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All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Photo Credit: Weenakanya Plangkamol
Used under a Creative Commons license.
Cover Design: Selena Kitt
Living Dolls © 2008 Marshall Ian Key
eXcessica publishing
All rights reserved
Living Dolls
By Marshall Ian Key
Chapter One
I found the box in the attic of my parents’ house. My grandfather died ten years earlier, and my dad's share of his crap was stored in the attic. There were a total of four boxes. Other than that, the old man's life had simply been erased from the earth—which was probably fine with my mom. Whenever my grandfather came north for a visit, she always seemed to schedule out-of-town conferences or a "girls' night out." Still, he was the only grandparent I ever knew. His wife had died before I was born, although, from what I managed to gather, she hadn't been welcome in the house at all. Mom's parents, who were both still alive and living in Florida? Forget about it. We couldn't even talk about them.
It was a Friday afternoon in late September during my last year of high school. I remember because it was raining, just like it had been raining for the previous two days. Our football team, the Trojans, was supposed to have a game that night, but our football field didn't hold up well in that much water. I didn't actually play football. Instead, I was the team's statistician, due partly to my success in math and partly to the fact that last year's basketball team had won every game that I'd attended. In a school as small as ours, things like that got noticed.
So it was Friday afternoon, and I was home and bored, so I started poking around in the attic. At the bottom of the pile of Grandpa's boxes was one marked "Living Dolls." At least it had an interesting title. I hadn't even opened the box marked "Important Tax Documents." Dad wouldn't get home until about seven, and Mom was busy in her office, so I figured I had plenty of time to have a look in the box. I quietly lugged it down the stairs into my room.
At the very top of the box were two dolls, the sort of Barbie dolls that young girls play with. One had blonde hair, the other brunette. Huh? Grandpa played with dolls? And he was the one we talked to? I tossed the dolls aside and continued to look. Next up were two incredible pictures of my grandfather. Not that he looked that good in either one of them—he was probably pushing sixty and hadn't aged well. But in each of them he was posing with an incredibly hot-looking babe. I dumped out the rest of the box and pawed through it, but it was just a bunch of old magazines. There was a set of Sports Illustrated swimsuit editions from 1964 through 1990, but nothing else like the photos of Grandpa. I looked through the magazines anyway, of course, and soon I lost track of time. A sharp knock at the door made me jump.
"Come in," I said quickly.
"No game?" my mom asked as she pushed the door open.
I explained about the rainout. While I was doing so, Mom looked down at the box and got a big grin on her face.
"So what do you have there?"
"Just a box of Grandpa's stuff I found in the attic," I said guiltily.
"Find anything good?"
"Just these pictures.”
"Oh, yeah," she laughed.
"Grandpa sure had some nice friends.”
"Well, I don't think so." She smiled as she looked them over. "This one is Marilyn Monroe, and this one is Raquel Welch. I think it's a pretty safe bet he never met either one of them, particularly since he's about sixty in these pictures, which would have been in about 1980. Marilyn Monroe died in the early sixties, when your dad's father was in his forties. He could apparently doctor pictures like this even before computers came along. In fact, when we got this box, there were even a couple of X-rated pictures that looked pretty damn real. Those are all gone, by the way, so you don't need to bother looking."
"What's with the dolls?"
"I have no idea." She sighed. "Why the old bastard would have held onto a couple of Barbie dolls from the ’60’s is beyond me."
"You didn't like Grandpa much, huh?"
She just sighed again. "Don't forget to put this back when you're done. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes."
She left and I started to put everything back when I saw the corner of one last photo jammed under one of the bottom flaps of the box. It was a picture of Grandpa lying in bed with two naked women. Not X-rated, darn the luck. Of course, maybe Mom and Dad considered this X-rated. I considered it a step above PG. Everyone was covered with a blanket below the waist. Still. . . .
"Honey!" my mom yelled. "Dinner!"
