Vignettes from the Harem: Introduction: John Cobbler

Vignettes from the Harem

Copyright © 2020, Dave Potter

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Introduction: John Cobbler

John Cobbler was a nobody. He had been born a nobody, grown up a nobody and was now very much a middle-aged nobody.

Or at least, that was how the world viewed him. In his own mind there was quite a different impression.

But that didn’t matter because no one cares about what a nobody thinks.

Until, that is, they become a somebody.

Which is what happened to John Cobbler when he hit upon the idea of Marketplace, a website to buy and sell goods. Within months he had become a millionaire and it only kept growing. Until that is, a major tech giant set up a rival business named Amazon which then offered him a cool $110bn for his company. John sold. After all, he was beginning to get bored of it all by now and he wanted a new project. Getting bored of things quickly was a trait of John’s. Some might call it a character flaw, but he looked at things differently; in his mind it kept him fresh and “on point”.

Like I said before, this was a guy who truly believed that he was a somebody.

So John took the money and ran. Well, metaphorically. He used it to build an enormous palace for himself in, of all places, Pakistan. He built other residences too, in his native Britain and also a smaller ones Barbados, Australia and Sri Lanka (John was also an avid cricket fan) but the Pakistani one was the one that mattered.

Or at least, the one that matters for us.

Because the Pakistani one represented John’s latest project. The realisation of his life’s dream; the one thing that would never bore him.

From his earliest days, John Cobbler had been a collector. As a child he’d stuck stamps in stamp albums and stood on station platforms writing down engine numbers. Nothing excited him like collecting (indeed, it was this passion that had helped him to spy the need for Market Place). And now that he was unimaginably wealthy, he wished to start a new collection.

A collection of women.

And the palace in Pakistan would house his harem.

He’d decided upon Pakistan after a great deal of thought. The proximity of cricket grounds was a major factor, but it was far from the only one. He liked the fact that it was an Islamic country, since Muslims accepted the idea of harems far more readily, and the Pakistanis were not known to be strong on female liberation. But more important than that, he knew that Pakistan – or at least, the remote province of Balochistan where he was building his new residence – was a place where, if you had money, people would turn a blind eye to certain practices that would not go unnoticed elsewhere.

The palace he built was in the Mughal style, a glorious confection of arches, latticework and marble floors with ordered gardens, tinkling fountains, private courtyards and domed roofs. It was stunning. It was a suitable home for the finest collection of women on the planet.

But why women? What so excited John about collecting them? Well, the answer is severalfold. To begin with, he was straight and so they excited him sexually. He loved looking at women and he loved being with them. Alas, the feeling was not always reciprocated. He’d had several relationships in his time, but all the girls had left him for another, citing reasons such as “selfishness” and him being “a bit weird”. So John, poor fellow, struggled to trust women. He valued fidelity but none of the women that he’d been with had displayed it. But in a harem, they would have no choice. And besides, the women he’d been with before had been… well, the kind of women that a nobody can attract, which is to say, they had all been a far cry from the sirens of the silver screen and magazine that he lusted over.

But now, he was a somebody with a budget and a complete lack of moral scruples.

And the kind of imagination that could think out of the box, could be creative.

For you see, John Cobbler wasn’t just going to collect his women; he was going to do special things with them and bring them all to a whole new level.

Whilst enjoying himself with each and every one of them on the journey.

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1). Lemon

The Society for the Fulfillment of the Venus Ideal

The Society for the Fulfillment of the Venus Ideal

(The Fourth and Final Chapter in the Venus Chronicles)

by Dave Potter

Introduction

The following tale is to be the fourth and concluding chapter in my four part Venus Chronicles. It brings together all the strains and ideas introduced in the earlier tales, and was inspired by comments by an Italian reader who wished to know more of the workings of the Society itself. Here we penetrate its heart and soul and hopefully enjoy the experience of doing so.

Whilst I do freely declare that this is the final chapter that I shall be writing in the Venus Chronicles, please do not let that deter you from adding to them yourself and introducing new depths, depravities and perversion to the Society for the Fulfillment of the Venus Ideal.

Comments, as always, more than welcome.

Regards

Dave

Chapter 1 – Tragedy in Malmo

I suppose I should begin by introducing myself. My name is Elvira, Elvira Lundstrom, and I am, as you may have guessed from my surname, a citizen of Sweden. On top of that, I am also a cashier in the local bank, a widow, an enthusiastic hill walker, an avid reader and a mother. And it is the last of all those which concerns this story most.

As I told you I am a widow. Twenty five years ago I married Owe, the sweetest, gentlest man on this earth. And together we had a child. We’d always wanted two, but alas he died before that dream could be fulfilled. Still, one daughter is a greater gift than many are blessed with in their lives, so I can’t complain. And what a daughter she is, my dear, sweet, pretty Maria. Well behaved as a child, always polite and helpful, worked hard at school, and was not even moody as a teenager. All in all she was all that a mother could ask for and enjoyed a happy life until…

Until…

Until THAT day, the day that I shall remember all my life.

The day when my Maria disappeared.

I knew that something was wrong immediately. She was never later in coming home from school unless she was going to visit one of her friends – Martina, Gabriella or Gretcha – but then she always phoned home first. I waited an hour, then I called her classmates. ‘No, Mrs. Lundstrom, she set off straight for home just as she always does, she’s not here.’ Then I contacted the police. For a whole month they searched, I appeared on TV and asked for information. The officer speculated that she had perhaps run away from home, or committed suicide. But I knew my Maria too well, she was happy and contented. She would never do anything like that. ‘She’s been kidnapped,’ I protested. ‘Nonsense,’ said the Inspector, ‘There’s been no note, kidnappers always demand something, unless…’ He didn’t finish the sentence, and I didn’t ask him to. Neither of us wanted to think the worst.

Now I’ve something to tell you. A little admittance to make. I’m not ashamed of it but, well… I’d prefer it if you didn’t spread it around, if you know what I mean. What I’m trying to say is that well, much as it is something that a middle-class, middle-aged, respectable Swedish lady shouldn’t be doing, for a long time now I have been a devotee of certain websites. You know the sort I mean, well, perhaps you do. I don’t go in for perverted pictures, porn, that sort of stuff, no not at all. But well, as I said before, I am an avid reader, and well, I do like reading those stories, the ones with sex in them, you know what I mean. Well, there it is, it’s out, and well, that’s it. I like daily to read them, on sites such as Storysite, Fictionmania, Tight Tales, LISA… LISA, yes, LISA. The Long Island Staylace Association; a site dedicated to corsetry, both its lighter and darker sides. I’d been reading on there, it often has good tales, fiction. But then some of the stories on there, well, they started to sound, more factual than fictional. I guessed that it was just my imagination, but well, there was this one writer – Dave Potter – and his stories. They were sick, about women being laced into Venus Corsets, dominated by men, that sort of thing. I am a feminist, I detest that sort of subjugation of women, and yet… and yet, much as they disgusted me, I kind of liked those stories. But they sent a shiver down my spine, as I said, they seemed too real. The guy seemed to be writing from personal experience.

There was a Society, a secretive group of individuals, male of course, who kept their women trussed up and armless. In one story he even wrote about them transforming a young boy into a girl and then putting him in a Venus Corset as well. They were all over the world – the States, Holland, Indonesia, Saudi Arabia – and they kidnapped people.

Kidnapped.

It played on my mind. Why, I know not. After all, aren’t women kidnapped and subjected to… well, by countless hundred, thousands of sick individuals. Why would it be Them who had taken my Maria. And yet… yet she was the type they liked, beautiful, young, submissive, doll-like with her blonde hair and blue eyes. Night after night I tossed and turn, unable to sleep, sick with worry. Then, I decided. The following day I quit work and embarked on my quest to get my darling daughter back.

Chapter 2 – The Search Begins…

I hooked up to the internet and printed the stories out. There were three in total that concerned the Society – Araksia, Gabrielle van Hessel and Ihbat. The author, Dave Potter, had also written some other stuff, but none of it concerned what I was interested in, although some of the themes were similar, the usual corsetry, domination, the doll ideal. It was all, as I said before, pretty sickening, especially to a dyed-in-the-wool feminist myself, and yet at the same time… well that’s escapism for you isn’t it? After printing them off I sat down and reread them. As I mentioned earlier, I am an avid reader, but I should have been more precise. I am an avid reader of detective stories, and finally, here was my chance to put all those techniques garnered from Agatha Christie, van Wettering and Ruth Rendell novels into practice. And as the only clues I had were the stories, I knew that that was where I had to begin. I got out a notepad and wrote down my findings.

Araksia: The story concerns a young Armenian girl tricked into marriage and taken to America where she is forced to live an armless existence somewhere in California. Later on she moves to a palace somewhere in Saudi Arabia. Her husband is also an Armenian.

Gabrielle – Set in the 1830s. Concerns a Dutchman, van Wettering who marries a girl, Gabrielle, who has been brought up under her uncle’s instruction, forever restrained in some way, not necessarily the arms. The Society is not mentioned.

Ihbat – Concerns a Greek boy, kidnapped on his way home from school (!), who is taken to some school, (location unknown), transformed into a woman of Purdah, (living separate from society, veiled, etc). Then married off to a man, (Society Member), living presumably in Arabia.

Points to Consider.

The Society: Full name The Society for the Fulfillment of the Venus Ideal. According to I. Set up by van Wettering along with his father-in-law after the events described in G. Uses the Venus de Milo as an ideal of feminine perfection. Lots of details given of how women are subjacated, methods of restraint etc. May be useful later, not now though. The Society seems to use kidnapping, internet marriage and also hints, (in Araksia), of searching in brothels, etc, to procure it’s ladies. The Society is very international in character; members, wives or their maids mentioned from Saudi, the States, Armenia, Bulgaria, the Netherlands, Colombia, Greece, the Philippines and Vietnam.

Dave Potter: Who is he? The name is English but probably a cover. Writes in English, (but there again so do I). Other stories set in Germany, Russia, Britain and India. Int. note: Uses British spelling, thus prob. not American.

Locations: These are many and varied. Armenia, California, Saudi Arabia, Hungary, Indonesia, the Netherlands, Greece. Many descriptions vague, (e.g. Californian mansion, Saudi), but one place minutely described. Zierikzee, Netherlands.

I knew where to start my search.

Chapter 3 – Zierikzee

I took the Volvo out of the garage and started up the engine. Ten hours later I was crossing over the bridge that leads to Schouven Duiveland, the island on which the town of Zierikzee stands. It was easy to tell that I was headed in the right direction as the tower of the mighty St. Liven’s church, the coffin-like House of the Lord where Gabrielle and Wilhem van Wettering supposedly married, towered above the pancake-flat Dutch landscape. I drove the car into town as the light was failing, and booked into a small hotel in the ancient centre.

The following morning I arose fresh and early and ready to embark upon my quest. In Potter’s story two locations were described with much realism. In order to gather if the tale was true, or at least based on the truth, I had first to check them out. And so it was that I went down to the friendly lady on reception and asked her the whereabouts of the café know as ‘Der Vlinder’.

“Ja,” she said, “it is near here, by the harbour. But Madame, why do you wish to go there? It is a place for rowdy youngsters where the music is too loud.”

I left the hotel and walked to the café. There it was, where she said it would be, and in an old building too, easily eighteenth century. It was closed so I rapped on the door. After a moment or so, this opened and an elderly cleaning lady rapped out a torrent of Dutch to me.

“Excuse me Madame, sorry, but I am from Sweden. I don’t speak Dutch.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied, her face softening a little and switching into that fluent English which the Dutch, like us Scandinavians, are famous for. “I said, the café is closed. Please wait until tonight.”

“I don’t wish to drink, Madame. I am tracing my family history. Some ancestors of mine were Dutch and they held the lease at a café in Zierikzee called ‘Der Vlinder’ two hundred years ago. I want to see if this is the place.”

“Surely it is,” replied she, “for this building is over three hundred years in age and has always been known as ‘The Butterfly’.”

I thanked her and went on my way.

My next stop was the town’s small museum situated in the old jailhouse. I entered and wandered around gazing at the exhibits detailing past floods and fishing vessels. The curator, a friendly elderly lady, came up to me as I was admiring a scale model of the town in the nineteenth century.

“Excuse me for intruding, Madame,” she said, “but am I right in thinking that you are not Dutch?”

“You are Madame,” I replied. “I am coming from Sweden.”

“And how are you finding Zierikzee?”

“Very pleasant.” Here was my chance. “Actually, I am trying to trace some Dutch ancestors of mine, the van Hessels. They were prominent citizens in this town in the nineteenth century. One, a girl named Gabrielle, married a Wilhelm van Wettering in the Church of St. Liven. The van Wetterings were also prominent. I want to find out where the van Hessels lived.”

“Maybe I can help you?” she said, before disappearing into a back room. Approximately ten minutes later she returned, carrying an ancient, leather-bound book. “Here we are,” she said, “Wilhelm van Wettering of Batavia in the East Indies, married Gabrielle van Hessel, Ward of Jacob van Hessel, of 12 Wielingenstraat on May 29th, 1831 at Sintlivenskirk.”

“12 Wielingenstraat. Does that residence still stand?”

“Indeed it does Madame, it’s a fine old townhouse, well worth a visit.”

So visit it I did, ringing the bell of the handsome brick merchant’s house. A middle-aged lady answered. “Ja?” she asked.

“Hello. My name is Elvira Lundstrom, I’m from Sweden. I am here because I believe an ancestor of mine once lived in this house and if you don’t mind, I would like to look inside.”

“Really? What was his name?”

“Van Hessel,” said I.

“Oh yes, you’ve come to the right place. The van Hessels’ were one of the most prominent families in the town. I myself am descended from them. Perhaps we’re related? Please, come in!”

Louisa van der Laan, (for that was her name), proved to be an amiable and intelligent lady and I thoroughly enjoyed my tour through her beautiful home. Heading upstairs she showed me the room that I was interested in.

“This was van Hessel’s Study,” she said.

“Are those bookshelves original?” I asked.

“All the fittings in here are,” she replied. “Why?”

“Because I think that they might hold a secret.”

I poked around behind some books and lo and behold, I found the lever. I pulled it down and the shelves opened up to reveal a passageway.

“Well I never,” exclaimed Louisa, “in all my years of living here I never knew…”

“It leads to the harbour,” I said, “or at least it did once.”

We entered the passageway with a torch of Louisa’s. After several metres it widened and a chink of light could be seen in the wall. I put my eye to it. There was Louisa’s bedchamber. It was the peephole!

As I gazed through the hole, something hard touched my foot. I bent down and picked it up. It was a leather folder. “What’s that?” asked Louisa.

“I don’t know,” said I. “Let’s go back to the study to find out.”

IN the study we opened it up Inside were documents, handwritten documents, brown from age. I picked one out. They were in French, but I could make out the title as I had studied the Gallic tongue in my youth. It read: A Short Account…

“What does it say?” asked Louisa. “I can’t read French.”

“It’s some memoirs by an ancestor of ours,” I said. “Jacob van Hessel.”

“Oh! How fascinating! Can you translate it?”
”Given time, yes, but it’s very long. Can I keep it?”

“I’d like to say yes, but if it’s a heirloom…”

“Well then, may I photocopy it and send you my translation when it’s finished?”

“Of course.”

And so that’s what I did. Went to the library and photocopied the entire contents of the folder, before getting back in the car and returning to my home where my French-Swedish Dictionary was, and where I could decipher this, which I guessed to be the clue that I was after.

And I guessed right.

Chapter 4 – van Hessel’s Memoirs

A Short Account of my latter in life wanderings and the Establishment of the Society for the Fulfillment of the Venus Ideal by Jacob van Hessel Written in the French Language so as to be Understandable to Men of all Nations and Incomprehensible to prying female eyes of my own.

And so it was that in The Year of Our Lord 1851, over a decade after young Wilhelm van Wettering departed from these shores, taking my niece with him as his bride, I at last, freed from my own marriage, the Lord choosing to take Mrs. Van Hessel the precceeding year, decided to embark upon a voyage to meet up with my much-beloved nephew through marriage and of course, his wife, once my Ward. And so it was that I boarded the good ship Eindhoven and journeyed from the Port of Middelburg, onto the Port of Batavia and from thence taking a smaller boat, chartered especially by van Wettering who I had prior informed of my intentions, to carry me onwards to his mansion set amidst the jungles and rubber plantations of the Island of Kalimantan, a part of His Royal Dutch Majesty’s Colony of the East Indies.

It was twilight as our schooner rounded the headland and drew towards the bay which van Wettering’s mansion overlooks. I scanned the scene with earnest enjoyment, marvelling at the sway of the lush green palms and being silently impressed with the very Dutch façade of the white villa on the hillside that was my niece’s home. On the jetty I saw some figures, obviously there to greet me, but as the craft drew nearer I cannot but admit to you that I became amazed. As I said before, this was the year 1851, yet any uninitiated arriver would be forgiven for being mistaken that we were but a century earlier. For those figures on the quay; my niece, nephew and several servants, I found to be all adorned in the costumes of the latter half of the Eighteenth Century!

And what costumes they were, particularly those of the ladies. My niece in particular looked spectacular, wearing a glorious satin creation supported by hoops that extended a metre or so either side of her person. Her waist was – thanks in part to the training that I myself initiated – as pleasantly miniscule as ever, and encased in a rigid, cone-shaped corset as was the fashion in those times. As I drew nearer I saw her breasts heaving up and down at an incredible rate, a sight which I must admit, brought back many happy reminiscences of  the years that that delightful nymph spent within my walls, fighting for her very breath and pleasantly restricted beyond all measure. I could see, even from a distance, that the costume that she donned, must have been awfully difficult to wear, particularly in the tropical heat. It was an exquisite creation of blue satin, (I later learnt off van Wettering that it was an exact copy of a court costume of Marie Antoinette), and supported by hoops that extended out almost a metre on either side of the wearer. My niece held her posture erect, her face, heavily made-up and expressionless, and her arms outstretched, holding the ends of her voluminous hoops. What struck me most of all however, was her hairstyle, powdered and ornate, and absolutely huge, no doubt supported by some sort of padding or framework underneath. It truly was a work of art, though conversely, it must also have been incredibly heavy on the cranium.

Flanking my relative were two other ladies, maids I presumed, in equally sumptuous costume, and two gentlemen, one of whom was of course van Wettering. They too donned eighteenth century dress, and ornate though it was, it looked far less cumbersome and considerably cooler. As I alighted from the craft, my nephew-in-law bounded forward to meet me and shook my hand firmly.

“This is quite the finest and most unexpected reception that I have ever been treated to in my life,” exclaimed I in all honesty.

“I thought that you’d like it. We are playing at being in the eighteenth century this month,” van Wettering explained, “and I must admit, it’s rather fun!”

“I can see,” said I, and turning to my niece, “and you my dear look exquisite. The tropical air seems to suit you.”

Gabrielle said nothing and remained expressionless. The only indication I got from her was a slight curtsey. I gazed at her face, heavily made up as was the fashion in those times. ‘How come she isn’t sweating in this intense heat,’ thought I, gazing at her ivory skin, as the salty droplets rolled down my brow.’

“Come! To the house!” exclaimed my nephew, and he, I and the other man, climbed into one of the two waiting coaches. The ladies moved, pleasingly slowly, towards the second.

“Jacob, meet Dimitur Gruncharov, my best man and friend, and co-plotter in all my evil endeavours. A native of Rumelia in Turkey, I employed him the first week that I came here and it was the best move that I ever made.”

I turned to the other man, a dark South Slav who bowed and spoke, in admiral Dutch, “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Mr. Van Wettering speaks very often and very highly of you.”

“So, what do you think of your niece these days then?” asked van Wettering. “Am I keeping her right as you asked me to?”

“Well Wilhelm, judging by that remarkable display, I should imagine so. Her waist was pleasingly minute as ever, and that dress… well… it looked most unwieldy. How could one wear it I know not. And yet her face, why, she seems not to have aged a jot since I put her into your care, and what’s more, she was not sweating under all that material.”

