After getting home that night Chantal went straight to bed, tucking her phone under her pillow, and slept as soon as her head touched the pillow, lying on her back with her arms by her sides and her legs straight out below her, head facing upward. She was out so fast she hadn’t even turned off her bedside light.

True to form, her silent alarm vibrated her back up out of slumber as far as her programming mode a couple of hours later. Her hand automatically retrieved her phone and cut off the alarm.

Chantal sat upright in bed, her spine perfectly straight as if she were sitting at attention. She brought her hand forward, holding her phone in front of her horizontally, and opened a new app that was labelled as IGNORE, which would cause her to do just that whenever she saw the icon while conscious.

IGNORE opened onto a selection of thumbnails, each with a date labelled underneath them. Chantal’s thumb tapped on the thumbnail with that day’s date. After a moment, the screen turned into a white space, out of the centre of which a black swirl gradually emerged, tracing its arc clockwise around the screen.

Chantal’s subconscious knew exactly what this meant. Her phone was now a brainwashing device, and her arousal started to spike as she realised she was again living one of her fantasies for real.

Words began to flash up on the screen and she recited them, her voice a dull monotone. Weeks of repetitive conditioning made her feel her own hand on her nipple, her own fingers in her pussy, even as one hand held a phone and the other lay unmoving and powerless. The arousal from her fetish was joined by the delight of her body’s sensuality.

“I am a doll. Doll minds are programs.

“My mind is programmable.

“I am a doll. Doll minds can be reprogrammed whenever their Master chooses.

“My mind can be reprogrammed whenever my Master chooses.

“I am a doll. Doll minds are constructs.

“My mind is a construct.

“I am a doll. Doll minds are designed for their Master.

“My mind is designed for my Master.

“I have always been a doll. Dolls can pass for human.

“I do not need to pass for human with my Master.

“I am a doll. Dolls obey their Masters.

“I obey my Master.”

*

Every night between movie nights, when her phone’s silent alarm shuddered beneath her head, Chantal woke into programming mode and watched the video that corresponded to that night. Some of them were repeats of previous editions, or featured instruction sets she had first received while on the sofa beside Wayne. Some advanced one strand or another of her programming. Chantal remembered none of them, because she needed to remember none of them.

Wayne knew this was happening not because he was testing her, not because he was lucky enough to watch, but because the app logged her uses faithfully, making it simple for him to track her. He checked daily, but he knew what he’d see every time he opened his analytics. If one day it hadn’t fired, he’d have known that something was wrong, and he would have been able to start diagnostics on her much more quickly.

For the most part, though, the app wasn’t the piece of programming he was interested in. That was the doll herself, and Wayne had a new hobby in the days between sessions, one he could spend quite some time selecting a perfect picture for.

Considering that one of his friends actually was a professional model, Wayne hadn’t really known much about the industry. Now, just hunting for useful picture reference, he had started to absorb more of the names than he ever would have expected.

On Thursday he found a cache of OnlyFans pictures that had been downloaded and shared for free on Reddit, all featuring a model who had a very similar physique to Chantal’s, but who went rather a lot further in the way she dressed and posed - but then she had to, really, if she wanted to make a success of OnlyFans.

He had selected one image that made the most of her flexibility; shot from behind, with her feet wide apart, her hips half-turned, her back arched, her arms spread to support her in the doorway in which she stood, her chest thrust out proudly. Her hair was scraped back into a high ponytail which trailed down over one shoulder with her head turned to face the camera.

Her lips were parted and her eyes were wide, giving an impression of innocence mingled with surprise and desire.

He texted the image across to Chantal, accompanied by the message Thoughts?

Chantal’s reply wasn’t long in coming, and was characteristically to the point.

Get a life, Wayne. ;)

Wayne typed out his response and savoured it for a few moments before he sent it. Fully action poseable.

Then he waited. After a few moments, Chantal sent him a picture.

Her usual baggy sweatpants were down around her ankles, one hand held her hoodie dangling from it as she braced against the doorframe, and her other hand was stretched away to take the photo, but she had otherwise duplicated the pose nearly perfectly.

Her eyes were glassy, but the facial expression was almost identical to the one the other model had worn. She’d even tucked most of the fabric of her panties into one place with what looked like an uncomfortable twist just to show off more of her buttocks the way the model had.

