Virginia - Vol 04

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[Content:] T4T, lesbian, dark magic, monstrosity, doll, objectification, public, exposure

[CW:] non-consent, immobility, non-verbal. Reader discretion is advised.

[Spice Level:] Hot

[Summary:] Virginia begins to lose herself to her plastic vessel. Can she retain her consciousness, or will she be lost?

[Notes:] Here's the good stuff. Some fucking, some mind games and mild eldritch horror. Have at it.

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After two or three months she comes to see me. The door to the back room creaks open, and her familiar silhouette floats through the doorframe. My form lies against a wooden freight box, splayed out like a child's discarded toy. She kneels down, eyes veiled. I want to catch a glimpse of her irises, which I remember being like mahogany rings of an ancient tree. But she takes no notice of my gaze. Perhaps she believes that I have grown so weak from neglect that my painted eyes can no longer see. Does she think that I am no longer contained within this plastic shell?

After so many nights spent in solitude, I find myself voiceless -- even more than before. How did we communicate in those early days? It was almost as if we shared thoughts - shared the same consciousness. Now, dusting off my polyurethane shell, she no longer seems to acknowledge my thoughts. She blows swirling clouds of dust from my corset, the cursed vessel that holds me captive in this artificial body.

After cleaning off my skin, she sprays me with a bottle. The aerosol is pungent, some synthetic scent passing for lavender. As she diligently strokes my skin with a towel, I glimpse the label, which reads, "Latex and Polymer Polish -- Ultra Shine." Once again, my skin glistens. I feel like a brand-new toy.

Though she cannot hear my thoughts, Mme. Scarlet still has use for me. After the layer of polish has set, she places my elbows on a nearby freight box. My asshole faces towards her, my cute butt elevated by the dark black heels that have taken over my legs. She fucks me thoroughly and passionately. It is just as exhilarating as the first night of my desecration.

The next night, Mme. Scarlet sets me on the box, parting my legs and fucking my ass from the front. If my dick wasn't bound in plastic, it would be bouncing up and down. Now immobilized, my cock feels a dull, satisfying release like a pathetic, dripping spout. "That's my good girl," Mme. Scarlet says, "You've gotten so wet - you're leaking from your little dick." As she fucks me face to face, I can finally make out her eyes. Bright crimson irises darken as Mme. Scarlet loses herself to passion, eyes overtaken by inky tentacles wanting to free themselves from her pupils.

Another night, she suspends me from my limbs like a marionette, and her intrusions swing me around like a weightless ballerina. The innovative and endless ways that she uses me reflect a searing intellect and a bottomless passion. The rush is consistent. Every morning when she leaves me, I am radiating with ecstasy. Each time, I feel that I am born anew, blooming daily like a cursed flower.

On rare nights, she blesses me with her seed. Before she does, Mme. Scarlet first bends my head back so I cannot see her cum inside me. Unlike so many lackluster lovers I had before, her ejaculations are silent. She does not cry out like the whimpering men I've felt inside me.

Her body tenses, and the hair on her arms darkens and transforms into waves of miniscule black tentacles flitting about in the air. Her entire body pulses, and I can see the tentacles undulating like fields of grass bending to the wind. She holds her breath and cum shoots from her shaft into my anus.

It is like ambrosia, something impossibly warm and smooth. I can feel it leak from my asshole. She refuses to bend my head down, preventing me from witnessing my desecration. Perhaps her seed is dark like squid ink, staining the cement floor beneath us. I wonder what it looks like. I wonder what it tastes like.

After weeks of religious use, my plastic form remains sturdy. Her otherworldly strength does not break me as it once did. My conviction to remain faithful serves as my armor. I cannot afford to break down. If I did, my mistress would have no use for me. So, I give myself to her wrath. I give myself as her prized possession -- the polished, immobile sex doll that I am.

Something unexpected occurs in springtime. The shell of my body starts to lose sensation. Each night, I feel less and less of her inside me. The erratic movements of her cock feel numb, as if I'm feeling them through layers of rubber. Perhaps it is simply a phase, though something in Madame Scarlet's expression tells me these changes are an omen.

One evening, she finally speaks to me again. "My dear Virginia, you were obstinate at first, but you have proved yourself to be a dedicated and thrilling fucktoy." Genuine sorrow creases the edges of her mouth, and she says through a cracking voice, "It's time to let you go." I recall the pink doll. She plans to rip me apart, limb from limb, then throw me out.

Just as she begins to dislodge my left leg from its socket, I cry out. "I AM VIRGINIA - VIRGINIA IS THE PLAYTHING OF MADAME SCARLET."

Mme. Scarlet gasps, releasing me from her grasp and staggering backward. A smile of relief blossoms on her face as she squeezes her palms together joyfully. "My dearest Virginia! You are still with me." She pulls me into her arms, more delicately than I had anticipated.

"I am here, my loving Creator. My Owner."

"I could no longer hear your voice, so I assumed that you were gone."