At this Gruncharov and van Wettering burst into laughter.

“What’s the jest my good men?” asked I.

“Her face? Her face! Jacob, you never saw her face! Ok, I will admit that she is wearing the years well you shall see that soon enough for yourself, but you haven’t done so yet. That ‘face’ of Gabrielle’s that you saw today was a mask. When she arrived here a decade ago I had, inspired by you my dear fellow, an expert Javan mask maker sculpt a series of masks, complete with exact replicas of my erect manhood to silence her mouth, of her but in a variety of different styles. That one was the one done in eighteenth century style, with the heavy make-up, patches, that sort of thing. I also have ones representing this century and the sixteenth century. That way, no matter if she ages or not, she may always appear to me the vision of loveliness that she was when I first met her.”

“And she may trouble you no more with her complaints,” added Gruncharov.

“Well!” exclaimed I, “Van Wettering, you are a genius. Pray tell me, what other hidden extras did you hide in that costume then?”

“Oh not many Jacob, after all, it was overpowering enough, particularly the hairstyle and fifteen centimetre high heels, but yes, there is a little. Her arms, held ramrod straight out, holding those enormous hoops. The hands are secretly tied to the hoops and there are steel bars in the sleeves. They are thus immobile. And her fine breasts, heaving up and down in that low cut dress. Why they are visible are they not?”

“Indeed, and pleasingly so.”

“But what is not visible are the rings through her nipples that prevent them from popping out!”

“A masterpiece!” I cried.

That evening we dined in the magnificent dining room of van Wettering’s new home, whilst he fed his wife sat majestically and uncomfortably between us. Afterwards we retired, ostensibly for port and cigars though really for another purpose entirely, a pastime that I had introduced Wilhelm to years ago at my house, namely a little session of  ‘Peeping Tom’.

“Of course, when I was designing this mansion, I had some secret passages added,” he commented with a wry smile, as he opened up a hidden door in his study that revealed a tunnel leading to the ladies’ chambers. “However, and I hope that this doesn’t offend you at all sir, whilst I have copied your most excellent idea, I have also taken the liberty of adding some minor improvements.”

I was intrigued to see what they might be.

The passage terminated in a small and pleasant anteroom that was certainly an improvement on the dark cramped space from where I had watched my niece be ‘prepared’ in the past. In the room were two comfortable chairs, (“Gruncharov usually joins me,” van Wettering remarked, and inbetween them a fine polished table stocked with port wine and glasses. In front of the chairs was a large glass window showing a fine uninterrupted view of a lady’s dressing chamber.

“That,” explained my nephew-in-law, “is a one-way window. To my niece and all other occupants of that room, it appears merely as a large, ornate mirror.”

More confusing than the window however, were two round holes lower down in front of each chair.

“What purpose do those serve?” asked I.

“If you’ll excuse me, please do not be prudish, but if you would release your manhood from your trousers and place it in the hole in front of your chair then you will find out.”

A little shocked, I nonetheless did as instructed, and to my surprise, as soon as it was through, something enclosed my erect member. Or to be more exact, a warm human mouth! I looked at Wilhelm for an explanation.

“Two beautiful Batavian virgins that I bought for this purpose. I’ve been saving them for your visit. You may ravish the one you choose later on this evening in your bedchamber.”

Oh! The joys of colonial life! And the generosity of my nephew-in-law. I thanked him warmly and settled down to watch the entertaining spectacle of my niece being stripped of her restrictive clothing, laced into an excruciatingly tight night Venus corset so that she appeared entirely armless, and them bundled into a tight and extremely hot cocoon that rendered all her senses unusable, and the only part of her visible the huge and unwieldy hairstyle which could not be taken down as it would taken around five hours to remake the following day should it be done so. And thus it was that my beleaguered niece was forced to sleep hot, sticky and immobile with her head bent at a strange and uncomfortable angle whilst my manhood was being quenched by one of Batavia’s comeliest. Indeed, it was a superb start to my vacation.

The following morning, quite late on, as I demanded young Nurmusari pleasure me several times before going down to breakfast, I joined van Wettering for what he assured me would be the highlight of my trip: a ride out into the country.

“I never knew that you were much of a horse rider,” I stated.

“I’m not,” replied he with a sly wink.

All was soon revealed when I entered the first of his ‘stables’. In it, instead of the manger and straw that I expected, I found a simple bed, and lain on that bed, a girl. A beautiful girl, a native girl with large dark eyes and luscious black hair. And a restrained girl, oh, how restrained! She wore around her torso a wonderfully tight corset, and one her feet long black leather boots that ended in horses hooves, (“her feet are on tiptoe inside,” Wilhelm commented). Her arms were bound in a tight and most becoming mono-glove that seemed to be causing her some discomfort, whilst in her mouth of placed a large gag. She looked pleadingly at me and I smiled.

“Your pony for the day!” announced my host, picking the wench up and ordering Gruncharov to prepare her. “Her name is ‘Christina’.”

 He led her out by a leash attached to her collar. A moment later she was attached to a small trap in which I was to ride, blinkers preventing her from looking where she shouldn’t and a bit in her mouth instead of the gag.

“Is she ready?” asked I.

“Nay,” said Gruncharov, “I left the last – and most pleasing – preparation, for you to carry out.” The Rumelian handed me a horses tail that ended in a plug.

“You don’t need to tell me where this goes I said, and bending the girl over, I inserted it into her anus causing the wench to grunt and groan. Meanwhile, two other ‘ponies’ and traps had been brought out and Gruncharov and van Wettering had jumped in them.

“Off we go!” said the plantation owner, and so off we went. I won’t say that it was the fastest journey I have ever been on, but it certainly was the most fun, and exploring van Wettering’s extensive grounds behind a sweating, comely pony-wench was indeed a fine way to spend the day, giving those rounded brown buttocks a little spank with my whip ever now and again.

That afternoon after our riding session, van Wettering took me with him to some cottages set deep within the depths of his rubber tree forest.

“Why do you take me here?” I asked.

“You shall see,” replied he.

We opened the door of one, a humble dwelling, and found inside two seamstresses sewing a fine silken dress together. They were pretty things, European not native, and one sported signs of having been rodgered in the past, a rounded stomach indicating a bun in the oven as it were.

“Here is where Gabrielle’s remarkable gowns and other clothing are created. This cottage contains the seamstresses, the adjacent one the corsetiere. We have also a cobbler, hoisiere and sewer of more basic items such as petticoats. The outfits are designed however, by Gruncharov and myself. This one I – though perhaps not my niece – am particularly looking forward to. It is an exact replica of a gown of the Spanish Enfanta, similar to those worn in those fantastic paintings by Velasquez.

“I had seen the paintings he talked of during my travels in the Iberian peninsular and had admired the costumes depicted. “My those gowns were fantastic,” I declared. “Graceful and elegant yet easily over two metres in width. Were they not the widest dresses in history?”

“They are and will continue to be so until this one is completed. We have widened this accordingly in line with Gabrielle’s slightly larger frame.”

“Where do the girls come from?” I asked, nodding towards the comely seamstresses.

“Gruncharov provided them. They are expert Balkan dressmakers from a village near to his own. And aren’t they something to look at as well?”

“Indeed,” agreed I.

“I know, and deliberately so,” said Gruncharov, “for what we aim for here is to create a legacy.”

“A legacy?”

“Indeed,” explained my nephew-in-law, “a legacy. We intend to breed these fantastic artists and so the skills they possess, as well as their good looks, may be passed down to us over the coming generations.”

“But why?” asked I in puzzlement.

“Oh, my dear Jacob, I shall explain it all in due course. But all I need tell you now is that I have a big idea. That one there, with the babyfull belly, why Gruncharov here is responsible for it. I have the other one for my recreation. There is however, a spare one in the other cottage.”

“Well, if she is as comely as these two, may I not have the pleasure?”

Van Wettering looked at me in mock disgust. “Is not the nubile Nurmusari enough for you, you old leech?” he asked with a laugh. “Oh course Jacob, I was only joking. I shall have them both, Nurmusari and Ralitsa, brought to your room tonight and you may make your choice.”

We went on to view the other cottages before returning to the house for a magnificent diner in which I was allowed to feed my niece who was clad in a stunning yellow satin gown. Afterwards, over coffee in the drawing room I sat down next to my one-time Ward and asked her how she found life in the Tropics?

“And how do you think, Uncle? I never thought that their could be a man more perverse and chauvinistic that you, but my luck seems to have been to marry him.”

“Do you not like your nice clothes and life of ease?” I asked.

“Would you like to be bound immobile and dressed up like a child’s plaything everyday, and then be ravished by a man you hate at night, with no hope of ever escaping?” asked that pretty girl.

“Oh no, but thankfully that is not my lot, my dear Gabrielle,” I replied with a laugh. “I suppose it is yours though, and alas my sweet niece, you’ll have to get used to it.”

She said nothing but put a sulky glare on her face instead. In no mood to tolerate such behaviour, I grabbed her gag from the table and pushed it in her mouth.

“Much better!” declared the amiable Gruncharov with a chuckle.

We retired soon afterwards and I was most shocked when I walked into my bedroom to find hanging from large ceiling hooks on either side of my bed, two black leather cocoons, which judging from their shape, both contained comely wenches squeezed into immobility. I removed the face panel from the one to the left and discovered by beautiful brown-skinned Nurmusari inside. On the right I unearthed a handsome Balkan maiden, presumably the seamstress that van Wettering had mentioned. After twirling them both round for a moment or two trying to decide who to grace with my manhood that evening, I eventually settled on the European, whom I let down and unwrapped, before ravishing in my own unique way whilst her partner was left dangling from the ceiling all evening, grunting and groaning occasionally to remind us of her prescence.

I could go on forever really about that trip to van Wettering’s mansion, a trip that lasted two months and contained all manners of perversion, some that not even I could have imagined. I always knew that I had chosen well with Wilhelm as my heir as it were, but never had I realised just how well. Towards the end of it all though, one evening, sat smoking and sipping wine in the Peeping Chamber whilst two lovelies brought in from Batavia that week gave us pleasure, van Wettering brought up the idea that would change both of our lives and hopefully those of many more men for decades to come.

“Jacob,” said he, “you have tried many a form of perversion, restricted women in countless ways and what not. Pray tell me, which particular method is your favourite?”

I sat and thought awhile whilst Nurmusari sucked tenderly on my tool. “Why Wilhelm,” I said at last, “I think that it must still be the restriction, the rendering useless as it were, of the arms.”

My nephew-in-law clapped his hands. “Jacob,” he declared, “I am of the same thought. Can their be anything finer than it? The Venus corset, mono-glove, even that ingenious balloon-sleeve device that you cooked up. They all excite me like naught else. Look at our Gabrielle now, does she not look as pretty as any picture?” My niece was by now laced tightly into a Venus corset. She looked, as her husband had said, exquisite.

“I agree entirely,” I said, coming into the Batavian’s mouth. “But what of it?”

“Jacob, I have a proposal to make. You like the armless female. I like the armless female. So does Gruncharov. So do several other gents that I know. In my reckoning, there’s a great number, if not a majority of the world’s males who are excited by it as an ideal. However, my friend, how many of these delightful creatures does one come across?”

“Far too few Wilhelm, far too few.”

“Indeed sir, far, far, far too few. Ok, here, in the colonies one can proquire girls, beautiful girls indeed, for our activities, but elsewhere? As you well know, in Europe it is a far harder task, and indeed, though you managed it yourself, bringing up women as you brought up my wife, in a civilised country is becoming alas, incredibly difficult, if not impossible. Am I correct, sir?”

“Alas, Wilhelm, you are all too correct. This repulsive rising tide of women’s rights…”

“Indeed uncle, it disgusts me. At this rate our mode of existence will be totally obliterated within a decade.”

“Totally…”

“Unless we do something about it?”

“Something about it? Whatever do you mean, sir?”

“I mean Jacob, unless we take measures to preserve our noble way of keeping women.”

“What sort of measures?”

“Uncle!” There was a light in his eyes and a zest in his voice. “I propose a society, a society that we shall form. A society that ensures that the armless female is not lost to the world forever. I propose the Society for the Fulfillment of the Venus Ideal!”

And so it was born.

We spent the rest of that trip laying the foundations. It was a society, a secret one. By its very nature and with the enemy of Womens’ Liberation to combat, it had to be. We were to pick, to invite members in. And they had to be rich. To keep women in the straits that we demanded required a lot of capital. And besides, the rich are also influential. If you’ve those at the top in with you, then governments are not a problem. The rules were simple:

  • All wives of Society members shall be kept in a state whereby their arms are rendered useless at all times.
  • All members must forbear to talk about the Society to all non-members at all times.
  • All members must pay a one-off fee of a million Dutch guilders to the Society for the purpose of maintaining the Society Headquarters and Training Centre.
  • Society wives who escape from our clutches must be either recaptured or terminated before they can tell of our secrets. Their husbands will be held entirely responsible for this.
  • Any manner of arm restriction is permissible, so long as it is total, (i.e. handcuffs not permissible).

The Society Headquarters and Training Centre that I mentioned were to be based, of course, at van Wettering’s Kalimantan Estate. From the very outset, he and I had realised that the proquirement of willing females for our noble endeavour was always going to be a problem. He had been lucky with Gabrielle, others could not hope to be so fortunate, for not only did we demand women, but we also demanded pretty ones. And pretty girls have to be handpicked and then, ideally, trained. In the acquisition of our females we would allow all methods, so long as they could never be traced back to our organisation. Therefore, kidnapping immediately became a popular one, and the lucky ladies would be taken from their place of capture to van Wettering’s home where they would be inducted into their new life under the auspices of Gruncharov who became the Centre’s Controller, before being found a suitable spouse from amidst our ranks. There also would be based our own dress and bondage-gear making amenities, the germs of which had been founded with the seamstresses and corsetiere of van Wettering’s mansion. Indentured to us, those girls and their offspring would prove to be loyal servants to our organisation over the years.

I write these words almost fifteen years after the day that I had that fateful meeting with van Wettering in the Peeping Chamber of his mansion. During those happy years the Society for the Fulfillment of the Venus Ideal has grown in size and stature, until at the present day the number of our members totals around three hundred, coming from no less than twenty nationalities across the globe. Our Training Centre on Kalimantan is now full and Gruncharov loyally still fulfills his role as Controller with gusto and skill.

And I? I am now remarried, to a lovely young maiden named Tsvetilina whom we captured in the Russian Empire and whom has been without the use of her arms since the day that she wed me and left the Centre. I am happy in my marriage and my life, but alas not in my health. The doctor has informed me that my time on this Earth now numbers but months, and as, due to my sins, I foresee little home on the next, I am committing to paper now the words and deeds of my life so that it all may be preserved for prosperity. The Society I leave in van Wettering and Gruncharov’s safe hands. For the rest, I trust in God.

Jacob van Hessel, Zierikzee, The Kingdom of the Netherlands, 1875 AD

Chapter 5 – Kalimantan

Van Hessel’s words disgusted me. He, like van Wettering, was a disgusting, sick, perverted old man. If he were still alive I’d… To only think of women as objects, treat them like animals! He was an anathema to the human race, extinct, a dinosaur…? Or perhaps not. His Society for the Fulfillment of the Venus Ideal, that sick, sick secret organisation that he and his equally sick friend had set up, was it not still in existence? Sadly, it seemed that it was. Now at last I had some concrete evidence. Yes, in a way I was happy. I did have something concrete now in amidst that morass of perverted, sadistic filth. Filth, yes, that’s all that it was. Pure, unadulterated filth. And yet… and yet I had found myself becoming aroused. The idea of Gabrielle trussed up, helpless, dominated like that. The pony girls, the overpowering eighteenth century costume, the mask. I shook my head to dispel those disturbing, confusing thoughts from my mind. What was wrong with me? Still the constriction…

I turned to more positive things. Now I had some concrete evidence. And what’s more, some leads. The main one of course was van Wettering’s Mansion. So that was the headquarters, and it had a location: Kalimantan. I took out a map of the world and had a look. Kalimantan was the Indonesian name for Borneo, and it is a big island. Still, the mansion was by the coast and it shouldn’t be too hard to trace. After all, van Wettering had been a famous figure in his day. I called up SAS straight away and booked myself on the next flight leaving Copenhagen for Jakarta.

The heat was sweltering as I stepped out of the airport, but my mind was on other matters. I hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to the port. Despite being tired, this was no time for sleeping. Unlikely as it was that the headquarters and training centre of this Venus society was still in van Wettering’s mansion, it was nonetheless a chance that I had to take. After all, if I hurried up, I might still find my darling Maria there.

I entered the Pelni Office, (Indonesia’s state-run ferry company), and asked to be booked onto the next ship for Kalimantan. “Where exactly in Kalimantan, Madame?” asked the friendly booking clerk.

This stumped me. Where exactly? It was a big place. I looked at the map behind him and opted for the most centrally located port town. “Pagatan,” I said.

“Tomorrow at eight-thirty in the morning, Madame.”

Normally I would have revelled in that fine voyage through the tropics, I being a seasoned traveller, never happier than when in strange climes. However, disturbing thoughts of my darling daughter being in the clutches of those sick men prevented any happiness, and it was with relief when we finally docked at the sleepy, palm fringed quay. Immediately I went to the town’s museum and asked some questions about van Wettering.

“Wilhelm van Wettering? Oh yes, we know of him. He was a great figure in the days of the Dutch Occupation. He was a very rich man, owning many plantations of the rubber, and carrying much power with the Dutch government.”

“Where did he live? I heard that it was on Kalimantan somewhere?”

“You heard correctly Madame, his house was not so far from here, only a hundred kilometres down the coastline. It was a large white villa.”

“Does it still stand?”

“Oh yes Madame, that it does. But unfortunately Madame, you cannot visiting this place.”

“Oh. Why not?”

“It is not allowed. It is owned by the government, well, one of the ministers anyhow. It is forbidden for all to go there.”

It seems like I had struck gold. ‘Forbidden.’ Why? Because of the sick goings-on there no doubt. I sauntered down to the quay with an air of achievement and went up to the boat owners. I wanted to hire a craft that would take me to that villa that very night. At first the prices they demanded were ridiculous, reaching into the thousands of euros, but eventually they started coming down. An hour later I was on a small fishing boat that I’d hired for two days for the princely sum of one hundred euros.

It was dark as we neared the mansion. The building could be seen perched on the hillside but I ordered the man past it and instead we weighed anchor around a kilometre or so further on and dressed in a black wetsuit I swam to the shore. Then, donning a balaclava, I slowly made my way towards the villa of van Wettering. I soon came across an obstacle though, a ten metre high wire fence. Luckily I was prepared. I cut a hole with my clippers and wriggled through, disguising the hole with foliage as I am sure that the place would be guarded.

Near the villa I saw lights. Cautiously popping my head over a low stone wall I was confronted by a garden, a vast beautiful garden, a veritable Eden, and a garden filled with people. It looked like some sort of high-class cocktail party. There were men and women of all races and nationalities, expensively and sexily dressed chatting and sipping champagne. What was going on? Was this a Venus Society Gathering or not? It certainly didn’t look like it as everyone had full use of their arms, and yet… And yet on closer inspection, whilst all the men were old, balding and unattractive, the women, each and every one of them was young and stunningly beautiful. Just the sort of women that the Society would desire. Most were talking to the men and laughing, though a few were standing alone or with friends. Then a stroke of luck occurred. One of those beautiful women, a Latina stunning enough to grace any magazine cover, though with a glum look on her face, walked over and leant on the wall directly above me. I took a risk.

“Mmmph, mm, mmmph!”

“Shhh! Shhh!” I said. “I won’t hurt you, I just want to ask you some questions.”

The woman that I’d grabbed and pulled over the wall and into the undergrowth ceased wriggling and stared at me. I took my hand off her mouth and whispered, “See, you can trust me. Please trust me.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to know, this place, these people, what’s going on here?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Is it an Indonesian government party?”

