The Doll House Collection
Cassandra
by Sara c
I remember.
Sometimes it’s so clear, the recollection so sharp that I can almost taste it. A sweet heat on the back of my tongue. Chromed citrus that strips and cleanses my palate.
And then, sometimes, everything fades into a hazy blur. Echoes and whispers form their own heady melange. But leave me nothing onto which I can hold.
It’s fractured. The splintered fragments of my half-lived life. Islands of crystal clarity, brilliant lacuna cast in a sea of turbid uncertainty.
I’d never danced before she found me. Never really danced.
Whirling and twirling behind gossamer ribbons, I lost the fear that my strings might become tangled.
She taught me... everything. How to smile, how to laugh... how to lie.
I learned how to change... and when all was said and done... how to live.
As her puppet.
Cassandra sits alone. Even the other dolls shun her. As if they, somehow divine her purpose.
Her long blonde curls bounce gently, like tiny golden springs and seem to accentuate her cherubic features. Face frozen in a perpetual moe of surprise, her vacant eyes gaze out at her surroundings.
A soft pulse of desire licks restlessly against her awareness. Long tender laps that grow ever more maddening in their delicate intensity.
She wants to dance... longs to dance... but it is not yet time.
Before I was found, before she found me, my history was fogged in grey.
There are moments.
Hanging in my cradle, wires and cables draped over perfect porcelain skin.
And, when I was needed, they would lift me up and let the cables guide me forth to do their work.
The maniacal mannequin.
A stalker.
A thief.
A monster.
Stealing what they demanded. Nubile flesh. Helpless and restrained. Taken, only to be broken and sold. Becoming no more than another living doll. Twisting my reflections, while I looked on.
Watching, learning, but never truly seeing.
Never knowing what I really wanted. In my heart.
Until I myself was claimed.
In the before time there was complexity. Painful and unnecessary. Simple really is better. It gives me focus. Lets me concentrate on what’s important.
At first they took away my boredom. The drudgery. The dull tedium of thought or purpose. And, slowly, I gave up more and more. Draining all the ‘useless’ from my body and mind. Tubes pulsing softly, while hot needles throbbed.
By the time she came, all I was... all I had become... was that absence.
She twitches gently, the first stirrings of her waxen muscles in what seems like an eternity. Cassandra can feel the borrowed power slowly trickling into her limbs and delights at that first rush of tightly controlled pleasure.
Body trembling, she rises from her seat. Every movement starts with stiff precision, but they grow more fluid with every passing moment.
The memory of those trailing strings is still vivid. She almost stumbles, as imagination seeks to tangle her first uncertain steps.
Cassandra leaps, pirouettes and, just like that, is swept away. Dancing to a rhythm only she can hear.
I had a name. Another name.
Before spiced wine and something bitter left it shattered.
I still have my fragments. Tiny shards of burnt fruit and frosted venom.
Dark tunnels and darker intent. Leads to a sky filled with needles, their sting almost too delicious to bear. Piercing and cleansing, they filled my flesh with hot wax and muted desire.
Fighting not to choke on the slender tubing even as my sex convulsed on the tip of its impaling twin.
Remade, refashioned, reborn.
Their faceless freak, a perverse puppet leaking thought and feeling with every twinge of hollow arousal.
Stalking the shadows, where I could pluck the ripest fruit.
Spilling their sweet juices, I could take no pleasure in the shock of it. The feel of their scalding presence dribbling from my lips, oozing in long, wet trails that led inexorably down into a greater darkness.
I had everything I could possibly desire.
Except joy.
Cassandra finds the familiar, liquid grace and excitement fills her.
She needs to be perfect, nothing less will do and yet, a part of her knows that she is striving for the impossible. Destined to be disappointed.
Will pours into her mind, adding its strength to the scaffold she provides for it.
Bliss flares behind her eyes, illuminating the blankness into fiery intensity and she accepts it as easily and completely as the motivation now driving her.
