Dollhouse
A flash erotic fiction by Stevie Bellerose, inspired by Cyberpunk 2077
Content Warnings:
Mind control, dubious consent, breath play, physical restraint, rough handling, no aftercare
My heart races as I sit on the luxurious platform bed, plush pillows piled behind me.
Clinical white ceramic walls and the grey metal floor reflect soft cyan LED strips that run around the edges of the room. It’s spartan, but clean, comfortable, and clearly expensive. A perfect blank slate, just like me.
I’m a doll. Not in the literal sense—a lifeless thing made of plastic. At least, I’m not made entirely of plastic. And I’m certainly not lifeless. A doll is a polite name for a fancy prostitute. A pretty girl dressed up in fine things and gifted the best augmentations and cybernetics money can buy. She’s torn down to her bones, sometimes literally, and rebuilt in the image of beauty. The extent of our modifications can vary from minor enhancement to the grotesque. I knew a fellow doll who had most of her trachea removed in favor of a synthetic speaker system, specifically to make more room in her throat.
The one thing we all have in common is the Lethe array. It’s a clean piece of medical tech repurposed for a dirty industry. The array leaves your consciousness entirely untouched during a session, but it hijacks your motor nervous system to force absolute, immediate compliance. Your mind remains fully aware while your body puts on the act, fakes the enthusiasm, and does whatever it takes to satisfy the client, all on the promise that the array will sanitize your brain the moment the door closes, wiping every second of the performance from your head. Or at least, it would if mine worked properly.
It’s been about six months since my array stopped wiping sessions. At first, it was terrifying. Normally, we have no recollection of our time with clients. Trust me when I say that’s usually for the better. Imagine the trauma of remembering what these people force our bodies to do while we’re locked inside our own heads.
But terror, I found, has a habit of warping under pressure. At first, the weight of total awareness felt like a slow-burning hell—being trapped behind my own eyes, forced to yield as the array made my flesh submit to another person’s every whim, with nowhere to hide inside my own head. Yet over time, something dark took root. Without the slate being wiped clean, the boundary between forced compliance and genuine surrender began to blur. The raw helplessness, the absolute loss of motor control, the dangerous intimacy of having your physical agency stolen while remaining wide awake to feel every second of it—it stopped haunting me and started pulling me in. What was a psychological torment slowly became the very thing I craved.
Now you might be asking why I wouldn’t just tell my employers about the malfunction. There’s a pretty simple answer: I know too much. Think about all the dirt I have on past clients now that I can remember their depravity. The things they tell me when they think I’m just a puppet who won’t remember. No, if I asked for the array to be repaired, they’d wipe everything, total erasure of who I am. I’m not going out like that.
My eyes snap to the analog clock on the far wall. A relic of the past meant to evoke feelings of wealth, no doubt. He’s a minute late now. His loss, not mine. My synthetic skin keeps me from breaking into a sweat, and my internal regulators clamp down on my hormone spikes, but they can’t stop the cold thrill curling in my stomach.
Before my mind can wander, the automatic door to the room slides open with a faint hum, and he steps through the opening. I feel the familiar jolt of excitement and fear as I gaze at him from the bed.
He’s tall, easily more than six feet, broad, and clean-shaven. The immaculate tailoring of his charcoal-grey suit obscures the finer details of his physique, giving him an imposing silhouette. As the door slides shut behind him, he speaks.
“Hello, my name is Gideon.”
His face remains impassive. He isn’t conventionally handsome, but the hard, sharp angles of his features mirror the clean lines of his suit. It gives him an arresting, stoic kind of appeal.
I flash a practiced smile. “Hello, Gideon! I’m pleased to meet you. I’ll be your doll this evening.” It’s a rehearsed line. I have a name, of course, but management found that if we withhold it, clients feel less inclined to hold back during sessions. Uninhibited clients are profitable clients.
Gideon nods curtly and crosses the room. “Stand up.”
Automatically, I feel my body respond. I’ll never get used to the feeling. I roll off the bed and rise to my feet. He really is tall, at least a head and shoulders above me. As I stand before him, he begins to circle, inspecting me. I’m wearing very little, a simple silk dress with lace trim and a plunging neckline.
