A new story of statuesque submissiveness
One particular fairy-tale from my childhood has always haunted my dreams.
You may roam around my home,
He said, go anywhere you please.
Except the library in the tower
What a most peculiar tease.
One day bored, she disobeyed.
Sneaking up the twisty stairs, and there,
On a plinth beneath the steepling shelves
A tome awaiting one who dared.
Curiosity overtook the impetuous girl,
Heaving open the hefty umber book
She knelt amid the misty sunbeams,
And consumed it in a single look.
But disobedience has consequence
The minx had read an enchanted scrawl
Now high in the clouds she’s petrifying,
Slowly transforming… into a doll.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be one of my dolls. Not permanently, of course, that would quickly become very tiresome. Maybe just a hour or two. Long enough for someone to play with me, to stroke my cheeks and comb my hair.
Please, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not a narcissist, but I do know I’m beautiful. I see heads turn when I pass by, long leering looks as strangers admire me. I watch as their eyes rove across my pretty face, quickly, trying to avoid the awkwardness of accidental eye contact. As if my own eyes were too bright for mere mortals to behold, and they risked staring into the centre of the sun. Then, their gaze will usually drop, to my slender neck, to linger lewdly on the small round mounds of my breasts.
I notice when others appreciate my slender body, the hourglass curves of my torso and waist. I know those who pass behind me will glance furtively backwards, trying to catch a glimpse of my perfect pert bottom. I often wonder: is this how a statue feels? To be an object of rare and graceful beauty, somehow contrived from the disorder of the universe, existing to enrich all those who gaze upon it.
And when I think of myself as a statue, or a doll, as an object that arouses others – it excites me.
One of the happiest moments of my life was when my hungry mind began devouring Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Quite unexpectedly, I turned the page and stumbled across the story of Pygmalion and Galatea. That day I wept tears of joy, which trickled down my cheeks to splatter silently on his precious words. Across two millennia, this exquisite Roman poet taught me that I wasn’t weird. That I wasn’t alone, that the ancients also adored and eroticised the beautiful figures they crafted from stone.
Soon I learned there was a name for it too: Agalmatophilia – a sexual attraction to a statue, doll, mannequin or other immobile figure, and the sexual arousal of such transformations too. I began to think of myself as Galatea, the beautiful statue etched from marble by the sculptor Pygmalion, the outcome of his magnificent labour of love.
Yet, despite all I’ve learned since about the wonders of sex, still nothing turns me on more than the thought of becoming a doll…
* * 1 * *
As the years passed, my juvenile fantasy became much more elaborate. I began to incorporate imagery from the books I’d voraciously consumed. The tower in the clouds became a location in its own right, I liked to imagine I’d been sent away for the summer to stay in the sprawling castle of some mysterious gentleman. He was very kind and understanding, but had laid down just a single rule, not to visit the library at the top of the soaring gothic tower.
My headstrong imaginary self had, naturally enough, found this one restriction frustratingly irresistible. Perhaps my mischief would earn me a trip over the gentleman’s knee. That was what happened to naughty girls, wasn’t it? A spanking! Just imagine! That would be both mortifyingly appalling and thrillingly exciting!
So I imagined breaking his silly rule, climbing the exhausting steep creaky stairs to the top of the tower, then wandering among the vertiginous shelves of his illicit library. Eventually, I’d stumble across a low plinth, with heavy archaic-looking book resting upon it. There was a little velvet cushion just in front, allowing me to kneel reverently before it. I’d heave open its heavy studded leather cover, and gasp as it fell open at a page filled by jagged archaic words. I’d check guiltily over my shoulder, half expecting to see my angry host scowling at me, a riding whip already in his hand.
But I was still alone, so as the dust-motes glowed and tumbled in the sunbeams, I began reading. Somehow I knew how to pronounce these strange contorted characters, I’d feel my tongue warm, as I spat the coarse profane syllables from my snarling lips.
How could I have known that I was reading from a spellbook? That the abyssal-black scrawl on the ancient vellum page contained an enchantment that would transform me. That this was a trap, that the book would always fall open at the same page in an intruder’s hands. How could I have known the high price of my curiosity?
