wfUROEyt39Y

 

Chapter 1

I suppose I should start off by introducing myself. My name is Beo-Jin, Pak Beo-Jin, and I am a high school student at Park Valley Private High for Girls in California. Or at least, I was. I’m not anymore. Not a student, I mean. Like, my name’s  not even Beo-Jin. But you’ll get it later.

What I was not and am not is a “normal” girl. After all, how many “normal” Korean girls study in an expensive private high in the US? No, I don’t think so, not normal at all. That was due to my dad. His name is Pak Cha-Ek and he was one of the executive directors of Chollima Inc, a global electronics brand worth, like, billions! That’s how he had the money to send me to such a prestigious school in States, convenient since he was in charge of their American operations. Oh, he paid for everything, but that was it. He never bothered himself much with either my upbringing or my welfare, too busy making money and serving the company. A typical Korean businessman, I guess you’d say. Anyways, we weren’t close.

Nor too did my mum bother herself much about me. I mean, like,  she neither raised me nor cared for me; I was always an afterthought. My dad got together with her when he was forty-two and she was just an air-headed nineteen-year old beauty queen. My guess is she had my brother Ryu to get a ring out of my dad, cause knowing him he would’ve just dumped her for the next floozy that came along. Like he had the last. If there had ever been a “spark” between them, it was dead and gone by the time I was here, like, a year or so later. She now spends her time living off of a healthy stipend from dad, usually on the French Riviera where she bathes on yachts, gambles in casinos, and looks for new sugar daddies. Like with dad, we weren’t close.

Despite this rather fucked up family though, I wasn’t depressed or anything drama. You don’t miss what you never had, right? Like, school was alright, especially playing field hockey and soccer; I loved K-Pop, I dyed my hair ginger and did my makeup like Hyuna with no one to stop me; oh! and I loved partying with my cool Cali friends! Yeah, when you’re sixteen and rich in the sun, life ain’t bad.

1-26_hyuna_clriden_3

Or at least, mine wasn’t until the letter arrived. Dad wanted me to come home, and by home I mean Korea. He called it a “summons,” I called it a waste of time. It was only for a visit of course, or at least, that’s what I assumed. I just guessed he’d gone through one of his occasional bouts of parental guilt and wanted to show me what a great dad he actually was. Whatever. It was a bummer, as always; the summer holidays were approaching, and I’d been planning to go with Kelly down to her mum’s place in Mexico. Still, I knew better than to refuse my father. After all, if I pissed him off, my allowance could stop, and bang would go any cool plans and stuff. We all have our cross to bear, right? This was mine. Or so I thought.

The letter informed me that I had a flight booked to Seoul on the Saturday after I finished school, first class of course. It went on to say that I would be met by a car which would drive me to our house which, I was surprised to learn, was a new one that dad had some fancy architect build over the previous year. This was a total shock; why had he mentioned nothing about this a few months back when he’d popped over to LA for business? The letter also mentioned that he had now taken on a new job, from Chollima to Chongsanri, of which he was now Vice President again. You have no idea, I almost, like, screamed. Chollima was big, but Chongsanri was, like, HUGE! The leading Korean tech outfit by a mile. My God, what must dad be making now?! It didn’t really matter, it was good news for me!

Ahh, if only we had the benefit of hindsight!

As promised, I got picked up at Incheon Airport by a blank-faced lackey chauffeur who showed me towards a limo with blacked-out windows. I settled in the back, made myself a coffee from the minibar and watched the world go by. Seoul soon faded away and we were well into the countryside. I was puzzled. Dad had always preferred city life, and in Korea that means Seoul or bust!

Still we drove on and on, up into the mountains. Then, somewhere near to Pyeongchang, we headed off up some creepy side road that made me mistrust the dumb chauffeur, winding through forested slopes until we came to the house itself. Let me tell you, it was not what I had expected.

It was an unsurprisingly large place for Dad but, weirdly, it was built in a very traditional style, like super old fashioned like some sort of Buddhist temple with a walled compound and large pavilions and stuff. Actually at first, you might’ve thought it was ancient; it was only upon a closer look that the modern details became obvious. The car swung into the courtyard and I was shown out by the driver. There to meet me was some maid I had never seen before dressed in like a full, traditional hanbok. Weird. She bowed towards me and told me to follow her, but like, her accent was strange, and I couldn’t place it. Either way I did as she asked, and she led me into one of the pavilions, down some corridors and into a large bedroom furnished in that same old, traditional style. And believe this, on the bed was this ridiculous outfit.

“Your father is busy right now,” said the maid, “but he will meet you for dinner. Please bathe and then dress in the clothes on the bed. If you need a hand, please ring. Otherwise, I shall return at six to show you to him.” And then, with those oddly-formal words, she left.

I was so confused. The opulence was something, but like not that strange?

But all the emphasis on tradition just puzzled me. I mean, you have to understand, Dad had never been that kind of guy. And the outfit that I had to put on matched the surroundings: it was a hanbok. I had worn hanboks before, of course – which Korean girl hasn’t? – but only for special occasions like graduations. But why one today for just a meal with my father? Still, weird as it was, I was super glad to change after the flight, and besides, it was pretty!

I bathed in the adjacent shower and then returned to the room naked. First up was the underwear, which looked like it had come out of the fuckin’ Ark with Moses or something. I was really tempted to put my good Western lingerie back on, but it was a little bit stinky from the long flight so I decided to bite the bullet. Next came the sokchima or underskirt which was supported by hoops, so wide that it was about a metre and a half at the bottom. Then came the chima or skirt which was a golden colour and covered with some super gorgeous embroidery. After that was the jeogori which was in black and also beautifully embroidered. I tied off the otgoreum just below my small, firm breasts. Finally, there were some pretty beoseum socks for my feet and white silk gloves for my hands. After fitting these I looked at myself into the mirror and nearly burst out laughing! Apart from my dyed ginger hair and 21st century make-up, I could have been a girl from the Joseon Dynasty. This was getting to be just ridiculous.

How little did I know.

At six the maid returned to escort me to my father.

gold hanbok

 

Chapter 2

What transpired that evening over dinner is seared into my memory forever. I often replay it over and over in my mind, and it always gives me like serious goosebumps. On that evening my life changed, irreversibly.

What struck me first was his costume. Ok, so I was wearing a hanbok already, but in Korea many girls do, especially on special occasions. But dad had on the male hanbok, something no guy ever does except maybe when he’s like getting married or something. But there he was, sitting at the table, sipping soju and looking like an extra out of one of those period dramas on TV. Weird.

That was only the start, though. Then came the sudden change in attitude. Suddenly he was all formal with me as if he had somehow changed. The word that comes to mind when I think about it is ‘brainwashed’. Yes, like as if someone or something had washed out his old, corporate, money-making brain and replaced it with something straight out of the nineteenth century. He was formal and particular and although we discussed nothing really beyond small talk and pleasantries during the meal, in my gut I just knew something was up. I also noticed that he didn’t really even ask me about school either, and when I started to tell him about my time on the beach and parties with my American friends, he was clearly uninterested. All he would say was, “Some things are going to change.”

After dinner we chilled out in a traditional sitting-room and after I pressed him a bit more he explained to me what. It was all to do with him moving to Chongsanri. The corporation, at least in it’s highest echelons, seemed to have a very different philosophy than Chollima, or really the rest of the country. At all of dad’s previous jobs it had all been about making money as quickly as possible, but Chongsanri was something else entirely. Chongsanri was all about Korea. To paraphrase another slightly-deranged demagogue, their president was obsessed with trying to make Korea great again. And in my dad he had apparently found a willing disciple.

“The problem is that we try to ape the foreigners, the Westerners, the Chinese, even the Japanese, all those who have oppressed us in the past. We mimic their business methods, their Christian religion, their mode of dress, their tinny pop music and even their hair colour.” He looked at my ginger locks when he said this and I felt uneasy. “But we are not Western, nor Chinese, nor Japanese. We are Koreans! A great nation, millennia old, glorious and cultured! Yet it is as if we are ashamed of our heritage, as if we try to hide it. At Chongsanri they are trying to change that. We are prosperous, yet also true to our Korean roots. We provide jobs for Korean people and extoll Korean culture. Look at this country and the sorry state that it is in! I know this sounds incredible, but even the North, that poverty-stricken, dictator-dominated hellhole, even they are better than us. At least the Kims that they worship were true Koreans who battled the outsiders, not gave in to them or aped them. They glory in their identity! None of their women dye their hair, and their music sounds like true Korean music should. And their women are chaste too! None of this sex before marriage and cohabitation. Compared even to them, we are cultural paupers!”

As he was speaking all this nonsense, like I totally recognised the strange accent of the maid. She was from the North!

“My new boss, Kwon Yong-Byok, the CEO of Chongsanri, has shown me an alternative way, and I have embraced it. I now live as a businessman, yes, but also as a true Korean. This house for starters; it is like the houses that our ancestors dwelt in, except that there is a crucial difference: technology. Back then people died early, got sick, endured the cold and many other deficiencies in life, because the technology was not there. We were vulnerable to domination because of this. What Yong-Byok and now I do, is live in the traditional Korean way but with technology on hand to help us to enhance that wonderful mode of life even further. So the house for example, it has ondol heating as is typically Korean, but the heated vapours are geothermally generated and time-controlled. We have taken tradition and refined it with technology. The happy news is that our family can now live in an almost perfect, original, Korean manner.”

“But dad, like, I’m at school in America, so is Gyu. And mum is, well, mum is wherever she is…”

“No, Beo-Jin, you were at school in America. The old me sent you there. But I have summoned you back here because we’re going to start living as a family again and we are going to live in a true Korean fashion. You shall not be returning to your school; from now on you’ll live here as a proper Korean girl.”

“Fuck that, like, no way! I want to return to Cali! My friends are there and–”

“Lesson Number One, Beo-Jin: Korean society is Confucian. We obey our parents. When I say that you shall be living here, then you shall be living here.” His voice wasn’t angry, but unforgiving.

“But I don’t want to! And besides, up here in the mountains, like, we’re away from everything that means anything. I mean, I’ll be fair, it’s like nice and all, but there’s no school, no jobs, no opportunities. Do you even have wifi?”

“Beo-Jin, you will not be returning to school. It is unnecessary. A Korean girl’s destiny in life is to marry and become an honourable wife to her husband. School will not teach you that, certainly not the schools that you have been attending up till now. From tomorrow onward you will be living at home and learning your future duties as a submissive and honourable wife.”

“Jesus, Dad, I’m sixteen! I don’t want to marry, like, for ten years, at least! I want a career and to go out with my friends and…”

“Silence! There will be no speak of false western idols in my home! What you want is immaterial! A Korean girl’s destiny is to obey her parents and then her husband. And sixteen is a perfectly suitable age to be married. Indeed, in the Joseon Era girls were often wed well before then. Besides, you are not ready yet. You need training to become a suitable wife and that will take time.”

“No, dad, no! This is my life, not yours and I’m not some stupid fucking submissive drone who is going to be ordered about by a man. This is not the nineteenth century, it’s like, the twenty-first! We’ve had a sexual revolution, or haven’t you realised that? I love you dad, but I will not live as you want! I’m sorry but that is that!”

And with those words his face changed. I’d expected anger, but instead he just looked defeated and disappointed. He slumped in his chair and poured out another measure of soju. “This is too much, too fast, I suppose,” he said.

“Yeah, it is,” I replied, glad that he was speaking like a human being again.

“Ok, we’ll see about amending things then. Forget what I said for now and drink some tea with me.” He poured a cup from an exquisite Joseon Era teapot and I raised it to my lips. It tasted really nice and wasn’t too hot, so I drained the tiny cup in one.

Within seconds my sight began to blur, and I slumped to the floor in a faint.

 

Chapter 3

I awoke in the floor-level bed in that traditional bedroom where I’d changed after first arriving, feeling pretty strange. Then I realised that under my head was not a usual pillow but a traditional Korean buckwheat pillow in its hard, bundled rolls. Raising my head, it felt strangely heavy, so annoyed and confused I got up and walked to the mirror. What I saw shocked me.

My ginger styling was all gone and instead I had natural, jet black hair again! More than that, this hair was long, very long, reaching past my waist when unpinned from the top of my head. That was the weight I had felt. But what had happened? Obviously, I had been drugged and during the time I had been out they’d dyed my hair black. But what about the length? I checked. Extensions. Hmm… Nothing else seemed different. Why would my deranged father drug me just to redo my hair? He must be going mad!

I took off my slip and checked my body all over. The hair was gone from down between my legs, which was a bit disconcerting, but that was all. Oh yes, and a small mark like a tiny incision or a bug bite just above my love slit. What was it? Hmm…

That same maid came in. “You are awake, Miss Beo-Jin. Please, bathe yourself and then let me prepare you,” she said with her Pyongyang accent.

I took a shower and then came back. Lain out on the bed was another hanbok, this time with a yellow chima and a pink jeogori. “I’d prefer a different outfit,” I told her.

“There are only hanboks in this house,” she replied.

I was naked and my suitcase was nowhere to be found so, reluctantly, I put it on. Then she sat me down and started doing my hair in an elaborate fashion. “Please, just a ponytail,” I said. It was starting to become obvious what was happening.

“Your father orders this style,” she replied simply.

I knew there and then that I had to put a stop to this before it went too far. “Fuck what my father wants,” I told her. “This is my hair! My body! Haven’t you people heard of like, feminism?”

And then I got up and dashed out of the room. I had to get out of here, to escape. Dad obviously wasn’t going to observe my wishes, so to hell with him! I expected her to try and stop me, but to my surprise she just nodded and passively let me get away. Hurriedly, I walked down the corridor to the courtyard. I crossed the courtyard to the main gate. It was ajar. I went to go through it when suddenly like this piercing pain racked my body, like an electric shock starting at my genitals and coursing outwards. I tried to push myself through, but the pain was too great, like fire and ice all at once coming from my mound! I jumped back, and it subsided. What the fuck was that!? I turned around to see my father and the maid standing on the pavilion, silently. He was smiling. “You cannot leave,” he said calmly.

“What the fuck was that!?” I demanded.

“Your new implant. It was inserted whilst you were asleep. It ensures obedience. Whenever you try to leave the woman’s quarters of our home, it will activate. I am sorry to do this to you, but you need to be taught how to become an honourable Korean woman. You will be punished whenever you try to leave or whenever I feel it is necessary. Your maid informs me that you refused to have your hair styled correctly. Beo-Jin, I will give you another chance because this life is new to you. Return to your chamber and prepare yourself accordingly. I am your father.”

I stood my ground. “Forget it! I’m not your doll to be made up and kept in a cage, let me go!!”

And I stormed past the invisible line again and my pussy instantly contracted in pain while the rest of my body contorted, trying to dispel the intense shock, the pain, but it was no use, I retreated back toward them.

My father was not smiling anymore. “Beo-jin! You will be punished for your insolence, return to your chamber!”

I wanted to object, to counter, to rebel, but the memory of the pain was too horrific. Like the submissive Korean girl that he wanted me to be, I returned to my room and let his maid prepare me.

She sat me down on a chair and then started to work, combing my long hair out, parting it down the centre and then plaiting it into a long ponytail. This was then rolled up and fastened low behind my head. A black padded form with red silken ends was then attached to the top of my head using pins and long platts of real human hair brought out, each over a metre long. I later learned that these, like the maids, came from the North, with Chongsanri paying huge quantities for North Korean girls to donate their hair. The platts were wrapped around my head and the form and then attached with pins creating a high and round structure but revealing the red silk end of the padded form. This was then decorated with jewellery, I admit really exquisite stuff if I hadn’t been furious by that point.

“This style is called eoyeo meori,” she explained in a neutral voice when she had finished. “It was the usual style for noble women of the Joseon Era to wear their hair, and so your father has decreed that this is the style for you to wear every day. On special events I shall do your hair in a more elaborate fashion.”

More elaborate! This style had taken the best part of an hour to complete and it was so difficult to wear! The weight was tremendous, and it jangled whenever I moved. And I was expected to endure this every day!

But that was not all.

Eoyeo Meori

Next came the make-up. Turns out I was not to leave my room without being made-up from now on. Defeated and passive, I sat there whilst she started the process, applying a really thick coating of white foundation to my entire face and then white powder to create a sort-of porcelain look. Whilst she did this, I tried to engage her by asking her name and so on, but her replies were neutral: “I am only a maid”, “My age does not matter, mistress” and so on. She wouldn’t even admit to being North Korean. “Where the master hired me from is unimportant,” she blithely said. I was starting to really hate this bitch.

After my face, my eyes were done with a variety of cosmetics, including black eyeliner and false lashes to emphasise my femininity. Then came the brows, thin black lines drawn high to emphasise my haughtiness. And finally, the mouth, a pair of red rosebud lips. The china doll was complete. Well, almost. The finishing touch was a pair of white cotton gloves for my hands and that was it.

My first day had no lessons. The maid said that I was to get used to my clothes and my surroundings. It was so weird, just pacing around in that fine dress, the ridiculously wide hooped skirt bumping into things and my heavy hair feeling unsteady as it jangled away. I warily drank tea, and explored the house, or at least, the little I could. Many doors were locked and only one courtyard open to me. When I say “locked,” you might think the doors wouldn’t open, but they did, the whole complex was technically ‘open,’ it just sent powerful ripples through my implant whenever I tried, warning pulses that quickly turned to pain when I looked through, or worse, stepped over the threshold. These were the women’s quarters, and I was barred from the rest, kept modest and pure in my own little prison. I seethed with anger but knew that there was nothing that I could do… yet.

That evening I dined with father again. He was full of praise for my new appearance and called me a “proper Korean maiden”. What a fucking joke I must have looked like, I felt sick to my stomach but said nothing, remembering the pain all too clearly. Whenever I spoke for too long, I would see his hand wander into the pocket of his robes, no doubt waiting for me to say something out of turn. I had no desire to re-live that pain, though, so I gave him no reason to chastise me. Turns out he already had reason enough.

That evening, my head and neck aching from the weight imposed upon it and the trauma of the day, and I looked forward to bed and a chance to become a normal human being again, but bedtime too held some nasty surprises. The maid helped to undress me but then came something that caught me like totally off guard: with a firm grasp she grabbed by wrists and handcuffed them behind my back. Then she led me to the shower and attached the handcuffs to a hook on the wall. After this I was washed thoroughly by her before then being led back into the bedroom and leant over a chair. “Your father has decreed that your misdemeanours be punished. These include any form of disobedience or unladylike behaviour. There have been countless today, but he has told me to go easy on you because it is your first day as a real Korean lady. So, I shall only administer ten strokes for the most heinous.” And then, taking out a large wooden paddle, that pious bitch stood behind me and…

Thwack!

“That is for refusing to have your hair styled.”

Thwack!

“That is for attempting to escape.”

Thwack!

“That is for swearing at your father.”

Thwack!

“That is for swearing at me.”

Thwack…

That night I lay in my bed and tears streamed down my face whilst my bottom was like red raw. Worse still, my hands, encased in padded gloves, were tied to a belt around my waist so I could not dry those tears, whilst my legs were immobilised, encased in a long single stocking with my feet tightly bound in the end, so there would be no nocturnal wandering or touching myself, as I had grown very used to doing every other night back in California. Even this was off limits now.

My life had descended into hell.

Chapter 4

And so, my new life began.

Every day I awoke, was showered and then dressed in my sumptuous yet restrictive outfit. Then I attended lessons with my tutor, another North Korean. These were neither interesting nor educational, absolutely nothing like my school in Cali. Instead they were a series of phrases that I had to repeat over and over again. Phrases like “Silence is regarded as a wife’s first duty” or “A wife must be chaste and pure.” With time I realised that they served a dual purpose: to educate me in my new station and to break my spirit. If I made any mistakes they were rewarded with paddles on my bottom before bedtime and for the first few months my bum was always red and sore. I felt like a goddamn child, it was so messed up!

My misery did not end with these lessons though. For the rest of the day (basically the afternoons) my time was my own, but there was so little that I could do now, I was like bored out of my mind. I was officially confined to the female quarters which meant my bedroom, my classroom, a sitting room and dining room and a small courtyard. I was by all means a prisoner, and so in my spare time all I could do was pace around the tiny confines of my prison and wish I was outside. Even that though, was not unobstructed. After my first day, my tutor decreed that my gait was unfeminine and not suitable for a Korean lady. “A noble lady should glide in her hanbok, not prance!” she declared. And so, I was fitted with two straps: the first a thick band of material that was tied just above the knees and the second a leather strap of some twenty centimetres or so fastened to bands that went around my ankles. Now I could only glide – or shuffle – along at a snail’s pace and ascending or descending any steps was like super hard.

In the evenings I still dined with my father elsewhere in the house, and although I now truly hated him, I looked forward to the experience just as a change from the simplistic daily schedule. He would speak at length (not really to me, but at me) about the Chongsanri Corporation and its vision for the rejuvenation of the country. He spoke of the CEO, Kwon Yong-Byok, as if he were a god and spoke of future plans and ideas.

I did not rebel. It is true that in those first few weeks I made several off-hand derogatory remarks to him, instantly resulting in extremely painful contractions in my pussy, but I soon gave that up as it became de-rigueur for me to be gagged after the meal so he could talk at me without interruption. This gag consisted of a large white plastic intrusion with a white leather panel on the end and a strap that reached around my head, buckled at the back. It looked simple but it must have been connected in some way, as every time I groaned or sighed I was rewarded with an appropriately-sized shock below. Dad lauded this gag as an example of how Chongsanri had improved upon the traditional ways. I felt absolutely humiliated, especially since it had ‘A female’s duty is to be silent’ in hangul characters on the front of the panel.

I was docile not just because I remembered the pain, but also because I knew that now was not the time. At our first dinner together after my new life had begun, dad had mentioned that Ryu would also be forced to adopt a traditional lifestyle. I imagined my younger brother, used to his American high school, wandering around in a male hanbok pretending to be some yangban from yore and smiled. Yes, he would never accept that. He would be my ally. Until then, I could wait and endure the charade.

To pass the time it was decreed that I be allowed “feminine pursuits”. If I did well in my lessons I was allowed to paint traditional Korean pictures with an inkbrush or write a scroll in hangul characters. Once I wrote a really nice poem, but using the English alphabet, a “crime” for which I received no less than twenty-six paddles, one for each alien letter. Korean girls, apparently, are only allowed to write Korean characters.

Yes, it was that ridiculous.

Even that pleasure however, was not always allowed to me. Concerned about my unfeminine behaviour, in the women’s quarters I was never far from a maid or my tutor, even when I was supposed to be having free time in the courtyard. Combine this with my sleeping situation, unable to move my hands or legs at all, it didn’t take very long for me to start skipping off to the bathroom in search of privacy. One day during the part of my cycle that always makes me hot and needy, and after I had worked up the courage, I found myself in the bathroom with nowhere to sit (traditional korean toilets are embedded in the floor), determined to get off somehow. Thinking ahead I pried off the tight white gloves, hiked up my massive chima skirt and brought my fingers down, past the faint implant scar to touch my clit, only to receive the most intense, body-wracking shock since my first day here, leaving me sobbing and spasming on the ground, getting my dress all dirty. smearing my makeup, attracting the attention of every maid in the compound.

After this incident, another item was added to my wardrobe, a sort of sleeve which went over my arms when they were crossed in front of my breast, covering them completely. This looked elegant enough, but what a casual observer could not see was that underneath the hanging cloth, my forearms were bound together in a laced sleeve, making use of my hands impossible. This was initially instituted for walking in the courtyard only, but gradually I was expected to wear it inside as well, sometimes for an entire afternoon, greatly hampering my precious free time, restricting my allowed feminine pursuits. And, as the weather grew colder, a new and even more cumbersome item was added. This was a kind of all-encompassing veil that left only my face free and from October to April was decreed mandatory outdoors.

