Gromet's Plaza Latex Stories
The Doll Factory
by AmyAmy
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© Copyright 2009 - AmyAmy - Used by permission
Storycodes: F/f; M/f; D/s; bond; bdsm; latex; machines; chast; hum; oral; mc; cons/reluct; X
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The Doll Factory 5: Doll Parts AmyAmy F/f; M/f; D/s; bond; bdsm; latex; machines; chast; hum; oral; mc; cons/reluct; X
continued from part 4

Part 5: Doll Parts

I have an odd memory of Gideon saying the words, “…back up … now.”

It’s almost as if I just woke up, but I know I haven’t been sleeping. The experience in the chair must have taken more out of my than I thought.

 I look down at the coverings on my arms and legs; smooth glistening white plastic fits me like a glove, better than a glove in fact. The arm coverings reach up to cap my shoulders, while the legs stop just short of my crotch. A kind of waist cincher or corset wraps around my waist, reaching to my hip bone to just below my bust.

Black interface ports make mysterious contrasting circles at my ankles, and I see more on the inside of my thighs. I don’t believe for a moment that these things their machine just covered me with are simply medical monitors, they’re something else as well. They can make me feel things that aren’t real, induce false sensations. At least there are some things I can rely on: the Doctor is evil, I’m a fuckup, death and taxes.

My waist is squeezed in noticeably, but it doesn’t feel anywhere near as uncomfortable as I would have expected from looking at myself. I simply feel very snug and supported by the corset thing. It has several monitor ports on each side, spaced down my body.

There’s no way they are kidding me these things are just medical monitors, they clearly have the ability to act as well as to watch.

“You’ll be pleased to know that you seem to be running with acceptable parameters,” says Jared.

“We’re on Star Trek now?” I ask.

“If you say so,” he replies.

“Can you make me one of those things to sleep on? It’s pretty fantastic,” I say.

“We call the whole assembly ADAM,” says Jared.

“Why is that? It’s not very manly.” I say.

Somebody mentioned that name recently in an odd context, but I can’t think of anything other than the garden of Eden.

“Because, quite simply, I have a penchant for biblical rather than classical names, it’s nothing more than that,” says Gideon.

I go to life myself out of the couch, but as I try to rise to a standing position my feet fail me, my back is stiff, my legs don’t respond and I can’t move my arms quickly enough to regain my balance. The best I can do is to fall backwards into the couch rather than going face first onto the flooring grille.

“Whoah there careful,” says Jared, “don’t fall over.” Clearly his advice is far too late to be helpful.

“What have you done to my legs?” I squeak.

“Don’t worry, you’ll accommodate to the stiffness with a little practice,” says Gideon. “Jared, why don’t you help her up?”

Jared offers me his arm to hang onto. My shoulders are stiff. I find that my range of motion isn’t restricted as long as I move slowly. I have to struggle to move my fingers, it’s exactly like wearing a stiff pair of gloves. I grip Jared’s arm, but the feeling is indistinct, uncertain.

“You didn’t tell me there would be so much loss of movement,” I say.

“You should be able to accommodate fully by the end of the stage,” says Gideon.

I pull myself up, hanging onto Jared. I discover that the movement of my ankles is extremely limited. I can move from toes pointed out to about half way to flat footed. I find myself rocking between my toes and the balls of my feet.

“What if I don’t want to accommodate?” I say angrily.

“Then my dear, you will fall down a great deal,” says Gideon. “I suggest a crash helmet.”

This is the first time I see that Gideon has a sense of humor, a trifle dry even for my taste.

Jared looks at me and shrugs. I let go of his arm and attempt to totter without assistance. I am able to walk with difficulty, as long as I keep my steps small and don’t try to bend my legs too much at the knee.

I know I should be having a nervous breakdown about now, given what they’ve done to me, but I know that’s probably just what the Doctor wants. I have to keep myself together as much as I can, get through my tasks, get through my day, just keep on going. Maybe there’s a way out of the other side of this maze of madness.

I think even Gideon is surprised as how philosophically I am taking their new attempt to cripple me and ruin my life. I think his is still embarrassed that I’m naked, something I have given up paying attention to. If they can find a chance they will make me strip off in some random location in front of whoever and whatever. I know for sure now that nobody is going to allow me a shred of dignity, no point pretending I ever had one.

“So, you didn’t quite manage the skin color thing?” I say.

“I hear that everything they tried looked wrong, so in the end they decided to make it look like what it is. Either that or they’ve watched that Björk video too many times. It looks a bit like you have a fancy PVC outfit on,” says Jared.

“You can see my toes,” I observe. They are each separately enclosed, opposite to a normal sock.

“Would you rather you couldn’t?” He asks.

“I’m not sure.” I say.

“You can go now,” says Gideon. “Feel free to continue your erudite discussion outside.”

“What about the little covers?” I say, trying to twist to examine the back of my legs. My suspicion proves correct: there are sockets on the back of my calves too.

“Oh yes, my mistake, you’ll need those,” says Gideon, “Jared, can you pick them up from bay number three?”