Then it happened. I began to feel my muscles freeze. Alarmed, I tried to rise and run, but some strange force had petrified me, as if I’d been ossified by Medusa’s terrible stare. I looked down at my hands, my flesh still pink and supple, fortunately not yet turned to stone. But I could no longer move, my mind now trapped, alert and racing inside my abruptly frozen body.
Eventually the gentleman wizard came looking for me. He found me, perfectly still and silent, kneeling beside his precious priceless spellbook. How awful it was to be caught so flagrantly, yet be unable to speak, to explain myself and profusely apologise.
I felt his hand upon the top of my head, he pushed gently downwards, until my face hovered just above the elegant tapestries that covered the floor. Now my bottom was my highest point, protruding proudly in the air. He reached behind me, lifting my dress and parting my bloomers, baring my buttocks, and all my secrets in between. Oh Sir! I wanted to shriek, but I was literally under his spell, completely at the mercy of my new Master’s hand.
Like a conjurer, he suddenly produced a thin foot-long stick from within his robes, from where previously – surely – no such item had existed. This, he informed me, was his wand, and was more than just a facilitator of sorcery. It was also perfect for smacking the bottoms of wayward young ladies who act like delinquent little girls.
He stood behind me, and I felt the warm wood of his wand rest against my upturned cheeks. Then, he spanked me. A succession of firm, hard whacks. I wasn’t able to protest, or squirm. But I’d still feel the hot stinging impact of each smack upon my poor bare bum. I must admit, it wasn’t long before I also felt a little rivulet of wetness, dribbling down my thigh.
This was the fantasy that defined my nascent sexuality. To be closeted in a faraway castle of marble halls, the guest of a wizard, the willing subject of his erotic bewitching powers. He knew the immobility spell charmed me most, and I’d beg him to use it on me. My gentleman wizard would graciously indulge my wish, happily transforming me into a living doll. Then he’d undress me. My cheeks would burn with shame as he tugged the lace around my waist, the one that made my bloomers tumble down around my feet, before rising my idle arms and pulling my camisole off over my head.
I’d imagine standing before him naked, instinctively wanting to move my hands to cover my crotch. I always kept myself bare and smooth, just how a doll might be. I liked to lie on my bed and open my legs, imagining him inspecting me. When I was a doll, I’d never move, and never ever touch myself. I’d just close my eyes and picture his roving eyes appreciating me.
I also liked to stand motionless in the middle of my bedroom, in the pose I imagined he might select for me. I might be naked, or my Master might decide to dress me up. I might be put in my best bikini, or wrap a sheet around me like a toga, or be meticulously presented in my old school uniform. I’d glance at myself in my full-length mirror, and swell with pride, so gorgeous and alluring.
Of course, sometimes my Master might decide I’d have to be punished, as my misdemeanours were never truly hidden from his enchanted spying eyes. I’d dress in the costume he’d laid out for me, then bare my bottom and spank myself with my slipper, or the wooden spatula I’d borrowed from the kitchen. Then I’d stand with my pink cheeks on display, immobile and obedient in his chosen pose, unable to rub away the ache that simmered between my legs.
Only later that night, as I lay on my back, naked underneath my cool satin sheets, would I finally allow myself to rest a solitary fingertip against my clitoris. I’d lie there, as motionless as I could possibly manage, feeling the weight of my finger pressing against my most sensitive spot. The tug of Gravity alone stimulating me, the attractive force of every atom on the planet. A primal part of me would want to rub, but my logical self was stronger willed. I’d continually remind myself that good dolls never get to move. I often fell asleep that way, my hand resting upon my mound, into deliriously exciting dreams.
* * 2 * *
Despite my physical attractiveness, sexual relationships were always awkward for me. I had plenty of attention, but I wanted to be passive. I didn’t want to make love like all the other girls, throwing my arms around my lover and writhing around in an orgamsic frenzy. Blossoming trysts withered as new lovers came to think of me as cold, passionless and disinterested. If only they’d asked and delved a bit deeper, if only they’d enquired why I always laid so still and silent as they fucked me. And so no one ever suspected that being a doll was what really turned me on.
