Chapter 9: Dressing the Dolls
The taste of Fiona’s skin was salt, sweat, and the coppery ghost of blood from a split welt. Gina’s tongue moved mechanically, tracing the raised lines on the younger woman’s back, each pass a ratification of the new order. Fiona’s reciprocation was clumsy, her breaths coming in shudders against Gina’s thigh. They were two animals grooming wounds in the same cage, a silent, sticky pact forged not in friendship but in mutual survival.
An hour later, they knelt side by side on the kitchen tile, presenting bowls of cold pasta salad to Adam where he sat at the table reading a financial quarterly. They did not speak. They held the bowls until their arms trembled. He took his time, turning a page, before accepting Gina’s offering with a nod, then Fiona’s. A simple test, passed. The obedience was settling into routine, the shocking becoming procedural.
Days bled into a structured week. The cane marks faded to yellowing smudges. The rituals hardened.
Now, in the walk-in closet’s dim, cedar-scented belly, another lesson unfolded.
Adam watched from the doorway, arms folded, a silent curator. The space was cramped, crowded with the artifacts of their old lives—Gina’s sensible blazers, a box of Fiona’s bohemian skirts—now shoved aside for the new uniform.
“The white one, Gina,” Adam said, his voice casual.
Gina reached for the garment bag. She unzipped it, the sound loud in the quiet. Inside was a corset of stark white latex, so bright it seemed to glow in the gloom. It was a brutalist object: severe, restrictive, with heavy silver busks and multiple rows of gleaming hooks and eyes.
“Fiona, assist.”
Fiona stepped forward, her movements smoother now, less resistant. The fight in her grey eyes had been banked, replaced by a watchful, calculating emptiness. She took the corset from Gina, the material cold and squeaky under her fingers.
Gina shed her robe. She stood naked but for her diamond collar, the pale canvas of her body still showing the faint shadows of her training. She raised her arms.
Fiona moved behind her. She wrapped the cold latex around Gina’s torso, lining up the busks in front. Gina sucked in a breath as Fiona began to fasten them, starting at the top. Each closure was a click of finality, a gradual compression. Fiona’s hands worked with a surprising efficiency, pulling the laces at the back with steady, firm tugs.
Gina’s breath shortened. The latex squeezed her ribs, molding her waist, lifting her breasts into two pronounced, rounded curves against the stiff shell. Her breathing became shallow, diaphragmatic. A familiar submission. The constraint was a embrace.
“Tighter,” Adam murmured from the door.
Fiona pulled again, putting her weight into it. Gina grunted, a soft exhalation of surrender. The corset became a second skin, a rigid exoskeleton that dictated her posture, her breath, her being.
“Good.” Adam shifted his gaze. “Now her. The black.”
From another bag, Fiona produced a pair of heels. Not ordinary shoes. These were “pleasers”—eight-inch platforms with a six-inch stiletto heel, a sheer column of glossy white patent leather. They were architectural, cruel, beautiful.
“Sit,” Adam told Gina.
Gina lowered herself onto a low storage bench, the corset forcing her to sit upright, regally. Fiona knelt before her on the plush carpet, head bowed. She took Gina’s right foot, cradling it, and guided it into the first shoe. The fit was snug, unforgiving. She buckled the thin ankle strap, then did the same with the left. When Gina stood, the transformation was profound. The shoes added a foot of height, throwing her hips forward, arching her back, making her legs seem endlessly long. She towered, a monolithic figure in white and chrome.
“Now yours,” Adam said to Fiona.
Fiona stood, unclothed, her onyx collar a dark promise against her throat. Gina fetched the items for her: a corset, but this one was black latex, and a pair of heels in gleaming black patent leather. The inversion was deliberate.
They dressed each other. Gina laced Fiona into the black corset, pulling just as firmly as Fiona had done for her, until the younger woman’s breath was a thin whistle. Fiona, in turn, buckled Gina into the towering black heels. There was a strange intimacy in the act, a perverse gentleness. They were armoring each other for the same war.
When they were finished, they stood facing each other in the cluttered closet. Gina in blinding white, a statue of enforced purity. Fiona in absorbent black, a shadow given form. Both collared. Both teetering on impossible heels that made them loom in the low-ceilinged space. They were opposing colors in the same stark palette.
Adam, still in his jeans and t-shirt, looked up at them. A smile touched his lips, not warm, but satisfied. The visual was perfect. Hierarchy and unity, displayed in latex and leather.
