For many years, life to me had seemed ordinary, mundane even. I had left school at seventeen and taken a job in a department store as a sales assistant. For six years I had worked hard to make more sales than the other staff, impress my boss, and climb the ladder of success. My reward came in the form of promotion and the promise of a potentially lucrative management career. For a further four years I took control of the staff in the kitchenware department, spending my days fussing over presentation, manners, special customer deals, stock throughput, knives and forks. Every day was pretty similar, and although the money was good, I often found myself wondering if this was all there was to life.
On the personal front, life was equally undramatic. I had been through two serious relationships, and in between a number of potential boyfriends had come and gone. Nothing had seemed to have an aura of permanence, and somehow I always knew I would again become as I am now - depressingly single.
Yes, indeed, my life had become something of a non event. Not something worthy of relating to others. Not something to write about.
Or so I thought.
They say truth is stranger than fiction, and the truth that was my real life was indeed something I could hardly have imagined.
I remember the day my world came crashing down around me as if it was yesterday. I had been clearing out some old paperwork, and was carrying bags of shredded paper to the rear of the building for the recycle company to collect. I glanced sideways into a large bin and noticed it was full of video cassettes — discarded security tapes. Why this should have caught my attention I have no idea, but as I read the labels on the tapes I noticed one which I found rather surprising. Printed on the tape were the works "Room 73 Tape 4". The reason for my surprise was that I knew room seventy three very well. It was the ladies staff changing room. A room I used everyday. A room in which I changed into and out of my store uniform. The idea that a camera existed in this room, and that tapes of us changing clothes in this room existed outraged me. In a fit of anger I grabbed the tape. I determined to quickly watch it later at home, and if it indeed contained what I thought it contained, it was going straight to the police.
When I arrived home that night I was still very angry. It was a one hour drive home — I lived in a medium sized town some forty-five miles from the city in which I worked. The drive had done nothing to abate my rage. As soon as I closed the front door, I grabbed the video from my bag, stormed through to the lounge, turned on the TV and video, rammed the tape home, sat on the couch, and began my investigations.
I knew what I expected to see. And initially that was what I saw. The room was empty for some time, as I fast forwarded the tape. Then someone was in the room. I pressed play, and watched.
I saw myself in the room. I was wearing my green skirt suit with my black court shoes. Very professional and smart, I subconsciously congratulated myself. I had bought those shoes some four months previous, but after only three weeks I had broken a heel on them. So that really narrowed the time frame down.
I almost had to pinch myself to prove I wasn't dreaming when I saw what happened next. Firstly, Simon Jenks, one of the store-men, entered the room. At the time, I had worked at the store for eight years, and never had I encountered a man in the ladies changing room. It was something I was sure I would have remembered. This quickly paled to insignificance, however, as I watched events unfold. Simon said something to me. I couldn't hear it properly as the sound quality was poor. But the words were somehow familiar and somehow alluring. I wanted to hear those words, but I couldn't. I wondered how strange it was that something as simple as a sentence could have an effect on me. Then I noticed the effect those words had on me in the video.
My body had tensed up. All expression had drained from my face. I was slowly moving into what appeared to be some predesigned pose. My left hand moved to my hip, but stopped just short, leaving a small gap. My weight moved onto my left leg and I thrust my left buttock outwards. My right leg moved forward. My right hand turned palm downwards, and my right arm stretched out. My neck stretched and my head tilted slightly backwards. My mouth opened slightly, my eyelids half closed, my eyes slightly rolling upwards. My back arched slightly, my breasts thrusting forward.
And then I froze. Solid.
Another man, John Philips entered. I knew he was in charge of mannequin maintenance. They moved me as if I were a statue, and I remained solid, posed, Together they laid me down on the couch at the back of the room. Then they began to remove my clothing. And I just lay there. Posed. Solid. I let them strip me naked. I was shocked.
Next, they put a pair of evening sandals on my feet. My feet were shaped by the stiletto heels I had been wearing. But the sandals fitted perfectly, having exactly the same heel height, some three and a half inches. That seemed a bit of a coincidence to me. The sandals had spikes protruding beneath them. I had never seen that before. I wondered how on earth I could walk in them. They had quite a few straps, which Philips and Jenks spent a few minutes securing. And secure they did. When they were finished, I was tightly bound into those shoes.
