An Artist’s Masterpiece: Book 5

Book 5

April 2051

Book 4

Chapter 1

It was yet another birthday party. Yet another gathering of friends and family. Yet another celebration of a year added to her life. Yet another event for her husband to show her off to the world.

And yet this birthday party, Emily was happy.

Ecstatically so.

For her life had changed in ways that she could never have imagined. Ways in which she never dared hope for. Ways more akin to a fairy tale than real-life.

It had all started, of course, with Humphrey’s death. The operation that he’d undergone to increase his hormonal levels, coupled with his existing high blood pressure and his increasingly debauched lifestyle had resulted in a heart attack whilst on his bed with his wife and sister-in-law. Had he not transformed those two women into helpless doll wives then they might have been able to save him, to alert the medical authorities… anyone. But no, they were completely passive and helpless as he wanted them to be and so they simply stared mindlessly into space as he breathed his final few agonising breaths on earth.

That look of horror and despair was fixed in Emily’s mind forever. It pleased her immensely, just as did the knowledge of where Humphrey Battersby must now be if the Bible is to be believed, and how he must be suffering.

Payback.

They were all discovered the following morning by the automaid. By this time the two sisters had fallen asleep against each other. The automaid notified the police and very soon the house was crowded with medics and lawmen. There was nothing that either could do save for notify the next-of-kin who was, of course, Emily. Humphrey had no living family closer than a second cousin in Bolton. Since Emily was helpless (literally) to do anything, they called Branwell who was most distressed. He relied on Humphrey for money and all he could ask himself was how he would cope from now on. Unless, of course, he could assume guardianship of Emily and Anne. After all, who would be a more natural choice? He was their brother after all, and their closest living relative following the death of their parents the year before.

“Not so fast,” said Humphrey’s solicitor, Mr. Rochester, who had also been called. “The only person who can make that decision is Mrs. Battersby herself.”

“But she is… you know, look at her!” protested Branwell.

“What she looks like,” replied Rochester, who seemed to have taken a dislike to this pushy relative by marriage, “is of no concern of mine. What the law is interested in is what she thinks like and, according to all the modification paperwork that the late Mr. Battersby lodged in my care, at no point was her mental ability ever impaired. Of course, the trauma of such an extreme lifestyle may have taken its toll on her mind but that is for a doctor to ascertain.”

“But…”

“Mr. Lowood, please do not bother me any further!”

That doctor came the following day and, Emily was glad to see, it was not the dreaded Dr. Eaton. He did not come alone, but instead was accompanied by a smartly-dressed gentleman of around thirty who was introduced as a Mr. Robert Rivers of the Damsels in Distress organisation. Both Emily and Anne were sat on the chesterfield across from the two gentlemen and then the medical man begun. “Ladies, my name is Dr. Bradley and I have been called here by Mr. Rochester, the late Mr. Battersby’s solicitor as I am a psychological specialist. It is my job to assess if you have the mental capacity to make decisions about your futures. Now ladies, I believe that you both still have the ability to nod slightly. Nod if you can understand me.”

Both dolls nodded.

“Excellent,” said the doctor, noting something on his form. “Now then, Emily Battersby, can you nod for me.”

The left doll nodded.

“And Anne Lowood.”

The right doll nodded.

“Excellent. It appears you do have mental capacity. Now, the only obvious candidate for your guardianship is your brother, Branwell Lowood. Is that an option you should like me to pursue?”

Neither doll nodded. Anne even shifted her bosom side to side in a desperate attempt to decline.

“Am I to take that to mean that you do not want to be put into the care of your brother?”

Both dolls nodded.

“Hmm, interesting. Well, that can be honoured but it leaves us with a different problem, that being who shall take care of you? Your husband has left you a considerable amount of money Emily, although you have nothing Anne. Do you wish to remain together?”

Both dolls nodded.

“And therefore, would you be prepared to take financial responsibility for Anne, Emily?”

The left doll nodded.

“Right. But you both still need a guardian to administer the estate and keep you safe. But who? Perhaps this is the place to bring my companion, Mr. Rivers into the conversation.”

“Thank you kindly, Doctor,” said the other man. “Ladies, I am a representative of a charitable organisation which is called Damsels in Distress. We are a group of concerned Christians who abhor the practice of turning healthy and happy young women into helpless dolls for the satisfaction of their husband or guardians. We lobby parliament to get the practice banned and we help any doll who has been left without a guardian due to a death, which is why we are here today as both of you fall firmly into that category. We look after these dolls by helping them to regain their former lives by paying for reparative operations. For example, to replace their amputated limbs using new procedures pioneered in the Soviet Union, or restore other functions if possible, such as free eye movement and voice recovery. Be warned, we cannot reverse everything. Faces like yours can never be restored to the original but the mindless doll look can be transplanted in a similar operation to the original so some semblance of humanity can be restored. We are here to help and are prepared to find spouses for both of you from our organisation who will nurture and support you. However, as you wish to stay together, it would be possible to only marry one of you – as bigamy is, of course a crime – but the other could stay as a companion. So, ladies, does this idea sound of interest to you or would you prefer to remain as dolls – some women do. Do you wish to be helped by our charity?”

Both dolls nodded.

“So, Emily, are you therefore prepared to marry me on the condition that I restore you as much as is medically possible to your original condition?”

The left doll nodded.


Emily’s second marriage took place the following day. It was a low-key affair in the church where Robert worshipped, attended only by the vicar, Robert’s sisters, Anne and some representatives of the charity. That night he did not consummate the marriage as, “I want only to enjoy my wife when she can fully consent and participate”. The kindness and thoughtfulness touched Emily to the core, although it did nothing to relieve the frustration that she was now feeling after years of extremely regular sexual activity.

The next day, she and Anne returned to Great Ormond Street and the long, slow, and painful process of reconstruction began. New arms, specially grown in labs across the Channel, were transplanted onto her shoulders which were unfused from their unnatural position. That was a lengthy operation taking many hours but it took months for her to learn how to use them properly. In stages her mammoth breasts were reduced to a more manageable size (although still somewhat bigger than before any operations had ever taken place) whilst similar work was done on her enormous bottom. Her toilet arrangements however were non-reversible, if she disliked incontinence, although with the chance to talk and hold again, Emily didn’t mind.

The biggest and most delicate operation however, was the face transplant and mouth reconstruction. As her husband had explained from the outset, recovering the original Emily and Anne was out of the question and so the girls had to decide how they wanted to look from now on. To be honest, Emily had never particularly liked her plain visage and so wouldn’t have wanted to return to it (although anything was preferable to the vacant doll look that Humphrey gave her) since the old Emily, innocent and unscarred by life, was lost forever too. She looked around for inspiration, something beautiful yet also good and kind. One day Robert showed her a photograph of his late mother when she was but nineteen. Mrs. Rivers Senior had been one of the founders of Damsels in Distress and a fervent campaigner for women’s issues, and straightaway Emily knew. “That is the face I want,” she wrote unsteadily (since her voice was not working at this point) and, touched to the core, Robert assented.

Full jaw movement and throat recovery was beyond their skill, so both girls had to choose from a selection of prosthetic voices. An implant in the speech centre of their brain allowed them to communicate to a specially-made speaker wirelessly, but this was not as easy as it sounded and, like their arms, required months of practice. Their hideous plastic lips were remolded more naturally but their mouths were far from recovery, for the work to reshape them had been extensive. Emily eventually chose her speaker to be added to her still-necessary fleur de bouche, remaking the object from a symbol of silence to one of regained independence and recovery.

When they were implanting the voice processor, the doctors found the mad Dr. Eaton’s trademarked implant, which had been the source of her reflexive oral, vaginal, and anal contractions, as well as her lack of eye motion. What they also found was that it was positioned in an incredibly dangerous place to remove and even if she survived, she may lose sensory functions in those areas during the operation, so for her protection and well-being they desisted. Luckily they rigged the contact switch in her temple to always allow her full sight, never again locked into staring at the wall for months at a time.

Throughout all of this, Anne remained extremely close with her sister, a closeness borne of them sharing the hardest of times and the most degrading of beds. Both sisters had been scarred by their experience but in different ways and Anne’s reaction was to cling to her elder sister. The one thing that Anne had liked about their doll transformation was that they had been made to look nearly identical, only the colours of their neck roses telling them apart, like twins (in actuality there was a year between them). And so, when Emily chose her new face, so too did Anne and a week later when they recovered from the operation and sedatives, both sported the same happy, pure expressions with the same chestnut curls cascading down their backs. At last, at long last they were human again!

And so, on this birthday party to celebrate Emily’s 24th year, she was happy, full of the joy of life and thankful to the wonderful husband who stood by her side.

Chapter 2

It is April 2052. Another year has passed and Emily is celebrating another birthday, her 25th, the years clicking by like miles on a speedometer. Her 24th birthday was one of unbridled joy but her 25th, alas, sees great sorrow enter her – and Anne’s – lives once again.

For only three weeks before, in an horrific motor accident as he returned from a Damsels in Distress conference in London, her second husband was cruelly taken from her. “At least it was quick,” she said to Anne in consolation.

The contrast between Robert’s funeral and Humphrey’s could not have been greater. Humphrey’s consisted of a handful of mourners, most of whom would miss his money more than him. At Robert’s the entire church was full and crowds stood outside. He was loved by the local worshipping community and by feminists and humanitarians across the country and beyond. Emily found herself greeted by huge Black Africans, dusky Indians and diminutive Chinese as well as scores of girls who had formerly been dolls and had been given a new chance at life through the work of Damsels in Distress. In her grief she was comforted by both her own sister and Robert’s two siblings, Diana and Mary. They were heartbroken at the loss of such a loving and Christian brother. Emily compared him to their own brother in her mind and her blood boiled.

The nearly two years that she had spent married to Robert Rivers had been like a glorious, perfect dream. Well, as close to perfect as this life gets. She had had her independence, her voice and her limbs restored to her; she looked nearly a normal woman once again, not some inhuman freak, and she was both listened to and valued. Once she could speak and write once more, Robert supported her in applying for university and she had begun the degree that she had so long dreamt of studying. Anne too was allowed to continue her studies and with the funds that Emily provided her out of Humphrey’s estate, she began her Masters. Cambridge were glad to have her back: during her degree she had been recognised as one of the foremost minds in Physics of the generation and, unbeknownst to the two sisters, when she had been transformed into a doll by Battersby, the furore that followed had even been mentioned in parliament.

