just mechanical work

The heavy front door clicked shut, and the black aluminum case struck the solid oak table in the living room with a dull thud. The Neukölln micro-cage nestled icy and unyielding against my pubic bone; the thirty-five millimeters of matte surgical steel pressed my flesh so flat against the perineal seam that every step drove a sharp, pinching ache through my pelvis.

Loona shrugged off her wool coat and tossed it casually over the back of the sofa. Drawing her smartphone from her pocket, her long fingernails tapped out a brief message, her eyes turning toward me with a cool, calculating glint.

"Done," she remarked with velvety nonchalance, setting the phone down beside the case. "I've summoned Emma. She is to be here in half an hour—in a formal dress. She has no idea why, of course, but given the leverage I hold over her, she'll be on the mat right on the dot. Today we inaugurate the Neukölln piece properly."

My heart skipped a beat. Yet before a coherent thought could form, her voice sliced across the room once more:

"Strip, John. Completely. And bring me the lubricant from the bathroom. Emma should be here at any moment."

I swallowed hard, my throat locked tight. Stripping away my sweater, T-shirt, and loose trousers, I stood naked on the oiled parquet. The lines of the surgical steel were laid bare beneath the warm ceiling lights: the asymmetric base ring, the flush cylinder mechanism without an external padlock, the miniature sleeve, and the crisp, razor-sharp laser engraving: *Loona’s Property*. I fetched the tube and placed it obediently on the table.

Moments later, the intercom buzzed shrilly. Loona pressed the release without speaking a single word into the receiver.

Out in the hall, pointed heels clattered on the stone steps. The apartment door opened tentatively, and Emma stepped inside.

She had followed Loona’s brief instructions to the letter: an elegant, tailored cocktail dress of dark blue satin, sheer nylon stockings, and high pumps. Her blonde hair fell in immaculate waves over her shoulders, her makeup flawless. Yet the tension was etched plainly into her features. She knew she had been summoned without an explanation—trapped in the vice of the compromising material Loona held against her.

"I'm here, Loona," Emma said, straining for composure as she closed the door behind her and stepped into the living room. "What is this charade? You told me to dress up—"

The sentence died mid-word.

Emma’s gaze landed on me. I stood barely a few yards away, stark naked, hands folded behind my back. Involuntarily, her eyes tracked down my frame, freezing in utter fixation on my groin.

For several seconds, total silence gripped the room. Then, the corner of the notary's daughter's mouth twitched upward. Her initial shock dissolved into a venomous, derisive amusement.

"Good God, John…," she breathed softly, a spiteful chuckle escaping her lips. "What on earth is that? Did she have your toy filed down to dwarf proportions now? That is… that's pathetic."

My face burned like an open furnace. Standing exposed before the very woman who treated me with haughty contempt at the Charité tore through my pride. She took in the imprisoned, atrophied flesh, practically suffocating beneath thirty-five millimeters of surgical steel.

Loona poured herself a glass of white wine and settled back languidly into the wingback chair.

"Does it amuse you, Emma?" she asked gently, yet an undercurrent of cold venom silenced the mockery in Emma’s throat instantly. Loona picked up the remote, tapped her phone, and cast a document onto the large wall-mounted screen—the digital file documenting Emma’s manipulated exam records and the illicit audio from her father's firm.

Emma froze. The color drained from her cheeks.

"You laugh at my property, yet your entire future hangs on a single click from my finger," Loona stated with cutting clarity. "Today we test the new acquisition. And since you enjoy looking down on John so thoroughly at university, you get to experience his new utility firsthand."

Rising, Loona stepped up to the aluminum case on the table, flipping the latches open with two sharp clicks.

Emma took an involuntary step closer, drawn by a morbid fascination. Her eyes widened as she took in the four massive platinum-silicone shafts resting within the dense foam.

Loona reached for the mid-sized attachment: twenty centimeters of flesh-toned, heavily veined silicone, dense and scaled beyond natural proportions. From its base projected the solid stainless-steel M10 threaded stud.

"Over here, John," Loona commanded.

I stepped before her. Loona did not kneel; remaining standing, she instructed me to spread my stance. Under Emma’s transfixed, incredulous gaze, Loona aligned the threaded stud with the centered M10 bore on the front cap. The threads engaged soundlessly. With calm, steady revolutions, she screwed the heavy silicone shaft onto the front of my cage.

Emma stared, a hysterical, disbelieving shudder running through her. "You… you can't be serious. That's a machine. You expect him… with *that thing*—"

"He is going to take you, Emma. All the way in. And you will take every single centimeter of it," Loona delivered with absolute finality, tightening the connection hand-tight. She gave the rigid silicone shaft a firm tap. "No dodging. No theatrics. Refuse, and the folder goes to the Charité examination board and your father’s partners before midnight."

