A Red Guard’s Tale: Part 1

A Red Guard’s Tale

Copyright © 2020, Dave Potter



 … and so the Empress Dowager Cixi, seeing the influence that this beautiful concubine was having upon the young emperor, and recognising that that influence would only increase with time, did cause the poor girl to be charged with adultery and thus sentenced to a most horrible punishment. Rather than merely strangling the girl as was customary, she did employ a skilled surgeon to remove all of her limbs and then sew the wounds up, leaving only a torso with a head. Then, the girl was immured within a large ceramic jar which was placed in the hallway leading to the chambers of Cixi herself. Every day, as the cause of her misfortune passed by, the girl had to thank the Empress Dowager for her great mercy, a task that she never failed in, for her younger sisters had also been taken to the palace and the same fate awaited them if she failed…

The young man lifted his head from the ancient book and returned back to the real world. No longer was he in the opulent palace in the great Northern Capital, but instead back in a musty library in provincial Changsha. Although he hated imperialism and the shame on China that it had spawned, he had to admit that the Empress Dowager had style. To immure her hated enemy in a pot and taunt her daily as the decades passed and her charms faded. Yes, she’d had style.

His face clouded as he thought of the people who ignored him, who looked down on him for his origins, who did not realise who he was and what he was going to achieve. One day he, like Madame Cixi, would rise from humility to greatness. One day he would mete out justice and revenge with as much style as she had.

He stood up and walked out of the library. As he was exiting, the pretty daughter of Landowner Hu walked past. He bowed at her but she did not even acknowledge his presence.

Part One

May 1966

“The world is yours, as well as ours, but in the last analysis, it is yours. You young people, full of vigour and vitality, are in the bloom of life, like the sun at eight or nine in the morning. Our hope is placed on you … The world belongs to you. China’s future belongs to you.”

A million fists punched the air in response and a million cheers swelled up into the sky. In the middle of them was the defiant fist and exultant cry of me, Zhang Hu, student at Changsha University and committed Red Guard.

“To rebel is justified!” roared the crowd.

The distant man on the podium waved.

“We will destroy of the Four Olds!”

Never before in my life had I felt such pride, such joy, such a sense of purpose. My heart poured out with adoration to that distant Chairman on the podium who was leading the revolution on to its rightful conclusion; who was steering China to a glorious future.

My grandfather had been a landowner, but my father had rebelled. He’d taken his bag and left, headed into the mountains and joined the ragtag band of communists who were marching through the country, away from the nationalist tyrants, committed to establishing a brighter tomorrow, committed to a future in which the East is Red.

And when they had won their most improbable of victories in 1948, he had been forgiven his family’s bourgeois history and had joined the ranks of the revolutionaries now rebuilding the Motherland.

Sadly, he perished in an explosion at a makeshift iron furnace during the Great Leap Forward, but his demise in the cause of socialism had caused our family’s star to rise even further and, despite my middling grades, I was given a place in the university, the first female of our family to attend. My grandmother and mother, their feet bound to immobility, had been immured within the walls of the home, but I was of the new generation of revolutionaries, free and confident and eternally dedicated to Mao Tse-Tung Thought.

Which is why I had jumped on the train to Beijing in my green uniform and red-starred cap and was now punching the air with a million other comrades.

And so engrossed in the spectacle was I, that I never noticed the high-ranking party official observing me from the side-lines. “Who is she?” he asked the comrade standing next to him.

“Which one?”

“The exceptionally pretty one there, with the pigtails and nicely-shaped bottom.”

“I shall find out Comrade Director.”

“Have her report to me tomorrow morning at my office.”

I had no idea why I’d been summoned by her troupe leader after breakfast in their dormitory and ordered to report to the Central Cultural Committee on the Road for Eternal Revolution, but as a dedicated communist, I obeyed unquestioningly. At the grand stone building – which I had some trouble finding – I was shown into the office of Comrade Wang, the Director of Operatic Arts and found myself in a large office sitting across from a rather leery-looking man who chain-smoked cigarettes and smiled at me creepily. “Comrade Zhang, so good to see you. Thank you for coming. At the rally yesterday, the moment I saw you, I thought, yes, there, that is our girl!”

“Thank you, Comrade,” I replied, not having a clue what he was on about.

“Have you ever acted, Comrade Zhang?”

“No Comrade, apart from in a school play depicting the heroic women’s detachment of Hainan Island who repelled the nationalist aggressors against overwhelming odds, I have never acted.”

“And what role did you play in that stirring revolutionary epic?”

“I was a soldier, Comrade. I did not speak, only shoot.”

“Then the dramatic director had no vision. He should be criticised. You exude talent, Comrade Zhang, that is clear to me and I have been casting and directing revolutionary plays and operas since the Long March when I was one of the comrades who accompanied our esteemed Chairman on his revolutionary road. Comrade Zhang, I would like to offer you a position in my latest work which is a production of ‘The Legend of the Red Lantern’. What do you say?”

“Comrade Director, I only want to serve the revolution, the Motherland and the Chairman. If this is how the Party wants me to serve, then this is how I shall serve!”

“Excellent! You have a correct revolutionary attitude, Comrade Zhang.” He got up and walked over to me and, to my surprise and, I am ashamed to say, slight revulsion, stroked my cheek. “We are embarking upon a new era in China’s history. We are undergoing a Cultural Revolution and the best place to serve it is in culture. I see this clearly. In the past only famous actresses and actors were allowed to star in films and operatic plays. But in our revolutionary age, it is more correct to pluck ideologically sound youngsters off the street and give them the chance to shine. You shall move into here immediately. Be happy my dear, you will be under my personal tuition.”

On that day my life changed out of all recognition. I did not return to Changsha and instead moved into the accommodation of the Cultural Committee. It was a world away from the spartan dormitory that I had shared with the other students in Changsha. Now, I had my own room, properly furnished and with a large double bed covered with clean sheets. At first I thought that it was a mistake; the other girls in the troupe all slept in a dormitory only slightly better than the one I had left, but when I protested, I was told that the Party looks after those who love it and that I, as a genuine Red Guard and communist performer, had been allocated this superior room.

Who was I to question the wisdom of the Party?

But if the bedroom gave me security and sanctity at night, by days had none. Although I was allocated a relatively minor part in the play, Director Wang spent an inordinate amount of time coaching me, usually on a one-to-one basis. And those sessions regularly involved him going further than a theatre director usually would. He would sit me on his knee as I learned my lines and, distressingly, I could feel his erect thing pressing through the folds of his trousers. At the time, I was a young and entirely innocent girl when it came to the ways of the world and the continued proximity to a man disturbed me. Furthermore, as the time passed, his attentions only grew. He would stroke my hair and cheek and then started to kiss me occasionally, firstly on the cheek or forehead and then, whenever we met or parted, on the lips. My mind was in turmoil about this. He was such a kind man and a respected member of the Party, yet I had also heard that he was married and, indeed, had seen his wife in the theatre on a couple of occasions. Finally, to still my mind, I asked him if what we were doing was appropriate and, to my surprise, he simply laughed and declared, “My dear, such thoughts are not worthy of a revolutionary daughter of China! Marriage is a bourgeois notion, as too is that of separation between male and female comrades. Indeed, they are Old Thoughts, one of the detested Four Olds which we strive ceaselessly to destroy. Indeed, if there is any impropriety in our relationship, it is that it is not close enough and, if we were to really walk the revolutionary road, we should both fully embrace our natural and entirely correct socialist feelings and become closer still. There would be no better way of demonstrating our dedicated to Mao Tse-Tung Thought.”

And so, that night, in my fine double bed, I lost my virginity.

My star continued to rise. Despite a somewhat lacklustre performance in ‘The Legend of the Red Lantern’ and another mediocre performance in a minor role in ‘Taking Tiger Mountain By Strategy’ (I was a female soldier with trousers and a jacket that were excessively tight around my bottom and chest), I was lauded in the press and received awards from the Party. Then came my third performance, ‘Fragrant Flower in a Stagnant Pool’, an opera based on the reactionary regime of Hongwu Emperor, the first of the Ming Dynasty of rulers. He was infamous for having a huge harem of concubines, whom he treated with absolute cruelty, keeping them locked in a gilded cage and torturing them regularly as well as using them for his personal pleasure. I was to play Mei, a beautiful girl from a village who was spotted by the emperor, forced to come to Beijing and transformed into a concubine. She then had to act as a dancer and sexual slave for the Hongwu Emperor before, at the end, secretly poisoning him for being an oppressive tyrant who exploited the working masses. However, upon his death, my poor character then suffered the ignoble fate of being buried alive with the emperor and thirty-seven of her fellow concubines, the opera finishing with the stone being placed on the tomb and us actresses singing a woeful song about how the people’s burden is a heavy one and how we pray for a great leader to liberate all workers and peasants from such tyrants.

The opera, unlike the others, was not for public consumption – due to it depicting some extremely reactionary times and politicians, exposure to which could corrupt some weak minds I was told – and instead was a private performance for elite members of the Communist Party. When we began rehearsing, I was most surprised – and unhappily so – as the role was quite different to those I had played before. Although, most of the role required me to wear the elaborate and beautiful clothes of a concubine of that era, in several scenes I was made to strip entirely naked and stimulate sex scenes with the actor who was playing the emperor. Thankfully, he was a somewhat handsome and considerate man, but it was most embarrassing and shame-making to have to cavort like that on a stage in front of a large room full of strange men and, as I acted, I had to continue repeating over and over again in my mind the mantra, ‘I am doing this for the good of the Party! I am doing this for the good of the Chairman! I am doing this for the good of the Revolution!’ Such thoughts helped stay my mind a little, but it was still difficult.

At the end of the first performance though, the applause was rapturous and, as the faux tomb was taken away and we gave our final bow to the audience, the Chairman himself came onto the stage and congratulated us all, giving me a kiss on the cheek and a squeeze of the buttocks with his hand. Never before had I been so honoured and in an instant, I knew that it had all been worth it.

Or so I thought. The very next morning, I was summoned to a meeting.

“Comrade Zhang, thank you for coming to this meeting.”

I looked around me, from left to right. As well as the Comrade Director, there were a lot of major Party figures sitting at the table. Whatever this was about, it was important.

“We will get straight to the point, Comrade. Your performance in ‘Fragrant Flower in a Stagnant Pool’ was so inspiring that you have been selected to play the lead role in a new production, ‘Mist Gathers Below Shan Mountain’. However, we have received some criticism concerning the historical accuracy of some of the costumes and dialogue in ‘Fragrant Flower in a Stagnant Pool’ and we wish to make this new production entirely accurate and reflective of that barbaric time.”

“Yes, Comrade Zhang,” said the Comrade Director, taking over. “This new play concerns the story of Zhu, a concubine in the court of the cruel Hongxi Emperor. She was a humble village girl who was spotted by the emperor, brought to the palace and forced to live a miserable life as his concubine. Her story is an excellent reflection on the evils of imperialism and how the ruling classes have always turned the heroic worker-peasant classes into slaves. However, in the story, a village boy name Tung, seeing the oppression all around him and being in love with Zhu, raises a peasant army to free his love. They succeed and escape to the mountains but, because he does not have the ideological guidance provided by Mao Tse-Tung thought, the evil emperor outwits him, and they are hunted down by the reactionary troops. In the end, they commit suicide by throwing themselves off the Shan Mountain into a mist-filled ravine, declaring that one day a saviour will come to China who will liberate the toiling masses permanently.”

“It sounds a stirring and ideologically-correct tale, Comrade Director.”

“And you shall play Zhu. However, to fulfil the role, you must undergo some training and, ahem… modifications…”


“Yes, Comrade Zhang,” interrupted the political officer, “modifications. A large part of the tragedy of Zhu’s story focuses on how she is forced to suffer by having her feet bound into the extreme Golden Lotus configuration as this pleases the sadistic emperor. He likes to use her feet for sexual purposes and, as this is a play destined for an adult audience, then we cannot make this inaccurate. The foot-binding is central to the entire tale and conveys a strong moral message as the Party was the organisation that finally put a stop to this awful practice and the people need reminding of this. Therefore, as part of fulfilling this role, you are to undergo footbinding.”

“But it is banned!”

“The Party is prepared to make an exception for reasons of ideological education.”

“And is it necessary?” A wave of fear had passed over me. I recalled my grandmother and mother who’d had bound feet. The constant agony they felt when walking; their slow, mincing gait. I had been freed by the Revolution. To undergo that was simply unimaginable!”

“Entirely necessary. Are you questioning the Party’s wisdom, Comrade Zhang?”

“Not at all, but…”

“Then you shall be taken to the hospital following this meeting and the process shall begin.”

How can I say what I felt then? To have my feet bound like a woman from the reactionary days? This was certainly not something that I welcomed! I had seen old women with their feet mutilated in that way of course, hobbling around like invalids, but I never thought that I would be one of them. Indeed, what I loved some much about the Chairman and the Revolution and the Party was that they are all so progressive, dragging China out of the dark ages to a bright future where all the people can be free and successful. Yet here they were, ordering me to be dragged back, to mutilate myself for “beauty”. How could it be? What did it mean? I knew that the orders of the Party should not be questioned for the Party embodies a collective wisdom greater than that of any individual, but even so, I was finding this hard to accept. Again, as I had the night before in the opera, I repeated the mantra ‘I am doing this for the good of the Party! I am doing this for the good of the Chairman! I am doing this for the good of the Revolution!’ but this time it did little good. For, if the truth be told, now I was not so much ashamed as scared. I had heard that the binding process could be exceptionally painful. And pain is something I could never welcome.

The hospital was white and clean, one of the establishments reserved for the use of senior Party officials. I was shown to a private ward and nurses fussed around me. Then a doctor came and explained what was to happen:

“Comrade, to achieve the desired Golden Lotus appearance which was usual for concubines in the period you will be depicting in your play, it is required that all the bones in your foot are fractured or, to be more precise, dislocated. To enable the size of your feet to be reduced, the toes on each foot will be curled under, then pressed with great force downwards and squeezed into the sole of the foot until the toes break.”

Even hearing his words made me shudder. It sounded so painful. Surely I could not endure this! Seeing my grimace, he continued, “Do not fear so much about the pain of the operation. We will give you anaesthesia during the operation and so you will feel nothing. Straight afterwards the feet will be tightly bound with bandages. However, pain will come later when the anaesthesia wears off and, also, whenever you put weight on the feet. Walking will become very difficult for you, Comrade Zhang, particularly during this period of binding.”

“You say ‘period’. Does it not finish with the operation?”

“No, not at all. In the olden days, girls first had their feet bound at a young age and the feet were continually rebound daily to keep them decreasing in size. However, you do not have the luxury of time. The opening of your play is National Day which is only six months away. Modern medical procedures can speed the process up somewhat, but you will still need a daily rebinding which is painful although the Party, of course, has decreed that you be provided with anaesthesia free of charge for this daily routine.”

“I thank them for their generosity.”

“Indeed. And, with time, it will become easier. The broken toes will be held tightly against the sole of the foot while the foot is then drawn down straight with the leg and the arch of the foot will be forcibly broken. The bandages will be repeatedly wound in a figure-eight movement, starting at the inside of the foot at the instep, then carried over the toes, under the foot, and around the heel, the freshly broken toes being pressed tightly into the sole of the foot. At each pass around the foot, the binding cloth will be tightened, pulling the ball of the foot and the heel together, causing the broken foot to fold at the arch, and pressing the toes underneath the sole. The binding will be pulled so tightly that you will not be able to move your toes at all. This is the binding process in brief. After four months, walking should be not so painful as your feet will have begun to become accustomed to their new shape. That is when you can walk and practise your role. But, be warned, walking will never again be easy for you. You will not be able to run or jump with your bound feet, but instead you will mince along with your torso swaying. Moreover, small feet are easily fatigued, and they can’t support body for too long. So you will need servants to support you with their arms. “Indeed, feet that have undergone the Golden Lotus treatment have only the big toes and the heels touching the ground, so any movement is difficult. The ground must be smooth with no stones or gaps, for small feet are fragile and delicate, easy to be hurt.”

“Comrade Doctor, you have used the word ‘never’ a couple of times in your explanation. Surely though, after the play is over, I can undergo a procedure to return my feet to their natural state?”

