Limbo
2
“Following injection of the eroticizing agent, our subject is taken by gurney to surgery. In this case, the subject we will follow today—let’s agree to call her ‘Lisa 27’ . . . it’s not the name she was born with, but it’s the only name she’ll soon have!—is a brunette female, approximately 70 inches in height, 128 lbs. in weight. Isn’t she adorable? Viewers, please note the before and after images available. Lisa 27 was already a lovely creature before receiving her dollygirl injection, but look at her now, if you please.”
The BioTrust infomercial split into two frames.
Floating in the air on the left: a pretty brown-haired woman with full lips and vivid green eyes, furious in their outrage. She was strapped naked to a gurney. The solidoe imager was positioned above her, presenting a full and rather explicit picture of her entire helpless body. She had a full figure. As the announcer said, she was indeed very lovely.
Floating on the right side, the same girl: no longer struggling as hard. She was squirming in heat now rather than fear or anger. The contrast was striking in other regards as well.
Her figure had grown voluptuous. Her breasts were several times larger than they had been. Her waist was trimmer, ass fuller. Her eyes retained their previous sharp green but were without the killer fury.
Her lips were thicker, puffier, as if injected with old-fashioned silicone. In short, she looked like a slut.
The infomercial images rotated in the air and merged into a single scene showing the dollygirl-to-be wheeled down a hospital corridor. This soon cut to a surgical suite, with various robotic arms, like mechanical spider limbs, hovering about the girl’s ballooning body. Though there was no sound per se other than the announcer’s oily voiceover, anyone watching could clearly see that the girl was mouthing, “Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.”
“While certain aspects of the dollygirl surgery must remain confidential, we can show this edited version for your entertainment and elucidation. In case you’re interested, Lisa 27, in her previous existence, violated the strict financial disclosure laws in Washington District and was appropriately convicted. So, unless you fine ladies watching would like to join Lisa on her back and on her knees servicing your fine gentlemen, remember to always file your tax returns on time! Ha ! Ha!
“Now, keep your eyes on the automatic arms to the left of your viewing window.
“That spray they are playing over Lisa 27’s body is forming the first layer of what will eventually become this dollygirl’s bioplastic outer coating, the ‘second skin’ that gives BioTrust’s patented bioslaves the famous plastic sheen our customers enjoy so much. Why, already you can see those unsightly natural blemishes and freckles our subject came in with starting to fade!”
The image went close-up to a mole near Lisa 27’s navel. As the spray worked on her, that tiny mark on her skin lost color and definition and faded. The pores themselves seemed to vanish, leaving her skin looking as if it were coated in a very thin layer of transparent plastic. She began assuming a uniform skin tone. Her body hair melted under the spray as well, leaving her perfectly, perfectly smooth all over.
The table/gurney was made of mesh. The spray arms worked from top and bottom, seemingly intent on misting every inch of her body. Clouds of the dollifying mist slowly built up in the surgical suite.
A technician in a full white bodystocking came into the picture. His face was hidden behind a pair of huge red goggles. This figure attached a large open metallic dome to the top of the table near Lisa 27’s head: a helmet with electronic displays. The edges of this helmet didn’t quite make contact with the girl.
The image cut to a close-up of Lisa 27’s face and head. A metal halo rotated up out of the floor and centered around her brow. The technician helped with the positioning. A wall screen behind him activated showing a real-time picture of the girl’s brain, the likeness presumably generated by the helmet. Using the screen as a guide, the white-garbed figure began making adjustments to the halo.
At a touch of a button, Lisa 27 stopped struggling. Her body froze. She continued to mouth her plea, though: “Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.” Silently, over and over.
“Some of our more squeamish viewers may want to avert their eyes for a moment.”
An array of hair-thin needles protruding from the halo began to work their way in. Apparently, there was little or no pain involved in this procedure. The girl strapped to the table reacted not at all.
The image rotated to an above-the-table view again.