I raced through dinner, eager to return to my room and figure out what the hell Grandpa had been up to. Turning over the picture, I saw his writing on the back: "My living dolls: Cheryl (July 15, 1977) and Raquel (June 1, 1967) December 21, 1985."
Living dolls—the writing on the outside of box. I looked down at the two dolls, and back at the picture. It was all just a little too weird. The 1985 date on the photo seemed accurate—Grandpa looked about sixty-five, which would have been right. I compared the photo to the one my mother had identified earlier as Raquel Welch, and sure enough, it was the same woman. She looked younger in the naked picture, though. Going simply by Grandpa's age, she should have been about five years older.
Intrigued, I sat down at my desk to research this Raquel Welch woman on the Internet. I wasn't surprised, given what Mom had said before, to learn she’d been born in 1940. In the 1985 picture with Grandpa, though, she certainly didn't look forty-five years old—more like a girl in her late twenties. In fact, the date in parentheses, when she would have been twenty-seven, looked to be about right.
I had a little harder time identifying the second woman—"Cheryl"—until I noticed her face on the cover of one of the Sports Illustrateds: Cheryl Tiegs. Back on the Internet, I found out she was born in 1947. So that would make her either thirty-eight, the date of the photo, or thirty, the date in parentheses. Well, that was a little harder. From what I could tell on the Internet, she was a babe when she was thirty and was still a babe when she was thirty-eight.
Someone who wasn't an eighteen-year-old high school senior—an eighteen-year-old virgin no less—probably would have come up with a more likely explanation for all of Grandpa's stuff than the one I invented. Maybe an explanation like the photo doctoring one Mom had settled on. That was fine for her, but wouldn't it be great, I thought, if my grandfather had been able to turn these two dolls into real live people? If they really were, like Grandpa had written, living dolls?
I spent the next two weeks at school daydreaming about it. Oh, I went to class every day and, of course, I dutifully did my homework each night. But the one time Ms. Dodge called on me in class, I was in outer space, thinking about which girls I'd like to have my own photos of.
Kerry Marshall was at the top of my list. She'd moved to Hardwood over the summer, and I'd fallen in lust with her on the first day of class. She was in most of my classes, which meant she was smart. And she was beautiful as well. From the very first day I saw her, with her long red hair, her brilliant, shy smile, and her nearly-adult body, I was smitten.
But I’d joined a big club. As far as I could tell, Kerry had been asked out by every unattached guy on the football team and most of the attached ones as well. When they struck out, etiquette permitted the soccer team to take its turn. No go there, either. Maybe she just didn't like jocks. Well, if she was waiting for one of us on the math team to ask her out, she'd be waiting a long time. My buddy, Gordon, claimed he wouldn't ask a girl out unless he had it in writing—signed, witnessed, and notarized—that the girl would accept. Gunner and I weren't much better, and that explained why we didn't date much. Or at all, really. But if any girl tempted me to take the plunge, it was Kerry.
Unlike Sue Waggoner, the head cheerleader, who I could dream about, of course—Susie was well worth dreaming about, with long, silky blond hair and a nice figure. A very nice figure. As a cheerleader, though, she was completely off limits to a nerd like me even if she wasn't the personal property of our star quarterback. And before him, our star wide receiver. And before him—well, Susie had an unfortunate history. By the time we entered high school, she was already widely known as the school slut. And with her unfortunate middle initial, "F," she was also widely known, in the boys' locker room anyway, as Susie Fuck Wagon.
The fact that she was unavailable in real life to me didn't stop me from fantasizing about her, though. As the stats guy, I got to spend every football game looking over Hardwood High's fine collection of cheerleaders, with Susie front and center. I couldn't be real obvious about ogling her, because Gunner’d had a crush on her since he was, like, three. He was an athlete and could, therefore, look at Susie without being punished by the gods of high school. In fact, he and Susie were neighbors, and they'd always been friends. But she dated the football-player types, and Gunner, although an amazing three-point shooter in basketball, didn't have a football player body. Or, fortunately for the math team, a football player brain. Gunner often helped me out in the booth when I did the stats, and to keep our friendship intact, I had learned to keep my eyes on the other girls when they were doing those high kicks.
