The resemblance was uncanny.

Sylvia had been on her way out of the store when she had spotted it.  The mannequin had been posed near the entrance to the east parking lot, in the sporting goods section.  It was outfitted in tennis gear complete with racket, white shirt, white shorts, and matching sweatband.  Other figures surrounded it in similar apparel.  Sylvia had come into the department store through the mall entrance and so hadn’t seen it before.  Now, though, she really couldn’t believe her eyes.  She blinked to make sure she wasn’t mistaken.

But the more she looked the surer she was.  She felt stupid standing in front of the plastic dummy and staring at it, but she really couldn’t help it.  She was completely floored.

The mannequin was a mirror-image to an old friend of Sylvia’s, Terri.  It had the same blue eyes, the same blond hair, and the same slim measurements, everything.  Even the smile was the same.  It was Terri.

Yet, it wasn’t.

It couldn’t be.

Sylvia had lost touch with Terri over five years ago, when Sylvia had moved out of Baltimore.  They hadn’t spoken since.  No spite, just business.  Now, though, to be so forcibly reminded of her old friend . . . it was shocking, truly shocking.  The mannequin’s hair was tied back in a ponytail, and Terri had never worn her hair like that when Sylvia had known her, but other than that small feature they were a perfect match.

It was eerie.

Sylvia found a store clerk and asked about the mannequin.  She was directed to the floor manager.  “May I help you?” he asked.

“Yes, I was wondering about that, well, that mannequin in your sporting goods section.  I know this sounds silly, but it looks like someone I used to know.”  Sylvia felt embarrassed just asking about it.

“Could you show me which one, ma’am?” the man said.  He was a bookish fellow with thick glasses, distinguished in his business suit, but he didn’t act as if Sylvia’s question were an odd one, and that helped her confidence considerably.  She showed him the mannequin, seemingly happy and at ease, playing tennis with all the other plastic people surrounding her.

“I see what you mean, ma’am.  It’s a very striking piece.”

“But it looks so much like my friend . . . .”  Sylvia trailed, again feeling stupid.

“Oh, well, that’s entirely possible.  Was your friend ever a model, ma’am?”

Sylvia took a moment before answering.  She considered.  Terri had been no more a regular model than she had been or was, at least not in the regular sense of the word, but Sylvia did see where the store manager might be leading.  “Terri might have had some professional experience.  Why?”

“Well, many of our mannequins are based on real live people.  They sell material better that way, we’ve found.  Perhaps your friend was one of our subjects.”  He gazed questioningly at Sylvia’s face. Is there anything else? he seemed to be asking.

Yes, that was it, Sylvia thought.  That had to be it.  Many girls in their line of work took semi-modeling sidelines, acting jobs, posing for pictures, and the like.  That was the explanation.  Sylvia thanked the store manager for his kind help, gave him one of her business cards out of habit, said good-bye, and left.

The manager watched her as she walked out of the building, then looked at the card, and went back to his office.  He dialed up a business associate on the phone.

“Mal?  This is Philip down at the mall.  I had a woman come in just a few minutes ago.  She recognized one of the acquisitions.”

“Which one?”

Philip glanced through his notebook.  “Ah, H-27, looks like.  She’s one of the ones we have on hold, waiting delivery.”

“You get the other woman’s name?”

“Uh-huh.  Sylvia Myers.  She’s from an escort service, I think.  I have the card.”  He paused, then said, “She’s really gorgeous.  She’s just the type of girl, you know, you guys are always looking for.”

Philip heard papers rustling on the other end of the line.  Then Malcolm, sounding a bit more amused, asked, “What’d you say her name was again?  Sylvia Myers?”

“Yeah, that’s it.  Why?”

Philip heard Mal laugh.  “It really is a small world.  She’s already on our list.  I mean, it must be a coincidence, but Sylvia Myers is due to be acquired tonight.”

Philip went cold.  “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.  In fact, I’m doing the job myself.  I wish I’d known earlier she was coming into the store today.  I could’ve grabbed her in a dressing room or something and saved myself some trouble.”  He sounded rueful but not terribly inconvenienced either.

Philip didn’t like what he was hearing, though.  “This is too much of a coincidence, I think.”  Pause.  “What if she knows?” he whispered.

“So what if she does?  Who would believe her?  Besides, the matter’s going to be taken care of tonight.”  Malcolm was less concerned with Sylvia than he was with Philip.  He wanted to ease his mind.  “We’ll have someone down tomorrow to pick-up H-27.  You gave Sylvia the usual story?”

“About the modeling?  Yeah.”

“There, you see?  You’ve done your job.”  More papers rustled.  “Everything’s fine.  I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Philip nodded to himself and hung up.  He wasn’t completely satisfied, but he went back to business anyway.  He was glad Ms. Myers wasn’t his problem.

After all, he only had a store to run.

There was a knock at the door.

Malcolm peered through the hotel room door’s peep-hole, smiled, and undid the lock.

“Malcolm Sawyers?” the woman standing out in the hall asked.

“Yes.  Call me Mal.  You’re right on time.”

Sylvia flashed her own pretty smile in return.  She walked in and took a quick look around.  It was a standard hotel room, she saw, upscale, yet at the same time retaining the essentially bland look all hotels had.  Then she stole a second glance at her client.  He was middle-aged, getting a little thin on top and a little wide around the middle, and he was like a hundred other men she had known.  He didn’t look like a cop, and usually Sylvia’s instincts about that were right on track.

Still, it never hurt to be sure.

“May I use your bathroom for a minute, Mal?” she asked sweetly.  “I want to freshen up a bit.”

He said okay, she went in, and the place passed her first test.  No cops were waiting in the bathroom to bust her.  They could still be in an adjoining room, waiting a signal to burst in, but she didn’t think it was too likely.  Not even Miriam, even with all the troubles Sylvia’d had with her lately, would want to get her in that sort of situation.  It would only fall back on her in the end.  So, Sylvia wasn’t afraid of a set-up from her boss, which only left the possibility of a random police sting . . . and like she’d thought earlier, her instincts were usually pretty reliable in those rare but remotely possible cases.

Sylvia didn’t think she had anything to worry about.

She checked her makeup and features in the mirror.  Sylvia was twenty-five years old, brunette, slim-figured but athletic, with a well-toned and tanned body.  She’d been in the business six years now, ever since dropping out of college, but she still managed to look fresh and desirable.  And besides, being a call girl wasn’t exactly what one could call strenuous work . . . at least in the normal sense.  Sylvia was paid to be beautiful and was.  She had never received a complaint in that regard from a client.

In other respects, well, she and Miriam would soon be parting ways anyway.  It was time for her to strike out on her own.

