Dollhood, A Woman’s Choice: Part 1

Dollhood, A Woman’s Choice

By Cafter Homme

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

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

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

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

Cafter Homme


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

Dave Potter


Introduction

July 2049

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

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

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

I am a Doll.

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

Yes, we were quite naive.

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

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

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

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

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

 

Chapter 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I was never one of a kind, really.

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

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

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

 

Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it was only the beginning.

 

Chapter 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Chapter 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there and then I filled my nappy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Chapter 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She simply is.

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

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

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

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

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

 

Chapter 6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is when the trouble started.

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

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

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

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

 

Chapter 7

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good day, Hodgkinson’s!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A sigh of relief escaped from all three of us.

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

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

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

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

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

 

Chapter 8

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, Lilyana.”

“Sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Chapter 9

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Chapter 10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eve is weak.

 

Chapter 11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hadn’t even told him thank you!

 

Chapter 12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cushions curtseyed to us and I nearly cried.

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

 

Chapter 13

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Chapter 14

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

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

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

Then he asked Chastity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Chapter 15

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

END OF PART 1

 

Appendix to Part 1

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

 

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

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

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


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


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

 

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.

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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.

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

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

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

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

Emily just blinked; dazed, scarred.

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

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

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

Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 3

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

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

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

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

Touch.

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

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

Chapter 4

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

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

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

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

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

That however, was not the end of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Book 5

An Artist’s Masterpiece: Book 3

Book 3

April 2047

Book 2

Chapter 1

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

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

“…”

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Chapter 2

July 2049

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

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


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

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

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

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

The same Lord that had seemingly abandoned her like Job.

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

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

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

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

Chapter 3

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

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

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

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

It was her beloved sister Anne.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Book 4

An Artist’s Masterpiece: Book 2

Book 2

April 2046

Book 1

Chapter 1

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

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

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

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

arse workout 2

arse workout 3

arse workout 1

Emily’s arse workout

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

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

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

Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Chapter 3

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

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

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

What more indeed?

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

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

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

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

image002

Emily’s birthday outfit

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

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

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

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

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

“It… is… bearable,” she lied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Tale of Anastasia: Part 8

Links to all parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Chapter 15

Punishments at Miss Garner’s Institute for Ladies of Leisure were executed in the cellar, an area of the house that Anne had previously never been allowed to see. Following her meeting with the headmistress, she was returned to her room and stripped down to her chastity belt, boots and corset. Her arms were taken from their binders and rebound in a leather monoglove, a leather gag, far larger than her fleur de bouche fitted into her mouth and finally a cloak with large hood was wrapped around her so that no one would learn the identity of the unfortunate who was to be discipline as punishment at Miss Garner’s Institute was very much a private, not public, affair.

Perkins led her down the stone steps and opened the door to the cellar. The heat was astonishing and the reason for it immediately became apparent, for it was in those depths that the mighty boiler that heated the whole house was located and as she watched a burly sweat-stained workman was busy shovelling coal into it. Aside from him and Perkins, Anne was alone.

The maid led her over to a wooden bench into which she was strapped. At first she wondered about the design for it did not hold her seated as she would have expected, but instead bent over, her head near to the floor and her pinioned arms up in the air like the mast of a great ship. More worryingly however, was that the vast moons of her enhanced derriere were left exposed to the air and facing upwards in full view.

“It is normal Miss Anne, for a husband to chastise his wife and indeed, many do so regularly even if they have not committed any wrongs just to remind them the consequences if they did. Your fiancé in fact has already indicated that he intends for you to receive some kind of chastisement though I do not know if it will be misdemeanour based or simply routine. However, he has already commissioned a suitable paddle from Briggs’, the premier paddle manufacturers in Bloomsbury, with the Norfolk crest engraved upon it. For now however, as he is absent in France, we shall have to make do with the official Miss Garner’s paddle with the school logo on it and Sykes here. Sykes, would you be so kind?”

“Right away, ma’am.”

The workman came over and took the paddle from Perkins. “How many, ma’am?” he asked.

“The standard punishment for a misdemeanour is five paddles and according to Miss Garner, Miss Curzon here has committed two such misdemeanours; the first being disobeying myself when ordered to complete the duty of visiting an elderly member of the community and the second being the failure to take note and gain success when being tutored by Capt. Hope. Therefore, the punishment shall be ten paddles. You may start now, Sykes.”

“Certainly, ma’am.”

Swish!

The pain was a shock! A painful shock! Anne cried out but the gag soaked up much of the sound and little more than a groan was heard.

Swish!

There it was again, only this time worse as her derriere was still tender from the last paddle. Anne cried out again and Perkins tutted. “Please, Miss Anne, show some restraint!”

Swish!

Anne tried to show restraint but it was hard. Tears flowed from her eyes and…

Swish!

…and yet at the same time she realised that she was wet. Why? There was something…

Swish!

… something pleasurable about this! But why? That wasn’t right, that wasn’t…

Swish!

…wasn’t natural! This was painful, oh so painful! She wanted it to stop, to end and yet…

Swish!

…yet at the same time she didn’t; at the same time it really excited her in ways that she didn’t really…

Swish!

…really understand. Oww, how it hurt! How many? How many had she endured now? Six? Or possibly…

Swish!

…possibly seven. So if that was the seventh, then only three more…

Swish!

…more, nay only two more left! Never had two seemed so many and yet….

Swish!

…yet it was almost over, the last one now, bring it on! Bring it on! Come on I need this! Oh…

Swish!

… oh yesssssssss!!! It is over, it is accomplished!

“Thank you Sykes, now can you release the young lady and prepare her for the second stage?”

“Certainly ma’am.”

“Miss Anne, you have completed the first stage of your punishment. Here at Miss Garner’s punishment comes in two parts; firstly the pain and secondly the opportunity to meditate on your sins and repent. For every misdemeanour there is a prescribed meditation and repentance period of twelve hours and there fore your encapsulation shall be for twenty-four hours exactly. Sykes here will now lace the punishment corset onto you.”

By this stage Anne was attached to a lacing bar and Sykes was approaching with the most remarkable corset that she had ever seen. In fact, it looked like no corset at all but instead a body suit for it was to e fitted from her toes right up to the crown of her head, leaving only her arms and face free. “The middle is always laced to half an inch smaller than your usual and contains a stem waist half an inch longer, Miss Anne,” informed Perkins, who seemed to be enjoying her mistress’ travails. “It shall be a trial for you to wear, miss.”

A trial it indeed was. It took over an hour to lace fully and once done Anne could not move a muscle, from her en pointe toes to her head forced back by the elongated neck. Worst of all though was the middle which crushed her mercilessly. She was as a statue and due to the heat of the room, was already sweating profusely. Once done, she was released from the lacing bar, her hands cuffed together in front of her and laid out on a hard bed that lay in the middle of the room and from the smell, Anne suspected might belong to Sykes.

“Now Miss Anne,” continued Perkins, during meditation and repentance, your arms are to be in the perfect reverse prayer position. Sykes, if you would be so kind.”

“Certainly ma’am.”

Perfect reverse prayer! There was nothing so horrible, so painful! Anne shuddered but said nothing. After all, a lady does not complain and, after this ordeal, she would not be disobeying orders again in a hurry, even if a friend was in trouble!

It took another ten minutes or so to twist her arms into the difficult perfect reverse prayer position and then lace them up neatly. Then Sykes produced a strange contraption like a small platform with rods sticking upwards about two feet in height. It was mounted on wheels. The burly workman then lifted her immobile form up and placed her on the platform, the rods keeping her from falling over whilst Perkins secured her on with straps. Once that was done the maid explained fully the rest of her punishment.

“Miss Anne, please come over here!”

Anne of course could not move anywhere but Sykes obligingly wheeled her across the room and through a doorway into another, smaller chamber. In this room stood a bulky woman, her figure shrouded by a cloak and hood.

“This is another one of the pupils here being chastised for misdemeanours,” Perkins explained. “It does not matter which of your friends it is, punishment is a private affair here; I only show her to you so that you may understand what meditation and repentance entails.”

The maid then went over to the figure and undid the cloak. It fell to the ground to reveal a thick woollen dress with no arms. This however, was not what shocked Anne. What shocked her was that in the place of a face, a pot mask with closed eyes as if a doll were sleeping, was seen. Throughout all of this, the figure remained motionless and seemed to Anne to be more a mannequin than a living girl.

“First the petticoats,” decreed Perkins as Sykes came back through, her arms laden with vast quantities of material. No less than ten petticoats were put on Anne before a thin cotton dress covered her body. Then the main dress, in unbecoming thick grey wool. Anne shuddered. Already the cellar was hot; wearing this it would become unbearable! The dress was button on and the temperature rose dramatically. Perkins however, had not finished.

“I shall place the head hood on now, which has the pot mask attached to the front. Wearing it you shall see nothing and hear very little as the ears are padded. Your world shall become black and silent and the heat together with your red raw buttocks shall remind you or your sins. Use this time to sink within yourself, to contemplate your sins and to beg forgiveness. Tomorrow at the same hour you shall be removed from your cocoon a new and more moral butterfly. Now the hood, Sykes!”

The hood was leather and laced tightly at the back. It compressed her head and made her feel claustrophobic and alone. With no eyeholes the world went black and heated up immediately. The only reminder of the outside world was a small warm breeze through the holes by her nostrils.

Anne felt an extra weight being put on her which she assumed was the cloak and then some motion as she was wheeled into the corner of the room where she was to stand. Then there was nothing. At first it was unbearable, she wanted to free herself to fight; not having any idea or the time scared her. The heat built up and she sweated more. She realised that she had to keep still but it was hard. She longed for sleep but it would not come and instead she was alone in her prison, pain all over her body, compressed from every angle; yet strangely safe somehow.

That safety gave her solace. Since she had come to England her life had changed in all aspects; she had been enhanced and turned into a plaything; stripped of her rights and given a new name and religion. All control of her life had been taken off her and she was now due to marry a stranger and exist as his toy until he passed away and then… well, then her sons would take control. It was all so unfair, so overwhelming, so wrong…

And yet at the same time, in England not once, not even for a second, had she ever felt in danger. It was hard, yes, but it was safe. She was looked after here. Even down in this cellar, this unbearably hot cellar where the sweat poured off her, where she could not move a muscle, entombed in cloth and corset, even here, she knew that they were looking after her, that she was safe, that she would come to no harm. These thoughts helped her and slowly they mushroomed in her mind. She recalled the two minor offences that she had committed to warrant this punishment. At the time she’d been angry that she was being punished for those offences – after all, hadn’t the circumstances been special, excusable. Now however, she realised; that this safety was sacred, it was the Holy Grail that all people sought. But it could only be achieved if one obeyed the rules and special circumstances or not, she had broken them. No, the punishment was just, even if it was hard to bear. And with those comforting thoughts she drifted away on a raft across the endless ocean of her mind.

Chapter 16

Anne only realised that she was being released when Perkins took the pot mask off her and the dull light blinded her eyes. Then the thirst hit her and she gratefully drank the whole jug of water that the maid offered. Following that she was released. The other hooded figure was gone now. Slowly the punishment corset was removed and her own stays loosely laced on. Then she returned upstairs for a long hot bath and afterwards bed. Anne then slept for twelve hours straight even though she had done absolutely nothing for the twenty-four that preceded it.

Following her punishment, Anne was more docile than before and accepted everything with a resignation that she herself welcomed as it made life far less stressful. She had subconsciously committed herself to them and resigned from even the office of rebellion, and having done so life was far more enjoyable. Instead she entered fully into the preparations for her marriage which was now only a few weeks away and every thought was connected with trying to please her future husband as much as she could.

The punishment had also had another, pleasing side effect. The extended period of time in the punishment corset had caused her to lose weight and her body to become accustomed to the new, tighter measurements. Miss Simpson asked her if she wished to return to the old measurements which were the ones that her fiancé had decreed, but Anne knew that he would prefer the smaller ones and so kept at them. This meant that the wedding dress had to be re-stitched at some cost but she cared not, for she knew that it would make him happy.

Two days before her wedding, Anne had her farewell meal at Miss Garner’s. It wasn’t a great experience as most of the girls – including Clare Hawkins – had already left to get married themselves, but the food was exquisite and Anne was glad that Miss Garner had decided to mark it. Then the next day it was down to London on the train where she met her step-father at St. Pancras station and they travelled to M. Saint Laurent’s boutique for a final fitting and ironing out of details and then to the hotel itself, the grand Cumberland in Bloomsbury where her reception and wedding night would later be spent. “Look!” said Lord Robert as they pulled up in the car outside. “That building there is the Soviet Embassy; isn’t it fitting that you truly enter English noble life in its shadow?” Anne looked at the great modernist stone building that dominated the street and thought. Yes, it was fitting in a way.

