The servo-skull glides lazily overhead, the soft thrumming of its tiny suspensor units lost in the industrial grind and crash of the servitor workshop. The cluster of manip-limbs dangling beneath its jaw grasp rhythmicly at the air, as if in thought, before a soft green light flickers out of the ocular unit implanted in its empty eyesocket. I chew at my lip, watching anxiously as the light plays up and down the spoil heap before it, before turning in a neat arc and scanning the racks of grey, corpselike servitor husks to its rear. It turns again, bobbing in mid-air no more than a few feet away from me, and I can feel my heart starting to race as the scanning laser plays across the banks of rattling cogitators. Closer, closer...I duck down and hold my breath, waiting for the sudden blare of a siren or the angry chatter of hardcoded binary that will inform its master of my willful laxity. 

And then, with an angry blurt of coded, the scanner shuts off and the skull bumbles away, leaving me to slump down against the cogitators with a disappointed huff.

He was so close that time!

I can hear Omicron moving around on the other side of our workshop, the heavy tread of his feet audible even above the hissing plasma-torches carving sheet metal into armour plates and the staccato clunk-clunk-clunk of rivet guns banging them together. And it really is our workshop - set aside from the communal workspaces and labour-pools, for our own, private use. I pop my head back up above the cogitator units, my bionic eye whirring in its mountings as it zooms in upon the other Techpriest. Half-obscured by the smoke and fire of industry, my heart quickens at the sight of his angular, lumpen body, now freed from the crimson robes of our order as he works. Sparks cascade off the ridged armour plates and sinuous coils of cabling danging from his limbs as he grasps a rusted girder in his servo-arms. Omicron pauses for a moment, his cybernetic physique glistening with lubricating grease and the sacred unguents I anointed him with at the beginning of the shift, before hoisting the length of metal into the air and tossing it into a spoil heap. 

It's enough to elicit a needy twinge from my biological components and I sink back into cover with a soft groan, sitting uncomfortably on my hands until the urge to slide them between my legs subsides. A fortnight ago, I would have skulked off to my cot or registered the use of a hygiene unit and worked my frustrations out upon the cool, ridged edges of my Mechadendrites, but things have changed in that fortnight. As well as sequestering the use of the workshop, Omicron has taken me as an apprentice. He is, in a very concrete way, my master.

Master. I roll that idea around in my head, as I have done countless times since I accepted his offer, weighing up the complex mixture of feelings it elicits. Pride - Omicron was once a High Magos before a political schism saw him stripped of his rank, but he still stands as one of the local Mechanicus' foremost minds. Unease - though I know the other Techpriest cares for me a great deal, as I care about him, the fact that he holds so much power over me is somewhat disconcerting. And finally, perhaps most potently, excitement. I have always admired the raw, brutish physicality of Omicron's body, but ever since our first coupling, the fantasy of submission - of putting myself entirely under his control, of being overwhelmed by his will and the strength inherent in his form - has only blossomed. 

It is not something that has gone unnoticed. Omi and I spoke of it at length, and while he did not say as much outright, his binaric machine-cants were underpinned with subconscious info-tags designating his flattery and excitement. And so, we began to play our game.

A week ago, Omi approached me at my workstation, staff in hand and drawn up to his full, towering height. I set aside the cranial circuitry I was working upon and turned to him, mechadendrites raised in greeting, only to find myself backed up against the cluttered workbench as he lumbered inexorably forwards, until I was trapped between it and the angular metal plates of his torso. I could feel my biological components starting to react to his proximity; his bulky, looming form, the strength behind the pressure keeping me trapped against my workstation, like a bug on a pin.

>ADEPT XI< he canted, his binaric laden with info-tags denoting dominance and authority, something only underpinned by the volume at which he blasted it from his vox-units. >I HAVE BECOME AWARE OF CERTAIN FAILINGS ON YOUR PART<

For a moment, genuine fear shot through me at the idea that I'd legitimately failed him somehow. "I - a thousand apologies, Master." I stammered. "What did I do?"

