The Diary of Olivia Edwards: Part 1

The Diary of Olivia Edwards

(selected extracts chosen by the editor)

 Copyright © 2019, Dave Potter

Author’s note

This story is a sequel to Dr. Edwards’ Special Birthday Present.

This tale is set in the United Kingdom in the year 1967. It is however, not the United Kingdom that we know. Instead it is an alternate United Kingdom set in an alternative universe. Therefore, much of it is familiar to us, but conversely, much isn’t. In the universe of the story, the United Kingdom is an inward-looking, reactionary society that lags behind many of its neighbours. It is governed by a powerful elite formed of an aristocracy of hereditary landowners and the Church. The Great Reform Acts of the 19th century never happened, and the place of a woman is very much that of a second-class citizen… or subject. She has no rights and no property, she is owned by her father, after his death her brother or uncle, and upon marriage, her husband. Wives are expected to be virgins and all women are corseted.

11th September 1967

So, this is my first entry in this diary. It’s weird. Being able to write. Being able to communicate with someone else like a real human being. Not that anyone will be reading this but even so. He has told me that I have an hour which seems like a long time but my hands, so used to being restrained, so unused to holding a pen, they shake, and struggle and the pen slips out of the satin gloves that cover the kid leather gloves that cover my skin.

There is so much that I want to write but now that I am sitting here I cannot think of anything. Weird.

I shall start with today. It is my birthday you see. Well, actually, it is not my birthday at all, my birthday is in about five months’ time but he has decided that today will be my birthday because today was the birthday of his dead wife and so it is mine too. And, as a present, he gave me this book. It is a beautiful book, bound in red leather with the words THE DIARY OF OLIVIA EDWARDS embossed on the front. And it has a clasp with a lock and the key to it is locked in his desk drawer and only brought out when I have my writing hour. He gave it to me and said that his old wife used to love writing in her diary and so he thought that I might like the same. I didn’t reply of course; I cannot these days, but I did like it even if I still hated him and everyone else in this world for what they have done to me. But the diary made me happy and I am enjoying writing in it and feeling like a human being again if only for an hour. I will write in it everything about my life both now and in the past and maybe my dreams for the future as well. Ha! As if one such as me is allowed dreams, or even opinions or thoughts! Of course not. But here, in this book, I can. I can be a real person again.

And so, I will start by saying who I am. My name. My real name. Not Olivia Edwards like the front of this book says or even Libby as everyone calls me. That is not my name. It only became my name on the day that they gave me to him, those weird, posh girls with their huge tits and tiny waists and weird outlook on life. Not that I am any different these days of course, but unlike them, I didn’t choose it. No, that is not the real me. The real me has a normal-sized waist and 32B breasts, not these 45DD monsters. And she has brown hair, not black, and grey eyes, not blue. She does not look like some film actress and she does not share her name. She is 22 years old and… what is that? The alarm clock. That is what he told me was my warning. I only have five minutes left! I must finish up and lock the diary before then. And so, I shall finish by writing my real name:

CLARE WARWICK

18th September 1967

What a horrible day today was! Not that it was any different from any other day, but it was just so hateful.

After being woken by my maid and then waking him up, I was dressed as usual, my waist laced down to a ridiculous 13 inches so that I can hardly breath and these ridiculous breasts heave up and down in a way that I would find comical if they were not attached to my own body. Then there was breakfast, a smoothie that I sucked up using a straw with the cup hung around my neck whilst he tucked into bacon and eggs and sausages and all manner of things that both smelt and looked heavenly and then… then that was it. He sat down in his armchair and read and did his bloody crossword and had a short nap and talked at me and read some more and watched some TV and I just sat there. Yes, just sat there, all day long, my arms dead from being laced into this unforgiving monoglove, my head spinning from the unbelievable tightness of my stays, my breasts surging up and down and me just sitting there, not moving, not doing anything, just being, like a doll rather than a human being.

Because of course, that is all I am these days. A doll. A bloody doll which looks pretty and provides some entertainment for its owner when he can be bothered, but the rest of the time must just sit on the shelf – or in my case, the settee – and wait. “Oh, what a lovely dolly you have there!” they all say to him, before congratulating him on his sense of social duty for taking in such a “poor, unwanted thing” whereas to me, they just say nothing. Well, the women that is; they stare sometimes, but they never speak to me. The men are different of course; they often ask if they can feel my waist (ask him, not me, naturally) and then circle it with their hands and congratulate him on what a wonderful and delightful middle his toy has. Yes, they even use the word toy. Some, when he is out of the room, do more. They give my bulging breasts a stroke and a squeeze and then kiss my ridiculous lips, before replacing my fleur de bouche. It is so humiliating. I long to scream out at them, “I am not a fucking doll, I am a living, thinking, feeling human being just like you!” but of course I don’t because I can’t. all I can do is sit there and look pretty which is all that a doll is meant to do after all.

