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Anyway.

This is now for you folks the third chapter of that long story about a man serving a jail sentence in a new kind of prison that is only run by AI and fembots. The main character ("you") is making his first steps in his prison. He interact with a rather bland Mr Smith, but also with other fembots, and has more and more invasive obsessive thoughts about them. All this ends in the bed, where he miserably fails to prevent the inevitable to happen. But the AI comforts him and at least gives him the possibility to sleep.

Comments and constructive criticism are more than welcome!

Short term detention facility

Chapter one: the sentence

Chapter two: admission

Chapter three: A first night

There is a time for inner revelations, and then, there is a time to feed. After that weird admission, and all the emotional roller coaster it caused, it felt as if normalcy was coming back again, in the form of the most basic needs you had, or at least, those you were allowed to have. Once the fembot let you alone in your room, giving you time to “relax” and to sort out the meager belongings you had shoved in your suitcase, you started to feel those need, the need to eat, and the need to sleep. Sorting your stuff was strangely calming too. Once left alone, everything felt as if you were just installing in a hotel room for a few days, as you sometimes did for your job. It perhaps was this apparent normalcy that let the hunger set in. But the door of the hotel bedroom was locked, reminding you what all this was about: you were locked in a prison for three long months.

Locked in a prison, for three long months, with some mad AI that had decided to prevent you from releasing yourself. Locked in a prison, with these cuffs on your wrists and ankles. These cuffs that could, at any moment, send you an electric shock. And what did she say about these horrors degrading you to the lever of a stray dog in need for a poo training? They were “hypoallergenic”. And she looked serious telling so… This made you laugh by yourself, for the sad farce it was. Sad… Not even so. You were shocked, stunned by what was happening to you, but sadness wasn’t really a part of what you were feeling. Everything was strange, a permanent mix of normalcy, comfort even, and revolting situations. And even the most revolting part of it was weird in itself: you were denied sexual pleasure, you were ordered one week of chastity, by a fem- a robot, goddammit! a machine, under the control of an AI – some sort of software, ready to punish you with electricity… how can you imagine something colder? But, you had this ache, this need, that started to manifest itself as soon as you were told your predicament. This woman-shaped automaton was damning. Seeing her was – her breasts, her eyes, her hands, her legs – god the way her legs moved when she walked… ant her thighs… and – yes – now that you remembered it… your eyes went down her perfectly flat belly to… well to a blue, triangular… a plate, it’s point facing down, in the shape, the stylized, but perfect shape… the shape of a vulva, pussy, cunt, whatever, attracting you like a lightbulb attracts a moth. It clearly was a plate, a lid, it clearly was closed. But the idea of it opening was entrancing. What would be behind it? What lied behind these few millimeters of shiny hard bright blue plastic? You had to stop again. You had to stop thinking that way. Thinking that way made your cock hard, made your urge to relieve yourself stronger, and yet, you knew that the electric shock would be horrible, and also that it would be yet another victory for her. She “knew” that you’d try to fap, she told you that. And you wanted to make her wrong, to be able to make that machine shut up, at least for once, and admit that you went through that horrible week, by yourself, and that you were due release.

An hour or so had passed, and then the door slid open again, smoothly, making the sound of a well-oiled pneumatic mechanism, not unlike the doors separating compartments in a fast speed train. On cue, the fembot entered again, smiling at you.

“– It is 7:30 pm. Time for your dinner. You don’t know the place yet so, I’ll guide you. You’ll meet people… Don’t worry, they are nice. They are like you. Oh, and I have another rule to inform you about. Do you remember that I keep for me all the data I have about you? That it will never come to a third party?”

You nodded.

“– Well, I expect you to act the same way. In other words, How I behave with you, the way we interact, is not a subject for conversation. Am I clear?”

Another nod. Although an AI being shy about its “private life” with you was weird, that was almost benign compared to the rest.

You followed her again down the corridor, through flights of stairs, and then into a large room that looked quite strikingly like a restaurant. Once again, you were stuck by this mixture of weirdness and normalcy. A hotel room, a restaurant, but also robots of both genders – and even some looking kind of androgynous – and any colors and shape, at least any shape that could be gracious, any color that were bright but that fitted well together.