“Indonesian government. We are in Indonesia?”

“Yes. On Kalimantan, Borneo. Didn’t you know?”

“No, no. They told us nothing.”

“Who are they?”

“I don’t know, honestly.”

“So why are you here?”

“We were kidnapped. All of us. Well, all us girls.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I can’t tell you. All I know is that I’m here. But I don’t want to be. Can you get me away?”

“Sure. I can but I will only do so on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“That once away you’ll tell me all that you know.”

“I promise.”

“Fine! Let’s go!”

Within ten minutes we were back on the boat. Then Ana Rosa told me her story.

Chapter 6 – Ana Rosa de la Torre

“So, my name is Ana Rosa; Ana Rosa de la Torre. I am from Mexico. Anyway, I had a normal life, we lived in Mexico City. I was a middle class kid, lived with my parents and sisters and brother. I am sixteen. I was at school. Anyway, one Sunday I was at Mass, we go every Sunday. But afterwards I was walking home. My family were not with me. They’d gone to visit my grandmother on the other side of the city and had attended the six a.m. Mass instead but I had been lazy, and besides… I had homework to finish. So, I was walking back from Mass and then I felt this prick in my back. Like an insect bite or something. Well, then my world went dizzy and I fell. The next thing that I knew, I was there.”

“Where?”

“That place that you just rescued me from.”

“Right. Continue please.”

“Anyway, so I was there. I woke up in a room. A nice room with sunshine streaming in. I was lying on a double bed. I was wearing only my underwear. I sat up wondering where I was. Beside the bed was a little table. On the table was a note. I read it. It was in Spanish. It said, ‘Take a shower, put on the bikini and come to Room 208.’ Well, what was I to do but follow? So, I went to the shower, washed myself and then put on the bikini that was lying on my bed. It was a tiny one in black. Some girls like that, showing their bodies off to everyone and that, but I am shy and respectable. I felt naked with it on but what was I to do? Anyway, I put it on and went to Room 208 like they said?”

“And what was there, in that room?”

“A woman. A little older than me, dressed in a dark blue bikini, also very skimpy. She introduced herself as Tsvetelina and then asked me if I spoke English. I do, so then she started talking in that language. She gave me a drink of fruit juice. She explained everything.”

“What did she say?”

“That I was in this place, Eden she called it, and that it was my home now. I was never going to go back to Brazil she said. I cried and she comforted me. She was a nice girl. She explained that she’d been through it all herself and she was here to help me cope. She didn’t want to be there either, but she, like me, had no choice. When I’d calmed down I asked her more about Eden. She said that it was just like the name suggested, a garden. It was a beautiful place and that we could stay there as long as we liked. We didn’t have to work or do anything and there were only a few rules. I asked her what these rules were. The first she said was that we always had to wear what they stipulated. I asked who ‘they’ were but she said that she didn’t know. Anyway, that rule was easy to follow as there were no other clothes on offer anyway, so I had to wear the ones they stipulated.”

“What sort of clothes were these?”

“Well, in the daytime bikinis, or on occasions skimpy one-piece swimsuits. And at night, cocktail dresses, sexy ones like this that I’m wearing now. That was all. Anyway that was the first rule. The second was no sex. Any of the men that came to us, we could be friendly with them, flirt with them, kiss them even, but no sex. If we had sex with a man, we had to marry him, that was that.”

“Why was that?”
”I don’t know, but that was what they said.”

“Did you marry?”

“No. Once you married you had to leave Eden. Only single virgins were allowed. Anyway I thought, well this will be easy, and it was. Everyday I woke up late, had everything prepared for me by my maid. I lounged by the pool, talked to the other girls and the men…”

“The men?”

“Yes, they were guests. They were always changing. Most stayed for a fortnight or so. They were usually old and ugly, but some were nice. We chatted with them, sometimes flirted, but that was all. Until…”

“Until what?”

“I met one. David he said his name was, though that could have been an alias. Anyway, when I first met him I wasn’t impressed. He was about fifty and balding, had a beer belly too. However, after a day or so, I don’t know why, but I started to like him. I fell madly in love. We kissed and carressed, but no sex of course. But oh, how I wanted him inside me, I was mad for him. I have fallen for men before, but never like this. He obsessed my nights and days. I was wet from thinking about him, but of course I couldn’t even pleasure myself to relieve the tension…”

“Whyever not?”

“This collar that I wear. It was on me when I woke up. Tsvetelina explained that it has a chip in it. If my hands move too near my privates I get an electric shock from the collar. So, no fingering. But oh, I was so mad, desperate for me. Then he asked me, would I marry him? At first I said no, after all, all of us girls know what happens. If you marry one of the men that visits then you are taken away from Eden and have to surrender to them completely. There are tales of them tying girls up and such. So, I said no, but day after day my desire for him grew stronger. Then, two days afterwards, I said yes, but then he replied that the offer no longer stood. A new girl had arrived and David was after her now. Then, I don’t know why or how, but my longing for him left. I fell out of love as quickly as I’d fallen into it. When he married the other girl I felt no jealousy towards her though at first I’d been ready to kill her. It was all so strange…”

“They married?”

“Yes, and a great affair it was. She wore an absolutely divine dress, like a fairytale princess. We all attended.”

“Where is he – they now?”
”I don’t know. After you marry, you leave Eden for good, and no contact is allowed with us.”

“Ok, so can you tell me, what did you do all day in Eden? Study? Work?”

“No, nothing. Absolutely nothing. We weren’t allowed to do any sort of activity except our daily exersize session to keep us fit. Maids did everything for us. All we were allowed to do was lie by the pool, drink fruit juice and look pretty.”

Her words reminded me strongly of how Araksia had been kept by Kevork.

“Ana Rosa, I want to ask you a question.” I took out Maria’s photograph from my wallet. “Have you ever seen this girl at all in Eden?”

“Oh my God, that’s her!”

“Who?”

“The girl who married David.”

“Was her name Maria?”

“Yes, yes. She was some sort of European. I only spoke to her on occasions. She seemed nice enough.”

“Ana Rosa, I am that girl’s mother. She was kidnapped. I am trying to find her. Can you tell me anything at all about this ‘David’?”

“Nothing really, he said nothing about himself. Only one thing…”

“What?”

“That he was some sort of East European.”

“Thank you Ana Rosa, thank you very, very much.”

Chapter 7 – Into Rumelia

I returned from Kalimantan to Jakarta without incident and after kitting Ana Rosa out with some clothes at my own expense I placed her on the next available Garuda flight to Mexico City, (also at my own expense), before getting on the plane myself and making my way back to Europe. Whilst sat on that jet liner, I mulled over what I had learnt and thought where to go next. My investigations up to that point had been of course, successful beyond my wildest imaginings. My hunch that the Society for the Fulfillment of the Venus Ideal was a real organisation and not a mere work of fiction had proved to be correct, as also had my hunch that my own darling daughter was their latest victim. What’s more, I also knew in whose hands she now lay, an East European man named David. Was this David the same as Dave Potter? It certainly could be. I reread his stories and also van Hessel’s account. What struck me upon this reading was that Eastern Europe figured heavily in all accounts. Araksia was an Armenian, and she also met up with one Tatyana who was a Bulgarian. What’s more, the castle of the Victorian Ball was on the Danube in Hungary. Ihbat had originally been a Greek, i.e. a native of a country that borders what we know as Eastern Europe. What’s more one of Dave Potter’s other stories was set in Russia and he, like I, seemed to have an elementary understanding at least of that tongue. And finally van Hessel’s account. He repeatedly mention’s a Gruncharov, a native of Rumelia, who was van Wettering’s right-hand man and later on, the Controller of the Society’s Training Centre. Rumelia, where was Rumelia? I wasn’t sure. The name Gruncharov however, rung some bells. As I mentioned before, in my youth I studied Russian, going on an exchange to Leningrad when I was eighteen. And the surname ‘Gruncharov’ sounded to me very much like the Russian word for… for… Potter! So, that was it, this Dave Potter was perhaps a descendant of the original Dimitur Gruncharov. Find him and I’d find our Maria. But Dimitur is not a Russian name, and Rumelia is, well, as I said, I know not. Things would have to wait until I returned home.

Whilst they did I turned my mind to the Training Centre that I’d found in Kalimantan. This was most unlike what I’d expected. What had I expected? Perhaps some sort of sadistic girl’s school where the pupils are trussed up and restricted and taught how to give oral sex and such. Yet there one found nothing of the sort. Instead the women had absolute freedom, well, except for the sex, and indeed seemed warned about the men that they were about to marry. Why would anyone marry a man whom they knew would oppress and dominate them? Yet my Maria seemed to have done. It was so out of her character. Ok, so you fall in love, I’ve done that myself, but to marry someone whom you know will give you no freedom? My mind was confused and matters weren’t helped by the fact that the image of being rendered armless and helpless continued to excite me. In the end I decided to watch the in-flight film if only to take my mind off things.

Back at home in Malmo, I took out my atlas of the world and looked up Rumelia. It did not appear anywhere, obviously a defunct country. Luckily, I also had a historical atlas on my bookshelves, so I took that down and opened it up. Van Hessel was of course, writing in the mid-nineteenth century so I turned to Europe during that period and scanned for Rumelia. Around five minutes later I found it; a province of the Ottoman Empire in the Balkans, situated somewhere in the modern-day country of… Bulgaria! The Bulgaria which Tatyana came from and which speaks a Slavic tongue somewhat akin to Russian! And shares the same Cyrillic alphabet as the Russians too. Earlier on in my investigations, I had been puzzled by Potter’s spelling of the Armenian name ‘Araksia’, more normally rendered, ‘Araxie’. However, for Cyrillic users, an alphabet with no ‘x’, that is the natural way to spell the word. He had given himself away, I knew that I’d hit the jackpot once more. Eight hours later I was again checking-in my luggage at Copenhagen Airport, this time bound for Sofia on a Balkan Airlines flight.

As soon as I’d put my luggage in my room at the Sofia Hilton, I was down at the reception desk again with a very strange enquiry. “Miss, could you find me a Private Detective in the city who can converse in English?” I asked. She looked a little surprised but nonetheless scanned the phone book for a number and promptly handed it to me. An hour an a half later I was waiting for Mr. Petkov in a smart café on Boulevard Maria Luisa.

“I am looking for a man,” I said.

“Fine,” replied the detective. “What’s his name?”

“Gruncharov,” said I.

“Madame, that is a very common name here in Bulgaria.”

“I know. It means ‘Potter’ does it not.”

“Indeed it does. Your knowledge of my tongue is admirable. But it does not help matters. Does he have a first name.”

“I am pretty sure that it is ‘David’.”

“David is not a common name here in Bulgaria,” he said, pronouncing the ‘ga’ in his country’s name with much emphasis.

“But it is not unknown?” I asked.

“Madame, we are a Christian country. David is not an unknown name. Can you tell me anymore?”

“He had an ancestor, around the year 1850, named Dimitur Gruncharov. This man was an important man I think, and a traveller. He lived for many years in the Dutch East Indies, now Indonesia. It is conceivable that the present-day Mr. Gruncharov also has resided there, or in other places overseas.”

“Right,” said Petkov, jotting it all down. “Anything else?”

“He is rich,” said I, “very rich.”

“Then my job is an easy one,” replied the Bulgarian. “Rich people are few and far between in my country. Madame, I will research straight away and report back to you at the same time tomorrow.”

Chapter 8 – Vila Venus

‘David Dimitrov Gruncharov. Age 46. Address: Vila Venus, ul. Rakovskii, Kurdzhali district. The villa is a large one, secluded, near to the town of Kurdzhali in the south-east of the country. Estimated worth: 32 million euros. Money comes from shares in several major concerns, inc. Lukoil, Bulgartabak. Father a major figure in the former regime. Marital status: Single. Children: 3, from an affair with an unknown Portuguese lady, now deceased. Lives a hermit-like existence. Travels widely for business purposes.’

That was the file that Petkov had given me. I read it over and over again as the train rumbled leisurely through the Balkan countryside towards my eventual destination, and the opportunity to free my beloved daughter. I was worried, yes, and a little scared. Had not van Hessel written in his manuscript that escaped wives and all who know the secrets of the Society must be terminated by their husbands? Still, if needs must, I would finish Gruncharov off. I had a gun, supplied illegally by Petkov. A mother, when her back is up against the wall, will do anything to protect her children.

The train deposited me in the small city of Dimitrovgrad where I went to hire a car. Vehicle rental agencies were, like most other things I must say, a little thin on the ground in that forgotten little corner of the continent, but nonetheless, I eventually managed to locate a local plumber who agreed to let me use his rusty Lada for two days at an exorbitant price. The deal concluded I set off in the Russian automobile for the hills and the villa of my foe.

The day was drawing to a close as I finally reached the bottom of ul. Rakovskii, a tiny lane that led up into a wooded slope. I left the car hidden in some trees and made my way up the slope, clad all in black, including my trusty balaclava that had served me so well in Indonesia. The lane twisted and turned for a kilometre or so and I kept in the shadows until eventually, the property came into sight. It was a magnificent house, a huge collonaded stately home built in the Georgian style so popular in England. I crept up towards it and went around the back. There were lights on in some of the rooms, but most of the place was in darkness. Eventually I found a small backdoor. I tried it, but it was locked. Never one to be beaten, I got out a skeleton key that Petkov had also supplied me with and after several attempts, opened up the door.

I found myself in a kitchen. A large, huge, vast kitchen. One straight out of what the English call the ‘Victorian Era’. I crept through it and into a corridor, making my way to the heart of the house, my gun cocked and ready. Finally I came to a pair of huge double doors. There was a crack in the middle, and light shined through it. The room was occupied! Slowly but surely I inched the doors opened and crawled through them, shutting them noiselessly behind me. The room was quiet, no talking, no music, nothing. However, I was sure that it was occupied. I crept forward on all fours towards the ornate French three piece suite situated in the centre of the chamber besides the fireplace. Then I heard a rustle. I stopped. Someone was definitely there. A figure got up out of the armchair facing away from me. It was a female! She wore a huge crinoline dress in dark purple silk and her hair was done in ringlets. Her waist, I noted, was tightly corsetted, but her arms appeared to be normal, although they were gloved. The girl turned slowly and spotted me. We both gasped in surprise.

I had been expecting my Maria, and indeed the blonde ringlets that I had viewed from behind could easily have been Maria’s. However, the face that I saw was not that of any daughter of mine. It was a flawless, expressionless face of a young girl of twenty, with round blue eyes and ruby red lips. It was the face of a Victorian china doll!

“It’s alright,” I whispered in English, “I won’t harm you.”

The creature gave no indication of having understood me.”

“Do you understand English?” I asked.

The girl nodded.

“Who are you?”

No answer, nothing. Then I realised, this Victorian princess was not only not moving her lips, but since I had started talking to her, had not blinked her eyes also. I moved towards her and touched her face. It was false, plastic, a mask!

“You can’t speak can you?” I asked.

The girl nodded.

“Did he do this to you, David Gruncharov?”

She nodded once more.

“Are you Maria Lundstrom?”

She nodded and I gasped. Should I tell her who I was, that her mother was here to rescue her? I almost did but then decided against it. The shock might cause her to faint or something. “Follow me,” I whispered, this time in Swedish. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

I moved towards the door and my daughter followed, excruciatingly slowly. He had probably forced her into high heels as he did the characters in his stories, the sick individual that he was. I took her arms and assisted my child, her breast heaving all the time. We got to the door and I opened it.

Then the world fell away from me.

Chapter 9 – The Final Chapter

“Good evening Mrs. Lundstrom.”

He sat in front of me. I tried to move but could not. I was paralysed.

“I need hardly tell you why you are unable to move,” he continued, a perverted smile upon his face. “After all, you have read enough of my stories on the internet to understand completely about our immobilising drug. I will explain how you got down here though. In my youth I saw a very good film about a British spy named James Bond. In it a crime chief got rid of his victims by installing a collapsing floor under which lay a pool full of piranhas. I liked the idea and so installed my own, albeit minus the piranhas. It was that floor which you just stepped on and here is where the nasty man-eating fish should perhaps be. So, now you fully understand you predicament Mrs. Lundstrom.”

I did. I was terrified.

“Mrs. Lundstrom, I must say that I am impressed. You have proved yourself to be an admirable detective. You followed the clues and solved the case. I was chastened you know, by the Society Board, for writing those stories and posting them on the internet so that people could learn all about us. But, I never expected anyone to actually believe them, let alone, the mother of one of our wives.”

“You are a sick man Gruncharov,” I muttered.

“Oh yes, indeed I am, but lets be honest, aren’t we all a little bit twisted deep down inside. Take you for example. A seemingly normal, straight-laced, (if you’ll excuse the pun), Swedish career woman and mother. And yet didn’t you spend a considerable amount of your spare time reading the filth that I wrote for pleasure. What did you get out of it eh, Elvira? (You don’t mind me calling you Elvira do you? Oh good, I’m glad you don’t). Did you fantasise about being corsetted, rendered helpless, a slave to some perverted man’s desires? Hmm… it seems like you did.”

“Fantasies are one thing, reality is another.”

“Not in my world it isn’t Elvira, not in the world of the Society.”

“You are all sick, twisted perverts. Treating women like animals, how could you?”

“Animals! Animals? No, no, Madame, you get us wrong. You haven’t read our histories thoroughly enough. We don’t treat them like animals. How many animals live in the luxury that our wives do, never having to work, always dressed in the finest clothes? No, Elvira, our wives are not animals, they’re dolls. Toys to play with, such as your Maria was when you found her.”

“Let her go Gruncharov, take me instead, but don’t let my innocent little baby suffer!”

“Oh Elvira, you know I can’t do that. You know our rules, once a wife, always a wife. Hmm… taking you though, that might be a possibility. Ha! Ha!”

“You mental case…”

“Perhaps so, perhaps not. You however, have no mental problems. In fact, your brain is extremely astute. You found Zierikzee and van Hessel’s house all by yourself. You even found the document and translated it. Well done!”

“You knew about the document?”

“Of course we did. We placed it there. We still own that house actually, that lady worked for us. We put it there to lead you on to the next stage in your journey.”

“So it wasn’t genuine?”

“Oh, it was genuine alright, every last word of it. Do you know, you’re the first woman that our secrets have ever been revealed to. Don’t you feel proud?”

“And Kalimantan?”

“Oh we knew that you were coming there as well. The fisherman, whose boat you hired, he was one of us. In fact, he was the minister who owns the house. He thought a spot of role play would be fun.”

“And Ana Rosa?”

“Oh no, that was just chance. We didn’t plan for her to come over like that and for you to rescue her. Don’t worry by the way, she’s back in the Training Centre now. When she got to Mexico City she was taken into Customs, knocked out and transported back to Jakarta on the very same place that she’d arrived on, only this time, as freight, similar to how young Araksia was transported in my tale.”

“Was that true? Kevork, was that you?”

“Oh no, no. Kevork was just a friend. Araksia was never my wife, though I must admit to having her once, with his permission of course. I’d always admired that girl, she had something about her, as did her daughter. When she appeared stoned in that Victorian Ball, My! What a sight! But excuse me, I digress.”

“So if that was true, why are the Society not all in Saudi Arabia.”

“Oh Elvira, many of them are. But only the Americans. Just because of that little leakage, it didn’t mean that the whole worldwide organisation had to emigrate to the desert. America, hmm… an interesting country, and with a lot of very perverted people in fact. It had always been a fertile recruiting ground for the Society, but then that Clinton came in. He might have been immoral in public, but he cracked down on stuff like our activities. Luckily they booted his lot straight out and we’ve got the ones who talk a lot about God and morals but realistically only worship Mammon in again. I reckon we’ll be returning to that fair land soon enough.”

“And Ihbat?”

