This is the concluding part of a two-part story, read the first part here.

The next morning you wake me with a chime, as a golden light spills through the open window like a luminously syrupy waterfall.

You bring me into the bathroom and sit me on the toilet. Then we shower, or at least I stand obediently as you lather me in warm foamy perfumed suds. A quick once-over with the razor to ensure everywhere is presentably smooth and flawless. After all, I’m going to be on display to the public today.

You dry me off, and clean my teeth, then lead me back to bedroom to dress me. You’ve chosen an adorable little outfit, a vintage Edwardian girl’s dress, powder blue, woven from the finest wool. You put my underwear on first, lifting my arms for my silk camisole, then stepping me into its matching half-slip, which you pull up to my waist. You repeat the same manoeuvre with my snow white lace-fringed petticoat. In the mirror, my ghostly reflection resembles something Wilkie Collins might have described.

Fortunately my charming little one-piece dress provides a splash of welcome colour, it’s knee length, with embroidered trimmings embellishing the side and around the skirt. You hoist it up to my chest, before feeding my hands through its armholes. I marvel at myself in the mirror, resplendent in a dress that’s over a hundred years old, wondering if the mother who bought it would ever be able to comprehend how it would eventually be worn.

I feel you moving behind me, buttoning me up at the back. After that, there’s just one final garment, a one-sided frilly pinafore with a high collar that covers my neck and extends down just as far as my nipped-in waist.

You sit me down by the dressing table to complete the look, plaiting my hair into a single braid, then applying a touch of white face powder, and a brush of rouge to my cheeks. When you’ve finished, I see you in the mirror, standing behind me, admiring me. You call me beautiful. And inside, unseen, I feel I might burst with pride.

I sit patiently at the dressing table, watching glimpses of you in the mirror as you put on your own costume. I see you’ve chosen your colonial era white linen suit, another vintage item that you’ve had tailored, so the double-breasted jacket perfectly fits your tall athletic frame. Your decide against the waistcoat, just a simple white shirt with a small butterfly collar, and a thin blood red tie. Then you appear in the mirror behind me, running gel through your hair before slicking it back with a comb.

Your own preparations complete, you place your hand on my shoulder as we pose together. We look magnificent, like travellers from the age of H.G Wells. Perhaps all you ever needed to travel through time was a fully committed imagination.

You walk over to the singing bowl on the bedside table, and strike it with the little mallet. I feel energy surge through my own muscles again. You ask me to stand and join you, I walk over to your outstretched arm smoothly and suavely. I can do anything when the bowl rings, as long as you’ve told me to do it first.

We leave our room, arm in arm, and stride down the chandelier-lit hallway to breakfast, to join the congregation of the dolls…

* * 4 * *

Our fellow guests are all couples. Some dolls are male, for whom popular looks are the Victorian sailor boy and the Dickensian waif. I can also glimpse several cabin boys and schoolboys, and those with outfits from further back in antiquity, like Roman togas and even loincloths, a choice seemingly made so the doll’s owner can slather oil over their boy’s extravagantly glistening muscles.

It goes without saying some couples share the same sex, and there’s some gender-bending costuming too. There’s plenty of variety in ages too, with several elegantly dressed men and women chaperoning much younger companions. I can spy several austere-looking governesses.

You seat me in a fine chair in the dining room, I don’t have a plate so I sit in the waiting posture I’ve been taught. My back straight, with my elbows tucked closely to my sides and my hands folded neatly in my lap. You greet the other guests as they take their seats nearby, I simply watch as they admire me.

Soon breakfast is served, and conversation strikes up between neighbouring owners. I do not join in, of course, but merely drink in the scene around me, observing every detail of my fellow dolls, many of whom I’ve met before. Many rather intimately. Heads still, we acknowledge each other with subtle glances, almost telepathically.

Sitting opposite me is a pale gamine young lady, her blonde hair cut short, into an almost boyish mop. She’s wearing an open-shouldered top, those thin horizontal white and navy stripes the epitome of ‘50s chic. Beneath, she’s wearing loose faded jeans, rolled up to expose her slender alabaster calves. Her mundane clothes contrast with her beautiful face. She looks achingly cool, like Jean Seberg in ‘À bout de souffle’. I can easily imagine her, sitting cross-legged on a stool in a trendy Parisian jazz club.

Beside the chic femme is a young woman made up as a Barbie doll. Her skin is shiny, with the weird sheen of polished plastic, and her long blonde hair flows flawlessly over her shoulders. Somewhat incongruously for breakfast, she’s wearing a one-piece swimsuit, the intention clearly being to reveal the effort that’s gone into making her look like a toy.

