Picture Plastic

by ObjectifiedBeauty

Last year, I visited a fundraiser being held by a local charity.  I don’t usually participate in these kinds of things, but I had been supporting them for years by this point and decided it would be something to do on an otherwise boring Saturday afternoon.  Now, as is typical at these sorts of events, there were probably at least twenty gift baskets up for raffle.  Some were seemingly random collections but most were geared to a certain theme - for instance there was a ‘movie night’ basket with a couple DVDs and various brands of popcorn and candy, another one was the standard ‘basket full of lottery cards’, and there was even one which was literally a big flower pot full of all kinds of flower seeds and some small gardening tools.  I bought $25 worth of raffle tickets and entered them into some of the ones that interested me the most.  I had never won one of these before, but this time my number was actually called!  It turned out that I won a basket that contained various health and beauty items such as soaps and lotions, as well as a coupon book for similar services.  Later, when I opened it up at home and was finally able to look at it more closely, the only coupon I didn’t really foresee a use for was one for a half-price glamor photo session.  But by no means a bad deal.

*****

The other day, I was doing some cleaning around the apartment and found the coupon book in a kitchen drawer.  I had long since used the ones I was most likely to use but decided to leaf through it one more time to make sure there wasn’t anything else that was useful before I put it in the trash.  Most of the few that remained had already expired.  Actually, the only one that hadn’t was the photography one  - some Robert Jeauty Photography - but it actually expired at the month, which was this coming Saturday.  I almost tossed it out with the rest of the book before I thought to myself that it might actually be something fun to do.  My parents and friends had sometimes complained they had no good pictures of me, and I always liked to dress cute, so maybe it all works out.  I could look into it, and what’s the worst that could happen?  If they couldn’t get me into the studio in time, then I just say ‘forget about it’ and it all works out.  So I finished what I was doing and gave them a call.

When I called, Robert himself answered and immediately suggested that I call him Bob. nbsp;I mentioned the coupon and my situation, and he briefly went through his spiel about what he does; evidently he’s just a one-man operation, just your typical freelance photographer who hires out for weddings and other occasions on the side for some extra cash.  We were unfortunately unable to find a time that worked for us prior to the coupon expiration, but he said he’d honor it anyway.  He asked if there was any particular theme I was interested in, but I told him I was really just doing this on a whim.  He said that was actually quite common, and also took the liberty to suggest a few public places where he’s had good luck doing these sessions in the past.  After a little back-and-forth, we eventually settled on St. John’s Church, a beautiful old gray stone building right on the edge of a park.  I grew up right around there and it's usually a busy place, so it seemed like a good place to do it.  We set the appointment for next Wednesday at 5.

*****

I ended up having Wednesday off, so I was able to put a little more thought into my outfit and makeup than I might have been able to do had it been a normal work day.  This was something extra, after all, so I might as well go the extra mile to make it good.  I thought that if I wore mostly black, it would go nicely with all the grays of the church.  I settled on all black, with a long-sleeve cropped tee, short black pencil skirt and black ankle boots.  Some, but not too much makeup and to accentuate my eyes and I was ready to go.  Cute and sexy, but classy too - my favorite look.

I arrived at the park a few minutes early; Bob arrived not long after and began to assemble his camera bag with the lenses he was going to need for the session.  I paid for the session and we talked for a few minutes before finally walking the short distance towards the church.  Once there, he directed me to pose at some of the more popular spots he had used in the past.  After about forty-five minutes, we had pretty much worked our way around the outside of the church campus and were now in a spot along one of the walls which faced away from the park.  You could tell it had seen better days, but there was apparently some ongoing rehabilitation work going on as evidenced by the scraps of newly cut stone scattered amongst the various stony debris on the ground.

“I’m sure most of these will turn out very well, Melody,” Bob said.  “It’s been a pleasure working with you today.  Many of my customers don’t really know how to compliment a setting but I think you nailed it.”

