First Kiss

First Kiss

Copyright © 2018, Dave Potter

With thanks to Cafter Homme for the editing and suggestions.

Author’s note:

The following story is extremely different from most of those I write in both tone and content. I thought it up after reading some of the erotica penned by the famous author Anaïs Nin and was inspired to write something more in line with the length and tone that she writes in. That said, this is not a Nin tribute nor even a tale written in her manner: I am me and she was she and our tastes differ. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy it.

Dave Potter

 

Michael had always had the feeling that he should have been born in a different age. Perhaps it was because he had parents who were National Trust members and so spent half of his childhood being whisked through one stately home or another. Or possibly it was because he loved reading adventure stories involving knights and castles or World War I fighter pilots involved in daring dogfights. Whatever the reason, he always knew that where he should not be was in Year 12 at Trentham Road High Sixth Form in 1996.

What was the problem? The problem that every boy of that age has I suppose. Girls. He’d discovered them. He loved them. They hadn’t noticed him. His days were spent in a hormone-induced daze, gazing at the cleavage of Julia Jenkinson or the legs of Hannah Baines or the absolute complete perfection of Jenny Watkinson knowing that all were well and truly out of his reach. Even the middling Becky Robinson hardly casted a glance in his direction. It was excruciating.

And nowhere worse than A-level English. Was it his fault that God had made him a man with a passion for literature? The only man with a passion for literature. Four times a week, for an hour and ten minutes, he had to sit at a table with the aforementioned holy trinity of Trentham Road womanhood, plus eight more gorgeous babes whilst being lectured to on modern women’s poetry, George Eliot and Dorothy Wordsworth by Mrs. Cooper whose husband had just left her for a younger model. The moral of each tale seemed to be that all men are bastards and, as he was clearly the only bastard in the room, a dozen pairs of feminine eyes fixed upon him with thinly-veiled disgust.

And to make it worse, that discarded old maid had decreed that he be partnered with Jenny Watkinson, the most delectable of them all, and that every time they sat together, almost touching, her cute dimples when she smiled, her silky blonde hair, her sparkling blue eyes and her tantalising cleavage sent him into some sort of demonic mash-up of heaven and hell. And just to add insult to injury, in the evening when they were having their dinner, his mum would pipe up, “How was school today, son?” and “Are you still in the same group as Sandra Watkinson’s daughter. She’s quite a bonny lass, is she not? I went to school with her mum and she was pretty too. You should try asking her out one day, you know. They’re a lovely family.”

Ask her out? If only! He longed for what he could not have. To take Jenny Watkinson, nay, any one of those girls in English in his arms, to plant a kiss on her rosebud lips just as Stephen Guest does with Lucy Deane in ‘Middlemarch’, now that was beyond a dream. Their curves and smiles, smooth skin and sparkling eyes tempted and teased him continually, night and day, allowing no escape. They haunted his dreams and his waking and his member strained in his pants whenever he thought of them.

 

And being born in the wrong period, he looked to the past for relief. ‘Oh, if I were to just get married!’ he sighs to himself. He envied the Asians who have their marriages arranged for them by their parents. Wouldn’t that be easier! His mum and dad pick a suitable girl of the right class and it would be happily ever after. No embarrassment, no awkwardness. If only!


That Sunday they go to a National Trust property. While his mum and dad take gran to the tearoom, he wanders off on his own, through the dining rooms and drawing rooms. And as his feet wander, so too does his mind.

He imagines that 1996 is but a distant dream of the future and instead it is 1856. His mind transports him to that more genteel era when those lavish furnishings were new. Gone are the ‘Here to help!’ volunteers and the camera-laden pensioners and instead he is a guest at the local baronet’s annual garden party. He is a dapper young man of seventeen in a pressed morning suit whose parents have recognised that he is of the age; that they need to marry their son off to a suitable maiden so that he can start a family of his own. But who is the correct girl to choose? They have scoured the town for suitable candidates and have talked to the fathers of all the eligible girls. Michael is middle-class; they need a girl whose family are of similar standing. But Michael is intelligent too (he is expected to pass all four of his A-levels) and so they need a girl that will challenge him. But she should be kind and gracious also, well-mannered, healthy and, if possible, pretty. And, having done their work well, they know that only one girl fits the bill. He recalls the awkward first meeting with Miss Jennifer Watkinson in the sitting room of her house. She smiles at him and his heart melts. She is dressed in her best day dress, a delightful tiered creation in blue-grey satin with lace on the flounces, held wide by a large crinoline before diving into a delightfully tiny waist. He remembers the almost imperceptible creaks in the quiet room caused by her breathing against the strictures of the tight corset that created that wonderful waist and their polite yet nervous conversation with one another.

Feeling his rod stiffen, he heads outside.

He passes through the formal garden and into the maze. He wanders through the hedged pathways thinking only of the delightful maiden who will be his wife. Still in a daze, he reaches the centre where the bench stands under an arbour of roses and there, to his surprise, is his betrothed, his desire. She is wearing a walking dress of tartan print and has her bonnet on her head, her delightful face being framed by the large black bow that is tied under her chin. She too his lost to the world but, upon his arrival, she looks up.

“You came!”

“I could not wait!”

 

“It is so hateful there, all those people talking and staring. I so wished to get away, to be alone… with you.”

“I too, my darling.”

“Sit with me.”

He sits on the bench and smells her scent. Cautiously, he takes her gloved hand in his and squeezes it. She smiles, inviting more. He snakes his hand closer, around that rock-hard waist, caressing the stays and material that keep him from his desires. She gasps and moves her face towards him. “Michael, my love.”

“Jennifer, I shall always be yours!”

Their lips meet and he dissolves into bliss.

“Michael Shingler! What the fuck?”

He looks up. He is alone on the bench, his hand clasped around his penis, not her waist. But Jennifer Watkinson is there in front of him. The 1996 version.

He gasps and blushes. His rod collapses with the shock despite the flesh and blood sight of her in tight jeans and a figure-hugging top.

“Jenny! I… I was just… it wasn’t what it looks like and…”

“You were calling my name, declaring undying love and playing with… that.”

“I’m sorry, I, err… I thought I was alone and… don’t tell anyone, please.”

After a moment she smiles wickedly and strides over to him. He fumbles at his crotch trying to put the straining monster away but she places her elegant hand over his to stop him. “I won’t say anything if you tell me exactly what you were thinking of.”

“I wasn’t thinking of anything. Well, I was but…”

“The truth, Michael, the full truth or else! I heard you call my name from practically the other side of the garden, was it me?”

“Well…” He turns things over in his mind. Can he tell the truth? Will she mock him mercilessly? Will he ever be able to meet her sky-blue eyes again? Yet what could make things worse than now? He plunges into the icy water.

“Ye…yes, it w…w…was you. I was f…fa…fantasising about you. We all… I mean, all… all the boys do. But th…this was d…di…diifferent. It was you but… but not you… if th…that makes sense, which I… I know it doesn’t, but…”

“Tell me more. I am intrigued.” She sits close to him on the bench. Her hand has not moved from his crotch. He stiffens even further.

“It was you but not you now. I was in the past, a hundred and fifty years ago. Victorian times. This place, this house and gardens and everything. Our times are so crass and shallow. People screw each other and talk dirty. They bare all to the world and don’t care about anything. But back then, when this place was built, when women wore crinolines and corsets and people were polite; back then when the books we read in Mrs. Cooper’s class were written. Back then things were nobler and purer and… better. And in my fantasy we lived then. You were wearing a glorious dress with a wide crinoline and tight stays. I was dressed in a suit with a cravat. We were engaged; our parents made the match because we are the same class. We came to this place because it is private. On this bench we stole out first kiss and… and then…”

“…and then I came.”

“Yes. You came.”

She moves closer to him and he feels her breath on his cheek. She is breathing heavily as if her middle is constricted by a corset yet she wears only a t-shirt. She leans over to him and her hand encircles his tool. “In all those English lessons I wondered,” she whispers. “I wondered if anyone else was as entranced by those stories, if anyone else shared my fantasies, escaping to those simpler times. I never guessed that you were the one who did so completely, Michael Shingler, never in a thousand years. I never saw you as being so romantic.”

“Really? You… You… Yeah I always have wanted things to be like that. I was born in the wrong time.”

“Me too,” says Jenny Watkinson climbing on top of him. “Now, what were you saying about our first kiss…?”

 

 

Dollhood, A Woman’s Choice: Part 1

Dollhood, A Woman’s Choice

By Cafter Homme

Based on a story and outline by Dave Potter & Cafter Homme

This is a collaboration between myself and Dave Potter, revolving around a society that allows and appreciates forced surgical transformation. Not for the faint of heart.

Our story is set in the same alternative world as Dave’s The Tale of Anastasia, Doll Wife, Alison Becomes A Lady of Leisure and Dr. Edwards’ Special Birthday Present. However, whilst they are all set in the latter half of the 20th century, this takes place in the middle of the 21st. Therefore, technology has advanced and with it the possibilities to modify and control wives and companions, and this story aims to reflect this in the full.

This can be considered a sequel to An Artist’s Masterpiece, though it does not follow it chronologically, instead proposing that the freed Emily Rivers has released a modified version of that story to the public, skipping the self-incriminating elements in Book 5, setting off a public relations disaster for the Society of Dolls. Their response follows.

Cafter Homme


Cafter calls this story a collaboration between the two of us. In the early stages it was, but over the last six months or so, he has carried it forward whereas I let it die off. That would have been a shame since I think it’s an excellent work and I thank him for letting me publish it on this site. Please leave comments and criticism as he, like me, appreciates feedback greatly.

Dave Potter


Introduction

July 2049

Emily the doll stared mindlessly ahead, perched on the edge of her seat in the fine drawing room of the Hodgkinsons’ home, her gargantuan chest heaving up and down, each breath tugging on her two remaining wedding rings making her ever-sensitive nipples even sorer than they were before. Across from her sat Chastity and Hope Hodgkinson, the two daughters of the house. They both stared vacantly ahead, they both had heaving breasts, they both had minute waists, and they both were devoid of their arms. All three wore elaborate fleur-de-bouches in their mouths to stop the drool from exiting. All three had been modified into dolls.

Two automaids entered in their fineries, accompanied by a third pushing a cart, which carried their daily meals. In the corner of her locked vision she saw the two girls shift a bit in their place. Were they new to this, or perhaps even eager? Emily was neither. Upon the cart lay three clear rubber phalluses, revealing a core made of the finest looking nutritional mush this side of London. Her maid released the false flower in her mouth with an embroidered cloth placed below to prevent the discharge from falling onto her prominent chest and down her stays. Without further ado (for none was needed or offered), her attendant lodged the sizable feeding apparatus into her mouth. Her tongue and supplemental muscles went to work reflexively, slowly massaging out her food, and with nothing better to do but stare into empty space and guess which Hodgkinson doll would finish first, her thoughts drifted to the past…

The right-hand Hodgkinson doll finished her meal first. I know because I remember which attendant removed it’s charge’s feeder first, because that doll was me: Hope Hodgkinson. Well, that was my name before I married. Now I am Hope Collins, loving wife and property of John Collins. I am his wife but I am not a woman.

I am a Doll.

I remember Emily. Once upon a time, I envied her, I sincerely did. She was the example of a perfect woman, a happy woman, a true doll, and Father rightly believed that having such an example around once in a while would be good influence on my sister and I, so she was paraded before us by Father’s friend, Mr. Battersby, every other Sunday, and truly we all longed to be her. Of course, none of us remotely guessed how unhappy she was inside, as was to be revealed years later in her writings and activism. How could anyone be unhappy when they looked, moved, and behaved so wonderfully, so refined and elegant? How could anyone be unhappy if they were a doll with a man to love them, and beyond that an estate as luxurious as Humphrey’s?

Yes, we were quite naive.

Why did I shift a little in my place when our food was brought by the automaids? Was I trying to adjust my frozen gaze? Was I disturbed by it? Was I eager? Even now that question is hard to answer. That was a long time ago, and I was still a new doll at that time; “fresh out of the box” as the saying amongst the dolling community goes. I was eager because I was told that one should be, that this was what every girl wanted, that swallowing pureed food like that was the height of delicacy, efficiency: consumption without moving a voluntary muscle, refueling for our singular purpose.

Yet I was disturbed too, troubled; for I was beginning to sense that maybe, just maybe, everything they had told us might not be entirely accurate. For the first time in years I was bursting with questions, unafraid of the consequences, but only after losing the voice I had been given by God to ask them with. Why did the size and shape of the feeder feel so degrading; why did I miss my arms by my sides; why did I miss having the energy and ability to walk and run freely; why did I miss being able to talk to people and express my emotions?

Why did I miss my life before it was “perfect?”

These days, I am much more content. There is little that I miss and nothing that I regret. I am still a Doll and I am still John Collins’s wife, but much has changed. And so I offer you this chronicle as my quiet rebuttal to Emily Rivers (neé Lowood)’s writings on our community. She may wish to abolish the entire practice of Dollhood, and surely I see how her experience may inform that position, but I implore the reader to make their own opinions after reading my tale. This life is not without it’s unique joys.

But I am getting well ahead of myself. Instead, I should go back, way back, twenty years back, to when my beloved sister Chastity and I were still small children playing in the nursery, and our darling nanny was reading us a story…

 

Chapter 1

“…and so, the Lily stayed where the Gardener planted her, for He knew best. He would come along, every day, and shower her with water. Not too much, and not too little, because He was so wise, He knew exactly what she needed.

“Little Lily the Perfect Flower just gathered the rays the sun gave out as it admired her glow, making herself even more beautiful for all who walked through the garden. And the guests smiled, smelling the roses, and the chrysanthemums, until they finally came to the Perfect Flower. They would look at Sweet Lily, and wish that their gardens were so pretty, but they never knew the secret of her beauty. No, only she knew the secret.”

“What is it? What is it!?” We chimed in. Chastity and I had heard this story many times, but it was more fun when we pretended it was brand new.

Nanny smiled down at us, cross-legged in the garden, we couldn’t have been older than six or seven years old, “Well, the secret was that Lily always did what she was told! How could she be a Perfect Flower without the Gardener’s grand design? What if she had moved her pot to where she thought best, and then no sun had shone on her petals at all? No, it was His job to think, and hers to be silent and beautiful, because He said so. And Lily the Flower was happy, because she accepted this, and had made Him truly proud.”

Chastity giggled and clapped. This was her favourite story, and she was especially giddy once it reached its end.

“Now go along to the playhouse, girls! You have a little bit of time before your Pappa gets home.” With that, Chastity dashed off, but I remember taking my time, holding back. “What is it, Hope?”

This was one of those moments. As much as our Nanny treated us like we were her own flesh and blood, she still had to glance at the engraved H on the monogrammed locket about my neck sometimes to see which one I was, so absolutely identical were Chastity and I.

So I was never one of a kind, really.

“Miss, why aren’t you a doll like Mummy?” I remember the look on my nanny’s face like it was yesterday, a mix of puzzlement and restraint, like she had been preparing for this question since we were born, even though it quickly disappeared to the warm smile we always knew her for as I was picked up onto her lap. “Well I can’t be, no matter how much I want to. To be a true Lady, not of Leisure but of Dollhood, like your Mummy, an honorable nobleman would have to whisk away alllll my silly worries, pay for my changes, clip my wings, and then take care of me like I take care of you girls. Like the Strong Knight in yesterday’s story, remember? Or your husband someday. But that’s not my place, little one, that’s for good girls like you and your sister. You’ll understand when you grow up.”

I thought I understood then of course, like all kids do. That evening when we all sat in the drawing room watching the telly, that is, my whole family, I looked up from the plush rug to Mother seated on the chesterfield next to Pappa. She didn’t look down at me, I knew she couldn’t, but Father always told us how proud of us she was, how happy she was when we were behaving, or spending time with her. He would kiss her on the cheek often in those years, one hand holding her close and playing with her breast, as her only signs of life – blinking and breathing – would get faster and deeper as he did.

One of my warmest memories is getting up and sitting at her side, and resting my tiny hand on the semi-glossy plastic skin of her finely-manicured ones, daintily tied together in her lap with a white lace bow. She couldn’t move her arms to reciprocate, or tell us her love first-hand, but Pappa always told us she could still feel and hear everything, and he communicated for her, so we did our best to be on our best behaviour in her presence. You might think, as a Doll, silent and still, she wasn’t really a mother to us; I mean it’s common knowledge that Dolls need a surrogate to have children in the first place, but Chastity and I held our mother in the highest regard, like something expensive and fragile, like a silent angel watching over us. Oh how we wished to be her, to be a good wife for an honorable Knight, a careful Gardener.

 

Chapter 2

We grew with these tales and this life for many years, and our childhood was like anyone else’s, really; quite carefree for the most part. Pappa rarely let his business influence us, and only took Mother with him to events or dinners, at the bank or otherwise, so our large estate was like an oasis we rarely left, nor did we really want to. Living in the big city like I do now with John, I often miss those days just for the quiet. Early on, I had a deep-seated dream of traveling the world, like the adventurous men we saw during our thirty minutes of family telly-time after dinner, but a drive in the autocarriage with Nanny to the shops in Reading was usually enough to satisfy me. Wearing my small training gag and a bow around my wrists as we walked down the streets, I remember the stares and murmurs just out of earshot, which only got more prominent the older I became.

I knew why they stared, though: they just wanted to be me, nearly nobility and a future member of the exclusive Ladies of Dollhood. But all of them were like Nanny, who walked beside me with a hand against my back, free to do anything she liked whether it was driven by Noble intentions or those of lust, hate, jealousy, sloth, anything at all sinful. As much as they wanted, these people simply did not have the means to become a true woman; an untainted, essential woman, and that was really sad. To tell you the truth, I was usually uncomfortable in public for this reason, a sort of guilt I carried around, so my yearnings for travel and adventure faded with age.

Chastity on the other hand had taken to the nursery stories of untamed wilderness and proletariat horror much faster than I. I think she felt unsafe when not within the Hodgkinson Estate’s grounds from an early age. Even an untended garden at the home of one of Father’s work colleagues was enough to unsettle her, and if you had asked her in those years, it would have seemed to her that the Soviets and the destitute and a live polar bear were all right outside of those gates at the end of our drive. That said, I was not so immune myself, and so we held onto the simplicity of childhood for as long as we could. Days of study were interchanged with etiquette training, womanly values, and play. We were taught womanly crafts like fine embroidery, but not with the intention of mastery, of course there was no time for that, just pleasant recreation. And truly, we wanted for nothing.

Yes, those early years were carefree and insulated, but we had always known there was a role for us to play, and Chas and I were getting antsy. At age thirteen, finally, we were given our training gloves, made of fine white leather, one for each of us. I still remember that day clearly. I was sooooo excited! That was the day we began our transition, ceasing to exist as children and starting our journey to be adults, well… women, well… Dolls.

Our Mother was led to the chesterfield across from us to watch. It wasn’t ceremonial per se, but it was still an important moment in every young Doll’s life. You wouldn’t believe it, but her pleasantly empty, blinking stare always kept us on our best behaviour, in a way that only our Nanny’s rarely-used yardstick came close to.

The gloves were made out of the finest dyed leather and they both looked and smelled wonderful. I let Nanny waft it under my nose first like a rose, breathing in the aroma of the finely-worked material deeply before I obediently placed my arms behind my back, clasping the two hands together and let her work this new, magical, big-girl item onto me. I locked eyes with my Mother for the whole time, staring, head held high in pride, smiling with my lips parted slightly, imagining I was her already.

That was the beginning. The introduction. The day when I began to have my independence taken away and my reliance on others increased. To some people that must sound like a nightmare, but to Chastity and I, brought up as we had been to embrace the Dollhood ideal from before we could even walk, it was like heaven. Real ladies were totally dependent because they could be. Poor ladies wished to be like that but did not have the option; the privilege, the responsibility to shed all responsibility. We did so because we were blessed, and also obligated to be an example for the rest of Britain.

Even so, when Nanny started to work the glove properly onto me, securing the strap that went across my collarbones and then beginning on the laces that ran the length of it, for a moment, a second or more, I did not feel quite so blessed. My smile faltered and inside, I panicked. It hurt! The strain on my arms and shoulders as the laces slowly but surely brought those two wings, formerly so free and mobile, together was unexpectedly severe. There began a dull ache and within moments it grew. I yearned to cry out but I did not, I couldn’t let myself. This was what I had longed for! So I bit my lip and tried to put on a false face for our Nanny, for Mummy.

Nanny knew me too well, though. That and the fact that a solitary tear had escaped my left eye against my best efforts. “Now, now then,” she said softly, ceasing the lacing and stroking my hair. Then she got out her handkerchief and wiped that tear away. And in that simple gesture I finally understood, and my heart leapt with joy! She had wiped it away because I was unable to, just like Mummy! I was becoming a doll, a real living doll! I looked across at Chastity who was patiently waiting to be fitted after me, hands clasped behind her, and she smiled too.

Nanny did not lace me up any further. She declared that it was was tight enough for my first day and moved on to fasten Chastity. When she had finished, we stood up and stared at one another, mirror images that we were, aside from our golden lockets. My sister looked so feminine and elegant in her pink satin skirt, her arms drawn behind her like that so, from the front at least, she appeared to be totally armless.

We quickly ran to sit beside Mother, leaning into her warmth. We were becoming closer and closer to her every day!

Later that day, both Chastity and I were feeling the glove’s effects, trying to help each other redistribute the pressure, but it was no use. As much as we tried to rub our backs together, neither of us could massage away the tight pain the monogloves caused us in our shoulders and arms.

“My darlings,” said Nanny after she had found us fiddling, “I know it hurts a little, but be strong; the pain will deaden with time and one day, when you both truly graduate as dolls, that pain will be gone completely, as too will those infernal arms that caused it. Until then though, you must endure with femininity and grace.”

Knowing our sweet Nanny was right, we both smiled and curtseyed. I went to her to give her a hug but then realised that I could no longer perform that action of affection. It made me sad. Being helpless for some things was an honour and a privilege, but I still wanted to show love somehow.

We went downstairs to present ourselves to Father when he arrived home from work, but when the doors were opened, to our surprise, a huge party had assembled in secret in the gardens – friends and relatives, Ladies of Leisure, and many Living Dolls! Pappa gave a speech about the start of our journey and we danced and smiled and, when we wished to eat or drink, someone in Nanny’s staff always fed us. It was strange yet fun, disconcerting yet enjoyable.

And it was only the beginning.

 

Chapter 3

We had been wearing our gloves for around a year and had celebrated our fourteenth birthdays in them when the next stage in our dollification came. By this time our behaviour had already altered considerably. Gone were the desires to do things for ourselves, the subconscious attempts to pick something up, or hold someone, before we would realize yet again that such acts were now impossible. Gone too was the pain. Our arms were totally dead for most of the time these days; the only time they sprang into life was each evening when the glove was removed and our assistant maids massaged them thoroughly. As the nerves unpunched and the blood rushed back into them, so too did the pain and it was far from pleasant. I recall, early on, balking at this one evening, tears in my eyes, and asking why it was necessary since we wouldn’t be using them anyway. After all, why wake them up when there was no work to be done?

“My dear,” Nanny had replied, “you are quite clever, which is nice in its own way, and truly it makes my teaching easier, but cleverness is not becoming in a young lady who aspires to become a perfect doll like her Mummy. You should empty your mind of questions and thoughts like that; they are quite unfeminine.”

I remember feeling ashamed when she said this and I apologised quickly, but she merely smiled and hugged me, as my arms rested at my sides, the instincts of reciprocation long forgotten.

“But,” she continued with a wink, “since you asked; I assure you, my dove, the massages are quite necessary, for although your arms are no longer needed and you won’t be using them, you must remember that they are still attached to your body, and still your burden as a young Doll. If they were left restrained all the time, then they could become infected and gangrene could set in which is very very dangerous.”

“Why not just clip my wings now then, so I can become more ladylike?” I asked, before realizing that this was yet another of those sort of questions that dolls do not ask.

“Because of the law, my darling. Silly men in the government have decided that it is illegal to let little girls become dollies before they are sixteen, and so amputations and the other wonderful modifications that you shall soon be blessed to receive are not allowed yet. They think that it is because they are bad for the women themselves and so you must choose to become a doll, which means that you must be an adult and give your formal consent or marry a husband who gives his. An early arrangement would have helped but last year these they made the age of marriage sixteen as well. These are silly people, followers of stupid ideas like communism and socialism and liberalism and a whole host of other silly ‘isms’ that unfeminine people like.”

This revelation was a shock to me. Fourteen years old and never before had I even heard a hint that there were some people who not only didn’t want to be Dolls (or want their Ladies to be Dolls), but who would actively stop others from doing so, too! In my heart I hated them for keeping my future from me, and I made a silent promise to God to never take notice of any silly “isms”. I also prayed for my permanent transition to come with more haste so I wouldn’t be able to ask any more silly questions again and so accidentally become unladylike before I realised it. My chances for a proper husband were soon to be on the line!

My dream came partly true that year. One day in Spring we were called into the drawing room where both Mother and Father were waiting for us. Mother sat silently, staring into the mid-distance with a lavender fleur-de-bouche blooming from her mouth, her enormous chest rocking with every breath, and her useless hands clasped in the waste of her flowing dress, but Father warmly greeted us, kissed our cheeks, and then announced proudly that, because we had both been such good girls and laced our armbinders fully with our elbows touching, he had decided to move the next stage in our dollification forward by a couple of months. We would have clapped in glee if still able or inclined, I tell you!

And there and then we were presented with a beautiful gag each. Of course, we were overwhelmed and gratefully kissed both him and Mother before he ceremonially fitted our new, big-girl items on our innocent faces.

We had worn practice gags before, of course: small, hard balls of white or pink rubber fastened with a strap that we wore with pride at social gatherings or when we were out for a stroll on the high streets in nearby Reading. But they did not really silence us and could, if we wanted, be pushed out partially with our tongues. These new gags were different affairs entirely, and I watched with excitement as Chastity was fitted with hers first. The glorious item consisted of a white leather panel edged in lace, with her name stitched into it in gold thread, which covered the entire lower part of her face, obliterating her pretty mouth and lips completely, and was fastened with two straps behind her head. Once in, a pump was attached to it and the bulb squeezed repeatedly, inflating the gag behind the panel until her cheeks bulged like a squirrel’s. After that the bulb was detached and she was silenced and elegant. Testing it slightly, just a few utterances, a nursery rhyme too, and realizing just how little could be heard past the mass in her mouth, Chastity twirled on the spot, sending her dress blooming through the air, after which her eyes were full of beaming joy! Then came my turn.

As the gag was fitted I noticed indentations for my teeth that must have been from the casting taken at the dentist’s office the month before. The straps were tightened around my head and the leather panel fit quite comfortably below my nose, from ear to ear. At this stage the gag was no problem, but when the pumping began and it expanded inside my mouth, it felt quite strange indeed and also a little scary, particularly when my mouth became so full that I could make no sound at all and my eyes watered. But this discomfort was more than offset by the pride inside me: pride in the fact that I was becoming such a Lady and so dependent that I was now old enough to live without the use of not only my arms but also my mouth!

We bounced up and down in front of our parents in silent excitement before Father sat us down next to Mother and took our picture.

 

Chapter 4

Ladies of Leisure may take breaks from their gags, but the lot of them were lowly in our eyes; noncommittal. If you are going to entrust your body to the man in your life, which all noblewomen must do by law now anyways, it must be fully wrested from your control! That is the only way to express your true devotion: so we were taught, and so it is.

So after that day, my gag stayed put nearly all of the time, pumped so as to suppress noise and any movement of the tongue. Nanny told us that when we grew up and became proven Dolls-to-be, they would be replaced by elegant fleur-de-bouches, but since we were very much still in training, a gag was more appropriate as these could be locked shut and not spat out. And indeed, I must confess, during those first few weeks in particular, had I been wearing a fleur-de-bouche instead, I probably would have spat it out!

It was so frustrating you see, not being able to communicate with anyone. I couldn’t ask for anything, nor tell people things that I wanted them to know. At first, on countless occasions, I tried, the only result being an unfeminine groaning noise. Chastity adapted easily and I think she only groaned on two or three occasions after our fitting, but for me, who was always the more headstrong, I did it time after time before catching myself At first Nanny chastised me, but when the problem continued past the first week, she instituted a regime whereby every groan or whimper resulted in five paddles on my bottom that evening. After a week or two of a sore bum, it worked, and within a month even the thought of trying to speak left my head. That is how dollification works, I see it now; through repeated behaviours, routine, for better or for worse.

Unable to speak – save at mealtimes – and unable to use our hands, gradually our days changed. We played less, talked and sang not at all, and instead began to just sit there, in whatever room we had been left in, unable to open any door, locked or not. Games of ‘Hide and Seek,’ ‘Blindman’s Bluff,’ or even ‘Tea Time’ became far less frequent as we replaced them with ‘Doll in the Dollhouse’ or ‘Best Mummy.’ And with this change in focus, came more changes in lifestyle, or at least, in dress.

The first change came the very next day after we were first fitted with our gags. We awoke in the morning – still gagged I may add – with our golden bracelets clipped to the headboard, and after bathing and attending to our toilette, after our arms were laced into their glove but before we donned our day dresses, our maids fitted us with something most unexpected: a pair of padded, absorbent cotton nappies each. I longed to ask quite why we were to wear something that we hadn’t needed since we were toddlers, something babyish, not adult at all, but I could not and so I simply assented as I always did. However, later that day during our morning lesson, Nanny explained that since we could no longer speak nor open doors for ourselves, then it may be that if we needed the toilet, we could not attract the attentions of a maid or servant, and so the nappies were there to prevent accidents.

I should add here that regarding our toilet habits, at no point had we been expected to clean ourselves. From the earliest days of childhood our maids had wiped and perfumed our bottoms after discharging waste, and enemas were quite common. Thus it was that there was no significant change here after we started to wear our armbinders. I’ve been told recently that this is not the norm.

It was only the very next day that I was forced to use my nappy, as the maids had failed to notice the desperation in my silent eyes as they led us to a visit with Mother in her Doll Room. Unlike before the gag, when we would have hinted our need to “refresh ourselves” like any proper lady would, I had no idea how to signal my needs save for an improper stomping fit right there in the hallway, which surely would have resulted in a harsh paddling or perhaps even the rarely-used cane. So I was left in the bright pink Doll Room with Mother and Chastity, silently emoting to the maid’s back as she closed the door behind her. I sat there for a while, but the pressure only kept building until I could no longer focus my eyes on the wall with the correct level of sultry indifference. I promptly stood up, and began to pace about as gracefully as I could in my well-trained glide to distract myself from what was now likely inevitable.

Mother was of course no help, as she stood silently on her doll stand, the phallic massager buzzing away, muffled under the layers of her dress, as her forceful breaths escaped from under the lovely pink lace choker about her neck, chest rising and falling as she trembled. The doll stand, which she was put on twice a day to save her from the endless sitting of her sedentary lifestyle, held her between the legs like a penetrating saddle, much like a Doll’s special toilette. At that age we didn’t really understand what was happening to her, save for that it was “normal maintenance, terribly necessary for Mummy’s well-being,” as Father had put it.

And so I looked to Mummy’s pouting face, blank as always, the only one I had ever seen, blinking away automatically even as it took on a rosy glow from her exertion. Her eyes did not focus on me, they never had, but I knew she could still see me. So I silently asked from behind my embroidered golden ‘Hope’ for her to somehow tell me how she managed it all day, every day. It was like a prayer to God asking for strength, for the chance of a reply back to my pleading eyes from her was as good as one from on high.

And there and then I filled my nappy.

The second change came only weeks later, when Nanny stepped into our playroom only to find us far from Best Mummy like we had been assigned to play, but something else, something long-forbidden. I can just picture how we must have looked; splayed out on the carpet with our shoes and socks pulled off, dresses bunched up around our hips trying to play Patty Cake silently with our bare feet one day. Chas had of course been mortified when I suggested it, kicking her and gesturing with my eyes in our secret language, but we were sisters and best friends so she would never tattle on me, and besides; I could tell that even Chastity was getting bored with Best Mummy. It did not take much skill to stare at a point on the wall and keep as still as possible, and my unladylike impatience made her the easy winner every time. But using our feet was strictly taboo, and we knew this. Bare feet were only to be seen at bedtime, and we had always been told: “A pen between toes only ever wrote what the devil was thinking.” Even as big-girls, with hands numb in their restraints, we dared not stoop that low.

But her boredom and my curiosity met halfway, and so we kicked off our shoes and plopped ourselves down on the playroom carpet like kids again, helping each other remove our socks with our toes. Using our bound arms as support behind us we raised our legs, silently giggling as we tried to ‘clap’ our feet in the old rhythms, myself even going so far as to moan the nursery rhyme behind my gag to keep us in step, though it overrode my newly-ingrained instincts with difficulty. But, if we were going to go through with this, we had to do it right. And that’s when the door opened.

