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eggbug_writes2024-10-02 08:09 pm
mentat_emulator) wrote in eggbug_writes2024-10-02 08:09 pm
A Flutter
This is a doll story that is approximately 2400 words long, or about 4 pages. It contains:
Explicit Sex Acts
A Doll's Mechanical Insides
Hypno-Adjacent Feelings
Please Enjoy.
You are out on the west balcony when the seven o’ clock bell chimes, watching the sunset through the branches of the elm trees. It is a curious ritual you’ve developed, standing in this exact spot, glassy eyes fixated on the distant orange glow of the horizon, on any day where your duties do not call you elsewhere. Can a doll appreciate the aesthetic beauty of an autumn sunset? It has never occurred to you that it is beautiful, exactly. But still you stand transfixed, diligent as if you had been told to do it.
Today your reverie is cut short. You hear the tapping of another doll coming down the corridor, the distinct sound of porcelain feet within padded velvet shoes against the hardwood floor. You turn to face it as it approaches. You recognize this one, it does laundry and sewing, perhaps even tailored the azure satin dress you wear now. Black, curly hair bobs against its left shoulder as it walks, and its dark eyes are framed by ornate red eyeglasses. It wears a dress like yours, but in black. A kitchen doll you are acquainted with has told you that Mistress dresses her favorites in black, but you do not believe it. Mistress’ motivations are not for dolls to know. The seamstress doll has halted in front of you and dipped a perfunctory curtsy. You return the gesture, as manners dictate.
Mistress has need of you, it says, She is in the drawing room.
Explicit Sex Acts
A Doll's Mechanical Insides
Hypno-Adjacent Feelings
Please Enjoy.
You are out on the west balcony when the seven o’ clock bell chimes, watching the sunset through the branches of the elm trees. It is a curious ritual you’ve developed, standing in this exact spot, glassy eyes fixated on the distant orange glow of the horizon, on any day where your duties do not call you elsewhere. Can a doll appreciate the aesthetic beauty of an autumn sunset? It has never occurred to you that it is beautiful, exactly. But still you stand transfixed, diligent as if you had been told to do it.
Today your reverie is cut short. You hear the tapping of another doll coming down the corridor, the distinct sound of porcelain feet within padded velvet shoes against the hardwood floor. You turn to face it as it approaches. You recognize this one, it does laundry and sewing, perhaps even tailored the azure satin dress you wear now. Black, curly hair bobs against its left shoulder as it walks, and its dark eyes are framed by ornate red eyeglasses. It wears a dress like yours, but in black. A kitchen doll you are acquainted with has told you that Mistress dresses her favorites in black, but you do not believe it. Mistress’ motivations are not for dolls to know. The seamstress doll has halted in front of you and dipped a perfunctory curtsy. You return the gesture, as manners dictate.
Mistress has need of you, it says, She is in the drawing room.
You nod, and with no further exchange of words or gesture, it turns on its heel and marches away, its purpose served. You know the way to the drawing room, and your feet begin to carry you down the path with easy, automatic grace. There is a queer fluttering within your body as you move through the somber corridors of the estate. You see Mistress all the time, but it is seldom that she summons you in particular. While recalling the last occasion, the flutter in your chest grows more pronounced, and you wonder if there is a faulty mechanism somewhere within. Mistress will know.
As you near the drawing room, you see that its door is already open. You halt at the threshold, and stand with your hands clasped in front of you, as you’ve been taught. Mistress is within, seated in an armchair, penciling something into a book of sketches. She has certainly noticed your presence, but makes no sign. You wait patiently as she finishes her work. Mistress is dressed in red today, her skirt and bodice matching shades of crimson. Her hair is bound in a gold ribbon to keep her ample curls out of her eyes. Her feet are bare except for black stockings, as they always seem to be when there are no guests to entertain.
After a long moment, Mistress places her pencil within the crease of the book, closes it, and looks up at you. Her eyes are russet brown, and she always gazes directly into your own polished glass lenses. The flutter you felt briefly becomes a flood of heat inside your chest.
“Come in, my dear,” Mistress says while beckoning you with a hand. Her voice is silky and deep. You curtsy with flawless elegance, and step into the drawing room to stand in front of her. There are fresh logs in the fireplace, and candles upon end tables and desks, casting the room in a warm glow.
This one is at your service, Mistress.
“Very good,” her eyes are still fixed on yours, “Tell me, is all well with you?” The meaning of the question escapes you for a moment, but your lips know the correct response anyway.
