The Doll who Loved me

The Doll who Loved me – Chapter 3: The perfect male

Boobs. Breasts. Titties. Knockers. Shakers. Milk-makers. Gazongas. He’d spent the entire morning looking at breasts, and those weren’t even half of all titties he’d have to work with until dawn.

He stretched long and lazily in his chair, both happy and annoyed by the nature of his work. It could get tiresome, you know, working with the same damned thing all day long, day after day in the week, all four weeks of the month, for months and months on end until there were no more months left to waste. «‘Tis what I like doing, though,» he reflected, «so I guess it could be worse, right? So much worse.»

Playing with pictures all day long, building beautiful covers for raunchy and erotic books. Most of his clients used to write tasteless romances to be sold online for peanuts, yet sometimes he got the occasional big gig or had to edits so particularly nasty the clients were pretty much willing to pay him whatever he asked («if not me,» he reasoned, «who’d work for these degenerates? Psycopaths?»).

He looked at his computer and admired the sumptuous cleavages shining on the screen. They were all nubile beauties with overdeveloped, lactating breasts, their dresses stained with their overflowing milk, and the naked figures dripping with hot, thick mommy nectar from their nipples.

It was a lactation thing, the niche for that particular client, and his penis couldn’t quite decide whether to be hard or soft with those images. “I need you to make them all milk.” His client had especifically instructed: “breasts. All ‘em tits. Big tits, all lactating. The dresses are almost tearing up, you know, ‘cause ‘em tits so big! Really hot. Some them, really nasty tits, huge gazongas. I want them tits naked, shooting milk. Not all covers. Some covers, nasty tits covered. Some covers naked, big tits free. You got it? I tell which cover which. You cover tits and you not cover tits when I tell you, okay? Very fine. You can name price. I pay for first cover, just one cover, okay, with the tits out, then we see if we continue work, okay?”

There were really strange, uncommon types asking for gigs all the time, and he really didn’t mind them, quirks and all. As long as they paid, all clients were equal. «It would be nice, though, to make money without having to work for it.» To be born an heir, that would have been a sweet life. To be born beautiful, from a great family, attending top American schools, dating all the girls there, knowing that all the problems of his life would be taken care of because he was a spoiled-as-fuck trust fund kid. «I wish I were spoiled.» He sighed, returning to work after a long sip of coffee. «Life sucks when you’re not.»

The cover was partially done. He needed to add all the shine and polish, however, which could almost be another whole work in and on itself. He added a few effects on the tits, making them gleam like sweat, like dropplets of morning dew on their soft, velvety skins.

All the time he sucked his lips and bit them very lightly, his mouth getting drier as the hours mounted. The skirts of those nubile vixens were just short enough so one could think they saw their panties—a Sharon Stone-crossing of the legs type of effect, though way less artistic. Their asses, hips, and legs were just as he liked them: wide, thick, and meaty. Those were healthy, strong teenagers brimming with fertility and life, good wombs ready to produce great babies, their thight cunts inviting of big, unyielding cock worthy of their lush, fruitful innards.

His dick got a little softer as he thought of the kinds of men who could have such young beauties on their arms. «Men who are the total opposite of me.» His eyes swelled, and the pressure in his head got distracting, if not painful at times, to the point that he found himself struggling to focus. As it happened, the combination of six unbroken hours of work, three liters of coffee, and a lifetime of sexual frustration wasn’t a great recipe for his head.

He stood up. His penis made a tent in his lose shorts. A small tent, mind you, but still a noticieable one. «Some men ain’t even have this luxury,» he sighed, adjusting his cock on his pants and walking to the bathroom in his room.

Pants down. Cock up. Right hand down. Left hand on the wall. Jerk off.

He hated the mirror in front of him. Always forced him to look at himself, that bastard! He could try another position, but that was the absolute best one in the tiny bathroom. Everytime he accidently got a glimpse of his reflection, he felt he could rip his dick off in anger. To mitigate that, he closed his eyes and tried to imagine the kind of man he would have loved to see instead in the reflection: that kind of big-dicked, muscular studs who would have the girls just like the ones he edited into his covers.

In the porn videos of his mind, he imagined not himself, but other men fucking his women. Men he knew he would never be. Men he wished he’d been born as, but had been cursed never to be: big, hulking, hairy muscular daddies teaching those uptight little sluts a lesson. He would imagine their orgasms and their fountains of squirt. Rows of women standing in a line, waiting to be fucked by a single, tireless bison. Kings and noblemen in the Middle Ages used to have harems like those: dozens, if not hundreds of pussies on the side, ready to always satiate their masters’ needs whenever required. That’s the perk of wealth and power: all the finest pussy in the world.

He felt the sweat running down his cheeks. His breath was uneven, his head almost exploding. He hated himself for it, but his cock sure felt nice—and it was his cock, not his head, that needed explosion. “Oh, god!” He would imagine this one glorious, beautiful male, with his body sculpted in marble, his face carrying the smile of someone who never had a problem in his life, fucking rows and rows of ladies who could barely contain their own orgasms, one after another passing out with the mere penetration of his giant cock head on their squirting, quivering queenies.

“Oh, god, what…” He rolled his eyes and moaned: “what a man!”

He shot his load on the mirror: pitiful threads of transparent white, almost a watery goo without an ounce of the virility to be expected from real jizz. He jerked himself harder, trying to coax more of that paltry paste from his cock, but that was it. His hardened member was only a little bigger than his palm side-to-side, and his ejaculate was just as pathetic. In disbelief, he watched his semen slide on the mirror as the image of that powerful stud, still fucking his harem of mares, was still etched into his mind.

He came when he had come; and when he had come, oh, it was an orgasm like no other!

The beastly Alpha roared like a lion, thundered like a bull warning off his rivals. His load was enough to make a woman full for the rest of her life; both with his massive cock inside of her and his massive load now filling her up, she felt full like with no other man—or group of men—could ever fill her, stretched beyond the limits of even her wildest fantasies, and experiencing more orgasms with a single thrust of that stud than she had with all the (many) losers in her love life.