And when Nanny found us committing our shameful act, we received twenty paddles each with our nappies pulled down, plus five for me when I moaned at her. I had merely been trying tearfully to tell Nanny it was all my fault, to spare Chastity, but she cared not and I learned a valuable lesson about Dollhood. Oh, I can feel the soreness of my behind like it was yesterday. Afterwards, we never wore slippers and socklets that we could kick off again. Instead we were always clothed in light sheer stockings or thick thigh-high socks – depending on the weather – which were securely clipped to new garter belts over our nappies. This covering was accompanied by new shoes with both a lockable buckle, and a significant heel.

This brought our days of running about, and the essence of our childhood, to a close. The tight heels, while much much lower than the steep shoes that Mother wore, kept our once-confident steps trepidatious and mincing for months. What’s more, it seemed that whenever we grew comfortable in our new footwear, we would be greeted the next morning with slightly higher heels, increasing ever so slightly, keeping us on our toes, so-to-speak. Of course, Chastity and I had always begged to wear “heels like Mummy” when we were younger, so we were only appreciative and proud once the punishment was long forgotten.

And in the end, Chas and I got what we had really wanted in the first place. After our charade nearly flew under the radar, we were rarely left alone to play Best Mummy anymore. No, now we spent much more time with Nanny and our maids, keeping us far more active either in the gardens, or the drawing room, and we were even taken with Mother to the township for her visits to Layton’s along with all the other Ladies and Dolls of the area, though we weren’t old enough for anything but the nail and hair salon and those refreshing, tinctured enemas. But just becoming more active, in our own way, left us quite content with our lives.

And of course we never tried to use our feet again.

 

Chapter 5

Our fifteenth year was quiet, and we had less and less influence to change it too, as our Nanny had us focused on gait training, etiquette, and other preparations for our departure to St. Werburgh’s Finishing School for Young Ladies. At that fine establishment we would be given the education and training our resident nanny and governess could not, for she was not a Doll herself. Like all new dolls, Chas and I had always been expected to spend the last of our formative years at the west London boarding school, as the educators there would refine us into a shining example of pure womanly values – and teach us some things that were not so pure, but necessary for our future roles – so indeed we were very eager.

Our preparations for that departure started one cold January day during reading time. I was perched on the edge of a lounger next to my own personal automaid, a Christmas gift from Pappa who had let our common maids go the day before. Oh you wouldn’t believe those early generations, they had such class! She was the newest model, he had boasted proudly to us, and her handmade porcelain mask had rouged cheeks and a lovely carved relief of a woman with her eyes closed, a gentle smile upon her face. She was wonderful! And, as a cherry on top, her forehead had been inscribed ornately with a monogram ‘H’ just like on my locket, and my gag, to alert all that she was mine, all mine! Of course Chastity’s was adorned similarly with a golden ‘C.’ Oh, you should have seen how quickly we stepped toward Pappa on that Christmas morning, even on our clicking, unsteady heels, crying silently in joy and gratitude as his burly arms hugged us tightly, exactly what we had wanted to do in return.

Ah yes, preparations. As I was saying, about a month later I was seated next to my new maid in the drawing room, who had been instructed by Nanny to run a five-star massage program my shoulders and neck and then my feet as I read a pre-selected book. This was of course a luxury we had not been afforded before, only able to watch quietly as our Mother was lavished tirelessly by her own automaid all day. Keep in mind, like in Emily’s tales, they were still quite new then, and expensive even for Father, but the Society had deemed them a necessity for all Dolls just a few years before and in the long run they were far cheaper than a real maid.

Trying my best to be still under the heavenly touch of my servant’s vibrating plastic fingers, I tapped my heel against the floor to request for her to turn the page. The book, A Concise History for Dolls, was written a tad simply for my tastes, but I knew Chastity had a hard time keeping up. Had she been a boy, where complete comprehension was a requirement for acceptance into a proper college, I’m sure she would’ve been raising her hand to ask questions, but instead she simply squinted at a word she did not understand, as her automaid soon flipped the page without her cue to keep her moving along. Chas looked over and signalled to me in our secret language of nods and gazes that she would rather just hear it from the telly, and I couldn’t help but agree politely, even though I felt quite the opposite. I wanted to ask a million questions and read another book about this page alone.

Nanny called for us, and in perfect unison our automaids closed our books, put them back on the shelf and returned to help us rise gracefully onto our heels, so we could be led in silence up the stairs and to our bed and dressing rooms.

When we got there I gave a sharp intake of breath and glanced across at Chas. For there, lying on our beds in extravagant boxes were two special garments that we had both looked forward to wearing for so long: our first stays. This was it, this was what years of weighing and meal planning and measuring had been for.

In moments we were eagerly shuffling into position by the bed so the automaids could fit those beautiful garments around our young and yet-unformed bodies. I remember feeling like such an adult when Nanny did up the busk clasps, thinking, “This is what real Ladies – and Dolls – must wear.” I was a child no longer.

But with maturity comes responsibility: the responsibility to maintain our figures. This subject Nanny explained as we were slowly laced up, how to many potential owners our worth would be directly related to our hip to waist ratio. At first it felt good, like a hugging embrace, warm and welcoming, stirring my unformed fantasies of being embraced by a handsome boy. But then I began to worry; I was struggling to catch my breath as the laces slowly forced the metal-ribbed stays inward, the dreamy embrace becoming relentless. I started to panic, my eyes darting around frantically as I panted, hyperventilating through my nose.

“Come now, child! Breathe from your upper body only!” Nanny instructed. But what does that mean and how does one do it? I know now of course; the tiny intake of breath that I enjoy today is always gained that way, but back then I was still a child and inexperienced.

And still the laces closed, inwards and inwards, strangling the life out of me. I heard cracks and creaks and wondered if they were my bones being broken, wondered if this was not my transfiguration under duress. They weren’t broken of course; instead only the sounds of the corset itself adjusting, but I was scared and my breath was coming in ragged gasps. Eventually Nanny ordered the laces be tied off and I was allowed to recover a little. But how could I, for now I realised how rigid the stays forced me to be. I tottered around the room on my heels, rocking from side to side trying to adjust. It was hard. Yes, perhaps that was the first moment when I truly began to realise that life as a living doll was going to be very hard indeed.

Much harder than I had previously imagined. Much harder than all my lessons had ever indicated.

It was in the months that followed that first fitting of a corset that I started to have doubts and unease. They were slight, nothing major, but they were there. Before all had been clear, proper and perfect: I was born to be a Doll and to be a Doll was the very best thing that a young Lady could aspire to for the only truly happy Lady is a Doll. Other Ladies may glimpse happiness from time to time, but a Doll lives it each and every day. She sits there, rigid and beautiful, the very vision of perfection for her owner until he wishes to use her as is his wont to do, and it is truly marvellous. She loves it, she is never bored, and she is never uncomfortable.

She simply is.

But after that corset was fitted, along with all the other restraints once again, all was not perfect. Try to imagine it if you can – and I understand that you most probably cannot, but please, try anyway: Only a few years before this I had been a child, a young girl, living much as you did most probably when you were that age. I played games, ran around and lived in a wonderful world of make-believe. But then I had the use of my arms taken away from me and after that my voice. Actually, ‘taken’ is the wrong word: I eagerly gave them away. And scarcely had I come to terms with that when my feet were trained to perch unsteadily on heels, which meant that free movement came to an end and the best I could ever do was an unsteady mince – far harder without one’s arms to steady oneself, I can tell you!

This was all well and fine, to be honest. An adjustment I was prepared and eager for, certainly, but not a test of my resolve like what I tell you now. Before, there had been respite from the discomfort in my feet upon sitting, relief in my mouth when eating, relief in my arms when they were unbound and clipped to the headboard at night. But now there was no escape from this, for every breath was an effort, the slightest movement an exertion, a constant pressure around the middle that caused one to sit ramrod straight at all times. Nanny would say “with dignity.”

Easy chairs were out of the question, only standing fully relieved the pain, yet that caused similar discomfort to the feet after some time. My days were now sedentary, a constant internalized battle to achieve an impossible modicum of comfort. My nights were now restless, the evening stays only a hair more forgiving than those worn during the day. The books for young Dolls-to-be had never trained for this. They had surely warned it was taxing, but that description had been oft followed by others, such as ‘elegant,’ ‘essential,’ or ‘like a man’s embrace.’

Yet even at this stage, I thought the problem was me. I should not have been looking for escape from the most joyous experience a young woman could have! Certainly, Chas had adapted well and did not shift so much as I did, and I could tell by her small gestures that she was happy in a way that I was not. But I knew the cause, I knew it well, my shame: I was simply not as feminine, as assenting, as submissive as her; as any virtuous woman should be. The path that we were following was the correct one, but it was I who was falling short. In other words, I needed some more training, a proper education.

Which was all well and good, for that April we were both enrolled at St. Werburgh’s School for Girls, the principal academy for producing Dolls in England.

 

Chapter 6

I recall the day that Chastity and I left for school most vividly, and not for the reasons you would expect. Yes, our final day at home was terribly exciting; with friends and family all visiting, wishing us the best on our journey toward Dollhood. So many people came that the front doors were practically wedged open! Of course, with us being domestic hostesses in training and the center of attention today, Chastity and I stood in our heels all morning, silent behind our monogrammed namegags to ease the confusion of our likenesses, nodding along to courteously uncomplicated questions. Nanny had us on our absolute best behaviour, curtseying for each guest that visited, even as our feet grew tired and our chests grew warm. It did not matter: we were silent and overjoyed in the celebratory air, breathing it all in with short gasps, for soon we would be gone.

The men were raucous; uncles, neighbours, and coworkers patting Father on the back and shaking his hand on a job well done, a select few even taking us aside to assess our stock for a potential marriage before the heat of next year’s Society Season! Oh, he was so proud! Pappa insisted on a visual assessment only, but the large hands of our potential fathers-in-law and even a couple Society Scouts still ended up on our newly-sensitive areas. The women, whether they were Ladies or Dolls, were all silent and demure of course, but I noticed expressions of warmth and respect from the Ladies who could give it, and that warmed me significantly, reaffirming my inner desire to live up to theirs and my family’s expectations.

One Lord Chittenham, whom we had not previously met, arrived in a sports-carriage and greeted Pappa quite warmly, unexpectedly so, but Chastity and I almost forgot to curtsey upon the sight of his Doll. As Chittenham raved on to us girls about our father’s previously unheard-of excellence on the college rugby pitch (a complex game that mystifies me), my wide eyes could not stray from her chocolate skin. But the tone is truly not what held my gaze wide in shock, it was how much of it we could see! His Doll, who we later heard him call Belle, would have been arrested for indecent exposure if she had been left on her own in public.

She was clad in not the densely woven and layered fineries of most contemporary ladies but instead in merely a shawl of delicate white lace, which hung over her fashionably empty shoulders and shone brilliantly in contrast to her African complexion, and left nothing to the imagination. Her severe corset covered her midsection but had quite mis-sized cups, or so we thought with innocence at the time, as they left her gigantic breasts exposed as if on a shelf for their display, valentine heart-shaped areola and all.

Belle’s nether regions were on similar display, but we dared not look too closely. Such interest from another woman was deviously improper. Belle’s bare legs led down to vertical ballet heels, continuously stepping as she balanced precariously, even as her face showed not a hint of the exertion she must have been under, a thick-lipped smile frozen on her plasti-skin face. Her eyes too were more joyous than most Dolls, perhaps frozen in that design to resist the internal shame she must have felt at being left effectively nude at such a formal occasion.

We noticed Mummy shake at the sight and click her heel but no one heeded her save for Pappa’s “Hush now, darling.” I don’t believe she approved, looking back, but to which part I have no idea, probably all of it, race included. Chastity and I were far too shocked to opine, but even our sheltered minds knew that this was not the promised future we had been looking forward to. Father had told us stories of men such as this, and how important it was to pick a proper husband for Dolls, as defenseless as we are, but those cautious stories were mostly for the purpose of our understanding of his responsibilities, not learning, as we knew we would be quite incapacitated by the time the Season and talk of betrothal was a serious concern; and what a silly thought, a woman picking her own husband!

Pappa looked Belle up and down, eyes settling on the leash in her husband’s hand, and remarked to Lord Chittenham, “The years haven’t tamed you one bit, old boy, have they?”

I could see the landed man chuckle wryly. Though both were in their mid-40s, he was actually surprisingly handsome, and far fitter than Pappa. “Alan!! I’m hoping they haven’t tamed you, old friend. I have a proposition for you and your Lady now that your roost is emptying, oh my apologies, girls, grown-up affairs.”

I remember Pappa looking uncomfortably curious, gesturing the man and his exotic wife to his personal study so they could talk privately. Chastity and I had only a moment to look at each other nervously before more visitors arrived to join the others all lunching in the garden out back.

Pappa and Chittenham emerged nearly half an hour later rip roaring in laughter, Pappa adjusting his belt as if just relieving himself in the washroom as men do on their own, Chittenham’s Doll strutting precariously behind, and I noticed Mummy beside me shift from foot to foot, she didn’t seem to like Lord Chittenham at all. All I heard before our departure was mention of a couples vacation to one of Chittenham’s estates under the Mediterranean sun.

Our mother’s unrefined behaviour following that news was shocking to the both of us – she almost kicked Pappa a couple times with her heel for his attention – especially since in all of our years we had never seen her misstep from perfect Doll mentality save for during a few slight injuries and ailments. But we could not have asked her for her opinion if we tried, and truly she should not have been trying to give it. It was not our place as Dolls! Besides, who doesn’t want a vacation? A short spanking there in the hall set her straight, for a while at least.

The rest of the morning was mostly uneventful, with continued pleasantries as guests joined and departed. This said, there was still a sizeable gathering present when it was time for us to depart, and so around noon we silently watched the automaids haul out our brand new travelling trunks to the waiting autocarriage in the driveway and Pappa unlaced the bow around Mummy’s dainty arms which usually held them in front of her so politely. Holding her limp hands, Pappa ushered us between the two of them and we had a big family hug as a photographer snapped our photo.

This is when the trouble started.

Just when we thought her inelegant tendencies were behind us, Mummy suddenly tottered forward unaided and unbidden and stood between us and the door of the autocar, her untied arms swinging crudely by her sides. We looked at one another, at her and at Pappa: what on earth had gotten into her? We could see her breath quickening but her face of course showed no hint as to her motives, and she was as silent as ever. At the time our father simply laughed and jokingly said, “Oh darling, you don’t want to see your two baby dolls leave, now do you?  Well neither do I, but if you love them as I know you do, please don’t embarrass them so in front of everyone.”

Mummy’s stance softened as she twisted to align her frozen gaze with the party of guests, watching with curiosity and fright from the grand entrance, and Pappa took that moment to grasp her by the shoulders and direct her strongly until she was in the hands of her automaid, now left to struggle against the iron grip around her corseted midsection. And struggle she did even as weak as she was, but once Mummy had been moved to one side, Pappa motioned us, Nanny, and our automaids into the running autocar, our school’s address already pre-set in the dashboard.

At the time, I thought Mummy’s last stand had something to do with her silent displeasure earlier in the day, but looking back retrospectively, I do wonder if it was in fact an act of rebellion, an attempt to show us that she knew what our fate was to be and she wished to prevent it. Perhaps so, or perhaps not; I have often wondered.

What I do know, and Chastity did not see this for she was seated forward in the driverless carriage, but as I looked back on the waving mass of our small Society, I saw Pappa’s genial smile falter when he turned back to our silent Doll mother, still stamping her heel in the perfectly tended white gravel, and as you will soon read, their relationship was never the same.

 

Chapter 7

The ride was short, just under two hours to get from our home near Reading to St. Werburgh’s in Chiswick in the women’s lane of the M4, but the time ticked away. Nanny was quiet, peering out the window at the autocars in the standard lanes zipping by, our automaids were charging from the fuel cells, and Chastity and I were taking a much needed rest (or as much rest as our elaborate traveling wear allowed).

I looked over at Chastity, who had her eyes closed but I could tell wasn’t asleep. Her head was proudly upright like mine and her panel gag was moving slightly, no doubt suckling on the inflated bulb which silenced her. Chastity liked to practice kissing boys, which was rather silly: real Dolls don’t kiss back, we are designed to receive passion and embody it, induce it in others, not give it actively. Everybody knows that, but I left her to her fantasies of the future. No doubt the talk of potential marriages earlier in the day had her head abuzz like it did mine but, and I say this as a sincere compliment, Chastity was always more easily entertained. For this I have always been jealous: simpleness is a virtue for a Doll.

For example, though we were both brought up to appreciate the fineries we wear, Chastity really loved fashion, while I only cared enough to keep up appearances (not that either of us had any choice in the matter anymore). But knowing her, Chastity probably loathed our new school outfits: they were far too plain for her tastes. I’ll describe it, you may agree.

Her golden hair ran down over one shoulder in gentle ringlet curls, the only colour on a black and white dress suitable for an underage Lady-to-be that covered not only her chest but also her monoglove in the back in a single large sleeve. The dress came to six inches above her ankles, which like mine had been further elevated to the school’s minimum heel height of five inches only two weeks prior. Over top of all sat a dark grey traveling coat, a sleeveless cover of firm, warm, felt padding that sat on our shoulders and zipped down the back. These always made me feel like fine furniture being moved, which was such a lovely feeling! Not so lovely was the discomfort of reclining into the seat with our arms bound behind us, a rare but familiar feeling from our day-trips to Reading. How did Ladies of Leisure live like this for their whole lives? It was a true shame the Dollmakers couldn’t just take these useless appendages already!

My gaze settled on the autocars for a while, then on Nanny. We would not be seeing her for quite some time, as only mechanical help, Dolls, and Dolls-to-be were allowed inside St. Werburgh’s doors, save for during celebrations, graduation, and the like. Her simple grey coat covered the simple maid’s uniform she always wore, and though I had grown used to the woman’s firm but caring guidance my whole life, I only now realized how much I was going to miss her, and the home I had grown up in, and my youth, which was about to come to an end. I began to tear up, looking at her, and wanted so badly to tell her how I felt, thank her for the years of being a common mother to Chastity and me, but I never got the chance. Nanny’s attention was occupied with reading her tablet when I saw her brow furrow, “Oh dear.”

Only a few minutes later we were off the motorway, onto the high street, and turning at the grand gated archway leading into the courtyard of St. Werburgh’s Finishing School. And Nanny was quietly panicking. She had tried to reset the destination to go back to the Hodgkinson Estate but it was no use, it was controlled by Pappa’s hands only, as the law stated the autocarriage must be. It seems we were missing a part of the required outfit, but I of course could not ask which.

Even as Nanny fumbled about activating the automaids on the back of their necks, Chastity and I were wide-eyed, looking around at the courtyard of our new home, until she curtly commanded, “Heads up, eyes forward, girls. Hope, I’m quite serious. Unfocused and inviting, like we practiced. As far as I’m concerned, from here on out you two are Dolls, and so you must behave like such. This school is not known for its leniency, any misbehaving will be heard by me and your father. Understand?”

We did not signal our understanding in any way, save for a gentle tapping of our heel on the carriage floor.

“Excellent, my doves. I’m going to miss you both so very much.” I stifled another tear as she stepped out of the large door, followed by each of us, unsteady on our heels but supported by a strong hand from our automaids.

Upon rising, we saw a Doll and her automaid standing by the main doorway step toward us. She had quite an imposing figure for a Doll, not rail-thin like most, but at my mother’s age (or older, it’s so hard to tell with the plasti-skin), she must have grown up just before in vitro gene therapy coaxed the tendency toward weight gain out of us born to be Dolls and Ladies. This stated, her breasts looked far more natural because of these curves, even though they were probably double to triple what they would have been if she were an unmodified commonwoman, and her extreme waist training was impressively severe for such a physique. She wore a more elegant version of our student’s uniform, blue slate grey with white lace, with no sleeves of course, and she wore no neck rose or fleur-de-bouche. Instead her neck featured a very utilitarian silver ring keeping her breathing hole open, and her thick-lipped O-mouth was filled with a strange ball with a perforated texture quite like on the telly’s hi-fi back home. And from it came:

“Good day, Hodgkinson’s!”

If our mouths hadn’t been inflated full already I’m sure our jaws would’ve dropped. A Doll, speaking! We both looked at the oddity, wide-eyed. Of course her face remained pleasantly frozen as she noticed our glances, “Ah ah! Perfect Doll form, please. You do not want to start off on more of a wrong foot than you already have, young ones.”

We didn’t need to be told twice, and Nanny spoke for us. “I’m terribly sorry, Dame Henderson, it was an oversight on my part. I will return swiftly with Chastity and Hope’s neck corsets once current ones can be made.”

“You mean to tell me that these girls don’t even own ONE of such an essential item for their training? This is entirely unacceptable! It seems the Headmaster and I were wrong about admitting Chastity and Hope at all, if their family presents them in such poor standing. We expect the girls we admit from proper Society families to be a step above the rest, that is why they do not enroll for the full three years like the others! How do you think young Hope and Chastity here would fare at the Season two years past their prime?”

Nanny was more flustered than I had ever seen her before, “No no, oh dear, I apologize sincerely, my Lady, my Dame. They grow up so fast! We ran into some… The mistake was not their parents’ but mine.”

The buxom Doll’s heels clicked on the granite and marble paving stones as she toed gracefully to stand in front of me. No longer in the edges of my peripheral vision, I realized that this woman had an entirely unpredictable form of agency, for even though her voicebox was quite emotive and commanding, her face remained as blank as my mother’s, albeit with a more modern silicone plasti-skin, with less of a sheen. The closest I can describe it to is a soft silicone, colored to match fair English skin. It was the oddest feeling, that as surely as I knew her eyes were locked in a mid-distance lazy stare like mine were voluntarily, I could almost feel her peripheral gaze piercing me, inspecting me, assessing my worth as my father’s – and one day, my husband’s – property.

Nanny continued making excuses, “I assure you they have been trained…” but Dame Henderson just stamped her heel on the ground, breasts and bouffant bun jostling away, sharp puffs escaping the silver ring in her neck due to the exertion. “Ah ah! No more from you, governess. These lovely twins will not suffer for your sake.”

A sigh of relief escaped from all three of us.

“Or shall I say they will suffer no more than necessary, no more than to make it very clear that such unrefined presentation will not be tolerated within these walls. Maid, get the training collars.”

Returning from inside moments later, the Dame’s automaid presented ours with two hideously unfashionable leather posture collars, who then fastened them to our necks, making any movement quite impossible. This was not the first time we had worn such a device by any means, but the first we had been shamed with such a thing. Usually a neck corset was a piece of finery like any other, it’s restrictive nature merely part of the fashion, to be worn with pride, but these crude elements left no mystery to their sole purpose, much like a dog collar.

Finally, Dame’s maid connected the ostentatious leash ring on the front of mine onto Chastity’s, with just enough slack that we could stand shoulder to shoulder.

“They will remain like this until you return with the appropriate apparel, so you should proceed with haste. Hodgkinsons, with me.” she stated simply before turning around and strutting smoothly inside the elaborate institution. Our maids bade her will as they were pre-assigned to, ushering us along, and with the rough collar choking me I could not even look back upon Nanny for the last time as we followed our new teacher past the threshold.

We later learned that Nanny was promptly fired upon returning to the Hodgkinson Estate, even after all those years, and over the next several months our home’s entire staff was replaced one by one with mechanical help: automaids, cooks, laborers to keep up with the times. We received our new neck corsets three days later in the Express Post at Pappa’s great expense.

 

Chapter 8

Sir Henry Wainwright’s voice echoed in the Great Hall, addressing our year:

“You girls… you Dolls-to-be… YOU are the future of our great Society. Yes! And I’m happy to say that this year’s class is even larger than the last, and 50% larger than a decade ago. Our virtues are contagious, and like the Leisure Boom of the 2010s, I see in you lot a fine future for us and our ideals. Pray you, just look at our Prime Minister’s wife! A fine Lady. And let us not forget the Queen herself, the leader of that Boom’s avant garde. You young ladies here do not know the days of my youth, when there was finally a complete acceptance of refinement, of Leisure, but still we Dollers faced the ostracization of our people! To become a Lady was controversial, but to become a Doll was taboo. Alas, leisurely ideals have swept our nation’s highest ranks, and what are we but those ideals’ most devout practitioners? His Majesty’s parliament has recognized this and even given myself and Miss Henderson their top honours for investing in the future of our glorious Kingdom. And by looks of the class of 2049, our future looks very, very promising, indeed.”

“Do not tell anyone,” the lionlike Headmaster chuckled to himself, his cheery eyes sweeping over the fifty-some girls in front of him, each gagged in some way, “but when I was receiving my knighthood, I caught a whisper, a rumour in the crowd. It seems the young Princess Elizabeth is considering becoming not just a Lady of Leisure, as expected of her, but the very first Royal Doll.”

A great rustling rolled through the lecture hall, the old church pews creaking at the prospect! Chastity and I glanced at each other for a moment but the collars and link reminded us not to break form, so we resisted the urge to react to the glorious news. A Royal Doll?! How wonderful! Such a conversion would grant us all a certain level of prestige, and encourage many to join. Perhaps a Doll Queen could be in the Kingdom’s future, even though Her Royal Highness was third in line behind her brothers. These were grand tidings indeed, and surely my classmates’ thoughts were as aflutter as mine, but the commotion was brought to an end by a loud stomp on the podium stage from the Dame, standing off from the Headmaster with the other Doll Teachers.

“Thank you, Lilyana.”

“Sir.”

“I understand you girls more than many of you may think a man could. But after years extolling the virtues of Dollhood to young Ladies such as yourself, I have become acquainted with the female condition quite closely.”

I felt his eyes on me, perhaps on the linkage between Chastity and I, but I dared not adjust my gaze to check.

“‘The woman Eve is weak, but holy in her weakness and must be saved from herself. She must not partake in the fruit unless it is fed unto her.’ So says the good book of the our Church, and I am not one to disagree with the Lord. Your minds will be improved while you are here, so your bodies can be later remade into arks of weakness, a healthy respite for the strong men that decide to include you in their important lives. It will be a sacrifice, but you girls have been chosen by circumstance to follow this path, and just look at Dame Henderson, honored just as I have been by the King himself. Yes, indeed, there is grace, honor, and distinction in this life, the life of a Doll.”

With that he bid us God’s graces and stepped down from the podium, opening the floor for our Head Teacher, who began our education immediately. Dame Henderson stood behind the lectern, but she did not fiddle with notes like the Headmaster, no, this speech must have been from memory, for she had no other option, staring into nothingness.

“Thank you, Sir. For the new girls in the crowd who are not aware, this is a sacred place, a Dolls-only establishment, the only one in the whole United Kingdom I may add, and so Sir Wainwright is the only man permitted within these walls, but he keeps to his blessed role captaining our ship. If each of you behave, you may not even hear from him until your graduation.”

The old gentleman nodded assuredly, slightly quelling our apprehension about his style of discipline, but I hoped not to make any more waves than this afternoon. How hard could that be? Dame Henderson continued:

“Now, even forgoing the building’s long religious history as a nun’s abbey, St. Werburgh’s is an ancient institution. The school as it is today was established in the Victorian Era as an elite finishing school for young ladies, and then in the Latter Elizabethan Era when dolling as a practice first appeared, our curriculum switched emphasis to the new direction.

“Back then of course, Dolls were very different to what I was created to be, or what you lovely girls will become. The technology we have today just wasn’t there, and I must admit that I feel deeply for those poor girls who desired perfection just as much as we do now, but could not attain it. Skin treatments were unheard of, as too were ‘wing clippings’, airway improvements, and the like. And as for the proper doll functions we will automate for you, so you mustn’t worry yourselves ever again about the likes of blinking or eating or taking care of your husband and owner, oh I assure you, a mere pipe dream! Far too many legal and scientific barriers stood in the way.

“Instead those first dolls, those pioneers, were transformed utilising a far different approach: they were covered in all-encompassing latex suits, coloured like flesh and sealing them off from the world so that they appeared so completely fake that one may have thought these women had been constructed out of rubber in the first place. The only openings in these suits were at the mouth, nostrils (for they still breathed like commonwomen, not like myself), and finally for those most-intimate entryways down below. Even the eyes were obscured behind special lenses.

“However for some models (all at St. Werburgh’s in fact), even these holes were sealed off and instead, a complex waste recycling system was devised wherein the liquids from one’s front hole had to be routed into one’s bottom and then up to one’s mouth so that it may travel through the body again. Yes, your history books may have glazed over that. Dressed in such a way, the dolls subsisted for a week before being taken out of their suits, cleaned and changed and then resealed. And therein lies the deficiency of the old latex approach: it can only ever be temporary, and even though the Doll-girls were usually unconscious as their suits were changed, everyone knows this lack of permanency is what stops a pure Doll mind from being fully cultivated.

“Surely, I hope this is a review to you girls who have joined us today, but please, take a moment, imagine your classmates who do not come from a good family such as yours, a Society family, your classmates who were only introduced to our way of life two years ago, but who have spent two more years than yourself at this institution. For them, the life of a 20th century Doll was quite real, I assure you, for that life was their initiation into our lovely Society!”

I nearly gasped. Oh how awful! Just imagining being encased in that boiling costume, sucking my own waters out of my bottom, it was enough to make me thank God Himself at that very moment.

“Yes, for six whole months your classmates lived that way, to be taught the lessons your parents and guardians taught you over many years, to be taught your place in our Society, in our Kingdom, in the World! So I want none of you Society girls to imagine yourselves more legitimate in your devotion than your peers. I myself was born in an orphanage and then adopted and raised by the Headmaster, all of us Teachers were.  So when you graduate proudly from St. Werburgh’s, know that regardless of your upbringing, or your treatment, you girls are all equal, worthy, proper, you are all Dolls.”

We dared not try to look around at our classmates, not until we were led out of the Great Hall in double file, students and their maids, toward what we found to be the upper-years’ Dining Hall, and an awaiting meal perfectly proportioned for our reduced appetites. Here, one of the Teachers allowed us to make smalltalk while our gags were removed for feeding, a luxury we thought was far behind us. And so I met a few of my classmates in-between spoonfuls from my automaid.

I exchanged pleasantries with one Vanessa Firdale directly across the table from me once her gag was out, the most natural option due to our bound necks and corsets. Actually, she was alarmingly short of breath, and when I asked her why, I barely got an audible answer out of her.

“We… huh… myself and the others… huh… the other girls in our class… just arrived at our proper waist size. Huh… it is… quite severe.”

I smiled warmly. “Oh, but you all look positively radiant! I assure you, it will become quite manageable,” I lied. With every movement and breath I felt held in place, resisted against. Like a rigid board I was forced to stay completely erect from my hips to my head. I felt the lower edge of the corset dig into me when I sat improperly. But I wasn’t supposed to think that. “I truly would’ve never known, you all hold yourself quite well.”

“Yes… I’m sure we do,” Vanessa smiled back, but I could tell that my response did not satisfy her. I pressed on after a spoonful of soup, for I was nervous. Chas and I weren’t used to talking to other girls our age, and I didn’t want to make a poor first impression. “Truly, I was surprised to hear that most of the class has been here for so long. You are all so lucky!”

I noticed Vanessa look off to the Teacher down the long table as she was fed another bite by her maid, the same model as mine save for the faceplate, hers was blank, a school-provided model no doubt. But she didn’t respond, focusing on her meal, and her breath. I took no offense, I knew how hard it could be with new stays. I noticed her roll her shoulders, as if to flex her bound arms. Of course all Dolls-to-be know that doing so only makes them hurt again later, the only real solution is to simplify let them go numb, to forget they exist, but something inside stopped me from telling her that.

A hushed voice to my right, “Do not mind Vanessa. She doesn’t enjoy all this as us proper Dolls do.”

I couldn’t turn my head to evaluate the source of the comment, but I took a chance, whispering back, “So it appears! We should thank God everyday that our bountiful futures include the joys of Leisure and Dollhood.”

My neighbour chuckled as my maid leant down to feed me another bite. “And a heaping of great sex on top of all that nonsense.”

I nearly spat out my food, and even Chastity heard that as I felt her lean her ear closer.

“What, you’re not really in it for the look are you? The best part of the whole arrangement is what the Dollmakers at Ormond Street will do to our you-know-whats!”

I struggled to look to my right to gauge if she was serious, but a gentle hand from my maid reminded me not to strain myself. “Uhm… well I am aware we will have to keep our owners company and satisfied yes…”

A scoff. “You Society girls really are clueless aren’t you? Oh no I don’t mean any offense, but if you don’t know already, Dame Henderson will explain in your classes. All I can say is… the only reason I’m submitting myself to this chastity is the payoff that’s coming after our graduation!”

Before I could utter a word I heard the clicks of a Teacher’s steps behind us, making her rounds. I wasn’t foolish enough to assume that her ears were as useless as her mask-like face, and I rightly surmised that such a perspective on Dollhood would not be encouraged, so I silenced myself until my automaid finished my dinner, refastened my panel gag, and led me and Chas from the table. Guiding my eyes over once I could, I found a raven-haired girl, beautiful in her own right, as her gag expanded in her mouth, leaving only her beaming eyes to tell of her mischief.