Until finally I met a mind as unique and kinky as my own.
To my surprise he actually liked it when I laid back on the bed and closed my eyes. He liked to undress me and caress me, to run his fingertips over my skin, until I was dimpled with goose-bumps. He liked to inspect me, to hold my folds apart and examine me, as if I was the most intriguing puzzle in the universe. Which in a way, I suppose, I am.
He liked to spoon with me, his cock stiffening against my buttocks as I lay motionless, until his shaft was ready to slip between them. Most of all, he loved to spank me. He loved to put me over his knee, or arrange me atop a pile of pillows. He loved putting me on display afterwards, as he admired the pink patches and the glistening lips that resulted from his handiwork. And I loved standing still as he admired me, feeling my stinging cheeks aglow.
Afterwards, he would always ask me if I liked it. And I would smile and nod appreciatively. It began to seem as if we understood each other.
Eventually, one year after we’d first met, I gave him a very special present. I finally trusted him with my most cherished secret, one I’d never shared with anyone else. That I wanted to be a doll, a beautiful object for the enjoyment of others.
I was thrilled when he said he understood me and my strange desires. He had recognised my passivity as a profound sexual submissiveness, something that had chimed with his own personal fantasies: to be a Puppet-Master. Doll, statue, mannequin, puppet. What did it matter what we called it? We locked eyes, and I asked him to own me, to love and protect me. And joyously, he agreed.
Somehow, fate had matched me with you, my Pygmalion.
We began to travel, roaming the museums and galleries of the world. Every day we’d fall in love with another beautiful statue. Whilst fellow visitors would merely stay for a minute, folding their arms and nodding appreciatively before sauntering off to the next exhibit, we’d find a sculpture we loved, then stay and linger. We’d keep the statue company, sitting on a nearby bench to admire it. Our minds would clear, and we’d mediate, ignoring the busy footsteps of passers-by to commune with the stone, and through it, the spirit of its creator.
We’d contemplate the effigy, exquisitely crafted from a block of perfect marble, and see the love the sculptor had invested in it. The ancients did not live long lives, a sculptor might spend a tenth of their working life on a single statue. Imbuing it with grace, and a soul. Why would one make such an investment were they not besotted with it?
Later, in our hotel room, we’d recreate what we had seen. I’d powder my skin white like marble, and drape a sheet upon the little plinth we carried, then stand upon it, adopting the pose of the statue we’d just seen.
You’d then walk around me as I stood motionless, admiring me, your eyes roaming across my whitened skin. In our museum, you gets to touch, running your fingers along my body, as I try not to quiver or flinch.
You like to spank me, don’t you? Smacking my snow-white buttocks slow and hard. Anyone watching might think your smacks land with no effect, the pinkness inflicted by your palm hidden beneath my powder layer. Eventually though, you’ll spank it off, revealing warm pink flesh beneath the stone, as if you’ve magically transformed me into flesh.
Your magic touch can even make a statue seep. That thing you do, when you lube your fingers, and place the middle finger at the entrance to my vagina, and ring finger against my bottom hole. Then you slowly push into me, simultaneously penetrating my two tight holes. In and out, your fingers fucking me, slow and deep, until my legs begin to wobble.
This is how my Pygmalion brings his masterpiece to life. In and out. What once was stone, now is aching, dripping flesh. Your every thrust is pumping me with life. In and out. In and out until I come – and my Master catches me in his arms as I tumble from my plinth.
I experience the warm wet caress of my sculptor’s kiss for the very first time, as you carry me to our bed.
You shed his toga, and then – oh! The irony. I can see a part of you has turned to stone.
Your Galatea reaches around to hug you, I’m an awakening statue, astonished by the sudden discovery of intimate human flesh.
Then you slide in deep. And fuck my virgin cunt.
