Harold Summers

**Chapter: Extraction Bay 3 – Harold Summers (Expanded)**

**Coxville Breeding Farm Satellite Facility**

**September 25, 2009 – Late Afternoon**

The recovery bay smelled of disinfectant and warm latex. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Harold Summers sat on the padded examination chair, wrists loosely strapped, government-issued chastity cage already removed and locked in the wall safe. His doughy stomach rose and fell too quickly. The past year had stripped weight from him, but not the soft helplessness.

Nurse Bianca Blackwood stood between his spread knees in her fitted black scrubs and blue gloves, silver-white hair tied back, expression calm and faintly amused. She had already been on shift for six hours. Harold was simply the next name on the list.

“Sensei… it’s been a while since it was just the two of us,” she said, voice soft, almost fond. One gloved hand rested on his thigh. The other already held his soft, modest cock between two fingers, lifting it like something mildly interesting.

Harold swallowed. “I—I reported on schedule. I’m cooperating.”

“Mm. Good boy.” She gave the shaft a slow, almost clinical stroke from base to tip, watching the skin slide. A thin bead of clear fluid appeared. “Yuuko is busy today, so I’ll be the one… handling you.”

She leaned in, blue-gloved fingers working with practiced laziness. The wet sound of latex on skin filled the quiet bay.

“Sensei’s trash sperm…” she murmured, almost to herself, and gave a gentle squeeze that made Harold’s hips twitch. “I’ll cum it out… mm.”

Harold’s face burned. He had heard the nurses talk like this before—clinical and filthy at the same time—but never directed so steadily at him.

“Just from kissing… from the tip,” Bianca continued, rubbing the head with her thumb in slow circles. “You leak such erotic juice.” She lifted her fingers to show him the strand of precum stretching between glove and cock. “You like kissing, don’t you, Sensei…?”

“I don’t—please, just collect the sample—”

“Inside the skin… oh my.” She peeled the foreskin back with two fingers and examined the flushed head like a specimen. “You’re so good for washing it properly.” A soft, mocking little laugh. “Ah… thank you.”

Harold’s cock twitched hard in her grip despite the humiliation. She noticed, of course.

She shifted, one knee on the chair, and took him into a tight, gloved fist. The strokes became longer, wetter. Lubricant from the dispenser gleamed on the blue latex.

“Oh my… I went to all that trouble to put it on…” she said, voice light, as she rolled a thin condom down his length with exaggerated care. The rubber was tight, almost pink against his skin. “This little ball can only make cum this much, huh.”

She gave the sheathed cock a few lazy pumps, then squeezed the tip so the reservoir filled with the small amount he had already leaked.

“You’re definitely different from Yuuko-chan.” Her free hand cupped his balls, rolling them. “Do you really think you can get a woman pregnant, Sensei?”

Harold made a broken sound. “I… I used to…”

“Just one ejaculation and your erection fades.” She tightened her grip and stroked faster for three seconds, then stopped dead. “What a pathetic little cock… I’m sorry.”

She giggled—quiet, almost affectionate—and peeled the condom off. A thin strand of semen stretched and broke.

“See… shall we make this depressed little dick hard again?”

She did. Two fingers, spit-slicked, worked the head while her other hand kept his balls in a firm, proprietary hold. Harold’s hips tried to lift; the straps stopped him.

“Erect… erect…” she cooed, watching him stiffen again. “Quickly get hard. If you don’t get hard, I’ll crush your balls…?”

“Wait—please—”

“Well done. Good boys get rewards.”

She rewarded him with a slow, twisting stroke that made his toes curl. Then she stopped again, leaving him straining and leaking.

“Two-finger sex with spit lube,” she announced, as if reading from a chart, and pushed both slick fingers under the head, rubbing the frenulum in tight circles. “Sensei’s personal pussy is ready… I made the hole just barely fit the tip. Barely kissing the entrance… and then…”

Harold’s voice cracked. “Bianca—Nurse—please just finish it—”

She ignored the plea. Instead she rose higher, still fully clothed, and guided the tip of his cock to rest against the soft, warm cleft of her vulva through the thin fabric of her panties. Only the head kissed the cloth.

