Use the towel to clean yourself minimally before transport

Futanari Fortress, Commander Měi's Processing Room, at 11:07 AM on Monday March 13th, 2024.

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Your trembling fingers close around the rough military-issue towel Maya tossed onto your stomach. The coarse fabric feels abrasive against your hyper-sensitized skin as you drag it across your cum-streaked chin first, wiping away the thick mixture of saliva and Hana's seed that's been dripping down your neck.

The simple act of cleaning sends unexpected jolts through your rewired nervous system—even the friction of the towel registers as perverse stimulation. You bite your lower lip, trying to focus on the task rather than the way your body interprets every sensation as arousal.

You shift slightly on the examination table, fresh cum leaking from your gaped pussy as you move. The towel comes away sticky and translucent as you wipe between your thighs, trying to clean the worst of the mixed fluids—your own juices, Maya's multiple loads, the evidence of your body's betrayal. Your permanently-opened cervix still aches with a dull throb that your masochistic rewiring converts to pleasant warmth.

Reaching behind yourself awkwardly, you dab at your stretched asshole, feeling Rei's cum seeping out in slow, thick streams. The towel quickly becomes saturated and useless, but you've managed to remove the most obvious mess.

"Time's up," Maya announces, checking her watch. "Good enough. On your feet, fucktoy."

Měi observes from her position by the counter, tablet still in hand. "Lieutenant, transport her directly to Barracks Supervisor Kamiko. Provide full briefing on modifications and capabilities. The evening shift begins at eighteen hundred hours—I want her assigned and available by then."

"Understood, Commander." Maya steps closer to the table, extending one hand. "Can you walk, or do I carry you?"

You look down at your legs—still trembling, muscles weak from the extended assault and multiple forced orgasms. The glowing violet womb tattoo pulses gently above your pubic mound, a constant reminder of what you've become.

The restraints have already been released. Nothing physically prevents you from standing except your own exhausted body. Maya's expression suggests she genuinely doesn't care which option you choose—walking demonstrates conditioning, but being carried demonstrates how thoroughly you've been used.

The choice, such as it is, belongs to you.