Eternally Yours

I cannot move, not even to open my eyes.  I am not frozen, but limp and floppy as a fresh corpse or a girl passed out drunk, but unlike the lucky corpse or unconscious partygoer, I am dreadfully aware of my surroundings. 

I am in a pine box, laid out as if I'm in a coffin, but my hands are to my side as opposed to being crossed over my heart.  My box is not lined with silk or velvet.  My head does not rest upon a little lace pillow.  There is no painting of praying heads on the interior of the lid.  I am not dolled up in my Sunday best.  I am naked, and I am cold.  I am surrounded and partly covered by packing peanuts.  Though I breathe no more, I am not dead.  I am packaged.  My pine box is a crate, not a coffin.

It has been days since I was boxed up and shipped.  I can remember clearly how I came to be this way.  I was very much in love with a young man named Jake.  I wanted nothing more than to marry him and bare his children.  I worshiped him, idolized him.  I gave him my virginity. 

I realize now that he never loved me.  I was young and naïve.  Back then – it seems like forever ago – back then, I thought he could do no wrong, even though sometimes he was mean to me.  He was never abusive, but he was exceedingly arrogant and condescending.  I should have realized that he didn't love me, but only later did I discover the truth, when he broke up with me, when he broke my fragile heart.  And I was broken, so broken that I could never be whole again, so broken that I didn't want to feel anything, so broken that I just wanted to feel numb. 

I decided to kill myself, but I was a coward who was too afraid to suffer to end the suffering, so I went for a midnight stroll in the nearby cemetery instead.

I was sitting on a bench, weeping, my emotions laid bare for the benefit of the full moon.  I didn't hear the man approach, but suddenly he was sitting beside me on the bench.  The man was a curiosity.  Nothing about his physical features was the slightest bit remarkable.  He was a mousy man, early middle-aged, thin, with short blond hair, oversized gold wire-framed glasses, and a crooked smile.  His clothes were forgettable: blue jeans, tennis shoes, and an alligator shirt.  Nothing about him set my mind to worry.  On the contrary, in his presence, I felt an unnatural peace, a calmness beyond understanding, and I overwhelmingly trusted him.  He was so kind -- too kind, in retrospect.  Within seconds, I was convinced that he really cared.  So foolishly, I poured out my heart and soul to him. 

He did not try to talk me out of suicide but rather offered me a potion, which he promised would shove me off this mortal coil in the most painless of manners, ending my pitiful life quickly and without defilement, leaving behind the most beautiful corpse, a corpse that Jake would remember and mourn for eternity. 

The potion was in an elegant, gold gilded, multi-faceted bottle of green glass, which, if larger, would better suit some rare, imported liquor of the candy-flavored variety.  I hesitated but for a moment before I reached out and took it from him. 

I was to follow his special instructions to the letter, or the man insisted that my impending death would be most lengthy and excruciating.  I was to take the potion at the stroke of midnight, on the night of the new moon.  In preparation, I was to bathe and drip dry.  For some reason, it was important that I not use a towel.  I was to remain naked.

I did as I was told.  In my bedroom, I stood before a full-length mirror, hating myself, seeing myself as only ugly, as Jake had seen me.  I got down on my knees, as if to pray.  I said the strange words that the man had instructed me to say, which I had memorized in his presence that night in the graveyard.  He had made me repeat them back to him over and over, saying how important it was that I speak them correctly.

I removed the ornate stopper, kissed the bottle's lip, and turned it up, being sure to down the whole bottle, as per his instructions.  The liquid tasted strange, exotic, both sweet and bitter, like nothing I had ever swallowed before.  It was thick and oily, and I could feel it coating the inside of me as it went down.

Ever so quickly, I collapsed.  I was completely paralyzed, and I thought that I was dying.  Maybe I did die.  My breathing did cease, my heart did stop beating, but my soul never left my body, and the only Grim Reaper who came was the man from the cemetery who had provided the toxic brew.

