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


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.”


“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.




Appendix to Part 1

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


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

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

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

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

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


A Day in the Life: Her Afternoon

Links to all parts of the story:

Her Awakening

Her Preparations

Her Morning

Her Afternoon

Her Evening

Part 4: Her Afternoon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Links to all parts of the story:

Her Awakening

Her Preparations

Her Morning

Her Afternoon

Her Evening

A Day in the Life: Her Morning

Links to all parts of the story:

Her Awakening

Her Preparations

Her Morning

Her Afternoon

Her Evening

Part 3: Her Morning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Links to all parts of the story:

Her Awakening

Her Preparations

Her Morning

Her Afternoon

Her Evening

A Day in the Life: Her Preparations

Links to all parts of the story:

Her Awakening

Her Preparations

Her Morning

Her Afternoon

Her Evening

Part 2: Her Preparations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Links to all parts of the story:

Her Awakening

Her Preparations

Her Morning

Her Afternoon

Her Evening

Dr. Edwards’ Special Birthday Present

Dr. Edwards’ Special Birthday Present

Author’s note

This tale is set in the United Kingdom in the year 1967. It is however, not the United Kingdom that we know. Instead it is an alternate United Kingdom set in an alternative universe. Therefore, much of it is familiar to us, but conversely, much isn’t. In the universe of the story, the United Kingdom is an inward-looking, reactionary society that lags behind many of its neighbours. It is governed by a powerful elite formed of an aristocracy of hereditary landowners and the Church. The Great Reform Acts of the 19th century never happened and the place of a woman is very much that of a second-class citizen… or subject. She has no rights and no property, she is owned by her father, after his death her brother or uncle, and upon marriage, her husband. Wives are expected to be virgins and all women are corseted.

At precisely 7 o’ clock in the morning the alarm clock of Dr. Daniel Edwards rang as it did every morning.

And at precisely 7 o’clock in the morning the good doctor woke up just as he did every morning.

This morning however, he felt rather happier than usual, for today was a most auspicious day indeed. For today was the occasion of his seventieth birthday.

And if that were not enough, it was also a Thursday.

Thursdays were the highlight of the good doctor’s week and he looked forward to each and every one. Ever since his retirement from the position of headmaster at the local school five years before, Dr. Edwards’ life had fallen into a very distinct – and mundane – pattern. He’d wake up and dress; eat the breakfast prepared by his housekeeper Mrs. Salt; read the contents of the Times and complete the crossword; relax until lunch also prepared by Mrs. Salt; either go in his garden, take a stroll or read depending on the weather; have his dinner prepared by Mrs. Salt and then finally go to the club to meet with some old colleagues for a port and game of bridge before retiring at around nine at night. Such were his days every day except Sundays with the exception of Thursday mornings.

For on a Thursday morning he always received a visitor.

A few months before his retirement, Dr. Edwards – whose Doctorate, I must mention, is in Education and not Medicine – began feeling ill. He was continually tense, his heart was beating fast and he regularly got severe migraines. So, he paid a visit to his medical doctor who delivered a most unexpected diagnosis. “Dr. Edwards, it is clear to me that what you are suffering from is an excess of sexual tension. It seems that, like many intelligent and respectable gentlemen, you have an extremely high sexual drive and that since the death of your wife ten years ago – and her companion some two years following that – you have had no outlet for sexual relief. This is what is causing all the tension and headaches and if it continues it could endanger your life. Sperm is being produced but it has nowhere to go and so your health is impaired. May I ask how often you masturbate?”

Dr. Edwards replied, quite firmly and correctly, that, as a practising and devout Anglican, he viewed such an act as a sin. The GP did not disagree.

“Then may I ask another personal question? Do you ever suffer from dreams of an erotic and inappropriate nature that result in you spilling seed involuntarily during your sleep?”

Dr. Edwards had to confirm, somewhat shamefacedly, that he did.

“There is nothing to be ashamed of man,” replied the GP, “this is a common situation amongst widowers. The fact is that you need some sexual release. Have you thought of remarrying?”

Dr. Edwards confirmed that he had but it was not a viable possibility. Firstly, he felt that it would be inappropriate to marry a girl too far below him in social status but those of his level had high dowries which were beyond his reach. Secondly though, he confessed to his doctor that he didn’t find women of his own age – or indeed any age beyond around thirty – to be sexually exciting and, more than that, he had several preferences that would be hard to find even if he could find a younger woman willing to wed him. “My late wife and her companion were both Ladies of Leisure, and what is more they tight-laced to admirable sizes. For me there is nothing more exciting than being able to circle a waist with my two hands and if I cannot then I am afraid that I would struggle to accept the girl in question.”

To his surprise, the GP nodded sagely, made some notes and then said he would get back to him.

And once he retired the doctor did just that. “You shall receive a visit from one of the young ladies at the Berkhamstead School for Girls every Thursday morning at ten precisely,” he announced. “It is part of their Community Service Education.”

And so it had been that for the past five years a young lady in the last year of her studies before marriage had paid him a visit every Thursday with her maid. Then the maid would depart and he would help the young lady with her education whilst she would help him with his tension issues. Every Thursday morning, as soon as they had finished their initial cup of tea – which his maid would feed to her as her arms would be ensconced within binders hidden within gigot sleeves – the young lady in question would kneel down before him, take his penis in her mouth and gently suck him to eruption after which she would swallow his seed, lick him clean and then, once he had refastened his trousers, he would sit her on his knee, circle her minute waist, (for fifteen inches was the maximum allowed at the school and many were smaller than that), and they would enjoy a pleasant chat before her maid returned an hour or two later.

Dr. Edwards sat back in his chair, the very chair in which he always sat when the ladies arrived, and mulled over his happy memories, taking out the photograph he kept with photos of each girl in. He’d had five female visitors so far. The first, Jennifer Dawkins, had been an exceptionally pretty little thing with blonde ringlets and cornflower blue eyes. She’d been very shy at first but he’d coached her well and by the time she left to wed a millowner in Manchester she’d been a capable sucker indeed and he had been sad to see her go.

The second girl had been Annabel Hartley. She had been far plainer than Jennifer but what she’d lacked in looks she more than made up for in enthusiasm and technique and many were the days when she’d managed to bring him to eruption twice within a single hour. Dr. Edwards smiled when he thought of her husband, a young Baronet from Norfolk, who had seemed rather soft and easily led and wondered how he was coping with such a tour de force of sexual energy.

His third girl had been one Charity Curzon. To be honest, of all the girls that he’d been served by, she had been the most disappointing, both in terms of conversation and looks, (and indeed ability initially), but then something dramatic had happened: Charity had been caught copulating with a boy and as such her arranged marriage fell through. In place of the original husband – whose name Dr. Edwards could not recall – she was betrothed to Lord Stafford who then proceeded to specify a most extensive range of enhancements. All the girls at Berkhamstead School were enhanced before marriage of course; it was part of their fiancé’s claim to ownership of them, and Jennifer Dawkins in particular had received a lovely pair of 40F breasts, but what Lord Stafford had specified for Charity was out of this world. Over the course of the year he saw her transform from a plain brunette with a boyish figure into a pneumatic lovedoll of dreamlike proportions. Her breasts were expanded into 52MMM balloons of titflesh whilst her face became virtually unrecognisable from that of the girl whom Dr. Edwards had been introduced to at the start of the year, her lips being inflated to such a size that they appeared as two pillows on her face that she could not close them completely and so continually drooled without her fleur de bouche. And when she did have that implement removed, her speech was now somewhat slurred and with a lisp, 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 whilst her hair was dyed to a platinum blonde hair which finished off the illusion of vacant minded lovedoll. And Dr. Edwards, who had always secretly admired that look – and the impression on his member caused by the new lips and piercings – had been brought to such height of sexual ecstasy by the sucking of her new, vagina-like mouth on his member, that when Charity left he was sadder than at any time before.

Whilst no Charity Curzon, last year’s girl, Cassandra Parker-Heath had also been interesting. Her fiancé, one Simon Armitage, an MP in Wiltshire, it transpired liked to use a penis pump to enlarge his member and so, unlike all the others whose arms were always bound in gigot sleeves, every other week she arrived with unbound arms and began her session with him by pumping his member using the device before then having her arms laced firmly into a monoglove by the delighted doctor, (who had always especially loved the shape that a monoglove creates), and bringing his enlarged and rampant tool to eruption, working hard to accommodate its new expanded size in her tiny mouth.

And then now there was Rebecca Huntingdon, pledged to become the next Duchess of Devonshire following the death of the currently Duchess last year aged fifty-two, caused, some said, through excessive tight-lacing. She was as pretty as Jennifer Dawkins had been and Dr. Edwards couldn’t wait to see what she would look like when the 40E implants ordered for her by the Duke had been fitted. He stared at her photograph in the album and smiled, imagining the ecstasy that she would bring him too in only a few short minutes. What better way to spend one’s seventieth birthday could there be?

He was jolted out of that reveries by the doorbell. He glanced at the clock. A quarter to; she was a little early. Still, it didn’t matter. All the more time to bounce her up and down on his knee whilst he ran his hands round her waist and breasts.

Mrs. Salt opened the door and announced, “Miss Huntingdon has arrived with her maid, Doctor, but she has asked that, before she enter, you wear this blindfold as she has a little birthday surprise for you.”

Mystified, the doctor took it and fitted it. Then the housekeeper added, “and she has also requested that you say nothing until the blindfold has been removed.”

Still more intrigued he nodded and she left. He doctor heard the girl come in and kneel before him. His crotch was opened and she took his flaccid tool in her mouth. “Ahh!” he gasped as she carefully and skilfully brought it to hardness and he was really enjoying it when she abruptly withdrew with a slight giggle. Confused, he sat stock still when she came back again and started sucking once more, this time much hard and more vigorously. Ahh, that was the life and he came close to eruption when she again withdrew. He began to soften when she commenced once again, this time using her tongue once more. He noticed that there was a piercing rubbing against his member that stimulated it all the more. So, this was her surprise! She had been pierced! But oh, it was good! But then, just as he was coming close, she withdrew with another giggle and his member, now aching for release, strained. She returned, skilfully licking in a manner that he had not experienced her do yet. She had been studying well; this performance was up to that of Annabel Hartley! He groaned in ecstasy, unable to control himself but then she withdrew once again and he was left high and dry and desperate for more. Then she enveloped her mouth around him once again and it was… it was different! There were more piercings there and the tongue was thicker and the mouth tighter, almost like a vagina. “What on earth!” he exclaimed, forgetting his promise and he withdrew his blindfold to see to his astonishment, not Rebecca Huntingdon with her mouth around his member but instead the doll-like vision of Lady Stafford – once Charity Curzon!

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Daniel! Happy birthday to you!” chorused four other girls standing all around him before erupting into three “Hip! Hip! Hoorays!” as he erupted into Charity’s modified mouth. It was all his old students come back to make his day one to remember!

“Girls!” he exclaimed, “This is so kind of you! You are all so lovely!”

There were tears in his eyes but Jennifer replied, “No, you were the kind one and we all loved coming here. You were so gentle and considerate and never criticised our efforts and the training you gave us has helped us all provide much happiness for our husbands and made our marriages a success. When we realised this date was approaching, we all knew that we had to mark it and so we contacted the school and they helped us to arrange a special present for you.”

“And what a surprise it has been! Girls, all five of you, this has been the greatest present that I could have ever received, it really is. You have made an old man very happy indeed!”

“Do you think that was the present?” exclaimed Annabel, at which all five fell into a fit of giggles.

“It isn’t?”

“Not at all. Remember how when you were training us, you used to say about how you missed your late wife?”


“And how you loved the actress Olivia Capulet?” added Cassandra.


“Anth show thoo thloveth the enthanthmenths thath I thad thone thoo me?” slurred Charity through her inflated lips.


“Well, we all clubbed together, the school too, and we’ve bought you a present that will keep you happy for the other six days of the week when we can’t be here!” announced Rebecca.

And with those words the girls parted and Miss Martin, the Headmistress of Berkhamstead School for Girls led a seventh woman into the room. This woman, like his five students, was a Lady of Leisure, her hands firmly laced into a cream monoglove that matched her dress and with a waist that was thirteen inches at most, but unlike them, where a human face should have been, there was a delightful doll’s head made out of pottery to look like his favourite actress Olivia Capulet with jet black ringlets cascading from her crown.

“She’s beautiful!” he exclaimed.

“She’s yours,” replied the headmistress. “She is a living doll just graduated from our sister institution, the Chesham Doll Academy which has been producing high-class doll wives from working class girls for over forty years. Her fiancé died in a motor accident last week and so she has been entrusted into your guardianship until you should die or choose to marry her to someone else. She is your companion from this day on!”

Dr. Edwards looked at the vision of artificial loveliness that stood before him, her enormous and obviously enhanced breasts heaving up and down as she struggled to bring air into her lungs so difficult has she found the short walk across the room. To have her to talk and play with every day was just too delightful a thought to contemplate!

“But what is her name?” he asked.

“She doesn’t have one. All the students at the Chesham Doll Academy are simply referred to a “doll” as it reinforces the doll-mind. She is yours to name although, as we designed her to look like Olivia Capulet, we all thought that ‘Libby’ might be a nice moniker.”

“Then Libby she shall be!” declared the doctor, as he rose, placed his hands around the waist of his new toy and, as the fingers met, planted a kiss on her rubber lips whilst the entire room cheered.

“And now to the garden for tea and cake!” he declared, “I wish to celebrate my best birthday ever with all my favourite girls!”

Written June 2016      

Copyright© 2016, Dave Potter

The Sad, Sad Tale Of Araksia Manuelyan

The Sad, Sad Tale Of Araksia Manuelyan

Copyright © 2004, Dave Potter


In the Shadow of Mount Ararat

Far out to the East, way beyond where the Berlin Wall once stood, onwards, past the lands of the South Slavs and the Bosphorous where the Turk sits proudly between Europe and Asia. Beyond there, and the vast expanse of water known as the Black Sea, lies a land. It is a small land, a land of mountains, a beautiful land, and an ancient land. And besides that land is one of the greatest and most ancient of all the world’s mountains. It is the mountain where Noah’s ark rested after the Great Flood and the mountain that has been holy ever since. It is Mount Ararat and in the shadow of Mount Ararat lies a city, a small city, of concrete blocks and domed churches. It is the city of Erevan, the capital of that land, the Land of Armenia. And in that city beneath that mountain there is a grey apartment block, a block most similar to countless others found across the vast expanse of what was once known as the Socialist World. And in the bottom of that block is a small internet cafeé and at one of the computers in that cafeé is a girl.

