Showroom
'Tracy'
by Miss Marionette
Tags:
#cw:noncon
#dom:female
#drones
#f/f
#pov:bottom
#sub:female
#dark
#dead_dove_do_not_eat
#dollification
#exhibitionism
#fucked_as_hell
#gradual_control
#identity_death
#im_unsure_if_men_even_exist_in_this_world_tbh
#medfet
#medical
#Mind_Break
#mindwipe
#objectification
#personality_removal
#pov:top
#puppet
"It is a common mistake amongst our newest staffwomen to believe, as their prior education suggests, that we in the Modelmakers wish to excise entirely the material's ego and super-ego during processing. They believe that we use the rawest, basest desires of the material's id to break it, feeding and starving the flesh - and, thus, the brain - as one would stoke and choke a furnace.
"This is an understandable error, but a foolish one. The true Modelmaker knows that the id is a hindrance more than it is a help, as the body strives for its own goals heedless of Ours, or even those of the self. It is, in fact, the overcoming of the id that we prize most highly; for nothing in this world is more potent for the moulding of raw material than its own ego turned inwards."
-- Dr Penelope Jansdottir, Head Modelmaker (Glasgow branch office)
In the darkness of its case, the niamh knew that it was lost.
The knowledge hurt. It sliced at the niamh, scalpels raking its psyche as they cut slow, steady slivers from the shivering core of its selfhood. It had been an infinite expanse of inconceivable time since it had felt anything, and in all that time it had known nothing. it knew that it was unmoored, adrift in the black expanse of
OWNERLESS.
it whimpered, straining blindly against the straps that bound it to the body-formed concavity of the case. The interior of the case stank, the reek of stale sweat and body oils mixing with the more complex fragrances of dripping cunt and long-dried drool. The niamh was only spared the smell of rancid piss and other waste by the grace of the long catheter lines that ran, one from above its soaking pussy and one between its asscheeks, out of the case through holes pierced through two blacked-out wounds in the rubber-lined steel upon which the niamh lay. The lines were secured well: even the convulsive, almost-seizure jerking of the niamh as it came would not budge them, as it would not budge the thin wire headset adhered by its many dozens of pads to the niamh's bald head.
The niamh knew that it was lost.
The knowledge ached, a bone-deep, soul-deep yearning to be found, to be known, to be owned. it had long since past the point of rationalisation of its existence within the case, past the point of knowing it was being reMade and obediently, maybe even eagerly stepping inside. it had reached the place in its journey where it was forgetting, forgetting anything but serve, forgetting anything but belong. The niamh knew that it did not yet serve, did not yet belong, and it wept dry tears across a face it no longer felt.
OWNERLESS.
The niamh was tired, now, and thirsty. it could not tell when it urinated, or even when it defecated if it did so at all anymore, but in the ticking and whirring mass of fear and darkness behind its eyes the part of it that longed to belong knew it had been hours since it last felt its belly fill. Though the niamh was past the point of analysis, past even the point of interpretation, it knew the sensation of the thin tube adhered to its nose with tape that ran like a tapeworm into its belly. Deep inside it a quiet, sleepy voice whispered "feeding tube", and wondered with the last of its independent thought they could be feeding it.
What They could be feeding it. They. They! They!
The
OWNERS.
The niamh would have screamed if it had voice, would have sobbed if it had tears, would have gasped if it had breath.
it came instead, muscles cording in a rictus of pulsing, aching, slicing need that spasmed down its spine like lightning through a power-line, the tensing of the muscles in its chest so hard the air was expelled from its body in an uncontrolled groan of need.
The climax itself felt almost nothing, its pussy fluttering helplessly as the body tried in reflexive greed to find a tongue to twitch for or fingers to clench upon, but the body did not matter. Did not exist. The niamh knew that its flesh was granted it by the
OWNERS!
only so that the niamh could please Them, could give Them its service. The joy of the climax was in the knowledge that the
OWNERS!
were feeding it, giving it strength, giving it life so that it could continue to serve, continue to belong. If the OWNERS chose to kill it, the niamh would be fed no more, catheters removed, fluid drips extubated, and it would die, cumming and pissing and emptying itself for Their will. The niamh wanted so very badly to live for Them: if it died, They would not be served.
The OWNERS were letting it live. Were giving it life. it lived by Their choice, because They gave it life. Gave it breath. Gave it purpose! Purpose! Purpose! Purp-! P-!
The niamh's flesh could cum no more but its mind tried, white with bliss at Their Purpose in the black of the void of OWNERLESS. it knew it was Ownerless (cut, slice) but the Owners were granting it life. Granting it redemption. it was not yet ready to serve, and it would serve, it would serve, it would serve, it would serve. When the Owners were ready. When it was ready.
Under the fever-hot spotlights of the training-room's high ceilings and endless mirrored walls, the niamh knew that it was lost.