Our travels ultimately took us to the roof of the world. We hiked among the Himalayas, climbing high mountain passes as the thin air rasped in our throats, sapping the strength from our limbs until I limped like a puppet with severed strings. We stayed in hillside huts, lodging with welcoming Sherpa shepherds who somehow eked a living from these barren wind-blasted slopes.
Communication was often tricky, an embarrassed exchange of mimes and phrasebook platitudes. But sometimes we did encounter English-speakers, and we’d talk long into the cold dark night, huddled around the tiny glowing fireplace. We found common ground with those who followed Tibetan Buddhism, discussing at length matters of the spirit and the art of mediation. A few mentioned a temple in the region whose monks were famed for exploring altered states of consciousness.
One described a state of being there, but not there. Aware and feeling, yet immobilised. Mind somehow separated from body. It sounded like a kind of hypnotic trance, alert but controlled by another. A few nights later we stayed with a lady whose English was more limited, again we talked of the temple, and what they did there. She looked around her cramped but cosy little hut, trying to explain herself, until her eyes settled upon one of her daughter’s rag dolls. Like that, she pointed, at the temple you learn to be like that.
I met Pygmalion’s gaze, and we knew without exchanging a word we had to find this place. We asked our host to scribble a map, and the very next morning, we turned around in search of it.
We stumbled across the temple three weeks later, materialising out of the evening mist, a fantasy of terracotta and gilded timbers built into the side of a looming mountain. Every surface so delicately carved, a disconsonant oasis of human artistry amid these lifeless rocky peaks. The monks welcomed us like brothers, and nodded sagely when we told them what we were seeking. We were pleasantly surprised by their open-mindedness. We should discovered it was not a hermitage of celibacy.
We donned their saffron robes. We fasted, meditated, and listened. Each night we’d fall asleep huddled together in a wool-packed cot, listening to the savage gales whistling through the mountain crags. Each lesson felt like we were being handed a fragment of a cryptic treasure map.
Bit by bit, the wizened monks revealed the mystery of our minds.
Then they taught us magic spells.
* * 3 * *
We’re back in Europe now. In an old château, beside a deep still lake, concealed by trees and dwarfed by the high alps that tower above us. It is very epitome of seclusion. We do not intend to be disturbed. Nous sommes La Société des Poupées, the Company of Dolls.
We learned of La Société in that mountain temple, a German couple arrived a couple of weeks after us, returning to practice, and learn new hypnotic techniques. We soon recognised them as kindred spirits.
They generously allowed us to watch their own intimate ritual. It would begin by putting her into a deep trance, then her partner would animate her by blowing a shrill note on his tiny bamboo flute. For a few fleeting moments, she’d be able to move again. Sometimes he’d give her instructions, or he’d move alongside and position her like a mannequin into the position he intended. As the last vibrations of the flute faded from our minds, her muscles would freeze, and she would become a doll again.
Over the following months, we slowly mastered the same technique. We found I responded best to the chime of a singing bowl, rather than the whistle of a xun flute or the booms of a tabla.
We kept in touch with the couple, and through them got to know others within La Société. We’d travel the continent, meeting for soirées, becoming dolls, as our Masters played with us.
Now the Company of Dolls is gathering. We don’t know the organisers, or how they came to know of us. But somehow we received an invitation, a map and a QR code that admitted us through a pair of electric gates on the winding private alpine road. We park our hybrid rental car in a gap on the wide gravel drive, looking incongruous between a blood red Ferrari and an Aston Martin that shimmers like a block of molten silver.
As suggested, we’ve arrived the evening before the event, giving us plenty of time to prepare. We’re met on the entrance steps by a smartly dressed gentleman who scans our code before welcoming us effusively. He leads us up the opulent grand staircase to our room, a large luxurious boudoir. Our host explains the weekend schedule, it seems the first gathering of the Company will be over breakfast tomorrow, then the “scenes” will begin. He turns to you: You’ll enjoy meeting your fellow guests, Monsieur, he says, pointedly ignoring me. By then, of course, I’ll be a Doll.
