Avis in The Mechanical Dollhouse

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Babes

It was my first time attending Maison De Poupée Mécanique. Though I could hardly remember or pronounce it when I first read that mouthful on the posters. A gentleman had been so gracious as to translate it to “Mechanical Dollhouse” for bumpkins such as myself.

I was at the back of the audience, standing with a friend who’d invited me along to the cabaret. He was happily married, but unhappily bored and so took to coming to such events to speak with artists and writers.

“Do you have much experience with such scenes?” He asked.

The answer was no, despite my wishes to be, but I smiled, “How did you come to hear of this place?”

“From a friend, just like you. Now it’s an investment.”

“That’s uncharacteristic of you.”

“The MC strikes a hard bargain.”

“Does he?”

“She,” He corrected.

I nodded. “She must be a real treat.”

“More so a candy lady. She’ll be on stage in just a moment…”

My first warning was a hand. A hand laid itself on my shoulder, as gentle as a lady bug. I looked down and caught a wink of a gaudy-looking ring; a tiger with a black gem in it’s maw, seemingly daunted by the task of swallowing.

A low, foreign voice by my head spoke, “Sir, you and your doll needn’t stand so awkwardly in the back here.”

I turned in search for eyes but was greeted with the brim of a hat, dipped to hide away her eyes, revealing only dark red lips. Even so, I felt her gaze.

“come to front,” She said, “we have a table prepared for you.”

“Of course, come along, Avis,” He didn’t bother correcting her ‘doll’ statement and kindly gestured for me to walk in front of him.

I whispered to him, “Was that…?”

“Yes.”

My interest was finally piqued. I sat and watched the curtains for movement. Soon enough the rambunctious band began playing and the murmurs died down.

Roxanne was everything I’d expected. The physical embodiment of rouge. Long, black hair contained in a hairnet, olive skin and a spicy radiance. Her crinoline was holding up nothing but muslin and a few pieces of silk. Her stockings and garter-belt were visible through the cage. She had a thick accent, though since I’d never left my village before then and never asked, I couldn’t tell you where it was from. Even so, her voice purred and lilted with pleasant inflections.

When the spotlight was bright, sometimes all you could see of her face through the over-exposure were those dark, dark lips.

She pranced across the stage like a mechanical mare, controlled by the music and intensely purposeful with each smile and gesture. When she sung, her purring voice drilled itself into every heart in the crowd. Otherworldly was the only real word for her. When she smiled it looked like she was ready and willing to eat us.

After her opening, she waved her hand and the curtains parted to show off her girls. All skimpily dressed in garter belts, thigh highs, corsets and hats. The hats were marvelous.

A young blonde wearing pumpkin shorts and a paperboy hat swooped in and folded away Roxanne’s crinoline, before tearing it off! She swirled it over her head in an arc before reopening it again to reveal it to be a giant fan. Roxanne placed the heel of her boot on another girl’s shoulder, a girl of rosewood hair and heavily tattooed, as the pumpkin-shorts girl fanned her. It was a marvelous display; a circus of pleasures.

The performances from then on were better and better, highlighting the skills and charm of each girl. But the MC, Roxanne, had a presence so grande that there was no competition for who was my personal favourite.

After the show I went to see her backstage. She was lounging in front of her make up mirror with her feet up on the table top. By no ill meaning on my part, my eyes trailed down her stockings before meeting with her eyes.

I was soon ensnared by her the same way my friend, the investor, was. The rest is history.

After that night, I’d packed up what little belongings I had and joined them. Three months later, I’m rehearsing with the girls.

Helga is helping me with my stretches, If you could call it helping. Helga, I’d come to find, was somewhat the MC’s pet and a brat. She’s pressing down on my back as I stretch my torso across my right leg. At her order, I point my toe and feel the back of my thigh squeak and tense like a tuned bass string.

At my struggling, Helga digs her bony knee deeper between my shoulder blades. It causes me to flinch, but a flinch is enough to feed her sadistic side, “Hurting already?”

“Not at all,” I hiss through gritted teeth.

I was never the most flexible of dancers, but the routines we did demanded that we utilize every asset of our bodies. Helga excelled at it all; flexibility, balance, timing and charm. If Roxanne was red, Helga was pink. They really did share a lot of similarities, except Roxanne was to be adored while I loathed Helga.

