Princess Of Dolls

The Princess of Dolls had an itch. Just under the right breast, against the rib cage, the little crevice that always sweats first when the upper body is tightly wrapped in close fitting, tailored garments. Not that, right now, she could do anything about it. She could roll her shoulders a little, feel the layers of fabric slide up and down slightly against her perspiring skin, but given the tightness of the binding holding her arms securely behind her back then scratching the itch herself seemed a little out of the question.

Behind her mask the question hovered on her lips, as she licked a slim tongue between the labia oris it turned over in her mind. A little help? But she couldn't. Not here, not now.

Here being the Chamber of Representatives at the Parliament of the Stellar Union, a modest three-thousand seat auditorium on the outskirts of Jupiter. Now being legally, literally, ceremonially, her own investiture.

It was both a complex series of events and a matter of complete chance that had led the Princess of Dolls to be standing in the chamber, balancing en pointe in ballet heel boots, dressed in patterns and layers of beautiful silks, clinging latex, restricting canvas and soft cotton, a faceless mask snug over her face with her long, golden hair free to cascade down around her shoulders and rest against her bound arms. There had been gasps when she had been led in to position at the dais, ready to give her oath. There were, by now, many bizarre and flamboyant personages among those who gathered here in the names of their societal groups, representatives of nations, territories, ideologies, spatial volumes, interests, orbital fragments and philosophies from across the solar system. But none had ever come dressed like this.

That she was here at all was the result of extensive campaigning and legal argument, of fact checking and re-checking, of hypothetical and rhetorical suppositions. And, eventually, when it came to a vote, a landslide of acceptance. After all, the arguments had been proven. The Dolls were, in all ways that could be assessed (despite the endless diversity of their appearance, temperament, behaviour, vocation, habitat) a group that conformed to an ideology, pursued a common interest, accepted a single philosophy. And it was singular; they were Dolls.

So now they would be recognised. Protected. Their right to conduct their lives in the manner of their choosing enshrined under the constitution of the Union. Even if their choice was to not choose. Or rather to choose to give themselves to Ownership, to rescind their independence and be Dolls.

The sticking point, such as it was, was that to fully comply with the accreditation as a recognised group of the Stellar Union, the Dolls needed a fairly chosen Representative. A presence in the Parliament Chamber that their philosophy could be channeled through. How it would be channeled was simple. The Princess of Dolls would abstain on every motion, bill, action or petition placed before her.

But how would a group, which had given up the ability to choose, itself make the choice of who to send? An election was out, despite an attempt to construct a system where everyone was a candidate and no one would campaign and votes would be made blindly. It just didn't feel right. A direct appointment, as well as being against the rules, required someone to choose the appointee. A coronation, again, was not in the realms of a fair contest. And so it came down to, in the end, the most scrupulously fair system of all. A lottery.

The Princess of Dolls, winner of the first such lottery, wobbled a little on the tips of her strictly booted feet for the introductory address had been going on a while longer than was comfortable. During the bid for their newly-won status there had been a debate among the Dolls over the suitability of their Representative's initially casually assigned title, but there had never been a consensus. Never could be, really. And what would have worked? President of Dolls? Too much implication of executive power. Head Doll? Too much implication of leadership. Doll Prime? This wasn't a hierarchy. So in that way of slightly skewed logic that retrospectively justifies an original attempt, Princess of Dolls stuck. Just enough of a title to impress the status as a figurehead, not high enough of a rank to infer control.

Now, as the speech presenting her to the chamber was finally drawing to a close, the Princess of Dolls would soon be required to utter the oath, committing herself to representing her faction to the Parliament, to the Union, in transparency, in honesty and to the very best of her abilities. She was as nervous as hell, tongue flicking urgently over her lips again, trying to restore moisture. Why had it had to be her? Although deep down she knew she was acting on behalf of, and in benefit to, all of those throughout the system who had given themselves to be Dolls, or who aspired to, the very idea of making a commitment outside of her Ownership was tearing at her soul.

She couldn't do it.

She squirmed in her bonds, in her boots, trying to turn away from the dais, when the familiar calming voice sounded in her earpiece. Her Owner spoke. Her Owner instructed, laid it out simply. You are not making an oath to them, the voice said, you are promising them nothing. But you are promising me, as I request it of you, that you will become the Princess of Dolls and you will protect your brothers and sisters for as long as you are required to.

And at that a sublime happiness melted through her, and the words came easily to her lips, flowed from her tongue, she spoke confidently through the faceless mask. Itches and balance and muscle tiredness forgotten. Irrelevant.

Better that they can't see the tears streaming down my cheeks, thought the Princess of Dolls, because they might for a minute think that I'm crying for myself.