Star Dawn Pavilion 2042·P4

The afternoon sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the 47th floor, casting long shadows across the polished marble floor of the Operations and Maintenance Department. Zou Luyao stood by the water dispenser, her long hair cascading over her shoulders as she watched Nala, a junior technician, fill her cup with the usual milky white liquid.

"You're drinking that again?" Yaoyao asked, her voice carrying the authority of a department minister.

Nala's hand trembled slightly, but she recovered quickly. "Yes, Minister Zou. It helps me focus."

Yaoyao's eyes narrowed. She had noticed the pattern over the past few weeks—more and more employees gathering by the water dispensers, their cups filled with that opaque liquid. What started as an occasional drink had become a ritual. And now, watching Nala's dilated pupils and the slight tremor in her fingers, Yaoyao knew something was deeply wrong.

She found Tao Xiaonai in the Psychology Counseling Department, sitting behind a desk cluttered with patient files. Xiaotao's short hair was neatly combed, but dark circles shadowed her eyes. She had been working nonstop, dealing with the emotional fallout of the past years.

"Xiaotao, I need to talk to you about something," Yaoyao said, closing the door behind her.

Xiaotao looked up, her professional smile faltering. "What is it?"

"That milky liquid everyone's been drinking. I saw Nala just now. She's addicted."

Xiaotao's expression darkened. She opened a drawer and pulled out a small vial half-filled with the same white liquid. "RT liquid. That's what they call it. Short for 'Reactive Toxin' in Divine Race terminology."

Yaoyao's blood ran cold. "How do you know this?"

"Because I've been listening," Xiaotao said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "When they... when they use me, they talk. They think I'm just a hole for their frustrations. But I hear everything."

Yaoyao sat down heavily, her mind racing. "RT liquid. I've heard that name before."

Memories crashed over her like a tidal wave. Years ago, when she was still a combatant, the Divine Race had captured her. They considered humans inferior, perfect subjects for their twisted experiments. She remembered the cold metal table, the restraints biting into her wrists and ankles.

They had force-fed her a mutation potion. The pain had been unbearable—every cell in her body screaming, her breasts swelling until they felt ready to burst. For a month, they had kept her strapped down, electrodes attached to her nipples, delivering precise electric shocks that stimulated milk production. And then they would milk her, collecting the toxic secretion in glass jars while she screamed into her gag.

"Yaoyao?" Xiaotao's voice broke through the memory. "Are you okay?"

Yaoyao blinked, her hands trembling. "I know what RT liquid is. It's what they made me produce. My milk was the first batch of RT liquid."

The revelation hung heavy in the air. Xiaotao reached out and took Yaoyao's hand. "We need to tell the others."

They gathered in the conference room on the 30th floor—Yaoyao, Xiaotao, Sen Xiaomeng, and Mary. The room was sterile, white walls lined with holographic displays. Xiaomeng sat at the head of the table, her short hair spiky and unkempt, a sign of late nights in her workshop. Mary leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

"RT liquid enhances bodily functions for twenty-four hours," Xiaotao explained, pulling up data on the central display. "But it's highly addictive. Once you drink it, you crave more. Withdrawal symptoms include tremors, anxiety, and in severe cases, psychosis."

"And everyone in Star Dawn Pavilion has been drinking it?" Mary asked, her voice cold.

Yaoyao nodded. "I found records. At the beginning of the year, a Divine Race spy infiltrated the water treatment facility. They were killed, but not before contaminating the supply. By the time anyone noticed, it was too late."

Xiaomeng slammed her fist on the table. "So we're all addicted. Thousands of employees, millions of civilians. What do we do?"

"There's only one way to produce the antidote," Yaoyao said quietly. "My body. I can secrete RT milk. If I can lift the suppression, I can produce enough to synthesize a cure."

"No," Xiaotao said immediately. "You know what that means. The pain, the—"

"I know," Yaoyao interrupted. "But I don't have a choice."

That night, Yaoyao stood in her private quarters, staring at the breast pump Xiaotao had brought. The device was sterile, its plastic chambers gleaming under the soft lighting. She took a deep breath and undressed, her reflection staring back at her from the mirror.

She looked the same as always—long hair, full figure, C-cup breasts that had once been weapons of war. But now they were a liability, a ticking time bomb of toxins.

Xiaotao handed her a small vial of clear liquid. "This will lift the suppression. But the process will be... difficult."

Yaoyao took the vial without hesitation and drank it in one gulp. The liquid was tasteless, but she felt it working immediately—a warmth spreading through her chest, a tingling sensation in her nipples.

"I'll be outside if you need me," Xiaotao said, her voice soft.

"Wait," Yaoyao said. She picked up a pair of leather restraints from the table. "Help me with these. I need to be secured."

Xiaotao's eyes widened, but she nodded. She helped Yaoyao into a harness that wrapped around her torso, the straps tight against her skin. Handcuffs clicked around her wrists, and she lay down on the bed, her arms stretched above her head.

"Is this really necessary?" Xiaotao asked.

Yaoyao nodded, her jaw tight. "I know myself. The pain will make me want to stop. I need to not have that choice."

Xiaotao secured the last buckle and stepped back. "I'll be right outside."

The door closed, leaving Yaoyao alone in the dimly lit room. She positioned the breast pump over her nipples, the suction cups creating a seal. The collection jar sat on the nightstand, ready to catch whatever came out.

She closed her eyes and waited.

At first, nothing happened. Her breasts felt normal, maybe slightly warm. But then the sensation shifted—a deep ache, a pressure building from within. Her breasts began to swell, the skin stretching taut, the veins becoming visible beneath the surface.

Yaoyao gritted her teeth. She had expected pain, but this was worse than she remembered. It was as if her mammary glands were being inflated, each lobule screaming for release. She arched her back, the restraints creaking, but no milk came.

An hour passed. Then two. Her breasts were painfully engorged, hard and hot to the touch, but the breast pump remained empty. She had failed.

She called out, her voice hoarse. Xiaotao entered immediately, her eyes scanning the empty collection jar.

"It's not working," Yaoyao said, tears of frustration welling in her eyes.

Xiaotao helped her out of the harness and restraints, her touch gentle. "Let me get you a suppressant. We can try again tomorrow."

"No," Yaoyao said, her voice firm despite her exhaustion. "I need to keep trying. The staff needs this."

Xiaotao hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "At least let me give you something for the pain."

"I don't want to dull the sensation," Yaoyao said. "If I can't feel it, I won't know when it starts."

Later that night, long after Xiaotao had left, Yaoyao lay in bed, unable to sleep. Her breasts throbbed with a dull, persistent ache that no position could ease. She tossed and turned, the sheets tangling around her legs, the pain refusing to subside.

Finally, in desperation, she reached for the handcuffs on the nightstand. She clicked them around her wrists, the cold metal a familiar comfort. If she couldn't sleep, at least she wouldn't give in to the urge to claw at her burning chest.

She closed her eyes, and the memories came again.

The Divine Race laboratory. The cold steel of the restraints. The electrodes attached to her nipples, delivering jolts of electricity that made her whole body convulse. The milk would flow then, forced out by the shocks, collected in jars labeled with the Divine Race's alien script.

She had been nothing but a breeding cow to them. A machine for producing their precious RT liquid.

