The Doll Maker
[Trans:MtF] [Consentual] [Skinning]
Mary opens the door, and a bell that had webs cradling it rang for the first time in years. The doll maker’s shop. Said dolls line the walls, sitting on their too tall shelves. There are a few displays scattered along the room, with more pristine dolls. One at the far end looks almost like a grandfather clock, with its doll sitting on a short stool, although it was still taller than Mary. They all wear hand-stitched dresses, with faces carefully painted. All with the same smile, with cheeks reddened just enough to see. It’s almost more boring than creepy, having so many copies of the exact same eyes watching her.
The only light in the room came drifting in from the door. Mary can see cobwebs cling to the dolls along the walls. The ones in cases lack their sisters’ dust, but it hangs in the air, desperate to break through their protective glass. There’s a register sitting on a short counter, divvying off a small corner of the room. Behind it, sits a door left half open.
Mary picks up one of the dolls. Under its dress is a cloth body, likely stuffed with cotton. But the face and hands are exposed wood, with the hand having intricate joints, fingers that move. The hair is odd, she can’t tell exactly what it is. Maybe yarn? Mary doesn’t contemplate this too deeply, instead putting the doll back where it was.
Mary takes a moment to inspect the life-sized doll. Her display has her sitting patiently, as if awaiting a prince to come and collect her. If the rumors about the old man using corpses were true, this would be the most likely subject. But its ‘skin’ is porcelain, not the expected ‘mysterious leather’. It has the same makeup painted on, but with an added tiny mole on its lower left cheek.
Mary glances at her reflection in the glass, doing a quick curtsy to herself, and by extension the doll. She’s wearing a pink floral skirt, and a white blouse with a ruffled collar. Her blouse is trying its best to accentuate her minimal breasts. She looks almost as old-timey as the dolls. Nothing else here interests her, after all, she didn’t stop into this dusty old shop for a doll.
Mary wanders to the ajar door.
‘It’s technically public, right? After all, there’s no sign telling me not to enter, and it’s connected to the shop.’ The girl thinks.
But, if she were someone who thought things through, she wouldn’t be here. Looking through a creepy old man’s creepy old store. She stopped in because she passed it while out, and decided to see if the old rumors were true. She didn’t expect to be skulking into the private part of the building, but she came this far, didn't she?
The next room is somehow, somehow worse. Dolls, or their pieces, lay in piles in boxes, each with some defect. A too thin arm, a head with a mispainted smile, a body with a short hairline-fracture. There are more, incomplete, life-sized dolls back here. These ones are different, they have wooden faces, much like the smaller dolls. In fact, the porcelain one seemed kinda out of place thinking back on it.
At the other end of this room, hunched over a table covered in paintbrushes, doll bits, and several odd tools, is the doll maker himself. Josef.
The old man has a gaunt, thin body. His fingers are long, and delicate, with no tremble as they work. He’s taller than most, and therefore exceptionally taller than Mary. It takes until Mary is only a handful of paces away for him to notice that there’s someone else in the room. When he does, he nearly jumps out of his chair.
“Who in the hell?” Josef barks, more out of sheer instinct than anything. He spins around in the chair, facing the woman.
“Hey, name’s Mary. You the old guy who makes all those dolls?” She points vaguely back to the shop.
“Huh?” The old man cocks his eyebrow. “Yes?” Josef sputters out. He regains his composure, sitting up in the chair with an audible crack. “I suppose I am the ‘old guy’ in question. But my *name’s* Josef. Why are you back here?”
“I wanted to ask you about the rumors. Y’know, whether you stalk and murder cute ladies.”
“Were you raised by wolves, girl?” He flips up his hands. “No, obviously I don’t. Do you see a bunch of corpses sitting around my workplace?” He motions out to his shop, which, while covered in dismembered parts, they’re all wooden.
“For real? Ugh! Lame!” Mary droops her shoulders dramatically. “This would’ve been super cool if the rumors were true.”
“Lame?” The old man smooths out his short grey beard. “What, were you excited to meet a likely-necrophelic serial killer?”
“I mean, it comes with the territory, right? Who sane devotes their life to making dolls?”
“I devoted my life to perfection. I’m an artist, and these dolls are my canvases. To capture the beauty of a woman, the perfection of the feminine form. That is my life’s calling.”
Mary looks at him with something akin to pity. “And you wonder why people think you’re a serial killer? But, seriously, though, why do you use wood? The porcelain doll in the other room was clearly the best of them.”
“Wood is cheap. And ultimately this is all still practice. As for the porcelain doll.. she was an attempt at my magnum opus. A prototype. But she has flaws, she is just another failed work.”
