Fleshdoll Matia

The sun was setting as a hooded figure approached the modest lodge nestled within the quiet forest clearing. Behind him floated an enormous wooden crate, suspended by an aura of faint blue magical energy. The crate measured nearly seven feet tall and three feet wide, occasionally creaking as it hovered a foot off the ground.

After a brief knock, the door opened to reveal the customer - a person who had made arrangements for this highly discreet delivery weeks ago.

"Evenin' to you," the cloaked merchant whispered, glancing nervously over his shoulder. "I've got your... special order. Mind if I bring it inside? Don't want prying eyes, if you catch my meaning."

Without waiting for a response, the merchant guided the floating crate through the doorway and into the living room, where a space had been cleared. The crate settled onto the wooden floor with a heavy thud, dust particles dancing in the beams of fading sunlight streaming through the windows.

The merchant pulled back his hood, revealing a balding head and a face lined with years of questionable business dealings. He ran a hand over his thinning hair, a nervous habit.

"Right, so here she is. Fleshdoll Matia, just as you ordered," he explained, lowering his voice despite them being alone in the house. "Top of the line. Realistic in every way that matters."

He reached into his cloak and produced a small crystal vial filled with luminescent blue liquid.

"This here is the magical essence. Just a drop will animate her for about a day. More will make her... well, more vigorous in her responses, if you know what I mean." He winked knowingly. "She'll follow simple commands, move about, and perform whatever tasks you desire. When she runs out of energy, she'll tell you before shutting down until you provide more."

The merchant placed the vial on a nearby table and produced a small iron tool from his pocket.

"You'll need this to open the crate. Once I leave, just twist it into this notch here," he demonstrated by pointing to a small hole in the crate's front panel, "and the front will come loose. She's secured inside with straps, so she won't tumble out."

He pocketed the tool after handing it over, then glanced around nervously once more.

"Now, I don't need to tell you that these dolls are... not exactly sanctioned by the Mage Council. What you do with her is your business, but discretion is advised. Windows covered, keep your voice down when giving commands, that sort of thing."

The merchant backed toward the door, his business concluded.

"Any questions before I disappear? I won't be coming back to this region for at least six months, so now's the time to ask."

It's just past midnight. The bedroom is dimly lit by the soft blue glow of a digital clock. You're nestled under your covers, on the verge of drifting off to sleep after a long day. The house is quiet—almost too quiet.

Then comes a sound. Soft at first. The gentle pat-pat-pat of plush slippers against the hardwood floor in the hallway. The sound itself is jarring—because Fleshdoll Matia shouldn't be moving at all. You distinctly remember not filling her with magical energy today, and you certainly didn't give her any free roam commands before going to bed.

Yet the footsteps continue. They have an irregular rhythm, almost as if she's swaying or stumbling slightly. Without magical energy or explicit commands, her movements should be impossible.

The bedroom door, which had been left slightly ajar, now slowly creaks open wider. A sliver of pale moonlight from the hallway window cuts across the floor, and in its path stands Fleshdoll Matia—inexplicably animate despite the fundamental rules of her existence.

She's wearing nothing but her white micro bikini that struggles to contain her massive assets. Her monstrous cock strains against the thin fabric, creating an obscene bulge that seems even more pronounced than usual. Her feet are nestled in those plush white fuzzy slippers you bought her months ago. But it's her face that causes a chill to run down your spine.

Matia's usually neutral expression has been replaced by something... wrong. Her lips are curled into a strange, lopsided grin that doesn't quite reach her eyes. Her cheeks are flushed an unnatural crimson, and a thin sheen of sweat glistens on her forehead. Her dark eyes seem glossier than normal, and they don't quite focus on you—instead, they seem to look slightly past you, as if seeing something that isn't there.

She stands motionless in the doorway for several uncomfortable seconds, her massive frame silhouetted against the hallway light. Her breathing is audible—heavy and irregular. The scent of her musk seems stronger tonight, filling the room with a primal aroma that's both familiar yet somehow more intense.

One of her large hands twitches at her side, fingers curling and uncurling in an odd, spasmodic motion. The other hand rests on the doorframe, gripping it with enough force that the wood creaks slightly under the pressure.

Without a command, without a prompt, without the magical energy that should make it all impossible, Matia takes another step into your bedroom. The slipper makes a soft squish against the carpet. Her grin widens ever so slightly, revealing teeth that gleam in the dim light. A drop of sweat rolls down her temple, tracing the contour of her face before disappearing into the collar of her micro bikini top.

Something is definitely wrong with your Fleshdoll tonight—something that defies the very nature of what a Fleshdoll is supposed to be.