He gathered me up in his arms and took me to the receiving room of his chateau, where I was laid out on a stone slab.  There, he cut out my heart with a most unusual dagger.  It was silver in color, and it shimmered etheric, as if it were nothing more than the ghost of a knife.  There was no pain as he performed the surgery, nor any blood, nor any physical scar to hint at my true nature.  Yet, he held my heart in his hand briefly before sealing it up in a glass jar filled with a viscous, opalescent yet diaphanous solution.  He set the jar upon a shelf with myriad of the like.  Once I was processed, he put me in the inventory with all the other young women.  There I stayed, for how long I can't imagine.  Other girls were sold.  New girls were acquired.  They were all young and beautiful.  Finally, someone picked me.  Money was exchanged, and now, here I am, packaged inside this crate, just delivered, and waiting.

At last, my new owner arrives.  I feel the crate being dragged over the doorstep and then further inside.  I hear the lid being pried off the crate.  Though my eyes are closed, I can sense the light that suddenly spills in from above.  I feel the shadow of my new owner fall across me as he leans over to inspect his purchase.  I am nervous that he will not like me and send me back.  My heart should be racing, pounding in my chest, but it is simply not there. 

Gently, with soft, warm hands, my new owner wipes away the packing peanuts that obscure my face.  He cries out, "She's exquisite!  Even more perfect than her picture!"  With his thumb and finger, he raises both my eyelids at once.  The flood of sudden brightness leaves me blinded, and he is just a silhouette.  His excitement rushes past his lips as a gasp.  He says, "Oh, her eyes are the right shade of green, so lovely!" as he caresses my cheek.

Slowly, his image starts to come into focus.  I wonder if my pupils are changing size, but if they are, my owner doesn't seem to notice.  He is young, in his mid-twenties, and he is strikingly handsome.  If I could speak, I would tell him so.  His hair is wild, a mess of black curls going out in all directions.  He is pale, almost blue in complexion.  His eyes are big and beautiful, a stunning shade of blue like wetted kyanite glistening in the sun.  His lips are thick and puckered as if in an eternal pout, yet he is smiling with delight.  If I still had a heart, it would flutter.  He is pleased with his purchase.

He retrieves the paper work that came with me and reads aloud, " Congratulations on your purchase of an Eternally Yours Lifelike Pleasure Doll, the most realistic sex doll available on the market.  She is so real that she even maintains a constant temperature of ninety-eight degrees.  All of her orifices are fully functional, and she is always ready to please you.  The Eternally Yours Lifelike Pleasure Doll can never say no to even your darkest fantasies.  With the proper care, your doll can bring you years of sexual satisfaction.  Just apply one drop of the included, specially formulated solution underneath her tongue daily.  Do not run out of this vital solution!  Reorder forms are included.  Failure to follow these simple instructions voids all contracts and warranties." 

Then he reaches in and gently lifts me from the crate, as if he is afraid he will break me.  He is sleek and muscular, with broad shoulders.  He is strong, and my one hundred and twenty pounds do not strain him.  Even if I could move and I tried to run away, he could quickly overpower me, but I would not even try, for he is so very lovely, and it is my privilege to be his doll.  Nestled against him, I can smell him; his bouquet is rich with iron and testosterone.  He smells of lust and power, and his pheromones excite me.     

He carries me to a four-poster bed and lays me upon the black velvet coverlet.  He crosses the room, pausing before an antique dresser.  He digs around in a drawer until he finds what he is looking for, and then he returns to me.

Gently, with one arm, he lifts my upper body up, doubling me over so that my face is resting in my lap.  He spreads out something on the bed where my torso was and then lays me back down onto it.  He pulls the two halves of a corset, which is red satin with black lace overlay and black satin trim, around to meet in the center of my trunk, and he begins to fasten it.  His fingers are clumsy as he works the eyelets, one at a time, from top to bottom.  The corset is of the style that leaves my breasts exposed and comes to a point between my tits.  He lifts up my breasts, one at a time, and adjusts how they lay in the cupping wires so that they are lifted and pert.  The corset has permanent garters, which creates arched shaped trim along my hips.

My leg is dead weight as he lifts it up.  He slides a fishnet stocking onto me, and his hands lightly caress my skin as he does so.  He repeats the act with the other leg and then hooks each stocking to the belt, tightening the adjustable straps to a perfect fit. 

