Ivan Kass

Porcelain

Anna looked like a Victoria’s Secret angel and one of the porcelain dolls of his mother’s china cabinet, and a very fuckable renaissance angel, Mike thought, as he saw the young, petite woman walk into the bar. 

She had long blonde hair, with a slight curl, and a curvaceous body that was clearly designed for him, Mike Peters specifically, to pick up and fuck against a wall with his vigorous, robust, 6’3 body and 8 inch cock. 

A fucktoy, he thought, stiffening in his business casual khakis, to be used by anyone, but also specifically for him. (Anna and Mike had been introduced at an alternative lifestyle mixer by a mutual friend.) 

Anna was 5’2, and slender, which meant that Mike could pick her up and do whatever he wanted with her, which was very attractive. Mike already loved that Anna was so much smaller than him. Like a sickly deer, grazing at the edge of the meadow, ready to be destroyed by him, a ravenous alpha wolf. 

“Hello.” Anna sat down next to him at the bar. Pencil skirt. White block heels. She smelled like a woman. Musk, iris, violet. He tutted to himself. This girl was playing at being an adult. “How was your day? We just finished up a project at my job.”  

“Oh, fine. The usual. Nothing I want to talk about on dates” (Mike had yelled at the department’s administrative assistant for not giving the PDF attachments specific names, and had gotten a light talking to from HR regarding the incident with the graphic designer.) “Did you say you were in school?”

“No, I’ve been working for a while.” She looked at him with her big innocent blue eyes.

“So young.” 

She smiled. “I’m friends with Crystal, you know. You can’t be that much older, can you?” 

Mike was 42. “What will you be drinking tonight?” 

“Oh, whatever, a whisky sour, a rose.” 

The bartender came, and carded Anna, to Mike’s pleasure. Mike then ordered Anna a Dirty Shirley Temple, winking at her. Anna nodded at him, with a nervous smile.

Anna had fragile ankles, Mike saw, porcelain doll ankles, bony, and clearly paper white (like her face, white as a sheet) under Anna’s stockings. He thought about how easy it would be to grip her narrow bones in his big hairy hands, his bludgeoning fingers snaking around her, making it impossible for her to escape, like a helpless maiden in a Victorian movie, casting him as the virile, powerful man. 

They talked about work, and the outer technicalities of kink, for a while, Mike talking at length about the leatherwork convention he was going to. Mike’s phone buzzed. An email from work – the administrative assistant had put in her two weeks. He snorted, and ordered another drink. 

Anna didn’t drink as much as Mike would have liked, but she made an affirmative noise when Mike suggested they go for a walk, and to his pleasure she appeared uncomfortable walking in her heels after a few blocks. 

“Won’t you come in for some tea?” Mike asked. 

Anna looked Mike up and down, as if appraising him. (Anna was, in her head, doing internal calculus as if the man would be worth the trouble – supposedly, he was very good in bed, but Anna was increasingly imagining Mike had only strictly technical abilities. Crystal would be annoyed if Anna did not have a glowing review of Mike, but Crystal had not gotten laid in the normie world for several years.) 

“Do you have oolong?” 

Mike grinned his alpha wolf predator grin, and imagined her porcelain skin shattering into pieces, breaking under his fists and feet. (He did not have oolong tea.)

***

The first thing Mike noticed, when Anna’s hands were on his massive eight inch cock, were how cold her hands were. They were bony and fragile, the way Mike liked his women’s hands, easily snappable in theory, but Anna’s hands were almost purple, and like ice, like she’d stuck her hands in a snowbank before jerking him off. He shuddered.

Anna looked up, stopping mid stroke, her Princess Elsa grip on the downside of the shaft.

“What’s up?” 

Mike shuddered. “Your hands are very cold.” 

“Oh, right, sorry, should we stop?” 

“Use your mouth.” 

He wanted to throw her off, force her down, mouth fuck her, but Crystal had taken him to a few workshops, and that was disapproved of without asking. “I want to fuck your slutty little mouth.” 

