Ascension in the East: Chapters 11-12

Chapters 9-10

Chapter 11 – The Phtuoch Phtaem

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

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

Within seconds they were starting to regret it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At this General Anakkeanamnach Phdachkar nodded and smiled.

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

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

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

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

Chapter 12 – Waking Up to New Bodies

Jasmine awoke slowly this time. This time.

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

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


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

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

“Yes I see, Honourable Chandarith.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slowly, the itch returned with full force.

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

She felt like she was going to be seasick.

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

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

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

And yet they stood still.

And yet they stayed quiet.

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

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

“Wait. We can talk?!”

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

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

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

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

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

 

Chapters 13-14

Ascension in the East: Chapters 9-10

Chapters 7-8

Chapter 9 – The Handmaid’s Tale

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That is correct, Sukkisawali.”

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

“That is their purpose, Sukkisawali.”

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


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

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

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

Chapter 10 – Revelations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the forty-first?”

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

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

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

“Even if they are ridiculous.”

“But they are not.”

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

“Of courthe.”

“But why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Well, almost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not just our bodies, Steve…”

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

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

“That too.”

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

“Calm down, Jazz, it’s not…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Our what?”

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

Chapters 11-12

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.

am04

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

A Day in the Life: Her Preparations

Links to all parts of the story:

Her Awakening

Her Preparations

Her Morning

Her Afternoon

Her Evening

Part 2: Her Preparations

Her eyes adjusted from total darkness to the meagre amount of sunlight allowed in through the cracks in the curtains and the fabric of the material: enough to enable the maids to work and navigate but not too much to damage her precious, pale skin.

Woakes brought a glass of iced water to her parched lips as she did every morning. Her jaws still ached from being forced open all night but she said nothing as she knew now that ladies do not complain of such things. It had been drilled into her along with many other things.

After her morning drink, the covers were removed and Woakes unlaced her leg binders, helping her to flex out her aching joints as the blood rushed back before then moving onto her arms. Once she had been released in this way, she gingerly put her feet on the floor and, using the maid as support, minced towards the lacing bar in the corner of the room where her wrists were fastened to the bar and it was raised, thus taking the weight off her tortured feet. Then, her night stays were slowly unlaced and replaced with the short, looser, rubber ones for bathing, these being necessary since her stomach muscles were now so atrophied that she couldn’t survive without stays. Her bedroom boots were also removed and her feet allowed to adjust before she was then lowered again, unfastened and supported as she walked over to the steaming hot bath in the adjacent room, into which she sank with gladness whilst her hands were securely cuffed to the sides, again to prevent any sinful “fiddling”. And there, in total relaxation, she was allowed to lie for ten minutes whilst Woakes busied herself preparing for the next stages.

When Woakes returned she set about cleaning her mistress completely. Soaping all her body and scrubbing hard. Then, when she was done, she uncuffed her, helped her to rise and exit the bath, led her back over to the lacing bar and then, once she was cuffed again, towelled her dry before applying powder and oils. Then she was unfastened again, led over to the rubber mat laid out on the bathroom, helped to bend over and rest her upper body on the wooden chest adjacent to which her hands were then cuffed.

Then came one of the most important rituals of the day: her daily enema. When this was first introduced into her routine, the morning after her arrival at the house, she had been both horrified and humiliated at the same time. To think that something should be inserted… there! Over the years though, denied the use of a standard WC, she has grown used to it and the humiliation has all but disappeared. Indeed, she does not even think twice about it when Woakes performs the act although, on the occasions when her usual maid is absent through leave or illness, and another takes her place, her self-consciousness does return a little. The enormous soap anal plug was removed, any wastes allowed to drain out and then a hose inserted through which water and cleaning fluids were forced, causing her tiny stomach to distend as much as possible under the bathing corset, before then being emptied and a new plug inserted. She was now clean both inside and out and ready to be dressed.

But before that she needed, of course, to eat, for it would be impossible to do so once arraigned in her full regalia. So, after her cotton slip was placed over her head to protect her modesty, she was supported to a chair and fed her breakfast, the same as everyday: a small piece of toast thickly spread with butter and then a glass of tea. After this minuscule meal she was quite full, for the years of tightlacing had reduced her stomach to almost nothing, yet the meal with its fatty spread, meant that there was some excess fat which, with nowhere else to go, was slowly depositing itself on her breasts and bottom, making her figure more feminine and less girl-like.

Thus cleaned and fed, she returned to the lacing bar for the final time that morning and when securely fastened and hoisted up again, her dressing commenced. First there were the stockings that reached her thighs and were held up by tight garters and then her cotton drawers.  Then came the main item, the one that surpassed all else. Her fearsome day stays were brought out and fastened around her middle, reaching up and over her breasts. Woakes started the lacing and within seconds inches had been reduced. After that it got harder but the tugging continued until the breasts surged up and down above the stays and the breathing became more laboured. Now the reductions came very slowly but they continued nonetheless until, with a slight gasp, her head sagged and she passed out. Nodding, Woakes brought some smelling salts out to bring her round and then, as she gasped for air and her body adjusted to the tightness, she started fitting the next items: knee-high boots with their unusual design that held her legs in a position like those of a ballet dancer so that the toes were the only part touching the floor. Like the stays, these had to be laced, a full five minutes for each boot, and when completed the feet were compressed mercilessly.

These fitted, attentions now turned to her neck which was fitted with what looked like a smaller version of the stays around her middle. This neck corset was laced firmly until she gasped for air and it was fully closed at which point it was tied off and the corset lacing attacked once again, a full inch more being reduced in excruciating tugs until, fully closed, Woakes tied that off also and her breasts surged up and down.

