The Diary of Olivia Edwards: Part 3

Part 2

20th November 1967

Oh my God, what am I to do?! I cannot believe it, I am still in shock. My hand shakes as I write these words. In the pit of my compressed stomach there is a lump. I feel like my worst nightmare has come true and the hell that I live daily has got worse!

It was him. He was at the party. The soiree Daniel called it. He attended this evening gathering in support of his political party and I came with him. I have done it before. It is always horrible. The men paw at me and the women look down at me. Those that can. There are always a couple of dolls there. The number seems to be increasing, like we are becoming more accepted. How can a civilised Christian society ever accept such a thing?

But that is not it. We were there and then he came in through the door, a young lady on his arm. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I welcome the Foreign Secretary.” And it was him. Foreign Secretary. Not a junior minister these days but one of the most important people in the government! “Mr. Hunter! Please come here, Mr. Hunter! Can I get you a drink Mr. Hunter!” They fawned over him like animals and he lapped it up while all the while she just stood there, starstruck, transfixed, doe-eyed and delirious. Like I once was. “This is Chloe Hardwick, a distant cousin of mine,” he said. He used to use the same excuse with me; I was a relative whom he was introducing to society. It all seemed so proper and right; only I knew what a lying snake he was. Yet what can I do? Silenced and masked, trammelled by my clothing, I merely stood and watched, sickened to the pit of my stomach.

But then it got worse. He came over and greeted Daniel, “one of our oldest and most trusted supporters”. And then he turned to me. “And who is this delightful vision of femininity?” he asked. “This is Libby, my ward,” replied my guardian. And the snake bent down and kissed my pot cheek, before circling my waist with his hands. “A fine waist you have there my dear,” he said. “You must be very grateful to the good doctor for raising you so well.”

And then he was gone, back in the crowd, schmoozing and drinking, his pretty feminine accessory at his side.

And I seethed. Seethed at how his wealth and power enabled him to get away with it. How he could ruin my life and walk off scot-free to continue enjoying his own.

But even that was not the end of it.

No, if only!

Later on, perhaps an hour or two later, when Daniel had sat me down on a chair and was over on the other side of the room discussing something with a friend, the slimy bastard came over to me, sat right next to me and circle my waist again with his hands. “Hello Clare, or should I say Libby,” he whispered in my ear. “Long time no see. You’re looking well I must say, damned sexy in fact. If I wasn’t already married, I’d consider asking your guardian for your hand and breaking in that virginity of yours. Except that you and I know that you’re as much a virgin as Chloe there is my cousin. She’s my latest flame. Pretty little thing isn’t she, almost as good as you were… and your sister. I’m dolling her next month; it’ll be a lovely nineteenth birthday surprise for her. The academy has found me another and she, like you, will never be able to tell tales.” His hand trailed over to my breasts and squeezed them lewdly. He licked my pottery face and smiled. “What are you thinking, eh? My little vixen, I bet you hate me. I’ve heard rumours that the good doctor there keeps you chaste and locked up. How does a woman with your libido cope? Not my problem I suppose. But you’ll be pleased to know that I still think of you, and that sister of yours. She’s called Pillows these days and they say her tits are bigger than yours. That’s over the top in my mind, but a guardian knows best I suppose. And her guardian is far less moral and upstanding than yours. Oh well my precious, until next time.”

And then, with a final squeeze, he was gone, and I was left seething. My breasts heaved up and down as I processed all that he had told me. Then I blacked out and the next thing I knew was Daniel bringing me round.

The alarm rings, my time is up. What am I to do? What am I to do? How can I save that poor innocent and see that justice is meted out to that snake?

27th November 1967

I have so much to tell this week. Looking back, I can hardly believe that I did what I did and what has happened has happened. Things have changed beyond all recognition.

Seeing Jacob shook me beyond all imagining. To have the cause of all my misfortune come in front of me and then taunt me with his deeds while boasting that he planned to commit further evil caused something inside of me to snap. I thought of that poor girl, an innocent like me, naïve and hopeful, looking forward to a life of love and luxury, when in reality forced silence, helplessness and the very denial of her humanity was all that awaited.

But more than that, I thought of my darling sister Emma; sickly, suffering Emma, who prayed for a better world but who, like me, had been reduced to a faceless, anonymous doll, an over-sexualised parody of a human being, demeaned further (as if it were possible!) by her very name. known to the world as ‘Pillows’ – it made me sick!

It was Emma – always Emma, never never ‘Pillows’! – that did it for me. Her suffering gave me the strength and determination to do something. I imagined her sitting there, her mammoth breasts heaving up and down, blank and expressionless to the world but crying inside, waiting only to be raped. Yes, I would act.

But how? What could I do, silent and helpless as I was. I had no voice to call with, no arms to signal with and no eyes to plead with. I had nothing; I could hardly move without assistance.

All night I tossed it over in my mind and then I came to a resolution. The following morning, after my enema and smoothie breakfast, I was led into the sitting room for another day of interminable sitting and staring. Daniel sat in his armchair reading The Telegraph. But that day I did not just sit there. Instead I squirmed and shook. Daniel looked up. “Libby, is something wrong? You seem disquieted.” Using the little neck movement that I still possessed, I nodded. He seemed concerned. I squirmed more and then, with an almighty effort, toppled myself onto the floor. Stunned, he got up and helped me back up onto my spindle heels. “Libby are you well?” I shook my head and he tried to sit me down again. I carried on shaking my head, but it was to no avail. I was seated on the settee again and my maid called. She brought medicine which I was forced to take. I soon went drowsy and could resist no more.

