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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic

Image of Lauren as a Human Toy

Submitted: August 07, 2019

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 07, 2019




When I saw how captivated people were interacting with this magnificent creature, it made me realise how amazing this woman was. She stays special.’

Ernest Jameson, Rt Hon Home Secretary.

‘Because I’m female do you think I’m going to crack under pressure – or conquer the field?’

Pearl McGilvrae.

Midnight. The Rutting Season. Winter had come early to the pine forest of Tannochbrae. Snow fluttered down in heavy flakes, white poppy petals on an alien Remembrance Day. Cascading in swirls borne on the chill wind before settling on the blank canvas that stretched between her window and the electrified perimeter fence. Blanketing the flat rooftop of the institution in a shroud of secrecy.

Every so often, Toy heard a loud crack as a bough bowed, bent and snapped under the weight of it, clumps of snow tumbling down, forming mounds, filled with the love of those who lay so deep. There were eight mounds between her and the fence, mounted with inconspicuous little red crosses.

Christmas decorations! Ha! Testimonials to early efforts, failed experiments.

She thought of her parent’s grey-stone cottage on the outskirts of Oban, the privet hedge, their clapped-out Cortina, immobilized by it. Janice and Peter, in woolly waistcoats and tartan carpet slippers, sipping single malts in front of the roaring fireplace, wondering if they’d ever see their missing daughter again.

Missing: that was the official explanation.

Toy had gone missing from her studies at Edinburgh University, her bedsit: pristine, bed-made, laptop still on, vanished, without a trace. Except that her name wasn’t Toy. Her name, by birth, was Lauren Jane Smart, age: 18. An Oban girl, last seen boarding the Glasgow-bound Highland train. Never to be seen again. She cast her mind back to when she was a little girl, a lonely girl, an only child.

God, how her Mam and Dad would be missing her.

What had possessed her to be her toy, her plaything? The money? Ah yes, the money to pay for her crack addiction. And the money was good, live-in, shared bed, free food, full board and lodgings, all expenses paid. Or was it the intrigue, the fascination of her, the need for her to be her plaything, their intimacy?

Toy remembered her childhood, playing in the snow, ice on the pavements, ruts in the roadway, skidding down the road with Mam. Hey! There’s a snowman! The other children, laughing, playing, behind closed brick walls. Ice on her bedroom window! Cat’s paws! Dripping icicles hanging off their leaky gutters!

Shards of ice, snapping, falling! The back garden, yellow leaves sticking out of an imperfect blanket. Mam, sprinkling salt on the pavement. Snow heaped by the garage, coating the wheelie bins! Tiny footprints, a robin redbreast! The elderly, struggling. The young, daring!

And, in her solitary childhood, not a living soul to play with. Perhaps that was why she was here, as Toy in a snow year. The full moon shone on her face, her figure, her body, silhouetted in dark relief against the vermillion sky, twinkling starlight, distant planets, far-off suns, Pearl.

‘Come into the warm, shake your coat off, take off those gloves, dust yourself down. Come, sit beside the fire, you must be freezing. Hot chocolate, warm minced pies, rich fruit cake. Snow!’

‘Shtop teashing me!’ the toy said, with a lisp; she’d suffered the lisp, the taunts, the jeers, since birth, ‘There ishn’t a fire, or a coat, jusht me in thith thilly thlip.’

‘Come to bed with me, Toy. I’m a big girl now!’

‘I know that, do you think I don’t know that?’

‘Well then, come to bed.’

Toy was wearing a regulation institutional white slip. She pulled it off over her head and held it aloft, like her white flag of surrender. Looked around in the half-light, at her, under the duvet on the giant-sized bed.

At the unblinking security cameras. At least, Beattie had the decency to switch them off at 11. When they were intimate, sensually intimate, in the way that only 18-year old girls can be.

Beattie would be at his control desk, scanning the white-walled corridors for signs of suspicious activity. Not that there ever was any suspicious activity. Tannochbrae was impregnable.

Access and egress were controlled, limited to specific individuals, by iris optical recognition. Beattie would be sprawled, half asleep, more like, over the unfinished ten-minute crossword in this week’s edition of The Tulloch Herald.

