The van

The van smelled of stale coffee, cheap air freshener, and something sharper underneath—disinfectant mixed with the faint metallic tang of old fear. Jill sat rigidly in the passenger seat, knees pressed together as tightly as the microscopic navy skirt would allow. Every bump in the road sent the rough seam of the fabric dragging across her freshly shaved, still-tender pussy lips. The rigid silicone nipple shields did nothing to stop the constant, maddening pressure of the too-small jacket against her oversensitive nipples. They throbbed in time with the engine, two hard points of pure irritation that refused to settle.

Sergeant Brown drove in silence for the first ten minutes, one hand resting casually on the gearstick, the other occasionally adjusting the rear-view mirror so he could glance at her. The smile never quite left his face.

“You’re quiet, Probationer,” he said at last. “Most girls would be asking questions by now.”

Jill kept her eyes fixed on the dark road. “What’s the point? You’ve already decided.”

“True.” He chuckled. “But you should know the rules before we get there. Extraction Duty isn’t optional. The clinics are understaffed. The men’s clinics especially. Too many volunteers pulled out once they realised what the work actually involved. So the Home Office started assigning policewomen. Women with the right… attributes.” His eyes flicked to her chest. “You’re not the first. You won’t be the last.”

The van turned off the main road and through a pair of heavy gates marked with the new government crest—a stylised droplet of white fluid under a locked padlock. The sign read: NATIONAL SEED RECLAMATION FACILITY – BLOCK D. Beneath it, in smaller letters: Compulsory Attendance. Non-compliance punishable by permanent chastity.

Brown parked under a floodlight. “Inside. Changing room is first left. You’ll be briefed by Matron. Do exactly what she says. And Jill—” he waited until she looked at him—“don’t try to be clever. The cameras are everywhere. The men in there haven’t come in months. Some of them haven’t come in over a year. They’re desperate. You’re the only relief they’re allowed. Act like it.”

The changing room was cold and clinical. White tiles, fluorescent lights, a row of lockers with names already written on tape. Her name was there in black marker: WPC J. HARRIS – EXTRACTION. Inside the locker sat a thin white coat that barely reached mid-thigh, a pair of latex gloves, and a small laminated card.

EXTRACTION PROTOCOL – FEMALE STAFF

1. Subject must remain in chastity until authorised release.

2. No penetrative intercourse. Manual and oral extraction only.

3. Full collection of ejaculate required.

4. Subject may not touch staff without permission.

5. Staff may use any approved stimulation method.

6. Refusal by staff constitutes dereliction of duty.

Jill stared at the card until the words blurred. Her bare pussy still pulsed from the razor and the constant friction of the skirt. The cold air of the changing room made her nipples tighten further against the shields. She stripped the uniform off with shaking hands, pulled on the short white coat, and stepped into the corridor.

Matron was waiting. Tall, severe, grey hair pulled into a bun so tight it looked painful. Her eyes travelled over Jill with the same clinical assessment Brown had used.

“Harris. You’re late. Follow me.”

The main extraction hall was long and brightly lit. Twelve stations, each consisting of a reclining medical chair with stirrups, a collection funnel and tube leading to a sealed sample bottle, and a locked metal cage around the subject’s hips. Most of the chairs were already occupied. Men of various ages sat or lay in them, wrists lightly restrained, heavy steel chastity cages locked around their cocks and balls. Some stared at the ceiling. Others watched the doorway with naked hunger the moment Jill appeared.

Matron’s voice was flat. “These men are here because the law requires it. Declining sperm counts. Falling birth rates. The state needs every viable sample. Your job is to produce those samples efficiently and without unnecessary delay. You will work Station Three tonight. Subject is already prepared.”

Station Three held a man in his late twenties. Dark hair, lean build, jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped. His chastity cage was a heavy stainless-steel tube that forced his cock downward, the tip just visible through a small opening at the end. His balls were swollen and dark, pulled tight against the base ring. A thin sheen of sweat covered his chest.

Matron unlocked the cage with a key on a retractable reel. The moment the metal came free, the man’s cock surged upward, thick and flushed almost purple, the head already leaking a steady string of clear fluid. He groaned through gritted teeth.

“Name’s Reynolds,” Matron said. “Thirty-one days since last extraction. He tried to refuse attendance twice. The second time earned him an extra week in the cage. He will not refuse again. Get to work.”

She left without another word.

Jill stood frozen for several seconds. The white coat felt paper-thin. Every man in the room who could turn his head was watching her. Reynolds’s eyes locked on hers, dark and desperate.