Next, they lifted me up and carried me across the room to a corner, where what I recognised as a mannequin stand lay on the floor. The spikes on the sandals slotted home into holes on the stand, securing me in place.
Of course, by now I had a pretty good idea of what was going on. But I kept watching, partly shocked, partly amazed. And strangely, partly excited. I looked at myself on the video standing frozen, prone, posed, naked but for a pair of heels, attached to a mannequin stand. I indeed looked like a mannequin.
Jenkins retrieved a bottle of some compressed substance or other. He began to spray me. A shiny, plastic like finish began to form over me. He sprayed my entire body. from head to toe. When done, I looked artificial. Plastic. I was a mannequin. I was ready to be dressed. I was ready to be displayed.
Philips left briefly, and returned with a trolly. They lifted me onto it, wheeled me out of the room. I had often seen mannequins wheeled around on trollies at the store. Were they alive too?
I stopped the video. I stared at the blank screen. I was in a state of disbelief. I had no idea what to do. I was scared. I was angry. I felt violated. Used. Abused. But somehow I was flattered too.
Should I go to the police? A lawyer? Should I confront my boss? I liked that idea. I was angry, and I needed to vent.
I ejected the video, tossed it in my bag, grabbed my keys and made for my car. The store was open late that night. My boss would be in.
Traffic was light. The drive took only three quarters of an hour. I parked, badly - I was in too much of a hurry to care, and practically ran to the staff entrance, down the hall, past the canteen, up the stairs. I burst into my bosses office.
"Kirstie! What the..." he began.
"Explain this, Mike!" I screamed, and slapped the video onto his desk.
"Um, well, what's the problem.. I err..." he began.
"Am I a mannequin?" I demanded. By now I was almost crying.
"Ah." he said. "I see. You know"
"Then it... it's true?"
He looked at me. He was silent for a few moments. I could tell he was thinking through his options.
Finally, "Kirstie..." he said.
And then he spoke some words to me. Words I will never forget, and yet could not repeat if my life depended on it. I could hear the words and yet I could not hear them. The words were English, but I could not understand them. But they were beautiful words. They were the most beautiful words I had ever heard.
The anger drained from my body. I began to calm down. My muscles slowly relaxed. I felt calmer and calmer. I began to feel more relaxed than I had ever felt before. My face lost all expression as my muscles lost tension. I began to feel quite wonderful. I realised I couldn't move. But I didn't want to move so I didn't care. The sensation of utter relaxation intensified. I was approaching ecstasy. I wanted to be here, feeling like this, for the rest of eternity.
I was looking at Mike. He began to look wonderful to me. I began to want him to like me. I wanted him to be pleased with me. I would do anything for him. I began to worship him. I gave my will to him. I could not resist. I had lost all control of myself, Mike had taken it, and I wanted him to have it. I didn't care about having my own volition. As long as I felt like this, I didn't care about anything.
Mike began to speak. His voice sounded beautiful to me. I hung on his every word. I was like a smitten schoolgirl.
"I have put you into a trance, Kirstie. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mike" I instantly replied. My voice was monotonic, I had no control over it so I could not put emotion into it. The words were my subconscious. I did not put them together. They came out automatically, robotically. I realised that he was talking through me to my inner self, a self that always answered. And answered with truth. He could ask me my deepest and darkest secrets. I would automatically tell him what he wanted to know. I was as vulnerable as if I stood naked in front of him.
"Good." He continued. "The simple answer to your question is yes. You are a mannequin." He looked at me. He was relishing this moment. I stood facing him, frozen, expressionless, staring, in heaven.
"Your are currently in a deep hypnotic trance. This is similar to the trance you enter when you are mannequined. But in this trance you are aware of who you are. The mannequin trance changes your self perception. You believe you are a mannequin, and not a free thinking woman.