She took a condom out of her purse and hid it in her palm.  It was time now for the “dance,” just in case Mal was a cop.

Sylvia came out of the bathroom, stunning in her red dress and pumps.  She put on her smile again and saw Mal sitting on the edge of the double-bed.

He looked nervous, which was in his favor.  Nervousness she could handle.  Cops she couldn’t.  She sat on the bed next to him.

“Do you have any idea what we should do tonight, honey?” Sylvia asked.  It was best to proceed slow.

“Oh, yes.”  He gulped, then added, “The woman on the phone told me it would cost . . . .”

“Shshhh,” Sylvia interrupted.  “I know all about that.”  That was her rule - never talk about the money except under the vaguest possible terms.  Miriam would have already quoted prices, and she only liked dealing with established customers.  If the guy was here, and he was expecting her, then he probably already knew the score.

Probably.

That was the risk one took in doing the “dance.”  It was sometimes difficult to distinguish true naiveté from purposeful guile.  Sooner or later, someone always had to stick their neck out , and it was always best if the customer did so first.

Entrapment was always a threat.

“You know about our . . . requirements?” she asked.

He nodded.  That put Sylvia even more at ease.  Cops usually spoke in consideration of audio tape evidence.  She decided to take a chance.  “One thousand,” she said.

Mal nodded again.  No police showed up, and Sylvia decided it was time to get down to business.  She asked about their evening’s plans.

“I was thinking maybe first we could go out for some dinner,” Mal said.  “I have reservations.  Then we could come back here and . . . .”  He grinned sheepishly.

Sylvia gave her client a slow, seductive smile and inched closer.  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay here all night?  I’m sure I could think of other things the two of us could do together.”  She leaned forward, put her hands to his face softly, and kissed him.

Then, that’s when the cops came in.

Oh, for christ’s sake, Sylvia thought and sighed as she felt Mal get up.  Three plainclothes cops came in.  They showed Sylvia their badges, and they told her she was under arrest for prostitution.  They got her to her feet, had her place her hands behind her back, and put handcuffs on her.  She remained silent throughout it all.

She was just thinking about how stupid the whole thing was, how she was going to tell Miriam the cops didn’t have a leg to stand on, that there wasn’t enough taped evidence, and that the cops must’ve jumped the gun too soon, when she noticed that there were no female cops present.

There were only men, which was odd because if and when they had to search her . . . .

Sylvia was only starting to get worried when she felt the needle enter her rump.  They gagged her before she could scream, and seconds later everything went black.
 

She woke up in a glass cylinder.

It took a long time for Sylvia to recognize that’s what it was.  At first, struggling back to consciousness, she thought she had been put in some kind of weird coffin and buried alive.  Then she saw the woman in the cylinder next to hers, naked, silently pounding on the enclosing glass walls and trying to get Sylvia’s attention.  That’s when Sylvia noticed that she too was completely stripped and trapped.  She too began pounding on the transparent walls, but the glass was far too strong and thick to break.  She was caught.

Sylvia’s tube, as was the tube of the woman next to hers, was lying horizontal to the floor on a raised platform.  The two women were trapped on their backs on table-like enclosed surfaces, much like someone in an iron-lung would be.  Half of each cylinder, Sylvia presumed after examining the one by her side, the bottom half, was filled with small tubes, canisters, large fluid containers, and other similarly bizarre equipment.  On top was the table, and in the space above were the women.  The cylinders were apparently soundproof - the only sound Sylvia could hear was her own breathing and crying - and airtight, though oxygen had to be coming in from somewhere.  She couldn’t see much of the room beyond; the lights were dim and centered over the cylinders themselves.

A man stepped into view after awhile.  Sylvia immediately recognized him as one of the “cops” who had arrested her.  She pounded on the curved glass walls again, cursing him loudly, but he apparently didn’t hear or care.  Sylvia saw him take out a coin and flip it in his palm.  He nodded and bent over somewhere she couldn’t see clearly.  Something must have been turned on, though.  An amber-colored liquid began filling the tube of the woman lying next to Sylvia.  She could see the girl scream but couldn’t hear it at all.

She was an attractive little blonde, full-featured and desirable, but her face was contorted with terror as the bubbling fluid slowly enveloped her.

Sylvia could do nothing but watch.  It took several minutes for the top half of the other woman’s cylinder to fill up.  The woman struggled to the end to keep her face above the rising liquid, but eventually she was completely submerged.  Sylvia expected to see her begin to drown . . . but she didn’t mysteriously.  The bubbling and amber glare prevented Sylvia from seeing for sure, but she thought she could see the other woman’s chest continuing to rise and fall for minutes after her submersion.

A bubbling noise distracted Sylvia from her observation, and she noticed a sudden wetness behind her back.  Her own tube had begun to fill.

Sylvia screamed and yelled and continued to flail helplessly at the glass walls.  The same amber fluid rose beneath her.  It was chill, yet strangely not cold at all.  It bubbled and hissed, yet wasn’t warm either.  She couldn’t describe the sensation.

Sylvia twisted around the inside of the cylinder as best she could but couldn’t avoid her fate.  The liquid rose over her legs and abdomen.  She positioned her face as high as she could in the curving tube, her breasts pressed flat against the cold upper surface.  Then the fluid level reached its peak, slipped around Sylvia’s desperately questing nose and mouth, and she was completely submerged.  She tried to breathe, and instead only amber solution flowed down into her lungs.

She was drowning!  Terror flared inside her.

But she didn’t lose consciousness.  Somehow, though it proved more difficult to do so, Sylvia began processing the liquid enveloping her, breathing it in slowly but surely.  Her initial panic began to fade.  She was reminded of that scene from The Abyss where the man breathed liquid oxygen.  Sylvia floated in a bubbling environment of amber, suspended, not quite touching either the glass walls above her or the flat surface underneath except when she moved an arm or a leg.

That became less frequent after a few minutes.  Sylvia slowly realized it was getting harder and harder for her to move any of her limbs.  Her skin was starting to tingle, too, all over.  Her nipples became uncontrollably erect as a tightening sensation flashed through her.  It began to hinder her movements more and more.  Sylvia began to struggle to move her hands, even her fingers.  Her legs froze into position, and then the stiffness, the utter rigidity, was everywhere.

Sylvia was paralyzed.

Her eyes were caught open, staring out blankly.  She could no longer close them.  Whisps of dark hair began to pass in front of her face, and a strange open sensation was felt along her scalp and sex.  My hair, she thought, dismayed.  My hair!