Anne wishes that she could give a detailed account of her wedding day now, but in truth it was all a blur. She was woken up at four in the morning when the dressing started and finally ready in a stunning creation of white silk and flowers by ten. Then she minced outside to a waiting horse and carriage which drove her through the streets of the capital to the great abbey of Westminster where she alighted and slowly walked down the long, long aisle to where her groom awaited. Then the service, then a drive back through the capital to Hyde Park where there were photgrpahs and then finally back to the Cumberland for the reception where over a thousand members of the nobility had gathered to wish them well, dine and be merry. After the meal, (of which Anne ate virtually nothing), and the speeches, there was the ball, but in her dress Anne could not dance or indeed do aught but stand and smile and so, as tradition dictates, a podium was wheeled out and Anne placed on it, (secretly fastened on in a manner akin to when she was punished), and then wheeled into the very centre of the ballroom and whilst the orchestra played and the couples waltzed, Anne stood there for all to admire, rotating slowly like a piece of crystal in a shop window, very much the bride on the wedding cake. Then, around ten, she was removed, the whole assembly raised a toast to her, and she was taken upstairs by Perkins to the sumptuous bridal chamber in order to be prepared for the greatest night of her life.

Once in there, Perkins undressed her, peeling off the fine layers of silk until, for the first time in a year, she was wholly naked. Then she was bathed in a gigantic bath of rose water before finally being powdered dry and led back into the bridal chamber.

“Right Miss Anne, now you are to be prepared,” said the maid. “The Duke has decreed…”

“Stop!” rapped out Anne. She couldn’t even believe herself when she had said it.

“Excuse me, Miss Anne…”

“You forget Perkins, it is ‘Mrs.’ or indeed ‘Lady’ Anne now!”

“I apologise Your Ladyship, but…”

“No ‘buts’, you are to leave Perkins!”

“But Your Ladyship, His Lordship…”

“I am your mistress, not he, nor my uncle, nor Miss Garner! When I tell you to leave, you will leave! I shall call when I wish you to prepare. I need time alone to think. Go!”

Perkins clearly did not wish to go but she also realised that the balance of power had changed and her stern expression changed into a meek, “Yes, Your Ladyship.” Like a mouse, she scuttled out of the room, carefully closing the door behind her.

After Perkins had left, Anne walked over to the door and turned the key in the lock. As she did it, she felt strange and at first couldn’t grasp why. Then it came to her: for the first time in months she had used her hands for something, she was not completely helpless and dependent on others. She took those hands and held them before her face before rubbing them slowly against one another. The touch was unreal; a touch denied for so long. A flash of fury streaked across her mind: what right had society to deny her of so simple a pleasure?

Anne walked across to the window and gazed out, not caring that the world might see her nakedness. There across the road it stood, a great hulk of square grey stone, a symbol of another more modern, very different world. The red flag resplendent with triumphant hammer and sickle fluttered proudly in the evening breeze. Some would say more free, more human. When Lord Curzon had mentioned in passing that the wedding hotel would be opposite the embassy, the very symbol of her old country and self, then she had thought nothing of it, but as the hours had passed, like the mustard seed, the germ had grown into a great tree. Here she was, alone and unhampered, with salvation but across the way. All she needed to do was slip on a dressing gown; sneak out into the deserted corridor, down the stairs, out through the servants’ door and across the road. Freedom! No more Lady of Leisure, no more Anne Howard, Duchess of Norfolk, bound, squeezed, restrained in every imaginable manner, the property of a man whom she hardly knew. Once through those doors, Anne could die and Anastasia Kolyakonova could be reborn! Independent Anastasia, the Anastasia who had a happy life to look forward too across on the other side of this continent, the Anastasia who had been so happy. Would they accept her? Of course they would! The papers would love it, Modern Soviet Woman forced into a marriage against her will to some backward Lord who would keep her tied up inside his castle, secluded from the civilised world. She would become a heroine! The British would hate it of course; they would moan and rail, protest that this was their way, their culture, their religion, but against the might of the USSR, what could they do?!

Anne turned away from that window of opportunity and walked over to the bed upon which her dressing gown lay. As she did, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and stopped. She turned to see, for the very first time, her new naked self. There before her was not the Anastasia Kolyakonova that she knew but instead another woman, more sensual and voluptuous. Where a boyish figure had once been was a mass of curves: huge orbs stood out from her chest, obviously grafted on, as round and ripe as melons, with no sag and enormous nipples the size of thimbles, whilst below them, even without a corset, a miniscule waist that she could encircle with her two hands. And then, below that, it broadened out again, massively into buttocks of prodigious proportions, two huge maternal orbs, as if someone had inserted a tyre pump into her anus and pumped and pumped and pumped until no more air would fit in. She touched those buttocks, as firm as any car tyre. She was no longer a woman but more a cartoon caricature of one, exaggerated in all the right places like Betty Boop in Mr. Disney’s cartoons. “What have they done to you, Ani?” she asked. No reply came. Ani did not answer because from those enhanced lips she could not. They were not hers, but instead the lips of some Biblical temptress like Bathsheba or Salome. Ani of course, had never even read the Bible.

Anne on the other hand, knew it well.

“They will be able to remove them, cut your hair, and restore you to whom you once were.”

But they were empty words, devoid of meaning or desire. Already her hands had strayed to those erect nipples and were caressing them gently.

“You have to choose, Ani!”

The voice was urgent but Ani did not respond. She could not for she had ceased to exist months ago. Anne looked across at the window with the fluttering flag of freedom through it. Then she turned to the bed, walked across, lay on it and pulled on the bell rope by her side. Within a minute Perkins had entered.

“Perkins, I have rested quite enough. I need preparing!”

“Yes, ma’am. The Duke has decreed…”

“Stop! I care not what he has said. You shall prepare me to my instructions not his. Now listen carefully…”

And Perkins did listen, and she did follow those instructions. And an hour later she left her mistress to fetch the Duke of Norfolk just as her mistress had instructed her to.”

Anne Howard waited in the pitch black room. Her every action was concentrated on keeping conscious. Around her middle her wedding corset, lace to an excruciating thirteen and three quarters inches bit into her and sapped her. Her neck was similarly squeezed and stretched and although she lay on her front, her eyes gazed at the ceiling. Her feet, laced into the endpoint bedroom boots were strapped against her enormous, inviting buttocks whilst her arms, dead from the pressure, were twisted into the excruciating and elegant perfect reverse-prayer position. But the crowning glory of it all was for her husband, her derriere, lifted by a cushion for ease of access, open and ready for use, the hole painted with a pair of inviting red lips.

‘He shall remember his wedding night for all eternity!’ declared the Duchess of Norfolk, Anne Howard silently behind her fleur de bouche, as Anastasia Kolyakonova slept silently in her grave.

Postscript

Readers may be interested to note that I had originally intended quite a different ending to this tale and should you be dissatisfied with the one that I finally chose, perhaps a brief summary of the alternative might improve your demeanour. In my original ending, Anne was again naked and sent Perkins away, she went over to the window and saw the Russian Embassy and was fixed on her plan to escape. This she attempted but downstairs was met by her step-father, (who had guessed her intentions), and escorted back upstairs to wait for her husband. However, once upstairs, Perkins reveals that she is willing to help Anne in return for a passage to the USSR herself as she has longed to live the life of a free woman for many years. And so the two dress as maids, (extra costume procured by Perkins), and sneak across to the Embassy where Anne reveals who she is and is given sanctuary. Anne then goes to Moskva with Perkins and becomes something of a celebrity in a manner akin to Western women of our world who marry an Arab and then run away from the harsh life. She plans to have operations to reduce some of the enhancements made to her but not all the changes undergone in Britain can be reversed and a doctor advises her that if she stops corseting, she will have problems, so atrophied are her muscles. And so Anne becomes a film star in Soviet cinema portraying English women in adaptations of Shakespeare or Dickens and the great Russian heroines from Tolstoy and Pushkin. In time she becomes a member of the politburo and ambassador to London. There she meets up with Clare who is now widowed from her marriage to Cpt. Hope. And so it is that Anne takes her back to Moskva with her and they enter into a lesbian relationship of intense passion, living out the rest of their days in a beautiful dacha by a lake some hundred kilometres away from Moskva.

As I said, it’s up to you which you prefer. – DP

Links to all parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

The Tale of Anastasia: Part 7

Links to all parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

 

Chapter 13

The next visit of the Duke of Norwich followed much the same format as the last, only this time he made more mention of Anne’s forthcoming enhancements and how he couldn’t wait to play with her ‘new melons’, kiss her ‘inflated lips’ or ‘paddle her balloon arse’. These comments however, were only to be expected, as the following week was when Anne was due to travel to London for her much-anticipated enhancements.

The night before the trip however, Anne got a pleasant surprise when Miss Simpson informed her that Miss Garner had arranged for Clare Hawkins to have her enhancements at the same time and for the two to travel down to London together. Furthermore, as a reward for their excellent behaviour and perseverance with their studies, the two would be allowed to share a bed in the London hotel on the night before the operations and share that night together in Anne’s bedroom. Ever since their first meeting the girls had been getting exceptionally close and often lay together for an hour or so on the bed of one or the other, but never before had they been allowed to spend a whole night in each others arms, (metaphorically, not literally of course). Naturally, with chastity belts and arms pinned behind them in monogloves, not to mention the bedtime pot masks, there was little chance of any sinful intimacy, but even so, it was a real delight to entwine their boot-clad legs around each other and breath in their feminine scents in the morning and for Anne the moment was made particularly special by the Duke of Norwich who chanced to be thinking of her as he awoke at seven in the morning and switched on her anal plug.

The journey down to London was by car which was tiring as it was an eight-hour trip and both Anne and Clare’s travelling dresses were most hot and cumbersome indeed. Furthermore, the thick veils on her bonnets prevented any real viewing of the passing scenery whilst the large black fleur de bouche in her mouth made speaking impossibility. Consequently it was eight hours of darkness and silence but neither girl minded much as their minds were full of what was to come and besides, ladies should not mind such things anyway.

They checked into the prestigious Cumberland Hotel, (where Anne was later to have her wedding reception), where they were engulfed by reporters from Society and the other magazines eager to discover who was in town now and quite what they were having done to them. The girls naturally, did not comment, (for they could not), and nor too did the maids, so the reporters had to be satisfied with their names alone and a couple of pictures of them in their extravagant purple fur-lined walking outfits. Immediately, they retired, were bathed and then stripped down to their corsets and monoglove and another night of feminine intimacy was enjoyed.

Anne recognised the South London Hospital for Women from her last stay there, (although of course, she mentioned that visit to no one), but this time things were much different. Now that she was a lady and secrecy was not the order of the day, she found herself greeted upon arrival by the Head Surgeon who ushered her through to his office and explained fully what enhancements were to be performed upon her body. Once again the calculator image was brought out and demonstrated to her but then the surgeon went into much further detail.

“What this screen does not show us, miss, is the actual shape that your new breasts will obtain – and I say ‘new’ because they will be just that, and quite unsuitable for the feeding of infants I am afraid. Now, please look at these two pictures here. The first shows the breasts of a lady whom is size 36DD naturally and the second is a lady whom I enhanced to that size, (she was quite humble beforehand). Now can you see the difference in the shape, miss?”

Anne could, but with her mouth full of fleur de bouche, she did naught but nod. She was however, quite shocked. The natural 36DD breasts were, well… natural. They dropped somewhat as did most large breast. The enhanced breasts however, stood firm and round, as round as footballs and looked very, very fake.

“The shape, miss, it is obviously artificial, and this is of great import. You see, the point to enhancements is not only that they will make you appear more feminine and thus attractive to your spouse, but also in that they display your wealth and status. It is not unknown for ladies already endowed with large breasts to have surgery whereby their size is not increased, only their shape. The beautiful breasts that you shall soon possess will be a symbol to all of your position in society. They will be much like those shown there except that your husband has requested larger nipples which shall be pierced as so so that they remain permanently erect and sensitive. The effects for you, miss, will be most noticeable I believe.”

‘Indeed,’ thought Anne.