She is a pretty girl, with long dark wavy hair, large dark eyes, a well-proportioned bosom and a curvaceous posterior. She is well-mannered, intelligent and hard-working. She is a typical daughter of Armenia.

She is Araksia.

But what is Araksia doing in that internet cafeé, staring at a computer screen on a brilliant sunny day such as this? Why, she is doing what alas, so many of her contemporaries are doing, looking for love, opportunity and a life beyond the boundaries of her humble homeland by the medium of that miracle of the modern-world, the internet. She is chatting. Not actually chatting of course, but cyber-chatting. To a man. A man named KevCali. Well, that is not his name of course. His real name is Kevork. She knows this because she asked him. He is Kevork and therefore he too is an Armenian. This pleased her. She never thought that she would be so lucky as to find a fellow Armenian there. But where is there? Look at his handle – Cali. Why yes indeed, California, America, the dream world of the movies! Kevork in California, although she has never met him, he is the man that she is trying to marry.

She smiles. But why? Why, she has reason to indeed. For KevCali, who she has now been chatting to for several months, has just stated his intentions. He too is looking to wed. And he is coming to Erevan.

The very next week.

Leaving on a jet plane

She could not believe her luck? How many girls get someone like this handed to them on a plate? He was a gift from Heaven! How many times had she thanked God in the church for this?

From the moment that she met him coming through the immigration she knew that he was for her. He was young for starters. Much younger than she’d imagined he’d be. Most of the men that went on were old, with paunches and receding hairlines. Yet he turned out to be but twenty-six, only six years older than herself, and what’s more, rather handsome, muscular and well-toned. That was not all however, he had dress sense. Oh yes, so it wasn’t standard, no blue jeans and a tight T-Shirt like most of the gallants on the Erevanian  streets, but in his immaculate white suit, he looked, well… if only James Bond had been an Armenian…

He lived in California, near LA. His parents had moved to the States as children, escaping the onrush of the Russian Civil War. His grandfather had done well, in gold and jewellry and then his father too. Kevork, what did he do? Nothing much really? He made money playing around on the Stock Market, but for most of the time he read books, wrote poetry, (oh, an artist!), and enjoyed life. Was he financially secure? As financially secure as any twenty-six year old with fifty million dollars in the bank is.

It was arranged quickly. She loved him ravishingly and he heaped praise on her. ‘Will you marry me?’ he asked on bended knee. She said yes in an instant and they went back to his hotel room and made love. My! What sex that was, he was as stylish and different in bed as out of it. “None of that standard stuff, my darling,” he said, producing a pair of golden handcuffs. She’d never been restrained before and entered into the game with glee. The experience was out of this world. Looking back now, she shudders at where it was to lead to.

“There is only one small matter my dear,” he said, when they were talking the next day.


“In LA, in the States where I live, we have a tradition. Oh, I don’t like to bring it up, but…”

“Whatever is it?”

“Well it seems like I’m trying to kill the romance but I’m not, it’s for both of our good…”


“We always insist on a marriage contract. If you wish to marry me, I would like you to sign this.”

The document was not large, and Araksia perused it in detail. It was legal stuff mostly. In case of divorce… Actually the terms were rather generous to her she thought. In case of divorce where none of the clauses of the contract had been broken, she would be entitled to fifty per cent of his estate – twenty-five million dollars! But what were the clauses – no adultery, no living apart for more than a year, the usual. But wait, here’s one that was not standard. ‘You are to wear whatever garments Kevork Manuelyan insists whilst whilst on his property. However, after putting on the garments for five minutes, if you are not comfortable with them, you can remove them yourself with no detriment to your legal position.’

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Oh that, well to be honest, I like women wearing kinky underwear, but sometimes you girls are a bit shy…”

Araksia grinned. She was wearing a thong at that moment that he’d bought her. He’d complemented her on her ass several times already, (she had always thought it a little large but he liked that, ‘The Armenian girl’ he’d said, is ‘The Asian Lass with the Latin Ass’), so she was wearing skin tight jeans on top that had been a struggle to get on.

“Plus there is a serious side to it as well. I am an important man and renowned for my dress sense. I was worried about my wife letting me down by wearing unsuitable clothes. Therefore I get to choose, but as I wrote there, if you don’t like what I choose, you can take ‘em off.”

“That’s sounds fair enough,” she said.

Two days later they signed the contract in front of an Advocate. The day following that they were married in a simple ceremony at the Registry Office. Araksia Sarkisyan became Araksia Manuelyan. Her ageing parents were overjoyed, delighted that she’d married one of their kind, and a rich and well-mannered young man to boot.

The night before they were due to leave, Kevork presented her with a box. “My darling Araksia,” he said. “This is a small leaving present from me. I would be honoured if you’d wear it tomorrow.”

She looked at him a little confused and opened it. Inside was a beautiful corset, exquisitely made, and covered in blue silk.

“It’s b-b-beautiful,” she stammered, “but…”


“But I’ve never worn a corset before?”

“My love, you should try. They make you look fantastic and elegant. If you like it I have a suit made for you to wear over the top on the flight.”

“But how do I put it on?”

“Let me show you now.” He got out the garment and fastened it around her waist, hooking up the busk. The corset had cups for her breasts and once fastened felt quite tight, pleasant and snug. “now for the lacing!” said Kevork. He went to her rear and started to pull on the strings. She felt the stays contract. “Oh my God!” she said.

“Don’t you like it?”

“I don’t know, well, it’s different, my breathing…”

“Just a little more,” he said. He tightened until her chest was beginning to heave and then tied the laces off.

“Wow!” she said, “This really does do something for me!”

“I told you it would. Will you wear them tomorrow or not?”

“Well, I don’t have much choice do I, the contract and all?”

“That’s only in my house, our house my love.”

“I will wear them anyway, to please you. I kinda like them anyway.”

“Good, then wear them now, and these!” He got out the handcuffs and grabbed her wrists, fixing them together behind her back. “Now my Asian Lass with the Latin Ass, let’s fuck like rabbits!”

And so they did. And not just once.

It was a tired Araksia Manuelyan that said goodbye to her family and left for a new life and new world the following morning.

And a corsetted one.

Home Sweet Home

The plane started it’s descent and Araksia stared out of the window. Down below was a land of sunshine, palms trees, wide highways with huge cars travelling on them, and luxurious villas. It was not the real world, she thought, but instead a dream. A dream that was hers for the living.

Once they were through the customs they headed out to where a black stretch limousine was stood parked. “Get in,” said Kevork.

“Why? This… it’s yours?”

“Ours my love,” he corrected.

Once inside he poured a drink from a cabinet in front of them. Outside the world of the movies passed by. “To us my dear!” he said, handing her a bubbling glass of champagne.”

“To us!” They kissed.

“How do you feel so far?” he asked.

“Well, it’s all, it’s all so big, and different, and new. I don’t know. The only thing is, you tightened this corset up a little too much, it’s killing me. I can’t wait to take it off.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll be taking it off soon enough.” He grinned. “And the rest of your clothes!”

She smiled sheepishly. Hmm… that she was looking forward to.

The journey to the mansion took about an hour. An hour of palm-lined highways with millionaire’s homes on the hills behind. Then, they turned off into a drive themselves. The drive of her new home! It was huge, unbelievable. A white castle almost, in the Spanish style, surrounded by manicured lawns and palms.

“Home sweet home!” declared Kevork, as the chauffeur opened the door for him. He got out and helped Araksia. “I’ll show you round later, come on inside… to the bedroom.”

Stood on the steps by the doorway were two pretty Asian girls, dressed in elegant flowing silk. “Araksia, these are Linh and Hoang. They’re our two maids. They’re Vietnamese and don’t speak English, but I’m sure you’ll get on fine. Hoang is assigned to you.” The two girls bowed and smiled. They were ravishingly beautiful and if Araksia weren’t so sure of Kevork’s love for her then she’d have thought he’d employed them for other reasons aside from their housekeeping abilities…

“Their gowns, they’re so elegant!” she exclaimed.

“They’re ao dais, the Vietnamese traditional dress. Beautiful aren’t they? I insist that they wear nothing else. I can have some made for you if you wish?”

“Ooo! If you can!”

“Of course my love. Come! Let’s go!”

He took her by the hand and hurried her down endless corridors into a large white room with French Windows. In it’s centre was a vast, king size bed, also in white. “Our Chamber of Love!” he declared. “Now let’s get you out of those clothes and freshened up!” He stripped his young wife and led her to an en suite bathroom where hot water gushed out of a shower. He then proceeded to do the same, but they didn’t stay in that shower for long. Within ten minutes they were both gasping and panting on the bed, before finally collapsing in ecstasy and exhaustion.

“I’ll ring for a drink,” said Kevork.

He did so and within a minute Linh appeared carrying two classes our fruit juice.

“Here you are my dear,” said Kevork, handing Araksia one.

She gulped the juice down in one.

Within a minute she was fast asleep.

Good Morning Sunshine

‘It is all just a dream! A wonderful, glorious dream! Too good to be true!’

Araksia opened her eyes. No! It is true! She is there, in that sumptuous room. Her handsome, wonderful, marvellous husband by her side, gazing into her large dark eyes. She moves to hold him, to hug him, to kiss him. To let him know just how much she loves him. But wait, she can’t move. She tries to shift her body. No! Move her arms. Cannot! Why? What is happening? She opens her mouth and screams. “Kevork! Kevork! I can’t move! Help me! Something’s happened!” He smiles. Smiles? That’s a strange reaction. “What’s happening!”

“Welcome back to the world, my dear. I trust you slept well?”

“But Kevork, I can’t move, I can’t…”

“I know my love, I know.” He knows? Don’t worry, it’s only temporary.” He kisses her. Temporary? What does he mean? “It’s a precaution my dear, a necessary precaution.” Precaution? What the hell is happening here? “In the juice that you drank… It was drugged. A substance that immobilises the entire body, leaves you paralysed. Well, temporarily paralysed, for an hour or two…”

Paralysed? Why? What? She screams.

“Paralysed except for the mouth that is. But we can soon fix that.” He pushes something into her mouth and buckles it behind her head. It is a gag! She is gagged? But why? What is happening? Help me! She sobs.

“Ahh… now you’re quiet I can at last explain to you. Now where was I… oh yes, the drug. The drug will wear off soon. It paralyses you. I don’t like using such methods of course, I am sure this will be the first and last time, but it is unfortunately necessary. Sadly… inexplicably, many women tend to go hysterical and try to escape when their new life is outlined to them.”

She stops crying and he dabs her eyes. What is he on about?

“Yes, their new life. You see my love, my darling wife, I am afraid that I wasn’t entirely honest with you when we were in Erevan. No, that is wrong, I was entirely honest. I did however omit some things. These are what I shall now outline to you.” He smiled. He seemed to be enjoying the experience. “Yes, for you see I belong to a Society. What we are called and how many we are does not matter to you. All that you need to know is that the members of our Society all share two things in common. Firstly, that we are rich. You have to be very rich to join as our activities consume a lot of money. That’s number one. And number two is that we all hold very fixed views on how our women, or at least our wives should be looked after.”

Looked after? What does he mean?

“Yes, we all hold these views and these views are what I shall now outline to you, because you, as my wife, will be required to live according to them. But what are those views I see your eyes asking? Well, they are as follows.

Firstly, as you know, there is a belief, currently prevalent in much of the West, that women are equal to men, and that a marriage is a union of two equals. This is of course entirely false. History shows us that a husband and wife have two very separate and strict roles. The husband is the breadwinner. He looks after his wife and provides for all her needs. She does not want for anything. But at the same time, he is the boss, his will takes precedence in all matters inside and outside of the home. That is his role, thus that is my role. Your role is, as I said before, quite different. The wife’s role is to be a mother and, if the household is poor, to cook and look after her husband and children within the home. She is also there to provide her hard-working breadwinner with sexual pleasure in the bedchamber whenever he wants it. In rich households however, such as ours, where there are servants to do the housework, such as Linh and Hoang, then she need not work and indeed is not allowed to work, any work in fact, of any kind. Her sole purpose then is to bring pleasure to her husband’s life, through sex of course, but also by looking pretty and satisfying all of his desires. She is, as it were, a doll, not needing to do or to think anything, but just to be – to be pretty, sexy and ready to satisfy her husband and master whenever he wants. She is, his accessory.”

Araksia could not believe what she was hearing? Was this man serious? Surely he was joking? She, as a Soviet citizen was a liberated woman, and from all that she’d heard, the West was more so. Yet this sounded like something from the Dark Ages!

“Now, as I can see from the expression in your beautiful eyes, you are somewhat shocked by these views and perhaps do not agree with them. That is of course, immaterial. As you are married to me, you have to agree with them. However, even so, even with a marriage certificate signed and all these ground rules laid down, many women – alas, infected by that disease known as Feminism – feel the need to rebel. Now rebellion is of course wrong, and thus should be punished. There are men who do such, using the means of caning, or paddling or such. I however, am not one of them. Hitting people is violence and I can tell you now, I am a man who abhors violence. No I, and all the members of our Society, are against violence in all its forms. We are however, for obedience. But how do we achieve obedience without violence? Why my love, the answer is simple. We eliminate the opportunities for our wives to be disobedient. But how do we do that?  Do we lock them up in little cells? Why of course not? Such tactics are from the Mediaeval Times, not our Enlightened Days. No, we do nothing of the sort. Instead we just insist that our wives where certain garments, or even just one particular garment, which, if worn eliminates those opportunities for disobedience.”

Araksia looked confused. And petrified.

“You don’t understand my love, why then I shall explain further. Think of the human body. To do anything, what do we need. We need all of it of course, but some parts are more important than others. For example the eyes. They are important. If we cannot see, then how can we do anything? But wait, no. We can do things without sight, look at the blind and the marvellous things that they achieve. Why, they are remarkable people indeed, I’ve always admired the blind. And our ears too, now they too are superfluous. And our mouths? Well, you seem to be getting along quite well without your at the moment, though of course, the mouth has many uses… No, I don’t wish to deprive you of the use of any of these, nor even of your legs. Quite frankly would I want to do anything with your legs, they are just perfect as they are, as is you wonderful ass too… No, your legs are safe my love, but, your arms… He took those now flacid and useless appendages in his hands. What can you do without these my dear, eh? Why, very little, very little indeed. A person without arms is dependent on those around her for everything. That is why my dear, something has to be done about these.”

