Nicki suggested, “Tell you what, chief. I’ll have to go up to the house and have
Anna put on my golfing costume for me. While we’re doing that, you could be
taking Fifi into the -well, we call it the “Pro’s Shop,” because we keep all the
clubs and things in there-and fix her up as caddie, with the golf bag and so
on.” “I’ll be glad to, but I don’t know what she’s supposed to wear.” “Oh,
that’s easy. I took a picture of her one day last year. It’s tacked up on the
wall in there.”
That made it simple enough. While my wife minced off along the winding path to
the house, following each turn with an ease and certainty that belied her lack
of sight, I was heading for the station wagon and Fifi.
I freed her from the “Reverse Hoop” slowly, of course; release from a strained
position is always painful unless slow. I left her helmet on and led her to the
Pro Shop by a rope through her wrists, which I left bound in front of her.
The photograph made everything simple. There was a golf bag full of clubs
leaning against the wall and some straps nearby; I placed the bag across the
arching small of her back, brought her arms around and under it, and ran a strap
from one wrist to the other across her waist in front. Thus she carried the bag
at a convenient height for putting clubs in and taking them out again. A huge
imitation golf ball, split in two halves was waiting on a bench. This I placed
over her head there was an opening for her neck-and joined the halves, as I did
so I noticed it was heavily padded inside to deaden sound. A deaf, dumb and
blind caddie, with a golf ball for a head is a very interesting sight.
While waiting for Nicki, I idly examined the clubs; about half of them were
oddly short, with head and shaft, but no grip, just a short screw thread.
I heard feminine footsteps behind me and turned to see Nicki entering the shop.
She had the use of her eyes again and was wearing a very interesting golfing
outfit, consisting of a very soft suede shirt, with half length sleeves and a
low-cut front. She also wore a matching skirt of suede, to about six inches
below the tops of her legs, but so tight that it pulled at every tiny step. Her
feet were poised on seven-inch heels attached to brown kid oxfords, and she had
a matching belt of the same leather about her wasp waist. Her hands were in
special brown kid gloves which reached almost to the elbows, and which fused
into one at the hands, holding them curled into fists, her right hand ahead of
her left. Then I realised what the short-shafted clubs were for. They screwed
into a fitting on the end of the glove-arrangement, which obviously communicated
with a club grip permanently held in her gloved fists. Under one arm she carried
what looked like an overgrown version of the mitten like bag that serious
golfers use to protect the heads of their wooden clubs.
“Ready?” she smiled, “I’ll explain the local rules on the way to the first tee.”
“Just a minute. How do I guide our blind caddie? She’s too deaf to follow us by
sound, and can’t see anything, either.” “Easy. Take a club, hook it between her
legs, and lead her. When you stop, she stops, and stands still till you hook on
again.” Away we went.
As we walked, Nicki explained that the girl players on this particular course,
in addition to being unable to use their hands for anything except using
whatever club their partners attached for them were also blind and preferably
gagged as well. It was up to the man to pick the right club for her, attach it,
then line her up with the ball for her shot and tell her how to stroke it. She
was allowed four times as many strokes as he. If she lost, and she nearly always
did, she had to pay whatever forfeit her partner required
We were at the first tee by now. I had guessed the function of the soft leather
bag beneath her arm and took it from her. Inside I found a big piece of red
sponge rubber, which I forced into her willing mouth. It was held in place by an
imitation golf ball on a thin strap, which I buckled so tightly behind her head
that the ball was forced all the way into her mouth, in spite of the bulky
packing already in place. She squirmed, tried to protest in pantomime but to no
avail. Then I took the bulky but soft leather bag and pulled it down over her
head, pulling the draw-string very tightly around her neck.
The golf game was delightful. The fact hat she could play at all was
astonishing’ but, provided I lined up her club-head properly her stokes were
amazingly accurate in direction but variable in distance. And always as we moved
around the short nine hole course, we were followed by our silent, deaf and
blind caddie who moved obediently at the end of my club or stood still as a
It’s not surprising that I won the game. But then that was the idea. Before
going into the house for a pre-dinner drink I took the two girls onto a nice
patch of lawn released their hands, but left their gags fin place, and tied them
for a cock-fight. I made them squat down, passed a short-shafted club behind
their knees, crooked their elbows around it, outside the knees, and then bound
their wrists together. With their feet free, yet unable to rise higher than a
crouch, they could only move with a duck like waddle. On the word “go,” each was
to try to knock the other over.