The fluid, a total depilatory, rendered Sylvia’s body smooth and shiny.  As it was absorbed into her body’s tissues, the flesh became increasingly rigid, more and more like plastic in appearance and perception.  Her “breathing,” her taking in of the rich oxygen-fed amber solution, slowed and then ultimately ceased.  Sylvia’s metabolism slowed to a crawl, yet her mind retained perfectly its awareness and function.

The mannequinization was halfway complete.

The fluid drained out of Sylvia’s cylinder, and her stiffened, immobilized body came to rest once more on the interior flat surface.  A hissing sound marked the breaking of the enclosure’s seal; the top of the cylinder capsule was removed.  Gloved hands reached in and pulled the mannequin-in-making out.  There was a moment of dizziness on Sylvia’s part, and then she was stood on a short platform, still dripping wet from her amber bath.

In front of Sylvia stood the other woman, similarly just removed from her enclosure and placed on a pedestal.  Men moved back and forth between them carrying canisters, towels, and mops.  The other woman was bald now too, Sylvia noted.  She was completely hairless, in fact, and her body looked as if it had been dipped in a thin, shiny plastic . . . which, for all Sylvia knew, had been exactly the case.  The woman’s eyes were glazed.  She looked just like a mannequin.

Sylvia couldn’t help but think that that was how she must look like now, and it didn’t take her long to make the connection back to the department store.

A picture of the Terri-mannequin went through her mind, which now Sylvia suspected really had been her old friend.  She would have whimpered in terror had she been able to speak.

What looked like a sun-lamp was placed over the other woman’s platform, situated so that it could shine its light down upon her.  A similar apparatus was placed over Sylvia and turned on.  The light was reddish, and it made her skin, which was just beginning to stop tingling, start up all over again.  One of the working men - Mal, Sylvia saw - stepped in front of her, smiled, and said:  “This won’t hurt a bit.”  Sylvia realized the other men had been speaking all the while, but she had been too scared to listen.

Mal and the other men stepped out of her view.  The light, a peculiar shade of radiation used in concert with the chemical bath, increased her body’s absorption of the mannequinization fluid.  Sylvia had a perfect view of it working on the other woman in front of her, and she could feel its effect on herself.  All of the tiny imperfections in their skin, the small blemishes, the freckles, and so on, were all slowly disappearing, leaving behind an almost mirror-like shine in their place.  As the chemical filled and altered every cell in their bodies, even the individual pores in their skin faded, even further enhancing their plastic appearance.  Standing straight and tall, their arms and legs at their sides, their breasts remained firm and upright, pointed and unaffected by gravity.

After a time, a secondary sensation began to run through Sylvia’s immobilized form.  It quickly drew all of her attention.

Desire, it was.  Arousal.

Heat.

Need.

Sylvia couldn’t believe it, was horrified by it, but suddenly she was quite, quite ready for use.  Very, very needy.  That she couldn’t move, couldn’t squirm even in the slightest in a vague attempt to fill that ache, that sudden hungry emptiness between her thighs, only enhanced the overall erotic effect.

The heat became a fire, then a burning volcano inside her.

Ohmigod, what’s happening to me? she thought.  She had never so desperately needed a man before in her life.

The two women - mannequins - remained under the hot glow of the lamps for over an hour.  Then the men came back and turned the reddish lights off.  Sylvia heard Mal tell the others to take the other “acquisition” out, which they did.  He wanted a moment alone with the other one, her, he said, to complete last night’s business.

Terrified, needy, and frozen in place, Sylvia could only wait for him.

Mal walked over to the new mannequin and looked her over.  He stood in front of her, then, leaning forward, put his lips to Sylvia’s breasts and ran his tongue salaciously over her engorged plastic nipples, tracing circles around their polymerized hardness.  He started on the left, then slowly and methodically worked his way over to the right.

Instantly, at the very first brush, the fiery stimulation inside of Sylvia increased.  Her vision blurred, her thoughts broke up, and the volcano inside her became a super-nova, yet outside she remained frozen and still, in appearance completely oblivious to what was being done to her.

Mal took his time with the living doll, then planted a great, deep kiss on Sylvia’s paralyzed mouth.  She would have done anything to respond in kind.

“Now it’s time to party,” he said to her, not expecting a response.  “I believe we got interrupted last night.”

Mal tipped Sylvia over and caught her in his arms.  She had become light, feather light, it seemed, weighing no more than a third or a fourth of her pre-mannequin mass.   The weight had somehow evaporated under the hot glow of the lamps.  Carrying her casually under one arm, Mal brought Sylvia over to another section of the dimly-lit room, over to a sofa where he laid the new mannequin down on her back.

He took her arms and legs and repositioned them for his comfort.  They were as soft as satin, incredibly smooth, and easily movable, though Sylvia herself had no control over them.  Done with her positioning, widening her legs and lifting her arms straight out, Mal stood back and gazed upon his work.  Then he stripped his pants off and leaned back into her, filling Sylvia’s plastic sex with his human one.  He stroked her with his hands and mouth, enjoying the silken feel of her transformed body.

For Sylvia, feeling Mal inside her, touching her, tasting her, it was the most powerful erotic experience she had ever felt.  Yet, ultimately, it was unsatisfying . . . literally.

Mal’s lovemaking turned her on unbelievably, inhumanly, her sanity quaking under the heightened pleasure of her new body, but ultimate fulfillment eluded her.  The orgasm, the penultimate release of her passion, just wouldn’t come.  She couldn’t come.  The unfullfillment fed on her desire.  Her need for release increased exponentially.  What had been a super-nova inside her became an entire universe of exploding suns.

She needed!

Mal, meanwhile, shuddered with the pleasure of his own release and fell away from the desperately seeking plastic doll he had been enjoying.  Catching his breath again, he said, “I’m gonna miss you, babe.  You’re my kinda slut.”  He laughed, sweating.

Sylvia needed still!

Mal rose finally and picked up his plaything and carried her back to her platform.  After dressing again, he called his associates back in and ordered them to take Sylvia down to preparation.  “Make her a blonde.  I think she’d look better as a blonde than she did as a brunette.  Then take her down to the store and use her to replace H-27.  Maybe that’ll relax Philip a little more seeing the new acquisition in person, so to speak.”

The last Sylvia saw of Mal was of him picking up a mop and starting his clean-up around the sun-lamps.  Her need, her universe of burning desire, ached for him, despising him at the same time.  But though Mal left, her need didn’t.  It ebbed slowly, that much was true, but it left an intolerable ache behind.  The emptiness, the needful void inside her, came back almost immediately following Mal’s abrupt withdrawal.  It continued all the while as she was tipped over again, caught, and carried down one corridor after another.  It continued all the while as a short fashion designer named Ray introduced himself and used his hands to expertly nudge her face into a beatific smile and expression.