Janice rubbed her clit. Her mouth quivered. She was so hot and wet. “Fuck me,” she whispered.
She saw that the needles were all in place.
“The surgerybot has finished the preliminaries,” the solidoe’s announcer proclaimed. “The State is now ready to make this former criminal and dolly-to-be into a real dollygirl. Observe.”
Another close-up of Lisa 27’s face. The screen split in two again, this time the right side showing the technician’s gloved finger hovering over a button. The girl kept begging to be fucked, without end.
The technician pushed the button. The right side of the screen changed to show the display of Lisa 27’s brain. Colored lines flowed down each needle path. At the end of each, a little colored dot emerged.
On the left, Lisa 27 stopped muttering to herself. Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened in a darling little moue of surprise. Even more than before, she looked like a living doll. Her eyes sparkled, and a new expression came unto her face: a relaxed look of perfect, utterly tranquil serenity.
“It’s true, folks. It’s really that fast!” The announcer laughed.
She had the look of someone who had, after a great deal of time, achieved an epiphany. She became absolutely beautiful. There were no other words for it. She had already been pretty. Under the effects of the dollifying agent she had turned carnal and slutty but still very pretty; now she was simply beautiful.
Perfect.
It was the new look in her face. All the tension was gone. She didn’t look unintelligent; her newfound splendor was not the vapid ripeness of a suck-fuck girl or other street-level sex slave; there was no sense of diminishment in Lisa 27’s features. Quite the reverse. Lisa 27 had the look of a woman who had had a great deal of worry on her mind, of tension, and that worry had just gone away.
She looked happy. Blissfully, beautifully happy. The happiness was what made her more beautiful.
Janice, on her knees before the solidoe imager, trapped in her apartment, alone, whimpered.
The needles were withdrawn. The infomercial image expanded to take in the entire suite again. The technician removed the helmet and Lisa 27’s straps. She could move again, but she no longer fought. She lay contentedly on the table, a bewildered smile tentatively emerging on her puffy lips.
The dollygirl ran her hands over her huge bosom for the first time. She laughed delightedly.
Someone must have turned the sound back on because Janice could hear her laugh, and she was so envious of the happy slut she could cry. She switched dildoes, working the next one into her twat as she watched the rest of the infomercial. The technician withdrew, and the spraying arms continued their misting work around Lisa. She began to glisten like candy.
The next images shown were a quick montage of training and development shots. Lisa 27 went from the surgery to a succession of chemical baths, one after the other, each coating more and more of her body with a bioplastic sheen. Her brown hair was made fuller, cut, and dried. Her finger and toenails were colored; the announcer made a special point about the dollygirl’s lack of fingerprints as a result of the second skin, and the camera gave a close-up of each digit in turn, showing how blank they were.
Janice looked at her own hands, saw the ridges and whirls of her own fingertips, and wept bitterly. She was so ugly! She wanted to be blank and beautiful too!
After the physical work was done, including dental and a little plastic to further enhance the slave’s appeal, Lisa 27 was shown in class with hundreds of other dolls sitting at desks, knees primly together, hands clasped in front, solidoe images beamed directly into open eyes from machines in front of them.
“Our patented surgery,” the announcer said, voice-over, “frees the subject’s mind from self-imposed mental limitations. Our dollygirls have perfect recollection, heightened processing ability, and, through our deep-core training, a background fully designed to make our sex slaves not only wonders in bed but useful assistants in whatever professional fields of endeavors their owners hold.”
The image shifted to an interview with the new Lisa 27 seated on a couch. Her smile was radiance itself. Her full brown hair fell over an exposed and mammoth rack. Her skin shone, perfectly artificial.
Off-screen, the announcer asked the dollygirl a number of questions.
“When was the First Battle of Bull Run fought, my dear?”
“July 21, 1861, sir.”
“In reverse alphabetical order, list six classifications of business under current definitions.”