Not that any woman stared at me today, nor any man circled my waist, or felt up my tits or shoved his tongue in my mouth. To be honest, if they had, I’d have been glad. It would have broken up the monotony, the terrible, mind-crushing monotony of it all. But there were no visitors today and no other diversions. It was raining you see, as it does far too much at this time of year. When it doesn’t rain, he sometimes suggests that we go for a “constitutional”. By this he means a short walk around the park or the town. To be honest, this is far from easy for me. The heels that I wear constantly these days that force my feet into the unnatural position favoured by ballet dancers, so that I am forever perched on my toes, making walking even a few steps a trial, let alone a circuit of the park. I feel so unsafe on them, even now, precariously placing one foot directly in front of the other, moving at a snail’s pace, each step both exhausting and terrifying as, without my hands to provide me with any balance (ensconced as they always are in this accursed monoglove) I know I could topple over at any moment. Of course, he holds me with one hand around my waist (the other holds the end of my leash – my God, I find having to wear that humiliating!) but even so, I am still scared. And even at that pace we have to stop every few yards for my tortured lungs to recover.

Yes indeed, those walks are far from pleasant yet even they provide me with some distraction. Today though, the rain beating against the windows, there was none. Unlike him, I had no book to read and the TV was at the wrong angle (not that I can hear it clearly anyhow). So, I just sit there. It makes me so angry! I am a 22-year old woman, young and full of life and energy. I should be walking the streets, chatting with friends, doing sports or just living and yet instead I am forced to live with this septuagenarian, like being put into an old folk’s home fifty years before my time. It is so unfair, so very unfair!

The alarm rings. I must finish now.

25th September 1967

I have told you about my days – they are all the bloody same so telling you about one is the same as telling you about all of them – but I mentioned nothing about the nights so that is what I have decided to write about today. Indeed, I have been thinking about it for most of the week; after all, I don’t have anything else to think about these days. I imagine what I will write, then rewrite it in my head, then rewrite it again and again and again. This must be my twelfth draft and I still haven’t started telling my tale yet.

I must admit that when I was given to Dr. Edwards, my feelings were a mixture of revulsion and thankfulness. This might not make sense to you (whoever you might be) who has not been transformed into some sort of sick plaything for men, unable to have a will or mind of her own, but it is the truth. I was originally promised to some hat manufacturer from Luton who had been wanting a doll for some time but had ummed and arred about both the price and the design. He was in his late twenties and I must admit that when he came to see me in the school for our “engagement” (what a sick perversion of what should be such a warm and happy occasion!) I found him to be rather attractive if overly leery. But then, out of the blue, he died (a motor accident I believe) and so, suddenly, I was ownerless and available again. The problem was, being designed for someone else, I was far from being a choice specimen (plus my age went against me, although they solved that easily enough) but, as chance would have it, my head design was based on that of some actress and when two of those weird girls from the posh school came looking in the school for their old teacher and they saw that I looked just like his favourite masturbation fixation, then, well, it was a match made in heaven and here I was, farmed off to a man old enough to be my grandfather.

Of course, we wouldn’t be getting married. I was to be his ward and he would nurture and care for me until I could find a suitable spouse. But I have lived in this sick world long enough to understand what that meant in reality: being a ward means being a doll for him to play with as he wants. And that sickened me: being used by an old man.

And yet, at the same time, I also looked forward to it. A woman has needs and, under this ridiculous mask, I am still a woman. Plus, I was used to having those needs fulfilled in my former life and, after weeks of frustration and inability to do anything about them, even the thought of being taken by a geriatric was bearable. The need for some release was all-consuming.

Little did I know.

After the weird girls with their bound arms, gargantuan tits and puffed-up lips had all departed, I was left alone with Edwards. I had noticed that his member was rock-hard and creating a distinct bulge in his trousers and so I thought, ‘Uh oh Clare, here it comes!’ And, sure enough, he sat me on his knee like one would a little girl, squeezed my bottom through the folds of my gown and then stroked my own ridiculous tits with his hands before then letting both hands rest circling my middle. He kissed my face too and I mentally prepared myself for the next step when… when it stopped. “My dearest Libby, it is so delightful having you here in my house; let me assure you that I shall act as a father to you, appropriate at all times, caring and nurturing of this little lost dolly who has been thrust into my care.”

And, do you know what, he has kept to his word! While my sex aches for attention, is desperate for penetration and fulfilment, I find myself stuck with some paragon of virtue, a man for whom Christianity is more than just a convenient label and who would never ever dream of touching me down there. Instead, the hateful chastity pants that I was introduced to in that hell-pit of a school have stayed on and my burning desire remains unquenched.

Which brings me to the nights.

Every evening I am taken by my maid at eight, undressed, bathed and my evening enema is endured. Then, my monoglove is relaced, my night stays fitted (these are two inches larger and leave my breasts uncovered) and a silken slip, embroidered and edged with lace, lowered over my head and fastened around my neck with a ridiculous frilly collar. It is in white of course; it signifies my “virginity”. Bedtime boots which are heelless and hold my feet en-pointe, are then laced onto my feet (reaching to the knees) and from my cuffed ankles as chain goes to the posts at the foot of the bed.

