204. Ready to Wear
Amy decides that, with all the clothes she's gathered so far, she can definitely pass for Claire Stephenson. She quickly strips out of her clothes and then, much less quickly, dons the outfit she has gradually collected from the late Mrs. Stephenson. The panties and garter belt go on easily enough, and while the stockings slide onto Amy's long, supple legs smoothly Amy does have a little difficulty getting the garter belt's snaps on. Amy then spends a good long time struggling with the corset. When she finally masters it (or, at least, gets it on as good as she's likely to get it with her total lack of experience wearing corsets), she puts on the boots (again with difficulty, thanks to the corset she already put on), then the dress and gloves.
Amy goes to admire herself in the mirror. “I really DO look just like this Claire Stephenson lady. It's kinda freaky,” she remarks to herself, comparing her reflection to the image of Lady Stephenson in the portrait. She takes the opportunity to fix her hair and practice facial expressions like the one in the portrait. Finally, Amy decides that she's ready for her performance. She adopts a stiff, formal manner and gracefully sashays up the stairs.
As Amy swoops up the stairs, Boswell's mask of detached indifference is shattered. For a moment, all he can do is gape at the vision of elegant beauty that stands before him. Amy takes a moment to wallow in the uptight butler's surprise, smiling coquettishly to herself. Before she can speak, Boswell has scrambled across the floor and taken her arm. He begins leading her to the double doors.
“My lady! You have returned! I always knew that you would come back to us, but it had been so long, I had begun to lost hope! Please, how was your journey? Let me get you to the master bedroom, I'm sure you desire rest. Shall I make tea? Shall I have the cook make you some food? For what are you hungry? Oh, madame, soon the joy shall return to this worn-out old household, and... Where is your brooch?” At this last question, Boswell stops abruptly. His grip on her arm shifts, from gently leading his precious mistress to a steel-hard death grip. Amy winces.
“Oh, um, um, I, ah, left it. It just, ah, seemed a bit too, er, um......” Amy searches for a word to describe a brooch she's never seen, “Ostentatious?” she venture with a nervous smile.
Boswell throws down Amy's arm and takes a step back, his visage overcome with rage. Amy begins shaking in her boots.
“My lady NEVER goes anywhere without her brooch, so logically you must NOT be my lady!” He snaps his fingers and Amy finds herself frozen in place.
Boswell walks up and inspects Amy's frozen face. “Still,” he muses, “your resemblance to mistress Claire is astounding. Perhaps... Perhaps I can find a use for you. A fitting tribute to this house's dear, departed lady.”
Amy can't move, but if she could, she would gulp in nervous anticipation at this point.
“But first, let's get a better look at you.”
Boswell snaps his fingers. Amy hovers into the air as her dress and boots unlace and fly off her body. Amy is now suspended in the air in silky pink lingerie and black stockings.
“Yes, excellent. But for what I have in mind, we'll have to remove something else.” Boswell snaps his fingers again. At first, Amy feels nothing. Then she notices that her head feels a bit lighter. A second later, she finds herself face to face with her own haircut. Her hair has been lifted off of her head, and now floats in front of her face. If it were within her power, Amy would faint. Her hair has always been one of her proudest features, and now her head is totally smooth.
Boswell smiles. “Excellent, you will make a ravishing mannequin. We just need a stand for you. He snaps his fingers and a small podium appears beneath Amy. From that podium, a long metal shaft begins to rise. The shaft is tipped by an eight-inch pink plastic protuberance, ribbed, with a mushroom-like head. If Amy had control of the blood vessels in her cheeks, she would be blushing right now. The plastic thing presently making slow, upward progress toward her most intimate areas bears an uncanny resemblance to a certain toy of her own that she keeps hidden in her underwear drawer.
Finally, the shaft reaches Amy and the plastic protuberance pushes aside the crotch of her thong to lodge itself firmly into Amy's slit. Amy mentally makes a shocked “O!” face, as the feeling is not altogether unpleasant. Eventually the plastic protuberance succeeds in submerging itself entirely in Amy's nether region, allowing the thong to slide back nearly into place around the metal shaft.
Boswell smirks lasciviously. “Be thankful that your resemblance to Lady Stephenson led me to afford you some modicum of dignity; I could as easily have chosen a different, less comfortable hole.” Amy is only half paying attention to Boswell, being primarily concerned with the feeling of fullness in her lower half. Once her brain processes what Boswell has said, however, she heartily agrees; she would very much rather NOT have this surprisingly pleasurable pink protuberance pressed into a more... uncomfortable place.
“Now, let's get you nice and shiny and presentable.” Boswell snaps his fingers with a flourish and the protuberance begins to vibrate, first slowly, then with increasing speed. While indirect, the protuberance's movements do manage to tickle the tiny nub that rests atop Amy's slit at just the right frequency to send Amy into an ever-growing feedback loop of sexual pleasure. If Amy could move or vocalize, she would be rather loudly expressing her delight at the waves of pleasure emanating from her groin right now. As wave after wave beats down on her addling brain, she feels her muscles begin to stiffen, starting in her midsection and spreading down through her thighs and calves and up through her torso and down to the tips of her fingers.
