An Artist’s Masterpiece: Book 5

Book 5

April 2051

Book 4

Chapter 1

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

And yet this birthday party, Emily was happy.

Ecstatically so.

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

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

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

Payback.

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

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

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

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

“But…”

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

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

Both dolls nodded.

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

The left doll nodded.

“And Anne Lowood.”

The right doll nodded.

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

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

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

Both dolls nodded.

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

Both dolls nodded.

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

The left doll nodded.

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

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

Both dolls nodded.

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

The left doll nodded.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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

…well, almost nothing.

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

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

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

Chapter 3

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

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

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

Then she took a cab to the Dog & Duck.

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

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

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

“Hell no, I’m alone alright.”

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

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

“That I can’t believe!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll make it, Blanche dear.”

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

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

He never finished inserting the plug.

Chapter 4

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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


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


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

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


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


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

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

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


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

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


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


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

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

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

Chapter 5

Sept 2053

“So who is she, Emmie?”

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

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

“Hello, um, Pillows. I’m Anne.”

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

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

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

“When are we going to get them reversed?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?! You mean that Branwell is…”

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

“I cannot believe that you remember Jemima!”

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

FIN

An Artist’s Masterpiece: Book 4

Book 4

August 2049

Book 3

Chapter 1

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

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

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

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

am02

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

am03

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

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

am04

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

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

Emily just blinked; dazed, scarred.

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

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

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

Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 3

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

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

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

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

Touch.

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

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

Chapter 4

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

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

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

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

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

That however, was not the end of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Book 5

An Artist’s Masterpiece: Book 3

Book 3

April 2047

Book 2

Chapter 1

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

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

“…”

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Chapter 2

July 2049

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

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


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

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

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

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

The same Lord that had seemingly abandoned her like Job.

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

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

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

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

Chapter 3

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

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

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

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

It was her beloved sister Anne.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Book 4