“Unfortunately Comrade Zhang, that is not the case. The footbinding once achieved means that your feet can never return into their normal shape. Indeed, releasing the footbinding bondage would only make you more likely to stumble and fall. This is permanent, Comrade. You are sacrificing your feet for the Revolution.”

And so it was that, with tears in my eyes, I went under the anaesthetic and the doctor began his work.

Life was immeasurably hard for me after the footbinding process. It was also completely different in almost every respect.

The first thing to talk about was the pain. When the anaesthesia wore off it was there and it was constant. A dull throbbing ache. The drugs helped keep it low, but it was still there. And it got worse whenever I tried to move. After only a couple of days, I had to undergo daily exercises which involved me taking steps across a room supported by my maids. Each step was agony as I pressed down on my poor, crushed, broken toes that were now folded underneath the foot. The movement was excruciatingly slow too, and I found that I walked in a way which caused my whole body to sway. I was told that, in the olden days, this was found to be sexually exciting by men. I couldn’t see it personally. I just felt in pain, violated and disabled.

My days now had a strict routine. Every morning, after waking, my bandages were unwound and the feet given a long bath by the maid. Every crevice was washed with soap and then perfume put on them before the whole deformed ensemble was tightly bound again. The whole routine was repeated in the evening, about an hour before bed. In the meantime I sat there, learned my lines and got into the role of being a courtesan in the court of the Hongxi Emperor.

And when I say ‘got into the role’, I mean it. Totally. Straight after my operation in the hospital, I was taken to my new home. It was an old Confucian temple that had been requisitioned by the Party and turned into a home for the Comrade Director and the actresses training to act as courtesans. At the start, there was only me in the latter category but, after time, more arrived. Also with bound feet. We were forced to live exactly as courtesans had. We dressed in elaborate, silken gowns, had our hair dressed in huge and complicated hairstyles and were kept as pampered playthings in a gilded cage. Sitting down most of the time (this was both necessary due to the pain and difficulty of walking, but also encouraged as traditional wisdom states that it gives women larger bottoms which please men), I began to learn traditional courtesan arts such as playing stringed instruments, singing and, most shockingly, the ancient arts of the bedchamber. I was most disconcerted when my maid gave me a rubber phallus to practice sucking upon and then, stripped me and tried to insert it into my bottom. What had this to do with any play? Again and again I found myself reciting my mantra ‘I am doing this for the good of the Party! I am doing this for the good of the Chairman! I am doing this for the good of the Revolution!’ but, alas, I found it helping less and less.

I had ample opportunity to use those new found skills too. I now spent every night with the Comrade Director and he urged me ceaselessly to use the new skills I had learned. Very soon both my lower holes as well as my mouth became accustomed to receiving his tool, just as those of an ancient concubine would receive the tool of her emperor. What shocked me all the more though, was that there was yet another element to the footbinding process which I had never before imagined.

The Golden Lotus arrangement into which my poor feet had been crushed, resulted in each one having a high “arch” in the middle. However, when in bed the Comrade Director ordered me to put them together, sole to sole, so that the two arches formed a hole. A hole which could then be used for his penis.

I now had four erotic holes instead of the usual three and this final one, the Comrade Director took to using more and more.


This, however, was not totally bad for me, for my tiny feet, being always bound with several layers of bandages, now had skin so delicate and sensitive that when he used the “arches hole”, I also felt a great degree of excitement and arousal.

It was a small mercy.

And so came the day of the play. I was woken early, dressed in all my finery and escorted to the theatre where the performance was to take place. Alongside me were two sister “concubines” who had both previously been pretty actresses and had now moved into the old temple with me and the Comrade Director. The first, Ah Lam, moved in about a month after me whilst the second, Chun, had followed six weeks after that. Both of them had also been subjected to the Golden Lotus and both were also engaged in the same training regime which, after their arrival, had been extended to erotic kissing with us practising on one another.

Both also shared the Comrade Director’s bed with me, often with two or even three of us pleasuring him at the same time. All in the name of historical accuracy of course.

But due to my greater experience, I was taking the lead role of Zhu in ‘Mist Gathers Below Shan Mountain’, a play which, like ‘Fragrant Flower in a Stagnant Pool’, was only shown to a select audience of senior Party officials and which, shamefully, involved not simulated, but real sexual activity on the stage. My mind struggled as the actor lay on top of me, pounding first my love channel and then my “arches hole” with his rod, as to how this could ever be forwarding the Glorious Revolution, and even though I recited the mantra in my mind, it brought me no solace and, indeed, my only feeling when we reached the end and Zhu and Tung flung themselves off the Shan Mountain (onto a mattress hidden beneath the stage) was one of relief.

And yet it did not end there. Indeed, then it only just began. For after the performance, still dressed in my full regalia, I was taken to meet a particular member of the audience, no one other than the Chairman himself, our beloved Mao Tse-Tung! He praised me wholesomely, whilst holding my hand, stroking my cheek and then, to my surprise, escorting me to his car. And so, dressed as a courtesan from years gone by, I was whisked through the dark and empty streets of Beijing, to the Chairman’s residence and there, carried to his bedchamber and made to lie with the very father of the Chinese nation, the greatest man to have ever lived, the architect of our nation’s joy. Yes indeed, stripped naked, the Sun of the East did insert his rod into me, hold me by his side and caress my body and, for a brief hour or so, in a way, it all became worth it.

Part 2



Pillow Companion: Part 3

Part 2

Part 3

Chapter 1

Sitting on her carrier was, undoubtedly, the strangest experience of Almast’s young life. She had never ridden a horse during her human days, but she imagined that it must be similar. Well, sort of.

What would be the same, she guessed, would be the experience of sitting in a leather saddle with a living, breathing creature beneath you.

What would be different, aside from having arms and legs to help you balance and grip, is that horsewomen are not kept in their saddles by two large rubber plugs which are carefully fed into their two intimate holes.

Yes, both her intimate holes .

Having something slid into her love channel was one thing, but she was a little used to it. After all, had not that most feminine of places been graced with the Divine Member of the sultan during their night tonight? Having a rubber dong inserted into it was disconcerting, but not a new experience.

Having a similar dong maneuvered into her bottom hole (with the help of copious amounts of lubricant) was something else entirely. Nothing had ever been put up there before, nor did she think that anything ever should be. As the orifice fought against the unwelcome invader, she recalled Lalag’s words, “It’ll be going in your other holes soon,” and winced. And when it was in and the sphincter muscles closed back around its fluted based, she felt uncomfortably full but very firmly anchored to her carrier.

The carrier itself disquieted her though. Her breasts were squeezed up against its head, yet the head had no human features. She tried to imagine it as a living, breathing normal human being but struggled to relate the contorted anonymous creature beneath her to such an image. It was more like an animal. “Is it human?” she had asked her maid upon first sight of the creature.

“It was once, Exalted One. Now it is your carrier.”

It was once. Once human, now not. Just like her.

She shuddered at the realisation.

Controlling the thing was easy. She merely had to whisper and it obeyed. Walk forwards! Stop! Turn left! Turn right! It was fun even as it gave her a sense of power and control that she had not felt since undergoing the honour of reduction. The maidservant told her that there was a microphone embedded within the large nose jewel that she’d been given as part of her preparations for the first night in the sultan’s bedchamber. “It is activated every time your bottom plug is squeezed. That’s why it works when you are impaled onto the saddle but not when you are removed. You need only whisper; it is trained to respond to whispers and not full speech.”

So she did whisper and revelled in the power she now held. For an hour she got to accustom herself to controlling this thing, whilst it got to accustom itself to her. Then the maidservant informed her that she was ready to leave and that all the pillow girls were enjoying a day with their master in the palace gardens.

To leave the room, she had to don a burqa to preserve her modesty. This was turquoise in colour and expensively embroidered. When it was fitted over her and the carrier, Almast was amazed at the image she saw when she peered through the grille into the mirror. Gone was a strange, half-human, half-animal creature with a limbless torso on its back and in its place was what appeared to be a perfectly normal and fully-limbed noblewoman ready to leave the female quarters and engage in society.

Unsteadily yet excitedly, Almast and her carrier strode slowly yet gracefully out of the room and down several corridors, following the maidservant. They came out into a glorious garden with gushing fountains and trees heavy with fruit. Several birds of paradise walked around the pathways nonchalantly and the scent of thousands of flowers filled the air, Almast revelling in it even through the material of her burqa.

The maid led them to where her sisters were waiting. All were dressed in gorgeous burqas of flowing silk – red, green, blue, purple, yellow, all the colours of the rainbow in fact. The pillows greeted one another by pressing their veiled cheeks against one another. As she leant in to greet Patil, Almast felt a little uncertain, scared that she would slip out of her leather saddle, but the plugs and straps held her firm. “I see you have been introduced to your carrier,” said her sister pillow softly. Almast nodded. “It is a strange relationship that we share; they cannot see us and we know nothing of them and yet we are somehow close. I love mine in a particular way, don’t I boy?” Underneath the burqa, Almast detected a slight wiggle as if the carrier were proud of the praise it had received.

The pillows sat down on cushioned seats in a shaded corner of the garden and then the sultan himself arrived, fanned by servants carrying palm leaves. Almast’s heart leaped when she saw him, remembering the night of passion that they’d shared together. He too sat down and a band began playing raga music. They continued for some time before a singer was brought out. She was young and lithe, with enchanting dark eyes and captivating curves. Seeing those limbs, Almast felt a surge of jealousy rush through her truncated body, but when she opened her mouth, such a heavenly sound came out that she forgot her anger and lost herself in the beautiful music. The sultan too enjoyed it, for he clapped heartily after each song and demanded more, but then, after about ten pieces, he clapped his hands thrice and the young singer stopped. Then he beckoned her over and, to Almast’s shock and horror, ordered her to strip naked before then impaling her on his now-rigid rod. The pillow gasped as, in full view of everyone, the sultan proceeded to take the (rather unwilling) girl, laughing as he did, before withdrawing before completion, ordering her to kneel in front of him, and take his tool in her hands.

“Watch this,” whispered Patil. “This is his favourite bit!” And, even as she spoke the words, warm salty seed jetted out of his member, covering the face of the weeping singer in creamy white goo. “It is considered a great honour,” continued Patil as the girl was led away.

Soon afterwards, their team of pillows was led away also.

Chapter 2

Life as a carrier for Almast, his darling, beloved, Almast, was a surreal experience. He could hear her whispering in his ear in a manner most intimate, talking to him directly in a voice that could melt any man’s heart, yet he could never see her and he was acutely, painfully aware that she didn’t even know his identity. To her he was just a thing, a trolley to cart her truncated form around. Their relationship was like that between horse and rider except that this horse could think and feel like a human. The quiver of her heavenly whispers combined with her warmth and tantalysing curves pressed up against him, caused his member to grow rock hard which was painful because the suit that they’d put him in contained some sort of chastity device which held his cock in a sort of curved metal tube. That was fine when it was flaccid, but when he grew erect and stiffened, the tube stopped it from reaching its desired form and that hurt both physically and mentally.

And in a dark, silent world with only the whispers of his beloved and the warmth of her body pressed against him to occupy his mind, that pain was almost unceasing. When she instructed him to walk some distance with a number of stops and turns before she was then removed from his saddle and an unknown and unseen servant took hold of his leash, he was almost glad.

She was taken to her room where she was removed from her carrier and set down on the bed. Then her maid started fussing over her and beautifying her. She was bathed all over and then fragrant oils rubbed into every pore of her skin. Her brows and lashes were trimmed and extended and make-up exquisitely applied to her face. Then attentions were shifted to her nether regions. Wax was liberally applied to the whole region and then strips of paper applied. When these were removed, the pain was excruciating, but the resulting appearance, entirely denuded of hair, was remarkable.

Then her hair was braided and decorated with jewellery before golden ornaments were added to her nose ring, her ears, her navel and the piercings through her nipples. Finally ready, she was then placed on a velvet cushion and carried through to the sultan’s bedroom.

Already waiting there were her two fellow team members. They were both sitting on the bed, their backs resting against the headboard. They greeted her with smiles and when she was placed between them, both Shushan and Patil squirmed and pressed their truncated forms up against their new sister.

And then they waited.

Around half an hour later, the sultan arrived.

Shavarsh could not understand what was happening. He was led by his leash along a route that he did not recognise and then a strange voice spoke into his ears. It was neither Almast nor the voice, but a new, unknown one. It was male.

“Well done Carrier of Pillow Almast. You have done well and your sultan will now reward you. You will tonight witness the most exquisite of delights.”

The new voice finished and he felt straps being fastened around him. Then, someone fiddled around at his crotch and to his shock – and delight – he felt the chastity tube being removed. His member sprang to life. Then, his eyes cleared. He was in a tiny compartment, just big enough to house his standing form. It was entirely black save for two pinholes located in front of his eyes. He peered through them and saw a bedroom of such size and sumptuousness that he wondered if it were real.

He waited.

After what seemed like an incredibly long time, the door to the bedroom opened and a maid walked in. She was carrying a cushion and, seated on the cushion, was a girl. She was an incredibly beautiful girl with eyes like sapphires and long blonde hair. What was most remarkable about her, however, was that she was totally devoid of any limbs. Where her arms and legs should have been were only smooth curves of porcelain-like skin. The maid put the cushion down, lifted the girl and seated her on the bed so that she was facing the hidden carrier. Then the maid left.

The vision before him was strange yet curiously erotic. The girl was undeniably beautiful, that was true, but it was more than that. The total lack of limbs, a mere torso waiting to be used, sexually excited Shavarsh. Her absolute helplessness and dependence aroused him in a manner that he did not understand. His member stiffened further and he felt guilty, as if he were being unfaithful to his beloved.

He gazed at this vision of female loveliness with unimaginable longing. For so long he had been denied any sight at all, condemned to a hell of blurred shapes, and now, with full sight restored, he had been given a great sight indeed to feast his eyes upon! How glorious and kind was the sultan! He stopped himself even as he thought it: glorious and kind, the man who had transformed him from an agile young gallant into a thing, condemned to carry a truncated torso on his back. He should hate, not praise such a person! Yet he was thankful, more thankful than he had ever been before in his life. To a starving man, even a morsel of stale bread is heavenly.

The door opened again and another maid walked in, also carrying a velvet cushion. And on this velvet cushion was another truncated girl. She had long ebony tresses and chocolate eyes, yet straightaway it knew that it was not her, not the one that he yearned for. This girl was placed on the bed near the other. Both visions of reduced loveliness stared back at him and his dick went into overdrive. He was desperate to touch it, to relieve the pressure; the slightest touch would cause him to erupt, but his hands were chained behind him and, squirm as he might, the belts fastening him to the wall prevented him from rubbing that throbbing tool against one of the sides of the compartment. He was in heaven and hell at the same time.

And then it got better and worse. The door opened for a third time and another truncated girl on a pillow was brought in. And this time, in an instant, he knew that it was her. His eyes drunk in that perfect face, those kind and captivating eyes, those rosebud lips just waiting for a kiss. She was placed in the middle and looked at him unknowingly whilst the other girls leaned in towards her.

All four waited.

And waited.

The door opened for a final time and a man walked in. Naked and smiling, he made his way over to the bed where the three girls waited defensively. He spoke to them and picked the blonde one up. Then he kissed the second and finally lifted up Almast, talking to her and then kissing her on the lips. Jealousy and hatred coursed through Shavarsh’s veins. How dare he! She was his girl! But she wasn’t, of course; he was no longer even human, reduced to a mere thing by the man who now played with the pinnacle of female perfection.

As helpless as the girls on the bed, he watched with anger and fascination.

The Sultan lay on the centre of the bed. Then he took the black-haired girl and positioned her under his head. Shavarsh gasped in anger. He was using her, such an exquisitely beautiful creature who could melt the heart of a thousand men, merely as a pillow. He rested his head on his ample breasts, snuggling into them and then ignored her. It was wrong! So wrong! She was much more than that. And yet… yet, stripped of her limbs like that, didn’t the girl – didn’t all three of the girls – resemble pillows in a perverted way? Shavarsh tried to shake the notion from his head, but it stubbornly stayed there.

