The Collar That Turned Me into My Friend’s Doll

The first time I saw a cockroach strolling with total impunity across the pizza box that had been sitting on the table for three days, I knew we had hit rock bottom.

—Iván, kill that thing —I said, without getting up from the sofa, where my body seemed fused to the cushions after six hours of video games.

—You kill it, you ordered the pepperoni —he replied, without taking his eyes off the screen.

The cockroach twitched its antennae with what I’d swear was contempt and crawled into the box. Great. Now we had a pet.

Living alone was supposed to be glorious. That was what Iván and I had promised each other since high school. Total freedom: no parents asking what time we’d be home, nobody yelling because dirty laundry doesn’t walk itself to the washing machine. Just us, two grown men of twenty-four, masters of our own destiny.

The reality, two months later, smelled of damp, stale cheese, and sweaty socks. Our apartment was a monument to chaos: towers of dishes defying physics, a floor mined with T-shirts, jeans, and wet towels. We were useless. Gloriously, pathetically useless.

—I’m hungry —Iván announced when the words “GAME OVER” appeared.

—There’s nothing. Half a dried lemon, an open jar of mayonnaise, and maybe a beer.

—We need to go to the supermarket. Or order something.

—I don’t have any money left on my card, man. I spent it on the taxi last night.

Iván sighed and disappeared down the hall toward the built-in closet, skirting a mountain of laundry we had christened Mount Shame. He was looking for cookies, he said, some forgotten can, anything edible.

I heard rustling, a dull thud, a curse.

—Bruno! —he shouted—. Come see this!

***

Iván was kneeling in front of the closet, dragging a large black box out from the back. It was matte, elegant, and violently out of place in our student misery. On the lid, in neon-pink letters that almost hurt to look at, there were half-open female lips and two italicized words: Sweet Doll.

—What the hell is Sweet Doll? —I asked—. Is your mother hiding weird toys in our closet?

—It’s not my mother’s, idiot. This box wasn’t here when we moved in. It must have been left by the previous tenants. Open it.

I lifted the lid. The inside was lined with pink satin. There was no food. Definitely no cookies.

The first thing was the clothes. Shiny fabrics, lace, vinyl. A high-quality French maid dress, not a cheap costume: heavy black fabric, a white lace apron, a skirt so short it felt like an insult. Beneath it, a latex nurse uniform, a secretary outfit with a tight pencil skirt, a cheerleader costume with a tiny pleated skirt.

And lower down, strange shapes made of a soft, fleshy material. Iván pulled out a large piece, some kind of vest with enormous, firm breasts and pink nipples. A whole breast prosthesis, heavy and gelatinous in his hands.

—Look at this —I said, pointing at some silicone masks. Female faces, perfect, with empty eyes and mouths curved in static, vacant smiles.

—Creepy as hell —he muttered, still staring.

At the center, in a velvet compartment, there was a pink choker with a small silver button on the front.

—Think it vibrates? —I asked, mocking him.

—For sure. Put it on and find out. —He held it out to me—. I’ll bet you the last beer you won’t dare. And I’ll order pizza. I’m paying.

The magic word. My stomach growled, betraying my dignity.

—You’re an idiot —I said, snatching the collar from him.

The material felt warm to the touch, almost like living skin, and it smelled like strawberries. I fastened the clasp at the back of my neck. It made a click much louder than a plastic clasp should, and tightened around my throat on its own with a soft but firm pressure.

—You look ridiculous —Iván laughed—. Suits you perfectly.

I brought my hand to the silver button.

—And what does this do?

I pressed it.

***

The world didn’t go dark. There was no flash or smoke. I simply stopped being the driver.

It was like being in the passenger seat of your own car, watching someone else drive while your feet press imaginary brakes that don’t work. A cold current slid down from my neck, traveled along my spine, and spread through my limbs with intense tingling.

Take this thing off, it’s giving me cramps, I tried to say. My mouth opened, my lips moved, but I wasn’t the one giving the order.

—Domestic assistant Lola activated —my mouth said.

It wasn’t my voice. Well, it was my vocal cords, my tone, but the cadence was different: soft, melodic, with that upward inflection of a customer service operator.

