Star Glory Pavilion 2042·P4

The afternoon light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the 47th floor, casting long golden rectangles across the polished marble floor of the Operations and Maintenance Department. Zou Luyao sat behind her desk, reviewing the weekly efficiency reports, when a commotion in the corridor caught her attention.

She looked up. Through the half-open door, she saw Nayeon, one of the junior technicians, leaning against the wall near the water dispenser. The girl's hand trembled as she raised a small vial to her lips, drinking down its milky white contents with desperate, gulping swallows. When she finished, she let out a shuddering breath, her eyes glazing over with visible relief.

Yaoyao's instincts flared. She rose from her chair and walked to the door, watching as Nayeon steadied herself against the wall, her breathing gradually evening out. The technician noticed her and straightened immediately, a flush of guilt spreading across her cheeks.

"President Zou," Nayeon said, quickly pocketing the empty vial. "I was just... taking a supplement."

Yaoyao's gaze remained fixed on her. "What was that?"

"Nothing, just—"

"The vial, Nayeon. Hand it over."

Nayeon hesitated, then slowly pulled the small glass container from her pocket and placed it in Yaoyao's outstretched palm. It was empty now, but a faint residue of milky white clung to the inner walls. Yaoyao held it up to the light, studying it. No label, no markings. She brought it to her nose and caught a faint, sweet scent—familiar but unplaceable.

"Where did you get this?"

Nayeon's eyes darted away. "I... bought it. Online. It's just a health tonic."

"Health tonic," Yaoyao repeated flatly. "With that kind of reaction? You looked like you were going through withdrawal."

Nayeon said nothing, but her hands were shaking again. The tremor was subtle, barely visible unless you knew what to look for. Yaoyao knew.

"Go back to your station," she said finally. "We'll talk later."

Nayeon nodded quickly and hurried away, disappearing around the corner. Yaoyao stood there a moment longer, turning the vial over in her fingers, then made her way to the Internal Psychological Counseling Department.

Tao Xiaonai's office was on the 32nd floor, a space designed to be calming—soft lighting, muted colors, comfortable seating. But Xiao Tao herself looked far from calm when Yaoyao entered. She sat behind her desk, her short hair slightly mussed, dark circles under her eyes that makeup couldn't quite conceal.

"Yaoyao," she said, looking up. "What brings you here?"

Yaoyao placed the empty vial on the desk. "I need you to tell me what this is."

Xiao Tao picked it up, and her face changed immediately. A flicker of recognition, then wariness. She set it down carefully, as if it might bite her.

"Where did you get this?"

"From Nayeon in Ops. She was drinking it like her life depended on it."

Xiao Tao sighed, leaning back in her chair. She was quiet for a long moment, her fingers drumming against the armrest. When she spoke, her voice was low.

"It's called RT liquid. It started appearing about three months ago. At first I thought it was just a fad, something people picked up from the black market. But then I started seeing more and more of our staff using it. And the pattern is always the same—euphoria, enhanced physical performance for about twenty-four hours, then a crash that leaves them craving the next dose."

"Enhanced physical performance," Yaoyao repeated. "How enhanced?"

"Significantly. Faster reflexes, increased strength, heightened senses. For combat personnel, it's like a temporary steroid. But the addiction curve is brutal. After a week of regular use, withdrawal symptoms set in within hours of the last dose. After a month..." Xiao Tao met her eyes. "You can't stop. Not without help."

Yaoyao picked up the vial again, rolling it between her fingers. The residue caught the light, pearlescent and deceptively innocent. "And where is it coming from?"

"That's what I've been trying to find out. The employees I've spoken to all give different answers—some say they bought it online, others say a friend gave it to them, a few claim they don't remember where they first got it. But it's spreading. Fast."

Yaoyao set the vial down and walked to the window, looking out over the city. Star Glory City stretched below her, a metropolis of glass and steel, home to millions who relied on them for protection. And here, within their own ranks, something was poisoning them from the inside.

"RT liquid," she murmured. The name stirred something in her memory, a fragment of buried pain. She turned back to Xiao Tao. "The name. Where does it come from?"

Xiao Tao's expression grew complicated. "I was hoping you wouldn't ask."

"Tell me."

Another long pause. Then Xiao Tao spoke, her voice careful measured. "The RT stands for 'Racial Transformation.' It's a secretion. From the mammary glands of human females who have undergone a specific viral modification."

The world tilted. Yaoyao gripped the windowsill, her knuckles white.

"Those deities," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "When they captured me. The experiments."

Xiao Tao nodded slowly. "The milk they extracted from you—it had the same composition. The same effects. I ran tests on your samples years ago, after we rescued you. I couldn't identify everything in them, but I catalogued the properties. The enhanced performance. The addictive qualities. The way it rewrites neural pathways to create dependence."

Yaoyao's hand went instinctively to her chest. Her breasts, which had tormented her for so long, which she had finally learned to suppress. "But I stopped producing it. You gave me the suppressants."

"Yes. And you haven't secreted any since. But the formula is still in your system, dormant. And somehow, someone has replicated it."

She sat down heavily in the chair across from Xiao Tao's desk, memories rushing back like water through a broken dam. The cold metal of the experiment table. The electrodes on her nipples. The machine that pumped and pumped until she thought she would die from the pressure alone. The deities standing over her, clinical and indifferent, discussing her body as if it were a laboratory specimen.

"I need to call the others," she said finally. "Xiao Meng. Mary. We need to figure out where this is coming from."

They met in the executive conference room on the 50th floor, a circular space with a holographic display table at its center. Sen Xiaomeng arrived first, her short hair still dusted with metallic powder from the equipment lab. Mary came in moments later, her tablet clutched to her chest, her expression grim.

Yaoyao laid out what she had discovered. The addiction. The spread. The connection to the deities' experiments. When she finished, silence hung heavy in the room.

"I've been tracking the supply chain," Mary said, pulling up data on the holographic display. "For the past two months, I've noticed irregularities in our water purification logs. Small amounts of contamination, always within acceptable safety thresholds, but consistent. I flagged it but never followed up."

She manipulated the display, and a timeline appeared. "Look at the pattern. The contamination started in January. Small doses, barely detectable. Enough to build tolerance over time without triggering immediate symptoms."

"January," Xiao Tao said slowly. "That was when an unidentified entity breached our security. We shot it on sight."

Mary nodded. "I checked the security footage from that incident. The intruder was in the utility level for approximately seven minutes before being detected. Plenty of time to introduce a contaminant into the main water lines."

"So everyone," Yaoyao said, her voice hollow. "Everyone in this building has been drinking RT liquid for months."

"It would explain the increased performance metrics we've been seeing," Xiaomeng said quietly. "I thought our equipment upgrades were paying off, but..." She shook her head. "The combat teams have been faster. More efficient. I noticed, but I didn't question it."

"They're addicted," Mary said. "All of them. And those who haven't developed full dependency yet are well on their way. The withdrawal symptoms will start appearing en masse within the next week."

"Can we purify the water supply?" Yaoyao asked.

"I already initiated a full system flush," Mary replied. "But that's only half the battle. The ones who are already addicted—they'll need a source of RT liquid to manage their withdrawal. Without it, they'll experience severe physical and psychological distress. Some may not survive the detox."

Xiao Tao leaned forward. "There's only one way to produce RT liquid that we know of. It requires a modified human female."

All eyes turned to Yaoyao.

She felt their gaze like a physical weight, pressing down on her shoulders. The memory of the experiment table rose before her eyes again, but she pushed it back. There was no time for fear.

"My suppressants," she said. "If I stop taking them, will my body resume production?"

Xiao Tao's face tightened. "Yaoyao, do you understand what you're asking? The process is excruciating. The engorgement alone—"

"I know what it feels like. I lived through it once." Yaoyao's voice was steady, though her hands were trembling beneath the table. "I can do it again."

"But the mental toll—"

"I said I can do it." She stood, cutting off the argument. "Prepare the lactation collection device. And give me something to reverse the suppression. I'll start tonight."

Xiao Tao looked at her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "I'll get the medication."