Then the sultan took the blonde girl. He lifted her up and then placed her between his hairy legs, her face just above his throbbing cock. In amazement, Shavarsh watched as the girl wrapped her mouth around it and started sucking eagerly. He was using her mouth like a love cavern! It was so wrong, so perverted and yet so absolutely erotic at the same time.

And finally, the sultan picked up Almast, his own darling, beloved, perfect, innocent, Almast. He lifted her onto his stomach and then cradled her in his arms, moving his face to hers and embracing in the most erotic and passionate fashion imaginable. Without arms she returned the embrace in every way she could, whilst the blonde sucked away on his cock and the black-haired girl gave him comfort with her breasts. The kiss was long and intense, last minutes, and only finishing when the sultan suddenly sat up, removed the blonde from his cock  with a push, put his own hand around it, placed Almast on the bed, positioned himself over her and then sprayed his salty, milky seed all over her face.

He panted, exhausted by the exertions and rang a bell. Moments later, a maid arrived carrying a glass of water. The sultan greedily drank it all by himself and then got the blonde-haired girl and pushed her against Almast. The blonde licked Almast’s face clean and then the sultan discarded her, before taking the now-spotless Almast and cradling in her arms as he drifted off to sleep, his head resting on the breasts of her companion.

And as he did, Shavarsh’s vision faded into opaque again.

But the stiffness in his member did not fade away.

And there was no one to lick away the tears that soaked his face under the skin of his carrier suit.


Chapter 3

And so the days became weeks and the weeks became months and the months became years and for Almast being a human pillow became normal.

Well almost.

She still thought back to the days when she was fully-limbed and could walk and run around, but the memories grew hazier and the reality of being totally dependent on others for everything became more normalised. In her dreams she sometimes walked through the streets or even copulated with a man on a bed of satin sheets, but most of the time her nights were dreamless or the copulations involved her being taken as a torso.

The same could not be said of Shavarsh. Following that night when he was given the honour of watching the sultan use one of his personal pillow teams, intense dreams filled his sleep. Every night, the moment he closed his eyes, he would see those limbless girls, those pillows of perfection, eager and ready, waiting for satisfaction. And in his dreams it was he, not the sultan, who was doing the satisfying. He would hold them in his arms, lower them lovingly on his cock, or cradle them as he drifted of to sleep. His fingers would trace their chests and his lips would meet theirs with passion. Unlike the sultan, he never relegated one to the status of a headrest and unlike the sultan he always shared his glasses of water with them.

And unlike the sultan, he never erupted all over the face of one of them, but instead would let his warm seed gush into the womb of Almast, filling her and pleasing her.

And then he would wake-up to the blurry darkness and the reality of his life as a carrier would cause him to weep whilst his member strained for that release that could never come.

All was not so bad though, for though they could never join as Shavarsh wished, he did experience Almast pressed against him every day and hear her voice lovingly whispering into his ear. She was a kind mistress. She never chastised him if he made a mistake and always thanked him at the end of the day. And during those long periods when, clad in a hot and heavy burqa, she had to watch some dull entertainment provided for the sultan (and then, invariably, him rape that entertainment for an encore) she would start a conversation with her carrier. She would whisper to him her secrets, her hopes and desires. Through those monologues, he learned that Shushan originally came from Europe and had been spotted by the sultan when he had been on a visit to Copenhagen on business. So smitten was he with her, that he’d ordered his secret police to follow her and then kidnap her before subjecting her to the honour of reduction and taking her in his bed. Her name had been Susan – or Suzie – then, but she had been renamed in Hayastani fashion and now she struggled to think of her old self. Susan was Danish and a sports-loving athlete. Shushan was a Hayastani pillow who was honoured to serve the sultan. Things were easier that way.

Patil was also not her an original name. She came from the high mountains of the Caucasus and so was renamed Patil – snowflake – because the snows lay heavy there for six months of the year. She had been engaged to a boy in her village whom she loved very much before she had caught the eye of the palace scout. She often wondered what happened to that boy and had come up with a theory – crazy in Almast’s mind – that her carrier was in fact, that boy. ‘He seems to understand me and love me; it must be him’ she had told Almast one night.

“I wish I too had had a boy that I loved and that loved me,” Almast had whispered to Shavarsh, “but, alas, my upbringing was too sheltered and protected. I saw very few boys, aside from my brothers and father of course. There was one though, a servant name Shavarsh. He used to look at me in the evenings in the garden. I thought that I didn’t know he was there, but I did. I could have told my father of course, but I did not. Dad would have beaten him soundly and banished him from the house, but I didn’t want that. You see, I rather liked him too and I used to dream about a life with him as a free peasant girl, away from all the restraints of society. In fact, at night when I dream, sometimes the man that I imagine myself lying with is him. In my dreams I am fully-limbed and I entwine my arms and legs with his and we become one. It is a beautiful dream, so much nicer than the time I spend in bed with the sultan who only cares for his own pleasure – do you know what, he has only used my holes twice in the last six months and I am so desperate for release! – but incredibly naughty. But it will never be! Ahh me! Ahh my!”

No, it never could, for that Almast was gone. Her arms and legs had been removed and then, soon afterwards, her name too, with the sultan rechristening her Lusnka – moonlight – because it was in the moonlight that he had first seen her and taken her. Almast was gone, forgotten and forsaken by everyone save her carrier who cherished her in his heart and prayed for her every day.

And although she did not know the identity of the thing that transported her around daily, she too grew fond of him, for she sensed that he wished to please her and was gentle in his movements. Indeed, on more than one occasion, while lying alone in her bed at night, she mulled over Patil’s theory of her carrier being her former beloved, before casting it from her mind. After all, she had never had a real lover; that boy in the gardens was probably married and a father by now and had forgotten that she ever existed.

And so things continued for twelve years.

Long before it happened, Almast knew that it was coming. She may have been devoid of arms and legs, but her eyes and ears still functioned perfectly, not to mention her other senses. She had seen how Patil had started to age and then, one day, how she left the team, to be replaced by a new girl who was barely sixteen. Then, a year later, the same happened with Shushan. Her two closest friends gone, she never felt happy working with the two younger girls, even though they were both sweet and lovely. Time was ticking by and soon the clock would strike for her too.

When Patil had left, they’d had a little party for her. The pillows had gathered in a circle and, as a rare treat, were fed wine and fine morsels by their maids while music played. It had been marvellous fun and had made Almast long to be fully-limbed once again so she could have danced to the lively tunes. Then Patil was fastened onto her carrier, a fine white burqa draped over her, and led away to her new life.

The burqa had been white because the sultan, pleased with the years of service that she had rendered him, had deigned, in his infinite kindness, to find her a husband with whom she could live out the rest of her days and bear children. Almast had wondered just what sort of man would want a reduced torso as a spouse, but then remembered how much the sultan himself, the finest of all men, loved limbless ladies, and figured that the honour of marrying a girl who had coupled with the sultan would be great indeed. No hints though, were ever given as to who he was. Patil was not even told a name. She was just informed that he was waiting and that was that.

And so too had it been with Shushan.

And so too was it today with her.

“The sultan wishes to reward the pillow Lusnka for the countless hours of pleasure that she has rendered him,” read out the maid in a very formal voice to the assembled pillows. Almast smiled inwardly. Over the last year or more, those hours of pleasure had grown noticeably fewer and fewer. These days she was rarely called to the honour of embracing him or engulfing his tool in her mouth, let alone having her intimate channels used. The younger girls always got those honours nowadays whilst she was relegated to the honour of cushioning his head as he received pleasure and then slept. And looking in the mirror, she understood why. Her sheen and sparkle had faded and wrinkles were appearing around her eyes. He was no longer attracted to her.

“In his infinite kindness and generosity, our Gracious Lord and Master has located a husband for you. You shall be wed next Wednesday and then will start life afresh as a married woman. On Tuesday he has graciously agreed to fund a leaving party for you to celebrate your coming nuptials with your sister pillows.”

And so it was that today her head was dizzy with wine while a white burqa was lowered over her head before she tearfully left the pillows who had been her sisters and friends for all of her adult life.

Wearing her wedding burqa she was carried on a cushion by her maid out of the room. She could not tell where she was going because the burqa incorporated a piece of cloth behind the grille which blinded her completely. In a white haze she merely travelled, leaning against the chest of the maid who carried her. She wondered why her carrier was not being used but then wondered if he had not been transferred to another pillow now. After all, since she no longer served the sultan, did she deserve such an honour? The thought of never seeing her carrier again saddened her and tears fell from her eyes. Despite the fact that it could never speak to her and she could never see it, all those years of being pressed against it, their two bodies acting as one, she the eyes and ears, it the legs, had caused her to have great affection for it. Many’s the time when she’d wondered what it had been like when it was human, what the man had looked like, and what he was called. She would never know, of course.

Almast felt herself being placed down on the seat of a car. A strap when across her chest to secure her and then the engine started. She hadn’t been in a car – or indeed, out of the palace – for years, and she found it all extremely exciting. She wished that she could see out of the window at the passing world.

They drove for an indeterminate length of time and then the car stopped and she was unfastened and carried out. Again, the maid walked her for a while and then she felt herself being set down again. Then the burqa was removed.

She was in a bedchamber. Far humbler than the one that she had slept in whilst living in the palace, and a world away from the regal chamber where the sultan had taken her and the other pillows after nightfall. But it was still a pleasant, well-appointed room, with a double bed and beautiful tapestries on the walls. It also had a dressing table. Her maid carried her to this and braided her hair, reapplied her make-up and then doused her in pleasing scents. Then she was carried onto the bed and lain there. The maid left and she waited for her husband.

After a few minutes, the door opened but, to Almast’s astonishment, no husband entered and instead, in walked her carrier. Overjoyed to see it again, she cried happily, “You’re here! I so feared we would never be together again!” Then she stopped and a frown crossed her face. “But you should leave,” she said gravely. “I am waiting for my husband here and if you are found in my bedchamber there might be trouble. Go now!”

But the carrier did not go.

Almast realised that it probably could not hear her as they were not connected. “You can’t hear me, but go! I don’t want you to be in trouble, darling carrier!”

Again, it did not go. Instead it shook its head and walked towards her.

“You can hear me?” she asked, surprised.

It nodded.

“Then why don’t you go? I’m waiting for my husband! You’ll get in trouble!”

Then, to her shock and amazement, the carrier walked over to the dressing table and picked up a notepad and pen that were lying there. This was the first time that Almast had ever seen it allowed free use of its hands. Normally, they were chained together (usually behind, occasionally in front) and encased in padded mitts. Today they were free. In shaky writing as if not used to holding a pen, the carrier wrote:


Almast read, stunned. This thing, more animal than human, was her spouse! It was horrible and yet, at the same time, it had been human once before. Indeed, it still was human, save for a crooked spine and being encased in a suit. Or was it? Instinctively she looked down. Where previously there had always been a sealed cover, a very human male tool sprang up menacingly.

“You truly are my husband!” she said with a gasp.

It – he – wrote again.


Shavarsh… Shavarsh… where had she heard that name before? Then the penny dropped. Shavarsh was the name of that servant boy who had adored her and spied on her. “Shavarsh who was a servant in my father’s house? Shavarsh who peeped on me in the garden?”

He nodded and wrote again.


She looked at his modified form and then remembered what had been done to her. She remembered his youthful adoration and remembered her own. She remembered the years when he had served her faithfully, anonymously, and remembered her own closeness to him. She gazed at his rock-hard tool and remembered her own need for fulfillment.

“Of course I can! There is no one I could love more.”

And with those words he walked over and joined her on the bed.



Ten years later

The sky is still dark and the world is sleeping. Onto the terrace comes a shadowy shape, a grotesque, deformed creature like something one may read about in a children’s tale. You, the onlooker are shocked, but that surprise only increases when the creature’s arms reach out and then lift the head and torso from its own body! Then you realise, with morbid fascination: this is not one being but two, a fully-limbed human with a curiously-deformed spine and a limbless torso.

It is Shavarsh and his beloved wife Almast.

He carefully places her down on the chair and then sits beside her. Together, noiselessly, they wait as they do every morning while their children sleep soundly in their beds.

Then, slowly, a slivver of sun appears and the fingers of dawn creep across the horizon. The new day has arrived. Shavarsh hugs his wife with silent joy; a wife who can never hug him back and will never see his face nor hear his voice. It does not matter though. They are together forever.

His youthful prayers have been answered.


Pillow Companion: Part 2

Part 1

Part 2

Chapter 1

The full moon sits high in the sky, illuminating the garden and the colonnade surrounding it. But the moon’s light is not the sun’s and in the shadows, nothing can be seen. He stands behind one of the stone pillars and gazes at the scene before him, unseen and unknown.

By the fountain in the centre of the garden she sits, her long, ebony tresses cascading to the ground while her chocolate-rich eyes stare dreamily into space. All day long she is veiled and secluded as a modest and pious girl of standing should be, but at night, after sunset, her father lets her sit in the garden uncovered and it is these precious minutes that he longs for all day long, when he can steal a glimpse of this angel from heaven. His eyes trace the line of her breasts outline by her tight gown and revel in the shape of her thighs revealed by the folds in the cloth. He drinks in those rosebud lips and wishes that his own were pressed against them. She is perfect, the very pinnacle of womanhood.

She is but sixteen, a year younger than him.

She sighs, a sigh of great longing and unrequited yearning. Or so he imagines, wishes. In his mind that sigh is because she longs to be with a man, aches for it. But not just any man, only the man she loves, adores with all her heart. And in his fantasies, that man is him, the lowly servant who runs her bath for her and brings her meals. For she is a pure soul, untainted and corrupted by the ways of the world. She cares not for status, money and hierarchies; instead she pursues only the purest of emotions and truth. Love is what matters and love is what exists between them, regardless of the views of this cruel world.

In his fantasies.

She sighs again and then speaks. But what words are these which pass her lips. “Oh me, oh my!” Yes, she yearns. There is a hole in her soul. But why? She speaks again, but what does she say? “Shavarsh,” she mutters to no one and everyone. Truly? Did she really say his name?! He cannot be sure, but it sounded like it. It could, of course, have been Shavab, the name of that arrogant young nobleman who called the other week, or possibly even Shadarev, that self-important army officer so full of himself and cocksure. But no, she is too good for both of them, a heart so pure as hers would never yearn after such superficial dandies. She did say his name, he is sure.


Someone did say his name, but he did not hear it. Nor did she. She did not speak and she would never be aware that someone did. For that person is also unseen, hiding behind a grille in one of the upstairs rooms of the men’s quarters. That man is her father and he has seen the impudent serving boy who spies on his offspring. “Shavarsh,” he whispers to the man standing beside him. “That is the boy’s name.”

“His name is of no importance to me. He shall not be bearing it for much longer.”

“But is he suitable?”

“He is ideal. I could not have picked a better candidate myself.”

“What happens next?”

“We shall take him tonight. I have already summoned my men. He needs to be worked on immediately as it will take him much longer to be ready than her.”

The moon passes behind a cloud and the boy feels sad, for his love is now hidden from him. Like in life, the world has separated them and his fantasies are just that. Deep down he knows that they can never be together, never be close.

Little does he know how wrong he is.

He struggles to sleep. He often does. After seeing her, it is hard to think of anything else. Around him in the packed dormitory, the other servants snore loudly. The master gave them free wine tonight in celebration of a family memorial. This surprised and annoyed Shavarsh. He was surprised because the master is notoriously stingy and never gives away free wine or food, even on religious holidays, and he is annoyed because it was dished out while he was sneaking a look at his beloved in the garden. By the time he returned, it was all gone; they were drunk and he was sober. Just his luck!

But, of course, he was the blessed one, not they. He had spent time in the garden with an angel. This Adam had gazed upon his Eve. As his mind turns towards her enticing curves, his hand strays down as it so often does these days. His has to be silent, as silent as the night, and still too. He massages his already rock-hard member with visions of her beauty to aid him and brings himself to the brink when…

The door is flung open and light streams in. Shocked, he sits up. Four masked men enter and make their way across to his bed. He screams and one of the men lunges forward to grab him, putting his hand over Shavarsh’s mouth. “No use screaming, son,” says his unknown assailant; “that wine was drugged; even the Second Coming couldn’t wake this lot!” Two of the other men take hold of his arms and his legs and render his struggles useless. Then the fourth man approaches, brandishing a large needle.  He looks at the rock-hard member standing up proudly and smiles. “That’ll not be getting any relief for quite some time,” he laughs cruelly, grabbing the throbbing member with his free hand. Shavarsh shakes his head frantically and screams into the hand of his captor. The needle descends and is plunged into his arm.

