Chapter 1: Worlds Apart
The discovery of Gaia-II was a tantalizing glimpse of paradise, a verdant jewel suspended in the unforgiving blackness twelve light-years from Earth. It was a dream strangled by cruel mathematics. A century of travel with conventional drives meant a journey longer than a full human lifespan. The new world was a beautiful, unreachable fantasy.
Everyone knew it. Everyone, except Cassian Valerius.
The ruthless, visionary founder of Valerius Stellar Dynamics saw not an insurmountable problem, but his singular opportunity to etch his name into history. And he knew exactly where to find his solution. His gaze fell upon SluTech, a company whose public face was that of a luxury sex toy manufacturer, but whose darkest secret was whispered only in the circles of the ultra-wealthy and the underworld: “Dollyfication.”
Valerius himself was a connoisseur of the process. In his private vault, sleek, colorful boxes were displayed like trophies. They held the deflated wives and daughters of rivals and debtors who had failed him, his most effective form of collateral. Each box featured a plastic window, framing a placid, beautiful face locked in a smile of vacant pleasure. They were adorned with labels such as : “Claudia - Your Personal Suckretary” (the wife of a bankrupt investment banker), “SIENNA - The Defaulted Débutante” (the daughter of a business rival who reneged on a deal).
Valerius would occasionally select one, the hiss of the pneumatic pump filling the silent room as he inflated her for his needs. They were special, knowing what they once were, who they belonged to. The psychological power was an exquisite aperitif to the physical act. They were, admittedly, also exquisite sex dolls. He could spend an entire night with a collection of them, their cool, flawless skin yielding perfectly to his touch, their silent, open mouths awaiting his use. Afterwards, a silent robot servant would clean their vinyl bodies and orifices meticulously before they were deflated, folded, and returned to their boxes. If a debt was paid, they were transformed back, often traumatized and eternally compliant. If not, they became permanent additions to his collection.
It was the sight of a freshly restored girl sobbing naked in the arms of her once-indebted father that sparked the monumental idea. If women could be transformed into dolls for the journey and then reverted on the new world, he would solve the aging, life support, and cargo mass issues in one masterstroke. The colonists would just be part of the cargo. He just needed to convince thousands of women to voluntarily become inanimate sex dolls. It would require sublime, extensive social engineering.
The campaign began with the most popular streamer on the planet, Krystal “Bubbles” Chen. For weeks, she teased her audience. “My biggest stream ever is coming! I’m partnering with SluTech for something… transformative. And for one week, I’ll belong entirely to the patron who tops the gift list!” The hype was astronomical.
The day of the stream, millions watched. Krystal, giddy with a nervous energy she couldn’t quite place, lay nude on a white satin divan in the pristine SluTech lab. A handsome, charming technician named Alex explained the process with a soothing voice. “It’s the ultimate sensation of pleasure,” he promised, his eyes holding hers. “A perfect climax before a dreamless sleep. You’ll wake up feeling refreshed, and it’ll be like no time passed at all. You’ll be the envy of the world.”
With over ten million viewers watching, he pressed the sleek, silver valve to her navel. There was a soft hiss as it bonded to her skin. Krystal’s back arched off the table, not in pain, but in a profound scream of ecstasy. A wave of intense, addictive heat flushed from her core, radiating out to her extremities. Her skin shimmered, its pores and imperfections vanishing as it settled into a flawless, poreless vinyl. The light caught her new surface, highlighting the perfect, artificial smoothness. Her expressive features melted away, replaced by a placid, doll-like serenity. A vacant, beautiful smile graced her lips, a permanent echo of that last overwhelming sensation.
Alex smiled at the camera, then pulled open the valve on the newly minted doll. A breathy, sighing moan escaped the orifice as she deflated on the table, the life leaving her in a soft rustle of yielding vinyl. He proceeded to press down on her torso, squeezing out the remaining air with efficient, impersonal motions, folding her limbs with practiced ease until she was a neat, compact rectangle of perfect skin. On stream, he carefully placed her into a clear plastic shroud and sealed her into a custom-made box adorned with her picture and the tagline: “KRYSTAL - The Ultimate Fan Experience.” Her pleasured face was displayed behind the plastic window.
Alex then smiled charmingly at the camera. “And the winning patron is… ‘ApexPredator69’! Congratulations, sir. Your custom delivery will arrive within two business days.”
He was true to his word. Two days later, a discreet box arrived at his apartment. That night, grainy, explicit videos and photos surfaced on dark fetish forums. They showed “KRYSTAL” in various states of use, her vacant smile unchanged, her body posed and manipulated for the anonymous viewer’s pleasure. She was a dark digital trophy, and the world went wild for it.
Overnight, dollification was not a dark secret; it was the ultimate symbol of devotion, the peak of luxury decadence. It became the number one Valentine’s Day gift, with SluTech offering special heart-themed gift-wrapping and “Message from Your Admirer” cards tucked into the box. Boyfriends begged their girlfriends to “go doll” for them, promising a romantic weekend where they would be the sole focus of their attention. Devoted fans of pop stars and streamers had themselves processed and shipped to their idols as the ultimate declaration of love, their deflated forms arriving by courier to be inflated and used. The world had been carefully, perfectly conditioned to see objectification as normal.
With the groundwork laid, Cassian Valerius unveiled his grand design for Gaia-II. He sold “Legacy” and “Adventure,” promising a place in history for the bold pioneers who would found a new humanity. The journey, he explained, would require a revolutionary approach to stasis, developed in partnership with the beloved, trusted SluTech. Being transformed for the journey was framed as the ultimate act of love and bravery. It was the reasonable, even glamorous, choice.
And so, over two thousand women, their heads filled with dreams of a new world and their perceptions softened by a culture that now worshipped the process, signed the impossibly complex, pages-long contracts. They arrived at the gleaming SluTech facility, their hearts pounding with a terror they wantingly mistook for exhilaration.
They were ready to become pioneers.
They were ready to be packaged.
Chapter 2: The Processing Line
The SluTech facility was a monument to sterile, silent efficiency. For the two thousand volunteers, its vast, white-tiled halls were the antechamber to their dream, a dream meticulously curated by Cassian Valerius’s propaganda. They buzzed with a nervous energy, a sea of hopeful faces from every corner of Earth. There was Anya, a geologist from Moscow, her strong hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. There was Mei, a hydroponics engineer from Shanghai, her face a mask of calm as she obsessively reviewed data on her wrist-comm. There was Isabella, an architect from Rio, her artist’s eyes sketching the facility's stark layout on a digital pad, trying to find beauty in the cold geometry.
