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 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

An Artist’s Masterpiece: Book 4

Book 4

August 2049

Book 3

Chapter 1

The next day, week, month; they were torturous, even by her standards. The days sitting in the light of her drawing room, the evenings greeting guests in the parlor or away in the community, and anytime in-between or beyond servicing her husband, always silent; Emily worried about her sister. Why was she not home already? Great Ormond Street never took this long, she should know! Oh how she cried and cried for her dear, innocent, intelligent Anne! Or she would have, if her eyelids didn’t flutter at a ceaseless pace of seventeen and a half times per minute.

It was a long five weeks later that Emily received news. Humphrey came bursting through the door to her drawing room, with a touch tablet in hand, and sat next to her on the chesterfield. “Oh my, darling, this is quite firm. How do you sit here all day? No mind, let me show you something special.” And with a quick motion he touched her temple until a click was heard. It was like she had been given back her full sight! Her eyes darted around, slow to focus but altogether not too atrophied. This was indeed a luxury and for a serene moment she loved him for his generosity. She looked to him, shuffled her sizeable arse and hourglass figure closer, and he wrapped his arm around her armless shoulders, holding the black mirror in front of her. Two years deprived of human touch save for these moments had Emily’s chest abuzz and her juices dripping past the invaders in her nether holes.

But ignorance is indeed bliss, for when he turned on the display, she found a horrid slideshow of photographs sent from her brother’s address and letterhead over the wireless. And then he whispered sweet nothings and stories of altered perfection into her ear:

Photo 1: Anne restrained in bed, looking with tear-stricken eyes toward the camera. Missing her arms from the shoulder and hairless from head to toe. Her feet point straight down, and fine sutures can be seen on her ankles and closer to her knees. Her waistline, even uncompressed, is more accentuated, and her ribcage is noticeably foreshortened.

am02

Photo 2: Anne unconscious in a pinkish chemical bath to treat her skin, submerged with air supply. It might be the lensing of the bath but her breasts and behind had grown immensely.

am03

Emily averted her eyes. This was simply too much! She could not bear to see her sister uncovered and degraded as such! Even when Humphrey grabbed her sensitive breast in his vice-like grip, and threatened to use her arse exclusively for a year, she did not look. But she finally broke when he reminded her he could just re-adjust her vision so she didn’t have a choice. She felt more saliva slide down her throat.

Photo 3: A close-up of Anne, or she thought it was Anne, for her face was modified, with blossoming lips, flawless latex skin, and a vacant but flirty stare. Her propped-open mouth was like a tight tube and featured bumps and ribbing, a half length tongue, and no uvula. So that’s where her gag reflex had gone. Her throat featured a breathing hole and a rose of a different shade than Emily’s. “It’s how I’ll tell the two of you apart,” her husband jested tellingly.

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Photo 4: Anne in gynecological stirrups, a close-up between her smooth legs. Anne’s floral lips look different than Emily’s, Humphrey remarks, even after the silicone skin treatment, and her mons is more prominent. She already wears a healthy-sized plug in her rear bud, and Emily has no doubt she has experienced a doll’s waste removal system.

Photo 5: Anne in clinical white, restrictive undergarments, suspended from the ceiling and walking in heels on a treadmill. Her bald head and immense mammaries are held proud by her surgically-forced posture and extremely tight stays and underbust. Two silver rings, unlike her gold, clip her nipples to the top edge of the bust. One can see the glistening shine coming from the juices dripping down her chin, chest and inner thighs as she stares dutifully, directly in front of her.

Emily just blinked; dazed, scarred.

“That last one was taken two days ago. My dear wife, you don’t know how lucky you are to have had the time I allotted you to adapt and learn your place in this household. All of the lessons you have been taught by your maid and I will need to be taught to your sister in a fraction of the time, just two months total! I can only absolve myself as I let her read her silly books too for a time, like you. You should really thank me,”

And with that he pushed her off the couch and down to the floor in front of him, and watched as she unsteadily crawled on her knees towards his open zipper and raging erection, which he had no doubt sported since first receiving the photographs from Bramwell earlier. She hesitated, full of hate and still in shock, but he easily overpowered her by grabbing her fake golden locks, pulling sharply, and bending her at the hips to meet her ready mouth to his cock. Once it was past her lips, her mouth responded on its own and any motion she made with her tongue was only supplemental to the automatic processes at work, as her contracting muscles coaxed his dripping precum forth. Once she had taken him to the hilt, her eyes reset so she could only stare at the aging hips her head now rested upon.

“Ah yes… my dear… you are certainly welcome.”

Chapter 2

Early that September, Anne’s arrival was finally announced. Emily only knew the date because her husband had practically bounced out of bed the day before. His sadistic flair for surprise had largely left him now that all of his assets had been obtained and conquered. “I’m going into London today, Lovely, to shorten my travels bringing our new toy home on the morrow. I will be staying at the gentlemen’s club, oh you know the one run by the House of Enhanced Venus that I’ve told you all those stories about.” He was met with silence. Stories? Or had they been veiled threats, Emily wondered.

After Humphrey departed, Emily was led through the longest day of her life, for impatience does not suit a dolled woman. First, her automaid helped her top-heavy body rise from the bed, her gigantic breasts – left unsupported by the night stays – swinging below her open, drooling mouth. Her pointed feet were led blindly into bedroom mules far below her line of sight, and she was lifted to a standing position. Her automaid led her to the adjoining private washroom, a room which was necessary for her involuntary lifestyle. First she squatted over her waste-relief mount, feeling her bowels released, cleaned, and a silicone toy cleaner solution rinse Humphrey’s semen from her holes.

Then, she was led to the wide walk-in shower, her night stays were removed and her minute waist was pressed into a tight, C-shaped brace mounted to the wall. The only time of day she was ever truly nude, this held her rigid torso safely upright whilst the automaid went about turning on the warm water and cleaning her thoroughly with fine scents and soaps. Emily saw across from her a newly installed brace mounted to the opposing wall, and remembered her first time in this routine. Oh how she had fought and fought! Of course it had all been futile as the minute her maid pressed her into that brace, her weak legs below could only scramble against the smooth marble floor. She had then been subjected to ten minutes of the most excruciating nipple torture from the robot’s gloved hands for her “inefficiencies”. Somehow, she must warn Anne not to make the same mistake!

After the shower, her fearsome day corset with bust was cinched tight by an auto-lacer on the wall, and then those devilish prongs on the strap below were seated in her extra-sensitive holes, like every other teasing day. On days like today when she was alone in the eclectic manse they were especially cruel. They were designed to not trigger her contractions, but she almost wished they would for some form of relief. The maid pulled at her nipple rings inconsiderately to clip them to the underbust, and Emily could already start to feel them throb in protest. A fleur-de-bouche was deposited in her leaking mouth and pumped to a tight seal, and she was promptly covered in fine hosiery and lingerie, then laden down with fabric and dresses until she was the perfect womanly idol her husband demanded, before finally her hair was done and makeup touched up.

She was then led for her first daily tour of the house, which usually meant a bee-line to the parlour for that was all her constrained breathing could handle. After two-plus hours of prep, she waited docilely for another two, staring at the endless bookshelves she could not read, yearning for the lunch bells to ring. When they did, her nutritional paste was deposited in a realistic rubber replica of Humphrey’s erect manhood, which was then lodged in her open mouth for her oral workout and feeding. A second inserted phallus contained an Earl Grey-flavoured shaft which Emily enjoyed dearly as it leaked clean water from the tip down her throat, hydrating her for dessert. Once resealed, the doll was led out to the porch to gaze upon the fine gardens and gentle pastures in the distance. Gaze upon but not to comprehend: for her fixed-focus eyes could no longer fathom the rich, painterly complexity of this landscape beneath the greenish blur she saw.

This proceeded through the early afternoon, sitting in the shade, until her second trip to the bathroom, then back to the drawing room until dinner, a meal which was usually prepared solely for her husband. While going through the motions, perhaps having some phallic refreshments while he would prattle on about his day, she would fidget and wait for him to signal the maid to undress her upstairs.  Now, upon sitting down at the empty table, she realized that the folds of her dress had bunched up just right between her prominent flesh cushions! Oh yes finally! From afar, one would have seen a beautiful Lady of Leisure, staring into no-space, a bergamot watercock extending from her lush lips, her breasts heaving as she struggled to rub her fleshy pear of an ass into her seat in the dining room. An hour later, repeatedly exhausted, Emily had only managed to torment herself further. She was despondent, screaming and crying inside. Anne would be here tomorrow, Emily realized fully, and this is the sorry life that is laid out for her! As an older sister she had not been able to protect her own blood, even with the sacrifice of her own. She was utterly, hopelessly useless.

Her chance was gone, and as her maid prepared her for bed, replacing her dress and charms with night stays, Humphrey’s inert replicas (for her three holes), and the tight sheer cocoon, all she could do was wait.

Chapter 3

The next day was much like the last, except two automaids attended the needs her husband prescribed, as she was led through the grounds. One of these Humphrey had recently purchased for Anne, as his other automatic servants were busy keeping the estate prim and proper. So it was that Emily was just completing her short garden tour when she heard the quiet whir and rumble of Humphrey’s autocarriage far off near the front gate. If her rose had not been aflutter from the decorous walk, surely it was now.

Emily minced on her heels as fast as she could around to the front entry and carport, her maids in leisurely tow. As she made it to the front steps, the carriage found its way up the slight hill to deposit its passengers, and within a few minutes, there stood Humphrey with Anne in his arm, staring blankly, silently. As far as Emily could tell from her peripheral vision, her sister’s face was recognizable, but altered towards Humphrey’s vision of twisted beauty enough that they could be twins, nevermind sisters. Her head was adorned with similar golden locks, and above the hem of her traveling coat and her open bosom, right above her clavicle, lay a small pink-white rose, unlike Emily’s deep red.

She didn’t know what to do, and so was almost thankful when her automaid forced her to proceed inside, leading the way into her home like a good hostess does. Guided inside to the drawing room by their merciless maids, Humphrey followed behind for the view. “Dearest, aren’t you going to say ‘Hello’?”

She could not believe it. After everything he had done, he still jested. It overwhelmed her, and submitting to her instructions on courtesy, Emily took small, graceful steps towards her doll sister. Their eyes did not meet. They did not speak in warm tones of reunion. When she reached Anne, she faintly heard the ragged breaths of someone still in shock. What could she do? What was left? What had she needed most when she had returned from her final, imprisoning doll conversion surgery?