And that’s how I met Althea Burns, who would become my friend and confidante in this place before long, impressionable as I was. It helped that we were placed beside each other in nearly every class and meal, so the friendship grew naturally. Althea told me eventually that she had been raised in a brothel, an unplanned daughter of an escort who later went missing, and that the life of a Doll was her only way out of the same fate, even if her lack of proper upbringing and useful familial ties would exclude her from the more affluent husbands, except under one condition. “Hell, even if I’m a Companion Doll, I don’t care as long as I get some action.” I think, looking back, she would regret those words.

Regardless, dear reader, you have no idea how truly fulfilled I felt that night in our new bedroom, blindfold and gag letting me focus on the fluffy pillow beneath my head, golden bracelets and anklets tied to the head and footboards, fresh sheets kissing my skin, left to listen to the quick, corseted breaths of Chastity and my other roommates nearby.  Even in forced solitude I felt a connection to them, like I was finally home, part of a community that valued my desires and encouraged my betterment, who would teach me how to be a proper Doll, and perhaps would even teach me how to enjoy being improper, if the girl from dinner was to be believed.

I slept with not a care in the world, but with a strange, pounding excitement in my body, perhaps for the days ahead, like a good Doll should.

 

Chapter 9

As I mentioned before, our neck corsets arrived a few days later, and by then we were in the thick of classes, and quite relieved to be untied from each other. I love my sister dearly, and we are obviously very close after years with no friends but each other, but bumping shoulders and feeling her every movement tug upon my neck was a little too close for comfort.

After that change our morning preparations became quite similar to back home. At nine o’clock the automaids would come in, batteries freshly charged for the day, uniforms impeccable as always, though we would only hear the clicks of their heels on the wooden floors until they removed our blindfolds. Our wrists and ankles would be unclipped soon afterwards, motion and feeling returning quickly once the special golden bracelets were removed. Still, I would refrain from moving my arms, for I knew the more I did then, the more I would want to later in the day. Best not.

Of course with our night stays we needed help sitting up and getting out of bed. I don’t know about the others but there was always a moment before having our heeled slippers put on when I would just hate sitting on the edge there, dressed in nothing but my stays, panel gag, and nappy, hands limp at my sides, toes on the cold floor, feeling the used nappy between my legs lose heat to the open air. I remember always wanting to be freshened up quicker, much quicker: swaddled, held, bound once again in purity, because – if I’m being honest with you, dear Reader – I was concerned that if left unrestrained like this for very long, I may get a taste for it. But I always strove to ignore this feeling, before I was stood up and guided to the powder room for my cleaning.

The rest was always a blur. Lean over the padded bench, straps tied down, nappy off and a scented wipe to clean my liquid waste off my skin, my rear plug removed and replaced with the enema hose, left for fifteen minutes for numerous cycles before a fizzing pessary was placed inside, ginger mint today, oh dear! Tiny plug back in, untied, back up to our feet, corset off, into one of eighteen baths in this wing, a deep cleaning by my maid, a shave if needed, a shampoo. Of my own accord I moved not an inch, save to look at the other girls in their own routine.

Some girls had vastly different schedules, being made into different kinds of Dolls than I, than the Society Standard as it’s called.  I never saw them there in the baths, or anytime other than meals, really. They must have had very different routines, but truly I don’t know. I will try to illustrate their various stories in a forthcoming chapter if I can.

Regardless, those girls I shared my morning with would sometimes look at me from behind their gags, or I them. Some would be practicing their doll gaze, trying to see me without looking directly or focussing. Some saw my nudity with indifference, others less so. We didn’t try to speak. Not only had the reflex been weaned out of us, the sound of any vocalization when not explicitly permitted was an easy way to get a visit from a Teacher and her maid. I don’t know how they heard us, but whenever one of the three-year troublemakers struggled, or even one of the brattier Society daughters (upbringing made little difference here), there would be but moments before help arrived. Well, help and punishment.

So we would sit in silence, in a mute building, feeling our maids massage as they wash us, lift here, scrub there. I would often find myself wishing my automaid would focus on certain places, but even then I always did my best to dispel the thought. “We should not want, all is provided for!” I would tell myself, but I have to be honest, my piety was usually ineffective. I would close my eyes, let a deep, silent sigh escape through my nose, and then sometimes even open my eyes to see Althea across the room in her own clawfoot tub, looking at me intently. I didn’t always avert my gaze.

Out of the bath, we would be dried and perfumed, powdered below and swaddled in new nappies, ones we would wear until our pre-luncheon check. Then the lot of us would inevitably be fitted back into our standard corsets before being placed in front of the auto-lacer, which I can assure you, being the cohabitant of one even these days, is a cruel marvel. The speed it works at makes the fitting less of an ordeal, but rarely is there a morning even these days that I am not slumping into my maid’s arms and being brought back to God’s green earth with smelling salts.

Not long after this, we would don our rigid neck corset, always matching the stays below, and farther down thigh-high socks, a requirement for not all the girls but for Chastity and I and a few others a must, which were securely attached to our hips with garter clips. I later found out that the girls who didn’t wear socks (all the three-year sponsored wards and then some) were restricted in a different way: strong surgical adhesive between the toes to keep from grabbing anything. Nanny had threatened it if we ever wrote the devil’s way again, but I had no idea it was the default for so many. Well, purity has a cost.

Back up we would step into our heels for the day, which would be buckled tightly closed. Then came the loose stockings, camisole, and our uniform dress. Soon afterwards our arms would be guided into their proper hiding place, our gloves tied behind us until our elbows touched, covered with the dress’s rear sleeve, and sweet numbness would soon set in for the day. Some girls from other Society families wore their arms in strict reverse prayer, hands tucked up behind their necks and elbows touching, but Pappa and Nanny had never deemed it necessary, since we were only going to lose them and that effortful trained skill eventually. After all this, nothing would be left save for hair and light makeup, which would keep us all from the breakfast table for a long while, until everything was just perfect, as it should be.

I remember looking in the mirror, at the details of the face God gave me, as my maid would comb and curl my sandy blonde hair, just as she does now with my platinum blonde wig. I still miss that face, there is no denying it, but it would not have aged as well as my plastic one has, and for that I am grateful.

After a silent breakfast inhabited only by the soft clinks of silverware on porcelain as our help fed us, our classes would begin: Living with Grace; Embracing Nothing; Restricted Charm and Manners; Doll Theory, History, and Philosophy; Automatic Functions and Bedroom Affairs.

Dame Henderson taught that last one herself, and I think that is what you’re most curious about, so I will leave the rest as largely self-explanatory.

 

Chapter 10

One morning in just our second week at St. Werburgh’s, we started our day off with Dame Henderson. Every day had a rigidly-set schedule, start and finish, rise and shine, fed and retired, but our individual classes were entirely randomized, only our Teachers and automaids knew the schedule. We had been told by our Embracing Nothing Teacher that it was an ongoing lesson in relinquishing control and expectations, but at this point I felt this lesson was simply disorienting. I had relinquished agency long ago! At least our classmates remained the same, so Althea strutted in front of me and Chas behind.

Well, if they wanted to break down our expectations they succeeded, for in Bedroom Affairs that day we walked in to see a half-nude Dame Henderson, standing in front of the class at rigid attention as always. Her maid stood off to the side, a cane perpetually in one hand, like always, just waiting for one of us to break our doll act without permission.

I’ve mentioned that our Head Teacher was curvy, but seeing her without her usual attire, dressed only in hourglass girdle, underwear, mules, and hose revealed just how severe her waist really was in proportion to her bare breasts and thighs, the former of which apparently needed very little support, and the both of which had been augmented drastically.

“Class, take a seat. We have much to discuss. Good. There. Now you may adjust your gaze.”

We were all so anxious to get a closer look at what a doll looked like under her dress, that we could not restrain ourselves for the sake of modesty. I assure you every eye in the room save the Teacher’s own were on her. We found that the Dame’s soft silicone skin treatment continued from her face to every inch of her body, but that was expected. As her coyly attractive mask of a face remained still, so too did most of her armless, unprotected torso, as usual to the procedures that lock the spine into it’s regal pose, but I noticed her legs stepping, balancing, even shivering a touch in the cold room.

“Girls, this is your future. You have seen many Dolls now with proper attire on, but this is what your Husband and Owner shall see when he unwraps you at the end of his day. Be proud in your elegance, in your vulnerability! But I digress, all this we have already discussed. Today we skip the theory, the video instructions and diagrams. Today I show you how I function, and how you will too. Maid, run rehearsed lesson program.”

Of all the AutoServe devices in the room, somehow only hers knew to activate, and after handing it’s cane to another, the faceless machine began to further undress it’s mistress.

As the maid replaced her speaker ball with a classic fleur-de-bouche, an inflated pear with a lovely rose erupting from it’s end and eventually, her lips, Dame Henderson’s speaker continued from the nearby tabletop, “You may notice the stream of saliva which just dripped when my gags were switched. This is quite important, girls. The heaven-sent Dollmakers have made our mouths just as pleasurable as our other orifices for the men in our lives, so Dolls need more lubricant above to service them. Do not worry though, this is what our gags are for.”

I remember having a question in the back of my throat which I was not supposed to ask, or even to think: “Pleasurable for whom?” but the maid pulled down the Dame’s satin hose and then her underwear, and I forgot my silent query, for nestled between her hairless labia was a strange, silver object.

“Ah yes, well this is probably quite unusual for you girls, but let me explain. A Society Doll Wife is customarily left with highly-detailed replicas or direct castings of her husband’s erect manhood filling her for most of the day while he is busy. See, mine are quite different. Since I am a faithful servant to the School, I shall never be wed, and therefore I shall never be used in this way. But as the Headmaster says, ‘Eve is weak,’ and I assure you, the dollification process makes us weaker. Both my passages below have a nearly-inhuman desire to be filled… used, just as yours will once you are complete. The inserts, either your custom ones or my generic, imbibe equal parts relief and frustration, but without them some Dolls have gone quite mad. Mine, as you will see, are also locked in place to protect my purity.”

The robotic assistant walked to the desk and pressed on the intercom, which crackled to life with a familiar voice from the main office. “Hello? Room 14b, oh, is this my sweet Lilyana?”

The speaker ball on the table replied for the doll, and it took on a very different tone than the stern benevolence we were used to from our mentor. “Yes, Headmaster! Sir, may I please have my chastity taken out for demonstration, Sir?”

“Of course, darling.” And nearly as soon as the line was dead, we heard an audible click from between our Teacher’s legs, and a small hiss, during which something inside happened that made her seamless silicone legs shudder. The flowery coy smile and stare remained completely still as a breathy moan came out over the speaker, the maid pulling the two-pronged object out oh-so-slowly. My eyes glanced over to Althea who raised her eyebrows back. This was what she was really here for. There was something about this, the physical reaction of our Teacher, that lit a fire in her eyes.  I didn’t understand it at the time but her resulting dedication I did understand, and I idolized her for it. We refocused on the show when the maid wiped off the dual-pronged device and held it up for inspection.

Even as her breathing came in ragged desperation from her artificial airway, sending breasts jostling, the esteemed Dame Henderson described with her simulated voice how it behaved: quite like a fleur-de-bouche, automatically inflating until it was lodged inside, except this object required a remote to be pressed elsewhere to release the pressure, as we had just seen, otherwise it would electrocute the hand that tampered with it whosoever hand that may be.

Reader, I’ve worn such an object only a few times in my life, the first of which was shortly after one of those lunches with Emily Battersby, when I was a new Doll in need of an Owner. Many suitors came by the house, young and old, old money and new, and each one that passed Pappa’s tests received their time alone with me or Chastity, time to evaluate if we would be a good match. I tell you, and my instructors would use the cane on me for this if I were still a girl, the behaviour of many of those men made me thankful to have my defenseless virginity locked away. And even with his failings in those years, Pappa was good to us. Though he alone was responsible for our future, he would occasionally ask me afterwards to signal if it went badly. Many of them did, but together we pressed on, and now I’m the luckiest Doll alive. But we’ll get to that.

Every class with the Dame from that day on, my peers and I watched from behind our gags as our Teacher demonstrated the doll stand, the special toilette, a shower mount, a phallic feeder, a ceiling-track-mounted leash, even a suspension harness for different positions in the bedroom, all to show how our bodies would function after the Dollmakers were done with us. Of course I had seen my Mum use some of these things, but I had rarely been explained how it worked to this level of detail.

It was largely helpful, easy to understand, but we had some moments of shock. About a month in, Vanessa and some of the other three-years outright rebelled at the sight of a new training regimen, an oral trainer which we were intended to spend twenty minutes practicing with every class. I didn’t understand why. Indeed, it was uncomfortable to practice in front of each other, but these skills would please our husbands immensely! Our new mouths were going to have automatic functions but I was pleased to know at least parts my tongue would be able to communicate my devotion, and we only had several months left to practice!

Still, that was a hard class. Even besides the disobedient students, who were subject to a severe bare-bottom caning up front after they tried to yell and leave the room (both quite unsuccessfully I may add), I found it quite odd resting my knees on the padded mat, looking at the plastic phallus hanging off of Althea’s hips (over her dress), and then having my panel gag replaced with it as she thrusted. As an improved Doll with our airways rerouted, unfortunately we wouldn’t be able to use suction in our servicing, but Dame Henderson promised us the rolling pulses of our throat muscles would go above and beyond that sensation, and because of the rerouting there would never be a limit to how long they could stay inside us! Yes, I thought that a worthy trade-off too.

But taking the penis trainer in my mouth wasn’t quite as enjoyable as all the theory told us it would be: the way it filled me till I could barely breathe, or the way it prodded at the back of my throat, it was not so pleasant, nor spiritually fulfilling as we had read. And this seemed to be a recurring theme of my upbringing and education; nothing quite satisfied the way Nanny or the Teachers said it would, and I was beginning to think that even sex would disappoint me. Not a subject Chastity could help me with, I knew that, she didn’t understand why I had so many questions and concerns, sexual or not. It was Althea’s devious eyes that kept me going, hoping that she was right.

About once a week, Sundays usually, we would be allowed to speak at dinnertime, and if Chas didn’t have my ear it was Althea on my other side, who would tell me about her life back home as I told her of mine: about all her aunts, the women who collectively raised her in the brothel’s back rooms; about what school was like; about what walking around London alone was like; about flirting with boys; about her mother; about her wayward father who peeked in every so often, only as long as to ease his conscience. Her stories were better than telly time back home, a life with sharp edges and adventure! I enjoyed talking with her immensely, and sometimes when I would remember what was planned for my voice, and hers, I would feel very bad inside. Yes, guilt for being ungrateful for the Dollmakers’ touch, but something else too. I dispelled it. I had to.

Althea also enjoyed our chats. She had no idea what it was like to live outside the city; to be home-schooled; to not have to think about money all the time; to grow up expecting to become a Doll from the start. In hindsight, I think my innocence shocked her, and I also think she enjoyed corrupting me, but my inquisitive mind couldn’t help itself.

Eve is weak.

 

Chapter 11

By the time Christmas break rolled around, Chastity and I had spent just over seven months under the strict tutelage of St. Werburgh’s. Chas had been feeling acutely homesick as we got closer to the two-week visit home, and I must say I was eager as well, but we shouldn’t have been, for in our absence our home had changed immeasurably.

By this time Althea and I were good friends, and when one of our Teachers mentioned that the three-years did not get breaks like us, I took the chance during free-speech Sunday dinner to get the attention of the supervising Doll.

When one is only allowed to speak once a week, perhaps even a couple more times in class, you learn to choose your words and intonation very carefully, so somehow I was convincing enough to receive an audience with the Headmaster the next day in his grand study.

“So, Teacher Margaret tells me that you wish to invite young Althea Burns home with you for the holidays. I must say that this is exceedingly unusual, but the mere request piqued my interest.”

I sat there behind my gag in proper form, looking toward him but not at him. Sir Wainwright had not gestured for it to be removed yet. He continued, smoking an electronic pipe.

“Yes, perhaps this is an opportunity to integrate these classless children into the homes of proper Society folk! I will entertain your idea for next year’s class.”

The ensuing moment of silence crushed my hopes. What use would next year do for me? But I maintained my gaze and posture as he had not allowed otherwise.

The moment dragged until he finally acknowledged my presence with his gaze, which coursed up and down my body, from the rigid neck held high to my severe waist and seemingly-empty shoulders, and finally lingering on my budding chest. I wasn’t too nervous that I was behind some of my classmates in that regard, it was nothing the Dollmakers couldn’t solve.

“But this leaves you in the cold, my dear, and we simply can’t have that. I’ll make an exception this time…”

I nearly jumped for joy, but against every lowly human instinct still in me I kept my composure, eyes still glassy and expression politely good-natured. Seven months of practice was not going to fail me now!

“…if you can pass an oral test. Maid, remove her gag and place a floor pad down in front of my chair. Do not break form, m’dear, or else you will lose your chance.”

Briskly, I was led in front of the Headmaster’s grand leather chair, behind his mahogany desk, placed with knees on the floor, and my gag was removed, all by my obedient helper. Even though my instinct was to inhale deeply, I knew my severe stays would never allow it, so my lips instantly puckered into a mimicry of my mother’s, of Dame Henderson’s too. Inside, I was a little shocked at the casual nature of his request, but I just assumed this was some sort of supplemental education he regularly assigned. Quality control. It made sense to my indoctrinated head back then.

Fishing in his trousers, the grand old man’s already-growing penis erupted out of its fabric prison and I struggled to keep my gaze indifferent to the first real spear I had ever seen in my life. It was so big! And nothing like the trainers! The veins and wrinkles pulsed with need as it grew in front of my very eyes. He gave me a moment to take its hefty measure in my unfocussed gaze before tangling one of his huge hands in my perfect hair, and bringing my head down toward it. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t ready for the warmth, the velvet smoothness, the musty smell. Unable to bob my neck like a common girl doing this important task, he directed my movements for me, forcing my head up and down over his prize, me bending at the hips as my arms strained from their glove, my lungs straining from the exertion. Deeper it went into me with each thrust, and I realized that months of the trainer had made my gag reflex much more manageable. I was doing it! I was being so good! Like a real Doll!!!

“Oh darling, yes use your tongue, suck a little, no teeth. Harder, dear. Yes you’re doing very…ugh…very well!”

Sir Wainwright coached me, citing that skilled fellatio before the conversion would only help me once my mouth was duly improved.

I desperately wanted to thank him, praise him for tutoring me one-on-one, but still I kept sucking, staring straight ahead into his zipper and the tangled bush inside, appearing joyfully indifferent to the sensual violence occurring, until he finally erupted into my mouth!

“Swallow dear, swallow like a good Doll.” And so even though I didn’t much care for the new taste, I did as I was told, just as my new reflexes would make me in mere months!

“I must say, Hope, my Dollgirls are quite nice, especially Lilyana, but with some practice and the Dollmakers’ touch, you could be even better at this. I’ll speak with your father about hosting Althea for Christmas break, you have my word.”

Elated to have this generous man on my side, I rested with his cock buried in my mouth to the hilt until it softened, before being lifted to my unsteady heels by my maid and whisked out the door to a powder room to be cleaned up before I returned to my classes. It was only once I was sitting in front of an edge-lit mirror, seeing my smeared makeup and destroyed hairdo, that I realized I hadn’t said a single word in that whole ordeal.

I hadn’t even told him thank you!

 

Chapter 12

Later that December, six elegant figures exited an autocarriage and assembled in front of the the main house of the Hodgkinson Estate, three of which had fine winter traveling coats covering them completely like piano-shrouds, gagged faces peeking out to the snow-covered grounds from beneath heavy hoods.

I was surprised to see another automaid by the door and not Nanny; she had never missed greeting a guest personally, never mind the homecoming daughters of the household, but instead of a flurry of questions we were led in silence past the threshold into a house that looked quite the same, but felt markedly different. Colder, quieter. Until Pappa came out and wrapped us in a bearhug!

Overjoyed as we were, our Teachers had made it quite clear that our automaids were still reporting back to St. Werburgh’s over the break, and Pappa had to specifically allow us to break form lest we be punished once we returned. He did no such thing, so we remained still and passive even as our insides melted being engulfed in our parent’s warmth again after so long. It was during these last few months that I started to realize what extended time without human touch or physical interaction can do to someone, so you must understand how overwhelming it was, and delightful, to have formality and etiquette broken even for a moment, even if we could not partake.

After Althea was introduced to Pappa via a written Christmas card held out by her maid, us girls were finally unwrapped from our toasty coats and led in to the house, as three or four other mechanical servants unloaded the carriage.

Still, the house felt off somehow, and I realized: Mummy and Nanny were nowhere to be seen. I panicked a little as a thousand tragic possibilities coursed through my head, but my expression barely changed. I hadn’t been allowed to ask.

It was later that day that Pappa mentioned casually how Nanny and the other staff didn’t live with us anymore. He said it even as he was admiring our elegant neck corsets. And still he didn’t tell our automaids to remove our gags. Not until dinner, but as we had still not been permitted to break form, that dinner was spent chewing quietly and listening to all about Pappa’s travels with Lord Chittenham and some other new friends, about work going splendidly, and about his petty troubles programming the new house staff.

He spoke nothing about Mother’s empty seat, and at one point he looked at Chastity, at her pleasant stare, and mumbled something about St. Werburgh’s being a magical place. It was obvious, he finally saw us as Dolls, not young women, and normally I would have rejoiced to such a sentiment, but I was burning to break form and speak with him like the Pappa I used to know before I was gagged.

Surprisingly, he also took an instant liking to Althea, and by the third day of our vacation, it seemed he was making the school-provided automaid unnecessary, guiding her and adjusting her hair and gown when it became unkempt. Just like he used to do for Mother when we were young.

Before St. Werburgh’s I would have glanced toward Chastity, made an expression of disapproval, that he was having more real interaction with my friend than I was, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be a real girl who had these kinds of concerns, and the Teachers had taught me that sharing such thoughts or judgements was disrespectful, corrupting, sinful even. Besides, I had no idea if Chastity would even acknowledge my break in protocol. She had taken the last few free-speech dinners off, maintaining the act which was soon to be our whole life, while Althea and I went on talking on and on, satiating our appetite for the forthcoming week of silence. It seemed she was abandoning me, but in my heart I knew that wasn’t true. She was just being my model sister once again, being my perfect example.

So I used Chas as my strength, and St. Werburgh’s as my rulebook, and I kept quiet, I kept still, I kept proper and pure. I kept my eyes forward, my lips pursed if my gag was off, my knees together under the folds of my dress, my heels on the floor, my voice silent. And I felt the rigid corsetry from my hips to my chin holding me in place, I felt my shoulders straining behind me, numb past the edge of the monoglove, felt the gag’s bladder filling my mouth entirely, felt the heat between my legs trapped in the dry diaper I wore.

And I cleared my mind. I trusted that Pappa would explain what happened to Mother eventually. It was not my place to doubt my owner, as Teacher Helene would say, and our Owner was Pappa until he married us. But the question persisted in the back of my encased mind until the day it was answered, Christmas itself.

We had arrived around the eighteenth of December, so Christmas Day lay near the middle of our time at home. Of course Chas and I were elated, though you wouldn’t have been able to tell save for our hurried steps down the stairs to the blazing hearth and electric tree. Wholesome excitement sometimes bent the rules of grace, and so the clacking of our bedroom mules thundered through the empty house, past the autobutler, past the cleaner-bots on the floor until we rounded the corner to find Pappa in his chair, ready to dole out the glorious bundle of presents left by Father Christmas while we were asleep. The three of us allowed ourselves to be arranged in a row on the chesterfield, still in loose silk nightgowns on this special day. I hoped Althea would enjoy this, it would be her first Christmas in a proper Society household.

Slowly presents were unwrapped for us and announced, usually by Pappa himself but sometimes by our silent maids, and slowly a pile of goodies accumulated around each of us, even Althea! Corsets, perfumes, neck trainers, makeup, hair ornaments, gift cards to the spa at Layton’s and the Doll Parlour, the list went on, and I could sense Althea growing uncomfortable next to me, before Pappa came over and wiped away a tear she had let slip.

“It’s quite alright, dear. You’re part of the family now.”

The generosity made me proud of my father, and so happy for Althea, that I strained against my better judgement to look over at her and share our love, immediately receiving a stern hand and reminder from my maid behind me. Father, on one knee, noticed but said nothing, nothing that would free us even temporarily, before he stood up and addressed the largest box in the room, what could’ve been a seven-foot-tall obelisk encased in wrapping paper, but instead was anyone’s guess. But Pappa must have known. He read the tag aloud for us.

“To Alan, my old friend made new again. Chittenham.”

And moments later the wrapping paper was off, torn away, revealing a Doll in a bright pink plastic box visible through a glassy panel. I was immediately furious, all good will dispelled. How could Pappa abandon Mother like this! This was strictly against Society rules! This was… wait… this was my Mum!

I could hardly recognize her, so many changes had been made. Her face had been reshaped, shaving her jawbone, making her cheeks look more plump, her nose more petit and button-like. These changes were dwarfed by her lips and eyes, both expanded and boosted in such a way to make them look truly inhuman, like a porcelain doll. Where before she had been a plastic woman, now she was a doll given breath. Her skin no longer had its sparse wrinkles, nor the shiny lustre of passé skin treatments. No, Mother looked like the newest Dolls out of Great Ormond Street, like the St. Werburgh alumni whose husbands brought them back to demonstrate to us Dolls-to-be what lay in our future. And she looked as young as them too, the sun’s rays through the windows muted against soft peachy silicone, with not a freckle or flaw in sight.

And there was less skin to see, for her shoulders were properly empty as had been the style for some years, making her ever-increased bust size even more apparent, once more almost cartoonish. The dress she wore matched the box, so even once Pappa had opened it up to retrieve her, she was still clad in golden ringlets and pastel pink. But it was the eyes that still shone with the same hazel colour, even frozen as they were, blinking steadily, to let me know that my Mother was in there somewhere. As if I needed any more confirmation though, I watched her mutely try to leave Pappa’s support, step toward us unsteadily on reinforced ballet boots reminiscent of Belle’s. I leant forward to be stood up, one of the few things I could confidently communicate to my automaid, and in seconds I was standing with my Mother, leaning into her impossible embrace, almost supporting her in footwear a mere modicum less precarious than hers.

I’m reminded now of Emily Battersby’s telling of meeting Anne for the first time after her sister’s conversion, as even though I was overjoyed to see her, to feel her warmth near me, my Mother was breathing heavily, emotional in a way that I could not console, and even if I could ask, there was no voice left to reply to me, that had all been given up long before I was born. Was she just overjoyed to see us again, or was this the same passion which overtook her the day we left?

And out of the blue Chastity joined us too, nearly jumping for joy in a way that made me certain she did not understand the bittersweet nature of this reunion, and Mother calmed and mimicked Chastity’s gentle bouncing, sending her amply augmented bosom into fits.

And Pappa wrapped his arms around us. “Awwe, dearest, she’s happy to see you. Now, my love, I told you this would all be worth it! Ladies, meet Cushions. Clarice is gone, this is your mother now.”

Cushions curtseyed to us and I nearly cried.

I later learned that Pappa had sent his Doll, our Mother, to the same rehabilitation center that Anne went to (somewhere in Wales, I overheard), one much less gentle than St. Werburgh’s, specializing in behavioural adjustment with very fast returns. It must have been worth the cost, as our new Mother “Cushions” never overstepped her place again.

 

Chapter 13

The rest of our time at home was largely uneventful, but such was the life of a Doll. When not in mealtimes, Althea, Chas, and I would join Mother in the pink and cream Doll Room upstairs, sitting silently on the edge of the lounger while Mother was on her stand, buzzing away. We were not yet designed to accept the inserts on the saddle, nor were we in need of its effects, according to Dame Henderson. It would break our virginity, and we were only allowed such penetration once our ownership and marriage was consummated. This led me to the realization that, modified as I would be that coming April, until I was promised and wed to a husband, my body would receive no relief in the interim weeks, perhaps months if I was unlucky. To a young woman already swimming in amplified hormones, this was not something I was looking forward to.

The last seven months had been life-altering in that department. It was like my body was suddenly awake to its own needs, and many nights had been spent spread out in security and purity, wishing the emptiness between my legs was filled, wishing that just one of my bracelets would unlock, run its batteries dry, anything to see what it felt like down there. I found myself in bed on such a wistful night when there was a hand at my door, and a gentle open and close. Now remember that Chastity and I slept with our gags in, with our eyes covered, so I was momentarily frightened before I remembered I was home, so it could only be Pappa or a maid, until it very surely wasn’t.

A whisper in the blackness, “Hope! Hope!”

It was Althea, tiptoeing on the floorboards, half for stealth and half because her achilles tendon had probably shortened a bit over the two and a half years of constant heels, like mine had. I realized she probably couldn’t tell which twin was which, so I shook my head to the room but dared not make a sound.

And then I felt her warm, unrestrained body join me under the covers.

She removed my blindfold and I lifted my head to allow her to unfasten my gag. As the pressure slowly released in my mouth I tested my strained jaw, before whispering to the classmate cuddled up to my splayed out body. “What is the meaning of this visit? How did you get free?”

She used my outstretched arm as a pillow and looked up at me, wearing nothing but a nightgown, loose stays, and the impressions of the day’s strict attire still printed into her fair skin. “Your old man visited me after the robot put me down for the night. Don’t worry, he didn’t do anything indecent, we just talked, or he talked to me I should say, but he didn’t secure the bracelets correctly when he put me back in bed, and our watchers are still charging for the night.”

This was the first time I had been able to speak with Althea since our arrival nearly two weeks before, so a million thoughts blazed through me. Laying there, I wanted out of my own bonds, but I knew not of the unlocking codes, and of course neither did she. Althea had been lucky. “Wait, pray tell what my Pappa discussed with you!?” I noticed Althea was holding onto me tightly in a way I wasn’t used to. Actually I wasn’t used to having this much contact with  anyone, and it felt almost overwhelmingly good. But there was something more to her touch, which my education had taught me to be very fearful of, yet I realized fearful was not an apt description of the feelings in my chest at that moment.

She looked pensive. “Well, it just so happens that he would like me to be Companion to your mother after our graduation. I’m under no illusions of what that would entail, so I don’t know. I’m not like you, Hope. My chances of a respectable husband picking me are very slim. And there’s something I haven’t told you. If I don’t find an Owner, my aunts’ manager will try and buy me for the brothel. To become a house Doll may be too good of an offer to pass up.”

This was a shock to me, but in hindsight there had been signs, of both Pappa’s request and the nature of Althea’s predicament. I didn’t know how I felt about such an offer, Althea being the same age as me, but objectively I knew that such age disparity was far from abnormal in the Society, or in Leisurely marriages. And then I remembered that I shouldn’t think at all, I should just be happy for Pappa and my friend.

“Oh my!! I don’t know what to say. My Pappa decides my arrangements, but as a scholarship recipient, who selects yours?” Althea’s hands were absent-mindedly drawing on my skin now and I could barely concentrate.

“I’m not sure. Some of us are sponsored so whoever paid for our schooling decides. Those girls usually go to that household. But my scholarship came from the St. Werburgh Trust. Maybe the Headmaster? Yes, I think so.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Sir Wainwright is a good man, he will know where you belong.”

Althea got quiet. “But, Hope… I… I already know where I belong.” If there was any doubt left to what she meant, her tightening hold on me under my covers left none. It wasn’t a moment before my breath was straining my loosened stays, and her lips were coming to join mine. I followed my training, ceased my struggling, and went to proper doll form, staring at the ceiling with lips plumped as much as I could.

“No, not like that.” she said, using her free hand to direct my face back downward. I gave in and looked back into her eyes. “That’s not how real people do it. I’ll show you.”

And she kissed my lips deeply, cradling my cheek in a gesture so serene that I folded into my very human desires, and kissed her back. There was no user or used, just us, and it felt so good, especially when her hand started exploring my virgin body, when it drifted from my growing breast down over my stays to my womanhood, ripping off my unused nappy to get access to that sacred place. I had never been touched like this. I had never had a chance to touch myself like this. And it was doing things to me that dispelled all doubt, cleared my mind. This. This was how I was going to get my bliss, to be good like Chastity.

I returned her kiss as deeply as I could manage but broke away to look at her. “Althea, we can’t. It’s wrong, it’s a sin.”

She didn’t stop, actually she started to circle two fingers around a weird little bump down there in a way that drove me mad, pulling at my bracelets as hard as I dared, desperate to retrieve my numb hands and feet from their traps, though if they were unbound I don’t know whether I would have stopped her or tried to return the favor.

“It is, my dear, innocent Hope. But it’s worth it, I promise. One of my aunties taught me how when I was getting my first urges.” Her fingers sped up and I almost cried out, so close that she even put my gag back in, albeit hastily inflated and still untied. Now I couldn’t even ask her to stop, as she kissed at my neck and pressed herself closer.

