The moment she opened her eyes, she knew instinctively that something was wrong. To start with, there was her sight. She could see… but it was different. Like gazing through a pair of binoculars backwards, Lucy was left with two small pinpricks rather than all-around vision. Anything peripheral was gone.
And there was a feeling of enclosure. Around her head. Her head felt covered and compressed. And her mouth felt full. She tried to speak but nothing happened. Not a sound. Her mouth wouldn’t even open. She put her hand to her face, but it didn’t touch. She couldn’t feel anything… well, not properly. As the fog of sleep cleared she realised that this was due to the rubber coating her fingers, but it was more than that. Her fingers couldn’t feel, but then neither could her cheek. And that was surely not right. She tried to sit up but in the corset it was hard. Eventually she managed, disorientated with every turn as she could only see straight ahead. She could hear nothing too. It was like she had been mummified. And like a mummy, she was warm, very warm, all over. Eventually she sat up, her legs dangling off the bed. She tried to stand but when she attempted to take a step she stumbled and fell back onto the bed. Then she recalled her bedroom boots without heels. Of course she couldn’t walk in them! She shuffled towards the post at the corner of the bed and stood gingerly, holding on for support. Then she turned to face the full-length bedroom mirror. What she saw caused her to faint instantly in shock.
She came to with Meakes standing over her wafting some smelling salts beneath her nose. “Good morning, Miss Parkinson,” she said, smiling. “I trust you slept well.”
Lucy tried to answer but, of course, she could not, so she waved her rubberised arms about in protest.
“Ah, I assume that you are referring to your new head, Miss Parkinson? Well, Miss Unsworth did tell you about her fascination with rubber I believe, and it would not have been correct for us to only cover the lower part of you, now would it?”
Lucy had been referring to her “new head”. What she had seen in the mirror had been a life-size rubber doll. The body – arms, legs, everything up to the neck – she had expected, but it was what was now above that had caused her to pass out. Staring back at her was a totally rubberised head. It had the face of a doll, with large, vacant eyes staring back at her, and long chestnut hair that cascaded all the way down to the floor. What was most off-putting however, was that it was, unmistakably, her. It was a rubber doll’s face but a face modelling closely and accurately on her own, like as if someone had wanted to produce a life size Lucy Parkinson Barbie. As if reading her thoughts, Meakes said, “Yes, I know, the dollmaker has done a wonderful job with it, truly exquisite.” She paused and stood back to admire that “wonderful job” and then said, “I shall go and inform Miss Unsworth that you have awoken.”
While Lucy waited for the maid to return with her friend and lesbian lover, she explored her new reality. The strange vision was explained: she was now peering through two pinholes in the centre of the large fake doll eyes on the face. What was more, she had noticed that her hearing seemed dimmed and somewhat indistinct, but of course it would be with rubber now coating her hears and their canals. Similarly, her mouth seemed to be filled with something. Using a rubberised finger, she found that she could open the mask’s lips and insert it, but only a narrow channel remained. There were no teeth and everything else was packed with some sort of rubber filling. Her tongue was nowhere to be found. At first she wondered it if had been removed, but then realised that such a notion was ridiculous considering that this was only a temporary thing and the whole rubber ensemble would be removed at the end of the week ready for her to return to uni. This had all been done to prove herself to her lover, a lover who had already proven her devotion back through the exploits of the night before.
That lover then burst through the door and ran towards her friend. She threw her arms around her and declared, “Lucy darling, you look so wonderful! I never thought it could be but you are truly exquisite, like a living and breathing rubber doll!” Lucy tried to reciprocate the embrace but with a rubberised face, a filled mouth and lips that no longer obeyed her commands, she found herself unable to do so, like a passive participant in the whole affair.
“My darling, what a marvellous job they have done! I watched the early stages of course, but not the rest. I kept it a secret as I so wanted to surprise you; I could see how much you had embraced the bondage and rubber before and I thought how much you would love this complete enclosure. You must be wondering what happened, though?”
Lucy did her best to nod.
