Rebuilt From Scratch
Even with her safety holo-gogs on, and her figure drowned in protective clothing, ’lissa still prompts an immediate physiological response from me. You see, with her hair up in one of the many no-nonse styles that she adopted, I can marvel freely at the sweet swoop of her neck. Each tingling radiation burst from the laser pen she held lights up her profile magnificently. I study each curve, trying to work out precise measurements—arcs, circumferences, volumes—so that my detailed digital representations of her can become even more life-like.
I am obsessed. I am telling you this to warn you about how dangerous obsession can be. Because of my obsession, I am taking part in this ridiculous project, knowing that it was potentially illegal, both on Earth and in all spacer colonies. And, because of my obsession, I will come close to broaching the last human sexual taboo. Learn from my mistakes.
’lissa remains completely unaware of my slow and quiet approach, as her holo-gogs are turning the non-visible electro-magnetic spectrum into a virtual simulation of all possible effects of any of her movements with the cutting, incising, burning and slashing tool she held. If she were not holding such a dangerous implement... close enough to her now, I try to take a deep breath of her scent, but received only charred memplastics and melting crystal lattice suspension conductor fluids. It stinks like a field of bovine mechs has been accidentally sent to the broiler.
I send her gogs a page request to prompt her into checking her actual physical surroundings. ’lissa nudges them up and gives me a winning smile. As always, I do my best to engrain a perfect memimage of her face as she did so—the perfect teeth (perfect because one incisor was very slightly offset to the other, a winning diversion from the usual genetically- and surgically- induced tombstone slabs of white on white), the way that her mouth corners pushed eagerly at her slightly plump cheeks, the easy stretching and compression of her sensuous lips, and most of all, the gloriously multicoloured eyes that she had received as her 21st birthday present. It does not even matter to me that she is smiling not at me, but for the immense utility that I provide to her project.
“Hey there, kid,” she greets. “This little machine is almost about to dock with done.” She pats her creation maternally, leaning with her arm on the shoulder high brain case. This weird, illegal implement is an amateur attempt to influence the physiological brain, and the psychological mind housed inside it. No wonder I have a lump in my throat as I take the next step.
I had rehearsed this moment for a week, wondering how to suavely offer myself up as a guinea pig in a way which would be commanding, helpful, compassionate, and as sexy as zero-g titty-wobbling. I lean forward, closer to her glorious iridescent hair, and immediately inhale a sizeable lump of charred plasmould.
Coughing and spluttering, she gives me a few hearty bangs on the back and reaffirmed her idea of me as a buffoon. At least I am a useful buffoon, I think, gaining little solace. She hands me a pouch of fluid.
“So, I guess you’re here to volunteer, because you’re a good sport and so on?” she grins, cutting to the chase.
The opportunity for the grand reveal has been taken from me. I simply nod while at the same time sipping on the thick, cloying glucose-derivative stew that kept up ’lissa’s ridiculous work-rate. ’lissa at least rewarded me with a smile.
I feel too freaked to gain much strength from it, though. I immediately took up the old personality position of being a complaining victim: “So, explain to me why I should get in this glitchy, ridic, and potentially wet-sentience murdering machine again.”
Man, I am such a neonate.
’lissa sighs, the great weight of being a neuron-rich genius weighing (possibly literally) on her fem’n’fine shoulders. I cannot help but look for the stirring of her body beneath the bulk of her protective wear. “This computer is prog’d with an almost 1:1 simulation of a brain. Because you did the programming, and you have a brain, you chose your own brain. Not my brain—I wouldn’t let you near it, and besides, it would take way too much work for you to understand it.”
I have a split-second to figure out whether that was an example of sarcasm or boasting. I attempt to cover both bases by smiling in a way that could be construed as either amusement or respectful acceptance.
“We put you in the machine. It interfaces with—and this is the bit that you are soiling your nappy over—your neurons and stimulates them individually through electromagnetic, endocrinal, and brain-wave inducing means. That’s the bit that I made, and it’s awe-inspiring.”
I nod, this time in genuine respectful acceptance.
“If it doesn’t kill you,” flashing a look at me to say that no, it would not, and yet again I am captivated by her eyes, “then the simulation of your brain that you have programmed in will be compared with your current brain state, and your current brain state remapped. Your simulated brain state is...?”