He dressed and arranged her in a carbon-copy pose to that of her old friend Terri from the store.  Sylvia hated competitive sports, but now she looked absolutely divine modeling them, dressed in a short and revealing tennis outfit, racket in hand.  A wig of blonde hair, tied back in a cute little ponytail, was glued to her bald scalp, and various semi-permanent dyes and paints were used to decorate her face.

Ray was considerate enough, or perhaps just sadistic enough, to show the mannequin her new appearance in a mirror.

She could have been the Terri-mannequin’s twin.  They both looked beautifully artificial.

Sylvia was taken down early that morning to the department store.  She was wheeled in on a cart, and by the time the mall opened she had taken Terri’s place in sporting goods.  She watched as people passed back and forth around her all day, never realizing what they were really seeing.  The store manager Philip passed by and said hello when no one was looking.  Every once and awhile, too, he would wink at her, as if they shared an inside joke together.

She needed released so badly!

Eventually, Sylvia faded into a troubled, fitful sleep.  A voice woke her up an unknown time later.  Her vision cleared, her eyes unable to close but still capable of losing focus apparently.  Standing before her was her madam, Miriam, looking around to make sure no one saw her talking to a department store mannequin.

Satisfied, she looked up and smiled at Sylvia.

“This is what happens when you get on my bad side, dear.  You shouldn’t have complained so much.  You shouldn’t have made trouble for me with the Senator.  Now, you won’t be giving anybody trouble anymore, will you?”  She laughed, then held her breath while a couple walked by.  She went on.  “They’ll be taking you away somewhere soon, I think.  I hope you enjoy your new life.  I arranged for it.”

Miriam laughed again and left, leaving behind a mannequin in a tennis outfit.

Just a simple mannequin.

The hours passed slowly for Sylvia, rigid and immobile.

People walked past her all that long day.  Shoppers, browsers, children, and store personnel, all equally unaware of the dire predicament she was in.  She had been kidnapped, drugged, and transformed, and now she stood in the same exact place where just one day before a mannequin looking suspiciously like her old friend Terri had once stood.  Only now, it was Sylvia who was the mannequin.

She could still hardly believe it.

Sylvia stood - had been posed - in the department store’s sporting goods section.  A tennis racket had been placed casually in her right hand, held loosely at her side, trademark out of course to show to the buying public.  Her left was arranged in a fanning gesture before her faces, so it would seem as if she were shielding her eyes from the sun.  She wore white tennis shorts and a matching shirt, sneakers and sweatbands.  She wore no underwear, no support, yet plasticized breasts stood proudly upright.  Her legs and hips were equally well displayed.  The smile of her face, put there by an expert visual merchandiser, was false as the blonde wig glued to her bald scalp . . . and as beautiful.

That was the hideous thing, Sylvia had come to realize, seeing her reflection in a nearby mirror.  She had been transformed into a mannequin, a frozen figure of plastic, yet had been made all the more lovely because of it.  Her natural beauty had been enhanced and preserved forever.

And her new beauty beckoned people.

They paused before her while shopping.  Some pretended to examine the racket, others the brief and revealing tennis outfit, looking for price tags, but Sylvia could see their eyes lingering on her petrified body.  The women admired the mannequin figure while the men simply hungered for it, just as Sylvia desperately hungered for them.

She still burned with unfulfilled desire.

The transformation had left a void inside of Sylvia, an insatiable need for physical contact.  The pleasure that could be provoked in her, now that she as a mannequin plaything, was phenomenal, literally mind-boggling.  It was constant, ever-building, ever-mounting, but always without release.  She could be stimulated - was stimulated just standing there in the store with so many eyes on her - brought almost to the edge of ultimate ecstasy, yet was perpetually forbidden to cross.  The orgasm never came.  The energy just kept building up . . . and up . . . and up, and Sylvia feared she would go mad with the never-ending sensation.  Perhaps that was what really drew the shoppers to her; perhaps they sensed, however subconsciously the raging inferno inside her.  Perhaps they sensed the untapped sexual power.

Sylvia needed a release so badly!

After Miriam had left, her former madam, the person who had laughed and explained how she had arranged for Sylvia’s capture and transformation, the lights in the department store flickered momentarily, and a voice from speakers overhead alerted customers that another shopping day was ending.  Being trapped in the store while it was open had been bad, with everyone admiring her, watching her, but the idea of having to stand there and pose all night long alone, in the dark, was a nightmare.

She burned inside.

A half hour later the shoppers were gone, and the department store’s employees began their business of closing down.  Sylvia was ignored.  It was only after several more hours that men came for her again, led by the store manager Philip.  Aside from them, the place was empty.

The men, the same men who had posed as police officers before at the hotel, lifted Sylvia down from her platform and stripped her there in sporting goods.  The touch of their hands on her shiny, poreless-smooth skin drove Sylvia again to the peak of a divine gratification, of ecstasy unmatched, but the sensation climbed only to that peak and not beyond.  The pleasure mounted but remained unfulfilled.  She burned in helpless torment.  Her limbs and posture were straightened, her wig was carefully removed, and she was carried into a back storeroom on a wheeled cart.

One of the men tilted Sylvia far enough back that the soles of her feet were easily within reach.  Staring up at the ceiling, Sylvia could not see what he was doing to her, though she of course felt it through her over-sensitive plastic skin.  He took a small tool, shaped somewhat like a lighter, and gently placed it on the bottom of her right foot.  A searing, yet strangely delicious pain gripped the new mannequin.  The man held the tool there long enough for the brand to sink in, marking her perfectly.  Momentary though it was, the short agony only further increased Sylvia’s need for contact, for pleasure.

With a minimum of fuss, the mannequin was lifted upright again and brought around to a large waiting crate.  She was unceremoniously packaged, strapped inside with leather cords to prevent her from accidentally shifting around.

Oh, please, please, not in the dark, Sylvia silently pleaded, but no one heard her.  Her crate was lidded, and Sylvia was sealed alone in blackness.
 

The trip took several days.

Sylvia’s crate was moved first by truck, then by plane, then finally by a boat.  Sometimes the crate traveled alone, and other times it was accompanied by many others just like it, each with its own unique and luscious cargo.  Eventually it reached its destination.

Sylvia had slept throughout most of the journey, dreaming erotically, powerfully, yet unable even in her dreams to satisfy any of her desires.  When the package was opened, she found herself in a palatial living room, airy and high-ceilinged.  Comfortable looking white-furred furniture lay all about.

An elderly white-haired man stood in the room’s center.

Attendants quickly uncrated Sylvia and then took the box and wrappings with them when they left.  The man before her looked to be in his late sixties or early seventies.  He wore a neat black suit and red tie.  He looked fit for his age and very sharp, and he examined Sylvia in close detail, circling around her with his hands crossed casually behind his back.  The room was covered in a shaggy white carpet, and it felt soft beneath Sylvia’s bare plasticized feet.  Her brand no longer hurt.