“Thanks!  “It’s kind of my thing,” I answered, perhaps a bit bashfully.

“Well, you’re good at it,” he assured me.  “Plus, being young and cute as you are doesn’t hurt either.”

“Very true, I like to think I still have something there.  I probably have a few good years left before I start looking like this wall,” I said, with a touch of snark.

“Oh, come on,” he said.  “That’s a long way off!”

“Yeah, I guess I do tend to understate things,” I said.

“Does that bother you?” he asked, a bit oddly quizzical.

“Understating things?” I answered.

“No, the getting old part,” he answered.  “I’m sorry, that’s none of my business.”

“No, no, you’re alright.  It’s just a fact of life,” I replied.

Does it bother me?  Not really, I don’t think.  I’ve never really thought about it.  I have no control over it.  I’m in my late twenties and I’ve been reasonably successful.  Am I where I thought I might be?  Maybe?  Maybe not?  Does anyone really ever know?

“Hmmm,” he trailed off in thought for a moment.  “Tell you what.  I wouldn’t normally do this but I have something I think you might find interesting.  If you don’t mind, just wait here; I want to get something from my car.”

“OK,” I said, a bit confused.

Interested in?  How so?  Is this about the aging comment?

Bob returned a few minutes later, carrying what looked about a two-foot or so square piece of glass under his shoulder.  He placed it down on the brick sidewalk near the wall.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

I’m supposed to be interested in a piece of glass?  A little weird.  Whatever, maybe there’s something else to it.  He’s the photographer - might as well see where this goes.  Probably only a few minutes left anyway.

“Just a little photographer’s trick.  Well, this little photographer’s trick, anyway,” he said, swapping out the lens on his camera.  “I think you’ll like the effect it adds to this one.  Why don’t you go ahead and pose for me one more time in front of the wall, but this time stand on the plate.”

“OK,” I said.  I gingerly stepped on the plate, as it shifted slightly beneath my feet since the bricks weren’t very even.

“Don’t worry about that, it takes quite a bit of force to break one of those,” he said, sensing my hesitation.

I assumed a pose similar to some of the others I had made that day.  This time left leg forward, arms down, looking to the right and with a slight smile.  When he knew I was set, Bob took the picture.

Curious to see what kind of difference this plate makes.  Oh, crap, I’m still holding my stupid phone! nbsp;We’ll have to redo this one.

What the fuck!?  Why can’t I move?

I suddenly felt like I was in one of those dreams where everything around you is moving and you’re trying to get somewhere but you just can’t, for whatever reason.  I couldn’t move!  I was trying to, but my body wouldn’t listen.  Was I actually asleep and just dreaming this?  Then I heard Bob.  He was saying something.  I could only see him out of the corner of my eyes, but I could hear him just as clearly as ever.  It was just my own thoughts that were drowning him out.

“You came out very nice,” he said.

My mind was a confused jumble but I picked up on a subtlety in his statement.

I?  I came out nice?  Shouldn’t it be the picture that comes out nice?  And he wouldn’t know what the pictures look like yet anyway!  What did you do to me?

“I could be wrong,” he continued, “but I really don’t think so.  I may have touched something inside you, an insecurity, when we talked about aging.  One you may not even know you have.”

Is this real?  What did you do to me?  I paid for a photo session, not a psychiatric evaluation!  And whatever you did to me!

Bob continued “I want to show that you do have a way to avoid it.  So I turned you into a mannequin.”

A…what!?  A…

“Yes, a mannequin,” he answered, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking.  “Right about now the process should be complete.  You’re now nothing more than a hollow plastic dummy with a painted-on face.  Just as pretty as you were a few minutes ago, I assure you.  And pretty to stay.”

I’m just a store dummy now?  How…  Why?  This is supposed to make me feel better!?  Now I’m just a fucking object anybody can do anything to and that’s supposed to make be feel better?  I felt just fine before!