Once her breathing had settled again, now came the item that defined her life more than any other; the one thing that distressed her more than anything else and the one thing that she still is not used to, even if she now understands its necessity. From out of its box, her new face was removed and brought up to cover her original visage. Like her bedtime mask, this too is made out of white porcelain and depicts a beauty almost like a china doll. This time though, she is awake, with a pair of large, vacant, piercing blue eyes.

Woakes smeared cream on her natural face and then lifted this artificial one over it, before fastening it securely with leather straps at the back. Unlike the night mask, this one reaches down below her chin and covers the neck as well, in two parts, and once the front is fitted, the back piece is attached. She now has the appearance of a totally artificial doll and can see only through two tiny pinholes. This is all the sight that she has ever been allowed during daylight during her years in her uncle’s house and is, she has been told repeatedly by her governess, the only sight that any fine lady of society is allowed. This confused her at first as she was sure, in her former life, she saw fine ladies without masks walking in the park, but she has no such opportunity to compare now and besides, why would they lie to her? The mask is necessary, she knows that, to preserve her almost transluscent skin, yet whilst she has adapted to all the other things, even the excruciatingly tight stays, this she still longs to tear off in order to see clearly for once and feel the precious wind on her cheeks. But it is not a possibility. Not now. When she is married though and in charge of her own toilette… then it shall be different, whatever fine ladies usually do.

She was then released from the lacing bar and held steady by Woakes as her feet adjusted in agony to the weight now placed upon them. As this happened, cotton gloves were fitted on her hands and a cotton blouse over her upper body whilst a huge crinoline, easily seven feet across was brought out which she stepped into and was fastened around her corseted waist. Then came an underskirt and after that, her morning dress, a rather pretty affair in blue tartan which was lowered over her head and buttoned up tightly before she then minced over to a high chair where sat and Woakes began on her hair, combing out the long strands, removing any split ends and then burning it into a series of corkscrew ringlets with a chignon at the back so that the doll-like effect was complete and the only part of her head left free was the doll-mask, beautifully framed. That done, and it was time for the final item. The leather monoglove was brought out and she obediently put her hands behind her so that they could be laced inside and then, when the elbows were touching and they were fully immobilised, the monoglove cover in matching tartan was fitted completing the outfit. Helped up by Woakes she was now ready to be presented to the world beyond her quarters.

Links to all parts of the story:

Her Awakening

Her Preparations

Her Morning

Her Afternoon

Her Evening

A Day in the Life: Her Awakening

A Day in the Life

 May 24th, 1865

Links to all parts of the story:

Her Awakening

Her Preparations

Her Morning

Her Afternoon

Her Evening

Part 1: Her Awakening

She awoke just as she did every morning. Once upon a time, not that many years ago, it made her angry, she fought it and she cursed her uncle for making her life like this. Now however, she accepted. Fighting was futile and the education that she had received ever since she came to live at Highfields had taught her that she was blessed, not cursed to live in such a way. Indeed, she is sure that, if she were to revert to her old way of life, then she would perhaps miss some aspects of it… well, perhaps.

She opened her eyes but saw nothing. That was because of the mask that was placed over her face every night as she was prepared for bed. Made of delicate white porcelain, it portrayed the sleeping face of a virginal china doll. That was her face now. And it was beautiful. But as the eyes of the doll were closed in sleep, then even when she opened her real eyes, it made no difference; there was still only darkness. And the large rubber-coated wooden protrusion behind the mask filled her mouth and ensured her silence. At first all this had upset her, caused her to shift and squirm, eager to move the mask. But she never did and now, like everything else, she accepted it even if she hadn’t reached the point of loving it.

Her long chestnut hair which fell to her thighs now if it was combed out, was bunched up atop her head and covered with a lacy bonnet. Its weight was considerable but one must suffer to be beautiful. That is what her governess kept telling her, every day for the past four and a half years. She’d had to write it as lines as well in the earlier years although now, naturally, that was rarely possible. Besides, the message had got through.

Her hair though was the least of her worries. The rest of her body was more concerning. There was her neck, forced into a narrow, rigid tube by an almost strangling neck corset which was laced to the utmost every night by her maid and which forced her to stare straight ahead at all times, unable to turn her head or bow it. And her arms too, strapped tightly, wrist to shoulder in two tightly-laced sheaths of leather. That was not for beauty but for her own good, to prevent what her maid called “nocturnal fiddling”. Apparently many girls of her age, tempted by the devil, use their hands to stimulate their most private areas. She had never even thought of doing so before entering under her uncle’s roof, but now she thought of it often although was unable to satisfy those urges. Perhaps that was because they had been pointed out to her or perhaps because of what they had done to her. Ever since arriving her, her maid had kept her scrupulously shaved and waxed down below, giving her a full treatment that left her as smooth as a baby every Friday night for “health reasons”. Furthermore, several months after arriving, a doctor had come and, whilst she was strapped to the bed and blindfolded, he had stimulated her most precious nub, tied some cotton around it so that it became red and engorged and then pierced her there with a small ring topped with a small dangling diamond. This most intimate of jewellery, a present from her uncle and, apparently, necessary for all grown ladies, caused her to never truly be able to forget that place and the warmth and tension emanating from there. A tension that she could never relieve due to her costume and restrictions.

Her legs were similarly strapped, her feet against her bottom, though those feet were first encased in her bedroom boots, which forced them rigid and straight in a line from toe to shin. This was for beauty, as it helped her adapt to her en pointe day boots, but the leather sheaths were again for her health… her spiritual health. Wearing them she could not use her feet to sin nor could she wander. And so she lay there, as still as a statue, blind as a bat, waiting, the ultimate example of feminine passivity and obedience.