Between the carpet, the white furniture, and the bare yet somehow elegant white walls, Sylvia’s senses were put completely off-kilter, especially in their contrast with the man’s dark suit.  She wondered if she could still be dreaming.

Or, perhaps, hopefully, it was all just a dark dream.

The older gentleman finally faced Sylvia again and spoke to her.

“Hello.  I know you can hear me and understand me but that you cannot speak or move.”  The words sounded rehearsed and practiced many times.  “My name is Mr. Avatar.  I work for the man who now owns you and was responsible for your transfiguration.”

Owns me! Sylvia screamed inside.  Owns me!  This was no dream; it was a nightmare, an endless nightmare.

Avatar went on.  He sat down in a chair facing Sylvia and spoke to her patiently, slowly.

“Because it is my habit to do so, I am taking the time to explain to you your new station in life.  I believe this helps in the long-run.

“So, first of all, whatever you were in your past life, and however you came to be here, whether you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, or you upset somebody with the right connections, or even if you were just caught alone one night in your sleep or out on the streets, it really makes no difference anymore.’  He paused.

“You are no longer a person.

“You are just a mannequin.  A special kind of mannequin, true, but in the end just a mannequin.

“You no longer have any rights.  Whether you were at fault or not in your transformation, you no longer deserve or need them.  Your existence now is a simple one.  You exist now only to look beautiful and be pleasurable.  Nothing more.”

Avatar reached into his jacket pocket and removed a long white feather, too white and too straight to be anything other than artificial.  Holding it in his right hand, the old man began tickling Sylvia around her sex.  There was no expression on his face while he did this.  It was just a necessary thing he had to do in order to prove a point to the new acquisition.  He had to show her just how truly helpless she was.  For Sylvia, though, already hyper-stimulated from all that had been done to her, and after hearing what Avatar had said, and to feel what he was doing to her so casually, with no ability to achieve an orgasm, the experience was literally a mind-blowing one.

Sylvia’s mind seemed to explode into a million fiery pieces, each one glowing white-hot with passion and need.  However, like Avatar, though for entirely different reasons, no change of expression crossed her face either.

Avatar spoke to the mannequin-in-training, his words the only sound of rationality in a blinding frenzy of stimulation.

“Your owner’s name is Oberon Fip, and you are a property of his company, G. Limited.  You no longer have a name.  Your designation, with which you have already been marked, is L-14.  You will be trained.  If you do well in your training, a process that will involve a combination of drugs, hypnosis, and other related techniques, you will find the sexual satisfaction you now crave.  If you do not do well in your training, however, you will simply be shipped off to some store somewhere, left to burn in your needs.

“Some of our mannequins we have left in such uncomfortable positions for months or even years at a time.  Imagine, L-14, feeling what you’re feeling now, unable to be satisfied for two, maybe even three or more years.”  He grinned ruefully.  “I presume you do not want this.”

No, no God, no! Sylvia tried to scream.  The thought was unbearable.

Abruptly, Avatar stopped tickling Sylvia, stood up, and walked out of her line of sight.  She heard his voice behind her as he left the room.  “Your training will begin tomorrow, I think.  I’ll give you the rest of today and tonight to think about what I’ve said.”

He reached the door and turned out the lights.

“Pleasant dreams.”

The mannequin, Sylvia, L-14, continued to stand in startling white surroundings, unclothed, arms and legs straight and at their sides.

No one looking at her would have ever guessed at the wild feelings, thoughts, and passions passing beneath her cool and blank exterior.
 

How can a mannequin be trained?

That was the thought that kept running through Sylvia’s mind.

Forget the fact that she had been kidnapped and transformed, frozen in plastic and put on display for others to gawk at.  Forget too that a man had told her yesterday that she should no longer consider herself a human being, that she had become instead some kind of saucy pleasure toy.  Forget finally that she couldn’t move under her own power and that she had become in simple fact just a living mannequin.

Forget all that, dreadful as it was.

How can a mannequin be trained?

What are they going to do to me now? Sylvia thought.  Haven’t they already done enough?

Sylvia had spent the night in Avatar’s unusually white living room thinking about her future.  She still burned inside - had burned for days - her physical desires as artificially enhanced as her natural beauty had been, both now apparently locked forever beneath a glistening layer of plastic.  She had thought about Avatar’s words all night standing there helpless, perfectly rigid, and while the implications of what he had said were terrifying, the possibility that she might never find an end to her constant, ever-mounting craving obsessed her.  In a horrible way, Sylvia found herself wanting to be trained.

She would do anything to relieve the ecstatic pressure trapped inside her.

And that’s what frightened her the most.

The door to Sylvia’s white-trimmed cell opened suddenly, and a large blonde man came in.  Two assistants followed.  All three were dressed in grayish uniforms, a G. Limited logo neatly printed in black above their left shirt pockets.  The man in charge was carrying a clipboard, and he had the other two tilt Sylvia backwards in their arms so he could see the mark branded on the sole of her foot.  They handled her easily.

It’s time, she thought, simultaneously terrified and exhilarated.  They’ve come to . . . to train me.  The feel of their fingers on her bare plasticized flesh inflamed her all the more.

“L-14, check,” she heard.  Sylvia couldn’t move her eyes or her head in the direction of the voice.  The men tilted her back up - she must have weighed no more than thirty or forty pounds since her transformation - and the blonde-haired guy was again facing her.

“Hello, L-14,” he said.  “My name is Craig.  I’m the man in charge of your training.”

Sylvia, Sylvia thought.  My name is Sylvia.

Craig turned around, beckoned to his assistants to follow, and started down a connecting hallway.  The assistants picked Sylvia up and carried her along with them, carrying her on her side much as they might a wooden plank.  Sylvia’s eyes, unblinking, faced outward, and she could see several closed doors along the sides of the hall.  Then, after a brief pause, she heard a click and a door being opened.  A moment later she was being carried into what looked like a mad scientist’s laboratory . . . at least as much as she could tell from her limited horizontal view of it.

A desk and a bank of computers and related electronic equipment filled Sylvia’s sight along one whole wall.  When she was tilted upright again and stood, she saw along another wall what looked like an open shower booth.

Inside the booth a nude figure stood.  It was male, frozen and immobile.

It was another mannequin, Sylvia understood immediately.  A man, transformed as she had been, made into a rigid plastic doll.  He wasn’t entirely nude, though, she realized after a moment.  A helmet, bulky and trailing wires connected down into the wall, covered the top of the figure’s head and obscured his face.