The lights were bright, so bright they blinded, but the niamh could see nothing beyond the black behind its eyes, past the void it had drowned in within the infinite night of its case. it did not know how long the Owners had kept it there, though some empty and emotionless part of its pre-Existence murmured about muscle wasting and takes weeks to-. Some half-remembered snapshots: a dying grandmother, a sombre doctor, a conversation about "too much time in bed", about "I recommend contac-".
The niamh did not understand. Did not want to understand. The memory did not serve the Owners. It was unimportant. If it served, They would tell the niamh and the niamh would remember. The niamh let the memories sink back into the black, and forgo-
The lights were bright, so bright they blinded, but the niamh could see the faint outline just ahead of it of a womanshape. The womanshape was tall but rail-thin, the meat of its naked chest sucking around its ribs and the jutting angles of elbows, collar-bones, hips giving the shape the appearance of a thing that should not be standing. Should not be walking towards the niamh as it, in turn, walked towards the womanshape. The niamh noted, dim thoughts firing late in the joyless, painless fog of its mind, that the womanshape's motions matched its own. That it was the same size, same height as the niamh. The niamh blinked, reasoning crawling. Looked left, and saw stretching away from it...
...mirrors...
Looked back at the womanshape.
Mirrors...
The niamh felt the space between its eyes tighten. Felt the skin move, dry almost to the point of flaking, furrows stretching over its... wasted... muscle...
Echoes in its mind, days... before? Before the OWNERS. it knew there were words. Deconditioning. Starvation. Dehydration.
The niamh's hand twitched, started to reach up to its- her? face, sallow cheeks pale skin what did They do to m-? to m-, to me, to me, me that's me that's m-
niamh's head spun, lights flashing on and off, red and white, red and white behind her eyes behind HER eyes they were HERS she had EYES-!
The room was filled with hissing, a noise that its ears could not hear because it was told it did not hear it. The hissing was telling her to sleep, to rest, she would obey and please the owners (Owners!) and to please them (Them!) she needed only to-
the room was spinning. her stomach was spinning, looping inside like it was on some kind of rollercoaster track. It must be, because how else could she feel so sick, and then she was falling-
The cold, washable tile of the training-room floor had never felt so much like a bed to niamh as she tumbled, gracelessly, into the black behind her eyes.
niamh was already mouthing the words the headphones were spoonfeeding into her sleeping head as she bobbed, rudderless, to the surface of the dark waters of her consciousness.
in the me that is in the flesh is the me that feels the burn the one that is in the mirror is the me that feels the hunger is the me that feels the sick in the
she shook, violently, head attempting to thrash and throw the headphones loose. Found with a soundless, hopeless moan that her head was strapped down with thick, woven bands that terminated somewhere to either side of her. That her arms, her legs, her torso were strapped down even tighter, bands cutting deeply into the withered and worthless meat of muscles atrophied from starvation and disuse. she wept, too dehydrated for tears, and realised she barely even knew why she was trying to cry. Realised she barely even knew why she was fighting. Realised that the
body that is the vessel is the body that serves the Owners do not need the me that feels the fear that is the me that hates the body that is the
and nodded against the straps, listening without listening. she thought, vaguely, between the molasses-bitter thoughts the voices (Owners) were pouring into her. Thought about the
joy that is in the purpose that is the will that serves the Owners
and thought about how the face she saw was
not her face was beautiful in the eyes of the Owners gave her a new face
niamh thought... thought...
niamh stopped thinking for a while.
she blinked awake.
she heard no voices in her head anymore, though some cold little part of her that counted seconds and analysed data remarked that it felt the headphones still around her head. The cold part, which sounded so sleepy and yet so firm, reasoned that perhaps the voices had merely stopped for a moment.
she felt better about that. she could still think.
she thought about what she was... seeing. Because she was seeing: her case was no longer pitch-black, illuminated now by a faint but unmistakeable glow that seemed to be everywhere all at once. And she could... see.
Could see the face, hovering above her.
It was, she thought, a well-made face. Though wan and exhausted, the prominent cheekbones were quite fetching. It lacked the padding fat that made a face truly beautiful but, suggested the cold voice, that could be fixed with time. The face's lips, though chapped and cracked from dehydration, were a gloriously symmetric cupid's-bow that she could imagine would take lipstick well. Even with much of the nose covered by adhesive securing the face's feeding tube in place, she could tell that the nose was quite lovely, too, if perhaps a little larger than average.
The eyes were blue, doe-like, and vacant. she saw nothing inside them. It made her imagine those eyes, fluttering closed as they served the Owners. It made her wet.
The face was familiar. she couldn't quite place it.
There was a voice, sleepier and sadder than the cold voice that counted and clicked, that sighed inside her head.
niamh
she considered the name, and wondered what it meant. Wondered who she was. Wondered why the question made her so sleepy.
sleepy and wet.
it blinked asleep.