That was the image in his mind when he came with his eyes close: a giant, muscular stud ejaculating hot and hard in the womb of his submissive lover. The ejaculation of a powerful conqueror of cunts! The sexual apotheosis of a Real ManTM, not the petty little dribbling of flabby-dicked boy like him.

He cleaned off the semen from the mirror and returned to work, feeling sadly hornier. «Fuck.» Jerking off usually helped to clear the mind, but that one session had been innefective at best. He felt like dying, honestly, with the pressure under his eyes so strong he needed to squint, squeeze, and scratch them from time to time just to set his mind straight and his thoughts clear.

He always felt like dying, but never like killing himself. It would have been so much better if he’d just… never woke up one day, or had never existed at all in the first place. Never having been born. Never having to waddle through all that load of bullshit.

He stared at his own reflection in the dark areas of the computer screen, seeing his bonecheeks produding through his pale skin. Though he now made some effort in leaving his cubicle every once in a while, that country knew no sun; its summers would be winters back in his homeland, and its winters could barely look like planet Earth in some days.

No, it wasn’t a nice country at all to live in, yet thousands of people risked their lives every day to set their feet on those frosty shores. «Nature sucks, but people are nice.» His mind drifted back to his old place, where «people sucked, but nature was nice.»

Was there anywhere a good combination of both? He sure tried to find it: the Americans had long neglected the astounding fertility of their land, choosing instead to splinter into a life of petty, tribalistic squabbles, and they never wanted any business with foreigners like him anyway. He was mediocre and unambitious; definitely not cut from the superior cloth of the Yankee race.

France was the next best thing, but the country too was involved it own, peculiar sort of domestic squabbles to make room for mudblooded peasants like him. Everywhere else in Europe was a raging clusterfuck, just like Asia a few years prior. Would the Europeans end up just as as fucked as the easterns? Their entire continent turned into a depleted battlefield? Its massive populace, into a zombified, mechanized mass of slaves threading and toiling endlessly over the torn-out, bombed-to-oblivion fields that had once housed Earth’s fastest-growing, most technologically-dominant civilizations?

Of the East’s sad fate, only Japan, claimed the experts, remained a viable country to live in, and he even looked into immigration to that strange, unwelcoming land, but the Japanese indeed would rather all bomb the world to oblivion then to allow a single one of his kind even land a boat on the tiniest, most remotest island of their entire bloodied archipelago.

Through trial and error, rejection and capitulation, then, he ended up there, as close to the North Pole as humans could get without abandoning society altogether, almost as if the very edges of the planet, where the scraps of civilization fell, were the only place left for a scrap of human like himself.

Sighing with mild content, he lifted his shirt and looked at his belly. Damn! He could count his ribs on his chest. «Eat more.» He thought, but on most days his lips would know only the taste of coffee. He wasn’t particularly tall, and by no means could he ever be considered hadsome. Cute? Maybe, but even that would have been a stretch for some. He had a pathethically oblong face, like a piece of shit after being stomped by a boot on the sidewalk, and a nose too flat and wide in a skin too pale and graceless—African sharpness without African warmth; Caucasian blandness without Caucasian smoothness. He sometimes looked more like the sketch of a human being than a human proper—as if he’d been God’s first draft for Adam before He discarded it and started all over.

His release had given him no release. It had only made him needier. The heat and the touch of those young, virgin beauties; that’s what he needed! Sweet, inexperienced girls who nonetheless rocked the massive boobs and ass and thighs of ravenous succubi; lovely-looking angels with tight pussies swelling under their pink panties, their gazes like those of sex-starved demonesses in angelic faces with bright-colored eyes.

He leaned closer to the screen, wanting to lick the women through the pixels. The sooner he finished, he reasoned, the sooner his thirst would be quenched. He rubbed his thin thighs against one another constantly, adding extreme amounts of detail to those women, making them little by little more untouchable and impossibly erotic compared to any real one. By the end of his shift, it was night already. The cup of latte just kept magically refilling itself as the hours rolled over one another, without him ever noticing, and his stomach grumbled, churned, and turned in demand of some real food.

He reviewed each and every one of his finished covers before sending them off to his horny client for approval. They were all beautiful works of smut that would also sell beautifully. There was a fizzle of pride in his heart; all but a speck of the emotion he used to feel when he’d started that work, so many years ago, as an act of desperation rather than inspiration, trying to make some money—any money!—to keep himself from starving. It had been sheer, dumb luck that led him to his first clients and taught him that, no, he was not entirely useless, and it was over this sheer, dumb luck that he founded his entire career, built his entire life upon.

Though he was a loner and a crooked fuck—an autistic twat with as much social graces as a bat in daylight—he was not, despite everything everyone had ever told him, an absolute zero. No. He was zero point something. And it was that filthy, smutty something that managed to pay for all his needs and helped him to escape his compatriots and captors, finding solitude, even peace on the farthest edges of the Earth.

He both hated and pitied them. His people. They were not guilty of the rottenness of their souls, but that didn’t help ease the pain of all they had done to him back in his youth. From the day he was born to the day he would die, he would carry all those massive bags of shithead in his mind. His body would grow weary and weak, but the shit, the heavy pile of psycho-dung in his skull, it would remain the same size, the same weight, if not grow even heavier, bending his spine until it cracked and sent him (hopefully) into an early grave.

*Click!* He pressed the button and sent the covers. With a long sigh, he leaned back on his chair, thinking if maybe he should relax a bit. «No.» Another mind within his mind interjected. «I need money.» He carried on to the next client instead.

Money, yes, money. It was money that allowed him to escape his wretched place and rent that little piece of paradise. The nature of freelancing was just as unforgiving as it could be occasionally, rarely very fulfilling: some days you made bank, some days the bank made you. He both envied and despised the stability of more “formal” types of workers, who never had to worry (too much) about their next paycheck, but who also ended becoming such tame, compliant sheep—even evil sheep, on some cases: sheep who, to protect their beloved stability, were always ready to slander, to steal, to smear, or to vote for fascists.