“While you’re picking things up, perhaps you could get my clothes? I’m afraid to bend down in case I topple over,” I explain.

It turns out that bay number three is where products from the “deposition fabricators” as Jared describes them, are stored once they have been made. A clear plastic case holds all the little screw-in white covers, they remind me of false fingernails.

As predicted, my shoes no longer fit, and with the limited motion in my ankle, anything I wear from now on will need to have a high heel. I try to look on the bright side and see it as a gain in three inches of height. It’s just something I do to stop from crumbling into a weeping wreck.

“Can I go home now?” I ask.

“Yes, I’ll call for the car to pick you up,” says Jared.

“You seem to have lost your spark,” I say. He definitely seems subdued. The euphoria of success and the brief camaraderie that prevailed after the procedure was completed have faded and in their place it feels like ghosts are gathering.

“I saw some things that opened my eyes today. I’ve got a lot to think about,” he says.

“Really?” I say. I’m about to whine about my situation, but it seems pointless. He knows exactly how things are for me.

“The engineer will be over this afternoon, there are more boxes you’ll need to plug into now. Use the ports on your ankles. They’re the only ones that will fit anyway,” he says.

“Nothing for the stylish corsetry? I have to add that Victorian underwear was never this high-tech.”

“Sorry, yes, use the middle ports on that, but again, they’re the only ones that will fit.”

“One day you’re just going to wire me into these computers forever aren’t you?” I say, only half joking.

He just shrugs. If I didn’t know it was impossible I’d be really worried.

I’m glad of the air conditioning in my house because I am unable to sweat via a large part of my body now and my ability to cool is reduced so dramatically that I feel it instantly when I’m outside in the heat. I don’t just feel hotter, I quickly start to feel ill. I know I won’t be able to go out much during the day now. The only window of freedom available to me will be in the evening before my eleven pm curfew starts and I have to connect myself up.

It hardly bears mentioning that the engineer installed four more black towers beside my bed. This time I insisted on being there and lying in place so he could position them so that the cables would reach. That night I lock my ankles in position – legs spread wide – then hook up my waist, then lock my hands. It’s become very strict bondage and I have almost no movement available to me.

I lie awake half the night wondering about what I would do if somebody came into the house at night while I lie here completely helpless. What could I do if I were loose anyway? I can barely walk. The company aren’t going to let anything happen to me now, it’s just them that I need to be afraid of.

Eventually, I manage to cry myself to sleep: tears that come from nowhere and that I can’t seem to stop no matter how hard I try or what thoughts I concentrate on.

I have to wait for the Doctor to show up for my injection in the morning. She has another box with her besides her usual silver flight case. While we sit and watch the clock, waiting for the moment of the injection she says nothing, which is just how I like it.

Once she’s done putting her injection gun away, turns to me. “You can lie on the bed or sit on the chair, but you’re going to be here for an hour either way, it’s up to you.”

“I’d prefer the bed Doctor,” I say nervously. Everything I say around her is nervous, stuttering, frightened and uncertain. She does it to me every time. I fall apart when she’s around.

“I’ll help you get your skirt off,” she says.

“Thank you Doctor,” I say, hobbling carefully to the bed. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but it’s always possible I might fall asleep.

She helps me up onto the bed. I feel like a cripple, I have to move carefully now, a wrong move and I’m on my face. I can’t grip well and I have poor sensation in my hands. Often I try to twist my waist or bend and find I can’t go far enough. It’s a good thing that the only things I need to be able to do is plug myself in, put food in my face and get myself off. I guess I still read a little too – otherwise I’d probably have gone insane long ago.

She pulls over the new machine. It’s a collection of flattish heavy machined alloy cylinders that has mated with a fancy looking computer. She puts on gloves and pulls sterile plastic tubing out of its pack. I expect some kind of nasty needle experience is coming.

Instead she reaches between my legs, spreading them slightly and plugs the tubes directly into the ports on the inside of my thighs. I would have freaked out but the moment she moved in that direction with tubes in her hands I worked it out. I’m glad I was right.

She pushes some buttons on the machine and it begins to whine. A dark red fluid, almost black suddenly fills both of the tubes, flowing out wards from me – It’s my blood, a few second later it fills the other tube – I have a sudden sensation of dizziness and my vision darkens, then everything returns to normal.

The tubes stay a uniform dark color, but an indicator on the machine is now showing that the blood is flowing out of me through one tube and back to me via the other. A small screen shows a humanoid figure with the arms and legs highlighted. Incomprehensible statistics fill the edges of the display.

“I’ll be back in an hour. Use the alarm if there’s a problem,” says the Doctor and disappears.

I lie there for a while. I’m not used to spending so long waiting in this room and I haven’t planned for it, but waiting is my specialty these days. I’ll get the hang of it. The boredom leaves me no distractions from my sexual tension. I haven’t had an orgasm since last night and normally I would be on my way home by now. It’s going to be a while before I can get some release. I squirm on the bed, feeling the heat rise inside me. It would be so easy to just reach out and finish myself off.