Touch.

Without a consideration for the spectator in the room she walked closer to Anne, and pressed her body forward, not enough to unbalance the poor newcomer but enough for their restrictive busts to press together quite lewdly. Emily did not care, and it surely showed on neither of their faces. And through her one form of intimacy, of embrace, she matched her sister’s stormy chest with her own, and she heard and felt her sister’s breathing slow.

“Truly touching.” her husband mocked. “Maids, bring the girls to my room and prepare them: I need to get acquainted with Anne, and Emily I want you there of course.”

Chapter 4

And so began another stage in the increasingly miserable life of Emily Battersby. Was this the worst yet? In some ways, yes. If asked – and if she had been able to answer – she would have undoubtedly answered yes. No only did she suffer now, but also the person dearest to her in the entire world, her beloved sister Anne: sweet, innocent Anne who, because of her doing – Emily blamed her own gullibility for everything – was now condemned to a life of suffering as a mute and helpless sex doll as well.

Yet at the same time, much as she hated to admit it even to herself, the day that the modified Anne doll was brought into her home represented the day that her life improved. Before she had been alone in her suffering but now she shared it, she had a confidant, someone with her who understood. That moment when they had pushed their gigantic chests against one another, felt each other’s’ pulses beating and stared mindlessly at one another’s modified faces, then there had been a communion and even though the sisters were now unable to talk to one another, in a strange sense, mentally, they had never been closer.

And not just mentally either. On that first meeting as dolls, Humphrey had ordered them upstairs immediately and had the automaids undress them both down to their stays. Then began their joint initiation into the new sexual reality of their lives.

The first change was that from that day forward, Emily always had to share her marital bed with another woman. Literally. And that woman was her own sister. After the automaids had prepared them, Humphrey had both of his dolls kneel on the floor and then he inserted his rock hard tool, firstly into one mouth, then the other, Emily, Anne, Emily, Anne, bringing him close to orgasm and then withdrawing on the brink of release. Then he had Emily lie on the bed face down with her legs spread wide and he lay atop of her, using her generous firm buttocks as a pillow, before lowering his new doll symbolically down onto his raging member and taking her virginity with a cry of joy, jetting his copious seed deep inside her only moments afterwards.

And that was how Humphrey had vaginal sex from then on, with one doll as his pillow and the other as his pleasurer. More often though, he would enjoy them anally, the two sisters on their knees presenting their glorious bottoms to him whilst he would spear one and caress or slap the other until his seed was spent. And then it would be time to sleep, his head still nestled in-between the wide buttocks of one, or perhaps the firm breasts of another, waking only to use the mouth of the other girl as his urinal.

That however, was not the end of it.

As a prelude to sex or as a show for his friends (and that circle included Branwell), Humphrey now developed a new kink. He would have the automaids lie his two dolls on the bed and then attach their nipple rings to one another, before then inserting an enormous two-ended dildo into both of their love caverns and a similar monster into both of their mouths. They were then required to bring each other to orgasm repeatedly, the onlookers taking bets on who would reach climax first. Another game they played included watching the girls go at it, whilst an automaid masturbated them to completion; the one who spurted his seed on the doll-pile was given the privilege of a blowjob by the doll of their choice.

The humiliation was crushing and Emily’s mind was torn. On the one hand, the knowledge that she was coupling with her own sister and engaging in the awful sin of incest mortified her, but at the same time she loved the sexual stimulation which was far more loving and consensual than when Humphrey took her. Her attachment to Anne had only grown through their shared fate and this act, although lewd and obscene, was one of the rare chances that they had to truly be together and demonstrate physically the mental and spiritual closeness that they both felt.

Outside of the bedroom though, life was hard. Although always together, they could not communicate with one another in any way. Emily would hope and pray that the automaids sat them together although this was rare and they were generally left on different chairs across the room from one another where, because of their locked eyesight, they couldn’t even look at each other clearly. On the rare occasions when they were seated side-by-side on a chesterfield or sofa, Emily loved to feel the enormous mass of her sister’s bottom squeeze up against her own and they would lean on each other’s shoulders and listen to their breaths through the two flickering roses. Moments such as those made life almost bearable.

But others were the opposite. Such as on her birthday party when Branwell paid, as a birthday treat for his sister, for a professional photographer to come in and take some family portraits of the three “happy siblings”: two vacant dolls with inhuman tits and non-existent waists flanking the leering and evil-looking brother with a hand wrapped around each of their minute stems. The best of these photos was then blown up, framed, and hung alongside another of the three siblings as children in the same position. These two hung prominently on the wall of the drawing room as constant reminders of their sad, sad lot in life.

Equally traumatic was the news announced casually by Humphrey one brunch as they sucked on their mush-filled phalluses that their father had just passed away and that Branwell was now head of the family, and had both inherited all his wealth and put their mother into an old people’s home, despite the fact that she was only fifty-five. They had not been particularly close to their father, who had always preferred Branwell and whom Emily at least partly blamed for selling her to Humphrey but even so, the death of a parent is always hard, particularly when one is forcibly unable to grieve.

That though, was the life of both of them now. Sex, boredom, helplessness, mush, more sex, and humiliation: a sad and sorry life that was to stretch on ad infinitum until they went to their graves, forgotten as people and remembered as dolls.

Until, that is, on the fateful day when we find them now:

A month after the grandiose celebrations for Emily Battersby’s 23rd birthday. Emily and Humphrey lie in their marital bed together along with Emily’s sister and companion, Anne. Humphrey is using Anne’s enormous bottom – or is it Emily’s, he struggles to tell the difference between them – as a pillow like usual whilst Emily’s equally large derriere bounces up and down on his member, milking him delightfully as he reaches up and squeezes her taut and over-large breasts. He is in seventh heaven, enjoying the greatest pleasure that life can bring, when he suddenly feels a strange tightness in his chest and the feeling of blood rushing to his head. He stops his exertions and clutches his breast but it does no good. The tightness spreads and he feels pain. He realises that this is serious and croaks out “Help! Get help!”

His two lovedolls stare silently into the middle distance, passive and unmoving, and Humphrey realises in horror that he has an enormous problem.

Book 5

An Artist’s Masterpiece: Book 3

Book 3

April 2047

Book 2

Chapter 1

When Emily awoke, it was unlike any time before. She was not in Great Ormond Street Hospital as she had been promised, or at least not that she could tell. The fine mouldings and decoration of her recovery room was gone, and now that she thought about it, so was the bed! Instead she felt her body tightly strapped down to a gurney positioned nearly upright. Her pointed feet weren’t supporting much of her weight but rested into something with a heel, as was necessary now. She couldn’t look down for the strap on her forehead, but when she tried to wiggle and feel her body for changes, she had the strangest feeling: freedom! Not from the obvious attachments but from her damned corsets, the neck restraints, the underwear that usually filled her. She couldn’t feel her arms so they must be pinned behind her, but just the feeling of cool air on her abdomen was enough to cry for joy, but unlike in the past, no tears came.

Actually looking around, she saw a new autonurse, all dressed in the greys of a lesser establishment, with the same doll face as her maid at home. She tried to call for assistance.

“…”

There was no noise. Actually, Emily hadn’t even moved her lips. She felt a numb tightness when she tried, and her tongue had shaped the sound, but no noise came from her mouth. Instead she heard a little wheezing from somewhere else. A great terror took Emily in its grips, and she shook, oh how she shook against the bonds of her upright prison, until she was surprised by a cool drip of liquid onto her monstrous breasts below her, and another. She looked up to the ceiling to see what could possibly be the source of this damn leak, before she realized that something about her mouth was very, very wrong. Her tongue felt off, shorter, but even then as she moved it around, her mouth felt tight, wet, smooth, and… ribbed. With great terror she explored further, finding no teeth, no gums, just a long circular open hole with which she now greeted the world. Her terror peaked, and even without her stays she collapsed into her supports, fainted.


When she awoke next she saw a familiar face. Doctor Eaton was standing there, addressing the nurse in a hushed tone. Emily bucked against the straps until he noticed. Sending it away, his business-like demeanor faded into the gentle tone he had always greeted her with. Only now did she start to realize this was not out of kindness, he was speaking to her quite like a friendly uncle does to his niece. With this realization she hated him, hated the system which would allow this to happen to a young girl not even past her 20th birthday. But that patronizing voice brought her back.

“…and so that is why we could not do all of this work in the main hospital wing. Some of this was only approved by the Royal Augmentation Auxiliary only last year and, frankly, we thought it too sensitive for the other patients. Now I wish you to brace yourself, dear.”

With that the doctor brought ‘round a full scale mirror for Emily to see herself, no not herself: something else. She didn’t know where to begin, and started hyperventilating and shaking until the doctor rested his hand on her bare shoulder and told her to stay calm. The sense of touch against her bare skin reminded her of her husband, and even through her seething distrust of both of them she felt a deep calm wash over her. She started from the top.

Her hair was gone. The long, brunette locks she had always struggled with as a child were shaved clean and her head was bare, smooth like the rest of her body. She was told that it wouldn’t grow back, but she would have new hair by the next day. Oddly enough, this fell flat compared to her next modification: her face. This was not her face. Blending into her smooth skin looked the same silky silicone skin that covered her genitalia, yet now it covered her whole visage. She tried to scream, nothing happened: she tried to shut her eyes tight, yet they blinked mercilessly, mindlessly: she tried to cry, now that she really deserved it, yet that was beyond her reach. Her face, like an artist’s depiction of her, was a numb mask with a blank expression, a button nose, and full, puffy lips held enticingly open by a jaw she could not close. A hint of a polite smile rested upon them to mask the tight, vulgar ‘o’ shape, and from them came a steady drip of saliva.

“That’s your own fault for moving your tongue around so much. We had to augment your salivary glands: your mouth doesn’t naturally lubricate like down below.”

She couldn’t smell but her taste was still there: her saliva tasted like when Humphrey had made her clean her own womanly juices off his prick. She looked at Eaton with a deep hate, but none of it showed, not a tear, not a sweat; and when she tried in futility to lash her vicious eloquence at him, all she heard were exasperated gasps from her neck. He nodded, almost understandingly, and gestured further down. In the lower middle of her elongated neck, lay a little false rose set into a tracheotomy, which fluttered as her breasts heaved up and down. They had bypassed her vocal cords, removed them completely for all she knew, for she couldn’t ask.

