2 comments/ 32238 views/ 5 favorites Machine Story for Katie Ch. 01 By: SilentMercy This is the first part in a series of indefinite length, but Pt. 2 will be along shortly. Don't forget to vote. I hope you all enjoy Katie as much as I have. This story has been written for Kathleen. * Dear Obedient One, You have always enjoyed being dominated. You appreciate the confidence needed to control someone else, and the self-control needed to keep that in check in situations that could turn dangerous or even deadly. So what I have decided to do is take you into a world where control is mine, and the fruits are yours. Your name is Katie, and it will be for the entirety of the story. I have chosen this name because in your case, it strikes particularly close to home. It's easy enough to allow yourself to be manipulated when you're using someone else's name. Katie, in your case, will do. You will not be controlling your orgasms. I will. I will be doing this for two reasons. One, it will train your mind and body to respond only when prompted. This is how you will be expected to act in the future. Two, your body is not yours. It's mine. It always has been and it always will be. If you do come without my permission, you will be required to start this adventure from the beginning, rereading the dedication, and making your way down from there. I will not be using words like 'slut,' 'slave,' or 'whore,' because they are already embedded in your psyche. When you think about ownership, certain words and phrases come to mind. You will eliminate those words and phrases right now, because I say what goes in your head, and what doesn't. Now...take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. You look down and notice that an intravenous tube has been placed expertly into one of the veins on your right hand, though the standard drip tube is missing. There are no machines present, no silly little gray boxes that monitor your heart rate (which, by now, should be fairly high), your blood pressure, or your blood-oxygen level. These are not required. By now, you trust that I know what I'm doing. The Machine is in the next room, my Dark room, and you know as well as I do that the word 'dark' has more than one meaning in this case. You've been in there before. You know what it's like. I'll save the descriptions for when you are completely helpless. You can still get up and walk away now, but you won't, will you? You need me too much. I insert a small syringe into the tube and press lightly with my thumb, pumping the anesthetic into your veins. You don't resist, in fact you welcome it, with a half-smile playing across your face. You know where it will lead you, and you know the results. Now, count backward from 10...9...8... When you wake up, you are, in fact, in a dark room. I built it that way. The only light coming through is what you have left in your heart, in your dedication to me. There is no sound, save for your breathing. This will eventually become your friend, and a mutual psychological and physical bond may develop between you two. For now, it is the only connection you have to the feeling of being physically alive. Because of the lack of light in the room, you have no idea whether you are on your back or suspended just inches above the floor on your stomach, like you're used to. I can tell you that you are on your back. Your arms are pinned behind you, at either side of your head. Your elbows and wrists are strapped down with leather. This puts a considerable amount of pressure on your rotator cuffs, and your upper neck. The pain, which you enjoy anyway, will serve not only as an extension of my control over you, but also a marker from which to base the pleasure that I will provide you with. Your knees are pulled halfway to your chest and spread apart like the wings of a butterfly. I use this analogy because it is symbolic of the freedom that you do not have. This puts pressure on your hips. Your ankles have been bound with leather, keeping them above your stomach, suspended by something that you cannot and will not see for the entirety of this journey. You are naked. I take a certain pleasure in turning you into something that you are not. Outside of this room, you are a free spirit. Outside of this room, you take the world and run with it, a quality that I have always admired about you. When you are in this room, however, all of that disappears, and your desire to be free gives way to your desire to be dominated, to be owned. I know that there is a part of you that will always be tied into this machine, and all of the good times that we had with it. There is a part of you that will always yearn to be stripped of itself, leaving only an extension of my own body and mind. Here, you can satisfy that, and you'll be expected to. The silence is deafening, and I can see you squirming against it. I have night-vision goggles on so I can see everything. Sight and sound are the most basic of the five senses, the most devastating to have removed of a sudden, to be replaced by nothingness. It gives me a thrill to watch your eyes move, searching frantically for something, a focal point by which to center yourself, to give you some idea of where you are in comparison with everything else. I watch your chest and stomach rise and fall, each breath perhaps a bit shallower than the last, each breath falling closer to the last, as the anticipation mounts. I smile as I watch you spread out before me, and my breathing quickens. To break the silence for you, I bring the microphone that I have attached to my collar an inch closer to my lips. Speakers have been placed high along the walls in the circular room, at various intervals. This is to give you the impression that I am everywhere at once, a sickly maddening notion, and while you welcome the sudden audial input, you have no idea where I am in comparison to your writhing naked body, and your breathing escalates. Come. Now relax. Come down. That was just the first of many if you're obedient. I move the microphone back down to where it was, and watch the silence take you. I remember when we did this the first time. It was beautiful watching the silence slice the post-orgasmic bliss into pieces, creating an almost uncomfortable ride back down to earth. All you could hear was the sound of your own breathing, and all I could see were your eyes, but they weren't searching. They were staring. Your body, your orgasm, had centered you, and that was all that mattered. This room is about testing the senses, pushing them to their limits. It always has been. I know where your breaking point is. Your body, like everyone else's, is capable of tolerating immeasurable amounts of physical input. Could you claim that you are lucky that I've not yet brought you to that leading edge? No. If I really wanted to, I could have, but I want you to crave it. We have discussed, on many occasions, the option of my guiding you towards an addiction to sex. You have always entertained the idea for two or three-minute intervals before asserting that it