The Submission Machine (Dominance & Submission)

1

The London night was cool, and a fine drizzle settled like a veil over the empty streets of Kensington.

Loretta pressed deep into the shadows of a massive weeping willow hanging over the garden wall of the Vance estate.

Before her stood the Victorian brick building she’d been casing for weeks—inside, within those elegant historic walls, a treasure awaited.

She glanced at her watch. 2:42 AM. The famous inventor Alistair Vance, owner of this imposing estate, had been asleep for hours. The third-floor windows had been dark since well before midnight.

Time for her furry accomplice.

She pulled a small laser pointer from her pocket and aimed it at the edge of the conservatory.

From weeks of observation, she knew that Barnaby—the homeowner’s three-legged cat—made his rounds right about now.

The red dot danced across the glass pane.

The cat reacted immediately. Despite having only three legs, he was surprisingly nimble and agile.

And ha—there he was: With a precise leap, he landed on the windowsill.

His missing leg made him wobble briefly, and he bumped against—exactly as Loretta had calculated—the heavy antique brass latch that hadn’t caught properly for days. She’d watched it carefully.

The window sprang open a crack.

The alarm sensors registered the movement, but the system was programmed to switch into “pet tolerance mode” for exactly ninety seconds whenever it detected the house pet.

Ninety seconds. That was all Loretta needed.

With silent, catlike movements, she glided over the wall, darted to the conservatory, and slipped through the gap.

Barnaby stood before her, staring with his large yellow eyes.

He was already opening his mouth to let out an indignant growl or screech, but Loretta knew exactly what he loved: raw liver.

She promptly pulled a piece from a small plastic bag and waved it in front of his nose.

Barnaby’s appetite immediately triumphed over his vigilance.

The burglar meant nothing to him—he threw himself greedily at the bloody treat.

Loretta grinned, tugged her gloves tight, and quietly closed the window behind her. She cast one last glance at the gluttonous cat, then breathed in the scent of the house: beeswax and expensive leather.

But suddenly she froze. A sound reached her—a soft whirring, clicking, fluttering, and flapping.

What the hell was that? She stood rooted to the spot for a while, but the sound didn’t change; it grew neither louder nor more frantic.

Finally, she exhaled with relief. She was certain: this must have something to do with the homeowner’s notorious, mysterious inventions.

She clicked on her flashlight—the lens was dimmed to its lowest setting, so only a narrow, sharp beam cut through the darkness.

She moved silently from the conservatory into the entrance hall. Though the floor was smooth marble, her special soles made absolutely no sound.

When she raised the flashlight and illuminated the walls, she held her breath in awe.

The halls were hung with artworks that would have done any museum proud.

So it was really true: this guy wasn’t just filthy rich—he’d amassed half of art history.

Each of these paintings was worth a fortune, but Loretta was searching for the absolute crown jewel of the collection: “The Girl in the Mist” by William Turner.

She crossed the entrance hall and swept the beam over the walls of the adjoining salon—then suddenly paused.

The flashlight revealed not just more paintings, but strange, almost sculptural objects scattered across the tables and floor.

Were these artworks too? She saw gears of matte metal that meshed and turned without any visible power source, emitting a soft whirring and clacking; on a table, she discovered a glass sphere inside a plexiglass box, with small artificial lightning bolts dancing within.

What the devil was that supposed to be?

Almost nothing was known about Alistair Vance. He never appeared in public and was notoriously press-shy. He was a phantom who tinkered away in secret.

Rumor had it he held numerous patents for everyday objects that everyone used—patents that had made him unimaginably rich. He—or so it was rumored, at least—was the inventor of wheels on suitcases!

He’d also apparently developed the resealable zip closure on freezer bags and invented the click mechanism in ballpoint pens.

Patents no one ever thought about, but that billions of people used every day.

Every click worldwide sent fractions of cents flowing into his account.

And at the end of the year, that added up to millions upon millions.

Enough, at least, to afford genuine masterpieces.

Loretta shook her head to clear the fascination.

She couldn’t let herself get distracted.

After all, she wasn’t some beginner—she was one of the most skilled and sought-after burglars in the international art scene.

In the underworld, her name already carried legendary status.

That was exactly why a wealthy, anonymous art collector had contacted her and offered an astronomical sum if she brought him The Girl in the Mist by Turner.

The narrow beam of her lamp probed deeper through the salon, past the strange objects, into the depths of the room where heavy shadows swallowed the walls.

She passed through a massive double door and entered a new room that looked more like a high-tech laboratory than a living space. She looked around in astonishment.

And then she saw it.

In the middle of the room rose a huge, bizarre… apparatus. Good God! W… what was that?

Bewildered, she swept the beam over it. The monstrosity consisted of a tangle of thick, matte-black hoses, metallic nozzles, and long mechanical tentacles that hung limply from the apparatus.