Otherwise, however, he was naked.  He was a big man, muscular and powerful-looking.  His penis, projecting forward from a completely hairless groin, was as unnaturally stiff as every other part of him.  Yet another mounting wave of arousal passed through Sylvia at the thought.  She began to have an idea as to what was going to happen to her.

Her mind rejected it . . . and hungered for it.

“All right, L-14, it’s time to begin.”  Craig had his assistants carry Sylvia into the booth.

Sure enough, just as Sylvia had expected, they positioned her up against her male counterpart.  They tilted him forward a little, too, and then rearranged the pair’s arms so that they were partially wrapped around one another.  Finally, the assistants made some last adjustments, and up, slip, and down, impaled Sylvia onto the perpetually erect member.  The angle was very good, and Sylvia screamed inside with the full force of it.

Again, though, no orgasm was possible.

Yet.

Sylvia’s face had been turned upward so she could stare into the helmeted expression of the mannequin now filling her so completely.  She didn’t see Craig moving up behind her with a matching helmet, though she did feel him beginning to attach adhesive-tipped wires to the back of her bald scalp.

“L-14, meet R-23,” he said.  “R-23, this is L-14.”

Craig leaned forward a little more and whispered in Sylvia’s ear.  “We don’t carry as many male mannequins as we do females,” he told her confidentially.  “There isn’t as much of a demand.  R-23 here has seen a lot of action, though.  He trains many of our dollysluts.”  He paused.  “I almost envy him.”

He sighed, then stepped back and slipped the helmet he was carrying over Sylvia’s head.

Dollyslut? she screamed inside.  He called me a dollyslut!

The helmet deafened and blinded Sylvia completely.  She felt rather than heard the door to the booth close behind her.  She felt a light mist work over her body, her enhanced senses feeling every single drop as it poured over her porelessly smooth skin.

God, that rod felt good planted inside her.  If only . . . if only . . . .

She heard a voice inside her head.

“I am L-14.  I am L-14.”

The helmet! Sylvia thought.  They’re . . . they’re training me!

It had started.

“L-14 is a mannequin.

“I am L-14.

“L-14 is a mannequin.

“I am L-14.

“I am a mannequin.”

No, nooo, they’re trying to brainwash me!  Noooo!

“L-14 is a mannequin.

“I am L-14.

“I am a mannequin.

“Mannequins exist to serve.  I am a mannequin.

“I am L-14.

“I exist to serve.  I exist to please.

“I am a mannequin.

“L-14 is a mannequin.

“I am L-14.”

And so on and on, endlessly, the taped words playing over and over again directly into her brain.  “I am L-14.  I am L-14.  L-14 is a mannequin.”  Endlessly, monotonously.

“L-14 exists to serve.  L-14 exists to please.”

Over and over.

The pressure inside L-14 (Sylvia, my name is Sylvia!) continued to build.  She had been in a state of perpetual arousal for more than a week, her senses hyper-stimulated, over-excited by her utter immobility.  She had been transformed, used, posed, and humiliated.  She no longer had any rights at all.

“I am L-14.  I am L-14.  L-14 is a mannequin.  L-14 exists to please.”

She had been reduced to a piece of property.

“L-14 exists to serve.  I exist to please.”

And she needed to climax so much, she felt like would soon explode if she couldn’t.

“L-14 is a mannequin.  I am L-14.  L-14 exists to serve.”

The chemicals in the mist were slowly absorbed into R-23’s and L-14’s (Sylvia!  I am Sylvia!) plastic skin.  He was already a well-trained mannequin, and he had been through this experience many, many times.  He was aware, though, that this was his partner’s very first time, and so he was patient with her.  He was also very proud of his skill, his control over his own climaxes.  He had worked so very hard to achieve the right to have them.

R-23 no longer needed the drugs in the mist anymore, though they helped.

He was very happy being a mannequin.

He existed to serve.

He existed to please.

He was R-23.

The inhibitors in the other mannequin were only now starting to unlock, he perceived.  L-14 (Sylvia!  Sylvia!) felt movement inside her . . . deliciously inside her.

R-23’s arms slowly, ever so slowly, slipped down and around L-14’s waist.  He pressed his plastic body all the more firmly upon her, their frictionless surfaces sliding effortlessly against one another.  He’s moving, the other doll thought.  He’s moving, he’s actually moving!

Can I move too?

She tried . . . and for the first time in a week her body responded to her own will, though only slightly, almost imperceptibly.

Her body shivered.

R-23 felt his partner’s response.  He felt very happy for her.

She would train well, he thought.  She would exist to serve, too.

She, too, was a mannequin.

And then, finally, finally, the new acquisition was lifted as if unto another plane of existence.  The universe disappeared in a blinding, overwhelming field of white.

Her passion, built up and so unfairly strangled for so many long, long days, was finally released.

She moved!

Ecstasy.  Sheer ecstasy.

She threw back her head, the wires sliding along her body as they shifted.  R-23 balanced himself and pushed ever deeper into L-14, her hands massaging deep into the acrylic muscles of his back, pulling him closer and closer.  The summit was reached and passed.

Light flashed behind blinded eyes.  Thought disappeared.  The explosion L-14 (Sylvia?) had so long expected, waited for, came, leaving every glossy cell of her body tingling with the sensation.  Never before as a mere human being had she ever achieved so much pleasure . . . was continuing to feel pleasure drawn out and artificially enhanced.

It was an earthquake of sensation.

Heaven.  Bliss.

And as her mind shut down, just simply shut down from the sheer intensity of that orgasmic ride, the taped loop played on and on.

“I am L-14.  I am L-14.

“L-14 is a mannequin.

“I am a mannequin.

“I am L-14.

“L-14 exists to serve.  L-14 exists to please.

“I am L-14.

“I exist to serve.  I exist to please.

“I am a mannequin.

“L-14 is a mannequin.

“I am L-14.”

Outside the training booth, Craig monitored the new acquisition’s physical responses on the computer.  Nodding, satisfied with her progress, he picked up a phone and reported to Mr. Avatar that L-14 had passed her first test.

L-14 would train well.

Craig believed he could have the new acquisition up to standard with the other mannequins by the end of the month.  Then, of course, it would be off to the shops.

Ready for the clientele.

Craig’s assistants opened the shower booth and began pulling the two mannequins out, detaching them from one another as well as from their recording equipment.  They were already stiffening up again, becoming rigid.  R-23’s erection slowly filled out again.

The inhibitor’s effect was transitory, Craig knew.  R-23 and L-14 would be mannequins forever.  Only in passion would they move . . . and only at another’s direction.