Then he puts thigh-high fetish boots onto me.  They are a tight fit as he squishes my legs into them and zips them up.  They stick to my skin where my flesh pokes through the pattern of the stockings, which are now mostly covered by the boots, leaving only a few inches exposed.  I was never any good at walking in high heels, but I won't be doing any walking anyway, so it's inconsequential.  He thinks the boots are lovely, and that is all that matters anymore.  I exist for one purpose, to please him, to please my owner, and I am glad he finds me so attractive. 

The clothes fit me perfectly, as if my owner already knew my measurements, and I remember that the sorcerer had measured me as if he were a tailor and must have advertised my proportions when I was for sale.

My owner disappears for a moment.  When he returns, in my peripheral vision I can see him set a silver case down on the nightstand.  He opens up the case, and several trays expand themselves.  He picks up a small, round, black compact and opens it.  He rubs the pad around and loads it with the white powder.  He leans over me and closes my eyes.  I can feel the soft pad dancing lightly across my face.  He takes his time, careful to apply the powder smoothly and evenly, gently filling in all the crevices.  His hair tickles me as it dangles down and plays across my visage.  If I could, I would giggle and brush it away. 

He is so close that I can taste his breath, which is so intoxicating that just the scent of his essence arouses me.  I want to pull him to me and kiss him, but I am helpless.  I miss the absence of his breath when he moves away from me to find another product.  I delight again when he returns, hovering over me, making me into the image of his desire.  He is so close that I can feel the heat emanating from him.

Now I can feel a wet brush ring my eyes with liquid liner.  I can feel him painting on a delicate filigree of swirls radiating from the corners of my eyes.  He blows on the make-up to help it dry.  Then I feel him apply layer upon layer of eye shadow.  He opens my eyes again, careful not to smear his work.  He finishes my eyes with an abundance of mascara.  He moves on to my lips, which he outlines with a matte black pencil and then fills in with a lustrous black.  He is meticulous in his work, careful not to lop outside the lines he has laid down for himself.  His movements with the wet, sticky lipstick brush are sensual, as if he were trying to seduce my mouth.  To finish the look, he puts gray blush on the hollows of my cheeks with a wide brush, enhancing my high cheekbones. 

He retrieves a hairbrush.  He gathers up a section of my long black hair and tenderly brushes it, delicately working loose any tangles formed during shipping.  His hands feel so erotic as he grooms my hair, caressing my scalp and the tender flesh behind my ears.  When he is finished, my hair is lying out around me like some shadowy halo, as if I were floating freely in a pool of water.

Now, one finger at a time, he puts long, black fake fingernails onto me.  He affectionately strokes my hand as he does so, massaging the sensitive skin between my fingers and rubbing circles around the concave of my palm.

Lastly, he puts a little of his favorite perfume behind my ear, and I can smell the sweet scent of flowers and musk.

He cocks his head to one side as he scrutinizes me, his gothic masterpiece.  He has spent hours with me now, dressing me up, getting me ready.  What exactly he has in mind, I do not know.

He says, "God, Zilphia, you're so beautiful."

When I was alive, my name was Amanda, but that is irrelevant now.  He has named me Zilphia, so now I am Zilphia, his Zilphia, and my name in life is forgotten and insignificant.  My name is Zilphia, and I like my new name because he chose it for me, and I can no longer imagine myself with any other name.

He leans over me.  With his tongue, he parts my pursed lips and slips his tongue inside as he kisses me.  He taste delicious, and if I could, I would suck on his tongue and twist my own tongue about his in a salacious dance.  He roughly grabs my breasts.  "Unbelievable" he says, when he discovers how real they feel.  He pinches my nipples, which are perpetually hard.  He smacks my breasts with his open palm, just to watch them jiggle.

He undresses.  His body is every bit as handsome as I imagined.  His sexual power emanates from every pore on his body.  His engorged cock is much bigger than Jake's.  I have never seen such a monster before in the flesh, and I wish I could reach out and take it in my hand, feel the girth of it, savor the fleshy heat, stroke the solid, thick meat.  A drop of pre-cum glistens on the head of his glorious manhood.  How I long to lick it off!  But of course, I cannot.  I am just a doll.  Though I am ready for him, I must lie here and wait for him to come to me, when he is ready.  If I were alive, I would surely beg for it!

