#doll sub

My Carver rubs a damp cloth against the sole of my foot; it’s soft and it tickles a little, but I know I can stay still. He presses his thumbs into my arch, his touch firm. For a moment, he digs in, the pleasant pressure turning painful, but he’s quick to move on. I’m sure he’s just checking how much I’ll flinch.

I lay on my back, unmoving save for my breathing. This is my doll cleaning and I am a doll so I must stay still.

Perfectly still.

He runs the cloth over my sole again and runs it between each of my toes. His thumbs press into the ball of my foot, his movements repetitive, starting at the center and curving out.

After one more pass with the cloth, he moves to my other foot, repeating his routine.

And then up, his cloth moving around my ankles and calves.

My body moves with him as he lifts my legs and bends my knee so that he can get the backside. I keep my body in the new position.

I am a good doll.

His cloth moves methodically down my legs, starting at the top of my thigh and trailing down to my ankle over and over until every inch has been cleansed.

With my eyes closed, I can envision a string winding through my body, keeping me all together. My body is wood, shaped and cared for by my Carver. Always ready to be played with, always ready to be painted and customized.

I imagined the damp cloth was polish, giving me a new shine. And I knew next there would be some tinkering at my joints, both ticklish and sharp. And then probably another round of polish.