Taking a shaky breath, Bella forces herself to stand taller under the weight of dozens of scrutinizing gazes. Panic threatens to overwhelm her. Swallowing hard, Bella forces herself to adopt a poised facade despite her racing heart. Remembering her training session in the bedroom, she concentrates on placing one foot carefully before the other, rolling her hips in a deliberate, exaggerated sway designed to showcase her lush curves. The latex dress rides higher with each step, offering tantalizing glimpses of the tops of her fishnet stockings. With every eye fixed upon her, Bella feels a confusing blend of profound mortification and illicit thrill.
Her practice pays off; for a fleeting moment, she believes she has blended in. Until an impeccably dressed woman with icy silver hair sweeps toward her, pinning her with unnervingly sharp brown eyes. “Now who is this?” The woman purrs, extending a perfectly manicured hand. Short never disappoints. “Turn, dear. Let’s get a proper look at you.”
Too scared and out of place to even think of saying no, she plants one stiletto heel slightly behind the other, and executes a slow, deliberate pirouette. The movement is pure sexuality. The latex dress groans softly, clinging to her like a second skin as her body revolves. The movement tugs the hem of her microscopic dress upward, putting the globes of her ass and the straps of her chastity belt on blatant display.
Coming full circle, Bella faces the woman again.
“And who are you, dear?” the woman asks, her voice a silken purr laced with authority. She expects an answer, but Bella’s throat is tight, constricted by a knot of fear and confusion.
Before she can gather herself, the guard’s voice cuts in, flat and devoid of warmth. “This one is Ms. Short’s private guest.”
A flicker of disappointment… quickly masked by polite neutrality… crosses the woman’s aristocratic features. Her hungry appraisal softens into something resembling regret. “Ah,” she murmurs, her tone cooling slightly. “Of course. Bridgette always does have the most impeccable taste.”
She takes a subtle step back, a subtle but clear relinquishment of claim. “A pity,” she adds, her eyes lingering one last time on Bella’s latex-sheathed curves. “A great pity.”
Suddenly, a familiar, intoxicating scent envelopes her… a mix of leather and jasmine… and an arm slides possessively around her waist, pulling her flush against a lithe, powerful body. The contact is electric, a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust that shoots straight to her pussy, making her imprisoned sex ache with a desperate longing.
Bella freezes, every nerve ending screaming in awareness. She doesn’t need to look.
“Genevieve, darling,” a low, husky voice purrs next to her ear, a voice that haunts her waking moments and torments her dreams. “Have you been introduced to my date for this evening?”
It’s her. Bridgette.
“I hope you haven’t been keeping my doll here all to yourself,” Bridgette’s voice is a low, velvety purr, laden with smug satisfaction.
Bella can feel Genevieve’s jealous glare, a palpable thing, but it only serves to heighten her elation.
Bridgette’s arm tightens around her waist, a controlling gesture that sends a fresh wave of heat through Bella’s veins. Her body presses more firmly against the redhead’s side, and she can feel the subtle thrum of Bridgette’s own arousal, a silent confirmation that her efforts were not in vain. The thought makes her giddy.
“Tell me, Genevieve,” Bridgette’s voice drips with honeyed venom, her sharp blue eyes glinting under the yacht’s deck lights. “Where is your date this evening? Did you misplace him already?” Her thumb traces small, possessive circles on the latex covering Bella’s hip, a gesture that feels both comforting and wildly thrilling.
Just as Genevieve’s perfectly painted lips part to deliver a stinging retort, their tense bubble is abruptly popped. A younger woman, considerably overweight and dressed in a flamboyant gold gown that does her no favors, toddles over with her portly husband in tow. “Bridgette, darling!” the woman gushes, her voice overly loud and jarring. “This party is simply divine! You always throw the most fabulous events!”
Bridgette’s mask of predatory flirtation melts away, replaced instantly by a cool, practiced socialite smile. It’s a seamless transformation that fascinates Bella. “Anya, I’m so glad you could make it,” she purrs, though the warmth doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
She beams at Bridgette, “And you… my goodness, you are a vision as always!”
