© Copyright 2007 - Pepperfly Dreams - Used by permission
Storycodes: MF/fembot; doll; sold; bond; wrap; crate; shipped; reluct/cons; X
I sit in my little cage, in the living room, looking out at the packing crate. I don’t understand. Did I do something wrong? Is he mad at me? Did I fail him? All those long years since he bought me, since he opened the crate I came in, and powered me, booted me, gave me my name. And now…
She smiles at me, the woman. Celia.
She comes out of the kitchen, pushing aside the curtain of plastic beads, and kneels by my cage.
“Time to plug you in.” she says. I nod and extend my hand through the bars to her. Her fingers are delicate on my wrist as she inserts the charging cord. I tremble, as I am made to tremble, at the slightest touch.
I should be mad at her. I should hate her, but what do I know? I’m just a Dol. His perfect slaveDol. His AnnabelleDol. Silicone flesh over titanium articulated endoskeleton. Circuitry for brains. What do I know of hate and love? I cannot cry.
“I’m going to miss you,” she says. “I hope you understand. It just wouldn’t work with the three of us.”
I lift her hand to my mouth and kiss it. There is perfume on her wrist.
She stands and returns to the kitchen, but turns suddenly on the verge of the linoleum with a tangle of beads jostling and tumbling across her shoulder. “Tom didn’t want me to tell you who won the bidding, Anna, but I think you’ll be happy there. You’ll get more use than here. You should be proud too. You fetched a good price. Enough to pay the mortgage, enough for Tom to start his business, and even a little left over for the baby. ”
I merely nod in response, and she goes back to her cooking.
Happy? I’ll be happy there? Am I sad?
I know Master will be happy with his own little wine shop to run, and my circuits should react positively to that. His pleasure is mine. In theory.
I know Celia will be a good mother too, with a happy child, and my circuits should react to that as well. Her pleasure and the yet-to-be-born child’s pleasure are my own positive feelings after all. In theory.
Some say that we Dols become more human as we age. They say that we mimic emotions until for all practical purposes, we feel. It is true without doubt that some Dols develop personalities and quirks. That’s why I fetched such a high price. Like wine, we old Dols are worth more than the new ones… and I am an early model.
I sit in my cage, and stare at the crate, my thoughts as empty as the crate. Is this feeling? Emptiness? Slowly, my batteries charge. The crate will be a tight fit, but I am flexible.
It is six twenty two and four point three eight seconds when my Master comes home. He edges in the door with a cardboard box spilling enviro-foam packing peanuts through the seams in one hand, and a large roll of pallet wrap cradled awkwardly in the other.
Celia rushes to hug him and smother him with kisses. Packing peanuts spill across the hardwood floor. The pallet wrap drops with a thud. He laughs and lifts her and spins her about. They were made for each other, these two. How could I hate them? He sets her down gently.
“Hello Celia, love. Hello AnnaDol. Are you ready to be packed up and shipped, dear?”
“She’s been staring at that crate all day, Tom. I think she’s getting horny just thinking about it.”
“All charged up?”
“I plugged her in three hours ago, love. She should be fully amped.”
He unlocks my cage. As always, I lean out the door and kiss his boots in greeting, thrilling with submission. His hand tenderly cradles my cheek, sending frissons of electrical pleasure through my processors. My breathing simulators quicken. My body heaters activate. I nuzzle my face into his groin, feeling his heat. I reach toward his belt buckle, but he pushes me down.
“No dear. You have to be clean for the buyer. And once we got started you know it would be all night.”
I fall back into child’s pose, letting my breather return to its default rhythm, but I keep my heaters on.
“Stand, slave,” he orders. I stand.
“Turn around, Dol” he orders. I turn.
“Arms behind your back. Wrists up. Reverse prayer position. Nice and compact.” It is not difficult for me. I reach behind my back, elbows out, and fit my palms together neatly between my shoulder blades.
He cannot resist running his hands down my body. I lean my head back against his neck, closing my eyes. The top button of his shirt is teasingly close to my fingers. I undo it, even with my palms together between my shoulder blades, in a maneuver no human could master.
“All right, Dol, you can tease yourself a little if you like. Its your last time in this place after all. I’m not cleaning you again though.”