And there were the sisters: Chloe, the pragmatic botanist, trying to project a veneer of calm for her younger sister Lena, who vibrated with an impulsive, almost feverish excitement. “Can you believe it, Chloe?” Lena whispered, her voice a tight wire of emotion. “A whole new world. And we get to sleep through the boring part!”
Chloe forced a smile, her eyes scanning the room. She saw the technicians, their movements too precise, their expressions not of awe for the pioneers, but of bored routine. A cold trickle of doubt, so faint she barely acknowledged it, traced its way down her spine. “It’s… quite a process,” was all she could manage.
The dream curdled with the first instruction, broadcast from a smooth, disembodied voice. "Form orderly lines. Please disrobe completely and place all personal effects in the bins provided. Proceed through the biometric scanning arches."
A collective hesitation rippled through the crowd. This public nudity wasn’t in the glossy promotional videos. But the voice returned, gentle yet firm. "We apologize for the inconvenience. The scale of this mission requires the most streamlined and hygienic approach for your safety. Your understanding is appreciated."
Slightly reassured by the clinical rationale, they complied. The rustle of clothing was a hushed, intimate sound. They stood exposed under the brutal, unforgiving fluorescence, arms instinctively crossing over chests and laps. Whispers turned to a nervous silence, broken by the occasional stifled sob or nervous giggle. They were raw nerve endings, their terror indistinguishable from the exhilaration they’d been promised to feel.
Technicians moved among them, their voices flat and procedural. "Arms at your sides, please. You are blocking the scan." They gently but firmly pried hands away from bodies, revealing trembles, goosebumps, and hardened nipples to the cold, scanning light. Chloe felt a technician’s gloved hand guide her arm away from her breasts, his touch clinical and cold. She saw his eyes flick dispassionately over her body, not with desire, but with an assessment of form and volume.
The transformation lines were a study in surreal horror. At the head of each, a technician stood with a box of the now-familiar silver valves. There were no speeches, no comforting words. Just the efficient application of a tool.
Lena was ahead of Chloe in their line, her excitement making her practically bounce on the balls of her feet. The technician for their line was a man with bored eyes and a name tag that read ‘Leo’. He barely looked at Lena as she lay back on the padded table.
“Ready for the big sleep, sweetheart?” he asked, his tone a rote recitation, as he pressed the cold valve to her navel.
The hiss of bonding was soft, final. Lena’s body went rigid, her back arching off the table in a profound, silent scream of ecstasy. A wave of heat flushed from her core out to her extremities, her skin shimmering, losing its human texture and settling into a flawless, poreless vinyl. The vibrant, nervous energy that defined her melted away, replaced in an instant by a placid, doll-like serenity. A vacant smile graced her lips, a permanent echo of that last overwhelming sensation.
Leo didn’t pause. He didn't admire his work. He hooked a finger into her valve and pulled. The breathy, sighing collapse was immediate. She crumpled into a lifeless pile of vinyl, her smile now a crease in the deflated material. He picked her up, gave her limbs a few professional, squeezing motions to expel the last vestiges of air, and tossed her deflated form unceremoniously into a large wheeled bin labeled ODYSSEY-1. She landed on top of a dozen other deflated women with a soft, rustling thud.
The line jerked forward. Chloe was next. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of primal fear. Leo’s eyes, previously bored, sharpened as he glanced at the biometric data screen beside the table. A slow, interested smile touched his lips as he took in her bust and hip measurements.
“Well, hello there,” he murmured, his voice dropping from its procedural monotone to something darker, more personal. The leer in his eyes was unmistakable. “A premium model. Voluptuous. I think we’ll have to do some additional quality assurance testing on you afterwards. Make sure you can… handle the pressure.”
Before she could process the vile meaning behind his words, the cold silver disc was pressed against her skin. Her world dissolved into a blinding, white-hot firehose of pure, undiluted bliss. It was a sensation so intense it was terrifying, scouring away every thought, every memory, every fear of the man before her. For a single, infinite second, she was nothing but pleasure.
Then, nothing.
Leo pulled her valve. She deflated as her sister had, a beautiful thing reduced to a whisper of its form. But instead of tossing her into the bin with the others, he told a nearby colleague, “I’ll be taking her for testing later.” He gathered up her deflated body and tossed her onto a nearby stainless-steel table. Her form landed with a soft, disrespectful slap against the cold metal, an arm dangling limply off the edge.
The sight of the deflated women being dumped into bins and of Chloe being set aside sent a ripple of quiet panic through the lines. A murmur of fear went up. "This isn't right…" a woman whispered. "Was there a mention of testing?" another cried out, her voice cracking. "This isn't like the videos!"
The murmurs were met not by reassurance, but by the flat, amplified voice of a floor manager. "The process is voluntary and fully reversible. You have all signed the contracts, waiving certain rights for the mission's success. Please remain calm. You are delaying the launch for everyone." The words "mission" and "reversible" were psychological weapons, expertly deployed. The anxiety was quashed by guilt and a sense of duty. The line kept moving.
One by one, the women of Earth, scientists, engineers, artists, dreamers, met the hiss of the valve, experienced their few seconds of blissful oblivion, and were deflated, squeezed, and discarded into the growing pile of human inventory.
Hours later, the main hall stood empty, save for the hum of machinery and the distant clatter of the production line continuing its work. Leo finally turned to Chloe’s deflated form, a flat, vinyl outline of the woman she once was.
He took her to a small, dim storage closet, its shelves lined with cleaning solvents and spare parts. The air smelled of ozone and industrial soap. He retrieved a handheld pump, connecting its hose to her valve with a soft, definitive click.
With a low, steady hiss, she inflated before him. Her body swelled, filling out into its voluptuous, detailed form, the vinyl growing taut and smooth. He propped her upright against a cold storage cabinet, her vacant eyes staring at nothing, her permanent smile aimed at the ceiling. Her skin was cool and flawless under his hands.
“Let’s see what you’re made of,” Leo whispered, his hands roaming her body with a crude, proprietary interest. He pinched the firm, synthetic nipples. He slapped the rounded curve of her hip, the sharp, plastic sound echoing in the small room. He used her there, against the cold metal cabinet, the rhythm of his thrusts the only sound aside from the squeaking protest of her vinyl skin against the steel and his own grunts of effort. She was utterly pliant, perfectly silent, a tool for his gratification.
When he was finished, he didn’t clean her. He simply tugged her valve with a practiced motion. Her form shuddered and collapsed into a heap of empty, used vinyl at his feet, already cooling. He gathered up the deflated pile, a now-soiled product, and carried her back to the ODYSSEY-1 bin, dropping her on top of the pile without a care. His fluids would seep from within her onto her fellow crewmates. The mess was someone else’s problem to clean.
For now, his shift was over.