So long in her Lady’s’ attire, she had forgotten that she felt no restraint on her hands! She had to get out, strike this man, commit this sin for she was desperate. But as she silently dreamed of escape her shoulders merely twitched. For when Doctor Eaton had rested his hand on her bare shoulder, it was where her arm should have been. They were gone, not merely pinned behind her, but entirely replaced by a smooth contour and an exposed armpit that like the rest of her would never grow hair again. Emily’s tits blossomed out into the cool air as her only upper appendages, as she felt the drip of her sweet juices fall down periodically onto them.

“A fleur-de-bouche will help you there, dear, but I’m informed you’re already accustomed. Now for the final points, we fused your shoulder blades, collar bones, and spine so that with or without your stays you will hold your chest as proud as when your hands sat behind you. I assure you this will help with the weakness we reported last time you visited. Your health and comfort are our utmost priority.”

This last line was too rich, but once again all he received was a few gasps and a drip from her. In fact as she dissociated, the doll in the mirror looked like it wanted to suck him off in gratitude.


am01The next morning she received her hair, a platinum blonde wig that was glued to her smooth head. It wasn’t styled yet, but the bedtime curls that fell from her head made her want to rip it off. Her husband was scheduled to arrive at two, so about an hour beforehand Doctor Eaton came in to do finishing touches, and found her sitting, waiting. As her disproportionate behind splayed on the edge of the chaise lounge, she was busy looking at the bottom of her field of vision at the prominent, immovable, ruby red lips that covered her former face, and beyond that, her compressed cleavage rising and falling. She had tried to look down but found her free neck’s range of motion to be severely limited, perhaps just enough to nod in greeting.

The good doctor sat down next to her and she nearly flinched, but no sign remained on her appearance; her brow could not furrow. Without much ado (“Excuse me, dear.”) he pressed a finger to her temple and she heard a deep click in her head. Suddenly, her vision was limited, no not limited, locked would be a better word. She silently cried as control of her eyes was stolen from her. They came to rest focusing about 3 feet away directly forward, leaving most of the world in her blurry periphery. She had long given up the hope of university, but the thought that her ability to read her precious books could be taken away horrified her the most, for what would she have left? .

Emily blinked automatically, for its utility. She was now a doll.

Chapter 2

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…


When she had returned from the institute where her final batch of modifications had taken place, she was again presented at a birthday party, her twentieth. This time the party was bigger and grander than before; for this time Humphrey deemed her suitable to be presented to the world. She had sat there mindlessly staring into the mid-distance whilst the great and good of the Didcot area, all of Humphrey’s best friends and their wives and her family looked on. This time even her parents appeared shocked although they voiced only compliments. Only Branwell was unwavering: he was in awe of her new look. There was but one small saving grace: Anne was absent, being required at the university where, according to her mother, she was doing exceptionally well and expected to receive top marks for the first year of her Physics degree, the best student in her Cambridge college. Branwell, on the other hand, had only just scraped through his second year but knowing that her sufferings had made it easier for them to follow their dreams – well, for Anne at any rate – made it all a little easier to bear.

And after the party, her new life began. It differed from the former in that she was completely passive. She sat there, incommunicado, looking pretty and getting sexually frustrated though unable to relieve any urges herself. At this rate she even missed the ineffectual petting of her limp hands, but they were gone along with so much else. She tried to mentally think herself to an orgasm as she had read was possible once, but it never worked. And because she could not communicate any needs to anybody, she was treated as a doll, talked about when she was present, forgotten at times, mistreated. Not physically of course, why, the doctors had done that enough for a lifetime, but psychologically. It started with her brother who, visiting a week after the party (Branwell’s presence now became a semi-regular occurrence at Thornfield Hall) had taken her out into the garden, knelt her down and then, behind the greenhouses, whipped out his member and stuffed it into her mouth. Horrified that her own brother was doing this, basically committing the unthinkable sin of incest, even if it was only orally, she felt sickened to the very core of her being but could do nothing but placidly sit there and suck. She had, however, misread the signals and he laughed and said, “No, no, dearest sis, you misunderstand me! Sex between siblings can never be right; that’s the one threshold that even I won’t cross. No, I want to see how you cope with this!” And as he spoke, his waters began to trickle out – not rapidly because the kink of the situation had caused his tool to harden – and proceed unhindered down her throat, as she stared blankly into his bush.

She had no choice but to swallow and as she did he stroked her fake blonde hair and said, “Never in all my days did I think that they would be able to transform miserable, nagging Plain Jane Emily into this vision of feminine perfection! When Battersby proposed marrying you to turn you into a doll wife, father was apprehensive; it took me a good while to talk him ‘round. In fact, it was because I did that your new husband offered to pay for my university fees, a bonus if ever there was one, since the opportunities to put my end away in Oxford are manifold, far better than boring old Devon! But even I could not imagine they could do such a great job on you; you’re fucking brilliant with those enormous tits, no fucking arms and these brilliant lips and mouth – it’s like sticking me cock into a pussy on your face! Shit! You know what, I could have you suck me off and it wouldn’t bother me because I can’t even believe you are Emily; it doesn’t feel like incest. You, my square, nagging whore of a sister, have now fulfilled your destiny. Well done! I just wish he’d take Anne as well.”

At this moment Emily hated him more than she had ever hated anyone in her life. More than Humphrey, more than the soft-voiced Dr. Eaton. Branwell was truly evil and she prayed inwardly that the Lord would make him pay for his sins.

The same Lord that had seemingly abandoned her like Job.

Branwell’s was not the only bodily water she tasted these days either. In the bedroom her husband had changed. Whilst she had been in hospital, he too had undergone some sort of operation. To hear from his night-time boasting, they had sent his body into hormonal overdrive and amplified his glans’ sensory functions; a procedure that enabled him to increase his sexual performance markedly. The doctors had managed to accelerate his sperm production, for now he always had a copious load to deposit within her somewhere, in addition to a dramatic increase in energy so that he could engage in more couplings daily. Apparently they had been reluctant to perform it since it can affect the blood pressure and Humphrey’s was too high anyway, but he ordered them regardless and so far was not regretting it, spending every spare minute being pleasured by his unbelievably sensuous spouse. However, so tired was he after their exertions – and besides, she voiced no objections or oppositions – that rather than retire to the toilet, he would simply use her mouth as his urinal causing her to often feel uncomfortably full by the morning when the automaid came to take her to her “powder room mount”. Whatever the Great Ormond Auxiliary had done to her mouth, her sense of taste was not hindered at the slightest, and Emily noted dejectedly that she now preferred the times he would leave her with the lingering taste of semen in comparison to his acrid drink.

She went out more too. No longer ashamed of his plain wife, Humphrey now showed her off whenever he could, taking her to functions that he presided over and to visit his friends, many of whom shared the same tastes in women as he did.

Friends like the Hodgkinsons, whom she now went to visit with her husband every Tuesday. Alan Hodgkinson was a merchant banker in the city who had wed a girl named Clarice, whom he’d transformed into one of the very first living dolls back in 2030 and then renamed Cushions when the former model had begun to show signs of aging. Since then he’d supplemented her with a “companion”, a mute raven-haired doll whom he’d renamed Cuddles (no one had been told what her original name had been or where she had come from although the rumour was a local orphanage) and then, upon reaching their sixteenth birthdays, his two twin daughters had received the same treatment and were now due to be married off. As she sat there across from these two girls, Emily thanked God for the small mercies: in the two and a bit years since her final round of modifications Humphrey hadn’t yet decided to rename her or recruit a companion from the poor and dispossessed girls of the land. Her misery was hers alone which was to be thankful for.

As she mused, her husband and their host re-entered. He approached her, squeezed her mighty tits as if she would not be alerted of his presence otherwise, and then announced, “Darling, we have to return home I’m afraid: we’ve two special visitors coming to see us…”

Chapter 3

Emily did not go directly to the drawing room when she returned to Thornfield Hall. Instead she was taken to her room to change, since on the journey home Humphrey had decided to utilise her mouth to ease his tension and then sprayed his seed all over her face and jacket as he climaxed. So it was that her outfit was changed to a rather elaborate turquoise silk evening gown and matching fleur-de-bouche, and her fake face was freshened up by the automaid. Then she was led into the drawing room where the two guests were waiting.

And when Emily saw them, she almost fainted with shock.

The first was Branwell, no great surprise since he was a semi-regular visitor to Thornfield Hall these days, but the second was someone whom she had not seen in over three years.

And someone whom she hoped would never see her as she now was.

It was her beloved sister Anne.

At first Anne looked at her blankly, as if a stranger had walked into the room. And then Emily saw the painful dawn of realisation spread across her face. “Oh dear Lord!” she exclaimed, “Emily, what have they done to you?!”

The two sisters hugged, or at least, Anne wrapped her arms around Emily, weeping profusely. Emily longed to tell her that she was alright, that there was nothing to worry about, but, of course, she could not. She longed to bend down, to consolingly look her baby sister in the eye, but, alas, she could not.

Whilst the reunion was taking place, the automaids brought tea and when Anne was calm enough, they all seated themselves. Branwell, who had been smiling all the while, then turned to his elder sister and said, “Anne has been desperate to see you, Emily, ever since she completed her degree. She wanted to see you when she was studying but we denied it saying it would be a distraction. But that is no longer a problem, she has worked hard and gained herself a First for her efforts whilst you have been transformed from an ugly duckling into a beautiful swan and so it is congratulations all round!”

“It doesn’t matter, nothing matters, oh Emmie, what have they done to you!” moaned Anne.

“Of course,” continued Branwell, “now that Anne is no longer at university, that leaves our father and I with another issue, since she is back in our care and at a ripe age for marriage…”

At these words, Anne turned to her brother, her eyes burning with an anger that Emily had never before witnessed in her little sister. “Care? Care! You don’t know the meaning of the word you vile pervert, you dog, you wretch! Care? Did you care for Emmie here as you turned her into some sort of freak! You knew all along and you did nothing to save her, you sacrificed your own sister for a degree which you can’t even be bothered to complete!”

“Oh, I’ll get back on that next year,” replied Branwell lazily, still smirking. “The question now though, is what about you? Where shall we find you a husband, Anne dearest?”

It was the smirk that did it. The moment that she saw that evil smile, she realised. She knew and yet she was helpless to do anything about it. She longed to shout out, to warn her beloved sister and yet all she could do was sit there and mindlessly slurp the sweet drool that pooled behind her inflated flower.

“Husband? Husband! After I have seen what marriage has done to Emmie let me tell you brother dearest, I shall never, and I mean NEVER be getting married, especially to some perverted louse whom you have picked!”

