Yabu

Yabu

This story was written by me, Dave Potter, but thanks must go to Cafter Homme for the editing and corrections which have made it a better tale than it was originally.

Author’s note:

This story was inspired by the following description of the lives of women in traditional Korean society written by Isabella Jane Bird in her 1895 travelogue ‘Korea and Her Neighbours’.

It is also worth the reader acquainting themselves with traditional Korean dress. These diagrams may help:

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The information on traditional Korean hairstyles comes from this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wfUROEyt39Y

 

Chapter 1

I suppose I should start off by introducing myself. My name is Beo-Jin, Pak Beo-Jin, and I am a high school student at Park Valley Private High for Girls in California. Or at least, I was. I’m not anymore. Not a student, I mean. Like, my name’s  not even Beo-Jin. But you’ll get it later.

What I was not and am not is a “normal” girl. After all, how many “normal” Korean girls study in an expensive private high in the US? No, I don’t think so, not normal at all. That was due to my dad. His name is Pak Cha-Ek and he was one of the executive directors of Chollima Inc, a global electronics brand worth, like, billions! That’s how he had the money to send me to such a prestigious school in States, convenient since he was in charge of their American operations. Oh, he paid for everything, but that was it. He never bothered himself much with either my upbringing or my welfare, too busy making money and serving the company. A typical Korean businessman, I guess you’d say. Anyways, we weren’t close.

Nor too did my mum bother herself much about me. I mean, like,  she neither raised me nor cared for me; I was always an afterthought. My dad got together with her when he was forty-two and she was just an air-headed nineteen-year old beauty queen. My guess is she had my brother Ryu to get a ring out of my dad, cause knowing him he would’ve just dumped her for the next floozy that came along. Like he had the last. If there had ever been a “spark” between them, it was dead and gone by the time I was here, like, a year or so later. She now spends her time living off of a healthy stipend from dad, usually on the French Riviera where she bathes on yachts, gambles in casinos, and looks for new sugar daddies. Like with dad, we weren’t close.

Despite this rather fucked up family though, I wasn’t depressed or anything drama. You don’t miss what you never had, right? Like, school was alright, especially playing field hockey and soccer; I loved K-Pop, I dyed my hair ginger and did my makeup like Hyuna with no one to stop me; oh! and I loved partying with my cool Cali friends! Yeah, when you’re sixteen and rich in the sun, life ain’t bad.

1-26_hyuna_clriden_3

Or at least, mine wasn’t until the letter arrived. Dad wanted me to come home, and by home I mean Korea. He called it a “summons,” I called it a waste of time. It was only for a visit of course, or at least, that’s what I assumed. I just guessed he’d gone through one of his occasional bouts of parental guilt and wanted to show me what a great dad he actually was. Whatever. It was a bummer, as always; the summer holidays were approaching, and I’d been planning to go with Kelly down to her mum’s place in Mexico. Still, I knew better than to refuse my father. After all, if I pissed him off, my allowance could stop, and bang would go any cool plans and stuff. We all have our cross to bear, right? This was mine. Or so I thought.

The letter informed me that I had a flight booked to Seoul on the Saturday after I finished school, first class of course. It went on to say that I would be met by a car which would drive me to our house which, I was surprised to learn, was a new one that dad had some fancy architect build over the previous year. This was a total shock; why had he mentioned nothing about this a few months back when he’d popped over to LA for business? The letter also mentioned that he had now taken on a new job, from Chollima to Chongsanri, of which he was now Vice President again. You have no idea, I almost, like, screamed. Chollima was big, but Chongsanri was, like, HUGE! The leading Korean tech outfit by a mile. My God, what must dad be making now?! It didn’t really matter, it was good news for me!

Ahh, if only we had the benefit of hindsight!

As promised, I got picked up at Incheon Airport by a blank-faced lackey chauffeur who showed me towards a limo with blacked-out windows. I settled in the back, made myself a coffee from the minibar and watched the world go by. Seoul soon faded away and we were well into the countryside. I was puzzled. Dad had always preferred city life, and in Korea that means Seoul or bust!

Still we drove on and on, up into the mountains. Then, somewhere near to Pyeongchang, we headed off up some creepy side road that made me mistrust the dumb chauffeur, winding through forested slopes until we came to the house itself. Let me tell you, it was not what I had expected.

It was an unsurprisingly large place for Dad but, weirdly, it was built in a very traditional style, like super old fashioned like some sort of Buddhist temple with a walled compound and large pavilions and stuff. Actually at first, you might’ve thought it was ancient; it was only upon a closer look that the modern details became obvious. The car swung into the courtyard and I was shown out by the driver. There to meet me was some maid I had never seen before dressed in like a full, traditional hanbok. Weird. She bowed towards me and told me to follow her, but like, her accent was strange, and I couldn’t place it. Either way I did as she asked, and she led me into one of the pavilions, down some corridors and into a large bedroom furnished in that same old, traditional style. And believe this, on the bed was this ridiculous outfit.

“Your father is busy right now,” said the maid, “but he will meet you for dinner. Please bathe and then dress in the clothes on the bed. If you need a hand, please ring. Otherwise, I shall return at six to show you to him.” And then, with those oddly-formal words, she left.

I was so confused. The opulence was something, but like not that strange?

But all the emphasis on tradition just puzzled me. I mean, you have to understand, Dad had never been that kind of guy. And the outfit that I had to put on matched the surroundings: it was a hanbok. I had worn hanboks before, of course – which Korean girl hasn’t? – but only for special occasions like graduations. But why one today for just a meal with my father? Still, weird as it was, I was super glad to change after the flight, and besides, it was pretty!

I bathed in the adjacent shower and then returned to the room naked. First up was the underwear, which looked like it had come out of the fuckin’ Ark with Moses or something. I was really tempted to put my good Western lingerie back on, but it was a little bit stinky from the long flight so I decided to bite the bullet. Next came the sokchima or underskirt which was supported by hoops, so wide that it was about a metre and a half at the bottom. Then came the chima or skirt which was a golden colour and covered with some super gorgeous embroidery. After that was the jeogori which was in black and also beautifully embroidered. I tied off the otgoreum just below my small, firm breasts. Finally, there were some pretty beoseum socks for my feet and white silk gloves for my hands. After fitting these I looked at myself into the mirror and nearly burst out laughing! Apart from my dyed ginger hair and 21st century make-up, I could have been a girl from the Joseon Dynasty. This was getting to be just ridiculous.