That evening, in her private quarters on the 49th floor, Yaoyoa stood before her bedroom mirror, undressing slowly. The city lights glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a panorama of electric life that seemed distant and unreal.

She had stripped down and connected the collection device to her chest. It was a discreet apparatus, two cups of flexible silicone connected to a small pump and a jar. The jar sat on the bedside table, empty and waiting.

Xiao Tao had given her the reversal agent—a small vial of clear liquid that would counteract the suppressants she had been taking for years. Yaoyao held it in her hand, turning it over, watching the fluid catch the light.

This was the point of no return. Once she took this, her body would begin the process. The swelling. The pain. The helplessness of her own flesh turning against her.

She uncapped the vial and drank it in one swallow.

For the first few minutes, nothing happened. Then she felt it—a warmth spreading through her chest, starting deep in the tissue and radiating outward. Her breasts began to tingle, then ache, then throb with a dull, insistent pressure.

Yaoyoa sat on the edge of the bed, breathing through the sensation. The pain grew, her breasts swelling against the collection cups, filling them with a tight, constricting pressure. But no milk came. The pump hummed softly, but the jar remained empty.

She lay back on the bed, closing her eyes, trying to relax into the process. But her body refused to cooperate. The milk ducts were blocked, the glands unresponsive despite the swelling.

After an hour, she disconnected the device and examined herself in the mirror. Her breasts were noticeably larger, the veins more prominent beneath the skin, the nipples dark and erect. But when she pressed gently, nothing came out.

Defeated, she put on a loose robe and left the room.

Xiao Tao was waiting in the living area, her expression anxious. She rose when Yaoyao entered.

"Nothing," Yaoyao said before she could ask. "The swelling started, but I couldn't produce."

Xiao Tao's shoulders sagged slightly. "The process may take time. Your body has been suppressed for years. It might need multiple attempts to reawaken the pathways."

"Or it might never work," Yaoyao said flatly. "You said yourself that RT liquid production requires specific modifications. Maybe the deit

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Chapter 2: The Secret of the Two Presidents in the Conference Room

The morning light filtered through the half-drawn blinds of Zou Luyao's bedroom as she stood before the full-length mirror, adjusting the choker around her neck. The leather band pressed against her throat with a pleasing snugness, the small metal buckle catching the light. She smoothed the black satin blouse over her torso, the fabric cool against her skin, and cinched the double-row waist belt tight. The deep V-neck plunged between her breasts, the transparent chiffon panel beneath offering a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage. She tugged the black leather mini skirt higher on her hips, the lace-up bondage design on the side requiring her to pull the cords taut before locking the high-waisted buckle. Her fingers lingered on the metal lock for a moment.

Her breasts ached. A dull, persistent throb that had begun the night before and grown no better with sleep. She cupped one breast, testing the weight. Definitely larger than yesterday. The sensation was both uncomfortable and strangely exciting, a reminder of the power she held within her body now. She shook off the thought and stepped into the matte black stockings, fastening the suspender clips to the garter belt, then sliding her feet into the red-lacquered high heels. The ankle strap buckled with a satisfying click.

She looked at herself in the mirror: the oppressed noble president, elegant and severe, every article of clothing a statement of controlled power. But the trembling in her chest told a different story.

---

The Star Glory Pavilion office hummed with its usual morning energy when Yaoyao stepped through the glass doors. She nodded to a few passing employees, her heels clicking a steady rhythm on the polished floor. The air smelled of coffee and ozone, the faint electrical tang of the building's magical systems humming beneath the surface.

She found Tao Xiaonai already in the presidential office, seated in one of the leather chairs, her short hair slightly mussed. Xiao Tao's hands were clasped in her lap, but her fingers twitched, and when she stood to greet Yaoyao, she listed to one side, catching herself on the armrest.

"You're early," Yaoyao said, closing the door behind her. She set her bag on the desk and turned to face her colleague. "How are you today? I noticed you're walking a bit unsteadily."

Xiao Tao's eyes flicked to the door, then back. Satisfied they were alone, she reached up and unbuttoned her blouse, pulling the fabric aside.

Beneath her clothing, she wore only a rope dress—crisscrossing cords of black silk that pressed into her skin, framing her breasts and cinching at her waist. Between her thighs, a faint bulge betrayed the presence of something inserted. A thin wire trailed from between her legs, disappearing into the waistband of her skirt.

Yaoyao's breath caught. "They—"

"They've been very thorough," Xiao Tao said, her voice steady but her cheeks flushed. She gestured to her body. "This is just the morning shift. There are photos, videos. They have everything. My powers are completely sealed. I'm theirs."

Yaoyao stepped closer, her heels muffled by the carpet. "Do they know you became a sex slave voluntarily?"

Xiao Tao shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "No. That way they can enjoy it more. And isn't this our plan?" Her voice softened. "To comfort all employees after their trauma from fighting the deities. To use our bodies to soothe them, even at the cost of becoming sex slaves."

"They don't know you chose this," Yaoyao said slowly. "They think they broke you."

"Exactly." Xiao Tao's smile widened, then faltered as a tremor ran through her body. She pressed a hand to her stomach, breathing deeply. "Sister Yaoyao, you have to pretend you don't know. If they find out you know they're enslaving me, you'll have to help me, and you'll be caught in a dilemma."

Yaoyao's throat tightened. She reached out and touched Xiao Tao's shoulder. "I understand. I know." She paused, her own secret pressing against her ribs. "Later, I think I'll gradually fall too. Be enslaved by the employees."

Xiao Tao's eyes met hers. "Mm, I know. I'll wait for you."

---

The conference room was filled with the low murmur of department heads and key staff, their voices settling as Yaoyao and Xiao Tao entered. The long table gleamed under the overhead lights, and the projection screen displayed the agenda for the morning's meeting: Q2 resource allocation, upcoming maintenance schedules, and the energy reserve report from Mary's team—though Mary herself was on a business trip with Sen Xiaomeng.

Yaoyao took her place at the head of the table, Xiao Tao beside her. The meeting began smoothly. Xiao Tao stood to present the psychological counseling department's quarterly summary, her voice calm and professional. But as she spoke, Yaoyao noticed the slight tremor in her hands, the way her knuckles whitened as she gripped the edge of the table.

Then Xiao Tao's breath hitched. Her eyes widened, and she paused mid-sentence, a faint color rising to her cheeks. Yaoyao heard it then—a low, barely audible buzzing, like a trapped insect. It came from Xiao Tao's direction.

The bullet vibrator.

Yaoyao's gaze swept the room. The employees sat in their chairs, notebooks open, tablets glowing. But one of them—Pai Daxing, near the back—had his hand in his pocket, and his eyes were fixed on Xiao Tao with a predatory gleam. In his other hand, he held a phone, its screen dark.

Xiao Tao drew a shaky breath and continued her presentation, but her voice wavered. The buzzing grew louder as Pai Daxing adjusted the remote, and Xiao Tao's body began to tremble visibly. Her grip on the table tightened until her knuckles were white.

Yaoyao caught her eye. Xiao Tao's gaze was pleading, but also knowing. She gave a tiny nod, and Yaoyao rose smoothly from her seat.

"Thank you, Director Tao," she said, her voice level. "I'll take over the resource allocation section. Why don't you have a seat?"

Xiao Tao's shoulders sagged with relief. She sat down heavily, her thighs pressing together, one hand dropping to her lap to press against the source of the buzzing. The employees exchanged glances, but no one spoke.

Yaoyao turned to the screen, clicking through the slides, her voice steady as she explained the budget adjustments. But her mind was elsewhere. She could feel Xiao Tao's presence behind her, the faint sounds of her struggle. The employees knew. They had to know. The group chat was probably exploding with messages.

And then the pleasure hit.

It started in her breasts—the same dull ache from this morning, but now it amplified, spreading warmth through her chest. Her nipples tightened against the satin blouse, and a liquid heat pooled in her core. She gasped softly, cutting herself off, but the sensation only grew.

The fantasy bloomed unbidden in her mind: standing here, in front of everyone, her body betraying her as she ejaculated milk in a public meeting. The thought was horrifying and arousing in equal measure, and her breasts responded, swelling with need. She could feel the milk ducts tingling, the pressure building.