I allowed three falls, and Nicki won all of them, quickly barging her slower
opponent off balance. Once on her ride or back, of course, Fifi was as helpless
as a turtle that has been turned over, quite unable to regain her feet. “Okay,”
I stated on the third fall, “Nicki owes me a forfeit, Fifi owes Nicki a
forfeit.” Then I released them and we headed for the house and a drink.
As we came around the front of the house and up to the front door, my wife
“You haven’t met Anna, have you?”
“Not yet,” I answered, “but I’m looking forward to what I am sure will be a
As we reached the top of the steps, the front door opened, seemingly of its own
accord, and the little Chinese maid stepped forward to welcome us.
Like many Oriental girls, she was tiny, but with an arrestingly full figure,
truly beautiful legs and amazingly small feet. All these points of interest were
displayed by her Chinese-style outfit.
Her feet were poised right up on tiptoe by a variation of the block-toed, ballet
slipper, instead of coming up, slipper-like, to the heel and being held in place
by ribbons wound tightly about the ankle. These shoes came up only as far as the
ball of the foot, leaving the instep, sole of the foot, and ankle uncovered,
save for her long, mistily black stockings, which covered her lovely legs for
their full length, the tops disappearing under the hem of her extremely short,
ultra-tight, high-necked black satin tunic. This latter, which was decorated by
a brilliantly embroidered dragon, both back and front, displayed her stiffly
corseted wasp-waist and obviously artificially raised, but very full bosom. So
high was the stiff collar, she was forced to carry her chin very high, with a
charming air of arrogance. Her arms, in long, full sleeves that almost touched
the ground, were secured wrist to elbow behind her back. As I had come to
expect, she was gagged, her mouth filled and forced wide open by an ivory egg,
split length-wise and hinged at the back; the two halves were held wide apart in
front by an adjustable brace.
She minced back across the hall and pressed a small pedal or button in the
floor. The door closed again.
“I’ve got an idea, chief, ” Nicki volunteered, “Suppose you release Anna’s arms
for a while. Then she could help me get harnessed up as a `Parlour Pony’ for the
rest of the evening. Okay?”
I was going to ask what a Parlour Pony was, but realised I was shortly going to
be shown. So I simply nodded and signalled to Anna to come and let me un-strap
her arms. As the three girls left, I told them to fix Fifi up nicely, too.
In about an hour, which had passed very pleasantly, thanks to a tray of drinks
by my side, Anna came strutting back for me to refasten her arms. (It was
interesting to note that in spite of the fact that her gag was obviously
extremely severe, she made no attempt to remove or even touch it when her hands
were free.) Helpless once more, she went and stood by the door, as though
A moment or so later, my Parlour Pony minced proudly into the room. From waist
to toes she was poured into wrinkle-less gleaming black satin latex tights,
while her feet were propped up as high as possible in very tight, round-toed,
low-cut black patent pumps, with slim eight inch heels. From the waist up she
wore a flesh-coloured, Venus corset, concealing her arms completely and a black
brassiere, which showed quite distinctly through a very tight, black
elastic-lace blouse. Around her waist was a wide, red leather belt, with
Martingale straps, and a check rein ran up to the elaborate red leather bridle
strapped around her pretty head. A bit, consisting of a metal cylinder about two
and a half inches in diameter and four inches long, hung loosely by one of the
bit rings. Kneeling in front of me, she murmured enticingly:
“Will you bit your pony, please, and then tighten her harness and check-rein to
She was really tightly harnessed and bitted before I was satisfied too.
Then Anna indicated my dinner was ready. I followed her followed in turn by my
defenseless Parlour Pony.
The dining table, charmingly enough, turned out to be Fifi.
Nicki looked so lovely without arms, I decided she could remain that way until
The following morning, after the corset came off long enough for a shower and so
on, it went back, tighter than ever, now that her body had had a chance to
adjust itself. The costume was completed by opera-length hose, seven inch heeled
sandals, a skin-fitting, no-sleeved sweater and a very tight knee-length skirt
in supple brown suede that kept riding up delightfully, especially when she was
We were sitting on the front porch of my place, and the conversation ranged from
Parlour Ponies to Work Ponies and Nicki remarked her father’s coach-house had
two or three pony-carts. I expressed surprise, as I thought both she and her
mother refused to be a work-pony because the hard pulling and consequent deep
breathing would ruin a trained waist. Nicki, smilingly pointed out that there
was always Fifi. That was all I needed.