I daren’t do it. I can just imagine the Doctor waiting outside the door for the exact moment I touch myself, only to burst in and accidentally catch me in the act. No. I won’t let her get me that easily. By the time the hour is up I’m really agitated. My panties are showing a distinct wet spot. There’s no way I can hide it from her. I can’t help myself. I know the problem with my sexual addiction has been getting gradually worse for the last three weeks. I just don’t know what to do about it.

I’m so busy thinking about my sexual frustration that I don’t give any thought to what the machine has been doing. When I think about it, it’s alarming that it can draw blood out of my so easily through the ports on my thighs; I can’t feel any kind of sensation of anything sticking into me there. What if a valve failed? Would I bleed to death in a moment?

It gradually sinks in that it has to mean that the things I’m wearing now penetrate deep into my flesh, they aren’t just some coating that I wear. I sink into despair of any hope that one day they’ll be removed and I can go back to a normal life.

As for any effect from what they’re telling me is dialysis, I can’t feel anything at all unless I can blame my horniness or depression on it, and I know I walked into the room with the seeds of those within me.

The Doctor returns while I am wallowing in my depression. True to her promise, it’s almost exactly an hour after when she left. Evidently she is slightly early as she has to wait a few minutes for the machine to switch itself off; obviously on a timed program that runs for exactly an hour.

The Doctor seems surprisingly chipper as she disconnects me. Perhaps she is also riding the “stage two cloud”?

“I have some things for you Kelly,” she says.

She brings over the box that I noticed earlier and opens it up. She puts a new iPhone, still in the box on the table. Then she lifts out a pair of thigh length high-heeled leather boots.

“There’s a credit card with your name on it in the phone box, make sure you sign it.” I appreciate this is a big deal as I am blacklisted by every credit card company and bank in the country.

“Thank you Doctor,” I say.

“I picked the boots out myself. I believe they will fit you.”

“You are very thoughtful Doctor,” I say. Is she actually trying to be nice to me?

“Stand up and remove the rest of your clothes please Kelly,” she says.

I don’t argue. I just do as she says. I don’t want to think about what the Doctor could order me to do and I’d just obey. At least I can put my clothes on the bed instead of the floor.

“Why don’t you try on your new boots?” She says. I know this is not a suggestion, though I have no idea why she made me strip off to try boots. I guess she just likes to humiliate me.

“Thank you Doctor,” I say, carefully hanging onto the rail on the bed to keep my balance. She helps me pull on the boots. They fit alright but the heels are at least four inches. I know I’m forced to stand on my toes, but I shouldn’t have to stand this high. With the heels I almost feel more precarious than without.

When they’re zipped up the boots come within an inch of the top of my white leggings. I guess I’d look quite normal wearing them if it weren’t for the massive heels. I can feel that they’re rather warm and I already have a problem with cooling down, so I’m not sure if I’ll be able to wear them much anyway.

Then she lifts something else out of the box. It looks like a belt made of stainless steel. There’s an opening at the front, and at the back, attached at either side, are two flat chains covered in back rubber sleeves hang down and attach to another part. The chains come together and join onto another part, a curved plate.

She pauses to admire the boots a little longer then she slips the metal circle around my waist. It’s made of springy stainless-steel and it’s clearly not easy for her to open it up enough to get in onto me. Now that it’s there it won’t be any easier to get off again. She positions the gap at the front.

The belt seems to be made for me, very accurately I might add. There is a round brass bolt shaped ‘stud’ sticking out from one side. She clips the hole on the other side over it, holding the ends of the belt together. In this way it fits very tightly, exactly the same size as my new hard plastic waist. She tests it for movement up or down, but there isn’t any. It doesn’t hurt, in fact I can barely feel it at all through the corset piece.

Hanging from the chains at the back is the flatish piece of curved metal coated on the back and edges with soft black rubber. From the side it’s a kind of J-shape. From the front it’s a strip that starts narrow at the top then flares out wider, before curving back in again and becoming narrow as it reaches the base of the J. The front and underside of this plate has a narrow vertical slot in it. There is another brass stud a short distance above the top of the slot and a hole right at the top of the piece. There’s also a circular portion of a hole joined with the top end of the slot, not far below the stud.

 She moves around behind me and takes hold of the plate, which is now dangling by the two chains at my back. She reaches between my legs with the curved metal plate and lifts it up and through so that’s it’s pressed tightly against my crotch and belly. It’s now obvious to me that it’s some kind of chastity belt. She clicks the hole at the top of the crotch plate onto the brass stud at the top. It’s tight enough that it sits in place with nothing else holding it there.

The flat plate fits perfectly against the curve of my crotch and corset-reshaped belly, the flaps of my sex squeezed rudely behind the slot. The metal chains form straps that pass over my buttocks to make a V that ends in their attachment to the plate a little below my bum-hole. I am horrified and let transfixed, wondering what she can possibly do next.

She stands back and admires her work.

“It fits you very nicely Kelly,” she says, “I don’t think it’s quite enough security though.”

She takes another piece of metal from the box. It is a shiny stainless steel plate, curved and perforated with tiny holes. There is a larger hole at one end. She clips it through a bracket at the bottom of the slot and slides it up so that it covers the entire slot over, preventing all access. She clips it onto the stud just above the top of the slot, and it stays solidly in place.