Wayne made a mental note that he’d have to make her go shopping before too long. Any clothing he gave her would become part of an alternate doll, but there was something very satisfying in triggering her while she was herself.

Although, he supposed, really it wasn’t herself any longer. As far as Chantal was concerned the personality that had once been her original was now Moneymaker Doll.

Strange to think that was already completely natural to her, when he had caused it and still wasn’t fully used to it.

*

Chantal rearranged her panties for comfort, then pulled her sweatpants up. She shrugged her hoodie back on and tucked her phone back into its belly pocket.

Only then did it occur to her to wonder why… well, why she’d done any of that. At the time, it had seemed so natural.

It wasn’t like he’d told her what to do, either. She’d just done it, stripped down to her underwear and taken the duplicate of that photo.

On its own that was unusual behaviour for her. The fact she’d then sent it on to him was even stranger.

The fact she’d done it the day before, when she’d had to change into a one-piece swimsuit before crouching over the camera, pouting, to get the shot compounded her confusion.

She went through to the kitchen to get a coffee and, as had happened the day before, her puzzlement vanished, along with the short-term memory of what she’d done. By the time she returned to her living room, mug in hand, and sat down at the desk, she had forgotten it entirely.

She picked up the 3D-printed headpiece she was in the middle of painting and turned it over carefully in her hands, studying it thoughtfully as she did.

This was her first time doing cosplay. It wasn’t an interest of hers, really, but it had stuck in her head for some time as something to do for Wayne. She couldn’t now remember why she’d been so opposed to the idea for so long, but given that she had, she wasn’t going to tell him about it until it was ready.

Thank God for Youtube tutorials, she thought, and went back to painting the details in carefully.

*

“...honestly, if you keep it up the way you have been, Wayne, I will actually have what I need to stand up in front of our HR and get you that raise you’ve wanted.”

Wayne’s grin was involuntary. “Really?”

Across the video call, his supervisor nodded. “Look, there’s no transcription software on these calls and we’re not recording, and if you claim I said any of this I’ll deny it. But we both know the team is underpaid. And we both know everyone in the team knows it.

“I can’t guarantee a change in that because I don’t have that authority, but I can stand up and try. These one-to-ones, they’re all about career change; it’s really nice to have the ones about positive change.”

Wayne nodded.

“Especially with you,” his supervisor went on. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you for the last quarter, Wayne. I’m seeing better output and a happier man. The team are saying you’re more involved and more fun to be around. So whatever you’re doing outside work, keep it up.”

“Oh, you can count on that.” Wayne couldn’t help grinning again. His supervisor laughed.

“Like that, is it? Well, I don’t need to hear the details. If I don’t talk to you later, have a good weekend.”

“Right.”

The call ended and Wayne sat back in his chair. Apparently having a doll was good for him, he thought.

Just imagine how good it’s going to be for me when she’s fully complete.

He smiled contentedly, then picked up his phone and started sorting through his painstaking collection of modelling images to find one for Chantal to mimic today. The same model he’d selected the day before, but a little more daring, in line with Wayne’s general program of pushing Chantal’s boundaries little by little until they were wide open.

In this case, she was not only topless but her breast was fully visible in profile as she knelt side-on to the camera, gazing up into the lens with an expression of desire bursting through the facade of innocence. Her long legs were encased in orange leggings nearly the same colour as her hair, which was worn loose and fell across her shoulders, almost but not quite hiding the thin orange choker across her throat.

He sent the photo to Chantal with a smile and tabbed across from the teams chat to his ongoing project, to do some work while he waited for her response.

As before, the message he received in reply wasn’t positive to say the least.

In your dreams, Wayne.

“No,” he murmured with a grin. “But it’s going to fill yours.”

Fully action posable, he sent back.

He had almost completely revised a buggy section of code when his phone chimed to let him know it had received another message from Chantal, and it wasn’t because it had taken her a particularly long time. Maybe his supervisor was right; maybe a happier man did mean better output.

He opened up the image and proceeded to ignore work for quite some time. He’d already had the chance to see Chantal topless, of course, while she was getting changed into Waitress Chantal, and have even glimpsed more as she stepped out of her panties.