“Branwell was rather afraid that you’d say that,” butted in Humphrey, “which is why we’ve invited you here for a family conference. So, what are you going to do, Anne? You can’t live on your brother’s largesse forever after all.”

“Do? I don’t know, I haven’t thought, but I am telling you that I shall never…”

“Shh, shh, dear, don’t get so worked up. Drink some of your tea and we can talk over your options.”

“Don’t drink the tea!” screamed Emily, which came out as only a faint hiss and the fluttering of the petals of her neck rose.

And, unhearing, Anne picked up the tea and took a sip. She quickly put it down and then rubbed at her eyes. “What the…” she muttered, before slumping in her seat.

Then Emily watched in silence as the autonurses entered to take her sister away to Great Ormond Street Hospital.

Book 4

An Artist’s Masterpiece: Book 2

Book 2

April 2046

Book 1

Chapter 1

Nine months had passed by since Emily had been subjected to her “enhancements” at the hospital. Since that fateful day her life had irrevocably changed although, strangely, even to herself, she had, in some respects, begun to get accustomed to it.

The main change was the level of restriction that her outfits and modifications had placed upon her. No longer could she go for long walks in the countryside or play games as she had used to enjoy so much. Instead, these days, every movement and activity required effort, not just because of the restrictive clothing, but also because she was now meant to do everything gracefully.

Humphrey has said after she had been modified that one of the main factors behind the change was that she needed to be able to present a suitable image in public befitting the wife of such a wealthy and esteemed citizen. However, since that date he had never shown her off in public, attending any functions alone. He stated that this was due in part to her lack of preparedness to deal with her new form and clothing and so her automaid was programmed to deliver her a daily bout of lessons which involved her having to walk around the room with a book on her head whilst the robot corrected her gait and movements. It was awfully boring and tiresome and Emily soon got tired off it so one day she simply switched the robot off on the back of her neck and went to the drawing room to read her book. When her misdemeanour was discovered however, Humphrey was far from pleased and, to her surprise, the next day when dressing she was fitted with a new pair of gold bracelets. Her surprise turned to dismay when, within a few minutes, she could not feel her hands. They were not completely slack, curving slightly not unlike when she used her hand to pleasure her husband. They didn’t really affect her much except that now she could no longer grab anything (which meant no more switching robots off) but also simple activities like reading and opening the door became a lot more irksome. She’d complained to her husband of course, but all he’d said was that the bracelets affected the neuro-signals to her hands, overriding the ones that her brain sent and replacing them with ones that kept her hands frozen, something that he said would be “good training” for her since “ladies are meant to rely on their servants to do everything for them.”

What it had also meant was that she was now far less able to resist another unwelcome new intrusion into her life: bottom training. Ever since her husband first tried to enter that other hole following her modifications, the plugs in her bottom hole had been slowly upgraded, getting larger and longer until they were approximately the size of Humphrey’s member. Alongside this, every morning before dressing, Emily was now forced to kneel on the bed, whilst a metal contraption upon which a rubber replica of her husband’s tool was affixed, was placed behind her and she had to “work-out”, namely bounce up and down on top of this phallic monster, letting it slide in and out of her bottom hole. It was hard work, embarrassing and – particularly at first – painful. As the phallus slid in and out of her, she would cry in pain and then find the maid gagging her, a gag that was then not removed until her husband returned home from work. With time of course, the pain lessened as the intention was, and the pleasure increased but so too did her embarrassment as her juices would often squirt out around the dong, soaking the bed and requiring a change of sheets. Dearly she wished she could fondle her clitoris as she exercised, thus bringing forward her latent orgasm, but with the damned bracelets it was impossible and the soft strokes that she could manage only served to infuriate her further.

arse workout 2

arse workout 3

arse workout 1

Emily’s arse workout

This was also connected to changes in her nighttime routine. Now it became de rigueur for Humphrey to programme the automaid to give her a short enema before they went to bed so that her bottom hole would be clean for him if he tried to enter it. And as the training progressed and intercourse that way became easier, he chose that more and more often which disappointed Emily, for she had begun to love vaginal sex with a passion whereas anal never really satisfied her.

But all of that aside, life was not too bad for Emily Battersby. Humphrey, although decreeing that she should delay her entry to university for at least a year whilst she learnt how to be a good wife instead, let her order all of her textbooks, and she would sit in the drawing room or on the terrace reading them, getting the automaid to turn the pages. And since she had little to do she could relax and enjoy the fabulous house and gardens where she now lived. And Humphrey, despite his strange kinks, was quite pleasant and kind to her and never once abused or struck her. All in all, she was getting used to things and coping well. Indeed, it was better than that because the following month would be her nineteenth birthday party and Humphrey had promised a grand party with her family invited and a new wardrobe for her (bustles were making a return again and crinolines going out). Plus, the sun was shining and all was jolly. She sat in the garden enjoying the song of the birds and almost forgetting that her corset had been reduced by a quarter of an inch that morning (17.5 inches now) when an automaid came to her and demanded her presence in the drawing room. With great effort yet supreme elegance she rose and tottered her way back to the house, swaying her enormous bottom from side to side as she had been taught to do.

Waiting for her there was her husband which was a shock since he wasn’t due back from work for several hours. He explained that he’d taken the afternoon off as they had something to celebrate. Confused, she asked what but he just smiled and gave her one of the two glasses of wine being proffered by the automaid. “To my darling wife who never ceases to amaze and amuse me!” he declared raising his glass. “May she grow ever more beautiful!” She clinked his and then drank the contents of her own and almost immediately began to feel dizzy before sinking unconscious into the arms of her waiting husband.

Chapter 2

Emily woke to the familiar sounds of a heart monitor, softly beeping to her left. What happened? She didn’t even remember traveling to the hospital this time, but when she opened her eyes she found once again the fine mouldings and decor of Great Ormond Street Hospital, and the autonurse with the same marking of 112 on her white dress. She saw all of this over the landscape of her ever-increased bosom, covered by the blanket. Her breasts were monstrous from this angle, never mind someone who could inspect more thoroughly. Emily tried to see more but even the lighter neck corset restricted her motion. Her body felt strange. Her rear must have been augmented further, for even as she lay in bed her pelvis was reaching forward seductively, her friendly cushion had grown again. Trying to rise and falling back down from the intense ache, Emily addressed the robotic servant, “Hello?”

Besides alerting the staff to her awakening, the nurse stayed silent and still, the porcelain doll face as unrevealing as ever. Emily was beginning to grow used to that generic face, if frustrated, for it was the same mask that her automaid at home wore. Ages ago now in her mother’s salon, she had read in one of the pop science magazines that nearly all of the modern servant class would wear this face in within five years. Not even the Soviets had this finery at such a scale. She thought on this for a while, distracting herself from the pain in her body, until the door opened to reveal Doctor Eaton, alone this time.

“Oh, dear Emily, you are awake. No no do not get up for my benefit, you need to rest your back.”

To this she twisted her made-up face in confusion, “For what purpose, Doctor?”

Nodding, as if it was news to him that she had been soundly unconscious in the operating room when all of his work was being completed, Doctor Eaton pulled up a chair to the side of the bed and described Emily’s recent changes. He described how her womanly features had received a second dosage of genetic growth therapy, and because she could not, he pulled back the covers to reveal her larger mounds with more pronounced nipples and areolae, now pierced with small but ornate rings. In fact, these rings looked awfully similar to the design she wore on her left hand. The doctor explained that these were merely functional attachments to keep her heaving chest in her modest attire.

Emily had a sinking feeling that this was the farthest thing from modest, but let the gentle-voiced doctor continue for her benefit. The reason she could not rise, was that her lower ribs had been removed in search of that ideal waspy waist. He recommended that due to her body becoming accustomed to her stays, she was not advised to put stress on her torso without wearing them. Due to the surgery, she was merely wearing a looser jump for the time being. The great cinching would come when her waist was fully recovered. This is when the doctor began on more sensitive subjects.

“Mrs Battersby, you are aware that besides your now-generous bosom, our Lord in Heaven graced you with other womanly parts to please your husband with?” With a slight nod he continued. “Your most precious and foul of orifices have been modified, dear. You’re a very lucky girl, as this work is state of the art in our line of work, and upon your husband’s hearing of this he requested it at great expense.”

Emily’s face looked quite blank as the doctor laid out the changes to her nether holes, that place where no one but her husband may lay. Later that night as she lay in the hospital bed, head held proud by the neck corset, her weak hands, unused to being without the bracelets these days, fumbled daintily below, inching closer and closer to her womanly prize. The minute she touched it she gasped, for it felt very foreign from when she used to do sinful things in her bed before her marriage. Her folds, while moist, felt like soft rubber, and when she inserted her finger down beyond her newly pierced clitoris, her insides felt bumpy yet slick to the touch, as if there were bumps and ribbing below her flesh.

This chance, the only one she would have for a very long time, made her wonder. She glanced over to the dormant autonurse standing in the corner, and decided the risk was worth it. With her left hand rubbing her sensitive but fake pierced latex nub, she let her right hand’s finger slip in again. Trying her best not to notify the robot attendant, her huge breasts heaved up and down quietly in the night. As she neared her peak, there was a sudden pressure on her finger, and from her pussy came not a pain but a throb as her vaginal walls contracted hard to stimulate the intruder. Emily felt a deep vibration as well, as her muscles rolled to milk what they thought was her husband’s manhood. This deep rumbling and the gasp of surprise is what alerted the nurse, suddenly awake. Within moments her hands were restrained to the sides of the bed and her wet womanhood was left needy, as the robot receded to its charging station. Gasping for air from her momentary terror and deep arousal, Emily worried what the punishment for this would be, for they would surely report her transgression to her husband. She wished he would spare her, for the doctor had informed her that her rear passage would act the same way. Deeper in her mind though, a more urgent worry was taking form; that her grip on humanity was loosening.


The next day, Emily learned how she would visit the Ladies Room for the rest of her life, as the nurse brought a terrifying machine with two phallic protrusions between her legs. As the fearsome objects inserted into her and entered to the hilt, she felt a click deep within, and the pressure from her bowels and bladder relieved themselves down a waste tube. She was then given a very thorough enema, not unlike the one she had been given the first time Humphrey wanted to enter her from behind. While the uncomfortable pressure was quite extreme, the seal deep within her posterior must be sound, for she only smelled the familiar lavender scent once the machine was disconnected. The Doctor explained to Emily that this machine would be installed in her home, and no wastes would darken her prized skin ever again. She was past a point of no return, realising even her ability to use the washroom was controlled now.