Immobilised thus, I wait. He always arrives around half an hour later, freshly bathed and smelling of soap. He lies in the bed next to me, undoes his crotch and, when his member has sprung out, positions my head over it. I bring him to fulfilment whilst he strokes my head. After swallowing his seed, I am expected to cuddle up against him. He will talk to me as if I were a little girl and then, using my bosom as a pillow, he then falls asleep. I never can do the same. Pressed against a male body, his tool brushing my most intimate areas and the silk of my nightgown heightening further my arousal, I am also insane with lust. But, the chastity pants on and my arms ensconced in that damnable monoglove, there is absolutely nothing I can do to sate myself.

And those are my nights. He usually wakes once in the night to pass water, the acrid liquid trickling down my throat as I hover between waking and sleeping, and in the mornings I bring him to fulfilment again.

But who fulfils me, eh? Shall I ever be fulfilled again?

 

2nd October 1967

I was going to talk about something completely different this week but the events of today have changed things. I feel so humiliated that there is only one thing on my mind and that is my fucking status as “Daddy’s Little Girl”.

It all stems from a lie. A lie that they told Daniel – that’s Edwards’ first name – when I was given to him as his ward. I was there at the time. The day after I was presented to him by those weird posh girls, a representative of the Chesham Doll Academy came around to speak to him. I was present at the time, sitting prim and proper on the settee like a good little dolly should. “She doesn’t have a name, Dr. Edwards, none of our students do. Their names are removed from their registration certificates upon dollification and replaced with the simple ‘Dolly’. To aid bureaucratic matters, we accord each student a number – she was fourteen – but as for a name, that is for you to decide. She is your dolly and, like a little girl names her toys, so too should you name yours.”

“But does she mind?” he had protested (I liked him for that). “I mean, maybe there is a name that she prefers or wants. What if I gave her the wrong one?”

The representative looked at him with a pitying smile. “Your late wife and her companions were Ladies of Leisure, were they not?”

“Indeed, they were, sir, and exemplary ones at that!”

“But they were not dolls, and you have never before possessed a living doll, am I right?”

“You are indeed, sir.”

“Then the misunderstanding is only natural, doctor. Dolls do not have opinions or preferences or thoughts or anything approaching a personality at all. They choose that path in life because they don’t want to have them, they despise the responsibility they bring. Number 14 here was overjoyed to cast them aside and empty her mind on the day she was dollified; the idea of being asked such things would only worry and confuse her.”

Angered by these words, I started to squirm and tried to shake by encased head. But the message did not get through correctly.

“Look doctor, even the thought of being asked an opinion distresses her.”

“Indeed, you are correct! How terrible of me to burden her so.”

“You only acted for the best, but the mistake is due to the fact that you see this object as human with all that entails. It was once, perhaps, but no longer. It is a doll, nothing more. And so, the name…?”

“Well, I was thinking of Libby… Olivia that is.”

“A beautiful choice, doctor. Olivia Edwards is what I shall fill in on her documentation.”

“It says here that she was born on the 01/05/1965. That would make her only two and a half years old. Surely that is a mistake?”

“No doctor, it is correct. That is the day when she was dollified, on her fourteenth birthday, the earliest we are legally allowed to dollify in this country. And as dollification is a rebirth, then that is the date we put down.”

“So, she is really sixteen?”

“That is correct, doctor.”

I squirmed and resisted again at this and again I sent out the wrong message.

“Please doctor, do not say such things. Even such basic reminders of her former humanity distress her. The Chesham Doll Academy works hard to make all human traits hateful to our students. Reminding Olivia of her human birthdate is distressing her.”

“Oh, my dearest Libby, I am so sorry!”

Sorry he may have been, but why were they lying about my past. I was dollified a month before, not two and a half years, and I was twenty-two, not sixteen. Something was up, ethically and legally, and I was the victim!

“What of marriage, sir?”

“The earliest that a human may wed is sixteen, doctor, although waiting until eighteen is generally advised due to humans making mistakes. But as a doll cannot choose, then this does not apply. Marry her off when you like, but we suggest you enjoy her company first, particularly with regards to your stress issues. It will be good training for when she is wed.”

And so, he did… and still does. He loves dressing me up in ridiculous outfits suited for the teenage girl he thinks I am, reading me children’s stories and treating me as if I were still a child and innocent of the ways of the world.

Well, almost innocent. He doesn’t hesitate to shove his cock in my modified mouth for regular relief of course.

But apart from that I am treated like a little girl at all times. People come and visit and talk about how cute and well-behaved I am before presenting me with a doll or something and whenever they speak to Daniel about me, they always stress how kind he has been in taking on some helpless, lost little dolly and being like a second daddy to me.

You would have thought that, with all my other troubles, this shouldn’t bother me for some reason, but it does. Because, when all’s said and done, that little girl dolly that they all coo over is neither a girl nor a doll but instead a living, breathing grown woman with needs, sexual needs, that torment her twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Oh God how I long for some release, please! But instead no, instead I sit there, prim and innocent, daddy’s little fucking girl and… the alarm, time is up, it is over.

If only I could say the same about my frustrations!

 

Part 2

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s