We always want what we can’t have.
Sophia came to the Order’s Dollhouse for very specific things; to be undressed, made up, and re-created as a doll.
She would arrive in a whirlwind of messy hair, jeans, and ill fitting blouses and in an hour’s time she would look like the others; poised, pretty, and perfect. Hair pulled back tightly, skin even, lips cherry red, eyes made huge with rims of kohl and shadows and the trickery of brushes and color.
It was all at once being pampered and objectified. One was gentle with dolls when one must be, but firm when one needed to be. A caretaker had to always remember: they are art, not people.
Obviously dollification was only one of the services we provided. Our main service. Still many came for that and stayed for rope or the belt or to be used in a variety of ways. Sophia wanted none of our other services.
So she was made up and dressed and sat on the bench with the other dolls. There she was ogled and preened and appreciated. A conversation piece. An objet d’art.
As time went by, my hunger for her grew. She was not the prettiest or the most interesting, though she certainly was a beauty and a little charmer. It was her coolness and her disinterest that stoked some fire in me.
For a year it went on like that. Every few weeks she attended our salon. She was painted and made into the form we all coveted. She was transformed. Yet to me she was a perfectly decorated cake that no one would ever taste and it was both a pity and a crime.
One day she came in early, looking weary. Ms. Rose, our lead, my love, said Sophia needed a complete transformation. She was brought to the bath. I passed the door a few times and saw her sitting up, her lovely breasts high and pert, scrubbed from head to toe by able dollmakers. Ms. Rose herself washed Sophia’s hair, slowly, massaging her scalp as she did and cooing into her ear.
I was tasked with shaving her legs. By the time I entered the large bathroom the others were leaving and Sophia was soft and relaxed, her skin reddened, her eyes nearly closed in the steamy room.
She sat down on a chair I brought with me and put one foot at a time up on the sink’s lip, as I directed.
She sat back, wearing only a thick white robe that was just barely closed. I applied hot towels to her right leg, then a sweet smelling oil, then a thick shaving soap I mixed in a mug and applied with a decadently soft badger hair brush.
As I shaved her first leg, she moved so her bottom was just barely on the chair and she spread her legs slightly. Her eyes were still sleepily half closed. Her robe opened as she shifted and her breasts were exposed, her nipples soft, her areola not very large and nearly the same color as the surrounding skin tone.
I shaved carefully, thoughtfully, remembering the particulars that would get her legs smooth but keep them free of nicks and ingrown hairs.
Her legs were long and well formed with thick thighs and muscular calves. She sighed as I worked, and took long slow breaths. Her robe fell open more. I tried to keep myself in check, only stealing glances. She seemed to notice nothing.
Between her legs was a short neat triangle of brown hair. The outer lips of her sex left only a simple slit between her thighs. As she opened her legs wider, I saw delicate inner lips, slightly asymmetrical, hypnotic, making it difficult to concentrate. All I wanted was to kiss her inner thigh. I needed to bury my head between her legs and taste her, make her moan, make her beg me for more.
But I didn’t. She only wanted to be a doll. As I moved to her other leg, I went from longing to mourning. I had to satisfy myself with touching her firm legs, greedily memorizing every detail of her body, the stolen glimpses of her pussy, and reveling in the happy sighs she let out as I shaved and pampered her.
When her legs were smooth and bare, I lotioned them. She sighed again and bit her bottom lip as my warm hands slid up and down her sensitive skin, sweet smelling and wet with thick expensive lotion.
Then she was off, fetched to the next step in her transformation. I was alone in the bathroom with my need unsated and my mind racing. I gathered my razor and tools and tried to slow my racing heart, sure that one day I would have her. One day.If you liked this story you can send me a tip via paypal.me/writingdirty