Blind Date

by SFT

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© Copyright 2010 - SFT - Used by permission

Storycodes: M/f; hotel; dollsuit; mask; costume; tease; play; sex; cons; X

This story is covered by the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License ( )


I wasn't much for blind dates, but I figured I had nothing to lose by trying.

I had just mentioned to this good friend of mine during an otherwise normal conversation that I was looking for someone. We'd known each other for a while, and I figured she knew enough about my specific tastes and quirks that she would be able to pick out someone I would be a good match with.

I always found her interesting, if a bit cold, but she had previously shot me down before so I figured asking her for help was preferable to just completely breaking up our friendship.

After setting it all up, she had given me a location, a date, and a time to meet my date. The location was at a hotel. She said that this was a good neutral location, so if anything bad happened we could both easily bail. My date would be waiting there at 8, on a Friday night.

And now I found myself waiting in front of her hotel room door. It was a bit before eight, and I was a little nervous, so I hadn't yet found the courage to actually ring the bell or knock or anything.

It turned out not to be necessary though, for promptly at 8 the door opened.

I hadn't expected a life-sized doll to answer the door, though.


"Um," I started.

She looked at me, waiting for me to clarify my lack of a statement.

I looked over at the door. 108. That was right. This was the right hotel, too. My friend had clearly pointed it out several times, on a map, and in passing.

"Er," I continued, "Are you my date?"

She nodded slightly, then looked down at the ground, as if sad and disappointed.

Shit. 30 seconds in and I had already blown it.

"Look," I started again, "I... just wasn't expecting this. Don't normal dates start face to face, even blind ones?"

She retrieved a small whiteboard from a table by the door, and a black marker. She pressed the two together for a few moments, then showed what she had written on it to me.

"This is me," it read.

Okay. She was nuts. Was this my friend's idea of a joke? Get lil 'ol me to date a dolly thing, then jump out from behind the couch with all my friends and go all Candid Camera on me?

"This is a joke, right?" I asked.


She didn't take that well.

She seemed to shrink down for a second, then bolted to a chair inside the hotel room, visibly shaken. She began to hold herself slightly, and rock back and forth.

After a moment, I decided to come in. At least, a few steps inside, so she'd know I was there. She might have been nuts, but that didn't give me the right to shatter her little world.

She still had the whiteboard and marker with her. I watched her wipe it off with a small brush, then scribble something down upon it. Then she threw it at me, and began holding herself again.

I knelt down to pick it up. It had fallen face down, so I hadn't yet gotten a chance to look upon what she had written. I turned it over, and read it.

"YOU HATE ME!" it read.

"NO!" I shouted. Well, I didn't really mean to shout, but it came out that way.

She looked at me for a second, then continued to hold herself, shivering a bit.

I walked carefully up to her, retrieved a second chair that was just sitting nearby, and sat on it, facing her. She continued to look sad and rock back and forth.

"I don't hate you," I said. "We just met. How could I hate you?"

She motioned for the whiteboard, which I slipped back to her. She wiped, wrote again, and handed it back to me.

"Yes you do. She said you'd be different. But you're just like all the others," she wrote.


"Others?" I asked.

"They hated me. Because I'm not like you." she wrote.

"What do you mean, not like you? Aren't you just a person in a mask?" I asked.

In response to this, she took my hands. The delicate dollskin on her hands felt smooth and gentle. She raised my hands to her face, and ran them around my head, letting me feel every smooth inch around it and around her neck.

There were no seams, no breaks. Her head was a single piece, made of hard molded plastic, with no obvious way to remove it. It fit snugly around her neck, which seemed to be covered in a different, cloth-like material.

"This is me," she wrote.

For some reason, I thought about my friend, the one who had set this whole thing up. She knew I had a thing for life sized dolls, but also that I would never think about getting a real one, because a doll couldn't move by itself, so it was basically a corpse. But whatever this was in front of me was clearly no corpse. She hadn't spoken, but she moved, communicated and clearly had feelings. Of course, there was no such thing as magic, and today's technology wouldn't allow for an autonomous robot with such freedom of movement, so she had to be a girl in a costume.

She seemed to sense my doubt about her, so she began to write again.

"You don't believe me!" she wrote.

I decided to play along. It seemed safer that way.

"Er, sure I believe you," I started.

"You're a bad liar." she wrote.


Clearly playing along wasn't going to work. Probably because I was a horrible liar, as she had written. I decided to be honest, instead.

