Ascension in the East: Chapters 9-10

Chapters 7-8

Chapter 9 – The Handmaid’s Tale

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That is correct, Sukkisawali.”

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

“That is their purpose, Sukkisawali.”

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


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

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

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

Chapter 10 – Revelations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the forty-first?”

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

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

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

“Even if they are ridiculous.”

“But they are not.”

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

“Of courthe.”

“But why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Well, almost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not just our bodies, Steve…”

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

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

“That too.”

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

“Calm down, Jazz, it’s not…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Our what?”

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

Chapters 11-12

An Artist’s Masterpiece: Book 5

Book 5

April 2051

Book 4

Chapter 1

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

And yet this birthday party, Emily was happy.

Ecstatically so.

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

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

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

Payback.

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

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

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

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

“But…”

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

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

Both dolls nodded.

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

The left doll nodded.

“And Anne Lowood.”

The right doll nodded.

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

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

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

Both dolls nodded.

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

Both dolls nodded.

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

The left doll nodded.

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

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

Both dolls nodded.

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

The left doll nodded.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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

…well, almost nothing.

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

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

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

Chapter 3

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

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

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

Then she took a cab to the Dog & Duck.

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

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

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

“Hell no, I’m alone alright.”

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

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

“That I can’t believe!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll make it, Blanche dear.”

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

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

He never finished inserting the plug.

Chapter 4

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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


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


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

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


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


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

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

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


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

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


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


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

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

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

Chapter 5

Sept 2053

“So who is she, Emmie?”

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

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

“Hello, um, Pillows. I’m Anne.”

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

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

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

“When are we going to get them reversed?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?! You mean that Branwell is…”

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

“I cannot believe that you remember Jemima!”

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

FIN

An Artist’s Masterpiece: Book 4

Book 4

August 2049

Book 3

Chapter 1

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

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

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

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

am02

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

am03

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

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

am04

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

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

Emily just blinked; dazed, scarred.

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

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

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

Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 3

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

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

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

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

Touch.

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

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

Chapter 4

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

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

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

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

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

That however, was not the end of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Book 5

Jennifer Baker

Jennifer Baker

A tale of the Society for the Fulfilment of the Venus Ideal

A Love Story tendered by a member of the Society

This story was originally written as an appendum to the Society for the Fulfilment of the Venus Ideal tetraology published on the Long Island Staylace Association site. For many years I had thought it to be lost but now, rediscovered, I post it here. In time I hope to post all the other stories on this site. In the meantime they can be read here, something that I recommend as they explain the mindset and concepts discussed in this work:

The start of the tetralogy

Dear Sir,

Following the recent publication of Mr. Potter’s stories on the World Wide Web detailing the travails and lifestyles of wives of members of the Society for the Fulfilment of the Venus Ideal, there have been several enquiries directed through the appropriate channels by interested readers as to how we in the Society deal with various matters and emotions, and in particular with the time-old and ever-interesting issue of love, or at least, to be more exact, falling in love. The problems that readers seem to be unable to get their heads round is exactly what happens when a member of the Society, or indeed a wife of the Society falls head over heels in love (Romeo and Juliet style as it were), with someone else. Unfortunately, all of Mr. Potter’s stories do not deal with this issue sufficiently. Araksia and Gabrielle may have loved their husbands initially, though it is clear that it was not so the other way round, (which after all, in Society terms, is what matters). Maria Lundstrom and her daughter were not in love, and neither was Miss Ihbat. Thus it is that the issue is left unresolved, and thus it is that I submit my own story to fill that much-questioned void.

My name is Mr. Andrew Bradbury, I am an Englishman and have been a Member of the Society for the Fulfilment of the Venus Ideal ever since I made my fortune at 22 in the field of web-hosting and was introduced to the Society by a very good friend of mine, one Simon Fallows. For years before had I admired the restricted and helpless female form without fully realising it, but after joining the Society, my eyes were opened as it were, and I became an active user of arm-restricted females for my own personal pleasure. Not that I had had no experiences with the fairer sex beforehand mind, I had had considerable as it happens, but compared to that after my enlightenment, well… they are incomparable.

It was at the age of thirty years however, when I began to feel the need to permanently attach myself to someone else as it were, find a life-partner and in short, get married.  Now, for Society members, there is only one sort of wife that is appropriate, that of course being an entirely arm-restricted one. However, finding a wife can be done in several ways, which are listed below as follows:

  1. One may chance upon a woman in the outside world who enjoys restriction and bondage and wishes to be rendered armless for life, thus entering marriage to a Society Member willingly. As you can imagine, marriages formed in this manner are extremely rare.
  2. One may select the daughter of an existing Society member and take her as one’s spouse. Society Daughters are naturally born into the Society and thus can never leave it. Furthermore, they tend, on the whole, to be rather pretty, since their mothers, hand-picked for their beauty by some of the most powerful males on the planet, were pretty also. Perhaps surprisingly though, many members shy away from picking a Society Daughter as their spouse. Partially this is due to the fact that their fathers know what is going on and so more severe modifications and lifestyles are often out of the question. On top of that though, there is also the issue of innocence and rebellion. Society Daughters are of course, accustomed to being restrained, living restrained and being dominated. More than that in fact, they are actually trained for in our Society Schools and, due to this, make excellent submissive little house angels. However, as you may have guessed from Mr. Potter’s previous tales, many of our members have a more sadistic side to their natures and actually enjoy their wife’s rebellion and discomfort, and indeed relish the challenge of training a spouse, thus making Society Daughters entirely unsuitable for their needs.
  3. And then, finally, one may select a girl (or boy, if that be your want) from the outside world, have her abducted and taken to the Society Training Centre on Kalimantan, fed with the Love Drug and then throw herself willingly into a life of restriction.

I, like the majority of Society Members, decided upon the third option, and so scoured the streets of Nottingham (that being my hometown) until I found a suitable candidate. She was a charming girl, 19 years of age, long blonde hair and the most beautiful pair of legs that I had ever come across. I imagined restraining her in a Venus corset and enjoying anal congress with her whilst she screamed into a penis gag, and knew that I had selected the right person. A week later, the Society Kidnapping Squad was called in and she was abducted whilst on her way to work in a local supermarket. The items on the local TV news concerning her kidnapping I dutifully recorded so that I may play them back to her some months later after we had set up our home. I then went over to Hungary where I bought a large old house and had it specially equipped with restriction and exercise facilities for my new spouse before finally hiring some lady’s maids from Thailand and enjoying their pleasure for a week or two. Finally, a month after the abduction, I got myself onto a plane and headed off towards Indonesia.

My flight however, as it happened, did not fly to Jakarta directly, but instead I had to change planes in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, and so being an ardent traveller, I decided to break in that fair country for a week before continuing onwards. Furthermore, I had a very good and old Society friend, one Jack Baker, an Australian, whom I knew lived in a large villa on one of the islands off Malaysia’s western coast so when I arrived I called him up and he invited me to stay at his place for the duration of my visit. And so it was that I found myself being welcomed by that good gent and introduced to his family.

“This is my wife, Michelle,” he said, showing me an attractive lady of about 50. “I found her in Melbourne, my home city. In fact, we went to school together — all the lads lusted after her, but she was too haughty to ever glance at a bloke like me. Still, I got what I wanted in the end, as you can see.” Jack laughed and Michelle looked downcast. Looking at her enormous breasts and tiny corseted waist, I guessed that he had got what he wanted and then added to it considerably.