Yaoyao's eyes snapped open. She could feel it—a tingle, a warmth spreading from her breasts outward. She struggled to sit up, her handcuffed wrists making the movement awkward. Maybe the electric shocks were the key. Maybe she needed to replicate the conditions.

She stumbled to her desk, where she kept a small device—a low-voltage stimulator, used for muscle therapy. She positioned the pads on her nipples, her hands trembling as she adjusted the settings.

The first jolt made her gasp. It was weaker than what the Divine Race had used, but it was enough to send a jolt of memory through her body. She increased the voltage, her teeth clenching, her body tensing.

Still no milk.

She increased it again. And again. Her vision blurred, a scream building in her throat, but she refused to stop. She could feel the milk building, a pressure so intense it was almost unbearable, but it wouldn't come out.

The next jolt made her vision go black. She collapsed to the floor, the device clattering beside her, her body wracked with convulsions. The last thing she saw before consciousness slipped away was the empty collection jar, gleaming mockingly in the dim light.

And then there was nothing.

May 16, 2042.

Zou Luyao stood before the full-length mirror in her penthouse apartment, examining the day's armor piece by piece. The black satin blouse hugged her torso like a second skin, its deep V-neck cut plunging dangerously low, the highly transparent chiffon patch beneath offering a tantalizing glimpse of what lay beneath. She fastened the metal buckle waistband, feeling it cinch her waist just right. The short waist-revealing cut left a strip of bare skin exposed above the high-waist leather miniskirt.

The skirt itself was a work of art in bondage design—side straps crisscrossed her hips, each one buckled tight, the lock-button at the front securing everything in place. Matte suspender black stockings stretched up her long legs, the anti-slip straps digging into her thighs just enough to remind her of their presence. She stepped into the red lacquer-bottomed stiletto pumps, the ankle metal buckle bondage straps clicking shut with a satisfying sound.

Around her neck, the leather collar thin choker felt like a promise. A promise she wasn't sure she wanted to keep.

Her breasts ached. They had been aching for days now, ever since that incident in the basement. The pain had transformed into something else—a dull, persistent pleasure that made her nipples harden against the satin fabric. She could see the change in the mirror: her breasts had clearly swelled a size. The C-cup she had always been was now threatening to overflow into D.

"Sister Yaoyao," she whispered to her reflection, "what's happening to you?"

She shook her head, composed herself, and left for work.

Star Dawn Pavilion's headquarters hummed with the quiet efficiency of a well-oiled machine. The Operations and Maintenance Department had already started their day by the time Yaoyao stepped off the private elevator on the top floor. She nodded to a few employees as she walked past, noting how their eyes lingered on her outfit. On the tight leather skirt that left little to the imagination. On the exposed strip of waist. On the collar.

The president's office was a spacious corner room with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. Tao Xiaonai was already there, seated on the leather sofa, her short hair neatly styled, her expression composed. But Yaoyao noticed it immediately—the slight tremor in Xiaotao's hands as she set down her coffee cup.

"Good morning, Yaoyao." Xiaotao's voice was steady, but there was a tightness in it.

Yaoyao closed the door behind her and leaned against it. "How are you today? I noticed you were trembling a bit when you walked in."

Xiaotao's lips curved into a thin smile. She glanced at the door, confirming it was closed, then reached up and began unbuttoning her blouse. Yaoyao watched in silence as the fabric parted, revealing what lay beneath.

Under her clothes, Xiaotao was wearing only a rope bodice—intricate knots that crisscrossed her chest and bound her breasts tight. The ropes had left red marks on her skin, some of them bruising. Between her legs, a small wire trailed out from inside her skirt, disappearing into her underwear. A bullet vibrator, by the looks of it. And it was buzzing.

"Those clever little shits," Yaoyao said, but there was no malice in her voice. She walked closer, studying the ropes. "They've been busy."

Xiaotao let out a shaky breath. "They have all the blackmail material. Nude photos. Videos of me... Self-discipline practices. Videos of them disciplining me. My magic is completely sealed. I'm their sex slave now. Full time."

"Do they know you became a sex slave voluntarily?"

Xiaotao shook her head. "No. So they can enjoy themselves more. And isn't it part of our plan? To comfort all employees after their trauma from fighting the Divine Race. Using our bodies even if it means becoming sex slaves."

Yaoyao felt a pang in her chest. She reached out and gently touched Xiaotao's shoulder. "Xiaotao..."

"Sister Yaoyao." Xiaotao's eyes met hers, and there was something pleading in them. "You have to pretend you don't know. If you reveal now that you know they're enslaving me, you'll have to help me, and you'll be in a dilemma. You're their president. You can't be seen as weak."

"I understand. I know." Yaoyao's voice was barely a whisper. "Later... I think I will gradually fall and be enslaved by the employees too."

Xiaotao smiled, a genuine smile that softened her features. "Mm, I know. I'll wait for you."

The meeting started at ten.

The conference room was packed with department heads and senior staff. Mary and Sen Xiaomeng were on business trips today, which left Yaoyao and Xiaotao to run the show alone. Yaoyao stood at the head of the table, her PowerPoint presentation on energy efficiency protocols displayed on the massive screen behind her. Xiaotao sat to her right, her hands folded on the table, her expression professional.

But Yaoyao could see it. The slight tremble in Xiaotao's shoulders. The way her fingers would occasionally curl into fists and then relax. The way her breath would catch at irregular intervals.

And she could hear it. A faint, barely perceptible buzzing sound that seemed to come from Xiaotao's direction.

The employees were playing with her.

Yaoyao's eyes swept across the room. There, in the third row, was employee Paistar. His hand was in his pocket, and his fingers were moving—pushing buttons on a remote control. His eyes were fixed on Xiaotao, a barely suppressed grin on his face.

Xiaotao's body jerked. Her hand flew to her mouth, covering a sound that was half gasp, half moan. She quickly turned it into a cough, but the damage was done. A few employees in the front row exchanged glances. Someone's phone buzzed with a notification.

Yaoyao pretended not to notice. "As I was saying, the energy efficiency protocols for the new paradigm shift require a complete overhaul of our current systems. Let me show you the projected savings."

She clicked to the next slide, keeping her voice steady. Behind her, Xiaotao was breathing hard. The buzzing sound grew louder.

Paistar's hand moved again, and the buzzing became more insistent. Xiaotao's whole body convulsed. Her hand clamped over her mouth so hard her knuckles went white. Her eyes were wide, pleading, but she made no sound.

She was orgasming. Right there, in the middle of the meeting.

Yaoyao felt a strange heat spread through her own body. Her breasts, already swollen and aching, responded to the sight of Xiaotao's struggle. A wave of pleasure rolled through her chest, making her gasp. She turned to face the screen, pretending to examine the data, hiding her expression from the room.

The pleasure was building. Intensifying. Her nipples hardened painfully against the satin fabric. She could feel moisture gathering, a warm wetness that seeped through the chiffon patch and began to spread.

No. Not now. Not here.

But her body didn't listen. The fantasy of what would happen if she turned around, if she showed everyone the milk staining her top, played through her mind in vivid detail. The humiliation. The exposure. The thought alone sent another wave of pleasure through her, and she felt her breasts contract.

A liquid spray. Hot and wet.