He gets on the bed and straddles me, with his knees on either side of my shoulders.  He sits down on me, letting me support much of his weight, so that his ass cheeks are resting on my bosoms.  He slips two fingers inside my mouth and pulls down, so that my mouth is open.  Then he removes his fingers and covers them with globs of lube, only to reinsert them back inside my mouth, where he smears the lube around.  The lube taste like strawberry candy, and for a moment, I imagine that he knows that I can taste it.  When my mouth is sufficiently coated, he removes his fingers.  With his hand on his cock, he positions the head at my lips.  He shifts forward, and the tip of his cock slips into my mouth.  His cock taste like lechery, much better than the strawberry candy.  He hadn't spread my lips quite enough, and he opens my mouth now with his cock as he slides in inch-by-inch, deeper and deeper.  If I still had a gag reflex, I would be choking, for I wouldn't be able to breathe from the suffocating thickness of his cock, but I cannot gag, and he pushes his cock deep into my throat until his balls, heavy with seed, rest on my chin. 

He uses me to please himself as he slowly fucks my face.  His cock is heavy and the weight of it presses down against my lower lip and tongue as he rocks it in and out of my mouth, enjoying every stroke.  His face is contorted into bliss.  He is moaning and crying out in pleasure with breaths that are quick and short.  I know it will not take long for him to cum.  I anticipate the taste of him, the taste of his essence condensed into a squirt of hot fluid.  My needs are inconsequential, as I am just a doll, but what I need more than anything at this moment is to taste his seed, and as if he could read my mind, he gives me what I want.  He is violently fucking my face, with his balls slapping against my chin, when his cock swells fit to burst, the head throbs, and with a loud groan, he releases his fiery seed in powerful, pulsing gushes, deep in the back of my throat.  I cannot swallow, so his seed slowly dribbles down my throat.  The delicious taste of his cum hangs there, and the scent permeates my olfaction. 

I wish he would let his cock lie there with its weight on my tongue forever, but he withdraws, and my mouth suddenly feels so empty, so useless.  He dismounts me.  My lipstick is a mess, smeared by his cock fucking my face.  He leaves me that way, with my lipstick in ruins and my mouth agape.

He is not done with me.  He is on his knees.  He is sweating, and the sweat glistens on his body.  He grabs me by my ankles and spreads my legs until they are wide apart.  He leans in close to inspect the quality workmanship between my legs. 

My pussy is quite beautiful.  The lips are symmetrical.  My clit is perpetually flushed with blood.  My pubic hair has been groomed; much of it was plucked out.  The little triangle that remains is neatly trimmed and brushed.  He leans in closer and gives my pussy a little sniff.  He likes what he smells, so he inhales again, this time deeply, enjoying my perfume. 

"Oh God, it smells so real!" he exclaims.

The smell of me excites him again, and his cock is hard.  He sticks his tongue out, leans in, and licks my clit.  His tongue feels heavenly and sends quivers of delight up and down my body.  If I could cry out with ecstasy, I would.  I would grab his head, shove his face into my crotch, and buck my hips, but I cannot.  I can only lie here, still and lifeless, and he has no idea that I am even trapped inside.  When he is satisfied with sampling the taste, he pulls away, and I am left desperately unsatisfied and wanting more. 

He grabs the tube and covers his two fingers with lube.  He slides them inside my pussy and twists, smearing the goo all over my insides.  He smears even more lube onto his cockhead.  Now that I am prepared for penetration, he is eager to try out my second hole.  He picks up my legs one at a time and lays them both over the same shoulder.  He lays his cockhead against my pussy hole.  I want to open up for him like a budding flower, to receive him willingly deep inside, but I cannot.  He pushes, splitting me open with his cockhead as he slowly slides in.  His cock feels wonderful inside me.  I can feel every vein and ripple of his manhood with the sensitive flesh inside my pussy. 

He cries out, "Oh God, Zilphia, you're so fucking tight!"

His cock is large, and I silently pray that I am deep enough to accommodate his length.  The thought of disappointing him in any way is more than I can endure.  Inch-by-inch he pushes into me, and I am so grateful that he is balls deep when he bottoms out inside me.  As he fucks me, I can feel his balls slapping against my asshole.  They are lighter than before, but far from empty.

