Sex robot M3 – Evening of day 3.

I got home and opened my dresser to find it empty. I had forgotten momentarily that Genie, my controller, had locked my normal clothes in a remote operated footlocker.

I went to the footlocker and it was still locked. I unplugged it but it did not release so I plugged it back in. The digital lock could only be opened by her, over the internet… I heard Genies voice from my computer:

“M3, you did a nice job cleaning all that stuff for me. I have Lectures tomorrow and tutorials the rest of the week. You will be given a week long assignment and you will be making regular Journal entries…. Um… Now, take off that lab coat.”

I took off the coat and let it drop to the floor. The front half of my body covered in red and black marker pen like a crazy Yakuza tattoo.

The black writing on my dick was now too scrunched up to read. I looked down to read my chest but struggled to make any of it out.

“Head up! Pick up that lab coat and fold it neatly into the locker.”

I bent down to pick up the coat and got a whistle from Genie. She was watching through the webcams dotted around my ground floor flat.

Genie didn’t say anything for a few moments but I could hear rustling sounds of subtle rhythmic movement through the yahoo messenger connection. The new hook up to the stereo was bringing background sounds through I never got before.

Genies voice a little deeper and breathy:

“I found your profile at Collarme so I want you to post your journal there as well as send it to me. I have an ad for you at slavefarm and I will be giving interested parties your collarme details. (Hmm, hah mm mm mmm)…

…If you feel you can’t continue for any reason please send me a text. I lost the last test subject during a public session and would hate to lose you too…”

I felt like I should say something comforting. Even though I was being blackmailed into her fantasy toy, even though I was standing naked covered in marker pen for solely her and her friends’ …or clients?… amusement, a captive in my own flat, I felt like I should be reassuring her some how I wanted to please her, no like I needed to.

I nodded in agreement. The act of nodding felt a little like bowing. I felt the domination deeply, I felt the shame, I tried to hide it… I couldn’t speak… I was getting aroused. Not speaking just felt like deeper submission. My mind was in a spin.

After another short pause and a satisfied little exhale into the mic. Genie went on:

“I really was torn about renting you out, but the looks on your face when I humiliate you in public are just too delicious. When we reach your limit, send me a text and I will release you…”

A look of hope must have shown on my marker-covered face before I heard:

” …after I post all your pictures and ID on my blog and your videos on Youtube, well, with a little comical music and editing of course. Maybe you’ll go viral (he-he-he).”

Walking back down the hall to my desk as I listened to her over the yahoo connection. A soft hum and a rhythmic kind of squeak, like someone swinging on an old chair… The sounds got louder. On some level I must have known what it was before I was conscious of it.

My erection grew.

I heard a surprised gasp as I got to the desk, now fully erect and then the muted click of the mic off button.

My computer monitor came to life and on the desktop picture of me being branded on the balls was now replaced with me with naked in profile on a steel table with an erection inside a pigs mouth from earlier.

Genie giggled to herself as she watched my reaction over yahoo. Her voice soft and deep like she was leaning closer to the mic.

“Ow, you look so sad, and, hmm… it’s good to see you can get it up without my prostate electrode… take a step back and turn slowly all the way around.”

I complied, looking more disheartened I guess, my erection waggling as I took small steps turning a 360.

“Honey, don’t feel bad, you are really doing well as my sex robot. I know! Do some star jumps, exercise is good for depression.” Her voice smiling, almost genuine. I jumped and my dick flailed wildly; slapping my thigh and belly button each jump in and out.

“Now hands on knees, keep jumping legs in and out.”

A few more jumps before:

“Now turn and jump… slowly.”

After I turned through another 360:

“OK, nice work, and still with a very healthy little erection… I will miss you next week. Look down at your cock and read out the writing.”

I looked down but the writing was on the side, I grabbed hold to turn it round and Genie barked:

“Stop that, I said read, not play with it!”

I leaned over sideways and read: ‘Meat puppet’… and on the other side, ‘Pussy boy’ and three smudged signatures.

Genie didn’t comment just saying:

“Now take a shower, lather, I want to see a lot of bubbles. You might have to use a brush to remove that ink.”

Genie paused as she waited for me to walk to the shower. As I washed she called out instructions for me to wash here or there and bend and pose. She got me to switch off the water before lathering my whole body up.

I could clearly here her voice from my stereo all the way through my small apartment. I wondered who else could here and it gave me a little thrill and a sick feeling at the same time.

Some more lathering and then no instructions for a few minutes. I was getting cold and leaned out to look toward the computer desk to hear Genie cum loudly over the Yahoo connection.

I got very aroused and stepped out of the shower with a massive soapy hard on to hear:

“Get the Gen 3 Human control harness and put it on!” Genie’s words fast cracking through a long and vocal orgasm.

I fumbled with the harness but got it on, getting the cock ring on over my erection was a struggle.

“Upload your journal to collarme, but only half a day at a time, I want you to attract some readers with a bit of suspense.” A calmer and more controlled command from my invisible controller.