Before I continue, I shall speak of my maid. I do not know her name, but I know her secret. She came with me, “a gift from the school” although Daniel pays her wages. But he is not the only one, of that I am sure, for although I never saw her at the school, I am sure she turned up several times at Bedford Place whilst I was living there with Jacob. She is his woman, his spy who does all that she can to ensure that I let no secrets slip. When Daniel suggested this diary, she was dead against it, going beyond her remit as a servant and protesting with him that it would “destroy the doll mind and cause the poor creature pain”. But, to his credit, he insisted, the preferences of his late wife drowning out the protestations of a servant, and so she relented, although ever since she has ensured that it remains firmly under lock and key whenever I am not writing so that none may chance on it.

But I digress. For two days I was kept drugged, in a foggy netherworld between reality and fantasy. But I kept my resolve! When the drugs wore off my rebellion continued. Walking into the dining room, I freed myself momentarily of the hated maid’s grasp, tottered to the wall and slammed my face against it, time after time. I was stopped pretty quick, but the point was made. “I shall sedate her again,” said the maid straightaway, as Daniel restrained me. I shook my head non-stop and he noticed. “No,” he said, “something disquiets her, and I do not think it is a physical illness this time.

“It is an illness of the mind, sir; I shall call the doctor.”

“No, no! I know dear Libby well and this is unlike her. She has exhibited no other symptoms of mental malady before this week. I do believe she wishes to tell me something.”

I nodded my head.

“Sir, she cannot. It will destroy the doll mind; dolls are trained to be without thoughts and personality; the very desire to communicate with you is a sign of mental illness in itself. I shall call…”

“You shall do nothing except depart! You go beyond your remit as a servant and speak to me impudently! It is unacceptable!”

“Sir, I apologise humbly but I must…”

“Leave! Now!”

And so, we were alone and this was my chance. But how to tell him? He asked numerous questions: Was my stomach alright? Did I feel dizzy? None were helpful, so I shook me head at them all. “Do you need to write something?” he asked. I nodded.

Slowly he unfastened my accursed monoglove. While I waited for the blood to rush back into my tortured arms, he fetched a pen and paper. Then I wrote, shakily and slowly: READ MY DIARY.

“But I cannot! It is sacred and private! It would be an imposition!”

I pointed to the words again and then added, ALL IS NOT WHAT YOU THINK. SINS HAVE BEEN COMMITTED.

He nodded slowly and left the room. As he did he bumped into my maid who was descending the stairs with the very diary he intended to read. She had guessed my message or had perhaps been listening in. “Give that here!” he demanded. She turned away and made for the fire, but he did battle with her, trying to wrest it from her hands. She though, despite her corseting, was a young and strong woman. The commotion though brought Mrs. Salt running in and her strength combined with my guardian’s saved the book. The gardener also entered, and he restrained the recalcitrant maid while Daniel took the book, laid it on the table and started to read.

It took him a long time, but at the end he closed it, look at me with an expression of immense pity and merely said, “The wrongs shall be righted, and the sinners punished.”

I fainted with joy.

 

4th December 1967

How can I write these words? My pen trembles in my hand. I am so excited, yet also full of fear. Tomorrow is the day when things are to happen; I just hope that it all goes to plan; Daniel is such a darling, I just hope…

Let me start at the beginning. So, Daniel read the diary. Some parts of it shocked me and, I must confess that the sections where I criticised him caused me to curl up with shame, but he learnt it all: my deception, my forced immorality, my true identity and my abduction and far from voluntary dollification. He learned that he had been lied to and he learned who the evil criminal behind it all was; a man whom he had hitherto regarded as a friend. And he learned that more evil was to take place unless he prevented it.

Upon finishing the book, he hugged me, tears flowing from his eyes and repeated over and over again, “Clare, I am so, so sorry! Please forgive me!” Using my arms for something other than writing for the first time in ages, I expressed human emotion for the first time since my dollification and hugged him back. Then, when the tears had dried, he acted.

He did not call the police as I had expected, but instead ordered Mrs. Salt and the gardener to lock the scheming maid in the coalhole and stand guard over her. Then he made a telephone call to a close friend in the Conservative Party who himself made a call to someone else. Half an hour later there was a knock on the door and two men entered, their faces hidden by their scarves. They sat down at the table and unwrapped themselves and, I was shocked to discover that one of them was no less a personage than the prime minister. The other, I later learnt, was the Chairman of the Party.

They read the diary and then asked me questions which I answered with my pen. The whole dollification and abduction ring was exposed – the charity that “saved” Emma and I was the first stage of the larger operation – and the key names were given. At the end, the prime minister sat back and exclaimed, “That cur has deceived both his country and his wife, my darling niece. The bastard shall pay!”

“Indeed, he must,” agreed the Party Chairman, “but we cannot afford a scandal, not with the Liberals so strong. We must deal with it, undoubtedly, not just Hunter but Sykes and Mason and all the others, but we must be discreet. The police can never know and nor too the papers. Hunter must not be outed, he must have an accident.”

“Agreed, we are shaky ground with the electorate as it is. What do you propose?”

“A party, here at Dr. Edwards’ residence. To celebrate young Libby’s engagement to… oh I don’t know who, someone, she’s only a doll after all. Hunter will not be able to resist the invitation; another opportunity to gloat and wallow in his depravities. He can toast the bride to be and then fall ill. MI5 can arrange that. Forced to lie down in a back bedroom, he can be dealt with appropriately by our agents.”

“Liquidated?”

“Oh no, Will, something far more fitting.”

“Explain please, I am intrigued.”