“And here is my daughter, Jennifer. She’s just finished school and is living with us for the first time in years.” I looked at Jennifer Baker. She was clad in the typical school uniform of Society Schools; a white corset and matching monoglove and the golden underpants of a Society chastity belt barely covered by the short, splayed out blue school skirt. She was plain in fact, but her figure was acceptable, a tiny waist and long legs, although, alas, tiny breasts and small and manly buttocks.  Her posture, on the other hand, was excellent, helped by the standard-issue 15cm heels and her head held bolt upright by her ponytail which was, in usual Society School fashions, wrapped beautifully around her encased arms, the monoglove itself being attached to the chastity belt by a short golden chain. As I’d said before, acceptable, yes, but plain in face, although not unattractive. I greeted the girl with a kiss on the forehead and then moved into the lounge room with her father, where two of the Romanian maids were about to perform a lesbian sex show for our benefits.


The following morning, I awoke early and decided to take a walk around the beautiful grounds of Baker’s estate, so after Katya, the maid who’d been assigned to me, had administered my morning blowjob, I got up, showered, and started on my stroll.

Pulau Langkawi, the island upon which Baker’s villa is situated, is truly one of the most beautiful places in the world, and he, being who he is, had one of the best spots on that paradise. As I walked around his well-tended gardens, amazed by the views and flowers, and felt myself to be almost in heaven. However, as I rounded a corner, I spied a figure, sat on a white bench, looking decidedly glum and downcast. When I moved closer, I saw that it was Jennifer.

When she heard me, she lifted her eyes and smiled. “Mr. Bradbury,” she said.

“I disturbed you?”

“No, not at all, sir. I was just… sitting and enjoying the morning sunshine.”

The tear streaks on her face however, belied that she had not been ‘enjoying’ anything. Still, whilst not the best-looking girl on earth, she was still pretty and, I was tiring in the tropical heat, so I decided to sit beside her and chat.

“Well, it’s certainly beautiful out here,” I started, “though your presence makes it all the more so.”

She smiled again. “Sir, don’t jest please. I’m not beautiful and I know it; it’s been said all throughout my life. Mamma is pretty, exceedingly so, but I have always been the ugly duckling. I shouldn’t say this perhaps, but I seem to have taken papa’s looks instead.”

I smiled inwardly. Yes, she was the spitting image of her father in many ways. “Well those who say that you’re not beautiful are liars.” I declared. “You’re not conventionally beautiful it’s true, but you do have a certain special something.”

“Oh Mr. Bradbury, no one has ever said anything so kind as that to me before,” she said.

But to be honest with you, dear reader, I must confess that I had not been lying. Miss Baker was plain, indeed, but there was a certain spark about her and a twinkle in her eyes. To give a comparison to that you may be able to relate, think of someone like Jennifer Jason Leigh or Bridget Fonda. The beauty is not striking, but the more one looks, the more one sees.

“But Miss Jennifer, you seem to have been crying.” I continued,. “Let me wipe those eyes.”

One of the greatest aspects of arm-bondage is that the wearer is almost completely helpless, and thus relies on her protector for such simple acts as wiping tears away from the eyes. As I took out my handkerchief and wiped her face, I imagined doing the same in a month or two’s time for my own wife and felt excited about the prospect.

“Thank you, sir,” she murmured, “but please, call me Jenny.”

“Jenny it is then,” I confirmed. “But pray tell me, Jenny, why is it that you cry?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

“One doesn’t cry over nothing…”

“Well, no… but, well… it’s just going to be a big change, that’s all and well, I’m scared…”

“What will be a big change?”

“I’ve finished school now so I’m ready to be married. I must marry soon and well, there’s a man interested, but…”

“But what?”

“Oh nothing, it’s fine.”

“But what?”

“I told you Mr. Bradbury, it’s nothing! Forget it please.”


That evening I mentioned the matter to the girl’s father. “Oh yes,” said Baker, “it’s marrying time all right. To be honest with you, I was quite dreading it, actually. As you know, most men prefer a fresh, untrained recruit, and of those that do want Society Daughters, well, how many would choose such a plain, small-arsed thing as her.”

“You can always have improvements made.”

“Well yes, you can, but men prefer it natural as a general rule and besides, improvements cost money, and you can always make the wrong ones. I was thinking of giving her a tit job for her 16th birthday but then I thought, no, what happens if the one bloke in the world who’d want her isn’t into big tits? Money down the drain entirely. However, as it happens, we seem to have dropped on it — we have an offer for her hand.”

“Really? And who’s that?”

“Don’t know if you know him, but a bloke named Sederburg, one of the Americans living in Saudi.”

“Brad Sederburg?”

“Yes, that’s him. Saw her at a School Open Day and approached me. I know he’s a bit extreme but, well, beggars can’t be choosers now, can they?”

“Indeed they can’t.”

Now I knew why Jenny had been crying. Brad Sederburg was renowned throughout the Society for his unorthodox tastes. He had a total of three wives whom he kept in total restriction. He was especially interested in minuscule waists, no more than thirteen inches was meant to be his standard, but it didn’t stop there. All were trained to keep their arms permanently in the difficult and painful reverse-prayer position, and many other indignities from mammoth-sized breasts to lotus feet, voice removal to neck extensions were piled upon them. ‘Poor Jenny,’ I thought to myself as I remembered her tear-stained eyes in the garden. Still, I was interested in exactly what he had planned for her.


“Your father says that you’re engaged to be married to Brad Sederburg,” I said when we met in the garden again that afternoon.

“Not yet,” she replied, “but it is probable.”

“What do you mean?”

“My Coming Out has not taken place yet. However, he is the only man invited.” Comings Out are specific ceremonies for Society Daughters. They are restrained in some total way and then put on display for prospective husbands to admire. Then, the men approach the girl’s father and he chooses for them.

“What are you to wear?” I asked. A girl’s Coming Out costume is normal a big event.

“I am to be a butterfly,” she replied. “I shall be encased in a full body cocoon, immovable save my head, and attached to a post. Then huge wings are to be fastened to the cocoon and I shall wear a crown on my head. It’s very beautiful indeed.”

“Did you choose it?”

“Yes, but papa was pleased with the choice. I am excited about wearing it. Especially as I can’t…”

She stopped. “Can’t what?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Jenny, I’m your friend, you can tell me.”

Then, to my surprise, tears started streaming down her face. I held her to my chest and dried them. “My wedding.” she sobbed. “We girls don’t have a lot of freedom, you know that, but I’d always hoped, dreamt, that I could wear a big white dress for my wedding, with a wide skirt and veil and look like a princess, if only for a day.”

“But that’s normal, Jenny. Why can’t you?”

“Mr. Sederburg, ‘Brad’ I am told I should call him, when he visited papa last month and made his intentions known, he refused. He said that he had done that three times before and this time he wanted something different. He said that I was to be his Jenny Bunny and so he wanted to marry me dressed as a bunny rabbit, with only a corset, bikini bottoms, huge fluffy rabbit feet, rabbit ears and my hands in reverse prayer with a fluffy glove holding them.”

“Reverse prayer! Isn’t that… well, difficult…?”

“Awfully. At school they never taught it, as few men insist on it. It’s difficult and very painful, but he insists on it all the time, even at night. His wives have specially made beds with a niche for their bound arms. I am learning it now. Everyday I have to lie on my front for five hours whilst my arms are bent a little more and then secured there. By my coming out I should be ready.”

