The bedroom seemed smaller now. Or maybe it was just that I saw it differently—not as a room I'd been brought to, but as a place I was being taken from. Vane's hand closed around my arm just above the elbow, his grip firm but not painful, and I felt the warmth of his palm against my bare skin like a brand I hadn't earned yet.

"Come," he said. Not a request. Not an invitation. A statement of fact, the way you'd tell a dog it was time to move.

My legs carried me before my mind caught up. The thick carpet gave way to hardwood, then to cold tile in the hallway beyond. The air changed—warmer in the bedroom, colder out here, sterile and still. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in a pale, unforgiving wash. I could see my own reflection in the polished floor, a pale, naked shape with a collar around its throat and a cage between its legs, and I had to look away.

Two guards stood at intervals along the corridor, both in black tactical gear, both staring straight ahead like I wasn't there. Like a naked, collared boy shuffling past them was so ordinary it wasn't worth acknowledging. That was somehow worse than if they'd stared.

Vane's hand stayed on my arm. Guiding me. Owning me. His thumb pressed into the soft skin of my inner elbow, and I felt every step of his polished shoes against the floor, a steady rhythm I couldn't match with my bare feet.

"Where—" My voice cracked. I swallowed, tried again. "Where are you taking me?"

He didn't look at me. "To your first duty."

The words settled into my stomach like stones. Duty. I had duties now. I was a thing with duties.

"I don't—" I started, but the words died in my throat. What was the point? I'd said I wouldn't ever. I'd said it with tears on my face and my knees on his carpet. And then I'd knelt anyway, because my body had moved before I could stop it, because something in his voice had reached down into me and pulled.

Vane stopped at a door at the end of the hall. It was steel, same as the others, but this one had a small keypad beside it. He pressed a sequence of numbers I couldn't quite follow, and the lock clicked open with a sound like a verdict.

He pushed the door inward and cold air rushed out to meet me, raising goosebumps across my bare chest. The room beyond was white. White tile on the walls, white tile on the floor, white lights in the ceiling that were so bright I had to squint. A steel table stood in the center, gleaming under the lights, and beside it a small tray cart holding a glass vial and a length of clear tubing.

I stopped in the doorway. My feet wouldn't move.

Vane's hand pressed against the small of my back, a gentle, inexorable pressure. "Inside."

"What is this place?" My voice came out small. I hated how small it sounded.

"Your first duty," he said again, and the pressure on my back increased, pushing me forward. My bare feet crossed the threshold onto the cold tile, and the door closed behind us with a soft, final click.

The air was cold against my skin, raising goosebumps across my chest and thighs. I could see my breath in faint puffs, and the chill made the metal of my cage against my cock feel even colder. The plug inside me seemed to shift with every step, a constant, intrusive reminder that I was filled, that I was owned, that I was—

"Against the table," Vane said.

I looked at the steel table. It was waist-high, the top cold and gleaming, and I could see my own distorted reflection in its surface. "What are you going to do to me?"

"You'll see." He moved behind me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his body against my back. "Bend over it. Chest against the metal."

My hands were shaking. I could see them trembling at my sides, these soft, unmarked hands that had never done a day of labor, that had never held anything heavier than a textbook or a controller. I thought about my bedroom at home, the posters on my walls, the way my mom would call up the stairs when dinner was ready. I thought about how far away that life felt now, like it belonged to someone else entirely.

"Marcus." His voice was patient. Almost kind. "Bend over the table."

My body obeyed before my mind could argue. I turned, placed my hands on the cold metal, and felt the shock of it against my palms, my chest, my stomach. The table was freezing, and I gasped, my breath fogging the surface as I pressed myself against it. The metal bit into my nipples, cold and hard, and I could feel the plug shift inside me with the movement, a deep, strange pressure that made my thighs tremble.

"Good." Vane's voice came from behind me, low and satisfied. "Now your arms. Reach forward."

I did. I stretched my arms out in front of me, and I felt his hands close around my wrists, guiding them toward the far edge of the table. There were leather cuffs there, I saw now, attached to short chains bolted into the metal. Vane wrapped one around my left wrist and pulled it tight, the leather cool against my skin, and I heard the click of a buckle.

