Sherrie's Dollhouse

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of the characters to persons living or dead is purely coincidental and unintended.

This story may be hard for you to believe. As it unfolded, I was in disbelief myself.

To introduce myself: I'm a 54-year-old wildlife photographer of short and lean stature, recently retired. Very few people in the small town I choose to retire in know that my work has appeared in National Geographic, the Audubon Society magazine, Nature magazine, and many others. Beyond that, I still have a steady and considerable income from my stock photos and from doing photography workshops. During my heyday, I traveled the world -- everywhere from the Antarctic to the Aleutian Islands to Alabama. My thousands of hours laying in wait in cold or hot blinds (or in cramped kayaks) to get that perfect shot were not kind to my body, and that's why I had to retire. Derry is my name.

I was born and raised in northern England, and have never lost my accent. Here in America, women often seem to like that.

My choice of town to retire in was pure serendipity. My Prius broke down here, and while a small repair was being accomplished, I ate at a local restaurant. I'm usually not in a fine humor, but for some reason, the waitress there, the other patrons, and children, too, seemed unusually wonderful, happy, and welcoming. I was euphoric.

I took that as a sign.

Because I have only one living close relative (who now lives abroad), and although I had a series of wonderful affairs over my years (mostly with nature lovers like myself), I never married or had children (to my knowledge, anyway). In my new town, after I began volunteering through two service clubs, women of my age approached me, but they seemed too prosaic and middling.

Nearly every day, I'm out walking with my camera (a low-end one so as not to attract attention), usually around the several lakes that dot the area. One day, I had been photographing birds, ducks, and some of the adjoining fruit groves. I was about halfway through my walk on a gravel lakeside path, and after completing some shots, I instinctively looked behind me and saw a short woman approaching from behind. After I continued to walk and stopped again to take another carefully framed shot, she was about to pass me. She was rather nondescript, with longish dark brown hair, a loose zipper sweater and dark trousers. Her face was somewhat pretty, with larger lips than the average, and I gauged her age as about 30. As I do with anyone, I said "Hello."

There was no response. She didn't even look at me. So I said again, in a louder voice, "HELLO." I figured there was something in her past, or someone had told her not to respond to male strangers. Still, I had to force the issue.

"Hello," she finally responded as she passed me.

That was good enough for me. I made sure not to follow her too closely, so as not to scare her. But it was she who stopped after a while to look out into the lake. As I was about to walk by, she asked, "Do you know what those ducks are out there?"

I looked through my telephoto lens, and quickly replied, "Mergansers. Funny looking, aren't they?"

"Kind of. Say, I just want to apologize for not saying hello at first to you back there. I wasn't very friendly."

"That's all right, no need to apologize."

"I think you must be a good photographer."

"Just an amateur."

This was the first time, during my first year in this town, that I'd carried on a conversation with a solo woman on any of my walks. This meeting was going from perfunctory to somewhat warm rather fast, and I was a bit disconcerted.

"Do you live in town?" she asked.

"Over near the shopping center."

"My name is Sherrie."

"Derry, here."

With that, she extended her hand as though to shake mine, but instead of releasing my hand, she, with her other hand also, pressed our hands together. There we were, holding hands (a little awkwardly, to my mind). She smiled.

"I know I'm a little forward, but I obey my instincts, and I can feel you're a good man. Do you mind?"

"Of course not." I smiled a little smile.

"I could use someone to talk to today," she admitted.

"A problem?" I asked, concerned that she was being abused or something.

"No, nothing real serious. It's just that I spend a lot of time alone, don't have many friends, and sometimes talk to myself too much." At her prompt, we had begun walking -- an older man with a young woman half his age -- still holding hands. Her hand was warm.

"What would you like to talk about?"

"You see, I'm a children's book writer. I make my living at it. Of course, you've never heard of Sherrie Flowers, have you?"

"No, sorry, I'm not knowledgeable about children's books."

The longer I was holding her hand, I'll admit, the more I was feeling the stirrings of sexual attraction. Her seeming guilelessness was melting my usual reserve.

"I spend too much time in a child's world, and that doesn't mesh well with being an adult. People don't understand where I'm coming from. They think I'm too childish myself."

Perhaps she sees me as a nonthreatening father figure, I thought. She's unloading on me. That's all right.

"I think being like a child can be charming sometimes," I offered.

"And guys have come on to me, thinking I'm this simple stupid girl who will be easy to seduce -- another reason why I'm more and more withdrawn into a child's world."

"Well, I'm glad you can be so honest with me, Sherrie. You can talk to me anytime."

"Oh, thank you. Again, my apologies about invading your space. I don't suppose you want to be seen holding my hand like this. In small towns like this people can talk."

"Sherrie, don't worry, I'm not married."

As a result of this chance meeting, Sherrie invited me to her home that very afternoon. She lived in an apartment complex in the new part of town -- a rather upscale development, not gated, but nicely landscaped, architecturally varied, and in dark brown hues. She was on the second floor, and her large apartment had a nice view of a lake.

