The Gift Of A Doll

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I found the Wife waiting for me in the apartment that her Husband paid for. She sat on my couch, amusing herself as she waited for me by scrolling through her phone. They were a total power couple. I recognized her instantly from the many, many photographs of her, him, and them together in their house. She was a tall woman, almost 6 feet in her spike heels, with a chic blonde bob in a sleek black power suit. She smiled at me as I walked the door and put down my purse and various shopping bags.

“Hello slut,” she said, though there was a warmth to her voice, like slut was a well-established pet name between us and, well, not an insult levied at the woman sleeping with her Husband, “did you have a nice shopping trip?”

Confused by her pleasantness, I answered that I did, which made her laugh. Then she told me to check my phone. On it, I found a text from her Husband, my lover, advising me that we were through. He was bored of me. His Wife, however, wanted me for her own. So, he decided to gift me to her. If I followed her rules, then she’d ensure that my comfortable lifestyle would continue.

“Rules?” I asked.

“You will need to conform to my somewhat unusual tastes, especially when it comes to your grooming,” she said, standing up and running her fingers through my bouncy shoulder length chestnut hair, “but, unlike my husband, I don’t get bored so easily.”

She then seized me by the hair and dragged me to the bathroom. I screamed when I saw the instruments of torture, scissors, clippers, shaving cream, and razor, lined up on the counter. Unfazed, she stripped me naked. When I tried to stop her from taking off my expensive panties, she slapped me. Then she ripped them off. Tears in my eyes, I undid my bra and dropped it.

Cupping my modest B cups, she said, “I have already made an appointment with my surgeon. You’re getting DDD cups, sweetie. And that little pussy of yours is getting rehabbed. Made fit to be touched by a woman. I know that it’s been used hard by my husband and other dirty old man.”

She spread my legs. Due to her husband’s preferences, my pussy was already waxed. She inserted her right index finger into its bare folds and began to pleasure me skillfully. Even though tears were still in my eyes, I began to moan. As she pleasured me with her right hand, she picked up the clippers with her left and began shaving off random patches of my hair. I could see my beautiful hair being sheared off in the bathroom mirror. And I saw the piles on the floor. I tried to focus on the waves of pleasure radiating over my body and not the increasing number of bald patches over my scalp. Once I had my final moment of pleasure, she knelt me down and ran the clippers over my head again, stripping me of the last hanks of hair clinging to my scalp. She lathered me up and shaved me smooth with a men’s vibrating razor. She paused. Then she swiped off my eyebrows.

“You won’t be allowed wigs or to pencil in your eyebrows, of course, until I deemed you worthy of that privilege,” she said, running her fingers down my freshly shaved head and over the ridges where my brows once were, “and I expect you to shave head to toe every day, even if you’re not due to see me.”

Tears running down my face, I said, “Yes, Mistress.”

“Oh, she’s learning,” she said, “you love to see that.”

True to her word, she did not become bored of me. It’s been five years. I am still bald, and, thanks to regular laser treatments, I will be bald forever. Luckily, I have earned the right to wear wigs and pencil in my brows. Only when she allows it though. My body has been reshapped to her whims in other ways. My breasts are now size H with my waist whittled down to a 20 inches by corsetry and surgery. I am her beloved doll to dress up and abuse to her whims. It’s a wonderful life.

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