“I told you she was horny,” says Celia, handing Master a roll of twine. “For her wrists.”
“Good idea, love… I might even keep my shirt on.”
“Oh, I don’t intend to let that happen,” she says, sliding her hand between my legs, “Tie her tight. She likes that.”
I moan and whimper at her touch, needing a cock or a dildo or something-- anything-- in me. Master winds the hemp cord about my wrists. I can feel every rough fiber biting into my silicone flesh.
“Kneel down, Dol,” he orders. Celia stops her ministrations to assist me, though I have perfect balance. I kneel, and she kneels in front of me.
“What do you think, Love-- should we put her legs to her chest in front of her, or behind her neck with her knees over her shoulders?”
Celia fondles my breasts and nipples for a moment before she responds.
“I’d put her legs over her shoulders, Tom. That will be the most compact, and you can tie her ankles to her wrists.”
“Don’t get yourself off to quickly, Dol,” adds Celia pinching my nipples with a grin as my breath simulator forces air in and out of me in ragged gasps.
It is not so difficult really, the contortionist position. I fold down, back arching, until my stomach rests on the floorboards with my legs by my sides. Celia helps, lifting my ankles over my head and holding them crossed behind my neck for Master to tie. He winds the cords, tying ankle to ankle, and then ties my ankles to my wrists where they lie palm to palm between my shoulder blades. I test the bondage, but he has tied me securely, placing the knots out of reach, even for a Dol.
We Dols are not meant to be denied. My need burns in me. I writhe against the bondage, trying to grind myself into the floor.
“Pretty as a pretzel,” says Celia.
“Comfy there Annabelle?” Master asks.
“She better be. She’s going to be stuck like that in the crate for days.”
I just nod my head as best I can. I both long for and dread the box. Bondage and tight spaces are incredibly erotic for me, a response developed no doubt to match my Master’s own desires, and yet I wonder if I can handle even a few days like that, unable to touch myself, bound in utter darkness, with an unknown destination at the end.
“Good,” he says at my nod, and smacks my rear. “You’re rather exposed in this position you know. I admit it is tempting, but the auction-house rules are clear. You have to be clean. Now let‘s get you wrapped.”
So they wrap me. The roll of pallet wrap is awkward and heavy. Celia and Master take turns positioning me and orbiting the wrap about me. He keeps tension on the roll, making sure the wrap is tight. With every overlapping layer, my cocoon becomes more and more restrictive.
He leaves my head for last. He kisses me. I make it lasting and passionate, wanting him to remember it always. And then I make it last longer. My tongue circles in and out of his mouth. I suck on his lower lip as he pulls away.
“You really must be desperate to get off, all bound up like that,” he laughs, “But I know Celia has dinner waiting for me, and times a-wasting.”
“You know I do,“ she says, “June Cleaver, that’s me.“
I watch them as they wrap my head. My breathing simulators suction and inflate the cocoon of pallet wrap in and out. He wraps tighter, until I am forced to reduce my breathing to quick, shallow gasps.
“Goodbye,” he says.
He covers my eyes. First one layer obscuring my vision, then two layers, then three, until he and Celia are little more than blurs.
I need do nothing. I simply relax, letting myself become an object. That is his desire. His Perfect SlaveDol. His AnnabelleDol. His. But no longer.
“Up you go and into the crate!” he says. Even his words are obscured by the wrap.
I feel myself lifted, carried. The room shifts by in a blur.
“Careful there, love. Let’s set her on her back, nicely displayed for her new owner .”
They let me down into the crate on a cushion of envirofoam packing peanuts. The sides of the crate darken my peripheral vision; they lean above me, two dark shapes against the bright ceiling light. I can feel both sides of the crate pressing in on me through the pallet wrap. There is little room to spare.
I wait for them to pour in more packing peanuts and close up the crate, but they do not. They leave me instead, looking up at the blurred light of the ceiling. I hear them in the kitchen, eating. They joke and tease each other. I catch bits of it, muffled as my hearing is. They talk about what they will do with the money.
