Chapter 10 The Fucking Machine #2
"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."
"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 burst out 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 two words.
'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.
"Still with me?" His voice seemed to come from far away. "Your vitals are concerning. Should I end this? Make the choice for you?"
"No!" The thought of him stopping, of being denied even the option of relief, was worse than the torment.
"Then ask."
"I..." The words stuck like glass in my throat.
"Two words, baby. Two words and all of this ends. Or continues, depending on how you look at it." He leaned back. "But those are the only two words that will save you now."
The dam broke.
"Please, Daddy!"
The machine came to life instantly, thrusting deep and steady. The relief was so intense I screamed, convulsing against the restraints as it worked me with mechanical precision.
"Good girl," he said softly. "But we're not done. That was just to take the edge off. Now the real training begins."
The machine continued its rhythm, building me toward a peak I desperately needed. But just as I approached the edge, it slowed.
"Ask again."
"What?"
"You want to come? Ask nicely."
"Please, Daddy," I gasped immediately, pride thoroughly shattered.
The machine sped up, bringing me right to the precipice—and stopped.
"Again."
"Please, Daddy!"
This continued for another hour. Maybe more. Building and denying, each peak higher than the last, each denial more devastating. And through it all, those two words became my only vocabulary. My only thought. My only truth.
"Look at you," he murmured at some point. "So polite now. So eager to please. What happened to manipulation? To using my feelings against me?"
"Please, Daddy," I sobbed, past anything but need.
"That's all you can say now, isn't it? Just those two words, over and over. Like a prayer. Like a promise." He stood, moving close enough that I could smell his cologne mixed with my desperation. "Do you want to come, baby?"
"Please, Daddy!"
"Do you promise to stop trying to manipulate me?"
"Please, Daddy!"
"Are you mine?"
"Please, Daddy! Please, please, please—"
"Come."
The machine thrust deep and held as my orgasm crashed through me like a tsunami. I screamed myself hoarse, convulsing against restraints that held me safe while I shattered. It went on and on, weeks of need compressed into moments of devastating release.
When I finally stilled, wrung out and trembling, he was there. Releasing the restraints, catching me as I collapsed. The machine withdrew and disappeared, but I barely noticed, too lost in the aftermath.
"There's my good girl," he murmured, carrying me to the bed. "See what happens when you stop fighting? When you ask for what you need?"
I should have argued. Should have pointed out the coercion, the manipulation, the way he'd broken me down to nothing but need and two words. Instead, I buried my face in his chest and let him hold me while I shook.
"You did so well," he continued, stroking my hair. "Lasted longer than any subject I've observed. So strong, even in your submission."
"You broke me," I whispered.
"I revealed you." He tilted my chin up, making me meet his eyes. "The you that exists beyond pride and manipulation. Beyond the grey life you'd built to avoid feeling. This is who you really are."
"Someone who begs?"
"Someone who asks for what they need." His thumb traced my cheek. "That's not weakness, baby. That's strength most people never find."
I wanted to argue, but exhaustion pulled at me. Everything ached—body wrung out, mind scattered, heart cracked open in ways I couldn't examine.
"Sleep," he murmured. "Tomorrow we'll discuss what this means. How manipulation serves neither of us. How honesty might feel, if you're brave enough to try it."
"Will you stay?"
The question slipped out before I could stop it. Another need admitted, another vulnerability exposed.
"Yes." He shifted us both, pulling a blanket over our tangled forms. "I'll stay."
And he did. Held me while I drifted, anchoring me to something solid while everything else felt liquid. His heartbeat under my ear, steady and sure. His arms around me, possessive and protective in equal measure.
I'd lost the battle. Lost it completely, devastating. But lying there in the wreckage of my pride, held by the man who'd orchestrated my destruction, I wondered if I'd actually won something else.
Something harder to name but impossible to deny.
Something that tasted like those two words I'd fought so hard against: Please, Daddy.
Something that felt terrifyingly like home.