A.N.N.I.E.
or; The Doll Maker's Tale
or; The Doll Maker's Tale
1.0
O, A.N.N.I.E., my perfect artificial nymph! Wire supple, my beautiful toy with plastic features. She may be gone, but the incestuous thrill remains, that delectble tang of guilt the artificer first tasted when repairing his precious contraption. It was not a tender first joining. Still, my A.N.N.I.E. offered no unkind words and, after a little tinkering, was good as new. She was a simple machine, completely unlike these monstrously pornographic gynoids that they thrust so eagerly upon flinching bachelors, only to have them (and their owners, I say half in jest) break down irrepairably. Not so my little doll!
Frozen at the start of development, her aluminium bodice a plane but for the mathematically impressed hint of tomorrow's rose. Her hips that swayed, but stayed maddeningly unsculpted by the poison of puberty. The total innocence, the tantalising purity. Of course I had attempted before, but Vulcan conspired with Hades that time, programming some virus into my pretty droid's frame that might be called a close cousin of life. Ignoring the laws of such technology, this rogue script imbued A.N.N.I.E. with greater vitality than any of my, or man's other conceptions before or since.
Neighbours, collleges, strangers, all of whom had long averted their attentions, labelling me a pervert or a priest in my solitude; it was they who killed my sugar crystal mannequin. Yet I had done no harm, and A.N.N.I.E. was happy.
Nine months hence I find myself as pained as the day I found her china features mauled by the lake. Nine long months and the pain has not left, and so my final conception slouches to be born. I have obtained- with no little difficultly, I might add- the termination code for my external memory device. Tonight I shall document A.N.N.I.E.'s tale, and tomorrow delete my tortured mind. Doing so, I hope to sink into total catatonia, and thus learn to find my way to the prismatic isles of A.N.N.I.E.'s heaven.
My name and number, after an overlong introduction? Of course, uneviable discoverer of my drooling frame! Aldous 2420 is the body you, patient reader, have found. Aldous 2420 am I, the owner of the fridge you have doubtlessly raided to stuff your face as you read my story. Aldous 2420 is also the name of a proud cat owner. I'll forgive the snitching of my cheddar if you'll feed Softpaws and Yellow. The vitamin pellets are in the upper left compartment of the wall storage.
My occupation? My sole, no, my soul occupation was A.N.N.I.E.: A.N.N.I.E. of the spindling gait, the elastic grin, the shuddering sobs, the pained pale eyes that you could see her circuits through. Our time was spent together, and I was everything to my clockwork concubine.
O, the arguments we had when she saw each morning pretty Dolores skipping to school, and petitioned incessantly that I should send her along too! My poor, my pitiful, my darling construct, how could I tell you? I alone could feel your reality, A.N.N.I.E., while others saw only a metallic bauble, a wondrous mirror, or the perverted reflection of humanity. So I told her some lies, invented some perfect little plague that meant I could keep her all but bed ridden. She swallowed it, of course, o infinite shame!
2.0
I have written that before A.N.N.I.E. there were others, and perhaps it is only fair that I should tell you of them; for, predating her, they held me captive awhile. I decommisioned them after a few uses: dubious leglity and cowardice forced me to. My artificial angel, though, I could never have destroyed so callously. Those pristine puppets so lovingly constructed reflected only my abnormal lust, and as such, were treated as tools with which to quench it. The cold contrast between their clanking obediance and A.N.N.I.E.'s demanding agility was the difference. I used the others, but she used me.
I first conceived of the idea; creating for myself a little mechanical concubine, that is, when, passing innocently by a primary school at lunch, I happened to catch a little boy in the act of tearing limb from limb a girl's doll. The broken arms and legs he tossed unthinkingly to the play surface. The remaining parts, however, the little Marquis placed carefully in his pocket, after lovingly restoring his victim's hair to its unmolested state- I shudder to think what paraphiliac terrors that fellow's wives will be subject to in years to come! This was enough, though, to distract my attentions from the movements of the blonde and tan beauty I had recently become enamoured by, and to give rise to the demonic field of nymphetechnology. All my life I had been taunted by the shrill cries of school children, yet I was a gentle monster, more cowardly than a mouse, or a snowflake on a Summer's day. Thus, to create a compliant mechanical nymph to fufil my needs seemed suddenly as natural as purchasing an electric oven.
L.I.L.y, the product of my first foray into the field, was a stew of outdated parts and farcical programming. She had two mood settings, for the discerning pervert. The first, coy and seductive, represented my love of ancient cinema, and L.I.L.y's mannerisms were just as stilted as those of her forebears. The second, innocent and (I pretended to myself) exceptionally like real children, was equally hilarious, though lacked the refinement of prolonged study. A man may watch as many films as he wishes, but watching children is a different matter. You could imagine (and sometimes even see) the steam pouring out of her eye sockets when you looked at her, and I soon destroyed that primitive statuette. I knew now, though, that I could build for myself a delicious little mistress, my very own victim that I could molest no less morally than I could a toaster.