But these restrictions were not all. No, the last two were the ones that most affected her. The first was in her bottom hole, that awful, dirty place that she had never given any thought to when she was a child. Now though it was permanently filled and dilated by a large plug of soap, put there for “health reasons” – her other restrictions could cause the passage to become blocked and collapse the doctor had told her the day that he had first maneuvered the small, original plug that she had been made to endure – but also for “hygiene purposes” as the block of solid soap shaped a little like a Christmas tree, always made that dirtiest of all her orifices smell sweet. “Your future husband shall thank you for it,” her maid had said cryptically once. She would have liked to have asked for an explanation, but firmly gagged as she was, that was of course out of the question. Instead it now constantly reminded her, as the ring and diamond did of that other place, of that most unthinkable part of her, it stimulated her and, on the few occasions when it was removed, the hole ached and pulsed and longed to be filled again.

But even this was nothing compared to the final restriction. Around her middle, laced to the utmost, was her night corset. True, it was shorter and a full inch larger than her day stays – and two inches bigger than her party stays – but compressed so, to a breath-taking 16 inches, sleep did not come easily and, coupled with the mask which only had two tiny holes at the nostrils, her breasts rose and fell as she laboured for every breath. At first she had passed out when they were fitted, and for weeks she could not sleep properly. Even now her sleep was different; she dreamt of the compression and the tightness and when she awoke, those dreams were real.

But none of this was apparent to the outside world, for those fearsome stays, binders and other items of restriction, were all hidden by her beautiful nightgown of white silk and lace and then, atop that, her pristine white sheets and embroidered blankets. And to any passer-by, all that could be seen above those blankets was the peaceful, sleeping face of a living doll, framed by a lace bonnet. Knowing that, she did not struggle but just lay and waited, preserving her breath as best she could and feeling her breasts rise and fall, pressing against the sheets and then descending again.

Then she heard a noise, the same noise that she heard every morning. It was Woakes, her maid, She felt an unseen hand caress her and help lift her up and she was propped up against the pillows. Then, as every morning, that hand reached behind her and she opened her mouth even wider than it was already to allow the mask to be removed and the morning sunlight to stream into her life.

Links to all parts of the story:

Her Awakening

Her Preparations

Her Morning

Her Afternoon

Her Evening

Mastana: Part 5

Part 4

Again she was disturbed from her reveries, this time by her servant tapping her on her veiled shoulder. Mastana got up knowing what was to come, for it was the same everyday. It was time for the Zuhr prayer. She followed her three other shrouded sisters into the Rang Mahal where their prayer mats were laid out ready for them. They got into position and waited and after a minute or so the sound of the muezzin in the palace mosque echoed across the courtyard and into the chamber. Mastana performed her prayers as she did everyday. Prior to her incarceration in the palace she had never been particularly religious and deep down she suspected that she still was not, but recently she had begun to find strength and solace in the reflective ambience of prayer.

Not that reflection was something that she would be unable to do later, quite the opposite in fact for everyday following the Zuhr prayers the king had decreed that all of his wives must enjoy a Contemplation Hour… well, all of them unless he had an urge for something else!

Silently her girl servant climbed under her burqa and guided her arms to the back. Then she fastened the sleeve around them so that they were fixed, elbow to wrist behind her back. Of course, she was pretty much unable to use her hands anyway, but this further immobilised her and forced her into an upright position which encouraged contemplation. It was all based on the practices of the suspect pir whom the king was much influenced by and who, like many Sufis, advocated the quiet reflective life.

The girl exited and then helped her mistress to stand. A thick black shroud was then draped over her so that her world became totally dark and her hearing was further muted. Then she was led to the wall where her Contemplation Cushion was positioned. She knelt on this and then the girl crawled under her layers and fastened the straps the went over her legs forcing her to stay in the kneeling position. Then with her back against the wall, she was left to contemplate.

When their husband had introduced the Contemplation Hour to his wives he had instructed them to focus their minds on Allah and His Prophet but even though she tried hard, Mastana was never able to do that for long. Always, after but a few minutes her mind drifted to the topic that occupied most of her thoughts both waking and sleeping. Rather than relaxing her, the forced position made her more aware of the rings in her nipples and clitoris and the more she was aware of them the more she thought of them and the more she got aroused. She felt her breasts pushing hard against the tight fabric of the salwar kameez due to the position her sleeve forced her into. In the past her breasts had never pressed hard against her clothes and had never been that impressive at all, mere handfuls if that, but immediately following their marriage the king had had all his wives checked into the Cure Hospital and gifted them with generous implants. The result was two firm globes that jutted out from her chest lewdly, without any sag whatsoever. She remembered when she’d woken up in the hospital bed and felt the extra weight on her chest and been angry, angered that she was being turned into some sort of sex object. But at night when the king lay with her and caressed them, tingles of joy had fluttered through her body and she had felt very sexy and desirable.

Except that she wasn’t, Mastana wasn’t sexy and desirable at all, because Mastana no longer existed. Her head encased in black plastic she was a nobody these days. Valeriya had had large fake breasts and so he had given his wives fake breasts. Was it Mastana he was making love to or was it Valeriya? She did not even need to answer her own question yet despite the awful truth she still longed for his touch, still obsessed about him and…

What’s that, a hand on her shoulder? Surely the Contemplation Hour is not over yet. It’s impossible to measure time in a silent black world but it doesn’t seem long enough…

She is guided along the corridors and she knows, yes indeed, Contemplation Hour is not over at all, her three sisters are still knelt their in silence. But he has an urge and today she has been chosen! Excitement pulses through her veins and her beauty lips moisten. Not that she will receive what she wants there, that is haram, but even so, even the other type, to provide him with pleasure, that is enough.

