"I don't want—"
"You do. Your body tells me everything your mouth denies." He stopped behind me, and I felt his breath on my neck. "You're dripping, baby. Clenching around nothing. Desperate for what that machine can give you if you just—"
"Please!"
The word burstout before I could stop it. The machine moved slightly, just enough to make me gasp, then stilled again.
"Please what?" His voice had dropped to velvet over steel. "Be specific."
"I can't—I won't—"
"You will." Such certainty. "Maybe not in the next hour. Maybe not in the next two. But eventually, your body's needs will override your pride. And when they do—when you finally beg properly—I'll be right here. Watching you break apart. Watching you become what you were always meant to be."
He returned to his chair, pulling out his tablet. To all appearances, settling in for a long wait. The casualness of it made everything worse. Like my struggle was just another data point in his research.
An hour passed. Maybe two. Time became elastic, measured only in the building ache between my legs and the trembling in my muscles. The machine waited with infinite patience, occasionally giving the smallest movement to remind me what I was denying myself.
"Still fighting?" He glanced up from his tablet. "Your vitals are fascinating. Heart rate elevated, skin flushed, pupils fully dilated. Your body is screaming for release, but your mind won't let you ask for it."
"Shut up."
The machine stilled completely.
"See? Even now, you choose pride over pleasure." He set the tablet aside. "Let me paint you a picture. It's hour three. You're shaking, sweating, so desperate you can barely breathe. And all you have to do is say twowords. 'Please, Daddy.' That's it. That's all that stands between you and what your body is begging for."
"Never."
"Never is a long time, baby." He smiled, and it wasn't kind. "And we have six more weeks together. Six weeks of daily sessions. Daily opportunities to practice asking nicely. How long do you think your pride will last?"
Another hour. The shaking grew worse. The need became a living thing, clawing at my insides. The machine gave occasional pulses—not enough to satisfy, just enough to drive me insane.
"Your file mentioned you were stubborn," he mused. "But this is extraordinary. Four hours of denial rather than say two simple words. What are you trying to prove?"
"That I'm not yours," I gasped.
"But you are." He stood again, approaching slowly. "Your body knows it. Your mind knows it. Only your pride hasn't gotten the memo."
"Don't touch me."
"I wouldn't dream of it." He stopped just out of reach. "This is your battle, not mine. I'm just an observer. A witness to your self-destruction."
"You're enjoying this."
"Immensely." No denial, no pretense. "Watching you fight yourself is the most fascinating thing I've seen in years. The way you'd rather suffer than submit. Rather ache than ask. It's beautiful in its dysfunction."
"You're sick."
"We've established that. The question is: how sick are you? Sick enough to endure hours of this rather than give me what I want?" He tilted his head. "Or sick enough to finally admit you want it too?"
The machine pulsed again, and I couldn't stop the whimper that escaped.
"There we go," he murmured. "Your body is done pretending. Now we just wait for your mind to catch up."
"I hate you." But the words came out broken, desperate.
"I know." He returned to his chair. "But you need me. Need this. Need someone who won't let you run from yourself."
Another hour. Or maybe days. Time had no meaning in the face of such consuming need. My world narrowed to the ache between my legs and the two words that would end it.