Araksia gazed at him in horror.

“Hoang! Linh!” he called. The two pretty Vietnamese girls came in straight away. They must have been waiting outside Araksia thought. “Now my love,” Kevork continued, “as I said before, Hoang here is to be your maid. You will be reliant on her… and me… for everything. Don’t worry though, you won’t get to know her. She, and lovely Linh here don’t speak a word of English, let alone Armenian and Russian. We used to have Filipinos you know, a very pleasant race, and their ladies, why their butts can almost rival yours. But, they’re so good at English, they learn from infancy I believe, so they talk too much, and get to know our Society Wives too well, sometimes they mistakenly become friends and try to help them. But we’ve learnt, no such problems with the Vietnamese, they seem absolutely impervious to the English tongue or indeed any language but their own, which is full of screeches and whistles – quite fascinating to listen to. Of course their butts aren’t up to Filipino – or Armenian – standards, nor the breasts, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers, can they? No, fear not, you will not be becoming friendly with Linh or Hoang. Their duties instead will be to dress you every morning and… no, we’ll stick to the dressing first. Yes, they will dress you as you will be unable to do so yourself. Everyday I expect you immaculately turned out, in an evening dress, coiffured, made up, nice long lashes, that sort of thing. And wearing what will become your new best friend, the Venus.”


“The Venus, a name taken from the Venus de Milo, you know, the statue without arms. And why is it called such, because this Venus makes you appears much the same. Hoang! Linh! Let’s show Mrs. Manuelyan her new Venus. The two maids lifted her limp body up and carried it to a side room which turned out to be a dressing room. “All your garments are in here,” said Kevork, showing her a vast wardrobe full of dresses. They then proceeded to pull out a strange white garment. It looked a little like the corset that she’d worn the previous day, but contained two major differences, firstly that it was longer, reaching up to her  neck, and secondly that it contained no openings for her arms!

The two Asian girls fiddled with the garment whilst Kevork held her. Then Linh came up and crossed Araksia’s arms behind her at the top of her back. Then Hoang fitted the garment around her and fastened up the hooks at the front. It was already very tight and constricting. Then Linh started pulled the laces at the back. The Venus corset contracted, and contracted. Very soon, even without the drugs in her system, Araksia realised that she would be completely immobile from her waist to her neck. Hoang then attacked the waist lacings. Like with the corset, it became difficult to breathe and then nigh on impossible. But unlike the corset her breasts could not surge up and down in the Venus as there was no place for them to go. What’s more, her efforts to respirate were not helped by the fact that this garment, contraption, call it what you will also had a very high neck that was also laced and caused her to hold her head high. Once they tied the laces off, she felt like a rigid helpless doll. Which is after all, just what she was.

“Perfect! Declared Kevork. “You look stunning. Now I can show you the true genius of the Venus corset, look!” He took her over to the mirror. “With it fully tightened, your arms crossed against your back like that, how does it appears?” She looked. She was shocked. Tightened as it was it appeared as if she had no arms at all, and never had. Where they were, compressed against her back, why you couldn’t tell. She looked like one of those mannequins in shop windows. She wanted to cry but was too shocked to. “Now, I must do something which I didn’t have chance to earlier. Hoang! Linh! Di ve phong nho.” The maids nodded and left. Then to Araksia’s surprise and dismay, her husband whipped off his shorts, turned her over, draped her over a chair and started thrusting his erect penis into her huge and virgin ass. The pain was unbearable and tears streamed down her cheeks. What the hell had happened to her?

Here Comes The Bride

Within fifteen minutes Linh and Hoang were back in the room. The movement was starting to come back into Araksia’s body and she found that she could wiggle her toes a little and a few minutes later, flex her knees, though nothing above them of course! After Kevork had finished he’d sat her down and the Asian girls had set to work on her face and legs, giving the latter a thorough hair removal and the former a complete makeover, with Kevork removing her gag so long as she promised not to make a din. The there was her long black hair which was curled into sausage like ringlets. By the time that was finished, Araksia found that she was able to stand. “Now my love, Hoang here is about to introduce you to another of your new daily routines, the enema.”

Araksia had no idea what word meant and she said as such to Kevork.

“An enema, well, let me explain. As you know, we all, both ladies and gentlemen, are required by nature to visit the bathroom several times daily, at irregular times at that, to do well, what we must. This contraption however eliminates the need for those visits to the bathroom. It is used once daily and that is that, no more toilet!”

This sounded strange. “But, how? How does it work? And why? What is wrong with going to the toilet? Going to the toilet has nothing to do with being a submissive obedient wife. It’s…”

“Oh yes my sweetheart, I know, I know. To be honest with you, the enema, well, it’s got nothing to do with our Society and stuff. It’s my own little idea, my tiny contribution to your new lifestyle as it were. You see the thing is, as you said, going to the toilet, why, it’s a natural thing, everyone does it. You however, as my wife, are not to be like everyone. You are special, so you should live in a special, and what’s more, an entirely artificial manner. I love artificiality, don’t you? Dolls are artificial. They smile, play, do whatever you want, when you want. And you my precious, are my little doll, to hold, kiss and fuck whenever I want.”

‘Oh my God!’ she thought. ‘This guy is seriously sick!’

“And how is it administered? Why, through that charming ass of yours of course. Hoang! Den!” Now see, she sticks the pipe in here,” (Araksia groaned), “flicks this switch here, and your insides are filled with water. The, once filled, they will be sucked out again. Clean, hygienic and totally artificial! Clever, eh?” That particular enema, with her husband and the two Vietnamese girls stood in attendance, was possibly the most humiliating experience of her entire existence. Even today, she winces at the thought of it.

“So my dear? Do you feel better now? Emptier, cleaner?” She said nothing. Her mind was in shock. “Oh, you are adjusting to all of this jolly well, better than I expected. Now, where were  we. Oh yes, enema done. Artificial you see, and that’s not the only part of your life that will be. Your meals also. I have a nutritional compound which Hoang will prepare for you daily. It tastes of nothing, is artificial as well. That will be your new food. Well, unless I decide, as a little treat, to feed you something else, when I want to. But don’t worry, the compound is healthy, has all the vitamins and such that you need. I should like to feed it to you now, but time is running short. You are not dressed yet. Hoang, oi! Ao cuoi!”

Not dressed? Time is running out? For what?

The answer was not long in coming. Hoang reappeared carrying a dress. A white dress. A wedding dress.  A sheath of white silk that once fitted clung to her like a glove, (Oh, to be able to wear gloves!). It was long with a train of two metres or so and it was tight, and when she viewed herself in the mirror, she could see that it made her look beautiful. She was like a fairytale princess. Well, a princess without any arms…

Hoang proceeded to fit some dainty white shoes on her feet. They had incredibly high heels and she had to lean on Kevork for balance. “Ten centimetres, my love,” he said by way of explanation.

She managed to find her voice. “But why?” she said.

“Why? For we are going to get married, my darling! Well, not really. We really are married anyway, that in Armenia was real, and we have a contract, a contract that allows me to dress you how I please, to prove it. However, none of my friends were present in Erevan, and it was awfully basic wasn’t it? So now we’ve the big party! Come!”

And with that he led her out of the room, down a corridor to some large white double doors. “Are you ready?” he asked. She said nothing and moved not. Hoang and Linh, who were obviously to act as her bridesmaids nodded and picked up the train. The music started and the doors opened, and her husband leading her, down the aisle she walked, through a room packed full of people, the men all in smart suits and the women all exquisitely dressed, and armless. It was like a strange, hallucinatory dream, nay, a nightmare. A sort of priest read the service but she took none of it in and remembers nothing. Not of the ‘I do’ which Kevork said on her behalf anyway, (‘She does’), nor of the fitting of a golden ring around her neck, (well, they couldn’t put one on her finger now, could they?), with a leash attached, nor of the huge cocktail party afterwards. No, to this day all that she remembers following the opening of those white doors and the procession down the aisle is of her husband’s repeated rapes of her that evening in their oh-so-sumptuous bedchamber.

The Hum-Drum Pattern of Daily Existence

The days and weeks that followed that mortifying and expensive wedding passed by like a bad, monotonous dream. Her life from Day One assumed a very definite routine. In the mornings she awoke clad in her Sleeping Venus. The Sleeping Venus, which Kevork introduced her to on the evening following that of their wedding night, (for the wedding itself he couldn’t be bothered with changing her attire, his desire had been so overwhelming), differed from her everyday Venus, or ‘Foundation Venus’ as he termed it, in that it was shorter, leaving her private areas entirely free, was a little less tight, (which was a relief), and had two cut-outs for her breast, cut-outs that it must be said were a little on the small side, causing her already fine tits to balloon out to an incredible size, and causing her husband to caress them almost as much as he did her equally impressive ass. So, she awoke in the Sleeping Venus and usually he took her there and then in the morning.

After this initial bout of unwanted exersize she was escorted by Hoang to her dressing chamber where she was released from her Sleeping Venus and whilst her arms were still sleeping, put into handcuffs that were attached to a golden chain that dangled from the ceiling. Then Hoang  herself would undress down to a skimpy bikini, and wash her charge thoroughly, before shaving her entire body below the neck. She would then dry her and apply her make-up and sort out her hair, which was at the time long and straight, before getting the day’s Foundation Venus out of the wardrobe, releasing Araksia, and transferring her straight into another state of bondage. Once the Venus was fully laced  and tightened, (Kevork, a lover of small waists, insisted on a circumference of fifty centimetres), she would then head over to the wardrobe and pick out the dress that Kevork had chosen for her that day, and of course the shoes that matched. Every day, without fail, she was required to wear an evening dress, virtually always quite difficult to wear due to a high collar a clinging shape that emphasized her considerable derriere, and often with high heels to complement it.

Once fully dressed and her marital ring and leash reattached over the collar of the dress, she was led out to her Relaxation Room, a vast chamber decorated in the minimalist style that Kevork had set aside for her enjoyment. There she could sit on one of the high and somewhat uncomfortable chairs whilst Hoang held a book open for her to read or order a drink, (only fruit juice allowed though – women in Kevork’s society were denied the pleasures of alcohol), from the metallic bar where Linh served. Music was allowed, but no TV, save for at ten in the morning when the Armenian news appeared on a screen, broadcast live from Erevan. That half-hour she lived for, as the rest of her day was dull, monotonous and boring. No interests or hobbies were allowed to her, let alone her being able to follow her previous profession, (an armless secretary is a bit useless after all), as, as Kevork had explained before, a woman in his society was nothing more than a pretty doll whose only purpose was to provide pleasure for her husband and at some later date become a mother. So there she sat, ‘out of arm’s way’ as Kevork joked, day after day, immobile, frustrated and getting more and more bored and lonely as each minute passed.

“You look sad, my dear,” Kevork said in bed one night after sex. “What’s the matter?”

What’s the matter? How could he ask such a question? Would it not be better to ask, what is not the matter?

“I am lonely,” she replied.

“You have me.”

“I have no girls to talk to.”

“What about Linh and Hoang?”

“Girls in my… situation.”

“Fair enough, we can go and visit some of my friends who are also married.”

“Can we?” (Oh for a change of scene, and some new faces!)

“Yes of course, no, wait… sorry, no can do.”

No? Then why bring it up? Cruel, cruel man!

“Why not?”

“Why not? Because of our contract. As you remember, we signed a marriage contract, entitling me to dress you how I saw fit.”

“But you said I could remove the clothes if I wanted!”

“And you can! If you choose to!”

“Then take this blasted Venus off me then!”

“No, sorry. The contract says the YOU can remove them, no one else. And, oh dear, it seems like you don’t have that ability, so it looks like the Venus is staying. Don’t worry my sweet, everything that I am doing is entirely legal.”

“No it’s not. You’re torturing me, hurting me, abusing me…”

“No, not at all. Have I hit you once? No. Have I forced you to have sex with a man other than your husband? No. Have I done anything that isn’t in the contract that YOU signed? No. And instead, I have provided you will expensive clothes, a nice house, a life of luxury. No Araksia, as you well no, everything that I have done is entirely legal. However, it wouldn’t be if we were to leave the house. Remember, the contract is only valid on my property.”

“But I so want to meet someone new! To go somewhere!”

“No can do, sorry… unless…”


“Unless you sign a new document, in addition to the contract, stipulating that all the terms of the original contract are valid off my property and perhaps a few more as well…”

“A few more?”

“Mandatory daily blow-job for your husband, permission to enlarge body parts according to my whims…”


“Fair enough then, no trips out.”

Araksia Manuelyan held out for over a month. However, one evening, sat drinking fruit juice in her relaxation room, she could take it no longer. “I’ll sign!” she screamed.

Kevork was brought immediately.

“I’ll sign,” said repeated, “but on one condition.”


“That it is written in the contract that I can eat proper food everyday, and that we leave this house at least once a week, and that I can watch TV.”

“Sorry my love, I can’t stand girls who are always watching soaps and quiz shows. No TV, and proper food on Sundays, our Holy Day only.”

She held out another week.

Then, on the following Sunday, she was taken to Kevork’s office, released from her Venus and for the first time in over two months, her hand held something, a pen. She shakily signed her name before being ensconced within the leather once more.

“Jolly good!” said Kevork, once the lawyer and maids had left. He whipped out his throbbing penis. “I’ll have a celebratory blowjob I think, as in the terms of our contract.” Araksia sucked his aching rod hard, but not for long. Within a couple of minutes she was enjoying the first nourishment other than her compound for over two months. “Thank you, my dear. You have obviously practiced that before. And to show you that I mean it, I have decided. We will travel to my mate Rob Steinwald’s house tonight!”

Packing for the Journey

Kevork called the maids and both Hoang and Linh appeared. “Toi va voa toi dang di nha Rob,” he explained. The maid’s nodded and Linh took Araksia by her chain and led her to the dressing room. ‘They’re probably going to put me into something more easy to wear for the journey,’ she thought, (at that moment she was clad in a skin tight silver silk dress, dripping with diamonds, and with twelve centimetre high heels in celebration of the signing). However, when she entered the room, she was surprised to discover what appeared to by a large, human-sized rubber doll lying on the floor.