The walking stops and first the shroud and then the burqa are removed. Then the sleeve is unlaced and she is allowed to flex her stiff arms. Then the rest of her clothes are removed until she stands there in the middle of the king’s bedchamber wearing just her hood and hands.

Across the middle of the bed is a stiff leather bolster. Mastana knows well its purpose and she gets onto the bed and crawls up to it, positioning in under her stomach so that she is provided with support. Then two padded rods are produced. The first goes in front of her thighs and the second behind them so that she can neither move forwards or backwards. Then the girl fastens her wrists to the head of the bed and then it is time for the final piece of her bedtime preparations. Her servant brings out an item of rubber with long golden tresses attached to it. Locked into place as she is, she cannot see it, but she knows all too well what it is. The servant takes the rubber hood and fits it over her blank plastic head encasement. The fit is perfect as it was expensively made to her own particular specifications. Once smoothed out and the eye holes carefully aligned then she is ready for the king and the two servants retire. Mastana merely waits in anticipation and as she does she gazes at the image that confronts her in the large mirror at the foot of the bed.

Valeria-Lukyanova-Vital-Statistics

The doll-like unsmiling face of Valeriya stares back at her with her long blonde hair and huge blue anime-like eyes. Inside her blood boils as she realises that once again, she has been turned into someone – or something – else purely for the satisfaction of a man whom she never chose, who stole from her a promising career and life of freedom. The anger fills her veins and she wishes to explode with rage.

Then the door opens and she hears him come in. In a second the anger disappears and desire takes over. Like her mother said to her when she last visited two days ago, she was called ‘Mastana’ for a reason.

She hasn’t got a care in the world.

Mastana: Part 4

Part 3

Six months later

The Harem of the King’s Palace

Queen Mastana of Afghanistan, one of the four Wives of Equal Standing of King Muhammad Akbar Khan, stretched herself out on the grass in the Women’s Garden of the Darul Aman Palace. Not that she could feel that grass of course, these days all that Queen Mastana felt was cloth and plastic, but it was nice to be out there, the warm sun beating down on her and the faint song of birds in the air. Just across from her sat the three other queens playing with a new kitten that the king had given them all that morning, but Mastana has lost interest in both the cat and her ‘sisters’. For a few minutes she wanted to be alone.

“What am I? What is my life?” she said to herself silently. She could not say it out loud because of the solid gag that filled her mouth twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. She hadn’t spoken a single word or indeed made even the faintest sound with her mouth for over four months now and she wondered that, if the gag ever were removed, she would remember how to do so. To think, she who had once engaged in debates, chatted to her friends – male and female – on the phone and in cafés in no less than four different languages. But that was when she had not been a member of the Royal family, now everything had changed.

For starters there was her dress. She was clad in the most beautiful and expensive outfit imaginable. From the outside all that was visible was her burqa, and what a burqa it was! Yellow silk with the finest embroidery. No arm holes of course, since they weren’t really needed these days, but beautiful pleats billowing out at the back when she walked. She always wore a burqa these days, it was mandatory for a queen to be covered at all times, but even though she had rebelled against the garments at first, now her favourite part of the day was after she awoke in the mornings and she chose which burqa she would be wearing that day. She had dozens to select from, all of the highest quality and uniquely crafted by some of the finest fashion designers in the world and she loved viewing herself in the mirror as she tried them on.

But under that burqa there were other fine clothes. A silken salwar kameez set in deep blue with more exquisite embroidery and on her hands black embroidered silk gloves. Under the salwar kameez she had the finest black panty hose and her underwear was an extremely alluring lacy bra and knickers which made her feel very sexy indeed. She loved the feeling of them on her and of the silk brushing her skin. It made her feel special, hell, she was a queen, she was special!

Mastana shifted her position onto her side and two tiny bells tinkled. They reminded her then as they always reminded her of the places where they were attached to, her aroused and pierced nipples. Instinctively her hands rose to caress them but of course, she could feel nothing. She longed to relieve her frustration but it was impossible and so the frustration just grew and grew.

With these feelings, Mastana’s thoughts turned to her husband. She remembered when she had first seen him, dimly through the pinholes of her hood and the grill of her burqa at the coronation. And then that night when the four wives, all identically dressed had been led from the banqueting hall to his bedroom. They were all stripped naked save for their blank black plastic hoods and blank black plastic hands. That was the first and only time that she saw her sisters’ unclothed. It was weird, they looked like anonymous robot clones, inhuman almost, created merely to pleasure a man. Then she realised with horror that she looked identical to them, she was a sex droid as well and at that moment she hated the king for what he had done to her.

His bed was huge and they were all made to lie down on it, Mastana the second from the right. Her outstretched legs were raised and fastened to two chains hanging from the ceiling of the bed, her equally outstretched arms fastened to two other hanging chains. All the other wives were similarly restrained, all four identical, chained and helpless in a row. Tradition insisted on virgins being taken like that in case they might try to harm their Master.