“Now kiss,” he commanded, his voice soft.
The order hung in the cedar air.
Gina hesitated for only a second. She saw the same flicker in Fiona’s hollowed eyes—a last, ghostly tremor of revolt, instantly suppressed. They were instruments. They performed.
Gina leaned in, the movement awkward on the platforms. Fiona met her halfway. Their latex-covered bodies pressed together, a squeaky, unyielding connection. Gina’s white-caged breasts flattened against Fiona’s black-shelled ones. Their collars touched, diamond clicking against onyx.
Then their mouths.
It wasn’t tender. It was a clash. Gina’s lips, painted a classic red, met Fiona’s, stained a deep plum. It was obedience made flesh. Their mouths opened under the command. Tongues met—not exploring, but submitting. The taste was lipstick wax, breath mint, and underneath, the same shared bitterness. Gina’s hands came up to cradle Fiona’s jaw, not with affection, but to hold the pose for their master’s observation. Fiona’s fingers dug into Gina’s latex-clad hips, leaving no mark on the impervious surface.
They kissed until their lungs burned from the corsets, until the ache in their calves from the heels became a sharp, demanding song. They kissed as a function. A demonstration.
“Enough.”
They broke apart, a strand of saliva briefly connecting their glossed lips before snapping. They kept their eyes down, chests rising and falling in shallow, restricted heaves.
“Out here,” Adam said, turning and walking into the broader dimness of the master bedroom.
They followed, the sound of their heeled footsteps a staggered, clumsy percussion on the hardwood. The bedroom air was cooler. Adam stood near the foot of the bed, watching them approach, two staggering monoliths of latex and submission. He unbuttoned his jeans.
“Kneel.”
The command was simple. Gina lowered herself first, the stiff white corset forcing a stiff, careful descent. She settled back onto her heels, the towering white platforms splaying outward. Fiona followed, the black latex sighing as she assumed the same position beside her. The dawn light cut across their collared throats and downcast faces.
Adam pushed his jeans and boxers down to his thighs. His cock was already hard, thick and flushed in the dim gold light. He gestured vaguely at the space before him.
“Gina.”
She knew her part. She leaned forward, her red lips parting. She took him into her mouth, her head bobbing with a practiced, weary rhythm. The room filled with the wet, quiet sound of her work. Adam placed a hand on her head, not guiding, just owning.
“Fiona.”
He didn’t need to elaborate. Fiona’s grey eyes flicked up, then down. She shifted on her knees, the black patent leather squeaking. She bent forward, lowering her head behind him. Her tongue, hot and tentative, first traced the cleft of his ass. Adam let out a slow breath.
“Get in there. Don’t be shy.”
She pressed her face into him. Her tongue delved deeper, probing, licking in broad, flat strokes across his hole. The sensation was intimate, degrading, electric. Gina’s mouth worked his cock with a steady, suctioning pressure while Fiona’s tongue rimmed him with increasingly bold swipes. He groaned, a low, gratified sound, his fingers tightening in Gina’s blonde hair.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he muttered, his hips giving a slight thrust. “Such good fucking cunts. Know your places.”
They serviced him in silence for minutes, the only sounds their labored breathing through restricted lungs, the slick noises of their mouths on his skin. He looked down at the top of Gina’s head, then over his shoulder at the curve of Fiona’s spine in its black shell. A perfect picture.
He pulled himself from Gina’s mouth with a soft pop. Fiona paused, her breath hot against him.
“Both of you. Look at me.”
They shifted, kneeling upright, their mouths glistening. Adam tucked himself back into his jeans but left them undone. He paced a slow circle around their kneeling forms.
“This is your beauty regime now. Listen closely.” His voice was conversational, a lecturer delivering crucial facts. “From the neck down, you are always smooth and bare. Not a single stray hair. You will check each other. Any oversight will be corrected. Painfully.”
He stopped behind Fiona, running a hand over the lacquered black dome of her hair. “You are always dressed. In the house, you wear your color. White.” He tapped Gina’s shoulder. “Black.” His hand came down on Fiona’s. “Your collars never come off. You are always painted. Lips, eyes, nails. Flawless. Your color.”
He came to stand in front of them again, his shadow falling across their faces. “And you are always plugged. Day and night. A constant reminder of your purpose. To be available. To be ready. For use. For inspection. For me.”