“The transsexual stuff is a new line, some people like it, particularly the Arabs. They like that Purdah School too. After all, for a wife of an Arab member of the Society it’s all so much harder. Not only have you got to learn to live without your arms, but also there’s all that cultural baggage to deal with, staying inside, the veil, all that.”

“Sick, sick. You’re all so sick…”

“Indeed we are my dear, and we revel in it. Me particularly. As you know, my family has a long history with the Society, and I must admit that I am currently very much enjoying my newest, and fourth wife.”

“However did you get her to agree to marry you?”

“Oh it was easy. Come on Elvira, didn’t you work out how our little Training Centre works these days?”
”No, I mean, they were allowed their arms…”

“Allowed everything, except the one thing that they want. Our gents go in there and just pick the lady that most turns them on. Then we start the treatment…”

“Treatment?”

“Treatment, yes, the Love Drug.”

“Love Drug?”

“Yes… Elvira, have you ever wondered why humankind with all its great scientific advances, has not yet been able to produce a drug that can emulate the extremely simple hormonal effects as falling in love? Why, because we have collared the secret and refused to let it onto the market. We have this drug, here is some in this syringe in my hand, that causes people to fall in love with the person that we choose. When a man picks his girl, we feed her a mild dose in her food and she falls in love with him. As time goes by we increase the dosage until she cannot refuse him. Even if he promised to torture her endlessly, cut off her breasts without anesthetic and feed her to the vultures after marriage, she’d still go through with it. Love is a powerful force my dear. Here, let me show you.”

And to my horror, he injected the contents of his syringe into my arm.

“I must admit,” he added, “that was a slightly stronger does than we normally give. I do hope that you will be able to take it. After all, I certainly don’t want you falling in love with me do I? The kidnapped falling head over heels for the kidnappers. Now there’s a term for that isn’t there, wait… what is it?… Stockholm Syndrome, that’s it? OH dear, perhaps you will fall in love with me after all? Isn’t Malmo rather near to Stockholm? Ha! Ha! Now, my dear, do you have anymore questions?”

“Maria, how is she? Is the mask permanent?”

“Oh she is happy enough, I think. To be fair I haven’t asked her, but I imagine so. After all, she always longed to be a fairytale princess didn’t she, and I have turned her into one. She is required to wear those fabulous gown each and every day, and her corsetting is coming on. Very soon she will be reaching fifty centimetres I hope. Then we might start cultivating a nice stem. But as for the other stuff, well, she’s no longer on the Love Drug, so I’m afraid I might repel her a bit but that doesn’t matter too much. We all have our cross to bear, do we not? And her Venus corset – she was in it when you met her, those arms were fake dolly arms by the by – well, she complains of it being uncomfortable. But fear not, the mask is not permanent, after all I wouldn’t wish to hide such a lovely visage as hers forever would I? No, she just wears that in the evenings or whenever I am away. It is an ingenious little device you know. It has an exact replica of my penis fitted on the back that fits snugly in her mouth. And the eyes, those beautiful large blue ones, they only allow two pinholes for vision. Good eh?”

By now though, I was not listening to Gruncharov. Instead I was concentrating on some peculiar changes occurring within me. Firstly, I could feel the paralysing drug wearing off. I could flex my fingers and toes and feel my stomach breathing. The second change however, was far more disturbing. I could feel myself becoming attracted to Gruncharov. I watched his eyes and mouth. They fascinated me. He was so handsome, so muscular, so mature. Yes, he was sick, sick as could be, but that was sexy. Oh, to be with a man like that, oh, to be with HIM! But Stop! Stop! I said to myself, this is all chemically generated. This is not like the true, real, everlasting love that you felt for Owe. And yet, yet… drugs could never produce anything like this. This WAS the real thing, he was adorable. That sick man who had enslaved my daughter was the gentleman of my dreams, the Knight in Shining Armour that I’d been waiting for! He was my King. I was jealous, jealous as hell of my bitch of a daughter who had stolen him from me. I wanted him, he should have been MY husband! Young bitch taking a man thirty years her senior! “Oh David!” I exclaimed.

He grinned. “My Elvira,” he said.

“Take me, David, take me now!”

“No, Elvira, no.”

“Why not?! Please!!!”

“Because I cannot…”

“Why not?”

“Because I only accept women without the use of their arms.”

I hesitated. I knew where this was leading. I tried to fight, but the desire was overwhelming. “Make me armless then!” I cried.

“No, Elvira, I will not.” Then he picked up a garment from the floor and gave it to me. I gasped in horror, I recognised it for what it was.

A Venus Corset.

“I will accept you, let you live with me and Maria for the rest of your life so long as you promise to wear this. I will not make you armless Elvira, you must do it yourself.”

I looked at the garment and contemplated the years of suffering, restraint, domination and horror that were before me if I placed it around my torso. And yet… yet all of that was nothing compared to the emptiness, the living death that was life without him.

I picked it up, placed it around my body and crossed my arms behind my back.

“Lace me up!” I said.

He smiled. “That I will Elvira, but first I must do something else. You must appreciate that an ugly old woman like you can never attract me, but instead can only repulse. Besides, I can’t have your daughter learning who her new friend is, can I? No, of course not, so instead I have had this mask made, perversely enough, an exact replica of your daughter’s virginial face, for you to wear. And this one by the way, is permanent. Welcome to my household, Elvira!”

And as he placed the plastic cocoon over my face and my Maria’s face stared back at me in the mirror, and my vision was reduced to two tiny pinholes, my arms bound and useless, I embarked upon my new life as a faceless, nameless, helpless doll in the mansion of David Gruncharov.

 

 

 

 

The Engagement Gift

The Engagement Gift

Copyright © 2020, Dave Potter

emma at home

The following vignette was inspired by the pictures – particularly this one – included in Leticia Latex’s masterpiece Malpractice. That story has a completely different storyline, but I found the main character, Emma, so cute, that I just had to make up my own.

My story is set in an imaginary near future based on the ideas of William Rees-Mogg and James Dale Davidson in their book ‘The Sovereign Individual’ (1997). In the society they envisage, states have become another commodity and wealthy individuals can choose which entity they wish to have citizenship of. Most choose those that interfere with them the least, largely through a lack of taxation, but also through relaxation of laws they dislike. This creates a huge wealth disparity between the haves (the sovereign individuals) and the have-nots, not only of wealth but also freedoms. They also argued that we should return to more traditional family models with the implication that women become more subservient to their husbands. It should be noted that they see this dream as a positive thing; I view it as quite the opposite.

It does, however, make the possibilities for fictional misogynistic villainy quite exciting.

This vignette takes the form of a videocall conversation between seventeen-year-old Emma Kupp and her friend from the Paradise Hills School for Girls, Hitomi Smith.

Dave Potter


–  Hi Em, can I have a look?

–  Sure, if you must.

–  Wow! OMG, they are really big. I mean, I knew they would be big, but those are bigger than I expected. For an engagement gift I mean.

–  Tell me about it! I always knew that I would have to have a boob job to signify my engagement. I mean, we all do, right, but these are more than I expected.

–  They look great, Em.

–  Do they? Honestly? When I saw them I just thought they looked obscene and fake.

–  You say it like it’s a bad thing. Come on Em, you know what we were taught; we’ve had the same bloody lesson time after time. ‘A good wife displays her husband’s wealth and status with her body. She must be a living symbol of his standing in society.’ And Adrian is an important man. Your parents did well to get you such a match.

–  So they keep telling me, but he’s hardly a man I can love. He’s twice my age for starters. I mean, some guys, yeah, like Jake Rowland or Hayley’s big brother, Mike, but the thought of doing it with Adrian Jackson, him sticking his thing in me – yuck!

–  Well, get used to it, Em, ’cos it’s happening.

–  Don’t remind me. And he’ll be like pawing these puppies stuck to my chest and drooling over them and, eugh, it’s so unfair! I just wish I could be like one of the servant girls and marry who I want and do to my body what I want.

–  That’s life Em, but don’t be so glum! I mean, there are upsides to being Mrs. Jackson. You’ll never have to work or think; it’s a comfortable life.

–  Comfortable! You try getting comfortable with these beachballs stuck to your chest. They’re so heavy, my back aches and they seem to throw me off balance. And this is only the beginning; after marriage they’ll be getting much bigger. After all, he is a CEO of a global corporation so my body will have to reflect that. The doctor told me that these implants are what’s called expanders. There’s a small valve in each armpit and they get be filled-up continually that way. I’ve been told that, as soon as the skin has adjusted, I’ll be topped up and that will continue until there’s 6000ml in each one.

–  6000ml! Em, that’s massive! Is it even possible! Even Jenny Bailey from my sister’s year who married the CEO of Coca-Cola only has 5000ml and they say that she can hardly move with them and that they get in the way of even the simplest activities.

–  I know, tell me about it. I cry when I think what it’ll be like. I mean, I so enjoy playing tennis and working out in the gym yet even now these get in the way and when there’s a few thousand more millilitres in there… It is too much, it really is.

–  Don’t cry Em, you need to just get used to them. Besides, you’ll have servants to do everything for you and special bras which offer a lot of support. Anyway, don’t say anymore about it; I’m having mine done soon remember!

–  How big are you expected to go?

–  I haven’t been told yet, but Keiichi is as rich and important as Adrian, so I guess it’ll be pretty big, anything less than 3000 and he’ll be shamed. However, it’s not the breasts that I’m so worried about.

–  What are you worried about then?

–  Mum told me yesterday about some of his other plans for me. He’s very much a lips man, apparently. Of course, all that oral training we had at school will come in handy, but he really wants to make a feature of my lips. He has told her I’ll be implanted with an O-ring and that they will dominate my lower face. It seems he loves lips that are so huge that they press against the nose.

–  Eugh! That is so crass… although I’m sure you’ll look great with them. You’re so naturally pretty that you’ll have no problem pulling them off.

–  Now you’re the one who’s lying, but even if they do look ok, how am I going to be able to speak with them like that, particularly when you consider the tongue piercings. The sad thing is that the next time we see one another, I might not be able to even talk with you.

–  Oh, I’m sure you will. I’m having my lips done too, of course, but nothing that extreme. Besides, even if you can’t speak clearly, you could still write or type notes.

– I wish! Keiichi’s family’s females all wear monogloves as a matter of course.

–  To emphasise their dependence and lack of a need to work, I guess.

–  That and the other reason…

–  Which is…?

–  … which is the thing I am really scared about. I’m to be given an electrode treatment around my sex holes, nipples and mouth so that they all become hyper-sensitive and my orgasms become more extreme.

–  That sounds more like something to welcome rather than fear! I mean, I’m still a virgin of course, but I enjoy fondling myself and, I have to admit, these breasts make me even hornier. Even though I hate them for turning me into some sort of pleasure object, something in my brain reacts to them in a way that gives me the most incredible climaxes and when I am penetrated for the first time… Oh Hitomi, I’m rather jealous of you!

–  Well don’t be! I mean, being horny is all well and good if you can relieve the tension, but if you can’t…

–  And why can’t you?

–  The monogloves.

–  They’re only for public when you’ve got visitors round. Once they’ve gone then you can fiddle away to your heart’s content.

–  No Em, you don’t understand. The monogloves are a permanent thing in the Ichiro family. Sexual release should only be gained when the husband permits, and he only permits when he penetrates! I’m being condemned to a life of frustration and torment. Compared to that, I wish I was you with only big tits to worry about!

–  And I wish that big tits were the extent of my problems. Adrian has shown me a CGI mock-up of what I’ll become after marriage and it’s scary stuff. He’s a self-declared arse man and so I’ll be receiving implants there so huge that I’ll struggle to walk and sitting down will be like resting on two pillows. He’s even talked about hip reconstruction to accommodate the largest buttock implants possible. And then, to contrast them, I’m scheduled for rib removal surgery and permanent corseting with a forty-centimetre waist as the goal.

–  Well then, we’ll be sisters! I’ve been told to expect the same. It’s awful! I’d so wanted to bear children, but Keiichi has told me that he’ll use surrogates.

–  Same here. Doesn’t want to damage the canvas upon which his masterpiece is being painted was how he termed it. I’m destined to become some wasp-waisted, wide-hipped big-titted sex doll who will require assistance for the simplest of tasks, from getting up from a chair to going to the toilet. It is so unfair! Why is the world like this?

–  Don’t cry Em, please don’t! It won’t be so bad as all that, I’m sure. And even if we do get all that done and can’t speak with one another, we’ll still be friends, right?

– Right… I guess so.

–  And we’ll still have our memories of playing badminton in the courts and dancing at the school disco.

–  Yes, memories, we’ll always have the memories.

–  We will Em, and talking of that, let’s make some nice ones tomorrow. We’ve got PE after all and I think they’re planning on a park run. Let’s sneak off whilst Miss Marsh isn’t looking and give ourselves a bit of pleasure before our husband’s forbid it. Difficult though they may be to bear, I’m still itching to have a squeeze of those fun bags to see what they feel like!

–  You’re on, but only on one condition: I can test out your assets before they’re modified beyond all recognition.

–  It’s a deal! See you tomorrow, Em!

– See you, babe!

Emma and Hitomi at schoolEmma and Hitomi at school the next day

emma and hitomi meet up a year after marriageTwo years later they meet again to celebrate the birth of Emma’s first child (via a surrogate)

N.B. The first two pictures adapted from the work of Leticia Latex and the final picture from the work of Doll Project.

28/03/20

La Maison des Poupees: Part 5

Part 4

Chapter 21

Stood in the Great Hall of la Maison des Poupees were around thirty young ladies, all dressed in travelling costumes, muffed and veiled. Although the room was large and they were but few in number, the crowd filled almost every square inch with their wide crinoline skirts, no girl’s shoulder being within a metre or more of the next. At the head stood the Headmistress, Mme. Dorozhkina, and the other teachers.
“Mademoiselles!” she announced. “The time has come! For two years or more you have all been pupils in this school, being transformed from irresponsible girls into fine young ladies. You have been specifically prepared for a life of distinction, marriage to a man worthy of the honour and a life of leisure, fashion and motherhood. With the tools that I have given you, you are all more than adequately equipped to embark upon this life and to live it as a success. Should you fail, you have only yourselves to blame.” She paused for a moment for effect.
“In five days time you will all be attending the la Maison des Poupees Annual Ball, where you will hopefully find your mate and master for life. Should you not do so, then you will be rejoining me here for another year. For most of you however, this is goodbye, as my young ladies rarely fail to procure the man they need.” The Headmistress paused again and surveyed the room of finely clad ladies.
“And so we must depart. You must travel in fours in the carriages, three pupils and one teacher or maid. Upon reaching the railway station you will be assigned a compartment, where you will travel accompanied by one of your teachers. Ladies! You are dismissed!”
And at that she walked out of the room, the entire staff of the school following close behind. Arabella found herself ushered into a carriage with three other veiled girls and a maid whom she had never seen before. As talking, or indeed any communication, was obviously an impossibility, she resigned herself to looking out of the window at the vast forest that flew by, reminding her poignantly of the day when she had arrived at the school, a day which now seemed so long ago.
However, at the railway station, she was surprised to learn that the maid was going back to la Maison des Poupees and that she and six other girls would be travelling together in a compartment with a teacher. And not just any teacher, Madame Kovalsky!
They all climbed in and then waited for the guard to blow his whistle. The locomotive answered and the loud chuffing of
smoke and steam could be heard. Slowly the train drew away from the platform and rolled on towards the first stop in the girl’s long journey, Moscow.
“Well, ladies,” announced Madame Kovalsky, as they were underway. “We have a long time to be travelling, yes, and although you are together as students, I believe dat you don’t know each other yet. Eet will be boring just sitting here, so let’s talk, eh?” And at that she got up and undid the hooks that were buried within the fur of the girl’s muffs. The pupils found, to their delight, that their hands were now free once again, and they eagerly pulled them out and used them to undo their veiled bonnets and take off their gags. Arabella found herself sat in a large compartment, completely filled with billowing crinolines, each belonging to a pretty young lady of about eighteen years of age.
“Right now,” said the Singing Mistress, “Introductions please!” She pointed at a raven haired girl in the far corner from
Arabella.
“My name is Lady Rebecca Ross,” said the girl in a soft Scottish lilt. “I’m from Dumfries in Scotland.” The girls nodded, and Madame Kovalsky pointed to the blonde-haired young lady besides her.
“I’m Margaret Steveton.” Her harsh accent belied her roots which she then revealed, “Of, Baltimore in the US of A.” The girls nodded once more and the next girl announced, “I am the Countess van Zierikzee of de Nederlands. Pleased to meet you.”
“Je m’appelle Sophie Dacout.”
The next girl was silent and looked at her classmates with scared eyes. “Come on Lizzie!” said Madame Kovalsky; “There’s nothing to be afraid of!”
“I, I, I, know,” she stammered in a mouse-like voice, “it’s just that, well,well, what with having to stay quiet for, for, for so long now, well, I’m not used to, well, I’m not, well used to speaking you see.”
“Dat’s quite alright dear,” said the kindly teacher, “many girls feel like that after years behind the mask. Girls, this is
Elizabeth Hartley, a lovely girl, though a little shy.”
“Nice to meet you!” the girls said in unison and Elizabeth smiled.
“I’m Tatiana Goncharova,” said the next girl, “I’m from Saint Peterburg.”
“And I’m Emily Dickinson, of Staffordshire, Britain,” said the girl besides her. It was Arabella’s turn.
“My name is Arabella Hetherington, late of India. Pleased to make you acquaintances.”
The girls gasped.
“Arabella, the Arabella?” Emily Dickinson asked. Arabella was puzzled.
“Yes ladies, the Arabella indeed, the lady who defied Dorozhkina and cast off her mask!”
Arabella blushed.
“You are my heroine!” declared the American.
“Tres magnifique!” added the Frenchwoman.
“It was you who gave us hope to carry one!” said Lady Ross.
“You, were, v-v-very brave!” stammered the mouse-like Elizabeth.
And so the journey continued, and by the time they’d reached Moscow everyone knew everything about each other’s lives and had secretly swapped addresses so that they could stay in touch during their new lives. Arabella in particular got on with Rebecca Ross, and during the next leg of the journey to Berlin, they sat together, talking of Britain, the Raj, (where Rebecca had once visited an uncle), fashion, the terrible regime at la Maison des Poupees, the hated Mme. Dorozhkina, the tightness of their corsets, and the joy of being free once again, even if it was for only a short period before their imminent subjection to a husband. What the future held for them, in Paris and beyond, they knew not, but they enjoyed the pleasure of the train journey together immensely.
Once more, the redoubtable Madame Kovalsky had bought joy into their lives.

Chapter 22

Arabella sat down carefully, (she had no other choice these days), and surveyed her surroundings. To say that they were the grandest that she had ever encountered would perhaps be a lie, after all, she came from one of the finest families in England, but nonetheless, they were something spectacular and they quite overwhelmed her whom had just spent two years within the Spartan confines of la Maison des Poupees.
The Hotel du Nord in Paris, adjacent to the famous railway station of the same name, was one of the finest hotels in a city famed for its luxury. She didn’t even want to think about what the cost of the suite would be, it was all covered by the school anyway, and no doubt included in the fees, which rumour said were exorbitant.
The young lady had never stayed in any hotel quite like this before, but as Mme. Dorozhkina had explained in the lobby, they would likely do so again, and on a regular basis. After all, they were not children anymore, but young ladies of the highest degree.
She sat bolt upright on the velvet couch and surveyed the four poster bed, silken sheets and walls covered in mirrors and gold leaf. Oh how she longed to take off her bonnet and veil and see her transformed appearance in those fine, full length pieces of glass, but alas, the locking muff denied it. There was a knock on the door.
“Entrez!” she commanded.
Four maids entered, bowed submissively and then proceed to cover the mirrors in dark cloth. They then gestured to the
girl, and removed her veil, muff, bonnet and gag.
“Why have you covered the mirrors?” she wrapped in French.
“Mademoiselle’s orders,” one replied in her native tongue. They then proceeded to undress Arabella, (for the hour was
late), and led her to the lacing bar, where her tight travelling corset was removed and replaced with a lighter sleeping one.
Then the dreaded night boots that kept her toes en-pointe were pulled onto her legs and laced tightly. She was then
released from the bar and her arms fastened into the mono-glove. ‘Damn!’ thought the girl, who had been hoping that
that terrible instrument had been left behind at the school. Now she couldn’t get up in the night and look at herself in the mirror. Trussed up as she was, she could in fact do very little, and in fact to save time and energy the maid’s carried her to the fine four poster bed, placed her in between the silken sheets on her side and bade her “Bonne nuit!”
‘Never mind,’ thought our heroine. ‘Tomorrow is the Ball, the day I’ve been looking forward to for so long.’
And with happy thoughts of being carried around the hotel’s sumptuous ballroom in the arms of a dashingly-handsome young man, she drifted peacefully off to sleep.