I can’t believe my eyes.

The last things in the box are two flat round locks that take one of those circular keys that bicycle locks use. She clips them onto the brass fittings, each time making a heavy snap noise as she locks them securely in position.

I reach down to test the belt. She makes no move to stop me and no comment. I can’t move it, or even fit a finger between my skin and the main belt. My numb, plastic coated fingers move down to the part that covers my front and then probe lower. The belt completely conceals my sex. I can just about get a finger under the plate at the bottom edge of the corset where my belly is soft but the front plate is widest. Other than that it rests either firmly against bone, or against the stiff plastic on my waist.

No matter how I try I can’t get anywhere near my private parts. I reach behind me and try to move the chain straps, but they are very tight and have no give at all. If I flex my buttocks I can feel them cutting into me and a further tightening of the whole belt, the metal of the plate pressing hard against me.

She has locked me up tighter than Fort Knox and I didn’t move a muscle to stop her. What is wrong with me? Why didn’t I say no to her?

“It looks beautiful on you Kelly,” says the Doctor.

She wraps her arms around me from behind, putting her hands on the base and the top of the belt, pulling me backwards into her. I stumble on the heels, my legs stiff, but she holds me up. Her teeth nip at my ear-lobe. Her breath is hot. Her tongue probes into my ear. Despite every part of my will aching to resist her, I feel squishy deep down. Just her breath on my ear makes me hot.

She slides her hand slowly up my body, stroking me until she reaches my breast. She cups it, as if weighing it. Her fingers brush my nipple, making me shiver. This time I’m not paralyzed. I can tell her to stop. Why don’t I tell her to stop? Why can’t I stop being so afraid of her? Doesn’t this serial rapist get that no means no? But I daren’t say no. I’ve never said no to her.

I question my own honesty. Is that all it is? Fear?

“It’s so sad,” she whispers. “So sad that we’re missing out on what we could have had together if it wasn’t for this tiresome program and my endless obligations,” she breathes. Her tongue licks the back of my neck. “What pleasures I could have shown you,” she says.

Nightmares of her torturing me on the chair flash through my mind. I can’t see how this is going to end, but it has to stop. Will somebody come to the door and put a stop to this? Can I find the guts to stop it myself? Or is it all just one part of her sick plan?

She brings her other hand up to my neck, her hand wraps around my chin, pushing it around so that she can kiss me. Her kiss is long deep and hard. She tastes sweet, fresh, clean and minty. I don’t pull away. I let her explore my mouth, but I don’t respond. I’m too busy fighting inside myself.

“You’re so passive,” she says, “like a doll. You talk the talk but you’re unable to act, unable to live up to your clever words; so busy lying to yourself that you don’t leave yourself time to actually do anything.”

Her words ring true. I feel a hollow sensation inside me where my spine ought to be. The Doctor is right.

“I suppose if this works I’ll have you anyway, but not the real you. It won’t be the same,” she pauses. I know by the tension in her body that she’s no longer seducing me, she’s thinking.

“If I told you now that I could get you out of this, that we could go away together, hide from the company, what would you say? Kelly. I have to know. Time… Time is running out.” And for once it seems her armor has cracked, and I believe she really needs me to answer. She really believes in her insane rat’s nest of a mind that I could love her.

“I know you’re afraid, “she says, “everyone is afraid of powerful love, you more than anyone, but would you do it, would you give yourself to me to get out of here? Really give yourself?”

I think very carefully what to say. Then I ask. “Doctor, why don’t you tell me what they have planned for me?”

“Because this isn’t about them, it’s about us,” she says, and in this matter I believe her.

I remember what the stranger, Lauren, said to me at my kitchen table. She told me to take any chance, no matter what.

“I’m ready Doctor,” I say. “Let’s leave now. I’ll be yours completely, your lover, your sex-slave, your pet, anything you want.”

She strokes my head, ruffling the stubble. I hear her sniff. Is she crying?

“It was just a ‘what if’ Kelly. I can’t get you out of here yet. If I could I’d have done it already. I need you in the program as much as anyone. We just have what we have.”

“Please,” I whimper, “I’m begging you, I need you Doctor, you’re the only one who’s ever loved me.” She holds me, won’t let me turn to look her in the eye. It’s taken everything I have to tell that lie. I’ve got nothing left. There was a hidden reserve inside of me and it’s been spent.

“Don’t make it worse than it already is Kelly,” she says. “Put your clothes back on, you have to go home.”

I’m simply too exhausted to argue with her. It’s probably true, if she could have stolen me for her harem, or whatever it is that Lauren implied she has, she probably would. It probably wouldn’t have ended well anyway. I have a feeling that the Doctor ends up burying the loves of her life in a concrete foundation, or maybe just unmarked graves in her extensive garden – or perhaps it’s more horrible than that and she never lets them die.

*****

I’m back at home with all the Doctor’s tainted “presents”. The phone has been pre-programmed with numbers for people from the company, such as Jared, Kaiser, Susan, and of course the Doctor herself “Alex Merriam”. I don’t have any friends to add. It’s a very small, and distinctly depressing collection of phone numbers.

