Draining Station
by Richard Lovel – Copyright 2025 – All rights reserved
Chapter 2: Bob’s Demasculation
The officers gripped Bob’s arms, guiding him through the maze of office cubicles. People covertly watched, heads behind monitors or bent intently over keyboards, avoiding eye contact. A few females openly gawked with unconcealed amusement. The males peeked for just a moment with fascinated terror before darting back to their screens. Nathan met Bob’s eyes with genuine pity. Bob could feel the collective judgment as a physical weight;
“Do you know what they’ll do to you in the Demasculator?” the shorter officer asked, her voice low and intimate against his ear. “It empties you completely. Not just the excess testosterone—everything. Some men cry afterward.” She paused, letting the words sink in. “I kind of like it when they cry.”
They stopped before double doors marked with the SSA insignia. Inside the dark room of opaque glass stood the Demasculator on its central pedestal. Clear tubes ran from its base into the wall, and a control panel glowed softly blue.
Three figures stood beside the machine: Christine Reynolds, head of HR’s Compliance Division — Marcus Williams from Regulatory Oversight, his muscular frame barely contained in business attire — and Dr. Lila Kim, whose white lab coat and tablet computer completed the tribunal of his judgment.
“Robert Matthews,” Christine announced, her voice carrying the formal cadence of a proceeding now in progress. “You stand accused of two Level Three violations of the Sexual Security Administration’s regulatory framework.”
Bob opened his mouth to speak but was silenced by Christine’s raised hand.
“First, you deliberately bypassed your mandatory morning draining, as logged by Station Attendant 47-B at 8:17 AM. Second, you exhibited dysregulated verbal aggression toward a female colleague, specifically Emily Thompson, during the 10:30 AM Q3 projections meeting.” Her gray eyes fixed on him with clinical detachment. “Do you dispute these charges?”
“I—I can explain,” Bob began. “I was running late and—”
“Your explanation is irrelevant to the facts,” Christine interrupted. “Dr. Kim will explain the consequence to you.”
Dr. Kim stepped forward. “The Demasculator will now be employed to restore your hormonal balance, Mr. Matthews. This fully-automated external male detoxification system will extract excess testosterone through repeated ejaculation until your levels return to acceptable parameters. The process typically requires between three and seven emissions, depending on the severity of dysregulation. The transparent collection chamber allows for visual verification of successful extraction.”
Bob stared in mixture of fear and fascination. Everyone knew about the Demasculator in abstract terms, and whispered accounts from those who’d experienced it.
“The apparatus employs a biomimetic gel membrane that adjusts to individual anatomical variations. Its compression algorithms are designed to override voluntary control, ensuring complete extraction regardless of subject cooperation or fatigue.”
As Dr. Kim spoke, Bob noticed something unsettling. Beneath her clinical explanation, a flush had crept up her neck. Christine’s breathing had subtly quickened, her pupils dilated. Marcus stood with his legs slightly apart, hands clasped in front of his groin attempting to conceal a growing bulge.
Dr. Kim concluded, her breathing noticeably heavier, “The process is non-invasive, perfectly safe, and not without its … agreeable sensations for the subject. However I must advise you to prepare of an intense experience … most intense …”
“Strip, Matthews,” Marcus ordered, his voice both commanding and excited. “Completely. Buck-naked.”
With trembling fingers, Bob shed his clothes. He stood naked before them, hands instinctively covering his genitals, acutely aware of his vulnerability as the three remained fully clothed, fully empowered.
“Hands at your sides,” Marcus instructed, his voice husky. “SSA protocol requires full visibility for preparation.”
Bob complied, his face burning as he exposed himself to their scrutiny.
“Assume the position,” Marcus said, moving behind Bob. The Demasculator loomed before him. A padded platform extended from its base with knee rests and ankle restraints. “Kneel here.” His hand pressed against Bob’s lower back, guiding him toward the kneeling platform.
Bob knelt awkwardly, the cold material pressing against his bare knees. Marcus crouched beside him, securing the ankle restraints.
“Lean forward,” Marcus instructed, his breath warm against Bob’s ear. “Arms extended, wrists in the front restraints.”
When Bob was secured in the humiliating position—kneeling, bent forward, arms extended—Marcus moved to Bob’s rear, squatting to eye level with Bob’s exposed genitals.
“I need to ensure proper placement,” Marcus explained, reaching for Bob’s penis with latex-gloved hands. His touch lingered unnecessarily, manipulating Bob’s organ with slow, deliberate movements. “The extraction interface requires correct penile positioning.”
