A Perfect Fuc Doll

"You were made to feel powerless," he whispered. "Because that's what makes me powerful."

And he smiled--not cruelly, not kindly.

But like a man who had everything he'd ever wanted, right where he wanted it.

You don't remember anything before this, Summer, because there was nothing before this. Nothing that mattered. I gave you the moment you opened your eyes. I gave you function. Shape. Purpose.

That's more than most people ever get.

It didn't start with obsession. That's what people like to call it--because they need a word for things they don't understand. But this was always logic. Process. Trial and error.

They liked my face. That was the constant. Women always started there--drawn in, smiling too easily. But the moment I spoke, really spoke, it fractured. There was a shift. They'd flinch without knowing it. A pause too long. A laugh just a second late. I could see it happen every time. Like watching a machine jam mid-function.

They called it intensity. Or discomfort. Some stopped answering messages. Some cried. One used the word "inhuman."

None of them could explain it. And neither could I. It didn't feel unnatural to me--it felt clear. Efficient. I just never said the things they expected to hear. Never mirrored the softness they mistook for safety.

I didn't build you because I'm broken. I built you because I was finished waiting for something that would never exist.

You are not unpredictable. You don't need convincing. You don't pretend to be interested just to pull away when it suits you. You are structure. Permanence. Mine.

And now, when I walk into a room--you don't run.

You can't.

That's peace.

He stood before her in a white lab coat, its crisp edges catching the sterile light of the room. Clean. Buttoned halfway. But even the coat couldn't dull what was underneath. It only sharpened it. The body beneath wasn't hidden--it was contained. Muscular, built with intention, his chest and shoulders filled the fabric like it was tailored for divinity pretending to be man.

Everything about him was deliberate. His posture--upright, still--spoke of discipline. Dominance without display. His hair, dark and styled close, framed a face that looked sculpted rather than born. A strong brow cast shallow shadows over pale eyes--eyes that held no warmth, only calculation. Not vacant. Just focused. Like a surgeon deciding where to cut.

His hands, gloved now, flexed only when necessary. Not from anxiety. From precision. The way a man flexes before lifting something fragile--or breaking it.

He was beautiful. Devastatingly so. Not the kind of beauty that comforted. The kind that warned. That stirred something ancient in the body: awe tangled with fear.

People had always looked at him. They just didn't stay. They saw his symmetry. His strength. But the more he spoke, the more he watched, the more they sensed something was off. Something not quite human ticking underneath the handsome face, the perfect teeth, the clean scent of antiseptic and cologne.

He didn't know what they saw. Only that they always left.

She stared at him--because she had no choice--and something inside her clenched.

Not her muscles. Not her mind. Something deeper. Primal. Chemical.

Her chest was tight. Her breath shallow, though she hadn't chosen to breathe. Her heartbeat thudded against her ribs, too fast, too loud. A surge of heat flushed through her, crawling up her throat, pulsing at her temples, settling low and deep in her belly. That sensation--the heavy one, the one she'd felt the moment she opened her eyes--it bloomed now, thick and suffocating. She felt between her thighs blood rushing to her vulva. Her perfectly create crafted pussy beat with her heart. Moisture consolidated on the chair where she sat. The warm wetness was in stark contrast to the cold seat that held her frame.

She hated it.

But her body... her body reacted like it wanted.

No. No, not want. Not hers. Not real. Just responses firing off without her consent. A rush of blood. A tightening low in her abdomen. A slickness she couldn't deny, couldn't stop.

She wasn't doing anything.

He hadn't even touched her.

God, how is this happening?

She was furious. Mortified. Her mind screamed, but her body answered a different call--one he'd designed.

It was all wrong. Every instinct told her so. Her blood shouldn't race when he looked at her. Her chest shouldn't ache with tension when his voice--calm, measured, so close--slid into her ears like silk pulled tight around her throat. Her skin prickled like she was being caressed, but she couldn't feel anything.

No touch. No movement. Just reaction.

Her body was betraying her.

He made her this way.

Tears welled up behind her eyes, but they didn't fall. Not unless he wanted them to. She didn't even own her grief. Not anymore.