Omicron prodded me in the chest with one of his thick, metal fingers. >MANY THINGS. SMALL THINGS. WEAKNESSES OF THE FLESH< Frantically decoding his spurts of binary, I felt myself beginning to relax as I identified the complex assortment of tags Omicron used to identify playfulness or mockery. 

Perhaps the other Techpriest was waiting for me to let my guard down, because I jumped and gasped in surprise as something brushed my robes aside and slithered past my inner thigh. Omicron stood there, silently staring down at me, his optical units clicking as they rotated on his metal faceplate, while I gasped and wriggled as his mechdendrite wound its way up my leg, the delicate manipulator-units easing my lips open and slowly, agonizingly slowly, slid a thick, ribbed jackplug into my heat.

>I HAVE DEVISED A SUITABLE PUNISHMENT FOR THIS, SHOULD I FEEL IT NECESSARY TO DISCIPLINE YOU< As if for emphasis, Omicron twisted the jack, dragging a strangled gasp from my throat as it ground against my slick, sensitive inner walls. >FURTHERMORE, AUTOSTIMULATION IS PROHIBITED FROM THIS POINT ONWARDS<

The jack plug slid free with a soft, wet noise, and I could feel it dripping small drops of my own fluids down my inner leg as it withdrew. And then he turned and stomped off, leaving me panting and shaking in front of the workstation, my body weak and screaming for a release which I knew was going to be a long time coming.

Thus, the game had begun. I knew what I wanted, Omi knew what I wanted, but it was entirely my master's choice as to when he would permit me to find out what his punishment engine did. I began to bend his rules - leaving my workstation untidy, making small but easily fixed errors, extending my nourishment breaks by incremental amounts - even slashing two long cuts up the side of my robes, to teasingly show off my pale, bare legs in the hopes of goading the other Techpriest into action.

Nothing worked. Each time, I would feel Omi's ocular units focusing on me, clicking and cycling as I stood there, my body aching with the anticipation of his servo-arms clamping around my frail form and roughly dragging me over to his machine to be punished. And yet, time and time again, he simply 'overlooked' or 'forgave'. Worse, he started to tease back. At first it was innocuous - simply walking around with his robes stripped to the waist, knowing that the sight of his segmented armour and gleaming servo-bundles would be enough to heighten the desperate need that was building inside me. And then he began demanding physical services; nothing overtly sexual, his strange, mechanical phallus remaining locked away within his groin, but forcing me to touch him - to run my hands over his body, working holy machine-oil, lubricant and lacquering powder into his form. Each session was a sweet agony, kneeling before him like a supplicant worshiping a statue of the Omnissiah or, worst, perched on his knee, the plates and joints of his legs rubbing against my aching, frustrated slit, desperately wanting to take ahold of his shoulders and grind myself back and forth until I came over his knee - but knowing that I was forbidden from doing so. 

With an irritated sigh, I glance up at the chrono on the wall, then gather my robes around me and pick myself up. I've been gone too long - despite the strange, perverted game Omi and I have spent the last week playing, we still have our duties to attend to. Mechadendrites writhing in frustration, I stride across the workshop, trying to ignore the lingering dampness between my thighs.

>ADEPT XI< Omicron greets me without turning around, his input jacks linked to the control node for the plasma-cutter banks like long strands of silver cobweb. >YOU ARE PRECISELY TWELVE POINT ZERO-TWO-FOUR MINUTES OVERDUE TO BEGIN YOUR NEXT SHIFT<

There's no threat, no question, implied by Omicron's cant; it's a statement, an observation, but I feel the need to bow my head and give him an explanation anyway.

"One of the coolant nodes on the fourth service-level needed repair." I say with a shrug, in between murmuring prayers of supplication as I slip one of my jack plugs into the I/O socket of the rivet guns. "I performed the ritual maintenance as quickly as possible, Master."

There's a moment of liquid cold as I interface with the machinery, its machine spirit reaching out to the ones bound within my own cybernetics, prostrating themselves before my invading presence and surrendering control of the gun assembly. One of my Mechadendrites spurts out a cloud of purifying incense as I take control of the equipment, the mechanical arms moving back and forth like an extension of my own body. My biological eye closes as I begin to work, riveting the armour panels together far more efficiently than the simple machine spirits within the assembly were able to achieve.

