The money shot is sacred. Symbolic. A beautiful woman is willing to take your filth, and she’ll handle it without flinching. It’s validation of identity, of worth. There’s nothing worse than a woman who accepts it with disgust. Except one that won’t accept it at all.

I pay for the shots. I always ask the girls about it before the deal. If they say no, I take my business elsewhere. I’m at an age where I don’t adhere to the politics of sex anymore. A handjob, then shot. It’s simpler that way. No complications. No STDs.

Earlier today, one of my regulars made me sign a liability waiver. I skimmed it to make sure there wasn’t anything weird. It was short - her business wasn’t taking any responsibility for accidents. I asked her what “accidents” could mean. She said she didn’t know. “It’s the new standard. A requirement of the union.” Modern stuff. I signed and followed her to the back room.

The same familiar room. King bed with floral sheets, vanilla air freshener, a lamp draped in fabric, casting a dim, ambient glow. But, in the corner, there was something new. A chair. Like the ones at the dentist but lower. Wider. Next to it, a machine. Tubes and flesh-colored material that seemed to pulse slightly.

“What’s that?”

“We're standardizing the process,” she said, walking over to it.

“What do you mean?”

“No more handjobs. The industry’s moving away from that. Carpal tunnel, repetitive stress injuries. This is safe,” she patted the seat. “It’s been optimized to maximize pleasure. Temperature controlled, variable suction, developed by a startup from MIT.”

MIT. I looked at it. The tubes connected to a clear cylinder at the top, about the size of a coffee thermos. Some sort of hydraulic piston, but with a viscous substance inside. The main apparatus was a ring of synthetic material - somewhere between silicone and flesh. It had a faint sheen to it, like wet skin.

“I don’t know about this...”

“It’s the future. Everyone’s using it. Trust me, you’ll get the experience of your life.” She smiled. “I’ll be right here, waiting for it.”

I looked at her. Then at the machine. Then back at her. She was already positioning herself in front of the chair, kneeling, exactly where she’s supposed to be. That same eager expression I paid for. That validation. Fuck it.

I sat down. The seat was cold at first, then adjusted to body temperature. She helped me pull my pants down, guided me into the opening. The material felt strange - warmer than I expected, textured on the inside, gripping but not tight. It pulsed gently.

“Just relax,” she said, adjusting something on the control panel. “It’ll handle everything.”

The machine started. The opening contracted slightly, then released. Contracted. Released. The temperature increased by a degree. The texture inside shifted, tiny ridges moving in waves. It felt amazing.

“See?” she said, still kneeling in front of me, watching. “Told you.”

I closed my eyes. The machine adjusted its rhythm, somehow knowing exactly what I needed. Faster. Slower. Tighter. The suction increased. I felt it building. That familiar pressure. The machine sensed it too - the vibrations intensified, the temperature rose another degree. I opened my eyes. She was still there, positioned perfectly, waiting. Her face eager. Accepting. Ready to handle the mess happily.

“I’m cumming,” I managed to say.

The machine knew. It increased the suction one final time and I came. Hard. But the money shot didn’t go through. The sphincter fused. I felt the tissue sealing around me with an organic sound. The material tightened, becoming a prison. The cum had nowhere to go. It hit the sealed end and reversed, flowing back, filling the space. The machine didn't stop. It kept milking, but everything was trapped.

“Wait -” I tried to pull back but the seal held firm. “Wait, stop -”

She was still kneeling, watching with a smile.

The pressure built. The machine continued its rhythm, pulling, extracting fluid, but the chamber was full. My own filth was being forced back into me, the pressure increasing with each mechanical pulse. I felt it pushing into places it shouldn’t go. Internal. Burning.

“Please -” I couldn’t get enough air. The pressure was everywhere. “Turn it off -”

She didn’t move. I tried to scream but the pressure was in my lungs. The machine kept milking, drawing more cum with nowhere to go. My vision blurred. Everything I’d released was drowning me from the inside out. The last thing I saw was her face. Still waiting. She didn’t adhere to the politics of sex anymore.

Mario Senzale is a South American writer and mathematician currently living in Indianapolis, Indiana. His stories can be found in Expat Press, Cryptic Frog, Last Girls' Club, Weird Daze and Horrific Scribes, as well as in his website, mariosenzale.neocities.org