Hoang stripped her of her shoes and dress and tied her hair back in a ponytail which she proceeded to wrap around the top of her head and then secured by means of a hairnet. Then to her surprise – and horror – instead of releasing her from the Foundation Venus, she was led over to the doll which Linh opened up using buttons, to reveal a hollow inside. This was no doll, Araksia realised, but instead a tight rubber cocoon, and the maid’s gestures showed that she was to occupy it’s interior! “No! No! No!” she said, shaking her head in fear, but Linh just grabbed her and pushed her roughly inside whilst Hoang started buttoning up the front, all the way until she was completed enclosed within it’s rubber confines, the only access to the outside world being her face.

“My dear, how do you like your new travelling cocoon?” It was Kevork. He had just entered the room and was wearing his usual grin on his face.

“What are you doing?” she cried, tears flowing from her eyes.

“Why, my love, I forgot to tell you. Our Society, whilst it does permit our ladies to travel outside of their homes, it does not allow them to do so freely. After all, you might bring harm to yourselves, or more importantly, bring harm to us. How do you think the world would react to seeing a horde of armless beauties such as yourself? No, it is necessary that you, like all precious gems, be kept hidden, and safe. And that’s where this travelling cocoon comes in. You see in this ahem, how shall we call it… garment, perhaps? Well, anyway, in this cocoon I am able to transport you wherever I want to. Firstly you are placed inside such as now, and then these lovely ladies, (he signalled to the two maids), lace you up, just as they do with your Venus Corsets.” And then, as if to proved this, Araksia was turned over onto her face, and the two Vietnamese girls proceeded to tighten up lacing that ran all the way from her toes, (which incidentally, the cocoon forced into a rather uncomfortable en pointe position), to her crown, compressing every part of her body so that not a muscle could be moved and so that her head ached from the pressure. The whole process took, Araksia estimated, twenty minutes or so. “Now,” Kevork continued, “we come to a part in the preparations that will differ from time to time. When you go on a long journey, we will insert be inserting a breathing mask and nutrient supply over you mouth at this point, and perhaps some drugs to relax you and help you cope with the ups and downs of the journey. Rob’s house though, is but a few miles away, so today, you’ll be happy to learn, we won’t be bothering with any of that, and instead we’ll just be using this,” (he stuffed a pear gag in her mouth), “to stop any unnecessary noise coming from the boot of the car,” and this, before we put you into your travelling case.” He gestured to a large padded suitcase that Linh was taking out of the wardrobe. The ‘this’ that he’d mentioned was a mask which Hoang now produced, a pottery mask of a pretty doll with features not dissimilar from those of the Asian maid. It was beautiful, yet wholly artificial, which Araksia guessed, was why Kevork liked it. This he fastened over her exposed face. She realised that inside it was padded and had no openings save for two miniscule breathing holes. Now she was blinded, but it wouldn’t have mattered much if she weren’t as she soon felt herself being placed in the padded case and this being zipped up. Then she heard male voices, the gardeners most probably, and felt herself being lifted and carried out before being dumped somewhere. An engine started and she jolted. For how long they travelled she knew not. In her cocoon time had no meaning, though it cannot have been long. Then she felt herself being carried out and heard Rob talking to another man. Her mask was removed.

“Araksia, this is Rob Steinwald, an old friend of mine.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” a youngish man, quite handsome in fact, though with a face that betrayed his depravity, replied. “I hope you enjoy your stay with us.”

She was then carried by two servants through to a large bedroom done in pastel. To her surprise though, she was not undressed, and it was only when Rob arrived six hours later that she was released from her sweltering prison and laced into her usual Sleeping Venus, so that he could enjoy his nightly pleasure before falling asleep exhausted.

Sunbathing by the Pool

That morning Araksia was awaken by Kevork nuzzling himself against her face. “Good morning, my darling! Did you sleep well in this strange bed?”

‘As well as can be expected,’ thought the girl, though to be fair, she had slept no differently that she always did. The lump in her back still irritated her – it always would – but no more than usual. Certainly the change in surroundings hadn’t affected anything.

“My dear,” he continued. “You’ll be making a new friend today, Tatyana, Rob’s charming wife.”

‘A new friend! Oh for a real friend!’ thought Araksia. Someone whom she could share her plight with.

“Tatyana?” she asked.

“Yes, my friend Rob’s married, a charming girl. They met much the same way as we did my dear. There was one time of day when I wished I’d captured her for myself, but these days I know that I ended up the luckier one of the two.” He kissed her on the cheek. She felt, as she always did at that time in the morning, sick. “Come on my love!” Picking her up by the torso he hoisted her onto his now erect and throbbing penis and started bouncing her up and down, clasping onto her compressed waist. The rape didn’t last long. “My God, Araksia, you look so stunning in that Sleeping Venus. It does it for me everytime. Now, I’ll get Hoang to prepare you.”

He rang the bell and the lithe Asian entered holding what looked like another Sleeping Venus. Araksia looked puzzled and Kevork caught her look. “No my dear, you are not going back to sleep. I thought today that you should enjoy a bit of this Californian sunshine. You’re going sunbathing. Tatyana loves to bath and so you can go and join her.”

“But? But? How can I? I mean, wearing the Venus? I mean, well, isn’t the point of sunbathing to get brown, and well, doesn’t that cover… too much?”

“My darling, you are right, that is why I am not having you put into a Sleeping Venus or a Foundation Venus, but instead, a Bathing Venus, which holds your arms, not high up, at the top of your back, but instead, lower down, crossed against the small of your back. This of course would look stupid underneath a gown, as held in such a way, the arms cannot be compressed into an almost unseen shape, nor can a tiny waist be achieved, but it does mean that we can cut the top of your suit lower, exposing the tops of you delightful breasts and shoulders. And of course, as the legs are left free and the garment incorporates a thong, then whilst we will be denied the pleasure of see your exquisite waist, your long pins and gorgeous buttocks will still be on show for our amusement.”

Araksia, even though she had only been with Kevork for several months now, was already virtually immune to these outbursts. That she was little more than a doll to be admired by him and his cronies, she had already fully realised.

Hoang led her away to the dressing room adjacent to the guest bedroom and untied her Sleeping Venus. As always, her arms were numb and useless once released and as always Huang used this opportunity to handcuff her wrists together and then attach them to a chain suspended from the ceiling so that the Armenian was immobile whilst the pretty Vietnamese girl washed her body and hair and shaved her thoroughly before rinsing her off. She then released the arms and uncuffed them before crossing them in the small of Araksia’s back and fastening the new Bathing Venus around her.

This new garment, she was pleased to discover, was not so uncomfortable as her normal Foundation Venus, or even the Sleeping Venus. Not that it was comfortable mind, no garment that restricts the use of one’s arms and renders the wearer absolutely helpless can ever be described as ‘comfortable’ but this one did possess several advantages. Firstly, the fact that the arms were contained crossed over in the small of her back she found less irksome and constraining, but also, because they were contained there, there was virtually no waists constriction at all, with the garment containing only light lacing, just enough to halt any movement of the arms, and for the first time in months – since her arrival in America in fact – she found that she was able to breathe deeply. This, to the poor girl, seemed at the time, like a gift from Heaven.

Once dressed, and her hair combed out, and her silver lead attached, she left the dressing room, barefoot, and re-entered the bedroom. “My dear, you look gorgeous!” exclaimed Kevork, who was still in bed and looked as if he’d just been enjoying seconds with Linh, who was sheepishly fiddling around with his breakfast tray. “Yes, this garment suits you indeed, although your breasts, alas don’t heave as they do when in your Sleeping Venus. Oh, well, we can’t have everything, can we now? And at least your beautiful ass is on display for all to see.” He got up and slapped that oft-mentioned part of her anatomy, which, at that particular moment Araksia was more aware of as usual, it feeling naked with only the thong of the Bathing Venus to cover it.

“Hoang dear, Chi Ara Sia di Chi Ta Ta Ya Na, hieu khong?”

“Hieu.” The Vietnamese girl nodded, took Araksia’s lead and led her out, through the white corridors of Rob’s mansion and out into the blazing heat of the Pacific, into a garden, in which was located a large blue pool. Rob, she could see was splashing about in the pool, and besides it, sat on a sun lounger was a woman.

As she approached Araksia was able to make out the woman better. Kevork had been right when he’d said that Tatyana was a looker. She was. With long dark hair reaching down past her shoulders, and a slim, yet curvaceous body, dreamy brown eyes and a finely-chiselled Slavic face, she was any man’s dream. It was not of these however, that caught Araksia’s attention. Instead she was transfixed by the young lady’s clothing. Tatyana Steinwald was wearing naught but a tiny, two-piece bikini!

“Ah! Araksia! Good morning!” Rob waved and swam to the edge of the pool, where using his muscley arms, he hoisted himself out of the water, (‘Oh! To be able to hoist myself out of a pool!’ thought Araksia), and dripping, made his way over to her, kissing her on the cheek and his hand, she found in horror, straying towards her buttocks. “Araksia, meet my charming wife, Tatyana.”

The bikini-clad beauty rose and walked over to them. Wearing only a bikini! Where was the restriction? Surely all the women of the Society Men, (well barring the maids), were restricted? Araksia was still in shock!

“My darling, this is Araksia, Kevork’s new wife.”

“Glad to meet you,” said the girl with a soft Slavic accent, but she did not hold out her hand. “Araksia, will you come and bathe with me, so we can talk?”

Then she turned and Araksia saw why Rob allowed her – ordered her most probably – to wear only a bikini. Whilst from the front she appeared totally free, once viewed from behind her restriction was all too evident; her arms were pinned together behind her back and held, side-by-side, palms touching in a long single glove, made of black leather, (black to match the bikini, she later learnt), laced up tightly. She was restrained if not more so than Araksia herself!

Araksia followed her over and lay down on an adjacent lounger. Tatyana, she noted, could not lie down, her arms pinned behind her so, so she sort-of semi-sat, supported by cushions.

“My dear,” said in a low voice. “You are Armenian, no?”


“Good, then you speak Russian?”

“I-I do. Why, are you Russian?”

“No, I am Bulgarian, but we learnt it in school; under the communists we had to. Rob however, doesn’t speak it. Can we talk in Russian?”

“That’s fine by me.”

The Bulgarian smiled. “Araksia, I’m so happy that you’ve come. I heard your tale, how Kevork tricked you, how you thought you come to the Land of Milk and Honey. It’s almost identical to my own, I regret the day I ever replied to Rob’s email on, I truly do. Oh, Araksia, the life, here, living like this…” Tears began to well in her eyes.

“I know Tatyana, I know.” She wanted to comfort the girl, to stroke her hair or wipe the tears away from her eyes. But of course with no arms, such basic human reactions were not possible.

“I too…” she said.

“They’re monsters,” continued Tatyana, “absolute monsters. To keep women like this, as helpless playthings. Fuck toys almost! And yet he seemed so sweet…” Her voice trailed off. “Do you know, before I was here, I was a scientist, a Masters in Chemistry. ‘You will never see another lab nor mix another potion in you life,’ he said to me. I am not allowed to work, to do anything. Just sit here and look pretty and helpless!”

“Me too, my lot is the same, exactly.”

“But at least you are allowed a Venus.”

Araksia had of course never viewed her Venus as a blessing before, but seeing Tatyana’s garb, she wondered. She decided to ask further. “Does Rob not allow you a Venus then?”

“No, never. Says it is not elegant enough. He says that arms should be seen not hidden, but of course they should be rendered useless. Plus the Venus, well, by and large it appeals to men who are into corsetry, due to the waist lacings, but Rob’s not into that. Not that I haven’t worn corsets of course. At last year’s Victorian Ball I was forced into the tiniest little wasp waist and the hugest crinoline imaginable, but the mono-glove still stayed.”

“The mono-glove?”

“Yes, this that I’m wearing now. I always have to wear then, well, ninety-nine per cent of the time at any rate. They’re dreadfully uncomfortable…”

“How exactly?”

“Well you see, my arms are forced together, palms touching, and then the glove is laced up over then. In a Venus you can wiggle your fingers and such like, but in a mono-glove, you are completely immobile, plus it wrenches your shoulders back. Mine feel like they are constantly on fire.”

“That sounds awful! But… well… it does look more elegant than this Bathing Venus.”

“Yes, that’s not the most becoming of garments, though what would I give to wear one? They’re so comfortable I’ve heard.”

“Well, yes… But, not much good for a tan. You’ve a lovely even tan, but I’ll be half white by the end of today.”

“Well, I can ask, if you want, I can lend you a mono-glove tomorrow.”

“We will be bathing again tomorrow?”

“We will be sun-bathing together all week. Rob is allowing no other form of recreation.”


So they did just that. Araksia lay and sweltered in the sun all day, talking to Bulgarian Tatyana who turned out to be a delightful girl and with whom she shared much in common. At the end of the day though, when Huang was lacing her into her Sleeping Venus and administering her enema, she was dismayed to find that her body was by and large white, aside from her breasts, shoulders and legs. She mentioned the mono-glove and bikini to Rob in bed and he assented immediately. “My dear, I am so glad that you are beginning to enjoy this restriction. I shall inform Huang tomorrow. You have a lovely tiny black bikini that will match Tatyana’s and I’m sure we can find a nice tight mono-glove to complement it.

The next morning Araksia felt positively naked and unhindered as she walked out to the pool in her bikini and mono-glove. After an hour or so of lying there though, she began to have second thoughts. Her arms were dead and her shoulders – as Tatyana had said they would be – on fire! “My God!” she gasped, “How can you stand this daily?”

“I can’t,” Tatyana replied distantly in a defeated tone. “But I have to.”

Not only was the pain greater with the mono-glove, but also relaxing was far more difficult to. As she’d noted immediately, with her arms behind her she was unable to lie on her back as she liked, but to lie on her front or sides, she found that she had to ask a maid to turn her as she was unable to do so herself, and when lying on her front, her arms stuck embarrassingly up into the air like a flagpole. And all day long the sun beat down causing drowsiness, tiredness and irritability. She looked longingly at the blue pool in front of them.

“Tatyana, can we not take a dip in the pool? To cool off.”

“No, Araksia. Rob doesn’t allow it. Says that it is too dangerous as if we stumbled and fell we are not able to pick ourselves up again and we would drown.”

“Oh, what a shame!”

“But, there is one way that we could though…”


“Though it’s not that pleasant.”

“Nothing in this life is. What is it?”

“The Star…”

“The Star?”

“Yes my dear, The Star! Do you wish to try it?” Both girls looked up with a start. Standing over them was Kevork, who could of course understand their conversation in Russian. “Rob! The girls want to try relaxing in a Star apiece!”

“Do they? Jolly good, I shall get the maids to fix two up for after lunch.”