>I FIND THIS CURIOUS, XI< Embedded in the system, I don't so much hear Omicron's cant as feel the vibration of his binary through my body. >BECAUSE I CONDUCTED A FULL REPAIR OF THAT NODE YESTERDAY<

The rivet assembly suddenly falls dead, and a pair of heavy pincers close around my shoulders, immobilizing my arms and dragging me backwards as Omicron's mechadendrites disconnect me from the machine. My heart leaps within my chest, the biometric data scrolling past my HUD briefly flagging up an alert, as I'm twisted around and forced back against the station, the ribs of my potentia coil clunking against it as my master's body grinds against my own. 

>KNOWLEDGE IS SACRED IN THE EYES OF THE OMNISSIAH< Omicron cants. >LIES AND FALSEHOODS BRING SHAME UPON THE CULT MECHANICUS. ONCE AGAIN, YOU ARE FAILED BY YOUR FLESH<

The scent of machine-oil and incense fills the air as he forces himself against my frail body, one of his great hands grasping me around my neck - not squeezing, not choking, simply pinning me in place and letting me feel the overwhelming, brutish force of his augmetics. I look coyly up at him, my heart hammering madly as his glowing, insectile occular units scrutinize me, my whole body buzzing with arousal and anticipation as I wait for his judgement. 

And then, with a sudden shock as the hot, smoky air of the workshop washes over my bare skin, he tears my robes aside and tosses them away, leaving me naked but for the sleek, glowing potentia-coil that wraps around my ribs and up my spine. My sudden gasp of surprise is cut short as he roughly spins me around, dragging my arms behind my back and binding them with one of his mechadendrites, and I have to bite down on my lip to halt the eager grin I can feel trying to creep over my face. It's happening. It's finally happening. I struggle in Omicron's steely grip, beating my own mechadendrites against his steely form, but I know that I wouldn't be able to pull out of his embrace even if I truly wanted to. It's an act, part of the game, and as the other techpriest force-marches my skinny, naked body through the workshop, I can already feel the familiar heat blooming up through my neglected body at the prospect of what's about to happen. 

We pass the hissing smelter and the cracking plasma-generators, a wash of electrical pleasure shuddering through my augmetics as the violent bolts of actinic lightning crackle back and forth, bleeding their current into the air. Blank-eyed servitors trundle and stagger out of our way at Omicron's commands, my own questions and insincere pleas going completely unheeded until I'm dragged behind a tottering stack of servitor component crates and dumped onto the ground.

My bionic eye clicks and whirrs, focusing on the machine I've been deposited in front of. I'd expected shackles and bindings, or simply a low bench to be bent over to Omicron could lash my backside with sweet, stinging blows from his mechadendrites. The device before me, however, is not one I recognize, and for a moment my arousal is forgotten as I dig through my memory engrams, searching the schematics programmed into my cranial circuitry for anything that matches the strange machine.

Shaped like a low saddle mounted atop an engine blow, its flanks were studded with heatsinks and what, with a sudden flare of excitement, I realized were shackles. The roof of the workshop is low here, and a nest of open-mouthed pipes dangle from the ceiling like worms. Omicron points towards the smooth, rounded top, and I noticed a small patch of nodules situated in front of a hatch, and a rounded protuberance.

>SIT< He cants. Licking my lips, I crawl forwards and hoist myself onto it, my legs shaking as I lower myself onto the saddle.

"Master?" I ask, glancing down at the machine beneath me. "I do not recognize this device. What is its purpose?"