Within seconds his world turns black.


Chapter 2

Beep. Beep. Beep.

What is that infernal sound? It pervades my dreams and follows me wherever I go. It sounds like a machine, a machine in a hospital. Have I had an accident? Where am I? What has happened?

Such were the thoughts of Shavarsh as he lay in that half-world between waking and sleeping.

Something had happened? He was somewhere? In fact, he was in the same medical complex that Almast was to occupy a month or more later when she received the honour of reduction. Not that he was to learn that.

For unlike the sultan’s new pillow companion, no one ever thought it necessary to explain things to the boy once known as Shavarsh.

When he did awaken, he panicked. He was lying on his side on a bed and his body felt somehow wrong. He tried to turn over onto his back how he usually slept, but found it impossible, like his body didn’t want to be in that position anymore. He opened his eyes but they didn’t work. Or at least, not as they used to. Light flooded in but that was all. An opaque light with only then vaguest of outlines discernible. Like looking through a window of frosted glass.

Except that this was now his normal sight.

He screamed.

  He brought his hands round to find out what but after only a couple of centimetres, something prevented them from moving further. His wrists seemed to be linked by a chain behind his back. that was one of the reasons why he was lying on his side.

But not the main one.

As he readjusted himself back to this world, he ascertained that his body was covered all over, encased in some sort of tight suit , but the sensations coming from his body made this inconsequential for the moment, for his spine seemed no longer straight, but bent in a weird way somehow.

Now he was scared.

And the beep-beep-beep continued ad infinitum.

What was worse was that no one seemed to be concerned or to care. There were people about, he could sense them. Slight vibrations as they passed. Several times they leaned over him and his near-useless sight darkened. They attached something to his mouth and he felt something being pumped into him. After that the pangs of hunger went. They would also remove the plug that he could feel in his butt and insert something there too. Water would rush in causing his stomach to distend and then cramp. Then it would rush out again and the plug was replaced. It felt disturbing and wrong, violating.

No one spoke to him or acknowledged him.

Well, maybe no one spoke to him. The problem was that he couldn’t hear anything. He worked this out when the first vibrations were felt. He knew instinctively that these meant that a person had entered the room, but there was no corresponding sound to go with it, no rustling in the air, only absolute silence and the infernal beeping. Then he realised that they’d messed with his hearing.

Whoever “they” were.

It was several days before he found out. Days spent lying there, accompanied only by the beeps, blind, deaf, altered somehow, and scared.

And then the beeps ended. They ended and a voice came into his ears. “We are going to stand you up now. You will learn to walk again with your new body. You must obey all the instructions that I give you. Failure to do so will result in punishment.” It was a male voice and it had no trace of kindness in it.

Arms took hold of him and he was stood up. But when he was standing, it was not like before. He was shorter and his head and chest seemed to be thrust forward compared with his bottom and legs. After so long – how long, he wished he knew…? – lying on the bed, his legs were weak and he would have fallen. But even when he did have the strength to stand unaided, his balance was out. If he balanced and walked like he used to, he just fell forward. With his spine bent so severely, his whole body was out of kilter and he needed to relearn how to use it.

It took time. Day after day, week upon week. Each was tortuous and mind-numbingly boring. He was instructed by the voice in his ears. “Walk forwards!”; “Stop!”; “Turn around!”; “Walk forwards!”; “Stop!” and so on. And for each time he failed, there was a price to pay.

The first time it came as a terrible shock. Literally. He had been out of the bed for two days and had been instructed to walk forwards ten steps. But on the fourth he stumbled, his balance went, and he fell.  Someone caught him but it didn’t matter. A bolt of pain shot through his body. It emanated from the plug in his bottom. Then the voice said, “That was the lowest setting. If you continue to fail, the voltage will increase.” It was a great incentive to learn.

And learn he did. By the end of the week, he could stand and walk unaided; by the end of the second week, he could even jog and his walk was sufficiently elegant for the voice. Then something was dumped onto his back, like a heavy sack. And it was at this point that an explanation was given.

“You will now be trained for your future role in life. Your purpose now is to act as a carrier for the sultan’s latest pillow companion. You are to be her legs and her arms; she shall be your eyes and ears. Fail and you will be punished. Succeed and rewards shall come your way.”

This brief explanation opened as many questions as it did answer them. What was a pillow companion? What is a carrier? Why him? He longed to ask these things but of course could not. However, it was as if the voice sensed his concerns, for it then continued, “You have worked hard over these last few weeks and so I shall now demonstrate how you will be rewarded. Turn left and stand still!”

Shavarsh turned and then, to his amazement, the clouds covering his eyes cleared and he enjoyed proper sight for the first time in weeks. Joy filled his heart and he felt like dancing. However, then he noticed the image in the mirror before him.

It was vaguely humanoid, but only vaguely. Whatever it was was covered in some sort of suit, dark material decorated with exquisite gold and silver embroidery. It had no face, merely five pinholes in the dark fabric: two at the nostrils, one for each eye and a slightly larger one at the mouth.

What was most incredible though, was that it was bent forward at an unnatural angle and then the chest forced up and back. What had happened to its spine? Could surgery even do that? On its back was a saddle and sitting on the saddle was a queer doll. It had the face of a pretty girl, but unlike all the pretty girls he knew, this one had neither arms nor legs, more like a living pillow than a normal girl. She was smiling. It was expressionless.

It was him.

He stared in disbelief and horror. What had they done to him? Why? Then he noticed something else. Woven into the embroidery on his forehead was, in mirror-image, a word: Ալմասդ – Almast. Almast! That was the name of his beloved, the girl who filled his dreams, whom he used to spy upon and fantasise about. The very pinnacle of womanhood. He tried to touch the word with his hands but they were, as always, chained behind his back. The voice, however, understood.

“Almast is the name of the pillow companion that you will serve. She will ride and you will carry. You belong to her and she belongs to the sultan. Now, we must return to your training for you need to be ready soon. From now on you shall train with this doll on your back so that you know what it is like to carry her.”

And with those words, his sight became opaque once more.


Chapter 3

After that his training became both harder and easier. Walking around with a saddle and weight on his back was definitely more challenging and tiring than when there was nothing there. The strain was enormous and this – coupled with the fact that the weight might flop this way and then the other, affecting his balance – meant that he received more punishment shocks and was sweating from exertion almost continuously.

Conversely though, the little that he had been told, set his mind at rest somehow. He now understood what had been done to him and why. Well, a little. He knew why he had a contorted spine and why he was being expected to walk around gracefully. What had not been explained was why him and not someone else, a criminal perhaps, who deserved to suffer so. But then again he mused, his mind having nothing else to occupy it, the little that he had been told, could indicate why it was he who had been chosen. After all, he now belonged to ‘Almast’. Could it be, could it truly be that this Almast was the very same as his beloved, that pinnacle of feminine beauty, purity and perfection that he had spied on so often in the garden? Had he himself not prayed to be allowed to be with her and serve her?

As he trained vigorously in his opaque, isolated and highly-restricted world, his mind engaged in a vicious debate with itself.

-Just because she is called Almast, it doesn’t mean that she is your Almast, you idiot?

-But why not? Why shouldn’t it be her? The voice said that she was a pillow companion to the sultan himself and why would he not pick the most beautiful girl in all creation to share his bed?

-Does your idiocy know no bounds, Shavarsh? That Almast is a noblewoman, not some concubine of the sultan? She is too pure and innocent to be subjected to such a degrading role! And besides, did not the voice tell you that the pillow companion that you would be carrying has no arms or legs? And does not your Almast have all her limbs?

-But they could have removed them! The thought is horrible, too horrible to contemplate it is true, but they could!

-And why would they do that? Why would the sultan destroy such perfect limbs and turn that pinnacle of womanhood into nothing more than a torso, a mere pillow, a toy? That would make him evil beyond imagining and yet everyone in Hayastan knows that our ruler is just and pious!

-Just and pious?! And would a just and pious man agree to me being mutilated as I have been? Is this ridiculous body and suit not proof enough of his evil?

-You are nothing, a mere serving boy! What is done to you does not count! But her? Your precious Almast, she is noble and so cannot be touched! This Almast is another, a whore from the streets, who has deserved such mutilation and is fit only to serve men sexually.

-No, she is mine! I feel it, I sense it. Her father saw me spying on her and has wreaked his revenge.

And so on and on, until his mind was exhausted and he could think no more.

And then, one day – after how many he could not say as they all seemed to roll into one another – the training stopped and things changed. When he awoke in the morning, he felt clean and fresh. Unlike before, the voice did not command him to undergo exercises with the saddle and weight on his back. Instead, it spoke to him slowly and gravely.

“Today your training has ended and your role begins. You have worked hard and learned well and your sultan is proud of you. In a few minutes, Almast will be introduced to you. She will sit on your back and she will command you. You will rarely hear from me again.

Like with me, her voice shall reach your ears. When she sits on you, a connection shall be made which will activate a microphone that she wears in her nose jewel. She has been instructed to whisper and you shall hear her instructions. When she has been seated on you, you will be granted an hour to get accustomed to one another. Then you shall begin your role. If you fail in any way, you know the consequences. The shocks that you have received thus far have all been on the settings 1 or 2. The dial goes up to 10. This is enough to kill you. Conversely, if you perform well, you shall be rewarded. Sight will be allowed for the most intimate of occasions. Let this spur you on. Goodbye Carrier of Almast.”

And then there was silence.

He felt a chain being attached to his collar and he was led somewhere. Then he was stopped and the hateful saddle was fitted on his back. Hateful until now that is; this time though his heart pounded with anticipation. His role would soon commence! His pillow girl would soon be seated upon his back! And if that pillow girl was his Almast? Oh, sweetest of saddles!

His leash was yanked and he was led away again.

He walked a short distance and then stopped. Shadows moved before his opaque eyes and then he felt a weight being fastened onto his saddle. It felt like the training doll but he knew that this burden lived and breathed as he did! As it settled in something connected and he could hear a disturbance in his ears. Then, a voice. A female whisper. The faintest, most melodic, most welcome of all whispers. “Hello carrier, I am Almast, your mistress. I hope we can get on well together.”

It was his Almast! His darling! His beloved!

“Walk five paces!”

He stepped forwards with glee.

Part 3

Pillow Companion: Part 1

Pillow Companion

by Dave Potter


The night was balmy, and cicadas hummed in the air. A figure walked into the holy sanctuary, unseen, unsure of himself. He knelt down and began to pray, saying the words out loud because he knew that no one was there to hear them save for God Himself:

“I wish I could be with her! She is my sun and my moon! I think of her night and day and I cannot live without her. She is so sweet, so innocent, so beautiful. She is feminine perfection itself. Please God, I pray to you, grant me my wish that she and I can be together forever, close and loving, our bodies pressed against each other, two souls working as one.”

The vertical pillars of smoke rising from the incense burners quivered slightly as if someone, unseen in the shadows, had moved. But the boy never noticed. He was too lost in his romantic yearnings.

Part 1

Chapter 1

It began on a Friday.

It began with a visitor.

She came dressed in a fine burqa covered with exquisite embroidery. Although you could see nothing of the person within, you could tell that she was connected to wealth and power. She came with an entourage of servants and she came bearing a proposal.

Almast, her finest burqa thrown over her in haste, was led down to the main room where the woman was seated. The woman was introduced as Lady Keghush, one of the sisters of the Sultan in the great palace in Vanadzor. The young girl, only having celebrated her sixteenth birthday the month before, was made to stand in front of this great and ornately shrouded figure. “Remove her burqa!” came the voice from within. Nervously, Almast’s mother took off the garment that preserved her daughter’s precious modesty. The lady surveyed what she saw beneath and then motioned that the burqa could be replaced. “It seems the reports of her budding beauty are accurate,” she said, “and I believe that her intellect is astounding too?”

“She was top of her class in the school and passed all the examinations,” said Almast’s father.

“That is important. Should my brother ever select her for breeding, then a sound intellect is crucial. Half-wit offspring are a menace to the kingdom.”

Then, turning to the girl, she said, “I have come to this house with a proposal from the palace. My brother desires a new bedchamber companion and you are the girl that we have selected. It is a position of great honour and luxury. You shall live pampered and beautified and shall worry for nothing and, if he chooses, you may be offered wifehood and the chance to bear royal offspring. What do you say to this, girl?”

Almast looked at the grille of the lady’s burqa, trying to discern something of the woman beneath, but she could see nothing. “I-I-I am honoured, Exalted One, i-i-it is a great honour, but…”


“But there are ru-ru-rumours, Exalted One, rumours of life in the palace and…”

“Almast!” hushed her father, turning to their guest. “Do not listen to her, she is but a child and…”

“Silence! She is no longer a child, her developed body attests to that. And she is sharp and intelligent. Yes, girl, there are rumours. They even reach my ears from time to time. Rumours that the companions of the Sultan are mutilated somehow, am I right?”

“Y-y-y-yes, Exalted One. Their arms are chopped off, that is the rumour. So they may not, p-p-pleasure themselves.”

“You are a brave girl to speak such things to me. It does you credit. But rumours are just that: rumours. However, if you are to accept you should do it with your mind at ease and so I would like you to come with me.”

“Come with you, Exalted One?”

“Yes, come with me. To the palace. See the home that could be yours, and meet a companion to see if she has her arms left on her body. How does that sound to you?”

“Why… yes, Exalted One, it sounds… amazing!”

“Ha! Then we leave now! I have a plane waiting at the airfield that can take us all to Vanadzor. Let us see your future, girl!”

Peering through the grille of her best burqa, Almast could not believe the opulence of the palace that she had been taken to. The marble pillars, the great chandeliers, the sculpted gardens, the floor so clean you could eat your dinner off it and the vast halls. It was more like a dream than reality.

Indeed, the same could be said of her entire life after that conversation in her family home. She had been quickly dressed and then driven in a fabulous limousine with mirrored windows, to the airfield where a small plane was waiting. On board, she gasped when she saw the luxurious chairs and was served fresh fruit juice by her own, personal, burqa-clad maid. Lady Keghush spoke to her casually, as if she were an old friend, referring to the sultan as if he were just an everyday guy while beyond the glass the world shrank as they rose in the sky.

Half an hour later, they descended again and, at the capital’s main airport, were met by another limousine which whisked them through the busy streets to the palace.

The palace that she was now standing in, waiting to meet some of the bedchamber companions of the sultan. They arrived, flanked by maidservants, clad in the finest of burqas, walking slowly and regally and bowing slightly as they reached her. Immediately, she felt a little silly. That these exalted ladies could walk up to her was proof enough that the half of the rumours she’d heard were totally unfounded and she felt like a complete idiot. She remembered her cousin Akabi telling her in whispers about women who had their legs chopped off so that they couldn’t run away from the sultan when he wanted to take them. She wished that Akabi were with her now so that she could show her.

“You are Almast I believe,” said the first of the two companions who she was introduced to. The lady was dressed in a deep pink burqa and, from it emerged a hand gloved in black silk. Tentatively, Almast extended her own gloved hand through the slit in the burqa and the two shook. The lady’s hand was warm and soft and most definitely real. The rumours were false!

“Yes, Exalted One.”

“Shh! None of those titles with me. I believe you’re worried about whether to accept the sultan’s proposal. I understand; it’s a big life change and maybe you have a boy whom you’re sweet on…”

“Oh no, nothing like that. I don’t really know any boys and have never been close to one and…”

“Come, come now, sister, you can be truthful with me. After all, we will be like sisters you know. My name is Patil and this here is Shushan.”

Her hand gestured to her left and the other burqa-clad companion stepped forward. She too extended a gloved hand to shake Almast’s.

“Hi there, sister. What Patil says is right. If you accept the proposal, you’ll be joining our little team.”

“Your team?”

“Yes, the sultan likes us to be in unofficial teams of three. Our last member recently left the palace and so we’ve been waiting for a new girl to join us. We do so hope you will take up her mantle.”