To Bob’s mortification, his body betrayed him. Under Marcus’s handling, his penis began to stiffen, rising involuntarily as blood rushed to the organ.
“Good,” Marcus nodded, a smirk playing across his features. “Natural tumescence facilitates optimal insertion.” He made a crude milking gesture with his hand, visible only to Bob, before guiding his now fully erect penis into the machine’s waiting orifice. A subtle exchange of glances passed between Christine and Dr. Kim—knowing, anticipatory—as they observed Bob’s involuntary arousal.
“Preparation complete,” Marcus announced, stepping back to admire his work. Bob knelt exposed, his erection disappearing into the transparent chamber of the Demasculator, his buttocks prominently displayed, his position one of complete submission.
“Initiating transparency protocol,” Christine said, tapping a control on the wall.
To Bob’s horror, the opaque glass walls surrounding the room began to clear, transforming instantly from privacy barriers to display windows. Beyond the now-transparent walls stood at least twenty of his colleagues, including Emily Thompson, arranged in a semicircle as if attending a presentation.
“As mandated by SSA Regulation 37-C,” Christine announced, addressing both Bob and the assembled spectators, “remediation procedures for Level Three violations must be witnessed by workplace peers as a deterrent and educational measure.” With that, Bob’s humiliation began in earnest.
The Demasculator activated with a pneumatic sigh. Inside the transparent chamber, the biomimetic gel membrane contracted around Bob’s penis. The sensation was unlike anything Bob had experienced —no comparison to the prosaic Draining Stations — more than pleasure, an insistent, relentless stimulation that bypassed his will entirely. His body, programmed by evolution for one purpose, didn’t understand the context of his humiliation; it only recognized the simulation of intercourse.
“Subject displays standard initial response patterns,” Dr. Kim narrated for the assembled audience, her clinical tone dissecting the intimate subject. “Note the involuntary pelvic thrusting—a primitive reflex that the male cannot suppress.”
Bob wanted to prove her wrong, to demonstrate control over his own body, but the statement had already become fact. His hips jerked forward in tiny, humiliating spasms, driving his penis deeper into the machine’s embrace. Each thrust was a betrayal, each involuntary movement a confirmation of his status as a biological mechanism rather than a dignified human being. He was conscious of how he must appear to the spectators—naked, kneeling, strapped to a milking machine, his buttocks clenching with each thrust.
Beyond the glass walls, his colleagues watched with fascination. Some pretended clinical interest; most made no effort to hide their entertainment, smirking behind raised hands or whispering comments to one another; a few seemed to struggle with barely concealed sexual arousal. Bob spotted Nathan, his face a mask of sympathetic dread mixed with relief that he wasn’t the one on display this time.
Emily stood slightly apart from the others, her expression unreadable, arms wrapped protectively around herself.
As the machine’s rhythm intensified, Bob felt the familiar pressure building at the base of his spine. Despite his shame, despite the audience, despite everything, his body hurtled toward its biological imperative. His toes curled, his thighs tensed, and his breathing grew ragged.
“Approaching ejaculatory threshold,” Dr. Kim announced, her voice with unmistakable tremor. “Observe the carpo-pedal spams, and flushing pattern extending from the face down the torso— clear indications of imminent climax.”
Just when the first electric tingling of orgasm began, the machine abruptly halted. The sudden cessation of stimulation left Bob gasping, suspended in a state of desperate, aching need.
“Edging protocol initiated,” Dr. Kim explained to the observers. “Prolonged arousal without release increases the eventual extraction efficiency.”
Christine took out a leather paddle from a nearby cabinet. Its surface was smooth on one side, textured with small raised bumps on the other. She held it up for the audience to see, turning it to display both surfaces.
“SSA regulations provide options to contextualize the extraction with disciplinary themes,” she explained. Then, turning toward the glass partition, she made a beckoning gesture. “Ms. Thompson, please enter. As the primary victim of Mr. Matthews’ dysregulated behavior, you’re entitled to participate in the corrective process.”
A door in the glass wall slid open. Emily entered hesitantly, her eyes darting from Bob’s exposed form to the paddle in Christine’s hand.
“I—I don’t know if I should,” Emily said, her voice barely audible.
“It’s not just your right; it’s your responsibility,” Christine countered smoothly. “Male dysregulation persists when consequences remain abstract. Personal involvement in correction creates a meaningful feedback loop.” She extended the paddle toward Emily. “Take it.”