He let the words settle. The hum of the house seemed to grow louder. “This is the texture of your lives now. This smoothness, this color, this fullness. It is not a punishment. It is your design.”
He reached into his pocket and withdrew two objects, holding them in his palm. They were plugs, one with a white crystal base, one with black. They were not small. “The final piece. Now.”
Adam handed the white-plug to Fiona. “You do her.” He gave the black one to Gina. “You do her.”
The exchange was a further knot in their binding. Fiona took the plug, her fingers cold around the silicone. She moved behind Gina. She poured lubricant from a bottle on the nightstand onto her fingers, the sound obscenely liquid in the quiet room. Gina braced, her knuckles whitening as she gripped her own thighs.
Fiona’s slick fingers pressed against Gina’s hole. She worked them inside, first one, then two, preparing her with a clinical thoroughness that was neither rough nor gentle. Gina’s head dropped forward, a shudder running through her white-clad form.
“Now the plug,” Adam said, his voice low.
Fiona guided the tip of the white-plug to Gina’s stretched entrance. She pushed. The silicone bulb resisted, then popped past the tight ring of muscle with a soft, wet sound. Gina gasped, her body jolting as the widest part slid home. The crystal base sat snug against her skin, a cold, unignorable jewel.
“Your turn,” Adam said to Gina.
Her hands trembled as she took the black plug. Fiona assumed the position, back arched, presenting herself. Gina’s lubrication was messier, more frantic. She pushed three fingers into Fiona hastily, her own breath catching in her corset. Fiona remained silent, her face a mask, but a fine tremor ran down her legs.
Gina positioned the black plug. She leaned her weight into it, forcing it past Fiona’s clenched resistance. It breached with a sharper sound. Fiona’s mouth opened in a silent cry, her head snapping back, tendons standing out in her neck. The black base settled, a dark star against her skin.
They knelt there, both now filled, their breaths synchronized pants of adjustment. A profound, vulnerable ache bloomed inside each of them, a constant physical truth. Adam nodded, surveying his work. “Good. That’s your baseline. The rest of the day, you will feel that. You will remember it.” He zipped his jeans. “Now go make breakfast. And don’t you dare clench. I’ll know.”
I’ll know.”
They moved to the kitchen like elegant, broken toys. The plugs within them shifted with each step, a persistent, grounding invasion. Gina’s white latex creaked as she bent to retrieve eggs from the refrigerator; Fiona’s black heels tapped a staccato rhythm on the tile as she fetched the coffee grinder.
Their preparation was a silent ballet of compliance. Gina scrambled eggs in a bowl, her movements restricted by the corset, her breath shallow. Fiona sliced strawberries, the red juice like blood against her fingers, her own confinement making her posture unnaturally erect. The scents of brewing coffee and sizzling butter mingled with the sterile smell of polished latex.
Adam entered, showered and dressed in a crisp grey shirt. He took his seat at the head of the table, unfolding a newspaper. He didn’t look at them. They brought his plate, his coffee, his silverware, placing each item with mute precision before retreating to kneel on the hard floor beside his chair. Their knees ached immediately. The plugs seated deeper.
He ate slowly, reading an article about market fluctuations. The only sounds were the scrape of his fork, the rustle of newsprint, and their own controlled breathing. The fullness inside them was a screaming contrast to the domestic calm. Gina stared at a whorl in the grain of the wooden table leg. Fiona watched the clock’s second hand jerk forward.
Halfway through his meal, he took a sip of coffee. He didn’t lower the paper.
“So,” he said, his voice conversational, as if discussing the weather. “You’ve both been very attentive. You look correct. You feel correct.” He took a bite of toast, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s a new day. I’m curious. During breakfast, while I eat and you kneel beside me, I ask you what you would like to do.”
The question hung in the air, dissonant and terrifying.
Gina’s hazel eyes flickered upward, confused. Desire was a language she had forgotten. Fiona’s grey gaze remained fixed on the clock, her mind racing over a cliff of possibilities.
“Well?” Adam prompted, turning a page. “Anything at all. Your choice.”
Gina swallowed, her throat dry. The plug inside her seemed to pulse. “I…I would like to please you, Sir.” The words were safe, carved from the script of the last week.
“That’s a given,” Adam said dismissively. “That’s not a choice, Gina. That’s your function. Try again. What do you want?”