About a month after my captivity began, a new figure entered the household. She was introduced as Mi-So and she was extremely beautiful yet also North Korean like all the other servants. What shocked me was that she dressed in sumptuous gowns just like me and had her hair done in the eoyeo meori style as I did. Unlike the other servants, she joined dad and me at dinner, sitting like really close to him, and afterwards she would play the traditional gayageum exquisitely well or even dance for us. I was in awe of her.

After a couple of days, I saw her sitting in the women’s courtyard alone and so slowly, gracefully, I approached her. Unlike the other servants, she was happy to talk to me. She told me that she was a gisaeng and when I expressed ignorance at the term, she explained that it is like the Japanese geisha, something of a cross between a courtesan and an artiste. She explained that she came from Pyongyang originally and because of her musical talents and expertise at dance, she had been sent to the premier school in the North Korean capital where girls are trained in such things to the highest standard, called a gwonbeong. She had expected, as all the girls in her class did, to graduate and go on to serve the Motherland either in an artistic troop or a teaching capacity, but then one day, some esteemed visitors from the Chongsanri Corporation had come to the school and watched the final year students put on a performance. Afterwards, five of the girls who had taken part were summoned to the Party Office and told that they had been chosen to serve the Motherland by becoming employees of Chongsanri and practising their arts in the decadent south. Although shocked at first, they had been assured that the Marshall wished this of them and that they would be well-paid which, Mi-So assured me, she was, although 90% of that money went straight to the state. And so she had come with four friends – deemed to be the prettiest of their year – and a busload of other Chongsanri employees, over the border near Kumgangsan and up to the mountain mansion complexes of the Chongsanri elite (it transpired that all of dad’s co-executives and their homes were situated within a few miles of each other, a veritable ministate of traditional values). This whole story fascinated me, and I was glad to be able to share my lonely life with someone, although I now felt uncomfortable in the evenings as my father would openly fondle Mi-So, pushing his hand under her jeogori and slapping her bottom whilst she would kiss him passionately on the mouth.

Indeed, as time progressed, it became de rigueur for me to be dismissed straight after dinner, though this did not always save me from the gag.


My heart trembled with excitement as my maid assembled my new hairstyle. In view of the auspicious occasion, it had been decreed that I would wear the tteoguji meori style, which is even more elaborate and difficult to wear than the eoyeo meori as it involves adding to that style an enormous black wooden ornament, the tteoguji, which is fastened to the hair by means of pins and ribbons. Even this added encumbrance I did not mind however… for my brother was coming home!

tteoguji meori.png

I minced towards the main chamber in a purple hanbok which I had to admit was nice, arms bound in front of me as was becoming more and more common, excited to see my brother and make him aware of my plight. The door was opened for me to reveal him seated already for dinner with dad and, to my surprise, Mi-So and another gisaeng who had her gloved hand resting on his thigh. Furthermore, he was already dressed in a traditional male hanbok. This did not look good, I thought to myself.

We ate making only small talk, Gyu complimenting me on my beauty and dad saying how much I had changed for the better. I scrutinised his face for clues to the anger I wanted to see, but he remained impassive. And then, after dinner, I was dismissed, leaving the two men alone with their gisaeng.

The following day though, I got my chance. He came to the women’s quarters, walking through the forbidden door like it was nothing, and asked that I be excused from lessons to walk around the courtyard with him. As he was a man, this was not refused.

As soon as we were alone I began pouring my heart out to him and warning him of the dangers to both of our futures. To my surprise – and dismay – though, he merely frowned and replied, “Beo-Jin, what you say is wrong. I can understand how hard this is for you, I really can; after all I was an American high school student myself only a few weeks ago, but what choice do we have? Dad controls all the money and to disobey him would be to cut ourselves off from our future. And besides, what’s so wrong with this whole traditional thing anyway? Why should we Koreans forever be aping the Americans? We were wrong you know, to try to be like them; we’ve got an ancient culture of our own that’s rich and…”

I wanted to slap him across the face, bring him to his senses, but my arms were laced together pretty securely. “Gyu, come on man! You’re sounding like him now! Look at us in these ridiculous clothes, like we’re in some costume drama or something. It’s a fucking joke and not a funny one. And you don’t even understand, I’ve got some sort of sensor implanted in me that shocks me when I wander off! I’m a prisoner here and all I can do is fucking recite lines, paint random shit, and strut around this fucking courtyard. Help me, bro, this is hell!”

“Beo-Jin, you always were too rebellious. What’s wrong with you being feminine for once in a while. And besides, I like this life. Back in the States I was too geeky, none of the girls looked at me yet here I’ve got Mun-Ju who is hot as anything and what we did last night…”

“You mean, you accept it because dad gave you a gisaeng slave to fuck!”

“Not just one, he’s promised another and he’s shown me the girl I’ll be marrying; she’s a total babe… in a Joseon Era kind of way of course.”

“Marrying?”

“Yeah, President Kyon Yong-Byok’s youngest daughter. She’s fifteen now so it won’t be for a year or so but the engagement is official and in the meantime there’s Mun-Ju and…”

“I can’t believe you, Gyu! You’d sacrifice your own sister for the sake of your dick! Help me here bro, I need to get out of here! I have to leave, Gyu, or I’ll go mad!”

“Well, relax then sis, because you will be leaving. Dad arranged it this afternoon.”

“What do you mean? How?”

“Why do you think I’m here, Beo-Jin? Me and dad celebrated your engagement this morning. On the fifteenth of next month you’ll be getting married to Kyon Yong-Byok’s son and heir, Yong-Gon.”

Chapter 5

The day before my wedding my life changed forever. For most people it is on the day on the actual wedding but for me it was the day before. Because on that day my father did something to me, something so cruel, so inhumane, so… words fail me, even today.

Like, literally.

I had received all the pre-wedding indoctrination of course. Hour after hour of it, going through every detail of the ceremony, how I should behave and what would happen to me. But one thing above all was stressed over everything else. “Silence is regarded as a wife’s first duty. During the whole of the marriage day the bride must be as mute as a statue. If she says a word or even makes a sign she becomes an object of ridicule, and her silence must remain unbroken even in her own room.” My tutor had repeated those words over and over again until my head rang with them. Of course, I did not intend to obey. In fact, inwardly I smiled. This was my chance, and seriously, like, low-hanging fruit! I didn’t want to get married and I hated my dad for how he had ruined my life, and this was to be my revenge: silent! You could forget it! I would be as loud, rude, obnoxious and unfeminine as a girl possibly can be when dressed in an elaborate outfit with a ridiculous hairstyle. And as for the electric shocks, well, would they dare to use them in public? Of course not. That would reveal I was being held against my will! This was my moment!

That evening after dinner I asked my father if I could go back to my room, thinking of painting a picture, as these days that was the best option to kill the time. However, waiting for me there was a stranger whom I had never seen before. She had the white coat of a nurse and she looked pretty serious. “What is this?” I asked in surprise.

“Oh, nothing to worry about,” she replied as my maid grabbed hold of me from behind and a needle was plunged into one of my bound arms.

I awoke soon afterwards and found that barely an hour had passed. I was just lying on my bed still clothed. I sat up. Nothing seemed to have changed. They had not disrobed me or done anything immediately apparent. So, what had happened? I rang for the maid and she entered immediately. “What was that all about?” I demanded angrily.

Except that the words did not come out of my mouth. Nothing did. Air flowing without a sound.

I shouted, and I screamed, I called her the bitch she was, but silence reigned. “You have been muted, mistress,” explained the maid. “It is your father’s wedding gift to you, a means of helping you stay honourable during the ceremony. He told me to tell you that it is the latest Chongsanri invention, and a brilliant example of how technology can help us women lead a proper, traditional lifestyle.” Then her expression hardened, and her tone changed. “He also instructed me to warn you that, if you try any funny business during the ceremony, the same can be done with your hearing.”

I sank to the floor in shock, testing myself, hoping even a hum would escape my throat, but there was nothing.

Late that night my father, brother, and I sacrificed before the ancestral tablets, and acquainted our ancestors with the event which was to occur on the morrow. It all passed by like a dream, no, definitely a nightmare.


When the auspicious day arrived, an hour before noon, my bridegroom on horseback, and in court dress, left his father’s house accompanied by two men who walked before him, one carrying a white umbrella, and the other, who was dressed in red cloth, carrying a goose, which is the emblem of conjugal fidelity. He was also attended by several men carrying unlit red silk lanterns, by various servants, and by his father. Upon reaching our house he took the goose from the hands of the man in red, went into the house, and laid it upon a table.

I record all of this but I did not witness it. My maid and the other servants informed me enthusiastically, concentrating on the symbolism of each item. Later, when I learnt that fidelity in a Korean marriage is only ever expected of the woman, the goose seemed particularly ironic.

I heard but not witnessed this because of how I was dressed. That I wore an extremely cumbersome hanbok with a sleeve that immobilised my arms is not worth mentioning, nor too a ridiculous elaborate and heavy hairstyle, a variant on the tteoguji meori style. Such things I expected by this stage. What I did not expect was the make-up.

korean wedding.png

For a traditional Korean wedding, the bride’s face is covered with a thick layer of white powder, patched with spots of red. When they had finished I looked like one of those Japanese geisha in the films. That, however, was not all: after they had done my face, they moved onto the eyes. Surprisingly, no eye make-up was done but instead an adhesive compound was applied to my eyelids which were then glued together, after which the white powder was smeared over them too.

I went through the entire ceremony blind, unable even to open my eyes!

I was led out by two attendants to the room where the ceremony was to take place and then instructed to bow twice to my “lord”, after which he bowed four times to me. This alone made the marriage valid. A cup of wine was then given to my bridegroom, who drank a little, after which it was handed to my maid, who gave me a sip.

And that was it. Afterwards within the house, my now-husband and the other men were served an elaborate feast, but I merely retired to the women’s rooms. He rejoiced with his friends in the men’s apartments but we women got no simultaneous banquet.

Then, during the afternoon my husband returned to his father’s house, and after a time I, still bundled up in a mass of wedding clothes, and with my eyelids still sealed, attended by the two maids, some hired girls, and men with lanterns, went there too, in a rigidly closed chair, in the gay decorations of which red predominates. I was received by my father and mother-in-law, to whom the maid instructed me to bow four times. Then I was taken upstairs to the wedding chamber where I was disrobed completely, my hairstyle dismantled and the powder washed from my face and my body showered. The eyelid adhesive however, stayed. I was then taken to the bed and my wrists chained to the posts and there I waited.

I did not wait long. My unseen husband came and took me with vigour. It was my first experience of lovemaking and, after the initial pain, one of the most intense. Perhaps it was because I didn’t even know what this man who was inside of me looked like, or perhaps it was because I was so silent and passive, so in his control. Perhaps it was because I had not been able to get myself off in months. I cannot say. That though, was my wedding night.

Chapter 6

I woke up to my husband climbing on top of me again. During the night the eyelid adhesive had worn off (I later learnt that it was designed – by Chongsanri – to last for twelve hours maximum) and so this time I saw who was inserting himself into me. The good news is that he was passably handsome.

The bad news though, far outweighed the good. After he had finished and removed himself from me, he untied me from the bed and helped me to sit up. Then he explained my future.

“Like your father and my father, I too believe in a traditional lifestyle, augmented by modern technology, of course” he began. “Unlike them, I doubt it will lead to the rejuvenation of the nation or any other similar claptrap. I guess you could say that your new husband is a bit more cynical although, on second thoughts, I guess you can’t say anything.” He laughed at this cruel joke and I immediately decided that I hated the man I had been married to.

“Your life from now on will be simple. You are my wife and that is your whole purpose in life from this moment forward. Your former name will no longer be used. In accordance with tradition, people will refer to you as ‘the wife of Kwon Yong-Gon’. I, on the other hand, shall refer to you as ‘Look here!’ (Yabu). Apparently, this was the norm in traditional Korean society because your duty is to look to me when I call. Without fault, do you hear? Nod. Ok good. After that your duties include remaining chaste and silent (no issues there I’m sure, ha, ha!), and to provide me with offspring so as to continue the respected Kwon family line. That means sex, of course, and you’ll be glad to know that I love sex. Indeed, one could almost say that I am addicted to it and so we’ll be having a lot of it. Your duty is always to accept my advances, whatever your own feelings. As you can clearly see, a Korean wife has clearly recognised duties to her husband, but just so you know, he has few, if any, to her. I will always treat you with respect in public, for you are mine and so to disrespect you brings shame on me. Furthermore, you will want for nothing. However, as was the norm in Joseon Era society – and this is why I love the traditional ideal so much – whilst I demand chastity and fidelity from you, you may not demand it of me. I keep gisaeng in this house and you must welcome them and show them respect. I do not look for affection in marriage, but who knows, maybe we shall find it? You are certainly prettier than I expected, and, despite your natural inexperience, I enjoyed last night and this morning.”

He paused as if to take stock and noticed my confused expression. “Yabu, you wonder why I say all this to you?” It wasn’t my main question but I nodded. “I guess I have a streak of sadism in me. Like you, I have lived in the west and learnt from it. Feminism, yada yada. I feel for your plight, the silence, ridiculous clothes and hair, lack of freedom and everything, but at the same time it turns me on. That is how I am, Yabu. Your duty is to submit, however distasteful that might be.”

Disgusted with his callousness, I yelled nothing, shook my head, and pummelled him with my unbound fists in an act of pathetic resistance. He laughed and took my weak wrists in his hands. “Such disobedience should be punished and I can’t wait to land a slap on that beautiful rounded bottom of yours!” he exclaimed. I tried to back away and he laughed again. “Not now, Yabu, not in our wedding bed.”  He paused again and then reached forward, grabbed me and forced my face to his, kissing me with gusto, exploring my mouth with his tongue. I tried to bite down but he was too quick and, strangely, although he angered me, his actions excited me too. “By God Yabu, you turn me on!” he declared, when he finally extracted himself from me. He put his left arm round me and started to explore my body with his right hand, squeezing my breasts and stroking the bottom that he had just praised. Handled against my will, hating my body’s instincts, I began to desire him.

“Hmm, Yabu, I think you and I will enjoy each other as well as hate each other. However, that is for later. I must say, you are much better than I thought you would be – and far better naked than in that awful bridal outfit – but there are still areas of concern. These tits for starters! Pert, yes, but way too small for my tastes. I was in the west a long time, you know.” I began to hate him again and my desire faded slightly. “Not very Korean I know, wanting big tits; my father would not be impressed, but I cannot change how I am and you are mine, Yabu, to do what I want with. However, before that, I need to explain some things to you.”

This guy needed the same procedure I had, I thought to myself. I wanted to ask him what he meant by doing what he wanted with, but, mute as I was – and still am – I could not.

“You know your duties as a wife and you know how you will live – much as you did with your father, in predetermined spaces and roles, yes. However, what you do not know is how I operate my household. I studied Psychology at uni – can’t you tell? – and I guess I am a bit of a disciple of Skinner. Hmm, Yabu, your confused look suggests that you don’t know who he was? Well, he believed in a theory of reward and punishment to motivate people and so that is what I shall institute here. I demand sex from you whenever I want it, but what I cannot demand is your enjoyment or the quality of sex that I am accustomed to. Therefore, it is up to you. If you please me sufficiently, I shall reward you. If you fail in your duties, I shall punish you. I believe that your father already instituted a paddling regime; good man. Personally though, I prefer to smack a rounded bottom with my own hand. Your punches earlier, they warrant a smack or two for example. Punishment alone though, does not work.

“Yabu, every day you will dress in full hanbok and eoyeo meori hairstyle as in your father’s house. Here however, you will also wear the arm sleeve as a matter of course. That is to say, silent as you are, denied of the use of your arms, you shall be largely unable to communicate. Your maid will feed you and attend to your toilette. However, if you please me, the sleeve will be removed. For example, a satisfactory morning blowjob will result in three hours without the sleeve in a single day. This can enable you to write a letter, paint a picture, or engage in conversation with another female. Enthusiasm during vaginal intercourse could result in a different reward, say the use of the neolttwigi for an hour.”

He saw my confused look and stopped. “Yabu, do you not know what is neolttwigi?” I shook my head.

“Neolttwigi is our traditional Korean see-saw. Yangban women developed it as a way of seeing beyond the walls of their houses. You will never be allowed out of the house save in a closed carriage so, if you want to see something of the beautiful forests that surround this mansion, neolttwigi is your only option as when you jump up high, you can see beyond the wall. It will also help keep you fit, important considering your sedentary lifestyle.”

neolttwigi.jpg

I could see his sadistic enjoyment in delivering this monologue, yet despite this, I was cautiously excited at the prospect of neolttwigi. Even the tiny freedom of being able to glimpse the outside world seemed so precious to me now! Even if it was only the other compounds of the Chongsanri settlement.

“There are other benefits of course; huge ones for anal intercourse and other subversive pleasures, but you don’t need the details now. I shall provide a full list when you are ready. For now though, why not try earning your first reward?”

And as he said those words he moved me close to him and playfully slapped my arse. “And there’s the punishment for the punches,” he said, causing my subconscious desire to heighten once again. When we had finished we lay together exhausted and he called for tea.

Seconds later I had blacked out again.


I awoke on the bed, naked but unrestrained. I moved my hands to my chest, remembering his words and half-guessing what had happened. Sure enough, where my A-cups had once sat, two sizeable and extremely fake mounds were now to be found.

I felt different down below too. I moved my fingers lower and discovered why. My sex was sealed off with a chastity belt, one with attachment rings for clipping my nighttime gloves to. It was made of polished silver and covered me like a pair of underpants. As I shifted my body I felt that it did more than just cover my holes, which had been off-limits for quite some time. Inside two rods now filled me, teasing me, making me ache from being stretched like this.

I got up and went to the mirror. The face that stared back at me was my own but subtly different. Now the nose was more of a button and the lips more like a full rosebud. He had changed me, improved me, created the perfect Korean doll wife.

I stared at that image for a long time, angry and traumatised but unable to resist what had been done to me.

Chapter 7

And so, my married life began. Was it better or worse than life with my father? That is hard to say. It was different.

The biggest thing was the sex. I enjoyed it, I really did. I hated my husband and yet, at the same time, I desired him. Perhaps because this was the only time that I had power and control over my destiny, because with the sex came rewards.

Without the rewards, life was harsh. No use of my hands whatsoever and no voice meant that I was incommunicado, a mere elegant ornament to the household, fit only to be ignored. But if I gave him a blowjob I could indulge in a painting, or if I pleasured him sufficiently during normal sex, I could jump on the neolttwigi with one or two maids on the other end, for a precious moment or two I could soar into the air and glimpse the trees and the beautiful mountain slopes. And if I submitted to the painful ecstasy of anal intercourse then…

I get ahead of myself. First, I need to introduce Jong-Suk. When I saw her on my first day of marriage I hated her. She was my rival, the primary gisaeng that my husband sought pleasure in. She was impossibly beautiful and, when she started to play and sing, impossibly talented. I could never sing now, never again. Oh, how I hated her!

Yet, at the same time, she did not hate me. And in my lonely world, I needed a friend and she was the only one to be had. We would talk with my writing messages for her on paper using an inkbrush and her speaking the replies. And we would sit together and she would hold me and then brush her lips against mine and whisper bedroom secrets of how to bring Yong-Gon to ecstasy.

In short, I fell in love.

And Yong-Gon knew it.

“Yabu, the reward for anal intercourse is Jong-Suk.”

I happily submitted.

And the day after, my bottom hole still throbbing, I was allowed to retire early and she would lie with me. I was restrained, of course, with chastity belt, gloves, and ankles tied, but she was not and she would explore my bare skin with her hands, whilst her tongue explored my mouth and I gasped silently in ecstasy.

And my husband watched on through a peephole, with another gisaeng bringing him to fulfilment with her mouth.

And that was that, save for when, after only a few months, I fell pregnant. Nine months later, my son was born and my husband named him Ju-Hwan. He was the love and light of my life and I treasured holding him and feeding him.

Several months after his birth, I was pregnant again. By this time my husband had acquired two more gisaeng.

And so my life has continued. Restricted and silent, a songless bird in a gilded cage. I have my pleasure – both in the bedroom and in the seven children that have resulted from it – and I have my pain, but it is a life. Like countless generations of Korean women before, I have grown accustomed to it. I no longer even see the doors which would have once brought me pain. It is our tradition, these are our customs. I am Yabu, nothing more. Yes, Yong-Gon?

 

Chapter 8

Thirty years later

And now I shall take over the narrative. In the months running up to her fortieth birthday, I ordered my wife to write down the story of her remarkable life. By that time, her rebellious spirit had been quelled long ago, and she assented to my every wish. And besides, it meant time with her hands free being able to communicate with others. She enjoyed it immensely. I am a just man.

I wanted her to write it all down as an historical record of the start of our movement of national rejuvenation. Well, that was the reason I gave officially. Unofficially, as I told her myself during the first morning of our marriage, I am a sadist with a high libido and tales of female suffering turn me on.

That is why I asked her to do it, but why I ordered her to do it then was for quite a different reason: after her fortieth birthday she would no longer be able to do such things.

Yabu was pretty. I don’t think she ever realised just how pretty she was. As hot as any of the gisaeng I’ve had and, believe me, I’ve had a few. My latest, the delectable little Mi-Kyung is nestled beside me as I type this in fact. But even the prettiest of women fade with the years and the fact that I used her as a breeding machine for the Kyon clan, forcing seven babies out of her, means that she faded faster than most.

And I cannot do with a faded woman.

But traditional Korean society is strict about many things. Most of the rules suit me, but one that doesn’t is that about monogamy: once a man has married, he may not marry again, even if he has disowned her. And Yabii gave me no reason to do that, no reason at all, so we are attached to one another until death do us part.

Thankfully, Chongsanri has an answer for that too, and after Yabu’s fortieth birthday, the age when she is declared past childbearing age, I instituted it.

That evening I slept with her for one last time and then put her to sleep using the same tea draught that I had used when we first wed. This time though, I was doing more than just pump up her tits again.

Once out cold, she was transported to the Chongsanri medical facility in the heart of our little community up here in the mountains and there her transformation began. Her hair was shaved off completely and her head laser treated to stop any future hair growth. Similar treatment was conducted on her brows and lashes. Then the object was produced.

Back on that first hospital visit, over twenty years earlier, as well as pumping up her tits and lips, I’d had a cast done of her virginal young face. That had been saved, entered into the Chongsanri database and then, this year, reproduced as the mask of a hood which was designed to encase her ageing head until the day she died. Carefully it was fitted, an intrusion going into her mouth and a tube down into her stomach to feed her. Tubes also went up her nostrils and then lenses were placed over her eyes with only a pinhole in the centre to allow limited sight. The whole thing was made of a new plastic compound that stays flexible (to a degree) and allows the skin underneath to breathe. Developed by Chongsanri of course. Similar treatment was also meted out to her hands and arms, although the new covers kept the hands rigid. She would never use them again.

She panicked when she awoke three days later but, unable to do anything for herself, and unable to deny my will anymore, though she hadn’t tried in many years, she slowly got over it. Today, as before, she is still dressed in the most sumptuous hanboks, her hair styled in the most elaborate Joseon Era styles, but she is now permanently and completely incommunicado. She barely sees, cannot turn her head or use her hands.

Nor too can she have sex. I had her pleasure nub and inner petals taken away and then had her vaginal opening closed permanently with just a small hole for wastes. On top of this I refitted her chastity belt, this time with nothing to fill her, the key for which is embedded in a prism of glass on my desk at work. The president’s desk, which is back in Seoul. After all, what use does a forty-year old woman have with such things? Now those parts will only be used for their essential tasks, and whatever is communicated to the implant of course.

But although she is forty, she does not look it. Instead, my darling wife, my Yabu, is forever seventeen, the blushing bride who was married to me all those years ago. These days she has no life of her own. Instead she stands or sits in my room as an elegant ornament, a dutiful and submissive accessory to my wealth and status. I often gaze upon her staring mindlessly into space whilst Mi-Kyung or some other gisaeng sucks me off to ecstasy.

There is a lot to be said for tradition, you know.

