Showroom
Niamh
by Miss Marionette
Tags:
#cw:noncon
#dom:female
#drones
#f/f
#pov:bottom
#sub:female
#dollification
#exhibitionism
#gradual_control
#im_unsure_if_men_even_exist_in_this_world_tbh
#mindwipe
#objectification
#personality_removal
#pov:top
#puppet
"...Of course, Miss White, and thank you so much for your custom..."
"...Oh, that's quite alright Miss White!... And you too! Don't you worry, Miss White, we'll have your order sent direc- Yes, absolutely, we'll have your specifications directly to our design specialists immediately, and if you have any modifications you wish to make within the one-week window, please do give me a call on the line we've provided."
"...Once the week has elapsed then I'm afra- no, that's quite alright! Yes, one week."
"...Yes ...yes, absolutely, Miss White. Yes, within business hou-... Of course. Your ticket number is- do you have a pen? Ah, of course."
"Your ticket number is 085-337-9B. Would you like me to-? Ah, wonderful. Alright, thank you so much again, Miss White, and I promise you won't be disappointed - and that's a Firm guarantee!"
"...yes, I know, haha! Goodbye Miss White."
Disconnecting the call and muting the microphone for good measure (just in case), Niamh sat back in her chair and closed her eyes as she pantomimed an enraged shriek at the plaster-panelled office ceiling of her cubicle.
These customers! God! It was worse than working for the damn caviar company! What was it about a woman that as soon as she had a few tens of millions in her bank account, she suddenly believed she was a different species of human?! All norms and graces went out the window and suddenly they were expecting to be addressed as though they were some kind of divine gift to the mortal realm, rather than some trust-fund girl playing with mummy's money or a trophy-wife to an oil executive.
At least the executives themselves treated Niamh halfway decently most of the time: elitist, certainly, but at least they'd earnt the wealth they flaunted. They knew how to talk to people, how to charm.
She quite liked the executives, really. Their confidence and energy made something deep inside her want to cross its legs. The rich-bitch, generational-wealth types could be irritating, but the self-made ones had... a little spark about them. Something that made Niamh feel they'd earnt their place, that they were really *producing* something. Niamh always liked to feel she was producing something of genuine value; it really spoke to her values.
Not, she thought ruefully, like anyone else seemed to care. I mean... 'Miss White'? Niamh knew that company policy was to request customers did not use their legal names with staff representatives - the Firm was many things, but "strictly adherent to the stifling bounds of the pitiful rules the government called laws" was not one of them. But... Miss White? Really?! When you're buying a slavegirl?! Talk about on the nose...
Niamh reached both hands up and used the heels of her palms to massage her eyes for a few delicious moments. Too much time staring at computer screens, buried in the basement of a building she'd never even seen the outside of. The company's bus, a nondescript thing originally modified from some kind of delivery company without windows or interior doorhandles, picked each of the office's workers up every other Monday morning and transported them to the call centre-cum-dormitory where they lived for seven days in every fourteen, before transporting them back at the end of their week-long shift.
She had to admit that it was a fairly good gig: the money was phenomenal, she only had to pay for utilities and food half the time, and the onsite amenities... Well, not all that many employers gave their workers discounted rates on brothel admission.
Especially not the kinds of brothel that the Firm ran. The kind where the 'girls' don't say "no". Can't say "no", anymore.
For someone like Niamh, forced to find a new job in a hurry when her last company went bankrupt and took the pension funds with it, even a shady underworld job like the Firm was heaven-sent. If her parents could have seen her now... Well. Maybe they'd not have been so quick to cut her off, anyway.
Niamh took a few breaths and, slipping off the headset connected to her cubicle phone, slipped in the little wired earbuds connected to her own personal MP3 player and turned on her decompression playlist. The Firm did not permit any kind of phone, walkie-talkie, pager, or any other communications devices during shifts, but she'd managed to scrounge through her old box of junk kept over from high school for the little music player to keep her occupied on her breaks. The Firm had even been generous enough to update the music for her with selections from their company listings. The rest of the little player's music hadn't been updated since she was 15, so she'd been quite enthusiastic about it. It saved her the bother.
