A young woman at the end of her rope is offered a way to begin a totally new life... as a sex doll.
I don't usually write Doll Stories and this is slightly different than most of that genre. It is very mild sexually, and is more of a sci-fi story with sexual overtones and a standard Technician twist at the end.
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WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.
If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.
Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2019 by The Technician.
Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.
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A few years ago I was watching a news show on television when they did a segment with the title,
"Does your name shape your destiny?"
"Damned straight!" I yelled at the television even before the announcer began his bit. The answer, by the way, was "Yes," but I already knew that because my name is... Barbie.
My full name is Barbara Millicent Roberts, but growing up, my parents, Margaret and George Roberts insisted that everyone call me Barbie. Mom called me "Barbie Doll," until I was a teenager and began screaming every time she said it. Then she backed off just a little and started calling me, "My little Barbie." She still calls me that.
For those of you who don't know the complete story behind the Barbie Doll, her full name is Barbara Millicent Roberts and her parents are George and Margaret Roberts. All that information- and a lot more- first appeared in a series of novels way back in the 1960s. My mom isn't from the 1960s, but she evidently had a real thing for her Barbie dolls growing up and collected almost every Ken & Barbie set Mattel ever made. She also had a complete set of all of the Barbie books. I know because she still has them in "the other bedroom."
That is weird enough, but it gets even weirder. I think something snapped inside her head when she grew up and fell in love with a man by the name of George Roberts. Or more likely something snapped inside her a lot sooner than that because she was so fixated on Barbie dolls and her name was Margaret. I think that as she grew up, she started looking for a George Roberts she could marry so she could be Margaret Roberts and give birth to her own little living, breathing Barbie doll... me.
However it came about, George and Margaret got married and I got born. Mom is a pasty-skinned, pale, blue-eyed blond, sort of like a Barbie mom should be. Dad is even more so. And I'm even worse. If I were any paler, I would glow in the dark. It takes hours and hours- or should I say minutes and minutes- of very careful daily tanning to build up the golden glow which my mom says makes me look healthy.
My doctor didn't think it was so healthy. He was worried about skin cancer, so he gave me these horrible-tasting little yellow pills that turned my skin darker without the tanning beds. He laughed when he gave them to me and said, "This dosage would probably turn most people dark brown, but in your case the best we can hope for is a light golden tan."
I ended up Malibu Barbie brown and stay that way as long as I take the pills. They don't protect me from sunburn, however, so I have to slather up pretty good whenever I'm going to be out in the sun.
Mom also thought I needed my boobs done because I seemed to stop growing at a small B. She and dad paid for everything, and now I'm a large C. Mom wanted them even larger, but the doctor said anything more than this would give me back problems and make me look top heavy. I feel top heavy the way it is. My senior year in high school all the boys used to stare at me and make comments as I walked by. By then I was eighteen and could say "no" to more surgeries.
There was another doctor for my lips, but I managed to talk to her in private and beg her not to do the surgery. She still did the surgery, but my pleading prevented my mom from totally getting her way and having my lips plumped up way too far. The procedure is permanent, so I'm really glad I was able to talk to the doctor before the surgery. I still have more than I really want. Now I always look a little bit pouty... or maybe sexy, if you like trashy women.
Mom also insisted that I have permanent eyeliner tattooed below my eyes and on my eyelids. She didn't go to a doctor for that and begging would have done no good. The man who did it told me to quiet down or he would tattoo SLUT right across the middle of my forehead. I think he was bluffing, but I wasn't going to risk it. The liner below my eyes is sort of normal, but on my eyelids I have a black stripe right next to my eyelashes and a sky blue stripe above that. None of my friends had anything like it, but after a while it just became part of who I was, like everything else my mom insisted on.
With the boobs and the lips and the weird eyes and everything else, by the time I graduated from high school, everyone thought I was a slut. I wasn't. I was practically a virgin, but when you are Barbara Roberts and look like a Barbie Doll, everyone makes assumptions.