 

Dollhood, A Woman’s Choice: Part 1

Dollhood, A Woman’s Choice

By Cafter Homme

Based on a story and outline by Dave Potter & Cafter Homme

This is a collaboration between myself and Dave Potter, revolving around a society that allows and appreciates forced surgical transformation. Not for the faint of heart.

Our story is set in the same alternative world as Dave’s The Tale of Anastasia, Doll Wife, Alison Becomes A Lady of Leisure and Dr. Edwards’ Special Birthday Present. However, whilst they are all set in the latter half of the 20th century, this takes place in the middle of the 21st. Therefore, technology has advanced and with it the possibilities to modify and control wives and companions, and this story aims to reflect this in the full.

This can be considered a sequel to An Artist’s Masterpiece, though it does not follow it chronologically, instead proposing that the freed Emily Rivers has released a modified version of that story to the public, skipping the self-incriminating elements in Book 5, setting off a public relations disaster for the Society of Dolls. Their response follows.

Cafter Homme


Cafter calls this story a collaboration between the two of us. In the early stages it was, but over the last six months or so, he has carried it forward whereas I let it die off. That would have been a shame since I think it’s an excellent work and I thank him for letting me publish it on this site. Please leave comments and criticism as he, like me, appreciates feedback greatly.

Dave Potter


Introduction

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 it’s charge’s feeder 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 pureed food like that was the height of delicacy, efficiency: consumption without moving a voluntary muscle, refueling 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 talk to people 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 it’s 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…

 

Chapter 1

“…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 honorable 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 bow. She couldn’t move her arms to reciprocate, or 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 honorable Knight, a careful Gardener.

 

Chapter 2

We grew 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 traveling 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 me, nearly nobility and a future member of the exclusive Ladies 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 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, 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. I think she felt unsafe when not within the Hodgkinson Estate’s grounds from an early age. 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 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, womanly values, and play. 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 were made out of the finest dyed 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 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 clasped behind her, and she smiled too.

Nanny did not lace me up any further. She declared that it was 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.”

Knowing our sweet Nanny was right, we both smiled and curtseyed. I went to her to give her a hug but then realised 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 Father 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.

 

Chapter 3

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 realize yet again that such acts were now impossible. Gone too was the pain. Our arms were totally dead 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 unpunched 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 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. 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 because they are bad for the women themselves and so you must choose to become a doll, which means that you must be an adult and give your formal consent or marry a husband who gives his. An early arrangement would have helped but last year these 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 so 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 waste 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 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 were full of beaming joy! Then came my turn.

As the gag was fitted I noticed indentations for my teeth that 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.

 

Chapter 4

Ladies of Leisure may take breaks from their gags, but 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 noblewomen 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 so as to suppress noise and any movement of the tongue. Nanny told us that when we grew up and became proven 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, 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. 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,’ ‘Blindman’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 bracelets 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 that 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. From the earliest days of childhood our maids had wiped and perfumed our bottoms after discharging waste, and enemas were quite common. 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.

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. 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.

And so I looked to Mummy’s pouting face, blank as always, the only one 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 it all day, every day. It was like a prayer to God asking for strength, for the chance of a reply back to my pleading eyes from her 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 tattle 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 between toes only ever wrote what the devil was thinking.” Even as big-girls, with 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.

And when Nanny found us committing our shameful act, we received twenty paddles each with our nappies pulled down, plus five 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 running about, and the essence of our childhood, to a close. The tight heels, while 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. 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’s 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. 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.

 

Chapter 5

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 indeed we were very eager.

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 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.’ 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 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 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 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 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.” 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 a child and inexperienced.

And still the laces closed, inwards and inwards, strangling the life out of me. 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 the 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. 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 use 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 some time. My days were now sedentary, a constant internalized 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 ‘elegant,’ ‘essential,’ or ‘like 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.

 

Chapter 6

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 wedged open! Of course, with us being domestic hostesses in training and the center 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 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 skin. But the tone is 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 public.

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 innocence 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. Belle’s bare legs led down to vertical ballet heels, continuously stepping as she balanced precariously, 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 resist 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, race 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 defenseless as we are, but those cautious stories were mostly for the purpose of our understanding of his responsibilities, not learning, as we knew we would be quite incapacitated by the time the Season and 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-40s, 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? 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 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 photo.

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: 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 our father 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 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 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 as you will soon read, their relationship was never the same.

 

Chapter 7

The ride was short, 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 traveling wear allowed).

I looked over at Chastity, who had her eyes closed but I could tell 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 practice 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. 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, while 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 it, you may agree.

Her 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 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 traveling 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 feeling! Not so lovely was the discomfort of reclining into the seat with our arms bound behind us, a rare but familiar feeling 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 realized 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 I never got the chance. Nanny’s attention was occupied with reading her tablet when I saw her brow furrow, “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 wide-eyed, looking around at the courtyard of our new home, until she curtly commanded, “Heads up, eyes forward, girls. Hope, I’m quite serious. Unfocused and inviting, like we practiced. 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 father. 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 automaid standing 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 older, it’s so hard to tell with the plasti-skin), she must have grown up just before in vitro gene therapy coaxed the tendency toward 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, Hodgkinson’s!”

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 Season two years past their prime?”

Nanny was more flustered than I had ever seen her before, “No no, oh dear, I apologize 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 realized 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 silicone plasti-skin, with less of a sheen. The closest I can describe it to is a soft silicone, colored 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, 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 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, laborers to keep up with the times. We received our new neck corsets three days later in the Express Post at Pappa’s great expense.

 

Chapter 8

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! 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 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 recognized this and even given myself and Miss Henderson their top honours for investing in the future of our glorious Kingdom. And by looks of the 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 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.”

“I understand you girls more than many of you may think a man could. But after years 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 on the 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 the our Church, and I am not one to disagree with the Lord. Your minds will be improved while 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, honored just as I have been by the King himself. Yes, indeed, there is grace, honor, and distinction in this life, the life of a Doll.”

With that he 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.

“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 blinking 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.

“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 Doll-girls 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, 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 reduced appetites. Here, one of the Teachers allowed us to make smalltalk while 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. 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, 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, a school-provided model no doubt. But she 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 simplify 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 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 once I could, I found a raven-haired girl, 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 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 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.

 

Chapter 9

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. At nine 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 heeled 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 inside, ginger mint today, oh dear! Tiny plug back in, untied, back up to our feet, corset off, into one of eighteen 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 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 them. Some would be practicing their doll gaze, trying to see me without looking directly or focussing. 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 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 (upbringing made little difference here), 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 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 grabbing anything. Nanny had threatened it if we ever wrote the devil’s way again, 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 came 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.

 

Chapter 10

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, fed and retired, but our individual classes were entirely randomized, only our Teachers and automaids knew the schedule. We had been told by our Embracing Nothing Teacher 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 wanted to break down our expectations they 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 as always. 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, underwear, mules, and hose 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.

“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 eye 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 mask of a face remained 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 program.”

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. 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 while he is busy. 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 my passages below have a nearly-inhuman desire to be filled… used, just as yours will once you are complete. The 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. My eyes 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 a fire in her eyes.  I didn’t understand it at the time but her resulting dedication I did understand, and I idolized her for it. We refocused on the show when the maid wiped off the dual-pronged device and held it up for inspection.

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 hand that may be.

Reader, I’ve worn such an object only a few 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 old, old money and new, and each one that passed Pappa’s tests received their 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 defenseless 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 the doll stand, the special 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 minutes practicing with every class. I didn’t understand why. Indeed, it was uncomfortable to practice in front of each other, but these skills would please our husbands immensely! Our new mouths were going to have automatic functions but I was pleased to know at least parts my tongue would be able to communicate my devotion, and we only had several months left to practice!

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 my panel gag replaced with it 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, I thought that a worthy trade-off too.

But taking the penis 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 school was like; about what walking around London alone was like; about flirting with 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 sharp edges and adventure! 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 think about money all the time; 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.

 

Chapter 11

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-years did not get breaks 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. I’ll 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 practice 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 you will lose your chance.”

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. Deeper it went into me with each thrust, and I realized 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 realized I hadn’t said a single word in that whole ordeal.

I hadn’t even told him thank you!

 

Chapter 12

Later that December, six elegant figures exited an autocarriage and assembled in front of the the main house of the Hodgkinson Estate, three of which had fine winter traveling 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 realize 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 could not partake.

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

Still, the house felt off somehow, and I realized: 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, and mumbled something about St. Werburgh’s being a magical place. It was obvious, he finally saw us as Dolls, not young women, and normally I would have rejoiced to 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, 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, corrupting, sinful even. Besides, I had no idea if Chastity would even acknowledge my break in protocol. She had taken the last few free-speech dinners off, maintaining the act which was soon to be our whole life, while Althea and I went on talking on and on, satiating our appetite for the 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 dry 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 encased mind until the day it was answered, Christmas itself.

We had arrived around the eighteenth of December, so Christmas Day lay near the middle 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. Wholesome excitement sometimes bent the rules of grace, and so the clacking of our bedroom mules thundered through the empty house, past the autobutler, past the cleaner-bots on the floor until we rounded the corner to find Pappa in his chair, ready to dole out the glorious bundle of presents left by Father Christmas while 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 Althea! Corsets, perfumes, neck trainers, makeup, hair ornaments, gift cards to the spa at Layton’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, 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 Doll in a bright pink plastic box visible through a glassy panel. I was immediately furious, all good will dispelled. How could Pappa abandon Mother like this! This was strictly against Society rules! This was… wait… this was my Mum!

I could hardly recognize 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 doll. 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 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 ever-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 in seconds I was standing with my Mother, leaning into her impossible embrace, almost supporting her 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 curtseyed to us and I nearly cried.

I later learned that Pappa had sent his Doll, our Mother, to the same rehabilitation center that Anne went to (somewhere in Wales, I overheard), one much less gentle than St. Werburgh’s, specializing in behavioural adjustment with very fast returns. It must have been worth the cost, as our new Mother “Cushions” never overstepped her place again.

 

Chapter 13

The rest of our time at home was largely uneventful, but such was the life of a Doll. 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 lounger while 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 batteries dry, anything to see what it felt like down there. I found myself in bed on such a wistful night when there was a 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 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, tiptoeing on the floorboards, half for stealth and half because her achilles tendon had probably shortened a bit over the two and a half years of constant heels, like mine had. I realized 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.

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. “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, loose stays, and the impressions of the day’s strict attire still printed into her fair skin. “Your old man visited me after the robot put me 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. 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 lucky. “Wait, pray tell what my Pappa discussed with you!?” 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, which my education had taught me to be very fearful of, yet I realized fearful was not an apt description of the feelings in my chest at that moment.

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, so I don’t know. I’m not like you, Hope. My chances of a respectable husband picking me are very slim. And there’s something I haven’t told you. If I don’t find an Owner, my aunts’ manager will try and buy me for the brothel. To become a house Doll may be too good of an offer to pass up.”

This was 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. And then I remembered that I shouldn’t think at all, I should just be happy for Pappa and my friend.

“Oh my!! I don’t know what to say. My Pappa decides my arrangements, but as a scholarship recipient, who selects yours?” Althea’s hands were absent-mindedly drawing on my skin 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. “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 my breath was straining my loosened stays, and her lips were coming 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 free 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 user or used, just us, and it felt so good, especially when her hand started exploring my virgin body, when it drifted from my growing breast down over my stays to my womanhood, ripping off my unused nappy to get access to that sacred place. I had never been touched like this. I had never 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 favor.

“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 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!

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 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, 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 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 then move out to the country, 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 manager too.

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 too late.

 

Chapter 14

Chastity told Pappa everything. Silent and proper as she was these days, easy to overlook, my sister had been very much awake, listening in her blackness 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. This had left me with almost two endless hours to lay in bed, awake, desperately needing the toilette.  

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 behaviour, I had no idea what was Mother and what was “Cushions” anymore.

Then he asked Chastity.

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

My eyes were wide. 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 namegag back in please?” A thankful nod from our father and the maid had her sealed up again.

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 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.

“Now, young lady, I invite you into my home on my daughter’s generous request, I even propose an arrangement which would leave any other girl at Werburgh’s on their knees in gratitude. And you sully your honor 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, begging past her gag, she was broken, emitting a muffled, “Please 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 man’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, turning back toward me. His eyes melted a little at my tears. He was hardly practiced in disciplining us, Nanny had always seen to such things. He looked down to the tearful girl at his feet. “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 chance you are asked, you will tell your Headmaster how overjoyed you are about my offer, or else we’ll cut the center of your perversions out when you graduate and 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 recognize that name.”

I barely understood this last part, but I knew the threat worked. 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.

 

Chapter 15

That Spring 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. Now I fully understood the house rule. Anything with an unsteady heart and willfulness was silenced and bound effectively, other than Sir Wainwright who stayed out of the day-to-day affairs. No, not one uncaught hitch that entire Winter and Spring, and while I was not necessarily dwelling on escape, deep within my shell I was hoping for it.

So I found myself at my graduation in April, sitting between the two Dolls-to-be which used to be 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 here, so I unknowingly said my final words in early March before I too receded into the act. Something 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 of the ceremony and the reception afterward, a gentle rouge number which framed 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 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. It seemed they had all vacationed together the previous year while 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 ‘40s. But what is a passing example 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 villainized 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 tolerance of our fair Society, 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 receive our certificates from her maid, 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, newly 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 millimeter. 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 humanity 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, 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. Barring his sudden and unplanned incapacitation, it made me a property of the Society itself, my future under their discretion. It made my legal birthday exactly sixteen years before the time of signing, a requirement for the rest (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 but personal travel is far from it.

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, 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, and waists to die for. Mouths filled by fleur-de-bouches, these women used their facial expressions liberally compared to the Dolls’ complete inability, and if I could have refocused my gaze to look at their willful beauty all night long, I would have.

And eventually I found myself standing beside Emily, just outside the raucous circle of men hurrawing the labors 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 realized 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 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, as if she were 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.”

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, I was left no time or breath to ponder any of this as the reception came to it’s close, for us at least. Upon a resounding stomp from the Dame and her teaching staff in perfect unison, our maids maneuvered us to the center 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, every driver (still human, I may add) 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, and as I reluctantly stepped into my cab with my maid, I knew that my fate was sealed.

 

END OF PART 1

 

Appendix to Part 1

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 told to me 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 Delgany who came from a wealthy family somewhere in the east 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 chose 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 obscenities shouted in the dining hall, and she somehow managed to think of clever ruses which kept her dresses always damaged or stained. Things came to a real 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 she disabled her automaid and escaped, running away from the school reportedly clad only in her undergarments. We were all shocked of course, but secretly 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 and I did not want to see a friend 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, out of the blue, after our graduation ceremony, the Headmaster announced that we would be having a special guest, and onto the stage was brought none other than Bubbles Aspley, wife of one Dr. Aspley of Nuneaton. We all knew in an instant that it was old Emily; 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 a parody of it. Her lips resembled a full-size plastic doughnut, whilst her completely spherical breasts were so enormous, each double the size of a beach ball, that she needed an automated cart rolling in front of her to support the extreme weight.  She tottered about on en pointe heels and it was clear that she had no ability to speak or even shift her eyes from a fixed gaze. 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 Society men 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 rich families like Chastity and I, a sizeable 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 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 china-white beauty – her father being some sort of Jamaican seaman and her mother a loss-class prostitute. Jamila was sponsored to attend St. Werburgh’s by one Lord Ferguson, an ageing peer whose previous doll wife had died 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 and a evaluation by the Society appropriate to a woman of mixed-race, she was nigh more expensive than her 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, and their transformation was gradual, with many visits to Great Ormond Street.


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 operations to her eyes made them more oriental-looking whilst her wig was jet black. 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 kimonos. Upon graduation and certification, her legal documents renamed her Yukiko Takayama married her to her sponsor whom she was shipped off to the very next day. 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 Doll ideal do the same as was done to Yukiko. The Americans have their own strange methods, so they rarely purchase brides from England, but that’s another story.

 

Notes on the Status of Korean Women during the 1890s

Notes on the Status of Korean Women during the 1890s

Taken from ‘Korea and her Neighbours’ by Isabella Lucy Bird (pub. 1898)

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From the chapter ‘Korean Marriage Customs’[1] p.114-20

PAIK-KUI MI was not without a certain degree of life on that Sunday. A yang-ban’s[2] steward impressed boats for the gratuitous carriage of tiles to Seoul, which caused a little feeble excitement among the junkmen. There was a sick person, and a mutang or female exorcist was engaged during the whole day in the attempt to expel the malevolent daemon which was afflicting him, the process being accompanied by the constant beating of a drum and the loud vibrating sound of large cymbals. Lastly, there was a marriage, and this deserves more than a passing notice, marriage, burial, and exorcism, with their ceremonials, being the outstanding features of Korea.

The Korean is nobody until he is married. He is a being of no account, a ”hobbledehoy.” The wedding-day is the entrance on respectability and manhood, and marks a leap upwards on the social ladder. The youth, with long abundant hair divided in the middle and plaited at the back, wearing a short, girdled coat, and looking as if he had no place in the world though he may be quite grown up, and who is always taken by strangers for a girl, is transformed by the formal reciprocal salutations which constitute the binding ceremony of marriage. He has received the tonsure, and the long hair surrounding it is drawn into the now celebrated ”topknot.” He is invested with the mangan, a crownless skullcap or fillet of horsehair, without which, thereafter, he is never seen. He wears a black hat and a long full coat, and his awkward gait is metamorphosed into a dignified swing. His boy companions have become his inferiors. His name takes the equivalent of “Mr.” after it; honorifics must be used in addressing him — in short, from being a “nobody ” he becomes a “somebody.”

A girl by marrying fulfils her “manifest destiny.” Spinsterhood in Korea is relegated to the Buddhist nunneries, where it has no reputation for sanctity. Absolutely secluded in the inner court of her father’s house from the age of seven, a girl passes about the age of seventeen to the absolute seclusion of the inner rooms of her father-in-law’s house. The old ties are broken, and her husband’s home is thenceforth her prison. It is “custom”. It is only to our thinking that the custom covers a felt hardship. It is needless to add that the young couples do not choose each other. The marriage is arranged by the fathers, and is consented to as a matter of course. A man gains the reputation of being a neglectful father who allows his son to reach the age of twenty unmarried. Seventeen or eighteen is the usual age at which a man marries. A girl may go through the marriage ceremony as a mere child if her parents think an ” eligible ” may slip through their fingers, but she is not obliged to assume the duties of wifehood till she is sixteen. On the other hand, boys of ten and twelve years of age are constantly married when their parents for any reason wish to see the affair settled and a desirable connection presents itself, and the yellow hats and pink and blue coats and attempted dignity of these boy bridegrooms are among the sights of the cities.

A go-between is generally employed for the preliminary arrangements. No money is given to the bride’s father by the bridegroom, nor does the daughter receive a dowry, but she is supplied with a large trousseau, which is packed in handsome marriage chests with brass clamps and decorations. There is no betrothal ceremony, and after the arrangement has been made the marriage may be delayed for weeks or even months. When it is thought desirable that it should take place, but not until the evening before, the bridegroom’s father sends a sort of marriage-contract to the bride’s father, who receives it without replying, and two pieces of silk are sent to the bride, out of which her outer garments must be made for the marriage day.

A number of men carrying gay silk lanterns bear this present to the bride, and on the way are met by a party of men from her father’s house bearing torches, and a fight ensues, which is often more than a make-believe one, for serious blows are exchanged, and on both sides some are hurt. Death has occasionally been known to follow on the wounds received. If the bridegroom’s party is worsted in the melee it is a sign that he will have bad luck; if the bride’s, that she will have misfortunes. The night before the marriage the parents of the bride and groom sacrifice in their respective houses before the ancestral tablets, and acquaint the ancestors with the event which is to occur on the morrow.

The auspicious day having been decided on by the sorcerer, about an hour before noon, the bridegroom on horseback, and in Court dress, leaves his father’s house, and on that occasion only a plebeian can pass a yang-ban on the road without dismounting. Two men walk before him, one carrying a white umbrella, and the other, who is dressed in red cloth, a goose, which is the emblem of conjugal fidelity. He is also attended by several men carrying unlighted red silk lanterns, by various servants, by a married brother, if he has one, or by his father if he has not. On reaching his destination he takes the goose from the hands of the man in red, goes into the house, and lays it upon a table. Apropos of this emblem it must be observed that conjugal fidelity is only required from the wife, and is a feminine virtue only.

Two women who are hired to officiate on such occasions lead the bride on to the veranda, or an estrade, and place her opposite the bridegroom, who stands facing her, but at some little distance from her. The wedding guests fill the courtyard. This is the man’s first view of his future wife. She may have seen him through a chink in the lattice or a hole in the wall. A queer object she is to our thinking. Her face is covered with white powder, patched with spots of red, and her eyelids are glued together by an adhesive compound. At the instigation of her attendants she bows twice to her lord, and he bows four times to her. It is this public reciprocal “salutation” which alone constitutes a valid marriage. After it, if he repudiates her, he cannot take another wife. The permanence of the marriage tie is fully recognized in Korea, though a man can form as many illicit connections as he chooses. A cup of wine is then given to the bridegroom, who drinks a little, after which it is handed to the bride, who merely tastes it.

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Afterwards within the house a table with a dainty dinner is set before the husband, who eats sparingly. The bride retires to the women’s rooms, and the groom rejoices with his friends in the men’s apartments. There is no simultaneous banquet. Each guest on arriving is supplied with a table of food. Such a table, in the case of people of means, costs from five to six yen (from 10s. to 12s.), and a very cheap wedding costs seventy-five yen, so that several daughters are a misfortune.

During the afternoon the husband returns to his father’s house, and after a time the bride, bundled up in a mass of wedding clothes, and with her eyelids still sealed, attended by the two women mentioned before, some hired girls, and men with lanterns, goes thither also, in a rigidly closed chair, in the gay decorations of which red predominates. There she is received by her father and mother-in-law, to whom she bows four times, remaining speechless. She is then carried back to the house of her own parents, her eyelids are unsealed, and the powder is washed from her face. At five her husband arrives, but returns to his father’s house on the following morning, this process of going and returning being repeated for three days, after which the bride is carried in a plain chair to her future home, under the roof of her parents-in-law, where she is allotted a room or rooms in the seclusion of the women’s apartments.

The name bestowed on her by her parents soon after her birth is dropped, and she is known thereafter only as “the wife of so and so,” or ” the mother of so and so.” Her husband addresses her by the word yabu, signifying “Look here,” which is significant of her relations to him.

Silence is regarded as a wife’s first duty. During the whole of the marriage day the bride must be as mute as a statue. If she says a word or even makes a sign she becomes an object of ridicule, and her silence must remain unbroken even in her own room, though her husband may attempt to break it by taunts, jeers, or coaxing, for the female servants are all on the qui vive for such a breach of etiquette as speech, hanging about the doors and chinks to catch up and gossip even a single utterance, which would cause her to lose caste for ever in her circle. This custom of silence is observed with the greatest rigidity in the higher classes. It may be a week or several months before the husband knows the sound of his wife’s voice, and even after that for a length of time she only opens her mouth for necessary speech. With the father-in-law the law of silence is even more rigid. The daughter-in-law often passes years without raising her eyes to his, or addressing a word to him.

The wife has recognized duties to her husband, but he has few, if any, to her. It is correct for a man to treat his wife with external marks of respect, but he would be an object for scorn and ridicule if he showed her affection or treated her as a companion. Among the upper classes a bridegroom, after passing three or four days with his wife, leaves her for a considerable time to show his indifference. To act otherwise would be “bad form.” My impression is that the community of interests and occupations which poverty gives, and the embargo which it lays on other connections, in Korea as in some other Oriental countries, produces happier marriages among the lower orders than among the higher. Korean women have always borne the yoke. They accept inferiority as their natural lot ; they do not look for affection in marriage, and probably the idea of breaking custom never occurs to them. Usually they submit quietly to the rule of the belle-mere, and those who are insubordinate and provoke scenes of anger and scandal are reduced to order by a severe beating, when they are women of the people. But in the noble class custom forbids a husband to strike his wife, and as his only remedy is a divorce, and remarriage is difficult, he usually resigns himself to his fate. But if, in addition to tormenting him and destroying the peace of his house, the wife is unfaithful, he can take her to a mandarin, who, after giving her a severe beating, may bestow her on a satellite.