Dawn had already arisen when Arabella was shaken awake by two French maids. She sleepily let the servants undo her
arms, and then rubbed her face with the wet towel provided. She then swung out of bed and allowed them to remove her night boots and replace them with a pair of high-heeled slippers which were far less irksome to wear and also permitted walking. Then, letting the maids help her, she stood up and walked over to the en-suite bathroom, where she had her corset removed, and then sank into the hot steamy water and let one of the serving girls lather and rub her down.
She then got out of the bath, and whilst one maid supported her, (as she could no longer support herself without the aid of stays), another shaved her body so that she was as smooth and bare as a boiled egg. She then returned to the bedroom and put her hands through the straps of the lacing bar and was hoisted onto her tip-toes as she was every day.
Mme. Dorozhkina had explained to the girls the day before that preparation for a ball is an all-day affair and so one must commence as soon as one is up and washed. Therefore, instead of the usual slip, (which she could not wear under her corset, as the ball gown left her shoulders bare), and the usual day corset, a beautiful yet terrifying creation of steel and silk was brought before her; her ball stays.
These were longer than any that she had experienced previously and smaller in the waist, and Arabella was dreading wearing them. Nonetheless, if she wished to come out in that heavenly peach gown, they were a necessity. She breathed in deeply as the maid, (who was struggling even to lift the totally-rigid creation), placed it around her torso and started to fasten up the busk.
Even without the commencing of the lacing, they felt tight and solid, and the weight of them quite took Arabella away. What’s more, there were three sets of lacing, one around the upper legs, one around the upper torso and bust and the third around the waist. That would no doubt cause some serious constriction! She was sure that wearing these she would be able to do very little as they held her totally solid from bust to knee, solid and, very soon, tight.
It had been explained that the lacing for these formidable instruments of waist reduction, could not be completed in one session, but instead would be managed in several bursts throughout the day. Nonetheless, as the French girl started to pull on the laces and Arabella’s already small waist got even smaller, she began to wonder if she would ever make it.
Eventually, just as she was beginning to feel light-headed, the girl stopped and tied off the laces. She took a tape measure and put it around Arabella’s waist. “Forty centimetres,” she announced. There was still a long way to go!
Our young lady was then let down from the bar and directed to a chair where she sat, (she could still do this as tightening of the lower laces had not yet commenced), where her breakfast, a piece of toast and glass of orange juice, was laid out.
Hungrily, she devoured this and then attended to her toilette before moving onto the next stage of the dressing.
The silk stockings that were drawn onto her legs were of the finest quality that she’d ever worn, but being unable to bend she could only feel, and not view that quality.
Next up was more tightening. The corset had settled itself upon her somewhat by now, and her body had moulded itself to the curves of steel. Nonetheless, the pressure was still great and that only increased when the French maid started to tighten the lower and upper laces. By the time she had finished, Arabella could hardly move, but that was nothing to what she felt when the laces shaping her stem waist were pulled once again. By now she could hardly breath and her cheeks were beginning to flush. Once more, the dizziness started to assert itself upon her, but once again, the maid stopped in time and placed the tape around her waist.
“Thirty-seven centimetres, mademoiselle, a reduction of three.” That was almost an inch, good progress, though nowhere near what was required to don the dress.
“How long is the stem?” she enquired.
“Seven centimetres, mademoiselle,” answered the maid. That too was coming on.
Once again, Arabella was released, and this time led to a board which she leant against and was strapped to. There was a shelf at the bottom for her to rest her feet, and this device was used, since sitting was now an impossibility for our
heroine. The maids tilted the board to forty-five degrees and then disappeared, promising to reappear in at eleven after mademoiselle had rested.
Arabella took the book that they proferred, a romance by Austen and started to read it, but, what with the corset constriction, she found concentrating difficult, so after ten minutes or so, she gave up, put it down and closed her eyes instead. Very soon she was dozing away, dreaming of the coming evening when she was to meet her partner for life.

Before she knew it however, they were back and, after a small glass of water, she was strapped back onto the lacing bar and hoisted into the air. This time the reduction came less easily, and the French maid really had to tug and pull until she was blue in the face. She was not the only one under exertion, Arabella now could hardly breath and her breasts swelled up and down with each pant. Nonetheless, despite the lack of air and feeling of dizziness, she kept her conciousness and did not faint, and eventually the maid tied the laces off once more and encicled our heroine’s waist with her tape measure.
“Thirty-six centimetres, Mademoiselle,” she announced. “Now, Mademoiselle, please come with me to the board, we must start work upon your hair.”
Arabella was lowered once more and led to the tilting board, upon which she was once again strapped. The board was then tilted to a degree so that the hairdresser, a famous one whom had been specifically hired by Mme. Dorozhkina for the day, could work upon her subject with ease.
The time being the late eighteen-fifties, Arabella’s hair was to be done in the latest style, and that meant ringlets.
“I will be giving you ringlets on either side of your head,” explained the stylists, “which later will be decorated with small flowers and ribbons that will compliment your dress. Ringlets are not only the fashion, Mademoiselle, but particularly appropriate for this evening.”
“Why is that?” asked Arabella, somewhat puzzled.
“Because, Mademoiselle, the hair, like any other part of a ladies’ appearance, symbolises something. Ringlets not only look pretty, but men associate them with childhood, as all little girls wear them. Childhood means innocence, Mademoiselle, and innocence is what the gentleman desires.”
“Oh,” said Arabella, quite shocked. She’d never realised just to what extent fashions were designed to pander to men’s
desires, from the small fragile waist, tight gloves, tiny feet and now ringleted hair. It seemed to her that all men want from life is a pretty helpless childlike doll to show off on occasions and to deflower. That thought made her feel sick, but what could she do?
Mme. Dorozhkina had perhaps been right. Perhaps she did need to become a doll, a mere accessory to a man, to get somewhere in life. Well, of that she knew not fully, but what she did know was that to escape la Maison des Poupees she definitely needed to become a pretty little doll, for one evening at least. And if ringlets were required to achieve that, that ringlets she must have!
“And on the back of the head we will be giving you a chignon, which means that your hair will be plaited and then curled
into a knot which will sit rather high. This too will be decorated Mademoiselle, and fear not, I know my trade well, you will look exquisite!”
‘Exquisite!’ That is how she would look. Whatever a man’s desires were, Arabella definitely knew that she wanted to look
exquisite, and she longed to be able to see what the hairdresser was doing to her. But of course, no mirrors were allowed and, instead, all she knew was a lot of pulling on her scalp, and the disgusting smell of her long hair being burnt by the curling tongues, as it was forced into the oh-so-fashionable ringlets.
It took about an hour for the hairdresser to finish Arabella’s hairstyle, but it would take a lot longer for it to set, and for that to happen, the minimum of movement was advisable. Not that she could move a great deal in the constricting ball corset anyway, and by now the girl had little strength, so it was decided to leave her be in her room until five when the final tightening of her stays and the fitting of the dress would commence. Thus the maids closed the curtains, doused the lights and left Miss Hetherington alone in that grand room, strapped to the board so that she may get a little rest.
But what rest could she get, compressed as she was and with the itchy, sticky feeling of her drying hairstyle on her head? Besides, she was excited. Unable to sleep at all she simply closed her eyes and drifted into a day dream, where she was an Indian princess in a fine palace by the Ganges, and tonight she was to meet her Prince, an esteemed warrior with bronzed skin, who although harsh and brave on the battlefield, was as gentle as could be with women. And she was his woman, and as the most beautiful princess in the land, he wanted no other. Her handsome prince and master took her up in his arms and carried her over to the fine silken bed where he placed her down with care and then climbed alongside her, his moist lips touching hers in a deep, loving embrace.

Chapter 23

The maids knocked and re-entered. Between them they were carrying something that made Arabella’s entire body tingle with anticipation: her peach ball gown. Once again she was led over to the lacing bar, strapped and hoisted. Then came the petticoats and tight skirt and after that the tiny ball shoes with their terrifying heels of thirteen centimetres. Slowly the maids levied them onto her feet for a shoehorn. Despite being used now to tiny shoes and extravagant heels, Arabella knew that these were something else. Already her feet felt as constricted as her waist, and she hadn’t yet put any weight on them. She dreaded the moment when she was to be lowered from the bar, but she knew that it would be worth it. After all, one must suffer to be beautiful.
And beautiful was what she was going to be, wearing the finest gown in Christendom! But to wear that gown her waist
must be smaller yet, it was time for the final tightening. The maids first completed their work on the upper and lower
laces, thrusting her now prominent bosom out even further, so that it now created a shelf, beyond which she had no view
downwards. The now huge orbs heaved as they fought for air, whilst lower down her legs were pinned together by the
lower part of the corset and the tight underskirt.
And that completed, it was time to perfect the stem. One of the maids left and came back with a burly-looking doorman
who, by the sweat on his brow, had obviously been tightening the corsets of most of the la Maison des Poupees students.
He bowed politely to Arabella and then walked behind her, grabbed the laces and pulled.
The poor girl could feel her waist getting smaller and smaller and with each tug her ability to breath lessened. Her face grew redder and redder and her breasts surged up and down in a frantic attempt to bring air to their mistress’s compressed lungs. Arabella couldn’t take anymore, she tried to called out for them to stop, but no words came out of her pretty lips. Then the world went black.

She was brought back to the living by the pungent odour of the smelling salts which the maid wafted under her nose.
Immediately she was aware of the intense constriction around her waist and she looked at the French girl with scared eyes.
“It’s finished, mademoiselle. Your waist is now thirty-four centimetres in diameter and the stem is ten centimetres in
length. You are ready to wear the dress, mademoiselle.” Arabella smiled weakly–she had done it!
Before the gown could be fitted however, they had to fit the fine corset cover, huge petticoat, (which was almost two
metres across), and more petticoats. Eventually however, she was ready and slowly she was lowered from the lacing bar.
The pain in her feet was intense as the weight of her body and clothing was transferred from the bar to her crushed toes, but she grimaced not and instead smiled as a lady of distinction should do. Then the sumptuous gown of peach silk and fine lace was lifted above her, placed over her head and fitted around her body, being laced tightly at the back so that the bodice seemed almost moulded to her skin and not a wrinkle was to be seen. Two maids then busied themselves fastening fresh flowers to the dress, whilst two more embarked upon the fitting of her tight kid leather ball gloves which had been placed in stretchers overnight. Doing this took a good fifteen minutes, and by the time they were finished, our heroine could hardly bend her arms or fingers at all. Her hands however looked delightfully tiny and helpless, and sure to excite any gentleman in the vicinity.
When the maids working down below, (who Arabella could not see due to her pushed-up breasts and a large pearl
necklace that kept her head held high), pronounced their work completed, the young lady of distinction asked if she may
now view herself in the mirror, as she was eager to see what she looked like.
“Non, non, mademoiselle!” cried the head maid, horrified. “What about your make-up?”
After two years of confinement behind a mask, Arabella had forgotten completely that women wore make-up, and the
thought of being perfumed and painted to perfection excited her. Getting a stool, the head maid started work on our
heroine’s face, transforming her long lips into a delightful rosebud, giving her lashes and lids colour and strength and
powdering her face, neck and breasts so that they were as white and smooth as porcelain. A soupcon of perfume was
added and a fan given for her to hold.
“Mademoiselle!” announced the maid, with a touch of pride. “You are complete!”
Two more maids whipped the cover off one of the long mirrors behind her and Arabella turned round.
The vision that confronted her was unbelievable. When she had last viewed herself she had been a scrawny, scruffy little girl with gangly legs. What stood before her now however, was quite different. A vast crinoline decorated with fresh flowers dived into a minute and unbelievably elegant waist that rose completely vertically for around four inches. This was was not only tiny, but perfectly circular in shape and the plain, stretched peach silk, undecorated and unadorned emphasised this perfection. And after this extreme of tiny-ness her body swelled out once more into two fine breasts that were the colour of milk. The fine dress with it’s perfect stitching and unmatched lace showed these off to their optimum.
By the sides of her waist hung two fragile, pale arms, enclosed in beautiful tight gloves that gave her hands the impression of being those of a doll. Above the breasts was a fine, elegant neck, encircled by a fantastical pearl necklace and then her face, framed by cascading ringlets. Her eyes shone like jewels and Arabella was certain that she had never seen aught so beautiful as that finely moulded visage, pale, fragile, doll-like and entirely elegant and desirable.
Gone was the child.
In her place stood a fairytale princess.
The shock of the revelation was too much for our poor princess and at that moment the stars came and the world grew dark.
She had fainted!

Chapter 24

The chandeliers glittered and the lights twinkled, illuminating the vast ballroom where some of the finest young eligible
bachelors in Europe were gathered, all eager to find a partner for life out of the girl’s graduating from the esteemed Mme. Dorozhkina’s la Maison des Poupees Finishing School for Young Ladies.
In groups around the perimeter of that large hall, those men and women stood and chatted politely. It is in one of those groups that we find our heroine, Lady Arabella Hetherington, alongside her new friend Lady Rebecca Ross, conversing with two young German nobles. The ladies giggle politely at the men’s jokes, before our Teutonic Counts beg their leave and head for the company of two blonde French girls who had marked them down on their dance cards previously.
“Thank goodness they are gone!” exclaimed Rebecca. “What a frightful pair of bores they were!”
“Indeed,” replied Arabella, “and they weren’t particularly charming to look at either. Count von Straffen had a bit of a
paunch I do believe.”
“He certainly did, though he was trying his best to hide it with a corset!”
“I noticed that too. Talking of corsets, how are you feeling?”
“A little light-headed and tired, but it’s not too bad. Nothing compared to my feet!”
“Yes, mine are killing me too. What I wouldn’t give to sit down for a moment or two.”
“I know exactly what you mean, but in these corsets?! Fat chance!”
“Well, keep going, here come to more gentlemen.”
“Hmm, the one on the left is quite dashing– he’s mine!”
“Not at all, you’ll have to fight for him!”
The two men approached the ladies and bowed deeply. Our two girls managed the best curtsey that they could in their
tight garb. It wasn’t much.
“Roland Machin at your service, miss,” said the handsome young gent on the left.
“Andrew Smythe,” added his friend.
“Lady Arabella Hetherington,” replied our heroine.
“And Lady Rebecca Ross,” added her companion.
Once the pleasantries were over and they got talking, it soon became apparent that Mr. Machin was rather interested in deepening his acquaintance with Rebecca, which left a disappointed Arabella with Andrew Smythe.
“And what is your line of business exactly, Mr. Smythe?” she asked out of politeness.
“Actually, I’m employed by Her Majesty’s Government.”
“What department?”
“Colonies. I work in India as an assistant to the Governor.”
“India! Where do you live?”
“In Delhi.”
“Delhi, a fine, fine city.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, I find it somewhat full of unpleasant odours and brown-skinned folk, but it’s alright I
suppose. Do you know India at all, Lady Hetherington?”
“Know it? I have lived most of my life in Mumbai! I was very happy there indeed.”
“You mean, you wouldn’t mind living there again?”
”Not at all, why do you ask?”
“Well most of the ladies here lose interest in me as soon as I mention India. They can’t bear to be separated from Europe.”
Arabella looked him up and down. Was she interested in him? He wasn’t particularly handsome, but he wasn’t really ugly
either. His manner was somewhat irksome, but which man is not? The way he kept talking to her breasts and waist was
also rather annoying, but she could do worse. A chance to return to India, that was better than any man.
“How any woman could lose interest in a fine man like yourself, I honestly don’t understand,” she lied. “In fact, I’m
surprised that you’re even talking to such a plain girl as I, I’d have expected you to be conversing with the belles of the
ball!”
“Oh, do not flatter me so, Lady Hetherington, and do not be so harsh on yourself. You look absolutely divine.” He glanced
at her compressed stem of a waist. “Absolutely divine indeed!”
“Well then, Mr. Smythe, if you then so highly of me, then I hope that you will ask me to dance with you soon.”
“Oh Lady Hetherington, I do apologise! Please, will you give me the pleasure of the next dance?”
“Indeed I will, Mr. Smythe. To the dancefloor!”
And at that he clasped our young lady of distinction around her miniscule waist and led her off onto the dance floor. And as they whirled around to the tune of the Blue Danube Waltz, we may note a small smile on the face of our heroine.
A smile that says, ‘I’m going back to India!’