The Barbie has thin black elastic bands around every joint on her body, around her neck, at the top of her arms, at her elbows and her wrist. She has pencil thin lines drawn across the joints of her fingers. The bands separate her shiny skin in segments, artfully providing the illusion that the young lady opposite is actually entirely artificial, a life-sized assembly of articulated plastic.

On the table before us is a glossy colour programme, which welcomes us and lists all the different scenes we guests can play. We’re staying in the southern half of the chateau, and it seems all the rooms in the northern half have been specially decorated in some kind of scene. Some rooms even have special guest appearances by famous doms and dominatrices. It’s like attending a music festival, where you can’t be everywhere, and you’ll going to have to make some excruciating choices.

Because today is the day the owners play with their dolls. Undressing and redressing them in new costumes, and taking them to all kinds of themed rooms. There might be a regency ballroom, a pirate ship cabin, realistic castle dungeons, old-fashioned schoolrooms, even suburban bedroom sleepovers.

Some scenes are erotic dioramas, static scenes of great eroticism or aesthetic beauty. Others are more interactive, featuring roleplaying that’s orchestrated by our owners. We dolls may not be able to move, but our sexual responsiveness is unaffected. It’s not uncommon for us to become highly aroused during a scene, seeping silently. And when we drip, we rely on our owners to wipe us.

I can’t move my eyes to read, so you flick through the programme, reading out what piques your interest. I can not talk, so this is not a discussion. I will accept whatever you decide is best for me, as always. I know here, I’m barely even a person anymore, just a soft malleable plaything, something to be controlled and molded.

Your voice fills my mind as I imagine what you describe to me.

The Stables. With ponies for the dolls to ride, led by their owners around the chateau grounds. A wide range of whips and crops available, as well as dildoes for the saddles.”

A pony-ride with both holes filled? I like the sound of that.

Tickle-torment. A room full of devious contraptions with moving feathers, apply them to every part of your doll’s anatomy, as they tremble, unable to move.”

That sounds awful! I think I’d burst!

The Clinic. Detailed intimate examinations, performed by our medically qualified nursing team.”

Oooh, speculums and enemas, and the snap of rubber gloves. I do like inspections.

The Spa. Experience our soothing baths and bubbling waters, and wash your charge clean again.”

That sounds absolutely delightful. I wish I could nod my head vigorously.

A Visit to Uncle Montagu. Step back in time to this meticulously recreated 1950s household, where naughty boys and girls can expect the slipper.”

I suspect you’re giving this serious consideration, given your preference for scenes with the best bottom-warming possibilities.

Ballet School. Visit the gymnasium to have your doll tutored by our renowned ballet teacher.”

That could be fun, I bet the tutor believes in smacking bottoms.

The Royal Court. Taking place in the gilded splendour of the Great Hall. Attend this opulent scene as aristocrat or commoner.”

That sounds like one of the dressing up scenes, an excuse to don exotic costumery and look generally fabulous.

The Studio. Pose your charge in a diorama, and have them painted by our world-class artist.”

I do love posing for pictures. But it does tend to involve a lot of waiting around. Orgy scenes can be fun though.

Rape in the Woods. Let us hide your doll in the woods. Owners will be supplied with a map. Dolls will wait in suspense, until their owner surprises them – or someone else does.”

Gosh. That does sound scary.

The Sanatorium. Hot and flustered? Enemas and cold showers should bring your charge’s temperature down”

If I could frown, I’d definitely make clear my aversion to going there.

The Nursery. Nappy facilities available, along with lots of toys.”

Hmmm, there won’t be much sexual stimulation once the nappies go on.

The Shibari Cellar. Our rope bondage masters will assist you in binding and suspending your doll in beautiful contortions.”

I do love being tied up, even if it is rather superfluous for a doll.

The Libertine’s Bedchamber. Watch as your charge is expertly fucked by our quixotic and masterful lover.”

Wow. I often fantasise about being taken by another man whilst you watch. Maybe you can both fuck me at once, the libertine standing behind you, putting his long thick cock between your legs to fill my cunt as you plunge into my bottom.

Statues in the Fountain. Visit the courtyard, and add another statue to our marvellous display. Let streams of tingling water run across your charge’s body.”

That sounds like a lovely way to end the day.

Chores for Cinderella. Dress your doll as a maid, and we’ll put them to work cleaning the chateau.”

