The leather dog mask squishes my face, heavy with sweat and my own hot breath. The zentai black suit clings to every inch of my trembling meat, the carabiners from my vest chains grate against overhead metal. I hang, dangled like a useless slab for a butcher’s table, my bare cock rock-hard despite the cold cell, the uncut tip pushing against the slick foreskin, leaking a bead of juice. Alone. What the cruel fuck kind of torture leaves you to just hang and soak in fear?

Door slides open, slick and silent. A figure, head to toe in black rubber, steps in. No face to read. Just stands, still, watching. My pulse drums in my skull. "Fuck! Where am I?!" I mouth inside the gag; no sound escapes but a muffled grunt. He doesn't flinch—just watches my dick twitch.

Ceiling speaker crackles to life: "Welcome, Meat, to the Meat Milking Cell. Today, you have a Cum Milk session. We need… your milk." The disembodied voice circles inside my head, while the black rubber steps closer, draws out chrome instruments. I see a sterile tube set and a collection cup.

Silently, his gloved hand wraps my shaft, each calloused pressure ripping low moans from my throat. I feel his other hand works my foreskin back into a gnarled ring of a cunt, the soft glans exposed, trying to jerk free. He squeezes a cold lubricant that slicks the head, making me quiver. "For full extraction," the voice purrs.

The tube slides against my slick head, the cup a plastic uterus I