Craig removed L-14’s helmet personally.  Her eyes were still fluttering, though with increasing slowness.  “Do you have anything to say, little doll?” he asked.

The dollyslut visibly struggled to get the words out of her mouth before she froze again.

With great difficulty, she said:

“I . . . am . . L . . . four . . teeeen.”

Then, stillness.

Craig smiled and nodded.  “That’s very good, L-14.  I’m proud of you.  You have served and pleased well.”  He made sure he hit all the key words and phrases.  “Your owner, Mr. Fip, is proud of you.  That’s a very good answer.”

He motioned for the assistants to come and take her.

“You’ll make a very good mannequin,” he said as they carried her off.

That made L-14 happy.

Satisfied.
 

The crate was unpacked with the maximum amount of care for its contents.  Even though the visual merchandisers were accustomed to seeing beautiful things everyday, their eyes had not yet been jaundiced by the experience.  Like all G. Limited employees, they were specially picked men and women.  They could appreciate the value and rarity of their employer’s merchandise.  Moreover, in this particular case, the v-m’s were aware that they were handling a new acquisition; this was to be her first real day of use and display.  As such, when they did remove L-14 from the cushioned interior of her upright and now opened box, they did so with a great deal of respect.

The mannequin herself was just thrilled to be there.

She was going on display!  She might even be used!

She was so excited.

As her training supervisor had predicted, it had taken L-14 only a little less than a month to reach her full dollyslut potential.  Virtually all of the remaining human components of her personality had been wiped.  Four sessions a day in the training booth with male mannequins, simultaneously drugged, hypnotized, and stimulated, will do a lot for a woman.  L-14 knew her sole purpose in life now was to please others.

She was, after all, L-14.

A mannequin.

The v-m’s took her and carried her over to a display stand in the store’s lingerie department.  They had specific orders straight from Mr. Avatar himself, the number two man at G. Limited.  The lingerie department was naturally a favorite spot for the clientele they serviced, and the mannequins stationed there saw frequent use.  A cart containing cosmetics and other necessary materials was brought up.  Short, very dark brunette hair was eventually selected, after much discussion.  The appropriate wig was carefully glued to L-14’s bare scalp.  Her nails were painted red.  A similar shade of color was used to adorn her lips.  The blush and mascara used were semi-permanent dyes, less purely cosmetic than actually industrial-strength paints, and they were guaranteed never to smudge or smear.

After some further deliberation, a frilly white corset was decided upon for the mannequin to display.  The v-m’s set to work quickly.  The costume was extremely tight-fitting, but since the woman who had become L-14 had ceased breathing some weeks ago, it actually felt quite comfortable on her.  Supportive, really.

The corset came up to just over L-14’s breasts, barely.  It was designed with a vertical stay to help keep a woman’s assets upright and separated, not that this was a necessary thing for L-14.  Her plasticized flesh kept whatever form it was meant to now.  Ivory-colored, French-cut panties were slid on to her next, followed by a pair of long, silken stockings held up by garters.  L-14 loved the touch of human hands on her body.

She longed for the sensation, in fact.  The dollyslut rose to incredible heights of stimulation under the v-m’s ministrations, and she endured the pleasure as willingly as she could, knowing that while she was unable to climax without specific orders now, was actually unable to do so without first giving pleasure to a customer first, the longer her stimulation lasted the greater the eventual orgasm would be, both for her and her lover.

But it was so hard sometimes, feeling such an overwhelming need for release all the time.  Unable to show any emotion.  Unable to move on her own at all.

But, then, that was her function in life, and she loved it.

She was a mannequin.

The v-m’s arranged L-14’s pose as seductively as they could within the bounds of public morality.  The mannequin was left on her feet, standing with one leg slightly in front of the other, her arms akimbo.  Her feet were firmly ensconced within white skyscraper pumps, the bottoms of which were settled into her display stand for greater support.  The dollyslut’s lips were partially opened and her expression carefully adjusted to convey just the right combination of desire, excitement, and invitation.  By no coincidence, these were the very emotions passing through what was left of L-14’s mind.

And then it was time for the department store to open.  The morning crowd waded in.

The store was actually one of the finer establishments in the country, as was equally true of the mall in which it was housed.  While by no means restrictive, the shops there did tend to serve an upper, upper-middle class of customer.  Items bought in the mall were generally expensive, much more expensive than what most families could easily afford.  The jewelry stores were of the best quality; the specialty shops carried imports from around the world; and the art gallery inside actually possessed collectibles of good taste and breeding.  Most of the parking lot was underground, thus providing better shelter for costly and typically well-maintained automobiles.  L-14 was extremely proud to be a piece of property in such a well-run place.  It gave her existence heightened meaning.

The customers came and saw.  Mostly women passed through the lingerie department that day, though every once and awhile a man with his wife or girlfriend would walk on by.  The two would compare what gifts, and presumably what pleasures, they would be giving one another later on.  L-14 watched them all as best her limited degree of sight allowed; as a mannequin, she was naturally unable to move either her eyes or her head to better track them.  They, of course, saw her much more easily.

Like all of the mannequins in this affluent mall, from the major department stores down to the small specialty and clothing shops in-between, the one wearing that lacy, white corset and garters in lingerie was somehow special.  These mannequins attracted interest in a way the mannequins at other malls did not, though few of the customers actually thought about this fact.  For most of them, it was purely a subliminal thing.  It was a feeling below conscious understanding.  Only a very select handful of the mall’s customers were actually aware of the mannequins’ origins.

Only a few, a very special clientele, knew of the existence of G. Limited.  Only a few knew that that company exclusively provided the mall with all its so vividly lifelike window-dressings.

The indefinable aura of burning sexual need radiating from the mall’s mannequins, definitely felt if not clearly understood by the majority of the customer’s, tended to boost sales over like competitors by a sizable percentage.  That alone was worth the expense and bother of producing them.

As for the “special clientele,” they enjoyed the luxury as a bonus.  The erotic hunger of the G. Limited dollysluts had the effect of boosting other things for them.

L-14 enjoyed the feel of so many eyes passing over her shapely body.  She enjoyed the feeling almost as much as being touched physically.  She was a good mannequin, and she wanted to display her wares well.  As she attracted notice, so she too began to notice the mall’s special customers, those select few in on the secret.  L-14 had been told they were out there, watching, appraising, and comparing.  She wanted to please them so much.

She was sure she had spotted two of them, one in the morning, the other in the late afternoon.  The first had been a young man dressed in an expensive sports shirt.  He had been in the women’s lingerie department alone, unusual unto itself, and he had stopped and stared at L-14 for a good two or three minutes, his eyes exploring her every bump and curve.  The other gentleman had been a bit more circumspect.  He had been older and more reserved, and he had been accompanied by a female companion his own age.  She was likely his wife.  As the woman had stepped over to one of the changing booths, the man had walked over to L-14 and given her a look . . . a knowing look that said she could be his just for the asking.