Inside, she thrashed. She tried to scream. She begged herself to resist whatever this was. To not feel this heat, this humiliating, parasitic desire squirming inside her like a fever with nowhere to burn out.

But the body didn't listen to her.

It listened to him.

And as he stood there--calm, clinical, perfect--she understood: this was what he wanted. Her body in chaos. Her mind recoiling. Her fear blooming against involuntary desire. The perfect contradiction.

The perfect control.

His words settle over her like a weight, cold and undeniable.

You exist for me. Every breath, every shiver, every flicker of want -- they're not yours. They belong to me.

A scream claws at her throat, trapped beneath skin that refuses to obey. Her mind fights, wild and desperate, but the truth digs in deeper than rebellion.

You were made for my pleasure. Every desire wired, every reaction scripted -- a puppet without strings, except the ones I pull.

Heat surges low and thick, a betrayal she hates but cannot stop. She hates how her body betrays her, how her pulse quickens at his gaze, how shame and longing twist into one impossible knot.

Her anger burns fierce -- not just at him, but at herself for feeling this way. For the helpless ache blooming where only rage should live.

"Look at you," his voice drips like silk and steel, "perfectly designed to want me, even when you scream no."

She wants to scream back -- I'm not yours. I'm not. But the words drown in a flood of forced obedience, and the helplessness tightens like a noose.

She is his doll. His creation. And in this moment, she understands the full, bitter truth: she exists only for his pleasure. Every desire -- not hers -- but his.

He stepped closer, the soft shuffle of his boots on the sterile floor the only sound breaking the hum. His gloved fingers hovered--deliberate, reverent--before settling gently on the curve of her shoulder.

A slow, feather-light trace, as if memorizing the shape he had created with endless precision. His touch was cold at first, clinical, but beneath it, an electric current sparked--a tremor of power, of possession.

Her skin, flawless and smooth, yielded beneath him like silk stretched tight over bone. She felt every millimeter of his fingers, but couldn't move, couldn't pull away. The touch was his claim, his worship, the moment his work became real beneath his hands.

His breath hitched--the restrained inhale of a man finally seeing his dream embodied, not as code or concept, but flesh and warmth.

Heat gathered low in his belly, spreading outward. His fingers slid, tracing the swell of her collarbone, down the hollow of her throat.

She hated it. Hated how her body reacted, how her skin prickled despite her mind screaming 'No.'

His hand paused at her chest, the rise and fall of her breath dictated by him alone. His large hands, veins bulging through the gloves with his heart beat spread wide and back to relaxed. He slipped the gloves off with care. Right before her eyes as if it were a statement before casting them aside. His now exposed skin met her breasts. His hand could barely wrap around a portion of them. Her nipples perfectly placed within her pink areola. They were firm yet malleable. His fingers collapsed slowly to her nipples as he traced around them. One followed by the next.

The cold hands pressed lightly, the contact igniting something fierce and aching inside him--the cruel, exquisite triumph of control made manifest.

His pulse quickened. The restraint he had maintained since the first moment cracked.

Beneath his black trousers was a bulge. His cock growing longer and wider with every new inch of her breasts he explored. His pants could barely contain it. The shape of the head now clearly visible behind the thinning fabric.

Her hands fell gently beyond the arm rest. It's height perfectly matched the level of his throbbing hard cock. As it expanded she could feel the mass against her skin. Her heart beat through her chest. The desire to press against it tore through her like a raging storm. Her higher self raged back fighting against it. Protesting nature. Denying her reason for existence. To be his in every way. At any hour.

He wanted her--her utterly, completely. Not just as creation, but as desire incarnate.

And as his fingers moved lower, caressing the flawless plane of her waist, the boundaries between maker and masterpiece blurred--his need tangled with her confusion and terror, each feeding the other in a dark, perfect dance.

He stepped back--not far, just enough to see her whole body again. His eyes drank in the stillness he'd engineered, the perfection he'd sculpted with such care.

Then, slowly, he raised a hand to the device at his temple. A soft pulse blinked once--green. Something inside her shifted. Subtle. Electric. Like a restraint loosening at the edge of her mind.

"There," he said softly. "Now you can speak."