It’s a house party for witches, and you thought you’d just be able to enjoy a calm and relaxing evening with a couple friends, something of a break from the chaos of managing the affairs of your own house. The host, however, seems to have something more in mind for you.
The expensive whisky loosens you up and makes you pliable for your two friends when they coax you over to the couch and start putting their hands on you.
This isn’t what you had in mind, but you’re feeling so relaxed, and the attention is awfully flattering, after all.
They’ve got you sandwiched between them, and isn’t it starting to feel rather warm with all these bodies pressed close together?
Your friend moves her leg across your body to straddle you, and you try to bring the sharpness of your will into focus again, but…
Something stops you. Not a wall, a soft redirection, an insistent urging to let things happen. She’s locked eyes with you, and you’re too drunk to push back on her magic with yours. You open your mouth to speak, and it’s fingers slipping inside rather than words slipping out.
That’s how she slips the pill in. Two fingers pushing a hand-pressed tablet over your tongue and down your throat. You reflexively gag, but soon it’s inside you, and you have no idea what it could be…
“Good doll,” the witch says, holding you down with her hands and her will.
When the drug takes hold of you, she requires neither.
They have you lying sideways, head resting on the soft chest of your other friend while she plays with your hair and the host slowly undoes each of the buttons on your dress. Something firm presses into your lower back.
Your ability to struggle dwindles, and then your ability to feel distress about that helplessness soon follows, and eventually even the awareness fades of how helpless you truly are.
Then you simply are.
Still and quiet.
At peace.
They unwrap you like a present that happened to offer itself to them and discard your clothing in a pile out of their way.
Their exploring touches lose the pretense of seduction and grab hungrily at the softest places on your body.
Hot skin presses against you from behind and in front. The two witches may have undressed themselves fully at some point, but they’ve pushed your head to a convenient angle, and all you see is a table in the other room bearing the tumbler you emptied earlier.
It’s so easy to let them use you however they please when you aren’t offered the burden of a choice, isn’t it? They push your limbs where they need to go. They spread you and mount you.
You don’t need to do a single thing at all; you can’t possibly mess up or get it wrong.
Time grows as slick as the sweating bodies pressed against you, slipping past with hardly any notice at all, and their fun runs its course in the blink of an eye.
Perhaps more time passes. That’s alright. The passage of time doesn’t hurt when you’re like this.
A distant creak signals the opening of the front door. More guests begin to arrive. Words drift to your ears, fragments of conversation implying something your mind is content not to piece together.
“…so where’s this new doll of yours?”
The host leads more witches through your field of view—some you recognize, others you do not—and soon there is a small crowd gathered around you.
“Looks like it’s gotten some use already, hm?”
The host laughs and makes a remark that must be clever, based on the laughter.
Several compliment your pretty features, and then you’re passed around as a sort of party favor. Just part of the evening’s entertainment.
Witches have such varied appetites, and in your docile state, you do not object to satisfying any of them.
Some prefer you limp and lifeless, like the host and her partner who lured you in and plied you with fine liquor and promises of relaxation. They are easy to please, requiring no attention at all.
Others are more demanding.
You find yourself perfectly capable of moving as soon as one issues a command. You had never been truly immobile, of course, but without a reason to do anything, you had not felt the need to shift from wherever you were placed.
She tells you to kneel in front of her and demonstrate how skillful your mouth can be. The next one fills your throat and doesn’t care about your skill one bit. Another wraps her hand around your neck and wants you to suffer. You know how to imitate the emotion she demands.
Sometimes they swarm you in groups, using you more as a toy or a prop for them to better express affection for each other, rather than paying much attention to you specifically.
It’s all quite easy and natural for you to oblige them.
As the party winds down and the guests trickle away, their toy gets neglectfully pushed into the corner with its discarded wrapper to be cleaned up later.
And yet…
When all is truly done, the host and her partner find you, dripping and crumpled atop the clothes you entered with.
They pick you up and carry you to the bath, gently and carefully washing you up, though they could have simply commanded you to do so for yourself.
When the drug wears off (as it must, eventually—true dollhood takes more than a pill to inflict on someone), and your sense of self leaks drop by drop back into your eyes, you find yourself surrounded by soft blankets, in the warm embrace of your two friends who invited you.
In the morning you’ll thank them. A vacation from yourself turns out to be exactly what you’ve needed after all the planning and stress you’ve had to do lately. Right now, you won’t rouse them. You close your eyes and drift to sleep in comfort.
Actually tomorrow you’ll give them hell for the hangover you have to deal with. How much Stillness did they dose you with, as hard as that hit you?!
Fucking hell.