“Utilities. Transportation. Services. Retailers. Manufacturers. Agricultural.”
“What is the square root of five thousand, two hundred, and eighty-six? Take it to three places.”
No hesitation. “Seventy-two point seven zero five, sir!”
“Very good. Now, please recite the entirety of the R.A. Restored Tax Code, Section 26.101, please.”
“Certainly sir! I’m happy to oblige! ‘Section A: General rule. A credit of the applicable credit amount shall be allowed to the estate of every decedent against the tax. Section B: Adjustment to credit. The amount of the credit allowable under Subsection A shall be reduced by an amount equal . . . .’”
Finally, they showed Lisa 27 made ready for shipping. Back many decades ago, BioTrust had a toy division: real toys for real children. They had made dolls then, too, ironically enough. Some of that might have played into the marketing of their contemporary work.
“Are you ready for your sale, Lisa?” the announcer asked.
“Oh, yes, sir! I’m ever so ready to be sold! I want to make my owners as happy as I am!” The dollygirl giggled. “I don’t think that’s possible, but I’m going to try really, really hard, sir!”
The infomercial had a laugh track. It played over Lisa 27’s claim and her climb into the shipping box she was to be packaged in. This was a gaudy, multicolored thing, arranged very much like children’s toys in the past. There was even a plastic cover in front. Lisa 27 settled on her back, winked at the camera, and assumed her pose: she pursed her mouth open in an O-shaped kiss-me, fuck-me expression; spread her legs wide, toes bent down; and then lifted her arms up at the elbows in the classic lovedoll clutching position. She looked like a plastic lovedoll, in that position. She was smooth and shiny; her tits were as huge as basketballs; her hairless pussy was open and inviting. But in truth she was better than a lovedoll; she was a dollygirl; and soon she was ready to be sold to her new master.
The infomercial ended. Janice wept and played with herself until she passed out.
“Mr. Robley, why is there a gag in the evidence’s mouth?”
“She has a tendency to whimper and beg, your honor. We thought that would be distracting.”
“I gather that’s why she’s bound to her chair as well.”
“Yes, your honor. So she doesn’t try to fuck one of us.”
“Your honor, I object! The defendant’s evidence is seated. I move she be put on her knees.”
“Your honor! The State’s motion would lend credence that the property is a slave, and we haven’t fully determined that status yet. He’s trying to sneak in his argument . . . .”
“The defense is mistaken. All I’m saying is that there are procedures, and chairs in a courtroom are only suitable for free individuals. Furthermore . . . .”
“Your honor . . . !”
“Quiet, both of you. The objection is overruled. The evidence may stay in the chair. But she must keep her head down at all times, is that understood?”
“Yes, your honor.”
“Mrs. DeChamps? I’m afraid there’s been a complication in your case.” Robley looked apologetic.
The girl didn’t respond. She didn’t care. Her attention was on her vibrator. And the cock, beneath this man’s plastic business suit. “Can I fuck you?” she begged. She ran her tongue over her lips at him.
“No. The senior judge has reviewed the original case. It’s been determined that you were inappropriately enslaved. The Republic shouldn’t have eroticized you during the appeals process. No one expected it, but there are talks now of . . . of actual reparations having to be made . . . in short, Mrs. DeChamps, there’s even a remote possibility you might be set free!”
The girl could picture Robley’s cock beneath his suit. It would be so big and juicy. Delicious.
She imagined running her tongue of his cock, worshipping it, loving it, swallowing it. She crawled toward him. “Let me fuck you,” she pleaded.
“This puts a new spin on everything! Should the State pay your estate? But it’s in escrow, pending confiscation for non-payment of taxes. Should your tax debt be forgiven?” He gasped, seeing the possibilities in his head. He headed for the door. The girl, unable to keep up, went back to her dildo.
The door slid open for Robley. He paused, turned his head. “I’ll be in touch, as soon as I can, Mrs. DeChamps. Hold on!” He left. The girl continued to masturbate, without end.
