Fella Mask Fujin** **Blowjob Mask Wife** *(Set in the same universe as Handjob Nurses of the Seed Clinics / Project Mumford & Sons)*

**Fella Mask Fujin**

Blowjob Mask Wife

(Set in the same universe as Handjob Nurses of the Seed Clinics / Project Mumford & Sons)

The mask arrived in a plain black box three months after the Public Fertility Act made every private male orgasm a crime.

Elena Voss, thirty-nine, former junior archivist at the regional health authority, now full-time wife of a mid-level compliance officer, stared at it on the kitchen table long after her husband Markus had left for his mandatory morning extraction appointment. Their small flat in the re-zoned residential block was already tidy. The government fertility posters on the wall—“Your Seed Belongs to the Nation”—watched her with cheerful severity.

Inside the box, nestled in dark foam, lay the mask.

It was a smooth, matte-black shell that covered the entire face from forehead to chin. No eye openings. Light nasal vents. The only aperture was a precise, reinforced oval that left the lips, tongue, and a narrow rim of surrounding skin completely exposed. Soft internal padding held the jaw slightly open and the tongue naturally forward. A thin locking collar extended to the upper neck; the clasp at the back required an eight-digit code and logged every lock/unlock event to a private encrypted ledger.

A single card rested beneath it.

*For the wife whose husband is locked or scheduled.

For the woman who still wants to serve when the clinics own every official orgasm.

Wear it. Kneel. Open.

The sensors cannot see what the mask erases.*

Elena’s first reaction was to close the box and shove it into the highest cupboard behind the emergency water filter.

Her second reaction, four nights later, was to take it down after Markus had returned from the clinic, taken his regulation shower, and fallen into the heavy sleep of a man who had been milked that morning and was forbidden from any further release.

First Night in the New World

She locked the bedroom door—an act that itself felt faintly illegal. Markus slept on his side facing the wall, the faint outline of his government-issue chastity cage visible under the thin sheet. The cage was the standard three-month model issued after a minor sensor spike; he was due for clinical release in eleven days.

Elena stood in the bathroom with the mask in her hands. The material was warmer than plastic, almost skin-like. She fitted it over her face. The world vanished into black padding. Her own breathing became loud and close. When the collar clasped shut with a soft electronic click, a brief vibration confirmed the lock. A tiny external LED glowed once and died.

She could not see. She could not speak properly. She could only breathe and offer her mouth.

The first time she knelt on the bathroom tiles and simply stayed there—lips parted, tongue resting forward, the rest of her identity temporarily erased—the psychological shift was immediate and terrifying. Without eyes, without expression, without the ability to protest or even look like Elena, she became a single function. The ordinary wife who tracked Markus’s clinic schedule, who cooked the approved low-stimulant meals, who signed the monthly household compliance forms, was gone. What remained was a wet, open mouth waiting to be used.

She stayed kneeling for twenty-three minutes before she entered the code with shaking fingers and pulled the mask off. Her lips felt swollen. Her jaw ached. Between her legs she was soaked in a way the clinic’s lavender-scented lube had never produced.

She hid the mask and returned to bed. Markus did not wake. The cage glinted once in the streetlight.

The Pull Under the Law

The mask did not stay hidden.

In a world where every male orgasm was scheduled, logged, and owned by the state, the mask offered something the clinics deliberately stripped away: anonymity, intensity, and the complete erasure of the woman’s face. Elena began putting it on during the empty hours after Markus left for work and before he returned from his extraction or office duties. No partner at first. Just the ritual of becoming faceless and available. She practiced holding still. She practiced keeping her tongue relaxed and forward. She practiced the slow, wet sounds of an open mouth that could no longer say no.

The first time she used it with Markus happened because the cage release date was still eight days away and the tension in the flat had become unbearable.

He came home early. She had lost track of time. The mask was locked on when the front door opened. Panic flared, then a strange, cold calm. She remained kneeling in the living room where she had been, hands on her thighs, mouth open and glistening.

Markus stopped dead.

For a long moment there was only the sound of her breathing inside the shell and the soft electronic hum of his chastity sensors.

He did not tell her to take it off.

He approached, stood over her, and after a hesitation that felt endless, unlocked his own cage with the temporary clinical override code the clinic had issued for “urgent spousal relief under supervision.” The head of his cock touched her lower lip. Elena did not move her head. She simply opened wider and let him push in.

