Page 25 of Decimation

“You will,” Isaac says simply. His aura flares, the yellow now dominant, and I know he’s enjoying this. “You’ll come because your body has no choice and eventually, you’ll come because you want to. Because you need to. That’s how this works. That’s how we break you down and rebuild you into something useful.”

I try to hold back, try to resist the wave building inside me.

But the machine keeps going, keeps hitting that spot, keeps forcing my body toward a release I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of witnessing.

When it hits, I bite through my lip trying to stay silent. Blood fills my mouth again; I’m starting to recognize the taste as almost comforting in its consistency but I can’t stop the way my body convulses, can’t stop the way my muscles clench around the mechanical intrusion.

Isaac watches it all with those dark, analytical eyes. His aura pulses, the yellow now swirling violently, and I know he’s aroused. “Good,” he says, like I’ve passed some sort of test. “That’s progress. Your body is learning even if your mind is being difficult.”

The machine doesn’t stop. It never stops. Even as I’m still shaking from the orgasm I didn’t want, it continues its work, building toward the next one. And the next. And the next after that.

“You’re learning to associate pleasure with submission.” Isaac explains, settling into a cushioned chair where he has a perfect view of my degradation. His aura swirls lazily, the yellow still present, and I know he’s enjoying every second of this. “Learning that your body exists for this purpose. Once you’ve mastered this, once you’re begging for it instead of fighting it, we’ll move on to stage two.”

“What, what’s stage two?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know.

His smile is sharp enough to cut. “Pain. Real pain, not just the discomfort of forced arousal. You’ll learn to crave that too. To need it. Our prophet enjoys hurting his partners, you see. His wives love it, they beg for it now. They’re all masochists because that’s what we made them, so you will be one too.”

I gasp in horror at the mental image of that. Pain? Who in their right mind craves pain? Hours on this machine have worn down my certainty, made me question what I’m capable of resisting.

“You will,” he repeats, standing and moving to adjust the machine again. This time the penetration goes deeper, harder, and I can’t stop the cry that escapes. His aura flares, the yellow intensifying, and I know he’s enjoying this. “Because this is what God intended for you. You’re a whore, our whore, and you will fulfil your purpose.”

“This isn’t my purpose,” I spit. This can’t be it. How can God want such a thing?

He tuts, shaking his head like I’m just some stupid little girl and have no idea what I’m talking about.

The machine shifts again and I lose the thread of the conversation, lose everything except the sensation of being filled, used, forced toward another orgasm I don’t want. My body doesn’t care about the philosophical implications. It only knows the stimulus and the response.

Isaac watches me come apart again, watches me try to bite back screams and fail, watches me surrender to the mechanical precision of my own violation. His aura pulses, the yellow now swirling violently, and I know he’s aroused.

“That’s seven,” he notes, like he’s keeping score. “We’ll aim for twelve today. Tomorrow, fifteen. By the end of the week, you’ll lose count. And soon enough, you’ll be begging me to turn it on, begging me to fuck you too.”

“Never,” I gasp, though the word sounds hollow even to my own ears.

“We’ll see.” He moves toward the door, apparently satisfied with this session’s progress. His aura swirls lazily, the yellow still present, and I know he’s already planning the next session. “I’ll be back in a few hours. The machine will continue until then. Try to relax into it. Fighting only makes it worse.”

The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I’m alone with the machine and my thoughts. The mechanical rhythm continues, relentless and precise. My body is already building toward the next orgasm, already learning the pattern.

I test the restraints again, knowing it’s pointless but needing to try anyway. They don’t budge. Nothing budges. I’m completely at the mercy of this thing, this device designed to break down my resistance through sheer repetitive pleasure.

And the worst part, the part I can barely admit even to myself, is that it’s working.

My body is starting to anticipate the rhythm, starting to move with it instead of against it. Some traitorous part of me is learning to crave the release, to need it, exactly like Isaac said it would.

But my mind... my mind is still mine. Still calculating. Still looking for weaknesses in their plan, in their security, in their absolute certainty that they can transform me into someone else.

They can condition my body. They can even teach me to move and speak the way they want, but they can’t change who I am underneath, can they?

I blink back tears, wondering what Cass endured, wondering how much of herself she lost before they broke her too much.

The machine drives deeper and I lose that thought too, lose everything except the building pressure and the knowledge that right now, I have no choice but to surrender to it.

Again. And again. And again.

This is my life now. This is what I’ve become.

The ropes bite into my wrists, the coarse fibres dig deeper with every twist of my hands in a slow, intimate gnawing that has become a second heartbeat. I’ve been working at them for hours, or maybe days. Time is a meaningless thing when you’re tied to a bed, your body a map of aches, your mind a storm of rage and a humiliation so deep it feels like you’ll never crawl your way out of it.

The room is dim, the air thick with the scent of my own sweat and something sweet but also rotten. Blood, yes, which I know is mine. But also the ghost of her perfume, the memory of her hands, and that makes the fury curdle into something sicker.