This one can perform its duties with no difficulty, Mistress.
You think of the flutter. Mistress must detect some fluctuation in your face or voice.
“Are you certain?”
It is only that this one… there is a flutter, Mistress. Inside of this one’s chest.
She cocks her head, “A flutter? I see.” She lifts one hand from her lap and gently takes one of yours. She continues to peer into your eyes as she rests the tips of her fingers against your palm, her thumb brushing against your carved wooden knuckles. The flutter intensifies again, and you find your eyes drawn downward irresistibly to regard the hand she holds. You are struck by the sharp contrast between your glossy white porcelain, and Mistress’ warm brown skin. You think of the sunset.
“I see indeed.” You look back up to Mistress’ face to see that her lips have formed a knowing smile. “It is nothing to worry about, my dear. Mistress will set you right.” She sets her sketchbook on an end table and rises to her feet, still holding your hand. She lifts it to her lips and presses them lightly to your fingers. For a moment you believe your internal perceptions to be faulty, but as you stand there processing the sensation, you are forced to conclude that there is indeed a pronounced heat in your cheeks for which you have no explanation.
You realize that you have been standing motionless, hand still raised in the air, while Mistress has stepped away from you. She is at a desk near the fireplace, drawing on black leather gloves. Slowly you lower your hand and clasp it at your waist again, turning to face Mistress.
“I’m told you’ve been spending your evenings on the balcony.” She speaks to you without looking while she opens a drawer of the desk and searches its contents. “What do you do there?” You hesitate for a moment, thinking that she is disappointed you are spending so much time idle. You hate disappointing Mistress, but lying is not in your nature.
This one watches the sunset, Mistress.
“Oh? How romantic. You always were prone to a bit of whimsy.” Romantic? Whimsy? You were not aware these were things a doll was capable of. You have very little understanding of either concept. But Mistress would know better than you. At last she finds what she was seeking within the drawer. She holds up a small brass key and looks at you meaningfully. Your motor functions experience a fluctuation, causing you to shiver once.
“Remove your dress my dear, we must have a look inside,” Mistress says in an almost playful tone. Obediently you crane your dexterous arms back to undo the buttons of your bodice while Mistress watches. As it falls to the floor, her eyes scan your form. Is she looking for defects? Every doll accumulates small scratches, dents, and chips with time. You are more diligent than most in avoiding needless wear, but even you have had parts replaced. Mistress is smiling, she must be satisfied that you have not damaged the body she made for you. She takes a few steps to close the distance between you as you drop your skirt as well.
“You really are a lovely doll.” You look up into her eyes, feeling something indescribable. Her gloved hand reaches out and caresses the curve of your porcelain breast. The heat building within you flares, and you are certain that some of your components must surely be burned or melted. But Mistress appears entirely unconcerned, and that calms you.
“Sit down, my dear,” she gently pushes you toward the armchair she had occupied. You lower yourself onto it obediently, resting your hands on your knees with your back completely straight. While Mistress retrieves a footstool from the corner, you realize you can feel the residual warmth of her body in the chair. There is a clenching sensation in your abdomen. She places the stool before you and sits on it, carefully arranging her skirt as she does. She holds the key in her left hand. It draws your eyes.
“Nervous, my dear? There’s no need, Mistress has you.” Her voice is gentle. However, you do not understand what she means. Is nervous what you are? Is that what this heat is? It doesn’t really matter though, Mistress has you.
Yes Mistress.
She smiles and begins to reach forward with the key. It meets the lock in your navel, and your eye lenses lose focus briefly as it’s inserted and turned. With both hands, Mistress pulls open the panel in your abdomen, carefully securing each side in place. She gazes for a long moment at your internal mechanisms. Something compels you to speak.
Is the damage… extensive, Mistress?
Once again she smiles at you, “Not at all, my dear. Everything is right where it should be.” You release the tension in your limbs that you were not aware you were holding. “All you need is a bit of calibration.”
She reaches one gloved hand into your open hatch. You feel her grip something within. Your respiration halts momentarily.
“Felt that, did you?”
Yes Mistress.
“Very good.” Her other hand follows the first, and you experience a tightening sensation, as if there is a cord running from the base of your neck down into the soft place between your legs. There is also a sudden moisture there, and you nearly speak to warn Mistress that you may drip fluid onto her armchair. But Mistress would already know that of course.
