Hostile Takeover

The monthly procedure was a fixture of Joshua's calendar, a day of a different kind of dread. It was not the brutal punishment of Alistair or the casual humiliation of Mrs. Gable, but the cold, clinical violation of Dr. Helen Reed. She was a scientist, and he was her experiment.

He was led, not to a bedroom, but to a small, sterile medical room in the west wing. The air smelled of antiseptic and bleach. In the center of the room was a medical examination table, its surface covered in crisp white paper. It was equipped with a series of menacing leather-and-metal restraints.

"Up," Dr. Reed commanded, her voice crisp. "On the table. Face up."

Joshua complied. She moved with practiced efficiency, strapping his wrists to the table's sides, his ankles to the stirrups at the end, leaving him spread and exposed. A thick strap was pulled across his chest, completely immobilizing him.

"Monthly cleaning and milking," she announced, making notes on a tablet. "It's important to maintain hygiene and prevent... complications from prolonged disuse." She smiled, a thin, bloodless expression. "And to collect data, of course."

She began with his body hair. She produced a can of shaving cream and a straight razor. The foam was cold against his skin. She worked methodically, starting with his chest, then his armpits, and his legs. The razor was sharp, scraping away his hair, leaving his skin smooth and alien. She was removing another layer of his identity, another piece of the man he had been. When she was finished, he was as hairless as a newborn, his skin pale and vulnerable.

Next, she removed the spiked cage. The relief was immediate, but fleeting. She examined his penis and scrotum with clinical detachment, prodding and poking. "The device is effective. No signs of chafing or infection. The pricks are healing nicely."

She then picked up a small bottle and a syringe. "A vasodilator," she explained, tapping the syringe. "To induce erection for the procedure. We need the tissue engorged for... accurate measurement."

She injected the fluid into the base of his shaft. Almost immediately, his penis began to swell, rising stiffly from his groin. It was a traitorous, involuntary response, his body betraying him yet again.

"Excellent response," Dr. Reed noted, her eyes gleaming with scientific curiosity. "Now for the collection device."

She opened a drawer and took out what looked like a condom, but it was different. It was thick, industrial, made of a dull, opaque medical-grade rubber. It was utterly devoid of sensuality.

"This is a Class Four medical sheath," she explained, unrolling it over his rigid cock. "It's designed for maximum protection and minimal sensation. You will feel pressure and warmth, but little else. We want a clean sample, untainted by... subjective experience."

The sheath was tight, suffocating. It effectively numbed him, turning his most sensitive organ into a blunt, unfeeling instrument.

"And now," Dr. Reed said, hiking up her white coat to reveal that she, too, wore no underwear, "for the primary collection method."

She straddled him, her thighs on either side of his hips. She guided his sheathed cock to her entrance and sank down onto him. He could feel it—the pressure of her body, the warmth of her enveloping him—but it was a distant, muted sensation, like feeling through a thick layer of wool. He was being used, but he was detached from the act, a participant only in the most mechanical sense.

Dr. Reed began to ride him, her movements controlled, her expression focused. She was not seeking pleasure, but data. She watched his face, his vital signs on a monitor beside the table, her hips moving in a steady, clinical rhythm. She was masturbating with a medical device, and he was the device.

Her breathing quickened. Her movements became more urgent. She ground down against him, her body tensing. With a soft gasp, she orgasmed, a shudder running through her. She remained there for a moment, catching her breath, before climbing off him.

"Phase one complete," she noted on her tablet. "Now for phase two. Prostate milking."

She coated her gloved fingers in lubricant and, without preamble, plunged two fingers into his ass. She found his prostate with unerring accuracy and began to massage it, a firm, insistent pressure. It was a strange, invasive sensation, a deep, building pressure that was neither painful nor pleasurable, but something in between. His body, still under the influence of the drug, remained rock hard.

He could feel the semen gathering, the pressure building to an unbearable point. It was a mechanical process, a biological function being triggered by an expert. With a groan, he came, his body arching against the straps as he pumped his seed into the thick, opaque sheath. It was a hollow, empty orgasm, a physical release with no pleasure, no emotion, no humanity.

Dr. Reed carefully removed the sheath. It was heavy, filled with his semen. She held it up, examining the contents like a vintner judging a fine wine.

"Good volume," she murmured. "Acceptable viscosity."

She then did the final, most soul-crushing thing. She squeezed the contents of the sheath into a small glass cup. She looked down at Joshua, her eyes glinting with amusement.

"Open," she commanded.

His mouth, the traitor, opened. She tilted the cup, and his own warm, salty, spent semen filled his mouth. "Swallow," she ordered.

He did, the taste of his own degradation coating his throat.

"Excellent," Dr. Reed said, making a final note on her tablet. "All systems are functioning as designed. We'll see you next month."

She left him there, naked, hairless, and hollowed out, the taste of his own come a bitter reminder of his absolute and utter powerlessness. It was two hours before she returned, and his erection had diminished enough to return the spike cage.