We unpack, and dinner is delivered to our room. We sit at the table on the balcony, looking out over the perfect pink mirror of the nearby lake as the sun sets behind the faraway peaks. I enjoy the autonomy of eating for one last time, because dolls don’t eat, dolls are fed.
As dusk falls, our bodies relaxed by wine and contentment, you take me by the hand, and lead me into the middle of the room. You unzip my dress, and slide it off me. You remove my bra, then pull down my underwear. You unfasten my shoes, and then sweep me off my feet, carrying me over to our extravagant bed. I lie back with a sigh, sinking deep into its soft plushness.
And then we begin the ritual we learned.
Breathing long, deep breaths.
You’re sitting beside me, eyes closed. Matching my breathing. In your hands is the bronze singing bowl, and the little leather-covered mallet.
You strike, and I’m flooded by its chime. It’s not loud, yet I feel the harmonics of the note resonating throughout my body. I feel my mind disengaging, becoming ever more relaxed, the chatter of my internal dialogue diminishing as the ringing fades away.
The intervals between my breaths get longer, as my mind calms, and feels to float free of my body, drifting into a state of intense meditation.
You start with my mouth, kissing, nibbling, then moving down to nuzzle my neck, before continuing down to my breasts. I do not respond, of course. I lie on the bed passively as your lips encounter me. But arousal is not mine to control, and you can see my nipples rising, stiffening.
I’m vaguely aware of your fingertips skimming over my body, but the sensations feel different now, as if you’re no longer touching my body, rather just a body I happen to be connected to.
I sense you inspecting my most intimate regions so closely. Taking the utmost care to scrutinise, touch, and stroke every square millimeter personally. You starting with my perfectly hairless mound, which I had waxed yesterday, so bare and soft and sensitive. I know you’ll approve.
No part of me is private. Especially not from your expert gaze. You adjust the bedside anglepoise light so it shines directly onto my once secret areas, so there’s not a single spot hidden in shadow.
You start with my labia, lubricating your finger with the wetness I’ve produced for you, you move it along my lips and closely inspect them, spreading my juices over them as you cover the entirety of them. From my lips you move on to my clit, first inspecting the hood, rubbing it and examining its every surface, pulling it back and then releasing it to check it’s elasticity and tease my sensitive button. You study my clitoris, feeling its hardness and pulling back the covering folds to get a good look at it.
I remember when you first inspected me. No one had ever taken such interest in me. Previous lovers treated my vulva as a hole to fuck. But you’d happily spend an evening looking at me, stroking me, seeing how my body responded, how my delicate pink petals unfurled. You’d experiment, taking a bobby pin from my dresser, and carefully clipping it over my hood so my clit was exposed. Or wrapping a length of string around my waist, leaving loops dangling over my slit, and clipping my labia to them, so I was spread open, completely.
You realised I liked to be passive. To just lie back and be inspected. You’d tease me, our little game of wits, me trying to stay still, you trying to get me to move. Oh how mean you could be! Sliding a couple of fingers into my vagina, and rubbing my cum spot. Or you’d examine my clit, testing it’s reactions to various stimulus as I tried desperately not to moan and shift, every whimper or tremble earning me a spank on the inside of my thighs.
Once my clit had told you all it could, you’d fetch the speculum and slowly slide it between my swollen lips. And I would lie there, like some gynaecological practice doll, feeling the hard lubed steel bill fill up every inch of me. Then you’d begin to ratchet, stretching my passage open until I was sure you’d be able to peep inside and glimpse my soul.
The speculum wasn’t the only medical device we owned. You liked to tape a photoplethysmograph over my clit and connect it to your phone. It was a photo-electric arousal meter, more commonly found in sexual research labs. As I drifted further from reality, you’d slowly begin to read erotic phrases to me, letting each of them sink into my mind, giving me time to imagine them. The device would tell you how aroused I was. Yet I would stay still, feeling my juices seeping from my open hole.
You enjoyed taking notes, observing my reactions, (or the lack of them). You’d scribble in your notebook, recording my sensitivity and little sketches of my cervix. It was fascinating to hear my progress, how much better I was getting at being your doll.