Silence stretched, taut and painful. Fiona spoke, her voice low but clear. “I want to come.”
Adam slowly lowered the newspaper. He looked at her, an amused spark in his eyes. “Do you.”
“Yes.” The word was a gauntlet thrown. Her gaze met his, and in it was not defiance, but a stark, raw hunger that bypassed pride entirely. It was a deeper submission—to her own need.
“Interesting.” He turned to Gina. “And you? Don’t think about me. Think about the ache between your legs. What does it want?”
Gina trembled. To voice it was to make it real, to admit the engine of shameful need that this entire design had ignited. She whispered it to the table leg. “I want…to feel. Really feel.”
Adam nodded, folding the paper neatly. He pushed his plate aside. “Okay. Those are choices I can work with.” He stood up, his chair scraping back. “Fiona, on the table. Now. Gina, you watch.”
Fiona moved, her black heels clumsy as she rose. She hoisted herself onto the polished oak of the breakfast table, sending a butter knife clattering to the floor. She lay back amidst the crumbs and smears of jam, her black corset a dark slash against the wood. Adam unbuckled his belt.
“You want to come?” he said, his voice dropping to a rough murmur. He didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed her knees apart, the latex of her thighs squeaking in protest. He shoved her black panties aside, a mere flimsy barrier. She was already slick, her earlier humiliation having stoked a different fire.
He drove into her in one brutal, unforgiving thrust. Fiona cried out, a sharp, ragged sound that echoed in the bright kitchen. Her body arched off the table, the plug inside her forced impossibly deeper by the invasion from the front.
“This what you wanted?” he grunted, setting a relentless, pounding rhythm. The table shuddered with each impact. “This fucking raw stretch? This fucking degradation? You want to come from being used on the breakfast table?”
“Yes!” she gasped, her hands scrambling for purchase on the slick wood. Her composure shattered. “Fuck, yes! Please!”
Gina watched, kneeling, her own need a throbbing second heartbeat. She saw Fiona’s face, twisted in a agony of pleasure, lips pulled back from her teeth. She saw Adam’s controlled, powerful movements, the muscles of his back working beneath his shirt. The explicit, wet sounds of the act filled the room, a filthy counterpoint to the morning sun.
Adam’s hand snaked down between their joined bodies, his fingers finding Fiona’s clit. He rubbed hard, vicious circles. “Then come, you desperate cunt. Come all over my cock while I fuck you on the goddamn table.”
Fiona shattered. Her scream was unhinged, a raw vocalization of pure, mindless sensation. Her body convulsed around him, her internal muscles clamping in frantic waves, milking his cock. He fucked her through it, prolonging the spasms until she was sobbing, oversensitive and trembling.
He pulled out of her with a slick, filthy sound. He turned, his cock glistening with her release. He pointed to the floor in front of Gina. “You. Here. You wanted to feel.”
Gina crawled forward on her knees, the plug a heavy anchor. He didn’t touch her. “Open your mouth. Stick out your tongue.”
She obeyed, eyes wide. He positioned himself over her. He stroked himself twice, his fist sliding through the mixed wetness. Then he began to piss on her. The hot, acrid stream hit her tongue, her face, soaking into her blonde hair and the white latex of her corset. It was shocking, scalding, profoundly degrading. She gagged but kept her mouth open, swallowing what she could, feeling it run in hot rivulets down her neck and chest.
“Feel that,” he commanded, his voice steady as he emptied his bladder onto her. “That’s real. That’s now. That’s your choice.”
The torrent stopped. Gina knelt, dripping, her face a mask of utter ruin. The smell was overwhelming. Adam tucked himself back into his trousers. He looked at both of them: one broken and weeping on the table, one defiled and trembling on the floor.
“Your choices were noted,” he said, picking up his coffee cup for a final sip. He checked his watch. “I have a conference call in twenty minutes. Clean this up. And clean yourselves up. The plugs stay in.”
He walked out of the kitchen, leaving them in the devastating silence of their granted desires.
He walked out of the kitchen, leaving them in the devastating silence of their granted desires.
The smell was the first coherent thing. Ammonia and salt and sex. Gina remained on her knees, urine dripping from her chin onto the white latex, which beaded the liquid before allowing slow, shameful trails to form. Fiona’s breathing was a wet, ragged sound from the table. She didn’t move.
A fly buzzed, hitting the window over the sink.