Settling into the playlist that had, since she'd started at the Firm, been the aural equivalent of a hot bath, Niamh found herself drawn to remembered the grounding exercises that the Firm's psychiatrist Dr Jansdottir had taught her dormitory crew during their last group session.
"This is a pretty confronting job, sometimes, and the higher-ups wanted me to teach you ladies some exercises to help you when the customers or the work cycles start to tax", said the primly refined doctor who sat in one of the many soft beanbag-style seats around the edges of the open-plan group therapy room.
Despite the chair's ostensible claim to making anyone who sat in it look loose and relaxed, Niamh always found herself wondering how the sternly beautiful doctor contrived to look as though she owned the space. No matter where she sat, Niamh found herself... deferring. She knew her bunkmate, Olivia, the full-figured woman always quick with a laugh and a hug who slept in the bed immediately below Niamh's own felt the same, from the hushed conversations they'd had over meals. Niamh had often wondered if the almost-silent grunts and gasps she occasionally heard at night from Olivia's bed were inspired by the reminisced image of those steel-grey eyes staring into he- Olivia's own. Eyes that bored a hole into her head during their monthly one-on-one sessions. Certainly, Niamh knew that her own "self-relaxation" sessions were quite often such.
"Let's start," the psychiatrist expanded, opening her palms and gesturing out in a warmly inviting motion, "with some deep, centring breaths..."
Niamh, already feeling the professional, calm certainty of Dr Jansdottir's marvellous voice even through her memory, smiled despite herself. She took some deep, centring breaths.
"...And out. Wonderful, you're doing well, ladies."
"Let's start, now, by acknowledging all the wonderful work you ladies do here. This is such a stressful job, one that can really wind you up, and I want you all to think for me about all that work you do. All the effort you put in, how much of your time you give to our employers here at the Firm. All that stress, that tension, wound up so tightly inside that it can feel almost overwhelming, how much of a good job you're doing for us here at the Firm."
The Doctor's remembered voice made it sound so reasonable, but even in her memory Niamh found herself frowning slightly. It was true - each of them did give 110% here, every single day that they worked at the office, but it wasn't without its challenges. She went to their therapy sessions to learn coping strategies, after all, but as nice as it felt for the Doctor to acknowledge all the wonderful work that she did here, she found that thinking about it really wound her up.
Still, this is the way it happened in her memory. It's not like she could remember it differently.
"But it's nice, sometimes, to remember all that work you've done because it makes the decompression so much nicer, doesn't it, ladies?"
In the theatre of her mind, Niamh heard the low murmuring of twelve drowsy, cosy women nodding their agreement. She heard the crinkling of beans in the head of her own chair as she added her voice to the group, drowsily finding she was nodding her head to the Doctor's words. It really did make it nicer to decompress, she thought, when you were decompressing from something.
The Doctor's voice turned up at the edges slightly as she continued through her smile. "There you go. Good, ladies. Let's focus in on that feeling, shall we? That unwinding. Begin to unwind for me now, very good ladies, and keep unravelling that ball of tension..."
+++
Niamh woke in her chair some time later, unsure how long she'd been listening to her music for. The playlist had ended, it seemed, soon enough ago that the screen hadn't yet turned off so presumably the end of the audio had woken her, but it was a little hard to tell. Without windows in the Firm's basement offices, she was largely reliant on the computer's clock and the cycle of her own hunger and thirst to tell her when to take breaks, leading to a lot of unintended overtime that she was sure the company didn't entirely mind about.
Truth to tell, she didn't mind either. Accidental overtime just meant she was doing a good job, after all, and that her work was keeping her busy. She wanted to give 110%, they all did. As her granny would say, "a job well done is its own reward," and she certainly felt rewarded. She barely even noticed herself squeezing her thighs together, thinking about how productive she was being.
Still, the little routine of decompression music and a few minutes of in-chair shut-eye was unparalleled, and Niamh felt energised and ready for another few hours of calls before she headed back to the mess-hall for dinner.
As Niamh retrieved her company-provided headset and unmuted the microphone for another round of callers, she reflected on how much better she felt about her work these days. Sure, technically the Firm was selling products that most people regarded as "immoral" or "illegal", but it's not like this wasn't something that was happening already. If anything, the Firm was doing... if not a public service, then at least a personal one, ensuring that those girls who did rack up too much debt with their drug dealer or whatever other low-life riff-raff got snapped up by the Firm enjoyed their time. Unlike most sex-slaves, at least Firm products didn't have to feel bad about it.