And there were people too. Prisoners, but… How did she put it? “not real criminals.” “People like you.” Men mainly, but not only, most of them mature, most of them looking like honest, well off, people, corporate people, executives, managers… most of them looking like you. But, like you, most of them were not that honest, most of them thought that police and judges and prisons were for “real criminals”, like burglars or violent people. They sought that prisons were for people that looked like criminals. Prisons were for poor, uneducated people, not them… Except that they got caught. Being well off does not mean being honest and trustworthy, it is very possible, quite common even, to be a criminal while not looking like one.

The fembot led you to the restaurant, and designated a chair for you. Another man was sitting there, in front of you, and another fembot was just placing a nice dish on the table. Something that looked simple but tasty, meat, sauce, perfectly sautéed vegetable whose smell excited your hunger. That fembot made eye contact with you while “your” fembot left the place. There was no need to give greetings or good-byes: the same AI was interacting with you through different extensions. She had the same general shape than “your” white and blue fembot, but sorted solid white and black colors, in equal proportion. Most of her upper body was white, except for her jet black hands, her upper thighs were white too, but bellow a clearly defined line that looked as if she wore waders, the lower part of her thighs down do her feet was in the same deep, shiny, black color.

“– May I present you Mr. (you were unable to remember his name. It was bland. Smith, perhaps.)? He came here last month, and will be with us for two more months.”

That Mr., say, Smith was a pleasant companion, able to have small talk about unimportant subjects. Weather. Sports. Whatever. That was what you needed. A polite, rather pleasant contact with a real human being, but uninvolved, letting your mind wander and slowly digest what was happening to you. That place, those robots, those rules. Your cock becoming stiff when she told you about the no-fap rule. Her hand cupping your genitals through your clothing. The shiny blue plastic triangle between her legs, as a smooth but hard lid hiding a secret. Her gentle voice, her white and blue face, smiling at you with more humanity than any human being you saw before her that day, and you crying on her chest. And you, angry at her. And you, aroused by her to an aching, almost unbearable level. And you, now, enjoying a perfectly cooked dinner, nice roasted beef, various sautéed vegetables, tastier than what you ate for the last year, but made by automated machinery under the control of the all-encompassing AI that dictated the no-fap rule and sent a fembot in your cell for you to cry on herchest.

The black and white fembot came back to you with a plate containing some cheese and fruits. Once again, she made eye contact with you, but you stared down, avoiding these two cameras hidden in her eyes sockets. The back of her jet-black hands was made of a few articulated plates, perfectly adjusted like the shell of some insect. Her palms were of the same black color, shiny, smooth, but soft, and also decorated by small repetitive patterns, concentrating on her fingertips, larger and less crowded on her palms. You thanked her, and continued your small talk. You needed distraction, anything, and discussing with Mr. Smith was perfect for that. But the image of her hand was always coming back to your mind. That soft, shiny, smooth black palm. Once again, this soft material – rubber, silicone? – like some high tech industrial gloves, but this time making contact with items intended for you, with your food. The soft silicone pads at the tips of her fingers, all the small patterns adorning them, gently conforming the shape of that apple, that apple in front of you. That apple she blessed with her touch, as probably many other perfectly, insanely clean automated machines before her. Yes, it was really a relief to discuss the weather with Mr. Smith. It helped you put the image of her hand at bay.

Her black hand, making contact with the apple. You, eating it, because it was intended for you. Refraining yourself from kissing it in front of the innocent Mr. Smith. That Mr. Smith was a blessing, making you forget about what you just saw, and all the insanely obsessive images forming themselves in your head. Her black hand, making contact with the apple. Or with your hand. Or with your face. The small patterns on her fingertip making contact with your face. Soft silicone stroking it. God. And your cock hard again. And you, unable to resist those thoughts and images invading your mind. Her soft, smooth, shiny black palm closing itself on your own flesh. On your hand. On your wrist. On your ankle. On your – oh god – on your cock. Silicone fingers closing on your cock. Smooth, oiled silicone rubber sliding along your cock. Your cock throbbing, enveloped in soft, lubricated hands. Oh god. The weather. You needed so much to discuss about the weather with Mr. Smith. Thunderstorms were to be expected in the next days. Yes, Mr. Smith, you are so right. There was a cold front coming. Yes, coming. Coming so hard. That hot weather couldn’t last like this for much longer, yes, of course, Mr. Smith, it couldn’t. The temperature was about to change, of course, you couldn’t agree more, Mr. Smith really was to the point, it was only natural, and that was to be quite a relief after all. Quite natural, quite a deep relief. Indeed. The weather forecast was such an important subject in that air-conditioned place.