The thing had a strange effect on her. She licked her dry lips nervously, felt her pulse racing.

The… thing seemed somehow alive. As if it were sleeping.

A soft, deep humming emanated from it, almost like breathing.

Cautiously, placing each foot with care, Loretta edged closer to the monstrosity.

At that same moment, the deep humming changed, and her heart skipped a beat.

Fortunately, the humming didn’t grow louder, but it became noticeably livelier, more rhythmic—almost like the accelerated heartbeat of a predator waking from sleep.

At the same time, a dark red glow began to pulse deep inside its body.

The red light cast long, eerie shadows on the laboratory walls and bathed Loretta’s silhouette in dangerous scarlet.

What was going on here? Was this a… trap?

Loretta held her breath, ready to spin around and bolt at any moment.

But the apparatus didn't spit poison, didn't fire lasers, and—most importantly—didn't trigger an alarm.

Instead, the nozzles seemed to vibrate gently, and a pleasant, almost imperceptible warmth spread through the room along with a strangely lovely scent.

What was that? Roses? Yes, it smelled almost like roses.

Somehow it made her think of vacations, of wild roses in the sunlight, of…

Stop, Loretta. Focus. She couldn't let herself get distracted. She forced herself to look away from the red pulsing and swept her flashlight beam across the laboratory walls.

And there, directly behind the machine, on the far wall, she finally spotted it.

It hung in a heavy, ornate gold frame that made a grotesque contrast with the strange apparatus. In the light of her lamp, she instantly recognized the misty, golden and pastel brushstrokes. It was unmistakably The Girl in the Mist. The multimillion-dollar masterpiece.

Loretta let out a quiet sigh of relief and stepped in front of the painting.

But as she reached into her dark coveralls to pull out the cutter, she noticed something: two of the machine's long mechanical tentacles stretched like protective arms across the frame, running exactly along the edge of the canvas.

If she wanted to cut out the painting, she'd inevitably have to touch them.

And she wasn't at all sure that was a good idea.

As she hesitated, thinking frantically, the apparatus's nozzles released another gentle puff of rose scent. Hmmmm. That really was a very, very, veeery lovely smell. Loretta breathed in deeply. And out. And in again.

And then, something strange happened to her.

The pounding in her chest ebbed away. The tension that had been lodged in her muscles for weeks dissolved in an instant.

The heightened alertness that had guided her since she'd first stepped into this house vanished.

Instead, a warm, almost floating feeling of deep relaxation and pure happiness spread through her body.

Why had she been so nervous anyway? There was absolutely no reason to worry. The eccentric inventor was sleeping soundly, the usually vigilant cat was full and content, and the Turner was hanging right here on the wall in front of her. Everything was perfect.

In this sudden, almost cheerful bliss, she didn't think twice. She pulled the cutter from her coveralls pocket, pushed the blade forward with a quiet click, and reached toward the priceless painting.

And then… everything happened lightning-fast.

In the fraction of a second when the metallic tip of her cutter touched the edge of the gold frame, the apparatus sprang to life.

Before Loretta's mind, clouded by the strange rose scent, could comprehend what was happening, the long tentacles that had hung so listlessly from the machine's body shot forward with unimaginable speed.

Silently and with mathematical precision, the metallic grippers seized her wrists.

The two tentacles guarding the painting also shot forward and tore the cutter from her fingertips, while two more grabbed her ankles simultaneously.

Loretta gasped, but before she could fight the grip or even think of fleeing, it happened: the thin mechanical arms spread with a quiet hum. Relentlessly, they pulled her arms and legs apart—wider, wider, ever wider—and then…

…the machine lifted her effortlessly off the ground! What?!

Another tentacle wrapped smoothly around her waist, supporting her midsection to keep her from sagging—but absurdly, also binding her.

Now she hung completely helpless in midair, spread out like an X, unable to move.

The padded grippers were locked tight around her joints and waist—this whole contraption was an absolutely ingenious invention.

She was utterly immobilized in a merciless grip.

Her special soles dangled uselessly far above the marble floor. The jolt had knocked her dark hood off, and her long blonde hair had spilled out, brushing the floor.

Shit, shit, shit. What was she supposed to do?

The inventor had obviously built this machine as the ultimate guardian of his artworks. No wonder the guy had such surprisingly lax security that she'd been able to simply break in through the conservatory. He didn't need to lock anything else down when he had something like this standing guard!

Shit—how could she have let herself get duped so amateurishly? Her, of all people—Loretta Castelli, the queen of art thieves.

Her entire career, her flawless reputation—everything threatened to end miserably in this cursed room.

The cold reality hit her like a blow: she was caught in the web of a perfect technological spider.

If she didn't manage to free herself before morning, before the master of the house woke up and found her like this, her career—and her freedom—were over.