is not in your best interest, and that you would prefer it if I didn't follow through with my intentions...and yet, you still let me stick a fucking needle in your arm, knowing where it will lead you. All roads lead back here for you, Katie...back to this machine, back to this pitch black vacuum of ultimate physical and psychological surrender. Keep fighting, because all you're worth is the end result. Until next time, Dear Katie, Your Silent Mercy Machine Story for Katie Ch. 02 This is the second part in a series of indefinite length. This story reads like chapters in a book, so if you are interested in reading Ch. 02, please read Ch. 01 first for a full understanding and appreciation of the material. Please don't forget to vote, and I look forward to any comments that you wish to leave, good, bad or indifferent. Let me know what I can do to make your reading experience more pleasurable. Dear Obedient One, Congratulations, Katie. You've made it to Round Two. I didn't have any doubt that you would get here. You're strong willed, always rising to meet a challenge, for better or worse. No, there was never any question about whether or not you would get here. The real question was how many tries it would take you. You told me you made it through with one attempt, but I'm not sure I believe you. Let me take a moment now to remind you that if you are not honest and forthright with me, this will not work. For a good while, your cunt will drip without my permission, and there's nothing I can do about that, but do not waste my time. You either want this or you don't. As with the first chapter, you are not to come without my permission, only I'm raising the stakes a little bit. This time, if you do come without my permission, you are to post to this final product, and let me know what set you off...with an apology for an attempt to express control that you know you don't have. I'm sure my readers would like to be able to put a post to the name. Last I checked, Chapter One had 1,800 hits on it, and I expect this story to accrue nearly twice that. It would be in your best interest to stop and think of hockey when you feel yourself needing to be disloyal, and continue reading when you are able to serve me, again. Now, take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. I raise the microphone to my lips again and the feedback cuts through the black room like a knife. You don't wince against it. You look for it. Feel for it. Listen for it, and it is everywhere. My breathing is slow and predictable. Yours is accelerated. I have no intention of overloading your senses just yet, so please relax. This is as much about you trusting me as it is about my deceiving you, and I promise you that nothing will happen in the next ten seconds. So start counting back from 10...9... 8... "Can you see me, Katie?" This is the first time that you have heard my voice since you woke up, and I watch your body jerk a little bit, trying to adjust to it. I give you a few seconds to come up with the answer, though I know what the answer is already. Your brain is as overwhelmed by the persistent lack of sensory input as it is by the sudden injections of it. Remember, you wanted this. "No, Master." You tell me, and I know that your heart rate is up. I know this because in this half-baked, worthless response, you lose almost all of your breath, and take a few deep gulps of air to make up for it. I watch your chest rise and fall, as your wrists curl against the restraints. Part of the reason you're breathing a bit harder than normal is the position that you are in physically. Your knees, slid back against your chest and spread apart, with your ankles suspended above your stomach, puts the tiniest bit of pressure on your lungs. This pressure, however feint, will serve only to intensify in effect the harder you breathe. It's like a thorn in your side, not as painful but just as debilitating, and worst of all, bearable. It will train you to slow your breathing, or suffer for your efforts. I pause for another few seconds, waiting to see if you'll say something else. You don't. Good girl. "Where am I, Katie?" My voice is low and steady, though oddly unnerving. It takes you a few more breaths to respond, but when you finally do, your eyes compliment your lips. I watch your brow as it develops the slightest pinch at the bridge of your nose, and your confusion begins to mount. "I don't know, Master." You force out. The fact that you think you are out of breath makes me smile, and it makes me smile even more watching you draw deep compensatory unabated throws into your chest. I watch your knees work themselves half an inch closer to each other before being held in place by the restraints. I told you, bitch. Don't come without my permission. The acoustics in the room are controlled by a remote that I have attached to my belt. There are two silver switches on it. One is labeled 'breathing.' The other is labeled 'floor.' I slide my hand down to my belt and flip one of the switches to the right. The feedback is instantaneous, and you stop breathing. Count backwards again, starting from 10...9...8... The feedback from the microphone dies off a while, and I let you bask in the silence before beginning to breathe again, myself. This is to assure you that I am still with you, a notion that you will soon come to garner an equally powerful resentment against. Within moments, the sound of my footsteps begins to take hold of your attention. Your breathing escalates. "Where am I, Katie?" You look around the room frantically, the soft sound of my footsteps no longer a comfort, but a distraction. "I don't know, Master!" I pause, and the sound of my breathing and footsteps cease. Count backwards for your attitude. 20...19...18... "I am everywhere, Katie." I hear a whine escape your lips as you begin breathing again, jolted by the sudden break in the silence, and your legs try to close. "I am this room." I slide a finger down your naval, gently, and you gasp and jerk against it. For the first time since you've been awake, you have been rewarded by the touch of your Master. You arch your back, and the sound of the chains holding your knees apart reminds us both of your captivity. "I am the Darkness...the air you breathe..." I drag my finger farther and farther down, still nowhere near the hood of your clit...but that's where you feel it. You groan and I watch your eyes. This time they're not staring, they're searching for a distraction, as my touch, however minute in comparison to the rest of your sensory compilation, brings you closer and closer to the line I've forbidden you to cross without my permission. "Master, please!" "Who am I?" I run my finger down over your clit. "You are my God, Master!" I smile and move my hand to your throat, pressing up and in. The pressure is minimal but the technique is genuine and effective. You feel your throat contract against my hand and you tilt your head back. I lean down, and my hot breath on your left ear lets you know that I am there with you. "Come" I whisper.