The Doll who Loved me

Chapter 1: Curing your loneliness with a muscle-bound sex doll

«I wish I was loved.»

His fingers hovered near the keyboard. Tits. His eyes gazed upon two glorious tits. Breasts. Gazongas. Gorgeous ones at that. He moved the cursor over the “size” option, clicked the dropdown menu, and hovered the little, sharp icon over the many, many available options: C, double-C, D-, double-D, E, double-E, F, double-F…

The standard was double-C, and those were already some of the most beautiful breasts he’d ever licked with his eyes. He’d rarely consumed porn. Too fake. Too ugly. «Porn women ain’t real women,» he thought. They were, however, much more real than that, were they not?

He wasn’t so sure. Those breasts, for instance: they looked so much more natural—much more real—than any real pair he’d seen in life. Only the titillating titties of old, perhaps, could compare to those breasts, those fake tits he had in front of him on the screen; and those titties, like the fake digital beauts they’d once belonged to, were now legends. Whispers in the wind, gushes on the cock.

For all purposes, those breasts there, flickering on the screen, they were real, and they were gorgeous—and he wondered, well, perhaps, with his sights on those wonderful titties… if they would be as sweet to his touch as they were to his eyes.

He clicked on the double-D option. His eyes almost left his skull. *Boing!* His legs spread out on their own, his posture on the chair stiffened, and in his groin he felt a fire, a burn, a truly energizing shot of masculine purpose right in the middle of his nethers. «These… tits…!»

Yeah, the tits. Truly astounding, those melons were. «Jesus!» He was amazed by the materialness of the pair: their softness, their roundness, their hazelnut shape, the sheer touchability of their every musky inch. They seemed too good to be true—and, given his line of work… sure. A pinch of skepticism would always be warranted. Those were only pictures, and pictures, he knew all too well, were the finest conduits to lies.

And still… «Still, they look so good.» He scratched the underbelly of his chin, where a shallow, unkept beard had been growing for years. «So good!»

Unreally good. Incredibly so. It was a beauty that invited the eyes to wander—and wander they did, all over her body: from tits to belly, from belly to hips, from hips to legs, from legs to…

The world. Seemed that way: eyes wandering all over the world; a world that was her body, a void which was his heart. «Perhaps…» So his mind went on thinking, and he shut it. «Perhaps…» He wanted to have no such thoughts, no such silly temptations, and yet… «perhaps…» So went his thoughts: «perhaps it is the world which can fill my void.»

A globe. After wandering all over the world, his eyes landed on a globe. An icon of it, that is, shining next to the Buy me now button close to the picture of that doll. His heart beat more unsteady, trapped on the edge of hope and disappointment. «Surely they wouldn’t deliver here.» He gave his thoughts a silent beat. «Would they?»

Why was he wondering that? It’s not as if he was going to buy her anyway. Just looking at her price tag made him feel poorer, and caused his mind to laugh, his soul to cry, because he was so destitute, and he knew it, he tried to forget it, yes, and yet, like all poor people, he could never really do it. Every time he looked at the price of something, he was reminded of it: poor, poor, poor. His dead carcass worthier than his living being. He was…

«Quiet. Quiet.» He closed his eyes. He shook his head vigorously. «Quiet.»

His eyes returned to the screen. “More real than the real deal.” Read the top of the page. «Not joking, they ain’t.» He whistled very softly, and so did his penis, in a state of happy hardness. «So… hot!» He found himself rubbing one thigh against the other, mesmerized beyond his own self. «Heavens. If this is the reaction a mere picture of this woman has on me…»

Not a woman. A doll. A mere image of a doll. Fake light. Fake warmth. Fake woman. Fake love. Yet still…

«Damn me.»

He moved the cursor over the little globe icon on the screen. A little box appeared next to it, with the text in very small letters inside, and he had to strain his eyes to force those words from a blur into a more discernible, sharper shape: Global delivery available to: …


What were the odds? Such an obscure company, a servicer of such unique industry—niche within a niche—catering to his place of residence, his damned frigid corner of the world. «This… is a sign.»

In the options for the breast sizes, he selected the largest available out of curiosity. «Mother!» Now the breasts, once big and beautiful, had become bloated and disproportionate, two abnormal balloons of unarousing tit-flesh, enough tit to scare off a bull and put its cows into unemployment; the damned milkers so grotesquely voluminous that they went down, down, down to the woman’s navel. Yuck.