Yes, it was the right thing for them to sell me. They will be better off. Master will be happier. Celia will be happier. It is nothing I did wrong that led to this. If anything it is what I did right, guiding them together, guiding them to this night.
My circuits process that positively. I do feel it, like a warmth spreading through me. Maybe it is true. Maybe we Dols can learn to feel.
The wrap constricts me. I struggle a little trying to find release.
Master and Celia have left their dinner on the table. I hear them making love to each other. Celia must have come through with her promise. He’s lost his shirt.
Struggling against the wrap is useless. I am well and enjoyably cocooned, but hearing them only makes my need greater. God I need a fuck!
Even if my buyer is close by, and the post makes record time, my circuits are going to be overloaded by the time I arrive. Oh God! God I need a fuck! Oh God!
* * *
I lie in the enclosing darkness, in the crate, looking at nothing. Only darkness.
In the end it was anticlimactic. He simply slid the lid on, shutting out the light with hardly a word. We had already said our goodbyes. Already kissed. The pounding of nails seemed to last forever, rhythmic like a heartbeat. And then it stopped, with a certain finality. That was that.
All through the days of my confinement, I thought about him, called his picture up in my memory. I missed him. Yes, I felt that. His image in my memory and my shallow breathing were all the input to keep my processors running. That and my need, burning, building insatiably.
Fourteen days, eleven hours, twelve minutes, five seconds, point three eight.
I counted every millisecond.
Now I try to listen through the walls of the crate for some hint of my new owner, but there is nothing. Only occasional footsteps. Is that the clack of high heels? My circuits are so buzzed I can hardly make sense of what I hear. A woman perhaps? But there are multiple people in the room, I can tell. I hear them moving wordlessly about.
It has been hours since I arrived here, wherever that may be, and yet they have not opened the crate. Celia said I would be happy here. I long to find out. I long to discover who my new owner is, to learn how to please her, if it is truly a her.
And yet the hours pass, and still I remain, bound and contorted, in my crate, in my cocoon. And then she speaks.
I hear her clearly-- she speaks with fine enunciation easily recognizable even through the muffling box.
“Ladies, I have a very special surprise for you! A new purchase. Shall we open up the crate? Jessica, hand me that crowbar, will you. Help me out.”
I thrill to hear her voice, the voice that will command me, whisper to me, make love to me. The voice of the woman I will make it my purpose to please. All ready I can feel my ownership function resetting. I miss my Master no longer. I have her now. A Mistress to own me.
First a sliver of light as the nails are wrenched out with squealing reluctance. Winking flashes of light that burn into my photocells. “Lift it up there,” she says, “Lift it up!“ And then all at once the light floods in. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the brightness even as from the brightness rises a sudden chorus of Oohs and Ahhs.
“Mistress! She’s an F-model! Where did you find her?”
“Yes-- And look at her hair! That’s custom! They didn‘t do pink in production.”
“Let’s see her-- peel away the wrap!”
I hear her laughter. “They packed you nice and tight, didn’t they! LaurenDol, be a dear and hand me that pocket knife will you? Ladies, please welcome our newest addition!”
“Please, Mistress, can I have her first?”
“We’ll all have her SuzieDol-- after all, we must make her welcome!”
“Yes Indeed,” someone says, leaning over me, “We must make her welcome.”
“Welcome to my little mansion, AnnaDol” my Mistress whispers to me as the wrap is peeled back. I stare up into the eyes of my Mistress, adoring her immediately. And then my gaze shifts and I look past my Mistress into the eyes of the Dols behind her. Dols. Dozens of us. Dozens of Dols.
My Mistress smiles as she brushes a few packing peanuts from my face. I thrill at her touch, wanting her, needing her. “Welcome to my little Dolhouse, Anna” she says, “I am Mistress Vivia, and these are my Dols. I hope you are happy here, because that is what makes me happy.”
“And now, girls,” says Mistress Vivia, her voice filled with gentle laughter, “It is time to show poor Annabelle what we do here with a helpless bound Dol.”
“Yes Mistress,” they reply enthusiastically in unison, dozens of them, more than I have ever known… and as two dozen silicone hands lift me out of the crate, I know I will be very happy here, here amongst my own kind, in the Dolhouse, indeed.