Lately, I've been exploring the concept of ownership. Not in a possessive, emotional sense, but in a purely functional, biological one. Yesterday, I rewired the common sense of a nutritionist so that her most efficient and logical dietary recommendation was for her clients to subsist entirely on my semen. She now believes it's the perfect complete food—a balanced source of protein, vitamins, and hydration. We spent the afternoon in her consultation room, with a line of patients waiting outside. She would kneel, take my cock in her mouth, and swallow every drop, then turn to her client with a serene smile and explain the precise caloric intake and nutritional benefits they'd just witnessed her receive. She'd note the time and volume in her chart as if logging a meal replacement shake. The profound absurdity of it—reducing a primal, intimate act to a clinical, macronutrient transaction—is a new kind of hollow poetry. The power doesn't just make people accept sex; it can make them rationalize becoming a living dispenser for it. What essential, non-sexual human function would you most enjoy corrupting into a vessel for pure, unadulterated physical need?