I smiled inwardly as I thought how attractive she would look with her arms in that extreme position, but then shuddered at the ordeal she would have to face to get them there, and then the further ordeals that she would doubtless encounter in the house of Brad Sederburg.

We walked on in silence.


Every day that week I met Jenny Baker in the garden and talked with her. She was a charming and pleasant girl, and if only her buttocks and breasts had been a bit larger, she would have been a real catch. She told me of her history, her time at school and her fears for the future. Apparently, she had never excelled in the Venus Academy of Murmansk where she had been sent, save for in the field of waist training. Her waist was in fact remarkable, perhaps only fourteen inches in circumference, and beautifully shaped. I guessed that was why Sederburg, a known waist man, had selected. “Well, yes it is,” said her father when I mentioned the matter casually to him, “but there is more than that. Brad, apparently, likes to take plain girls and use them as a sort of blank canvas upon which to create his masterpiece. All his girls, even the maids, undergo extensive body modifications, and I am sure that Jenny will be the same. Still, she does need some work doing on her I suppose.”

I had to agree with him, but wondered if she perhaps did not need quite so much work as Sederburg was sure to mete out.

On the final day of my stay I was walking in the gardens in the evening when I again met Jenny Baker. We smiled when we saw each other, and began to walk and talk as per usual. And then, without warning, she suddenly burst into hysterical tears and buried her head into my chest. “What is it, Jenny?” I asked. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh Andrew,” she replied, “you are leaving tomorrow and it’s just that, well, you’re the nicest man that I’ve ever met. You’re the only one who hasn’t criticised my looks and shown me any kindness. Oh I wish I was marrying someone like you instead of fat old Sederburg.”

“Come, come…” I said, comforting the wench.

“No! No! It’s terrible! My life will be a misery as soon as I enter his house, I know it. However, you have given me a glimpse of happiness and of a good life and so, Andrew, I should like to repay you for giving me the happiest days that I have ever spent.”

I was surprised, and touched. I, who had done so little for this delightful young girl, had meant so much. For a moment, I felt like crying myself. “My dear, it’s nothing, nothing at all. I need no repayment.”

“Andrew, you say that, but I still insist. I must give you something back.”

“But what dear, what can you do for me?” I asked, caressing her delightfully bound arms.

She went to a tree and leant against it. “Papa says that you are a waist man. Unhook my monoglove from the chastity belt, lift it up and tighten my corset.”

“But… can it get any smaller?” I asked in astonishment.

“Of course, a full inch almost. Remember, I went through extreme waist training at school. Pull Mr. Bradbury, pull!”

Well, I pulled, and how delightful it was to see that tiny waist contract even further, and her young face huff and puff and grow redder until eventually she passed out and I caught her in my arms. I tied them off them and revived her and when she came to she started panting furiously. “Oh, Andrew,” she declared, between breaths, “that feels fantastic. Thank you! Thank you!”

I encircled her minute waist with my two hands and thanked her also, for the repayment.

“No, Andrew, that wasn’t the repayment — that’s coming next!” she said. Then she went over to a bench and bent over, revealing her naked buttocks under the school skirt. “I cannot pleasure you using my love passage,” she continued, “since I am wearing this accursed chastity belt, but at least my bottom is ready for your pleasure.”

I looked at her small buttocks held in the air and was touched. “But Jenny,” I protested, “you’re a promised woman. I can’t give it to a promised woman.”

“I’m not promised exactly, yet, and besides, I don’t love him. I love you!”

By now of course, my member was standing as tall as a flagpole, so I got it out and backed up to her. “No! Wait!” she said.  “The pessary!”

Then I remembered. The traditional engagement gift for Society Daughters is a pessary in the shape of the future husband’s penis. I reached in and pulled out a marble reproduction of Brad Sederburg’s little man. Looking at it, I felt disgusted and yet confused. I felt angry that another man should have his member inside my girl and yet, she was not my girl, and that was not his member. I threw it on the ground and entered myself, causing her to gasp and shudder as my hands encircled her waist and I pumped away.

After it was finished, I reinserted the pessary, attached the monoglove to the back of the chastity belt again, and sat her on my knee. For an hour we gazed at the setting sun without speaking.


At the Training Centre on Kalimantan, I met my future wife, just as gorgeous as she had always been. We sat, introduced one another and she was fed the love drug. Every day, I saw her becoming more devoted to me and more eager to climb into bed. I caressed her beautiful round buttocks, tickled and squeezed her nipples, and kissed her gorgeous mouth. Eventually, the day came.

“You can’t leave me!” she cried. “I love you!”

“But Emma, how can you love me? You’re so frigid. Whenever I mention doing it, you back off!”

“But I want to, I truly do, but I should marry you if we do it.”

“So marry me then.”

“But your terms,  Andrew, your terms! How can I?”

The terms that I had set her were complete arm restriction, extreme breast enlargement, corsets 24 hours a day and some work on her buttocks.

“Well then, I must leave if you can’t accept.”

Two days later, we were married. She wore a billowing white dress and veil just as Jenny Baker had always dreamed about.


On the way back I decided to stop at Jack Baker’s again for a week. I don’t know why exactly, but I did. Something about that beautiful place compelled me to return, so I had Emma sent ahead as freight and got on the plane.

I didn’t tell Jack that I was coming this time though, and as I approached the house I was greeted by an incredible sight. There, fastened to a post in the middle of the lawn, was a huge, gorgeous, colourful butterfly. I wondered quite what was happened and then I remembered. I had chanced upon Jenny’s Coming Out.

“Andy!” cried Jack when he saw me. “I didn’t expect you to return so quickly, but never mind, you’re always welcome and besides, you’ve picked a good day. It’s Jenny’s coming out and doesn’t she look a picture?”

I gazed at her, squeezed mercilessly into her cocoon and fastened to the stake, and waved. She smiled back, smiling of course, being all that she could do.

“It’s a great outfit,” said a plump American man stood beside Jack. “Her arms are folded into reverse prayer behind her – you can see if you go round the back – the bottom forces her feet into en-pointe position and the waist, only 13 inches!”

“Indeed!” I said, walking round to examine the aesthetically pleasing, yet no doubt painful arm bondage.

“By the by Andy,” said Jack, “this is Brad, the guy interested in taking that butterfly over there off my hands. Brad, this is Andy, an old friend of mine. During his visit here a few weeks ago he was quite a companion for your future bride you know, but now you’re married yourself, are you not?”

“Yes, Emma’s her name; she’ll be arriving later in the afternoon by boat.”

“She good?” asked Brad Sederburg.

“So far, yes, although I’ll have to modify her a bit.”

“I’ll be doing more than a bit of that myself in the near future,” said the American. “I was just telling Jack here, I’ve a vision for young Jenny here. I’m thinking cartoon character-cum-bunny rabbit. Breasts the size of beachballs, waist no larger than 13 inches, and massive, and I mean massive, butt implants. She’ll be out here, then nothing in the middle and then huge up top. I’m having her ability to speak removed too – can’t do with nagging women – but shall have an apparatus put in her throat which will allow her to squeak like a rabbit. Cool, huh? ‘Bunny’ is the watchword here. I’m renaming her ‘Bunny’ and she’ll be dressed as a rabbit for the wedding.”

