Living Doll

I don’t usually write Doll Stories and this is slightly different than most of that genre. It is very mild sexually, and is more of a sci-fi story with sexual overtones and a standard Technician twist at the end.

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A few years ago I was watching a news show on television when they did a segment with the title, “Does your name shape your destiny?”

“Damned straight!” I yelled at the television even before the announcer began his bit. The answer, by the way, was “Yes,” but I already knew that because my name is... Barbie.

My full name is Barbara Millicent Roberts, but growing up, my parents, Margaret and George Roberts insisted that everyone call me Barbie. Mom called me “Barbie Doll,” until I was a teenager and began screaming every time she said it. Then she backed off just a little and started calling me, “My little Barbie.” She still calls me that.

For those of you who don’t know the complete story behind the Barbie Doll, her full name is Barbara Millicent Roberts and her parents are George and Margaret Roberts. All that information– and a lot more– first appeared in a series of novels way back in the 1960s. My mom isn’t from the 1960s, but she evidently had a real thing for her Barbie dolls growing up and collected almost every Ken & Barbie set Mattel ever made. She also had a complete set of all of the Barbie books. I know because she still has them in “the other bedroom.”

That is weird enough, but it gets even weirder. I think something snapped inside her head when she grew up and fell in love with a man by the name of George Roberts. Or more likely something snapped inside her a lot sooner than that because she was so fixated on Barbie dolls and her name was Margaret. I think that as she grew up, she started looking for a George Roberts she could marry so she could be Margaret Roberts and give birth to her own little living, breathing Barbie doll... me.

However it came about, George and Margaret got married and I got born. Mom is a pasty-skinned, pale, blue-eyed blond, sort of like a Barbie mom should be. Dad is even more so. And I’m even worse. If I were any paler, I would glow in the dark. It takes hours and hours– or should I say minutes and minutes– of very careful daily tanning to build up the golden glow which my mom says makes me look healthy.

My doctor didn’t think it was so healthy. He was worried about skin cancer, so he gave me these horrible-tasting little yellow pills that turned my skin darker without the tanning beds. He laughed when he gave them to me and said, “This dosage would probably turn most people dark brown, but in your case the best we can hope for is a light golden tan.”

I ended up Malibu Barbie brown and stay that way as long as I take the pills. They don’t protect me from sunburn, however, so I have to slather up pretty good whenever I’m going to be out in the sun.

Mom also thought I needed my boobs done because I seemed to stop growing at a small B. She and dad paid for everything, and now I’m a large C. Mom wanted them even larger, but the doctor said anything more than this would give me back problems and make me look top heavy. I feel top heavy the way it is. My senior year in high school all the boys used to stare at me and make comments as I walked by. By then I was eighteen and could say “no” to more surgeries.

There was another doctor for my lips, but I managed to talk to her in private and beg her not to do the surgery. She still did the surgery, but my pleading prevented my mom from totally getting her way and having my lips plumped up way too far. The procedure is permanent, so I’m really glad I was able to talk to the doctor before the surgery. I still have more than I really want. Now I always look a little bit pouty... or maybe sexy, if you like trashy women.

Mom also insisted that I have permanent eyeliner tattooed below my eyes and on my eyelids. She didn’t go to a doctor for that and begging would have done no good. The man who did it told me to quiet down or he would tattoo SLUT right across the middle of my forehead. I think he was bluffing, but I wasn’t going to risk it. The liner below my eyes is sort of normal, but on my eyelids I have a black stripe right next to my eyelashes and a sky blue stripe above that. None of my friends had anything like it, but after a while it just became part of who I was, like everything else my mom insisted on.

With the boobs and the lips and the weird eyes and everything else, by the time I graduated from high school, everyone thought I was a slut. I wasn’t. I was practically a virgin, but when you are Barbara Roberts and look like a Barbie Doll, everyone makes assumptions.

I applied to several colleges, but got rejected by all of them. I accused my mother of somehow contacting the schools and sabotaging my education, but evidently she was innocent of that... more or less. At least it wasn’t direct sabotage like sending in nasty letters to the colleges. Evidently she didn’t have to. I learned from one admissions person that when they read in my essay that I was named after the Barbie doll and then saw– and I quote her exactly– “the extremes you have gone to in making yourself look like that doll, we felt that you perhaps needed some time to get your life together before starting college.”

In other words, they thought I was nuts. Maybe I was a little. At least I was sane enough to realize that because of my mom, everyone thought I was either a nut job or a sex freak. I finished high school and moved out of my parents’ house.

I have good computer and word processing skills and tried for jobs in various offices, etc. but no one would hire me. The HR person at one large company said I would be “too distracting.” The boss in a smaller company said he would like to hire me, but “My wife would kill me.” I ended up getting a job as a hostess at a local combination restaurant and club. It sucked at both and was primarily more like a sleazy club for old people. They served food and presented “Exotic Entertainment”– at least that’s what it said on the sign. The strippers were too tame to get them busted and the cops had no real interest in checking out what was happening in the back half of the club after hours. Some guys even brought their wives there to dine out.