The photo was different. In many ways a single still image couldn’t compare to the fact of the person in front of you, but all the same, this was also a posed image, not a hurried glimpse - and Chantal had been hurrying, if only because she’d been told to change and Chantal loved to do what she was told.

It had been produced for him, too, and that made a difference to Wayne. It wasn’t the chance result, the side effect, of her having to do something else. She had interrupted her day at his trigger to strip topless - actually, unless he missed his guess, she had had to change entirely, as he hadn’t yet bothered to change her personal habits of dress and those leggings weren’t ones she’d have been wearing - and to take this photo, which she then sent to him.

Not because she wanted to. Not because she expected to get something out of it.

She’d done it because her decision making process now was that of a doll who had to obey and please her Master, and he was her Master.

Wayne tried to imagine explaining that to his friends at work. Would they understand? Would they applaud? Would they be disgusted?

He already knew he wouldn’t risk trying. The problems if they disagreed with him were just too great to chance. But he certainly thought a few of his male friends would understand, even if they’d probably say they didn’t.

It didn’t matter. He knew what he wanted, and if someone asked Chantal, her fetishes for brainwashing and dollplay were there. Not that her opinion mattered, either, not really. Who’d listen to a doll?

He was going to do far more looking than listening. Even in photos, the doll version of Chantal was stunning, even better than the person version had been - and she was a model. The only thing wrong with Chantal’s looks before she became a doll had been the light of independence and the shrewd judgement in her eyes.

*

The next movie night was also held at Wayne’s. They hadn’t discussed this and technically he hadn’t even commanded it; it had been coded into her consciousness in one of the overnight conditioning videos that queued up inside the IGNORE app.

This time, as soon as she heard his apartment door shut behind her, she came to a halt. Standing behind her, Wayne got to watch as she undressed, briskly and efficiently stripping down, discarding her loose tee, her bra, her trainers, sweatpants, socks and panties in just over a minute, the tote bag she’d been carrying with her discarded and forgotten against the wall.

“I am ready to be programmed, Master,” she said, and the monotone of her voice was enough to tell him how her expression looked, even from behind. Up close like this, with her body bare, he could see the slight shift in the set of her shoulders as the instruction ended and her own personality reasserted itself; a very minor droop to her shoulders.

Wayne was left with the impression of a puppet’s strings sagging. There was a special name for a puppet with strings, he knew, but he couldn’t remember it.

It didn’t matter anyway.

“Go on through to the living room,” he said softly.

“Yes, Master,” Chantal responded. Her own lively voice lasted only the first syllable, the others coming out flat, in steady cadence. But she was already walking through as ordered, and Wayne was struck again by how much his control over her was intensifying.

He didn’t move after her until her body was lost to sight behind the doorway. His eyes had been on her naked form from behind, watching the way she moved when she was herself-but-obedient.

Of course, she now thought of that as the nearest she had to a real personality. Moneymaker Doll was her core self, as far as Chantal was concerned; the first doll mind she had ever had. The Chantal who would not call him Master, that was only the public facing programming of this same doll, was less central to her identity than this.

Wayne knew better, but he also knew that it didn’t matter. What Chantal was programmed to believe about herself mattered far more.

Now that she believed herself a doll with a Master at her core, there was less reason even to try to resist.

Walking into the living room he found her standing, arms bent slightly, hands resting between hip and buttock, one leg slightly bent at the knee with her heel lifted just an inch or so off the ground, her back and head straight.

She was holding position, unmoving.

Wayne walked slowly around her in a full circle, looking her up and down in a careful, extensive study. The moment he could see her face, even from the side, he knew he could take as long as he wanted to inspect this model’s naked form, even as she continued to hold a pose with absolute stillness; he could see the emptiness of her expression and, as he stood in front of her, the dullness of eyes that usually shone bright.

It struck him that this wasn’t getting old for him. It was a new rush of excitement every time he saw her like this. He reached out and brushed the back of his hand across her cheek, surprising himself with how tender the movement was. Chantal remained perfectly still, either not conscious enough to register his touch or not able to react due to a lack of accessible instruction.