How little did I know.

At six the maid returned to escort me to my father.

gold hanbok

 

Chapter 2

What transpired that evening over dinner is seared into my memory forever. I often replay it over and over in my mind, and it always gives me like serious goosebumps. On that evening my life changed, irreversibly.

What struck me first was his costume. Ok, so I was wearing a hanbok already, but in Korea many girls do, especially on special occasions. But dad had on the male hanbok, something no guy ever does except maybe when he’s like getting married or something. But there he was, sitting at the table, sipping soju and looking like an extra out of one of those period dramas on TV. Weird.

That was only the start, though. Then came the sudden change in attitude. Suddenly he was all formal with me as if he had somehow changed. The word that comes to mind when I think about it is ‘brainwashed’. Yes, like as if someone or something had washed out his old, corporate, money-making brain and replaced it with something straight out of the nineteenth century. He was formal and particular and although we discussed nothing really beyond small talk and pleasantries during the meal, in my gut I just knew something was up. I also noticed that he didn’t really even ask me about school either, and when I started to tell him about my time on the beach and parties with my American friends, he was clearly uninterested. All he would say was, “Some things are going to change.”

After dinner we chilled out in a traditional sitting-room and after I pressed him a bit more he explained to me what. It was all to do with him moving to Chongsanri. The corporation, at least in it’s highest echelons, seemed to have a very different philosophy than Chollima, or really the rest of the country. At all of dad’s previous jobs it had all been about making money as quickly as possible, but Chongsanri was something else entirely. Chongsanri was all about Korea. To paraphrase another slightly-deranged demagogue, their president was obsessed with trying to make Korea great again. And in my dad he had apparently found a willing disciple.

“The problem is that we try to ape the foreigners, the Westerners, the Chinese, even the Japanese, all those who have oppressed us in the past. We mimic their business methods, their Christian religion, their mode of dress, their tinny pop music and even their hair colour.” He looked at my ginger locks when he said this and I felt uneasy. “But we are not Western, nor Chinese, nor Japanese. We are Koreans! A great nation, millennia old, glorious and cultured! Yet it is as if we are ashamed of our heritage, as if we try to hide it. At Chongsanri they are trying to change that. We are prosperous, yet also true to our Korean roots. We provide jobs for Korean people and extoll Korean culture. Look at this country and the sorry state that it is in! I know this sounds incredible, but even the North, that poverty-stricken, dictator-dominated hellhole, even they are better than us. At least the Kims that they worship were true Koreans who battled the outsiders, not gave in to them or aped them. They glory in their identity! None of their women dye their hair, and their music sounds like true Korean music should. And their women are chaste too! None of this sex before marriage and cohabitation. Compared even to them, we are cultural paupers!”

As he was speaking all this nonsense, like I totally recognised the strange accent of the maid. She was from the North!

“My new boss, Kwon Yong-Byok, the CEO of Chongsanri, has shown me an alternative way, and I have embraced it. I now live as a businessman, yes, but also as a true Korean. This house for starters; it is like the houses that our ancestors dwelt in, except that there is a crucial difference: technology. Back then people died early, got sick, endured the cold and many other deficiencies in life, because the technology was not there. We were vulnerable to domination because of this. What Yong-Byok and now I do, is live in the traditional Korean way but with technology on hand to help us to enhance that wonderful mode of life even further. So the house for example, it has ondol heating as is typically Korean, but the heated vapours are geothermally generated and time-controlled. We have taken tradition and refined it with technology. The happy news is that our family can now live in an almost perfect, original, Korean manner.”

“But dad, like, I’m at school in America, so is Gyu. And mum is, well, mum is wherever she is…”

“No, Beo-Jin, you were at school in America. The old me sent you there. But I have summoned you back here because we’re going to start living as a family again and we are going to live in a true Korean fashion. You shall not be returning to your school; from now on you’ll live here as a proper Korean girl.”

“Fuck that, like, no way! I want to return to Cali! My friends are there and–”

“Lesson Number One, Beo-Jin: Korean society is Confucian. We obey our parents. When I say that you shall be living here, then you shall be living here.” His voice wasn’t angry, but unforgiving.

“But I don’t want to! And besides, up here in the mountains, like, we’re away from everything that means anything. I mean, I’ll be fair, it’s like nice and all, but there’s no school, no jobs, no opportunities. Do you even have wifi?”

“Beo-Jin, you will not be returning to school. It is unnecessary. A Korean girl’s destiny in life is to marry and become an honourable wife to her husband. School will not teach you that, certainly not the schools that you have been attending up till now. From tomorrow onward you will be living at home and learning your future duties as a submissive and honourable wife.”

“Jesus, Dad, I’m sixteen! I don’t want to marry, like, for ten years, at least! I want a career and to go out with my friends and…”

“Silence! There will be no speak of false western idols in my home! What you want is immaterial! A Korean girl’s destiny is to obey her parents and then her husband. And sixteen is a perfectly suitable age to be married. Indeed, in the Joseon Era girls were often wed well before then. Besides, you are not ready yet. You need training to become a suitable wife and that will take time.”

“No, dad, no! This is my life, not yours and I’m not some stupid fucking submissive drone who is going to be ordered about by a man. This is not the nineteenth century, it’s like, the twenty-first! We’ve had a sexual revolution, or haven’t you realised that? I love you dad, but I will not live as you want! I’m sorry but that is that!”

And with those words his face changed. I’d expected anger, but instead he just looked defeated and disappointed. He slumped in his chair and poured out another measure of soju. “This is too much, too fast, I suppose,” he said.

“Yeah, it is,” I replied, glad that he was speaking like a human being again.

“Ok, we’ll see about amending things then. Forget what I said for now and drink some tea with me.” He poured a cup from an exquisite Joseon Era teapot and I raised it to my lips. It tasted really nice and wasn’t too hot, so I drained the tiny cup in one.

Within seconds my sight began to blur, and I slumped to the floor in a faint.

 

Chapter 3

I awoke in the floor-level bed in that traditional bedroom where I’d changed after first arriving, feeling pretty strange. Then I realised that under my head was not a usual pillow but a traditional Korean buckwheat pillow in its hard, bundled rolls. Raising my head, it felt strangely heavy, so annoyed and confused I got up and walked to the mirror. What I saw shocked me.