“Young Libby here is a doll, is she not? But, having read that diary, I suspect that she would like to regain her human status, am I not correct?” I nodded my head. “Well, my dear, you certainly deserve it for your efforts. But the undollifying of a doll who, in the eyes of the world, embraced dollification voluntarily, would seem strange, questionable even. So, I suggest that Libby the doll remains, forever a ward in Dr. Edwards’ house. The doll remains but instead, the good doctor here takes a wife, a poor orphan from the East End named Clare Warwick. Yet more proof of Daniel’s fine charitable instincts.”

“Hugh, I do not have the finances to remarry now, I…”

“Daniel, the party shall pay, fear not. We are supporting the charitable endeavours of one of our most loyal members.”

“I fail to see what this has to do with Hunter, Hugh!”

“It has everything to do with Jacob Hunter MP, Will, because we will need someone else to become Libby the Doll. Behind that blank mask, it matters naught who or what they originally were, only what they now are; an orphaned dolly in the good doctor’s care.”

“Emasculate and dollify the cur! Splendid idea!”

“Indeed. Hunter becomes Libby and the nation mourns a fine MP who was killed in a freak food poisoning accident. Who knew that he was allergic to peanuts? Why, it had never been picked up before. His wife can mourn him properly, in all innocence and the sympathy might help our electoral prospects.”

“And the others who supported this evil school and operation. Oh, trust me, I shall deal with them in due course…”

And so, it is that tonight we shall welcome Jacob Hunter MP again to celebrate my engagement to one Richard Felix (an associate of Hugh de Ferrers, the Party Chairman I am told). For one last time I shall be forced to endure his taunts and look into his evil eyes. And then, then he shall meet his just desserts.

A year later

A year has passed since the last entry that you read, and my life has changed beyond all imagining. Indeed, I have changed my very identity no less than twice, first becoming Miss Clare Warwick again and then Mrs. Clare Edwards. Which is why this diary ceased to be, for it was no longer the diary of Olivia Edwards, the doll ward of Dr. Daniel Edwards. She still exists, of course, but after that last entry, she decided that she did not want to keep a diary any longer for it was destroying her doll mind. A wise choice. Thus, her diary ended, and the diary of Clare Edwards nee Warwick began. That, though, is a story for another time. For today, I am merely to wrap up any loose ends in the old Libby’s diary that you, the reader, may have. Not that anyone will ever read this work, or at least, not in the next fifty years, but I cannot bear to see it either destroyed or left unfinished and so here we go.

The plan hatched by the Party Chairman was executed. I was dolled up to the nines (pardon the pun) by my new maid (provided by the party; the old one had been taken away by two MI5 agents and I never heard of her again) and then led on my leash downstairs to meet my fiancé, a gentleman named Richard Felix whom I had never seen before and would never see again. The assembled party applauded and toasted us and, in amongst them, was Jacob Hunter. Just seeing him made my compressed stomach lurch. He filled me with both disgust and fear and I trembled. Some time afterwards, he came over to me. His arm sidled around my tightly-cinched waist and his other hand strayed onto my breasts, squeezing each one lewdly. “This may well be the last time I have the opportunity to enjoy these, my darling Clare,” he whispered into my ear. As a mute, anonymous doll, I could not answer him of course, but inside I shouted back, “So it may, far more than you realise!”

And, as if those unspoken words had been heard by a higher power, a look of pain and dismay passed across his face. He withdrew his hands from my unprotected body and brought them to his own stomach, before them brushing his brow. He glanced at the drained champagne glass that he had left on a nearby table. Forgetting about me in an instant, he mumbled to himself, “Bloody champers must be off. I feel damned dicky!” And then he stumbled off, taken three lurching steps before crashing to the ground.

The whole room stopped, and several men ran over to him. “Are you alright there, Jacob? Something up man?” He groaned with misery and, if I had not known the true nature of his soul, I would have felt pity for him. But then two of them picked him up and took him to a room and he was gone.

The following afternoon it was announced that the Rt. Hon. Jacob Hunter MP had passed away following a party at a friend’s house. The coroner ascribed the cause of death to be some peanuts that had been available at the party and which, unbeknownst to himself, the much-mourned Mr. Hunter had an allergy to.

But before that death was announced and a coffin carried out of the house, I too left the premises, taking the car to the Great Ormond Street Hospital. I was going to have some further enhancements made at the bequest of my fiancé and, because I would be away from home for a while, I took my large travelling trunk – large enough to contain a man, so numerous were my outfits – with me. Two burly servants struggled to lift it.

Libby the doll was in the hospital for a full month before she was released back into her guardian’s care. She never married because her fiancé decided, after the terrible occurrences during their engagement party, that such a wedding would be disrespectful to the late MP and that it obviously wasn’t auspicious anyhow. In the deluge of other news items, this tiny footnote got lost forever.

A day after Libby returned home, another girl was released from the hospital. Her name was Miss Clare Warwick, and no one knew when she had entered. She was a poor orphan who had aroused the pity of the pious Dr. Daniel Edwards and was due to become his wife. Like Libby, she was in for marital enhancements. Unlike Libby, she wasn’t a doll.

I’d have liked to have my doll suit stripped from me and my old identity restored in full, but it wasn’t possible. The rubberised skin coating was permanent and a year of being encased beneath the hood and mask had turned my plain visage into a hideous one. So, instead, my future husband and I worked together to design a new one that both reflected my identity and pleased him. It was not entirely to my liking – the lips are way too large and the nose a mere button, and the lisp I now have due to the puffed-up, shortened tongue is embarrassing, but it is a vast improvement. Now I can see freely and speak freely. Well, when there is no fleur de bouche lodged in that orifice of course.