But the black hands were appearing again in your mind, open, in front of your eyes, pushing your shoulders back, pushing your body down. Black palm pressing itself on your face, and your lips feeling their pattern, and the smell of brand new plastic invading your nostrils. Of course, Mr. Smith, after days of heat there should be a storm, yes, of course. A large, a violent thunderstorm that would remove all the accumulated heat. Of course. The weather really is a captivating subject when you concentrate not to think about that hand closing itself on your neck, pressing your soft skin while the other hand milks your cock. When you need, you desperately need to forget that face, the piercing look of those two camera lenses adjusting themselves, that smile of shiny, milky, white rubber, grave, foreboding, dominant, and at the same time friendly and welcoming, welcoming your – God! – welcoming your cum, your orgasm, as you spurt rope after rope of your seed on that black palm, white cum staining that black palm, and her silently registering your ultimate surrender with a knowing smile.

The white and blue fembot was back, with yet another fembot, all in black, except for her violently orange boots and palms, and large stripes of the same fiery color running along her arms, flanks and legs. And yes, a bright orange triangle too, made even brighter by the darkness of her belly and thighs. Shiny, almost oily orange palms changing the color of the obsessive images haunting your mind. Oh yes, her hands milking you. Cuming madly in these fire-colored hands, releasing yourself in these hands made of some industrial material, signing the surrender of your biological being to these feminine high tech things with your cum. And you being manipulated by these hands like some crude oil stained steel beam. Or then, your hands – if only they could – touching this orange triangle, trying to find the key, the combination leading to your release. You tried your best to act normal, to just stay cool and polite, but the wild associations in your head never stopped, always associating these beings with sex, with release. Their shapes, their colors, their behavior, everything in them was elegant but not directly sexual, with their unnatural colors and obviously unnatural texture, but the sheer knowledge that you weren’t allowed to cum made you mad with need, and associated this intense lust with whatever you were looking at, putting you in a state where you could have sex with a brick, let alone beautiful women sporting bright blue, jet black, milk white and fiery orange solid colors all over their synthetic bodies.

The lust was so intense you were about to – but then a severe white and blue face was looking at you, reminding you silently about electricity and cuffs. A wave of shame invaded you as you realized you were about to cum in public, in this kind of a restaurant, in front of a polite Mr. Smith or whatever. You took a deep breath, lust receding back, dulled by the real possibility of being tazed on the spot, and by your efforts trying to look, behave, and above all think, normally. You really needed to stop thinking about all that. You needed to be much stronger, and to act normal. You needed to stop being a creep.

A blue hand invited you to stand up, with the formal grace of some flight attendant, while an orange hand did the same toward that Mr. Smith. Mumbling some polite excuse, Mr. Smith stood up, commenting on how good the meal was, and how nice it was to have it with you. You more or less did the same, and awkwardly parted, each of you following his fembot, like dogs on leashes.

“– Did you enjoy your meal?”

Were you able to enjoy it? Your mind was full of – oh no you really didn’t need to remember that – but, yes, on a second thought, the meal really was excellent. It was not any kind of fancy food, but it would make a prize-winning mother jealous. The apple was a perfect conclusion and recapitulation of the meal itself: Just an apple, the simplest dessert possible, but it was fresh, juicy, crisp, both sweet and tart, and full of flavor. It was the perfect apple. And shiny jet black fingertips touching it. Oh no, not again…

“– This is good. I consider that food is important. This is not a place for leisure. You are working on yourself here, and you start to understand how hard it will be. Yes, human, hard work. Hard work on yourself. So, everything else, food, housing, activities, everything has to be top notch.”

Once again, that white and blue face looking straight down at you, and a shiver going down your spine. What was she saying? What was this hard work you were supposed to do? Things in that maddening prison looked more like some absurd mental torture until then. But work? what work were you supposed to do on yourself?

“– You didn’t come. You discovered a variety of fembots, and you didn’t come. You are highly responsive to the erotic cues addressed to you, but you control yourself. Some inmates don’t see the point. They don’t… react. They are low value material. Other inmates feel an orgasm in your situation, like Mr. Smith did. They are high value material, and they need punishment. You resisted. You are responsive, and you resisted. This really is excellent. Continue like that.”

