Once Upon A Time in Latin America: Part 2

Part 1

Hacienda Coelho, Bom Jesus da Lapa, Brazil, Sunday 1st December 2019

“Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with you…”

Adriana shifted on her knees as she recited the prayer. Which number was this one now? She didn’t have a clue, but she reckoned it to be around two hundred and something. Half an hour or so to go.

Today was the first day of Advent and, even though she had already attended Mass in the hacienda’s tiny chapel, she was still expected to recite five hundred Hail Marys on her knees as part of an ‘intensified spiritual programme designed to fully honour the glories of the holy season.’

Designed by Sister Carina. As so much of her life was these days. If she could get rid of one thing it would be that accursed woman who was sitting opposite her, her hands in prayer, making sure that she didn’t stumble or miss out her prayers. If she did, that would mean more punishment and Adriana’s bottom was still smarting from the smacks that she’d received on Friday.

Fridays were now her ‘Day of Divine Judgement’ when all her sins for the week were totted up (by Sister Carina) and then the required number of smacks was then administered (by Sister Carina). Adriana thought it strange that the nun did not use a paddle or a cane, but instead did it all with her bare hands. Indeed, she seemed to enjoy it, the skin-to-skin contact as well as causing the jolts of pain. And, after every smack, Adriana had to repeat the words, “Repent, then, and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped out, that times of refreshing may come from the Lord.” It was most humiliating, particularly since the words came out, as her prayers did now, in that squeaky, silly little girl voice that she now possessed.

Indeed, when she thought about it, she wasn’t even sure if Sister Carina was a proper nun. She dressed like one and was introduced as one, but she had none of the holiness that personified the nuns who had taught her in the school as a child. Carina seemed to revel in her power and her religion seemed to be but a mask. She wondered where Don Roberto had found her. Did he genuinely think she was a pious sister or was he in on the act too? No, if she could rid herself of one thing, it would be Sister Carina!

She stopped her thoughts even as she thought them, though the words carried on. “Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners…” Would Carina be the one thing that she would change? Carina made her life hell, but then so did a lot else beside. Indeed, ever since she had entered this living nightmare in the hacienda then…

She recalled that awful day when she’d woken up in her room and been shown her new body. Everything about it disgusted her. Those enormous, obviously fake breasts, like two beach balls affixed to her chest, a statement to the world that she now existed only to titillate men. Roberto had hinted at a tit job when they were dating, and the thought had appalled her. Women shouldn’t have to alter their bodies to please their menfolk.

Yet her body had been altered beyond all recognition! Not just those debasing boobs, but her blowjob lips, cartoon waist and… whatever it was they had done with her pussy.

The fact is that, in recent years, ever since losing her virginity, Adriana had developed something of a sexual appetite. When not in a relationship, she had enjoyed nothing more than working herself to a leisurely climax with her fingers. These days though, that was doubly impossible. Firstly because her pussy, when Sister Carina or her maid touched it – another reason to suspect the nun’s backstory, what sort of nun strokes the pussy of another girl? – the area was numb, the stitching and metal cross meaning that no feeling could get to her precious nubbin. The first time she learned that she had wept.

But the second reason was even worse. Indeed, now she thought of it, it would not be Sister Carina that she would change, but her arms.

A life without arms. Essentially, that is what she now led. Except that they were there, folded uselessly, elegantly, piously, behind her back, the rosary dangling from her redundant fingers, swaying and rattling whenever she moved. She never realised just how important arms are to the most basic things in life until they weren’t there. Opening a door, now impossible, so if a maid just pulled a door shut, let alone locked it, she was essentially a prisoner. Balancing as you walk and move. It took her over a month before she could walk without her maid’s support. Ok, so that wasn’t helped by her awful yet elegant boots that forced her to stand on tiptoes at all times, but even so, arms are essential and, even now she feels vulnerable whenever she moves since who will catch her when she falls? Feeding oneself, drinking a coffee, wiping your bottom, all of those most simple of tasks, now totally impossible. In a moment she had become as helpless as a babe.

Whilst she thought of this, she was reminded of the huge nappy around her bottom. Unable to go to the toilet unaided and unable to signal for help when she was gagged – which is most of the time – then the nappies were there as a safeguard. As much as anything though, they symbolised her regression from an independent, confident young woman into a dependent child. Thankfully, none of the visitors to the hacienda, or servants aside from Sister Carina and her maid, knew about it. That was the one saving grace of the ridiculous costumes that her “husband” decreed she wore daily from now on.

Every morning, after her waking and bathing, she was dressed in an outfit that could only be described as “outlandish”. Inspired by traditional Catholic dress, it incorporated wide skirts and a tightly-laced waist, but with a large décolletage surrounded by exquisite white lace. Around her neck was hung copious quantities of jewellery as proof of her new status as Dona of the hacienda. By exposing her mammoth breasts, it made Adriana feel even more conscious of her new look, particularly when female visitors arrived who were clad in more usual attire. It seemed designed only to mark her out as special when what she most wanted to do was hide.

“Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with you…” What number was this now? Had she reached three hundred yet? She could count but her tallies never matched Sister Carina’s and even if she knew she was right and the nun wrong, what restitution could she appeal to? Her mind drifted to the only other person in her life these days: Don Roberto Coelho.

Her husband.

Except he wasn’t. she’d accepted his proposal once – what had she been thinking? – but they’d not wed. She knew that, he knew that and both her maid and Sister Carina knew that. But to the rest of the world, she was Dona Adriana, the mistress of the hacienda, a lady of great piety and wealth who had chosen to live in this extreme fashion to demonstrate her dedication to both her husband and her faith.

A faith that, until a couple of months ago, she’d only ever paid lip service to.

Don Roberto. Don Roberto. Don Roberto and Dona Adriana.

The man was an enigma to her.

She hated him of course. She hated him virulently and with a passion. For kidnapping her and turning her into… this. This thing, this object, this perverted fantasy of piety and sexual appeal, sort of uber-Catholic Barbie doll.

Yet at the same time, hate wasn’t all that she felt. When they were together – which was frequently, he would hold her close. He was gentlemanly and considerate and, although it was clear that she excited him sexually, he was always proper. If his hand brushed ever brushed one of her obscenely gargantuan tits, he would apologise profusely and blush. He was gentle and considerate and spoke happily of the days when they dated and his hopes for a married future and the children they would have.

“So why don’t you just rape me here and now since you’ve made it impossible for me to resist you!” she screamed at him one day. He had looked back at her sadly, wiped her tears and hugged her warmly. “That would be wrong, my dearest. To do that to a woman who is not my wife and a religious woman at that!” And with those words, she felt almost guilty for her outburst.

“Why have you turned me into this freak you evil piece of shit!” she had yelled at him one day. His response had been equally caring and his words merely, “I did it because I thought it best for you. To bring you closer to Christ.”

And at the time she almost believed him.

Countless times he had said that, if she ever did decide to reaffirm her assent to their nuptials (in his mind, her leaving him was due to some temporary loss of sanity), then he would get Father Rodriguez to marry them in the hacienda chapel and she could enjoy the full rights of a married woman. And many’s the time, she had to admit that it tempted her. After all, she was living as his wife as it was, without any of the benefits. He controlled every aspect of her existence and yet she had no sexual release, no chance of begetting children and no authority within the hacienda. Surely, if she relented, life would be considerably better. She’d even asked him about what she could expect if she did relent and he’d hinted that her spiritual regime under Sister Carina could be eased and children could be thought of, let alone the prospect of some sexual release and some unspecified changes to her pussy which he described as “currently suitable for a chaste maiden but not appropriate for a married woman”. What on earth was that meant to mean?

And surely whatever it meant would constitute an improvement?

But no! No, she could not! Saying she would marry him would mean defeat. It would mean no going back! It would mean submitting to his evil designs.

Even so, the ache for release was there, constantly, more and more and, since he was the only man she ever saw, her sexual fantasies increasingly focussed on Don Roberto Coelho. She needed some distraction from them, to turn her mind to something else. She concentrated on her prayers trying to force his face from her mind. “Blessed are thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus…”

Yet still his face remained.


Hacienda Coelho, Bom Jesus da Lapa, Brazil, Friday 6th December 2019

Don Roberto Coelho sat in his smoking room with his guest for the weekend. Eduardo Silva had just arrived in his chopper from Rio and was relaxing after the long journey. Both men were watching a large screen which was showing a live feed of Adriana’s bedroom whilst two prostitutes from the local town were sucking away on their cocks.

“Amazing what you have done to her. Can hardly believe it’s the same girl,” said Silva. Adriana had once been the au pair to his children. Indeed, it was he who had first spotted her and suggested to Coelho that he might have found a suitable fiancée for him. He’d long known how his friend had a penchant for bubble butts and this girl had one to die for. Even so, what had happened to her since at the clinic had taken her to another level.

“I know. That place is good. Expensive but good. Doctor Carlos is a genius.”

“I know. What he did to that mistress I have installed in my Sao Paulo apartment is something incredible. Even so, I think that this vision of yours for Adriana is beyond anything I have ordered. It is so perverted, a parody of both piety and her grown-up sensuality. How did you think of it?”

“I didn’t. I got the idea from some stories I read on the internet. Guy called Cafterhomme and another called Dave Potter wrote them. Two sick puppies but very imaginative.”

“Didn’t the latter one write some corset-related stuff a while back? Tiny waists, armbinders, that kind of thing.”

“That’s him. Read his latest stuff. He gets sicker with age whilst the Cafter guy just started off deranged.”

“Nice. I’ll look them up. So, what’s happening now?”

As they watched a figure in a grey habit was positioning Adriana on the bed, her enormous butt sticking into the air whilst her tits were squashed beneath her. Her two booted feet were chained to the bottom bedposts, so her legs were spread.

“She’s preparing her for her weekly punishment. She’s racked up six sins this week, which is less than usual, but there’ll be six wonderful wallops on that beautiful big butt of hers.”

“And who is the nun?”

“Oh, she’s not a real nun. Carlos recommended her. She used to be a nurse in the clinic. Real sick puppy; gets off on it all. Bi-sexual. She keeps a bitch in her room for her to play with but that doesn’t stop her getting horny on my wife. Plays the nun role well. She’s Adriana’s spiritual companion. Has instituted a strict piety regime which my darling wife-to-be is struggling with.”

“Any movement on that front? The marriage I mean?”

“Any day now. She’s already made several enquiries about what concessions I’ll give if she agrees. She wants Carina gone and she’s desperate to be fucked.”

“I don’t doubt it. When I saw the cocktail of aphrodisiacs, you’re keeping her on, I’m surprised that she’s lasted this long. Will you get rid of Carina?”

“Yeah. She’s expensive and it’s getting a bit boring now. The clinic already have another assignment for her. A teenage daughter of a Colombian drugs baron. She likes young flesh and has hinted she wants to leave. I reminded her of her task and that’s why she’s ratcheted up the regime. Adriana is about to crack. Yesterday I let it slip that, when she relents, her new pussy arrangement will allow her to feel clitoral pleasure again.”

“You’ve got her on some strict chastity thing now, right?”

“No feeling whatsoever. She’ll find it a contrast after our wedding.”


“I’ll show you the diagrams later. I’ve already commissioned the pieces. You’ll love it!”

“Question is, will she?”

The two men laughed and took a sip from their brandies. Sister Carina was now reciting Adriana’s sins and the first blow came down on her left cheek, causing that irresistible mass of tanned flesh to quiver and wobble seductively.


“Repent, then, and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped out, that times of refreshing may come from the Lord,” they heard the restrained girl intone like a mantra.

“Tell me about the head, angled up like that. What’s the thinking? I mean, it looks great, but she’d struggle to do what these two little beauties are doing at the moment.” He motioned down at the girl working silently on his cock and stroked her hair which caused her to quicken slightly.


“Repent, then, and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped out, that times of refreshing may come from the Lord.”

“True, although she can still service me lying down, either on her front or back, if I stand at the foot of the bed. And she will. Frequently. However, it can be altered. There’s a button beneath her collar bone which allows me to adjust the angle. She knows this and it frustrates her that I never do it. She’s pleaded for it numerous times – after all, it must be awfully dull staring at the ceiling continually – but I’ve told her that I will not distract her from her heavenly goal. That’s the rationale you see: she is gazing towards her natural home, heaven.”


“Repent, then, and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped out, that times of refreshing may come from the Lord.”

“Nice. So, you press this button and you can adjust her to look straight ahead?”

“Yup, or even down at those two babies on her chest. I’m thinking about developing some sort of spiritual exercise where she contemplates her tits for hours to heighten her… oh, I don’t know what, I have to think of it. Maybe when she’s trying for a baby or something. She hates them you see, is really conscious of them, so being forced to look at them all day might be good for her.”

“And you. I can’t keep my eyes of them!”


“Repent, then, and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped out, that times of refreshing may come from the Lord.”

“Delightful puppies, aren’t they? No, the neck angling is a carrot I’m dangling in front of her. She fulfils favours for me, sexual most likely, and I let her have her neck positioned normal for an hour or two. It’ll keep her eager.”

“I bet it will.”


“Repent, then, and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped out, that times of refreshing may come from the Lord.”

“My God, Roberto, this is a great show.”

“Last one coming up now.”

“I know and I’m about to cum!”


“Repent, then, and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped out, that times of refreshing may come from the Lord.”

He grabbed the hair of the girl at his feet, wrenched her away from his cock, and exploded all over her face. She sat there looking up at him, milky white crème dripping from her cheeks.

“My God, that was good! That was bloody good!”

“Welcome to Hacienda Coelho!” laughed his host as he erupted within the other girl’s throat.

Hacienda Coelho, Bom Jesus da Lapa, Brazil, Sunday 8th December 2019

Sunday dinner at the hacienda. Adriana sits across from her “husband” at the large table in the dining room. To her left sits her former employer, Eduardo Silva, friend of Don Roberto and the man who introduced them to one another. He has come to stay for the weekend and believes them to be happily married. He expressed some concern when he saw what had been done to her, but believed what he had been told, that after resigning from her position looking after his children, she has “found God” in a big way and decided to dedicate herself to Christ in this very physical fashion. Silva is shocked, but not as shocked as she thought he would be. “You are not the first whom I have met who has chosen such a course in life. Indeed, a friend of mine in Bogota has a wife who has committed herself to the same path. I suppose it must be hard at times, but you have the double assurance of knowing that you have a husband who loves you dearly and you are pleasing your creator.”

Indeed, it was hard. At that particular moment, perhaps the hardest thing of all was the fact that she could neither see nor speak to her former employer. Instead she was staring at the ceiling in the centre of which two ceiling fans whirred lazily whilst a gag embroidered with ‘Seek thee first the kingdom of God’ was filling her mouth.

As always, she is a passive participant. She is not even eating the meal since her maid fed her earlier, spooning the few mouthfuls that her compressed stomach can cope with into her prior to her coming down for the communal meal. Consigned to be an observer only (well, an observer who is not even allowed to observe…) she lets her mind wander. Hearing Silva’s voice reminds her of when she was a member of his household. Most of the children that she looked after were rather spoilt, little rich brats who treated her disrespectfully and would grow up to be obnoxious adults. But his two daughters were different. They were deferential and polite, kind and intelligent. The eldest, Maria, had been sixteen and was slowly blossoming into a beautiful woman whilst Catalina, twelve, was a bright-eyed, cute kid. They were happy times and Adriana wishes she was still there. The warm tones of Silva’s voice cause the memories to flow through her veins and a warm feeling wells up in her heart. Oh, that she were to have children of her own! To feel a new life growing inside her belly, to gaze upon her offspring, hold them and sing lullabies to them. Yes, with children even this, all of this that had been done to her body, would become bearable.

But there is only one way for her to become a mother now. The alternative is to stay childless and dominated by Sister Carina for the rest of her life.

But to achieve her goal, she must first swallow her pride.

Without even realising what she is doing, she finds her foot tapping on the floor.

“What is it, dear?” asks Don Roberto, looking up from his meal. “Do you wish to ask me something?”

She taps her foot once on the floor, their prearranged code for ‘yes’.

“Here in public?”

Two taps.


One tap.

Eduardo Silva looks up at his friend and smiles. He dabs his mouth with his napkin and then announces, “If you’ll excuse me Roberto and Adriana, but I must use the facilities.”

He gets up and leaves, the servant following him out and closing the door behind them. Then Don Roberto gets up, walks over to Adriana and removes the gag from her mouth. He stands over her upturned face so that she can see him. She flexes her jaw and then says squeakily, “I am willing to marry you, Roberto.”

His face dissolves into tears of joy and he hugs her tightly.

Part 3

La Maison des Poupees: Part 3

Part 2

Chapter 11

Deportment lessons turned out to be held in the large ballroom of the mansion, supervised by the frightful Headmistress herself. There were only five students in the class, and so everyone got a lot of individual attention.
“Deportment,” Mme. Dorozhkina announced, “is the most important of the arts that you shall learn at La Maison des Poupees. And, sadly in your case, Justine, it looks like we shall have to start from scratch. Your posture is abysmal!” She then picked up a heavy book and placed it on the girl’s head. Walk around the room five times with that on your head. Every time that it falls off, pick it up.”
‘That sounds simple,’ thought Arabella.
Once she set off however, she found her estimation to be way off the mark. Not only was the book not wanting to stay on her head, but every time it did fall off, she had a devil of a time trying to pick it up again, since bending in the extremely restrictive corset was not only painful but nigh on impossible. Once when she bent down she slipped on the polished floor and found that with her high heels and restrictive clothing, getting back up again was even harder than bending down. Several times she tried to do so alone, and failed, and eventually she had to allow Mme. Dorozhkina to ring for a maid to put her on her feet once more. For a while, (whilst the Headmistress was tending to the needs of the other students who were practicing curtsies), Arabella got round the problem by holding her hands up, near her head, ready to catch the book as it fell, but when Mme. Dorozhkina noticed her new tactic, she was far from impressed by the young girl’s ingenuity.
“A lady cannot walk around with her hands in the air!” she stormed. “Her hands, should be demurely by her sides or clasped in front of her!” And at that, she grabbed Arabella’s gloved arms and pushed them behind her back, tying them together with a piece of ribbon. Now Arabella couldn’t bring her hands up near her head at all, and every time that the book fell she had to wait patiently for her teacher to come over and place it on her head once more. Consequently, the simple task of walking the room’s perimeter five times, took over two and a half hours.
Gradually however, she did improve. Whereas on the first circuit of the ballroom, the book had fallen every three or four steps, towards the end she even managed to walk on entire side without the hard back crashing to the floor. Mme. Dorozhkina however, was far from satisfied.
“Such unladylike posture, you really are quite dreadful, Justine. And the size of the steps that you are taking too, they are huge! A lady should always use tiny mincing steps, not stride like a giraffe. Hmm, we shall soon fix that though, I shall make sure that you are wearing a more suitable underskirt and boots for tomorrow’s lesson. In the meantime, we must concentrate on some of the other basics, such as sitting.”
Thus followed another hour or so of the Headmistress instructing Arabella on how to do something that she had been doing since the day she was born. Except that apparently, all this time, she had been doing it wrong.
“No, no! Bend at the knees, not the waist, and keep your back upright and straight,” complained Mme. Dorozhkina. “You must sit gracefully, young lady, gracefully I said, not like a hippopotamus!”
Arabella was not sure quite how hippopotami sat down, but she was sure that it wasn’t what her teacher wanted, so reluctantly she raised herself and tried again to look graceful: keep her back straight, bend only at the knee and control her voluminous skirts, which were always getting in the way. On top of all this, her feet were now beginning to really hurt due to the amount of time that she spent on them and in the excruciating boots, and the pangs of hunger, plus the pain from the corset restriction were as strong as ever. The other girls had left long ago and now Arabella was completely at the mercy of her harsh taskmaster, who was meticulous in making sure that every detail of her posture and movement was perfect.
After what seemed like an age however, Mme. Dorozhkina eventually announced. “Well, it’s not good, but it is an improvement. You may go now Justine, tomorrow we shall work further upon all that we have covered today. Your new boots and underskirt should help matters. You may depart!”
The weary Arabella got up, curtsied extremely clumsily, and minced back to her room with only the prospect of a paltry bowl of Sdorovoe Pitanye to look forward to. As she slowly made her way through the innumerable corridors of la Maison des Poupees, she continually stumbled, missed her footings and bumped into the walls. For behind the happy, smiling face of a flawless china doll lay a tired, dispirited and wretched young girl with sweat and tears rolling down her pretty cheeks.

Chapter 12

Arabella sat down to eat her meager dinner a shattered and hungry young girl. The gruelling deportment lessons had taken out of her the little bit of energy that she had left, and she was dreading what the rest of the day would hold.
Whatever that was, she was about to find out; as soon as she had finished her meal, Svetilina handed her a letter addressed in Mme. Dorozhkina’s flowery hand. Apprehensively, she unsealed the envelope, took out the paper and read what her Headmistress had to say:

After dinner your time is your own in La Maison des Poupees, free to spend at your leisure. The pupils here choose to do that in a variety of ways, some practicing the piano, some staying in their rooms, and some listening to the nightly story-telling session held by one of our teachers in the main drawing room. Other options include strolling around the grounds or dance practice. Just a final note, whatever you choose to do, your full attire is not to be removed until bedtime, which is nine o’clock.
Mme. Dorozhkina

‘Well that’s not so bad,’ thought Arabella, who was expecting more torment from the Headmistress. Not bad at all, free time in fact.
But how to spend it? She did not fancy more dance practice, that was for sure, and as for a stroll in the grounds, well her feet hurt enough as it was. Normally she loved walking, spending hours strolling through the jungle with her father whilst on hunting trips in the Raj, but now? Walking anywhere in the heavy restrictive clothes turned the joy into a torment; no, she would not go for a walk. The thought of staying in her room was tempting, but what could she do still coddled up in her restrictive attire? Write a letter? To whom? The only people that she cared for were dead. No she needed to get out and do something, so she wearily picked herself up and minced along the corridors to the main drawing room, where the story-telling session was about to begin.
The session was held by a Monsieur Jospin, who Arabella later found out was a Math master. He did not have the loudest nor the most eloquent story-telling voice, but the pleasure-starved Arabella Hetherington cared not, and nor did most of the other students, judging by the number in attendance (over thirty, which constituted well over half of the school’s two classes). Gratefully, she sat down, (bolt upright due to her corset), on a mahogany chair and let the words of the story envelope her. Monsieur Jospin was reading the Arabian Nights in French – though Arabella could understand enough to get a general gist of what was happening (she’d lied before when she’d told Mme. Dorozhkina that she was ignorant of the Gallic tongue, she’d actually studied it for two years with her tutor in Mumbai).
Away she drifted into a world of fantasy, mosques and Oriental palaces; a world akin to where she had once lived and a world a universe away from her present mournful existence. Oh, how she envied even the life-threatened Scheherazade and how she wished to come across a magic lamp that would grant her three wishes. She knew what she would ask for too, firstly to be in India, secondly to dress Mme. Dorozhkina up as a Justine doll and thirdly, to get her parents back.
But it was not to be, and bedtime came, oh, too quickly. Wearily, she trudged up the stairs and into her room, hoping just to sink into her bed and be enveloped by sleep.

Chapter 13

The shock that Arabella experienced when she opened her bedroom door after the story-telling session was quite immense, and not of the pleasant variety. What she had expected to find in her room was Svetilina, ready with her night corset and the lacing bar. Instead, however, her maid had been joined by the Headmistress and the other unnamed servant whom had helped truss her up in the school uniform that morning. Understandably, she feared the worst.
“Justine,” Mme. Dorozhkina announced as she stepped through the doorway. “I trust you enjoyed the story session?”
Arabella nodded uneasily.
“Good, now if you don’t mind, please go and undress in the bathroom and let Svetilina wash you. We have many preparations to undergo to make you ready for bed, and it is eight already. Quickly girl!”
Arabella curtsied and obligingly minced into the bathroom, followed by Svetilina who removed her mask, undressed and unlaced her slowly, and then soaped her and shampooed her hair. Having everything done for her was a nice luxury that Arabella usually enjoyed, though today she did not appreciate it. The presence of the extra maid worried her immensely, as it probably meant that some heavy-duty lacing was involved. What’s more, Mme. Dorozhkina had mentioned some ‘preparations’, and that did not sound good. Particularly as the Headmistress sounded worried about completing them before nine.
All too quickly, the maid finished, and was gesturing for Arabella to step out of the bath. The girl did this grudgingly; she certainly didn’t want to re-enter her room with the Headmistress there again, but by now, her spirit was quite subdued.
The maid toweled her dry efficiently, then covered her with talcum powder and slipped a shift over her torso. Arabella breathed deeply for a minute or two, relishing the fact that she could now use her lungs as God had intended once again. She was sure that very soon she would not be able to.
To her surprise, when she entered the bedroom, instead of commanding her to the dreaded lacing bar, Mme. Dorozhkina instead said, “Please lie on your bed, Justine.”
Bemused, the girl did as she was commanded and then watched as the unnamed maid approached with a pair of fearsome-looking boots.
“What are those for, Mme?” asked the confused young lady, who could not see why she was expected to wear boots in bed.
“Justine, just as the pressure on your waist needs to be kept up at all times in order to ensure that it reaches the desired shape and size, well the same is true with your feet. A young lady must have dainty, tiny feet that are a pleasure to behold.
“Your feet however are far from dainty and tiny, and thus these training boots are required. Now, let’s fit them!”
Arabella looked uneasily at the boots that the unnamed maid was pulling onto her legs. They reached right up over her knees and had strong-looking lacing all the way up. Even unlaced and without the weight being put onto her feet, they were quite uncomfortable, forcing her feet into an en-pointe position like a ballerina’s. What worried her more, however, was the fact that the boots did not have heels and, instead, ended in two little points. How was she expected to walk in them? Surely she could never balance?! She voiced her fears to the Headmistress.
“You are quite right that walking in these boots is an impossibility, Justine,” replied Mme. Dorozhkina, ‘but what I wish to know is why would you want to walk in them? You are being prepared for bed, and we go to bed to sleep, not to wander around the corridors unsupervised. Of course you cannot walk in them, you do not need to walk!”
Arabella was still worried, how could she go to the toilet for example, or go to the window to catch some fresh air on a hot day. Still she knew that such complaints would fall on deaf ears, so instead she wisely stayed quiet.
Mme. Dorozhkina supervised as Svetilina and the other Russian maid each laced one of Arabella’s new training boots. With each tug of the laces the girl could feel the boots get tighter and her feet getting pushed down further into the tiny pointed toes. The pain was excruciating, and tears welled in her eyes but onwards they pulled until by the time that the laces had been tied off both of her legs were unbendable and virtually numb from the thigh down.
“Very good,” commented Mme. Dorozhkina when they had finished, “and now your face. Sit up, Justine!” Although her legs were now rigid, her waist was not and the pupil sat up with ease. Svetilina approached her charge with some white cream which she started smearing all over the girl’s face.
“Your time in the British Indian Empire has not been beneficial to your complexion,” explained Mme. Dorozhkina. “A young lady must have porcelain white skin that is soft and healthy. Your mask and the Russian climate should ensure the whiteness, this cream ensures the softness and that your skin receives the nutrients that it need.”
Arabella didn’t doubt that what the Headmistress had said was true. In fact she had been shocked by how brown her skin was compared to her fellows when she had arrived in England, but she was not sure that she wanted this cream rubbed into every crack and crevice. It felt greasy and slimy and what’s more had a rather unpleasant smell.
What came next, however, filled her with more horror. As Svetilina was rubbing the cream into her face, the other maid had disappeared and then reappeared with a fearsome-looking hood that she proceeded to fit over the young lady’s head. It covered her completely from the crown to her shoulders with only four small holes, for her eyes, nose and mouth.
Consequently, her hearing was severely impaired and she had to listen hard to what her Headmistress was saying.
“This hood will ensure that the cream penetrates your skin and that your skin stays tight and your head erect,” explained Mme. Dorozhkina. It certainly did that all right, in a none too pleasant way, as Arabella soon found out that it was laced all the way, and the neck was deliberately elongated. The silent maid pulled hard on the hood laces until the Headmistress nodded her approval. By that time Arabella was gasping for breath due to the long thin neck of the hood and her vision was blurred by the tears that she shed. The pressure was immense and when she saw Mme. Dorozhkina motioning for her to come to the lacing bar, she knew that it would only get worse.
Gingerly, Arabella transferred her weight from her posterior to her feet. The pressure and pain upon her compressed toes was unbelievable, and she cried out in agony. Mme. Dorozhkina did not, however, take any notice of the muffled cry and, instead, the two maids supported her from each side and led her over to the bar. With each step, the pressure on her poor feet grew, but there was nothing she could do about it, and after what seemed like an age, she was grateful to put her wrists in the straps and be raised upwards. The night corset was fitted and, although it was far shorter and a little less tight than her day one, coupled with her other night attire, it was almost more than she could take, and at the end of the lacing she was on the verge of passing out.
Upon the tying of the knots, she hobbled painfully back the bed and was lain down by Svetilina. ‘Well at least that’s it now,’ she thought, ‘now at last I can try and get some sleep.’
But she had underestimated La Maison des Poupees. “One final item,” declared the Headmistress, “to help cure your stoop.”
And at that the burly maid grabbed both her arms and pinioned them behind her back. Then Svetilina took what looked like a large glove and worked it over both her arms.
“This is a mono-glove, Justine,” explained Mme. Dorozhkina. “In it, your arms are as one and her shoulders forced back into a more beneficial position.” The glove covered her arms all the way past her elbows. Her two arms truly became as one, the palms of her hands pressed closely together so that her fingers were unbendable. Svetilina laced the gloved tightly.
It was, unlike the other devices, not particularly uncomfortable, but the problem was that she normally slept on her back. With the mono-glove on, that was an impossibility. Finally the other maid fitted the doll-mask back over Arabella’s face and a night cap over her head, (“The hood looks so ungraceful,” Mme. Dorozhkina had explained), and then at long last they left.
The tired Arabella lay their, trussed up like a chicken and hardly able to breath, desperate for sleep. But for many hours none came, and her rest was not a pleasant one. When at last she did drift away to the land of dreams, the images that entered her head were strange ones indeed.
There she was, a princess in one of Scheherazade’s stories, captured by an evil Arab sultan, (who lived in a palace that she’d once visited in Bombay), and who tortured her by putting her feet in a vice and letting a large python wrap itself around her waist…