“Ah… not cum yet. Gotta put a condom on…”

She rolled a fresh one on with exaggerated care, then settled the tip back against herself, still not taking him inside.

“I kinda like it when it’s a little wobbly too,” she whispered, rocking her hips so the head dragged back and forth across the damp fabric. “Well said… for good boys.”

Harold’s breath came in short, desperate pulls. The dual sensation—tight latex fist and the heat of her body just out of reach—broke what little composure he had left.

“A reward… please give me a reward…”

“Giggle… I have no choice. To my Hand-Pussy-chan.”

She closed her gloved fist around him completely and stroked with sudden, ruthless efficiency. The wet slap of latex filled the bay. Harold’s back arched.

“CUM.”

He did—small, sharp pulses that barely filled the reservoir. Bianca watched every spurt with clinical interest, then gave the spent cock two more slow pulls to milk the last drops.

For a moment the only sound was Harold’s ragged breathing. His cock twitched weakly inside the condom, hypersensitive, the head an angry flushed red.

Bianca did not let go.

Instead she adjusted her grip, thumb and forefinger forming a tight ring just below the glans, and began to stroke again—slow, deliberate, merciless.

“Ah—! Wait—Bianca, it’s too—”

“Sensitive already?” she asked mildly, as if checking a vital sign. The latex whispered over the overstimulated skin. “Good. Secondary stock always is. One little orgasm and the nerves light up like a switchboard.”

Harold’s hips jerked helplessly against the straps. Every pass of her gloved fingers sent sharp, electric spikes up his spine. The condom was still on; each stroke dragged the thin rubber over the raw head with wet, sticky friction.

“Please—stop—I already gave the sample—”

“The sample is collected,” she agreed, never slowing. “This is aftercare. Protocol says we confirm the donor is fully drained. You’re still twitching. That means there’s more.”

She tightened the ring of her fingers and added a twisting motion on the upstroke. Harold’s voice broke into a high, wordless sound. His soft stomach clenched. A fresh bead of watery fluid pushed into the already-used reservoir.

“Look at that. Even empty, it tries so hard.” Bianca’s tone stayed clinical, almost gentle. “Post-orgasm response is stronger in the lower-yield men. We used to think it was a flaw. Now we know it’s just another way to get the last drops.”

She kept stroking—steady, unhurried, relentless. The overstimulated head darkened further. Harold’s thighs trembled. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.

“It hurts—”

“It hurts because it’s working.” She leaned in so he could see her calm, faintly smiling face. “Breathe through it, Sensei. Good boys don’t pull away. Good boys stay hard enough for the nurse to finish her chart.”

Another slow drag of latex. Another helpless spurt of thin fluid. Harold’s cock tried to soften; she simply squeezed at the base and forced the blood back into the head, keeping him trapped in the bright, raw sensitivity.

“Thirty more seconds,” she murmured, checking the wall clock with her free hand while the other never stopped moving. “Then we wipe, measure residual volume, and lock you back up. You’re doing fine. Most secondary donors start begging by now.”

Harold was already begging—small, broken pleas that she acknowledged only with a soft “mm” and another deliberate stroke.

When the thirty seconds ended she finally stilled her hand, leaving him throbbing and glistening inside the ruined condom. She peeled it off with practiced care, tied it, and dropped it into the sample tray beside the first.

“Yield acceptable for secondary stock,” she said, making a neat note on his chart. “Post-orgasm response: strong. Residual fluid: measurable. Cage goes back on in three minutes. Next extraction in nine days.”

She stripped the blue gloves with a snap, dropped them in the biohazard bin, and looked down at him one last time—still strapped, still twitching, cock soft and shining under the fluorescent lights.

“Try not to dream about the fog too hard, Harold. The real work is still done with gloves on.”