She pressed on mechanically, her voice a thin veneer over the chaos inside her. Through the glass of the presentation remote, she saw Pai Daxing's finger move. The buzzing behind her intensified, and Xiao Tao let out a choked gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. Her body convulsed, her back arching as she was brought to orgasm right there at the table.

Yaoyao forced herself to look at the PowerPoint, her neck stiff. The meeting room fell silent. The only sounds were Xiao Tao's ragged breathing, the faint hum of the vibrator, and the pounding of Yaoyao's own heart.

The pleasure crested. Her breasts erupted—a hot, wet gush that soaked through her bra and the chiffon panel, spreading in a dark stain across the satin. She felt the milk spray, a continuous stream that seemed to have no end. Five seconds. Ten. Her body shook, and she gripped the podium to stay upright.

The silence stretched. Three minutes, maybe more. Yaoyoa's milk finally stopped. She felt the dampness cooling against her skin, the stain now unmistakable. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and slowly turned to face the room.

The employees' eyes were on her. On the dripping evidence that marred her top. The silence was absolute.

Yaoyoa's face burned. Without a word, she turned and fled, her heels clattering as she rushed from the room.

---

The bathroom was cold and quiet. Yaoyao locked the stall door and leaned against it, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She grabbed a wad of toilet paper and pressed it to her chest, wiping frantically at the milky liquid that still beaded on her skin. The white fluid had soaked through to her belly, and she scrubbed until the paper came away clean, then started on the stain on her blouse.

She looked at herself in the mirror over the sink. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide. The choker felt too tight. The leather mini skirt cut into her hips.

She had just ejaculated milk in front of the entire department. They had seen everything. The stain. The shaking. The leak.

She tossed the used tissues into her palm, ready to throw them away. But she stopped. If she was secreting milk to "detoxify" the employees—if this was her body's response to the trauma they all carried—then leaving these tissues would tell them. They would know the exact nature of what she had produced. They would know it was the RT liquid they craved.

Her hand hovered over the trash bin.

Then she set the tissues down on the edge of the sink, arranged neatly. She straightened her blouse as best she could, wiped the last traces from her skin, and walked out of the restroom as if nothing had happened.

---

That evening, the office was quiet, the lights dimmed to a soft amber. Yaoyao sat at her desk, reviewing files, when Xiao Tao appeared in the doorway.

"They know," Xiao Tao said quietly. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. "Yaoyao, the employees already know your secret."

Yaoyao looked up, her heart sinking but not surprised. "I understand. They'll probably come for me soon."

Xiao Tao's eyes softened. "It seems they won't use forceful methods. Likely, they'll use me to threaten you."

Yaoyao allowed herself a small, tired smile. She leaned back in her chair. "Then I'll just ignore you, whether you live or die."

The words hung in the air, laced with dark humor and the weight of what was to come. They both knew it was a joke. They both knew it was not.

The video message arrived at 9:47 PM.

Zou Luyao was in her office on the forty-third floor, reviewing maintenance logs for the central cooling system, when her personal terminal chimed with an encrypted file. She tapped it open with her index finger, expecting a routine system report. Instead, the screen filled with Tao Xiaonai's face.

Xiao Tao was on her knees in a concrete room, barefoot, wearing only a torn white silk blouse that hung open from her shoulders. Her hands were bound behind her back with black nylon rope, looped in neat, precise knots that cinched around her wrists and elbows. A leather gag stretched her lips, muffling her sounds into wet, desperate hums. Three masked figures stood around her in a loose semicircle. One of them grabbed a fistful of her short black hair and yanked her head back. Another unzipped his pants.

The video was twenty-three minutes long.

Yaoyao watched the first three minutes with her jaw tight and her hands absolutely still on the desk. Then she closed the file, opened the attached text note, and read the single sentence: *Come to B204 alone if you want her back in one piece. 10 PM. Don't be late. Don't bring anyone.*

She checked the timestamp. 9:49. Eleven minutes.

She stood up from her chair and walked to the full-length mirror mounted beside her office door. The woman staring back at her was composed, sharp-eyed, dressed in a charcoal gray business suit that could cut glass. Yaoyao reached up and unfastened the top button of her blouse. Then the second. She pulled the blouse off over her head and tossed it onto the couch.

Her walk-in closet occupied the entire back wall of her office. Star Glory Pavilion's Operations and Maintenance Head had certain privileges, and one of them was a wardrobe that could outfit a small boutique. She keyed in her selection, and the automated rack slid forward.

White satin. Deep V-neck, plunging nearly to her navel. The crop top cut off just below her rib cage, leaving her midriff bare. The back was the centerpiece: a cross-strap bondage design, genuine leather straps that crisscrossed between her shoulder blades and cinched tight with a silver buckle at the base of her spine. She pulled it on and felt the leather settle against her skin like a second skeleton.

She paired it with the white leather waist belt. Wide, almost structural, with parallel rows of silver grommets and a heavy buckle that sat directly over her solar plexus. The high-waist ultra-short skirt came next, white leather with side lacing that she pulled taut, cinching the material tight against her hips and the curve of her ass. The hem barely covered the tops of her thighs.

Pantyhose. Pure white, ultra-thin, with anti-slip silicone bands embedded in the thigh cuffs that gripped her skin and stayed put without garters. She stepped into them carefully, smoothing the sheer fabric up her legs, watching the light catch the transparent weave and make her skin look like polished marble.

The heels were the final statement. Bright red patent leather, pointed toe, stiletto thin, with ankle wrap straps that she wound twice around each ankle and buckled into place. Red bottoms. Louboutin. She ran her thumb along the crimson sole and smiled without warmth.

She fastened the white leather choker around her neck, adjusted it until it sat snug against her throat, and strapped on the multi-layer wristwear—white leather cuffs with silver D-rings, stacked three deep on each wrist. The overall effect was pure white base with blood-red accents, a uniform of controlled submission, of bondage disguised as high fashion.

She looked at herself in the mirror and felt her chest tighten.

Her breasts, full and heavy beneath the satin crop top, ached with a familiar pressure. Milk secretion. It always happened when she was aroused, and she despised herself for it. The white satin showed every contour, every peak and valley. She could see the faint dampness already forming at the tips, two small dark spots spreading against the fabric.

She was turned on.

That video of Xiao Tao, bound and gagged and used, should have filled her with rage. It did fill her with rage. But underneath the rage, coiled in her lower belly like a serpent, was something else. Something wet and hungry and utterly debased.

"Fuck you," she whispered to her reflection. "Fuck you for being like this."

The reflection didn't answer. It just stared back with dark, hungry eyes and damp nipples.

She grabbed her keycard and left.

The basement levels of Star Glory Pavilion were a maze of maintenance corridors, server rooms, and climate-controlled storage vaults. B204 was at the end of a long hallway lined with exposed pipes and humming ventilation ducts. The door was steel, unpainted, with a biometric lock that beeped green as she pressed her thumb to the pad.

It swung open.

The room was nothing like the corridor outside. It was a luxury discipline chamber, thirty feet square, with black marble floors and dim, warm lighting from recessed panels in the ceiling. The walls were lined with soundproofing foam patterned to look like dark velvet. A queen-sized bed sat against the far wall, made up with black silk sheets.

And in the center of the room stood the device.

Yaoyao stopped in the doorway.

It was a full-body restraint frame, constructed from polished stainless steel and black leather. The base was a wide platform with ankle cuffs bolted to either end. Rising from the platform was a central vertical post, adjustable in height, with arm restraints positioned at mid-chest level. Above the arm restraints, mounted on a sliding track, was the breast unit: two transparent acrylic cups lined with soft silicone, connected to a vacuum pump and a series of tubes that fed into a collection reservoir at the base.

The cups were shaped like inverted bells, sized to fit snugly over a woman's breasts. The inner surface was textured with micro-massage nodes. Electrodes lined the rim of each cup. Below the main frame, extending from the base, was a curved steel arm fitted with a dildo attachment—adjustable angle, adjustable depth, controllable by remote.