The seclusion of girls in the parental home is carried on after marriage, and in the case of women of the upper and middle classes is as complete as is possible. They never go out by daylight except in completely closed chairs. At night, attended by a woman and a servant with a lantern, and with a mantle over her head, a wife may stir abroad and visit her female friends, but never without her husband’s permission, who requires, or may require, proof that the visit has been actually paid. Shopping is done by servants, or goods are brought to the veranda, the vendors discreetly retiring. Time, which among the leisured classes hangs heavily on the hands, is spent in spasmodic cooking, sewing, embroidering, reading very light literature in En-mun, and in the never-failing resources of gossip and the interminable discussion of babies. If a wife is very dull indeed, she can, with her husband’s permission, send for actors, or rather posturing reciters, to the compound, and look at them through the chinks of the bamboo blinds. Through these also many Korean ladies have seen the splendors of the Kur-dong.[3]

When the Korean wife becomes a mother her position is improved. Girls, as being unable to support their parents in old age or to perform the ancestral rites, are not prized as boys are, yet they are neither superfluous nor unwelcome as in some Eastern countries. The birth of a girl is not made an occasion for rejoicing, but that of the firstborn son is, and after the name has been bestowed on him, the mother is known as ‘* the mother of so and so.” The first step alone of the first boy is an occasion for family jubilation. Korean babies have no cradles, and are put to sleep by being tapped lightly on the stomach.

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Taken from the chapter ‘Social Position of Women’ p.340-3

It is really difficult to form a general estimate of the position of women in Korea. Absolute seclusion is the inflexible rule among the upper classes. The ladies have their own courtyards and apartments, towards which no windows from the men’s apartments must look. No allusion must be made by a visitor to the females of the household. Inquiries after their health would be a gross breach of etiquette, and politeness requires that they should not be supposed to exist. Women do not receive any intellectual training, and in every class are regarded as beings of a very inferior order. Nature having in the estimation of the Korean man, who holds a sort of dual philosophy, marked woman as his inferior, the Youth’s Primer, Historical Summaries, and the Little Learning impress this view upon him in the schools, and as he begins to mix with men this estimate of women receives daily corroboration.

The seclusion of women was introduced five centuries ago by the present dynasty, in a time of great social corruption, for the protection of the family, and has probably been continued, not, as a Korean frankly told Mr. Heber Jones, because men distrust their wives, but because they distrust each other, and with good reason, for the immorality of the cities and of the upper classes almost exceeds belief. Thus all young women, and all older women except those of the lowest class, are secluded within the inner courts of the houses by a custom which has more than the force of law. To go out suitably concealed at night, or on occasions when it is necessary to travel or to make a visit, in a rigidly closed chair, are the only “outings” of a Korean woman of the middle and upper classes, and the low-class woman only goes out for purposes of work.

The murdered Queen told me, in allusion to my own Korean journeys, that she knew nothing of Korea, or even of the capital, except on the route of the Kur-dong.

Daughters have been put to death by their fathers, wives by their husbands, and women have even committed suicide, according to Dallet, when strange men, whether by accident or design, have even touched their hands, and quite lately a serving- woman gave as her reason for remissness in attempting to save her mistress, who perished in a fire, that in the confusion a man had touched the lady, making her not worth saving!

The law may not enter the women’s apartments. A noble hiding himself in his wife’s rooms cannot be seized for any crime except that of rebellion. A man wishing to repair his roof must notify his neighbors, lest by any chance he should see any of their women. After the age of seven, boys and girls part company, and the girls are rigidly secluded, seeing none of the male sex except their fathers and brothers until the date of marriage, after which they can only see their own and their husband’s near male relations. Girl children, even among the very poor, are so successfully hidden away, that in somewhat extensive Korean journeys I never saw one girl who looked above the age of six, except hanging listlessly about in the women’s rooms, and the brightness which girl life contributes to social existence is unknown in the country.

But I am far from saying that the women fret and groan under this system, or crave for the freedom which European women enjoy. Seclusion is the custom of centuries. Their idea of liberty is peril, and I quite believe that they think that they are closely guarded because they are valuable chattels. One intelligent woman, when I pressed her hard to say what they thought of our customs in the matter, replied, ”We think that your husbands don’t care for you very much” !

Concubinage is a recognized institution, but not a respected one. The wife or mother of a man not infrequently selects the concubine, who in many cases is looked upon by the wife as a proper appendage of her husband’s means or position, much as a carriage or a butler might be with us. The offspring in these cases are under a serious social stigma, and until lately have been excluded from some desirable positions. Legally the Korean is a strict monogamist, and even when a widower marries again, and there are children by the second marriage, those of the first wife retain special rights.

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There are no native schools for girls, and though women of the upper classes learn to read the native script, the number of Korean women who can read is estimated at two in a thousand. It appears that a philosophy largely imported from China, superstitions regarding daemons, the education of men, illiteracy, a minimum of legal rights, and inexorable custom have combined to give woman as low a status in civilized Korea as in any of the barbarous countries in the world. Yet there is no doubt that the Korean woman, in addition to being a born intrigante exercises a certain direct influence, especially as mother and mother-in-law, and in the arrangement of marriages.

Her rights are few, and depend on custom rather than law. She now possesses the right of remarriage, and that of remaining unmarried till she is sixteen, and she can refuse permission to her husband for his concubines to occupy the same house with herself. She is powerless to divorce her husband, conjugal fidelity, typified by the goose, the symbolic figure at a wedding, being a feminine virtue solely. Her husband may cast her off for seven reasons — incurable disease, theft, childlessness, infidelity, jealousy, incompatibility with her parents- in-law, and a quarrelsome disposition. She may be sent back to her father’s house for any one of these causes. It is believed, however, that desertion is far more frequent than divorce. By custom rather than law she has certain recognized rights, as to the control of children, redress in case of damage, etc. Domestic happiness is a thing she does not look for. The Korean has a house, but no home. The husband has his life apart; common ties of friendship and external interest are not known. His pleasure is taken in company with male acquaintances and gesang; and the marriage relationship is briefly summarized in the remark of a Korean gentleman in conversation with me on the subject, “We marry our wives, but we love our concubines.”

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[1] The notes on marriage customs which follow were given me by English-speaking Koreans and were taken down at the time. They apply chiefly to the middle class.

[2] Yang-ban = noble

[3] An annual royal procession through Seoul.

Ihbat

Ihbat

Chapter 1

My name is Ihbat. That has not always been my name. But it is my name now. That is my name. This is my task. My task is to set down on paper the history of my life. Or at least the history of the life of Ihbat. Nothing matters before that person came into existence. And so, with the help of Allah, I shall begin, and thus fulfill the task that it has been commanded I fulfill.

Ihbat came into existence thirteen years three months and five days ago. He, I, awoke on a bed in a beautiful room. It was a room decorated in a style that I was unfamiliar with. A style of the East, of the Orient. Fine rugs covered the floors, Arabic inscriptions made in gold leaf glittered behind their frames on the walls, and silken cushions were scattered on the huge bed on which I lay. There were no windows, but light was not absent, coming instead from a crenellated skylight. It was a beautiful place.

But I, Ihbat, (even though I didn’t know it at the time), was in no position to enjoy the beauty. Instead I was puzzled, confused, scared. I had not been in this place when I had fallen asleep. In fact, I had never been in this place before. Nor anywhere like it. Nor had I fallen asleep. What had I been doing? I’d been at school… no, not school. I’d finished school already. I was on my way home from school. Yes, that was it. Walking back from school. No, not walking, riding. Riding my bicycle back through the olive groves to my parents house. Then I felt a pain, just a little one, like an insect bite. A bite on my leg. Then I felt dreary. I stopped my bike, rubbed my eyes. The dreariness increased. Then I passed out.

Then I passed out and now I awoke. In a strange room. An Eastern room. Or at least one that appeared to be Eastern. I don’t know to this day where that room, or indeed that whole institution was. It could have been anywhere I suppose, from Timbuktu to Tokyo. But it was Arabian in character and ownership.

After some time I got up and looked around. There beside my bed was a teapot and a glass. I was thirsty, so I poured myself a drink. Besides the pop was an envelope. It had my name – my former name – on the front. I opened it. Inside was a letter. I read it.

Al-Ihbat,

Welcome to your new school. Medrassah Purdah. That is the name of this school. From now on you will be learning and living here. Forget your old school and forget your family. Forget your former life in all its entirety. It will be easier for you that way. You must adapt now and begin your new life. The life of al-Ihbat. When you feel ready to embark upon that new path, ring the bell.

And that was it. I was confused. What did it all mean? Who was al-Ihbat? I? I looked across at the table. There was a silver bell. I rang it. Silence. Then, after a minute or so, the wooden door to that sumptuous room was opened and somebody walked in.

 

Chapter 2

It was a woman. Or at least I assumed so. I didn’t know for sure. I didn’t know because she was covered completely with veils. Black cloth shrouded here entire body. Well, all of it aside from her eyes. They, and only they were left free. I looked at them. They were definitely a woman’s eyes. A beautiful woman in fact. And I was a man who took an interest in such women. Underneath the silken sheets, something hardened.

“Al-Ihbat, I am Fatima,” she said. She spoke Greek. I was surprised. “I am to be your maid here. May I call you Ihbat for short. It would be easier.”

“You may call me what you want,” said I, “but I am no lhba whatever. My name is Nikos.”

“No, Ihbat,” corrected she. “Your name was Nikos. Now it is Ihbat.”

“Oh.” I was confused. “Where am I?”

“Medrassah Purdah,” she replied, “The School of Purdah.”

I didn’t comprehend. “But…”

A gloved hand appeared from under her veils and was raised up in front of her face as a gesture for me to be silent. “Come!” said she.

As always, when a woman beckoned, I came.

I got up from the bed, wrapping a sheet around me to hide my nakedness. “You don’t need that,” said she, and with a flick of her gloved hand, whisked it away. My standing member was plain for her to see. I know not what her reaction was though. It is hard to gauge the reactions of someone that you can’t see.

I followed her to a side room. In it was a bath, full of steaming perfumed water. “Get in,” said she.

I did as I was bid. Then she began to undress. She removed her black shrouds. Underneath was, as I’d imagined, a fair maiden. No, that is not true, she was far lovelier than I’d imagined. Her dusky tanned skin completed her dark eyes and long brown hair. And her curvaceous figure was enough to make any man…

And beneath those veils she wore but a tiny white bikini.

“I will be attending to your bathing every day,” she said, climbing in with me. Let me rub your back.” I couldn’t believe this. This was not real, it was a dream, a fantasy. She moved lower down, towards that aching rod. “Christ!” thought I. She touched it, slowly moved her smooth hands up and down the shaft and then…

Clink, click. To this day I can’t believe it.

She’d grabbed my hands and twisted them behind my back, fastening them together with a pair of golden handcuffs. Before I knew what was happening, the same had been done to my ankles. I was bound and helpless!

“Sorry, about that Ihbat,” she said, standing up and getting out of the bath. “Now, get out and let me sort you out.”

I was more confused than ever. It had been so erotic, so steamy, and now…

I stood in the middle of the floor and she approached with something. It was golden. “What is it?” I asked.

“Shhh..” she replied, grasping my cock again. So, it was all part of her game. She like tying people up. I played along and let her stroke it. I re-entered the world of pleasure. She was an expert, she knew how to make a man… oww, arrgh, click, click.

What was she doing? She grabbed hold of it, wrenched it back and then placed the golden object over the top and fastened it into place. What was it?

“Now that is out of the way,” she said, we can get started.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Getting you ready, as I will everyday.”

“But what is this?”

“That is a chastity belt. It keeps that irksome little member of yours out of harm’s way.” Now come!” She had picked up something else golden.

“No! No!” said I, backing away. But restrained by my wrists and ankles there was little that I could do. It was a collar. She fastened it around my neck and locked it shut. Then she picked up and a gag and moved to place it in my mouth. I shut that orifice firmly, but she simply squeezed my nostrils until I had to open up to breathe and then that too was put in place and secured. I was helpless, restrained and silent.

And confused.

“Now, back to the bedroom and I shall explain all,” said she. I meekly followed. I had no choice. She sat me down on the bed and then sat down besides me, stroking me provocatively, causing immense discomfort lower down where my cock, unable to achieve an erection, struggled in its golden prison.

“As the letter stated,” said the Goddess, “You are now Ihbat, and what’s more a student at this school, the School of Purdah. You shall learn soon enough what Purdah is, and what your role and future are to be. In the meantime all you need to know is the following. I am your maid, and I will do anything you bid. Anything that is, except remove your cuffs, ankle chain and chastity belt. They you will be wearing 24 hours of the day, 7 days of the week. The gag you will wear whenever you step out of this room. Inside this room, if you behave, you need not wear it. The reasons behind these restraints will soon become apparent.”

“Now, this room is yours. It is where you will live and spend all your time whilst not in classes or at prayer. In it is all that you need; books to read, a toilet to relieve yourself, a bath to relax in, a bed to sleep upon, tea to drink. Meals will also be served in here at set times. I will serve them to you and I will feed you as it is obvious that with your hands behind your back you will be unable to do so yourself. I will also clean your bottom everytime that you have been to the toilet for a… Number Two. For the other toilet visits, you will of course, sit on the bowl. With your little penis restrained so, standing up to urinate is of course an impossibility.”

“Now, I will move onto what happens when outside of the room. Everytime that you step outside of the room you are required to wear this.” She reached under the bed and pulled out a garment, a mass of cloth. “I shall now wear it to demonstrate how you will look and how to put it on.” She put the cloth over her head and it unfolded all around her. It covered her completely, including her face. Over that face there was a grille of embroidered thread. There was also embroidery – flowery designs – down the front of the garment, and on the top which was shaped a little like a Muslim’s skullcap. The back billowed out as it was pleated. The garment was made of heavy-looking black material. The embroidery was in gold. The garment was beautiful, yet frightening. It covered all the body, leaving no trace of who was underneath. Even behind the grille there was no evidence of the maid’s facial features. It looked encumbering and hot. “It’s called a burqa,” she said. Her voice was considerably muffled by the material. She was hardly audible. “They wear them in Pakistan and Afghanistan.”

Fatima took off the burqa and her lovely figure was revealed once more. “Within this room you will wear these. She picked out another garment from under the bed. This was white and voluminous. They were a pair of trousers… of types. She gestured for me to stand and put them on. They were specially designed so that they fitted over my bonds. They were fastened at the waist with an extremely tight belt that left me breathless, and round the ankles below the cuffs, where they were gathered and tied with ribbons. They contained a lot of material and ballooned out around me. The outside was cotton, but inside they were silk and the smooth cloth brushed against my legs and caused my imprisoned desire to heighten. Inbetween the silk and the cotton there was obviously a lot more cloth, that caused the trousers to be huge in size. As I sat down I felt like a girl on her wedding day, wearing one of those wide white puffy dresses.

“And on top you wear this.” She produced a cotton shirt, that like the trousers was also voluminous, and also line with silk. She fitted it around my torso. It had no arm holes and was fastened by ribbons  at the neck, just below the collar and the waist. Down the front, like the burqa, it was embroidered.

“Now the burqa,” she said. That awe-inspiring dress was placed over my head, the inbuilt skull cap fitting perfectly. Behind the grille I noticed that a piece of thick black cloth had been stitched, that being the reason why all traces of Fatima’s facial features had been eradicated. Also eradicated was most of my sight. With the burqa over my face, only dark outlines remained. It was hot and the material clung to my face irritatingly.

“A final precaution,” said she who held all the power, and to my surprise, she fastened the burqa to the collar by means of several hooks inside that formidable garment. “Now, we can guarantee that you won’t be removing it,” she said. And she was right! Even with the use of my arms I could not have taken the thing off. I was completely imprisoned within the cloth! She smoothed the rest of the burqa over me and adjusted it so that it looked right. The pleats billowed out behind me. “Now finally, you slippers,” she said, “so that your feet are as silent as your mouth.” A pair of embroidered velvet slippers were placed on my feet.

“Stand up!” commanded she.

And so I stood, a sweaty, restrained and enveloped figure, anonymous and silent to the outside world.

“Good,” commented my maid. “”Now wait whilst I get dressed again and then I’ll take you to your lessons.”

 

Chapter 3

And so I walked out of that door, following the black veiled Fatima. Well, walked is not really the word, more like shuffled as the overpowering garments and short ankle chain, (eight centimetres is all I have ever been allowed), permitted little walking. And so I shuffled silently, save for the rustling of material, down countless corridors until I entered a room.

I couldn’t see a lot of the room of course. I couldn’t see a lot of anything. With the cloth and grille covering my eyes, the world was dark and indistinct. Even today I have not grown accustomed to that. Taking away clear, distinct sight was perhaps the worst thing that they ever did to me. Well, maybe…

But I could make out that this was a classroom, of sorts. Veiled in a manner similar to Fatima was a woman, obviously the teacher. Sat on the floor all around her, dressed in the same burqas as I had been forced to don, were the students. All were, like I, silent.

“This is the new student, Aisha,” said Fatima. “Ihbat. Don’t worry, Ihbat has no problems with English.”

“Good, welcome Ihbat,” said the teacher. “Sit down, we are about to start today’s lesson. This class is Purdah Study. Everyday we look into different aspects of how we live in Purdah and listen to real-life stories. I lecture you and you listen. Obviously, you do not ask questions or write anything, as you, like all the first year students here, are unable to do so. Now, today we will hear the tale of Noor, a young lady living in Britain, though separate from British Society.”

The teacher took out a book and started to read from it.

‘My name is Noor, and I am 22 years old. Ever since I left school I have been living in Purdah. As all of you knows basically what that means, I won’t go into that aspect of things. Instead I will describe my daily life. I wake up each morning for prayer in my bedroom. I sleep dressed in padded mittens and a burqa which covers me completely. Every evening, before I go to bed, my father ties the end of it together, (it was made deliberately long for me). This way any non-mahram male who might chance into my room by accident is prevented from having a fit of fitna and being tempted by my curvaceous form. What’s more, tied so and wearing the mittens, I cannot get out of the burqa so that the temptation to free myself is taken away. The temptation to pleasure myself in an un-Islamic way is also eradicated. However, I can walk in the burqa, and more importantly pray.

I stay in the burqa until my mother comes in and frees me. I then relieve myself and bathe, before dressing for the day. I am required to veil fully, including several layers of eye veils, every time that I leave the room. My dress is as follows:-

Tight shoulder length gloves in black.

Thick stockings in black.

Turkish trousers and a closed shirt.

A tight headcovering that leaves only my mouth and eyes free.

When I have put these on, I eat.

Then comes the next stage.

A thick floor-length black dress. A head covering and face veil of thick black material that leaves only my eyes free.

Thick fingerless mittens.

Then over this, a floor length abayah.

Triple faceveils including eye veils.

Two pairs of thick black socks.

Finally, an afghan burqa with face mesh.

This is my day’s clothing. Father, (it is he who insists that I live in Purdah), has stipulated these as mandatory for outside of my room. Most days, I go downstairs and sit with my mother and sisters in the living room. We sit on the floor and are silent if men are in the house, as Father believes that a woman’s voice is awrah, that is it is forbidden as it tempts men. We sit in attendance of him. We are forbidden to watch the television as it only shows the work of the devil, though this I don’t mind as to be honest, I can see very little anyway underneath all my veils. I am also very hot as even though Britain is a cold country, Father keeps the heating constantly on as he misses the heat of Pakistan. We do not complain about this of course.

It is sometimes asked how I use the toilet. The truth is, we wear nappies to stop any accidents, but I have trained myself sufficiently so that I rarely have accidents.

The routine only changes when I go outdoors. Then my nappy is removed and I am forced to don a chastity belt for my own protection. A chain is also attached to my ankles, and my hands are also cuffed to the sides of my body, held beside the chastity belt. My mouth is gagged so that I am not tempted to say something and thus tempt men with my young female voice.

We go out once a week around the town centre. Father accompanies us, and takes us out to show us the British women and how evil their lifestyle is. He points out girls wearing short skirts and mini tops, talking loudly to all and sundry, bearing their cleavages and legs, and teaches on how evil that is and how we will never be allowed such freedoms.

This is my life in Purdah, where I am kept hidden and pure until I am married. Father has already chosen a husband for me, a man in Pakistan who is a scholar and sixty years old. He believes firmly in Purdah and Islam. I will be his third wife.

Thank you for listening to my story and thank Allah for all of his beautiful creations and mercy.’

And that my students,” added the teacher, “is a perfect example of a life in Purdah.”

The lesson continued for another hour or so. All the time the teacher kept pointing out examples of how women living in Purdah, (which I learnt meant seclusion from men), should avoid tempting menfolk around them. To be honest, I found it all rather strange. The thought of that young girl, whom I imagined to be beautiful and ripe for picking, living controlled and enclosed like that made me feel hot, and my imprisoned manhood struggled hopelessly within its prison. I tried on several occasions to bring my hands round to my front and slip them into the belt, but I could not do it and even if I had, the belt was so tight, that I doubt I could have got a baby’s finger inside it, let alone the hand of a fully-grown man. The idea of her wearing a nappy like a baby, also increased my frustration, as did the thought of her being shown weekly the freedoms that she could never enjoy. Consequently, because of all this, and the layers of cloth that covered me, a soon grew very hot and sticky and my body was drenched in sweat. Looking around at the fidgets of some of the other students, I guessed that they were undergoing the same thing.

To divert my mind away from such thoughts, I set to wondering as to why was I being subjected to all this, being covered up like Noor, and told the lives of Middle-Eastern women. I could not figure it out. That I, a 17 year-old Greek boy, with a libido equal of any of my countrymen, a manly chest and may I say, handsome set of male equipment, with a respectable history of seductions behind him, should be trussed up and covered like an Arabian maiden…? It was all very strange.

 

Chapter 4

The lessons didn’t end with Purdah study. Next we were subjected to Islam, then two hours of Arabic, and after that some English. By the end of the day I was exhausted and drenched, and my cock painfully ached for release. ‘That,’ thought I, ‘I can get tonight in bed.’

However, when time to return to my room came, and Fatima stripped me of my clothes and bathed me, I was surprised to discover that the only bondage that she removed was my gag. The cuff and chastity belt stayed on, and after bathing she fed me some falafels, couscous and tea.

“Fatima,” I said, being relieved at being able to speak, (though she’d only given me the right, so long as I promised not to ask any questions about my predicament, nor make a fuss), “were you telling the truth when you said that I was your Master and you would do whatever I wanted?”

“Of course,” she replied with a smile.

“Right then,” I said, gazing at that gorgeous beauty, who was again stripped down to a bikini. “Will you kiss me?”

“No problem,” she replied, and pecked me on the cheek.

“No, I mean properly.”

“Are you sure that you want that?”

Have a stunning, bikini clad whore kiss me on command. Of course I was sure! “Yes,” I said.

Then that hot fox, put her lips to mine and we engaged in what was the best kissing of my life. That vixen obviously knew what she was doing, and as her tongue did things that I could not believe a tongue could do, my cock sprang to life, pressing painfully against the walls of it’s golden prison cell.

“I can do more than that,” she said, freeing herself, and starting to caress my body with her hands, her long nails causing waves of rapture. She moved lower down, caressed my ass and inside my legs. My manhood was on fire!

“Free me! Free me!” I cried.

“Sorry, Ihbat, you know I can’t do that, now, lick my pussy!”

And to my astonishment, she whipped off her bikini bottoms and thrust her wet pussy in my face. I licked it the best I could and her warms juices flowed into my face.

“That’s good! That’s good!” she cried, climaxing, and drawing herself away.

“Free me, Fatima! I can’t stand this!” I cried.