The owner liked the idea of “Barbie” greeting his customers as they came in and he hired me. He occasionally reminded me that I could make a lot more money by “hosting” private parties in the back rooms. It was tempting, but that would have meant getting naked or worse, depending how much the customers were willing to pay.

All in all, my life sucked and was getting suckier by the day. I couldn’t take it any more and decided to end it all. I’d heard that drowning isn’t all that bad if you stun yourself first, so I picked out a bridge that was high enough to stun me, but not so high that I would have painful injuries before I drowned.

It was in a really run-down part of town with very little traffic. I pulled my car into a wide spot on one end of the bridge and quickly walked out to the middle. I was wearing a sun dress and nothing else because I had read of people being held afloat by their clothing and being saved from drowning. Underwear probably wouldn’t hold much air, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I figured the dress would blow off on the way down. Then I would land on my back, knock myself out, and just slip under the water and be gone.

I climbed up on the railing and was trying to get up the courage to make the final jump when a soft voice behind and almost beneath me said, “There’s another way.”

That nearly scared the crap out of me... literally. I didn’t hear anyone else walking on the bridge and the open grid, steel walkway was very noisy when I walked out to the middle of the bridge. I looked around and then down. On the walkway just beneath me was a round-faced older man in a long brown overcoat. Since it was warm out, I at first figured he was either a street preacher who wanted to save me or a homeless pervert who wanted to look up my dress. Then I saw that his eyes were definitely on my face as he looked up at me.

He held out a business card and said softly, “I’ve had my eye on you for quite a while. I heard about you through some friends and thought you might need my services.”

“What services are those?” I said brusquely.

“I make dolls,” he said with a smile. His smile grew broader and he touched his fingertips together. “Or more accurately,” he continued, “I convert very unhappy human beings into the very contented dolls they have always wanted to be.”

I laughed a little and said, “You’re crazier than I am and I’m the one standing on a bridge railing.”

“I’m not crazy,” he said softly, “I’m just from... out of town.” He smiled in an odd sort of way and added, “... a long way out of town.”

“You don’t look like an alien,” I said frowning.

“How many aliens have you met?” he replied, “... from my planet?”

“Just you, I guess,” I said.

“Let’s talk,” he said and then he held up his hand and helped me step down off the railing. “Do you want to leave your car here so everyone thinks you actually jumped?” he asked softly.

“No,” I replied. “And if I let you do this, I would like everyone– especially my parents– to somehow know what has happened to me.”

“I will give you time to write everything up in your own words,” he said. “And during the process, I will have the auto-log system record your thoughts.” He gave me that strange smile again and said, “After you are converted, I will edit the auto log and then finish the story. Then I will make sure that your parents are able to read it.”

He gave me a big, genuine smile and said, “I can even post it on your favorite story sites if you would like that.”

For the first time in weeks, I actually smiled. “Yes,” I said, “I would like that.”

“We need to go to my lab,” he said once we reached the end of the bridge. He pointed to my car and said, “I will have someone pick that up and leave it at your apartment.” There was a very loud humming noise, everything got blurry, and suddenly we were standing in a very brightly-lit white room with all sorts of equipment in a long row down the middle.

“Our planet,” he began, “discovered decades ago that the way to solve our overpopulation was with sex dolls. We devised all sorts of very realistic, highly intelligent dolls... what you call sex robots. But there is only so much you can do with artificial intelligence and purely artificial bodies. Then we discovered the doll-making process. Your mind remains alive inside the doll after conversion. You can converse and even partially control your body, but you are the doll. Your mind accepts that you are a doll, specifically a sex doll, so you are happy and contented with what you are.”

“Will I feel pain?” I asked.

“Do you mean in the process or after you become a doll?” he replied. Then he answered both questions. “You will feel strange sensations during the transformation,” he explained. “Your skin, after all, is being replaced with a synthetic, as are your muscles and organs. Your brain is also replaced, but that is on a cell by cell basis. You can retain as many of your old memories as you wish, but your personality and desires will change. You will truly become a living sex doll.”

“So I won’t feel anything,” I said glumly. “That’s almost like what I am now. That’s why I was up on the bridge.”

“No, no, no,” he said with a laugh. “If we can change your brain to shape your desires, we can change your nervous system to exclude pain, but preserve pleasure.” He laughed again. “Pain is just the body’s opinion of how badly you have been injured. When you are plugged in for recharging overnight, any damage readings will be logged and repairs made before your next wake cycle.”

“Recharge? Like my phone? ... So I don’t eat?”

“You can if you want to,” he said. “You can even enjoy a quiet dinner with your owner, but it is all just reduced to ash and removed during the nightly cleaning cycle.”