Meanwhile, Amy's climax grows nearer and nearer, and all Amy can think about is the impending explosion of pleasure that feels as though it may rip her body in two. Amy has never before experienced ecstasy of this magnitude, even from the plastic protuberance's little battery-powered twin back home. “If... I... escape... from... this...” Amy notes to herself, “I... have... to... ask... Boswell... where... he... got... this... thing....”
At roughly this point, Amy's pleasure grows so great that it consumes her entire rational mind and she becomes incapable of coherent thought. At last, the dam bursts and a flood of pleasure washes over Amy's entire body, pulsating through every crevice of her flesh. From the tips of her fingers to the nails on her toes, Amy goes entirely numb but for a pleasurable tingling.
Amy remains suspended, motionless, in mid-air. Well, nearly motionless. As the orgasm finally hits, her eyes slowly and ever-so-slightly rolled back in her head, a final physical manifestation of her state of bliss.
Boswell admires his handiwork. As the pleasure spreads through Amy's body, her flesh undergoes a curious metamorphosis. Her skin turns pale, then hardens, then acquires a strange sheen. Small, straight hairline fractures appear at strategic places, between her hips and upper-thighs, at her knees, at her ankles, at her shoulders, at her elbows, at her wrists, and at her neck. Her nipples change color from soft pink to the yellowish tinge of the surrounding flesh, then with a *pop!* disappear. The cheeks of her buttocks seal together at their depths, preserving the roundness of the twin mounds and maintaining a slight cleft between them, but eliminating any unsightly holes at the depths. Her labia majora and minora soften, then are absorbed into her body as her slit seals closed, leaving her with a bare crotch adorned only by the metal shaft that connects her to the floor and now supports her body in the air. With a tiny *pah!* sound, like pushing a puff of air from the lips, her thatch of neatly-trimmed brown pubic hair is pushed out of her crotch and falls to the ground in a little pile. As the orgasm crashes into her brain, her face takes on the same plasticine look of the rest of her body, her eyes turn to clear, painted glass, her cheeks gain twin pink circles as though blush had been applied. As Boswell allows his magical spell of holding to expire, Amy's new plastic body is allowed to settle onto its stand. Amy is now fully a mannequin.
Back in Amy's head, the pleasure has now subsided and she finds herself still immobile, but feeling strangely.... different. Her vision has shifted upward a bit, and she realizes that she managed to roll her eyes during her recent climax. Boswell approaches.
“I know you can hear me in there; it's one of the charming side effects of this little cantrip. You are now a mannequin, an inert chunk of plastic molded into a pleasurable shape. Since you have shown such facility at wearing the old mistress's clothing, you shall now model it permanently.”
With a snap of his fingers, you find yourself transported to the main hallway. You have been placed on a little display set up in front of the stairs. Boswell makes his way down the steps and continues his monologue.
“We shall keep you in lingerie for a week. This particular set, while not the lady's finest, seems to suit you well. Soon you will know her other sets at a level of intimacy only the mistress has known heretofore. You should be honored to be so adorned.”
Amy's now plastic brain screams in her head. “I am a human being! I have dignity and free will! How could my journey end like this!”
Boswell reaches out and brushes his hand against Amy's crotch. A wave of pleasure shoots through her, and she experiences a short, but powerful, orgasm.
“You are now discovering that you remain sensate, and, indeed, your senses have been heightened. Moreover, all those annoying other senses you once felt, pain, tickling, softness, hardness, heat, cold, and so on, have been re-routed to the sexual pleasure section of your mind. Any touch you feel will lead to profound ecstasy.”
Amy's brain relaxes just a bit. “Well, maybe this isn't the absolute WORST thing...”
Over the coming weeks, months, years, Amy models the late mistress's entire wardrobe. Winter coats, summer dresses, elegant suits, fine lingerie, the silkiest of stockings. Amy particularly likes modeling the short skirts and lingerie, as it gives her an opportunity to show off her stunning, shapely legs in skin-tight pantyhose and stockings. At some point, Amy decided that her biggest regret in life was not having worn more nylon in her days of animacy. Amy's sumptuous appearance is occasionally rewarded, as the house's guests and residents occasionally touch her plasticine flesh. A furtive poke of her arm, a quick cupping of her buttocks, a long stroke of her nylon-clad legs, all have their own unique feel to the plastic adventuress, and all of them result in their own unique climax.
At last, Amy comes to accept her fate. “I am a mannequin. I am here to make Mistress's clothes look fabulous. I am a hunk of plastic to be maneuvered in a manner that best serves my purpose. I live for the reward of lascivious touches, and I accept my reward gratefully and humbly.
Amy is in no condition to continue her adventure.