Heck, Niamh thought as she grinned, if her last round as an "examiner" in the 'Tiffany' testing shop had been anything to go off, they were probably having the time of their goddamn lives.
She smiled, closing her eyes again for a moment, imagining what it must be like. Having only enough thought to feel, and feeling nothing but fucking amazing... It was almost enviable. Nothing but brainless giggles, soft skin, and dripping pussies.
Almost enviable.
Niamh opened her eyes, booted her computer back up. Tried to ignore the warm flush, or the feeling of dampness.
Almost enviable.
She'd listened to the company's advertising copy about them a few times now, whenever she needed a new line to parrot at a prospective owner when she was handing them over to a 'Michelle' to be taken down to the showroom floor.
"Every 'Tiffany' was a work of art", she'd say, "sculpted expertly from only the highest-quality raw material and reprogrammed to focus solely on bringing you to the very highest levels of humanly-experienceable bliss in every encounter. Between plush lips, soft curves, and wide array of pre-programmed positions and techniques, our 'Tiffanies' are the first and last words in intimate gratification."
Almost enviable.
It was pure nonsense, of course - she'd heard from one of the other call centre ladies who helped the 'Mabels' down in the sculpting department that most of the 'Tiffanies' started life as ex-drug addicts, criminals, people like that. Most of the models did, even the 'Ophelias'. Disposable human trash, Niamh sneered, and the sneer had a kind of echo to it that made her feel a little weak at the knees. The kind of person nobody'd miss, that probably the world would be better off without. The Firm was being generous, even, calling them "raw material". If they’d been honest, they might as well have called them "upcycled garbage".
She remembered, when she'd first joined the Firm, that she'd felt terrible for the raw material for weeks. She'd remembered her big sister, after the two of them had finally run away from home together, who'd slipped into taking Xanax to help her sleep at night after a long shift, then slipped into taking Oxycontin to help her unwind when the Xanax stopped working. When the Oxy got too expensive, she'd switched to heroin, and eventually just started buying straight fentanyl because at least then it was pure and she could dose more easily. Niamh had remembered watching her sister (...Elo-? No, more like... Hel-?) become more and more desperate, trying to hold down a job to keep them both fed, until she stopped trying and just started whoring for food instead.
Niamh had seen one of the materials come in, her second week in the job when she was still in materials processing. She'd whined and cried like they all did, said it must be some mistake - then realising it wasn't the cops who'd brought her in. But... but she'd looked... looked so much like...
Helen...
Niamh blinked, trying to push out the tears. She didn't understand where they were coming from. It was a happy memory, after all: she got to see the material become something beautiful. For the first time in its life, it would contribute something of value to society, by serving the pleasure of one of the Firm's customers. It was an honour, really.
It's such an honour to become beautiful.
Niamh tried to remember what the material had been sculpted into, but it had been... months ago. Years?
...How long had Niamh been here?
That's not important.
She thought the material might have been made a... a 'Tracy', maybe? The 'Tracies' had just come out then, probably a 'Tracy'. But, no, the 'Tracy' model came out in 2016, that... was... such a long...
That's not important.
Niamh smiled, and thought about Miss White, her customer from earlier. What a commanding presence! Even over the phone, it made Niamh flush to think about her. Her voice had really projected the kind of aura that an Owner needed to have, the kind of presence an Owner needed when She was taking possession of a model.
Niamh was sure that Miss White would make a fabulous Owner to whichever model was sent Her way. Niamh tried to recall exactly which model Miss White had ordered, but it was a little vague. She'd only called today- or, was it...?
That's not important.
Regardless, Niamh was so pleased to have been part of such a productive tradition. It made her feel so warm and slick, to be so productive. To help the Firm. It really spoke to her values.
She’d worked with one of the 'Tracies' before, after her manager had brought her own 'Tracy' into the call centre with her. It had looked so sleek and polished, elegant in its high heels but with enough of an ass that it subtly lifted the back of its short little suit-skirt. She breathed a little faster, remembering how it had flashed the tops of its stockings as it walked past, the smell of roses almost but not entirely covering the scent of the banked fires of its programmed lust for its Owner.