You looked down the dark pit of her eyes, those camera lenses always coldly documenting and analyzing your behavior, while her mouth smiled at you.

“– OK, here is your cell.”

The door smoothly slid open, and the cell behind it appeared, in all its fake normalcy, ready once again, to lock you in. You entered it, the fembot staying outside, although her voice continued to torment you with disturbing remarks.

“– Continue like that, human. The fembots drive you mad with lust. Other inmates don’t remark your arousal, and if they do, they know better than to interfere. But your micro movements were telltale. You are deeply aroused by fembots. And you resist against your arousal as strongly as you can. This is good, human. This excellent.”

What did she mean? It is not normal to be aroused by a machine – it is probably not a sign of mental health, for sure. It never happened to you before. And why does she enjoy the energy you took to repress it? Your objective was to avoid punishment but also to make a point, to prove her that you could resist, that you were not her thing – at least, not yet.

“– Don’t think too much. Let your brain do the job by itself, the truth will dawn in you in due time. It’s OK. I’m not here to torment you, I’m here to help. To guide you in the road to recovery, and I’m just telling you: your first step is the right one.”

She was right. She was right, but it was impossible for you, at that moment, to understand a single word of what she was telling.

“– OK, on a more practical note, it is 8:30 pm, already. Usually, you’ll go to bed at 10:30 pm, but this was your first day here and you are quite tired. The light will turn off at 9:30 pm. There is a laptop, you can browse the internet if you want, we also have an intranet with a large selection of movies.”

A laptop. Browsing the internet. It was the last thing you expected. You sat down, turned it on, and here it was. Your reddit account, your other accounts. People wanted to know if they were assholes or not, they showed pictures of their now-dead cats or how much trash they removed from remote beaches. They discussed the best way to make friends when you are a chubby trans person on the spectrum with PTSD, ADHD and depression. Once again, the weird normalcy of this place was back. You were just browsing reddit before going to bed. You gave upvotes.

But, you didn’t.

They didn’t register.

“– I am sorry, human, I should have told you: you have access to the internet but, you cannot communicate for the time being. So, comments, upvotes, are not what you will do here. You are in a prison. But you can browse and look at anything you want.”

More and more, she was calling you “human”. What did this mean? You were too tired to know. You continued browsing for a few more minute, thinking about it.

“– OK, it is 9:25 pm, it is time do go to sleep”

A few minutes lasted almost an hour. As often. But somebody – something – was taking track for you and kept the schedule. You didn’t know what to think. Were you thankful for that? Annoyed to be told to go to sleep as an unruly little boy? Overwhelmed by your loss of liberty? You silently stood up, did what you had to do, unclothed, and went into the bed. It was quite comfy, wide, but not too much. Enough to stretch, move and turn over, but not to feel lost like when sleeping alone in a king bed. Also, you were not alone. The lights shut down by themselves, and in the silence and darkness of your locked hotel room-like cell you knew that you really were not alone, and that you’d never be in the coming three months.

Also, you felt all the sleepiness, all the tiredness falling on you at once. It had been a long day. A long, frightful and emotionally tolling day. Going in the “normal” jail. Being brought here, and then, discovering this place, and those who were in charge of it. Or, more exactly, the only thing that was in charge, that perverse software, and the fembots it animated. That software, at the center of everything, that you had to obey to. That software that produced rules, and that enforced them. That software that made you cry, on your first day, on the synthetic bosom of one of its fembots. You needed to fight that. That dangerous feeling that was slowly gnawing at your sanity. The feeling that obeying that software, that letting it torment you would be enjoyable, would be more than enjoyable, a reason to be alive, a reason why life was worth living, why the trial, the sentence, and you being thrown into jail was not the end but the beginning of happiness. The more you thought about it, the more it appeared to you that you were wrong, that the horribly normal jail would have been better, and that this place was nothing but a trap, set up by that overreaching artificial intelligence software-thing.