Robert had proved a loving and gentle spouse. They had enjoyed beautiful evening walks together around the estate and he would sit with her in the orangery and read poetry or Scripture to her. He welcomed Anne too, immediately insisting that she be retained as Emily’s companion, and treating her as his own sister. He was a breath of fresh air after the debauchery of Humphrey and Emily could have wished for nothing more…

…well, almost nothing.

The only problem was bedtime. Anne was now banished from the marital bed since this was a God-fearing household and that Emily did not complain about, but even when they were alone together, Robert and his beautiful young wife did not regularly engage in sexual activities.

In fact, he only ever did when she pressed the matter and even then it was perfunctory and with reluctance.

And for a woman so used to regular congress and with a body redesigned for sex, this was extremely trying. Even though she cursed Humphrey’s memory from the depths of her soul  late at night (and then repented to God afterwards for such a sin), as Robert lay asleep beside her, she found herself longing for the animal, twisted sex that she had enjoyed with her first spouse. She ardently wished for Robert to flip her over onto her front and spear her still-healthy arse, or use her impressive cleavage as an extra hole, spurting his copious seed all over her face. She knew that these thoughts were sinful, temptations of the devil and yet still they came. In her desperation for release she would use her new hands to work herself to a climax manually in silence as her husband slept (for he would never approve of such things), but it was not the same as when she was taken by a man. Sadly, Emily realised that the effects of her time as a doll would not be erased so easily and that some things would always remain. An increased appetite for sex was one of them. Furthermore, this did not seem to apply to her alone either, for after a few months, Anne – who was getting no sexual release whatsoever when all was said and done – would sidle up to her in the drawing room, or enter her bedroom as she lay down for an afternoon nap and her hands would caress her sister’s womanly parts and their immovable but naturalized lips would meet for a delicious kiss, made all the better by the fact that their tongues had been lengthened once more.

Chapter 3

A month after her husband had died and his funeral had taken place, even whilst she was still in mourning clothes, Emily decided to do something about the problem of her and Anne’s sex drives and deal with another matter that had been burning in her brain ever since she had seen Anne drugged by her husband and brother and carried off for modification. Discretely she obtained the name of a foremost private investigator and then, one Wednesday, she took the train down to London and paid a visit to his office. In that office she handed over a sum of money along with the instructions to find out as much as possible about the whereabouts and daily routine of one Branwell Lowood.

A month later she returned to the capital and the detective went through his file. Branwell was currently living in London, in a rather insalubrious district of the East End. He had failed his degree and, lacking the income that Humphrey Battersby had paid him for handing over his two sisters to dolldom, had moved to London to find work in bars and other legally questionable occupations. He was a heavy drinker and a serious womaniser and had been planning to acquire a doll wife for himself until his patron’s death put the possibility to rest. He liked to frequent the notorious House of the Enhanced Venus, a whorehouse of severely modified women, but these days his funds rarely stretched that far so he instead frequented pubs, trying to pick up easy women since his looks were still charming. His most popular haunt was the Dog & Duck in Soho where he was invariably to be found on a Saturday night.

Emily spent the whole of the next week in London. She rented some rooms in Bloomsbury and made some enquiries with a local apothecary. Then, on Friday, she laced down to sixteen inches, a full two inches smaller than her norm these days, dressed up in her finest gown that emphasised her behind and her cleavage and curled her fake chestnut hair.

Then she took a cab to the Dog & Duck.

It did not take long for her to spot her brother, who was laughing and joking with some regulars by the bar. She seductively swayed up to that bar and ordered a glass of the house red and then retired to a table to drink it. Within five minutes he was asking if he could join her.

“Why, sure you can!” she replied from her voice box between her made-up, pouty lips.

“Are you expecting someone, madam, or are you all alone?”

“Hell no, I’m alone alright.”

“That’s a crime; a woman like you should never be alone!”

“Ain’t you the sweetie, and it’s Blanche by the way, but thanks. No, ever since my husband died last year, I’ve always been alone. That’s why I come out, to find some company but I’m rarely successful…”

“That I can’t believe!”

“No, it’s true! You see the thing is, my late husband – God bless his soul, he were a merry man! – he was an ardent admirer of the modified female and so he was transforming me. He wanted to make me one of them doll wives and, to tell you the truth, I loved it! I’ve had me face done and me voice, and some work on me tits and arse, but we hadn’t got round to the arms and the rest and then… the Lord took him! I was devastated!”

“Madam, surely you are jesting me? Most people these days, particularly women, seem intent on attacking the practice of dollification, not promoting it. There are charities banging their gums about banning it and reversing transformations that have already taken place and here is you saying you WANT to be made a doll!”

“Sure I do, probably the only girl that does, but nothing makes me hornier than being totally helpless and treated as some sort of fucktoy by a domineering man. Probably some strain of hysteria I have. Should see a doctor but…”

“No, no, it’s natural; women are naturally submissive, although the feminists deny this. It isn’t a doctor that you need to see, darling, it is me…”

Ten minutes later they were in a cab back to her rooms.

And in the rooms it was only a matter of minutes before he was removing her gown and running his hands over her rock-hard waist. “Now darling,” she said, as he led her towards the king size bed, “before we do that, I want you to lace me into a monoglove. It’s so long since I’ve been able to wear one and me old Bert never fucked me without it! But before then, let’s have some more wine cos fucking is such thirsty work!”

“I’ll make it, Blanche dear.”

“No, you bloody well won’t! What sort of woman am I to let a man enter the kitchen as I still have these arms! You let me get the drinks whilst you take a look in that cupboard and see what other little toys you might want to use on me…”

Branwell happily plunged into the collection of butt plugs, dildos and restraints that Blanche had pointed out to him, his member rock hard. In a few minutes she returned and handed him his glass of red. He picked up a monstrous pink butt plug and said, “Shall we start with this, Blanche?” and she bent over. As he maneuvered it into her enormous bottom, he took a draught of his wine.

He never finished inserting the plug.

Chapter 4

Even before I opened my eyes I could feel a bright light on my face. Was it morning already? I didn’t really remember fucking good ol’ Blanche, must’ve drunk too much. What a sorry whore, couldn’t even realize her degrading dreams. The women of this country were pitiful. I shuffled a bit, and noticed something off. Restraints! I’m being held down. My eyes flew open to find two silhouettes standing in the light.

A female voice, artificial, Blanche? “…oh yes, Dr. Eaton, I think that’s a great idea, I give you full executive power on this matter.”

“Excellent, excellent. Now dear, I hope we aren’t on bad terms over the work I did on you, this is my trade, like any other. I won’t lie, the money was top notch, but if this relieves my heavy heart I will do it, no questions asked… uhm… with the appropriate compensation.” A silence. “AT COST! AT COST of course dear!”

“Don’t ever call me dear again. You slip up once and the Parliamentary Commission will find your second lab. And watch out, he’s awake.”

With a shuffle from the doctor toward the IV coming out of my arm, I slipped back into the dark.


When I came back to, I felt…different. I saw a bag hanging off my IV stand… “XX CHROM…” Whatever that means. I scanned the room… This was Great Ormond!! Actually it might have been the same room I took Canned Anne’s photographs in. Why am I here? I looked down to find my body still restrained, naked, and my penis in bandages?! What is going on?


When I woke up it was morning, I was still drugged up but the Doctor was there and a mirror was hung above me. My body looked…different. My cheeks looked fuller and my stubble was gone. Actually all my hair was gone from my head, eyebrows, to my pubes. My hips were a little wider? And I had definitely put on weight. There goes all the work I did for the pub girls.

“Whaaaaaa….”, my voice faded off. The Doc noticed me.

“Oh hello, Mr. Lowood,” he talked in a slow, gentle voice, nothing like when me and Humphrey had met with him a few years ago. “You’re going through some changes, and your sponsor has asked that I don’t explain anything outright to you, sorry. I added the mirror so you can keep yourself informed as we proceed to make you into a lovely little companion!”

I obviously couldn’t speak coherently so I just peered through the mirror. There, on my chest, were two slight breasts. What are they doing to me!? It was too much, and combined with the drugs I faded out.


Now I’m really worrying. The Doctor unwrapped my junk and he fucking castrated me! My shaft is still there but I’ll never make a Branwell Jr like I always dreamed. My body looks tired, like I’ve been here a while, and besides, I’ve nearly got the body of a chick! All the muscle and bone is giving away to smooth, plushy curves. I’ve given up on fighting, these people are professionals. I just wish I knew why this had to happen to me. What man did I cross to end up here?


Last time I woke up I couldn’t move my eyes! I just stared at this doll face in the mirror for hours as they marked up our bodies identically with little perma-fountain pens. What am I an art project? The face has this dumb stare right at me, with a Mouth and nose just like my sisters after Humphrey did his number on them. I miss him, when he died my life went to shite.

I did get worried when I tried to ask and I couldn’t make a peep. Seem to have a weird thing in my mouth. I started shaking about and the Doctor put me back under, just as I realized the doll was shaking too. Noooo…


THIS IS NOT FUCKING OKAY. I woke up to my body, no, not MY body. I still can’t look around but even from my peripheral sight its unmistakable, my arms and legs are just GONE. There’s no scars or bandages, how did they do that?! I tried to shuffle my limbs but I just saw my body twitch a bit. Actually, what’s wrong? I’m not tied down anymore, why can’t I move anything? I should be able to do crunches or something! Whenever I flex or try to move I see the muscle distend like it’s trying, but I just can’t!


Doctor said it has been 6 months now since the “Sponsor” brought me in. It’s taking so long because of the gender reassignment. I’ve got big tits and my butt is like two big smooth eggs that frame my cock and twat. That’s right, they gave me womanly lips, well, besides the ones on my actual lips. Doctor said I’ve been good so he explained my transition. I think he is just bored. Maybe he gets off on this, I would.

My skeleton is chemically fused, all of it. I’ll never walk, twist, move again, but I have to always exercise or I’ll get weak and my Sponsor will throw me away. Sometimes they put electrical pads on my smooth skin and my muscles work out whether I want to or not. The Doctor always insinuates that the Sponsor is some uptight lady. He complained that he wanted to remove some ribs and lace me up and she apparently said, “You wouldn’t put stays on a Pillow.”

