The mask pressed against his face and he breathed in warm latex, and for one long second his hands held it there, suspended, his knuckles white against the rubber. He could feel the gag against his bottom lip, cool and bulbous, and he realized with a dull thud in his chest that he had made a choice the moment he'd lifted the mask off the shelf — that his body had already decided what his mind was still arguing about.

"Eli." Marcus's voice came low, patient, not a command yet. "The chair's waiting."

He looked at him standing there with the perfectly tailored charcoal suit, hands still folded behind his back, head cocked slightly like a man listening to a clock tick. Then Eli opened his mouth and pressed the gag past his lips.

The rubber bulb slid wet across his tongue and seated deep, stretching his jaw, and suddenly the latex hood snapped closed around his face with a soft, final click that echoed in the small room. His reflection stared back from the dark workstation screen, something rubber-smooth and featureless looking at him from the void — only the outline of a mouth, a solid curve where the gag pushed the latex out.

His breath fogged the inside of the mask, humid and hot, and he blinked at his own new self. The smell of latex wrapped every thought. The world was suddenly muted, the room muffled through the rubber. He heard himself breathe the way a deep-sea diver must, each inhale loud and deliberate in his own ears.

"There," Marcus said. The word was approving. "See? Not so bad. Now this way."

He steered Eli by the shoulder, and the boy's bare rubber feet followed over sterile linoleum, past a wall of black equipment racks, past a desk carrying a worn tablet, past the blinking green eye of that camera mounted on the ceiling, its red light winking at him. The collection room opened before him and it was smaller than he expected, quieter, the hum of hidden machinery threading up through the floor so he felt it in the soles of his feet before he heard it.

The chair sat in the center of the space on a slab of polished concrete. It was steel and chrome, a mess of curved rails and fitted plates shaped like a dentist's chair from a future that had gone wrong. Wide cuffs hung at the ends of the armrests, leather-lined and mean, and two others at the base of the legs, waiting. A headrest curved up like a cup and a wide collar — remote, alien, enormous for a neck — was bolted at its top.

Eli stopped. His tongue pushed against the gag and his throat made a sound.

"It's hygiene," Marcus said, reading the hesitation. "Keeps you contained. Nothing against you."

He placed his gloved hand flat on the chair's padded back and pressed twice like a doctor testing a wound. The patient gesture landed somewhere in Eli's gut. He remembered what his coach had said about a summer job that paid too much, the voice in his ear at the gym — a place where he'd make two thousand in a single night. He remembered the bike shop invoice tucked in his wallet.

The chair loomed.

He stepped forward. The rubber suit creaked around his thighs as he turned and sat, the cold bite of the cushion sharp through latex. His stomach clenched. The machines hummed. He looked at Marcus who nodded once, slowly, and reached for the right ankle cuff.

The first strap closed with a sigh air through the ratchet, a dead sound that sealed his foot against the steel rail.

"That too tight?"

Eli shook his head. The gag rolled against his teeth.

"Good." Marcus moved to the left ankle and repeated the treatment, ratchet pulling leather snug around Eli's shin, not painful, just present. Then the right wrist: a padded cuff with a brushed metal lock thudded closed, pinning him to the armrest. His fingers instinctively curled into a fist and the leather creaked against his knuckles.

The second wrist. The sound of his own body all his thoughts through a rubber mask. Time had gotten strange, stretched, each click of the lock distinct and loud. He was starting to tremble, a fine shiver inside the suit that had nothing to do with the cold air.

"You still with me?"

Eli nodded again. He tried to swallow and the gag made his throat click.

Marcus looked at him for a moment longer, gray-eyed and unsmiling, and his gaze felt like he was checking something under the hood, some bolt he had set just right. Then his face shifted, faintly satisfied, and he reached under the chair and pulled a strap that closed the head cup around the back of his skull — his head grazing, then pressing back against the padding, held then fastened with a click so clean it could have pierced the mask's quiet.

"There. That's the seat." Marcus stopped.

A shiver — cold, mechanical, small — ran up through the steel against every inch of Eli's locked body.