In a haste, having had his eyes sored by those unsavory mammaries, he sought refuge back on the smaller options. He held no harsh judgments, though. There certainly were people in the world for whom those balloons would have been a tantalizing sight; people for whom their enormity would be a selling point, not a repellent. «Such are people. There’s always something for everybody.» He reasoned, himself very intimate to this truth. «People will attach to anything.» He pondered, the weight inside his body, deep in his belly growing, turning very, very uncomfortable. «People will love anything. Anything.»

Except for himself.

The breasts he chose were big (huge, in fact) but still believable. Like breasts a real woman—albeit an extremely lucky one—would sport. They seemed to be his type: huge and shapely, heavy and full. Milky. Delicious!

The thought of their fertility aroused him. Just looking at the doll’s nipples made him pucker his lips and gently suck in the air without noticing. He wanted to eat those tits, to suckle on their bountiful, generous milk. They looked lush, hot, and delightful to touch, never for a day dry of their nectar, forever replenished with life-giving cream.

He was almost kissing the screen now. So long had he spent looking at that doll that he completely ignored the darkness encroaching on his room, the sun diving slowly, lazily into the earth with no moon to take its place. Night had risen, but chances were he would never notice it.

With a yawn and short squeaks of discomfort, he pulled back on his chair, revealing an embarrassing bulge on his sweatpants. Embarrassing, that is, not because of the tent it formed on the fabric, but because of how small that tent was. From just a few steps away, one wouldn’t even notice it. At the tip of such short, puny tent, then, he saw a moist, sticky smudge growing on the fabric. «Curses.»

Was he really going to do it again? Really? Just how many times did a regular man have to do it in a single day? «A regular man?» He pondered. «A real man? Zero.» His stomach felt even heavier, and his heart beat as if it had to push against two heavy walls slowly closing on it, slowly crushing it. «A real man would have real women to do it with.» His eyes darted again, irresistibly, back to the screen. «Not this… travesty… here in front of me.»

A travesty he could not look away from. «Knuk mirh, gotten!» He bit his lower lip. «These breasts… gutten maier! They’ve even got weight to them!»

He meant it: he could feel their weight with his eyes. He loved how the tits arched down gently, a teardrop shape drawn with them by gravity. Their silicon (or whatever material they were made of) made them behave just like real breasts of that size would—or at least how he thought real breasts would behave. Their fullness indicated real life: tanks immaculately designed for the rearing of many children and the comforting of many lovers. Firm and meaty. Dense and heavy. Not solid, though, and not too perky or pointy like the breasts of women with implants. «This fake woman has breasts more real than…»

He needn’t complete it. He needed only to gaze.

And gaze he did for perhaps another half an hour into the night. Eyes on knockers, mouth agape, mounds of meat rubbed between his thighs, throat heaving like a starved wolf (or a runt who’d just been abandoned by the pack).

Eyes wandering, wandering. Wandering all over the world: from tits to belly, from belly to hips, from hips to legs, from legs to…

Oh. She was indescribable. Beyond carnal, beyond arousing, she was, quite simply… his type. This legend,read the description next to her image:

… is a tall, muscle-bound Amazon for the fearless of heart and strong of will who love ‘em rough. A goddess amongst queens, a queen amongst mortals, she is a natural-born leader of women and lover of men. Endowed with mystical powers of the fertility spirits, this steadfast, unwearying warrior is a match for any lad in both the bed and the battlefield. An avid horse-rider and thirsty cock-rider. Are you strong enough to take on her? Nights of fire and fury await!

She stood over six feet tall, and that was not even her most salient feature. Not her height nor her boobs, but her… «muscles!» Indeed. That woman had muscles atop muscles, and those muscles seemed to have muscles of their own. All in all, she was stronger than any woman could realistically be and stronger than almost any man he had ever seen.

She was no monster, though. She was a myth, a hero of legends… but woman. «Valkyries.» Was the first thing that sprang to his mind: the powerful demiwarriors of those lands, guiding the souls of the bravest of soldiers to their final rest in the afterlife. Other folks from more distant lands also had their own versions of such heroines—the Amazons, he recollected. Every people on his planet, it seemed, nurtured similar stories of such fabled titan women: women stronger than men, mightier than gods; women with muscles and curves; strength of an iron-hard body, tenderness of an hourglass-sculpted physique.

Women who were the best of men, men who were the best of women, all in one, both in the same. Female and male made whole. The perfect being. «God.»

Her aggressive, expansive, daunting musculature didn’t detract from her femalehood. To him, it only enhanced it. Her height, as he noted it, came in great aid of her distinct femininity, for it allowed her abundant muscles to be very well distributed. Though her shoulders were wide, her neck thick, and her hard muscles covered with very prominent, bulging veins (a sign of unmistakable virility and potency), she still rocked those long, gorgeous legs, such full and heavy breasts, a huge, round, firm ass, and a very thin waistline—that is, when compared to her much wider, stronger hips. All hallmarks of undeniable femininity, features that made a woman… woman. «Jaeven unt haelen!»