Chapter 25

We are in a room. It is large, well-lit and airy. Along one side of this room are a series of tall windows. They look out over a stunning cityscape of minarets, temples and crowded streets. Beyond that runs a large muddy river.
Stood by one of these windows is a lady. She is exquisitely dressed in the fashions of the day and she looks out over that enthralling city. As we move closer to her, we can see that her age is not great, perhaps thirty, perhaps a little more. Definitely not yet forty. She is decidedly pretty in her features, though what draws our attention is her waist, which can not be much larger than thirteen inches in circumference. Why, one feels that one could encircle it with one’s hands, it is that tiny!
The lady sighs, and turns away from the window, walking towards a high-backed chair at the opposite end of the room. She takes tiny steps and seems to take an age as she glides gracefully across that polished marble floor. She sits elegantly at the chair, hardly seeming to bend at all in the middle and picks up a pen from the desk in front of the chair. She dips the pen in an adjacent inkpot and proceeds to write.
This elegant woman is no other than Lady Smythe-Hetherington, a member of one of the oldest established families in England and wife of Sir Andrew Smythe, Her Majesty’s Governor to the Indian Empire, the foremost representative of the Empress in the Jewel in the Crown. Smythe is a remarkable gentleman, the youngest Governor in the Indian Empire’s history, and a man of great wit, charm and diplomatic ability. His wife is no less astounding. A renowned beauty amongst beauties, famed throughout Her Majesty’s Dominions for her excellent taste in clothes, impeccable manners and ability as a hostess.
It was she who got the Governor where he is today some whisper. Such rumours are scandalous of course, although it is undoubtedly true that she never did his promotion prospects any harm, and that it was her family’s influence that got him moved from Mumbai to the seat of power, Delhi. Despite the outward affluence, however, it has not all been wine and roses for our once young heroine. She never married Andrew Smythe for love and it soon became clear that he was not a particularly lovable, or even likable gent. Despite the charm at conferences and parties, in his private life he was a career obsessed bore whose interest in his young and pretty wife was not great. In fact, it was virtually non-existent, save for regular unwanted visits to her chamber in the evening, and an annoying obsession with her waist.
It soon turned out that Andrew Smythe, like virtually all the other attendees at the la Maison des Poupees Ball, had been drawn there primarily due to a corset fetish. He loved tight-laced ladies and desired a wife that he could lace to his heart’s content. Consequently, she never had been able to loosen her excruciating corsets, nor for that matter, lower her heels or collars. The crinoline had gone with time however, a victim of the change in fashion tastes, but her present large bustle was no less restricting.
Arabella however had got used to it all. After all, she had not been that unfortunate. She still kept in regular mail contact with Rebecca Ross, Tatiana Goncharova, Emily Dickinson and Elizabeth Hartley from la Maison des Poupees. All four had ended up with men who were tight-lacing fetishists, and none had found the freedom that they desired. Tatiana was now Countess Serebryakovaya, a leading society lady in Saint Petersburg. Her husband, as well as being obsessed with corsets, also had a thing for high heels, and according to her letters, would not allow her to wear anything under eight inches. Arabella shuddered at the thought, that would mean continually standing on one’s toes, and walking would be almost an impossibility. Consequently, the Countess rarely left the house except for parties.
Lady Ross, who was now of course, Lady Machin was presently residing in her husband’s home in Nottinghamshire, and was also a society beauty. Lord Machin was well-known as a Romeo and these days he rarely saw his wife, leaving her alone whilst he went on frequent ‘business’ trips to London or Paris.
Of all the girls, Emily Dickinson had perhaps fared best. She’d married an obnoxious, elderly Dutch banker named van den Ouden, who died less than a year after their marriage, (reportedly due to over-exerting himself in the bed chamber, a scurrilous, contemptible and completely untrue rumour of course). Mrs Emily van den Ouden had simply pocketed the money and left for the south of France where she now enjoys the freedom that was so long denied to her; and is reported to be the lover of an Italian Duke, (another terrible lie).
Perhaps the saddest tale of all is that of poor, shy Elizabeth Hartley. With a constitution like hers, what she needed was a loving, caring young gentleman who would give her the confidence and support that she so badly craved. Unfortunately, as is often the case in this cruel world, she received much the opposite. Her husband, the Earl of Portland soon took her to his estate in Cornwall where she embarked upon a life of misery. He was obsessed with restricting and dominating his poor wife in every way possible, and not only kept her corseted as tightly as ever, but masked as she was in la Maison des Poupees and tethered throughout the daylight hours to a slide wire system which confines her to the west wing of the house.
At night she is gagged and shackled whilst he has his way with her. Indeed, Elizabeth’s lot is truly a sad one, and we must truly thank God that she has never given that hateful man children, as their lives would doubtless be as terrible.
No, Arabella did not do so badly. She lives in the India she loves, and to be truthful, has developed quite a liking for the world of fashion into which she has been forced. What’s more, her husband’s inattention gives her time to pursue her own life, and la Maison des Poupees gave her the tools and the direction in which to do it. Throughout those countless nights that she spent unable to sleep in her bed, tortured by her corset and mono-glove, she turned to stories, tales of love, revenge, adventure, treasure, animals and princesses. That love has not deserted her. What most do not know is that Lady Smythe-Hetherington, wife of the Governor and lady of distinction, is also Justine Lavok, famous author of children’s stories beloved by youth all over the English-speaking world and beyond.
And that’s what she’s doing now, writing the latest in the series of books detailing the exploits of Arthur, the Adventurous Hedgehog.
Unfortunately, Arabella, Governess, Lady of Fashion and Justine doll of yore, is suffering from something today which plagues us all: a serious case of writer’s block. Wearily she sighs as much as her restrictive stays allow, rises and walks to the window once more. She looks out upon the crowded streets of Delhi and thinks back to her childhood, a childhood of freedom when she roamed those very streets and talked to innumerable hawkers, pilgrims and merchants. But alas, that freedom has been taken away from her and will never return. Tears fall slowly down her powered cheeks, disturbing the immaculately applied make-up.
Our heroine takes out a silken handkerchief and wipes those tears away. She then moves away from the window and back to the world of Arthur the Hedgehog.

FINIS

Once Upon A Time in Latin America: Part 3

Part 2

Hacienda Coelho, Bom Jesus da Lapa, Brazil, Monday 9th December 2019

Adriana lies on the bed panting, trying to recapture her breath. She feels dizzy, unsure as to whether she can maintain her consciousness, in that blurred world between waking and sleeping. Yet she is happy. Happier than she has felt for a long time. The ache between her legs has been sated and she knows that, in a sense, her life can move forward again.

Things moved fast after she agreed to marry Don Roberto. So fast, she almost thought he was expecting it. Perhaps he was? After all, how long could a girl hold out with Sister Carina as a tormentor. That was her main condition: the nun goes. And, to her surprise and delight, Roberto agreed straightaway. “Of course,” he’d replied, kissing her on her upturned lips, “that is only to be expected. She was there to guide you as a maiden towards a holier life. But a wife has different needs and goals, ones that an eternally chaste Bride of Christ can never hope to fulfil. She shall be gone the day after our wedding day.”

And that day was to be soon. Indeed, the ceremony could have taken place that evening, but Don Roberto wished to give her “a special wedding gift, a token of his undying love and affection” first. The following morning, after breakfast, she was taken back to her bedroom and then given a strong coffee to drink. She blacked out and, when she awoke, the sun was setting and she could sense that something had been done to her nether regions. When fully adjusted to walking reality again, the maid had adjusted her neck (oh, how heavenly it was to be able to look straight ahead again!) and showed Adriana the work in the mirror.

Gone was the sewn-up slit with her precious nubbin “protected” by its silver cross and, in the place of that celebration of her chastity, an arrangement more suited to a married woman.

A silver cross still adorned her down there, but this was entirely different in design and purpose. The vaginal stitching was gone, and her slit was open. Permanently so. Below the cross which still centred over her nubbin, the long shaft now divided into two, blossoming out like an ellipse, almost an oval, before re-joining and ending at her anus, into which the piece finally curled. The maid then pointed out how the piece was secured by sandwiching her labia flesh between its inner and outer layers loosely before these had been screwed together tightly and the screws shorn off. That explained the dull ache there and also explained why she’d been out for so long. The initial discomfort must have been quite something and she was glad that her fiancé had not made her experience it. Wearing this device, the pussy that had previously been firmly closed, was now open all hours. It was an advertisement of her new status: that of a woman who could be taken by her spouse whenever he felt like it. Seeing it made her feel extremely vulnerable, yet what could she do about it?

Along each branch of the split stem of the cross was a number of little diamonds that twinkled in the light. They looked pretty, as if inviting someone to come to them and enter through the gateway that they framed. “These have another purpose,” said the maid in a conspiratorial whisper, “but Don Roberto says that that gift you will only discover after you are married.”

She stroked the ornament, moving her fingers up the diamond-studded metal until she came to the cross itself. Unlike her previous adornment, this did not cover and lock away her nubbin, but instead it framed it and glorified it. Adriana gazed in astonishment as the maid demonstrated how the clitoris had been stimulated whilst she was asleep, its size maximised using a small vacuum pump and then pushed through a hole in the centre of the cross. This hole was smaller than the engorged bud, so the nub stayed enlarged and erect, a further guarantee being given by the fact that it had been pierced and a small ring (that was much wider than the diameter of the hole) place through it. Now, it could never retreat back from where it came and now the slightest touch – and the maid was demonstrating this for her, causing her to gasp with desire – caused the most delightful sensations. Before, sexual pleasure was totally denied to her. Now it seemed that it would become almost constant. From this day forth, Adriana would become a potent embodiment of the fact that a wife must be permanently prepared to fulfil her husband’s desires.

And this knowledge disconcerted her. What had she let herself in for?


She was bathed and then dressed, a simple yet beautiful wedding gown. Off the shoulder, it incorporated a wide crinoline skirt supported by numerous petticoats. Her immobile arms were gloved in white silk and the rosary replaced but, along with it, a small bouquet of flowers was lodged in between her fingers. She was disappointed that her maid had immediately returned her neck to the upturned position following the exposition of her vaginal modifications, and this stayed the case for the ceremony but, when she had asked, she was told simply that it was appropriate that she look heavenwards on the most glorious day of her life. Not that she would have seen much even if it were adjusted downwards, for several veils were lowered over her face which would have left her totally blind. Helpless and sightless, her breast beating in anticipation, she was led down the corridors to the small hacienda chapel.

It was a short, intimate affair. Aside from the priest and the happy couple, only her maid, Don Roberto’s manservant and Sister Carina were present. Father Joseph intoned the service and, she spoke her lines in her squeaky, childlike voice. Then, when it came to the part where the ring was to be placed on her finger, to her surprise, she felt not a usual ring, but instead a collar being fitted around her neck. And then, finally, there was the marital kiss. Don Roberto flipped back her veils and then pressed the button on her collarbone, adjusting her head to the right angle so he could kiss her on her modified lips whilst the tiny congregation clapped. “And now, since we are man and wife,” he whispered in her ear, “a special present.”

She almost jumped from the shock. Someone… or something… started stroking her pussy lips! Tingles of joy passed through her body, enough to excite but nothing more. What did it mean? There was no one down there under her skirts, so how could this be happening. No explanation came though and, instead, she was led down the aisle by her new husband and towards their marital chamber.

He undressed her slowly, smothering her face with impassioned kisses. In her desperation for release, she genuinely returned them, the continual stroking down below driving her mad. Then he sat on the bed and, handling her with great care, lowered her down onto his rampant and throbbing member. Being filled like that felt so good, so satisfying, so absolutely glorious. He established a steady rhythm as if he were a man experienced at making love to women and knowing how to please them, whilst he first massaged her gargantuan breasts with his hands before then bringing her closer to him, putting his arms around her and then entwining his fingers with her own useless and immobile digits whilst simultaneously exploring her mouth with his tongue.

It took only moments before he erupted within her and only moments after that before she shuddered into an unbelievable climax, a climax so great that she passed out on the spot.

When he brought her around with smelling salts, she was still panting from the exertion and still sitting on his rampant cock. He kissed her ear and stroked her bottom whilst whispering “I love you!” repeatedly and, so moving was it, that she whispered the same lines back. Then, he carefully laid her down on her side and lay next to her, cradling her all the while until they both worked up enough energy for more, this time lying down, side-by-side.

After that they slept.

And now it is the morning. She awoke before him and watched the sunshine stream in through the French windows. She started nuzzling herself against him and he woke with a smile, kissing her and then carefully turning her over onto her back, arranging the pillows meticulously so that her arms were not hurt, before climbing onto her and engaging in more sport.

And now they have finished, and she looks at him above her and feel that maybe, perhaps, she can truly love this man and have some semblance of happiness again, possibly even with some children at their feet.

And, as if reading her mind, he says softly to her, “You are perfect, the most pious, beautiful and wonderful woman in all of Brazil. And, nine months from now, you shall become the best mother too.”

She smiles and laughs. “There is no guarantee that last night worked, Roberto. We may have to try many times!”

“My darling, we shall try many times, but that is nothing to do with it. Nine months today you shall be a mother, for yesterday, straight after the ceremony, I made sure that the gestation period of our first-born commenced.”

She looks at him confused. “But how can you make sure of that? I need to be checked. With these stays for example, there could be complications?”

“Oh, do not worry my darling, none of that matters. I would never dream of destroying that magnificent figure of yours in the begetting of a children. Whilst you were at the clinic, Doctor Carlos harvested your eggs and I have also donated my sperm. Yesterday, the fertilised egg was implanted into Maria, one of the young farmworkers, who I am paying to act as a surrogate. We shall have many children Dona Adriana, but not one birth shall ever mar that fantastic waist or love channel of yours.”

Paradisus By Meliá Resort, Palma Real, Dominican Republic, Wednesday 9th December 2020

Adriana Coelho stretches her toes in the blue waters of the Caribbean Sea and basks in the glorious sunlight. Don Roberto has taken her on a holiday to celebrate the first anniversary of their marriage. To think that, a year ago today precisely, she was tottering down the aisle in the chapel, to be wed to the man who had kidnapped her and transformed her into this freak of nature, this parody of piety and womanhood.

She still hates him virulently for it.

And yet, at the same time she loves him too. She has to; he is all that she has and all that she ever will have. Indeed, apart from servants and chosen dinner guests, she has not even seen another man since that day.

This is primarily because her opportunities to leave their isolated hacienda are few and far between. Her task in life is to be there, waiting at home, for him. She is to pray for him and pleasure him and that is it. Thinking and doing almost anything are not part of her remit. That has been made perfectly clear. Her dreams of an independent life utilising her intellect are further away than ever.

Yet she is not sad that she married him. Anything is better than spending those long, boring, frustrated days with that deranged and possibly fake nun. Now she has release and other freedoms. They are far less than she would have liked, but they are something.

The first of those freedoms came on her first day of married life. Following her morning bout of sex with her new husband, she was dressed and taken downstairs. After breakfast, she would usually go to Sister Carina, but the nun had now gone and, instead of repetitive prayers or some stodgy theological lecture, instead she was allowed to sit on the terrace and look out across the estate.

Yes, that’s right: look out. Her neck was adjusted to the forwards rather than heavenwards position, so she could see all around her. When she asked her maid why this was, she was informed that it was a reward: her husband had declared that, every time he was brought to a climax, she could enjoy three hours of forwards gaze. It was a blessed gift but, following her lunch when her neck was readjusted to its standard heavenwards position, one that left her thirsty for more.

Which coupled with her newly sensitive nether parts and two rods that she was now required to wear inside her nether holes, meant that she would actively seek sex with her husband, choosing outfits that displayed her breasts more provocatively or rubbing up against him when he was near. She hated herself for doing it, understanding completely that the relaxing of the neck rules was essentially a psychological strategy aimed at turning her into even more of a sex doll for him than she was already, but she couldn’t help it. She needed him in her, and she needed to be able to look at the world again.

Another change – which she both welcomed and found disturbing – came a month after their wedding. Roberto said to her that, since Sister Carina had left, he was worried that she might be getting a little lonely. This was actually true, and so when he followed up the comment by telling her that he had arranged for her to have a female companion to brighten her days, she was rather excited.

The girl came that weekend and, to her surprise, it was someone whom she knew already. In fact, it was none other than Maria Silva, her former charge and daughter of Don Roberto’s friend Eduardo Silva. It was explained that, since Maria was now eighteen and so had finished her schooling and was getting prepared for marriage, some time with a married lady of refinement might benefit her. Adriana had liked Maria immensely when she was her au pair, finding her intelligent and polite, and so enjoyed having her in the house, but her presence also saddened her greatly. The reason for this is that, when Maria arrived, Adriana found her much changed, namely that she had undergone almost identical modifications that Adriana herself had endured. When she sat down in the drawing room and her neck was adjusted so that she could look at the young lady, she almost burst into tears on the spot. Where before there had been a pretty and innocent girl, there now sat a parody of piety and womanhood. Her former A-cup breasts had been replaced by two perfectly spherical, heaving monsters, whilst her arms had been cruelly pinned into the disabling reverse prayer configuration like Adriana’s own luckless limbs. The hem of her skirt revealed the toes of en pointe boots and her head was jacked heavenwards in apparent prayer whilst her waist seemed to have disappeared almost entirely. To see such a lovely young lady with such an enquiring mind and bright prospects reduced to the same status of ornamental pious doll that she herself had had to endure was heart-breaking. Still, the two girls bonded in their past and present, leaning against one another as they reflected on their fates (for Maria’s conversion too had not been her choice). Instead, it seems that her father, after visiting the hacienda, had been so inspired by Dona Adriana’s new look, that he had decreed the same for both her wife and eldest daughter regardless of their feelings on the matter.

And so, she now spent the majority of the day sitting either in the garden or drawing room with Maria. Sometimes, they would chat, Adriana able to look at her former charge on occasions but Maria’s neck being permanently turned heavenwards “as befits a maiden”, but just as often, they would find themselves gagged and simply sitting there listening to a recording of some hymns or a mass at the Vatican.

The biggest change though, came with her “pregnancy”. Not that she was pregnant at all; indeed, in “celebration” of their marriage, her husband even decreed that she endeavour to take another centimetre off her miniscule waist, but the baby was hers even if an unknown servant girl was bearing her. She was involved in preparing the nursery, choosing clothes and other such preparations. More importantly, as the happy event drew nearer, she was placed on a course of hormones that brought her to milk. Within days vast quantities of milk were welling into her enormous fake udders and her maid instituted a regime of milking her twice daily, bottling the contents for both the baby and her husband who had developed a strange predilection for sucking her nipples after sex every evening. This carried on after the baby was born and, indeed, she suspected that being kept in milk might become a permanent feature of her life.

When her baby was born though, nothing else mattered. It was a girl and they chose the name Jessica for her. Actually, the choice was entirely Don Roberto’s (her preference was Anna-Rosa which became the girl’s middle name) and she was initially puzzled as to why he had chosen what sounded like an English name for their very Brazilian daughter, but he explained to her that it was a tribute to a girl in a story that he’d once read whom he hoped would serve as a model for their daughter.

She had enjoyed having a baby of her own, even if she could not hold it with her reverse prayer configured arms. She was never happier than when her maid held Jessica up to her immense bosom of the innocent infant would suckle on one of her nipples. When the babe was doing so, her neck was adjusted downwards so that now her view consisted not of ceiling, but instead was entirely taken up by her two mounds of tit flesh.

Which was all ok when Jessica was feeding, but after she was sated and taken away, her neck was kept in that position so she spent several hours contemplating her bosom as a Hindu might gaze upon the face of their chosen idol, the reason given for this being that it would “amplify her maternal instincts”.

Did it though? That she could not say, but what it definitely did do was constantly remind her of how obscene and unnatural her new heaving breasts were and how she would love to have the implants removed and them reduced back down to their natural size again. Not that this were ever a possibility due to the immense pleasure Don Roberto had with her monster boobs, regularly choosing to rub oil into them and then massage his cock in the cleavage, using it like a fourth hole, causing his copious seed to spurt out and drench the flesh, something he found to be particularly aesthetically satisfying.

No, life was far from perfect for Adriana, but she knew that it had been – and could be – worse.

And her husband kept dangling little carrots for her. Like the fact that, if she behaved and satisfied him regularly, he would declare an afternoon at the pool and she would be dressed in a one-piece swimsuit that incorporated a rubber corset and allowed to sunbathe or even bob about in the water, wearing a specially-commissioned inflatable ring around her neck so that she would not slip underwater accidentally and drown. Bobbing about in the water without a care in the world was so glorious after those long days in the sitting room that she earnestly pleasured her husband orally and anally so as to earn this new treat.

And sometimes he went further. Like several days ago when he announced that, to celebrate their one-year anniversary and her “brilliant work in mentoring Miss Silva” they were going on holiday and he flew her out to this exclusive resort in the Dominican Republic where she could sunbathe and bob about in the water blue waters all the hours of the day.

Well, all the hours of the day when he did not require her for sex.

Yes indeed, it was at times like this when she loved him. When he gave her reason to carry on. When she was almost proud to be his wife and the expectant mother of their second child.

Hacienda Coelho, Bom Jesus da Lapa, Brazil, Saturday 14th August 2038

The chandeliers glimmer in the evening light whilst outside, in the fields, the insects hum and buzz as the languid day draws to a close. Inside the mansion of the hacienda though, there is a far greater hubbub, for the patriarch of the estate, Don Roberto, is hosting a great banquet and ball.

A great banquet and ball to mark a great occasion.

The assembled crowd includes many of the luminaries and notables of Brazil and, indeed, beyond. For example, there is the ageing Jair Bolsonaro, the former President of the Republic, along with his considerably younger fifth wife. Alongside them sit his successor and son, Eduardo Bolsonaro, the man who built on his father’s revolution and transformed the old democracy. It has many detractors around the globe, but the people in this room have no doubt that his restricting suffrage to the propertied and males have had a positive impact on the country’s moral health. They are backed by many religious figures too, such as Cardinal Gonzales who has personally applauded the banning of abortion and changes in the law which have now outlawed co-habitation with a partner other than your spouse, same-sex relationships and have made women, as they used to be, a chattel of their husbands. By returning to tradition, they have strengthened Brazil’s society and piety.

Great industrialists and landowners are seated there also, as are several notable politicians and businessmen from Colombia, the newly liberated Venezuela, the United States, Ecuador and Chile. But it is none of these mighty men that catch the attention. No, instead it is their wives and daughters who sparkle like a set of exquisite jewels.