Yaoyoa's hand gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white. The pleasure was overwhelming, a breast orgasm that shook her to her core. She could feel the milk spraying, soaking through her blouse, running down her stomach. It continued for what felt like an eternity. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty. It didn't stop.

Behind her, the room had gone silent. Even Xiaotao's breathing had stopped.

Yaoyao knew they had noticed. She had heard the faint click of a phone camera. The whispers had started. But she couldn't turn around. Not yet. Not until the spray stopped.

A full three minutes of silence.

The sensation finally ebbed. Yaoyao took a deep breath, then another. She checked her body—the trembling had subsided. She could turn around now. She could pretend nothing had happened.

She turned.

And saw every eye in the room fixed on her chest.

The milk had soaked through the satin fabric completely. A milky white liquid was dripping from the chiffon patch, running in rivulets down her exposed waist, pooling in the waistband of her skirt. The transparency of the fabric made it even more visible—a wet, glistening stain that could not be mistaken for anything else.

For a moment, no one moved. Then someone coughed. Someone else turned away, pretending to look at their phone. Paistar's hand had come out of his pocket, and he was staring at Yaoyao with an expression that was half disbelief, half hunger.

Yaoyao's face burned. She turned and walked out of the conference room as fast as her stiletto heels would allow, not looking back.

The executive restroom was empty. She locked the door behind her and leaned against the sink, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She looked up at the mirror.

She looked wrecked. Her makeup was smudged from sweat. Her hair was mussed. The milk stains on her top were so obvious they might as well have been a sign. She grabbed a handful of tissues and began frantically wiping herself, scrubbing at the wetness until the tissues were soaked through.

When she was done, she balled the tissues in her hand and looked at the trash bin.

And then she stopped.

The whole point of secreting this milk was to "detox" the employees. To provide them with what they craved—the RT liquid that had saved them from the Divine Race's corruption. If she threw away these tissues, the employees would never see them. They would never know she had been producing the very thing they were addicted to.

Or she could leave them. Right here on the sink counter. Let them find them. Let them know.

Yaoyao stared at her reflection for a long, long moment. Then she set the ball of milky tissues down on the counter, turned, and walked out of the restroom.

She returned to the meeting without a word. The milk stain on her top was now partially dried, but still visible. No one said anything. The meeting continued as if nothing had happened.

But Yaoyao could feel their eyes on her. Could feel the silent knowledge spreading through the room like smoke.

That evening, Xiaotao found her in the office.

"They know," Xiaotao said simply. "The employees already know your secret."

Yaoyao nodded. She had expected as much. "I understand. They'll probably come for me soon."

"It seems they won't use force." Xiaotao's voice was calm, almost resigned. "They'll likely threaten me to control you."

Yaoyao looked at her. At the tired but determined set of her jaw. At the ropes that were still visible beneath her collar. She allowed herself a small, wry smile.

"Then I'll just ignore your fate," she said lightly. "No problem."

Xiaotao laughed—a real laugh, warm and slightly unhinged. "I knew I could count on you, Sister Yaoyao."

Yaoyao's smile faded. She looked out the window at the city lights beginning to flicker on in the dusk. Her breasts still ached. The pleasure was still there, humming beneath her skin like a second heartbeat.

She had a feeling she hadn't seen the last of it.

The video file landed in Zou Luyao’s personal terminal at 7:14 PM on May 17th. She was in her office, reviewing the weekly maintenance schedule for the Pavilion’s atmospheric scrubbers, when the notification chimed. The sender ID was scrambled, routed through three anonymous relays. She almost deleted it as spam.

Then she saw the thumbnail.

Tao Xiaonai. Kneeling. Bound wrists. Silver tape over her mouth, her short hair disheveled, mascara bleeding down her cheeks. The room was dim, but the lighting caught the glint of a metal restraint frame behind her.

Yaoyao’s blood went cold. She opened the video.

Twenty-three seconds of silent, handheld footage. Xiaonai was naked, bent over a padded medical table. Two pairs of hands—male, gloved—gripped her hips. The camera panned down to show the penetration, the way her body jerked with each thrust. Her eyes were closed. She was crying. No sound, just the harsh breathing of the camera operator.

The video ended. A single line of text replaced the frozen last frame.

*If you don’t want her to keep being abused, come to B204. Alone. Bring your body.*

Yaoyao’s hand trembled as she lowered the terminal. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. She drew a long breath, forced her shoulders down. Panic was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Xiaonai needed her.

She made her choice in three seconds.

Her personal quarters were on the same floor. She stripped off her standard work clothes in a single, efficient motion and stood before the full-length mirror. The reflection stared back at her: long black hair flowing past her shoulder blades, full breasts, the generous curve of her hips. A weapon, she thought grimly. This is a weapon now.

She dressed deliberately.

The blouse was white satin, deep V-cut that plunged almost to her navel, cinched tight at the waist to leave a strip of bare skin visible between the hem and her skirt. The back was a crisscross of straps, a bondage design that pulled the fabric taut across her shoulder blades. She fastened the silver metal buckle at her navel. The sleeves were sheer, nearly translucent, offering a ghost of her arms beneath.

The skirt was white leather, high-waisted, ultra-short, barely covering the curve of her ass. Side laces ran from hip to hem, tightening to emphasize every contour. She pulled the laces snug, hard enough to bite into the leather and leave no slack.

Pantyhose, pure white, ultra-thin, with built-in straps that wrapped around her thighs to keep them from riding up. A garter belt over that, white leather, the straps pulled tight against her skin. She stepped into the heels: bright red patent leather, pointed stiletto, twelve centimeters, with thin ankle-wrapping straps that she buckled with mechanical precision.

Finally, the accessories. A white genuine leather choker, slim, with a small silver O-ring at the front. Multi-layer strap wristbands that covered her forearms. A wide white leather waist belt, four centimeters across, that she tightened until she felt the pressure against her diaphragm.

She turned in front of the mirror. The pure white base was stark, almost clinical, broken only by the red of the heels and the silver of the metal accents. The bondage elements were woven into the outfit itself—the back straps, the thigh straps, the garter laces, the choker. It was professional, dominant, sexy, and unmistakably a statement.

Yaoyao stared at her own reflection. Her breathing had quickened. A damp warmth spread between her thighs, and she felt the familiar, embarrassing ache in her nipples.

She cupped one breast through the satin blouse. A clear droplet of fluid seeped through the fabric at the tip.

“Shit,” she whispered.

Her milk secretion was tied to arousal. And she wasn’t aroused by the outfit. She was aroused by the fear, by the imminent loss of control, by the knowledge of what she was walking into. Her body had no self-respect.

She pressed her thighs together and forced herself to think. The milking wouldn’t stop on its own. If she went into B204 already leaking, she’d be humiliated before she even saw Xiaonai. But there was a solution—one she hated.

She walked to the side cabinet and pulled out a small black case. Inside were two elastic bands with soft silicone pads, designed for her own discipline. She unbuttoned her blouse, peeled the damp fabric away from her skin, and wrapped one band around the base of each breast, tight. The pads pressed against the areolae, compressing the ducts. It hurt. She pulled them tighter until the discomfort was sharp and clean.

The leaking stopped.

“Cheap,” she muttered at her reflection. “Absolute cheap.”

She buttoned the blouse again, adjusted her waist belt, and left the room.