“Um... me looking at a picture,” I respond, trying not to add of you on the end. I really am such an idiot—what if I become imprinted like a duckling on ’lissa’s face? Then again, what if I am already? Love... or whatever this feeling is... is nothing but an evolved state of nervous system irregularity that leads to emotional inconsistency and, potentially, devotion.
“So, we are looking for the experience of you looking at this picture to be reproduced inside my little freakotronic brain image controller. What is the picture of?”
For the first time in my conversations with ’lissa, I am controlled, aware, confident. I have made a decision. “I’ll tell you later. Let’s get on with the brain-scrambling delights of your torture chamber.”
’lissa seems impressed. This nourishes the part of me that hopes for her respect. This is the fuel that I need to continue.
Thinking empty, clenched-jaw thoughts, I am restrained into the chair, and the half-egg shaped apparatus is lowered over my head. It goes down to my shoulders. I am totally in the dark, and I do not feel that I can move. ’lissa’s voice seems distant: “you’re not claustro, right?”
In the grip of my claustro-reaction, I attempt to say something reassuring, but in that moment I really can’t move. The muscle-relaxing field ripples through my motor-nerves and the myriad portions of my brain that control muscles are themselves subdued. I am slack, relaxed. ’lissa keeps talking: “Zero-kay, bud. We are now entering stage alpha. You might feel some mild... restructuring as we test out whether we can actually change your real-time brain image.”
I feel odd. It’s not like a delusion that thoughts are being inserted and/or removed from my brain. I know about these, and have read psychevals of people with consciousness extractive paranoia. I’ve even experienced disorienting sensescapes that try to induce a mild version of such delusions. Neither is it like a runaway thought process—a daydream that goes too far, an earworm that infests aural playback loops. No, it is like an effortless restructuring of your inner experiential world that is totally out of your control. It is like a massage, but rather than the supple hands work on your muscles, soothing forces instead compel your mind to just smooth out.
My zonked brain takes in the stimuli—’lissa’s woops of joy, the drool dripping down from my slack mouth onto my labsuit, the humming and buzzing and electromagnetic movement of the machine around me.
I black out.
“Roof. Are you all right? Roof?”
I think I can understand these words, but no, they are images, smells, memories, fantasies in my mind. I see the sun rise above the orbital where I was born, I see a right hand clenched in a fist with a thumb sticking up (some retrojunk sign language that I think I saw on a vid), I smell wafts of concern like buttermilk candy topping.
I open my eyes. I say ‘yes’, but ’lissa hears “rrrrrrrrrrrrrr”.
Her hands are on my face. I feel a universe of numbers, hexadecimals describing the code of physical reality, pink flashes of human interaction as we touch. I remember the contentment of stroking a dog next to a real wooden fire, and I taste my first experience of adult fleshsims—hokey pheromonic scents, in-scene surround sound, VR headset images of slick pink plastic frotbots. I recall powerful erections while programming ’lissa’s digital images to seduce me.
I (think I?) say her name, but I hear the crackling of fresh bedsheets as we roll together. Everything zooms back, a battlefield of lust and confusion, and every single thought and area pulls into a vast image of a galaxy and it is the shape of her. Stars twinkle, defining her hair and eyes and pert nose. I can taste the fur of her armpits, the tickling of fauxpeach flesh. The soft hide of an angorat, smelling of rodent’s sawdust, gives me the texture of her curving eyelashes. Her hearbeat is the world around me. I might be, in this instant, in reality, close enough to her mamglands to hear her heartbeat. This realisation tastes of surprise ejaculations of sherbet. In this jumble of senses and feelings, there is one constant, and I am looking into it longingly right now.
“Roof, you grot dwarf thunkhead, will you wake the fleck up?”
I am in the middle of a rabble of heaving heathen bodies, their sweat pummeling the air.
“I am going to slap you. With my hand.”
Sharp bangs of tactile pleasure and pain—copper, electricity, blood.
“All right. I’m going to.”
That stupe retrojunk fist again and...
“’lissa? ’lissa?”
She runs over to me, beautiful concern in her doubly-beautiful eyes. In my short-circuiting brain I am still well aware that I am making an impact.
“Roof. How are you? How is your brain?”
She gazes at my skull with an attentiveness that almost fools me into thinking that she can read my thoughts, by interpreting the electric flashes coaxed along by neurotransmitters.
“I think you’ve come through some pretty severe synaesthesia-producing after effects. Your brain patterns... well... I’m sure they’ll be fascinating psychoscientists for decades to come.”
