Thursday, May 10, 2007

breathe into me and make me real

He comes to me, all warm flesh and warm skin, and his touch is like the kiss of the brand, intensely hot across my cold porcelain shell. I gasp when he strokes his fingertips over my surface, leaving trails of warmth, not cold, behind.

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He carefully undresses me, unbuttoning each small pearl button, letting me help where I can--mostly, unbuttoning my boots and toeing them off, sliding down my stockings, lifting my arms, or legs, or turning my torso when he requests I do so, the waist joint clicking me into each new position.

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He walks around me once my doll self is nude, stroking fingertips at intervals along my stomach, along my shoulders, along the sides of my neck. He stops behind me, and my breath catches as his fingers trace the edges of my keyhole, where the key I haven't yet found will go, to keep me wound up, to keep my clockwork heart beating. Slowly, slowly, he slides a finger inside, running the tip down a wire, plucking it, the vibration thrumming through me like sudden thunder.

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I stand and tremble, glass eyes wide, and more of his fingers steal inside my structure, impossible intimacy, unexpectedly sensitive. They tickle across brass struts, cut steel gears, lengths of hammered copper ribbon. They find the main turning gear, clicking it forward, and with a gasp, I feel the clockwork heart in me leap into function.

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Soft ticking fills the air, the sound of the clockwork rolling along, the arrival of the extraordinary machine...spurred on by his fingers, working across the workings. I whimper softly, blinking, sensation almost too much, surreal and mechanically perverse. He drives me on, percussive thrums through the strutwork, glissandos played directly across my wiring. Keyless, he makes my heart beat, finding his own rhythms, making them mine...chiming me, plucking me, playing me like a harp built for his hands.

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Talented digits, deft inventor's fingers, playing across my internal matrix as I stand and shudder...plucking at the wires, harpstring vibrations through my torso...turning gears, repositioning, realigning, and I realize, no key will wind me this well, no length of cold metal could do what his warm fingers are doing...and DOING...and DOING...

...there are bizarre and distinct advantages to being a clockwork doll...

(Doll display stand and Elizabeth Noir boots can be purchased at All Dolled Up in Lummerland; the dress is Grim Babies' Pretty Poison from their Grim Dollies shop; the hair, skin and eyes come from Draconic Kiss' new doll shop.)

7 comments:

Qlippothic Projects said...

Welcome to the world I was born into, Emilly. Make sure you remain a she. Do not allow yourself to be called an it, or you will never find your way back.

emillyorr said...

This may not be the problem for me, as it is for others. Remember, among my forms I count a rolling ball of fluff, a large rock, two different flavors of jello...while most of my forms are female, and I am most comfortable so, I also have neuters, one hermaphroditic demon and one distinct male. Though I never wear him anymore--it was a change explored for a research position...

But I do agree that if one identifies as a gender, as a person, and is diminished into a neutered object, that leads us all down a dark road. You are no more an it than I am an ottoman.

Darien Mason said...

Beg pardon, did you mean automaton or ottoman? While there seems to be an entire fetish community dedicated to using sentients as furniture, I don't thing that was the meaning, however amusing the imagery may be.

A side note..trying to isolate Shifter DNA for cloning is like trying to carry water with a strainer. And when you do finally succeed in isolating it, you may as well be working from scratch!

Now..where did I put that liver?

*slips * OOF!
KIMMYYY!!

emillyorr said...

It was my meaning--though perhaps I could have said, easily enough, teacup, candle or cauldron--I have to be careful, because clockwork doll is somewhat close to automaton, and if I leap to alive-but-not-human--well, as I said, I have many forms. Two of them are dryads, complete with leaves, and I'm sure if I really yearned for it, Miss Tensai could hook me up to speak with her Chicken Overlords so I could master the chicken form.

As to the second point...whose Shifter DNA, and of course you're having problems. Shapeshifter DNA shifts on its own--it's what it does in us, after all.

Darien Mason said...

I'll give you three guesses, Miss Orr. The previous owner of this body was combing the carpet for neko hairs.

That's when I knew even from the cloister of my brain I was exiled too that things had gotten a tad obsessive, and this is from someone laboring under the epithet of a Mad Scientist!

He did grant me autonomy in my laboratory. I placed the neko hair on a slide, and those of a second Shifter (a self-styled Redneck) under another slide. I asked him if he could tell the difference. Of course, he could not. Neither could I.

Had I catalyzed exponential growth in both samples I would have had two identical amorphous, mindless organisms. In Shifters it is the soul that guides the transformation process as much as exposure to outside stimuli.

Besides, while he slept I switched labels, just in case.

emillyorr said...

*mutters, "He could have just asked..."*

On the other hand, he did bring the concept up, and every time he did...he, himself, told me no. I had my own reasons to object--not the least of which was, finding out why I was unable to get pregnant--but...I did consider the idea.

More than once...

Darien Mason said...

*lays his prayer book on the table as he takes a pause from his morning devotions*

That was later than that time frame Miss Orr. He didn't want a Little Emilly. He wanted an Emilly Beta, when the Alpha was lost to him. This was but one of his desperate schemes you were not privy to. And yet another life opprtunity denied to me by the Stranger in my temple. Peace be with you.

*rubs his glasses, and picks up the book again, facing East and chanting quietly, gently rocking in silent prayer*