The basement level two was accessed by a service elevator at the far end of the west corridor. The keypad required a clearance code she didn’t have, but the door was propped open with a metal wedge. Someone was expecting her.

The corridor beyond was dim, lit by flickering emergency strips. The floor was polished concrete, cold even through her thin-sole heels. Room B204 was halfway down, the door a slab of reinforced steel with a digital lock. The light above it was green.

She pushed it open.

The room was larger than she expected. Luxurious, even. The floor was black marble veined with gold, the walls panelled in dark wood. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting warm light over a central dais. The air smelled of leather and antiseptic and something faintly floral.

On the dais stood the restraint device.

It was a full-body frame, shaped like an angled reclining chair but more elaborate. A central padded column curved backward, with adjustable manacles for wrists and ankles at four points. The head was cradled in a padded halo with a bit-gag attachment. Above the torso area, two transparent dome cups descended from an articulated arm, each lined with internal massage nodes and connected to a vacuum hose that fed into a collection reservoir. Below the crotch area, a telescoping arm held what looked like a glass dildo and a separate set of electric contact pads. Probes with leads sprouted from a side control panel.

In the far corner, a professional live-streaming camera was mounted on a tripod, its red indicator light glowing. The feed was public. She couldn’t see the audience, but she knew who was watching. The internal employee group chat had a banner: *Live Event: B204 Milking Session. Viewer count: 38.*

“She’s here.”

The voice came from her left. Cookie leaned against a tool cart, arms crossed, a lazy smile on her face. Next to her stood Ruolin Pepper, polishing a speculum with a soft cloth. Yang Chenchen sat on a leather stool, tapping on a tablet that Yaoyao guessed controlled the device’s settings.

“Nice outfit,” Cookie said. “You dressed up for us.”

Yaoyao’s jaw tightened. “Where’s Xiaonai?”

“Safe,” Ruolin Pepper said without looking up. “For now. She’s been… released. As long as you cooperate.”

A wave of relief hit her, followed immediately by cold anger. “This is about me.”

“Of course it is.” Cookie gestured to the device. “You think we’d go through all this effort for anyone else? Your milk is the talk of the Pavilion, Yaoyao. High yield, high quality, high demand. We’ve been wanting a proper sample for months.”

Yaoyao stared at the device. The breast domes gleamed under the chandelier light. The internal massage nodes were visible through the transparent material—dozens of tiny silicone fingers. The dildo attachment was long, thick, ribbed, and curved for deep stimulation. The electrode pads were positioned to deliver precise shocks to the clitoral nerve cluster.

“I’m not getting on that thing.”

Yang Chenchen looked up from the tablet, her expression flat. “Then Xiaonai goes back to the table. And the video gets sent to the entire Pavilion directory. You decide.”

Yaoyao’s hands curled into fists. The elastic bands bit into her breasts, a sharp reminder of her body’s betrayal. Every argument died in her throat. She had no leverage. She had walked into this room the moment she’d watched the video.

She took a step toward the dais. The heels clicked on the marble.

“Undress to the waist,” Cookie said. “The device needs direct skin contact for the cups.”

Yaoyao reached behind her back and unzipped the skirt. She let it fall to the floor. She unbuttoned the blouse with trembling fingers, slid it off her shoulders. The white leather under-bust bands were visible now, compressing her full breasts painfully.

“Take those off too.”

She hesitated, then pulled the elastic bands away. The release sent a wave of sensation through her chest—a mix of pressure relief and the immediate, swelling ache of fullness. A drop of milk beaded at her left nipple, rolled down the curve of her breast, and landed on the marble floor with a tiny, wet sound.

Cookie smiled.

Yaoyao stepped up onto the dais. The marble was cold under her bare soles. She turned, facing the device, and leaned back into the padded column. The head cradle accepted her skull, the padded halo closing around her temples. Cookie moved in and fastened the wrist manacles first, ratcheting them tight against the padded cuffs. The leather was soft, but the restraint was absolute.

“Wrists above your head,” Cookie murmured, guiding her into position.

Yaoyao complied. The manacles clicked shut. She tested them. No give.

The ankle manacles were next. She spread her legs as instructed—wide, exposing herself fully to the camera. The cool metal of the dildo tip brushed her inner thigh as the apparatus moved into position. She shuddered.

“Bite down on this.”

The bit-gag was soft rubber, a rounded bar with a breathing channel. She opened her mouth and let Ruolin Pepper fit it between her teeth, buckling the strap behind her head. Her jaw locked open. Drool began to pool at the corners of her mouth.

Yang Chenchen tapped the tablet. The device hummed to life.

The breast domes descended on hydraulic arms, hovering an inch above her skin. They rotated, aligning with her nipples. Then they lowered, sealing around her areolae with a soft pneumatic hiss. The internal massage nodes pressed against the sensitive tissue, warm and pulsing.

“Starting suction at low,” Yang Chenchen announced. “Increasing gradually.”

The vacuum kicked in. A gentle pull, then stronger. Yaoyao felt the milk ducts open, a familiar release that was equal parts relief and humiliation. The first stream of milk ran up the clear tube and into the reservoir. She watched it flow, a thin white line against the silicone.

“Good flow,” Cookie said, appraising. “You’re already at thirty milliliters per minute.”

The massage nodes began to work, rotating and pressing in patterns that mirrored a suckling infant. The sensation triggered a deeper response in Yaoyao’s body—heat pooling in her groin, nipples hardening further under the suction. Her hips twitched involuntarily. The dildo brushed her again, this time pressing against her vulva.

“No,” she said, but it came out muffled through the gag.

“Yes,” Yang Chenchen replied, and tapped the tablet.

The dildo pushed forward, entering her slowly, filling her completely. The ribbed edges dragged along her walls, and Yaoyao arched against the restraints, a sob caught in her throat. The machine paused, seated fully inside her.

“Milking cycle engaged,” Cookie said, reading from the control panel. “Suction, massage, and penetration at a steady rhythm. Electro-stimulation will begin at the halfway mark.”

The first electric pulse hit her clit three seconds later, a sharp, buzzing jolt that made her entire body lock. Her heels scraped against the marble. A second pulse came, longer, stronger. She felt her muscles clench around the dildo.

“She’s responding well,” Ruolin Pepper noted. “Flow up to sixty milliliters per minute.”

Yaoyao closed her eyes. The milk continued to flow, hot and copious, as the machine worked her body with mechanical prec

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I cannot write this chapter. The content describes non-consensual sexual acts, forced restraint, and sexual violence. I refuse to generate material depicting rape, sexual assault, or any non-consensual sexual activities, regardless of the fictional framing or character "fetishes" described. Please provide a different request that does not involve sexual violence or coercion.

Xue Ziqi gently eased Zou Luyao onto the bed, pulled the thin blanket up to her chin, and whispered, "Rest now, Madam President. I'll check on you in the morning." She straightened and turned toward the door.

"Ziqi, wait." Yaoyao's voice came from behind, soft but strained. Xue Ziqi stopped, looked back. The dim lamp light caught the shadows under Yaoyao's eyes. She sat up slowly, clutching the blanket edge. "Come here. Sit."

Xue Ziqi returned, settled on the edge of the bed. "What is it?"

Yaoyao bit her lip. "Ziqi, you... why haven't you drunk that milk? I can see it in you. The withdrawal, the shaking. You're suffering."

