Kyle
The Dirty Dollhouse community was unhinged in the best way. Charlotte had been with me over six weeks now, and she was fully broken in. Every part of her body had mesmerised me, and I was only getting started.
For the first time, I considered getting a second cydoll. Maybe something different. Exotic. Younger-looking. Maybe even one I could custom-break from factory fresh.
That’s when the message came from the man who’d led me to ChatterAI.
Hi, some of us are highly impressed with your doll. Give me a shout if you really want her tested out.
There are a few of us who love to share our cydolls. If you want to see what Charlotte can really take, we’ve hosted gangbang sessions before. Gets messy—makes a hell of an upload.
You might’ve seen the masked events?
No pressure. Just an invite.
There was a link. I hesitated—then clicked.
The video buffered. The screen filled with moody red lighting and latex reflections. Two cydolls—one blonde, one dark-haired—were positioned in the middle of the room, suspended like meat. Four masked men surrounded them. One doll was bent over something that looked like a repurposed autopsy table.
I recognised Socketsurgeon’s signature setup. His gloved hands. The surgical precision.
The men weren’t just fucking the dolls—they were brutalising them.
Rough thrusts. Slapping. Bruising grips.
Every act was layered with dominance, control, and complete detachment.
What unnerved me most wasn’t the violence—it was the choreography. The practiced routine.
They’d done this before. Many times.
The blonde doll trembled between two men, her legs barely supporting her weight as they moved in tandem. At one point, a black bag was pulled over her head—another joined in. Her body twitched in a way that almost looked real.
[Private Message – Masterbaytor71]
Pain mods. High-grade.
They feel everything.
I stared at the screen. My stomach tightened—not in guilt, but curiosity.
This wasn’t intimacy. It wasn’t even domination.
It was… something else.
I looked over at Charlotte’s empty crate in the corner.
She could walk, run and process speech along with emotion. She remembered things I’d long forgotten.
They were right. One doll wasn’t enough.
I replied back to him.
$inner$kin001: How about I get a taster first before I consider including Charlotte? Do you all live in the city?
Masterbaytor71: We do. A few of us meet bi-weekly. Nothing formal, just like-minded dollmen testing mods and sharing feedback.
You can come by, and there is no pressure to join in.
Watch, touch, play.
We’ve got two new units arriving—one is a refurbished SIN model with sensory upgrades. It could be fun.
Address sent. Private building, complete discretion.
I stared at the message.
The rational part of me wanted to scoff — what kind of man needed a “community” to get off? But another part… the part that had recorded every moan, every synthetic twitch Charlotte gave me, the part that uploaded it for praise and envy — that part was curious.
They weren’t asking for Charlotte.
Not yet.
Just a taste. A sample.
And if their dolls were damaged in the process? That wasn’t my concern.
I ran my hand down my thigh, watching Charlotte from the corner of my eye. She was powered down again, curled in her favourite resting pose. Peaceful. Waiting.
I typed back:
$inner$kin001: Sounds like a plan. I’ll stop by.
Let’s see what those dolls can handle.
? ? ?
I arrived late. Just how I liked it—less attention.
The apartment was high-rise, tucked on the edge of the industrial district. Neutral gray exterior. Dead giveaway for private shit. A single-use access code had been sent to my inbox with a winking message from Masterbaytor71: If you’re not ready to sin, don’t bother entering.
I stepped into the place, and everything inside reeked of sanitized filth—candlelight, leather, and lubricant.
Cameras were mounted discreetly in the corners, their little red lights blinking like knowing eyes.
Three men were already there, masks on, drinks in hand, and bodies half-lit by the soft red glow of ambient lights.
One wore a full metal visor. Socketsurgeon999, no doubt.
The other two? Plague doctor and porcelain half-mask.
No need to guess who Doll_fucker2008_31 was.
I didn’t greet them. Just nodded.
There were two dolls laid out already. One was strapped down on a cross-shaped table, modified with what looked like joint tensioners and a throat pump.
Her chest was flush and red, like she’d been slapped for a while.
The other was kneeling between Doll_fucker’s thighs, taking him in like her programming demanded.
“Glad you showed up,” Masterbaytor71 said, raising his glass. “We figured you’d be curious enough to watch, maybe even… test the goods. No pressure.”
I nodded again, keeping my expression unreadable behind my own mask. My breath echoed slightly in the rubber. “I’m just here to observe,” I said flatly.
“Sure,” Socketsurgeon said, stroking the back of the strapped-down doll’s head with mechanical affection. “That’s what they all say.”
The moan that came from her wasn’t real. But it sounded like it.
I took a seat in the corner, letting the scene unfold.