Emma pressed her lips into a thin line, her eyes flashing with fury and wounded pride. She didn't weep—her hatred ran too deep, her bourgeois armor too thick. Yet looking from the screen back to Loona, she knew she had no choice.

"You are sick, Loona," Emma ground out between clenched teeth.

"Hike the dress up and lean over the table. Now," Loona countered, entirely unfazed.

Exhaling in ragged bursts, Emma caught the hem of her dark blue satin dress, gathering the fine cloth up to her hips, pushing her lace thong aside. Stiff-limbed, she stepped up to the massive dining table, planted her palms flat on the oak surface, and leaned her torso forward. She turned her head away, jaw clamped tight to avoid looking me in the face.

Loona picked up the tube, coated the silicone head with a generous layer of gel, and turned to me. Resting a hand on the back of my neck, she drew my face close to her cheek, whispering into my ear:

"Take her, John. Show her how well my new tool functions. Until she comes. Not a second sooner."

I stepped up behind Emma, my heart hammering in my ears. I positioned the dense, cool silicone tip at her damp opening.

Gripping her narrow hips with both hands, I drove my pelvis forward.

Emma let out a rough, choked gasp, her whole frame going taut as a bowstring as the massive silicone overcame her resistance, sliding deep inside her.

For me, the physical sensation was a stark nightmare of numbness and mechanical strain. My own flesh felt not the faintest hint of her heat or moisture, locked away in thirty-five millimeters of freezing steel. Yet the physical resistance of her body transferred through the M10 threads unfiltered into the base ring across my pubic bone. With every thrust, the lower steel contour rammed hard into my raw perineal seam. It was pure mechanical labor. I was no lover; I was the motor, the piston of a machine.

"Keep going, John," Loona directed languidly from the armchair, sipping her wine, observing the spectacle with detached amusement. "Deeper. All the way to the hilt."

I thrust forward. Again and again. The heavy impact of skin meeting skin echoed through the high-ceilinged room. Emma bit her lip, digging her lacquered nails deep into the oak table. She fought the physical response, but the sheer volume of the prosthetic filled her so completely that her body began to respond against her will.

Her breathing turned shallow and irregular. The initial disgust in her gasps fractured into rough, choked pants.

"You… miserable… bastard…," she forced out, yet her thighs began to tremble uncontrollably. Her head fell back, her cheeks flushed crimson.

My pubic bone burned under the continuous impact of the steel ring. Within the sleeve, my trapped tissue attempted to engorge, only for the thirty-five millimeters of surgical steel to crush the impulse instantly under sharp compression. Sweating, panting, I drove the foreign silicone into her body—propelled solely by the imperative to execute Loona’s command.

After minutes of relentless thrusts, Emma’s composure broke completely. Her muscles clamped down violently around the shaft, a high, strangled cry tearing from her throat as her entire body seized in an intense climax. Her knees buckled; she collapsed forward onto the table, chest heaving against the wood.

I drew the silicone shaft out slowly.

Trembling with physical exhaustion, I took a step back. The skin around my pelvis was deeply bruised from the ring's impact, yet the M10 threaded joint remained seated precisely as before—no loosening, no deflection.

Emma remained draped over the tabletop, palms flat against the oiled wood, her shoulders rising and falling in ragged breaths. The deep blue satin dress was bunched at her hips, her damp center glistening in the light. She was shivering—not merely from physical strain, but from a profound, shattering dissonance.

Loona sipped her wine unhurriedly, taking in the scene with clinical detachment. A dangerous, amused smile played at her lips.

"Well, look at that," she remarked in a velvety tone. "You came once, Emma, but your body is far from finished with him. You want more of that cold piston, don't you?"

"No…," Emma managed through ragged gasps, her voice fragile, stripped of its usual haughtiness. Her legs shifted restlessly against each other.

"Don't lie to me," Loona cut through the weak protest. Setting her glass down, she gave me a sharp nod. "Again, John. Take your time this time. Work her thoroughly. Make her feel just how much she enjoys this unfeeling surrogate."

I stepped forward once more. My thighs burned with exertion, my own flesh sealed inside thirty-five millimeters of surgical steel, isolated from the slightest physical sensation. Gripping Emma’s hips, I guided the silicone head back to her opening.

With slow, unrelenting pressure, I drove the full length back inside her.

Emma let out a long, hoarse gasp. This time, she didn't brace defensively; her body drew the massive silicone in. A quiet whimper escaped her lips as she pressed her hips back against the thrust. The sheer humiliation of being undone by a mindless instrument and an inert object seemed only to fan the flames of her arousal.

I maintained a steady, mechanical rhythm. The wet slapping of flesh carried through the apartment. Emma tilted her head back, cheeks dark with heat, her sobs shifting into open, shameless sounds of pleasure. She despised me, she loathed the circumstance—yet she was losing all control right before her blackmailer.

"God… damn it… yes…," she broke out in a strangled voice.

