How To Make the Perfect Sex Doll

1.  You must start when she’s young.  That way, she has no comparison, and she doesn’t know any better.

“Open your mouth,” he said, gripping her by the shoulders.  A girl of seven, she knelt between his legs.  She was wearing a white flannel nightgown that stood out starkly in the darkness of the night.  Her black hair was too short to cover her face, but she dropped her head, anyway, in a futile attempt to block him out.

She looked at him, her eyes fearful.  She had her lips clamped shut.  She hesitated, and then she shook her head.  Once. Quickly.  Fearfully.

He grabbed her head with one hand on either side of her face and shook.

“Open your mouth!”  He was whispering, but his voice was angry.  He squeezed her face until, defeated, she opened her mouth.  He quickly shoved himself into her mouth, still holding onto her face.

The girl didn’t move, but she must have flinched because he told her to be still.  She must have made a sound because he told her to keep quiet.  “You don’t want Mom to hear, do you?”  She tried her best to not move, to not make a sound.  She couldn’t stop the tears, though.  “Don’t cry.”

2.  You must teach her that she is a receptacle for your sperm.  She needs to learn to swallow each and every time.

“Swallow it.”  She instinctively pulled back at his words.  She didn’t know what he meant, but she knew she didn’t like it.  “Swallow.”  He took one hand off her face and jammed it under her chin.  He held her chin firmly in place so she could not pull back.  He quickly came in her mouth.  She didn’t move, and her eyes were closed.

3.  You must teach her to obey your every command.  It is not enough for her to do what you tell her; she must not even think of rebelling.

She was lying on her bed.  Same age, same nightgown.  He was on top of her, sitting on her legs.  She had her hands clenched in fists, and they were lying by her ears.  Her eyes were staring at the ceiling above her, and they were slowly draining of life.

“Don’t move,” he warned her sternly, sitting back on her heels.   She stiffened at his words, holding herself even more rigid than she was before.  She could feel him looking at her, but she willed herself not to cringe, not to flinch, not to do anything that will make him angry.

After a long minute, he reached down and slowly started moving her nightgown up, past her knees, past her thighs and her panties, past her flat chest, and bunched it up under her chin.

4.  You must teach her that what she feels does not matter.  Her pain does not matter.  She does not matter.

He reached out a hand and pinched her nipple.  No response.  She must have flinched because he repeated his order not to move, and his voice was a bit angry.

She let her eyes drain of all life, and she detached from her body as best she could and went into that corner of her mind she reserved for these times.  She sat on the floor, drawing her knees to her chest.  She wrapped her arms around her knees and put her cheek on her knee.  She started to slowly rock back and forth.

He pinched her nipple again, hard.  This time, she didn’t react at all.  Satisfied, he pinched the other nipple.  No reaction.  Then, he leaned down and bit her nipple.  She couldn’t help herself; she jumped.

5.  You must repeat the lessons over and over again until they become second nature to her.   At that point, you can do whatever you want to her, and she will not resist.

“Don’t move.”  His voice was genuinely angry, and she bit on her lip to stop herself from crying.  She tried to go back to the corner of her mind, but the pain would not let her this time.  She struggled not to move, not to shout, not to whimper.  She retreated as best she could until she was once again detached from her body.  Only then was she able to not move when he bit her nipple once again.

These are the flashbacks I had in taiji class today.  This time, it was while we were doing the solo form, and I managed to focus on the form for the most part and let the movies play as they would.  I did have to stop the second one, however, because I wasn’t ready to deal with where it was heading.

I have been lucky in that I have never disliked sex.  I have always had a high libido, and I am a hedonist at heart.  However, I had many issues surrounding sex, obviously, stemming from my childhood.

I was sixteen when I had my first boyfriend.  We went to different schools about thirty minutes apart.  We both agreed that we weren’t going to have sex before marriage.  I was a nominal Christian in those days and filled with the Christian guilt.  We would go out every weekend, and it quickly became a matter of finding a place to park and make out.

Let me be clear.  He never forced me to do anything.  He was a sweet guy, very smart, and he loved me.  However, I didn’t know how to say no, so we would go a little further each time.  And, once we did something, it didn’t seem right to say that I no longer wanted to do that thing.  We dated for two years, and by the end of our relationship, I was cringing when he touched me.

I didn’t know how to say no, and what’s more, I never felt I could say no.

After Thailand, I was celibate for three years.  Then, I had my slut years in which I did a lot of experimenting.  While I enjoyed most of the sex very much, I got involved in some of the situations for non-healthy reasons.  I wanted to prove I was desirable.  I thought it was the only thing I had to offer.  It was what I was made to be, and I didn’t feel I had much worth beyond the space between my legs.