I’ve got some more meat on me than my athletic body before, but I’m not fat by any means…well, if you ignore my breasts and ass; they get larger everyday. All I can do is lay here and stare at the ceiling, my cock sticking straight in the air. Oh yeah they did something to that, I can’t get soft, probably just enough to shove it in some trousers and hide it, but it would still be screamin’ proud if so. I wonder if I’ll ever wear trousers again.


They have me upright now. I can’t move so my balance on my arse is lousy. Right now they have me surrounded by pillows to support my body. When I sit up I’m right on my new twat, and I noticed I can feel a growing wet patch, actually I have this itch I just can’t scratch down there.

Am I a woman now? A doll? Is this what Canned Anne or Plain Jane felt like? Fuck them, I want out! What kind of pervert would do this to a man?! We own this country!


The Doctor put his cock in my mouth and I sucked him off yesterday, I didn’t mean to I swear! It’s like my mouth had a mind of its own! I constantly drool this sweet, musky saliva, kinda like what a twat smells like. Only queers go down on anybody so I wouldn’t know, but that’s my closest guess. Afterwards the Doctor stroked my pussy and cock really hard and I couldn’t bring myself to completion. I didn’t expect a spurt of semen since the operation, just a little release! Anything! I feel it all but I can’t cum!


Today is the day. Months of imprisonment, and now my prison is this body. I can’t do anything: move, talk, look around, stop blinking, eat, urinate, defecate, anything. My holes contract on their own so even a morse code SOS of vaginal clenches is impossible… dumb idea anyways… If I really concentrate I can flex some of this extra flesh I have on my arse, but it’s unreliable. I’ve been inactive for too long.

I wear not stays but a gigantic bra which holds me together but bites into my sensitive tits. I’m fitted in a fine silk dress that is sewn underneath and accentuates these gigantic breasts and ass. My empty shoulders and hips end in little tassels. They’ve glued a chestnut wig on my head, and the messy curls surround my female doll face. They tucked and taped my cock to my stomach before dressing, I think its larger now. My waist isn’t like my sisters’, but my assets are surely bigger. When they sit me up my ass spreads out a bit and stabilizes me so I rarely fall, but it’s all still so scary. Right now I’m sitting on the vibes they put in me on high. This is so cruel, I was made for this, why can’t I cum?!

Blanche comes to pick me up, and in her arms I find myself close to her, bodies pressed up against each other so I don’t fall before I go in the wheelchair… Is that a red rose in her neck?

Chapter 5

Sept 2053

“So who is she, Emmie?”

“Her name is Pillows. Damsels in Distress rescued her and they’ve asked us to look after her as she doesn’t want to remarry.”

Both sisters looked down at the doll girl sitting passively on the sofa.

“Hello, um, Pillows. I’m Anne.”

“She can’t respond. You know how it is.”

“I remember how it was for us, but we could still nod.”

“Pillows cannot even do that I am afraid. Her modifications were much more severe than ours.”

“When are we going to get them reversed?”

“I’m afraid we’re not, Annie. She’s already been to the hospital. The operations that she’s had done were much more intrusive than ours. Try to transplant her face and regrow her limbs and she could be put in mortal danger. Her heart is also weaker now, it’s used to the reduced body mass; she wouldn’t survive.”

“What about her breasts? They’re even bigger than mine used to be. Surely we could help her there?”

“No, not even there. They’re a new type of implant apparently, that works its way deep into the muscle tissues. Try to remove them and she dies.”

“That’s awful! What kind of wretch would do something like that to a girl?!”

“You of all people should know the answer to that.”

“What, you mean people like our brother Branwell?”

“Yes, exactly. Or to be entirely precise, drop the word ‘like.”

“What?! You mean that Branwell is…”

“Was, my darling, was. He used Humphrey’s money to transform this poor orphan girl into his own pillow doll. But now he is gone; he died in an accident last month. That is why Damsels in Distress asked us to take care of her. And that means you, Anne. I need you to care for and comfort Pillows here as if she were your favourite doll Jemima that you had as a child.”

“I cannot believe that you remember Jemima!”

“How could I forget? You were so good to that doll. She deserves a caretaker like you.”

Emily and Anne embraced as they looked at the tiny doll girl. Anne began, “Oh dear, this poor girl..and how utterly unoriginal of Branwell to name her that! Surely styled after those unfortunate Hodgkinson women we visited together.”

“Well you remember how he was. He hung onto Humphrey’s tailcoat more than aspiring to anything unique. You know… Jemima isn’t a bad name, all in all.”

“Oh what a good idea, Emmie!” Anne knelt down to look in the girl’s blank eyes. “This is a house of recovery and hope, and you’re going to be my little, sweet Jemima! I will keep you safe.”

“Anyway, let’s get the automaid to take a photo of us three, the new Lowood siblings! Welcome to the family, Jemima!”


I never asked for this. I set those girls up with a future, not like what that two-face bitch Emily did to me in return. She was a Lady of Leisure, with not a care in the world. It was a win-win! But now I’m nothing more than a doll for two paltry second-class widows. They both have a dislike for automaids, so Anne takes care of my few needs when she is not away at the college nearby. From my guess we live in Oxford, but I haven’t left the premises of our comfortably-sized home for months.

My life is not altogether awful, for Emily’s secret sadism is balanced by Anne’s pure innocence and her ignorance of my true identity. In truth, I would not tell her if I could, for she looks at me now unlike she ever did before, her victimized Jemima. I was always a disappointment to her before, and after I realized trying to communicate was impossible, I reveled in the clean slate of our companionship. Anne would hold me and tell me stories of her time with Humphrey all the way to her studies now. Most of them were over-dramatic and a waste of breath, but I am sorely starved for company. Late at night, when I’m not sleeping in my crib, she holds me tight in her bed as a body pillow, crying a bit or comforting her mute Jemima doll. She was mortified to see my erect penis underneath the dress I wore on the first day, and Emily told her all these lies about how I secretly had it added to this imaginary orphan girl because of my “other tastes”. I wanted to hurt her so much that day, and ever since, Anne has treated the last evidence of my manhood as an ornament of shame. Only a week ago did she apologize to me repeatedly, lay me down on a bed, strip her underwear, and wrap her silicone wetness around me until she came. She cried after, about how she couldn’t help herself since what those sick men did to her. I didn’t know what to say, luckily I couldn’t. I wish I had reached climax too, maybe she could try harder.

This is, sadly, not the only time I am used this way. One reason I like Anne’s presence so much is what it prevents. When she is off completing her Phd or whatever, I am at Emily’s mercy. She still holds me accountable, even after all she has done to me, and if I were to guess, once she is home and away from reclaiming her independent life, her primary goal past taking care of Anne is making my existence as horrid as possible. Cayenne pepper goes in my mush. She leaves me sitting on that horrid toilet as I am impaled, filled, and drained over and over. I am left in corners of the household, forgotten. The only physical contact I receive from her happens when she is about to take me to her room. Each time, I receive a diatribe about how this situation was brought on by myself. If I hadn’t sold her to Mr. Battersby for his “artistic vision”, she wouldn’t have the ravenous cravings she does now, and would not need a surrogate in place of him. Each time she lists off decisions I have made that were harmful to others, she strikes me with a crop on my taut orbs above and below. Not enough to make a mark, but enough to have my black rose wheezing under the pain. My face blankly asks for more as I feel it all.

Earlier today she brought me to her room, pinched my nipples with sharp alligator clips, and used my erupting phallus as her personal dildo. This is the horror and highlight of my life, for every time she rapes me I hope, I really hope, I can have a little reward now that I’m being so good for them, but it never comes. Emily always climbs off, spent and satisfied, while I stare at the ceiling yearning for release. I never did this to them! I always held myself back from this dirtiest of sin! And sometimes she toys with me, treats my womanly body well for a day to put me on edge, then just sits on my face for hours as she reads her books. Later she will tell me my tongue was unshortened for this exact reason, and she calls me her “Masterpiece.” As always, I am cleaned up and made presentable by the time Anne returns from her seminars.

And now, as I lean against the back of a firm chair in the small Oxford drawing room, faintly hearing the girls chat in the parlor, I stare at the wall. I’m placed just right so my eyes focus on the frames; degrees, accolades, mementos, and to the side are three photographs: photos I look at every day. The first shows three siblings, close in age, as children; the second shows the eldest brother holding two vaguely-familiar, helpless, blonde dolls by their tiny waists; and the third shows two joyous twins holding up a grotesque pillow doll who looks straight at the camera. Silently. Forever.

FIN

An Artist’s Masterpiece: Book 4

Book 4

August 2049

Book 3

Chapter 1

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

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

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

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

am02

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

am03

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

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

am04

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

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

Emily just blinked; dazed, scarred.

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

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

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

Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 3

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

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

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

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

Touch.

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

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

Chapter 4

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

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

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

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

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

That however, was not the end of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Book 5

An Artist’s Masterpiece: Book 3

Book 3

April 2047

Book 2

Chapter 1

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

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

“…”

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Chapter 2

July 2049

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

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


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

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

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

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

The same Lord that had seemingly abandoned her like Job.

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

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

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

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

Chapter 3

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

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

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

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

It was her beloved sister Anne.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Book 4

Serving the Dear Leader: Part 10

Links to all parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Chapter 15 – A Night at the Opera

Back at the mountain retreat and life settled into a monotonous and strange routine for Yong-Hee. Every day she was dressed in her uniform complete with monoglove and, more often than not, gag, and forced to sit through endless sessions of political education interspersed with sexual training sessions with her new partner, Valentina. The political education, which had been a feature of her life since as early as she could remember, felt different now and distinctly more uncomfortable, a discomfort caused not by her monoglove either. As she watched the newsreels telling of how the Dear Leader was exerting Himself, going through great hardships for the glory of the People and the Motherland, then she felt somehow betrayed and cheated. Such feelings were unnatural and false of course, and she never repeated them to anyone, but she still felt them nonetheless. Had not she seen and heard ample evidence to the contrary during those months spent in the capital? All those times when the TV and radio declared that He was out visiting the Front or factories or hydro-electric power stations when she knew that it was his double or the story simply made-up and the Dear Leader Himself was instead thrusting His cock into her mouth or drooling over a famous actress, singer or sportswoman whilst watching hard-core porn films in His private cinema. Her mind battled with itself; half said that she must be wrong, that the impressions that she was getting were somehow misleading whilst the other thought the unthinkable: that the Dear Leader was the heartless, debauched corrupt tyrant that the Western imperialist lackeys made Him out to be. Such thoughts made her feel so ashamed as to wish she had never been shown such great benevolence by such a man.