Her thighs shook, her fingers clutching at empty air before a second, far more violent wave of release took hold of her. A sharp cry tore from her throat, her pelvic muscles clamping rhythmically around the rigid shaft for long moments. Finally, she collapsed entirely, resting her cheek against the cool wood, unable to remain upright.

I halted and eased the prosthetic from her body. My pubic region throbbed from the repeated impact of the ring, but the ache was deep tissue pressure rather than an abrasion.

Loona walked over to the table with fluid grace. Reaching down, she trailed two fingers almost dismissively across Emma’s sweat-dampened temple.

"Stand up, Emma," she commanded softly. "Get dressed. And be sure to thank me for the lesson."

Emma pushed herself up from the edge with difficulty. Her legs were shaking so hard she nearly stumbled as she smoothed her satin dress down and adjusted her lingerie. In her eyes lay a devastating mix of raw humiliation, shock at her own physical surrender, and bitter resentment. She understood that Loona had not merely blackmailed her, but completely stripped her bare from within.

Swallowing hard, fixing her eyes on the floorboards, she managed in a strained, hoarse voice:

"Thank you… Loona."

"Very good," Loona replied coolly. "Take your bag and leave. You know what happens if you utter a single word at the Charité."

Fumbling, Emma grabbed her handbag and hurried from the room without granting me a single glance. Moments later, the heavy entrance door latched shut.

We were alone. The quiet in the living room was absolute.

Loona turned to me slowly. Her expression shifted: the cutting hardness softened into that calm, possessive thoroughness that tightened around my chest every time.

"Hold that exact stance, John," she instructed.

Stepping close, she took the damp silicone shaft in both hands, unthreading it smoothly from the front cap of the cage. The M10 threads disengaged cleanly without catching. Setting the probe onto a paper towel, she knelt calmly before me on the rug.

Her slender hands circled my pelvis. With cool fingers, she inspected the skin margins bordering the custom ring. She pressed lightly against my pubic bone, examined the perineal notch, and assessed the erythema with the practiced eye of an overseer.

"How does it feel?" she asked clinically, her eyes remaining on my sealed flesh. "Any sharp pain along the periosteum?"

"No…," I answered truthfully, though my voice was rough. "Just pressure. A dull, heavy ache… like a deep bruise."

"And the perineum? Does the edge chafe under axial load?"

"No, Loona. The relief notch… it buffers it cleanly."

Nodding in satisfaction, she dragged the pad of her thumb across the reddened mark on my groin—a surprisingly cool, gentle contrast to the preceding mechanical brutality.

"The workshop did immaculate work," she observed, looking up to meet my gaze. Her emerald-green eyes studied my features with calm intensity. "No edema, no lacerations. Keep the angle clean, and your frame can sustain this load several times a week without structural tissue damage. You are built solidly."

Rising, she smoothed her dress and tapped her index finger lightly against the front of the cage, where the engraving *Loona’s Property* sat matte in the light.

"And how is your head, John?" she asked with quiet, pointed edge. "You just dismantled her composure before my eyes—and your own flesh never touched an inch of her. It was pure mechanical labor for you."

"It… feels strange," I whispered, dropping my eyes in shame. "I felt nothing. Nothing at all. Just the cold of the steel."

Loona tilted her head slightly, a subtle, probing smile touching her lips.

"And yet your body functioned like clockwork," she said softly, closing the remaining distance, sliding two cool fingertips beneath my chin. She guided my face upward until my gaze was locked with her emerald irises. "You drove every scrap of pride out of her body just now. The arrogant notary's daughter, who won't even deign to look at you in the lecture halls. Never forget who placed that power in your hands in the first place. Who gave you permission to take her, John?"

A shiver ran down my spine. The twisted logic of her words took hold: she had exposed me naked, sealed away, reduced to an inanimate mechanical piston—yet framed it as an unprecedented privilege. My mind was so numbed by exhaustion, shame, and her proximity that I felt the visceral urge to validate the dynamic entirely.

I sank slowly to my knees before her. The cool surgical steel pressed firmly against my pubic bone, the engraving *Loona’s Property* catching the ceiling light. Looking up at her, swallowing hard, I forced out with strained, sincere deference:

"Thank you… thank you, Loona. Thank you for allowing me to take her."

Loona’s eyes flashed with absolute gratification. She combed her fingers through my hair with almost affectionate care, as though praising a trained hound.

"Good boy, my tool," she breathed with velvety warmth. "Keep this in mind: when you obey, I grant you triumphs others can only dream of—even while locked in steel. Now fetch a damp cloth, clean the table, and wash the probe thoroughly with warm water and soap. Then take your shower."

"Yes, Loona," I whispered, bowing my head.

She turned toward the hallway, pausing once more at the threshold.

"Once you've finished everything properly, you may rest," she added, her tone carrying an almost maternal gentleness. "You've earned a break today."