I smiled and agreed it was cool and then excused myself, getting a drink and looking at Jenny from a distance. Then suddenly, most unexpectedly, tears filled my eyes. There she was, a beautiful young spirit, a fresh girl, with her whole life in front of her, about to be turned into an animal capable of only squeaking and fucking. ‘Don’t be a prick,’ I said to myself, ‘you’re as bad as Sederburg; you’ve done the same to Emma, and besides, you’re a man, and men don’t cry.’ But the tears did not stop and it was then that I realised that I was in love with Jenny Baker.

All that long long day I ached to go over and speak with my beloved, but I could not. How could face her, knowing what she was destined for? When Emma arrived and was unpacked and paraded before the others, I felt even worse. I felt unfaithful before my darling, low and base. “She’s a fair catch,” said the jovial Sederburg. “And that’s the unmodified state you say?”

Emma, glared at me. The love drug had now worn off and she had had to be gagged securely. She hated me. “What I’d give for something like that!” exclaimed the American.

Then, at the end of the day, Jack clapped his hands and gathered us round. “And now ladies and gentlemen, for the business of the day, although of course, I suspect it’s only a formality, we still should go through the ceremony. Today has been of course, my beloved daughter Jennifer’s, coming out day and so I should like to ask any males here who wish to vie for her hand, to make themselves known now.”

Brad Sederburg smiled and raised his hand. “I do,” he declared.

“Right, and anyone else?”

Silence reigned, but inside my heart a fierce battle was waging.

“Fair enough, as I thought, so Brad, she’s…”

“I do.”

All faces turned to me.

“Andy!” queried Jack. “Are you joking?”

“No, I’m not joking,” I said. “I do.”

“Andrew!” cried Jenny.

“Mmmphf!” said Emma into her gag.

“But dude, you’re married already,” said Sederburg.

“So are you,” I replied.

“Yeah, but… she was promised to me, Jack here promised her. She’d got a replica of my cock shoved up her bony ass. That should mean something, surely?”

“Yes Andy,” said Jack, “it was more or less agreed and besides, Andy, come on, look at this gorgeous fuck toy you’ve got here and compare her with Jenny. You must be mad!”

“Jack, I’m sorry,” I said, “you too Brad. I didn’t mean this, but I guess I just fell in love with the girl. I couldn’t help it, and, well, promised or not, Society Protocol states that…”

“…that anyone who’s interested can express an interest on a girl’s coming out…”

“…and that it is up to the father to decide, Jack, so what’s it to be?”

“No dude, I think I shouldn’t really be mentioning this,” butted in Sederburg, “but you’ve got it wrong. It is up for the girl to decide, as all Society Members are equal and fathers can be bribed.”

“That’s true Brad, but… I feel bad, about promising her and all…”

“And I do too, and so…”

“Let the girl decide, gents,” continued Sederburg.

We stood in front of my darling butterfly and Jack asked her. “Jennifer, who is it to be, Mr. Sederburg or Mr. Bradbury?”

And my love smiled and whispered softly, “Andrew.”

“So there you are, gents, she’s yours Andy, congratulations!”

“But Brad, I feel bad. Is there anything that I can do for you in return?”

The American smiled and said, “Well, there is one thing…” And he gestured towards Emma.


Jenny Baker and I got married in Malaysia exactly five years ago and since then we’ve been very happy. On her wedding day she wore the white dress that she dreamt about and since then she’s been allowed to live as a human being, not a bunny rabbit, albeit an armless human being. At first she was overjoyed thinking that she would be free of any modifications, but of course, I couldn’t let her carry on as she was, and her breasts and buttocks have been suitably enlarged so that she now has a curvaceous figure to be proud of.

And for the past five years, we have been extremely happy. She is submissive and always willing to service me and dressed up in her finery (I insist on ballgowns everyday) she looks the princess that she always wanted to be.

From time to time we still see Sederburg and Emma who are married, although not so happily (or at least, not so on her part). She now looks like a cartoon character with titanic tits, an enormous bubble butt and dingy lips. She cannot speak, nor  do anything really, save service Sederburg, but her fire has not left her and her constant rebellion pleases her husband, as do her reverse prayer bound arms.

And that is how the Society for the Fulfilment of the Venus Ideal deals with love. We let the girl choose between suitors so that no one can claim they were out-bribed or cheated, and thus whilst hard for the loser, they know that it was a fair fight and go on to win the next battle.

I hope this rather long reminiscence has been of interest to your readers,
Yours faithfully

Andrew Bradbury

Fräulein von Eltzen: Chapter 7

Fräulein von Eltzen  – Chapter 7

Colonial Visitors

by Dave Potter Copyright ©, 2002

Links to all parts of the story:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9


Shortly after Greta left the house to return to the provinces, two more visitors arrived at the von Eltzen house off Tiergarten. They were Herr von Schleffen, a Bavarian doctor of great renown who had emigrated to Argentina several years ago, and his wife Eva, a tall, handsome lady of around thirty who also hailed from Bavaria.

“Well, welcome to our home!” Fritz had declared at dinner, the evening that they had arrived. “I hope that your stay here will be a a happy one, and of course, fruitful too.” Herr von Schleffen had come to Berlin to discuss the latest developments in medicine with Fritz, and both hoped to gain a lot from his visit. “And may I add,” said Fritz as they clinked glasses, “a special word of thanks to you Fraulein von Schleffen for brightening up our dinner table immensely. You look charming tonight!”

Fritz was not exaggerating. Eva von Schleffen was more than charming, she was something else entirely. Immaculately dressed, coiffured and made up, Anne Marie was in awe. Whether that something else was good however, she was unsure. If anything it looked rather painful.

What had caught our heroine’s eye, (and no doubt Fritz’s too), was primarily Eva von Schleffen’s waist, closely followed by her neck. Now, Anne Marie, with her fifteen inch waist and high stand-up collars was a young lady fast becoming renowned in Berlin society for her excellent figure, but compared to her dinner companion that evening she looked liked a fat old maid. Eva von Schleffen was simply in another league entirely! Her waist, not only had a tiny circumference of what Anne Marie estimated to be around fourteen inches, but also, instead of the usual hourglass shape, it shot up vertically for several inches at the same girth before widening out towards a more than impressive bosom.

And then there was her neck.

Now the neck is a part of the body that in the West at least, has never been given much attention to as one of the female’s more appealing assets. True, the Japanese and some other Oriental races have long appreciated it’s graces, but by and large, in Europe it has long been ignored.

Fraulein von Schleffen’s neck however, was impossible to ignore. Like her waist, it shot up vertically for several inches in a thin, straight, cylindrical tube. Anne Marie was fascinated. Surely Eva von Schleffen could not move her head at all? It looked like breathing would also be a trial. She shuddered and thanked God that Fritz never made her wear such a collar, or perhaps ‘neck corset’ would be a more apt description?

“Oh yes, I am lucky to have such a beautiful wife,” replied von Schleffen, “and I am so proud that she always endeavours to keep up with the latest Argentinian fashions.” Eva von Schleffen blushed.

The conversation at the table then turned away from the virtually immobile Fraulein von Schleffen, and onto the subject of the doctor’s emigration to South America.

“Von Eltzen, I tell you now that you’d be wise to consider the same, very wise indeed. Down there in Argentina it’s a Land of Opportunity.”

