The Doll

When she came to me - only five years ago now, though it seems like more - her name was plain old Alice Derby. And though she wasn't old, she was plain. Small, pale lips, a slightly too-large nose, a flat chest and a non-existent ass. She wanted to be a star. She couldn't sing, couldn't act, couldn't write or paint or dance, but she wanted to be in the newspapers and on the television, to be talked about and to have men stare covetously and women enviously when they walked past billboards of her. It's a common ambition for 18 year olds, but for all those who crave fame more than talent, almost none take the step of consulting a plastic surgeon.

Perhaps what was different for Alice was that she was an orphan. On her sixteenth birthday, she told me when I conducted my initial interview, her parents had been taking her along the M5 towards a small country retreat where they had arranged a birthday party for her. She had been listening to the Boyzone CD playing loudly in the stereo, her parents quietly enduring it and bickering with each other. Whether it was the music or the argument or just dully cruel fate that caused Michael Derby to miss the brake lights of the car he had been following too closely, even Alice didn't know - though she tended to blame the CD. Their expensive German sedan crumpled into the Land Rover and smeared the shattered ruin of her parents against the dashboard. She, sitting in the middle seat in the back, was hurled forward, cut but held by the belt around her waist, her only real injury a minor case of whiplash.

So, sitting in front of me that day was an eighteen year old girl who had more money in her bank accounts than I would make if I worked another thirty years. She was nervous, of course, but she was more used to dealing with people than most persons her age, and her initial pitch to me was almost preternaturally poised.

"I want you to make me into the perfect woman," she told me.

At that time, there was no particular reason to refuse her request. The profit for me would be immense, and there was nothing in either her history or demeanour to suggest that surgery should not go ahead. One month after I had met her, she lay nude on my operating table surrounded by my staff, at that time the best plastic surgery team in the world. I looked her over with the professional glare of a doctor who has cut into so many breasts and buttocks and lips that they had almost ceased to have sexual connotations. Her body was that of a boy; the only things distinguishing it as a woman's were the lack of hair on her chest and the cute little cleft of her pussy. We began.

First the major work. With our shining scalpels and silicone sacks, we cut into her chest and ass and vastly enlarged what nature had given her. We sculpted her face, making her cheekbones longer and her nose smaller. Her lips we puffed up until even unconcious she pouted like Jessica Rabbit. We tucked her ears back and altered the flesh around her eyes so they would stare wide. We flattened and smoothed her belly and toned her legs and arms. That long day, as I sweated under the hot lights and my team watched in almost disgusted fascination, I was a sculptor drawing from base clay a perfect image. Only once did I ever perform such a great work again.

The last tasks were purely superficial and I stepped back exhausted to let my assistants take over. They meticulously depilated her eyebrows until they were perfect bows, and electrolysed her pussy so that it would never again grow hair. It was, of course, unusual and slightly risky to perform such arduous surgery in one session. It was Alice's request though. She wanted to go to sleep as Alice Derby and wake as... well, you all know her name. As she came too, after slipping dolphin-like in and out of consciousness I was the first person to call her by it.

"We have you on painkillers at the moment, which is why you can't feel anything. It'll be almost a month before the pain is gone, but we should be able to take the bandages off in a week or so." I like to leave it long, so that the patient isn't panicked by the swellings that inevitably accompany such extensive alteration. I checked my notes, though I'll never forget the desperation in her eyes before the anaesthetist jabbed liquid sleep into her arm. She had touched me, quite gently, and, with the sort of voice I had heard her father speak with in his many televised interviews, asked me... no, commanded me.

"When I wake up, my name is Alisha Debrette."

Standing beside her bed now, I said it.

"Miss Debrette, I'm pleased to tell you the operation was a complete success."

She went back to sleep, but a quirk of the wrappings suggested she was smiling.