My ginger styling was all gone and instead I had natural, jet black hair again! More than that, this hair was long, very long, reaching past my waist when unpinned from the top of my head. That was the weight I had felt. But what had happened? Obviously, I had been drugged and during the time I had been out they’d dyed my hair black. But what about the length? I checked. Extensions. Hmm… Nothing else seemed different. Why would my deranged father drug me just to redo my hair? He must be going mad!

I took off my slip and checked my body all over. The hair was gone from down between my legs, which was a bit disconcerting, but that was all. Oh yes, and a small mark like a tiny incision or a bug bite just above my love slit. What was it? Hmm…

That same maid came in. “You are awake, Miss Beo-Jin. Please, bathe yourself and then let me prepare you,” she said with her Pyongyang accent.

I took a shower and then came back. Lain out on the bed was another hanbok, this time with a yellow chima and a pink jeogori. “I’d prefer a different outfit,” I told her.

“There are only hanboks in this house,” she replied.

I was naked and my suitcase was nowhere to be found so, reluctantly, I put it on. Then she sat me down and started doing my hair in an elaborate fashion. “Please, just a ponytail,” I said. It was starting to become obvious what was happening.

“Your father orders this style,” she replied simply.

I knew there and then that I had to put a stop to this before it went too far. “Fuck what my father wants,” I told her. “This is my hair! My body! Haven’t you people heard of like, feminism?”

And then I got up and dashed out of the room. I had to get out of here, to escape. Dad obviously wasn’t going to observe my wishes, so to hell with him! I expected her to try and stop me, but to my surprise she just nodded and passively let me get away. Hurriedly, I walked down the corridor to the courtyard. I crossed the courtyard to the main gate. It was ajar. I went to go through it when suddenly like this piercing pain racked my body, like an electric shock starting at my genitals and coursing outwards. I tried to push myself through, but the pain was too great, like fire and ice all at once coming from my mound! I jumped back, and it subsided. What the fuck was that!? I turned around to see my father and the maid standing on the pavilion, silently. He was smiling. “You cannot leave,” he said calmly.

“What the fuck was that!?” I demanded.

“Your new implant. It was inserted whilst you were asleep. It ensures obedience. Whenever you try to leave the woman’s quarters of our home, it will activate. I am sorry to do this to you, but you need to be taught how to become an honourable Korean woman. You will be punished whenever you try to leave or whenever I feel it is necessary. Your maid informs me that you refused to have your hair styled correctly. Beo-Jin, I will give you another chance because this life is new to you. Return to your chamber and prepare yourself accordingly. I am your father.”

I stood my ground. “Forget it! I’m not your doll to be made up and kept in a cage, let me go!!”

And I stormed past the invisible line again and my pussy instantly contracted in pain while the rest of my body contorted, trying to dispel the intense shock, the pain, but it was no use, I retreated back toward them.

My father was not smiling anymore. “Beo-jin! You will be punished for your insolence, return to your chamber!”

I wanted to object, to counter, to rebel, but the memory of the pain was too horrific. Like the submissive Korean girl that he wanted me to be, I returned to my room and let his maid prepare me.

She sat me down on a chair and then started to work, combing my long hair out, parting it down the centre and then plaiting it into a long ponytail. This was then rolled up and fastened low behind my head. A black padded form with red silken ends was then attached to the top of my head using pins and long platts of real human hair brought out, each over a metre long. I later learned that these, like the maids, came from the North, with Chongsanri paying huge quantities for North Korean girls to donate their hair. The platts were wrapped around my head and the form and then attached with pins creating a high and round structure but revealing the red silk end of the padded form. This was then decorated with jewellery, I admit really exquisite stuff if I hadn’t been furious by that point.

“This style is called eoyeo meori,” she explained in a neutral voice when she had finished. “It was the usual style for noble women of the Joseon Era to wear their hair, and so your father has decreed that this is the style for you to wear every day. On special events I shall do your hair in a more elaborate fashion.”

More elaborate! This style had taken the best part of an hour to complete and it was so difficult to wear! The weight was tremendous, and it jangled whenever I moved. And I was expected to endure this every day!

But that was not all.

Eoyeo Meori

Next came the make-up. Turns out I was not to leave my room without being made-up from now on. Defeated and passive, I sat there whilst she started the process, applying a really thick coating of white foundation to my entire face and then white powder to create a sort-of porcelain look. Whilst she did this, I tried to engage her by asking her name and so on, but her replies were neutral: “I am only a maid”, “My age does not matter, mistress” and so on. She wouldn’t even admit to being North Korean. “Where the master hired me from is unimportant,” she blithely said. I was starting to really hate this bitch.

After my face, my eyes were done with a variety of cosmetics, including black eyeliner and false lashes to emphasise my femininity. Then came the brows, thin black lines drawn high to emphasise my haughtiness. And finally, the mouth, a pair of red rosebud lips. The china doll was complete. Well, almost. The finishing touch was a pair of white cotton gloves for my hands and that was it.

My first day had no lessons. The maid said that I was to get used to my clothes and my surroundings. It was so weird, just pacing around in that fine dress, the ridiculously wide hooped skirt bumping into things and my heavy hair feeling unsteady as it jangled away. I warily drank tea, and explored the house, or at least, the little I could. Many doors were locked and only one courtyard open to me. When I say “locked,” you might think the doors wouldn’t open, but they did, the whole complex was technically ‘open,’ it just sent powerful ripples through my implant whenever I tried, warning pulses that quickly turned to pain when I looked through, or worse, stepped over the threshold. These were the women’s quarters, and I was barred from the rest, kept modest and pure in my own little prison. I seethed with anger but knew that there was nothing that I could do… yet.

That evening I dined with father again. He was full of praise for my new appearance and called me a “proper Korean maiden”. What a fucking joke I must have looked like, I felt sick to my stomach but said nothing, remembering the pain all too clearly. Whenever I spoke for too long, I would see his hand wander into the pocket of his robes, no doubt waiting for me to say something out of turn. I had no desire to re-live that pain, though, so I gave him no reason to chastise me. Turns out he already had reason enough.