There’s nothing as sad and pitiful as a man in a cubicle. It was like the anti-habitat of a human: the white walls of an air-conditioned office building, the thumping of the fingers on the keyboard, the occasional chat and sneeze of the coworkers, the mortifying buzz and hum of productivity.

He wanted their perks without their leash: a good salary, a career ladder, a nice dental plan without those detestable cubicles to rot away in Excel sheets, moving money from there to here and here to there, all for the fat profits of his uncaring masters, a mere engine to power the easy, unmerited luxuries of his robber barons—barons whose sons, by the way, would all end up tall and handsome and muscular; real studs meant to fuck, marry, and mingle with only the best females of the world, breeding the future princes and kings of humanity, who would go on to continue the endless line of injustice, oppression, and inequality that kept poor blokes like him on the mud—or rather, on the cubicle.

Sons of prosperity, heirs to happiness. How despicable was their existence, and how wondrous would be to have it!

He bit his lips, dreaming with the better rolls of the dice as he read the assignment from a different client. This time, at least, he wouldn’t have to suffer (too much) from his thirst: it was a regular set of covers for yet another run-of-the-mill series of wishy-washy romances. All very girly and very innocent, not the type of work which would require rolls of luscious lactating breasts; not the type of imagery that would have stirred too many emotions inside his flailing, wheezing dick.

Or so he thought.

The covers were in the style of old arcade romantic sagas, with a damsel on the strong, thick arms of a dark, shirtless, muscle-bound, long-maned man. He was already tantalized by the women—big-bosomed beauties whose tight, light dresses highlighted every curve of their healthy, fertile bodies, making them often more erotic than if outright naked—, but it were the men who completely threw him off.

As he laid his eyes on those studs, his penis grew harder yet again. The image was just as arousing as the not-naked-but-still-very-naked virgins. And painful. So bloody painful! The aggressive muscles of those studs, whose pants bulged generously around their crotches, carrying massive meat sticks between their thick, hairy legs, all of it reminded him of a virility he would never possess. Their legs were built like Greek columns, their torsos wide and massive and firm as the back of horses, with pectorals so enormous a single halve of their chest was wider than his whole torso.

He admired their six-, sometimes eight-pack of gorgeous abdominals, the shinny and lustrous hairs that adorned their chests, as well as the beautiful dark manes of their heads, and sometimes the vast, well-kept beards on their manly, chiseled jaws.

The boy picked his computer and stood up abruptly, almost knocking the coffee mug from his desk as he ran again back to the bathroom. He barely shut the door as he put the laptop on the sink, lowered his trousers and began to masturbate to the images of those powerful stallions. He closed his eyes and moaned as he beheld those portraits of obscene masculinity, getting in heat with the abundance of meat and muscles in those larger-than-life bodies. The images were rarely pornographic, but it wasn’t the prospect of their glorious, naked bodies that got him off; it was the sheer confidence in their posture, their gazes, their firm, authoritarian eyes commanding respect without a word.

The perfection of their physiques, living statues out of marble, contrasted with the flabby misery of his own. The thought of him being dominated by those studs—being chained to the bed and hand-whipped by their powerful hands, chocked by their swollen biceps while they sinfully sodomized him like wild males in heat, all of it brought him over the edge.

“Oh, god!!” He rolled his eyes and leaned to the the mirror, getting an glimpse of his reflex before immediately averting his gaze. Too late: the image of his own self got his penis softer and delayed the inevitable explosion. He needed to bathe his mind on those hundreds of powerful, virile bulls to get his cock hard and manly again.

Many of those males wore only black or white boxers, leaving little to the imagination about the size and sturdiness of their genitalia. Some clients asked him to make the bulges bigger, but he scarcely needed to be told that before editing them into obscenely well-endowed hunks, looking like they packed an elephant trunk and a pair of mangos in their boxers.

As he furiously beat his meat, he “accidently” clicked on the folders containing more pornographic images. «Jesus!» The naked crotches flaunted cocks so big and beautiful he almost felt them slapping his face through the screen. His penis vibrated and his balls shrank, filling the bathroom with squishy noises as he prematurely unleashed his load. “Oh, god!!” He almost lost the strength on his legs. “Oh, god!! Oh!! Oh!” He leaned desperately with an arm to the mirror, where his semen was barely visible—all two squirts of it.

He accidently took another peek of himself, and this time he didn’t avert his gaze so quickly. He stared at his reflection and let the anger brew. He almost felt the urge of spitting in his own image; at making a clone of himself and clubbing him to death. «Was that what they felt when they saw me?» The saliva was spilling out of his lips. «This great disgust and hatred?»

His fist was closed. He could almost throw a punch if the glow of his computer screen hadn’t caught his attention before. There, he noticed he had indeed shot more than two pitiful ropes of semen, as another one had actually hit the upper tab of his screen, prompting him to quickly scramble for some toilet paper to clean it up. As he wiped the cum off his computer, his fingers slid over the model’s hair on the screen, like a cuddle. He gazed upon that massive, muscular body, all culminating on a thick, long, soft penis that dangled between its huge, veiny legs, like the absolute pendulum of virility that it was.

The man was obscenely packed. His balls were so big and full the boy could see their bloated outline from behind the cock. Was that what a Real Man looked like? He’d never seen any in real life to compare (certainly not naked), though even the fake cartoon males or porn actors didn’t sport a penis so fabulously fat and gorgeous as that one. The fact that it was soft only made it more imposing, like a third leg so ungodly thick no hand could wrap its fingers fully around its girth. The big, main vein on it was very salient, with smaller, plentiful veins sprawing from it like branches through the rest of the gargantuan womb-smasher. It was such a big and heavy penis it looked like he needed an extra portion of blood just to keep it up there, dangling on his hips without falling off and rotting away.

