I Am a Doll

I am a doll.

I am sitting in a chair, the high rigid back pressing against my equally still spine, my lack of height is made even more obvious by the build of this piece of furniture. Not quite a throne, yet in it I am the reigning Princess. The chair may be plain but it is my presence that makes it regal, because I have the frozen poise of a breathtaking ornament. This is my castle, this empty room, because I am the only colour within these four white walls.

Pale flaxen locks cascade down my shoulders, their colour complimenting rather than contrasting against the lightness of my skin, though my cheeks are decorated with a rouge tint that hides a natural blush. Said blush is one small element of the powdery make-up that decorates my face which all results in a porcelain finish. Painted black lashes hang lazily over grey eyes which stare forward at the wall, the odd flicker my only true hint of life.

I cannot help but betray myself and blink several times as a sharp 'click' breaks the silence of my "castle", but immediately I force the stoic expression back onto my face despite the clear sensation of my heart pounding in my chest as though it is trying to knock upon my chest like a door, something this stranger clearly did not have the manners to attempt.

The door is behind me so I am unable to see the invader, so instead my ears are alert and I feel like a curious cat as they pick up each tap of the stranger's footsteps against the hard flooring. Each step seems to echo my heartbeat, but still the powdery finish of my painted face promises not to betray me, even though there is a sense of dread welling up inside my chest.

Before I can truly think, there he is. The man stands in front of me and looks down at my form, an almost amused look on his face. "So what is this?" he asks. "A doll?" My body threatens to shiver at the word. "It's life size! That's impressive."

He kneels down and begins to inspect me, tilting his head left and right as he looks at my features one by one, making the odd comment here and there about the excellence of my craftsmanship, clearly he has never seen a doll as impressive as me and this thought makes my heart swell.

Pride soon turns to nervousness as a finger suddenly darts towards my face, stopping just before my face. That slender digit swoops down to press gently against my delicate lip, his skin tone a sharp contrast against the blood red colour that has been used to make my mouth stand out against my pale flesh. He simply lets it rest there before stroking it along and away from my face, his hand once more resting against his side.

Soon his attention turns to my outfit as he starts to pick at the layers of lace and pearl ribbons that decorate my skirt, my entire body is adorned in a Victorian inspired ensemble that is very child-like in nature and completely snow white apart from the pearlescent gleam of some of the ribbons and beadwork.

A smirk spreads across his face as he looks at me in my fountain of frills, and I can tell in the corner of my eye that a different kind of curiosity is entering his mind now, and it doesn't take me long to understand what he is thinking.. What is this dress hiding?

Tentative at first but soon stable with a slight confidence, his palm and fingertips press against the side of my leg, both of which are dangling down neatly together from the seat that I am perched upon, and I can feel his warmth through the long white socks that add to my outfit. He strokes his hand down my leg at first, stopping to rest upon my ankle as he observes my tall, thick rocking horse shoes. Soon the adventure continues however, as he pushes his hand up along the outside of my leg until it leaves cloth and feels cold skin.

"...Do dolls wear underwear?" He asks himself with a small laugh, sounding as though he is having difficulty believing the fact that he is even asking this question out loud. The subtlety of his movements that are causing an excitement to well up within me end as he abruptly flips the multiple layers of my skirt upwards, bending them unceremoniously back over themselves to push against my stomach, answering his question.

Both of his hands are pressing against my thighs now as he leans his face in closer, slightly gripping as he stares at what is indeed underwear, a simple pair of ladies undergarments protecting my dignity. What does not protect my dignity, however, is the increasingly obvious arousal that is beginning to press against the material between my legs, but my saviour comes in the form of him suddenly rising to his feet.

The weight of my skirt brings itself back down upon my legs as he rises back, though it is not as as neat as before as the layers of lace point in odd directions. The stranger's face seems redder than before as he turns away from me, but he is soon facing me again as he paces slightly on the spot, a look in his eyes now that I do not recognise.

His hand begins to grip at his belt, as if he is unable to decide about what to do next, thoughts so clearly racing through his mind but I simply cannot tell which thought is shouting at him louder than the others. He tugs at the waist of his trousers in a nervous manner, his hands seem so restless and frustrated.

My heart thumps powerfully inside me and I worry that even the thick layers of frilly material pressed against my flat chest cannot muffle the sound it must be making, because now I see that he is unfastening his belt. I can hardly focus as the deafening sound of his zipper being undone reached my ears in this otherwise silent room, and it takes all of my power to not force my eyes shut.

He approaches me, a bulge badly disguised by underwear showing through the messy triangular space now created by his open trousers, and his height means that it is at eye level. He is close enough that I can detect a faint musky smell of masculinity, and a single hand lands upon his crotch, holding a growing firmness as he stares at me.

His face has grown dark, I think he has reached a point of no return now, he cannot resist the forbidden thoughts inside him that demand that he takes advantage of the situation. I am just a doll, yet I can tell that that fact does not make him feel any less sinful, which just fuels his excitement.

The waistband of his underwear is pulled down, his trousers lowered slightly, and there it is, the epitome of his masculinity, standing tall and thick, an intimidating plinth that rocks slightly as the fresh air hits it, a sexual deity within its own right, desperate to be worshipped. He cannot resist, his hand wraps around that eager cock and squeezes, almost as though he is trying to hold back his uncontrollable lust.

He stares at my completely still body, his breathing becoming heavier as he holds onto his manhood, and something strikes through his body that takes us both by surprise. Though remaining frozen in my statuesque posture, my chest seizes as his free hand lunges forward and he pulls at my clothing. The beautiful material is tougher than he realises, so the threads press hard against my shoulders as he tugs at my chest.

Something wild in him has taken over and the cloth gives in under his power, ripping diagonally and exposing a portion of my waxen skin, a single pink nipple standing out proudly against the lack of colour surrounding it. His throat makes a strange sound as air catches within it, and he roughly slides his hand through the frilly ravine that he has created.

His nails press hard into my flesh, practically digging, as his tall form now looms over me, and a quiet grunt escapes his lips. The pain is hideous yet insatiably delightful as it penetrates my exterior, feeling as though it it shooting lightning bolts directly into my soul. Grabbing onto me as though I might otherwise vanish, his other hand grips furiously at his arousal, thrusting up and down, forcing his soft foreskin to rub fiercely against the sensitive flesh that it protects.

Harsh, desperate noises erupt regularly from his throat as he shakes over me, the power of his desire making his body judder, the force of it making my own form move back and forth. His nails withdraw as a moan slips from between his lips, and the smell of his uncut cock filled my nostrils as it was pushed inelegantly against my cheek. He alternated between furiously pumping his bulging, brute shaft and abusing my fragile skin with it.

There are a few dull 'thwack' noises as it thumps against my cheek, and I brace myself as he places his free hand now upon my shoulder for support. He is masturbating viciously in my direction, a blur of his furious hand motions disguising the angry redness of the tip of his cock.

Before I am even able to think, a deep noise emerges from him and a series of small bursts of hot, white liquid flies over me. The slick, shiny juice lands upon my cheek and mouth, the warmth penetrating my lips and sliding down my chin, and I manage to hold back a shiver as I feel the wetness drip down my neck.

My entire mind and body is in a haze as I vaguely see him withdraw from my presence, breathing hard as he tucks away his calming length. Everything has become such a blur that I hardly notice him regaining his composure, neatening himself and leaving the room, I don't even hear the familiar 'click' of the door.

My pose remains the same, though now less of a Princess and more of a harlot, a damaged doll in a chair that is hardly a throne. My painted lips part slightly and a strong, salty taste lands upon the tip of my tongue.

I am a doll.