Whether I wanted it or not, I was a Doll in that moment. Receiving pleasure and desperate to return it, yet unable to do so, but it didn’t feel contrived, or hollow. It felt real. Shockingly real and full and overwhelming and then I felt myself climax for the first time!

She laid with me there for a while, held me as I came back to earth, and I tell you, keeping myself quiet in that moment was one of the hardest things I had ever done in my life. But I eventually calmed, and even though I wanted to reciprocate, Althea told me there would be time for me to learn how.

“When? We are destined to be Dolls, we may never get this chance again!”

And she looked deep into my eyes and smiled. She had a plan, a plan to get us out and free and live a normal life. She kept on calling it a normal life but such a fantasy was the farthest thing from normal to my ears. How would a girl like I, who had never even  cleaned her own behind, fare in the world of commoners? What would I do without the protective eye of the Society? She laid out her plan to smuggle me out the next chance she got, to hide us away in the backrooms of her brothel home then move out to the country, to change my name, get me some plain clothes, to live as lovers.

Lesbianism is of course illegal in the King’s domain, but she just told me we would cross that bridge when we came to it. I see the plan now as it was, two naive girls heatedly whispering about our confident futures after our first throes of passion, but at the time she had my heart. She told me it would be worth giving up her chance at climbing the social ladder, worth giving up her Aunties’ plans for her to escape their manager too.

She left in the thick of the night, and though my gag and blindfold were reseated correctly, sweet Althea forgot to put my nappy back on. Thoughts and possibilities racing as they were, I did not think of it until the morning when it was much too late.

 

Chapter 14

Chastity told Pappa everything. Silent and proper as she was these days, easy to overlook, my sister had been very much awake, listening in her blackness to our unholy fiddlings and our conspiracies against the defined future set in front of us.

Of course Pappa had been alerted immediately the next morning when my automaid found me lying in a soiled bed. I remember trying my best to hold it in, but us girls were used to the early rise at school, not the lenient wakeup time Pappa had generously allowed. This had left me with almost two endless hours to lay in bed, awake, desperately needing the toilette.  

Oh, I had never seen him so furious. I refused to explain the discordant states I was left and found in, feigning ignorance as best as I could, but my efforts were useless. I had never lied in my life, how could one lie with no privacy to protect? In Pappa’s eyes I saw the newfound fire that had resulted in Mother’s second transformation, and I couldn’t help but cry. She sat right next to me, almost a stranger, mute and still, but perhaps I felt her lean into me slightly with her armless shoulder? Her wide breasts were hard to avoid, and as for parsing her behaviour, I had no idea what was Mother and what was “Cushions” anymore.

Then he asked Chastity.

“The whore’s daughter came in the dead of night and debased Hope, bewitched her like a fricatrice would, and I fear Hope is still under her spell. They were going to live as commoners in the city and hide away in their sapphic sin. Please help her see reason, Pappa!”

My eyes were wide. How could my own sister sell me out like this?? And if that wasn’t enough, she concluded with a quiet, “Can I have my namegag back in please?” A thankful nod from our father and the maid had her sealed up again.

I tried desperately to tell him that’s not what happened, that it was not an act of harm but of love, but he would have none of my pleading, personally re-gagging me too, overfilling the bladder until my jaw ached. This left Althea, in only her nightwear but restrained as usual with neck corset, gag, and glove, sitting across the room from us under the close watch of her maid. She knew our plan was beyond hopeless now. She wouldn’t look me in the eye. Pappa stood in front of her.

“Now, young lady, I invite you into my home on my daughter’s generous request, I even propose an arrangement which would leave any other girl at Werburgh’s on their knees in gratitude. And you sully your honor and ours by behaving so impurely! Did you think I didn’t know from whence you came, little temptress, or what you were? Your door swings both ways, it’s all in the background report Sir Wainwright sent me. Yes, they know too. And do you know what we Societymen do to Dolls-to-be suffering from such afflictions when they act on them? Yes, we take the desire out. All of it.”

Eyes wide, Althea was on her knees in front of him in a blitz, begging past her gag, she was broken, emitting a muffled, “Please Sir, anything! Anything but that!!”

I saw then and there just how much my father had changed since our departure, and even if that was Lord Chittenham’s doing, the blame did not rest solely on that man’s shoulders, but on the weak ones of our patriarch.

“Yes, Ms. Burns. Now you know what’s at stake. Now you both know what’s at stake.” He said, turning back toward me. His eyes melted a little at my tears. He was hardly practiced in disciplining us, Nanny had always seen to such things. He looked down to the tearful girl at his feet. “But the rest of your file shows you to be a worthwhile investment once graduated, especially once we quiet that conspiratorial tongue and put it to more appropriate uses, so I’ll give you what most men in this country wouldn’t: a second chance. Nuzzle right here,” he pointed to the zip of his trousers, and what lay within, “if you don’t want the school to hear about this.”

There wasn’t a moment of hesitation before her gagged face was pressing against my father’s privates, debasing herself. I had no idea he could be so classless and cruel, but here we were.

“You will behave, and if by chance you are asked, you will tell your Headmaster how overjoyed you are about my offer, or else we’ll cut the center of your perversions out when you graduate and donate you to the House of the Enhanced Venus for them to remodel you into their monthly special, whatever that may be. Ah yes I thought you would recognize that name.”

I barely understood this last part, but I knew the threat worked. When Father finally picked Althea up from the ground, he whispered something in her ear, a threat or pact I will never know, and as much as I cried and begged for my friend back, she remained like Chastity in the perfect doll act until our graduation three and a half months later.

 

Chapter 15

That Spring was very lonely. My eyes were beginning to open to the life laid out before me, laid out for all of us in the dorms at St. Werburgh’s School for Girls, but still I returned to my proper place as best I could.

For one, we had returned to school, which as an institution was an unrelenting test in behavioural endurance. A glance toward a friend, a heel step too loud, wriggling slightly to scratch an itch, it was all noticed by our automaids. Personal or school-provided, it made no difference, every single one had been instructed and programmed from the first day to keep us on our best behaviour. An articulated plastic hand on the shoulder was enough to remind me of my attendant’s presence and duty, to keep me in proper doll form, and if I did not cease my disturbances, well, a cane was never far away.

Secondly, dear Reader, what was the alternative? I write this now at an age that a commonwoman would consider adulthood, obviously still unknowledgeable of a great many things, but my naivety back then was dramatic. A necessity for my upbringing, for the insulation and protection our Society provides to its young. Regardless, if I had known a way to escape with Althea into the great unknown during those final months of our education, I undoubtedly would have. But I’m sure you know how flawlessly a well-oiled machine can run: there were no independent bodies here to mess it up, to improperly secure a bracelet or a gag. Now I fully understood the house rule. Anything with an unsteady heart and willfulness was silenced and bound effectively, other than Sir Wainwright who stayed out of the day-to-day affairs. No, not one uncaught hitch that entire Winter and Spring, and while I was not necessarily dwelling on escape, deep within my shell I was hoping for it.

So I found myself at my graduation in April, sitting between the two Dolls-to-be which used to be my sister and my best friend, or at least that’s how I saw it then. The third-year Dining Hall had become ever quieter on Sundays as the weeks ticked by. Perhaps there was less to discuss, or perhaps it was less strain on the mind to simply remain in our prescribed mode of being, to chew our food politely and wait for our gags to be put back in.

I had stopped pestering Althea by late January, and had come to some semblance of peace with Chastity’s betrayal shortly afterwards, filling my weekly break with stilted, unenthused discussions with Vanessa across the table. Though I loved my breaks, she was quite unskilled in the art of sustaining a conversation, a subject definitely not taught here, so I unknowingly said my final words in early March before I too receded into the act. Something about that evening’s meal, but I can’t quite recall. Isn’t that funny that I can’t remember the last words I made with my own voice?

So I too was a committed Doll-to-be along with my withdrawn companions, dressed to the nines and arranged in the old church pews when a man and his gorgeous Doll ascended the stage at our graduation, one of the many guest speakers. She was pretty steady on her heels but I could immediately tell that she had never attended St. Werburgh’s. It was easy to spot with a well-intentioned but imperfect strut like that. Otherwise she looked the part, wearing a slim but lovely dress suitable of the ceremony and the reception afterward, a gentle rouge number which framed lifted her massive breasts to frame her two roses beautifully. The man announced himself as Humphrey Battersby, along with his wife, Emily. Yes, the one and only.

Humphrey’s speech wasn’t particularly inspiring, but he was there as a new donor to the school’s trust, “so that more fine girls can get closer to God and our blessed ideals of Leisure!” Such pronouncements were starting to ring hollow to me, even then, but I thought nothing much of him at the time, nothing at all to hint at his private sadism and entrapment.

It was during the fine reception afterward that Lord Chittenham, Father, and Mr. Battersby all chummed together through the bustle of excited families and the clinking of porcelain and glass, joined by a young man I deduced much later to be Branwell Lowood. It seemed they had all vacationed together the previous year while Chastity and I were here and Mother was in Wales. Father and Mr. Battersby got along quite well, it turned out, well enough to lead to our biweekly visits from the Battersbys, and to the introduction of my tale. If I were a trained storyteller and had not given my life to Dollhood, I may end this first Book back in that room, with Chastity and I fully converted, transformed, refined, sculpted, and sitting across from Emily in what was surely your first experience reading about the life of a modern Doll Wife in the late ‘40s. But what is a passing example for Emily Rivers the Damsels in Distress advocate, the author of the four most controversial articles in our country’s recent history, the woman surely villainized in many a Societyman’s thoughts, is not my story.

True, this mention, this connection, is why I was personally selected by the Society to be allowed to speak to you people of our fair Kingdom in such an unprecedented fashion, but it is not my whole story.

My story, the one that will make you understand the multitudes and tolerance of our fair Society, only just begins as I ascend the stage to accept my Certificate of Wholesome Quality, following just behind my righteous sister Chastity, trailed by my defeated love Althea.

After each of us in that long line had curtsied to Dame Henderson and receive our certificates from her maid, we were then guided across the stage to our Headmaster sitting behind a small signing desk, who we curtsied to again in respect.

“As a newly-certified young Lady, newly refined yet still impure and capable of sin, do you, Hope Hodgkinson, willingly sacrifice your womanhood to join your sisters in Dollhood, and your future owner in the light of our great Society?”

I didn’t immediately do what I was told. I didn’t curtsy in agreement. But I also didn’t break form. My gaze did not shift a millimeter. Sir Wainwright continued to read the legalese, an eye on me every other moment. I could see it written on his face: was I being dumb or uncooperative? Neither, yet. I was nervous. Was this the right choice?

“Ahem. Do you renounce your humanity and consent to being reformed into an object dedicated to fulfilling your owner’s every desire, and in doing so, bring your family closer to the King’s favour, and therein God?

I thought about Mother. What would she think if I refused to commit to my life’s goal? What would Father do after he invested so much to get us to this moment? I couldn’t do it. My doubt was inherently self-criticizing. My unhappiness was not enough to ruin my family name. I acquiesced, I curtsied, and Sir Wainwright quickly signed an X in my place before I was hurried offstage to make room for Althea and all my other classmates behind me, and as I returned to level ground all I could think was, “What have I done?”

According to Teacher Dottie, that simple ‘X’ did many things. It made me property of my father, to be traded and sold as he wished, most commonly to an appropriate husband. His natural guardianship was already in place, but that wasn’t true ownership and the right to complete control of me as an object, it was responsibility of me as a person. Now he had both. Barring his sudden and unplanned incapacitation, it made me a property of the Society itself, my future under their discretion. It made my legal birthday exactly sixteen years before the time of signing, a requirement for the rest (which would be upheld by any judge in the country if within eight months of the real birthdate). It also relinquished my claim to a myriad other common laws both national and international, even including some special passages that made sure I would be respected as a Doll in most of Europe, though the UK is still considered a hermit kingdom even as I write this. John says trade is free and plentiful but personal travel is far from it.

Most importantly, signing allowed the Society’s esteemed Dollmakers to start their work on me.

Heels clicking down the back steps, my maid guided me down to the standing room and placed me next to Chastity, where we stood, silent and still, lungs straining against our formal event stays, and waited for the end and the ensuing flood of people through the doors. Finally, once all fifty or so were finished and Sir Wainwright had made his closing speech to the families about how well-behaved we all had been in his care, the doors opened.

Here we toasted, or should I say, they all did, the men, for there were but five women in the crowds who were not committed Dolls, and these were Ladies of the strictest variety, with arms in reverse prayer, useless hands sometimes even entwined with a rosary, and waists to die for. Mouths filled by fleur-de-bouches, these women used their facial expressions liberally compared to the Dolls’ complete inability, and if I could have refocused my gaze to look at their willful beauty all night long, I would have.

And eventually I found myself standing beside Emily, just outside the raucous circle of men hurrawing the labors my sister and I had gone through to get the framed certificates Father was waving about. As I silently bumped shoulders with this blank woman next to me who could not even look at her husband, never mind show him the love I then thought must be coursing through her veins, I realized finally, now that it was far too late, that I didn’t really want to be a Doll, that this was wrong, so very wrong, and I had made an irreversible mistake.

But before I could take even one pathetic step toward the door, Sir Wainwright swooped in to our group to make an announcement, wrapping me in one arm and nearby Althea in another, and announced to the hall: “I have grand news to announce, just grand! This young Doll, Hope Hodgkinson, has done an extraordinary thing during her short time here at St. Werburgh’s: she has made friends with one of our reformed deviants, one Althea Burns, as if she were worthy of such love and respect. Such generosity of spirit from this girl. From what I hear they are inseparable. Truly, truly wonderful!

“On top of this, in dedication to his daughter, Mr. Hodgkinson has also seen to it that Althea will be provided a place at the Hodgkinson Estate in Whitchurch-on-Thames as ‘Cuddles, loving companion to Cushions Hodgkinson and ward of Alan Hodgkinson’, a placement beyond prayer, and a true blessing for an outsider to our just Society. But we must remember it was Hope’s open-hearted generosity that saved this poor girl from a sorry life.”

Cuddles!? I felt as though I was going to be sick.

“Oh and one last thing, we will be instating a new program I have devised for integrating our three-year pupils into Society homes come next winter. You can read about it in the next Doll Society Bulletin!”

With all the men coming up to talk at me, to congratulate my father, I was left no time or breath to ponder any of this as the reception came to it’s close, for us at least. Upon a resounding stomp from the Dame and her teaching staff in perfect unison, our maids maneuvered us to the center of the room in our standard double-file, girl and servant, fully trained and certified and ready to saunter wherever we were guided.

This time it was down the hallway and out the front door to a waiting parade of London autotaxis in the courtyard, every driver (still human, I may add) predestined for the Great Ormond Street Hospital Auxiliary Wing to meet the Dollmakers in residence. The fifty-long caravan was a sign of opulence, of status, and as I reluctantly stepped into my cab with my maid, I knew that my fate was sealed.

 

END OF PART 1

 

Appendix to Part 1

Of course, the stories of all the pupils at St. Werburgh’s did not mirror those of Chastity and I completely. Whilst most were broadly similar, the Society Standard education and dollification, there were also some notable exceptions and, if you’ll indulge me here, I’d like to talk about a few of them. Some of these stories were told to me by my classmates, others I saw myself. Maybe, with these notes you’ll begin to understand the virtues of our Society, especially those of diversity and acceptance.

 

The first concerns a young lady named Emilia Delgany who came from a wealthy family somewhere in the east of England. A new student in the three-year program when I started my one-year, she was a pretty thing with cornflower blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair, and one might say she was halfway along the road to the doll ideal already. But whilst God may have blessed her physically, mentally, it was a different story completely. Right from the first day she rebelled against the doll ideal and her parents’ wish to make her follow that road, a road they’d chose for her so they could join the Society. She deliberately walked in an unfeminine way, her gag was not removed at mealtimes unless one wanted obscenities shouted in the dining hall, and she somehow managed to think of clever ruses which kept her dresses always damaged or stained. Things came to a real head however, on the day when, during her dressing, she somehow managed to disable the automaid that was dealing with her. No one knows precisely how this happened, but the rumour going around at mealtime held that prior to arrival at the school, Emilia had acquired a male admirer back in her hometown who worked for AutoServe, and he had secretly provided her with some voice commands that overrode the Teachers’ control.

Regardless of how, it all happened in the evening of the day when Dame Henderson had informed her that her marriage to a Dr. Aspley of Nuneaton had been arranged and that, following her graduation and final modifications, she would henceforth be legally known as “Bubbles”. Well, that night she disabled her automaid and escaped, running away from the school reportedly clad only in her undergarments. We were all shocked of course, but secretly I was pleased for her. Whilst the doll ideal is the highest that a girl can aspire to and she should have embraced it, at the same time it was clear that she had not and I did not want to see a friend unhappy (and by this time I was aware that dolls could be unhappy with their lot, like Vanessa and a few of the others). So, she gained her freedom and that was that… or so we thought.

Completely unexpectedly, out of the blue, after our graduation ceremony, the Headmaster announced that we would be having a special guest, and onto the stage was brought none other than Bubbles Aspley, wife of one Dr. Aspley of Nuneaton. We all knew in an instant that it was old Emily; she was recognisable, but at the same time the changes made to her were extreme. Most dolls are altered greatly of course, but Bubbles was on a whole other level; she was no longer an example of beauty but instead a parody of it. Her lips resembled a full-size plastic doughnut, whilst her completely spherical breasts were so enormous, each double the size of a beach ball, that she needed an automated cart rolling in front of her to support the extreme weight.  She tottered about on en pointe heels and it was clear that she had no ability to speak or even shift her eyes from a fixed gaze. It was also clear from the tears that were still allowed to fall from those eyes that she was both unhappy with her lot and humiliated at being shown off to all her former classmates like so. I shuddered inside, especially when the Society men all whooped and cheered, their approval more than evident.


The story of Heather Ferguson was completely different to that of Bubbles Aspley. As I’ve mentioned, not all the pupils at St. Werburgh’s came from rich families like Chastity and I, a sizeable minority were what we called “scholarship” pupils, girls taken from orphanages or impoverished families and given an elite education that they could otherwise never aspire to. Althea was a recipient of such a scholarship. Well, Heather Ferguson – or Jamila Murphy as she was then known – was one of these. Her background was so low that she was in fact of mixed race – a concept that quite alarmed us, brought up as we were in the ideal of china-white beauty – her father being some sort of Jamaican seaman and her mother a loss-class prostitute. Jamila was sponsored to attend St. Werburgh’s by one Lord Ferguson, an ageing peer whose previous doll wife had died the year before. He sponsored her because he wished to create a perfect doll replacement for his former spouse and Jamila came extremely cheaply. With no family to pay and a evaluation by the Society appropriate to a woman of mixed-race, she was nigh more expensive than her hospital bill.  Regardless, over the course of her schooling we saw her visibly transformed, her dusky skin slowly bleached china-white, freckles tattooed on her face and her final wig being of flame red so that, at her graduation she was completely unrecognisable from the brown, black-haired girl that had started her schooling with us and instead appeared as the very stereotype of a Highland dolly wearing only tartan dresses and shawls. We all felt so pleased for her of course, being able to become so beautiful in a way impossible without such serious modifications. What she thought of it however, naturally we never knew. All the “special order” girls were not treated with the same leniency as us, and their transformation was gradual, with many visits to Great Ormond Street.


But if we were pleased for Heather Ferguson, then we felt only horror and pity for Sandra Rowe. She was another scholarship pupil, arriving as a wild-haired and uncouth urchin from the backstreets of Manchester with a broad accent and huge command of obscenities. But her sponsor, a Japanese business tycoon named Takayama-san, had a quite different fate in store for her, and she was taken out of our classes most of the time and both trained and modified in a completely different fashion to the rest of us. We watched in horror as operations to her eyes made them more oriental-looking whilst her wig was jet black. Her ability to speak was removed very early on and she was taught entirely in Japanese whilst from her second year onwards she was dressed only in kimonos. Upon graduation and certification, her legal documents renamed her Yukiko Takayama married her to her sponsor whom she was shipped off to the very next day. Like Heather, her previous identity was erased completely, yet unlike that lucky girl she was transformed into a lesser race, not a higher one. None of us could understand why Takayama had not simply used a Japanese girl for his desires. Years later I received an answer which would have shocked me then: Dolling is illegal in many countries, although bringing over a foreign-made doll to Japan is not. Apparently quite a few Asian and African devotees of the Doll ideal do the same as was done to Yukiko. The Americans have their own strange methods, so they rarely purchase brides from England, but that’s another story.

 

A Day in the Life: Dolly and Molly

A Day in the Life: Dolly and Molly

This story is a loose sequel to A Day in the Life and A Day in the Life Revisited. It was written by me, Dave Potter, but thanks must go to Cafter Homme for the editing and corrections which have made it a better tale than it was originally.

 

Chapter 1

Lord Henry Eastham put down the letter that he had just read and gazed across at his young wife, asleep on the bed.

Whether she was actually physically asleep or not, he could not say for sure. Her heavy breathing suggested that she probably was, but with a waist compressed to such incredible proportions, her breathing was always laboured anyway. It was one of the things that he loved so much about her. No, Lady Eastham was asleep because he had decided that she was asleep. Her maids had attached her securely to the bed, spread out like a starfish, wrists chained to the upper two bedposts, ankles to the lower, so that she could barely move a muscle, just as they did every evening at nine. He had come upstairs half an hour later and taken his pleasure with her, and she had been awake then because he had heard her gagged groans from beneath her new face, but afterwards he had shut her eyes and climbed off. That was what was so marvellous about his wife, or, to be more precise, about how he and all the other men in the Society kept their wives. When he decided she was asleep, she was asleep. Whether or not she actually was sleeping was immaterial, just like all her other actions, wishes and wants. Lying stock still on the bed, her eyes closed, she had the appearance of being asleep.

And that was all that mattered.

After gazing upon his sleeping spouse for a few moments, he returned to the letter from William Cavendish. Its contents had shocked him but did not particularly worry him. The repercussions would be minimal and repeat offenses could be prevented from occurring. Even so, it was embarrassing that this had happened under his roof and it was important that he be seen to do something, otherwise his standing within the Society would diminish. But what to do, exactly?

He rang the bell and within a minute Fanny arrived. He let his eyes linger upon her corseted waist for perhaps a moment more than was polite and then said brusquely, “Tea, please.”

Two minutes later she had returned carrying a tray with a small teapot, delicate jug of milk and fine china cup and saucer. She set it down before him and he gave her bottom a pat as she did so. She said nothing of course. Whether she liked it or not was immaterial. In Lord Eastham’s house such behaviour was de rigueur.

“How are you these days, Fanny?” he asked.

“I’m fine, Your Lordship, thank you for asking.”

“And your parents?”

“You forget Your Lordship, they’re both passed away. I have no family now.”

“Not even a brother or a sister?”

“None that survived childhood, Your Lordship.”

“I am sorry to hear that. You are an excellent maid, Fanny. I do appreciate your hard work.”

“Why thank you, Your Lordship.”

“I do so hope that the world treats you better in the future, girl. Good night.”

Fanny bade her master goodnight also and left the room. What she did not realise that the decisions made by that master during the short two minutes that it had taken to make his tea would change her life irrevocably.


At the same time that Lady Eastham was sleeping and Fanny’s destiny was being altered, the author of the fatal letter, William Cavendish Esq. was sitting in his own bedroom, also drinking tea and also gazing upon his own sleeping wife.

Mrs. Cavendish however, unlike her sister in silence, Lady Eastham, was sleeping on her front tonight since the sexual congress that she had just enjoyed – or endured – with her husband, had been of the more prohibited type. As he had started taking to do more and more often, he had ordered Woakes to arrange his living doll on her front with her large and extremely alluring plugged bottom high in the air with a bolster placed underneath it. She was, as always in bed, entirely naked save for the corset around her waist, the monoglove binding her arms together and the hood and then porcelain cast enclosing her head. Not that this really counted of course. As far as William was concerned, the ceramic head topped with a golden wig was Mrs. Cavendish’s real head and the only sort of real waist was a corseted one; she was naked. For, in his mind and those of all the Society members and their wives, she had ceased to become a woman per se and was instead a very special china doll.

Albeit a living and breathing one.

Nonetheless, something had now changed. Something drastic. Not that one could tell from either his demeanour or hers, but the change was real nonetheless.

It dated back two months to when they had both attended the masking ceremony of the new Lady Eastham. Sometime during that ceremony, it transpired that Mrs. Cavendish had overheard two maids chattering. Quite without meaning to and by chance, those maids had given away the Society’s secret and undone years of indoctrination. They had essentially told the silent and unmoving Mrs. Cavendish that real society ladies do not wear masks or china heads, are not permanently gagged and fed liquidised food and do not have their arms bound in monogloves most of the time. Instead, they had let it slip that she was an indoctrinated victim of a sadistic group of men who desire to turn their wives into china dolls.

Indeed.

He gazed upon her sleeping form and wondered: was the woman inside his doll actually asleep or not? Did she love him or hate him? How did she feel about being taken anally most nights? How did she feel about being silenced and anonymised? What difference had this realisation made to her life?

He had only learnt about her discovery because, a week before, on a whim, he’d decided to allow his doll a conversation. These were increasingly rare occurrences, since he didn’t really care for what she had to say or indeed her thoughts and feelings as a person. After all, do normal china dolls think and feel? But he was bored and slightly tipsy on port and the idea of a “chat” had appealed, so he’d unlaced her monoglove, taken out her conversation book and let her write.

He’d expected the usual submissive, mindless blah, proof if it were needed that the Society’s intensive indoctrination programme in the years leading up to marriage had worked flawlessly. What he had instead received that day had shocked him profoundly. She’d revealed her discovery and pleaded with him to treat her as a “normal” wife. He had comforted her, hugged her, and then replaced the monoglove, to her weak protestations.

Then he had written straightaway to Lord Eastham. The letter that His Lordship had just finished reading unbeknownst to its author.

Chapter 2

Upon reading the letter, Lord Eastham had realised immediately who the guilty culprits had been: Fanny Baker and Millie Bainbridge. Both girls were pretty dull intellectually, and no great shakes as housemaids either. He had only employed them – and tolerated their repeated mediocre performances in their roles – because they were extremely pleasing to look at, did not complain when he gave their buttocks or breasts a squeeze, and were too stupid to ever mention to the authorities about what went on in Eastham Hall.

His initial thought upon having read the missive was to sack the pair of them on spot. However, after he had sent for a maid and Fanny had arrived in person, he’d started to have second thoughts. Was a mere sacking punishment enough for such irresponsibility? And if kicked out of his employ, how could he guarantee their silence? Plus, he had long held fantasies about doing far more with one or both of them – particularly Fanny – than giving their bottoms a grope.

And almost as soon as he thought about this, a solution precipitated into his mind. Oh yes, a great solution! One that would satisfy the Society, satisfy William Cavendish and, most importantly, satisfy him.

On the morrow he ordered his carriage readied and rode out to the railway station. There he took the first train to Sheffield where he changed for Throwley. Three hours later he was hammering on the door of the isolated Throwley Hall, where his friend and fellow Societyman William Cavendish lived with his own doll wife. The two men met and spoke in the dining room for about an hour. Then, Lord Eastham left and returned directly to his home. After enjoying his evening meal, he withdrew to his study and promptly summoned three of his servants to him. The first was Nolan the butler. The two men spoke for around fifteen minutes after which Nolan departed looking extremely grave. Next, he summoned Millie Bainbridge. He spoke to her for around fifteen minutes and she left looking quite distraught. Finally, he summoned Fanny Baker.

“Fanny, please sit down,” he said, smiling and showing the lowly maid to the best chair in the room.

“Why, thank you, Your Lordship.”

“I’ve been thinking about our little conversation last night and I have a proposal to make to you. Life has been unkind to you in the past, I understand that, yet you have continued to work diligently in my employ and proven yourself to be a first-rate housemaid.”

“Why, thank you, Your Lordship, you’re too kind.”

“No Fanny, no I am not. You have earned that praise and it is my belief that you have earned far more than that. Indeed, I have called you into my office today in order to offer you a promotion. Lady Eastham, as you know, lives in a rather, how shall I put it, unusual manner and although she is most happy with her lot, I sense that she is lonely. During our evening conversations, she has repeatedly mentioned to me about how excellent you have proved to be when serving her and what a delightful girl she finds you to be. Thus, it is that I would like to offer you the position of Companion to Lady Eastham. The wage is quadruple the amount you are currently paid but I do appreciate that you are happy in your current work and this role may not suit…”

“Oh no Your Lordship, it would suit me right proper would that!”

“Well, are you sure? It is a big step up and…”

“Oh, Your Lordship, thank you very much, I’d be honoured!”

“Well that is excellent and, as it happens, I have another bit of news for you. I believe that you are good friends with Millie Bainbridge, am I correct?”

“Oh yes, Your Lordship, me and her is like sisters.”

“How delightful! Well, only this morning I met with a dear friend of mine, Mr. William Cavendish, and he asked me if I have any intelligent and able young ladies in my employ who would be happy to act as a companion for his wife. Immediately I thought of you and Millie but I wanted to keep you employed in this household, so I offered the Cavendish position to her and she has accepted too. Ladies, you are both going up in the world!”

“That’s unbelievable, Your Lordship, thank you so much!”

“It is nothing,” he replied. “On the morrow, you are to travel to Sheffield and visit the draper. You will need a new wardrobe after all for your new position. As this is being prepared, you shall continue in your current post but then in, shall we say a fortnight, when your new clothes are ready, you shall be inducted into your new role.”

“Thank you again, Your Lordship, you’re too kind, you really are.”

“Well, if that is how you think, please, permit me a little kiss on that pretty cheek of yours and then you can be off.”

“Of course, Your Lordship! For you, anything…”

And so he had his peck on the cheek – which strayed towards her rosebud lips – and then she was sent on her way with a pat on the bum.

And as she closed the door behind her, Lord Eastham muttered to himself, “Brainless cow!”

Chapter 3

Lazily, Fanny Baker opened her eyes in her new bed on the first morning of her new job. Almost immediately, despite the succour of sleep still being in her head, she knew that something was wrong. She had opened her eyes but nothing had changed; the world remained black.

Not the black of a dark night but pitch black, the total absence of light at all.

More than that, something was covering her head. Enclosing it, tightly, as if it were in a bag. She tried to bring her hand to her face to check what it was but that hand would not move. It was firmly secured to the frame of the bed above her head. In panic she screamed.

No noise came out.


The night before she was due to begin her new position, in accordance with the new duties and status, Fanny had been told that she would be moving to new quarters, up in the West Wing next to Lady Eastham’s rooms. It had been an emotional day for the young maid. That morning she had tearfully bade goodbye to her friend Millie who had set off for her new job at Throwley Hall, and then the change in her circumstances had been announced at dinner by the butler to all in the servants’ dining room. There had been a couple of muttered snide comments about people who got a promotion by flashing their tits rather than doing any work, but most people had applauded her respectfully. She had never felt so proud and so beloved.

After that she had made her way up the wide staircase to the upper-class quarters. Her bedroom, when she was shown it, was incredible. It wasn’t as grand as her mistress’s of course, but it was still huge, dominated by a four-poster bed and, worryingly, a lacing bar that dangled from the ceiling. There was a large wardrobe full of the new outfits delivered that afternoon in the draper’s van. She opened it and looked at them. Fine satin and velvet, lace trimmings and exquisite embroidery. After that day, she would look incredible. She sat down on the bed and smiled. How lucky she was! Of course, she had always known that His Lordship had a soft spot for her; that was why she endured the little strokes and squeezes that came her way, but she never believed he would favour her in such a manner. If she played her cards right and let him do more than stroke or squeeze, who knows? Perhaps her own little place in a nearby town which he could retreat to when he grew tired of his strange, china-faced wife.

Just thinking of Lady Eastham made her shiver. What a freaky way to live? Silent and hidden, more like a piece of the furniture than a real, living person. And what was she as the Lady’s companion supposed to do with her? She imagined some very dull one-way conversations in the ladies’ drawing room. Oh well, however tortuous, it would be worth it. The salary alone, plus the status and the prospect of further boons to come her way, had made this a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Fanny was shaken from her reveries by a knock on the door. It was Nolan the butler who was wheeling a trolley.

“His Lordship thought you might like some tea before you retire,” he said.

“That’d be lovely, ta. Just leave it there.”

“As you wish, Miss Baker. Good evening.”

“Goodnight Mr. Nolan,” she replied.

She did not know that they were to be the last words she would ever speak.


Lord Eastham looked on with sadistic pleasure as he saw the china doll on the bed start to squirm, groan and test her restraints. As no one else was present, she could see nothing and his trousers were tented, he unbuttoned them and took his member in his hand. In less than a minute he had erupted over her new porcelain face. Then he revealed himself.

“Good morning Fanny,” he said, “and welcome to your first day as Lady Eastham’s companion. Immediately she stopped her squirming. He took out a damp flannel, wiped the semen from her face with care and then opened her eyelids to reveal a pair of dark brown doll’s eyes with a tiny pinhole in the centre of each one.