“Now, moving onto the other enhancements ordered. Naturally your fiancé has ordered considerable buttock enhancements, known in the business as gluteal implants. Now, this will entail the implanting of these elastomer pads into your buttocks which will result in not only more curves at the back, but also wider hips. I must admit, I feel that the effects will be striking.”

The surgeon held up two gel-like implants that Anne realised would soon be inside her. The thought was not a comforting one, particularly as she had never desired a larger bottom and indeed, the fashion in Moskva was to try achieve as small a one as possible with girls often asking one another as they tried on a new pair of trousers or a dress, ‘Делает моя задница выглядит большой в этом?’1 Now hers definitely would whatever the clothing.

“Moving on, we have also the lips. Your fiancé has requested only minor injections of collagen to fill them out a little, though there will be other work done in that area as our piercer will be attending to your tongue. Whilst we are on that topic, piercings are also planned for your clitoris and of course, the nipple piercings will be equipped with rings as is standard.”

Piercings! Although she had had her ears done as a child, Anne had never considered getting anymore. But now her tongue (why??) and her clitoris!!! Having the latter done sounded most painful yet also somehow exciting. Knowing much more about English culture these days she guessed that it was something to do with sexual activities.

“And the other area, permanent fingernail extensions and eye lash extensions as standard, but the hair removal is a little more than normal. Your fiancé has requested permanent hair removal around all your genitalia and under the arms. You will experience a slight burning at first, but do not fear, it shall pass. Now, shall we get started, miss? Please, let your maid undress you….”

Hair removal, now that sounded scary! Still, what say did she have in it all. Even though it was her body, none at all. In fact, in a way she no longer even owned herself. Anne stood meekly as Perkins undressed her and the surgeon sunk a long needle into her thigh. Seconds later her whole world went black…

When Anne awoke, she ached all over. She was lain in a hospital bed ina white room, the only colour provided by a bowl of fruit and some flowers beside her. At first she felt weak and drowsy and so just lay there. Then Perkins lifted her up and she saw the bandages around her breasts and buttocks. Her lips and private area tingled and she could feel the piercings in her tongue and clitoris.

It was a week before the bandages were removed. When they were Anne was shocked. Her breasts and buttocks were bruised and discoloured. The nurse told her it was nothing to worry about and sure enough, with time the brusies did disappear and she was left with two heavy rounded breasts and an enormous rounded derriere. There were strange, unnatural additions to her body. Her new lips were strange too. When she sat it felt like she was sat on a pillow, when she opened her mouth it all felt inflated. The rings on her nipples fascinated her. She wished to touch them, and her clitoris too, which was now permanently aroused. The state of arousal made it difficult to sleep, difficult to do anything except imagine coupling with her new husband. Anne felt cheapened yet excited. Like so many things in her new life, the contradiction was overwhelming.

When another week had passed she was allowed out. Perkins dressed her in a new corset, (for the old one no longer fitted), and elaborate walking outfit, this time in dark grey. Outside the reporters were there again, eager to snap the newly-enhanced future Duchess of Norwich. Much as she didn’t want to, Anne felt sexy and seductive as she strode out to the car. She only wished that Clare were with her, but her enhancements had not been so extensive and she had already returned to Miss Garner’s. Anne expected to return straightaway, but to her surprise she was driven to a photographic studio and ordered to strip. This she did and then she was dressed in her old Red Army uniform. At first she wondered why but then she recalled her fiancé’s kinky request. She posed for photos in clothes that were now too small for her, her breasts bursting out of the top whilst her buttocks causing the seams of the trousers to stretch. When she saw the photos she was embarrassed. Gone was the brave heroine of the USSR and in her place a buxom bimbo parody of one. Anne felt cheapened yet still she somehow liked it. The dichotomy was excruciating.

Back at Miss Garner’s however, she soon put her new body into the back of her mind as the normal routine resumed. She discovered why her nipples were now ringed, (so that they could be attached to similar rings inside her dresses to stop her new breasts from popping out unannounced!), and why her tongue hah had a stud driven through it, (it enhances a male’s pleasure when serviced orally Miss Simpson explained). She was just about to explore this new function one Sunday after church when she was unexpectedly called into the Headmistress’ Office. Once in Miss Garner simply said, “Anne, sit down. I have something very serious to tell you…”

1 Does my bum look big in this?

Chapter 14

Miss Garner removed Anne’s fleur de bouche and then looked at her square in the eyes. “Anne, I shall be straight with you,” she said gravely. “We have a difficult situation, nay, a tragedy, here at the Institute. You are close with Miss Clare Hawkins, are you not?”

Anne nodded to confirm that she was.

“Miss Hawkins’ father shot himself this morning at his estate just outside of Stockport.”

Anne gasped involuntarily. “That’s awful!” she exclaimed, before realising that she had had no invitation to speak. Miss Garner however, did not chastise her.

“It is only the beginning, Anne. Mr. Hawkins shot himself because of debts, gambling debts. It transpires that he spent the entire twenty-four hours of yesterday at a gaming table in Buxton Spa. He lost his entire fortune; Clare is destitute.”

“Oh no! That’s… that’s unthinkable!”

“Unthinkable is the word, Anne, but alas for dear Clare, it is also true.”

“But what will become of her?”

“That my dear, is the unthinkable part. She cannot stay here as she has no money to pay for fees and she has no marriage prospects of course; her fiancé broke off as soon as he heard which is only understandable. Mr. Hawkins not only died penniless but had also accrued a great number of debts. No one will marry Clare as they would have to take on a portion of them. Her only option is… employment.”

“But she cannot, she is a Lady of Leisure!”

“She was a Lady of Leisure, Anne.”

“I understand Miss Garner, but what I meant is that, well… she can’t work ecause she doesn’t know how to; she has only been educated to be a lady.”

“If it were merely a question of education Anne, that would be workable, but it is more than that. Anne has been corseted to such an extreme that she has to be laced into those dimensions for her to survive; her muscles couldn’t cope with being unlaced these days, and laced so she is useless for any kind of work. Besides, her enhancements have been made…”

“Yes! Yes! And she is a naturally pretty girl too; surely some man would be glad to have her as a wife?!”

“Glad to have her perhaps, but not as a wife, not any man of means. You see, as I have just pointed out, her enhancements have already been made and that makes things far more difficult. Enhancements are a man’s stamp, his signature on a lady. She has already been stamped, claimed. No man would touch her, it is as if she is no longer a virgin!”

“But then what can she do?”

“There is but one course left to her, Anne, and it is a most loathsome one indeed. The House of the Enhanced Venus have already enquired. As you have already stated, she is naturally pretty and many men would be glad to have her. They are willing to pay off her late father’s debts… in exchange for control over her entire life…”

“The House of the Enhanced Venus! But surely… surely there is another option?!”

“Not unless someone agrees to marry her within the week, and as I have already said, that is a most distant possibility indeed.”

“But it is terrible, so terrible… she is such a good girl… she doesn’t deserve this…”

Fat tears were now rolling down Anne’s doll-like face. Miss Garner came over and wiped them away. “Anne, cease your weeping, you need to be strong. Clare has just been told and she is distraught. You need to be at her side, comforting her.”

Anne looked up at her headmistress. “You are right, I shall go there immediately; replace my fleur de bouche, please.”

Clare Hawkins was indeed distraught. She sat on a chair by her bed weeping uncontrollably, her maid dabbing at the tears every few second, doing the job that her own useless, bound arms could not. When Anne entered she came over to her friend and pressed her face against Clare’s. Oh how she would have loved to have been able to put her arm around her as well! Still, Miss Garner had allowed her to be sans fleur de bouche and so she whispered in her ear, “Everything will be alright, Clare, all will be fine.” Clare however, was not thinking of the future, instead only her dead father and lonely mother came into her mind. “Lord Jesus protect her and welcome him into Heaven!” she just repeated, over and over again. Anne kissed away her friend’s tears and Clare smiled. Even the thoughts of her fiancé and the commencement of the vibration of her anal plug could not disturb the warmth and tragedy of the moment.

Anne was prepared to stay with Clare all day for it was clear that the girl needed her and valued her company, but within thirty minutes Perkins came into the room and hoisted her out of her chair. “Miss, it is time to go, let me put in your fleur de bouche.”

“Go! I cannot go, Perkins, I am needed here!”

“But Miss, you are needed at Capt. Hope’s house; it is time for your visiting!”

Anne however, was in no mood to be pleasuring the old seaman at that particular time. “I shall not go Perkins, I stay here today.”

“But Miss, you shall, it is ordered!” Then the maid harshly shoved in the fleur de bouche and stood her charge up on her heels.

“Mmmpf! Mmmpf!” said Anne, shaking her head vigorously and resisting the efforts of the maid.

“You must, Miss!” reaffirmed Perkins harshly.

“Go sweet Anne,” said Clare, “but hurry back to my side afterwards!”

And so having no choice, Anne minced miserably away.

At Capt. Hope’s Anne decided to put on a brave face and push her friend’s woes to the back of her mind. Perkins left, her fleur de bouche was removed, and she knelt down and began to administer to the old man. At first her was most complimentary about the effects of her new tongue stud and began to suggest ways in which to maximise its potential, but alas, Clare’s woes began to push themselves to the forefront of her mind and before she knew it she was weeping uncontrollably into the seaman’s crotch. When he noticed, he pulled her away, sat her on his knee and asked her what was the matter.

“It is nothing, sir,” she replied.

“Nay lass, it is something. We have known each other for some time now and I know you to be an excellent pupil, not easily put off your studies by worldly woes. For you to be crying into my pants must mean that something terrible has occurred.”

And so, before she even realised it herself, the whole story was flooding out; the suicide, the gambling, and then the House of the Enhanced Venus. At the end Capt. Hope looked away in the distance as if lost in thought and said quietly, “I can see why you were distracted Anne, for ‘tis a terrible tale indeed, terrible and cruel. Well, there shall be no lessons for today, for you are in no state to heed them, so instead I shall return you to Miss Garner’s – for your maid is not due to return for a good hour yet – where you can attend to the needs of your friend. Come now girl, you have a duty to fulfil as a ministering angel…”

Anne would have thrown her arms around that old man if she could have done! What a kindly soul he was!

The rest of that day and night was spent comforting her friend and providing a modicum of solace in a dark and uncaring world. In the early hours of the morning they fell asleep side by side on the bed, but morning came round again to remind them of their woes. Clare sought hard to be strong, but it was a front and both trembled when she was called to Miss Garner’s office that morning, for it could mean only one thing.

With Clare absent Anne elected to stay in the room and wait, praying to God that her friend may be spared somehow. The minutes ticked by slowly and as each passed the weight of Clare’s fate pressed down further on Anne. Then, after some ten minutes or so, Perkins entered the room. “You are to see the headmistress, Miss,” she announced. Wearily, Anne stood, allowed Perkins to fill her mouth with the fleur de bouche, and minced down the corridor to the office.

Once inside though, she saw something that she had not anticipated. It was a Clare Hawkins with a broad smile on her empty mouth. “Anne! Anne!” she cried, “I am saved!” Anne looked quizzically at the headmistress.

“It is true, and you have helped to save her!” declared Miss Garner.

Her?! But how? Through her prayers? Surely not!

“You confided in Capt. Hope of Clare’s woes and he came here to see me. He asked to see photographs of the girl and then offered to marry her on the spot; her father’s debts and all. Said that since he hadn’t long left in this world, he could use that time to do a little good and help an innocent soul. Yes indeed, Anne, Clare is saved!”

Overjoyed the two girls minced over to each other and pressed their faces together, tears streaming down them and mingling. This time though, the tears were of happiness, not misery.

“Excuse me ladies,” interjected the headmistress, “but I am afraid that all the news is not so good.” Both girls moved away from each other and turned to face their teacher. “Anne here has disgraced herself immeasurably; first in refusing her orders to go to Capt. Hope’s and secondly in failing to complete her studies at his house. Now I appreciate that circumstances were extreme, but rules are rules and so I am afraid that a punishment is in order.”

