Mary

**Chapter: Mary**

Mary had been a nurse for thirty-two years. At fifty-two she had earned her comfort—a tidy house in the suburbs, a husband who still made her tea every morning, and a clerical role that meant no more night shifts or bedpan emergencies. Her life was quiet, predictable. She liked it that way.

Then the Prime Minister’s face flickered onto the television screen during dinner, his expression grave, his words colder than the reheated lasagne on their plates.

“A new pandemic.”

Tom froze, a forkful of food halfway to his mouth. Mary’s stomach clenched before the man even finished speaking. She knew that tone. The last time a politician used it, the world locked down for two years.

But this wasn’t about a virus.

This was about extinction.

Tom’s jaw hung slack, a glob of sauce dripping onto his shirt. “Did that useless prick just say what I think he said?”

Mary shook her head. “It’s scare tactics. Has to be.”

Their phones buzzed in unison. A government alert—NEW ENFORCEMENT MEASURES.

Tom scrolled, his face darkening. “Men are banned from… any sexual activity. No sex. No masturbation. Ejaculation outside approved clinics is now a criminal offence.”

Mary barked out a laugh. “Well, that suits me fine.”

Tom didn’t smile. He kept reading. “Pornography is illegal. Penalty is enforced chastity.”

Mary’s laughter turned shrill. “Oh, those poor bastards!”

Then his voice dropped. “And NHS staff are being reassigned to… extraction clinics.”

Mary snatched the phone. The words blurred. Mandatory redeployment. Reproductive compliance. Civil duty.

Her throat went dry. “This better not fucking affect me.”

---

One Week Later

Mary stared at her reflection in the hallway mirror.

The uniform was obscene.

White, low-cut, clinging in all the wrong places. Her breasts—once comfortably hidden under sensible scrubs—were now shoved upward by a structured underwire that left the tops of her areolas perilously close to peeking out. The skirt barely grazed mid-thigh. Stockings held up by garters dug into the soft flesh of her hips, clearly on show whenever she moved. The fabric was thin enough that the outline of her knickers was visible if the light hit wrong.

Like a bloody Carry On film, she thought.

Tom walked in, tie half-knotted, and froze. His eyes raked over her from head to toe and back again.

“Fuck me,” he muttered.

Mary adjusted the neckline with a grimace as a nipple attempted a slow escape. “I wish I could. But apparently that’s treason now.”

She stepped outside. The autumn air bit at her exposed skin and the tops of her thighs. Her neighbour Bill—a weedy, perpetually single man in his late forties with a habit of lingering too long at her fence—was pruning roses. His eyes lit up the moment he saw her.

“Off to work, Mary?” His grin was all crooked teeth and poorly concealed hunger.

She forced a nod.

“Might see you later,” he called after her, tongue darting over his lips.

Mary walked faster, the short skirt riding higher with every stride.

The extraction centre used to be a paediatric ward.

Now the cartoon giraffes had been painted over, though their smiling outlines still ghosted faintly beneath the new institutional grey. Grown men shuffled through the corridors with their heads down and hands in pockets. The air smelled of antiseptic layered over something sourer—shame, maybe, or the faint metallic tang of repeated clean-ups.

Sally, a flame-haired nurse barely out of training, bounced over. The uniform fitted her like it had been designed for her body: perky breasts, nipped-in waist, skirt riding high on toned thighs.

“Can you believe this?” she whispered, eyes bright. “It’s like we’re saving the world!”

Mary lit a cigarette—another new habit since the redeployment notice. “You think wanking off strangers is heroic?”

Sally pouted. “It’s science.”

Mary exhaled smoke through her nose. “It’s humiliation. Theirs and ours.”

She stubbed the cigarette out on the metal bin and pushed into her assigned room.

Sterile white walls. A single adjustable chair bolted to the floor. A hole in the wall at approximately waist height, edged with soft black padding that looked new. A small trolley held boxes of latex gloves, sachets of medical lubricant, sealed collection cups, and a tablet already logged into her staff ID.

She pressed the green button on the wall panel.

A mechanical whir sounded from the other side of the partition. Then—

A flaccid penis flopped through the opening.

Mary stared at it for a long moment.

Here we fucking go.