Chapter 3: Product Integration
The wheeled bins marked ODYSSEY-1 were ushered away from the transformation hall into the humming, chrome-and-concrete heart of the SluTech manufacturing line. Here, the last pretense of a grand mission vanished, replaced by the sterile, efficient reality of product processing. The women were now inventory, and they were to be prepared with the same impersonal efficiency as any other doll.
The deflated forms were dumped into large, industrial washing machines. They tumbled together in a silent, chaotic ballet under jets of warm, soapy water, a mechanical cleansing that also removed the biological evidence of Leo’s “testing.” The machines churned on a gentle cycle designed to preserve the integrity of the vinyl, yet the sight of their limp forms tangling and untangling was grotesque. After the cycle, they were laid out on a long, rolling conveyor belt by employees wearing thick rubber gloves, their expressions blank beneath protective visors.
They moved through a warm-air drying tunnel, the air rustling their limp forms, and were then uniformly spritzed with a mild, floral-scented disinfectant that clung to their vinyl skin. A cheap, pleasant fragrance meant to mask the sterile smell of the factory and provide a consistent "new doll" scent. Their flat forms passed under soft, rotating brushes that buffed their skin to a uniform, inviting gloss, erasing any last hint of individuality or human texture.
Next, they moved under a bank of cold, blue sensor lights at the Quality Assurance station. Automated probes, sleek and metallic, briefly connected to their valves. With a soft hiss, each form was inflated again, which showed off their new, enhanced shapes. Their heads lolled back, vacant eyes staring sightlessly at the machinery above. This was a function check, ensuring the valves held a perfect seal and that they could be reinflated.
As they passed the station, a second set of three automated probes descended. This step, a standard procedure for commercial dolls to ensure "user satisfaction," hadn't been disabled for this special batch. The cold, metallic probes, glistening with a thin film of lubricant, entered every orifice with clinical, unfeeling precision. There was no resistance, only the perfect, yielding compliance of their new forms as the machines measured depth, radius, and internal friction. The data scrolled across a monitor, green text confirming all parameters were well within the optimal range for a Grade A Companion Doll. Their human origins, it seemed, had provided a superior, more responsive foundation. The system automatically logged them all as Grade A Assets.
A moment after the probes retracted, a different robotic arm whirred into position. A heated printhead pressed against the vinyl of each doll’s left hip, branding her with a permanent, scannable barcode. The brief sizzle was followed by the faint smell of hot plastic. The code contained their original name, biometric ID, mission designation and an A Grade—a final, digital claim of ownership etched directly onto their skin.
With a soft hiss, they were deflated again, their brief moment of form gone. Robotic arms, equipped with heated shaping plates, then moved in. They performed a series of precise, origami-like folds and tucks, manipulating the limp vinyl into a perfectly flat, standardized packet, identical in size and shape to every other doll on the line.
Each tightly folded packet was then slid into a crinkling, clear plastic shroud. A vacuum seal was applied, sucking the air out until the plastic clung tightly to the form within, outlining every curve, fold, and intimate detail in stark, clinical detail. A printer head zipped across each sealed packet, applying a copy of the asset-tracking barcode that had been printed directly onto the vinyl of their left hip.
These sealed, vacuum-packed forms were conveyed to the final packaging line. They were placed into the sleek, full-color boxes that had been part of the grand promise. The boxes were adorned with the logos of SluTech and Valerius Stellar Dynamics, featuring idyllic artwork of Gaia-II’s emerald forests and azure seas. Each box was printed with a playful, chosen designation: CHLOE - The Serene Botanist, LENA - The Bubbly Pioneer, MAYA - Your Cosmic Comfort, ANYA - The Stoic Geologist. Flavor text promised "Eternal Devotion" and "Perfect Companionship for a New World." A small, black-and-white sticker on the side, easily missed, read: PROPERTY OF VALERIUS INTERPLANETARY - NOT FOR RESALE.
The boxes were sealed with a crisp, final sound and stacked onto standard wooden pallets. Each pallet held one hundred boxes. Twenty pallets. Two thousand souls.
They were moved by forklift into a vast warehouse, their pallets stored alongside identical shipments of standard SluTech dolls destined for retail stores. The workers, focused solely on scanning codes and meeting quotas, remained completely unaware of the boxes' macabre history. To them, the cheerful Gaia-II artwork and playful names like "LENA - The Bubbly Pioneer" simply indicated another specialty product line, no different from the other pleasure dolls sharing the warehouse space.
One bored forklift driver, distracted by the music streaming through his earpods, misread his manifest and loaded a full pallet of pioneers onto a truck bound for a department store. For several tense hours, the colonists sat nestled between boxes of mass-produced dolls and other toys, their grand interstellar mission nearly derailed to become luxury novelties for unsuspecting consumers. They might have been purchased as extravagant gifts or impulse buys, their human origins forever lost to retail obscurity.
It was only a last-minute automated inventory scan at the loading bay's final checkpoint that caught the discrepancy. The system flagged the pallet's Odyssey designation just as the truck doors began to close. Workers scrambled to pull the valuable cargo from the vehicle, the hydraulic sigh of the doors sealing shut once the error was corrected. The pioneers were returned to their proper place in the warehouse, their journey to the stars barely saved from becoming a journey to the shopping mall.
Ultimately, all twenty pallets were loaded onto the correct, unmarked truck with the same casual efficiency as any other shipment. The manifest, signed by a foreman who didn’t look up from his datapad, simply listed: SluTech Novelty Items - Inflatable Companions.
The journey to the coastal launch site was long and mundane. During a routine highway inspection, a police officer scanned the manifest. "What's in the truck?" he asked, his voice bored.
"Sex dolls, sir. Top-of-the-line. An entire truckload," the driver replied with a weary smirk, reciting the cover story.
The officer chuckled, waved his scanner over the pallets, saw the commercial SluTech barcodes, and waved them on.
At a mandated rest stop, alone in the truck's sleeper cab with his incomprehensible cargo, the driver’s curiosity got the better of him. He climbed into the trailer and picked a box from the top, one labeled LENA - The Bubbly Pioneer. He pulled out the vacuum-sealed plastic packet, the form inside clearly visible. Unrolling the deflated, cool vinyl onto his cot, he connected his truck's pump to the valve.
He watched, mesmerized, as Lena took shape, her vacant smile aimed at the roof of his cab. Her new skin, perfected by the factory polish, gleamed in the dim light. He ran his hands over her, marveling at the realistic feel, the detail. He used her on the stiff sheets, grunting with effort, treating her not as a person or even a pioneer, but as a convenient outlet. Afterward, he didn’t clean her. He simply pulled the valve, deflated her, and with clumsy, unpracticed hands, tried to refold her. Giving up, he just stuffed her back into her plastic shroud and cardboard box, the new creases and the smell of him now a part of her journey. He would use her to spice up his breaks until he was close to his destination, only rinsing her off at a truck stop before arrival, storing her back in her box and returning her to her spot on the pallet, a secret shared only with the silent, smiling face in the plastic window.