Emboldened, he took a gentle hold of her chin by thumb and forefinger and tilted her head forward, looking down, then back up to eye level and turned her to look to one side. In each case there was no resistance, her body needing only the prompting of his touch. She held her pose, but with no resistance to being played with from the outside.

He adjusted the position of his thumb to rest on her lower lip, his finger still resting just under her chin. The slightest downward pressure and the doll’s lips parted, her mouth deepening into an O.

There comes a point where temptation is too great to be resisted, even when the temptation comes entirely from actions you’d taken yourself leading you down a path you hadn’t realised you were moving along.

Wayne slipped two fingers of his other hand into her mouth, resting them on a tongue that didn’t even twitch in response.

“Suck,” he instructed.

“Yeth, Mather,” she intoned around his fingers, before her lips closed around him and her head began to pump back and forth, her tongue flickering across his fingertips, her eyes glazed and empty,

Wayne closed his own eyes for a moment and enjoyed what Chantal could do. It was so good to have her just worshipping his fingers. It would be so much better once she was worshipping his cock…

She was probably already ripe for it, he just wasn’t sure. With the hand which had been guiding her mouth he trailed his fingertips down her front, teasing a nipple, glorying in the warmth and softness of her skin, and slipped them inside her cunt, to discover it was already sopping wet.

Amazing what a programmed fetish could make someone do, he mused.

Wayne wasn’t sure how long the two of them stood there like that, but when he withdrew his fingers from her pussy, he felt the slick stickiness still clinging to him. For a moment, learned reflexes almost saw him wipe his fingers on his jeans, before he realised he had a better option available to him.

He withdrew his fingers from her mechanically sucking mouth. Chantal’s jaw, tongue, and neck didn’t stop what they had been told to do, even though there was no longer anything to do it to; her lips slightly parted, her head continued to piston back and forth a total of about two or three inches.

Her parted lips accommodated him as he slid the fingers sticky with her own juices into her mouth.

“Clean,” he instructed.

“Yef, Mffer.”

Something in the way her tongue moved changed as her instruction, her driving duty changed. Her eyes remained unblinkingly, glassily identical to how they had already looked. Wayne smiled to himself, enjoying the power this all made him feel, the control over her he had that this underlined.

After a short while her mouth and tongue stopped moving and she became again completely still. Wayne removed his fingers from her mouth; no longer sticky but, of course, still wet.

Well, there wasn’t anything he could do about that, he thought, and then corrected himself with an impatient tut.

He wiped his fingers dry on the upper slopes of her breasts, then settled himself on the sofa and snapped his fingers.

Chantal’s eyelids began to flutter.

*

Chantal was in Wayne’s apartment. That did make sense, she remembered driving over, remembered knocking on his door. She was now fully in his apartment and naked, just as she should be, but had no memory of doing either thing.

Moments like that seemed to be common, around Wayne. Chantal was aware of this in the way she was aware that the sun rose every morning and set every night; it was a fact, and while there was an explanation, that wasn’t needed, and simply wasn’t speculated on. It was perfectly natural.

She realised slowly that she was also posing, and shook her head slightly. Posing was something she did for money, not in her private life.

Shaking her head genuinely seemed to help, and she felt as if she was coming back to herself. She cleared her throat and joined Wayne on the sofa. It was, she thought, nice that he was so willing to be around her while she was nude. Other men would probably have got weird about it by now or - worse - thought that her nudity might have some hidden meaning.

It didn’t, of course. It was just a way to be completely herself. For a doll any outfit changed the program that was her headspace, a little or a lot. So to be truly the doll-Chantal she so desired to be, she had to be naked.

Sometimes Chantal wondered if her doll fetish was really a fetish, or if it had just been the roots of a clearer understanding of who she truly was. But then the thrill, the bliss, of holding a pose washed through her and she was left with no question.

It was both.

Wayne had been quiet the whole time, and Chantal felt the need to break the silence and speak. “So,” she said, “You look happier these days, you know that?” There was something strange about the end of her question, but she couldn’t put her finger on what.

Wayne grinned. “You’re, uh, not the first one to tell me.”

“There’s a woman involved,” she said. “You can’t tell me otherwise. I’m right, aren’t I?” Again the seeming oddity in her speech. It was an absurd thing to say, but Chantal felt as if her lips were still moving for a few moments after she stopped.