That evening, my head and neck aching from the weight imposed upon it and the trauma of the day, and I looked forward to bed and a chance to become a normal human being again, but bedtime too held some nasty surprises. The maid helped to undress me but then came something that caught me like totally off guard: with a firm grasp she grabbed by wrists and handcuffed them behind my back. Then she led me to the shower and attached the handcuffs to a hook on the wall. After this I was washed thoroughly by her before then being led back into the bedroom and leant over a chair. “Your father has decreed that your misdemeanours be punished. These include any form of disobedience or unladylike behaviour. There have been countless today, but he has told me to go easy on you because it is your first day as a real Korean lady. So, I shall only administer ten strokes for the most heinous.” And then, taking out a large wooden paddle, that pious bitch stood behind me and…

Thwack!

“That is for refusing to have your hair styled.”

Thwack!

“That is for attempting to escape.”

Thwack!

“That is for swearing at your father.”

Thwack!

“That is for swearing at me.”

Thwack…

That night I lay in my bed and tears streamed down my face whilst my bottom was like red raw. Worse still, my hands, encased in padded gloves, were tied to a belt around my waist so I could not dry those tears, whilst my legs were immobilised, encased in a long single stocking with my feet tightly bound in the end, so there would be no nocturnal wandering or touching myself, as I had grown very used to doing every other night back in California. Even this was off limits now.

My life had descended into hell.

Chapter 4

And so, my new life began.

Every day I awoke, was showered and then dressed in my sumptuous yet restrictive outfit. Then I attended lessons with my tutor, another North Korean. These were neither interesting nor educational, absolutely nothing like my school in Cali. Instead they were a series of phrases that I had to repeat over and over again. Phrases like “Silence is regarded as a wife’s first duty” or “A wife must be chaste and pure.” With time I realised that they served a dual purpose: to educate me in my new station and to break my spirit. If I made any mistakes they were rewarded with paddles on my bottom before bedtime and for the first few months my bum was always red and sore. I felt like a goddamn child, it was so messed up!

My misery did not end with these lessons though. For the rest of the day (basically the afternoons) my time was my own, but there was so little that I could do now, I was like bored out of my mind. I was officially confined to the female quarters which meant my bedroom, my classroom, a sitting room and dining room and a small courtyard. I was by all means a prisoner, and so in my spare time all I could do was pace around the tiny confines of my prison and wish I was outside. Even that though, was not unobstructed. After my first day, my tutor decreed that my gait was unfeminine and not suitable for a Korean lady. “A noble lady should glide in her hanbok, not prance!” she declared. And so, I was fitted with two straps: the first a thick band of material that was tied just above the knees and the second a leather strap of some twenty centimetres or so fastened to bands that went around my ankles. Now I could only glide – or shuffle – along at a snail’s pace and ascending or descending any steps was like super hard.

In the evenings I still dined with my father elsewhere in the house, and although I now truly hated him, I looked forward to the experience just as a change from the simplistic daily schedule. He would speak at length (not really to me, but at me) about the Chongsanri Corporation and its vision for the rejuvenation of the country. He spoke of the CEO, Kwon Yong-Byok, as if he were a god and spoke of future plans and ideas.

I did not rebel. It is true that in those first few weeks I made several off-hand derogatory remarks to him, instantly resulting in extremely painful contractions in my pussy, but I soon gave that up as it became de-rigueur for me to be gagged after the meal so he could talk at me without interruption. This gag consisted of a large white plastic intrusion with a white leather panel on the end and a strap that reached around my head, buckled at the back. It looked simple but it must have been connected in some way, as every time I groaned or sighed I was rewarded with an appropriately-sized shock below. Dad lauded this gag as an example of how Chongsanri had improved upon the traditional ways. I felt absolutely humiliated, especially since it had ‘A female’s duty is to be silent’ in hangul characters on the front of the panel.

I was docile not just because I remembered the pain, but also because I knew that now was not the time. At our first dinner together after my new life had begun, dad had mentioned that Ryu would also be forced to adopt a traditional lifestyle. I imagined my younger brother, used to his American high school, wandering around in a male hanbok pretending to be some yangban from yore and smiled. Yes, he would never accept that. He would be my ally. Until then, I could wait and endure the charade.

To pass the time it was decreed that I be allowed “feminine pursuits”. If I did well in my lessons I was allowed to paint traditional Korean pictures with an inkbrush or write a scroll in hangul characters. Once I wrote a really nice poem, but using the English alphabet, a “crime” for which I received no less than twenty-six paddles, one for each alien letter. Korean girls, apparently, are only allowed to write Korean characters.

Yes, it was that ridiculous.

Even that pleasure however, was not always allowed to me. Concerned about my unfeminine behaviour, in the women’s quarters I was never far from a maid or my tutor, even when I was supposed to be having free time in the courtyard. Combine this with my sleeping situation, unable to move my hands or legs at all, it didn’t take very long for me to start skipping off to the bathroom in search of privacy. One day during the part of my cycle that always makes me hot and needy, and after I had worked up the courage, I found myself in the bathroom with nowhere to sit (traditional korean toilets are embedded in the floor), determined to get off somehow. Thinking ahead I pried off the tight white gloves, hiked up my massive chima skirt and brought my fingers down, past the faint implant scar to touch my clit, only to receive the most intense, body-wracking shock since my first day here, leaving me sobbing and spasming on the ground, getting my dress all dirty. smearing my makeup, attracting the attention of every maid in the compound.

After this incident, another item was added to my wardrobe, a sort of sleeve which went over my arms when they were crossed in front of my breast, covering them completely. This looked elegant enough, but what a casual observer could not see was that underneath the hanging cloth, my forearms were bound together in a laced sleeve, making use of my hands impossible. This was initially instituted for walking in the courtyard only, but gradually I was expected to wear it inside as well, sometimes for an entire afternoon, greatly hampering my precious free time, restricting my allowed feminine pursuits. And, as the weather grew colder, a new and even more cumbersome item was added. This was a kind of all-encompassing veil that left only my face free and from October to April was decreed mandatory outdoors.

About a month after my captivity began, a new figure entered the household. She was introduced as Mi-So and she was extremely beautiful yet also North Korean like all the other servants. What shocked me was that she dressed in sumptuous gowns just like me and had her hair done in the eoyeo meori style as I did. Unlike the other servants, she joined dad and me at dinner, sitting like really close to him, and afterwards she would play the traditional gayageum exquisitely well or even dance for us. I was in awe of her.