I am no longer a doll, but that does not mean that all my freedoms have been returned. Perhaps one day, if Daniel passes away before I do, then such will be the case, but not now. I am still corseted to a mind-boggling 13.5 inches and I still wear ridiculous en pointe heels whenever I’m not bathing. Plus, although no doll, I am still a Lady of Leisure, with my arms firmly ensconced in a crushing monoglove most of the time. I protested about this, but Daniel insisted – his late wife had been a Lady of Leisure and it would be disrespectful to her memory to insist on less for her replacement – and, since he had all the power, I eventually had to relent. It is hard, that I do not deny, but a world better than life as Libby. Yes, I am effectively armless whenever in public or company, but when we are alone in the house, he has no compunction in unlacing that accursed sleeve and letting me hug him or pleasure him with my hands or mouth.

And it is the pleasuring that has made the greatest difference. That day when I was released from hospital, I was taken straight to the Church of St. Lawrence where I was wedding to Daniel in a quiet ceremony attended by close friends and the Chairman of the Conservative Party. Oh yes, and Libby the Doll, my husband’s ward, who was now back in his care following the tragic collapse of her own marriage prospects.

Then we were taken home, and, after an informal wedding dinner, I was led upstairs, and my sex freed for the first time in a year. Daniel came afterwards and within moments we coupled as two human beings. He was not such a competent and adventurous lover as Jacob, but his heart and soul were pure unlike that monster’s and so I found it more pleasurable. Libby, incidentally, was allowed to watch the proceedings as part of her education. She fidgeted throughout, the movements getting more intense as I screamed out in ecstasy, as if the show distressed her somehow.

And so that brings us to today. I am still Clare, still the wife of Dr. Daniel Edwards and still an esteemed and respected Lady of Leisure. I live in his house together with Olivia – or ‘Libby’ – the pretty doll who is his ward. As Daniel often naps or has to pop out, I have dedicated myself to caring for that poor doll. I talk to her and play with her. I tell her about my past and the evil man who so almost ruined my life. Then I tell her about my darling sister, how she has also been freed from her enforced dollhood and how she will be coming over tomorrow to play. She shudders at that thought. I can’t think why. And then I ask the maid to activate the plugs that are lodged within me and I bring myself to ecstasy whilst the poor little dolly watches. She has plugs too, but they are never ever switched on even though her fidgeting suggests she might like them to be. She is unmarried after all and shall remain so until she dies, and so any sexual release would be improper.

FINIS

The Diary of Olivia Edwards: Part 2

Part 1

9th October 1967

I have decided to write today about my story. All I have done so far is give you my name and tell you about the miserable life that I live today. But that is not my life. That is the life of this Libby Edwards and I will never be her. My name is Clare Warwick. I am 22 years old and I was born in Bethnal Green, London.

It’s a rough place is the Green. No one there has any money, and everyone has a knife. I was born at home because we couldn’t afford the hospital and my mum had already given birth to five babies before me. Only two survived, my brother Jack and my sister Emma who is two years older than me. This time I survived but my mum did not. She died the next day from what they call “complications”. I often wonder what she was like and what my life would have been had she lived. Hard no doubt, but better than this I am sure. I was so jealous of all the other kids who had mums to cook for them and wash their clothes and stuff. I never had that. We only had dad and all he did was drink. He loved my mum you see, and when she died he couldn’t cope. So, it fell to Jack to look after me. He was eleven when I was born, and he did the best he could. But with dad drinking so much, he got sacked from his job and so Jack had to leave school and go out to work. Work though, can never provide enough for a family, so he left that and joined a gang. He loved the gang, the friendship and brotherhood it brought, plus the money. When they’d done a robbery, he’d come home his pockets full of notes and we’d go into the West End on the train and he’d buy us a lovely meal in some nice restaurant. But those days were rare, and they didn’t last. One day he failed to come home. He was found three hours later in a ditch, slashed with a knife.

After that dad drank more. We began to miss meals and our electric was cut off. Then the water stopped too, and we began to smell. Emma fell ill but there was no money for medicine. She pulled through but then, a year later, she fell ill a second time. The doctor said her constitution was weak and she needed medical help and care. But what could we do? Dad was comatose from the drink all the time and no one wanted to employ a dirty wretch like me. I was sixteen at the time, uneducated and unkempt. The doctor said that there might be a way and ordered dad to come and see him the following morning before he’d had a drink. Sensing a chance to save Emma, we dragged him to the surgery. What we heard when we got there was most unexpected.

Standing next to the doctor was a smart man in a grey suit. The doctor explained that this gentleman, a Mr. Fellows, was a representative of an educational charity. He said that he had informed the charity about Emma’s plight and they wanted to help our family. Dad and I fell onto our knees in thanks. He said that the charity was willing to pay all of Emma’s medical costs for the next twenty years and to educate her until she turned twenty-one. It was too good to be true. But then it got better. They wanted to do the same for me too. All dad had to do was sign over the right of parenthood for both his daughters to the charity until we reached adulthood at 21. He did so willingly and then we signed to say that we had no issue with this. And then, he left and…

There is the alarm. I shall continue tomorrow…

 

16th October 1967

And so, I started school. It was a weird experience. I’d never had any education or order or boundaries in my life and now I was expected to sit in a class all day long and behave like a good little girl. Of course, with my background, that did not come easily at first, but the school – its full title was the High Barnet Charitable School for Young Ladies – was used to girls like me from deprived backgrounds and knew how to deal with us. When I misbehaved, I was punished with canings on my bottom and then silenced with a gag in my mouth. I resisted for several months, but after that my protestations ceased. They were not worth it.

Not worth it and also the actual education that I was now receiving, I began to find interesting. I was naturally a bright child yet had received precious little education or intellectual stimulus before. I was taught the rudiments of reading, writing and ’rithmetic and began to find pleasure in the stories that I could now immerse myself in.

