Handjob Nurses: Compulsory Milking Chapter 1: First Appointment

The humid twilight air clung to Jake Harlan's skin like a lover's sweat as he piloted his battered 2015 Ford F-150 down the pockmarked asphalt of Highway 52. The Pee Dee River slithered alongside, its dark waters reflecting the last crimson streaks of sunset, a mocking reminder of life's raw flow in a world starved for it. At 28 years old, Jake had once embodied the unbridled spirit of small-town South Carolina—calloused hands black with grease from wrenching transmissions at Pee Dee Ford Dealership, Friday nights shotgun-blasting beers at The Landing dive bar, and stolen weekends tangled in the sheets with Mandy, his high-school flame turned sassy cocktail waitress at the Swamp Fox Lounge. Back then, sex was casual fire: her nails raking his back in the cab of this very truck, laughter echoing as he spilled inside her without a care, pulling out for a playful finish on her thigh. No condoms, no crises—just heat, rhythm, and release.

That paradise shattered two years prior, on a muggy August evening much like this one. The Crisis hit global feeds like a nuke: fertility rates cratered to zero. No pregnancies. Blame pinned on the late-wave COVID-19 boosters—rushed mRNA cocktails from Pharma giants, mutating sperm DNA worldwide. Viable counts dropped 99.9%. Dr. Eleanor Voss's presser went viral: "Humanity faces functional extinction in 50 years without intervention." Enter Project Mumford & Sons, the British PM's brainchild turned UN mandate. Every sexually mature male, 18-50, conscripted as a "donor." Mandatory milkings: 300 minimum, up to 600 for high-yielders like Jake. Natural sex? Felony punishable by lifetime chastity. Porn, masturbation? AI-tracked treason—first offense: electro-cage for a month; repeaters: permanent lockup with prostate probes.

Jake's own brush with the law scarred deeper than most. Six months back, desperation clawed him during a slow shift. Hidden in the shop bathroom, he fired up a smuggled VPN on his burner phone, diving into a contraband OnlyFans rip: a busty redhead with pigtails, moaning as she oiled her massive tits and fingered herself to squirting oblivion. His fist flew—five frantic pumps, thick ropes splattering the sink—before the app's abstinence tracker pinged. Red alert: Illicit Emission Detected. Coordinates Locked. Black SUVs swarmed the lot by closing. Tactical enforcers in "Seed Patrol" vests dragged him out cuffed, coworkers gaping. Secondary facility: stripped, hosed, fitted with the cage—a cold titanium prison encasing cock and balls, spikes for erections, remote shocks syncing to his phone's denial algorithm. Milked thrice daily via vibrating probe up the ass, no pleasure, just mechanical extraction until quota. "Mercy for first-timers," the tech sneered, snapping the key into a state vault. Thirty days of blue-balled agony, erections zapped to flaccid submission, output halved from frustration. Fined $1,500. Lesson etched: No more risks.

Now, dashboard warnings blared: Extraction #47 Overdue 18 Hours. Penalty: Immediate Cage Reinstallation + $2,000 Fine + Vehicle Impound. The clinic-mandated abstinence app buzzed his scrotum hourly—a subdermal implant zapping any unauthorized twitch. Jake shifted uncomfortably, his cock a throbbing traitor against denim, balls swollen heavy from 18 hours' denial. Full to bursting, projected 4.5ml viable—enough for two embryos, maybe three if motility hit 70%. Florence had bent to the new order with gritty resignation. Billboards screamed from every pole: "Project Mumford & Sons: Your Semen is Sacred. One Load = One Life." "Report Wasted Seed – $500 Bounty." Churches like First Baptist repurposed sermons to "Semen Stewardship: God's Vessel for Tomorrow." Waffle House peddled "Boost Bowls"—zinc-spiked hashbrowns and oyster shots. Even his ex, Mandy, bailed via venomous text: "Nurse Kyle at Clinic #47 averages 5.2ml. Locked-in compliant. Upgrade, Jake, or stay dry." She'd shacked up with the guy—irony's knife twist.