The mannequin hoped he would ask.  Had she been able to, L-14 would have thrown herself at either man’s feet.  For that matter, she would have gone down at the feet of any man who had ever so much as glanced at her that day.  Where before her training her sexual needs had been strong, she realized now they had also been very primitive.  Refined now after weeks of expert instruction, even so much as a casual look in L-14’s direction was enough to send her mannequinized body spiraling off into an all-consuming need for orgasmic release.  And when she was touched, actually touched, there simply were not enough words in the language strong enough to truly convey her feelings.

L-14 loved being a mannequin.  The hours passed by quickly for her, rigid and immobile.

Just before closing time, inflamed to a point where she could barely think - not that any of her thoughts were really that complicated anymore - L-14 finally spotted someone she could definitely recognize as a “special customer.”

She saw Craig . . . Craig, the beloved Craig, the wonderful man who had supervised her training!  Oh, please, please, she begged inside.  Let it be him.  Please let him use me first!

Craig, who had flown down from the island just that afternoon, stopped in front of the new mannequin and nodded appreciatively at what he saw.  He felt he had done good work.  L-14 was beautiful . . . and she was his for the night.  All his.  Enjoying whichever of the dollysluts he wanted was one of the perks he enjoyed as a senior employee of the company.  It had been one of the better selling points Oberon Fip had used years ago in recruiting him out of college.

He checked his watch and saw that it was nearly closing time.  Craig approached L-14.

“It won’t be long now, sweetheart,” he said and patted her on the leg.  He fully knew what his touch would do to her, and he laughed inside.

Craig left and quickly walked over to one of the many unmarked doors lining the interior of the mall.  He removed a key from his pocket - an old-fashioned key like those used to wind up clockwork toys - and slipped it inside the door’s lock.  Once on the other side, the door locking again automatically, the company man walked down a narrow corridor to one of the mall’s reserved suites.  There he waited for the regular customers and ignorant employees to leave.

It was a nice room to wait in, he reflected.  This one was very much like the bedroom of any normal upscale house . . . save, naturally, for the lack of windows.  Craig knew there were other chambers like this hidden throughout the mall, some of which were far more exotic.  There was a high school girls’ locker room, for instance, equipped with functioning showers.  There was a doctor’s office set-up, too, and a corporate boardroom with a long and very sturdy board table.  There was even a replica of a woman’s gym aerobics center somewhere nearby underground.

Of course, this was the main facility, after all, located near a large metropolitan area.  There were other shops and stores throughout the country where G. Limited mannequins were displayed, but few others were quite as equipped as this place.  Here, customers could indulge whatever fantasies they desired with whichever of the dollysluts they saw and wanted, all in perfect safety and anonymity.  After all, it wasn’t as if any of the mannequins would ever talk.

Craig activated a television monitor near the bed.  Adjusting a set of controls that allowed him a video look at any one of the more than six hundred mannequins located in the mall, he tuned in on a view of L-14 and made a request through the server.  He listed his requirements for that evening and was assured that everything would be ready within the hour.  He wondered how he might play with the new acquisition.

The lights dimmed back in the mall.  A pair of visual merchandisers came for L-14 soon after the regular employees had left for the evening.  The picked the mannequin up and carried her like a block of wood to one of the department store’s specially reserved dressing chambers.  In a room lined with hundreds of costumes, some innocent, others wildly exotic, the two women v-m’s quickly stripped the plastic dollyslut and put her in the outfit requested by the man in Suite C.  They kept L-14’s hair and makeup the same.

Taking a trolley from out of the corner, they rolled the mannequin down to her first appointment.  Fifteen minutes later, Craig reentered his suite.

Posed on the edge of the bed, the mannequin L-14 waited with eager anticipation.

She had been dressed in a black slip, so thin it was almost transparent.  Long fishnet stockings ran up to her thighs.  “Beautiful,” Craig whispered softly.  The mannequin’s pose was seductive, one arm cast over her head onto the satin pillow, the other lingering just over and lightly touching her breasts.  One leg was stretched out invitingly.  The other limb was bent upward at the knee, showing off the liquid curves of her body.

Craig slowly stalked over to the bed, sat down, and ran his hands over L-14’s stockings.  The dollyslut screamed inside with the pleasure.  Then, carefully positioning himself, the head trainer leaned down and began removing the mannequin’s barely concealing silks, kissing the cool but slowly warming plastic-flesh as his fingers inched on by.  Stirrings of energy built up inside the mannequin’s immobile body.  A damp heat was felt inside her.

Steadily, Craig parted the slip and ran his hand down L-14’s closest arm, moving her hand out of the way as he slowly began caressing her permanently perky breasts with lips and tongue.  She softened slowly under his touch, an incredibly erotic feeling.  The hard plastic tone of her skin became slightly more pliable with each lingering lick, though still nowhere near as pliable as real human flesh would have been.  L-14 felt like a human woman coated in the finest layer of plastic or rubber.  She was firm, yet soft; soft, yet firm and unyielding.  Craig took his time with her, enjoying his living lovedoll’s desperation.

A quiver of motion passed through her lower body.  L-14’s upper arm, the one nestled across the pillow, gradually inched its way down to the back of Craig’s neck.  The other arm slowly reached up and began pulling at the drawstring of the pajama pants he had put on earlier.  They fell down around his ankles and gracefully away from his body as he climbed on top of his dollyslut and spread her stockinged legs open.

The living mannequin gasped quietly as he entered her.  L-14’s arms and legs slipped around her lover’s, and together they rolled across the bed, she suddenly and deliciously on top.  Drawing upon long hours of intensive training, her hips moving in slow cyclic rhythms, the dollyslut gave her customer such pleasure that he groaned aloud and begged for more.  L-14’s own pleasures were indescribable, her personal universe floating away on waves of ecstasy and white light.  The only constant was the mantra . . . the code of her life upon which her entire existence was based.  The words flowed in her mind.

“I am L-14.

“L-14 is a mannequin.  I am a mannequin.

“L-14 exists to serve.  L-14 exists to please.

“I am L-14.  I exist to serve.  I exist to please.

“I am a mannequin.”

Over and over, eternally.

Afterwards, her passion released and her limbs and features once again frozen, Craig long gone and returned to his island, L-14 tried to reflect upon the changes in her life.

Standing there in the lingerie department, once again properly attired and more modestly posed, she knew of no person by the name of Sylvia Myers.

There was no Sylvia Myers.

There was only L-14.  A mannequin.

And a new shopping day began.