Equally, I also began to enjoy what the school was doing with my body. The institution was a charitable one established by several Conservative MPs who believed in raising up intelligent members of the lower orders to the civilised classes. That meant educating our minds of course, but also our bodies. We had lessons on deportment and elocution, how to dance and how to make small talk in graceful company, but above that, we were made beautiful.

It started with the uniform. Although a plain affair of dark grey satin with a white apron, it was always to be kept immaculate and we looked fetching in it as the cut was low which exposed the tops of our budding breasts and the waist incorporated a tight corset. I had never worn stays before, but from the first day at the High Barnet Charitable School for Young Ladies they became an essential part of my life, being worn during all waking hours, then removed for washing and night stays then affixed around me, these being slightly looser and finishing under the bosom. They squeezed me terribly, destroyed my appetite, caused me to faint regularly and be always short of breath. But they made me beautiful too. For the first time in my life I felt desirable and I liked that feeling.

Nor too was it only me; my sickly sister blossomed into a stunning, pale-faced beauty with a waist of but 14 inches. She became the belle of the school but then, one day, she left. The headmistress explained to me that she had found a gentleman who would take care of her. For several months she wrote weekly letters, telling of trips to the theatre and the park. Oh, how I envied her. But then the letters stopped, and I grew sad. She had forgotten her little sister; was perhaps ashamed of her even. Later, I realised the truth.

There were other additions to my attire as well. On my first day, in a humiliating episode, my womanly parts were inspected, shaved and then covered with a burning paste. When removed the hair stopped growing there and I was as smooth as a baby. Over those most intimate areas I then wore a belt, night and day, made of metal, that stopped me touching them. This was no great loss as, in the Green, I had rarely touched myself since my hands were so dirty I feared infection and I was so tired from my work that I had not the energy. I was innocent back then; if only it were so now.

And so, my life changed, for the better. Daily I blossomed from a gawky child into an educated and graceful young lady. We would have soirees when men came around and they were the highlight of my – and my girlfriends’ – existences. We were dressed up by the school in the finest gowns and we would enjoy the male company, make small-talk with them and dance. Although most were as old as my father or more, it was jolly good fun and they were the days I remember most fondly.

Well, all except one of them.

The one where I first met Jacob Hunter MP.

But that is a story for later. In the meantime, our waists were steadily reduced, down to the school minimum of 15 inches and then mine beyond, down to an agonising 14. Laced so I could hardly breath or function as a human being, but I loved the attention – particularly the male attention – it brought. I was starting to notice the opposite sex you see, and the power that I had over them. Tightly-laced and finely attired I could make the heads of an entire room turn. For the first time in my young life, I commanded respect and attention and I grew drunk on it. Too drunk, for I did not notice the dangers.

Not even when it was too late.

23rd October 1967

I knew that something special was up. After all, pupils never got invited to the headmistress’s office. I had been in the High Barnet Charitable School for Young Ladies for three years and had blossomed from a puny, gawky, filthy and uncouth girl into a woman, a woman with refinement and manners and a waist fourteen centimetres in circumference that left me feeling elegant and breathless at all times.

Almost a year before, the same had happened to Emma. She had survived her illness scares and the hearty diet and healthy regime of the school had caused her to blossom into a real beauty. Then she had been called into the office and, a week later, she was gone. Somehow, perhaps at one of the soirees, I am unsure, a gentleman had noticed her, and she lived with him. I did not ask if they were married, it was not my place, but I suspected not. I did not approve, of course, but growing up in the Green, you get to take the world for how it is rather than how it should be.

And so, it was for me too. I had an admirer.

His name was Jacob Hunter and he was a Conservative Member of Parliament. His constituency was somewhere in Gloucestershire which was where his ancestral mansion was too, although he split his time between there and the capital. He was also married, to no less a figure than the niece of the prime minister, and she was a lady of great status, a Lady of Leisure no less, who was never seen with unbound arms or a fleur de bouche filling her mouth. I was shocked. Surely if he is married, then he shouldn’t be admiring me I asked with an innocence that was not entirely genuine.

“It is quite normal and correct for gentlemen of standing like Mr. Hunter to take on a mistress,” explained the headmistress. “You will not understand this being innocent of the ways of the world, but men produce a seed inside them which is released during bedtime activities. If this seed is not released it can build up and cause pain and stress. For a gentleman like Mr. Hunter who, by necessity, spends long periods away from home guiding his country, then prevention of that build-up is important. You are serving King and Country by becoming his mistress, Miss Warwick.”

Whatever. All I saw was a new chapter in my life, a chapter with parties and freedoms, away from school, an adult at last.

I remember that first night vividly. It’s a key moment in any girl’s life after all; the night when she truly becomes a woman. I approached it with a degree of fear but also great curiosity and, after the initial pain, I found great pleasure. Jacob was an experienced lover, extremely experienced, and he knew how to give himself pleasure whilst also putting me at my ease and giving me some pleasure of my own. A whole new world was opened up to be and, as he exploded within me, I resolved to make it my own.

And so it began: trips to the theatre wearing a bonnet with a veil to hide my identity; masked balls where all participants were unknown and discreet private parties with carefully selected individuals that often ended up closer to an orgy than a soiree, followed by lazy days in the house, lounging around clad only in my stays, waiting for my man who would arrive after parliamentary business had concluded, often bearing some sort of sparkling gift for me to wear.

