Dear Christmas Elves
I really, really, really want a fucking machine. Like, if I could only have one present this Christmas but I could choose whatever I wanted in the whole world, I’d say A FUCKING MACHINE because I do really really want one.
Unfortunately, a fucking machine is currently well outside my budget, or that of anyone else who might feel inclined to give me a Christmas gift. Maybe next year, some amazing and life-changing amount of money will come my way through sheer serendipity, and I’ll be able to divert some of it towards a piston-driven phallus.
I’ve never encountered a fucking machine, and so great is my thirst, that if I can’t have one of my own, I’d settle for begging, borrowing or renting time on someone else’s (with appropriate safety and hygiene precautions, of course). Because I wanna get fucked by a machine, SO MUCH.
I’ve been watching fucking-machine scenes on Kink.com and practically combusting with as much envy as horn. I want to be tied up (or down) and unable to escape the relentless drive of steel and silicone inside me. I want to be screaming and wailing in the helpless thrall of orgasm while the machine just keeps going. I want to be getting fucked without anxiety about reciprocity or boundaries or communication. And yes, I absolutely would video it all.
There’s probably something deep and meaningful to be inferred about my obsession with being fucked by a machine, rather than a human. I’m not averse to another human hand on the controls (in fact, I have many fantasies about being machine-fucked beyond endurance at the whim of someone authoritative and sadistic), but it’s really more about the machine than the fucking. An impersonal piece of equipment, a Device that requires no interaction once it’s running, impervious to resistance or entreaty. The implacability of mechanical components doing something so visceral and intimate to me, it just…… UNNNNFFFF, drives me wild with want.
Being restrained is a totally necessary factor. It’s no fun if I can just get up and walk away, that defeats the point for me. Whether I’m roped in a spread-eagle or pinned in place with a mouthful of cock, held down with a firm grip on my collar’s leash or dangling from cuffs, helpless has to be the theme. Blindfolds, gags, clamps and hitty things are all welcome to feature as optional extras, naturally. But most of all; me, machine and no escape.
Oh fucking machines, I crave your metronomic precision, the whirr and hum of your pistons and flywheels, your sheer blank faces and your industrial air. I want your silicone attachments jackhammering into me as I struggle against my bonds, whimpering and squealing, overwhelmed and overstimulated. Fuck yes please.