She snapped on a pair of pale blue latex gloves, the material stretching with a soft squeak over her fingers and wrists. A second pair went on over the first—double-gloving was policy for first contacts. She tore open a sachet of clear gel, warmed it briefly between her palms, and reached for the anonymous cock.

It twitched at the first cool touch of latex.

Mary sighed, closed her gloved hand around it, and began.

---

Session One – The Anonymous Hole

The man on the other side of the wall did not speak. Policy encouraged silence on the donor side unless medical information needed to be exchanged. Mary preferred it that way. She worked with the same efficient, detached rhythm she had once used for blood draws and catheter insertions.

Her grip was firm, almost clinical. She stroked from base to tip in long, steady pulls, twisting slightly on the upstroke the way the training video had demonstrated. The cock thickened quickly under her hand, filling her latex-covered palm. She added more gel when the friction increased, the wet sound of glove on skin filling the small room.

She watched the shaft darken, the head swell and begin to leak clear fluid that she spread with her thumb. The man behind the wall shifted; she felt the subtle push of his hips against the padding. Mary ignored it. She increased the pace slightly, milking rather than teasing, focused on the eventual collection rather than any pleasure the donor might feel.

When the cock began to pulse in her hand she reached for a collection cup with her free hand, positioned it, and continued the same firm strokes through the orgasm. Thick ropes of semen spattered into the clear plastic. She kept working him until the last weak dribble had been coaxed out, then wiped the tip clean with a sterile swab, released him, and pressed the button that retracted the privacy panel slightly so he could withdraw.

The cup was sealed, labelled with the anonymous donor code that had appeared on her tablet, and slotted into the refrigerated wall unit.

Mary stripped the outer gloves, dropped them into the biohazard bin, and flexed her fingers.

One down.

The green light lit again almost immediately.

Another cock appeared—already half-hard this time. Longer, thinner. She repeated the process. Same gloves, same gel, same efficient rhythm. This one came faster, with a muffled grunt from the other side that she pretended not to hear.

By the time her first break arrived she had milked seven men.

Her right hand ached. The smell of latex and lubricant clung to her skin even after she washed. She stepped into the staff corridor, lit another cigarette with slightly shaking fingers, and stared at the faint outline of a giraffe still visible under the grey paint.

Sally appeared, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

“I’ve done twelve already,” she said proudly. “One of them thanked me. Can you believe it?”

Mary took a long drag. “Did you want him to?”

Sally blinked. “Well… no. But it’s nice to be appreciated.”

Mary said nothing. She finished the cigarette and went back inside.

---

Mid-Morning – A Different Technique

The tablet chimed with a note from the floor supervisor.

Donor 17-B flagged for low volume on previous two extractions. Recommend extended stimulation and firmer technique. Use of secondary methods authorised if required.

Mary read it twice.

Secondary methods meant mouth or, in extreme cases, the mechanical pump. Most of the older nurses avoided the oral option. Sally, she suspected, did not.

The next cock through the hole was average in every way—neither large nor small, already stiff. Mary began with her usual grip. After five minutes of steady stroking the man was breathing hard on the other side but showed no sign of approaching climax. She tightened her fist, increased speed, focused on the head with short, rapid strokes. Still nothing substantial.

She hesitated only a second.

Then she leaned forward, guided the head between her lips, and took him into her mouth.

The taste of latex and medical gel was unpleasant. She ignored it, using her tongue and the wet heat of her mouth the way the training module had shown—firm suction, steady bobbing, one gloved hand still stroking the shaft. The man behind the wall made a choked sound. His hips jerked. Mary held him steady with her free hand against the padding and continued until he pulsed heavily across her tongue. She pulled back at the last moment, directing the bulk of the ejaculation into the waiting cup, then wiped her lips with the back of a gloved wrist.

The volume was better. She logged it, cleaned up, and sat back.

Her stomach turned once, then settled into a strange, flat calm.

She had just sucked off a stranger through a hole in a wall because the government said it was necessary.

And she would do it again before lunch.

---

Lunch Break – The Staff Room

The staff room was a converted play area. Tiny chairs had been replaced with standard plastic ones. A vending machine dispensed weak coffee and protein bars. Three other nurses sat in various states of uniform disarray—blouses unbuttoned at the throat, gloves still on, the faint sheen of gel on their wrists.

Conversation was muted.