“They shaved your head, rubbed in the lotion and then sprayed it all with the rubber until only the face remained. Then they sprayed the interior of your mouth before adding the pre-formed mouth filler before it had dried so that it merged into the liquid rubber and filled you so well whilst still leaving a channel for food and other activities. And then came the face plate, premanufactured of course and affixed with great care with spray rubber being used to seal it in place and smooth the seams which are now indistinguishable. Then finally came the wig; do you like it? I’ll let you into a secret: I let them use some of my hair in it so that you will always have a piece of me with you!”
Jane’s words had soothed her shock and fear somewhat. Her friend obviously thought that her embracing of all the rubber and bondage was a show of love for it: what a misunderstanding! Still, she obviously had her best interests at heart! Years later they would laugh about it. The only thing that concerned her slightly was the phrase “always have a piece of me with you”. What was “always” about an outfit she would only be wearing for a few more days at most? Then she realised: Jane said “always” because she intended to keep the costume once discarded and perhaps reuse it for their sexual games on later occasions. Oh well, she would consent to that!
“I must go now as Meakes needs to get you ready for the big day. I too have to get changed of course, but we’ll see each other soon! Love you forever!” And then, with a peck on her unfeeling, rubberised lips, she was gone and Lucy was left alone and wondering, what big day?
Meakes did not explain and Lucy could not ask. She was immediately led to the bath where, despite her rubberised form, she was washed thoroughly. It was weird having water all around her and yet remaining dry. She also wondered what the point was, but again, as if reading her mind, Meakes commented, “This rubber is a new technology developed by the US military in fact. It is a unique compound created by blending conventional commercial butyl rubber and polymerizable liquid crystal. What that means is that, while it keeps elements out – like germs and disease – it also allows the skin to breathe and sweat to seep out so that it can be worn, if wanted, permanently.”
Lucy, of course, could think of nothing worse than being encased in rubber permanently, but it was interesting to learn what modern technology could now do and it explained the purpose of the bath.
After being towelled dry, she was led to the lacing bar and her dressing began. Today there was no shift and instead a new corset was brought out. It was a beautiful creation of white silk and lace but heavily boned. As it was fastened around her and the laces drawn in, Lucy first felt security, then constriction, then faintness. Soon she blacked out for the second time that morning.
When she came to, the pressure around her waist was unbelievable, like nothing she had ever experienced before. Her head spun and her rubberised breasts heaved up and down and, with each rise, there was a painful tug on the rings still adorning each nipple. As she hung there, Meakes worked down below, fitting stockings attached to suspender clips dangling from the bottom of the stays, and then thigh-length en pointe boots. All was in in white. Then came the petticoats and the crinoline, enormous in its dimensions.
After this the suffering girl was released and, after getting over the initial shock of weight being put onto her legs and her waist expanding, she minced over to a chair. Then came the styling of her much-longer hair. It took over an hour, an exquisite creation of ringlets and curls with jewels and ribbons affixed within. Again, all was white.
That done, there came a pair of tight white silk gloves and then the dress itself. A glorious monument to the dressmaker’s art in white silk, dripping with jewels, lace and false flowers, it was lowered over her head and laced formly. Off-the-shoulder, it left that bit of her rubber skin free. Around her neck was a white lace choker that indeed lived up to it’s name.
And then, finally, an item most unexpected: an elaborate veil of netting with several layers that, when lowered, obscured what little vision she had left. And, thus completed, Meakes held her hand as she minced out of the room.
She walked blind down corridors and then they stopped. Meakes let go and another hand took hers. “You look wonderful,” whispered Jane. “Being knocked out for three days while we fitted that rubber head was definitely worthwhile!”
Three days? What did she mean? She had been out for that long! But three days, that meant… it meant the wedding, Mr. Unsworth’s wedding, was today!
The organ struck up a chord and Jane started to lead her friend forward and, with horror, Lucy realised that the wedding was now.
And she was the bride!
Her wedding. Where to start?
The day would remain engraved on her mind forever. In that instant when the organ began to play the wedding march and the woman she had hitherto considered to be both friend and lover guided her forward, in that single instant her life changed irrevocably. It was, as with St. Paul, like the scales fell from her eyes.
Metaphorically at least. Literally, imprisoned behind doll eyes and then covered by several layers of veils, she saw nothing at all beyond a white blur.
But metaphorically, all became clear. Or, at least, the illusion was smashed. If Jane was her lover, why was she marrying her off to her father? And if Jane was her friend, then why had she deceived her in such a manner? And if Jane was neither a lover nor a friend, then what exactly was she?