Chapter 3

Her nineteenth birthday party was one of the most memorable events of Emily Battersby’s young life and each minute of it has been ingrained in her psyche ever since. Not that “memorable” should be taken in entirely positive sense though. By “memorable” I mean, she can remember it. In some respects, “traumatic” might be a better description.

She was still reeling. Reeling from that awakening. An awakening in a hospital that she didn’t even know she had been taken to. An awakening to further unasked for and unwanted alterations to her body, intrusions into her innermost being. Subtractions from the essence of her humanity.

Of course she’d always known that one day she would be back in Great Ormond Street. That he would modify her further. But that knowledge she had shoved to the back of her mind, not concretised it. Besides, he’d done all the important stuff in the first visit. In this one operation she had been given what most ladies are bestowed their entire lives. What more could he do?

What more indeed?

Her waist was no longer human. It was that of a cartoon character. And she could not survive now without her stays. She could no longer sit or stand or move without them. And even when she did wear them, she felt weak, delicate and vulnerable. She now had a automaid with her 24/7. It was there sitting by the bed when she woke up, bathing her, dressing her, walking with her, feeding her. She was as helpless as a child. She hated it.

But that was for later. First, the party. On her last day at Great Ormond Street she was raised by her automaid and dressed. Her waist now measured a frightening 13.5 inches in circumference and her husband could encircle it with his two hands, something which delighted him immensely. More than that, it rose up vertically in a stem for some four inches before blossoming out to support her gigantic breasts which now heaved with every tiny breath, causing the nipple rings – which were now affixed to the top of her corset busk – to pull agonisingly.

Her new outfit was then introduced. In line with changing fashions, this incorporated a bustle instead of a crinoline as well as an extremely high neck. It was, Emily had to admit, extremely pretty, made of silk patterned in white and navy blue, but it was so very restrictive even in comparison with her other outfits. Under the multitude of petticoats she wore boots that forced her to perch on her very tip-toes like a ballet dancer and which were laced all the way up to just below her knees. Between the boots was a short golden chain that limited her steps to only around five inches whilst on her hands fine (but excruciatingly tight) gloves of yellow silk were fitted along with the dreaded golden bangles which somehow had become more of the norm than an exception. She couldn’t do much with the rest of her arms either since the jacket of the gown was extremely tight also and incorporated a shoulder brace meaning that lifting them any higher than her waist became virtually impossible. Topped off with a hat to compliment the rest of the outfit and then a fleur-de-bouche – another indignity that she had never before been subjected to – she was supported out to the waiting vehicle by the automaid.

Emily rode back to Thornfield Hall in shock. Humphrey, on the other hand, was quite the opposite. He could not stop complimenting her on how she looked, showering her with praise and thanking her for being such a perfect wife. She longed to demonstrate her real feelings to him, but with the inflated fleur-de-bouche filling her mouth she was mute and expressionless. In desperation she tried to catch his attention, but with the restrictive attire she soon grew weary  and so she just sat there, mentally and physically exhausted, leaning on him for support whilst he casually fondled her new breasts through their silken coverings.

image002

Emily’s birthday outfit

Back at the hall, the automaid escorted her mistress from the carriage and into the building itself. She was led through the hallway and into the dining room and, as the doors were opened, music was struck up and a loud shout of “Happy Birthday!” filled the air. For the first time since her wedding day, the hall was full: her family, some local figures and friends of her husband were all present. After a chorus of “Happy birthday to you!” she was led to her seat and the birthday meal commenced. Her fleur-de-bouche was removed of course, but she could eat very little due to her demanding costume. Then, after the meal there was music and dancing although for Emily, this meant standing only, holding onto an automaid for support.

So many people came to her and complimented her on her appearance. Her parents said that they couldn’t believe this was their plain daughter, whilst Branwell lewdly eyed her up and down and commented that it was a shame that the law prohibited incest because she looked so different to his old Plain Jane sister Emily that he would gladly “roger” her now, which caused her to blush and him to guffaw. It was only when her sister came to her that she felt safe.

“Emmie, what have they done to you?” said Anne with a concerned look upon her face.

“It… is… nothing,” Emily replied, struggling for breath.

“You are so different. You look beautiful but not like the Emmie I so know and love. Are you happy?”

“It… is… bearable,” she lied.

“Oh sister,” cried Annie, tears falling from her face and embracing her sibling warmly. “I feel for you, I really do. I thought that my lot was bad, but yours…!”

It was only then that Emily noticed the changes in Anne. Compared to her own they were nothing, but her breasts had grown significantly whilst her waist had shrunk to around eighteen inches.

“Your husband paid for them. As I am to attend university next summer, he said that it is only right that I look good amongst the city girls. I wanted to object but he has been so generous to both you and Branwell.”

Emily longed to cry, but she couldn’t bring herself to tears in front of the crowds. It hurt her to see her own darling sister being turned into a fashion-plate doll just as she was although, thankfully, Anne would still be attending university and at least this was as far as it would be going for her. It was a small mercy.

The party continued for several hours with dancing, jollity and alcohol for the men. And then, around ten pm, a rather drunk Humphrey Battersby refitted his wife’s fleur-de-bouche, struck his glass with a fork, ordered quiet and made a short speech.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I thank you all for being here today to attend the nineteenth birthday party of my darling wife, Emily. Whilst wishing her all the best and thanking her for being the best wife imaginable and putting up with my many strange ways, I’d like to thank you all for making our happy marriage a possibility. People like Harry over there and Jake, who pointed me in the right direction towards finding a suitable bride, folks like my old university chum Matt who has helped suggest modifications for my feminine piece de la resistance and, of course, my excellent and esteemed father-in-law for giving me permission to marry his darling daughter. Now, as you can all see, the seven months or so since our wedding have been ones of great change for Emily, changes that I am sure we can all agree have benefitted her immensely – why, they’re so good that even her pretty younger sister has joined in on the act! – but before we leave tonight, we have one final announcement to make: In line with her new appearance and financial standing, I have decided to offer my darling Emily the gift that all ladies aspire to and, tragically, so few can manage. From this day forward my love, your lifestyle shall be able to match your wealth and beauty and you will live as a Lady of Leisure! Yes indeed, maid, bring the monoglove here and let me fit in front of you all as a symbol of Emily’s fine new status. Raise your glasses please, to Mrs. Battersby of Thornfield Hall, a bona fide Lady of Leisure!”

And as the cheers and shouts rang out, the automaid forced her arms behind her and methodically laced up the unforgiving glove.

Chapter 4

And so Emily entered a new stage of her life after the birthday party, a life with even less independence than before. A life where she seemed reliant on the automaid for almost everything which is, after all, the whole point behind being a Lady of Leisure.

Of the two new companions introduced that day, the fleur-de-bouche and the monoglove, the former was enforced at all times when in public and not eating but the latter was constant. Upon rising she was laced into it and on it stayed until bedtime came around again. Only between the sheets was she free, yet another reason why she looked forward so eagerly to that time of the day.

At first the monoglove had been excruciatingly painful as it dragged her arms into a position where nature had never intended them to go. For several weeks it could not be laced fully and the elbows were still inches apart, but slowly they drew nearer and then, even more slowly, her arms became accustomed to it until they became simply numb. But even though the pain dissipated, the feeling of helplessness did not. Whenever she wanted to read, she had to ask her automaid, or to get up, or for a drink. And when her fleur-de-bouche was inserted, she couldn’t even do that. Instead she just had to wait. At least now she did not have to ask when she needed the bathroom.

Her new reality in that department though, was equally disconcerting. To sit on the contraption twice a day, feel the plugs make their way up inside her, then the valves pop and the fullness within diminish, to be replaced by a jet of warm water. It was so unnatural, inhuman. It was, somehow, wrong.

When she was not on her contraption her holes were still, of course, filled, constantly reminding her of something else: sex. Her time on the bed with her husband was now the highlight of her days. Not only was she freer then, but she also experienced pleasure like she could never have imagined.

Her modifications only increased her husband’s vigour and desire for lovemaking. He would joyfully bury his face in-between her enormous mammaries, then take out his rampant, rock-hard member and work it up and down in the crevice between the two taut balls of flesh, at times bringing himself to a climax that was so forceful that his semen spurted out and covered her face, something he found particularly amusing and aesthetically pleasing (he had taken to keeping a camera in the bedroom and capturing moments like that on film). When he used her modified love cave, which was now, tight, rubbery and hyper-sensitive, the ripples of pleasure that flowed through both of their bodies were so exquisite that, coupled with her over-tight stays which could now, of course, never be removed, she would pass out in ecstasy, only to come around again and find her husband still pumping frantically away. But, sadly for her, those moments of vaginal bliss were few and far between, for these days Humphrey much preferred to have the automaid prepare her so that she was face down on the bed, her middle supported by a bolster and her enormous arse proudly on display and ready for his tool to enter it. It simply made no difference to him as both of her implants were ribbed, ready, and activated to contract and vibrate around his manhood. These involuntary muscle movements deep within her were the only saving grace of these arse nights. This was never so pleasureable as when he used her front hole but she was so excited by the clothes that trammelled her and the plugs that teased both orifices all day long that she still enjoyed it.

And on the days when her husband was away on business and she had to lie in bed alone, her hands wearing the infernal golden bracelets and clipped to her nipple rings, then she almost went mad with frustration and desire. When she was found one night attempting to pleasure herself with the bare heel of her pointed feet, she found not only no relief, but a new punishment; a compressive sheer garment that held her legs tightly closed like a chaste mermaid from her childhood storybooks.

It was in those minutes after sex though, when Emily most often managed to speak with her husband, for then he was willing to listen and the fleur-de-bouche was far away. She would ask him what modifications would be applied to her in the future – he would never answer that beyond the phrase that she began to hate “Don’t worry about such things, darling, you’ll love them!” and why he still wouldn’t parade her in public as his wife: “An artist never exhibits a half-finished painting now, does he?” She told him how frustrating she found life as a Lady of Leisure (“It is your destiny, my love”) and how painful the monoglove could be (“Don’t worry my sweet, soon you shall require neither monoglove nor fine bracelets”), and then finally she would lament about her waist, at which point he would always encircle it with his two hands, whisper sweet nothings in her ear and then silence her protestations by stuffing his again-rampant cock into her waiting mouth.