Soon after her arrival, two changes were made to the usual life with the platoon of young pioneers. The first was that, in anticipation of the arrival of some important allied diplomats from Africa, the butt plugs that all the pioneers of Platoon 72 were to wear were to be upgraded to larger ones. By now Comrade Yong-Hee had been in the platoon long enough to know what this would ultimately mean and although, like everything else that was part of her life these days, she knew that it would be an honour to please a black man who supported the Global Revolution for Socialist Transformation embarked upon by the late Great Leader, the idea of having an enormous, throbbing black penis shoved roughly into her tender bottom, was not a pleasant one.

The second change was that Comrade Kim announced that all the pioneers would be enacting an opera for the honoured visitors from the People’s Republic of Tanganyika. Yong-Hee had always loved doing plays at school and so this change was one which she welcomed greatly.

The play however, whilst familiar in some parts, was, in other aspects, not quite so mainstream. It was a brand new one written by a great playwright from the capital and told the story of people overthrowing capitalist oppression. That was not unusual, and indeed every play, film or book that Yong-Hee knew about followed the same theme, and rightly so since capitalist and imperialist oppression is terrible, but none of the others did it in this way.

The story was set in the days when the Nipponese cruelly occupied and oppressed the Motherland. Called the Rape of Manpo, the storyline involved a new Nipponese commander taking over and systematically taking all the beautiful young virgins of the city for himself, keeping them in a prison where he would rape them and play perverse sexual games with them. Some were tied up, others raped simultaneously by several soldiers and so on. He also devised elaborate fetish devices and costumes which the poor young women were forced to wear. All the platoon was in tears when this aspect of the plot was read out to them, partially out of pity for the poor oppressed victims of Nipponese imperialist but partially also because, in acting the play, they would be dressed in similar costumes and devices.

However, all was not lost and the Great Leader came to the town, saw the suffering and, gathering a band of loyal socialist patriots, stormed the city and freed the women who then all joined the Glorious People’s Revolution in gratitude.

All the pioneers had a similar role, that of oppressed young Manpo virgins imprisoned by the evil Hitoshi Tanaka. In Yong-Hee’s case, she was raped by him in the first team, then in the second forced to couple with another Manpo virgin and then finally she wore an extremely strange costume indeed. It involved her having her legs and arms bound so that they were folded against themselves and then covered in rubber pouches. Similarly a rubber garment covered her whole body only having holes for her eyes, nose, mouth, breasts and bottom. Then she was covered in a brown fur costume with a dog’s head so that she looked exactly like a dog and could only see out of two peepholes. I say “exactly like a dog” but that is not entirely true, for her enlarged and firm breasts hung out of cut-outs so that it was very clear that she was woman, not canine. Inside it was hot and sweaty and the enormous plug in her bottom from which the dog’s tail protruded, she had to learn to wag. She was firmly gagged but had to make growling noises when, in one of the key scenes, Tanaka was taking her up the bottom roughly when the Great Leader bursts in and kills him. Then, thankfully, in the final scene, she had to wear a partisan’s uniform and joyfully march towards revolution with all the others.

Rehearsing for the opera was hard as all the scenes, including those of a sexual nature, had to be performed to the very exacting standards of the theatre director. Tanaka was played by a famous actor from the capital whom Yong-Hee had seen act in several films and had, she had to admit when she had been younger and more innocent, been the object of a teenage crush. Even so, that didn’t make the scenes when he was taking her roughly up the arse whilst she was dressed as a dog and barked for all she was worth, exactly pleasant.

Finally though, it was the big night when all the great and good of the nation were assembled as well as the Dear Leader’s honoured guest, the President of Tanganyika, an enormous black man who wore colourful tribal robes. Before the performance all the pioneers lined up to greet him as he arrived and then she was whisked off to get ready for the role. Despite the humiliating and degrading nature of what she had to portray, Yong-Hee did realise that this was only what her ancestors had had to put up with whilst suffering under the yoke of Nipponese oppression and so did her tasks the best that she could and at the end, as she stood there welcoming in the Revolution in a partisan’s uniform, the young pioneer felt both proud that she had performed so well that the entire hall was clapping like mad and also that she had, at least, seen the last of the hateful dog costume.

When the opera was over however, Yong-Hee found to her dismay that she hadn’t seen the last of the dog suit. President Umbago of Tanganyika had, it transpired, been very impressed with her acting during the doggie scene and asked that she dress in her suit again and accompany him as he met with the Dear Leader and talked about the glorious construction of socialism in his homeland. It was most humiliating being led everywhere on a leash and having the trot about on all fours but what made it so much worse was that she was a member of the most superior race on all the earth, the race which had spawned both the Great and Dear Leaders and provided the world with the Juche ideal, yet the man now leading her, patting her head and caressing her naked breasts was a negro, the most inferior of all races whom the imperialists had used as foot soldiers to rape her beloved homeland. How could the Dear Leader allow such an indignity to be meted out to a faithful and loyal pioneer of His select Platoon 72.

And it only got worse when, after a large banquet and copious quantities and champagne, President Umbago decided to turn in for the night and take her, still dressed as a dog, to his sumptuous bedroom. And once in there, rather than undress her and enjoy her in the usual fashion, (which would have been degrading enough), instead he merely fastened her leash to the headboard, removed her tail from her anus and then started lubing it with gusto. Terrified when she saw the enormous size of his member, easily twice that of the Dear Leader’s, she started to scream and plead with him to avoid what was to come but due to her hood and gag, these merely came out as canine-like growls and barks which excited the African so further so that when he positioned himself behind her his penis was rock hard. With a roar and a slap on her furry buttocks he pressed and pressed shouting, “Come on doggie! Come on doggie!” until her sphincter muscles eventually gave in and the enormous throbbing tool was thrust in. Never before had she felt so completely filled and so completely and utterly mastered and degraded.

And never before had President Umbago experienced anything like it.

Chapter 16 – The President of Tanganyika

The day following the performance of ‘The Rape of Manpo’ and Comrade Yong-Hee’s doggie humiliation, all the pioneers were given a day’s rest before being taken to their quarters where they were stripped, showered and then made-up since there was to be another naked ball held that evening, this time in the honour of the Motherland’s Eternal and Faithful Ally, the President Umbago of Tanganyika. Yong-Hee struggled to see how a king could be so honoured and close to a country that prides itself on being socialist and against such things as monarchies as being against the socialist ethos but, as always, she knew that whatever the reasons, it must be for the best if the Dear Leader decided it.

Whilst this was Yong-Hee’s second ball, to her surprise – and dismay – this one turned out to be quite a different experience. The president it transpired, had not yet tired of her charms and was as taken with her out of the doggie suit as in it and so he attached himself to her, (or to be more precise, the opposite way round, as he placed a collar around her neck and led her around by a lead), all night before finally taking her upstairs where he took her vigorously again, although thankfully, in the more usual fashion this time. This was most shame-making not only because of his inferior race but also because Umbago was incredibly corpulent and ugly. Nonetheless, the feeling was not mutual and the following day she was taken into the top-secret negotiations between the president and the Dear Leader and, to her horror, whilst the two men talked politics, she had to kneel under the president’s desk in her uniform, arms forced behind her in her monoglove and, most humiliatingly of all, her mouth kept open by a ring gag so she drooled continually.

After the men had talked business, she was ordered to suck and lick the penis of the President of Tanganyika whilst they both relaxed and Valentina provided the same service for the Dear Leader. Now relaxed, the conversation turned from minerals and armaments to personal pleasures.

“You know what, I really am impressed by your pioneers, Kim and especially this little cutie here. Back in Tanganyika I keep a full harem of exotic and beautiful women, from all over the world and they are trained fully by my eunuchs, but not one can suck cock like Yong-Hee here.”

“Platoon 72 are trained to the highest standards and have given me great pleasure over the years, although I have to say that at the moment I am most taken with this white girl here who was a present from the President of Pridniestrovia.”

“Ahh, he is a good guy, I have been to his place as well, and the women there are incredible! However, you can keep your white slut; I have several such girls at home, this little rascal here is more to my taste. I love what you have done with their tits, such massive breasts on a tiny frame, it is really alluring.”

“Thank you.”

“But have you never considered corseting them? Tightlace a girl to 40cm and then the contrast is all the greater, as too is her discomfort!”

“The idea sounds promising, I must order some. Yes, that will be a fun project! But what do you think of the monogloves?”

“A masterful touch, genius. I have never come across one before but now I am thinking of having some ordered for all my harem. Yes, I shall.”

“We can supply them, as a gift of course. And I have another gift as well. Can you guess what it is?”

“No, what is it?”

“Yong-Hee here. Take her with you. I am bored of her now and wish to make a space in the platoon in order to take a young pioneer I met whilst opening an apartment complex in Hyesan. Please, take her with you when you go.”

“Kim, thanks, that’s an incredible present, so thoughtful of you. How can I ever repay you…?”

But Yong-Hee never learnt how the Dear Leader could be repaid, for instead her head was reeling with a dozen conflicting emotions. She felt sick to the pit of her stomach. On the one hand she would be leaving, leaving the Motherland, her family and friends, leaving the Paradise of the People, the only land that she had ever known, for some hot desert to serve a corpulent African despot who already had a harem of women. Although she knew that she had a valuable role to fulfil in Platoon 72, she had always assumed that once she retired, she would be able to marry and live a normal life afterwards, with children and a loving husband. Yet how could she now, if she were exiled thousands of miles away, cast into a harem of abused women? And wrestling with the emotions that such thoughts bring were her attitudes to the Dear Leader. On one hand she was devastated: He had said that He was bored of her, bored! Had she not tried her best, gone through some traumatic experiences in order to pleasure Him and now He was just bored! Part of her wanted to shout and rage at the man whom she had given everything to and who now just tossed her to one side like a used tissue. Yet at the same time all those years of devotion, of almost worship to His name made her feel ashamed. Bored of her meant that she wasn’t good enough somehow. Even after all those weeks sucking Him off in Pyongyang and having the lies exposed: He wasn’t really at the front, He didn’t really exert Himself for the Motherland, instead He spent most of the day being pleasured by young pioneers and actresses, watching pornographic films, eating fine food and getting drunk. Yet even though she now knew the truth, that ancient, deeply inbred sense of devotion was hard to shake. She had bored Him; she had let the Motherland down. And then too there was an excitement and a sense of release. Knelt there, the throbbing cock of a fat negro filling her mouth, she realised that a life spent gagged, anally-plugged, sexually-frustrated and restrained, existing only to be raped by political leaders, that was no life at all, that deep down she was unhappy and lonely and wanted to escape. Well, now she would be escaping, starting a new life. But what would that life be like.