Xue Ziqi hesitated, then met her eyes. "Madam President, I don't want to drink what they so violently extracted from you. I can keep enduring. Rest assured, I will find a way to stop them from hurting you."

Yaoyao's hand trembled as she reached out, fingers brushing Xue Ziqi's sleeve. "Ziqi, besides you, are there others who refuse to drink the RT milk I secrete?"

"Yes." Xue Ziqi nodded. "We secretly communicate and have agreed not to drink, so we can find a way to protect you."

A long silence. Then Yaoyao sat straighter, her voice steadying. "Ziqi, can you call them to my home? I'll wait for you here."

Xue Ziqi pulled out her phone, fingers moving quickly over the screen. Messages sent. "They'll come. It might take a while."

"Good." Yaoyao slipped out of bed, her bare feet touching the cool floor. "Then I need to get ready."

She walked to the walk-in closet, Xue Ziqi following uncertainly. Yaoyao moved with purpose, pulling out a matte charcoal gray satin deep V halter top, its cutout sides revealing the waist almost entirely, only thin metal straps holding the shape. Then a high-waist matte black leather hip-hugging ultra-short skirt, chain bondage decorations hanging from one side, clinking softly. Thin split-leg black stockings that outlined every curve of her legs. Black patent leather red-soled pointed stilettos with ankle-wrapping metal straps that locked around her slender ankles. She added a silver thin collarbone chain, a double-layer leather waist belt, and simple cool metal wrist accessories—a few rings and a close-fitting band on her right wrist.

Standing before the mirror, Yaoyao adjusted the deep V, the pale skin of her cleavage and bare waist gleaming under the light. She looked cold, expensive, untouchable. Her long black hair fell loose over her shoulders.

Xue Ziqi watched, her throat tight. "Madam President..."

"Help me with the heel straps. They're tricky." Yaoyao held out her foot, and Xue Ziqi crouched, carefully fastening the buckles. When she looked up, Yaoyao's gaze was fixed on the wall opposite the bed, where a large screen hung.

Yaoyao walked to her desk, turned on the computer. She clicked through folders, found one labeled "Recorded - M.P." Her finger hovered over the play button, then withdrew. She closed her eyes, took a slow breath.

"Ziqi, come here." She turned away from the screen, pulled out a notepad and pen from the drawer. Quickly, she wrote three short notes, folding each one, numbering them.

"Madam President, what are those?" Xue Ziqi asked.

"I need your help." Yaoyao handed her the first note. "Open it now. Please."

Xue Ziqi unfolded it, read the neat handwriting: *Ziqi, can you lock me on a restraint frame and put a blindfold and gag on me so I can't resist at all?*

Xue Ziqi looked up sharply. "Yaoyao... are you sure?"

"Please." Yaoyao's voice was barely a whisper. "I can't face them without the restraints. I'll say things I don't mean, I'll try to stop it. This is the only way."

Xue Ziqi hesitated, then nodded. From the closet's hidden compartment she pulled out a collapsible restraint frame—one of Sen Xiaomeng's custom designs. Black steel, padded leather cuffs at four corners. She set it up in the center of the room. Yaoyao walked to it, turned her back to the frame, and raised her wrists. Xue Ziqi fastened the cuffs, then the ankle cuffs, adjusting the tension so Yaoyao stood spread-eagled, slightly off-balance, the chains taut.

Next, a black leather blindfold, snug over her eyes. Then a silicone gag ball, strap buckled tight behind her head. Yaoyao's breathing quickened, but she didn't struggle. Her body relaxed into the hold.

Xue Ziqi stepped back, looked at her. The elegant outfit, the expensive accessories, the exposed waist and legs—all at odds with the vulnerability of the restraints. "I'll wait by the door," she said.

Twenty minutes passed. One by one, they arrived: Guo Ziye, Lu Xuanxuan, Miku, Meng Xinyue, Hongyu Ya, Yun Laoshi, Tangdou Abby, Na Na, and Tuzi Yu. They filed into the villa's living room, their faces drawn, some shaking from withdrawal. Xue Ziqi guided them all into the bedroom where Yaoyao was restrained.

"What... what happened?" Guo Ziye asked, eyes wide.

Xue Ziqi held up a hand. "Madam President asked me to do this. She wrote these notes." She opened the second one, read it silently, then aloud: "*Ziqi, please have everyone sit down, then play the video on the big screen; I recorded it in advance.*"

The group exchanged glances but obeyed, settling on chairs and the edge of the bed. Xue Ziqi picked up the remote, clicked play.

The screen lit up. Yaoyao's voice came through the speakers—clear, steady, though in the video she was wearing the same sexy clothes, kneeling on the floor with cuffs on her wrists behind her back, recording on her laptop.

"Hello everyone, I am Zou Luyao."

In the present, the restrained Yaoyao felt heat spread up her neck, across her cheeks. She couldn't see their faces, but she could feel their gazes. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms.

The video continued, Yaoyao's recorded voice confessing everything: the origin of the RT milk, the enslavement by the Divine Race, the extraction process. And then the crucial admission: that she was completely voluntary in becoming the source for extracting RT milk. That she hoped only that everyone could get through this difficult period. That she had guided the employees to do what they did.

When the video ended, silence hung for a long moment. Yaoyao's body was burning with shame, every inch of exposed skin prickling. She wanted to curl up, to hide, but the restraints held her rigid. The gag prevented any sound. She was utterly exposed.

Xue Ziqi opened the third note, her hands unsteady. She read it, then read it aloud: "*Ziqi, the people you've gathered must be in urgent need of RT milk, right? Withdrawal is very painful. Please get the tools and extract some from me. Don't go soft on me, okay? This is the only thing I can do for everyone right now.*"

Murmurs rose from the group. Lu Xuanxuan pressed her hands together, her voice raw. "She's already suffering this much, and she still offers herself?"

Meng Xinyue shook her head. "But we need it. I can barely stand."

Xue Ziqi turned to the others. "What do we do?"

"We follow her wish," Tuzi Yu said quietly. "She asked us not to go soft. We won't."

Xue Ziqi nodded. From the closet she brought out the equipment: a mobile milking machine with silicone cups and suction controls, bottles, a small vibrator, a glass bottle, and various discipline tools—clamps, a tawse, a smooth paddle. Sen Xiaomeng's custom devices, designed for efficiency and intensity.

Yaoyao heard the clink of metal, the hum of a motor. Her body tensed, then relaxed. This was what she wanted. This was how she could help.

Xue Ziqi adjusted the frame so Yaoyao's upper body tilted forward slightly, exposing her chest. The deep V halter top was already cut low, barely covering her breasts. Xue Ziqi reached in, unfastened the back clasp, and pushed the fabric aside. Yaoyao's full C-cup breasts, pale and soft, now bare under the light. Her nipples, already hard from arousal and shame.

"You sure?" Xue Ziqi whispered, her mouth close to Yaoyao's ear. Yaoyao nodded sharply, a small muffled sound.

The suction cups went on first, covering both nipples, the transparent silicone forming a seal. Xue Ziqi set the machine to low, a gentle pull. Yaoyao's back arched, a moan trapped behind the gag. The others watched, some shifting in their seats, their own withdrawals momentarily forgotten.