After lunch in the conservatory where Kevork fed her shrimps which she did not like, Araksia found Hoang waiting to lead her back to the pool. Once there however, she was shocked to find two large, five-pointed stars made out of what looked like gold lying on the lawn. Then she was even more surprised when Huang proceeded to remove the irksome mono-glove from her arms leaving her entirely free for a split second before leading her over to one of the stars where she was ordered to lie, her legs and arms outstretched along four of the points. Cuffs were then attached to her wrists and ankles and neck and then the extremities pulled until she was stretched, unable to move a muscle across the golden star, the hot metal burning her back and buttocks a little. She turned her head and found Tatyana, as resigned as ever, being fastened to the other one.

“This my darling, is The Star,” Kevork announced, a unique device that enables you to achieve an even tan all over your body, and enjoy the pool, without getting into danger or mischief.”

Then to Araksia’s horror, three male servants lifted the huge and heavy contraption up, with her on it, and placed it on the pool. “Stop! Stop!” she screamed. “I’ll sink!”

“Don’t worry Araksia,” said Rob who was also viewing the events. “You won’t sink. There are polystyrene floats under the star. You’ll just bob there, the water lapping against you body. And of course, it’ll keep the metal cooler so you won’t be burnt so much on the butt.”

And he was right, she did just bob there, for the rest of the day, staring into space, motionless. And this was worse than the mono-glove or Bathing Venus, as Tatyana bobbed away to the other end of the pool where she was too far away to talk to, and so once again, Araksia was alone and helpless. Her sufferings could not get worse she thought. And at least she could revert to the mono-glove the next day.

But of course, Araksia is not a lady whose sufferings tend to ease, and getting out of the Star proved to be far more difficult than getting into it. That evening the servants lifted her out of the water and instead of releasing her, instead carried her to the bedroom floor where Kevork took her forcefully with her spread-eagled and defenceless like that, before leaving her to sleep in the same position, crying into the night.

And the following day, after being released, washed and having her enema administered, Araksia found that she was fastened back onto that hateful contraption this time, face downwards with Kevork giving the simple explanation, now we need to make the other side just as brown.

And she wasn’t allowed back into any other sort of clothing until it was time to leave at the end of the week.

A Bike Ride

Araksia felt groggy when she was released from her travelling cocoon back at Chez Manuelyan. Much to her annoyance, Kevork had left her in it overnight, (preferring to sleep with Linh for a change she suspected), though was eager enough for his usual morning session despite her dirty and disorientated state. Once that was finished however, she was sent to Hoang to be prepared for the day in the usual manner, her enema being administered and her daily feeling of the tasteless compound being undertaken whilst she was still encased with the Sleeping Venus that Kevork had hurriedly laced her into.

After that though, she was more than surprised to discover that events did not then take their usual course, for whilst she was chained to the chain hanging from the ceiling and washed and shaved thoroughly, afterwards, instead of a Foundation Venus and evening dress being produced, tight-fitting leggings and a sports top were fitted onto her body, and instead of a Venus, instead a long pole was produced. This pole was fitted across her shoulders, her arms draped over it, and then handcuffed to the ends, so once her dressing was completed, she felt like Christ on the cross with her arms outstretched and of course, as per usual, entirely useless.

Kevork grinned as she re-entered the bedroom, having to walk in sideways due to the width of her outstretched arms. “My dear,” he said, “that suit certainly does show off your many, not inconsiderable, assets indeed.”

‘Why am I not wearing a Venus?” she asked.

“Why? Because look!” He walked over to her and grabbed her ass. “Your ass, as I have often said in the past, is remarkable, it truly is, but this morning I noticed that it is somewhat softer, and flabbier than usual. Now I am a man who appreciates a large ass as you know, but not a soft shapeless one. I like toned muscles Araksia, but yours… too many days spent lolling by the pool and relaxing around the house! But fear not, you will be getting fit once more! Come!”

Hoang led her by the leash down the corridor to a room that she had not been allowed to enter previously. It was empty save for an exersize bike sat in the middle and an ominous-looking pair of golden chains hanging down from the ceiling.

“Your fitness room, my love!” declared her lawfully-wedded husband.

Hoang led her over to the exersize bike which she proceeded to sit on. Then the two chains were attached to either end of the pole and the slack taken out of them. “Great!” said Kevork. “Now I shall explain. “From now on, twice weekly, you will be spending considerable time in this room. You will be expected, every day that you spend in here, to cycle forty kilometres – Look, we have a little device that measures how far you’ve travelled here –  and that is all. You come in, are attached and cycle. Once completed, a bell will sound and Hoang will enter, release you and give you a drink of water should you require one, and help you back to the dressing room for bathing and a change of clothes. Ok, my sweet, bye bye.” He kissed her on the cheek and squeezed her ass and then departed, as did the two Vietnamese and she was sat there alone. What was she to do? Cycle? Well, there was nothing else to do, and she knew that she wouldn’t be leaving until her forty kilos were completed, so off she went. It was a hellish experience. After fifteen, her muscles, used to lying unused after her month or so’s existence as a lady of luxury, were killing her, as were her arms, forced into a position that they were not accustomed to and that would hardly have ever been comfortable even if they were. And there was no respite from that position. All that she could do was stretch her legs out, that was all. After thirty kilos she felt like she would die, yet still she kept on – she had to. By the time that the bell rang, poor Araksia Manuelyan was half-unconscious and had to be carried over the shoulder of the maid back to the dressing room. For the rest of that day, she sat motionless and exhausted in her relaxation room, her mind blank.

The following day however, both she and Kevork noticed, that her muscles had become a lot more toned and much as she hated doing so, she had to admit that she felt considerably healthier.

A Present for the Birthday Girl

The trip to Rob Steinwald’s had obviously had an effect on Kevork as afterwards he became far more inventive and introduced much greater variety in Araksia’s clothing and manner of restriction than he had before. Previously she had worn an evening dress over a Foundation Venus everyday, but now she never knew what she was going to get. Some days he would decree a Foundation Venus with tight trousers, others a mono-glove, min-shorts and boob tube. The evening dresses still played a major role of course, but not always with a Venus. Now, he had some made that were to be worn with a mono-glove and others involving the Snake and the Wave, two new, (and incidentally rather welcome), forms of restriction that had entered Araksia’s life.

The Snake was called so, as wearing it, Araksia’s arms looked a little like that said reptile. Sometimes worn behind her back and sometimes in front, it encased her arms in one long tube, a little perhaps, like a muff in the days of yore, only in the Snake the hands were not removable. This Araksia enjoyed as it allowed her the use of her shoulders and on the days when it was decreed, she gained infinite pleasure from lifting her bound-together arms up and down and using those oft immobile muscles.

The Wave was more peculiar though equally pleasing. This peculiar form of restriction bound her wrists together with her shoulders, a strap going under the armpit and around the wrist, leaving the arm folded and immobile, and the hands pointing upwards. Incorporated within a dress, it looked strange, her shoulders ending in a flounce of ruffles or a ballooning sleeve similar to those popular in the 1830s, but out of the tops of those sleeves, two free hands poked out, looking as if they were waving, (hence the name). Having her hands free as such, (though often encased in tight gloves), was a blessing for our beleaguered Armenian girl, more that compensating for the pain on the elbow muscles that this unique form of bondage caused.

Overall, Araksia was pleased with these changes in her restricted lifestyle. They gave some variety to the monotony and boredom of her tightly controlled and restricted existence, and what’s more, it had to be said that she enjoyed how some of the clothes made her look, coupled with the fantastic new figure that she was achieving due to her regular sessions on the exersize bike.

In fact, by Araksian standards, her life was now rather full and jolly indeed. Since the visit to Rob Steinwald’s, Rob had kept his promise and taken her out regularly, to the mansions of many of his friends, friends who often were married to girls in a similar position to her own. To be honest none of them she got on with as she had with Tatyana, some she absolutely detested in fact, such as Maria, a Filipino girl who was married to Jake. Previously she had been the maid to his wife, but had gotten so close with her master that he’d divorced his old spouse, (although she had quickly been remarried to another Society member), and married him, knowing full well the restriction that marrying a Society Man who inflict on her life. Contrary to rebelling against this however, she instead entered it with a gusto, often thinking up new and inventive forms of restriction, (the Star had been her doing apparently), and her latest request, which her husband was purportedly mulling over, was to go to hospital and have her arms amputated! Even more surprisingly, she was not the only girl who revelled in the restriction and actually enjoyed it, though it must be said that Society Members tended not to encourage this, as tying someone up is always less fun if they are actually asking you to do it.

Araksia also began to realise that by Society standards, Kevork was not that bad at all either. Ok, he was sick, and had a bit with the maids, she knew, but compared to Ruud, the Dutch corset freak who kept his wife, a Brazilian named Katerina who sported huge false tits, squeezed in at 36 centimetres night and day, or even Rob who had Tatyana sleep in a cocoon that rendered her blind, deaf and dumb for the night every Saturday and Wednesday, (whilst he enjoyed his Colombian maids), Kevork really was quite middle-of-the-road.

And so it is that one sunny June day we find Araksia sat in her Relaxation Room, dressed in a Foundation Venus and an armless sky blue silk Vietnamese ao dai, (remember, Kevork had promised her one), with Hoang holding a magazine open before her eyes, when Kevork burst in, a huge grin upon his face.

“My dear!” he announced. “It’s ready! Will you please follow me to the dressing room. Your going on a trip out!”

“Ready? What’s ready? What trip?” She was confused. He had mentioned no trip previously.

“Araksia! Araksia! What date is it today?”

“The twenty-first of June I think…”

“Actually, it’s the twenty-second, and do you know what will be happening exactly a month from today?”

Araksia shook her head.

“You do not! But my darling, you should! Why, is not the twenty-second of July your birthday?” The twenty-second. Of course it was. In her misery though, such happy thoughts as birthdays had gotten swept away by the ill wind. “Yes indeed, my sweet, your own birthday. And what’s more, not only is it your birthday, but also, by chance, this year on the twenty-second, is to be held one of, nay, the main event of the Society’s annual calendar: The Victorian Ball!”

“The Victorian Ball?”

“Yes my love, why what a night that is! All us men dress up in cravats and dinner jackets and all you ladies are clad in the most gorgeous gowns and crinolines imaginable, and we journey to an old castle in Hungary, (it’s cheap to hire you see), and all night long we swirl around the dance floor to the strains of the Blue Danube and such.” Araksia had to admit that this sounded rather fun. However, since the Society was involved, she was sure that there had to be some sort of catch.

“So where are we going now then?” she asked.

“Now? Why, as it’s your birthday, you will be needing a present. And this year, as it is the first of our happy married life, I am paying for something extra special. However, it will take time to prepare. That is why we have to start now.”

“But what is it?”

“My sweet, sweet Araksia! Aren’t birthday presents meant to be surprises?”

She was led to the dressing room and encased, as expected, in the travelling cocoon. However, to her surprise, once fully laced up and enclosed, Hoang approached her with a glass of tea, motioning for her to drink.

“What’s this?” she asked in surprise.

“A sleeping draught,” replied Kevork. “Drink it, you’ll be needing it.”

What could she do but oblige? Any fight that had been in her had been beaten out long ago. She swallowed. A minute later she was dead to the world.

When Araksia Manuelyan came to she felt groggy and her head ached. She felt like she had been asleep not for hours, but for much long – days or weeks. She felt dirty and disorientated. She also noticed a nagging ache on her torso. She looked around her and found to her surprise that she was exactly where she had been when she’d last been conscious. Or at least but a metre or two away, lying in her own bed. Why prepare her for travelling if she were not going anywhere?

It was then that she realised that she was no longer in the cocoon, but instead clad only in a mono-glove and extremely tight under breast corset. The upper part of her torso was bandaged. What the hell had happened? She lay there for around an hour until Hoang entered. Seeing that her mistress was awake, she disappeared once more and came back a moment or two later with Araksia’s husband. Kevork smiled, came over to his wife and sat her up.

“What’s happened?” she asked quietly.

“My dear, your birthday present!” he declared and then to her surprise he started unwrapping the bandages that covered her chest area. Once done he motioned for her to look. She started in surprise. Her tits, never small, had now ballooned in size. They were easily 36DD now. They looked like the tits of a cartoon character, not the breasts of a real girl. “My love,” he said, “Happy Birthday! How did you like your new silicone tits?”

The Belle of the Ball

Getting over the shock of the two fake footballs fastened to her chest took Araksia longer than she’d expected. She was mortified by them, and hated them and would have beaten them to a pulp had she of course the ability to do so. But as we know, she did not, so instead, daily they sat there, teasing her, and Kevork who loved nothing more than to play with those gigantic love toys.

However, gigantic breasts were not the only new woe to enter our beleaguered Armenian’s restricted existence. The Victorian Ball, whilst something that she was looking forward to, was also something that required much preparation, as the Society insisted that it’s members, (and of course their wives), try to be as authentic as possible. And of course, being authentic as regards the Victorians, meant obtaining a waistline of absolutely tiny proportions, and to do so meant a period of sustained tight-lacing. Kevork of course had always been a man who had admired the effects of the corset on a woman, particularly as he was excited by the curvaceous beauty with wide hips and large tits, but a minute waist, and as such he had always insisted that Araksia’s Foundation and Sleeping Venuses be laced to a waist circumference of fifty centimetres. Whilst he would have liked to see her with a much tinier waist than that, Kevork explained that he had read much on the subject of tight-lacing and he had learnt that waists of less than forty centimetres require constant corset usage and actually deform the figure so that the wearer cannot live without her stays, (such as was the case with Katerina), and should she be without them her figure would appear unnatural and in fact, quite displeasing to the eye. Kevork went on to explain that whilst corset did attract his eye, he also loved seeing his beautiful wife in other garments from time to time, such as boob tubes and bikinis and so it was that he dared not push her below fifty for extended periods of time.

The Victorian Ball however was an exception, and for this momentous occasion the Armenian had stipulated that his wife be laced to a size of no more than forty centimetres, a size which to Araksia’s ears sounded incredibly small, and could only be achieved through a month or so of wearing unbelievably tight and uncomfortable stays both night and day. So it was that her tight-lacing regime was begun, each month the maids squeezing her torso until she could no longer breathe, and causing her new enormous breasts to heave mercilessly all day long. How many times she fainted during that tortuous period, she knew not, but everyday, as she felt the laces squeezing the very life out of her she felt like breaking down into floods of tears.