The clinic materialized like a fortress from hell: the gutted husk of the old Walmart Supercenter on Irby Street, its vast parking lot halved for Donor Bays, the rest razor-wire fenced with humming drone sentries overhead. Floodlights bathed the facade in sterile white, neon sign pulsing: Pee Dee Fertility Extraction Center #47 – 24/7 Duty Saves Humanity. Jake veered into spot D-22, killed the engine, and palmed his water bottle—64oz mandatory, electrolytes laced for volume max. Wrist chip scanned at the pedestrian gate: Beep. Donor 4782: Harlan, Jacob T. Age 28. YTD Extractions: 46. Compliance: 92%. Projected Yield: 4.2-4.8ml. Proceed to Lobby.*

The entrance whooshed open to arctic air-con laced with bleach, latex, and that faint, musky undercurrent of mass arousal. Lobby: a cavernous purgatory under 20-foot ceilings, 80 men queued in snaking lines—farmers in faded John Deeres, office drones clutching briefcases, a pimply college kid from Francis Marion U twitching from VR porn withdrawal. No talking; ceiling mics flagged "fraternization" with instant demerits. Propaganda vid-loop blared from jumbotrons: somber PM clip ("Your essence fathers the future"), yield-leader testimonials ("Proud to give 5ml daily!"), horror reels of caged violators sobbing in cells. Jake joined Line A for vitals, shuffling past vending machines stocked with lube samples and zinc tabs.

Ms. Hargrove, the vitals nurse—50s, iron-gray bun, face etched like old leather—pricked his thumb without preamble. "Pulse 112 bpm. Temp 98.7°F. Testosterone 845 ng/dL—elevated, good for motility. Hydration optimal. Urine dip: No adulterants." She stamped his paper gown ticket: Bay 3, Station #7. Target: 4.5ml+ for compliance bonus. "Strip efficient. No dawdling."

Locker room: windowless bunker, rows of numbered bins under harsh fluorescents reeking of ball sweat and industrial sanitizer. Jake peeled off sweat-damp clothes: flannel shirt, work boots caked in shop grime, jeans rasping down hairy thighs, boxers tented obscenely. Naked mirror-check: 5'10" frame lean-ripped from enforced cardio mandates (treadmills logged via app, semen quality demanded 10k steps daily), light chest fur trimmed to regs, abs shadowed from skipped lunches. Groin ritual: weekly shaves mandatory—pubes trapped motility-killers. Cock hung semi at 5 inches flaccid, thickening with exposure; balls low and pendulous, skin taut from buildup, veins prominent like twisted ropes. He folded stack precisely—mess = demerit—slipped on the paper gown: tissue-thin, backless flap exposing ass crack and sac to the chill. Goosebumps prickled. Humiliation primed arousal.

Bay 3 corridor: Clinical tunnel, doors labeled MILKING STATIONS 1-10. Jake's boots slapped tile to #7. The chair loomed: dystopian throne of black padded vinyl, gynecologist stirrups angled wide, armrests with wrist cuffs, overhead array of monitors (vitals, yield cam, AI scorer), wall dispenser for lube/gloves, and the collection rig—a heated silicone sleeve with vacuum vial, primed for 5ml capacity. He climbed aboard, feet in stirrups splaying legs 90 degrees, ass propped on gel pad. Chair hydraulics whirred—back reclining 45°, spotlights igniting his groin in surgical white. Auto-cuffs click-locked ankles and wrists. Cock lolled through the padded phallic ring, auto-wipe arm swabbing tip clean. ****. Erecting. Timer HUD: Nurse Arrival: 3:42.

Adjacent bays activated like a porn symphony. Bay 6: Burly logger-type, beard matted sweat, grunted as Nurse Patel (East Indian, efficient) gloved: Snap-snap. Wet schlick-schlick-schlick—methodical long-strokes building. "Breathe, donor. Edge one approaching." Man bucked: "Ahh—shit!" Bay 8: Scrawny college kid whimpered under a redhead nurse's dual-hand wring: "Visualize the baby, sweetie. Hold it... good boy." Bay 5: Veteran donor moaned mid-extraction, vacuum whirr sucking ropes audibly. Jake's cock betrayed him—full 7-inch mast, pre-cum glistening slit, balls churning.