>THIS IS A NERVE-STIMULATION UNIT. AND OLD, PRE-UNIFICATION DESIGN< Omicron cants. The stream of ruthless, dominant info-tags that defined his earlier communications has lessened now. He steps behind me and places a hand under my backside, his thick, metal fingers teasing against the lips of my slit as he encourages me to shuffle back and forth into the right position, before buckling my legs tightly against the sides of the machine. I wriggle them back and forth, testing the strength of the straps, and feel a sudden flare of nervous excitement at the realization of how strong they are. I can lift myself out of the saddle, but they permit me no other movement. >ITS EXACT OPERATIONS WILL REVEAL THEMSELVES TO YOU IN TIME<

Next, he takes ahold of my arms and lifts them, stretching me up, up towards the dangling pipes. Omicron burbles a complex string of machine code and they come to life, sucking in the air around them with a low roar. First one hand, then the other, is slid into the open mouths which tighten around my forearms. I half-expect to simply rip free, but when Omicron releases me and step back, I remain where I am; caught between the straps around my legs and the pipes around my arms, pulled tight and shaking with arousal and uncertainty. I'm used to Omicron holding me down, or immobilizing me with his mechadendrites, but this is something else - I tug at the pipes, and while they stretch and flex, they no more give up their grip on my than the straps around my legs do. 

Finally, Omicron kneels behind me. I turn as much as I can, craning back over my shoulder, and see him extending a number of tools from the digits of his fingers before. 

"Omi?" I ask, feeling a sudden spike of fear as he goes to work on my potentia coil. I wriggle in the straps but can't turn enough to see what the other techpriest is doing. Slumping forwards in the impromptu harness, I anxiously run and re-run diagnostic checks on my augmetics as Omicron slides back the maintenance panels of my coil, little twinges of discomfort shooting through my body as he works. The feeling is deeply disconcerting, both intimate and invasive, and I'm helpless to do anything but hang there as my master modifies me for his pleasure, like just another machine. "What are you doing back there?"

>DISABLING YOUR MECHADENDRITES< He replies. And then, as if on cue, there's a strange feeling of...absence, almost, and all four of my augmetic limbs fall slack, their assorted tools and graspers clanking to the ground like so much dead weight. >OTHERWISE, YOU MAY USE THEM TO ESCAPE<

>DO NOT WORRY. YOU WILL NOT BE HURT< Omicron adds. He strokes my half-shaved plume of blue hair with one of his great, powerful hands, then plugs one of his neurojacks into my cranial augmetics and transmits a burbling stream of numbers into the cybernetic portions of my mind. >AN ABORT CODE. TRANSMIT THIS IF YOU FIND YOURSELF IN GENUINE DISTRESS<

I let out a long, shuddering breath and swallow my uncertainties down. None of my augmetics have ever been disabled since I received my first cranial surgery at the age of ten and, rather perversely, the strange, numb feeling of my dead mechadendrites makes me feel like I've been stripped far more than my actual nudity does. My heart flutters in my chest as I tug again at the restraints, and then the realization hits me; whatever the machine between my legs does, I'm going to be completely at its mercy, for as long as Omicron wishes. I run the abort code through my mind and take some reassurance from that.

>ARE YOU READY TO BEGIN?< Omicron closes the panels of my coil closed and stands, walking in a slow circle around me, his glowing green ocular units sweeping over my bound, naked body. I squirm in the harness, trying to get used to the feeling of being so securely tied down, biting my lip as the cool chassis of the machine grinds against the wet heat of my slit. Then I nod.

"Yes, master." I whisper. Omicron replies with a pleased blurt of info-tags, and a thin, nervous smile creases my face. I know he likes it when I call him that - as much as the other Techpriest claims he doesn't miss his days as a High Magos, I know he likes the feeling of being in charge of me, as if I've helped him reclaim a little of his old authority.

Omicron pulls a small control box from within his robes and begins to twist the dials upon it. The machine rumbles into life, sputtering small puffs of black smoke from the heat sinks which are quickly cleared by gusts of hot air which swirl teasingly past my bare legs, tickling the soles of my feet. I giggle and wriggle my toes at the unexpected sensation, making Omicron glance up for a moment before going back to his box. It emits a quiet bleeping noise and the hatch between my legs hisses open with the quiet grind of metal-on-metal. Instinctively, I pull myself upwards as something long, and cool, and hard begins to emerge, the tip of it brushing against my slick outer lips and drawing a short yelp from my mouth.