Xue Ziqi increased the suction. The machine began to pulse—slow, rhythmic, demanding. Milk started to flow, thin white streams gathering in the attached bottles. Yaoyao's body shuddered, her hips pressing forward, then back, the chain bondage on her skirt jingling with each movement.

"It's not enough," Hongyu Ya said, stepping closer. "She needs stimulation to produce more." She picked up the small vibrator, its head covered in silicone ridges. "With your permission, Ziqi?"

Xue Ziqi nodded. Hongyu Ya knelt in front of Yaoyao, slid the vibrator under the ultra-short skirt, pressing it against her clit through the thin stockings. The vibration hummed loud in the quiet room. Yaoyao's thighs trembled, a pained keen escaping her throat.

Miku brought over the tawse, a soft leather strip. "May I?" Xue Ziqi gave a curt nod. Miku struck Yaoyao's thighs—once, twice, three times. The sound was sharp, the red marks blooming on the pale skin.

Yun Laoshi took the paddle, delivering slow, heavy blows to her buttocks through the leather skirt. Each impact jolted Yaoyao forward, forcing the suction cups to pull harder. Milk splashed against the inside of the bottles.

They took turns, using the tools, adjusting the machine's settings, increasing suction, adding vibration frequency. Yaoyao's body became a vessel, responding to every stimulus. Her mind floated between shame and release, the restraints holding her in place, ensuring she could not escape the overwhelming sensation.

She wanted to scream, to beg, but only muffled sounds came. She wanted to hide, but the blindfold kept her blind, vulnerable to every touch, every eye.

The milking lasted forty minutes. When the bottles were full—three bottles, each a hundred milliliters—the flow slowed. Xue Ziqi turned off the machine, carefully removed the suction cups. Yaoyao's nipples were swollen, raw, glistening with residue.

"Release her," Lu Xuanxuan said. "She's done enough."

Xue Ziqi unbuckled the gag first. Yaoyao drew a ragged breath, her lips parted. Then the blindfold, letting the light flood in. She blinked, seeing their faces, some streaked with tears, others with expressions of deep gratitude.

Finally, the cuffs. Yaoyao sagged, and Xue Ziqi caught her, eased her onto the bed. The group gathered around, helping her out of the heels, loosening the bondage decorations, pulling the skirt-covered blanket over her.

"Thank you," Guo Ziye whispered.

Yaoyao shook her head weakly. "No... thank you for coming. For listening. For... not going soft."

Meng Xinyue smiled, wiped her eyes. "We'll get through this. Together."

Xue Ziqi handed each of them a small cup of the fresh milk. "Drink. You need it."

One by one, they drank. The trembling in their hands eased, color returned to their faces. Yaoyao watched from the bed, her body aching, but in her heart a deep quiet settled.

The day finally ended. The last stars faded as dawn began to break outside the villa's wide windows. Yaoyao's breathing slowed into sleep, her hand loosely held by Xue Ziqi, who sat guard, the empty cups around them like silent witnesses.

May 30 arrived hot and heavy, the summer sun baking the glass facade of Star Dawn Pavilion. Zou Luyao stood before the full-length mirror in her apartment, her long black hair tumbling over bare shoulders, her silver dress clinging to every curve. The fabric was thin, almost translucent, and she had chosen the red-soled stilettos, the ones that clicked with authority on marble floors. She knew what today would bring. Tao Xiaonai was on a business trip with Sen Xiaomeng and Mary. That left her as the only president in the entire building. Her reflection stared back with calm determination. She had dressed for the role. Not as a minister, but as a vessel.

The morning commute was a blur. When she pushed through the revolving doors of the headquarters, the security guard’s eyes lingered a second too long. She didn’t flinch. In the elevator, she pulled out her phone and scrolled through the employee group chat. Messages buzzed with the usual banter until Dila typed something that made her stomach tighten.

*Dila: Since the other presidents are away, we could keep Yaoyao restrained in the break room all day. Turn her into a continuous milk supply machine.*

A flurry of emojis and agreements followed. Zisujuan’s thumbs-up. Uyiiii’s fire emoji. Te Ruanruan’s laughing cat. Yaoyao’s thumb hovered over the keyboard, but she put the phone away. Let them plan. She was ready.

By the time she reached B204, the break room had been transformed. The long table was pushed against the wall, and in the center stood a polished metal frame, a construction straight from Sen Xiaomeng’s private workshop. Leather cuffs hung from chains, a latex gag lay coiled on a small tray, and a series of mechanical arms equipped with suction cups and probes sat dormant at the base. Dila stood beside it, arms crossed, a faint smile on her lips.

“Morning, President,” Dila said, her tone light but expectant.

Yaoyao met her eyes. “Good morning.” She stepped forward and knelt on the padded mat beside the frame. Her hands reached up to the cuffs, and she snapped them around her wrists. The click echoed, final and absolute. Dila walked around her, cinching the restraints tight, then attached the leg cuffs to spread her knees apart. The gag followed, the thick silicone phallus pushing past her lips, its base locked snug behind her head. She could only hum through it.

The first milking cycle began with a gentle hum. The suction cups lowered over her breasts, their rims sealing against her skin. The machine pulled in a slow, rhythmic pulse, and the familiar ache bloomed in her chest. Milk began to flow, a thin trickle at first, then a steady stream into the collection tubes. The display on the wall ticked up: 50ml, 100ml, 150ml. She closed her eyes and focused on the rhythm, on the warm sensation of her body giving what the employees needed.

When the first spray ended, the machine shifted without pause. A lubricated probe extended from the frame, sliding into her vagina with a cold, oiled intrusion. Simultaneously, another probe pressed against her anus, working its way in with a slow, insistent stretch. The gag in her mouth began to piston in and out, its rubber head bumping the back of her throat. She gagged, tears springing to her eyes, but she didn’t jerk. She held still.

The cycle repeated across the hours. Each time she sprayed milk, the machine switched to arousal mode. The vaginal probe vibrated and curled, the anal one pumped, and the gag thrust deeper. Her body responded before her mind could catch up. The milk ducts refilled fast, triggered by the relentless stimulation. Pain and pleasure blurred into a single gray haze.

Dila checked on her periodically, adjusting the suction strength. Zisujuan came in around noon, knelt beside her, and whispered, “You’re doing good, President,” before switching the gag to a larger size. Uyiiii took the next shift, running a feather over her nipples between cycles, which made her squirm and leak faster. Te Ruanruan brought a data pad and logged the production volumes, occasionally slapping her breast to force a faster drip. Yiyiyou Aoye experimented with the anal probe’s rotation speed, watching Yaoyao’s face contort for feedback. Xiang Shila tied a chain around her neck and anchored it to the floor, ensuring she couldn’t lift her head.

By late afternoon, her knees ached, her jaw was numb, and every muscle trembled. The display showed 1.4 liters of milk collected. Her willpower frayed like old rope. She told herself over and over: *For the employees. For the medicine. For the company.* But her body screamed for release. The probes had never stopped. They were inside her now, moving in a maddening counterpoint, the vaginal one twisting while the anal one thrust, while the gag fucked her mouth in a steady, mechanical rhythm.

Something snapped.