Naked soapy and strapped into an electro control harness, cockring, shock collar and but plug electrode I edited my notes and posted them to collarme journal page. Wet and shivering a little I lost wood very quickly.

I was typing away when I felt a shock and fell off the chair. My arms and legs bent and stiff.

Genie said, “Just a minute… sorry, wrong button.” I was locked up on the floor shaking from the electrical current and Genie calmly said:

“What does it feel like?”

I said: “Burning and crushing.”

Genie said: “Can you speak?”

I said louder, “Like b-burning and crushing on my legs and arms!”

Genie said, “Ow, your mic. One moment, there, now what did you say?” I could see her move my mouse via the remote desktop.

I answered again a little more panicked “It’s burning and crushing” a moment later I felt the harness shut off and I got back on the chair. I felt a bit hurt. I mean I felt like that was just cruel and not sexy or anything. It really hurt.

As soon as I sat down my arms clenched tight again and the burning returned. Genie said nothing as I sat pulling agonized faces in front of the monitor like a tortured praying mantis. I felt the current in the harness shut off and Genie said,

“Hmm, I must have mislabeled that control. I will have M2 look at that later. M3 Put a towel on and go out the front for a moment.”

I did and when I got to the garden area in front of the web cam in the window I felt the harness kick again. This time my legs collapsed, completely jelly. I fell to the ground and broke my fall with my arms. Once on the ground my arms were paralyzed as well. My towel falling open and scratchy grass sticking to my body.

After about five or ten minutes on the ground I saw a car drive past very slowly. It passed again and parked across the street. I tried to call out but got a painful shock from the anti bark collar stopping any sound from coming out.

A large woman stood at the path looking at me on the ground. She took out her phone and sent a text. My legs shot out straight and I was face down on the ground with electricity running down my legs. The woman walked over to me and took my towel. I was now naked wet and wriggling out the front of my place unable to get up.

Who was she? A neighbor who had overheard my controller? A prude texting the police? Just a random driver passing by? I wanted to speak but really didn’t want that anti bark collar going off again or attract any one else to my predicament. I felt deep shame.

The woman received a text, walked closer and threw the towel over my head. She stood on my balls with the tip of her pointy shoe, I tried to scream but only air sound came out. The woman left and as she drove off I was freed from the electrical current immobilizing my limbs. I went back in the house and started getting dressed.

I fell to the ground again. Genie released the electricity from her terminal and said, “Ow, …that –was- fun. How are your balls? Don’t answer. That lady has agreed to take care of you this week. Now lets practice asking for permission.”

I started to speak and the collar cut out the sound with another painful shock.

Genie explained: “Now-now M3, to speak you must ask permission. Crawl over here and ask.”

I crawled to the computer and started to type and felt my arms fall away as the current took away my motor control.

Genie chortled, ” Ha-ha! That’s better, but I want to see you write me a note asking for permission… with that pen in your mouth.”

I did and Genie said, “Good M3, very good, permission to speak…


If I where you I’d wear a high collar tomorrow to work to hide that harness. Pack an over night bag, tomorrow you are the houseboy for Ms Rose.

To be continued…

He is tied to a chair.

He doesn’t deserve to be. If there is any logic to sexual desire, and there isn’t, then he probably shouldn’t be tied to this chair. It feels wrong because it is. He became the boss of me slowly, an imperceptible creep over the years. It started, as it always does, with tenderness. His devotion was without an agenda. He never seemed to have anything to gain by my company. I became greedy for the certainty that he would hold me and soothe me like it was my right to be soothed. Slowly and surely, my head rested on his shoulder, swirling with alcohol and confusion, began to fill with thoughts of him. And when I moved away, I missed him. Did I call him? Not as often as I should have. Did I give myself to other men? Of course. Did I secretly assume I could walk back in and be his favourite again? Yes.

So when I stepped off the coach all those years later, I knew. My feet hit the floor and I saw him and I realized that everything would have to be rearranged so I could be with him. People do ask me about that feeling, was it a lightning bolt, and was it love at first sight? No, it was a sharp, humbling intake of breath. It was the shame of having been wrong about him all these years. He was so much taller now and strong. Self possessed. Untouchable. I got in the car and I knew that I might not get a second chance to get my hands on him. That he may love someone else felt like agony.

That might be why he is tied to the chair. He wanted my hands on him, but not before he gallantly put up the camp bed and left the room so I could undress without an audience. Bastard. But yes, he relented when I crawled in his bed with faint excuses and lies. So he got the girl of his dreams, after so many years, he even got the girl to crawl into his bed and take his clothes off and now he loves to show me off. He loves to sling his protective arm around my shoulder. I dress up when we go out and he walks around like he is the king of the world because he held out for me and I came running back in the end. Do I let him play the king of the world? Absolutely, he does a handsome job of it. I let him open jars and teach me things and put me over his knee and spank me. That’s always been king of the world territory. We have been together for a while and this is an ordinary Saturday night, where I have tied him to a chair.

