S1 NNF Tyler EP 110

S1 NNF Tyler EP 110
If a good girl, the asshole might fuck me? Seriously? Annoyance chewed at me, but I refused to allow it to show on my face. Let him think I was the docile fuck toy that he thought I was. Stupid idiot.

Jake grabbed four clear tubes, each ending in a soft, silicone cup. He took two of them, his knuckles brushing against my skin. I didn’t react. I continued to stare at the screaming face on the ceiling and thought about Alice. About her single-word message: Alive.

He positioned the first cup over my right nipple. The silicone was soft, but the edge was firm, creating a seal against my areola. The asshat did the same with the left. For a moment, nothing happened. Then he flipped a switch on the control panel next to the chair.

A low whirring sound started, and then a gentle, rhythmic pulling took flight.

Tug. Release. Tug. Release.

It was a soft, insistent pressure, mimicking a suckling mouth. It didn’t hurt. Not at first. Well, not really a hurt, more like an ache. This was just… deeply, profoundly wrong. A machine, milking me like livestock. The humiliation was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I focused on the rhythm.

Counted the pulls. One. Two. Three. Four.

I heard footsteps approaching. More boots on concrete.

“Well, well. What do we have here?” The voice was smooth, clinical. Dr. Fucking Reddy. My whole body went rigid, an involuntary reaction I couldn’t suppress.

“She’s been like this all morning, Doc,” Jake said, his voice full of pride. “Quiet as a mouse. Didn’t even have to drag her or anything. Whatever you gave her… keep it up.”

“Is that so?” Reddy came into my field of vision, standing near my head. He was flanked by Fuck-Face Eddie, who stood with a clipboard in hand and dead eyes. Reddy looked down at me, a faint, self-satisfied smile on his lips. He wasn’t looking at my face. He was looking at my breasts, at the clear tubes where tiny white droplets were beginning to form.

“You see that, Eddie?” asked Reddy. “The re-integration protocols are holding. She’s finally accepted her nature.”

The words were a slap. Accepted her nature. The condescending bastard. I wanted to get all stabby with an ice pick on his ass, to tell him to go fuck himself with his protocols. Instead, I let my head loll to the side, away from him, a perfect picture of resigned submission.

Eat it up, you sick fuckers. Go ahead, buy into this docile shit.

Eddie made a noncommittal grunt and a note on his clipboard. “Production looks low.”

“It will increase with the extra hormones along with her compliance,” Reddy said smoothly. “The body rewards the mind’s acceptance. The stress hormones that inhibited her lactation are receding. We’ll have her back on a full production schedule by the end of the week.”

He reached out, his fingers cool and dry, and brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. I had to use every ounce of self-control not to bite his fingers. His touch was like a spider crawling on my skin. He traced the line of my jaw, his thumb pressing lightly against the pulse point under my ear.

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” Reddy murmured, his voice soft. “The transition from defiant subject to placid livestock. It’s my life’s work. It’s times like this that make me proud of what we’re doing.”

The pump kept its rhythm. Tug. Release. Tug. Release.

The pulling was stronger now, a persistent ache deep in my breasts. The droplets in the tubes had turned into a steady trickle. My milk. Flowing out of me, into his machine. I felt hollowed out, used. But beneath the nausea, a different feeling sparked. A cold, hard kernel of satisfaction. They were buying it. My submission. Every last bit of it.

I was invisible now. I wasn’t a threat. I was a success story. I was livestock. And livestock isn’t watched with the same kind of scrutiny as a prisoner.

Reddy withdrew his hand, his expression one of pure, academic pride. He turned to Eddie, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, as if sharing a profound secret. “The key is the illusion of choice. We allow them just enough memory of their defiance to make the submission feel like their own decision. A relief. It cements the conditioning far more effectively than simple punishment.”

Keep taking, you psychotic ass. Go ahead, dig yourself in deeper. My mind toyed with what I wanted to do to him, and a cartoon from my youth came to mind.

“Right,” Eddie grunted, making another tick on his clipboard. He couldn’t have cared less about the theory. He cared about the numbers on his sheet.

Visions of me running circles around them, cartoon style, and strapping fireworks and shooting them off a cliff, or dropping anvils on their heads, came to mind, forcing me to stifle a laugh.

“Jake,” Reddy said, his voice sharpening back to command. “Let’s increase the suction. Level three. I want to see how she responds to a more aggressive cycle.”

“Yes, sir, Doc,” Jake said, practically vibrating with eagerness.

This was his chance to perform for the boss, to show what a good little handler he was. He stepped forward and leaned over me to get to the control panel. His arm brushed against my bare shoulder, the fabric of his uniform rough and starchy. He smelled like stale coffee and sweat.

He fiddled with a dial, and the rhythmic pulling on my breasts intensified immediately. The gentle tug became a hard, insistent draw, a hungry mouth that was all teeth and vacuum. An ache flared deep in my tissue, sharp and radiating. I didn’t flinch. I let my eyes stay unfocused, my mouth slack.

Stay the course. This is the way.

Jake didn’t move away. He lingered, his body heat pressing in on me.

“Gotta check the seal,” muttered Jake, the excuse so thin it was transparent.

His hand, calloused and thick, landed on my left breast. It wasn’t a clinical touch. It was a proprietary one. He cupped the full weight of it, his thumb pressing down hard near the base of the silicone pump. Then he squeezed. Hard. His fingers dug into my flesh, kneading me like dough around the unyielding plastic of the machine.

“Damn. These are nice tits.” Jake licked his lips.

Bile, hot and acidic, surged up my throat. My entire body screamed to recoil, to smash my fist into his smug face, to rip his hand off me. But I didn’t move a muscle. I forced the bile back down. I swallowed. I stared at the ceiling. I made myself limp, a doll for him to play with. He was testing me. Seeing if the broken thing was truly broken.

“Such a good slutty cow.” He squeezed again, harder this time, a low grunt of satisfaction in his throat. I could feel the smirk on his face without even looking at him.