The streets were black, wet, and peppered with gold and red October leaves. At seven o’clock, the sky had already grown dark, with only a few lingering fingers of ruddy crimson at the edges to show where the sun had descended. Alan walked down the familiar street, his hands deep in the pockets of his pea coat and his face and neck mostly hidden by a black scarf.
He tried to walk to and from the train station most days if the weather was mild enough. It hadn’t been raining that morning, so he thought it was safe enough to leave his car at home, but as he left work, he realized the wind was mean and seemed to whip right through his coat. He walked quickly through the cold, trying to forget the stress of a long work day and thinking about a warm house, a warm meal, and the peace and quiet of a long weekend off.
Alan Foster lived in a small blue and white townhouse. It was on a block like a thousand others around it, with ten houses on each side, each painted a different, but extremely similar pastel color. It was a two-family home, and Alan lived on the top floor. The people below him were an older married couple with no children. They were relatively benign people, though Alan had occasionally been asked by them to keep his music down.
The house had belonged to Alan’s Great Aunt Joan, who was a small, frail woman of particular disposition and frigid demeanor. She was a recluse, one could say, and most of the family didn’t care for her very much. When she became ill about five years ago, Alan had just finished nursing school, so it was decided mostly without his input that he would take care of her. His family, who were of the stuffy New England variety, never said the word "hospice," but Alan, sadly, felt it was understood that his Great Aunt Joan would probably not make it through the winter. All were surprised, and passive-aggressively put off that she lasted another five years under Alan’s care.
As he reached the front door of his home, Alan opened the mailbox at the side of the door, collected his bills, letters, and magazines, then opened the door and hurried up the narrow flight of stairs.
Alan’s home was still furnished as his Great Aunt had left it, with the peeling paisley wallpaper of faint rose and brown, the glass coffee table, the bookshelves filled with knick-knacks, and dusty Agatha Christie novels. This was due to the fact that Alan had moved into this house from his parent’s home when he started taking care of his 90-year-old Great Aunt and really had no idea how to furnish a house. He supposed he would eventually go about painting and buying furniture and so on, but for now, he was still trying to take in the fact that he was 26 and he owned his own home and had a bank account with five digits in it. Not enough to live on by any means, but enough to help him live comfortably.
He imagined buying neat and somewhat more comfortable furniture. He would probably, at some point, move into the large master bedroom and buy a king-sized bed or something equally frivolous. The house didn’t even have a television at the moment, which in a way, Alan liked greatly. He spent a lot of time reading, listening to music, and studying.
He had plans for all the rooms except for one. By far, the strangest and most interesting room in the house was the doll room. Alan had always felt very uncomfortable about the room and was hoping to dismantle it. He didn’t want any of these dolls, but he knew they were far too valuable to throw away. He didn’t know how much they might be worth, but frankly, he wanted to clean it out and make some sort of office out of the dusty sepia tone room of faded dressed and chipped porcelain.
Dolls had always been a passion of his Great Aunt Joan. It was one of the few hobbies she had, and once or twice a month, Alan would take her to various meetings of some kind of collectors club or antique sales or even fancy auctions, at which he had to wear a suit.
The room was small, like a child’s bedroom. The room was painted pink with white moldings and trim. The walls were lined with white bookshelves full of dolls of different sizes and styles. There was also a small bed, which was covered in larger dolls and some stuffed animals.
The room was both beautiful and a little creepy. Cracked porcelain doll faces, some missing a hand or an eye. All the dresses, so neat and dainty. Occasionally Alan checked on the room, but he rarely entered it.
Great Aunt Joan’s collection put her into contact with various other collectors around the world with whom she had ongoing correspondences. One of the most taxing parts of his ongoing care of her estate was responding to the mail that trickled in with news of her passing.
It was among these letters that he found Annabelle. The address on her letters was very close by, so after letting her know about his aunt’s passing, he inquired about finding an appraiser and seller for the doll collection. She replied promptly that she would be happy to be both.
A week later, she arrived at his door looking like a doll herself. She was short, in her early twenties, chin-length brown hair held back with a pink barrette. Her eyes were large and sparkling brown with gold flecks. She had a pretty heart-shaped face, chubby cheeks, and deliciously fat lips painted pink as well.
Alan realized he was staring a bit too long, but he was taken aback by her whole aesthetic. Her wide hips and very thick thighs, giving her a cherubic appearance. She wore a beautiful vintage-looking babydoll style pink gingham dress with white stockings and pretty white saddle shoes.
He invited her in, and she gave him a tight-lipped smile and nod.