“But, von Schefflen, if you’ll excuse me, I don’t need a ‘Land of Opportunity’. Look around you, Berlin is booming, Germany is growing. Now we are united we are fast becoming a great country…”

“But do you not think perhaps, TOO great?”

“What do you mena, sir?”

“Von Eltzen, France is next door, Britain just across the water, and Russia lurks in the East. Do you think that Bismarck’s ‘Weltpolitik’ is not annoying a few people; people with empires behind them?”

“Von Schleffen, you overestimate the risk, they’re all finished. France, well, look what we did to her in 1870, and she’s no better now. Britain doesn’t care what happens on the continent, and Russia, why it’s a land of peasants and mystics; she’s a backward joke! We could overrun her in a couple of months.”

“That’s what Napoleon thought too…”

“And that was almost a hundred years ago.”

“Well, say what you will, I sense war in the air, and I for one don’t want to be killed in a cavalry charge across Poland, France or some other godforsaken country. No sir, I’m as far away from it all as is possible, and you’d be better off away from it too. A talented young gentlemen such as yourself could do well in Argentina.”

“Well thank you for the compliment sir, but I happy enough here at the moment.”

The ladies soon bored of this heavy talk of war and Weltpolitik, and so excused themselves and retired to Anne Marie’s private sitting room, which ever since Greta’s visit, now contained chairs.

Once there, they exchanged pleasantaries for a while before Anne Marie finally came out with what was on her mind.

“Eva please, I’m sorry to be so forward, but you waist fascinates me. However did you achieve such startling results?”

Her partner laughed. “With a lot of pain I can tell you!” she replied. “But no, seriously, it’s called a ‘stem-waist’. They’re all the rage in Argentina, unfortunately.”

“Then you don’t like being laced so?” asked Anne Marie, surprised.

“Like it, Anne Marie? I hate it! It was bad enough enduring the fashions here in Germany, but when we went to Argentina, well my husband insists you know…?”

“Oh, you don’t need to tell me, my Fritz is the same. I normally wear corsets much longer than this one, and during the day he insists on a mono-glove which holds my arms together as one behind my back and renders me as helpless as a baby. It’s awful.”

“Oh, the mono-glove! The Argentinian lady’s worst enemy. It is quite normal to wear one there, even in company.”

“That’s terrible!”

“Indeed, the lot of a lady in Buenos Aries is far worse than here. When they say ‘chattel’, in those parts they really mean it!”

At this Eva von Schleffen started to sob.

“What is it my dear?”

“Oh, Anne Marie, I’m sorry, Moving to Argentina was the worst thing that ever happened to me I swear. Before that Hans was a normal, loving husband like any other. True, he liked a well-laced woman, but which man doesn’t? But once we moved there he has slowly turned into a control freak. Not only do I wear this awful corset and neck-extender, but he insists on the mono-glove too. Oh, Anne Marie, it’s unbearable!”

It certainly did sound unbearable and Anne Marie was very glad that her home was in Berlin and not Buenos Aries. Nonetheless, Eva’s elongated waist still fascinated her.

“But exactly how does one achieve such a waist?” she asked.

“Well, there’s a lot to it, Anne Marie. For a start you have to be stretched…”

“Stretched?!”

“Yes dear, stretched, from the lacing bar. And then the training belt is wrapped around your waist. That goes under the corset…”

“The training belt, what exactly is that?”

“Well, I tell you what, I have one here in my luggage. Would you like to try it on? That’s better than me explaining.”

The thought of trying on such a terrifying garment was not appealing to Anne Marie, but she was very curious. And besides, it would only be for a few minutes, so why not? It might be interesting?

As quickly as possible she stripped down to her underwear and let Eva fasten her to the lacing bar which was then cranked so high that her feet left the ground and she was left dangling mid-air.

“Eva! You’ve gone too far!” she gasped.

“No, Anne Marie, this is how it must be to fit a training-belt. As I said, you need to be stretched. Now normally my maid ties my feet to rings set in the floor but alas, that’s not possible here, so instead I’ll have to use some sort of weight, hmm… let me see…”

Anne Marie was left dangling in the air, whilst Eva looked for something to weigh her feet down. She came back with some heavy gold candlesticks which she put in a bag. Then, using some corset laces, she tied Anne Marie’s legs together and tied the bag to her legs.

“Not perfect, but it will have to do,” said the Argentinian.

Anne Marie felt like she would rip in two.

Eva then got out a heavy leather belt which she proceeded to wrap around Anne Marie’s waist and tighten mericilessly using some sort of screw. The pain was excruciating!

“H-H-How do you endure this everyday?” Anne Marie stammered.

“I just got used to it I suppose,” replied Eva.

At the time, Anne Marie thought this to be a rather stupid reply to make, but later on, upon reflecting on her own life and how much she’d got used to regarding dress and figure-training over the preceeding few months, she understood exactly what her guest meant.

“Now that the belt is tight, I shall put your corset over it,” continued Eva von Schleffen. “Without the corset, the body cannot support itself.”

That too was true, and Anne Marie did feel a lot better once corsetted again. Eva tied the lacing off and let her down from the bar, and Anne Marie tottered over to the mirror. The effects were stunning, but they were certainly not worth the pain and effort thought Anne Marie.

“What’s my waist measurement?” she asked, noting that the corset was far from being fully closed now.

“Oh, just over sixteen inches I think,” said Eva.

Over sixteen inches! That was an inch larger than her usual!

“But it feels so tight!” she protested.

“Stem-waists always do, and remember, there’s a thick belt underneath the corset now.”

Remember! How could she forget? “Oh, Eva,” she said, “you can take it off now.”

The relief was intense, when Eva von Schleffen took off the frightful belt and replaced Anne Marie’s usual corset which although tight, now felt positively relaxing.

“Oh Eva!” she exclaimed. “My heart goes out to you having to wear that on a daily basis. I don’t know how you survive, I really don’t.”

“But remember Anne Marie, it’s not just the stem-waist corset, there’s the neck corset, mono-glove and plus heels of six inches like yours. Imagine that!”

But Anne Marie did not imagine it at all. She didn’t wish to, it was simply too terrifying.

That evening at dinner, Fritz was again complimentary to Fräulein von Schleffen.

“Madame, you look divine once again, what a fine gown you are wearing this evening. But please tell me, is that typical of the fashions in Argentina?”

“Why, yes sir, and thank you kindly for the compliments. In Argentina our fashions are quite different from those that your wife so elegantly displays here in Berlin. They are perhaps a little too extreme for the tastes of many in Germany?”

“Perhaps so, but that is because there are many with little taste here, I’m afraid. No Madame, to my eyes your Argentinian fashions are exquisite.” He then turned to Dr. von Schleffen. “Doctor, is that the corset that you were referring to earlier?”

“Yes indeed, sir, that is it, the ‘stem-waist’ they call it, and it’s all the rage with the ladies in Buenos Aries.

Fritz then turned to his wife who was more than a little worried at the direction that this conversation was taking.

“My dear, do you not agree that Fräulein von Schleffen here looks absolutely remarkable?”

“Why, err, yes Fritz.”

“Well, do not fear, my dear, I was talking to Herr Doctor here, and he has promised to send you over some Argentinian gowns and one of these stem-waist corset things and the like, so that you may bring a bit of the Latino culture to our staid lives here in Berlin. What do you say to that, my dear?”

Anne Marie however said nothing.

She just fainted.

