Chapter 10 The Fucking Machine
The Fucking Machine
Eight weeks left had become seven had become six, and I'd grown comfortable in our twisted routine. Morning sessions of careful conditioning. Afternoons of prescribed activities. Evenings where sometimes he'd hold me and sometimes he'd leave me alone with my scheduled programming.
I'd stopped counting days. Started counting moments instead—of weakness, of surrender, of the way his control cracked when I pushed just right.
Which is why I decided to push harder.
"I want to renegotiate," I announced as he entered for our morning session, carrying his usual tablet and that leather case that could contain anything.
He paused, one eyebrow raising. Today's outfit: charcoal suit pants and a white dress shirt, sleeves already rolled to his elbows. Professional with hints of accessibility.
"Renegotiate what, exactly?"
"My contract." I sat primly on the bed, hands folded, wearing the pale yellow sundress he'd chosen. Playing at sweet while planning war. "You've violated your own terms multiple times. Called it love. Held me outside sessions. Kissed me without it being part of a protocol."
"Have I?" He set down his items with deliberate calm, but I caught the tension in his shoulders.
"You have. Which means the contract is void. I should be free to leave."
"Interesting interpretation." He pulled out the vanity chair, positioning it to face me. "Continue."
"You set the rules. Professional distance. Clinical observation. Clear boundaries between researcher and subject." I lifted my chin. "You broke every one of them. That first kiss wasn't research—that was you losing control. Letting me sleep in your bed wasn't protocol—that was weakness."
"Was it?"
"Yes." I leaned forward, pressing the advantage. "You can't have it both ways, Gabriel. Either this is research with rules we both follow, or it's something else entirely. And if it's something else, you have no right to keep me here."
He was quiet for a long moment, studying me with those storm-grey eyes that had learned to read me too well.
"You've been planning this argument for days," he observed. "Waiting for the right moment. Choosing your words carefully. Tell me—what response did you expect?"
"I expected you to see logic. To acknowledge that—"
"You expected me to feel guilty." He stood, moving closer. "To be so overcome by my violations that I'd unlock the door and let you walk away. Is that it?"
"If you had any integrity—"
"Integrity?" Something dangerous flashed in his eyes.
"Let's discuss integrity, shall we? The integrity of someone who spent three weeks rehearsing arguments instead of using the unlocked door.
Who practices manipulation tactics on someone she claims to hate.
Who gets wet when I call her a good girl but pretends it's all conditioning. "
"That is conditioning! You made me—"
"I revealed you." He was close now, looming over where I sat. "Every response, every need, every desperate little want was already there. I just gave it structure. Gave it permission."
"That doesn't give you the right to—"
"To what? To acknowledge what's happening between us? To be human enough to want you beyond research parameters?" His control was fraying, voice roughening. "You're right. I broke my own rules. Shattered them. Because you're not just a subject anymore and we both know it."
"Then let me go!"
"No."
"You just admitted—"
"I admitted to being compromised. To wanting you in ways that violate professional ethics." He caught my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. "But that doesn't mean I'll let you run. Doesn't mean I'll watch you go back to that grey half-life where you were drowning."
"That's not your choice!"
"Isn't it?" His thumb traced my lower lip. "You had choices. Every day, every session, every moment. You could have fought harder. Could have shut down. Could have walked through that unlocked door. But you didn't. Because this—us—is the most real thing you've ever felt."
"You're delusional."
"Am I? Then why are your pupils dilated? Why is your breath catching? Why are you pressing your thighs together like you're already aching for what comes next?"
I slapped his hand away. "Because you've programmed me to respond! Because you've—"
"Because you want this." He straightened, and I saw the moment his last thread of control snapped.
"You want the structure and the punishment and the way I make you feel everything you've been numb to for years.
But more than that—you want me to want you.
Need me to need you. That's why this little manipulation attempt, isn't it? To see if I care enough to break?"
"I don't—"
"Stand up."
"No."
"Stand. Up." Each word came out carved from ice.
I remained seated, chin raised in defiance. "Make me."
His smile was all predator. "Oh, baby. You really should be careful what you ask for."
He moved faster than thought, hauling me to my feet and spinning me to face the bed. Before I could process, cold metal clicked around my ankles—a spreader bar, forcing my legs wide. My hands were pulled forward, secured to the headboard with quick efficiency.
"You want to discuss contract violations?" His voice came from behind me, controlled fury making it darker. "Let's discuss them. Article seven—the subject agrees to submit to all prescribed protocols. You've fought every single one."
"That's not—"
"Article twelve—the subject will not attempt manipulation or coercion. Yet here you are, trying to use my feelings against me."
"Your feelings?" I pulled against the restraints. "You don't have feelings! You have obsessions! Control issues! A god complex that—"
"Article fifteen." He cut through my rant. "The subject acknowledges that resistance may result in escalated conditioning methods."
I heard him moving, retrieving something from his case. The spreader bar kept me vulnerable, dress riding up, unable to close my legs or protect myself.
"What are you doing?"
"Providing escalated conditioning." Something heavy was positioned behind me. "Since traditional methods haven't curbed your manipulative tendencies, we'll try something more... intensive."
"Gabriel—"
"Doctor," he corrected coldly. "During sessions, I'm Doctor. Since you're so concerned with rules."
I felt something pressing against me—solid, unyielding, mechanical. Not him. Something else. Something that made my blood run cold and hot simultaneously.
"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.