At that moment the President of Tanganyika erupted in her mouth and salty semen flooded her throat. Little did Yong-Hee know that her silent question had just been answered. That was what her life would be all about in Tanganyika, just as it had been in Platoon 72. Well, for as long as she pleased the president and then it would just be forced breeding and cast out to be a whore amongst his guards. No, very soon Comrade Hong Yong-Hee, the brave young pioneer from the elite Platoon 72 would realise that serving the Dear Leader was not such a bad role in life after all.

Fact or Fiction?

Some people may read this work of fiction as a veiled attack on the regime of the Late Kim Jong-Il, the Glorious Leader of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea who shone the Light of Socialism brightly across the world and challenged the imperialists and their lackeys. This is obviously a false reading and the Dear Leader in this tale has nothing to do with that Dear Leader at all, despite their being some linguistic similarities. Kim Jong-Il after all, was not a debauched despot in any way whatsoever and instead His only concern was the welfare and progress of the Motherland.

However, there have been articles written, heinous imperialist propaganda no doubt, which describe debaucheries not dissimilar to those in this tale. They are, naturally, wholly false and this tale was written as a means of pointing out the inaccuracy of the Western viewpoint towards the Dear Leader of the DPRK. However, for academic reasons only, please check out these heinous articles which cast terrible aspersions upon the good character of the late Dear Leader.

DP

The Pleasure’s all the Dear Leader’s

http://www.atimes.com/atimes/Korea/MB23Dg01.html

Wikipedia page of Kippumjo

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kippumjo

Links to all parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Serving the Dear Leader: Part 9

Links to all parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Chapter 14 – Strangers in the Night

Three nights later Yong-Hee was sleeping in her bed, catching up on some rest after a hard day having the a ;politburo member’s piss squirted down her throat, when the light suddenly snapped on and a voice said, “Get up!” Startled, she wondered what was happening, for the voice wasn’t that of Comrade Jun but instead a male voice, a soldier in the People’s Army. “What is happening? What have I done?” she asked in some fear, scared that she might have displeased the Dear Leader in some way. She’d heard terrible stories about prison camps for those who tried to subvert the regime and she hoped dearly that she wasn’t being mistaken for some sort of a traitorous person.

“Put on these clothes,” was all that the soldier said.

The clothes were not her Pioneer uniform but instead the normal attire of a worker. As she put them on she felt dowdy and plain but at the same time was glad to be free of both gag and monoglove. Then, when she was dressed, she was led out of the room and then the building itself by the soldier and without a word, bundled into the back of a car.

The car sped them down the mountain and then, to Yong-Hee’s surprise – and some relief – the railway station. The time on the clock read 04:10 and the Departures board stated that the express to the capital was due to arrive at 04:20. So, she was not being taken to prison but instead to the big city, the place that she had heard so much about and dreamt about but never thought that she would be seeing. But the question was, why?

At 05:00 the train arrived and she began her long journey. Although the soldier did not travel with her, there were plenty others on board and she knew that the carriage attendant had strict instructions to keep her safe. So, she sat back and watched the scenery pass by her window. Seeing such a beautiful country, she was not surprised that the Imperialists had tried so hard to capture it, only stopped by the wise generalship of the Great Leader of course. However, what was more confusing was how devastated and broken everything looked. Yes, her home county was the same but she had always assumed from watching the TV that most of the country was a Glorious Beacon of Socialism.

At the terminus she was met by another soldier who commanded her to follow him and they circumnavigated the ticket barriers and ID checks and got straight into another waiting car. Then they sped along the empty roads of the great city up into the hills before passing in front of a vast palace which they then drove round the back of. Then she was ordered out and marched into the building, down lots of corridors and up several flights of stairs to a small bedroom. In the room was an outfit laid on the bed. “Shower and then get dressed in these,” said the soldier and then report downstairs, third door from the left, Room 42.”

Yong-Hee stripped and then stepped into the en suite shower. After washing away the dirt of the journey, she re-emerged and put on the outfit. She couldn’t believe it: it was a beautiful hanbok made of the finest materials in white, blue and pink with an exquisite decoration for her hair. Over recent days, perhaps because she’d seen Him copulating with an inferior foreigner, Yong-Hee had begun to have some slight doubts about the Dear Leader. How stupid she had been? Was not this proof of His love for all His people? She had been granted a trip to the capital and then dressed in the finest silks. Who on earth could match the Dear Leader for wisdom and generosity?

Dressed in the outfit, she felt like a real lady and loved the way that it swished around her as she made her way downstairs. There she found the room that the soldier had mentioned and entered it. It was empty but there was some sweetly-scented tea and half a dozen cakes. Hungry and thirty after her long journey, Yong-Hee grabbed a couple and then helped herself to a cup of tea. Then she waited. After about ten minutes later she heard footsteps approaching and two figures walked into the room. One was a beautiful lady, also dressed in a hanbok of stunning colours. She was about fourteen years old and was exquisitely made. Behind her walked a young girl of about twelve, also dressed in a hanbok. “Aha, Comrade Yong-Hee?” she asked. Yong-Hee nodded and they bowed to one another. “My name is Comrade Chu and I am in charge of you here. You are probably wondering what is happening to you, but do not fear. In His infinite generosity, the Dear Leader has decreed that you are to be blessed with some time serving Him in the cpaital as thanks for the excellent work that you did in Platoon 72 when He visited there recently. Hmm, looking at you, I can see why He was so impressed; you’re very pretty girl, very pretty indeed. However, first things first. Du-hyang, mittens!”

The young hanbok-clad girl bowed and then approached Yong-Hee with a pair of white silken mittens which she proceeded to fit on the Pioneer’s hands. As she did so, Yong-Hee noticed that Comrade Chu was also wearing an identical pair. When they were on, Yong-Hee discovered that they were padded and inside had some sorts of rods so that she could not bend her hands. They were tied at the wrists with pretty ribbons and it was clear that with them on her hands were merely two useless paddles and without outside assistance, she could not remove them. “Like with Platoon 72, we must be wary of Imperialist infiltrators here in the capital,” said Comrade Chu by means of explanations. Yong-Hee nodded gravely for she was fully aware of just how insidious the imperialists were. Then, her hands rendered useless like the older ladies, Comrade Chu gestured for her to sit and snapped an order at Du-hyang to feed them both a cake and then present dainty cups of tea to their mouths to sip. “Du-hyang is my apprentice,” explained Comrade Chu. “She will take over my role one day but in the meantime she must fulfil my every need.”

Over the tea and cake that following, Yong-Hee learnt that the Dear Leader had specially requested that she be sent down to the capital, primarily because of her “first-class sucking skills” and that He would be arriving that evening by helicopter accompanied by “a Platoon 72 member who comes from Pridniestrovia”. Her duties would now be to accompany Him whenever He did On The Spot Guidance and to service His needs when He needed them servicing. Generally she would wear the hanbok, but on days spent on “desk duty” she would have a different outfit.

The Dear Leader did arrive that evening and they all lined up to greet Him as He stumbled out of the helicopter, Valentina helping to prop Him up. Du-hyang handed Him a bouquet of flowers and then He lurched towards Yong-Hee, gave her a special kiss and then ordered her to accompany Him and Valentina to His bedroom. There both girls undressed (except for the mittens of course and Valentina’s monoglove), and He attempted to enjoy a period of congress with both but the sheer amount of alcohol that the Dear Leader had imbibed (and was continuing to imbibe), prevented this and within twenty minutes He was fast asleep, snoring loudly, as the two Pioneers caught up with each other’s news by His side.


Chapter 15 – Plagued by Reactionary Thoughts

After that first night – and the activities the following morning when the Dear Leader was far more able to enjoy congress with his pioneers – began a new period in Comrade Yong-Hee’s life which caused her to have strange doubts about her role and that of the Dear Leader Himself. Naturally, she kept those doubts to herself, sure that they were the result of being subconsciously affected by some imperialist propaganda or thought control, but nonetheless, they still bothered her.

Her role now was to accompany the Dear Leader wherever he went and then to service Him when He needed it. This duty she accepted eagerly, knowing full well how much He gave to the Motherland of His time and energy, tirelessly travelling the length and breadth of their sacred and embattled land giving valuable On The Spot Guidance to comrades in every province. When He was doing so, she would accompany His entourage, the only pioneer to do so as Valentina could obviously not be seen in public due to her inferior race. Then she would be dressed in a hanbok, arms unrestrained and would smile charmingly and then, when needed, would follow Him to a private chamber where He would ravish her, use her mouth as a receptacle for His seed or water, or simply caress her lovingly. This Yong-Hee did not mind, for it was her job, but what worried her was how rarely she did it. She spent a total of two months based in the capital yet she only went out with the Dear Leader giving On The Spot Guidance a total of four times.

Of course, Yong Hee was well aware that He had other duties to attend to and far more often she was dressed in her Platoon 72 uniform, arms in a monoglove, and taken to His spacious and beautifully furnished office where she had a little cupboard underneath His mahogany desk. Her face was then strapped to the opening and every so often, in between working, He would thrust His tool into it for her to have the glory of swallowing His sperm or water.

However, even these days could not have numbered more than ten during the entire two months and for the rest of the time she accompanied the Dear Leader as He lazed by the pool, played on His private funfair, went riding His horses, completed a round on His private golf course, watching porn films in His private cinema or indulged in a session in His dungeon where either she or Valentina, (or both at once), were whipped, stretched and tortured for His sexual gratification.

And whatever He was doing, she never once knew Him to rise out of bed before eleven.

