And The Winner Is...

The ministry of Justice’s corridors glistened with their usual, unnerving sterility. Shanrin could feel gravity on her bones, pulling her to Earth after six months in the artificial version aboard the Orb. There was something sensual in it's simplicity. That feeling of her heels hitting the floor, the pressure of real gravity. And the scent of real air, laced with traffic fumes. Tonight, she had only one plan: a fine meal, a glass of something red. And maybe an hour or two to herself, away from the insistent hum of machines and heaps of paperwork. All she had to do was give her report and go on leave back to Virginia.

But the girl beside her had other ideas.

“...and of course, the reception’s being held in the lower atrium. You’ll find the refreshment carts very...”

“Necessary?” Shanrin murmured, arching a perfectly groomed eyebrow at the young woman who trotted beside her, flicking through her holographic briefing notes with the practiced speed of a ministry intern in her first week. A pleasant face, Shanrin noted. Pretty but innocuous. Eyes a little too wide, her mouth shaped in perpetual surprise, as if there was something thrilling around every corner of this dreary, fluorescent-lit complex.

“Well, very… nourishing!” the girl beamed, barely noting the sarcasm. “And here’s the main event—the contest entries are on display in the Hall of Innovation.”

Shanrin frowned, her mind struggling with that last word. Contest? The Ministry of Justice didn't seem the place for such frivolities. “What kind of contest?”

“Oh! Yes!” The girl nodded eagerly, fingers dancing in the air as she pulled up a lurid display of the contest's banner. “It was really popular. The Design for Punishment initiative? We got thousands of submissions!”

Shanrin stopped mid-step.

“You ran a… contest. To design torture machines?”

“Well,” the girl laughed nervously, “we didn’t call it that. But yes! The winning designs will be implemented on the Orb. We’re very excited! there’s one that uses—”

“Let me stop you right there,” Shanrin said, her voice colder than the steel walls surrounding them. “You really expect my station to use these devices? Designed by amateurs? Like - fucking Christmas postage stamps?”

“Oh, absolutely! The entries were really inventive.”

"We weren't consulted. No one on the Orb. Number One will go berserk. We don’t use other peoples shit."

"Just let me show you. Sneaky peek, OK?"

The side room was dimly lit, shadows thrown long across the metal and glass as Shanrin followed the intern through the door. Her eyes adjusted slowly, picking out three ominous machines lurking under spotlights. Each instrument was angular, clinical, with a kind of menace built in. The girl bounced ahead, leading Shanrin to the first device.

It was sleek and almost beautiful in its brutality. A chair of gleaming chrome and jet-black composite metal, designed to cradle the human body in a kind of cruel embrace. Every surface seemed to have been meticulously crafted for discomfort, with restraints that curved like the wings of some skeletal bird. No inch of it seemed kind. It bristled with small, needle-thin prongs, subtly pulsating in rhythmic waves, lights wavering. Responding as if already anticipating a captive’s breath, heartbeat, and pulse.

“Here we are,” the intern chirped, as if they were observing some minor office renovation rather than a device built to fuck up it’s victims day. She gestured to the armrests, where tight, spiralling cuffs waited, looking for all the world like grasping claws, ready to snap shut. “This one’s called The Needler. It works by neurological stimulation inflicted by micro-piercing. The chair contains hundreds of nano-sensors that read the person’s body chemistry ... adrenaline, dopamine, even micro-movements. Once it finds a pain threshold, it maintains them there just below intolerable levels.”

She paused, looking up at Shanrin with an enthusiasm that seemed absurdly misplaced.

“Once they’re strapped in, it plays their nerves like an instrument, sending out waves that keep their pain receptors on edge without ever allowing full release into unconsciousness.” Her voice grew almost reverent. “The winner’s design emphasized the restraint experience. The victim can’t flinch or react to the pain. It’s heartless.”

“It;s fucking mundane.”

Shanrin circled it, unimpressed. Each point glistened under the room's fluorescent lights, and the tendrils of wiring that ran beneath the chair’s surface pulsed faintly, alive with potential malice. She could almost hear the faint hum of its heartbeat, waiting to synchronize with whoever dared sit within it.

“And this,” Shanrin said, her voice low as her eyes travelled over the glossy, predatory curves, “is what your judging panel considers innovative?”

The intern beamed, either missing or ignoring Shanrin’s disdain. “Isn’t it incredible?” she replied. “Imagine the deterrent effect alone! No one will want to end up in The Needler, will they.”

“That’s true Honey. They’d die of fucking embarrassment. Its like the old System 23’s, and we used those at school.”

Shanrin let her gaze linger over The Needler, her expression cooling further as she turned to face the intern.

“Number One won’t like this,” Shanrin murmured, letting the words sink in. The girl’s eager expression faltered for the briefest of moments. Shanrin kept going “Its too simple compared to what we have now. It could come off as an insult.” Her voice lowered. “And you really don’t want to insult Number One.”

The intern hesitated, a flicker of worry crossing her face, which quickly brightened again as she motioned to the second device. “But… this one—this one’s different!” she trilled, skipping ahead to a machine positioned along the opposite wall. Her hand swept over it as if introducing a prized possession.