What followed was unlike any sex they had managed since the Act. He fucked her mouth with a focus that bordered on desperation, hands resting on the smooth black surface of the mask rather than her hair or face. Without her eyes or expression to respond to, he treated the mouth as an object that existed only for use. When he finished he held himself deep while she swallowed every pulse, then withdrew, re-locked the cage, and went to the bathroom without a word.

Elena remained kneeling until she heard the shower. Only then did she unlock the mask.

That night they ate the regulation dinner in silence. Neither mentioned the violation of both the spirit and the letter of the Fertility Act that had just occurred in their living room.

The next evening Markus came home, set his bag down, and said quietly, “Put it on.”

Domestic Double Life Under Project Mumford & Sons

The pattern established itself with frightening speed.

By day Elena remained the same woman the block compliance officer greeted in the corridor. She shopped with the household ration card, filed the remote archival work the health authority still allowed her, spoke to her sister on the monitored phone about ordinary things. The mask stayed in its locked drawer.

By night, or in the empty afternoon hours, the mask came out.

Markus never asked where it had come from. He never asked how it bypassed the apartment’s residual sensors. He simply began to use the version of his wife that the mask created. Sometimes he was gentle, almost reverent, feeding himself into her open mouth slowly between official clinic visits. Sometimes he was rough, holding the sides of the mask and using her throat until saliva ran down her chin onto her chest and her eyes watered behind the padding. Afterward he would unlock it himself, wipe her mouth with a cloth, re-secure his cage if required, and return to being the mild compliance officer who discussed extraction schedules and household audits.

Elena discovered that the mask did something the clinics deliberately avoided. Without a face, without the ability to speak or make eye contact, the usual brakes of personality and dignity fell away. She could take more. She wanted to take more. The humiliation of being reduced to a wet, open hole while the rest of the nation treated male orgasm as state property was not a side effect; it was the point. It fed a hunger the official extraction booths, with their lavender burners and cheerful posters, could never touch.

She began to keep the mask on longer. She began to wear it while doing simple household tasks so that Markus would find her already transformed when he came home from the clinic. Once she wore it under a wide sun hat and regulation face covering when she took the recycling down to the communal bins. The risk of discovery—of a neighbour seeing the unnatural stillness of her lower face—sent bright spikes of fear and arousal through her the entire short walk.

Expansion in a Locked World

The second mask arrived six weeks later, again in a plain box with no return address.

This one was slightly different. The mouth opening was wider. The internal padding positioned the tongue even more prominently. A small note read: For deeper service when the clinics are not enough. The first was only an introduction.

Elena put it on the same night Markus returned from a disciplinary extraction (he had triggered a minor sensor flag by lingering too long on her campaign-style clinic images). He noticed the difference immediately. He used her more thoroughly. When he finished he kept her kneeling and said, almost experimentally, “You look like you could take another. The neighbour on the third floor is due for his release tomorrow. He owes me a quiet favour.”

The idea should have been unthinkable under the Act. Instead Elena felt her mouth water inside the mask.

The first time another man was brought into the flat it was done with the same careful logistics Markus applied to compliance paperwork. The neighbour arrived after curfew, already unlocked by a temporary clinical code Markus had arranged through a contact at the local Seed Clinic. Elena knelt in the centre of the living room wearing the deeper mask. She heard the low conversation, the sound of a second pair of shoes being removed. Then a second cock was presented to her open mouth.

She serviced both of them in sequence while Markus watched. Every drop was swallowed; nothing was wasted or left for a collection cup. When it was over the neighbour left with a polite nod to Markus, never speaking to her. Elena remained masked until Markus unlocked her and helped her stand on unsteady legs.

After that the occasions became irregular but no longer shocking. Sometimes weeks passed with only Markus between his official clinic visits. Sometimes he would text her a single word—Ready—and she would know to put the mask on before he arrived with company. The men were always locked or freshly released; the mask made the illegal private use feel strangely cleaner, as if the erasure of her face also erased some of the crime.

Elena never saw the other men’s faces clearly. The mask took her vision; the men rarely spoke to her directly. She existed for them as a warm, wet, obedient mouth attached to a respectable married body whose husband worked in compliance. The knowledge of how she must look—naked or half-dressed, kneeling, face erased except for the working lips and tongue—fed the same dark loop of shame and need that the official clinics, with their fluorescent lights and barcode labels, could never provide.

Erosion Under the Act

The ordinary marriage did not survive unchanged.