She caught on to my inexperience on the first day, and would delight in picking apart all güvenilir bahis my faults and insecurities with the precision of a doctor. I wish I understood what her issue with me was, but all I knew was that she enjoyed feeling better than others. Perhaps I worked great for that; being worse than everyone else here.

Anyways, I’ve gone as far down as I can go with my stretch and my back is killing me. The top of my thigh is snugly between my breasts, yet still Helga digs.

“Lower than that,” She tuts, “c’mon.”

“How?” I growl up at her. “Do you want me to phase through my leg?”

She slaps the side of my head, and my ear rings like a bell, but I can’t keep biting. I’d tried dotting on her before. It didn’t go well. If anything it pushed back all the progress I’d made on integrating myself into their ranks back about three weeks.

Helga grabs me by the back of my head and presses my sweaty forehead to my knee. The effort is intense. I’m shaking. Everything is hurting now.

“Count to three.” She says.

One. She shoves me down, and I push back reflexively.

Two. She shoves me down again. My ears roar.

Three. She releases me, and I fling up, curling my leg and toes to ease the strain I’d put on them. I only get a split second breather in before she’s slapping me into a new position. Now it’s the other leg, and this time she sits on me.

Roxanne swears that she’s helping me out, being a firm believer in tough love, but I wish she was nicer about it. Less passive aggressive. Or aggressive aggressive. But no dice.

The only person who got more flack than me was Sweat-Pea. What her real name is, I have no idea, but it’s all anyone ever calls her and I picked it up as well. She was three years my senior at 23, but petite as a peach, to the point I was convinced she’d bathed in a fountain of youth at the age of 17. She was the blonde who’s costumes usually consisted of pumpkin shorts or puffy hats, as such costumes made her look exceptionally cute, juxtaposing with her thin face and limbs.

Sweat-Pea was rehearsing not ten feet away from us. When a groan erupts from deep within my chest, she looks to Helga with furrowed brows.

Helga just stares back through her auburn hair, hazel eyes piercing her with a look that just screams, ‘try me, princess.’

Sweat-Pea gives me a pitying look before going over her flips again.

I count to five this time, and then Helga lets me up. Once I’m to my feet she ruffles my hair. I slap her hand away. She loves teasing the fact I had to get my hair cut.

“No need to be so sensitive,” She giggles at my red face, her fingers carding through my sweaty fringe, “Straight women love a masculine girl.”

With that she prances off to get some biscuits from the table.

I stare at the criss-cross of strings on her back as the cogs in my head are left to turn. ‘Straight women love a masculine girl.’ I stood there like a 6 foot idiot trying to piece it together. No, that was enough. I follow after her.

She goes for water and I grab the jug out of her hand, “what are you trying to imply?”

She laughs again and simply takes the jug back and pushes me aside. My next words die in my throat and fall into my stomach. She slips away for an early break, not even ten minutes into stretches.

I may be bigger, but I was about as intimidating to her as a puppy. I have no venom. No punch and no power. I’m their gentle giant, a tree they can carve letters into and throw darts at when they’re bored. So I leave her and go back to working on the rehearsal with Sweat-Pea, lapping quietly at my wounded pride.

She gives me another pitiful look, “You let her under your skin too easily.”

“It’s hard to grow skin thick enough for her. But I’m trying, don’t you worry.”

I was the tallest you see, with rather masculine features as it was. It’s something I have always been very self conscious about. To counterbalance, I took to growing my hair out for years. When I first got here it was long enough to sit on.

However, we were doing an adaption of a well loved short story. But this scene included a man as the lead. Roxanne suggested that I cross-dress. Since we were indeed dancers, a wig wouldn’t work, instead I had to get it cut. So I did.

Helga, ever the charming lass, took it upon herself to cut it for me. She remained faithful to the style in the photo that Roxanne had attached to the mirror, so I count my blessings. It felt like she was removing pounds of weight with each snip, until my head felt light, and my neck cold and bare. I went to grab at the curtain I’d grown so use to throughout my life, only to be met with skin. As I stared into the mirror, Helga kicked the piles of golden-brown clippings around like she was dancing in the spoils of victory.

Now the only clues to the fact I was a girl were my breasts and voice. So having her standing there, after putting me through so much pain, and reminding me of how I look, I’m a bit annoyed.

