I smack my fist against his head like a fly swatter. The idiot howls, cupping his head, already weakened by my defense, then I snap my fingers, triggering his response, and he falls to the floor and curls into the fetal position. He shoves his thumb between his lips and sucks it like an infant.
I drag him to the laboratory.
Benji was a vaguely interesting auxiliary project to me. Like his sister, he was raised by foster parents, though unlike Violet’s upbringing, I encouraged his caretakers to physically discipline him as necessary, and admittedly, I was delighted when they broke his nose. I knew our similar facial features could potentially cause issues for me later on, and thus, I was pleased as he grew older and his physical appearance drew apart from mine. A pathetic idiot like him should never wear such distinguished features.
When the time came, his foster parents brought him to me as a patient to help decrease his seemingly violent tendencies, and I taught him to conform.
From my patients to my biological children, everyone is an experiment to me.
“Be a good son and stay still for me,” I command.
I put pressure on Benji’s skull with one hand, then I harshly cut the appropriate hair with the other. He whimpers, and I move on to shaving. I move through the various cleaning stages, and then, as the scalpel begins to cut his skin, he howls and falls unconscious. I sigh; the idiot has never been one to tolerate pain.
There’s more blood today than with yesterday’s surgery; I use the same medical instrument as before to stop the bleeding. To be quite honest, I don’t care if the idiot lives, dies, or if he is infected by my negligence. His mistake was fucking my freak when he was only supposed to be protecting her.
No one touches my things and truly lives.
Once I begin using the cranial drill, the idiot wakes up. His cry pierces my eardrums, and that’s when I grab the syringe and stab his neck. I don’t care to sedate him to finish his operation, but I find it so much easier to work when I have complete silence.
“I wasn’t as careful with you as I was with your sister. Perhaps this will be your bonus. Instead of having your emotions and fears, you will only have primal functions, a body that only eats, sleeps, and cums, thanks to an older version of the brain chip. Alas, the sibling rivalry continues.” I place the skull piece back over his brain. “The freak won’t be jealous, though. It may not understand it now, but the doll will quite enjoy keeping its emotions. It heightens every experience.”
I staple the bone, then stitch his skin. Finally, I pull the idiot by the ankles until he’s positioned at his sister’s feet. There, the freak sits on its seat, a queen healing on its throne, waiting to serve its ruler. And there, at the doll’s feet, sits a lesser version of a male doll, like a broken toy.
A wise man—someone like the Founder—would plan to sell the two of them as a pair. We don’t judge our clients’ needs, and I acknowledge there are certainly clients who would enjoy incestuous siblings.
That won’t do, though. I have no interest in the son. I’ll find a new home for him.
I want the daughter all to myself.
Chapter 32
Dr. Ambrose
Months pass, and with each one, I become more obsessed with the doll.
I used to wonder if I would miss the freak’s fighting nature, but there is so much more satisfaction in transforming the freak and using it as it is now: a lifeless, yet sexually reactive vessel.
The pupils, widening and narrowing, are expressive. The vocal cords grunt and scream. The heart beats rapidly. The body says so much without uttering a single word.
The freak lays in my bed. Once I am completely undressed, I ready the eye drops, then pry open the doll’s eyelids. Sometimes, there is an instinct to call my home or my bed “ours,” due to the fact the freak is constantly by my side. But a doll, be it living or dead, cannot own anything. Not a home. Not a bed. Not even its very existence.
I administer the lubricating drops into each eyeball, then manually close the eyelids so the liquid may be fully absorbed. After a minute, I open the doll’s eyes again. It blinks—a purely involuntary reflex—and its pupils stare at the ceiling, the dilation rapidly increasing and decreasing, unable to focus on its surroundings.
Warmth heats my groin. I like knowing it’s somewhat conscious for these intimate times together. The freak may never resist me again, but it will show these subtle responses to discomfort and pleasure.
I rub the solution—a secret formula from The Pure Companion Company, proven to keep deceased skin hydrated on our Hybrid Dolls, as well as to keep our Living Dolls’ skin vibrant—all over the freak’s body, paying special attention to the breasts. My slick hands roam over its sacks until the lotion dissolves into the skin, giving the body a damp texture.
I squeeze the doll’s nipples, and a memory flashes through me: the freak sucking its mother’s breasts.
I never did explain my initial attraction to its mother, did I?
“Let me tell you about your mother,” I say. I prop myself up on my elbow, side-by-side with the freak. “Why did I choose her? What did I see in her?”
The doll’s pupils dilate, and those full black spots in the center of the dark irises acknowledge me. Somewhere, inside of the brain, the doll is listening. It’s such an obedient fuck toy.
“Back then, I had just procured the papers to move from my position as a maintenance worker to the position of a nurse. Your mother was one of my first patients.” I comb my fingers through the doll’s blonde and black hair, untangling the knots. “Her actual doctor wasn’t available, so I was charged with making decisions for her. She was a volatile case, deeply unhappy with her situation, so I put her under isolation. ”
I run my hand down the doll’s head, to the neck, down further to the apex between its thighs. The cunt hair is now curled and wild. A woman like the old Violet probably believed men would prefer a hairless snatch; I quite enjoy a bush though, especially on my doll. The scent is stronger, more potent, and every instance of bodily arousal is much more noticeable now.