Stunned and dazed, she minced forward. Then, she stopped – or was stopped by Jane – who bent over and lifted the veils. What she saw shocked her.
On one side was the man who was soon to be her husband. Mr. John Unsworth, the slightly-leery father of Jane. His none-too-subtle ogling and constant compliments now made sense. He had never seen her as a friend of his daughter, but instead as his future life partner, no, possession.
But on the other side…
Who was that standing next to her, giving her away?
Well, it was Jane of course, but a Jane transfigured. Gone was the casual uni student and gone too was the Victorian maiden. And in their place stood a confident, dominant and extremely sexy woman. Yes, she was wearing a male suit and top hat as befits the father of the bride. But this was a suit specially tailored. The trousers were tight, highlighting her perfect arse which strained against them, whilst the jacket tucked in the middle to similarly highlight her corseted waist, while above, her breasts strained against the material. It was a lesbian reworking of the classic outfit. Even betrayed as Lucy felt, the infatuation left in her made her ogle. She was gorgeous!
“Who gives this woman away?” intoned the priest.
“I do,” replied the new Jane.
And thus the service continued, a blur of words and emotions as Lucy struggled to stay conscious and continually shifted from one foot to the other to relieve the pressure. At one point the priest say, “Do you, Lucy Annabel Parkinson, take this John Humphrey Unsworth, to be your lawful wedded husband?” How could she answer. What should she do?
“She does,” replied Jane confidently.
Then came rings and the kiss and, before she knew it, she was joined to John Unsworth for all eternity. Jane let go and he took her arm in his, turned her round and marched her down the aisle.
Which is when she got another shock.
The men were all in Victorian dress. She recognised several from the ball the previous… nay, four nights ago. The women were also in period costume, a fantasia of corsets and crinolines. But what struck her attention more than that was their faces. Each and every one was a rubber doll just like her. The only non-rubberised female present was Jane.
What the fuck was going on?!
In the reception held in the dining room, she found out. Oh my God, did she find out!
Prior to entering, her husband had lovingly laced a single glove over her arms. They all sat there eating the wedding meal. All the other women – save for Jane – were similarly restrained. Or at least, the men ate. And Jane. The women though, rubber dolls all, were instead presented with a kind of mush in tubes which the maids squeezed slowly down their throats. All had mouths modified like hers. All were incapable of consuming solid food. Not only were they as helpless as babies, but they also ate like them. And then, when everybody was full and the wine had begun to flow for the men – and Jane – there came the speeches.
Jane spoke first. As “the father of the bride”, that was only correct and traditional. What she said was neither.
“You all know me,” she began, “for this is the fourteenth time I have played this role. Indeed, looking around the room, I recall acting as the father for many of the dolls here. I have enjoyed each and every one, although I am sad to say that this may possibly be the last wedding I arrange. After all, I will be twenty-five next January and it is getting increasingly difficult to pass myself off as a first-year undergraduate. However, if Jenny Simpson does retire today, fear not; her successor has already been groomed. Indeed, she is out working on a case today. The future of our esteemed Society is assured!”
At these words the entire room – or at least, the male half of it – clapped and cheered. Lucy, on the other hand, was confused. Jane had acted in this role fourteen times already? Jane was actually twenty-four?! Jane was actually called Jenny?! And who were the Society?!
“However, my final assignment Lucy Unsworth may well turn out to be, I can say in all honesty that she has also been among the best. When the Society told me that the girl they had selected was Miss Parkinson, I did not know what to expect. Over the course of the last few months however, I have come to know a caring, charming, compassionate young lady whom, I have no doubt, will make a marvellous wife for my friend, John Unsworth here. I told Lucy that I loved her and I genuinely do. Indeed, and this is not always the case in this job, it actually hurt me to lie to her about my name and motives. I am in fact rather jealous that it is John and not I who will be sharing her bed tonight for, if this is not too crude to say, she has a lovely pert little arse, fantastic tits and, well, John, let me just say this: you’re getting a fantastic shag!”
At these words the room erupted into cheers and applause again. Lucy however, merely felt mortified.
