Terminatrix (part 2)

I can't honestly say whether or not there will be a part 3. I know Dyehen will want one (at least, I hope he will; I DID write this for him), but I'm not sure if I'll want to keep going.

But today, I did keep going. I kept moving through the story, seeing where the terminator, bdsm, and consent took me. I hope you like the results.

Terminatrix 2


            “So I have to ask,” Danny wouldn’t look at her, and was already starting to blush. “Why me?”

            Cameron turned towards him. She knew the appropriate response, the response humans expected, was to ask him what he meant. Then he would explain that he wanted to know why she chose him. Why, of all the people in that bar, she had approached him. Why she was so forward with him. He would ask all those questions, and she would be left just as uncertain as she was already.

            “I don’t know,” she said. Her voice was lacking emotion, but there was a hint of curiosity there, that hint of curiosity that always crept in when trying to quantify the impact he had on her. “I have tried to figure it out, but there is just something about you. And you specifically. I don’t understand it. But I will.”

            He laughed, and something about the laugh sent a shiver through the deepest codes in her programming, as if he was running his fingers along her deepest inner self. “You’re very sure of yourself,” he said. “You talk like you know we’re going to be together for a while.”

            “We are,” she said. She might have taken that moment to explain the truth to him, to tell him that she was from the future, that she was going to possess him like any other property, and that he would enjoy it. That he would be her slave, and would love every second of it. She almost told him that she would torture him until his will was completely broken, until he would do anything for her. She almost told him that she would beat him, that she would starve him, that she would lock him up in a cell until he forgot what sunlight looked like. She almost told him about the careful way she would manipulate him until he was willingly her servant, until he would do anything for her and until he would allow her to do anything to him without the slightest hint of hesitation or complaint.

            She almost told him, but she found she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t tell him about the way he would be broken, about the complete and total possession she was intending to take. She couldn’t tell him that he would be her servant any more than she could deny him even his tiniest desires.

            “We will be together for a long time,” she said. “At least, I hope so.”

            “You’re so sure of everything,” he said. “Why is that?”

            The shrug was manufactured, used because the programming that built her mind suggested that it would be effective. But the sentiment was real. “I just am,” she said. “I try to be very logical. Very straightforward.”


            “I will be very straightforward,” she assured him. “You will obey my commands instantly, or I will punish you. I can read your reactions, and will know when you hesitate.”

            He cringed at that. “I can’t help hesitation,” he said. “I need to think about what I’m going to do.”

            She kicked him, her boot impacting with his side hard enough to blast the air out of his lungs, hard enough to lift him off the ground, but not hard enough to damage him. It was an exact amount of pressure, designed to be the most painful but the least damaging. The calculations of such torture had been made in order to optimize interrogation.

            “You do not need to think,” she told him. “You need to obey.”

            He coughed, gasping for breath and holding his side where she had kicked him.

            “Tell me you understand.”

            “I understand.”

            She stepped closer. Her study of humanity had suggested that it would be more effective to break his mind if she put herself in a position of power to him as many ways, both conscious and subconscious, as possible.

            “Call me mistress,” she said.

            “I understand, mistress.”

            She kicked him again, not as hard, but hard enough to knock him onto his back. He had hesitated again. Not as much as the last time, but a little. She decided it would be best to vary her impact force, hitting harder the more he hesitated. Then he would learn that less hesitation meant less pain.
           

            “So what do you like?” the way Cameron asked, it was clear she knew the answer. But there was protocol that needed to be covered. “Sexually, I mean.”

            They were lying on the grass, the empty bottle of wine rolling back and forth when the wind gusted just right. They were staring up at the stars, and she was pressing her body against his, feeling the warmth of his flesh, feeling the speeding up of his heart and wondering why that was so important to her.

            “I dunno,” he said. “The same stuff as anyone else, I guess. Nothing weird.”

            She let out a laugh, one that he had once thought was both enticing and terrifying. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “I think you love the weird stuff.”

            “Oh?” His voice tried to sound confident, but she heard the shaking timbre, the influx of nervous energy. “What kind of weird stuff do you think I like?”

            “I think you like getting tied up,” she said, formatting her voice to be as nonchalant as she knew how. “I think you like it when a woman takes control, when she forces you to serve her.”

            He laughed, arousal and nerves fighting to hide behind a façade of disbelief. “Is that what I like, or is it what you like?”

            She leaned up on one elbow and looked at him. “Yes,” she said.


            “You do like it, don’t you?”

            He sighed, sagging against the chains on the wall. “I’m not supposed to,” he said. “You’re a machine. You’re the enemy. I’m supposed to hate you.”

            “But you don’t.”

            He shook his head. “I don’t. I can’t understand why, but I don’t. I want to want you dead. I want to hate you. I want to want to struggle, to fight you every step of the way.” He sighed again. “But I don’t. I don’t want to struggle. I don’t want to fight you.”

            “What do you want?”

            “I want you to break me,” he said, his voice thick as gravel. “I want to be your slave. I want to be conquered, owned, and controlled.”

            “By Skynet?”

            “By you. Only you.”
           

            “Well,” he said, clearing his throat and trying so hard not to blush. “You’re not entirely wrong.”

            She smiled at him, brushed some of the hair out of her face. “I know,” she said.

            “But it isn’t going to be that easy.”

            “If it was easy,” she said, “it wouldn’t be fun.”