Her legs were as long as a model’s; her thighs and calves as big, strong, and powerful as a horse’s. To shoulder such heavy limbs, her butt was fittingly enormous (and enormously round). «This…» Even when her body was seen from the front, her gigantic buttocks still were quite visible, abounding to each side of her hips, overflowing like meaty cakes of power capable of moving mountains—or just tearing through them with a kick. «This…!»

Her cheeks were hard in a way wholly opposite to her breasts: they were both heavy and rigid as boulders, enough to not only withstand the direct blow of a sledgehammer, but to shatter it along with any other object or projectile was hurled against them. «This… is an ass!»

Her perfection unfolded at every gaze, in every inch of her dark, sunblazing skin. He could see the strands, the fibers of her muscles individually, one by one, if he brought his eyes close enough to her enlarged picture on the screen.

She was big. She was buff. She was a true gem, one whose rareness was accentuated by a glaring red text that blinked above her pictures: Last units remaining!

Initially, he dismissed those words. «Nyah! Cheap trick.» Was it, though? Very few of the other dolls on sale had that warning. «She’s the most expensive. Surely they’re trying to convince users to take her, creating a false sense of scarcity.» The longer he tried to convince himself, the less convinced he became, and the greater became the urge to just…

Buy her… have her… love her!

Every instinct in him burned like a sun. «Naye. Naye!» He closed his eyes, shook his head, hit it lightly with his knuckles. «No, no! I can’t afford it! This is just so stupid, it’s just so…!»

The longer he tried to convince himself…

He had his own apartment. He had his own savings. He had enough disposable income to buy that doll, even to throw her away and still not end up homeless. Most importantly, he now had the perfect woman, the woman of his dreams flashing so temptingly before him on the screen, no more than a fingerful of clicks away from his arms, an eager embrace; an opportunity, indeed, made more tempting, perhaps more agonizing when paired with that untiringly blinking sign, that mercilessly blaring noticeLast units remaining! Last units remaining!…—that became more oppressive each time it blinked.

He read her price. «This doll is basically a car. Hell.»

It felt fair, though. If anything, it felt unbefitting of her size. Too cheap. «She’s just! So! Big!» The thickness of her veins, the shreddedness of her muscles, it all pulled his eyes irresistibly back to her, time and time again, without fail, no matter how hard or how many times he tried to take his eyes off her. It pulled his tongue to her as well, given how very slowly, very slyly it’d left his mouth to drool on his pants. «She’s just so pretty.»

Perfect. She looked perfect for him. Perhaps something more than perfect: she looked impossible. «She shouldn’t exist.» That body type, that ideal mix and mash of muscles and curves and height, he could swear no real woman could ever look like that, even in a dream, so flawless, so immaculate, so spotless, so… ideal.

He wrapped his head with both hands, held it tight for a while, afraid that someone had stolen something from it. For all he’d dreamt about it, he never expected to see her, the woman of his dreams, right there, in the flesh, transposed so spotlessly into real life. «This… is scary.» To think that anyone would pen down the woman of his dreams, to blueprint his fantasies with such unnerving accuracy. «To know that someone, somewhere in this cold and hollow planet, some engineer or designer on the other side of this empty world… had the exact same fantasy as mine, down to every pore on the skin of this goddess.» It was a heartwarming, even intimate feeling, albeit an uncanny one as well. «Whoever you are, sir… I salute you.»

The woman on the screen looked deep, deep into his eyes. They had a heavy, royal air of serenity around them, those eyes of hers. She wasn’t just sex and appeal; she was also authority. Confidence. Gravitas. She really had that stern, tranquil look to her, the dignity of a queen, calm and soothing, with the subtle grim of someone who’s perfectly secure in their power and confident in their own abilities.

The exact opposite of him.

For a moment, the price didn’t seem to matter all that much. Only the doubt. The nagging insecurity that he wasn’t worthy of such a piece of heaven. «What a woman. What a… god.» And gods should not mingle with mortals, even when fake, even when wrapped in silicon for a skin. That woman felt above him. Beyond his reach. Too much a woman for too little a man. «No.»

In the throes of his shame, he considered closing the screen. It was foolish to dream with love. Foolish to even try. «My heart…» He touched his breast. «Too many false hopes.» Better not feed it any more disappointments, lest the hopes became a poison that would undo him in his sleep. «But… but…»

Wouldn’t this be a good thing?

