New Erotica 5

by Неизвестный

  I say ‘originally’, but that of course is not true. Originally I was a boy, a young man, eighteen years old, fit and healthy, if not quite socially acceptable. That latter state of affairs existed because I suffered from a strange and overwhelming compulsion to steal, from shops, from cars, cars themselves and even – and I am ashamed to admit it now – from houses.

  My big mistake was not so much that I tried to break into Farnley Grange, but that I was caught doing it, and by Mrs Olivia Farnley herself. I tried to struggle free, but I was, and am still, a small person and Mrs Farnley was a large and powerful woman. She overpowered me easily and tied me to a solid-looking chair with a length of cord she cut from the heavy drawing-room curtains.

  ‘I know you,’ she said, staring down at me. ‘You’re Peggy Watling’s boy, aren’t you? You’re the one who ran away from home when he was fifteen and stayed missing for a year. Hmm, very interesting. Very interesting indeed.’ There was a peculiar light in her eyes that sent a shiver up and down my spine and I had a sudden thought that maybe she intended to kill me.

  Oh, how much kinder that would have been!

  I had seen Dorothea in the village, usually accompanied by her weird-looking governess. She was about fifteen or sixteen, I’d guessed, though her style of dress would have been more appropriate for a ten or twelve year old. She was also very arrogant, snobbish, and terribly rude to the shop assistants. Village gossip had it that she was not only as spoiled as she behaved, but also a bit ‘odd’, due, it was rumoured, to some mystery childhood illness.

  ‘He’s no good, Mummy!’ she exclaimed, when Mrs Farnley brought her in to show me off to her. ‘I wanted a girl dolly. You said I could have a little girl dolly. You promised!’ The terrible, overgrown infant actually stamped her foot and, as her pale features reddened, I thought she was even going to burst into tears.

  ‘I know I did, darling, and you shall have a girl dolly,’ her mother shushed her. ‘But this will be a girl dolly soon, but a girl dolly with a big difference. Mummy will see to everything, as usual.’ I looked from one to the other of them in mute amazement. What on earth were they on about?

  ‘Off you go and play then, darling,’ Mrs Farnley told Dorothea. ‘Mummy has to make a phone call.’

  Two white-coated men arrived for me an hour or so later. I had spent the intervening time snivelling and apologising, pleading with Mrs Farnley to let me go, but my whinging fell upon deaf ears until she decided to silence me by placing a broad strip of sticking plaster over my mouth.

  I have little or no recollection of where I was taken. From the moment of that first injection, given whilst I was still bound helplessly to the chair, until my return to the Grange, everything was a vague dream. Even time had no meaning during that period and, when I finally regained consciousness to a great enough degree to take stock of my surroundings, I was stretched out flat under a soft quilt upon a double bed on the top floor of what I soon found out was Farnley Grange.

  I tried to sit up, but, to my horror, found I could not move and seemed to have no feeling at all in either my arms or my legs. I wondered if this paralysis was some after-effect of whatever drugs I had been receiving. It was not, as Mrs Farnley herself delighted in explaining to me a few hours later.

  ‘A very clever neurosurgeon has gone to a lot of trouble on my behalf,’ she said, smiling down at me, smugly. ‘You no longer have any connections between your brain and the nerves that control your arm and leg movement.’ I opened my mouth to cry out at this, but no sound emerged, just a rush of air.

  ‘Oh, and your vocal cords have been surgically immobilised,’ Mrs Farnley added, seeing my futile attempt at speech, ‘so I’m afraid you are now dumb as well.’

  My brain was reeling at the horror of her revelations, but she was far from finished. Reaching down, she drew back the cover from my body, revealing a pair of perfectly formed, if slightly flattened out due to my prone position, breasts, complete with large, dark pink nipples.

  ‘Before you worry overmuch,’ she went on, ‘your male parts are still intact and for very good reasons. Children learn about a lot from their dollies and my daughter is going to learn from you and will be more fortunate than most of her contemporaries in that she will have a life-sized working dolly to play with.

  ‘There are so many dangerous influences on children these days and I do not intend for my daughter to be subjected to them. Therefore, I prefer to give her everything she needs for her life in her own environment here.

  ‘Of course, I have had your actual reproductive system sterilised, so we won’t have any unwanted accidents and the doctors have checked you thoroughly for any nasty little infections and pronounced you all clear, so you are quite safe for Dorothea to play with.’