The irony of now having a credit card with which I can shop online for sex-toys does not escape me. Despite my bedroom being filled with enough computers to support an NSA office I don’t have a laptop. I use the phone to go online and buy things. Who knows? by the time they arrive I might be out of the belt?

The Doctor’s belt is very definitely still with me. The heavy solidity of its stainless steel construction is almost reassuring in a way. It’s also a big problem. My daily ritual has been based around continual masturbation for over three weeks now. Without that option, sitting at home has developed all the charm of passing thirteen hours in one of the company’s waiting rooms.

There’s nothing for me to do here besides stare at the ancient television. The TV is so old that I think it still have valves. UHF isn’t tunable by push-buttons, though VHF is. I think it weighs about as much as a Hummer, which is the only reason I didn’t sell it. It’s supposed to be shared house property, but I could have replaced it eventually.

It’s human nature to think about the things we can’t have. In this case the immediate proximity makes it much worse. I can touch the belt but I can’t touch myself, it’s infuriating. My sexual desire is more than doubled as a result. That I didn’t dare to do anything to oppose the fitting of the belt just gives me another way to obsess over my frustrated desires.

I remember old stories about housewives sitting on the washing machine for a jolly. The machine here is an old upright that shakes like an earthquake when it’s on spin, it’s about as promising as it gets. I load it up with towels and give it a go. It vibrates perfectly. I try various positions, pressing my crotch against the machine, sitting on it, leaning against it backwards. There’s some sensation, enough to tease me more, but not enough to get any real feeling going. Maybe when I’m really desperate it will work.

I try poking things beneath the belt, but I only succeed in inflicting mild pain on myself. I end up cursing myself for ever being stupid enough to let such a thing be locked onto me. I didn’t really take it seriously when the Doctor was fitting it. I mean, who can take a chastity belt seriously? I didn’t really imagine she would just leave it locked onto me? Did I?

I never saw any keys when she put it on, and I never asked her about them. There’s no way that I would ever dare ask her. I’m not sure I even have the guts to ask her to remove it at all.

This probably means I’m stuck wearing it until some outside factor absolutely forces her to remove it. In the meantime I have to risk the tremendous personal shame and embarrassment of being caught wearing it. The chances of somebody casually demanding that I get undressed at work are disturbingly high.

Of course, I’m a person who gets paid to chain herself to six black monoliths every night like some virgin staked out for sacrifice, so I am technically a professional at self humiliation. It seems like eternity before that time of the night approaches when I must go to bed and stay there until the computers decide to release me.

Just because I’m lying on the bed it doesn’t mean I am any less frustrated, but now my wrists and ankles are connected to immovable objects by metal cable, so I would have been frustrated anyway. I can’t sleep, but I’m in a half dozing state when I hear something move outside. Something is definitely approaching my house.

This is the nightmare scenario I’ve been dreading since this started. I’m completely helpless, spread-eagled on the bed. Ironically, due to the belt, I am slightly less worried about being repeatedly raped in such a situation than I was before until I think about where else they could rape me.

I lie there thinking that the sounds will move away, that I’m just in a panic for nothing, but then I hear the sound of a key in the front door. It can’t be my housemates coming back from Tasmania early can it? If it is they are going to get a shock when they see what’s going on in my bedroom.

I don’t hear any voices, whoever it is they are trying to be quiet. I hear the door open. At least one person enters. The door closes. I can hear footsteps: at least two people. Will they head my way or will they stay in the other rooms and ignore mine?

They are headed straight for my room. I don’t know whether to keep quiet or to start screaming. The Doctor said time was running out. Maybe I’m simply going to be killed.

The light clicks on. The Doctor looks down at me on the bed.

“Good evening Kelly,” she says. She’s holding a leash in her hand. On the end of the leash, collared in heavy leather, and wearing a second skin of transparent brown rubber – more naked than naked – is the perfect receptionist Susan. She has crossed leather straps across her chest above her breasts. She is holding her arms behind her strangely. There is no crotch in her suit and her sex is displayed as if in a frame.

The rubber suit that covers Susan completely is all one piece, with feet, gloves and hood built in. There are holes for her eyes and her mouth. Her hair is teased out of the top of the hood in a pair of bunches. She reminds me of the images in the magazine. I try to convince myself that she doesn’t look sexier than ever, but she does. The brownish rubber doesn’t have the fuzzy translucent quality of ordinary rubber, it’s perfectly transparent: every tiny detail of her skin is visible beneath.

“It’s a good thing that I had a copy of your keys, or I might have had to break in,” says the Doctor.

“Thank you for that consideration Doctor,” I say.

The Doctor herself is dressed in her usual skirt-suit, the familiar white coat is missing of course as she’s off-duty. She yanks again on Susan’s leash, pulling her properly into the room. As she turns side on I can see that her arms are bound up in a leather sleeve; the straps crossing above her breasts holding it in position. Her arms are completely useless. Together with the collar it holds her in perfect bondage to the Doctor; leashed and helpless. Did she run like that from the Doctor’s car into the house? What if somebody had seen her?

