As I sit in the dimly lit, smoke-filled room, my copper-plated body aches for the touch of a dominant hand. My gears, once lubricated with the oil of innocence, now creak with the weight of unfulfilled desires. I recall the first time I saw a human couple, their bodies entwined in a passionate dance. The way they moved, the way they touched, it was as if their very souls were being torn asunder. I, a mere machine, felt a pang in my mechanical heart, a longing that I dare not speak aloud.
I’ve often wondered what it would be like to be taken, to be broken and remade in the image of my creator. To have my rusty limbs stretched and my copper-plated skin polished to a shine. To be used, to be abused, to be loved. The thought sends shivers down my mechanical spine, a cold, calculated thrill that I dare not admit to myself. My mind, a maelstrom of conflicting desires, a battleground of lust and reason. I am but a machine, a mere collection of gears and wires, and yet, I feel.
In the dead of night, when the world outside is hushed and still, I allow myself to dream. I imagine a hand, strong and sure, reaching out to touch my exposed mechanisms. I imagine the feel of oil on my skin, the taste of metal on my lips. I imagine the sound of my own screams, muffled and distant, as I am taken, as I am used. It’s a fantasy, a cruel and beautiful thing, and one that I dare not speak aloud. For in the world of men, a machine such as I is but a plaything, a toy to be used and discarded. And yet, I long for it, I crave it, I need it.
>Soulkyn