“I guess you are wondering what has happened to you since you drank that cup of tea last night. Well, you shouldn’t be confused, as the truth of the matter is entirely obvious: if you are to be Lady Eastham’s companion in life then it is only natural that you must live in the same mode that she does. However, because you are not a member of the aristocracy and only a lowly serving girl, it would have been inappropriate for you to have a dolling ceremony as she did. So it was that your head was fitted last night when you were sleeping off the effects of the drugged tea.”

Immediately the squirming, bucking groaning and general non-acceptance of her life began again. Lord Eastham stopped speaking. He enjoyed moments like this and wanted to savour this one. Already his trousers were beginning to tent again. With his wife he had not had such a pleasure, as she had been indoctrinated to accept, nay, embrace her doll status. But this brainless wench had had no such preparation and her predicament was panicking her. As he watched her battle in vain against her restraints, he remembered the previous evening.

Half an hour after giving her the tea, Nolan had returned and then summoned his master. Lord Eastham had come along together with the Earl of Norfolk, the founder and Chair of the Society whom he had contacted the week before and invited along for the occasion. The three men had then stripped the sleeping maid, tied her to a chair and cut her hair off with shears before then shaving it as bald as an egg. After that they had fitted the fearsome hood which was then laced up tightly at the back, before inflating the gag to full capacity. Then the china head had been produced, another perfect product from the Staffordshire manufacturer Wade, whose owner was also a Societyman and who made all Society heads to their purchaser’s unique specifications. Since his wife was a blonde-haired and wide blue-eyed doll, Lord Eastham had decided to go for a stark contrast and so ordered Fanny to become a raven-haired beauty with brooding dark brown eyes and rosebud lips. Not unlike the Empress Sisi in fact. The rear half of the head had been fitted first, then the front joined onto it and, finally, the mass of black ringleted hair affixed on top.

The vision complete.

Fanny was then untied from the chair, lain on the bed, and her wrists and ankles were attached firmly to the four posts by bronze chains before the counterpane was lain on top of her, and she was left to rest in peace.


Eastham stayed silent until Fanny had ceased in her futile struggles, after which he stroked her ersatz hair and began his litany again.

“Fanny, from this day forward you shall live exactly as your mistress does, for you shall be her companion in everything. You are now a doll just as she is and, to help make that clearer to you, I have decided that you are to be renamed. Your new moniker is Dolly. Dolly the dolly. Simple, like you, and easy to remember. At this moment, as I impart this joyful news to you, all the servants are being addressed by Nolan who is instructing them that you must always be referred to as ‘Dolly’ from this day forward.”

She started to buck and groan again, doubtless due to the shame of this ordeal. His Lordship’s member grew even stiffer. When she had calmed herself again, he continued:

“Unfortunately, as you are doubtless aware, your waist is currently much broader than Her Ladyship’s. therefore, you shall undergo a period of intensive waist training. I have already ordered the new stays to accomplish this. Your personal maid has been instructed to ensure that your waist circumference, twenty-eight inches at present I believe, does not exceed sixteen by this time next year. Oh yes, and your maid is to be Lottie. I believe you two are close friends.”

The bucking started again in earnest. Lord Eastham had been lying. The plain, almost boyish Lottie Wilkins, one of the most efficient and hard-working maids in the hall, was also the one who had muttered about people getting promotions by flashing their tits the previous evening. Nolan had informed him straightaway. The two girls absolutely hated one another.

“Now, I shall ring for Lottie in a moment and she shall administer your first enema and then prepare you for your first day as Her Ladyship’s companion. However, before we do that, whilst we are still alone, I have one little confession to make.” As he said those words he moved his face right next to hers, so close that he could feel and hear her breath entering and exiting the holes in the button porcelain nose. “Dolly, I lied to you earlier. I did not choose you for this position because of your hard work; instead it was due to a very different reason. A month ago at Her Ladyship’s dolling ceremony, you and Millie Bainbridge – now renamed Molly the Dolly I believe – spoke freely about our practices. Either purposeful or simply careless, you let another doll know that how she and Lady Eastham – and now you too I suppose – live is not the norm, and – I am using your words here – our society is ‘evil’. Now, my dear doll, such an abuse of trust is absolutely unforgivable. You have caused both Mrs. Cavendish and Mr. Cavendish great upset and so, it is only right that you – and Millie – share the burden as it were. Whatever bed you are lying in dear Dolly, it is you who has put yourself there. And with those thoughts, goodbye.”

Softly he kissed her pottery cheek and then rang the bell for Lottie.


Four hours later a figure walked into the drawing room at Throwley Hall. “My darling, meet your new companion, Molly the Dolly!” announces William Cavendish as a flame-haired, green-eyed doll tentatively enters, unsure on her new heels.

And at the same hour we can find Fanny… nay, Dolly, sitting alongside Lady Eastham, her shoulders in agony from the monoglove that has been laced onto her for the first time in her life, her breast heaving from the overtightened stays but her face placid and tranquil.

 

Chapter 4

Four months later

Ticking of the clock pounded through her brain, tormenting her, driving her mad. It was only a faint sound, barely discernible through the tight leather hood and pottery cast that now covered her ears, but in a world of almost complete silence, it engulfed her entire being.

I say ‘almost complete,’ for there was another sound: that of heavy, laboured breathing; the constant battle to force air in and out of dangerously-compressed lungs and then through the tiny holes in the pot head. The eternal battle for air that both enraged and comforted her. She hated it, she longed for a break from that unending struggle to just keep herself alive and yet, at the same time, it was a blessed reminder that she… and the figure sitting across from her… were alive. For breathing was the only non-artificial thing about them.

She was doing her job, the “promotion” that she had eagerly accepted and looked forward to. She had been excited by the fact that she would become almost a lady herself, wearing fine dresses, sleeping in fine quarters and doing no physical work. Well, all of that had turned out to be true, but in the cruellest possible way. She now was Mrs. Cavendish’s companion indeed, but keep her company was all that she did do. It was all that she could do nowadays.

She closed her real eyes behind the doll ones and remembered. She remembered running in the fields as a little girl, singing songs at Sunday School, laughing and joking with her friends, flirting with the boys. She recalled glorious summer Sundays lying on the grass staring up at the fluffy clouds in the sky, cups of tea around the kitchen table, wild nights at harvest time when everyone drank home-brewed ale and danced around the hayrick. She had been poor, unimportant and ignorant, but she had been, in so many ways, happy.

And now…?

She stared at Mrs. Cavendish. How ironic that they spent nearly every waking hour together and yet had never spoken and knew nothing about each other. Instead she just sits there, in the armchair across from her, dressed in the finest of gowns, her ample chest heaving up and down, her face blank and artificial. Who is she? What is she like? What does she dream about? Does she hate the husband that did this to her or does she love him? Does she realise that she is a victim of a group of sadistic, evil men who just like to control women or does she think that it is normal? She remembers that once, when they were free, Fanny had told her that they don’t realise, that they think it’s normal. She also remembers that Fanny is now Lady Eastham’s companion. She has met her several times of course but, corseted to fainting and her head hidden beneath a doll head, then she would never have known that it was her old friend. She recognised Lottie though, that plain bitch who preferred women to men and always hated the fact that Fanny had more normal preferences and didn’t find her attractive at all. And now Lottie was Fanny’s maidservant. She shuddered when she thought what that meant.

She stared again at Mrs. Cavendish. She had no choice. It was almost impossible to turn her head these days without shifting her whole body. She could glance from side to side but that just meant blindness since her eyes then did not line up with the pinholes in the doll head. She took in her mistress’s gorgeous cream gown with printed roses on it and her minuscule waist, emphasised with a huge red ribbon. A wave of hate passed over her. Her gown, although fine, was far plainer and her waist was far broader. She was now nothing more than an anonymous clotheshorse and yet even in that role this bitch was eclipsing her.

And it was more than that. Madam had been trained so that she could accept all of this. She knew no different. Ignorance is strength. For her this was all normal. Oh, to have that peace of mind, that serenity, that ability to accept and not be angry. How she hated her with every fibre of her being!

Nor was that all. That cow, that submissive, putrid little doll whom it was her life’s curse to accompany, yes, she could not speak, move, express opinions or anything else, but she could still be a woman. She was a wife. A woman’s purpose in life is to marry and please her husband and, in a perverse way, that bitch was doing that. Every night she would lie with him and he would enter her. Oh the memory! She was no virgin of course, she had lain with several of the serving boys and, although she had not really loved any of them, it had been good, oh yes, it had been wonderful! The feeling of a man inside her, his rod slipping up and down her cavern, caressing her down there, his arms entwining her, the ecstasy, the joy, the…

The thoughts caused her breathing to grew heavier and she felt her head spinning. She tried to fight it but then she blacked out.

She awoke. How long had passed? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Nothing had changed. The clock still ticked and Mrs. Cavendish still stared vacantly back at her. Bitch! Tonight that cow would enjoy a man whilst she lay alone as she did every night, her sex on fire due to the insertions in both her nest and her bottom, but with no way to relieve them. It was so unfair!

But a woman is not born to be just a wife. No, she has an even higher calling than that, the highest calling of all. The be a mother and raise a brood of gorgeous children. She loved children but they did not love her. The doll head with its staring eyes freaked them out and the few that came to Throwley ran from her and Mrs. Cavendish. But soon, that cow across from her would find a child that ran towards her, not away. Soon, she would be nursing one, having it suck on the teat of one of those ample breasts that now heaved up and down across from her.

Oh yes, a week ago it had been announced that Madam had missed her period and today the doctor had visited and another announcement made: Mrs. Cavendish was expecting! Her stays were going to be loosened and she would be pampered whilst the new life grew within her. How evil was that! That this mindless, pathetic girl who rushed to embrace becoming a doll should be gifted with a child whilst Millie herself was left unsatisfied every night.

God how she hated her!

A click to her left shook her out of her reveries. Although she could not see what it was, she knew from past experience: the door had been opened. Into her line of sight appeared Mr. Cavendish. He was a handsome man with a rugged face and excellent dress sense. She could see why that worthless freak had fallen for him. He went over to his doll wife and pecked her on her porcelain cheek. “I had to check on the mother of my child,” he said warmly. She did not move or react.

Then he turned towards Molly and gazed upon her for longer than was decent, his eyes resting on her now 20-inch in circumference stem-waist. “And her charming companion too, of course,” he added. He walked over to her and she involuntarily wiggled her monoglove-clad arms even though there was no life in them. His hand brushed her cheek and she cursed that she could feel nothing. Then it strayed down, brushing her heaving breasts almost accidentally. Oh, the feeling of a human touch on her body! It was exquisite but all too infuriating for its briefness. “Your waist is progressing well, Molly,” he commented. “Soon it shall match my wife’s.”

And then he departed.

God how she longed for him!

God how she hated her!

But none of those feelings came out and instead she just sat there, unmoving, her artificial face smiling as the clock ticked endlessly on.

Chapter 5

A year later

The congregation are assembled, the minister stands with his prayer book and the groom waits nervously by the altar. Then, the familiar strains of the wedding march strike up on the organ and the bride enters, a glorious vision in white. She moves slowly and daintily down the aisle and all present admire what they see: her sumptuous dress, her minuscule waist and her proudly-held head, covered by a bonnet and thick white veils. At the altar those veils are flipped back to reveal her face. She is as pretty as a doll! Indeed, she is more than that. She is a china doll! Her lips do not move and her eyes stare unblinking.

And thirty minutes later she has become one Mrs. Stephen Nolan.


In the year that has passed, much has happened. Both Dolly and Molly have settled down silently, uncomplaining, as the companions of Lady Eastham and Mrs. Cavendish respectively. They meet regularly, for every other month the Cavendishes make their way over to Eastham Hall whilst on the alternate months the Easthams travel to Throwley. Although friends before, His Lordship and William Cavendish have become even closer and nothing makes them happier than seeing their two wives and their two wives’ companions sitting in a row, all tight-laced, monogloved and expressionless in the drawing room. It is just exquisite.

But for William Cavendish, it has become more than that. Indeed, the presence of a new doll under his roof has changed the whole dynamics of his household. Mrs. Cavendish always excited him, but now there is double the temptation. At first he was content to just let his eyes drift over the newcomer’s ever-improving figure and flawless porcelain complexion but then, as with Lord Eastham before him, he found that he could not resist a stroke or a squeeze.

And Molly the Dolly could not resist him.


Things came to a head though, when a happy event took place within Throwley Hall. Worried about his future legacy, William had started undertaking his nightly congress with his wife not only vaginally, but, furthermore, without protection. And within three months, nature took its course and her periods stopped.

Which was wonderful news of course, but as her stomach grew and her stays had to be loosened, the doll that he was married to began to appear less and less appealing in comparison to the one that he had merely employed. He found himself sneaking into her room at night to gaze upon her sleeping form and, before a fortnight had passed, he had taken to lying next to her and gently stroking her whilst also bringing himself to fulfilment.

Before the month was over, they had consummated their new-found relationship.


As with so many things, what happens at Throwley Hall, also happens at Eastham. His Lordship however, had always foreseen the day when he slept with his wife’s companion and so had made plans. However, he had delayed it for his own perverse pleasure.

He knew that Dolly hated him. On the rare occasions when he allowed her to have a conversation with him, she swore and railed against him in misspelt English with crudely-formed letters. She really was as dumb as they come, and her anger and malice excited him to no end. So, he formed a plan. He wanted her to want him as much as she detested him, to plead with him to sleep with her yet hate herself for doing so.

It was not hard. All Society members learned that their doll wives loved to lie with their husbands. The reason was simple: denied of any skin-to-skin contact, forced to live life second-hand, ‘through a glass darkly’ as the Society’s spiritual head, the Rev. Halcombe had put it, the brief physical contact that they enjoyed with another human being during sex became a beacon of hope and reality in their lives. It was the only thing that made them feel human.

And indoctrinated as they all were, they knew that they should love it and should adore their husbands anyway. That they longed for that time was only natural. It was God’s will.

But with Dolly it was all so different. She had received no education and was under no illusions. She knew that he was to blame for her misery and only he could free her, yet chose not to. She abhorred him with every fibre of her body and so shrank away when he neared her. Still though, he set to work. He instituted weekly conversations ‘to discuss the progress of his darling wife’ and during these would ask her what she thought of him. Using her brainless bluntness she told him that he repels her.

“So, you wouldn’t like to sleep with me?” he asked.

Not for all the money in the world, she wrote.

“Fair enough, because I never shall unless you ask me to.”

And I never will ask you to you shit!

However, whilst all this was going on, his plan to break her was progressing. The cook was ordered to put copious quantities of Spanish fly, a strong aphrodisiac, in her liquidised meals and Lottie was under strict instructions to keep sizing up her bottom plugs as well as also adding a frontal insertion.

And then, every evening, an hour after she had been put to sleep, he would enter her room and slowly stroke or tickle her beauty bud. She would buck and groan but he would never let her do more than that.

After four months of mental and physical torment and intense internal debating, she humbly wrote in her conversation book, Please lie with me.

“Why? Do you love me?”

No, I hate you. You are a louse.

“I only lie with women who love me.”

Two weeks later she told him she loved him.

Which was all well and good except that Lord Eastham had never been a fan of congress with a sheath. And so he went about it au naturel and, after five months, Dolly too missed her period.

Which potentially posed a problem. After all, who had access to her but His Lordship? And what would be the talk in the county if it became known that he had made a servant pregnant? But, as I said before, Lord Eastham was a man who had made plans for such an eventuality. The very week that Dolly missed her period, quite out-of-the-blue, the butler Nolan declared his undying love for Lady Eastham’s Companion.

And the very next week they were married with the Rev. Halcombe presiding in Eastham Hall’s private chapel.


In the reception afterwards, William Cavendish seeks out his friend.

“Bertie, old fruit, I must say, I don’t know how you do it! I’m in awe, I truly am!”

“Whatever do you mean, old bean?”

“Well, getting Nolan to marry the doll like that. I mean, it’s an awful shame for you since he’ll be using her from now on but at least the scandal of the child is covered up. How much did you have to pay him to agree?”

“Pay him? Oh, not a penny, old chap. Did it for free. And what is more, he won’t be stopping my access to her. In fact, she’ll consummate her wedding night in a couple of hours’ time with the same fellow who impregnated her in the first place.”

“What on earth do you mean? Nolan is prepared to ride solo whilst you’re on his mare?”

“Not at all. Nolan won’t be riding solo tonight just as he has not for many years. My guess is that he will be busy galloping his way through the night on Parker as he does most nights.”

“Parker? Which mare is that? Can’t say I’ve noticed her before.”

“You haven’t because Parker’s a stallion not a mare. Nolan is a raging pederast you see. Damn good butler but a shirt-lifter. I’ve known for years, naturally. That’s why I had a word with him before Lady Eastham was dolled and another before I dolled up Dolly here. It keeps his mouth shut. Better that than him languishing in the nick.”

“Aha! I get it now! Absolute bloody genius! He keeps quiet about your tendencies and you keep quiet about his; he gets to appear as a normal family man and you get to roger the doll; he gets a child and you don’t get any scandal.”

“Got it in one, except for one minor detail: if it’s a boy, it’s his, although I’ll provide for the lad well enough of course. But if it’s a girl, the Society gets her. As you know, we’ve been getting worried that these orphanage reforms may cut off our current supply of dolls, so what better than to breed some of our own? Everyone’s a winner… except Dolly and the baby perhaps!”

They both chuckled heartily at this and took long puffs on their cigars. Then Cavendish turned to Eastham and said, “Listen old bean, I’ve been meaning to ask…”

Eastham held his hand up. “You needn’t bother, old chap, I know what you’re about to say: Yes, I can help. Wilkins the footman and Peters to gardener are also raging queers who are rather fond of each other. Do you fancy employing them both at Throwley Hall? I’m guessing young Molly is getting itchy for some wedding bells too…”

The End

 

Copyright © 2018, Dave Potter

 

Bunnykins

Bunnykins

Trang was a normal girl in Vietnam. She was slim, sensuous and her face could bewitch most men. It certainly bewitched Dave Potter when he saw it on the internet dating site. He started contacting her, learnt that she was an intelligent, independent woman, and within a month he was catching a plane over there to Ho Chi Minh City.

They met, they talked, they kissed and they fell in love. “Would you mind going for a professional photo shoot?” asked Dave. Trang of course, did not mind. She went to the most expensive studio in town, (after all, Dave was paying), and posed for a series of elegant photographs wearing her traditional dress, the ao dai.

Dave left, but returned again three months later. A week after his arrival, they were married, and a month after that, they were on the plane jetting towards Southern California where he lived.

After alighting from the plane they drove south and south, until they were but a few kilometers from the Mexican border. Then they stopped at a large house. “Do you live here?” asked Trang.

“Yes I do my honey,” replied Dave.

They got out of the car and entered the luxurious marble-tiled confines. “Sit down,” said Dave. “I’ll make you a drink,” he added. He disappeared and returned a moment later with an iced coffee. Trang took it with a smile and sipped it slowly. Then, strangely, she began to feel dizzy, her whole went hazy and Dave smiled.

She awoke feeling groggy. She was no longer in the luxury mansion, but instead a hospital room. She was lain on a bed and all around her, doctors milled about. She tried to get up from the bed, but discovered that she was tied down. Dave came into view, smiling. “What’s happened?” she asked. “Have I had an accident?”

“No, my dear, I’m just having you modified a little, that’s all. So that you more suit my tastes.”

“Modified? What? Where?” She was very confused.

“Where? Oh in a place where the law does not matter,” said her husband with a laugh.

Then a doctor came up to her, injected something into her arm, and the world went black once more.

When she awoke the seond time she found that she was no longer in the hospital. Instead, she was in a bedroom. A very pink bedroom. A bedroom covered with pink silken sheets, pink hearts and large pink soft toys. The only non-pink thing in it was Dave, who was sat at the foot of the bed, again wearing a broad smile on his face.

“You’re awake my darling!” he exclaimed. “Very good! Welcome to your new life Bunnykins!”

‘Bunnykins’? What did he mean? What did that English word mean? She sat up and discovered that she was naked, save a tiny plastic pink bikini. She felt different. Curled hair brushed against her face.But why? She put her hand to her face. Her hand didn’t work! What was happening? She asked Dave. Except that she didn’t ask anything. All that came out of her mouth was a gurgle. She couldn’t speak!

“You’re wondering about the modifications that I’ve made to you I suppose?” he said.

Trang nodded.

“Well, the hands. I’ve had them changed in hospital. The fingers have had metal rods inserted beneath the skin, so that they cannot bend and the fingers themselves have been sewn together and these fantastic pink false nails, an inch in length attached to the tips of each one. Then there’s the wrists, also unmovable. Your hands are useless now. Left for decorative purposes only. And you mouth? You will find that that will no longer open wider than a one inch ‘o’, the size of my cock in fact. Inside, your voice chords have been snapped and your teeth removed and the mouth itself reshaped so that it is smaller and therefore, more comfortable for my tool. Of course, speaking is not an impossibility. Your mind however, I have left unchanged. I wish you to appreciate every second of this change in your life. Now, what else, ah yes, your feet. In a permanent en pointe ballet position. Walking any distance is now impossible for you, but you can mince about the house to my pleasure. Your breasts and buttocks have of course been enhanced, that goes without saying. Let’s get you up and dressed.”

He picked his wife up and laced a pair of en pointe boots on her feet and then covered them with schoolgirl white socks and white girly shoes that disguised the fact that the feet were held at an angle. Trang tried walking on these and found it almost an impossibility. They then went over to a wardrobe and Dave brought out a ridiculous little girl’s dress in pink, festooned with bows, which he proceed to dress his wife in. “You might be wondering why you are finding it difficult to resist me. I shall explain,” said he. “You are now being fed on a compound designed by nutriotional experts. It provides all the vitamins and nutrients that you need for daily life, but none of the chemicals that give you strength. Consequently, whilst fed on it you shall always be healthy, yet alas also weak. Certain of your muscles though, I require to be always toned. Therefore, you will be pleased to learn that thrice weekly you will be having butt massages to keep that now enlarged part of your anatomy firm and pleasing to me.” He finished tying the dress around her, then led her to a chair where copious amounts of make-up were smeared onto Trang’s face: bright pink lipstick, black line on her eyebrows and to her horror, enormous false lashes that obscured her view a little. He then produced a large pink ribbon and tied to to her hair. “By the way,” commented he, “your hair will be forever curled and blonde from now on.” Then, with a smile, he delcared, “My little girl Bunnykins is complete! Take a look at yourself in the mirror.”

Bunnykins turned to the looking glass that he held before her. Staring at her was a little Asian-girl fantasy, ready to be plucked and used and then cast aside. She blinked and her false lashes batted up and down. “Pretty aren’t you, Bunnykins?” said Dave, brushing her blonde ringlets. “Now bend over!” Bunnykins did not heed her husband, so he bent her over himself, so that her arse was facing the air. Pulling down her bikini panties, he said. “One more thing. Your lovely bottom is not large enough for me to enter yet, so it must be trained.” Then to her surprise, he thrust a large and well-lubricated dildo into it, causing her to gurgle loudly. “Such a pretty sound, your gurgle is,” was the only comment that Dave made, before righting her. “Now kneel!” he commanded. This time Bunnykins obeyed.

“Now, your main, nay, only purpose in life is to receive cock, so today, I am going to introduce you to the art of blowing.” He unbuttoned his fly and took his tool out. Bunnykins unwillingly took that erect member into her modified mouth and started sucking. “No! No! Harder! Harder!” cried Dave, grabbing her head rougly and fucking her face with vigour. As he came a minute or so later, Bunnykins looked up and saw one of the the photos of her in her ao dai from the photo shoot in Vietnam, and realised what a terrible change had happened to her. Gone was proud, independent, intelligent Trang. Arrived was Bunnykins the Bimbo, Dave’s little Asian girl fucktoy.

Copyright © 2004, Dave Potter

A Day in the Life, Revisited

A Day in the Life, Revisited

This story is a loose sequel to A Day in the Life. It was written by me, Dave Potter, but thanks must go to Cafter Homme for the extensive editing and revisions which have made it a far better tale than it was originally.

5 years later

Beneath her breast, her heart beat ten to the dozen. Today was to be such an exciting day, for today her husband had told her that she would be allowed a conversation with her old friend Lady Eastham on the eve of the lady’s ceremony. That was why they had travelled in a curtained coach all the way from Throwley to Eastham Hall the previous evening.

Lady Eastham wasn’t really an old friend of course; not strictly. She hardly knew the girl in fact but then these days she hardly knew anyone. However, she did feel an affinity with the fellow human being. For, like her, Lady Eastham had been born an orphan. Back then her friend had been known as Catherine Halcombe. When she had left the house of her “uncle” to marry Mr. Cavendish, Catherine had taken her place and similarly been transformed into a lady of standing. For her “uncle” was not really a relative at all; instead he was a publicly-spirited gentleman who had taken her in and brought her up as a lady despite her lowly status. And, following her departure, out of charitable duty, he had done the same for another poor orphan, Catherine Halcombe. The same Catherine who, a month ago, had married Lord Percival Eastham and thus become Lady Eastham. The same Lady Eastham whom she was going to see today. For today, now that they had returned from their honeymoon, it was time for Lady Eastham to have her ceremony.

The maid slowly unlaced the monoglove, de rigueur for most of her waking hours and helped her to slowly flex her muscles, allowing the blood to rush back. Without much reprieve, tight kid gloves were worked onto her now-free hands and, once they were buttoned up, she was helped up out of her chair and towards the ladies’ drawing room.

Lady Eastham was waiting for her. She was still wearing her maiden’s mask as was to be expected and thus, combined with her own trammelling, no verbal communication would be possible. Ladies of distinction however, do not need to use their voices in the rare conversations that they are granted. Instead the two ladies minced up to one another, grasped each other’s gloved hands firmly, warmly, and then sat down at a small table. In front of each of them was a writing book and a pen. Her own book had been given to her by her husband on their wedding day and in it were recorded all her conversations. She had had it for five years now and it was still only a quarter full. She did not expect to ever need another in her life. Lady Eastham’s however was brand new and crisp. This was to be her first post-marital conversation!

How are you finding married life so far, Lady Eastham?

I am happy. Lord Eastham is a good man. Then she stopped writing as if she wanted to say something but did not know how to.

But there is a problem?

Lady Eastham’s hand shook. Some things are difficult.

The bedchamber? Her mind was cast back to the first few halcyon days of her own marriage. On their wedding night Mr. Cavendish had stripped her off all her garments save for her stays (he loved to encircle her waist with his two hands) and they had entwined and intermingled their bodies, kissing passionately and consummating their union with gusto before lying side-by-side and talking for hours of the future. That had been then, of course. Before her own ceremony.

The bedchamber? No, not at all. I was scared at first I do admit, but now I find great pleasure in it. I talk of other things.

Please, tell me if you feel you can.

My plugs. Lord Eastham informs me that all married women of status wear them. Of course, in our uncle’s house I wore a soap bottom plug, but the one that I have in me now is much larger and I feel so full and bloated. Plus, it is only the first of a series. And then I have a second in my other hole.

As her friend wrote, she became aware of her own plugs. Yes, she too wore two at all times and, yes, the bottom plug was larger than when she had been a maiden. And she acknowledged that at first, during the early months of her marriage, they occupied her thoughts night and day, so painfully and intrusively and relentlessly did they stretch her and remind her of those most intimate areas. She remembered vividly, on the morning after her wedding night, when her husband had presented the box of ivory plugs to her and let her take them out and hold them in her hands. The largest had been so huge! How would she ever manage to take that inside her? She recalled too the struggles every morning and evening after her enemas when Woakes forced those monsters within her. The maid was kind and gentle, but she had groaned with pain as the plug stretched her inside and then, the moment her muscles became accustomed used, the next one was brought out. And the next, and the next. Now though, not to have such a huge insertion there; well, it would truly feel strange, as too would the other things. Yet, even now, she still resented it.

They are a cross that we ladies must bear she wrote slowly.

This did not seem to satisfy Lady Eastham, who even in silent, expressionless grace, wrote the next part in haste.

But that is not all. There is also the masking. They say that it is a day of great joy for any lady and yet, somehow, I feel full of trepidation. I am so silly but I cannot help myself. Were you the same Mrs. Cavendish? Were you nervous also?

She recalled in her mind’s eye her own masking ceremony. It had been a full month after her wedding and their honeymoon in that remote castle in the Scottish Highlands. Her husband had taken her to her new home, Throwley Hall, for the first time. She had found it a strange place; grand and well-kept but utterly isolated, as if Mr. Cavendish wished to keep her away from society. That had disappointed her a little; she’d hoped that after her marriage she would be inducted into London society, but when she had mentioned it one evening in the bedchamber, her husband had replied that London was decadent and the season was aimed at girls not already wed. A newlywed spouse such as her had no need of it.

And as a good, obedient wife, she had acquiesced.

Two days after their arrival at Throwley, the masking ceremony had taken place. Unlike Lady Eastham, she had been given no prior warning. Instead, that morning after her enema, her husband had entered her chamber whilst she was still embarrassingly bent over on all fours, her plugged bottom in the air, to tell her that in the evening they would be holding a great party for one of the most significant events of a young wife’s life. “Tonight will show the world that you truly have become my wife and that a new stage in your life has begun,” he had told her cryptically.

The rest of the day had, of course, been spent in preparation. Special occasions always meant a fine dress and an extra inch or two off of her usual waist. She was laced down slowly before a glorious dress of pink satin with a wide crinoline and adorned with real red roses was brought out. It was fitted carefully and then complimented with a monoglove, although since the dress was off-the shoulder, this glove had no straps looping around her shoulders and the cover that was laced over it was in pearly white.

Why was it that such details stuck in her mind?

But the monoglove nor the fourteen-inch waist were not the true shocks of that evening. No, instead it was the mask… or lack of it. Her hair was styled, her face made-up and then, without her pot mask, she was led downstairs. But why? Had her husband not promised her on their engagement night that, after their marriage, she would be masked at all times? Had he changed his mind? Oh, how her heart had soared in happiness! How she hated that awful mask that concealed her face to the world! How she longed to feel the breeze on her cheeks, the touch of another human on those cheeks, and the freedom to see, hear and speak untrammelled! Yes, he had changed his mind! Truly she was blessed!

Slowly, her heart a-flutter, the maid had helped her down the grand staircase.

A party had gathered; a party of her husband’s friends and their wives. Her uncle was present too, smiling, proud of the girl he had raised out of poverty and turned into a fine lady. The ladies were all masked though and, despite her happiness, she had felt naked and ashamed.

Then, still totally unaware of what was taking place, her husband had taken her by the waist and guided her to a chair in the middle of the room. She still remembered exactly what he had whispered in her ear, “My darling, whatever happens, do not be afraid; it is for the best,” just before he  announced to the room, “Let the ceremony begin!”

It had started with her hair. Two maids had approached with scissors and cut off her long, beautiful chestnut hair. She had been confused, stunned, but she let them do it. A wife must be obedient after all. And then, after she had been shorn, they had taken our razors, covered her head with cream and shaved her until she was as bald as an egg. It had been so humiliating, so embarrassing, with all those people watching. That, however, had only been the entrée.

Her husband had approached her with a beautifully-wrapped present. Right before her eyes, it was unwrapped to reveal a box from which her husband extracted a most-unexpected item: A leather hood, which was promptly fitted over her uncomprehending head and laced up at the back. The hood covered all the head, from the crown down to the shoulder bone, and over her neck it incorporated a severe neck corset. As this was laced tightly, she had felt her chin being raised into the air along with a sense of strangulation. The lacing all down the rear of the hood was then drawn tight, practically gluing the hood to her face and bald cranium, leaving only her eyes, and mouth exposed by circular openings in the finely-worked leather. Thankfully there were two small holes lined with metal rings placed just over her nostrils, so even with the intense compression of her airways and everything else, she could still take in all the oxygen she needed. But, she had pondered, what was the purpose? What did this mean?

Her husband had quickly followed this with the next item: an inflatable gag. Gags were de rigeuer for her of course after all of her years at Highfields but, even so, this one looked severe. Her husband had then bent down and kissed her on the lips before whispering, “I love you, my perfect wife,” just as the entire company (or at least those not wearing monogloves) began to applaud. As soon as the kiss faded, her man had fitted the gag through the mouth hole in the hood and strapped it behind her head using a harness. After that he attached a valve to it’s end and started to pump. Slowly but surely the gag grew inside her, getting larger and larger until it filled the entire orifice and began to press against the compressing hood. When her eyes had begun to water and she felt that she could endure no more, her husband stopped pumping and detached the valve. The gag did not decrease in size at all. Her husband then returned to the box and extracted another item. It was half a human head, the rear half, made of fine white china. He moved behind her and attached it to the back of her hood somehow. Then he returned to the box and brought out the other half, the front half. It depicted a beautiful china doll with rosebud lips and large, cornflower blue eyes. Slowly he approached her, bent down and kissed her leather-clad forehead, a gesture more for him than her muted senses, and then moved the mask over her and clicked it into place. In an instant her hearing had been dimmed, the heat had increased, and her sight had been reduced to two pinholes even smaller than those she had endured in the masks she had worn at Highfields.