Her nipples are pierced with solid looking stainless steel rings. Her sex is framed by the crotchless suit. I notice that her private parts have been heavily pierced too. It must have hurt. They certainly crack the image I had of her perfection.

When I look closer I can see her body is covered with the traces of scars and fading scars – nothing dramatic but instead a patina of continual abuse that must have gone on for years.

“Oh, you don’t need to be so formal Kelly. We’re out of work hours now. You can call me Mistress Alex,” says the Doctor … no … Mistress Alex. I must not get confused. The first thought in my mind that she means this change of name as an order that will be fiercely punished should I break it. I try hard to think the words Mistress Alex in every one of my thoughts so I don’t make a slip and anger her by saying Doctor.

“I was thinking about you all alone here, unable to get any satisfaction. So, I brought my little pet over. I think that she might be persuaded to give you some relief if you reciprocate,” says Mistress Alex.

While they are yet to devise some excuse that forces me to gag myself every night, and I am physically able to speak, or ask any question I choose, I do not dare speak out of turn to Mistress Alex, so I lie quietly while she spells out how things are going to be.

Susan isn’t gagged either, but naturally she doesn’t say a word without an order from Mistress Alex.

“Susie here is an accomplished pussy licker, but it doesn’t seem fair for things to be one sided. She might let you cum if you do it for her first,” she says helping Susan into a kneeling position on my bed, up by my head; Susan can’t climb onto the bed easily herself without the use of her arms, and there are so many lousy computers and cables in the way:  Mistress Alex has to help her.

“This is a chance for you to learn some valuable skills of your own. Pay close attention to what Susie does, because she tries very hard to be the best that she can. It would be terribly selfish of you to not give her what she needs. It should be easy because she isn’t allowed to cum very often, and she would no more touch herself down there than cut off her own hand,” says Mistress Alex providing a firm reminder of what her discipline might be like.

Mistress Alex reaches over and unlocks my belt at the top. There is no need to undo the other lock. She folds down the front plate so that it’s between my legs, opening up access to my sex. It’s clearly marked with impressions made by the pressure of the belt. It occurs to me that even if I can remove the belt, it might take hours, or even days for the marks to fade.

“You may beg Susie to sixty-nine you now if you like now Kelly. Or if you prefer, I can put the belt back on?”

I don’t feel comfortable about the idea of sex with another woman. It feels wrong, and I feel degraded to be forced into it, but I want to orgasm, and I daren’t go against Mistress Alex either, so I know I’ll do it. I won’t even dare complain as I eagerly lap at a cunt that revolts me.

“Thank you Mistress Alex,” I say. I turn to Susan, who smiles sweetly in response. I see that the smile has been drilled into her with strict training. She probably lies awake at night, terrified that she might forget to smile at Mistress Alex one time and wake up to find that her jaw has been wired shut as punishment. It’s horribly obvious where Susan’s perfection comes from now. She daren’t ever be anything else.

“Susan,” I say, “please show me how to be a good pussy licker,” I say.

“That’s not begging,” says Mistress Alex.

“Susan, I really, really need to lick your pussy. Please, please I’m begging you… I’ll do anything if you make me cum,” I say pathetically. Mistress Alex does not look quite satisfied.

“Please Susan. I know I’m a dirty slut, but I need you. I need to sixty-nine you,” I say.

Mistress Alex smiles slightly. Susan lifts her knee, shimmies over and climbs onto my face. I’m plunged into hot sweaty darkness and a face full of piercings. She squirms around pushing her sex in the direction of my mouth. At the same time, she leans forward and puts her head between my legs. I can hardly breathe, and what air I can get smells powerfully of rubber and her pungent secretions. It’s a foul hot wet thing that slithers all over me, but I have to make it happy if I don’t want to be in big trouble.

I feel Susan’s tongue on my thigh, drawing closer, no, she pulls away, on the other thigh, then yes, it’s close, circling my clit. Yes. I try to copy what she does, but it’s hard with her weight crushing me. She can’t use her arms to support herself and my chest is already aching with the effort of supporting her and breathing – something the corset makes harder.

Her tongue works my sensitive spot, then her lips brush it, I try to copy but she’s mashing her sex back into my face as best she can. I feel her teeth brush against my nub, no, not the teeth! I’m terrified of being bitten down there. She’s found out exactly how to goad me into feverish action.

I bend my neck upwards and press my face forward as best I can letting her squirm against me if I can’t better satisfy her any other way. My nose and mouth are filled with the smell and the taste of her.  She rubs herself over my forehead, even into my hair.

Meanwhile her expert tongue is probing for my inner lips, teasing them, lapping at the copious flow of my juice as if it were nectar. Her lips and teeth keep my clit aroused. Sometimes she suckles on it gently, sometimes more roughly. Her tricks are elaborate and she knows how to tease me and how to keep me on edge. Though I am working on her I feel completely under her control and at her mercy. Any time I slack off she threatens me with her teeth – a threat I would never dare reciprocate. At first, the most I dare to do is suck at her rings with my lips, never gripping them fully.

