The Dollmaker's Playlist

[A little MC story for the 750 Word Project 2023. Enjoy!]

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The lilt of classical music rouses you from sleep. You stretch out, removing your earbuds, feeling refreshed. The sun peeks through the curtains and you slide out of bed, padding over to the yoga mat, arranging yourself in front of the metronome. You pull back your long blonde hair into a ponytail. It hadn't always been blonde, but the change feels right, growing out your short dark bob.

"Start playlist."

The music washes over you and you set the metronome in motion, taking position cross-legged in front of it, listening to the steady tick-tick-tick and calming yourself. It doesn't matter that you're naked. Chopin tinkles in the background as you recite the mantras you've been given and for a while the world fades away.

A pop tune begins, and you blink, disorientated but suddenly charged with fresh energy. You rise and pick out your running gear, putting in your earbuds and transferring the soundtrack to your phone. The drawer is still crammed with clothes that don't fit you anymore, a relic of your past, before you toned and sculpted your body through your new daily regime.

You head out, past the door to the other apartment in your little block, down the stairs and out onto the street. There is a spring in your step and you begin to run, carried along by the music, your body moving and your mind free to wander. There is the usual little niggle, deep down inside, the itch you need to scratch that you can't, but the running helps. You know your route, your playlist is timed perfectly, and after forty minutes you're back home again, exhausted but exhilarated.

Upstairs, you shower, stripping off and noting the stubble with distaste. You pamper yourself, taking the razor, making yourself smooth all over. It makes the ache worse, but you look perfect now. You never used to mind the dark curls down there, but now you do. You dry off and moisturise, listening to the music wafting from the bedroom. Your hands traverse your soft skin, over your hips, skirting the area between your legs. A new song comes on in a minor key. You smile: it's Saturday, there's time.

You lie on the bed, letting your fingers explore, touching yourself. The little itch becomes a fire. You look down, and it makes you more ardent, seeing your flat stomach, your toned legs, your body transformed in the last six months from curvy, dowdy desk-jockey into something new: a sleek, blonde doll. The word triggers something deep inside, and your fingers become more urgent, your lips moving without words coming out, each recitation bringing you closer and closer to your climax.

But you won't reach it; you never do. After an age, you finally remove your fingers, left slick and panting on your bed, desperate for an orgasm that's always out of reach. Instead, you choose a calming playlist, letting it wash over you until the tension between your legs recedes to the constant, simmering ache you've become accustomed to.

You drift off again, though it's only for a few minutes. Silence rouses you, but you can hear a classical piece in the distance, through the wall. You rise, padding over to your front door, opening it. It doesn't matter that you're nude, you only share the landing with Pierre and his girlfriend. Their door is open, the music emanating from their apartment.

You follow it, unconcerned by your nakedness. There are sounds from the bedroom, and the door is open. Pierre is on the bed with his girlfriend; they're naked too. She smiles dreamily, her eyes glazed, but your attention is captured by Pierre's smouldering gaze, drawing you in. He speaks, but you're not listening. Instead, you look down to his erection and it rekindles the fire within you. It feels strange to climb onto the bed, but Pierre doesn't object. His girlfriend stares at you vacantly. You take him into your mouth, plunging down, sucking, feeling the heat between your legs. You don't touch yourself; you don't need to.

"Good doll."

The words bring you to the edge. You don't know how he's changed you, but you need this like breathing. You suck harder, feeling him twitch in your mouth, sending waves of bliss through you, and then he erupts, filling your mouth. You orgasm, at last, releasing the desperate ache, the weeks of need, swallowing greedily. Pierre strokes your hair, feeding you the last of his seed.

"Now, doll, sleep."

You obey.

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