>SIT, XI< Omicron repeats himself, and I slowly lower myself down, hissing as the metal phallus slips into my desperate, aching heat. It's wonderfully ridged, like the edges of Omicron's dermal armour, and it plucks and pulls at me as I ease myself down onto it until, finally, I let out a short mewl of pleasure as my behind comes to rest snugly against the saddle. After so many long, agonizing days of unfulfillment, the feeling of being penetrated is divine; the cool metal tingles inside me, and I find that by grinding my lips forwards, the little patch of nodules sends little sparks of sensation jolting through my clit, and if I swing myself back in the impromptu harness, the round bump behind me stimulates the tight pucker of my anus.

And then, suddenly, it begins to move inside me. Slowly, round and around in small circles, as if Omicron was trying to loosen me up in preparation for his artificial length. With each motion, one of the ridges rubs against my g-spot, drawing a short moan of pleasure as the wellspring of arousal I've kept pent up inside me for the past week begins to bloom, expanding out inside me like a great flame.

"This - ah, isn't much of a punishment." I gasp, rocking my hips back and forwards as the phallus stirs within me. I can feel sweat beading across my body and moisture building against my thighs as I rock back and forth in time with its motions, grinding forwards to tickle my clit, then sliding back again to bump my ass against the rear protuberance. I try and bring a hand to massage my breasts and work my nipples, only to find myself pulling fruitlessly at the restraints.

>INDEED?< Omicron cants, a series of amused info-tags following the message. >YOU BELIEVE YOU DESERVE TO BE PUNISHED MORE?<

I sag forward in the harness, my back arching in pleasure as the tool ceases its movements and instead begins to rotate like a drill, pistoning in and out of me with slow thrusts. 

"Oh, yes." I hiss, shuddering as it fucks my bound, helpless body. "I'm such a naughty girl. I'm a lazy, feckless sinner. I'm unworthy of the Omnissiah's blessing." 

The words sound stupid, like something from a badly-scripted porno-slate, but at that moment, they're nothing less than the truth. I know this machine must be capable of more - the power of the engine grumbling between my thighs is testament to that. I want everything it has to give.

The strange, rasping sound of Omicron's true flesh-voice chuckling to himself echoes back from across my shoulder. 

>SO BE IT< He cants, and begins to twist another dial. The engine begins to shake and rumble, sending more gusts of hot air swirling around my lower legs, and then, with a great, mechanical roar, the tool begins to vibrate. Just a little at first, a rhythmic buzz that sends waves of pleasure lapping through my body, but as he works the dial, it begins to increase in speed. My body begins to shake in time with it, grinding and writhing atop the frantically buzzing phallus, pulses of electric stimulation coursing through my aching, needy body. I gasp and whine, desperately grinding forwards, trying to constantly rub my clit against the nodules only to find the tubes danging from the ceiling rocking me incessantly backwards, always dragging me away from the climax I can feel building inside me. 

And all the while, the vibrations increase in pitch. My body clenches and a low, strangled cry of need drips from my mouth as I begin to thrash in the restraints, desperately wanting something to grip, to lean forwards and grab onto something as the buzzing transcends into a mechanical scream, the tool constantly moving, twisting, thrusting inside me until the heat and light that's been growing steadily inside me finally bursts and my body convulses, my body rocking madly and fingers and toes clenching at nothing, as waves of stimulation roar through my climaxing body. And yet, monstrously, the pitch continues to increase, dragging my orgasm out further and further, the lightning crackling round my body like a closed circuit.

"Y-y-you can st-top n-now!" I force the words out, twisting my shoulders back and forth in a vain attempt at pulling myself out of the bindings holding my arms above my head. My breasts are screaming at me, desperate for some sort of stimulation as my first orgasm flows into a second, my body vibrating in time with the tool buzzing cruelly away inside me.

>AND NOW SHE UNDERSTANDS< Omicron cants back, ceasing his slow paces to stand in front of me. I grunt and lunge forwards in a futile attempt at tugging myself free, only to sling backwards and grind my ass against the bump behind me. >YOU ARE BOUND IN PLACE. EVERY MOTION WILL STIMULATE YOU FURTHER WHETHER YOU WISH IT OR NOT<

The glowing power-cells on my potentia coil pulse madly, casting flickering blue lights around me, as lines of green text flicker madly across my HUD, too quickly to follow. I can barely think coherently, and it takes a moment before I realize that the vibrations are spooling down, the waves of sweet agony swimming through my body beginning to recede. I let out a hoarse half-sob, half scream and collapse forwards in the restraints, my hair hanging in a lank, sweaty crest as the tool stirring inside me finally comes to a rest, emitting just the occasional pulse of vibration to stop me forgetting that it's there.

