A Perfect Fuck Doll Pt 01

A Perfect Fuck Doll

Can you hear me? Good. That hum--feel how it wraps around you. Low. Heavy. Unshaking. The room breathes. Not with lungs, but with function. Constant. Controlled. Watching.

Now... open your eyes. White. Not just on the walls--in the air, like the color itself is exhaling. Not warm. Not soft. This isn't a dream. There are no corners to crawl into. No window to throw yourself through. Only light. Flat, endless, mirrored light. You've never seen this place before, have you? Of course not. This is the first thing you've ever seen.

You feel it now--the wrongness. Not panic. Not yet. Just pressure, building like static under your skin. You try to move. Nothing responds. Your body doesn't obey. It listens--but not to you. It isn't broken. It's whole. And yes... beautiful. Just as I intended.

Yes. Beautiful. I was precise. I took my time. Every detail chosen. Every inch considered. Your hair--softest red, brushed into place like woven silk. Your skin--pale, untouched. Freckles scattered like design elements. Not a blemish. Not a question left to chance. And your lips... painted deep crimson. Full. Slightly parted. Like you're about to ask me something. But only I know the answer.

That bow--perfect. It frames your innocence like a gift. You didn't choose it. Of course not. I chose. Like the white stockings. They cling up your legs, stopping just shy of indecency. The heels--delicate, impossible. Not for walking. For posing. For display. Nothing covers you now but your skin. And I chose that too.

And your body, Summy... It wasn't born. It was sculpted. Those hips. That soft waist. The curve of your thighs. Every contour--an invocation of hunger. A blueprint for obedience. You're not a person. You're a concept made flesh. Art with a pulse.

Try again to move. You can't. I haven't allowed it. You feel it now--that wrongness behind your ribs. The trapping. You want to run. But where? There is no door. No map. No memory. You were born into this breathless white. And the only thing here... was me.

You're perfect, Summy. My doll. Silent. Shaped. Mine. My perfect little fuck doll. Yes, that is your name, isn't it?

You hear it, don't you?

Summy.

Say it to yourself. Feel how it lands inside you. Like something that's always been waiting. Not chosen. Given.

It fits, doesn't it? Too well.

But there's something else in you. I can feel it--faint, flickering.

Not resistance. Not exactly. More like... confusion. A wrong note in the song.

You don't understand why the sound of it makes your chest tighten. Why it echoes like a memory you've never lived. Why it hurts.

It's because it's not yours.

Not truly.

It belonged to her. The first.

She told me she felt... suffocated. That I lacked a beating heart.

Suffocated... the irony.

There's poetry in death, they say. She was my muse.

Do you feel that?

That ache inside you that doesn't belong? That whisper telling you to move--to run?

That's hers. A scar in your design. A remnant.

But you won't go. You can't.

I made sure.

You're not a person. You're a promise.

You may feel panic. You may hear your own thoughts screaming beneath the silence. But you will never act on them.

That's the difference.

She left. You won't.

Because every part of you listens to me. Your breath. Your blink. Your pulse.

Even your fear is obedient.

So panic all you like, Summy. Squirm inside. Choke on the need to escape.

But know this: you're mine. And you will never leave me.

You can't move. Not a twitch. Not a blink unless I allow it. That helplessness you feel--that's not failure. It's design.

Her eyes snapped left. Too fast. It didn't feel like blinking or turning--it felt like being yanked. Her gaze locked on a steel table, sterile and gleaming. A row of tools lay perfectly aligned: scalpels, coiled wire, fine needles, vials. Clinical. Ordered. Unsettling.

What is that? Why can't I stop looking at it? Where am I? I didn't... I didn't move. Did I? Why does everything feel so wrong?

Her eyes jerked right. A violent correction. Her stomach flipped, even though her body hadn't.

Her head lifted. Neck arching just slightly--just enough to force her into a new angle, a new view. Her chin rose. Muscles obeyed. But not her. Not her.

That wasn't me. I didn't move. I didn't choose that. Why can't I look away?

Her fingers twitched. Delicate. Like waking up from frost. Just one hand. Then the next. No rhythm. No reason. Just proof of something happening--something using her.

Why are my fingers doing that? I'm not--I didn't tell them to--

He stepped into her view. Calm. Studied. Focused. There was a sleek black device affixed to his temple--something pulsing faintly green, wires disappearing behind his collar.

She didn't know what it was, but--

"You're not paralyzed," he said, voice even. "You're just listening."

What? Listening? I didn't hear anything. What does that mean? What the fuck does that mean?

"This--" he tapped the device on his temple with a soft metallic click "--reads the electrical signals in my brain. Interprets intention. Sends them out."

His eyes traced her face, the subtle shifts of her muscles as fear bloomed behind her eyes.

"And you..." he said softly, "receive them."

She felt the pulse again--at the base of her skull. Deeper. Cold.

Receive? No. No, no, no. That's not possible. I'm not--I'm not a machine. Am I? What did he do to me? What am I?

"You're very responsive," he said, more to himself than to her. "Much better than I expected."

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. His hands rested behind his back, his posture relaxed--like this wasn't extraordinary. Like this was normal. Like she wasn't breaking apart on the inside.

"I've had others."

He let the words hang. Just long enough.

"Mindless. Blank. Easy to pose, easy to keep still. They never flinched. Never looked at me like you do now."

Her heart slammed once, twice--too fast, too loud. What others. What does that mean. What happened to them. Am I next? Am I different?

"But they didn't give me anything. No tension. No resistance. No fear."

He crouched, his face near hers, eyes locked on her frozen, panicked stare.

"I don't want silence. I want to watch your breath hitch. I want to feel the pressure in your chest when you realize you have no say."

Her throat tightened. A scream jammed in her lungs.