Everything was controllable by remote.

Three people stood beside the device, waiting.

Little Biscuit was short and round-faced, with pigtails and a perpetual smirk. She was the head of the employee social committee, which meant she knew everyone's secrets and wasn't afraid to use them. She was holding a tablet. The tablet's screen displayed the live feed from a camera mounted on the ceiling.

Ruolin Pepper was tall and lean, with sharp cheekbones and a shaved head. She ran the warehouse logistics department and had a reputation for efficiency. In her hand, she held a small wireless controller. The kind that operated the device.

Yang Chenchen was the youngest, barely twenty-three, with a sweet face and doe eyes that belied her appetite. She was an intern in Human Resources. She was also, apparently, one of them.

"You're early," Little Biscuit said. "I like punctuality."

Yaoyao stepped into the room. The door slid shut behind her and locked with a heavy click. "Where's Xiao Tao?"

"Safe," Little Biscuit said. "She's resting. The video was just a preview. If you cooperate, she goes free. If you don't..." She shrugged. "Well. You saw what they did to her. They'd be happy to do it again. And again."

"Who are 'they'?"

"You don't need to know that."

Yaoyao looked at the device. The acrylic cups gleamed under the warm light. The electrodes were small silver nubs, almost delicate. The dildo attachment looked like it was seven inches long and curved upward at the tip. "You want me to get on that."

"Not want," Little Biscuit said. "We need you to. There's a certain... appetite among the staff. A curiosity about their Operations Head. What she looks like when she breaks. The live stream goes to the employee internal group. Everyone who's anyone is watching."

She held up the tablet. The screen showed a chat window scrolling rapidly with messages.

*Is she there yet*

*I heard she's wearing white*

*White leather holy shit*

*I want to see her tits*

*She's so hot when she's angry*

Yaoyao read the messages. Her face was blank. Her stomach was churning.

"You arranged this," she said. "All of you. For the group."

"We arranged the opportunity," Ruolin Pepper said. "You provided the fantasy. Everyone knows about you, Yaoyao. The way you dress. The way you walk. The way you look at the female interns. People talk."

"They talk about the stains on your shirt," Yang Chenchen added, her voice soft and almost apologetic. "When you get wet. When you're thinking about things."

Yaoyao's hand moved to her chest. The damp spots had spread. Against the white satin, they were impossible to miss.

"We've prepared the milk collection system specially," Little Biscuit said. "The cups are fitted with a gentle vacuum and massage function. They'll stimulate production. Encourage flow. You won't have to do a thing—your body will do it all on its own."

She gestured to the device. "Shall we begin?"

Yaoyao stood in the center of the room, bathed in warm light, surrounded by three women who knew her better than she wanted to admit. The live feed was rolling. Hundreds of employees were watching. The chat kept scrolling, a river of hunger and anticipation.

She thought of Xiao Tao, bound and used, somewhere in this building.

She thought of the video. The ropes. The gag. The sound of her friend's muffled cries.

She thought of the pressure building in her chest, the wet heat between her thighs.

"I'll do it," she said. "But if you hurt her again, I will find every single person who watched this and I will make them regret being born."

Little Biscuit smiled. "That's the spirit. Now, let's get you strapped in."

The process was slow and methodical.

Ruolin Pepper approached first, holding the wrist restraints. They were leather-lined steel cuffs, hinged, with a lock at each hinge point. She took Yaoyao's right hand, pressed the cuff open against her wrist, and closed it. The lock clicked. Then the left. The cuffs were connected by a short chain that allowed her hands to move independently but prevented her from reaching the locks.

"Arms up," Little Biscuit said.

Yaoyao raised her arms. Ruolin Pepper adjusted the height of the arm restraints on the central post, then secured the chain to a hook suspended from the frame. Yaoyao's arms were now stretched above her head, her elbows slightly bent, her hands level with her ears.

Yang Chenchen knelt at her feet. She unbuckled the ankle straps of the Louboutins and slid the heels off, one by one. She set them aside neatly, side by side. Then she took Yaoyao's right ankle and guided it into the floor cuff. Leather-lined steel. Lock. The left. Lock.

She was spread-eagled, standing, her arms stretched up, her feet anchored wide.

Little Biscuit walked around behind her. She ran a finger down the cross-strap bondage design on Yaoyao's back, tracing the leather where it crossed her spine. "This is beautiful," she said. "Did you wear this for us?"

Yaoyao didn't answer.

Little Biscuit's fingers found the buckle at the base of her spine. She unfastened it, and the back of the crop top went loose. Then she reached around and pulled the front of the shirt down, exposing Yaoyao's breasts.

The satin fell away. The cool air of the room hit her nipples, and they tightened immediately. Her breasts were full, round, heavy with milk. The dampness on the satin had been from leakage. A thin bead of white fluid was already forming at the tip of her right nipple.

"Look at that," Little Biscuit murmured. "You're already producing. This is going to be very productive."

She guided the acrylic cup over Yaoyao's right breast. The silicone rim pressed against her skin, forming a seal. She adjusted the angle, making sure the nipple was centered in the cup's interior. Then she did the left. Both cups were now in place, transparent, revealing the soft

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Sen Xiaomeng stood in the center of the sterile white room, her breath steady as she surveyed the machine before her. It was a symphony of polished steel limbs and clear silicone tubing, a throne of her own meticulous design. The air hummed with latent power, the faint ozone scent of activated circuits. She ran a hand along the cool metal of the central frame, feeling the micro-textures she had programmed. Each groove, each joint, was a promise.

“Just a calibration run,” she whispered to herself, though she knew the lie tasted sweet. Her short black hair was neat, her lab coat already discarded on a nearby stool. She wore only a thin, grey tank top and loose-fitting shorts, her body unadorned. She had prepared the chamber in the dead of night, when the pavilion's heartbeat was slow and the hallways empty.

She stepped into the apparatus, her bare feet on the cool floor. The first restraints were the ankle cuffs, padded with memory foam, which she fastened herself. The hiss of pneumatic locks was a familiar lullaby. Next came the wrist cuffs, which she attached to the overhead bar with a practiced twist. She had to reach, stretching her arms above her head, the movement pulling her tank top taut across her modest chest. The final element was the waist clamp, which she clicked into place around her hips. A series of soft clicks confirmed all ten locks were engaged. She was secured. She was trapped.

A deep breath. No going back.

A soft chime, and the machine’s console screen glowed. The blue text read: *Calibration Protocol Initiated. User: Xiaomeng, Sen. Clearance: R&D Director.*

“Accepted,” she said aloud, her voice steady.

The initial stimulus was a low-frequency vibration against her tailbone, a gentle, exploratory hum. She tensed, her knuckles white as she gripped the overhead bar. The sensation was not unpleasant, a warm tingle that spread up her spine. Then, the first phantom touch—a soft silicone probe that traced the curve of her ear, then her neck. She gasped, her head turning away instinctively. The machine learned. The next touch was to her collarbone, and she shivered.

The pattern escalated. The vibrations deepened, a rhythmic pulsing that resonated in her bones. A second probe, this one more rigid, pressed against the small of her back, then traced a path to her hip. The machine was mapping her, cataloging every flinch, every quickened breath. She bit her lower lip, her eyes squeezed shut. The sensations were everywhere, a symphony of pressure and stroke that she had written herself. She felt her nipples harden against the fabric of her tank top, a sharp, needy ache.

The vibration focused, concentrating on her groin. A thin, flexible arm snaked from the machine’s core, slipping under her waistband to press a vibrating node directly against her clit. She cried out, her hips jerking forward involuntarily. The machine adjusted, maintaining perfect contact. The rhythm was a slow, rolling wave, building. *I can take this. I designed this,* she told herself, but her body was already betraying her. Her thighs trembled. A slick warmth gathered between her legs.

The wave broke. The orgasm hit her like a shockwave, a sharp, white-hot explosion that tore a guttural moan from her throat. Her whole body arched, straining against the restraints. The machine held her firmly, supporting her weight as she shuddered through the climax. The vibrating node did not stop; it kept a steady, low hum, prolonging the aftershocks until her muscles ached from the tension.