But she heeded me not, and instead, pulled out another burqa. Time to sleep my little trussed up stallion,” she said, and place the burqa over my head. I soon discovered it was like the one that Noor was forced to wear, overly long but unlike where Noor’s father tied it shut, this one was zipped. I was in a burqa sleeping bag!

“Night, Ihbat,” said Fatima.

“Don’t leave!” I cried.

“Ok, then,” said she, I’ll sleep by you.

And then that hot chick laid down beside me and snuggled up to me. Seeing her curves and feeling them and the warmth of her body next to mine sent me mad with desire.

“Release me! Release me!” I cried.

“You want more?” she asked, before adding, “So do I. But like that you can’t pleasure me. Don’t worry, I’ll do it myself!” And at that she started fingering herself and groaning in ecstasy.

My frustration was unbearable, but of course, I had to bear it. It was a very long time before I managed to sleep that night.

 

Chapter 5

The weeks and months that following were spent in a very strict routine. Everyday I was woken by Fatima, released from my sleeping burqa, washed, fed, and dressed. And then I studied all day long. The lessons were boring, pointless and the same; a solid diet of Purdah Study, Arabic, English and Islam. The last one irked me the most. Islam is of course the backward faith of the Turkish animals who raped our Greek homeland for centuries. Why should I study it? It was inferior to my Orthodox Christianity, the One True Faith. Everytime the teacher rambled away on the words of the Prophet I wanted to scream out loud. But of course, gagged and restrained as I was, I could never have done so, so instead I sat and listened in disgust.

It was the latter subject that also got me thinking as to why this was happening to me. Why kidnap a young Greek boy and tutor him in the practices of the Eastern religion and how they keep their women. Such a life as I led could not have come cheaply, so why? I wondered at first if it was not a plot of the Turkish dogs to dishonour yet another heroic Greek, but on reflection I guessed that it was perhaps not. Then I wondered if it was not all planned by Fatima, who just played at being a maid, but instead was in fact the woman behind it all, and who craved for a handsome young man like myself to be constantly at her service, licking her out with my tongue. But then I rethought. If it had been her, then she would surely have had a taste of my cock by now, for that no girl can resist, yet every night she would refuse to unlock me whilst she performed.

And boy how did she perform! She was a nymph, like one of the Sirens of yore. Her lithe body wrapped around mine, and she was true to her word. Whatever I asked save for the releasing of my restraints, she did willingly. I saw her finger herself in so many ways, she attached a dildo to my chastity belt and fucked herself with that, she licked my ass, drank my piss, and then made me do the same. It was heavenly, incredible and yet… not once did I climax. Every minute of every day I was mad with desire, yet never did I achieve it. My life was a hell of frustration. In the end I realised that all the things she was doing only made it more uncomfortable for me, and I asked her to stop, but even then, just the sight of her, or the image of her in my mind as I sat sweltering in my cocoon during those long tedious hours of Islam and Arabic, it drove me wild.

And so it carried on, a life of frustrated hell. And confusion, for of course I was still entirely ignorant of why this was happening to me, who was behind it all, and what was going to happen in the future. Those weren’t the only things that annoyed me as well. Another was my physical shape. I, like most of my race, had always been a typical Adonis since puberty, and had long prided myself on my well-toned body. All these months of enforced inactivity had caused, I noted to my disgust, a certain flabbiness, particularly around my chest and buttocks, and wearing silk everyday also seemed to have the strange effect of softening my skin. This bothered me as I knew that I would need my strength when the moment to escape presented itself. With everyday that passed, I hated by silken feminine bonds even more.

Then, after I had been at Medrassah Purdah for around six months, something happened. After the day’s lessons, one Thursday I was called into the office of the Headmistress. Never before had I seen her, or been called. Fatima surprisingly ungagged me before leading me down some corridors to some large wooden doors which she proceeded to knock upon before leaving me. A minute or so later, a voice from within called “Enter!” in Arabic, (I had, by that stage, a basic command of the tongue), and so I pushed my body against the wood. It opened and I entered a large room with several bird cages in which canaries twittered and a fountain gurgled in the centre. By the fountain, on a rug, was a woman, shrouded in a red burqa with golden embroidery. “Sit, Ihbat,” commanded she. I did as I was bid.

“Ihbat,” she started. “You have been commanded here today as a congratulation. Today the first stage of your schooling here has come to an end. You are ready to enter the next level. Do you have anything to say?”

I had of course a thousand things to say. “Why? Why am I here?”

“The reason behind you being here will soon be made clear to you. Basically you were chosen because you filled the requirements of the owners of the school.”

“What requirements?”

“Physical requirements. Your body seemed the right shape.”

My body! Did they perhaps need me as some sort of sex slave? I was as perfect as a male could be after all. And that would explain why Fatima had been assigned to tease me. “Who are the owners of the school?”

“This school is owned and financed by three organisations. The first is the Islamic Association, the second the IPO and the third the SFVI.”

“What do those initials stand for?”

“You will find out over the next year. Your next level of study includes studying the history and aims of our three owner organisations.”

“How long will I stay here?”

“Until you are married.”

“But how can I get married if I don’t have the chance to meet anyone to marry.”

“We will find you a spouse.”

“What if I don’t like them?”

“That is of no concern.”

“But which woman wants a man dressed up in veils who can only talk about Islam and Purdah?”

“No woman wants such a spouse.”

“Then how will you find me a wife?”

“Ihbat, have you not guessed yet? We will be finding you no wife. We will be finding you a husband. Have you not noticed the changes in your body? Every day for the last six months. Fatima has been feeding you with food and drink laced with hormone pills. She reports that your skin is now soft and feminine, your buttocks rounded and budding breasts are starting to appear. Ihbat, we are turning you into a woman, a woman of Purdah, a woman of Islam.”

A woman! I couldn’t believe it! But I was a man! A strong man! A Greek man! I would be no woman! What she described, why it sounded like homosexuality, I hated Gays, sick creatures, puffs! “You will not change me into any woman!” I cried. “I am a Son of Alexander the Great!”

“You were a Son of Alexander the Great,” corrected the Headmistress. “You are now a Daughter of the Prophet. Now you can either accept that gracefully and submissively as a woman should, or we will impose it by force!”

“I am a Greek!” I cried. “I will never surrender to an Eastern Barbarian!”

And I didn’t. And they did what they promised. Back in the room, Fatima replaced my gag with a different one that had a small hole in the middle. This gag was never taken out and I was fed through a tube that was pushed through the hole and down my throat. The hormones were obviously increased in quantity now as well, as the speed of the changes got faster, and daily I watched in horror as small breasts appeared on my chest, breasts with nipples that Fatima used to pinch and caress, sending waves of pleasure through my being.

The breasts weren’t the only new part of my life. Every morning, after my bath, my handcuffs and ankle cuffs were fastened to rings, one hanging from the ceiling and the other embedded in the floor and I was shaved all over until the only hair left was on the top of my head. Then, on my face, make-up was applied, long false eyelashes attached to my eyes and false eyebrows stencilled in. My hair, which was now quit long, was conditioned and combed daily, and often styled. When I saw myself in the mirror I realised with dread that I was now an attractive looking young lady, the sort whom I used to chase after, and only the pain of unfulfilled desire in my loins was left to show that I was really a male.

My lessons also changed now. The English was dropped, as was Purdah Study, (we had more or less exhausted the subject anyway). The Islam and Arabic remained but they were joined by some new subjects; Study of the Medrassah Purdah Founders, Dance, Sexual Techniques and Deportment. The last three were taught in my room by Fatima as they required my burqa and veils being removed. In deportment I was taught how to walk and sit in a seductive manner, in Dance how to do the belly dance and other Eastern moves and in Sexual Technique, well… I prefer to forget about that. When I first heard that I would be studying sex I was excited. So, at long last I was to be released from that hateful golden girdle, I thought. But of course, it was not to be. Instead most classes involved Fatima wearing a huge rubber dildo which I was forced to suck upon, whilst she pointed out what was right and wrong with my technique and paddling me for my mistakes. Other times we looking into French kissing, and different sexual techniques, where for the first time I had the humiliating experience of having something shoved into my anus, that being Fatima with the large strap-on. In fact, I was forced to wear a dildo in my ass everyday from then on, (“So you get used to the feeling”), something that was always a hateful reminder of my humiliation and subjection, and did not help with the old frustration, since as my back passage was now caressed every minute of every day by a large intruder, my cock was now even more alert than previously.

The dildo was not the only new addition to my daily wardrobe either. Every morning I was forced to don a kind of glove that held both my arms together behind my back in a painful position. This was kept on throughout my lessons causing my arms to be dead at the end. When I misbehaved Fatima also kept it on throughout the night, which was even worse as it prevented me from sleeping on my back, and of course, was not comfortable anyway.

The lessons on the Study of the Medrassah Purdah Founders turned out to be interesting. The school it seems was built fifty years ago under the auspices and with the finances of three organisations. The Islamic Organisation was an international group based in Saudi Arabia that promoted Islam and Islamic values. IPO stood for International Purdah Organisation, a multi-national, multi-faith society that promoted Purdah as a way of life for all women, and whose eventual aim was to keep every woman at home and under the command of her husband or father. The SFVI was a little strange. The initials stand for the Society for the Furtherment of the Venus Ideal, and it was founded in 1842 by one Wilhelm van Wettering, a rich Dutchman who lived in the East Indies. He kept his wife and concubines forever in a state of bondage where the use of their arms was restricted. Apparently he had got the idea from his father-in-law, one Jacob van Hessel who had been to Italy to see the treasures of antiquity. This Dutchman had apparently been so awe-inspired by the beauty of the Venus de Milo that he had had a copy made, and this he presented to his son-in-law upon his marriage upon his marriage to his daughter, Gabrielle van Hessel. Van Wettering too, it appears, was transfixed by the Venus Ideal and so proceeded to turn his new wife into one, using a corset designed by van Hessel, a corset, that held the wearers arms crossed behind her back in such a manner so that they appeared to be amputated. The Venus Corset is what he named it. Others – rich and perverted men who van Wettering invited to banquets and orgies at his mansions in the Netherlands and Borneo soon became transfixed by the image of the armless and helpless female, and so it was that the Society for the Furtherment of the Venus Ideal was born; a society that promotes and indeed stipulates that the arms of the wives of its members must at all times be rendered useless and bound. Knowing that such organisations were behind the strange institution where I was held, and that I was being transformed into a woman at the will of one or all of them filled me with a dread that made me shiver.

 

Chapter 6

I studied in such a manner for a further year. By the end of my time I had become a fully fledged female with tantalising curves and feminine graces. Well, a female aside from my imprisoned cock and the male fire that still burned constantly in my heart.

It was soon after my 19th birthday, when I was again summoned to the Headmistresses Office.

“The time for you to leave this school will soon be upon us,” she said. “Your studies have been completed. You are mentally ready for marriage.”

“Then have you found me someone?” I asked.

“We have not looked yet,” she continued. “I said that you are mentally ready, but Ihbat, you are not physically prepared yet.”

“But I am fully a woman now,” I said in a vehmenous tone. “Except for my manhood.”

“Fully a woman yes, but not a woman sufficient enough for our clients. Do you want some tea, Ihbat?”

“No,” I said. “Fatima has just given me some.”

“That is right, I commanded her to. In a minute or two you will start feeling drowsy. There was a strong draught in that tea. You are going on a trip, Ihbat.”

“What?! Draught? Why? Where?” But already the drug was taking over. I fell to the floor with a slump.

I awoke in a hospital bed, wearing nothing. I tried to get up, but realised that my hands and feet were tied down. I instinctively thought about my crotch, but it wasn’t painful. I looked down. I couldn’t see genitals! I couldn’t see them, not because they weren’t there, but because something else obscured my view. Two large silicone footballs that heaved with every breath. “I’ve been given a tit job!” I exclaimed to myself.

“And not just a tit job,” said Fatima who was stood behind me. “All your body hair has been removed through electrolysis, including that surrounding your little friend.”

“My… is that…?”

“Oh, he is still there, as encased as ever, in his little gaol. He’s not as big and male these days, the hormones have taken their toll, but he still works. Not that you’ll have the opportunity to find that out though.”

“Oh Christ!”

“Stop that Ihbat! You’re a Muslim now, remember. Yes, your new titties are quite something aren’t they. Even better than the ones the school gave me. I’m rather jealous!” And at that she started playing with my new nipples. The caress of her long nails sent ripples of pleasure through my body. New tits, more buttock fat, some nice fat collagen lips, permanent eyebrows, and non-removable long eye lashes. My dear Ihbat, you look like a little doll, a fuck toy worthy of a prince. Well, perhaps you will get a prince after all, though you’ll be no mere fuck toy, but a fully-fledged wife.

Married to a man. Being fucked by a man, like a homosexual freak. The thought was too mortifying for words.

“I think I’ll have a play with your new love toys,” continued the maid, caressing those huge, firm mounds. The old, awful frustrating returned with a vengeance as her wonderful hands grasped my new appendages.

I was released from the hospital that day and taken back to the school where my normal regime was re-established. One day however, instead of leading me to my lessons, Fatima instead took me to a large photo studio and stripped me of all my clothes barring the chastity belt. Then, to my horror, a man appeared.

Strange as this sounds, I felt awful. For so long had I been completely covered up in the presence of anyone, let alone a man, (this was the first man that I had seen since Nikos became Ihbat actually), that I felt naked, unprotected and weak.

“But, Fatima,” I protested, (my voice box had also been altered in the hospital and there was no way of telling now that I had ever been a man), “Purdah states that I must be covered in front of men.”

“I know, but this is an exception. We have to make sure that you get a good husband.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that a man must see what he is about to marry before he actually does so, and then once he has chosen, hide that jewel off from the rest of the world. So we have to make sure that when he sees you first, it is in the best possible light.”

What she meant by the ‘best possible light’ was having me dress up in all manner of outfits and photographing me. There were wedding and cocktail dresses, bikinis, jeans that were put on wet and then dried so that they were so tight I could hardly move my legs, a Victorian gown complete with excruciatingly tight corset that took an hour and two fainting fits to put on, some oriental dresses such as a kimono and ao dai, short skirts, pencil skirts, an Arabian Nights outfit, uniforms, (army, air hostess, schoolgirl), baby girl dresses and even some shots where clothes were not required. All in all, it could have been viewed as a pleasant experience for most women, but for me I just felt awful. Apart from the feeling of vulnerability caused by being without my veil, for the first time ever I was put on display as what I had actually been turned into; a hot chick for some guy to play with at his whim. Plus of course, the modelling session also brought home the realisation that I was soon going to be passed onto a man, a man who would violate me and control me. A man much like whom I used to be and still was inside. To say that the thought of being forced to suck, or take a cock up my ass terrified me, is the understatement of the year.

Following the model shoot it was back to normal, though without the lessons. Daily I was entombed within my mound of cloth, and daily did Fatima bring me to the brink of unbelievable ecstasy, but not once did I ever hurdle that insurmountable fence.

Then, a fortnight later I was summoned for the third and final time to the Headmistress’s Office. “Ihbat, I hope you have enjoyed your time with us. I am pleased to say that I have found you a satisfactory student. Here is a souvenir of your time at Medrassah Purdah.” The souvenir, which I perused when back in my room was a large book. On the cover was a photograph of me in the school uniform burqa. Inside were some quotes from the Purdah philosophy that I’d had drummed into me, and so photos of me at my lessons. Then there was a variety of pictures of Fatima in all manners of dress and position, to remind me of the girl that I never could have. And lastly there was a selection of images from my photo shoot, a selection that, it must be said, horrified me as to my eyes I really did look sexy and ready to be raped.

“And now, the news,” she continued. “We’ve found you a husband. You’ll be married in five days time.”

 

Chapter 7

I was lain on a huge, sumptuous king size bed. My only clothing was a harem outfit, such as one would expect Scheherazade to be donned, with a gauze veil, silken Turkish trousers and a tiny top covering my (distressingly) un-tiny breasts. Of yes, and a thick collar of gold with ‘Ihbat, the Property of bin-Husseini and Allah alone’ inscribed in Arabic. And from that collar, a chain that attached me to the bedstead.

After my final meeting with the Headmistress I had returned to my room and had been ensconced by Fatima in a sort of leather cocoon which I knew, (from my studies), was a common way in which members of all three founding organisations used to transport their Purdah-living wives, as of course it guaranteed that no prying eyes could see them, and what’s more, (due to a face mask), that the person trapped within could see no one, thus ensuring absolute safety and the elimination of all opportunities for temptation.

Being put into such a garment was unpleasant to say the least. Apparently, it has already been described in one text, written about one of the wives of the SFVI and deemed by many to be fiction, so I need not go into too many details, except to say that it was uncomfortably hot, that within it I was unable to do anything – move a muscle, see, hear – except breathe, and that the merciless lacing at the waist, the elongated laced neck and the tight headcovering made even that activity difficult. Thankfully, it was only a few minutes before the sleeping drugs kicked in.

And when I awoke I was on this bed, dressed in my traditional sleeping burqa. I lay there for several hours until two maids came in, fully veiled including their eyes. I knew however from their low voices that Fatima was not one of them. They stripped me, took me to a bathing room, handcuffed my wrists to a ring hanging from the ceiling and fully prepared me. I was washed thoroughly, my hair also, and then that was braided. Make-up was expertly applied to my face, my nails decorated and my hands hennaed. My whole body was perfumed. My chastity belt was even removed but they showed no surprise at the presence of my cock and balls, (the former immediately springing to life, and only losing its virility when one of the maids doused it in cold water), and instead just concentrating on making certain that every part of my genitals was spotlessly clean and perfumed. Then to my horror, a hot needle was produced, and a gag shoved into my mouth, and they proceeded to pierce my ears and nipples and foreskin, (the latter two operations being excruciatingly painful), whilst I cried into my gag. That done, golden rings were place through all my piercings.

Then, my chastity belt was replaced, and my hands released from the ceiling and cuffed to the belt instead. The gag was left in and I was dressed, firstly in the harem outfit that I have already described and afterwards in three full body veils and a glorious red velvet burqa with gold embroidery. Unfortunately, the burqa had a piece of black cloth sewn behind the grille and I was now completely blind.

Following this I was led out by the maids, over a distance that I could not determine until I entered a room. There the marriage ceremony took place, to a man that I could not see. I heard a room full of people, but I just stood there, blinded, restrained and ignorant for several hours until someone led me away and back to the bedroom, where I was stripped of my burqa and body veils, freshened up, the collar, (my wedding ring I later learnt), attached and locked onto my neck and chained to the bed.

And it is there that you find me waiting, waiting for my husband to have his way with me. A man named Ahmed bin-Husseini they tell me.

 

Chapter 8

Ahmed bin-Husseini came several hours later. He smiled when he saw me and started to kiss me and caress my lithe body. He disgusted me and I tried to wrench myself away, but of course it was impossible. Then he turned me over onto my front, lubricated my anus, (which to be fair did not need a lot of lubricating as after all my training with dildos it was more than big enough to accommodate his little thing), and shoved his throbbing penis into it.

It did not take him long and afterwards I was required to clean off his manhood with my tongue. It was disgusting and I almost wretched. Then he gave me a drink and within moments I found myself paralysed, (such a draught is also described in the story I mentioned earlier concerning Araksia, a SFVI wife. It is common practice to initiate Society Wives into their new life under its influence).

“Now my dear sweet Ihbat, a gift from Allah in Heaven. It is time for me to show you how you will live. As your training at Medrassah Purdah will have told you, you are now the wife, the property of a member of one of three societies, the Islamic Organisation, the International Purdah Organisation and the Society for the Furtherment of the Venus Ideal. Well my love, I may tell you that I am a member of two of them, the latter two. I am of course a Muslim as well, as are you, but by marrying someone who is till technically a man, then I violate religious laws and so cannot be part of their society. That however, is immaterial. You are now a Society Wife and that means that you will be living under the twin pillars of Purdah, which of course you already know all about, and as a Venus.

And with that he produced the garment that I had heard so much about and dreaded with all my heart – the Venus Corset. My body, now paralysed entirely, (barring the mouth, which was now whimpering and crying for mercy), was easily maneuvered by my new husband, and my arms, crossed behind me at the top of my back, and then my whole torso encased in that fearsome piece of corsetry. He laced it with a passion and my life was squeezed out of me. “Forty centimetres is the sat I set for my ladies,” he exclaimed.

This done, after he had finished panting with exertion, he took me again, excited as he was by the shape and helplessness created by the Venus Corset. By now I had recovered most of my bodily movements, (as the draught is not strong), but of course I was still entirely at his mercy, and indeed the thrashing of my legs seemed only to excite him further.

“You will be wearing this 23 hours a day, 7 days a week he explained, with only an hour’s bathing as rest. Then, your wrists will be handcuffed together and strapped to the ceiling ring as they were this morning. Your chastity belt will also stay on, I have no interest in your cock, and indeed only kept it there to remind you of your humiliation and to keep you from being able to climax. You will be required to be fully veiled everywhere outside of your room as you were in the school, and outside of the Wives’ Quarters, you will be gagged as I am a Muslim and believe the female voice to be awrah.

Everyday you will be required to sit in attendance of me for five hours whilst I entertain friends or attend to business. Otherwise your time is your own, except when I require servicing.

Other things, let me think. Oh yes, your toilet visits will be replaced by a daily enema, and you shall be sharing a room with my second wife, Lina. That is all, I am tired now and need to sleep. Goodnight.”

 

Chapter 9

I slept with him that night, but the following morning, after another humiliating bout of anal sex, I was escorted to my new room, bathed, clothed and fed by my maid, who like Fatima stripped down to her underwear to see to my needs, and like Fatima was incredibly sexy, though she – Jay was her name – was Thai, not Arabian, and unlike Fatima was interested in playing no sex games, attending to me with an indifference that I found almost as excruciating.

Then, whilst I was eating, the door opened and a figure wearing a beautiful green burqa walked in. The burqa and other veils were removed and I met Lina.

Lina was of course beautiful. Bin-Hussein only selected beautiful women and he had the power and money to select only the very best. But it was not her beauty that captivated me, but her personality and smile. Once undressed down to a chastity belt and Venus Corset she sat down besides me and smiled. “Are you Ihbat?” she asked. “I’m so glad that you’ve come. I was so lonely here with only the maids and other wives for company, (and I don’t much get on with them I’m afraid). I do so hope we can become friends.”

And we did. For the first time since my kidnapping, here was someone who liked me, was friendly towards me and did not want to play unfulfillable sex games with me. She smiled and laughed and we talked daily for hours on every topic under the sun. However, I’m afraid that whenever I saw her laughing brown eyes, long dark hair and smiling mouth, I felt pangs of desire even stronger than I ever had with Fatima or anyone else. The fact was, that I was in love with her, and she with me, (she didn’t know that I was man, but confessed one night in tears that she had always preferred women.

After that we kissed and stroked each other with our legs and intermingled our still-free lower bodies in bed every night, but of course, not once could we do what lovers want to, and now even more than ever the frustration was killing me.

And so that became my life. Everyday I awoke besides my love, a love whom I could never have, was showered and prepared by the maids, (including the humiliating experience of an enema, something which I haven’t got used to to this day), and then shrouded in a mass of heavy cloth until I was stifled and almost blind and then forced with my love to walk to bin-Husseini’s chamber where we sat, his four wives on a carpet in silence whilst he conducted business, smoked his hookah or laughed and played with friends. Then, when it was time for the midday nap, he would summon one of us to pleasure him, (normally orally), whilst the rest were sent home. Whenever Lina was called I felt so jealous that another man was enjoying her that my heart burned, and when I was called I felt dread and disgust at having to service one of my own sex.

In the afternoons we would sit in the Wives’ Quarter with the other wives, (Aisha and Sham, though later on Sham disappeared as she was the eldest and bin-Husseini was bored of her, and replaced by Scheherazade, an Iranian). Like Lina, they interested me little, I found them haughty and boring, though I have to admit that it was there that I learnt the allure of the veil. Previously I’d never understood why some men find veils sexy, yet there I grasped it. Sat beside this women, talking to her and hearing her beautiful voice, knowing that she was a lady on a par with Helen of Troy, but unable to see anything of her features, my imagination went into overdrive, knowing that she was so near, yet so far, so perfect and yet so unattainable. I was always glad to return to my chamber but then seeing my Lina in there in all her loveliness, well… no stress was relieved.