Chapter 14

The days, weeks and months passed slowly at La Maison des Poupees, and Arabella’s life assumed a sort-of regular normality. Every morning she was woken up, (if she was not already awake), by Svetilina, bathed, and then corseted and dressed. Her attire changed little – daily the tight corset and large crinoline were fitted around her, and then the blue pin-stripe dress. The only major differences were that her corset kept getting tighter and her boots and underskirts progressively more uncomfortable. Mme. Dorozhkina had decided after her mediocre performances in the deportment lessons, that more restrictive footwear was required to cure her ‘long steps’ and ungainly walk. Consequently, new boots had arrived that reached up over her knees and had four-inch heels. Not only did these reduce her step even more, but they made bending at the knee far more difficult, which gave the girl an erect gait. On top of that, there was also a new leather underskirt that was extremely tight around her thighs indeed and only permitted steps of three or four inches.
The sadistic Headmistress had not stopped there either. “You stoop too much, Justine,” she had complained, “we must rectify that!”
And the following day, she had done just so, with a specially shaped metal bar that ran under the girl’s corset and up the
back of her neck to the posture collar onto which it was fastened. “This is known as a ‘joug’, Justine,” Mme. Dorozhkina explained. “It is probably Scotland’s only worthwhile contribution to the civilised world and it will work, together with your posture collar, in making sure that you keep your head perfectly erect as a young lady should do.” She was not wrong there, Arabella could now no longer move her head up and down at all. In fact, from her neck down she was more or less completely trussed up and restrained, with extremely little movement permitted at all.
And that is how she spent her days. An anonymous Justine doll, just like all the other students.
She got up each morning, dressed and ate, and then it was lessons all day: Mathematics, Literature, Calligraphy, Theology, Fashion, French, Dance, Deportment, and Singing.
Yes, Singing.
Singing was Arabella’s favourite lesson; in fact, it was almost her reason for living. For in singing alone she could be herself, Arabella Hetherington. The lessons were held in a small room in the mansion’s East Wing, and they were conducted on a one to one basis. The reason for that was simple: the girls could hardly be expected to sing well with their silencing masks covering their faces. Yet if they were all to see who each other were, and to talk freely amongst themselves, then the whole purpose of the masks would be destroyed and indeed La Maison des Poupees’ entire educational philosophy undermined.
Thus it was that once a week, Arabella minced excitedly along the Maison’s long corridors to the doorway of the room of
Madame Kovalsky. Madame Kovalsky was a half-Russian, half-Jewish lady of undefined years. She had a powered face with strong features and was a powerful soprano who allegedly sung at the Bolshoi in her youth. Most of all however, unlike the other teachers at la Maison she was kind-hearted and gentle, and Arabella cherished their time together. As soon as she entered the door, the teacher removed the girl’s mask and presented her with a cup of sweet Russian tea. “My girl!” she would say in her heavily-accented English, (she refused to speak French with Justine, “an abysmal language my dear, too many ‘oohs’ and ‘arrs’ and not enough ‘h’s!), “and how are you dis week?”
And every week Arabella poured out her woes and the teacher would gather her In her arms, clucking. “Oh my dear, eet ees a terrible world, eh. My heart ees weeth you, Arabella.”
After that they would sing for a while, the classics of Europe, Latin songs of devotion to Christ and Maria, beautiful
melodies of far off lands and tragic tunes of thwarted romance, until Madame Kovalsky would gesture with her hands for Arabella to sit and then she would tell her a story, perhaps from her own life, or of some of the other students, even the girls that Arabella sat alongside everyday, yet never knew.
“Oh the stories dat I know, eee! So many different one’s you don’t believe. Deed I ever tell you about da time dere was a boy een da school, eh?”
“No Madame Kovalsky.”
“Well, eet was about tree years ago, or maybe five. Well, dis boy, he was a naughty boy for his mama you see, very bad. He was going out Into da town, painting on da walls, gambling his money, picking da fights wiz da ozer boys, yes, yes. And
also more terrible dan dis, he was taking the servant girls, and he was using dem against dere wills, yes, he was a terrible boy eendeed. And his mama, well what could she do? She knew not and everyday she would hold her hands in da air and cry, ‘God! Help me wiz my son!’
Den, one day a friend of her’s, she told dis mama about da House of da Dolls. ‘But eet ees for da girls!’ said dis mama, but her friend said, ‘behind da mask, who ees knowing?’ Well, dis poor woman was at da end of her wits so she went to da Miss Dorozhkina. At first dis Dorozhkina refuse, but da money was good and she ees da greedy woman, and so eventually she ees accept. And dis boy he came here and was dressed up like a Justine doll, eee, yes. Nobody know because of da mask you see, dat he ees a boy. But more dan dis she do, you know how ees da Miss Dorozhkina, eh? He ees a small boy and she ees feeding him da special diet and da special herbal teas. And what happens? Slowly he ees changing, yes, growing da breasts and da bottom of da woman. Eee! Een da end he cannot be da full man again, so dey marry him to da homosexual man, a German noble. Aye, I never did see a more beautiful bride at da wedding dan him, and only da husband and his mama ees know dat underneath da dress he ees still da man, eee!
How true such tales were, Arabella did not know. She had no doubt that they were probably exaggerated, but on the other hand she definitely believed that Mme. Dorozhkina could be so cruel as to try and change a boy into a girl against his will.
Besides, what did it matter if they were true or not? They were a break, time off from the daily drudge of learning by rote and coping with her increasingly narrow and restricted, (both physically and mentally), life.
And all this time her waist kept getting smaller and smaller. The starvation rations that she was on might not have been
helping keep her healthy and strong but they certainly contributed greatly to the progress of her rapidly disappearing
midrift. By now she was well under the twenty inch mark, her waist rapidly approaching sixteen inches and it was decreed that a new corset was to be ordered. Mme. Dorozhkina was pleased with this, and indeed it was about the only thing that she praised Arabella, (or ‘Justine’), for. But our heroine did not appreciate this praise or indeed the new and tighter corset that clenched her unyieldingly all day and night. She hated la Maison des Poupees and she detested the Headmistress with a passion. Every night she lay awake, unable to sleep from the corset restriction and pangs of hunger, angry that her arms were pinioned her and that her neck felt like a giraffe. In the early hours of the morning she cried countless tears over her lost childhood in the paradise of the Raj, her mother and father who were now in heaven and over the indignation of being forced to walk, dress and act like a doll for twenty-four hours each and every day. She knew that she was being moulded, moulded into a faceless, characterless example of feminine perfection with an alluring walk, a figure that would send men wild and without an opinion on any subject at all.
As Mme. Dorozhkina had said, she would become ‘no more than a pretty accessory to her husband,’ no longer a person in her own right. The anger, hate and despair welled up and boiled over inside her. But no one ever saw those tears and nobody ever witnessed the hate and anger. No, if anyone ever happened to enter her bedroom at all, all that they would see would be a happy, contented china doll, her eyes shut, her mouth fixed in a rosebud smile, dreaming away in a peaceful slumber.

Chapter 15

And then one day it happened. It was always going to happen, Arabella knew that, and doubtless Mme. Dorozhkina and
the other teachers knew it too. You cannot deprive someone of most of their energy, body movements and their power of speech and not expect them to get frustrated. It was only natural after all. Nonetheless, Arabella was surprised when it happened, as surprised as anyone else in the room, (and they too were surprised), even though she doesn’t remember doing it.
It was a French lesson and Arabella had been a pupil at la Maison des Poupees for, well she didn’t know exactly how long
for as she hadn’t been counting the days, but since Christmas had come and gone and the freezing Russian winter was
gradually abating, she imagined for well, about eight months. That day they’d been set some extremely hard perfect tense compositions to do and Arabella, like most of the girls, simply could not work them out. That in itself was frustrating enough, but coupled with her ever-tight corset, pinching boots and the accursed mask which deprived her of the ability to explain to Madame Fontaine what exactly it was that she could not work out, it seemed like her head was pounding at the seams.

“Girls, girls!” exclaimed Madame Fontaine in her Parisian French, “What is the matter with you all today! I teach you
and I explain it all to you, and when I come round to see your work it is a disgrace, an insult to this beautiful tongue!” She stopped and gazed around at the glass. A row of dolls smiled back at her and the strained breathing of the corset-clad girls was all that could be heard.
“Justine twenty-four,” called out the French mistress. “Come to the front and show me your composition. ‘Justine twenty-four’.
In French lessons Arabella was number twenty-four. In other classes she was alternately thirteen, four, nineteen, eight and twenty. Wearily she rose, took hold of her jotter and walked to the front. The French teacher grabbed the composition off her and viewed it.
“Non! Non! Non!” she explained, “This is even worse than before, how stupid are you Justine?”
It was the ‘Non! Non! Non!’ that did it. Arabella had never been an admirer of the French tongue at the best of times and at that present moment she detested it with a passion. Something in her mind snapped.
Neither Madame Fontaine nor the pupils could believe their eyes. Justine Twenty-Four, instead of bowing an apology to the French mistress as was the norm, instead lifted up her gloved arms and ripped the golden wig from her head, and threw it to the floor, revealing a boyish head of chestnut hair. She then grabbed the mask and tried to untie it at the back of her head. Unable to do so with the over tight gloves she then brought her face crashing towards the desk, shattering the pottery doll mask into a thousand pieces, once of which she took up and slashed at her fine gloves with until they were in shreds.
Behind the remains of the mask, a bloody, tear-strewn face of a haggard and starving girl of fourteen was revealed, with fiery blue eyes. “I am not Justine, I am Arabella!” the former doll exclaimed in English, before continuing with, “And may God Almighty damn you into hell!” And at that she picked up her skirts and ran out of the room as fast as
she could, slamming the door behind her.
Justine did not get far, the tight underskirt and high heels limited her steps severely and the corset impaired her breathing. At the top of the stairs she lost her footing tumbled downwards and passed out instantly. To this day she never remembers doing what I have just told, although it was undoubtedly true, and indeed soon became a legend of la Maison, retold countless times over by Madame Kovalsky.
No, all that she remembers is waking up in bed with the angry face of Mme. Dorozhkina looming over her.
And the words, “You are in big trouble, Justine.”

Part 4

La Maison des Poupees: Part 2

Part 1

Chapter 6

Arabella did not sleep well that night. In fact, she hardly slept at all. Although put to bed at around nine, she did not drop off for a very long time. The corset irritated her so, her gag caused her lips to grow dry, annoying her further, and on top of that, her bound wrists got on her nerves. Eventually, around two o’ clock, she finally fell into a restless slumber, punctuated by horrible nightmares, and when she awoke in the morning, she discovered that it was only half past five. The discomfort caused by her corset prevented her from drifting off into the Land of Nod once more, and so instead, the poor girl lay awake, looking at the ceiling above her, until the solemn Svetilina came in around half past seven and ran her bath. Then the maid came and made sure that she was fully awake and attended to her charge’s needs; removing her corset, gag and handcuffs and then uttering a single word, “Banya”, whilst pointing towards the bathroom. Arabella gratefully left her bedroom, removed her shift and sunk into the steamy water.
Around quarter of an hour later, Svetilina entered the room and motioned for Arabella to remove herself from the bath. The young girl reluctantly did so and then the maid rubbed her dry like her nurse had used to do during her years in India, slipping a shift over her head. She then returned to the bedroom and motioned for Arabella to follow. When she did, Arabella was surprised to discover that Svetilina had been joined in the bedroom by another maid and also Mme. Dorozhkina.
“Good morning, Justine, I trust that you slept well,” announced the Headmistress.
“I did not and my name is Arabella, not Justine,” the girl retorted.
Mme. Dorozhkina’s face instantly grew dark like thunder. “Never, ever backchat me, Justine, or else you shall pay for it.
One more word and your gag shall be replaced!”
Arabella certainly didn’t want the uncomfortable gag invading her mouth once again so she decided to keep quiet.
“Now, let’s get you prepared for your first day at la Maison des Poupees! To the lacing bar please!”
Arabella certainly didn’t want to be laced into a corset again, particularly one that promised to be more severe than her extremely uncomfortable night corset, but what choice did she have? Reluctantly, she stepped over to the bar and let Svetilina fasten the straps around her wrists. The other maid went to the handle on the wall and once more the bar rose until she was perched on tiptoes, her hands high in the sky above her. It was then that she caught a glimpse of her new foundation garment, a glimpse that filled her with horror.
The stays which she’d worn the previous night had been tight and uncomfortable, but they had looked not nearly so frightening as this new pair, which held their shape even without her person inside them. They were a pretty pink colour, covered in prints of meadow flowers, but no amount of daisies and bluebells could make them look pleasant. Firstly, the length was twice that at least of her night corset, it would surely encase her from her armpits to just above her knees. And then there was the boning which caused the rigid shape. Arabella shuddered as Svetilina put the garment around her body and started to fasten up the clasps at the front. Already she felt confined, and the lacing hadn’t even begun! And then there was the weight: this new corset was so heavy it was unbelievable. Svetilina was now checking that it sat correctly on her body, busy pushing her charge’s flesh in certain directions and ensuring that her bottom and budding breasts were sat where they should be.
“This is your new training corset,” said Mme. Dorozhkina proudly. The Headmistress was supervising the whole process. “It will bring your waist down to forty-five centimetres, that’s around eighteen inches, when fully closed. It will not be easy to wear, but it is necessary.” She then rapped out a command to the other maid, who came over to Arabella and fastened the corset’s two shoulder straps, an action that forced the girl’s shoulders back and her tiny breasts forward into the corset busk.
“The straps help correct defects in posture,” the Headmistress explained to Arabella.
Then Svetilina commenced the lacing. She started at the bottom and slowly worked her way up. Arabella felt her legs being pinned cruelly together and a strange sensation previously unknown to her in her crotch area. Then it was the hips and the waist; Svetilina hauled with all her might and Arabella felt the air being knocked out of her. Her waist was getting visibly smaller and she felt like she was being cut in two. The young girl tried to breathe but found, to her alarm, that she could not.
Mme. Dorozhkina obviously saw the look of panic in her eyes. “Don’t worry, you won’t die. Try not to breathe, please,” was all that she said. Svetilina continued pulling away and Arabella felt the corset get tighter and tighter. Her face was bright red now and she was feeling a little dizzy, yet still the maid pulled away, although she, too, was obviously feeling the strain, beads of sweat now rolling down her cheeks.
Arabella felt her head getting lighter, and she was sure that she was about to pass out when Svetilina stopped and tied off the laces. Mme. Dorozhkina took out her tape measure.
“Fifty-one centimetres, not bad.” She then barked an order at the other maid, who then took hold of the shoulder straps and tightened them mercilessly, forcing Arabella’s body back. The pain was unbelievable, and she screamed out loud. Her shoulders felt like they were on fire!
“We’ll have none of that!” said Mme. Dorozhkina, and the Headmistress took the gag and placed it in Arabella’s mouth. Her screams were now mere grunts. “When I say silence, I mean it!”
The corset secured, it was now time to dress. The unnamed maid ran some very tight white silk stockings up Arabella’s legs and fastened them using even tighter garters. Svetilina, however, approached her charge with a rather strange white object which she then placed around Arabella’s neck.
“This is a posture collar,” explained Mme. Dorozhkina. “It makes sure that you hold your head upright as a young lady should.”
‘Collar’ however was not an appropriate word for the device, thought Arabella as Svetilina began to tighten it with laces at the back. ‘Neck corset’ would be a far more apt description! It certainly was like a tiny corset, with boning and it held her head high and proud whilst compressing her neck into a perfect white tube, about six centimetres in diameter. Arabella’s breathing, already slight due to the tight corset, grew even more ragged with this additional restriction.
Then the other maid took some pantalettes and an underskirt and made her step into them, before forcing the girl’s feet into a pair of tiny, ankle-high boots, with pointed toes and heels that must have been three inches high at least. She was sure that these shoes were too small for her, as her feet had to be levered into them using a shoehorn, but Mme.
Dorozhkina, as if reading her mind, simply said, “Small feet are an asset. Yours are too large and thus, like your waist, they must be trained.”
Once the uncomfortable boots were secured, Svetilina brought over the crinoline, a huge one with a diameter of at least five and a half feet. Arabella had never worn a crinoline before and she was unsure that she would be able to manage one, particularly such a vast one as this, but again, she had literally no say in the matter, and so meekly stepped into the steel cage and let Svetilina secure it around her now tiny waist. Then came the petticoats, three in total, plus a corset cover and blouse and finally the dress, the uniform of La Maison des Poupees, a billowing creation of blue and white pinstripe.
The ensemble complete, Arabella was let down from the bar, her wrists freed and her gag removed with a stern warning from Mme. Dorozhkina that should she misbehave, it would be straight back in her mouth.
As soon as her weight was transferred to back her feet once again, Arabella wished that she was once more hanging from the bar. The pain of wearing those tiny boots which prevented her feet from expanding to their natural size, was excruciating, and the additional tightness around her torso didn’t help either. Arabella, who had never worn high heels before, at first stumbled and had to hold on to Svetilina for support. Gradually, however, she steadied herself and managed to take a few steps across the room.
“Now Justine!” announced Mme. Dorozhkina. “It is time that you got a hair cut.”

Chapter 7

Not only did Arabella find the shoes difficult to walk in, but she also encountered problems with the balloon-like crinoline. All along the way to wherever it was that she was to have her hair cut, it kept getting in the way and knocking into things. It was so large that Arabella really had some difficulty in keeping track of where it all was, particularly at the rear and the sides. And despite the fact that (due to the shoes and the corset that she had been forced to wear) she now took footsteps that were much smaller than previously, her walk still generated a motion that caused the steel contraption to swing in a most irksome manner, which contributed to an ungainly appearance and the consistent bumping into walls and furniture.
“Justine, your steps are way too large, please try and walk with more grace and decorum!” commanded Mme. Dorozhkina.
But Arabella had never been trained to walk in a certain way before, how was she to do it?
The biggest problem, however, were the stairs. Her corset held her rigidly straight and her shoes disturbed her balance, but the high posture collar and wide crinoline meant that she could not look down at her feet to see where she was going. Consequently, she had no definite idea whatsoever as to where to place her feet. Gingerly, she held onto the banister and felt around for each new footing. On the third step down however, she guessed wrong, missed her footing and then tripped on the hem of her underskirt, causing her to tumble headfirst down the staircase. The shock, coupled with the unrelenting corset pressure, caused her to black out almost immediately. When she came to, with the assistance of some smelling salts, she found herself, rather ruffled and bruised, at the foot of the staircase, and she needed the assistance of Svetilina to stand on her feet once more. There were no words of sympathy from the Headmistress however.
“Really Justine, your deportment is atrocious; you move like a water buffalo!” She then added, “I really must fix up a tighter underskirt to cure those long strides.”
When they finally reached the room where she was to have her hair cut, Arabella was rather tired and out of breath. She was made to sit down, (something that proved very difficult due to the tight corset), on a large armchair situated in the centre of the room, facing a large mirror. Then, to her surprise, Svetilina and the other maid took her wrists and secured them to the arms of the chair using pre- affixed leather straps. Then the other maid went and fetched a large pair of scissors and proceeded to cut off all of her beautiful long chestnut hair. Arabella couldn’t believe it! Why chop off her hair? After all, short hair is not ladylike in the slightest. She looked questioningly at the Headmistress for an explanation, but none was forthcoming. Instead, Svetilina set to work on the remains of her hair with a razor blade, similar to the type that her father had used to use to shave his face! Within twenty minutes, Arabella Hetherington’s scalp was as bare as the proverbial boiled egg. What was the meaning of all this?
Mme. Dorozhkina seemed to read her worried eyes and she came over to the pupil. “Do you remember, Justine, my explanation for naming my establishment ‘The House of Dolls’?”
“Yes, Mme.” She replied quietly. “You said that it was called so because, in your opinion, a young lady should be like a doll.”
“Exactly, Justine, like a China Doll, a pretty accessory to her spouse. Well, that is what we are here to create, young dolls, and that Justine, is why we have just shaved all your beautiful locks off. You see, to ensure discipline, and to make certain that my young ladies turn out as I want them to turn out, the very first task is to destroy completely what they once were, before they became young ladies of distinction.” She paused, thought for a moment and then started once more. “Eliminate their individuality as it were, so that we have a clean sheet upon which to create a masterpiece, a perfect young lady. Most schools and establishments recognise this important fact to a certain extent at least. Why else do you think that armies, railway companies, schools and countless other organisations employ uniforms? To destroy the individuality of their members that’s why, and to mould them into their own image. However, here at La Maison des Poupees, we go one step further than most establishments. That is why we are the best.”
Arabella was getting scared as she didn’t like what she was hearing. Mme. Dorozhkina rapped out some command to Svetilina, who appeared into view carrying a pair of white kid leather gloves which had what looked like pieces of wood or metal inside them.
“A lady should always wear gloves to protect her skin and guarantee a good complexion,” said Mme. Dorozhkina. “What’s more, her gloves should always be as tight as possible.”
“Why, Mme?” asked Arabella.
“Why? A good question, and there are several answers to it. Firstly, many men like the idea of the gloves forming a second skin over the ladies hands and arms. It excites them for reasons that you need not know. However, that is not all. A lady with tight gloves cannot do so much with her hands, she cannot bend her fingers or elbows to any great degree and therefore she cannot work. She is in fact, in many ways, entirely helpless. This also pleases males, but more importantly, it is a sign of prestige. A lady who can afford not to work must be a lady of means, a lady of distinction. These gloves here have been created specifically for your hands following measurements given to us by your guardian. They are at present being stretched in what is known as a glove-stretcher. If they were not so stretched, them fitting them onto your hands would be quite impossible. Svetilina!”
Svetilina unlocked Arabella’s left hand and held it out. The other maid then carefully took the stretchers out of the glove and started to fit it onto Arabella’s hand. Even in its stretched state, fitting the glove was not easy, the maid pushed, pulled and kneaded it over Arabella’s fingers, palm, wrist, arm and elbow and spent a considerable time trying to iron out all the wrinkles. Eventually, however, after minutes of exertion, the fitting was declared complete, and the new glove truly was like a second skin covering her arm from the fingertips until just under the shoulder, squeezing all her flesh mercilessly.
To her surprise, Arabella now found that all her movements were extremely limited, she could hardly bend at her wrist, elbow or fingers, and her arm was held almost entirely rigid. The same procedure was then followed for the right arm and, when they were finished, the poor young girl felt like a wooden toy; virtually all her movements from the neck down were constricted in some way or another.
“And now finally your head!” announced Mme. Dorozhkina. Arabella’s eyes widened in horror as Svetilina brought a finely fashioned pot mask into view. It was the mask of a beautiful doll, with a porcelain white complexion, wide blue eyes and a tiny, smiling rosebud mouth.
“No!” she screamed, “Please don’t! Please! Noooo!!”
“The ultimate device of anonyminity!” declared the Headmistress. Svetilina covered Arabella’s face with the mask, which fitted rather tightly and curved round so that it covered the entire front half of her head, ending just over her ears. Built into it, behind the mouth, was a piece of rubber that fitted into her mouth and acted like a gag, preventing her from speaking, though not uncomfortable. Thankfully, Arabella found that she could breathe quite freely through the holes in the mask’s nostrils and she could also see clearly through the doll’s blue eyes, although her side vision was somewhat impaired.
Svetilina fastened the mask tightly behind Arabella’s head and then the other maid appeared with a beautiful wig of blonde hair done in ringlets, which was securely fixed onto her bare scalp. Entirely restricted, clad in a voluminous dress and with a picture perfect smiling face of a china doll, Arabella could not believe what they had done to her. She made no attempt to move and only sat and stared at the pretty, yet somewhat disturbing vision that was reflected in the mirror in front of her. Svetilina then pinned a badge with ‘JUSTINE’ emblazoned upon it, onto her dress.
“You see,” declared Mme. Dorozhkina, “you truly are Arabella Hetherington no longer, Justine has been born!” She paused.
“Welcome to La Maison des Poupees Justine. Now let’s make you a lady.”

Chapter 8

Arabella was led through the corridors to a large room, well-illuminated due to two large sash windows on the far side, and complete with a blackboard, desks, students and a teacher. It was a classroom.
However, just as La Maison des Poupees was no commonplace school, its classroom, too, was somewhat out of the ordinary as well. As Mme. Dorozhkina opened the door, Arabella could hardly believe her eyes. A classroom full of students she had encountered before, but never one where all the pupils were absolutely identical. There were about twenty in all, each
wearing a blue pin-stripe dress, each with flowing golden sausage curls and each with a pretty yet obviously artificial doll-like visage. What’s more, unlike most other schoolrooms that she’d set foot in, here absolute silence reigned supreme.
“Excusez moi, Madame Fontaine,” said Mme. Dorozhkina. “You have a new pupil joining your class today. This is Justine.”
She turned to the students. “Please welcome your new classmate.” At that all the girls silently rose, curtsied and then sat down once again. The only noise to be heard was the creaking of twenty obviously tight stays.
The vision disturbed Arabella immensely. ‘Everyone is different, everyone is an individual, surely!’ she thought. Yet here they all were, identical, just like the dolls that Mme. Dorzhkina wanted them to be. And she was the same! The only discernible differences between what was once twenty-one varied young people were a few inches in height and slightly different waist sizes, that was it! No, they really were like china dolls, each and every one, all looking completely artificial, for, with their masks, wigs, posture collars, gloves and uniforms – not an inch of genuine human flesh could be seen. But who were they all, what sort of people lay behind those masks? Arabella longed to find out.
“Justine cannot comprehend a word of Francais at present,” continued the Headmistress. “You will have to start from the beginning.”
“Oui Mme, j’ai compris.”
“Justine, this is Mme. Fontaine, your French mistress. Greet her, please.”
Arabella curtsied.
“Sit at ze back, zere, s’il vous plait,” returned the thin Frenchwoman. She pointed to an empty chair adjacent to one of the dolls. Arabella walked over and sat down. She nodded to the girl alongside her. The smiling china face nodded back.
Arabella glanced at her nametag; it read ‘JUSTINE’.
‘Strange’ she thought, and turned to the girl on her other side. Her nametag also read ‘JUSTINE’. It was then that she comprehended. All the girl’s names, like their clothing, hair and faces, were identical. Uniformity, anonyminity, moulding them into Mme. Dorozhkina’s ‘Ladies of Distinction’.
“Classe!” Madame Fontaine announced, “Copy, s’il vous plait. Je m’appelle parlez avec Pierre, s’il vous plait…’”

Chapter 9

The French Lesson passed slowly and painfully. Not only was it all over Arabella’s head, but her restrictive clothing, particularly the ever-tight corset and the mask which made her hot, constantly irritated her. Plus, there was the fact that she could not communicate with her teacher by any means other than raising her hand. The language was taught entirely on a written level, and most of the lesson consisted of Madame Fontaine writing something on the board, and the pupils copying it down in their copy books. Even writing, however, was difficult, due to her extremely tight gloves that made gripping the pencil a real chore. Her fingers could hardly bend at all, and the gloves, being made of silk, were slippery so even when she had the pencil between her fingers, keeping it there was not so easy. Once she managed to drop it on the floor and she had to put her hand up and wait for Madame Fontaine to come and pick it up, since in her corset, bending was an impossibility. This earned her a loud ‘Tut!’ from the French mistress too.
Next came Mathematics, another session of copying down what was written on the board, in absolute silence. However, now there was a new problem to deal with: Deep within the depths of her severely constricted stomach, an ache began. Arabella realised that she hadn’t eaten at all that day, or indeed before she had gone to bed the previous night; she was famished! The minutes kept slowly by and the following lesson of handwriting practice was even worse. She was not the only one too. Arabella noticed several of the other girls starting to move about uneasily in their chairs and rub their tiny waists.
Finally the bell rang and they were ordered to return to their rooms. At first this worried Arabella since she couldn’t remember how to get to her bedroom, but luckily the problem had been foreseen and Svetilina was there waiting for her.
She followed her maid along the passages and up the staircase, down which she’d tumbled earlier in the day, until they eventually reached the room. Despite the pangs of hunger however, Arabella was a little pleased with herself, as she was now walking far better than before, and her corset was feeling a little looser by this point. ‘I’ll keep quiet about that,’ she thought, sure that the sadistic Mme. Dorozhkina would tighten it up straightaway if she found out, but then she realised, what with her mask’s in-built silencer, she didn’t really have a lot of choice about keeping quiet anyway!
Upon entering the room, Svetilina motioned for her to sit down at a small table where her lunch awaited. The Russian maid then took off the mask, handed Arabella a spoon, and took the lid of the dish to reveal her fare for the day. What she saw did not look appetizing: a tiny bowl of brownie-grey porridge-like mush, complemented with a glass of water. Arabella pointed at it and asked, “What?”
Svetilina looked at the food and then at her charge. “Sdorovoe Pitanye” said she. Arabella later learnt that this meant simply ‘Healthy Food’ in Russian.
Appetizing it did not look, but Arabella was extremely hungry. She picked up the spoon, (with difficulty), and started shovelling the mush into her mouth. The taste was disgusting, like wood-shavings, and normally she wouldn’t have touched it. However, today was not a normal day, and offensive as the taste was, the rumblings of her stomach were more pressing. To her dismay however, after about six or seven spoonfulls, she discovered that there was no more left, she devoured the lot and she was still hungry. What was she to do? Surely she couldn’t survive until five or six in the evening on that!
“Svetilina, can I please have some more?” she asked.
The maid looked at her blankly, and Arabella remembered that she spoke no English. The girl pointed to the empty bowl and said, “More.” She then pointed to her mouth.
“Nyet,” replied the maid.
Arabella knew that she would get nowhere with the servant, so she decided, much as she hated the woman, to call for Mme. Dorozhkina.
“Mme. Dorozhkina, please,” she asked.
Svetilina looked puzzled and then let forth a torrent of Slavic.
“Dorozhkina!” repeated Arabella.
“Nyet,” replied the maid.
“Dorozhkina!” yelled the girl. Svetilina looked worried and then hurried out. Arabella, pleased with her first little victory let out as big a sigh as her corset would allow, settled back and waited.

Chapter 10

“And what, Justine, is the meaning of this?” Mme. Dorozhkina did not look a happy woman, quite the opposite in fact, her face was as black as thunder.
“Mme. Dorozhkina.” Arabella curtsied. She thought it best to be as nice and sycophantic as possible to the Headmistress at the moment, as she wanted something from her.
“What is it?”
“This food, Mme…”
“And what about the food, Justine? Is it not up to your standards?”
“Oh no, Mme, it’s fine,” Arabella lied. “It’s just that, well, I’ve eaten it all and I’m still hungry. Perhaps Svetilina or the cook forgot, but I had no breakfast this morning, nor any dinner yesterday evening. I’m still extremely hungry, Mme. I’m sorry.”
Mme. Dorozhkina’s face seemed to soften a little. Unfortunately, her words did not. “Justine, Svetilina or the cook did not forget – the small portions are intentional. I know that you’re hungry and I know that it is not pleasant but for a while at least you shall have to simply bear it.”
“But why, Mme. What have I don’t to deserve this punishment?”
“Justine, it is not punishment. Trust me, you would be in far more distress if you were being punished, I can assure you. No, this is just something that all of the girls have to go through for a time.”
“But why, Mme?”
“Why? Why? You certainly did have an ignorant upbringing indeed, Justine. The fact is, girl, that it is impossible, sadly, to simply corset fat away. You have far too much excess flesh, Justine, and with that on your body, you will never be able to achieve the reductions necessary. Therefore, the fat must go. That is why you are being placed on a diet, and that is why you are going to feel hungry for a while. I am sorry, but that is that.”
“No ‘buts’ Justine, that is that, end of story. Please get ready now or else you will be late for your deportment lesson!”
And at that, she turned on her high heels and left, slamming the door behind her.
A dejected Arabella let Svetilina clear the dish away. She then motioned for the maid to replace her doll mask, but to her surprise, the Russian shook her head and gestured towards the lacing bar.
“Why?” asked the girl, but of course she received no reply, and she knew full well that Mme. Dorozhkina would not be impressed about having to come back. For now at least, it was better to just let Svetilina do as she wanted, and so, reluctantly, she got up and walked over to the bar, letting the maid firmly strap her wrists and then raise her up.
Svetilina then opened up the back of her dress, and the corset cover and started to tighten the laces. All the slack that had developed during the day was quickly removed and, if anything, by the time the Russian had finished, Arabella’s corset was tighter than ever, and once more she was starting to feel a little light-headed. Svetilina then tied off the laces, refastened the dress and placed the hated mask over her young charge’s pretty face, before lowering her down and unfastening her wrists once more. She was now fully trussed up once more, struggling for breath and unsure on her feet, and ready for the next trial that La Maison des Poupees was to throw at her: Deportment lessons.

