KEN LIFELIKE
The red curtains pulled back. Lights hit sculpted abs slick with oil. In front of a hungry livestream, two oddball dollmakers unveiled their masterpiece: Ken Lifelike.
“He’s not for sale,” one of them grinned, caressing the jawline like it was sacred. “This one’s... personal.”
The chat blew up.
“That’s not plastic…”
“Did he just breathe???”
“Doll my ass—he’s ALIVE”
Ken didn’t move. He looked too good—like a wax statue with heat in it. His skin was velvet-smooth, glistening. Eyes blank but deep, like something was still inside. Watching.
When the stream ended, they didn’t shelf him. They rolled the whole display down a narrow, candlelit staircase. Each step creaked like it knew something dark was going down.
The basement was like a ritual room—stone walls carved with weird symbols, chains hung like trophies. The air was thick. Heavy with incense, sweat, and... something sticky sweet.
They opened his box. One held up a black onyx rod, etched with runes. The other leaned in close and whispered:
“Ex corde doloris, in carne ludus.”
A pulse of heat burst from the floor.
Ken’s body twitched. He gasped, loud and raw. His muscles flexed, his head jerked.
“What the—? You sick freaks—”
Snap.
A snap of fingers, and he stopped mid-rage. Eyes widened. Pupils stretched. His mouth dropped open as his whole body started shaking.
“Oh god,” he whispered. “What... what’s happening to me...”
“No more cool kids,” one of them said, sliding a hand across Ken’s chest.
Ken fell to his knees like his bones had melted. He was hungry—rubbing against them, grinding, panting like an animal. Sweat poured down his chest, pooling between perfect abs. His fingers clawed at their clothes, his tongue begged for touch.
It wasn’t slow. It was desperate. The dollmakers didn’t even speak—they just moved, taking him, feeding off his broken pride. Moans echoed through the chamber, wet and ragged. Hands everywhere. Skin slapping skin. Mouths gasping.
Ken begged between groans.
“Please—don’t stop—I need—”
He writhed on the cold floor, body slick with heat, mind slipping. One of them pulled his head back and kissed him deep—Ken moaned into it like he was drowning. The other smeared something thick and shining across his chest.
Their cream.
Silver. Warm. From a custom vial, collected after every session.
As soon as it hit him, Ken arched with a cry—and froze. Mouth half-open, eyes rolled back. His body locked mid-twitch.
Still. Silent.
Lifelike.
Lifeless.
The dollmakers stood there, flushed, panting. One of them licked his finger clean.
“Tomorrow’s stream?”
The other smiled, fixing Ken’s jaw so it looked a little more inviting. “Let’s show them what real art looks like.”
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