Compared to the hedonistic delights of the previous settings, this sounds horrible. I came here hoping we’d enjoy ourselves, not for hours of drudgery as a scullery maid.

The Medieval Dungeon. Slap your wench in chains, and commit them to the stocks. Watch or aid our skilled team as they administer a myriad erotic torments.”

Despite the fact I can’t move, hearing that description induced a cold shiver. I could feel myself tremble. I’ve been a doll in the dungeon before, sitting on the cruel edge of the wooden pony, having my slit splayed open as I watch the erotic suffering of others, awaiting my own turn.

Instructed by the Governess. Let our professional domme teach your charge how to behave with proper decorum, with lessons in manners, cleanliness and good posture.”

Again, that doesn’t sound much fun. Walking up and down a line with my head still and my back straight, getting my bottom smacked for the tiniest deviation.

Picnic in the Park, au naturel. Shed your clothes and join us to bask in the fresh air. Parasols, cold drinks and delicious treats provided.”

That might be a nice way to unwind, though I suspect you’d initially be keen on something more ‘interactive’.

The Geisha Lounge. Our make-up experts will transform your charge into a beautiful white-faced Japanese doll.”

How intriguing that might be.

The Headmaster’s Office. Appointments available for naughty dolls. Bottoms will be bared and thoroughly caned.”

I think you’d like that. Dressing me up as a schoolgirl, and watching a cruel headmaster pulling down my panties before whacking my poor bottom.

The Pirate’s Cabin. Watch on as our crew of lovable ruffians abducts and violates your most treasured possession.”

Goodness me. That sounds scary. And here’s me all dressed up like the prim Governor’s daughter. The possibilities were disturbingly arousing.

The Salon of Whores. For those who believe in sharing. Leave your doll here to be fucked, whilst you enjoy the charms of others.”

These rooms are such fun, like a selection box of lovers!

The Bucolic Glade. Let us transform you and your charge into fauns and satyrs, then come frolic in our enchanted wood.”

That sounds idyllic. Fauns can be so randy sometimes.

The Classroom. Watch from the back of our authentically recreated school room as your doll is tutored by one of our team of experienced headmistresses. Misbehaviour will be punished…”

You pause, looking into my impassive face, seeking any flicker of reaction. I feel a slight dampness in my eyes, I wonder if you that makes them appear to sparkle. Oh yes, you know I’m no stranger to playing in a classroom…

* * 5 * *

I’ve played school scenes many times before, dressed in an authentic old school uniform, and positioned at the front of a lovingly recreated old classroom. An environment of wood panels and antique maps, blackboards and the smell of chalk dust. The last time I sat with five other girls, each of us on the flat wooden bench attached to our little desks.

You were sitting a couple of rows behind me, along with the masters of all the other dolls. Our scenes might seem to play out slowly to an outsider, but to we dolls, each is a hyper-realistic experience. Freed from the responsibility of consciously controlling our own bodies, our imagination expands, claiming our idle mind’s vast capacity, constructing a reality of exhilarating intensity.

The door had swung open and our teacher had entered with a dramatic flourish, a tall pretty lady with a stern countenance, all wrapped up in a long black gown. I could already feel my apprehension growing, knowing it was almost inevitable that soon I’d be bending over before her, getting my bare bottom whacked. It was a relief to hear my chime as our masters animated us, temporarily granting us the ability to move so we could respectfully stand.

I respond to your singing water bowl, but other owners use different devices: little bells, tiny flutes, exotic chimes. It results in a tinkling, playful cacophony when all sounded together.

Every now and then, you’d strike my bowl, restoring my agency for a few precious moments, animating me enough to answer my teacher’s question, or write notes, or even to risk dipping my hand beneath my desk to rub my aching slit. It wasn’t long before I could feel the wet fabric of my underwear clinging tight, the result of watching several of my classmates being called to the front of the class, to be bend over and bared, and spanked right in front of my eyes. You might not know this, but when you’re unable to move, one’s entire consciousness becomes deeply fixated. I can barely do justice to the intensity of witnessing a spanking whilst being so immersed and utterly focussed.

But if I do chance a rubbing I must be sure not to linger, lest I fall still with my hand between my legs. The girl on my right has already been caught red-handed that way, earning herself 20 whacks with the long wooden ruler. Miss has rolled up the girl’s skirt and confiscated her panties, so now she’s sitting on her bright pink bottom. I could see her wetness, a sticky little puddle on her varnished wooden seat.