So we spent our days gossiping, listening to songbirds, drinking Arabian tea, and admiring each others clothes, whilst at night, at erratic times we were summoned to pleasure our Husband and Master, in all manner of strange and unpleasant ways.

And all the time of course, clad in a Venus Corset. An uncomfortable garment that left my waist tiny and my arms dead, and I forever helpless and unable to do the simplest things like open a door or hold my beloved Lina.

My life as such continued in such a way for just under a decade until the charms of youth slowly started to fade.

 

Chapter 10

Then one day I was summoned to bin-Husseini and after I had milked him with my mouth, he told me.

“I have divorced you,” he said. “Your charms are fading and you have started to bore me. I have a new She-Male wife being prepared at Medrassah Purdah. You are to be remarried.”

“Thank you Master,” I said.

He didn’t tell me who my new husband was to be, but manys the tear that was shed as Lina and I knew that we were to be separated forever. Two days later, I was prepared as I had been for my marriage to bin-Husseini and ensconced in blinding burqas married in another Islamic ceremony.

Then I was returned to my chamber and enclosed in my travelling cocoon before being sent to sleep.

I awoke clad in a burqa, my Venus Corset on, and a key – the key to my chastity belt!- hung around my neck. I sat and waited.

Two hours later, the door opened. A burqa-clad figure walked in. ‘A maid,’ thought I.

The figure stopped and wiggled. It lay on the floor and then stood up. It was removing its burqa. After a while I helped, and the figure was free.

“Lina!” exclaimed I.

“Ihbat!” exclaimed my love.

“But…”

“But…”

We laughed.

“I was told that I would find my husband waiting in here.”

“And I was told that my wife would be coming.”

“Then you must be… but you’re a…”

“No,” said I. “They transformed me. I still have a…”

“Then we are husband and wife! Bin-Husseini has a heart after all! He tired of us and so he put us together so that we may at least have some happiness.”

I couldn’t believe it. “The key… to my belt, it’s around my neck.”

“Mine too.”

I took off hers with my mouth and opened up those precious realms.

“Now your turn!” she said, using her mouth to take off that precious golden key. She moved down to my lower regions and fitted it to the keyhole. It would not however, turn.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I can’t get it to turn.”

Then a terrible but familiar laughter filled the room. It came from a loudspeaker on the wall.

“Ladies! You are free of me,” said bin-Husseini. “You are married to each other and now live in your own little palace, all paid for by I. However, I could not leave you without one little joke. Ihbat, I had your belt soldered shut whilst you were sleeping. It can never be opened. You will forever live up to your name.” He laughed once more and then the loudspeaker was turned off.

“Live up to my name?” I said. “What does he mean?”

“Ihbat, have you never realised?”

“Realised what?”

“Ihbat. It’s Arabic for frustrated. You are al-Ihbat. The Frustrated One. That was their plan all along. You will never receive any sexual satisfaction.”

FINIS

Copyright © 2004, Dave Potter

 

 

 

A Day in the Life: Dolly and Molly

A Day in the Life: Dolly and Molly

This story is a loose sequel to A Day in the Life and A Day in the Life Revisited. It was written by me, Dave Potter, but thanks must go to Cafter Homme for the editing and corrections which have made it a better tale than it was originally.

 

Chapter 1

Lord Henry Eastham put down the letter that he had just read and gazed across at his young wife, asleep on the bed.

Whether she was actually physically asleep or not, he could not say for sure. Her heavy breathing suggested that she probably was, but with a waist compressed to such incredible proportions, her breathing was always laboured anyway. It was one of the things that he loved so much about her. No, Lady Eastham was asleep because he had decided that she was asleep. Her maids had attached her securely to the bed, spread out like a starfish, wrists chained to the upper two bedposts, ankles to the lower, so that she could barely move a muscle, just as they did every evening at nine. He had come upstairs half an hour later and taken his pleasure with her, and she had been awake then because he had heard her gagged groans from beneath her new face, but afterwards he had shut her eyes and climbed off. That was what was so marvellous about his wife, or, to be more precise, about how he and all the other men in the Society kept their wives. When he decided she was asleep, she was asleep. Whether or not she actually was sleeping was immaterial, just like all her other actions, wishes and wants. Lying stock still on the bed, her eyes closed, she had the appearance of being asleep.

And that was all that mattered.

After gazing upon his sleeping spouse for a few moments, he returned to the letter from William Cavendish. Its contents had shocked him but did not particularly worry him. The repercussions would be minimal and repeat offenses could be prevented from occurring. Even so, it was embarrassing that this had happened under his roof and it was important that he be seen to do something, otherwise his standing within the Society would diminish. But what to do, exactly?

He rang the bell and within a minute Fanny arrived. He let his eyes linger upon her corseted waist for perhaps a moment more than was polite and then said brusquely, “Tea, please.”

Two minutes later she had returned carrying a tray with a small teapot, delicate jug of milk and fine china cup and saucer. She set it down before him and he gave her bottom a pat as she did so. She said nothing of course. Whether she liked it or not was immaterial. In Lord Eastham’s house such behaviour was de rigueur.

“How are you these days, Fanny?” he asked.

“I’m fine, Your Lordship, thank you for asking.”

“And your parents?”

“You forget Your Lordship, they’re both passed away. I have no family now.”

“Not even a brother or a sister?”

“None that survived childhood, Your Lordship.”

“I am sorry to hear that. You are an excellent maid, Fanny. I do appreciate your hard work.”

“Why thank you, Your Lordship.”

“I do so hope that the world treats you better in the future, girl. Good night.”

Fanny bade her master goodnight also and left the room. What she did not realise that the decisions made by that master during the short two minutes that it had taken to make his tea would change her life irrevocably.


At the same time that Lady Eastham was sleeping and Fanny’s destiny was being altered, the author of the fatal letter, William Cavendish Esq. was sitting in his own bedroom, also drinking tea and also gazing upon his own sleeping wife.

Mrs. Cavendish however, unlike her sister in silence, Lady Eastham, was sleeping on her front tonight since the sexual congress that she had just enjoyed – or endured – with her husband, had been of the more prohibited type. As he had started taking to do more and more often, he had ordered Woakes to arrange his living doll on her front with her large and extremely alluring plugged bottom high in the air with a bolster placed underneath it. She was, as always in bed, entirely naked save for the corset around her waist, the monoglove binding her arms together and the hood and then porcelain cast enclosing her head. Not that this really counted of course. As far as William was concerned, the ceramic head topped with a golden wig was Mrs. Cavendish’s real head and the only sort of real waist was a corseted one; she was naked. For, in his mind and those of all the Society members and their wives, she had ceased to become a woman per se and was instead a very special china doll.

Albeit a living and breathing one.

Nonetheless, something had now changed. Something drastic. Not that one could tell from either his demeanour or hers, but the change was real nonetheless.

It dated back two months to when they had both attended the masking ceremony of the new Lady Eastham. Sometime during that ceremony, it transpired that Mrs. Cavendish had overheard two maids chattering. Quite without meaning to and by chance, those maids had given away the Society’s secret and undone years of indoctrination. They had essentially told the silent and unmoving Mrs. Cavendish that real society ladies do not wear masks or china heads, are not permanently gagged and fed liquidised food and do not have their arms bound in monogloves most of the time. Instead, they had let it slip that she was an indoctrinated victim of a sadistic group of men who desire to turn their wives into china dolls.

Indeed.

He gazed upon her sleeping form and wondered: was the woman inside his doll actually asleep or not? Did she love him or hate him? How did she feel about being taken anally most nights? How did she feel about being silenced and anonymised? What difference had this realisation made to her life?

He had only learnt about her discovery because, a week before, on a whim, he’d decided to allow his doll a conversation. These were increasingly rare occurrences, since he didn’t really care for what she had to say or indeed her thoughts and feelings as a person. After all, do normal china dolls think and feel? But he was bored and slightly tipsy on port and the idea of a “chat” had appealed, so he’d unlaced her monoglove, taken out her conversation book and let her write.

He’d expected the usual submissive, mindless blah, proof if it were needed that the Society’s intensive indoctrination programme in the years leading up to marriage had worked flawlessly. What he had instead received that day had shocked him profoundly. She’d revealed her discovery and pleaded with him to treat her as a “normal” wife. He had comforted her, hugged her, and then replaced the monoglove, to her weak protestations.

Then he had written straightaway to Lord Eastham. The letter that His Lordship had just finished reading unbeknownst to its author.

Chapter 2

Upon reading the letter, Lord Eastham had realised immediately who the guilty culprits had been: Fanny Baker and Millie Bainbridge. Both girls were pretty dull intellectually, and no great shakes as housemaids either. He had only employed them – and tolerated their repeated mediocre performances in their roles – because they were extremely pleasing to look at, did not complain when he gave their buttocks or breasts a squeeze, and were too stupid to ever mention to the authorities about what went on in Eastham Hall.

His initial thought upon having read the missive was to sack the pair of them on spot. However, after he had sent for a maid and Fanny had arrived in person, he’d started to have second thoughts. Was a mere sacking punishment enough for such irresponsibility? And if kicked out of his employ, how could he guarantee their silence? Plus, he had long held fantasies about doing far more with one or both of them – particularly Fanny – than giving their bottoms a grope.

And almost as soon as he thought about this, a solution precipitated into his mind. Oh yes, a great solution! One that would satisfy the Society, satisfy William Cavendish and, most importantly, satisfy him.

On the morrow he ordered his carriage readied and rode out to the railway station. There he took the first train to Sheffield where he changed for Throwley. Three hours later he was hammering on the door of the isolated Throwley Hall, where his friend and fellow Societyman William Cavendish lived with his own doll wife. The two men met and spoke in the dining room for about an hour. Then, Lord Eastham left and returned directly to his home. After enjoying his evening meal, he withdrew to his study and promptly summoned three of his servants to him. The first was Nolan the butler. The two men spoke for around fifteen minutes after which Nolan departed looking extremely grave. Next, he summoned Millie Bainbridge. He spoke to her for around fifteen minutes and she left looking quite distraught. Finally, he summoned Fanny Baker.

“Fanny, please sit down,” he said, smiling and showing the lowly maid to the best chair in the room.

“Why, thank you, Your Lordship.”

“I’ve been thinking about our little conversation last night and I have a proposal to make to you. Life has been unkind to you in the past, I understand that, yet you have continued to work diligently in my employ and proven yourself to be a first-rate housemaid.”

“Why, thank you, Your Lordship, you’re too kind.”

“No Fanny, no I am not. You have earned that praise and it is my belief that you have earned far more than that. Indeed, I have called you into my office today in order to offer you a promotion. Lady Eastham, as you know, lives in a rather, how shall I put it, unusual manner and although she is most happy with her lot, I sense that she is lonely. During our evening conversations, she has repeatedly mentioned to me about how excellent you have proved to be when serving her and what a delightful girl she finds you to be. Thus, it is that I would like to offer you the position of Companion to Lady Eastham. The wage is quadruple the amount you are currently paid but I do appreciate that you are happy in your current work and this role may not suit…”

“Oh no Your Lordship, it would suit me right proper would that!”

“Well, are you sure? It is a big step up and…”

“Oh, Your Lordship, thank you very much, I’d be honoured!”

“Well that is excellent and, as it happens, I have another bit of news for you. I believe that you are good friends with Millie Bainbridge, am I correct?”

“Oh yes, Your Lordship, me and her is like sisters.”

“How delightful! Well, only this morning I met with a dear friend of mine, Mr. William Cavendish, and he asked me if I have any intelligent and able young ladies in my employ who would be happy to act as a companion for his wife. Immediately I thought of you and Millie but I wanted to keep you employed in this household, so I offered the Cavendish position to her and she has accepted too. Ladies, you are both going up in the world!”

“That’s unbelievable, Your Lordship, thank you so much!”

“It is nothing,” he replied. “On the morrow, you are to travel to Sheffield and visit the draper. You will need a new wardrobe after all for your new position. As this is being prepared, you shall continue in your current post but then in, shall we say a fortnight, when your new clothes are ready, you shall be inducted into your new role.”

“Thank you again, Your Lordship, you’re too kind, you really are.”

“Well, if that is how you think, please, permit me a little kiss on that pretty cheek of yours and then you can be off.”

“Of course, Your Lordship! For you, anything…”

And so he had his peck on the cheek – which strayed towards her rosebud lips – and then she was sent on her way with a pat on the bum.

And as she closed the door behind her, Lord Eastham muttered to himself, “Brainless cow!”

Chapter 3

Lazily, Fanny Baker opened her eyes in her new bed on the first morning of her new job. Almost immediately, despite the succour of sleep still being in her head, she knew that something was wrong. She had opened her eyes but nothing had changed; the world remained black.

Not the black of a dark night but pitch black, the total absence of light at all.

More than that, something was covering her head. Enclosing it, tightly, as if it were in a bag. She tried to bring her hand to her face to check what it was but that hand would not move. It was firmly secured to the frame of the bed above her head. In panic she screamed.

No noise came out.


The night before she was due to begin her new position, in accordance with the new duties and status, Fanny had been told that she would be moving to new quarters, up in the West Wing next to Lady Eastham’s rooms. It had been an emotional day for the young maid. That morning she had tearfully bade goodbye to her friend Millie who had set off for her new job at Throwley Hall, and then the change in her circumstances had been announced at dinner by the butler to all in the servants’ dining room. There had been a couple of muttered snide comments about people who got a promotion by flashing their tits rather than doing any work, but most people had applauded her respectfully. She had never felt so proud and so beloved.

After that she had made her way up the wide staircase to the upper-class quarters. Her bedroom, when she was shown it, was incredible. It wasn’t as grand as her mistress’s of course, but it was still huge, dominated by a four-poster bed and, worryingly, a lacing bar that dangled from the ceiling. There was a large wardrobe full of the new outfits delivered that afternoon in the draper’s van. She opened it and looked at them. Fine satin and velvet, lace trimmings and exquisite embroidery. After that day, she would look incredible. She sat down on the bed and smiled. How lucky she was! Of course, she had always known that His Lordship had a soft spot for her; that was why she endured the little strokes and squeezes that came her way, but she never believed he would favour her in such a manner. If she played her cards right and let him do more than stroke or squeeze, who knows? Perhaps her own little place in a nearby town which he could retreat to when he grew tired of his strange, china-faced wife.

Just thinking of Lady Eastham made her shiver. What a freaky way to live? Silent and hidden, more like a piece of the furniture than a real, living person. And what was she as the Lady’s companion supposed to do with her? She imagined some very dull one-way conversations in the ladies’ drawing room. Oh well, however tortuous, it would be worth it. The salary alone, plus the status and the prospect of further boons to come her way, had made this a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Fanny was shaken from her reveries by a knock on the door. It was Nolan the butler who was wheeling a trolley.

“His Lordship thought you might like some tea before you retire,” he said.

“That’d be lovely, ta. Just leave it there.”

“As you wish, Miss Baker. Good evening.”

“Goodnight Mr. Nolan,” she replied.

She did not know that they were to be the last words she would ever speak.


Lord Eastham looked on with sadistic pleasure as he saw the china doll on the bed start to squirm, groan and test her restraints. As no one else was present, she could see nothing and his trousers were tented, he unbuttoned them and took his member in his hand. In less than a minute he had erupted over her new porcelain face. Then he revealed himself.

“Good morning Fanny,” he said, “and welcome to your first day as Lady Eastham’s companion. Immediately she stopped her squirming. He took out a damp flannel, wiped the semen from her face with care and then opened her eyelids to reveal a pair of dark brown doll’s eyes with a tiny pinhole in the centre of each one.

“I guess you are wondering what has happened to you since you drank that cup of tea last night. Well, you shouldn’t be confused, as the truth of the matter is entirely obvious: if you are to be Lady Eastham’s companion in life then it is only natural that you must live in the same mode that she does. However, because you are not a member of the aristocracy and only a lowly serving girl, it would have been inappropriate for you to have a dolling ceremony as she did. So it was that your head was fitted last night when you were sleeping off the effects of the drugged tea.”

Immediately the squirming, bucking groaning and general non-acceptance of her life began again. Lord Eastham stopped speaking. He enjoyed moments like this and wanted to savour this one. Already his trousers were beginning to tent again. With his wife he had not had such a pleasure, as she had been indoctrinated to accept, nay, embrace her doll status. But this brainless wench had had no such preparation and her predicament was panicking her. As he watched her battle in vain against her restraints, he remembered the previous evening.

Half an hour after giving her the tea, Nolan had returned and then summoned his master. Lord Eastham had come along together with the Earl of Norfolk, the founder and Chair of the Society whom he had contacted the week before and invited along for the occasion. The three men had then stripped the sleeping maid, tied her to a chair and cut her hair off with shears before then shaving it as bald as an egg. After that they had fitted the fearsome hood which was then laced up tightly at the back, before inflating the gag to full capacity. Then the china head had been produced, another perfect product from the Staffordshire manufacturer Wade, whose owner was also a Societyman and who made all Society heads to their purchaser’s unique specifications. Since his wife was a blonde-haired and wide blue-eyed doll, Lord Eastham had decided to go for a stark contrast and so ordered Fanny to become a raven-haired beauty with brooding dark brown eyes and rosebud lips. Not unlike the Empress Sisi in fact. The rear half of the head had been fitted first, then the front joined onto it and, finally, the mass of black ringleted hair affixed on top.

The vision complete.

Fanny was then untied from the chair, lain on the bed, and her wrists and ankles were attached firmly to the four posts by bronze chains before the counterpane was lain on top of her, and she was left to rest in peace.


Eastham stayed silent until Fanny had ceased in her futile struggles, after which he stroked her ersatz hair and began his litany again.

“Fanny, from this day forward you shall live exactly as your mistress does, for you shall be her companion in everything. You are now a doll just as she is and, to help make that clearer to you, I have decided that you are to be renamed. Your new moniker is Dolly. Dolly the dolly. Simple, like you, and easy to remember. At this moment, as I impart this joyful news to you, all the servants are being addressed by Nolan who is instructing them that you must always be referred to as ‘Dolly’ from this day forward.”

She started to buck and groan again, doubtless due to the shame of this ordeal. His Lordship’s member grew even stiffer. When she had calmed herself again, he continued:

“Unfortunately, as you are doubtless aware, your waist is currently much broader than Her Ladyship’s. therefore, you shall undergo a period of intensive waist training. I have already ordered the new stays to accomplish this. Your personal maid has been instructed to ensure that your waist circumference, twenty-eight inches at present I believe, does not exceed sixteen by this time next year. Oh yes, and your maid is to be Lottie. I believe you two are close friends.”

The bucking started again in earnest. Lord Eastham had been lying. The plain, almost boyish Lottie Wilkins, one of the most efficient and hard-working maids in the hall, was also the one who had muttered about people getting promotions by flashing their tits the previous evening. Nolan had informed him straightaway. The two girls absolutely hated one another.

“Now, I shall ring for Lottie in a moment and she shall administer your first enema and then prepare you for your first day as Her Ladyship’s companion. However, before we do that, whilst we are still alone, I have one little confession to make.” As he said those words he moved his face right next to hers, so close that he could feel and hear her breath entering and exiting the holes in the button porcelain nose. “Dolly, I lied to you earlier. I did not choose you for this position because of your hard work; instead it was due to a very different reason. A month ago at Her Ladyship’s dolling ceremony, you and Millie Bainbridge – now renamed Molly the Dolly I believe – spoke freely about our practices. Either purposeful or simply careless, you let another doll know that how she and Lady Eastham – and now you too I suppose – live is not the norm, and – I am using your words here – our society is ‘evil’. Now, my dear doll, such an abuse of trust is absolutely unforgivable. You have caused both Mrs. Cavendish and Mr. Cavendish great upset and so, it is only right that you – and Millie – share the burden as it were. Whatever bed you are lying in dear Dolly, it is you who has put yourself there. And with those thoughts, goodbye.”

Softly he kissed her pottery cheek and then rang the bell for Lottie.


Four hours later a figure walked into the drawing room at Throwley Hall. “My darling, meet your new companion, Molly the Dolly!” announces William Cavendish as a flame-haired, green-eyed doll tentatively enters, unsure on her new heels.

And at the same hour we can find Fanny… nay, Dolly, sitting alongside Lady Eastham, her shoulders in agony from the monoglove that has been laced onto her for the first time in her life, her breast heaving from the overtightened stays but her face placid and tranquil.

 

Chapter 4

Four months later

Ticking of the clock pounded through her brain, tormenting her, driving her mad. It was only a faint sound, barely discernible through the tight leather hood and pottery cast that now covered her ears, but in a world of almost complete silence, it engulfed her entire being.

I say ‘almost complete,’ for there was another sound: that of heavy, laboured breathing; the constant battle to force air in and out of dangerously-compressed lungs and then through the tiny holes in the pot head. The eternal battle for air that both enraged and comforted her. She hated it, she longed for a break from that unending struggle to just keep herself alive and yet, at the same time, it was a blessed reminder that she… and the figure sitting across from her… were alive. For breathing was the only non-artificial thing about them.

She was doing her job, the “promotion” that she had eagerly accepted and looked forward to. She had been excited by the fact that she would become almost a lady herself, wearing fine dresses, sleeping in fine quarters and doing no physical work. Well, all of that had turned out to be true, but in the cruellest possible way. She now was Mrs. Cavendish’s companion indeed, but keep her company was all that she did do. It was all that she could do nowadays.

She closed her real eyes behind the doll ones and remembered. She remembered running in the fields as a little girl, singing songs at Sunday School, laughing and joking with her friends, flirting with the boys. She recalled glorious summer Sundays lying on the grass staring up at the fluffy clouds in the sky, cups of tea around the kitchen table, wild nights at harvest time when everyone drank home-brewed ale and danced around the hayrick. She had been poor, unimportant and ignorant, but she had been, in so many ways, happy.

And now…?

She stared at Mrs. Cavendish. How ironic that they spent nearly every waking hour together and yet had never spoken and knew nothing about each other. Instead she just sits there, in the armchair across from her, dressed in the finest of gowns, her ample chest heaving up and down, her face blank and artificial. Who is she? What is she like? What does she dream about? Does she hate the husband that did this to her or does she love him? Does she realise that she is a victim of a group of sadistic, evil men who just like to control women or does she think that it is normal? She remembers that once, when they were free, Fanny had told her that they don’t realise, that they think it’s normal. She also remembers that Fanny is now Lady Eastham’s companion. She has met her several times of course but, corseted to fainting and her head hidden beneath a doll head, then she would never have known that it was her old friend. She recognised Lottie though, that plain bitch who preferred women to men and always hated the fact that Fanny had more normal preferences and didn’t find her attractive at all. And now Lottie was Fanny’s maidservant. She shuddered when she thought what that meant.

She stared again at Mrs. Cavendish. She had no choice. It was almost impossible to turn her head these days without shifting her whole body. She could glance from side to side but that just meant blindness since her eyes then did not line up with the pinholes in the doll head. She took in her mistress’s gorgeous cream gown with printed roses on it and her minuscule waist, emphasised with a huge red ribbon. A wave of hate passed over her. Her gown, although fine, was far plainer and her waist was far broader. She was now nothing more than an anonymous clotheshorse and yet even in that role this bitch was eclipsing her.

And it was more than that. Madam had been trained so that she could accept all of this. She knew no different. Ignorance is strength. For her this was all normal. Oh, to have that peace of mind, that serenity, that ability to accept and not be angry. How she hated her with every fibre of her being!