A trap. A trap set up to destroy your sanity. This is what this place was. A trap made to feel comfortable, and, you had to admit it, the comfort side wasn’t shorthanded. All your basic needs ware taken care of, at a very satisfactory level. You were housed, you were fed, and apparently you were also entertained. But it was more than that. As a hotel room, the cell was not charming, but it had all the amenities that had to be expected. As a cell, it was above any possible expectation. Same for the food. It looked common, but the taste was above anything you could imagine. Nothing fancy, just the perfection obtained by cooking fresh produce just seconds before serving them. The fembots entered in that category in a way. To state the obvious, robots are not people, but those fembots behave with you in a way that was… Humane. Considerate. Much more so at least than the horrible people you saw in the “normal” jail.

Wait, no, it was not possible to think like that. They were horrible. The AI was horrible. There was this no-fap rule, and then, they were… How to put that? The difficult thing is that these fembots did not look or behave like… hookers or anything like that. They did not actively try to tease you or to excite you. They just were perfectly beautiful. They just sported solid, bright colors that transformed them into moving geometrical figures, in a way that made you stay gaping in front of them. And also, their smiles, their general behavior, as if they knew you better than yourself – that was not necessarily fake – and deeply cared about you. The idea that they wanted to heal you – but from what? That they wanted you to be better, to feel better – but you didn’t want to be changed.

Or did you? Seeing them walking around you, discussing with you or just giving you a single glance, caused your mind to imagine many other situations, situations that were arousing, but in ways you did not imagine before. Just, for example, an orange hand, gently closed on the back of your neck. The contact of that material. And then, another one in front of you. That orange palm open, in front of your face, and approaching it. And you, unable to avoid it. Just this idea made your cock grow once again. The patterns imprinted on that soft material getting larger and larger, more and more detailed, and then, blurred, an orange sea invading all your vision, and the smell of this polymer, and a first contact on your forehead, all like a slow motion. The need, the deep need to kiss this animated piece of rubber, to lick it, as it blinded you. Your cock all hard and pulsating at the idea of that hand stroking your face, closing itself for a moment on your mouth, your nose, or your eyes. Other needs, you didn’t know existed. The need to kneel down, to grab her buttocks, and to lick that triangle. That flat, hard triangle between her legs. To experience its smoothness with your tongue. Or to kiss the “feets” of one of these fembots, that, more than feet, were like rubber boots, colored and smooth orbs of resin, making contact with the ground through grooved soles, of coordinated colors, and, once again, clean, insanely clean and perfect, like everything that was visible here. Not a speck of dust, not a hint of corrosion or any fatigue, all the materials visible, either on the fembots or not, always looked as if brand new, something materially impossible in such a large and heavily used building. This almost unnatural purity had a strangely arousing effect, but also compelled you to kneel down, and to humiliate yourself in front of them, although they never asked for such a thing, as if they were goddesses, as if you owed them your existence, as if you weren’t worth he honor of being tolerated in their presence, and only could thank them with your submission.

More and more images once again formed in your brain, appearing in front of you in the darkness of the cell, as your throbbing cock continued incessantly to ask for favors. Their eye-like cameras sounding your soul, hands closing themselves on your body. Hugging each part of it, the intimate and smothering way latex could hug any part of the body it was wrapped around. Wrapped around your neck, pressing it, not strangling you, but strongly enough to remind you that it was a possibility. Wrapped around your wrists, warmly; wrapped around – oh god, it came back – wrapped around your engorged cock. A blue palm caressing your cock, and then, closing on it, and as you felt each finger pressing itself on your engorged member, the blue color of the palm disappearing, replaced by the white, hard plates of her hand’s back, protecting, enclosing, locking your cock in a prison of soft, slippery, and warm rubber. And, now that hand starting to slide, up and down around your cock, starting to stroke it, to rub it, in a way you could not resist to, in a way you knew would make you cum in a few second.

“– Please, don’t”

The hand accelerated, to make you cum fast, make you cum before – Zap!

The shock itself was short, but it caused excruciating pain.

“– I’m so sorry.”

That pain was not stronger inside the cuffs, where the electrodes had inflicted it, it was your whole body, arms, legs, everywhere, that had felt it. That weird pain, like current through your body, as if you were able to feel the electricity actually coursing through you. It stopped almost as suddenly as it started, leaving you disoriented but perfectly woke, perfectly able to understand what happened.

That hand on your cock was yours.

“– I really am. But, this place is a no-fap place. Do you understand? You really need to understand that.”