So when you next granted me freedom to move I tried to write a note to the girl on my left, alerting her to our classmate’s shame. Alas! I wasn’t quick enough, I felt my muscles stiffening just as I deposited the note on my classmate’s lap. Teacher turned round to see me, catching me with my incriminating note between my fingers. You rang my bowl, and I was summoned to the front of the class, where Miss made me read out what I’d written.

“Look how wet Veronique is! Getting spanked must really turn her on!”

It was such a childish thing to say. I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment as I read it aloud.

My teacher ensured my punishment fitted my crime. Reaching to my waist to undo my skirt, letting it fall to the floor before she tugged down my sodden underwear. Normally, my hands would have fled to cover my mound, but paralysed by the trance, I could only stand exposed in front of the class, as my stern-faced teacher placed her fingers between the lips of my slit. When she withdrew them, her fingers were coated with a sticky string of goo, which she held up for all the class to see.

“Look how wet she is!” she announced mockingly.

“Watching spankings must really turn her on!”

At that point, several owners sounded their instruments, and moments later, the classroom filled with raucous, teasing laughter.

Eventually, the mirth subsided, and my classmates became immobile again. Now I looked back to see the smiles frozen on their faces, and how their eyes were sparkling.

Then, I was positioned.

There is an fine art to positioning dolls. We are simply objects in a life-sized diorama, a 3-dimensional still image. We exist for our owners’ entertainment, so during each scene they’ll often intervene, tweaking our postures.

The most skillful owners are masters of suggestion, of engineering the erotic. Perhaps by tilting a doll’s head to reveal a salacious glance, or altering a doll’s stance to offer an unexpected glimpse of intimate flesh that might only be visible from one particular angle as the audience move around the scene. There might be one pupil not wearing panties, a revelation only visible to one sitting at the teacher’s desk. Or the flange of a butt plug barely visible as contours on a tight cocktail dress.

But there was little subtlety in my own punishment. I was lifted onto teacher’s desk, my feet dangling helplessly above the floor, before I was made to lie back. And so I found myself staring at the ceiling whilst my bare wet slit became my most prominent feature.

I heard the shrill peep of a whistle, and the tinkle of a tiny cymbal. Two of my classmates were summoned to stand either side of me. Then my legs were raised into the air, so my position resembled a V, with my bare bottom and my most intimate areas at its base. Each girl beside me was given one of my ankles to hold, and their own heads were angled downwards, so each appeared to be looking with studied fascination down the length of my legs to the glistening lips of my own swollen cunt. All the while I seeped and dripped, forming little gooey icicles of my own excitement on the edge of the desk beneath.

I sensed someone grasping my flaccid arms, which they folded behind my head, raising my viewpoint so I could look down between my breasts and out over my mound. Now I could see the ruler in the schoolmistress’s hand, and cruelly, behind her in the distance, one of my classmates, her hand sneaking beneath her desk and under her skirt.

The first whack landed on the lowest part of my bottom, just above the top of my thighs. The trance only impedes my ability to move, I can still feel every sensation perfectly, and my poor bum was immediately sore and stinging. But I can not wince or squirm, or cry or shudder. I took my punishment like a good girl, stoically and silently.

Occasionally Miss stops to dab her fingers between my legs, holding up a string of sticky goo to the whole class, just in case there was any doubt as to how wet my spanking was making me.

Sometimes my fellow dolls were allowed to move too, and in those periods I can hear them tittering at my shame and discomfort. I alone can see that the girl at the back of the class uses her spell of liberty to rub her clit in fast urgent circles, but she never quite gets there before her muscles freeze again. Despite my predicament I find her denial incredibly arousing. I resolve to get her into trouble when my own whacking is finished, to reverse our positions and make her witness my climax as I wank to her spanking.

It turned out to be a wonderful day at school.

When we returned to our room later that night, you had me kneel on the bed as you inspected my marks. Then you slid your cock into my needy wet slit, whispering into my ear everything that you’d witnessed, replaying the scene, plunging into me as you described the bits you enjoyed the most. I knelt impassively, pushed towards orgasm by your reminiscences, and your deep powerful thrusts against my poor sore bottom. But what actually pushed me over the edge was when you told me: I was your doll. Your perfect plaything.

* * 6 * *

You continue to read through the glossary programme as we eat our breakfast. Or more accurately, as you eat yours, and you feed me mine.  

As I’m still in the trance, so I’m completely reliant on you to feed me. There are empty spaces on the table where dolls sit, no plates, no cutlery. We are fed from our owner’s plates, looking down hungrily but impotently at the delicious dishes you’re served.