"We also use hypnosis to control the lives of our mannequins. We can install false memories so you believe you lead a normal working life. We can program you to change your behaviour when you are not at work. The instructions are buried deep in your subconscious. They become a part of who you are. We use them to ensure that you turn up at work on time. We use them to control the way you dress so it is easier to undress you and fit clothes on you. We program you if we want to use you for other things. Do you have any questions?"
"How long have I been like this?" I said.
"Since the beginning. When you came to us eight years ago, we slipped you under during your interview."
"How long am I on display?" The questions were coming automatically. Presumably these were the things I really wanted to know.
"A stint lasts between two to three weeks. During this time we manage your diet and er well, other things. At the end you are programmed with memories and instructions, then free will is returned to you. Well, as much free will as we allow."
"What sort of things do you control about me?"
"Oh, practically everything. What you eat, what you like to wear, the music you like, where you live — always a different town to reduce the likelihood of customers recognising you elsewhere. That hairstyle you have, which you thought would look good so got last weekend, was in fact suggested by Marge Spate in marketing. We programmed you and you went and got it done."
"What 'other things' do you 'use' me for"
"If one of the staff wants a date for a party, or such, we program one of you up. You believe you are their girlfriend, go to the party etc. Then we reprogram you so you have no recollection of it."
"Am I ever taken advantage of?"
"Yes. I'm afraid you are. Frequently in fact. Often during demannequining and post programming. Think about it. You are all chosen because you are beautiful women. We can make you do, think, or say anything we want. And we can erase the acts from your memories. It's an irresistible temptation."
"Have you 'used' me?"
Given my current state, that state of worship, I felt honoured. I knew I should have been shocked. Disgusted. But I wasn't. A testament to the power they had over me. The power this man, who up until a few minutes ago I had thought of as my boss, had over me.
"What now?" I asked.
"A little reprogramming I think. But I want to try something out on you. You are now the only mannequin who is aware of what she is. I have been working on a program that will allow you to maintain that awareness, but still allow us to continue using you. Basically, we're going to make you think of it as a wonderful, but secret, life. But first..."
He walked round the desk and stood beside me. I remained frozen, staring at the space he had just vacated.
"Turn to me" he commanded.
I complied. Instantly, without hesitation.
He lifted his hand and placed it on my blouse, clasping my left breast. He began to massage it. Gently, and sensuously. I could feel my nipple harden beneath his caress. I was incapable of resistance. I wanted him to take me. To have me. Slowly, he unbuttoned my blouse, then gently opened it, revealing my bra. He gently slipped my left breast out of the cup, and then the right one. He massaged both with his hands. It felt wonderful. I wanted to respond, to smile, to hold him closer, but I couldn't move. I stood staring forward, my arms at my sides, my face expressionless.
Next he slid his right hand downwards, his left hand still on my right breast. I could feel it across my belly, and then sliding down the front of my skirt. He entered my panties and I could feel his hand against my shaven vagina.
"You know, sweetheart, you think you shave down there because you like it like that. No. We program you to like it. Mannequins don't have body hair, honey. Besides, any hair you have comes off when we peel your coating off during demannequinning."
His finger began to caress my clitoris. Pleasure welled up from his touch. Given the feeling of ecstasy I was currently in, the addition of sexual pleasure was almost too much. "Heaven in heaven" I thought. But I could not move or express my pleasure.
"Orgasm now!" he commanded.
I was taken by surprise. The orgasm exploded from my clitoris, quickly spreading out to engulf my body. Sexual ecstasy flooded down my arms and legs, through my breasts, my body, from head to toe, stirring the ecstasy of relaxation on it's way. It was a heavy orgasm. It was a long orgasm. Mike continued to caress my clitoris. This kept the orgasm boiling over for longer and longer.
And yet I was frozen, expressionless. My eyes wanted to roll into my head, but they couldn't. I wanted to scream with the climax, but could not. I could give no indication of the pleasure I was in. It seems that the store's power over me was even greater than the force of mother nature's reproductive rewards.
Eventually Mike stopped caressing me, as the orgasm faded and I returned to a state of normal ecstasy, if there is such a thing. He smiled and kissed me. I wanted to kiss him back, but could not.
"That was a little pre-programming present," he said.