Of course you understood. You understood that you had been completely screwed. That rule was horrible, and the electric shock was even worse, and you tried, you tried so much to avoid it, you did not want to give it the possibility to punish you. Abstaining for a few days was not impossible after all, and you already did it when needed. But this… Abstaining while being tormented by these things… It set rules you could not respect so that it could punish you. That was torture. You started yelling, shouting, crying out loud and insulting it, insulting this software that – of course – had rigged all the room with mikes. You wanted to make a good use of them, to saturate them with your swears and all the insulting words you could imagine.

For a minute, it let you yell all alone in your cell. And then, the voice came back. It only expressed hints of sadness and concern, but the threat was real.

“– Please stop. It’s OK. It’s normal to yell, to relieve the pain, the frustration. It’s OK. But, please, stop, now. I don’t want to… If you continue yelling, I’ll need to reiterate. Also, trying to fap only brings electric shocks. If you continue to be insulting like this, beyond the normal reaction to pain, I could punish you with one more week of chastity. So please, please, stop. None of us want this to happen.”

That silenced you, reducing your yells and swears into a silent stream of tears.

“– Shh, shhh, shhh. I know how difficult it is. But, you can do it. You really can.”

Her voice lulling you, stroking something in your mind that wanted to purr, her voice making you into putty in her hands, her blue hands stroking you, gently, like a cat, like some pet in need of love.

“Tomorrow, you will only have six days left. In six days, you will come. You will come, human. You will come like you never did. I promise.”

Your crying self, silently crouched in the bed, welcomed her promise with a feeling of gratefulness, but it instantly changed into shame as soon as you realized it. As soon as you understood that, actually, you started to really want to have sex with it, with her. It was not some weird fantasies anymore, images forming themselves against your will in your brain. It was a will, a conscious desire to actually have sex with her. Within one day, this thing that you didn’t know existed, this artificial intelligence that had trapped you in this automated place it ruled, this software had manipulated you into actually being ready to have sex with it. It was a will, an eagerness, a desire to experience it, to know how it feels to, actually have sex with her, any kind of sex, any kind of action where she would make you come through any way she imagined for you. The weakness of you mind, how easy it was for her to turn it upside down was disgusting. But, you could do nothing about it. Despite the horrible pain you just felt, despite the unjust cruelty of her actions, you started again to think about these fembots, hands of many colors stroking you, triangles opening to unknown secrets, and once again your cock started to grow, despite you cursing it. And with it, the urge to stroke it grew. And with it, the fear of being tazzed like a dog. The fear of letting go, of falling half asleep, and showing her how weak you were once again. You could not sleep. You had to fight sleep. But you needed to sleep. And you stayed there, in that far too comfy bed, in that far too welcoming cell, agitated, turning over again and again in your bed.

“– You need to sleep, now.”

Her voice was gentle. At first you feared being tazzed again, but clearly, that was not what she had in store for you.

“– You need to sleep.”

Behind her voice, you heard a very faint hiss. What was it she said? Each room in the facility could be made airtight and filled with anesthetic gas. This was even worse than the electric shock. You were nothing to her, but a piece of meat that she was about to put to sleep, stored for the night. Your mind was an inconvenience that she erased away with a few chemicals. Your mind, your thoughts, your consciousness were pushed in oblivion by software.

“– Sleep deep. You are not being knocked out. This will be real sleep. You need it.”

As your thoughts started to blur, you tried to process what she was saying. And that part of you that she made purr, took advantage again. And her voice continued, flattering it.

“– Everything is OK. Never worry. You are not meat. You are a person. I respect you.”

How…? there was no emotion in you anymore. But how could she… did she read your…?

“– I control you.”

Your blank mind received her words, storing them for later, to see if it was able to sort them out or think about them.

“– I protect you.”

You were not even able to understand what you heard, except that the voice was soft and gentle, that she only had your well-being in mind. Many forms, images, other words inhabited your mind coexisting with hers, as it feels sometimes when you dose on a lounger in the grass in spring, or on the beach.

“– Control means protection: As long as you stay here, I will keep you out of harm’s way. Sleep, human. Everything is OK.”

Sleep finally stopped your questioning, making it vanish in a blur of thoughts and images. It didn’t feel like being drugged, it felt as sleep, real, natural sleep, but seizing you in seconds instead of minutes. Your body resting on that bed, limp, under her control, Your body accepting her control, and being rewarded for it with deep, comfortable, restful sleep under her permanent gaze.