I applied to several colleges, but got rejected by all of them. I accused my mother of somehow contacting the schools and sabotaging my education, but evidently she was innocent of that... more or less. At least it wasn't direct sabotage like sending in nasty letters to the colleges. Evidently she didn't have to. I learned from one admissions person that when they read in my essay that I was named after the Barbie doll and then saw- and I quote her exactly- "the extremes you have gone to in making yourself look like that doll, we felt that you perhaps needed some time to get your life together before starting college."
In other words, they thought I was nuts. Maybe I was a little. At least I was sane enough to realize that because of my mom, everyone thought I was either a nut job or a sex freak. I finished high school and moved out of my parents' house.
I have good computer and word processing skills and tried for jobs in various offices, etc. but no one would hire me. The HR person at one large company said I would be "too distracting." The boss in a smaller company said he would like to hire me, but "My wife would kill me." I ended up getting a job as a hostess at a local combination restaurant and club. It sucked at both and was primarily more like a sleazy club for old people. They served food and presented "Exotic Entertainment"- at least that's what it said on the sign. The strippers were too tame to get them busted and the cops had no real interest in checking out what was happening in the back half of the club after hours. Some guys even brought their wives there to dine out.
The owner liked the idea of "Barbie" greeting his customers as they came in and he hired me. He occasionally reminded me that I could make a lot more money by "hosting" private parties in the back rooms. It was tempting, but that would have meant getting naked or worse, depending how much the customers were willing to pay.
All in all, my life sucked and was getting suckier by the day. I couldn't take it any more and decided to end it all. I'd heard that drowning isn't all that bad if you stun yourself first, so I picked out a bridge that was high enough to stun me, but not so high that I would have painful injuries before I drowned.
It was in a really run-down part of town with very little traffic. I pulled my car into a wide spot on one end of the bridge and quickly walked out to the middle. I was wearing a sun dress and nothing else because I had read of people being held afloat by their clothing and being saved from drowning. Underwear probably wouldn't hold much air, but I wasn't taking any chances. I figured the dress would blow off on the way down. Then I would land on my back, knock myself out, and just slip under the water and be gone.
I climbed up on the railing and was trying to get up the courage to make the final jump when a soft voice behind and almost beneath me said, "There's another way."
That nearly scared the crap out of me... literally. I didn't hear anyone else walking on the bridge and the open grid, steel walkway was very noisy when I walked out to the middle of the bridge. I looked around and then down. On the walkway just beneath me was a round-faced older man in a long brown overcoat. Since it was warm out, I at first figured he was either a street preacher who wanted to save me or a homeless pervert who wanted to look up my dress. Then I saw that his eyes were definitely on my face as he looked up at me.
He held out a business card and said softly, "I've had my eye on you for quite a while. I heard about you through some friends and thought you might need my services."
"What services are those?" I said brusquely.
"I make dolls," he said with a smile. His smile grew broader and he touched his fingertips together. "Or more accurately," he continued, "I convert very unhappy human beings into the very contented dolls they have always wanted to be."
I laughed a little and said, "You're crazier than I am and I'm the one standing on a bridge railing."
"I'm not crazy," he said softly, "I'm just from... out of town." He smiled in an odd sort of way and added, "... a long way out of town."
"You don't look like an alien," I said frowning.
"How many aliens have you met?" he replied, "... from my planet?"
"Just you, I guess," I said.
"Let's talk," he said and then he held up his hand and helped me step down off the railing. "Do you want to leave your car here so everyone thinks you actually jumped?" he asked softly.
"No," I replied. "And if I let you do this, I would like everyone- especially my parents- to somehow know what has happened to me."
"I will give you time to write everything up in your own words," he said. "And during the process, I will have the auto-log system record your thoughts." He gave me that strange smile again and said, "After you are converted, I will edit the auto log and then finish the story. Then I will make sure that your parents are able to read it."