“’lissa,” I stammer. “I... I...”
“Hush, Roof. I know what’s going on. You just go back to sleep and we’ll talk about it when I wake up.”
Like the jaws of a terrifying trap, the machine closes on top of me again. I am still too weak to complain, but I am sure that she can hear my mewling, see my feet and legs struggling. ’lissa merely turns back on the motor inhibitors, but puts them on unconscious, and I am asleep.
“Roof? Roof?”
I open my eyes grudgingly. First my left, which recoils in horror at the brightness, so my implants dial down light receptivity. Then my right, which has already homeostatically adapted. I see blurs.
“I don’t think I can see....” I moan.
’lissa, almost laughing, replies, “Just give it time. While you’re functionally blind, and not going anywhere, we can talk. How do you feel...”
I am about to say every archaic old Anglo swear-word that I learned from the blacksite eduwebs, but.
“...about me?” she continues.
“I really don’t think that’s the point of our convo right now...” I hazard.
This time, she really does laugh. The clanging, pealing bells of her laughter tingle some echo remnants of synaesthesia, and my visual field is distorted and compressed by the sound waves. I am on a deck of an ancient ship, there is wood and wave all around, and the sirens are calling to me.
She stops laughing. “I know you love me.”
Apart from nodding, sending my reeling brain floating down a new course of headaches, I stay silent.
“Do you want to know how I know?”
“Hmm,” I start, mouth thick with disuse. I try to lift an arm to scratch at the dried saliva on my face, but I am still too weak. I let it fall back the millim or so I lifted it. “Well, it could be the fact that I’m taking part in this ridic, illegal, and harmish experry just to be around you.”
The anger feels good. Deep pulses of blood are rushing back to me.
She giggles this time, a more coquettish noise. Final flutters of other-sense, dove wings and soft fans hiding faces full of promise. My blood pulses in a different way.
“Oh no, Roof, I was too busy with my work to notice that. If that was the only sign you had planned on given me, I would always have thought of you as a useful tool, a fellow scientist—albeit not as gloriously over-capacitated with neural potential.” In the sharpening world that my eyes were delivering to me, I saw her raise a perfect finger to her brain pan and she made a strange clucking sound with her mouth, that brought back hokey behaviour from those cheddar retrojunk shows again.
I stay silent, feeling somewhat disappointed that my ridiculous, 24-hour-cycle efforts had not penetrated her in the slightest.
“No, kid, when you decided to use an image of your brain while looking—obsessing!—over a picture of me... well, a girl can’t pass up that kind of attention.”
My almost-acclimatised eyes dart in shock.
“Yep. I’ve programmed a machine that can read and manipulate brain-states. How could you ever think that I’m not just as much of—or probably even more of—an expert compared to you?” She dipped her head in reflection. Hairs shifted in a diamond scatter of light, and she reached up to tuck the strands behind a perfect ear. “No, it’s not love. Nothing as simple and mopey—nothing as romantic. You are one intense, intelligent, and forceful personality. Perhaps you don’t realise that. You are obsessed. You want to caress, you want to mould, you want to invade. Or perhaps...” and at this point I clearly see a vast, crazed smile break out across her triumphant face “...you want me to invade you.”
Her mocking invades my sense of normal. I do not know what I have been doing all summer, I do not know who I have been working with. All I know is that I will follow this glorious woman in whatever she does. I am helplessly attuned to her.
“You took a big risk. You took a big risk because you want me. Well, you’ve given yourself to me. What do you want me to do with you?”
Adult entertainment is made to demand. As it is possible and cheap to make such entertainment using artificials and mechs, everything is possible, and nothing is forbidden. I have seen mechs representing famous families murder each other in the act of coupling. I have seen gaping maws of vaginas consume the helpless and the lost as they spasmed in a parody of absolute ecstasy. These things can even be done for real, to touch and smell, to an extent so lifelike that perhaps we have lost our capacity to be shocked. But the explorations into sexuality I have made are perhaps even seedier, as they involve the pretence of the conscious abolition of self-will. This is the one thing that can still be replied upon to create a moral panic—perhaps without this last common-sensical prohibition we would be able to throw away the concept of morality entirely.
Therefore I want to say: take me.
With whatever strength I somehow possess: “I don’t know. You tell me.” This game has a script, and we will both enjoy a struggle.