Emily accepted the implement with visible reluctance, her fingers curling awkwardly around the handle as if it might bite.
“Stand here,” Christine positioned Emily to Bob’s right, where she had a clear view of both his face and his exposed buttocks. “Apply the paddle firmly while the extraction resumes.”
Dr. Kim tapped her tablet, and the Demasculator resumed its rhythmic pulsations. Bob’s entire body jerked in response, a groan escaping his lips before he could suppress it.
“Proceed, Ms. Thompson,” Christine instructed. “Ten strikes to begin with.”
Emily raised the paddle, her arm trembling slightly. It hovered in the air for a moment before descending in a tentative arc that connected with Bob’s right buttock with little more than a tap.
“Firmer,” Christine advised. “The sensation must register through his endorphin haze.”
Emily bit her lower lip, adjusted her grip, and swung again. This time the paddle landed with a satisfying crack that echoed in the clinical space. Bob flinched, his penis twitching visibly within the transparent chamber.
“Good,” Christine nodded. “Continue.”
The third strike came with more confidence. By the fifth, Emily had found her rhythm, alternating cheeks with increasing force. Something in her expression had shifted—the nervous hesitation replaced by a focused intensity. Her breathing had quickened, and a flush had spread across her cheeks.
“Look at how his penis jumps when you strike him,” Dr. Kim observed. “The male system interprets pain as a sexual stimulus when already aroused. Fascinating, isn’t it?”
Emily paused, watching as Bob’s erection throbin response to her last strike. “It is,” she agreed, her voice stronger now. “He likes it.” This wasn’t a question but a discovery. And another discovery — the moistness she felt between her own legs.
The eighth strike came harder than any before it, the sound sharp enough to make several observers flinch and murmur “oooohhh”. Bob’s entire body jerked forward, driving himself deeper into the machine.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Bob?” Emily asked, her voice carrying a new edge. “You know, I am too. After the way you spoke to me in the meeting.”
Before he could respond, the paddle cracked against his flesh again.
“You thought you could lecture me in front of everyone?” Another strike. “Big Bad Bob, the man=splainer, setting the little lady straight?” And another. “How does it feel being girl-splained, Bobbie Boy?” And another, harder.
The Emily who had entered the room with hesitant steps had vanished. In her place stood a woman discovering her power, wielding it with growing confidence. She circled Bob, examining his strapped form from different angles, delivering precise strikes that bloomed in red patches across his skin.
“And I know how you look at me, when you think I can’t see, like you want to fuck me. You looke that way in the meeting. Is that why you lost control?” She leaned in close to his ear, “Were you thinking about fucking me right then, Bobbie, fucking me while I was giving my presentation?”
The question sent a jolt through Bob’s system. It was too close to the truth, too close to his fantasy, and his body responded with a visible throb.
Emily laughed, a sound of genuine delight. “Oh my god, you were!” She delivered another strike, harder than before. “Look at you now, Bobsie Boi. Fucking a plastic tube in front of all of us! You pathetic little masturbator.”
The triple stimulation—the relentless mechanical milking of his penis, the sharp sting of the paddle, and the surprising delight Emily took in taunting him—created an overwhelming sensory loop. Pleasure-pain-humiliation merged into one, building toward an inevitable conclusion.
“He’s getting close again,” Dr. Kim announced, watching the data on her tablet. “Heart rate elevated, testicular contraction beginning.”
“Does it excite you, having everyone watch you?” Emily taunted, circling back to face him. “All your coworkers seeing what a desperate little pervert you are?” She delivered a final, stinging blow. “Cum for us, Bobbie Boy. Show everyone what happens to boys who don’t follow the rules.”
The command, delivered in Emily’s newly authoritative voice, broke the last threads of Bob’s resistance. His body surrendered to the inevitable. The orgasm tore through him with violent intensity, a full-body convulsion that rattled the very frame of the Demasculator. His cry—half pleasure, half anguish—echoed off the clinical walls as weeks of pent-up sexual frustration erupted in pressurized spurts. The transparent collection chamber captured every humiliating detail of his ejaculation, displaying the thick white ropes of semen for all witnesses to observe. His body bucked and jerked against the restraints, helpless in the grip of a pleasure that was indistinguishable from punishment.
“Excellent extraction volume,” Dr. Kim noted, her clinical tone betrayed by a ragged catch in her breath. “Significantly above average, indicating severe testosterone accumulation. This confirms the necessity of our intervention.”