I watch as you impale a succulent strawberry with your fork, and dip it in a blob of thick cream, salivating at its imagined juiciness. You raise your fork, and my heart skips a beat when you pause to open my mouth, before gently pushing the morsel inside. Then you push my jaw almost shut, so you can withdraw the fork and leave the fruit behind.

I savour it, the sweet juice seeping onto my tongue. Until at last you give me permission to chew, unfreezing my jaw for just a minute, I chew slowly, enjoying every sensation, as if these are the last flavours I’ll ever experience. Then I start to petrify again, I feel my jaw muscles freeze. Swallowing is a reflex, so that’s never affected, and I feel the warm creamy mass slip down my throat – it feels like when you come in my mouth. Then I’m completely still again. Your obedient doll, utterly under your control again.

One by one, the masters decide on rooms they’ll take their dolls to first. They stand, playing a note on the instrument that permits their charges to move, and one by one the dolls follow their masters out of the hall, towards whatever adventure has been chosen for them.

I see you pick up the water bowl and stand. Before the high ringing chime floods my ears, my body felt like a cartoon drawing, flat and two-dimensional, but after the chime, my body feels real and responsive again. I stand and follow you out of the room, my mind already racing. It’s entirely possible that in a matter of minutes, a stranger might be undressing me, I might be moments away from being laid out upon a bed to be used. I can feel my tummy swirling, but I can’t tell if it’s anxiety or expectation.

We walk for several minutes along a plush hall before halting outside an open door, the numerals 11 in the little wooden frame on the wall outside. We’re greeted by a well-dressed gentleman, wearing one of the gold lapel pins the organisers of this event wear. After being welcomed inside, you join the man out of my earshot for a whispered conversation. When you return, you escort me to a nearby wheelchair. I sit apprehensively, unsure what will happen next, as this doesn’t seem like any of the scenarios you read out to me.

Then, to my considerable surprise, you pull a blindfold over my face. Everything goes dark. I feel straps fasten around my wrists and ankles, binding me to the wheelchair. Moments later, I’m in motion, the sensation beneath the rolling wheels changes as I trundle over the hall’s plush deep carpet. I don’t even know if you’re pushing me. The thought of being separated from you terrifies me. I want to call out to you, but in my trance, I’m mute and helpless.

Soon the hubbub of nearby voices recedes, I feel the heat of sunshine on my face and I know I’m outside. There’s a rumble from the wheels beneath me as we travel over uneven ground. I can hear the chirping of crickets and the warbles of birdsong. Now I can smell the heady scent of cut grass.

On we trundle, I can hear the crunch of a single pair of footsteps, but I still don’t know who’s pushing me. I can no longer hear any other voices. I can feel the temperature drop, and goosebumps prickle on my skin. The chair rocks from side to side as our path becomes rough and rutted. I soon begin to smell the sap of trees.

And then we abruptly stop. I feel the straps that kept my limbs from flailing being loosened, and someone helps me out of the chair. I’m still hoping it’s you, but something seems different. Then, I feel hands on my body positioning me. At last, my blindfold is removed, by whom, I do not know. They walk away behind me, a faint accompanying rumble suggesting they’re pushing the empty wheelchair. But I can’t turn around to see them.

All I can do is blink as a dim light returns to my eyes. I see I’m in a forest clearing, surrounded by tall broad-leaved trees. Underfoot is ankle-high grass, not the trampled-flat grass of a footpath or bridleway. I’ve been taken well off the beaten track. There are several fallen trunks nearby, some of considerable girth. It feels like I’m deep in this forest, and lost.

I console myself with the thought that I’ve been brought here for a reason. That all this is something you’ve intended. As I wait, I imagine the circumstances that might have led me here. I’m an impetuous young lady who’s taken a shortcut. I’d been warned about these woods before, and the ruffians that lurk in them. But I’m a big girl now, I thought I knew better, but now I’m in trouble. Hopelessly lost.

I must look so out of place here, in my adorable little blue Edwardian dress. An outfit more befitting tea with the vicar, than a daring excursion into the wilderness.

I must have been waiting for several minutes before I became aware of a completely new and disturbing sound, the pad of approaching footsteps. A strange man appears, walking around me like I’m an exhibit in a gallery. He does not wear a lapel pin, and I do not recognise him.

He scolds me, admonishing me for getting lost, for endangering myself. I can not verbally defend myself, of course, so I accept his criticisms meekly and mutely.

Your Daddy would smack your bottom, he observes.

