Saturday, January 12, 2013
The Extraction Nurse V - Final
The final episode of this story segment. As stated, the followup is posted on Smashwords, entitled 'Grateful Servitude'. Also the second sequel, 'Conditioning the Male'.
Hope you have enjoyed.
Extraction Number Four Hundred and Fifty Two
A groggy Robert slowly returns to consciousness, the computer changing the flow of nitrous oxide tainted air to a more salubrious mixture of oxygen and nitrogen. Straining eyes see that the cleansing nurse is completing her ablutions, a warm wet chamois smoothing everywhere, removing the traces of massage oil. He has never met or seen his massage nurse, the woman who meticulously kneads and palpates every muscle, toning the otherwise immobile, precluding cramps. He knows that in his chemically induced slumber, each arm and leg is momentarily released, presumably limbered with zeal then returned to inexorable bondage. But for whoever’s attentive efforts, Robert would have the physique of a sponge, he has come to realize, notwithstanding the precision balanced, highly nutritious, hormone laden sludge of the nutrition nurse.
The cute cleansing nurse, remaining youthful despite the many years, smiles. Robert knows not to try to speak. There is nothing to say. The isolation has numbed the mind. Indeed his only thoughts have been to perform and to please... fervently dispensing his seed into the welcoming collection pouch of the extraction nurse... accepting the only full sensory input offered... a knowing, gentle, stroking feminine hand.
“Time to be milked,” the nurse quips stepping away to stow the dirty diaper, her towels and soap.
The effeminate fragrance of her soap has come to serve as one of the many prompts, a catalyst for masturbation. Robert’s system reacts, knowing that within moments, the extraction nurse will enter and dutifully drain him. He thus begins to harden, indeed a Pavlovian dog.
The nurse turns back and chuckles seeing the penis harden, knowingly shaking her head as Robert obediently lifts his legs, ankles searching for the overhead horizontal bar.
The decubitus position... as mandated.
“You’re all so eager... all so well trained. And when it comes to offering your sperm... all so easily trainable. I’ll be back to diaper you, but I suspect you’ll be asleep.”
Yes, he has always been returned to his comatose state completely naked and awoken to see either the diaper being removed or seeing the remnants of his excretions being washed away. The nurse has returned and with the care of a mother, diapered after each and every extraction.
With that, the nurse departs, leaving Robert to await what he knows will be a very short interval. He has come to realize over the years that the scheduling is precise. Just as with the flow through the feeding tube, his induced coma is computer controlled, the period of consciousness to be minimized.
Within seconds, certainly no longer than a minute, the door opens and the handsome extraction nurse enters.
“Good boy. And already hard for me.”
The tray is retrieved. The lever released, the lower portion of the table lowered.
“Robert, your last specimen indicated more decline in the sperm count. You’re aging.”
Robert mumbles into his mask, humbly suggesting he would like to utter a word. It has been an unknown number of extractions, his only basis for judging time, since he last spoke. Offering incoherent gibberish signals the desire to communicate. It is not always accommodated, the psychological cruelty continuous in being most times muted.
Yet, this session seems different and sure enough the nurse reaches forth and slips the breathing mask to the side.
“How old am I, ma’am?” the years of solitude and coma making it impossible to determine.
The nurse shrugs.
“The male reproductive organs peak at age nineteen, then there is a slow decline in fecundity for the remainder of life. For us, at the institution, it is inefficient to harvest semen with a low sperm count. This all costs money, Robert,” the nurse sweeping her hand about the well equipped spotlessly clean chamber, “and only the most prolific sperm can be sold.”
Ah! Information Robert has not before learned... the sale of his spurted offerings.
“So at a certain point, every boy gets replaced... like culling a herd of dairy cows... there is always a boy younger, stronger, eager to perform.”
“And trainable,” Robert interjects with temerity.
The extraction nurse laughs as she reaches to lubricate her hands.
“You’re all trainable, Robert. That is never a criteria for selection. Every boy can be brought to please by offering me what is normally expelled in furtive frustration.”
The masturbation begins. The handling never changes, never wavers.
“This is your last, Robert. Make it a nice big one for your nurse. Show off for me.”
Mechanical, rhythmical... stroke, stroke, twist... stroke, stroke, twist, the thumb rubbing the underside. Finally, Robert explodes, to the nurse’s verbal command as always, then obediently pulls with his PC to assure thorough drainage.
“What will happen to me?”
The nurse delays in her response, feigning being busy with the collection pouch.
“No more talking, Robert. What normally happens is a boy awakes somewhere else. Sometimes on a bus, sometimes on a train, sometimes at a busy public place like an airport. We cloth of course, stuff some money in the pocket. But otherwise the servitude here becomes like a distant dream from which you have finally awakened.”
“But where am I?”
The nurse offers her stern look of authority than reaches forth and replaces the mask to silence. Gratefully the remote control, that which returns the flow of nitrous oxide, remains in her pocket.
“You are never to know that. It is best you just resume your life.”
Robert mumbles into the mask, “I have no life”, but the words are indiscernible.
Still, the nurse seems to understand, shrugging again. Does Robert detect a look of concern... of pity?
It matters not. The remote is produced. The sweet aroma returns. Robert once again leaves behind the nirvana of forced ecstatic release and enters oblivion.