His penis grew harder again. He felt like spending whole hours just looking at that model of masculinity. He ran his fingers across the screen, imagining his touch on that firm, rock-hard Alpha male, and wished for a moment that he was the Alpha male, before dropping the silly though and imagining himself instead being dominated, beaten, fucked raw in the ass by that powerful hairless bison, that raging human bull, that tireless fertile stallion. The shallowness of his own cum couldn’t compare to the scortching, heavy broth that bull was sure to cum on his ass, or to the massive buckets of load he came on the tight pussies of his hundreds of lovers. “A man like this…” He muttered to himself, touching his own pecs, pinching and twisting and pulling his own nipples, “must ejaculate like a fucking firehose.”

The minutes went by as he imagined himself being humiliated, subjugated by that mighty male in all manners of sexual depravity. Though his dick was fully hard again, his balls were probably as dry as the Cerrado. Nevermind. He was not supposed to be the virile partner there, after all. The man was. He had more pleasure imagining that stud plowing him with brutality or—even better—humiliating and derogating him before his harem of fertile females, than actually being that super stud or having sex with all those women himself.

He imagined himself as a better, richer man, for instance, trying to get a lay with a beautiful woman in a party. Then that stud, that Alpha male appeared and very easily stole the woman from his arms, laughing at him while heading to his bedroom, ready to take the prize on his own bed.

His dreams changed, yet remained the same: he imagined himself with a beautiful girlfriend, only to have her stolen by the stud. Then, the Alpha made him watch as he fucked his own girl, showing him how a real man fucked, mocking him at every opportunity as he took his woman to even greater heights of pleasure, her body twitching and her eyes rolling as he managed to extract one squirting orgasm after another out of her battered pussy.

It didn’t end there: after she was laid conquered and wrecked and ruined on the bed, the male withdrew that gorgeous pipeline of a penis from her and proceeded to jerk it off with both hairy, masculine hands over her body. As she panted and slowly recovered her breath, the overmuscular stud turned to him and demanded: “why don’t you feed your girlfriend a real man’s cock, huh?” The boy, in turn, just stood there, befundled, barely understading his Alpha’s words.

“Do you want this cock again?” The huge male asked his submissive princess. “Tell your pussy boyfriend how badly you want this cock.”

She resisted, she bit her lips, but she inevitably relented, looking almost pitifully to the boy: “yesss. I want this cock!”

“Then ask your boyfriend to put it inside you.” He laughed, clearing any lingering trace of doubt: “not his pencil dick, of course. My cock.” He grabbed his manhood. “Tell him to come here and guide my stallion cock into yout cunt.” They were both shocked by the command, and he, the little boy, almost had tears in his eyes when his girlfriend finally relented, the ectasy dripping on her voice: “please, honey… do as he says.”

He crawled towards them on his knees, weeping and yelping like a hurt puppy, a lonely tear sliding down his cheeks, and grabbed that massive penis as respectifully as he could, like the handling of a divine relic, and felt its hardness, its lusciousness, its liveness, its granite-and-steel texture, as well as the its immense girth, taking the chance to also touch his immense, throbbing balls, who were so full of virile semen you could hear it sloshing inside.

“Good pup.” The mighty male fondled his cheeks. “Now, put this cock where it belongs.”

He moved the penis inside his girlfriend’s pussy, seeing her being wholly stretched by the helmet of that monstrous manhood. «Oh, my god!» He thought to himself, moaning in the bathroom. «His head alone is bigger than my whole penis!»

“Deeper.” The Alpha commanded, and he silently wept as he pushed the cock deeper into the woman, seeing parts of her groin bulge as the immense serpent penetrated her innermost womanhood. “Look how deep I can reach, and I’ve got barely a third of my cock in her.” He silently obliged, guiding inch after inch of that endless cock inside the woman. “Now…” The male leaned to her and sucked her tits, making her moan and wet herself like crazy, “feel it. I’m deeper than any man has ever been in her, and there’s still another half of cock to go.”

In the end, the man could never fully penetrate her. The cock easily hit her cervix with many inches still left outside her cooch. Sadly (for both partners), she didn’t quite enjoy cervical penetration, therefore, with utmost control, his body being both a force of destruction and ecstasy, the stallion proceeded to fuck her pussy senseless for another whole hour, drawing so many orgasms out of her that the poor little being didn’t know what’d hit her when it was all set and done. She yelped, screamed, moaned, and fainted more times than anyone could count, and the little man, both within the dream and in the bathroom, came hard by watching that superior male conquer the ever-living soul of his lover.

Despite his third ejaculation, no semen left his penis. His little, shrived balls were exhausted—the exact opposite of the raging stallion in his dreams, who nutted like ten men inside his girlfriend. Still, the pleasure was even more sublime, and he found himself fumbling his own buttocks, teasing his asshole with his index finger as he descended from ecstasy and found himself again, rather anticlimactically, on the same dark, dreary bathroom, in front of the mirror still smeared by his previous load.

The computer was still on, its screen slightly dimmed after so many minutes of inactivity. “What a man,” he muttered softly, and then more loudly so: “what a man.” The swelling of his eyes got more pronounced, and he closed the laptop quietly and returned to his desk. «Fuck,» he thought. «That’s three jerk-offs.»

He didn’t like the habit a lot, though he admitted it was the only thing that kept he sane, even alive. «Fuck idiot.» He hated himself for having failed to remain “chaste,” nutting three times in the same day and still not feeling sathed. «You fucking piece of shit.» He opened the laptop and stared at the same erotic image of the stud dominating the busty damsel, with his wide shoulders and Greek-column-thick arms. The sight of his exposed, muscular back got his penis twitchy again, and by the end of that shift, a few minutes past two in the morning, he had jerked off again in his seat, without even taking his pants off, making a mess of both it and his underwear.

He changed his clothes quickly, and half-heartedly cleaned the bathroom mirror, where his semen had nearly solidified, leaving two tiny, ugly smudges in the glass. He was in no mood to do anything else. After sending those last covers to the client, he sank into the bed with his head heavy, aching and throbbing like his brain had morphed into a nest of hornets. «This doll… this doll…» He though to himself, holding back the flood in his eyes, «she can’t arrive soon enough.»