My body straightened. My shoulders, always hunched, pulled back. My legs came together, knee to knee, and my hands interlaced obediently in front of my pelvis. A feminine, submissive, perfect posture. And I wasn’t doing it: I was screaming inside my head, beating against the walls of my own skull, but my muscles obeyed the collar, not me.

—Available programs: cleaning, cooking, secretarial work —my voice continued—. How may I serve?

—Bruno, enough. Stop messing around. Take that thing off —Iván said, stepping back.

—User “Bruno” is in the background —my voice informed him, with a symmetrical, empty smile—. I am Lola. Would you like to start the cleaning protocol? The environment presents critical levels of disorder.

Iván looked at the hallway full of clothes, the pizza boxes in the back.

—Well... yeah, it’s a mess —he admitted, playing along, though his hands were shaking—. All right, “Lola.” Tidy Bruno’s room. It’s the worst.

—Command accepted. Initiating.

***

My body turned on its heels with elegance and walked toward my room in short, almost tiptoe steps, as if wearing invisible heels. I watched, horrified, as my own hands sorted the dirty laundry by color, folded T-shirts with a geometric precision I’d never had, and stretched the sheets until they were taut as a drum.

Stop! It’s me! Stop! I screamed inwardly. But the hands kept going, efficient, tireless. In fifteen minutes my room looked like a hotel room.

—Task completed —my voice said. And then, the click.

It was like cutting a cable. The cold energy vanished all at once, my knees gave out, and I fell onto the bed, gasping.

—What the hell?! —I shouted, and this time it was my voice, hoarse and mine.

Iván appeared in the doorway, eyes wide.

—Man, you can’t fold a T-shirt to save your life.

I grabbed at my neck, clawing at the pink collar, yanking with all my strength. It didn’t move. There was no clasp; the join had disappeared, as if the plastic had fused into a single piece around my throat. Iván slid his fingers between the material and my skin, pulling until it hurt.

—It won’t come off. There’s no closure. It’s seamless.

We looked at each other. Panic rose in my throat, choking the air more than the collar itself.

—I couldn’t stop —I confessed, tears stinging my eyes—. I saw you. I heard you. But it was like someone else was using my body.

A strange shadow crossed Iván’s face. Not just fear. Curiosity.

—You said your name was Lola —he murmured.

The collar emitted a buzz and the button flashed pink.

—Don’t say it —I begged.

—Hey... Lola.

The world went dark again.

***

The second time was worse, because I knew what was coming. I felt the cold invading my veins, the paralysis, my will shoved to the back of my own mind.

—I’m here —my voice said, sweetly—. Were you calling me, sir?

Sir. I never called Iván “sir.” But Lola saw him as an authority figure. I could feel it etched into the collar as a basic directive: obey the external user, please the external user.

—This is insane —he muttered—. You said you had programs. And the clothes in the box?

He went to fetch the maid dress and threw it at me. My hands caught it in midair with feline reflexes.

—Order accepted. Initiating dressing protocol.

It was the most humiliating experience of my life. My fingers unbuttoned my shirt, lowered the zipper on my jeans, got rid of my socks. I stood naked in the middle of the room, in front of my best friend, who looked away with red ears.

Lola felt no shame. She found a black lace thong in the box and put it on me, bundling everything into a compact, humiliating package. Then the dress, which stretched unnaturally and clung to my torso like a second skin. Then the white stockings with garters, rolled up my legs with a delicacy that wasn’t mine.

Something was missing. My hands pulled a pair of black stiletto heels from the bottom of the box and my feet slid inside as if they had been born to wear them. When I stood, the change was instant: taut calves, a back arched in that curve that screams availability. I felt a spark at the nape of my neck, not pain, but pleasure: a wave of endorphins the collar injected as a reward for completing the uniform. I moaned without being able to stop myself. Good girl, the plastic seemed to whisper against my skin.

—How do I look, sir? —Lola asked, bowing.

Iván swallowed.

—You look... weirdly good. For you. Go to the kitchen.