Shushan had a very melodic voice with a foreign accent. She, like Patil, sounded kind and warm and Almast was put at ease.

“Shh, Shushan, you’re changing the subject! Lean in Almast and tell us the truth: you must have noticed boys before now, surely?”

Beneath her burqa, Almast blushed. It was true that, in the last three or four years, she had started to look at boys in a different way and feel attracted to them in a manner that she didn’t fully understand. “Well, I suppose I have but I am pure and…”

“Oh, we don’t doubt that, sister, we don’t doubt that at all. But there must have been one that you felt drawn towards, dreamt about…?”

“Sister Patil, I lead a secluded and modest life and I don’t…”

“The truth now,” the shrouded figure pressed in a conspiratorial tone.

“Well… I haven’t told anyone this before, but there is a servant boy. I know he likes me because he glances at me all the time and he is rather handsome… but I would never…”

“Shhh, we know that. But we girls can always dream, can’t we? Besides, join our team and you shall dream no longer. The sultan is a strong and experienced man and he will surpass your dreams, let me tell you!”

At these words both ladies giggled and Almast blushed again.

“Please join us Almast, we can’t wait to get to know you better!”

But she had already made her mind up. The moment that Patil’s hand had shaken hers, dispelled the childish concern, she had decided. Their warmth and kindness had only served to solidify her decision. She nodded and they clapped their gloved hands noiselessly, before clasping hers in sisterhood and then retiring back to their private quarters, leaving Almast to contemplate a whole new world.

Two months later, she returned to that sumptuous palace. This time she was clad in a white wedding burqa to signify her virginity and the commitment that she was making to the sultan. Four servants held the long train and this time it was she who  proceeded through the great carved wooden doors into the women’s private quarters. There she was taken to the baths, stripped, washed, and prepared. She was shaved and waxed down below and oils were rubbed all over her body. Her hair was shampooed and then dried and then curled and decorated with jewels. Chains were linked between her nose ring and her earrings and little bells clipped onto her pert nipples. then her hands were hennaed and a jewel affixed to her navel before she was led down numberless corridors to the grandest bedchamber that she had ever seen. She was guided to a great bed covered with white silken sheets and left there.

Almast could not believe her turn of fate, and she had never experienced such happiness.


Chapter 2

The smell of incense wafted through the air and a soft breeze caressed her cheek. Almast squirmed on the silken sheets and smiled inwardly. She’d enjoyed an extremely long and vivid dream inspired by her night of lovemaking with the Sultan and then her walk through the opulent surroundings of the palace, being waited on hand and foot. In her dreams she had lounged by tinkling fountains, ate dates and sweetmeats while a rabab played in the background and birds sang. It was glorious, and it felt like she had been asleep for days, not hours. Yet now, lying here in the height of luxury, had that dream not come true?

Or had it descended into a nightmare?

She sensed that something was wrong even before she opened her eyes. She’d tried to stretch her legs, and nothing had happened. Then she’d stretched her arms and, again, no reaction. Had she lain on them in a strange way during the night, causing them to deaden? She opened her eyes and looked down.

And then she screamed.

Because they weren’t there!

The screams brought the maidservants running. They bathed her head with a damp towel and bade her to calm down. But how could she calm down? She tried to move, to sit up, to do anything, but she could not!  It all resulted in naught but squirms and twists without purchase against the silken sheets. She had no legs to move and no arms either. They had been there, and now they were not. She screamed, and she shook, and the maidservants held her and quieted her.

Finally, though, her tears ran dry and her energy dissipated and she was calm enough to learn what had been done to her and why.

A mirror was brought out and she was placed in front of it, lifted up like a… thing. Staring back at her with wet cheeks was a largely naked female torso. Where the legs should have been, there was nothing, not even a pair of stumps. A maid explained to her that her old legs had been removed completely, the bones taken out of the sockets and the shape of her bottom – which the Sultan had found to be most alluring – maintained through the use of implants. Similarly, her arms had also been removed at the sockets and the shoulders rounded. Skin was grafted over all four wounds so expertly that the scars were almost completely unseen – and totally so after a quick dusting of powder. All this Almast comprehended on a factual level, but what she did not understand was why.

“It has always been so, Exalted One,” explained the maid, “or at least, it has been so for many years. In the time of the Sultan’s grandfather there was a terrible murder in the palace. The fact is that our Sultan’s grandfather should never have been Sultan at all, instead his elder brother was due to inherit. But one of the bedchamber companions of the then Sultan wished for her son to take the kingdom and so, during a session of particularly vigorous lovemaking, she murdered the sultan and then left the room to alert her son to take power. By chance, she was seen sneaking through the corridors by a loyal guard and the coup stopped. As the next nearest relative, the sultan’s brother took the throne and, as soon as he did, he announced measures to ensure that he kept it. The murdering bedchamber companion and her family were all killed themselves, but that was not all.

The sultan’s grandfather was, as our beloved ruler is, a lover of many women. He loved to indulge in the bedroom, but knew that this could be the death of him, as it had been his brother. He also knew that this attempted coup was only the latest of many that had bedevilled the royal house over the past century and more, most of them originating from the bedchamber. So, it was that he decreed that all future bedchamber companions – and full wives – be rendered unable to commit treason by having their limbs removed. The sultan’s reasoning was extremely wise: a limbless female cannot wield a knife or poison, nor move about the palace unaided to plot and whisper, yet she retains all the parts of her – her breasts, bottom, face and intimate holes – that please a man. Plus, should he choose to grace her with a child, she can bear and give birth. Limbless, as you and all the bedchamber companions – or, as you are now to be referred to having undergone the honour of amputation, pillow companions – you can exist to pleasure him yet not threaten him.”

“What? The other companions are also limbless?” asked Almast, thinking of the burqa-clad companion whom she had met on her visit to the palace who stood tall and shook her hand.

“Indeed, they are, Exalted One. After breakfast and toileting, I shall introduce them to you.”

Breakfast and toileting were unnerving processes for Almast. Since early childhood, she had done these simple tasks by herself. Now just the thought of using a utensil was beyond her, and she was totally reliant on others to do everything for her. The maid seated her on a sofa and then spoon-fed food into her mouth like one would do with a baby or toddler, cleaning her mouth afterwards. To make things worse, at one point, after wiggling a little to get comfortable, without thighs to steady herself she toppled over easily, frighteningly, and lay there face down until the maid set her dish down and picked her up. It was humiliating.

Not as humiliating as going to the toilet though. After eating her breakfast, she was carried across to, not the bathroom, but instead a large porcelain bowl, and then told to discharge her wastes into it. Wishing to curl up with embarrassment at having to do something so intimate so publicly, she shook her head and squirmed in the firm hands of her carer. The maid sternly replied, “Exalted One, you must! You will not get another toileting opportunity for several hours!” At this point, overwhelmed by her helplessness, Almast burst into tears. The maid put her down on the cold floor, knelt before her and dabbed her eyes dry. “Crying won’t help, Exalted One. What has been done has been done, and you must learn to live with it. It may seem hard now, but you will get used to it I know, and life here can be pleasant. So please, stop crying and do your toilet.” Almast tried and tried, with all her might, to will her limbs to lift her up and out of this hell, but nothing happened. Eventually her tears dried, and she was held over the bowl again, this time her pee trickled out in a yellow stream while she closed her eyes in shame. When it abated, the maid dabbed her dry with a tissue and another maid took the bowl away. She was then powdered down there, and her outfit put on.

Her outfit was rather similar to a one-piece swimming suit except that it had no arm and leg holes and, instead, there were tassels where her limbs had once protruded. Almast wondered at the purpose of these (beyond the obvious decoration), but soon found out. As the suit was made of a very slippery dark green silken material, decorated with fine embroidery, the maid used the tassels to hold her charge and gain purchase when she lifted her.

Once dressed and her hair plaited into a becoming French braid, she was carried by the maidservant down several corridors to a large, airy room with a fountain in the centre and several songbirds in cages. It was like one of the rooms in her dreams except for the fact that, seated in specially-made wooden devices that cradled their bottoms, held their womanly hips tightly, were eleven girls. All were exquisitely beautiful and, like her, all were entirely limbless.

They were her fellow pillows.

When she entered they all stopped their conversations, looked up and smiled. “Welcome!” said one; “Hello!” said another. The maidservant carefully placed Almast down on the one empty seat in the circle of girls and announced, “Pillows of our esteemed Sultan Vosgan III, please welcome Almast, the newest member of your exalted sorority.”

When she was settled, hips and bum secured with a belt, each of the girls introduced herself in turn. There was Pavagan, Arpenig, Aldzig, Talar, Yeraskh, Zarmuhi, Erepuni, Vosgi, Lalag, Nazenig, and then finally Shushan and Patil. “But of course, we’ve already met,” said Patil, “although, naturally, we couldn’t look at each other’s faces then.”

“Yes, and thank you,” replied Almast, quite overwhelmed by all these new faces attached to limbless torsos who seemed to be quite at ease with their strange situation.

“I suppose we should offer you a bit of an apology,” added Shushan, “since we never warned you about the honour of reduction. I know when I joined and woke up finding myself totally limbless, it was a terrible shock. I cried for days and even now I’ve not totally adjusted. However, we would have been punished terribly if we had, and even had we have warned you, what difference would it have made? Our Exalted Sultan chose you and that was that; even if you’d have refused, they would have taken you anyhow. At least this way we could be warm with you so that when you woke up limbless, you at least knew you had sisters who care.”

At these words Almast, so overwhelmed by the events of recent days and the warmth of these fellow pillow girls, burst into tears of both joy and despair. The other pillows comforted her with words and kind expressions since they were but short paces away but could not move and touch her.

When she had recovered, they talked and explained more.

“Your life here will be simple yet, if you allow it to be, pleasant,” said Pavagan who was the oldest, longest-serving and therefore the leader of the pillow girls. “Forget the limbs that you once had, for they have gone and can never be returned. Forget the independence that you once enjoyed; it cannot be regained. Instead, accept that you are totally dependent on servants for everything and revel in that dependence. Do not be embarrassed when they feed you or service your toileting needs. They exist to serve you; glory in the fact that you have that honour.

You however, exist solely to serve Our Exalted Sultan. He is your sun and your moon and your only care is to make him happy. You are no longer a human being but instead something higher, more honoured: you are his pillow, or, to be more precise, one of his twelve pillows who keep him comfortable, warm and happy in the bedchamber.”

“I am not a human being?”

“No. Human beings have arms and legs; you have neither. Pillows on the other hand are soft in all the right places and warm and comforting. They exist to be held, to be hugged and to be used.”

“And trust me Almast, a pretty pillow like you will be used a lot, though not always as you wish to be!” chipped in Lalag.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’ve already experienced the joys of the bedchamber we know; the fulfillment and joy that can be gained from having his Divine Member inserted in your love channel. Well, it’ll be going in your other holes soon, don’t you worry.”

“Shhh, Lalag, you’ll worry her!”

“She needs to know.”

“Maybe so, but there are other things that are more important. Like which team you’ll be in. Our sisterhood is divided into four teams of three. You’re with Shushan and Patil here. The teams take it in turns to comfort and pleasure Our Exalted Sultan in the bedchamber, rotating continually, although on some nights he chooses to take a particular pillow alone, or spend a night with one of his wives.”

“He has wives?!”

“Of course, four of them. They exist to bear his children. You don’t need to worry about them since we never see them and they never see us. They live veiled and silent in a different part of the palace.”

Almast was really enjoying this conversation, finally having some of her questions answered, but in the middle of Pavagan explaining about the wives and teams, twelves burqa-clad servants entered, each picking up a pillow girl and taking her off. When they saw their maids arriving, the pillows all bade goodbye to one another and then put on a regal expression as if that was what is expected when being served by a maid. Observing her new, diminished sisters, Almast tried to ape their behaviour. Remembering what she had been told about revelling in her dependence, she simply let the maid do what she wanted with her. She was taken to the toilet where she evacuated her bowels, letting the servant wipe her clean, before she was then bathed and towelled dry. Special aromatic oils were then rubbed into her skin, before she was carried to her bed in the next room. Almast was surprised that this was a king-sized resting place, something she considered totally unnecessary due to her new, truncated size. It was only weeks later that she realised that the bed had to be huge in case the sultan had an urge to join her in it on a whim.

Before being laid on the silken sheets, she was dressed in a strange sleeping garment. It was in white silk and covered her totally, including her head. Once zipped inside, she was blind, lost in world of white. It was disconcerting.  Lying like this, helpless and blind, unable even to turn on her side as she had once preferred in a previous life, she eventually drifted off to sleep.

The following morning, after breakfast, toileting and dressing, Almast was carried back into her bedroom. Standing alone, stock-still, was something which had not been there before and quite shocked her, making her twist and shake in the firm, silent hands of her servant. It was shaped similar to a man, except that above its fit legs and bottom, the torso had been somehow bent so that it leaned forward and then straightened up again, creating a space behind it upon which sat a saddle, resting above its hips and behind. Due to this dramatic spine curvature, the thing was about half a metre shorter than a usual human, but what was more disconcerting was that the head, like the rest of the body, every inch, was completely covered with some sort of suit. This seemed to be made of a tight, dark fabric material, but embroidered with fine gold and silver thread. It was beautiful, but it erased any trace of humanity that this queer creature may have possessed. It did not move initially at their arrival, which unsettled Almast further.

“What is that?” she asked, before adding, “Is it human?”

“It was once, Exalted One. Now it is your carrier.”

Part 2

The Diary of Olivia Edwards: Part 3

Part 2

20th November 1967

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

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

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

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

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

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

But even that was not the end of it.

No, if only!

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

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

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

27th November 1967

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded my head.

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

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

“Sir, I apologise humbly but I must…”

“Leave! Now!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

I fainted with joy.


4th December 1967

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

“Explain please, I am intrigued.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Emasculate and dollify the cur! Splendid idea!”

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

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

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

A year later

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


The Diary of Olivia Edwards: Part 2

Part 1

9th October 1967

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

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

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

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

There is the alarm. I shall continue tomorrow…


16th October 1967

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, all except one of them.

The one where I first met Jacob Hunter MP.

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

Not even when it was too late.

23rd October 1967

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bell. I shall continue next week!


30th October 1967

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


6th November 1967

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

Desire that still pervades all my thoughts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, I hate them all!

13th November 1967

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twenty minutes left… I shall return to my story.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Part 3

The Diary of Olivia Edwards: Part 1

The Diary of Olivia Edwards

(selected extracts chosen by the editor)

 Copyright © 2019, Dave Potter

Author’s note

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

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

11th September 1967

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

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

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

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


18th September 1967

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

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

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

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

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

The alarm rings. I must finish now.

25th September 1967

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

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

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

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

Little did I know.

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

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

Which brings me to the nights.

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

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

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

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


2nd October 1967

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are indeed, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, she is really sixteen?”

“That is correct, doctor.”

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

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

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

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

“What of marriage, sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

If only I could say the same about my frustrations!