But why all this bothered her more than anything else is that, in between her hard work servicing the Dear Leader, Yong-Hee continued her political education and every day on the news there were reports of the Dear Leader visiting factories and collective farms, army battalions and schools giving invaluable On The Spot Guidance yet she knew full well that, a few select occasions aside, He had not been doing that at all and instead had spent most of his time lazing about, drinking and using her and Valentina for His sexual pleasure. Naturally she asked Comrade Chu about this and the older lady replied in a blasé fashion that of course a lookalike was used most days.  More worryingly still, after a while Yong-Hee began to notice that the few occasions when the Dear Leader did bother to fulfil His duties as President, were on outings when He would be most likely to meet attractive young female comrades. He never once missed an outing to survey a dance troupe or female university.

All of which caused her to awake at night with His tool flaccid inside her and wonder if, perhaps, He wasn’t such a superhuman saviour of the People after all. Indeed, on very dark nights, her bottom still throbbing from the assault on it earlier, she even wondered if He was in fact, not just a lazy, corrupt playboy who was simply living off the backs of the hardworking citizens of the Motherland. Naturally, the moment she had such thoughts, the more reasonable and rational side of her told her how ridiculous they were, how her mind was being addled by contact with evil imperialists and that it could even be Valentina’s fault since she was so very foreign, but nonetheless, they continued and Yong-Hee hated herself for having them.

Thus it was that, at the end of her time in the capital, she was almost glad when she was replaced in the middle of the night by another member of Platoon 72 and sent packing on a train – which stopped in the middle of nowhere for seven hours due to an electrical power shortage – back to the platoon base up in the mountains. At least there, maybe, she could order her thoughts and return to some sort of normality.

And let her poor body recover from the repeated assaults upon it.

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Serving the Dear Leader: Part 8

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Chapter 12 – A New Friend

The next morning, after the Dear Leader had enjoyed another bout of passion with the pretty Pridniestrovian and then a lengthy lie in, Yong-Hee was taken to her room for a shower by Comrade Jun and then dressed in her usual uniform. As the Dear Leader was in the complex and some pioneers would be needed to serve Him, all the usual political and sexual education was cancelled. However, to Yong-Hee’s surprised, she was called to Comrade Kim whom she found standing in her office with none other than the pretty Pridniestrovian. However, what was more surprising was that the Pridniestrovian girl was not dressed in her foreign clothes, but instead a Platoon 72 pioneer’s uniform complete with monoglove and gag and, what is more, she did not look very happy about it.

“Comrade Hong Yong-Hee, thank you for joining us. I have called you here today because of two reasons. Firstly, I have consulted your school records and it seems that you studied the decadent imperialist tongue of English whilst in Hamyong Province. Is that true?”

Yong-Hee nodded.

“And you achieved a reasonable degree of proficiency?”

Yong-Hee nodded again, less surely this time.

“Good. Now, as you can see, Comrade Valentina from Pridniestrovia has joined our platoon today in order to serve our beloved Dear Leader. Usually, as you know, Platoon 72 is for Children of the Motherland only, but on this occasion, our Dear Leader has wisely and graciously allowed an exception to the rule. Comrade Valentina has joined us but sadly your copulation partner, Comrade Ju-Ae has left the platoon. In the ball last night, the President of Pridniestrovia was most taken with her and used her for his pleasure and thus, in the interests of proletarian solidarity, the Dear Leader has granted her request to serve the President of Pridniestrovia permanently as his sexual servant in Pridniestrovia.”

Yong-Hee felt sorry in the depths of her heart for Ju-Ae having to leave the beloved Motherland and lie with a foreigner. How glorious was her contribution to the global proletarian struggle, but how hard also!

“Comrade Valentina does not speak our language so you must talk to her in English and introduce her to the platoon. I will remove both of your gags.”

Comrade Kim did this and Comrade Valentina let forth a flurry of angry Russian. Then Yong-Hee spoke to her. “Hello Comrade Valentina. Welcome you to Platoon 72 of Young Pioneer. Big welcome you! We happy here! You happy here!”

“What you mean, ‘Welcome Platoon 72’? I am go back my country today!”

“No, you stay here. You lucky in Platoon 72, big honour. Everyday you make happy Dear Leader.”

“No! No! I can’t! I must go back! What about my family? I only signed up for this for a week because the money was good. I need to go back to Tiraspol. I can’t stay here being fucked by that old pervert!”

Yong-Hee didn’t understand the word ‘pervert’ which was probably just as well. “No, you stay here. You Young Pioneer. You in bed make many happy Dear Leader. Everyday me you practise sex play so make Dear Leader maximum happy.”

At this point Valentina burst into tears.

Chapter 13 – The Politburo Conference

That afternoon the President of Pridniestrovia left and all the pioneers went to see him off, including Valentina who glared at him and struggled at her bonds which, for some inexplicable reason, made the strange foreigner roar with laughter. On his arm was Ju-Ae, dressed in a beautiful hanbok and looking very scared at what the future might bring. Yong-Hee’s heart went out to her.

Afterwards all the pioneers were taken to the gymnasium where they had their exercises and watched a short film extolling the virtues of the Dear Leader who cares for the People and the Motherland like a father cares for his children in direct contrast to the leaders of the imperialist nations, and then Comrade Kim explained that several pioneers had been honoured to be selected as Servicers during a conference that the Dear Leader was holding with His politburo following the important visit of the President of Pridniestrovia. The names of the lucky few were read out and to Yong-Hee’s delight, she was one of those picked.

She and the other chosen pioneers were then led to the dining room where they were fed a bowl of noodles with real meat in it and then, to their surprise, were stripped totally naked. Then each pioneered was had oil massaged all over their bodies and strange garments were brought out. They were all in black and made out of thick rubber and it soon became clear that they were some sort of all-encompassing body suits. Comrade Jun started to fit Yong-Hee’s. At first it was much as she expected, a suit that covered her legs, then her bum and body and arms but then she began to realise, with a degree of horror, just how all-encompassing the suit actually was. “You are all to be attending the Dear Leader and the great men of the Motherland and they shall be discussing extremely important issues of national security. Therefore, they cannot leave the room for fear of secrets being leaked to the Western imperialist spies and you must neither hear the negotiations nor see any confidential files, maps or images. Therefore, wearing these suits is absolutely necessary.”

To Yong-Hee’s – and the other pioneers’ – dismay, the suits continued up the neck and covered the entire head save for three holes: two tiny ones at the nostrils and one for the mouth. However, before it was fitted, plug were fitted into her ears which were attached to a small device which Comrade Jun called an i-pod and which were, apparently, popular amongst the bourgeoisie of the decadent nations, and this was then attached to the back of her head where her hair was also bunched up. Comrade Jun pressed a button on it and it started to play revolutionary songs and stirring speeches by the Dear Leader Himself. Then a large ring gag was produced and fastened around her head causing her to keep her mouth open all the time. Then the hood was fitted and Yong-Hee’s world went black and she was alone with the sound of revolutionary marching bands.

She stood there in her own cocoon and then her rubber-clad arms were bent behind her in the usual monoglove and a collar fastened around her neck. She was then led by this collar for a certain distance until having a hand pressed on her head so that she knelt and then the chain was attached to something and Yong-Hee found that she couldn’t move further than a few centimetres.

And so there she stayed, the wisdom of the Dear Leader filling her head, for a period of time that she had no idea about. Nothing happened except that after some time she detected the smell of tobacco which made her realise that the elite of the Motherland were probably all in the room discussing confidential and important matters. The speech finished, then music began, then there was another speech, then more music and after a while the original speech began again. It was all on loop.

Then, whilst she was listening to the Dear Leader talk inspiringly about grain production in North Pyongan Province for the third time, she felt her chain tugged and to her surprise – and disgust – a flaccid male tool was inserted into her ring-gagged mouth. Then, horror of horrors, slowly water began to trickle from it, gathering in speed until it was a gushing torrent of acrid urine hitting the back of her throat. Trying to combat the natural gag reflex, the young pioneer gulped it down as fast as she could feeling violated and humiliated and yet also knowing that it was an honour that she should be glad for as she was serving the Motherland and, who knows, perhaps the penis in her mouth was that of the Dear Leader Himself?

Once the flow had finished and she had licked and sucked it dry and it had withdrawn, she began to think about it and wonder as to what it all meant. And then she realised: had not Comrade Kim said that the men were not allowed to leave the room because of the machinations of imperialist spies? But what if the room had no sanitary facilities? How great was the wisdom of the Dear Leader she realised at this point to provide an alternative to using the toilet and how ingenious was His solution to the quandary. Of course, that still didn’t stop her feelings of disgust, but now that she understood why this was happening to her, it made it easier to bear.

And so it continued until Yong-Hee realised that it wasn’t just the Politburo members who needed to use the toilet for she felt a familiar build up in herself, no doubt due to the fact that she had endured two streams of piss jetting into her throat during her incarceration in rubber. But what was she to do? She tried to hold it in but soon it became unbearable and so she let flow. The pee, with nowhere to go, simply stayed around her, seeping between her skin and the rubber, making it even slippier than before. She felt it trickling down her legs and longed to clean herself but of course, it was impossible. Instead she was entombed in rubber, getting hotter and sweatier, having pee spurted down her throat from the tool of an unknown male whilst her own wastes swilled all around her and endless speeches on the construction of new apartment complexes for steel workers in Ryanggang Province filled her ears.

After some time, something else unexpected happened. Something different was thrust into her mouth. It was a tube. She sucked on it and soup came through. She sucked and sucked realising that it must be dinnertime and the Dear Leader had thoughtfully considered the needs of His anonymous rubber-clad pioneers. After the soup, some water was fed through which was so clean and refreshing after all the pee. But then came the afternoon session, more of the same, with her politburo member peeing regularly, no doubt due to him drinking lots of water as the pee did seem to get more diluted.

She herself was also peeing on a regular basis and the liquids sloshed about in her suit, warming her further. Then came the need for something else, which she tried to stop, but again it was inevitable and after some time her solid waste was also mixed up with the rest. Thankfully, it wasn’t long after that when she felt her chain being tugged and she was led, her legs aching terribly from having been kneeling so long, to her room where she was freed from the terrible rubber prison, cleaned thoroughly by Comrade Jun and then thankfully put to bed.

Not that her ordeal was over though. The conference continued for another three days.

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Doll Wife: Part 10

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Edwin had been back from his business trip for about a fortnight, (and Charity had been exceptionally relieved to get out of her pee-drinking attire and back to ‘normality’ with a night-time session of congress), when there was a knock on the front door. The maid opened it and to her astonishment, in walked Samuel Baines looking extremely furious indeed. He demanded to see Edwin and the two retired to the study whilst Chairty sat in her usual silent contemplation.