Girls like Julie Pinsky, another hot cheerleader in my class, and another featured performer in my daydreams. Julie had shoulder-length brunette hair, a nice body—
maybe not in Susie's league, but hell, who was?—and the best legs in school. True, Julie’d been going out with our classmate Andy Richardson—Richie Rich to those of us whose fathers weren't lawyers and didn't have their own convertibles—since the ninth grade. But that was real life! This was living doll world. Julie might not be the brightest girl in the class, but she was gorgeous, and nice to boot.
"Mister Thompson?"
I‘d apparently been making eye contact with Ms. Dodge.
"Yes, ma'am?" I asked warily.
"Do you agree with Mr. Ackerman?"
"No, ma'am," I said slowly, racking my brain to try to pick up some thread of what she and Mr. Ackerman had been discussing while my head had been full of Kerry, Susie and Julie.
"Why not?" she asked quizzically.
Ah, so apparently Mr. Ackerman had said something intelligent.
"Principle, ma'am," I answered. "I already agreed with Mr. Ackerman once this month, and I don't want to see him get a swelled head."
The class burst out in laughter. Even Mr. Ackerman—my good friend Gordon—laughed. Hell, even Ms. Dodge had a little smile on her face when she turned back to the blackboard. That alone was a rare event. She was a student at the local college, and our student-teacher in English. Our regular teacher, Mrs. Josephs, had been ill for a good bit of the year, so Ms. Dodge spent a lot more time at school than any of the other student-teachers we'd ever had.
And we spent a lot more time in class. Gail Dodge was quite possibly the most beautiful woman any of us had ever seen in person. In fact, none of the guys ever missed a single class with her. She was about tall with long black hair and an amazing dark complexion. But she never seemed to smile. And she dressed like a nun. And she was a tad on the skinny side. But I was just being picky. Because her thinness had its advantages, namely in showing off an incredible set of tits, even underneath her dowdy clothing. The scuttlebutt in the locker room, based as far as I knew on absolutely no evidence, was that she was an impressive 38 D-cup.
Fortunately, I didn't have to rebut Mr. Ackerman's opinion in any more depth. So, as Ms. Dodge began writing something about Herman Melville on the board, I simply added Ms. Dodge to my list of dream girls.
Of course, I also had my list of celebrities: Sarah Michelle Gellar, Catherine Bell, Jennifer Garner. I could make a very long list. Heck, if I could just get Grandpa's friends, Cheryl or Raquel, I'd be happy.
What I had was nobody. I searched all the rest of Grandpa's boxes, looking for the secret I just knew had to be there, and found nothing. Finally, just as I was about to put everything back in the attic, the world changed. It was another Friday afternoon, about six o'clock. Fortunately, there was no football game that day either—apparently, our hard-working football players couldn't manage to play five weeks in a row, so there was a bye day built into the schedule. With one of the dolls in my left hand, I picked up the last of the magazines with my other hand to throw it in the box.
"Cheryl Tiegs." I sighed, reading the cover. "January 27, 1975 Sports Illustrated."
And then it happened. I felt the doll in my hand begin to warm and soften. I looked down and stared in astonishment as the doll's plastic features gradually changed, becoming real hair and skin. She was still only 12 inches tall, but the doll looked exactly like the woman on the cover of the magazine. The same dark blonde, shoulder length hair, the same blue eyes, the same incredible body. The only difference was the doll was wearing a gold strapless bikini which covered up a little too much, while the model in the magazine had on a green and gold bikini that showed off an absolutely incredible chest. My Cheryl looked up at me with those deep blue eyes, stretched slowly in my palm, and, well, purred is probably the best word to describe the sound.
"Hello, Master."
"Um…hello?"
In case you hadn't guessed, I'm not Mr. Smooth, even now. I certainly wasn't in high school. Presented with this vision, I was lucky to be able to speak at all.
"Be nice if you were life-size, huh?" I finally croaked. The women in Grandpa's pictures were life-sized. Wasn't I entitled to that, too?