Anya’s husband, a perspiring man with a comb-over, leers at Bella, his eyes snagging on the swell of her breasts threatening to overflow from the latex dress. “Indeed,” he chuckles, his gaze slow and insulting. “Who’s your delightful friend, Bridgette? She’s… a substantial improvement on Genevieve’s usual companions.”
Bridgette’s hand on Bella’s hip becomes a steel claw, a silent warning that sends a shiver of fear and excitement through Bella. “Mr. Henderson,” Bridgette’s voice is like ice, “this is my date for the evening, my doll.”
The man, Henderson, just nods, his eyes still glued to Bella’s chest as if he has every right to look. After a few moments of mindless pleasantries about the weather and the stock market, Anya turns her greedy eyes to the deck below, where other guests are mingling. “Oh, look, dear,” she nudges her husband. “I believe they’re about to start the viewing for the main auction.”
The word auction slices through Bella’s haze of submissive bliss like a shard of ice. Her blood runs cold. Every muscle in her body tenses, a rigid line of fear against Bridgette’s side. This is it. This is where they drag me away. The guard was wrong….
She feels a gentle squeeze on her hip, a silent, calming pressure. Bridgette, without even looking at her, has sensed her terror. Indeed, Bridgette says smoothly to Anya, her tone dismissive. “Though I find the pre-auction spectacle rather tedious. It’s all the same, isn’t it?”
Her hand slides from Bella’s waist to the small of her back. “But if you’ll excuse me, my dears,” she says, her voice dripping with feigned regret, “I must circulate.”
Bridgette steers her away from the Hendersons, her hand a firm, comforting pressure at the small of her back. The move is clear: she is in control, and Bella is an extension of that control. They glide through the throng of guests, a path parting before them. The sea breeze feels cool against Bella’s feverish skin, a stark contrast to the heat coiling in her belly. The auction, the thought of being sold, still lingers like a bad taste, but being guided by Bridgette’s possessive touch, a perverse sense of safety begins to creep back in.
Before they can take more than a few steps, another figure intercepts their path. He’s tall, towering over Bridgette even in her heels, and he moves with an unnerving grace that belies his powerful frame, a shark cutting through a sea of glittering minnows. The tuxedo he wears is a masterpiece of tailoring, hugging broad shoulders and a lean waist, but it’s his face that holds Bella captive. He is handsome, in a severe, chiseled way, with dark eyes that seem to take in everything and reveal nothing. There’s a dangerous intelligence there, a coiled energy that reminds Bella of a predator. This isn’t just a wealthy guest; this is a man wearing a very expensive costume. Like Bruce Wayne concealing Batman’s true nature.
“Bridgette,” his voice is a low, smooth baritone, but it carries an undercurrent of steel. “A pleasure as always.”
The man’s gaze shifts from Bridgette to her, and a slow, devastatingly charming smile spreads across his lips. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which remain dark and unreadable, but the effect is still breathtaking. “Bridgette,” he murmurs, his voice a low, smooth baritone that vibrates through Bella, “your taste, as always, is impeccable. She is… exquisite.”
He reaches out, boldly grasping Bella’s hand and bringing it to his lips. His mouth is soft, the kiss lingering a heartbeat longer than strictly polite. “Enchanté, mademoiselle. Bridgette has clearly gone to great lengths to present such a delectable treat for our enjoyment.”
Bridgette’s fingers dig into Bella’s back, another not so subtle warning. But the man either doesn’t notice or chooses to ignore it. Bridgette’s arm tightens around her waist, a subtle, territorial gesture. “Lucien,” she replies, her own voice a low purr of acknowledgment. “I’m glad you approve.”
“I do,” Lucien says, his eyes finally leaving Bella’s face to meet Bridgette’s. The smile vanishes, replaced by a look of cool, professional intensity. “And speaking of business, there’s a matter concerning the Barcelona shipment that I’ll need to discuss with you. After the auction, of course. We can’t let such tedious affairs interrupt the festivities.”
As Lucien melts back into the crowd with a final, lingering look in her direction, Bella lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. His presence was overwhelming, a different kind of power than Bridgette’s raw, predatory energy. He was smooth, charming, and utterly terrifying.