Part 2



作者:Dave Potter 译者:佳蘅 微信公众号:火星文学讲习所



这篇故事的背景设定在1967年的联合王国。然而却不是我们熟知的那个英国,而是另一个平行宇宙中的英国。因此,很多地方对我们来说很熟悉,当然相应地也有很多地方不熟悉。在本篇故事的世界里,联合王国是一个反动的国家,对外面的世界漠不关心,比它的许多邻居都落后。它被一群权力很大的世袭的精英土地贵族和教会所统治。1832年的议会改革(译注:原文为The Great Reform Acts of the 19th century,指发生在1832年的英国议会改革,这次改革扩大了选举权的范围,削弱了地主阶级同时增强了工业资产阶级的政治力量)从来没有发生过,妇女的地位更像是二等公民…或者叫臣民。她们没有任何权利和财产,在未出嫁前她们属于她们的父亲所有,如果父亲死了就属于她们的兄弟叔伯说有,在出嫁后则归丈夫所有。她们被要求在婚前必须是处女,所有的女人都得束腰。

然而这个世界上的其他国家却都比联合王国发展得要快。在欧洲,最发达的国家是苏联,这是唯一一个妇女几乎可以在所有方面和男性享有平等地位的国家。这都是拜1905年的社会主义大革命所赐(译注:现实中1905年俄国革命失败了,但被列宁称为是1917年10月革命的“总演习”),在苏联女性可以投票、工作、参军、拥有财产和离婚。追随列宁的妻子伊涅萨•阿尔芒(译注:Inessa Armand,1874-1920,共产主义者和女权运动的先驱。现实中是列宁的情人和战友,可能是1919年莫斯科最有权势的女人。但现实中列宁的妻子始终是娜杰日达•克鲁普斯卡娅)的先例,苏联的女人们扔掉了她们的束腰,转而用一种无产阶级的、更加自由的风格打扮自己。就在我们的故事发生的年代,苏联控制了世界上绝大部分的土地,只在中国和往日的荣光已日渐衰退的德国还有一些值得苏联重视的抵抗。

本文受到的启发很大程度上来自Alice McCloud的小说Imperial Lace。然而必须要说明的是她的那个平行宇宙中的不列颠和我的并不完全一样。



































































































































































她的母亲笑了。“这个就是,”她说,然后给女儿展示一个小盒子。“这叫做‘口中花’(译注:原文为法语fleur de bouche,意为嘴里的花),在某些场合所有高贵的女士都要戴。”
















































































“或许是这样,但是这就是英格兰,我让你看这个是为了让你知道以后的生活是什么样子。在外面我们是天真、纯洁而忠贞的金丝雀,但在家里我们其实什么都知道,我们也有自己的欲望和需求,而学校的教育会帮你在家里和外面的两个世界都获得成功。拥抱这一切吧安妮,从身体到心灵,这样你才能做好自己。你在这里的快乐时光多着呢。”作者注:有趣的是,在我们的世界里,伍斯特伯爵这一爵位——它属于德贝洛蒙特家族(de Bellomonts)——的传承在1145年就终止了。显然,在安妮的世界里,伯爵家族不知怎样延续了下来,并且家族的姓氏最终降格成了贝尔蒙特(译注:Belmont,可能是指失去了法国姓氏中常见的贵族象征“de”)。






































“科赞小姐,你提的这个想法非常好,绝大多数学校都忽略了这一点。一个外国的观察家认为金丝雀女士生活在束缚之中并因此而同情她,得出结论说金丝雀是可悲的,生活在她们控制欲旺盛而虐待成性的配偶的折磨之下。他们大错特错了!是的没错,许多男人喜欢拘束女人并因此而兴奋,这是一种自然的冲动,但是更多的女人向往束缚并且寻求束缚。也许最能代表这种英式理想的女人是格蕾丝·阿滕伯勒夫人,有人形容她为‘白天是圣女,晚上是荡妇!’这话的意思当然不是说她在婚姻之外寻欢作乐,如果是那样她就不会得到我们的敬仰了。相反,这句话其实是指她在公共场合与在家里作风截然不同。阿滕伯勒女士很有教养、很智慧也很虔诚。她每天都去教堂,在她家举办的沙龙上讨论的都是最紧迫的政治问题和最新的艺术潮流。数不尽的杰出人士都参加过她的沙龙,从坎特伯雷大主教和卡斯尔雷勋爵到诗人华兹华斯和画家特纳。沙龙的一切都很美、很精致也很有品位。可是,每天晚上8点她都会找借口退场,回到她的房间让女仆为她脱去所有衣物、沐浴,然后把她的腰束到最紧的极限——据说是13英寸。之后她会让女仆把她的腿绑起来,脚趾压到屁股上,嘴里塞上巨大的口塞。接着她命令女仆把她的双臂按照最有难度的方式绑好,那就是优雅却痛苦的‘背祷势’,然后她让女仆抛一枚硬币。如果落下来时头像那一面朝上,她就让女仆把她放到床上,阴部完全露出来便于丈夫采撷,接着女仆会在她的阴部画上两瓣化好妆的嘴唇,好让那里看起来更吸引人。但是如果硬币是背面朝上,她就会让女仆把自己支在床上,屁股朝上,然后用同样的方法装饰她的后庭。接下来她会等待——我想她等不了多久——她的丈夫进来享受他的快乐。女孩们,你能看到她的所作所为是如何完全彻底地囊括了金丝雀女士的理想。在外面,一切都是礼貌而优雅的,可是在私下里,虽然纵情肉欲却从不沉溺于罪恶。阿滕伯勒女士聪明而有教养,诙谐又彬彬有礼,但在私下里她却承受了最大程度的束缚,但是同时,借助时尚,她从来没有完全屈服。说到底,还是她——或者是那枚硬币——决定了她的丈夫可以用哪种方式享乐,也是她决定了自己要被绑成哪种姿势。她的丈夫在其中没有一点发言权,而且甚至从来不曾试图去发言。通过服从,她却实现了掌握。希望你们所有人都能从她身上受到启发学到东西,以格蕾丝·阿滕伯勒为榜样吧,不然你们的生活可能要比她糟糕得多。” ①















































  • 邮差一天送两次邮件这一非常英式的做法在我们的世界一直持续到最近才以缩减经费的名义被削减成每天一次。这是一种可悲的倒退,因为正是这样独特的习俗定义了我们英国人,我希望在安妮的世界里这样的事情不会发生。
  • 有人推测克莱尔·霍金斯的求婚信不多是因为她父亲的财富是通过制造业而非遗产继承得来的。
  • 在我们的世界里金雀花(译注:Plantagenet,因为意译更有名所以我没有用音译)家族的确拥有诺维奇公爵这一爵位直到1483年蔷薇战争后灭亡。读者或许可以因此假定在安妮的世界里蔷薇战争从未发生,或金雀花家族打败了都铎家族。


















“查瑞蒂没有来我这里,而是去了伯克翰斯德女子学校(译注:Berkhamstead School for Girls),一座著名但又不是那么著名的在伦敦周围诸郡的学府。她去了哪里,但是还是没有什么进步。然而,就在最后一年,她干了一件极其糟糕的事情。你要知道,伯克翰斯德也有男子学校,每年一次他们会组织一场盛大舞会,男女学生可以一起跳舞:这样做的目的是让他们习惯毕业后的生活。但是,就在这次舞会上查瑞蒂遇上了一个男生并且爱上了他,我想那个男生是一个航运大亨的儿子。不管怎样,也不知怎的——我当然不可能完全了解这些细节,但他们学校的警戒一定是松弛到了极点——查瑞蒂和这位年轻的男士成功地溜到了花园里,发现他们正在那里交媾的不是别人,正是伯克翰斯德的市长先生——至于他又在那里干什么,没有人确切知道,也没有人敢去问他。所以,这之后查瑞蒂的前途就算是毁了。正如你知道的,在这个国家里,想要成为新娘的女孩必须保持处子之身。现在当然了,你自己就亲身经历过——当然这事我也一个字都不会泄露——有一些手段和方法可以重塑处女膜,但是一个人永远没法重塑名誉。查瑞蒂的错不在和那个男孩交媾,而在她蠢到被人抓住交媾。她立刻就被开除了,(而那个男孩只是被罚了一记响亮的鞭挞我想),失去了一切结婚的希望,因为哪怕带着丰厚的嫁妆,也没有哪个受人尊敬的男人愿意考虑同她结婚。噢,你的继父当然努力了,但是还是没有人愿意接手。于是他放弃了,最糟糕的情况已经发生了,但是后来,他却收到了斯塔福郡伯爵的拜访。”















  • 如果有读者想在我们的世界中找到这样的尺寸的话,我相信Sabrina Sabrok的豪乳比较接近。不过,Sabrina是自愿的。
  • 这两个词在我们的世界可以理解成“显示屏”和“电脑”,尽管它们同安妮的世界里的概念并不完全一样。



































































  • 原文是俄语,Делает моя задница выглядит большой в этом?






































































































































A Different Reality: Part 2

Part 1


Chapter 3

He stood at the back of the room in the doorway and surveyed the scene before him. Standing in the centre of the room, with her back to him, was the Miss Updike. Her long, ebony sausage curls cascaded down her back and onto her shoulders, bobbing about with every movement, while her waist had never looked finer, the harsh lacing regime of the academy causing it to dive down into an elegant, narrow stem. The sky-blue evening dress that she wore was exquisite and the blue ribbons and pearls in her hair merely complimented it. He strode into the room and, when he was just behind her shoulder and could smell her perfume, announced in a quiet voice, “Miss Suzanna, how delightful to see you again!” She spun around, and her visage faced his. Casting his eye over her snow-white skin, her large, dark eyes and her inviting rosebud lips, he felt that she truly had become the vision of feminine perfection. Her lips though, when they parted, merely uttered one accusatory word, “You!” before she slumped into a faint and he caught her in his arms.

The acrid smell of the salts revived her, and she found herself lying on the couch being fanned by two maids. She glanced about her and her eyes fixed on the male who had addressed her moments before. There was no doubt about it: it was he. She knew him. Seeing her revitalised, the doctor smiled and said, “Miss Suzanna, it is so good to have you back again. Seeing me seems to have given you a shock and yet it is only a month since I went away. But then I forget; Doctor Lowe explained that you are suffering from a bout of amnesia. I must have surprised you, please, let me apologise.”

“Doctor Potter has been most concerned about you,” added Madam Rossiter. “And you should thank him; he caught you as you fell.”

“That is not Doctor Potter,” said Suzie, defiant. “He is Dave Potter. I know him.”

“Of course, you do, and my first name is David,” replied the doctor. “I have been a friend of this institution for many years. We have met many times.”

“No, not here! You’re lying! They’re all lying! I know you from there, the other place. We met there; you were a client of our company. You wanted to date me; we did go out, but you were dull and sexist, so I dumped you.”

“Oh dear,” declared Doctor Lowe mournfully, “the delusions have returned!”

The following morning, she was summoned to Madam Rossiter’s office and her gag removed. The two doctors were sitting there, and they were eager to talk about her “delusions”.

“Tell me about this other life that you imagine you lived,” said Doctor Lowe.

“I’m not imagining it; I did live it. He knows; he was there!” She would have pointed at Doctor Potter at this point but, of course, trammelled as her arms were inside her ballooning gigot sleeves, she could not.

Potter smiled as if sympathetic and then said, “Tell me, Miss Suzanna, what role did I play in this other life?”

“You know full well which role.”

“Yes, yes, but please, for the benefit of Doctor Lowe here, please explain it to us.”

“I was… I am an HR manager at Dovegate Financial Services. Dave Potter here is one of our clients. He came to the company for an event we held to encourage clients to invest in one of our new products. We shared some glasses of champagne together and he asked me out on a date. We dated a few times but did not gel. To be honest, I found you a bit sexist and dull, so I broke it off, as you well know Mr. Potter!”

“Hmm… this is very interesting,” said Lowe. “It seems, David, that our patient here has included you in her fantasy world, but it is some sort of mirror image of the real Doctor Potter.” Suzie would have objected to this, but her maid, who was standing behind her, had replaced her gag. “Yes indeed, in her hyper-liberated fantasy world, you are sexist and misogynistic whereas in reality, you are the most liberal man I’ve come across. Why, you even advocate married women being allowed to speak with males other than their husbands or fathers. Remarkable! But which psychological processes are causing this, do you think?”

“I’m unsure Obadiah, but I believe that Miss Suzanna’s case requires some extra attention. If she does not mind, I should like to talk with her further.”

“Miss Suzanna has no objections whatsoever,” replied Lowe, not consulting her at all.

From that day, Doctor David Potter became a regular feature in her life and, to be honest, she welcomed it. She would be taken out of those interminably boring sessions on wifely deportment, or relaxation times spent staring into space, and walked to his office where her gag would be removed, and he would talk to her about her other life (as he termed it), taking notes all the time. At first all she could talk about was that how he knew anyway since he was part of it and it was probably him that had brought her here (wherever here was) but, with time, she cooled and began to talk about it as if it were another time and place. He seemed especially interested in whether anyone else from her present reality had also inhabited her past and, since no one else had, why she was focussing on him. In all honesty, she did not know. He had been there then, and he was there now and that was all there was to it. He would smile as if full of psychological wisdom and she would be reminded of how patronising the old Dave Potter could be in the other life, again one of the reasons why she’d dumped him. This Dave Potter though, whilst undoubtedly a misogynist and patronising, was different. After all, everyone was misogynistic in this world and everybody patronised her or just plain ignored her, seeing her more as a pretty doll or feminine accessory to the room than a living breathing human being. This Dave Potter at least acknowledged her humanity and for that, she warmed to him, even if his presence confused her at the core of her being.

A couple of weeks after their first meeting – or at least, their first meeting in this stage of this reality – Doctor Potter suggested that he and Miss Suzanna take a walk in the grounds. Her maid smiled at this as if something special was implied but Suzie merely groaned behind her gag. Walking was a trial in the boots that she was forced to wear. As the weeks passed, the heels slowly got higher and she was now perched almost on tiptoe, teetering on fifteen-centimetre heels. Worse still, her maid had shown her the end goal: a pair of boots called en-pointe which forced the wearer to walk on their toes like a ballet dancer. They looked terrifying.

Not only were the boots a trial, but her costume made her feel vulnerable in other ways. Unable to use her arms for balance, she was petrified of falling over and so required a maid to hold her at all times, whilst the slight physical exertion coupled with her excruciatingly tight corset meant that within seconds she was panting for air and her breasts surged up and down embarrassingly. And then, to top it all (literally) whenever she left the building, she was required to wear a ridiculous bonnet with a long rim that caused her vision to be like looking through a tunnel except that, at the end of this tunnel, a thick veil was hung which reduced everything to a whitey-grey blur.

Taking hold of one of her faux arms in one hand and putting his other firmly around her waist, Doctor Potter guided Suzie out of the building and along the treacherous gravel paths that surrounded the lawns. Several times they had to stop for her to regain her breath but then, at the summer house in the shrubbery, he helped her to sit and then, much to her surprise and pleasure, flipped back the veil to give her a better view of her surroundings.

“Miss Suzanna,” he began, “I’ve brought you out here today because I want to have a special chat out of the earshot of both Madam Rossiter and Doctor Lowe. No, do not fear, I do not wish to say anything improper; but what I will say is rather eccentric. Do you know much of the world of science, Miss Suzanna?”

Suzie, who had got a double A* in her GCSE Science exams in that other reality, nodded her head.

“Excellent. Then do you know anything of dark matter?”

This time she had to shake her head.

“Well that is not to be a matter for surprise since this is a complicated subject indeed and women’s minds can easily be confused… or at least that is what my colleague Doctor Lowe insists. But to continue, dark matter is matter that exists, but we cannot detect it. Scientists know that it exists because they have done some incredibly complicated equations which prove that it is there, but it is just not detectable. Now, and you need not worry your pretty little head about this too much – and may I say how radiant you are looking this morning, Miss Suzanna? – this dark matter has caused much debate, conjecture and theorising amongst the scientific community and one theory that has come to the fore is that of parallel universes; that is to say that here, now, there is another universe that exists but we are just unaware of it. Now many – including Doctor Lowe – pooh pooh this theory, but I for one think it has merits and that is why your particular case intrigues me. You tell me that you believe this other life you have lived to be real and I believe you, but how can it have been? Unless that is, you were living in a parallel universe as this other Suzanna Lowe and then somehow, you crossed over to this reality. Does that make sense to you?”

Suzie nodded enthusiastically. This meant that she was not lying. It was an explanation that bore out her witness!

“Of course, there are many issues with the theory, namely how come you managed to cross over when no one else seems to have been able to do so and what has happened to the Miss Suzanna Updike who lived here – is she now in your other reality? And why did I appear in both worlds and what is it that is drawing us together? Many questions indeed. Anyway, I have a proposal to make. I am going to offer to Doctor Lowe and Madam Rossiter that you move into my house in order that I may explore those questions further. Do not fear, your training will not be affected and there shall be no improper behaviour, but how does that sound to you?”

In the old reality, that parallel universe in which she had once lived, Suzie would have been horrified by the thought of moving in with the patronising and sexist Dave Potter. But in this reality, the silent, restrained and modest Lady of Leisure Suzanna Updike merely nodded her assent with joy.