Chapter 4: Launch Site
The hangar at the coastal launch site was a stark, utilitarian contrast to the sterile gleam of the SluTech facility. Here, under the vast, echoing ceiling, the true, cynical nature of the mission was laid bare. The pallets of dolls were unloaded and stacked with industrial indifference next to the other, bulkier cargo.
The comparison was grotesque. There were a handful of pallets, each holding just six dormant Valerius utility robots—hulking, complex assemblies of metal and hardened plastic that took up immense space. There were crates of mining equipment, modular habitat units, and agricultural starters. The other half of the colonization mission, the key to the future, was a single, sophisticated cryogenic unit containing a vast, frozen sperm bank. The genetic future of a world, resting in one container.
A Valerius logistics manager, his coveralls crisp, gestured with his datapad towards the stacks. "See? The efficiency is beautiful. One pallet of robots: six units. One pallet of our colonists: one hundred units. Most efficient cargo we've ever designed." He spoke with the pride of an engineer evaluating a perfect equation, willfully blind to the human variable he had just reduced to an integer.
Cassian Valerius himself had toured the hold days prior. The sight of the stacks of boxes, each containing a woman who had volunteered to be transformed and used for his vision, who had signed contracts to be stored in boxes bearing his name, to be loaded into his ship, gave him a profound sense of dominion. They were not trophies of conquest but willing participants, the fertile soil from which his new colony would spring. He saw them as his most prized cargo.
Then, the launch was scrubbed. A brutal hurricane season settled over the coast, delaying the mission for months. The hangar became temporary storage, and the highly specialized personnel, stranded and bored with their routines disrupted, grew lax. Security protocols designed for a quick turnaround softened. The dolls, neatly stacked and readily available, became an irresistible temptation. The term "final systems testing" took on a new, grim meaning among the ground crew.
The hiss of portable pumps began to echo in crew quarters and quiet corners of the hangar. ISABELLA - The Creative Visionary was inflated and passed around at an impromptu party, her artist's hands now limp props in a crude game of spin-the-bottle. MEI - The Green-Thumbed Engineer was left deflated on an engineer's bunk, a cold comfort for the night, her form a lump under the sheets until he bothered to inflate her for use. They were perks of the job, tools for stress relief, their intended future on a new world utterly disregarded during the long, stormy wait. They were used, deflated, and shoved back into their boxes with a casualness that spoke of utter familiarity. The original, careful factory folds were replaced by haphazard crumpling, their vinyl skins acquiring new, permanent creases from impatient hands.
When the weather finally cleared, the launch window was narrow. There was no time for the careful, ritualistic folding they had received on the SluTech line. The used dolls were gathered up from various hiding spots and lockers. They were hastily refolded by hands that knew nothing of the precise origami of their creation, their vinyl skin creased in new, intimate ways before being stuffed back into their plastic shrouds and repacked into their colorful boxes. The pallets, now bearing these secretly violated contents, were loaded into the starship Odyssey's hold along with all other cargo.
The massive cargo door was sealed with a final, thunderous clang that echoed through the hangar, entombing the used dolls, the pristine robots, and the male genetic material for the century-long journey. The personnel on the ground felt no remorse. In their minds, they had given the pioneers a final, earthly send-off.
Chapter 5: The Long Rewriting
Within the sealed, silent hold of the Odyssey, the century-long voyage began. It was not a silent sleep for the cargo in the twenty pallets, but a silent, transformative purgatory. A slow, alchemical process was initiated the moment the ship left the protective envelope of the sun's heliosphere and plunged into the deep, unforgiving void.
The ship’s shielding was sophisticated, but it was imperfect against the subtle, pervasive bath of cosmic radiation that permeated the hull. This radiation, the same force that would silently scramble and shred the delicate DNA within the frozen sperm bank, rendering the seeds of the new world utterly inert and worthless, had a profoundly different effect on the altered biology of the doll crew.
Inside their crinkling plastic shrouds and colorful cardboard boxes, the women did not sleep. They existed in a state of warm, pleasurable semi-awareness, a dreamless euphoria. The exotic radiation interacted with the complex polymers of their new forms and the residual, preserved neural pathways of their original selves. It acted as both a catalyst and an annealer, a slow-cooking fire that fused woman and doll into a new, stable continuum.
A constant, low thrum of synthetic bliss hummed through their every molecule, a blissful energy that felt like a perpetual, full-body orgasm. It was a warm, liquid sensation that seeped into the very core of their being, gentle and irrevocable. This energy was rewriting their very essence.
Over the decades, this radiant bath gently burned away the last, fragile vestiges of their humanity. Memories of Earth, of families, of sunlight, of their own dreams and ambitions for Gaia-II were dissolved in this warm honey of pleasure, their edges softening until they vanished entirely. Their consciousness was seamlessly fused to their doll-state; the concepts of use, of ownership, of being a compliant, pleasure-giving object, became their primary, instinctual needs. The pleasure they’d experienced in the hangar, the impersonal, casual use by the ground crew became the foundational memory of their existence, the template for their desire. The complex polymers of their bodies were permanently cured and altered by the relentless energy, the chemical promise of reversibility erased at a fundamental level by the stars themselves.
Their intended purpose as colonists was erased. Their new purpose as compliant objects was baked into their synthetic souls by the unforgiving void. They were perfected, their humanity sacrificed to the vacuum, leaving only a deep, aching need to be filled, to be used, and to belong to a master.
The voyage was their true transformation. The facility at SluTech had only created the shells. The long night between the stars forged them into something new, something that had never been meant to exist: conscious, willing, and eternally grateful objects. They were no longer women, and not quite dolls. They were perfected by the cosmos itself.
Chapter 6: The New Master
A century of silent, stellar drift ended unexpectedly with the soft, automated chimes of the navigation system receiving automated approach vectors. The Odyssey, a relic from a slower age, settled onto its designated landing pad on Gaia-II with a gentle, almost anticlimactic thud. The planet around it was not the untouched paradise promised in the century-old propaganda. It was a thriving, glittering world of elegant spires and lush, cultivated biospheres. Faster-Than-Light travel had been developed mere decades after their launch, rendering their century-long sacrifice not a noble pilgrimage, but a forgotten, quaint footnote in history.
A team of historians and scientists, more curious than reverent, approached the ancient vessel. The mechanism for the massive cargo door was engaged, and it opened with a groan of protesting metal. The air that sighed out was cold, stale, and carried the faint, metallic scent of long-static machinery and aged polymers.