The law firm allotted its evidence three toyboys a day to keep her entertained and semi-coherent. An hour and three dildo charges after waking up, she pulled herself from the sweaty confines of her bed and padded weakly to the shower. Soon she was screaming again (“Oh God, oh yes! Oh! Oh!!”) from the way she utilized the spray head. She was anticipating her first real fuck of the day. In the meantime, the bed made itself. The kitchen produced a breakfast adjusted for her dollygirl body, to keep her tone and refreshed. The dolly-to-be barely eyed it as she strode, naked, to the intercom, wet all over.
“Please,” she wheedled into the wall. The dolly didn’t know or care who she was. She didn’t know or care how long she had spent in confinement.
“I need a fuck.” That was the only important thing. The fires were raging inside her. Always.
Her first doll of the day had dark hair, a winning smile, and, best of all, a huge cock. She had used him before; he knew what to do without having to be told. The toyboy gripped her and thrust her to her knees. She sank her mouth around his perpetual member, pressing inward until her lips met his body.
The dolly was rewarded with the glorious sperm, the ambrosia of her new life.
Shortly thereafter, the sex slave flipped her around and used her on her back. His fucking was crushing, and absolutely wonderful. Too soon, he was done with her. But that was all right.
The dolly lost whole days at a time in carnal play. She would be masturbating with the closest available power tool at the moment, and the next thing she knew she was being humped by one of the toyboys, and a week, maybe two, would thus have passed unnoticed.
She often forgot to eat. Medical technicians saw to her nourishment and maintenance, as needed.
“I call the court’s attention to the document listed into evidence as item #45. In this subclause, the text explicitly states . . . .”
“A moment, Mr. Robley. Please get your evidence under control, if you would. What she’s doing with her fingers is distracting.”
“Yes, your honor. Mrs. DeChamps, please! Try to show some decorum. Not in the courtroom!”
One time—day? night? did it matter?—the dolly was brought around with an injection in her arm. She turned from where she had been slumped over a vibrating phallus and saw that someone was there.
“Do you know where you are, Mrs. DeChamps?”
Yes. No. Who cared? Fuck. She wanted to fuck. Fuckity fuck-fuck. She giggled brainlessly.
A sigh. “All right, move her out.” Lights flashed overhead. The dolly felt herself (not fucked) put into restraints (the bondage felt good, though). She wanted to fuck. “Fuck me,” she cried out.
She was rolled down a corridor. Everything looked familiar, yet unfamiliar.
“Mrs. DeChamps? Mrs. DeChamps? Over here.” Snapping fingers. “The court case, Mrs. DeChamps. It’s over. It’s over. We won. Temporarily, anyway.”
What court case? What was this silly man talking about? She wanted to fuckity-fuck. “Fuck me?”
The gurney came to a halt. She was in a bright room somewhere. It was a chill, and she was naked and strapped down. She ran her tongue over her lips, over and over. “Fuckity fuck,” she sang, eyes rolling. She tried to fondle herself, but the straps got in the way, and that made her unhappy.
“I need to fuck,” she whimpered. She tried to get up so she could fuck someone, anyone she could find, but she couldn’t. She tried to move her arms and legs, but the strappy things were in the way.
She didn’t understand. She didn’t care to understand. She wanted to fuck. “FUCK!!!” she screamed at the top of her voice, suddenly angry. “SOMEBODY FUCK ME!! RIGHT NOW!!!”
A man in a red goggles stepped into her limited field of vision. “Mrs. DeChamps? It’s me, Mr. Robley. Do you understand me? Do you understand where you are?”
The dolly wriggled furiously on the table.
“Why aren’t you fucking me?” she demanded to know. Why was he covered up like that? she wondered. He wore red goggles and a white bodystocking. She blinked, her angry gone in an instant.
