The Last Donor
Some fame at last. All my life I wanted to be well known, a celebrity. To achieve something.
But life doesn’t always turn out as you would want. Be careful what you wish for in other words.
By the time 2035 arrived the world had grown used to pandemics. Where they came from, who was to blame, became of passing interest. Another outbreak, another vaccine, more mass inoculations. Like everyone I had faith in the public health experts, the scientists and the government to keep us safe. That is, until the last virus.
There had always been many conspiracy theories which I never believed, unlike my partner. She was more likely to listen to and believe any stories on social media. But over time she was the one who was correct and I was wrong. Stories began to circulate that the new virus was increasingly fatal for men. For some unexplained reason women were carriers of the virus but didn’t show signs of sickness. The government introduced increasing draconian measures to curb the virus. Men were ordered to be isolated from women and then a program of compulsory inoculation of all men was introduced.
Teams of medics along with the army were sent into each town in turn. Every last man was rounded up and inoculated. Apart from me. I had always resisted being on the electoral roll so, when the medics came down my road I was left out. Just as well it seems. The vaccine was a disaster and if anything, it speeded up the fatal effects of the virus. Six weeks after the inoculations it seems I was the only man alive in the town.
I decided to stay indoors and remain hidden, not wanting to make my presence known. My partner made this possible, bringing me food and necessities, even though it was illegal for a man to remain unvaccinated and for anyone to harbour or hide a man. Overnight we had both become criminals.
Then it happened. Early that fatal day a medical unit burst into the house and seized us both. I was restrained, forced to wear disposable coveralls. I was gagged and hooded, told it was for my own protection. My partner and neighbours looked on as I was bundled into a van and driven away.
Finally I arrived at a medical facility of some kind. Bright lights, nurses, the sterile smell of a hospital.
A nurse explained my fate. Her style was ‘matter of fact’.
“You’re one of the few men left alive in the country and, to be blunt, if the population is to grow once more we have a need for male sperm. Lots of it. Now we could prosecute both you and your partner for breaking the law, but that would be pointless. What we would prefer is for you to become a donor here and for your partner not to be imprisoned, as part of the deal.”
And so it was that I resided at the facility and was treated with every kindness for my personal needs, each day of the week, apart from Fridays, otherwise known as milking day.
Each Friday at exactly ten o’clock I was collected and taken upstairs to a room that was known as the milking parlour. My job was simply to lay on the couch whilst it was the job of the nurses to extract as much from me as they could. Their methods changed and developed over many weeks. Gradually they worked out the best way to increase my yield, much like farmers calculating the optimum way to get the most milk from their herd of cows.
After a few weeks it was decided to restrain me, rather than have me lay on the couch of my own free will. The suction device they used was constantly redesigned with more sucking power and small electrical signals were added. A rubber face mask was placed over my face to control my rate of breathing. Electrodes were placed on my chest and my stomach, all carefully controlled by computer.
My body was no longer my own. I became part of a machine which took over, with only one aim in mind, to stimulate and arouse me to the highest possible degree so my yields grew week by week.
Then the nurses became theatrical in their approach to me. The uniforms they wore changed and became openly designed to arouse me. What they said to me was clearly designed to be flirtatious and engaging, all with one aim in mind.
So time went on. I was living partly in a prison, partly in a hospital. For six days a week I lived like a king, whatever food and entertainment I wanted was mine. Three hours a day in my own personal gym made me ultra-fit and trim. Saturdays and Sundays were the days when I was sore and exhausted from my treatment, but that was a small price to pay.
I lacked for nothing. Apart from one thing. My partner, so I decided to resolve that.
“I want her here. I want to be with her. She can assist in the weekly milking routine. I will be happier, my yields will increase.” I explained.
My suggestion was accepted, so my partner joined me, and we lived side by side. She was saved the effort of trying to earn a living in a world savaged by the effects of the virus.
Intercourse between us was of course banned as part of the arrangement and I agreed to wear a chastity device. On Fridays she would be instrumental in my milking process. She knew me well and used her intimate knowledge of my sexual preferences to best advantage. Once a week she became my tormentor, devising ever more complex and effective ways to arouse me. I never knew from week to week what she had planned in conjunction with the other nurses. Never in a hurry, sometimes they would secure me and then all leave the room, to return hours later. Some weeks their treatment of me was quick, harsh and designed to be painful, making me squirm and wrestle with my restraints whilst they went about their tasks.
Weeks turned into years and my role as father to a new generation pleased me. It was a task I Had never imagined but it was about being in the right place at the right time. You could describe the relationship with my partner as being truly unique, but at the end of the day we had no choice to undertake our roles with vigour.
Through her commitment my yield never wavered and she never once hesitated to ensure that she got from me everything she could get.