Then they waited, in the dark and the silence. After some time he came. He stripped slowly, but she couldn’t see him, only the ceiling above her head. Then she heard him kneel down next to him and a gasp as he entered the wife to her left. He pumped in and out of her for a minute or so then exited and came to her. This was not how she had envisaged losing her precious virginity! To a husband, yes, but chained like a mare, unable to see or move! But whether it was what she expected or not, it was what happened. She felt his hands caress her breasts and play with the rings and bells adorning her nipples and then his manhood pressed against her beauty lips. Slowly but surely he entered her now moist passage and with a powerful thrust he broke through her virgin hymen. Oh how degrading! How awful! She felt so violated and used and yet, perversely, at the same time, it excited her beyond all measure. She began to enjoy his thrusts and feel her long-awaited climax draw nearer but then, without a word he exited. No!! No!!! She wanted him in her! Come back! But he was already penetrating her sister to the right. She listened with intense jealousy as he plunged in and out of her, before exiting and entering his fourth wife. It was only with that last wife that he came and how jealous she was, surely she should have had his seed! Oh how she hated her husband yet at the same time, oh how she longed for him… oh how she longed.

She recalled a conversation with Taahira, the wife from the Barakzai clan about a week or so after they became queens. Conversations between the wives were difficult and limited. With their encased hands they could not write and with their gagged mouths they could not talk, but every day for an hour in the afternoon the King allowed them to communicate with the aid of special computers. These had enormous over-sized keyboards which her blunt and rigid hands could operate, albeit very slowly. They typed their messages laboriously letter by letter and they appeared on the screen. That was the only time that they could communicate with another human being.

They were talking that day, as they did most days for there was little else to talk about, about their husband. Although he was not particularly handsome and some of his sexual predilections a little strange, Mastana found herself longing for his attentions which was awful since he only slept with each wife every fourth night. She wondered why and so decided to ask her sister.

So is it surprising that I find myself longing for his touch and dreaming of him?

And I dream about him, too replied Taahira. It’s partly those pictures everywhere on the ceilings. They’re the last thing you see at night in the bedroom and the first thing you see in the morning.

It was true, in each of the queen’s rooms there was a large portrait of their husband to gaze at on the ceiling above their beds. And it was no normal royal portrait but instead a view of him naked, his manhood jutting out firm and strong.

Yes, they really understand women in Afghanistan added Mastana. In some ways I hate him for how he has destroyed my old life and turned me into some sort of sex slave but I also simply can’t help secretly admiring him.

All the queens in the harem do. He’s so strong and virile! So ruthless! It makes you jealous, jealous of the other wives.

It is brainwashing, I know it, yet I can’t help it, I need him right now and I need him every minute of every day!

It was true, he used psychology to transform her. Six months ago her mind had been focussed on study and the future, now all she thought about was pleasing him. She imagined lying in his bed, wearing the…

A gong sounded. The other wives stopped playing with the kitten and Mastana was shaken from her reverie. They all got up off the grass and trooped indoors, their colourful burqas billowing behind them like the sails of a great fleet of galleons. Inside they walked noiselessly, their soft slippers making no sound on the marble floor, across the Rang Mahal to the Moti Mahal where they all sat cross-legged on the floor, their burqas draped elegantly around them. It was lunchtime and today the same ritual was followed as everyday. Firstly the first four servants would bring each queen a glass of water to wash out their throat so that the food may be tasted better. Each servant, a young girl of about twelve dressed in a gorgeous salwar kameez in colours that matched her mistress’ burqa, would approach the queen bowing, then kneel down before them, carefully lift the burqa so that none of the person beneath was revealed and climb underneath. Then they would attach a drinking tube to the hood of the queen and guide the other end into the glass of water.

When the water was finished the girl would remove it and place it outside of the burqa. The second four servants, all of these grown women dressed in burqas of matching colour but lesser quality than the queens and who had served their apprenticeships as the young girls were currently doing under the last four queens, would then approach, remove the empty glass and replace it with a bowl of soup. The girl would take this and guide it under the burqa to the drinking tube and then tap her mistress on the breast to signify she could “eat” her meal. This she would do and then when finished the empty bowl would be placed outside the burqa and replaced by the second servant by a glass of fruit juice. When this is finished the final course would be provided, a bowl of yoghurt or perhaps some blended fruits. Then, to wash it all down there would be tea.

As Mastana sucked down today’s meal – lentil soup with mango juice and then plain yogurt – she mused on how her mealtimes had changed. She so used to enjoy her food! She loved lamb kebabs and in India some of the hot curries! But now she was always hungry and although the soups, yoghurts and fruits were tasty, they were more like drinks than foods. Still, they had one positive effect: she had no need to worry about putting on weight. They also contributed to her new toilet routine which at first she had found most strange and humiliating but now, perversely, like everything else about her royal life, quite normal.

On her first day in the palace after the king had taken her virginity along with those of his other wives, after she had woken she was led by her two servants to the bathroom which adjoined her chamber and was lit by tiny skylights in the domed ceiling. Looking around she’d noticed a cupboard high up on the wall that had been opened to reveal three large glass bottles, each containing a different coloured and strongly scented liquid. The liquid in the first bottle was green and soapy-looking, the next was bright red and fizzy like sherbet and the third was bright blue. The sides of all three bottles were graduated to show how much liquid each had dispensed.

Hanging down to the floor from each bottle was a long length of rubber tubing. The tubes terminated in a strangely shaped nozzle made of stiffer rubber. Little taps at the end of each tube enabled an operator to use his experience to repeatedly close down the supply of one liquid to the nozzle and to momentarily open one of the other two.

The work of the operator, who turned out to be the older servant in the burqa – the girl in the salwar kameez was there to assist and to watch and learn as she was undergoing her apprenticeship – was thus not unlike that of a skilled barmaid making up a complex cocktail.

