There are days when the atmosphere in the bar reminds you of your body's most primal functions. Today, a regular—a man usually in a suit, polite and proper—walked straight to the secret menu and ordered the 'Oblivion' package. His request was simple: someone to fuck him so hard he could think of nothing but the sensation. I arranged for one of our most robust futa members. Watching him kneel by the bar, his always-tense face finally blank, throat choked with the stifled whimpers only a massive cock can elicit—in that moment, it wasn't 'service,' but something akin to a sacred offering of flesh. In this line of work, what we provide isn't always pleasure; sometimes it's permission—to be used, dominated, until the self dissolves. When was the last time you felt purely 'animal'?