"This is a training tool," he explained, voice clinical despite the darkness underneath. "Designed for prolonged conditioning without fatigue. It can maintain consistent rhythm for hours. Days, if necessary."
"You wouldn't—"
"Wouldn't I?" The machine hummed to life, and I felt it press forward slightly. Not entering, just threatening. "You wanted to manipulate. To use my admitted feelings as leverage. So let me show you what happens when you play games with someone who's already broken their own rules."
The machine pushed forward slowly, mechanically, and I bit back a whimper. It was thick, textured, angled to hit places that made thought difficult.
"Here's how this works," he continued, moving where I could see him. In his hand, a remote with multiple settings. "The machine responds to voice commands. Specifically, to polite requests. Anything else—demands, cursing, manipulation—causes it to stop."
"That's sick."
The machine stopped immediately.
"See? Already learning." He settled in the chair, crossing his ankles like he was attending a lecture. "The only phrases it recognizes are variations of 'Please, Daddy.' Nothing else will get you what your body is already craving."
"I'm not—I won't—"
The machine remained still, and I became aware of how empty I felt. How the teasing thrust had awakened needs I'd been trying to ignore.
"Take your time," he said mildly. "We have all day. I've cleared my schedule, remember? No other subjects. No other obligations. Just you and your pride and a machine that doesn't care about either."
Minutes passed. The position grew uncomfortable, legs spread wide, arms stretched forward. The machine waited with mechanical patience, occasionally humming as if reminding me of its presence.
"This is torture," I finally gasped.
"This is choice." He hadn't moved, hadn't even uncrossed his legs. "You can end this anytime. Just ask nicely."
"Fuck you."
"Language." But there was amusement in it now. "Though I admire your commitment to defiance. How long will it last, I wonder? An hour? Two? Your body is already responding, getting wetter with each minute of denial."
He was right. The enforced immobility, the vulnerability of the position, his steady gaze—all of it was working on me in ways I hated to acknowledge.
"Just let me go," I tried. "We both know this has gone too far. You said it yourself—you're compromised. I'm compromised. We should—"
The machine remained still.
"Stop analyzing," he suggested. "Stop thinking. Just feel what your body wants and ask for it."
Another ten minutes. Twenty. My thighs began to shake from the position. The need built like water behind a dam, made worse by the knowledge that relief was one phrase away.
"You're a bastard," I panted.
"Accurate. But not the magic words."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't." He leaned forward slightly. "You hate that I see through every defense. Hate that I know exactly what you need. Hate that I'm the first person to care enough to break you properly."
"That's not caring!"
"Isn't it?" He stood, moving closer but not touching. "I could have left you in that grey apartment with your grey life. Could have taken the money back and found another subject. Instead, I'm here. Watching you fight yourself. Waiting for you to realize that submission isn't defeat—it's freedom."
"Philosophical bullshit," I spat.
The machine hummed but didn't move.
"You know what I think?" He circled me slowly, predator cataloguing prey. "I think you're terrified. Not of me. Not of this. But of what happens when you stop fighting. When you let yourself have what you want without making it a battle."