But tonight, in the boudoir, we don’t have our toys. Just each other, and the meditation techniques we’ve learned.
After a thorough examination of my vulva, you lift my legs and inspect my bottom. I keep them upright, perfectly vertical. You spank me, soft and hard, blushing my skin and examining the marks.
Then you begin to examine my bottom hole, using all your 5 senses: running your finger around it, tasting it, smelling it, listening to the little squelches as your finger penetrates it.
Soon, I feel your fingertip entering my bum as you start to examine me internally, feeling how I squeeze your finger, how my muscles first resist you then admit you. But this is not for my gratification, you are assessing the depth of my trance, how I react to the most intimate stimuli, and so you move slowly – scientifically.
We know it is the conscious mind that resists a bottom-fucking, tightening the anal passage when something intrudes. But when a doll’s mind is empty, there is no such gatekeeper, and soon your thick finger is slipping easily into my arse.
That’s when you know I’m ready to step through the doors of perception, and enter a new kind of consciousness.
You strike the singing bowl again, and I can see myself behind my closed eyelids, as if I’m looking down, outside my body. I see you’ve placed a fingertip between my open legs, just beneath my clitoris.
And then I hear you speak. Deep and magnificent, as if I was listening to the very voice of God. You begin to dictate erotic phrases, slowly and meticulously, letting each one of them sink into my mind.
“Two girls, head-to-toe, eagerly licking each others’ cunts.”
My empty mind is desperate for instructions, so you know I’ll have no choice but to imagine anything you say. In perfect, vivid detail. Something materialises from the blackness, seemingly an elegant but minimally furnished business hotel. Jackets, blouses and skirts lie scattered haphazardly across the room, as if their owners stripped off urgently, each one daring the other to follow.
Two figures writhe naked on the bed.
The lady on top is of oriental appearance, perhaps Korean given the Hangul characters on her necklace. Her buttocks are splattered with faint pink patches. That’s what started it. Her colleague had teased her about a silly mistake at their recent business meeting, and had playfully smacked her bottom. Which had prompted Ms Korea to provocatively drop her skirt, and say: do it properly. Her colleague had happily complied, bending her over, and spanking her bum with several quick, hard slaps of her palm. Then, she’d languidly let her own skirt fall to the floor. After that, things had escalated quickly, long-suppressed desires surfacing at last.
Now I’m watching them pleasure each other. My mind’s eye floats like an invisible video camera behind Ms Korea’s spanked bottom. The other woman, a pretty brunette of Mediterranean appearance, is lying on her back, staring upwards, her puckered lips sucking the small butterfly that’s hidden within her partner’s slit. The tip of her nose is between Ms Korea’s buttocks, crudely nudging against her bottom hole.
I witness everything in hyper-realistic detail. I hear every breath, every squelch. I can smell the hot musk of their excitement. I feel so close I long to reach out and touch, to join in and begin a little orgy. But then I remember I am a doll. I can only watch. I can not move.
Then, I hear something within the room ring. My mental image pans around, instinctively searching for the source. It’s a single long resonating note, that dominates my attention. As the sound grows louder, the scene around me dims, as my vision begins to fade. Oh please! I think. Don’t take me now! Just let me stay and watch them come. But I am under your command, and you’ve struck the bowl to summon me home.
Somewhere, in the world I’ve left behind, you were sensing my arousal peak, feeling the throb of my pulse in my clitoris, watching how my vulva winked and glistened.
Now all is dark again. My mind trapped behind my closed eyelids. My body frozen. The first time I experienced this space I was terrified. I felt like I’d been cast adrift in an endless void. But then I hear your deep rumbling voice, and know you’re out there, somewhere, to keep me safe.
I wait within the Bardo of my own consciousness. It is formless, empty and beautiful.
You’re letting my arousal subside, I hear you say something neutral.
“A sparrow, a small, plump, brown-grey bird, sitting on a branch.”