Now of course, whilst authenticity was very much insisted on for the event, this being a Society gathering, there was to be no attempt at realistically recreating the fact that Victorian women had full use of their arms. Araksia however, thought that it was perhaps worth pointing this little hypocrisy out to Kevork one day when he was waxing lyrical about her latest waist reduction, (she was by now down to forty-two centimetres and each further reduction was almost impossible). To her surprise though, when she pointed out that no matter how minute her waist was, she would never look the part wearing either a mono-glove, a Foundation Venus or even the Wave, he thought for a moment and then proceeded to agree with her. Then to her further surprise, he said, “Perhaps we can introduce something new, change the rules a bit this year.”

A fortnight before the great event, Kevork introduced Araksia to the gown that she would be wearing. It was one of cream satin, incorporating a vast billowing crinoline which she guessed would measure over two metres in width, (“Though fear not, my love,” Kevork had said, “You will be wearing heels of fifteen centimetres and stride impeders at the knee, and a skin tight leather petticoat, so your strides will be pleasingly miniscule, like your waist”), with puff sleeves, red roses all over and to her absolute astonishment, free arms. It was truly beautiful, a gown fit for Cinderella and though she would have preferred to have chosen herself, she had to admit that Kevork had done a good job.

“But the arms?” she’d questioned.

“Don’t you worry about that,” he’d replied.

A week before, she was packed into her travelling cocoon, and a catheter and feeding apparatus inserted which implied a long journey, zipped up in her case and flown together with her husband to Hungary. When she awoke they were in a beautiful Victorian bedchamber which was presumably, (judging from the antiquity of the building), in the castle that he’d mentioned, and boasted a fine view of some ornamental gardens with the Blue Danube rolling by outside. “My dear, this where you’ll be staying,” announced Kevork as he administered to her a ‘Welcome to Hungary’ session of unwanted sexual congress, and he was right. For the entire week – a week of unbelievable corsetting and continual preparations for the big day, she was not let out of that room.

The day before Kevork announced that she was to be laced into her ball corset ready, and she was hung from the lacing trapeze whilst the two sexy Hungarian maids, (Hoang and Linh had been given leave to visit their families in Vietnam), squeezed her waist into it’s now almost impossible girth and caused her tits to balloon out so that they were level with her shoulders. Then, when she was released, Kevork, (who as always, was surveying the goings on with pleasure), announced, “And now your gloves!” and to her surprise, instead of having her arms restrained as she had had every single day since arriving in California, she was led over to a dressing table and a pair of tight leather kid gloves that had been placed in stretchers overnight, were forced onto her hands. They fitting of these shoulder-length items of apparel took well over fifteen minutes for each on and once one and all the creases worked out, her hands were squeezed mercilessly, and virtually immobile. But of course, ‘virtually immobile’, was to poor Araksia, the same as ‘Free as the Wind’ is to us, and it was with glee that she moved her aching shoulder muscles up and down and flexed her wrists and fingers the fraction of a centimetre that the gloves would allow.

“And now, we must give the gloves a covering,” said Kevork, “to ensure that they keep their texture,” and the two Hungarian maids then started pasting the surface of those beautiful gloves with some sort of grey liquid. “Whatever is this for?” thought Araksia, noting that the covering did nothing for the appearance of the gloves. She soon found out. Within a couple of minutes, the liquid had dried out and had dried out completely solid. She could no longer move a muscle! Her hope and joy completely dissolved. So she was to be as immobile for the Ball as she always was. But Kevork it seemed, had not finished. The Hungarian maids then produced two life-size, dainty porcelain hands, cast in two parts, which they then proceeded to fit over her now solid arms, and glue together. “Perfect!” declared Kevork, once they’d set. “My little China Doll!’ He kissed her on the cheek and caressed her tits and ass. “Now you see why we had to lace you into the corset today. We could never have hung you from the lacing bar with these delightful dolly arms on!”

That night Araksia could not sleep. The tightness of her Ball Corset was excruciating and the blankets wouldn’t lie on her as her two solid arms stuck up in the air, outstretched, as if she was asking for someone to hold her and take her, (an invitation that Kevork had of course taken up already). In the morning though, things were better. She was administered her enema and given her compound and then the fitting began. Forcing her tiny high-heeled shoes onto her feet and learning to walk in those beautiful yet painful works of art took some time, but nothing compared to the erection of her crinoline, placing and smoothing out of her fifteen petticoats and then the fitting of that oh-so-beautiful dress, and the fixing of the hundreds of roses onto it. Then came her hair, done in a charming collection of sausage curls and her mark insisting on her usual long lashes, despite the fact that they were apparently not very Victorian. By five though, she was ready, and it was a proud man that led his charming wife down the hallway to the vast ballroom.

And what a night that was! The ladies swirled round, most wearing mono-gloves with their corsets. All admired her appearance and Kevork’s ingenuity with her arms and when Kevork even allowed her a glass or two of champagne, (which went straight to her head due to the over tight corset and fact that she had not partaken in the consumption of liquor for over six months), she almost forgot her woeful life, awful predicament and heartless husband and for an hour or two imagined herself really to be the Cinderella of every girl’s fantasy. And when she was presented with the Belle of the Ball Award at the end of the night the Birthday Girl even kissed her husband of her own free will as he received the trophy on her behalf.

Reality however, returned with a gusto that night, as that same husband demanded painful anal sex, and the dreams of a princess dissolved back into the reality of being a millionaire’s fuck toy as she buried her head into the crisp white pillow.

East is East and West is West…

Life after the Victorian Ball continued in it’s normal hum-drum manner for Araksia Manuelyan. After the event, for several months, she revelled in the double glory of being the official Annual Victorian Belle and also for being the human guinea pig for Kevork’s new form of bondage, (he had specially hired a chemist to mix a paste for him that would dry so quickly and effectively), a form of restriction that was very soon christened ‘stoning’ as the unlucky wearer was literally turned to stone. To celebrate this new-found fame that had been brought to the Manuelyan household, Kevork organised a huge party, of a new type entirely – namely a Statue Party, where all the women of the Society were dressed in tight-fitting catsuits and then painted all over in the paste, which once hardened, rendered them exactly like statues. They were then place out in the Manuelyan grounds for guests to admire and pop peanuts or fresh strawberries into their mouths if they so desired. Thus it was that our poor Armenian spent a grand total of twenty-four hours stood out on her patio, (placed next to Tatyana Steinwald thankfully), waiting until morning until their husbands could be bothered to move them. It was not a pleasant experience to say the least.

Her time in the limelight however, was soon eclipsed when it came to the time of Jake and Maria’s party when the hostess appeared wearing what appeared to be a very tight Foundation Venus, it which no trace of her folded arms were visible.

“Oh, it’s not tight at all,” she explained when Tatyana and Araksia congratulated her on it. “I’ve had my arms amputated as a birthday present by Jake. It’s great.” She paused and smiled.

‘That girl truly is sick,’ thought Araksia. “Oh,” the Filipina added as an afterthought. “And thank you and Kevork for introducing us all to stoning. “Do you know, Jake has me stoned every Thursday and Friday all day long. Well, except for my mouth and pussy of course. He needs those to move.”

‘Some people are beyond help,’ thought Araksia sadly.

But aside from her stoning fame and the seemingly endless round of parties that they went to, nothing new or of note entered Araksia Manuelyan’s monotonous existence, which was spent most bored out of her mind in the Relaxation Room or being screwed by her husband.

Nothing that is until one night in November that Araksia will never forget so long as she lives.

Her and Kevork were lying in bed, he playing with her nipples, (which he’d just had pierced, much to her disgust and discomfort), when the telephone rang. Her husband answered and at once sounded worried. “No! Seriously? How could she? What are we to do? The Plan? Right! Ok! Orders from the Council eh? I’m onto it. Be ready by six.”

He put down the receiver and looked agitated.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“Rob,” he replied.

“Bad news?” she asked.

“Very bad. Come on my love, we’re leaving!”

“Leaving? Where? Why?”

“Araksia, I have no time to answer your fucking questions. We are leaving and that’s that! Now get going, quickly. You’ll find out everything in time.”

Then he virtually dragged her into the dressing chamber calling out “Hoang!” and “Linh!” as he went.

The two Vietnamese maids arrived in their lingerie, looking half asleep. He rapped out some commands to them in the native tongue and they woke up suddenly and started pulling Araksia’s travelling cocoon out of the wardrobe. So, she was going on a journey then. But to where? She was not to learn, as Kevork then left, assumedly to make his own preparations, but by the fact that the maids inserted her catheter, feeding mask and a vast quantity of tranquiliser, she knew, just before she dropped off, that it was likely to be a long trip.

Araksia awoke to find herself in a large sumptuous bed chamber. A fan whirred lazily overhead and a canary twittered in a cage. She looked around her. The windows were in the Oriental style and beautiful carpets adorned the floors and walls. It seemed like she had entered a Sultan’s Palace. ‘Hopefully not as a member of his Harem,’ she thought, unfazed – little shocked our Armenian these days –  though to be honest, even being a Harem Slave would not be any worse than what she was already used to.

A figure clad in white veils gestured for her to get up. Araksia examined her, but all she could see was the eyes. She knew those eyes though. It was Hoang. ‘Some things never change,’ she thought, wondering what new game or whim of Kevork’s this was.

Hoang took her to a dressing room where she was prepared as usual by the Vietnamese girl who was quick to take off all her Arabic clothing with a sigh. Then, tightly laced into a Foundation Venus and unusually gagged but then, once released, to her surprise, instead of an evening dress or skimpy clothing, an abayah and set of veils was brought for her, covering her entirely, even more so than with Hoang as cloth, several layers of it in fact, was placed over her eyes, so much so that she could only make out the dimmest outlines of things. Then, once prepared as an Arabic maiden, she was led out of the dressing room and the bedchamber and down countless corridors to a vast hall. And in that hall were sat hundreds of other veiled women, all silent and motionless like herself. Hoang motioned for her to sit. As always, she did as she was bid. The Hoang left.

About ten minutes later, two men walked onto a stage at the front of the hall. One was a Westerner, the other an Arab, dressed in the garb of his people. Araksia couldn’t be sure, (as she could hardly see anything through her thick veils), but she suspected that she’d seen both of them before at Society gatherings. Then the Westerner began to speak.

“Ladies of the Society. Welcome to your new home! Should you be wondering where you are at present, let me inform you that we are currently all lodged in the home of this kind man stood beside me, Sheik Mohammed al-Saud. Yes ladies, we are in Saudi Arabia and what’s more, this is where we, or at least you, will be staying.”

This announcement caused gasps amongst the cloth-draped audience.

“Our move here has been made necessary by the terrible actions of one of your sisters, Mrs. Tatyana Steinwald. On the 5th November of this year, under unusual circumstances, she managed to stray from the grounds of her husband’s house and run to a nearby police station, where she unfortunately told the authorities of her lifestyle with us. These scandalous actions caused the government of the United States to start looking into our activities, with a view to destroying our way of life. Luckily for us all though Ladies, we had foreseen such a possibility and planned accordingly. The LA Police Chief is one of us, and he stalled the investigations and gave us warning to leave. That is why you have all been escorted here to Saudi Arabia where each of your husbands owns a home. Here you will now be living, far from the reach of the American Government and the evil liberal ideas that have poisoned that country.

Sheik Mohammed’s only condition on giving us leave to live in his country was that we all convert to the Islamic Faith. This we have done on paper only. But by converting it has enabled our Society to have the government of Saudi Arabia on our side. They have stated that they do not object to our mode of life and in fact will support it. In Saudi Arabia, a women is the vassal of her husband at all times and in all places. What’s more, she is not allowed to work. We support and share these Saudi values. On top of that, our conversion to Islam has the added benefit of allowing each of our male members to marry four times, an option I hope many will take up, so Ladies, behave unless you want to lose your protector.

Ladies, these are the new facts in your life. Learn to live by them. You will be veiled at all times outside of your husband’s or other member’s homes. Veiled as now. Otherwise, life will continue just as before.

So, now I will leave you to be placed in travelling cocoons and to journey to your new homes. Enjoy your life in Saudi Arabia oh beloved, armless Venuses of the Society.”

And so that was that. Tatyana had escaped! How? Oh to do the same! But what would happen if Rob caught up with her. Araksia shuddered for her friend’s sake and prayed a silent prayer. Then she turned to her own predicament. She was now a Muslim and would be living in Saudi Arabia, that vast desert prison for women. Well, would it be any worse than California had been? She doubted it. Hoang tapped her on the shoulder and silently she got up and left, ready to be packed for the journey to Kevork’s new mansion in the desert.

A Desert Princess

Life for Araksia in Saudi Arabia turned out to be not altogether too different from how it had been in California. Daily she was confined to a huge mansion in a stifling hot climate wearing beautiful yet restrictive clothes. True the style was a bit different now, with Turkish rugs and Ottoman latticing adorning her new relaxation room, in place of the minimalist furnishings of the Californian one, but such changes in scenery were only surface deep. In fact, the only real change brought upon her life by their move to Arabia was the introduction of veiling which now became a regular and most irksome extra burden for our poor Armenian to deal with. Saudi custom dictates, (or so Kevork said to Araksia), that its women be hidden from view at all times so as not to sexually excite males, and so it was that whenever she left her quarters, (i.e. her bedroom, dressing room and relaxation room), she was required to veil fully, which meant over her eyes as well as the rest of her body. And when Kevork said ‘fully’, he meant it, her never having less than three layers of cloth covering her face, (“just to be sure that your charms are not seen by the gardeners and menservants”), reducing her vision to virtually nothing. And so it was that yet another of life’s pleasures – that of unrestricted sight – was taken from her and all her time spent away from her room was time spent in virtual darkness with only the barest outlines of things being perceptible. And on top of that, being covered in a mound of cloth is of course hot too, and at the end of every trip out of her quarters Araksia was hot sticky, sweaty and very very flustered. Such are the trials that our new Desert Princess had to endure.

Of course one exception to the veiling rule was Society gatherings and parties where Society Men still wanted to show off their trophies and admire the restricted, armless female form as much as ever. These, even more than in California were a blessing to Araksia, even though she no longer had her best friend to talk to, Tatyana having disappeared as we know and never been seen or talked of again. One gathering though, at the palace of Paolo Olivetti, an Italian Member of the Society, she was milling around clad in an extremely tight and uncomfortable corset with mono-glove with twelve centimetre heels when she came across a woman stood in a corner looking most uncomfortable with her mono-glove and crying her eyes out. Worried, and, (as she had not seen this lady before), suspecting that she may be new and unused to the Society’s restrictive way of life, she went over to ask what was the matter. To her surprise the lady, when she answered, her breasts heaving due to the tightness of her corset, answered in a way that Araksia did not expect.