“My husband’s already in the cage,” one of them said quietly. “Caught him in the shower two nights ago. Sensors picked up the heart-rate spike. Enforcement were there in twenty minutes.”

Another nurse snorted. “Mine tried to negotiate a handjob at home. I told him if he wanted my hand he’d have to book an official slot like everyone else.”

Mary drank her coffee in silence. She thought of Tom at home, probably pacing, probably hard, probably terrified of the sensors in their phone and the smart speaker that listened even when it claimed not to.

Sally bounced in, still bright-eyed.

“I got a compliment on my technique,” she announced. “Supervisor said my average volume is the highest on the floor.”

One of the older nurses muttered something about youth and enthusiasm. Sally either didn’t hear or didn’t care.

Mary finished her coffee, adjusted the ridiculous neckline of her uniform once more, and returned to her room.

The afternoon continued the same way.

Cock after cock.

Some thick, some thin. Some already leaking before she touched them. Some requiring long, almost tedious work before they finally pulsed into the cup. One man was locked in a chastity cage; she had to use a thin, flexible tool and a great deal of gel to extract what little he could produce through the bars. His muffled swearing on the other side of the wall was the most emotion she had heard all day.

By four o’clock her hands were cramped, her jaw ached from the two additional oral extractions she had performed, and the short skirt had ridden up so many times that she had stopped bothering to tug it down.

She had milked twenty-three men.

The tablet showed her shift ending at five.

---

End of Shift – A Choice Appears

As she was logging her final sample, the supervisor—a severe woman in her forties named Clarke—appeared in the doorway.

“Reed,” she said. Mary blinked; no one had used her surname that way in years. “Your numbers are solid. Clean technique. No complaints. We’re short-staffed on the open bays tomorrow. Volunteer for a rotation and the overtime rate is double. Refuse and you’ll stay on the gloryhole roster for the rest of the week.”

Open bays meant the men could see her. Face, body, expression—everything. Some of them would talk. Some of them would stare at her breasts while she worked. Some of them would try to last longer just to keep her hand on them.

Mary looked down at her gloved hands, still faintly shiny with residual gel.

CHOICE 1: Volunteer for the open bays

Higher pay. More exposure. Direct eye contact. The possibility of recognition—neighbours, former patients, the postman.

CHOICE 2: Remain on the anonymous gloryhole rota

Safer. Impersonal. She never has to see their faces or let them see hers.

CHOICE 3: Request a transfer to assessment or clerical support within the clinic

Lower pay. Less direct contact. Possibly available if she pushes the age-and-experience angle.

CHOICE 4: Go home and face Tom

Deal with her husband’s enforced abstinence, the tension in the house, and the knowledge that she now spends her days doing to strangers what she is legally forbidden to do to him.

Mary stood in the small white room, the smell of latex and semen still clinging to her, and made her decision.

---

Route A – Open Bay Rotation (Selected for primary expansion)

She volunteered.

The next morning the open bay was already busy when she arrived. Ten stations in a large, brightly lit room. Each station had a medical chair with stirrups, a privacy screen that most men declined to use, and a clear view of the nurse working them. Female observers—researchers, trainees, the occasional authorised journalist—moved quietly between stations with tablets.

Mary’s first donor of the day was a man in his thirties who kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling while she gloved up. She noticed the way his gaze flicked down anyway when she leaned forward to apply the gel. Her low neckline did exactly what the uniform designers had intended.

She worked him with the same firm, efficient strokes she had used behind the wall. The difference was the eye contact he eventually risked, the way his breathing changed when she deliberately slowed and then sped up again, the flush that spread across his chest when she calmly announced, “You’re close. Collection cup in position.”

He came hard, hips lifting against the restraint strap she had fastened across his thighs. Mary caught every pulse, sealed the cup, and wiped him clean with the same detached care she would have given a wound dressing.

“Next,” she called.

The morning blurred into a succession of bodies and faces. Some men tried to make conversation. She answered only when medically necessary. Some tried to hold back; she simply adjusted her grip and pace until resistance became impossible. One older man—grey-haired, soft around the middle—whispered “thank you” when he finished. Mary logged the volume and moved on.

At mid-morning a familiar voice made her look up.

Bill, her neighbour, sat in the next station over, already hard, watching her with open hunger while a younger nurse worked him.