And strange as this may sound, slowly Emily began to get used to this, she thought it was normal and she even, at times, enjoyed it. And then, just over a month before her twentieth birthday, her husband announced that they were to return to London, to the hospital in fact, on order for her to receive some “very special birthday presents”. Her mind worked overtime in terror even as her maid held up the tea which she knew to be drugged.

Book 3

An Artist’s Masterpiece: Book 1

An Artist’s Masterpiece

Copyright © 2017, Dave Potter & Cafter

Foreword

This story is set in the same alternative world as 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 is the first time that I have ever co-written a story and this work is as much the fruit of Cafter’s labours as my own. It has been an enjoyable experience and one that I hope to repeat in the near future.

Those of you who don’t like things that are graphic and explicit, are advised not to read any further, or indeed, to read any of the other stories on this site, although this is at the more extreme end of my offerings.

DP

Book 1

July 2045

Chapter 1

If there was ever a problem in her life, Emily could trace it back to her brother Branwell. Whilst she knew that it was both unkind and undutiful to think so ill of a family member, whenever her brother entered the room, she heaved a sigh of disappointment. He would always make some cutting or hurtful remark, give her a task to do that was rightly his but he was too lazy, or invoke a negative comparison from her parents. She wished that she could be more like her younger sister Anne who was far more forgiving and kind but, alas, God had not made her that way. Anne was truly an angel whereas she was all too human.

Even so, nothing could have prepared her for what was to happen that fateful Summer Saturday.

Things had started quite well. The day before had been the day when they all collected their final examination results from school, the results that could decide if they would go on to university or not. As anticipated, her results had been outstanding, top marks in every subject save for History where she’d got a B rather than an A. Not only could she go to the university in Oxford, but she could even get a scholarship which was vital since there was no way that her cash-strapped parents would have paid for a mere girl to study (“After all, what is the point,” her father had said countless times, “when your only purpose in life is to look pretty and make babies?”). But on top of that, when Branwell had gone to get his results, they turned out to be far better than anticipated and he too could scrape into a university, albeit one of the lesser institutions. So, there were great celebrations in the house for the conquering son who was treated to numerous presents and the summer looked set to be fine.

How little did she know…

The evening before it was announced that they had all been invited for dinner at the home of a Mr. Battersby of Thornfield Hall in Oxfordshire, and they all had to dress up smartly and behave. Both Emily and Anne were laced into their best stays, struggling down to a mind-blowing 21 inches which left them gasping for breath, over which their matching grey satin travelling gowns were worn. Then they took the morning bullet train from their Devonshire home, travelling through the day until they steamed into Didcot station just after one. There an auto-carriage was waiting for them which took them several miles along winding country lanes until they came at last to an enormous mansion.

Egg, Augustus Leopold, 1816-1863; The Travelling CompanionsEmily and Anne in the train travelling to Thornfield Hall

When they first entered Thornfield Hall, they were received by a maid dressed in a minimal lavender dress (pure colours being the custom these days), but what she was wearing was not what most struck Emily. As Anne, her father, and Branwell pushed through and beckoned, her eyes were stuck on the blank white porcelain faceplate, the pale plastic skin, and if you ignored the joints, the lifelike nature of the womanly robot attendant. This machine was not like the crude metal conductors on the train ride here, there was obviously a level of refinement she had not seen before in person. Emily snapped back from her reverie as the silent robomaid made a beckoning gesture, and as she regained her composure, Emily continued through the front door.

They were all ushered into the reception room where they were greeted by their host, a Mr. Battersby who, their father had told them, had made his fortune through insurance. He was a small, balding man in his fifties with a mousey look about him and rather piercing eyes which unnerved Emily a little. He suggested they go out onto the terrace which they did and where they drank tea and he talked about his late wife and also Branwell’s university prospects. At five they were called in for dinner which was a delicious meal of venison washed down with port, after which Battersby withdrew into the smoking room with Emily’s father and brother, leaving the three Lowood females to amuse themselves until, most unexpectedly, Emily was called in by a robotic servant to meet with the gentlemen.

Confused, she entered the room to see Branwell standing by the fireplace smoking whilst her father and Battersby sat in armchairs. There was a third chair free and Battersby motioned for her to sit in it.

“Emily my dear, we’ve called you in here today because Mr. Battersby here has a most excellent proposal to put to you.”

“What is that, sir?” she asked.

“Well Emily,” said Battersby, “I should like to ask you to give me the honour of your hand in marriage.”

Shamefully, her first reaction was to laugh, although thankfully she stifled it before it came out. “But sir, I do not know you, nor you me.”

“That is true, but I know your family and I can see that you have a good nature. Love comes with familiarity.”

“That may be true sir, but I am young and about to start university whereas you are past my father in years.”

“Here, Emily, I must say something,” interjected that father. “You mention university, yet there is no guarantee that you shall be attending. The fact is that, as a family, we have insufficient funds.”

“But I have won a scholarship, father, you know that.”

“That as may be, but Branwell here has shamefully been passed over and so we would have to fund him and it would be most remiss of us to have a daughter in education and a son out of it. Therefore, unless we can raise the funds for Branwell, then you attending university is simply out of the question.”

“Yeah, sis, think of that,” added Branwell, still smirking.

“But here is where Mr. Battersby has very kindly offered to help us. He has agreed to pay Branwell’s fees in full and give him a grant for living costs if you agree to marry him.”

With those words, things started to become clear. Once again, her brother’s very existence was causing her problems. “But what of me, father, I still wish to attend as well.”

“That would be a matter for your husband to decide, Emily.”

“And, if you would grace me with your hand, then I do not say I shall refuse. The practicalities will have to be considered of course, but I do not rule it out.”

“But why me? I am naught but a plain and homely girl. I am no match for a gentleman such as yourself.”

“On the contrary my dear, you are exactly the kind of lady I have been searching for. So, what is your answer?”

“You require an answer now?”

“Of course he does, Emily, the university will not hold Branwell’s place open any longer!”

Realising that she had to think fast, Emily did just that. Marrying this Battersby, whom she could not imagine ever loving, would mean that Branwell went to university, but the comments about her were no guarantee that she could. But then, what of Anne? What if she refused and he asked Anne instead? She would never be undutiful and all her dreams of university next year would be dashed. In an instant she knew what to say: “I accept sir, on one condition: that my sister Anne is never forced to marry and that, next year, she too will be able to attend university.”

Battersby and Lowood looked at one another and then Battersby nodded. “We shall marry next month on the church here on the estate. My darling, you have made me so happy! Would it be remiss of me to kiss my fiancee?”

Chapter 2

In the month before her wedding day, Emily had quite a few preparations to make. Mr. Battersby did not want a huge affair which, she had to admit, suited her, but he did want her appearance to reflect her new, heightened role in society. So it was that she went into Exeter with her mother to the finest dressmaker there and ordered a trousseau of outfits made from the finest fabrics. On her second visit there, a Lady of Leisure entered with her arms pinned behind her back in a monoglove. Whilst it did look rather elegant and refined, Emily pitied the poor girl – who was only in her teens – for being forced to wear such a restrictive device and thanked her lucky stars that, for all his faults, her fiance did not expect such ridiculous things of her.

What he did expect however, was for her to reduce her waist size to a staggering 20 inches for everyday outfits and 19 for the wedding dress. Since she’d found the 21 inch waist of the other day supremely uncomfortable, Emily did not welcome this but she acquiesced since she knew that ladies of standing did lace tighter and, she reasoned to herself, everything that she could do to please her new husband, would help convince him to let her study.

The day of the wedding came soon enough and Emily was led down the aisle by her father, her darling sister Anne looking divine in pink as her bridesmaid. The dress that she wore was a beautiful creation on white silk and lace with a thick veil that she struggled to see through and a crinoline some five feet in diameter. More difficult to cope with, however, were the pinching white leather boots that came with it that boasted heels of three inches which made her gait unsteady and the tight stays which she had managed – just – to get her waist down to the required 19 inches.

That tiny waist was also the reason behind her only picking at the beautiful wedding meal in her new home and feeling faint during the festivities after. These did not last too long however, and around nine o’clock her new husband led her up the stairs to their room. It really was a palatial chamber with a glorious four-poster bed in the centre. He then proceeded to undress her slowly and when she had only her stays left, guided her to the bed itself and there proceeded to introduce her to the world of lovemaking. Although she did not love him in any way, she found, to her surprise, that he was both gentle and compassionate in bed, and the activity that she had so feared, she actually began to enjoy. However, at the end, after he had deposited his load deep within her, he said something very strange which she did not (at the time) understand. “Thank you for that my darling, I do love to appreciate my ladies in their natural state before I go to work as an artist.” She wondered what he meant but since he fell asleep only moments after, she never asked him.

The following morning they made love again and then he rang for the robomaid to bathe her and dress her for travelling. It was pure luxury being bathed by another even if it was a machine and Emily began to wonder if she had not stumbled upon a very good life with Humphrey Battersby after all.

The happy couple then enjoyed a breakfast of toast and jam together before Humphrey announced that they would be travelling to London to begin her transformation into a lady fit for Thornfield Hall. She asked what he meant by that and he told her that she would discover all in due course which made her realise that he intended to spoil his new bride by buying her some new clothes or jewellery and so she stayed silent, wondering what gifts he might shower her with.

But once their train pulled into Paddington, to her shock, instead of taking the Underground to the shops, Humphrey Battersby instead hailed a cab and ordered it to take them to Great Ormond Street Hospital and then, once they were there, she was shown into a room and ordered to divest herself of her clothes. “Whyever am I to undress?” she asked the nurse who was with her, but the nurse merely smiled and repeated her husband’s words from earlier: she would discover all in due course. Then, when she was clad only in her underwear, a robotic attendant came in bearing a cup of tea which she duly took and drank and, within seconds, Emily Battersby’s world went black.

Chapter 3

When Emily awoke, she nearly tasted the delightful tea she had just…a great concern came over her as she tried to remember what happened after the autonurse fed her that drink. It was only then that the feelings in her body came to her attention. Eyes shooting open, Emily looked down to see what the source of that otherworldly ache was when she discovered more than she bargained for!

Sitting on her previously flat chest, above the night stays she had just begun wearing, were the breasts of a naturally well-endowed woman. Emily started to wonder how long she had been asleep, no not asleep, sedated! From her studies in the sciences, artificial growth procedures like this took days, not hours. Touching herself, she noticed a smoothness to her skin like never before, and on further inspection found the stubble near her womanly folds to be completely gone! This was well beyond what she had signed up for with Mr. Battersby and as his wife she was going to assert her place. How would the university treat her if she looked like a spoiled Lady?

