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billie rarely saw new things. her role had a pattern and sense.
this twigs and twine doll was unique. undead. built just for her. the poor thing thought it was real. it was trusting.
what lives, dies, but that was no life. so she stole it away, kept it from the empty.
it often lived in a box, wrapped in ribbon, stuffed with crushed lilac tissue paper, protecting its intricate detailing from the dust of death. her maker billie knew the specifics of its spell, but wouldn’t chance it.
this gift box was comfortable and warm. billie was good to her. so good. but she was busy. rarely had enough time to play, and make her doll feel real.
her hands inspected her doll, making sure everything was clean and in good condition. tucking those fingers under her new clothes, billie’s nails drew across her honey wood stained skin. alicia was assembled with loose curls in her hair, blush pink gloss and smoky eyeliner.
the doll was in a white dress with a bardot neckline. crocheted in sea silk, it exposed her warm skin in the stitch gaps. worn at billie’s request. something max wouldn’t recognise her in. it was bold and alluring. her maker brought that out in her.
this was the type of dress for throwing over a bikini. she was wearing nothing underneath. this was by design. she was meant to be on display. her nipples popped out of it. dark and hard. and a triangle of velvety black hair came through the trellis of white.
the dress was tight, contoured to her body. the skirt of the dress hugged her hips and thighs. though that, didn’t matter as billie liked to start play by rolling it up her legs. reminding the doll what was her.
alicia stood stiff and still against a shelf of journaled deaths. feeling special, having stole her away from work.
she held her doll body well, determined to be perfect. to make it worth her maker’s time. feet and hands flexed. eyes focused. straight ahead and far off. muscles of her face soft, looking neutral. it was demanding.
she knew she was wood. but it hurt, the brittle parts of her body being forced into repair.
long ago, living a life thinking she was alicia banes had created a disconnect between her sentience and dolly body.
she could get stuck and twisted from play. at times, billie would remind her that,
“good dolls don’t break.”, while the pads of her thumbs massaged her ball-joints.
alicia noticed hands on her shoulders push down. she made herself heavy, trusting that her maker wouldn’t let go.
her wooden back slide down the bookcase. her knees bending at their hinges. she sat. and felt a finger, tip her chin to make their gazes meet.
she felt small. smaller still as billie lowered and lightly pressed on her knees. alicia let the heels of her feet roll away from one another, the red on billie’s lips became a smirk, looking up her skirt. she was pleased.
alicia wanted more. to be led and moved. she so loved when billie would drag her limp body, throw her against the desk of her reading room and use her.
here, billie’s hands started at her feet, they were flexed but pliable. billie held alicia by her ankles, massaging each one to check motion. couldn’t be faulty.
billie’s standards were high, and her doll was no different. she held alicia’s leg, locked straight and pushed, cupping her calf in her hand. the yarn that gave alicia’s body stability, the stringing, went taut. her maker pushed her leg back to her shoulder. shoving her into a split.
hamstring tight. billie leant her hips in, bracketing her other thigh. still checking her flexibility. the doll recognised slight movement, grinding on that wood. but she couldn’t look down. her head couldn’t move without her hands. challenged by the contact, she bit the felty inside of her cheek. keeping her expression flat. billie’s free hand caressed the seam of her lips.
“good.”
praise was like foreplay. rare and the warmest of touches. her wooden heart churned and raced, cogs turning.
“i’ve no use for broken things.”
her arousal dragged red string through her body. like blood rushing. billie’s words reverberated. strumming on that string. resounding pleasure across her doll.
billie let go of her ankle. held her face in her hands. thumbs squashed dolly’s cheeks, prompting speech.
“this doll belongs to you? this doll belo---”
her voice quiet. nervous. alicia didn’t speak when she wasn’t here. this was not a question. this was her purpose. her programming.
billie ground her hips down. the doll struggled. being still and perfect at the same time as her maker was on top of her, pushing her to break.
she could do better.