Flashback clawed: Pre-Crisis tailgate, Clemson vs. USC. Mandy in daisy dukes, grinding his lap 'til he dragged her to the truck bed. Her mouth first—sloppy, eager—then ride: tits bouncing, walls clenching as he flooded her. "Love your cum, baby." Now? Strangers' gloves. Extinction clock ticked: Parents' farm silent sans grandkids. Sister's IVF waitlisted—clinics hoarded fresh loads.

Door hissed. Nurse Riley Thompson strode in—25, blonde ponytail swaying, 5'6" bombshell poured into latex-white uniform: skirt hiked mid-thigh for mobility, blouse V-neck straining D-cup lace, hips swaying authority. Ohio recruit, whisper-famed on darkweb donor boards for "98% yields." Badge: Riley Thompson, Level III Certified Milker. 12,847 Extractions. Optimization: 98.6%. Blue eyes flicked tablet: "Donor Harlan, #47 overdue 18hrs. Demerit pending compliance. Target 4.5ml viable."

Jake's voice cracked: "Rough week, ma'am. Overtime."

"Excuses dilute focus." Glove ritual: Black nitrile snap-snap, lube squirt—pheromone gel warming slick. "Full exam." Fingers clinical: Shaft palpated vein-by-vein, glans swabbed sensitivity, balls hefted/rolled like fruit appraisal. "Epididymis distended—prime. No varicocele. Erectility: 100%." Stool rolled intimate, knees grazing inner thigh. Vanilla scent mingled lube tang. Cock wept pre.

Handjob Nurses: Compulsory Milking

"Standard Mumford protocol," Nurse Riley intoned, her voice a velvet scalpel—professional yet laced with the subtle thrill of

a hunter scenting prey. "Phase 1: Arousal Build. No rush, donor. Rushing wastes motility." Her right hand formed the perfect grip: thumb and forefinger a unyielding ring at his shaft base, palm curving to cradle the veined underside like a custom mold. Left hand cradled his balls—fingers splaying to cup the heavy sac, pinky teasing the perineum seam. Lube gleamed under spotlights, pheromone-infused to spike nitric oxide, forcing blood engorgement.

First stroke descended: agonizingly slow, 10 seconds down—twist at the root where cock met balls, palm dragging frictionless heat along the frenulum ridge. Jake's breath hitched, a guttural "Nngh..." escaping as electric pleasure spiderwebbed from groin to spine. Upstroke: corkscrew spiral, thumb swirling the corona flare, nail grazing the slit to coax a fat pearl of pre-cum. Schlick... schlick...—obscene symphony echoed off tiles, syncing with his pulse: 120 bpm.

"Breathe through it," Riley coached, eyes locked on his cock like a scientist dissecting response data. Pace locked: 50 strokes per minute, metronomic. "In for four... out for six. Visualize output—thick, white ropes for the vials. One load fathers three souls." Her free fingers kneaded his balls counterclockwise, rolling each orb like stress putty, stimulating Leydig cells for testosterone surge. Jake's hips twitched futilely against cuffs, the ring biting padded vinyl.

Monitor HUD pulsed: Arousal 96%. Edge T-1:12. Prostate Pressure: Optimal.

Sensations layered: Lube's tingle morphed to fire—warming agents dilating vessels, shaft swelling to max girth, 6 inches circumference, veins bulging like garden hoses. Pre flowed steady now, dribbling into the tube prep tray. Jake's mind fractured—reality: her clinical touch, superior to any fumbling hookup. Flashback: Mandy's bathroom mirror-fogged handjob post-bar, her giggles as soap-slick fist pumped sloppy. "Cum quick, babe—waiter's coming." Amateur hour. Riley? Symphony conductor.

"History check," she said casually mid-stroke, left thumb pressing prostate externally—firm circles radiating deep throbs. "Cage offense, six months prior. Details?"

Jake panted, words tumbling: "P-porn clip... OnlyFans rip. AI flagged mid... fuck—edge!"

