Draining Station
A satirical erotic fantasy in two chapters, for adult masturbators.
by Richard Lovel – Copyright 2025 – All rights reserved
Wherein we visit a female-led society of the future in which transgressive male behaviors are brought into normative compliance for the good of (wo)mankind.
Chapter 1: Bob’s Transgression
The alarm blared for the third time, yanking Bob Matthews from the clutches of pleasure. His hand slapped the device into silence as he groaned, eyes squinting against the dawn light filtering through his thin curtains. His penis stood rigid beneath the sheets, mourning the interrupted dream that had nearly carried him to completion.
“Damn it,” Bob muttered, glaring at the ceiling of his efficiency apartment. The dream lingered in fragments—warm skin, soft curves, forbidden dominance — Emily Thompson from his office—no, not real Emily, but an avatar generated through sexual frustration —the curve of her neck when she leaned forward in meetings, the way her fingers tapped her tablet during presentations, the brief flash of ankle as she crossed her legs under the conference table. In his dream he fucked her standing, pressing her butt against the cool glass of some fictional high-rise, her business blouse torn open, hair wild and eyes glazed with raw need. She moaned his name and pulled him deeper and deeper inside her pussy. He pounded into her with animal violence, and she writhed against him, riding his dick, locking her ankles behind his back, daring him to go harder. Every thrust felt like a revolution, taking the dream-woman in ways the waking world never permitted.
He’d been right at the trembling edge when the alarm’s shriek dissolved the dream pre-orgasm. Now, only the hollow ache of frustrated arousal remained. His erection only an inconvenient fossil of masculine instinct, before the Sexual Security Administration mandates redefined healthy manhood.
Bob threw aside the sheets and stared accusingly at his obstinate morning wood. He considered, briefly, the relief of his own hand—but the thought evaporated instantly. The SSA SmartWatcher encircling his wrist would detect the distinctive motion and heart rate associated with masturbation. He glanced at the small red light on the device – always watching, always monitoring.
The penalties for unauthorized ejaculation were severe: workplace restrictions, public notification, mandatory counseling on male toxicity. The SSA’s official position was clear: solitary male masturbation led to aggressive fantasies and sexual objectification of women. It was strictly prohibited to masturbate to the thought or image of a woman without her prior consent. The only approved release for an unpartnered male was the government-provided Draining Station. These devices were designed to maintain safe testosterone levels without reinforcing “problematic thought patterns.”
All men could quote by heart the mandatory government sex-ed videos. “Male masturbation correlates directly with aggressive and antisocial behaviors,” the clinical female voice had explained while footage showed historical riots, sexual assaults, and corporate corruption. “Self-gratification while objectifying females creates toxic social environments and reinforces patriarchal power structures.”
Bob remembered the case of Nathan from Accounting, who’d attempted to fool the SmartWatcher sensor by using his non-dominant hand. The poor bastard triggered an immediate home visit from an SSA Compliance Officer. They’d installed additional monitoring equipment in his bathroom and bedroom, along with a more sensitive SmartWatcher that included auto-shock function.
For three months, Nathan wore the visible mark: a black band with pulsing red indicators that announced his transgression to everyone. Not worth the fleeting pleasure, however tempting. Wet dreams remained the sole unregulated outlet.
Bob shuffled to the bathroom, wincing as thr cold shower hit his erection. His arousal retreated, though the frustration remained.
Breakfast consisted of regulation protein supplement and synthesized coffee. Bob chewed mechanically, musing on the interrupted wet dreams, until with a start he realized he was running late. If he hurried, he could complete his mandatory draining, and still catch the train. Maybe. He grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door.
The Draining Station loomed beside the subway entrance like some retrofitted ATM. A waist-high pillar of brushed metal with an orifice labeled “Genital Interface – Insert Here.” The latest generation omitted the “privacy curtain”, leaving the user fully exposed. Men patiently waited in a queue, each face downcast in the same resigned expression.
“Good morning, boys,” chirped the female technician overseeing the Draining Station. “What do we say?” Heads bowed, eyes averted, the men mumbled in unison, “Draining is training. Compliance is reliance.”
