The Ultimate Lovedoll

The doors to the Chief’s private office slammed open with a force hard enough to rattle the hinges. Lydia Dunn, Chief of the Commission of Sex Crimes, stopped her dictation in mid-sentence. Her icy stare did nothing to intimidate the Deputy Commissioner, Christina Hilshire, who had burst so expectedly into the Chief’s private domain.

“Yes, Christina?” Lydia Dunn asked, without a loss of her legendary self control. “I don’t recall us having an appointment.”

Christina weathered the stare and marched right up to her boss’s desk. “I want to know why my investigation of the XTC Doll Company has been shut down!” she exclaimed.

Lydia Dunn arched her eyebrows. “I was prepared to tell you during our normal staff meeting this afternoon. I saw no point in continuing this fishing expedition of yours. I would also comment that being my second-in-command does not give you the right to barge in here without even knocking.”

Christina planted her fists on the desk and said, “My hunches have proved right so far, that’s what got me promoted to your executive officer. And my hunch is that this company is up to something.”

Lydia Dunn leaned back in her chair and idly picked up a sheaf of papers from her orderly desk. “I’ve read your report. This XTC Doll Company manufactures synthetic love-dolls. That’s not illegal. It’s even encouraged, after the last AIDS epidemic forced the full outlawing of all illicit sex business.”

Cristina shook her head before Lydia Dunn had even finished speaking, the younger woman’s unkept short black hair hair ruffling with the movement. That impatient arrogance, together with Christina’s insistence on wearing what she damn well pleased and doing what she damn well liked, made Lydia Dunn’s knuckles whiten even as she held the report. The fact was, this independent little upstart really got on her nerves. Lydia Dunn chose tailored business outfits and wore a carefully selected perfume. Christina not only crossed the line on office demeanor; she stomped all over it. If only she wasn’t so good at her work.

Christina said, “I hacked into their financial computers. This company is making tons of money. I suspect the lovedoll business is just a cover for a high-class prostitution network.”

“Oh, come now,” said Lydia Dunn. “Prostitution is strictly prohibited,” said Lydia Dunn. “Life imprisonment–medical quarantine–for everybody involved. The owners of this company wouldn’t be that stupid. And I would know about it through other channels if there was the slightest chance. Besides, have you ever taken the trouble to inspect one of their love-dolls? Supposed to be state-of-the-art, very expensive. That would account for the revenue.”

Christina put her hands on her hips, “In the first place, I think that whole business of love-dolls is sick, and I don’t care if they’re sanctioned by the government as a sex-partner substitute–the owners of this business are creeps, as far as I’m concerned. In the second place, we both know that the rich and famous can always get what they want, if they willing to pay the price. And finally, I’ve got evidence that this company might be paying bribes to government officials in high places to keep their business secret.”

A chill entered Lydia Dunn’s voice. “Are you accusing me of taking bribes?” she asked.

Christina backed off. “No, of course not. I’m just suggesting your normal channels of investigation might be thwarted. That’s why we need to send in an agent. Namely, me.”

“Hmm. Dressed as you are now, Christina, you might very well pass as a recruit for a prostitution ring.” Lydia Dunn’s eye ran disapprovingly over the girl’s provocative dress. Tight-fitting leather pants, a white silk blouse whose contours betrayed the absence of any kind of a bra and just enough make-up to emphasize her natural beauty. Lydia Dunn had heard how the men in her path to promotion had been distracted by her sensuality, and how Christina had played them for what they were worth and marched over their bodies in her three-inch heels as soon as they had served their purpose. “If I send anybody, it ought to be a male agent, posing as a customer.”

“I can run circles around any male agent on your staff, Miss Dunn. Besides, from what I hear, you’re not exactly partial to men anyway.”

Lydia Dunn resisted the impulse to strangle this impertinent little snit right then and there. True, Lydia acknowledged that Christina was young and smart and oh-so-attractive. But Lydia’s pristine and well-coifed exterior hid the ruthless instincts of an administrative in-fighter who had clawed her own way to the top. She wasn’t about to be toppled by some pedigreed street hustler. She leaned back in her executive chair and said casually “Office rumors say you’re after my job as Chief, Christina, that you have your little heart set at working at this desk.” You scheming little slut, she thought.