>BUT I AM NOT ENTIRELY WITHOUT MERCY< Omicron's cant drips into my reeling, addled mind as if from a great distance. >I WILL SET MY INTERNAL CHRONO. WHEN IT COUNTS DOWN, YOU WILL BE RELEASED. AND YET I MUST WORK WITHOUT DISTRACTION, SO, I MUST ASK YOU TO REMAIN SILENT. AS AN INCENTIVE, THE MORE NOISE YOU MAKE, THE MORE TIME I WILL ADD TO THE CHRONO<

My mouth hangs open, a gurgling, animal noise dripping out as I slowly recover my senses. "How...how long?" I gasp, my flushed body soaked with sweat and heaving in the restraints.

>HAVE FUN, XI< He would have smiled, I think, if he still had a mouth. Instead, Omicron simply turns and marches away, and before long I hear the sound of the plasma-cutters starting up again.

Not long after, the vibrator assembly stirs, thrusting into my sore, sensitive depths with a wet sucking noise. I barely feel it at first as it eases itself in and out, massaging my battered nerves back into wakefulness. After the relentless stimulation I've so recently endured, it almost feels like a mercy, and I find myself timing my breaths with that languid thrusting, my tight, tense muscles beginning to unwind as I slump in the harness.

It doesn't last. The burst of sudden vibration lasts only for a fraction of a second, but it tears through me like a blast of lightning, my potentia coil flashing in sympathy as I jerk out of the half-doze I'd settled into with a sudden, sharp intake of breath. It ends as soon as it begins, leaving me guiltily flicking my eyes left and right, wondering if Omicron had heard me. Would he even tell me if I did? All vestiges of power or control have been stripped away. I cannot meaningfully move, I have no idea how long I'm going to be here, and I have no way of influencing how or when Omicron will choose to manipulate the control box - and, by extension, me. 

The vibrator shrieks again, and I desperately bite down on my lip, hunching my shoulders together and squeezing my eyes shut until the sensation dies away. I can't go on like this. Desperately, I look around, trying to work out what I can do to ease my predicament. First I test all the restraints, pulling and tugging each, one at a time, to see if I can work any loose. That done, I run a full systems diagnostic of my mechadendrites, hoping against hope that I might be able to force a hard restart - and find that he's disabled the hardware and software that animated them. Just as I'm about to begin experimenting with my range of movement, I feel the vibrator stirring again; not the sudden, howling bursts of high-speed vibration, but a low, rumbling pitch that, combined with its leisurely thrusts, sends pulsing, trembling waves echoing through my body. And then, like before, it begins to increase in speed.

I let out a short, pleading whine and wriggle desperately, twisting and pulling each joint to try and work myself into a more comfortable position. The vibrator continues to buzz faster, the sound of the engine now audible over the Omicron's ritual chanting in the background, and I can feel my body clenching around the beautiful, hateful thing vibrating deep inside my heat. I twist my shoulders, tug upon my arms and then - suddenly, with a desperate peal of joy, manage to drag myself upwards, the tool slithering out of my body with a slick, fluid noise.

The gasp that comes from my mouth is almost pathetically grateful as I lift myself off it. After the constant, monstrous over-stimulation, the sudden cessation of movement inside me feels strange - I'm left hollow, empty, but the aftershocks of my unnaturally forced climax and the force of the vibrations leave me trembling in the harness, long strings of wetness stretching between the vibrator and my aching slit. I want to laugh, both through relief and a sense of my own cleverness - though in the back of my mind I know that if I wasn't into what was happening, I would have hoisted myself off the tool long before now - but I bite the sound down. 

For a while, nothing happens. I can hear the vibrator trembling beneath me, but it feels like a million miles away, and I allow myself to relax, letting my arms straighten out a little.