Jane – or should I say Jenny Simpson’s – speech was followed by that of her husband. His was a bland and stale affair and revealed far less. He thanked Jane for her work, also Meakes for preparing his bride and the Society for making his dream possible. He spoke of his fixation with dolls from an early age and his youthful explorations of the fetish scene when he lived in Germany as a young financier in Frankfurt. He then spoke about his first marriage and how his wife had cheated on him and was interested only in his money. Then he went on to the second which, in his words, was no better. “Finally though, I am sure I have found a wife who will remain faithful – well, until Jenny comes round to visit” (cue raucous laughter) – “and will fulfil all my requirements for a spouse admirably. And so, thank you darling Lucy for making an old man very happy again!”
The final speech was made by a man sitting at the top table who was obviously the best man. He was of a similar age to her husband and Lucy recognised him from the ball a few days before. He stood up and announced himself as Jacob Huntley-Smith, Chairman of the Society of Doll Aficionados United Kingdom Chapter. What he said revealed so much to Lucy but also chilled her to the bone.
“As a child, I, like so many others, was fascinated by dolls. We are naturally drawn to them with their perfect faces, gorgeous costumes and elegant poses. Girls, in particular, naturally feel an affinity towards them. The simple truth that the child can see, the adult often misses. A girl can recognise in a doll what it is that she should aim to be: beautiful, submissive, passive. A boy can recognise what he should be looking for in a bride for a bride becomes a life partner. A man’s natural role is a leader, and a woman’s is as his accessory. Sadly, with the dragons of feminism, cultural Marxism and political correctness so prevalent in our depraved world today, what is good is seen as evil and what is evil is seen as a virtue.
“It is a full thirty-two years today since I founded the UK chapter of the Society of Doll Aficionados. You all know this story, but, like John here, I too have had painful experiences with marriage. I married young and I married for love. I gave that woman my trust and in turn I was betrayed and rejected. Society outside these walls was on her side. Unlike many men though, I learned from that painful experience. I worked out what the ideal in a woman should be: the doll ideal. Then I sought such a woman and, when I found none forthcoming, I created her. I did not marry afresh but, instead, had my existing wife abducted from her Bahamas beach house, transported to Loch Leerie Castle and transformed into what she should have been all along. Sadly, she is no longer with me, but in the twelve years that she lived by my side as a doll, I believe she learned the error of her ways.
“When I think back to those early days, I almost laugh. How primitive we were! Remember the porcelain masks that our first dolls wore? Or those pioneering rubber suits that were zipped at the back and had to be changed regularly. Technology has helped us no end, particularly through the conduit of our American cousin Hank Peterson III – Hank, are you there? Yes, give us all a wave! Hank here, with his position in the military, helped to fund development of the rubber compound we use today; a compound that is sprayed on, that allows the skin to breath, that bonds with that skin so that it may never be removed for, to remove the rubber is to remove the skin itself. A second skin that is permanent. Gentlemen, is that not the very fulfillment of the doll ideal? The doll identity so fused with the original that the two are inseparable? Once encased, our dolls will never become base humans ever again. What an achievement! Instead they remain as silent and enchanting as young Lucy here, still youthful even as the decades roll by.
“Gentlemen, I have spoken too long. You all have your own dolls to attend to and John here has his to enjoy for the very first time. However, before I go, I must pay, on behalf of the Society, our huge debt of gratitude, to Miss Jenny Simpson here. It was an inspired idea all those years ago to use our connections in data analysis to scour university and college student lists for young females without familial ties like Mrs. Unsworth here, and then to use talented lesbians – Jenny, I’ve always seen you as an honorary male – to lure them in. How you do it, I do not know. That you have sneaked into so many lectures in so many educational establishments with no one ever questioning your right to be there is breathtaking. The confidence of a man, I see it in you. And you say that, at twenty-four, it is getting hard to pass as a nineteen-year old? Jenny, I’m sure if you wanted to, you have a good few years yet.”
This elicited some cheers and ‘Hear! Hear!’s from the crowd.
“However, to show the Society’s gratitude to you for your services, on behalf of all of us here at the Society, I would like to present you with a gift. Do you recall, all those years ago, young Emma Houghton whom you lured in from Exeter University and who became Mrs. James Draycott of Draycott Hall?”
“Of course, she was my second assignment, Jacob.”
