Turn 14 of 17

You find yourself oddly confused. Mia always tells you what she wants you to wwar. After all you are her little bimbo doll. You ask her what she wants you to wear and hervsmile grows.

Your hand hovers over the little pink dress, and a funny, floaty confusion settles over you. Why are you picking? Mia always tells you what to wear. The thought arrives fully formed and warm, like it's always lived there, and it fits so comfortably that you don't even flinch at it. You just turn on your heel, sway and all, and look up at her sitting on the end of the bed with your huge doll eyes.

"Um, baby?" you say, fingers twisting in your platinum hair.

"Like — what do you want me to wear? You always pick, don't you? You always tell me." You blink.

"Because I'm your little, um — your little doll, right?"

Mia's smile grows. It spreads slow and wide across her face, the first time all night she's looked genuinely happy, and somehow that is worse than everything else combined.

"There she is," she says softly, rising from the bed. She crosses to the wardrobe and takes down the little pink dress you'd been reaching for — a tiny sparkly bodycon thing that barely qualifies as clothing — and holds it out.

"Arms up."

And you do it. Your arms lift on their own, dainty wrists limp, nails sparkling, and she slides the dress down over your head, over the huge fake tits, over the bought hips, settling it tight and short against your bronze skin. She turns you to the full-length mirror and stands behind you, a full head taller, her hands resting on your shoulders.

"Look how pretty you are," she murmurs into your hair. "And you asked. You asked me to dress you, sweetheart. Remember that." In the mirror, the blonde doll smiles back — a bright, glossy, delighted smile that you didn't decide to make.