The end of the nozzle itself was gently pointed and covered in grease, but it then quickly became quite large, like a lozenge. However, a few inches back from the tip of the nozzle, there was a strange circular indentation where the nozzle became much smaller. Mastana did not at first realise the purpose of all this. However, she was soon to learn that this was a traditional harem enema and it was very different than those simpler ones used in health clubs such as she had tried once when on a trip to Malaysia with some fellow students at the university. With its choice of different highly scented liquids, it was designed to give a better and more carefully controlled clean out and finish. This was not for medical purposes but rather, in the harem, to prepare the way for the king to enjoy to his heart’s content a popular Afghani pastime – the penetration of the cleaned and scented rear orifice of a wife.

King Muhammad Akbar Khan had the reputation, to everyone outside the women’s quarter of his palace, of being a rather puritanical and religious man. And this was in fact partially true since King Muhammad Akbar Khan had “found” religion some four years ago at the Shrine of Khwaja Abu Nasr Parsa. However, before that life-shattering event he had been quite a different man indeed. He had gone to Moscow to study at the university there and whilst in the decadent West had indulged in all manner of haram sexual activities. In particular he had fallen under the spell of a beautiful blonde Ukrainian woman named Valeriya who had pushed forward the boundaries of his sexual knowledge more than he would have thought possible. She was a strange woman indeed, incredibly skilled in the harem arts and with an appearance almost like a cartoon doll which, Mastana was told, is a fashion in that part of the world.

Anyway, the long and short of it was that Muhammad Akbar Khan had fallen into depraved ways, but whilst enjoying his Muscovite life in one way, he also felt a profound sense of guilt. So it was that after his return he went on the Hajj to see if he could mend his ways but he could not follow the strict injunctions of the Wahaabi mullahs who told him to stick only to his wives – who did not, of course, include Valeriya who had now begun a modelling career – and stray away from perversions. He lapsed but still wanting to attain salvation he went to the holy shrine and sought the advice of a renowned pir there.

This pir, who was from a Sufi tradition far removed from the puritanical Wahaabis of Saudi Arabia explained to him that to have pleasure in sexual activities was only natural and that he should not feel ashamed for enjoying women’s bodies. He cited the Prophet himself as an example who famously loved women and was said to have been an excellent lover. But he cautioned that Muhammad Akbar Khan should only fornicate with his wives though how he did this was of no concern. However, the issue of his having given his heart to Valeriya could be resolved in an Islamic way as Mastana was soon to learn.

But returning to her first toilet, the younger servant pointed to a rubber mat on the floor under the strange-looking bottles. She gestured for her to kneel down on it on all fours. Mystified and nervously Mastana quickly did so.

In front of her, low down on the edge of the mat, was a strange-looking wooden contraption that rather reminded her of an old fashioned stocks. It was hinged and there were small holes and it was securely fastened to the floor.

Before she realised what was happening, the older servant had put her two wrists into the bottom half of the holes and then closed the stocks. Her hands were now held helpless, down close to the floor.

Then, assisted by the girl, the older servant quickly fastened her ankles to the side of the mat with little straps. With her immobile encased hands fastened in the stocks, she could not stop him. Then a padded bar was slipped under her belly to keep her nicely raised. She was now firmly secured kneeling on all fours with her knees parted and her rear orifice well displayed.

The older servant picked up the operator’s stool and, placing it behind Mastana between her outstretched knees, sat down on it. She stroked the queen’s trembling bottom with her gloved hands reassuringly but Mastana still did not quite understand what was going to happen.

The apprentice turned on the taps of each of the three coloured tubes in turn to test that all was well. She was rewarded by little jets of three differently-coloured liquids shooting out from the tip of the nozzle onto the tiled floor. Satisfied, she handed the nozzle to the older servant.

Suddenly, Mastana felt the servant’s hands part her cheeks. She blushed as she felt the end of the greased nozzle press against her rear orifice. It slipped in and she felt the servant slowly pushing it up her. Then she stopped; the sphincter muscles round her rear orifice had closed around the indentation in the nozzle, holding it tightly in place. She would not be able to eject it.

Then the girl momentarily turned on the blue tap. No! No!’ Mastana screamed inwardly as she felt a little jet of the liquid shoot up into her, cleaning her as it did so. Frantically she tried to reach back to pull out the nozzle, but her hands were firmly held by the stocks. Then she tried in vain to shake it out, opening and closing her muscles desperately. But her sphincter held it equally firmly in place.

The girl again gave the blue tap another little two quick twists, provoking further movement from Mastana who was now shaking her belly and hips to and fro, in an automatic, but vain, attempt to stop the burning liquid from going further up her

Then the girl switched taps and gave her a good dose, of the red fizzy liquid. She closed the blue tap, opened the red one and left it open.

Mastana at first calmed down as this new liquid seemed to neutralise the awful first one. Then she began to shake again as she felt its strange fizzy action inside her.

The servant got up off her stool and went and stood by the kneeling queen’s side to get a better view of her now slowly swelling belly. She nodded as Mastana writhed in vain on the mat whilst the fizzy liquid slowly and inexorably penetrated deeper and deeper.

The servant put her hand down and felt her mistress’ stomach. Yes, she would soon be ready for the green soap and then for a return to the blue burning liquid. It was, always better to do it by stages, with the belly being made to give a good little shake between each one. She sat down on the stool behind her again and turned off the red tap. Mastana let out a gasp of relief as she felt the liquid stop. But the relief was short-lived, for the servant then motioned for the  girl to turn on the green tap.

Mastana gave another little cry as she felt the soapy liquid swelling up inside her. After another minute the servant reached forward and felt her stomach again. Yes, it was getting very nicely swollen. She would let it run for another minute and then finish off with another shot of the Blue Burner, before she was left for five minutes, whilst all three liquids completed their cleaning tasks.