“Well, sadly, James died of a heart attack two months ago, leaving Mrs. Draycott a widow. More than that, he also left to the Society, his house and all his wealth on the proviso that we care for his beloved. And so, in appreciation of your sterling work, Jenny, may I hand you the keys to your new home and present to you a gorgeous companion for your bed!”
And with those words a rubber doll with platinum blonde ringlets, her arms in a single glove, was led into the room by a maid on the end of a silver leash. The whole (male half of the) room stood up and clapped as she tottered over to the top table and the leash was handed over to the lesbian deceiver whom Lucy had loved as Jane. And, as glasses were raised to the bride and groom and the band struck up, Lucy fainted clean away.
Silence reigns in the room save for the ticking of the clock and the beating of the raindrops against the window panes. Mrs. Unsworth sits there motionless, her arms pinnioned behind her in a monoglove, her crinoline dress ordered and pristine, her eyes staring vacantly forwards.
Beneath that rubber face though, there is turmoil. It is a full six months since Lucy was wed to John Unsworth. They have not been the happiest months of her life.
In addition to the shock of betrayal, there was that wedding night. As per Society custom, she was stripped naked, lain on the bed, her wrists and ankles fastened to the four posts by silver chains. Then she was taken, entirely passive and accommodating. Subsequently, it has been different. John has at times allowed her more freedom – he enjoys the struggle – on other occasions less – he loves the look of a monoglove. One constant remains though: his lack of concern for her pleasure. She worked out on that very first night why his first two wives left him.
Beyond the sex there is boredom. Day after silent day as an anonymous rubber doll, clad in the most beautiful of costumes, sitting silent and restrained in the drawing room. Anger boils over in her heart some days. She thinks of the life that she should be leading, the fun-filled, hedonistic and carefree existence of a university student in the prime of her life, experiencing life in all its fullness. Instead she is now naught more than a doll, a pretty accessory to the man who rapes her every night. Nothing breaks the monotony.
Well, almost nothing.
She shudders slightly. The dildo in her love channel has started up again. Its long, low vibrations, always enough to excite her, never enough to bring her to completion. On their first morning together John produced the two plugs that would become a permanent part of her attire from then on. She is used to a full bottom and vagina these days. At the start though, they humiliated her.
But not nearly so much as when the bottom plug was removed and something else stuck in there.
The buzzing continues and she fidgets again, excited. For today the monotony will be broken.
When Jenny Simpson first turned up, a month after the wedding, she wanted to rip her eyes out, to beat her to a pulp for her cruel and callous betrayal. She did nothing of the sort, of course; she physically could not, but the hateful desire was there. But then, when the lesbian handed her “toy” over to John to play with and she led Lucy to the bedroom, something changed. She still hated Jenny, but this fellow woman understood her needs and was willing to accommodate them. After the stale, desultory sex with her husband, bound and needy as she was, the session with the woman who had tricked her was heavenly. And so, despite the anger still burning, she desired her.
The line between love and hate is thin.
‘Today is March 15th. I don’t usually know the date, days bleed into each other, but I know that today is March 15th because on March 15th, in the afternoon, Miss Jennifer Simpson and Mrs. Emma Draycott are coming to stay for a night. When though, I cannot say. No one includes me in anything these days, no one asks my opinion or thinks I should be informed. That’s because they don’t really see me as a human being anymore. I am no longer the vibrant, lively, happy uni student that I was but six months ago. No. Today I am only a doll. A silent, passive, cute and willing rubber doll. And it is all my own fault. No one else is to blame. I befriended Jane. I chose to come here. I accepted the bondage. I signed the documents. I stood by passively as they covered me in rubber. I never saw the signs.
Perhaps I was destined to be a doll all along. After all, a normal girl would have done something, would have said no…’
Her thoughts drift off into nothingness. She sits there unmoving, waiting, waiting, waiting. The clock ticks and the raindrops continue to patter against the windows. But the buzzing has stopped. It never lasts long, but then it never stays off long either. Behind those glass eyes, she starts to feel drowsy. Sleep starts to come.
She hears the doorbell ring and she jerks open again. They are here! Lucy the rubber doll can’t help but squirm in anticipation.
Written December 8th – 13th, 2018
Copyright © 2018, Dave Potter