Handjob Nurses of the Seed Clinics

**Project Mumford & Sons**

Compulsory Extraction Protocol

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The British Prime Minister’s office was never quiet—not truly. Even in the dead of night there were hushed voices, the rustle of papers, the hum of screens broadcasting catastrophe. But now the room was stiflingly silent. The air itself seemed to thicken, pressing down on the shoulders of the scientists, doctors, and political advisors gathered there.

The Prime Minister sat with his head in his hands, fingers digging into his temples as if he could physically force the words out of his skull. This can’t be real.

His Chief Political Adviser, a gaunt man named Harwick, cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. The papers in his hands trembled slightly.

“You can’t argue with the figures,” Harwick said, his voice too calm for the words he was speaking. “There have been no reported pregnancies in the last two months. Before that, the numbers were already collapsing. Right now, we’re seeing one, maybe two births per day across the entire United Kingdom.”

A murmur rippled through the room. The Prime Minister didn’t look up.

Harwick continued, “This isn’t isolated. Every ally we’ve spoken to—America, Germany, Japan—they’re all reporting the same. And if they are, it’s safe to assume the rest of the world is too.”

The Prime Minister finally lifted his head. His face was ashen. “What the hell caused this? And who do we blame?”

A small woman in a white lab coat stepped forward. Dr. Eleanor Voss, one of the leading epidemiologists in the country. Her voice was steady, clinical. “We believe it stems from a mutation in one of the later COVID-19 boosters. It wasn’t properly tested—rushed through due to public demand. The result was a catastrophic drop in male fertility. The mutation went viral. Now, we estimate that nearly every sexually mature male on the planet is affected.”

The Prime Minister’s jaw tightened. He didn’t need to say it—everyone in the room knew his financial ties to the pharmaceutical giant responsible.

“How long?” he asked hoarsely.

Dr. Voss exhaled. “At current rates? The human race will be functionally extinct within fifty years.”

A choked, guttural noise escaped the Prime Minister’s throat.

“Fuck!”

The word exploded from him, raw and jagged. It hung in the air like gun smoke. No one moved. The only sound was the slow, rhythmic ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the corner—counting down the seconds until the end.

Then a hesitant voice broke the silence.

“There… might be an alternative.”

All eyes turned. A young doctor stood near the back, his fingers nervously adjusting his tie.

The Prime Minister’s gaze sharpened. “Who are you?”

“Dr. Simon Mumford. Reproductive biology.” He swallowed. “And I have a proposal.”

A beat. Then the Prime Minister gestured impatiently. “Go on.”

Dr. Mumford took a shaky breath. “Our studies show that most men are still producing some viable sperm—just not enough for natural conception. But if we extract it manually, repeatedly, we could concentrate it. Over time, we could gather enough from each donor to facilitate pregnancies.”

The Prime Minister’s eyes flickered—something like hope, or hunger. “How many extractions are we talking?”

Mumford tapped at his tablet, then winced. “Between three and six hundred per donor.”

A sharp inhale from someone in the room.

Harwick stepped forward, already calculating. “We’d need strict enforcement. No masturbation, no intercourse outside the clinics. Violations would have to be… punished.”

The Prime Minister stood abruptly and strode to the window. Downing Street sprawled below, oblivious. Reporters clustered like vultures, waiting for their next meal. Civilians passed by, laughing, arguing, living—utterly unaware that their species was already going the way of the dinosaur.

He turned back to the room, a slow, unsettling smile creeping across his face.

“Dr. Mumford… you’ve just saved the human race.” He clapped his hands together. “And in honour of your brilliance, we’ll name the project after you. Since your idea will father the next generation…” His grin widened. “Project Mumford & Sons.”

Harwick coughed. “Sir—”

The Prime Minister waved him off. “More importantly—how do we profit from this?”

---

Three Years Later

The law was simple, brutal, and absolute.

Sex was illegal.

Masturbation was illegal.

Pornography was illegal.

Any unauthorised orgasm by a male citizen was illegal.

The only legal outlet for male sexual release was the National Seed Clinics—officially designated Extraction Centres under Project Mumford & Sons. Every man between the ages of eighteen and sixty-five was required to register, submit to regular fertility assessments, and attend scheduled milking sessions. Failure to comply, or any attempt to relieve oneself privately, resulted in the immediate fitting of a government-issue chastity device: a smooth, lockable cage of medical-grade polymer and titanium, monitored by internal sensors that reported any attempt at arousal or removal.