Buzz.

I yelp in surprise and tug myself back upwards, my body reeling with the sudden force of the humming vibrator brushing against my sensitive lips. It was only the tip, and only against my outermost folds, but it's enough to set my weary nerves jangling like the great brass factorum-bells of forge I grew up in.

>SILENCE, XI< Omicron's cant echoes back from the other side of the manufactorum. A moment later, the other Techpriest arrives in person, casting his mechanical gaze over my tight, dangling body.

>CLEVER<  He adds, stooping to examine the gap between the tool and my slit. >I WONDER HOW LONG YOU MAY MAINTAIN THAT POSTURE, THOUGH. DO TRY AND AVOID CRAMP. WE HAVE A BUSY SHIFT TOMORROW<

His binaric is so casual, so conversational, he might as well be talking to me as we come off-shift at the end of the day. The worst thing is, he's right. With a growing desperation, I can feel a burning ache beginning to build in my arms, and the pit drops out of my stomach at the realization that I can't hold myself here forever. Sooner or later, my strength is going to give out, and I'm going to be impaled upon the buzzing nightmare beneath me once more. The thought makes me grit my teeth and haul myself upwards even further, the slack weight of my mechadendrites lifting a little off the ground as I cringe away from the vibrator.

Omicron watches me, the occasional blurt of amused info-tags filling the air. >BASED ON YOUR BIOMETRIC RECORDS, I CALCULATE THAT YOU WILL NOT HOLD THAT POSITION FOR MORE THAN TEN POINT TWO EIGHT SECONDS LONGER< He cants, walking around in front of me, taking my chin in one huge metal hand and lifting my face up to his own. 

>IF IT IS ANY CONDOLENCE, XI, YOU LOOK BEAUTIFUL LIKE THIS< he adds, gently stroking my flushed cheek, a series of tags denoting admiration and attachment filtering across our noospheric link. My mouth flaps wordlessly, only for him to place one great augmetic finger against my lips.

>HUSH, NOW. IF IT HELPS, YOU MAY PRAY< 

He leans in against me so I can swing forwards in the harness and softly kiss his faceplate, then straightens and clanks off. I can already feel my muscles starting to seize up with cramp, and though my body rebels at the idea of willingly subjecting myself to the mechanical viper that lurks between my legs, I realize that I don't have much of a choice. 

I take a few long, deep breaths, trying to slow and steady my breathing, then begin to lower myself down, inexorably creeping closer and closer to the thrumming rod.

"T-toll the great bell once," I mutter to myself, screwing my eyes shut as the humming tip brushes my lips again, trying to ignore the sparks of trembling pleasure that begin to crawl back through my aching body. "Pull the Lever forwards to engage the...the, ah, pistol and pump."

The tip slides into me, my passage already slick and willing, and I can feel my inner walls clenching and trembling in dread and anticipation. "Toll the g-great bell twice," I whisper as the first inches vanish into my heat. "With a push of, of, button fire the, o-oh, Omnissiah, the engine and spark turbine into life..."

Another inch. And another. It has ceased thrusting now in favour of twisting on the spot, incessantly grinding and rubbing against me as my twitching body devour it a little at a time. "Toll the Great Be-!" I cut the word off halfway as one of the ridges twinges my most sensitive spot, my body spasming in the harness until the wave of sensation fades back into the growing bliss building inside me. "The Great Bell Thrice. Sing praises to the - the -"

I take more, more of it into me, until finally my buttocks graze the saddle, and I let my body slump forward in the harness, the ache in my arms already forgotten as the crushing, overwhelming pleasure-ache begins to flow through my body once more. "The God of all Machines." The end of the prayer comes out as a low, sobbing whimper. I don't have the strength to fight it any more. Every movement simply brings a new form of stimulation; against my clit, my ass, the thrusting, pivoting tool buzzing and grinding relentlessly in my body - I can already feel a new climax building relentlessly inside of me. 