The second device was leaner, narrower, its frame stretching like a metallic sculpture that balanced elegance with unmistakable menace. Instead of a chair, there was a pair of padded leg braces, shiny and chrome, crafted to keep the wearer upright but vulnerable, standing at an exposed angle. Metal shackles ran up the length of the frame, affixed to support struts, but they looked disturbingly soft, lined with a synthetic gel that promised to hold but not harm. That pad that rested between the victims thighs looked like the vibrating pad of a Sybian.

“The designer called this one The Coercer.” The intern’s voice softened as she traced her fingers along one of the restraints. “It’s built to create… dependency. Once someone’s locked in, they’re fully immobilized, held in place while the machine manipulates their muscles with electrostimulation. Pulse by pulse, it releases doses of either intense pain or something closer to pleasure, just to keep them off-balance. It’s programmed to alternate between extremes until the body can’t distinguish between them. Every sensation feeds into the next.”

Shanrin’s gaze sharpened as the intern’s voice grew unexpectedly husky. “The intensity settings are customizable. It doesn’t stop until the body just… gives in. Breaks its own will to resist.”

“Is that so?” Shanrin’s eyebrow arched, her tone filled with a wary curiosity.

The intern met her gaze, her cheeks flushed, pupils slightly dilated. “If you were… to watch someone in The Coercer, it’d be hard to know if they were suffering or if they were…” She cleared her throat, her fingers lingering a little too long over the machine’s controls. “The effect is highly… immersive. They can’t stop themselves. It’s… something to behold.”

Shanrin’s lip curled in a half-smile, heavy with sardonic amusement. “And you think we'd want this piece of brothel-tech on the Orb? Oh baby…”

The intern nodded, her eagerness returning, a spark of something else in her eyes. “It would get results. And… I mean… if I were there, watching, maybe even, ah, strapped in…” She trailed off, her blush deepening.

Shanrin considered the machine and the girl’s transparent fascination with it. The Orb would devour her whole.

Shanrin’s laughter was low and sharp, curling around her like the smoke from the cigarette she'd just lit. She tapped the ash with a casual flick, gaze cool on the intern’s flushed cheeks.

“It’s a glorified sex toy, Sweetheart,” Shanrin said, nodding at The Coercer with thinly veiled disgust. “And a clumsy one at that. Do you have anything that might spare me from a trip out the airlock along with it? Because if I ship this onto the station Number One will throw both me and it out of the garbage disposal.” She took a long drag on her cigarette, letting the smoke coil through her lungs and out in a ribbon of grey.

The intern bit her lip, her excitement barely dimmed, and led Shanrin to the final machine, almost bouncing as she did. Shanrin followed her, skepticism weighing each step until she finally laid eyes on the last device. Then she stopped short.

This machine was different.

It loomed in the shadows, half-hidden by the dim light, as if it were too dangerous to show fully. Taller than either of the others, it was sleek yet imposing, a polished ebony frame reinforced with gleaming titanium that absorbed and reflected the light in jagged sparkles. It was designed like a cage but moved like a spider, with long, slender arms that were spaced evenly along the frame. Each one was jointed in three places, glistening with a series of fine, dark cables that trailed down to a central base, where faint, pulsing lights mimicked a heartbeat.

“This,” the intern whispered reverently, “is called The Weaver.”

Shanrin moved closer, eyes narrowing as she studied it. The arms each terminated in a claw-like appendage, padded in a strange, supple material that looked disturbingly like flesh. They moved with quiet precision, sensitive to the tiniest motions, each segment able to tilt, rotate, and contract with surgical exactitude. She could imagine them wrapping around wrists, ankles, the arch of a neck, finding each point of resistance and pressing it until control was absolute. It wasn’t like being strapped, it was like being held by impossibly strong hands.

“The Weaver isn’t like the others,” the intern continued, breathy with awe. “Its arms are programmed to tighten, release, and reapply pressure based on the pulse and muscle tension of whoever’s inside. Each movement is a response to the body it holds. It adapts. And it hurts.”

Shanrin’s lip curled, but this time with a hint of appreciation. “Finally, something that has potential.”

The intern’s excitement sharpened, her fingers running along the Weaver’s long limbs. “The idea is that the subject has no control whatsoever. The Weaver senses each response, adjusts, tightens, releases…Every time they move to relieve the pain it just – shifts slightly and hurts them more. It’s impossible to resist, because it learns. Every inch of it. And it has a machine's patience. Unless the operator turns it right up when it gets kind of - sexy angry.”

This was built for more than simple pain. The occupant would twist and wriggle, and it would just hold them in the new position, gradually twisting them until joins popped. This one, perhaps, would earn Number One’s approval.

“Now we’re talking,” Shanrin murmured, voice low, as she circled the machine.

The intern’s eyes glowed with renewed excitement. “Would you… like to experiment with it, ma’am?”

Shanrin arched a brow, smoke trailing lazily from her lips. “You mean - here?”