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The Doll who Loved me – Chapter 2: A cup of blessings

Credit: https://pixabay.com/photos/woman-blonde-look-looking-1919143/

Wednesday was groceries’ day. At some point in the long past, there was a particular reason for him to pick that day—and only that day—for buying his weekly essentials, though he no longer remembered it. Wednesdays just felt right. They had a laxness to them: neither the dread of Mondays nor the chaos of Fridays. They sat right smack in the middle, almost as if balancing the whole workweek on their head, so the world seemed alive, but tame.

Safe. It just felt safe. Not that he had many reasons to expose himself to the world every week, Wednesdays or not. Once every month would suffice, given that he ate very little, and consumed other frivolities even less often. Somewhen in the past, too, he’d changed his schedule for buying groceries only once every month to once every week. As with his choice of the groceries’ day, the exact time of the change eluded him, but the reason was much clearer than ever: «she is so pretty.»

He stood idly at the entry of the market. Time slowed down whenever he saw her. ‘Pretty’ wasn’t the best word. ‘Hot’ was.

That was a perk he hadn’t considered at all when moving to that country—well, not consciously, at least: people there looked much more beautiful than the average—almost astonishingly so—, and girls who would be models elsewhere were usually teachers, drivers, or cashiers in that land. The most average of them looked like models; the better ones, like angels. Competition was so stiff even the cutest gals didn’t think too highly of themselves, and many of them probably even faced a good deal of self-esteem issues, becoming easy (or at least easier) preys for men with just a little bit of balls between their legs.

He wasn’t such a man. In fact, he might was well have been born a girl, so paltry was his pair. He remembered how it took him an Herculian deal of effort to even just look at a woman in the eyes for the first time—and that was with his fucking phychiatrist! His experiences taught him to never again even try and address a lady. Ever. «Just a waste.» He lowered his head and walked in. «Don’t bother them. You’re just a waste.»

Yet still, he couldn’t stop thinking about the pretty girl at the register as he loaded the bags on his cart. He sometimes stopped between the lanes just to have another glance at her, all while making sure he’d never pause for longer than three seconds, more or less. He had become quite an expert at being a lurker without being a creep. He didn’t want to make pretty girls uncomfortable, yes, but he also wasn’t going to deny himself the pleasure of seeing them. «The sight of a pretty woman is a human right,» he sometimes justified to himself.

At first glance, that girl in the counter was polar opposite of one he’d purchased, and not just from the fact that she was, well, actually real. She was slim and very feminine, hardly weighting nine and a half stones, and definitely without a drop of tomboyishness in her whole demeanor. She was an all-around princess, yet she still carried that humbled, honest look of someone who didn’t have all things in life handed in a silver plate—beauty aside, of course.

She looked down-to-earth. Real. Just like him. He loved to imagine how much better the world would be from her point of view. Good parents, great country, strong relationships, calm and peaceful society. How would it feel to have people always smiling when they looked at you? Treating you like a human being? Showing you always the better angels of their nature?

Should feel nice, he sighed. A world less dry, less threatening. A world where he’d be safe anywhere, anyday, not just on Wedsnedays, and definitely not by living at the very edge of the frozen outskirts of Earth.

He calmly placed his items one by one on his cart. Stopping by the frozen goods, he gave one good look at all he’d bought and realized his lifestyle wasn’t all that bad. «I’m not that much a loser,» he smiled, if only briefly. There was not a bit of organic food or spice in sight, yes, but at least he was past the point of consuming only ready-made goods and frozen junk.

Yeah, he still ate like a college student, but at least he’d be a rich college student: there was pasta and rice and beans with expensive sauces and whole pounds of expensive meat coupled with some fancy-ass bottles of juice imported from his native land, of all places, which happened to sell for a pretty penny up there in the Artics. «Heh. Ironic.» He wondered, feeling the weight of the bottles in his hand. «Back there, this thing’d be cheaper than water.» Considering how hard sanitation and plumbling came around, that wasn’t all hyperbole.

There is only so much junk food, after all, one could have before kissing their heart bye-bye. Mostly, though, it was shame: though food did bring him confort, it’d never been to him the end-all, be-all it was for other people. His hatred for growing fat just happened to be much stronger than his pleasure of munching on junk food.

In a way, the things people did to him in his old country did leave a positive side effect on his body—if not on his mind.

He startled himself by throwing a package of meat a little too hard in his cart. The sound of the heavy meat clashing on the metal woke him from those nasty thoughts, only for him to notice that other people were staring at him very intently.

He immediately lowered his head and carried on with his business, rolling fast between the lanes and disappearing from any gaze as quickly as possible.

People could sense the weird and the disease in him. It was obvious for anyone with their minds in the right places: just as beautiful, rich people exhuded the smell of ease and success, he smelled the stench of failure and inadequacy. It wasn’t even that he resented the fact he was made to fail and slumber; it’s just that everything took so long! «Nature could end me now and quick.» He thought, moving along the isles without picking anything. «More merciful, ya know.»

The fact he could have to go for fifty, sixty, maybe seventy years longer in life sometimes made him desperate. Alone in his apartment—his heavenly kingdom—he sometimes screamed to himself, banging his head against the walls, never to be heard. Not that he minded, of course, never being heard. He preferred it that way, that nobody knew of his problems. It was much better than somebody knowing, but not caring. Or worse: somebody knowing… and enjoying it.

He felt the swelling under his eyes and stopped at the middle between two lanes, felling his heart pace and his skin burn, sweat forming on his forehead. There was a slight unease of breath followed by a blurring of his vision. He had to close his eyes and count to ten, twenty… fifty… but the problem didn’t go away as quickly as it used to.

The longer he faced it, the worse it got. The last time he had it this bad… well, it was really, really bad! Back in his old land. In public. It involved slurs and beating. And blood. His blood.

He felt like losing balance, and the image of those shelves toppling on one another like dominoes because of his carelessness burned brightly in his mind. «The manager’ll come. They’ll scream at me.» The swelling and pain got stronger. His hands were trembling, gripping the cart’s handrail like they wanted tear it off.

A voice came by his side. Almost scared the soul out of his body: “you alright, mate?”

He answered just as promptly: “hmm… headache. Big one.”