“Only if I deserve it–like, if I prove the existence of a world-wide prostitution ring masquerading as a maker of toy love-dolls, right under the nose of our Commission on Sex Crimes,” replied Christina sweetly to the older woman. You over-the-hill bitch dyke, she thought.



Christina checked her make-up one last time before entering the offices of XTC Doll Company. The address took her by surprise; she had expected some dingy office-warehouse. But the corporate office had an address in one of the finer sections of the city. When she entered through the doors and marched up to the receptionist, Christina was struck by the fine decor of the office. The oil paintings on the wall, the plush embroidered couch, even the fresh real flowers displayed in the vase on the Chippendale table–all seemed to have been selected with exquisite taste. Christina had dressed the part of a hooker looking for a new gig, and felt very out of place in these elegant surroundings.

“I called about a job,” she said, after signing in under her fictitious work name.

“Someone will be out to see you in a moment,” said the receptionist. When Christina tried a few probing questions, the receptionist offered a bland and impersonal smile, nothing more. Her face, though pretty, was expressionless. For a mad moment, Christina wondered if there wasn’t something, well. synthetic about her. Don’t get paranoid so soon, Christina chided herself. But the receptionists eyes–blank and soulless–bothered her.

Christina noticed a hologram display booth in the lobby and walked over to check it out. OUR LATEST LOVE-DOLL! announced the display. She pressed an indicated button, and an image about a foot tall flickered into life. The display flashed specifications and features of the so-described “Ultimate Love-Doll”, as the image of the mannequin postured herself invitingly. The doll’s body conformed to the ideal voluptuous shape, with perfect make-up and glossy skin. Christina was impressed in spite of herself–the doll was extraordinarily life-like, and if even half the warranties were true, the doll could be quite a novelty. It would be just like men to go for some toy with full hair, large breasts, and a “precision-engineered love channel”, as the display boasted. Pity that all that ingenuity was devoted to such degenerate purpose, thought Christina, her nose wrinkled in disgust.

Presently another woman came out and called for her. She, too, was pretty and well-mannered and totally unresponsive to Christina’s questions. Instead, she motioned Christina to a chair in a cubicle with what looked like some kind of eye-examination device.

“We have a security system here that codes off retina scans,” she explained. “This will let you pass through the various checkpoints into our recruiting department for your interview. Please look into the eye guards so we can register your imprint.”

Christina gave what she hoped was a silly-prostitute smile, and tried to hide her wariness. She looked into the eyepieces, much like having her eyes examined. “We need to hold your head steady,” said the voice beside her, as a strap secured the eyepiece tightly to over the bridge of her nose. Christina found herself watching a pulsing light inside a slowly revolving spiral, on a field of total blackness. The sparkling light blinked on and off at a steady rate. . . then the rhythm increased, the light flashing at a faster pace. Faster and faster, brighter and brighter, her mind now totally focused to the very center of the spiral. Suddenly she realized what was happening: the pulses had quickened to thirty times a second, precisely calibrated to the brain’s ocular-neuron rate. The strobe effect–a classic device for inducing a state resembling an epileptic fit! Chistina twisted her head frantically to one side, but the eyepieces remained strapped securing over her eyes, the vision in front of her remained stationary–compelling, irresistible. She heard a buzzing in her ears as she began to lose consciousness. She tried one last desperate attempt to heave herself out of the chair, tear herself way from the iron grip of the hands that held her down. But her mind was already paralyzed. She sank back in the chair, the flashes now exploding in her very brain, everything swirling around her….



Christine opened her eyes. Blurred vision, her mind fighting for orientation. Now she was on her stomach, still on a gurney or table. Her face was framed by a padded ring, so she looked down on the floor, seeing surgical shoes on white tile. Her whole scalp felt cool, as if she had just stuck her head in a freezer. A soft moan escaped her parched lips, and she struggled feebly to raise herself.

“Christ, she’s coming around,” said a voice.