“Please, pretty please,” she begged, licking her tongue at him. She hoped he was a handsome fuck.
“Mrs. DeChamps . . . Janice? Janice, I need you to listen to me and to try and think. I’m your attorney, Janice. Do you remember? No?” The dolly shook her head. What was this bundled-up man talking about? She knew underneath all those clothes, he must have a cock she could have.
“Janice, you won. You won your first appeal. The State’s procedures in reducing you from a Class-A to a Class-C were unwarranted. They admitted they made a mistake.” A lovely cock. A big cock, a cock she could lick and squeeze inside her pussy and milk for its delicious, oh so delicious sperm.
“Fuck,” she whispered. “Cock.” She giggled.
“The State even gave you a tax refund. You’re liquid again, Mrs. DeChamps. The judge ruled that since the eroticizing/enslavement procedures made upon you stemmed from an unwarranted action, you shouldn’t have been made into a dollygirl.” He bent his covered head down to her face.
“It’s a first, Janice! The State set you free! Your legal identity has been restored. You’re you again!”
The dolly whimpered in need anguish. The emptiness between her thighs made her cry out. “Please!!”
“Janice, we don’t have a lot of time. We have to hurry. We’re in a dollygirl surgical suite. You’re all ready for the surgery. If you want . . . if you want . . . you can be made into a dollygirl now. Is that what you want?” He leaned closer. “Tell me, please!”
Did she want to be a dollygirl? Weren’t dollygirls fucked? “Yes, fuck me a dollygirl,” she begged.
The man with red goggles stepped back. “Excellent. Excellent. Doctor, if you would . . . .”
The dolly heard a noise: a door sliding open.
“Stop,” someone, a second man, a delicious man, said loudly. “I have a court order stopping this procedure. Technicians, shut down your equipment.”
“Who the hell are you?” Red Goggles said.
“I’m from BioTrust Legal. I have a valid court order halting this procedure.” The dolly could now see the man if she bent her face just a little forward. She was disappointed. He looked just the other man: he was covered in white and wore red goggles. Why did they have to wear protection?
Everything was so confusing. She wanted to fuck.
The first Red Goggles took the piece of flimsy from the second Red Goggles.
“BioTrust is pressing its claim on this piece of property,” the second delicious man said. “It is our position that regardless of whether or not the former Janice DeChamps was wrongfully enslaved, since she received the dollygirl drug, she is a piece of property and belongs to the BioTrust Corporation.”
He approached the first man.
“You didn’t spare a second, did you, Andy? How long did it take you to get from the courthouse? Fifteen minutes? Twenty?” He laughed. “You’re trying to force the issue with a fait accompli.”
“Is that you, Fred, underneath all that?” Both Red Goggles laughed. He leaned on the dolly’s gurney, tantalizing close to her heaving flesh. She tried to lick at him. “The judge saw things our way. That new simplified Citizen-reduction system doesn’t have a leg to stand on, you know. We showed that.”
“You’re right,” the other man said. “I agree with you, one hundred percent. It’s a shame the State has that much power. The people who thought up that new tax scheme should be the ones enslaved.”
“But if you agree, why the court order? Why are you stopping us? Don’t you want her to be a dollygirl?” The dolly nodded her head for some reason. She didn’t know why. Dollygirl! Dollygirl!
“Fuck,” she said quietly.
“Sure we do. And she will be, I assure you. But you of all people should know. There’s a principle here. Janice DeChamps already became a dollygirl the moment the drug entered her system. Now, the State may say she’s a free person again, or that she never legally was a sex slave in the first place, or whatever, but the fact remains that, regardless, she physically is a dollygirl, in body if not in mind.”
“So?”
“So, she can’t make the decision to be a dollygirl if she already is a dollygirl.”
“Oh, you know that’s not true, Fred. The law is quite clear on that. She hasn’t had the surgery.”
“The law isn’t clear at all, Andy, and you know that. In any case, BioTrust can’t afford the precedent of having property making its own decisions.”
