Guest Authors

The Doll-Maker by Maren Smith

I like Christmas music.

“I like it too,” Calder said, alternately smoothing and shaving and smoothing again as he carved delicate collarbones beneath her slender neck and rounded her shoulders. He gave her breasts definition, something he hadn’t bothered to do on any of his previous dolls. Because they were dolls, and in his mind the only thing worse than the kind of pervert who’d pull his artwork off the mantel to check how anatomically correct it might be beneath its clothing, was the pervert who made it anatomically correct in the first place.

You’re going to sell me? An imagination was a terrible thing, especially when it made poor Ailsa’s voice in his head crack with worry.

“Never,” he assured her. “You’re for me and me alone.”

The icing on the crazy cake. He really was playing with dolls; his mom would be so… well, all right. She’d be horrified, but also Johnny-on-the-spot with an I-told-you-so.
Ailsa giggled. I don’t mind if you play with me.

To be thinking of playing at all while he was adding little button tips to the crown of each breast. He tsked. “Don’t distract me.”

Play with me, she both pouted and smiled.

“Don’t go tempting fire,” he warned with a smile. “You have no idea what my kind of play entails.”

It had been seven years, but he still had a few of his old toys packed away in the bedroom rafters. A lovely cherry-wood paddle, eighteen inches long and much too big and wieldy for Ailsa’s tender little bottom. An old oak hairbrush, pale with dirty bristles, but which could still pack a sting that would make her dance and howl across his knee.

Play with me, she sighed.

“Interrupt me work again,” he told her, injecting his low southern drawl with as much Scots as he could muster, “and I’ll be taken ye to the woodshed for a good and proper skelping. Me Grand-da’s strop still hangs out there. It’ll dance ye a merry jig, and one ye’ll naw be likin’. Ye ken me noo?”

She answered his threat with a giggling squeal, but her voice in his head fell silent. At least until he carved out her ribs. It tickles!

“I’ll give you a tickle,” he warned, but he was smiling as he did it. He smoothed and carved, shaped and defined, and smiled as she laughed helplessly while her torso lost its unrealistic Barbie doll shape and took on the form of a woman. A real woman, with a real waist that he had no desire to over exaggerate, and real hips that curved the way a woman’s hips were supposed to. He turned her over in his hand, careful of her arms while he went to work upon her back.

I like this, she whispered as he alternated between tools, shaping and smudging, shaving away the excess as he cut in shoulder blades. He gave her muscle definition and a spine that led from the base of her neck all the way down to the top of the buttocks he began to form. It’s like a massage.

He said nothing, but he couldn’t stop thinking of how it would feel to run his bare hand down the length of her bare back. Caressing her skin to skin, with nothing to stand as a barrier between them.

I like this, she moaned, the way a real woman would if ever he got one again beneath his hands. Her back to his chest, his hands rubbing her shoulders, caressing from hair to hips and back again, encouraging her with every pass to bend herself over. Head down, ass up.

Arch your hips, baby, he would tell her. He could already see Ailsa looking back at him over her shoulder, not so much an innocent now as she was seductive. He could see her shifting her legs wider to offer for his approval all the parts of her that he hadn’t yet sculpted. He gave her hips a little more rounding, to make of them a proper handful. Something to grip and hold as he positioned himself behind her. He gave her a nice ass too, something capable of taking a good pounding and the occasional erotic smack.
Her moans turned breathy, and the rise and fall of her perfect breasts quickened.


He rolled out her lower limbs, making them slender legs, the kind he couldn’t wait to spread, to scrape his fingernails up to see if she would arch and writhe, and to hear the subtle shift in her gasps as he reached between them to cup and hold, and own the folds growing moist against his palm.

“Who owns this?” he’d demand of her, barely aware that he was saying it out loud now.

You do, Ailsa sighed.

Hi there! Thanks for stopping by my blog. I hope you enjoyed that excerpt from Maren Smith’s story “The Doll-Maker,” which is part of the Mischief Under the Mistletoe anthology. Get this wonderful collection of kinky holiday stories from multiple authors for only $0.99 for a limited time! Don’t delay. The price will go up to $6.99 in mid-December.

About The Doll-Maker

In an isolated cottage on the shores of a remote Scottish loch, Calder makes his living sculpting dolls for the tourist trade. They’re lovely, life-like, and they help to fill the void left by his broken heart. For seven long years, he’s been alone. But with the help of a little Fae magic, and a doll more “life-like” than usual, all of that is about to change…

Buy it on AMAZON.

About Maren Smith
“For me, romance and kink have always gone hand in hand. I love strong, authoritative men—men who are both ready, willing and able to leave the lady of their choosing red–bottomed and weeping for her own good. Writing has given me the wonderful freedom to explore my kinky side without feeling ‘weird’. Even better, with the invention of the Internet, I can write what I love and know it will be appreciated by people with the same interests. Although I’ve been writing spanking romances for more than twenty years, it’s only been in the last five that I’ve truly broken out of my self-imposed shell to explore the other aspects of my submissive nature. Fortunate enough to live with my Dominant, I am an author, a Little and a submissive for the love of my life. Between that and my membership at my local Dungeons, there are very few things that I write about that I haven’t tried at least once.”




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