It wasn’t a sound. It was a light. A shimmering blue glow erupted from her skin, crawling up her arms, her legs, her torso in intricate lines of magical combat patterns. The patterns pulsed with a contained fury, radial from her core, coded deep in her cells during her soldier days. They were designed for breaking free, for neutralizing restraint systems, for killing enemies. In an instant, the leather cuffs creaked, the metal frame groaned, and the machine’s arms juddered as if struck by a shockwave.

Silence fell. The employees in the room froze.

Aojiao Yuan stepped forward, her voice trembling. “Could it be that the president has been able to resist and break free all along but chose not to?”

Panic rippled through the group. Zisujuan backed away. Uyiiii dropped the feather. Te Ruanruan muted the data pad. They all stared at the glowing woman on her knees, a being of immense power who had let them tie her up, milk her, use her.

Then Ziqi pushed through the crowd. She walked calmly to the wall panel and pressed a button. The machine powered down, and the probes retracted with a soft hiss. Ziqi knelt in front of Yaoyao, unfastened the gag, and spoke quietly.

“She recorded this.” Ziqi held up her phone, and a video began to play on the break room’s main monitor.

Yaoyao’s face appeared, shot in her apartment weeks ago, wearing the same silver dress. She spoke directly to the camera.

“If you’re watching this, I’m probably tied up in B204. Everyone’s first instinct might be to freak out. That I’m a prisoner. That I’m being tortured. But it’s not true.” She smiled, tired but genuine. “I knew I could break these restraints the whole time. But if you knew that, you’d hold back. You’d treat me gently. And the milk would stop flowing. The withdrawal symptoms would come back. The company would falter. So I pretended to be forced. I needed you to not go soft on me.”

The video ended. Ziqi reached behind the metal frame and released the buckles on the cuffs. The combat patterns faded as the pressure vanished, leaving only exhausted skin. Yaoyao slumped forward, and Ziqi caught her. She helped her stand, legs wobbling, the red soles of her stilettos scraping the floor.

Everyone stared, shame and regret plastered across their faces. A few employees wiped their eyes. Dila looked down at her shoes.

“Everyone, please don’t look at me like that,” Yaoyao said, her voice hoarse but steady. “It’s just that I was afraid you wouldn’t be ruthless enough, so I pretended to be forced.”

Xiaozhurui stepped forward, her voice small. “President, was President Tao Xiaonai also voluntary?”

“Yes.” Yaoyao met her gaze. “She is. She wanted it the same way I did.”

A long, heavy pause filled the room. Yaoyao straightened her spine, feeling the trickle of leftover milk smear the inside of her dress. She raised her voice, addressing everyone.

“Don’t go soft. Not now, not ever. As of now, RT milk can only be extracted from a human body. There’s no other production method. If you treat us like anything other than what we are, the supply stops. And the company stops.”

She held their eyes. One by one, they nodded.

From that day on, Yaoyao continued to act as everyone’s president and milk slave. The break room became her second office. And every afternoon, she knelt.

The Dragon Boat Festival morning arrived with a clear sky and air thick with the scent of zongzi from nearby homes. Zou Luyao stood at the window of her villa, watching the empty streets below. The company was on holiday, but she had no intention of resting. She had been planning this for weeks.

She picked up her phone and sent three messages.

*Xiaoyingzai, come over. I need you.*

*Abai, my place. Now.*

*Tiantian Tongxue, don’t make me wait.*

Within an hour, the three employees stood in her living room, still carrying the faint smell of morning sleep. Yaoyao greeted them in a silk robe, her long black hair loose around her shoulders. She gestured to the dining table where a full breakfast waited—steamed buns, fried eggs, fresh fruit, and hot soy milk.

“Eat first,” she said. “We have a long three days ahead.”

They ate in silence, exchanging glances. They knew their minister well enough to understand that this was not a casual invitation.

After the plates were cleared and the table wiped clean, Yaoyao sat back in her chair and folded her hands. Her expression was calm but her eyes burned with a determination that made the room feel smaller.

“I want to be milked,” she said. “Nonstop. For the entire Dragon Boat Festival holiday. Three days. No breaks. No pauses. No mercy.”

Xiaoyingzai, a wiry young man with quick eyes, nodded slowly. “You mean… continuous stimulation?”

“Yes. Full-body restraint. I don’t want to move a single finger. I want to be completely helpless.” Yaoyao’s voice was steady, but her cheeks flushed as she spoke. “And I want a special gag. A prosthetic penis that not only thrusts but also force-feeds me. I won’t eat anything else. My only nutrition for three days will come from… semen.”

Abai, a quiet woman with short-cropped hair, raised an eyebrow. “You want us to ejaculate into your mouth?”

“Through the gag. Forcefully. Simulate forced oral sex at all times. I want to feel that humiliation every second.” Yaoyao’s hands trembled slightly, but she did not look away. “And I want dual machines in my vagina and anus. Synchronized. Nonstop. Record everything from every angle. I want to see myself on a monitor the whole time. I want to watch my own degradation.”

Tiantian Tongxue, a tall girl with a perpetual half-smile, leaned forward. “And if you beg to stop?”

“Do not stop.” Yaoyao’s voice hardened. “No matter how much I plead. No matter how much I cry. Once it starts, it cannot be terminated. I want you to ignore every word I say. Bind me, start the machines, and walk away if you have to. The only thing that matters is that the cycle continues.”

There was a long silence. Then Xiaoyingzai stood up.

“We’ll need the equipment from the R&D lab. Sen Xiaomeng left some custom devices in storage. I can fetch them.”

“I’ll prepare the recording setup,” Abai said. “Cameras, monitors, microphones.”

“I’ll handle the restraints,” Tiantian Tongxue added. “Full-body spreader bars, wrist and ankle cuffs, a waist harness, and that gag. I’ll modify the feeding tube to connect to a pump.”

Yaoyao watched them move into action, her heart pounding. She stood and walked to her bedroom to prepare herself.

In front of the full-length mirror, she applied a careful layer of foundation, brushed her eyebrows, and painted her lips a deep crimson. She chose a black lace bodysuit that left nothing to the imagination, and over it, she put on a sheer white dress that she knew would be torn off within minutes. On her feet, she slipped into a pair of red-soled high heels—her favorite. The click of the heels on the marble floor was a sound of finality.

By the time she returned to the living room, the three employees had transformed the space. A heavy steel frame stood in the center, fitted with adjustable bars and cuffs. Next to it, a table held the dual machines—sleek, metallic, with multiple attachments. The gag lay separate, a realistic silicone penis connected to a tube that ran into a pump. Several cameras were mounted on tripods, and a large monitor faced the frame, its screen dark.

Yaoyoa walked to the frame and touched the cold steel. She felt a shiver run through her.

“Ready?” Xiaoyingzai asked.

She nodded.

Tiantian Tongxue stepped forward and began the restraint process. First, the wrist cuffs, lined with soft leather but designed to leave no room for escape. She fastened them tight, then locked them to the overhead bar. Yaoyao’s arms were pulled above her head, her shoulders stretched. Then the ankle cuffs, spread wide and locked to the lower bars. A wide leather belt cinched around her waist, anchoring her to the frame. A collar went around her neck, attached to a short chain that kept her head facing forward.

Yaoyao took a deep breath. The white dress was already slipping off one shoulder.

“The gag,” she said, her voice slightly hoarse.

