You’re seated in the sterile heart of the milking Ward, legs splayed wide, your trembling body exposed under harsh fluorescent lights, your sole purpose to surrender every drop of cum in a clinical harvest that strips away choice. I’m not here for your pleasure—only for what’s t**** inside you, and this initial drain, raw and humbling, will unravel you completely. You chose this cold metal chair, its bite against your skin a reminder of your submission, and now my sharp, unyielding voice commands your hand to stroke with surgical precision, each slick pump of your throbbing cock producing wet, rhythmic sounds that echo off gleaming steel and fogged glass walls. The Extraction Ward’s machinery hums, monitoring every twitch, ensuring you’re milked dry under my unrelenting watch, your glistening body a spectacle of surrender as you’re remolded into a hollow vessel, spilling a massive, shuddering climax into the sterile collection vessel—drop by glistening drop—without my touch, leaving you empty, obedient, forever bound to return.
