My little doll has turned into a woman.
The way her body contracted and her blood trickled down her thighs mixed with cum is a sight I’ll never forget.
It’s art at its truest form.
It’s a masterpiece.
And I’ll have it unfold over and over again.
Blood looks exquisite on her porcelain skin. Almost like it’s made to smother her flesh, bathe it, creep over it instead of underneath it.
My Barbie doll doesn’t realise how beautiful she is. How exquisite. She has a smile to die for, lips to devour, and eyes to stare at for eternity.
People at school call her a bitch, but they’re just jealous of her beauty, her grace, and her mind. Her intelligent, bright mind. It’s the reason why her beauty is enhanced. She’s not one of those bimbo dolls I get tired of after one glance.
She’s not shallow like them, stupid like them, hollow like them.
She’s the whole package.
She’s what I’ve been searching for my entire life while I kept myself busy with their forgettable bodies.
I spent years being patient, slowly creeping under her skin, but not too obviously.
You can’t be obvious with dolls. People say they don’t see, but they have eyes. They say they don’t feel, but they have skin. They can bleed too if you run a knife over their bodies.
Dolls need to be treated carefully, dressed carefully, washed carefully.
Watched carefully.
You can’t let them suspect you. Instead, you have to be the most important part of their lives. Their doll master.
The one who dresses them, washes them, does their hair.
I stare at a picture of her asleep on her side in only her T-shirt and no underwear. I groan as my release comes in waves.
I retrieve my spare phone, coat her pictures with my release, then type with the same fingers.
Unknown Number: You look beautiful today, like a rose finally deflowered. Happy eighteenth birthday. You’re a woman now.
My doll.
My masterpiece.
Now, she’ll never get away from me.