Bob watched as the next man stepped up to the station, unfastened his trousers, and inserted his organs into the lewdly welcoming orifice. A soft mechanical whir indicated the apparatus had engaged. His hips jerked involuntarily, his face flushed, and his hands gripped the sides of the station.
The station’s interior was lined with a gel membrane that compressed and rolled along the length of the shaft. SSA promotional videos called it the “Safe, Efficient, and Dignified Solution”; Bob’s friend Nathan, after a few drinks, had described it as “getting sucked off by a Dyson with a grudge.”
The man’s thrusting became more urgent, less controllable, his entire body drawn into the cycle of anticipation.The attendant said, “Speed it up, fellah. This is draining, not recreation.”
Within seconds, the man’s eyes rolled back, his legs twitched, and he succumbed to the engineered climax—a convulsive spasm that sent his knees buckling. The man sagged against the machine as if boneless, shuddering with a sound that was half whimper, half groan. The orifice released him with a soft pop and the machine dispensed a small paper towelette from a slot below, which the man used to clean himself before refastening his trousers. Male essence disposed like toxic waste.
Two young women in matching yoga pants had halted to watch the spectacle. One nudged the other, pointing to the man’s deflated and now harmless member, and burst into giggles.
Bob checked the time. The line at the Draining Station stretched longer than usual, and he would miss his train. He’d already received two warnings for tardiness this month; a third would trigger a performance review.The SSA regulations were clear: but being late again… Decision made, Bob casually veered away from the line, quickening his pace toward the subway entrance.
“Sir! Excuse me, sir!” The attendant’s voice cut through the morning bustle. Bob pretended not to hear, lengthening his stride.
“Matthews! Robert Matthews!” The attendant’s voice sharpened. “System has logged your bypass. This will be reported to your employer and the SSA compliance division!”
As he rushed down to the platform, Bob felt an unfamiliar stirring. Following a woman on the stairs—early thirties, business casual. The sway of her hips beneath her pencil skirt suddenly seemed deliberate, provocative. His eyes tracked the outline of her breasts against her blouse, imagining their shape, their weight in his hands.
He shook his head, disturbed by the transgressive thoughts. This wasn’t him. This was precisely what the draining protocols prevented—the objectification, the reduction of women to sexual components rather than professional equals. He had been conditioned to recognize these thoughts as harmful, yet they felt natural, even liberating in their forbidden intensity.
He jumped aboard the over-crowded car just as the doors closed, jamming into the mass of standing passengers, and found himself wedged tightly behind a young woman. Her chestnut hair fell in waves past her shoulders, reminding him of Emily. When she reached up to grasp the handhold, her blouse pulled tight across her chest. Bob imagined slipping his hand beneath the fabric, feeling her warmth, her softness. She became aware of his raging erection pressed against the curve of her backsides and glanced over her shoulder at him. But instead of moving away as he expected, her eyes met his, her lips parted slightly, and she held his gaze for a long moment before turning back around. She maintained their contact until her stop, even after the crowd thinned out. Was it possible women might prefer men in their natural state? The thought was revolutionary, dangerous.
~ ~ ~
Bob slipped into a seat at the far end of the conference room, nodding to colleagues already assembled. When Emily entered, carrying her tablet and a small remote for the presentation screen, Bob’s penis gave a twitch recalling the woman from his wet dreams.
“Good morning, everyone,” Emily said, her voice carrying that slight tremor of public-speaking anxiety that Bob had always found endearing. Today, it struck him as something else entirely—vulnerability, an opening, an invitation. “I’ll be walking us through the Q3 projections and our adjustment strategies for the western markets.”
The lights dimmed and in the softer light, Emily’s profile took on an almost painterly quality. Had her lips always been that full? Had her blouse always hugged the curve of her breasts so perfectly? Bob shifted in his seat, aware of his body responding in unfamiliar but exciting ways.
Emily advanced to her first slide. “As you can see, we’re underperforming in the 25-34 bracket, which represents our highest potential growth sector.” As she continued, Bob paid no attention to the slides, and slipped into a waking dream.