Early that afternoon a very light pony trap stood outside the coach-house, ready
to go. Fifi was harnessed between the shafts. From head to toe she was enclosed
in a one-piece “Pony-Skin” of satin latex, dappled in grey and black; her arms
were high up behind her back, elbows anchored tightly together. Around her slim
waist was a wide belt of gleaming black leather, pulled very tight and held in
place by straps up over her shoulders and Margingale straps underneath; at
either side a metal fitting engaged the shafts of the cart. Her feet were poised
tip-toe in special “hoof-boots” that held her insteps vertical. Her head was
enclosed in a helmet arrangement, complete with ears that were part of the skin;
there were generous openings for the mouth and eyes. These latter were made
useless by wide blinder strap buckled very tightly to the black leather bridle,
which also held the severe bit designed to hold her jaws wide open, jammed as
far back as possible in her mouth. A check-rein ran from the top of the bridle
down under her body and up to a buckle on the front of the belt. It was pulled
up very tightly, to force her to arch her back, thrust her bosom forward
arrogantly and carry her head extremely high.
The trap, instead of a conventional seat, had a very narrow saddle, to which I
was strapping my wife. She wore her Venus-corset, a high-necked, no-sleeve
sweater in yellow, skin-fitting green rubber tights and eight inch heeled brown
knee boots. On her head was a brown leather, discipline helmet, with a very
narrow eye-hole for each eye and a green jockey cap cocked over one eye.
When I had her strapped to the saddle I placed a bar from one shaft to the
other, just behind her knees, so her booted legs hung free. Then I attached to
driving reins, one to each arching instep.
Thus, the driver, without arms, without voice and unable to leave her seat, was
almost as helpless as her blind, tightly harnessed pony. But she could control
her with the reins. Pulling back on both meant “go ahead,” pulling one or the
other meant “turn to right or left” and slacking off meant “stop.”
I told my two victims I was going to hide somewhere in the huge gardens As they
couldn’t get loose until they found me, they better keep looking.
It took them three hours. Of course, I actually had them in sight virtually all
the time and only let myself be found when it was obvious that Fifi had really
But they both said it was one of the most exciting afternoons they had ever had.
The next few days passed as pleasantly as the earlier ones, and our honeymoon
was drawing to a close. My wife, I noticed, had picked up a phrase from
somewhere that annoyed me. Everybody she approved of was a “living doll.” When
Fifi looked particularly smart, Nicki called her a living doll; when I did
something that pleased her, I was a living doll.
On the morning of the day we were to go back to New York, I announced, “All
nght, since you’re so fond of living dolls, you can turn into one yourself.”
“How do you mean?” inquired Nicki, looking startled.
“You’ll see,” I assured her. “First, we need a really severe corset. How about
it, do you have one we haven’t used yet?”
“Well uh-yes ” she admitted hesitantly. “But it’s meant to go with a pretty
extreme costume, and besides, it’s so severe, I’ve never been able to stand it
adjusted really tight. It doesn’t look right any other way.”
“Sounds like just what we need. Now you go and tell Fifi to put it on and fasten
you to the lacing frame. When she has pulled you in to the point where you need
a gag, she’s to call me. In the meantime I’m going to the village. I’l1 be back
by the time you’re ready.”
As a matter of fact, I had time to go and do my shopping-which was for a length
of black velvet, some plaster of Paris and some dry colour in red and yellow-and
have a drink after I got back, before Fifi came for me.
In the utility room, where the lacing frame had been set up, my wife presented
quite a sight. She was spread-eagled in the frame with her wrists strapped to
the upper corners and her ankles to the lower corners, her legs pulled wide
The corset, of gleaming black kid, was unusually long, extending from down over
the hip-bones at the sides up the armpits; in back it reached right up the neck,
which ended in a high, stiff collar and in front it came down well over the
abdomen, while the top was shaped into two half cups and was so high it raised
the bosom higher than I had ever seen it. The lacing stood open a good three
inches)at the waist and more above.
“How far is she laced in, Fifi?” I asked as I went in.
“Sixteen inches, M’sieur,” she told me.
“This corset is supposed to get her down to thirteen inches? Good.” Nicki tried
to interrupt me, but I went on, as though I hadn’t heard her. “Living doll as
are famous for their small waists and high bosoms.”
Then I sent Fifi for a rubber bathing cap, lots of absorbent cotton, water to
wet it, adhesive tape and a pool-ball. When she returned, I packed my subject’s
mouth as full of cotton as I could, especially her cheeks, with the ball between
her jaws to hold her mouth as wide open as it would go. When I was through, the
stuffing was so tight she was unable to eject any of it, even though I was using
no tape to hold it in place. She was, of course, utterly silent.