“You’re beautiful,” he says matter-of-factly, as though commenting on the weather.
I smile, and it’s my own smile, not the Lethe array’s. “Thank you!”
Gideon stops circling me. “Don’t speak unless I ask you a question.” His voice is still the same calm, emotionless monotone.
I nod in acknowledgement.
“Undress,” Gideon commands.
Gracefully, seductively, the array guides my hands as I pull the dress over my head. My undergarments, a matching set of lace panties and a sheer, strapped bra, follow. I am left standing naked, staring at the blank wall ahead while he remains behind me.
In the silence of the room, every sound he makes is amplified.
First comes the smooth, heavy sigh of structured wool as he slides his suit jacket off his shoulders, followed by the soft thud of the fabric draped over the armchair. Next is the crisp, dry friction of silk being pulled through a tight collar as he unknots his tie.
I hear the heavy creak of the mattress springs as he sits down, followed by the rasp of waxed laces being loosened. One leather oxford hits the floor with a thump, then the second. The faint, elastic snap of his dress socks being peeled off follows a second later.
The sudden, metallic clink of a heavy belt buckle unlatching rings out sharply in the small space. Then comes the crisp pop of a shirt button, followed by a steady, rhythmic series of smaller clicks as he works his way down his chest. Fabric rustles to the floor, a soft heap of cotton and trousers collapsing around his ankles.
Then, nothing. Just the quiet room.
I listen intently, unable to turn around, catching only the shift in his breathing, a low, raspy intake of air that tells me he’s taking in every inch of my exposed skin.
I don’t have to wait long, though, because barely a moment passes before I feel him step close and wrap his arms around me. His large hands, smooth with manicured nails, cup my breasts, and I feel his warm breath on my neck as he pulls me tight against his chest. Pressed flush against my bare lower back and rear, I feel the thick, rigid line of his erection, leaving no doubt about what he wants. He smells incredible, like amber and sandalwood, with the faintest hint of smoke.
I feel him squeeze my breasts gently, and a quiet moan escapes my lips, unbidden. Gideon allows his hands to begin wandering across the landscape of my body, over my stomach, over my hips, back up to my chest, across my shoulders. It’s as though he’s trying to map every inch of my skin.
Just as I start to melt into him, he spins me around and pushes me back, holding me at arm’s length. His expression, formerly impassive and unchanging, is transformed. He gazes at me with insatiable hunger, his eyes harboring a certain darkness that I know too well. I’ve seen that look before, though the Lethe array should have erased it from my memory.
“Stunning,” Gideon growls.
Suddenly, his hand is around my throat, and he slams me against the cold wall. My eyes widen in surprise, but I don’t cry out. I couldn’t if I tried, gagged by the array.
His grip is firm, but not suffocating. He stares into my eyes for a second, then another. His expression softens, and he releases me.
“Are you frightened?” he asks.
The array grants me permission to answer his question. “Yes.”
“Good.” He leans close, pressing a kiss to my collarbone. His lips trail lower, kissing the swell between my breasts, then down to the skin just above my navel. To my utter astonishment, he kneels in front of me, gazing up to meet my eyes.
“Keep your eyes on me,” Gideon commands, his voice dropping an octave, rich and low. “Don’t look away.”
The array locks my chin in place instantly, forcing my gaze down to meet his. I couldn’t look away if I wanted to.
He leans in, his hands sliding up my thighs. His thumbs press into my skin, anchoring me to the wall as he brings his face close. I hold my breath, every nerve ending in my body firing at once as the heat of his breath hits my skin.
When his tongue makes first contact, a silent shudder ripples through my entire body. He’s not soft or gentle. He is deliberate, intense, and possessive, treating my body like something he owns entirely.
His tongue slides across my folds, lingering for a moment at my entrance, before moving up to find my clit. At first, he avoids it, circling it with the tip of his tongue. But as I shiver with pleasure, he relents, pressing his tongue against my clit.
Mercifully, the Lethe array permits me to moan. I suppose it doesn’t interpret that as talking, though the finer philosophical details of the implant are currently lost on me as Gideon’s tongue flicks up and down over my clit.