In his mind, he rose from his chair, crossing the conference room with deliberate steps. Emily faltered as he approached. “What are you—” Dream-Emily began, but Bob didn’t speak — words belonged to the neutered world of regulated males. He seized her by the waist and lifted her bodily onto the conference table, scattering papers and coffee cups.
His hands seized her blouse and tore it open with a savage yank. Buttons popped and scattered as her breasts spilled free. Emily gasped as Bob pushed her onto her back, hiked her skirt up around her waist, and stripped off her underwear. There was no SSA-approved consent form, signed by both parties, notarized, and filed three days in advance of sexual activity. Instead, her legs fell open in eager anticipation.
A quick move with his zipper and trousers , and his erection sprang free. Without pause, he plunged into her pussy with a single primal thrust. Emily let out a surprised cry, then a moan of pleasure as her body yielded to him. The conference room froze in collective shock.
“Oh god, Bob! Yes! Yes! Yes!” she gasped, her hands gripping the edge of the table as he fucked her with a primal rhythm, each thrust punctuated by the slap of flesh against flesh and the creaking protest of the conference table.
Their colleagues sat paralyzed. The males shrank in their seats, eyes wide with terror and forbidden fascination. Their SmartWatchers flashed urgent warnings, detecting elevated heart rates and hormonal surges. The women watched with wide eyes, crossing and uncrossing their legs, squeezing their thighs together, slipping fingers down into panties. “Take her harder,” whispered Mahira from HR, so softly only she could hear it.
Deep inside Emily, Bob felt orgasm approaching.”This is what you all want, isn’t it?” He groaned. “This is what we’re all thinking about during these fucking meetings.”
“Bob!”
Real-Emily’s voice shattered the fantasy. Bob blinked rapidly, the conference room swimming back into focus. Emily stood at the presentation screen, fully skirted, blouse buttoned. Others were staring at him curiously.
“I—what?” Bob managed, his voice emerging deeper, rougher than usual.
“I was asking if you had insights on our digital allocation strategy, given your work with the western region last year.”
Something hot and powerful surged through Bob’s veins. The careful, deferential response that would normally have formed on his lips—a few modest observations, properly contextualized, appropriately humble—died unspoken. Instead, he pushed his chair back and stood.
“Your entire approach is fundamentally flawed. You’ve misinterpreted the baseline data. You’ve missed obvious patterns that anyone with real field experience would catch immediately.”
He strode toward the presentation screen, intensely aware of his height, his mass, the space he commanded as he moved. Emily took an instinctive step back, yielding her position at the front of the room. Bob seized the remote from her hand.
“Look here,” he continued, circling figures on the screen with jabbing motions. “And here. And especially here. You’re creating a narrative that isn’t supported by real numbers.”
The room had gone completely silent. Bob was dimly aware of his colleagues’ expressions—wide eyes, raised eyebrows, exchanged glances.
“But the trends clearly show—” Emily began, her voice smaller now.
“The trends don’t ‘clearly show’ anything of the sort,” Bob cut her off again. “This is precisely the kind of superficial analysis that’s costing us market share. If you’d bothered to dig deeper into the raw data instead of packaging it into pretty charts—”
An urgent beeping sound cut through Bob’s testosterone haze mid-sentence. He froze, suddenly aware of the small device mounted on the conference room wall—a biometric monitor.The sound was the dysregulation alert,
Reality crashed down around Bob. What had he done? He looked at Emily, seeing her now through rapidly clearing eyes. Her face registered confusion and hurt.
“Emily, I didn’t mean—” he began.
The conference room door opened. Two uniformed officers stood in the doorway, the Sexual Security Administration insignia prominent on their shoulders.
“Robert Matthews?” the female officer asked, though it wasn’t truly a question. “Please come with us.”
~~~ Continue reading in next chapter below ~~~
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Draining Station | by Richard Lovel | Copyright 2025 | All rights reserved
Chapter 1 https://onania.org/asm/?p=40128
Chapter 2 https://onania.org/asm/?p=40142
RL-2025-10-17 revised 2025-10-19