Page 11 of Irresistible Little Ivy

I would like to say I demurely made my way to the dolls, but that would be a lie. In the past few minutes I’d lost all sense of decorum, my inner teenager rising to the surface. Sometimes I felt like the only time I was able to truly live in the moment was when I was in my Middle persona. My therapist liked to remind me that my inner teenager and my adult self were one in the same, but sometimes it was hard to remember what it had been like to be young. To really put myself in a past mindset and remember a time when I’d been full of curiosity and hope.

Coming to a stop before the doll case, I gaped in wonder at all the options before me. You had the obvious traditional, mass-produced dolls. Limited-edition ones, and more than a few that had been obviously hand crafted. Every style and taste seemed to be accounted for, from mermaid to Miss America. I have no idea how long I’d been standing there, staring, before a velvety woman’s voice jarred me out of my trance.

Turning my head, I found a tall and lovely Black woman in a white prairie style nightgown gazing at the case. Her hair was held back from her high forehead by intricate braids with silver and gold beads at the ends. Stars made of diamonds dangled from her ears, and she had a gold septum piercing that sat just above the bow of her full lips.

An elegant beauty, until you looked at her feet and spied the fuzzy unicorn slippers.

“Those are awesome,” I said in delight. “I love your slippers.”

“Thank you,” she modeled them like a woman showing off a pair of two-thousand-dollar couture boots. “Are you having a hard time picking out a doll?”

I nodded, turning back to the case as a few new women stared along with me. “I am. I mean… there are so many. How do you choose?”

“Don’t ask me,” she said with a low laugh. “I’ve been here for twenty minutes and haven’t been able to commit to a doll. Which might be a reflection of why I’m still single. Hmmm, I’ll have to mention that to my therapist. Anyways, I was hoping you would have some kind of guidance.”

“Well, I’m stuck between two different dolls. One I always wanted as a child, and one I didn’t know I desperately wanted until I saw it just now. Which one do I pick?”

Raising her eyebrows at me, she said, “That is a tough one. I am torn between the siren and the elf model because they are both adorable yet slutty. Our preferences may be a little different.”

Laughing, I held out my hand. “Ivy, nice to meet you.”

“Mia,” the woman gave my hand a good squeeze before turning back to the wall. “So I looked at the outfits available and they are like designer clothing in doll size. Maybe you should go over there and see if anything inspires you?”

A slow song came on and someone began to karaoke it in a surprisingly nice voice.

“I don’t know, maybe I’ll wait a bit.” I sighed. “If it doesn’t speak to me right away, I should probably think about it, right?”

“What fun is that?” Mia asked as she steered me closer to the case. “Which ones are you torn between?”

“The one with the peach hair and fairy wings, and the blonde with the tan lines.”

Leaning down a bit, Mia whispered in my ear, “I’d go for the peach-haired fairy with the cool fantasy makeup. The blonde with the tan lines isn’t nearly as unique.”

“The blonde is pretty,” I protested.

“Then buy her when you get home. I bet there are a bunch on for sale online. The fairy doll is a one of a kind, made by a famous doll designer. You won’t find another like her.”

Acting impulsively was a skill I’d yet to master, and it almost physically hurt to say in a loud voice, “Ma’am, can I please have the doll with the peach hair and fairy wings?”

The woman took her down and I spent the rest of the night playing dress up with a group of subbies. We had a blast, eating our fill of the delicious snacks available, giggling over exchanging dirty stories, and basically acting like a group of teenage girls away at camp. It was fun, the good and energizing kind that always left me smiling. The sexual aspects of being a submissive Middle were nice, but the fun of being a teenager with an adult’s budget and freedom was even better.

When I made my way to the gymnasium the next morning, I was as nervous as my real first day of high school. With sweaty palms, I made my way down the crowded hallway, trying to see if I recognized any of the people around me from the night before. It was hard to say, because everyone looked different now. We were in our high school best, and most women had teased their hair and wore a ton of makeup. Myself included.

For my first day outfit I went with the classic jean jacket and matching acid washed short jean skirt. I’d added a pair of white thigh high tights then layered pink thigh high fishnets over them. Both the tights and fishnets were held up by a sturdy pair of white garters. Instead of heels I’d gone with sneakers, and I’d teased my hair out into a lions mane of curls. Rhinestone earrings sparkled in my ears, and I wore fingerless white lace gloves on each hand.

I thought I might have overdone it with my look before I left my room this morning, but now I realized what I wore was tame compared to some people. I swear there were at least seven or eight women who looked almost exactly like Madonna. And more than one Debbie Gibson walked around in her signature black hat. Not to mention the dozens of Michael Jacksons that walked around. This place was crazy in the best of ways.

The crowd around me got denser as we neared the entrance to the gym where we’d get our welcome speech from Rawhide before dispersing to our classes. We could, of course not take any courses if we chose, but I’d packed my schedule with as many as I could get. The instructors were all famous in their own right and getting them all together in one place was nothing short of amazing.

The people in front of me abruptly stumbled and I almost went with them, but someone grabbed me from behind.

“Easy,” said a man as he hauled me back by my jean jacket. “Don’t want you going down like dominos.”

As he released me, I turned to find a smiling, and very handsome man with blond hair, a tan, and perfect white teeth. The blue polo shirt that he had on complemented his eyes, and the white sweater he wore draped over his shoulders gave him that perfect spoiled-rich-guy appearance. He would look perfect in a magazine ad for selling yachts back in the 80s. I smiled in return, noting that he had a nice body beneath his polo shirt and white shorts along with old-school sports sneakers. All he was missing was a tennis racket to blend in on the court.

“Thanks for saving me,” I said as we resumed our shuffle.

“My name’s Adam, what’s yours?” he asked as he guided me through the crowd.

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