dolls

They sit perfectly still. They don't fidget. They don't check their phones. They don't even blink unless a breeze catches their lashes. They have been stripped of their autonomy, their intellect reduced to a state of permanent, blissful cognitive shutdown. They cannot make decisions. They cannot choose what to eat, what to wear, or even when to stand up. They simply exist in a state of suspended animation, waiting for an external stimulus to give them purpose.

"Tracer," Emily whispers. Her voice is monotone, lacking any inflection. "What do I do?"

Tracer doesn't answer. She can't. She is waiting, too. Her jaw hangs slightly open, a tiny thread of saliva glistening at the corner of her painted lips.

The door clicks open. A man enters he is broad shouldered, commanding, and carries an air of absolute ownership. He doesn't greet them; he simply surveys his property.

"Sit straight," he commands.

Instantly, both women jerk upright, their spines snapping into rigid positions. Their movements are mechanical, devoid of grace, driven entirely by the verbal trigger.

"Open your mouths," he orders.

Simultaneously, their jaws drop. They stare forward with blank, hungry expressions. They aren't thinking about anything they don't have the capacity. They are simply waiting for the next command, the next sensation to fill the void where their brains used to be.

He approaches them, unbuckling his belt with slow, deliberate movements. The sound of metal clinking against leather echoes in the silent room. As he frees his cock, the two bimbos don't react with passion or desire those require emotion, and emotion requires thought. Instead, they react with a primal, biological reflex. Their pupils dilate. Their breathing quickens slightly, not out of excitement, but out of a programmed need to receive.

"Drink," he growls.

The command triggers a cascade of mindless obedience. They lean forward in unison, their movements clumsy and uncoordinated because they lack the coordination that comes with conscious thought. They don't know how to position themselves properly; they simply follow the direction of the cock.

As he begins to pump them full of hot, thick semen, they don't even use their hands to help. They simply accept the flow, their throats working in rhythmic, unthinking gulps. They don't taste the salt or the heat; they simply experience the sensation of fullness filling their empty vessels.

When he finishes, he steps back, leaving them dripping, their faces smeared with white streaks.

"Wipe your mouths. Now sit still until I tell you to move again."

"Yes, Daddy," they drone in perfect unison, their voices flat and hollow. They reach up with unsteady hands, wiping their lips with mechanical motions before freezing back into their statue like states. They will sit there for hours, motionless and mindless, until the next word comes to tell them they are allowed to exist again.