He’s undeniably right. If I did wander into the woods and got lost, I would expect a good hard spanking if I ever got back home. A caning in front of my siblings would be a distinct possibility, a warning to us all not to stray into such dangerous places. Almost certainly on the bare too, with my nightie lifted, so I’d be sent to bed with a dozen stinging stripes. Only if I was very lucky would Daddy punish me in the privacy of my own bedroom, put over his knee for a thorough spanking with his big strong hand.

The stranger takes my hand, and leads me towards a fallen tree. He sits on its trunk, and lifts the hem of my dress and my petticoat to my waist. Then he pulls down my silk undergarments to my ankles, I can do nothing but stand obediently beside him as this stranger admires my bare mound.

Oh Daddy! Please save me. I’ve been such a silly little girl.

The stranger pulls me across his knee, and folds the back of my dress up so my bare bottom remains exposed. Then he begins to spank me with his big heavy hand. Tears begin to pool in my eyes, not because it’s particularly sore, but because I know I disobeyed Daddy, and now I’m getting what naughty girls deserve.

Oh where are you, Daddy? I plead silently. Why haven’t you rescued me from my folly?

Or are you lurking, watching in the woods as I’m disciplined? Is this stranger a friend of yours, or just the one who found me first?

My spanking is long and hard, each smack of the stranger’s strong wide palms leaving a stinging imprint that’s quickly reinforced by the next. I feel humiliated feeling his hand smack my bottom, only Daddy ever spanks me this way.

And yet, even when my spanking ends, I’ve one final degradation to suffer. As tears seep from my reddened eyes, I feel the stranger’s big hands splay apart my sore pink cheeks. I want to scream in protest, to kick my legs and squirm off his lap. But I am a doll, so accept his intrusion without a peep.

He places one thick thumb on my bottom hole, and the other fingers of that hand on the small of my back. His other thumb rests against my vagina, with the fingers of that hand between my thighs. He begins to rub in slow circles, redistributing some my wetness to my bottom hole. And that’s when I realise he means to violate me.

Oh Daddy! Oh Daddy! Save me please!

The stranger begins to push both of his thumbs inside me, stretching my bottom hole and sliding slowly in and out of my vagina. I don’t want to come, not like this, over a ruffian’s lap, but I am a doll, and it is my fate to be used. He synchronises his thrusts, so his thick thumbs fill both my holes simultaneously, before sliding them out, but never fully withdrawing.

I hold back for as long as I can, but that just makes my orgasm stronger.

I come silently screaming for Daddy, in a climactic surge of awesome intensity. And then, who knows? I black out.

When I awake, I find myself sprawled over the tree trunk. My dress is still lifted, and my underwear is still bunched around my ankles. My bare bottom is exposed, stinging from its spanking and throbbing from its intrusion. My slit and inner thighs are sticky from my violation.

Had I not been in the trance I’d have leapt to my feet, pulling up my underwear and straightening my dress, desperate to regain some remnants of my modesty, indignant at my molestation. But I am a doll. I know I am a plaything to be used. So I stay in position, feeling my wetness tingling on my open holes.

I wonder who’ll find me next. Perhaps the next one to stumble across me will fuck me. Perhaps that’s the scene we’re playing, what was it called? Rape in the Woods.

Oh Daddy! Save me please!

Time passes in a daze, until I realise I’m no longer alone. I’m aware of movement behind me, but I can’t look backwards to see its source. I wait on tenterhooks, expecting to hear the sound of a zip opening and trousers being lowered. And if I’m lucky, the crinkle of a condom packet being torn open.

Because this is what happens to silly girls who get themselves lost in the woods.

I feel something soft between my legs.

Something comfortably familiar. A handkerchief wiping me clean, gently cleansing my sticky mess from my intimate places.

My heart soars. Only one man in the world has ever treated me that way.


My one and only Pygmalion.

You help me to my feet and pull up my underwear, straightening my dress and arranging my dishevelled hair. You dry my face of my tears, and make me perfect again.

You look me in the eye and smile. And for a moment, it’s as if I we can read each other’s minds. A recognition of our love. That I love you so much I’ll surrender my body entirely. That I’m even willing to give up my own free-will to the trance.

You extend a hand, grasping mine, pushing the pressure point that grants me permission to move again.

Beyond this dark copse, light is streaming through the wood’s canopy, I can see a path ahead, illuminated by the sunbeams.

You lean and whisper into my ear:

“Come with me, my love.”

We clasp hands, and break into a run.

“Come. And I’ll take you where your imagination has always longed to go…”




@spankingtheatre 2017

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