Harold Summers/ nurse Veronica

**Chapter: Extraction Bay 2 – Harold Summers**

Coxville Breeding Farm Satellite Facility

September 26, 2009 – Morning

Harold sat on the edge of the examination table in nothing but a thin paper gown that barely closed over his soft stomach. For the first time in months the heavy metal cage was gone. His cock hung free, still faintly pink and tender from the previous day’s double session. The skin felt too exposed under the fluorescent lights.

The door opened and a different nurse walked in.

Veronica was pure early-2000s American bimbo made clinical: long platinum-blonde hair in a high ponytail, heavy makeup, glossy pink lips, and a pair of enormous, clearly enhanced breasts that strained the buttons of her tight white nurse’s top. The top was cut low enough that the upper curves of her areolae almost showed when she leaned forward. Her name tag simply read Veronica – Extraction Specialist. A thick Southern-California accent rolled out of her mouth when she spoke.

“Oh my god, hi!” she chirped, snapping on a pair of bright pink gloves. “You’re Harold, right? Summers? They moved you off the regular cage rotation. Congrats, I guess?”

Harold swallowed. “They said… they told me this morning. About the numbers. About the white birth rates.”

Veronica’s smile stayed bright and vacant even as she checked his chart. “Yeah. Total bummer, right? White sperm counts are like… basically decorative at this point. Same with a couple other groups. So the Act got updated. High-priority secondary stock— that’s you guys— get pulled out of permanent chastity and put on intensive collection instead. More frequent milking, longer sessions, sometimes open housing so we can grab you whenever the yield looks good. You’re still not allowed to touch it yourself, obviously. That’s still a felony. But the cage stays off unless you misbehave.”

She stepped between his knees and casually pushed the paper gown open. His soft cock sat in the open air. Veronica tilted her head, platinum ponytail swinging.

“Aww. It’s even smaller when it’s not all locked up and sad. Cute.”

Harold’s face burned. “I just found out my whole… everything is considered non-viable long-term. And you’re calling it cute?”

“Uh-huh.” She wrapped her pink-gloved hand around him without hesitation and gave a slow, assessing stroke. “Because it is. Look at it try. Secondary stock is supposed to feel a little hopeless. Makes the samples come out easier when you’re all emotional.”

She pumped him lazily until he started to firm up, then stopped and let go. The cool air hit the damp skin.

“New protocol for white donors this week,” she continued, reaching for the lube. “We do a full prostate drain first, then a regular hand collection, then we edge you for a while so the next load is thicker. Doctor’s orders. The breeding farms overseas are asking for more volume from the low-motility groups. Something about hybrid viability studies. I don’t really get the science part. I just know I have to empty you until the dish is happy.”

Veronica coated two fingers, lifted his balls out of the way with her other hand, and pressed inside him with the same cheerful efficiency she might use to check a patient’s temperature. Harold jolted.

“Shhh, easy. You’re already loose from yesterday. Amami noted you responded really well to deep pressure.” She curled her fingers and found the swollen gland immediately. “There we go. Feel that? That’s the good stuff moving.”

Clear fluid began to bead at his tip and drip onto the paper sheet. Veronica watched it with open delight.

“See? Your body knows what it’s for now. White guys used to think this was all about romance or whatever. Now it’s just… farm work. You’re a cow, I’m the milkmaid, except the milkmaid has great tits and pink gloves.” She gave her own chest a proud little bounce with her free arm. “You like the tits, right? Most of the secondary guys stare at them the whole time. Helps you stay hard even when you’re embarrassed.”

Harold’s cock twitched in the open air, half-hard and leaking steadily under the prostate massage. Veronica kept the pressure steady, almost bored, while she chatted.

“So yeah, the white race is kinda screwed on its own. Same with a few others. That’s why the farms went global. They ship samples everywhere now. Your little guys might end up in Europe or Asia or wherever they need filler. Isn’t that wild? You’re like… international now.”

She pulled her fingers out, wiped them on a gauze pad, and immediately wrapped her slick glove around his cock again. The stroke was faster this time, twisting over the sensitive head on every upstroke.

“I want a nice visible load in the dish before lunch. Then I’m supposed to edge you for twenty minutes so the afternoon shift gets something thicker. You ready to be a good little dairy cow for me, Harold?”

He couldn’t answer. The combination of the lingering sensitivity from the day before, the sudden freedom from the cage, and Veronica’s relentless pink-gloved hand had already pushed him to the edge. She felt it, grinned wide, and slowed down just enough to keep him trapped there.

“Nuh-uh. Not yet. We don’t waste secondary stock on early shots. Breathe. Stare at my tits if it helps. They’re paid for with farm stipend money, so you basically helped buy them.”

She kept him there—stroking, stopping, squeezing the base, stroking again—while the fluorescent lights hummed and the collection dish waited on the tray, empty for now but not for long.

Outside the bay, the rest of Coxville County continued under the Seed Preservation Act. Inside, Harold Summers, unlocked and reclassified, learned exactly what the new protocol felt like under the cheerful, merciless hands of Nurse Veronica.