The 'Tracy' had trailed after Niamh's manager all day, speaking when spoken to (appropriate for a helper) and at that largely saying "yes, Ma'am" or "of course, Ma'am". Niamh had found it frustrating at first, even distracting, but thinking back she could hardly see why. It was so (enthralling) pleasant to watch, and she found herself wondering whether it (was constantly on the edge of cumming) was capable of realising how (beautiful) well-made it was.
How well-made...
She was so lucky to work for a Company who made such beautiful products. It felt like being a... a helper, to true art. Niamh liked being helpful. Liked supporting the Firm.
+++
Olivia was already in her bottom bunk when Niamh returned from dinner, flicking her way through one of the outside magazines that the dormitory's 'Magda' replenished every few days. Niamh couldn't quite make out which magazine it was, some gossip rag or other, but Olivia was clearly not reading it avidly in any case. The shorter woman turned as the door opened, and smiled at her top-bunk roommate.
"Well hey stranger, long day today?" she said, tossing the magazine to the end of her bed and shuffling up to rest her back against the wall. "It's almost 9. Have you even eaten?"
Niamh blinked, smiling a little despite herself. "Seriously, 9?" She started to strip off her top, unbuttoning the plain cotton blouse, wirefree cotton bra and loose, black cotton slacks and throwing them into the hamper for the 'Magda' to collect in the morning, and pretended not to notice or enjoy the way Olivia's eyes followed her breasts around the room.
She grabbed a pyjama top from under her pillow, slipping it on before flopping, slightly stiffly, into her roommate's bed to sit on the other side to chat before bed, as was their evening routine almost every night. In the absence of social media or outside friends, Dr Jansdottir had drilled into them, it was vitally important that they maintained socialisation with each other. After all, their co-workers were the only ones who really understood what it was like to work for the Firm. They were trusted.
"And, I ate the fish option after work", Niamh smirked at Olivia's cutely arched eyebrow, "So there."
Olivia flicked a foot playfully against Niamh's outer thigh and giggled. "Yeah, but what about dinner?" As Niamh took a pillow and, laughing, raised it to pelt at her friend's head, Olivia called out "I'm kidding! Kidding!"
Olivia sighed happily and leaned back.
"How come you stayed so late, anyway? That was 14 hours you did there, girl."
Niamh blinked a little, forehead furrowing. "Really? God, it didn't feel it. I was just so in the zone the whole time. You know how some days you just really...", she reached into the air, hands waving as though sculpting the clay of her thoughts, "...just really get into it?"
Olivia nodded, mouth cocked into a knowing moue. "I do, I do. It's this building, I think. No natural light, no phones. It's easy for the day to just-", she snapped her fingers, "go, right?"
"Oh, so right. Plus, sometimes you get a caller and it's like... wow! You know?!" Niamh shook her head, slightly, remembering Miss White and Her aura of power. "I can't believe I used to think this job would be boring...!" She giggled, to cover what could so easily have been a gasp.
"Mmmh, oh I do know, I do know." Olivia practically husked the words, biting her lip a little. Niamh couldn't help noticing the way her friend's ass rolled slightly in the bed, and the way it caused her rather lovely thighs to part just a little more. She couldn't help noticing it, because she was looking directly at it.
Olivia continued, eyelids drooping a touch as she stared into the memory.
"One of my callers today was asking about buying another, mmh!" Olivia did gasp, then, and took a short breath in. "A-about buying another 'Ophelia', to pair up with the one she already had...
"She said she wanted them to sing duets together while they-", she groaned, hand slipping towards her centre as Niamh scented Olivia in the air.
"While they ma-a-ade love... God, Nivvy... The way She described it was so vivid. Nivvy, I about melted."
She gasped again, deeper and with more vibrato, slipping from soprano into a sweet little mezzo that hummed across Niamh's sinews and deep into her belly.
"I melt every time I think about the 'Ophelias'. They're amazing... the poise, the flow..."
