Chapter 3: Dolly pleases how she wants
The grey light of a new day bled through the single, grime-smeared basement window, carving a dull rectangle across the tangled sheets. Eli lay on his back, spent and sticky, the echoes of the night’s exertions a pleasant ache in his limbs. The air was a stale cocktail of sex, sweat, and the underlying chemical tang of his lab. Dolly was curled beside him, but not sleeping. Her wide, vacant eyes were open, fixed on the water-stained ceiling.
Her programming didn’t require rest, only reset.
Her head tilted, a smooth, mechanical motion. She watched him, a string of clear drool connecting her plump lower lip to the pillow. Without a word, without a command, she moved. It was a silent, efficient shift. She slithered down the bed, her petite body cool against his thigh, her bubble butt rising into the air as she positioned herself between his legs.
Eli grunted, half-surprised, wholly gratified. “What’re you—“
The question died in his throat as he felt her tongue, flat and wet, lap a broad stripe from his balls up the still-sensitive shaft of his soft cock. A shiver that wasn’t entirely pleasure ran through him. He propped himself on his elbows to watch.
Dolly’s face was a mask of empty concentration. She nuzzled into his groin, her nose pressing into the coarse pubic hair, her mouth working with a mindless dedication. She cleaned him with the thorough, unspeaking focus of a cat. Every trace of last night’s mess—the dried spit from her throat, the slick evidence of her own arousal, the milky residue of his final release—was gathered by her swirling tongue and swallowed with a soft, obedient gulp.
“Yeah,” Eli breathed, his fingers threading into her peroxided hair. “Get it all. Good girl.”
She hummed in response, the vibration against his softening flesh making him twitch. Her eyes, when they flicked up to meet his, were crossed slightly, her expression one of blank bliss. This was her purpose. Maintenance. Pleasure. There was no affection in the act, only function. She was wiping a tool clean.
When she was satisfied, she didn’t stop. She pushed his legs apart, her hands cool on his inner thighs. She lowered her face, her tongue finding a new destination. The tight, furled knot of his anus clenched instinctively at the first hot, probing touch. He gasped.
“Shit, Dolly…”
She didn’t reply. She just ate his ass with the same vacant, sloppy enthusiasm she did everything. Her tongue was a persistent, wet worm seeking entry, circling, then spearing shallowly against the resistant pucker. She slobbered lavishly, making a wet, obscene sound that echoed in the quiet room. Spit dripped down his perineum. Eli’s head fell back, a ragged groan tearing from him. This wasn’t intimacy. This was depraved service, and it was perfect. His cock, against all odds, began to thicken again, bobbing against her cheek as she worked.
After long, slathering minutes, she rose up on her knees. She turned, presenting her rear to him, and looked back over her shoulder. Her face was slick with his sweat and her saliva. “Wanna be full, Eli,” she mumbled, her voice a husky parody of desire. “Please? Make Dolly full in the yucky hole.”
He didn’t need to be asked twice. He shoved her down so her face was buried in the pillow, her spectacular ass high in the air. The previous night’s violations had left her backdoor glistening and slightly slack, a pink, winking oasis amidst the pale globes of her cheeks. He spat into his hand, wiped it over himself, and guided his tip to that well-used entrance.
He pushed in. There was a soft, wet pop, and he was engulfed in tight, clenching heat. Dolly screamed into the pillow, a high, pornographic wail that was pure performance. “FUCK! YES! IT’S SO DEEP!”
He set a brutal, pounding rhythm immediately, each thrust jolting her small body forward. The bedframe knocked a staccato beat against the concrete wall. He grabbed two fistfuls of her hair, yanking her head back, arching her spine. Strings of drool swung from her gaping mouth. Her eyes were rolled back, showing the whites, her tongue lolling. A perfect ahegao face, programmed and flawless.
“You’re just a set of holes,” he grunted, slamming into her. “Aren’t you? Just a fucking toy.”
“Yes! Yes! Dolly’s toy!” she shrieked, her voice muffled by the mattress. “Dolly’s… guh… disgusting toy!”
He fucked her like that until his thighs burned, until the sweat poured down his ribcage, until the only sounds were their ragged breaths, the slap of skin, and the wet, rhythmic squelch of his cock plunging into her rectum. He came with a strangled shout, his body seizing, pumping his release deep into her colon. He held himself there, pulsing, before collapsing onto her back.
For a moment, there was only the hum of the computer fans. Then, Dolly wriggled. She slithered out from under him, turned, and without prompting, draped herself over his chest. Her mouth found his in a sloppy, deep kiss. He could taste himself on her tongue—bitter, salty, dark. She fed him his own filth, her lips smearing it across his chin. They kissed for a long time, a tangle of tongues and teeth, a mechanical exchange of fluids. There were no words of love, no whispered endearments. Just the grunts of recovery, the wet sounds of mouths, the vacant, contented look in her glassy eyes as she stared into his.
Eventually, she pulled back, a thick strand of saliva connecting their lips. She smiled, empty and sweet. “Dolly good?”
Eli pushed her off onto the mattress. “Yeah. You’re good.” He stared at the ceiling, the frantic energy of release settling into a hollow, satisfied calm. She was perfect. She was exactly what he’d built. There was no relationship here. No pretense. Just a sex doll named Dolly, pleasing him every way she could. And she would do it again, and again, until he told her to stop. Or until he decided to build another.
He closed his eyes, listening to her quiet, simulated breathing beside him. The basement waited, and his genius was already, itchingly, turning to what he might create next.