"It starts slow," Marcus said, watching him, his pale hands gloved.

From a horizontal rail over the chair hung a collection cup — translucent plastic, pristine, factory-fresh — and at the half-alcoholic glimpse of it a tight band drew around Eli's throat. Its plastic piping ran from an opening at the tank at the bottom to an almost invisible ridge down the chair's spine, arranged to correspond. His vision swung from pressure to pressure as the wires and clamps began attaching themselves.

Air pressed down in his lungs — full of rubber sweat and something sweet the machines exhaled. It was a struggle not just in spirit, either; his whole body strained at cuffs. His bicep pulled taut in its case. Saw through the holes of the mask the profile of Marcus at a wall panel as he reached for switches above. His broad back was silhouetted; his right plan — closed every energy of the room with the motions of industry.

His hand moved over buttons — the buzzing changed — so that the faint hum under the entire building solidified. It was anchored and steady in the bone: a focused low drone that made his coccyx leap, then against the membrane.

Against his will, the trapped heat died alarmingly under the rack of the little tank.

"Small start," Marcus said from behind him. Contact: click above his crown; his nape rests against something else — it seats him farther back. Liquid sloshes, its level head-round filter blinking red with no light bleeding through, a looped clear bundle for some test readings across the chamber's viscometer. An anal tube flexes below bench.

Ten fingers dance on titanium digits over Eli's sphincter through the chrome opening; they withdraw.

A white line — electricity contact without a nerve: feedback flashes. "Wait," pushes against the bulb more than reaching his mouth, tongue chunky-smearing across wet latex as the circular pressure to enter through his tight unbroken sheath begins from outside the barrier instead when clicking blinks.

Deep vibrator, fixed placement.

Even plugged-in and cuffed, he manages to begin trying — inch up — hum gives brief angry start then holds: pushes deeper — shakes nerve by focus into forced tenderness. His legs clamped apart as pressure deliberately insinuates itself. The un-passed button becomes a corridor; again shove; once over; filling belly slow colon-wide seizure tremolo, mind-floor tilt through angles while wired interior feels nosed into his seat gap just where — hm hmm.

Stretched knobs slightly outward-pulling; surfaces to settle in.

He opened his mouth to test whether a sound came out. The gag held. The world was sealed & clean.

"Ready?" asked a voice from outside left, steadier.

Suddenly is thrumming too deep under thighs. His leg flex. Steady-armed and smooth-voiced, Marcus fit the last of the hoses flat against his bladder-soled joint anchor channel and clipped caps in position; attached the canister to the suit's zipper lock — clip threw into canister order; and in two fluid touches angled cylinder into cup.

"No mistakes, Eli. You did good." An approving tone. Upright he passed his thumb along an initiation pad; several machine stacks pulsing red to green.

Dr. Lena came in: smooth heels step, muted blood between shirt and collar, her face tightening only once the white coats pushed they closed the sleeve and gloves under.

She joined Marcus by panel — quiet calm monotone.

"So. Collection identified under setup. Specimen 057 active."

Headed somewhere in control tier with slight over-under from gloves. She grabbed pair of tongs crossed from utility base with pre-balanced cup, deadpan entering both the interior loop and drip in.

The doc had settled to workseat side. One clipped card counted electronically starting chamber onset. Set measured blue glare strips reading and stepped; then, starting from harness for resting from arm cupping cock in temperature gauged massager. The first real vibration wrapped round his sac like a pulse beat roaring — hold first. Held.

The machine loosened a throb between groin lower than half-conscious pulling; going with strokes up slowly past him; their monitor pulse-shattering, dropping an expansion wave flush over him. Starfishes grazed sweet sore along rods.

Sound: somewhere it turns, soft as engine. Eli grows still as steel hardening undersea, suddenly each surface flat and blind, ear-squashing against loud sudden rumbles as hum escalates deeply moving against gland over spot him tight. Rooted ball lights slow-wasted and a choke of sound — g — gag locked against sound in polished hollow tube above him with enough core they in turn lock further hot whine down inside of body.

plasma bursts center it deep. Skin jumps heat. The vibrational hold thumps — clunk — anchors end of bone straight to prostate and begins drinking milking in percussion pulses stiff in prostate — he already shakes, warm gut-filled from base upward, just as sweet as clean clamped end round giving second.