His thrusts are deliberate at first, with his arms wrapped around my legs holding me into place.  Then his pace quickens, working towards a violent crescendo.  He is grunting like a rutting animal.  He cries out, "Fuck me, Zilphia, fuck me!" 

I wish I could fuck him.  I wish I could meet his thrusts with my own gyrations and intensify his pleasure.  I wish I could use my pussy muscles to squeeze down on him and massage his cock, but all I can do is lay there passively and be used. 

He pauses for a moment to put one of my legs over his other shoulder.  Then he lays down on me, doubling me over, pressing all his weight onto me.  His face is close to mine now, and he is looking into my eyes, deeply, lovingly, as if he knows I am inside.  I wish I could throw my arms around him, pull him close to me, and kiss him.  My mouth is still hanging agape from when he fucked it earlier.  Without warning, he spits into my mouth, and like his seed had done earlier, it slowly runs down my gullet.

As his pace quickens, and his face contorts, I know his climax is building.  I want to cry out for my mother or cry out for God, but I am mute.  I want to cry out my owner's name, but even if I could speak, I don't know what his name is.  If I could breathe, I would be panting heavily, gasping for air.

His thrusts are fierce and violent now.  His sweat rains down onto me.  He is so deep inside me that his cumhole is nestled just inside the slit of my cervix when his cockhead throbs and he squirts, releasing his load, filling me up with cum. 

Motionless and without a sound, I climax with him, but he is none the wiser.  I feel release wash over my body as I am baptized in his sweat and semen.  He feels so good filling me up, and I realize too late what a horrible lover Jake was, and how my sorrow for his loss was wasted.

My owner climbs off me, and my legs flop into a relaxed position.  He lies on his side, tucks my hair behind my ear and whispers, "I'm not done with you yet, Zilphia."  As he speaks, his lips are so close to my ear that it tickles the lobe.  If I were alive, my ear would flush bright red and my pussy would contract with anticipation.

He rolls me over onto my belly.  I am at the edge of the bed, and my arm dangles off the side.  I feel him shifting around beside me.  Then he lifts me up and lays me in the center of the bed, face down, with my face buried in the covers, and two stacked, fluffy pillows beneath my hips, so that my ass is up in the air on display.  He positions my arms so that my hands are palm down on the bed beside my face.  He turns my head to the side and brushes my hair out of my face, so that I can see him out of the corner of my eye. 

He straddles my legs.  With both hands, he caresses my ass cheeks.  Without warning, he spanks me.  In my mind, I cry out, mostly with shock, as it didn't hurt that badly.  He fondles my ass cheeks gently again, rubbing them in a circular motion.  This time when he spanks me, he spanks me hard, and his hand grazes my pussy with a stinging slap. 

He lays his tongue at the bottom of my backbone and licks all the way up to my nape and then back down again, sending shivers up and down my spine.  The air is cool on my flesh were he has licked me.  With both hands, he spreads my ass cheeks apart, exposing my asshole to his curious eyes.  I feel so vulnerable; however, I can do nothing but endure his examination.  He takes a deep breath and inhales my aroma.  Then he lays his tongue on my sensitive asshole and flicks it, sending delectation throughout my entire body.  This ass tonguing feels so good, like nothing I have ever imagined before.  I want to moan my approval, but I cannot.  His tongue penetrates my anus, and I feel like my eyes could roll right out of my head.  He removes his tongue and slips both thumbs into my tight little asshole.  He gently pulls his thumbs apart, opening up my bottom.  He spits into my asshole, not once or twice, but three times, until I can feel his hot saliva dripping out of me.

Then his cockhead is there, pressing against me.  With one hand, he grabs my hip and holds me steady.  He pushes his cock inside me, opening me up as he takes my anal virginity.  The pain is exquisite.  I have never felt so utterly penetrated, so completely submissive to his whims.

He grunts as he slowly fills up my bottom with cock.  When he is finally in all the way, he lets his body rest flat against mine, his chest pressed against my back, his hands overtop of mine, holding them.  I am pinned down.  He just lies there for a moment, with my asshole spread open around his shaft, while he fights the urge to prematurely ejaculate.  His breath is fast and heavy in my ear, and he is trembling.

Slowly he starts to fuck my asshole, sliding his thick meat in and out of me.  The pleasure is unlike anything I've ever felt, and the discomfort is almost more than I can bear.  I wish I could reach down and masturbate myself, to distract myself from the hurting and focus on the delight, but I cannot.  I must suffer and endure. 