Miss Garner’s eyes however, were not angry as she said those words and besides, with Clare saved; she knew that she could face any punishment on earth…

Links to all parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

The Tale of Anastasia: Part 6

Links to all parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Chapter 11

Anne was woken early on the morning of the 12th June. Two days prior, she had returned to Kedleston where she had greeted her family again and then immersed herself in trying out outfits whilst Lord Curzon finalised the preparations. Everyone was happy and Anne felt herself getting caught up in the joyous mood at times and almost forgot that this man whom she was to be engaged to was chosen by someone other than her in a manner which she did not approve of. This was perhaps the greatest indicator of all that during her time spent at Miss garner’s Institute for Young Ladies, Anne’s mindset had been changed subtly yet surely and she was by now far more a Lady of Leisure than she realised. However, whilst misgivings of a choice of husband did not trouble her unduly, those of what accompanied did, for present for the celebrations after her third and final trip to the hospital was Charity and she was a living embodiment of the horrors of enhancement.

Since her third trip Charity’s breasts had swelled dramatically in size, so much so that they now dominated her whole body and were, (according to her half-sister) an official size of 52MMM.1 More disconcerting though, were the changes that had gone on with her face which was now virtually unrecognisable from that of the girl whom Anne had first met less than a year ago. As promised, her lips had now been inflated to such a size that they appeared as two pillows on her face and indeed, Charity could not close them completely and drooled without her fleur de bouche. When she did have that implement removed, her speech was now much different, somewhat slurred and with a lisp which Charity explained was caused by the fact that her tongue had been deliberately shortened and inflated and a large piercing driven through it. Furthermore, her nose had been reduced to a mere button whilst her eyes were now large and staring like a doll’s, bright blue in colour caused by contact lenses decreed as mandatory at all times by her fiancé. This with her platinum blonde hair created a impression of vacant mindedness and inhumanity. Anne shuddered when she thought that her lot would probably not be dissimilar.

On the day of her engagement though, even those thoughts were driven from her mind and all that Anne could think about was staying alert and not fainting away. The lacing started as soon as she was bathed and continued in stages until one. Then work began on her hair and then came the dress, an outrageous creation in cream which took several hours to fit as it required over a hundred fresh roses to be pinned onto it. Whilst this was being done her make-up was attended to and her boots laced on before finally, at four o’ clock in the afternoon she was led out of her room, down the stairs and outside to the garden party that was being held in her honour. After that, things passed by in a flash. She was introduced to the Duke of Norwich, (who wasn’t unhandsome and not too old either), and speeches were made by Lord Curzon and the Duke. Then came the engagement itself, with a large diamond ring being placed on one of her wooden replica fingers and the dreaded enhancement demands being given to Lord Robert. Finally Anne was presented with a box, (which Perkins took on her behalf), which she knew could only contain one thing and thoughts passed through her mind of what it would be like to have something shoved… up there. Then there was music, some chatter and it was over even before it had begun and Anne Curzon was a single woman no longer but instead promised to a man whom her ears had not yet drunk a hundred words of that tongue’s utterance.

As that man and his tongue contained to drink and be merry out in the garden however, the first intimations of intimacy to come were being made known to Anne in the bedroom. Immediately she had been stripped down to her chastity belt and corset before being laced into a monoglove, bathed and then placed on the bed face down, her buttocks in the air. Then Perkins approached with the box, opened it in front of her mistress’s face, covered the ivory rod within in olive oil and then slowly but firmly inserted it into her anus. The feeling was a peculiar one. It caused her to feel full and bloated and tight down there, yet at the same time it was comforting and almost as if her husband was with her. Still, whatever the feeling, Anne knew as she settled down to sleep on her side that evening, arms pinioned behind her, waist compressed to nothing and her buttocks full of her fiancé’s gift, that she would have plenty of time to get used to it.

Less than an hour after she had returned from Kedleston, Anne was called into the Headmistress’s office. With the help of Perkins she minced down the corridors and into the office where the maid sat her down before leaving after a glance from Miss Garner. Then the door was shut firmly behind her and to Anne’s surprise, Miss Garner removed Anne’s fleur de bouche.

“I have asked you here, Anne,” she started, “to discuss a matter which I am sure has been utmost in your mind over these last few weeks. You doubtless know by now that it is standard procedure during any engagement ceremony conducted in this country involving a Lady of Leisure, for her fiancé to submit a list of desired enhancements that he wishes to be made to his fiancée’s body. Your fiancé was of course, no different from all the others in this respect and indeed I have the list that he handed to your uncle here in my hand. However, whilst I must impress that these enhancements will take place whatever your feelings on the matter, I do also appreciate – and sympathise – with the majority of my girls who harbour grave misgivings and fears about the operations before they take place, and indeed, considering the recent history of your family, I doubt not that you Anne, must be harbouring greater fears than most. Am I right in this respect?”

“Yes ma’am,” nodded Anne.

“As I suspected. And may I also ask, are these fear partially based at least, on the recent enhancements that your cousin Charity has been subjected too.”

Again Anne nodded. “Yes, ma’am…” Her voice started to falter, and a tear appeared in her eye. “Please ma’am, I don’t want to become like her… a freak… it’s terrible!”

The headmistress smiled kindly at Anne. “Do not fear child, your situation and Charity’s are quite different. You say that what has happened to her is terrible, and I quite agree, for it is. What has been done to her is nothing about beauty and more about… well, I don’t know what depraved ideas are behind it but believe me, they are deprived. Fear not though, your guardian would never have chosen you a husband that would demand such things.”

“Then why has he chosen such a beast for his own daughter?”

“Now that is a worthwhile question Anne, and I suppose it only right that I answer it now. However, before I start, let me reassure you that your enhancements are not to be like those of Charity; indeed, I consider them quite restrained indeed. Does that comfort you somewhat?”

“Yes ma’am.”

There was a short silence whilst Miss Garner collected herself and Anne regained her breath which she had lost during her spate of high emotion. Once her breasts had stopped heaving thought, the headmistress began.

“Anne, the situation of you and your cousin – or should I say half-sister, though trust me, not a word shall ever be breathed of that matter – could not be more different. For starters, the Good Lord has blessed you with a natural beauty that Charity, alas, never had. You are the very image of your mother who was a most celebrated beauty in her day whilst Charity has always been at best plain and at worst, well somewhat ugly. I do not wish to sound harsh, but it is the truth, even if it is not just that she have no natural bloom or elegance. Now that of course, does not mean that you are perfect; your features are the very epitome of prettiness but your figure is boyish; an English lady has sumptuous breasts and derriere, you have neither, but this we shall come onto in a while. In the meantime, back to your sister.

So, your sister was born without beauty and alas, her early education soon revealed her to be without either grace or brains either. She was a clumsy girl who excelled at naught save for gossiping and giggling. Your step-father wished for me to enrol her here – he offered me a lot of money in fact – but I said ‘no’. I have a reputation to uphold you see and I knew that even my tutelage could not create a lady out of her. All of that however, does not account for her current predicament; that I am afraid she brought on herself.

Instead of Miss Garner’s, Charity instead attended Berkhamstead School for Girls, an esteemed yet not that esteemed educational establishment in the Home Counties. There she went and there she failed to excel. However, last year, she managed something far worse. Berkhamstead you see, also operates a boy’s school and once a year they hold a Grand Ball where the girls and boys may dance; the idea being to accustom them to life after school. However, at this dance she met and fell in love with one of the male pupils, the son of a shipping magnate I believe. Anyhow, somehow – I certainly cannot fathom out how, their security must’ve been lax in the extreme – she and this young man managed to sneak out into the garden where they were found copulating by no less a figure than the Mayor of Berkhamstead – quite what he was doing in the gardens, no one is quite sure, nor will they dare to question. Well, after that her prospects were ruined. As you know, to become a bride in this country, a girl must still be a virgin. Now of course, as you have direct experience of – nor shall I breathe a word about that too – there are ways and means these days of rebuilding a hymen, but one can never rebuild a reputation. Charity’s mistake was not that she copulated with this boy, but that she was so stupid as to get caught. She was expelled immediately, (though he only received a sound thrashing I believe), and all hope of marriage was lost, for even with her large dowry, no respectable man would ever think about marrying her. Oh, your step-father tried of course, but there were no takers. He had given up hope, the worst that could happen had happened and then, he received a visit from the Earl of Stafford.”

“An offer of marriage?”

“Indeed Anne, but with conditions. The Earl of Stafford had a reputation and no respectable father would allow their daughter near him, but even so, as a male his plight was not as desperate as Charity’s. But anyhow, he offered your step-father a lifeline, full and open marriage to Charity, but on one condition: extreme enhancements. Lord Curzon tried to argue and reason with him of course, but to no avail; without the enhancements, no marriage. And so in the end he had to agree.”

“But why would he want such… enhancements?”

“Who knows what goes on in the minds of men, Anne, who knows? However, it is well-known that the Earl of Stafford is a regular visitor to the House of the Enhanced Venus and it appears that he wished for something similar to… take home.”

“But what is the House of the Enhanced Venus, ma’am?”

“It is a brothel, Anne, in plain English, a whorehouse, but in reality it is far worse than that. The girls in the House of the Enhanced Venus, do not come cheaply you see, for it is far worse than that. Indeed, these girls are not noble girls, often from quite humble backgrounds, but they are educated in a manner reminiscent of the worse kind of Ladies’ Institute and then they are enhanced beyond all recognition. The ladies there, if ladies be the word, have breasts the size of beach balls and lips so large that they can no longer speak clearly through them. Their noses are reduced to mere buttons, whilst there buttocks can fill the largest armchair. They are made into parodies of feminity for the enjoyment of the most deprived of England’s manhood. Many have their teeth removed so as to give more oral enjoyment, others have far more removed, be it arms or legs. Some are mere stumps of humanity, pillows for the enjoyment of the sickest of men; men such as the Earl of Stafford. The place is a disgrace to our nation; it gives fuel to foreign fires that our society is debauched and immoral. Many have campaigned to close it down but when it numbers royalty, archbishops, peers and even the prime minister amongst it patrons, well, what chance have such measures of ever being implemented? Particularly since it is also a good source of foreign revenue – your compatriots the Russians being the best customers I believe.”

“But that is sick, disgusting!” exclaimed Anne. “How do those poor ladies live?”

“Anne, I do not know, but often they do not live long. Those who have the ability to, often commit suicide; alas the more brutally maimed cannot do that, though the Lord takes most before long. A few of course, enjoy it but then their minds must be even more addled that those of their customers if that be possible. But anyhow, that is that and that is why Charity is as she is. Do not blame Lord Curzon, and do not fear either, her lot is not yours. You have beauty and a reputation and very soon, thanks to the enhancements ordered by your fiancé, you shall have an even greater supply of both. Now Anne, let me help you stand and come over here to look at this viewing screen connected to my calculator.”2

Helped up by Miss Garner, Anne minced over to the screen where she was sat onto a small stool in front of it. Then the headmistress went over to the device and typed some figures into it. Then, on the screen, an outline of a female figure appeared and started to rotate in front of her. “That figure,” said Miss Garner, “is you, Anne. Or at least, you when you entered this establishment. I have typed in your measurements and here is the result. As I said before, and is quite clear from this projection, your figure is boyish, your breasts small and your derriere almost non-existent. Now, let us add in the changes that have occurred since your arrival here.” The headmistress typed in some more figures and pressed the ‘Send’ button. The waist constricted dramatically whilst her breasts and buttocks grew very slightly. “This is you before the ball, the measurements that were sent out to all prospective husbands. As you can see, the corseting regime that you have undergone has had a dramatic- and indeed pleasing – effect. Your waist is much smaller and some of the fat has been pushed into your breasts and derriere. All in all, the effect is quite stunning; the contrast between the smaller waist and other areas, even if they have barely grown is incredible and indeed, for a Lady of Leisure in the past, it would have to suffice. These days however, we have science to help us and so, if I type in these measurements provided by your fiancé, well, you will see what I mean…”

Miss Garner typed and pressed ‘Send’ and Anne certainly did see. The breasts of the figure on the screen blossomed outwards whilst the bottom ballooned in size. These additions, added to the tiny waist, created an incredible – and incredibly sexy – silhouette. Anne gasped and Miss Garner smiled. “It’s remarkable isn’t it?” she commented. “I must admit Anne, I think that your step-father has chosen well for you, as the Duke of Norfolk’s tastes are exquisite. The breasts are actually somewhat smaller than is standard for a Lady of Leisure, but I for one think that breasts that are too large can detract from the waist which must always be the centre of attention, whilst the derriere, well, now that is somewhat larger than standard so it seems that your husband-to-be is what is commonly referred to as an ‘arse man’. The derriere is of course, not seen by the public, only intimately and so is his special preserve and I guess that it will be a little strange at first for you but I personally feel that such dimensions suit you, Anne. Now of course, this programme does not show all. Breasts have different shapes of course, some sag, some are firm and hopefully, in years to come we will have the technology to display such intricacies on screen as well, but for now, well, you have a general outline, do you not? Now, I have made an appointment for you at the South London Hospital for Women two months hence where all enhancements will be made. Before then, try not to think about them and instead focus your mind on studying and pleasing your fiancé on his monthly courting visits. Now Anne, do you have any comments to make or questions to ask?”