Links to all parts of the story:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Brazilian Beauties

After I cited it as one of my favourite stories on the page My Favourite Erotic Fiction, Mike has kindly sent a copy of his classic Brazilian Beauties in which he has agreed that I may post here. Enjoy and remember, any credit should go to him, not me.

DP

Brazilian Beauties

Copyright © Mike

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Donna Floriella Deoporto Norvona de Sante Cruxes stood on the deck of the SS Pogona as it finished docking in Rio de Janeiro. She scanned the waiting crowd searching for a first glimpse of her husband to be. The year was 1881 and Floriella is a ‘Letter Bride’, the marriage had been arranged between the two families via agents, photographs and letters. Floriella was the fourth daughter of a title rich, but cash poor Portuguese noble family.  When she had come of age there was no money left to arrange a good marriage in Portugal and so her father had decided that a good match could be made to one of the ‘nouvo’ rich families in Brazil. The Pavella family was one of the richest in Brazil with massive estates, farms and mansions in Rio de Janeiro.

As the gangplank came down, Floriella caught sight of her fiancée, stood back from the crowd beside a grand carriage, Floriella checked herself over once more, hat on straight, hair tidy, dress clean. Floriella was wearing her best travelling dress and beneath it new stays. Her stays were laced an extra inch less than normal down to 22” and she was feeling very neat. She took as deep as breath as the stays would allow and walked down the gangplank, through the crowd, to the carriage. Her fiancée and a splendidly woman peered over her still intent on the passengers’ de-embarking.

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Hello, are you, Ernesto Pavella?

Her fiancée was about answer when the imposingly dressed, woman with him said,

Ah you must be the maid, where is your mistress?

I beg your pardon, I am Floriella.

The woman face blanched, she took out a photograph, looked at it, looked at Floriella and gasped,

But, but… you are much slimmer and neater and more … more….. she stammered  and fell silent.

Floriella looked at the photograph and could see what the woman meant, the photograph had been taken two years at her second sisters wedding, her sister had made a good match and no expense had been spared on the wedding, even to the extent that Floriella as a bridesmaid had been laced down 18” and the bridesmaid dresses had come from Paris. At that timed Floriella had railed against the lacing as she hardly ever wore stays, but all her sisters were adamant, that it was for the good of the family and she had been forced to make the effort. Now stood on docks with a waist 4” bigger and in a travelling outfit that although it was her best had, been made by a local seamstress, she realised that her appearance was not making a good first impression.

While she had been thinking, Ernesto and the women had started a whispered conversation. Floriella waited while they finished and examined them both in more detail. Ernesto was just as his photograph, medium height, a moustache and a well-fitted suit, the woman though was something else. Her dress though mainly black was of fine silk and highly decorated and looked to Florella’s eyes to be of the latest fashion. The part of the woman’s dress that really caught her eye was the waist, it was a perfect stem at least 5” long and about 17” round emphasised by a stiff mauve belt and if that was not enough her neck was held in a perfectly smooth 4” tube with a lace ruffle at the top, hiding the point where it must be digging in under her chin. The length of her neck was emphasised even more as the collar rose up to just under her ears at side and even higher at the back.

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Floriella’s gaze was broken by Ernesto taking her arm and saying,

Floriella, my mother wants us to get home as soon as possible, so that you can rest.

With what seemed unseemly haste, Floriella was bundled into the coach, her bags loaded and they drove off, with curtains pulled down. At the Pavella mansion, after Floriella had been helped to change into her best day dress, which she had the maid lace an inch smaller to 21” thinking to make matters slightly better, she was shown downstairs to the drawing room where Senora Incita Pavella and Ernesto were waiting for her.
Senora Incita stood tall and erect by her son, and even without her elaborate high piled hairstyle was easily taller than Ernesto. She indicated a chair and Floriella sat down carefully mindful that she was not used to stays of this tightness and they dug in painfully as gingerly lowered herself down. Senora Incita chose a higher chair and without seeming to bend at the waist at all, lowered herself at the knee’s and perched on the edge of the chair, and began to speak.

My child, I will be plain, you are not quite what we were expecting and as such I have cancelled the wedding party until we can get you outfitted in a befitting manner, so that the Pavella name will not be shamed. To that end, I have arranged that a small the wedding ceremony will take place tomorrow and you and Ernesto will then go to our country estate where you will be prepared and outfitted in a manner that will reflect the position of the Pavella family in society. I will announce that you are unwell after your voyage and when you well enough prepared, we will have a full ceremony with invited guests on your return.

At this, she rose and with small delicate steps, tip tapped across the tiled floor out of the room.

The next morning was completely taken up by a troop of corsetiere’s, shoemakers and dressmakers coming to measure her every piece of her body, and the afternoon by the small wedding ceremony conducted in the family chapel.

That night they drove out to the country estate in a curtained carriage and for the next month a constant stream of tradesmen arrived to fit her for her new wardrobe, at the same time she was entered into rigorous corset training wearing stays night and day which were constantly tightened as she hung for the first time from a lacing bar. By the end of the month she could just manage a 17” wasp waist without fainting and was competent on the 2½” heels.

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The day of the wedding dawned and in a beautiful wedding dress, that was a trial to wear due to the tight skirts, high heels, the pinching corset and a high tight collar, Floriella walked down the aisle once more, this time in the Rio De Janeiro Cathedral. As she walked she noticed the dress of the females in the packed congregation, she had thought that the waist of her mother in law, Senora Incita was just an oddity, but to her surprise found that there were several women present with what looked like even smaller or longer waists. Floriella was sure one young woman was even smaller, and longer than Senora Incita, with a large bosom and rounded hips were joined by an impossible tube not 5” across and 6” deep. Her narrow neck shot up in a straight tube at least 6” from top to bottom. Floriella could not take her eyes off her as she walked past her pew, how could anybody survive with such constriction?

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Well she thought, I am glad that I have only to be laced to a wasp waist of 17” that is bad enough. The ceremony proceeded, and then the reception which was a torture for Floriella sitting for hours in the tight stays and she was glad when she could retire to bed and relieve herself of their tightness.

When she got upstairs though, Ernesto, Senora Incita and several maids were waiting in her bedroom, Senora Incita spoke,

As you might have gathered at your wedding, that although your figure is now a lot better, it is not at all good enough compared to your peers. Ernesto and I have decided that waist training will continue and become even stricter, so that you will become a credit to your husband and his family.

At her signal, the maids came forward and stripped her down her underlinen, and Floriella rubbed her aching ribs with relief. One maid took down her elaborate hairstyle and platted her hair into a ponytail, she was then fitted with a full hood which fitted her whole head, chin and neck leaving only her face free. The hood was laced tightly at the back until it felt like her head was held in vice.

She was then led over to the lacing bar and this time her wrists were strapped to the bar and her ankles were strapped to the floor and the bar was raised until she was stretched to the utmost.

Floriella moaned at the pain, but to no avail, Senora Incita said,

Please be quiet girl this is what many girls in Brazilian high society have gone through this before you and you will please suffer it in good grace.

Floriella gritted her teeth, and was quiet, a second rope was attached to a loop in the top of the hood and the stretching continued, stretching Floriella’s neck so that her neck bones cracked. A maid then stood on a stool and fitted her with a stiff 4” deep posture collar, the collar was laced tight under her jaw forcing her head up even further, and the tightness of the collar made her breathing ragged.

Were they trying to strangle her?,  she thought.