“So you’re practicing with wood, but you intend to make your final work with porcelain?”
“The porcelain will be used as an outer shell. The skeleton and the joints will be wooden.” Josef holds up the arm of a nearby half-finished doll. It’s only a skeletal mesh.
“Hm. So could you use another material? I noticed you use cloth for the skin of most of your mini-dolls.”
“Well, yes, but what material could be higher quality than porcelain? Nothing else captures the smoothness and beauty of a woman’s skin.” Josef taps his chin, as if a mock philosopher.
“Well… There is one material that pretty clearly matches a woman’s skin.” Mary taps her chin, imitating Josef.
“Well, yes, technically skin itself would fit the bill, but there’s a pretty simple problem with that. People don’t generally let you use their skin for things like that.”
Mark clears off a small spot on one of his tables, and hops onto it. “Well what if you had some crazy masochist that offered herself to you, could you do it then?”
“Well, yes. It’d be rather easy. As a taxidermist would, I’d just need to skin her body in such a way that the scar can be hidden under the doll’s clothes. Then, like I did with the porcelain doll, I’d design her internal skeleton, then cover it in the skin, and fill it with cotton. Once complete, it’s a simple matter of sewing her up and dressing her.”
Mary swings her feet back and forth. “Wow, the rumors might be true after all.”
Josef snaps out of his tangent. “Why are you even asking me this, kid?”
“Hey! I’m no kid, just because I’m not ancient doesn’t make me a child.” Mary sighs to end her outburst, then leans back, getting her cocky smile back. “Just pickin your brain, old man. Why? Were you hoping I was secretly that hypothetical masochist?”
Josef chuckles. “Wouldn’t that be convenient. The same brat that gives me the idea is also a prime candidate. If only the stars favored me so.”
Mary taps his leg with her foot. “Sorry, old man, but I’m not certain you’d really want me as your model.” She spreads her legs and lifts her skirt, revealing a small bulge inside her panties.
Josef slams his fist on the desk. “A *boy*? What the fuck? I was picturing making you my masterpiece, and you were a *boy*?”
“Now hold on, I’d still be a masterpiece! My skin’s softer than most women, and I’m prettier too. Plus, a cute lady hiding a cute dick is like a beauty mark. The imperfection makes the whole thing better!”
“Hell no!” He points angrily. “A brat like you having soft skin doesn’t make up for having a… I work in perfections! Symmetry, beauty, elegance. You’re something imperfect from the start.”
Mary’s face burns red. “Perfection? Your greatest work yet has a mole, doesn’t she? Imperfect and asymmetrical, but she’s still the best you’ve ever made!”
“That’s different.” He snaps back. “Moles add character, they’re cute.”
“My dick adds character too! A secret only me and you’d know, a scandal in flesh. It takes bland ‘perfection’, and adds a deviant element!”
Silence hangs between them, save for their shuddering breath.
Josef looks over Mary, this time as a canvas. She’s cute, stylish, with an already pale complexion. And her cock was small enough to be unnoticeable without looking up her skirt. *‘A secret’, eh?*
“How.. big.. are you?” Josef asks. Finally calm.
“Oh. Um, only about three inches full mast. But to be honest, I haven’t been full mast in years. I doubt I'll ever get longer than two again.
“Two?” The old man’s eyes widen. “My god, you were never a man at all. It wouldn’t be hard to hide such a thing. Hell, even your relatively thin skirt gives no hint to it.”
”Well, yeah, wouldn't be much of a secret if everyone could see it.” Mary crosses her legs, suddenly feeling slightly self conscious.
“A secret known only to the maker, eh? The idea has some weight to it.”
“The maker and the model, in our case.” She points from him, back to herself. “A scandalous bond.”
“You know, you’re oddly insightful into this idea, for a deviant brat.”
“This is the kinda thing you gotta be a deviant to understand, taboo and such. Plus, isn’t there a certain contrast with me being a brat? I mean, the difference between the ‘living me’, and the doll. That’s what makes me a truly high caliber candidate.” She relaxes to her loose pose.
“No. I’d do much better with a good, obedient girl. You being a brat tarnishes you, as opposed to any of the other young ladies in town. They wouldn’t debate me on my craft, or try to tease me, or call me old man. They’d just be perfect, silent dolls.”
“Exactly! They’re too perfect already! It’s boring! There’s no depth, no taboo!”
“Taboo is taboo for a reason. It doesn’t enhance a piece, but rather shifts its perspective. The other girls would have grace and poise as dolls.”
Mary tosses her hands up. “Every doll is graceful. Every doll is poised. Part of the beauty of art is the transformation, the metamorphosis! I’m the only one among them who truly changes through the process, and thus I’m the one who would become a true masterpiece!”