Anna looked up at him, blinking a few times, he imagined with a slutty, innocent, college-girl sultry act, but was actually with disbelief. 

“Um.”

She was actually wondering how far he would go, how much he would say to an acquaintance he’d been match-made with. “Give me a second.” She gave him a few instructions, and rolled her neck around a few times on her shoulders. There was an audible crack. 

Anna’s mouth was warm and wet, thank god, although Mike half expected it to be just as frozen as her hands. For the briefest second, Mike sat back and enjoyed it, enjoyed this tiny woman sucking him off, his hands over her hand, as if he were pushing her down on it (he had been strictly informed not to.) As if he were overtaking her, destroying her, undoing her, with spit and cum dripping down her pretty top and tights… 

Anna stopped and rolled her neck again. “Oral is really rough on my neck.” She said. “I just can’t do it like I used to, honestly.” 

“Used to?” 

“I’m not a teenager anymore.” She laughed, more to herself than him. “Unless you want to venmo me the chiropractor copay for tomorrow. I get so tight and it’s like my back turns into this spider of pain and I can barely work…” 

Mike exhaled. Fragile little fuckdolls were not supposed to have cold hands. Fragile little fuckdolls were not supposed to go to chiropractors. Fuckdolls were supposed to be tiny, perfect, and able to take any physical assault 42 year old men deemed appropriate for sexual acts and not ask for copays to be venmo’d afterwards. Christ, a fuckdoll was supposed to be the parent’s insurance problem, not his. Fuckdolls weren’t even supposed to know what insurance was. 

“Let’s just fuck.” 

“Can you get me off first?” 

Mike performed his high technical performance of clit rubbing with a mixture of lube and a high powered vibrator, with a rote routine he’d gotten down. He had some dirty talk, but Anna had actually asked him to stop talking. 

The fucking was fine, once they’d gotten to it, although Anna had complained about the positions several times, and eventually insisted on a sensible, efficient method that felt best for her, and certainly did not flower herself open to his maximum cock-coverage preferences. To Mike’s great disappointment, while Anna was slender, she had some weight and muscles somewhere, and was not actually a person-sized fleshlight that he could pick up on his cock and spin around to his every whim. Anna’s cunt was as warm as her mouth, but to Mike, her cunt might as well have been covered in frost, for all that it catered to him. 

He was close. He thrust harder, like he was going to impale her, and she made a very unsexy sound. 

“Ow, dude, that hurts.” 

“I’m close.”

He remembered the workshop at the kink convention. People got angry about unwanted pain during sex. This would result in hysterical tattooed women writing angry blog posts about him. then he wouldn’t be as popular at alternative lifestyle parties, he pulled out. “I’ll finish myself off.” 

“Okay.” 

She sat up, to Mike’s eyes with frigid, priggish thirst, but to another’s eyes would be watching with a glazed spectator glance, the way someone watches an old man argue with a bus driver at nine in the morning. 

As Mike came, he had the strangest thought, about the time he broke his mother’s china cabinet when he was a teenager. It had been an accident, and yet, after the act had been done, he’d taken such a pleasure in crushing the doll’s faces under his boots, shattering the delicately crafted faces, shards crunching and cracking and breaking. His mother had been heartbroken. She’d never collected dolls after that. It gave him a certain pleasure, the same way he’d been elated when she’d dropped out of grad school, to keep an eye on him and his little sister, after the fire happened. 

***

Mike got a light talking-to, the next day about work, about the administrative assistant quitting. 

“You can’t just treat the support staff like they’re disposable,” The HR girl told him. “We’re trying to reduce turnover, I’m sure this one won’t leave a glassdoor review, because it was her first job, but the next one might.” 

Mike snorted. $15 an hour was disposable. “Of course.” 

He found himself in a thrift store on his break, drawn to the ceramics aisle. He found a small porcelain doll, with blonde hair and a vaguely sultry air. He bought it, and took it to the parking lot, and stomped on it until it was nothing but powder.