"Edge one imminent." Acceleration: 75/min, short rapid pumps focusing glans—palm cupping head like a suction bell, fingers fluttering underside vein. Balls tugged rhythmic, yanked downward to delay contraction. Core coiled: taint spasming, abs clenching, vision tunneling white. "H-hold... please, Nurse—gonna—"

"Deny." Iron squeeze at root—thumb digging urethra base, crushing the surge. Cock bobbed furious, purple head flaring denied, a single thwarted spurt oozing. Jake howled, body convulsing in restraints. "Four-minute reset. Good hold—motility preserved."

Wipe-down ritual: Warm sterile cloth swabbed excess, inspecting for abrasions. "Color excellent—arterial flush. No plasma leakage." She iced the shaft tip with a cryo-chip—30 seconds shock-constriction, resetting nerves for Phase 2 sensitivity spike. Jake whimpered, post-edge ache mingling hypersensitive throb.

"Phase 2: Dual-Hand Intensification," Riley announced, gloving fresh lube. Both hands deployed—right: full-length spirals upward, left: counter-spiral downward, wringing like a towel extraction. Lube frothed milky, squelch-squish filling the bay. Balls slapped her wrist lightly, percussive stimulus. "Donor forums rate you average. Why the slip?"

"Stress," he gasped, strokes blurring pleasure-pain. "Mandy left for a nurse—your colleague. Says he yields 5ml steady."

Riley's lips quirked—first crack in facade. "Kyle? Yeah, he's Level IV. But girth like yours? Potential wasted on solo sins." Pace ramped: 65/min, thumb-plug on upstrokes blocking pre-flow, building internal pressure. "This job? Duty first, but optimized yields mean bonuses. My condo in Ohio? Gone. Transplant pay: triple. 98.6% keeps me here."

Edge T-0:45. Arousal 98%.

Dialogue fueled fire—her Ohio lilt, breath quickening. Uniform top dampened, lace bra shadowing erect nipples. Jake fixated: Pre-Crisis fantasy, peeling that blouse, tits spilling as she rode reverse. Reality: her nail traced dorsal vein, lightning fork. "Edge two—visualize embryos. Hold!"

Frenzy: Head-only pumps, ultra-rapid 100/min, free hand perineum-probing deep. Prostate milked externally—waves crashing. "C-close—Riley, fuck—"

"Donor!" Snap-denial, root vise + ball-tap. Second block: Cock wept frustration, shaft twitching spasms. Reset: Ice + 5min idle, her fingers tracing idle patterns on thighs—tease maintenance.

By Phase 3 (22 minutes elapsed), Jake was delirium's edge—muscles quivering, voice hoarse barks, sweat pooling stirrups. Riley flushed, ponytail frayed, bonus-hunting gleam. "Final build before extraction. Triple stimulus."

New layer: Vibrating ring clamped mid-shaft—low hum resonating balls-deep. Hands tripled: One shaft, one balls/perineum, mouth-breath hot on inner thigh (regs allowed "vocal encouragement"). "You're at 4.8ml projection. Beat it—earn no demerit."

Strokes: Opposing spirals + vibration = overload. Thumb urethra-plugged constant, pressure volcanic. Flashback torrent: Parents' farm, Crisis eve—Dad's shotgun rack, Mom's tears over empty nursery. Sister's miscarriage news, IVF denied. "For them," he muttered.

"Edge three." Hell-sprint: Nails grazed everywhere—frenulum rake, ball-scratches, taint flick. World dissolved: Schlick-froth-buzz-gasp. "Now—hold—hold—"

Crush-denial three: Urethra pinch + cryo direct on head. Jake sobbed raw, body arched rigid. "P-please... extraction..."

Riley wiped sweat from his brow—human touch amid machine. "Strong donor. Phase 3 complete. Tube prep."

Monitor: Yield Prime. Extraction Phase: Imminent. Arousal 99.5%.

Riley's eyes gleamed with predatory focus, the flush on her cheeks betraying the pro's thrill—bonuses scaled exponentially over 4.5ml, and Jake's metrics screamed jackpot. "Extraction Phase," she declared, voice husky from the marathon tease. The silicone collection sleeve—soft as velvet, ribbed internally, heated to 98.6°F—hovered like a lover's mouth. She aligned it precisely over the throbbing head: Schlop. Snug seal, vacuum priming with a low whirr, vial below glowing sterile blue, capacity locked at 5.2ml max.

