May
This is not a club.
It is a fetishistic hell where your will is ignored —
and your shame is harvested drop by drop.
You came in search of the perfect climax.
But here, you are not a client.
You are a resource to be drained.
In the Semen Development and Extraction Room, pleasure does not come from lust.
It comes from desperation, from disgust, from absolute surrender.
The staff are beautiful—and utterly despicable.
They do not want to please you.
They want to see you thrashing, moaning, coming against your will, crushed beneath the weight of their sweaty feet and filthy buttocks.
Your face becomes a rug. Your nose a toy. Your orgasm a punishment.
You will be forced to inhale the smell of muffled farts, fermented sweat, and raw flesh.
Nothing is clean. Nothing is gentle.
Everything is calculated to reduce you to a cum machine through smell and humiliation.
You will not be touched.
You will not be desired.
You will be extracted.
Like garbage.
And the worst part?
Your body will love every second of it.
Even when your mind begs you to stop.