***

For the next two hours I was a spectator inside my own body while it scrubbed, cleaned, and tidied. The smell of lemon and bleach filled the apartment. I felt no fatigue or disgust, only the algorithmic satisfaction of watching chaos turn into order. Iván pretended to watch TV, but I knew he was looking at me bending over, my skirt riding up dangerously.

When I finished, the kitchen gleamed. There was something new in Iván’s gaze. It wasn’t curiosity anymore. It was power.

—You clean really well, Lola —he said—. Can you cook too?

—Affirmative. I can prepare something with what we have.

—Make me dinner. And serve it here. On your knees.

My mind froze. On your knees? What’s wrong with you, Iván? But my body didn’t hesitate.

—As you command, sir.

And while I whisked together some crepe batter, I realized something terrifying. A very small, very dark part of me was enjoying this. Not the cleaning, not the dress. Not having to decide. Just obeying. And that scared me more than the collar itself.

***

The following days were a haze of terror and domestic efficiency. I discovered the rules: if Iván didn’t give me a direct order or call me “Lola,” I could be Bruno. I could talk, move, and futilely try to tear off the collar. But the choker was always there: heavy, warm, buzzing against my skin.

Iván changed. At first he pretended it was out of necessity. Soon the excuses vanished.

—Lola, my sneakers are dirty. Clean them.

And I would sit on the floor, in the maid dress and the heels he forbade me to take off in “service mode,” scrubbing his sneakers with a toothbrush. The collar released tiny pulses of pleasure every time I left a sole immaculate, conditioning me like a dog.

The worst part was how he looked at me. Not at my eyes anymore, but at the body he had ordered me to depilate completely —“a doll doesn’t have body hair”— and at the smooth, bare skin of my back.

On the fourth day he came home with a bag: a high-quality blonde wig and a makeup kit.

—This isn’t for cleaning —he said, pulling out a red lipstick—. It’s to complete the experience.

—I’m not your doll, Iván. I’m your best friend —I begged.

There was a moment of guilt in his eyes. Then he looked at the collar, and the guilt was replaced by that dark, sticky curiosity.

—Lola —he said firmly—. Activate.

***

He sat me in front of the bathroom mirror.

—Do it yourself. I want to see how good you are.

My hands moved on their own. Bruno didn’t know a liner from mascara, but Lola was an artist: she applied foundation, contoured my cheekbones, drew a perfect line on my eyelids without a single hesitation. I watched in the mirror as my male face disappeared under layers of expert femininity. Then the blonde wig.

A shiver ran through me. I didn’t recognize myself. The features were mine, yes, but softened, framed by golden hair. I looked like Bruno’s perverted sister.

Iván stood behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders. His thumbs brushed my neck, right under the collar.

—Do I please you, sir? —Lola asked, tilting her head.

—I adore you. What else can you do besides clean?

—I have massage, companionship, and relaxation protocols.

—I want a massage. In my room. Now.

***

He lay face down and I sat astride his legs. The dress rode up to my hips. My hands kneaded his back while he moaned and the collar hummed, releasing a dose of euphoria that made me smile for real for a second. Good job, the chemical stimulus said.

—Turn around. Sit on my lap, facing that way.

I turned and sat on his thighs, back to him. I felt something hard against my ass, unmistakable through the fabric. Iván was hard. Because of me. Because of his best friend dressed as a woman.

Get up! Run!, Bruno screamed. But Lola settled more comfortably, rubbing her ass against the bulge.

—You’re so soft... —he whispered, running his hands up my thighs to my flat chest—. You’re missing something here. —He suddenly sat up—. The prosthetics from the box. I want to see them.

—Physical enhancement module —Lola corrected—. Installation requires total upper-body nudity.

—Do it.

***

The installation wasn’t like putting on clothes. It was a ceremony. Iván threaded my arms through the holes in the silicone vest and pulled it down. The weight came first: kilos hanging from my torso, tugging at my shoulders, forcing them back so the fake breasts projected forward. The silicone clung to my hairless skin, creating a perfect seal.

When I turned around, Iván gaped at a pair of perfect, round breasts. They didn’t look like real female breasts; they looked fabricated, a plastic fantasy. And that seemed to excite him even more.