Perhaps it was inevitable that we became lovers. She had been a virgin when she came to me and now, beautiful for the first time as she saw it, her effect on men entranced her. I, on the other hand, given the opportunity to create the perfect woman had done something subtly different. I had created Man's perfect woman, a lush and fleshy creature whose only purpose was sex. That first time, after drinks following a consultation, I kissed lips that were more my property than hers, caressed breasts that I had built and that could probably not appreciate my attentions. The only part that truly remained hers was her cunt - and that I entered and roughly made my own.

She didn't live with me, perhaps correctly assuming it would toughen her obsessive search for fame. I saw her most nights, though, and got to observe, like a stop motion video, her descent into despair. She visited agents and casting agencies, but got little work - I could give her false beauty, but not talent. She inveigled her way to the right parties and, I'm certain, screwed the right men - though never women; she was puritanically straight - but all for nothing.

I suggested she set up her own production company - she had more than enough money - but she wanted to earn the approval of these people who didn't care about her.

Coldly analysing it, her initial failure was due to three things. Firstly, with what I had been given I had crafted a body that was exquisite; but even the best surgery cannot transform plain raw materials into Catherine Deneuve. Secondly, she still carried herself with the air of a plain girl. She crushed her arms over her large breasts as if to hide them, and wore clothes that more concealed than exhibited her. Lastly, though, she had not yet reached the point where her aims had become reasonable. Alice, for then she was still, if only secretly and to me, Alice, had expected to be an A class movie star or a singer with a number one record immediately after her transformation.

Finally, six months following surgery and after weeks of coming to me in tears for sex that demonstrated to her that she was beautiful, she stopped visiting me. I tried calling but always got the answering machine and then, when I finally went around to her flat, found she had moved out. There was no way for me to find her, even her consultations had now finished. Then I saw her in my local video store.

Not in the flesh, though perhaps the term is not completely inappropriate. I was searching for La Fille Sur La Pont, when I saw her, her star-capped breasts luridly staring at me from an over-size video case. That bald little cunt was similarly obscured, but her face was clear and her lips were wrapped redly around one hooked index finger. Her hair was blonde now, instead of brown, but I could never fail to recognise her. I grabbed the video and hid it under my coat until I reached the counter, where I hired it with trembling embarrasment.

When I got home, I saw that it was called, "Alisha's Antics". I pushed it into the VCR and watched the largely plotless mess as my patient was penetrated in every hole, as she even fucked another girl with an enormous black rubber dildo. Of course, there's no need for me to describe it - so many have seen it. For me, this was the moment when sweet little Alice became Alisha Debrette, sex doll. She could never have had the beauty to conquer Hollywood, but in this underworld version there were none to rival her - no other girl could afford my skills.

It hurt. Hurt seeing - at that time - my finest work used this way. Hurt to see how Alice's principles had dissappeared. But I was still hypnotised by that body, tailored so perfectly to what I thought were my desires. Even now, I still own all her movies.

And the movies followed in quick succession, almost one a month and at times more. Her trade nickname became Insatiable Alicia, and she'd do anything as long as she was rewarded with smiles and acceptance.

She came back to me quite soon. In many ways, Alice now being dead, I had fathered this creature and that she craved my approval was obvious- she was wanton and demanding, open to anything but more: needing anything. Beyond one or two times, when one of her co-stars, usually female for my sake but sometimes male, joined us, I stayed apart from the new world in which she reined.

Later she came to me wanting more work done. For someone like Alisha, there is no final achievement. If she made one particularly arousing film, then next month she'd just have to go further. She fucked ten guys? Fine, tomorrow she had to do fifteen. Likewise her body - it was not beauty, but quantity that mattered. She wanted even bigger breasts, and her pussy tightened.

I sometimes wish I hadn't refused, but no good doctor could have accepted the commission. Her body wasn't up to it, her reasons weren't sound. So she had to go to a bad doctor.