The final item was extracted from the box: a beautiful wig of golden, ringleted hair. Her husband fitted it onto her new head and the room applauded yet again. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she remembered hearing him say through the leather and china, “today, my Mrs. Cavendish is born afresh. She has become a new woman! She has become a perfect wife!”

She was shaken from her reveries by the scratching of pen on paper. Lady Eastham was writing again. Are you alright Mrs. Cavendish? Do you need a maid?

She did not shake her head for she could not. Instead she wrote with her unsteady hand. No. I am fine. You will also be fine. The masking ceremony will be beautiful.


After her conversation with Lady Eastham the maid had come in and declared that she needed a rest after all her exertions. She wasn’t tired in the slightest but, as with everything else in her life, the perfect wife of Mr. Cavendish had no say in the matter nor any way of getting a say and so she merely let the servant lead her to her bedroom, unlace her monoglove (always a relief!), lie her on the bed, and then attach her wrists and ankles to the bedposts (to prevent indecent “fiddling” as if such a thing were possible under her many layers of clothes), and shut her eyes. Usually at this point she drifted off but today, perhaps due to the excitement of the morning and the memories that her conversation had conjured up, she could not sleep and instead played over in her mind those first few days and weeks following her masking ceremony.

Her new head changed her life. She would have never believed it after all those years wearing a mask, but it really was something else.

The constant compression and enclosure, the muffled hearing, laboured breathing and extremely limited sight, just two pinholes through glass lenses. She now experienced life second-hand. Before, she had done that partially, but her hair had still been there, the wind blowing it and, of course, there had been the breaks.

Every day at Highfields under the care of her uncle, the mask had been taken off. In the morning for bathing and breakfast; at midday for lunch and a flannelling down; dinner for the same; and then just before bed for the cleaning of her teeth. It had been a small relief, always in a darkened room, but it had been a relief nonetheless. What was so hard to bear about her new head was the total lack of release whatsoever.

Within minutes of its fitting she had begun to realise that she would no longer be removing it for all meals. Her husband had presented her with a glass of white wine to celebrate the occasion. This had a straw in it which was fitted through a tiny hole in the pursed rosebud lips of the mask and which itself connected to a hole running through the gag. She could suck liquids up without removing anything and she knew there and then that certain meals could now be missed. What she had not realised – but came to to learn over the coming days – was that all meals from that day on would be missed, and instead all her food was to be liquidised.

In the evenings, she was dressed for dinner in all her finery, led down to the dining room and made to watch as her husband consumed fine banquets of roast meat, fish and a number of other delights. As he feasted like a king, she dined on the same fayre, except that her meal had been mushed up like a baby’s, watered down, and put in a small bottle hung around her neck from which she sucked.

Her new head was not removed for meals and neither was it removed for the bedchamber. The evening after her masking ceremony, their bedchamber routine changed. Following her routine enema she was left naked save for her corset and head trammelling, and then led into the room. The maid always laid her out on the bed before invariably guiding each wrist to a bedpost and each ankle likewise. Golden cuffs were attached to each of her extremities and these were attached by special chains to the posts. The chains were drawn tight until she could not move a muscle and instead could only lie there, virtually motionless, panting for breath and from fear. Then he had come and taken her, him the active party, she entirely passive. And as he had erupted within her, he had whispered in her ear, “Today Mrs. Cavendish, you have become complete. You have graduated from being a mere lady to a doll, the pinnacle of feminine perfection.”

And with those words he had closed her eyes.

Yes, closed her eyes. Of all the changes that had been one of the hardest. Her new head had eyes just like those of a child’s doll with long lashes that could be closed when the owner decided. And so now, whenever a maid or her husband decreed that she was tired or should not see what was around her, those eyes were closed. Like at this moment as she lay motionless on the bed. Since being encased in her new head, not even the opening and closing of her eyes at will was a freedom left open to her.

Even with that though, as she lay in silence and darkness whilst her husband pounded her for a second time that most traumatic of evenings, was not the worst of it. For she knew that, no matter how complete the hood and head’s control over her was, it was not permanent. It could not be. Already her face was streaming with sweat beneath it on their first night; soon it would smell; maybe later an infection could set in. That was why she had always been flannelled down by her maid at mealtimes. To be a lady was hard to endure, she had had such notions drummed into her ceaselessly during her years at Highfields, but there was always some relief, when she bathed and the whole elegant ensemble was to be removed. And she could wait until then. She had been trained to.

Yet after a week in the head with no removal, no relief had come. Internally she was screaming for them to take the damned thing off her, yet no offer of a bath or even a rub-down was forthcoming. Then, on the Saturday evening, when she was beginning to lose hope, her maid approached with a flannel. Her heart leapt and yet, to her confusion, rather than removing the head, the maid merely moved the cloth up to her porcelain face and covered her nostril holes with it.

And within seconds the dizziness and drowsiness overtook her and her world turned black.

She awoke in the same chair wearing the same dress. Yet she knew that something had changed. Things felt different. Her face and body felt clean and refreshed. The confusion remained with her for a few seconds before she realised: she had been bathed and cleaned, her head and hood removed, whilst knocked out by the drug soaked flannel that the maid had placed over her face. The freedom that she had craved had been granted indeed, but only when she was in no state to acknowledge – or appreciate – it. The hood and head had been replaced before she had re-entered the world.

That evening after her first cleaning, after a session in bed when she had been placed on her front, bolsters under her hips so that her husband could ravage her bottom hole for a change, Cavendish had explained the methodology. “True ladies develop what is called a ‘doll mind’,” he had told her patiently whilst stroking her buttocks. “That is why the hood and china head matter so much. Wearing them, you forget what it was like as an uncouth, uncivilised lady, running around, shouting your mouth off, hearing sinful things and looking common and unrefined. Your new head has made you regal and elegant, like the finest of dolls. But to really ensure and develop that necessary doll mind, I will make sure you are at peace, be that by chloroform if necessary. I will make sure that my wife has only the best.”

Light flooded into her eyes, disturbing those musings. The maid had opened her eyes and was sitting her up. “Time to get you ready for Lady Eastham’s masking, ma’am,” the girl had said. She had not replied of course; she could not. She did not even acknowledge the words with a nod; her unforgiving neck corset and ceramic neck made any head movement whatsoever impossible. She was lifted up, taken to her mat for an enema and then, with her enormous bottom plug reinserted, walked over to the lacing bar. It was time for her corset to be tightened to take in any loose and then bring it down to the formidable fourteen inches decreed for her – and any other true lady’s – ball stays.

She fainted several times before the stays were laced closed at the requisite fourteen inches, the size decreed as standard by society for all ladies (or so she was told). This was di rigueur for her; fainting had entered her life when she had entered Highfields and only increased since her marriage. It no longer bothered her as it once had.

“Ma’am, your husband has decided that you shall wear the same gown tonight as you wore for your own masking,” her maid told her as she brought in the pink confection. Inside she was proud; five years on and she could still wear such a beautiful dress. That was one advantage of the corsets and her new head: she never aged a day. She was let down from the lacing bar and the gown fitted, her bosom then carefully powdered so that it matched the white porcelain of her new head perfectly before finally an elaborate gold and jewelled necklace was draped around her to mask where the real skin ended and the artificial began.

Then, attention turned to her hands. Ladies do not need their hands, for they are entirely dependent on their husbands and servants for everything, as everyone knows. The brief hiatus that afternoon when she had been granted a conversation with Lady Eastham had been the exception rather than the rule and there was certainly no need for her to use her hands this evening. Thus, her “evening hands” were brought out. These were metal replicas of her own appendages reaching to just above the wrist and hinged along one side. Her real hands were fitted inside them and then locked in before being covered with shoulder-length satin gloves. Now the appearance of reality was maintained yet underneath she was completely immobile and elegantly helpless.

As a lady should be.

Thus complete, the doll was guided downstairs, precariously inching forward in her en pointe shoes towards the ballroom where the ceremony was to take place. At the door her husband joined her, kissed her unfeeling ceramic cheek, and then they walked in together.

Her husband guided her towards a seat and helped her sit in it. They were early and she could not stand for long. Then he went off to procure a drink for himself and talk to friends and she was left alone, elegant and impassive.

And at that moment her life changed.

The chair was quite near to the back of the room, and just behind her the young maids were standing, waiting to serve the guests. In both Highfields and her married home, the maids were of the highest calibre (and, as a rule well-corseted and exceptionally pretty; a fact which sometimes made her feel uneasy, particularly when her husband tried to encircle their waists and gave them a peck on the cheek) but in Eastham Hall such standards were not maintained. Their waists were noticeably broader to begin with but they also chattered, something strictly forbidden in most good houses. And it was the help’s chatter that did it.

“I bet the young mistress’ll look a picture tonight!”

“I’ve never seen her without her doll face you know.”

“She’s pretty, an’ no mistakin’.”

“Shame she’ll never be seen again.”

“I know, it’s criminal what them masters do, tying women up and silencing ‘em and making ‘em wear them horrible pot heads.”

“I don’t know why they put up with it! I’d run away or summit. I’d certainly never marry a man like that!”

“They don’t know no different, Fanny! They think all this’ normal! They think all ladies are like that.”

“But how can they? Just walk down any street and…”

“But they never do walk down no street; they only see what the masters want ‘em to see. Those poor girlies believe they are elegant ladies instead of victims of that evil society…”

At that point, Lady Eastham entered the room and applause swept all around, drowning out the faint conversation, already made fainter by her head. Her husband came to her and stood her up, and by the time the applause had died down the maids had dispersed. But she had heard enough. In several short seconds the work of years of indoctrination and training by her uncle had been torn to pieces; she now knew the reality, or a glimmer of it. A lady of distinction? Not her! Instead she had become the silent, passive, and incommunicado plaything of a monster and his brethren. Why Cavendish, her uncle and other men did it, she could not fathom, but transformed free young women into mindless dolls they did. She would never be a person again; her thoughts, ideas, even her looks did not matter to anyone. Along with this distress coursing through her now, they would be forever hidden behind that blank china mask. She now knew she existed only to serve as his elegant accessory.

As these realisations flooded over her, a new victim was shorn of her hair, masked and entombed forever beneath a ceramic shell.

And behind her own porcelain prison and hood, copious tears had dampened her face. Tears that would never be wiped away.

 

The story is continued in A Day in the Life: Dolly and Molly

Ascension in the East: Chapters 13-15

Chapters 11-12

 

Chapter 13 – Maid to Measure

This moment was broken only minutes later by the door to their marital chamber opening and closing well inside the terrace doors. Unable to crane her modified neck back all that way, Jasmine looked to Steven, and saw his eyes glaze over. She only saw why when Somanass and Sukhumala came around to the front of their throne-like perches.

The bodies of the two maids were the same, exactly. They still sported the same fake, bouncy breasts, hourglass waists and wide hips. Unlike with Jasmine herself, whose breasts easily outdid those of her maids after these latest changes, nothing had changed there. Significantly they still had all their limbs. But their faces. Oh yes, something had been altered there. Their already puffed up and modified lips had gone from the sublime to the ridiculous. They now dominated their entire faces, two glossy pink tyres each with a large adult-sized version of a child’s dummy lodged within it. The two maids stood before their master and mistress, bowed deeply and then knelt. Then they slowly and ceremoniously removed their pacifiers and both Steven and Jasmine’s eyes grew wide in astonishment, for behind the plastic end plate each had an enormous phallus lodged deep within her throat. Immediately it became apparent why they now needed baby stoppers, for drool started dripping from their modified mouths instantly, mouths that they could obviously no longer close properly.

Quickly, carefully, silently, each grasped their charge’s hips and scooted them closer to the edge of the plush thrones in the warm night air. They then pushed their heads towards the royal couple, Somanass affixing her warm lips to Jasmine’s yearning nether regions, whilst Sukhumala took Steven’s entire member within her orifice. And the shock did not end there either, for Jasmine discovered to her surprise – and delight – that the new lips had a great suction to them and the tongue within them was now pierced and ridged and could do sensational things to her enlarged and engorged new clit, whilst for Steven, once his member was fully inside Sukhumala’s mouth, the walls of the cavern that now encased it clenched around it and a strange yet sensational vibrating began.

Within seconds both were lost in a world of pleasure, fidgeting on their throne, ready to explode with orgasmic ecstasy when, just as quickly as it had started, it all stopped. The maids withdrew their mouths and instead knelt silently before them.

“What?” asked Steven.

“Why?” asked Jasmine.

“They have stopped because I have ordered them to do so,” pronounced a third voice. Jasmine groaned; she should have known! The Honorable Chandarith stepped into view, smirking like the cat that had just eaten the cream. “I ordered them to demonstrate to you what we have done with their mouths. A practical explanation always works better than an academic one, don’t you think? But I shall provide you with the latter as well. You see, both of your girls no longer have teeth and the insides of their mouths have been remodelled to resemble their vaginal channel, albeit quite decorated. They can no longer speak and nor can they close their mouths, hence the need for the dummies. They had to have surgery on the jaw to enable them to open them so far for you, and any gag reflex has been dealt with. Both girls have undergone a tracheotomy so that they may still breath with your mighty tool lodged inside them, Emperor Nguanamthom. I have ordered them to desist now as it would be improper for you to reach a climax before your coronation now, wouldn’t it? Girls, depart!”

At this order, the two maids dutifully stood up and left, so that the two royals were left alone in the room with their tormentor.

“So, that is them, but what about you? I bet you both have so many questions to ask…”

“You bet we fucking do, we…”

“Shhh, Empress Sukkisawali, shhh! Talk to me like that and you’ll receive no answers whatsoever, and I’ll revoke what privileges you have left. I do not have to put up with it, as you now know. If you want to know what’s what then stay silent!”

And then, to prove the point that he didn’t have to put up with anything, the evil courtier casually took one of Jasmine’s monstrous nipples and twisted it sharply. She cried out in agony but was powerless to stop him.

“So, shall you obey or not?”

Realising that they had no choice, both nodded meekly, or at least, Steven did and Jasmine tried to although her modified neck prevented it.

“Right, so the limbs. Neither of you have them anymore. You do not need them. You are royalty; you have people like Sukhumala, Somanass and myself to do everything for you. What greater sign of nobility could their be? Not that the public shall ever be aware of this of course. No, to the world at large, you shall always be fully-limbed and virile, even as you age – and with the medical care and healthy diet that both of you shall be receiving, expect to live into three figures. Those limbs you have already experienced. They are attached to powerful electromagnets implanted beneath your skin and shall always be a part of you when you are outside of your quarters. As they are made utilising the latest robotic technology — of which we Sukhothais are world leaders — and as you shall always be clothed outside of these quarters, then no one will ever suspect a thing. They are controlled by a control centre located… well, you don’t need to know where I suppose… but manned by expertly-trained personnel who work 24/7 at the command of the generals and myself. They coordinate every movement from the simple handshake to complicated gymnastics. All you need do is enjoy the ride, as it were. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. However, once in your quarters, you shall be guided to your throne where the limbs disengage leaving you to relax. In here your maids are your limbs and shall look after your every need as is their sacred vocation in life which, I believe, you have already learnt, is something that both of them fully believe in, impressionable young girls that they were when we first got hold of them.

And then there are your voices too. Yes, you can use them freely now but you couldn’t before. Like with the limbs, there is a sensor attached to your voice box which overrides the nerves between the brain and the vocal chords whenever you leave your quarters. Thus everything that you say and do, even the very opening of your mouths is controlled from the same control centre as your elegant new limbs. Remember all those long hours we spent getting you to recite speeches and phrases in Sukhothai? Well, we compiled everything, did in-depth analysis on your voice patterns and can now replicate you saying any phrase realistically, not that you shall ever say much beyond a small number of stock phrases and announcements, but that’s by the by. There is a phrase, I believe, in the West, to describe constitutional monarchs with no real power. Apparently they call them ‘puppets’. Well, I can think of no better term for the Emperor and Empress of Sukhothai except that we are now so technologically advanced and sophisticated that, well, who needs strings…?

But, to become monarchs of any type, even puppets, one needs a coronation, does one not? So, I leave you here in the care of your good maids and shall see you in three hours hence in the Great Temple in Angkor…”

Chapter 14 – Becoming Emperor Nguanamthom and Empress Sukkisawali

And so their counsellor left and their maids returned. The naked torsos of the rulers-to-be were taken to their shower area where things had been radically altered since their last visit. Now, unable to do anything for themselves, they found themselves being placed into two contraptions hanging from the ceiling. At a distance these looked a little like string bags but once in them they found that they were made of rubber and had straps going around the torso above and below the breasts and one more which went between the arse cheeks, around the genitalia – frustratingly, not touching it so that no sexual relief could be garnered – and then up both the back and front to keep the whole thing together. Placed in this, the maids could then wash each of them thoroughly before then drying them and combing out Jasmine’s long and glorious hair. Tight stays were then fitted on Jasmine which incorporated cups for her ballooning chest and then plugs inserted in both her holes. To Steven’s dismay, he discovered that he was now expected to wear a small plug in his bottom too (to prevent accidents) and that this would regularly start vibrating at random times throughout the day, causing him further frustration. After this, both were lifted out of the bathroom “bags” and dressed in their underwear, a tight, white all-encompassing garment rather like a leotard or ladies’ one-piece swimsuit except that there were no leg or arm holes and Steven’s included a opening for his enormous penis (which was still erect and never would be otherwise) to jut out of. That Holy Tool was then covered in its sheath and the monarchs carried out to their thrones whereupon their golden limbs reattached themselves to their bodies – presumably at the command of unseen control centre – and a white catsuit fitted on each royal so that all the skin below the neck was covered up.

Then other, unknown servants came in to dress Steven in his robes and Jasmine in an elaborate ao dai, after which their limbs sat them down and both had their hair and makeup (another first for Steven, but it was to become the norm for public functions) attended to. Then, finally ready, they were walked by their new limbs out to a waiting helicopter and whisked away to Angkor.


The coronation ceremonies took all day. When they arrived in the capital, they were greeted by thousands of cheering citizens, all waving the national flags. The limbs that now carried them around walked past them, waving and greeting the occasional baby or cute child. It was strange for both Jasmine and Steven that they had no control whatsoever over their bodies or mouths, they merely existed as two cardboard cutouts for the benefit of the nation.

Inside the temple they first had to participate in the Buddhist marriage ceremony again so as to publicly demonstrate to the nation that they were legally wedded and then it was the coronation itself. Following that there was more greeting the crowds and then an enormous banquet in the palace with hundreds of foreign dignitaries and national notables. Neither of them was required to say anything, but what was most annoying was that both were starving, and yet their new hands only picked up the tiniest of morsels for them to eat!

Then, around eight, they were led away to their new quarters, at first separately, where each had a throne waiting. Placed in them, their limbs disengaged and their maids undressed them completely. Jasmine then found herself being carried off to a massage table upon which she was placed and fragrant oils kneaded into her beautiful but truncated form whilst her hair was washed and also oiled. Her nipple and clit jewellery was then removed and replaced with some new pieces that were far more extravagant. Each was fashioned into the form of a beautiful pink butterfly, the ring forming the body of the creature through which the nipple or clit poked through, engorged and excited. Holding up a mirror to show her how they looked, Jasmine could see that they were really nice but couldn’t understand this pampering. But then Somanass produced a note for her to read.

“Since you married again today, we must make this a worthy wedding night, for tonight will be the first time that you couple truly as Ragaraja and Sowathara. Emperor Nguanamthom will not be able to resist you tonight, you are so exquisitely beautiful. It is an honour to serve such a marvellous monarch.”

These kind words which she knew were true and heartfelt made Jasmine warm inside. However, the sentence that followed made her shudder.

“The jewellery is a wedding and coronation present from the Honoured Chandarith. He says that he wishes for you to be reminded of him, your most devoted and loyal servant, when you wear it.”

Reminded of him! If only she were not!

Beautified to befit her exalted role, Jasmine was then placed on a silk coverlet on a large silver platter and carried into the Emperor’s bedchamber. Her spouse, both human and divine was there waiting for her, similarly prepared, wearing an enormous red butterfly around the base of his raging, gigantic penis. Placed on the bed beside him, she wriggled up towards him and their lips met for a lingering kiss. Feeling the monster pressing against her womb, she longed for it to be inside her, but truncated as she was, she could not maneuver things so. Steven was equally helpless and, desperate with longing, the two looked at their maids who nodded, climbed onto the bed with them, each picking a royal up and slowly lowering the Empress Sukkisawali onto the rampant penis of Emperor Nguanamthom. Never before had Jasmine felt so full, never before had Jasmine felt so excited and, as they slowly started rocking, the supportive hands of their maids behind them, never before had Jasmine felt so much in love with a man.

Chapter 15 – Epilogue

Three years later

Steven opened his eyes as the morning sun filtered through the blinds of their sumptuous bedroom. The first sight that he saw was the first thing that he saw every morning, and it was a view that warmed his heart: it was the sleeping form of his beautiful wife, Jasmine or, as the world called her, the Empress Sukkisawali. What he saw today was the back of her head, her ebony locks spreading out across the bed. This is because they were lying against each other “spooning,” or at least they would be if either of them had arms and legs. Their maids had arranged them in that position so that they could happily fall off to sleep together, their two truncated bodies as one. As she slept, Steven silently watched her gargantuan breasts rise and fall and his member, erect and longing as it had been now continually for the past three years, began to long to enter her. His hip twitched and he momentarily mourned his inability to satisfy himself, but this melancholy quickly passed.

And whilst he wished to copulate, he did not want to disturb his beloved’s beauty sleep. They had a hard day ahead of them after all: today was to be the naming ceremony for their twelfth child, the baby Loethai. Not that Jasmine had ever given birth of course. Instead her eggs and his seed were collected in a ceremony every Friday and their ten birthmaidens; homely, plain noble girls, raised to be mothers, were implanted. This had been the way that royals had reproduced ever since the close of World War II and the Great Changes, although no previous Emperor had sired so many in such a short time.

But then again, no previous Emperor had had to repopulate an entire royal family from scratch.

Somanass, one of the two maidservants who were forever present in their chamber (to such a degree that their absence was quite unsettling for the two) saw his opened eyes, came over and fixed her modified mouth over his cock. The vibrating began almost immediately and the feeling was exquisite. But the movement and his gasps woke Jasmine, who wriggled around, her round ass shaking with the effort. Somanass withdrew and the two royals kissed, deep tenderness in their eyes.

Knowing intuitively what they wanted, Somanass pointed down to which the Emperor shook his head. She then pointed up. Steven nodded. Up meant the swing.

Because of their truncated forms, the Emperor and Empress needed assistance from their maids to copulate. The night before, when Steven had used his wife anally, Sukhumala, the other maid, had had to strap him to her torso in what looked like a large baby carrier, and used the motion of her hips to help him move in and out of his wife’s beautiful and generous arse. All the positions on the bed required at least a third person, but on the swing they could be alone. It was a simple device, like one of those swings for young children that have a rail to hold them in safely, except that this one was made of gold, padded with silken cushions and held both in at the same time.

Carefully, Somanass lowered the device down onto the bed and then lifted her master into it. Once she was sure that he was secure, she then took her mistress and placed her in, impaling her on her husband’s cock in the process. Thus situated with their hips pinned together, the penis could not slip out and they were safe and free. Somanass pulled the chain and the swing slowly rose up and up, above the bedroom and into the great glass dome that formed its ceiling. When they’d first experienced it, Jasmine had said that it reminded her of a gilded bird’s cage yet, unlike birds in their cages, it was on their swing that the royal couple were more at liberty than anywhere else in the world.

There, bathed in the morning sunlight, the great city of Angkor laid out below them, they were alone and free.

“Dance my darling,” whispered Steven into his wife’s ear and, with a smile on her lips, she slowly started grinding herself against the throbbing monster within her, causing the swing to move as both of them thanked Ragaraja and Sowathara for entering their bodies and bringing them together in holy union.

 

Ascension in the East: Chapters 11-12

Chapters 9-10

Chapter 11 – The Phtuoch Phtaem

The following day at noon Steven and Jasmine, in full imperial regalia, entered into the palace temple. Present were four other figures: the Honourable Chandarith, the Prime Minister, the Head Priest and one of the generals whom had been present at the other ceremonies. First they had to all bow down before the immense golden image of the Buddha and offer incense, and only then the royal couple were bade to sit on two of five thrones arranged with one other simpler chair in the centre of the room. After this five pretty shrine maidens entered, each bearing a bowl of steaming liquid for their charges. They bowed low before the powerful guests and then proffered the bowls to them. Only the Honoured Chandarith did not have one. The royals looked questioningly at the Honourable Chandarith who said, “This is thveu aoy and it is necessary for you to drink it to partake in the ceremony. The Prime Minister, General and High Priest will also drink of it but I shall not, for me it is unnecessary. But it is entirely necessary for you because it helps you to focus your thoughts on the important things that we are going to say. Currently your minds get distracted much too easily, particularly our young royals. Ragaraja and Somanath who reside almost completely within your bodies now take your minds towards sexual activities constantly, but for this ceremony we need to dim and subdue those urges. Drink!”

Jasmine and Steven looked at one another and smiled. The chance to stop fixating on sex! Was that not what they had longed for? As the general, priest and politician sat on their thrones and drank, they did likewise.

Within seconds they were starting to regret it.

By the time that a minute had past they definitely regretted it and longed to strike the Honoured Chandarith for his honeyed words.

But they could not, for whilst the brew did do as he had promised it would and subdued all sexual thoughts whatsoever, it also had the effect of paralysing them completely. They could sit there, flicker their eyelids and see and hear perfectly, but that was all. It was a terrifying experience, like a vivid sleep paralysis.

After a couple of minutes had passed, the Honoured Chandarith spoke. “Welcome all of you to the Phtuoch Phtaem of Emperor Nguanamthom and Empress Sukkisawali of Sukhothai. In precisely two weeks’ time they shall be crowned as the omnipotent and omniscient monarchs of this ancient, sacred and beautiful realm and so it is that today they need to know how it really operates and what will be expected of them in the future. Gathered here today are all the people who are considered to be the powerholders in Sukhothai: the head of the government, the head of the faith, the head of the military and, finally, the rulers themselves, the semi-divine royal couple. Oh yes, and myself as emissary between all parties. You will have noted that the five members of the company have drank of the sacred thveu aoy. The General, Prime Minister and High Priest knew beforehand of the properties of the sacred thveu aoy, but our young royal couple were unaware. By now you shall have discovered that it is a paralysing agent as well as an excellent clearer of the mind. I shall not ask you to confirm or deny any of what I will say to you because you cannot. You are currently quite mute, which is fitting, since it is unnecessary for you to be able to communicate to anyone save each other from this day forward.”

‘What the fuck…?’ thought Steven to himself. The Honoured Chandarith sat down on the one simple chair and then said. “Will the people holding the real power in Sukhothai please rise?”

At first there was no movement and then, slowly but steadily, the general rose from his throne.

“General Anakkeanamnach Phdachkar did not drink thveu aoy like you,” said the Honoured Chandarith. His bowl contained tea. The others knew this but drank regardless. They knew the consequences for them and their families if they refused. Please General, explain to Emperor Nguanamthom and Empress Sukkisawali how things work around here.”

General Anakkeanamnach nodded, and then turned to the royal couple. “Eighty years ago this country was plunged into war. The Empire of Japan tried to defeat our ancient and sacred Sukhothai. They almost succeeded. Only one thing stopped them. It was not Buddha, it was not our political class and it was not the emperor. It was the army that stopped them and that was a lesson for us. To be strong, to defeat enemies inside and out, we need to have the army in charge. Today we still face many dangers: The Muslims in the south, in Sumatra, Malaya and Java; in the north the barbarian Chinese communist hordes and even Japan is on the rise again. And in the west they look down on all Asiatic like us. They mock us saying that the Asian is weak, we are small men with small dicks. But we are not weak, we are strong! Sukhothai is a match for anybody in world. Or at least, it is with the army and no one else firmly but surely in command. That is what I have to say; Chandarith, continue!”

“Certainly General Anakkeanamnach Phdachkar, and thank you. As the General has said, the military saved this empire against the Japanese. Not only that, but the Emperor disgraced it. As the invaders advanced towards Angkor, he was more interested in his debaucheries with his harem of a thousand beauties. And as for the politicians, they bickered amongst themselves, none providing either leadership or ideas and the religious, well, we have four faiths here in the empire and although Buddhism is by far the largest, it is splintered into a thousand sects and they all fight just as the politicians do. No, only a military government can rule this diverse realm.

But that too brings problems. Other powers will not deal with military dictatorships. They like to see parliamentary democracies which, in their ignorance, they respect. Whilst the people, they fear only God, not generals. They need a figurehead whom they can adore and believe in. That is why the Secret Pact of Sukhothai was agreed upon between the Four Estates. The Emperor gave up his power for a life of luxury in the palace, the politicians for fat wages and trouble-free elections and the religious for generous state subsidies and free reign to act with impunity. And so, although you shall never see it in any official document, all power rests with this man here and this ceremony today, performed prior to the coronation of every monarch, was devised as physical proof of that.”

At this General Anakkeanamnach Phdachkar nodded and smiled.

“But why,” continued the Honoured Chandarith, turning to the royal couple and smiling almost maliciously, “should this affect you so much? After all, so what if he holds the real power so long as you live pampered lives in your huge palaces? Well, that is what your long-deceased predecessor, Emperor Thaokteab thought, but we were not so sure. He might be happy to waste his day fucking slave girls but would his son, or his grandson or maybe his great-grandson be equally satisfied? It was too big a risk to take and besides, a story was needed to explain to the ignorant masses why their monarch was such a debauched waste of space. And so it was created, the legend of Ragaraja and Sowathara. We co-opted those old fertility deities to create a new status quo for our land. Thaokteab was not fucking around because he was a male slag, no, nothing of the sort. Instead, he was doing it because he was in fact the incarnation of the lustiest god of them all! He jumped at the chance to give himself a larger cock, but little did he realise the bigger plan. His physical transformation into Ragaraja not only made the legend believable to the peasants, but it also served our purpose. With a huge cock he could no longer fuck around, only his modified wife and eternal consort Sowathara could take him. And then we went further: not only could he not fuck around, but there was a great deal else that he found himself unable to do too. But by that stage it was too late for Thaokteab as, indeed, it is for you two as well as you shall soon learn. But, before you leave this ceremony to undertake your final set of modifications to make you fitting vessels for the god and goddess, the real ruler of Sukhothai has something to say to you.”

And at these words, General Anakkeanamnach Phdachkar stood up, walked in front of the two monarchs, bowed deeply before them and said, “Thank you very much for your past, present and future sacrifices for the Empire of Sukhothai.”

And with those words both he and the Honoured Chandarith strode off out of the room, leaving Jasmine and Steve alone with the equally-paralysed prime minister and chief priest. Petrified, they wondered what would be happening to them next, until Somanass and Sukhumala entered the chamber, each carrying a large syringe. They came up to their master and mistress, knelt before them and then said in unison, “This ith the latht time that we thshall be able to thspeak with you. When you are mothified, so too thshall we be, so that our lipths will be able to take your member, Mathesty. Thank you, we love you anth we are alwayths honoured to therve you.”

And with those words they rose graciously, approached the Emperor and Empress, and calmly, carefully plunged the syringes into the royal couple’s arms.

Chapter 12 – Waking Up to New Bodies

Jasmine awoke slowly this time. This time.

Before she even opened her eyes she remembered the foregone coup, the previous modifications, her hopelessly paralyzed body, and Steven! Oh how they had been so naive. She should have known, protected her young husband somehow, mentioned her suspicions to him earlier. But that was gone now, and Jasmine was scared to wake up. She struggled to open her eyes, for whatever drug was coursing through her veins left her drowsy and unable to move much. Actually, now that she thought about it, she wasn’t restrained, and she could move, so the paralytic thveu aoy must have been out of her system, but no matter how much she tried, her body never left the bed she was laying in. She must have been restrained, but Jasmine couldn’t imagine how.

At least she guessed it was a bed from the feel against her naked skin, but it definitely wasn’t hers. She felt naked, and the room was cooler than her chambers were, the mattress too hard, the sheets too basic. No, she was in a hospital. Wait! Maybe she had been rescued, all those horrible surgeries had been reversed, and she was back at home in the United Kingdom, just another girl trying to make a name for herself. Yes, yes, this must be it. Her hazy mind drifted off to this peaceful image.


She was later roused from her slumber, and when her eyes opened the lovely dream she had been living in fell apart rather quickly. The nurse she now looked up at, or she guessed it was a nurse, was clad head to toe in white silk, with no gap for the face, and Jasmine guessed she must be able to see out better than in. This must be one of the Brahmanan body artist’s wives, working as a nurse, or maybe a hopeful? Oh it all hurt her head to think of the castes and systems she had been forcibly adopted into. But just the man for these problems, standing next to the white-shrouded figure, was Honourable Chandarith. She looked up at that deceivingly docile old man and began a verbal tirade of insults at his deception. Or so she thought she did, for what she heard then was a forceful but equally unintelligible moaning come from her mouth. She panicked as she tried to phrase something, anything! What was wrong with her?! Her mouth felt fine!