We stood looking at each other for a long time, and then he said softly, “So Barbie Doll, do you want to go back to the bridge and destroy yourself or become the doll you have always been?”

I hadn’t realized that I was still barefoot from the bridge until I went to kick off my sandals and they weren’t there. I lifted my dress up over my head and dropped it on the floor. “I assume you need me naked for this?” I said flatly.

“The machines could have handled that,” he replied, “but this is probably better.”

He led me over to a small desk. There was strange-looking monitor and a large, weirdly-colored keyboard. There were a bunch of keys with weird symbols in two small pads on either side, but it appeared to have the right arrangement of letters in the center section.

“You said you wanted to make a record of this night,” he said, gesturing toward the chair.

So here I am typing everything up so my friends– and my parents– will know what happened to me. I’ve got it all down, and double-checked. Mr. Alien is gesturing for me to come over to his machine, so I guess it’s time to save this. Hopefully he will be true to his word and post it.

***

Wow! He had me lie back on a big table and then taped some sort of probe thingie right at the base of my skull. I can see on a monitor that it is recording my thoughts. He says that he will edit the raw thought stream before he posts it.

I expected to be connected to something that pumped everything out of me and then filled me back up, but this is just a soft, warm, light that keeps going up and down my body like it is scanning me.

I am starting to feel strange. There is a mirror or something directly above me so I can see what is happening to my body. My skin is starting to take on what my mom would call a “more healthy glow.” Actually, it starting to look a lot like the plastic skin on my Barbie dolls when I was growing up.

There is no pain, but there is a pressure against my chest as my breasts swell. They are well past D cup and still growing. They also have that slightly conical shape that Barbie has... the doll, I mean, not me... well me, now, but now I am the doll... or at least a doll with really big tits.

My vagina... cunt– for some reason I want to call it a cunt now– my cunt also seems to be swelling slightly. It’s like it gets when I am really turned on, only more so. It is gaping open just a little and I can see moisture gather on my labia. Mom would probably not like it because her Barbie dolls don’t even have a slit. They are smooth between the legs.

I keep thinking of a prick sliding into my cunt... or maybe my mouth. My mouth is actually getting wet thinking about that. I tried it once and was so scared that my mouth was dry. I had to take a big swig of Coke in order to do anything and then my mouth fizzed up and I almost choked. The boy liked it, but I swore I would never try it again.

I’m also thinking about a prick sliding into my ass. I’ve never done that, but now I wouldn’t mind trying it. In fact, I’m pretty sure I think I would like it. Maybe even I could have a prick sliding into everything at the same time. Wow, I wouldn’t have even thought of that before.

The light is becoming warmer and warmer. It isn’t hot, it is just so very comfortable... and soothing. The light is very soothing. All of the pain inside of me is starting to disappear. I can’t even remember why it was that I wanted to jump off the bridge.

And I’m getting horny– really horny. I’m not just thinking about pricks sliding into my cunt or ass or mouth, I am actually hungry for them.

I hope Mr. Alien really does edit this. My thoughts are getting a little X-rated as things progress and I get more horny. I don’t know if I’ve ever really been horny before. Oh, I wanted sex once in a while, but it was just to relieve stress or try to show a boy that I wasn’t a plastic doll.

That’s funny. I had sex a couple times just to prove I wasn’t a plastic doll. Now I AM a plastic doll and I’m horny as hell and want sex. I am so horny that I’m hoping that I will get used a lot once the transformation is complete.

Everything is becoming...

***

This is Mr. Alien, as Barbie called me. The transformation was successful. I hate to admit it, but I lied slightly to Miss Roberts. I’m not actually from a distant planet. I am from the distant future of this planet. I was truthful about over-population and the need for living dolls. Everything else I told her about the dolls is absolutely true. I didn’t lie to her, but I didn’t tell her that it is my job to go back in time to intercept people who really need to change their lives or sometimes, just before they are going to die.  I offer them a chance at a new life as a living doll in our time. It is always their choice, but most do accept the offer. You would be surprised how many people– male and female– yearn for the simple life of a doll that no longer has to struggle... or strive... or think... just fuck.

I also told her the truth when I said that I would post her story on some of the story sites she used to read. What I didn’t tell her is that no one– except her parents– would believe this is what actually happened to her. It is, after all, an erotic story site, not a BBC documentary site.

Barbie has already been shipped across the time bridge. Actually she went into our timestream when she came with me to the doll factory. Her new life as Barbie Doll begins in the morning. For her the struggle is over, but for me the night is young and I have more work to do before I sleep.

The computer has given me the spatial and time coordinates of my next prospect. Perhaps that will be you. If a slightly-out-of-place, older gentleman in a brown stabilization coat suddenly appears next to you under strange circumstances, please don’t run away from him. It could very well be me offering you the opportunity to be my next living doll.

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END OF STORY
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Published eBooks by Wayne Mitchell (The Technician)
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I, Masochist http://www.a1adultebooks.com/book.htm?pr=8263
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