He looks beautiful. I know he is waiting for the first move but he really does look so beautiful that I take my time to enjoy it. Tied up men are delicious. They have a swell against rope. Their flesh should not be tied at all so it’s a joy to watch them struggle. To see the slight cramp, the flexing of tingling fingers. Jaw bones, biceps, steeled for the inevitable lashes. I can see him sweat, lovely sweat I may lick off slowly with exquisite teasing as I graze his cock.

Tied up women are simply delicate wrists and slim ankles, which is a lot less fun than looping a rope around the broadest limbs of a man who resists it. I assess how easily he could bust out. I don’t know if he is tied because he wants to be, ropes are there for show or if I really have him bound. Both options turn me on immensely. I don’t tell him, but if he busts out and teaches me a lesson, well, I am wet just thinking of it.

What do I want? I am a woman, and to go with all the stereotypes about what women want, I want everything. I want to hear the stinging slap as he fights not to cry out. I want the deep kiss, I straddle him so my flesh is finally on his and I want to see him squirm as I pull away so quickly that he moans. I can see him watch me as and get harder, my body is tantalisingly out of reach. I have gorgeous curves and he doesn’t have a hand free. Too bad, so sad, I tell him and I laugh. I can touch him, or make him watch me touch myself and he has to sit quietly and watch me. I want him to have a little, then a lot, then nothing at all. Then more than he can bear. I want to splash all my selfish whims across his skin because he is mine to do what I like with. Now is the chance to do all the grubby horrid things that I can get away with before the tables turn tomorrow night. I can hardly pick where to start. The anticipation is killing him.

I like to see him burn with lust. I can’t get enough, my ego is bottomless really. I kiss his neck while I pull his hair. Icarus, tattooed on his bicep, jumps just a little and with that twitch, I have him. That’s the key to really making a man suffer, watching for that tell that gives him away despite his best efforts. Not even the Samson types can hold it together for very long. I like it more when they fight. I like how he locks his jaw because he is proud. He doesn’t want to give me the satisfaction of visibly hurting so I continue slowly until he begins to waver. He always does give in. I am smart enough to watch as I caress and pinch and I wait until he can’t stand it any longer. He can see this. I don’t blindfold him because I don’t want him to have the privacy of pleasure behind his eyelids. I want him to see how exposed he is. He has done his fair share of picking me up and throwing me on the bed. Those arms earn our money. They put up our shelves. They lift weights with a great sense of proud display while I flutter with admiration. They hold me at night and they are now tied firmly behind his back so his chest is horribly bare and available for whatever I lavish upon it.

Kisses and blows. Welts and marks. His skin is so smooth and so beautifully tan and so I create a masterpiece, stroke by stroke. I can see him reel so I bring him back with kisses. I nibble his earlobes, loop my arms around his neck. I whisper lovely words about how much I adore him and then I make him burn. Bit by bit I am taking him apart. I know that he craves this, it looks cruel but I know that he is connected to what he needs to feel. Some nights he returns; silent and furious to the point of concealed tears. I see them threaten in his eyes so I don’t say anything, I just hold him. He comes home brimming with anger and shame, such powerlessness. There are things he cannot permit himself to feel. I know of his failures and the burdens that he places upon himself, many of which are his own creation. I know that being a man is a tough, thankless job and I know that he feels that block of never quite being able to say that out loud. He is throwing himself against the bricks. It makes him rage to see the unfairness of it. I wake sometimes in the night to see him looking at me with sadness, like he will never be enough.

He doesn’t need to say it out loud because I already know it. So I give him the pain he feels already. His body is the landscape and I can see the storm pass over it. I can see that he comes alive in the sensations; they bring him back to me. I give him permission to struggle against the ropes. This is his way to find his limit and go past it. He can feel his muscles ache and contort, he can feel the sharp relief of a slap or a whip and he knows more than ever he is alive. The pain has arrived and he has business with it, so he fights until he wins. He is not alone anymore with the fear and regret. He knows that I can see him at his most inadequate and I love him. I love him with a disgusting generosity. I give him my nails up his back, I bite his nipples, when he hits fever pitch I run the pinwheel over his desperate flesh until the tiny pinpricks make his eyes wet with tears because he is so over stimulated.

I might not ever let him go; a tiny part of him is terrified that I could leave him here forever. The more he lets himself enjoy this, the worse it would be if I got up and left. If his ecstacy bored me, he would look a fool. He worries that having given me what I asked for, I may tire of it. He is terrfied that I will just leave one day. The terror of giving yourself up to a woman is that you may never step back into the man you were. She may lose her respect for you. If you admit that what you want most is to give up your hold on yourself and on her, even for a night, she may never defer to you again. That is the why he is tied to chair, so he can feel the bottomless terror that he might not be the man he wants to be.

The ropes are untied eventually. His eyes are a little glassy, I can see the cortisol racing in his blood stream. I know that any moment now his endocrine system will flood him with comfort, so I take him back to bed and I soothe him. I am his girl again. Soft loving kisses, I hold him close and I adore him. He is exhausted and he is ill at ease and I spoil him until he can relax. The pain has gone and he has endured it, now he can stand to be loved. He is king of the world again.

June 2018
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