I was a corked champagne bottle ready to blow long before Susan started on me, and she soon has me at the brink, holding me there at her leisure, while I try to do the same for her. Her control is precise, and I know anyway that there will be no release for me until I bring her off first.

 Eventually, I learn what pleases her. She doesn’t seem to mind even when I pull hard on the rings. My tongue and jaw are aching and exhausted. I am hot, wet and slippery all over, everything above my shoulders is covered in her juice and what remains is slippery with her sweat. I almost despair of having the stamina to bring her off.

I thought she would be as ready to orgasm as I am. Perhaps I’m just not very good at this. But now she is ready and she shakes a little, gives an involuntary moan. Something hot and wet spurts into my face. Did she just spray a squirt of urine at me? I don’t have time to think about it as she lets me orgasm. The relief is apocalyptic. I let out a cry of abandon. I have never done that before in my life.

Mistress Alex helps Susan off me and into a kneeling position on the floor.

“Did you enjoy that cum Susie?” She says, ignoring me.

“Yes, thank you Mistress,” she says.

“Did you learn anything useful Kelly?” Says Mistress Alex.

“I’m not sure Mistress Alex. I… I think so,” I stutter.

“You lack stamina,” she says, “that was nothing,” she adds as she briskly closes my belt back up and locks it shut.

“Susie is a splurter. It’s one of the things that attracted me to her. Experts debate the matter of female ejaculation but I know for a fact that in her specific case it’s a matter of an over-developed lubrication gland. The smell is quite distinctive,” says Mistress Alex.

I had no idea there was such a thing as female ejaculation. I’ve never done it myself. I think that Mistress Alex may by making it up. It seems more obvious that Susan lost a bit of bladder control during her cum and leaked a bit. In either case I don’t like it on my face.

“I enjoyed watching you show what a willing and eager pussy licker you are. I know you lie to yourself and pretend you don’t like sex with women, but I know you secretly prefer it. Isn’t that true Kelly?”

What should I say? I can’t disagree with her.

“I don’t know Mistress Alex,” I say.

“I’ll see you at work tomorrow Kelly,” says Mistress Alex, of course then she will be “the Doctor”.

I’m left covered in Susan’s sticky goo, her copious lubricant and her girl cum or pee or whatever it was. I can’t do anything to wipe it away. It dries into a white crust on my head, face, neck, even on my shoulders. I’ve swallowed the taste and the smell, I’ve breathed it in. I think I will smell Susan for days to come. I find it hard to imagine a world where I don’t smell or taste her.

Quite soon I fall deeply asleep.

*****

The next day the Doctor says nothing of her appearance in my bedroom at night. She still has my house keys, and I’m still locked in her belt. I guess that now she has me exactly where she wants me, any time she feels like it – she’s got what she wants.

While I’m on the machine, my blood whizzing through fragile clear plastic tubes, right where I can see it, Jared comes in.

“Hello Kelly, how are you?” He says. I never know how to answer this question.

“I’m good thanks Jared, how are you?”

“I’m good,” he says. Why does nobody ever tell the truth? What’s the point of the question?

I’m lying on the bed and the tubes that send my blood to the machine and carry it back are hanging from my inner thighs. He can’t see that exactly though because I have a dress on and I flipped it down to cover the chastity belt after the Doctor put in the tubes. Even putting my Bridget Jones knickers on over it doesn’t’ do a lot to hide it.

I’m also wearing the boots with four inch heels that the Doctor gave me, despite the fact they are treacherous to walk in, as I daren’t do otherwise. I look like quite the dyke bitch with my short hair. I considered a wig, but it’s too hot and I daren’t put such an idea in the Doctor’s head, she probably would have forced me to wear a particularly impractical pink one if it had simply occurred to her.

I am pretty sure I stink strong enough for anyone to smell it. Even after two showers I can still smell Susan’s juice and I can’t wash myself down below properly any longer. I can get a bit of water through the holes in the outer guard but I was absolutely covered in slime down there and a lot of it is covered by solid parts of the belt or otherwise hard to clean.

“We were discussing how best to advance the situation with your arms and legs, how to build up your strength so you have less problem with the stiffness. It’s been decided to bring in a physiotherapy coach. A gym’s going to be installed here. I’m afraid it will mean more time on-site,” he says.

“Thank you Jared,” I say.

The Doctor’s training must be working on me because I want to wring his neck. I might not like hobbling about like a cripple, or dropping my coffee cup all the time because I can’t feel my fingers, but I wasn’t invited to the debate on what to do and if they were going to install a gym it might have been at home instead of here.

“It will start tomorrow. I’m glad you’re ok with it. I didn’t think you’d be too happy.”

“I’m used to being told what to do, besides I don’t know enough to make decisions,” I say.

“You really aren’t happy,” he says.

“Sorry,” I say.

The next day I am stuck at the warehouse until lunchtime exercising my arms and legs while the young fit and perky physiotherapist-come-personal-trainer badgers me to work harder. I know she sees the chastity belt, or at least bits of it, now and again. She doesn’t say a word. I guess there is so much weirdness about me why would she even think to remark on that detail?