  Dumbly, I stared up at the woman, realising now that she had to be completely mad. If people thought Dorothea slightly odd, it was plain to me where she had inherited that trait. I kept trying to convince myself that this was only some sort of nightmare and that I would shortly wake up back in the real world, but I knew it was only too real.

  As I was later to discover, my veins were awash with some sort of tranquilliser at this time, otherwise Mrs Farnley’s words must surely have sent me insane. As it was, for a while my mind went almost as numb as my arms and legs, her words swirling around inside my aching head. Eventually, though, I began to understand.

  Macabre and unbelievable as the suggestion might seem, I was to be a Victorian dolly, and Mrs Farnley had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure that Dorothea had plenty of choice in the outfits she could dress me in. There were also several different wigs and my own hair had been removed in order to make it simpler for the strange girl to interchange these on my head.

  However, before I was turned over to her daughter, Mrs Farnley undertook my first outfitting personally. She began with a black and red satin corset which looked outwardly to be a flounce of fripperies and extravagance, but which was so cunningly and heavily boned as to become an instrument of torture when completely laced.

  There was nothing I could do but lie there as this mad woman handled me as if I were indeed a doll, rolling me over on to my face in order to tighten the laces, making me gasp and wince as the fiendish garment increased its awful grip about me. When she was finished, she heaved me up into a sitting position, propped up by a bank of pillows, and examined the effect of the corset on my breasts. The support cups supported all right, but they concealed little, leaving the upper half of each globe lifted and exposed, the nipples peeking over the lace frills. Mrs Farnley nodded with evident satisfaction.

  ‘Very pretty, Dolly,’ she said and I could hear that capital letter in the tone of her voice. I was not even to be allowed the dignity of a name, it seemed. No, I was merely Dolly, a limp, useless thing to be picked up and played with, or discarded at will.

  ‘Perhaps I should show you your face, Dolly,’ Mrs Farnley said. She took up a mirror from the nearby chest of drawers and held it up for me to see. I let out a noiseless gasp of disbelief, for, apart from the fact I was now completely bald, the face staring back at me was unrecognisable as my own. My eyes looked bigger and wider, my mouth fuller and pouting and I was made up in a parody of a Victorian burlesque performer, every feature exaggerated completely.

  ‘The make-up is permanent,’ she told me, ‘tattooed into the skin to save my sweet girl having to keep redoing it every day. Don’t you just look a sweet, pretty sight, Dolly?’ I managed to shake my head in horror, about the only part of my body over which I retained any vestige of control.

  ‘You should try to look more grateful, Dolly,’ Mrs Farnley rebuked me. ‘I paid those plastic surgeons a small fortune for you to be able to look so lovely.’ They had certainly earned their money, I thought, for my features had been completely resculpted and even I did not recognise myself. The only blemish I could detect was a purplish scar where my Adam’s apple had once been.

  Satisfied that I was in no doubt as to what I now looked like, Mrs Farnley discar
ded the mirror and returned to the task of dressing me. She began with long, black silk stockings, which reached to the very top of my thighs, where, in addition to being anchored by broad frilly garters, they were also attached to the lower hem of the corset by means of four taut suspender straps fastened to each.

  A fiercely elasticated gusset was then clipped in place and a thick absorbent pad placed between it and my genitalia and anus. Mrs Farnley took fiendish pleasure in explaining its purpose.

  ‘You no longer have much control over your bowels and bladder,’ she said, ‘and we don’t want your drawers getting soiled all the time. They are such a chore to wash and the fabric is on the delicate side.’

  The drawers in question were long, Victorian things that reached to just below the knees and were secured there, as well as about my waist, by wide satin ribbon drawstrings. The crotch could be laid wide by untying a row of thinner ribbons, allowing access without the tedium of removing the garment completely. Mrs Farnley obviously did not want to tax her daughter’s energies overly, I thought grimly.

  Why she had taken so much trouble with my footwear, I could barely understand, as I was never going to walk in the delicate, high-heeled ankle boots which she buttoned on to my feet. I supposed it was to complete the overall effect, but I was in no position to ask.