’lissa laughs. This time it is throaty, powerful, in control. It is like she has aged, matured, and grown power while talking. She is now dominant. Ancient monkey circuits of social hierarchy are kicking in. Everything is producing a situation where I will eventually kneel before her, my mouth on her feet, or her pussy, or attending to some other (non-sexual and therefore not, in my state of lust, important) need.
She inquires: “You’ve given me everything that I need to make you mine. You put your own time into this device. You chose me as your icon, your paragon of sexuality. You have led yourself to this place. Are you happy?”
I look at her. She is perfect. She is an amalgam of the human-made idea of factory-achieved perfection, but has taken great care to be an individual. The glossy sheen of her skin, but the colour is uneven. The hollows of her neck, slightly asymmetrical. The heave of her bosom and her backside—neither ridiculously sculpted or plumped. In her joy, her eyes twinkle with starshells of madness. She is alive, involved, indebted to a physical world which most people take for granted and use. She consumes, yes (and I want her to consume me, and I of her!) but she notes what she consumes, and she selects what will nourish most.
I have placed this now-woman on a pedestal. She represents sexuality and female humanity to me. Rather than pour out all my feelings in a vapid display, I shrug. As she stares at me, waiting for more, I add “It’s proceeding zero-kay so far”. My voice is stronger.
“Oh!” she ejaculates, fluttering her eyelashes, “yet I am not!”
She pulls closer to me, her eyes still wheeling with the starbursts of madness. A feeling of some dread starts to arise in my various sphincters.
“You never explained to me what you wanted... we never agreed on the terms of ownership.”
I nodded. That was fair.
“You might think that I just want a devoted live-in slave/boyfriend. That, with you handing over the control panel, I would gladly accept. You want me to control you—but on your terms!”
I am hesitant.
As she draws closer still, the ridiculous smoothness of her cheek becomes apparent. Her lips and her smile intersect with her cheekbones to make a platform of devotion. My toes tingle at the idea that I might be able, one day, to worship at it. But fear gnaws at me too. And she sees it.
“You’re so vanilla. I am going to control you. Not in the mainstream way, fetishes and dombondage and safe words. Clearly I have to take away the voice of reason, the conscience, the back-seat driver that will keep enforcing your stupid, archaic rules. You want to give away what we superstitiously refer to as ‘free will’? That’s fine by me—but it’s either all the way or not at all.”
She is gripped with the fervour of a plan. She is a woman who has moved all obstacles in her way to invent the impossible. I was stupid to think that I could entice her with a thoroughly conventional unconventionality. I was right to suppose that ’lissa—strong, proud, beautiful!—would be happy to dominate me, yet I grossly underestimated how much domination she would want.
I fix her eyes with mine. I spend some of my last few reserves of self-control. “Whenever you go for anything, you want it totally. I shouldn’t have forgotten that. I apologise.”
Her laugh, this time, makes my skin crawl. My scalp is alive.
She fixes my eyes with hers, pulls face-face with me. The glaze of concentration, fascination, and exultation has made them swell. The whites are pure white, and the irises... well... the competing colours almost shimmer as they struggle to overwhelm each other. Golden flecks of brown, coastal rims of green, and deeply oceanic blues. Hokey old retrovid ‘hypnosis inductions’ are almost believable while staring into them. I can feel the breath on my face, taste the crust of overwork and lack of hygiene. How I want to taste her.
But.
While I give myself to her romantically, the core of me still rebels. My face is hard. My response, in clear body language, is of a line that I will not cross.
“Oh, you silly little thing. I could take you so easily. I could just keep putting you back in this machine,” and she slowly pulls down the helmet so that shadows start to fall across my face, “and each time make you more and more devoted.”
I gulp. I don’t know whether it is in pleasure of fear.
“Each time you would be that much more happy to please me. Eventually, you would be so desperate to be with me that you would act as if you had no will. I could make you injure yourself without question.”
That sort of isn’t sexy.
“And,” she sighed, “that does turn me on. It turns me on vastly and almost completely. How I would love to know that you were only a command away from doing my bidding.” A suggestive smirk played on her face.
This is sort of sexy.
“I could be in bed, tormented by the heat of the summer, aching for release. The sweat droplets rolling down my toned and fit body,” and with this her tormenting hands smoothed out the vertical folds of the lab clothes, to give me a powerful preview of the beauty beneath, “as I slowly... achingly... decide to pleasure myself. And who is my fingers? Who is my mouth? You would come along, as desperate to please as a canine, to sate me.”