Not that I had it all my own way, of course. Jacob was used to power and wielded it naturally. Both in and out of bed he was the master. Several weeks after our affair began, he presented me with a plug shaped a little like a Christmas tress with a large diamond set in the broad end. Confused, I could not figure out its purpose so, purposefully, he bent me over and carefully but firmly inserted it into my bottom hole before then declaring that I was to wear it continually night and day. It was strange, walking around with a rod inserted in my bum, but I bore it for him as I feared the consequences of disobeying. And then, several days later, he bent me over again, removed the plug and instead inserted his member in there. My cries of shock and dismay were simply ignored.

And so, it continued. The winter came and went and so did the summer. During recess we went on a short break to the south of France where I strolled, my face veiled, of course, along the promenade in Nice and marvelled at the lax dress of the locals whilst enjoying the sun.

And throughout this entire period, my own dress changed. My corsets were further tightened until fourteen inches became the norm, not the exception, and for the finest balls I could struggle down to thirteen. This was helped by an operation that Jacob paid for in which my lower ribs were removed, which facilitated the reduction but left me dependent on my stays for the rest of my life. And, whilst I was there, my breasts were enlarged, with 500cc being put in each one. Again, I had no say in any of this although, if we are to be honest, I did not mind that much. After all, were these measures not proof that he loved me and valued me? And that the Cinderella had truly become a princess?

And so, one year rolled by and then two and then three until I reached my twenty-second year. By then though, things had begun to change. They were barely perceptible at first, but real nonetheless. A decrease in his enthusiasm in the bedchamber and in the frequency of his visits and…

The bell. I shall continue next week!

 

30th October 1967

So, where was I? Oh yes, I got to the point where things started to go horrible. How can I forget that? I will never forget it, it was the worst moment of my life and yet, at the time, it started so well.

Things between me and Jacob Hunter were fine. Or at least, that was how I saw it at the time. In reality, so he had begun to cool a little. He demanded sex less often and came around to the house less frequently. But I just assumed that was because he was busy and too tired for bedtime activities. Certainly, his demeanour didn’t really change. He was courteous to me in public and condescending in private like he always had been. But then my education had taught me that that was how men are to their womenfolk; they are the superior beings after all.

It was his birthday. He was forty-two I seem to recall. He came to the house and took me out. We went for a lovely meal at the Burlington – I had duck à l’orange and a bottle of 1963 Clos St. Denis, I remember it clearly – and then went to the Duke of York’s Theatre to watch Figaro (he always loved the theatre and, since my education, I had begun to appreciate it too). Then it was back to the house and the usual lovemaking. Except that this was not the usual; it was rabid and animalistic, raw passion. It was incredible. Looking back today, I understand why. Then he made me some tea and within seconds I began to feel drowsy. He kissed me on the forehead and I closed my eyes, his smiling face the last thing I was to see.

When I awoke I was not in my bed nor even in the house. Instead, I was in a hospital and I hurt all over. I wondered what the hell had happened and so I cried out. Worryingly though, no sound was made. Indeed, my mouth wouldn’t move. I won’t say that it wouldn’t open because it already was, very wide, but it was stuffed full of something which prevented any sound. More than that, my face seemed to be covered with something, a mask of some sort. My vision, which was clear enough, was like looking through a pair of binoculars only without the magnification. It was as if I were staring through two pinholes, each covered by a lens. What the hell had happened?

I tried to move but found that I could not. Somehow, I was strapped down. All I could do was lie there and wait. Of course, I struggled for some time and yelled into my gag, but nothing happened and so in the end I just lay there. As I did I began to realise that it wasn’t just my face that was covered. Whatever was over it extended around my entire head, like some sort of hood or helmet. And my body was wrong too. The little movement I had made had caused me to heat up far more than it should have done. That too was covered, encased.

I felt the need to go to the toilet. I tried to hold it in but as the hours passed I could not. Eventually, I gave in to the urge and peed. I must have been fitted with a catheter because it drained away without making me damp. And then I waited some more and some more. Hour after hour in that silent, white room with only a ceiling and a strip light to stare at. Where was Jacob? Where was I? Was this what hell is like?

Sometime later, possible days after I first awoke, someone came in. I jerked about when I heard the door and their steps. It was a nurse. She looked at me and said, “So, Number 14, you are back with us. Excellent! I shall get the doctor.”

She left, and I was alone again, confused. What did she mean, ‘Number 14’?

A male doctor came soon afterwards. He did not speak to me nor acknowledge my struggles. Instead, he poked around at my body, tapped my head and squeezed by bottom and breasts. “All healed well and good to go,” he said eventually, more to himself than me. And then I was alone again.

Some hours later two male nurses came carrying a large crate. They released me from my bonds and then lifted me up from the bed and into the crate. Despite my weakness I struggled vigorously but to no avail. They took no notice of me as if I weren’t even human.

Little did I know that, in their eyes, I no longer was.

 

6th November 1967

Oh my God, this is intolerable! It rained today and so we didn’t go out. Instead Daniel sat me in the lounge and read me a story. I think he was getting excited as he sat on the settee alongside me and put his hand around my waist and squeezed my mammoth breasts. Despite my revulsion at his age – although that is far less these days, indeed, I have become accustomed to it and it feels like the norm – I feel myself attracted to him and long for more. My loins are on fire and I snuggle up to him, my breasts heaving as my breath goes short. He seems to notice and takes my hand. What is happening? He leads me to the bedroom and I totter behind him excited. Is this going to be it? The time when his Christian defences are breached, and he gives in to his carnal desires. I pray silently that it is so, and those prayers are answered… for him. He kneels me on the floor and sticks his rock-hard member in my mouth. Within seconds semen floods my throat. He is sated, and he lies on the bed, beckoning me to join him. I do so but that is all. He sleeps, and I lie there awake and tortured by unquenchable desire.

Desire that still pervades all my thoughts.