Anne of course had a thousand questions to ask and a hundred comments to make but she had caught the tone and glance of her headmistress. Only one, ma’am,” she replied.

“And what is that, Anne?”

“May you replace my fleur de bouche and have Perkins escort me back to my quarters. I am suffering from fatigue caused by my journey.”

“Certainly Anne. Goodbye.”

1 For those who wish to compare this with someone in our world, I believe that Sabrina Sabrok has similar sized breasts. She however, wanted to have them.

2 These terms can be translated into ‘monitor’ and ‘computer’ in our world although there are differences between our concepts and Anne’s.

Chapter 12

Life returned to its usual monotony of intense restriction and lessons for Anne but things were not quite the same now that she was engaged. For starters the large ivory phallus in his anus reminded her of new status daily but also there was the prospect of monthly ‘courting’ visits from her future husband. The first of these came rather quicker than Anne had anticipated – time flew by at Miss Garner’s sometimes – but she certainly remembered it for a long time afterwards. As with any special event, she was excused from lessons, laced tighter than usual and dressed sumptuously, this time in a grand ‘walking’ dress in forest green, (that permitted virtually no walking whatsoever). The Duke of Norwich arrived at one as expected and met her in the sitting room where he kissed her on the cheek, (causing Anne to blush in a most embarrassing fashion!), before helping her up by the waist and taking her for a tour of the garden. Whilst she struggled along, her breasts heaving nine to the dozen with the exertion of exercise, he chattered to her, talking of the wedding preparations and his hopes for the future. She learnt that they were to be married in London, in no less a temple than Westminster Abbey and following that the Reception Banquet and Ball – and the wedding night! – would be in the prestigious Cumberland Hotel. When they got to the end of the garden however, where there is a white bench surrounded by a trellis of flowers, her fiancé leant over her and whispered in her ear.

“Anne, I love you very much.”

Anne did not reply of course. She could not with an enormous red fleur de bouche lodged in her mouth.

“Do you love me?”

Did she love him? She looked at her fiancé. He was certainly a man that a girl could love but as of yet, she did not love him. Still, could was a start. She nodded slightly as her high collar permitted naught more.

“My love, your waist excites me, it causes an unquenchable fire in my loins and a thirst in my throat. Oh how I desire to kiss your ruby red lips!”

It was at that moment that Anne realised that the duke was no poet. She felt his hands encircle her waist.

“I want it tighter and smaller. I want to lace you until you faint, my wasp-waisted angel!”

No, he was definitely no poet! And the thought of being laced even tighter, well!

“My darling does the ivory prick in your bottom fill you? Does it make you dream of times to come. When I think of you with me inside you…”

Well, it did fill her, but as for the times to come…

“…I cannot contain myself, but look here my dove, here is a secret that I shall share with you, our special love secret.”

Anne looked. He pulled from his pocket a small silver pocket watch. Or at least, that is what it looked like. However, when he flicked it open, she was surprised to find no clock, but instead a small switch.

“Do you know what this is, Anne?”

She shook her head.

“It is a reminder for you that I am thinking of you and missing you dearly and waiting for the time when we can be together as only a man and wife can,” he told her. Then he flicked the switch and to her hsock the ivory phallus deep inside her began to vibrate causing peculiar, yet pleasurable, sensations. She gasped loudly.

“Ssssh, my love, not so loud!” he chastised. “No one must know. Whenever I think of you I shall turn it on. It stays on for ten minutes, just about for you to… appreciate my devotion…”

Ten minutes of that! Already Anne was feeling quite hot under her high collar. Ten minutes of such sensations when she could be eating, studying, whatever! It would be a trial indeed, though not necessarily a terrible one.

“My angel, I must go, but remember, I count the days, and in a certain way I shall be with you every night and day!”

He stood up, kissed her on the cheek and then left her, red in the face and breasts heaving on the bench until Perkins came to collect her several minutes later.

“Girls, it is imperative, now that you are all engaged to be wed and become proper Ladies of Leisure, that I breach the difficult subject of Ladies Companions, for I expect that during your lives ninety per cent of you will have some experience with them and thus I believe that it is important to view them in the correct light.”

Anne was interested in Miss Garner’s words as she had never heard of these Ladies Companions before.

“Now, before I start, can I just make a count? Nod to me girls, if your mother has a Lady Companion.”

Anne looked around and noted that most of the girls in the room were nodding.

“As I expected. Now girls, please nod if this is a subject which distresses your mother and has been distressing you as you prepare for marriage.”

Again Anne looked about her and whilst a few of her companions had stopped nodding, most still were. This surprised her; after all, a Ladies Companion sounded quite a nice thing, not something to be scared of. She was eager to hear more.

“Indeed, it is as I feared. Now girls, I do hope that this lesson today will help to put most of those fears at rest, as well as explain to our two girls who have been brought up in foreign climes,” (and at this point she nodded to Anne and Oksana), “exactly what a Ladies Companion is and how we must deal with them. However, before we start may I state, state most plainly, that a Ladies Companion is not something to worry about. Is that clear girls?”

All the class nodded.

“Good. Now, what is a Ladies Companion? Well, the best way to describe one – and the official way – is a friend to a Lady of leisure. As we are all aware, Ladies of Leisure are privileged ladies and thus it is not appropriate for them to mix with any females on a personal level whom are not Ladies of Leisure themselves. However, that does present us with some problems, as Ladies of Leisure are few and far between and thus we can, at times, get lonely and in need of a sister in whom to confide our feelings. That is where Ladies Companions come in. These are girls whom our husbands or parents have educated to a certain degree – though not to the same high standards it must be stated – and who share our lifestyle and thus can empathise with our problems. They are however, much lower than us in the social order, being effectively somewhere between servants and mistresses, and are well aware of that difference in status. Therefore, you are superior to them and can order them about. Your servants on the other hand, cannot, unless the order comes from you. The only person who can supersede your authority with regards to Companions is your husband. Is that understood?”

All nodded.

“Excellent. Now all of that sounds good and nothing to fear, but of course, there is another side to Ladies Companions that is never – and I repeat never – discussed in polite company, but is present nonetheless, and it is this aspect to their role that causes so many Ladies of Leisure such distress. It is this that I shall discuss now and I shall do it by quoting from this book entitled ‘A Ladies Companion’ by one Melissa Lockhart who was the companion of the Duchess of Sutherland some fifty or so years ago. Please listen girls, for there is much that you can learn from it.

“ ‘I was born, dear reader, in a cottage in a small village in Staffordshire to a humble peasant farmhand and his wife. My childhood was idyllic, playing in the fields and helping my mother with the chores. We were not rich and indeed at times went short of food for there were eight of us children, but we were happy. All of that changed however, when one afternoon the Duke of Sutherland came riding through the village with some companions and we villagers stood by the roadside to bow, curtsey and marvel at that great man. I was about fourteen at the time and regarded as pretty in the village and when he saw me, he stopped and asked of my name. I gave it, proud that such a great man had deigned to notice me. Following this, he rode off and I thought no more of it until a week later my father announced to me that great luck had befallen me and that I had been offered a position in the great house at Trentham by no less a personage than the Duke himself who had been impressed by my bearing and intelligence when he had ridden through our village.

So it was that a trunk was bought and packed with my few belongings and I rode off to Trentham Hall on the back of a farm cart full of excitement as to what my new life might hold. Well, upon arrival I was introduced to the Housekeeper and placed to work at the Master’s Table serving his evening meal. This was not an easy job as you might imagine and much had to be learnt before I could commence my work, for not only must I know how to do the work, but also my bearing and diction as worked on, but everyone treated me kindly and indeed with a certain respect as if I were a lady myself. Once I began, I do confess that I made a few minor mistakes, but the Duke never once blamed me and instead I excelled so well that it was announced after only a month in the post that I was to be promoted to the position of ladies maid to no other personage than the Duchess herself.

Again though, this was a job that required much training, not only in actions but also in appearance. Her Ladyship decreed that all her servants be laced to no more than twenty inches and so I had to undergo some waist training as well as get used to the high heels of three inches that were also standard with the job. However, once these had been mastered, I began in my new role.

Seeing to the Duchess was much harder than serving at the table, (though the pay was five times the amount), as being a Lady of Leisure she could do virtually nothing herself, and furthermore, I had virtually no social interaction with her, (as Ladies of Leisure are no supposed to converse with servants), unlike with his Lordship who often used to chat with me. On top of this, she did not seem to appreciate my presence which I supposed was due to my inexperience and so I endeavoured to win her over by performing the very best that I could.

Every morning I woke her, bathed her and toileted her. It was strange and not pleasant wiping the bottom of a grand lady, but she seemed to accept with an air of indifference. Worse things were to come though, for I would also administer her enemas and help lace her to a frightening size of but fourteen inches, and then bind her arms in the incredibly painful-looking reverse-prayer position, so that they sat elegantly above her enormous bustle. I also fed her three meals a day and helped her sit and stand. To be fair, despite her coldness to me and her great status, I actually pitied the Duchess considerably, for she was a sorry soul indeed, sitting bored most days, unable even to wipe her own nose or brush a tear from her eye and having no one to talk with save her husband who was often in London or out on business or hunting. Little did I know however, what was in store.

Things changed all of a sudden when, after about four months in the post, her Ladyship got ill and the doctor was called. He was a middle-aged and quite effeminate man who hardly noticed me as he diagnosed her malady as the flue and recommended several months in the Italian sunshine. That was that and the following Monday her Ladyship left with another maid to keep her company, and I was at a loose end or so I thought. Then, on the Thursday, I was called into the Duke’s study and to my astonishment, the doctor was there and he explained, without hardly looking at me, that I had captured his heart when he had attended to Her Ladyship and that he had inquired of His Lordship who had informed him that I was single, and therefore I had come to ask my hand in marriage!

Well, what could I do? I told them of course that my father must have the final say in anything, but His Lordship assured me that he had already ridden over and asked and that my father was delighted, especially since the doctor was offering a sum of £20,000 to support my family, a sum that His Lordship had generously agreed to double. Well, it all seemed a fait accompli and whilst I felt nothing for this doctor, I knew that I had to accept for the sake of my brothers and sisters. However, I did point out that despite the generous offers of both the duke and the doctor, my parents relied on the wages that I sent home and I feared that if I were married I would be unable to work and support them monthly. To my surprise though, His Lordship said that he understood this entirely and that he and the doctor had talked the matter over and that whilst it was not usual for a doctor’s wife to go out to work, I was a special case and thus I would be allowed to continue to work at the hall. However, in light of my new status as the wife of a professional man, continuing as a maid would be unsuitable and so it was decided that I would become the Companion of Her Ladyship, a position that did need to be filled as the doctor had decreed that one of the causes of Her Ladyship’s ill-health was a lack of refined conversation. However, to fulfil that role I would require some training and so the doctor had agreed that I be sent away to a training school for six months and that he put off the wedding until I had completed my studies. And so it was that I agreed, gave my future spouse a peck on the cheek and then packed my bags and went off to study.

My studies were at an institution named Miss Grice’s Academy for Ladies Companions and they were far from pleasant. Much time was spent getting used to the clothing that I now had to wear which was similar to that of Her Ladyship only much plainer of course. I must confess that I found it hard to walk in ballet heels and move with my arms bound and I detested the insertion of a fleur de bouche in my mouth and the tightening of my stays to an excruciating fifteen inches, (they had to be tight, but not to eclipse those of my mistress). However, complete them I did and then I returned home to marry my husband in a quiet ceremony in the parish church attended only by my parents, His Lordship and the priest. Even then though, I do confess to you now that I had no inkling of the true nature of their scheming.