I wonder if you can see my clit tingle, such is the effect of your voice. I see the bird you describe, his stubby beak parting as he emits a rapid burst of staccato cheeps. I look down to see my own bare feet, I’m standing naked by a hedgerow, on a path that winds between green grassy fields. I can not move, of course. So I remain here, frozen where I stand like some lichen-encrusted rural statue, feeling the warm breeze whisper over my skin, listening to the tiny bird’s chirpy serenade.
I am standing here because separation of mind and body requires full mastery of my desires. When I become a doll nothing everything I experience will be arousing, there will be long periods of waiting and listening to others. And I know those around me will ignore me, just as the little sparrow does.
Some time later, I hear the ring, a rich chime carried on the wind, like the peal of a distant church bell. Everything darkens, as if night had suddenly fallen in a couple of moments. And I’m alone in the dark again.
I wait patiently, until I hear your voice wash over me once more. To my hyper-sensitised imagination, I hear your whispers as a roar, like the surge of stormy seas crashing upon a craggy shore.
“A schoolgirl, just caned, standing facing the corner, quietly sobbing.”
I shouldn’t be aroused by that, that poor girl crying, with such a sore bottom. But it does arouse me, it arouses me very much indeed. I’m sitting at the back of the class, scribbling my assignment. Yet I can’t help looking up from my page, to stare at the young lady standing beside the blackboard with her skirt rolled up and her knickers around her ankles. My eyes continually drawn, almost magnetically, to the six pink horizontal lines across her bare bottom.
I’m finding it difficult to suppress my smirk. But feel like I deserve to stand in her position. She’d been caught reading a note by Sir. Then summoned to the front of the class. He’d made her touch her toes, and lifted her skirt as we, her classmates looked on, awestruck. It’s always shocking when Sir pulls a girl’s panties down, but that’s School Rules.
Six of the Best. On the Bare Bottom.
She never did divulge who the note was from. It was me.
Now she’s got her nose pressed against the chalky surface of the blackboard. Weeping and sniffling. Her hands are resting on the top of her head, so she can’t reach back to cover her bottom, or rub the sting away.
But I know she’s not sobbing because it’s sore. I’ve had much more than six on the bare. No, she’s crying because she was humiliated. The model student, spanked like a silly little girl in front of the whole class.
That’s why you brought me here, isn’t it? For a lesson in shame, another emotion a true doll must master. When I’m a doll, I know I’ll experience many humiliations, I’ve been spanked, inspected and fucked in public, in front of the eager eyes of dozens of strangers. I know that’s what lies in store for me tomorrow.
Sir looks up from his desk to see me smirking, and calls me to the front of the class. I’m told to touch my toes, and soon he has my bottom bared. I grimace as the six whacks land, each searing a new pink stripe onto the sensitive skin of my soft round cheeks. Then I’m sent to stand in disgrace, so the two of us flank the blackboard. I place my hands on my head, and look across at my friend, her eyes still wet and teary. My broad grin proves contagious, and I see her smile.
Eventually the school bell sounds. One long, continuous ringing note. Soon, everything is blacker than the scruffy blackboard I’ve been facing. And I wait.
Wherever my body is, it no longer feels like my concern. It no longer squirms in response to your provocative scenes, as my mind no longer controls its muscles. The trance does not make me limp like a rag doll, but immobile like a mannequin. My pliant body lies on the bed, for you to use however you please, my mind controlled remotely by just your words.
On tenterhooks, I await your next pronouncement. Then I hear the booming voice of God.
“My big stiff cock, in your tight little pussy.”
My cock. Your pussy. This is the last step. The rejoining of my floating mind with my passive body. Now instead of imagining your words, I will experience them. I’ll see from behind my own eyes again.
Arousal is the door to the trance. Complete sexual submissiveness is the key that unlocks it.
My consciousness rejoins my strangely incapacitated body.
I see you again, watching you undress, realising when you step to one side that even the muscles in my eyes are no longer under my control. But I feel my pupils open, as if by reflex, when I see your stiff cock.