Nor was that all. That cow, that submissive, putrid little doll whom it was her life’s curse to accompany, yes, she could not speak, move, express opinions or anything else, but she could still be a woman. She was a wife. A woman’s purpose in life is to marry and please her husband and, in a perverse way, that bitch was doing that. Every night she would lie with him and he would enter her. Oh the memory! She was no virgin of course, she had lain with several of the serving boys and, although she had not really loved any of them, it had been good, oh yes, it had been wonderful! The feeling of a man inside her, his rod slipping up and down her cavern, caressing her down there, his arms entwining her, the ecstasy, the joy, the…

The thoughts caused her breathing to grew heavier and she felt her head spinning. She tried to fight it but then she blacked out.

She awoke. How long had passed? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Nothing had changed. The clock still ticked and Mrs. Cavendish still stared vacantly back at her. Bitch! Tonight that cow would enjoy a man whilst she lay alone as she did every night, her sex on fire due to the insertions in both her nest and her bottom, but with no way to relieve them. It was so unfair!

But a woman is not born to be just a wife. No, she has an even higher calling than that, the highest calling of all. The be a mother and raise a brood of gorgeous children. She loved children but they did not love her. The doll head with its staring eyes freaked them out and the few that came to Throwley ran from her and Mrs. Cavendish. But soon, that cow across from her would find a child that ran towards her, not away. Soon, she would be nursing one, having it suck on the teat of one of those ample breasts that now heaved up and down across from her.

Oh yes, a week ago it had been announced that Madam had missed her period and today the doctor had visited and another announcement made: Mrs. Cavendish was expecting! Her stays were going to be loosened and she would be pampered whilst the new life grew within her. How evil was that! That this mindless, pathetic girl who rushed to embrace becoming a doll should be gifted with a child whilst Millie herself was left unsatisfied every night.

God how she hated her!

A click to her left shook her out of her reveries. Although she could not see what it was, she knew from past experience: the door had been opened. Into her line of sight appeared Mr. Cavendish. He was a handsome man with a rugged face and excellent dress sense. She could see why that worthless freak had fallen for him. He went over to his doll wife and pecked her on her porcelain cheek. “I had to check on the mother of my child,” he said warmly. She did not move or react.

Then he turned towards Molly and gazed upon her for longer than was decent, his eyes resting on her now 20-inch in circumference stem-waist. “And her charming companion too, of course,” he added. He walked over to her and she involuntarily wiggled her monoglove-clad arms even though there was no life in them. His hand brushed her cheek and she cursed that she could feel nothing. Then it strayed down, brushing her heaving breasts almost accidentally. Oh, the feeling of a human touch on her body! It was exquisite but all too infuriating for its briefness. “Your waist is progressing well, Molly,” he commented. “Soon it shall match my wife’s.”

And then he departed.

God how she longed for him!

God how she hated her!

But none of those feelings came out and instead she just sat there, unmoving, her artificial face smiling as the clock ticked endlessly on.

Chapter 5

A year later

The congregation are assembled, the minister stands with his prayer book and the groom waits nervously by the altar. Then, the familiar strains of the wedding march strike up on the organ and the bride enters, a glorious vision in white. She moves slowly and daintily down the aisle and all present admire what they see: her sumptuous dress, her minuscule waist and her proudly-held head, covered by a bonnet and thick white veils. At the altar those veils are flipped back to reveal her face. She is as pretty as a doll! Indeed, she is more than that. She is a china doll! Her lips do not move and her eyes stare unblinking.

And thirty minutes later she has become one Mrs. Stephen Nolan.


In the year that has passed, much has happened. Both Dolly and Molly have settled down silently, uncomplaining, as the companions of Lady Eastham and Mrs. Cavendish respectively. They meet regularly, for every other month the Cavendishes make their way over to Eastham Hall whilst on the alternate months the Easthams travel to Throwley. Although friends before, His Lordship and William Cavendish have become even closer and nothing makes them happier than seeing their two wives and their two wives’ companions sitting in a row, all tight-laced, monogloved and expressionless in the drawing room. It is just exquisite.

But for William Cavendish, it has become more than that. Indeed, the presence of a new doll under his roof has changed the whole dynamics of his household. Mrs. Cavendish always excited him, but now there is double the temptation. At first he was content to just let his eyes drift over the newcomer’s ever-improving figure and flawless porcelain complexion but then, as with Lord Eastham before him, he found that he could not resist a stroke or a squeeze.

And Molly the Dolly could not resist him.


Things came to a head though, when a happy event took place within Throwley Hall. Worried about his future legacy, William had started undertaking his nightly congress with his wife not only vaginally, but, furthermore, without protection. And within three months, nature took its course and her periods stopped.

Which was wonderful news of course, but as her stomach grew and her stays had to be loosened, the doll that he was married to began to appear less and less appealing in comparison to the one that he had merely employed. He found himself sneaking into her room at night to gaze upon her sleeping form and, before a fortnight had passed, he had taken to lying next to her and gently stroking her whilst also bringing himself to fulfilment.

Before the month was over, they had consummated their new-found relationship.


As with so many things, what happens at Throwley Hall, also happens at Eastham. His Lordship however, had always foreseen the day when he slept with his wife’s companion and so had made plans. However, he had delayed it for his own perverse pleasure.

He knew that Dolly hated him. On the rare occasions when he allowed her to have a conversation with him, she swore and railed against him in misspelt English with crudely-formed letters. She really was as dumb as they come, and her anger and malice excited him to no end. So, he formed a plan. He wanted her to want him as much as she detested him, to plead with him to sleep with her yet hate herself for doing so.

It was not hard. All Society members learned that their doll wives loved to lie with their husbands. The reason was simple: denied of any skin-to-skin contact, forced to live life second-hand, ‘through a glass darkly’ as the Society’s spiritual head, the Rev. Halcombe had put it, the brief physical contact that they enjoyed with another human being during sex became a beacon of hope and reality in their lives. It was the only thing that made them feel human.

And indoctrinated as they all were, they knew that they should love it and should adore their husbands anyway. That they longed for that time was only natural. It was God’s will.

But with Dolly it was all so different. She had received no education and was under no illusions. She knew that he was to blame for her misery and only he could free her, yet chose not to. She abhorred him with every fibre of her body and so shrank away when he neared her. Still though, he set to work. He instituted weekly conversations ‘to discuss the progress of his darling wife’ and during these would ask her what she thought of him. Using her brainless bluntness she told him that he repels her.

“So, you wouldn’t like to sleep with me?” he asked.

Not for all the money in the world, she wrote.

“Fair enough, because I never shall unless you ask me to.”

And I never will ask you to you shit!

However, whilst all this was going on, his plan to break her was progressing. The cook was ordered to put copious quantities of Spanish fly, a strong aphrodisiac, in her liquidised meals and Lottie was under strict instructions to keep sizing up her bottom plugs as well as also adding a frontal insertion.

And then, every evening, an hour after she had been put to sleep, he would enter her room and slowly stroke or tickle her beauty bud. She would buck and groan but he would never let her do more than that.

After four months of mental and physical torment and intense internal debating, she humbly wrote in her conversation book, Please lie with me.

“Why? Do you love me?”

No, I hate you. You are a louse.

“I only lie with women who love me.”

Two weeks later she told him she loved him.

Which was all well and good except that Lord Eastham had never been a fan of congress with a sheath. And so he went about it au naturel and, after five months, Dolly too missed her period.

Which potentially posed a problem. After all, who had access to her but His Lordship? And what would be the talk in the county if it became known that he had made a servant pregnant? But, as I said before, Lord Eastham was a man who had made plans for such an eventuality. The very week that Dolly missed her period, quite out-of-the-blue, the butler Nolan declared his undying love for Lady Eastham’s Companion.

And the very next week they were married with the Rev. Halcombe presiding in Eastham Hall’s private chapel.


In the reception afterwards, William Cavendish seeks out his friend.

“Bertie, old fruit, I must say, I don’t know how you do it! I’m in awe, I truly am!”

“Whatever do you mean, old bean?”

“Well, getting Nolan to marry the doll like that. I mean, it’s an awful shame for you since he’ll be using her from now on but at least the scandal of the child is covered up. How much did you have to pay him to agree?”

“Pay him? Oh, not a penny, old chap. Did it for free. And what is more, he won’t be stopping my access to her. In fact, she’ll consummate her wedding night in a couple of hours’ time with the same fellow who impregnated her in the first place.”

“What on earth do you mean? Nolan is prepared to ride solo whilst you’re on his mare?”

“Not at all. Nolan won’t be riding solo tonight just as he has not for many years. My guess is that he will be busy galloping his way through the night on Parker as he does most nights.”

“Parker? Which mare is that? Can’t say I’ve noticed her before.”

“You haven’t because Parker’s a stallion not a mare. Nolan is a raging pederast you see. Damn good butler but a shirt-lifter. I’ve known for years, naturally. That’s why I had a word with him before Lady Eastham was dolled and another before I dolled up Dolly here. It keeps his mouth shut. Better that than him languishing in the nick.”

“Aha! I get it now! Absolute bloody genius! He keeps quiet about your tendencies and you keep quiet about his; he gets to appear as a normal family man and you get to roger the doll; he gets a child and you don’t get any scandal.”

“Got it in one, except for one minor detail: if it’s a boy, it’s his, although I’ll provide for the lad well enough of course. But if it’s a girl, the Society gets her. As you know, we’ve been getting worried that these orphanage reforms may cut off our current supply of dolls, so what better than to breed some of our own? Everyone’s a winner… except Dolly and the baby perhaps!”

They both chuckled heartily at this and took long puffs on their cigars. Then Cavendish turned to Eastham and said, “Listen old bean, I’ve been meaning to ask…”

Eastham held his hand up. “You needn’t bother, old chap, I know what you’re about to say: Yes, I can help. Wilkins the footman and Peters to gardener are also raging queers who are rather fond of each other. Do you fancy employing them both at Throwley Hall? I’m guessing young Molly is getting itchy for some wedding bells too…”

The End

 

Copyright © 2018, Dave Potter

 

Bunnykins

Bunnykins

Trang was a normal girl in Vietnam. She was slim, sensuous and her face could bewitch most men. It certainly bewitched Dave Potter when he saw it on the internet dating site. He started contacting her, learnt that she was an intelligent, independent woman, and within a month he was catching a plane over there to Ho Chi Minh City.

They met, they talked, they kissed and they fell in love. “Would you mind going for a professional photo shoot?” asked Dave. Trang of course, did not mind. She went to the most expensive studio in town, (after all, Dave was paying), and posed for a series of elegant photographs wearing her traditional dress, the ao dai.

Dave left, but returned again three months later. A week after his arrival, they were married, and a month after that, they were on the plane jetting towards Southern California where he lived.

After alighting from the plane they drove south and south, until they were but a few kilometers from the Mexican border. Then they stopped at a large house. “Do you live here?” asked Trang.

“Yes I do my honey,” replied Dave.

They got out of the car and entered the luxurious marble-tiled confines. “Sit down,” said Dave. “I’ll make you a drink,” he added. He disappeared and returned a moment later with an iced coffee. Trang took it with a smile and sipped it slowly. Then, strangely, she began to feel dizzy, her whole went hazy and Dave smiled.

She awoke feeling groggy. She was no longer in the luxury mansion, but instead a hospital room. She was lain on a bed and all around her, doctors milled about. She tried to get up from the bed, but discovered that she was tied down. Dave came into view, smiling. “What’s happened?” she asked. “Have I had an accident?”

“No, my dear, I’m just having you modified a little, that’s all. So that you more suit my tastes.”

“Modified? What? Where?” She was very confused.

“Where? Oh in a place where the law does not matter,” said her husband with a laugh.

Then a doctor came up to her, injected something into her arm, and the world went black once more.

When she awoke the seond time she found that she was no longer in the hospital. Instead, she was in a bedroom. A very pink bedroom. A bedroom covered with pink silken sheets, pink hearts and large pink soft toys. The only non-pink thing in it was Dave, who was sat at the foot of the bed, again wearing a broad smile on his face.

“You’re awake my darling!” he exclaimed. “Very good! Welcome to your new life Bunnykins!”

‘Bunnykins’? What did he mean? What did that English word mean? She sat up and discovered that she was naked, save a tiny plastic pink bikini. She felt different. Curled hair brushed against her face.But why? She put her hand to her face. Her hand didn’t work! What was happening? She asked Dave. Except that she didn’t ask anything. All that came out of her mouth was a gurgle. She couldn’t speak!

“You’re wondering about the modifications that I’ve made to you I suppose?” he said.

Trang nodded.

“Well, the hands. I’ve had them changed in hospital. The fingers have had metal rods inserted beneath the skin, so that they cannot bend and the fingers themselves have been sewn together and these fantastic pink false nails, an inch in length attached to the tips of each one. Then there’s the wrists, also unmovable. Your hands are useless now. Left for decorative purposes only. And you mouth? You will find that that will no longer open wider than a one inch ‘o’, the size of my cock in fact. Inside, your voice chords have been snapped and your teeth removed and the mouth itself reshaped so that it is smaller and therefore, more comfortable for my tool. Of course, speaking is not an impossibility. Your mind however, I have left unchanged. I wish you to appreciate every second of this change in your life. Now, what else, ah yes, your feet. In a permanent en pointe ballet position. Walking any distance is now impossible for you, but you can mince about the house to my pleasure. Your breasts and buttocks have of course been enhanced, that goes without saying. Let’s get you up and dressed.”

He picked his wife up and laced a pair of en pointe boots on her feet and then covered them with schoolgirl white socks and white girly shoes that disguised the fact that the feet were held at an angle. Trang tried walking on these and found it almost an impossibility. They then went over to a wardrobe and Dave brought out a ridiculous little girl’s dress in pink, festooned with bows, which he proceed to dress his wife in. “You might be wondering why you are finding it difficult to resist me. I shall explain,” said he. “You are now being fed on a compound designed by nutriotional experts. It provides all the vitamins and nutrients that you need for daily life, but none of the chemicals that give you strength. Consequently, whilst fed on it you shall always be healthy, yet alas also weak. Certain of your muscles though, I require to be always toned. Therefore, you will be pleased to learn that thrice weekly you will be having butt massages to keep that now enlarged part of your anatomy firm and pleasing to me.” He finished tying the dress around her, then led her to a chair where copious amounts of make-up were smeared onto Trang’s face: bright pink lipstick, black line on her eyebrows and to her horror, enormous false lashes that obscured her view a little. He then produced a large pink ribbon and tied to to her hair. “By the way,” commented he, “your hair will be forever curled and blonde from now on.” Then, with a smile, he delcared, “My little girl Bunnykins is complete! Take a look at yourself in the mirror.”

Bunnykins turned to the looking glass that he held before her. Staring at her was a little Asian-girl fantasy, ready to be plucked and used and then cast aside. She blinked and her false lashes batted up and down. “Pretty aren’t you, Bunnykins?” said Dave, brushing her blonde ringlets. “Now bend over!” Bunnykins did not heed her husband, so he bent her over himself, so that her arse was facing the air. Pulling down her bikini panties, he said. “One more thing. Your lovely bottom is not large enough for me to enter yet, so it must be trained.” Then to her surprise, he thrust a large and well-lubricated dildo into it, causing her to gurgle loudly. “Such a pretty sound, your gurgle is,” was the only comment that Dave made, before righting her. “Now kneel!” he commanded. This time Bunnykins obeyed.

“Now, your main, nay, only purpose in life is to receive cock, so today, I am going to introduce you to the art of blowing.” He unbuttoned his fly and took his tool out. Bunnykins unwillingly took that erect member into her modified mouth and started sucking. “No! No! Harder! Harder!” cried Dave, grabbing her head rougly and fucking her face with vigour. As he came a minute or so later, Bunnykins looked up and saw one of the the photos of her in her ao dai from the photo shoot in Vietnam, and realised what a terrible change had happened to her. Gone was proud, independent, intelligent Trang. Arrived was Bunnykins the Bimbo, Dave’s little Asian girl fucktoy.

Copyright © 2004, Dave Potter

A Day in the Life, Revisited

A Day in the Life, Revisited

This story is a loose sequel to A Day in the Life. It was written by me, Dave Potter, but thanks must go to Cafter Homme for the extensive editing and revisions which have made it a far better tale than it was originally.

5 years later

Beneath her breast, her heart beat ten to the dozen. Today was to be such an exciting day, for today her husband had told her that she would be allowed a conversation with her old friend Lady Eastham on the eve of the lady’s ceremony. That was why they had travelled in a curtained coach all the way from Throwley to Eastham Hall the previous evening.

Lady Eastham wasn’t really an old friend of course; not strictly. She hardly knew the girl in fact but then these days she hardly knew anyone. However, she did feel an affinity with the fellow human being. For, like her, Lady Eastham had been born an orphan. Back then her friend had been known as Catherine Halcombe. When she had left the house of her “uncle” to marry Mr. Cavendish, Catherine had taken her place and similarly been transformed into a lady of standing. For her “uncle” was not really a relative at all; instead he was a publicly-spirited gentleman who had taken her in and brought her up as a lady despite her lowly status. And, following her departure, out of charitable duty, he had done the same for another poor orphan, Catherine Halcombe. The same Catherine who, a month ago, had married Lord Percival Eastham and thus become Lady Eastham. The same Lady Eastham whom she was going to see today. For today, now that they had returned from their honeymoon, it was time for Lady Eastham to have her ceremony.

The maid slowly unlaced the monoglove, de rigueur for most of her waking hours and helped her to slowly flex her muscles, allowing the blood to rush back. Without much reprieve, tight kid gloves were worked onto her now-free hands and, once they were buttoned up, she was helped up out of her chair and towards the ladies’ drawing room.

Lady Eastham was waiting for her. She was still wearing her maiden’s mask as was to be expected and thus, combined with her own trammelling, no verbal communication would be possible. Ladies of distinction however, do not need to use their voices in the rare conversations that they are granted. Instead the two ladies minced up to one another, grasped each other’s gloved hands firmly, warmly, and then sat down at a small table. In front of each of them was a writing book and a pen. Her own book had been given to her by her husband on their wedding day and in it were recorded all her conversations. She had had it for five years now and it was still only a quarter full. She did not expect to ever need another in her life. Lady Eastham’s however was brand new and crisp. This was to be her first post-marital conversation!

How are you finding married life so far, Lady Eastham?

I am happy. Lord Eastham is a good man. Then she stopped writing as if she wanted to say something but did not know how to.

But there is a problem?

Lady Eastham’s hand shook. Some things are difficult.

The bedchamber? Her mind was cast back to the first few halcyon days of her own marriage. On their wedding night Mr. Cavendish had stripped her off all her garments save for her stays (he loved to encircle her waist with his two hands) and they had entwined and intermingled their bodies, kissing passionately and consummating their union with gusto before lying side-by-side and talking for hours of the future. That had been then, of course. Before her own ceremony.

The bedchamber? No, not at all. I was scared at first I do admit, but now I find great pleasure in it. I talk of other things.

Please, tell me if you feel you can.

My plugs. Lord Eastham informs me that all married women of status wear them. Of course, in our uncle’s house I wore a soap bottom plug, but the one that I have in me now is much larger and I feel so full and bloated. Plus, it is only the first of a series. And then I have a second in my other hole.

As her friend wrote, she became aware of her own plugs. Yes, she too wore two at all times and, yes, the bottom plug was larger than when she had been a maiden. And she acknowledged that at first, during the early months of her marriage, they occupied her thoughts night and day, so painfully and intrusively and relentlessly did they stretch her and remind her of those most intimate areas. She remembered vividly, on the morning after her wedding night, when her husband had presented the box of ivory plugs to her and let her take them out and hold them in her hands. The largest had been so huge! How would she ever manage to take that inside her? She recalled too the struggles every morning and evening after her enemas when Woakes forced those monsters within her. The maid was kind and gentle, but she had groaned with pain as the plug stretched her inside and then, the moment her muscles became accustomed used, the next one was brought out. And the next, and the next. Now though, not to have such a huge insertion there; well, it would truly feel strange, as too would the other things. Yet, even now, she still resented it.

They are a cross that we ladies must bear she wrote slowly.

This did not seem to satisfy Lady Eastham, who even in silent, expressionless grace, wrote the next part in haste.

But that is not all. There is also the masking. They say that it is a day of great joy for any lady and yet, somehow, I feel full of trepidation. I am so silly but I cannot help myself. Were you the same Mrs. Cavendish? Were you nervous also?

She recalled in her mind’s eye her own masking ceremony. It had been a full month after her wedding and their honeymoon in that remote castle in the Scottish Highlands. Her husband had taken her to her new home, Throwley Hall, for the first time. She had found it a strange place; grand and well-kept but utterly isolated, as if Mr. Cavendish wished to keep her away from society. That had disappointed her a little; she’d hoped that after her marriage she would be inducted into London society, but when she had mentioned it one evening in the bedchamber, her husband had replied that London was decadent and the season was aimed at girls not already wed. A newlywed spouse such as her had no need of it.

And as a good, obedient wife, she had acquiesced.

Two days after their arrival at Throwley, the masking ceremony had taken place. Unlike Lady Eastham, she had been given no prior warning. Instead, that morning after her enema, her husband had entered her chamber whilst she was still embarrassingly bent over on all fours, her plugged bottom in the air, to tell her that in the evening they would be holding a great party for one of the most significant events of a young wife’s life. “Tonight will show the world that you truly have become my wife and that a new stage in your life has begun,” he had told her cryptically.

The rest of the day had, of course, been spent in preparation. Special occasions always meant a fine dress and an extra inch or two off of her usual waist. She was laced down slowly before a glorious dress of pink satin with a wide crinoline and adorned with real red roses was brought out. It was fitted carefully and then complimented with a monoglove, although since the dress was off-the shoulder, this glove had no straps looping around her shoulders and the cover that was laced over it was in pearly white.

Why was it that such details stuck in her mind?

But the monoglove nor the fourteen-inch waist were not the true shocks of that evening. No, instead it was the mask… or lack of it. Her hair was styled, her face made-up and then, without her pot mask, she was led downstairs. But why? Had her husband not promised her on their engagement night that, after their marriage, she would be masked at all times? Had he changed his mind? Oh, how her heart had soared in happiness! How she hated that awful mask that concealed her face to the world! How she longed to feel the breeze on her cheeks, the touch of another human on those cheeks, and the freedom to see, hear and speak untrammelled! Yes, he had changed his mind! Truly she was blessed!

Slowly, her heart a-flutter, the maid had helped her down the grand staircase.

A party had gathered; a party of her husband’s friends and their wives. Her uncle was present too, smiling, proud of the girl he had raised out of poverty and turned into a fine lady. The ladies were all masked though and, despite her happiness, she had felt naked and ashamed.

Then, still totally unaware of what was taking place, her husband had taken her by the waist and guided her to a chair in the middle of the room. She still remembered exactly what he had whispered in her ear, “My darling, whatever happens, do not be afraid; it is for the best,” just before he  announced to the room, “Let the ceremony begin!”

It had started with her hair. Two maids had approached with scissors and cut off her long, beautiful chestnut hair. She had been confused, stunned, but she let them do it. A wife must be obedient after all. And then, after she had been shorn, they had taken our razors, covered her head with cream and shaved her until she was as bald as an egg. It had been so humiliating, so embarrassing, with all those people watching. That, however, had only been the entrée.

Her husband had approached her with a beautifully-wrapped present. Right before her eyes, it was unwrapped to reveal a box from which her husband extracted a most-unexpected item: A leather hood, which was promptly fitted over her uncomprehending head and laced up at the back. The hood covered all the head, from the crown down to the shoulder bone, and over her neck it incorporated a severe neck corset. As this was laced tightly, she had felt her chin being raised into the air along with a sense of strangulation. The lacing all down the rear of the hood was then drawn tight, practically gluing the hood to her face and bald cranium, leaving only her eyes, and mouth exposed by circular openings in the finely-worked leather. Thankfully there were two small holes lined with metal rings placed just over her nostrils, so even with the intense compression of her airways and everything else, she could still take in all the oxygen she needed. But, she had pondered, what was the purpose? What did this mean?