All was revealed however, that night, the very night that should be the happiest of a woman’s life. I was taken to my chamber and undressed by my maid so that my husband could receive me. Within an hour he arrived, but too my surprise seemed devoid of either passion and happiness. I tried to excite him but nothing worked and he just sat miserably on the end of the bed. Misunderstanding, I tried to comfort him, but then it was he who burst into tears and explained all. “My dear wife, for that is what I must call you now, I am sorry, so sorry, but you have been cruelly deceived and I am a part in it. You seem a nice girl and I wish that I could love you as a husband should, but alas, it cannot be, for I never have loved you or found you attractive, though that is not your fault. I am a sorry thing indeed you see, for my inclinations lie not with women but with men and I am already married – in my heart – to the butler, Mr. Greaves. It is not I that has had my heart captured by your beauty and grace, Melissa, but instead the Duke, a fine man, but alas also a married one. When he first saw you as a girl, you enraptured him and all of this, your job as a maid, then a ladies maid, now as a Companion and my wife are all just a ploy so that he can be with you respectably in the eyes of the world. You are destined to be married, Melissa, but not lawfully and not to me but him. I do like you and wish to be freinds with you, but naught more can we ever be. So please, forgive me and lie back, for within a quarter hour His Lordship will be hear and your duty is to pleasure him as you had imagined you would me. Goodnight and forgive me, Melissa.”

And so it was, that within the quarter hour His Lordship came and used me. Then my life as a Companion began and I understood why Her Ladyship had always treated me coldly. When she returned from Italy daily we sat, be it in the house or the garden, restrained and more often than not, muted, two dolls for him to play with. Sometimes she would be upended and used, other times I, often both of us at the same time, particularly when he had his friend, Charles Stanley around. She hated me as I was taking what was hers, yet I never asked for it and never wished to hurt her. Mind you, I will confess to enjoying it at times, but that is by the by, immorality should never be enjoyed and I ask the Lord daily to expel such devilish notions from my mind…’”

Miss Garner stopped and looked around the room. “I shall cease reading at that point, for what is relevant to us has been told and the remainder is more an exploration of Mrs. Lockhart’s intense, yet somewhat dulling, religious beliefs. What matters to us however, is as follows. Firstly, men get bored of their ladies after a while and look elsewhere. Secondly, they generally seek solace in a Ladies Companion whom you have to live with daily, almost as a second wife. Thirdly, Ladies Companions rarely choose to be such.

That men seek alternative partners is not something that you can do anything about so do not try to. That they seek solace in Ladies Companions is also not something that you can change. You can however, do something about your relationship with these unfortunate – and yes, I must emphasise that, unfortunate – individuals. In my opinion, the Duchess of Sutherland acted wrongly in the case of Melissa Lockhart. She shunned her from the word go and made both her life and that of the companion, a misery. My advice to you girls, is to embrace these Companions and treat them as companions instead. They cannot help their predicament but you can use them as friends and believe me, a friend is something that you often need as a Lady of Leisure. Indeed, treating them as such can even help your lot in other ways. What if your husband prefers his new-found lover and if she complains of your treatment to her, do you think that he will treat you kindly for it? No, not indeed, he will torture you in ways that only a husband can. Yes, you are superior to these girls, and that must never be forgotten, but they hold power too and you cannot give them cause to use it.

And besides, it is not all so negative and political. Have you not noticed that I have encouraged you all to have a friend and to be intimate with that friend whilst here at this school? Well, that was done for a special reason, for intimacy between two women can be an amazing thing, for we women understand each other’s bodies better than a man ever can, and besides, men like to watch two beautiful women enjoying each other’s company. So, my advice is to be friendly and love your Companion from the moment that you meet her. Pity her a little, make her know who is boss too, but also act as an older sister, (for invariably they are much younger than you are), and teach her, teach her pleasure and satisfaction, for any gift that you give, you shall receive a thousand fold, I promise. Now girls, that is all for today, you may retire to your rooms with your special friends where your maids will undress you and you may think of practicing some of the things that I have talked to you about today. Class dismissed!”

And dismissed it indeed was, with Anne glancing at Clare Hawkins and winking. British society truly was quite different under the surface that she had ever expected. But oh, if she could have a Companion such as Clare, then truly life could be quite enjoyable, quite enjoyable indeed…

Links to all parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

The Tale of Anastasia: Part 5

Links to all parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

 

Chapter 9

Coming home at Christmas was definitely more special in Britain than the Soviet Union. Although there was time off school in Moskva, no one really celebrated Christmas anymore since they weren’t religious, but here the whole country was excited, with a massive tree dominating the entrance hall at Kedleston. Anne accepted the bows and curtsies of the servants as she arrived and then greeted her family. She was so happy to see her mother and siblings again, and even Lord Robert, but straight away she knew that something was amiss, for Charity was not present. She would have asked, but of course, ladies do not ask things, particularly when they have a fleur de bouche in their mouths. And so it was that she was left in suspense until Lord Robert mentioned at dinner that evening, “And you’ll be pleased to learn, Anne, that your cousin Charity will be returning to us on Christmas Eve.”

Anne looked at her step-father quizzically in the manner that she had been taught by Miss Simpson. He caught the glance and asked, “Are you aware of where your cousin is, Anne?”

Anne shook her head.

“Oh, I do apologise, I thought you knew. Charity is currently at the South London Hospital for Women where she is undergoing the first set of enhancements as decreed by her fiancé in preparation for marriage. We were quite surprised at the dimensions that he stated, somewhat above the standard requirements, but then a man is master in his own house. That is why she is starting so early, so that come next September, everything shall be perfect.”

Anne did not have a clue what her step-father was talking about. She had heard ‘enhancements’ mentioned a number of times by people as some sort of precursor to marriage, but she had no idea what was meant by the term. That evening however, after dinner, she was allowed to sit with Hope for an hour in the Children’s Sitting Room without her fleur de bouche and so she used the opportunity to find out.

“Has nobody told you about Enhancements yet? We learnt about them at school last year; every girl – or at least most girls – must have them before they get married. Certainly Ladies of Leisure nearly always have them.”

“But what are they?”

“Well, they are our titties and bottoms and sometimes other bits too. You see, we are born with all these things, they are our gift from God but when we marry we should be special for our husbands, so our fiancés will say how they want us to be made more beautiful and special for them. It’s an act of supreme love my teacher said, whatever that means. Because our husbands love us so much they want us to be perfect and that means having large titties that are perfectly round and do not droop and a large rounded bottom too and maybe big lips as well or something.”

“So you are saying they alter our bodies?!”

“Yes, of course! We go to the hospital and the doctors make us more beautiful. When a girl gets engaged her fiancé presents his specifications – that’s how big he wants everything to be – to his fiancée’s father and between then and the marriage she goes to hospital. Normally it’s about a month before but with Charity she has to go three times papa said so the first visit is now.”

“Why does she have to go three times?”

“Because her fiancé wants very big enhancements made. Papa was quite shocked when he read the specifications – said some might be difficult for her – but since he has asked for them they have to be done. Her titties are going to be huge after the third visit I have heard, like those balls you play with on the beach as a child, and her bottom too. Also he wants something doing to her lips and her nose and lots of other things. I said to Charity that I wouldn’t be able to recognise her at the end. She was quite upset actually when Papa told her about it all, but she has no choice and I told her that it would be fun to have enormous titties but I only said it to cheer her up; I would only want standard Lady titties which are as big as watermelons.”

On Christmas Eve Charity did arrive back from the hospital and all the family were a little shocked even though they didn’t say so. Her breasts were noticeably larger and from what was said – although of course, under her skirts it could not be seen – her bottom was too. What was most disconcerting however, was a pair of enormous, pouting, luscious, red lips that had been grafted onto her face, obliterating her sweet smile completely. Anne was shocked that such a thing could be done to a woman without her having any say in it, and her feelings were only compounded when, after dinner, she sat with her half-sister in the Children’s Sitting Room and Charity spoke of her experiences.

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“I have never experienced anything like it. They are very good of course, and professional, but even so I must confess to being scared and crying a little. When you enter the doctor explains fully what he will do and then you are put to sleep. I was under the anaesthetic for over a day and when I awoke I felt most drowsy and muddle-headed. However, what struck me most was the aches all over my body, which was largely covered in bandages. I remained bedridden and bandaged for some days and then they were removed, although I am sorry to say that the sight was not a pretty one as the operations cause much bruising. My lips were incredibly puffed up, so much so that I couldn’t really speak or close them, although the doctor says that when I have been enhanced to the final specifications of my beloved, then they will be somewhat similar which worries me although I am of course happy to become as he desires. When I at last got up I had much trouble walking, partially because my muscles had weakened somewhat due to a lack of use but also because with these new breast… they are so large and heavy, they weigh me down and I must hold myself differently to walk. The strain causes me back pain and I fear for when they are further enlarged, but Mama assures me that special corsets will help me to cope. It is a burden being beautiful, but to please my fiancé, then it is worth it of course…”

All the girls nodded as they should, but Anne looked into her half-sister’s eyes and saw a different story to the one that her inflated lips told.

Christmas at Kedleston was a delight. They attended Midnight Mass by candlelight and had a wonderful meal of turkey and trimmings on Christmas Day itself. This was followed by presents and Anne found herself showered with new and expensive dresses, perfumes and glittering jewellery. She felt so happy that she would have liked to hug all present, but bound and silenced as she was, such was an impossibility. To make things even better, it snowed and the only blot on the whole experience was when Earl Stephen came to call on Boxing Day and, after admiring his fiancée’s enormous new lips and breasts, (and joking about how he couldn’t wait to view the other changes also, causing his shy bride-to-be to blush), he moved over to her sisters, remarked how much finer Miss Anne was looking these days, circled her waist with his hands and gave her a peck on the cheek and a wink. Anne felt sick and once again, thanked God that it was Charity and not herself who was to be wed to such a wretch.

All good things must come to an end though and within a couple of weeks Anne found herself back in the car travelling to Nottingham and the beginning of her new term at Miss Garner’s. Whilst she had enjoyed Christmas however, she did look forward to seeing her darling Clare again and going round to Capt. Hope’s for a friendly chat after her lesson.

The Spring Term at Miss Garner’s was centred around preparing for the Easter Ball and the attraction of a suitable spouse there. Waist training was now much more difficult since all the easy reductions had been made and each quarter of an inch now came with an immense effort. However, by the end of February Anne had reached the decreed fourteen inches and then work was concentrated on her stem which reached its required length a month later. Moving and living in this corset was a constant trial: Anne ate virtually nothing and was continually short of breath and light-headed. What was most distressing however, was that she knew that this corset – or at least one of these dimensions – was what she would be wearing for the rest of her life. The thought was a sobering one indeed, particularly for a girl used to physical activity, and her only consolation was that all the other pupils were in the same boat.

A new subject introduced specifically for the Ball was Dance. For this, thankfully, lower shoes, (heels a paltry four inches high!), and dresses with unbound arms (!) were worn and all the girls were instructed in steps by their teachers who, dressed rather unnervingly in male outfits, took the parts of their future suitors. Anne, who had a natural grace and rhythm, enjoyed these sessions and soon became the best pupil in the school.

More difficult were the afternoons spent bound and muted discussing ball gowns with Monsieur Saint Laurent who showed pictures, suggested alterations and additions to which she had to respond with either a nod or shake of the head. After a week of intense design sessions however, a dress was decided, an enormous creation supported by a huge crinoline, (fashionable for ballrooms apparently, but not outside them), in sky-blue satin, off-the-shoulder, decorated with large bows and roses and incorporating a high choker.

The dress decided, then it was her hair and make-up, every aspect gone into in the minutest detail, and once those were attended to, perfume. Once that was done, a date was set in March, (the day after her final corset could be completely closed), for Anne to attend a top photographic studio for a couple of days. There she was dressed ina variety of outfits and photographed before finally being laced into her magnificent ball gown and snapped in all her glory. At that moment Anne truly did feel like a real lady and was glad to be female and feminine. Thinking back on it that night in bed, she realised that a year ago her reaction would have been much different.

The pictures were for Anne’s booklet, a glossy publication detailing everything about her. When Anne was handed the finished article she felt somewhat surprised and almost hurt, as if her privacy had been invaded. In it a run-down of her life was written, including childhood pictures of her in Moskva and the photographs that Monsioeur Saint-Laurent had taken in London of her in her Soviet uniform and – worse still – of her in her underwear. One page gave a full measurements of every aspect of her body, (corseted and uncorsetted), which Anne suspected was for the purpose of future ‘Enhancements’, (a word that made Anne shudder with remembrance of her mutilated half-sister). Then there was her testimony, a brief description of her interests and feelings and what she looked for in a man. Since she had not written a word of it herself, (although it was signed off with her signature), she read it with interest. It was putrid stuff – ‘I want a man who will look after me and care for me, a noble spirit and protector’ – but Miss Garner explained that these pieces were standard for everyone and should not be taken too seriously.