“Uh.” The stranger gave him a good look and, thankfully, ignored him. Maybe the man saw that he was no good. Maybe he saw he was a foreigner. Or maybe he had feigned normalcy so that the stranger didn’t feel like saying anything else.

Still, it stung a little. Even if it was actually “just” a headache, it would have been nice for the man to ask if he needed anything, or maybe even go the extra mile and offer him some health assistance—like calling a doctor or something. «Nah,» he forged a smile on his face. «I’m good. It’s better this way. This guy made me a favor.» People like him were better off forgotten.

Maybe looking at the beautiful cashier would make him feel better.

It did. At moments like those, he usually didn’t like thinking about women. Brought him back unconfortable memories, you see. It was a useless, anyway, to dream about something he’d never have. That girl, however, made him feel special; she made him feel calm and sweet. It was something ‘bout her beauty, both arousing and delicate, like a lover and a sister, or a goddess who’d turned into mortal just to take care of him.

He didn’t feel too intimidated by her. Was it because she was poor (or at least working class)? Was it because she was young and quiet—an uncommon thing for pretty gals like her—, maybe nerdy or a bookworm, someone even closer to him?

«You should go talk to her.»

That voice. That annoying voice in the back of his head. He shut his eyes and shook his head, trying to physically expel it from within him. «No!» He reaffirmed. He was not to do the same fucking mistake he did… so many years ago.

He turned the cart around and strolled aimlessly throught the market, with nothing else to buy. The calm and ease were gone. He was now just fearful, with his head heavy and aching, his heart picking up pace, the pressure rising as he realized that, romantic or not, he would have to face that girl up-close.

«Come on. You’ve done that already. Many times, even!» He tried smiling and being positive, but was bombarded by a tsunami of vicious thoughts at every attempt. Maybe he shouldn’t leave that place. Maybe he couldn’t. He looked around and tried to imagine himself living in that already-too-familiar store—the same spot he’d been shopping for the past two years and something. «Fuck.» The word exploded in his mind, time and time again: «fuck. Fuck. Fuck.» Like a deathroll inmate, he went to the counter trying his best to not look at the guard.

Don’t disturb her. Don’t you dare ruin her good day and good mood with his presence. Beauty was something too precious to be tainted by his being. It was, in a way, his only way of caring for her: the farther he got from girls like her, or the more invisible he made himself to them, the better.

T’was a nice relationship: he fed on their beauty, they weren’t disturbed by him. Though that girl didn’t know it, she made the world a much better place by just existing and being beautiful—as if her abundance of good blessings somehow trickled down into his empty chalice of love.

«I respect you. I really do.» He thought, growing a hunchback as he put the groceries on the counter. She might have been looking at him. He couldn’t know, of course, not without lifting his head and seeing it for himself. «I could be feeling less stressed by not coming out here so often. But I do.» He raised his head. «All because of you. Beautiful stranger.»

She wasn’t looking at him. Mechanically, like the job had become part of her instincts, she just grabbed the stuff, passed them under the barcode reader, and stashed them on the other side. It was only then that he noticed he’d forgot to hurry up and package the groceries. «Fuck!» Was his first thought. «Hot!» Was his second. These two were his only thoughts, basically: «fuck! Hot! She hot! Fuck!»

Her skin was beyond flawless—freckles included. «They’re like whiskers. Her face is so feline. So… feminine.» Her eyes were aggressively green. Like… «wow!» They were almost two big emeralds dimming every other light in the room.

She barely looked at him directly, and that was nice. She treated him with the casual disinteresst of a tired-ass, bored-out-of-her-mind teenage cashier, one who had to take on those menial jobs just to pay her way through college or something like that.

«Here,» he pondered, «she doesn’t have to worry about college.» He felt another pinch in his heart. Looking around the place, it was easy for him to forget just how clean and tidy everything in that country was, to the point that even an mundane store like that shone like chrome. «Nobody suffers here. It’s like paradise does exist, but it’s meant only for them.»

He felt resentful and a little bit angry, leading him to mutter to himself and—oh!—catch the attention of his girl.

She looked straight at him, a bit startled. “Sorry?” She leaned forward. “Did you say something?”

He staggered. Deer-on-the-headlights look in his eyes. “Nah, nothing.” He said, stammering his way through the words.

“Hmm.” The pretty girl moved the last few itens past the scanner: “four hundred fifty-seven, twenty-two.”

“Uh-uh.” He muttered, swiping his card and getting the hell out of there as soon as his payment came through. There was a brief moment, however, as he was typing his PIN, when he wished she’d recognized him. «I don’t know. I wish she, like, said something.» Maybe asking whether she’d seen him before, maybe commenting on the fact that he’d bought groceries regularly there, same time, same day, every week without fail, or… «I don’t know.» Something. Anything.

The best thing was probably for her to not say anything, of course. Still hurt, though. «Why can’t I do a bloody thing?!» He hit his head with a fist, thrashing the bags on his arms. «You stupid little cunt!»

A car almost ran him over as he crossed the street without looking. When he got to the other side he realized, with great sadness, that he was still alive.

«Fuck.» Feeling his head almost exploding with negativity, he looked back at the store, through the dark, blue-ish windows where he glimpsed his girl, so faintly visible, and then he was calm again. With a long, chill sigh, he turned around and walked slowly back to his place. «This doll can’t take long enough to come.»

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The Doll who Loved me

The Doll who Loved me — Chapter 1: The purchase of love

Credit: https://www.pexels.com/photo/man-in-black-and-white-stripe-dress-shirt-sitting-on-chair-in-front-of-macbook-4069292/

“I wish I was loved.”

His fingers hovered on the keyboard. Tits. His eyes gazed upon two glorious breasts. He moved the mouse cursor over the “size” option, clicked the dropdown menu, and hovered over the many available options: C, double-C, D-, double-D, E, double-E, F, double-F.

The standard was double-C, which was still some of the most beautiful breasts he’d ever seen. He’d rarely consumed porn. Too fake. Too ugly. «Porn women ain’t real women,» he used to think. They were, however, much more real than that, weren’t they?