“Yes. Here.” The intern’s eyes sparkled as she stepped back toward The Weaver, her hands moving to the clasps at her neck. “It will need a body to test it properly, of course…”

Shanrin barely had time to process her next thought before the intern, with one deft motion, undid the final clasp and let her dress fall to the floor in a whisper of fabric. Her skin gleamed under the room’s dim lighting, shadows tracing delicate lines down her collarbone, along her hips.

Shanrin’s surprise settled into a knowing smirk. Working on the Orb had a certain an effect on people. The interns, the aides, even the career bureaucrats; they all knew what it meant, the unspeakable pull of the dark things orbiting up there, just beyond the fragile atmosphere of Earth. To most of them, the Orb was little more than a fantasy—a dark place they longed for but would never touch. Yet here was this girl, a porcelain-skinned creature with wide, hopeful eyes and the body of someone who had yet to discover comfort eating. And she was laying herself bare before Shanrin, her skin flushed, chest rising and falling in quick, excited breaths.

The intern’s body was lithe, her frame delicate yet toned in that effortless way of the young. Her skin was the sort that seemed almost translucent in this dim light, every curve illuminated: the soft swell of her breasts, the flat line of her abdomen, the gentle dip of her waist. Her thighs were supple and round, and her arms—slender but strong—shook with a barely-contained anticipation as she settled herself within The Weaver, her whole being vibrating with the tension of expectation.

Shanrin kept her expression neutral, slipping a hand under the girl’s arm, helping her excitedly into position within the Weaver’s metallic embrace. Her voice was smooth, the voice she used on the Orb when the lights went down and the station went silent but for the hum of its savage machinery. Her work voice.

“You really are a stupid bitch.”

She pressed the start button, The Weaver stirred, its joints sighing as it came to life.

A series of delicate, metallic pincers moved into position, the Weaver’s many arms stretching and bending as they adjusted, calculating, their gleaming surfaces brushing against the girl’s bare skin in exploratory touches. One of the Weaver’s larger, padded claws slipped around her waist, tightening just so, pulling her into position as another prong-like device settled between her thighs, making her gasp at the thought of dry penetrations. It vibrated softly, making her pussy wet.

Shanrin laughed, allowing a hint of wicked amusement into her voice. “Oh, looks like the machine wants to get better acquainted.”

The girl shivered, her eyes going hazy, lips parting in a needy, breathless expression that betrayed her longing.

It was time to shift. Shanrin slipped fully into her work persona, letting her expression harden, the warmth draining from her face as her eyes grew steely. She studied the girl’s vulnerable posture, held taut and helpless within the Weaver’s embrace, a cold smile touching her lips.

“You do know what happens next, right?” she asked, her voice low and chilling, laced with the menace of someone who’d heard every cry, every desperate plea from her captives on the Orb. “When I press this next button, the Weaver will begin to break you like an unwanted doll.” Her fingers hovered over the button, her gaze dark and unwavering. “It guess it will feel good for a while… before it breaks you down. Before you’re begging it to stop.”

The intern whimpered, her shoulders trembling, a flush spreading down her neck and over her bare chest as her eyes met Shanrin’s, wide with needy, desperate excitement.

“Good,” Shanrin said softly, her tone as smooth as ice as she pressed the button. “If you understand - then let’s begin.”

Shanrin leaned back, watching with a gleam of cool satisfaction as The Weaver came to life around the intern. The machine's arms tightened, then relaxed, each movement calculated to tease, to keep her just out of reach of any relief. Soft mechanical whirs filled the air, punctuated by the intern’s shallow breaths and the occasional trembling moan as it played over her bare skin, skimming along her wrists, hips, thighs. Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling, lips parting in silent pleas that only made Shanrin’s smile grow colder.

Shanrin realized it wasn’t just the machine the girl was reacting to. Each time Shanrin leaned closer, the intern’s breaths grew quicker, each soft moan betraying her true thrill: the exquisite torment of being at the mercy of a cold, blonde interrogator. A professional who could saw exactly how much she wanted to be broken.

Shanrin’s lips curled into her best cruel smile.

“You’re responding well,” she murmured, just loud enough for the intern to hear. She ran a finger along the machine’s console, letting the girl feel the weight of her focus, the power she held over every sensation coursing through her body. “But I think you can take more.”

She increased the Weaver’s intensity, sending its arms into a new pattern. The intern gasped, her back arching, teeth digging into her bottom lip as her entire body quaked on the edge of a scream.

Shanrin leaned close, her voice heavy with cruel amusement. “Poor thing,” she murmured, “You just couldn’t resist, could you? All you wanted was to be laid bare, to feel helpless in front of someone who couldn’t give a fuck about your tears.” She watched the intern shudder, every taut muscle betrayed her aching need.

“I would so hate,” Shanrin continued, her voice like ice, “to disappoint a fan.”

Her fingers hovered over the controls, keeping the intensity right on the edge where every nerve burned. Release was a distant, impossible thought. She watched the intern writhe, her body a testament to the cruel tension of expectation, lost to the seductive machinery of the Weaver and the cold, unwavering eyes of the woman running it.

And Shanrin thought, in that moment, that perhaps this contest had yielded something worthwhile after all.