“But she clearly wants to be a dollygirl.”
“What she wants isn’t relevant. Property is property, and property cannot make decisions, even if those decisions reflect our own desires. The former Janice DeChamps will be processed into a complete dollygirl . . . but not today, and only when the court agrees with our position.”
Janice wants to be a dolly, the dolly thought. “Fuck me,” she cried out. But everyone ignored her.
“I can’t let this stand,” the first Red Goggles said, looking over the flimsy. “My firm’s position won’t allow it.”
“Then I’ll see you in court.”
The emptiness between the dolly’s legs plagued her even in her sleep. There was no respite, ever. As she always did, she dreamt of a master riding her body, his cock sliding into her, pumping her like the slut she was. She slid two fingers around the hood of her clit and squeezed. She lifted her hips as the orgasm rocked her, the quick one she needed to start the day, every day. Only when that was through was she able to plan. Quickly coming to a decision (or “cumming” to a decision, not even raising a smile), she grabbed the first of her dildoes and inserted it, turning it, and subsequently herself, on again.
Moaning and sucking and fucking and licking and kissing and fucking and sucking and moaning and . . .
(“She isn’t brain-damaged, is she?”)
(“Not at all, Mr. Robley. She’s merely experiencing a state of hypersexual attention deficit. Her true memories and ability to reason are unimpaired, they just don’t hold quite as much . . . attraction for her at the moment. All that will change, we’re sure, once she receives surgery.”)
(“How can you tell? From what I’ve heard, no one has ever gone so long without the dollygirl surgery after receiving the eroticizing mutagen.”)
(“Yes. That’s true. Mrs. DeChamps set that record two hours after her sentence was passed. It’s been what? nearly a year since the appeal?” Robley nodded. “Truth be told, BioTrust wouldn’t mind at this point if your client did suffer some brain damage. It would give them the excuse to dissect her nervous system and see firsthand what the effects of prolonged, uninhampered hyperserotonism have.”)
(“Doctor, you will assure me this instant that won’t happen! My firm . . .”)
(“Calm. Calm yourself. I was only speculating out loud and in bad taste. BioTrust is a very humane institution, after all. They’ll take good and compassionate care of Mrs. DeChamps; that is, whenever the court finally delivers a judgment. When do you think that will be, by the way?”)
(“I can’t say. The docket’s pretty well tight.”)
(“Well, BioTrust is ready to convert her at a moment’s notice, whenever . . . .)
Dolly didn’t care. Dolly wanted to fuck.
Sucking and fucking and licking and kissing and fucking and sucking and moaning and . . . .
Eventually, at some point in the future, Janice opened her eyes.
Everything was beautiful. It’s over, she thought. She was finally free. She was out of limbo.
She laughed, and her laughter was a joyous sound, a trilling melody even to her own ears, and so she laughed twice again at the sheer happiness of it, the delight. She gasped in glee as the world revolved around her, as it came into a quick, beautiful focus.
Where was she? in a dollygirl surgery suite. Mechanical arms were spraying her down.
Who was she? she was a dollygirl, currently nameless; previously, she had been a free Citizen by the name of Janice Catherine Marnes DeChamps. She had been the subject of a long series of court trials.
What was going on? she had just received a dollygirl surgery; her brain had been adjusted to instill total obedience and charm, the purpose of which was to complete her sexual slavery. She blinked and giggled, marveling, wondering. The needles were still in her head. They were withdrawing, painlessly.
How long had it been? one year, fifteen days, three hours, twelve minutes since receiving the mutagen.
Why was that so easy? because she was a dollygirl, finally, completely; she could remember everything about her old life. Another why: why did dollygirls always laugh upon waking from surgery?
Because everything—literally, everything!—had come into its proper focus, and it was all so funny!