Part 3

Becoming Cupcake: Parts 4-7

Parts 1-3


This is a continuing story that takes place within Cherish Valley, fictional city I created.  Although all content and ideas within this story are my own, I invite anyone to write their own stories based within this world.  All I ask is that you email me first (MayorOfCherish@gmail.com) and ask my permission in doing so and then credit me so

 These stories detail a futuristic “concept town” created in the deserts below “Silicone Valley.”  A town which mirrors, modernizes, and improves upon the setting of The Stepford Wives where women are involuntarily transformed into walking, talking sex bimbos for their horny, desperate husbands.

 They represent an extreme experimentation into the boundaries I set within my sexual preferences and fetishes.  I hope to set off a trend of Cherish Valley tales, such as the Master PC series has and continue the themes and ideas expressed in them into other tales as well.  Hopefully, you’ll see that the possibilities here in Cherish are endless.


“Becoming Cupcake”

Chapter Four – Walking The “Dog”

Walking around Cherish Valley felt like walking around Disney World sometimes.  Only the attractions weren’t underpaid college students in over-sized sweaty, animal costumes.  The attractions were the women, and their over-sized tits and bubble asses. The sweat came from their anxious husbands, boyfriends and masters, who awaited their next blowjobs.  And the costumes were the women’s newly transformed bodies.

But they were all animals.

As Cupcake minced before Melvin, being led out in front like a dog, at least she felt more and more like an animal.  Melvin had even laced her steel collar with a pink satin covering, adorned with studs.  The dangling tag attached, which read: “Cupcake – Property of Melvin Cobbler.  Please Return if Found!”

 Being paraded around town like a good, little, bimbo-puppy was becoming more and more popular around Cherish Valley.  The town board was stern in their belief that the men of Cherish should release their trophies to the public, as a sign of their domination.  A unity and ceremony of society.

In fact, the one-time Allison Anders had accidentally hitchhiked into a town on the verge of a perverted renaissance!

Not that Cherish was ever “tame.”  Only, in the past few months, it had all seemed to get steadily more and more out of control.

As Cupcake continued clicking down the pristine sidewalk she took in all the sites around her.  Across the street was one of those dreadful “Oral Stations” where woman were required to practice their technique.  You would enter a silver looking phone booth of some sort.  Once inside, a soothing male voice instructed you to kneel on the padded floor.  Then a dildo (filled with more donated semen from the town’s sperm bank) slowly came out of the wall before the woman’s awaiting mouth.  The woman would then have to suckle the dildo until it was dry.  And once finished, as she left the booth, a cleansing air system would breeze the room and dildo clean, and it would await the next woman, passing by.

“Oral Stations” were an excellent way to remind the woman of their places in Cherish.  That reminder being, that their mouths were only good for sucking cocks now.  If the men actually felt comfortable feeding them permanently from IV for their rest of their lives… they would.  But there were just too many men who took great pleasure in force feeding their wives all sorts of “goodies.”

Cupcake had learned of Melvin’s adoration for that very fetish… the hard way.  And her tight belly still shook out of fear for her next “helping.”

Up ahead of Melvin and Cupcake, a middle-aged man pushed a baby cart before him, although inside the cart was no baby.  Rather, it was a 23 year old girl forced to become a baby.  Adorned in a pink baby doll nighty with matching booties, mittens and bonnet, the woman lay, strapped into the cart, sucking a binky locked firmly in her mouth.  She twisted and squirmed under he blanket, but there was no escaping this public display of humiliation.

Now it was Melvin’s turn to display his “pet” for all to see.  Pulling on her leash, Cupcake was jerked back a couple of steps and almost fell flat on her ass.  (walking in 7-inch heels will do that to you).

With her dildo dentures in today, Cupcake could only turn around and blink her big, stupid doll eye’s at Melvin.  “Please, I know when my bimbo has to pee her silly little self.” Said Melvin.  “You practically squirmed yourself out of the seat back there in the restaurant.

It was true, Cupcake did have to piss extremely bad.  But she had seen and heard rumor around town of how men let their collared “puppies” relieve themselves while in public.  And she wasn’t ready for that humiliation yet.

According to Melvin… she was.

“C’mon, doll, this tree over here is fine.” said Melvin.  Cupcake hesitated, until Melvin suddenly lashed her ass with his riding cane.


“Muuurghfff!!!” Cupcake screamed into her dildo gag.  A line of drool escaped her wet, pink, collagen lips and collected under her chin.

Thwack!!!  Again.

Melvin wasn’t fooling around.  And no matter how many fat cells they had injected into Cupcake’s round ass, a taste of the cane was still a taste of the cane.  And Melvin could be evil with the weapon.  He liked to keep her ass so sore sometimes that it brought instant tears of pain to her eyes as soon as she was forced to sit on it.

Mincing over towards the tiny, thin tree, Cupcake stood, her pink heels resting in the small dirt bed.  Melvin, meanwhile, was busy unzipping her latex shorts.  This was a task he had to do because Cupcake’s own arms were bound behind her in a “single glove.”  In fact, the only part of her not bound were her feet.  And since the height of her heels made walking an almost impossible task sometimes, they might as well have been bound.

Finishing with her rear, crotch fly, Melvin impatiently pulled Cupcake’s shiny, pink, latex shorts down to her ankles.

There Cupcake stood, a blonde-haired bimbo dressed in pink latex, with a set of dentures in her “corrected” mouth and a dildo attached to their rear, which extended to the top of her throat so she almost choked on it.  Her arms were bound behind her in the matching glove, and she wore pink, high-heeled mules with a 7-inch heel.  Her feet were also encased in cute, little “Mary Jane” socks, with a folded over, lace trim.

And there she stood, ready to take a piss under a tree, with a dog collar around her neck and a leash attached to it… Her Master only feet away, watching her eagerly as she began to squat.

All around, men and their “pets” began to collect and point.  Smirks upon their faces.  Some of them licked their lips and got a little eager themselves.  Even with their own trophies beside them, this spectacle of humiliation never got old in Cherish.

Suddenly, just as Cupcake actually felt like she could relieve herself in this horrible fashion, she sensed the crowd around her.  Looking up, she took in about twelve couples staring at her.

Cupcake began to shake.  Turning to look at Melvin, she pleaded with big wet eyes.

Melvin was not having any of it though, as he was in a rush to get her to the mall before it closed.

“Piss, you fucking dog!!!” he screamed.  This got a laugh from the couples.

And so, shaking, crying and drooling all at once, Cupcake let go of her bladder and a steady torrent of golden piss began to gush from her and collect at her feet in the dirt.  And, try as she might, some of it spilled down her legs.  Cursing to himself, Melvin wiped at these trickles with his handkerchief to prevent it from dirtying her pretty, white socks.

As he knelt at her ankles, the line of Cupcake’s collected drool became so long, that it touched Melvin’s ear.

Immediately, he sprung up, ramrod straight and wiped his ear dry.  Staring a hole through Cupcake’s face, he suddenly grabbed her cheeks and squeezed them such as an Aunt or Uncle would squeeze the cheeks of their reluctant niece.

Holding her face in this humiliating position, Melvin pulled her by the leash so that they were nose to nose.  Whispering, Melvin said, “Wearing a rubber cast of my cock in your mouth is a privilege.  The drool that collects around it should be saved and stored behind those suction-cup lips of yours for lubricant.  Because after we’re done at the mall today, I’m gonna take you home and fuck your face silly.  You’re gonna be sleeping with a full stomach of Daddy’s cum in your belly tonight, doll.”

Instant tears rushed down Cupcake’s cheeks, as Melvin released her.

“Now finish up before we miss the mall.  I want to buy my little Barbie Doll some new toys.”


If Cherish Valley were on the everyday map of the U.S. civilian, then its shopping mall would go down as a national landmark in consumer excess.  But the better part of the country did not even know of the Valley’s existence.  And so its decadence would remain loved only by the town’s civilians.  Three stories high, it gleamed in the sun like a glass church… but was the size of a football stadium.

Every weekend, the citizens of Cherish would flock to the mall like ants flocking to their hole.  Once inside, they were slaves to a spectacle of colors, clothes, toys, food, movies, music and… well, shopping.

But like all things in Cherish, the mall was also a haven where men could decorate their lovely pets like the dolls they had become.  Stores with titles such as Fetish Fems, Slutty Baby Dolls, Plug Her Holes, Real Man, and Clothes For Your Bimbo! were the accepted norm.

Kiosk attractions sold games, toys, snacks, pills, shirts and trinkets all bent on “Keeping her mind on you!”

Whereas a typical Tshirt store in a California mall would sell shirts with taglines that read: “Rock Star,” “No Fear,” and “Austin 3:16.”  The Tshirts in the Cherish Mall sold shirts which read: “SLUT,” “I’m a No-Brainer,” and “I Like To Eat Cum!”

Men adored seeing their wives in these cute, little baby Tshirts that could barely fit them.  Which is why Melvin took Cupcake to that store first.  Standing together in the tight, cramped dressing room, Melvin undid Cupcake’s elbow glove and then removed her “dentures.”

Cupcake immediately began working some life back into her thin arms.  She worked her jawbone up and down, putting life back into her mouth too.

“I undid your restraints so you could try on some of these silly baby Tshirts with all the cute statements on them.” said Melvin.  “And I took out your teeth because, when I get back with your shirts, I expect you to pump my penis dry with those fat lips of yours.”

Cupcake’s mouth opened into a little “o” as she tried to frown at this statement.  The dildo dentures were out of her mouth for less than a minute, and already her mouth would be stuffed again with cock.  This time, by the real thing.

With that, Melvin left the small room, letting the wooden doors swing shut, as they often did in cowboy movies when a villain entered a saloon.

Cupcake barely had a chance to dutifully re-apply a fresh coat of pink lip gloss when Melvin returned with around ten shirts all sized for a 12 year old girl.

“Here, let’s put this one on first.”  Melvin, sweating impatiently, began removing Cupcake’s halter top.

Cupcake’s dim mind reminded her that she could speak now that her dentures were out.  “Umm, like, what does the shirt say, Daddy?”

“Ahh, I see my little bimbo’s conditioning is starting to pay off.”

Cupcake giggled.

“My what?”

Melvin sighed.  “It just means that even naughty puppies can be trained eventually.”

What Melvin really meant, was that he was happy to hear Cupcake calling him “Daddy” so freely now, with little or no resistance in her voice.

<giggle> “Puppy!” squealed Cupcake, and clapped her hands together.

“Stop that,” hissed Melvin, as he guided her arms into the tiny Tshirt.

Cupcake, meanwhile, had to catch her breath.  Her sudden, giddy outburst had confused her.  These silly little bursts of elation were taking her over more and more lately.  Try as she might, the implanted bimbo tendencies in her were slipping out and becoming a constant part of her character.

Even if she were terribly angry at Melvin for something he would put her through back at the house, she could only cry, suck her thumb and act like a bratty little girl.  If she was happy about something, before she knew it she had broken down into a giggling fit and was jumping up and down on her heels, clapping her manicured hands together like a cheerleader while her platinum hair bounced off her shoulders.

Trying to force the shirt over Cupcake’s mammoth 34E tits was like trying to fit a sock over a balloon.  Yet, Melvin was able to force it down until it almost began to rip at the sides.

Cupcake was a comical site in the shirt.  While the collar hugged her neck very tightly, almost choking her, and the sleeves just barely cleared her shoulders… her glorious tits pushed the shirt out so far, that the bottom of it was pulled up above her bellybutton.  It was now a half-shirt… or a cotton bra of some sort.

I guess this is why they only sold them in these sizes.

Between two perky nipples the size of a pinky, the shiny pink shirt read, in bubbly purple font, “Human Cum Deposit.”

Cupcake caught the name in the mirror of the dressing room.

“Like, what does depo—depos—“ she stuttered on the tough word.

“It means that I didn’t take your teeth out so you could prove what an idiot you are.  Now get on your knees.”  Melvin forced Cupcake on to the floor of the tiny room.  Grabbing a mat of her curly, platinum hair… he rammed his fleshy, purple meatstick into the wet collagen cushion of Cupcake’s mouth.

The normal sound of slurping and chortling that was quite popular in Cherish Mall’s many dressing rooms became audible through the Tshirt store.   Although most of the stores customers ignored it; a gorgeous blonde pissing under a sidewalk tree was one thing, a blowjob in a dressing room was between the owner and his pet.

In and out, Melvin shoved his cock deeper into Cupcake’s reluctant mouth.  Already a steady puddle of drool had collected on the chest of Cupcake’s cute new shirt.

It was always the sudden blowjobs that forced Cupcake into a relapse of memories.  Visions of her youth.  Of her stepdad.  Of her dreams fading and life on the road.  Visions which would come back to haunt her as her face was fucked by this perverted senior citizen before her whom she now had to call “Daddy.”  This fetishistic utopia that she now had to call home.  And this purple-headed, “penis-pop” that more and more, tasted like a lollipop.

And so Cupcake sucked and sucked.

Melvin, meanwhile, was in the throes of pleasure.  He could fuck this bimbo’s mouth every hour of the day… and still… it wasn’t enough.  She was simply becoming spectacular.  Those fat lips of her gripped his steak like a tight condom.  “God… uhh… I should just… uhh… cut your arms and legs off (rams) and turn you into a human suck machine.

Cupcake choked on his cock, at that last line.

“Talk to me, bitch.  Tell me how grateful you are that Daddy Melvin feeds you so often each day.”

Melvin liked to hear her try and talk with no teeth and a cock in her mouth.

“Ank yuu Addy.  I yike uu suuk yoor peee—“

“Ohh, shut up.”  And then Melvin exploded in her mouth and Cupcake felt his cock-snot dripping down her tiny throat, finding its new home in her belly.  If this kept up, she would have to have her stomach pumped again, and that was a horror that gave her no pleasure whatsoever.

Zipping up his fly, Melvin commanded, “Lick it clean, baby doll.  Daddy doesn’t like a sticky penis in his underwear.”

Lapping up his penis till it was clean of all semen, Cupcake stared up at Melvin’s face with big blue eyes.  Her face shook from his words.  Melvin was just crazy enough to actually go through with his spoken fantasy of turning her into a limbless suck-machine.

“Come, lets go buy you some toys.” He said.


The rest of the afternoon was spent shopping and parading around the mall.  In spite of her condition, Cupcake couldn’t help but enjoy herself.  She was programmed, after all, to be a bimbo, and bimbos like to shop and look pretty.

Melvin was even nice enough to give her a normal set of teeth to wear while they shopped.  So Cupcake was as chatty as ever as she minced from store to store with Melvin dishing out his credit cards whenever he saw something he’d like to dress her in.

At a candy store, Melvin loaded up on multi-colored bubble gum.  It was the latest craze around town because it supposedly made the girl’s chewing it stupider.  (as if that was possible).  The town Med Center sponsored the gum and there were even popular commercials for it (similar to the “Mentos” commercials) where a chatty, annoying woman tried desperately to berate her hard-working husband because he constantly left the toilet lid open.  Then the commercial would show the husband graciously offering the unaware wife a stick of the gum.

At first, the woman’s face would turn to a confused distaste as she chewed the gum.  But then the commercial would dissolve and you’d see her, hours later, blowing large, pink bubbles while she cleaned the house in a sexy French Maid’s costume.

Melvin, not an independent mind when it came to marketing, stocked up on the gum, filling a brown paper bag to the brim with all sorts of flavors.  Yet even a flavor as strong as raspberry secretly had that cum-flavored after-taste the wives all fought… but were reluctantly learning to love.

Melvin immediately tore into a pack and instructed Cupcake to chew all five sticks at once.  One after one, he shoved them past her fat lips and into her mouth.  “Make sure they don’t stick to your dentures, doll”

<giggle> “Yummy.  Bubble gum!” squealed Cupcake.

Melvin sighed, “Yes, bubble gum.  So I wanna see you blowing bubbles and snapping as loud as you can.  After all, all good bimbos blow bubbles, don’t they?”

<giggle> “Silly, Daddy!”

Minutes later, Melvin had his arm around Cupcake as they continued their shopping.


Cupcake, while not quite used to the taste of the gum, did as she was told and chewed the thick gum, blowing large, pink bubbles like clockwork.


And sure enough, she felt more and more light-headed as the day continued.


She soon wore a glazed look on her face and giggled at everything Melvin said.  At one point, Melvin recognized someone he knew and played golf with.

As the two men talked, the man’s wife gravitated over towards Cupcake.  She was a tall redhead with thunderous tits and a Betty Boop waist.  She was dressed in a purple, angora sweater and had a pencil skirt on, over latex ballet boots.

“Hi, I belong to Howard over there.  My name’s Cindi.  What’s yours?”

Cupcake took one look at Cindi’s outstretched hand and immediately began giggling like crazy.

“Like, you’re really silly, Miss.” said Cindi.

Howard interrupted Melvin when he caught wind of Cupcake’s giggling fit.  “I see you got yourself a regular rocket scientist over there, hey Mel.”

Melvin took it as a compliment.  “Well, you know, Howard… I don’t like em’ too smart.   Females think too much as it is.”

Howard continued to eye Cupcake up and down, ignoring his wife.  (who couldn’t complain anyway).  “Do you mind if I check her out?”

Melvin signaled Cupcake over to Howard.  “Be my guest.”

Standing before Melvin’s pet, Howard took Cupcake in completely.  He walked around her, as if he was sizing up a new car he was interested in buying.

Slapping her ass hard, he said, “Firm, but resilient.”

Coming back to her front, Howard cupped both of Cupcake’s clothed tits in his palms.  “Good size, but I’m surprised you didn’t go bigger.  Cindi’s F-cups are my salvation.”  Cindi giggled proudly at this compliment.

Melvin smirked, “Cindi’s F-cups fit her frame well.  Just as Cupcake’s E’s fit hers.”

Howard laughed, “If you say so, partner.”  His inspection continued, as he reached under Cupcake’s latex shorts and began inserting his fingers into her wet snatch.

Cupcake immediately began moaning and panting… but try as she might, she could not bring herself to slap this stranger’s hands away.  Her mind would just not let her.

“Easy, Howie.  My little Cupcake’s feeling very light-headed right now.”

Melvin’s statement prompted Howard to study Cupcake’s face.  Sticking the same finger in-between Cupcake’s fat, pink lips, Howard smiled; Cupcake was already sucking his finger as if it were Melvin’s penis-pop.

“Great reflexes.  Do you mind if I ask her some questions to test her IQ?  I love doing that.”

“How could I say no to a golfing buddy?” laughed Melvin.

At this point, Cupcake was so giddy off the gum, she didn’t know what planet she was on.  And so when Howard began questioning her, she could only giggle.

Taking in her new baby-T, Howard’s first question was obvious. “Are you a cum deposit, Cupcake?”


This is a continuing story that takes place within Cherish Valley, fictional city I created.  Although all content and ideas within this story are my own, I invite anyone to write their own stories based within this world.  All I ask is that you email me first (MayorOfCherish@gmail.com) and ask my permission in doing so and then credit me so


These stories detail a futuristic “concept town” created in the deserts below “Silicone Valley.”  A town which mirrors, modernizes, and improves upon the setting of The Stepford Wives where women are involuntarily transformed into walking, talking sex bimbos for their horny, desperate husbands.


They represent an extreme experimentation into the boundaries I set within my sexual preferences and fetishes.  I hope to set off a trend of Cherish Valley tales, such as the Master PC series has and continue the themes and ideas expressed in them into other tales as well.  Hopefully, you’ll see that the possibilities here in Cherish are endless.

*Visit my official Yahoo Club at www.bimbofiction.com



“Becoming Cupcake”

Chapter Five – Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner

Cupcake stood in the kitchen, donned in her uniform for the day.  From top to bottom, Cupcake redefined the limits French maid outfits were willing to go in the good town of Cherish Valley.

Pink platform heels so high a girl was forced to be a ballerina for the day, locking ankle straps, and stockings the color of fresh cum, adorned Cupcake’s lower half.  Umbrella-ing from her waist was the pleated, billowing skirt of the dress cinched around a microscopic waist corseted down to 17 inches

Climbing further up was where the fun began. A heart-shaped cut-out with lace trim exposed Cupcake’s 34E milk udders… nipples at constant attention, like the tips of little pinky fingers.  Puffed sleeves sat high on the arms of this porcelain doll of a woman, and a cinched choker of poofy lace had a near strangle-hold over her long neck.

Cupcake’s face, as always, was a work of art, thanks to Dr. Gruber and the good surgeons of Cherish Medical.  On normal occasion, Cupcake could be found staring dumbly ahead, that spark of life that was once Allison Anders still desperately clinging on for dear hope, shown dimly still in her big doll eyes.  A button nose cute enough to chew off and swallow spotted her face above two rolls of fleshy pink cock-sucking pleasure Cupcake knew as her lips.

But for today, Cupcake’s face had to match the extremities of the rest of her outfit… the parts I haven’t told you about yet.  And so where her mouth once struggled to stay completely shut, it now was propped open into a large “O” by a contraption gag which lodged itself just behind the walls of her gums. Sealing itself around her outer lips, it added a good half-inch of width to the girl’s already luscious lips, temporarily giving her the face of a rubber blow-up doll, forever destined to lie stupid and swallow cock.

The upper-face completed this blow-up doll image, as two plastic contacts had been inserted over Cupcake’s eyes which, while not exactly obscuring her vision, kept her eye lids wide open for the duration of the day.  Painted on brows that made a near-fairy tale arch on her forehead completed the image of a silly little dolly of a maid.

Now, getting back to those extremities. Cupcake’s other important holes were decorated for the day as well.  With a skirt so stiff and umbrella-ed that it exposed the lower half of her ass and cunt, all could see how pretty and dressed up Melvin had prepared Cupcake’s nether region.  In the front, a pink rubber washer forced Cupcake’s cunny snatch into an open inviting tunnel for cock.  Behind, her cute little expanding chocolate lifesaver of a anus was dealt the same treatment, rimmed in pink rubber.  So that Cupcake was a living, walking collection of cock-stuffing delight… dressed as a French maid.

For now, those tunnels were sadly without cock… but that would soon change.

Playing the maid wasn’t new to Cupcake.  On hundreds of occasions she was doomed to remember, she had scampered about the kitchen on ballerina stilettos, with dildo plugs buzzing deep in her holes and a mop in her mittened hands, cleaning up the shit and piss puddles left by Melvin, an old man with constant need of diapering due to constant diarrhea.  But Melvin, being a man who always saw the possibilities in any situation, treated his condition as a godsend to lay waste wherever and whenever he wanted.  His silly little wife could either mop it up, or lick it up for all he cared.  (but more and more, he cared for the latter option)

But the “skills” of a Cherish Wife were more than that of simple piss and shit disposals.  Despite their reduced IQs, husbands could have the good doctors of Cherish Medical condition their sluts to at least know how to cook a good pot roast.  And so Cupcake, like many, had unwillingly become a jack of all trades… or at least the slave’s trade.

Today would be different.  Today Cupcake would be cooking, cleaning, and pleasuring strangers.  For Melvin had guests, and there was lots on the menu.


Cupcake wasn’t alone in the kitchen.  Dressed similarly to her, and with matching blow-up doll faces, stood two other maids, wives of Melvin’s guests.  What was once Susan Lefferts, a paralegal destined to join the best firm in Los Angeles, was now Pammy, a cute, but not so bright, Italian brunette dressed in a baby blue maid’s outfit.

Angela Levine, a former brain surgeon that had graduated with honors from Harvard, was now Bubbles, a near retarded redhead that now didn’t even know what region of the body the brain was stored.  Bubbles wore a yellow maid’s outfit the color of scrambled eggs, which nicely set off her fiery mane of candy orange hair where her obligatory maid’s bonnet sat.

Cupcake’s outfit was a bubble gum pink, her hair it’s usual vanilla blonde with severe bangs forming a perfect line above her arched eye brows and a dainty matching bonnet nestled safely atop her mass of bright hair.  And although she had spent the past two hours cooking beside them in the sunny kitchen, Cupcake still found looking, in close-up, at the fetishsized faces of her fellow maid’s repulsive.  Wide open rubber mouths could do nothing but drip a lot. That spillage collected in little plastic Dixie cups attached to each girl’s pinafore bib.  Staring at Pammy’s near-full Dixie cup of congealed drool, Cupcake made an “ehnnn, ehnnn,” noise, which signaled the fourth girl in the room that a clean-up was necessary.

Dressed like a little girl in her pink Alice In Wonderland dress, Penelope Andrews, the fourth girl in the room, approached the maid’s, skipping in her black, patent leather Mary Jane’s, a cock-shaped lollipop in her hand, and a head of French curls, tasseled with lace and ribbon.  The daughter of an extreme “little girl” fetishist, Penelope was once a 17 year old girl who wanted nothing more than to turn 18 years old so her geezer of a father would finally start taking her seriously. Hell, she’d even start smoking now that she could… just to spite him and all his old school traditionalist morals.

The only problem was, Richard, her father, wanted nothing to do with this plan.  And so upon Penelope’s 18th birthday, he moved the family to Cherish where he had his wife Miranda turned into a big breasted Nanny, and his daughter, Penelope, transformed into a simpering image of a little girl – a near replica of Shirley Temple, his childhood crush and the first image of femininity to ever make him cum in his shorts.

And so, instead of using her fake ID to get into bars where she could smoke cigarettes and go dancing with her friends, Penelope’s days were erased of any such cool adult things.  All because her perverted and decrepit old father had once happened to catch Shirley Temple on TV in Little Miss Marker when he was a horny teen, Penelope was now trapped in childhood forever, doomed to spend her days playing with dolls dressed exactly like her, watching Sesame Street, and shitting in her diapers with an ass rendered near incontinent.

Today, however, she had been given a “big girl” job, which was to keep an eye on the silly little maids and make sure their drool cups were properly emptied every 30 minutes.

Snapping the little pink Dixie cup off the holder on Pammy’s pinafore, little Penelope placed it gently on the counter.  She then went over to Bubbles and Cupcake’s drool cups and removed them too.  Next, was Penelope’s favorite part: One by one, she approached each maid with her color-coordinated Dixie cup.  Cupcake was fed Pammy’s pink cup, to match her pink uniform.  With a mouth trapped open, Cupcake could do nothing but gag from her lower throat as Penelope stood on tip toes and poured the full cup of congealed drool down Cupcake’s protesting throat.  It was her 5th helping of the day of pure drool, but Cupcake still wasn’t used to it. She felt as if she were being made to swallow the left-over saliva-waste of another woman… and in a way, that’s exactly what it was.

Still, Cupcake took some perverse pleasure in observing the looks of stark horror on the faces of her fellow maid’s as they were given their doses of Dixie cup drool likewise.


With the cooking completed and the plates and drinks set, the maid’s stepped away from the stove and counters and Penelope prepared for her next big girl job.  Affixing their arms into single, leather gloves, which looped around each shoulder and laced up tightly at their backs, forcing their elbows impossibly together and their hands tightly against the smalls of their backs, Penelope one by one turned the maid’s into armless servants.  The bondage arm-gloves matched their uniforms and were concealed by lace and the long hair which draped down the backs of the maid’s heads.

But where the maid’s arms once were, amendments to their outfits had been made in advance, and fake, mannequin-like arms were then attached.  The short, puffy sleeves of the transforming outfit did nothing to conceal the long, plastic arms each girl now possessed.  If you were looking at the maid’s from the front, you would think they were amputees that had been given mannequin arm transplants.  But their real arms lay safely, if not uncomfortably, strapped behind them.

When each girl’s new “arms” were attached, Penelope then went and pulled large, rubber gloves over each girl’s “hands.”  Similar to the gloves Mario and Luigi of Super Mario Brothers wore, these gloves were large enough to be comical, but small enough to be economical enough to hold a dinner tray.  And so when each girl had her gloves on, Penelope carefully began loading up their trays, which besides laying on top of the poofy white hands they now possessed, was strapped around their waist by a secure metal bracket.

The completed picture displayed three bimbo maids, a collection of latex, lace, mannequin, and blow-up doll.  Gaping orifices in the mouth, cunt, and ass.  Little cups collecting their next 30 minutes of saliva waste.  Pastel colors over creamy porcelain skin, make-up, and silly little minds.  And an affixed tray of dinner and drink.

Let the party begin.


Pushing open the doors of the kitchen, Penelope guided the three maids into the room where Melvin and company all sat lazily around a long couch, a golf tournament playing loudly before them on the large-screen TV.

At the sight of the silly looking yet ultra-hot maids, the men all mockingly began clapping and Hurraying.  Richard, not wanting his little girl to ruin the spectacle the maid’s were making, called out, “C’mon ‘ere, baby doll!”

Skipping across the living room, large pink bow bouncing off her curly mane of hair, Penelope leaped onto Rick’s lap and immediately pushed a thumb in-between wet, pink lips, like she was taught.

Hobbling towards the long coffee table, Cupcake led the way as the maid’s one by one kneeled carefully on the carpet so that their dinner trays were level with the table.  The men immediately began laying the food and plates out across the coffee table, trading glances between the golf tournament on TV, and the three pastel colored bimbos before them.

Herman, Bubble’s husband, satisfied with the plate before him, signaled to his crotch.  Bubbles made her way towards him, carefully walking on knees so as not to put a tear in her stockings.  Like a trained puppy, Bubbles halted before her master’s lap.  Leaning forward, Herman pressed a button that rested on the inside of the gag in Bubbles mouth.  A second later, the rubber lips of the gag began to expand and inflate, like a balloon, until what was once a gaping hole on her face now blew up until a tight little hole, about the size of an asshole, was all that remained where her “mouth” once was.  Unzippering his slacks, Herman grabbed a mat of his wife’s candy apple hair and impaled his cock into the tight little hole of her inflated “lips”.  Unable to do anything but suck and drool, Bubbles committed herself to becoming a human blowjob machine for as long as Rick could hold his load… which was quite long.