He wasn’t sure. Those breasts looked much more natural—much more real—than the breasts he’d ever seen in porn. Only the titillating titties of film stars, in the rare moments when they were allowed to shine onscreen, could compare. For all purposes, those breasts were real and gorgeous—yet he wondered if they could be even more so.

He clicked on the double-D option. His eyes almost left his skull. He spread his legs a bit, adjusting his posture on the chair, and felt the fire burning in his groin. Those were truly astounding tits.

«Jesus!» He was amazed by the realness of the pair: their softness, their roundness, their hazelnut shape. It seemed too good to be true—and, given his line of work, a pinch of skepticism was always warranted. After all, there were only images were available. A video or two wouldn’t be too much to ask for, would it? Unless the sellers were trying to hide something.

«Still… looks so good, though!»

Yes, it did, and for a damn good reason: if there was a brand that could only stand to lose with false advertisement, it was that one. The most expensive dolls in the market, and one of the few notable companies of its kind that had managed to break into the mainstream: the big papers, the big shows, the big tellies, it seemed that everyone had written or talked about it. Celebrities had gone on camera to gush about their experiences with their products. Sex houses in the Old Riverlands even offered them for people who preffered them over real women—real whores, that is.

“More real than the real deal” was their tagline, and his hard penis seemed to concur. «Fucking… hot!» He found himself rubbing one thigh on other, stimulating his member, even touching and rubbing his pants with his palm, nearly hypnotized into jerking himself off. He shook his hand and moved his warm, cock-smelling fingers back to the mouse.

«Fuck. If this is the reaction a fucking doll has on me…»

He didn’t finish his trail of thoughts. The rest of it was clear and predictable, yes, but still he felt like he should have finished it. When he spoke, in fact, rare was the sentence that ended up intact. He mostly broke them in the middle, too afraid and too ashamed for having spelled them in the first place.

With pressure in the back of his eyes, he selected the largest option: double-F. Now the breasts, once glorious and gorgeous, were bloated into abnormal ballons of titflesh—so much tit that the damned milkers went down to the woman’s navel. He had to click on the previous option several times, instinctively, just too erase that hideous image off his head. He didn’t judge it, though. There certainly were people who liked that sort of stuff. «People will fuck anything, really.» He looked to his own body. «Except me, I guess.»

The double-D breasts were big—massive, in fact—but still believably so. He liked breasts that huge and shapely, much more than most men. The thought of their fertility aroused him. The perfection of the dolls nipples made him pucker his lips and gently suck in the air. He wanted to eat those tits and suck their imaginary milk. Were those globbets of mommy love real, they would certainly be lush, hot, and delightful to touch, never for a day dry of their creamy content, their life-giving nectar.

He was so much closer to the screen, puckering his lips like he was trying to kiss it. He spent so long looking at that doll that he’d basically forgot it was night already, and that most of his room was falling into darkness. Only the burning of the screen in his eyes woke him up. When he straightened up and moved his chair back, his penis hit the top of his desk, forming a visible tent on his pants—a small tent, but a tent nonetheless. At the tip, he could already see a moist, sticky smudge in the fabric. He was lubricating himself, but not yet so aroused that he felt he needed to leave the bedroom and let off some steam—and spunk—in the bathroom.

«Damn!» He bit his lips. «The breasts even got weight on them!» He loved the way the tits arched down on the chest, pulled by gravity. Their silicon (and whatever materials they were made of) was so smooth it actually behaved like real skin in a real breast of such size—or at least, well, how he imagined a real breast would behave. It was firm, yet still meaty; dense and heavy like it was full of milk and healthy fat, but still soft in a very natural, human way.

He spent maybe half an hour looking at those knockers, gawking at their shape, rubbing his penis between his thighs. When he accidently zoomed out and had another look at the full body of his goddess, he very nearly lost it.

She was even hotter the second time around. Exactly his type. «Oh, Jesus!» Poor boy was nearly drooling! Her name was Yara (spelled “Iara,” but who cares), and the site described her as “powerful queen of a long-lost Amazonian tribe.” They even had a cute bio for her, story and all. Just the right amount of cheese to be served with good wine:

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

She stood at exactly six feet tall, and had enough muscle to set herself leagues above even very fit ladies. She clearly belonged to a more risqué, niche selection of the company, and her price tag dearly reflected that.

She wasn’t no monster. She wasn’t no lady either. She was, indeed, like a comic book superheroine, only a little more buff. She had aggressive, bountiful breasts and butt paired with a lady-like trim waist, wide hips, and legs big and powerful as a horse’s. Her construction was so perfect he could even see the strains of the muscle fibers on her thighs, which themselves were each as thick as his own whole waist.

She was big. She was buff. A true gem in an otherwise very samey, predictable roster of babes. Her rareness was only accentuated by a glaring red text blinking above her pictures: “LAST UNITS REMAINING!”

Very few dolls had that sign. «Fuck!» He hated to be pressured for a buy, and he knew how those lame sales techniques worked. On the other hand, he usually could sense when such pressure was valid. Though he had flirted with that kind of buy for a long time, only now did everything seem to align: he had his own apartment and enough savings for such a purchase to not sting him (well, not too much).

«Hundred and fifty grand.» That doll was basically a car. «Fuck.»

It seemed fair, however. She was so tall and thick she easily used up more silicon than two, if not three regular dolls. «She’s just! So! Big!» He admired the thick veins carefully sculpted on her arms. «She’s just… so… pretty.»

Perfect. She felt perfect for him. Even after many years admiring girls of that body-type, he’d never actually found one quite so… right. «It’s like she’s custom made for me.» A doll blue-printed straight ouf of his fantasies. He looked deep into her eyes, captivated by her smooth, royal air of serenity. She really had that stern, peaceful look of a queen, that very suble grim of someone who’s perfectly confident in her own abilities, and who doesn’t need to brag or flaunt them even in the face of the staunchiest opponents.

She was, in short, so completely unlike him.

For a moment, the price didn’t seem to matter. Rather, it was whether he was worthy of even having her in the first place. «What a woman. Fuck.» Even that fake, silicon-based creature felt like too much of a woman for him.