This is true union with the machine, part of me realizes, watching with detached interest as I swing limply back and forth in the harness, overwhelmed by the pulsing, throbbing waves sizzling through my organic components. I am at once humbled, entirely at its cold mercies, and elevated; for there is overwhelming pleasure despite the discomfort, a searing bliss that blasts away physical thought. Not once does the thought of speaking Omicron's abort code and telling him to let me out ahead of time cross my mind; this is the rapture of submission, the abandonment of wilfulness and self to the desires of not just my beloved partner, but to the Omnissiah and the concept of the machine itself.

More prayers, rote-learned during my earliest years, are slurred endlessly from my mouth as I coast through one climax after another, tides of aching pain and pleasure coast back and forth through my body as the tool cycles through different speeds and motions. I don't know if it's working automatically or of Omicron is controlling it himself; at times, when the speed dials down enough for a spark of conscious through to return and I can focus on the world around me, I think I can see him, or hear his heavy tread cycling around me. Distantly, I can feel the speed of the vibrator dialing down and a pair of great, strong hands wrapping around my torso, cool metal fingers finally grinding against my pleading nipples as I'm pushed forwards in the harness, bringing my clit into contact with the churning nodules as something thick and pliable presses against my pucker.

I don't - I can't - resist as Omicron slides himself into my rear passage, the expanse of his artificial phallus stretching me out, pushing my trembling inner walls tightly against the softly churning vibrator humming away between my lips. He rocks me back and forwards, using the harness like a swing, easing his hulking length in and out of my ass. Sharp jolts of lightning crackle through my augmetics as his mechadendrites connect jack-plugs and input cables to the rear of my servo-harness, linking the three of us - myself, my partner, and the throbbing machine between my thighs - together into a single entity of flesh and metal. Though any distinction of individual climaxes has ceased long ago, subsumed into a single, crushing wall of sensation, I feel one last twinge deep inside me as Omicron grinds the last inch of his phallus into my skinny little body, holding me pinned in place as he reaches his own peak, before the machine finally shuts off and he withdraws, the wires and cables binding us together slithering back under his robes.

>XI?< He cants, slowly walking around and kneeling in front of my limp, twitching form. The vibrator is drawn back into the body of the machine, but I can still feel it - or the after-effects of it, my body shaking and trembling like an unaugmented initiate before a High Magos. I swallow and manage to lift my head staring blearily at him, a dazed, confused look on my face.

"S'it over?" I slur, my fingers twitching inside the tubes binding my arms. The restraints around my legs click open and a moment later my arms are released, and I collapse forwards into Omicron's waiting embrace. He pulls me clear, his mechadendrites and servo-arms wrapping around my body, gently massaging my beaten, exhausted muscles back to life.

>YES. FOR NOW. ARE YOU ALRIGHT?< He asks, his binaric cant underpinned with tags denoting worry and concern. >I FEEL I MAY HAVE GONE A LITTLE TOO HARD ON YOU. I FORGET THAT ORGANIC BODIES ARE SO FRAIL SOMETIMES<

It takes me three attempts to reply, the first two to garbled to makes sense. "M'fine. Wouldn' wanna do that too of'n though."

>QUITE. I THOUGHT YOU WOULD ABORT BEFORE THE END. I'M RATHER PROUD THAT YOU DIDN'T<

I reach up, placing one of my hands against his beautifully inhuman machine-face. "S'your go next time, though. Great...great tool for, uh, religious intro...intos...introspection."

>OH, NO<  He cants back, his binary thick with amusement. >I'M FAR TOO OLD FOR THAT. AND I WOULDN'T LOOK NEARLY AS GOOD WRIGGLING AROUND ON IT<

"S'pose." I sigh. "You'd probably break the thing anyway." I weakly rap my knuckles against his heavy body, a soft clang echoing through the workshop.

>OH, SO YOU'RE AFRAID OF IT BEING DAMAGED? PLANNING ANOTHER SESSION SO SOON?<

I laugh wearily. "Yea, maybe. Can I have my mechadendrites back now?"

>I THINK SO. WE'VE STILL GOT WORK TO DO, REMEMBER?<

And far off in the depths of the forge, I hear the great bell tolling, calling the Omnissiah's servants to the beginning of a new shift.