Fiona sat up first. The movement was slow, mechanical. Black latex squeaked against the wood. She swung her legs over the edge, the towering heels hitting the floor with twin cracks. She looked at Gina, her grey eyes not blank now, but sharply, painfully aware. She slid off the table, her legs buckling slightly before she steadied herself. The plug inside her was a firm, alien presence with every step.
“Up,” Fiona said. Her voice was hoarse, but it wasn’t a request.
Gina looked up, her hazel eyes swimming in a film of tears and piss. She couldn’t form a thought, only sensation: the chill air on her wet skin, the throbbing fullness in her ass, the acidic taste coating her tongue.
Fiona didn’t help her. She stood, waiting, a black statue smelling of sweat and come. “Now, Gina.”
Gina pushed herself up. The muscles in her thighs screamed. She stood, unsteady on the white platforms, dripping onto the tile. She avoided looking at the puddle she’d left on the floor.
“He said to clean,” Fiona stated. She walked to the sink, her movements stiff. She turned on the hot water, steam rising. She found a clean dishcloth, soaked it, wrung it out. She approached Gina. “Hold still.”
Gina flinched as the hot, damp cloth touched her face. Fiona wiped her with a startling, impersonal thoroughness. Over her closed eyes, across her cheeks, around her mouth. She wiped her neck, her collarbones, the tops of her breasts where the urine had pooled in the corset’s cups. The cloth turned yellow. Fiona rinsed it in the sink, the water swirling murky, and came back. She cleaned Gina’s hair, scrubbing at the roots with a firm, almost angry pressure.
“Your turn,” Gina whispered, the first words she’d found.
Fiona handed her the cloth. “I know.”
Gina took it. She mimicked the action, cleaning Fiona’s inner thighs where Adam had spilled from her, wiping the slick sheen from her stomach. The intimacy was colder than the piss. It was maintenance. The cloth passed between them, rinsed, passed again, until the obvious signs were gone. The smell lingered, a ghost in the steam.
The kitchen itself was next. They worked without speaking. Fiona gathered the soiled cloth and the towel Adam had used on his hands, tossing them into the laundry chute. Gina, on trembling legs, fetched the mop and bucket from the pantry. She filled it with hot, soapy water. The scent of pine cleaner clashed with the remnant odors. She mopped the floor where she had knelt, swabbing in wide, careful arcs, then where the table legs met the floor. Fiona wiped down the table’s surface, clearing crumbs and phantom stains with a spray and a rag.
Their plugs were a constant, aching punctuation to every movement. A reminder that the cleaning was only surface. The real violation was sealed inside them, mandated.
When the kitchen shone under the morning light, smelling falsely of citrus and pine, they stopped. They stood facing each other in their ridiculous, beautiful armor. The silence stretched, different now. The shock was metabolizing into something harder.
Fiona’s eyes traveled over Gina’s face, then down her body, then back up. “You asked to feel,” she said, her tone flat, analytical. “You got it.”
Gina said nothing. She felt hollowed out, scraped raw. The urge to curl on the floor and vanish was a physical weight.
“He’s on his call,” Fiona murmured, listening to the faint, muffled sound of Adam’s voice from his office down the hall. It was a drone, a bee-hum of normalcy. She looked back at Gina, and a flicker of something—not sympathy, but strategy—passed behind her eyes. “The plugs stay in. All day. He’ll check.”
Gina finally nodded. She understood. The lesson wasn’t over. It was a living thing inside her now.
Fiona stepped closer. The platforms made her slightly taller. She reached out and, with a finger, touched the diamond pendant on Gina’s collar. She adjusted it minutely, centering it. “We should shower. Separately. The rules.”
“Yes,” Gina breathed.
They walked from the kitchen, their heel-steps echoing in the hall. The house felt vast and watchful. At the base of the stairs, Fiona paused. She didn’t look at Gina.
“Tomorrow,” Fiona said softly, “he’ll ask again. What do you want?” She finally turned her head, and her gaze was like a surgical tool. “Think of a better answer.”
She took the stairs, black heels clicking, each step a measured echo. Gina watched her go, feeling the cool air on her still-damp skin, feeling the profound, inescapable pressure inside her. She looked down at her own body, a masterpiece of white latex and trembling flesh. A better answer. The words coiled in her gut, a new kind of ache. She climbed the stairs, moving toward the shower, toward the next minute, the next hour, the impossible tomorrow.