"Ok, well, there's no way you could be an actual doll, right? Dolls don't move or feel."

"I do."

"Well, that proves you're a person then, right? Because that's what people do."

"Not always."

That caught me a bit by surprise. For some reason, I thought about the girl that set this whole thing up. She was always a bit cool, some would say cold, but otherwise she was a good and loyal friend.

After thinking a bit, I looked up, and she wasn't sitting there anymore.

The door to the hotel room slammed shut, and I heard it locking.

I looked over to the door, and there she was, locking and securing the door. She had the whiteboard with her, and after sealing us in, she showed what she had written to me.

"I'll prove it."


I hadn't actually taken a good look at what she was wearing, since her most distinctive feature when I first saw her was the anime doll face she had, but I couldn't help but examine her now.

She had the most amazing reddish-brown hair. It was most likely made of human hair, but carefully implanted into the head and styled into an animeish look. She was wearing this black coatish thing. I was unsure of what they called it, as I wasn't big into women's fashions, so I'll call it a buttoned sweater. She wore it on top of a delicate white dress, made of what appeared to be some sort of silk substitute. She completed the outfit with black pantyhose, and wasn't wearing shoes.

She clearly didn't plan on going out tonight, and the fact that these clothes I had just described were slowly becoming a heap on the floor brought this point home.


She then slowly walked towards me, dressed only in her doll skin.

She was as she had stated. The more I studied her, the more it seemed that she was a doll. There were no seams along her perfect, smooth skin, no threads or breaks, just a perfectly flat, shiny cloth. Her body from a larger viewpoint was also completely smooth, except for the carefully positioned mounds that were her breasts and rear.

Her breasts were quite amazing. They weren't like the pointy, unnatural breasts you saw on little girls' dolls, or the unrealistic whole spheres you saw on inflatable dolls or normal love dolls. These seemed to hang slightly, like a real woman's, and yet held their position, firm and yet swaying slightly as she slowly approached me. The only thing lacking was a nipple, and that was an unnecessary detail.

As she got closer, I noted that she had no navel. This was perfectly normal, as dolls weren't supposed to have navels. She must have worked hard to approximate herself into the form of a doll, to the smallest detail.

Then I glanced between her legs.


There was nothing there.

Just a smoothness.

No hole, no trap.

She was a doll in every way. And dolls didn't have those.

She was close enough now, so she grabbed my hands, and placed them upon her. She then ran my hands up and down her, letting me feel every single detail of her doll body.

She felt soft and smooth.

The softness matched the feeling a real girl would have. Every part of her felt right. Every flexed muscle was hard but not impenetrable, and every relaxed one was soft but not completely pliable.

But the smoothness was completely unnatural. It was intoxicating. No real girl could feel like this. All of them had imperfections, bumps, even microscopic ones, which would cause friction and supply a slight roughness. But she did not. She was smooth, everywhere. Smoother than a soft leather interior, smoother than butter.


After a few moments of immense pleasure, she broke away from me, retrieved her whiteboard and wrote.

"Believe me?"

I didn't care any more. I would've said anything to continue this exquisite feeling. And indeed did, though because of how I was feeling I don't remember what exactly I said.

I remember what I did, though.

I rushed up, and embraced her in my arms, rubbing every inch of her into myself. I brushed my chin against her perfectly smooth shoulder. I rubbed my chest into her perfect round, pert breasts. I pressed my hips into her perfectly smooth hips, and intertwined my legs with hers, enjoying her perfectly smooth legs. I ran my hands up and down her perfectly smooth back, and enjoyed every perfectly smooth moment of it.

The whiteboard fell to the ground and made a loud clack, but it seemed unimportant at the time.


I became concerned that maybe I had been a bit too forward, so I pulled back a bit, and looked into her eyes for a response.

She just looked at me for a moment, then put her left arm around me, and began to unhook my belt with her right.

I took this as a positive response.

She hurredly removed my pants, and retrieved me from within them. She then wrapped her right hand around me, and began to slide up and down.

I had already been at attention since the moment she dropped her clothes. And the rubbing was only enhancing it, the soft, yet stiff doll fingers running down me contrasting well with their immense smoothness. It was like getting a handjob from a woman made of silk.

After a few more moments of this enjoyable activity, I began to worry slightly. Besides her hands, she had no obvious holes. There wasn't any way for me to truly make love to her.

Seeming to sense my worry, she drew back slightly, then revealed that she still had the sharpie in her left hand. Removing its cap with her right hand, she carefully moved it to her crotch, and marked out an X with it.

