Chapter 17: Synthetic Worship
The leather bit was stiff and unfamiliar, a foreign object in the soft, wet cavern of her mouth. Jess tried to swallow, her throat working against the intrusion, but all she could manage was a shallow pant through her nose. The taste of it, earthy and chemically tanned, filled her senses.
Elise crouched beside her, a study in focused serenity, adjusting a knob on the side of the gleaming machine. The mechanism gave a soft, industrial whir. It was a custom piece, all polished aluminum and surgical silicone, coldly beautiful and utterly impersonal. Its broad, tapered head rested against Jess, nudging with an insistent, unyielding pressure at her entrance, already slick with anticipation and fear.
“There,” Elise murmured, more to herself than to Jess. Her fingers, smudged with charcoal, traced a line from the machine’s base up along Jess’s trembling inner thigh. “Perfect.”
She rose and stepped back to her easel, which was positioned for an unobstructed view. The studio felt different today. The usual chaotic energy had crystallized into a horrifying, sterile focus. The scent of wet clay was overpowered by the smell of mineral oil and hot electronics. And on the wall, amidst the hundreds of sketches of Jess sleeping, laughing, painting, was a new, pristine sheet of paper. Next to it, the single word carved into the plaster—"Mine."—seemed to pulse in the low light.
Elise picked up a fresh stick of charcoal. She looked from Jess to the paper, her gray eyes analytical, detached. “Remember your safeword?” she asked, her tone clinical.
Jess nodded, the movement jerky. The bit muffled her attempt to speak into a grunt.
“Good girl.” Elise’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. It was the look of a sculptor evaluating a block of marble. “Now. You’re going to take every inch. Slowly. And I’m going to capture every twitch, every tear, every desperate clench of your greedy little cunt around synthetic perfection.” She began to sketch, a quick, loose outline of the scene: the machine, the bed, the bound form. “Begin.”
Elise’s hand moved to a remote on the easel’s ledge. She pressed a button.
The whirring deepened. The broad silicone head pushed forward, a relentless, slow invasion. Jess’s eyes widened. She gasped around the bit, her back arching off the thin mattress as the impossible width stretched her, filled her. It was cold. So cold. The contrast with her own heat was shocking. It wasn't like Elise’s fingers, or her tongue, or the hard, loving press of her body. This was impersonal. Insistent. A violation by design.
Elise’s charcoal flew across the paper, capturing the arch of the spine, the taut line of Jess’s neck. “Yes,” she whispered, a hiss of satisfaction. “Look at that. The body in protest. The mind in surrender. Hold it.”
The machine didn’t stop. It was a slow, mechanical tide, pushing deeper, conquering inch by torturous inch. Jess could feel every ridge, every smooth, unyielding curve. A tear escaped the corner of her eye, tracking through the dust on her temple. Her muscles fluttered wildly, trying to accommodate, to reject, to somehow accept this monstrous fullness.
Elise sketched the tear. She shaded the delicate hollow of Jess’s throat where a cry was trapped. “You are sublime,” she breathed, her own face flushed not with lust, but with a fanatical kind of awe. “A perfect, fuckable paradox. Terrified. And so, so wet for it.”
It was true. Despite the fear, the shocking intrusion, her body was betraying her. A fresh wave of slickness eased the machine’s path, a humiliating testament to her own confused arousal. The head of the device pressed against a deep, internal place, and a jolt, half-pain, half-pleasure, made her buck against the restraints. A choked sob vibrated around the leather in her mouth.
“There it is,” Elise said, her voice rising with excitement. She switched to a finer piece of charcoal, detailing the strain in Jess’s bound wrists, the way her toes curled in agony or ecstasy—it was impossible to tell which. “The moment of transformation. Where pain becomes transcendence.” She put down the charcoal and picked up the remote again. “Let’s see what happens at the limit.”
Another button click.
The machine began to move. A slow, withdrawing slide, almost all the way out, leaving her gaping and empty and shockingly cold. Then the relentless forward push again, burying itself deeper this time, if that were possible. A rhythmic, inhuman fuck. Out. Each withdrawal a shocking loss. Each penetration a breathtaking conquest.
Jess’s world narrowed to the mechanical whir and the brutal, perfect cadence of the thing inside her. The initial shock melted into a white-hot coil of sensation. Her fear twisted, mutated. It wasn’t gone; it was fused now with a dizzying, degrading pleasure. She was being used. She was a canvas. A vessel. An object being meticulously filled. And her body, in its traitorous wisdom, was climbing towards a peak.
Elise watched, her hand now still at her side, the sketch forgotten. This was the live study. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. “Come on,” she urged, her clinical detachment shattering. “Come on, you beautiful, broken thing. Come all over my machine. Let me see you forget your own name.”
The command, filthy and desperate, was the final key. The coil snapped. Jess’s orgasm ripped through her with no warmth, only a series of sharp, seismic convulsions. It was less a release than a violent seizure. Her cunt clamped viscously around the silicone shaft, her body bowing against the restraints as a silent, agonized scream tore through her clenched jaw. Tears flowed freely now, streaking the charcoal dust on her face.