Bridgette turns to face her fully, her hands coming up to rest possessively on Bella’s shoulders. The look in her eyes is no less intense than Lucien’s, but it’s a fire Bella understands, a heat she craves. “You did well, my doll,” she purrs, her thumb stroking the sensitive skin just above Bella’s collarbone. “Very still. Very beautiful.”
Bella practically preens under the praise, a warm glow spreading through her chest. “Now, listen closely,” Bridgette’s voice drops, losing its social polish and becoming the low, commanding tone that makes Bella’s pussy clench. “In a few moments, I will be giving a short address to our guests before the main event.” Her hands slide down Bella’s arms, linking their fingers together. “You will stand at my side. To my right. You will not speak. You will not fidget.”
Her eyes bore into Bella’s, demanding complete understanding. “You will stand perfectly straight, your chin up, just as you are now. You will look the part of my companion, my perfect doll. This is very important to me”
A tremor runs through Bella, but it’s not from fear. It’s from the sheer, intoxicating power of the command. Her mind latches onto the words, my perfect doll, and they resonate deep within her. This is her role. This is her purpose. To be an extension of this magnificent, terrifying woman.
“Yes,” Bella breathes, the single word filled with a reverence she can’t hide. “Your doll understands.” She doesn’t even realize she’s spoken of herself in the third person. All that matters to her is the dark approval glowing in Bridgette’s eyes.
Good. Very good, Bridgette thinks, a triumphant inner smile gracing her lips. She watches Bella’s pupils, already dark with lust, dilate further. A faint flush blooms on her chest, rising above the tight latex. The little aphrodisiac I had my man spike the fruit with is working beautifully. Kicking in right on time. Not enough to make her a mindless mess, just enough to lower her inhibitions and turn that body of hers into a simmering furnace of need. She’ll be pliant, eager, and oh so receptive by the time we get below decks. So open to suggestion.
“After my speech,” Bridgette continues, her voice a smooth caress, her thumb tracing circles on Bella’s wrist. “You follow me and sit beside me. Is that clear?”
The word ‘clear’ echoes in her mind, a directive her body seems eager to obey even before her thoughts have caught up. “Yes… clear,” she murmurs, her own voice sounding distant, husky. A deep, liquid heat is pooling in her belly, a slow, insistent tide that’s making it hard to think. Her skin feels too tight, too sensitive. The latex of the dress, once just restrictive, now feels like a constant, maddening caress against her overheated flesh.
She has a sudden, overwhelming urge to press closer to Bridgette, to feel the solid warmth of her body, to have those strong hands on her again, anywhere, everywhere.
She tries to blame the champagne she never had, the salty air, anything but the undeniable truth: her body is betraying her, humming with a restless, carnal energy that demands release. Littles does she know but the fruit she had back at the mansion was laced with drugs designed to enhance her sexual drive and lower her inhibitions.
The metal of the chastity belt, which moments ago felt like a symbol of cold imprisonment, now feels different. Each subtle shift of her hips, each step in the towering heels, causes the unyielding steel plate to press and rub against her swollen, sensitive folds. It’s a maddening, indirect friction, a constant, teasing reminder of what lies just beyond her reach. Her breath hitches. A slick wetness coats her inner thighs, and she clenches them together, trying to alleviate the ache, but it only makes it worse.
She catches her lower lip between her teeth, a soft sigh escaping her. Her gaze slides to Bridgette’s mouth, to the knowing curve of her lips, and she imagines them kissing her, claiming her. The thought is so potent her knees feel weak, and she’s grateful for the steadying grip on her hand.
She is dimly aware of a soft chiming sound over the yacht’s speakers, a gentle announcement that seems to call to the guests.
The crowd around them begins to move, a tide of expensive fabrics and shimmering jewels flowing towards a grand staircase that spirals down into the belly of the yacht.
Bridgette’s hand tightens on hers, a firm, unyielding pressure that grounds her. “Time,” is all she says, her voice a low command that sends a shiver down Bella’s spine.
She is pulled into the current of bodies, a fragile doll being swept along by her owner. She’s floating, disconnected from reality, tethered only to the solid presence of Bridgette beside her. The fear about the auction is still there, a distant, muted alarm bell, but it’s drowned out by the roaring in her blood, the desperate, pulsating need between her legs. She is intensely aware of every point of contact between their bodies… the press of Bridgette’s arm, the grip on her hand, the whisper of fabric against her latex-clad hip.