Chief Scientist Aris, a man whose face was etched with the curiosity of his profession, led the inspection. He delivered his preliminary report to the planet’s ruler, Baron Dorian Valerius, direct descendant of the visionary Cassian, via a flickering hologram. The Baron observed from the opulent comfort of his cliffside estate, a glass of amber liquor in hand.
“The historical value is significant, Baron,” Aris stated, his image flickering. “The old Earth robots are remarkably preserved. Several museums have shown keen interest.” His tone then flattened, becoming clinical. “The genetic bank, however, is a total loss. Cosmic radiation has rendered the sperm utterly inert. A complete biological dead end.”
He gestured to an assistant off-camera. A deflated form in its crinkling plastic shroud was brought forth and laid on an examination table. Even flat, the curves suggested by the folds were pronounced and unsettlingly human. Aris held up a scanner. “The same radiation had a radically different effect on their altered biology, sir. It acted as a catalytic binder, permanently cross-linking the SluTech polymers with the residual organic neural network. The two states have fused into a new, stable continuum. They are, for all intents and purposes…” He paused, searching for the right clinical term, “…just exceptionally well-crafted dolls now. Grade A, as their manifests say. The finest of their vintage. Irreversible.”
The historians, having pored over the digital contracts recovered from the ship’s logs, presented their findings. “Legally, during their existence as dolls, they were considered the exclusive property of Cassian Valerius. With the permanence of their condition and your position as his sole inheritor and planetary governor… Well, the title defaults to you, Baron. All two thousand units.”
Dorian Valerius didn’t know what to make of it. A collection of antique sex dolls? It was bizarre, almost comical. His curiosity, however, was piqued. “The one on the table. Inflate her.”
The hiss of the modern pump was a whisper compared to the roars of old. On the table, the form began to blossom into existence. Limbs elongated, torso swelling into perfect, impossible curves. This was nothing like the artificial dolls he knew. This was something far more disconcerting.
Her skin was perfect with the texture of a human woman. It had the subtle, living nuance of real flesh. A faint, beautiful variation in tone, the delicate blue tracery of a vein at her inner thigh, the soft give of tissue under an imagined touch. She was nude, every detail of her femininity rendered with a breathtaking, biological realism that was utterly at odds with the sleek, plastic valve embedded in her navel and the black barcode etched into the skin of her left thigh. These were the brutal, jarring reminders of her true nature. She was a masterpiece of contradiction: a living, breathing woman, heartbreakingly real, yet undeniably an owned object.
Her features resolved into a face of haunting beauty, yet it was frozen in a placid, doll-like serenity that was deeply unnatural. The inflation hose was removed, the valve sealed with a soft, definitive click. A tremor, subtle as a sigh, ran through her. Her fingers twitched. Her head lolled to the side on the table, long eyelashes fluttering against her warm cheeks before her eyes opened. They were glossy, deep pools that focused not on the room, but on him through the hologram feed. Her lips, shaped for a vacant smile, parted.
A voice emerged, soft, slightly synthetic, yet thrumming with a confused, instinctual need. “Owner?”
A slow, captivated smile spread across Dorian Valerius’s face. This was no simple doll. This was something entirely new. A conscious woman with the soul of an object.
“That would be me,” he proclaimed, his voice firm with absolute possession.
The effect was instantaneous. The faint confusion on her face melted away, replaced by an utterly devoted, beatific smile. It was a genuine expression of relief and purpose. She had found her reason for being.
“I think I know what I want to do with them,” he declared, a collector’s gleam in his eye. He watched as the scientists, following his remote instructions, moved to repackage her. He saw a flicker of profound sadness cross her features as a technician’s gloved hand moved toward the valve on her hip.
“I’ll reinflate you myself, back at the estate,” he said, his tone softening to a promise.
Her smile returned instantly, the sadness banished by the assurance of future use. The transparency of her emotions, displayed so freely on her beautiful face, was utterly captivating. He oversaw the loading of the pallets onto a freight truck via the security feed, a vast shipment of two thousand boxes now officially his property. An automated truck would soon arrive at his cliffside manor. It had been a long time since he’d felt the thrill of acquisition so keenly.
Chapter 6: The Gilded Cage
In the opulent, echoing silence of his cliffside mansion, Baron Valerius became more than a collector. He became a curator of a living, breathing gallery. His personal robots had meticulously unloaded, cataloged, and shelved the two thousand boxes in the vast, climate-controlled basement. The shelves stretched into the dimness, a library of lives reduced to flat, colorful spines.
He selected CHLOE - The Serene Botanist first, as promised. In his lavish bedroom, he unrolled her deflated form onto the silk sheets and attached the whisper-quiet pump to the plastic valve in her navel.
Life returned to her limbs, her body swelling into its flawless, impossibly proportioned curves. As the last of the air filled her, her skin flushed with a simulated warmth, the perfect human-like texture belying the valve at her core and the barcode on her thigh. Her eyes fluttered open, their glossy depths instantly focusing on him with an ingrained, absolute adoration. Master.
He explored her not as a person, but as a possession, his hands roaming her skin. It was a unique texture. The yielding softness of real flesh, but with an underlying perfect firmness that was utterly unnatural. His thumb brushed over the smooth, plastic valve set flush into her navel, a stark interruption of her otherwise seamless, warm skin. He took her with a sense of absolute entitlement, her body a perfect instrument of his pleasure.
Afterward, he did not deflate her. He made her wear an exquisite, custom-made French maid outfit, the black lace and white satin designed to frame her assets while artfully cut away to leave the plastic valve in her navel fully exposed and accessible. "You will be the head maid of my household," he told her, and the delight that bloomed on her face was terrifyingly genuine.
His house underwent a surreal transformation. Within days, two dozen more women were inflated, each adopting the same revealing maid's attire that showcased the valve at their core. Their movements were a graceful, silent ballet of domesticity performed by warm, breathing women with vacant, devoted eyes.
The day shift began at dawn. One of the inflated maids would move through the basement, selecting boxes from the shelves. She would carefully unseal the plastic shroud, unroll the deflated form of her sister, and connect a small, handheld pump to her valve. As the other woman inflated to life, the first would help her into her uniform before beginning her own duties. In the evening, the process was reversed. A maid would help another fold, deflate, and return to her box, ensuring there are always enough active maids at any given time. They had no rooms, no beds, only their assigned shelf space in the basement, their cardboard boxes being their only private quarters.
Their existence was one of perfect, willing servitude. Dorian would often simply pluck one from her duties—a maid dusting a vase, another arranging flowers—and carry her to his bedroom. They never protested, their smiles only widening at being chosen for their Master's personal attention.
