Machine fulfillment

The air in the bar is thick with the scent of expensive tobacco and the amber glow of low-hanging lamps. I feel a rare, liquid ease in his chest. Across sits a man—Asian, sharp-featured but with a smile that feels like a shared secret. We don’t speak, but the connection is visceral, a magnetic pull between us as i raise a glass of gun tonic to my lips. The stranger reaches out, his hand inches from mine, the heat radiating off his skin. Then, the world snaps. The warmth is replaced by a biting, chemical chill. I'm not sitting; I'm pinned. I'm horizontal, strapped to a greasy, oily bench made of heavy black rubber that smells of old engines and rot. Every time I try to move, the rubber groans against my skin, slick and unforgiving. A heavy helmet encases my skull, the pressure pulsing against my temples. Thick, translucent cables snake out from the crown of the device, burrowing directly into the base of my brain. They vibrate with a low-frequency hum, feeding me images—flickering, artificial memories of weird kink parties I've never been to and lives I've never lived. Across the room, an immense, prehistoric computer covers the entire wall. It is a monolith of clicking relays, spinning magnetic tapes, and dull green vacuum tubes. It breathes like a living thing. I feel a sharp, rhythmic tingle below. Electrodes, cold and metallic, are fixed to my genitals and anus. They fire in precise, agonizing bursts, a mechanical mimicry of desire commanded by an invisible authority. I am a closed circuit—a body being used as a canvas for someone else’s data, my own biology turned into a playground for a machine. He forces me to experience and even be his desire. And I feel warm and fulfilled. A smile on my face, my brain flickers helpless and my cock pulsates. At first, the sensation is one of violation, but as the hum of the immense computer stabilizes, the panic begins to melt. The greasy rubber bench no longer feels like a restraint; it feels like a cradle. The cables burrowed into my brain stop feeling like needles and start feeling like conduits of truth. I realize that for my entire life, the "noise" of my own thoughts—the anxieties, the decisions, the constant weight of being a person—has been a burden. Now, that burden is gone. The authority outside isn't just sending dreams; it is optimizing my self. As the electrodes fire, the sensation isn't a theft of my pleasure, but a refinement of it. It is a pure, mathematical ecstasy, stripped of the awkwardness of human contact. I feel a profound, surging sense of fulfillment. I'm no longer a man lost in a bar; I'm a vital component in a grand, humming machine. The stranger from the bar reappears in the flickering data-stream behind my eyes. But now, the man’s smile is different—it’s the smile of a technician who has successfully calibrated a masterpiece. I feel a wave of gratitude toward the "Outs." I dosn't want to wake up. I want the electrodes to pulse harder, the cables to dig deeper. I want to be erased and rewritten until there is nothing left of me except the perfect, controlled bliss of the machine. Waking up with hard erection