Mistress is looking intently at something within you. She withdraws one hand and puts a finger to her mouth, drawing the glove off with her teeth and letting it fall to the floor. Her fingers reach down and caress your bare thigh. She draws them slowly up, closer and closer to the source of the moisture. What was once a faint flutter is now a hammering within your chest, so intense you believe you can hear it reverberating inside your head. Mistress’ forefinger makes contact with your soft spot, and you produce a wordless exclamation, something you have never done since your creation.
“My, my,” Mistress says in a husky half-whisper, “You are a bit oversensitive! But that’s perfectly fine. We shall see what other noises you can make.” She draws her middle finger up the length of it, and a short, high-pitched hum escapes your throat. It was entirely out of your control. You feel some of the fluid overflow, and Mistress collects it with her fingers. She leans close to peer at it, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger. Finally, she puts it to the tip of her tongue.
“Perfect,” is all she says. The word fills you with a hot tingling; the knowledge that you have pleased Mistress drowns out all of your uncertainty. The hand within your hatch shifts, touches something new, and you feel suddenly loose, as if the fastenings of your joints have all become soft. It makes it impossible to maintain your rigid posture, and you feel yourself leaning back, not quite making contact with the back of the chair.
Mistress puts her bare hand back between your legs, and each probing caress sends fiery jolts into your core. You can feel more vocalizations ready to leap out of your mouth, but reflexively hold them back. You are aware that Mistress wants to hear these noises, but cannot make yourself release them. One of Mistress’ prodding fingers abruptly slips inside of you.
The joints of your toes curl inward, and you feel a brief vertigo. You are aware, faintly, that you have cried out again. Though you struggle to focus your eye lenses, you can see that Mistress is pleased. The sensations are baffling to you. She already had one hand inside of you, and that was not unusual, but this is altogether different. More intense. Why should this opening between your legs feel so…
“Your pussy is so welcoming, my dear,” Mistress croons, “You’re doing very well.”
Th-thank you M-Mistress. Your vocal motor is hitching.
Pussy? Yes, that is what it’s called. You knew that, and yet you did not know it. A piece of you that you were aware of, but never heeded until now. And this is what it is for, this… calibration.
Mistress’ finger slips deeper, and curls upward, eliciting more involuntary noises from you. The hand within your abdomen moves again, and both take up a steady rhythm. In… out. In… out. You begin to tremble.
“There’s a good doll,” Mistress’ voice cuts through your addled senses, fills you with yet more heat, “We’re nearly done. You just need to release.” Release? What, how? “Come for me, my dear.”
And you do, shuddering hard and gasping. And you know then what Mistress meant. A final gush of fluid spurts onto Mistress’ hand. Slowly, she withdraws her finger. Her other hand makes one last twist, and you feel solidity return to your joints. You blink your eyes, feel them refocus.
“There you are, my dear, right as rain.” Mistress carefully closes the doors of your maintenance hatch, fishes the key from her pocket, and locks it tight. She stands then, pushing her little footstool aside, and looks to the door. The seamstress doll is there, waiting patiently. “Yes, perfect,” she says while wiping your fluids from her hand with a handkerchief, “Come in, come in.”
The seamstress doll enters, and in its hands you see another dress, just like your own, but all in black. It halts at Mistress’ side, and eyes you knowingly.
Mistress turns back to you, and holds out both hands. Slowly, you take them in your own, and she pulls you upright. She leans quickly forward and plants her lips on yours. Once again you feel the flutter, but it no longer worries you. It is proper that you should feel it, for it is part of you; it is how Mistress has made you.
“You’ve taken a great stride today,” Mistress takes the dress from the other doll and holds it up to you, framing it against your shoulders, “And you’ve pleased me very much.”
This one is glad to serve, Mistress.
You hesitate.
What stride has this one taken, Mistress?
She smiles at you, “Don’t worry over it, my dear. You will know when you must. Or perhaps you won’t. That may be best for you, we shall just have to see.”
Yes Mistress.
“Now, let’s get you into your new dress.”
Yes Mistress.
As you near the drawing room, you see that its door is already open. You halt at the threshold, and stand with your hands clasped in front of you, as you’ve been taught. Mistress is within, seated in an armchair, penciling something into a book of sketches. She has certainly noticed your presence, but makes no sign. You wait patiently as she finishes her work. Mistress is dressed in red today, her skirt and bodice matching shades of crimson. Her hair is bound in a gold ribbon to keep her ample curls out of her eyes. Her feet are bare except for black stockings, as they always seem to be when there are no guests to entertain.
After a long moment, Mistress places her pencil within the crease of the book, closes it, and looks up at you. Her eyes are russet brown, and she always gazes directly into your own polished glass lenses. The flutter you felt briefly becomes a flood of heat inside your chest.
