First Morning Light

Marcus stirs on the cold tile as the hum fades, the suit clinging, the plug a dull throb, and he realizes he's been left all night—empty, hard, aching. The door hisses open and Vane steps in, the jar from last night in his hand, and he crouches to run a finger along the collar. 'You slept well, my drone,' he says, and Marcus's body leans into the touch before his mind can stop it. Vane sets the jar on the table and gestures to the milking machine, but instead of strapping him down, he holds out a small key. 'Today you can choose—the machine, or my hand. Show me what you've learned.' Marcus's breath catches, the cage a pressure against his swollen cock, and he hears himself whisper, 'Your hand, Master.'