Thoughts on an idea

[Zeus_10]

So I'm thinking of a story and wondered on people's thoughts before starting?

It's regarding a female who has never met this guy, only online. However they are meeting at last in a hotel room, where she is left a set of instructions, to obey.

In essence fully dressed laying on the bed. She then becomes his doll. She's forbidden to open her eyes and remain unresponsive throughout.

So welcome your thoughts on this please?

 

[John_Q_Dough]

She is a super sub. Follows instructions, exactly as written. eyes are open, she is forbidden to speak. He is laid out her uniform exactly in the order she used to put them on.

 

[Zeus_10]

Thanks for this. I'm thinking though by keeping her eyes closed brings in a kind of sensory deprivation?

 

[John_Q_Dough]

It’s your story, take it where you will.
I think that by seeing / hearing but unable to speak would “trap” her in her body. Interested to see where you take this.

 

[Rob_Royale]

You did call her a doll, so I see where John is going with his suggestion.
It is your story, but I find it very implausible that any woman would do something like this with someone she's only net online. It sounds wildly dangerous.

One the other hand it sounds like something wildly sexy that a married couple would do. Sub/Dom is all about trust and I can't see that in your OP.

 

[Five_Inch_Heels]

So welcome your thoughts on this please?

I've considered a few variations over the years. None proved viable. All seemed inappropriate in relation to her will and consent.

 

[Jorunn]

You did call her a doll, so I see where John is going with his suggestion.
It is your story, but I find it very implausible that any woman would do something like this with someone she's only net online. It sounds wildly dangerous.

One the other hand it sounds like something wildly sexy that a married couple would do. Sub/Dom is all about trust and I can't see that in your OP.

Agree this might work in an established relationship. A variation would go to a bondage theme but the woman remains untied. She pretends to be tied until the guy makes her abandon the pretense. The tension comes as he tries everything but she won’t ‘crack’. Likewise her tension is resisting. The same tension works as a doll too.

 

[KindredFlame]

The hospital quiet of the seventh-floor hotel suite heightened the frantic throb of her heartbeat. Months of anticipation drawn out only through tightly phrased messages and communicated digital silhouettes led to this last directive: a laminated card solidly set upon the middle of the soft, charcoal duvet. The directives were concise, leaving no room for misinterpretation or objection. She was to get dressed immediately, completely and thoroughly attired in the outfit she had advertised online—a crisp silk blouse and strict tailored trousers.

With the final, direct command, she climbed onto the bed, assuming the pose demanded of her: flat on her back, hands set precisely at her sides, centrally positioned on the breadth of the king-sized bed. The cool cotton sheets felt against the back of her neck. The last metamorphosis was sealed with the following directive: eyelids fluttered shut, hiding from her the vision of the impersonal room. All this while, now and henceforward, the bright, troubled woman died; she would live as his creation, his passive puppet, her being meaning only by the necessity of not responding.

The waiting that followed was an exercise in absolute immobility, every muscle disciplined against the urge to move, twitch, or even draw a deep breath. When the muffled swipe-and-click of the key card and then the gentle, final snick of the heavy door closing resonated through the silence, her entire body stiffened, but she held her outward demeanor firmly in place. Like that. She felt the subtle, strange odor of fine leather and perfume entering her space, the gentle padding of a footstep on the carpet, and the heavy, intimidating silence of the man who had emerged from the atmosphere of the internet. He was present, auditing his possession. She could feel the warmth of his proximity, the urgency of the air as he leaned in against her, perhaps studying the smooth line of her jaw or the relentless calmness of her chest. She was refused the indulgence of a glimpse, the solace of a gasp, or the acknowledgment of a shiver. Her role was established: a completely unresponsive, completely clothed statue, merely for scrutiny and lechery of the man she had finally glimpsed, but whom she was not permitted, by the strictest regulation, ever actually to see.

 

[Zeus_10]

Thank you all for your views and suggestions

 

[KindredFlame]

Working from where I was this is the best I can to expand.

The silent hush that suffused the seventh-floor hotel suite, a quiet more typical of antiseptic recovery rooms and anxious whispers of fear, only tended to amplify the frantic, almost savage rhythm of her own heartbeat. Each beat pulsed within the limits of her rib cage, a raw percussion of fear that filled the opulent, but antiseptic, air.

Months—a lifetime, it had felt—had been jammed and condensed in equal measure, a life confined to the space of briefly worded messages and the virtual spectral swapping of digital ghosts. And now that interminable waiting had concluded with this final, unalterable directive, handed down in a disturbing finality.

There, standing out against the rich, velvety texture of the charcoal duvet, was a plain, laminated card. Its reflective surface mirrored the subdued light of the suite, a gleaming example of subtly worded direction. The text on it was not recommendations; they were statements, laid out with an economy of words that precluded any kind of misinterpretation whatsoever.

Direct, unflinching, and utterly devoid of any explanation or introduction, the commands were issued in a style which precluded any possibility of misunderstanding or, more importantly, any hint of dissent. The order was explicit: she was to dress, and at once.

Not for any concern for comfort, not in leisure, but at once, whole, and completely. The order emphasised a strict adherence to the very garments she had, with a menacing foresight, displayed on the web – the nearly brittle, starched silk blouse and the perfectly tailored trousers, garments selected for their clean lines and strong, near-severe, beauty.

The air in the room, previously thick with unspoken tension, creaked as the commanding command was issued—not a request, but the final, unassailable edict of possession. Surrender was reflexive, a habit honed by weeks of relentless stripping away. She did not merely ascend; she rose upon the broad, unmarked surface of the extra-wide king-sized bed.