Their eyes met.

Bill’s mouth curved into that same crooked grin he used over the garden fence.

Mary’s stomach tightened. She turned back to her own donor and increased the pressure of her strokes until the man beneath her hand gasped and spilled into the cup.

When she finished the sample she walked past Bill’s station without acknowledgement. Behind her she heard him murmur something to the nurse attending him. The girl laughed softly.

Mary’s face burned under the fluorescent lights.

---

Afternoon – Escalation

Supervisor Clarke appeared at her shoulder during a brief lull.

“Donor in Station Four is a repeat low-volume case. He’s also on a warning for attempted private relief last week. Authorised to use extended oral technique and verbal correction if required. Make an example if necessary. Observers are present.”

Mary looked at Station Four.

The man was young, mid-twenties, already locked in a clear chastity cage that left him exposed and unable to reach full hardness without assistance. His face was red with humiliation. Two female observers stood nearby with tablets ready.

Mary snapped on fresh gloves, selected a thinner tool designed for caged extractions, and approached.

What followed was longer, more deliberate, and more public than anything she had done the previous day. She worked him through the bars with methodical patience, narrating her actions in a calm clinical voice for the benefit of the observers and the other men who could hear.

“Insufficient response. Increasing stimulation. Note the reduced capacity caused by the device. This is the consequence of non-compliance.”

When she finally took him into her mouth through the open tip of the cage the young man’s thighs trembled violently. The observers made notes. Someone in another station groaned. Mary continued until she had extracted everything the cage and his earlier punishment would allow, then cleaned him, logged the poor volume, and recommended an additional seven days of locked status.

She did not look at his face when she finished.

Her own face, reflected faintly in the polished metal of the instrument tray, looked older and stranger than it had that morning.

---

Evening – Home

Tom was waiting when she walked through the door.

He took in the uniform, the smudged makeup, the faint smell of latex and disinfectant that still clung to her skin, and said nothing for a long moment.

Then: “How many?”

Mary stepped out of the heels that had been killing her feet since noon. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

She looked at him—really looked. The tension in his shoulders. The way he stood with his hands carefully in his pockets. The faint outline of the chastity cage the enforcement team had fitted two nights earlier after the sensors caught him.

“Twenty-something,” she said finally. “I stopped counting.”

Tom’s jaw worked. “And you just… did it. All day.”

“It’s the job now.” Mary peeled off the stockings, the garters leaving red marks on her thighs. “Same as catheters and bed baths used to be. Just another bodily fluid.”

He laughed once, short and bitter. “It’s not the same and you know it.”

She walked past him toward the bathroom. “I’m taking a shower. Don’t wait up.”

Under the hot water she scrubbed her hands until the skin was pink. The smell of gel and latex seemed to live in the creases of her fingers. She closed her eyes and saw the succession of cocks again—anonymous, then named, then the neighbour’s hungry stare, then the caged boy’s trembling thighs.

When she stepped out Tom was still in the kitchen, staring at nothing.

Mary wrapped the towel tighter and made a decision that surprised her.

CHOICE 5: Offer Tom limited relief under the legal grey area of “spousal assistance for medical compliance”

Highly risky. Sensors might still flag it. Could ease the tension in the house or destroy what little trust remained.

CHOICE 6: Maintain strict separation

Work is work. Home is home. Tom stays locked. She stays professional. The marriage becomes another casualty of Project Mumford & Sons.

CHOICE 7: Request a transfer or reduced hours the next day

Push back against the open-bay assignment. Risk being seen as non-cooperative.

CHOICE 8: Lean into the role

Volunteer for more open shifts, advanced techniques, training of new staff. Accept that this is the new normal and find whatever power or numbness she can inside it.

Mary stood in the bathroom doorway, hair dripping, and chose.

---

Route Continuations (Summary of Major Branches)

If she offers Tom relief:

A tense, almost clinical handjob in their own bedroom while both of them listen for the tell-tale chime of a sensor alert. The orgasm is intense and short. Afterwards the distance between them feels larger, not smaller. Tom asks questions she does not want to answer about the men at the clinic. The marriage begins a slow, quiet erosion.

If she maintains separation:

Days blur into weeks. Mary becomes one of the more efficient extractors on the floor. She learns which techniques produce the highest volumes, which