Swinging her smooth legs out of bed and rising to stand, Emily found her balance off. Not only because of her new breasts, but because when she rose, she found herself a few inches taller than before! Looking down, she could almost forget the widened shape of her hips as she tried to lower her heels to the floor. Try as she might, a sudden tightness in her ankle and calf kept her heel up. Permanently on her tip toes, Emily stumbled a bit in her large ward room until she found a wall to cling to. Following the wall she rounded the corner to her private bathroom, simply for some water to splash on her face; to tell herself that she was okay, that she was still Emily, the plain, smart girl from Devonshire.

The autonurse found her on the floor of her bathroom, brought her back to bed, and wirelessly alerted the Head Nurse, Doctor, and her husband that Emily was awake. She lay there, still slightly aching, thinking of the lipstick, the rouge, the shadowing, the pale visage that had greeted her when she had looked in the mirror. The makeup, the full eyelashes, they had not come off as she washed. The nurse had no time for her self-pity, as the womanly robot started her daily physical therapy, stretching her legs to adapt to the modified calf muscles and tendons keeping her feet en pointe. Emily was not in the mood and tried to fight the machine off, but only ended up having her newly-manicured hands tied to the bed while the autonurse continued her routine for the next 30 minutes.

It was then that her husband Humphrey and a Doctor walked in. “That’s enough 112, untie this young lady please.” Free of her wrist restraints, Emily had half a thought to give Humphrey her mind, but knew that in the Doctor’s presence this would be impolite and disrespectful to both of them. Doctor Eaton as he was called walked up to the bedside with her chart on his tablet, while the autonurse stood at attention in the corner. Emily couldn’t help but notice her husband admiring the robot out of the corner of her eye as the good doctor explained to her the “routine procedures” which had transpired over the last 10 days.

Like she had noted herself earlier in shock, she had received a generous dosage of gene therapy to her breasts and behind (“Much more refined than the implants and basic hormones of last century”). The doctor confirmed her fears that the calf surgery had been very successful, and that as most Ladies do these days, she would have to begin wearing heels even higher than on her wedding night to support her new physique. Last but not least she had been treated to the finest plastic spa in the city, and because they were in London, the country. Gone was any chance of hair growth save for on her head, and her skin had been treated with chemical lotions and salves to give it a sensitive, smooth lustre. Last but not least was a light coating of semi-permanent makeup, at the height of fashion she was assured, so even when alone and unprepared she could be stylish for her husband. “All the time and effort your husband says you spent on books instead of beauty is now recovered! Take this as a second chance.” Emily meekly thanked the doctor, before the autonurse was commanded to prepare her for the journey home. “The new outfits, not the old,” her husband added, before winking and leaving the room.

Chapter 4

Emily sat the chair in the drawing room looking out at the rain-sodden parkland beyond the large windows. Her chest, that almighty new addition to her body, was heaving up and down, surging like a stormy sea, and why? Because she just completed the simple task of walking from the dining room to the drawing room and lowering herself into her chair. And, unseen by any observers, her mind was just as turbulent as her breasts.

She could not come to terms with her her life had changed over the last twenty-four hours. This time yesterday she had awakened in her hospital bed to find her body drastically altered without her prior knowledge or permission. There were those comely new breasts that now rose up and down at the bottom of her eyeline, coupled with her enhanced buttocks that felt like a cushion underneath her bum. Except that cushion was now her bum, unnaturally round and juicy, like an enormous peach. And her skin, including that most private of areas, all as smooth as a baby’s whilst her feet could now only stand on tiptoes, and even in the bedroom she required mules with four inch heels just to be able to walk. But worst of all was her face, that most personal and distinct part of her, now permanently made-up, nearly doll-like, unnatural, almost asking for sex.

After discovering all these changes she had been dressed in the first outfit of her new wardrobe. It had more room for the chest, of course, and higher boots than before. Her waist was no larger though, in fact all of her dresses now were an inch smaller and this one couldn’t quite close. Worse than that though were the stays that enforced that new waist, longer than previously and with a strap attached to the bottom that ran between her new buttocks and up over her love tunnel. And attached to that strap, two rods, one for each hole. She’d tried to protest when she was first fitted with them but the nurse in the hospital had broached no opposition nor answered any questions. Robots never do of course, they are not programmed too. So it was the same in the hall where all the servants were robots. The only other person to talk to was her darling husband. Talking to him though, was the worst bit of all, and not because of the strangling neck corset that all her new outfits incorporated, although that didn’t help matters of course.

“What is the meaning of this?” she’d asked, as soon as they were both alone in the carriage.

“Meaning of what Mrs. Battersby?” he’d asked, a smile on his face.

“This, all of it! These changes to my body!”

“Correction darling, it’s my body now. Remember the words of the ceremony: ‘With my body, I thee worship…’ I own you now. But really, I can’t see why you are protesting; most ladies would be overjoyed and full of thanks!”

“Overjoyed?”

“Yes, of course. The procedures that you’ve had done on you did not come cheap but they do make you far more attractive. You were, after all, a rather plain girl. I could have married someone far prettier or richer, but no, I did the right thing. I married a girl to help her brother succeed in life, a noble act indeed. But the kindness must work both ways! I need a wife to reflect my standing in the world.”

“But I never wanted to…”

“Emily, you married me out of your own free will, knowing full well what marriage entails. The wives of wealthy men must reflect their husband’s status. I have tolerated your strange academic whim so you must tolerate mine. I need a wife who is worthy of me, an ornament to reflect my success. You must be pretty and fashionable and today is the first stage of this.”

“The first stage? You mean to say there’s more!”

“Of course there is. As I said on our wedding night, I am an artist and you were my blank canvas. All we have done so far is roughly sketch out the masterpiece that will be created. But do not fear, I will give you the opportunity to get accustomed to these changes first. We must not rush matters.”

“But I don’t want to be your masterpiece! I don’t want to be altered anymore!”

“What you want my dear, is immaterial. You should not have agreed to marriage. It is too late now.”

And upon reaching home, those cold words were borne out for she was escorted directly to the bedroom and stripped of all her clothing save for the corset and neck corset and then her husband arrived clearly inflamed by her sexy new appearance. Regardless of her desires, he took her there and then, caressing her enormous buttocks and breasts with vigour and thrusting excitedly into her smooth love channel. He even flipped her over and tried to insert his member into her bottom hole but it was too tight and she screamed out it pain, leaving him to desist until she had been “trained”. Then they had slept but in the morning it was the same again, before she was dressed in her restrictive regalia by the robomaid and led down for breakfast.

And now she was here, with nothing to do save for stare out of the window and contemplate her new existence as the alluring plaything of her aged husband. It disgusted her yet at the same time, even as she fought those thoughts, the rods nestled snugly in her two holes excited her and made her want sex, even that degrading sex of a lovedoll with her master that she had just been subjected to. And the more she tried to ignore it, the more those thoughts came until her chest was rising and falling again, a sweat building on her brow and then everything went black as she slumped in her chair.

Book 2

A Day in the Life: Her Afternoon

Links to all parts of the story:

Her Awakening

Her Preparations

Her Morning

Her Afternoon

Her Evening

Part 4: Her Afternoon

Back in her room, she was seated and her pot mask was removed revealing her sweat-drenched and pale face which was immediately wiped and freshened with a warm flannel whilst she flexed her jaw with pleasure after hours of it being held open by the large gag of the mask.

Then it was lunchtime. Woakes fed her a ham sandwich with the crusts delicately cut off and a cup of tea. Then, for dessert, there was a rather delicious cream cake. All of this put her in a much better mood, especially since her lessons were over and her governess had sent message that today she hadn’t made a single mistake. No punishments and no lessons till Monday! And that mood was even further improved when Woakes announced that there were some visitors who wanted to meet her and were waiting with her uncle downstairs. They were the first of the guests for the soiree tonight, a small and most refined event in honour of her uncle’s birthday that she was most looking forward to as evening events with dancing meant time free of both her mask and monoglove. These three were Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood, close friends of her uncle whom she had met many times before and a Mr. Cavendish, a nephew of her uncle on his sister’s side who was twenty-three years of age and had just returned from a posting in Her Majesty’s Indian Empire.

To prepare her for the afternoon, a new dress was required. As the day was sunny, a light cotton one in white was chosen. After Woakes had removed her morning dressed, she tightened up the stays, reducing her waist by half an inch or so, partially to account for any “settling” which may have taken place during the morning but also to help accustom her to her ball stays which she would be wearing that evening and which were to be laced to an excruciating – yet supremely elegant – 14 inches.

Once the new dress was fitted her monoglove was replaced and a new cover – which complimented the gown – fitted over it before then the replacement of the mask with its attached gag. Thus, elegantly trammelled and completely incommunicado, she was helped to her feet and escorted downstairs.

The three guests were seated in the drawing room along with her uncle. The men rose to greet her when she entered the room supported by Woakes although Mrs. Greenwood stayed seated and still. Like her – and what she was told, all fashionable ladies – Mrs. Greenwood lived her life behind a pot mask to protect her flawless complexion and her arms were usually ensconced in a monoglove to ensure elegant posture. Thus it was that, although they had met countless times, she had rarely been able to converse with Mrs. Greenwood, although from what she had learned at soirees and the like when both women had been unmasked, it seemed that Mrs. Greenwood, prior to her marriage, had lived with her uncle for several years just as she did, her uncle rescuing her from the orphanage too after her parents had died. Many people remarked on how noble and charitable he was, taking in orphaned girls and treating them as his own until they were old enough to be married. Indeed, she had to admit that her own life would have been very different without his interventions although at times she wondered if, whilst she would have doubtless ended up poorer and less elegant, the freedom of a common girl may not have been more pleasant. With wealth and status comes duty and restriction.

Mr. Greenwood commented on how pretty she was looking, and that was echoed by her uncle who then introduced the fourth visitor, Mr. Cavendish. Through the pinholes of her mask, she had to admit that he did look rather a handsome young man and under the pottery she blushed when he congratulated her on being a “vision of feminine perfection”. Several years ago she would have considered such comments ridiculous as he could not see her, only her corseted middle and doll mask but her training and mode of life had by now knocked such thoughts out of her head: she was her corseted waist and her identity was the blank china doll that everyone saw.