Don Roberto decreed a strict dress code for the event and all the women present wear custom-made gowns in the 1880s style with miniscule waists, high collars and huge bustles that jut out from behind their ample backsides. They look ravishing and remarkable, their bare shoulders like ivory in the twinkling light and their mammoth, augmented breasts bursting out from within their tight gowns, heaving up and down to the delight of all present (and indeed, most would spill out if they were not fastened to the insides of their gowns by means of special nipple rings). The sight is otherworldly compared with the bikinis and skimpy outfits of Copacabana Beach, yet Don Roberto is no eccentric. Victorian-style outfits have become de rigueur in recent years for the balls of Brazilian high society. All that is remarkable here is that he is acknowledged as being one of the pioneers of it all.

And I say, ‘it all’, for the ladies’ magnificence does not stop with their gowns. Not in the slightest, for all of them with not a single exception, display their arms in perfect reverse prayer configurations with rosary beads dangling from their useless fingers, whilst their necks are permanently arched heavenwards so that all they can see of the magnificent scene is the sumptuously moulded ceiling.

It is an image that you, dear reader, is more than familiar with, after following the travails of Adriana from the very start of her glorious journey.

For in the eighteen years since we left her in that resort, celebrating the one-year anniversary of her marriage and transformation, much has been transformed in the world also.

For if she were the bud that first bloomed, then now there is a veritable garden of colour. Maria Silva was, of course, the second flower. She stayed with Adriana as her companion until her father found her a suitable spouse two years later and she became Dona Ronaldo, mistress of a vast hacienda up near the Amazon. By that time her mother had been similarly transformed as too had a couple of other ladies whose husbands, after visiting Don Roberto, had become taken with the new style.

Maria’s younger sister Catalina became Adriana’s next companion before she too was married off and then Don Roberto brought in Luisa, a seventeen-year-old orphan from an establishment that Don Roberto and Eduardo Silva had decided to fund as thanks for the pious transformation of their womenfolk. Naturally, that orphanage similarly transformed all of its inhabitants, of whom Luisa was but the first, before marrying them off lucratively to the great and good of the new Bolsonaro Brazil. All of these orphans were suspiciously pretty and all of them, Adriana was sure, had been initiated sexually to some extent by her husband (after all, compared with some of the procedures it undertook, what challenge was a simple hymen restoration for the clinic?).

Very soon, the triad of Coelho, Silva and Dr. Carlos had their women in almost every notable home in Brazil, including the President himself when he decided to divorce the (past her prime) Wife #4 and select a younger, more pliable model with less expensive tastes.

Nor too did they stop at the borders of Brazil. As the world lurched right and slashed the taxes for the superrich at the expense of the poor, such trophy wives became both more affordable and desirable. Indeed, with the global reversal of women’s rights, they became an essential accessory for every man who wished to prove he was part of the New World Order. And this trend had made Coelho, Silva and Dr. Carlos billionaires.

But not even these three are the stars of the show tonight. No, instead it is Jessica, Don Roberto and Dona Adriana’s eldest daughter (the eldest of twenty children all birthed through peasant surrogates), who is celebrating her eighteenth birthday.

She only underwent her modifications a month ago and is still getting used to them. Indeed, despite being raised to fully expect such changes to her body when she came of age, she resisted the clinic visit violently and has been in tears almost ever since. This tears at her mother’s heart, but since she is more often than not gagged these days, she can offer little comfort.

But then perhaps it is not just her modifications that are the cause of her unhappiness. Jair Bolsonaro Junior, may be almost the same age as her, but he has a reputation for being something of a ladies’ man and his visage is cruel. Plus, the breast and buttock enhancements he stipulated for his fiancée were almost beyond what even his father-in-law and father would consider appropriate. Her fate is perhaps not to be a happy one, even if she is to become the next First Lady of Brazil and her eldest brother, the Vice-President.

Knowing this and knowing that she can do nothing, her purpose in life from now on is to be nothing more than a pious ornament and sexual plaything of the grandson of the architect of the New Brazil, on this which should be the happiest of days as she is sitting in a handmade gown surrounded by the pinnacle of Brazilian society, all Jessica can do is gaze up towards the heaven that she is assured will be her destination one day and mouth a pray of supplication to Our Lady for her help in the trials to come.

Unbeknown to her, two seats down from her at the same table, her mother, who knows fully what those trials will entail, does the same.

La Maison des Poupees: Part 4

Part 3

Chapter 16

Walking down the corridor, Arabella was more than a little bemused about her punishment. Opening her eyes to the visage of Mme. Dorozhkina, with a face as black as thunder, she had been petrified. What had this hateful old spinster got in store for her now? Dreadful thoughts had passed through her mind, whippings, days in isolation… She believed that the half French Headmistress could stoop to anything, and she sweated nervously in anticipation of the horrors that awaited, ruing her stupid and impetuous actions that she knew could never have succeeded. Why, even if she had freed herself of all her hated restrictive clothing, how far could she have got through that vast impenetrable forest with its myriad of unknown wild beasts?
However, when she had been ordered back into her bedroom after her bath, she was surprised to discover that no
instruments of flagellation were being wielded by the Headmistress, nor was she to be locked up alone in a dark room. No, instead, she was commanded to the lacing bar and prepared for the day just the same as always. The hated stays, as tight as ever, the long, high-heeled boots, the posture collar and then the wide crinoline.
Except, wait a minute, this crinoline was different.
“This is the punishment crinoline, Justine,” said Mme. Dorozhkina. “As you can see, it is not collapsible. Due to your totally
unacceptable behaviour, you are to wear it for an entire week, excepting bedtimes.”
She was right. Crinolines are essentially cages that give the dress shape. Their hoops are rigid, made of Sheffield Steel, vertically they are collapsible, allowing the wearing to sit or kneel. But this crinoline did not collapse. Instead it opened up at the back, swinging on hinges at the front. Once it was fastened around the hapless girl’s waist, it was a solid steel dome, with Arabella trapped inside. Covered with the petticoats and dress, it looked the same as normal, but unlike normal, sitting, bending the knees or indeed any movement except walking an standing, was an impossibility. It would be a great inconvenience, thought Arabella, but hardly that bad, nothing to what she had expected.
Once again thought passed through her mind that perhaps Mme. Dorozhkina was maybe not quite the evil tyrant from hell that she first appeared to be. Fully clothed in all her attire, new mask included, Arabella slowly made her way down the corridor.
Walking in the punishment crinoline was little different from normal. True it was a little heavier, but… But. The stairs. How was she to get down the stairs? Managing the wide oak staircase was difficult at the best of times, with this additional restriction it was nigh on impossible. Carefully, she had to feel for each step and mind that the now rigid crinoline did not catch on the steps in front of behind of her and send her tumbling down once again. Plus the additional weight meant that she was far more likely to lose her balance. So this was why the crinoline was a punishment then! Still, it was not so bad.
Entering the mathematics class, she was surprised to find that instead of the usual scene of a desk full of desks, each with a Justine doll sat at them, today the room was full of standing Justine’s, each with a tall desk in front of her, obviously specially designed to allow the student’s to read and write whilst standing. But why were they all standing up? She had to because of her punishment crinoline, but what about they others? Were they doing it in sympathy of her or were they all, too, encased in these new items of restriction? And if so, why? The questions span round in her head. But whom could she ask? Not a soul of course, not with her Justine mask on anyway, and so she merely walked across the room and took her place in front of the desk that the teacher had pointed out for her.
Days at la Maison des Poupees went by slowly at the best of times, but today was worse than ever. Even before the end of her maths class, Arabella had realised the true nature of the punishment which she had been given to endure. Standing for hours in the heavy concealing clothing and the tight-pinching high-heeled boots was nigh on impossibility. Her whole body ached, and her feet felt like they were on fire. Never before had she realised the importance of the opportunities that she had to rest her poor feet. Yet in the punishment crinoline there was no sitting down, nor leaning. The width of the billowing cage meant that any objects were too far away for her to successfully transfer her weight too.
As she tired she slumped, her legs giving way and the crinoline resting on the floor. A wave of pain flashed through her as her entire body weight was transferred from her feet to her already constricted waist. She felt like she had been stabbed by countless knives all around her middle and she stood up proudly again once more. Arabella thought of the six and a half days ahead of her encased in this fearsome instrument of torture and she shed a few quiet tears behind her mask.
After lunch it was singing, and as always Madame Kovalsky immediately removed the girl’s mask after she had entered the room.
“Well, well, my dear girl, so you have caused a stir, eh. Why, da punishment crinolines have eeven been brought out, eh.
Dis ees memorable indeed!”
“What do you mean, madame?” asked Arabella, “And why are all the others wearing them too?”
“Ha! You do not know did, eh? Well, I suppose dere is no reason why she should tell you. Your little rebellion, Arabella, dis smashing of da mask and storming out of da room, why eet ees da biggest uproar dat da House of da Dolls has seen for many a year, eh. When you shouts ‘I am not Justine, I am Arabella!’ all dese other girls, dey are eenspired you know. Whilst you is run away and falling down da stairs, dey too ees tearing off dere masks. Twenty-three students rebelled,
ay-ay-ay,Dorozhkina was not da happy woman! And all da girls, dey are asking me, ‘Who is dis Arabella?’ Aye, eet ees true, you are da hero of da school!”
Arabella was surprised, and honoured, but the rigours of her present clothing irked her more. “I’d prefer not to be a hero,” she complained. “it was a stupid thing to do, it could only fail, and now I am lumbered with this hateful punishment
crinoline too.”
“Aye, eet ees a burden to bear my child, but bear eet you must. At least da House of da Dolls has not killed your spirit. I for one am da proud of you, my dear, yes eendeed.”
The singing mistress’ kind words heartened our young heroine and somehow gave her the strength to last the whole day.
At the end however, when Svetilina finally undressed her, she literally fell into the maid’s arms as she was unhooked from the lacing bar. And the silent Russian maid, who would never be able to converse with her charge, silently carried the young girl across to her bed and tucked her in carefully, giving her a goodnight kiss on the forehead. After all, Mme.
Dorozhkina would never know if she did not put her in stock for the night and Svetilina herself was a mother of four, whose heart went out for the young Arabella each and every day. Why does she do such a hateful and painful job then, I hear you ask?
Like I said, she’s a mother of four, and a mother’s primary concern is keeping bread on the table for her young ones.
Fulfilling such a task in the windswept reaches of northern Russia is not always easy; Svetilina was one of the lucky ones.

Chapter 17

Times passes quickly when you’re having fun. For Arabella it passed more slowly, but pass it did nonetheless. It is now
several months after her rebellion, and the subsequent punishment was relegated to the realms of memory long, long ago — now merely another of Madame Kovalsky’s tales.
Things did not get better at la Maison des Poupees, the heels were ever higher and the corsets ever tighter, but slowly and surely Arabella Hetherington got a little more used to her life there.
After the first month or two, she noticed the hunger pangs less and she learned to cope with the deportment lessons.
Perversely enough she even started to enjoy the constant pressure exerted on her body by the corset –- it was like a big bear hug from someone that she loved -– and when she bathed in the morning and evening she felt weak without it, and had to ask Svetilina to assist her in getting in and out of the tub.
Indeed, it was like a hug, but alas not a hug from someone that cared for her. The worst thing was the loneliness, not only in la Maison des Poupees, but also in the wider world as well; all who had loved her dearly were now with Jesus in paradise.
It was this more than any corset that caused her to shed tears almost daily.
To cope with the loneliness she started composing stories in her head, wonderful tales of mystery and imagination.
Fantasies of Indian princesses, of knights who rescued damsels in distress of of love at first sight across a crowded
ballroom. Was it surprising that she composed such tales? After all, she was at that age when girls start to think about
boys, and what she needed more than anything was love, a companion, someone to hold her tight and stroke his fingers
through her hair. But no such companion could be found at la Maison. She knew that as well as anyone, and to get out and
find the dream gentleman that she desired, she had to play along with it all, conform to Mme. Dorozhkina’s rules and
become the little Justine doll that the Headmistress wanted her to be. Besides, the failed revolt had killed off her fighting spirit and instead now she tried her best in all the classes. ‘Just to get out of this unreal doll’s house,’ she said to herself.

It is a sunny day in early autumn and Arabella returns to her room for lunch. Like everyday, the dish is situated on her desk in the room. She sits down and Svetilina removes the mask and lifts the lid.
But wait! What’s this?
Where is the svoboden pishane?
Sat there in front of her was a plate of roast beef, with green beans, carrots, roast potatoes and a thick gravy. It looked delicious and it smelt even better. Beside the plate was a letter addressed to ‘Justine’. Arabella opened it. It was in French.

Justine
Congratulations! Please enjoy this meal as your reward for doing so well and afterwards come and see me in my office.
Mme. Dorozhkina.

Arabella was mystified but she did not complain, this was the first real food that she’d seen since arriving at la Maison des Poupees! Hungrily she picked up her knife and fork and tucked in. The well-cooked meat almost fell apart in her mouth and the rich gravy filled her stomach. Very soon however she felt full. Her corset had compressed her stomach to such a tiny size that there was simply no room for food, and her almost starvation diet had caused her to grow unaccustomed to such a large amount. Reluctantly, she wiped her mouth with her napkin and then gestured for Svetilina to take the plate away. She had left over half of it.
Twenty minutes later, Arabella was stood outside the Headmistress’s office. She knocked timidly and voice from within
shouted, “Entrez!”
She did as commanded and came face to face with the Headmistress. She was gestured to sit, which she duly did and then to her surprise, Mme. Dorozhkina came over and removed her mask and wig.
“Justine,” she announced, “you are doubtless wondering why you have been given a more substantial lunch than usual
today, are you not?”
“Well, yes Mme,” said Arabella who sat bolt upright in the chair provided.
“That is understandable. To explain why, I must first impart unto you something of the philosophy that we follow here at la Maison des Poupees. As you know, we aim to create all of you uncouth and plain-looking girls into young ladies of
distinction, exquisite, well-mannered, well-versed in all the arts, impeccable in appearance and submissive towards your
future husbands. That is why we subject you to the rigourous training and constricting clothing regime here. It is not fun
and indeed it is often painful, I know. I know that because I have been through it all myself. But let me tell you, young lady, that by the time you are finished, you will be thanking me profusely for what I have done to you. As you were, an
ill-mannered, ignorant little brat, you were a disgrace to your parents and a burden upon your aunt. Already however, you have changed. La Maison des Poupees is not just about punishment, although at times it may seem so, it is also about
reward. The food which you were given today was a reward for your progress so far. It is not a one off, you will continue to receive such cuisine daily until you leave, do you understand?”
“Yes, Mme. Dorozhkina.”
“Very good. Now, you are probably wondering at the moment, what exactly it is that you have achieved, am I right,
Justine?”
“Well, yes, Mme.”
“And rightly so. Well, let me explain. Today’s society demands that a young lady must be corseted to the utmost. Such
demands may not be pleasant, but they are there and we must accept them as our lot. Quite how the ‘utmost’ is defined
however, is a matter of some debate. Some young ladies seem to think that waist sizes of twenty-five inches or so are
acceptable. Well, let me tell you, they are not. In determining what the correct size should be for my pupils here at la
Maison des Poupees, I looked towards the example of the finest of my compatriots, the French.”
‘A Russian lady, with a Russian name, living in Russia is hardly French,’ though Arabella. She was however, too well-trained now to say this out loud.
The Headmistress continued. “Catherine de Medici of France established a standard at her court of thirty-six centimetres, that’s fourteen inches to you. I believe that such measurements are ideal, anything below that looks ungainly and anything above, well it’s appears plainly plump. But as I have said to you before, one simply cannot corset fat away. That is why you were put on the diet that you were, to help you lose wait and thus achieve the waist you require in the shortest possible time span. Anyway, I am pleased to inform you that Svetilina came to me today and told me that your waist today is thirty-six centimetres. I shall now check.”
The Headmistress then got up and put a tape measure around the tiny stem that now constituted Arabella’s waist. It was in fact slightly under the thirty-six mark, Arabella couldn’t believe it.
“Perfect!” declared Mme. Dorozhkina. “Have you anything to say?”
“Well, Mme, thank you for helping me achieve this waist and err, could I please see how it looks in a mirror?” To Arabella’s surprise, the mirror in her room had been taken out during the first week of her stay and she had not had the opportunity to see what she looked like since.
“I’m sorry, Justine, but no. Another of the policies of la Maison des Poupees is that we do not let our girls view their
appearance until the night of the Ball.”
“The Ball?”
“Yes, Justine, the Ball. Held annually at the start of the Paris Season, the Ball of la Maison des Poupees is one of the social events in the Parisian calendar. My school has an international reputation, and young men eagerly desire to be the first to meet the ladies come out and secure their hand. You are all highly sought after, and it is at that ball that you make your match. It is held in the Hotel du Nord in Paris and until that day your entire life will be directed towards preparing for it.
That is why you are learning to dance, to deport yourself correctly and to appear like an angel to any man that may cross your path. After that ball the proposals will come in and the most eligible gent will become your husband.”
“Really, Mme?” Arabella’s eyes were on fire. It was a chance to get out!
“Really, Justine, but you are not ready yet. Your waist is the right size, although a little short, we shall have to work on
lengthening it, hmm. But the rest of you! You look no more an object of desire than Svetilina, instead you remind me of a
starving orphan!”
‘That’s what I am, realistically,’ thought Arabella. But again she said naught.
“You must now be fattened up, given broad hips and an ample bosom. This connected with the tiny waist will drive a man
wild. Your corset will no longer be reduced, but the pressure will be the same. With the extra food your body will try and resume its natural shape. But your stays will not be sized up even a milimetre, do you understand?”
“Yes, Mme. But I have a question to ask?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“My hair, Mme. It is surely not acceptable?”
“Indeed you are correct. We shave the heads of all our pupils here upon entry as a sort of initiation, but fear not, it will be long enough in time for the ball. Already it is down to your shoulders, next spring it will be past your breasts.”
The Headmistress was right. Even now Svetilina was having to use a hairnet to keep Arabella’s locks in place underneath the wig.
“Thank you Mme.”
“That is all right, Justine. Keep up the good work! You may go.”
“Certainly Mme, but could you please reattach my mask.”
“Indeed, girl.” And after doing that the Justine doll curtsied gracefully to her Headmistress and left the office, with hope in her heart for the first time since leaving the Raj.