So it was that I strode out, a pervert colossus into the world of robotics, plucking from the Gods lap fire, whether or not I was destined to own its secret. I made refinements that were to later benefit A.N.N.I.E.: Playtex skin, newer, more sensitive joints, of lighter material, and behavioural patterns swiped from observing real little girls in depth from various locations; a park bench, outside a school, from my very own window. Compared to her predecessor, this new toy was a nymphal Goddess (although A.N.N.I.E. would later outshine even this model). I called her Helen.
So strange, to see her lying, leaking driver fluid and reciting scripted innuendoes due to the screwdriver jammed in her central operating systems. I flinched to look at the trail it left across the arrested development of her breast, weaving downwards and pooling between her splayed legs. Rather too dramatic to be called a decommisioning. I am ashamed of what I did that night.
Following the stormy termination of this second doll, I entered a stage of fearful inertia. Everyone around me knew, or so I believed, of my perversions. My secrets were spread across the world in vile communiques I alone was not privy to. O, paranoia! Thus, for some months I abandoned my perverse tinkering, and the only puppets I commanded resided within my head.
3.0
The resumption did not come as dramatically as the close of the last bout. For eight months, I had shut myself away from the world. Food had come through the mail services, ordered automatically because I daren't receive electronic confirmation of my crimes. Eventually, the madness abated. I came to realise that none save I could hear Helen's screams, see the leaking fluids, feel the jagged flap of flesh where her face had been. At least robot bodies don't smell.
At six months, the old lust stirred up in me. At seven, I dared peer through the blinds to see the schoolgirls in the mornings and afternoons, terrified that their hawk-eyed mothers might see my heavy frame pressed against the window. At eight I broke, began collecting parts, and built A.N.N.I.E., my irreplacable daughter.
In the beginning, I approached the project but tentatively, convinced I would be found out and arrested. Unlike the others, who had lain brazenly upon the table, A.N.N.I.E. was assembled in smaller parts, secreted around my home, to be stuck together upon completion of the various components. Forever forgetful, I must have built five spare hands for her, never sure where I had hidden the originals. However, after a time, even I grew tired of hermitage and stepped out into the world, throwing caution to the wind, or the dogs, or whoever might have it!
This is not to say that I published papers on nymphetechnology, however. I merely resumed casual acquaintances with the various store owners in my area, and greeted my neighbours with a friendly wave (and lecherous thoughts of their little daughters, though they were not to know that). None questioned my sudden change, as none had noticed my sudden retreat. Indeed, many of the people I now associated with (however tritely) had only recently moved into my neighbourhood thanks, in part, to a beautiful haven contructed for the pleasure of the nymphets and myself, a playground, not 100 metres down the road from my lair.
O, A.N.N.I.E., my perfect artificial nymph! Wire supple, my beautiful toy with plastic features. She may be gone, but the incestuous thrill remains, that delectble tang of guilt the artificer first tasted when repairing his precious contraption. It was not a tender first joining. Still, my A.N.N.I.E. offered no unkind words and, after a little tinkering, was good as new. She was a simple machine, completely unlike these monstrously pornographic gynoids that they thrust so eagerly upon flinching bachelors, only to have them (and their owners, I say half in jest) break down irrepairably. Not so my little doll!
Frozen at the start of development, her aluminium bodice a plane but for the mathematically impressed hint of tomorrow's rose. Her hips that swayed, but stayed maddeningly unsculpted by the poison of puberty. The total innocence, the tantalising purity. Of course I had attempted before, but Vulcan conspired with Hades that time, programming some virus into my pretty droid's frame that might be called a close cousin of life. Ignoring the laws of such technology, this rogue script imbued A.N.N.I.E. with greater vitality than any of my, or man's other conceptions before or since.
Neighbours, collleges, strangers, all of whom had long averted their attentions, labelling me a pervert or a priest in my solitude; it was they who killed my sugar crystal mannequin. Yet I had done no harm, and A.N.N.I.E. was happy.
Nine months hence I find myself as pained as the day I found her china features mauled by the lake. Nine long months and the pain has not left, and so my final conception slouches to be born. I have obtained- with no little difficultly, I might add- the termination code for my external memory device. Tonight I shall document A.N.N.I.E.'s tale, and tomorrow delete my tortured mind. Doing so, I hope to sink into total catatonia, and thus learn to find my way to the prismatic isles of A.N.N.I.E.'s heaven.
My name and number, after an overlong introduction? Of course, uneviable discoverer of my drooling frame! Aldous 2420 is the body you, patient reader, have found. Aldous 2420 am I, the owner of the fridge you have doubtlessly raided to stuff your face as you read my story. Aldous 2420 is also the name of a proud cat owner. I'll forgive the snitching of my cheddar if you'll feed Softpaws and Yellow. The vitamin pellets are in the upper left compartment of the wall storage.
My occupation? My sole, no, my soul occupation was A.N.N.I.E.: A.N.N.I.E. of the spindling gait, the elastic grin, the shuddering sobs, the pained pale eyes that you could see her circuits through. Our time was spent together, and I was everything to my clockwork concubine.
