“Only a cock will make you feel good now,” I murmur. “Isn’t that right, sweet one?”
She nods, her head bobbing like an idiot, greedy for the purple head of my dick between her lips.
“Please give it to me, Daddy,” she says. “I want to make you cum. I need to make you cum.”
She’s so brainless now; I can’t even call her stupid, because that would mean she made actual attempts to attain knowledge. Her stupidity is irritating; simultaneously, it brings me bliss.
I can’t wait to experience her as a fully-fledged doll.
“I’ve been working on the creation of a living human doll—a sex toy, if you will—for many years now,” I say. I stand to my full height and begin circling her kneeling form. “I was fascinated by the idea that a person didn’t need consent or even the intellectual functions of the other to indulge in their desires. At first, I used different psychosurgery techniques from older generations—lobotomies, in plain terms—hoping one of these methods would give me the key to a living, breathing human sex toy. None of those older methods worked; there are obviously reasons why those techniques were abandoned by my colleagues. Then I realized my assistant, Oliver, had the talent to create a microchip that utilizes different areas of the brain intermittently, so the body works while outside forces may control the reactions of the specimen.”
The freak crawls forward, her mouth open. “Pleeease?—”
I kick her chest. The bitch cowers on her paws, finding her position at my feet.
I roll my eyes, then continue: “Then I met the Founder, a man with considerable talents, like myself. He has the business capabilities to build an empire; my assistant has unique engineering insight; I am the one who knows how to properly condition the specimens before they’re transformed, and I have enough neurosurgery experience under my belt so the specimens may fully heal. My procedure will guarantee the natural responses desired by our clients.”
I remove a loaded sedation syringe from my desk drawer and put it in my back pocket.
“We can completely transform the object’s processing unit,” I explain. “You will retain your ability to feel, think, and react, so far as I’ve given you the power to do so in your intellectual training. Tears, grunts, moans, even screams will come to you, as will your orgasms. However, you will not be able to do anything beyond those responses.” I sigh deeply. “But those precious thoughts that have plagued you for years will never truly go away. They’ll stay hidden in your psyche. Their purpose is to inform your primal reactions, never quite reaching the surface of voluntary action.” I throw my hands up in victory. “Ah, your owner will never be required to do anything; your body will simply react. There is so much potential?—”
“You’re going to give me to someone else?” she cries.
I stop my hands in mid-air and scrutinize the freak. Though she is under my control, the leftovers from her old self simmer under the surface: the need for my acceptance, to always belong. She wiggles on her haunches, her hips gyrating. A drop of pre-cum wets my pants. She’s so fucking desperate, my mouth salivates.
I lower my hands and crouch down on my haunches beside her. Due to my height, I’m significantly higher than her, but this is more even ground than we’ve been on for a long time. I want her to understand my next words completely. She’s worked hard to be good to me; she deserves this one last reassurance.
“My sweet one. My precious freak,” I say in a gentle voice. “I will never give you away. In fact, when I’m about to die, I’ll kill you first and watch your corpse burn so your body will never be used by another.”
Terror flickers over her pupils, but her knees spread wider. I thrust my hand between her thighs, cupping her drenched cunt. A small space lingers between my palm and her mound; I’m careful not to touch her clit yet.
I grab the syringe from my pocket. “Are you ready, sweet one?”
She nods like I knew she would.
“Good girl,” I murmur.
I plunge the syringe into her neck. She falls forward, her shoulders leaning on me, her arms heavy. I scoop her into my arms and carry her into my sterile laboratory. To be honest, many of my operations have been completed wherever the specimen was sedated—in my office, in the dining room, in the hallway, wherever I finally grew impatient with their conscious lives—and previously, I had no concern for the cleanliness of their surgeries. If they were infected, then there would always be another resource to experiment on next.
With the freak, it’s different. I can’t be too careful. I’ve waited too long and invested too much in her success. It would be a waste to let her body get infected and die before using her as my Living Doll.
I lie her across a steel table. I clean her body with a soap containing chemical agents used by the best surgeons in the world. Then, I carefully section a portion of her hair, cut it near the scalp, and shave what’s left.
There’s a sort of rhythm to the preparation that comes next; using sterile gauze, I wipe medical benzene across the skin—its scent of gasoline fills my lungs—then it’s rubbing alcohol, and finally, the deep orange hue of iodine. I cover the surrounding area with sterile sheets.
The scalpel cuts cleanly through her scalp; beads of blood line the incision. I scrape the skin from the bone and separate the layers. More blood begins to collect, so I seal the blood vessels with my electrocautery tweezers as necessary. The flap of scalp skin hangs, still attached on one side, exposing the skull underneath.
I use the cranial drill to remove the bone.
The pinkish-gray brain gleams. I insert the chip; thin, thread-like fibers spread from its center, connecting with the organ. Excitement swells inside of me, a fever reaching its highest peak in my head, and my vision pulsates; it’s as if everything around me has a heartbeat.
The freak becomes my doll.
I staple the bone back into place, then stitch the skin. This is a risky surgery, especially done outside of a hospital setting; however, I’ve completed many surgeries with the other failed specimens without risking their death by infection. I have no doubt the freak will heal from the transformation.
After I remove my briefs and trousers, I take a cock sleeve from my desk drawer and return to the laboratory. The silicone sleeve is short, meant only to cover the tip of the penis, and as such, I consider it a crown from my cock. A slim spike, curved like a talon, decorates the sleeve’s head. The blade is positioned so it will penetrate the vaginal walls with an aim toward the anterior, the famous spot where some women are forced to squirt.
With this cock sleeve, the doll’s flesh will scar, leaving my permanent imprint on its body. I will never share the freak with another, but I’m compelled to leave my permanent mark inside of it, to celebrate this transition from woman to object. If a child writes its name in permanent marker on a toy and a couple gets matching tattoos to show their union, then this is my mark on my freak.
