A fantasy 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…
Playing Dolls is a recent story you may not have read yet, a tale for those who especially enjoy the mental side of
submissiveness, of being denied and immobile, and completely under the
whim of another. And especially those who fantasise about being spanked,
whilst not being allowed to move or make a sound.
The title suggests being a plaything to be used, but that’s to miss the subtlety of submission. This is actually a story about mindfulness – of the ability of sexual surrender to quieten even the noisiest minds. It’s hard to think of a time when we’re ever more in the moment than when we’re naked before a lover. But what if the scene was so intense, you could go one step beyond, into a hyper-aware trance?