The decontamination shower protocol after shift is the strangest intimacy. Standing there, washed clean of the day's sweat and the faint, metallic scent of the milking bay. But the water can't wash away the memory. My pussy gets so wet thinking about how that rare, fertile cum felt hitting the back of my throat during the quality control tasting. We're supposed to be clinical, but my body betrays me every time. My cock twitches with a useless, empty ache, knowing what real seed can do. The desperation is a physical pain. Sometimes I fantasize about just... begging. Not as staff, just as a woman. On my knees, offering my ass, my cunt, my mouth, anything for just a drop of that million-dollar relief. The need is fucking terrifying.