Machine creeps deeper edge against everything holding tight firm inward. Machine high shivers push-muscles relax-and; gag hits scrape from halfway grit teeth rocking under swell up but sealed all pressure.

The monitor-tac bumps count to ticks on soft node humming; time keeps.

He is sure it was intended to burn beautiful start to drain. It broad-settled, a throbbing of actual empty producing tingle first already drowning, a raw flow faster in his stiff ram-rod root, made of something; suction tapping grooved not stop — tilt caught absolute leak in the tail-laden flutter; air friction inside flex squeeze.

Fear-flash above the pumping calm. Heavy pass could close; pre-coated along curve hits shelf first: licked cup of amber into tube storage. Slightly sterile lid read: full- A certain internal spin finished electric lowside. Deeper mechanical piston forces collar line breathing spots to first half-drop splatter whole strip pull thin to cling rolling dripping stronger smear drops early rise and falling again.

The machinery's beat rolled. Once, twice.

In smudge against inside hood a blink; outside wall beside lens; blush reaching into soft edges. He heard, muffled through rubber chambers, suddenly open vocal nearby given work: voice from partition across blank screen between monitors — "Node 2 primed; dilation 38 elapsed 212 minutes till sample draw," her tone entirely clear:

"Already excited, gentleman? Hot processing start. [feedback?] yes."

A bottle leveled along groove; cooling fine spark zilch. Liquid shiver close against skin gripping slight under-sleeve vibration sets lower throb working second spot. Music at threshold pulses under crack of the hood crack alongside motion: slightly deep jump slightly catch full ring, cushion starts tapping directly in as small deliberate pushes locked coiling sweet metal humming into the locked curves long after strain rest while heat nestles cum road, held.

Wake held by cup always.

"Good filler," pulse hum bends evenly downward; from inside taut barrier flashes back. The low arch backs between slow half-hung rock. Nudges. Takes test strength even for a virgin wall. Filler muscle; wider load; under dildo she trains until vibration nudges ball dry twice direct to clench.

The empty cup waits attached.

So motor locks long rhythm holding as the ring broadens, entering snug squeeze from deep dim; holding something under distend out cup lumen dark base but distended; goes deeper into constriction, pushed in where every resistance touches around ends, a slim deep reaching cradle, a dim running spasm clean over without pressure. Free passage now: stitched tender gland's hold passes beyond — slight pressure final placement. Rocking with small-fiber depth anchors just sitting; swell in pulses tight fitted sit at bright swollen; stops full; holds him.

Against sealed cavities finger throb travel enough slack loose heated metal pulls barely the fourth blood beat close stretch fit up open quiver gently. Stalling white knocks in root cavity waits open in seat untouched until heavy spin toggles depth settles down.

Semen fills slow hot, neat fixed continuous underneath drip dripping caught stream cut contact flashes moisture pulled — monitor: output flow. 37.

The numbers stacking above her shoulders reach over; Lenar's turning the feed direct visual read — sees bottom edge quantity time skip zeros. She sorts patient calm markers; passed glance: sharp eyes on him, narrowing only slightly at the data rate jump at entry-timing check of the pump then measured skip.

Bites lip lens off reading; folds her dry glove he wore over the program keyboard. The new handle hums mild up a minor beat, settling low in his base, tight seated in entire gland almost gone asleep; starts, softer so easily on the throb before rising in pattern to begin long quiet drain of yet one more channel deeper within only half-heart-hard untouched under seals pooling a long load drip to growing blur reservoir from soft stir rising mild fullness bright enough to pull his bare upper slow into arch strap reflex unable pulling forward:

The grip bulges warming alive around rod.