"No—" The word escaped before I could stop it. "Please, I—"

He didn't acknowledge the plea. He just took my right wrist, wrapped the second cuff around it, and buckled it with the same calm efficiency. I tugged against them, testing, and the leather held firm. I was strapped to the table, my chest pressed against the cold metal, my arms stretched out in front of me, my ass in the air.

The position was humiliating. Exposed. I could feel the cool air against my skin, against the cage, against the plug that filled me. I could feel Vane's eyes on me, taking in the sight of me spread out for him like an offering.

"Your first duty," he said, and his voice was closer now, right behind me. "Do you know what it is?"

I shook my head, my cheek scraping against the cold metal.

"You're going to fill that vial for me." He gestured, and I turned my head to see the glass vial on the tray, empty and gleaming under the white lights. "Every drop of your seed, into that glass. That's what you're for, Marcus. That's what I brought you here for."

My stomach dropped. "What?"

"You're a donor," he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "A source. Your body produces something I need, and I'm going to take it from you. Again and again."

"I—you can't—" I tugged at the cuffs, my heart hammering against my ribs. "You can't just—"

"Can't what?" His hand landed on my back, heavy and warm, between my shoulder blades. "Can't use what's mine? You belong to me, Marcus. Everything you are, everything your body makes—it's mine. And I'm going to collect it."

A machine hummed to life somewhere beneath the table. I felt the vibration through the metal, a low, steady thrum that made my teeth ache. I heard something else too—a soft whirring, like a motor, and then Vane's hand was gone from my back and something cold touched the underside of my caged cock.

I gasped. The cold was shocking, a ring of metal sliding over the cage, fitting around it like a sleeve. I felt it settle at the base, snug against my skin, and then I heard a click as it locked into place.

"What is that?" My voice was high, thin. "What are you doing?"

"The machine will do the work for you," Vane said. "All you have to do is lie there and let it happen."

The suction started slowly. A gentle pull at first, a strange, tugging sensation through the steel of the cage. I felt my cock stir inside its prison, responding despite the metal, despite my fear, despite everything. The suction grew stronger, a rhythmic pull that seemed to reach through the cage and grip me, drawing me up, making me hard against the cold steel.

"No," I whispered. "No, please, I don't—"

"You don't what?" Vane's voice was amused now, a low, dark purr. "You don't want to come? You don't want to fill the vial and please me?"

I shook my head, but my body was betraying me. The suction was relentless, a warm, pulling pressure that made my thighs tremble and my toes curl against the cold tile. I could feel my cock swelling inside the cage, pressing against the metal, aching for release that the cage wouldn't allow.

Vane's hand returned to my back, settling at the small of my spine. His palm was warm, heavy, possessive, and I felt his thumb begin to trace a slow circle against my skin.

"You're already getting hard," he observed. "Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind hasn't caught up yet."

"That's not—" I gasped as the suction intensified, a wave of sensation that made my hips buck against the table. "That's not true."

"Isn't it?" His thumb kept moving, slow and deliberate, tracing patterns on my lower back. "You're hard, Marcus. You're leaking. I can feel the heat of you from here."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him he was wrong, that this was wrong, that I didn't want any of it. But the suction was building, a deep, rhythmic pull that was working its way through the cage and into my cock, and I could feel the pleasure coiling in my belly despite everything, despite the fear, despite the cold metal against my chest, despite the plug inside me and the collar around my throat.

"That's it," Vane murmured. "Let it happen. Don't fight it."

I closed my eyes. The white lights burned against my eyelids, and I could hear my own breathing, ragged and loud in the sterile room. The machine hummed, the suction pulled, and Vane's thumb traced its endless circle on my back, and I felt myself being drawn up, up, up toward something I couldn't name.

The first drop of semen touched the bottom of the glass vial, and I heard Vane make a soft sound of satisfaction.

"There it is," he said. "Your first duty, Marcus. And you're doing so well."

I couldn't speak. I could only lie there, chest pressed to the cold metal, wrists strapped in leather, caged cock locked in the machine's grip, and feel myself being drained.

Vane's thumb traced a slow circle on my spine, a silent promise that this was only the beginning.