Chapter 4

Life changed considerably for Suzie when she moved to Doctor Potter’s house and, generally, it was for the better. Before she left the academy though, she had an unpleasant surprise. The morning before she moved out, after her morning bathing and toilette, she found herself being fitted with a strange new device. It was like a pair of underpants except that it was made out of metal and had a grille at the front through which liquids could pass through. Her maid explained that it was a chastity belt and would help ensure her womanly purity should the good doctor – who was a single man after all – be unable to control himself when confronted by her immense beauty. The inherent sexism in it all appalled her a little, but she had to admit that, trammelled as she was, she would be unable to resist any male advances, welcome or otherwise.

The chastity belt though, created problems of its own. For some reason, inside it there were a series of rubber nubs that caressed her sex continually, causing her desire to rise yet not providing any relief. To be honest, ever since she had woken up that awful morning in her sleeping sack, she had longed to touch her womanly parts and relieve her pent-up longing – being corseted and restrained only seemed to heighten it – but this brought things to an entirely new level.

Dave Potter’s house was a large dwelling some distance across town from the academy. Suzie couldn’t say how far exactly as the veil and bonnet that she’d worn for the journey had effectively blindfolded her, but she had not been in the taxi for long. In it she had her own room that was well-appointed and, most pleasingly, her regime was relaxed somewhat. Although her arms were almost continually restrained, Potter encouraged conversation at mealtimes and would often invite her to sit in the garden with him wearing not a bonnet with a veil, but instead a sunhat which was far less restrictive. Furthermore, every evening, as part of her treatment, he allowed her to have her arms freed and she would write a diary talking of her experiences in that other reality and how she felt about this new reality that she found herself in. In this she would talk about her memories from that other existence, perhaps in a parallel universe, perhaps merely in her head, and how they made living her current life more difficult. Every day Potter would read these entries and he declared that they were undoubtedly helping her to come to terms with the mental and psychological issues that she was battling. He also, patiently and slowly, explained to her, that while these delusions may seem superficially pleasing to her, in the long term she would always be happier in her current lifestyle as medical research had proved that women’s brains are wired up differently to those of menfolk and that they are patently unsuited to taking on positions of responsibility and power.

However, along with these positive developments, there were also some that were less welcome. One came on the orders of Madam Rossiter who said that there was a new fashion in arm restraint that was becoming popular and she thought that Miss Suzanna would benefit from achieving it. This was called reverse prayer and it involved having her hands palm-to-palm together as if in prayer but behind her back, brushing her neck. This position was said to improve both posture and piety, but it was awfully difficult to achieve since, once the palm-to-palm aspect had been managed, the elbows were then slowly – and painfully – drawn together. It transpired that Suzie spent much of her time restrained in this fashion – six hours per day – and she was glad indeed when her aching arms were released and laced back into their gigot sleeves.

The other change was more disconcerting than negative. After a week of treatment, Doctor Potter suggested that, in order to help her adapt to her new reality better and separate the two realities in her mind, she adopt a new name and be Suzanna no longer, but instead someone else. She could not object as she was firmly gagged and her arms locked into the agonising reverse prayer formation at the time, but the good doctor decreed that she would now be called Claudine after the character in the Colette novels (whom she’d never heard of) and so Claudine she was and to celebrate, she embroidered herself a new gag panel with Claudine Updike emblazoned upon it, surrounded by pink roses. Which was all well and good except that now the old, independent Suzie seemed even more of a distant figure, separate from the pampered feminine accessory that she had now become.

But life was not bad, and, despite his patronising airs, Claudine found herself strangely attracted to Dave Potter in a way that the old Suzie Updike never had been. Perhaps because he was the only man she ever saw, perhaps because her sex was constantly being titillated by the chastity belt or perhaps because there was some genuine attraction she could not say, but she found herself waking up in her sleeping sack after dreaming passionate and improper dreams about him whilst, as he sat talking to her in the garden, she imagined them both undressing and engaging in wild and wanton sex.

Nor too was the attraction purely one-way for about a month after her arrival in his house, a month where the tell-tale glances and subtle comments had grown daily in number, the two were out in the garden as evening was beginning and the sky had turned orange and Doctor Potter remarked on how beautiful it all was, before then adding that it was not so beautiful as her and, before she knew it, he had leaned over, removed her gag and was kissing her passionately, a kiss which she returned.

The following morning, dressed in her reverse-prayer configuration and securely gagged, she was led to Doctor Potter’s office. He saw her as she entered and bade her sit before sending the maid away. “It looks as if you are praying for forgiveness,” he said smiling weakly and indicating her restrained arms. She did not reply as she could not, so he continued: “Last night we transgressed grossly, both of us, though particularly me. You are a woman and thus weak of mind and body, but I was in a position of responsibility and I should not have done that. I am sorry. Unfortunately, though, sorry is not enough. Having transgressed thus, it is now inappropriate for you to stay under my roof. I am not to be trusted and you are a temptation too great for any man to resist. So, you must return to the academy.”

At these words she shook her head, but the doctor did not seem to notice. Instead, he continued: “However, there is another option. My feelings for you which I expressed so inappropriately yesterday evening were genuine and I think… nay, hope, that the fact that you responded so eagerly, that they are reciprocated. Therefore, I have a question to ask: Claudine Updike, will you marry me? That way we can sate those feelings legally and correctly whilst living together more fully and not being wrenched apart by the conventions of this world?”

Marry Dave Potter, the very man whom she had rejected in another world not so long ago. And yet, what better option did she have? Who else had shown her any understanding? And whoever she chose, she would still be treated as a lady of leisure, a pretty feminine accessory with no purpose in life beyond reflecting her spouse’s wealth and trumpeting her dependence and helplessness?

Claudine Updike did return to the academy that evening, but it was so that she could be prepared for her wedding in a month’s time rather than in disgrace for her transgressions. The other students as well as her maid and Madam Rossiter who overjoyed for her and started planning her gown and giving her wifely instructions on everything from after-dinner conversation (when possible) to affairs of the night (husbands appreciate it if you wake them every morning by sucking on their tool. An accomplished wife can achieve the waking and the eruption of seed simultaneously).

Even exhortations to perform oral sex however, were nothing compared to the shock of what Madam Rossiter had to announce the following day.

“Your fiancé has provided me with his list of modifications. Now, I appreciate that this is what sent you over the edge last time, but these are far less severe, rather mild in my opinion.”

Claudine hadn’t got a clue what she was referring to, but during their free conversation that evening, Petronella explained: “All men specify modifications that they want performing on their spouses before marriage. It is so that they can personalise us, make us unique and partially designed by them. It is a great honour!”

A great honour it may have been, but that evening as she lay sweating in her sleeping sack, Claudine’s mind tossed over the implications of what she had been told. She was to have her body, her very being, physically altered for the pleasure of a man. Her breasts, which she had never regarded as being overly small, were to be pumped full of silicon or something purely to please her fiancé and she, the owner of those breasts, had no say in the matter. As she lay there in the clammy darkness, the old Suzie reasserted herself over the new Claudine and she resisted both mentally and physically, tossing and writhing, fighting to get out. But the strong leather of the sack held firm as it was designed to do and, eventually, sometime in the dark hours, she passed away exhausted and drenched in sweat, all resistance having proved futile.

The following day when she was dressed in her finest outdoor gown incorporating the reverse-prayer configuration (declared de rigueur up until her wedding by Madam Rossiter) and taken to the hospital. There, she was shown into a consulting room and a male doctor explained her forthcoming modifications to her. More humiliating than that, without asking her, he reached forward, opened up her dress and then loosened the top of her stays, taking out her breasts, squeezing and fondling them mos inappropriately. Claudine would have resisted but her costume trammelled her completely and she was still exhausted from the exertions of the night and so she just sat passively and listened like a dutiful maiden should do. The doctor explained that 300cc implants were to be added to each breast, taking out examples of said implants and demonstrating what her new, huge tits would look like. And, as if this were not bad enough, he then proceeded to state that her lips would also be collagen enhanced. Finally, the doctor noted with surprise that no work was being done on her bottom, but then ended with the humiliating line, “Although it is excessively large without work, so I suppose none is necessary.” An hour later she was put under anaesthesia and her world went black. When she awoke, her lips were plumped and puffy whilst her breasts had been replaced by two heavy, large spherical balls of flesh that defied gravity. Everyone pronounced them to be great improvements although she was far from sure. When she saw herself in the mirror, the old Suzie from that other world seemed further away than ever, unrecognisable almost, and in her place a beautiful doll with unnatural proportions named Claudine stood looking back. She shivered.

Following that day Claudine’s life became a bleary whirl of wedding preparations. She was measured and remeasured for her gown and her corseting regime intensified in order for her to achieve the seemingly impossible measurement of 45cm for her wedding day. This led to her feeling continually weak and on the verge of fainting or, as Madam Rossiter termed it, “delightfully fragile and feminine”. Coupled with the strictures of her costume, she was also subjected to endless lessons on the duty of being a wife. Since she would be living as a Lady of Leisure and thus unable to cook and clean for her husband (who could afford maids to do such things), her lessons consisted solely of making conversation with him (which largely seemed to be how to praise him and caress his ego continually) and how to satisfy him sexually which the emphasis being purely on the latter. Madam Rossiter explained that there were two kinds of wife: a pleasure wife and a breeding wife, the former existing solely to bring her husband sexual pleasure and the latter to bear his children. “Most men keep their spouses as pleasure wives during their youthful years, before then allowing them to graduate on to the honour of breeding,” she explained, “although some older gentlemen with heirs already may marry a younger wife purely to give them pleasure in their old age. But whatever the case, pleasure or breeding, what you need to understand is that your bedtime performance is now central to your entire existance.”

Now Claudine was a virgin as all unmarried girls should be, but, perversely, the Suzie of her delusions, was quite sexually experienced and, somehow, these false memories kept crowding in during the lessons which, coupled with the titillating effect of her chastity belt and the fact that the same belt ensured she could gain son relief, made her feel constantly aroused and horny. Oral sex, as promised, was a major factor from the beginning, with it being made clear that this form of satisfaction would be one that she would be providing regularly for her husband. Most embarrassingly, Madam Rossiter had Cecille, one of the maids, brought into the lessons and stripped down to her underwear, before having a replica of a male tool strapped around her. Claudine then had to kneel in front of the passive maid and suck on this faux member, while Madame Rossiter critiqued her performance. It was highly embarrassing, and shame-making and she felt like curling up and dying the first time it took place. Equally embarrassing was that, at the end of every meal, in honour of the fact that she was soon to be married, she was forced to drink a small cup of “spouse’s port”, a salty, sticky liquid which Claudine recognised from her days as Suzie as being male semen. She had to imbue this in front of the others, swallowing every last drop and then licking out the cup, after everything else and no liquid was allowed afterwards so that the delicious tastes of the meals were always eradicated by the disgusting salty semen which stayed in her mouth for hours afterwards. It was horrible, but what made it worse was how the other students kept asking her what it was like and Petronella was even so bold as to whisper to her to keep a little on her tongue and then later, when they were relaxing, she would kiss her deeply so that she too could receive a harbinger of the “joys awaiting her with marriage”.

The French kissing was another aspect of her training and, to be honest, was the most pleasant of all. In her heart of hearts, Claudine – well, Suzie – had always quite liked women as much as men, and now, as part of her training to satisfy Doctor Potter after marriage, she was made to practise her kissing techniques with the other students. Every afternoon, their gags were removed, and she was made to lean into Petronella, Henrietta or Clarissa (Carmelita had got married and left while Claudine had been at the good doctor’s home and these two newcomers were her fellow students now) and let their tongues explore each other’s mouths. It was a heavenly feeling, particularly with the young Clarissa whom Claudine found she was developing a bit of a crush on, but alas, while it aroused and excited her, her restrained arms and locked away sex meant that no release was possible and so she went to bed every night her head filled with visions of lesbian lust and no way of alleviating it. It was like being taken to the swimming pool every day but never being allowed to dive in.

But diving she soon would be, for the days ticked by and, a month after she returned to Madam Rossiter’s, Claudine found herself released from her sleeping sack at the ungodly hour of five. She was thoroughly showered and shaved down below before then beginning the slow process of dressing her for her nuptials. The stays could not be laced down to the agonising size of 45cm in one go and so it was done in stages, each one causing her to faint right away. Whilst that was happening, her feet were laced into beautiful but precariously white-leather, knee-high en-pointe boots while her arms were twisted into the now too-familiar reverse prayer configuration. Eventually, her enormous new breasts surging up and down for air, her tottering about, shifting her weight from one tortured set of toes to the other, the vast white gown was lowered over her, her curls reset for a final time and then veil after veil pulled down over her face until finally, blinded completely and entirely helpless, she was led away to church to become Mrs. David Potter.


Six months later

Dave Potter watches on the video screen as his wife is prepared for their nightly congress. He outlined to her on their first day that he wishes to use her as a pleasure wife first before letting her become a breeding wife as he is in no rush to have children and they should both enjoy their youth whilst they still have it. Certainly, he is enjoying it, although for her, he is less certain.

He instructed the maid that he wished to use her bottom this evening. Her wonderfully large and peachy buttocks were what very first attracted him to her at that party at Dovegate Financial Services almost a year earlier. He’d always had a thing for a bubble butt and Suzie Updike had one to die for. He’d sworn then that he would have her and had been most put out when she’d rejected him.

Dave had been an aficionado of the Lady of Leisure ideal for almost ten years, after having read stories about it on the internet. He’d assumed them to all be fiction but then had received an anonymous email one day talking about an exclusive secret society of rich men that aims to make the ideal a reality. The email included links to pictures and videos of ladies living – or being forced to live – the Lady of Leisure ideal. He was curious and wished to learn more and so replied. Around a week later a meeting was set up with William Mogg, one of the elders of the society who explained more. He stated that they had been formed some ten years before after several gentlemen had declared – and explored – their fantasies over brandy one evening. Initial test subjects (Romanian apparently) had been procured from the black market and, after some success, the Society for the Advancement of the Lady of Leisure Ideal had been established. They had then purchased a large swathe of land on New Zealand’s South Island and there they had proceeded to gather their ladies of leisure in a utopian community named Deportment. Dave had joined the society straightaway but had visited Deportment frequently but had never seriously considered forcing one of his own girlfriends into the Lady of Leisure ideal. But then when Suzie Updike had rejected him then he knew that it was time for his fantasies to be realised.

He’d invented the alternative reality/ amnesia thing out of a sense of playful cruelty, even though it wasn’t easy to achieve (erasing that ankle tattoo had taken an expert several weeks). He knew that she would be suffering, doubting her own sanity and longing for what she had lost yet could never prove had existed, but then that was only right and proper. After all, she had rejected him and so deserved to suffer. He’d watched with glee as the haughty HR ice queen had been reduced to an ornamental doll and then lavished every moment when she lived in his house and he pumped all her food full of strong aphrodisiacs and yet allowed her no sexual release. It was little wonder that she’d agreed to marriage with a man she had recently hated and sentenced herself to a lifetime as a restrained Victorian doll. Then he had let his imagination run wild. He’d fallen in love with Suzie Updike but now he could create something even better, an idealised version of her with a prettier name, more kissable lips and far, far, far superior breasts that acted as his pillow on all those nights when he wasn’t using her magnificent buttocks for the same purpose. Indeed, the only thing that had not needed altering at all was that wonderful arse but even that he improved, ordering it to be filled permanently with a little ivory plug decorated with a diamond on the end that twinkled at him whenever he gazed upon it. Indeed, the only time it was ever removed was when that arse was being prepared to be plundered… like now.

Dave knew that she hated the anal sex; that she found it humiliating and unsatisfying. But he also knew that she had come to accept that she was merely his accessory these days with no mind of her own and no say over her life. She had reached a kind of impasse now, an acceptance and resignation and so Dave was thinking about upping the ante, perhaps leaving a photograph from that other reality lying around or making a comment that could hint that he knew the truth too. That would bring back the mental torment and doubts. If done carefully, it could be exquisite.

He watched as the maid supported her wonderfully corseted waist of 45cm by stacking pillows beneath it so that her beautiful bottom was on full display whilst her breasts ballooned below her, squashing themselves against the bed. The camera also picked up her groans, made from behind her mouth gagged with the words ‘Property of Doctor David Potter’ that she herself had embroidered straight after their marriage. It was a delightful scene and he was ready to make the most of it. He got up from his seat and made his way happily to the marital bedchamber.