“Please,” he said, voice rough. “Just… please.”

She pulled on the latex gloves. The snap of the rubber made him flinch. Up close she could smell him—soap, clean sweat, and the heavy, musky scent of prolonged denial. His cock twitched hard when her gloved fingers closed around the base.

She started slowly, the way the training video had shown in the brief she’d been forced to watch on the tablet in the van. Firm strokes from root to tip, twisting slightly over the head on every upstroke. Reynolds’s hips jerked. A thick bead of pre-come welled up and rolled down over her fingers.

“Fuck—sorry—I can’t—”

“Don’t apologise,” Jill said automatically, then hated how steady her voice sounded. “Just… stay still.”

She worked him with both hands. One stroking, the other cupping and gently rolling his heavy balls. The skin of his sack was tight, almost shiny. Every time she squeezed lightly he made a broken sound. His cock was thick enough that her fingers didn’t quite meet around it. The head was flared and dark, the slit constantly weeping.

After three minutes his breathing turned ragged. Jill felt the first warning pulse under her fingers and slowed deliberately, squeezing just below the head until the urgency faded. Reynolds’s head thrashed against the headrest.

“Please don’t stop—Matron said—full collection—”

“I know what she said.” Jill’s own voice was tighter now. The constant friction of the short coat against her bare nipples was becoming unbearable. Every movement sent little sparks down to her still-sensitive, shaved pussy. She could feel herself getting wet, the cool air of the hall kissing the slickness between her thighs.

She resumed stroking, faster this time. Reynolds’s hips lifted as far as the restraints allowed. Thick ropes of pre-come coated her gloves. When she finally let him tip over the edge, the first pulse was so strong it almost escaped the collection funnel. She aimed him carefully. Thick, opaque come flooded the tube in long, heavy spurts. He kept coming for what felt like forever—pulse after pulse, his whole body shaking, a low continuous groan tearing out of him.

When it finally ended he sagged, chest heaving. The sample bottle was more than half full.

Jill sealed it, labelled it with the barcode scanner, and dropped it into the pneumatic tube. Her gloves were slick. She stripped them off and reached for a fresh pair.

Matron’s voice came over the intercom. “Station Three complete. Move to Station Five. Subject is waiting.”

Station Five was older. Mid-forties, greying at the temples, a heavy cage that had left deep red marks on the base of his cock. When she unlocked him he was already rock-hard, the head shiny and wet. He didn’t speak. He just watched her hands with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

She used her mouth this time. The protocol allowed it. Matron had been explicit: any approved method. Jill sank to her knees between the stirrups, the short white coat riding up over her ass. She felt the air on her bare pussy and knew every man who could see the angle was looking. She took the older man into her mouth, tasting salt and clean skin and the sharp bitterness of long denial. He came embarrassingly fast—less than two minutes—flooding her mouth with thick, heavy spurts she had to work to swallow and direct into the funnel. Some of it escaped and ran down her chin. She wiped it with the back of her wrist and stood on unsteady legs.

By the fourth extraction her jaw ached and her gloves were sticky again. By the sixth her thighs were shiny with her own arousal. The constant low-level friction of movement, the knowledge that she was being watched, the raw desperate sounds the men made when she finally let them come—it all fed into the slow, humiliating heat building between her legs. Her nipples felt like they were on fire against the thin coat. Every time she bent forward they dragged, sending sharp sparks straight to her clit.

Station Nine was different.

The man was younger, early twenties, lean and wiry. His cage had been a particularly restrictive model; when she unlocked it his cock sprang free already dripping, the head almost purple. He looked at her with something close to awe.

“You’re the new one,” he said. “They said a blonde was coming. Tall. Big tits.” His eyes dropped to the front of her coat where her nipples clearly tented the fabric. “Fuck. They weren’t lying.”

Jill didn’t answer. She wrapped her gloved hand around him and started stroking. He was vocal—loud, broken moans that echoed across the hall every time she twisted over the head. When she leaned down and took him into her mouth he almost sobbed. His hands flexed against the restraints as if he wanted to bury them in her hair. She sucked him slowly, thoroughly, using her tongue against the sensitive underside, one hand gently milking his tight balls. He lasted longer than the others. When he finally came it was with a raw shout, flooding her mouth in heavy pulses she had to swallow around the funnel. Some of it still escaped, running down her chin and dripping onto the upper slopes of her breasts where the coat had gaped open.

She stood, wiped her mouth, and sealed the sample. Her legs felt unsteady. The inside of her thighs were slick. Every step made her bare pussy lips slide against each other.