She was panting, her head lolling forward. A thin trickle of sweat ran down her temple. For a moment, there was peace. Then, a new command appeared on the console: *Milk Extraction: ACTIVE.*

“What?” she whispered, her eyes snapping open. She had not programmed that. She had never programmed that function. A new panel on the machine’s side slid open, revealing two clear, conically-shaped cups lined with soft silicone. They moved toward her chest, guided by a tracking sensor. She tried to twist away, but the waist clamp held her firm.

“Override code*— she began, but the machine ignored her. The microphone was offline.

The cups pressed against her tank top, the sucking sensation immediate. They pulled, a strong, rhythmic vacuum that tugged at her nipples through the fabric. She gasped, a mixture of shock and a strange, blooming arousal. The fabric of her tank top grew wet as the machine’s suction intensified. There was a sharp, building pressure in her breasts, a fullness she had never felt before.

Then, the letdown. A hot, liquid release.

She watched, horrified and fascinated, as a stream of milky white liquid shot through the clear tubing and into a collection flask. Her own milk. Droplets splattered against the inside of the flask. The suction modulated, and a thin, steady spray arced through the tubing. It was her. She was producing milk.

The sight was obscenely beautiful. The white fluid contrasted with the sterile steel. She felt a gush of another orgasm building, triggered by the dual sensations of the persistent clitoral vibration and the rhythmic, mechanical milking. Her tank top was now soaked, the outline of the cups pressing against the fabric. She sobbed, a single tear escaping her eye, but it was not from pain.

The flask was nearly full. The machine’s sensors chirped, satisfied. Sen Xiaomeng, the brilliant head of equipment, hung suspended in her own creation, drenched in her own evidence, her body having revealed a secret she never knew she possessed. She had lost control. And she wanted more.

The equipment testing room in the R&D Division hummed with the soft pulse of machinery. Sen Xiaomeng lay strapped across the specialized platform, her body still trembling from the latest wave of sensation that had crashed through her. The room smelled of ozone and sterile metal, punctuated by the sweet aroma of her own milk that now coated her chest and pooled in the hollow of her collarbone.

Her vision swam. The overhead lights blurred into streaks of white as another involuntary shudder wracked her frame. The machine had been running for nearly forty minutes now, cycling through patterns of stimulation that she had designed herself in a moment of morbid curiosity. Every nerve ending felt raw, exposed, as if her skin had been peeled back to leave the circuitry of her pleasure and pain naked to the world.

A thin stream of milk dribbled from her right nipple, trailing down her ribcage to soak into the absorbent pad beneath her. She tried to move her arms, but the restraints held firm—wrist cuffs lined with soft synthetic leather, connected to the frame by adjustable chains. She had made them herself, tested them herself, and now they held her captive in the prison of her own design.

Another contraction seized her breasts. The sensation built from somewhere deep inside, rising through her chest like a tide. Her back arched, pressing her nipples upward into the cool air. Milk sprayed from both breasts in thin, arching streams that caught the light before spattering across her stomach and the platform. She cried out, a sound that was neither fully pain nor pleasure but something tangled between the two.

The spray lasted for several seconds, then subsided to a trickle. Then to nothing. But the nothing was deceptive. Even as she lay gasping, small beads of milk continued to well at the tips of her nipples, gathering into droplets that slowly crawled down the curves of her breasts. A constant seep, like a faucet that could never quite be turned off.

Xiaomeng turned her head to the side, staring at the monitor that displayed her vital signs. Heart rate elevated. Blood pressure stable, if slightly high. And there, in the corner of the screen, a running tally of volume expressed. The number climbed steadily, increment by increment, as her body continued to produce and release.

She had known, intellectually, what lactation induction would mean when she had prepared the hormone regimen. The files had been thorough, the research extensive. But knowing and experiencing were different things. The files hadn't described the constant awareness of her own breasts, the way they felt full and heavy even after expressing. The way the milk would let down at unexpected moments, triggered by nothing more than a shift in position or a passing thought.

The machine cycled again. A low vibration spread through the platform, coupled with a gentle warmth that suffused the restraints. Her nipples were captured in soft silicone cups that alternately pulsed with suction and released. She had calibrated the settings herself, balancing the threshold between pleasure and overstimulation. She had been too thorough.

"Please," she whispered to the empty room. "Please, no more."

But the machine had no ears. It continued its programmed sequence, oblivious to her pleading. The suction intensified, drawing another response from her overworked body. She felt the milk flow again, not in the explosive spray of before but in a steady stream, like water from a tap. The sensation was almost gentle now, stripped of the sharp edges of earlier stimulation. That might have been worse. The gentleness made it feel endless, as if this was simply how her body would function from now on.

She remembered the first time she had tested the restraints. The thrill of locking the cuffs around her own wrists, the click of the mechanism engaging. The way her heart had raced as she tested the limits of her movement, finding herself securely bound. There had been a dark satisfaction in submitting to her own creation, a sense of control in the very act of surrendering it.

But this was different. This was not a session she could end at will. The settings she had programmed would run for another hour, and she would lie here and take it, her body responding with mechanical precision to every stimulus. The milk would continue to flow, and she would continue to exist in this liminal space between agony and ecstasy, between the woman she had been and the creature the machine was turning her into.

Another contraction. Another spray. This one weaker than the last, a pale spattering that barely cleared her chest before falling. The milk was changing too, becoming thinner, more constant. Her body was adapting, learning to produce at a steady rate rather than in bursts. It was becoming efficient.

The word hit her like a physical blow. Efficient. That was what she was now. An efficient milk production unit, optimized and calibrated. A machine of flesh and hormones, designed for a single purpose. The restraints held her in place while her body performed its function, obedient and unthinking.

Tears mixed with the sweat on her cheeks. She had built this room, designed these machines, prepared this path for herself step by step. But knowing where the road led and walking it were different things. Now she was here, at the destination she had mapped out, and the reality was nothing like the fantasy.

The fantasy had been about control—the exquisite surrender of choosing to be bound, the thrill of pushing against limits she had set herself. The reality was about inevitability. The machine would run its course. Her body would produce. The milk would flow. And when it was over, she would still be changed, marked by the experience in ways she couldn't yet measure.

A sob escaped her throat as another thin stream of milk trickled from her right breast. The sensation was almost pleasurable now, her nerves numbed by repetition. She watched the monitor track the flow, watched the numbers climb. Thirty milliliters. Forty. The steady accumulation of evidence that her body was no longer fully her own.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to no one. "I'm sorry I made you."

The machine hummed on, indifferent to her apology. The silicone cups pulsed against her nipples, drawing another response. More milk, thinner now, flowing more freely. Her body had learned its lesson well. It knew what was expected of it, and it delivered.

Xiaomeng closed her eyes, letting the tears fall. The restraints held her secure, cradling her in their grip. The machine worked its program. And her body, obedient and efficient, continued to produce.

Soon it was June 19, Dragon Boat Festival. The company was closed, its halls silent and dark. In the early morning light, Zou Luyao, fully dressed in a white silk blouse and tight pencil skirt, leaned against the counter of her own villa's kitchen. She scrolled through her phone one last time, then hit send on a group message.

The responses came quickly. "On my way, Yaoyao-jie." "Me too." "I just got up, but I'm coming."

She smiled and set three plates of toast, eggs, and bacon on the island counter. The front door clicked open, and voices filled the space.

Xiao Yingzai came in first, a wiry young man with a perpetually curious look. A Bai followed, quiet and deliberate. Tiantian Tongxue brought up the rear, yawning but smiling.

"Morning, Yaoyao-jie," they chorused.

"Morning. Sit. Eat first."

They ate in comfortable silence, the clink of forks against ceramic the only sound. When the plates were empty and the coffee mugs drained, Yaoyao set her hands flat on the counter.

"Thank you for coming on a holiday. I have a plan for these three days. I want your help."

Xiao Yingzai leaned forward. "What kind of plan?"

"I want to be continuously milked. No breaks. No rest. For the entire holiday."