Yes, definitely sexy.
“Also, I’ve got a lot of washing to do right now... even though these labclothes are marketed as ‘self cleaning’ they never seem to work if you wear them non-stop for a week.”
Not sexy again.
’lissa refocused on the job at hand. She pushed back up on the helmet of the machine, and positioned her face in front of the light shining down at my from the ceiling. I can see her, half-veiled, halo’d and beautiful.
“So, no. I am not going to simply make you romantically devoted. No, Roof, I am going to break you down and have you entirely. You will be the world’s most advanced sexbot. And I, and only I, will know the terrible things that I have done to you. Nobody else will realise that all your behaviours are mechanical, reflex actions. When you meet your friends and family, when you ask them how they are and tell them how happy you are to be with me, you will be a shell. You will be a shell around machinery that I have put in motion. You will belong to me so completely that you will be nothing without me. Are you turned on yet?”
I am not sure what to say. Of course, part of me wants to sign over control of this machinery right now. “Er... mistress...” I say, playing for time and exposition. “How are you going to accomplish such novel feats?”
’lissa knows what I am doing, and prepares to treat me to the kind of explanation that you would give a child. She leans in conspiratorially, and at last my senses can fully pick up on her wonderful, natural smell. Work, effort, vigor, undercut with the ripeness of her unwashed clothes. It is a heady scent that shows both genetic compatibility, and also that she deserves my unwavering attention as her slave.
No. We are playing for keeps here. I need to stop being so disorganised. Take on board this wonderful, crazy woman’s strengths. Be like the person you desire to serve. Focus.
She sits in my lap, the helmet having been pushed up so that it is entirely behind me. The pressure of her is reassuring and warming, and I start to stir deep within the protective fabric. She bends and twists slightly, and I have a wonderful view of her chest as it stretches against her clothes. I have to look up at her, a gesture of submission that she clearly enjoys.
“Do you remember,” she starts, sing-song, “telling me about verrry old science-fiction books you have read?”
I nod. Yes, I do—when I was sounding you out for common interests. My chat-up technique is clearly unsuitable.
“This one—and I care not to remember the name,” at this point she shows me a flash of the attitude that she will use to control me, “featured a terrifying, soul-destroying device. Being a psycho-sci grad, you were aware of what this device would really, actually do.”
I would nod, if it were not for the lump in my throat.
“If it were really, actually real,” she continued. She stared at me, evaluating my reaction.
Impatient to finish, I take on board the story. “The total perspective vortex. It shows how irrelevant you are, physically and therefore philosophically, in comparison to the entire universe.”
’lissa nodded and smiled, as if coaxing a trick out of a fondly-loved pet.
“Ancient motivation theories, such as Terror Management Theory, pull in all human action under the threat of death. The vortex confronts you with the intense meaningless of life such that it takes away the false optimism that sustains our behaviours, and leads to a terrifying cognitive dissonance.”
’lissa slowly raised a finger to my lips. From the bottom of my vision, I could see it, pink and luscious. Everything about this woman was beautiful, what was the reason to fight?
She concluded: “this cognitive dissonance, you carefully explained to me, would result in someone so shattered that they would have to be rebuilt from scratch.”
She removed her finger. “Is that right, slave?”
I nodded, dumbly.
As she raised herself from my lap, her laughter twinkled in the air like the fragrance from her flesh. It should really have sounded cruel, but I think that she found the whole affair justified—when a man gives you himself on a plate, I guess it’s your right to decide how to eat him. I ached to belong to her in that moment, to be converted to the willing slave dependent on her strength, possibility, and control.
Yet, the problem was that this process was going to be entirely unwilling.
She slowly pulled the helmet down over me.
“I guess it’s only fair,” her muffled voice sang to me, “if you decide on the first thing I should tell you to do when you wake up, screaming and confused like a baby ripped from the womb.”
I grimaced at her use of imagery.
“I think,” I hesitated and stalled, “that you should...”
“Go on,” she sighed.
I paused.
“Go on,” she commanded.
I obeyed, “...tell me that you love me.”
Her turn to pause, a beat, an eye-blink. The air in her lungs was let out in a blast of laughter. “You really don’t get it, do you?” she giggled. “The whole point is that, willing or unwilling, legal or illegal, right or wrong, moral or immoral, I will own you. You have given yourself to me in such a way that I can choose to perform a total system reset. You will come back to me factory default fresh. Mmmm, I can’t wait to play around with your settings. Much more fun than bashing in the settings right now. The settings for totally owning you, body and mind.”
