Porcelain Doll Novels & Stories

He didn't think much about it, as long as she liked him. Glancing at the clay doll, Christiano could not believe his ears. He asked uncertainly, "Are you sure you want this?" "Well, don't you think the baby is very cute?" "Is it cute?" Why didn't he feel it at all? However, as long as Adeline liked it! The host looked down and said, "This doll is an amulet from ancient times. It has a long history. The starting price is 120,000!" Christiano raised his card. "One hundred and fifty thousand!"

Among the broken pieces and toppled figurines, two dolls stood upright, untouched, staring at me with their glassy, painted eyes. My breath hitched as I took a step closer, unable to tear my gaze away. It felt like my lungs had seized up, the room suddenly too small, too suffocating. I recognized them instantly. The first doll wore a bright red jacket, a tiny top hat perched at a jaunty angle on its head. In its small porcelain hand, it held a miniature whip—clearly a lion tamer. The second doll was equally striking, dressed in a striped leotard with exaggerated muscles stitched into its arms, like a cartoonish depiction of a circus strongwoman.

"Yeah, but it's dead weight, you'll see. Plus, Claire is only five foot. You're a little taller." "Well, they definitely put a substantial amount of that weight into her boobs. Jeez, Claire! No need for a bra, huh Ms. Perky?" Darren did not answer, which gave me the feeling I'd crossed some kind of line. I decided not to joke with Claire anymore and just help the poor guy fix his sex doll. He lifted her under the shoulders while I took her ankles, and together we lifted her out of the bag and onto the table. I was impressed with the feel of her. I hadn't expected her skin to be so soft. On a real person's ankles, you'd feel different amounts of give for skin and for tendons and muscle or fat

“No. More than studying. Rebuilding. Echo Florence was a mimic lab. Not content with clones—they wanted reconstructions. Perfect ones. Down to memory, down to cadence, down to the way you breathe between words.” Colton’s jaw worked, the muscle there rigid. “This isn’t surveillance. It’s a breeding program.” In the room’s center, atop a pedestal, sat a glass case. Inside, resting on white silk like a relic, was a porcelain doll. Savannah’s breath caught. The doll’s face was hers—hers as a six-year-old. Delicate brushstrokes captured the faint arch of her brows, the exact shade of her eyes, even the tiny scar above her left temple from the summer she fell from t

I want to savor it. I reach beside me and pull him closer—my doll, my perfect boy. He’s lifelike, soft silicone skin, dark hair, full lips parted just enough. I spent months choosing him: broad shoulders, tight abs, that gorgeous ass I can’t get enough of. I position him between my legs, facing me, his molded cock resting against my inner thigh like he’s already hard for me.

Now, standing in this elevator, facing Damien’s cold stare, a rage I’d never felt before burned in my chest. He walked toward us slowly. Each step was a claim of ownership. "A perfect piece of porcelain," his voice was a low hiss. "Such a shame it breaks so easily." He stopped in front of me. He reached out to touch my face. "But it's still my porcelain to break."

She stares wide-eyed at the Queen who just emerged from the inner chamber. Yuelan’s notes the guilty look on her servant’s face and decides to mess with her. She heard what the servant said about the doll. Not necessarily true. The doll is just someone she is using to distract herself from her horrid marriage, but she can’t have her personal servant spewing nonsenses. The girl needs to learn to keep her mouth shut. “Who am I obsessed with?” She questions in a calm tone like she is having a conversation about the weather with servant. While she waits for the servant to answer her question, she strides to set table and takes a sit. Suddenly she feels very farmish.

He'd given her a necklace that cost a few hundred dollars, money he'd saved for a long time. She'd held that simple piece of jewelry and cried like a fool who'd never seen anything so beautiful. He had been so proud then, thinking he was the prince saving Cinderella. A joke. It was all a fucking joke. She was the Thorne Principessa. She'd probably seen more diamonds than he'd seen rocks. Rocco remembered the tattoo, a tangle of black thorns and a blood-red rose between her shoulder blades, wild and dangerous. He used to kiss it every time they made love.

Because it’s easier than admitting she’s been thinking about him for far too long already. Hours later, the shower steam has faded, and Sahara stands before the full-length mirror in her bedroom. She wears a pink sweetheart cocktail dress, a gift from her aunt that she had been saving for a special occasion. The fabric hugs her curves with an insistence that can’t be ignored. The neckline dips low, showcasing the swell of her breasts, pushing them up until they look ready to spill out. The waist nips in tight before flaring over her hips, accentuating the hourglass figure she used to hide under baggy jeans and oversized hoodies.

My husband, Calvin Ziegler, had recently acquired an odd fetish. Three months ago, he brought home a silicone doll. It was a life-sized thing with chestnut-colored curls, full pink lips, and a face that could have belonged to a femme fatale. He told me the doll was a prize from a company team-building raffle. Supposedly, it was made for stress relief. "It's all the rage these days for those who are overwhelmed by stress," he said. "You hug it while sleeping for decompression."