When they emerged an hour later, Edwin was wearing a smile and after Samuel had left, he turned to his doll wife and said, “Hmm, I think we’ll be seeing some changes around here soon.”

Sure enough, three days later Samuel called round again and the two men again retired to the study. When they emerged Edwin was again smiling but this time he said nothing.

The third time that Samuel came, he was not alone. Instead he was accompanied by his wife who was most reluctant to enter and had to be manhandled by her spouse who was angry in the face. “Edwin old chap!” he exclaimed, as he pushed the real Chairty onto a chair, “I admit it, I was wrong and you were right! Have the bitch and may she behave better for you than she has done for me!”

“No! No!!!” screamed the woman Charity, clinging onto her husband’s coattails but he merely ignored her, turned tail and left, leaving her lying weeping on the floor. Charity the doll longed to put her arms round her and comfort this doppelganger in distress, but as they were forced into a tight monoglove at the time, she of course, could not. Edwin Clayhanger merely smiled and said, “Welcome home Charity, we shall speak on the morrow,” before retiring to bed and taking his doll wife with him.

On the morrow they did speak and it all became clear. It transpired that that day at the fete the two men had had an in-depth conversation about the real Charity. At first Samuel Baines had been livid that Edwin had modelled his doll wife on his real spouse, but when Edwin had told him how the real Charity had strung him along, he mellowed somewhat and said, “Ed, I understand now how you feel, but you are mistaken; my wife is no whore or gold-digger but a good and poor girl.”

“If only you were right,” Edwin had replied, “and I hope to God that my point-of-view is never proved to be the truth to you.”

But doubts had been put in Samuel Baines’ mind by his old friend, doubts fed perhaps by inklings that he had already he. He hired a private investigator to follow his wife whilst he was at work and discovered that she visited a strange house every afternoon, the house of one Daniel Povey, a well-known local gallant. That was when he’d gone round to Edwin for advice and Edwin had suggested he ask her about her plans for the coming day. “Oh, just to visit old Mrs. Povey on North Street,” she’d replied, which had put his mind at rest somewhat, but just to be sure he’d asked the investigator to dig a little more.

Sure enough, the investigator had dug and Samuel had not liked what he’d found. Yes, Charity had gone to Mrs. Povey’s house, but Mrs. Povey had been holidaying in Llandudno at the time! Indeed, only Daniel had been at home! Again Samuel had visited his friend and again Edwin had offered his advice. “You must confront her and see what she says. If she admits it, then order her to stop; if she does and she repents, forgive her, but if not then you must finish with her.”

“But how can I? She is my wife!”

“Adultery is a good reason for divorce. Even the Bible says so!”

“But what will become of her? I still love her but disgraced so she will never get another husband and her family won’t have her back! I don’t want her to become destitute or a prostitute!”

“Your concern as a husband honours you, but it is not just you who have loved her. If you must divorce, send her to me; I shall accept her as a companion for my Charity and I can ensure that she never disgraces you or any other male ever again.”

The next night Samuel had confronted Charity and she had admitted to an affair. She had not however, repented. “He is a better lover and a better man than you can ever be!” she’d exclaimed, her tongue loose with wine drank with Daniel Povey that afternoon. Her husband, tears in his eyes had begged her to repent and desist but the more he grovelled, the more she mocked him. Then he switched, realised how right Edwin Clayhanger had been all along and so dragged his wife to the home of his friend.

“A Lady’s Companion!” exclaimed the real Charity, indignant. “I am a lady and she – it – is only a doll. How can I be a companion to that?!”

“Charity my love, you were a lady, but you are no longer. Your husband is at the court now instigating the divorce and has placed you in my care. As your guardian I shall of course agree to the divorce and then employ you as a Companion for this Charity here, the Charity who gives honour to the name, not disgrace; the Charity who is the wife that you should have been but never were due to your own sinfulness!”

“No! Never! Anything but! I shall leave here, turn to prostitution, anything…”

But the maid had already placed the chloroform pad over her nose and mouth and she was sinking into the chair.

A week later…

Charity Clayhanger the Doll Wife sits in the sitting room, the clock slowly ticking, watching the hours pass by. Her life now is as it has been ever since she wed Edwin Clayhanger except that these days there are two important differences. The first is that sat by her is another figure, another doll, a doll identical to her in every respect, from the beautiful peach gown to the brown ringlets with yellow ribbons in them to the same rubber face. Even their names are identical: Charity Clayhanger. She is Mrs. Charity Clayhanger, the wife of Edwin Clayhanger; the other is Ms. Charity Clayhanger, her Companion, until recently Charity Baines but since her divorce she has taken on the surname of her guardian. Her ex-husband, incidentally, has recently announced he will be remarrying, to a doll wife formerly known as Shelley Woods but now to be referred to as ‘Arabella’.

As they sit their Mrs. Clayhanger recalls that evening well. She watched as the maids undressed the unconscious real Charity, gave her three successive enemas and then dressed her in her new latex underskin. When she awoke she, like the doll Charity, was force-fed several litres of nutrient-enriched water and then sealed into a doll suit with an exact copy of her real face at the top. Then the wig was produced and the dress and the two doll Charities were born.

The other crucial difference is what will come tomorrow. Edwin, ever the gentleman, announced to the two Charity dolls in his life that despite the fact that one was his wife and pure and the other merely a Companion and enmeshed in sin, he believed firmly in fairness and forgiveness. Therefore, he has forgiven his former love her misdemeanours and shall treat her as he treats his wife. This week Mrs. Clayhanger shall drink and eat and enjoy congress with her husband whilst Ms. Clayhanger sucks pee out of her bottom in sealed silence. After tomorrow though, the roles shall be reversed for a week and Ms. Clayhanger shall ‘enjoy’ the attentions of a man whilst Mrs. Clayhanger shall enjoy the fruits of derriere.

And so it shall continue until the Good Lord takes either Edwin, Charity or Charity.

Twenty years later…

And so here we find Charity Clayhanger, widow of the late Edwin Clayhanger, sat in the parlour of the Chiswick Home for Widowed Dolls. She sits there, a blank-faced, brown-eyed doll with the features of a twenty year-old whom her late husband once loved. Besides her sits an identical doll, a doll whose face, under all the rubber and latex, once looked like the fake face on the front. Their dresses are no longer crinolines for fashions have changed now and they wear large bustles but their hands are still encased in tight monogloves and they sit there in silence as the clocks tick, the only other sound being an almost imperceptible slurping as they both suck pee out of their bottoms to quench the never-ending thirst generated by a life enclosed in latex

FINIS

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Doll Wife: Part 9

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The doll life continued in its mundane fashion for Charity for several months until one evening over dinner her husband announced that he was going away that Friday for a couple of weeks on business. “Alas my dear, I cannot take you with me, but don’t worry, I shall ensure that you are kept safe and secure, ready and eager for my return.”

When Friday came, she was taken to her room, her outer garments removed and the maid placed the chloroform pad over her nose until she blacked out.

She awoke covered in her clear latex undergarments like she always did but this time something was different. Around her waist was some kind of container of black rubber. It was connected to her tubing somehow and had a valve on the side. Then her Charity costume was produced and fitted over her, encasing her in the warm rubber again. Once fitted, the maid showed her her new image in the mirror. She was the same as normal except where her narrow hips had been, she now had massive wide matronly hips. She wondered at first and then realised that, like the narrow waist caused by the corset, it was an optical illusion caused by the rubber container that was fastened around her like a bum roll underneath. But what was the purpose of it all? The maid then produced a polished silver belt with ‘Property of Edwin Clayhanger’ engraved on the front and fastened it around her middle, locking it off with a small padlock. “Your husband has the key to this and it can only be unlocked when he returns,” she explained. Charity was confused; he said that he would be gone for months so how would she cope? Then she realised. Her maid fiddled around at her enormous hips and opened a valve and then attached a tank full of slightly-coloured liquid to it which was then pumped inside her hips. She felt them fill around her until there was pressure all around like a tyre and then the valve was sealed off. “Unlike your school costume M’Lady, this system means that you can be continually refilled without removing the costume allowing for months of continual wear. Sir has said this is mandatory for whenever he is away and the belt prevents removal.”

Charity’s heart fell. After her time in hospital and weeks as a newly-married doll, she’d hoped that at least she would never be forced to subsist on her own pee again yet now it was back and more permanent than ever. She sucked to try and work out how this new system worked and after several hours it was clear. Essentially it was the same as the system at St. Werburgh’s but with an added stage inserted. Rather than drinking every week, she had her bum bags refilled every few days and she drank from these, sucking directly from the bag into her mouth. This went down through her body into her bladder after which she peed into her bottom. When this was full she needed to suck to free space in the bum bags and then her bottom would drain into them and the whole process would start again. Charity realised that drinking from her own bottom was to be a feature of her life for many years to come.

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Doll Wife: Part 8

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The church fete was the main social event in the village and as her husband was one of the most prominent citizens, they were both expected to attend. So it was that Charity was dressed in her full regalia – albeit without the breathing hood which Harry had considered may shock some of the ladies at the event – and they went off to the field where the event was held.

It was trying in all manner of ways for Charity. First of all, the field was most uneven and wearing her ballet boots she found it exceptionally hard to balance, leaning on her husband for support all the while. Plus the exertion of walking round all the bric-a-brac and cake stalls whilst her spouse held polite conversation with the vicar and local notables was most tiring and her legs ached after only a few minutes. But the biggest shock of all was when they entered the large marquee where the teas were being served and she came face to face with someone whom she had never expected to see at all.

Herself.

When I say ‘herself’, I don’t mean the old Emily Carter but instead her new self, Charity Clayhanger. But I don’t mean the doll wife Charity Clayhanger but instead a real, flesh and blood Charity Clayhanger, there in front of her, on the arm of another man. As their faces met she gave a gasp beneath her suit and would have fallen were it not for Edwin’s firm grip. And judging by the reaction of the other Charity Clayhanger, she was just as surprised!

“Edwin! What…?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Baines!” exclaimed Edwin cheerily, “What a pleasant surprise! How are you both? But first, please, let me introduce my wife, Mrs. Clayhanger. Charity darling, these are Samuel and Charity Baines, both childhood friends of mine.”

