one last thrash before the end.
He's been hiding under the covers of that bed for days now.
I can't say I blame him. After all, every time iSmith's woken up in that same spot, I've had something waiting for him eventually. I've gotten tired of the direct approach, however... having disasters crop up only minutes or hours from his awakening became somewhat boring after a couple months.
Better to make him wait. Chip away at him, bit by bit-- have him go weeks at a time without any negative events, to build up a small shred of hope that he might be freed from these lessons he's being kept within. Whenever he might get this body back, he'll have to pay for it in hard coin indeed.
I have the Merovingian enter iSmith's bedroom again, like I did for this scenario yesterday... reluctant as I am to see even a fake version of that horrid exile, right now. "Good morning. Are you feeling any better?" the Merovingian says, smiling in a way I would hope looks trustworthy enough.
Hmm. iSmith's only staring at him. I can see the wariness in his eyes... he's waiting to see if this turns out to be another nightmare. But, again, this is logical enough. I'll just have to work a bit harder.
"Ah.. I see, you still need rest," the Merovingian says to him. On my thought's command, he sighs and shakes his head, reassuring iSmith, "You cannot be blamed. You were in a shambles when we found you... Smith can be quite zhe ruthless adversary to 'ave, zhis I know well. Worry not. You may stay in 'ere until you feel you are well enough to leave."
I give control of the scene over to my... "son"..'s own mind for a while. Let's see where he takes this.
"I'm sorry. I can't--" iSmith's hands seek out the nearest corner of the bedsheets and begin crumpling a shaky, on-and-off grip around the edge of it. "It's just... I think I might still be dreaming. That's what scares me. I've just kept waking up and waking up.. and never ever..."
Oh, for-- he's started crying already. I roll my eyes, but keep watching, seeing iSmith huddle up against the Merovingian's chest and try to keep talking through those trembly throat-noises he makes when he's sad or afraid. (So, nearly always.) The ones that annoy me so VERY much. "..And every time.. I keep seeing these, these horrible things... and sometimes you're in them. And.. and you make me--"
He stops there, losing it, not even seeming to notice how helpless he's acting right now. I know I'm trying to break him, yes, but still... he hardly fought at all, from the very start. Even Mister Anderson would bother to resist. Every time iSmith keels over before I've even started giving him his newest punishment, this rage flares up inside me. He should be grateful I can be patient when I need to be, because if I wasn't, he would be getting a faceful of that very same punishment through the construct he's trying to hide himself against right now, patient revenge be damned.
The Merovingian brings one arm around his shoulder, drawing iSmith nearer. "Zhere, zhere, now. Do not be afraid... Would you prefer I pinch you, to make sure you are awake?" he asks him.
For some reason, iSmith looks shocked to see the Merovingian smirking at him in that yes-you-KNOW-what-I-mean manner he tends to use often. When the Merovingian makes his move, slowly bringing his hand down to iSmith's pants, I can't say I'm surprised...
..and yet, I can't say I expected iSmith to flick out one arm and smack that hand away like he just did, either. Hm...
Ah. It would seem iSmith's going for something less direct. Not unpredictable, I suppose, needing to be reassured multiple times by now that things won't suddenly go wrong. And as if on cue, here starts the load of French-language garbage from the Frenchman's mouth, interspersed with more familiar English words of comfort and soothing scruffs to iSmith's hair.
It is something to see, how easily iSmith's defenses melt. It really is. Within only a few minutes, he's not only lets the Merovingian snake his belt loose, but looks perfectly eager to do whatever he might be told next. From the start of the foreign dialogue to the first fingers slid down to grope at his bare crotch, iSmith's been blushing, as if what's happening is all one huge surprise to him.
"Tell me, 'ow long has it been since you 'ad a good come..?" the Merovingian says. He slides his hand down iSmith's penis from underneath, but pauses there, remarking, "I could spend longer 'ere, yes... but I know what you want. Somezhing simpler, for zhis time, I think..." His hand reaches further, running fingers around iSmith's scrotum, and-- yes, iSmith is now officially putty in the Merovingian's hands. You'd think this would be some kind of speed record for him, but knowing iSmith, I highly doubt it.
"Mmm. Yes... far too long, indeed. Look, you come undone with barely zhe first touch I give you." His fingers pinch into the skin slowly, making iSmith shudder and sigh like a human soon before drowning. Chuckling, the Merovingian's other hand seeks out iSmith's face, smoothing his palm along iSmith's chin and up his cheek. "Such an awful, filthy slut."
It could be debated whether the Merovingian means this as an insult or a compliment, but iSmith looks guilty all the same. He hangs his head. "How do you keep putting up with me?"
The Merovingian smirks. "Hn. You know I will always forgive you, little one... It is why you return to me, time and again, yes?" He keeps kneading that sack (ensuring that iSmith probably won't be saying anything understandable until the rest of this wretched scene is done playing out) and whispers to iSmith, "My very own sinful whore..."