For the most part, I enjoyed the sex, but I didn’t come very often or very easily because I didn’t trust the person I was with.  In addition, I used to cry every time I came, and that was highly embarrassing to me.  It wasn’t a joyful crying, either, it was a painful, gut-wrenching, overwhelming sad crying.

After I left taiji class, it hit me again.  I was driving home after picking up a few groceries at the adjacent coop, and I was in a fog.  I had the back of my hand pressed to my mouth as the memories plagued me.  I could taste the sadness in my mouth, and it was almost more than I could bear.

Even now, I sit at my computer, reluctant to put these words on (virtual) paper.  It’s difficult for me to sort all the tangled shit that is floating through my brain.

I have alluded to the heavy b&d relationship I had.  It was the synthesis of everything I had been taught about myself.  Bondage, pain, simulated forced sex.  These were all bad enough (in my mind), but the worst was the humiliation.  He told me I was worthless, and it aroused me.  He told me I was a whore, and I agreed.  He slapped me across the face, and he made me gag on his cock.  He had me crawl to him as he told me I was unfit for his cock.  I called him master, and he called me, well a lot of things.

I had a safe word, but I prided myself on never using it.  I also had a high pain tolerance, and, yes, I was also proud of that.

The thing is, anything he did to me was peanuts compared to what I did to myself on a daily basis.  He couldn’t have more contempt for me than I did for myself.  We would joke sometimes that the neighbors would call the cops (he lived in an apartment) because he sounded so vicious towards me.

After we broke up, I never found that kind of master again for a variety of reasons.  Now, while dealing with this flashback shit, a part of me wants to hop on Craigslist and find the meanest, most vicious master possible and let him obliterate me.  I have even perused the Casual Encounter section of Craigslist to see who’s out there.  Could I find the master to end all masters?  Apparently, yes, I could.

You see, that is what I was made to be.  The perfect living, breathing sex doll who only exists for someone else’s pleasure.  To be used, abused, and then discarded.  This is the legacy of my childhood and my relationship in Thailand.   It’s no wonder that I have an impulse to embrace it again.

Here’s the kicker, though.  I can’t do it.  No, that’s not true.  I could do it.  More accurately, I don’t want to do it.  Wait, that’s not entirely true, either.  A part of me wants to go back there so I don’t have to deal with this aching sadness and pain.  A bigger part of me, though, has finally had enough of  that programming.   I can see that being proud of how much pain I can take is a broken way to be.  I can see that just as I’m working to be nicer to myself emotionally, I have to do the same physically, and more importantly, I have to be gentle with my soul.

Going back is not an option.  Being that person again is not an option.  I am more than what I was made to be (and if I say it enough, maybe I’ll eventually believe it).

11 Responses to How To Make the Perfect Sex Doll

  1. I know that sometimes, this phrase can come across as being condescending, but you and I know each other well enough to know damn well that that doesn’t exist between us. So I’m going to tell you.

    I am so, so incredibly proud of you.

    I’m on my way to soccer games and have to get my equipment ready to shoot for them, but I just want you to know it. Know it in your heart and soul, Minna, because it’s true.

    I am so, so incredibly proud of you.

  2. I don’t know what to say but I hurt with you. We can be your strength when you feel that you haven’t any on your own. You are the Master of yourself.

  3. I can see that being proud of how much pain I can take is a broken way to be. I can see that just as I’m working to be nicer to myself emotionally, I have to do the same physically, and more importantly, I have to be gentle with my soul.

    I hope you can see what an enormous leap this is…

    Keep being gentle with your soul… it might take a while, but it will start being gentle back to you. (And part of being gentle to your soul is being patient with yourself, even if you’ve never been good at being patient before…)

    You’re right: you’re much more than what others made you to be… you’re what YOU are making yourself to be!

  4. Okay… my attempt to quote the last two sentences in the second-to-last paragraph didn’t work… and turned my comment italic… but you get the idea.

  5. Kel, I know there is no condescension between us. Thank you, my friend, for your unwavering support.

    Rubo, yes, I can feel what you cannot say. Thank you for being there for me.

    Jamie, I will lean on you and the others for support when need be. Hopefully, some day, I will believe your last sentence. Thank you for being you.

    whabs, I know you know what I’m saying, and I am so thankful for that.

    Alex, fixed it for you. You have been so kind to me, even when I can’t be kind to myself. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  6. Now you’ve made me say it twice in one day – Holy SHIT.

    Your strength just FLOWS in this entry. I’m glad again you told me after class that you’d another flashback, but that’s like saying the ocean is wet, considering what I just read. Thank you so much for sharing this.