His finger pressed a button of the little device on his hand, which he used to look around the doll on that screen. The pressing made a cute little sound: *click!* The muse’s stern look, however, followed him everywhere. It was a firm, but caring gaze. Strong and loving. Heavy and soft. Her facial features were beyond human. Almost… godly. Though her body was spartan, her face was cherubic, like a beaut from some alluring Arabian tale. Her skin was so much warmer, leagues more lively than his own palish stock. She struck a beautiful balance between the tender, motherly frailty of Europa and that strength so well-known (and so much desired) from those peoples south of the Mediterranean. «She is, like…»

Perfect. Ab-so-lut-ely perfect.

His eyes glided back to the persnickety, pressing red sign: Last units remaining! Last units…! Wouldn’t be a surprise if they weren’t lying. He had seen that same warning on some other dolls before, long ago, and every time he checked back on them, like clockwork… poof! They were gone. Out-a-stock. Gone to some rich bastard’s arms, never to hit back the shelves again. «This can be… the very first… and very last time…» He gulped, «that I see this woman.»

That woman. His woman. The woman of his dreams.

There he was thinking, the sign blinking, and the clock ticking. Work awaited him to come back and be productive again. It was so common for him to stop mid-labor and just… daydream; to peruse useless things on the bad network, and to covet better, more exciting things to do—things he would never have the money (or the balls) to.

Daydreams for impossible realities. A life of travels. Of women. Of love. A whole new fresh start. A whole new fresh… him. «So many people have it so much worse than I do.» He thought, as he always did when he dared daydream; when he dared aspire to better things, to greener pastures. He punished himself for being so ungrateful. Or for having a spine. «Such a worse lot in life.» He looked around his room. Clean. Spotless. No trash. No riches. No life. «I could be worse off. Much, much worse off.»

I could be worse off.

I could be worse off.

I could be worse off.

If this line of thinking ever brought him any comfort, he’d be the happiest man on earth.

The powerful woman kept looking at him, her face both the same and slightly different in every blink. She seemed like she knew what was going on in his mind, almost as if she were the only one who could understand him, to comfort him, to help him and nurture him in those times of need.

He couldn’t find the strength to shut his machine and leave her. No. It would’ve been like the closing of the door on a lover’s face, severing his chance of a beautiful relationship. When would he ever see that beautiful face, that gorgeous body again? «She went on sale yesterday.» He recounted, biting off his nails. «This red sign wasn’t there when I first saw her. Now…»

Blinking and blinking: Last units remaining! Last units remaining! Last… «Damn it!» Was she really that on demand? Or had they perhaps made very few of her?

Didn’t matter. The sign kept on blinking all the same: Last units remaining! Last units…

Her face was so serene. Like a shell. He could hear the ocean on it.

Indecision. He couldn’t buy her, he couldn’t send her away. All he could do was… run away. Get up from his seat, walk in circles around his condo. Not a very long walk, sure: his apartment was just a bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen, and a living space that doubled as a dining room, plus one decently sized storeroom opposite his bedroom. «Nothing to brag about. Definitely nothing to be proud of.»

But, again: he could have had it worse. Much, much worse.

«Doesn’t matter. It’s home.» And the thought this time was sincere: it was tiny, it was scant, but it was home. And it was so much more than anything he’d ever thought he would have in life.

He walked around the place as if it were his first time. «Calm. It’s peaceful in here.» He went to the narrow balcony by the living room to take some breaths. From where he stood, high atop the none, he could hear nothing but the cold, cold wind, and see little else but the walls of the lower buildings that surrounded him and the calm, chill ocean in the far distance, its nigh frozen, placid surface shimmering above and beyond the rooftops, under the quiet skies of that abandoned north.

It was cold there, as it was cold any time of the day, any day of the year, cold enough to chill the bones and crack the lips on summer nights, but still, he loved it, he liked it that way. It made him feel safe. Protected. As if the cold were a wall that shielded him from the unstable, unforgiving hotness of his past.

The ocean view, as slim as it was, never failed to soothe him. The coolness of the air was a cure for his head every time it got too hot or weary. If he could stomach it and look down, beyond the rails of his balcony, he would spot the odd bus or tram whistling by like tiny lost ants in the asphalt long, long below, and their precise movements, like the rhythmic tics and tocs of a metronome, would bring harmony to his soul. Tic. Toc. Tic. Toc. Tic…


He returned to his bedroom. The Amazonian goddess waited for him. You are never going to see me again, said her eyes, and for a brief instant he even looked back, hearing her voice just behind him, those words laid like warm honey upon his nape.

He looked down. His head felt heavy. He read her price again, and then his spine felt cold.

