dollification. doll fetish. dolls. dolly. dollie. dollific.

dollification: the process of evolving, mentally and physically, into a "living doll."
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 Post subject: Wind Up My Heart: On Being The Doll
PostPosted: Wed Oct 08, 2008 6:19 pm 
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Joined: Tue Jun 17, 2008 10:25 pm
Posts: 111
Location: The City Of Fools
I sit watching you, my love, tall and slim with long golden hair I can't seem to look away from as it gleams in the bedroom light. You are beautiful, and I can feel your presence as you move even though I sit here at the vanity, not moving as you asked. I will be a good girl for you tonight, my sweet sinful angel of a man. I resist the urge to turn my head, resist the urge to stare at you in that pale blue silk corset with the black lace trim, in those sheer black back seam stockings, and the panties your cock barely fits into. You're so graceful in heels, but I'm just a doll and staring isn't allowed.

I gaze at my reflection, it won't be mine for long. You're going to replace it, rework me to suit your fancy. Finally you return, you have my makeup box in hand, and you set it down on the table. My hair falls glossy, and dark brown to jwell below my waist, but that is going to change tonight. You've told me so but not how. You've told me I'm going to change, but not what I'm going to change into, and the anticipation thrills through me.

You, my glam rock messiah, are going to remake me. You brush out my hair, slow and gentle, giving me the same tenderness you always do. You take your time before you apply what I know by scent to be bleach, strong bleach too to my mane. I hold still and don't question you, as I watch you apply the paste to my hair, and my hair in saran wrap before setting up the bonnet dryer we had to hunt for ages to find, and leaving me to sit. You come back now and then to check the color, it's nearly an hour before you like the results.

You rinse my hair, and add color, and I trust you. When we get back to the vanity I can only gape, my hair is black, streaked with deep blood red, bringing out the green sparkle in my eyes, and contrasting with the whiteness of my skin. I want to ask you what you were thinking, but you have scissors and a comb out now, and I can only watch in half terrified fascination as I let you recreate me. You section my hair, and I almost bite my lip as I see the first tresses fall, swaths of hair fall, lopped to barely below mid back. You keep cutting, more long hair the color of midnight, the color of blood, the color of valentine's roses falls to the floor.

You cut in layers, leaving chin length bangs to frame my face, before you pull the back half up, grabbing a curling iron for the rest, creating long ringlets of the sort a victorian lady would have worn.

You smile, and start to pluck my brows, thinning them refining them until they are delicate doll like little arches. You paint my face, smoothing foundation over my skin concealer and powder till I really do look like I'm made of porcelain, you paint my thin little brows black, and paint a little red heart on my right cheek. My eyemakeup is smokey and you give me dramatic cat eye liner, and apply thick dark false lashes that make me look even less human. My lips are a bright red cupid's bow, and there's a dusting of pink blush on my pale cheeks.

You varnish my nails, crimson. Scarlet seems to be the theme of the outfit, scarlet for the blood that keeps my clockwork heart beating.

You dress me up, scarlet lingerie trimmed in black. My red velvet corset drips with black lace and you lace me in tight, nipping my waist to barely 18 inches. You help me into black satin panites, and your knowing fingers hook fishnet stockings to the corset's garters. You button me into high button boots, and fasten a black velvet choker around my neck. Then there are layers of petticoats, and a dress, low cut, with a tight bodice and three quarter length sleeves ending in black velvet ruffles, blood red with a pattern of golden bees, with a black velvet underskirt, very 18th century, very decadent. You add a little tear dropped shaped hat with a bow and a lot of netting, but very little actual hat to speak of.

There are rings and earrings added, and then you half lift me, and bid me to walk to the mirror. I do as I am told, walking with the halting mechanical gate of a doll brought to life. I feel as if I were made of china. I stand before the mirror and look at myself. I am not the girl you started with, she was pretty in a nice girl next door sort of way, I am exotic, unreal, surreal... and something not quite human. You stand beside me, still a good five inches taller than I, and you pull me close, your body against mine winding the springs of my clock work heart, bringing me to life.

I Am The Mad Doll Maker
I Am The Doll
I Am The Devil
But Aren't We All?

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