Niamh smiled, eyelids fluttering at the description. Her friend, always an artistic type herself, had been captivated by the poetic grace of the Firm's premier line of muse models for the discerning artiste for as long as Niamh had known her. Niamh had become used, over the last few months, to seeing Olivia spending many of her free hours reading the ad copy and internal circulars about the newest versions of 'Ophelia'. Had, once or twice, walked in on the little artiste playing with herself, listening to recordings of the 'Ophelias' during test-recitals.
As Niamh watched her friend's revelations, her own legs practically slipping apart without her thought or control, she saw Olivia flush a deep pink and her plump lips slip into an inviting little gasp. "Sometimes I dream about being an..."
Her hazel eyes, wide with emotion, flicked open and she looked straight at Niamh, sudden fear and wanting at war in her gaze. Niamh, for her own part, sat utterly motionless, scared to break the spell. The two stared at each other, room slowly filling with the mingled scents of their mutual desperation, for too many endless seconds.
Niamh licked her lips, mouth suddenly dry, knowing where she could wet it and wanting to more than she'd wanted almost anything in her life. Then, slower than the spreading of the boughs of a tree come spring, she nodded once, twice, thrice.
Her lips moved, with hardly a thought.
"I dream about it too," she breathed, so quietly she wondered if Olivia could hear it. "About being... being..." Her voice trailed off, as her will died in her throat.
As if in prayer, Olivia closed her eyes.
As if answered, the 'Ophelia' opened them.
Now its voice had a weird tang, as if it had already tasted Niamh's flavour many times but was only now remembering the nightly conclusion to their nightly routine.
"You now remember the phone that is stored in the bottom drawer of your bedside table, Niamh", said the 'Ophelia', subvocalised harmonics echoing marvellously within Niamh's rapidly emptying head. "Please retrieve it."
niamh smiled, wide and artlessly, and rose to her feet as though submerged to the neck in warm water. She didn't think about why there was an old wireless landline handset nestled, carefully concealed, in a small charging cradle at the back of the bottom drawer she kept her rarely-used items.
she didn't think about how natural it was for her hand to close around it, remembering its position without truly remembering its existence.
she didn't think about how natural it was for her to take orders from a model, let alone from an 'Ophelia' designed with an almost-pathological submission built into the very core of its programming.
she didn't think about how natural it was for her roommate to be an 'Ophelia'. For her to submit to her roommate, the 'Ophelia'. For her head to spin, as she imagined the 'Ophelia' singing beautiful poetry as niamh's tongue sank into the sweetness of its cunt.
she didn't think about how loud she was panting, as she helplessly slipped the handset into her mouth like an obedient dog collecting its Mistress' newspaper and padded, on all fours, back to the bed. Waited for the 'Ophelia' to smile mechanically and pat the mattress, for her to jump up.
she didn't think as the 'Ophelia' gestured for her to drop the handset, then instructed her (ohhh that voice that voice that voooiiiccceee...) to pick it up.
"you remember that there is a speed-dial option preset now. Please dial it, niamh." The 'Ophelia' smiled again, a smile so beautiful it made niamh's heart ache to see it but which never quite reached its eyes, and when she realised that it made her whine with a need to cum at the collapse of her own will. At how far she'd fallen; how far she wanted to keep falling.
niamh's thumb shook, faintly, as she pressed and held "1", listening for the tone, before some little switch flicked inside her head and she found her thumb already depressing the speakerphone icon.
The phone rang four times before it was picked up, and Doctor Jansdottir's Voice oozed across whatever sticky honey was left of niamh's consciousness as Her laugh stroked niamh to a frantic, whimpering climax.
The Doctor waited, as patient as the grave, for niamh's breathing to settle back into an even, hypnotised calm, and nodded to Herself on the other end of the line.
"Wonderful. Simply wonderful."
"I'm afraid it still isn't time for us to collect either of you yet; you have so much to do before we can fully process your wonderful material..." The line crackled a little as the Doctor chuckled to Herself. "So many miles to go before... Mmh."
"But, we can continue your therapy now, I think, before we let lovely little niamh and olivia come back out to continue their marinade for another few cycles, at least."
"Now, listen closely..."
"Nice job, Tracy."
As if in rapture, niamh closed her eyes.
As if in heaven, the 'Tracy' opened its eyes.
(For the record, Niamh is a Scottish Gaelic name and is typically pronounced "Neev")