The positioning was crucial, every position prescribed: lying flat on her back, an icon of sheer repose. Center, right on the wide horizontal axis of the bed. This was not reclining; it was the precise geometry of defeat. Her hands were set rigidly, fingers almost touching the smooth surface, precisely parallel with the creases of her hips.

The starched, cool cotton sheets, thread-count high and unforgiving, pierced with their cold presence, a biting anaesthetic sting against her sensitive skin at the nape of her neck and at the small of her back, solidifying the antiseptic finality of the environment.

The last phase of the transformation, the contraction of the cocoon, was executed in compliance with the next order. Her eyelids, heavy with the weight of her death, twitched once—a solitary, infinitesimal spasm of residual resistance—before relaxing and obeying the command.

They closed gently, a movement that did more than merely shut out the light; it actively erased the sight of the room's clinical sterility: the distant, shadowed recesses, the antiseptic sheen of the chrome fittings, and the uncritical, aseptic anonymity of the space which had become her prison.

In that still, recumbent form, the irreversible change was finished in its pitiless work. The brilliant, intensely suffering woman she once had been—the one full of contradictory passions and hard, tormented mind—was irretrievably extinguished. Left behind was mere vessel, his creation, an artifact of raw passivity, shaped to the strict measure of his desire.

Her existence, now and henceforth, would be defined only by the physics of doing nothing, the literal meaning residing solely in the mandate of sheer, total non-response. She was a machine with one sole function: silence, a puppet whose every being resided solely in the withholding of self-will. The play had begun, and her role was to be nothing.

The air in the room, previously thick with unspoken tension, snapped under the categorical command that issued—not a request, but the absolute, incomparable fiat of ownership. And it was complied with in a flash, a reflex built through weeks of intentional wearing down. She did not merely ascend; she ascended onto the vast, immaculate expanse of the extra-wide king-size bed.

Positioning was the most important thing, each inch drawn out: straight on her back, a posture of absolute relaxation, centered, precisely on the wide horizontal axis of the bed. Not rest, but the very geometry of giving way. Her hands were placed rigidly, fingertips brushing the smooth surface, precisely aligned with the seams of her hips. The starched, cold cotton sheets, of high thread count and unyielding, announced their frigid presence, a stinging, anesthetic jolt to the tender skin of her neck and small of her back, confirming the sterile finality of the area.

The last act in the transformation, the closure of the cocoon, followed the next directive. Her eyelids, heavy with the weight of her dying, twinged once—a solitary, minute spasm of remaining resistance—then yielded to the command. They slid shut in a soothing touch that did more than merely exclude the light; it actively wiped away the image of the sterile neatness of the room: the distant, shadowed corners, the cold gleam of the chrome fittings, and the unspoken, critical anonymity of the room that had held her captive.

Within that still, crumpled body, the irrevocable transformation was done in its savage state. That brilliant, bitterly tormented woman she had been—the one with the contradictory feelings and sturdy, desperate minds—was irretrievably lost.

It left only the vessel, his work, a piece of pure passivity, perfectly molded to the dimensions of his need. Her existence, here and henceforth, would be governed by the physics of non-doing, the strict meaning being only in the demand for sheer, impeccable non-action. She was a machine whose function was simply silence, a puppet whose existence clung completely to the denial of self-will. The play had begun, and her role was to be nothing.

Her body tensed, a sudden, involuntary spasm of muscle that was going to disbelieve the carefully sustained mask. But with a Herculean effort of will, she kept her outward demeanour rigidly in place, a mask of cool indifference. It was exactly like that – the unshakable stillness, the practiced calm.

Then it began. A subtle shift in the air, an almost noticeable movement that had preceded any concrete form. The air, once neutral, acquired a new, pungent scent: the rich, dark smell of high, soft leather, blended with the subtle, seductive undertones of an intoxicating perfume. It was a scent that heralded money, power, and something deeply predatory.

Meanwhile, she felt the slightest noise, the softly hardly audible glide of a cushioned step upon the luxuriant carpet, a noise that was typical of a patience honed to a point. But past the smell or the noise, it was the deep, crushing silence that in fact preceded his arrival. It was the silence of a stalking animal taking its prey's measure, a silence that thrummed with unspoken intent and nearly unbearable strain.

He was there, no longer a ghost called out of the nebulous realm of the internet, but tangible, flesh-and-blood. His presence was a forceful assertion, an undeniable count of his possession. She sensed the brush of warmth from him, the warm but insistent pressure of his nearness that seemed to warp the very air itself that surrounded them.

There was too great a pressure of his coming, for he leaned over her, his form obscuring the light, his intention a physical force against her. Was he studying the smooth, unyielding line of her jaw? Or the carefully regulated, ruthless serenity of her breast, where her heart, she thought, beat out a wild, unwanted rhythm?

She was utterly denied any redress, any morsel of consolation. She could not steal a glance, not treat herself to the indulgence of a fleeting look. There could be no consolation found in the recognition gasp, no release in the involuntary recognition by a shiver that threatened to run through her.

Her role was precisely, and callously, delineated: to be a living statue, a meticulously crafted effigy, completely unresponsive, fully clothed, there only for his examination, for the rough lechery of a man to whom she had at last, tangibly, looked. He was the object of her longings' snatched view, but the most severe, hardest-bitten control of her existence forbade her to ever truly see him, establishing her role as a mute, unheard exhibit in his own personal, kinky museum.

 

[KindredFlame]

It needs expanding past this point. To make it worth anything

 

[Zeus_10]

Then expand it please

 

[Five_Inch_Heels]

Then expand it please

That's your job.