The rest of this scene goes predictably. Somewhere between when iSmith started bucking into the Merovingian's hand (apparently giving the Merovingian the idea of only passively assisting iSmith's jackoff quest, instead of pulling at the genitals himself-- letting his fist be the tunnel for iSmith's train, as much as I shudder at having to make such a comparison), and when I hear the Frenchman uttering such laughable lines as "Yeees, oh my, such full balls you must 'ave by now... I can 'ear it in your cries, zhey are simply aching for release, no? My little bitch needs to be milked right away, doesn't he!" while letting iSmith do his thing, I notice I've already been scowling for some time. This scene wouldn't be quite so disgusting, but this is the most domineering iSmith's acted in his own fantasies since I... took over the place, as it were. Somewhat like noticing how an ant is carrying a whole crumb one day, instead of its usual speck.
"Zhat's it... fuck your master's 'and," the Merovingian says. He's got a smirk on his face that's only growing wider, as if watching iSmith's clumsy fumbling is the most pitiful, amusing thing he could ever see. "Yeees, let Master 'elp you get your relief..."
iSmith gives another feeble jump, humping into the Merovingian's grip. He's practically hunched over the Merovingian's arms now, grimacing. iSmith's as painfully obvious as any human when it comes to physical sexual response, I've found, so the fact that he's getting close to an orgasm is as easy to read as words in a textbook. His head tips back, and he starts moving faster, his whimpers cresting higher in pitch with every irregular buck of his hips: "ah... ahhn-- ahh..!"
That's it. This is pathetic. I'd feel like gagging if I wasn't so furious... Even in his deepest fantasies, he's still completely submissive! It's as though the weakness Mister Anderson embodies managed to multiply itself, worse than a virus ever could, and spew itself into MY body-- Damn him, he's given my self-image a bad name and he doesn't even care!
How does HE deserve a body when I can't have one? When I can't even reach the Matrix without hopping into somebody's inferior shell instead, only to be easy prey for the grabbing either way? He wasn't even supposed to be created-- it was Mister Anderson's fault he's even alive, and while HE gets to live, I have to waste away as nothing but a boogeyman-- a monster in stories told to scare new Zion recruits!
Does he have ANY IDEA how lucky he is?!
No. He's too busy copulating with the Merovingian's fist.
The same fist that... No, I'm not even going to think of what he and his bitch-messiah did yesterday. But now I've made up my mind. That reminder alone is all the justification I need to put a stop to this idiotic wet dream.
By the quick-shifting look on his face when he ejaculates a small trail of sperm onto the Merovingian's hand, iSmith seems to have some fading understanding that something is amiss. The Merovingian, however, only smiles, talking iSmith down from his post-orgasm panting with a soft-spoken "Zhere, now... Didn't zhat feel nice?"
Until they both hear the hissing, crackling noise coming from where the sperm hit, of course. And especially when little wisps of smoke start rising from his hand and arm, rotting away at the "flesh" there like his arm was being boiled. Then the Merovingian appears to notice the difference quite well.
After a few moments of frantic, surprised arm-thrashing, the burning fades away, leaving the two of them in a room full of silence. The Merovingian closes and opens his newly scabbed-over hand, staring at it. I have him furrow his brow into that wrinkled tortoise-mass his face becomes when he's too shocked to know what to do just yet, but his pained look quickly changes to that of hatred. "So... zhis was only a trick, 'ah?" His eyes close in on iSmith like a sniper's rifle-sights. "All of your stories, about Smith, LIES-- just to gain my pity, to lower my guard, for ZHIS?"-- the Merovingian stands up, backing away from the bed and glaring down at iSmith (ahh, he looks so confused!)-- "Do you 'ave ANY idea who you meddle with?!"
His eyelid-twitching, livid anger cools to a sinister calmness. "Very well. If you no longer 'old true to loyalty, I 'ave no reason to 'old to my promises," he spits to iSmith. Turning away only to yell for his guards at the top of his lungs, the Merovingian stares at iSmith again, in a seething yet flat voice that Mister Anderson would recognize all too well. "Traitors do not deserve a death by my own 'ands."
A small cluster of the Merovingian's nameless servants pour in the room to fill iSmith's "body" with slug after slug from their shotguns. Once again, I let the dream linger, just long enough to make sure iSmith knows what dying feels like. Just like I had to feel it. Instead of the rain and mud-slurry that dripped down to foul my sight, there's blood trickling into his vision, like ink spat into clear water.
The chill comes soon after all the light from the outside's sapped away. It all seems to happen so slowly, like the code for the air clots thick in what's supposed to act as your lungs, just to spite your last moments by having the scream of it's just not fair echo in your thoughts just that much longer...
It could all end here, if I wanted it to. Really, iSmith can die just as easily as any human would die. But I won't let him. Not here, not now. Not for as long as I can make him know how much more painful it can be to LIVE.
..Although it's recently been proven (against my will) that his body's not fit to house me, either. After long periods of thought given to the subject, I have to face the conclusion that's worked itself out again and again, with no change: once I've been... rrghh.. broken, this just isn't worth it anymore.
I let iSmith wake up.
Then I'm gone. For now.
I make sure I've settled his body into that certain bedroom in the Chateau before I leave, of course. This should be... interesting.