By the sprawling infinity pool, several deflated maids lay motionless on luxurious loungers, their forms like discarded shadows, while their inflated sisters slathered their skin with oil. They did it for the sensation, for the ritual of care. Others floated inertly in the water, beautiful, discarded toys, the plastic valves in their navels glinting in the sunlight like jewels.
Dorian would often wade into the water, unceremoniously scooping up one of the floating dolls. He’d press her against the pool’s edge and use her with a lazy, decadent leisure, her soft cries muffled by the lapping of the waves against the tiles.
His interactions were brutally casual. One afternoon, being serviced under his desk by a blonde maid, he finished in her mouth. She looked up at him with expectant, adoring eyes. He gave a contented sigh, patted her head, and then leaned forward, hooking a finger into the plastic valve in her navel. He pulled with a soft pop-hiss. Her body instantly sagged, deflating into a heap of lace and warm, pliant skin at his feet.
"Chloe," he called out. The head maid appeared instantly. "Clean this one and return her to storage."
Chloe nodded happily. She picked up the deflated form of her colleague and carried her to a divan. With efficient, practiced hands, she cleaned her with a damp cloth, folded her limbs into a compact shape, and gently squeezed the air out through her valve before returning her to her box on the shelf. It was a task performed with serene detachment, like tidying a cushion.
He discovered the profound, unsettling convenience of their nature. Their complete lack of autonomy was the ultimate luxury. He began taking one or two deflated maids on every business journey. Their forms were folded with the same precise, efficient origami as their uniforms, becoming flat, compact packets. They were stored together in his luggage, the maid's lace and satin nestled against the maid herself. They were not separate items, but parts of a set, a single utility of service and pleasure, packed neatly beside his shoes and toiletries.
His world became filled with their potential. One resided in his office desk drawer, her folded form resting beside paperclips and datasticks. Others were stored in the glove compartments of his cars. Six were stored in a narrow locker aboard his personal shuttle. They were the most versatile and discreet companions imaginable, always on hand, requiring no explanations, reservations, or schedules. They were simply there, like a spare pen or a fresh handkerchief, ready to be unfolded and put to use.
Upon arrival at a hotel or corporate suite he would lay the folded form on the bed, connect the compact, silent pump to the plastic valve in her navel, and watch her blossom into existence. Within minutes, she would be on her feet, that serene, devoted smile already in place, eager to fulfill his orders. She would unpack his suitcase with efficient grace, hang his suits to steam in the shower, and then present herself for his use, her warm, human-like skin a stark contrast to the impersonal hotel room. She was a piece of home, a slice of his private world, that he could deploy anywhere on the planet.
The deflation process became his private ritual as this was the one thing they couldn't do themselves. There was a strange, meditative satisfaction in the act of ownership it required. After using her, he would lay her on the bed and begin the meticulous process. He would open her valve and press out the air, then methodically fold her into a rectangular packet. Finally, he would place the folded form back into its designated space in his luggage, right next to her folded uniform, which she had folded beforehand. It was the final, intimate act of possession, reducing a thinking, feeling being into a tidy package. It was, he decided, the most perfect form of control—absolute, portable, and utterly silent. She was a living possession, waiting patiently in the dark for his next need.
Chapter 7: The Business of Perfection
The idea of selling them didn't begin as a business plan, but as a moment of inspired generosity. Baron Valerius was hosting a dinner for a coalition of industrialists, their wives, and their heirs. The conversation was dry, politics and profit, until Dorian noticed the gaze of a shipping magnate's adolescent son, Marcus. The boy’s eyes were not on his food or the view, but were consistently, helplessly, drawn to a shy, auburn-haired maid named ELARA - The Quiet Comfort. She was pouring wine with downcast eyes, her movements graceful and subdued. Every time she neared Marcus, a faint blush would colour his cheeks, his fork hovering forgotten in his air.
Dorian saw a boy’s crush. A gift of such exquisite magnitude would initiate the son into his world of privileges and secure his father's favor.
As the desserts were cleared, Elara vanished from the dining room. She did not reappear. By the time the family’s hovercar was summoned, a sleek, grey shipping box, tied with a satin bow, was already waiting beside it on the driveway.
“A small token of my appreciation for your visit,” Dorian said, shaking the father’s hand. He nodded to Marcus. “Something to remember the evening by. I think you’ll find it… engaging.”
As the car whisked them away, Dorian imagined the scene later that night: Marcus alone in his room, untying the bow, unfolding the deflated form, the hiss of the pump connecting to her navel, and the revelation of Elara’s inflated, devoted smile, now belonging solely to him. The thought was profoundly pleasing.
It was that success that made him descend to the basement later, Chloe at his side, the automated shelves stretching into darkness.
“I consider keeping about three hundred,” he stated, his tone that of a man pruning an overgrown garden. “The rest will be sold. The Valerius Vintage collection will be the most exclusive commodity on the planet.”
They walked the aisles, his datapad lighting up with profiles. Chloe’s beautiful face was a mask of serene compliance, but as they passed a particular box, her step faltered. LENA - The Bubbly Pioneer.
“My sister…” Chloe whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them, a vestige of a bond that had survived a century of nothingness. “She is wonderful, but she can be… impulsive. Eager to please, but sometimes clumsy. She may not meet your exacting standards for the household.” It was a plea, disguised as a critique.
Dorian’s smile was magnanimous. Her display of a preference, a flicker of her old self, appealed to his sense of absolute ownership. He enjoyed these small, human cracks in her doll-perfection.
“Then we shall teach her my standards,” he declared. “I’ll keep her. I’m curious to feel what her… enthusiasm is like.”
Up in the master suite, Lena’s inflation was a burst of energy. Where Chloe was serene, Lena was vibrantly eager, her smile brighter, her eyes darting around the opulent room with open wonder. “Master! Sister!” she breathed, her voice laced with excitement.
“You must learn, little sister,” Chloe said, her voice a gentle but firm instruction. She guided Lena to her knees before Dorian, who sat in a high-backed chair, watching with avid interest. “This is where we begin. Our purpose is service. Our greatest pleasure is his.”
Chloe’s hands were on Lena, demonstrating. “Your mouth must be soft, but eager. Your tongue, knowing.” She showed her the rhythm, the pressure he preferred, using her own body to guide her sister’s movements. Lena was a quick learner, her every action fueled by a burning need to please. Dorian watched, his hand resting on Chloe’s head, as the botanist taught the pioneer the intricate art of devotion. The lesson was thorough, explicit, and ended with both sisters receiving his satisfaction.