He walked back to his side of the desk, opened a drawer, and began rummaging. As ever, I remained where I was, staring forward into space, emotionless, frozen. My breasts exposed.
"Ah, here we are" said Mike. He had something in his hand. I couldn't see what — I was looking the wrong way. Then I heard him pick something else up and fiddle with it. I recognised the sounds. He had a cassette and a personal stereo. He walked back round to face me.
"Program prepare!" he commanded.
The words were meaningless to my conscious side, but my subconscious recognised them. Against my volition, my left hand sprang up in front of me, as if ready grasp something. He offered up the stereo, and my hand clasped it. He placed the headphones over my ears and pressed the play button.
A tone sounded on the tape.
"Programming commenced!" I responded robotically.
Then came the program. It was aimed at my subconscious. I knew what I was hearing. Words. Speeded up words. Probably to shorten the time the process took. But I could not understand them. It was like a background noise to me. Although it was somehow alluring. The tape ran for some five minutes, while I stood frozen, my breasts still exposed, listening and not understanding a word. The whole thing felt very surreal.
Finally, a second tone sounded on the tape.
"Programming complete!" I again responded robotically. My left hand automatically turned the stereo off.
"Okay, Kirstie. I'm now going to bring you back. We'll see if this thing works.
He removed the stereo from my hand and took the headphones off. Then he said some words. Magic words. Beautiful words. Words I could not understand.
Immediately I came back, as he had put it. The relaxation dissipated, the feeling of ecstasy abated, my worship for Mike ebbed away. My volition began to return. I was a woman again. I could move. I could talk. I could scratch that itch on my left shoulder.
But I was slightly sad. I wanted to go back to that place Mike had taken me, that trance, that heaven.
I smiled. My anger did not return. I was getting to quite like the idea that I was a mannequin. It was flattering. I got to wear gorgeous new expensive clothes and display them. People wanted to look at me. People thought I was pretty. That was good. The lack of control was not too bad either. It was kind of kinky, but I kind of liked giving myself away like that. I liked the idea of being completely controlled. The sexual experience was intense. I had the most beautiful, powerful orgasm of my life while I was under, prone, defenseless, obedient. But most of all I liked that trance. I wanted to go back there now. I looked forward to being mannequined. I had literally spent years posed as a mannequin, and yet I did not know what it was like. The memories had been erased. I was excited about the prospect of finding out.
But there was something slightly embarrassing about my life. I was willing to give up control of myself. To be used. To be used as a display object. To be used as a last minute girlfriend for a stranger. To be used as a sex toy by store-men and managers alike. I found it kinky. It turned me on, to be honest. But I reckoned that my friends and family wouldn't be so happy. It might anger them. I would lose their respect. I knew at least two friends who would terminate our friendship if they knew. They would condemn me as a slut or worse a prostitute! My life was wonderful, but I determined it should remain secret. I would discuss it with no-one, not even the other mannequins. I would only talk about it to those that knew - Mike, the store-men, and any staff that knew about it, such as Marge who apparently shared my taste in hairstyles. To everybody else, I would be the floor manager in the kitchenware department!
At this point I realised I was still standing in front of Mikes desk, with my breasts exposed! Blushing with embarrassment, I quickly made myself decent again.
"Sorry, Mike." I said.
"Don't apologise, I've seen them lots of times after all. And they are quite exquisite!"
I felt even more embarrassed. But flattered too.
"How long have we, er.." I stuttered.
"Honey, we had you naked and masturbating on the desk at your job interview, when you were only seventeen. We've had a lot of fun together, sweetheart"
"Okay, now I'm really embarrassed!" I laughed. "I'd better be getting home. I have an early start tomorrow. How long am I on for?"
"You're doing a two week stint in the outdoor fashion department. And I see the programming worked a treat."
"It did?" This surprised me. "I haven't noticed any change at all."
"You're not angry, and you're happy with what you do!" He said.
"I just did some thinking, that's all. I overreacted. For which I apologise."
Of course, I now know, two years on, that the programming worked just fine. It is something I am used to now. I have no idea if the choices and decisions I make are mine, or are programmed in. But I don't mind. I'm used to it.