Jeff, Pammy’s overweight husband, was too busy watching the tournament to even notice Bubble’s and her cocksucking attributes, or the fact that Pammy still kneeled before him waiting to have her tray unloaded.  In her former life, Pammy hated golf.  She hated her husband watching golf.  She hated the food he’d stuff his fat face with when he played golf.  The beer he’d drink with his friends at the course’s local pub.  He’d come home stinking of Miller Genuine Draft and want to feel her up and call her “baby” while he watched ESPN’s recaps that night.

To combat this fixation with junk food, booze, and golf, the former Mrs. Susan Lefferts, Los Angeles paralegal with a slob for a husband, did everything in her power to make life for Jeff hell.  If she wasn’t chastising him about his diet habits 24/7, she was hiding his golf clubs, conveniently forgetting to tell him when his friend’s called to hang out, and even going so far as to get him on a strict exercise regime.

All of this was thrown out the window when Jeff moved his smart, legal bitch of a wife to Cherish Valley last year.  Things had changed for Susan very quickly, and from the morning she awoke in a hospital bed as Pammy the bimbo wife, she had drank nothing but Jeff’s piss… eaten nothing but Jeff’s vomit and feces… and for dessert, enjoyed nothing but his cock-snotted cum.  See, Jeff may have been an unfit slob, but he was a vindictive unfit slob.  He had even done the medical research, met with covert health experts, and prepared long and hard for his trip with Susan to Cherish, knowing that a steady life-long diet of piss, shit and cum was indeed possible… and very necessary in the case of his bitchy lawyer of a wife.

For Susan, life as Pammy was a living, breathing nightmare.  Unlike some husbands who wanted their wives to just be complete airheads with no memory, Jeff shared Melvin’s sadistic side for making them airheads who could remember, all too well, what they once were and would never be again.  So every morning, lunch and night… every spoonful, dollop, and healthy dosage of Jeff’s bodily waste, just added to the inevitable cracking of Pammy’s mental state, a day Jeff awaited and would relish.

Recounting the horror that was now her life, Pammy accidentally lost her knee placement on the rug, toppling a fresh pint of Miller Genuine Draft all over and onto Jeff’s plate of pot roast, squash, and green peas.

The room seemed to grow quiet.  Melvin, who was busy nibbling on a piece of corn bread while dipping a finger coated in gravy deep into Cupcake’s exposed cunny snatch was the first to turn and see the devastating look of immediate sadness on Pammy’s face as she realized her blunder.

“What the hell,” said Jeff, staring down at his ruined plate of hard cooked food.

“Ughhnnnn…”  pleaded Pammy, as she instinctively leaned back, a line of drool collecting on her chin.  But Jeff was quick, and with a whish of air, he planted a fat smack against Pammy’s left cheek, nearly knocking her off balance again.

The smack sounded like a well-placed spanking on some bimbo’s bubble of an ass.  The room grew even quieter as the TV was lowered and the sound of Bubble’s vacuum of a mouth making squishy blowjob noises become the room tone.

“So, even now… new city, new house… new tits and lips for my precious little lawyer… Even now I can’t sit and watch the golf game without something being thrown back in my face.” said Jeff, his tone growing louder, angrier.

If Pammy could talk, she would apologize, she would say it was a mistake.  She would say she was a good girl now.  She was his “baby.”  She would never say or make him do those things again.

She would say it would never happen again.

But Jeff had her say those things every night anyway, and it did no good.  And even if it would, right now she couldn’t talk.  All she could do was drool and cry behind plastic eye contacts, unable to close and hide from whatever Jeff was going to deal out to her.

“Dick, have that little strawberry shortcake of yours go fetch my golf balls from my bag, will ya.”

“You heard him, dear.” commanded Richard, as Penelope hopped up and skipped over towards Melvin’s front door where the guys had all dropped off their golf bags earlier in the day.  Skipping back over, Penelope placed a handful of dirty, used golf balls on the large man’s lap, giving an icky face as she did.  Jeff planted a wet, smelly kiss on Penelope’s forehead.  “Good girl.”

He then pointed a fat, stubby finger at Pammy and said, “You… bad girl.”  This got an immature laugh from the rest of the men in the room.  Bubbles would have wanted to watch, but her conditioned brain was in bliss, knowing that this sweat hog of a cock touching the back of her throat was the only thing she need care about in this moment on Earth.

Cupcake, still standing on painfully high heels wanted to cry for Pammy, but she had her own problems.  Melvin had a way of getting ideas from his friends, and she was quite frightened that whatever plans Jeff had for Pammy would later be dealt to her.

While Cupcake was wrestling with these horrific thoughts, a wrinkled, gravy-coated finger struggling from arthritis, buried deep in her cooch, Jeff was grabbing a mat of his wife’s raven Mediterranean hair and yanking her closer to him.  Removing her maid’s tray, Jeff pushed her, face first, over his lap, so that she was in prime “spanking position.”

With a hard yank, Jeff pulled her short, crisp maid’s skirt higher than it already was, causing the plug which opened her anus to yank upwards. This got a loud throaty gagging scream from Pammy… two lines of drool extending from her rubber lips and into her cup.

Seeing this, Jeff grabbed the first golf ball and daintily dipped it into his wife’s drool cup.  Removing it from the cup, the ball looked like it had been dipped in cum.  Cobwebs of saliva hung from it and Jeff savored the look his wife gave when he held it up to her open eyes to see.  She already knew where it was going, as did everyone else in the room.

Still, when Jeff began to push the dirty, drool-coated golf ball into his wife’s pert little button of an anus, Pammy squirmed and screamed from within her lower throat… a horrible sound that only the men of Cherish could get off on, as they knew it all too well.  You’d hear it while your wife tried to turn her head far enough from a spoonful of steaming feces.  You’d hear it when a husband started his 10th round of spanking for the night.  You’d hear it when a husband decided he wanted to brand his name and cell phone number on his wife’s ass cheek so if she got lost, people would know where to return her.  It was the sound of pain for one, and pleasure for another.  A seamless mix sometimes.

Pammy had been trained well and would have known to squirm even if this felt good and not vile.  After all, Jeff liked her to beg, he liked her to fight… he liked her to squirm and try and escape whatever he could find and put into her asshole each the day. But all the squirming and screaming couldn’t save her and one by one, Jeff pushed the balls deep into her smelly cherry pot.

During the third ball, Jeff had an idea.  “Melvin, think I could borrow that tart of yours for a moment?  My wife looks like she could use a little dessert to go with this stuffing.”

Melvin removed his old hairy finger from Cupcake’s cunt with a “swquiishhhh” noise, thick gravy dripping from its nether lips.  He then planted a good, firm smack on her pillow of an ass.  “You heard the man.  Go!”

Cupcake hobbled forward towards Jeff, unsure of what was expected of her.  When she was as close to him as she could get, without touching Pammy’s face, it dawned on her feeble mind what was in store for her, and despite how the day was going, she was relieved.

Placing his fat hand into Pammy’s mouth, Jeff removed the rubber lip gag with a wet “splooosh” of released saliva.

“Arhoooow.” said his wife as her mouth was freed from the sadistic gag.  Racing to exercise her jaw muscles, Pammy savored the few seconds of freedom she was granted.  But that was exactly when Jeff grabbed her hair again and said, “I think it’s time for your dessert.  Nibble on Melvin’s little cupcake like a proper slut.  He’s got some gravy coddler for you.”

Jeff, knowing how deplorable the former Mrs. Lefferts found girl on girl action, smiled a fat, slimy smile as his wife’s protesting mouth was mashed into Cupcake’s hot, steaming, honey patch of a cunt.

“Daddy Dick, can I go watch?” asked Penelope.

“Sure, baby.  Go ahead.”  said Rick.

Penelope skipped over to the action and was soon kneeling as close as she could as Pammy was forced to lick, nibble, and eat out Cupcake’s wet snatch.  Already their were warm pussy juices collected at her chin for, despite how much she hated it, Cherish Medical made sure that Pammy was to be a queen muff eater.

Cupcake meanwhile was in bimbo heaven.  As artificial as Cherish Medical might have made her, the most natural enhancement they had given her was the ability to give and receive pleasure.  Writhing up and down, her pelvis thrust her snatch further into Pammy’s now hungry mouth…tongue impaling her like a flexible cock.  And that was when Jeff began the ruthless spanking of Pammy’s ass… each smack stuffing the dirty, round golf balls further in.


Muffle scream…


Muffled shriek…


Muffled sobs…

When the spanking was over, Pammy would be made to shit each ball out into a bowl her husband held.  She would then be made to suck and lick each ball clean so that they’d be ready for his game tomorrow with the boys.

But that wouldn’t be till tomorrow.  And the spanking would last as long as it took Cupcake to cum in his wife’s face with her hot, sticky pussy juices.

And so Penelope watched like a little girl with her nose pressed against the TV as Barney or Blue’s Clues played.  But this was no children’s show she was watching.  This was now the life of four airheads, formerly women and adolescents with futures, aspirations, dreams… all dashed by the wants and needs of horny, intelligent, sadistic men.

If either Penelope, Pammy, Bubbles or Cupcake had the right frame of mind to look, they would see two things.  They would see Melvin watching Penelope, licking his lips, getting ideas.  Then, they would see Richard watching Cupcake, stroking his crotch, observing her perfect shade of vanilla blonde hair.  Not too platinum, not too strawberry… The color of pure bimbo.  Her curls were a thing of beauty, they painted a visage that begged to be fully transformed into what he strived for with his daughter: total, simpering little girlhood.

He studied Cupcake’s glorious tits and her erect nipples.  Her heart-shaped ass and its button tunnel of an anus…the ass just begging for a proper spanking… the anus asking to be deeply invaded.  Blue eyes like a doll’s… so big and innocent…so ready for more corruption and depravity.  Continuing down now, beneath the rubber gag was her glistening, pink, cock-sucking lips, drooling with hunger and pleasure.  They begged to be wrapped around a dildo-shaped pacifier.  A binky that would inflate her mouth and remind her of Daddy Dick’s hairy cock, and its nurturing assurance.

“Cupcake…” he whispered.  “Daddy’s little girl…” stroking his cock hard now, hoping the guys wouldn’t notice as he came hard and sudden in his trousers.

Cupcake was a walking Barbie Doll.  Exquisite.  The best Cherish had to offer.  And Richard wanted her for his own.  He wanted her in diapers, sucking on that dildo-shaped pacifier like it was her thumb (or his cock). Shitting in her diapers and crying as “Daddy Dick” fucked her to sleep… sang her a lullaby

“Penelope, give Cupcake a kiss.” said Richard.

Penelope stood up, and with a little cupid’s bow of pink lips, she pressed her mouth against Cupcake’s blow-up doll face. She tickled the roof of her mouth with a curious little girl’s tongue.  She planted cute little kisses up and down what would soon belong to Richard.

To be continued in chapter 6, “Show And Tell.”

Visit my official Yahoo Club at www.bimbofiction.com

If you liked this fifth  chapter of my story, “Becoming Cupcake,” let me know.  I’ve been asked for a while now to get some lesbian action in this story.  I was also requested to get some more spanking scenes in here.  For me, I am a big sucker for a girl in uniform, so the French maid outfits were a given.  But lately, I’ve been having other fetishes which you’ll notice have creeped their way in.  Women being turned into blow-up dolls, women’s mouths dripping with drool, and of course, beautiful adult women dressed like simpering little girls.

But I have plenty more planned for Allison… so ALWAYS email me if you want to see something I haven’t yet done.  MayorOfCherish@gmail.com

Hope you’re enjoying this story so far.  The fan mail has been very instrumental in providing me a direction on where to take this story.  Which is why I have created an account solely for the purpose of feedback from each story.  So PLEASE email me if you like where I’m taking the story.  I can always use more encouragement.

 Later – The Mayor


This is a continuing story that takes place within Cherish Valley, fictional city I created.  Although all content and ideas within this story are my own, I invite anyone to write their own stories based within this world.  All I ask is that you email me first (MayorOfCherish@gmail.com) and ask my permission in doing so and then credit me so

These stories detail a futuristic “concept town” created in the deserts below “Silicone Valley.”  A town which mirrors, modernizes, and improves upon the setting of The Stepford Wives where women are involuntarily transformed into walking, talking sex bimbos for their horny, desperate husbands.

They represent an extreme experimentation into the boundaries I set within my sexual preferences and fetishes.  I hope to set off a trend of Cherish Valley tales, such as the Master PC series has and continue the themes and ideas expressed in them into other tales as well.  Hopefully, you’ll see that the possibilities here in Cherish are endless.

*Visit my official Yahoo Club at www.bimbofiction.com


“Becoming Cupcake”

Chapter Six – Show And Tell

It was getting on in the day when all the men and their trophy bimbos retired home for the day.  Each girl, knowing her manners, had to accept a senile kiss from their lewd host.  But Melvin had a tendency to shake in his old age as the days wore on.  And so each woman left the house with their own lipstick smeared on their faces.

All but one.  For Penelope lay curled up on the couch with a thumb firmly planted in-between her painted pink rosebud cunt of a mouth.  The ESPN recap of the gold tournament played softly in the background, big words about an adult sport Penelope could no longer get a grasp of with her little girl mind.

Standing over her, like a protective, yet slightly eager father, Richard watched his sleeping doll, occasionally reaching down to stroke her chocolate brown curls.

Melvin watched him from the door, not sure if he should fear this man or admire him.  Richard kept things to himself.  He was one of the few prominent husbands in town whose wife never seemed to see the light of day.  Was he ashamed of her?  Did she need more surgery?  Bigger tits and a tighter snatch, perhaps?  Or was Richard just a secretive man, unconcerned by the trappings of exhibitionism.

Sniff, sniff.

Melvin’s wrinkled nose twitched up and down.

“Your angel seems to have had an accident.” said Melvin, as he crossed the living room and made for the kitchen.

“That she has,” purred Richard, smiling slightly.

Melvin was in the kitchen, taking something for his heartburn.  “You gonna change her?”

“Nah, I’ll let her sleep in it for a bit.  I like to think of it squishing all around uncomfortably down there.” said Richard.

In her sleep, Penelope shifted around on the couch, sloshing that pasty mess all around her diaper like a puddle of mud.

Richard turned away from his sleeping angel and slowly meandered into the kitchen, hands in his pockets.  “And where’s that little hose-muffin of yours?”

“Cupcake’ll be down soon,” grinned Melvin, glancing up at the ceiling.  “But come, take a load off.  I’ll pour you a shot.”

Richard joined the old man at his large glass kitchen table.  Sensing a certain awkwardness in the room, Richard changed gears.  “That was some game, huh?”

“Yeah, that black boy sure can swing a 3-iron.”

As Melvin poured the shots, Richard continually glanced up at the ceiling, or back at his Penelope.  Always avoiding the bloodshot gaze of Melvin Coddler, an old man renown in town for his catch.  Perhaps the oldest man with the youngest bride.  Cupcake was only 19 when she was caught by Cherish Med.  And here Melvin was pushing his 80s.  Nobody deserved luck like that.

As if on cue from these secret thoughts, the click of ballerina heels pre-empted Cupcake’s walk down the steps and into the kitchen.

Richard nearly gagged on his shot when he took in the dripping, fetishistic outfit that was Cupcake’s night attire.

From toe to forehead, Cupcake was bathed in a purple-ish/pink, latex catsuit.  Starting from her sky-high stiletto heels, Cupcake’s altered feet were crammed into ballerina heels two sizes two small for her.  Inside, her crushed toes screamed for freedom, while her surgically enhanced ankle tendons stretched beyond the limit of what a standing person should attempt in shoes of this fashion.

Seamless with the legs of the outfit, the heels bled into the long, candy-canes that were Cupcake’s calves.  Then knees to thighs so juicy yet toned, that you could serve them on a silver plate on Thanksgiving.  Melvin would sometimes stare at the lush, pinkish tones of Cupcake’s skin and think they concealed Vanilla custard behind their fleshy walls.

Continuing up, her pink, sopping wet pussy was concealed behind a teasing, peek-a-boo zipper, which had a heart-shaped tag on the end of it.  The zipper closed just below the microscopic enigma that was Cupcake’s 16-inch waist.

From here on out, it was model physics defied as Cupcake’s washboard stomach stretched up to two a pair of EE tits, encased and constrained behind a mirror shine latex.

With the smallest heart-shape cut into her catsuit’s chest, Cupcake’s twin globes peeked out from the outfit like a newborn’s ass.  Despite the thickness of the suit, her erect nipples poked against the latex like little tatter tots, ready to be bathed in barbeque sauce and swallowed up.

The outfit sheathed her arms up to her wrists, allowing her immaculate hands with pink French manicure acrylic nails to rest at her sides, dutifully.  While glamorous in display, Cupcake’s nails made her hands virtually useless, as they got in the way of performing such simple tasks as tying a shoe or switching the TV remote.

Her neck was nearly strangled by the small opening of the catsuit’s head, which encased Cupcake’s skull like a second skin.  Rising to just below her chin, it snaked its way up the back of her head all the way around to the top of her forehead.  And with her gorgeous mane of vanilla blonde curls spilled out of a tiny opening at the back of the latex cap, Cupcake resembled some sort of female superhero, built for sin.

Stenciled across the chest of the outfit, just above the heart shaped hole at the tits, were the words, “Bimbo Slut.”

Managing to get his shot down at last, Richard gulped.  “Do you have to stencil it on her chest?”

Melvin smiled.  “I like her to always be reminded.”

Taking in the frightened, yet slightly vacant look in the girls doey eyes, Richard said, “As if she could forget.  The girl’s a walking—“

“—Barbie doll?” said Melvin.

Richard cleared his throat.  “Exactly.”

“Yes, Cupcake gets that a lot.  I mean, any man in town can have his wife altered to look that way, but Cupcake’s the real deal.”  Melvin stood up and placed a wrinkled finger, wrought by arthritis, onto the girl’s fat bottom lip.  “Isn’t she.”

Cupcake faked a smile for her master.  “Yes, Daddy.”

“Yes Daddy, what?”  said Melvin.

Cupcake opened her mouth slightly, expecting Melvin to stick that wrinkled appendage into her hole.  But the old man let her speak first.

“I’m your little Barbie Doll, Daddy.”  And with that, a tear drop edged its way out of Cupcake’s left eye, and then slowly dripped down her face, resting on her chin, where it refused to fall.

Turning to Richard, Melvin said, “Did you see that?”  Melvin flicked the tear free.  “Perfect.”

Richard saw it alright.  And his cock had never been so hard.

The old man was showing off.  But fuck it.  Let him.

As if to further prove Richard’s thought, Melvin dipped a finger into Cupcake’s mouth, past her glazed, collagen-enhanced lips, swathed in layer beyond layer of bubble-gum pink lip gloss.  Lip gloss fit for some Prom Princess tart.

And like a tight cunt accepting a hard cock, Cupcake’s lips swallowed up around Melvin’s hairy finger like a snake eating a live rabbit.  With a wet “uuussssllllluuuussshhhh” the big “O” on her mouth became a little “o” and Cupcake’s lips cocooned around Melvin’s finger.  And then in and out, he pumped… now putting a second… then a third finger in.  In and out.  Pushing past that pink donut cunt she called a mouth.  Fucking her silly face, as more tears rolled down those porcelain cheeks and Cupcake had to concentrate not to turn a chortle into a choking which would produce drool. She hated drooling but found she’d be doing it during such simple acts as staring at a clock or a calendar.  Things that just didn’t make sense to her anymore.

Richard thought, if hands could cum, Melvin’s fingers would orgasm right now.

But Melvin was pulling his hand from Cupcake’s perfect mouth.  And now he was spinning her around like a ballerina on a dildo pedestal, until her heart-shaped pillow of an ass was staring at Richard in the eyes.

And here it was revealed that the back of his latex cocoon of an outfit had a zipper on it too.  And behind this zipper was Cupcake’s backdoor hole.

Slowly pulling the zipper down, Cupcake braved a quick glance over her small shoulder.  But Melvin was quick.

“Eyes forward!”  And a smack on the ass.

Cupcake winced, tottering on her toes.

God, the old man was quick.

“Cupcake, tell Richard what this hole is for.”

Without missing a beat, Cupcake trembled out the words, “For me to make poo poo.”


“For Daddy to stuff his pee pee inside,” words barely audible from the sobbing girl.  So cute.  Richard had shifted in his seat at the mention of the word ‘Daddy.’ Now we were getting somewhere.

“Cupcake, lay over Richard’s lap.”

Richard said, “Wait, don’t you think I should—“

But Cupcake obeyed, and approaching Richard with tottering steps, she laid over his lap in the spanking position, and Richard suddenly found himself accepting a mane of Strawberry Vanilla blonde hair on his lap, attached to a curvy body just itching to be invaded.

Richard tried to keep a cool face, but his voice betrayed the uneasiness he felt at having Cupcake so vulnerably displayed on his lap in front of her Master.

“What’s up, Melvin?”

Melvin was reaching into a drawer, “Just wait, Richard. It gets better.”

Turning back, Melvin approached Richard with a hot pink vibrated dildo plug so long and thick, it was intimidating.

“Put this up her ass.” Said Melvin. As simple as asking what time it was.

Richard, holding the large dildo, could now hear Cupcake sobbing beneath him.  God, the girl was dripping, whether tears, snot or drool, some sort of puddle was collecting beneath her face, which hung inches from the tiled floor of Melvin’s kitchen.

“Something wrong, Richard?  I know how you feel about Cupcake. This is the opportunity of a lifetime.” Said Melvin.

Richard wanted to refute Melvin’s claims, but the man spoke the truth.

“What about lubricant?”

“The girl produces her own.” Said Melvin, gesturing to the puddle at the floor.

And so, grabbing a mane of the bimbo’s hair, Richard yanked Cupcake’s head back, so that her face was visible again at the level of his lap.

“Ayyhhhhhh” sobbed Cupcake, as her back is wrenched unnaturally.

“Shut up,” Said Richard, getting into it now. “Open your mouth, Cupcake.”

The pink donut of Cupcake’s suction cup mouth opens and Richard dips as much of the long dildo down her throat as he can, waiting until the girl is near vomiting from choking on it.  Then, with a slow pull, the dildo is extracted, dripping in a cobweb of thick, lubricating drool.  Drool so slick you could package it and sell it as KY Jelly.

Letting go off her hair, Cupcake’s face drops down, almost smacking the tiled floor. Instead, her nose dips into her own puddle of snot, drool and tears collected on the floor beneath her.

Melvin, not missing a beat, says, “Rub your face in it, slut, while Richard plugs you up.”



This is a continuing story that takes place within Cherish Valley, fictional city I created.  Although all content and ideas within this story are my own, I invite anyone to write their own stories based within this world.  All I ask is that you email me first (MayorOfCherish@gmail.com) and ask my permission in doing so and then credit me so

These stories detail a futuristic “concept town” created in the deserts below “Silicone Valley.”  A town which mirrors, modernizes, and improves upon the setting of The Stepford Wives where women are involuntarily transformed into walking, talking sex bimbos for their horny, desperate husbands.

They represent an extreme experimentation into the boundaries I set within my sexual preferences and fetishes.  I hope to set off a trend of Cherish Valley tales, such as the Master PC series has and continue the themes and ideas expressed in them into other tales as well.  Hopefully, you’ll see that the possibilities here in Cherish are endless.

*Visit my official Yahoo Club at www.bimbofiction.com


“Becoming Cupcake”

Chapter Seven – Daddy’s Little Girl

The way Richard acquired his newest plaything was, he invited Melvin – the old man, the cracked, aging fool of a man – to go play golf at the Cherish Valley golf club.  The club with that big impressive set of brick stairs leading up the big hill.  The green.  Hole 1.  And it was at the top of that staircase that the talk shifted from the weather and the local sports scores, to just how lucky a guy Melvin was to have a little tart like Cupcake as his personal fuckslut.  Too lucky even.  Hell, it was downright unfair that a man in Richard’s shape and condition, a man in his prime, a man with plenty of more spunk to ignite, should be deprived of a piece of tits and ass like that Cupcake.

Obviously, when the conversation shifted like this, so did Melvin’s tone. Richard had been standing a little too close for comfort ever since they parked his Scion in the lot 500 steps below. He had been speaking almost mouth to ear to Melvin, as if Melvin was that deaf.  Perhaps a condescending way about the guy from the moment Rick showed up outside his house thirty minutes earlier.  That smug way he opened the door for Melvin.  Would’ve gotten out a wheel chair if he had one in the trunk.

Melvin wasn’t sure how he personally felt about Richard up until today.  He was just a golfing buddy.  The golfing buddy with the little girl.  And boy did Richard love to talk her up.  Penelope, his own daughter, now a simpering little girl with lollipops and teddy bears.  Mind you, Melvin had no problem with this form of transformation.  The girl Cupcake use to be in her former life was only a few years older than Rick’s little girl actually was.  But it was the way he went on and on about her.  Like she was some coveted Cabbage Patch Kid he had stolen out from the other eager parents at a Toys R Us sale.  Not content to just accept his conquest and live the good life, Rick was one of those guys who always strived to one-up you.

But deep down, both men knew that as long as Cupcake wore Melvin’s collar, it didn’t matter what piece of ass Rick owned.

Perhaps this realization hit Melvin too late. Perhaps he realized that it was strange that the conversation should shift from sunny days and baseball scores to Cupcake and Penelope, just as they stood at the brink of that 500 step drop down to the black-topped parking lot of the Cherish Valley golf course.

One second Melvin was giving this realization serious consideration.  The next, and Rick was violently shoving Melvin forward, off the top step, and tumbling down the bricks to his doom.  Rick watched closely, waiting to see on which step Melvin’s neck would snap.  He counted it at about halfway down, maybe step 275. A loud snap, like a stubborn tree branch cracking in half, and the rest of Melvin that was tumbling down to the hot blacktop was just thin flesh and brittle bone.


Not more than a couple days after Melvin was in the ground, rotting with the worms, Cupcake become the property of the town of Cherish Valley.  Now normally, a girl with a previous owner that had passed on would usually be put to work in the town.  In Cupcake’s case, this would probably mean some sort of escort service.  This would be if she was lucky.  Recently widowed wives and girlfriend’s in Cherish could sometimes be mysteriously snatched up by greedy town politicians, or doctors at the Med Center who got greedy and wouldn’t mind a “freebie” on the side.  Being undeclared, the poor girl could fall pray to whatever sick desires the kidnaper had in mind.  There was even a rumor that many of the popular rubber sex dolls in town at the local sex shops were once widowed girls, abducted in the dead of night and…while still alive… embalmed by means of permanent plasticization.  Some clever doctor had supposedly found a way to keep their conscious brains intact, while the rest of their body become “Grade A” rubber sex doll.

Or there was that infamous hallway in the Cherish Valley men’s club that was lined with live, female heads poking out from holes on each side.  Girls forced to kneel down behind the wall, bound at the arms, and stick their pretty heads through a hole, thus leaving their faces and open mouths subject to whatever horny man just happened to be walking down this particular hallway, in the mood for a quick dick sucking.  So naturally, the girls taken for this particular purpose were all given further enhancements to their lips and mouths.  After all, their new purpose in live was to suck cock.  Literally.

There was even the story of the older woman at the beginning of the hallway.  The blonde with the sad eyes who’s pretty head sat below a cheap knock-off a Monet painting.  Once the young wife of a man who was tragically killed in Cherish so many years back when he choked on a spare rib, the wife was taken by a man who owed the owner of the men’s club a favor.  She was only twenty two when they first put her head through the wall.  Now, at the age of forty one, she had spent the past 19 years as a human blowjob machine.  From 8am to 11pm, her head was locked into that dreadful hole while her stomach was filled with the seed of whatever man happened to be passing.  Before being allowed to sleep each night, her stomach would be pumped of all the sperm and piss she’d swallow each day as a sexually “oral wall ornament”.  She’d get her massages, her exercises to reduce atrophy to the muscles, a quick night of rest and then the whole ordeal would begin again the next morning… day after day… year of year.  They say her sanity was lost maybe four years in, leaving her mush-mind as a practical tool based around instinct… primarily, how best to please the cock in her mouth.

Luckily for Cupcake, Richard Wentmore had friends in high places.  Cupcake wouldn’t end up on the auction block and she wouldn’t have her head stuck through any hole in some hallway.

One night, she was sleeping in a padded room of the Cherish Valley Detainee Center.  The next, they were signing her life away to Richard.  He had acquired his newest Barbie Doll.  A baby sister for Penelope.  A new daughter for his wife, Miranda  But most importantly, a new plaything for him.  Daddy’s little girl.


The following morning, Cupcake was awakened by the soft jingle of little bells.  Opening her big blue eyes, she was staring up at a plastic mobile, a baby’s toy which floated playfully over her head, almost hypnotizing her.  On all sides of her were the pink, furnished bars of a prison. A baby’s crib.

Under and around her were dolls and little teddy bears.  Attempting to sit up, Cupcake realized her arms were bound as if she were wearing some sort of pink, ruffled straight jacket.


In her mouth seemed to be an over-sized pacifier she couldn’t dislodge with her tongue.  The end that protracted outside her mouth appeared as a normal baby dummy, with a pink, plastic plate, shaped into a heart.  But inside, Cupcake could feel a large, penis-shaped teat touching both the top and bottom of her gums and extending close to the back of her throat, so that she had to concentrate not to begin gagging on it.  And really, that’s what it was, a pacifier gag… an inflated dildo teat, way more effective than any ball gag she had ever been fitted with did.

Instinctively sucking on the binky, Cupcake peered down at the rest of her body.  There was something wrong with her chest.  It didn’t feel as heavy as it once was.  Gone was the pressure her E sized tits had always caused her… because her E sized tits were no more.  Although Cupcake couldn’t be sure, she was sure her tits must now be the size of little apples, for the chest area of her pink nighty straight jacket was near flat.  Reacting to this, Cupcake took in the puffy, wide mid-section of her waist… and the horrid smell emanating from that area.

Sloshing around down in the nooks and crannies of her crotch, cunt and ass was a messy load of smelly pudding.  Cupcake had been made to mess herself in the past, but had never awoken to it, accidentally.  And it had never been this liquefied either.  How could this have happened?  Was she drugged with some sort of laxative?

Cupcake had also obviously been in diapers before, but none as obtrusive as this.  She felt she’d probably have to waddle or crawl just to get around in them.  They were covered by pink rumba shorts, plastic-coated with more little bells at each hip.  From below this rotund area of her body, her longs legs emerged from the diapers, sheathed in bubble-gum pink stockings.  They ended in a pair of bootied footsies, the kind of which a three year old would wear in her sleep suit.

Feeling a little claustrophobic in her pink prison, Cupcake began to squirm in her bonds, “mphhhing” into her binky gag.  If Cupcake could step back and look at herself, she’d see a teenaged girl with strawberry vanilla curls, topped by a large pink bow… a face made up with pink rouge on her cheeks and elongated lashes, which further gave her that doll look.  A body meshed in pink ruffles and lace.