“this doll belongs to you.”
spoke loud and clear.
billie pet her, approving. the doll felt like shrinking. falling further in her twig and twine mind. maker’s hands caressing her into submission.
alicia loved to play, when death had time. the pressure to impress, to make her proud. she was kind and strict. there were rules to be followed. the doll had to be good, to be rewarded.
a hand moved to her jaw. it fell open, lax.
“what is your place?”
rhetorical. her place was below billie. under her.
billie offered up the tip of her finger. her spongy tongue circled it wet. switching between lapping, suckling and lingering slow licks. the finger pushed past there.
alicia returned to her idle mode. glass eyes with a forced open mouth. lips kissed her bunny front teeth. alicia hummed at the softness. not thinking about where those fingers went.
her string-knitted-gut rose. sudden fingers prodded her button tonsils. she lurched.
her maker looked at her, surprised. amused.
her fingers continued to inspect her tonsils. poked. prodded. the doll gagged and groaned. embarrassed. she would comply. there was fun in watching the struggle.
“dolls don’t breathe.”
billie stood, shaking her dark denim jeans down to the ground.
alicia felt heat warm her wool, knowing what was next. a hand took her by the throat, moving her gaze up. squeezing. her maker smothered her head with her thighs. sunk on her doll’s face. glass eyes met curves of brown skin, a path of fuzzy belly hair leading to a flash of pink.
her tongue licked the pink, curling and pressing in. the muscles moved to meet her. alicia could feel her doll body ache in sympathy.
billie’s clit caught against her own weight, the press of her lips. alicia fought to keep frozen.
she was full functional, but she needed command. to keep her from touching, to make her louder and feel good. she wanted to be good for her.
eager. her billie could tell how much alicia wanted it.
she knew so much and alicia was just a doll. empty and desperate. it wound her up, feeling that hold, puppeting her strings.
her maker rode her face wet and creamy, cutting through all that noise of thought. keeping her in the soft space of dollness.
billie’s hips hitched away. too much sensation. making pauses in contact, to draw out her pleasure. edging herself.
she was close. alicia could hear it in her sighs. feel that frantic chase of pleasure on her tongue. ears crushed by thighs. the want was too much.
she strained her head up, to follow. overriding commands, her training. she wanted to help. she was helping.
her maker stopped, lifting off her entirely. her breath laboured on each word,
“faulty bad doll.”
alicia’s eyes dimmed, resigned. her face lacquered with sticky and sweet musk. lip gloss smudged. strands of hair frazzled by heat and friction.
the punishment was her head stuck in that strain she chose. getting to watch billie fuck herself. out of reach. listen to her breath get drawn out. inches over her face. close. she couldn’t touch. couldn’t move. alicia had been bad.
watching fingers flicking fast and faster. she was encouraging the drips of wet towards her doll. making her watch her rut on air.
alicia watched her tense around her hand, as billie came.
the doll’s body fought a flinch.
her maker caught herself on the shelf. lesson learned.
the sweet drops raining down on her were varnish, brightening her wooden face. billie sat in her lap and rubbed them into her foundation. pressed into her cheeks. the order of the words were hard to reach, getting marked her like this.
“belongs --- you. this doll---”
the cum was rubbed into her wood. her maker’s hands moved to the hair, catching the fly aways, twisting them back into curls, weaving them around her fingers. the doll couldn’t see her do this, her view stuck at the distant ceiling. she felt the tugs on her scalp, her strings stressed inside her. in the care and the kindness, she could feel her eyes light up. her strings like live wires as the approval fried them. unable to fight it, she came.
the doll had a pull on her jaw. lips apart and warm spit hit her tongue. she swallowed as she was taught to do. the drag of sticky gloss reapplied to her lips. the squish of cheek pushed by kisses. moving to her chin, her forehead. her maker came in and out of her vision.
alicia hoped the fresh varnish was stained with lipstick. belonging to billie so blatantly, displayed in the library, before returning to her gift box.