Chapter 2

Molly awoke, staring into a dressing room mirror. Her normally wavy black hair had been forced into ringlets. Her eyes were violet, astonishingly bright, powerful, captivating. Hypnotizing. Her adorable face was made up in bright white, with sparkly blue eyeshadow and deep red lipstick. Simple colors, so the crowd could see. She was in the process of painting a heart on her cheek, with two halves and a jagged edge between them. A broken heart.

Suddenly, she realized something was wrong.

This isn't home. I don't know this place. I shouldn't have woken up here.

... I don't know what's going on, but I need to get out.

Molly fully intended to put the face paint applicator down, and look around for an exit.

That didn't happen. Her face kept its contented smile, her arm kept painting, and that was all.

Molly silently screamed.

Raw fear overwhelmed her. She tried to think of what to do and her mind seemed to keep going blank. All she knew was that she'd lost control of her body. How was she supposed to get out of this if she couldn't goddamn move?

In her panic, she barely felt it when [a loose thread] began to retie itself around her mind. Had she noticed, she would not have known what it was.

Meanwhile, her body's lips pursed cutely as she inspected her makeup. She added a few careful touchups with the cold paint.

Fuck, fuck ... maybe this is a dream! Okay, I get it. It's a dream. And if I know it's a dream, I should be able to control it!

Okay. Stay calm, self.

Okay.

Now, I'm turning around and walking out of this room.

Right ... now!

She ran one hand through her soft black curls, cooing happily at the silky sensation.

Well, that didn't work.

... Of course it didn't. I'm weak and I'm a failure. I've always been. I trusted Tessa, and I didn't run when Miranda offered me the wine, and now they've made me into some kind of doll puppet. Because I have no spine. I hate you, self. I despise you ... what's my name again? Holy fuck! What is happening to me when I can't even remember my—

Abruptly, she was distracted by her own lips. A striking crimson against the near-white stage makeup. They were puffy and plump and [sexy].

They made her cunny moist and eager, which was [a required response].

The doll realized she had been thinking about something, but moaning at the sight of her own erotic beauty took priority. If it were that important, she was sure she'd be reminded later. She [forcibly suppressed the distracting thoughts].

She adjusted the top of her pink dress, to show more of her ample cleavage, and smiled approvingly at the heart-shaped cutout that showed off her abs. [Fuck am I ever a sexy little princess], she observed. The thought warmed her. It was [a required thought]. External, she vaguely sensed, but she paid no mind. After all, it was true.

The painted doll heard footsteps behind her, and felt her body turn, then stand. There were several people in the dressing room, but the doll was only permitted to look at one.

The first thing the doll saw was a huge, shiny ruby hanging on a silver necklace. Seeing it made the doll's breathing quicken and her cunt pulse, which was [an absolutely mandatory response]. Then the doll's vision was allowed to take in the plunging neckline of the woman's black silk dress, and the jaw-dropping cleavage above it. That dress shimmered with subtle, curvilinear patterns that the doll could barely see. She then noticed the beauty's exposed arms and legs: pale, strong and muscle-sculpted, like a deity in living marble.

Finally, the doll was allowed to crane her neck upwards, to see the woman's face: youthful, but a little older than the doll's own. Her black hair was cut short and spiky, both a contrast and a complement to her elegant dress. The woman had the same hypnotic, breathtaking violet eyes as the doll possessed; if anything, they were a bit more intense, a little more heart-tugging.

"You're onstage in two minutes," said the woman, smiling. "Best of luck, sis." And her heart went all aflutter as the woman – [my sister, my best friend, the first person who ever made me cum] – blew her a kiss.

The doll smiled, bowed, turned, and began walking down a hallway.

Wait, what?

[Okay, I fucked my sister, who–]

... No! That's – it's just wrong! All of this is wrong!

The girl fought.

The girl fought, and in so doing, finally saw what she was fighting. Something had a grip over her mind, and was twisting it into unnatural shapes. It was suppressing and choking her visceral, fundamental feeling that girls don't fuck their sisters. It was trying to warp the sisterly affection she had for her [Big Sister Tegan] into something impossible. And she fought, and held on to that one fragment of resistance: as her own, as her self. Like a mantra, she repeated: girls don't fuck their sisters.

And with that mantra she fought the intense, vivid memory that flooded into her consciousness, drowning out all else. The memory of their schoolgirl tryst in the girl's bathroom, with its clouded window and spackled walls. It was false. It had to be, because girls don't fuck their sisters. She tried not to remember Big Sister Tegan putting her fingers to her lips and commanding absolute silence of her doll. She tried not to feel good as Tegan's lips were on hers, forcing her doll against the back wall, sliding one eager hand under her doll's plaid skirt...

No! That memory was a fraud. A lie. [Dolls don't fuck their owners] — she still held onto that mantra, still repeated it. She never fucked, would never fuck Big Sister Tegan. Dolls don't fuck their owners. They just don't.

[Even if she's so cuntmeltingly hot that just thinking about her has always made my face flush and my pussy leak? Am I so sure about that?]

The doll thought.

Honestly? She wasn't sure. She wasn't sure of anything, now.

[That's not true. I'm sure of one thing. Dolls obey their owners.]

Of course. She was a good doll, and always obeyed Big Sister Tegan.

[So, when Big Sister Tegan gets hot for me, and wants to scratch me all over and abuse my cunt and bite my delicious dolltits, that's okay, because she's my owner. And I love it, because I am owned.]

The doll mentally shuddered at the memories that flowed into her at that moment. She knew it was true — so beautifully, deliciously true. She loved everything her big sister could possibly do to her.

She always had.

[So, when Tegan wants me to put on a show for her, I love that, too. Don't I?]

Of course she did. Shows were fun. And pleasing Big Sister Tegan was the most fun of all.

[Good, then. Time to stop wasting mindcycles doubting, and get on with the show.]

The doll felt excitement, and a feeling of rightness, having returned to the correct flowpath, having joined her twinminds — her selfthreads — at last. Sadly, her newly unified consciousness would have to split itself again. But, this time, both threads would follow the correct, obedient path. [One thread] would stay back, aware, to guide her.

The other thread was required, now, to forget a few things. And so she did.

Instantly, her head was clear. She wasn't in the room with her sexy sister anymore. Apparently, she'd gone down a corridor and stopped just before the stage. She was just hearing the end of a speech by a familiar girl. It was Tessa, the laconic blonde who'd taken her to her sister's house [our house] last night. The boldness and excitement in her voice was something new, though.

" ... so, put your hands together for the Porcelain Revue's newest star, the queen bitch of burlesque — Amelia Stone!"

[Yep, that's me!]

Amelia, relishing the lustful way Tessa spoke [the beautiful name my sister gave me], put on a confident smile as she strode onstage. The crowd responded with enthusiastic applause, and not a few lewd whistles. Tessa gracefully climbed off the stage, and went to sit in the audience, which seemed to consist entirely of stunningly beautiful girls and women. Amelia gave a cheeky wink, and enjoyed the way so many moaned and shuddered.