I had no sooner finished asking the question when I had a beautiful woman straddling me. Since I'd been holding her when she, er, grew, my hand was now trapped between my crotch and hers. I yanked it out as if it were on fire—what an idiot, eh?—and she just as quickly pressed her advantage.
"Mmmm, Master." She smiled, grinding herself against me.
That did it. I felt my cock explode, coating the inside of my briefs.
"Um, excuse me," I said. "I have to use the bathroom."
"Yes, Master," she said obediently, rolling off and kneeling in front of me. I ran into the bathroom and cleaned up as best I could. When I returned, I found her in the exact same position I'd left her in.
"So you are. . . ?" I began, as I knelt down to face her.
"Cheryl Tiegs, Master. I'm a model."
"Yeah, I know," I muttered. I showed her the magazine I'd dropped when I ran to the bathroom.
"Oooh, my cover came out today. I had one two years ago, too. I'm the only girl to ever get two covers. This one's pretty hot, though, huh?"
"Uh, yeah.”
"What, don't you like it?" she teased. She reached over and put her hand on my crotch. "I think you do."
I was speechless as she began to stroke my cock through my jeans.
"Don't be shy," she said, pushing me back. She ran her hand up and down the bulge in my pants a few more times and then slowly undid the belt buckle. I'd dumped my soaked underwear in the bathroom hamper when I'd cleaned up, so when she unzipped the fly, she saw me in all my glory. With a recovery that astonished even me, it was once again grown to full size.
"Ooohhhh!" she squealed, fishing it out of my pants. "Yummm."
She engulfed my cock with her mouth, and it was only the fact that I'd come five minutes earlier that prevented me from spraying the back of her throat as soon as she did. Instead, I managed to last for almost a whole five additional minutes.
"I'm going to. . ." I started.
She continued to work me over with her magic mouth.
"I'm gonna shoot," I gulped.
She looked up and smiled, as well as a woman with a mouthful of cock can smile. I figured she knew what she was doing, and shot my load into her mouth.
"Mmmm," she said after slowly pulling herself away and licking her lips. "Somebody liked that, too."
"Um, yeah," I said.
"Thought so," she breathed. "I can't wait 'til he comes back up for air. So you're like, what, twenty-one?"
"Eighteen.”
"Eighteen!" she said, looking down. "Wow. Pretty nice for a kid."
She gave me another 100-watt smile.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-seven." She grinned.
"Honey?" It was my mom yelling as she was came up the stairs.
"Shit," I said. "Quick! Behind the door. And no noise."
Cheryl obediently took her place, giving me time to zip up my pants just before Mom knocked on the door.
"Yeah?"
When Mom opened the door, she looked down at the box I had in front of me. "Still? What's so fascinating about that box? Didn't we get all the good pictures out?"
Which lie to tell? I decided to go for the truth, or at least part of it.
"No. I found one in the bottom."
She held out her hand and I fished out the picture for her.
"Oh sure, Jack," she chuckled to herself. "You and Cheryl Tiegs and Raquel Welch."
"Another fake, huh?"
"'Fraid so," she laughed, turning it over and reading the back. "If this was taken in 1985, Jack would have been sixty-five. It would have been a little bit more believable if he hadn't picked both the sex queen of the ’60s and the supermodel of the ’70s. But that was Jack."
"I'm gonna put all this back in the attic right now," I assured her solemnly as I put the last magazine in the box.
"Good," she answered, waving the picture. "I'll just keep this as a souvenir. Dinner'll be ready in five, sport."
I did put the box upstairs, although I left the other doll, along with Cheryl, still life-size and alive, in my room. When I got back, I instantly felt Cheryl's arms around me, her breath hot on the back of my neck.
"Supermodel, huh?" she whispered. "I like that. Can we do it now?"
"Do what?" I asked innocently, turning around to look her in the eyes. Actually, I had to look up at her eyes. How tall was this woman?
"Master," she whined, rubbing my crotch again.