The slogan on every bus stop and public screen was the same:

YOUR SEED BELONGS TO THE NATION.

REPORT FOR EXTRACTION.

RESISTANCE IS EXTINCTION.

You are Alex Reed, twenty-eight years old, average height, average build, previously average libido. You work a mid-level office job that has somehow survived the economic chaos. You have never been particularly rebellious. You simply wanted to keep your head down, do your job, and not end up locked in a cage.

That strategy is about to fail.

Your first official Extraction Notice arrives on a grey Tuesday morning. The government app on your phone chirps with the cold authority of law:

MANDATORY EXTRACTION APPOINTMENT

Location: Central London Seed Clinic – Level 3, Bay 17

Time: 14:00 today

Duration: Approximately 45–90 minutes

Failure to attend will result in immediate chastity enforcement and criminal charges.

You stare at the screen for a long time. Your stomach twists. You’ve heard the rumours—latex-gloved hands, clinical rooms that smell of antiseptic and something sweeter, nurses who treat you like livestock. Some men come back quiet. Some come back shaking. A few never speak of it at all.

You have three choices before you even leave the house.

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CHOICE 1: Attend obediently

You decide compliance is the only sane option. Better a clinical handjob than a locked cage and a criminal record.

CHOICE 2: Try to skip it

You consider calling in sick, claiming a family emergency, anything to buy time. The sensors in your phone and the city cameras make this extremely risky.

CHOICE 3: Attempt private relief first

You haven’t come in weeks. The pressure is building. Maybe just once, carefully, before you have to face the clinic…

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Route A – Obedient Attendance (Primary Path)

You choose obedience.

At 13:40 you stand outside the Central London Seed Clinic. The building is a converted office block of glass and steel, its windows mirrored so no one can see inside. A long queue of men snakes from the entrance. Most look at the pavement. A few stare at their phones with the glassy expression of people reading the same government notices for the hundredth time. Security is visible but not aggressive—just present. Two uniformed officers flank the doors. One of them catches your eye and gives a small, almost sympathetic nod.

Inside, the reception area is bright, clinical, and humming with quiet efficiency. A mature receptionist in a white tunic and latex gloves takes your ID, scans your biometrics, and hands you a thin plastic wristband.

“Bay 17, Mr Reed. Follow the blue line. Remove all clothing below the waist in the changing cubicle. Leave personal items in the locker. You will be called.”

Her voice is pleasant, professional, and completely devoid of judgement. That somehow makes it worse.

The changing cubicle is small and smells of disinfectant. You strip, fold your trousers and underwear neatly, and step into the thin paper gown provided. It barely covers anything. Your cock is already half-hard from nerves and the simple fact that you haven’t touched it properly in a month. The wristband beeps softly as it registers your elevated heart rate.

A soft chime sounds. A calm female voice over the intercom: “Alex Reed to Bay 17.”

You walk the blue line.

Bay 17 is a private room, roughly the size of a doctor’s examination suite. The walls are pale green. There is an adjustable medical chair with stirrups and padded restraints that look unused—so far. A stainless-steel trolley holds neatly arranged supplies: boxes of latex gloves in different sizes, lubricant sachets, collection cups with digital labels, and a sealed chastity cage still in its sterile packaging. A reminder.

The door opens.

Nurse Harrington enters.

She is in her early forties, tall, with the kind of mature, full-figured body that once would have turned heads in any office. Dark hair is pulled back in a tight bun. Her uniform is white, crisp, and deliberately slightly too tight across the chest. Over it she wears a clear plastic apron. Her hands are already sheathed in pale blue latex that squeaks faintly when she moves her fingers. She carries a tablet and a small smile that does not reach her eyes.

“Mr Reed. First extraction. Sit, please.”

You sit. The chair is cool against your bare skin. She adjusts it so your hips are tilted forward slightly, then lowers the stirrups and guides your feet into them with professional ease. Your gown is flipped up without ceremony. Your cock is fully hard now, flushed and leaking a thin bead of pre-come. She notes it on her tablet without comment.