She then moved the sharpie to the center of the X, placed my right hand upon it, and motioned for me to press in.


I pressed in the sharpie.

It seemed to meet with quite a bit of resistance. The cloth that made up her crotch was clearly not meant to break easily.

Though the effort clearly had a visible effect on her. With every push her head shot to the ceiling and she tensed.

I began using a gentle pressing motion, a little at a time, not so little that there would be no effect, but not so much that I'd end up losing the sharpie within her.

For the first couple of impacts, the cloth seemed as resilient as before. She was generating waves of pleasure out of it, but nothing seemed to happen.

Then, something did. The cloth seemed to stretch slightly. The soaking in of the ink from the sharpie must have weakened it somewhat. So I pressed on. With every nudge it seemed to break more and more.

By this point she was shuddering with every press. Something was getting in, and it was giving her quite the ride.

Then there was a snap. The cloth gave way, and the sharpie ended up halfway inside her. I quickly retrieved it before it could get lost, and dropped it to the ground.

I was all clear. Now I could blow this thing and go home.


I gripped her tightly, and pressed my way down her trench.

Her breathing quickened, and she tensed once more. She gripped both arms around me, and pulled tight.

I continued to pump, sliding myself in and out of the X she had marked upon herself. It was pretty clear she was a girl inside now. She didn't feel like plastic and stuffing inside, she felt of flesh and blood, of moisture and pressure, and every maneuver I took within her caused an explosion of ecstacy.

She pulled hard, but continued not to make a sound. She was pleasured, but resisted the urge to cry out her feelings. Her doll persona was firm, and it stopped her from breaking character, but it didn't stop her from enjoying this moment.

Finally it happened. I exploded as well, hitting my target and spreading out within her. She tensed one last time, then seemed to fade away.

Something was wrong. She began to collapse, and fell onto her side. She could still move a bit, and motioned for the sharpie and whiteboard.

I was exhausted, but I found the energy to bring them both to her.

She began to scribble, slowing with every word, until she just stopped, and collapsed to the ground.


I ran to her, and held her up to me.

It occured to me that neither her nor my friend had ever told me her name, so I wasn't sure what to cry out.

"Are you alright?" I cried out instead.

She didn't respond.

I felt her chest. It rose and fell, proving that she was still breathing.

But she was now truly a doll, unmoving, unfeeling.

Had I done wrong? Had what I had done just cemented her persona as a doll?

I shook her slightly, trying to get her to react. She didn't. She remained a doll, and looked lazily over my shoulder, without the control needed to look directly at me.

I ran my hands over her, hurredly this time, trying to find a way to remove this doll from her. But I could find no way. The head was locked into position, and despite the fact that the crotch cloth had ripped fairly easily, none of the other cloth seemed as easily tearable.

I couldn't get her out. She was a doll, seemingly forever.

In my desperation, I looked upon what she had written on the whiteboard.

"I am yours," it read.


Hurredly I looked through the hotel room, trying to figure out some way to revive her.

Finding a purse on the bed, I looked through it.

Inside was a diary.

My friend's diary. The one who had set this whole thing up.

But why would her diary be here?

Curiousity getting the better of me, I flipped to the last entry.

"I know you're reading this," it read. It continued.

"I wanted you to know the real me. That me you knew before, that was just a mask. This is me."


I ran back to her.

She was still a doll, unmoving, unfeeling.

"This is you?" I asked.

She didn't respond.

I knew the girl I knew before was in there, somewhere. And that I had basically locked her in, by accepting her doll persona. She must have done this with many other men, but none of them ever accepted her as this. But I couldn't just leave her like this. It may be what she wanted, but it wasn't what I wanted. I didn't want a corpse. I wanted a loving, feeling girl.

"Please," I pleaded. "Come back. I want you. Not just as a doll, but as a person."

She didn't respond, so I continued.

"I liked you the way you were. Not a lifeless love doll, but a living, breathing doll. And more than that, I liked you even before I saw you as a doll."

I wasn't sure if she had responded, but I looked into her eyes, and she seemed to be looking back at me. I hadn't moved, but I hadn't seen her move either.

"I know a magic screwing isn't going to revive you, but please. Don't be just a doll. I need so much more than that. you. And every side of you. Not just this."

She didn't respond.

I turned away. I couldn't hold back my feelings. But I didn't want to let her see me cry.

Then a delicate, smooth, soft hand pressed against my shoulder.



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