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Floriella could only see the next stage in the mirror as her head was now held rigidly upright and she could not move her head even ½” in any direction. A maid picked what seemed to be half a corset, by the way it did not flex in her hands and how she held it was obvious rigidly boned. Floriella saw that it was flared out as the bottom of a corset but it then straightened for 2” and finished. This “corset” was fitted over her hips and the tightening began, the top edge digging deeply into the soft flesh under her ribs, indenting her waist so deep, that her bottom rib stood at right angles from the top. The pain on her ribs and waist grew until she was sure she would faint and then it stopped. Floriella hung gasping for breath.

The maid then picked up the other piece which looked like the top half of a corset again ending a 2” vertical section, this was fitted around Floriella’s waist and ribs the with the vertical section overlaying the lower corset half, the lacing began and Floriella felt it forcing her lower ribs upwards while pushing the lower half down onto her hips. Senora Incita spoke,

Lace her until she is near fainting

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The maid continued lacing until the outer belt section was compressing the inner, Floriella could fell herself fading and moaned silently as the pressure on her now rigid torso increased. She would learn later that the lacing was achieved because the upper corset was slightly smaller at the waist than the lower corset allowing the lower corset laces at the belt section to be visible through the gap.

And now for the stretcher, spoke Senora Incita

Floriella watched as maid picked a metal device which that was two half cones with the tops removed joined by two threaded bolts. The maid approached Floriella and pushed the device on to her waist with lower half cone sitting on the corset over her now well defined hips and the top under her ribs, a similar device was positioned from the rear. The maids then used four bolts to fasten the two halves together.

Two more maids then approached and all four then proceeded to turn small levers attached to the vertical bolts which then extended and started to force the two, now complete metal cones away from each other, the lower half pushing down onto Floriella’s hips and the upper against her rib cage. The pain was excruciating.

Continue until the belt is three inches in depth, said Senora Incita

As the maids slowly turned, the upper corset belt slid up over the lower belt, Floriella let out a continuous moan and this time Senora Incita did not chastise her, as she was keeping a close eye on the depth of the growing stem at Floriella’s waist. At last Senora Incita signalled a stop and a maid then proceeded to take up the slack in laces at waist that found due to the stretching of Floriella’s waist. She then measured it and announced it was 17” round.

Good, this is a good start, now let’s get her into bed and finish off, said Senora Incita.

When Floriella was let down from lacing bar she staggered as her weight increased the compression on her waist. Breathing raggedly through her constricted windpipe and hard-pressed lungs, two maids helped her over to the bed. They lowered her down and then eased her back on the bed. Floriella felt her shoulders meet something hard. She could not see but she, soon found out, it was a brace attached to the wooden head board of the bed. Floriella then felt a pull on the loop on the top of her cap. A maid   had attached a hook, which was attached to a cable, which passed through a hole in the headboard and then over a pulley and down to a weight hanger.

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Twenty pounds should be enough to start with, said Senora Incita.

The maid loaded four five-pound weights onto the hanger and Floriella felt like her head was being pulled off. Once the maid had finished another maid tightened the side lacing on the rigid collar to take up the slackness caused by the stretching.

And now for the foot braces, said Senora Incita

Another maid then fitted two wide cuffs to Floriella’s ankles and then which were attached two rectangular metal frames, the frames were brought down to the top of her feet and then straps tightened under her heels forcing here feet into a ballet en-pointe position. The maid then started to attach another cable to the ankle cuffs. The cable was passed over another pulley at the bottom of the bed and thirty pounds of weights added to another hanger. Florilla felt her back being stretched even more.

Senora Incita was now satisfied and she ushered the maids out of the bedroom and dimming the lights, and left saying

Sleep well my dear.

Floriella tried to sleep but the unrestricting pressure from the fearsome corset and the strain on her neck and legs made it nearly impossible, she tried to shuffle about to relieve the pain on her ribs, hips waist and neck, but she was rigid from breast to below her hips and neck and shoulders. The only part of her upper body she could move was her arms. She tried to get to the laces of her neck brace but the shoulder brace would not let her get her hands close enough. She reached under corset into her now deeply indented portion by her backbone, weaving her hands through the metal of the screw threads. However although she pulled and tugged at the end of the laces they had been knotted too tight and the exertion and trying to breath against the extreme rigidity caused her to faint clean away.

The next morning, supervised by Senora Incita she was released from the training corset and the neck brace and quickly dressed in a long corset with a 2” stem, the corset had a fitted shoulder brace that dragged her shoulders back until her shoulder blades nearly met.  Wincingly tight boots with 4” heels and a new dress buttoned tightly to the stem waist and with a stiff 3” collar completed the outfit.

When she was dressed she followed Senora Incita down to her day room, where she asked her to relent on this harsh regime. Her reply was sharp and filled with anger.

Your letters and photograph deceived our family, after two years since the photograph; we expected that your figure would have improved not degenerated to that of a serving wench. Ernesto agrees with me that he and the Pavella family deserve only the best and Brazilian fashion requires that you agree to these measures to achieve a fashionable figure and posture.

The meeting was over, Floriella then searched the house for Ernesto walking slowly with a perfectly erect figure from head to thigh and tip toeing carefully in the unfamiliar high heels. Stairs were a trial as the stiff collar, shoulder brace and inflexible corset did not allow her any view of the floor closer than about twelve feet away and each step had to be searched for using the pointed toe of her boots.

At last she found him and pleaded with him for some relief. Ernesto’s reply was similar to his mothers adding that he found a stem waist very attractive and wished Floriella to try her very best to achieve a long stem waist in the shortest possible period.

That night Floriella’s bedtime regime was altered slightly, her hands were covered in padded mittens (to stop her interfering with the laces and the ankle weights were left off. The reason was that night Ernesto joined her and seemed to take an inordinate amount of interest in the stem waist whilst performing his marital duties.

For the next ten years Floriella was subjected to the nightly regime, which was only relaxed for the pregnancy and birth of her son and daughter. Within a week of each birth she was back in the corset night and day and within a month she had managed, (with outside inducement) to regain the lost ground.  Initially she was sure that the number of weights taken off in the morning was more than the number she counted on at night, though the maids denied any knowledge of the count. The routine was only varied when Senora Incita concentrated on reducing the size of the stem when instead of the stretcher, a steel belt would be fastened around the stem, and tightened with screws.  For all this time her diet was also managed, with plenty of small fattening meals and mouth watering chocolates available in every room, so that Floriella had no choice but to fill out, above and below the cruel corset, giving her a matronly, curvaceous figure. As the pressure from the corset increased the doctor prescribed large pessaries to fill out her anus and vagina so that they were not crushed, this extreme measure did not discomfort her a great deal as the tightness of the corset and her lengthening stem meant that she could hardly feel the lower half of her body.

The time is now thirty years later and Senora Incita has passed away. Today is the day of the funeral. Prior to Senora Incita’s death, as she declined Floriella had been planning to relieve herself of the harsh fashion regime that had been inflicted on her since she had arrived in Brazil. To that end she had ordered lower heels and dresses with lower and looser collars, she had also tried to relax the lacing on her corset, but had found that while standing, her body was so reliant on the tightness, that any relaxation felt as if her backbone was collapsing and caused her severe pain, although she found that that the stem could easily be reduced by two inches to relieve the continuous pressure on her ribs and hipbones.