But with the booklet, all was done and what was a girl to do but wait and worry? Wait for that magical evening, in the grand ballroom of the City Hall when she would twirl around the marble floor under the light of a thousand candles, supported by the arms of England’s most eligible bachelors.

And worry as to who – if anyone – would choose her, as to whether he would be leery like the Earl of Stafford, as to whether she would be enhanced so hideously like Charity so that she ceased to be a beautiful young woman and became instead a parody of beauty, a cartoon caricature, a sexual plaything, a toy, not a human being…

Chapter 10

At last the big day arrived! Anne was woken up early by Perkins, fed and then given a long and luxurious bath. As one would expect, there were no lessons that day for with all the preparations, there would be no time for them. After bathing, the first item to fit was underwear. Due to the fact that the dress was so large and there were no female toilets at the City Hall, it was decreed that all the girls must wear nappies like a baby followed by no less than three pairs of rubber pants, (the last pair reaching to just above her knees), to ensure that no liquid or odours escaped. Anne felt strange wearing nappies like a baby, particularly as they and the rubber pants caused her to waddle somewhat and gave the impression of her bottom being several sizes larger than it actually was. The lacing started mid-morning and by noon Anne was down to the required size and breathing regularly. She had only fainted away twice! Then came the petticoats, the crinoline and the dress itself. The fitting took several hours, for after it was on and laced up, hundreds were of roses were pinned on by hand. After that it was her hair, perfume and make-up and by six o’ clock she was ready. Then there was time for a small sandwich and glass of wine which filled her completely and caused her to feel light-headed before heading down to the entrance hall to meet the other girls.

The sight in that room was a joy to behold; a gathering of virginal beauty clad in the finest of gowns. All the girls looked magnificent and Anne was sure that by the end of the evening all would have won admirers. Only Oksana was absent, she having found a fiancé already, though even she would be having an enjoyable evening, for her beau had arrived in the city and was taking her out to the theatre.

Then the cars arrived and in twos, (for that is all each car would fit), they left the school and rode to the City Hall. Anne travelled with Clare and beamed with joy at her friend as they rumbled through the streets of Nottingham. Once at the City Hall they alighted to be met by a crowd of interested onlookers from the lower classes, for the Easter Ball of Miss Garner’s Institute was one of the major social events of the year and everybody liked to have a glimpse at the girls who would be gracing the pages of Vanity Fair and Nobility in years to come, and indeed photographers and reporters from those two esteemed publications were there also to snap and chat to the giggling girls.

Once inside however, with the hoi polloi gone, the atmosphere changed to one of refinement and class. The ballroom itself was incredible, huge with enormous crystal chandeliers, its walls lined with fine oil paintings and the noblest bachelors in all England. They stood quaffing wine and admiring the arriving belles and weighing up in their minds which would be best as a future life partner, whilst the girls casually eyed them up likewise and wondered in their minds what kinds of husbands they would make.

And then the music started! A waltz! Anne looked at her card and saw that she was booked to dance with the Marquis of Suffolk. Within a minute that man, a rather disappointing balding gent of around thirty-five with a large wart on his cheek came bounding over and took her hand and waist. Handsome he may not have been, but dance he certainly could, and as he spun her around the marble floor Anne felt more feminine and special than ever she had before in her short life.

After that it became a blur; the Marquis of Exeter, Viscount Lisle, the Earl of Essex, the Duke of Norfolk, Baron Monatgue, and many more, all a blur of ecstasy as she whirled round that room like a princess, held fast in the arms of a prince, a glowing example of beauty and elegance, a thousand versts away from a Soviet girl whose goal in life were a university degree and a career in the Red Army…

The weeks that followed the Easter Ball were terrible. Lessons resumed, but nobody paid any attention to them; they simply could not! Instead each girl was thinking only of the post which arrived twice daily, at seven in the morning and one in the afternoon.1 Who would propose? Would anyone propose?! How many? When, oh, when?! Slowly, after a week or so, the letters began to trickle in. They all followed the same formula:

Dear Miss X,

The Honorable Y would like to propose that his life be united with your own under the auspices of the Holy Church. Please accept this lock of hair as a token of my unending affection and consider my proposal with all your heart.

Not that the girls could consider at all. The letters that they received were all simply matters of protocol; it was the copies of them sent to the girls’ fathers that really counted, but even so it was nice to see the names in print and dream.

Anne received four proposals in all, including one from the balding Marquis of Suffolk which she dearly hoped Lord Curzon would reject. Miss Garner was extremely proud of this tally, the third-highest in the school, as she had feared that Anne’s foreign roots may have caused more problems and she put the fact that they had not down to her excellent tutelage. Anne however, didn’t care, just so long as her future husband was kind and caring and not a jot like the monstrous Earl of Stafford who was turning her half-sister into a balloon-breasted swollen-lipped freak as they sat there. She looked at the names – the Duke of Norfolk, Baron Montague, the Marquis of Suffolk and Baron Grey of Codnor – but aside from the Marquis, she could recall nothing distinct about any of them and besides, how could one form an impression of a man’s character based on a twirl around the dance floor? And so she waited and whilst she did comforted Clare who had only received one proposal, though it did come from a young and respectable Earl.2

Then at last did it come, the letter that she had so waited for. I shall display it in its entirety:

My dearest, darling Anne,

I am so overwhelmed with joy that you have accepted my offer of marriage. From the moment that I set eyes on you I have been in love and to dance with you at the ball was magical. I have spoken with your uncle and he has agreed and so we have set the date of our engagement as the 12th June. I count the days until I see you again on that joyous day!

Yours in everlasting adoration,

Richard Plantagenet, Duke of Norwich3

1 The idea of two postal deliveries a day is a peculiarly British one and persisted in our own world until very recently when it was decided to cut them down to one in the name of cost. A lamentable retreat from the eccentricity that defines the British and one that I hope has not been matched in Anne’s world.

2 One assumes that Clare Hawkins’ lack of success was due to her father’s wealth being made in manufacturing, not inherited.

3 In our world the Plantagenet’s were indeed the Dukes of Norwich but the line became extinct in 1483 as a result of the Wars of the Roses. One may therefore assume that either the Wars of the Roses never happened in Anne’s world or that the Plantagenet’s beat the Tudors.

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Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

The Tale of Anastasia: Part 4

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Part 7

Part 8

Chapter 7

A week after her summons to the Headmistress’ office, Anne was surprised when, on the Sunday following lunch, instead of retiring to the sitting room to read, Perkins put her walking bonnet and fleur de bouche on and led her out to a waiting car. She tried to ask using her eyes as she had been taught to and evidently she had learnt well for her maid caught her glance and once they were seated inside, explained.

“At Miss Garner’s Institute it is common for the pupils to visit elderly members of the community – respectable members – so as to provide them with a little refined company on the Lord’s Day and also to the pupils themselves get used to socialising. Today we are visiting Capt. Hope whom has been assigned as your elderly companion. He is a former naval officer of sixty-four years who had to retire due to a leg injury. Not only has he had to suffer that, but also his wife died of influenza some six years ago and so he is now very much alone. Your visit should provide him with some joy.”

Upon arrival at Capt. Hope’s townhouse, a maid opened the door and directed them into the sitting room where the captain, a jovial looking fellow with a large grey beard and twinkling eyes sat by the fire which was roaring brightly despite the fact that it was a warm day outside. “Greetings! Greetings! So you are the new girl from Miss Garner’s then? How wonderful to have you in my home. And what is your name, Miss?”

“Her name is Miss Anne Curzon,” replied Perkins.

“Wonderful, wonderful! I do so enjoy having you girls pop round and see me. I’ve been quite lonely you know ever since young Clarissa got married, but it was a wonderful wedding, it truly was and she looked so lovely in her gown. Now Miss Curzon, would you like some tea?”

“She would love some, Captain.”

“Excellent! Martha, tea for three please. Now, please, tell me all about yourself, Miss Curzon.”

“My mistress is sixteen years old, Captain and she is the ward of Lord Curzon of Kedleston. Her heritage however, is quite interesting, as she lived for many years in Russia before coming here. Her father you see, was a diplomat in the city of Moskva.”

“Russia, or should I say the Soviet Union? Indeed, a fine country, very modern. I was there several times, though only to Leningrad, never Moskva. A beautiful city though, the Hermitage is a remarkable museum. Ah, here is the tea!”

From the outset Anne liked Capt. Hope. He was a friendly man with a kind smile and she was pleased to meet someone else who had been to her country. If only she could speak to him! Alas of course, her fleur de bouche prevented that, and it would be impolite to speak when it was removed for tea drinking. Anne resigned herself to letting Perkins speak for her.

They sat and drank tea whilst Perkins made some general chit-chat and Capt. Hope enquired how Anne was liking Miss Garner’s. Then, after he had drank half a cup, the captain excused himself and left the room. Immediately, Perkins came over to her and whispered in her ear, “I shall be leaving myself for a while now Miss. Whatever he does, do not be alarmed, it is as it should be.” These words mystified Anne somewhat and she was wondering what they could mean when Capt. Hope returned, beaming as before and Perkins stood up. “Captain, I do apologise but there is an errand that I have to do; Miss Curzon here has a new set of stays waiting at the post office and I must collect it. Would you mind awfully if I left?”

“Not at all, not at all. We can stay here and chat about Leningrad and Moskva can’t we Miss Curzon?”

Now Anne really was confused! She knew nothing about a new pair of stays, (although to be fair, she was rarely informed about things concerning her these days), but what she did know was that the post office was shut on Sundays! Why was Perkins leaving?

Whatever the reason, leave she did and Anne found herself alone with Capt. Hope who was still beaming and sipping his tea. Once she had left though he changed his countenance to a more serious one, and moved nearer to Anne. “Now Miss Curzon, I am sure that your servant’s excuse has not fooled you, particularly since the post offices are closed on a Sunday in this country, (although not in the USSR I seem to recall), but do not fear, it was all for a reason that is to your benefit. You see, the thing is, you were not brought here merely to keep an old man company, although I must say your presence is charming, but instead, to help with your education. Now, I am about to do something, do not be alarmed. Are you sure that you will not be startled, Miss Curzon?”

As her mouth was filled with the fleur de bouche, Anne could merely nod, and that action too was slight due to her neck corset.

“Right, now, have you seen one of these before?” And to her shock the captain undid his trousers and pulled out his manhood and waved it in front of her. Anne gasped but then, remembering her promise, nodded. “Good, now that is a start, as many girls have not you know and are quite overcome at the first sight. In the USSR though, I appreciate that things are quite different and so I suppose that it is there that you… observed…?” Anne nodded slowly. “I see. Now, would you mind if I removed your fleur de bouche?” Anne shook her head and the captain removed it with a smile. “Excellent, things are moving well. Do you know what, we don’t often get to this stage by even the second visit with many girls; Clarissa took a month. Now Miss Curzon, I am sure that you are quite confused by all this, so would you like to ask me any questions?”

“Captain, sir… you have done this before… to young ladies?”

“Ever since my wife died six years I have been dfoing this every Sunday to young ladies from Miss Garner’s. We must never talk of it of course, not even to your maid and certainly not to your husband, but Miss Garner knows and promotes it. You see, she needs her pupils to learn certain skills which can only be learnt well first hand, whilst I, well, after my dear Prudence died, I fell into quite a state of depression and when I went to see the physician about it, he said that it was due to a build up of sexual fluids in my body and that I required regular release for the state of my health. And so we have a situation that suits us all, I teach you, you help me keep my health and the reputation of Miss Garner’s Institute remains high.”

“So are you saying that you have… sex with girls…?”

“Not exactly, no for that is impossible due to your chastity belts, and besides, it is immoral also. No, what I do is teach the young ladies how to pleasure their future husbands with their mouths and hands, although as you are bound today, then the latter will have to wait. Now, would you be willing to take my member in your mouth, Miss Curzon?”

“I do not know Captain, I have never done such a thing before…”

“That is fine, this must be done in your own time. Whenever you are comfortable. I can sit here and wait and whilst we wait we shall talk. So, tell me about life in Moskva then…”

Anne started to tell the captain all about her life in the USSR and he did seem genuinely interested, but it was most off-putting with him sat there with his penis hanging out and so in the end she stopped the conversation and said, “I should like to try, Captain.”