I must think of other things, move my mind onto something less sexual. I shall continue with my story…

Duck à l’orange and a bottle of Clos St. Denis. I can taste them now. I dream about them. For they were the last meal that I ever had. As a human being that is.

The journey in that crate, boxed in the dark like I had been buried alive, was petrifying. We bumped about, and I felt myself moving. At several points I wanted to vomit but could not. And then, all was still and after what seemed like hours but was probably only minutes, light flooded in, blinding me.

I was in a dormitory. Two rows of single beds, all empty and made up. They laid me on one of them and then left. I was no longer strapped down, so I tried to move, but after being inactive for so long, I found that I was weak and couldn’t even sit up, let alone walk. What I could do was put my fingers up in front of my face. To my surprise, they seemed as if they were covered in latex or rubber, like those of a mannequin or a doll rather than a living girl. Then a thought flashed through my mind, a horrifying, terrible thought. I tried to banish it, but it kept returning, stronger each time. I was peering through pinholes, my head was encased, my voice was silenced, and my hands were covered in rubber. Are they all not signs of being a doll, one of those weird, living dolls that started off as some underground fetish subculture and seem to be rapidly becoming mainstream. Yet those dolls all choose to be like that, they aren’t forced into it. They have depraved minds that long for some sort of submissive existence. They certainly aren’t the educated mistress of a Member of Parliament with the desire to experience as much of life as possible. And yet… yet had not the last thing that I remembered before blacking put been drinking drugged tea and the smiling face of that Member of Parliament. Could he have…? He had the power and yet why? And I had not consented?

It was then that the lack of sex and infrequent visits began to make sense. And the unusual passion of our final night. And the smile. That evil smile.

A maid came with a dress for me. It was a school uniform similar to that which I had worn at the High Barnet Charitable School for Young Ladies. Passively, I let her put it on me and lace a pair of high-heeled boots (I was already wearing a corset of course). Then she helped me to stand and supported and led me as I walked down a corridor to an office. In that room another woman was waiting. The maid sat me on a chair and the explanation began.

“Welcome to the Chesham Doll Academy Number 14. I am the Headmistress, Miss Unsworth and you shall obey me at all times. If you haven’t already realised it, you have undergone a dramatic transformation. I believe that you were called Clare before. You are no longer Clare, she does not exist. She made a request to be dollifed last month which was approved by no less a figure than the Member of Parliament, Jacob Hunter. She signed over all her rights to me until she completes doll school and has a new guardian. Do not fear, there is one already lined up and you shall be with him in a week’s time. His name is Mr. Martin Letchworth and he is a hat manufacturer from Luton. In the interim you shall accustom yourself to your new reality.

At present you have no name, as is the norm for all the dolls in this institution. Your husband shall name you when you come into his care. You will stay in his care until your dying day as, once married, you are, of course, his personal property. He believes you to be 16-years old and to have chosen this course in life freely. Naturally, he shall never learn otherwise, for not only are you now a doll but you are also a full-time Lady of Leisure and therefore communication is forbidden.

Naturally, as a doll, you are to have no opinions and no personality. You are just to be. This is something that we engrain in our students from the day that they are first dollified. However, I do appreciate that whilst they have years to acclimatise themselves to their new reality – and many of them have chosen such a reality – neither apply to you. Therefore, I shall allow you a question, the last that you will ever be allowed to ask. Edith, pass her the pen and notebook.”

The maid passed me the pen and, in my trembling, rubberised hand, I took it and wrote shakily, “Why me?”

The maid passed it to the headmistress who looked at me with a pitying, almost human look for the first and last time ever. “Why you? To put it simple, because you became involved with Jacob Hunter MP. He is a married man with a penchant for young girls. But there are problems with such a hobby, particularly when your wife is the niece of the Prime Minister. So, he keeps his mistresses well-hidden in the house that he has bought specifically for that purpose – 34 Bedford Place I believe – and enjoys them until he is bored of them. And then he contacts us, drugs them and dollifies them, leaving this institution to dispose of them to loving husbands or guardians. A tad unethical maybe, but extremely profitable; it is his donations to this institution that are funding my retirement in Eastbourne. And why does he dollify them? Because a doll can never tell the newspapers about his infidelities. It guarantees silence and respectability and for a man with hopes of becoming prime minister one day, that is worth more than gold.”

And so, I became a doll and am a doll to this day. The evil bastard! He goes around fucking whatever girl he wants, taking their youth and innocence and then casting them on the scrapheap as I was, turning them into dolls, silence and placid.

And while he fucks, I merely dream about it, long for it, am driven crazy by this ache in my loins, locked away by a chastity belt put there by a man who is well-intentioned but thinks I’m a 16-year old virgin innocent of the ecstasies of the bedchamber.

God, I hate them all!

13th November 1967

Wednesday was the highlight of this week. Not that it was exactly a highlight, but it was a change and for me that means everything. What tortures me the most (well, about from the frustration down there) is the boredom. How could anyone, ever, choose to become a doll? It is so dull! Just sitting and waiting and then more sitting and waiting and then… you get the picture. I guess to choose such a life you would need to be born into it, to be educated into it from birth so that you think this is what women should be and imagine that being a beautiful (in a weird kind of way) mannequin is the highest ideal that a woman can strive for. Either that or you’re just plain weird. My guess though, based purely on my own experience, is that many of those who “choose” such an arduous path in life are, in fact, forced. This is slavery in the twentieth century. No shackles, chains and manacles, but instead an elegant monoglove, tight corset and false, ceramic smiling face.

But I digress. Wednesday. Wednesday was this week’s highlight because on Wednesday we received an unexpected visitor. It was no less a personage than the Duchess of Devonshire, formerly known as Rebecca Huntington, and one of those weird posh girls who used to visit Daniel.