Not as clumsy or obstructing as her old strings, she can still feel the gentle insistence and her own response to that urging.
They knew she would come.
That she would be drawn to me, to what I had become.
The Dollmistress.
Equal parts of legend and nightmare. I should not be, but still, here I am. My very existence a provocation far too spiteful to ignore.
She came.
And they sent me to her. Naked and alone.
She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Her radiance dazzled me. Her presence the most exquisite agony.
I don’t know what they expected. How they thought it would play out...
But, in the end, she just smiled. Then reached up and, with one smooth stroke of her hand, severed each controlling cable in turn.
My legs buckled and I would have fallen. But she buoyed me up, granting me the strength I needed to support my own weight.
She took my hand and led me back. Guiding us through the stretched corridors and fetid workshops. Forcing a confrontation between the thing I used to be and had now become.
Dead-eyed dolls hung in various stages of completion, trailing from long, flexible chains and dripping their serous fluids onto the bare concrete floor. Skin melded with plastic, forming beautiful curves, each breathtaking in their artificial perfection.
One hand snaked around my waist, until her palm rested possessively upon my hipbone. She guided, leading me so deftly that the pressure was almost imperceptible and yet no less impossible to deny. The pair of us swept through the squat buildings in a slow-motion dervish waltz that left polycarbonate and ceramic scattered in our wake.
The change roared through the centre of that place, an implacable force that left nothing untouched except my Mistress and her newest acquisition.
Mouths opened in silent screams, drowning beneath the flood of lust and molten plastic. Limbs shivered and spasmed, stiffening into errant gestures as each of my captors froze into rigidly ecstatic attention.
We spun and cavorted, leaping merrily from moment to moment. Hand in hand she led me on, repainting my world in brilliant primary colours. Pigment shone in the flickering light, trapping their fleeing bodies in clinging layers of tortuous plastics.
And, once she had finished, leaving nothing but painted china smiles, Mistress started a new dance.
Pressed together, we moved as one. Encouraging me with the slow roll of her hips, she continued to guide, leaving me in no doubt as to what she wanted and with no choice but to offer it up to her. Surprisingly small hands took ownership of my pale shell, rolling breathlessly over every curve and lingering obscenely wherever she chose.
She knotted those clever fingers in my trailing threads, pulling the puppet strings against my aching flesh. I writhed, feeling each stuttering jerks as the strands wore away at me. Each gnawing connection grinding away another piece that didn’t fit in her vision.
Nails grazed my nakedness, pooling arousal between my sculptured lips and forcing another burst of frenzied excitement upon my reluctant flesh.
Gasping and clutching, I forced my body into hers, desperately moulding myself against her far softer heat.
Pleasure crept up through my tightening sex, wrapping softly around my spine before pulling delightfully taut.
Heat boiled from glistening skin, bathing me in the rawness of her ardour. Painfully tight nipples crushed against me, as if they could somehow score and indent the rigid plastic sheath. The taste of her was in the back of my throat. Musk bathing my mind with lurid promise.
Control slithered across my flesh, weaving into an impossibly tight and inescapable harness. She slipped her fingers through the flailing cords and tugged very gently against the pattern they had shaped.
I melted.
‘Self’ oozing over Mistress’ beauty and painting her body with subservient gilt.
Cassandra skips across the room, coiling long silk ribbons around her unblemished alabaster skin.
The thrill of delight sings wetly between her eager lips, yet more of Mistress’ knots to abrade the sensitized flesh. Every movement adds its own note to the rising symphony. A song of eager acceptance, to serenade her obedience.
Mistress has unexpected guests.
Guests who deserve nothing less that the full measure of traditional hospitality. She smiles inwardly, wondering what the visitors had intended. But she dismisses the question almost as quickly, as an irrelevance.
It no longer matters why they came. All that matters is that they are here.
And now they will watch her dance.