She was such a quiet thing, not timid or shy, but seemingly extremely intent and intensely focused on her job. She went up to the doll room after Alan introduced himself and quickly went to work, examining and cataloging each doll, jotting down notes in a leather-bound ledger.
She said nothing for just over an hour, only acknowledging Alan by nodding yes when asked if she would like tea.
Alan didn’t want to be rude, so he let her work in peace, but it was strange to have a pretty girl in the house with him alone. The smell of her perfume was light and floral and so distinctly feminine. He watched her from the doorway, the way she moved with such economy of motion, the way she examined such specific things about each doll; the eyes, the hair, the labels on the clothes. Always so careful not to disturb them.
It was almost three hours before she finished. She took one last look around and then turned and left the room. Alan followed, unsure how close to walk lest his longing become apparent through his body language.
"It will take a few days to put together prices for all these things, Mister Foster. Also, we will need to take pictures." her voice was a squeak, a whisper.
Alan nodded. "That’s fine. I’d like to get this done as quickly as possible." She looked down at her little ledger and then up into his eyes. "Are you planning on getting rid of all of them?" she asked in a suddenly more personal tone.
He realized that this girl shared his Great Aunt’s love of dolls, and she was asking to see if he, too, was a collector. He considered keeping some of them for no other reason than to have a reason to talk to Annabelle on a regular basis.
"I’m afraid not. I don’t really have a passion for them. Perhaps I’ll keep one in my aunt’s memory."
She eyed him, her head tilting a bit as she studied him. "Any particular one?"
He looked at the shelves full of dolls and the mass of dolls on the bed. "I guess I like the chubby-cheeked ones. The ones that look like little cherubs. One of those, maybe."
She eyed him again, blinking though her face revealed very little of what she was thinking. "I’ll put aside something that isn’t of great monetary value that I think your aunt would have liked you to have. She spoke very highly of you the few times we had personal conversations."
Alan’s eyebrows rose. "Oh?
"She could be a bit-" she started and then bit her lip. "Well, she could be a bit prickly, but she seemed genuinely thankful that you came to take care of her."
Alan swallowed and looked down at the floor. He was surprised by the rush of emotion. He took a deep breath and looked into Annabelle’s deep brown eyes. "Thank you for telling me that."
Annabelle gave him a small smile, and it lit up her face. Then after a moment, she nodded and gathered her things.
"Could you come back on Wednesday? I work a short shift that day, only 1-5. I have a decent camera, but it’s at my parent’s place. I can get it and maybe a flash," Alan said as he led her back to the front door.
"I have a camera, and I’m used to shooting dolls. I think it will be faster if I handle that. If you don’t mind. It’s slow work. Maybe I can come around noon and shoot while you are at work so we don’t get in each other’s way. Then we can marry up the pictures and the info I wrote up today. I think I can sell them all pretty easily and get you about $20,000-$25,000. I would need a 20% commission since I’m doing so much of the work."
The amount was more than triple what Alan imagined. He paused for a moment to make it look like he was thinking about it, then he shook his head and held out his hand. "That sounds very fair. It’s a deal."
She looked at his hand and then looked him in the eyes again. She took his hand lightly and shook it once. Then she was off, and Alan watched her walk to her car from his front door, the wind whipping her short dress. She stood out, this perfect candy pink confection shining through the gray autumn day.
That Wednesday, he greeted a somewhat more demure Annabelle. She wore a knee-length navy blue dress with little flower designs and white lace trim on the short sleeves and hem. Again, she looked like a doll. Her pouting lips were red and drew his eyes even more. She dragged a large rolling suitcase with her that Alan came out and helped her with.
He’s set out a small lunch for them, spending the morning thinking about what she might like and deciding on a recreation of the meals his great aunt had often laid out on special occasions. Little finger sandwiches of cucumber, smoked salmon, and watercress. A fine Earl Gray served in his great aunt’s beloved tea set with a plate of pink sugar cubes stacked in a perfect pyramid.
Annabelle was difficult to read, but she smiled and seemed extra pleased when he pulled out her chair for her. They chatted a bit, and he much enjoyed how she carefully ate the little sandwich, never messing up her lipstick.
Then he showed her to her room and left her to work while he did his shift at the hospital. At four, a little before he was ready to leave work, he decided he would ask Annabelle on a date once the business of selling the dolls was through. He thought it would be a bit improper to do it before.
When he got home, he found a neat pile of papers on the dining room table. Pictures were neatly printed with descriptions of the dolls and prices, all organized perfectly. He called for Annabelle, but there was no answer. He wondered if she might have finished early and left, which gave him a pang of sadness.