She came with her maid, her mouth firmly gagged with a fleur de bouche and her arms restrained in the more lenient gigot sleeves manner. Daniel was delighted when he saw her and kissed her cheek before circling her narrow waist – though a full inch broader than mine I do declare! – with his hands. She was shown into the drawing room and her gag removed. She introduced herself to me and then proceeded to chat to my guardian, reliving the good old days when she was a student at the Berkhamsted School for Girls and used to visit Daniel as part of her Community Service lessons. And then, to my astonishment, “for old times’ sake”, she knelt down in front of him, let him unfasten his trousers and proceeded to bring him to completion orally before swallowing his seed and then licking his member clean. Daniel was overjoyed, declaring that she “hadn’t lost any of her skills” and then, calm as you like, they both sat down again and proceeded to discuss her marriage with the Duke of Devonshire and my wardship with Daniel. He told her that I was an excellent house doll and that my presence brought him untold joy, at which point they both turned to me and smiled, and then moved onto another topic.

Sometime later, after they had both consumed a couple of cups of tea, Daniel excused himself in order to use the toilet and us two ladies were left alone together. As soon as he was out of the room, the Duchess stood up with great grace and elegance and walked across to me. Then she stared at my false face and began to speak: “I told everyone that I came here today to see dear old Dr. Edwards and to a degree that is true, but to a greater degree it is a rather large lie. Indeed, what fascinates me the most is not him, but you. I have a cousin who is thinking of dollification and an old school friend who embraced it last year. The whole idea fascinates me: what would make a girl do such a thing? How do you live? What is it like to be permanently silent and helpless? I must admit, the idea both frightens and fascinates me. It also excites me. Oh, how I wish you could talk, you sexy little minx. What secrets could you tell? And what is it like to lie with a doll? I did not tell Dr. Edwards of course, but since marriage I have discovered the joys of sex and I enjoy a lot of it. But little is with my husband. Instead his sister, a darling thing of only seventeen years is my most regular lover. To lie with a woman is exquisite, but to lie with a woman who had been dollified, now I wonder what that is like? We shall not find out of course, but we can do something else…” And then, to my shock and amazement, she leaned over and kissed my faux lips, her tongue entering my stuffed and modified mouth channel. She lingered there for some seconds and then withdrew, panting, her enormous breasts heaving, as too were mine which had been pressed so tightly against hers.

“That was… different,” she declared, staring into my glass eyes. The lips feel soft, almost real, and the inside of your mouth is exquisite, like a second vagina almost, but the rigid, unmoving, expressionless face… I don’t know, I really don’t know. Oh, my dear Libby, you are a woman of mystery, you truly are. I just wish I could unravel your secrets.” And with those words, she returned to her seat and sat down. Moments later, Daniel reappeared. “Have you two ladies been getting on well?” he asked.

“We’ve been having some female bonding,” replied the Duchess with an almost imperceptible wink.

Twenty minutes left… I shall return to my story.

So, I was a doll. They had made me into that. He had. The evil bastard! The man I had loved, trusted even. He took my humanity away. That evening my maid stood me in front of the mirror and I saw what I had become. A rubberised mannequin with enormous breasts (40H I later learnt) and an unreal face. For some reason, perhaps pity, she explained it all to me. She told me that the skin had been coated with a rubberised, breathable material, sprayed on whilst hot and then cooled to my contours. It is permanent. She told me that in the old days, living dolls had to wear latex suits that were removed every few weeks for cleaning. She expanded on this with horror stories about internal plumbing whereby girls consumed their own wastes and thus never needed the toilet. She believed the current situation to be a vast improvement. “The smell when those suits were removed was horrific! I’m just glad that the girls were knocked out with sleeping gas when we did it.” So, maybe I was the lucky one, not being born a decade or two earlier, but it didn’t feel like it.

My head looked vaguely familiar. She explained that my fiancé had a thing for an actress whom he’d also known growing up and had a crush on. He’d wanted to marry her but, to his disgust, she’d declared that she would not wed until thirty, wishing to concentrate on her career. And so, he had created me instead. Later, one day when I was seated in front of a TV, I saw her in a film playing a star-crossed lover. Her name was Juliet Capulet and I cried internally as I watched.

It was explained that the head was made personally for me, with the internal gag fitted first, expanded to the maximum, and then the headpiece attached in two parts, then glued together and the wig, a mane of ebony locks, affixed. It was beautiful… I am beautiful… but in a weird, unreal way, my piercing blue eyes staring at you mindlessly.

The only things that remained of the old Clare Warwick were the stays that squeezed my waist into a miniscule 13 inches. Oh yes, and the chastity belt that had once covered my privates in school. That was back too. No sexual relief until marriage.

But that marriage was not far off. My fiancé visited one day. He was a youngish man and not unattractive. He cooed over me and encircled my waist with his hands. He had a dream of the perfect woman and had created me in pursuit of that dream. As I passively let him fondle my huge, firm, surging breasts, I wondered what life with him would be like. I was never to find out. The very next day he was killed in a motor accident.

I didn’t mourn him as I didn’t know him, but his death threw them into a panic. What does one do with a doll who has already been modified to someone else’s specifications? She’s an expensive liability, a burden that no one wants to take on except at a knocked-down price. Then fate intervened: one of those freaky girls from the posh school came around. She claimed that she, along with some friends, wanted to buy a doll to keep an old man company. I was on the shelf and I was cheap, and, by chance, Olivia Capulet was this old guy’s favourite. So, I became the ward of Dr. Daniel Edwards and the rest is history.

As too is this session, for the alarm is ringing.

 

Part 3