The suction deepened, a rhythmic pull that no longer felt like a machine but like a mouth, like something alive working me from the inside out. My hips had begun to move on their own—small, involuntary rocks against the table, grinding my caged cock against the cold steel as if I could somehow escape the pressure building in my belly, or chase it, I couldn't tell which anymore.

The metal of the table was warm now where my chest pressed against it, my own body heat soaking into the surface. My breath came in short, shallow gasps that fogged the steel in front of my face, and I could hear myself making sounds I didn't recognize—small, desperate whimpers that escaped through my clenched teeth no matter how hard I tried to hold them in.

"Listen to you," Vane said from behind me, his voice low and pleased. "You're making sounds you didn't know you could make."

I shook my head against the table. My cheek scraped the metal. "I'm not—"

"You are." His hand moved from my spine to the curve of my ass, palm flat, heavy. The touch made me flinch, but my hips kept rocking, kept pressing back against his hand without my permission. "You're right on the edge, aren't you, Marcus? You can feel it building."

I couldn't answer. The suction had found a rhythm that matched the pulse in my cock, a deep, drawing pull that seemed to reach into the base of me and tug, tug, tug, pulling something loose that I couldn't hold onto. The cage was wet with my own precum, slick inside the steel, and I could feel every ridge of the metal against my swollen flesh, every bar pressing into me as I swelled against it.

The plug inside me shifted with each rock of my hips, a deep pressure that made my thighs tremble and my toes curl against the tile. I'd forgotten it was there for a moment—forgotten everything except the suction—but now it was all I could feel, that fullness inside me, that constant reminder that I was filled, that I was owned.

"Please," I heard myself say, and the word was out before I could stop it, hanging in the sterile air between us.

Vane went still behind me. The suction kept pulling, relentless, but his hand froze on my ass, and I felt the weight of his attention shift, sharpen.

"What was that?"

I shook my head, face pressed to the metal, heat flooding my cheeks. "Nothing. I didn't—"

"You said please." His voice was soft, almost gentle, and that was somehow worse than if he'd laughed. "Please what, Marcus?"

I couldn't say it. I couldn't form the words. But my hips kept moving, kept rocking back against the table, and the suction kept pulling, and the pleasure kept building in my belly like a tide I couldn't hold back, and I heard myself make a sound I'd never made before—a high, desperate moan that rose from somewhere deep in my chest and spilled out into the white room.

Vane's hand moved, sliding between my shoulder blades, pressing me flat against the table. The pressure was firm, grounding, and I felt my spine arch against it, felt my body surrender to the weight of his palm.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice right at my ear now. I hadn't heard him move, but he was there, close enough that I could feel his breath against my skin. "That's a good boy. Let it build. Don't fight it."

I couldn't fight it. There was nothing left in me to fight with. The machine hummed, the suction pulled, and Vane's hand held me down, and I felt myself being drawn up, up, up toward something I couldn't name, something that was going to tear me apart when it finally arrived.

"Please," I said again, and this time the word came out broken, cracked down the middle. "Please, I—"

"You what?" Vane's lips brushed my ear as he spoke, and I shivered, my whole body trembling against the table. "Tell me what you want, Marcus. Say it."

"I can't—" My voice broke. The suction pulled. My hips bucked. "I can't hold it."

"Then don't." His hand pressed harder, flattening me, owning me. "Let go. Give it to me."

"Please," I sobbed, and the tears were on my face now, hot against the cold metal. "Please, please, please—"

Vane's hand tightened on my spine, a silent approval that I felt through my whole body. "There it is," he said, and his voice was warm with satisfaction. "There's my good boy."

The suction peaked. I felt it crest like a wave, felt the pleasure rise up through my belly and my chest and my throat, felt myself open like something had been unlocked inside me. My hips ground against the table, my caged cock swelling against the steel, and I heard myself cry out—a sound that was almost a sob, almost a scream, something raw and animal that I'd never made in my life.

The first spurt came hard, slamming against the inside of the cage, and I felt it run down my thighs, hot and wet against the cold steel. The machine kept pulling, drawing more out of me, and I came again, and again, my body jerking against the table with each wave, my wrists straining against the leather cuffs, my toes curling against the tile.