Beyond the glass, his colleagues reacted with a range of expressions—some turning away in performative distaste, others watching with undisguised fascination.
“Look at that output,” someone whispered loudly enough to be heard through the glass. “No wonder he was acting crazy.” Then someone clapped, followed by another, and a role of applause filled the space.
Emily stepped back from Bob’s trembling form, the paddle still gripped in her hand, her chest rising and falling rapidly. The flush on her cheeks had deepened, spreading down her neck beneath her collar. Her free hand smoothed her skirt with quick, nervous motions, and only her conscious will prevented it from slipping inside.
The final spasms subsided, leaving Bob panting and drenched in sweat. Christine addressed the assembled spectators, recapping the lessons learned, and dismissed them.
As the crowd dispersed, carrying the story of Bob’s humiliation back to their departments, he hung his head, unable to meet the eyes of his colleagues. The post-orgasmic clarity brought with it a crushing wave of shame. He had performed like a trained animal, responding to stimuli, a clinical specimen of toxic masculinity. His rebellion had lasted less than a day, and now he knelt before his peers, his essence captured in a measuring cup, his dignity in tatters.
The Demasculator released his now-flaccid penis with a wet, obscene popping sound, followed by a cheerful digital chime that seemed to mock his condition. Bob’s head snapped up, reading the machin’s display in disbelief:”Ejaculation 1 of Unlimited – Continuing Protocol.”
“That’s right, Matthews,” Christine confirmed, noticing his reaction. “SSA protocol for dual Level Three violations requires complete testosterone depletion. One extraction is merely the beginning.”
Marcus moved to Bob’s side, ostensibly checking the restraints but positioning himself so only Bob could see the visible bulge straining against his trousers. He leaned close, his lips nearly touching Bob’s ear.
“We’re just getting started, dude.” Marcus whispered. “The machine can milk you for hours. I’ve seen men go through seven, eight cycles before they’re completely drained. By the end, they’re shooting dust and begging for mercy.”
Dr. Kim circled Bob’s kneeling form, making notes on her tablet. “Subject displays typical post-initial-extraction characteristics. Temporary genital detumescence, elevated respiration, skin flushing patterns.” She reached out with a latex-gloved hand and lifted Bob’s flaccid penis, examining it like a specimen. “The refractory period following first extraction typically lasts between four and seven minutes before the Demasculator initiates the second cycle.”
Bob now realized what lay ahead—not just one humiliating orgasm but a series of them, each more depleting than the last, until he was utterly empty, utterly broken.
~ ~ ~
At last, the Demasculation was over. Marcus unfastened the wrist and ankle restraints, helping Bob rise from the kneeling position with a grip that was firmer than necessary. Bob’s legs nearly buckled—partly from being constrained for so long, partly from the physical drain of his ordeal. He stood naked and trembling, acutely conscious of his exposed state.
Dr. Kim handed him a small cup of electrolyte solution. Bob accepted the cup, his hand shaking so badly that liquid sloshed over the rim. He drank mechanically, aware of their eyes on him—Christine’s cool assessment, Marcus’s barely disguised enjoyment, Dr. Kim’s clinical curiosity.
He looked down at his penis, now limp and pathetic, hanging uselessly between his legs. It looked smaller somehow, shriveled by its ordeal, the skin reddened and raw from the machine’s attentions. A terrible thought struck him—would it ever function normally again after this? Or was that the point? To render him permanently docile, permanently diminished?
Dr. Kim produced three identical thumb drives labeled with the SSA logo and today’s date, giving one each to Christine and Marcus. “These contain complete biometric data and visual documentation of the remediation process.”
“For review at home?” Marcus asked, his tone suggesting this was a standard question in a familiar exchange.
Dr. Kim tucked a drive into her lab coat and confirmed the usage restrictions. “Review permitted only to certify complete protocol compliance. Use for prurient purpose strictly prohibited. The usual exceptions granted for personnel experiencing occupational tension from performing SSA duties.”
Something unspoken passed between the three of them—a momentary break in their professional facades. Christine’s tongue darted out to wet her lower lip. Marcus shifted his stance to better conceal his arousal. Dr. Kim’s fingers brushed against Marcus’s hand holding the thumb drive.
The moment vanished as quickly as it had appeared, professionalism reasserting itself like a mask sliding back into place.
~~~ end ~~~
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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