“Give her twenty milligrams of demerol. No, make it forty,” spoke a voice with a vaguely European accent. A pair of green surgical shoes step into her line of downward vision, joining the first pair. Her arm twitched–must be an intravenous hook-up, there–and once more her consciousness dissolved into grey nothingness. But not before she heard the metallic clink of surgical instruments brought to bear.



Dreams! Nightmarish episodes of getting roused from slumber, voices telling her what to do, how to stand. Blue background, blue everywhere, except the bright lights in front. Hands helping her, positioning her, faces in front of her like indistinct balloons. Kaleidoscopic flashes of looking down, seeing her body in different outfits–will the real Christina please stand up? I can’t, thought Christina plaintively, I’m so tired. Just let me lie down and go to sleep. But the voices urged her on, kept prompting her like an actress forgetting her lines. Maybe she got the job, she thought. But which job? She couldn’t remember, but she seemed the center of attention of the people around her, which is how she liked it. She smiled for the cameras in the audience. But Commissioner Lydia Dunn wouldn’t let her have her moment of attention, the bitch! If only she wasn’t so sleepy, then she could really put on a show. But her eyelids grew heavy, and the voices grew quiet and the lights turned dim. And in her dream, she felt herself slipping into sleep again.



At last Christina gained consciousness for real. She felt her training and self discipline kick in like faithful allies: Waking up was a matter of ascending through layers of fog, you just had to wait for your mind to clear sufficiently for you to act rationally. Be patient. Gather your strength.

She felt straps against her arms, waist, and legs. She cracked an eyelid and saw how she was restrained in something like a dentist-chair. Looking down over the swell of her breasts, she saw how the body suit followed the contours of her curves to perfection. She felt some kind of phallic device intruding deep inside her pussy, but could see nothing between her legs except a few wires leading off table. When she tried to move her head to look around the room, she felt a tightened band around her forehead that prevented her. Even that slight effort made her wince at the stab of a headache. A residual effect of the mind-inducer, she wondered, or did she injure herself during her capture? A particular ache throbbed just behind her right ear. Then Christina remembered the surgical surroundings earlier, and had to fight down her panic. She kept her eyes closed.

“I know you are awake, Miss Hilshire.” The voice was cultured and vaguely European She opened her eyes and studied her captor. About forty years old, she judged. His physique was solid, but not over muscular. His business suit had a cut that suggested a London tailor, but other than that, his type could be found in any corporate boardroom. Grey eyes, with irises flecked with black. And rimless glasses–you looked at the eyes behind those no-nonsense glasses and kept your distance. Christina loathed him immediately. And they apparently knew her real name! Christina hated the idea of being out-maneuvered by a man. He said calmly, “Are you feeling all right, Miss Hilshire? Can we get you something to drink, some cold water perhaps?”

“I’ll tell you want I want,” said Christina, her voice edged with venom, “I want you get let me go. Right now. Otherwise, you and your creepy little outfit will find yourselves in more trouble than you could even conceive.”

“Oh? And what were you doing here, may I ask?”

“I was applying for a job.”

The man said in mock surprise, “Truly? I was not aware that agents of the Sex Crimes Commission needed a second job to make ends meet. They really ought to do something about the pay scales of your agency.”

Christina said nothing, her cover blown already. “So I was right, then wasn’t I? This whole love-doll business is just a front for something illegal. What do you got going here, a nice little kidnap-and-prostitution ring?” She sensed other people behind her, and could barely see out of the corner of her eye some kind of computer set up off to the side.

The man, who had been sitting next to her, rose and walked to the foot of Christina’s restraining table. He smiled at her question. “Oh, but for the golden days of white slavery! Damsels in distress chained to sweat-soaked mattresses, held in the holds of tramp steamers bound for the fleshpots of the Orient!” He smiled and shook his head. “No, the XTC Doll Company really is in the business of making and selling love-dolls. The finest imaginable, Miss Hilshire. We have come out with a new line, called the Ultimate Love-Doll’, which has become quite popular among our customers. As you will soon see.” He began to pace. Christina followed him with her eyes.

He said, “There is some truth to what you say: a market for sexual adventure does in fact exist. It’s mostly male, but not entirely. Many of our clients live and work outside the United States–bored with their home lives, frustrated with the taboos that prevent them from exploring their interests more openly. Generals, bankers, nobility–powerful men in their own societies. Much like your Senators and CEO’s.”

