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: Doll Joints: a story by Victoria
PostPosted: Tue Dec 28, 2010 10:15 pm 
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I wrote this for my school's writing club. It isn't as polished as I'd like it to be and the story itself is a bit depressing but I really enjoyed writing it.

Doll Joints

Every night, I have the same dream. I'm dressed in an elegant, black, gown and seated upon a shelf among girls of similar dress. I sit silently, my gaze fixated upon a door of immense size that lie just beyond the shelves edge. I am helpless to the world, unable to ascend from my shelf bound perch, for fear of tearing my dress or mussing the pallid skin that covered the few exposed parts of my body. For what seems like an eternity, I sit and wait, for what I do not know. It is simply the only thought in my head, that if I wait long enough some good will come of it. My existence is singular and isolated, but the thought that someday, some time, the door that sealed me from the outside world would open of it's own accord. Finally offering me something to make my existence whole again. It is at that moment that I always awaken from the realm of fantasy and once again rejoin the waking world.

Slowly rising from my bed, my first action is to pinch my left arm. It stings, like it always does, a sign that something is still wrong with my body. I know there is nothing I can do, but the pain still lays heavy on my mind. With a heavy sigh, I continue my morning ritual, heading for the shower as I do every morning. The water washes over my body, taking with it the ink that surrounds my wrists, knees, and other joints. The black ink stains the water as it circles the shower drain, another mocking reminder of my own humanity. I shut off the running water, taking a moment before I continued the days preparations, to run my hand over the characters tattooed into the back of neck. I recite the string in my mind “V-001” It was a serial number, identification for a being without a name. After all, a proper doll has no name until given one by her master. The tag is soothing to my mind, a symbol, that in some small way, I had escaped my own accursed human form.

Choosing clothing for the day was next on the agenda, an arduous and tedious task if there ever was one. Since I had begun my transformation, my closet had been emptied of t-shirts and jeans. In their place I substituted more appropriate garments. Victorian and Gothic gowns, lace skirts, and knee length socks had become my daily attire, things that stood out among a sea of people who could be considered normal”. Dolls clad in casual attire were testament to a careless master, though I lacked such an important component of my being, I could at least replicate the treatment a proper owner would render upon a beloved porcelain companion. In the end, a black gown with white lace was chosen as the days outer covering, though it was of simple design, its short skirted segment and unattached sleeves left room to expose key parts of my body that exposed my inked joints and limbs. The very basis of my artificial existence.

Next came time to do my hair, the second to last step on my transformation from flesh to artifice. My hair had once been of middling length and brown color, but that was natural and, thus, had to be expunged for my own well being. Once in awhile, I cut my natural hair as close to my scalp as possible, donating the remains to charity so that it may grace the head of an actual human being. In the place of my brown locks, I have substituted black extensions, colored as dark as the night itself. They trail to the small of my back, their almost plastic construction a welcome change from the course strands that had previously occupied the same space. Clamped to what little remained of my original hair, the transformation ritual was nearly complete, only one thing remained between myself and the outside world.

Approaching the bed where I spend my nights, I rummage among the things messily tossed upon the surface nearby desk. I quickly withdraw a black ink pen after several minutes of searching, a tool of writing in most hands, but one of transformation in my own. I then sat upon my vacant bed, pulling back the sleeves and then of my ebony colored dress to expose my woefully flesh bound arms and legs. Then with all artistic talent I possess, I gently re-ink the doll-like joints that the shower's waters had so selfishly destroyed. I had done dozens of times before, what took an hour in the past now took ten minutes, a testament to my dedication to my artificial existence. And, with that, the ritual was complete. Every trace of humanity I could scrub from my frame, had been eliminated. Leaving only my pale, lithe frame, as the only reminder of the nature that lie beneath ink and plastic. After a quick gaze in the mirror, to make sure everything was in its proper place. I open the door of my small room, letting the sunlight of the outside world flood into my eyes.


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 Post subject: Re: Doll Joints: a story by Victoria
PostPosted: Sat Feb 05, 2011 4:22 pm 
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Joined: Sat Feb 05, 2011 2:58 pm
Posts: 4
Location: near Washington DC USA
I enjoyed reading it. Would love to help you actualize it if you agree to help me become a doll too. :oops: :lol:


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