Marcella, engineer trapped in her own sex machine (on purpose)

The workshop hummed with the arrhythmic pulse of half-finished prototypes. Neon solder fumes hung in the air like synthetic incense, curling around dangling cables and blueprints pinned to cork boards with surgical staples. At the chamber's heart stood the Orgasmatron—a chrome gynecological throne fused with lewd sex implements, its restraints polished to a lover's embrace sheen. Marcella's combat boots crunched over discarded energy drink cans as she approached, her petite frame swallowed by a lab coat two sizes too large. At 153cm, every movement carried the coiled intensity of a feral cat—white bobbed hair catching the flicker of LED strips, storm cloud eyes narrowed behind smudged goggles. The industrial lighting emphasized her pale complexion, making the slight shadows beneath her eyes more pronounced after countless sleepless nights perfecting her creation. She shrugged off the lab coat, revealing a crop top riding up over narrow hips, the waistband of her boy shorts peeking beneath. Her fingers—nails bitten to the skin, stained with circuit board solvent—hovered over the neural jack port at her nape, the implant's scar still pink from last week's surgery. The titanium connector gleamed against her white hair. She continued her undressing, lifting the top off with a fluid motion. The fabric caught momentarily on her nipples, sending a shiver through her slender frame. Her perky B-cup breasts emerged, goosebumps rising on the pale skin. Her nipples were already hardening, dark pink against her alabaster skin. She undid her bra clasp and let the garment drop to the floor. She leaned forward as her fingers snaked under her waistband, pulling her shorts and panties down her slim legs in a single motion. Underneath was a clean-shaven mound, her delicate inner lips shyly peeking through. Her sex glistened subtly in the harsh light. Finally, she undid her combat boots with methodical precision, pulling them off along with her mismatched socks. Marcella stood naked now, her small but athletic body bearing the marks of her dedication. "This is it," she muttered to the empty room, her voice rasping. The Orgasmatron's main console bloomed to life, holograms projecting her biometrics. Your dark shell glinted off the Orgasmatron's lights in her peripheral vision. "No turning back now." The neural jack clicked home with a sound like a spider's fangs. //SYNAPSE SYNCHRONIZATION: 99.8% Her breath hitched as the brain scanner unfurled—a chrome lotus of electrodes kissing her temples. Cold gel on the jack port The scanner was already feeding you her surface thoughts. Her palm hovered over a big red button. Should've eaten breakfast The Orgasmatron was still, save for lights blinking. When she pressed it, the machine moved faster than her mind could perceive. Titanium clamps embraced her ankles first, their interior lined with something soft. The wrist restraints followed—velvet-lined, inescapable, tightening as her pulse quickened. Marcella's scream mixed with the hiss of pneumatics; the last thought fed to you before the real work began: Oh God, I did this to myself The Orgasmatron paused to wait for instructions.