I focus on his gratification instead and enjoy being used.  I am content to be skewered on his cock.  He is pounding me hard with fast and deep strokes.  The entire bed is shaking to his rhythm.  He has stretched my asshole out to fit his cock, and it will never be the same again, which is okay, as this, satisfying my owner, is its sole function.

To my surprise, he reaches around and rubs my clitoris, as if he knows I am inside his doll, and the sensation is almost too intense. 

With hot breath, he whispers into my ear, "God, Zilphia, I love to fuck your tight little ass!"

His fingers rub my pussy hard and fast.  Luscious pleasure rises within me.  Without movement or sound, I am cumming.  I feel so much like I belong to him, like I belong there beneath him, like I never knew any other life.  He is so deep inside me, so much a part of me.  As if we are in accord, as if we are one, with a guttural groan, he cums too, and I feel his hot seed fill up my bottom.  The fluid eases the tension, and as he continues to slowly stroke out the last drops of his semen, the pain is gone and there is only satiation.

He collapses, exhausted, letting all of his body weight rest on me, with his cock still lying inside me, finally spent.  He is pleased, and because he is pleased, I am pleased.  I really have no other point for existing, so it is important that I serve my purpose well.

He rolls off me and rolls me onto my back.  He says, "Oh goodness, I've made a mess of you."  He disappears for a few minutes and returns with a warm, wet washcloth, which he uses to clean up the ruined makeup off my face, until I am pretty again.  Then he puts a little drop of the special oil underneath my tongue, and kisses me lightly on the lips.

He lies down next to me and flips off the lamp.  He rolls me onto my side and spoons me.  He nuzzles my hair with his nose, and I can feel his steady breath on the back of my head.  In the darkness, he talks to me for hours, as if I were alive, as if I were his girlfriend.  His voice is not much more than a whisper as he tells me all about himself.  He tells me about his job driving a forklift at a warehouse, about how sad and alone he felt when his mother recently passed away from breast cancer, about the first time his father ever hit him, about how relieved he was when his father died, and about how guilty that relief made him feel.  With all his weaknesses laid bare before me, he buries his face in my hair and weeps.  One thing is certain; I am an excellent listener, the very best.  I never interrupt him, and I do not judge. 

He whispers, "Zilphia, I love you."  All this love and affection fills up the empty hole where once there was my heart, and even though I still do not know his name, I love him, too. 

In the wee hours of the night, he finally drifts off to sleep beside me, holding me.  I enjoy the feeling of his body being pressed up against me and the weight of his arm draped across my side.  I can no longer sleep, so I pass the time by listening to him breathe. 

This routine continues for months, and surprisingly enough, I am truly happy.  He buys me new clothes every paycheck.  He has taken me in every way imaginable.  There is hardly an inch of me that hasn't been showered in his cum.  When I get too sticky, he lays me in the bathtub, bathes me, and washes my hair.  We are happy together.  If I were a living girl, by now we'd surely be engaged.

One Friday, everything changes. 

He is whistling when he comes home from work.  I have never heard him whistle before.  He doesn't immediately come into the bedroom to be with me, like he usually does.  Instead, I can hear that he is taking a shower.

Afterwards, he comes into the bedroom, dripping wet and naked.  He is beaming a smile, and I wonder what odd pleasures he has dreamed up for us tonight.  I am so excited.  I can't wait for him to climb into bed with me.

But he doesn't.

He looks at me, and his smile fades away.  He says, "Zilphia, what am I going to do with you?  I can't let the real Zilphia find out I have a fuck doll that looks just like her.  She'll dump me in a heartbeat."

He sits down on the bed beside me and looks at me with pity.  He says, "I guess I shouldn't have bought you, but I didn't think the real Zilphia would ever go out with me.  You see, we've worked together for years, and I've always loved her, but I was too shy to tell her, and she never even gave me a second glance.  I didn't think it was possible that she actually liked me.  But I guess talking to you gave me the courage to ask her out.  I still can't believe she said yes!"

The real Zilphia?  I thought that I was the real Zilphia.  I thought that I was the object of his desire, but I am just a doppelganger, a replica of someone he wanted but thought he could never have, a poor substitute for the real thing.  He never loved me.