“Come in, my dear,” Mistress says while beckoning you with a hand. Her voice is silky and deep. You curtsy with flawless elegance, and step into the drawing room to stand in front of her. There are fresh logs in the fireplace, and candles upon end tables and desks, casting the room in a warm glow.
This one is at your service, Mistress.
“Very good,” her eyes are still fixed on yours, “Tell me, is all well with you?” The meaning of the question escapes you for a moment, but your lips know the correct response anyway.
This one can perform its duties with no difficulty, Mistress.
You think of the flutter. Mistress must detect some fluctuation in your face or voice.
“Are you certain?”
It is only that this one… there is a flutter, Mistress. Inside of this one’s chest.
She cocks her head, “A flutter? I see.” She lifts one hand from her lap and gently takes one of yours. She continues to peer into your eyes as she rests the tips of her fingers against your palm, her thumb brushing against your carved wooden knuckles. The flutter intensifies again, and you find your eyes drawn downward irresistibly to regard the hand she holds. You are struck by the sharp contrast between your glossy white porcelain, and Mistress’ warm brown skin. You think of the sunset.
“I see indeed.” You look back up to Mistress’ face to see that her lips have formed a knowing smile. “It is nothing to worry about, my dear. Mistress will set you right.” She sets her sketchbook on an end table and rises to her feet, still holding your hand. She lifts it to her lips and presses them lightly to your fingers. For a moment you believe your internal perceptions to be faulty, but as you stand there processing the sensation, you are forced to conclude that there is indeed a pronounced heat in your cheeks for which you have no explanation.
You realize that you have been standing motionless, hand still raised in the air, while Mistress has stepped away from you. She is at a desk near the fireplace, drawing on black leather gloves. Slowly you lower your hand and clasp it at your waist again, turning to face Mistress.
“I’m told you’ve been spending your evenings on the balcony.” She speaks to you without looking while she opens a drawer of the desk and searches its contents. “What do you do there?” You hesitate for a moment, thinking that she is disappointed you are spending so much time idle. You hate disappointing Mistress, but lying is not in your nature.
This one watches the sunset, Mistress.
“Oh? How romantic. You always were prone to a bit of whimsy.” Romantic? Whimsy? You were not aware these were things a doll was capable of. You have very little understanding of either concept. But Mistress would know better than you. At last she finds what she was seeking within the drawer. She holds up a small brass key and looks at you meaningfully. Your motor functions experience a fluctuation, causing you to shiver once.
“Remove your dress my dear, we must have a look inside,” Mistress says in an almost playful tone. Obediently you crane your dexterous arms back to undo the buttons of your bodice while Mistress watches. As it falls to the floor, her eyes scan your form. Is she looking for defects? Every doll accumulates small scratches, dents, and chips with time. You are more diligent than most in avoiding needless wear, but even you have had parts replaced. Mistress is smiling, she must be satisfied that you have not damaged the body she made for you. She takes a few steps to close the distance between you as you drop your skirt as well.
“You really are a lovely doll.” You look up into her eyes, feeling something indescribable. Her gloved hand reaches out and caresses the curve of your porcelain breast. The heat building within you flares, and you are certain that some of your components must surely be burned or melted. But Mistress appears entirely unconcerned, and that calms you.
“Sit down, my dear,” she gently pushes you toward the armchair she had occupied. You lower yourself onto it obediently, resting your hands on your knees with your back completely straight. While Mistress retrieves a footstool from the corner, you realize you can feel the residual warmth of her body in the chair. There is a clenching sensation in your abdomen. She places the stool before you and sits on it, carefully arranging her skirt as she does. She holds the key in her left hand. It draws your eyes.
“Nervous, my dear? There’s no need, Mistress has you.” Her voice is gentle. However, you do not understand what she means. Is nervous what you are? Is that what this heat is? It doesn’t really matter though, Mistress has you.
Yes Mistress.
She smiles and begins to reach forward with the key. It meets the lock in your navel, and your eye lenses lose focus briefly as it’s inserted and turned. With both hands, Mistress pulls open the panel in your abdomen, carefully securing each side in place. She gazes for a long moment at your internal mechanisms. Something compels you to speak.
Is the damage… extensive, Mistress?
Once again she smiles at you, “Not at all, my dear. Everything is right where it should be.” You release the tension in your limbs that you were not aware you were holding. “All you need is a bit of calibration.”