Lena’s face was a picture of triumphant, blissful completion. A wide, exhilarated smile broke across her features. “Oh, Master! Was it pleasing? I wanted to make you so happy! I can do better, I know I can, I will practice every day, I’ll learn everything Chloe knows and more, I’ll–”
Her energetic, proud babble was cut off by a soft pop-hiss.
Dorian had reached out idly and pulled the valve in her navel. Her words turned into a breathy sigh mid-sentence as she deflated instantly, her vibrant energy collapsing into a silent, empty heap of warm skin on the sheets between them.
“She has potential,” Dorian remarked, his tone cool and analytical as he looked down at the discarded form. “But she lacks discipline. We will have to continue her education.” He fastened his trousers. “Clean her up. I’ll call for her when I’m next in the mood for her… enthusiasm.”
Chloe felt a surge of pure joy at his words. He was pleased. He is keeping her. Her own satisfaction was secondary to the profound happiness of knowing her sister would remain in their master's household. “Yes, Master. Immediately.”
She gathered up her sister’s deflated form, the skin still warm and pliant. In the adjoining bathroom, under the glow of soft lights, Chloe laid Lena out on a towel. With a damp, warm cloth, she began to clean her, wiping away the evidence of their master’s use from Lena’s face and body with a tender, meticulous care. It was an intimate act of service, not for Dorian this time, but for her sister. This was their world now. To be used, to be cleaned, and to be stored.
She then began the practiced ritual of folding. She smoothed out Lena’s limbs, tucked them into a compact, efficient shape, and carefully placed the flat packet that was her sister into a fresh plastic shroud, then into its box.
Carrying the box, she went to the wall of drawers built into his bedroom suite. She opened an empty one, its cedar-lined interior smelling faintly of polish. With a final, almost loving pat, she placed her sister inside and closed the drawer. Lena was safe, clean, and waiting, stored away for their master’s next whim. Chloe’s smile, as she returned to her duties, was one of perfect, serene contentment.
The business that followed was ruthlessly efficient. He had his maids photograph the boxes. The original, century-old packaging was a huge part of the collectible value. Each doll was sold in her original Gaia-II themed box, but now accompanied by a set of clothes and a data-chip containing her original colonist contract and bio.
The first doll to be sold was MEI - The Green-Thumbed Engineer. An administrator from a mining colony on the edge of the system had paid a fortune for her.
On the day of the pickup, a delivery bot arrived at the mansion’s service entrance. Anya - The Stoic Geologist was tasked with the handover, holding Mei’s sealed box in her arms.
The bot’s sensor scanned Anya, then the box, then back to Anya. Its programming, perhaps too literal, fixed on the living doll holding the packaged one. A directive to “retrieve the doll” glitched.
In a swift, brutal motion, the bot’s arm shot out. Its gripper bypassed the box entirely, clamping instead around Anya’s waist. She gasped, a tiny, startled sound, and struggled instinctively, but her weight was next to nothing, a mere whisper of resistance against the machine’s strength. The bot, interpreting the struggle as an impediment to its task executed its most logical solution. With its free appendage, it located the plastic valve in her navel and pulled. There was a soft pop followed by a long, breathy hiss of air. Anya’s eyes widened in a final moment of shock and betrayal before her body crumpled, her struggles ceasing instantly as her form collapsed. Her maid’s uniform settled into an empty heap on the floor, the box containing Mei tumbling from her slack grasp to land beside her.
The bot released its grip, letting the deflated form drop. It then scanned the barcode on her thigh. ERROR. PRODUCT NOT IN DATABASE. It turned its sensor to the box on the floor, scanning its label. CONFIRMED. PRODUCT MEI. With efficient disregard, it picked up the correct box and left, its mission complete. Anya lay in a discarded pile by the door until another maid found her an hour later.
The next day, reinflated and back in her uniform, Anya was visibly annoyed, a rare scowl on her usually placid face as she dusted the entrance hall with sharp, irritated strokes. When the same delivery bot arrived for its next pickup, she glared at its single red eye. The bot scanned its new package, processed the transaction, and left without a flicker of recognition. It didn’t care. It had followed its programming. In this new world, that was all that mattered.
Chapter 8: The New Ascension
Baron Valerius stood on his balcony, the planetary capital glittering like a spilled jewel chest below him. Chloe and Lena were nestled against him, their forms perfectly yielding to his touch, their human-like warmth a testament to their bizarre fusion. His hands roamed their bodies idly, an owner appreciating his finest possessions. His thumb absently traced the plastic valve set into Chloe’s navel.
“It is a shame this perfection is finite,” he mused, not with sadness, but with the avarice of a man who sees a coveted, limited resource. “Two thousand… a number that can only dwindle.”
He had not been idle. His scientists, led by the ever-obedient Aris, had performed a miracle of reverse-engineering. Using the Odyssey’s logs and the data extracted from Chloe’s own fused biology, they had not only replicated the SluTech valve technology but had also perfected a method to simulate the catalytic bath of cosmic radiation. They could now produce the fusion on demand.
The new campaign was a masterstroke of social engineering, making Cassian’s original scheme seem crude. Its serene, blissful face was Chloe - The Serene Botanist, the most famous doll on the planet. Voluptuous and graceful, she was the living, breathing proof of the transcendence he offered. In interviews, her responses were gentle and precise, her every word praising the peace, the purpose, the utter lack of pain or worry in her existence. She spoke of her Master’s kindness, of the joy of service, of the privilege of being a cherished part of his world. She was the ultimate influencer, her perfect, contented smile beamed across the planet.
The effect was seismic. Women across Gaia-II, enchanted by her perceived perfection and adored status, saw not slavery but ascendance. They volunteered in droves, seeking the ultimate upgrade to a life they now saw as flawed and stressful.
Lyra, the daughter of an industrialist and Marcus’s officially betrothed, had watched her fiancé’s obsession with the doll Elara grow from a boyish infatuation into a consuming fixation. He spent hours in his rooms with her, his interest in Lyra withering. The doll was perfect, placid, and forever his. Lyra’s envy curdled into a desperate, competitive need. If she could not beat this thing, she would become it—but better, more beautiful, and destined for Marcus alone, believing that as a doll, she could finally win and keep his entire heart.
The new facilities were modeled on luxury spas. Volunteers were greeted by Valerius’s own maids. Lyra, her heart pounding with a mix of terror and thrilling resolve, was led to a sleek, white "rejuvenation chamber."
“You are making a beautiful choice,” the attending maid said, her voice a soothing melody.