“Don’t be naive,” snapped Christine. “Senators and CEO’s don’t have women kidnaped or drugged or whatever as sexual playthings!”

“Oh?” the man said with a chilling smile. “And tell me who is being naive, here, Christina? Surely it is not me. I might add that such men need security and discretion–demand it, in fact. The sex-registration laws that followed the last outbreak of AIDS plague are constrictive enough. Mistresses and call-girls can turn the tables, threaten to go to the tabloids and talk-shows. This can be a most trying situation for these gentlemen, you understand.”

“My heart bleeds for em,” muttered Christine, wincing as a spasm of pain seemed to ricochet through her cranium. Max studied her intently. “Your head, it hurts?” he asked.

“Yeah, it hurts. And my scalp feels cold.”

“Yes, we shaved your head.”

“You what?!”

“Yes, you will understand why quite shortly. Here, I will show you.” The man stepped out of her vision, but quickly returned, rolling a full-length mirror to a stop at the foot of Christina’s chair. She saw herself totally trussed in the chair. And her hair had indeed been totally shaven off , leaving her head now as smooth as a billiard ball. The bastards! Although she flaunted her refusal to follow conventional fashions, Christina had always been secretly quite impressed with her own looks. This was too much!

” People around here call me Max’, by the way,” the man was saying. “I’m one of the directors of the company. And don’t worry about your hair, it will grow back by the time we finish your training.”

“I’ve got other names for you, MAX!” she shouted. When she ran out of obscenities to call him and was left breathing hard, her eyes glaring like twin embers of hostility, Max motioned to somebody behind her.

“While you were in the care of our clinic,” said Max, “we installed a neuro-transmitter at the base of your skull, right next to your cerebellum. We can connect to that transmitter through a jack installed behind your ear–a process we call jacking in’, by the way.”

Christina didn’t know which was more terrifying–what he was saying, or the methodical academic way he was saying it. I’ve got to get out of here, she thought. These people are crazy! She tried to keep the initiative. “So you want to interrogate me about what the Commission knows of your outfit, do you? What’s it to be, then?” she asked defiantly. “Bamboo shoots under my fingernails? Rubber hoses? Electrodes?”

Max shook his head. “Miss Hilshire, we surely do not want to injure you in any way. We have other uses for you. As an undercover agent yourself, I expect your training included techniques at mental control, and the ways to resist them. In the old days, they called it

brainwashing’. The techniques vary, but usually involve sleep deprivation, isolation, threats, psychological pressures–very crude methods indeed, wouldn’t you say? And not much left over of the subject, when they finished.” He gave a small shake of his head, as if to show his professional dissatisfaction. “We’ve come up with something far more effective. The ideas aren’t new,” he added modestly, “but the application is, we think, unique. You know who Pavlov is, don’t you? He was a Russian scientist, who did tests of ringing a bell when he fed his dogs; after a while, the dogs would salivate at the mere sound of the bell. Rather discouraging for the dogs, no? And then the marvelous work of your own B.F. Skinner, who taught us that by controlling the rewards and punishments, you can shape behavior. It becomes a matter of reinforcement, you see.”

This patient instruction was not what Christina expected, and she fought down another wave of panic. Stay cool, she shouted to herself silently. Wait for them to make a mistake. But already she had the unnerving suspicion that this Max was not the type of man to make mistakes.

Max said, “But how to put theory into practice, eh?” His eyes glinted behind his rimless glasses. “The neuro-transmitter was the key. I remember when we first formed the company, the moment at the clinic when we realized it could be done. We’ll show you.”

Christina’s eyes grew wide as a latex-gloved hand pressed something against the base of her skull, right behind her ear. She felt more than heard something click in. A tiny tremor of some kind of electrical charge tickled her brain. For some reason the phallic device pressing deep inside her pussy also seemed to quiver with some kind of charge. Then somebody pulled over her head some kind of hood. There were perfectly formed holes for her nostrils, mouth and eyes–but Christina wondered how long they would remain open.