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

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