“I’m sorry that I had to trick you into it because I didn’t think you’d volunteer had I asked you to,” Bob continued.  “But I really do think you’ll end up enjoying it.”

Enjoy it?  I’m supposed to enjoy that you turned me into a fucking plastic dummy?  Of course I wouldn’t have!  How was I to know it was even possible and now I’m supposed to just stand like this forever and be happy with it?

“Well,” he continued, “your hour is up, and, well, I wasn’t expecting to have to give you a ride but here we are.  I’ll take you to my shop.  It’s a little ways away, so I can explain things a little better.”

Up until this time, I didn’t feel particularly different aside from the whole little ‘not being able to move’ thing.  Clearly the transformation itself caught me completely off-guard since I didn’t even realize it had happened until I realized I couldn’t move!  I could still think clearly (well, as clearly as the situation would allow me), and I could still see and hear perfectly fine.  Somehow.  But when he picked me up, I felt the full gravity of what had happened.  He effortlessly picked me up off of that plate I had so foolishly stood on.  That thing must have had something to do with what he did to me.  I was then briefly rested up against the wall as he picked up the plate and tucked it under his left arm.  I was next; with not much more effort than he needed for the plate, he picked me up, this time slinging me under his right arm before beginning to walk back to his vehicle.  Nothing to see here, just a middle-aged man carrying an ordinary mannequin across the park back to his car.  A mannequin who was unable to sweep its hair back and keep it from brushing across its face with each step.  I never felt so violated or so helpless.  It wasn’t like that mannequin didn’t arrive at the park just an hour earlier as a real girl or anything like that.  Once at the vehicle I was dropped slightly down and leaned up against it so he could free up a hand and load the plate and camera bag into it.  I was next, as he unceremoniously tossed me into the back, head-first and face up.  No wonder he drives a wagon, I thought, how else is he supposed to bring his girls home.

*****

As I was now his captive audience within the privacy of his car, Bob continued to attempt to explain to me my situation.  Even though he had earlier said that my troubles, or at least what he perceived as my troubles, were ‘none of his business’, it turns out that they were, in a way.  Evidently, he runs the local branch of The Mannequin Factory, or TMF for short.  This place literally turns women into mannequins.  There is strong demand for them, and bizarrely enough, plenty of women who want to become them.  Apparently one of the most common reasons they want to be turned into mannequins is to escape the eventuality of aging.  In fact, he had just transformed another one about my age just before heading out to do my shoot.  If this is so common, how could I have never seen or heard of this place before?  I used to know plenty of girls in school who would probably jump for this sort of thing.  God knows they had the personality depth of mannequins.

We eventually reached Bob’s office and he unloaded me from the car.  I couldn’t tell you if it took ten minutes or two hours to get there, as I was beginning to discover that a side effect of my condition was the complete inability to sense time.  Maybe being a prisoner in my own body was causing me to go nuts, but I could swear it felt like time slowed down when I was being interacted with.  Anyway, he carried me into a room which I would say was unremarkable except for the fact that it was full of mannequins.  My next jarring experience, in a series of them, then came after he placed me on a workbench.  He loosened my skirt, and pulled it down to around my knees.  Clearly I was utterly unable to prevent this abuse, but that wasn’t what got me.  It was when he separated my torso from my hips.  If it still hadn’t sunk in yet, now there I was, laying on a table in two pieces, and he’s going about it all as if it’s perfectly normal.  He then picked up my upper half and set it in what I can best describe as a cradle attached to a mannequin stand - so I was now upright at least.  I could see my legs still sitting on the table; the first time I was able to sneak a peek at any part of my body besides my nose since I was rendered immobile.  The lighting wasn’t the best, and they were partially covered by my skirt, but they looked oddly pale and shiny.  Also, I could swear that my crotch was completely smooth and featureless.  He tightened the cradle around my chest, concealed it with my shirt, fixed my hair, and adjusted the stand to raise me up.  Then he walked over to fetch my hips and legs, brought them over and reattached them to me, fixed my skirt, and then lowered the whole assembly back down so my feet were back on the ground.  It was during all of this that I was beginning to realize that along with my sense of time being all messed up, my sense of touch seemed to be heightened.  Not so much when I was handled through clothing, but when my actual body was touched - at least when those parts were attached.  Finally, he finished the process by picking me up, stand and all, and placing me in direct view of a mirror.  I was now face to face with someone in the mirror who wasn’t me, yet very much was.  The colors were somewhat pale and muted, but that was me.  Those were my eyes, painted circles staring expressionlessly back at me.  My mouth, slightly agape yet sealed shut in a wall of pink painted plastic alongside my now painted front teeth.