Chandarith looked down at this scene, smiled, and then sat down in a chair provided by the silent nurse. He looked at her almost fondly. “Ah yes, that’s much much better. No more outbursts or questions from you, Your Majesty. You know, when I located you, I thought to myself, ‘A dancer. A nice, simple girl who won’t ask too many questions, she will love the spotlight, the luxury.’ But now I see that I underestimated you. Oh well, not a problem, this is exactly why we do this sort of thing before you are officiated before the people.”

“Yes I see, Honourable Chandarith.”

Jasmine was horrified. The voice that had just been guttural noises came out crisp as a bell. She had even mouthed the words unthinkingly.

“Now that works mighty well! This is exactly why I’m here, to explain to you what in the world is happening in this ‘backwards country’, as you put it. Now that you know your true place in this society, we can’t be having you spouting it off when in public, and even though we have been practicing, your accent is still atrocious, so we will be taking over from now on, on multiple fronts actually.” he said as he gestured to her body.

Her doe-like eyes could not communicate her fury very effectively, so she gave up her position there and followed his gaze downward, and nearly fainted from the shock. Her arms… were gone. Just GONE!. And though her breasts, which were now even larger mounds upon her chest, blocked her view, she could feel cool air on her hips, her empty hips, her unprotected pussy lips, and she knew her legs were gone too.

Horrible, sobbing wails came from her mouth as she struggled and wriggled her body, trying to convince herself it wasn’t true, but when Chandarith took a remote control from the bedside table and silenced her voice with hardly an effort, she knew they could do anything to her, why not this?

Jasmine, Sukkisawali, whatever, laid in her bed for a long while after Chandarith left, crying silently. Of course she hadn’t expected to go back to dance ever again, but the mere thought of it had kept her hope alive. Now what did she have? The features of her body most passive and inviting for hero one purpose. And as she laid there, the worst part was that she still couldn’t concentrate on anything but where her next fuck was going to come from.

Later that day, she was being fitted with strange prosthetic limbs when the nurse’s shroud ran lightly over her enlarged clit. Enlarged was a nice, pretty word for what they had done to her pleasure center, for when that gleeful old man had held up a mirror for her, she had seen its true nature. It surged forth from her cunt with no modesty, and the shape of its head, long free from her clitoral hood, looked nearly phallic. Her body squirmed as she thought about it, about how her desire reached out to nobody, everybody, and how she would never pleasure herself again.

Slowly, the itch returned with full force.

The mechanical arms and legs did not really have anywhere to affix to on her torso, for there were no stumps to be taken advantage of, but somehow when positioned near her rounded-off shoulders, they attracted like magnets and refused to budge further. This worked similarly down below, and within moments she felt her body rise of its own accord to a standing position.

She felt like she was going to be seasick.

In the elaborately-gilded full-length mirror now stood a corseted woman with enormous ass, breasts, and clit sticking out at least two inches, with golden metal limbs standing eerily still. Long, slim neck led up to her doll face, which luckily had not been modified further. Her new arms and legs were engraved with what she later learned were ancient sutras regarding karma and obedience to a higher power. Chandarith was crueler than they ever could have guessed.

She tried to beg the nurse, but it seemed he had left her mute when he departed earlier, and when her arms and legs suddenly activated and walked her naked form out the door, she couldn’t even yelp in surprise. As she walked down the hall, a new golden silk corset encircled her torso, giving her a little mammary support but not nearly enough; Jasmine’s tits swaying in rhythm with her steps, erect, ringed nipples reaching forward. The motion of walking itself was discomfiting, especially as any motion to her oversensitive cunt turned her on till she was glistening in the open air. She yearned for something to fill her deep emptiness right now, and she even hoped the stretching plugs were not far away in her future. Her new, mechanical hands met and froze in a classical prayer position, even as she walked on in silence.

When she rounded the corner to another recovery room, she saw the back of a strange looking man. He was only a naked, semi-muscular torso, standing suspended by golden limbs in the air. Jasmine locked eyes with Steven as he saw her through his own mirror, and his expression said it all; he was mute as well. When his limbs turned him around, Jasmine nearly drooled. Sticking out in front of him, unencumbered by any sheath, was the largest cock she had ever seen, had ever even imagined. It must have been 14, 15, 16 inches long, and the girth of it was larger than she could’ve possibly put in her mouth. His balls hung below their heavy golden cuff, large and ready. When Jasmine finally looked up, Steven’s eyes was darting between her breasts, which would have hung to her navel if not for the corset, and her massive, desperately engorged clitoris.

And yet they stood still.

And yet they stayed quiet.

All they could do was look at each other’s physical manifestations of desire, silently, for an uncomfortably long time. Until their limbs reactivated and automatically led them to a prep room to get a last look-over by the nurses who then dressed them, and then they were walked back through the maze-like temple to their chambers. Once inside, they noticed two new throne-like chairs on the terrace, replacing the loungers from before, and their limbs guided them to these, to look over the local jungle and Empire beyond. Surprisingly, once they sat down, the limbs released and clattered to the floor, leaving them visibly helpless, vulnerable, and nearly naked in their seats. If they hadn’t been left leaning against the cushioned backrests their abbreviated bodies would have toppled right over.

“I wish I wasn’t sitting right on my— OH”

“Wait. We can talk?!”

The two quickly aired their desperation to each other, the mutual gossip of their deception by the men in charge, the horrors of awakening, their worries for the uncertain future. They spoke in quick, hushed tones, as if at any moment they would lose their last mode of interaction again with the click of a button. And soon, even though a foot of warm, humid, empty air lay between their helpless bodies, their conversation turned to sex.

“I need you in me, Stevey, I’m serious, it’s not like before. That desire I told you about, how I could only concentrate once you’d fucked me, I only managed that much sanity by masturbating and jumping on you whenever I could. Oh god, how are we going to survive this if I can’t rip your clothes off three times a day?! Why do they want to torture us so much?”

Steven quieted himself, for he knew of no answer, and he just looked down at his now permanently-erect cock, which lay flat on the cushion his thighs would have once occupied. He tightened some muscles in his lower abdomen, and his ramrod member lifted an inch up, then fell back down. This teased his frenulum achingly, but after a few minutes, he knew he would never get release from this. Who knows if he would ever be left outside the sheath like this again? he thought. Desperate, he looked over at Jasmine, who had been trying to grind her hips and dripping pussy into the cushion below her with no success. “I don’t have answers. I won’t ever, I’m afraid. Like this, I don’t know what kind of husband I can be. Oh, what are we going to do with our lives, Jazz? We’re just their puppets now, and I can’t stop thinking about fucking you, our maids, anything! Oh I really wish we could just go back to our first night together, talking till the early hours, and watching you dance for me. For yourself. I just want to go back there, Jazz.”

When he looked over, she was crying, tears dripping onto her distended chest as it rose and fell in wracking sobs. Through these tears came a soft, “I love you.” floating through the air as if it were precious: it was a first. Steven would have given anything to have arms still to hug his wife with, but all he could do was sit there.

“I love you too. We’ll get through this… somehow.”

 

Chapters 13-14

Ascension in the East: Chapters 9-10

Chapters 7-8

Chapter 9 – The Handmaid’s Tale

It was the following morning after they awoke when their two maidservants reappeared in their lives and immediately both Jasmine and Steven realised why they had been absent for so long, for whilst their bodies remained completely unaltered, something major had happened to the faces of both of them or, to be more precise, to their lips.

Of course both Somanass and Sukhumala had sported somewhat puffed up and enlarged lips previously, but these were nothing to what now graced their faces, for where their mouths should have been, instead now were two juicy doughnuts that looked almost designed for fellatio. Upon seeing them, Jasmine exclaimed, “Oh my God, what have they done to you?” whilst secretly thinking how much she would like to experience Somanass’ tongue on her nether regions. Steven’s mind was racing in quite a similar direction, except that it was more about Sukhumala’s new lips wrapped around his huge penis.

“Mathesty,” replied Sukhumala in Sukhothai (for, as part of their training and with Jasmine’s improved command of the national tongue, it had been decided that all staff must only speak to their monarchs in that language now), “thwe are bthlessed to hath our lthips modthified lthike lthis tho we may accomothate the emperor’s royal membther pleathurably.”

“You mean to say,” asked Steven, that aforementioned member standing ramrod straight despite it being only a minute or so since he had erupted into his wife’s generous backside, so hot did he find their new lispy voices, “that you have had your lips pumped up purely so you can suck my penis?!”

“Of courthe, Mathesty,” replied Somanass, “that isth our sthacred duty, parthicularly now that your wife cannot accomodthate you there.”

That comment caused both Steven and Jasmine to blush, for the one drawback to his newly-enlarged member that they had both noticed the night before was that, when Jasmine had tried to take it in her mouth as she had done before, it would no longer fit due to its impressive length and girth. She could pleasure him amply with her front and bottom holes but not her mouth. She simply couldn’t open that wide, and she nearly gagged every time. Later, after breakfast, the Honorable Chandarith explained it all to them.

“As I have said before, you are no longer Steven and Jasmine, you are no longer merely human, but instead Nguanamthom and Sukkisawali, the earthly incarnations of the deities Ragaraja and Somanath and as such, certain things are necessary whilst others are now unacceptable. What is necessary is that your bodies reflect your divine statuses. Sukkisawali: you as a fertile, lusty emblem of femininity, whilst Nguanamthom: you as a virile representation of masculine power, fertility and strength. As such it is only natural that your breasts and hips, Sukkisawali, should be larger than those of any other female in the empire whilst your member, Nguanamthom, mightier than that of any male. But whilst that is the case, it is now unacceptable, considering your divine statuses, that you engage in any penetrative sexual act that can create offspring with any mere humans. That is why your sacred orifices, Sukkisawali, have been stretched and will continue to be stretched: they must be able to accommodate your husband’s tool and be too large for that of another man. However, since a king must have handmaidens to serve him, then the solution is thus: they have their mouths modified to accommodate his tool but not their other holes – indeed, with a man both Somanass and Sukhumala are virgins, did you never wonder why they only ever pleasured you with their mouths or between their beautiful, noble breasts? They exist to pleasure your penis, Nguanamthom, it is one of their primary purposes in life and one that they are overjoyed to fulfil. Their other purpose is, of course, to provide similar pleasure to you, Sukkisawali, using their tongues and hands on your similarly enhanced genitalia. You say that their lips have been plumped up and this is true but it is not the full extent of their oral modifications. Maids, please, do your duty to you future emperor and empress!”

And at that command, the two full-breasted and lipped girls who had been standing dutifully in the background, came over to the royal couple and knelt in front of them. And whilst Sukhumala removed Steven’s sheath and took his rock-hard monster in her mouth, Somanass affixed her lips to the love cavern of her mistress and, within seconds, both royals began to comprehend what else had been done.

The very mouths of the girls seemed to have been refashioned. They were longer and somehow tighter and their tongues had been pierced multiple times with pieces of jewellery which tantalised them and heightened the sexual experience. Their teeth also seemed to have disappeared whilst their over-large lips massaged and caressed the objects of their pleasuring, causing almost a suction, both to his cock and her clit. It was absolutely exquisite, and within minutes Jasmine was dripping, screaming in ecstasy whilst Steven was spurting his load deep into Sukhumala’s throat.

“Note that they have no gag reflex now and extra muscles in the throat,” said the Honorable Chandarith. “They really are two works of art and the honour of being modified in such a way by Brahaman artists is high indeed.

“So… do you… mean to… say,” said Jasmine trying to get her breath back, “that from now on, I shall only be able to have sex with my husband?”

“That is correct, Sukkisawali.”

“But these ladies may pleasure me… us… with their mouths whenever we want.”

“That is their purpose, Sukkisawali.”

“Well, that is… not all bad… then, I suppose.”


But whilst that may not have been all bad, there were certain aspects of her new life which Jasmine began to find really hard to get used to. Her newly enlarged breasts and buttocks stopped her from doing many things and this was most noticeably during her daily exercises. Even simple activities like jogging on a treadmill, skipping or sit-ups had now become nigh on impossible, the enormous globes getting in the way or swinging about with the motion. Instead all she could now manage was exercises completed sitting or lying and most of these were focussed on strengthening her back muscles which bore the brunt of her humungous new tits. The situation was a little similar for Steven too, his rigid tool in its sheath swinging about wildly if he tried anything more than a quick walk. However, for him help was at hand, and for exercises he now wore a special costume which incorporated a different sheath featuring a loop around the end which went over his neck and could be tightened so that, as he ran, the sheath was fixed to his chest. This solved the swinging issue completely but looked, in Steven’s eyes at least, more than a little ridiculous.

Another area though, where both members of the royal couple now found that they had significant problems was when doing their other natural functions. Steven now found that he had great difficulty urinating through his penis due to its continual erection. Although this wasn’t altogether painful, it now required a considerably greater effort to piss since his water would only come out irregularly. Furthermore, due to the fact that, as a royal, he was now meant to let servants do everything for him, he now found that whenever he wanted to use the bathroom, Somanass or Sukhumala was there waiting to hold his member as he drained it and then to suck it clean. This latter method of cleansing himself was all very pleasant, but the presence of a big-titted maid and the knowledge that his aching tool would soon be ensconced between her inviting lips at the very time when he was trying to forget rather than heighten his sexual desires was most trying.

Jasmine however, had it worse here, as with most of the modifications’ side effects. The gradual stretching of her anus and vagina had left her quite unable to hold in her rear wastes, and so the plugs and enemas that were initially performed for other reasons became quite necessary. Her plugs were, however, really quite large now and they tickled and caressed her whenever she moved, reminding her of that which she too was trying to forget. Furthermore, even with these mammoth insertions into her holes, her lack of control was such that, about a week after the modifications, she had a rather embarrassing accident. Following this, new underwear was decreed for her. This was a pair of thick rubber pants with the two monstrous insertions incorporated into the garment. This certainly guaranteed the repetition of such mishaps but the feeling of tight rubber against her skin for some reason seemed to increase her already hyperactive sexual desire.

Chapter 10 – Revelations

The night before her third seeding ceremony, Jasmine lay on her bed with Somanass. Whilst Steven had been suffering unbearable torment at the hands of Sukhumala (apparently, the sexual stimulation she provided increased the sperm production even further which was auspicious although not, obviously, for the person in whose balls it was all being made), she had enjoyed a lengthy and incredibly pleasurable session with her maid which involved both of them doing things with their tongues that neither of them would have thought even possible for humans to do only a few months before.

But then, so much had changed in the past few months.

And it was with this line of thought running through her head, that Jasmine turned to her beautiful modified maid and asked her, “What made you decide to come and work here, Sommy? Surely you would have preferred to have got married and started a family like a normal lady does?”

If Somanass’ face had been capable of twisting itself into expressions as normal faces are, then it may well have taken on a sad look with these words, but of course, the artists had done their jobs well and the same vacant, lippy china doll expression stared back at her mistress. She responded as she always did these days, tripping over herself when she spoke too fast.

“No misthress, noth ath all. It ith a great honour to therve you in this way.”

“Really? Why don’t I believe you, darling Sommy? Wouldn’t it be nice to marry a handsome man, settle down in a house and have some beautiful children running around? Surely that is what every woman wants?”

“The houthe, maybe, and the children, yes, I would love children. But marrying a man! The thought! Now, if it was a handthome woman…”

Jasmine laughed and slapped her big-butted bedpartner on her ample ass. “Seriously now, come on!”

“No, I am therious. It a great honour to be chosen to become your maidservant. Normal women do dream of children and a husband but some of us can dream of greater things than that. A normal woman therves a man, a mere human: I serve a goddeth!”

“Come on, don’t tell me that you really believe all that?!”

“Of course I do! I have seen Holy Somanath entering you. You look differently these days and think differently too. You are consumed by lust and you radiate fertility. What other ethplanation can there be? Even if you do not realise it, She is within you dwelling.”

“Are you sure that it is not more to do with drugs and medical procedures than a goddess?”

“And are you not sure that you have not spent too long in the unbelieving and thpiritually blind West?”

Jasmine was taken aback. The realisation dawned on her that Somanass actually believed all of this shit. She wasn’t just going along with it; it meant something to her!

Wishing to change the subject slightly, she asked her maid, “So, tell me, how did you get to become my servant?”

“Well, I was very lucky, the gods blethed me indeed, because I was actually forty-thecond in line, but the first forty all got killed in the mathacre.”

“And the forty-first?”

“That is Thukhumala of courthe! That is why she geth the first choice on who to therve and, naturally, since she is not attracted by women, she choothes the Emperor. We thurvived because we were both in a temples in Krung Thep acting as thrine maidens. I even had a husband lined up for after my period of thervice. Thankfully that was averted!”

“If you didn’t want to marry him, why were you going to?”

“Because we must do as we are told by thociety. My parents conthulted a priest and he chose my fiance and fixed the date. We can never disobey orders like that.”

“Even if they are ridiculous.”

“But they are not.”

“Ok, say I told you to jump out of the window into the valley to your death. Would you do it?”

“Of courthe.”

“But why?”

“Because a goddeth has commanded me to do so.”

“But I’m not a goddess, I am me, just a girl called Jasmine.”

“No you are not; you were once but not any longer, even if you don’t realise it yourthelf yet.”

The blind faith of this otherwise intelligent and spirited young woman astonished Jasmine. She decided to explore more. “But what about the mods, the ridiculous lips that you now sport… and the tits. How do you feel about them? For heaven’s sake, you struggle even to speak clearly these days! Does that not even bother you?”

“Of courthe, I must admit that it does bother me, even though I should be glad. I used to be renowned for my thsinging and I loved gymnastics, but then I remind myself of the value of these changes. And remember, after all is thaid and done, this is not my body to control but the goddeth’th….”

“But it is your body, Sommy, no one else’s! Jesus! What right have they to make your speech slurred and your tits so huge that you can hardly walk with them?”

“They have every right. I am honoured to be modified in this way; it is my thacred destiny, as also is what is to come, although I do confess that it does scare me a little.”

“Why? What are they planning to do to you now?”

“You know what, Majesty. My mouth must always be a suitable receptacle for Ragaraja’s tool yet that beautiful and sacred member has not reached its full size yet. When it does, my mouth will need to be altered again. Now I struggle to speak clearly; then I shall not be able to speak at all. This conversation that we are having may be one of our last ever and that, and that alone, makes me sad…”


The day following their third seeding ceremony, Steven and Jasmine were sitting out on the balcony of the palace’s private quarters looking out across the forested valley beyond. It was a beautiful scene and what with the insects chirping in the air and the soft scent of jasmine incense emanating from the room’s altar and the presence of each other, their bonds strengthened further by every step of this journey that they had been taking together, both felt happy inside.

Well, almost.

Jasmine, still the dominant partner in the couple due to her age and worldly experience, was troubled greatly in her mind by the conversation that she had had with Somanass the previous night. The maidservant’s beliefs had been so firm, so absolute, that it disturbed her. What sort of society was this that could control the minds and bodies of its citizens so completely? She looked down at her enormous breasts, surging up and down with every laboured breath, a visible reminder of that total control. How could one be entirely happy with a body like this, she wondered, her left hand unconsciously going to her rock hard constricted waist. Despite rubbing hard, she couldn’t feel a thing. The Honorable Chandarith had explained to her that her painfully-tight corset was now a necessity, not a luxury, for during her last set of modifications, she had actually had ribs removed. Now the corset was required to do the job that they once had.

“Why?” she had asked him in amazement. “Because such a tiny waist would never be possible to achieve otherwise,” he had answered. Scientifically it was a good answer; but ethically…? Why did she need to have such a miniscule waist anyway? She still looked pretty damn feminine with her twenty-inch one. Fourteen inches was just too much, ridiculous, absurd…

She turned to her husband who was gazing out over the mountains. As if sensing her gaze he turned his face to hers and smiled.

“What the hell is happening to us, Steve?” she asked him.

His face grew more serious. “Honestly, Jazz, I’ve been thinking the same myself. Only two months ago and we didn’t know each other, were single – hell, I was still a virgin and at school! – you were a dancer, we lived thousands of miles from here – and each other and…” His voice trailed off as if he did not know how to voice his thoughts.

“I wasn’t talking about those things, Steve. Those things are normal… ok, not normal but natural. We… we aren’t….” Now hers was the voice trailing off.

“You’re on about the other stuff. The fact that we both look like cartoon characters and have had our bodies changed beyond all recognition without our knowledge or permission. That you have tits and a butt the envy of any porn star whilst my cock is as big as a freakin’ baseball bat. That’s what you’re on about?”

“It’s not just our bodies, Steve…”

“Yeah… I know; our minds too. All I can think about is sex. Sex, sex, sex. We did it this morning and we can’t now since we’re clothed and have a lesson in a few minutes yet, even now, even with this beautiful view to fill our minds, without either of us even realising, you have your right hand on my sheath and my left hand is stroking your breast.”

“And you are sitting as close to me as you can in order to rub your thigh against the cushion of my enormous, obscene ass.”

“That too.”

“It’s fucked up, Steve, it’s totally fucked up! I mean, what the fuck is this? We are an emperor and empress apparently, yet where are our people, what decisions are we making? The closest we have come to having an impact on the political, economic, social and fucking religious affairs of this backwards country is once a month when there’s a full-fucking-moon and some virgin schoolgirl jacks you off all over my face whilst I just grin and bear it and so old priests can play Gypsy Rosa Lee with the result!”

“Calm down, Jazz, it’s not…”

“No Steve, I will not calm down and it is worth it! What are they doing to us, eh? What the fuck are they doing to us. Us, Steve, us, not Raga-fucking-raja and Sowa-bloody-thora, let alone Ngu-whatever and Sucky-Swallow which is, perversely, about the one sexual act that I can’t do these days! These are OUR bodies and OUR lives and we are the fucking rulers for God’s sake!! We deserve explanations at least, if not a whole lot more. I want to know who is calling the shots in this country and when we will be able to start playing our part….”

“That time, Sukkisawali Majesty, is not far off!”

They both turned to see the Honoured Chandarith standing behind them, a sage expression on his face, his hands folded in his robes.

“Honored Chandarith, we didn’t realise…” started Steven.

“…but we are glad that you are here because we want to know!” continued Jasmine whose anger had not abated. “We’ve had a lot done to us and not a single explanation as to why and what’s next. We agreed to become your Emperor and Empress because we wanted to do the right thing by our forefathers’ homeland, but so far what good have we been able to do and instead what indignities have we been subjected to? I’d like to see your reaction if someone covered your face in hot and sticky cum for no apparent reason whatsoever? We deserve an explanation, don’t you think?”

“Actually Sukkisawali, I do think that you deserve an explanation, for everything, and so you shall receive one. We have asked a lot of you and thus far you have given freely and in good grace and proved yourselves to be worthy of your exalted roles. However, the road ahead is not easy and questions arise naturally. But they may only be answered in the correct fashion after, as with so much in our ancient and esteemed society, the correct rituals have been performed. Tomorrow at noon I shall arrange for your Phtuoch Phtaem to take place.”

“Our what?”

“Your Phtuoch Phtaem. That is the name of the ceremony. The word is difficult to translate into English but perhaps the best term is ‘initiation’. Yes, initiation. Tomorrow shall be your initiation into the secrets of the Sukhothai state…”

Chapters 11-12

Ascension in the East: Chapters 7-8

Chapters 5-6

Chapter 7 – The Seeding Ceremony

Some weeks after his entry into the palace, after the evening meal when he had stared at his wife longingly, excited by the bedtime activities to come, Steven had found, to his dismay, that instead of being allowed in their joint chamber, he was led by Sukhumala to the one that he occupied alone on those nights when Jasmine was unwell or menstruating, when the buxom maid pleasured him instead with her mouth. This confused the boy somewhat since Jasmine had only had her period the week before.

He was bathed by the maid and then, to his astonishment, his royal sheath replaced before a silken nightgown – with an opening for the mighty rod to extend out from – was smoothed over his head and he was lain in bed. Sukhumala climbed in on top of him and he wondered if this was some new sexual game of hers, a suspicion only enhanced when she took out two padded gloves, like balls of leather, which she fastened his hands into and then locked at the wrists with a small padlock leaving him absolutely helpless. She then attached a chain to one of the mitts so he could not leave his bed making him a prisoner to her lust. After this she rubbed her massive tits in his face, causing his member to stiffen even more in its prison before then engaging in a long and passionate bout of French kissing. “Free me! Free me now!” he screamed when he finally extracted her tongue from his mouth, but to his amazement, she only smiled at him, pecked him on the forehead and said, “Sorry Mazesty, but I cannot. Today you sleep separately from queen because tomorrow you have important seeding ceremony. Every full moon is seeding ceremony and so you must have your balls full of your seed too much so the ceremony can be auspicious.”

And with no more explanation than that, she left him alone on the bed.


In her chamber, Jasmine was having a far better time and receiving more in the way of information. She was just recovering from multiple orgasms caused by Somanass licking her modified love cavern expertly with her pierced tongue and the two girls were now lying in the bed together recovering their breath. Jasmine had asked why she was not with her husband that night and the maidservant had explained that they had to lie apart the night prior to the seeding ceremony, an ancient ritual that takes place every full moon.

Apparently, the seeding ceremony is the way that the religious and political elders of the empire foretold the future and the prospects for the country in the coming month. Political and economic decisions were made based on its result and upon a seeding the fate of billions of dollars or the lives of thousands could hinge. It was, as with so much of their current roles, a position of great responsibility and gravity. Somanass then went on to say that usually the seeding ceremonies are very public, taking place in the foremost temple in Angkor and being beamed across the empire live on national TV but, since both she and Steven were not yet fully incarnations of the god and his consort, then this ceremony would take place in private in the temple in the palace, although, as it was to be the first seeding following the national disaster, people were anxious as to what might be foretold. “But what do I have to do?” she had asked her maid and lover. “Nothing, Mazesty, nothing at all. The emperor is doing everything. All you must do is kneel there, your hands prayer, staying absolutely still and smiling.”

The next morning both royals were woken early and breakfasted alone. To Steven’s anger and dismay, neither his sheath nor the mitts were removed and instead Sukhumala spoonfed him like a baby. His penis was now positively aching with pain, desperate for relief inside its prison. Since arriving in the palace and since his modifications, he had become accustomed to receiving release every four hours or so, often more and now, with twenty-four hours without coming, he was struggling to focus on anything else, particularly with the alluring personage of Sukhumala brushing her huge tits and behind against him coquettishly, and kissing him on the forehead after every bit of his breakfast. His balls, accustomed – and he suspected, drugged – to produce far more sperm than usual, were now taut and bluish from the seed that they had collected inside them.

After breakfast he was dressed in fine robes befitting the gravity of the ceremony. The mitts stayed on but these were hidden by silken covers and then linked behind his back by a small golden chain. Finally a new and more elaborate sheath cover was fitted over the protruding rod and thus ready, he was led out to the temple.

He entered to find Jasmine already there, wearing an elaborate gown and hairstyle, kneeling on the floor, her hands in prayer before her enlarged breasts, smiling serenely. By her side was Somanass. Also present were the Prime Minister, two senior generals, the Head Priest for the empire and a very pretty young girl of around sixteen who sported large fake breasts which marked her out as a member of the noble class. She was introduced not by her name but merely her position: the Shrine Maiden of the Royal Temple in Angkor, a virgin who lives as a nun for a month in the shrine until the seeding, after which she returns to her family and is married off. Indeed, it was the very fact that she was locked in the temple and unable to attend noble functions that saved her from the massacre the month before.

A gong sounded and some unseen monks in the gallery started chanting the sutras. Steven was walked forward by the pretty shrine maiden until he was stood before his wife. Then, the shrine maiden took the royal sheath in her gloved hands and removed it to reveal his aching and rock hard member to the company. She then started to stroke it with her gloved hands, working them up and down the shaft bringing him to a peak within seconds upon which he erupted, the masses of stored seed spurting out and covering the face of his queen who stayed still, merely closing her eyes and continuing to smile and pray. The shrine maiden continued to milk him until the very last of the seed was spent and then licked the royal member clean with her tongue before replacing the sheath, bowing and withdrawing. Steven also withdrew a couple of steps but then the priest and a couple of sages came and began examining Jasmine’s semen-drenched face, taking photographs and making notes. Steven and Jasmine later learnt that what they were doing was reading the semen much as a gypsy might read tea leaves, a form of divination. Where it had spurted, the quantity, the viscosity and so on was all analysed using ancient texts to determine what the fate of the empire would be until the next full moon. For Steven though, all he felt was a blessed relief, whilst for Jasmine, as she explained to him in bed that night, she felt degraded and longed to wipe it off but had been warned that that could have horrendous consequences for the empire’s future. So, it had stayed there and she had stayed kneeling for over an hour until finally, when it was dry and crusted, she was led off to a shower by her maids.

Equally worrying for her was the fact that Steven had actually found the whole experience rather erotic, and now wanted to re-enact the seeding ceremony in their bed so as to perfect his technique, and so it was that it was more than once that day – and many more in the future – that she found her face covered in the spent seed of her eager young husband.

Chapter 8 – More Changes

And so it was that Jasmine and Steven continued with their lives as emperor and empress-to-be of Sukhothai. At times it made Jasmine sad, particularly when she tried to dance and her new and larger breasts and bottom got in the way and made her movements a little ungainly, but Steven still said she moved beautifully anyway which was some consolation.

The fact was, of course, that Steven was head-over-heels in love with this beautiful and caring wife that fortune had thrown in his path. The sex was incredible, but after that, when they lay together and talked, he found her intelligent and compassionate and it was at times like that that he almost started to believe all the superstitious bullshit that the Honorable Chandarith and the maids came out with about them being incarnations of two eternal consorts.

For her part though, Jasmine did not love her husband. She liked him, she found him sharp and wise and also very caring, but he was more like a kid brother that wanted looking after than a man whom she could spend the rest of her life with. She had always preferred older men who took the lead, yet in their relationship he was very much the junior partner and this did not satisfy her.

Nonetheless, two things did help her to cope with it all. The first was the sex which, now that Steven had a much larger penis and a modicum of experience, was much better than before. Furthermore, her own desire seemed to have grown and she found herself fantasising about his tool during the day.

But it was the second factor that helped her much more. Steven alone could not satisfy her, but Steven was not her only lover these days and, despite the fact that she had never had a sapphic thought in her head before coming to Sukhothai, she immensely enjoyed her time with the two top-heavy maidservants, in particular Somanass who seemed to be more interested in her own sex than Sukhamala. Lying with a woman, feeling an expert tongue on her pierced and hyper-sensitive clit and running her hands over the taut obs whilst their mouths explored one another intimately, each knowing instinctively how to pleasure her partner, it was a joy she had never dreamed of, yet now enjoyed beyond all measure. And it was pleasures like these and being filled with Steven’s eager tool that made the lack of dancing and personal freedoms, if not enjoyable, bearable for the empress-to-be.

But just as it seemed that both of their lives had fixed themselves into a steady routine, they found themselves one morning after breakfast being guided towards the tea ceremony pavilion and each being handed a cup of the green brew by the high priest. And even though both realised what this would mean, and felt more than a degree of trepidation when doing so, they took it and drank and, for the second time in as many months, their worlds went black and they faded into a drugged sleep.


Jasmine and Steven stood stock still looking at each other once he walked in, the first time in their marital chamber since their second round of modifications with whom Honourable Chandarith called the Brahmanan body artists. They were both more than a little stunned, for neither of them knew how long they had been under with these physicians they never met. Steven was truly shocked at what he saw, the woman he loved proceeding ever-closer to her Empire’s ideals.

Her face was the most radical change, as the sacred physicians had made Jasmine look all at once less Western and more unreal. Any doll-like aspect of her previous changes had been amplified. Her nose and eyes had been given a thorough reworking, leaving her with nearly a button nose, and eyes that retained their epicanthic fold, but seemed absolutely wide-open. Her irises and pupils seemed bright and dilated, leaving her with doe-eyed look that reminded Steven of the various anime he used to watch in his spare time. Steven could not read her face very well, for where there was once a shrewd gaze, now lay a blank yet oddly inviting expression. A nervous smile showed only on her lips, leaving Steven to guess that she had also received some numbing botox to enable her innocent-yet-sultry visage.

Further down, it looked like her neck had been slightly lengthened somehow, but knowing the Sukhothai’s inclusion of the Kayan tradition of neck rings, it was more likely an adjustment of her collar-bones downward. She seemed more refined yet delicate with her head held high, but the delicacy was to be had below, as her neck led down to her now enormous breasts, now rivalling those of Somanass and Sukhumala. These ballooned outward with little attempt at being natural, and her tight ao dai, reaching all the way up her neck and down to the floor, only made the difference between these and her waist more apparent, not only to him but his aching member. Her waist itself had been modified somehow, for her corset looked to have finally closed. This imposed a more extreme hourglass figure, starting at her over-round hips, and now her shallow breaths were forcing her breasts to rise and fall with a certain desperation, straining against the fabric.

