I'm not submissive at all, really, but, well… I do have this fantasy. I want to be taken by a machine. I want it to be mindless, cold, clumsy, inorganic, unsympathetic, and to treat me like an object. My romance goes: And so they met, object on object. I want to be taken by the cold clatter of the impersonal. Don't ask why. It spoils the cream.

I've been told that if you go to sleep every night visualizing something in your head, you will dream about that something. So I've started a program. Every night before I go to bed, I fantasize about the machine that will take me. It's not just a fuckingmachine, all about the drill. No, this is a machine that will fuck all over me. It has little metallic birdclaws for grasping breast flesh and nipples and lips. It has perhaps a hundred of these because I want to feel inundated. I want my body to feel like a beach head for an invasion that's out of control. I want it to be as though mindless hoards have converted me from whole cow or pig to choice cuts, parceled me off into ham and hock, rump and tongue, and now they are taking away the claimed bits. I want to be disassembled.

So I picture these metallic claw-feet clacking and clamping away at the end of thin metallic arms, steely pencils jointed together. And they are greased, like a good machine is. So that when they grab and claw me, they leave behind a slick mucus on my skin. It shines; it makes my parts more sensitive. I jump at every claw touch. And the machine claims me for a piece of territory with this grease, like a male dog claims by pee.

The claws are clumsy. When they stab and grab at my nipples, they miss mostly, clutching a piece of breast here or poking a sensitive patch of areola there, till the nipple goes quivery from breast abuse, which makes it even more difficult to grasp. The claws' vicious cycle of clumsiness, of machined insensitivity, wreaks intense nerve twitch all over my body. They snatch the soft flesh under my arm pits (my nipples turn to goose bumps), the skin around my jaw, my breasts (that roll from side to side under the sheer number of them snipping and shoving), my thigh meat, the soles of my feet, the sweet plumpness of my pussy mound. Pinch, pinch. Every nerve ending in my pitiful human pelt is on a hair trigger right now. And the hundreds of rude machine insults continue unabated across my body. It does not ask what I want, this machine. It doles out torture like a god. Insisting, insisting, coming at me, coming at me, it gags me speechless.

My machine has parts other than its claws, of course. Things to probe me. Things to open me. Things to spread my parts, uninvited. It has hard, steely bands that clamp down on my upper arms (imprinting the soft flesh), and pin me to the cold table it has thrown me on. When the time is right, it will clamp hold of my thighs, firm around the muscle. It will pick them up, open them wide, slam them back down and fix me there spread so wide my cunt unsticks itself and the lips drop open, fall apart, wider, wider. If I squirm, I will go nowhere. If I wrench, this machine will be unyielding. My trunk is held fast with an inhuman certitude. And it feels so right. I want no human touch, no warmth, no flesh that gives, no bones that break, no softness, no aliveness. I want this machine badly. My cunt flips when I say it. "Shhh," my pussy sniggers. "This is a dirty little secret." But my crush on this machine is even worse than that. I want to be its slave. I want my organic, mushy, squirmy, dribbly parts to be mocked, slapped, and humiliated by its unequivocal solidness. Meanwhile, it hovers over me, iron cold. Its little birdclaws at the ready. It wants to sample me, test me, try me, extract my juices, force my organic slave parts to beat and pulse on demand. It wants to work me like a machine, because it is programmed to, no other reason. I do not make this machine hot. It looks at me and sees nothing. I am nothing to it. My forced-open pussy, my unprotected, half-open hole do not make it breathe heavy. It could care less. And that's why I love it so. Oh, I love it desperately. I crave its heartless touch. This pewter Master. Yes, pewter. It doesn't shine and gleam -- that's too much for show and smells like human pride. No. My machine, my love, is pure, heartless utilitarian. Its face is dull. And because of all this, it makes me love it with a passion that is like lips stuck to dry ice. My machine. Rule me, I whisper.

In my mind, however, I do give it one soft spot. A black, round, flat-bottomed suction cup. My machine comes at my wet cunt with this thing, a thwack to the twat and its suction cup is mashed all up in my squisher. It presses hard, squeezing out the air until the lips of my pussy are flattened against it in a suffocating hug, and my juice glues me to its rubber walls and we are locked together, me and my machine. An embrace I do not want to let go of. But I have no say. My swollen cunt has no power to hold it. When it pulls away, it hurts, it takes. I feel like I'm losing myself through the cunt, losing my vital root. And to what? The withdrawal of a machine.

My Master, my machine then takes its wet suction cup and stamps me with my own wet. Stamps my breasts, dabs my own pussy juice all over my nipples. My machine stamps me with the label: slut-whore-bitch-cunt; stamps me its property. I'm owned by this machine. Clamped down tight, marked, fucked, dejuiced, stamped, and packaged, by a machine, and it makes me so hot I want to come with a claw pinching each nipple and two claws snapping their prickly mouths up my vagina, biting at the soft walls like piranha. Let my sloppy, slutty human juice run in rivulets down your impregnable metallic arms, oh, Lord Machine. Fuck me, you hard bastard!

(I get carried away, don't I? It's getting to be a problem.)

Anyway. That's what I picture the first night before I've gotten myself so horny I pinch my nipples and the cunt juice starts running down my leg and I barely touch my chubbied clitoris before it blurts out all over itself, crass and uncontrolled like a rube at the opera.

After I have a splitting orgasm, in the quiet darkness, I think, man, this is going to ruin the charm. Coming off on the visualization before I go to sleep -- it will dissipate the tension and now I won't have the dream. The one that will make my Machine come to life, make him real as .

Sure enough, I don't have a machine dream that night. Or any other dream that I can remember. But the next night I try again. I'm determined to make it work, you see. I want my Machine to fuck me in my sleep. In the mouth, in the ass, in the cunt. Fuck and pull and squeeze and slap and maul and prick and poke. My need is escalating. My fantasy grows obsessive. It is only a matter of time until all this hot filthy desire leaks into my sleep. This I know. So I try again. And the next night…

To be continued…