The Doctor doesn’t invade my house during the night. To some extent I’m disappointed because my sexual desperation level doesn’t get a reset.

*****

Another week goes past. Each day I am cranked up a notch. Each day the Doctor gives me a new pair of shoes or boots that would look ok in a porn movie. She has a subtle way of hinting that I have to wear them. I look like something from one of her creepy magazines. My bedroom is filling up with a fetish shoe collection that now spills out of the cupboard and across the floor to merge with the stacked computer hardware.

It’s Tuesday again and the Doctor is putting in my tubes. She has just given me a pair of clear plastic platform pumps with two inch soles and six inch heels. I know tomorrow I will have to wear them into work. The physiotherapist will expect me to jog in them.

“May I ask you a question please Doctor?” I ask nervously. She has not invited me to speak and I fear a punishment.

“Only if it’s not frivolous conversation Kelly,” says the Doctor.

“Will you ever visit me again? I just wanted to say I really enjoyed your visit. I’d like you to come again whenever it’s not too much trouble. I hope I’m not being frivolous Doctor. I’m really … uh … lonely,” I say.

God, I’m pathetic. I should just get the locks cut off this thing. Instead I’m literally begging her to come and drag me into her sick lesbian dog and pony show.

“Now you aren’t being completely honest are you Kelly? If you want to eat out Susie’s cunt, why don’t you just say so? Susie has feelings too Kelly, why do you pretend that she doesn’t exist?”

I push down hard the rising indignation at the implicit irony, the raging hypocrisy of the Doctor’s words. I’ve started to eat shit now, so I might as well get through the meal. She’s had a script in mind for this conversation all along. I know without a doubt that she will react badly if I don’t use her words. I have to ask, I have to say it the way she wants to hear it.

“Please, will you bring Susan around, I’m so desperate to eat out her cunt,” I say. My words trail off in volume a little at the end, but I get them out.

“I understand Kelly. Something has been worrying me though. Your progress at physio has been lackluster. I think the tech boys feel guilty about asking you to work harder at it, but they would be happy if you volunteered to double your physio and dialysis hours. I think that would be the least you can do,” she says.

Of all the things she could ask for, I don’t know why she asks for this. She has all the cards, she can ask for whatever she wants, whenever she wants it.

I do the sums in my head. It’s three more hours, I’ll have to have lunch here and I won’t get home until later afternoon. I’ll be at work from eight-thirty to three-thirty, maybe four, and on top of that I am wired into my bed all night. My “me” time would drop to seven hours in a day, but that empty time is driving me crazy with lust anyway.

Then I think about the Doctor’s words carefully. She didn’t say “the least” for nothing. She expects more. If I underbid she’ll refuse and punish me too.

“I could stay until six and skip lunch. Do you think that would please them Doctor?” I say.

“I don’t think you can skip lunch Kelly. I don’t think you should miss out on something like that while you still have the chance. You need to keep your strength up. In fact, I think we should both come here to your room for lunch hour every day, and because you’re going to be extra tired after all that exercise I’ll get them to put an extra hour on your sleep cycle,” she says, as if it’s something that she just thought of.

What does she mean while I still have the chance?

Damn I am so naïve: she just lured me right into that. Now I have just three hours to myself to eat and mess around. In return for losing my spare time I get to spend an extra hour in bondage on my bed and two extra hours hooked up to this machine that gives me the heebie-jeebies and doesn’t even seem to do anything. Why would they want me to spend more time on it anyway?

I also get to have lunch with the Doctor, in private. Well, I pretty much asked for that didn’t I? I have the nasty feeling that we will not be sharing many pleasant lunchtime chats about makeup and boys.

“Thank you for thinking of me Doctor,” I say.

“You’re a good girl Kelly. Don’t forget to suggest all this to Jared when he comes to pick you up,” she says.

Later, when I put the idea to Jared he looks at me with some surprise.

“I didn’t realize you thought we weren’t working you hard enough. So that’s why you were so annoyed about being left out of the planning.

“Yes, that’s about the shape of it. I know I can do more if you let me,” I say.

“If you get some results over the next couple of weeks we might be able to try stage three,” he says, more to himself than to me.

“I can’t wait,” I say.

“So you aren’t worried about consenting to stage three?”

“No. I shouldn’t be so selfish. There are a lot of people here relying on me to go to the next stage, and the next. I need to make a commitment and I’m doing it. I promise you that I will go all the way, no matter what.”

Jared gives me an odd look, like I just told him that I hear the voice of God speaking to me from a light.

“I really appreciate you saying that, but you shouldn’t sign up for things so far ahead without knowing what’s coming – but yes, I think you’re making great progress already. I glad you want to put in more time. Gideon will do a little dance. He was worried about rushing you, afraid you might ‘throw a hysteric’ as he puts it, if we tried to make you do too much.”

“That’s a little patronizing of him,” I say.

“He knows you are under a lot of stress. I can’t believe how you cope with it.”

“Neither can I…”

 

21.01.10

Continued in “The Doll Factory – Part 6 ”.

o0o

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