Elise was on her in an instant, not to touch the machine, but to cup Jess’s face. Her thumbs wiped at the tears, smearing them into gray stains. “Look at me,” she commanded, her voice rough. Jess’s blurred, shattered focus found Elise’s fierce, triumphant gaze. “That. That right there. That is what I needed to see.”
The machine stilled, buried to the hilt.
Elise’s touch gentled. She unclipped the leather bit, letting it fall away. Jess’s jaw ached. She drew in a ragged, whooping breath, her body trembling violently in the aftershocks.
“Shhh,” Elise soothed, stroking her hair. “You were perfect. Absolutely perfect.” Her eyes were shining with something akin to religious fervor. “You gave me the fracture. The shattering. It was… exquisite.”
Jess could only stare, her mind a blank, humming slate. The impersonal cold of the machine inside her was a screaming contrast to the possessive heat of Elise’s hands on her face. She felt owned. In a way that felt less like love and more like a patent. A trademark.
Elise leaned down and kissed her forehead, a chaste, reverent press of lips. “I’ll get you clean,” she whispered. Then she stood and walked back to the easel, leaving Jess bound, filled, and utterly hollowed out on the table.
She picked up her charcoal again. But she wasn’t looking at Jess anymore. She was staring at the fresh, violent sketch on the paper—the image of a woman being unmade by a machine. A slow, terrible smile spread across Elise’s face.
She turned to the wall, to the single word carved beside the gallery of Jess’s faces.
"Mine."
Her finger traced the deep groove in the plaster. Then, with a decisive motion, she reached for a awl from her tool bench. Below the word "Mine," she began to carve another. The sound of metal scoring plaster was a dry, grating scream in the silent room.
Jess watched, dazed, as the new word took form. Each letter was a violence.
"Finished."
Elise stared at the fresh carving, the plaster dust settling like fine snow on the floor. The silence in the studio was a thick, post-storm quiet, broken only by Jess’s shaky, receding breaths from the table. The machine inside her had gone still, a cold, forgotten artifact.
Then, a raw, whispered voice cut through the quiet. “My turn.”
Elise turned slowly. Jess was looking at her, her doe-like eyes glazed but focused. Tears had carved clean tracks through the charcoal on her cheeks, but her jaw was set. “You got what you needed,” Jess breathed, her voice hoarse from the bit and the screaming she couldn’t do. “Now I want to try something.”
A spark, unfamiliar and warm, flickered in Elise’s gray eyes. Surprise. Then intrigue. She approached the table, her footsteps silent. She leaned over, her hands resting on either side of Jess’s hips. “What do you want, little sun?”
“I want to ride it.” Jess’s gaze didn’t waver. “My way. Unhook me.”
Elise studied her for a long moment, searching for the joke, the rebellion. She found only a weary, serious determination. A slow smile, genuine and uncalculated, touched Elise’s lips. It was the first Jess had seen since this began. “Okay,” Elise said, her voice soft. “Show me.”
Her fingers worked swiftly at the leather cuffs. They fell away, and Jess’s arms slumped to her sides, heavy and tingling. Elise then carefully, almost tenderly, helped guide Jess as she pushed herself up, the machine still buried within her, a bizarre and uncomfortable anchor. Jess swung her legs over the side of the table, her feet hitting the cold concrete. She winced as she stood, her legs trembling violently.
“Easy,” Elise murmured, a steadying hand on her elbow.
Jess shrugged her off. “The angle. Adjust it.”
Elise moved to the machine’s base, her sculptor’s hands deft on the calibrated joints. She tilted the shaft upward, locking it in place at a new, more aggressive pitch. “Like this?”
Jess didn’t answer. She turned her back to the machine, gripping the edge of the metal table for support. She slowly lowered herself onto the waiting silicone, guiding it inside with a sharp, shuddering gasp. It was different this time. She was in control of the descent, the depth. The new angle was immediate and electric, the broad head forging a path directly to a place that made her vision blur.
“Oh, god,” she choked out, her knuckles white on the table edge.
Elise had frozen, the remote in her hand forgotten. She watched, utterly captivated, as Jess began to move. It was a clumsy, shaky rhythm at first, just small rocks of her hips, trying to acclimate to the overwhelming sensation of being impaled on this fixed, demanding axis.
Then Jess found it. A deeper tilt, a grinding roll of her pelvis that made the machine’s head press perfectly, relentlessly, against that spongy, internal wall. A broken cry tore from her throat. “There. Right there.”
Elise dropped the remote. It clattered on the concrete, unnoticed. She stepped in front of Jess, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin. She didn’t reach for a sketchpad. She didn’t move at all. She just watched, her gray eyes wide and dark, her lips parted.
Jess’s movements grew more confident, more desperate. She fucked herself on the machine with a furious, focused energy, chasing the specific, coiling pressure the angle promised. Her head was thrown back, her honey-toned hair sticking to her neck and shoulders with sweat. The sounds she made were raw, animal, uninterrupted.
Elise was drowning in it. The clinical observer was gone, submerged under a wave of pure, consuming hunger. She closed the distance, her hands coming up to frame Jess’s face. She couldn’t sketch this. She couldn’t capture it. She could only consume it.