He walked up the stairs and went to the doll room, seeing that the light was still on. At first, he thought she had simply decided to take a nap, but then he noticed how different her clothes were.
Annabelle was laid on the very center of the bed. The dolls were arraigned in their little bookshelves, and the ones that were usually on the bed were in boxes in the corner of the room.
Annabelle was dressed in a puffy pink babydoll dress with white buttons down the front and many white lace embellishments. White stockings and white gloves. White saddle shoes. A white ribbon with a big bow in her hair. Her eyes were open, looking up at the ceiling.
"Annabelle?" Alan asked softly. She didn’t stir or look at him. He called her again a little louder, and she still didn’t move. He noticed a little note on the bed next to her.
Moving closer, he saw that it wasn’t a note but a white sort of tag tied to her wrist with a pink ribbon. He walked over and flipped the tag over. It said, in very pretty calligraphic lettering, "Right now, I am just a doll. If you like, I can be your doll for a bit. A doll that you can do with whatever you like. If I need you to stop, I will speak up. If you don’t want a doll or if you are finished with me, simply leave the room and close the door. I will pack up and leave. No hard feelings. I very much want to be your doll. – Annabelle."
He read it again, not really believing his eyes. He read it a third time. He looked at her face. She still stared at the ceiling. He watched as she blinked.
"Annabelle? Is this real?" He asked, knowing she wouldn’t answer. He took a deep breath. He put the tag down and straightened out her dress a bit, noticing there was a white tulle petticoat under it, making it puffy. He pulled at the dress, spreading it out as he had seen her do with the doll’s dresses.
He felt like it was some kind of test, like she would pop up and say, "gotcha!" He didn’t know what he could or couldn’t do. He experimentally put his hand on her stockinged knee. She felt warmer than he imagined, as if he thought she would be cold, like a real doll.
He swallowed and watched her face once more. Her perfect chubby cheeks and cupid bow lips. There was no reaction. He sighed. Her tag said it all plainly. What was he scared of? He put his hand on her stomach and moved it to her breast. He cupped it, feeling its softness even though the dress and underthings. She didn’t react.
There it was. There she was. All his. He went back to her knee. He moved his hand up her leg, under the frilly petticoat, her soft stockings feeling smooth under his fingers and the warmth of her skin growing the higher he got. He let out a little growl as he felt the stockings end in a lacy band and a metal clip connected to a garter.
He watched her face as his fingers moved along the powdery softness of her inner thigh. Her brown eyes looked forward. Her cupid bow lips, painted pink and shaped to look even more pursed and pouting, then they were tried not to quiver.
He pulled up her dress, seeing the lacy tops of the stocking and the garters and her matching white panties. He took a moment to enjoy the tableau. Petticoat pushed up, white stockings, white panties, pale thighs. He leaned down and kissed her bare thigh. She smelled like perfume and powder.
With quick but delicate precision Alan undid the clips on the garters, pulled her panties down to her knees, and then snapped the garters back into place, liking the contrast of the white lace on her pale pink skin. He pulled the panties off and placed them neatly on the bed beside his living doll.
Her sex was either waxed or perfectly shaved. It was an adorably chubby little mound that was flawless and hairless, and her slit was just slightly opened by the tips of two rose petal pink lips that peaked out. Alan grinned approvingly and opened the doll’s legs, examining her thoroughly.
Lovemaking had always been a rushed endeavor with Alan. Not that his resume was all that full, but there had certainly been a dozen or so women in his past and a boy once in nursing school.
In high school, it was rushed. "My parents will be home soon." Then in college, it was, "my roommate will be home any minute."
Sex with Megan, Alan’s only long-term girlfriend, was pretty much an in-the-dark affair unless they were drunk, which was then fast and blurry. The sex was good, they really loved each other, but she was a Catholic girl who deep down thought her body was dirty.
All of that was irrelevant with a doll. No hang-ups, no covering up, no embarrassment.
Alan smoothed her dress back down and started on the buttons. He felt a little sad to ruin the pretty picture of her with her lovely outfit, but he had baser needs to see to. He didn’t know how long he had or if he would get another chance. He just wanted to see every bit of her, feel every bit of her, have every part of her.
When all of the little buttons were undone, he left her dress closed and looked at her face again. Her cheeks drew him in. He leaned down and kissed one, then just pressed his cheek against hers. He reached up and touched her lips, tracing them with his thumb.
There was a decadence to her chubbiness. Her soft cheeks and pouting lips. He kissed her lips again and sucked her fat bottom lip. His hands moved down, parting the two halves of her dress and exposing a pink lacy bra and her perfect belly. Below that the flouncy white petticoats.
