Chapter 2: A Deeper Communion
The bruise on her neck faded to a sickly yellow over three days, a permanent whisper against her skin. Raven wore high-necked sweaters, her makeup even thicker, a defensive barricade against a world that suddenly felt too close, too observant. But the memory of the sensation—that brutal, perfect feedback—didn’t fade. It festered. It grew thorns.
The doll watched from the dresser. Its presence was no longer passive. She felt its gaze on the back of her neck while she tried to sleep, a prickling, icy attention. The hum in her teeth had become a constant, low-grade vibration, a tinnitus of temptation. She stopped touching it. She told herself she was done. This was madness. A cursed object. She should throw it in the dumpster, smash it with a hammer.
She didn’t.
On the fourth night, the craving returned, a physical ache that hollowed her out. It wasn’t just curiosity now. It was a need, sharp as a splinter under a nail. She sat on the edge of her bed, knees together, fists clenched in the black comforter. The streetlight painted a silver rectangle on the floor, bisected by the dark shape of the dresser.
Just one more time. To see if it’s real. To prove I can stop.
The lie was flimsy, pathetic. She stood. Her legs carried her to the dresser. The doll’s glass eyes were pools of liquid shadow. She picked it up. The porcelain was no longer cool. It held a residual warmth, like skin recently vacated.
Her thumbprint was still there, a faint shadow on its throat. A brand.
This time, she didn’t start with tentative tracing. A raw, frustrated hunger drove her. She shoved the tiny velvet dress up to its waist, exposing the smooth, featureless junction between its legs. Last time, it had been cold, solid. Now, the porcelain there felt different. Softer. Yielding.
She ran a finger over it.
A gasp tore from her lips. The sensation on her own body wasn’t a whisper. It was a clear, wet stroke. Her cunt pulsed, embarrassingly ready, slick heat flooding her underwear. The doll’s form had changed. It had… adapted.
“What are you?” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
The doll’s smile held its secret. Raven brought it closer, turning it in the sliver of light. Between its legs, the smooth porcelain was now textured. There was a seam. A delicate, barely-there slit. As she watched, horrified and mesmerized, it seemed to grow subtly darker, a hint of moisture catching the light.
A bolt of pure, undiluted lust shot through her, so intense it felt like rage. This was an invitation. A taunt.
She carried the doll to her bed, laying it on its back on the black cotton. She stood over it, looking down at her own miniature, expectant form. Her hands went to the button of her jeans. Her fingers fumbled. She shoved them down along with her underwear, kicking them away. The cool air on her bare skin made her shiver. She was completely exposed, while the doll remained half-dressed, a perverse parody of innocence.
She crawled onto the bed, straddling the doll but not touching it. She looked at its face. Her face. The hollow eyes seemed to look right back up at her, into her.
“You want it,” she said, not sure who she was talking to. “You fucking want it, don’t you?”
She lowered herself. Not onto the doll, but beside it. On her side, facing it. Her breath fogged the cold porcelain cheek. With a trembling hand, she guided the doll’s stiff little arm. She pressed its porcelain fingers against the newly-formed slit.
On her own body, the touch was electric. A jolt of otherness. It wasn’t her own hand. It was smaller, harder, foreign. The pleasure was spiked with a terrifying violation that made her moan into the quiet room.
“Fuck,” she breathed. “Fuck, that’s…”
She moved the doll’s hand, rubbing those rigid fingers in a slow circle. The feedback was inexact, blurry, but devastatingly effective. It felt like being touched by a stranger, a stranger who knew exactly where she was most sensitive. Her hips jerked. She bit her lip to keep from crying out.
This wasn’t enough. The doll’s fingers were too small, too hard. The craving curdled into something desperate and ugly.
She pushed the doll onto its side, facing her. Her own reflection in its eyes was a wild, open-mouthed ghost. She brought its face toward her stomach, her thigh, a clumsy, awkward approximation. It was stupid. It was pointless.
Then an idea, black and blooming, unfolded in her mind.
She sat up, grabbed the doll, and brought its face between her legs. The cool porcelain pressed against her heated flesh. She shuddered. This was insane. Degenerate.
She shifted the angle, letting the doll’s painted, placid lips make contact. She pressed it there, held it.
The sensation was not a press of ceramic.
It was a soft, wet warmth. A mouth. A tongue.
“Oh, God!” The cry was ripped from her. It was a mouth, sucking gently, a tongue licking a slow, deliberate stripe up her slit. The illusion was absolute. Her hands clenched in the doll’s hair, holding its head in place. She began to move it, rocking the porcelain figure against her, fucking its face.
The wet, sucking sounds filled the room, obscene and loud. The doll’s mouth was relentless, hot, expert. It wasn’t her moving it anymore; it was moving on its own, a hungry, vacuuming pressure that latched onto her clit and pulled. Raven’s back arched. Her mind shattered into glittering, black fragments. She was crying, begging, words without meaning. “Yes, fuck, right there, you fucking thing, eat me, please—”
The orgasm hit her like a seizure. It was a convulsive, brutal wave that tore a ragged scream from her throat. White light exploded behind her eyes. Her whole body locked, shaking, as the fake mouth milking her sent endless, punishing ripples of pleasure through her core. It went on and on, far beyond natural, a drawn-out crucifixion of ecstasy.
When it finally, mercifully ebbed, she collapsed sideways, throwing the doll away from her as if burned. It clattered against the headboard and fell to the mattress, staring at the ceiling.
Raven lay gasping, tears and sweat mingling on the pillow. Her body felt used, ruined, gloriously empty. She sobbed, once, a shuddering breath of release and shame.
Slowly, she pushed herself up. Her limbs were weak. She looked at the doll.
Its red, painted lips were glistening. Wet. A translucent string of something connected its mouth to the sheets.
A cold, sick dread dripped down her spine, cutting through the post-orgasmic haze.
She touched her own mouth. Her lips were tender, swollen. Her tongue felt thick, sore. As if…
She scrambled off the bed, lurching to the dresser mirror. In the gloom, she saw it. Her lips, usually pale, were flushed a deep, bruised red. Bee-stung. And at the corner of her mouth, a slick, pearlescent streak glistened.
Her own taste. Salt and musk.
The doll had not just received. It had fed. And she had worn the evidence.
The doll lay on the rumpled black sheets, its moist lips parted in that eternal, knowing smile. The currency had changed again. The price was no longer just marks on the skin. It was a sharing of essence. A communion.
Raven slid down the side of the dresser to the floor, drawing her knees to her chest. She wrapped her arms around herself, rocking slightly. The soreness between her legs was a deep, satisfied ache. The soreness in her mouth was a warning.
She could still feel the ghost of that impossible, hungry mouth on her. And part of her, the rotten, hungry core, was already wondering what it would feel like to kiss it back.