“Baseline erection achieved. Good. We’ll begin with a standard manual extraction. I will be using a firm, continuous technique. You are not permitted to touch yourself or me. You will inform me when you are close so I can position the collection cup. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” you manage.

She snaps a fresh pair of gloves on over the first—double-gloving—and squeezes a clear gel into her palm. The scent is faintly medicinal. Then her gloved hand closes around you.

The sensation is immediate and overwhelming. After weeks of enforced abstinence the simple contact of warm latex and firm pressure is almost too much. She does not stroke gently. Her grip is clinical and purposeful, sliding from base to tip with a steady, milking rhythm designed for efficiency rather than pleasure. The latex squeaks softly with every stroke. Her other hand rests lightly on your thigh, holding you still.

“Breathe normally,” she says. “Do not hold your breath. We need a clean sample.”

You try. Your hips twitch anyway. She increases the pressure slightly, thumb sweeping over the head on every upstroke, spreading the gel and your own pre-come until the entire length of your cock is glistening and slick inside her fist.

The room is quiet except for the wet sound of latex on skin and your increasingly uneven breathing. She watches your face with detached interest, adjusting her speed and grip according to the data on the tablet that sits open beside her.

“You’re producing well,” she remarks after a few minutes. “Many first-timers are dry. You’re not. That’s useful.”

The praise—if it is praise—makes your stomach twist with something that is not entirely shame.

She works you with ruthless consistency. There is no teasing, no variation for your benefit. When your thighs begin to tremble she simply tightens her grip and continues the same relentless pace. The pressure builds fast—too fast. You feel the familiar tightening at the base of your spine.

“I’m—close—”

“Collection cup,” she says calmly, and with her free hand she brings a clear plastic vessel into position just as the first thick pulse leaves you. She does not slow down. She milks every spurt with the same firm strokes, aiming carefully, her latex-covered fingers working the shaft until the last weak dribble is coaxed out. The cup is half-full. She seals it, labels it with your ID, and places it in a refrigerated slot in the wall.

You are left panting, cock still twitching in the open air, sensitive and red.

Nurse Harrington strips off the outer gloves, drops them into a biohazard bin, and makes a note on her tablet.

“Volume acceptable. Motility will be assessed off-site. You are scheduled for a second extraction in four days. Same bay. Do not attempt self-relief in the interim. The sensors in your phone and the city’s public monitoring network will detect elevated heart rate and movement patterns consistent with masturbation. Penalties begin with a seven-day chastity lock and escalate rapidly.”

She looks at you directly for the first time.

“Any questions?”

You shake your head.

She helps you out of the stirrups, hands you a packet of wet wipes, and gestures toward the door.

“Changing room is to the left. Your next appointment is already in the system. Do not be late.”

You dress in a daze. Your cock is still half-hard and aching. Outside, the queue of men has not shortened. One of them glances at your face and quickly looks away.

You have completed your first extraction.

That night the pressure returns faster than you expected. Sleep is difficult. The memory of latex and firm, impersonal strokes replays every time you close your eyes.

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Four Days Later – Second Extraction

You return. This time the nurse is different.

Nurse Cole is younger—early thirties—with sharp features and a no-nonsense expression. She wears black latex gloves instead of blue and does not bother with the plastic apron. Her technique is harsher. She uses more gel, a tighter grip, and a faster stroke that borders on punishing. When you try to lift your hips she presses a gloved hand firmly on your lower abdomen and holds you down.

“Still,” she orders. “This is not for your enjoyment.”

You come harder than the first time, the orgasm almost painful in its intensity. She collects every drop without comment, then cleans you with a cool antiseptic wipe that makes you hiss.

“Your numbers are improving,” she says while updating the tablet. “Keep attending on schedule and we may reduce the frequency slightly. Miss an appointment and the cage goes on.”

You leave with your legs unsteady.

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The Choice Point Arrives Sooner Than Expected

Two weeks into the programme the pressure becomes unbearable. You have had four extractions. Each one leaves you drained yet somehow more desperate. The government app reminds you daily that private relief is a criminal offence. Your phone’s sensors are always listening.

One night, alone in your flat, the urge becomes too strong. You stand in the bathroom staring at your reflection, cock hard and leaking, hand hovering.

CHOICE 4: Resist and wait for the next clinic appointment

You force yourself to take a cold shower, then another. You will not risk the cage.

