This choice: Overloading the subject's unhealthy fetishes by making him a sex object • Go Back...Chapter #5Sex doll by: Yote   The blow-up doll pulled itself unsteadily to its feet. Its movements were laboured, as if the weight of its clothes could be enough to pull it to the floor at any moment, but it succeeded in climbing down from the transformation pad.
'It worked,' the doll gasped in a soft, quiet voice, staring down at itself with blank, unblinking eyes. 'It really worked!'
'Yes, Mr Kingsley, it worked,' the psychiatrist said, in resigned tones. 'It's amazing how many people are surprised to find their psychiatrist isn't raving insane. The technology to transmute the human body is perfectly real, and has been for some time. How are you feeling?'
'Fine' A little weak. Why is my voice so quiet?'
'You don't have lungs,' the psychiatrist stated bluntly. 'The sound of your voice is only formed by air escaping through your throat. We'll have to patch that up if we don't want you to deflate. When you're in use, that is. Come with me.'
Stepping away from the control console, the psychiatrist took the doll by the arm, led it out of the transformation room, into a side room. The patient did his best to follow but, without muscles or any significant weight, only found himself being pulled along like a balloon, with his bare, plastic feet bouncing off the floor.
The room into which he was lead was in direct contrast to the clean and clinical Transformation room. It more resembled a tool shed, with littered shelves and workbenches.
'This is where we finish up any incomplete transformations,' the psychiatrist explained, as he gently lowered Mr. Kingsley into a waiting, reclining chair. The patient discovered he had to swivel his entire head to take in the surroundings, as his eyes were now flat pieces of plastic incapable of independent movement. They took in the sharpened, gleaming implements hung on nails in the wall, the hammers and pliers, the stacks of painting supplies and - positioned on the worktable beside the chair ' a puncture repair kit, a glue gun, and a pair of scissors.
'We shouldn't need those to get you out of those clothes,' the psychiatrist assured. 'We wouldn't want to pop you, of course.' He laughed, but the patient only felt a nervous feeling where its stomach had been ten minutes ago, which only got worse as the psychiatrist unbuttoned the patient's shirt and peeled it back, revealing plastic, pyramid-shaped breasts to the air-conditioned room.
'I'm hardly high-end, am I?' Mr. Kingsley laughed weakly, shivering a little as he strained his weak body to look down at himself. The seams of his breasts were clearly visible.
'You're not perfect, that's for sure,' the psychiatrist replied, as he folded the shirt and placed it in a box marked 'Property of Patient 519. 'We can hardly have you on display in a shop without a few seams to show for your manufacture. It's important to attend to the details, I find. Now, please, stop talking. You'll only deflate yourself further.'
Removing the trousers and boxers from the half-deflated sex doll was no hard task. They were folded away with the shirt, leaving the doll with nothing else to wear but the immovable expression on its face. Sitting there in his pink, plastic birthday suit, patient 519 couldn't help but feel massively exposed, and not in a good way. Which, admittedly, probably meant the treatment was working.
'No puncture that I can feel,' the psychiatrist murmured, running his fingertips over the smooth, shiny skin of the abdomen and down each arm. 'Except the obvious one of course,' he added, reaching for the glue gun. 'And we'll have that sealed in a jiffy.' He gave the trigger a squeeze, sending a trickle of molten glue pouring from the end. 'Open wide,' he joked, aware that the patient's mouth was permanently stuck in an open O shape.
The eyes expressed nothing but the whispered voice was worried as it said, 'What are you going to do with thaacckkagachg.'
The glue gun had been pushed as far through Mr. Kingsley's lips as it would go and was currently depositing a stream of hot glue down what now passed for his throat. He gagged on the burning liquid but that seemed to do nothing but push it deeper.
'Ackaggach!'
'I do apologise,' the psychiatrist said, his finger still firm on the trigger of the glue gun. 'But we can't have you deflating yourself or talking to people during the course of the treatment.' He gave a dark chuckle. 'Beside, a sex doll has to get used to such sensations.' He eased up on the trigger a little. 'Try to talk.'
Kingsley tried. He tried to object to being labeled a sex toy, and to the rather off-colour joke, and he tried to remind the psychiatrist that he never signed up to be actually used. But the only thing that came from his mouth was the smell of hot glue and plastic. It had congealed fast, sealing him up tight. Even still, the psychiatrist continued for a minute more before sliding the glue gun out from between the doll's lips and laying it aside. He examined its mouth for any leakage of glue or air, while it choked for the latter, though it no longer needed it.
'Perfect,' he beamed. 'Indistinguishable from the real thing. I promise you, after a week or two ' or three ' of being on display in a sex shop, you should be completely cured of your antisocial exhibitionist streak.'
At that moment, Mr. Kingsley was rather too caught up in the burning/melting/fusing/choking sensation to feel celebratory, but he tried to give as best a thumbs-up as his crude hands would allow. This didn't please the psychiatrist as much as he'd hoped, who frowned.
'Still movement though,' he muttered. 'Never mind. Turn over.'
Without pause, the psychiatrist's hands flipped the patient face-down on the chair. There was the odd sensation of nimble fingers teasing open the air valve in the small of his back, then of something being inserted, and then the sound of an electrical air pump. Kingsley's half-deflated breasts, which had crumpled against the chair beneath him, returned to their comical pyramid-shapes as the air entered his torso. Even after they'd reached maximum pertness, the electric pump continued its work. He could feel the pressure building inside, pushing against his limbs from within, and stretching out his thin, plastic skin until every inch felt as if it could tear. The three channels into his body became tighter as the machine pumped him harder than any human lung could ever manage. The plug in his throat held though, despite his constant desire to yell.
When the pump was finally turned off and removed from the valve, the shriek of air escaping his body was desperate and all-too-brief. Mercilessly, the valve was resealed. He tried to move his limbs. He couldn't. He couldn't move a single part of his body. The pressure of the air pushing out from inside was far stronger than how weak he had become.
He was rotated face-up. There was the psychiatrist's proudly smiling face. He tried again to move, to object, but his body merely quivered gently.
'Now you're perfect.'   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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