After a couple of days, I saw her sitting in the women’s courtyard alone and so slowly, gracefully, I approached her. Unlike the other servants, she was happy to talk to me. She told me that she was a gisaeng and when I expressed ignorance at the term, she explained that it is like the Japanese geisha, something of a cross between a courtesan and an artiste. She explained that she came from Pyongyang originally and because of her musical talents and expertise at dance, she had been sent to the premier school in the North Korean capital where girls are trained in such things to the highest standard, called a gwonbeong. She had expected, as all the girls in her class did, to graduate and go on to serve the Motherland either in an artistic troop or a teaching capacity, but then one day, some esteemed visitors from the Chongsanri Corporation had come to the school and watched the final year students put on a performance. Afterwards, five of the girls who had taken part were summoned to the Party Office and told that they had been chosen to serve the Motherland by becoming employees of Chongsanri and practising their arts in the decadent south. Although shocked at first, they had been assured that the Marshall wished this of them and that they would be well-paid which, Mi-So assured me, she was, although 90% of that money went straight to the state. And so she had come with four friends – deemed to be the prettiest of their year – and a busload of other Chongsanri employees, over the border near Kumgangsan and up to the mountain mansion complexes of the Chongsanri elite (it transpired that all of dad’s co-executives and their homes were situated within a few miles of each other, a veritable ministate of traditional values). This whole story fascinated me, and I was glad to be able to share my lonely life with someone, although I now felt uncomfortable in the evenings as my father would openly fondle Mi-So, pushing his hand under her jeogori and slapping her bottom whilst she would kiss him passionately on the mouth.

Indeed, as time progressed, it became de rigueur for me to be dismissed straight after dinner, though this did not always save me from the gag.


My heart trembled with excitement as my maid assembled my new hairstyle. In view of the auspicious occasion, it had been decreed that I would wear the tteoguji meori style, which is even more elaborate and difficult to wear than the eoyeo meori as it involves adding to that style an enormous black wooden ornament, the tteoguji, which is fastened to the hair by means of pins and ribbons. Even this added encumbrance I did not mind however… for my brother was coming home!

tteoguji meori.png

I minced towards the main chamber in a purple hanbok which I had to admit was nice, arms bound in front of me as was becoming more and more common, excited to see my brother and make him aware of my plight. The door was opened for me to reveal him seated already for dinner with dad and, to my surprise, Mi-So and another gisaeng who had her gloved hand resting on his thigh. Furthermore, he was already dressed in a traditional male hanbok. This did not look good, I thought to myself.

We ate making only small talk, Gyu complimenting me on my beauty and dad saying how much I had changed for the better. I scrutinised his face for clues to the anger I wanted to see, but he remained impassive. And then, after dinner, I was dismissed, leaving the two men alone with their gisaeng.

The following day though, I got my chance. He came to the women’s quarters, walking through the forbidden door like it was nothing, and asked that I be excused from lessons to walk around the courtyard with him. As he was a man, this was not refused.

As soon as we were alone I began pouring my heart out to him and warning him of the dangers to both of our futures. To my surprise – and dismay – though, he merely frowned and replied, “Beo-Jin, what you say is wrong. I can understand how hard this is for you, I really can; after all I was an American high school student myself only a few weeks ago, but what choice do we have? Dad controls all the money and to disobey him would be to cut ourselves off from our future. And besides, what’s so wrong with this whole traditional thing anyway? Why should we Koreans forever be aping the Americans? We were wrong you know, to try to be like them; we’ve got an ancient culture of our own that’s rich and…”

I wanted to slap him across the face, bring him to his senses, but my arms were laced together pretty securely. “Gyu, come on man! You’re sounding like him now! Look at us in these ridiculous clothes, like we’re in some costume drama or something. It’s a fucking joke and not a funny one. And you don’t even understand, I’ve got some sort of sensor implanted in me that shocks me when I wander off! I’m a prisoner here and all I can do is fucking recite lines, paint random shit, and strut around this fucking courtyard. Help me, bro, this is hell!”

“Beo-Jin, you always were too rebellious. What’s wrong with you being feminine for once in a while. And besides, I like this life. Back in the States I was too geeky, none of the girls looked at me yet here I’ve got Mun-Ju who is hot as anything and what we did last night…”

“You mean, you accept it because dad gave you a gisaeng slave to fuck!”

“Not just one, he’s promised another and he’s shown me the girl I’ll be marrying; she’s a total babe… in a Joseon Era kind of way of course.”

“Marrying?”

“Yeah, President Kyon Yong-Byok’s youngest daughter. She’s fifteen now so it won’t be for a year or so but the engagement is official and in the meantime there’s Mun-Ju and…”

“I can’t believe you, Gyu! You’d sacrifice your own sister for the sake of your dick! Help me here bro, I need to get out of here! I have to leave, Gyu, or I’ll go mad!”

“Well, relax then sis, because you will be leaving. Dad arranged it this afternoon.”

“What do you mean? How?”

“Why do you think I’m here, Beo-Jin? Me and dad celebrated your engagement this morning. On the fifteenth of next month you’ll be getting married to Kyon Yong-Byok’s son and heir, Yong-Gon.”

Chapter 5

The day before my wedding my life changed forever. For most people it is on the day on the actual wedding but for me it was the day before. Because on that day my father did something to me, something so cruel, so inhumane, so… words fail me, even today.

Like, literally.

I had received all the pre-wedding indoctrination of course. Hour after hour of it, going through every detail of the ceremony, how I should behave and what would happen to me. But one thing above all was stressed over everything else. “Silence is regarded as a wife’s first duty. During the whole of the marriage day the bride must be as mute as a statue. If she says a word or even makes a sign she becomes an object of ridicule, and her silence must remain unbroken even in her own room.” My tutor had repeated those words over and over again until my head rang with them. Of course, I did not intend to obey. In fact, inwardly I smiled. This was my chance, and seriously, like, low-hanging fruit! I didn’t want to get married and I hated my dad for how he had ruined my life, and this was to be my revenge: silent! You could forget it! I would be as loud, rude, obnoxious and unfeminine as a girl possibly can be when dressed in an elaborate outfit with a ridiculous hairstyle. And as for the electric shocks, well, would they dare to use them in public? Of course not. That would reveal I was being held against my will! This was my moment!

That evening after dinner I asked my father if I could go back to my room, thinking of painting a picture, as these days that was the best option to kill the time. However, waiting for me there was a stranger whom I had never seen before. She had the white coat of a nurse and she looked pretty serious. “What is this?” I asked in surprise.