The former Janice DeChamps remembered everything! Ninety-six: the number of tiles in the ceiling of Mr. Miygama’s room back in Elementary School. Charleston Blush: the shade of pink favored by her grandmother, back when she visited her at the age of five. ‘For better waters now the little bark of my indwelling powers raises her sails, and leaves behind that sea so cruel and dark. Now shall I sing that second kingdom given the soul of man wherein to purge its guilt and so grow worthy to ascend to Heaven.’: the opening lines from her favorite poem. Ronald: the name of the boy who had stood in line in front of her at the initial showing of Napoleon and Josephine, the retro-2D movie, seventeen years ago, when the thought occurred to her that Ronnie had a pretty butt. She remembered the exact instant she had heard of Tso-lin’s death (1635 hours, Philippines time); she knew exactly how she had felt (nothing); she knew exactly what she had thought (I get the money now!); she recalled the delirium she had been in during the last stages of her hyperserotonism, and she could see up and around that disorientation to recall the contents of every meal she had eaten in her confining suite, the number of dildoes she had used, even the number of words in every conversation she had had with her attorneys.
And it was funny because none of it mattered in the least! It was all perfectly irrelevant, because her real life was starting only now! Everything she remembered—the petty events of her pre-dollygirl life to this very second—had led her to this, this ideal moment of clarity, this rapture of absolute joy!
So: when would she be sold? soon, she hoped. Soon.
A figure in a white protective bodystocking came into her field of vision. She could tell by the way the man moved that it was Andy Robley, her former attorney. She felt a surge of desire for him. This sensation was unchanged from the burning needs she had experienced previously. What was different was that she now knew—instinctively, intuitively—that her desire was less important than her obedience. And because obedience was paramount, what had previously been uncontrollable was now controlled.
She felt a desire to laugh again, but she restrained herself. Mr. Robley might take it she was laughing at him, and though the likelihood was small, such would never do. It was the irony she found amusing.
As a free person, she had had no control over herself. As a slave, she had total control over herself.
“How may I serve you, sir?” Though she had received no training, she knew those were the right words. She was still restrained on the table. She was still being sprayed down with dollifying mist. If she hadn’t been, she would have stood at respectful attention before him. He was a free person.
“How do you feel?” Mr. Robley asked.
“I feel wonderful, sir!” the new dollygirl said. “I feel as if I’ve been released from prison.” She laughed, now, feeling that the awkward moment where he might have confused matters was past. Still, she modulated her outward display of good humor appropriately, in what she sincerely hoped was a perfectly deferential manner. After she was trained, she would no longer have such minor doubts. “I realize that sounds odd, considering the circumstances, but it’s true. I feel freer than I’ve ever been!”
“Good. I’m glad,” Mr. Robley said. “Do you want to know how the trial came out?”
“Only if it pleases you to inform me, sir!” the dollygirl said exuberantly. If it was important for him to tell her, it was important to her. Otherwise, the matter held no interest in her mind. She blinked, realizing.
If anything didn’t concern her masters or her masters’ well-being, she didn’t care. She had been conscious for sixty-one seconds before that truth hit home. She laughed, charmingly. More absolute truths came to her attention as she listened and responded to this free man, as she learned later they did for all dollygirls.
The attorney talked at length about Mrs. DeChamps’ trials and appeals, and the dollygirl who three weeks later would come to be packaged under the label ‘Janice 84’ listened appropriately and offered her insights. She pleased the man, as she hoped to please all the men and women who would come to own her. Leaning back in her box, arms at her sides, elbows bent to ninety-degree angles, mouth and legs wide open, plastic smooth and shiny, a trained dolly, her greatest and only desire was to please.
For that was her purpose, and no other. She was no longer confused. She was no longer caught in-between. In fact, wheeled out onto the vending-room floor, she was certain about something, with the certainty that could only come from being a dollygirl.
While her old life certainly wasn’t hell, her new life certainly was heaven!
Her smile was bright as the bidding began.