Charity the doll curtsied but Charity the woman merely looked aghast. “But Edwin, she’s…”

“…a doll? Yes indeed, I have a doll wife. I appreciate that this might surprise you; I must admit that it was never a turn in life that I expected to take but a friend suggested it and do you know what, we are both exceptionally happy together. You really should have considered it, Sam old chap.”

Sam Baines looked as if he did not know where to put himself. Charity Baines on the other hand, seemed now to have completely recovered her composure. “Edwin, it was not the fact that she is a doll that surprised me; you and a doll wife would always have been an ideal match in my eyes, but the fact that she is… she is me!”

“Well yes, I can see how that might be a bit of a shock, but I needed someone to base her upon and who better than my oldest and dearest female friend? I’d have thought you’d have seen it as a compliment.”

“A compliment, why to have a human being encased in latex and…”

But she never finished her sentence for her husband took her by the arm and said, “Now, now Charity dearest, decorum. Listen Edwin old chap, I think you and I need a word… in private. We can leave the ladies here for they must be tired with all this strolling around and we can have a wander.”

“Excellent idea old chap.”

And so it was that one Charity found herself sat opposite the other, engaging in conversation as ladies do. Except that this conversation was all one-way.

“You poor thing,” exclaimed the real Charity, putting her gloved hand on the rubberised arm of her doll copy. “You poor, poor thing! I know that there is no law against it but to think that he did that to you.” The Charity doll looked back at her with a vacant smile. “I can’t believe that he chose to make his doll wife a copy of me. Well… I can believe it, the fiend! He always wanted me, right from when we were teenagers. We were practically engaged and he always talked as if our marriage was a foregone conclusion. Perhaps then it was; after all, who else is there in this village of his standing and stature? But how could I marry a man who views women as mere objects, chattel, dolls…? It was an offer I couldn’t turn down, only postpone. Until Sam moved back into the hall of course, after all his years in Europe, and I caught his eye. When he proposed I snapped his hand off. Your Edwin was distraught of course; he always did love me in his own way; but I never thought that if he could not have me in the flesh, he would recreate me in another way, in this sick and perverted fashion. Oh you poor thing, you poor, poor thing!”

When her husband told her the story that evening it was very different. He admitted to being hopelessly in love with the real Charity and that she had returned his affection, or so he thought, but merely she had been a gold-digger, stringing him along until someone richer – like the excessively wealthy Sam Baines – came along. “I was devastated when I heard that they were to wed, I couldn’t leave my room for a week,” he confessed, “but do you know what, time has taught me that I was the lucky one. She never lived up to the ideal that her pretty face suggests, whilst you my darling are silent, submissive and pure, everything that a wife should be. Sam allows her too much freedom, he really does and he shall come to regret it, he really shall!”

That night as she lay stretched-out spread-eagle on the bed, her husband made love to her with a vigour that she had never previously experienced, shouting out her name at the top of his voice as he exploded within her rubberised hole.

Links to all the parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Doll Wife: Part 7

Links to all the parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

She descended the stairs, her gorgeous dress sweeping the steps and was led to the dining room where her husband sat at one end of the table and a place was prepared for her at the other. Although she had accepted that a degree of the doll life would be continuing for her now that she was married, this sight rose her hopes that she might at least get proper meals, all be they liquidised ones. However, when her spouse began to speak, she realised that such was not the case.

“My dear Charity, good morning and don’t you look so radiant today. I have so long waited for this moment, when we can dine together as husband and wife. I thought that it would come many years ago but alas, that was not to be but even so, here we are at last. Now, your former headmistress has told me all about the unusual diet which you were kept on at school and indeed, it seems to have done wonders for you so I have decided that I don’t want my little dolly wife to forget all that she has learnt and so I have decreed you carry on in the same fashion for your breakfast and lunch each day, but for dinner, that being the special meal of the day as it were, we can have something different. However, as we are now united in the eyes of God, it is only right and proper that we share everything, so I have asked the cook to prepare you a tasty breakfast, three parts God’s water and one part mine laced with all the vitamins and nutrients that the doctor assures me you need to stay in your current radiant condition. Does that please you Charity?”

Please her? Did it? Not really, since she really longed for some of the milk he was drinking, but the doll mind was so engrained in her now that she merely nodded mechanically which caused him to smile. “Charity, oh Charity, you are a delight! I must thank Mr. Cartwright for suggesting I take a doll wife instead of chasing after shadows! I’d never considered it before you know; you shall soon learn my former plans, but he came to me, said that he had been landed with a ward who was neither intelligent nor pretty but who could be moulded into a doll for a reasonable bride price and I thought, why not? If I can’t have Charity one way, I’ll have her the other and here you are!”

A maid approached with a large four pint porcelain bowl with a lid on the top and a rubber tube leading out which was attached to her gag. Dutifully she sucked as he husband explained her new life. It was much diluted but the taste was still strange, not being her own and she realised how unnatural it now felt for her to be drinking someone else’s water.

“My dear, I’m afraid I’m a rather busy man what with the company to look after and all, so you’ll be without me all day and also for periods when I leave on business trips but I have been assured that your training at school has helped prepared you for such waiting. Whilst I am away I shall arrange some permanent enclosure so that no one may be tempted to violate whilst I am not here, but whilst present I wish access so that I can fulfil my duties to you as a husband. You will be pleased to know that you will be living as a lady, a lady of leisure and that requires a monoglove at all times when I am not present although in the evening I shall enjoy the touch of your mittened hands. I believe you have been trained in such garments so I imagine that is no problem for you. Anyway my love, this house is yours, you are mistress now and I am sure you shall love each and every day spent here!”

But did Charity love each and every day? It is hard to say. Certainly they were largely the same; each like that first one. After breakfast Harry had gone off to his work and she had been laced into an unforgiving monoglove with a tiny bell attached to the end. It caused her arms to ache and go dead but whenever she needed something she could ring the bell and a maid would come. She then went to the ladies’ sitting room where she sat on a couch and waited. Her bladder was getting full now from all the liquid she had consumed and so she let loose and it flowed into the black bag under her bottom, causing the pee to slosh about. Her maid asked her if she wanted tea which she did and a pint of liquid was brought to her which she sucked up. She sat for a while but she was bored in the sitting room so she went out into the garden. However, to go out there her husband had decreed that her rubber skin needed extra protection so a rather strange extra layer was added; a transparent full head latex hood with only a small hole for breathing and then an enormous summer bonnet over that which gave her tunnel vision. Wearing this hood was one of the most terrifying experiences of her life. It reduced her vision – which was pinhole anyway – with only the near ground being clear and the distance fading into a haze of latex but more than that it only had a tiny hole to let air in and when she breathed it closed around her face, only expanding like a balloon again as she exhaled. At first she was scared she would suffocate but slowly she realised that she would not die in it but her air was now stale as it was mostly recycled and she really had to labour her breaths to get any into her lungs. Nonetheless, strange as this may sound, it also excited her somewhat down below and she wished at that moment for her husband to service her.

She sat for around an hour in the garden, all her efforts expended on the hood which sucked in front of her face with a scrunching sound and then blew out again with another scrunch. Then her maid arrived and told her that she had a visitor, a local lady wishing to offer her congratulations on her marriage and so she returned to the sitting room where the bonnet and hood were removed and her breathing became clearer again.

The lady in question was one Arabella Montague, the wife of a local landowner who was friendly with her husband and, to Charity’s surprise, also a doll. She was dressed in a ridiculous pink confection and also had her arms strictly laced into a monoglove that matched her dress. They could of course, not communicate at all, but their maids did it for them. Her maid thanked Mrs. Montague for her visit and informed her that she was enjoying married life. Mrs. Montague’s maid then said that her mistress was well and had brought some magazines for her to read. These turned out to be copies of a publication called ‘Doll Monthly’ and were dedicated to women living as doll wives. Her maid offered tea and two pints of liquid were brought and tubes attached to their mouths. Then reading stands were brought and set up in front of the ladies and together they perused the magazines. The articles were all about women living as dolls, different doll fashions, waste recycling, liquidised food ideas – most dolls it seemed, were not fed primarily on urine – and meal hints; restraints, rubber underclothing, doll schooling and the like. There was a large feature on husbands who regularly changed their doll wives’ faces and Charity wondered if Harry would ever do that for her. Then, after an hour or two, Mrs. Montague left and Charity retired for dinner, another two pints of diluted pee with vitamins. By this time, on top of her breakfast, she had consumed four pints and had been peeing herself regularly, the liquid collecting in her bag which was now forming a rather sloshy cushion for her to sit on. The afternoon followed a similar pattern but with no visits and by the end the bag was full to bursting and she was sat quite high on her new, self-made pee cushion.

At six Harry returned and went straight to greet her. He kissed her on her rubber cheek then went to his armchair, sat down, asked her to kneel in front of him. Then he opened his trousers, got out his manhood and got her to suck him to climax whilst he stroked her wig lovingly. Then they retired to the dining room for dinner which, as promised, was a different kind of food for Charity. That evening it was a kind of pumpkin soup placed in a large bowl which she sucked up eagerly, delighting in the exquisite taste after such different fayre all day, looking into Harry’s eyes and realising that she loved her new husband very much for caring so much about her. Then they retired to the drawing room, he unlaced her monglove, sat her on his knee like a little girl and told her a story whilst caressing her miniscule waist and huge breasts before she was taken by the maid up the stairs, stripped of her clothing, had her bag removed, (it’s contents saved for future meals), and fastened on the bed again waiting for her husband. This time though, she was not laid out like a starfish, but instead on her front with her legs attached to the bottom posts, but her arms held behind her in a single sleeve. Cushions and pillows were placed under her so that her rubberised bottom, so long the source of all her nutrition, was presented lewdly in the air. Harry soon came, whipped out his manhood, lubed it thoroughly and then proceeded to take her anally pumping in and out quite painfully, filling her hole completely before finally depositing copious quantities of his seed in there and plugging it off, then turning her over and refastening her in the spread-eagle position before relieving himself in her mouth again, kissing her goodnight, wishing her sweet dreams and going to sleep. To us that may sound terrible, but we have not been trained at St. Werburgh’s Finishing School for Young Ladies and for Charity her prime emotion at that time was of adoration for the man who had demonstrated so clearly that she excited him, that he wanted her.

And such was the life of Charity the doll, day after day, each much the same as the last, continuing ad infinitum until the day of the church fete.

Links to all the parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10