He felt bad. Humiliated. He even considered closing the screen and going back to work—which he should have done about an hour earlier, really. It was foolish to dream with love. Better to not feed his heart any more false hopes.

His finger pressed the right button of the mouse very lightly. The muse’s stern look, however, kept him from hitting that red X on the screen. It was a firm, but caring gaze. Strong and loving. Hard and soft. Her facial features were beyond human—they were almost godly. Though her body was Spartan, her face was cherubic, like a beauty from some Mideastern background. Her skin was so much hotter and more lively than his own palish look. She struck a beautiful balance between the tenderness of Europeans and the strength of North Africans.

«She is, like… perfect. Absolutely perfect!» His eyes glided back to the annoying, blinking red sign: LAST UNITS REMAINING! It wouldn’t be a surprise if she were the very last doll in stock. He had seen that warning on some other premium offers before, and every time, once he least expected, poof!, someone bought the very last one of them, and he’d have to wait at a full year (usually longer) for them to come back on the shelves again. Some dolls weren’t even restocked, and instead replaced by new models entirely. What’s more, older dolls that happened to be resold on other places where offered for two, sometimes three times the original price—which begged the question: who the hell buys an used sex doll??

«From this company, well, I think that, for many people, it’s a risk worth taking.»

While he was thinking, the sign was blinking, the clock was ticking. His work apps were open on the taskbar of his computer, waiting for him to come back and be productive again. It was usual of him to stop in the middle of labor and just… daydream. To peruse useless shit online while thinking about better, more exciting things to do—things he’d never had the balls to do, and never would have.

A trip, a better job, a fresh start. «So many more people have such a worse time that I do!» He thought, punishing himself for being so ungrateful. «Such a worse lot in life.» He looked around his room, which was clean, organized, almost asceptic. «I could be worse off. So much worse off.»

If this line of thinking ever brought him any confort, though, he’d be the happiest man alive. Instead, it only got him mad. Or madder.

The powerful woman kept looking at him, her face both the same and slightly different at every gaze. More compassionate, even. It was like she knew what was going on in his mind; almost like… she was the one—and only one!—who could confort him in those times of need.

He couldn’t find the strength to close his browser—not when that could be the last time he’d ever see her again. «It went for sale yesterday. Yesterday!» He thought, biting his nails. «This red sign wasn’t there when I first saw her. Now, it’s almost out of stock.» Her face was so serene he could hear the waves of a calm ocean in it. «Like she’s begging me to buy her!» Like she was meant to be his!

His indecision got to a point where he found it easier to just get up his seat and walk in circles around his condo—not that it was a very long walk anyway: his apartment was just his bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen, a living room slash dining room, and a decently-sized storeroom, with a tiny corridor linking all them together—his bedroom and bathroom to one side, the store and kitchen to the other, and the dining/living room in the beginning of the hallway. It wasn’t considered a studio proper, but only because of some foxy technicality the realters used to upsell that property. It wasn’t a football field worth of space, no, and it wasn’t even his (being rented for a hefty price every six months at a time), but still… it was home—and much better than anything he’d ever thought he would ever get in life.

He walked around the place like it was his very first time. «So calm. So peaceful. Neither downtown, nor the suburbs.» He liked going to his tiny balcony and smelling the fresh air from that twelveth floor, from where he could see the calm ocean shimmering under the placcid northern skies. It was cold—almost bone-chillingly so—but he loved it that way. It made him fell much safer than the unstable, unforgiving hotness of his homeland.

Calmed by the view of the ocean, cooled by the air and the hypnotic sight of the few cars whistling by the streets below, he walked back into his bedroom, where the Amazon goddess still awaited. «You are never going to see me again,» she told him clearly, with all the words.

He looked down. His head felt heavy. A hundred and fifty grand were no piss money. «But, anyway, what else do I have to do with it?» He had worked for so long and lived for so little that he ended up sitting on a pile of cash. It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it, for all those efforts to feel like… a waste? If there was one purchase his cash would be useful for, wouldn’t that one be the purchase of love? «Love. I will buy myself some love.»

He sat on the chair, his muse looking much softer, much warmer on the screen. That body! That tall, strong body! How firm and lovely should be her embrace, how tender and confident would her lips feel on his neck!

He refreshed the page. The dool was still there, but the sign… it seemed to be blinking faster, didn’t it? More unforgiving. It was now or never.

«Fuck.» He browsed through the many options for his doll, selecting the small details (he thought) he’d like the most: the type of her hair, the varnish on her nails, the texture of her skin, the color of her eyes. «Green.» He thought, finding the whole combination with her Middle Eastern skin very fascinating. «She looks absolutely beautiful with strong, Northern green eyes!» And so he chose it, going on to other details he felt a little embarrassed even having options for—like, were there really that many shapes of vagina in the world?

In the end, once he had assembled his perfect woman, he clicked the big, yellow buttom at the end of the page, and then only a credit card payment screen separated him from his true love.

He scrambled to find his card. Everything was tidy in his desk, and he wondered if he was being clumsy on purpose just to delay that process and to give himself some excuse to not purchase the doll, not change some things around. It wasn’t only the cost or his insecurities that hurt the most. No. To him, to buy that doll was to admit something intolerable; a truth he’d spent his whole life running away from, but that faced him every day, every time he looked at himself in mirror: «I am undesirable.»

With the card in his trembling hand, he typed the info very quickly, looking away from the screen as he hit the big, bright yellow “proceed” button.

A few seconds passed. After a flicker of the screen, his transaction was confirmed. His love was readied for shipment.

He stood there, unmoving, not a thought in his head. Whatever was done, was done. No reason crying about it now. Just out of curiosity, he went back to the salespage and hit the refresh button one last time. The red sign above the doll was no longer blinking. Instead, the words simply stated: “OUT OF STOCK.” He leaned back on his chair and smiled. «Maybe that wasn’t a bad decision after all.»


The Doll who Loved me is a serial novel about an incel being haunted by his sex doll.

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