Me and Sweat-Pea get along türkçe bahis fine, though. With me at hand, we went over some lifts and turns. Despite my insecurities, even I could appreciate the aesthetic of having the tallest girl dance with the smallest. In some cases, I’d make fun of her and she’d do the same. It’s quite pleasant.

Helga returns an hour later with a bored expression and a cigarillo. I throw her a look. She ignores it. She goes over her part and nails it the first time, but I make her go over it again and again just because It annoys me how she can do that with so little effort. I feel like she’s cheating.

Ending perfectly on the final pose for the third time, she looks over her shoulder at me and says, “Are we done here?”

I throw her a towel and say, “Yes. We’re done.”

Sweat-Pea dons her straw hat and hooks an arm through mine, “let us head to the baths now, Avis.”

I let Sweat-Pea drag me off as Helga blows us a kiss each. “I’ll be with you after a smoke.”

I could feel my blood boil, but as we walk, the scent of Sweat-Pea’s perfume is enough to ease my sourness towards Helga just a bit.

The baths were tall and wide barrels, with steps to help us get inside. They could really only fit one person at time, so there were five in the one house. We, two, fill our individual barrels with hot water, before stripping off our clothes and settling in. After washing my hair, I place a wet towel over my eyes and settle down. My body is dying of pains and aches. So just sit and let the water solution work it’s magic on me.

Sweat-Pea begins singing to herself, and the sound of it is so delightful, reverberating off the walls like a choir of fairies had flown in, I drift off. For a while I don’t even dream, but the gentle slosh of water and her humming is all I need. Soon though, she’s hoping out, and her singing turns to talking. A quiet talking…she doesn’t sound too happy.

Then I hear Helga.

“You nearly fell on your ass three times,” She says, “How long have you been going over this?”

“Longer than you.” She snips back.

“That’s because I don’t need it. I’d call your attempts amateurish, but that would imply you have room to grow.”

Then I hear a loud snap and a squeal from Sweat-Pea. I take the wet cloth off my face to see Helga ringing a towel and standing over a naked body. She gives the towel one last curl before letting it lick sharply across Sweat-Peas skin. Snap. Another cry falls out of her mouth.

“Stop that!” She squeals, “That honestly hurts!”

Another SNAP, and a red mark begins to blossom within seconds across her back.

“Helga!” I muster all the authority I could in my voice.

She ignores me and whips her again, going for the back of her thighs. At this point Sweat-Pea is crying and curling away from each lick and it’s no longer a game. I hop out of the tub.

I figure I could push her, or hold her back, but as she cracks that fucking towel again I take action while underestimating my strength. I almost lift her off the ground, she has a split second to realize she’s flying before I shove her a few feet away from Sweat-Pea. She lands heavily on the floor with an “oomph!” but I don’t stop there, I raise a hand and smack her hard across the face.

Two other dancers see me and come to pull me off her, and I don’t resist. Though now I have a chance to be embarrassed, because I’m naked as the day I was born and the two dancers that are holding me are still in rehearsal gear. I feel like an animal. However, looking down at Helga’s shocked expression, it’s worth it.

At that moment, there’s three curt taps of a cane. I look up to see Roxanne at the door-frame. She’s dressed like the devil, all lace and silk. She doesn’t look humoured. Not one bit.

“Mistress!” Helga cries, holding her cheek, “This butch brute laid her hands on me!”

“I saw.” Roxanne states simply, “I also saw a brute think it funny to whip a girl until she’s crying on the floor.”

Helga went silent at that one. I allow myself to smile, but at Roxanne’s gaze, I drop it immediately.

She beckons me with a finger, “My office as soon as you’re dressed, Avis.”

Then she’s gone. I immediately put my rehearsal gear back on. The shorts and white blouse stank of sweat, but I was not going to make her wait for me to sort out my clothes from my bag in the other room. I’m in such a rush I pull the suspenders over my shoulders as I trot to her office. I cast a look over my shoulder and see the other dancers are taking care of the situation.

One of our more heavily tattooed girls, Ethelinda, closes the door to the office behind me.

Roxanne is sitting in a leather sofa, pouring herself a glass of something dark and heady. She taps a spot on the rug with her cane and says, “On your knees.”

Adrenaline is still coursing through me when I take to kneeling at the spot she indicates. I feel like a child being where I am. She often does this when she’s talking one on one with us; she’ll have güvenilir bahis siteleri her girl sit down before her like a bad daughter. I imagine it’s just in her character. I find it charming. Though it slowly dawns on me that I’m still damp from my bath, and this blouse doesn’t do much for coverage without a corset or bra.