Now, she was dressed more attractively, with a gray cashmere sweater and mid-length Scottish-plaid wool skirt. Her hair was now double braided, with the braids running back behind her neck. Now I could see more evidence of her breasts. She smiled.

"Welcome to my place -- which I call Briarwood Glen, Derry," she said as I entered. I had brought a bottle of Rose wine.

"Thanks so much for the wine. So thoughtful. But I drink very little wine or liquor, I'm afraid."

"OK."

After holding my hand briefly again, she showed me around her Glen. There were many mementos of her, perhaps, dozen books. There were author awards, commendations from her publishers, and framed book reviews, which, not surprisingly, were the Briarwood series for kids six through 10. Adding to that were framed original artworks from her female artist contributor.

She showed me her oaken writing desk, with a cozy antique lamp on a swiveling arm.

This was the living room. The other major room was a dining room, and I was quite taken by surprise. Here was a large oak table. Surrounding it, and seated in old-style chairs, were dolls, maybe three-fourths the size of real children, seated all around. There were four of them, all girls, and they were nicely and cleverly clothed in fascinating late-1800s fashions. Next to them were two mature women dolls, also in the antique dresses of the day -- covering their bodies from ankles and wrists to necks with flounced and shiny fabrics.

"Welcome to my little family," Sherrie said gayly. "They keep me company, and they're often the inspiration for my books."

I didn't want to make fun, but I did say, "Now your personality is coming more into focus. This is quite a fantasy lived out, Sherrie. It's like living in another world. I feel privileged you've allowed me into it."

"So nicely said, Derry. My 'girls' and their moms were custom made by a person in Ireland. They all have names of course, but I wouldn't expect you to remember them. But when you leave today, I'll give you one of my books so you can follow what I'm into."

"Thank you." I was thinking of the wonderful series of photos I might take of her and her dolls.

"Now, would you like to share some tea and scones with me and my family?"

I sat next to the adult dolls at the table, while she sat at the head, presiding, as it were. I enjoyed the cute lunch, and being a tea aficionado, enjoyed that too. I will admit, though, that sitting next to almost life-size dolls was a bit eerie, like being in a Chucky movie. Besides talking with me, Sherrie also talked to her dolls in a whimsical way.

She wondered what I do for a living. I fudged a bit, saying I'd been a photo editor at a stock photo agency.

"So you do know a lot about photography, don't you?" she asked.

"I'm a good judge of photos," I admitted. "Say, maybe sometime you'd let me take some photos of you all."

"Hmmm. Maybe sometime."

When we were through, and excused ourselves from the table, Sherrie had me sit on an, yes, antique sofa with her to watch a children's TV special that had been based on one of her books.

"We hoped it would turn into a series, but never got that far," she offered. "Still, it was so much fun working with animators and voice actors."

While watching the fun production, she slid next to me to cuddle. It had been a long time since a woman had been close to me in that way; I felt quite warm and attracted. But why me, twice her age? Again, I thought I must be a safe father for her.

She began nuzzling my neck. After the show was over, we petted a little. I tried putting my hand on a breast but she carefully re-directed it. She deftly maneuvered herself over me and we began gently and teasingly kissing. An earnest erection presented itself, but I didn't want to follow its lead and scare away this unique and young woman. She nibbled on my ear without tonguing it.

And that was it.

She eventually made it clear my visit was over, and sent me away with some scones and cookies, asking if I wanted to visit her and her family again, "in this different little world of mine."

I said I loved it all, and would love to return.

Next time, we arranged to meet on the same trail we'd originally met on, next to the lake. This time she had one of her big doll kids in a cute little stroller -- antique, of course. Apparently she could easily afford all these vintage things. The kid's name, she informed me, was Debbie. She carried on conversations with both me and the fashionably attired doll.

As I recall the conversation: "Debbie, dear, I hope you're enjoying our walk. Do you want your bottle now? You do like Derry don't you? He's such a nice man to walk with us. We shouldn't stay out too long, should we? You might get sunburned. We always take very good care of you, Debbie."

"Derry, isn't Debbie behaving so well today? Isn't she the most polite little girl?"

Sherrie's just a little crazy, I thought. But she makes it work somehow. She's making a good living for herself. And I want to play with her some more.

I enjoyed several more visits to her apartment over the next few months, with just about the same routine each time. I found myself getting more erotically attracted to her, and detected she unconsciously knew her power over me and was innocently taking advantage of it. I guessed she liked my lack of male aggression and my acceptance of her quirks. It was as though she'd brought me into her world, and somehow wanted me to be part of her "family"!

I played along because I was always rewarded with some physical intimacy. She always decided how far to go, which never went beyond first base.....

During my next visit, though, things took a new turn.

Note: the next installments are already written and will be posted shortly!