Ally Doll Novels & Stories

Olivia demanded taking the doll from Alice's hand, Alice tapping her small fingers on her chin thinking and glancing at the doll, "I can't think of any name, I don't know any good girlish name.” Alice angrily stomping her foot on the floor "Okay okay, don't worry, Mars gave you this doll and I will give her a name, So she will become a mutual gift of your BFFs!"...Olivia soothe her anger, kids are so pure that can be moulded anyways she thought looking at Alice glittering eyes with that idea.

Pelin stammers, “I didn’t touch your things—” “Were you supposed to touch my things before?” Dolly snaps back. Pelin hesitates, then mutters, “I just saw the designs you made out of you and Dolynara’s baby things.” She winks, sly. Dolly freezes, then sputters, “What—what did you just say? When did I—what?” Laughter ripples through the circle, weak but real. Even Dolynara can’t hide her small, stunned smile, though her gaze lingers on Dolly longer than the joke deserves.

“Poor Tino. Maybe he just wanted to play with your tower.” “Nooo, Papa, he’s a menace. That’s what Mama says. A menace kitty! But I built it again, and this time it’s even better. It has a secret hideout for Rica-dolly!” Rica-dolly was her Barbie doll, which she had named in honor of me. It had been incredibly hard to pretend I wasn’t dying laughing at the name. “Rica-dolly has a hideout now? That sounds fancy. What’s inside?” “Um, snacks! Rica-dolly says she needs snacks for her adventures. I put crackers and a juice box in there, but not cookies ’cause Mama says no crumbs in the living room. But I bet YOU would let me have cookies, right, Papa?”

And then I found the word, bold and clear, right there in the title. Doll. I looked up at him. He was watching me, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Something that looked like satisfaction. “I want you to be my Doll,” he said. Mia made a sound behind me, a sharp intake of breath, but I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t. I was standing in my doorway, holding a contract that said I was his, and the man who’d been following me for two weeks was waiting for me to sign it.

We are sweating even though the AC is on. He nuzzled on my shoulder and said seductively," My doll!! you are like a drug for me. what are you doing with me? huh!! I can't resist myself around you! You are making me lose my sanity!! Saying that he rested his one hand on my belly and I felt shivered. His every touch always makes my whole system filled with fear.

15 Momma’s told me once or twice—and sometimes I remember—about the doll I had when I was really little. Samelsa. A name I made up myself. Mom says I wouldn’t stand for it when anyone dared mishear me and try to call her ‘Sam’. “Sam is a girl-name for hookers and strippers. Maybe waitresses,” she says. “I think you knew that, too. Even then. If people dared call your doll ‘Sam’ you’d give them the blackest evil eye. That look on your face! It was like a witchy old woman who’d just caught her neighbor’s dog peeing on her front porch.”

"Good night, doll." The familiar nickname made her smile. "Good night, Leaf." This time, neither of them moved away. And as the silence settled around them once more, Sahara found herself hoping that maybe—just maybe—this was what peace felt like.

"Quite the appetite. Just be careful not to play too rough, counselor. Some dolls break easier than they look." Humiliation and anger choked me. He was shaming me in the cruelest way possible. Julian sensed it. His hand found mine. He laced his fingers through mine. "Mr. Costello." His voice was still calm, but it held absolute power. "Some games, I prefer to make the rules myself." Damien's smile vanished. "We'll have plenty of time for games," Julian continued, looking Damien dead in the eye. "And you... Mr. Costello. Your time is up."

“No, no, no—” She wanted to tear the bond out of her own skin. She wanted to rip the mark from her throat. She wanted to be anywhere but here, dangling like a broken marionette, humiliated and ruined and still somehow burning inside. Burning in a way that didn’t feel like life, didn’t feel like power. Burning like a curse that refused to go quiet. The Devil’s broken doll. A thing posed and left, meant to be looked at, meant to be remembered.