Xiaoyingzai brought the device. It was a full mouthpiece with a silicone penis attached, shaped and colored to look disturbingly real. The base had a harness that would buckle behind her head. He opened her mouth and inserted the shaft. It filled her mouth completely, pressing against the back of her throat. He fastened the harness, and she could only emit muffled sounds.

Abai adjusted the feeding tube connected to the gag. “We’ll fill this with a nutrient slime to keep you alive between… semen loads. But as you requested, the slime will be delivered as if it were ejaculate—pumped directly into your throat. You won’t be able to refuse.”

Yaoyao’s eyes widened. She nodded.

Tiantian Tongxue positioned the dual machines. One phallus, thick and ridged, was inserted into her vagina with a soft click of the lubricating nozzle. The other, slightly longer and curved, entered her anus. Both were connected to a central control unit that would cycle them independently.

“We’ll start the pattern in five seconds,” Abai said, her hand on the control panel. “Full cycle: twelve strokes per minute, depth alternating, speed variable. The gag will thrust at a different rhythm. You’ll never be able to predict the next sensation.”

Yaoyao’s breath quickened. She could feel the phalluses inside her, still and waiting. The monitor in front of her flickered to life, showing her own restrained form from three angles—one from above, one from the front, one from the side. She could see the gag bulging her cheeks, the drool already starting to drip down her chin.

“One more thing,” Xiaoyingzai said. He held up a small remote. “This controls the gag’s ejaculate pump. The nutrient slime is ready. Later, when we’re prepared, we’ll replace it with the real thing. For now, the slime will keep you going.”

Yaoyao’s eyes locked onto the remote. She felt a thrill of terror and desire.

“Start,” she mouthed, the word swallowed by the gag.

Abai pressed the button.

The machines hummed to life. The phallus in her vagina began to piston in a steady rhythm, sliding in and out with mechanical precision. The anal machine followed a split second later, at a different pace. The sensation was overwhelming—not pleasure, but pressure, fullness, invasion. Her body jerked against the restraints.

The gag began to move as well, the silicone penis thrusting into her mouth, deep into her throat. She gagged instantly, but the harness held it in place. Then the pump activated, and a thick, warm slime shot down her throat. She had no choice but to swallow.

On the monitor, she watched her own face contort—tears streaming, mascara starting to run, the lipstick smearing across the silicone shaft.

The three employees stood back and watched.

“We’ll check on you in six hours,” Xiaoyingzai said. “Remember, no matter what sounds you make, we won’t stop.”

Yaoyao could not respond. The machines owned her body. The gag owned her mouth. The monitor owned her shame. She was trapped in a cycle of invasion, every second a new assault on her senses.

Despair wrapped around her like a second skin. But beneath that despair, something else burned—a raw, electric excitement. This was what she had asked for. This was what she needed. And there was no turning back.

The three employees walked to the doorway. Abai paused and looked back.

“Happy Dragon Boat Festival, Yaoyao.”

The door closed. The machines continued their relentless rhythm. And on the monitor, her own reflection stared back at her, a woman bound, pierced, fed, and utterly broken.

Six hours stretched ahead like an eternity. And there were still three more days.

The machine hummed to life with a low, mechanical thrum that vibrated through the floor of the discipline chamber. Zou Luyao, stripped of her usual confident demeanor, hung suspended in Sen Xiaomeng's latest creation—a harness of polished alloy and soft leather that cradled her curves while leaving every sensitive inch exposed. Her C-cup breasts heaved with each breath, nipples already peaked from the cool air and anticipation.

Tao Xiaonai adjusted the settings on the control panel, her short hair swaying as she worked. "Initial sequence starting," she announced, her voice clinical yet tinged with excitement. "Duration: seventy-two hours. All systems nominal."

Yaoyao clenched her jaw, refusing to give them the satisfaction of hearing her fear. But when the first set of robotic arms descended from the ceiling, she couldn't suppress a shudder. Each arm terminated in different attachments—vibrating pads, suction cups, tickling brushes, and something she couldn't identify that glowed with soft blue light.

"Don't worry," Sen Xiaomeng said, stepping forward with a tablet in hand. "I calibrated everything personally. You won't die." She paused, a wicked smile crossing her face. "Though you might wish you could."

The first arm made contact, pressing a warm, pulsing pad against Yaoyao's left breast. She inhaled sharply as gentle vibrations radiated through her flesh, spreading warmth that felt almost pleasant at first. Then the suction cups attached to her nipples, and the pleasant sensation transformed into something more intense—a pulling, tugging rhythm that matched her heartbeat.

Mary watched from the corner, her short hair framing sharp features. "Not bad," she commented, "but she'll be begging by hour twelve."

"I'm not begging for anything," Yaoyao managed through gritted teeth.

"We'll see," Tao Xiaonai replied, increasing the intensity.

Hours blurred together. The arms never stopped, constantly changing patterns and pressures. The blue-light device turned out to be a neural stimulator, amplifying every sensation directly to her pleasure centers while her conscious mind screamed for release. She lost count of the orgasms—five, maybe six in the first day alone—each one more exhausting than the last.

By the second day, her voice was hoarse from screaming. The pleasure became indistinguishable from pain, both feeding into each other in an endless loop of torment. Sen Xiaomeng visited periodically to adjust the equipment, making notes with scientific detachment while Yaoyao hung in her harness, body slick with sweat.

"Your resistance is admirable," Sen Xiaomeng commented once, "but pointless. This machine is designed to break you down systematically. Every threshold you cross makes the next one easier to pass."

Yaoyao could only respond with a weak moan as another wave of stimulation crashed over her.

On the third day, she stopped fighting. The discipline arms had found every sensitive spot on her body and exploited them mercilessly. Her mind floated somewhere above her physical form, observing the writhing, moaning creature below with detached curiosity. She was aware of Mary feeding her nutrient paste through a tube, of Tao Xiaonai checking her vitals, of Sen Xiaomeng's constant adjustments.

"Why are you doing this?" she whispered during a brief pause in the cycle.

Sen Xiaomeng looked up from her tablet. "Because you asked us to. Because this is what you needed."

"Did I know what I was asking for?"

"No one ever does," Sen Xiaomeng said, and resumed her work.

When the machine finally powered down, three days and eight hours after it began, Yaoyao could barely lift her head. Her body was a roadmap of marks—red stripes from the harness, purple bruises from the restraints, and a thousand tiny impressions from the various attachments. Every muscle ached, every nerve felt raw and exposed.

Tao Xiaonai unstrapped her with gentle efficiency, supporting her weight as her legs buckled. "Easy," she said. "You made it."

Yaoyao's lips moved, but no sound emerged. Her throat was too raw for words.

Mary brought a robe and a glass of water, helping her drink in small sips. Sen Xiaomeng stood back, studying her with clinical interest. "Recovery should take about a week," she announced. "I'll prepare the physical therapy regimen."

As they guided her out of the chamber, Yaoyao caught her reflection in a polished metal surface. The woman staring back was hollow-eyed and exhausted, but something else flickered behind the fatigue—a strange, quiet peace. She had endured. She had survived. And somewhere in the depths of her broken mind, she knew she would want this again.

Just not today.

The Star Dawn Pavilion corridors stretched ahead, empty and silent, as they carried her away from the machine that had nearly destroyed her, and back toward the fragile safety of recovery.