Josef slumps forward, concentrating. “Metamorphosis.” His eyes look over Mary again, measuring her against his dolls. “Something defiant made docile. Obedient. You’re right. The changes are important.” His eyes widen slightly as he sees the potential of the canvas.
Mary leans in, gleefully kicking her feet. “So, do you admit it? That I’m the highest quality ‘corpse’ in this town. That above all those simple girls; I, the sinful, impure, brat, am the best candidate.”
“Yes. Despite… No. Due to your flaws. You are the greatest piece I could work on. A brat who can be made quiet…”
She taps her thighs happily. “And don’t forget the value of our shared ‘secret’. Honestly, I bet it’s eating you up that I’m not the masochist you wanted.”
Josef freezes. He leans back, and lets out a long sigh. He’d forgotten all about this being a ‘hypothetical’. His eyes jump between the girl and the ceiling. For some reason he can’t stand to look at her.
“Aww, trying to think of some way to make me your doll? Oh, maybe you’ll kidnap me, or give me some poisoned tea, or—”
Her voice cuts off as Josef grabs her by the neck, lifting her off the table, slowly squeezing. “Shut. up! You just had to tempt me. You little witch! This, this is your fault. I bet you wanted it!”
Mary’s legs kick back and forth. “Stop… You’ll.. bruise.. my.. neck..!” She chokes out words while clawing at his hand. Realizing she’s right, he drops her back onto the table. A small ring of purple has already formed.
“Damn it… I bruised your skin. Now what? Maybe I wait until it heals? But if I keep you locked up it’ll damage you further…”
Mary gasps for air, feeling her neck. There’s a distinct area where she can feel the tender bruises. “No. Use a choker. White ribbon with lace on the outside. This’ll be.. a second secret flaw, this time yours instead of mine.”
Josef pauses. She’s right. It would work. But why is she telling him? Unless… “Mary. You were the masochist all along, weren’t you? Ha.” His laugh is several short gasps, like he’s trying to suppress it.
Mary pulls herself up, sitting with her legs over the edge of the table again. “You got me… Yeah. Now, take those scissors, and stab my navel. Cut up until you reach my lowest rib, and stop. Then follow along the seam of the rib, cutting each side to open up my skin.” She recites the instructions, line by line from a class on dissecting pigs.
“No, that’s not right. It’d leave too much meat on the flesh. I need to separate the skin. Strip.
Mary takes off her clothes. Soon she’s standing in front of the old prude with her dick bare. Her skin’s entirely shaven, every single inch. Her tiny cock looks even more pathetic in the cold.
“Lay down.”
Mary does as told, laying on the table. She feels an odd excitement. Like the tingling potential that’s been tormenting her is finally going to be realized.
Josef begins drawing cut lines, using a sharpie. “I’ll make circular separation cuts along your major joints. Shoulders, elbows, knees, and upper thighs. I’ll make similar cuts for your hands and feet, though they, like your head, will need much more careful work. Then I’ll make lengthwise cuts across each section of your limbs, and slowly work the skin off the flesh. As for your torso, I’ll disconnect the neck, then run across your chest. Once it’s all separated, I’ll get to work applying it to one of my dolls. I have a skeleton that’s already nearly perfect. But you don’t have to worry about any of that, do you? For now, stay there. I need to grab tools and that skeleton. And some cotton… And formaldehyde.”
Mary sits on the table, her girl dick standing excitedly. Josef vanishes, grabbing a toolbox and scuttling about the workshop to find everything needed. Mary starts slowly stroking her ‘clit’, hoping to get one last bust before her death.
By the time Josef has collected everything, Mary has become a sweaty mess. She grunts and moans while her fingers do their best, but nothing. She can barely feel it.
“Stop that. You’re ruining my cut lines.” She sits up, her hips bouncing up and down still.
Josef lays her down, and pulls his knife. As he explained, he goes about, cutting open her skin, and using the knife to slowly loosen it. Mary survives longer than she thought she would. In fact, it isn’t until he moves to the torso and begins the biggest cuts that she drifts away. The old doll maker works as he does best, deft fingers delicately working on the girl’s corpse. No tears or imperfection, as he spent decades making certain of.
He takes very delicate care of her face and hands, working slow enough it isn’t finished until the next day’s sun rises. After he’s done with the skinning, he goes out and buys a set of jars, deciding to preserve as much of his magnum opus’s body as he can. Her heart, eyes, liver, lunges, brain. Every piece he can get is collected, squirreled away in the depths of his home. But the doll herself? She sits in the window, behind a special window. And now, for once, the rumors ring true. Of the old doll maker’s smiling doll.