Today she would honour her mother in law and appear in full regalia one last time. Floriella walked over to the lacing bar where her two maids were waiting and stood below it. Quickly the maids unlaced the light 4” stemmed 18” waist sleeping corset and stripped off her under linen, she was then dressed in silk, heavily laced combinations. Suffering without the support of any corset the maids quickly strapped her wrists to the bar and raised her up until her feet were off the floor.

The next stage was the dress corset; this was Floriella longest corset, both for the length of the stem at 7” and in the length of the corset itself which stretched from just under her now large bosom to halfway down her thighs. Floriella only wore this corset for important parties and balls; dinners were out the question as sitting in this corset was a complete impossibility. The corset itself was beautiful to look at with black and silver panels and dripping with black lace at top and bottom, it’s construction was belied by it’s beauty, as the corset when the busk was hooked, it would stand on it own, with the metal boning at the stem waist being solid and that of the top and the apron being close packed. The weight was significant and both maids struggled to lift it and fit it to Floriella’s now permanently deformed torso, while Floriella fed her arms through the shoulder straps, they then grappled with each hook on busk which had 20 hooks with one every inch at the stem. Once the busk was closed a maid reached down inserted the large pessaries that were necessary with her strictest corset. The lacing then began, first the back lace was tightened from top & bottom towards the middle until the corset was rigid from hip to breast.

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The corset was then allowed to settle while the maids attended to the black silk stockings. Each stocking was held tight by eight garters. Then the high heeled boots. The boots had heels of 7” and were so high and steep that the sole actually bent backwards towards the heel, Florella could never have managed the heels with her small feet without the 2” of padding in the toes. The boots were double laced and came up to just below her knee with boning on either side of her ankle and calves, to give her support and stop her turning over on her ankles.

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Once the boots were laced the maids returned to the corset, concentrating on the stem, Floriella braced herself as they started on the side laces, the side laces only ran from 1” above to 1” below the stem. They were 1” open at the widest point, The maids pulled steadily until the gap was down to ½”. Floriella tried to stretch away from the crushing tightness. The maids halted while Floriella adjusted to the pressure, her breathing fast and her neck arched as she panted for air into her compressed lungs, Her large breasts rising up to nearly neck level with every stifled breath.

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When Floriella’s breathing had settled, the maids slowly continued, alternating between the back and side laces, compressing the stem smaller into a stiff column and forcing the ribs and hips apart. When the side and the back laces were closed at the waist, the maids quickly re-tightened the laces at the hips and the waist to ensure a smooth line.  The shoulder straps were then tightened back lifting her now extremely prominent, heaving breasts even higher.

Next came several black petticoats, Floriella wobbling rapidly on each ankle as she lifted each in turn to allow the fitting of the petticoats. The first one was thick rustling taffeta, which swirled easily with any movement. The maids then tied on the 2” inch thick pads over her already ample hips, which fitted smoothly over boned hips of her corset considerably increasing the visible hip spring with respect to the tiny stem. Similar pads were fitted under Floriella’s armpits. Long gloves were smoothed onto her arms.

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Next came the elaborate mourning dress which was fitted from breast to knee, with a hundred tiny buttons closing it at the back, at the neck it was stiffened with spring steel into a 6” tall perfect tube. The collar rose above the tube out to the tip of Floriella’s chin and up to just under her ears. When all the buttons were closed Floriella’s neck was only 4½” across and her chin was held high as she struggled to get air to her corset constricted lungs through her restricted neck. One maid then stood on a stool and touched the heavy powder and rouge on Floriella’s face,  tidy up any stray tendrils from her her high piled hair and then fitted the high brimmed that was as wide as Floriella’s shoulders. From the top of her hat to the tip of her high-heeled boots she was now 7ft tall. The last act was to fit the famous 7” deep silver belt over the corset stem, the two maids using a lot of effort to close it.

With some final fussing from the maids, Floriella tottered towards the door, using one of the maids arm as support. In the hall was waiting her daughter Catalina. Catalina was dressed in an identical outfit to her mother. Both the stems were 7” but while Floriella’s was just under 5” across and 15” round. Catalina’s was under 13” only 4” across.

Catalina was the toast of the town and with her radical figure, she was in great demand with the scions of Brazil’s finest families. While Floriella had never been happy with the extreme figure modifications, Catalina was entirely happy, with her striking figure and the attention it commanded and was still at the age of 22 always trying to improve it.

Floriella always hoped that Catalina’s figure would always be appreciated, but she worried that such extreme waist modification would fall out of fashion in Brazil and she was not sure how the rest of the world would react when Catalina went on her travels to Europe. Last week when she and Catalina were returning from the dressmakers after the fitting for the mourning outfit and they had stopped at the Hotel de Porto for coffee. Floriella had been extremely heartened for Catalina in the praise, and obvious appreciation that they had received from a Frenchman who could not stop complimenting on their figures. He had mentioned that while some stem waist could be found in Europe mainly in Paris and Vienna, none that he had seen could compare to her and Catalina’s.
Floriella and Catalina linked arms and teetered and tottered down the hall steadied by a maid on either side, their steel tipped toes and heels tip-tapping on the tiled floor. They made an astonishing site, both 7ft tall, with wide hips and shoulders, hip to hip the gap between the two stem waists was nearly 2ft.

Floriella smiled as she thought

This is the last time  !

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I have enjoyed writing this story, it was inspired by this letter from London Life :-

Truth Stranger Than Fiction

I travelled pretty extensively prior to the war and in South America came across a club in Rio. My hostess at the time was a member as was her daughter, their particular “fetish” being the collection of really extraordinary waists and the wearing of extreme heels. Mother and daughter were remarkably alike, the former being 33 and the latter 17 years old. They were frequently taken for sisters and being practically the same height, encouraged this belief by always dressing exactly alike; and a brilliant make-up on the elder lady’s part added to the deception.

The waist measurement of 10 or twelve inches you gave to one your characters in your story was not an exaggeration, as on several occasions I danced with the two ladies I am speaking of when their waist were exactly ten inches round and they stood on the tips of their toes mounted on seven inch heels.

And there are several stories about Austrian Belts and stem waists in London Life

If you think any of this far fetched, here are some modern day examples of extreme high heels, posture collars, waist compressors and a stem waist.

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The Tale of Anastasia: Part 8

Links to all parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Chapter 15

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

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

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

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

“Right away, ma’am.”

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

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

“Certainly, ma’am.”

Swish!

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

Swish!

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

Swish!

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

Swish!

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

Swish!

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

Swish!

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

Swish!

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

Swish!

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

Swish!

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

Swish!

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

Swish!

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

Swish!

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

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

“Certainly ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

“Certainly ma’am.”

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

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

“Miss Anne, please come over here!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 16

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me, Miss Anne…”

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

“I apologise Your Ladyship, but…”

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

“But Your Ladyship, His Lordship…”

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

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

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

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

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

Anne on the other hand, knew it well.

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

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

“You have to choose, Ani!”

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

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

“Yes, ma’am. The Duke has decreed…”

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

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

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

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

Postscript

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

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

Links to all parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

The Tale of Anastasia: Part 5

Links to all parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

 

Chapter 9

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

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

Anne shook her head.

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

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

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

“But what are they?”

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

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

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

“Why does she have to go three times?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Miss X,

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

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

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

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

My dearest, darling Anne,

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

Yours in everlasting adoration,

Richard Plantagenet, Duke of Norwich3

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

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

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

Links to all parts of the story:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8