The descent into the lower decks is a dizzying sensory overload. The air grows warmer, thicker, scented with expensive perfume, leather, and a faint, metallic tang that she can’t quite place. The walls are polished dark wood, gleaming under recessed lighting, and the sound of their footsteps on the plush carpet is muffled, intimate.
They emerge into a vast, circular room. It’s an amphitheater of decadence. Tiered seating curves around a central, well-lit stage. Every seat is occupied, the faces of the guests a mix of cool calculation, idle curiosity, and raw, undisguised hunger. This is it. The heart of the beast. The auction.
“Here,” she says, her hands coming to rest on Bella’s shoulders, turning her to face the expectant crowd. Her voice drops to a whisper, a hot puff of air against Bella’s ear. “Remember. You are my doll.”
Bella stands at Bridgette’s side, a perfect statue of obedience. The low, commanding cadence of Bridgette’s voice washes over the hushed room, but the words are just a meaningless hum to Bella.
“Friends, connoisseurs, fellow predators…” Bridgette’s voice washes over Bella, a rich, velvety sound that vibrates deep in her bones.
Her entire world has narrowed to the pinpoint focus of her instructions: stand straight, look the part, no fidgeting.
Her breath is shallow, held tight in her chest. She can feel the weight of every single gaze in the room, a hundred pairs of eyes crawling over her latex-clad body. She should be terrified, exposed, humiliated. And a small, shrinking part of her is. But all she feels is a blistering, all-consuming heat. The drug in her system is a masterful conductor, and it’s orchestrating a symphony of pure, unadulterated lust within her.
The room, the people, the very air seems to fade into a blurry backdrop, leaving only Bridgette’s voice and the roaring in her own blood. She feels the slickness of her own desire trickling down her inner thigh, a shameful, thrilling evidence of her surrender.
She catches only fragments. “…appreciation for true artistry… the transformation of the raw… into the exquisite…”
The words are meaningless. What matters is the tone. The confident, powerful cadence of a woman who owns the room, and everything in it
She becomes the doll. Still. Silent. Perfect.
“…the art of possession.” Bridgette’s voice rings out, the final words hanging in the air with absolute finality. A wave of applause, smooth and appreciative, washes over the room. It’s the sound of equals acknowledging a master.
For a heart-stopping second, Bella doesn’t move. The command to be still is so deeply embedded that breaking it feels impossible. But then, Bridgette’s hand finds hers, their fingers lacing together, and the contact is like an electric shock that breaks the spell.
“Come,” Bridgette murmurs, her voice now for Bella alone.
She is led, a completely docile creature, down a small set of steps from the stage to two plush, armless chairs set slightly apart from the main seating. Bridgette sinks into the left one with an easy grace, pulling Bella down into the one on her right.
The seating is intimate, almost indecently so. As she sits, the short latex dress rides up even higher, and the cool leather of the chair presses directly against the bare skin of her thighs and ass. The hard, unyielding steel of the chastity belt digs into her flesh, a constant, throbbing reminder of her captivity. Every nerve in her body is singing, a taut wire of anticipation and aching need.
The world slows to a crawl. The murmuring of the crowd fades into a dull, distant roar. All she can feel is the scorching heat of Bridgette’s hand as it settles on her thigh.
Bridgette’s fingers tighten, a firm squeeze that steals Bella’s breath. A whimper, tiny and helpless, is trapped in her throat. It’s not a question. It’s a statement. Mine. Her clit pulses, a frantic, trapped bird beating against its cage.
Through a haze of lust, Bella’s eyes lift to the stage. A side curtain is pulled away, and a young woman is led out by a tight leash. She’s naked save for a tight stainless steel collar and a large ring gag forcing her lips wide open. Her head is bowed, while the handler binds her wrists above her head as he attaches her to a display pole in the center of the stage, emphasizing full breasts and a neatly trimmed delta between her legs. She looks terrified, but also strangely resigned.
Bridgette smiles, a slow, predatory curve of her lips. She gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod towards the auctioneer who stands at a podium to the side.
The nod unleashes a torrent. “Lot Number One,” the auctioneer booms, slicing through the room.
Fantasy Doll 