He had surrendered everything the moment the restraints clicked shut. The heavy leather cuffs locked his wrists behind the steel chair, and the wider straps across his thighs and chest pinned him completely open, legs spread wide and immobile. His Master stood over him in silence, the only sound the low hum of the equipment being prepared. No words were needed; the power exchange was total, and he existed only to receive whatever was given.
Cold gel was smeared along his cock and balls. Electrodes followed, one pad pressed firmly against the base of his shaft, another wrapped just below the head, and a third cupping his balls. Wires snaked away to the control box. Then came the milking sleeve, thick and unyielding, sliding down over his already half-hard length until it sealed tight at the root. The machine’s inner lining gripped him with soft, textured pressure that promised relentless suction.
The first pulse of estim hit low and deep. His cock jumped inside the sleeve, the shock traveling straight through his nerves and making his hips strain uselessly against the straps. A second, sharper jolt followed, then another, building a rhythm that forced blood to rush into his shaft even as the milking unit began its slow, rhythmic pull. Suction drew at him in long, milking strokes while the electrodes delivered steady, throbbing current that made every nerve ending scream.
He gritted his teeth, breathing hard through his nose. The Master adjusted a dial. The current spiked. His cock convulsed inside the sleeve, the sensation a brutal mix of burning pleasure and helpless overload. Precum was already being drawn out, the machine greedily sucking it away. Another turn of the dial and the estim became a constant, rolling wave that made his balls tighten and his cock throb violently within the unyielding grip.
Sweat beaded on his skin. He could not thrust, could not escape the dual assault. The milking sleeve tightened and released in perfect time with the electrical pulses, dragging him toward orgasm with mechanical efficiency. When it hit, the first climax was ripped from him in a rush of white that the machine swallowed without pause. The suction never faltered. The estim only intensified, forcing his cock to stay rigid and oversensitive while the sleeve continued its work.
His Master watched every twitch, every desperate flex of muscle against the bondage. Another setting change sent sharper, staccato shocks straight through the head of his cock. He cried out, the sound raw, but the machine kept milking, kept shocking, kept pulling more from him. A second orgasm built faster, more painful, his balls aching as they were forced to deliver again. The sleeve milked through it, the estim never letting the pleasure crest and fade; it dragged the sensation out into something endless and punishing.
Time blurred. His body shook within the unyielding straps. The machine cycled through patterns the Master chose, sometimes slow and torturous, sometimes fast and brutal. Each time he came, the sleeve kept working, the electrodes kept firing, turning release into another round of forced stimulation. His cock felt swollen, hypersensitive, every pulse of current and suction blending into one overwhelming command: surrender, give more, give everything.
By the final cycle, he hung limp in the restraints, chest heaving, every muscle spent. The machine slowed but did not stop until the last weak spurt had been extracted. Only then did the estim fade to nothing and the sleeve release its seal with a wet sound. His Master’s hand rested on his shoulder, a silent acknowledgment of complete ownership.
He had been milked dry, exactly as promised. The power exchange left nothing behind but the heavy throb of used flesh and the certainty that he would be returned to the chair whenever his Master decided.