With her cane, Roxanne slips my suspenders off my shoulders, before saying, “remove your blouse.”

I do as she says without question. Hesitation had rewarded me with far worse than a wet towel from Helga before. Though why I put up with it…

She circles the end of the cane around my right nipple, and just the touch of it is enough to entice it to erection.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Avis,” She tells me, “Even if a little butch.”

I tense my jaw at that, only to lower my head when I realize I’m making her point.

The cane travels down, and I tense my stomach as it’s cold touch reaches my navel. But it keeps going further. Until it’s pulling down the waistband of my shorts, and I look up to Roxanne in silent shock.

She merely smiles, her eyes hidden under her hat like that first night I met her, and the cane slips underneath me, and presses up into my clit.

“aH!” is my response, which I curtly clamp down on. I close my mouth and remain as stoic as a soldier.

Roxanne holds her cane with such control, I can’t see it shaking even minutely. She slides it further forward, so it skids between my lips. I stare at a spot at her feet, in total bewilderment to what was happening. I could barely contain my delight.

“You stood up for Sweat-Pea, you need to be rewarded for that,” She pulls the cane out from my pants, and I pray she doesn’t look down to see how I’ve polished it for her. “Though of course, you need to be punished for raising a hand to Helga as well.”

She grabs my chin and brings me to meet her eyes, “I believe this will be killing two birds with one stone.”

It takes everything I have not to smile, “What would you have me do, mistress?”

It was as if the pieces of the puzzle had magnets in them now, and were drawing themselves into place with little effort on my part. I’m not a bright girl, but even I’m not so silly as to not understand now; why everything is the way it is with Roxanne. People truly are simple if you can get behind the last door.

She sits back in her chair and takes a smooth sip of her drink.

“What would I have you do…” She hums to herself in sweet delight, staring at my breasts. Shivers are sent through my inner thighs.

She slowly uncrosses her legs and bundles her skirt around her waist, revealing her garter belt and panties. I’d never seen such skimpy pantie before. There were no legs to these, only tightly covering her crotch.

“Do you like them?” She asks me.

“Yes.”

“They’re very modern, designed by a friend of mine. Personally I think he’s a little ahead of his time.”

“They look wonderful on you,” I say wholeheartedly and start crawling towards her.

Her cane strikes the rug in front of me and I stop.

“Don’t move unless I say,” She warns.

I sit back down on my haunches, “Sorry, mistress.”

“That won’t be good enough. I was planning on rewarding you, but it seems punishment should be first after all.” With that she hides her crotch from me and grabs the bottle from the table.

She gets up and walks around me. I stay where I am. I feel the heel of her boot against my back as she says, “down.”

I lean forward, until I’m curled around my knees. Her cane strikes my arse twice, causing me to tense.

“Arse up.” I obey, arching my back, sticking my arse in the air.

She pulls my shorts down to mid-thigh, and now I know that she can see how wet I am. I want her to sit back down and force my head between her legs and make me tear her new underwear off with my teeth. I want her to let me show how much I appreciate her. How wonderful I think she is.

But soon her fingers are rubbing the spot that makes me weak in little circles and I don’t mind what she does. She dips her middle finger inside, it’s only very brief but it’s enough to make me whimper.

“So wet.” She says and it’s such an obvious thing to say I chuckle.

Then her fingers, sufficiently lubricated, trail up to my arsehole. It’s embarrassing how such simple touches are making me keel over. Because when she starts teasing the rim of my arse, I’m so happy I could almost cry.

“I think I’ve had enough of this drink,” She hums, “It’s not as good as I was promised it’d be. Do you have a suggestion as to where I should throw it out?”

She taps my hole twice and I stutter, “t-the grass outside…?”

“You’re as dim as a doorknob, Avis, but you’re my favourite regardless. Try again.”

My stomach warms at the compliment, and become emboldened by it, “Then how about my arse?”

“And why would I do that, Avis?” It wasn’t a question, it was an invitation.

It’s too embarrassing to say though.

“Because I…”

She slaps my cheek. “Because…?”

“Because I deserve it.” I tell her.

She slaps me again, further down, close to my thigh, and it hurts a whole lot more than the tops of my arse, enough to make me grunt.

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