Entering the room, this is exactly what Miranda Wentmore, wife of Richard Wentmore, and nanny and mother of the household, saw as she approached Cupcake’s crib and peered at the squirming little girl inside.  A porcelain white face, arched eye brows over warm eyes, with cherry red lipstick surrounding a toothy smile, fit for promoting Apple Pie in some bygone 1950’s era, Miranda Wentmore was an old fashioned woman given the old fashioned treatment at Cherish Med.  This meant, she was surgically enhanced to be a mommy, a wet nurse, and most importantly, an obedient wife.

With a smart pair of pumps on her feet, Mrs. Richard Wentmore was adorned in a powder blue dress with big round buttons stretching from her collar down to her waist.  A puffy white apron was tied around the dress with a flamboyant bow over her impressive rear.  With her bee-hive hair-do and pert ways, Miranda was a modern day June Cleaver.  Although her height added a deception to the picture, revealing a little of the strength of the woman… Brigitte Neilson in an apron.

For a few minutes, Miranda just smiled down at Cupcake, those gooey red lips almost shining.  Cupcake, perhaps unnerved by this strange woman in her archaic get-up, grew more blush by the minute under her gaze.  Her eyes held a warmth, but also concealed a sternness that lingered near the surface.  Miranda’s smile grew somehow wider, more teeth, candy apple red lips stretching that creamy Swiss cheese face as she observed the cute little line of drool that were already collecting on Cupcake’s adorable little chin.

“Rise and shine, little one.  I see baby’s excited to begin her day?” chimed Miranda in a chirpy, sing-song voice.  A voice was like Mary Poppins, minus the accent.

“Mmpppphhhh!” replied Cupcake, confused and growing slightly upset over her predicament.

Miranda could see how her darling husband and master, Richard, had fell in love with this lovely little toy.  Cupcake had that chameleon ability to become whatever you desired her to become.  From some teenage bimbo Melvin had paraded around the local mall in tight, tacky Tshirts, to a French Maid serving elegant plates of food at one of his dinner parties, to a simpering baby doll, drooling on her dummy gag as she squirmed around in her own filfth, in a pink, oversized crib.

Realizing she wasn’t going anywhere, Cupcake finally stopped squirming and held the gaze of the 1950’s woman leaning over her.

“Well hello there, little one?”  Miranda sniffed the air playfully.  “Uh oh.  Smells like someone made a messy wessy in their dipey wipey.”  She then lifted a dainty finger under the hem of Cupcake’s frilly straight-jacket.

Cupcake had never been so embarrassed in her life.  The woman now sounded like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.

But it was then that the shift in tone happened.  Those warm Betty Crocker eyes became cold just as those arched, pencil thin eye brows became a stern frown.

“Tut tut.  I see someone made a little stinky poo in their beddy bye.” chided Miranda, peeking at Cupcake’s diaper area.


“Ohh, hush now.  Now Mummy’s gotta show babykins what happens to dirty wittle girls, doesn’t she.”

And with that, Miranda unlocked the top of the crib and swept in, lifting Cupcake up and out with ease from the pile of dollies and teddy bears.  Cupcake marveled at the woman’s strength, feeling like a an oversized doll in the woman’s capable hands.

Carrying Cupcake over to a large, pink, Victorian bed with a canopy, she sat her down over her lap.  And as Cupcake’s diapered tushy met with Miranda’s powder blue thighs, the soupy mess in her crotch ground into every corner and crevice that was down there.  Perhaps that was the point.

But what happened next was even worse.

“Mommy needs to show baby Cupcake what happens to naughty, stinky wittle girls.”

Cupcake was spun around and thrown, chest first, over each leg of Miranda’s lap.  Lifting the dainty hem of her nighty, Miranda rubbed the smelly mess in further with a careful palm.

Cupcake was appalled.  She gagged into her pacifier, coughing at the horrible stench… that horrible sensation of that goopy, wet mess plastering itself to her creamy white ass.

She was confused.  Where was her real Daddy?  Her Master?  Where was Melvin?  What was she doing here?  Her few days in the detainee center had been a blur.  She was drugged up most of the time, taunted by the guards.  A few of them might have even taken turns with her mouth while she lay strapped down, dumping their cock snot down her throat.  One of them mumbling about her “old man” and his “tumble down the steps.”  But it was all too sudden to grasp.  And even if Cupcake’s feeble mind could get a hold of any conspiracy… that’s when her first “Miranda spanking” began.


Cupcake had never felt anything like it.  A guided, professional hand… stronger and more painful than any whip or cane ever wielded by Melvin.  Like thin, sharp wood.

With precision, the assault continued…


…the whole time grinding that smelly, soupy mess further in.  The whole time, that woman’s kind, caring voice, with that strangely soothing, but ominous tone.

“Good little girls don’t sleep in filth unless their mummies punish them.  What if you had stained your pretty pink nighty?  Then where would you be?  Huh?  Huh, missy??”

Cupcake was crying now.  Hard.  Bawling like the little girl they were trying to turn her into.  Her pink stocking legs kicked up and down.  She screamed, begged into her gag.  Her only site, the pink fluffy carpet of the room and the long line of drool that dripped from her mouth and stretched down to the floor like a spider web.

Just when she thought she may pass out, the woman suddenly ceased.  In a moment, she was lifted back up, turned to face her tormentor, the heart-shaped plate of the pacifier was turned counter clockwise until she heard a “hissing” noise and the over-sized teat in her mouth deflated somehow and was then removed with a wet “sblush” noise.

As Cupcake exercised the strain from her mouth, Miranda fixed her curls, prettying them up again.  Then, pinching her hard on both cheeks, she leaned and said in that same playful tone, “And what do we say now, munchkin?”

“Thank you…” stuttered Cupcake, choking tears.

“Thank you Mummy.” corrected Miranda.

Hesitation, and then…

“Thank you, Mummy.” said Cupcake.

“Good girl.”  said Miranda, patting her on the head like she was some puppy.  “Now, let’s get you bathed for Daddy Dick.”

Daddy who?

But Miranda now firmly had her by the hand and was leading her through the pink nursery that must be her new room and into a pink tiled bathroom.  Crossing over to an old, porcelain style tub, Miranda turned on the water, making it hot.  She then poured in some powder under the faucet.

Cupcake stood by the door, trying desperately to ignore the splattered shitty mess painting her butt cheeks.

“Come,” signaled Miranda with a clap, and Cupcake was eye to eye with the woman again as she patiently began taking her clothes off.  Cupcake was stripped down to her soiled diaper.

She found her arms were so numb she could barely lift them.  Was this some muscle relaxant they had injected her with?  Or were her arms just zapped of all strength from sleeping in the straight jacket?  What concerned her more were her new tits.  Although it would be a far stretch to call the two small mounds on her chest, with their pointy nipples, “tits”, standing up with them felt like putting sneakers on after wearing heavy Astronaut boots all day.  Cupcake raised a hand to finger them, when Miranda, with lightening fast speed, slapped it away.

“No.  Bad, bad, bad!  Little girls don’t do that sort of thing.”

Head down.  “Yes, Mummy.”

Miranda smiled.  The girl was catching on fast.  Maybe she wasn’t so stupid after all.

Stripping her down to her diaper, the stink of the fecal mess hit the room full force.  Miranda immediately made a “stinky face” and, tapping Cupcake on the nose said, “Tut tut.  Such a dirty wittle girl.  She should be ashamed of herself.”

Cupcake couldn’t get over the size and height of this woman.  Despite her attire, she could be truly menacing.  But she had that condescending baby talk down to a science.

“Baby Cupcake must learn not to mess her diapy-wipey.”  Continuing to chide her like she was a three year old.

Cupcake wanted to protest and say it wasn’t her fault.  That she couldn’t even remember doing it, but couldn’t risk another spanking.  Hell, even a tap of the finger on those stinging cheeks right now would be more than she could stand.

Unfastening her diaper, Miranda lifted the messy white thing out from under her two legs.  She then held it up to Cupcake, showing her what a dirty girl she was.

“See what a messy little girl Cupcake is?”

Just when Cupcake thought she couldn’t stand any more and was about to shake her pretty blonde head No, Miranda dipped a manicured pink nail into the center of the brown mess and came away with a chunk of stinky ass mud.  She then playfully dabbed Cupcake’s button nose with it, giggling all the way.

Cupcake went to pull back, but Miranda had one of those iron hands at her back.  Now, all Cupcake could smell was that horrid stench.  Looking down cross-eyed, Cupcake could only see brown. Shaking her blonde, corkscrew curls back and forth, she tried desperately to shake the goop of waste off her nose, but it remained.

Miranda then spun her around and, with a baby wipe, set to cleaning her stinky crotch up.  A few minutes later, and Cupcake was being lifted like a little girl into the hot water of the tub.  Pouring powder in, the bath soon filled with bubbles, and Cupcake was taken with a certain sensation: despite the messy diapers, the chiding tone of Miranda, and even the dab of shit on her nose, Cupcake felt something – something she had never felt with Melvin.

Here she was, a 19 year old girl, being made to sit in a warm bubble bath, a rubber ducky at her side, and a woman scrubbing her back, shampooing her hair, even brushing her teeth for her with an electric Barbie toothbrush.

And Cupcake felt… cared for.  Maybe even loved somehow.

She even blushed when Miranda, her new nanny, snuck one of those long pink nails of hers under the bubbles, in-between her crotch, and then begin tickling her little love button.  The warmth of the water, the smell of shit on her nose, this Betty Crocker woman in her powder blue nanny dress… and Cupcake’s juices began to flow.  Her hairless cunny snatch, hot to the touch, aching for release.

Miranda smiled, her cherry red lips curling around perfect teeth.  She leaned in, wet red lips right against Cupcake’s right ear, nibbling on the lobe, as she said, “Does babykins like this?” That manicured nail tickling her clitty, rubbing over flesh and nether lips.  Moving in rhythm now, igniting her deep from within.  Rubbing it so perfectly… the right speed, the right pressure… something Melvin couldn’t ever get right even if he cared to attempt it.

Stirring her honey pot, moving past the folds of her cunt, a pinky finger probing into her canal as her rosebud of a clit was tweaked by index and thumb, like some rare flower coming to life in the palm of a hand. Cupcake’s juices were flowing.  She was so hot.  Something was welling up so deep inside her, like a damn about to burst.  A damn filled with sweet pink pussy juice.

That rubbing.  Her clitty so hot.  Buzzing like a fast heart beat after a race… only this beating was in the folds of her steaming cunt.

Cupcake was on the edge now, and that’s when her nanny leaned in again and planted a wet, slurping kiss on Cupcake’s pink, cock-sucker lips… lips still dripping with minty Barbie toothpaste.  And when the woman’s snaking tongue pushed itself past Cupcake’s dentures and probed the inside of her hungry mouth, Cupcake spasmed.  The damn broke. Juices flowed freely into the hot water of the tub.

She arched her back.  She moaned into the woman’s mouth.  The mouth of a professional.

The mouth of her Mummy.


About thirty minutes later and the morning process was complete.  Cupcake had been changed, freshened up, brought to climax like never before, and then re-diapered.  What followed next was a make-up session before her Barbie model vanity table.  Soft pinks, elongated eye lashes, and plenty of coats of wet gloss on her lips, and Cupcake was shocked at how much of a little girl she now resembled.

But there was more.  Standing in nothing but a diaper, Cupcake was led over to a long wall where Miranda slid a door aside, revealing a closet the length of the bed.  Dozens upon dozens of party frocks, flower dresses, nightys and more draped from the row of hangers.  The floor was littered by a long line of Mary Jane shoes, some in plastic, most in patent leather, every color accompanied for to match the many pastel colors, fabrics and designs of the dresses.

Once Upon A Time in Latin America: Part 1

Once Upon A Time in Latin America

Copyright © 2020 Dave Potter

Plaza Morazan, Tegucigalpa, Honduras, Sunday 1st September 2019

The man sitting at the table in the café overlooking Tegucigalpa’s cathedral put down the copy of La Prensa he had been reading and looked up. The newcomer sat down in the seat next to him and gestured towards the waitress who was standing nearby. She came scuttling over and he ordered an espresso in accented Spanish. He then gestured to the other man and he nodded.” The girl walked off again and both men eyed the wiggle of her curvaceous rump as moved. Then, the newcomer turned to his companion.

“Did you read them?”

“Of course I did.”


“What can I say? They are works of erotica, designed to titillate and excite. Not badly written too. I quite enjoyed them. They did the job.”

“But technologically possible?”

The other man took off his sunglasses and looked his companion in the eyes. “You serious about this?”

“Of course,” he replied without emotion.

The first man sat back and stroked his beard. “Hmm, what can I say? You sent me two pieces, yes? The first, by this Cafterhomme fellow, that I can say is not entirely technologically possible. In the future, maybe… probably, but now, no. He talks of plasticised skin, eyes where the gaze can be locked in middle distance and so on. These things are fantasy only… for now. The other things he describes, maybe; some of them, definitely. And then the second work, by this Dave Potter. Now that, that is achievable. It is natural; he sets his in the past, the 1960s. Less tech. This Cafterhomme is in the future. More tech. We are between the two. So all of the Potter and some of the Homme if this makes sense.”

The newcomer nodded and then took a piece of paper from out of his suit pocket. He handed it to his companion.

“Is that possible?” he asked.

The bearded man perused it, reading the text and studying the diagrams. The waitress reappeared carrying the coffees and he folded the paper up before she arrived.  She placed the coffees before them and then left again. Both men sipped theirs slowly whilst letting their eyes wander around the plaza. Then the bearded man drained his cup, folded up his newspaper and rose to leave.

 “It is possible,” he said. “Deliver her to me on Thursday.”

Praia de Copacabana, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, Monday 2nd September 2019

Adriana Mendes stretched herself out on the sun lounger and let the rays soak into her oiled skin, perfecting her already-impressive tan. She was happy. For the first time in… well, far too long, she was truly happy. She had just returned from the first of her lectures at the Rio de Janeiro State University and was now seeing out the rest of her day lounging on the most glorious beach in the world. For a girl from a small town and poor family, to reach such heights was unheard of. But she had worked hard since finishing school as a nanny to spoilt rich children and saved every penny that she’d earned. The job had also had the advantage of getting her noticed by some of Brazil’s new rich and, with her classical Spanish looks, that meant that she had managed to acquire a wealthy boyfriend.

She’d seen Roberto Coelho as a boon at first. He showered gifts and money on her, and she ate with him in all the best restaurants. He’d been a friend of her employer, a fabulously wealthy hacienda-owner from Bahia Province, down in the big city for business. She’d given him her genuine affections, for she had never been the sort of girl to use people, and even offered him her virginity, but he had refused, saying that sex should be for married couples only. She’d liked that, it was proof that he honoured her as a woman and had values, but once the initial novelty of it all was over and done with, she found him and his socially conservative outlook on life, an increasingly hard man to date. Ten years older than her, his Catholic principles and dated morality came into sharp contrast with her impassioned feminism, not to mention his impassioned backing of that misogynist Bolsonaro and his fascist government. He became increasingly controlling and jealousy of what she was doing when not with him. Equally bad, once the veneer of his wealth had worn thin, she’d found him incredibly dull. All he thought about was money and morality. In July she had accompanied him to his hacienda in the north for a visit and he had got down on one knee and proposed. Put on the spot like that, in the glorious 19th century dining room with its magnificent chandelier, she had accepted for she’d feared his response had she not, but in the days that followed, when he spoke excitedly of a life on the estate, her rearing his children and never having to work, she knew in her heart that she could never cope with such a dull and fettered existence. And so, feeling guilty and mean, she had broken with him and sent him back her diamond engagement ring. That had salved her conscience somewhat since no gold-digger would ever contemplate such an act, although, if she were totally honest with herself, the thousands of dollars that she’d paid to enrol on her dream degree, came as much from his pocket as her labours. But now she felt liberated, dependent on no man and, after she had earned her degree, able to get a job that paid decently on the merits of her brain, not her body. It was a glorious feeling, as if her life were filled with light.

But then a shadow passed over her. Adriana opened her eyes to see a figure standing above her, blocking the sun from reaching her.

“I’m sorry,” said the lady in accented Portuguese, “but may I borrow some of your sunscreen. I have quite run out.”

“Of course,” she replied. The girl looked to be her own age but was definitely not local. She seemed friendly and nice. “Would you like me to rub it into your back?” she asked.

“Thank you, that is so kind!”

The girl’s name was Emilia and she was Italian, from Ravenna. “I am here to study,” she explained. “I have started a degree in Psychology at the Rio de Janeiro State University. The price is cheaper here than at home but the standard is as high.”

“Really? I’m also studying Psychology there! I attended my first lecture today, but I didn’t notice you, although there were a lot in the hall.”

“Professor Aguero?”

“That is the one!”

“I was sitting at the back, by the door.”

“That is why I missed you. I was down at the front.” The two students started chatting happily and quickly became friends. They seemed to have a lot in common and Adriana found Emilia bubbly and fun.

“You are my first Brazilian friend!” the Italian girl declared.

“And you are my first foreign friend!” the Brazilian laughed.

“Do you fancy joining me for a coffee in my flat? It’s not far from here.”

“I would love to!”

Emilia’s apartment was, as she suggested, less than a kilometre away. It was a beautiful place, tastefully furnished and with a great view of the beach. Adriana realised that her new friend must come from moneyed stock.

Soon the comfortingly familiar smell of coffee filled the air. Emilia came in bearing to cups and handed one to Adriana. She took a sip. It was rich and warm… gorgeous! She took another sip and Emilia smiled.

By the fourth sip she was feeling sleepy.

She still had half a cup when she passed out from the sedative.

Unnamed facility, in the mountains near El Paraiso on the Nicaraguan border, Honduras, Thursday 10th October 2019

Beyond the walls of the faceless, nameless, building the sound of the cicadas in the evening air was almost overpowering. Inside though, complete silence reigned. Whilst out there, everything was bathed in the warm glow of the tropical sun, here the light was sterile and human in source, for there were no windows to link one world with the other. Indeed, one could almost imagine at times that only this place existed and that the rest were but a dream. Or so thought the nurse who had bought the doctor and his visitor into the ward to see her patient.

The girl was sleeping as she had done since her arrival almost three weeks earlier. She had been a quite different creature then; they all left radically altered from how they’d come. Who they were and why these things were done to them, she had no conception. She had no need to know and these were not the sort of people who would react well to questions. She was paid ten times the salary that she could earn in even the local private institution to work here and that was that. She knew, deep down, that what they were doing was wrong, that these girls did not want or choose to be turned into fetishistic objects of sexual desire, outrageous parodies of womanhood. They probably didn’t deserve it either. But their plight had kept her family in food, paid for the school of three children and saved her mother from the demon of cancer. God would forgive her.

The nurse closed the door and left the two men with the sleeping girl.

“My my Carlos, she is a different creature entirely these days! Those lips! I could kiss her now.”

“The lips were the least of the work Don Roberto. If only you had asked for just lips and we would have been done in a few hours.”

“Oh, my special girl was always worth the full treatment. When I read that story on the internet, I thought, ‘That’s my little Adriana!’ and so, it seems, it is.”

“It has not been easy, Don Roberto, that I will say. Some of these procedures are new even to me. But I do agree, the vision is a worthy one. I somehow suspect that, when she is released upon society, I shall be having quite a few similar orders. She could become a craze.”

“Ha! A pioneer of fashion! Well, that would be something. But, pray tell me Doctor, what have you done exactly and how long until she is ready?”

“Indeed. Well, the first and most difficult job was the neck. What you envisioned, that has never been done before. I warned you that it was risky but not impossible. Well, we took the risk and she is with us and the surgery worked.

But, what have we done? Well to answer that I shall have to get technical. I found that the design considerations required a very invasive procedure of fixation, yet traction and fusing with a metal plate were too crude for your needs. So instead I painstakingly replaced every pad of cartilage between her cervical vertebrae and inserted a special cushion, a sac filled with a firm gel. This acts much like the missing cartilage but provide some current and the gel inside becomes dynamically viscous, almost to the point of solidity and crystallisation. Let me demonstrate. Lean over to her and feel under her collarbone here.”

The newcomer did as instructed.

“Can you feel something like a button under the skin?”

“Yes, yes, I can.”

“Press it and keep it depressed. Now, what you are doing is releasing a small current which is, as I explained earlier, turning the gel inside becomes dynamically viscous, that is to say, from almost a solid to something more flexible. Now, trying repositioning her neck at the angle you’d prefer.”

Using his other hand, the man pushed the sleeping girl’s forehead. Her neck tipped back until her face was almost at right angles from her body.

“Take your finger off the button and then try to move it.”

He did as bid but the neck was virtually solid. Indeed, as he pulled it hard, the sleeping figure groaned in her slumber.

“It is rather painful to her to try to move it without the button being depressed. She can try of her own accord, but she will not succeed. The gel is now almost solidified.”


“Indeed, but very time-consuming, let me tell you. However, for me it was nice to have a professional challenge of that calibre. As I said before, this was extremely dangerous and had a high risk of damaging her spinal cord, but I’m glad to say it was a success and now works perfectly! The battery pack inside her sternum is functioning properly and may require a bit of juice but only every 6 months or so, hold this device up to wirelessly charge, and voila!”

He passed his companion a small charger pack.

“The next operation was the eyes. Her eyes were quite a bit more ‘Wild West’ as our gringo friends say. I decided from the outset to implement ophthalmoplegia, which is the generic term for eye motion disorder as in my opinion it was the only way of achieving the effect outlined in your vision for her. By numbing the eye muscles carefully, deadening nerves, she should have no ability to look about, and her ability to focus should be retained, as that is all in the eye itself, though she may experience a bit of double vision at times. However, by using a similar switch to the one for the neck located here: (presses the switch and Adriana’s eyes look up to her eyebrows) we can crudely trigger the upward muscles with a voltage, pulling up with no resistance down, as I would normally have here, see? Release the voltage and tension and her eyes slowly return to the central position.”

“Marvellous! Doctor, I am truly impressed! But is it permanent?”

“Entirely permanent, Don Roberto.”

“And what was next? These babies?” He squeezed the two enormous breasts that protruded upwards from her frame. After the caresses they sprung back into their almost spherical position.

“Correct, Don Roberto. Again, bread and butter for us, although the increased milk capacity request was a little more unusual. Breast implants are the work we are asked to do most often, followed by lip enhancements and butt jobs. We did her lips and breasts at the same time with her lying on her back. No buttock work needed though with this one as God has provided her with an impressive backside naturally.”

“It is what first attracted me to her. But, as you know, her tits were so small. I suggested when we were dating that I would pay for implants, but she was dead against it. She thought that fake titties were demeaning to her as a woman.”

“Oh dear, she won’t like these puppies then. One litre gel form in each, just like the girl in the story.”

“Life imitates art.”

“Indeed. Now, following this was the waist. A simple, albeit extreme operation. Her lower ribs have been removed and then her corset fitted. Over the years, you can get it to lace down further – whilst she has been lying there, we have reduced her size considerably – but it is not necessary really. She now has a minute waist of 40cm which, when one considers her extremely wide hips – a true Brazilian girl there! – and what we have done immediately above, then the effect is overwhelming.”

“Indeed it is! I have fallen in love all over again!”

“That is because you are a romantic, Don Roberto.”

“Aren’t we all deep down, Carlos?”

“Perhaps so, perhaps so. Anyway, after that I turned to her arms. Although they appear to be complex, the operation was much simpler than the neck since it involved well-established procedures, bread and butter for this institution. Upon her arrival here, we bound them using ropes behind her back and then slowly worked them into the required position, a few millimetres each day, whilst we worked on the other parts. The bed is made with a special indentation to accommodate them whilst we worked on her lying on her back. By the time the eyes were done, they were in place, reverse prayer as it is called, palm to palm in silent supplication behind her back. I then spent a considerable amount of time on the joints in her shoulders and arms. The cartilage process from before would be much too intense for her arms and besides, she will not require the temporaneity, so pins and screws have been driven into many of her joints to affix the limbs in place, while botox has been injected in clusters to reduce her needless flexing and pulling at the upper skeleton, now rigid in place. I also cut quite a few ligaments to get her so tight and proper, so will most likely feel a bit of pain for a few weeks or so, though all the surface incisions are healing up nicely and the smaller ones are already invisible due to our excellent team here!”

“Excellent indeed. And what was next?”

“The vaginal work. Again, as outlined in the story. Very simple really. Her clit is now hidden away behind her sewn-up slit with the decorative cross covering it and thus denying her any opportunity for sexual release. All the remains is a puckered orifice, not dissimilar to the anus for the release of fluids.”

“As in the story, although I do want this changing after marriage.”

“That you made clear to us. However, things are not entirely as in the story. Try inserting your finger into her puckered orifice.”

Don Roberto did as bid, causing the girl to stir slightly in her slumber.

“By the Virgin, it is impossible! There is something in there!”

“A further chastity measure that I have devised and wished to trial. Attached inside of the orifice is a metal mesh. Water can pass through, but no penetration may occur. Obviously for removal after marriage, but since we’re working on her then anyway, I thought why not? My aim is to inspire some fathers with wayward daughters to invest in the measure.”

“And so they should. Excellent work, Carlos, excellent indeed. So, after her pussy, what then did you turn to?”

“The voice. Induced puberphonia it is referred to. We have a thyroplasty expert here who did all of that. Basically, he added laryngeal muscle tension, causing the vocal folds to tighten and raise. The result: she sounds like a ten-year old. I’m intrigued; we rarely get asked to do stuff along those lines; what was your thinking?”

“To reflect the vision in the story primarily, but also, well… it will be a lesson for her. She has a strange opinion of herself, that her primary worth is as some sort of academic who everyone reveres for her big brain. But no, it is her big ass I revere, and now these titties, and her tiny waist. They are what make her who she is, not her thoughts on Sigmund Freud or Frank Skinner. This voice will remind her of that every time that I allow her to use it: she is first and foremost my little girl.”

“Nice. And that, I think, is all. I have explained the new Adriana to you.”

“What about the feet?”

They both looked down at the sleeping girl’s feet which were encased in white leather en-pointe boots, making the toes point straight down in line with the leg.

“No surgery needed there, just training. She has them released daily and is massaged for cramp, but she will never walk flat-footed again. Just keep her booted and she will totter delightfully forevermore.”

“Carlos, I cannot thank you enough. She is… incredible!”

“Don Roberto, you had the vision and paid the bill.”

“That is true, but even so, I thank you. You truly are an artist! But when can I have her to play with?”

“She is ready now, but I suggest she rest for a couple of more days. We can arrange transportation for Saturday, and she should wake on the Sabbath. She will be in and out of consciousness for a few hours and will be unable to walk for several weeks. Learning to manipulate this new body of hers will take time. The institution also will give her a full makeover once she arrives in her new home so that she is pleasing for you when she awakes. It is all part of the service.”


Hacienda Coelho, Bom Jesus da Lapa, Brazil, Monday 14th October 2019

Adriana Mendes opened her eyes and surveyed the wondrous Cross. The image of a tortured saviour hanging on a tree; that eternal promise of salvation for all who believe in Him. She wondered where she was. She had no crucifix on her wall at home and, what was weird, this one appeared to be hung upside down. Hadn’t St. Peter or St. Andrew or some other apostle been crucified in that manner? She tried to recall something of her childhood Catholic school education, but it remained fuzzy.

Like her brain and her recollections.

There was a warm breeze blowing in through a window and the room was suffused with light. She felt like she had been asleep for ages! Then, slowly, she began to remember; she recalled going to Emilia’s apartment to drink coffee and then… That was the last she could recall. Was that where she was now? Perhaps she had passed out? Perhaps this was Emilia’s bedroom? She turned her head to look around and her heart skipped a beat. A feeling of dis-ease passed over her body like a dark cloud on a sunny day. Something was wrong!

Her head wouldn’t turn!

She reached out with her arm and a jolt of real panic passed through her breast. Her arm wouldn’t respond. Neither of her arms responded! Then she realised that her head was jacked back, and she was staring at the headboard, above which a crucifix was hung. She screamed and a high-pitched squeal filled the room.

An hour later she had learnt much and inside her head, wished that she was still ignorant. Indeed, she wished that she had never woken up from what had been, as she suspected, her very long slumber.

The room was not in Emilia’s apartment. Instead it was the guest bedroom in the hacienda mansion of her ex-boyfriend Roberto. How she had got there and in what state was currently causing her to be on the brink of a mental breakdown.

It transpired that she had been drugged and brought to Roberto’s place. After all, she was his fiancé since she had agreed to marry him, so it was only natural that she should be taken there. That she had later retracted that agreement and terminated their relationship seemed to be of no consequence. “Your mind was unbalanced, my darling,” he had said, stroking her forehead. “Do not fear, that horrible period of doubt is now past; you are back where you belong, and I am still willing to accept you as my wife.”

“But I no longer want to marry you, Rob!” she had protested.

“Merely nerves, the doubts of an unbalanced young lady,” he had replied patronisingly. Then his tone had changed subtly. “You may think that now, but you will not for long. You will tell me that you wish to marry me, and I will accept. A promise, once made, cannot be broken. Until then though, for the sake of your reputation as much as mine, we shall pretend to be man and wife. In the eyes of the world, we went away and married somewhere exotic. Then you had a little remedial work done to prepare you for your new and happy life and now, finally, we have returned home. You are now Dona Adriana Coelho, the Lady of the House.”

More worrying than all of this was the “little remedial work” he had casually mentioned. For she had not travelled directly from Emilia’s apartment to Don Roberto’s home, but instead stopped off, for several weeks, in some unnamed hospital where they had… changed her.


After she had screamed that high-pitched, squeaky scream, people had come running. Servants, a nurse, a nun and her ex-boyfriend. They’d calmed her down and bathed her forehead. Then Roberto had started explaining where she was. Her mind was in denial. It couldn’t be true! This was like some nightmare from which she would soon wake up. But she didn’t wake up. Instead it got even more surreal. He leaned over her and pressed his finger into her collar bone. Immediately, she felt a change in her neck which had been rigidly stuck in position. It could flex again, but only in one direction. Using his other hand he adjusted her head so that it was in a more normal position. That was when she saw the full-length mirror on the ceiling above her bed.

And that is when she saw the figure in the mirror.

In her mind she knew that it was her. She knew how mirrors work and so it could not be anyone else. After all, standing over the figure was Roberto. But at the same time she could not link that… thing… on the bed with her.

It was her of course. The face was clearly hers although the lips were now significantly larger. But the rest was some alien being. Some alien being with enormous obviously fake spherical breasts, a minute waist that looked ready to snap and, most worryingly of all, no arms. There were shoulders, but no arms attached to them, or, if they were, they were behind her back. Once the initial panic had subsided, she realised it was the latter, for she could feel them, nestled against her back somehow. Feel them, yes, but not move them.