She kissed Jess, hard, swallowing the next ragged cry. She tasted salt, charcoal, and something utterly primal. Jess kissed her back just as fiercely, her teeth scraping Elise’s bottom lip, her moans vibrating into Elise’s mouth. It was a messy, breathless fusion, a circuit completed.
Jess’s rhythm began to fracture. Her hips stuttered, lost their pace. A guttural, rising sob built in her chest, muffled against Elise’s lips. “I’m—Elise, I’m gonna—”
Elise broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look down. She had to see. She needed to witness this specific, claimed release.
Jess’s entire body locked. A sharp, punched-out sound escaped her. Then, a hot, sudden rush of liquid spilled from her, not just a internal flutter but a visible, jetting release, soaking the silicone shaft and dripping onto the concrete floor with a soft, steady patter.
The orgasm seemed endless, a seismic unlocking that left her shuddering, suspended on the machine, supported only by Elise’s hands on her shoulders. Finally, she slumped forward, her forehead collapsing against Elise’s sternum, utterly spent.
Elise held her there, one hand cupping the back of her head. Her own heart was a frantic drum against Jess’s brow. She looked over Jess’s shoulder at the evidence of the climax on the floor. Then her eyes traveled up to the wall, past the sketches, past the words "Mine" and "Finished."
She had captured nothing this time. The sketchpad was empty. For the first time, the muse had created something Elise could not record, only experience. A strange, cold finger of fear traced down Elise’s spine, right alongside the overwhelming, possessive love. Jess had just shown her a piece of herself that existed beyond capture, beyond art.
And that was a territory Elise did not know how to possess.
Elise’s hands trembled as she worked the release mechanism, the click echoing in the too-quiet studio. The machine retracted with a soft, wet sound. Jess sagged against her, a boneless weight, a quiet gasp escaping her chapped lips. Elise guided her down, laying her gently on the thin mattress that still smelled of their sweat and her tears.
“Just breathe,” Elise murmured, grabbing a clean rag and a bottle of water from her workbench. She knelt beside Jess, her motions uncharacteristically soft. She poured water onto the cloth, the sound absurdly domestic in the aftermath. “Let me get you clean.”
The cool cloth traced Jess’s inner thighs, wiping away the evidence of her surrender and her command. Jess flinched at the touch, a full-body shudder running through her. Her skin was hypersensitive, every nerve ending raw and singing.
“You were…” Elise began, her voice a low, wondering rasp. She dabbed at a smudge of charcoal on Jess’s hip. “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” The words spilled out of her, fast and reverent. “The way you took it. The sound you made. The fucking… physics of it. I want to rewind it. I want to watch it on a loop in my head forever.”
Jess let out a weak, shaky laugh, turning her face into the stained mattress. “My legs don’t work.”
“I know, baby.” Elise pressed the cloth against Jess’s stomach, her touch firm now, possessive in its care. “I have the footage, you know. From the security camera. I’m going to watch it a thousand times. I’m going to study every frame.”
“You’re insane,” Jess breathed, but there was no heat in it, only a deep, foundational exhaustion.
“Probably.” Elise discarded the rag. She slid onto the narrow mattress behind Jess, molding her body against the curve of Jess’s back, skin to skin. She pulled a discarded drop cloth over them, its rough canvas a stark contrast to the tender way her arm curled around Jess’s waist. “But you’re mine. And you’re a fucking revelation.”
She nuzzled into the junction of Jess’s neck and shoulder, her lips moving against the damp skin. “My perfect, messy girl. My brave, greedy sun. You gave me a new color today. A new feeling. It was… phosphorescent.”
Jess just hummed, her eyes already closed. The adrenaline was a receding tide, leaving her hollowed out and heavy. Elise’s whispered words swirled around her, a litany of obsession and awe. They weren’t scary now. They were a blanket, a cocoon of frantic adoration.
“When I recover,” Jess mumbled, her words slurring into the fabric, “you’re buying me a steak. A huge one.”
Elise’s laugh was a warm puff against her neck. “Anything.” Her hand splayed over Jess’s abdomen, feeling the gentle, slowing tremors there. “I’ll get you a whole cow. I’ll feed you grapes from a solid gold bowl.”
“Just the steak is fine.” Jess’s breathing was deepening, slowing. The solid, relentless presence of Elise at her back was the only anchor in a formless sea of spent sensation.
Elise held her tighter, her whispered words dissolving into sweet, meaningless nothings. Fragments of poetry, promises of devotion, a stream of consciousness fueled by a possessiveness that had tipped over into something fragile. She spoke until Jess’s breathing evened out into the soft, unmistakable rhythm of sleep.
Only then did Elise fall silent. She stared over Jess’s sleeping form at the wall, at the twin carvings.Mine.
Finished.
The words glared back, a lie and a challenge. She pressed her lips to the shell of Jess’s ear, a ghost of a kiss. Her gray eyes remained wide open, reflecting the single, unshaded bulb, watching the slow rise and fall of the girl in her arms. The hunger was already there, coiling in the quiet, planning its next translation from feeling to form.