"What do you mean, Madame Scarlet? I could never leave the one who created me. You cared for me. You made me what I am."

"I thought you were dead," she says, voice wavering with concern, "I thought you had passed on from your body like all those who came before you."

I pause, reflecting. "You assumed I was dead all this time, and you continued to fuck me?"

She laughs haughtily, then purrs, "My little plaything, there are far worse things than fucking plastic corpses. I've borne witness to men raping entire villages. I've seen doctors snip the fallopian tubes of women of color, claiming that they are 'protecting the sanctity of the human race.' Where sexual violence is concerned, I am a saint."

I can just make out her irises, which are lined with the rings of an undying tree. In them, I can see centuries of human trauma. Unimaginable horrors and unspeakable truths. She blinks, snapping both of us out of the revery.

She smiles maternally and speaks frankly, "Those who are trapped in plastic bodies usually lose themselves in time. Their consciousness grows weaker and weaker until they become nothing more than the vessel that contains them. I thought you were gone too, my Virginia, leaving only your plastic shell behind."

"I thought that's what you wanted. You wanted me to empty my mind. To be useful and to be used."

"I wanted you to be useful, but I didn't want you to be lost. I wanted to see you endure." What she's saying doesn't make sense to me. Why would she want to keep me alive? It's not like she was my biggest cheerleader from the start.

Mme. Scarlet props me up into a graceful sitting position atop the nearest freight box. "It's hard to explain, my dear, but I've seen too many women reach the natural conclusion of becoming. It's a tragedy I have witnessed too many times."

"What do you mean -- 'becoming?'"

"Becoming a toy, an object, something other than human," she elaborates.

"That's what I've done, isn't it?"

"Not quite, my dear Virginia. 'Becoming' is the release of a soul from the vessel. For example, the pink mannequin that came before you. Her soul became so weak that it eventually left its body. She truly became a doll. It was," she pauses, and I glimpse sorrow crease her cheeks. Her eyes grow cloudy with the threat of tears. "It was heart-wrenching."

If my face could move, I am sure it would betray my shock. She is a temptress. A demon from another world. And yet, the story of someone she murdered brings tears to her eyes. I struggle to find words.

"Who was she?"

Mme. Scarlet looks up, meeting my gaze for the first time in what feels like an eternity. She sighs, as if trying to remember something long forgotten.

"She was a middle-aged Latina from Chicago. Her body was gorgeous and unique in my eyes, but she had an obsession with containing her stomach. When she came into the store, she told me about the struggles of motherhood. She joked that having three kids had robbed her of her beautiful waist and her chance to become a real actress like the graceful creatures she'd see on her telenovelas. I offered her the corset, and she took it willingly."

Moments pass as Mme. Scarlet recalls the past and I am left to wonder at her story. The memory of the pink mannequin and the idea of "becoming" fill me with dread.

"What will you do with me now?" I ask, contemplating my purgatory in the space between doll and human.

A devilish smile contorts Mme. Scarlet's face, but she retains her human features. "How about a change of scenery?"

Mme. Scarlet drags me to the front of the store then slots me into my original position behind the counter. She pivots my body to face towards the street. It is a dark, moonless night, and the sidewalks appear empty. At first, Mme. Scarlet appears to be setting me up as decoration, nothing more. Then, I feel her pull on the strings to my corset. It hurts, but the pain is welcome. Thrilling even. Adrenaline courses through me.

"Pull harder." I ask. And she does. My tits throb underneath the corset, my cleavage remaining perfectly symmetrical and alluring. I cry out in ecstasy as she continues to pull my strings like a carnal puppeteer. If my painted eyelids could produce tears, they would be rolling down my acrylic cheeks.

I gasp as I realize that she is inside me. Her long fingers grasp my neck, bracing me as she fucks me from behind. My hollow breasts begin to knock against the glass. I am overwhelmed with pleasure. My body sings with joy of my situation. A beautiful, undying woman is inside my body, her serpentine penis carving its way through me. Through the fuzziness of pleasure, a strange feeling emerges. I have the unnerving sense that we are not alone.

As Mme. Scarlet continues to thrust into me, I spot a figure moving across the sidewalk on the far side of the street. They are covered in a long peacoat and hold a purse in their hand. The figure pauses as they are walking - then turn to face the store. I cannot make out their features in the dark, but they stop dead in their tracks. Momentary panic floods through me. They're watching me. They're watching...us.

Mme. Scarlet's arms darken and miniscule tentacles spawn from her skin.

"They're watching us."

"What are you afraid of, my little plaything?" she coos, continuing her melodic movements into me. "They see a lifeless mannequin with black latex gloves and matching boots. They see a beautiful devil fucking that helpless doll while she remains trapped and motionless. Isn't that exactly what is happening to you right now?"

She braces her weight on the window, nails carving lines in the tempered glass. The figure across the street does not move, and now I am certain that they are watching. They are seeing us - exactly as Mme. Scarlet described.

"Don't worry, my little doll," she hums reassuringly, "If they told, is there a soul alive who would believe them?"