That was no piss money. But… «well, what else am I going to do with it?»

He had worked so hard for so long, suffered so much, and lived for so little that all the money he had saved as a result began to lose all meaning. Just paper sheets on a bigger (but never big enough) stash. It would only be a matter of time, wouldn’t it, for all those efforts to feel like… a waste? «To think that saving money makes a lick of difference.»

It didn’t. His life was proof of it. The world around him was proof of it. «There’s no need to save a thing when, decade in, decade out, like clockwork, all my savings will be gone.» Blasted away on a pointless war. Absconded from him by bankers on flight. Obliterated to smithereens on a mushroom cloud.

Pointless. All pointless. To save money, to spare anything in such a world felt like hubris. Arrogance. To spit in the face of the gods. When the past was trash and the future was a threat, only the present could be worth anything.

And if the present was worth something… wouldn’t that be it? Love?

«I will buy myself some love.»

He sat on the chair, his muse looking softer, more inviting to his heart. Her body! Her tall, strong body! As if her skin itself was an armor; one that was meant to protect him with its tight, firm embrace. «A hug. Imagine it. A hug… against this tall, strong body!» How firm and amazing that would feel. How strong and lovely her arms would be around his torso (or his neck). How tender and warm her lips would be on his shoulders, or her hands all over his back. Mmm…!

He refreshed the page. The doll still stood there, waiting for him, but the sign… was it blinking faster? «No…»

Giving way to temptation, he experimented with the store’s many, many customization features: the style of her hairdo (long, dark, full), the varnish on her nails (blasé beige), the shape of her sex (tight, tight, tight!), the color of her eyes. «Green.» He thought with absolute conviction. «Green. Her eyes shall be green.»  Deep green eyes from a deep nature’s sin, as stunning as the core of an emerald cracked open. «She looks… absolutely beautiful… absolutely perfect… with such deep, peerless green eyes.»

And so he chose it, making her in the liking of his dreams. In the end, having assembled the perfect woman, the immaterial girl, all that was left for him (and all that he had fought against all these hours) was to click the big, yellow rectangle at page’s end, with the words Buy me now emblazoned in big, blaring bold red letters.

He hesitated.

He argued against it.

He wrestled with it some more.

He hesitated…


The page asked for pay. «Oh.» It was a long time since he had done it. «I think I can find it.»He scrambled around on his room to find the little piece of plastic, rarely ever used. «Everything’s cash. No one buys stuff with plastic anymore.» And so he searched and searched, getting more lost as he did.

Perhaps he was being clumsy on purpose. Perhaps he was finding more elaborate excuses, constructing convoluted theatrics to not purchase the doll, not get to feel any love, not mend his life for a change. «So this is what I come to.»

Perhaps, indeed, it was something else: to buy that love was to admit something intolerable; to swallow a truth (one of the many) he had spent his whole life trying to spew, but that returned to him like poison every time he looked at himself in the mirror: «I am undesirable.»

Truly undesirable. So undesirable that only that fake love, that plastic woman could give him a semblance of the real deal. «Oh.» His thoughts were cut short as he felt something hard… and cold… on his fingertips. «There you are.»

He pulled the little thing from the messy pile of both bed sheets and paper sheets it had been lost into: the card of credit, plastic cash, fake money in plastic form for him to purchase fake love in a plastic body. It trembled on his fingers as he typed in the information on the screen, the small, peeling letters on the plastic very hard to read against its dark red coloring.

The cursor glided over another yellow rectangle: Confirm pay.He averted his gaze right before he…


A few seconds passed. The screen flickered.

And so he waited.

He kept on waiting.

The screen flashed a sign: Transaction processing (19)…

So he kept on waiting.

«Must be a long time for these things to get confirmed.» He thought, his heart steady, his mind at ease.

The tip of his fingers warmed one other, him tapping all the fingers of his hands before his face, his chin resting on his thumbs, tapping and tapping as he waited and waited, waiting and tapping to the flickers of the screen.

Transaction processing (3)…

Transaction processing (2)…

Transaction processing (1)…

Confirming transaction (please wait…)

*Tap, tap, tap…*

Then, a flicker. «Oh.»

Transaction complete.

«Oh, no.»

His love was now ready for shipping.

He stood there, unmoving, not a thought in his head. Whatever was done, was done. No reason to fret. Out of curiosity, he went back to the sales page. The red sign next to the doll was no longer blinking, and its text had been hollowed out of color. This time, it simply spelled: OUT OF STOCK.

Leaning back on his chair, he allowed himself a rare smile. «Maybe it was meant to be.» For better. And for worse.