“Oh, nothing to worry about,” she replied as my maid grabbed hold of me from behind and a needle was plunged into one of my bound arms.

I awoke soon afterwards and found that barely an hour had passed. I was just lying on my bed still clothed. I sat up. Nothing seemed to have changed. They had not disrobed me or done anything immediately apparent. So, what had happened? I rang for the maid and she entered immediately. “What was that all about?” I demanded angrily.

Except that the words did not come out of my mouth. Nothing did. Air flowing without a sound.

I shouted, and I screamed, I called her the bitch she was, but silence reigned. “You have been muted, mistress,” explained the maid. “It is your father’s wedding gift to you, a means of helping you stay honourable during the ceremony. He told me to tell you that it is the latest Chongsanri invention, and a brilliant example of how technology can help us women lead a proper, traditional lifestyle.” Then her expression hardened, and her tone changed. “He also instructed me to warn you that, if you try any funny business during the ceremony, the same can be done with your hearing.”

I sank to the floor in shock, testing myself, hoping even a hum would escape my throat, but there was nothing.

Late that night my father, brother, and I sacrificed before the ancestral tablets, and acquainted our ancestors with the event which was to occur on the morrow. It all passed by like a dream, no, definitely a nightmare.


When the auspicious day arrived, an hour before noon, my bridegroom on horseback, and in court dress, left his father’s house accompanied by two men who walked before him, one carrying a white umbrella, and the other, who was dressed in red cloth, carrying a goose, which is the emblem of conjugal fidelity. He was also attended by several men carrying unlit red silk lanterns, by various servants, and by his father. Upon reaching our house he took the goose from the hands of the man in red, went into the house, and laid it upon a table.

I record all of this but I did not witness it. My maid and the other servants informed me enthusiastically, concentrating on the symbolism of each item. Later, when I learnt that fidelity in a Korean marriage is only ever expected of the woman, the goose seemed particularly ironic.

I heard but not witnessed this because of how I was dressed. That I wore an extremely cumbersome hanbok with a sleeve that immobilised my arms is not worth mentioning, nor too a ridiculous elaborate and heavy hairstyle, a variant on the tteoguji meori style. Such things I expected by this stage. What I did not expect was the make-up.

korean wedding.png

For a traditional Korean wedding, the bride’s face is covered with a thick layer of white powder, patched with spots of red. When they had finished I looked like one of those Japanese geisha in the films. That, however, was not all: after they had done my face, they moved onto the eyes. Surprisingly, no eye make-up was done but instead an adhesive compound was applied to my eyelids which were then glued together, after which the white powder was smeared over them too.

I went through the entire ceremony blind, unable even to open my eyes!

I was led out by two attendants to the room where the ceremony was to take place and then instructed to bow twice to my “lord”, after which he bowed four times to me. This alone made the marriage valid. A cup of wine was then given to my bridegroom, who drank a little, after which it was handed to my maid, who gave me a sip.

And that was it. Afterwards within the house, my now-husband and the other men were served an elaborate feast, but I merely retired to the women’s rooms. He rejoiced with his friends in the men’s apartments but we women got no simultaneous banquet.

Then, during the afternoon my husband returned to his father’s house, and after a time I, still bundled up in a mass of wedding clothes, and with my eyelids still sealed, attended by the two maids, some hired girls, and men with lanterns, went there too, in a rigidly closed chair, in the gay decorations of which red predominates. I was received by my father and mother-in-law, to whom the maid instructed me to bow four times. Then I was taken upstairs to the wedding chamber where I was disrobed completely, my hairstyle dismantled and the powder washed from my face and my body showered. The eyelid adhesive however, stayed. I was then taken to the bed and my wrists chained to the posts and there I waited.

I did not wait long. My unseen husband came and took me with vigour. It was my first experience of lovemaking and, after the initial pain, one of the most intense. Perhaps it was because I didn’t even know what this man who was inside of me looked like, or perhaps it was because I was so silent and passive, so in his control. Perhaps it was because I had not been able to get myself off in months. I cannot say. That though, was my wedding night.

Chapter 6

I woke up to my husband climbing on top of me again. During the night the eyelid adhesive had worn off (I later learnt that it was designed – by Chongsanri – to last for twelve hours maximum) and so this time I saw who was inserting himself into me. The good news is that he was passably handsome.

The bad news though, far outweighed the good. After he had finished and removed himself from me, he untied me from the bed and helped me to sit up. Then he explained my future.

“Like your father and my father, I too believe in a traditional lifestyle, augmented by modern technology, of course” he began. “Unlike them, I doubt it will lead to the rejuvenation of the nation or any other similar claptrap. I guess you could say that your new husband is a bit more cynical although, on second thoughts, I guess you can’t say anything.” He laughed at this cruel joke and I immediately decided that I hated the man I had been married to.

“Your life from now on will be simple. You are my wife and that is your whole purpose in life from this moment forward. Your former name will no longer be used. In accordance with tradition, people will refer to you as ‘the wife of Kwon Yong-Gon’. I, on the other hand, shall refer to you as ‘Look here!’ (Yabu). Apparently, this was the norm in traditional Korean society because your duty is to look to me when I call. Without fault, do you hear? Nod. Ok good. After that your duties include remaining chaste and silent (no issues there I’m sure, ha, ha!), and to provide me with offspring so as to continue the respected Kwon family line. That means sex, of course, and you’ll be glad to know that I love sex. Indeed, one could almost say that I am addicted to it and so we’ll be having a lot of it. Your duty is always to accept my advances, whatever your own feelings. As you can clearly see, a Korean wife has clearly recognised duties to her husband, but just so you know, he has few, if any, to her. I will always treat you with respect in public, for you are mine and so to disrespect you brings shame on me. Furthermore, you will want for nothing. However, as was the norm in Joseon Era society – and this is why I love the traditional ideal so much – whilst I demand chastity and fidelity from you, you may not demand it of me. I keep gisaeng in this house and you must welcome them and show them respect. I do not look for affection in marriage, but who knows, maybe we shall find it? You are certainly prettier than I expected, and, despite your natural inexperience, I enjoyed last night and this morning.”