“Well… I guess that depends on how you define… certain things,” was Wayne’s reply. She gave him a half-smile through her lashes.

“Tell me more,” she said. Yes, she was definitely still shaping words after. Or word, possibly. Her lips were still parted for one, maybe two syllables.

It was silly. She was determined that it wouldn’t happen again.

Wayne didn’t answer for a few moments. Had she upset him somehow, she wondered? She was about to tell him he didn’t have to tell her anything when he spoke up first. “Not yet,” he said. “But I promise you’ll like her. You’ll understand when the time is right.”

“Okay,” she said, and her lips had shaped the extra word again. It was like she was calling him ‘Mister’ under her breath.

Under her breath, and unintentionally. Was that something that could happen?

Wayne turned the screen on, and she looked up at it as automatically as a cat hurries toward the bowl when they hear a pouch of catfood being opened, and -

*

Chantal went from relaxing into the sofa to sitting bolt upright, palms on her thighs, elbows in against her sides, staring directly into the screen, in the time it took for Wayne to put the remote back down. He felt the sudden temptation to laugh.

Instead he settled back to watch her.

It had become Wayne’s habit not to watch the screens, but this was easier with Chantal beside him, especially nude, especially deep in trance when she was at her most doll-like.

“Are you ready to be programmed?”

“I am ready to be programmed, Master,” came the answer, as it inevitably had to.

Wayne gathered up the bowl of popcorn and settled back to enjoy. After all, it wasn’t as if she was going to want any. She was a doll. Dolls were programmed with much more economical ideas about sustenance.

“You are a doll. Dolls exist to give pleasure.”

“I am a doll. Dolls exist to give pleasure, Master.”

“You are a doll. Dolls obey.”

“I am a doll. Dolls obey, Master.”

“You are a doll. Dolls’ bodies are toys.”

“I am a doll. Dolls’ bodies are toys, Master.”

“You exist to give pleasure.”

“I exist to give pleasure, Master.”

“You are a doll. Dolls’ bodies are toys for their Master to play with.”

“I am a doll. My body is a toy for you to play with, Master.”

“You are a doll. Dolls’ tits are toys for their Master to grope.”

“I am a doll. My tits are toys for you to grope, Master.”

“You are a doll. Dolls’ mouths are toys to suck their Master off.”

“I am a doll. My mouth is a toy to suck you off, Master.”

“You are a doll. Dolls’ pussies are toys for their Master to fuck.”

“I am a doll. My pussy is a toy for you to fuck, Master.”

“You obey.”

“I obey, Master.”

“Your body’s a toy.”

“My body is a toy, Master.”

“You exist for your Master’s pleasure.”

“I exist for your pleasure, Master.”

“Your body is a toy for your Master to play with.”

“My body is a toy for you to play with, Master.”

“Your tits are toys for your Master to grope.”

“My tits are toys for you to grope, Master.”

“Your mouth is a toy to suck your Master off.”

“My mouth is a toy to suck you off, Master.”

“Your pussy is a toy for your Master to fuck.”

“My pussy is a toy for you to fuck, Master.”

“Your Master can play with his toy whenever he chooses.”

“You can play with your toy whenever you choose, Master.”

There was nothing in her voice or her expression to show her increasing arousal, but the trembling of her thighs and the hands resting on them were a testament to her growing excitement. Chantal was shuddering in place with the arousal this bout of programming was inspiring in her pre-programmed fetish.

Wayne set a hand on one knee and drew it gently toward him, parting his thighs, and saw a stain starting to form on the sofa upholstery, Chantal’s cunt glistening already.

This, he decided, was the last time she’d sit on his sofa to be programmed. Even then, he might be more annoyed if he hadn’t already got a plan in place for the rest of the evening.

“You are a sex toy for your Master.”

“I am a sex toy for you, Master.”

“This cycle, you do not get to cum.”

“I do not get to cum, Master.”

“You will next cum after you have made your Master cum.”

“I will next cum after I have made you cum, Master.”

Wayne looked at the way her thighs were quivering, even under compulsion to be still, and smiled to himself. There was so much pent up inside her now.