CHOICE 5: Give in and masturbate

Just once. Carefully. Quietly. You can delete the search history. The sensors can’t be that precise… can they?

CHOICE 6: Seek an alternative

There are rumours of underground services—women who will milk men for cash, no records, no government. Extremely illegal. Extremely dangerous.

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Route B – The Cage (If you choose to masturbate)

You give in.

The orgasm is shattering after so many clinical sessions. For a few minutes the relief is absolute. Then your phone lights up with a red alert.

UNAUTHORISED ORGASM DETECTED

LOCATION: RESIDENTIAL

ENFORCEMENT UNIT DISPATCHED

They arrive in under twenty minutes. Two officers and a medical technician. You are restrained without violence but without gentleness either. In your living room, in front of the open curtains, the technician fits the chastity cage. It is smaller than you expected, smooth, and locks with a soft electronic click. A thin sensor ring sits behind your balls. The key is digital and held by the clinic.

“Seven days minimum,” the technician says. “Longer if you attempt removal. Report to the clinic tomorrow for your next scheduled extraction. The cage stays on during the procedure. They have tools for that.”

The officers leave. You are left standing in your flat, locked, still sticky, and already beginning to understand what real desperation feels like.

The next day at the clinic, Nurse Harrington is waiting. She does not look surprised.

“I see we have a non-compliant donor,” she says mildly. “Bay 17. Now.”

The extraction with the cage on is a special kind of humiliation. She uses a narrow, flexible tool and a great deal of lubricant, working through the bars with practiced efficiency. The orgasm, when it finally comes, is muted and incomplete, the cage preventing full expansion. She collects what she can and notes the reduced volume.

“Additional seven days,” she says. “And your next three extractions will be performed in the open bay. Public viewing is permitted for educational purposes.”

You are learning the rules the hard way.

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Route C – Deeper Compliance and Specialisation

If you remain obedient, the system begins to notice.

After six weeks of perfect attendance your file is flagged for “high-yield potential.” You are moved to a different wing of the clinic—the Advanced Extraction Suite. Here the nurses are more experienced, the sessions longer, and the techniques more varied.

You meet Nurse Langford.

She is in her late forties, a true mature MILF with full breasts that strain her uniform and a calm, almost maternal authority. She wears long black latex gloves that reach past her elbows and a faint smile that never wavers.

“You’ve been a good boy, Alex,” she says as she settles you into a more comfortable reclining chair. “No violations. Excellent volume. Today we’re going to try a longer session. I want multiple extractions if your body allows it.”

Her hands are skilled in a way the previous nurses were not. She varies pressure, speed, and focus—sometimes slow and milking, sometimes rapid and almost harsh, sometimes focusing only on the sensitive head until you are shaking. She talks throughout in a low, soothing voice that somehow makes the clinical process feel intimate and degrading at the same time.

“That’s it… let it build. The nation needs every drop. You’re doing so well for us.”

You come three times in ninety minutes. By the third orgasm you are whimpering, oversensitive, and completely drained. She cleans you gently, pats your thigh, and updates your file.

“I’m recommending you for the weekly intensive programme. Higher frequency, specialised techniques. Some men find it difficult. I think you’ll manage.”

You are no longer just attending. You are becoming a regular, high-value donor.

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Further Branches and Escalations

The story continues to branch from here depending on your choices:

• Public Extraction Route: After a minor infraction you are assigned to the open bays where other men (and sometimes authorised female observers) can watch. The humiliation is intense. Some nurses use it deliberately—talking about your size, your sensitivity, how quickly you finish—while they work.

• Gloryhole Protocol: Certain clinics introduce anonymous extraction stations. You enter a small booth, place yourself through a padded opening, and a nurse on the other side milks you without ever seeing your face. Some men find the anonymity easier. Others find it more dehumanising.

• Mommy Dom Intensive: Nurse Langford requests you specifically. Sessions become longer, more psychologically layered. She combines firm milking with quiet verbal dominance—calling you a good boy, telling you how proud the clinic is of your compliance, reminding you that your cock no longer belongs to you. Some sessions end with her holding you while the aftershocks fade, latex-covered fingers stroking your hair.

• Blackmail & Side Arrangements: A nurse offers unofficial extra sessions in exchange for silence about certain clinic irregularities