He paused as if to take stock and noticed my confused expression. “Yabu, you wonder why I say all this to you?” It wasn’t my main question but I nodded. “I guess I have a streak of sadism in me. Like you, I have lived in the west and learnt from it. Feminism, yada yada. I feel for your plight, the silence, ridiculous clothes and hair, lack of freedom and everything, but at the same time it turns me on. That is how I am, Yabu. Your duty is to submit, however distasteful that might be.”

Disgusted with his callousness, I yelled nothing, shook my head, and pummelled him with my unbound fists in an act of pathetic resistance. He laughed and took my weak wrists in his hands. “Such disobedience should be punished and I can’t wait to land a slap on that beautiful rounded bottom of yours!” he exclaimed. I tried to back away and he laughed again. “Not now, Yabu, not in our wedding bed.”  He paused again and then reached forward, grabbed me and forced my face to his, kissing me with gusto, exploring my mouth with his tongue. I tried to bite down but he was too quick and, strangely, although he angered me, his actions excited me too. “By God Yabu, you turn me on!” he declared, when he finally extracted himself from me. He put his left arm round me and started to explore my body with his right hand, squeezing my breasts and stroking the bottom that he had just praised. Handled against my will, hating my body’s instincts, I began to desire him.

“Hmm, Yabu, I think you and I will enjoy each other as well as hate each other. However, that is for later. I must say, you are much better than I thought you would be – and far better naked than in that awful bridal outfit – but there are still areas of concern. These tits for starters! Pert, yes, but way too small for my tastes. I was in the west a long time, you know.” I began to hate him again and my desire faded slightly. “Not very Korean I know, wanting big tits; my father would not be impressed, but I cannot change how I am and you are mine, Yabu, to do what I want with. However, before that, I need to explain some things to you.”

This guy needed the same procedure I had, I thought to myself. I wanted to ask him what he meant by doing what he wanted with, but, mute as I was – and still am – I could not.

“You know your duties as a wife and you know how you will live – much as you did with your father, in predetermined spaces and roles, yes. However, what you do not know is how I operate my household. I studied Psychology at uni – can’t you tell? – and I guess I am a bit of a disciple of Skinner. Hmm, Yabu, your confused look suggests that you don’t know who he was? Well, he believed in a theory of reward and punishment to motivate people and so that is what I shall institute here. I demand sex from you whenever I want it, but what I cannot demand is your enjoyment or the quality of sex that I am accustomed to. Therefore, it is up to you. If you please me sufficiently, I shall reward you. If you fail in your duties, I shall punish you. I believe that your father already instituted a paddling regime; good man. Personally though, I prefer to smack a rounded bottom with my own hand. Your punches earlier, they warrant a smack or two for example. Punishment alone though, does not work.

“Yabu, every day you will dress in full hanbok and eoyeo meori hairstyle as in your father’s house. Here however, you will also wear the arm sleeve as a matter of course. That is to say, silent as you are, denied of the use of your arms, you shall be largely unable to communicate. Your maid will feed you and attend to your toilette. However, if you please me, the sleeve will be removed. For example, a satisfactory morning blowjob will result in three hours without the sleeve in a single day. This can enable you to write a letter, paint a picture, or engage in conversation with another female. Enthusiasm during vaginal intercourse could result in a different reward, say the use of the neolttwigi for an hour.”

He saw my confused look and stopped. “Yabu, do you not know what is neolttwigi?” I shook my head.

“Neolttwigi is our traditional Korean see-saw. Yangban women developed it as a way of seeing beyond the walls of their houses. You will never be allowed out of the house save in a closed carriage so, if you want to see something of the beautiful forests that surround this mansion, neolttwigi is your only option as when you jump up high, you can see beyond the wall. It will also help keep you fit, important considering your sedentary lifestyle.”

neolttwigi.jpg

I could see his sadistic enjoyment in delivering this monologue, yet despite this, I was cautiously excited at the prospect of neolttwigi. Even the tiny freedom of being able to glimpse the outside world seemed so precious to me now! Even if it was only the other compounds of the Chongsanri settlement.

“There are other benefits of course; huge ones for anal intercourse and other subversive pleasures, but you don’t need the details now. I shall provide a full list when you are ready. For now though, why not try earning your first reward?”

And as he said those words he moved me close to him and playfully slapped my arse. “And there’s the punishment for the punches,” he said, causing my subconscious desire to heighten once again. When we had finished we lay together exhausted and he called for tea.

Seconds later I had blacked out again.


I awoke on the bed, naked but unrestrained. I moved my hands to my chest, remembering his words and half-guessing what had happened. Sure enough, where my A-cups had once sat, two sizeable and extremely fake mounds were now to be found.

I felt different down below too. I moved my fingers lower and discovered why. My sex was sealed off with a chastity belt, one with attachment rings for clipping my nighttime gloves to. It was made of polished silver and covered me like a pair of underpants. As I shifted my body I felt that it did more than just cover my holes, which had been off-limits for quite some time. Inside two rods now filled me, teasing me, making me ache from being stretched like this.

I got up and went to the mirror. The face that stared back at me was my own but subtly different. Now the nose was more of a button and the lips more like a full rosebud. He had changed me, improved me, created the perfect Korean doll wife.

I stared at that image for a long time, angry and traumatised but unable to resist what had been done to me.

Chapter 7

And so, my married life began. Was it better or worse than life with my father? That is hard to say. It was different.

The biggest thing was the sex. I enjoyed it, I really did. I hated my husband and yet, at the same time, I desired him. Perhaps because this was the only time that I had power and control over my destiny, because with the sex came rewards.

Without the rewards, life was harsh. No use of my hands whatsoever and no voice meant that I was incommunicado, a mere elegant ornament to the household, fit only to be ignored. But if I gave him a blowjob I could indulge in a painting, or if I pleasured him sufficiently during normal sex, I could jump on the neolttwigi with one or two maids on the other end, for a precious moment or two I could soar into the air and glimpse the trees and the beautiful mountain slopes. And if I submitted to the painful ecstasy of anal intercourse then…

I get ahead of myself. First, I need to introduce Jong-Suk. When I saw her on my first day of marriage I hated her. She was my rival, the primary gisaeng that my husband sought pleasure in. She was impossibly beautiful and, when she started to play and sing, impossibly talented. I could never sing now, never again. Oh, how I hated her!