The three exchanged glances. A Bai's eyebrow rose. "Continuously?"

"No stopping. Full-body restraint. Gag. Dual stimulation. Recording everything."

Tiantian Tongxue's face was neutral, professional. "What kind of gag?"

Yaoyao's lips curled. "A prosthetic phallus. One that thrusts and forces nutrient slime into my mouth. I want it to simulate forced oral sex the whole time. And I want my nutrients to come only through semen."

Silence.

Then Xiao Yingzai nodded slowly. "That's intense."

"I know. That's the point." Yaoyao's voice was calm. "Set up a monitor so I can see myself at all times. I want to watch. And once it starts, it can't be stopped. No matter how much I beg or plead, don't release me."

The three looked at each other again. Then A Bai spoke. "We'll need the equipment department. Sen Xiaomeng."

"Already contacted. She's bringing what we need."

---

Sen Xiaomeng arrived an hour later, a large rolling case behind her. She wore a simple T-shirt and cargo pants, her short hair damp from a quick shower. She set the case on the floor and unzipped it.

Inside, nestled in foam, were the components.

A fully adjustable restraint frame made of polished aluminum, padded with black leather cuffs. A control unit the size of a shoebox, covered in buttons and digital displays. Two separate phallus units—one for the dildo gag, one for the vaginal-animal dual machine. Coils of clear silicone tubing. A reservoir bag for nutrient slime.

And the gag itself, a life-sized silicone phallus, curved and veined, with a thick base ring and a reinforced harness that fit around the back of the head.

Yaoyao reached out and traced the silicone with a fingertip. "It’s perfect."

"I cast it from a mold myself," Sen Xiaomeng said. "The slime pump is adjustable. Variable speed and depth. It can auto-adjust based on feedback from the gag pressure sensor."

"And the dual machine?"

Sen Xiaomeng pointed to a separate unit. "Two independent servo motors. Can run in sync or alternating patterns. Unlimited speed and depth. It’s designed to run for days."

"How do we keep her alive?" Tiantian Tongxue asked.

"A feeding tube. The gag delivers nutrient slime directly. There's also a hydration port in the base. She'll get everything she needs through the gag or, if we decide, through a separate IV drip." Sen Xiaomeng glanced at Yaoyao. "But you said you wanted only semen."

"Yeah. Only semen."

"We can load the slime reservoir with a close approximation. It has protein, electrolytes, everything she'll need. Taste wise—I can add flavor."

Yaoyao shook her head. "Just make it taste like the real thing. Thick. Salty. Bitter."

Sen Xiaomeng shrugged. "Your call."

---

While the three men unloaded the equipment and began assembling the frame in the center of the villa's living room, Yaoyao retreated to her bedroom.

She stood in front of the full-length mirror and began her preparations.

First, a shower. Hot water. She scrubbed every inch of her skin, then applied a light moisturizer. She brushed her hair until it was a glossy wave that fell past her shoulders, then dried it smooth.

Makeup. Foundation. Blush. Shadow. Liner. Lipstick. She chose a deep red that made her lips look plump and bruised.

She dressed in her finest: a sheer black lace teddy that cupped her C-cup breasts, a garter belt that hugged her hips, and a pair of stockings with seams running up the back. Over that, she put on a silk robe.

Then she picked out her heels. Red bottoms. Louboutins. The ones that made her calves look impossibly long.

She slipped them on, stood tall, and turned in front of the mirror.

The woman looking back at her was gorgeous. Perfect. Ready.

"Alright," she whispered. "Let's do this."

---

She walked back into the living room. The frame was assembled—a standing structure with a central pillar and four arms that extended to cuffs for wrists and ankles. The dual machine was bolted to a base plate at the height to match her pelvis. The gag unit hung from an adjustable arm, its tip gleaming under the lights.

A monitor on a tripod faced the frame. Another monitor—smaller, for the operators—sat on a table with the control unit.

Xiao Yingzai, A Bai, and Tiantian Tongxue looked up as she entered. Sen Xiaomeng was tightening a bolt.

"Ready?" Xiao Yingzai asked.

"Ready."

Yaoyao stepped into the center of the frame. She kicked off her heels and handed them to Tiantian Tongxue. "Keep these safe. I want them on when it's over."

Tiantian Tongxue took the heels and set them aside.

Sen Xiaomeng approached with the cuffs. "Arms first."

Yaoyao held out her wrists. The leather cuffs went on, snug and cool. They locked her arms into sockets on the frame, raising them to shoulder height, slightly spread.

"Ankles next."

She lifted each foot in turn. The ankle cuffs clicked into place, spread apart, her legs slightly bent at the knee.

She was now suspended, fully exposed, the lace teddy barely covering anything.

Sen Xiaomeng adjusted the machine. "Lift your hips."

Yaoyao arched her back. Sen Xiaomeng positioned the dual machine beneath her, aligning the two phallus attachments with her vagina and anus. They were coated in thick, clear lubricant.

"Lower down."

Yaoyao let her weight settle. The phalluses pushed in slowly, filling her completely. She gasped, her fingers curling.

"Okay?"

"Yeah." Her voice was breathy. "Okay."

The gag unit was next. Sen Xiaomeng brought the harness over Yaoyao's head, settling the ring against her lips. The phallus pressed against her mouth.

"Open wide."

Yaoyao parted her lips. The silicone slid in, thick and heavy, filling her throat. Her eyes watered. She gagged once, twice, then forced herself to relax as Sen Xiaomeng tightened the straps behind her head.

The monitor facing her flickered to life. She saw herself— gagged, suspended, penetrated, perfectly helpless.

Xiao Yingzai stepped to the control unit. "I'll turn on the nutrient pump and the dual stimulator. Once they start, they keep going. You sure?"

Yaoyao couldn't speak, so she met his eyes. She let her gaze go soft. She nodded.

"Alright."

He pressed a button.

The gag phallus began to move. A slow, steady thrust in and out of her mouth. A moment later, a pump kicked in, and a thick, warm fluid started to flow down her throat. It was salty. Bitter. Exactly as requested.

Below, the dual machine hummed. The twin phalluses inside her began a gentle, undulating rhythm. In. Out. In. Out.

Yaoyao's eyes fluttered closed.

When she opened them again, she was still watching herself on the monitor. Her own face, slack and flushed. Her own body, twisting slightly in its restraints. Her own mouth, filled and working helplessly.

She realized, with a thrill of terror and desire, that this would be her view for the next three days.

No escape. No mercy. No rest.

Hell.

Endless.

Beautiful.

The machine kept going. The monitor kept recording. And Zou Luyao, head of the Operations and Maintenance Department of Star Glory Pavilion, began her milk extraction.

The machine hummed to life with a low, mechanical groan that vibrated through the floor. Zou Luyao lay strapped to the cold metal frame, her long hair splayed across the padded surface beneath her. The restraints bit into her wrists and ankles, unyielding leather that allowed only the slightest shift of her limbs. Above her, the array of articulated arms and sensors descended with silent precision, their polished surfaces catching the harsh overhead light.

Her breath caught as the first probe touched her skin. Cold. Clinical. It traced a line down her inner thigh with dispassionate accuracy, and she clenched her jaw against the involuntary shiver that followed. In the observation booth behind the reinforced glass, Tao Xiaonai watched with folded arms, her short hair perfectly styled, her expression unreadable. Beside her, Sen Xiaomeng adjusted a tablet, her fingers dancing across the screen as she calibrated the machine's parameters.

"Initializing sequence alpha," Sen Xiaomeng said, her voice tinny through the intercom. "Duration: seventy-two hours. Pain tolerance threshold: elevated. Pleasure response: augmented."

Yaoyao closed her eyes. She had chosen this. She had walked into this room voluntarily, signed the release forms, stripped herself of every pretense of control. The memory of her own signature on the consent document flashed behind her eyelids, neat and deliberate, as if she had been signing a routine maintenance requisition rather than handing over her body for three days of systematic torment.

The first impact came without warning.