Copyright © 2019, Dave Potter

Die thrakische Göttin

Die thrakische Göttin

von Dave Potter

English version: The Thracian Goddess

Diana Filkova seufzte. Nicht mehr lange muss sie es ertragen und alles wird in Ordnung sein.

Sie lebte mit ihrem Partner, dem zwanzig Jahre älteren Senior Mark Vogel zusammen. Sie sind seit zwei Jahren ein Paar, seit sie ihn bei einem von ihrer Universität organisierten Empfang für angehende Historiker getroffen hatte. Zu dieser Zeit war sie auf der Suche nach einem Sommerpraktikum und es hatte einfach bei ihnen geklickt. Er war attraktiv, lustig, charmant und von absolut einladendem Wesen. Auch bot er ihr einen Job an.

“Ich bin Techniker, aber ich habe schon lange eine Leidenschaft für Geschichte. Ich lebe auf der griechischen Insel Draxos und sponsere dort die Ausgrabung einer altgriechischen Tempelanlage. Du scheinst genau die Art von Mädchen zu sein, die wir vor Ort gebrauchen könnten. Bist du interessiert?”

Interessiert? Natürlich war sie das! Den Lohn, den er ihr anbot, war exorbitant im Vergleich zu dem, was sie in Bulgarien bekommen konnte, und diese Anstellung würde ihren Lebenslauf verbessern und ihre Karrierchancen vergolden. Also nahm sie an und unterschrieb beim Abendessen. An diesem Abend unterschrieb sie leichtsinnig auch noch eine ganze Menge mehr.

Sie liebte Mark natürlich nicht. Er war alt genug, um ihr Vater zu sein! Aber er war in Ordnung, es war mit ihm auszukommen, extrem großzügig mit seinem Geld und sie hatte keinen Freund, wie er es war. Außerdem lebte er in einer riesigen, luxuriösen Villa auf einer Privat-Insel direkt vor der Küste von Draxos, mit einer kompletten Spa-Einrichtung, einem Swimmingpool und Terrasse mit herrlichem Blick auf die Ägäis.

Ihr Plan war einfach: Bei ihm bleiben, bis sie die Uni beendet hatte, alle Geschenke und Geld,das er ihr gab, sammeln und dann, wenn sie ihren Abschluss gemacht hatte, alles zu verwenden, um für ihren MA zu bezahlen,den sie sich sonst nie hätte leisten können.

Sie hatte sich im September zum MA angemeldet. Nicht, dass sie es Mark gesagt hätte; schließlich, warum die Feiertage allein verbringen? Nein, sie würde ihm nächste Woche eine Notiz hinterlassen, nachdem sie ihn verlassen hatte.

Nur manchmal wünschte sie sich, dass die Tage viel schneller voranschreiten würden. Er fing an, sie zu langweilen, und seine Tatzen an ihrem Körper im Bett waren nur noch lästig. Außerdem konnte er manchmal ganz besessen von einer Idee werden, wie zum Beispiel heute. Er hatte darauf bestanden, dass sie nach Athen fliegen, um einzukaufen. Aber es war nicht die Art von Shopping, die sie genoss, sondern es ging um den Kauf von Haushaltsdekorationen. Gähn! Dennoch müssen wohl seine Bedürfnisse berücksichtigt werden.

Als sie in der Stadt ankamen, nahmen sie ein Taxi zum Studio eines Giorgos Hatziastros, einem Töpfer von Rang, der anscheinend ein Freund von Markus war.

“Er hat in der Vergangenheit für mich gearbeitet und es war immer auf höchstem Niveau”, sagte Mark. Diana schaute gelangweilt aus dem Fenster.

Im Studio begrüßten sich die beiden Männer wie lange vermisste Brüder. Mark stellte dann Diana vor und machte zu ihrer Überraschung eine Ankündigung:

“Ich möchte meinem Liebling etwas ganz Besonderes kaufen, nicht nur das übliche Schmuckstück, sondern etwas von künstlerischem und finanziellem Wert, um unsere tiefe Liebe zueinander zu symbolisieren. Sie bildet sich zur Archäologin aus und so dachte ich mir, warum soll nicht Giorgos ihr einem einzigartigen, personalisierten Topf in der altgriechischen Tradition machen?”

Bei diesen Worten schmolz Dianas Herz. Bei der Antwort von Giorgos ging es fast in den Overdrive.

“Das ist in Ordnung, natürlich mein Freund, aber sie sind nicht billig. Mein altgriechisches Werk beginnt bei 10.000 Euro pro Stück.”

10.000 Euro! Das waren die gesamten Kosten für die MA!

“Der Preis ist kein Faktor, sondern nur die Qualität. Wie du sehen kannst, ist sie meine griechische Göttin und warum also nicht eine griechische Vase aus ihr machen.”

“Vergib mir, dass ich dir widersprochen habe”, sagte Giorgos, “aber ich spüre, dass die junge Dame keine Griechin ist. Vielleicht auf dem Balkan, aber griechisch, nein.”

“Das stimmt, ich bin Bulgarin aus Plovdiv.”

“Dann darf ich einen Vorschlag machen. Da die Dame keine Griechin ist, ist vielleicht eine griechische Vase unangebracht, aber Sie sind Bulgarin, ja, und die Bulgaren sind die Nachkommen, sagen einige, der alten Thraker, ein ebenso zivilisiertes Volk. Warum also nicht stattdessen ein Design im thrakischen Stil ausprobieren?”

Diese Worte veranlassten Diana, diesen Mann umso mehr zu mögen. Die meisten Griechen verachten ihre nördlichen Nachbarn, aber er sah ihren alten Ruhm und ihre gegenwärtige Armut.

“Das wäre wunderbar!” antwortete sie.

Sie betrachteten einige Entwürfe und arbeiteten etwas aus, basierend auf einem Topfdesign aus schwarz bemalter Keramik mit Blattgoldmotiven. Diese erzählten die Geschichte eines alten thrakischen Königs, aber Giorgos schlug vor, sie in die Geschichte der Zauberin “Thrakien” zu verwandeln, der Gründerin der alten Zivilisation, die als Tochter des Ozeans und Schwester Europas gilt.

“Und wir werden ihr dein Gesicht geben, damit du wirklich wie eine mythische Göttin aussiehst, die das Herz meines Freundes mit ihrem Zauber verzaubert hat”, fügte der Töpfer hinzu.

Nach dem Besuch beim Töpfer brachte Mark sie dann zu einem angesehenen Schneider, der ein ganz besonderes Outfit für sie anfertigte, zeitgenössisch, aber auf der Grundlage alter thrakischer Mode, alles fließende Kleider, die sich auf ihrer Haut prächtig anfühlten. Dann brachte er sie zum größten Haarstylisten der Stadt, der ihr Haar – vorher ein einfacher Pferdeschwanz – wie das einer thrakischen Adligen herrichtete.

 So, wie eine Göttin aussehend, wie Mark glaubte, dinierten sie in einem feinen Restaurant, bevor sie sich für einen Liebeskuss in ihr Fünf-Sterne-Hotel zurückzogen. Obwohl Mark im Bett langweilig war, weil er sich ein wenig schuldig für die bevorstehende Täuschung fühlte, ließ Diana ihn mit ihr tun, was immer er wollte. In dieser Nacht schien er sich übermäßig viel Zeit zu nehmen, um ihre Beine zu streicheln und ihren wohlgeformten Arsch zu streicheln.

Und als sie mit dem Liebesspiel fertig waren, bestellten sie Wein, und nachdem sie ihr Glas ausgetrunken hatte, fiel Diana in einen tiefen, zufriedenen Schlaf.

Als sie erwachte, wusste Diana, dass etwas nicht stimmte. Sie öffnete die Augen, aber es kam kein Licht herein. Nicht einmal ein Spalt. Und als sie versuchte, sich zu bewegen, reagierte ihr Körper irgendwie nicht. Sie wollte schreien, aber sie erkannte, dass etwas – es fühlte sich an wie eine Art Stange – in ihrem Mund steckte, und alles, was herauskam, war eine mmphf. Langsam gewann die Angst die Oberhand.

Dann, aus der Dunkelheit heraus, kam eine beruhigende Stimme. “Guten Morgen, Liebling. Ich hoffe, du hast gut geschlafen.”

Es war Mark. Sie stöhnte wieder und er sprach noch einmal. “Du versuchst zu sprechen, oder? Nun, das ist jetzt nicht möglich, da du einen Knebel im Mund hast. Ich werde ihn bald entfernen, aber zuerst lasse ich dich an einen besseren Ort bringen.

Und sie fühlte, wie sie sich bewegte. Ihr Körper, der völlig reaktionslos war, wurde angehoben und getragen. Doch sie fühlte nicht, dass irgendwelche Hände sie berührten. Es war seltsam. Tatsächlich fühlte sie sich irgendwie eingeschlossen. Aber nicht alles von ihr. Sie konnte den Wind auf ihrem Gesicht, ihren Brüsten und ihrem Geschlechtsteil spüren. Der Rest wurde jedoch irgendwie bedeckt.

Sie wurde hingestellt und sie fühlte, wie Mark sich ihr näherte. Er küsste sie leicht auf ihre Stirn und tat dann etwas an ihren Augen. Sofort kam Licht herein. Sie blinzelte und ihre Augen stellten sich darauf ein. Sie saß auf dem Balkon ihres Hauses in Draxos, auf dem sie auf das blaue Wasser der Ägäis blickte. Es war keine Wolke in Sicht und in der Ferne konnte sie das weiße Dreieck des Segels einer Yacht erkennen.

“Die Ursache für deine Blindheit waren dies”, sagte Mark. Er hielt ein Paar Kontaktlinsen in der Handfläche. Sie waren total schwarz. Jeder, der sie trägt wäre blind . Aber wozu….?

“Ich habe ein paar Änderungen vorgenommen”, sagte er lächelnd. Und dann drehte er sie um, um sie vor einen Spiegel in voller Länge zu stellen. Was sie sah, betäubte sie fast. Noch immer lächelnd, nahm er ihr den Knebel aus dem Mund, der sich als groß und penisförmig erwies.

“Was zum Teufel hast du mit mir gemacht?”, schrie sie.

“Ich habe dir eine Brustvergrößerungspendiert, wie versprochen”, antwortete er.

Mark erinnerte sie an die von ihr erwähnte Brustkorrektur. Diana mochte ihre Titten, aber sie waren ziemlich klein und ein wenig schlaff. Doch jetzt waren sie zwei pralle Kugeln, die auf ihrer Brust ragten. Oder zumindest, von dort, wo ihre Brust hätte sein sollen.

Oh ja, die Brustvergrößerung war das geringste ihrer Probleme.

Sie war in dem Topf, den sie in Auftrag gegeben hatten. Ja, das ist richtig: Eingehüllt in diese Vase, ihr Kopf ragte aus der Oberseite und ihre Brüste drückten sich aus zwei Fenstern auf der Vorderseite, während es darunter ein weiteres, kleineres Fenster gab, durch das ihre entblößte Muschi und ihr Anus zu sehen waren.

“Ich habe die Brüste machen lassen, nachdem du eingelocht wurdest. Ich denke, sie sehen besser aus als je zuvor, obwohl es mir leid tut, wenn die Passform jetzt ein wenig eng sein sollte”, fuhr Mark fort und sprach weiterhin über ihre gewaltigen Titten.

“Vergiss meine Brüste! Was hast du mit dem Rest von mir gemacht? Warum kann ich meine Arme und Beine nicht fühlen oder bewegen?”

“Oh, weil sie nicht mehr da sind. Sie waren die ersten Dinge, die der Chirurg entfernt hat. Dann schnitt er dich auf und entfernte die nicht vitalen Organe und alle deine Knochen außer der Wirbelsäule. Deine gesamte Körpergröße ist jetzt mit deinem Kopf vergleichbar, so dass du dich schön eng in deinen Topf einfügen kannst. Gefällt es dir, wie es geworden ist? Giorgos hat gute Arbeit geleistet, nicht wahr?”

Diana stand unter Schock. “Aber… warum? Warum bin ich in einem Topf?”

“Weil ich glaube, dass Frauen in ihnen hübscher aussehen. Außerdem ist es viel unwahrscheinlicher, dass Topfmädchen ihre zukünftigen Ehepartner verlassen.” Er sah sie ernst an. “Ich kenne deine Pläne und Absichten. Ich war dein Sugar-Daddy, nützlich, um für deinen bevorstehenden MA zu bezahlen. Nicht, dass du das jetzt noch schaffen würdest; denn was nützt eine Archäologin ohne Gliedmaßen? Nein, ich hätte dich nie eingetopft, wenn du mir treu geblieben wärst. Aber komm schon, Diana, hast du wirklich geglaubt, dass ein Typ, der in der Technik arbeitet, sich nicht in deine E-Mails und sozialen Medien hackt?”

“Wie kannst du es wagen! Ich werde….”

“Du wirst ruhig bleiben”, antwortete er und setzte ihr den Knebel wieder ein. Es gab absolut nichts, was sie tun konnte, um ihn aufzuhalten. Dann nahm er zu ihrem Entsetzen die Kontaktlinsen wieder auf und setzte sie ihr wieder ein. Ihre Welt tauchte in Schwärze. Zum Schweigen gebracht, geblendet und unbeweglich. Es war wie ihr Abstieg in die Hölle.

“Lass mich dir sagen, wie das funktioniert”, fuhr Marks Stimme fort. “Du bist jetzt mein Potgirl, meine thrakische Göttin. Du musst hier für den Rest deiner Tage leben und deine Zeit in entspanntem Luxus auf dem Balkon oder in einem Zimmer verbringen. Du wirst von deinem Dienstmädchen versorgt werden. Ein großer Vorteil des heutigen Lebens in Griechenland ist der stetige Zustrom illegaler Einwanderer. Das Mädchen, das ich für dich habe, ist Sudanese. Sie spricht kein Wort Englisch und kann nicht weglaufen. Sie wird sich um deine Bedürfnisse kümmern, außer um die wichtigsten….”

Er schwieg und sie fühlte, wie sein Finger über ihre Brustwarzen streichten und dann ihren Kitzler berührte. Sie erschauderte vor Entsetzen und Freude. “Nämlich deine sexuellen Bedürfnisse. Du bist immer noch meine Freundin, wir haben uns nie getrennt. Ich werde weiterhin dein Partner sein und dir vielleicht eines Tages sogar meine Hand für die Ehe reichen. Wir könnten sogar Kinder haben, weil ich deine Eier gerettet habe; alles, was wir brauchen, ist ein williger Ersatz und, wie gesagt, ein stetiger Strom von Migranten…. Aber du musst bei all dem bereit sein. Ich werde mich dir nie aufdrängen, noch werde ich missbräuchliche Sprache oder Verhaltensweisen von dir ertragen. Deshalb bist du jetzt geknebelt und geblendet. Wenn du dich schlecht benimmst, wirst du das eine oder andere ertragen müssen. Wenn du in meine Zunge beißt, wenn wir uns küssen, oder in meinen Schwanz, wenn du mir einen Blowjob gibst, dann werden die Linsen für Monate drin sein, Ohrstöpsel auch. Aber benimm dich, paar dich mit mir, unterhalte dich mit mir, und du wirst belohnt werden und nicht nur mit Sex. Es kann hier draußen auf dieser Insel ziemlich einsam werden, aber ich habe Freunde mit Partnern, Potgirls wie du. Tatsächlich wünscht Giorgos verzweifelt seine Frau Melissa mitzunehmen. Das kann deine erste Belohnung für gutes Verhalten sein. Denkt darüber nach, meine thrakische Göttin.”

Und mit diesen Worten ließ er sie dort zurück, leere Augen, die ins nichts starrten, Mund geknebelt, sie war jetzt nichts weiter als eine elegante Haushaltsdekoration in der Luxusvilla von Mark Vogel.

Als seine Schritte in der Ferne verklangen, erkannte Diana, dass sie viel Zeit zum nachdenken hatte, um sich anzupassen. Dicke Tränen fielen von ihren Augen über ihren Topf. Sie liefen wie Regentropfen über die glänzende Oberfläche, bis sie auf ihren hervorstehenden Brüsten trockneten.