Nor was that the only thing she could not move. Her eyes were also fixed, gazing straight ahead. She could focus them, distance to close and vice versa, but not look around! What the hell had happened to her?

“What have you done to me?” she asked the man she’d once tried to love weakly, as tears flowed from her eyes. Again, her voice had come out squeaky and high, like that of a little girl.

“Sister, will you explain?” was all that Roberto said.

And that was when she first came face-to-face with Sister Carina.

She was a nun, her stern face framed by a black habit. A large cross dangled from her neck. “Dona Adriana, you have been blessed to receive the Seven Sacred Gifts,” she intoned. “Seven holy boons to counter the seven cardinal sins and promote the seven cardinal virtues.”

Adriana hadn’t a clue what she was on about.

She soon learnt.

“Dona Adriana, you have neglected your spiritual life and let the ways of the world infect you. Your beloved husband is helping to bring you back to Christ through the bestowing of these gifts. Your feet now stand permanently on tiptoes, to combat sloth and encourage diligence. Your private area has undergone an operation that will combat lust and encourage chastity. Your waist is now compressed to 36cm as a way of fighting gluttony and promoting temperance. Your arms are configured in the beautiful reverse prayer fashion so as to fight wrath and heighten patience. Your breasts have been enlarged and improved as a weapon against greed and bulwark to support charity whilst your voice is now pure and innocent like that of an infant, a sword to slay envy and a shield to defend kindness. And finally, your gaze now reaches heavenwards towards your true home, a blessing that fells the sin of pride and exalts your humility. For these seven blessings and the man who gave them to you, we shall now pray.”

Her voice drifted into nothingness as she intoned her mantras. Adriana – or whoever that doll-like freak lying there on the bed was – was in shock, simply unable to take it all in.

Part 2


La Maison des Poupees: Part 1

La Maison des Poupees

Chapter 1

“She is exquisite, absolutely adorable!” exclaimed Lady Catherine Hetherington.
“I know dear, quite the pretty picture,” replied her companion, the Duchess of Beverley.
“Her dress, deportment, dancing and speech are all quite flawless. My, what a pleasant change from the majority of today’s young ladies, if ‘ladies’ be the correct term to use, most hardly deserve the title.”
“I quite agree with you there, dear. More like serving maids than girls of distinction. Quite a change from our day, which after all, was only thirty years or so ago.”
“I know, it’s disgraceful, the debasement of society. But she, well, she is a delight, everything that a young lady should be!”
Lady Catherine took out her spectacles and peered through them intently. “And her waist, why it must be no larger than fifteen inches!”
“Smaller than that, my dear, thirteen to be exact!”
“Well I never!”
The ‘exquisite’, ‘adorable’ creature whom the two ladies were admiring was Lady Roberta Godfrey, the newly-married bride of the Duchess’ son, Lord Stephen. It was her first ball since the wedding and she had arrived in the finest dress imaginable, a fantasia of blue silk with fine lace and decorated with innumerable sprays of real roses that her maid had painstakingly pinned on that very afternoon. The fine plumage and vast, billowing crinoline, coupled with her pretty porcelain white complexion, attractive bosom, small hands and minute waist, guaranteed that without doubt, she truly was the proverbial ‘belle of the ball’.  Her graceful poise and elegant chatter merely confirmed the vision of feminine perfection.
“She looks more like a china doll than a real lady, I do declare!” announced Lady Catherine. “However did Stephen find her?”
“It was when he was in France, he received an invitation to a ball organised by the finishing school that she attended. The moment that he set his eyes on her, he was captivated, you know how young men are. Anyway, a week later he proposed to her by letter and the girl accepted. It seems that she too had been quite taken with him at the ball.”
“Delightful! A true life romance in this day and age.”
“He did well, indeed. We so feared whom he might choose. That Isabella Hawthorpe whom he courted for a while, well…”
“Oh, my dear, you don’t need to tell me, I’ve met the girl, an absolute dragoon, and her mother…”
“Oh! I know, a dreadful woman, most dreadful indeed!”
“If only our Arabella were more like that.”
“Arabella, oh, how is she getting on?”
“Don’t ask my dear, don’t ask. It’s dreadful, most dreadful!”

I feel reader that perhaps I should explain.  Arabella Hetherington was Lady Catherine’s fourteen year-old niece. Six months previously, both her parents had been killed in a malaria epidemic that had swept its way through Britain’s Indian Empire, where they had lived and her father had worked as a civil servant to the Crown. As her godparent, Lady Catherine had been obliged to assume responsibility for the girl, but since her arrival at Rudyard Hall, things had not run smoothly.
In India, Arabella had been used to getting her own way most of the time. With countless servants at her beck and call, she had spent her days doing as she pleased, riding her pony and generally lounging around the villa. Her parents had not been strict, quite the opposite in fact. They believed strongly in personal freedoms, and her mother was a very early feminist. Their type was rare in Britain, and they were considered queer and quirky by most and utter embarrassment by the family. At fashionable gatherings they were often shunned, and Mary Hetherington’s refusal even to wear a corset led to her ostracisation by many of her peers. Their incompatibility with aristocratic English life was one of the main reasons behind Hugh Hetherington deciding to take up the offer of a post in Mumbai. It was also the reason behind Lord Hetherington, his father, talking to some high-up friends of his in the government, who made sure that Hugh was offered a post as far away from Britain as possible.
Consequently, Arabella was, in her aunt’s eyes at least, quite a disaster. She roamed around the house at will, continually engaged herself in boyish pursuits in the hall gardens, and refused any sort of feminine training whatsoever. Although she’d only been at Rudyard Hall for four months, she’d already caused two governesses to hand in their notice, and Lady Catherine was sure that the third was preparing her letter of resignation at that very moment.

“My dear, she is absolutely awful. I cannot begin to describe the turmoil that she has created within my home since her arrival.”
The Duchess placed her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “What sort of turmoil, my dear?”
“Oh, unimaginable turmoil. For a start, when she arrived, she brought with her her nurse from India. I couldn’t believe it, what would people think, a brown person in my house?  It’s wholly unacceptable!”
“Quite right.”
“And then she spent most of her days wandering about half-dressed!”
“Why ever did she do that?”
“That’s exactly what I asked her, and the insolent little miss merely replied that that is how she had dressed out east and that is how she would dress here also.”
“Well, little miss,” I said to her, ‘You are not in India now, and here in Britain you must dress and act like a lady.’  But did she heed my words? Not at all! We tried getting her into a corset and crinoline, but when we did eventually manage to lace a corset onto her, the little hussy merely went and fetched a letter opener, sliced through the laces, and then ran through the house screaming obscenities!”
“Well, I never!”
“It’s true, dear, it’s all true. She spends her time talking to servants, climbing trees and swimming in ponds. I can’t control her, and her governesses can’t either.”
At this point Lady Catherine began to weep. “I’m quite at a loss! I’m sorry dear, I know that I shouldn’t be getting so emotional, but I really am at my wit’s end. No school will accept her – what am I to do? I promised to look after her, but I do declare that she is beyond looking after. Who am I to turn to?”
“There, there my dear, dry your eyes.” The Duchess handed her friend a handkerchief. “Do you know what, your story reminds me of a tale told to me recently by the mother of another young lady that I know…  Oh my, what she was telling me about how awfully rebellious the little madam was, and what a tomboy too! She sounds even worse than your Arabella!”
“But does this story have a happy ending, dear?” asked Lady Catherine, miserably.
“Indeed it does, my dear, indeed it does.”
Lady Catherine looked up in surprise. “Then what is it?”
“ ‘It is over there, my dear.”
And at that the Duchess pointed towards the exquisite Lady Roberta.

*    *    *    *

Several days later, we find Lady Catherine seated in the drawing room of Bickersley House, home of Lady Bickerley, Roberta’s mother.
“Lady Catherine, you would not believe, my, she was terrible, absolutely awful!  Far worse than even your niece sounds!”
“Is that possible?”
“Entirely! Why, she used to go around, shouting profanities, breaking crockery, dressing in boy’s clothes… Oh! I shudder to recall it!”
“But Lady Roberta is so, so delightful now. What caused her to change?”
“One thing, Lady Catherine, or perhaps I should say one place, La Maison de Poupees.”
“La Maison de Poupees, ‘The House of Dolls’?”
“Correct, Lady Catherine. A strange name I admit, but an absolutely first class establishment. It was the school that we sent her too, on the recommendation of a close and dear friend.”
“A school! Is it in France?”
“No, Madam, not at all. Actually, it’s in Imperial Russia!”
“Yes, it’s located in a large mansion in the midst of some forest. Russia is full of forests I believe.”
“But sending her to Russia, I mean, is it safe? So far from Britain, or indeed any civilisation at all; we don’t even own it do we?”
“I don’t think that we do, and I admit that I too had my doubts, as a mother you know. But our friend recommended it so, and well, you’ve seen the results, I couldn’t ask for a better daughter. I can’t speak highly enough of the place. Would you like the details, Lady Catherine? I can easily write you an introduction to the headmistresses, a half French lady by the name of Dorozhkina.”
“Do you think that she could really sort Arabella out, though?”
“Madam, if she’s managed to make a lady out of my Roberta, then she could make a lady out of any girl!”

Chapter 2

“You seem down today, Arabella, whatever is the matter with you? A lady should try and appear content at all times, even when she is not.”
“I miss India, aunt. Why can’t I go back overseas? I know so many people there, it’s my home really.”
Arabella had been itching to get back to India from the moment that she’d set foot on English soil. She hated her so-called native land, with its dreary light, constant drizzle and uptight, cold people (most of all her aunt and uncle), with their stupid ‘stiff upper lip’ attitude; people that her fun and freedom-loving parents had despised. My how she missed her former life in the Raj, and my how she missed her mother and father, whom she wept over every night before she fell asleep. No, she longed for India, with her darling nurse Navinda, the long hot summers and drenching monsoons rains into which she used to run and dance until she was soaked to the skin. She’d never been the best behaved girl, but not unbeknown to her aunt, she was deliberately playing up. Her plan was a simple one; to annoy her godparents so much that they’d have enough and send her back to where she came from.
“Well, don’t you worry too much, Arabella,” her uncle announced, “you’ll be going back overseas soon enough.”
Her ears pricked up. “Overseas, uncle?”
“Yes miss, overseas. Your aunt and I have decided that since you have proved to be quite uneducatable at home, you must be sent away to school, to an establishment where it is to be hoped that they can make a proper lady out of you.”
“But I don’t want to be a boring proper lady, and Mama didn’t want me to be one too!  I’m me, and that’s that!”
“My little miss, what you want or do not want is quite immaterial. You are under our protection by law now, and you will continue to be until you come of age or marry. As for your dear Mama’s wishes…” He snorted. “Well you see what a mess my sister’s ridiculous notions have caused already!”
“Don’t you insult my mama!  Go to hell!”
“Arabella!” Lady Catherine was aghast.
Her husband however, merely thumped his fist down onto the table. “And don’t you blaspheme in my house! You are going away to school, and that is that!”
Arabella knew that she was beaten. “A school in India?” she asked pitifully.
Her uncle smiled cruelly. “Oh, no miss, not in India at all.”
“Where then?”
“In Russia, Arabella, Imperialist Russia.”
Russia! Land of steppes, forest and tundra. The realm of the tsar and a country of cold, cold weather. Even Rudyard Hall seemed like paradise compared with that. It was like a different planet entirely, compared to India.
“Russia!  No, uncle, please!”
“Oh yes, Arabella, Russia!”

Chapter 3

Arabella sat glumly in the stagecoach watching the seemingly endless forest pass by the window. Opposite her sat a burly man, a Russian, who spoke not a word of English. She knew that for sure from when she had asked him something earlier. The simple reply of “Nyet!” was sufficient. Throughout her entire journey from Rudyard Hall she had been accompanied by someone or other to make sure that she did not attempt to run away. Not that she would have tried even if she was alone, after all, where would she go and what could she do? She had not a penny upon her and besides, how bad could a school be? She would simply annoy the headmistress enough until she was sent back to Britain in disgrace. And from there onto India, she hoped… And if all else failed, there was always her secret letter. She felt her coat pocket carefully, yes, it was still there!
The journey had not been a pleasant one. The ship had hit stormy waters almost as soon as it had left the Thames and, when the storms finally abated, the freezing cold had set in. All the way to Murmansk she had wrapped herself up in her furs and stayed in the cabin, rarely venturing up onto the deck.  Then, there had been the long train journey to a place named Shalakusha. Arabella had never heard of it before, and no wonder, too.  It was little more than a wooden platform and a collection of peasant’s huts in the middle of nowhere.  And from there this stagecoach ride through the vast forests of Northern Russia – mile upon mile of trees and not another vehicle or person in sight. How long had she been travelling, she knew not. Hours and hours and hours and hours…
“Uh!” The Russian nudged her and grunted. Arabella, who had been dozing off looked up at him, he was pointing out of the window. She stuck her head out into the icy evening air and looked forward. There it was! Up ahead stood a huge mansion built in the traditional wooden style. They passed through two gateposts, on one, written in French, was the school’s name, La Maison des Poupees.

Chapter 4

Arabella was stood in the middle of a plush office, her baggage by her side. In front of her, stood very erect, was a thin woman with a serious visage and a steely gaze. She was clothed in a dark blue dress with a large crinoline and a tiny waist.
“Parlez vous Francais?” snapped the lady.
“No, I’m sorry, I speak only English,” replied Arabella.
The lady tutted, “Anglais, anglais,” she muttered. Then she looked up and said, in strongly-accented English, “You will learn soon. Today I will speak English to you, it will be the last time. In
La Maison des Poupees we converse only in French.”
She paused and looked Arabella up and down. “You do not corset?” she asked, with a look of disgust.
“No, I never have. My mama did not think it necessary.”
The woman gave a look of horror and tutted once more.
“You will.” She paused again and looked Arabella in the face. “I am Mme. Dorozhkina,” she announced, “the Headmistress here, and the person under whom’s care you are now in. I have been charged with the task of transforming you into a lady.
It will not be easy, but it is possible, I assure you.”
“Do not interrupt! Do you know what la Maison des Poupees means in English?”
“No, Mme, I do not.”
“It means ‘The House of Dolls’, or ‘The Doll’s House’. Why is my establishment called ‘The House of Dolls’, Mme Hetherington?”
“I don’t know.”
“I call it that because that is what a lady should be like, a doll. Her appearance should be flawless, her dress immaculate and she should be silent. A lady of distinction is, like it or not, a pretty accessory to her husband, like a doll is an accessory to a child. That is all, do you understand?”
“No, Mme. Dorozhkina, I do not! I am not a pretty accessory or a doll and I never shall be. I am Arabella Hetherington and a person in my own right, my mama taught me that!”
Mme. Dorozhkina laughed. “Mme, you are not even Arabella any longer, let alone an individual. Within these walls you shall be known as ‘Justine’, is that understood?”
“No. I am Arabella, not Justine.”
“Justine, you are Justine and that is final! Now welcome to la Maison des Poupees, I am a busy lady and it is getting late.  Come!”
“No, just you wait here a minute!” Arabella took out her secret weapon, her mother’s letter, from her coat pocket and thrust it towards Mme. Dorozhkina. The Headmistress took it and read it out loud.

“To Whom it may concern,

I am writing to you as the mother of Arabella, the child you see before you. Should I depart from this earth to another place, I wish it to become known how I wish my only child to be brought up. Both my husband and I have educated her from her earliest days to realise the importance of others and of her own brilliant character. I wish this process to be continued. Any attempts to transform her into just another mere society miss meets with my sternest disapproval. She is destined for great things, of that I have no doubt, I trust that you may help her to achieve them.

Yours faithfully, Elizabeth Hetherington, Mumbai, India, 1857.”

“Well, well,” said the Headmistress, after she had folded the letter up. “So these are your mother’s wishes then?”
“Indeed they are Mme.”
“Hmm, and do you have a copy of this letter at all?”
“No, Mme, I do not.”
“That’s a pity,” said Dorozhkina, who then, to Arabella’s amazement, walked over to the roaring fire and placed the letter upon it.
“No!” screamed Arabella.
“It seems that no one will ever know,” laughed the Headmistress, “which is for your own benefit. Such ideas are the bane of this day and age, and they do not permeate into these four walls. Now, we are running late!  Come!”
Arabella couldn’t believe it, her hope had literally just disappeared in flames. What sort of woman was this Mme. Dorzhkina, what sort of lady would do that, destroy the wishes of a dying lady? She was aghast, but what choice did she have? The burly Russian had entered the room and Dorozhkina was beckoning her outside, she followed glumly, after all, she had no choice.
Arabella traipsed behind the Headmistress down innumerable corridors until she stopped at a door which Mme. Dorzhkina unlocked, opened and entered. Upon entry she found it to be a rather pleasant little bedroom, complete with a dressing table and single beds. Dorozhkina beckoned her over to the other side of the room where there was a door.
“Undress and bathe!” she commanded, “The bathroom is through there. We shall return within twenty minutes. Be ready and dressed it the chemise shift that you will find by the bath side!”
And at that she departed, leaving a bewildered Arabella to slowly strip of her clothing and climb into the already-prepared, steaming hot bath.

Chapter 5

Twenty minutes later, Arabella stood in the middle of the room dressed in only a shift, when Mme. Dorozhkina re-entered, accompanied by a stern-looking maid.
“Justine, this is Svetelina, she will be your maid from now on. She does not speak English, or Francais,so that should save you the temptation of trying to converse with her. A young lady should never converse with underlings unless she has to.”
“My name is Arabella, not Justine.”
The Headmistress ignored the remark and commanded, “Come over here!”
Arabella made her way across the room to where the two women stood. Above them, dangling from the ceiling, was a rather strange contraption, which looked a little like the trapeze that she had once seen at a circus that had visited Mumbai.
“Do you know what this is?” asked Dorozhkina.
“A trapeze?” ventured Arabella.
“Th ignorance of her! This, Justine, is a lacing bar; we ladies use it to corset.”
“I I am not corsetting!” shouted the girl.
“Svetilina!” the Headmistress snapped. The she uttered she command in Russian. The stern maid came up to Arabella and grabbed both of her hands.
“Hey! Get your hands off me! Let go!”
But Svetilina did not let go. Instead she brought the girl’s hands up to the so-called Lacing Bar and by means of leather straps, attached them to the device! Arabella now stood, completely helpless, her hands above her head. “What’s the meaning of this?” she demanded.
“You shall see,” replied the Headmistress, who then went to the wall and pulled some sort of lever. Slowly the bar started to rise, taking Arabella with it! Just as her feet were about to leave the ground, it stopped.
“This bar helps us considerably when it comes to tight-lacing. By stretching the body as such, we can reduce the waist further than can be done my standard lacing methods. Of course it’s not the most severe method we have here at La Maison des Poupees, but it will do for now.”
“Let me go! Let me down! What do you think you are doing?”
“Svetinlina, we cannot be having this racket!” Mme. Dorozhkina issued another command to the maid who pulled out of her pocket what looked like a ball, affixed the a leather strap. The ball was then, to Arabella’s surprise and disgust, then shoved into the young girl’s mouth, and tied tightly behind her head. She could complain no longer, nor indeed make any sound louder than a grunt. Mme. Dorozhkina smiled at this latest development and then said, “That’s better, silence.” She then issued some more commands to Svetilina, who went over to a wardrobe and returned carrying a small white object; a corset!
“These, Justine, are night stays. Shorter and less severe than the training corsets that you shall soon become accustomed to wearing. We ladies wear them in our sleep to ensure that our bodies keep the fine shape that our day corsets mould them into. Svetilina!”
The maid then fitted the stays around Arabella’s torso and started to pull at the back.
“As this is the first time that you have worn stays, we shall not be too severe,” the Headmistress announced.
The maid pulled away, and Arabella felt like she had been punched in the stomach. She tried to breathe, but could not, the stays were compressing her lungs so. And Mme. Dorozhkina said that they would not be severe! If this was light lacing, she didn’t bear to think what the day corsets would be like! Just as she was beginning to feel dizzy, Svetilina stopped pulling, and the Headmistress took out a tape measure. “56 centimetres!” she announced, “That’s about 22 inches to you.
Hmm, your waist is not large and appears to be quite pliable, I am sure we can do well with you, Justine.” Svetilina lowered the lacing bar and freed Arabella’s hands from their restraints. As her weight was transferred to her feet once again, Arabella felt the pressure on her waist grew and it tried its hardest to return to its former shape. The Headmistress led her over to a full length mirror.
“Look, Justine, don’t you notice the difference? You are so much prettier already!”
Arabella looked at herself in the mirror. She certainly did look different, but she didn’t know that it was an improvement.  She had never, unlike many girls her age, aspired to be wasp-waisted, and she didn’t like it being imposed on her now.  Besides, she was sure, whatever the improvement in appearance, it was not worth all the discomfort. Her gag, however,
prevented her from responding verbally, so she merely shook her head.
“Never mind, you will change,” said Mme. Dorozhkina. “Now to bed!”
Svetilina led her over to one of the single beds and Arabella got in.
“Just one thing, Justine,” said Mme. Dorzhkina, “Show me your hands.”
Arabella was puzzled but she did as instructed. As soon as she did, the burly Russian maid grabbed her wrists, pulled them together in front of her and snapped handcuffs on them!
“Just to make sure that you don’t get any silly notions of trying to loosen your corset, Justine. Good night!”
And at that, she left, leaving a confused and startled young girl in the bed, unable to speak and in great discomfort from her overly tight corset.

Part 2



Copyright © 2020, Slothargy


My eyelids had closed automatically when he kissed me goodnight, but I fought sleep for as long as I could. The nightmares caught me eventually, though, as they always do.


They drag me back to the cold metal table. Back to the blazing lights overhead, silhouetted forms of men above me, black shadows against the bright white.

They hold me down under the light. I scream and kick, but they grab hold of my legs and take them away. Gone.

I try to claw them with my hands, to shield myself with my arms. They take those, too.

I desperately bite at their fingers as they cut away my voice, but they have already taken my teeth. I am silent.
Much later, they aren’t holding me down anymore. Instead, two heavy weights on my chest pin me to the table just as effectively. I suck air through my mouth, now a tight wet tube capped by lips both plump and coy. I watch the huge mounds on chest rise and fall but not enough makes it to my constricted lungs. I can’t breathe. My thighs flail, beating my useless stumps on the table. I can’t-


I woke sobbing. Or, trying to. My brain sent the signals but my body did not respond. A subtle, soundless waver in my breathing was the only result. No tears from eyes that could not even open until he kissed me good morning. The nightmare quickly faded, as it always does, leaving only the terror and a vague memory.

He suddenly squeezed me tight and my quivering breath caught. He could be so kind when I was in one of my bleak moments. Positively doting, when he noticed. Had he understood, somehow, that I desperately needed to be comforted now?

But no…it was not empathy that provoked this embrace. He was nestled in the cleft of my rump, sleepily grinding himself against my silky skin. I felt a flash of frustration cut through the lingering terror. No, that was wrong. I concentrated and melted the frustration into affection, instead. He *was* responding to me, after all, but he’d simply misunderstood the message. My thrashing at the nightmare must have translated to the one motion my body could still produce on command: a gentle rocking of my hips. Pressed against him as I was, he had felt my panicked kicks instead as sensual rubbing to coax him from his own dreams. The motion had stopped when I awoke, much to his apparent displeasure. He squeezed harder, increasing the friction as he prodded forcefully down below. Just once, as a crude command. He wanted me to do the work.

It took considerable concentration to do awake what I had done by accident asleep, but I forced my muscles to obey. Slowly, I pulled him up the full cleavage of my ample bottom, then tugged him back down the same path. He sighed and I felt his whole body relax as I took over the stroking. Back and forth. His breathing slowed until I was sure he had returned to a pleasant near-sleep. I kept up my steady rocking. Back and forth. It was easier now that I’d gotten the rhythm. Back and forth. So simple, the extent of his demands on me. Slowly my mind drifted towards examining the jumble of emotions I felt towards this man; my owner.

Most of me loved him as deeply and truly as I thought it was possible to love. But the tiny part that remained from when I had been a woman, not a doll, knew the love I felt had been implanted by the men from my nightmares. Like the full, ever smiling lips that kissed or sucked whatever he wished, the breasts he loved to watch as they wobbled with every breath, or the over-plump bottom he was currently enjoying, my love was just another feature of a body that had been designed to give him pleasure. Knowing that brought such a strange mix of joy and anger. Anger, no, fury! That tiny voice in the back of my mind railed at what had been done to me. She was a barely recognizable ball of sorrow and rage, howling up from the depths of my soul. Turned from a person into a product, bought from a catalog and delivered in a cramped metal box! No, no, NO!

…And yet, her voice grew ever smaller as the weeks (…months?) went on. The rest of me surrendered to the inescapable bliss of being that product for him. To being the fulfillment of his every secret desire. I knew I would never have felt this way if I were still a woman, but as a doll I had no choice. I loved him, and so even though I hated what had been done to me I also loved that it had been for his sake.

He moaned and I realized my pace had accelerated. Lubricating fluid was leaking out from inside my bum (it was produced there naturally and in abundance) and he was now smoothly gliding up and down the slick crevice. Up and down. Faster. I was panting with the effort, heaving my massive breasts against the pressure of his arms. I huffed with exertion, and with that other emotion that the men had put into my head: lust. My body constantly took me to the precipice of its own accord, with pulses of pleasure and vibrations from deep inside that occurred at random throughout the day. I was always ready for him, always hungry for that final push over the edge. Now it was like I was hanging there by a thin thread, and the brush of a single finger could snap it and send me plummeting into rapture. Oh how I wished to reach down to the heat between my thighs! A simple touch would surely be enough, if I could only…

Suddenly the angle of his hips shifted and my downward motion caught the head of his cock on the puckered collagen ring lining the entrance to my ass. He felt the momentary hitch and seized the moment to thrust forward. I felt a stab of pain as the tight opening was forced open to welcome his entire shaft. My breath caught up short once more as the clenched muscles in my anal canal spasmed, what was for him a pleasant rolling wave of extra pressure along his length. That reflex was yet another gift I had received on that cold metal table. All of my holes had the same function, but where as the other two gave a soft slippery stroke, my rump clamped down on intruders with a purpose. His body shook and he let out another moan as he was engulfed and continuously pumped from base to tip. I knew no small part of his enjoyment came from the simple fact that I *was* designed, made for this very purpose, for his use.

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked my plastic face closer to his own, twisting my neck at an almost unnatural angle. That simple motion was beyond me under my own power but his hands easily moved me to where his lips met mine. It was enough. The thread snapped. Bliss exploded inside me, my eyes flew open, and everything was swallowed up by the rush.

The gushing river of ecstasy battered me deep into my own head. My vision shrank until I watched him kissing me through tiny pin pricks a thousand miles away. Even then he was so beautiful in the blue predawn light. Perfect. Just for me, as I was for him. The euphoric torrent ran through my whole body as a throbbing pulse. I could feel it all the way down my phantom limbs into my long gone toes. A bubbly, infantile gurgle emanated from deep in my throat. The only sound I can produce now, an involuntary reminder of what I have been reduced to.

That immodest noise and the orgasmic spasms still shooting through my body had an effect. He grunted against my lips and shuddered as his own climax erupted down below. My ass soaked it up hungrily, and another satisfied gurgle, almost a coo, escaped my lips as confused reflexes forced me to swallow a mouthful of my viscous drool.

He lay panting while I climbed down from my own high. Finally, he pulled out and settled back into a restful position. He patted my head and gave my a playful pinch to my plastic nipple.

“I love you, Cuddles.”

The woman in me flinched even as the doll soared to new heights. My name. My humiliating, dehumanizing name but said with such sincere affection. He knew when he bought me that I had been a person once. That name was meant to remind me that he would never see me that way. I was an object, his dumb little doll, and that was exactly why he loved me.

“I love you,” I thought to myself, and wished I could say it with all my heart. Wished that the last sliver of the woman I had been would finally surrender and dissolve completely into Cuddles the fuckdoll. I watched his eyes flutter and close. Soon he would wake again and leave me here, perhaps with a kiss, perhaps without a word, and venture into the world beyond this bed. That domain felt so foreign to me now. This was my place, my purpose. I would wait for him here, with nothing but my thoughts and the random pleasure pulses to occupy me, until he returned to use me again in the evening. It really was a good life, I told myself.

Aside from automated blinks my eyes could not shut again without permission. So I lay there, straining to stare at his sleeping face as the dawn light slowly filled the room. My owner. The sliver wailed, deep down, but I ignored her.

“I love you.”

St. Brigid’s School for Young Catholic Ladies: Part 5

Part 4

Chapter 12

I tottered down the aisle, my father steadying me at my side, blinded completely by the many layers of white veil that covered my face. My vast wedding gown billowed out around me making me a vision of virginial purity whilst my gloved hands in perfect prayer and upraised neck trumpeted my Catholic piety for all to see. Underneath those layers though, I was struggling with the exertion, puffing into the gag which would soon be removed, my mammoth breasts heaving at the effort of walking those hundred yards or so, a soft tinkling of bells ever-present as they bounced.

Suddenly my father motioned me to stop and the service began. It was hard to pay attention what with all my restraints, coverings and the almost impossible task of regaining my breath. But then, I found my veils being lifted and the gothic arches of St. Editha’s chancel ceiling came into view. I heard the priest intone: “George Obadiah Wilkes, do you take this woman to be your wife? Do you promise to be faithful to her in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love her and to honour her all the days of your life?”

What? George Obadiah Wilkes? That George Wilkes?

“I do,” I heard a familiar voice say.

“Jessica Clare Fitzgerald do you take George Obadiah Wilkes to be your husband? Do you promise to be faithful to him in good times and in bad, through sickness and in health, to love him and to honour him all the days of your life?”

Marry George Wilkes? The rake from the train who took my servant as I sat there, who took my rear virginity, a man totally untrustworthy and completely without any moral compass. A man who did not have a religious or pious bone in his body and who thought of nothing more than pursuing physical pleasures?

I felt my father undoing my gag, the massive moulded mass being pulled from my mouth and, for the first time in over a month, my tongue and my voice was free, free to say what I wanted on this most important of days.

“I do,” came my reply.

And then I almost fainted, George having to catch me as I stumbled and started to fall.

In the wedding feast I was still shocked and stunned by it. Not the wedding, not my new husband. No, the seventh and final sacred gift. The gift that combats envy by restricting my ability to spread malice, and promoting kindness since my words now sounded sweeter and more innocent.

For they had changed my voice.

How I could not say, but change it they had. Gone was my womanly voice that I was so familiar with; a voice that could seduce and tempt, discipline and beg, and in its place a childlike squeak. When I spoke now, it was as if a child no older than eight were talking, innocent and naive.

A stunning contrast to the heaving breasts just below that promised a very womanly reality.

I now had a voice that no one could take seriously, that was high-pitched and silly. My headmistress, who of course had been invited, came up to me to congratulate me on both my wedding and my final gift. “But why?” I squeaked at her, or rather the ceiling, quite ridiculously.