That night I drove home in a better mood than I had been in the last time I did that drive.
After a good nights sleep, I got up refreshed, and eager. I was going to experience the mannequin part of my new life — the last piece of the jigsaw.
Already I was beginning to notice how the programming controlled me. As I dressed, I noticed I only wore skirts. I hated trousers. Of course, skirts are easier for the men to remove when I'm frozen. I loved high heels. I had no flat shoes. All the mannequins wear heels, and if we wear them when we freeze, our feet can be fitted to those heels. That would not be possible if we wore flat shoes. I had heels of varying height from three inches to four inches. Today I was going to wear a pair of red sandals to match my red skirt and jacket. They had three inch heels. I presumed that was also true for the shoes I was to wear when on display. For the last month, I had been going for a predominantly blue look with my make-up, for a change. I had painted my nails blue. The same blue that the store mannequins wore on their nails. Many choices I made were not choices at all. I was obeying instructions.
By the time I got to work, I was very excited. I was going to be a mannequin, and remember what it was like. I was the only mannequin who would remember. And if it was anything like the trance, it would be wonderful.
I made my way through the staff entrance, down the hall, passed the canteen, passed the stairs to the offices, on down the hall. Until I stood outside room seventy three. I looked at the door. I had been here countless times before, but this felt like the first time. It was not the female changing room anymore. It was the room I would walk in as a woman and be wheeled out as a mannequin.
The room was empty. There was a mannequin stand in the corner, and a pair of leather thigh boots lay beside it. They had stiletto heels, about three inches high. And they had spikes protruding about three inches below them, the same size as two holes in the stand. A large bottle lay to one side. The words "Plasticisor" were written in bold letters upon it.
The door opened. John Philips entered. I had expected Simon Jenks.
I was very excited. My heart was beating very fast.
"Morning, Kirstie." he said.
"Hi." I smiled nervously.
He opened his mouth. I knew what was coming. I was shaking slightly with excitement. Then words began to come from his mouth. Beautiful words. Words I could not understand. Words which I loved.
The transformation was as sudden as it was overpowering. Almost instantly, Kirstie vanished. I was not a woman. I was not Kirstie. I had never heard of Kirstie. I had never even been outside this building. I was man-made. I was an object. I was a mannequin.
My body tensed up but I felt relaxation. I was not posed correctly. I was able to assume my correct pose before I completely froze. Pleasure began to emanate from between my legs. I was beginning to orgasm. But I did not think of it as such. An orgasm was a human thing. I was an object. The pleasure was my reward. It intensified. My eyelids dropped slightly and my eyes rolled back a little bit as I accepted the intense pleasure. As it increased my back arched and I thrust my breasts forward. Then I was frozen. I could not move. I did not want to move. I did not believe I was able to move as I was a mannequin.
Another man entered the room. I did not pay attentions to names anymore. I knew both men in the room, but could not tell their names. I was in ecstasy. I was a mannequin. I did not care.
The men picked me up and lay me on a soft surface. The clothing I wore was removed. I was naked. Leather thigh boots were then put on. Part of the clothing I would display, I presumed. Next they lifted me onto my stand. I slotted into place with a click. Now they began to coat me. The coating was cool. It made my nipples erect. As it dried it hardened. I was solid. I was a mannequin.
I was placed upon a cart and wheeled through to the store sales floor. They took me to the Ladies Outdoor Fashion department. As we went along, we passed other mannequins. Many were ladies I knew. Women whom, as I had done, believed they were sales staff. They believed they had daily lives, and relationships. All false. At the time, I recognised the faces but nothing more. But afterwards I knew who they were — ladies like Tracy Edward, who I sometimes meet for a night out. I had many memories of working with her, things that had happened during the days as we worked hard. All were false. The nearest we have ever come to working together is to be part of the same display. Of course, she has no idea of this.
Having reached my destination, I was taken from the cart. I was dressed in a knee length skirt, a beautiful silk blouse, and a lovely warm sheepswool coat. My make-up and hair were touched up. Then I was moved into position beside another lady, whom I had not met.
I was frozen. I was in heaven.
I was a mannequin.
Continued. . . Going Deeper