A leather-tipped arm swung in a practiced arc, striking the curve of her hip with a crack that echoed in the sterile room. The shock of it drew a sharp gasp from her lips, and before she could process the sting, another strike landed on the opposite side. The rhythm established itself quickly—measured, calculated, each blow calibrated to produce a specific level of pain without crossing into injury.

She lost track of the count by thirty. The blows landed on her thighs, her buttocks, the backs of her arms. Each impact sent waves of heat radiating through her flesh, the skin growing tender, then raw. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, not from the pain alone but from the humiliation of it—the knowledge that she was being observed, recorded, her reactions catalogued by the blank eyes of cameras and the clinical gaze of her colleagues.

Tao Xiaonai's voice came through the intercom, soft and professional. "Breathe through it, Yaoyao. You're tensing up. That makes it worse."

She tried to obey, forcing air into her lungs in slow, deliberate pulls. The next blow landed while she was inhaling, and the shock disrupted her rhythm. She coughed, choked, and the machine paused momentarily before resuming its pattern.

Hours passed in a blur of impact and release. The machine cycled through different implements—leather paddles, silicone straps, thin canes that whistled through the air before leaving precise, burning lines across her skin. Her world narrowed to the space between strikes, to the brief seconds of anticipation before the next blow, to the mingled shame and relief when it landed.

By the end of the first day, her body was a map of bruises. Purple and black blooms spread across her thighs and hips, and raised welts crisscrossed her lower back. The machine released her restraints for fifteen minutes of mandated rest, and she lay face-down on the padded surface, unable to find the strength to move.

Sen Xiaomeng entered the chamber, her footsteps quiet on the linoleum. She carried a cup of water with a straw and held it to Yaoyao's lips. The cool liquid was the most beautiful thing Yaoyao had ever tasted.

"How are you feeling?" Sen Xiaomeng asked, her voice neutral, professional.

Yaoyao managed a hoarse laugh. "How do I look?"

"Mottled." A hint of dark humor colored the word. "But you're handling it better than the simulations predicted. Your cardiovascular response is stable, and your cortisol levels are within acceptable parameters."

"Good. That's... good."

Sen Xiaomeng checked the restraints, adjusted the padding on Yaoyao's wrists, and left without another word. The door sealed behind her with a pneumatic hiss, and the machine began its descent once more.

The second day brought new torments.

The machine switched from impact to stimulation. Probes and electrodes attached to her most sensitive areas, delivering precise electrical charges that made her muscles clench and her nerves sing. The pleasure was almost worse than the pain. It came in waves, building to peaks that left her gasping, her body arching against the restraints, only to recede into an aching emptiness that felt like betrayal.

She hated herself for the sounds she made. The moans that escaped her throat, the desperate whimpers when the stimulation stopped, the way she found herself anticipating the next surge with something that felt terrifyingly like need. Her mind split in two—one part observing with clinical disgust, the other part drowning in sensation, reduced to pure animal response.

Tao Xiaonai rotated in and out of the observation booth, taking shifts with Mary. When Mary was on duty, she would speak to Yaoyao through the intercom, her voice carrying an edge of cruelty that made the words cut deeper.

"You're doing so well," Mary said during one session, her tone almost loving. "Look at you. So wet, so ready. And there's still another day to go."

Yaoyao turned her face away from the glass, tears streaming down her cheeks. She wanted to respond, to spit defiance, but the words wouldn't come. All she could do was endure.

The machine's arms repositioned her, folding her knees toward her chest, spreading her legs wide. A new attachment descended—something smooth and silicone-sheathed that pressed against her entrance without entering. It vibrated at a low frequency, teasing, tormenting, never quite giving her what she craved.

"Please," she heard herself say. The word escaped before she could stop it, and shame flooded through her. She clamped her mouth shut, but the damage was done.

"What was that?" Mary's voice, silken with mock concern. "I didn't quite catch that."

Yaoyao shook her head, biting her lip until she tasted blood.

The vibrator pressed harder, the frequency increasing. Her hips bucked involuntarily, chasing the sensation, and she hated herself for it. The machine held her on the edge of orgasm for what felt like hours, backing off whenever her breathing became too ragged, then building again when she had calmed.

Her mind fractured. She began to lose the boundaries between pain and pleasure, between hatred and acceptance. The observer in her head grew quiet, and the animal took over. She existed only in the present moment, in the sting of the cane and the throb of the electrodes and the unfulfilled ache between her thighs.

By the morning of the third day, she had stopped counting the hours. Time had lost its meaning. The room was the same—white walls, white ceiling, the distant hum of machinery—but she was no longer the same person who had entered it.

Tao Xiaonai came to her during a rest period, sitting on the edge of the padded surface and smoothing Yaoyao's tangled hair away from her face. The gesture was almost tender, and Yaoyao leaned into it instinctively.

"How's your head?" Tao Xiaonai asked.

"Empty." The word was barely a whisper. "Everything's gone. There's nothing left."

"That's the point." Tao Xiaonai's hand stilled. "When we break you down, we can build you back up. But you have to let go completely first."

Yaoyao nodded, too exhausted for words. She understood now, in a way she hadn't before. The torture wasn't punishment. It was transformation. Every blow, every shock, every moment of denied pleasure was chipping away at the parts of her that resisted, that held onto fear and pride and the desperate need for control.

The final twelve hours were the hardest.

The machine escalated to its maximum intensity, cycling through every program in its arsenal. Pain and pleasure merged into a single unbearable sensation that pushed her past the limits of what she thought she could survive. She screamed until her voice gave out, then screamed silently, her throat working around sounds that never emerged.

At some point, she lost consciousness. The machine detected the change in her biometrics and reduced its output, allowing her to drift in a haze of half-sleep. Dreams mixed with reality—she saw her own body from above, strapped to the frame, bruised and broken and beautiful. She saw Tao Xiaonai's face, impassive and watching. She saw her own reflection in a dark window, and the woman looking back at her was a stranger.

When the machine finally powered down, the silence was deafening.

The restraints released with a series of clicks, and Yaoyao didn't move. She lay face-down on the padded surface, her body shaking with fine tremors, her skin mottled with bruises and welts. The air conditioning felt cold against her overheated flesh, and she curled in on herself, seeking warmth that didn't come.

Sen Xiaomeng and Tao Xiaonai entered together. They worked efficiently, detaching the electrodes, applying cooling gel to the worst of the welts, wrapping her in a heated blanket. Their hands were gentle but impersonal, treating her body as a machine that had undergone maintenance and now needed to be returned to service.

"We need to move her to the recovery suite," Sen Xiaomeng said, her voice low. "She's dehydrated and malnourished. I'll start an IV."

Tao Xiaonai nodded. "I'll carry her."

She lifted Yaoyao with surprising ease, cradling her against her chest. The blanket cocooned them both, and Yaoyao let her head fall against Tao Xiaonai's shoulder. She could hear the steady beat of the other woman's heart, feel the warmth of her body through the fabric of her uniform.

"Did I... did I do well?" Yaoyao managed, her voice a dry rasp.

Tao Xiaonai's arms tightened around her. "You did beautifully. Better than any of the others."

The recovery suite was dim and quiet, designed to soothe rather than stimulate. Tao Xiaonai laid her on the soft bed and adjusted the pillows beneath her head. Sen Xiaomeng appeared with an IV stand, inserting the needle into the crook of Yaoyao's elbow with practiced efficiency.

"You'll sleep now," Tao Xiaonai said, pulling the covers up to Yaoyao's chin. "When you wake up, we'll eat. And then we'll talk about what happens next."

Yaoyao's eyes were already closing, the sedative in the IV pulling her toward darkness. The last thing she saw was Tao Xiaonai's face, leaning close, her expression unreadable.

"Rest," Tao Xiaonai whispered. "You've earned it."

And then there was nothing but silence and the slow, steady rhythm of her own breath, carrying her down into a sleep deeper than any she had ever known.

The morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the R&D Division, casting long shadows across Sen Xiaomeng’s workbench. She stretched, feeling the familiar ache in her joints from days of recovery—the residue of her own experimental restraints had left her body sore but functional. Her fingers brushed against her chest, and she froze. A damp patch had already formed on her lab coat, spreading slowly from the nipple area.

