“There. Welcome home, Sniper.”

As they kissed my lips which could not kiss back, I felt, at last, my long-sought, threat-free love. In my years as a professional living doll I can’t count how many times I’ve been brought home by a fan who’d dreamed of a night with the original, but the consummation often fails to meet their expectations. Those who want a doll as a lover tend to be timid, shy of being touched, more comfortable with plastic and make-believe. I’ve made myself as benign as possible: hairless, childlike, not strongly gendered either way, and I always let myself be dressed, be fed, be led, but I still touch back, kiss back by reflex, have the potential to be active. That potential spoils the illusion, like when you know a ba’sib is in earshot in the next room, and the fact distracts you even if they do nothing. As long as I could act, Owners weren’t as safe with me as with my dolls. Bondage doesn’t solve this, makes it worse, actually, since the bonds are just reminders of the power they’re restraining. Here, though, with my power not constrained but gone, my Owner was as comfortable as when you sit naked in an empty house, or sing in the bathroom, so I tasted at last that easy affection which only dolls and dildos had enjoyed before. I could feel how much it was changing me even as it happened, the granting of such a visceral wish rewiring things inside my mind, not just the conscious iceburg tip but down into those black depths that even Brillists barely understand. At the time, Thisbe and Eureka hadn’t told the rest of the bash’ about their “black hole” in Paris or what lurks in it, so I had no way to recognize that this was trickle-down of the same threat. My Owner didn’t study with Madame D’Arouet, but absorbed through the growling Gift-giver the same techniques, as through some dark umbilical: sniff out the forbidden appetites that people don’t admit they have, and make them so real that afterward the normal world feels dull as black and white. Mycroft showed you how Chair Kosala and the Anonymous can’t kindle the fire anymore without their ‘he’s and ‘she’s and lace and waistcoats. Mycroft was right to use the word ‘addiction.’

“And now for the real mystery.” My Owner’s hands traced a slow path down my sides toward the second packing strip which protected my most private parts. They glanced over their shoulder at the Gift-giver. «You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?»

«Actually, I already saw.» The Gift-giver stood behind my Owner, also masked, and with a black cloak which hid everything but a spot of shadowed throat. «Apologies for not waiting for Your Holiness, but I had to towel it off and get it boxed up. It was quite suspenseful, the rumors being so contradictory.»