Next, I turned my attention to the corset lace, started up the lacing capstain
and closed the gap to about one inch. The smelling salts became necessary at
this time, and to give her a rest, I had Fifi put the rubber cap on and smooth
the edges where the rubber joined her face with strips of adhesive tape.
Another half-inch more rest, more smelling salts. An hour later the lace was
closed. When we released Nicki, she began to collapse like a torn balloon. But
an hour’s rest on the bed while her body adjusted itself was enough. Then I
really went to work.
While Nicki was still resting, I had Fifi put on a pair of the thinnest black
nylon operas, very tightly pulled up by the short suspenders on the corset, on
Nicki. On my instructions, she also added eight inch heeled, black patent pumps,
very low cut, with ankle straps (to make sure she couldn’t get them off).
During that time, I was mixing a supply of dry plaster of Paris with the red and
yellow colours I had bought until I had a very good flesh-colour. Putting that
aside for a moment, I called Fiffi to assist me, and after doubling Nicki’s arms
at the elbows, we taped them very tightly in that position. We also taped her
hands to the tops of her shoulders; the final effect was quite smooth and neat,
with Nicki’s arms simply stopping at the elbow. The helplessness implicit in the
short-armed look was most attractive.
Then I went to work on her face with the adhesive tape. Using a great many
narrow pieces, I began by pulling her lips forward and together over the ball in
her wide-stretched mouth. When I was through her lips were held firmly pursed,
as through she were puckering for a kiss. By way of contrast, by the use of
narrow strips of tape radiating outward all around her eyes, I made her eyes
stretch wide open, in a fixed expression of ultra surprise.
As a final touch, I ran a strip of tape up the length of her nose, her forehead,
almost to the top of her head, pulling it very tight. When I had smoothed it
into place with some transverse strips, the tip of her nose was pulled up in an
Mixing the plaster I had already prepared with water, I began smoothing it all
over her head and face. I worked it continuously, filling every wrinkle caused
by the pressure of the tape, as well as hiding the tape itself When it began to
set, I put Fifi to work on it with a hair-drier. In an hour it was not only
hard, but dry.
Then I went to work with the make-up. When I was through, my wife’s head looked
exactly like an old-fashioned china doll’s, with a tiny, brilliant red, rose-bud
mouth; full, puffed-out cheeks with plenty of rouge; tip-tilted nose and huge,
staring eyes, fringed with ultra long, artificial lashes under the thinnest of
high, arching black eyebrows, far above the normal line. Then, with Fifi
helping, I started to drape the black velvet “dress.”
I’d never tried draping a costume on a figure before. But I flatter myself, the
effect wasn’t half bad. I pinned the folds in place as I went, with Fifi
following behind with needle and thread, literally sewing the gown on the
The top was in a cape-like effect, which allowed just the tips of her
“amputated” arms to show, while a fold of material around the neck concealed the
high, stiff collar of the corset. The bust line was very low, with the material
draped revealingly around the artificially raised and out-thrust bosom.
Naturally, the material was as tight around the tiny waist as I could pull it,
while below the skirt, in deep folds, came just to the top of the legs. It was
looped up at each side, almost to the waist, to show the tightly drawn
suspenders on the outside of the legs, pulling the tops of the ultra long
stockings into points.
The finishing touch was provided by a brassy, blonde wig, with long,
old-fashioned corkscrew curls. The final effect was most satisfactory.
Nicki looked exactly like an old-style, toy doll brought up to date. The
high-piled, blonde curls, huge staring eyes and pouting little mouth, typical of
the China doll of yesteryear, contrasted delightfully with the nicely displayed
legs and sophisticated high heels. The tiny waist and high raised, out-thrust
bosom between formed a sort of connecting link, while the shortened, useless
arms trumpeted Nicki’s helplessness.
When I let her see herself in a full-length mirror, Nicki managed to show her
pleasure in her appearance, in spite of her lack of power of expression, of
speech and her very limited power of movement.
We returned to New York that night and had dinner with Dick and Vicki. As we
went into the library after dinner, my father-in-law made me happy by remarking,
“You know, Ted, my wife and I often wondered if we could ever find a husband for
Nicki, who would handle her the way she should be handled. I am glad to say
you’ve exceeded our fondest expectations.”
Vicki could only nod because, out of compliment to me, her husband had dressed
her in the same all-leather outfit Nicki had worn the first time we met.