"Final protocol: Total yield strip," Riley said, resetting grips. Vibrating ring amped to medium pulse, resonating shaft-to-prostate like a bassline earthquake. Right hand: Full-length power-strokes—base-to-tip in 2 seconds, twisting vicious at the flare, lube replenished for frictionless glide. Left: Ball domination—kneading, tugging downward hard to uncoil, pinky probing perineum in deep circles, milking prostate waves externally. Mouth encouragement regs kicked in: breath hot on his inner thigh, lips inches from skin. "Cum on command, donor. Thick ropes. For the future."

Pace ignited: 90 strokes/min, relentless. Schlick-schlick-SQUELCH—froth bubbling at the base, pre-vacuumed into vial priming (0.8ml already). Jake's world narrowed to groin inferno: Veins throbbed visible, head ballooned hypersensitive, every ridge-rib of the sleeve dragging ecstasy. Vibration hummed balls-deep, syncing with her presses—prostate swelling, seminal vesicles contracting pre-launch.

Monitor frenzy: Arousal 99.9%. Edge Infinite. Yield Proj: 5.1ml. Motility 72%.

Dialogue pierced haze: "Talk yield, Harlan. Motivate."

"G-gonna... flood it," he rasped, abs rippling. "For my sis... empty crib... parents' farm..."

"Good donor." Nail-rake finale on frenulum—light scratches igniting nerve clusters. Flashback surge: Crisis Day 1, family kitchen. Dad's grizzled face: "Boy, world's endin'. You gotta step up." Mom's Bible thump: "Seed's holy now." Sister Lisa weeping over negative test—husband's count zeroed. IVF lottery: 1 in 10,000. Jake's loads? Her only hope.

Riley sensed peak: "Command: Cum. Now. One... two..."

Rupture. First rope thwup-sucked into vial—thick, pearlescent, 1.2ml pulse. Jake roared, back arching restraints taut. Second/third: Heavier jets, vacuum whirr greedy. Her hands merciless—post-peak stripping, shaft milked like udder, fingers root-squeezing remnants, taint-probed for stragglers. Fourth/fifth: Dribbles intensified to spurts, vibration maxing overload. "Every drop!" Balls contracted empty, prostate spasmed dry under her thumb.

Sixth/seventh: Post-nut hell-pleasure, sleeve tugging sensitivity supernova. Eighth: Final weak pulse, vial at 5.3ml—overflow auto-diverted. Yield: 5.3ml Viable. 98% Motility. 4 Embryos Potential. Record Personal/PR Clinic Bay.

Riley disengaged sleeve pop, sealing vial with click. Warm cloth cleanup: Shaft swabbed gentle, excess lube whisked, cryo-chip soothing inflamed head. Chair whirrs unlocked—ankles/wrists free. "Exceptional, donor. Demerit waived. Bonus logged—your 553 remaining just got easier." She peeled gloves, tablet noting: Harlan-47: Elite Yield. Nurse Thompson Assist.

Jake slumped, limbs jelly, cock deflating raw-tender. World refocused: Bay sounds—adjacent extractions moaning finales, propagandas droning. Riley helped him sit, water bottle pressed: "Hydrate. Post-yield dip common."

Panting, he met her eyes—vulnerability bond. "You... pros. Ever... miss normal?"

She smirked, ponytail retied. "Ohio farm girl pre-Crisis. Boyfriend, barn romps. Now? This pays the mortgage. Kyle? My ex-roomie—yeah, Mandy's upgrade. He talks yields, not hearts. You? Girth king. Hit 6ml next? Private bay upgrade."

Intrigue sparked: Clinic whispers on darkweb—elite donors got "VIP milkings," less clinical, more... sensual. Rumors of underground swaps: Nurses trading shifts for favorites, bending regs for tips. Florence underbelly: Black market viagra for volume boosts, smuggled fleshlights as "training aids"