After she was seated, tea was served – for the men only of course – who discussed matters of politics and the forthcoming soiree whilst the women sat still and silent as, of course, elegant women of fashion always do. Then, to her surprise, Mr. Cavendish stood up and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, the day is glorious and yet we are sitting in here in the gloom. Why don’t we relocate ourselves into the garden which is glorious and sip our tea out there?”

“That is a capital suggestion, sir,” said her uncle, “but it presents a problem as the ladies are not attired suitably for the garden. Wearing their armbinders, they may trip and fall.”

“Then, and ladies, please forgive my imposition, may I suggest that they are removed and then you sir, can assist your lady wife whilst either our host or I can support the charming young lady here.”

“Well, it is a break in their training which could adversely affect their posture and so I am sure both ladies will be angry at me for saying this as they have dedicated their entire lives to being as feminine and elegant as possible, but I say, as it is my birthday, we make an exception today and remove the armbinders in order that we may all enjoy the delights of the garden.”

Hidden beneath her mask, she almost cried with joy and the handsome Mr. Cavendish was now seen to her as a veritable knight in shining armour!

Woakes stood her up and unlaced the armbinder. Thankfully the tight kid gloves from the morning had been left on her hands so they were protected from the sun’s harsh glare. Then a huge, wide-brimmed sun hat with a large red ribbon was affixed to her head. And then, to her delight, Mr. Cavendish put one of his hand around her corseted waist and took a gloved hand in the other to support and steady her as she minced outside on her en pointe boots with their spindle heels.

“I say chaps,” said her uncle when they had reached the terrace, “what say you to taking the ladies for a stroll around the grounds whilst I make sure the servants prepare us a new pot of tea and perhaps a small cake or two?”

“Capital plan!” replied Greenwood and so, to her delight, she now walked further with Mr. Cavendish only this time they were alone and out of earshot of the others. He guided her through the rhododendron bushes as they walked he said, “Forgive me for saying this Miss Witcombe, but I find you absolutely charming, I really do. Over the years I have met many young ladies of distinction and breeding yet none have reached the levels of feminine perfection that you have. When you sat there, so demure and still in the room, I was entranced by your beauty and walking here, my arm around your delightfully small waist, I long to know you better and learn about your life. Now, I know that you are securely gagged as all ladies of society should be, but if I ask you some questions, can you answer me yes or no by raising your right or left hand. Let us sit on this bench and do so?”

Beneath her gown her chest surged up and down, partly through the exertion of the walk but more from what he was saying. So, this was what it was like to be wooed and courted by a handsome young man! How glorious! Could Mr. Cavdenish be the one to take her away from her and make her a wife? Even though she had not heard a thousand words of his tongue’s uttering, she dearly hoped so.

He helped her to sit on the bench and waited as her breathing calmed a little. Then he asked questions like, ‘Do you prefer cats or dogs?’ or ‘Is blue your favourite colour?’ and she answered with her hands. Although non-threatening and superficial, such human conversation with a man thrilled her and her heart gave a flutter as he took her gloved hands in his and squeezed them. This was heaven, it was…

Then her reverie was broken by a shout. “Tea’s up! Can you make your way back to the terrace please!” It was her uncle’s voice.

“We can’t stay here now,” said Mr. Cavendish, “much as I would like to do. But before we return, I am going to be forward and improper.” And then, leaning towards her, her encircled her corseted middle with his manly hands and then kissed the pottery lips of her mask with his real ones.

“And tonight who knows, perhaps I shall kiss the real lips behind those painted ones?” he whispered after the kiss had ended. She didn’t hear though, as she had swooned right away.


The rest of the afternoon was spent on the terrace with the others. Although they were not alone and no conversation was directed towards her, Mr. Cavendish sat by her side and glanced towards her regularly whilst she returned those glances, drinking in his manly features through the tiny pinholes that her mask allowed.

Not everything was so pleasant though. The afternoon sun was hot and, despite her sun hat, her face under its pottery covering was getting overheated and streamed with sweat. What is more, she was feeling full down below as the tea which she had drunk at lunchtime had made its way through her. Consequently, whilst it meant being parted from Mr. Cavendish, she was actually glad when, at four Woakes came to take her away to begin her preparations for the evening soiree.

Links to all parts of the story:

Her Awakening

Her Preparations

Her Morning

Her Afternoon

Her Evening

A Day in the Life: Her Morning

Links to all parts of the story:

Her Awakening

Her Preparations

Her Morning

Her Afternoon

Her Evening

Part 3: Her Morning

Ready for the outside world, she leaves her bedroom, mincing slowly out of the room with Woakes continually by her side for support. When she first started to live in this way she hated it; she’d always enjoyed her own company and freedoms – playing or reading a book alone and walking in the hills beyond the town – but now she always had to have someone by her side because, dressed in this way, she was totally, utterly dependent, helpless and reliant on others. Ascending or descending stairs was unthinkable without her maid nearby but even just walking along was a trial. The ballet boots made her so unsteady and in the early days she was constantly tripping and needing Woakes to catch her. It would be easier if she could use her arms to break her fall but pinioned behind her in the monoglove, that was an impossibility.

Of course she understood why things had to be this way, for it was drilled into her every morning during her lessons:

  • A lady must be elegant
  • A lady must be silent
  • A lady must be helpless
  • A lady must be beautiful
  • A lady must be fragile
  • A lady must be obedient

At first she’d resisted it. She’d seen and knew ladies who were none of those things and yet who had still found husbands and lived happy lives. But day after day, year after year and her defences were weakened and then breached. She began to doubt that those people that she thought she’d met in her old life were really and started to believe that everyone was a beautiful, elegant, obedient, fragile, silent and helpless china doll like her. And believing that made things easier.

It was time for her lessons now, as it is every morning except Sunday when she goes to church, so she minced into her private classroom and let Woakes sit her at the desk. Five minutes later Miss Stelling, her governess entered. “Good morning!” she said. She did not reply as she could not and besides, a lady must be silent. And then the lesson began.

She knew what it would be. She knew it off by heart. For the past five years she had received only six lessons, a set one for each day of the week. Today was Saturday and so it would be the one about obedience; obedience to her uncle and to her future husband. Even so, she listened intently. Each time it was delivered Miss Stelling changed bits, only slightly, but then later, when she had to write down, word for word, what her tutor had said, and she got it wrong, then she would incur a punishment and that she did not want. For punishments ate into the very few freedoms that she had left to her as a living china doll. For example, one mistake may mean that a blindfold is put over her for an hour in the evening meaning that she cannot read, her favourite pastime of all. Or two might mean that as well as the blindfold, she receives ten paddles on her bottom before bedtime. And, God forbid, three could mean that the regular entertainment planned for the Saturday evening is either cancelled or she is forced to miss out and spend the evening locked in the cupboard by the boiler, getting overheated and faint. No, she could not risk that and so she listened: “‘Your parent or guardian will have chosen your spouse for his suitability, endeavour to be satisfied with him as he is, rather than imagine him what he can never be. It will save you a world of disappointment; your role is not to imagine but to obey, to…”


After an hour, as always, when the clock struck ten, the lesson ended and it was time for her daily constitutional. Woakes returned, helped her to rise and then removed her monoglove before buttoning her tight kid gloves onto her hands. She knew of course, the importance of her monoglove, much as she hated wearing it at times, as it was really quite strenuous and rendered her totally helpless. How many times had she heard – and been forced to repeat – the Monoglove Mantra?

‘My monoglove, although difficult, does me much good and should be seen as close friend. It corrects my posture defects and enables me to deport myself like a lady. But I must wear it for long periods for it is the last hours that do the good. The third hour does more good than the first and second taken together. The fourth hour does more for the habits than all three earlier ones. The fifth hour provides a more persuasive remedy than all four previous ones, and the sixth hour is the most curative of all those which have gone before. That is why I must wear my precious monoglove for at least six hours each day for it is my close friend and close friends must always be together.’

But whilst a close friend a monoglove must be, for her constitutional it was not appropriate for during her walk she could easily stumble or trip on the steps or rough ground and so the degree of balance provided by unbound arms is necessary. That is why, for this short period only, the monoglove was removed and she was able to flex her aching shoulders and let some blood rush back into her trammelled arms.

After the removal of the monoglove and fitting of her gloves, Woakes then fitted her walking bonnet and cape. The bonnet had a thin gauze veil attached to the front. Theoretically, this was to protect the skin from the sun’s harsh glare but as her pot mask already did that far more effectively, this veil was, in reality, more for appearances sake. One advantage of it, (although this had never been outlined to its wearer who, naturally, believed that all young ladies of breeding wore pot masks to protect their skin as this is what she was repeatedly told), was that, should they meet someone on their constitutional, the fact that there was a mask and not a real face underneath would not be immediately apparent. It is for that reason that she wore a much thicker, almost blinding, veil for church every Sunday. This veil was not blinding at all, although with her already pinhole vision, the grey blur that it threw over everything could be rather disconcerting and countless were the times when she wished for untrammelled vision and smell so that she could stand on the moor and see everything unobstructed, feel the wind on her cheeks and smell the grass. Oh well, when she was married…

And thus properly attired, they were off, walking through the garden, down some steps and onto the lane. They generally walked the same route, up the challenging hill to the top of the moor from where she could look down upon the mill town in the valley below before returning home, a distance in total of some two and half miles, but always tiring for her covered and restricted as completely as she was by the dictates of high fashion, her poor feet, perched on their steeple heels on fire at the end. Nonetheless, for her the constitutional was always the highlight of her day for the workout felt good and it was so nice to get out of the house and enjoy the sin of unbound arms and on the days when the rain was too heavy or the snow lay too thickly, then she was most morose when she was made to sit in the drawing room wearing her monoglove instead.

Upon returning from her walk, the bonnet and cape were removed and she was led back to her classroom where she could, blissfully, take the weight off her tortured feet and contemplate the second part of her lesson.

This consisted of her being given her leger and a pen and writing down, word-for-word, the lecture that her governess had imparted to her previously. As I mentioned earlier, this was not so hard as one might imagine as she had received the same lecture every Saturday for the past four years and so she knew it off by heart but she still had to be careful not to make any mistakes whilst also keeping her writing neat, no easy feat with her hands ensconced in tight kid gloves.

This continued until, as every day, the clock struck twelve at which point she rose and made her way back to her quarters for lunch and then to prepare herself for the afternoon.

Links to all parts of the story:

Her Awakening

Her Preparations

Her Morning

Her Afternoon

Her Evening