Across the room, Jasmine wondered how much her carnal hunger was showing on her new face. When she had woken up earlier that day, she had been helped by an unnamed attendant to her feet, and had been forced to quickly overlook the restrictions imposed by her new bodily form when she gazed upon her face. A shockingly trite little note from the Honourable Chandarith (in Sukhothai of course, always a lesson from him) had summarized her new holy modifications, and the restrictions she would have to abide by due to her now large mammaries and ass. The note went further on to explain that her eyes were permanently open like this, fake eyelashes fluttering over her blank expression whenever she blinked. When she attempted to grimace or smile, it only showed on her mouth and cheeks, and perhaps a bit on her brow. Her large, richly-coloured irises were apparently the result of lasered-in contacts, and Jasmine was thankful her vision was still 20/20 as far as she could tell. On top of it all, her nose was now slimmer, upturned a bit to give her a cutesy look and, along with the miniscule waist and makeup her dancer friends would have called quite leading — and in private, absolutely whorish — the addition of eyes and a nose like this made her look like some living cartoon!

But as she stood there questioning her willingness in all of this, trying to massage her lengthened neck, which was a little difficult to move, there was something else. A need. Something deeper than whatever desire she had previously had for Somanass’ tongue or Steven’s cock before that damned tea ceremony. She could hardly think straight, desiring something, anything, to fill the emptiness inside of her, between her legs. It didn’t help that her clit had been extended again, quite lewdly in fact. She dared not put on underwear in fear of her erect protrusion rubbing against the fabric torturously, and even now as she stood in front of him, she was naked beneath her dress. But nothing mattered now that Jasmine saw Steven, in his casual regalia, including a newly enlarged penis sheath. Yes, her plugs had been increased in size far above Steven pre-op, and she had assumed to herself, but even now as they stretched her to accomodate him, she felt no release. Actually, if she hadn’t been wrapped in the dress and pants of the pink ao dai, her naked thighs would have revealed her dripping desire to him.

Of course she had tried to relieve herself earlier, as Somanass was nowhere to be found, but the orgasmic release had merely left her wanting more, and she was very worried she would never again get true mental peace. Checking twice over, there was no mention of this ceaseless desire in the Honourable’s note, and that afternoon she cried out in desperation at her life of seeming luxury. What were they doing to me? she thought. But no, there was still hope. Whatever they had done to her brain, or her cunt, it was too hard to fight, she had to make her last attempt at inner solace and satisfy Sowathara inside. So she walked as briskly to Steven as her ao dai would allow, and when their lips met they shed their fineries like tissue paper.

Of course Steven was already hard, but that was becoming more often the norm every time he drank that sweet milky syrup. The difference was, when Jasmine desperately fumbled at the hip straps to release the silken tube and finally ripped it off, underneath awaiting her was a monster. Steven’s cock had been altered, extended again to a foreboding 11 inches, and its girth was now formidable as well. Underneath, his large testes were clasped by a gold cuff, making them hang below, and Steven knew from the strain and fullness he would need release very soon. He could have used Sukhumala’s mouth sometime in the last two days, but the Emperor’s favourite had been nowhere to be found. Though not any less embarrassed, Steven now saw the reason for the sheath, for he couldn’t have stuffed his third lower appendage in his pants if he tried. Deep down he honestly thought he looked ridiculous, and even his spare time spent in his private gym over the last few weeks before the tea ceremony had not made his body look like a suitable host to this bulging rod. Jasmine of course was delighted, and within moments they were on the bed, her begging him in Sukhothai to give her everything he had.

And they fucked.

And fucked.

It was a pleasant surprise to both of them that Steven’s refractory period was now almost non-existent and, for the first time in hours, Jasmine could think clearly again, not hounded by that need for him inside her. She thought to herself that she was glad Steven had her, for it seemed only her daily dildo-stretched box could accept him in full, but hours later, after they were done with their feverish passions, this thought quickly gave way to doubt. Why was she stretching herself for this boy? What had happened to her face, her body? How long would she have until she needed her husband’s cock in her like that again? Would Somanass be able to satisfy her like that? This last question made her thighs grind against her permanently-swollen clit, and she felt the first insidious signs of the itch come back to her.

Chapters 9-10

An Artist’s Masterpiece: Book 5

Book 5

April 2051

Book 4

Chapter 1

It was yet another birthday party. Yet another gathering of friends and family. Yet another celebration of a year added to her life. Yet another event for her husband to show her off to the world.

And yet this birthday party, Emily was happy.

Ecstatically so.

For her life had changed in ways that she could never have imagined. Ways in which she never dared hope for. Ways more akin to a fairy tale than real-life.

It had all started, of course, with Humphrey’s death. The operation that he’d undergone to increase his hormonal levels, coupled with his existing high blood pressure and his increasingly debauched lifestyle had resulted in a heart attack whilst on his bed with his wife and sister-in-law. Had he not transformed those two women into helpless doll wives then they might have been able to save him, to alert the medical authorities… anyone. But no, they were completely passive and helpless as he wanted them to be and so they simply stared mindlessly into space as he breathed his final few agonising breaths on earth.

That look of horror and despair was fixed in Emily’s mind forever. It pleased her immensely, just as did the knowledge of where Humphrey Battersby must now be if the Bible is to be believed, and how he must be suffering.

Payback.

They were all discovered the following morning by the automaid. By this time the two sisters had fallen asleep against each other. The automaid notified the police and very soon the house was crowded with medics and lawmen. There was nothing that either could do save for notify the next-of-kin who was, of course, Emily. Humphrey had no living family closer than a second cousin in Bolton. Since Emily was helpless (literally) to do anything, they called Branwell who was most distressed. He relied on Humphrey for money and all he could ask himself was how he would cope from now on. Unless, of course, he could assume guardianship of Emily and Anne. After all, who would be a more natural choice? He was their brother after all, and their closest living relative following the death of their parents the year before.

“Not so fast,” said Humphrey’s solicitor, Mr. Rochester, who had also been called. “The only person who can make that decision is Mrs. Battersby herself.”

“But she is… you know, look at her!” protested Branwell.

“What she looks like,” replied Rochester, who seemed to have taken a dislike to this pushy relative by marriage, “is of no concern of mine. What the law is interested in is what she thinks like and, according to all the modification paperwork that the late Mr. Battersby lodged in my care, at no point was her mental ability ever impaired. Of course, the trauma of such an extreme lifestyle may have taken its toll on her mind but that is for a doctor to ascertain.”

“But…”

“Mr. Lowood, please do not bother me any further!”

That doctor came the following day and, Emily was glad to see, it was not the dreaded Dr. Eaton. He did not come alone, but instead was accompanied by a smartly-dressed gentleman of around thirty who was introduced as a Mr. Robert Rivers of the Damsels in Distress organisation. Both Emily and Anne were sat on the chesterfield across from the two gentlemen and then the medical man begun. “Ladies, my name is Dr. Bradley and I have been called here by Mr. Rochester, the late Mr. Battersby’s solicitor as I am a psychological specialist. It is my job to assess if you have the mental capacity to make decisions about your futures. Now ladies, I believe that you both still have the ability to nod slightly. Nod if you can understand me.”

Both dolls nodded.

“Excellent,” said the doctor, noting something on his form. “Now then, Emily Battersby, can you nod for me.”

The left doll nodded.

“And Anne Lowood.”

The right doll nodded.

“Excellent. It appears you do have mental capacity. Now, the only obvious candidate for your guardianship is your brother, Branwell Lowood. Is that an option you should like me to pursue?”

Neither doll nodded. Anne even shifted her bosom side to side in a desperate attempt to decline.

“Am I to take that to mean that you do not want to be put into the care of your brother?”

Both dolls nodded.

“Hmm, interesting. Well, that can be honoured but it leaves us with a different problem, that being who shall take care of you? Your husband has left you a considerable amount of money Emily, although you have nothing Anne. Do you wish to remain together?”

Both dolls nodded.

“And therefore, would you be prepared to take financial responsibility for Anne, Emily?”

The left doll nodded.

“Right. But you both still need a guardian to administer the estate and keep you safe. But who? Perhaps this is the place to bring my companion, Mr. Rivers into the conversation.”

“Thank you kindly, Doctor,” said the other man. “Ladies, I am a representative of a charitable organisation which is called Damsels in Distress. We are a group of concerned Christians who abhor the practice of turning healthy and happy young women into helpless dolls for the satisfaction of their husband or guardians. We lobby parliament to get the practice banned and we help any doll who has been left without a guardian due to a death, which is why we are here today as both of you fall firmly into that category. We look after these dolls by helping them to regain their former lives by paying for reparative operations. For example, to replace their amputated limbs using new procedures pioneered in the Soviet Union, or restore other functions if possible, such as free eye movement and voice recovery. Be warned, we cannot reverse everything. Faces like yours can never be restored to the original but the mindless doll look can be transplanted in a similar operation to the original so some semblance of humanity can be restored. We are here to help and are prepared to find spouses for both of you from our organisation who will nurture and support you. However, as you wish to stay together, it would be possible to only marry one of you – as bigamy is, of course a crime – but the other could stay as a companion. So, ladies, does this idea sound of interest to you or would you prefer to remain as dolls – some women do. Do you wish to be helped by our charity?”

Both dolls nodded.

“So, Emily, are you therefore prepared to marry me on the condition that I restore you as much as is medically possible to your original condition?”

The left doll nodded.


Emily’s second marriage took place the following day. It was a low-key affair in the church where Robert worshipped, attended only by the vicar, Robert’s sisters, Anne and some representatives of the charity. That night he did not consummate the marriage as, “I want only to enjoy my wife when she can fully consent and participate”. The kindness and thoughtfulness touched Emily to the core, although it did nothing to relieve the frustration that she was now feeling after years of extremely regular sexual activity.

The next day, she and Anne returned to Great Ormond Street and the long, slow, and painful process of reconstruction began. New arms, specially grown in labs across the Channel, were transplanted onto her shoulders which were unfused from their unnatural position. That was a lengthy operation taking many hours but it took months for her to learn how to use them properly. In stages her mammoth breasts were reduced to a more manageable size (although still somewhat bigger than before any operations had ever taken place) whilst similar work was done on her enormous bottom. Her toilet arrangements however were non-reversible, if she disliked incontinence, although with the chance to talk and hold again, Emily didn’t mind.

The biggest and most delicate operation however, was the face transplant and mouth reconstruction. As her husband had explained from the outset, recovering the original Emily and Anne was out of the question and so the girls had to decide how they wanted to look from now on. To be honest, Emily had never particularly liked her plain visage and so wouldn’t have wanted to return to it (although anything was preferable to the vacant doll look that Humphrey gave her) since the old Emily, innocent and unscarred by life, was lost forever too. She looked around for inspiration, something beautiful yet also good and kind. One day Robert showed her a photograph of his late mother when she was but nineteen. Mrs. Rivers Senior had been one of the founders of Damsels in Distress and a fervent campaigner for women’s issues, and straightaway Emily knew. “That is the face I want,” she wrote unsteadily (since her voice was not working at this point) and, touched to the core, Robert assented.

Full jaw movement and throat recovery was beyond their skill, so both girls had to choose from a selection of prosthetic voices. An implant in the speech centre of their brain allowed them to communicate to a specially-made speaker wirelessly, but this was not as easy as it sounded and, like their arms, required months of practice. Their hideous plastic lips were remolded more naturally but their mouths were far from recovery, for the work to reshape them had been extensive. Emily eventually chose her speaker to be added to her still-necessary fleur de bouche, remaking the object from a symbol of silence to one of regained independence and recovery.

When they were implanting the voice processor, the doctors found the mad Dr. Eaton’s trademarked implant, which had been the source of her reflexive oral, vaginal, and anal contractions, as well as her lack of eye motion. What they also found was that it was positioned in an incredibly dangerous place to remove and even if she survived, she may lose sensory functions in those areas during the operation, so for her protection and well-being they desisted. Luckily they rigged the contact switch in her temple to always allow her full sight, never again locked into staring at the wall for months at a time.

Throughout all of this, Anne remained extremely close with her sister, a closeness borne of them sharing the hardest of times and the most degrading of beds. Both sisters had been scarred by their experience but in different ways and Anne’s reaction was to cling to her elder sister. The one thing that Anne had liked about their doll transformation was that they had been made to look nearly identical, only the colours of their neck roses telling them apart, like twins (in actuality there was a year between them). And so, when Emily chose her new face, so too did Anne and a week later when they recovered from the operation and sedatives, both sported the same happy, pure expressions with the same chestnut curls cascading down their backs. At last, at long last they were human again!

And so, on this birthday party to celebrate Emily’s 24th year, she was happy, full of the joy of life and thankful to the wonderful husband who stood by her side.

Chapter 2

It is April 2052. Another year has passed and Emily is celebrating another birthday, her 25th, the years clicking by like miles on a speedometer. Her 24th birthday was one of unbridled joy but her 25th, alas, sees great sorrow enter her – and Anne’s – lives once again.

For only three weeks before, in an horrific motor accident as he returned from a Damsels in Distress conference in London, her second husband was cruelly taken from her. “At least it was quick,” she said to Anne in consolation.

The contrast between Robert’s funeral and Humphrey’s could not have been greater. Humphrey’s consisted of a handful of mourners, most of whom would miss his money more than him. At Robert’s the entire church was full and crowds stood outside. He was loved by the local worshipping community and by feminists and humanitarians across the country and beyond. Emily found herself greeted by huge Black Africans, dusky Indians and diminutive Chinese as well as scores of girls who had formerly been dolls and had been given a new chance at life through the work of Damsels in Distress. In her grief she was comforted by both her own sister and Robert’s two siblings, Diana and Mary. They were heartbroken at the loss of such a loving and Christian brother. Emily compared him to their own brother in her mind and her blood boiled.

The nearly two years that she had spent married to Robert Rivers had been like a glorious, perfect dream. Well, as close to perfect as this life gets. She had had her independence, her voice and her limbs restored to her; she looked nearly a normal woman once again, not some inhuman freak, and she was both listened to and valued. Once she could speak and write once more, Robert supported her in applying for university and she had begun the degree that she had so long dreamt of studying. Anne too was allowed to continue her studies and with the funds that Emily provided her out of Humphrey’s estate, she began her Masters. Cambridge were glad to have her back: during her degree she had been recognised as one of the foremost minds in Physics of the generation and, unbeknownst to the two sisters, when she had been transformed into a doll by Battersby, the furore that followed had even been mentioned in parliament.

Robert had proved a loving and gentle spouse. They had enjoyed beautiful evening walks together around the estate and he would sit with her in the orangery and read poetry or Scripture to her. He welcomed Anne too, immediately insisting that she be retained as Emily’s companion, and treating her as his own sister. He was a breath of fresh air after the debauchery of Humphrey and Emily could have wished for nothing more…

…well, almost nothing.

The only problem was bedtime. Anne was now banished from the marital bed since this was a God-fearing household and that Emily did not complain about, but even when they were alone together, Robert and his beautiful young wife did not regularly engage in sexual activities.

In fact, he only ever did when she pressed the matter and even then it was perfunctory and with reluctance.

And for a woman so used to regular congress and with a body redesigned for sex, this was extremely trying. Even though she cursed Humphrey’s memory from the depths of her soul  late at night (and then repented to God afterwards for such a sin), as Robert lay asleep beside her, she found herself longing for the animal, twisted sex that she had enjoyed with her first spouse. She ardently wished for Robert to flip her over onto her front and spear her still-healthy arse, or use her impressive cleavage as an extra hole, spurting his copious seed all over her face. She knew that these thoughts were sinful, temptations of the devil and yet still they came. In her desperation for release she would use her new hands to work herself to a climax manually in silence as her husband slept (for he would never approve of such things), but it was not the same as when she was taken by a man. Sadly, Emily realised that the effects of her time as a doll would not be erased so easily and that some things would always remain. An increased appetite for sex was one of them. Furthermore, this did not seem to apply to her alone either, for after a few months, Anne – who was getting no sexual release whatsoever when all was said and done – would sidle up to her in the drawing room, or enter her bedroom as she lay down for an afternoon nap and her hands would caress her sister’s womanly parts and their immovable but naturalized lips would meet for a delicious kiss, made all the better by the fact that their tongues had been lengthened once more.

Chapter 3

A month after her husband had died and his funeral had taken place, even whilst she was still in mourning clothes, Emily decided to do something about the problem of her and Anne’s sex drives and deal with another matter that had been burning in her brain ever since she had seen Anne drugged by her husband and brother and carried off for modification. Discretely she obtained the name of a foremost private investigator and then, one Wednesday, she took the train down to London and paid a visit to his office. In that office she handed over a sum of money along with the instructions to find out as much as possible about the whereabouts and daily routine of one Branwell Lowood.

A month later she returned to the capital and the detective went through his file. Branwell was currently living in London, in a rather insalubrious district of the East End. He had failed his degree and, lacking the income that Humphrey Battersby had paid him for handing over his two sisters to dolldom, had moved to London to find work in bars and other legally questionable occupations. He was a heavy drinker and a serious womaniser and had been planning to acquire a doll wife for himself until his patron’s death put the possibility to rest. He liked to frequent the notorious House of the Enhanced Venus, a whorehouse of severely modified women, but these days his funds rarely stretched that far so he instead frequented pubs, trying to pick up easy women since his looks were still charming. His most popular haunt was the Dog & Duck in Soho where he was invariably to be found on a Saturday night.

Emily spent the whole of the next week in London. She rented some rooms in Bloomsbury and made some enquiries with a local apothecary. Then, on Friday, she laced down to sixteen inches, a full two inches smaller than her norm these days, dressed up in her finest gown that emphasised her behind and her cleavage and curled her fake chestnut hair.

Then she took a cab to the Dog & Duck.

It did not take long for her to spot her brother, who was laughing and joking with some regulars by the bar. She seductively swayed up to that bar and ordered a glass of the house red and then retired to a table to drink it. Within five minutes he was asking if he could join her.

“Why, sure you can!” she replied from her voice box between her made-up, pouty lips.

“Are you expecting someone, madam, or are you all alone?”

“Hell no, I’m alone alright.”

“That’s a crime; a woman like you should never be alone!”

“Ain’t you the sweetie, and it’s Blanche by the way, but thanks. No, ever since my husband died last year, I’ve always been alone. That’s why I come out, to find some company but I’m rarely successful…”

“That I can’t believe!”

“No, it’s true! You see the thing is, my late husband – God bless his soul, he were a merry man! – he was an ardent admirer of the modified female and so he was transforming me. He wanted to make me one of them doll wives and, to tell you the truth, I loved it! I’ve had me face done and me voice, and some work on me tits and arse, but we hadn’t got round to the arms and the rest and then… the Lord took him! I was devastated!”

“Madam, surely you are jesting me? Most people these days, particularly women, seem intent on attacking the practice of dollification, not promoting it. There are charities banging their gums about banning it and reversing transformations that have already taken place and here is you saying you WANT to be made a doll!”

“Sure I do, probably the only girl that does, but nothing makes me hornier than being totally helpless and treated as some sort of fucktoy by a domineering man. Probably some strain of hysteria I have. Should see a doctor but…”

“No, no, it’s natural; women are naturally submissive, although the feminists deny this. It isn’t a doctor that you need to see, darling, it is me…”

Ten minutes later they were in a cab back to her rooms.

And in the rooms it was only a matter of minutes before he was removing her gown and running his hands over her rock-hard waist. “Now darling,” she said, as he led her towards the king size bed, “before we do that, I want you to lace me into a monoglove. It’s so long since I’ve been able to wear one and me old Bert never fucked me without it! But before then, let’s have some more wine cos fucking is such thirsty work!”

“I’ll make it, Blanche dear.”

“No, you bloody well won’t! What sort of woman am I to let a man enter the kitchen as I still have these arms! You let me get the drinks whilst you take a look in that cupboard and see what other little toys you might want to use on me…”

Branwell happily plunged into the collection of butt plugs, dildos and restraints that Blanche had pointed out to him, his member rock hard. In a few minutes she returned and handed him his glass of red. He picked up a monstrous pink butt plug and said, “Shall we start with this, Blanche?” and she bent over. As he maneuvered it into her enormous bottom, he took a draught of his wine.

He never finished inserting the plug.

Chapter 4

Even before I opened my eyes I could feel a bright light on my face. Was it morning already? I didn’t really remember fucking good ol’ Blanche, must’ve drunk too much. What a sorry whore, couldn’t even realize her degrading dreams. The women of this country were pitiful. I shuffled a bit, and noticed something off. Restraints! I’m being held down. My eyes flew open to find two silhouettes standing in the light.

A female voice, artificial, Blanche? “…oh yes, Dr. Eaton, I think that’s a great idea, I give you full executive power on this matter.”

“Excellent, excellent. Now dear, I hope we aren’t on bad terms over the work I did on you, this is my trade, like any other. I won’t lie, the money was top notch, but if this relieves my heavy heart I will do it, no questions asked… uhm… with the appropriate compensation.” A silence. “AT COST! AT COST of course dear!”

“Don’t ever call me dear again. You slip up once and the Parliamentary Commission will find your second lab. And watch out, he’s awake.”

With a shuffle from the doctor toward the IV coming out of my arm, I slipped back into the dark.


When I came back to, I felt…different. I saw a bag hanging off my IV stand… “XX CHROM…” Whatever that means. I scanned the room… This was Great Ormond!! Actually it might have been the same room I took Canned Anne’s photographs in. Why am I here? I looked down to find my body still restrained, naked, and my penis in bandages?! What is going on?


When I woke up it was morning, I was still drugged up but the Doctor was there and a mirror was hung above me. My body looked…different. My cheeks looked fuller and my stubble was gone. Actually all my hair was gone from my head, eyebrows, to my pubes. My hips were a little wider? And I had definitely put on weight. There goes all the work I did for the pub girls.

“Whaaaaaa….”, my voice faded off. The Doc noticed me.

“Oh hello, Mr. Lowood,” he talked in a slow, gentle voice, nothing like when me and Humphrey had met with him a few years ago. “You’re going through some changes, and your sponsor has asked that I don’t explain anything outright to you, sorry. I added the mirror so you can keep yourself informed as we proceed to make you into a lovely little companion!”

I obviously couldn’t speak coherently so I just peered through the mirror. There, on my chest, were two slight breasts. What are they doing to me!? It was too much, and combined with the drugs I faded out.


Now I’m really worrying. The Doctor unwrapped my junk and he fucking castrated me! My shaft is still there but I’ll never make a Branwell Jr like I always dreamed. My body looks tired, like I’ve been here a while, and besides, I’ve nearly got the body of a chick! All the muscle and bone is giving away to smooth, plushy curves. I’ve given up on fighting, these people are professionals. I just wish I knew why this had to happen to me. What man did I cross to end up here?


Last time I woke up I couldn’t move my eyes! I just stared at this doll face in the mirror for hours as they marked up our bodies identically with little perma-fountain pens. What am I an art project? The face has this dumb stare right at me, with a Mouth and nose just like my sisters after Humphrey did his number on them. I miss him, when he died my life went to shite.

I did get worried when I tried to ask and I couldn’t make a peep. Seem to have a weird thing in my mouth. I started shaking about and the Doctor put me back under, just as I realized the doll was shaking too. Noooo…


THIS IS NOT FUCKING OKAY. I woke up to my body, no, not MY body. I still can’t look around but even from my peripheral sight its unmistakable, my arms and legs are just GONE. There’s no scars or bandages, how did they do that?! I tried to shuffle my limbs but I just saw my body twitch a bit. Actually, what’s wrong? I’m not tied down anymore, why can’t I move anything? I should be able to do crunches or something! Whenever I flex or try to move I see the muscle distend like it’s trying, but I just can’t!


Doctor said it has been 6 months now since the “Sponsor” brought me in. It’s taking so long because of the gender reassignment. I’ve got big tits and my butt is like two big smooth eggs that frame my cock and twat. That’s right, they gave me womanly lips, well, besides the ones on my actual lips. Doctor said I’ve been good so he explained my transition. I think he is just bored. Maybe he gets off on this, I would.

My skeleton is chemically fused, all of it. I’ll never walk, twist, move again, but I have to always exercise or I’ll get weak and my Sponsor will throw me away. Sometimes they put electrical pads on my smooth skin and my muscles work out whether I want to or not. The Doctor always insinuates that the Sponsor is some uptight lady. He complained that he wanted to remove some ribs and lace me up and she apparently said, “You wouldn’t put stays on a Pillow.”

I’ve got some more meat on me than my athletic body before, but I’m not fat by any means…well, if you ignore my breasts and ass; they get larger everyday. All I can do is lay here and stare at the ceiling, my cock sticking straight in the air. Oh yeah they did something to that, I can’t get soft, probably just enough to shove it in some trousers and hide it, but it would still be screamin’ proud if so. I wonder if I’ll ever wear trousers again.


They have me upright now. I can’t move so my balance on my arse is lousy. Right now they have me surrounded by pillows to support my body. When I sit up I’m right on my new twat, and I noticed I can feel a growing wet patch, actually I have this itch I just can’t scratch down there.

Am I a woman now? A doll? Is this what Canned Anne or Plain Jane felt like? Fuck them, I want out! What kind of pervert would do this to a man?! We own this country!


The Doctor put his cock in my mouth and I sucked him off yesterday, I didn’t mean to I swear! It’s like my mouth had a mind of its own! I constantly drool this sweet, musky saliva, kinda like what a twat smells like. Only queers go down on anybody so I wouldn’t know, but that’s my closest guess. Afterwards the Doctor stroked my pussy and cock really hard and I couldn’t bring myself to completion. I didn’t expect a spurt of semen since the operation, just a little release! Anything! I feel it all but I can’t cum!


Today is the day. Months of imprisonment, and now my prison is this body. I can’t do anything: move, talk, look around, stop blinking, eat, urinate, defecate, anything. My holes contract on their own so even a morse code SOS of vaginal clenches is impossible… dumb idea anyways… If I really concentrate I can flex some of this extra flesh I have on my arse, but it’s unreliable. I’ve been inactive for too long.

I wear not stays but a gigantic bra which holds me together but bites into my sensitive tits. I’m fitted in a fine silk dress that is sewn underneath and accentuates these gigantic breasts and ass. My empty shoulders and hips end in little tassels. They’ve glued a chestnut wig on my head, and the messy curls surround my female doll face. They tucked and taped my cock to my stomach before dressing, I think its larger now. My waist isn’t like my sisters’, but my assets are surely bigger. When they sit me up my ass spreads out a bit and stabilizes me so I rarely fall, but it’s all still so scary. Right now I’m sitting on the vibes they put in me on high. This is so cruel, I was made for this, why can’t I cum?!

Blanche comes to pick me up, and in her arms I find myself close to her, bodies pressed up against each other so I don’t fall before I go in the wheelchair… Is that a red rose in her neck?

Chapter 5

Sept 2053

“So who is she, Emmie?”

“Her name is Pillows. Damsels in Distress rescued her and they’ve asked us to look after her as she doesn’t want to remarry.”

Both sisters looked down at the doll girl sitting passively on the sofa.

“Hello, um, Pillows. I’m Anne.”

“She can’t respond. You know how it is.”

“I remember how it was for us, but we could still nod.”

“Pillows cannot even do that I am afraid. Her modifications were much more severe than ours.”

“When are we going to get them reversed?”

“I’m afraid we’re not, Annie. She’s already been to the hospital. The operations that she’s had done were much more intrusive than ours. Try to transplant her face and regrow her limbs and she could be put in mortal danger. Her heart is also weaker now, it’s used to the reduced body mass; she wouldn’t survive.”

“What about her breasts? They’re even bigger than mine used to be. Surely we could help her there?”

“No, not even there. They’re a new type of implant apparently, that works its way deep into the muscle tissues. Try to remove them and she dies.”

“That’s awful! What kind of wretch would do something like that to a girl?!”

“You of all people should know the answer to that.”

“What, you mean people like our brother Branwell?”

“Yes, exactly. Or to be entirely precise, drop the word ‘like.”

“What?! You mean that Branwell is…”

“Was, my darling, was. He used Humphrey’s money to transform this poor orphan girl into his own pillow doll. But now he is gone; he died in an accident last month. That is why Damsels in Distress asked us to take care of her. And that means you, Anne. I need you to care for and comfort Pillows here as if she were your favourite doll Jemima that you had as a child.”

“I cannot believe that you remember Jemima!”

“How could I forget? You were so good to that doll. She deserves a caretaker like you.”

Emily and Anne embraced as they looked at the tiny doll girl. Anne began, “Oh dear, this poor girl..and how utterly unoriginal of Branwell to name her that! Surely styled after those unfortunate Hodgkinson women we visited together.”

“Well you remember how he was. He hung onto Humphrey’s tailcoat more than aspiring to anything unique. You know… Jemima isn’t a bad name, all in all.”

“Oh what a good idea, Emmie!” Anne knelt down to look in the girl’s blank eyes. “This is a house of recovery and hope, and you’re going to be my little, sweet Jemima! I will keep you safe.”

“Anyway, let’s get the automaid to take a photo of us three, the new Lowood siblings! Welcome to the family, Jemima!”


I never asked for this. I set those girls up with a future, not like what that two-face bitch Emily did to me in return. She was a Lady of Leisure, with not a care in the world. It was a win-win! But now I’m nothing more than a doll for two paltry second-class widows. They both have a dislike for automaids, so Anne takes care of my few needs when she is not away at the college nearby. From my guess we live in Oxford, but I haven’t left the premises of our comfortably-sized home for months.

My life is not altogether awful, for Emily’s secret sadism is balanced by Anne’s pure innocence and her ignorance of my true identity. In truth, I would not tell her if I could, for she looks at me now unlike she ever did before, her victimized Jemima. I was always a disappointment to her before, and after I realized trying to communicate was impossible, I reveled in the clean slate of our companionship. Anne would hold me and tell me stories of her time with Humphrey all the way to her studies now. Most of them were over-dramatic and a waste of breath, but I am sorely starved for company. Late at night, when I’m not sleeping in my crib, she holds me tight in her bed as a body pillow, crying a bit or comforting her mute Jemima doll. She was mortified to see my erect penis underneath the dress I wore on the first day, and Emily told her all these lies about how I secretly had it added to this imaginary orphan girl because of my “other tastes”. I wanted to hurt her so much that day, and ever since, Anne has treated the last evidence of my manhood as an ornament of shame. Only a week ago did she apologize to me repeatedly, lay me down on a bed, strip her underwear, and wrap her silicone wetness around me until she came. She cried after, about how she couldn’t help herself since what those sick men did to her. I didn’t know what to say, luckily I couldn’t. I wish I had reached climax too, maybe she could try harder.

This is, sadly, not the only time I am used this way. One reason I like Anne’s presence so much is what it prevents. When she is off completing her Phd or whatever, I am at Emily’s mercy. She still holds me accountable, even after all she has done to me, and if I were to guess, once she is home and away from reclaiming her independent life, her primary goal past taking care of Anne is making my existence as horrid as possible. Cayenne pepper goes in my mush. She leaves me sitting on that horrid toilet as I am impaled, filled, and drained over and over. I am left in corners of the household, forgotten. The only physical contact I receive from her happens when she is about to take me to her room. Each time, I receive a diatribe about how this situation was brought on by myself. If I hadn’t sold her to Mr. Battersby for his “artistic vision”, she wouldn’t have the ravenous cravings she does now, and would not need a surrogate in place of him. Each time she lists off decisions I have made that were harmful to others, she strikes me with a crop on my taut orbs above and below. Not enough to make a mark, but enough to have my black rose wheezing under the pain. My face blankly asks for more as I feel it all.

Earlier today she brought me to her room, pinched my nipples with sharp alligator clips, and used my erupting phallus as her personal dildo. This is the horror and highlight of my life, for every time she rapes me I hope, I really hope, I can have a little reward now that I’m being so good for them, but it never comes. Emily always climbs off, spent and satisfied, while I stare at the ceiling yearning for release. I never did this to them! I always held myself back from this dirtiest of sin! And sometimes she toys with me, treats my womanly body well for a day to put me on edge, then just sits on my face for hours as she reads her books. Later she will tell me my tongue was unshortened for this exact reason, and she calls me her “Masterpiece.” As always, I am cleaned up and made presentable by the time Anne returns from her seminars.

And now, as I lean against the back of a firm chair in the small Oxford drawing room, faintly hearing the girls chat in the parlor, I stare at the wall. I’m placed just right so my eyes focus on the frames; degrees, accolades, mementos, and to the side are three photographs: photos I look at every day. The first shows three siblings, close in age, as children; the second shows the eldest brother holding two vaguely-familiar, helpless, blonde dolls by their tiny waists; and the third shows two joyous twins holding up a grotesque pillow doll who looks straight at the camera. Silently. Forever.

FIN