That’s me.  I’m a mannequin.  I’m just a mannequin now.

I wanted to cry, but mannequins can’t cry.  Bob then continued our ‘discussion’ from the car.  At least as much of a discussion as one can have with an inanimate object.  He explained to me that since I was in a standing pose, he ordinarily would either have to mechanically secure me to the base plate, or otherwise set me up to be wire balanced.  He wasn’t ready to fasten me, yet (thankfully, as if I didn’t have enough to deal with already), and that room wasn’t set up to tie a mannequin to the floor.  So instead, I was being propped up in a sort of ‘training wheel’ cradle that wouldn’t be suitable for, say, a lingerie mannequin, but with what I was wearing looked virtually no different from most angles than if I was crotch-mounted on a support pole.

Perfect.  Of all the indignities I had to suffer today, at least I never got penetrated.  And now, it’s not even possible.

“Finally”, he said, “you’ll be spending the next four weeks like this.  Give it a chance.  In the meantime, even if you don’t like it now, just try to enjoy it for what it is.  You don’t need to do anything but stand and look pretty.  That was easy for you before and it will be perfectly effortless now.  And best yet, you won’t age a second.  You’ve basically been given a month’s escape from everything.  In  the meantime, you’ll be leased out to one of our best clients.  They will know your situation and they’ve often dealt with other ladies that were in your place, so you’ll be very well-taken care of.  There, you’ll get the full experience of what being a mannequin is like - from being dressed and put on display, to watching girls look at you wondering why they can’t have what you have - and watching their jealous boyfriends wish she was more like you - all the while likely not realizing how possible that last part is.”

So you are just going to pawn me off to make a few quick bucks!

“A few days before your term is up,” he continued, “you’ll be brought back here.  Four weeks from tomorrow morning, which is a Thursday, I will come back to have another talk with you, and you’ll have to choose between one of three options.  You can walk away from here, then and there, if you like.  You’ll get to keep the fee we earn by leasing you out.  If you’ve decided to embrace your new existence, you will be able to resist the transformation back to human.  If you decide to do that, given your pose, you’ll be processed into our regular inventory.  Since you’re in a standing pose, you’ll likely be fixed to a base, unless we can use you to fill some other order that doesn’t require that.  Then you’ll be sold off.  You truly would be just another mannequin at that point.  Or, if you decide you liked it overall, but want to try something a little different, we can continue our relationship in some other way.  Most of the times we’ve done this, the girl chooses either of the last two options.  Either way, the choice will be entirely yours.  Goodnight, Melody, and I’ll see you again in four weeks!”

*****

I felt so stupid as I spent that first night standing in that cold, dimly-lit room, surrounded by the shadowy visages of mannequins, not just ordinary mannequins but rather ‘other’ mannequins, ‘other’ being that I was now one of them.  Mannequins that I could only assume were like me; they had once been ordinary women but who were now as cold and motionless as I now was.  Our humanity had been stripped from us, and with it our quirks, our uniqueness and identifying traits - to be replaced with smooth, hard, uniformity as if we had just been objects to roll off an assembly line.  I was so stupid.  Saying I would look old and craggy like the wall was just a joke!  God, why didn’t I just throw that coupon in the trash with the expired ones!  It’s probably fitting that I’m a dummy now because I was so fucking stupid.  What was the worst that could happen?  Never in a million years would have thought that within a week I’d be turned into plastic.

