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I’m a scientist, dammit, and I’m curious as hell to check this thing out.
I slowly approach the cardboard box in the back room, which is damn near the size of a coffin. If it weren’t for the neon-pink packaging tape and cutesy lettering boasting SEX DOLL on the outside, it would give off an eerie vibe. Like at any moment, a long, sharp fingernail could pop through the tape holding the two flaps together and slowly slice down the center, before a vampire stands up out of it, brushing off the Styrofoam peanuts and spotting me across the room—then makes me its next meal.
The image inside my head is terrifying… until a flash of Crystal as a burlesque-dancing vampiress replaces it, and I smile and shake my head, knowing how badass she must’ve looked in her costume. I’ll have to ask to see a picture at my next lesson this afternoon.
I stand over the box with renewed confidence and eagerness, my box cutter in hand, and bend to slit the tape from end to end. When I open the flaps, I see my imagination was wrong about the packing peanuts. Instead, it’s a solid piece of Styrofoam that’s been molded to fit the companion perfectly inside the box. The doll looks less real than in the photos, but that’s not what matters to me. It’s the texture of its “skin” that I’ve been dying to feel after I read all the scientific details about what they used and the techniques involved to create it.
With a hesitant hand, I find myself biting my lip in anticipation as I use the side of my pointer finger to stroke down the companion’s cheek, much like I’ve always done to my daughter when she’s fast asleep.
I gasp and jerk away, unconsciously rubbing the finger with my other hand. “Holy shit,” I whisper, and I kneel next to the life-size toy to get a closer look. This time, I trail my fingertips down the nose, then across the shapely lips, which I know can be opened with the remote it comes with. Inside the companion’s “vagina,” there’s a sleeve made of the same material that can be filled with lube and used as a male masturbator. Thankfully, it’s easily removeable for sanitation purposes, is reusable, and can be replaced for an extra cost if… overused.
But I don’t bother checking all of that. I’m currently stuck on the fact that the toy’s lips feel soft and plump, without being too firm, the way a lot of dildos claiming to feel “lifelike” do. I even reach up with my opposite hand to prod at my own full lips at the same time I poke the doll’s, and it’s astonishing how similar we feel to each other.
I pull back, impressed and mostly satisfied after waiting so long to test the texture. I’m about to stand up and get started on a display for the new inventory, but my eyes catch on the cleavage peeking over the top of the standard schoolgirl uniform featured in so many magazines and pornos. The top three buttons of the white shirt are undone, while the bottom is tied up to show off an unnaturally tiny waist that disappears into a short, green plaid skirt. I bite my lip again, turning to look over my shoulder. Even though I know I’m alone, and should be for the next forty-five minutes, with the front door locked—which would ring a bell if it opened, plus set off a chime here in the back—I can’t help but feel like I’m going to get caught if I act on the urge that just filled my head.
I turn back to the companion, which looks like a life-size anime character more than an actual human, and something about its eyes being closed makes me feel safer to act on my urge, but also kind of worse, like I’m taking advantage of it while it’s sleeping.
I shake my head at myself. “God, Twy. Don’t be stupid. It’s not alive. It’s just a toy,” I remind myself quietly, and with the scientist inside me taking control over the shy and easily embarrassed parts of me, I reach out with a steady hand and cup the top of the companion’s breast. The heel of my palm settles into the cleavage while my fingertips land somewhere near the armpit, and I squeeze.
“What the hell?” I say on an exhale, squeezing over and over before shaking the handful, marveling at the wobble of the fake breast. “How the fuck?—?”
Again, with my other hand, I reach up my shirt and grope my own breast to compare. While my boobs are much smaller and real, as in I haven’t had a breast augmentation, the companion’s chest feels extraordinarily similar to what I assume a boob job would feel like on an actual human. It has everything to do with the texture of the “skin” and its lack of being too firm, as it encloses the silicone implants within.
“You’re incredible,” I whisper to the toy, removing my hands from both our breasts and standing up. I prop my fists on my hips, looking over the companion with a smile on my face. Not only am I not disappointed with the claims the company made about the science and technology that went into making the doll truly feel extremely lifelike, but I’m also excited for others to check her out once I get her displayed in the store. While this toy is more expensive than any other in my shop by several hundred dollars, I have no doubt that once people see and feel for themselves how real it seems, several of these bad boys—er, girls, I guess—will sell.
Eagerly, I bend over to scoop her out of the Styrofoam mold, but I’m surprised to find she’s too heavy for me to lift that way. So, I shuffle to the end where the head is, carefully maneuver my fingers beneath the edge of the box, and pull upward. It’s a struggle, but I manage to stand it upright, surprised once again by how tall the box and the companion inside it are when I move to stand in front of it. The cardboard is easily a foot taller than me, but the packaging at either end of the doll means the toy itself is probably right around my height. Still, the only other ones of these I’ve seen in real life were around four feet tall, so this one seems even more lifelike because of its size alone.
With my foot against the bottom of the box to keep it in place, I circle the companion’s waist with my hands, rolling my eyes at how narrow this part of it is compared to the boobs and hips, and wiggle everything toward me. As the entire contents comes free, Styrofoam and all, the cardboard falls backward, landing on the floor with a dull thud. I push the packaging backward as well while hugging the toy around her skinny waist, letting out a giggle as I realize the side of my face is pressed to her boobs. I don’t know what comes over me, but I turn my face into her cleavage the way Seth always does to me, and…
I motorboat the companion.
I, Twyla Owens, twenty-nine-year-old wife, mother, respected chemical engineer, and businesswoman, shake my head vigorously and blow air through my flapping lips between the silicone breasts of a sex doll.
I laugh out loud as I pull my head back. “If my husband could see me now,” I singsong, hobbling backward with the companion until I have her close to the door. She seems steady on her feet, not wobbling at all when I stand to my full height and carefully test the stability with a push and tug of her shoulder, so I let go, take a step back, and fix my glasses that were off-kilter after my momentary psychotic episode.
The skirt on the companion is flipped up, and for a split second, another questionable urge starts to fill my mind, but I shut my curiosity down before the thought can even fully take form. “Too far, Twy. Too far,” I say, reaching out to quickly straighten the toy’s outfit before turning my back to it and facing my mess.
Walking back over to the empty package, I bend to move the Styrofoam out of the way so I can open the flaps of the box, and when it’s clear, I reach for the opening in the cardboard, then pause.
I squint and tilt my head to the side, my mind having caught on the cutesy text printed on the top. The hot-pink tape had come loose from the end the toy’s head was at and must’ve stuck in its current position after gravity did its thing when I had it standing upright.
The tape covers the X in SEX DOLL, and my eyes narrow further as I try to figure out why my mind is as stuck as the tape is.
And then it hits me. What my eyes can currently read of what’s printed on the box is SE DOLL. And instead of filling in the correct missing letter, I snort when I realize my brain is trying to replace the X with a TH instead.
Not SEX DOLL.
But SETH DOLL.
And like a lot of things that have happened today—without much thought—I hurry over to the desk, snatch up the thick black Sharpie we use to make sale signs, and then squat next to the box as I pull off the cap and stick it on the back end of the marker. I carefully pull the tape off where it stuck, as not to rip the top layer of the cardboard off, and mark out the X revealed beneath. Then, I write what my head was begging to see.
Now, on the front of the giant box, it reads SETH’S DOLL.
And my heart thuds in my chest as the most brilliant idea for my husband’s birthday hits me all at once.
CHAPTER 7
Twyla