Chapter 18

“Madame Kovalsky, can I please ask you a question?”
“Why yes, Arabella, what ees eet?”
Arabella was in her weekly singing class. Life at la Maison des Poupees was now far better than before, what with proper food every day and no more corset tightening. Admittedly her stays still hurt her as her body pressed outwards, trying to make room for all the new food, but against the rigid stays it was always fighting a losing battle. Instead, the girl’s budding breasts were now filling out handsomely, as too were her hips. None of this distressed her, in fact she was rather proud of her sexy new figure, and she hoped against hope that it would inspire a Prince Charming to propose to her after the ball. But in the meantime, there was one thing that puzzled her.
“Well, it’s just, Madame, I’ve been thinking…”
“What dear?”
“Well how did she think of it all? Mme.Dorozhkina that is. I mean who could imagine such a place as this, let alone build
and run it. Who is she and how did she get here?”
“Who ees she? Dorozhkina, eh? Ay-ay-ay, now dat ees a verry long story, and an eenteresting one, indeed yes,
eenteresting…” The singing teacher looked up at Arabella, who’s eyes were wide in anticipation. “You want to hear, eh?
Den I will begin. Now, let me see, ah yes. Our Miss Dorozhkina was born, well I don’t know when, she ees never saying dis, how old she ees, but she ees old, dat ees enough. Anyway, when she ees da girl, well, I am thinking dat her childhood ees no da happiness you know? She ees da orphan you see, her stepmother, not friendly wiz her I think. Aye, dey were the sad times for our Headmistress and you must remembering dis before you are judging her harshly. Why! Not only ees she da orphan, but she ees poor, her father was da gambler, wiz da cards you know, he is leaving her nothing, not a rouble I tell you.”
“Really, what about her mother, the Frenchwoman?”
“Frenchwoman! Ha! Maybe. She is telling everyone, ‘My mother was da Frenchwoman, but you know, dis dey never prove.
Her father ees the Romeo, dis dey know, but her mother, who knows? At the time he ees having da affairs wiz three
womans, two Russian, and one French. Who ees da mama? Who knows? Dorozhkina says dat she ees da French, een my
opinion, you and I are as French as she ees, you know what I mean?”
“Yes, I do,” said Arabella, sniggering slightly.
“So, she has the childhood of da woes. She ees poor, she ees da orphan and she ees eelegitimate. How bad can it be?
Worse! Her stepsisters, dey are very beautiful, da toast of Sankt Peterburg. But she? She ees ugly duckling, no beauty at all. Dey tease her, no man looks at her. No money, no prospects. Very bad for her.”
“That’s terrible!” exclaimed Arabella, almost feeling sorry for the tyrannical headmistress.
“But den her father, he get some money from da death of da uncle. His wife always complaining to him about dis daughter, so he send her to da school een da mountains of da Switzerland, a beautiful area of da world where I once spent a very romantic summer wiz da Mr. Corelli, and Italian nobleman, ah the days… but I digress, let me see. Ah yes, so she ees going to dis school, a terrible place named da Acadamie de la Henri. Madame Henri, da Headmistress, aargh, what a terrible lady, I met her one time, she was scaring da life from me! You think dat here ees bad, ay-ay-ay, here is nothing, nothing compare with dis school of Henri! Da girls, always corsetted, always masked, fed only wiz da spoon from da maids, always veiled as well, always chained and having to wear da backboards, jougs, everything. Terrible, terrible place, eet send some poor girls mad I heard. But Dorozhkina, she loved eet!”
“Why?”
“Because for da first time she ees equal, more dan dat, she ees da best. Her waist ees da smallest, dey praise her. Like
here, da anonyminity, she can invent da new persona, she ees a new persona, no longer da worthless ugly duckling. Later
her sisters go dere, and she ees da prefect over dem. For many years dey eat too much, dey are fat, she ees thin, nice small waist, dey are like barrels. And when it comes to da ball, da men, who all come to da ball because dey have da fetish for da small waist, dey are all around her like birds. Very soon she ees married to da rich Frenchman…”
“But she’s a Madamouselle?!”
“She’s as much a Madamouselle as she ees French. No, she was marrying dis Frenchman, very rich but soon eet became
clear dat he ees obssessed wiz da tightlacing. He ees wanting her to lace down and down never stop, maybe to get da
smallest waist ever. When she leave da school she ees fourteen and a half, very soon she ees approaching da thirteen
inches.”
“That’s impossible!”
“No, Arabella, eet ees not. Eet ees remarkable what da human waist can stand, I tell you. But Dorozhkina, ay, she ees not stupid. She knows dat dis sadistic man will kill her, so what she do, she takes some of his money when he ees drunken and she ees run away!”
“Run away!”
“Aye, girl, run away. And where to run, out of France and back to her homeland, so vast and unexplored, how can dis man
ever find her here? So she ees buy dis old mansion house and she ees starting dis school, under a false name of course.
She never appears een public except at the Annual la Maison des Poupees Ball which she ees organising in Paris, and da
guestlist she ees controlling. She started dis school to provide her wiz da eencome and to give other young girls da same start dat she had. Without her school she was nothing, the corsetting, deportment and education gave her da means to be herself, reliant on no man. Da sad thing ees, she ees thinking dat she ees helping you all.”
“That explains a lot,” sighed Arabella, running the amazing story of the headmistress through her mind, “that explains a
lot indeed. But please, one more thing…”
“What ees dat?”
“Why do you work here and how do you know all this?”
“How I know eet all I cannot say, needless to mention dat I spent a lot of my youth cavorting een the best houses of
Europe. But alas I fell on hard times as happens to da best of us, and den I sees dis face from da past one day on a train from Murmansk. ‘Madame Ferrand!’ I exclaim. ‘Ssh!’ she says, ‘I am Ferrand no longer!’ And she ees explain everything, and so I ees explain to her dat I need da job. I know her history, she could not risk dis. I have da job and I will keep eet, even though she ees suspect that I give you girls da freedom that ees not allowed. She would doubtless like to sack me, but she dare never!”
“Really!” Arabella was overwhelmed at the goings-on on in the past of her teachers. She wanted to know more. “Why were you on the train from Murmansk?” asked the girl.
“Ah, dat I will not say and nothing more too. Da lesson time ees over and da time to eat ees upon us. Away wiz you,
Arabella, let me fix your mask…”

Chapter 19

“Now ladies, today is an important day in your lives. As you all know, the Annual la Maison des Poupees Ball is now only
three months away, and so today you have a very important task to complete. I will hand each of you a catalogue of the
latest Parisian fashions, and from that catalogue you must select for yourselves a travelling costume and a ball dress.”
The girls were excited beyond belief. Even though we are unable to see their expressions, the feeling is in the air and the strained breathing and creaking of corsets gives away the fact. Choosing one’s first ball gown! What a moment in a young girl’s life! Even the previously tomboyish Arabella Hetherington was all of a flutter, after all, hadn’t the lessons of the preceding six months all been directed towards this ball?
She looked eagerly through the catalogue that the Headmistress placed on the desk in front of here. The creations were unbelievable. After all, this was 1861 and had fashions ever been so flamboyant as this year? Well, for women anyway. At this moment, for the first time ever in her life, she pitied the poor males who had no choice in what to wear, a dour dinner suit, that was all. But she had choice, and what choice it was! The gowns were incredible, vast domes of silk, taffeta and lace, yards across at the floor and diving into impossibly minute waists before expanding once more to emphasize the ample breasts of the models that the artists had drawn. All were low cut, leaving the shoulders bare, porcelain white shoulders which were connected to a porcelain white face, with demure eyes and rosebud lips. Sausage curls flowed from the heads of the girls, adorned with ribbons, roses and jewels. Long, tight gloves covered their tiny hands, and their breasts, pushed-up and half exposed were shown off to the best advantage.
All the pictures presented a heavenly vision, a vision that Arabella herself could become. A lady of distinction who could
send any man wild with desire. She shuddered with desire, and a hand strayed towards her now large breasts. Then she
brought her two hands down to her waist, by now nothing more than an elegant stem that she circled easily, thumbs and
forefingers touching without difficulty. Yes, that could be she, the belle of the ball!
“Choose carefully,” ordered the Headmistress, “remember, the dress is merely the vehicle with which you show yourself off. Consider your attributes, hair, hands, eyes, breasts. Those of you with smaller breasts for example, should not try and draw attention to them. Those of you with blonde hair would be best to think about blues and stay away from reds. What colour are your eyes, and how petite are your hands? All of these factors are important.”
Arabella looked through the pictures. Blues might suit blondes, but her hair was chestnut and her eyes were brown. What would compliment them? Her breasts were large and well-formed so they should perhaps be emphasised. And her hands, well they were petite, but were they petite enough? Should she emphasise them? Probably not. She flicked over the page.
That green dress is nice, but it doesn’t do enough for the bosom, and besides, is green her? And what about this violet
gown, now that is beautiful, and violet would be better than green or red. Better it may be, but the best? Maybe not. She turned over once more.
And there it was, a gown fit for an empouress, a gown perfect for her. A fantasia of lace and silk, in a fetching shade of
peach, with an incredibly wide crinoline, almost plain stem, (which emphasised the size and shape of her now long
fourteen inch middle, and then finishing with flounces over the shoulders. The bosom was emphasised but not so much as
to appear crude. The whole creation was covered in sprigs of white flowers. Just seeing it felt like heaven, but to wear it!
Why, that would be more delightful than she could ever imagine!
“Have you chosen yet, Justine?” enquired Mme. Dorozhkina, who had just approached her and was looking over her left
shoulder. Arabella nodded and pointed to the peach dream.
“A wise choice,” said the Headmistress slowly, “a very wise choice indeed, although difficult to wear. A stem waist of
thirty-four centimetres, almost an inch smaller than present and heels of thirteen centimetres. Could you manage that?”
Arabella nodded enthusiastically. She would manage anything to wear that dream dress.
“Very well then, now select your travelling costume from this catalogue.”
Arabella picked up the other book and started to look through the pictures of travelling outfits. It was only after she’d been doing this for a few minutes that it actually struck her. Before she started at la Maison des Poupees she’d never have been excited about wearing a peach ball gown, particularly one that was likely to be painful. In fact, she’d have done anything not to wear it.
Despite all her efforts, the school had won. It had moulded her into what it wanted too. She was now looking
forward to becoming a young lady of distinction. That thought frightened her to death and made her angry inside. She
snapped the catalogue of travelling costumes shut and sat and sulked. But it was too alluring, that dress of purple silk with a fine fur muff required more attention. Our young lady picked up the catalogue once more and opened it.

Chapter 20

The big day had finally arrived!
Arabella lay awake in bed, eagerly looking forward to the trip ahead. She could hardly believe it, yet it was here, it had
finally come. Today she was to leave la Maison des Poupees forever! For today she was to set off from the school and
embark upon the long journey to France, and the Ball! No more would she have to wear the hateful blue pin-stripe dress,
the long blonde wig and the stupid doll’s face. For the first time in years she was to appear in outside society. And appear as Arabella Hetherington, a Justine doll no longer!
Her feet, encapsulated within the thigh-high night boots that moulded them into an en-pointe position, tingled in anticipation. Her now large breasts surged up and down as she struggled for air within the demanding corset.
Arabella’s corset and therefore her torso, now looked considerably different from the way it had when she had been called into Mme. Dorozhkina’s office to be told that her waist was now the correct size. True, the size of her middle had not changed one iota — it was still just over thirty-five centimetres — but its overall shape was somewhat different. Mme. Dorozhkina had later explained to her that whilst a wasp waist was essential for any young lady to proceed in life, it was not the ultimate in waist-training achievement.
“For your waist to become truly spectacular, we need to train it into a stem shape.”
‘A stem?’ Arabella was puzzled. Surely only flowers had stems, long green shoots that supported the colourful head and
petals of the plant. But you couldn’t make a waist look like that surely? She would look like a beanpole, not an object of
desire! “Like a flower stem, Mme?” she asked confusedly.
“Yes, Justine, and no. Yes, in the respect that I wish to give you a perfectly circular waist that shoots up in a straight line, as opposed to curving in and then straight out as your figure does at present, and no, since flower stems are ludicrously long affairs, your stem shall measure but ten centimetres, and shall set your now-womanly figure off to perfection.”
Ten centimetres — that was almost four inches! How did the Headmistress plan to achieve that? However it was she imagined that it would probably be uncomfortable, most things at la Maison des Poupees usually were. Her fears were not unfounded. That night at bedtime her new sleeping corset was revealed. It came in two parts, both a little like a cone that flared out at the top but ended around the waist in a straight section about an inch in length. These were fastened around her, the two straight sections overlapping at the waist, and laced tightly. Then Svetilina picked a metal device, which appeared to be two half cones with the tops removed joined by two threaded bolts.
“This is the stretcher,” Mme. Dorozhkina, who was supervising the whole affair, explained. “It is this that will give you the beautiful stem waist, although wearing it will be painful at first, so be brave, the rewards are more that worth the effort.
Then to Arabella’s surprise, and horror, Svetilina started turning some small levers attached to the bolts and the ‘stretcher’ started expanding vertically, pushing against the two ‘half-corsets’ and causing excruciating pain to her ribs and hips. She tried her best not to scream, as she knew that that would result in being gagged, but she could not stop the tears from flowing down her cheeks. The stretching continued until the ‘belt’ of the corset was three centimetres deep, upon which point Mme. Dorozhkina ordered Svetilina to desist.
“You have been brave, Justine,” the Headmistress said to her, “ I am proud of you!”
That had been months ago now, and these days Arabella’s waist consisted of a stem almost four inches deep. She wore the stretcher at night no longer, and instead she was fitted with a specially strengthened sleeping corset, which was painful, but nothing to what the ‘stretcher’ had been. To be truthful, Arabella hardly noticed the pain these days, and indeed missed the corset somewhat when she was without it, as her stomach muscles were now so weak that she could no longer support herself without assistance.
Svetilina entered the room and smiled at her young mistress. Despite being unable to communicate, the two had
developed a sort of rapport over the past year or two and Arabella could tell that despite her job, the Russian was a kindly lady.
The maid unfastened her charge’s bonds and freed her feet from the sleeping boots, placing a pair of high-heeled
slippers on the girl’s feet so that she could walk to the bathroom, as her tendons were now shortened to such an extent,
that walking flat-footed was these days an impossibility. Arabella then minced over to the lacing bar, where she let
Svetilina undo her corset slowly, so as to avoid painful cramps, and then afterwards she let the maid support her towards the bathroom, where she sank into the warm water.
Half an hour later, the washed, dried and powdered Arabella was hanging from the lacing bar whilst Svetilina encircled her waist with the now familiar corset, which was laced, as everyday, until breaking point. Then, fine silk stockings were drawn onto her feet, a multitude of petticoats and the crinoline tied around her waist and a pair of high, pointed boots laced onto her now miniscule feet. This process took some time, since these were travelling boots and reaching up until just below her knees, but once it was done, she was unhooked from the bar and could stand on her own two feet once again.
Then the fine, tight gloves were fastened to her arms, squeezing her hands into oblivion, and Arabella sat down to enjoy her light breakfast of Russian black bread, eggs and chai. Filled to bursting with this meagre dish, she then stood up and waited for the time that she had been waiting for. Her new travelling dress, a fine creation of deep purple silk, trimmed with fur to keep out the harsh Russian weather, was brought out and placed over her head. As it was laced tightly at her rear, Arabella felt a feeling inside her that was pure joy. She was now a person again, not a Justine doll, wearing a person’s dress and with a person’s face!
She felt like crying out loud with joy, but she knew that it would never do, but nonetheless, a huge smile spread across her face and tears of joy fell from her eyes.
Svetilina, who had finished tying off the dress, came to the front and saw her charge’s happy statement. She took out a
handkerchief and dabbed the young girl’s eyes and then smiled broadly herself. Arabella clasped her maid as best she
could with the restrictive gloves and the Russian hugged her back. There was one thing at la Maison des Poupees that she would miss, even if she still hated everything else!
Her ensemble was completed with the gag, (the ensure anonymity until the Ball, Mme. Dorozhkina had explained, “Until
that moment you are all still pupils at this school!”), and a purple poke bonnet with a heavy veil that obscured her vision
somewhat, and made it impossible for others to view her face. Her hands were then gloved in yellow travelling gloves and her upper body covered with a fur cloak, in which were two holes for her arms to fit through. Svetilina then fastened the cloak at the front and then handed the young lady a matching fur muff for her to put her hands inside. Arabella did so and was surprised to hear something click around her wrists and discover that she could now not remove them from the muff; she was effectively handcuffed! This puzzled her somewhat, but did not amaze her. She was now more than used to la Maison des Poupees’s little instruments of restriction and she accepted it submissively.
And thus fully attired, she stood up proudly, bade goodbye to her maid, opened the door and stepped out confidently,
ready to enter a new life.

Part 5

Once Upon A Time in Latin America: Part 2

Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her husband.

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

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

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

The man was an enigma to her.

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

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

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

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

And at the time she almost believed him.

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

And surely whatever it meant would constitute an improvement?

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

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

Yet still his face remained.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And who is the nun?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Details?”

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

“Question is, will she?”

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

Slap!

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

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

Slap!

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

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

Slap!

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

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

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

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

Slap!

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

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

“I bet it will.”

Slap!

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

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

“Last one coming up now.”

“I know and I’m about to cum!”

Slap!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here in public?”

Two taps.

“Private?”

One tap.

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

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

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

Part 3

La Maison des Poupees: Part 3

Part 2

Chapter 11

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

Chapter 12

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

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

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

Chapter 13

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

Chapter 14

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

Chapter 15

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

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

Part 4

La Maison des Poupees: Part 2

Part 1

Chapter 6

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

Chapter 7

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

Chapter 8

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

Chapter 9

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

Chapter 10

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

Part 3

Becoming Cupcake: Parts 4-7

Parts 1-3

READ THIS FIRST:

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

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

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

 YOU MUST BE 18 or OVER IN AGE TO READ THESE STORIES.  THEY CONTAIN ADULT MATTERS INCLUDING SEXUAL ACTS, BONDAGE, TORTURE, AND OTHER FETISHISTIC ELEMENTS.  PLEASE BE WARNED THESE STORIES ARE NOT FOR THE FAINT-HEARTED.  AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, THESE STORIES ARE NOT FOR MINORS. 

“Becoming Cupcake”

Chapter Four – Walking The “Dog”

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

But they were all animals.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

According to Melvin… she was.

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

Thwack!

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

Thwack!!!  Again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cupcake giggled.

“My what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so Cupcake sucked and sucked.

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

Cupcake choked on his cock, at that last line.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<giggle> “Silly, Daddy!”

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

Pop!

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

Pop!

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

Pop!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


READ THIS FIRST:


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

 

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

 

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

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

 

YOU MUST BE 18 or OVER IN AGE TO READ THESE STORIES.  THEY CONTAIN ADULT MATTERS INCLUDING SEXUAL ACTS, BONDAGE, TORTURE, AND OTHER FETISHISTIC ELEMENTS.  PLEASE BE WARNED THESE STORIES ARE NOT FOR THE FAINT-HEARTED.  AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, THESE STORIES ARE NOT FOR MINORS.

“Becoming Cupcake”

Chapter Five – Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_________________________________

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

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

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

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

Let the party begin.

_________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She would say it would never happen again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure, baby.  Go ahead.”  said Rick.

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

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

Smack!

Muffle scream…

Smack!

Muffled shriek…

Smack!

Muffled sobs…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Visit my official Yahoo Club at www.bimbofiction.com

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

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

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

 Later – The Mayor


READ THIS FIRST:

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

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

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

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

YOU MUST BE 18 or OVER IN AGE TO READ THESE STORIES.  THEY CONTAIN ADULT MATTERS INCLUDING SEXUAL ACTS, BONDAGE, TORTURE, AND OTHER FETISHISTIC ELEMENTS.  PLEASE BE WARNED THESE STORIES ARE NOT FOR THE FAINT-HEARTED.  AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, THESE STORIES ARE NOT FOR MINORS.

“Becoming Cupcake”

Chapter Six – Show And Tell

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

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

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

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

Sniff, sniff.

Melvin’s wrinkled nose twitched up and down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“—Barbie doll?” said Melvin.

Richard cleared his throat.  “Exactly.”

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

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

“Yes Daddy, what?”  said Melvin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cupcake winced, tottering on her toes.

God, the old man was quick.

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

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

“And?”

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

“Cupcake, lay over Richard’s lap.”

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

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

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

“What’s up, Melvin?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about lubricant?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes…yes…Daddy.”


READ THIS FIRST:

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

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

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

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

YOU MUST BE 18 or OVER IN AGE TO READ THESE STORIES.  THEY CONTAIN ADULT MATTERS INCLUDING SEXUAL ACTS, BONDAGE, TORTURE, AND OTHER FETISHISTIC ELEMENTS.  PLEASE BE WARNED THESE STORIES ARE NOT FOR THE FAINT-HEARTED.  AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, THESE STORIES ARE NOT FOR MINORS.

“Becoming Cupcake”

Chapter Seven – Daddy’s Little Girl

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmmppphh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmmmpppphhhh!”

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

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

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

But what happened next was even worse.

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

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

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

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

SMACK!

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

With precision, the assault continued…

SMACK!  SMACK!  SMACK!

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you…” stuttered Cupcake, choking tears.

“Thank you Mummy.” corrected Miranda.

Hesitation, and then…

“Thank you, Mummy.” said Cupcake.

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

Daddy who?

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

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

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

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

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

Head down.  “Yes, Mummy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“See what a messy little girl Cupcake is?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The mouth of her Mummy.

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

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