Then I thought about the other mannequins.  Who were they?  Were any of them like me?  Tricked into ending their lives as they knew it, all so some guy could make an extra buck, so some store could make an extra buck while they do all the work convincing some woman she needs to buy something she doesn’t need?  Something that some guy in a suit decided would look good on me?  Or did some of them come into it voluntarily?  What would possess her to make that decision?  And what do they all think of me?  Me, that new piece of plastic standing here staring at itself.  Probably ‘Oh, look at that, they got another feckless idiot to fall for that photo shoot routine!’

If my sense of time was indeed speeding up when I was left alone, this night was an exception.  I had too many thoughts running through my head for it to slow down, and that constant reminder staring back at me in the mirror.  That plastic, painted face.  That’s me.  I just couldn’t get over it.  That was my face.  I was given that.  Sure, I was given the ability to cheat aging, but did that really bother me in the first place?  And at what cost?  And to think, I can be an airhead like this, my dumb hollow plastic head literally full of fucking air, for all of time, if I want.  Lucky me.

*****

My time as a mannequin, since that first night, has been such a blur.  I was taken to that store, nude of course, where I was dressed in pieces from their own inventory.  I was placed on display in an area inaccessible to shoppers, probably so they couldn’t knock me over or whatever.  Each of my three weeks, at least that’s how long I assume it was, I spent wearing a different outfit, all different yet very similar to the style I was wearing during that photo shoot.  Once I got over my initial anger - and I can’t say how long that was but I think it was sometime before I was dressed in my second outfit - I did come to enjoy it on a certain level.  The funny thing was I didn’t think I had ever been in that store before, yet it was so - ‘me’.  I’m going to have to ask where that place is because I’m going to have to start shopping there.  I’ve never felt cuter.  Or was it?  Did I feel that way because the clothes made me feel like me, or did I feel that way because being a mannequin made me feel like me?  I resented it at first, and still kind of do - it’s tough to get over being forced into something you don’t want to do, to say nothing about physically being turned into something you don’t want to be.  But on the other hand, I could respect the dilemma Bob was faced with.  I would have certainly said ‘no’, and would have missed out on this experience, which clearly turns out to be popular; he knew that and I honestly do believe he was just trying to help me.  Whether or not the problem he thought he was helping with was real.  I can definitely see the appeal behind being beautiful forever - but is that ‘me’?

If I do decide to make this my new life, will being a ‘full-time’ mannequin be the same?  I’m sure I won’t always get to wear what I like, possibly ever.  But will I care? I certainly won’t be handled with the extreme care I experienced over the past few weeks.  But again, will I care?  Will the sensations be different?  Will I retain ‘my’ mind or will it just be consumed by the ‘thoughts’ of a mannequin, whatever those are, or just disappear entirely?  I’m not sure I can even ask Bob, because how can he know?  But I have the strongest urge to see what’s on the other side.  All of these questions that I have no hope of ever answering otherwise.  But then again, I do miss my life.  I miss my family and friends.  What would they think if they saw me?  Have they already happened to see me like this?  Would they even recognize it as me?  Would they understand?  Could they be happy for me?  I’m going to be left with so many questions no matter which path I take.

I’m no longer at the store, at least I don’t think I am.  I think I must be back at the TMF office, but in a different room this time.  I’m definitely back in my original black outfit again; I do know that because I’m looking right at it.  I was placed with a clear view of a full-body mirror again, and there’s a calendar on the wall that I think says it’s a Thursday.  It’s also starting to get brighter in here, so it must be morning.  I bet Bob will be here any time now to check on me and learn the verdict.

I’ve made up my mind.  I know what I want to do; what I want to be.

The End?