Matron appeared at her shoulder as she finished labelling.

“Break room. Ten minutes. Hydrate. Then you’re on the special list.”

The break room was a small white box with a water cooler and a single plastic chair. Jill drank two cups of water without tasting them. Her reflection in the small mirror above the sink looked flushed, lips swollen, a smear of drying come still at the corner of her mouth. She cleaned it off with a paper towel. Her nipples were still rigidly hard. When she shifted her weight she felt how wet she was—embarrassingly, obviously wet.

The door opened. Matron again.

“Special list is three men in isolation. High-value donors. Extended denial. You’ll work them one after another in Room B. No time limit. Full collection. They have been informed that resistance will result in another thirty days in the cage. They will not resist.”

Room B was smaller, dimmer, the lights lower. Three medical chairs faced a single observation window. The first man was already unlocked and waiting, cock standing thick and heavy against his stomach. He looked like he’d been an athlete once—broad shoulders, defined arms, a dusting of dark hair across his chest. His eyes tracked every movement Jill made as she approached.

She didn’t bother with gloves this time. The protocol didn’t require them for oral. She dropped to her knees, pushed the short coat up out of the way, and took him into her mouth. He was bigger than the others. Her jaw stretched. She worked him slowly, thoroughly, one hand stroking what she couldn’t fit, the other gently squeezing and rolling his balls. He lasted almost eight minutes. When he came it was with a deep, guttural groan, flooding her mouth in thick, ropey pulses that she directed carefully into the collection funnel. Some still escaped. She swallowed what she had to and sealed the sample with steady hands that no longer felt like her own.

The second man was quieter. He watched her the entire time she stroked him, eyes dark, breathing controlled until the very end. She used both hands and her mouth, alternating, drawing it out until his thighs were shaking. When he finally came it was almost silent—just a sharp inhale and then the heavy, rhythmic pulses filling the funnel.

The third man was the one who broke her.

He was older than the others, late thirties, a thick dark beard and eyes that looked like they hadn’t slept properly in weeks. When she unlocked his cage his cock was already leaking a steady stream of pre-come. He didn’t speak. He just looked at her.

Jill wrapped her bare hand around him and started stroking. Slow. Firm. Twisting over the head on every upstroke the way she’d learned produced the thickest samples. His breathing roughened almost immediately. She leaned down and licked a long stripe up the underside, then took the head into her mouth and sucked gently while her hand continued to work the shaft. He made a low, broken sound.

She lost track of time. The room was quiet except for the wet sounds of her mouth and hand and the increasingly desperate noises he tried to muffle. Her own arousal had become a constant, low ache. Every time she shifted on her knees she felt how slick she was. Her nipples dragged against the thin coat with every movement. At some point she realised she was pressing her thighs together, chasing friction without meaning to.

When he finally came it was with a raw, helpless shout. Thick, heavy spurts flooded the funnel and then her mouth when she wasn’t quick enough to redirect. She swallowed automatically, sealed the sample, and sat back on her heels, breathing hard.

Matron’s voice came through the intercom.

“Full collection confirmed. Return to the main hall. Two more stations. Then you’re done for the night.”

Jill stood on legs that felt disconnected. The short white coat clung to her in places where sweat and other fluids had dampened it. Her bare pussy was swollen and glistening. She could feel cool air against it with every step.

The last two extractions passed in a blur of slick skin and desperate sounds and the wet heat of her own body betraying her. When the final sample was sealed and sent, Matron met her at the door with a tablet.

“Sign here. Confirm all twelve stations completed. No incomplete collections. No unauthorised contact.”

Jill signed. Her signature looked shaky.

“Changing room. Your regular uniform is there. Report to Sergeant Brown at the van. You’re on Extraction Duty again Thursday. Same time.”

The changing room felt colder than before. Jill stripped off the short white coat. Her reflection in the mirror showed flushed skin, swollen lips, nipples still rigidly hard, and a shiny slickness coating the insides of her thighs. She cleaned up as best she could with paper towels and cold water, then pulled the hated navy extraction uniform back on because her regular clothes weren’t there. The rough fabric scraped over her oversensitive nipples and dragged against her bare, wet pussy all over again.

Brown was waiting by the van, smoking.

“Productive night?” he asked.

Jill didn’t answer. She climbed into the passenger seat and stared straight ahead. The engine turned over. The gates of the facility rolled open. As they pulled out onto the dark road, the seam of the tiny skirt shifted against her and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to stay silent.

Behind them the floodlights of Block D stayed on, waiting for the next shift.