I sense my juices seeping onto the bedding I’m lying on, and my vagina, open and eager to be penetrated.
You put me in several positions as you fuck me. All I have left is my breathing, I gasp with satisfaction, but my paralysed voice emits no sound. From my detached state I sense the frustrated desires of my own body, how it wants to instinctively contort, to plunge onto you and chase its own pleasure. But dolls don’t decide when they come, I must wait until you take me there.
You’re thrusting harder now. How I’d love to lift my legs, to wrap my slender thighs around your hips, and press my calves against your muscular buttocks. All those degrees, all those achievements, and here I am lying silently on my back with my legs open, like some kind of cheap sex doll. I can feel the weight of your athletic torso pushing down on me. You do not kiss me. Or even acknowledge I’m anything other than a tight, wet hole to grip your cock. You’re just using me for your pleasure. And that excites me, tremendously.
You’re grunting now, getting close. Have pity, I plead inside. Some owners never let their dolls climax, careful to never push them over the edge, so they can keep them in a permanent state of mute frustrated excitement. I’ve seen the hunger in their eyes. A thousand-yard stare of those kept in denial, continuously aroused, their last orgasm a distant fading treasured memory.
You wouldn’t do that to me, would you my love? Oh how silly I am! A doll that thinks she’s a lady. A doll who thinks she can come. Who even am I? Geppetto’s latest creation? A semi-sentient sex robot? A pleasure droid being screwed in a tacky neon-red Kabukichō boudoir, dreaming it’s a loving fuck in a remote lakeside château?
Who am I doesn’t matter any more. I am just a hole for fucking, and a pair of open watching eyes. The only part of my body I can feel is my vagina, stretched and filled by your thick cock. Thrusting. Faster. Urgently. Until I feel you spurt inside me, pumping harder and deeper as you wring yourself dry.
That’s when I come hard. Silently – but yelling inside.
After my fucking, you lie alongside me in muted reverie of mutual bliss. Eventually, you strike the singing bowl again, its chime miraculously restoring flexibility to my muscles. Yet I still remain under your full control, waiting for you to tell me to rise from the bed, and follow you to the shower. I stand dumbly under the nozzle as you wash me, a torrent of pleasantly hot water cascading over my face as you wipe off my makeup. It feels so juvenile to have you run your fingers through my wet hair, and lift my arms so you can soap up my armpits.
Your sponge washes my slit with meticulous care, cleansing me of my stickiness. How frustrating it is not to be able to speak, to plead for longer, lingering rubbings, or to be able to grab the nozzle and point its jet towards my clit. A doll must be content with the little rivulets of warmth that trickle down her tummy, tingling as they dribble between her legs.
You embrace me with a warm fluffy towel, enveloping me and drying my now exquisitely soft and sensitive skin. You dry my hair, then brush it, pulling it back into two perfect pigtails. Then, you lead me to the toilet, seating me, opening my legs, and placing your warm hand on my mound to help me go. You watch as your doll piddles in one long gush, just like a real girl!
You help me stand, then wipe me dry, dabbing the soft tissue between my slit. Once I would have been embarrassed by such intimate treatment, but now I’m a doll, I see things differently. I need to be cared for, and I’m grateful. When you guide me to the sink, I see the face of a doll who looks just like me staring back in the bathroom mirror. I see you open her mouth, squeeze toothpaste onto a toothbrush and scrub her teeth. A foamy, minty sweetness fills my mouth, before you raise a glass of water to rinse my mouth.
Finally, you escort me back to the bedroom, to dress me in my frilly pyjamas, ensuring they lie just right on my body. You guide me back to bed, positioning me comfortably where I’ll lie next to you. I won’t squirm or toss overnight, so when we wake in the morning I’ll still be lying exactly how you posed me.
I wait like a good doll as you visit the bathroom to complete your own ablutions, then you climb into bed beside me. You kiss me goodnight, hugging me tight as my heart swells with joy. Then you reach across to the nightstand, and using another hammer, you strike a different note on the singing bowl.
And I abruptly fall into a deep and contented sleep…
To be continued…
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