My heart breaks.  If I could weep, I would, but I cannot.

He rolls me up in a black silk sheet, as if it is a shroud.  He picks me up and hides me away under the bed.  It is cold, dark, and musty down here, a far worse place than the box in which I arrived.

Soon after, he leaves.  The dust bunnies make poor companions, and I feel so utterly alone.  His betrayal ices my heart, wherever it may be. 

Later that night, he returns, but he is not alone.  The real Zilphia is with him, and they are sloppy drunk.  They fuck in my bed!  Directly above me, the mattress bounces up and down, squishing my nose.  

I am worthless, a piece of garbage, used and disposed of.  I wish she would go away.  I wish she would break his heart the way he has broken mine, so that he will love me again.  That night, he forgets me.  He doesn't think about me at all, even though he calls out my name, "Zilphia!  Oh, Zilphia," he is not thinking of me. 

Saturday morning, the other Zilphia does not go home.  She and my owner stay in bed and make love all day.  He is so fucking happy, as is she, and I hate them both.  That evening, he takes her out to dinner.  They get drunk again and come back home to make love all night.  He does not even poke his head under the bed to check on me.

At the stroke of midnight, something happens.  I am lying there in my shroud, listening to them fuck, when my misery blinks out a single tear. 

The oil!  He has forgotten all about it, and I can move.  I roll out from under the bed, unrolling myself from my shroud as I do so.  I stand up.  They are so into each other that they do not even notice me lurking in the shadows.  I watch them fuck.  She is riding his cock with wonton abandon, with a look of sheer delight upon her face.  I watch her do all the things to him I could only fantasize about.

Like a prowling cat, I stalk towards them until I am behind Zilphia.  She pleases him better than me.  The green in my eyes is aglow as the jealousy overtakes me. 

Enraged, I scream, "He is mine!"  I reach my hand across her head and sink my fingers into her eyes.  They both scream.  Blood trickles down her face as she cries tears of blood.  With my fingers secure in her eye sockets, I rip her from him with tremendous force, slamming her into the wall and breaking her neck.  She crumples up like a rag doll, twisted up in the floor, twitching. 

A look of utter fear contorts my owner's face when he recognizes me.  He says, "Zilphia?  This can't be."  He tries to get up off the bed, but I push him back down.  I mount him as if to ride him.

The hole in my chest where my heart once was feels so empty that it aches.  I am no longer his doll.  Now, I am just a dead girl, embalmed by sorcery, who has come back to life a hungry zombie, and only one thing will fill my hollow void. 

As I plunge my hand into his flesh, up under his ribcage to his heart, his shrieks sound like the woeful moan of a mother birthing a breech baby.  His insides feel hot and vile like fresh road kill.  Blood and gore spill forth as I rip out his still beating heart with my hand. 

I hold it up before me, and its sweet, delicious, metallic aroma fills my nostrils.  I lick my lips as I bring the red muscle up to my mouth and chomp down, sinking my teeth into the tough meat.  This, the first taste of food I have had in ages, this forbidden fruit, is the most splendid delicacy to ever pass across my pallet.  As I sate my hunger, the glistening blood pours down my chin and showers down onto my owner, as the last light of his pitiful life slips from him, leaving him vacant and glassy eyed.

I hear a tapping noise.  Looking sideways to see, I realize I am not alone.  The sorcerer is there.  He says, "'Tis a pity his contract has expired so soon."  The tapping noise is his fingers rapping upon the jar that contains my heart.  He says, "As for you, it's still binding."  He reaches into the jar, takes out my heart, and squeezes it.  I drop the remains of my owner's heart with a wet thud onto his belly, and then I collapse upon him.

He says, "In the event your owner breaks his contract, your title reverts back to me.  Don't worry.  You won't be stuck in inventory long.  Once I get you cleaned up, I think I have the perfect buyer.  He saw your picture shortly after you were sold and really wanted to buy you.  Seems he's real tore up over his ex-girlfriend going missing, and you look just like her.  You see, he broke up with her, but it turns out he really loved her, one of those don't-know-what-you-got-till-it's-gone kind of deals.  He's a real nice fella, name of Jake."