Chapter 32
Dr. Ambrose
Months pass, and with each one, I become more obsessed with the doll.
I used to wonder if I would miss the freak’s fighting nature, but there is so much more satisfaction in transforming the freak and using it as it is now: a lifeless, yet sexually reactive vessel.
The pupils, widening and narrowing, are expressive. The vocal cords grunt and scream. The heart beats rapidly. The body says so much without uttering a single word.
The freak lays in my bed. Once I am completely undressed, I ready the eye drops, then pry open the doll’s eyelids.
Sometimes, there is an instinct to call my home or my bed “ours,” due to the fact the freak is constantly by my side.
But a doll, be it living or dead, cannot own anything.
Not a home. Not a bed. Not even its very existence.
I administer the lubricating drops into each eyeball, then manually close the eyelids so the liquid may be fully absorbed.
After a minute, I open the doll’s eyes again.
It blinks—a purely involuntary reflex—and its pupils stare at the ceiling, the dilation rapidly increasing and decreasing, unable to focus on its surroundings.
Warmth heats my groin. I like knowing it’s somewhat conscious for these intimate times together. The freak may never resist me again, but it will show these subtle responses to discomfort and pleasure.
I rub the solution—a secret formula from The Pure Companion Company, proven to keep deceased skin hydrated on our Hybrid Dolls, as well as to keep our Living Dolls’ skin vibrant—all over the freak’s body, paying special attention to the breasts.
My slick hands roam over its sacks until the lotion dissolves into the skin, giving the body a damp texture.
I squeeze the doll’s nipples, and a memory flashes through me: the freak sucking its mother’s breasts.
I never did explain my initial attraction to its mother, did I?
“Let me tell you about your mother,” I say. I prop myself up on my elbow, side-by-side with the freak. “Why did I choose her? What did I see in her?”
The doll’s pupils dilate, and those full black spots in the center of the dark irises acknowledge me. Somewhere, inside of the brain, the doll is listening. It’s such an obedient fuck toy.
“Back then, I had just procured the papers to move from my position as a maintenance worker to the position of a nurse. Your mother was one of my first patients.” I comb my fingers through the doll’s blonde and black hair, untangling the knots.
“Her actual doctor wasn’t available, so I was charged with making decisions for her.
She was a volatile case, deeply unhappy with her situation, so I put her under isolation. ”
I run my hand down the doll’s head, to the neck, down further to the apex between its thighs.
The cunt hair is now curled and wild. A woman like the old Violet probably believed men would prefer a hairless snatch; I quite enjoy a bush though, especially on my doll.
The scent is stronger, more potent, and every instance of bodily arousal is much more noticeable now.
“There were some arguments about your mother, you know.” I rub my finger along its clit in slow circles, taking my time.
The doll’s mouth parts. I lick my lips; my dick pulses.
“Her employer said she was found masturbating at work, but her father—your grandfather, that is—said she was merely having relations with a coworker. You see, your grandfather was enraged she was the only one being punished, and not her male coworker. I reassured him I agreed Ivy was being served injustice, but that if he wanted his daughter to be able to return to her old employer, she must complete the voluntary commitment by herself.”
I briefly stop massaging the doll’s clit. A gurgling noise babbles out of the throat. I chuckle, shake my head, then resume my strokes on the bundle of nerves. The doll wants pain, not pleasure, and it declares its desires with these automatic responses.
We must take our time though.
“I promised your grandfather I would take good care of her, even if I was only a nurse,” I murmur. “I promised to personally see to it she had everything she needed at our facility.”
I cackle. It’s absurd; anyone would have been able to see how corrupt the asylum was, and yet no one dared stop me for fear of their own commitment.
“Of course, the promise of returning to her old job was a lie,” I continue.
“Her employer had no intention of rehiring her, but it was the only way I was able to convince the bitch and your grandfather to agree to a full stay. I forged any paperwork your grandfather and her employer deemed necessary.”
Musk, sour and sweet, mingles with the dank air. I curl my fingers, resting the edge of my fingernails on the doll’s clit, keeping the pressure steady, but not giving it the pain—the orgasm—it wants.
“You see, I had experimented with intellectual training on some of the other patients while I was a maintenance worker, and your mother, well…” I click my tongue, my cock straining toward the doll, greedy for friction.
“She was my first official patient, and the first who took to intellectual training so well. She never admitted it verbally, but we ran many tests to confirm it. Her cunt would be sopping wet any time I hurt her. It was fascinating how similar we both were as pain addicts, and yet my perversions were always stronger. We both craved pain, but I also desired complete control of the other.”
I pinch the doll’s clit. The body convulses, a moan coursing from its lips.
“Later,” I say through the doll’s moans, “when the father returned to retrieve his pregnant daughter, I gained the assistance of the higher-ups to reassure him the pregnancy was indeed in motion before his daughter arrived, even though the timeline did not add up. That was enough to calm the poor idiot until I could get him in an isolated area. Then I got rid of him. I didn’t need any more interruptions from my sessions with his daughter, especially knowing this wouldn’t be her last pregnancy. ”
I fiddle with the drawer next to the bed and remove a clamp, tighter than a binder clip, and attach it to the doll’s clit.
The freak groans. A second orgasm. I smile down at it.
I couldn’t have asked for a better doll.
“You, my sweet one, are a filthy cunt, like your mother,” I murmur.
Kneeling on the bed, I lift the doll’s ankles to my shoulders, readying my length at its entrance.
If the doll could truly see, I’m sure it would appreciate the scar on my chest, a drop of blood oozing from the mutilated wound.
I’ve removed the scab repeatedly, and sometimes, I even re-punctured the skin, to make sure the freak’s mark is embedded in me, like my scar is etched inside of its vaginal cavity from the cock sleeve.
I thrust my scarred cock inside of the doll. The velvet pussy walls clench me, and I smack the clit clip. The doll thrusts violently, and I howl, tossing my head back.
“But you’re better than your mother,” I pant. “You’re the best fuck your father has ever had.”
The doll’s mouth is open, but for a split moment, I swear our eyes almost meet, and a tear of happiness slips down its cheek. My words must satisfy some dark need buried deep within its consciousness.
Then again, I am a logical man, and I understand the limitations of our Living Dolls. This moment of eye contact is either a coincidence or a trick of the mind. The doll cannot willingly meet my gaze. Everything must be forced.
Either way, I love making it cry.