  My dress, which was mostly bright red with black piping and lace trimmings, came complete with several layers of frilled lacy petticoats which caused the below-the-knee-length skirt to billow out. It had long, close-fitting sleeves and a low, frothy neckline that left my full breasts barely decently covered. Soft gloves were then drawn over my hands and a satin and lace choker fitted about my throat, concealing the scar from view.

  ‘Nearly done, Dolly,’ Mrs Farnley said. She picked up a pair of diamanté earrings, shaped like daisy flowers and inserted them through the waiting holes in my ear lobes. ‘There,’ she said, patting my cheek, ‘just your hair to do now.’

  She selected a long wig of black curls and carefully stretched it over my naked pate, brushing it out and adding a broad velvet ribbon of vivid red to achieve the finished picture.

  ‘Perfect,’ she said, standing back. ‘Now let’s see what my sweet Dorothea thinks.’

  ‘Sweet’ Dorothea was beside herself with joy and enthusiasm.

  ‘Oh, she’s gorgeous now, Mummy!’ she trilled. ‘Are you really sure this is the same horrid creature you showed me that time?’

  Mrs Farnley nodded and assured her it was. Her daughter stepped forward and gingerly prodded the exposed part of my bust.

  ‘Oooh!’ she squealed. ‘They feel so real!’

  ‘Yes, don’t they,’ her mother agreed. ‘And there’s something else, too. Reach behind her neck. Go on, she won’t bite you, not unless she wants me to send her to have her teeth removed and replaced by rubber dentures. There, feel it? A sort of button embedded in the skin. Open your mouth a little, Dolly,’ she said, addressing herself to me. Unthinkingly, I did so.

  ‘Press the little button, my sweetheart,’ Mrs Farnley urged. I felt Dorothea’s fingers pressing against something in the nape of my neck and suddenly a metallic voice emerged from my parted lips.

  ‘Mama, mama,’ the automaton forced from my throat. Dorothea almost fell over as she dissolved into a fit of giggles and could not resist trying the button again. Before I could close my mouth again I was bleating: ‘Mama, mama, mama, mama.’

  I forced my lips shut, but Mrs Farnley wagged a warning finger at me.

  ‘You keep that sweet mouth open at all times, Dolly,’ she snapped. ‘Otherwise I’ll keep it open for you.’ Resolutely, I refused, determined to show that I was not completely beaten, but I should have heeded her warning.

  Ten minutes later, two chrome clamps had been fitted at either side, inside my mouth and screwed on to the molars to keep my jaw from closing. Try as I might, there was now no way I could make my lips touch and I was then forced to endure a prolonged session of Dorothea playing with the control of the voice module.

  ‘I’ll leave you to play with Dolly, dearest,’ Mrs Farnley said at last, evidently tiring of her offspring’s obsession with the artificial voice unit. ‘I’ll just pop down and see that cook is preparing dinner and later I’ll come back up and show you some of Dolly’s other outfits.’

  ‘I know you’ve still got a willy inside your knickers,’ Dorothea whispered, as soon as the door had closed behind her mother. ‘I’m supposed to learn all about thingy from it – and you, but Mummy really is a bit slow at times. She thinks I’m a complete baby over some things, but I made Miss Fenn – that’s the lady who used to be my governess – get me some books from a shop in town.

  ‘She didn’t want to, but I’d found some horrid magazines in her stuff. There were pictures of ladies kissing each other and sucking their titties. Would you like me to suck your titties, Dolly? Oh, of course, you can’t speak, can you, Dolly? All you can do is cry for Mama. Poor Dolly. Well, never mind, maybe I will suck your titties. Maybe I’ll make you suck mine, as well. You can still move your mouth, after all.’

  She clambered on to the bed alongside me, her freckled face beneath its ginger curtain of ringlets flushed with excitement.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, conspiratorially, ‘Mummy still thinks I’m a little girl, but I was seventeen last month, you know.’ She slipped a cool hand under my skirt and petticoats and stroked my silk-sheathed thigh. ‘Would you like me to take your willy out and play with it, Dolly dearest?’ she crooned, her hand moving further upwards. Despite the situation, I felt my trapped penis trying to respond.

  ‘I know what “wank” means, Dolly,’ Dorothea sniggered, leaning close to my face. ‘Would Dolly like me to wank her?’ I doubted it would matter whether Dolly wanted it or not, for there was a madly committed gleam in her eyes.