I could hear the glass vial filling, a soft, rhythmic sound that seemed to go on forever. Vane's hand stayed on my spine, heavy and steady, holding me through it, and I felt his thumb begin to trace that slow circle again, a grounding touch that kept me tethered to the world as my body emptied itself into the machine.

When it was finally over—when the suction eased and the machine hummed down to silence—I hung limp against the table, my chest heaving, my breath ragged and loud in the white room. I was wet with sweat and cum, my thighs slick, my caged cock still throbbing with the aftershocks of a pleasure I hadn't asked for and couldn't stop.

Vane's hand moved from my spine, and I heard him step around the table. The glass vial was in his hand when he appeared in front of me, held up to the light, and I could see it was full—a pale, milky liquid that caught the white light and gleamed.

"Beautiful," he said, and I knew he wasn't talking about me. "Your body knows exactly what it's for, Marcus. You just needed to be shown."

I couldn't answer. I was still trembling, still trying to remember how to breathe, my cheek pressed against the cold metal, my arms still stretched out in front of me, wrists still bound in leather.

Vane set the vial down on the tray cart with a soft click. Then his hand was on my chin, tilting my face up, forcing me to look at him. His dark eyes were warm with something that might have been pride, might have been possession, might have been both.

"Did you feel that?" he asked. "The way your body opened up for me? The way it gave itself over, all on its own?"

I swallowed. My throat was dry, my voice cracked when I spoke. "I didn't—I couldn't stop it."

"That's the point." His thumb traced my lower lip, a soft, almost tender touch that made me shiver. "You can't stop it, Marcus. You can't fight it. Your body knows what it needs now, and it's going to keep needing it, over and over, until the need is all that's left."

He released my chin and stepped back. The leather cuffs around my wrists came unbuckled, one after the other, and I slumped forward, catching myself on the table with shaking arms. The machine had already retracted, the cold sleeve gone from my cage, and I could feel the wetness of my own release cooling on my thighs.

"Stand up," Vane said.

I did. My legs were weak, trembling beneath me, and I had to grip the edge of the table to keep from falling. The plug shifted inside me with the movement, a deep pulse of fullness that made me gasp.

Vane watched me, his head tilted, his eyes moving over my body like he was cataloging every detail. "You're going to learn to love that feeling," he said. "The fullness. The pressure. The way your body aches for it when it's gone."

I shook my head. "No. I won't—"

"You already said that," he cut me off, his voice mild. "And then you begged me to let you come. Which one was true, Marcus?"

I couldn't answer. The heat was still in my cheeks, the shame still burning in my chest, but underneath it, somewhere deep and quiet, there was something else—a warmth that had nothing to do with shame, a memory of that moment when I'd said please and meant it, when I'd wanted something so badly I couldn't hold it back.

Vane saw it. I could see it in his eyes, the way they sharpened, the way his smirk deepened. "There it is," he said softly. "You're starting to understand."

He moved to the tray cart and picked up the vial again, holding it up to the light. "This is what you're for, Marcus. This is why I chose you, why I tracked you, why I brought you here. Your body makes something precious, and I'm going to collect it, again and again, until you know exactly what you are."

He pocketed the vial and turned back to me. "But that's for later. Right now, I think you've earned a reward."

A reward. The word made my stomach twist—fear, or something else, something I didn't want to name.

"What kind of reward?" My voice was still cracked, still raw.

Vane's smile was slow, deliberate, a predator's patience. "The first lesson in what your body is going to become." He stepped closer, and his hand found my chin again, tilting my face up. "You're going to learn to crave the plug, Marcus. And I'm going to teach you how."

His other hand moved to my ass, fingers finding the base of the plug where it sat inside me. He pressed, just slightly, and I gasped, my hips jerking forward, my body responding to the pressure before my mind could catch up.

"Feel that?" he murmured. "That's the beginning. By the time I'm done with you, you'll be begging me to fill you. You'll be desperate for it."

"I won't," I whispered, but even as I said it, I could feel my body leaning into his touch, could feel the plug shift inside me, could feel the ghost of the pleasure I'd just felt still echoing through my veins.

"We'll see," Vane said. And his hand pressed again, deeper, and I heard myself make a sound I didn't recognize, a small, broken noise that was almost a moan.

His eyes gleamed. "That's it," he said. "That's my good boy."