She had a male voice!

“Who are you?” asked our concerned Armenian.

“I am… Fatima al-Steinwald, the new wife of Rob Steinwald…but…”


“But I wasn’t always.”

“Who were you then?”

“Ivan Kovachev.”

Kovachev. That name rang a bell. “Are you, perhaps in any way related to…”

“… to Tatyana Kovachev, or Tatyana Steinwald as she is now?”
”She is my best friend.”

“She is my sister.”

Araksia couldn’t believe it. Tatyana’s brother – or sister perhaps! What was he/she doing here. She asked and Fatima or Ivan told her his/her sad tale.

“When Tatyana left, causing the Society so many problems – she escaped by hitting her maid who by accident hadn’t secured her properly to her ceiling chain, and then running out of the house and gardens – Rob vowed revenge on her. However, she had gone into hiding, in Brazil we believe, where no one knew where she was or could touch her. So what did that evil bastard do instead? Kidnapped a member of her family – me, and brought me to live as his wife. Except of course that I am, or was, a man. So, he’s having me changed. The process isn’t finished yet, I’ve got these huge breasts as you can see, and I’m on hormones, but the, well… tackle is still there. I believe he intends to leave my, erm… cock, as a reminder of what I once was, just whip the balls off. That’s when my voice will change. Not that that will change anything for Rob. That sicko nightly enjoys taking me up the ass as much as he enjoyed raping my sister. I can’t bear it!”

“Oh my God! I know, Fatima… Ivan. But that is our lot here. You have to. But what about Tatyana?”

“She is safe now. But Rob has sent a message saying that for every six months that she does not give herself up, he will kidnap and forcibly sex change one male member of her family or a close male friend. And if she tops herself, then he will do the same. That’s why I’m crying. She got in touch today. He is leaving for Brazil tomorrow to collect her. I fear for my sister, Araksia.”

“Well, that’s sad, and I would fear for anyone in his clutches too. But at least you will be free.”

“Oh no, I’m married to him now. And that’s forever. But at least I will have my sister around.”

Araksia shuddered and thanked the Lord that she had not been blessed with any brothers.

A Mother’s Heart

It is thirty-five years to the day since Araksia al-Manuelyan arrived in the country that is now her home – Saudi Arabia. Her beauty and charms faded long ago, as did any hope that she might have had for a happy life, but her body, thanks to her regular exersize sessions, is in better shape that most fifty-five year-olds. Her arms these days, she imagines, even if they were to be released from their bondage, would be useless, the muscles atrophied after so many years of lying unused. Nowadays the first wife of Kevork al-Manuelyan just sits and waits, without emotion. There is nothing else for her to do.

It was a year or so after her arrival in the desert kingdom when she noticed her position starting to become eroded. Linh, the foxy maid whom she knew that he husband had long been shagging, emerged one birthday with the traditional Society Birthday Present – a pair of huge silicone breasts. They looked stupid on the lightly-built Asian but Kevork didn’t seem to mind. After that, and after he had some extra fat pumped into her ass, he spent more and more time with his maid, and less with his wife.

But it was Nguyen Linh who eventually replaced Araksia. He never married her and after three years of sleeping with her nightly, as he had with Araksia, he got bored and sent her packing back to her village with fifty thousand dollars, (with which they say she built a rather nice house). He got new maids in, Filipino this time, (they had no opportunity to complain or help the trapped wives under the Draconian Laws of the Saudis), but it was never to be a maid who ousted our Armenian. Three years after her arrival, Araksia got pregnant. This surprised her, as she knew that previously she’d always had the pill included in her compound. As soon as the baby, a son whom they named Hacho, was born, Kevork ‘went shopping’ as he termed it, to his homeland. A month later he returned with a new nineteen year-old bride, the fair Anoush.

At first the newcomer was wary of Araksia, seeing her as a threat, but over time their shared experiences and Armenian background brought them together as sisters in suffering. Araksia was pleased that he’d acquired a new love toy anyway. It kept him away from her bed. Nonetheless, he still visited from time to time, and within a year her second child, a girl named Lucina. Having to bring up a girl child in such an environment was the hardest thing that Araksia had had to bear yet. How many nights had she wept endlessly over the plight of her beloved daughter? And with her arms restricted so, she was never of course, even allowed to hold her child. From the moment of her initial binding at the age of puberty her daughter’s existence had been even more narrow, restricted and miserable than her own. Hacho had every freedom that he could want. At eighteen he was already seducing unwilling yet defenceless Society Maidens, and at twenty he was married for the first time, a big-assed Colombian hostess whom his father had bought for him to teach him the ways of love. Love he called it. That sick man did not know what true love was.

But today is perhaps the saddest day of all. As soon as she had turned, Kevork had decreed that Lucina was to start dating. Dating with a view towards marriage. But dating under Society rules was not like dating elsewhere. Lucina was clad in a tight Foundation Venus and stoned whilst interested males milled around drinking cocktails and admiring her. Then, those interested, contacted Kevork and were allowed to take the poor girl out. How many times had Araksia seen those leery perverts arrive at their mansion and take her beloved by the leash for a night of ‘dating’. (Though no sex was allowed, from twelve years on she had been forced to wear a chastity belt).

And the conclusion of those nights of dating? Why today? The great and glorious wedding of Lucina al-Manuelyan, daughter of Kevork al-Manuelyan. A wedding presided over by that man and his new Armenian wife, Ohana, an eighteen-year old beauty from Erevan. But Araksia, as the one whom had borne the bride had also been graciously invited. So there she sits, veiled in cloth, hardly able to see the proceedings, not wanting to see the proceedings, gagged to stop any embarrassing outbursts, and laced to forty-five inches in a Foundation Venus. Yes there she sits and watches as Kevork gives away his only daughter. Gives his daughter away to an old friend of his, a man whom has already driven his first wife to the grave, and enslaved her brother, turning him into his second wife. The man who is known to make his ladies sleep in a sleeping cocoon and has recently expressed an interest in amputation as was pioneered by Maria the Crazy Filipina.

“Lucina al-Manuelyan. Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?” the minister asks.

“She does,” replied Kevork, smiling at his friend.

“And Rob al-Steinwald. Do you take this girl to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do,” says he.

Araksia, feels like dying and sinking into the ground that very moment.

But as we know, she will be living on this terrible earth for many more painful and empty years to come.

And her daughter Lucina, for many more after that.



Alison becomes a Lady of Leisure: Chapter 14

Chapter 13

Chapter 14 – Happily Ever After

A month after their return from London, Katie walked down the aisle with Sam at St. Mary’s Church, Bowdon and became the new Mrs. Stephen Williamson. It was the social event of the year as Stephen was the heir to one of the biggest cotton concerns in the country and she was the perfect bride, with an awe-inspiring waist, elegance and grace and a face that could have graced fashion magazines. Following the wedding they went away on honeymoon to the South of France and when they returned they moved into a newly-built mansion near to Stockport.

Their marital home was the talk of all society as it was designed by a top architect and featured all the fashionable touches. There was a pool like at the spa where Mrs. Williamson could relax and a sauna, (the hot room of wood), but whilst not there she had an entire wing to herself which was fitted with a new invention gaining in popularity amongst fashionable circles.

With the reverse prayer being de rigeur now amongst the great and the good, it was hard to see how much further ladies could go to demonstrate their wealth and elegance, until Princess Beatrice, about tenth in line to the throne, had a sort of slide rail system fitted to her quarters. This was like a railway laid around the ceiling to which a wire was attached which was then secured to the Lady of Leisure. The idea was initially that it prevented her from falling and hurting herself as she walked, (being unable to put out their arms to cushion a fall, several Ladies of Leisure had seriously hurt themselves), but then developed into yet another means of fashionable and elegant restraint. The idea was that a husband could decree which areas his wife, (or daughter), may or may not venture and also, using electronic programming, could also set pre-arranged routes. So for example, a father feeling that his teenage daughter was growing too fat, could programme that the wire force her to walk around the room continually for an hour or more in order to lose weight. Naturally, such a device was something that Katie was not going to be without.

To her surprise though, soon afterwards, Alison discovered one being fitted to her quarters. Sam had seen the one that Stephen designed and decided that his wife would not have less than her sister. So now her movements were even more restricted and, whenever he needed her presence to relieve his tensions orally, she would find herself being led into his study by the silent, uncaring wire. Her own thoughts and wants were now meaningless.

And so there we find her, sat in her chair in her retiring room, staring out across the lawn upon which rain is lashing down. The music on the gramophone has finished but Natalie has not been in to replace it. She sees less and less of Natalie these days who does not need to worry if her mistress is safe now that there is the slide wire and also a camera so she can check upon her. If gossip is to be believed, her lady’s maid spends her time playing cards and carrying on an illicit liaison with the head gardener.

With nothing else to do, she occupies her mind with thoughts on just how her life has changed over the past year. She realises that this was the day, exactly one year before when Samuel Withenshaw first gathered up the courage to ask her out. She had accepted him on her terms and had later accepted his proposal of marriage because she loved him. Looking back though, she wonders, was she right to do so. In the unbelievable year that has followed she has risen from being a humble waitress having to eke out a living to support herself and her sister, to one of the wealthiest and most esteemed ladies in the district. Her husband is now the second most important manager at Williamson’s Mill and she has made friends with some of the finest ladies in the land. She is invited to balls and garden parties and she is clad in gowns that cost her what was several months’ wages before. Furthermore, she has secured a marriage beyond all expectations for her sister, a marriage which Katie herself is happy in and which will leave their children heirs to one of the greatest fortunes in the north-west. Everyone tells her how lucky and blessed she is.

Yet at what cost have these gains come? Now she is elegant and beautiful, a living fashion plate, yet that fashion and privilege has also reduced her to a state of absolute dependency and helplessness. She can no longer feed herself or use a toilet; her life is restricted so that she may not even walk around her own house at will, and indeed requires assistance with such simple acts as sitting and climbing steps. And 24 hours a day, seven days a week her body reminds her of her new elegant and exalted status, from her stretched and constricted neck which leaves her gasping for breath, to her enormous cartoon breasts which heave up and down as her lungs gasp for air, to her minuscule waist as hard as iron, to her padded bottom plugged with an oversized replica of a male penis, to her intimate areas, shorn of hair, plugged, trimmed back and ringed, to her feet, forced en pointe so that she can only mince along at the slowest of speeds. Yes, her entire body reminds her of this, but no part so more as her arms, totally unusable for almost a year, at present dead until Natalie comes to massage them back into life.

She swallows, feeling the rubber gag fill her mouth and fidgets on her chair causing the plugs in her anus and slit to move. Her nipple rings are also tugged and ripples of pleasure flow through her. Automatically her mind turns to what it always turns to these days: sex. She longs for it constantly, being denied all other forms of pleasure.

Then she feels another pull, on the harness around her bound arms and collar. She is being lifted up out of her chair. She glances at the clock: Ten past three. Yes, she knows what it is; it happens around this time everyday now. Sam has an urge and she, as his elegant accessory, has a duty to satisfy it.

Slowly and carefully she minces her way towards her husband’s study.

Because as a Lady of Leisure she is given everything in the world except the ability to exercise a will of her own.


Alison becomes a Lady of Leisure: Chapter 13

Chapter 12

Chapter 13 – A Letter Arrives

“Ma’am, Mr. Withenshaw requires your presence in his study.”

Alison let the maid assist her in rising and then minced her way through the corridors to her husband’s study. Once inside, the maid sat her down and then Sam ordered her out and shout the door.

“What is it?” she asked.

“This letter,” he replied, “which arrived special delivery this morning. I think you can guess what it is.”

She could, they had both been expecting it. It was a formal proposal of marriage for Miss Katherine Knight from Master Stephen Williamson.

“I shall accept of course,” said Sam.

Alison nodded as much as her neck corset would allow. There was no sensible reason to refuse: he was above her in station, the son of a close friend and the two obviously liked one another. Nonetheless, Alison felt a little sad. For the rest of her life Katie would become an elegant, often mute, entirely helpless fashion mannequin, an elaborate accessory to her husband. She knew that the prospect of this would please her sister but, deep down, she always wanted something more for her… and herself.

“He lists his demands,” continued Sam. “Financially he is understanding, he knows our station and so has only demanded a dowry of £5,000. He has said that he will house her and care for her. And the enhancements are no too extreme either…”


“Why yes, of course. You know as well as I that all Ladies of Leisure undergo enhancements prior to marriage as stipulated by their fiancés.”

“Yes, I suppose so, I’d just, well, never thought about it.”

“Well, think now. He is demanding 40F breasts, some slight enhancements to the lips and buttock enlargements, although these too are minor. All in all, nothing too expensive.”

‘Nothing too expensive!’ But what would she look like afterwards with two silicon footballs affixed to her chest? Like all Ladies of Leisure of course: fake. Yet another symbol of their wealth and dependency on their males.

“I shall make a booking for the women’s hospital in a month or so’s time in order that they may heal before the wedding. I should like you to accompany her, in case of any misapprehensions she may have.”

“I quite understand.”

“Alison, I am so proud of you, you know? Since your parents’ deaths you’ve been like a second mother to Katie and brought her up well. It is entirely a credit to you that she has become a Lady of Leisure and is making such a good marriage.”

The official engagement took place at a garden party held on the lawn of Mostyn House the following Sunday. All their friends and Altrincham high society was invited and Stephen went down on one knee in front of Katie. She blushed and nodded as she was unable to answer being securely gagged, and the whole of the male contingent of the gathering clapped. Then Stephen presented Sam with the traditional engagement gift – an ivory replica of his penis for her to wear in her bottom to give a foretaste of the pleasures of marriage – and a list of his demands. After that Katie withdrew to have the gift inserted and when she returned blushing deeply, the males clapped heartily again and Stephen planted a large kiss on her gagged lips.

The wedding was set for August so that the reception could be held in the grounds and the appointment for the enhancements was made at the end of July. On the fateful day Alison and Katie boarded the train at Stockport for the long journey down to London. Not wishing to take any chances, this made the travelling costumes with rubber underwear get brought out again and, in the event, it was needed, as the train was delayed near Rugby and Alison could not hold herself in any longer. By the time she alighted at Euston, her pee was swishing about her bottom uncomfortably.