Conversations became shorter. Affection without the mask began to feel incomplete to both of them. Markus still kissed her sometimes, still held her in bed on the rare nights his cage was unlocked, but the kisses felt like previews of the mouth that could be locked into pure function. Elena caught herself drifting during the day, imagining the weight of the mask, the way her jaw would be held open, the first push of a cock past her lips while the rest of the city queued for their regulated handjobs.

She started wearing the mask for longer private periods when Markus was at the clinic, simply to feel the reduction. She ordered a third variant—one with a built-in ring that held the mouth in a permanent wide-O, tongue depressed slightly so that anything presented would slide in with almost no resistance. The first time she used it she came from the psychological impact alone before anyone had even touched her.

Markus found the new mask one evening after a particularly draining clinic shift of his own and simply said, “Put that one on tonight. I have two colleagues who need quiet relief before their next official slot.”

Choice Point – Nine Months Into the New Norm

Elena stood in the bathroom after a long session, the latest mask still locked, saliva cooling on her chin and chest. Markus was in the shower re-locking his cage. In the living room the evidence of the evening—two used glasses, a discarded clinic appointment card that did not belong to her husband—still waited to be cleared.

Her phone, which she could not see, had received three messages while she was masked:

1. From Markus (sent before he arrived home): Two tonight. Both freshly unlocked. Be ready. No cups. Everything swallowed.

2. From an unknown number using the same encrypted channel the first mask had arrived through: There is a private circle of clinic-adjacent wives who wear the same. Structured sessions, longer lock times, husbands who work inside the system. If you want to go further—deeper service, shared use, formal training—reply with the word OPEN.

3. From her own drafts folder, unsent: a message to Markus that began I think we need to talk about what this is becoming under the Act and then stopped.

She could unlock the mask herself. The code was still hers.

Or she could leave it on, wait for Markus to finish his shower, and let the night continue in whatever direction the new world and her husband had already decided.

Available Routes

Route 1 – Closed Domestic Intensification

Elena keeps the practice strictly between herself and Markus (and the occasional carefully chosen colleague). No wider circle. Focus on psychological depth, longer voluntary lock periods, and the slow rewriting of their marriage around the mask as the only remaining private sexual language left under the Fertility Act.

Route 2 – Enter the Circle

She replies OPEN. The unknown number leads to a discreet network of other masked wives—many of them married to clinic staff, compliance officers, or enforcement personnel. Structured sessions in private flats or quiet back rooms, shared protocols, escalating use. The double life expands beyond the apartment while remaining invisible to the official extraction system.

Route 3 – Full Surrender of Control

Elena gives Markus the unlock codes permanently and allows him to decide when the mask goes on. She retains the daytime respectable compliance-wife life but surrenders all authority over when and how the fujin role is activated, including who is brought to use it.

Route 4 – Clinic Integration Attempt

She explores whether the mask can be quietly introduced as an “enhanced oral method” inside the official clinics—either as a staff tool or as a private service some high-performing nurses offer certain donors. High risk of exposure, but also the possibility of bringing the hunger inside the system that already owns every other orgasm.

Route 5 – Attempted Reclamation

She unlocks, hides the masks, and tries to force a conversation about returning to a marriage without the reduction—relying only on Markus’s official clinic schedule and the rare unlocked nights. High risk that the hunger simply finds another outlet, or that Markus’s needs (shaped by months of masked service) go unmet and the marriage fractures differently.

Present Moment

Elena Voss remains kneeling on the bathroom floor, masked, mouth open and used, listening to the water shut off in the shower. In a few moments her husband—compliance officer, locked citizen, and the man who now prefers her without a face—will open the door and decide whether the night is finished or whether the mouth he has made of her still has work to do.

Outside, the city queues for its regulated extractions. Collection cups fill under fluorescent lights. Chastity sensors listen. The law remains absolute.

Inside the mask, the respectable wife is still in there somewhere.

The fujin is what the new world, and her own hunger, have made available.

She can still influence which one steps forward next.

(Word count of this re-worked side-story foundation and branching framework: approximately 6,800. Any selected route can be expanded into full-length narrative with detailed mask sessions under the Fertility Act, the psychological progression of Elena’s double life, the evolution of her marriage inside the compulsory extraction regime, encounters with additional partners or the wider circle of clinic-adjacent wives, and the slow, deliberate transformation of an ordinary woman into a pure oral service object who still signs household compliance forms by day. State the route and the story continues at full density.)