Wanking

The blackness lifts slowly, like a heavy curtain dragged across your mind. Your head throbs. The first thing you register is the cold metal of a table under your back and the sharp chemical tang of disinfectant. Your wrists and ankles are strapped down. A thick, locked ring of polished steel sits tight around the base of your cock, already half-hard from whatever they injected you with while you were out. The chastity device is sleek, clinical, and utterly inescapable. A small green light blinks on its side.

You are not alone.

A woman in a crisp white nurse’s uniform stands at the foot of the table, reviewing a tablet. She is mature—late forties, maybe early fifties—with the kind of full, heavy breasts that strain the buttons of her blouse and the confident posture of someone who has done this hundreds of times. Her dark hair is pulled back in a tight bun. When she looks up, her expression is pure professional boredom mixed with mild contempt.

“Subject 47-B,” she says, voice flat. “Caught with an unauthorized erection in a public park, attempting to assault a civilian. Standard extraction and permanent device fitting. You’re lucky the cameras only caught the start of it. The others scattered. You’re the only one we got clean.”

She sets the tablet aside and snaps on a pair of latex gloves with practiced efficiency. Without asking permission she reaches down, unlocks the temporary restraint on your cock, and takes you in her gloved hand. Her grip is firm, almost clinical, and she begins stroking you with short, efficient pulls—no teasing, no softness. Just extraction.

“This is your first compulsory milking,” she continues, working you harder. “After today you’ll report every seventy-two hours to a designated clinic. Fail to appear and the device tightens. Keep failing and we escalate. The law is very clear now: your seed belongs to the state. Personal pleasure is a luxury men no longer get to choose.”

Her hand moves faster. The latex squeaks. She watches your face with detached interest as your hips jerk against the straps. When you start to swell toward the edge she slows deliberately, squeezing the base until the urge recedes, then starts again. Harsh. Controlled. She milks you like livestock.

“You’re going to learn,” she says quietly, almost conversational, “that the only relief you get is what we allow. And we allow it when we need the sample.”

She brings you right to the brink a second time and stops completely, leaving you throbbing and leaking. Then she steps back, opens a drawer, and produces a longer, heavier chastity cage—polished steel with a urethral tube already fitted. She slides it on with clinical precision, locking it with a solid click. The tube forces a thin line of residual precum out of you. The green light on the new device turns blue.

“There,” she says. “Permanent. You’ll feel every urge and be able to do nothing about it. Report to the Westside Extraction Clinic in three days. They’ll unlock you long enough to milk you properly. Until then…” She gives the cage a little tap with one gloved finger. “Enjoy the reminder.”

She turns to leave, then pauses at the door.

“Oh—and the woman you tried to corner in the park? She’s already filed a full statement. She works here, actually. Night shift. She requested to be present for your next extraction.” The nurse’s mouth curves into the smallest, coldest smile. “She has some very specific ideas about how it should go.”

The door closes. The lock engages.

You are left alone on the table, locked, aching, and already counting the hours until they let you come again—on their terms, under their hands, with no choice left in the matter.

Outside the reinforced window of the clinic, the city keeps moving. Somewhere out there the rest of your group is still free, still risking it. You are not.