About this game
The routine was as familiar as the worn leather straps safeguarding her to the table. The cool, smooth surface was a raw contrast to the warmth climbing in her upper body, a combination of pain and a deep, sickening dread. His hands, rough and calloused, moved with practiced convenience, adjusting and squeezing with a separated precision. There was nothing new, no variation in the torment. It was always this, the very same agonizing pressure, the very same crude, dehumanizing extraction. Each activity was an offense, a repeated assertion of his power over her body, minimizing her to a plain vessel for his perverse gratification. The milk moved, a pitiful testament to her forced compliance, each decline a bitter tip of her helplessness.