They took a taxi to Great Ormond Street Hospital for Women, the premier enhancement hospital in the country, and were ushered into the consulting room of Dr. Bunyan, the surgeon who would be conducting the operation. He brought up an electronic image of Katie at present and how she would look after the work on her body. Alison privately thought the over-large, perfectly round and buoyant breasts would look a little ridiculous, but Katie was most pleased.

“And that is your sister, Mrs. Withenshaw, now for you,” said the doctor.


“Yes, you. You are also to have some enhancements made, are you not?”

“No, not at all, doctor. I am already married and we chose not to have such work done at my engagement.”

“Oh really, is that the truth?”

“Well, almost. To be perfectly honest, we had not the money in those days; I was working at the time and not a Lady of Leisure, and so it was never a possibility.”

“I see,” said the doctor with a smile. “Well, I must say that you have a most loving and caring husband, because the instructions – and the cheque – sent to me by Mr. Withenshaw indicate that he feels most remiss at not having to be able to provide you with what you deserve at the time of your betrothal and so he has decided to make good that omission and, as a special present for the care and support you have provided for your lovely sister here over the years, you too are to be enhanced. Now, the details he has asked me to keep as a surprise from you, but I know you shall love your new look.”

“But Dr. Bunyan, I…”

But even as she spoke, Alison’s eyelids began to get heavy.

“The tea,” said the good doctor, “it was laced with a sleeping drug. When you awake both you and your sister shall be new women entirely…”

Then the world went black.

When she awoke, Alison did not feel particularly new, but she did feel groggy. She drifted in and out of consciousness a few times before finally coming to her senses properly. She looked down at her chest and saw two mounds underneath the bedsheets. They were huge!

An hour later she was up and examining her enhancements in the mirror. Sam’s gift may have been well-intentioned but it was not what she would have chosen. Jutting out from her chest, where previously her humble 32B breasts had sat, were now two enormous balloons of female flesh. Each was topped by an enormous nipple, easily the size of her thumb and, to her alarm, both nipples had been pierced and a pair of large golden rings permanently inserted through them.

The nurse demonstrated her new breasts’ new sensations. She massaged them and pressed them but rather than sagging, they simply bounced back into position, defying gravity completely. Then, as she caressed the nipples, ripples of pleasure flooded through Alison’s body. The nurse explain how the nerves had been altered to enhance the feeling of touch and that it may be possible for Alison to achieve orgasm now purely through the massaging of her nipples. She then went on to explain that the rings were there to prevent them from bouncing out of low-cut gowns as they could be fastened to matching rings now stitched onto the top of her stays.

Below the titanic breasts, her figure dived down into an impossible hourglass before widening again to the hips which had been enhanced along with the buttocks at the back so that they jutted out provocatively. Her most intimate area had also not escaped attentions, with her outer beauty lips having been cut back to reveal her moist slit all the more, the whole area treated with lasers to prevent hair regrowth and then her beauty bud being pierced and a golden ring inserted through that also. “You shall find this enhancement most exciting,” explained the nurse as she started to tug and twist the ring sending intense ripples of pleasure through Alison’s body. “Normally the clitoris is not in an aroused state, but the piercing and ring ensure that it stays in that state permanently which will be most exciting for you and the ring can cause incredible sexual joy for you although, I must warn you now, that some husband’s do also use them for punishment purposes. I believe your sister has had similar jewellery attached.

Once she had recovered fully from the operations, Alison spent a few days in hospital learning how to manage their new breasts. The problem was their weight thrust her entire body forward which meant that she had to change how she walked, leaning back more which presented them even more lewdly. In addition to this, the rings attached to rings on her new corsets tugged and twisted whenever she moved caused great excitement when she didn’t always want it. Katie was exactly the same, though she seemed less perturbed by it, perhaps because she had been a more willing patient. To Alison though, these huge humps of femininity, along with the ring through her beauty bud merely made her all the more conscious, every time she moved or glanced down as to how she was slowly being turned into some sort of gorgeous sexual object whose sole purpose was to please her husband and reflect his wealth and status. When they rode home on the train, everyone staring at hers and Katie’s mighty melons as they waited on the platform at Euston, she felt so self-conscious she would have loved to have draped a shroud over herself. Back at the house though, Sam’s reaction was quite different and she had not stepped through the door an hour when Natalie had undressed her and she was chained to their bed, her husband eagerly burying his face into her new fun bags as he pumped away merrily below.

Chapter 14

Alison becomes a Lady of Leisure: Chapter 12

Chapter 11

Chapter 12 – Wedding Bells

A month after that heavenly holiday, it was Hope’s wedding itself. That morning both girls were woken up at five, two hours earlier than usual, in order to begin the preparations. They were to be bridesmaids of course, but Hope had selected gowns for her bridesmaids that were more demanding than anything either girl had even contemplated wearing before. The waists were a staggering fourteen inches but, more than that, they incorporated perfectly vertical stems of four inches that were picked out by a wide silver filigree belt which went over them and could only be screwed shut at the requisite fourteen inches.

The night before Natalie had decided that Alison’s night stays should be laced an inch tighter than usual which was a real trial and not entirely helpful as she had struggled to sleep with the intense constriction, although it must be said that Sam had really appreciated the new measurement when attending to his marital duties and had made a worrying hint about it becoming something of a more permanent arrangement. Nonetheless, in the morning, it did give them a head start and when she was hung from her trapeze, Alison got down to fifteen and a half inches quite easily. After that though it became a real trial, for although the waist size was not too extreme, achieving it with the long stem was. Just above fifteen she blacked out and after being revived by smelling salts, was given an hour to acclimatise herself before another lacing bout which ended in a blackout at fourteen and three quarters. And so it continued until the stays were finally closed at around 11 in the morning at which point, light-headed and blacking out again as she was released from the trapeze and her weight transferred itself onto her feet, now squeezed into en pointe boots, she lay down for an hour to recover before the dress itself could be fitted.

That dress was a gorgeous confection in rose-coloured silk with fresh flowers pinned onto it and topped off by the glorious silver filigree belt, the fitting of which caused her to faint away once again as it was deliberately shaped to be longer front to back than across the sides giving the optical illusion of a waist even smaller than it really was, although to achieve that illusion caused, naturally, more pain and suffering.

Having briefed Natalie of her plans well in advance, after her enema mid-morning, Alison had been fitted with the very largest of her bottom plugs which was a full three inches in circumference. She had worn this before of course, (although it must be said that initially Natalie had said two inches was all that would be required), but with the extra pressure on her waist, it seemed to make the insertion even more difficult and Alison felt so full down below that it really bothered her.

That was not the only thing that bothered her either. The dress that Hope had chosen was extremely low cut and so there was an issue of what to do with Alison’s heaving breasts which were now pushed up level with her shoulders due to the fact that, so squeezed was she, they had nowhere else to go. To solve it Natalie tied cotton threads around the nipples and then attached these to rings set into the gown so that the nipples were only just hidden and most of her bosom was brazenly on display. This shaming fact however, was nothing to the surges of pain and pleasure she felt every time that she breathed and her breasts tugged mercilessly on the nipples and indeed, for the first hour or so after they had been fastened in that way, Alison found it difficult to concentrate on anything else.

Whilst she was coming to terms with this, the servants fussed around coiffuring her hair and applying her make-up whilst Natalie also fitted a magnificent silver filigree collar which matched the belt and hid a strict neck corset before inserting her gag and inflating it fully. Finally though, completely immobile and all her orifices stuffed to the maximum, the leash was attached to her collar and she was led out of the room to her waiting husband.

The wedding itself was a severe trial and Alison did not know how she managed to survive it without fainting, although Hope was even more inspiring as her waist had been squeezed to a mind-blowing thirteen and a half inches with a five inch stem which, according to Emma, had only been achieved by lacing down steadily over a twenty-four hour period.

Following the ceremony itself there was the reception where she managed only four mouthfuls of the glorious meal presented before her, and then in the evening after a much-needed rest period, it was the ball. Then, as with the Finkelsteins’ ball, Katie had disappeared into the garden with Stephen which much angered Alison as she’d had stern words with her younger sister afterwards about wanton behaviour – warnings that the brazen teen had obviously not heeded at all – and then Sam had tugged on her leash and suggested they do likewise, to which she had pointedly refused declaring that if he could wait, she had a far greater treat planned for him that evening.

Excited by this mysterious prospect, they had bade their farewells to the happy couple soon afterwards and returned to Mostyn House where Alison had gone upstairs with Natalie whilst Sam treated himself to a stiff port and cigar. Once upstairs she had been stripped of all her clothing saving for the incredible corset which she knew her husband would appreciate, her collar and leash, gag and the restriction around her reverse prayer arms. Then she had been lain on the bed by Natalie, face down with a huge bolster underneath her stomach so that her bottom was raised to a manageable height for her husband. After that the mammoth plug was removed and her gaping hole massaged by the fingers of her maid with scented oils. Then she waited.

Sam entered soon afterwards and declared himself most surprised and pleased at the developments. He whipped out his member which was already rock solid and approached her from behind. She felt his hands caressing her breasts which hung down beneath her and groaned into her gag as he played with her nipples and then the tip of his tool brushed her oh-so-sensitive clitoris. But tonight that was not to be where that member was headed, and instead she felt it pressing against her bottom hole which, despite its stretching, still resisted the intruder. “No! No! NO!” she screamed into her gag, but no words could be made out and instead she felt the mighty weapon push past her sphincter and enter her very being. Never before had she felt so mastered, so absolutely owned, so helpless and so dominated. Slowly but surely, Sam slid his tool in and out, taking his time and massaging her breasts all the while. Then, just as she thought it was over, he withdrew, not wishing to rush the experience, waiting a moment whilst caressing her tiny waist, before then re-entering and starting it all again. Three times this happened but on the third he could contain his ecstasy no longer and he erupted deep within her, a sensation that Alison felt only briefly before she fainted right away in pleasure, exhaustion and absolute submission.

Now she truly understood what it meant to be a Lady of Leisure.

Chapter 13

Alison becomes a Lady of Leisure: Chapter 11

Chapter 10

Chapter 11 – Hens’ Holiday

At the start of May Alison was most surprised to discover a letter waiting on her breakfast table one morning. Unable to do anything herself, she had the maid open it and read it and to her delight it was from Emma Williamson stating that due to Hope’s upcoming marriage, it had been decided to hold a “Hen Party” and as such both Alison and Katie were invited to a week away in Paris.

Both girls were extremely excited as neither had been overseas before and both knew that Paris is rumoured to be one of the most elegant cities on earth even if the fashions there are far more liberal than those of Britain.

When the day came though a month later, there were some unexpected elements to Alison’s dressing. After she had been laced using the trapeze, she had her usual morning enema but then, to her surprise, catheters were fitted into her pee hole and anus. “What is the meaning of this?” she asked in shock, to which the maid replied, “Special preparations for travelling, ma’am, as access to a toilet is impossible until we arrive in the hotel.”

After the catheters, a thick pair of rubber pants was fitted over her bottom, then another and then yet another. These were all quite baggy and made her hips appear incredibly large, as if she possessed what is crudely referred to as a “bubble butt”. Then came the usual enormous bustle, but unlike normal, this was much heavier as it seemed to have some sort of tank inside it which the catheter tubes were attached to. Then, she was dressed as normal in a forest green travelling dress with fur trims and an elegant hat with a thick veil over the front which almost blinded Alison. Finally the ensemble was finished off by a dark grey fur-lined mantle.

The two girls were driven to the mainline railway station at Stockport where the Williamson ladies were waiting. They all nodded at one another and were then shown into their private compartment where, once seated, their gags were removed so that they could talk. They then set off, the servants and luggage in the next compartment, chattering excitedly about the upcoming trip when Alison began to feel full, probably as a result of all the tea that she had drunk at breakfast. Immediately she knew that she had to let go and that was why she had been dressed in the way that she had, but something about her felt ashamed to empty herself into her underwear in public so she held it in with the pressure slowly growing.

But then, somewhere past Rugby, as the clocks struck twelve, something most unexpected happened. There was a slight whirring in her bustle and cold water started shooting into her bottom, the shock causing her to let flow with pee. Nervously she looked across at the others and from their shifting in their seats, she could tell that the same was happening to them all. Naturally, all the girls were too refined and elegant to mention it but the conversation stopped as all tried to concentrate on the sensations down below. Her bottom filled up quickly and the pressure became intense and then it stopped. The water stayed there until slight cramps began. Then it gushed out to Alison’s great relief. Once it was all finished she looked across at Emma who smiled. “I feel much cleaner all of a sudden,” said Mrs. Williamson before returning to the topic of French wines.

Alison emptied her bowels several times on that journey and received two more enemas. But then the trip was a long one: three and a half hours to London, a cab across the capital, then another hour and a half to Dover, then the crossing before a further five hours ride to the French capital. It was evening by the time they got there and thankfully the hotel was by the Gare du Nord so they could book straight in.

Immediately Alison was stripped and bathed and then dressed in an evening dress of fine red silk. They went out for a beautiful meal and then returned to the hotel where, Alison was surprised to discover, she was sharing a room with Chastity Williamson at the latter’s request. Both ladies were stripped down to corsets and drawers and a monoglove and then put into the King Size bed with each other. And as soon as the maid had extinguished the light, Chastity snuggled up to her friend and whispered, “This is my favourite part of the holiday!” and put her lips to Alison’s. She was initially shocked and, several months ago she would have drawn away, but the experiences in Laydon’s and at the spa had taught her that for Ladies of Leisure, Sapphic pleasures are not taboo as with most women. Although not a lesbian, she reciprocated the kiss and soon found herself in Heaven as her tongue explored the young virgin’s mouth.

But then Chastity withdrew and shuffled herself round so that her face was by Alison’s crotch. To her astonishment she found the young girl nuzzling through her drawers to her most intimate area and then slowly start licking and sucking. The pleasure was exquisite and soon Alison began groaning in ecstasy. “Now you do me,” whispered Chastity and so Alison put her face into Chastity’s crotch and began exploring her love channel with her tongue, the young girls juices exciting her even further. Within minutes both passed out from the most incredible sexual experience that either had ever encountered and when she came round again, Alison was pleased to discover that Chastity was ready for round two.

And so the holiday went on. By day they visited the famous sights like the Eiffel Tower and Versailles, in the evenings they watched the opera or theatre, their rarely-free hands clapping daintily at the moving performances and at night they immersed themselves in Sapphic bliss.

At the end of the week, as she was trussed up in rubber again, Alison did not want to return home.

Chapter 12