Then came the hip pads, fastened with a flesh-colored girdle. Suddenly my straight figure curved: I had a waist, wide hips, a ass that filled the fabric. The dress clung tight, almost bursting.

—You’re missing the face —he said, holding one of the masks. The blonde one. “Lulú,” the label read.

I sat down and closed my eyes. I felt the silicone sliding over my forehead, cheeks, and chin, smelling of rubber and talcum powder. When he adjusted the eye holes and I opened my eyes, my vision was reduced to two tunnels.

He handed me a mirror. I tried to scream. The sound came out muffled, dull.

In the mirror there was no Bruno. There was a beautiful, generic woman with perfect features. And a mouth open in an eternal, bright smile. I tried to frown: the woman kept smiling. My real face was trapped underneath, able to make grimaces of terror and cry, but the mask never changed.

—You’re perfect, Lola —Iván whispered, stroking the silicone cheek.

The collar vibrated, sending a wave of heat straight to my groin, a reward for accepting my new identity.

***

For the hours that followed I was his life-sized doll, and he was a child with the dirtiest toy in the world. He put the nurse uniform on me, white latex that squeaked with every movement, and made me play doctor on my knees. Then the secretary outfit, with the pencil skirt forcing me into tiny steps, while he made me crawl under the desk to look for a pen with my fake ass stuck up in the air.

With every change I disappeared a little more. Or so I wanted. The truth was worse: Bruno was still there, trapped in the front row of that perverse theater, feeling humiliation burn in his stomach. And the most terrifying thing: despite the disgust and the fear, my body responded. Forced submission, being treated like an object, Iván’s hands using me, all of it lit a dark spark in some corner of my brain I couldn’t turn off.

I’m a man, I kept repeating. I’m his friend. But Lola moaned, and my body obeyed Lola, not me. Sweat ran under the silicone, my face itched beneath the mask, my feet hurt. Lola didn’t complain. Lola posed, turned, recited programmed lines. And that frozen smile in the mirror never changed, no matter how much I cried underneath.

***

The silence was the worst part. The night Iván invited people over, when they all left, swaying and slapping him on the back, the apartment fell silent, smelling of stale beer and sweat.

I was still in the kitchen, wearing only the apron and heels, washing dishes. My acrylic nails tapped against the plates, reminding me that my hands were no longer mine. At some point I had stopped resisting, stopped pretending I didn’t like it. The conditioning was almost complete: each degradation was a dose, each insult a chemical caress.

Iván appeared in the doorway. He wasn’t smiling anymore. He looked at me like a new appliance he didn’t quite know how to use yet, but already loved.

—Lola. Come here.

I went to him. He raised his hand and stroked the silver button. For a second I thought he was going to free me. There, it’s over. The joke’s over.

—Bruno was a mess —he whispered—. Useless. But you’re perfect, Lola. —He pulled his hand away—. Power down.

Click.

The energy cut out. I dropped to my knees and air rushed into my lungs in one sudden gulp.

—Iván, please! —I shouted, ripping off the mask, which peeled away with a wet sound—. Take it off! I can’t take this anymore!

He looked down at me, his face red and soaked with tears pressed against that doll’s body. There was no compassion.

—Look at you. You were my friend. Now you’re much more useful. —He picked up the mask from the floor and cleaned it carefully, like a jewel—. I have class early tomorrow. I want breakfast at seven and the place spotless. And put the mask on before I wake up: I don’t want to see Bruno’s face while you serve me coffee.

He closed his bedroom door.

I was left alone in the kitchen, kneeling on the cold floor, hugging my silicone breasts, with the pink collar buzzing softly. And then I realized something horrible: without the collar switched on, without the orders, without the reward, I felt empty. The chemical pleasure was gone and only a black hole remained where the doses used to be.

I want this to end, I thought. I want it to let me go. But beneath that, another thought slithered along, smaller and darker: what am I going to feel tomorrow when I put the mask on?

The collar hummed, as if it had heard the question, with a small caress of anticipation. I, Bruno, cried. But my body, Lola’s body, trembled with expectation, waiting for tomorrow.