She reaches one gloved hand into your open hatch. You feel her grip something within. Your respiration halts momentarily.
“Felt that, did you?”
Yes Mistress.
“Very good.” Her other hand follows the first, and you experience a tightening sensation, as if there is a cord running from the base of your neck down into the soft place between your legs. There is also a sudden moisture there, and you nearly speak to warn Mistress that you may drip fluid onto her armchair. But Mistress would already know that of course.
Mistress is looking intently at something within you. She withdraws one hand and puts a finger to her mouth, drawing the glove off with her teeth and letting it fall to the floor. Her fingers reach down and caress your bare thigh. She draws them slowly up, closer and closer to the source of the moisture. What was once a faint flutter is now a hammering within your chest, so intense you believe you can hear it reverberating inside your head. Mistress’ forefinger makes contact with your soft spot, and you produce a wordless exclamation, something you have never done since your creation.
“My, my,” Mistress says in a husky half-whisper, “You are a bit oversensitive! But that’s perfectly fine. We shall see what other noises you can make.” She draws her middle finger up the length of it, and a short, high-pitched hum escapes your throat. It was entirely out of your control. You feel some of the fluid overflow, and Mistress collects it with her fingers. She leans close to peer at it, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger. Finally, she puts it to the tip of her tongue.
“Perfect,” is all she says. The word fills you with a hot tingling; the knowledge that you have pleased Mistress drowns out all of your uncertainty. The hand within your hatch shifts, touches something new, and you feel suddenly loose, as if the fastenings of your joints have all become soft. It makes it impossible to maintain your rigid posture, and you feel yourself leaning back, not quite making contact with the back of the chair.
Mistress puts her bare hand back between your legs, and each probing caress sends fiery jolts into your core. You can feel more vocalizations ready to leap out of your mouth, but reflexively hold them back. You are aware that Mistress wants to hear these noises, but cannot make yourself release them. One of Mistress’ prodding fingers abruptly slips inside of you.
The joints of your toes curl inward, and you feel a brief vertigo. You are aware, faintly, that you have cried out again. Though you struggle to focus your eye lenses, you can see that Mistress is pleased. The sensations are baffling to you. She already had one hand inside of you, and that was not unusual, but this is altogether different. More intense. Why should this opening between your legs feel so…
“Your pussy is so welcoming, my dear,” Mistress croons, “You’re doing very well.”
Th-thank you M-Mistress. Your vocal motor is hitching.
Pussy? Yes, that is what it’s called. You knew that, and yet you did not know it. A piece of you that you were aware of, but never heeded until now. And this is what it is for, this… calibration.
Mistress’ finger slips deeper, and curls upward, eliciting more involuntary noises from you. The hand within your abdomen moves again, and both take up a steady rhythm. In… out. In… out. You begin to tremble.
“There’s a good doll,” Mistress’ voice cuts through your addled senses, fills you with yet more heat, “We’re nearly done. You just need to release.” Release? What, how? “Come for me, my dear.”
And you do, shuddering hard and gasping. And you know then what Mistress meant. A final gush of fluid spurts onto Mistress’ hand. Slowly, she withdraws her finger. Her other hand makes one last twist, and you feel solidity return to your joints. You blink your eyes, feel them refocus.
“There you are, my dear, right as rain.” Mistress carefully closes the doors of your maintenance hatch, fishes the key from her pocket, and locks it tight. She stands then, pushing her little footstool aside, and looks to the door. The seamstress doll is there, waiting patiently. “Yes, perfect,” she says while wiping your fluids from her hand with a handkerchief, “Come in, come in.”
The seamstress doll enters, and in its hands you see another dress, just like your own, but all in black. It halts at Mistress’ side, and eyes you knowingly.
Mistress turns back to you, and holds out both hands. Slowly, you take them in your own, and she pulls you upright. She leans quickly forward and plants her lips on yours. Once again you feel the flutter, but it no longer worries you. It is proper that you should feel it, for it is part of you; it is how Mistress has made you.
“You’ve taken a great stride today,” Mistress takes the dress from the other doll and holds it up to you, framing it against your shoulders, “And you’ve pleased me very much.”
This one is glad to serve, Mistress.
You hesitate.
What stride has this one taken, Mistress?
She smiles at you, “Don’t worry over it, my dear. You will know when you must. Or perhaps you won’t. That may be best for you, we shall just have to see.”
Yes Mistress.
“Now, let’s get you into your new dress.”
Yes Mistress.
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It's still a good story! It looks really good with the italics properly in place, too!
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