  For a supposedly fairly uninformed and inexperienced girl, Dorothea certainly knew how to tease. She inched her way upwards, rustling the loose fabric of my knickers as she went, her fingers crawling spider-like towards the ribbons that held the crotch closed. I felt my pulse rate steadily quickening, despite the horror I felt at being so hopelessly at her mercy, and the ache in my groin bore testimony to my rebellious organ’s attempts to respond to her advances.

  ‘I’m going to wank you, Dolly,’ she breathed, ‘and then I’m going to feed you on your own sticky come juices. That’s what they call them in my books, you know,’ she added, sounding proud of her knowledge. ‘You’ll enjoy that, Dolly – not!’ She laughed maniacally, as her fingers began tugging on the first ribbon. Then she began singing softly, to the sound of Bobby Shaftoe, but her words were far different from the version I remembered singing at school.

  ‘Dolly dearest wants a wank,

  ‘Naughty Dolly needs a spank,

  ‘Wank first, Dolly, then I’ll spank,

  ‘Naughty Dolly dearest.’

  She broke off into further giggles and then repeated her hideous song as she completed the task of untying the ribbons, but then had to concentrate all her attentions to the task of unfastening the front of the gusset.

  Eventually, she managed it and pulled the pad clear, exposing my hairless genitalia to her ministrations. I tried to fight against it, but it was no good. Within seconds, my cock stood ramrod stiff in her grasp and she began slowly to masturbate me, her free hand cupped over the narrow slit from which my semen would ultimately spout. She did not have long to wait. I erupted, filling her cupped hand and she withdrew it triumphantly, forcing my head back and slowly trickling the milky fluid between my helpless, still parted lips.

  ‘Dolly have a drink,’ she taunted me as the salty liquid ran down to my throat. ‘Sissy old Dolly drinks her own come. Tastes nice, doesn’t it, you dirty Dolly you?’ I choked and spluttered, but, as she kept her palm cupped over my mouth, there was no option but to swallow every last drop. Beneath the pale make-up my cheeks burned with indignation and shame.

  ‘Good Dolly,’ she urged, wiping her hand across my lips. ‘Lick
your mouth clean, there’s a good girl.’ When I had finished, Dorothea produced a large handkerchief and wiped away the last vestiges of semen from my now deflated cock, replaced the pad and gusset and began retying the ribbons on my drawers.

  ‘Soppy old Dolly needs a nappy,’ she chanted. ‘Stupid Dolly can’t stop herself from piddling and shitting herself, just like a big baby. I think Dolly deserves a good spanking with my hairbrush, then maybe I should go down to the garden and get some nice nettles to put inside Dolly’s nappy afterwards. Ha-ha, silly Dolly. You’re all mine to do whatever I want with, ’cause Mummy said so. You’re a late birthday present for her own dear daughter.’

  She stopped and stared fiercely at me, her flushed cheeks adding to the image of intensity. ‘I’m never going to let you go, Dolly. I might even grow to love your silly face, who knows? Would you like me to love you, Dolly, or shall I go and get those nice nettles?’

  Desperately, I tried to nod my head and shake it at the same time. The thought of having to endure a bunch of nettles against my most tender regions was enough to convince me that I must try to co-operate at all costs. The mother was mad, I already knew, but Dorothea was well on her way to being a match in that department.

  Dorothea smiled. ‘Perhaps I’ll fuck you instead, Dolly,’ she said. ‘That’s a naughty word, isn’t it, Dolly? Mummy would be angry if she knew I used that word, but it’ll be our secret, won’t it, because you can’t tell on me, can you, Dolly?’ She stroked my face in an unexpected gesture of affection.

  ‘I think I will love you, Dolly,’ she said, quietly. ‘After all, you’re supposed to be my friend, aren’t you? And you can’t help yourself, after all. It’s hardly your fault that you’re now a stupid dolly girl and you do have something nice in your knickers as well as something nasty.’ She turned about and nestled down next to me.

  ‘Mummy doesn’t know it, Dolly,’ she confided, ‘but I’ve seen some of the outfits she’s bought for you. There’s a lovely disco-dancing outfit, just like Barbie has on television. Mummy doesn’t like me watching television, but sometimes, if she’s away, I sneak out and go over to Gloria’s house. She’s our cleaner, but she won’t be allowed in the nursery where you’re to be kept. Mummy says I have to keep that room clean myself, now.