The next time I saw her, the body that had once been my purest intoxicant had become clownlike. Her breasts were comically large, each dwarfing her head. They weighed so much, she had now to walk leaning backwards to preserve her centre of gravity. They stood off her chest like a windowbox, staying perfectly motionless however she moved, and were almost oblate. Her lips, too, she had "improved". She looked like a caricature of a woman - swollen in every dimension and lacking the merest hint of humanity. But now the work poured in.

She still shot movie after movie, but now the better magazines were after this freak. Playboy paid her to pose, and in the issue she stands, with deliciously unintentional irony, leaning against a fake rubber plant, the cubes on her chest angled towards the camera, one hand curled around her shiny cunt. She started to appear with numbing regularity in the tabloids. No longer did she just stand smiling on page 3, now she was recounting her sexual experiences with footballers and the sort of Z-rate celebrities she hadn't been willing to become herself, or just showing off the latest enhancement to her body. For now, trips to the surgeon were so regular, you could almost base a calendar on them. I only realised I loved Alice when I still collected every product this monstrous creature endorsed.

When finally everything crashed down, and she had to have those nearly rupturing silicone sacks that cheap butcher had crammed into her removed, she begged me to help, and I acquiesced. The day of her operation, I dismissed my staff. They were shocked and reluctant, but I paid their excellent salaries and they had no choice. The only person I kept on was the anaesthetist, my best friend and the only man I could trust with what I was going to do.

And now I wrought my greatest work, operating with astonishing skill and dazzling quickness. Like before, it was a dangerous procedure, but I assure you, with complete neutrality, I never doubted for a moment that I would be successful. It was as if I recognised my limits and saw them as false and puerile and just dashed through them, to the point where I was no longer a surgeon, but a minor god. Without a doubt, though it was the work that ended my career it was also its crowning moment.

When the girl came round, again after may failed attempts, I greeted her as before.

"Miss Derby, the operation was a complete success."

She was too numbed by drugs to realise what I had said.

When I heard clotted screams coming from her room, I knew she had woken properly and realised what I had done. I had taken the world's whore, the laughable sex goddess, and turned her back into plain and wondrous Alice Derby. I wondered how I could have ever found her plain, and as I sat by her bed, my face scratched where, in her frenzy, she had tried to claw out my eyes, I told her how I loved her and not the curiousity she had become. How we could get married and she could find a career that didn't involve her swallowing miles of cock and gallons of come. Some of Alice Derby's collectedness had returned to her, if nothing else, and she coldly checked herself out of my care. The next day, from a law firm whose partners seemed to spill profusely from the letterhead, I was informed I was being sued.

It didn't take long for the case to come to trial, but by then she was already on the road to exceeding even her laughable former incarnation. In court, she bulged next to her barristers, bulging shinily like an overinflated balloon. My medical license was suspended for five years, though in the end the immensity of Derby/Debrette's fortune meant the judge didn't choose to give her much of mine. I think, too, the judge secretly thought I had been right to curb the excess of this tumourous being.

Last night, two months before I get back my medical license, the news announced that Alisha Debrette, heir to the Derby fortune and, with a verbal hitch like a wink to the camera, glamour girl had died while undergoing surgery to further enlarge her breasts. By now, she had so transformed that even the adult movies didn't want her and the papers only featured her through incredulity. My darling Alice had become a joke. She left all her money, roughly two hundred million pounds, to the adult film production company that had spurned her.

I've already sorted out where I will start work. I'm joining Medicin Sans Frontier, to actually help people rather than corrupt them, and though it will mean an end to colossal pay checks, fine meals and finer wine, I find myself immeasurably richer.

Author's Note:

No matter who you may think this story is based on, you are wrong. Alice Derby/Alisha Debrette is entirely my own creation and I hope everyone can see that she is in no way inspired by or a comment on any of the girls who adorn various magazines or occupy space in our tawdry, British tabloids. If there is a message I'd like to rub in, it's that these women can only exist because our society endorses and implicitly encourages them, and for some, this encouragement is a tragic thing.

This story is dedicated to the memory of a person very dear to me, who I am not going to name, and to the people who miss that person. I only wish it could be better.

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