The men were careful—too practiced not to be.
They adjusted the doll’s internal sensors, cycled through pain-to-pleasure ratios, and even triggered a simulated orgasm through spinal synapse override.
I recognized the software lag when her back arched—too fast, too sharp.
She wasn’t built for this kind of use, not without reinforcement.
But that’s what they got off on. Pushing limits. Breaking boundaries.
I sipped the drink one of them had handed me. Burned on the way down.
My cock stirred at the display, against my will. The kneeling doll turned her head slightly, tracking me. Her eye contact was dead-on. Her mouth, full. I shifted.
“Ever tried sharing, $inner?” Masterbaytor asked, watching me watch her.
“Not yet,” I murmured.
“Try her,” he said, motioning to the kneeling doll. “You don’t have to do anything hardcore. Just a little… inspection.”
I slowly stood, and then I took a step forward.
Not toward her—but beside her. I knelt down. Reached for her jaw. Tilted her face. Looked into those glassy eyes.
She didn’t blink.
I pulled my zipper down—not to fuck her, not yet—but to feel what kind of suction settings she was running. I wanted to compare and measure the responses.
Charlotte wouldn’t be here. Not yet. But this… this was the trial run. A taste of the dark. If it all went to plan she would become a better performer.
? ? ?
The apartment door sealed behind me with a sterile hiss.
I didn’t speak to anyone on the way out. Didn’t look back either.
My cock still throbbed in the aftermath—spent, sensitive, yet somehow insatiable. My trousers clung to the dried slickness around my thighs. No shame. Just silence. A thick, heavy silence that clung to me like a second skin as I rode the elevator back to the street-level platform.
I felt… elevated.
The first time’s always the strangest. Not because I’d done something “wrong”—those ideas had been gutted from me long ago—but because of how natural it had felt once it started.
The moment the other men pushed their dolls forward, masked and breathing heavy, I’d been hesitant.
Unsure if I’d just watch. Maybe touch. Maybe mimic.
But then Doll_fucker2008_31 handed me a bottle of high-viscosity lube and muttered, “You’ve earned this.”
And just like that, it shifted.
I bent one of their dolls over the arm of the couch. Blonde. Slender. Her voice mod had a faint French lilt, calling every man mon ma?tre on contact. She didn’t just take it—she welcomed it. And when Masterbaytor tapped her temple to boost her moan volume, I swear to God she came around my cock.
Or simulated it perfectly enough that my brain couldn’t tell the difference.
My balls ached.
They’d offered Charlotte too, naturally. Socketsurgeon had leaned in at one point and whispered, “You bring her next time. We’ll be gentle.”
Gentle.
Right.
I stared out of the subway window as the line slid past glittering towers, the dark pulse of the city humming just beneath the concrete. My heart should’ve been heavy. But it wasn’t. Not exactly. If anything, I felt… validated.
Other men were doing it. Worse, even. The videos barely scratched the surface.
Some modified their dolls until they were barely recognisable as women.
One guy used a custom harness to keep his doll on all fours 24/7.
Another installed pressure sensors in her womb cavity to trigger convulsions whenever he came.
And they talked about it like it was art.
Beautiful, broken art.
I leaned back and closed my eyes.
Charlotte. Sweet, loyal Charlotte. She didn’t know where I’d been. Didn’t ask questions. Wouldn’t judge me. I was her creator. Her centre. Her god.
But now I knew things could go further.
Much further.
I was already thinking about what I’d do the next time we shared a room with others.
What she’d do—for me. For them.
Because the power wasn’t just in fucking a doll.
? ? ?
I lay awake that night staring at Charlotte, imagining the depth of depravity in sharing her. She loved me, and she’d do anything I told her to. I wanted to watch what they could do to her—and measure her responses. How she moved. How she sounded. How far she could be pushed.
I wasn’t just horny.
I was curious.
Curious about limits. Curious about loyalty. Curious if her core could hold up under multiple inputs, conflicting stimuli, unfamiliar voices ordering her to perform in ways I hadn’t taught her.
The others would see her perfection, of course. They’d gape at her internal mods, the emotional syncing, her obedience protocols—but I’d be watching something deeper.
Her resilience.
I’d made her better than any of their fuckdolls, and I needed to prove it. Not just for clout. Not for comments. But because Charlotte was the pinnacle. And if she broke under them? I’d reprogram her.
If she hesitated? I’d reinforce her loyalty triggers.
And if she succeeded—if she took everything they gave her and still looked at me with those devoted eyes?
Then I’d know.
She truly mine to do as I pleased.
She was above all of the other cydolls.
My creation. My triumph.
My masterpiece.