Her voice, her intoxicating voice. Still, without the visual stimulation, without the smell, and without the physical enlightenment of her shapely ass sitting on my lap, I could think.
“I could make you entirely, totally, and complete gay. I could rent you off to my male friends to be used.”
My hands hovered over control inputs. These were installed, at my insistence, so that the machine could eventually be operated solo, after it had proven to be safe.
“No, I don’t really want to force you to have sex with me. I want you to enjoy that. Plus, my male friends would probably be a bit freaked out if I brought you around, naked on a leash.”
’lissa had fooled me by being far more aware of my expertise that I had anticipated. Entertainingly, I was now about to turn the tables.
“I will probably start off nice and simple—constantly, achingly erect in my presence. Unable to orgasm without my permission. We can start from there.”
Ambidextrously manipulating both control pads, I deactivated the machine. It beeped three times in acceptance of this order.
“I’ll make you stand in the corner, your hopefully thick and satisfying member pulsing, your fingers and lips wet with my pussy juice. I’ll keep you waiting for carnal completion for hours.”
Nothing happened. I feverishly pressed the pads. Another three beeps.
“I wonder how far I can push it. Will I be able to totally overload your body with pleasure? I have a theory that it will provoke the synaesthesia again. I hope it won’t break you.”
Clenched fists beat against the pads.
“Oh, yes, I deactivated that little failsafe. You made it terrifyingly obvious that you had made changes. Frankly, it was as if you wanted to be caught. I guess I’ll just have to punish you when you come back out. Extra hard.”
Even as an exhausted, terrified, and surrender-filled sound escaped my lips, they were curled up in anticipation. I had placed the much more subtle failsafe in such a way that, if the obvious one was found and deleted, it became secret from all but the most total breakdowns of coding data.
“I bet you actually feel a little pleased that I’ve done that. You want me to break you, you want me to make unspeakably hostile actions against your very being. You dirty little man.” With a satisfied blast of input, ’lissa finished.
“See you on the other side,” she said, as she pressed the button.
Blackness.
This time, the mixing of my senses was much more expected and much more easy to cope with. I devoted whatever attention and control I had to seeming lifeless, broken, and without hope.
’lissa took a long moment to look at me, and judge the result.
“You are nothing,” she started. “You are nothing, you are so small that you are insignificant. You are nothing.”
I groaned, partly in mock-approval, and partly because, well, she needn’t repeat herself so much. A succession of fleeting impressions of infinity and zero, concepts somehow given a rich multiplicity of sense data so that I truly understood their hollow totalities.
“You are nothing,” she started again. “And, er, you have to give yourself to me totally.”
I groaned louder, seeing that she deserved some dull repetition too. The sound cut through me like a vibroknife. I remembered various instances of moist release, sucking tendrils of my pleasure machines as my digital ’lissa paraded commandingly on my walls and told me to worship her.
“If you give yourself to me totally, I can give you meaning. You must serve me,” she was warming up now, “as a slave. I am your mistress, and you are my slave.”
She paused.
“Slave, I command you to rise.”
I rose, nursing my head against the dying assault of pictures, sounds, shapes, colours, smells, and other assorted feelings.
“You are incapable of anything except without me.”
I steadied myself with my left hand, and reached my right hand out in supplication.
“Give yourself to me totally!” she commanded, grasping my hand and pressing it against her bosom.
I took a deep breath in preparation to speak. “Well, I must say.”
She stared at me, perplexed.
“These feel... lovely.”
She continued to stare.
“OK. So. Failsafe, subtle, hidden. Reprograms device to re-run last trial. Guess it fooled you.”
She opened her mouth.
“Dammit, I am so into you, girl. You are... in my mind. It’s pretty intense.”
She let go of my hand.
“I want you to feel this too. I want you to understand yourself... as a goddess.” I shook off the remnants of the effects. “I want to convince you, to see yourself, how I see you.”
I took a step towards her.
She had nowhere to run.
Soon, I would be hers... but in the way that I wanted. As I pressed her into the corner, her face setting off waves of beauty in all my senses, I said: “You are going to make me worship you so hard when I’m done with you.”
If you sit in her machine, you could be the same way too.