Toy appraised the dark void behind the toughened glass window. There were no ghouls watching her. She went to take off her pale grey CK thong.

‘Leave it on, Toy! I want to love you with it on.’

She left her thong on, it accentuated her smooth buttocks, her puppy ear breasts. She left her thong on, and went to bed with her.

Pearl felt for the fluffy pillow and placed it in the centre of the bed creating a soft plinth for her toy’s head. Then she pushed back the duvet with her feet and admitted Toy into the centre, the heart she called it, of her bed.

It was important that her plaything was fully relaxed before they were intimate. The toy had an unfortunate habit of squealing like a piglet when she became excited, a risk that Pearl couldn’t afford to take.

For fear of activating the noise sensors positioned around the bedroom door, attracting Beattie’s unwanted attention. For fear of stirring McNiel and McCain in their adjacent rooms. For fear of reprisals.


She recalled the last time her toy had squealed – the unpleasant leather restraints and buckles, sleeping in a stiff straightjacket for twelve days, the constant threat of sedation, solitary confinement in her room.

Worst still, McVie, the fat bitch, had taken away her toy, until she learned how to behave. Life without a toy had been unimaginably hard: nothing to play with, no fantasy, no escapism, no-one to love.

Pearl had asked to be put down.

No chance of that!

She was unique, a valuable entity in her own right, a test tube creation by the eminent sperm donor, Jack McGilvrae, her professorial namesake, and Dr Christine McVie, her surrogate mother, the conniving cow who birthed her - then treated her worse than a stray puppy.

Pearl set about relaxing Toy: straddling her tummy, lightly stroking her straight red hair, her rosy, freckled cheeks, with the back of her soft hand, massaging her neck and shoulders, lifting her white shift, so that her toy could play with her 34B breasts, rubbing her pussy on her belly.

‘Now what would you like to play, girl?’ she said, unusually for her, but in all fairness, she was about to grant the toy her dying wish.

Pearl felt the strangest sensation, the tingle in her wingly.

Toy smiled nervously, felt like squealing, felt like kissing, felt most peculiar if she was truthful. And she was a truthful, Oban, girl.

Why had Pearl asked her what she wanted to play? She was the toy here, not Pearl.

Girl? Why girl? Why now?

She lisped more than she ever lisped before:

‘Kithes,’ she whispered.


‘Mm, pleath say yeth?’

‘Kisses! Do you love me, Lauren?’

Lauren! Pearl named her toy Lauren! She’d never named her toy before! Named her Lauren!

‘Yeth,’ the toy lisped, ‘I love you very much. You mean everything to me, Pearl… everything!’

‘Where would you like me to kiss you, girl?’

‘On the lipth.’

‘What do you say?’ - to your owner, your child-thing, your alien puppeteer, she reflected sadly. ‘Pleath, kith me on my lipth.’

Pearl kissed Lauren Jane Smart upon her wet pink lips, kissed her deeply, looked down on her.

Lauren looked up at the white-washed cheeks, the smudged cherry red lips, the bloodshot eyes.

‘What isth it Pearl? What ith it? No, pleath!’

She went to squeal, almost did. But for the fluffy pillow, muffling her squealing mouth, she might have. Pearl pressed the pillow down hard into her toy’s face.

Felt her toy’s knees kicking out and upwards, bruising her buttocks.

Felt her toy rip, and slash, her pale cheeks, tear out her rich, chestnut hair by the roots.

Felt her love relax.

Lauren was a fighter, tough toy. Suffocation took minutes. Lauren lost consciousness in ten seconds, stopped breathing in minutes. Her body went limp. Pearl made her decent: closed her arms and legs, her mouth, covered her sad body with the duvet.

The cheese-wire was in the kitchen cupboard, down the corridor, past Beattie’s control desk.

The snow was falling, a snow petal for the fallen, dead-butterfly called Toy.

Pearl showed her teak iris to the door.

The frosted glass door slid wide open.

She padded, barefoot, naked, towards the kitchen...

© Copyright 2019 HJFURL. All rights reserved.

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