Yet, at the same time, she did not hate me. And in my lonely world, I needed a friend and she was the only one to be had. We would talk with my writing messages for her on paper using an inkbrush and her speaking the replies. And we would sit together and she would hold me and then brush her lips against mine and whisper bedroom secrets of how to bring Yong-Gon to ecstasy.

In short, I fell in love.

And Yong-Gon knew it.

“Yabu, the reward for anal intercourse is Jong-Suk.”

I happily submitted.

And the day after, my bottom hole still throbbing, I was allowed to retire early and she would lie with me. I was restrained, of course, with chastity belt, gloves, and ankles tied, but she was not and she would explore my bare skin with her hands, whilst her tongue explored my mouth and I gasped silently in ecstasy.

And my husband watched on through a peephole, with another gisaeng bringing him to fulfilment with her mouth.

And that was that, save for when, after only a few months, I fell pregnant. Nine months later, my son was born and my husband named him Ju-Hwan. He was the love and light of my life and I treasured holding him and feeding him.

Several months after his birth, I was pregnant again. By this time my husband had acquired two more gisaeng.

And so my life has continued. Restricted and silent, a songless bird in a gilded cage. I have my pleasure – both in the bedroom and in the seven children that have resulted from it – and I have my pain, but it is a life. Like countless generations of Korean women before, I have grown accustomed to it. I no longer even see the doors which would have once brought me pain. It is our tradition, these are our customs. I am Yabu, nothing more. Yes, Yong-Gon?

 

Chapter 8

Thirty years later

And now I shall take over the narrative. In the months running up to her fortieth birthday, I ordered my wife to write down the story of her remarkable life. By that time, her rebellious spirit had been quelled long ago, and she assented to my every wish. And besides, it meant time with her hands free being able to communicate with others. She enjoyed it immensely. I am a just man.

I wanted her to write it all down as an historical record of the start of our movement of national rejuvenation. Well, that was the reason I gave officially. Unofficially, as I told her myself during the first morning of our marriage, I am a sadist with a high libido and tales of female suffering turn me on.

That is why I asked her to do it, but why I ordered her to do it then was for quite a different reason: after her fortieth birthday she would no longer be able to do such things.

Yabu was pretty. I don’t think she ever realised just how pretty she was. As hot as any of the gisaeng I’ve had and, believe me, I’ve had a few. My latest, the delectable little Mi-Kyung is nestled beside me as I type this in fact. But even the prettiest of women fade with the years and the fact that I used her as a breeding machine for the Kyon clan, forcing seven babies out of her, means that she faded faster than most.

And I cannot do with a faded woman.

But traditional Korean society is strict about many things. Most of the rules suit me, but one that doesn’t is that about monogamy: once a man has married, he may not marry again, even if he has disowned her. And Yabii gave me no reason to do that, no reason at all, so we are attached to one another until death do us part.

Thankfully, Chongsanri has an answer for that too, and after Yabu’s fortieth birthday, the age when she is declared past childbearing age, I instituted it.

That evening I slept with her for one last time and then put her to sleep using the same tea draught that I had used when we first wed. This time though, I was doing more than just pump up her tits again.

Once out cold, she was transported to the Chongsanri medical facility in the heart of our little community up here in the mountains and there her transformation began. Her hair was shaved off completely and her head laser treated to stop any future hair growth. Similar treatment was conducted on her brows and lashes. Then the object was produced.

Back on that first hospital visit, over twenty years earlier, as well as pumping up her tits and lips, I’d had a cast done of her virginal young face. That had been saved, entered into the Chongsanri database and then, this year, reproduced as the mask of a hood which was designed to encase her ageing head until the day she died. Carefully it was fitted, an intrusion going into her mouth and a tube down into her stomach to feed her. Tubes also went up her nostrils and then lenses were placed over her eyes with only a pinhole in the centre to allow limited sight. The whole thing was made of a new plastic compound that stays flexible (to a degree) and allows the skin underneath to breathe. Developed by Chongsanri of course. Similar treatment was also meted out to her hands and arms, although the new covers kept the hands rigid. She would never use them again.

She panicked when she awoke three days later but, unable to do anything for herself, and unable to deny my will anymore, though she hadn’t tried in many years, she slowly got over it. Today, as before, she is still dressed in the most sumptuous hanboks, her hair styled in the most elaborate Joseon Era styles, but she is now permanently and completely incommunicado. She barely sees, cannot turn her head or use her hands.

Nor too can she have sex. I had her pleasure nub and inner petals taken away and then had her vaginal opening closed permanently with just a small hole for wastes. On top of this I refitted her chastity belt, this time with nothing to fill her, the key for which is embedded in a prism of glass on my desk at work. The president’s desk, which is back in Seoul. After all, what use does a forty-year old woman have with such things? Now those parts will only be used for their essential tasks, and whatever is communicated to the implant of course.

But although she is forty, she does not look it. Instead, my darling wife, my Yabu, is forever seventeen, the blushing bride who was married to me all those years ago. These days she has no life of her own. Instead she stands or sits in my room as an elegant ornament, a dutiful and submissive accessory to my wealth and status. I often gaze upon her staring mindlessly into space whilst Mi-Kyung or some other gisaeng sucks me off to ecstasy.

There is a lot to be said for tradition, you know.

 

An Artist’s Masterpiece: Book 3

Book 3

April 2047

Book 2

Chapter 1

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

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

“…”

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Chapter 2

July 2049

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

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


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

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

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

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

The same Lord that had seemingly abandoned her like Job.

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

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

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

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

Chapter 3

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

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

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

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

It was her beloved sister Anne.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Book 4

The Tale of Anastasia: Part 8

Links to all parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Chapter 15

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

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

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

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

“Right away, ma’am.”

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

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

“Certainly, ma’am.”

Swish!

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

Swish!

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

Swish!

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

Swish!

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

Swish!

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

Swish!

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

Swish!

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

Swish!

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

Swish!

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

Swish!

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

Swish!

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

Swish!

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

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

“Certainly ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

“Certainly ma’am.”

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

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

“Miss Anne, please come over here!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 16

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me, Miss Anne…”

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

“I apologise Your Ladyship, but…”

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

“But Your Ladyship, His Lordship…”

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

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

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

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

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

Anne on the other hand, knew it well.

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

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

“You have to choose, Ani!”

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

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

“Yes, ma’am. The Duke has decreed…”

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

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

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

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

Postscript

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

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

Links to all parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8