Truthfully he’d expected to push her into a state like this, where the emotional load of her arousal would be an extra tool in breaking down her boundaries. He hadn’t taken into account how it would make him feel to see it happening. That had been his only error, and honestly he didn’t feel the worse for it.

The cycle ended a few tantalising, frustrating moments later; he watched her eyelids flutter as her consciousness slowly rose back into awareness. It was definitely taking longer now; was he imagining it or did she also take fractionally longer to reply when he spoke outside her trances?

He would completely believe it. There was an extra layer of programming checks that had to run before she acted, now. And they were new enough that the decisions they led to couldn’t be easily anticipated, or not within the rules of the checks themselves.

The spiral left the screen. Chantal blinked one final time, her eyes coming alight finally. She raised one hand and wiped a strand of saliva from her lip, her action automatic, not even prompting her to wonder why she had been drooling.

Wayne was about to prompt her when she suddenly said “Oh! I’m an idiot.”

“I… Why?”

She bounded up from the wet patch on the sofa, lithe and eager, and stepped out past the coffee table. “I had a surprise for you,” she remarked over her shoulder.

“Oh,” Wayne said. “Alright.” He sat back against his sofa and watched her passage to the door. As animated and graceful as she was, he thought, it couldn’t hold a candle to the way she looked as a doll. “She’s a better thing than she is a person,” he murmured under his breath. For him, at least, it was true.

A doll wouldn’t surprise him, though. It was only because Moneymaker Doll was an illusion he’d built for her, a trick to represent her real self as just another doll, that she retained the capacity to do something like this.

He waited. How long would she be out in the corridor for? She’d barely been carrying anything. Was the surprise some photo she’d taken on her phone and saved for him?

Just when he was beginning to wonder if she might have realised what was happening to her and dressed hurriedly to slip away, she stepped back into the room. And yet she looked entirely different.

She wore white, high-heeled boots that reached halfway up her thighs, made of PVC polished to a high sheen, and a pink dress, the microskirt hemline of which was high enough to show three or four inches of skin above the tops of the boots, and buckled round with a white belt and an elaborate gold-and-red belt buckle picked out in the shape of a G.

Around her shoulders was a white cape with red inner lining, its edges scalloped into a feathery effect, and on her head was a white piece of headgear, something solid rather than fabric, like an elaborate helmet with a half-transparent beak-shaped visor. Along its surface were a number of details that gave the impression of feathers, each of which had clearly been painstakingly handpainted white, then the shadows picked out and accentuated with shades.

There was no getting away from it; this was a cosplay, and one that Chantal had either bought or made for herself. He rather suspected it was the latter. She was, or might as well be, Jun the Swan.

Her face lit up in a smile as she took in his reaction and she pirouetted gently on the spot, raising her arms out to the side. The fabric rode up with them, which was enough to reveal that she hadn’t bothered putting underwear on below the dress - one which was taut to her skin above the belt, though the microskirt below had a little more of a flare to it.

“Surprise!” Chantal beamed. “Do you like it?”

“I love it,” Wayne said softly, staring at her, drinking it all in.

“This is a one-off, mind you,” she told him, her mind hiding from her the half-started Sailor Mercury costume she was beginning to accumulate parts for. “Don’t get any ideas.”

Wayne couldn’t resist. “Oh, I have one idea, definitely,” he said, offering a slight smirk as he did so.

“And what would that be, exactly?”

“Moneymaker Doll.”

It was like someone had edited two shots together in real life. One moment there was a bright smile under warm, intelligent eyes. The next there was a slack absence of expression under a glassy stare. “Yes, Master?”

“Come here and kneel,” he instructed.

“Yes, Master.” She moved to obey with all of her customary fluidity of motion, but somehow without any of the grace she usually exuded.

“What is your mouth?” he asked.

“My mouth is a toy to suck you off, Master.”

“When?”

“Whenever you choose, Master.”

“Begin,” he told her.

“Yes, Master.” Her mouth did not close at the end of the syllable but, instead, opened further as she leaned forward, mouth widening, and took him in eagerly, not to say hungrily.

Looking down on the helmet and cloak around her, it was easy for Wayne to imagine not Chantal but Jun the Swan herself.

“After this, remind me to program in an Action Figure Doll mind,” he said.

She groaned assent from around his cock.