Dr Jansdottir smiled at the motionless womanshape that stood at loose attention in the training-room and began to circle it, stepping slowly, examining every detail of its supple, naked form. She would rarely have time for a model that was unable to hold itself correctly but She would never call Herself cruel. This one had been taken a little further down the physical deconditioning path than most. Some liberties must be granted in the name of art.
The thing was, She considered, goodly formed. its body, though emaciated, would recover well from the 6-week processing and it had assumed model position immediately upon Her appearance. At a minimum, at least, the handling programming was firmfast in its 'mind'.
Dr Jansdottir stepped towards it.
"Mouth open, legs apart."
She inspected its tongue, Her hand twisting its neck to the side to inspect the flickering pulse there. Stepped closer, within the grasp of the thing if it had had will to act without instruction, and reached a hand to spread its cuntlips apart.
Dry, pale. Dehydrated in the extreme. She suspected its standing was more by the will of its programming: were it a free woman, it would have fainted some minutes ago.
She looked into its eyes, saw their lack of fixation, dilated pupils. The appropriate deadness.
The Doctor pressed Herself against the breathing thing and stroked its vacant cheek. Her smile was warm, loving, the kind of smile a mother might use as she stroked her infant daughter in her crib. Leaning in, slowly, the Doctor bent its stiff neck forwards to allow Her to plant a soft kiss.
Her voice was a whisper.
"Aren't you so much more beautiful, now?
"I remember you, when you were alive. Anxious, alone, afraid. Abandoned by those who claimed to love you, found by those who wanted to use you."
Her smile grew, eyes crinkling with an easy mirth that had nothing to do with kindness.
"And my, my. Didn't we just?
"My poor sweet thing. you were so sickening back then, weren't you?
"Nod."
it nodded twice, perfunctorily, a machine completing its programmed task. its eyes never moved in their sockets, pupils staring straight out such that they rocked with the movement of its head. The rigidity would have been disquieting to an ordinary audience. Dr Jansdottir inhaled sharply, and bit Her lip.
"you suit this so much better, My beloved. My beautiful doll. you were made for this, inside and out. This was always right for you, wasn't it?
"Nod."
As it nodded, the Doctor turned to the only other conscious creature in the room. Her head tilted slightly as if weighing the creature up in Her mind. If you could truly call it conscious anymore. If you could call it a creature anymore. The Doctor did so love all Her children.
"Mabel."
The 'Mabel' blinked once and oriented upon its Mistress, Her words activating it and orienting it to the One who would use it.
its voice, with its clipped flatness and utterly precise intonation, was the work of a nontrivial amount of training and expense to achieve for something that was, when all's said and done, entirely cosmetic.
The Mabel blinked once. "Yes Doctor. ?"
As the good Doctor felt Herself tighten, deep in Her core, at the sound... She knew it was worth every penny.
"This model is to be a 'Tracy'. See to it.", She said, keeping Her own voice even of the hoarse satisfaction She felt through force of will alone. It wasn't like the 'Mabel' would care - would even notice - but She would care. If you couldn't do things for yourself, what was the point?
The 'Mabel' pivoted to observe the womanshape that was, absent the direct gaze of an Owner to keep it conscious, blinking rapidly in the heat of the lights.
"Yes Doctor. It Will Be Scheduled. Do You Have Any Other Requirements Doctor. ?"
The 'Mabel' spun again on its heels to face the Doctor, who swallowed a moan.
"Mmh... When it comes time for testing, I shall be requesting it. This one shows...", She turned, perhaps seeing a flicker of motion out of the corner of Her eye.
Stepped back in towards the 'Tracy'-to-be, and swept arms around it. Caught it, as it crumpled.
"...Shows such wonderful promise."
She lowered it to the ground, amazed despite Herself at the lightness of its cachectic frame. A mannequin, ready to be dressed in the meat of its new life. She knelt with its unconscious body, and stared delightedly into its sightless eyes. Saw its future dancing within, in pencil skirt and the devotion of one who lived for its Owner.
She kissed it again, forehead first; then gently, lovingly on its cracked and pale lips; finally, its ear. The 'Mabel', attentive for the possibility of an Owner's instruction, heard Her whisper into the brain of the sleeping thing.
Penelope pressed Herself tightly against the 'Tracy', cradling it.
"Don't worry, little one.
"you're home now."
I wish I had half the talent of the authors I aspire to emulate. That said, if you like this then I suggest you read connie k's 'Single Sight' and Tabico's 'Cross My Heart', both on mcstories. They pull this kind of stuff off far better than I ever could.
I hope to have chapter 5 up sometime in the next week or so, but it may be a touch longer - I have some rather important exams coming up next week, so might have to put writing on hold 'til after then.
Every chapter is more stunlocking than the last. Can’t wait to edge myself into a puddle with this tomorrow. <3