Her husband had quickly followed this with the next item: an inflatable gag. Gags were de rigeuer for her of course after all of her years at Highfields but, even so, this one looked severe. Her husband had then bent down and kissed her on the lips before whispering, “I love you, my perfect wife,” just as the entire company (or at least those not wearing monogloves) began to applaud. As soon as the kiss faded, her man had fitted the gag through the mouth hole in the hood and strapped it behind her head using a harness. After that he attached a valve to it’s end and started to pump. Slowly but surely the gag grew inside her, getting larger and larger until it filled the entire orifice and began to press against the compressing hood. When her eyes had begun to water and she felt that she could endure no more, her husband stopped pumping and detached the valve. The gag did not decrease in size at all. Her husband then returned to the box and extracted another item. It was half a human head, the rear half, made of fine white china. He moved behind her and attached it to the back of her hood somehow. Then he returned to the box and brought out the other half, the front half. It depicted a beautiful china doll with rosebud lips and large, cornflower blue eyes. Slowly he approached her, bent down and kissed her leather-clad forehead, a gesture more for him than her muted senses, and then moved the mask over her and clicked it into place. In an instant her hearing had been dimmed, the heat had increased, and her sight had been reduced to two pinholes even smaller than those she had endured in the masks she had worn at Highfields.

The final item was extracted from the box: a beautiful wig of golden, ringleted hair. Her husband fitted it onto her new head and the room applauded yet again. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she remembered hearing him say through the leather and china, “today, my Mrs. Cavendish is born afresh. She has become a new woman! She has become a perfect wife!”

She was shaken from her reveries by the scratching of pen on paper. Lady Eastham was writing again. Are you alright Mrs. Cavendish? Do you need a maid?

She did not shake her head for she could not. Instead she wrote with her unsteady hand. No. I am fine. You will also be fine. The masking ceremony will be beautiful.


After her conversation with Lady Eastham the maid had come in and declared that she needed a rest after all her exertions. She wasn’t tired in the slightest but, as with everything else in her life, the perfect wife of Mr. Cavendish had no say in the matter nor any way of getting a say and so she merely let the servant lead her to her bedroom, unlace her monoglove (always a relief!), lie her on the bed, and then attach her wrists and ankles to the bedposts (to prevent indecent “fiddling” as if such a thing were possible under her many layers of clothes), and shut her eyes. Usually at this point she drifted off but today, perhaps due to the excitement of the morning and the memories that her conversation had conjured up, she could not sleep and instead played over in her mind those first few days and weeks following her masking ceremony.

Her new head changed her life. She would have never believed it after all those years wearing a mask, but it really was something else.

The constant compression and enclosure, the muffled hearing, laboured breathing and extremely limited sight, just two pinholes through glass lenses. She now experienced life second-hand. Before, she had done that partially, but her hair had still been there, the wind blowing it and, of course, there had been the breaks.

Every day at Highfields under the care of her uncle, the mask had been taken off. In the morning for bathing and breakfast; at midday for lunch and a flannelling down; dinner for the same; and then just before bed for the cleaning of her teeth. It had been a small relief, always in a darkened room, but it had been a relief nonetheless. What was so hard to bear about her new head was the total lack of release whatsoever.

Within minutes of its fitting she had begun to realise that she would no longer be removing it for all meals. Her husband had presented her with a glass of white wine to celebrate the occasion. This had a straw in it which was fitted through a tiny hole in the pursed rosebud lips of the mask and which itself connected to a hole running through the gag. She could suck liquids up without removing anything and she knew there and then that certain meals could now be missed. What she had not realised – but came to to learn over the coming days – was that all meals from that day on would be missed, and instead all her food was to be liquidised.

In the evenings, she was dressed for dinner in all her finery, led down to the dining room and made to watch as her husband consumed fine banquets of roast meat, fish and a number of other delights. As he feasted like a king, she dined on the same fayre, except that her meal had been mushed up like a baby’s, watered down, and put in a small bottle hung around her neck from which she sucked.

Her new head was not removed for meals and neither was it removed for the bedchamber. The evening after her masking ceremony, their bedchamber routine changed. Following her routine enema she was left naked save for her corset and head trammelling, and then led into the room. The maid always laid her out on the bed before invariably guiding each wrist to a bedpost and each ankle likewise. Golden cuffs were attached to each of her extremities and these were attached by special chains to the posts. The chains were drawn tight until she could not move a muscle and instead could only lie there, virtually motionless, panting for breath and from fear. Then he had come and taken her, him the active party, she entirely passive. And as he had erupted within her, he had whispered in her ear, “Today Mrs. Cavendish, you have become complete. You have graduated from being a mere lady to a doll, the pinnacle of feminine perfection.”

And with those words he had closed her eyes.

Yes, closed her eyes. Of all the changes that had been one of the hardest. Her new head had eyes just like those of a child’s doll with long lashes that could be closed when the owner decided. And so now, whenever a maid or her husband decreed that she was tired or should not see what was around her, those eyes were closed. Like at this moment as she lay motionless on the bed. Since being encased in her new head, not even the opening and closing of her eyes at will was a freedom left open to her.

Even with that though, as she lay in silence and darkness whilst her husband pounded her for a second time that most traumatic of evenings, was not the worst of it. For she knew that, no matter how complete the hood and head’s control over her was, it was not permanent. It could not be. Already her face was streaming with sweat beneath it on their first night; soon it would smell; maybe later an infection could set in. That was why she had always been flannelled down by her maid at mealtimes. To be a lady was hard to endure, she had had such notions drummed into her ceaselessly during her years at Highfields, but there was always some relief, when she bathed and the whole elegant ensemble was to be removed. And she could wait until then. She had been trained to.

Yet after a week in the head with no removal, no relief had come. Internally she was screaming for them to take the damned thing off her, yet no offer of a bath or even a rub-down was forthcoming. Then, on the Saturday evening, when she was beginning to lose hope, her maid approached with a flannel. Her heart leapt and yet, to her confusion, rather than removing the head, the maid merely moved the cloth up to her porcelain face and covered her nostril holes with it.

And within seconds the dizziness and drowsiness overtook her and her world turned black.

She awoke in the same chair wearing the same dress. Yet she knew that something had changed. Things felt different. Her face and body felt clean and refreshed. The confusion remained with her for a few seconds before she realised: she had been bathed and cleaned, her head and hood removed, whilst knocked out by the drug soaked flannel that the maid had placed over her face. The freedom that she had craved had been granted indeed, but only when she was in no state to acknowledge – or appreciate – it. The hood and head had been replaced before she had re-entered the world.

That evening after her first cleaning, after a session in bed when she had been placed on her front, bolsters under her hips so that her husband could ravage her bottom hole for a change, Cavendish had explained the methodology. “True ladies develop what is called a ‘doll mind’,” he had told her patiently whilst stroking her buttocks. “That is why the hood and china head matter so much. Wearing them, you forget what it was like as an uncouth, uncivilised lady, running around, shouting your mouth off, hearing sinful things and looking common and unrefined. Your new head has made you regal and elegant, like the finest of dolls. But to really ensure and develop that necessary doll mind, I will make sure you are at peace, be that by chloroform if necessary. I will make sure that my wife has only the best.”

Light flooded into her eyes, disturbing those musings. The maid had opened her eyes and was sitting her up. “Time to get you ready for Lady Eastham’s masking, ma’am,” the girl had said. She had not replied of course; she could not. She did not even acknowledge the words with a nod; her unforgiving neck corset and ceramic neck made any head movement whatsoever impossible. She was lifted up, taken to her mat for an enema and then, with her enormous bottom plug reinserted, walked over to the lacing bar. It was time for her corset to be tightened to take in any loose and then bring it down to the formidable fourteen inches decreed for her – and any other true lady’s – ball stays.

She fainted several times before the stays were laced closed at the requisite fourteen inches, the size decreed as standard by society for all ladies (or so she was told). This was di rigueur for her; fainting had entered her life when she had entered Highfields and only increased since her marriage. It no longer bothered her as it once had.

“Ma’am, your husband has decided that you shall wear the same gown tonight as you wore for your own masking,” her maid told her as she brought in the pink confection. Inside she was proud; five years on and she could still wear such a beautiful dress. That was one advantage of the corsets and her new head: she never aged a day. She was let down from the lacing bar and the gown fitted, her bosom then carefully powdered so that it matched the white porcelain of her new head perfectly before finally an elaborate gold and jewelled necklace was draped around her to mask where the real skin ended and the artificial began.

Then, attention turned to her hands. Ladies do not need their hands, for they are entirely dependent on their husbands and servants for everything, as everyone knows. The brief hiatus that afternoon when she had been granted a conversation with Lady Eastham had been the exception rather than the rule and there was certainly no need for her to use her hands this evening. Thus, her “evening hands” were brought out. These were metal replicas of her own appendages reaching to just above the wrist and hinged along one side. Her real hands were fitted inside them and then locked in before being covered with shoulder-length satin gloves. Now the appearance of reality was maintained yet underneath she was completely immobile and elegantly helpless.

As a lady should be.

Thus complete, the doll was guided downstairs, precariously inching forward in her en pointe shoes towards the ballroom where the ceremony was to take place. At the door her husband joined her, kissed her unfeeling ceramic cheek, and then they walked in together.

Her husband guided her towards a seat and helped her sit in it. They were early and she could not stand for long. Then he went off to procure a drink for himself and talk to friends and she was left alone, elegant and impassive.

And at that moment her life changed.

The chair was quite near to the back of the room, and just behind her the young maids were standing, waiting to serve the guests. In both Highfields and her married home, the maids were of the highest calibre (and, as a rule well-corseted and exceptionally pretty; a fact which sometimes made her feel uneasy, particularly when her husband tried to encircle their waists and gave them a peck on the cheek) but in Eastham Hall such standards were not maintained. Their waists were noticeably broader to begin with but they also chattered, something strictly forbidden in most good houses. And it was the help’s chatter that did it.

“I bet the young mistress’ll look a picture tonight!”

“I’ve never seen her without her doll face you know.”

“She’s pretty, an’ no mistakin’.”

“Shame she’ll never be seen again.”

“I know, it’s criminal what them masters do, tying women up and silencing ‘em and making ‘em wear them horrible pot heads.”

“I don’t know why they put up with it! I’d run away or summit. I’d certainly never marry a man like that!”

“They don’t know no different, Fanny! They think all this’ normal! They think all ladies are like that.”

“But how can they? Just walk down any street and…”

“But they never do walk down no street; they only see what the masters want ‘em to see. Those poor girlies believe they are elegant ladies instead of victims of that evil society…”

At that point, Lady Eastham entered the room and applause swept all around, drowning out the faint conversation, already made fainter by her head. Her husband came to her and stood her up, and by the time the applause had died down the maids had dispersed. But she had heard enough. In several short seconds the work of years of indoctrination and training by her uncle had been torn to pieces; she now knew the reality, or a glimmer of it. A lady of distinction? Not her! Instead she had become the silent, passive, and incommunicado plaything of a monster and his brethren. Why Cavendish, her uncle and other men did it, she could not fathom, but transformed free young women into mindless dolls they did. She would never be a person again; her thoughts, ideas, even her looks did not matter to anyone. Along with this distress coursing through her now, they would be forever hidden behind that blank china mask. She now knew she existed only to serve as his elegant accessory.

As these realisations flooded over her, a new victim was shorn of her hair, masked and entombed forever beneath a ceramic shell.

And behind her own porcelain prison and hood, copious tears had dampened her face. Tears that would never be wiped away.

 

The story is continued in A Day in the Life: Dolly and Molly

Travelling in Bondage

Travelling in Bondage

by D

March 2011.

“Travelling in Bondage” was written by me possibly in 1998 and was one of first items of mine that was ‘published’ on the Net. It was originally written as a partial explanation of my private lifestyle at that time and designed to be read only by a specific friend of TB and myself. As he also ran a web site specialising in D/s writings, he asked for permission to publish it, which was why it first saw light of day on the Leviticus site.

For some reason, it was removed from that site later and, after many years of gathering dust, is now published here at the Confining Clothing Group as it has certain elements that relate to the group’s main interests.

As I said in the original Preface, it is a factual record of my life back many years ago and not a work of fiction. As such it brings back a lot of memories for me when I read it again a few days ago – the first time I had done so for over a decade. I hope you enjoy it.

“D”


The most important element about this article is that it is NOT a work of fiction, but is an accurate and truthful account of aspects of my life, past and present. I am a submissive who has been in a 24/7 D/s relationship with her Master for five years. I count myself as very blessed to have such a wonderful Master who understands me so completely, and whom I strive to please to the very best of my ability all the time. This article is written with his permission and encouragement.


TRAVELLING IN BONDAGE.

My name is ‘D’, I am in my twenties, and I am the chattel of my Master, The Bear. Ours may not be the most typical D/s relationship, as I have a career that he permits me to pursue but, when I am at home, I must forget that I am Dxxxxxx. She may be the person who puts the key in the door lock, but it is ‘D’ who steps into the house.

One aspect of our relationship which has been very important from the start has been my Master’s decision that within the house – and, as I will relate shortly, outside it too at times – I must be kept under some form of restraint all the time. This can vary from simple enough methods, such as wearing hobbles or short-chained handcuffs, through to full restraints that do not allow me to move a muscle. More usually it takes the form of my being made to wear often uncomfortable and confining clothing. As I type this article, I am dressed in such a way so that the simple act of using the keyboard is made difficult by thick gloves and by having my arms tethered to my sides just above my elbows. In addition I am wearing very heavy clothing, corsets and a floor length cape which only opens up to waist level. That I am gagged as I type is perfectly usual, as my Master does not wish to be disturbed by my chatter.

It was probably a few months after my Master and I decided to share our lives that we first ventured outside the house with me under restraint. Of course, that was not my decision but one of The Bear’s ideas. A week or so earlier he had brought me a calf-length cape which was normal enough to wear in public. However it did not take long for the arm-slits to be sewn up, rings for padlocks to be sewn on at collar, waist and hem levels, and for an innocuous cape to become a restraint item. Naturally, as soon as I had finished modifying the cape to my Master’s specification, he took me out for a walk wearing it. But he harnessed my hands and arms behind my back before he caped me, so that I was in bondage even before I stepped out into the street.

It soon became quite usual for us to go out with me harnessed and caped. We went to the cinema, to the theatre and for long walks with me made helpless under my cape. Occasionally we got strange looks………. Why was that girl still wearing her cape all buttoned from throat to hem in a perfectly well heated cinema or theatre? Once a young woman of my own age came up to me and commented that I must be very hot dressed like that. (The cape was made of wool and was fully lined, so she was right in thinking I was hot, wearing it in the cinema.). I just smiled and said I was okay. She looked very puzzled as she moved away.

Also a man came up to my Master and said, laughing, “I wish I could keep my wife like that!” The Bear just smiled back and moved me away before the man could take any further interest in us. I think he must have realised what was going on, but my Master’s silence showed him that it was not a good idea to pursue the matter further.

Soon after this, I started to make various garments for myself as my Master’s instructions, including the prototype of the indoor ‘uniform’ which I am now wearing. Luckily making clothes has always been a hobby of mine. I get ‘difficult’ items – corsets, stockings, gloves, boots etc. – from ordinary or specialised suppliers, but all other ‘normal’ clothing I make myself. So it was no surprising that my Master instructed me to make myself a proper full length cloak with a hood and the usual ‘extras’. Also he ordered me to make it of the heaviest material I could find and to line it throughout – “Just in case we have a BAD winter!”.

From then on, when I was not working, and if the weather did not make wearing a long cloak look too extraordinary, I had to wear my cloak when I left the house in my Master’s company. Because it was full length, not only could I have my arms harnessed or kept immobile in a single sleeve or straitjacket, but I could also be hobbled as well – just to make walking that bit more difficult. Also its extremely deep hood was very useful, and not just for keeping my head and face warm when it was cold outside. For, when the weather justified it, my Master would wind a scarf around my lower face, as though protecting me from the chill. In fact the scarf was there to hide the fact that I was gagged.

So it was that I started being taken out under duress and in bondage. At first he would only take me out at night but later we went out in daylight as well. Then one day, when we were about a mile from our house, he hailed a cab.

Before he got into it, he said, “Time for you to look after yourself. See you at home, and DON’T loiter!”

With a final wave, he got into the cab and drove off, leaving me standing on the pavement, cloaked and hooded, hobbled and harnessed, and completely helpless. Although I was not gagged that evening, I could not call a cab or get on a bus as I had no money. Even if I had, I would not have been able to use it, as my arms were locked into a tightly laced-up single-sleeve behind my back under the cloaks dense drapery. So I set off to walk home, half terrified, half weak with excitement. Even when I did eventually get home – my hobbles were long enough to climb steps but still made walking slow and difficult – I was soaked in sweat and shaking. Even then my Master had another little joke to play on me. For he was not there when I arrived and, cloaked and helpless, I could not ring the door bell (we have a pull-type device so using my nose would not have been possible.)

So I had to stand on the door step, hoping and praying the neighbours would not notice me, or that a ‘helpful’ policeman would not come up to me to find out why I was standing there. By the time my Master did let me in (he was aware of my arrival and had been watching me unseen all the way home – he had stopped the taxi as soon as he was out of my sight), I was a complete nervous wreck. But, as a submissive, I had to silently accept his little joke and just hope that he never played it on me again. Of course he has – several times – the last time making me get out of the car and leaving me with a two mile trudge home which, close hobbled, was most unpleasant.

From just going for walks or to the cinema with me cloaked and under bondage, my Master soon extended the rules concerning how I might be dressed outside the house when under discipline. If he was with me, I must ALWAYS be cloaked, hooded, harnessed and, preferably, gagged when I left home. Of course going shopping or visiting friends were times when this rule had to be waived. But travelling from A to B I was to be kept in bondage whenever it was possible.

Travelling in the car was easy. Our garage is attached to the house, so I could be ‘loaded’ into the passenger seat before he drove out onto the street. Once he fastened my seat belts about me (he has now replaced inertia belts by ‘positive fixing’ ones in the passenger seat, so he can tighten them as severely as he likes, and so they will remain fully fastened until he choses to unfasten the belts) and we are on our way, he will probably pull my hood right down in front of my face so I can’t see anything, as well as probably being gagged under the hood’s canopy.

He has also fixed a steel bar across the bottom of the passenger side foot-well. Once I have been belted to the seat, he will push my feet down to the bar and will then shackle my hobble to it. I always secretly hope he will forget to do this, as having my ankles shackled as well removed the last vestige of opportunity to move any part of my body to ease my position during the journey. (I do admit that, if driving conditions are bad, he will be less severe with me, as it would be HIGHLY embarrassing if we were involved in a crash with me so totally restrained!) Sitting motionless, even in a well-upholstered seat of a Jaguar, becomes very unpleasant after an hour or so, while being swathed in my uniform and my heavy cloak and hood is exhausting because of the heat under them. Being gagged and unable to see just adds to the misery of a long journey, but I am in no position to complain if that is how my Master wants me to travel.

And it is…………. My Master boasts that he has the perfect passenger in the car; one who is silent, uncritical of his driving, motionless and undemanding for the whole of even the longest journey. The only limit to the duration of any journey is set by how long I can go before needing to use the toilet. Except, of course, using the facilities at a service station would not be possible……….. So my Master is inclined to drive onto a back road after a several hours, and let me out in some unfrequented place where I can be allowed to answer the calls of Nature without anyone looking on. As the whole process adds maybe twenty minutes to any journey, more often than not he will just let me suffer until we reach our destination.

Once upon a time, I used to look forward to the weekends when we drove away from home to spend a couple of days with friends. Now the journey there and the journey back, always in bondage, makes me rather less keen to go away for the weekend. But, as an obedient submissive, I have no say in this matter. I go where my Master takes me. And, if he wishes me to Travel in Bondage, that is his privilege, and I must accept his decision with good grace and without complaint.

Travelling on foot and by car was just the start of my experiences of ‘Travelling in Bondage’. For my Master, the Bear, has a keen mind and a fertile imagination, so it was not long before I found myself faced with a new mode of travel which had to be undertaken in Bondage.

He had been invited to Spain for the week (we live in London) and, as I was not working at that time and was at his beck and call 24 hours a day, he decided that it might be fun for me to come along too. As I love travel and had not been to Bilbao before, I was excited that we were going abroad together. Admittedly it was only late February, so sunbathing and swimming were not on the agenda. But it would make a change from the strict control under which my Master kept me at home. Only when the date of our departure grew near did I learn that his control was not going to be relaxed just because we were going abroad.

A friend who knows ‘our little ways’ drove us from London to Portsmouth where we would board The City of Bilbao, a 20,000 ton ferry which would take us on the two day trip to Spain. A cabin had been booked for us and, under normal circumstances, I would have been really looking forward to the trip. But, as I was helped into our friend’s car, I was swathed in my heavy, full-length, winter cloak, its bulk closed up about me to conceal the fact that I was made helpless by a locked straitjacket, and by the short hobbles joining my ankles. Also, for the 90 minute drive to the docks, my hood was drawn up over my head, concealing the fact that I was well gagged under its gable.

I have to admit that I was in a total panic; I thought of the emigration men who would check our passports, of customs men and of the crew on the ship. I just could not see how we could get away with my being kept in Bondage for the sea journey. In fact I did not understand how my Master thought we would even get aboard the ship without being exposed as ‘deviants’.

In fact my Master was having a joke at my expense. For his friend pulled off the motorway before we reached Portsmouth and my strait jacket and hobbles were removed, my gag similarly be unlocked and taken from my mouth before all my articles of suppression were put away in one of the suitcases. I heaved a sigh of relief and hoped that it was the last I would see of them for a good while.

It was cold with snow flurries when we boarded the good ship City of Bilbao, having passed through emigration without anyone even giving us a second glance. As we stood on the promenade deck as the ship cast off and slowly moved down past the naval dockyards, I was delighted that I had my heavy cloak to protect me from the cold, its deep hood keeping my head and face snug and warm when other travellers were shivering and hurrying back into their warm cabin and or into the bars and restaurants of the ferry. Before we had swung round the Isle of Wight, The Bear also went inside, telling me that he expected me in the cabin in half an hour. So, almost alone, snuggled into my wonderfully warm cloak, on a freezing winter afternoon I watched the Isle of Wight slip past as the ship made its way out into the English Channel, the sea grey and calm, the air chill, occasional flurries of snow blowing across the water.

Feeling relaxed and happy, I made my way to our cabin exactly at the right time. I felt great but, as soon as I entered that tiny room, my heart sank. For spread out on my bunk were the items I had worn in the car, plus one or two more than I did not know my Master had brought with him. Half an hour later, he was locking me into the cabin’s main cupboard. I was not only straitjacketted, and hobbled but I was locked inside a stout containment sack which was exactly where I spent most of that trip down to Spain. Occasionally my Master would let me out of the cupboard to use the toilet, to be given food or water or allowed on deck for exercise when the stewardess was tidying our cabin. But my world for most of that journey – and for the return trip – comprised mostly of the inside of a cupboard. Not that I saw it often as he kept me blindfolded virtually all the time.

As he said when we eventually disembarked at Bilbao, I was lucky it was such a smooth crossing, or else I might not have had such an enjoyable time. ‘Enjoyable time’? I could think of many more pleasant ways of travelling to Spain than that chosen by my Master for me. But, as a obedient submissive, who am I to question how he makes me travel?

************

My job means that I have to go to various locations far from home. So flying is second nature to me now. But…………………

“I wonder if I could fly you abroad,” My Master had said one evening recently.

“I don’t understand, Master. I fly a lot.”

“In a nice comfortable seat?”

“Not always comfortable. But yes; in a seat anyway.” I replied, puzzled. “But why do you ask, Master?”

“Umm…… I was just wondering. You see, I think we could save some money next time we go abroad together.”

“How, Master?”

“Freight, my sweet little ‘d’. By sending you by freight…………….”

“Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo…………………………. ”

*******************

So that is it. One submissive’s story about how she travels in bondage. As yet the air-freight idea is still – thankfully – only an idea. But knowing how my Master loves solving problems, I do not put it past him to find a way to send me abroad as freight. NOT a pleasant prospect !