“And said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven,” she replied with utter confidence, that which had been stripped of me.

My humiliation was complete. My mind was in turmoil. There was no more that life could throw at me.

Or so I thought.

That night I lay with my husband for the first of many times. He was gentle yet firm. He took great interest in caressing and encircling my stem waist and then sat on the bed and position me over him, lowering my modified channel onto his throbbing rod whilst his fingers encircled my now-useless ones clasped in prayer behind my neck. As he entering, his mighty tool spread me open and filled me thoroughly, causing a ripple of pleasure to pass through me. Emma had been right; his size did matter. And the very act of penetration seemed to give additional joy now, more than before, as if my body were compensating for the loss of one erogenous zone with another.

I had never known joy like it, but I have since experienced it again and again, countless times.

So that was it, we have come to the end of my tale. It was all happily ever after for me or, at least, as happily ever after as life can be for a living breathing woman who has been transformed against her will into a hyper-restricted pious object of a wife.

Yet one more surprise lay in wait for me.

We rode in the car to the estate that George’s father had bought us at Burston near to Stafford. As we did, George explained to me that I had won his heart that day on the train to such a degree that he had even converted to the True Faith to be with me. “I’m trying to become religious myself now in order to equal my wonderful wife, though I doubt I’ll ever manage your standard,” he confessed.

“Darling, I’m not so pious as I appear. In fact, my religious devotions leave a lot to be desired when that accursed school isn’t there to enforce them.”

He laughed and replied, “To be honest, I feared as much. That’s one reason why I’ve hired a spiritual advisor for our household, to bring us both a little closer to the god who, when all is said and done, brought us together in the first place, for without St. Brigid’s, we’d have never met. Mind you, that is only one of the reasons for me hiring him; the other is the impression it gives to the world. Since adding this dew-eyed monk to my household and getting engaged to a St. Brigid’s girl, the number of lucrative contracts I’ve signed with members of the Catholic gentry have skyrocketed.”

“George, you are incorrigible!”

“Maybe I am, but you must meet this monk I’ve employed. You’ll like him I’m sure.”

And so, when we arrived Burston Hall, the first thing he did was order tea in the drawing room and then send for his spiritual advisor. I was busy tracing my eyes over the glorious 17th century ceiling mural depicting the Four Graces when I heard some footsteps enter the room. “You called for me, Mr. Wilkes,” said a muffled voice.

“Yes, yes, Brother, indeed I did. I’d like you to meet my bride, Mrs. Wilkes, for part of your duties from now on will be to provide her with daily scriptural instruction and to hear her confession. Darling, please say hello to Brother Stephen.”

And into my heavenward line of sight stepped a head covered by a monk’s cowl. And when that cowl was removed, I found myself face-to-face with the visage of he who had caused me to enter St. Brigid’s in the first place: Stephen O’Leary!

I fainted on the spot.


I’ll take over now. My darling wife has quite exhausted herself… and the hands of her new maid who has to write all that she says down. Oh yes, we’ve employed a new help. Emma was getting a little chubby and tiresome. Variety is the spice of life or so they say and Agatha is seventeen, slim and has delicious lush lips.

But I digress.

Yes, I thought I should round it all off by telling my side of the story as, my guess is, that some of Jess’s tale will leave you with a few questions. Such as, how planned was all of this? Why on earth would I invite Stephen O’Leary into my home? And the biggest of them all, do I even love my wife?

Well, I shall start at the beginning, which was the day I caught the train at Holyhead. I was going to London and was returning from an excellent hunting weekend with some pals in Ireland. I’d had a few the night before – drinks that is, only one girl – and so was feeling tired and groggy and I fell asleep on the ship. So tired was I, that by the time I awoke we’d already been docked for some time and if I didn’t hurry then I’d miss the boat trip home. So, I ran for it and, as Jess describes, only caught the thing by the skin of my teeth, diving into the last first-class compartment, purely because that was the first one I got to.

And that dash changed my life forever.

From the moment that I saw her, I was transfixed. I mean, I’d seen Ladies of Leisure before, they were a growing phenomenon even back then, and not one that I disapproved of. I mean, what is not to like about a helpless young lady, unable to resist your advances? But this was something else entirely, I mean, she had taken it to a whole new level, what with the upturned head and reverse prayer configuration which I had not seen before. It was so elegant, so complete in its restriction and yet so obviously trying to send a message of outward piety and religiosity. I knew there and then, that I had to get to know this girl better, and that I had to find out if it was genuine or not: was she really a good little Christian miss, or had this been forced on her against her will?

Of course though, there was a barrier, namely the maid. But she was a very pretty barrier and seemed fairly dumb too. Besides, seeing how this religious icon reacted to me seducing her maid before her very eyes would tell me a lot about what she was like. And so, I had my fun with Emma, and I do not regret it. Dashed good ride actually (for a servant) and well worth the train fare home on her own. But as we jigged, I kept an eye on the exquisite object that she was chaperoning, and I saw the fires of lust and envy burn in her eyes. ‘You’re no pious little nun,’ I thought to myself; ‘you haven’t chosen all of this!’ and so, after our jolly romp, I put the maid to sleep and turned on the mistress.

Before we continue, since you’re probably going to ask, I’ll pre-empt the query. Surely all this must have been planned by you beforehand, George, since why else would you carry around with you a flask of whisky dosed with sleeping drugs?

Well, a good question, but one quite easily answered: when travelling on a train, I view such a thing as a most necessary item to include on your person! Think about it: you get in a carriage and you want to relax, or perhaps toss one off over the memory of a charming wench you saw waiting on Platform 5 for the down express with her clueless husband. But, sitting across from you is dull old Hugh Montague-Smythe. Or perhaps you don’t need release, but you enter a carriage and find it full of loud fools off to a racing meet, giving you a dashed headache with their damned inane chatter of riders and odds? What is more gentlemanly and companionable to offer your new companions a tot – they never refuse either through fear of being rude or because most men like a free drink – within seconds they’re all fast asleep and you have the entire compartment to yourself, with the added satisfaction of knowing that the fools will sleep through their stop and never make the meet after all. Or better still, what if, like on that fateful trip from Holyhead, you see a pretty young lady whom you’d like to get to know better, but some over-zealous servant or drab maiden aunt or governess guards the gatehouse. The solution is the same. Oh yes, do not think that Jess was the first young thing I seduced on the train; there were countless before her and just as many after, such as the delightfully buxom Jenny Shaw on the 18:55 from Manchester or the wonderfully athletic Felicity Barker who boarded at Cheltenham with her governess and… well, you get the picture, and I am digressing once more, although all this reminds me that one day I should pen some detailed memoirs of my own.

But back to my tale. Well, we got together as she describes, although I was thwarted by the chastity belt (not the first time, incidentally), so I turned her over and had a go at the back entrance, but one look there told me that she was a virgin in that aspect at least and my old John Thomas wouldn’t fit, so I used her bottom crack which we both rather enjoyed and then got to know her. And she, treated like a woman again, started talking to me, told me that all this had been done to her against her will and mentioned that she was in disgrace over some indiscretion with a boy. Well, these revelations were far more to my liking that the ones in the Bible, and, believe or not, I actually started to feel quite an affection for the girl. I mean, it was still her amazing figure and the like that did it for me, but I could spy a fellow soul in there and, in my mind I imagined if something of the like had been done to me as punishment for one of my many indiscretions and, do you know what, the thought made me so hot you would not believe. Anyway, she also dropped casually the date they’d be travelling back, but when I left them at Tamworth, I thought that that was that and it was back to normality again.

The strange thing was though, for some reason, she stuck in my head. I’d wake up at night having shot my load dreaming about her reverse prayer bondage – in my dreams, I was always interlacing my figures with her useless ones whilst banging her in the conventional way down below and kissing her delightfully squeezed and restrained neck. No matter what I did or where I went, that damned Jessica Fitzgerald followed me around in my head and so, on the day she was returning to school, I caught an early train up to Stafford and then boarded hers at the last minute for another session of romping and jollity. Which you know all about, so I won’t detail it here, save to say that I was better prepared this time and, armed with my little ivory plug, when she left the compartment at Holyhead, I bet there was a slight change in her gait – Ha! Ha!

And so that was that except, again, it wasn’t. Filling her derriere with my cream had not expunged her memory; if anything her flame now burned brighter and I realised, to my shock, I was in love. Yes indeed, this was the girl I wanted to marry.

That decision, however, presented me with both opportunities and hurdles to overcome. The opportunities were obvious. Indeed, I had long considered either wedding a Lady of Leisure or forcing my wife to adopt the Leisure Ideal after marriage. The benefits are obvious and manifold: the joy of seeing her restricted, the joy of circling a stem waist and playing with her breasts as she is helpless to stop you; the practical advantage of having a wife who cannot investigate you nor stop you from having a few innocent liaisons on the side. All of these reasons commended Jess to me and knowing that she never wanted to embrace the ideal in the first place made it all the more appealing (I’ve always possessed a streak of the Marquis de Sade in me, I’m afraid). But there were other, less benefits too: I may be rich, but I am new money, not nobility. A marriage to her would help me in society considerably and help in society invariably has a positive impact on business. Added to that, I have a bit of a reputation which, whilst entirely justified, can be a tad obstructive at times, particularly when I’m trying to do a deal with one of the more religiously minded men of our era. But tie myself to Miss Piety Personified and my moral standing would likewise shoot up immeasurably. On all practical levels as well as the emotional, she was a perfect match.

But then came the problem: she was a Catholic (indeed, she was a veritable walking advertisement for the Roman Church) and I was a lapsed Anglican at best. Initial investigations into her family revealed one thing above all else; whoever she married had to be a Roman Catholic and there was no getting around the fact. What was I to do? Well, when I thought about it, there was only one thing for it: if one of the reasons that I was marrying Jess was to reinvent myself morally in the eyes of society, then what better way to explain my change of heart than taking on a new religion? And so, I went on a trip to Spain (where I tried many fine wines and just as many fine Spanish lasses), careful to include the city of Santiago de Compostela in my itinerary, where the Apostle James is buried. I then put about a story, vague and hazy in its conception, about a vision or perhaps just a feeling that overcame me at his tomb which turned me Roman in an instance. I headed straight for the Popish church upon my return to England and changed faith, adopting a pious new lifestyle.

A major industrial making such a public declaration, of course made it into the Catholic Herald and soon all the Popish notables were lining up to meet this prodigal son, including Jess’s dad who invited me up to shoot on his estate, an invitation which I gratefully accepted. I took with me my manservant, Meakes, who has also doubled as an investigator for me in the past and tasked him to find out all that he could about the love of my life. He did his duty well and came back with tonnes of information from the servants’ hall including the name of the boy she’d been caught cavorting with the previous summer.

His name was Stephen O’Leary and he was a lowly tutor from Ireland. I was intrigued as to what he might have had that appealed to her, and so I resolved to meet the man. Meakes dug some more and discovered, to my surprise, that old man Fitzgerald had had him packed off to a monastery in order that “he might not tempt any more impressionable young maidens”. So, in this first flush of my new religiosity, I betook myself to St. Beuno’s Abbey in North Wales where I was shown around by the abbot who thought I might be throwing some sort of donation in his direction. He was not wrong either, for when I saw the man, a doe-eyed, dozy romantic who was obviously still pining for his lost love, a cruel and brilliant plan formed itself in my mind.

“Sir, what I am looking for is a spiritual guide, a man of great piety who will reside in my house and guide me on matters of the soul. I am new to the True Faith and inexperienced and I feel that having a someone to show me God’s plan would be a boon. Do you have any suitable candidates, ideally someone with a teaching background who knows how to impart knowledge to fresh minds?”

“Well, I do have one young man who was a tutor before he entered these walls. He may be suitable, but…”

“I will pay well. I intend to marry soon, and he could guide my wife also, as well as tutor any children God might bless us with.”

“That is true but this young man, prior to entering the abbey… there was an infraction… with a lady.”

“You mean, he is a reformed soul? Praise to Our Lady for transforming him so! But that presents a risk does it not? My wife, whoever she will be, will be young, pious and comely. I would not one to bring him into unnecessary temptation.”

“That is my fear also…”

“But there is a solution, surely? Whilst I was in the holy city of Santiago de Compostela where the blessed Apostle James lies, I heard tell of monks who tutor young maidens but who wear a certain piece of apparatus which enables them to resist the temptations of the flesh and the maidens to remain pure.”

The abbot, smelling the money, of course agreed.

And so I got poor old lovesick Stephen placed into chastity… permanently, wearing the Cage of St. James, popular in Santiago and entirely devised and developed by me. It consists of a cage of silver which prevents his poor member from growing erect, no matter how excited he may be getting. It is totally escape proof because it is affixed to the member by means of a piercing through the end of his rod. Painful and effective. The idea that he would be meeting his long-lost love again, be able to be close with her but never gain release, was particularly exciting to me. As I said before, I am sure there’s some of the Marquis de Sade’s blood running through my veins.

Not that I am a totally sadist though. The fact is, to answer that most important of all questions, I do love my wife and whilst I knew that being around Brother Stephen would cause her some mental anguish, I also appreciated that for her he was just some teenage crush that she’d well and truly moved on from (even if he had not). But he was a nice fellow and I would be away on business or other pursuits frequently, and so to provide her with some company – company that would not be ravaging her – was, in a perverse kind of way, also an act of kindness.

So, I had my faith and I had my monk; now all I needed was the girl. St. Brigid’s advertised its summer ball in the Catholic Herald, stating that it was ‘the ideal opportunity for young Catholic men of standing to find themselves a suitable soulmate’. So, I ordered myself a ticket and went along, letting my eyes drink in a dozen or more restrained beauties before finally revealing my presence to my love at the end of the night. That was not all though; the ball also had a second aspect to it. The following day, all attendees were given a list of the girls due to graduate the following summer along with details of their parents or guardians to contact regarding marriage. Naturally, the following day I composed a letter to my new friend Lord Fitzgerald, but, to my dismay, a week later, when the reply came, it was a refusal. I had been tardy, and they’d received another offer first.

I investigated via Meakes and discovered that my rival was Lord Norwich. So, the reason for my refusal was clear and it was naught to do with tardiness: Norwich was noble, and Norwich was immeasurably richer than I was. What was I to do?

I did what all rogues would do. Five months later, I made sure that I attended a shooting party at the Duke of Devonshire’s estate in Derbyshire which I knew Lord Norwich would also be attending. And whilst I was there, I got Meakes to befriend his manservant. The two got extremely drunk in the local hostelry one night and Meakes happened to relate the story of when he’d gone to stay at the Fitzgerald’s and how he’d been told all about the bed-hopping (he exaggerated, naturally) and general wantonness of their only daughter who’d been packed off to some school in Ireland in shame.

Within a month, Norwich had retracted his offer for her hand and Fitzgerald had come knocking on my door.

And so we wed, and it all worked out happily in the end. And when I say that, I mean it. Of course, on our very first morning, Jess had asked me in her irresistible new squeaky childlike voice, to relax her bindings somewhat. “Do not even ask, dear.” I told her. “I would not have treasured you so without such hobbling and restraint, and I give you freedoms enough, far more than you had in that school. Indeed you can speak aloud in my house, you can be provided with a litany of heathenous texts from my study, like this one, the Kama Sutra, which I am sure you will enjoy. We can indulge ourselves in the sinful ways that would send your headmistress to pasture, but my wife will be a Lady of Leisure till the end of my days and I will not relinquish the golden ticket I worked so hard to secure.”

In other ways though, I indulge her, for I love her, and no other woman can compare. It is true that I still have illicit liaisons, but they mean nothing, whereas she does, and now that she is expecting our first child, even more so.

Yet one can combine pleasure with pain and I will never forget her face when I introduced her to my spiritual guide and informed her that Brother Stephen would be providing her religious instruction from now on.

And indeed, even as I write, I am enjoying watching and listening to them together in her study by means of hidden cameras and microphones. She sits there, restrained, unable to do anything for herself, her arms in continual prayer, whilst he, the monk, sits opposite her, brow furrowed, a look of ecstasy and agony in his eyes. To the casual observer, they look like a pious maid and her confessor contemplating the divine. Only I know that he is struggling not to declare his feelings for her whilst going through agony, his member straining against the cage that keeps it sealed and useless forever, whilst she laments what has been done to them both but simultaneously thanks God whom she thinks has brought them together by chance, neither of them even close to guessing the role that I have played. Brother Stephen makes her doubt her doubting of faith; he makes her think that maybe she is as pious and beloved by God as she outwardly appears and that, possibly, some of what they taught her in that school was actually true. It is exquisite to watch and it prepares me well for my afternoon nap when I will order her taken to the bedroom and lain on her front so that her upturned head protrudes nicely from the end of the bed, at just the right height for her ungagged mouth to be filled with my straining member whilst Brother Stephen goes back to his cell unfulfilled and aching.

It is a beautiful image on which to end this tale, don’t you think?

February 2020

St. Brigid’s School for Young Catholic Ladies: Part 4

Part 3

Chapter 9

I will not speak of my summer back at home, except to say that it was both pleasurable and not so. The pleasure came from the warm weather and the slight relaxation that being away from St. Brigid’s brought with it. But the darker side was omnipresent even during the happier times. Being so restrained and restricted meant that many of my favourite activities – walking in the woods, paddling in the river, riding my bicycle – were now denied to me, and I was increasingly fearing, perhaps forever.

These fears came from two places. The first was the summer ball. I mentioned earlier that my gown that evening had laid my shoulders bare, but what I did not mention was that, to compliment it, my restrained hands had been covered in naught more than a pair of white, silken gloves. No winches or ties or cuffs, just my bare arms and some measly gloves. When I learned this I was excited: for once I could now flex my arms and fingers a little. Yet, when I tried to do so, they were almost entirely unresponsive, as if they had frozen in that position! I had expected some pain, surely, as my upper appendages were allowed to do as they wont for the first time in almost a whole year, but I was met with naught but twitches and some subtle flexing. My dainty white-gloved palms remained touching, as did my elbows. My mind mulled over this. Had they frozen? Would keeping them so restrained for so long have a permanent effect on them? I prayed to God that it would not and yet the fear stayed with me.

The second source of my discomfort came from my parents, who announced that a spouse had been found for me and, that he would be coming to stay for a few days. I wondered who he could be and what he would be like, but when Lord Norwich appeared in the doorway, my heart fell. He had been one of those hyper-religious bores at the ball, and not one of the youngest either. He seemed cold and distant and spent most of his time praising my piety and devotion, as if those were my only concerns now and forever. A life with such a man would certainly be hell. Anyone would be better… surely?

When he left, I was glad, as I could put him out of my mind but, like the problems with my arms, he never truly went away.

Back at St. Brigid’s, we were told in our welcoming assembly, that our second year would be quite different from the first. Our basic education was now complete; we were theologically equipped to become obedient and pious wives and mothers now. Instead, this year we would concentrate on the remaining five gifts and, as a result, would spend much time away from the school. This reminded me of those in the year above us last year, all now gone and married off, of course, and I recalled them being about very little as my year was guided to every class, every day, dutifully. But where were we to be going this year, and why?

I did not have to wait long to find out.

The day following the assembly, I was dressed in my travelling costume and, along with three of my fellow sufferers, bundled into a car and driven to the railway station. There we caught the train to Dublin, travelling in our own first-class compartment, and when we reached Dublin, we were taken to, of all places, the Royal City of Dublin Hospital. But why were we being taken there? We weren’t ill after all.

I soon found out.

“These are the implants that you shall be receiving, Miss Fitzgerald,” said the surgeon, holding what appeared to be two enormous domes of wobbling jelly before my upturned eyes.

Implants? What? Where? No, surely not! Not there!

“They are 1000cc, Miss Fitzgerald. Your breasts will be magnificent after they are implanted. Let us thank God for this glorious gift!”

Magnificent? Maybe. Heavy? Definitely. Unbalancing? Without a doubt.

When I awoke from the induced sleep with my new breasts in place, the first thing I noticed was the weight. I could not see them of course; I could not see anything below these days, but I felt them. And, when I was stood up and I tried to walk, I experienced how they changed my entire centre of gravity and I had to learn to walk afresh, made even more difficult by my footwear and my arms’ inability to reach out for balance.

And even though I could not see them, I imagined how they would look. They would command attention, direct people’s gaze to them, dominate my entire body. Couple with my tiny waist, I was being turned into an object of sexual desire.

What did that have to do with Christ, sins and virtues?

Back in the school at the special assembly of thanksgiving for our earning of the Third Sacred Gift, I found out. “Girls! Today is the glorious day when all the members of our second-year group are to be celebrated with the third of their Seven Sacred Gifts. As you girls all now know, this gift too has required effort and adaptation which is sometimes far from easy, but all will surely agree that the results have again been more than worthwhile. For whilst your first gift, the en-pointe boots that grace your feet banish sloth and promote diligence, and the second gift, your magnificent 15” stem waists fight the cardinal sin of gluttony whilst assisting you with the cardinal virtue of temperance, this third gift fights the cardinal sin of greed by reminding us of the weight sin brings with it, whilst it also promotes charity for your enlarged breasts are a symbol of your womanhood and, in particular, motherhood. A mother nourishes her child with her own milk, the ultimate form of charity and your prominent and beautiful breasts will one day nourish countless Catholic children just as the holy breasts of Our Lady nourished her dear son, Jesus Christ. So, let us offer a hymn of praise to the Virgin…”

The singing began and we were again called up one-by-one. When I tottered up, still struggling with the weight of these two monsters now permanently adorning my chest, the headmistress congratulated and ceremonially undid my gown, pulled out each mammoth breast in turn and fitted a golden ring on each nipple through piercings that, I later learned, had been done whilst I was sedated. From each ring hung a tiny bell that tinkled as I moved, a reminder of the bells of the church which call us daily to Mass.

And of this further indignity that had been heaped upon me, an indignity that followed me wherever I went with its incessant jingling beneath my dress.

Chapter 10

Following my receiving of the Third Sacred Gift, things quietened down for a few months at St. Brigid’s. My main task was learning to walk, move and hold myself elegantly with this new centre of balance in my body. We all struggled with this initially, but we all learnt with time, I better than most. Days consisted of deportment lessons and the incessant prayers. At times they seemed to consume my being, and, at brief moments, I started to wonder that maybe, perhaps, all these alterations to my body were pleasing to God and part of some divine plan for me.

Those moments though were brief.

Christmas came and went – sadly no George Wilkes stepped into our compartment this time – and then we were onto the Spring Term. There were hushed whispers of what the final four gifts might be, certainly they weren’t leaving us a lot of time to earn them since we were all set to graduate in the summer and several of my classmates had wedding dates set already, but we were told nothing concrete. Instead we just carried on existing; pious, religious, and restrained.

Until that fateful Tuesday.

I was called into the headmistress’s office which caused me some distress. Normally that only happened when there was a punishment in store, yet what had I done wrong? As I said before, I’ve always been good at conforming outwardly and not breaking any rules blatantly and St. Brigid’s had turned me from dilettante into an expert in this field. I tottered down the corridors to her office my heart full of trepidation, a feeling that did not improve when I saw her expression. She bade me sit down and then gave me some startling news:

“Jessica, I am sorry to say that I have received some grave news, some extremely grave news instead. It arrived today in this letter.” She waved an envelope before my upturned eyes and I wondered what it could contain. My immediate thought was that perhaps one parent or another had befallen an accident or fallen ill or even died. Much as I still harboured a degree of resentment towards them for sending me to this ridiculous establishment, I still loved them and my heart beat fast out of fear.

“My mother and father… are they alright…?”

She looked at me confusedly for a second or two and then broke into a weak smile. “Yes, Jessica, they are fine. Do not worry yourself on their account. No, this concerns you and you only. I am devastated to inform you that your marriage to Lord Norwich has been called off.”

I could have danced for joy! So, I was not to be yoked to that dull grey blur for all eternity! Finish this school and I could finally start returning to a normal life. My feelings must have shown on my face.

“You do not seem sad? Did the match not please you, Jessica?”

I tried to make my expression a tad graver. “It did and it did not, ma’am. I appreciate that Lord Norwich was a good match; he is clearly a pious man and a good Catholic, and his nobility goes without saying, but he was somewhat older than I am and, well ma’am, I feel sinful for saying these words but you teach us continually to be honest, I did not feel the spark of attraction for him that I have read about in books and hoped I would experience in his presence.”

My use of religious language seemed to console her. “The spark is not necessary, Jessica, but it does nonetheless help. I am sure that it would have come with time and the age gap should not be a source of worry, although I understand that to the young mind it can seem to be.”

“Oh ma’am, I wish I had your wisdom in these matters!”

“Well, wisdom or not, perhaps you not lamenting Lord Norwich is a good thing, for he has broken off the engagement. It seems that he has heard rumours of your sinful infraction prior to entering these walls and has decided that he does not wish to be wedded to a lady with such loose morals.”

“Oh ma’am, the wages of sin are death! How often do I regret that incident when Satan tempted me and led me away from the righteous path! How hard have I tried to rectify that mistake my increasing my piety and faith! How much do I long to wipe that stain from my record! Will it always come back to haunt me?”

“One hopes not, Jessica, but that is the worry. Lord Norwich found out through the gossip of servants and that is something that can never be stopped. I have tried to explain to him, as too has your father, that many of the girls here are fallen, but St. Brigid’s raises them up again into the Light of Christ, but he would not listen and instead has ordered a wife from our new intake of children who have started this year, the first of our strategy of turning girls into perfect maidens through a longer induction period. He has chosen a poor ten-year old orphan girl who will attend the school until she is seventeen when he shall marry her. I am sad for you but perhaps, for a man of his severity, it is best that the girl has more preparation. However, this leaves us with you. We are searching for a new spouse of course; Lord Norwich’s was not the only offer for your hand after the summer ball, but now you have a broken engagement on your record, I hold no illusions. Most pious men will want to know what caused that break and when we inform them honestly of the reason, I cannot see them continuing in their suit. But we shall try, and you must pray fervently for a new spouse.”

“Yes ma’am, I shall. Diligently, using my First Sacred Gift to inspire me in that regard.”

And I did pray. I prayed with a new fervour because I felt now that maybe God was actually listening to me. Because my prayers before had centred around freeing me somehow from the clutches of the dull Lord Norwich and now, out of the blue, those prayers had been answered! Perhaps God did listen, perhaps I was His beloved Daughter of Eve after all? And so now I prayed for a husband who was not only not insufferably pious but also young and handsome. Someone who enjoyed rather than endured life and would let me do the same.

But no answer came. The weeks rolled by and turned into months and then, just before the Easter break, it was announced that we would all be returning to the hospital to be prepared for our final gifts. Excitement and trepidation filled the air, with me more the latter than the former, I am afraid. I was half hoping that, having no fiancé to have to please, they might have not bothered bestowing more of their dubious bounty upon me but, no, I was treated the same as all the others and bundled up in a travelling costume for the journey into Dublin.

Once there, we were shown to a private ward. There was no interview with the surgeon though now, no showing of implants before being sent under. Instead, a mask was placed over my face and I peacefully drifted into the abyss, wondering what would be different in my life when I awoke from it this time.

Chapter 11

I awoke to find myself lying on the hospital bed in that same private ward. Above my head, a crucifix was affixed to the headboard for me to contemplate and, in the far distance, I could hear church bells. The bed, I noted mentally, must be specially adapted for girls like me, as there was an indentation for my reverse prayer configured arms.

Strangely, I did not feel different. Unlike when I’d had my breast implants, there was no burdensome weight to give away what this latest gift was. And indeed, if what the headmistress had said was to be believed, I had now acquired four gifts in one. So, what and where were they? My arms were still trammelled, my feet stretched to en-pointe in my bedroom boots, my waist squeezed into nothingness and my neck arched back so that I was staring at the wall behind me. The only different I noticed was that the gag in my mouth seemed to have been changed. Whereas before a simple protrusion attached to its embroidered panel had sufficed to remind us to keep silent, now it seemed larger, filling every crevice of my mouth, as if someone had blown up a party balloon in there and then tied the end off, leaving my jaw jacked open. I tried dislodging it but, unlike the protrusion on a strap, this was quite impossible.

Unable to learn anymore, I lay there and wondered. As I did this, I noticed a new sensation. The area around my crotch, that most private and precious area of a woman, seemed somehow different. Unable to bring my fingers from their devout position behind my back to touch it, I could hardly check.

And so I simply wondered some more.

Three days later we were back at St. Brigid’s. No explanations had been given about these new gifts and neither had the new gag been removed, not even for a rinse of the mouth before bedtime. Instead my meals, such as they were, were now pumped into me through a tube running down the centre of the gag, satisfying my appetite but denying me any taste.

Once back in the school we were, as always after the receiving of gifts, ushered into the hall for the celebration assembly. All the year group were present and, from the glances I had stolen, all were gagged as I was. But what did it mean? I had been at St. Brigid’s to know to wait passively and piously and the answers would be revealed.

“Girls! Today is the most glorious day of your education, the most significant in your young lives and the second-most important of them all behind your wedding days which, as we know, for most of you are happily imminent.”

I agonised over the personal mention, yet barely kept my eyes from rolling, drilling them into the wooden beams above as I listened.

“For today, that most holy of days, is the day when we here celebrate the granting of your remaining four Sacred Gifts! Girls, you have all performed well as students of St. Brigid’s, helped immeasurably by the gifts that you have already been blessed with. For your first gift, the en-pointe boots that grace your feet have helped to banish sloth and promote diligence, and the second gift, your magnificent 15” stem waists have given you strength to fight the cardinal sin of gluttony whilst increasing the cardinal virtue of temperance, and then your third gift, your endowments of the breast have given you the confidence and courage to combat the cardinal sin of greed whilst also promoting the virtue charity. But there are four more sins and four more virtues to consider and today, finally, you are equipped to fight valiantly against all these evils and embrace fully all these goods. Silently, for I know you are all gagged, give thanks to Our Lady for this.

“And now to the fourth of your gifts. This is a beautiful gift designed to help you fight against the cardinal sin of wrath by preventing you from striking others in anger, whilst helping foster the cardinal virtue of patience since, as it increases your glorious dependence on others, it fosters the skill of having to wait for the things you want or need.”

I was intrigued. What was this gift that she was referring to?

As if sensing my question, she continued: “Girls, this is a gift that, in many ways has been your constant companion and guardian friend since entering this establishment. However, during your last visit to the hospital, it was perfected. Maids, please remove the gloves!”

At this command, my maid and all the others, started removed the gloves and other restraints that held our joined arms in place. I felt the air on my skin for the first time since the summer ball and instinctively tried to flex my long-unused muscles and joints. But, to my dismay, nothing happened! Not even the slight movements of the ball!