He found the drawstring of the petticoat and opened it, revealing the overripe peach of her pussy. A chubby little mound that made his mouth water. Still, he pulled his focus away, wanting to enjoy each part of her. His eyes refocused on her bra-covered breasts.
He smiled at her ingenuity, seeing that her bra opened in the front, saving him the complications of lifting and contorting her to get it off. He opened it and let out a little gasp as he saw her round pretty breasts for the first time and her soft coral pink nipples. Her breasts were not that large but were very full and plump and inviting.
He closed his eyes for a moment. What a gift. He kept them closed as he reached over and cupped one perfect breast. The softness and the firmness and the heavenly heat of her body. His thumb brushed her nipple, and he felt it harden.
He opened his eyes to the delightful sight of her naked body, surrounded by her fluffy dress. He left aside all of the trappings of a common sexual encounter and let himself do whatever he wanted. In that moment, that meant kissing her. Kissing every inch of her, starting with her neck, breasts, chest, arms, and fingers. Reveling in every bit of her. Exploring every freckle.
The sweetness of it, the soft, almost wholesome worship of her body, slowly brought out a more base hunger in him. His body awakening more and more as his lips neared her pussy. He could smell the light scent of her arousal. He growled into her thighs as he roughly pulled at his belt and zipper.
When he finally parted her legs, he saw how wet she had become. He felt victory at that. He couldn’t wait any longer, and he buried her face between her thick thighs, tasting the salty headiness of her. He sucked at her lips and her clit as his hands reached up for her breasts. He wanted all of her. He wanted all of the sensations of her body at once.
When his cock was aching from need, he finally rose up to his knees. He pulled his boxers down just enough to let his hardness pop out, eager and red with need. He looked up to see her cheeks red, her neck and chest blushing red. Her nipples hard points where there were soft wide buttons.
His cock slipped against her wetness. He teased himself again, teased her, rubbing but not penetrating. He groaned with need. He pushed the tip of his cock into her and saw her hips buck. He let out a growl of a laugh. He had her. He made her react. He broke the doll mask for a moment.
Then he pushed his cock into her tight hot wetness and all thoughts of victory vanished. There was only fucking. There was only rutting and pounding into her as hard as he could. There was only deeper.
He would have liked to fuck her for hours, but it had been too long, too much teasing, too much heaven. He grabbed her hips and pulled her into his thrusts. He knew he didn’t need to pace himself or wait or check in. She was just a doll to use and enjoy.
The wet tightness seemed to suddenly become a vice around him. He pushed him over the edge. At the last moment, he pulled his throbbing cock out and shot jets of white come on her belly, on the mound of her pussy, on her pretty pink dress.
He stroked his cock as he looked down at the pretty mess. It filled him with an acute satisfaction. Making a mess of her was the icing on the cake.
Then, following the instructions she had left, he shakily stood and pulled up his boxers, grabbed his pants, and left to clean himself up.
He took a quick shower and changed. He was both curious about what Annabelle would do and weary of her instructions. He didn’t want to mess anything up.
He went to the kitchen and saw her packing up a bag, wearing the outfit she had been in that morning. She looked as if nothing had happened save the lingering redness in her cheeks and her smile.
She acknowledged him with a nod. He nodded back, getting some coffee. There was a moment of silence he knew he should have respected, but he couldn’t stop himself from saying something.
"Thank you for that-" he started, but her eyes widened.
"I think it would be better, if you have any comments, complaints, or requests about any of the dolls, that you write them down and leave them in the doll room. That would be more appropriate."
He chewed on that. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to discuss what happened. He wanted, perhaps, to kiss her in this form, animated and nervous and alive. As she looked away and fluffed the dress of one of the small kewpies on the table, he realized he would have to settle for what she was offering.
"I’ll do that. Thank you," he said simply, going back to his coffee. She nodded and gave him a tight-lipped smile.
"I wonder, though, do you ever work with animated dolls? If I did decide to build a collection, I might look into that."
Her eyebrows wrinkled a bit. She bit her bottom lip and considered her answer. "I’m sure I can outline that in a written correspondence, but yes. There is room for some animation. In a collection. As I said, writing it out works well for this."
He nodded and smiled, already formulating a letter.
“Very good. It’s been enlightening, learning so much about dolls. Perhaps I do have a passion for them after all,” he said, walking her to the door.
“Good. Perhaps I may even be able to find additional dolls for you to examine. There is a small but growing inventory in town,” she said, her facing giving nothing away.
Alan’s eyes bulged at that. “Well, I suppose I have a lot of questions to write out then.”
Annabelle nodded at that and went on her way.