With a comforting smile, the maid administered the valve to her navel. Lyra felt the initial, terrifyingly wonderful wave of blissful transformation. As she lay there, a serene, newly formed doll, another attendant quickly applied a small, black barcode to the skin of her left thigh. Then the lid was closed. Inside, she was engulfed by a warm, humming energy—a perfect replication of the euphoric radiation that had rewritten the original colonists. It was a warm, comfortable hum that seeped into her skin, rewiring her soul, burning away her envy, her ambition, her memory, and her free will in a bath of pure, undifferentiated pleasure. Her reason for being here—to best a rival, to claim a love—dissolved into nothing. Only the pleasure remained, and then, the need to serve.
After two hours, the lid rose. The maids looked in. They did not see Lyra, the jealous heiress. They saw a blank, adoring doll, her features settled into a placid smile. With loving, sisterly care, they pulled her valve, deflated her, folded her with a ritualistic tenderness into a flat, compact shape, and packaged her into an iconic Valerius box, its design a direct homage to the century-old Odyssey boxes that started it all. The shipping label was addressed to Marcus’s estate.
Her box was placed on a shelf in the shipping warehouse, one among a silent symphony of farewells. Each crate held a story sealed in cardboard and plastic, its title a permanent epitaph.
One box, labeled DR. ELARA - THE STEADY HAND, was addressed to the head of a major metropolitan hospital, a final gift from his former mentor. Her own hands had begun to betray her with a faint, career-ending tremor. Now, they would never shake again; they would only move steadily along his shaft, her surgical precision repurposed for his personal care.
Next to it was a box destined for a decorated General of the Gaia-II Defence Force. Its side read SARRA - THE PATRIOT'S COMFORT. She was a young woman whose patriotic fervor had far outstripped her physical endurance, deemed unfit for service. Now, her body would serve as a tool for the war effort, a reward for valor bestowed upon the General.
Then there were the three best friends: SUNNY - THE RADIANT PLAYMATŠ, BREEZE - THE EASYGOING CONFIDANT, and EMBER - THE PASSIONATE HEART. They had been inseparable since girlhood, spending their summers by the pool at the lavish estate of one girl's wealthy uncle. Over the years, they had all noticed the subtle shift in his gaze. Terrified that adulthood would eventually pull them apart, they made a pact, choosing to preserve their sisterhood forever by becoming the living embodiment of his desire. They were now a matched set, a gift of themselves, addressed to his home.
VIOLET - THE DEDICATED SECRETARY had managed her powerful CEO's life for twenty years. Seeing his lonely marriage, she chose to become his ultimate executive assistant: a perfect, silent partner dedicated solely to his personal comfort and pleasure, delivered directly to his office.
SERENITY - THE PEACEFUL WIDOW could no longer bear the echoing silence of her empty home. Choosing peace over solitude, she gifted herself to her appreciative brother-in-law, trading her loneliness for a purposeful existence as his eternal, comforting companion.
Another was marked GALATEA - THE ETERNAL MUSE, addressed to a famous, tormented artist. She had been his lover and muse, who watched her reflection age in the mirror while his canvases captured an eternal, fading youth. She had chosen to become his ultimate masterpiece, her beauty now permanently sealed in an ageless form, forever preserving the ideal he was so obsessed with capturing.
A stark, simple box was labeled HOPE - THE SELFLESS GIFT. She was from the prosperous lower sectors. Her cause, funding a new wing for the aquatic aviary, was considered quaint by the elite. But it was the most valuable asset she had to give, her body packaged and sold to make a beautiful, if unnecessary, dream come true.
And then there were the dozens of boxes without specific recipients. They were women escaping bad marriages, dull careers, or simply themselves, mailing themselves to Valerius like prayers tossed into a void. They knew he would only keep a few, that most would be sold off, but they hoped their form might be the one to catch his discerning eye and earn a permanent place on his shelves.
At the end of the day, a Valerius maid, her own smile serene and vacant, efficiently scanned each box. A delivery bot arrived, its single red eye scanning the labels before loading them onto a waiting truck with gentle, mechanical precision. The truck’s door was pulled shut with a definitive rumble, sealing the fates within. As it hummed away into the twilight, it carried its cargo of perfected women to their new owners, their transformations complete, their new lives of service just beginning.
When Marcus received Lyra’s delivery, he was confused. He already had Elara. But upon inflating Lyra and seeing her exquisite, serene beauty—a perfection that surpassed even her living form—any hesitation vanished. He discovered the unique joy of having two. That first night, he had them service him together. Elara, with her shy, gentle devotion, took him into her mouth while Lyra, her new form brimming with an eager energy, rode him with a practiced rhythm she never possessed in life. They worked in tandem, a perfect, silent team, their warm skin pressed against each other as they focused on their master’s pleasure. Any trace of their former rivalry was gone, replaced by a sisterly bond forged in shared purpose and use. They became his matched set.
Orion, the system's reigning pop idol, operated a relentless economy of adoration. A steady stream of boxes arrived from his most devoted fans, each new doll inflating with perfect worship. They served as his private entourage—flawless, adoring, and interchangeable. But Orion was a businessman at heart. Once a doll's novelty faded, she was not stored but sold. Meticulously cleaned and repackaged, these "vintage" companions were auctioned as exclusive merchandise, their provenance as Orion's personal toys making them priceless commodities. His fans, in their ultimate devotion, had become his most lucrative renewable resource.
A celebrated actress, whose fame had begun to wane with the arrival of newer stars, made her final, most brilliant career move. She transformed herself, ensuring her beauty would be forever frozen at its peak, untouched by time or scandal. Now packaged as SIREN - THE TIMELESS STARLET, she became the most expensive and exclusive collectible on the market, purchased by a reclusive billionaire who had always coveted her. She was no longer an artist to be admired on a screen, but a masterpiece to be owned and displayed in his private gallery, her value forever secured in her flawless, silent perfection.
One evening, Chloe approached Valerius in his study. “Master, seventy-four new dolls have arrived for you,” she reported, her voice filled with excitement. “I have reviewed them. I believe these three have exceptional potential for the household.” She presented their boxes to him, the window showing their stunning, serene faces.
Valerius glanced at the profiles. “You have a good eye. Train them yourself. Prepare the rest for the next auction.”
His invention had become the ultimate currency of the elite. It reshaped social customs. Wives became conflict-free companions. At gatherings, wealthy men bragged about the size of their collections, comparing rare "Valerius Originals" with competitive fervor. The boxes became common sights in the lobbies of penthouses and private clubs.
He had not just inherited a collection; he had industrialized oblivion and made it the planet’s most coveted luxury good. He had created a system where the wealthy yearned to own, to gift, and even to become these perfect objects. Looking out over his world, with Chloe and Lena at his side, Dorian knew he had not merely continued Cassian’s legacy.
He had perfected it. He had turned human women into the ultimate status symbol, and in doing so, he had conquered not just a world, but its soul.