\n\t\t\t\t\tpoiuytrew is collaborating with me on the lighting and shading and I can't wait to display the end result! Likewise, I am grateful to , who offered the story that follows (with some minor edits from myself). You may consider this to be the unofficial sequel to our previous collaboration together.
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It was sorry. It was oh so very sorry.
It knew that a proper toy had to be shiny. That rubber body was made to be pretty and eye catching. The kind of thing which would make its owner squeal and squee with joy every time. It didn’t matter if its owner neglected that rubber coating or what messes were put on to that black sheen to dull it. There was no excuse for being anything less than squeaky and shiny.
It knew that a proper toy had to be eager. The only reason it existed was to please. It had no other use, no worth, no purpose. It was wet holes and a shiny body. The thick paste fed into its body and used to charge it was there only to make sure that its rubbery body was primed and eager to go. It should be wet and trembling and eager to obey no matter what happened. Otherwise there was no reason for it to exist.
It knew it had to be pleasing. However its owner wanted to dress toy up, those snaps and zips and nano-seals were all there for one reason. To make sure it was a useful toy for whatever its owner desired. If it meant taking the thickest cocks down its throat or up its rubbery fuck holes without any added resistance then Toy was to take it. If it was to gag and choke or clench and grind with every last ounce of energy in its body, then that was what toy would do. That was what toy was made for.
It knew it had to suffer. Its Owners liked it when it suffered, when it feel bad or uncomfy or hurty. Ever since the day it was bought toy could remember how happy owner was when it gagged for air on a thick warm shaft. Eyes watering behind the thick rubber eye-patches that blinded it to anything but the smell and taste of cum. It could remember the sweet sting of electricity shooting though the thick metal rings in its nipples. That aching burning sensation which drew sweet screams any time it was permitted to have its mouth ungagged while enduring the pain. Even the odd pain of being bound up tight and shoved into the closet to wait for the next time it was useful made the doll feel some form of gratitude, if a toy could be said to be capable of feeling gratitude.
It knew it was nothing. Above all, the well-used rubberdoll knew it had no greater purpose, meaning, or intrinsic value. It was a thing, an appliance, an object to be used. If toy had fingers it would have touched itself thinking that. But that wasn’t what a dolly was supposed to do, at least not without people watching. It was made to be ready and useful. Nothing more. Just a dolly of warmth and rubber. Even the barcode. That pretty, perfect, captivating band of varying stripes printed above its main hump hole showed that toy was nothing more than a product. It was a fact so obvious that some small part of her always wondered why it felt so good to dwell on.
Thanks to its conditioning, it knew all of these things and more. Facts so simple and basic and absolute that the possibility of questioning them was nothing more than a confused knot grinding around in the space where a real being would have a mind. A mix of sensations that didn’t add up to its poor doll brain and only grew worse with the harsh edge of arousal that it imparted. An edge fed by one new fact, no less true than any other.
It knew it was bad.
It didn’t know how, or when, or why. But it was in the toy box. The toy box was where bad dollies went. Dollies who didn’t suffer enough. Dollies who didn’t shine enough. Dollies who didn’t have pretty tears in their eyes after hours of use or who didn’t scream sweetly enough. It was toy's fault. It had to be. That was the only logical conclusion. The most arousing conclusion. Yet here the thing lay at the bottom of the toy box. Unbound. Ungagged. Not even good enough to bother stuffing or sealing. There were sounds on the floor above the box, the familiar rustle and clatter of the room being cleaned up and reorganized. Leather and rubber hung carefully on hooks or hangers that slid and scratched down the wardrobe bar. The soft ruffling and swiffing of vinyl sheets and clatter of chains being put back on their respective spools for later use. The whole world above the lop-eared doll bustling lively while it simply lay quiet and still.
A gloved hand briefly lifted the lid to the toybox and tossed another object inside with it. It recognized the familiar buzz and comforting bit of weight as the item came to rest against her right kneepad. Mr. Huffinhump. Another toy. A more favored toy. A toy that got to be cuddled in bed almost every night. Because it was more important than the bunny doll. More special, more fun. Toy gasped a deep breath of musky rubber air and shuddered happily. If Mr. Huffinhump was here, then that meant that it might be taken out again as well. Toy felt that little dolly heart thumping with confusing glee. A foreign and almost distasteful sensation which dredged up the wonderful old memories of squeals and sobs and pretty, machine-words like 'psychometric streamlining', 'kinesic training', 'surgical adaptation', 'synthetic conversion' and 'processing'. Some half-remembered dream of some sort that still lingered in its mind. This new sliver of hope gave the toy that same sensation and it couldn’t help but shudder as it wallowed in that.
The line of thought then cut itself short as the concealed hatch of the box was lifted up. The red eyes of the dolly looked up from the nice little shimmies of Mr. Huffinhump’s big, vibrating silicone shaft. A slender figure fully sealed in a rubber maid uniform loomed over the box, an armful of odds and ends clutched in her arms. It all came crashing down unceremoniously. Leather straps and thick rubber toys. Floggers and thin chains. The hollow shell of a smaller TENS units and countless other things all bounced and scattered off the obediently still body of the bunny doll. Heaping the wonderful, horrible weight of other objects on top of it.
As the maid retreated to grab another armful to dump in, it grew fearful. It knew it had been bad. And it was sorry.