A minute later and Mastana writhed again as she felt the blue burning liquid shoot up inside her. Now keep still the servant wrote on a notice which she thrust in front of her mistress’ face. This was always a tricky moment. She put the bowl down on the floor between her legs – just in case. The girl was standing beside her holding a well-greased rubber plug. It had a circular indentation, like the one on at the rear of the nozzle, for the queen’s sphincter to grip. Slowly she began to withdraw the nozzle, easing it past the sphincter. Mastana gave a sight of relief. Oh how she longed to release everything. Quickly she pulled out the nozzle, grabbed the plug from the girl and pushed it in. Yes, the sphincter was holding it. She got up from the stool. It was time for a coffee.

Five minutes later the girl was feeding the queen coffee through her drinking tube whilst her mistress was still in the stocks, her belly full of the cleaning liquids. When she had finished the servant gestured to the girl to remove the plug and to hold up the bowl so that all the liquids – and Mastana’s wastes – flowed out.

Then it was time to repeat the process. But this time there was nothing left to be washed out and the emphasis was more on the liquids’ pleasing scents than on their cleansing properties. The queen was left exhausted and utterly degraded by it all but after the ritual she did not need to use the toilet all day and with her liquid diet, there were few wastes to expel anyway. The elaborate enemas had now become part of her daily life, a natural function taken away from her, but also with a secondary benefit for the king: his favourite orifice was now ready for his use.

Afghani men, many of whom are brought up without female company or indeed ever seeing an unveiled woman other than their mother or sister, are infamous for seeking sexual solace elsewhere as teenagers and so it was with Muhammad Akbar Khan. When he had gone to Russia and met with Valeriya all that had changed, but he still retained a preference for using the rear orifice and besides, it had an added advantage: his religion insisted that he treat all wives equally with regards to intercourse, only using specific wives on allotted nights. However, the pir had informed him that congress using that orifice did not count as a valid sexual act since children could never be produced that way and so, so long as he still enjoyed his allotted wife in the evening, he could enjoy additional sessions with whichever wife he fancied so long as they were of this nature.

And since King Muhammad Akbar Khan was a man with a vivacious sexual appetite, then he often availed himself of this loophole in religious law!

Part 5

Mastana: Part 3

Part 2

About an hour later the nurse and Dr. Rastagar and greeted her. She was fed some water through a tube which she gulped down thirstily but then, to her dismay, the nurse got a strap and put it over her head, fastening it securely to the bed so that all she could see was the ceiling up above her. Then several more straps were placed over her, securing her body with her arms and their now-useless hands by its side, firmly to the bed. They then turned their attentions to her feet which were lifted in the air and put through stirrups. Straps were then passed around her ankles holding them there. She was helpless and vulnerable, her most private parts exposed to the world.

Then to her surprise, she felt fingers parting her beauty lips and begin tickling her clitoris. Immediately she became aroused and started to moan into her gag. The tickling continued as the clitoris swelled and then she felt it being firmly bound around the base with a cotton thread making it extend outwards between the beauty lips.

Then it was the turn of the helpless Mastana’s nipples to be aroused and similarly bound with cotton threat. She could feel her nipples were now greatly extended. But why she asked herself, unable to move to touch them.

She heard Dr. Rastagar saying something about leaving them to get nicely swollen, and then she heard their footsteps going away.

Silenced and secured, Mastana just lay helpless on her back, wondering what on earth was happening. What was being done to her and why? What had all this to do with treating the tribes equally?

After a few minutes, she heard footsteps coming back into the room a noise like a hospital trolley being wheeled in. As it was being brought up to the couch, she heard a rattling noise like surgical instruments on a metal tray. Astaghfirullah, what was this, an operation?!

Mastanaa heard bottles being opened. There was a sudden smell of antiseptic and she heard a liquid being poured. Then she gasped as one of the figures, Dr. Rastagar most probably, wiped a cloth, soaked in a strange freezing liquid, over her beauty lips. They seemed to lose feeling. She hardly felt it when she then parted her lips again and applied the cloth to her bound and swollen beauty bud. She felt her beauty lips being clipped back leaving her swollen and bound clitoris projecting and on display.

Then there was noise as if a little lamp was being lit. She could feel the heat of the flame. Something seemed to be being heated in the flame. She felt her swollen clitoris being pulled out. Then she felt a prick as if something sharp and hot had been gently pushed through the cotton thread binding her clitoris and was now touching it. She automatically tried to raise her head to see what horror was being done to her, but of course it was futile and she could see nothing but the featureless ceiling above. Then she screamed into her gag as, unknown to her, a red-hot needle was expertly thrust right through her clitoris.

It was held there momentarily and she then she could feel it being alternatively turned left and right. Then it was withdrawn. Mastana gasped with relief. But to her horror, she then felt something else being pushed through. It seemed to be covered in some sort of creamy grease. She felt whatever it was being pulled to and fro. Next she felt a flame being brought right up to her beauty lips making her tremble with fear. She had the impression that the flame was being used to braze something together, brazed permanently. But what? And why?

She felt the cotton threads round her beauty bud being undone. She could feel some of the swelling subsiding, but now there was a strange feeling, as if her clitoris was being held permanently extended outwards – and permanently aroused. She also felt something metallic between her outstretched legs. She felt hands admiringly touching something that seemed to be attached to her. What had they done to her? She moved slightly in her embarrassment and again felt the metal object. Astaghfirullah! What was it?

Then it was the turn of her nipples. Again she felt a cloth soaked in a freezing liquid. Then she felt something sharp being pressed against one of her bound and extended nipples. Again she screamed into her gag as it was driven right through and again turned left and right, and then withdrawn.