Gideon’s grip on my thighs tightens, and he squeezes hard, so hard it might have bruised if my skin weren’t synthetic. The dull pain mixes with the pleasure of his tongue, and I let out a low, desperate moan. I want to say something, to beg him not to stop, but the array catches the words before I can form them. As I shake and moan, Gideon makes a low hum of approval, his expression one of dark pride. I still can’t look away from his piercing gray eyes.
He continues like that for a while, teasing his tongue across my folds only to keep returning to my sensitive clit. I know he’s not going to make me come this way, and I know better than to fake it. I have a feeling Gideon would spot a performance in an instant.
Gideon interrupts my thoughts by halting abruptly. He licks his lips and rises to his feet. I expect him to issue another command, but he doesn’t. Instead, he hooks an arm behind my knees and scoops me off my feet.
I yelp in surprise as he takes a single stride toward the bed and tosses me onto the mattress. I land in a soft heap, and before I can get my bearings, he’s already on top of me. His lips crash against mine, and after the initial shock, I kiss him back, the Lethe array guiding me to match his intensity. His smell is intoxicating, and as I breathe heavily into the kiss, my nostrils are filled with his musky scent.
His hand slides down my stomach, the weight of his palm warm against my skin, before his fingers slip between my thighs. He pushes two fingers deep inside me without warning. A small gasp hitches in my throat, but the array immediately commands my body to accommodate him—my hips tilt up into his hand, my thighs opening wider to give him better access.
He begins a steady, rhythmic thrust with his fingers, his thumb curling to press firmly against my clit. It’s methodical, deliberate, and devastatingly effective.
“You’re so wet,” Gideon mutters into my neck, his breath hot against my collarbone. “You love this, don’t you?”
Bound to answer his question, I gasp, “Yes!” as I let out a needy moan while his fingers work inside me.
Before I can catch my breath, he pulls his hand away, shifts his weight, and aligns himself at my entrance. He doesn’t ask. He simply grips my hips with both hands, pinning me to the mattress, and drives all the way inside me in one heavy, unyielding push.
The sensation is overwhelming. My back arches instantly, the array executing its flawless, enthusiastic response, and my legs wrap around his waist to lock him close. But as he establishes a hard, steady pace, the artificial compliance starts to fade into something frighteningly real.
He’s relentless. Every thrust hits deep, grinding against the exact spot that sends heat rushing straight to my abdomen. I stare up at him, my hands clawing at his broad shoulders, completely captive to his rhythm.
Gideon leans down, his gray eyes searching mine with intense scrutiny. He watches my face as the tension builds, looking for the tiny, mechanical tell of a programmed response. But there isn’t one. The pleasure rolls over me like a tidal wave, too sudden and too violent for the array’s smooth scripts.
A broken, ragged sob escapes my lips as my walls contract tightly around him. The climax crashes through my body, setting every nerve ending on fire as I shudder beneath him, my inner muscles pulsing around his length in genuine, uncontrollable release.
Gideon freezes inside me for a fraction of a second, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes widen just enough to betray his confusion as he stares down at my trembling body. Then, for the first time, a genuine smile breaks across his features.
Grunting with exertion, he resumes thrusting, his rhythm speeding up into a hard, erratic pace. As he chases his own release, his large hand slides up to wrap around my throat, squeezing tight. My breath cuts off instantly, and my head goes fuzzy as my vision begins to darken around the edges.
Just at the brink, he slams into me one final time and freezes, shuddering above me. He pulses deep inside, groaning with dark satisfaction. As he empties himself, his grip on my neck vanishes. I take a gasping, desperate breath, coughing and spluttering as cold air floods my lungs.
Gideon doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t apologize, check on me, or offer a touch of comfort. He simply rolls off the mattress with a quiet sigh, leaving me shivering and exposed. As I struggle to catch my breath, he stands and calmly begins to gather his clothes.
I lie still on the disheveled sheets, watching him button his shirt through blurry eyes. In a few seconds, he’ll walk out that door, completely convinced that the Lethe array is already wiping every second of his darkness, his smile, and his hands from my brain. He thinks he’s leaving behind a blank, hollow shell.
He has no idea I’m going to remember every single detail.