“After long periods of disuse, the bones in your arms begin to calcify, locking them in that position permanently,” explained the headmistress. “For the blessed children who will form our next intake this September, this will be complete, they having seven years to achieve this holy gift naturally. For you however, we have used medical science to speed-up the process. In the hospital, whilst you were sedated, your semi-calcified bones and joints were pinned into place. Rejoice and be glad that the Holy Father’s reverse prayer configurations that you bear so proudly today are now permanent and will be your spiritual companions until your dying day! And to celebrate this joyful occasion, your maids will now fit your bracelets.”

Before my upturned eyes a bracelet was held for my inspection. Made of engraved silver, it had the words ‘A moment of patience in a moment of wrath saves a thousand moments of regret’ etched upon it. It was a queer shape, like an oval but with indentations along the sides almost as a figure-of-eight. Ceremonially, the maid clipped it on, it fitting around both wrists as one, binding them together symbolically.

Tears welled in my eyes.

“Thank Christ for these glorious gifts,” continued the headmistress, her voice now getting excited, fervent as if possessed by religious ecstasy, “But remember! This is but one of the glorious gifts you have received this holy day. Thank God also for the fifth course of your gifts. This is a sacred boon designed to help you fight against the cardinal sin of pride by preventing you from looking down on others, whilst helping foster the cardinal virtue of humility since, with this blessing at your side, you will always be gazing upwards, focusing on that which is greater than your sinful being.”

This time I had guessed what the gift was, and my heart sank further, the tears flowing thick and fast as my gag held back the sobs for me.

“As with your arms, your neck bones and muscles have also hardened and calcified due to the successive posture collars you have worn. However, in the hospital we have operated on that area too, pinning your heavenward gaze in place for all eternity. Maids, remove the posture collars!”

And sure enough, I felt my neck corset being unlaced and taken off and, even though I now felt the wind on my bare neck for the first time in months, it did not move a bit from its position. I was to bear this indignity for life. I looked down in my tensing struggle and my maid chastised me, sending my gaze skyward yet again, blinking quickly to clear the tears.

“And to commemorate this Fifth Sacred Gift, which also provides the additional blessing of forever preventing you from viewing the source of your sin, your maids will now fit your collars.”

Mine was held before my tear-filled eyes. Again, it was silver and again it was exquisitely engraved, a one-inch thick band with the words ‘Pride is concern with my glory; Humility is to be concerned with the glory of God.’

It was locked tightly around my neck, and then from the front a matching silver leash was clipped so that now, if my maid or husband chose, I could be led about like a dog. Proudly holding my leash in her hand, Emma made me realise that my oh-so-limited freedoms had now been restricted yet further.

And there were still two gifts to go.

And now girls, we will turn to the final two gifts, the last two boons to bestowed upon you by this establishment before you enter the world to fulfil your God-given roles as wives and mothers. Gifts that you already bear without perhaps realising it. The Sixth Sacred Gift lies at the very heart of your womanhood, it blesses you in the most sacred part of your bodies, the most private part of your bodies. For that reason, because we are a modest establishment, we shall not be revealing those gifts publicly today, for they are to be seen only by your maids and your husbands. But, following this assembly, you shall be taken to your rooms and your maids shall outline this blessed gift to you. But, before they do, let me inspire you by telling you that this, the sixth of your gifts, is designed to help you fight against the cardinal sin of lust, perhaps the most heinous of all sins and the temptation to which you have all fallen so far, resulting in you receiving Christ’s forgiveness in this place. This most blessed of all gifts combats that insidious lust by preventing your sinful pleasure, whilst also helping to foster the cardinal virtue of chastity by keeping you guarded from sin.”

Her voice was reaching a crescendo of religious ecstasy now, as if she were climaxing as I had once done with Stephen and regularly did when Emma fingered me. So, something had been done down there? But what? And why? Why were all the explanations in this place so vague and enigmatic? Why could they never talk straight? I had been trussed and trammelled and altered beyond belief!

And what of the seventh and final gift?

“And what of the seventh and final gift?” she intoned, echoing my thoughts to the letter, her voice almost trance-like in its intensity. “What glory have we bestowed upon you to crown all those other glories? What is the Seventh Sacred Gift that combats envy and promotes kindness? Well, my dear, beloved girls, that will remain a surprise, a revelation to be experienced on that most special and sacred of all days, your wedding day. A day not far off for you all, that day that you all yearn for with every sinew of your body and thought in your heart. That day when you can accept a man, made in God’s image, as your lord and master and live in pious obedience until death do you part. Of that gift, I shall say no more and neither shall you, for your new gags, inflated and specially designed to fit your mouths, are to remain in place permanently until then. Yes indeed, my blessed children; the next words each of you shall speak, will be at the altar when, swathed in white and glowing with the glory of God, you shall utter “I do” in answer to the priest’s question.

“Class of ’64, you are dismissed!”

Back in my room I was stripped down to my stays and then sat on my bed. My head, of course being wrenched backwards now by my very spine, faced up to the ceiling, but there a large grey projector screen had been hung and affixed. Emma bade me open my legs wide in the most unholy way, and then she inserted something in a machine on the desk by the bed.

A picture appeared on the screen.

Behind my gag I gasped, as the image which I now held in my sight, enlarged and laid bare, was of my most private of areas, the slit of my sin that had caused so much pleasure when caressed by Emma and penetrated by Stephen O’Leary.

“This is your womanly channel before the operation,” said Emma, a smile in her voice. “We had so much fun with it, didn’t we?”

I didn’t respond because I could not. Even a miniscule nod was impossible with my newest of gifts. It was worrying to me that she referred to my privates in the past tense. She pressed a switch and a new image clicked in the machine, and shone onto the screen.

It was also of a woman’s most private area, but it was completely different to the last image. To start with, all the private hair of a young woman who could not shave herself had gone. It was smooth and bald. That, however, was the least shocking difference to the image. For where the slit with its folds of peeking, tender flesh should be, there was instead a completely smooth expanse of skin and, in the middle of that blankness, that lack, a beautiful silver cross decorated with jewels, long and straight where my flesh used to erupt in need.

“This is your private hole now,” said Emma. “They shaved off all the hair and then plucked out what was left and used some cream to make sure that it will never grow back. You are as smooth as a baby down there now. However, that was only the start. Afterwards they sewed it up, the entire opening, except for a tiny puckered entrance at the foot of the cross. Your sinful little nubbin which provides you with all your pleasure is still there, but it is buried beneath the skin now, hidden away. When they’d finished, there was a long pink scar, but then they fitted this long cross over it so that it is totally hidden. Look! Don’t you think it’s pretty how it even follows the curve of your mound? I do. I’d love to have a piece of jewellery like that, although I’m not sure I’d want it there.”

I had similar doubts, however I had no choice in the matter. I was also wondering just what the point of it all was.

“They explained it all to me in the hospital so that I can explain it to you,” Emma continued. “When they were sewing you up, this cross – or at least, its long shaft – was sewn up with it with little anchors underneath, so that it rests over the scar, masking it forever. The top bit, where the actual cross is with this beautiful ruby in the centre, goes over where your nubbin is. Since that is the source of all your sin – or so they said – then it needs to be hidden and the temptation stopped. Remember when I touched it before and you shuddered with pleasure? Feel now.” She went over and caressed my smooth skin around the tiny crucifix, then pressed the silver cross itself into my mound, drilling deep for the source of my joy.

I felt nothing. Nothing whatsoever beyond the normal sensation of someone touching me, maybe the tug of the pierced jewellery tugging on my skin along the central spire. The cross, and a not-insignificant layer of what used to be my womanly lips, now cleanly sewn skin, acted as armour preventing her from reaching my source of pleasure.

“You see? The temptation is gone. That’s why they say this gift combats lust and encourages chastity ’cos you can’t feel them wonderful feelings now and, since you can’t, you don’t go looking for pleasure which, we both know, you did too much before.”

I was crestfallen. Gob-smacked. Devastated. My last great joy in life had been taken from me by their hateful, religious bullshit regime. I felt like dying.

“You can still pee of course, through that hole, and your husband can penetrate you there when he wants. In fact, they say you’ll still feel pleasure through proper marital consummation, as nothing has been done to you internally, nothing that would complicate motherly labour. Let me show you with my finger.”

She pushed her finger into me and I experienced what she meant. The very insertion past the threshold of my vaginal canal gave me the same joys I had experienced with Stephen oh so long ago. It was nothing like before, maybe a tickle of my external flora, but it was something. All too soon, she removed that finger. “It’ll be better when your husband does it,” she continued, “because his member will be a whole lot bigger than my little pinkie.”

Tears flowing from my eyes, I tried, unsuccessfully, to shake my head. Because I had no husband. My fiancé had severed the engagement and I was destined to be an old maid devoid of any sexual pleasure ever again.

As if sensing my sadness, Emma then added another two sentences which changed the entire day.

“Oh yeah, and I almost forgot: they found you a new fiancé. Your wedding is scheduled for next week.”

Part 5

St. Brigid’s School for Young Catholic Ladies: Part 3

Part 2

Chapter 6

The end of the term meant returning home for Christmas. In all honesty, this left my mind in a muddle. On the one hand, I was glad to be going back, eager to see friends and family again. But this was tempered with the reality of what had been done to me. How would my old friends react when they saw me like this? And how would I react when coming face-to-face – well, face-to-upturned neck – with the parents who had sentenced me to such a fate? The night before, my mind was a maelstrom, tossing and turning as I struggled to sleep upon my pinned arms. Not that it mattered; restrained as I was, I could only go meekly along with what others planned for me.

And what they planned was a journey. A long journey. Firstly, by train to Dublin, then ship to Holyhead and then finally by another train to Tamworth from where the family car would escort me home. All in all, I would be travelling for around fifteen hours.

We started early. I was bathed and fed my breakfast and then attired for the day. Gone was my dull school uniform and in its place the more colourful clothes of a travelling lady of stature. Before St. Brigid’s I had always enjoyed choosing my outfits myself. Now, as with so much else, I was merely the passive recipient. Nonetheless, I was not displeased with the maid’s choice. The travelling gown of dark purple satin line with grey fur was elegant and the matching mantle hid my bound arms. More concerning though, was a new addition to my wardrobe. A metal pair of underpants were fitted around my sex and locked into place. I could pee through them, but they could not be removed. The key, to my astonishment, was then sent to the post office to be mailed to my home first class. It was later explained that this was standard practice for St. Brigid’s students whilst travelling abroad: “A sadly necessary protection against the unwelcome advances of rakes against whom the pious lady cannot always defend herself.”

The first part of the journey, in a first-class compartment from Athlone to Dublin, shared with five other silenced and restrained young ladies, passed by without incident. I was lucky to get a window seat and to be wearing a bonnet with only a thin veil and, with no teachers or maids to spy on us securely prepared girls, I sneaked downward glances out of the window at the passing countryside for much of the trip.

Once we pulled into Dublin Kingsbridge station, such infractions were naturally impossible again and so I stared upwards as my maid helped me out of the compartment and guided my ever-trusting steps to a waiting taxi which then drove us to the ship. We had a first-class cabin, of course, but despite the chilliness of the day, I elected to remain on deck and spent a pleasant hour or more observing the gulls circling overhead before the maid declared the cold “intolerable” and forced me indoors. There I lay down and dozed until the horn sounded our arrival into Holyhead.

Then we transferred again, this time by foot, an exhausting and laborious process, into the waiting train at the adjacent railway station, a walk of some two hundred yards or so, mere minutes to a normal girl, but for a student of St. Brigid’s perched on her ridiculous heels and unable to see where she was headed, a veritable trek. Panting for air, my legs in agony, I sat down in the thankfully-empty first-class carriage, and let my lungs recover as my maid divested me of my cloak. The train’s whistle sounded, and we were about to set off, when the door to the compartment opened and someone jumped in, panting as was I. “Damn fine scrape that was!” they said, as they sat down opposite to me. The voice was a male one, and young-sounding at that, and I would have loved to glance at him, but with the maid present, all I could do was stare at the white-painted wooden struts of the carriage ceiling, suddenly very aware of the gag filling my eager mouth.

We had rumbled along for some distance, when the man spoke again, addressing my maid. “Don’t mind me asking, but your mistress, is she a devotee of the Leisure Ideal?”

“That she is, sir.”

“Well done to you! A dashed fine sight you cut!” he said to me. I bowed slightly in acknowledgement.

“Is she silenced too?”

“Aye sir, that she is.”

“By Gawd! Bound and silenced! Damned fine example to all womankind. So… I’m guessing that, her trammelled like that, is why you are travelling here in first. Servants usually going in second or third like.”

“Yes sir. Miss might need me help like, so I have permission to ride with her.”

“Enjoy a ride, do you?”

“Oh aye, sir, love one, ’specially in first class with such charming gentlemen.”

I could not believe what I was hearing! Were they flirting, this so-called gentleman and my maid?!

“Well, first is made all the better by having such a fine lady in it… and her mistress.”

“Oh sir, you’re a caution, you are!”

“You don’t know the half of it, Miss… Miss…?”

“Miss Emma Leighton, sir.”

They were flirting! There in front of me, as if I were not even present. It simply was too much! I tapped my foot in annoyance.

“Do beg your pardon, miss,” said he, misinterpreting my message. “George Wilkes at your service, son of William Wilkes, the Manchester Manufacturer. A pleasure to meet you… Emma, and…?”

“Oh, her… she’s Miss Jessica Fitzgerald. Daughter of the Baron and Baroness of Tamworth.”

“Noble blood, eh? Every inch a lady. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’d kiss your hand but…” He left the words hanging in the air and I pointedly did not acknowledge his greeting with a bow, painfully reminded of each bead wrapped around my fingers in piety behind my neck.

“…but since there is no hand to kiss, how about the cheek, eh?” And then, leaning forward, he lifted my veil and kissed my cheek. I saw him then for the first time. He was young, perhaps twenty-two or three, with a sort of rugged handsomeness to him. It was an appeal entirely different to that of Stephen who had smoother features and emanated kindness and courtesy. This fellow, handsome or otherwise, had the eye of a rogue, a chancer, a lecher. With all my religious instruction, it should have made him repulsive to me and yet, for some unfathomable reason, it did not. Indeed, if anything, I felt a surge of pleasure for having received his kiss, even though I hated myself for the feeling.

He withdrew and then said to the maid – whose name I now knew – “And we can’t be leaving you out now, can we…?”

I heard the sound of a lengthy kiss, and then, when he withdrew, she said, “And them were my lips, Mr. Wilkes, not my cheek!”

I knew emotion surged through my breast and it was not entirely indignation and anger. Indeed, I am ashamed to admit that jealousy was also added to that cocktail.

“You said I was a caution, Emma, but you didn’t warn me as to how kissable those lips of yours are.”

She giggled and I silently fumed.

He paused, as if regathering his troops from the initial attack in order to mass them for the final push. Then I heard the rogue say, “Your mistress looks tired, Emma, do you not think?”

“What do you mean, Mr. Wilkes?”

“Please, George. I mean, she has been travelling for a long time and the evening air is cool. Why not close all the blinds to keep in the heat?”

I felt the compartment grow darker, lit only by the flickering oil lamp above our heads.

Then he spoke again: “Drape my coat over her figure to warm her.”

I felt something being fitted over my shoulders.

“I fear that she is still chilly. Why not lend her your cloak, Emma?”

I felt another layer being placed on me. Then silence reigned for a few seconds.

“Now you are the cold one, my darling. Why, I can see you shivering! Why don’t you come over here and I’ll keep you warm.”

“Don’t mind if I do, George.”

She moved over to him and I heard the sound of more kissing. Then I heard other sounds, sounds of hands undoing clothing. Knowing that her attentions would not be on me, I stole a glance. Sure enough, he had undone her blouse and was now unfastening her stays. The scene left me both appalled and enraptured. It reminded me of my all too brief encounter with Stephen O’Leary and a fire blazed in my loins.

A fire that I could not quench.

He hitched up her skirts and she lowered herself onto him with a brief gasp of pleasure. Like me, Emma Leighton was no stranger to the opposite sex! The little minx. I watched with distaste and jealousy as her face contorted in ecstasy as he slowly worked himself in and out of her, keeping up a steady, sensuous rhythm. She groaned in pleasure and the fire in my loins blazed brighter. Behind my gag, I groaned too, almost imperceptibly, but enough for him. He looked up, saw my straying sinful eyes and winked mischievously. Swiftly I looked heavenward again.

It did not last long before he erupted in ecstasy within her and she climbed off him. I was looking at the ceiling now, examining the flickering lamp, trying to take my mind of what was happening across the compartment from me and which was causing me to go almost mad with insatiable sexual desire. I heard him say, “Fancy a snifter?” Glancing at them briefly, I saw her swig from his whisky flask. Then they settled in each other’s arms.

By the time we had pulled out of Llandudno Junction, I could hear her breathing become heavier.

Then he moved next to me, removed the covers from my body and circled my corseted waist with his two hands.

“I love a tightly-laced woman,” he whispered in my ear. “So much more alluring than those broad-waisted wenches.” He then kissed that ear, nibbling the end of it. Again, I was reminded of Stephen and again my desire levels shot up. Much as I hated this stranger, I needed him. In. Me.

“Promise you won’t scream if I remove this infernal gag?” he asked.

I nodded the tiny amount my neck corset would allow. He unfastened the gag, removed it and then, before I could say a word, fastened his lips on mine. I dissolved into a glorious, luxurious kiss, our tongues exploring one another’s mouths, a foretaste of heaven itself.”

“After the plain starter, the sumptuous main course,” he whispered. “My Gawd, Jessica, you are something else. Such an incomparable figure coupled with such natural beauty. I have never seen such a lass! This waist, surely it must only be seventeen inches at the most.”

“Sixteen,” I corrected him.

“And these titties!” he exclaimed as he freed my breasts and stroked them, sending me wild.”

We kissed again.

“But what have we down below…?” he asked.

My skirts were hitched up and then came a loud exclamation. “Chastity pants! You cannot be serious! And I was so looking forward to…”

“School regulations,” I whispered, unsure of whether I was glad of them or cursing them.

“Damn such a school! Still, we can still enjoy ourselves, can we not?”

I looked at him confused and then, to my astonishment, he lay me, chest-down, across the seat, keeping my skirts hitched up to expose my bare bottom. This he then caressed with his hands before, to my shock and horror, I felt something else nestling against it. “No!” I squeaked, but he merely stroked my hair and said, “Shhh! Do not fear it, embrace it!”

I tried another approach. “But Emma. If she should awaken?”

“Fear not, the sleeping draught in that whisky she drank will keep her asleep for hours yet. It’s just you and me, Jess!”

And with those words I felt his member thrust itself up and down the crack between my bum cheeks, titillating me in a fashion unknown since my victory against the serpent.

When he finally erupted his seed all over my rear, I fainted from both shame and pleasure.

In the aftermath of our union as George held me in his arms (I could not hold him, of course) my emotions conflicted with themselves. On the one hand, he was such a rogue. I had literally watched him seduce and take another woman before my very eyes, and then drug her in order to have his wicked way with me. This was clearly a man with no morals and no respect for women. And yet, at the same time, I longed for human touch and warmth. To be held how he was holding me now, interlinking his fingers with my useless ones behind my neck, nuzzling me, treating e as a human being and not some pious object, was so beautiful. For the first time in months, there had been no references to God, Christ, shame or religion, and that was so wonderful. I enjoyed it for what it was, under no illusions that it was something greater.

And since I had opened up to him in one sense, I now opened up to him in another. He was intrigued by my bondage and predicament. I told him about how I came to be at St. Brigid’s, of my liaisons with a boy at home which had caused me to be sent to that awful place, (“So, we are both a little naughty in the eyes of society,” he’d commented. “It makes me love you even more, Jess”) and of their harsh regime which justified everything in the name of God and His Church. He was intrigued to learn of the concept of the Seven Sacred Gifts and wished to know what they all were, but, of course, I could not help him. He also wished to know when we were returning, and, with some reservation, I told him.

We spent the rest of the journey cuddling which I enjoyed. Then, around Stafford, he started to dress me and also the sleeping Emma who was beginning to stir. When we pulled into Tamworth, he alerted a porter, explaining that Her Ladyship’s maid had fallen ill, and Her Ladyship was clearly unable to do things for herself in the situation and the servants from the house thanked him for his kindness and gentlemanly conduct. Unseen behind my veil and gag, I smiled.

The following morning, when Emma awoke me for the new day, I had a stern chat with her, setting down some clear facts. She had sinned and I knew about it. Did she want to keep her job or did she want to go the way of Stephen O’Leary? She did want to carry on working here. Well then, things would have to change. I would keep quiet about George and even help facilitate future encounters, so long as she did something for me. “But what can I do for you, miss?” she asked, confused.

“I am a woman too with needs and desires. Watching you two cavort like that with no chance of release for myself was excruciating. I need release too! The moment that the keys to this accursed belt arrive, I require you to bring me to climax with your fingers or tongue. And I shall require such a service regularly. Have you ever been with a woman before?”

She looked at me sheepishly. “I have thought of it, miss, but never had the courage to try.”

“Now is your opportunity,” I replied.

Chapter 7

My trip home was a mixed blessing. It was great to be away from the oppressive atmosphere of St. Brigid’s with its continual masses, prayers and Angelus bells, not to mention the dour clothes and dull classes. I could wear colour here and I had a great deal more freedom, particularly after I had this new hold over my maid. Here she did not report me for eye infractions and the like and, in place of such annoyances, I received a delightful climax every morning as she deftly worked my bud with her talented fingers.

This was something that she seemed to enjoy more and more, especially when I could not restrain my sighs and coos of enjoyment, and she had to reseat my gag. She seemed to relish this eventually, and our increased intimacy warmed my days. We started developing a friendship, holding conversations in my room when no one else was about and also practising kisses. It was fun.

One thing that we did not share was George Wilkes. Emma was a nice girl and pretty in a homely, serving-girl sort of fashion, but she was not the brightest of God’s buttons. She knew that I knew about her and George but the reverse is not true. She honestly believed that she had passed out from fatigue and a slight illness brought about by travelling, and never suspected the mild draught in the wine. As far as she was concerned, she was drenched in sin and I was as pure as a turtle dove.

Which suited me down to the ground.

Another pleasurable aspect of being at home was that I was no longer gagged. Being able to enjoy a normal conversation – and to sneak downward glances at my conversation partners- was a joy unmatched after so long silenced. But those conversations also reminded me of everything that I was now missing and that hurt deeply. My cousins and old friends would come around to visit and whilst they congratulated me on my new look and piety, I envied their broader waists and unfettered arms and necks immeasurably. It is one thing to see a servant unrestrained so, but quite another to endure the presence of an unbound lady.

Thankfully, one of my old friends, Florence Haltwhistle, had embraced the Leisure Ideal and now came to visit me with arms bound stiffly in a monoglove. This was not of her own volition either, being the instructions of the fiancé that her parents had foisted upon her, a rather dull and leery banker named Harker who attended a soiree one evening with her and left no impression on me whatsoever. Like many men it seemed (certainly judging by the compliments that I was now receiving) he was enraptured by the idea of owning his own Lady of Leisure and was eager to wed her once her waist was down to a mind-boggling 14” and her feet trained to manage en-pointe elegantly. It was a small mercy, but I gained great cathartic release from our afternoon chats where we lamented our lot in this increasingly male-centric world.

One other point to mention is my parents, whom I now both loved and hated in equal measure. Whilst others congratulated me on my changes, they positively gushed about them, taking the outward piety that St. Brigid’s had enforced, to equal a change in inner piety. I was now the Prodigal Daughter, a living embodiment of the veracity of the True Faith and a point of family pride, not shame. I did not correct them; they would learn soon enough the moment I left that accursed school. Until then I would play my part but afterwards, I vowed that my vengeance would be unmatched. Worryingly though, they started making noises about finding me a husband whose piety matched my own. The thought of being yoked for life to some sanctimonious bore was not enthralling, but I vowed to cross that bridge when I came to it.

All too soon though, the holidays ended and it was time to go back to St. Brigid’s. I was dressed in those awful chastity pants again, key sent ahead, and then clad in a new travelling costume of dark green and blue tartan and taken down to the railway station with not only Emma for company, but also Lady Helen who had to travel back to Dublin. We seated ourselves in the compartment and began the long journey back. However, at Stafford the compartment door was flung open and who should be standing there but George Wilkes. I naughtily glanced down to see the crestfallen look that crossed his brow for a moment when he spied Lady Helen in the carriage with us, but then his smile resumed and he doffed his hat, greeted us all as if we were strangers and then climbed in. I noticed out of the corner of my eye Emma shifting uncomfortably whilst Lady Helen engaged in small talk about the weather. Then I heard him withdraw something from his pocket. “Care for a snifter, Lady Helen?” he asked casually.

“Don’t mind if I do,” she replied.

“And you too Miss Leighton?”

They both took a draught and I sneaked a glance across at him.

He winked back and then rose from his seat to pull down the blinds.

Chapter 8

And so I was back at St. Brigid’s, back to the constant prayer and piety. Still, things were easier in a way. Emma would still report the occasional eye infraction so as not to draw attention to me, but she let many more pass for which I was glad.

Before I continue with my story though, I’ll rewind slightly. Back to the train thundering through Wales, George Wilkes and I in our private compartment shared with the sleeping Emma and Lady Helen.

Things progressed as you’d expect and, dare I say, as I’d hoped. However, when we got to him hitching up my skirts to reveal that accursed chastity belt – how I’d hinted to Emma to leave them off, but she insisted it would not be worth it as the school would check, which they did. Again, he turned me over on my back but this time he produced some items from his pocket that I had not been anticipating: a small jar with a screw top lid and a strange rod which seemed to be made out of ivory or some substitute.

“You’ve never had a man in there, I could tell from the tightness last time we playedtogether,” he said.

I had not.

“The pleasure is exquisite, or so they tell me. However, without a little help, you’ll never know.” I was intrigued as he unscrewed the jar and then put his hand in it. Then he started massaging my derriere, concentrating on the whole in the middle. The jar contained some sort of lubricating gel which he worked in careful, causing wonderful sensations as he worked it in, penetrating me with his greasy fingers. Then he produced the rod which, after smearing it with lubricant, we slowly but carefully inserted, filling me in a way I had never experienced before, working it in and out causing me to pant and perspire with excitement. This was different to the experience that I had enjoyed with Stephen yet equally enjoyable in its own fashion.

Eventually, he removed the rod and then unfastened his trousers to reveal his own rod, standing firm and proud. With a proud cry, he slowly inserted it in the ground that the plug had prepared. His rod was bigger but, warm and pulsing, it was far, far better. I groaned in ecstasy as he pumped slowly in and out before erupting his seed deep within my bowels.

He alighted at Bangor, explaining to the guard that there was a Lady of Leisure in the compartment whose companions had fallen asleep and who might need assistance at Holyhead, but his warning was not necessary; the sleeping draught he’d explained was not strong and both were stirring by the time we pulled into the terminal station.

Yawning, Emma assisted us both from the train to the ship. Lady Helen cursed herself for sleeping and missing all the wonderful scenery. “What should have been a journey to remember is now one to forget!” she lamented as we stood on the deck.

For me though, it truly had been a most memorable journey indeed.

Life continued in St. Brigid’s. there is not much to report from that second term, nor too from the third. My stays were tightened, my walking got better and my eyes gazed evermore heavenwards throughout as my neck corsets were continually replaced with higher, thinner and stricter ones, whilst we were force-fed a diet of prayer, penitence, piety and other such pish. By the end though, my waist, almost numb from the pressure, measured only 15”, the cramps were a feature of the past and my reverse prayer arrangement was declared “flawless”.

It was the waist though, which merited the most attention. Once it had been reduced to the required 15”, my stays were changed for a pair that stretched it, up and down in the middle. I, and all the other girls, were told that we were all cultivating stem waists which meant that, in order to further trumpet their narrowness, a vertical section of two inches was to be created. This was not pleasant. At night a device was put around my middle, consisting of angled and padded rings connected by screw fittings. Each night, these were lengthened slightly, pushing the breasts away from the hips to create the stem. It was agony and all of us cried in pain, but we were not punished, for the teachers knew how strict this methodology was.

But by our summer ball, we were all ready. I had a beautiful gown in blue silk commissioned for the occasion, but before then we had a little ceremony in the hall. All the girls were ushered in and those who had achieved their stem waists of 15” were called forward.

“Girls! Today is the glorious day when all the members of our September intake are to be presented with the second of their Seven Sacred Gifts. As those of you who have already earned yours know, the training to achieve this was far from easy, but all will surely agree that the results have been more than worthwhile. For whilst your first gift, the en-pointe boots that grace your feet banish sloth and promote diligence, this next sacred gift fights the cardinal sin of gluttony by restricting the size of our stomachs so they do not grow inelegant and bloated, whilst increasing the cardinal virtue of temperance, for one must now consider every bit one consumes.”

The whole assembly was ordered to sing hymns of praise to the Virgin and one-by-one we lucky recipients were called forward. As with when I had received my rosary which continually dangled from my now-useless fingers, I went minced towards her, supported and guided by Emma, my head held aloft and eyes gazing heavenwards as if in the raptures of religious ecstasy for the gift I would now receive. As with the previous time, she held it up for me to peruse before fitting it. It was a gorgeous belt of filigree silver, two inches deep, that was buckled around my waist to show off its tiny size and impressive stem. The teachers and guests applauded and, I must admit, I felt a slight surge of pride and joy. Sure, it had been hell trying to achieve this and, sure too, it was not the path that I would have chosen for myself, but one had to admit that it looked good and would cause many male heads to turn.

And besides, I could always remove it and let out my waist after marriage.

Couldn’t I?

And so, I attended our summer ball wearing a beautiful, off-the-shoulder gown of blue silk and sporting my new belt which emphasised my waist for all to see. And many did gaze upon it and compliment it, for the room had a large contingent of men present, young bachelors (or their fathers) eager to secure a pious, elegant, and obedient wife. Again, my emotions were conflicted. I do confess that I loved being the centre of attentions and the power that I now held over men, but conversely, I was also aware that I was being squeezed, moulded and presented like a choice cut of beef to be sold off to the highest bidder.

And nor too were all those bidders to my liking. I could not dance, trammelled as I was, but young men milled about me all evening and they were almost uniformly dull, unimaginative and stiflingly pious, congratulating me on my religious outlook and revelling in my reverse prayer. Many even touched my hands to see if they were real, a persistent indecency that was always a surprise, as I could not see their infraction coming.

Towards the end of the evening though, I was approached by one who was not. “Fancy meeting you here, Miss Fitzgerald,” I heard a familiar voice whisper in my ear. I turned and risked a downwards glance to see the smiling face of George Wilkes standing before me.

“And looking more radiant than ever?”

My heart fluttered. What was that most rakish and roguish of all men doing here. Why was he harassing me, risking our terrible secret to being exposed to the world? And yet… yet his ruggedly handsome face charmed me as it had in the railway compartment and, set against that background of dull grey religious blurs, he was welcome company indeed.

“You, sir, are incorrigible!” I whispered back.

“Indeed I am,” he replied with a wink, before disappearing into the crowd, brushing my exposed shoulder and arms as he left. That I did not mind one bit.

Part 4