The Porcelain Doll

Another Wonder of The World

The Doll pulled John's hands closer and crossed them upon his exposed chest, yanking the other man even closer in proximity as his palms settled flat upon the thin and almost ridged body. From there the Doll released his wrists, letting John's hands smooth against his body, letting the tutor crease his fingers underneath the fabric and feel the definition of his shoulders, the divots in his neck, the thinness of his waist. John wasn't sure what had come over him, what sense of exploration he had suddenly become overcome with. He had never taken much interest in another man's body before, and yet he felt as though his fingertips had a mind of their own, trying to map out this man's shape so as to form a clearer picture in his mind. He wanted to touch, he wanted to feel, he wanted to squeeze the bones together to see just how deeply his nails could dig into the soft and vulnerable skin that was his for the taking. And with each touch he began to feel just as excited, as if he was sparking up an electric current with the rapidly moving pressure he applied upon the man's nervous system. In some places the Doll's skin twitched, as if his muscles were contracting in surprise to feel foreign fingers caress so carelessly. The farther John's hands dared to go the closer the Doll began to draw, until finally John's wrists became tangled in the cord of the robe, now with their chests pressed nearly against each other. He would have felt breath if there was not a mask in the way, though by now his own mouth was exhaling directly upon the shoulder of his acquaintance, the silk robe still dangling loosely and coming in between his parted lips and the skin he suddenly longed to kiss. So soft it was upon his fingers, just how delightful might it be under his lips? John could feel hands upon his own waist, hands which were pressing their bodies together and swaying the two of them gently against each other, as if to coordinate a strange and intimate dance before they fell together into the bed which was made for this occasion. John shivered to feel his touch returned, and suddenly he despised the clothes he was wearing upon his back, the only nice suit he had suddenly felt so inopportune for this occasion! He wanted this man to feel him as well; he wanted to allow the Porcelain Doll free range of his own body. Before he could allow himself to shed his layers, however, John pushed his fingers underneath his partner's robe, shedding the fabric from his shoulders so that it might fall down upon the bends in his elbow, secured there and cloaking his waist now in nothing more than shadows. The fabric hung loosely in the air, caught and twisted upon the man's limbs while John lunged for his first taste, parting his lips and coming down hard upon the Doll's exposed shoulder blade. He pressed his chin into the Doll's chest, forcing his forehead into the crook of the man's neck as his lips scraped and gasped across the array of vulnerable skin, his for the taking now, his to enjoy. There was something terribly exciting about this opportunity, as if some part of his mind knew that it was much more momentous than he could ever imagine. He had never been given full permission before, even in his single fling all those years ago he had been a polite gentleman, too afraid to overstep his boundaries. Though tonight he had been given permission, tonight he had bought his pass. Nothing could scare the Porcelain Doll, nothing could surprise him anymore. And so what was John to do, except enjoy? How could he ignore any lingering wish, any strange impulse? He had been gifted this opportunity and he felt as if he ought to take advantage of it in any way possible. This meant a touch, a kiss, a push. He was allowed, he was encouraged. As John's lips pushed against the Porcelain Doll's ribs, his tongue separating the two halves of his chest, John pulled his own jacket off of his shoulders in a rather uncoordinated attempt. Anxiously he did away with his vest, taking now to the buttons in his shirt while the doll began to chuckle over top of him, as if he was genuinely impressed by the exhilaration which was displayed. John was yanking and pulling, twisting his arms about to try to get as much fabric off of his skin as he could. With every touch he bestowed upon his partner he wanted another in return, he wanted to feel hands in the exact same patterns he drew.
"Don't be so aggressive, Mr. Watson. I will handle that." whispered the Doll, allowing John's hands to fall away as his own white fingers began to sail down the buttons of his shirt, practiced in the art of undressing other men. John shivered to feel the air against his skin, though to feel those fingertips suddenly immobilized him for the better. His eyes darkened, his grip steadied across his companion now only for the luxury of staying upright. He was overtaken by passion he had never expected; suddenly an urgent need arose within his body, an utmost desire that could not be stifled except by absolute cooperation. The Doll must have expected such a reaction, for before John could even express his sudden incapacitation he felt himself falling backwards, surprised to feel his body caught upon the cushion of a mattress instead of the hard carpeted floor above which he had stood.
"Lie back, Mr. Watson." The doll whispered, that mask suddenly impeding upon John's direct view of the ceiling. He still could not see the eyes and yet he felt the glare, spinning upon his face all the while his brain seemed to be rocking around within his skull, unable and unwilling to process anything which was happening. He felt drunk without having overindulged, he felt high without ever having allowed a drug into his system. He felt finger prints, finger prints all over his body! He felt exposed, delightfully so, and when he looked down upon himself he saw his skin, only his skin. He saw his bare feet, his bare legs, draped now in the black fabric that was still able to cling to the Doll's waist. And suddenly he felt pressure, weight applied to his waist. He felt the squeeze of bare legs, the tangle of limbs. He craned his neck to see the white, emotionless face looking down upon him and yet John knew there must have been more emotion hidden away. There was a human being above him, a human being who had the capability to produce just as fierce emotions. He could not be mimicking the expression upon his mask, someone behind that carefully crafted stone must have their lips parted, their eyes open, their forehead perspiring. He must feel it, he must like it. How could he feel nothing towards the squirming man beneath him, now with John's own mouth agape, his own fingers clutching at the thighs which now trapped him, his own fingernails digging into the white skin and tearing it like a thin sheet of tissue paper. John could not imagine that his feelings were lone; he could not imagine that his bubbling passion within his own body was not coupled by the one which now crushed him.
"Are you overwhelmed yet, Mr. Watson?" the voice asked, the face bobbing in and out of John's direct line of vision as the man trembled to steady himself upon the blankets. "Are you afraid?"
"Yes." John breathed, gasping upon his words as he kept them at a manageable octave, trying not to shout, trying not to act upon each one of the impulses which was flaring within his blood. Suddenly he flung his arms towards the neck of his oppressor, wrapping his fingers together and bringing the body closer, gasping for breath as he was shaken back and forth with the perfected rhythm of the Porcelain Doll. A miracle worker, was that not how he was described? A miracle worker. A miracle in itself. Another wonder of the world.