“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.
Read the next chapters and skip the wait on: https://www.patreon.com/gigipotemkin
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