Then once again something else was pushed through this new hole. It too was moved to and fro, and was greased. Again she felt the heat of the flame as if something was being carefully brazed together.

Now it was the turn of her other nipple.

She felt the cotton threads around each swollen nipple being removed. As with her beauty bud, she felt some of the swelling subsiding, but there was a new feeling of it being held permanently erect. But this time there a difference. There was a weight on each breast and with every little quiver of her breasts she heard the tinkling of a little bell. What was it? She longed to sit up and see what dreadful thing had been done to her but, still strapped to the top of the couch, there was nothing, absolutely nothing she could do.

The green niqaab nurse came into view, stroked her head and then unstrapped it before moving down to her body straps. Mastana sat up and looked down at herself, Her legs were still fastened to the stirrups. She saw large sized thin golden rings had been inserted into her nipples! And to each ring a small bell was attached. Astaghfirullah!

She looked down at her parted legs. From between her now hairless beauty lips hung another golden ring. It had been put through her precious beauty bud and seemed to be making her constantly aroused! She saw that it had been inserted so that it hung neatly parallel to, and between, her beauty lips and not awkwardly at right angles across them. She was now ringed in her most sensitive and private places and those rings caused great arousal. But it was arousal that she could do nothing about for when she put her rigid, plastic-clad hands to the rings, they were too blunt, too unwieldy to allow her to pleasure herself.

After being released from hospital, covered with a burqa again and driven to the family home, Mastana had to try and get used to her ‘preparations’ for becoming a queen of Afghanistan. To start with, it was hell. She longed to rip off the awful plastic helmet that most silenced and encased her. It made her feel claustrophobic and, as was the intention, anonymous. But how could with useless plastic hands, more like spoons on the end of her arms. She could grip nothing, feel nothing, all she could do was produced a soft clacking sound as she pounded at her own head in desperation. On the first night in bed, unable to sleep, staring at the world through the tiny pinholes which were all she was allowed now, she got up and started banging her head against the wall. It did nothing of course, except give her a headache and wake the entire household. There was no relief, she was a silent, anonymous droid and she shuddered as she felt her personality seemingly seep away.

People treated her differently. Since she couldn’t speak with them or indeed make any meaningful communication at all beyond a yes and no, then they took to ignoring her even when she was present in the room. Without thinking servants would talk about her as if she wasn’t there and family members began to act, not as if she were a living person with them in the room, but instead some lifeless statue whom they spoke about respectfully yet with a tinge of sadness as if she were a great hero who had died in battle.

It was perhaps that treatment that finally did it. If they were to act as if she had died, then why live? What right had the nation of Afghanistan to deprive her of everything that she was, all her hopes and dreams, even her face and voice so that its mad mullahs would no longer cause the people to kill each other? No, that was their problem; if she was gone all they would do is find another sacrificial lamb? That night she crept out of bed and went to the window. There was a drop of two storeys. She leaned out…

After her suicide attempt things changed. She hadn’t died in the fall, indeed she hadn’t even hurt herself seriously. True, the drop had been two storeys, but the blow was softened by bushes planted at the foot of the house and, cocooned in their plastic prisons, her hands and head had been perfectly cushioned.

After the suicide attempt her father had talked to her. He had chastised her for trying to desert her duty and alter her destiny. He reminded her that life is a gift from Allah and she had no right to forfeit. Then he’d bent her over, bared her bottom and given her ten whacks with his cane so that her cheeks were red raw. After that though, he cuddled her and said that whilst he had to punish her sin, he understood her frustrations and plight, and that he would do something to help. All she could do was nod silently.

After he left, her mother came. She put her arm around her daughter and then spoke softly, “We women have ways to make it bearable.” Then, she took the rings that adorned her daughter’s nipples and played with them. She turned them in her fingers and beneath her mask, Mastana groaned in ecstasy. “It is improper for a mother to do more than this,” she then said, “but I shall instruct a special friend of mine She will make life bearable for you.”

That night things were different to before. To ensure that she no longer tried to commit suicide, she was not chained to her bed, a cuff around each ankle and wrist leading to each of the four bedposts. Then, in order to stop her from banging her head, a padded cover was drawn over her helmet. It had only one hole at the nose and so left her blind and her hearing muted. So there she lay, spread out like a starfish in the pitch black. Silence reigned but then the door opened. Who was it? Footsteps came over to her and she felt her sheets being removed. Someone sat next to her. It was a female and she smelt sweet, prepared with oils and attar. She nestled her rounded buttocks next to Mastana and then started playing with her nipple rings just as her mother had. Mastana groaned and an unfamiliar voice whispered, “Aha! You’re enjoying that I see! Now, how about this.”

The mystery hands left the rings in her breasts and crept down to her exposed crotch. Mastana longed to cover herself, protect herself, but as she was all she could too was proffer herself like a wanton. She felt something being tied to the ring, a string and then pulled tight, but not so it hurt. Then it started, a soft strumming of the string, like a harpist caressing the strings of their instrument. This mystery woman was playing her and the music was heavenly. Still strumming, the woman climbed on top of her immobile charge and started kissing her and caressing her buttocks. Within minutes Mastana exploded in ecstasy. The woman slumped onto her and then moved her head next to Mastana’s ear. “You see,” she said, “it is not all bad. Forget the past and immerse yourself in your new existence. If you remember what was you shall only be miserable. Live not for studies or money but for pleasure now and you shall be happy.”

And with those words, the mystery woman left, leaving Mastana to the pitch black, panting, spread-eagled on the bed. Yes indeed, the old life had gone, she must become someone new, someone who lived for pleasure, a pleasure that she would soon be experiencing with a man, not a woman.

Part 4