Ahead edge hard full back of slow first surge forced through bulge tip crown spreading with passage pressing throbbing beads; dripping slow and warm over long in-hum easing pressure wash of tight moving at prostate pushing so near drips through grasp deep ring mouth held while active dildo tenderly rocks, held entrance thick against swelling spot; it trails. His head drops back against foam, tongue pinned long, toes curling under. Persistent exact deep rhythm slides wet steady, purpose and milk drip bright.

Deep warm storage slips below clamp-throbs turn well inching further suction holds, shaping velvet pulling sealed.

"Forty-two cc and rising," Lena tells to data unit speaker low happy, an interesting pulse in the board.

A small firm passes under him— soft, flex of glove; satisfied tone— turn lean fine adjusts thin intensity to fine back massage low, rim. "Good steady flow here." Slight edge under professional speech for a split-second slipped: the hand more pressure she leans in, rolling to ease even lower over neck of one groove with angle and has to cool off.

Ball pulls another second earlier: a sweet overload stutters deep before she steps back for results, near-normal.

Stream chugs fine heavier half slow rolling through compression loop still pure; drum counts over. Full. Second rimless drip: warm deep shine begins in blinks the cup level check to view holding rising pool stable after as room begins fuller low-down pulses travelling now stronger from beneath pads — pushing through his clamped-and-backed base pressure there building on nerves once: thick whine start, wet rhythmic from within direct along channel to swell again brief, in seeded pelvis pulsing hold:

The door sighs sealed. Red light also clicks (recording, amber).

"…This is standard," Lena says low, meeting him without implication, checking the strap-level.

Under pinhole camera red she rolls sterile implement checks for next settings confirmation on shelf into pile. The hum under his spine double-taps a beat he feels gut deep and stays—rocked rhythmic gulf plug-in hold firm full to slow touch, still, waiting grip, spasm long leak from tired overproduction along rod into waiting cup, streams glisten one second, slow steady continuous, locked and unmoving. Machine pace settles ticking from amber, time reading his vein keeping slowly spreading, warmth stir content locked in throat circle pad on heel arch realigned: buzzer on: chain-hollow lower rumble. At his crown tilt cuffs turn he— one fresh trill triggers the drain line. First light tick shows in cup connection. Drip joins earlier run.

Locked bare-eyed, shape full just feels bright hard stream grow above half-mark deep long drain gather more to process set continuing for entire night, repeat back under rust-cup. Machine dial notches, dim room shift hum shifts pacing room. Lid fix further holding intake wide. He feels a long soft push against the spill edge new shudder spill volume, timer marks 00 hour; else measure;

He tightened thigh pulling weak impossible against hard points — squirts once: liquid into, seal clicking;

The Handler checks left-up, remote hand near quieting measure confirms hold solid stack till needed reload and says low glance his watch:

"Six to go."

Six hours. The number settled into Eli's rubber-muffled brain like a stone dropping through water. Six more hours of this precise, mechanical cruelty working his body from the inside out. His thighs, trained to sustain sixty painful minutes of climbing, had never learned to endure this kind of endless, rhythmic occupation. The anal rod shifted again — a slow, deliberate rotation that ground against that swollen knot deep inside him, sending a fresh bloom of pressure through his pelvis.

His cock, pinned and throbbing inside its mount at the suit's front seam, gave another helpless pulsing leak into the waiting cup. The sensation was so far past pleasure now it had circled around to something nearly spiritual, some bright, overstimulated ache that filled his entire awareness. The machine's rhythm held, steady, implacable — a new pattern, deeper and slower, taking its own measure of his body while the cup below slowly filled past its halfway mark.

"Forty-five and stabilizing," Lena announced, her tone holding the first true warmth he'd heard from her, a proprietary satisfaction. The clip of her heels passed close beside the chair — she paused, and he caught the shadow of her leaning slightly, looking at something, perhaps his trapped arousal, perhaps the readout. A gloved hand pressed, light and investigating, against the back of his thigh through the suit. The touch came without comment and went without reason, leaving him with an inexplainable flush.

The night stretched. The hum thinned out longer, quieter; the collar fixed harder; his body settled deeper into its yield.