O, the arguments we had when she saw each morning pretty Dolores skipping to school, and petitioned incessantly that I should send her along too! My poor, my pitiful, my darling construct, how could I tell you? I alone could feel your reality, A.N.N.I.E., while others saw only a metallic bauble, a wondrous mirror, or the perverted reflection of humanity. So I told her some lies, invented some perfect little plague that meant I could keep her all but bed ridden. She swallowed it, of course, o infinite shame!
2.0
I have written that before A.N.N.I.E. there were others, and perhaps it is only fair that I should tell you of them; for, predating her, they held me captive awhile. I decommisioned them after a few uses: dubious leglity and cowardice forced me to. My artificial angel, though, I could never have destroyed so callously. Those pristine puppets so lovingly constructed reflected only my abnormal lust, and as such, were treated as tools with which to quench it. The cold contrast between their clanking obediance and A.N.N.I.E.'s demanding agility was the difference. I used the others, but she used me.
I first conceived of the idea; creating for myself a little mechanical concubine, that is, when, passing innocently by a primary school at lunch, I happened to catch a little boy in the act of tearing limb from limb a girl's doll. The broken arms and legs he tossed unthinkingly to the play surface. The remaining parts, however, the little Marquis placed carefully in his pocket, after lovingly restoring his victim's hair to its unmolested state- I shudder to think what paraphiliac terrors that fellow's wives will be subject to in years to come! This was enough, though, to distract my attentions from the movements of the blonde and tan beauty I had recently become enamoured by, and to give rise to the demonic field of nymphetechnology. All my life I had been taunted by the shrill cries of school children, yet I was a gentle monster, more cowardly than a mouse, or a snowflake on a Summer's day. Thus, to create a compliant mechanical nymph to fufil my needs seemed suddenly as natural as purchasing an electric oven.
L.I.L.y, the product of my first foray into the field, was a stew of outdated parts and farcical programming. She had two mood settings, for the discerning pervert. The first, coy and seductive, represented my love of ancient cinema, and L.I.L.y's mannerisms were just as stilted as those of her forebears. The second, innocent and (I pretended to myself) exceptionally like real children, was equally hilarious, though lacked the refinement of prolonged study. A man may watch as many films as he wishes, but watching children is a different matter. You could imagine (and sometimes even see) the steam pouring out of her eye sockets when you looked at her, and I soon destroyed that primitive statuette. I knew now, though, that I could build for myself a delicious little mistress, my very own victim that I could molest no less morally than I could a toaster.
So it was that I strode out, a pervert colossus into the world of robotics, plucking from the Gods lap fire, whether or not I was destined to own its secret. I made refinements that were to later benefit A.N.N.I.E.: Playtex skin, newer, more sensitive joints, of lighter material, and behavioural patterns swiped from observing real little girls in depth from various locations; a park bench, outside a school, from my very own window. Compared to her predecessor, this new toy was a nymphal Goddess (although A.N.N.I.E. would later outshine even this model). I called her Helen.
So strange, to see her lying, leaking driver fluid and reciting scripted innuendoes due to the screwdriver jammed in her central operating systems. I flinched to look at the trail it left across the arrested development of her breast, weaving downwards and pooling between her splayed legs. Rather too dramatic to be called a decommisioning. I am ashamed of what I did that night.
Following the stormy termination of this second doll, I entered a stage of fearful inertia. Everyone around me knew, or so I believed, of my perversions. My secrets were spread across the world in vile communiques I alone was not privy to. O, paranoia! Thus, for some months I abandoned my perverse tinkering, and the only puppets I commanded resided within my head.
3.0
The resumption did not come as dramatically as the close of the last bout. For eight months, I had shut myself away from the world. Food had come through the mail services, ordered automatically because I daren't receive electronic confirmation of my crimes. Eventually, the madness abated. I came to realise that none save I could hear Helen's screams, see the leaking fluids, feel the jagged flap of flesh where her face had been. At least robot bodies don't smell.
At six months, the old lust stirred up in me. At seven, I dared peer through the blinds to see the schoolgirls in the mornings and afternoons, terrified that their hawk-eyed mothers might see my heavy frame pressed against the window. At eight I broke, began collecting parts, and built A.N.N.I.E., my irreplacable daughter.
In the beginning, I approached the project but tentatively, convinced I would be found out and arrested. Unlike the others, who had lain brazenly upon the table, A.N.N.I.E. was assembled in smaller parts, secreted around my home, to be stuck together upon completion of the various components. Forever forgetful, I must have built five spare hands for her, never sure where I had hidden the originals. However, after a time, even I grew tired of hermitage and stepped out into the world, throwing caution to the wind, or the dogs, or whoever might have it!
This is not to say that I published papers on nymphetechnology, however. I merely resumed casual acquaintances with the various store owners in my area, and greeted my neighbours with a friendly wave (and lecherous thoughts of their little daughters, though they were not to know that). None questioned my sudden change, as none had noticed my sudden retreat. Indeed, many of the people I now associated with (however tritely) had only recently moved into my neighbourhood thanks, in part, to a beautiful haven contructed for the pleasure of the nymphets and myself, a playground, not 100 metres down the road from my lair.