And so it was that he came over and placed it in her mouth. It was hard and had a slight salty taste to it, but it smelt alright and it was obvious that the Captain was a most hygienic man indeed. “Try sucking it a little,” he said. She did so and it stiffened further. “Try using your tongue, Miss Curzon,” advised Capt. Hope. This she did and was beginning to get into the rhythm when there was a knock on the door. “Your maid has returned,” he announced, withdrawing his tool and fastening his trousers up again, before replacing the fleur de bouche in her mouth. “Miss Curzon, you have made an excellent start indeed, really good. You can be proud of yourself; it took Clarissa over a month to achieve such results. Well done!”

There was aknock on the door and the Captain said, “Enter!” Perkins walked in. “Oh Capt. Hope, sir, I’m so sorry, but I completely forgot, the post office is closed on a Sunday isn’t it? I do hope that you weren’t bored here all alone with my mistress?”

“Not at all, not at all, Miss Curzon is quite satisfactory company indeed. However, I fear that it is time for her to leave now.”

“Yes, that it is Captain, sir. We’ll be off now but seeing you again next week, like.”

“I shall count the days. Good day to you, Miss Curzon.”

Anne curtseyed and left the house, still a little shocked at the difference between the public face and private reality in English aristocratic life.

Chapter 8

The visits to Capt. Hope on a Sunday afternoon became a regular part of Anne’s weekly routine. On the second week Perkin’s informed them that her sister who lived in the city was ill and would it be alright if she visited her to provide “a modicum of Christian comfort?” Capt. Hope of course agreed and this time Anne had a little longer with the old seaman and she managed to make him cum in her mouth although she did not manage to do it quickly or to swallow it. The Captain told her that these results would come in time and indeed they did. After the act though he sat her on his knee, and let her chat to him without the impediment of her fleur de bouche, whilst he gave her lessons from his vast life experience. Very soon she began to look forward to those Sabbath meetings regularly, as Capt. Hope was such a jolly old man, like the grandfather that she’d never had and he was an excellent and patient teacher besides. Lovingly he would stroke her hair whilst he explained how to improve her technique and when, after she had mastered the basics of oral stimulation and Perkins dressed her in a dress with unbound arms so that she could learn the art of manual stimulation, he would hold her hand afterwards as she sat on his knee, not replacing her locking muff until Perkins knocked on the door following her visit to her perennially-ill sister.

Life in the school also began to change in the months that followed her introduction to Capt. Hope. Her Diction and Deportment were declared ‘adequate’ and both she and Oksana were moved into the main class with the other girls. This was much less tedious and far more enjoyable as they learnt such things as polite conversation, the Classics, Shakespeare and Art History. Miss Garner explained that in other schools girls were not taught anything academic as their role in life was not to be clever but merely ornamental, but she believed in a different ethos. “After all,” she explained to her pupils one morning, “how many men tire of their women once their beauty starts to fade or get frustrated with them when they are travelling in Greece or Italy and all the girl can comment on is that those ancient ruins are ‘pretty’. Whilst they will never admit it, men need some intellectual stimulation as well as the sexual and emotive from their spouses and thus it is that here you shall learn all that you need to know on Art, Music, Theatre, Literature, History and Sport. Never try to dazzle your husbands with what you have learnt, always make sure that they are more knowledgeable than you, but woo them with it and bind them closer to you by it.”

This ethos was one that Anne wholeheartedly concurred with and she loved her lessons in Ancient History and Literature whilst he heart soared when they visited the theatre or a renowned violinist came into the school for a recital. Even in Moskva, with the world-class Bolshoi, she had never been able to indulge in the Arts as wholly as she could at Miss Garner’s – something practical always interfered – but here, hampered as she was by her clothing to do anything else, she immersed herself in them and emerged most refreshed.

In her lessons she also got to know her fellow students better for at certain periods they were allowed to sit and chatter without the impediment of their fleurs de bouche. Slowly Anne became friendly with Cecilia, the chestnut-haired daughter of Baron Mowbray, Camilla Stanley, daughter of the Prime Minister, the Earl of Derby, Susan Arrowsmith, daughter of the Bishop of Durham and Heather Graham, daughter of the Marquess of Montrose. Best of all though was Clare Hawkins, the daughter of Albert Hawkins, the great Manchester industrialist who mills and pottery banks generated more wealth than ten Earldoms. Generally those not of the gentry were not admitted into Miss Garner’s but Hawkins had paid a fortune as he wanted his daughter to marry a peer and so she had got in as an exception. Immediately Anne was drawn to her as, like herself, she was something of an outsider, but mostly because she had the sweetest, kindest heart that Anne had ever known and her bright blue eyes, framed by her blonde curls were a pleasure to behold. Within days the two had become soul mates, telling each other every little detail of their lives and whenever the girls were asked to work in pairs, Anne always chose Clare. This was to Miss Garner’s liking too, as Anne was much more able academically and so could help Sarah to learn some of the subjects that she struggled with whilst Clare excelled in Deportment and Etiquette and could help the inexperienced and often unsteady Anne.

One lesson that the girls particularly enjoyed was that of Intimacy. Every so often the pupils would be paired off and Miss Garner would instruct them on how one should be intimate with one’s husband, practicing of course on one’s partner. You might think that being intimate is virtually impossible when one is laced into an enormous dress with one’s arms disabled, but even so, one can still kiss and this is what they would do. From a simple peck on the cheek and brush on the cheek to lengthy and stirring kisses using tongues, Miss Garner would instruct the girls on how to perfect the Art of the Kiss. Anne always enjoyed kissing Clare and when it came to a deep, loving kiss she felt such a desire in her nether regions that she almost fainted. Miss Garner explained that this was quite usual and indeed, even desirable and their effort was declared the best of the class and they had to repeat for the others to observe; an experience that neither girl resented.

Whilst all this was going on, Anne’s costume was gradually getting more extreme in preparation for the big day of the Easter Ball. Miss Garner had explained in her induction into the school that for the Ball a minimum waist of fifteen inches was stipulated, but that in her opinion fourteen inches was not beyond the reach of Anne. And so it was that weekly Anne’s waist was reduced until she could hardly feel it at times and often fainted from the slightest exertion. When she eventually did reach fifteen inches in November, things were compounded by the fact that Miss Garner then decreed that she attain a stem waist of a couple of inches which basically entailed stretching her torso somewhat on the lacing bar so that she could wear a corset with an in-built circular metal belt in it that gave her waist an unusual and elegant shape. Unusual and elegant it may have been, but alas, it was also very painful and caused her to lose much feeling below the waist. She confided these woes to Clare who confessed that she was much the same, and that for her a final waist circumference of thirteen and a half inches had been decreed, but with a stem of no less than three inches. Neither of the girls could decide who was worse off.

As well as the waist, Anne’s neck also came in for a rough time. Miss Garner had given them a lecture one afternoon on future fashions and announced that it was predicted that over the coming five years, “Necks will get longer whilst skirts will get more bunched at the rear, leading perhaps to a re-emergence of the bustle.” Following this prediction, (Anne did not know where Miss Garner divined her ideas from although as the years passed, they proved to be accurate divinations), the girls all began to receive training in the use and wearing of bustles and also extra attention given to their necks which meant having them stretched to the maximum and laced into longer neck corsets than before which left them staring at the ceiling, rasping for breath.

And with different fashions come differing arm restraints. Miss Garner explained that the enormous gigot sleeves disguising folded arms was just one way of restraining the arms and over the years past and to come, many more had or would be used, often in ways that gloried in the restriction of the wearer rather than tried to hide it. The most common was that pioneered by the great Duchess of Hamilton herself, the monoglove whereby the arms are held, ramrod-straight, pinned behind the back in a most graceful yet tiring position. Thus it was that all the ladies were expected to spend two afternoons a week bound in such a glove, reading or listening to a musical recital. At first Anne hated it, but gradually she found it a welcome change from the gigot sleeves. It was interesting – yet infuriating also – that in these gloves, tailor-made for each wearer as they were, that even the fingers could not be bent, pinned as they were against each other, splayed out in all their glory. The restriction was total, which made Anne hate it yet at the same time it excited her which was disturbing. Why should restriction be exciting, even something that one looks forward to? One afternoon she went so far as to put the question to the Headmistress.

“Miss Curzon, you cite an excellent point, and one that is passed over in most establishments. A foreign observer views the restriction under which a Lady of Leisure conducts her life and pities her, concluding that she is miserable, and oppressed by her sadistic and controlling spouse. How wrong they are! Yes indeed, many a man has admired and been excited by restraining a woman, it is a natural impulse, yet too many a woman has yearned for it and sought it. Perhaps the most representative heroine of this English ideal is Mrs. Grace Attenborough of whom the wags said, “By day all holy, by night all whore!” By that it was not meant that she ever sought pleasure outside of the marriage bed of course, for if she had done, she would not be a heroine to us. No, what it referred to was an attitude that differed greatly between the public and the private. Mrs. Attenborough was a woman of great intellect, wit and sanctity. She attended church daily and held salons in her house where the most pressing political issues and latest art trends were discussed. The number of distinguished personages who attended those salons was endless, from the Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Castlereagh, to the poet Wordsworth and the painter Turner. All was in excellent taste, all was beautiful and all was refined. However, every evening at eight she would make her excuses and retire, whereupon in her room she would order her maid to strip her naked, bathe, and then have herself laced in to the utmost degree – thirteen inches it was said. She would then have her legs bound so that the toes pressed against the buttocks and then have an enormous gag inserted into her mouth. Then she would decree that her arms be bound in the most difficult manner of all, the elegant yet painful ‘reverse prayer’ position and then she would order the maid to toss a coin. If the coin fell on heads, she would have the maid arrange her on the bed so that her vagina was on full view and easy to access and thereupon the girl would paint with make-up lips upon the vagina so as to make it all the more appealing. If the coin landed on tails however, she would be propped up with her buttocks in the air and her anal hole similarly decorated. And then she would wait – never for long I suspect – for her husband to come and take his pleasure. Can you see girls how she completely encapsulated the ideal of a lady. Outwardly, all propriety and elegance, yet privately, whilst sensual, never sinful. Mrs. Attenborough was educated and intelligent, witty and urbane, yet in private she would submit to the greatest restraints, yet at the same time, in a fashion, never totally submit. After all, it was her – or the coin – that decreed in which manner her husband would take his pleasure and she decided the posture in which she was tied. He had no say in any of it and not once did he ever try to have a say. By submitting, she dictated. Let her be a lesson and an inspiration to you all; you could do far worse than follow the example of Grace Attenborough.”1

Grace Attenborough’s reverse-prayer position was the next one in which the ladies were introduced to and like Miss Garner had said, it was the most difficult of all to obtain and when obtained, came with much discomfort. In the reverse-prayer position, as the names suggests, one’s hands are placed as they would be in prayer except behind, rather than in front of the torso. This however, was only the first part of achieving a ‘perfect’ reverse-prayer posture, (as Miss Garner termed it). After that the arms had to be slowly drawn together, (a process done in stages over several weeks), until the elbows touched and they could be encased in a single kid leather gloves similar to the monoglove. The result was incredibly compact and elegant, particularly when worn with a bustle, (for which it had been designed when the bustle first came into fashion back in the 1870s), but by gosh was in difficult and painful too, only really becoming bearable when the extreme position cut the circulation off and the whole ensemble when dead. Because of such reasons, it was not advisable to wear it for long periods, (when bustles were in fashion, it was usual for going out in the evening or walking in the park, rarely at home), but even so, after she had managed to attain it, Anne was forced to wear it every Friday evening which she was allowed to spend in her room with Clare, (who was also similarly encumbered), a time that the two of them greatly enjoyed, as they were allowed to be without their fleurs de bouche and they could chatter, kiss and cuddle up to each other on the bed.

And so it was that life continued much restricted and restrained but not without its pleasures until the Christmas holidays came and Anne returned to Kedleston to enjoy the festive season.

1 In our world the English fetish is renowned to be spanking, yet this does not seem to be the case in Anne’s world. This is perhaps due to the public school playing a much more crucial role in our world; in Anne’s most males of consequence were educated at home or in schools which they only attended during the day. Restriction seems to have taken the place of spanking, particular amongst the females, although it must be noted that some spanking did take place for at weddings we hear of the grooms being presented with a paddle by their fathers-in-law in order to keep their wives in order, though this may have been ceremonial as much as practical.

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