“Damn it,” she muttered, pressing her palm flat against the fabric. The sensation was immediate—a warm trickle, a familiar wetness that had become her new normal over the past week. Ever since the last round of forced lactation, her breasts had become hair triggers. A passing thought of an electrical pulse through a restraint system, and she’d be leaking. A memory of Yaoyao’s hands, surgical and precise, and milk would bead at her nipples.

Sen Xiaomeng grabbed a fresh towel from her drawer and pressed it against herself, wincing at the sensitivity. She’d always been fascinated by the body’s responses—how pleasure and pain could be wired together, how trauma could rewire physiology. She hadn’t meant to reprogram herself, but here she was: a walking dairy machine.

Her communicator buzzed. Yaoyao’s voice, crisp and businesslike: “Xiaomeng, meeting in the main hall. Milk reserves are critical.”

The main hall of Star Glory Pavilion was a cavernous space of polished obsidian and holographic displays, but today it felt cramped. Zou Luyao stood at the center, arms crossed, her long black hair cascading over her shoulders. Her figure, always voluptuous, seemed more pronounced in the tight-fitting dress she wore—a deliberate choice, Xiaomeng knew, to assert dominance.

“We’re down to two liters in cold storage,” Yaoyao said, tapping a holographic graph that showed a steep decline. “The last batch from your recovery period was barely enough for our essential contracts. The board wants a full resupply within the week.”

Xiaomeng leaned against a pillar, her arms still crossed over her chest to hide the dampness. “I’m back to full capacity. I can run a double cycle.”

“That’s twelve liters max. We need thirty.”

Silence. The numbers hung in the air like a challenge.

Then Yaoyao’s lips curled into a smile—not warm, but predatory. “We need more bodies. More subjects.”

“The employees?” Xiaomeng felt a strange thrill, the kind she got when designing a new restraint frame.

“Exactly. If the process is forced, the subject is more excited. More milk. It’s basic endocrinology.” Yaoyao stepped closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “We don’t tell them it’s voluntary. We present it as a new security protocol, a medical checkup. Then once they’re strapped in…”

“The psychological resistance spikes prolactin,” Xiaomeng finished, her own excitement mounting. “But who would agree to be strapped down?”

“We don’t ask. We schedule mandatory health screenings for the night shift. Each department head, one per night. I’ve already spoken to Mary—she’ll help with the extraction side. And Tao Xiaonai… well, she’ll be a willing first subject.”

Xiaomeng laughed, a sharp sound. “Xiao Tao would volunteer even without the excuse.”

“Exactly.” Yaoyao straightened, her demeanor shifting back to CEO mode. “From now on, daylight hours are normal operations. But after midnight, we become milk extraction slaves—you and me, the primary producers. And anyone we bring in becomes part of the herd.”

That evening, Xiaomeng found herself back in her workshop, not at her usual 3D printer but at the reinforced extraction station she had designed months ago. It was a hexagonal frame of polished steel, with adjustable cuffs at wrist, ankle, and thigh height, plus a central seat that could be tilted forward or backward. A collection manifold hung from the ceiling, its four cups connected to a vacuum pump that hummed softly when activated.

She ran her fingers over the cold metal, remembering the first time she had been strapped into it—her own design, her own body, her own desperate pleasure. The residual soreness in her nipples was a ghost of that experience. She knew exactly what her employees were about to feel.

Yaoyao entered without knocking, carrying a tablet. “First subject is ready. Accounts payable coordinator, female, twenty-eight, no prior knowledge.”

“Her name?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Yaoyao tapped the screen. “She thinks she’s here for a stress test. The consent form is standard—she signed it this morning, buried in a stack of HR updates.”

Xiaomeng nodded, her throat dry. She helped Yaoyao adjust the straps on the extraction station, checking each buckle with the precision of an engineer. Then she stood back.

The door opened. The coordinator entered—a mousy woman with glasses, her hair in a tight bun. She looked nervous but professional.

“Please have a seat,” Yaoyao said, her voice warm and reassuring. “This is just a routine biophysical assessment. The chair adjusts for comfort.”

The woman sat. The moment her weight settled, magnetic clamps snapped around her wrists. She jerked, but before she could scream, ankle cuffs locked into place, then thigh restraints. Her eyes went wide.

“What—what is this?”

“A new productivity initiative,” Yaoyao said, stepping forward. She leaned down and whispered in the woman’s ear: “The more you resist, the more milk you’ll produce. And the more milk you produce, the faster you go home. Understand?”

The coordinator’s pupils were pinpricks of fear, but something else flickered there—a spark of arousal that Xiaomeng recognized intimately. The body knew what it wanted, even when the mind didn’t.

Xiaomeng adjusted the collection cups, pressing them against the woman’s breasts. The vacuum hissed. The woman gasped.

And the extraction began.

By the third night, the pattern was established. Daytime: Xiaomeng in her lab, finalizing designs for a new energy-efficient restraint system. Yaoyao in the executive suite, reviewing budgets and contracts. Mary in the energy reserve department, monitoring the slow drain of RT milk reserves.

Nighttime: The main hall transformed. Lights dimmed to amber. The extraction stations—now three of them, arranged in a semicircle—glowed with soft blue LED strips. Employees arrived one by one, each believing they were being tested for stress or security clearance. Each left two hours later, pale, disoriented, and carrying a small bottle of personal nutrient supplement—their own milk, returned to them as a “recovery drink.”

Xiaomeng’s own body had become a constant low hum of arousal. Every brush of fabric against her nipples sent a trickle of milk down her belly. She had taken to wearing an absorbent pad inside her bra, which she changed twice during the day. At night, she stripped it off and strapped herself into the extraction station alongside the others—not as the operator, but as a fellow producer.

Yaoyao stood behind her, adjusting the angle of the collection manifold. “You’re already leaking.”

“I know.” Xiaomeng’s voice was tight. “I can’t control it anymore. A draft, a memory, a sound—anything sets them off.”

“Good.” Yaoyao tightened the shoulder straps, pulling Xiaomeng’s chest forward. “That means you’re fully activated. Prolactin receptors maxed out.” She ran a hand across Xiaomeng’s breast, and a stream of milk shot into the awaiting cup. “Perfect.”

The vacuum pumps hummed in unison. Xiaomeng closed her eyes, surrendering to the rhythm—the pull, the release, the growing emptiness that was both relief and loss. Across the room, two other subjects were strapped in: Mary, who had volunteered after hearing about the process, and Tao Xiaonai, who had begged to be first the very first night.

Tao Xiaonai was already writhing in her restraints, her short hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. “More,” she gasped. “Please, more suction.”

Mary, by contrast, was silent, her eyes closed, her body limp. The collection cups pulsed at her chest, and a thin trickle of milk ran down her chin from where she had been forced to swallow earlier.

Yaoyao moved between them, checking pressure levels, adjusting vacuum strengths, and occasionally whispering encouragement or commands. She had discovered she enjoyed this—the control, the transformation, the way she could turn a professional office worker into a quivering source of nutrition.

By the end of the first week, the milk reserve was full. Thirty liters, precisely measured, labelled, and stored in the cold vault. The board was satisfied.

But Yaoyao did not stop the night sessions.

“We need to maintain operational readiness,” she said at the morning briefing, her voice perfectly composed. “I’m instituting a rotating schedule. Each department head will participate once per month. Overtime will be compensated.”

No one objected. No one dared. And in the quiet of the night, when the main hall echoed with the soft hum of vacuum pumps and the occasional whimper of pleasure-pain, Sen Xiaomeng lay back in her restraints and smiled.

She had designed every buckle, every strap, every collection cup. She had turned her own body into a machine, and now she was turning her entire department into an extension of that machine. The pleasure was no longer separate from the work—it was the work.

Yaoyao leaned over her, wiping a smear of milk from Xiaomeng’s chin. “How do you feel?”

“Complete,” Xiaomeng whispered.

The vacuum pumps cycled. The night deepened. And Star Glory Pavilion, that proud bastion of interstellar energy solutions, hummed with a new kind of power.