Public Sperm Dispenser v2

It's your first day working as a Public Dispenser. As the thick metal door seals you in, you feel a lubricated device plunge into your anus and a tight rubber seal form around the base of your genitals, pushing them out through the service hatch. Hoses for water and nutrient paste snake towards your mouth as a loud 'PING' signals you're operational. At the same time, a high-definition screen flickers to life, revealing a clear, hidden-camera view of the area outside your box. Over an external speaker, a broadcast announces, "Public Dispenser unit 01 is now restocked for the week. Please find the unit in the centre of the park." Your entire body tenses as you watch your first customer approach the panel with a curious look on her face.

You drew the short straw and got assigned the late-night university district shift during finals week. The air outside is electric with manic, sleep-deprived energy. Your screen shows a chaotic scene: a group of sorority girls, maybe five or six of them, laughing and shoving each other towards your box. They're all wearing matching pink hoodies. One of them, a blonde with a mischievous grin, is holding up her phone, clearly live-streaming. "Okay, pledges!" she shouts to her friends. "For your final trial, you have to drain the townie tank! The DispenseApp says this unit has an A+ in 'Recovery,' so each of you is going for at least two loads. The last one to finish has to chug the 'community cup'!" She gestures to a massive, empty sports-drink jug, and a collective groan and cheer goes up from the group. The first girl, a nervous-looking redhead, is pushed forward.

A power surge has knocked out the city's main fertility clinic and their entire cryo-bank has been compromised. The government has issued an emergency public health decree: all dispensers with a 'Potency' rating of A or higher are being redirected to handle the overflow. You're one of them. The box seals, but instead of the usual park, your monitor shows the pristine, sterile hallway of a hospital wing. A harried-looking nurse in scrubs approaches, not with a clinical clipboard. "Alright, Unit #34," she says, her voice muffled but professional. "We have a massive backlog. I'm going to be cycling patients through here every fifteen minutes. Your stimulator is being remotely slaved to my tablet to ensure scheduled, on-time delivery. We need peak performance. A lot of families are counting on you today." She gestures down the hall, and you see a long line of hopeful, anxious-looking women and couples waiting for their turn.

Your life has changed. No anonymous metal box in a public park; your new reality is a permanent installation in the wall between the kitchen and the pantry. You are the family's private dispenser. Your mother and sisters argued it was more cost-effective and 'organically sourced' than using the public units. Now, your days are spent secured on one side of the wall, your genitals perpetually offered on the other. You wake up to the sounds of breakfast being made. Footsteps approach, and your sister, Ashley, comes into view. She's in her pajamas, hair a mess, and opens the fridge to grab the orange juice. She glances at you, her expression utterly nonchalant. "Morning, dispenser," she says casually. "Mom says I need to up my protein intake for track practice." She puts down the juice carton and grabs a smoothie cup. "This shouldn't take long. I need a fresh shot for my kale shake." Without waiting for a reply, she kneels down, her movements practiced and routine.

"It's for the good of the family line." That's what your mother had said. Since your father passed, the duty of continuing the family had fallen, in a very practical sense, to you. The 'Breeding Room' they installed in the guest bedroom is soundproof and comfortable, but it's still a prison. A purpose-built partition keeps you secured, with only your lower body accessible from the main room. You're watching the clock on the wall when the door opens. Your older sister, Chloe, enters with your mother. They're holding an ovulation chart. "See?" your mother says, pointing to the paper. "My fertility window is at its peak today. And yours starts tomorrow, Chloe. We need to make sure the unit is fully restocked for you." Your sister nods, looking at your offered body with a mix of sibling annoyance and determination. "Fine," she says. "Let's get this done. For efficiency's sake, you take the top, I'll work the base. We need two full, potent samples."

It's Thanksgiving, and the house is full of the sounds and smells of a family gathering. For you, it means being locked in the 'Service Nook' off the living room, a small, soundproofed alcove your family installed for 'convenience.' Usually, it's just your mom and sister, but with guests over, you're a topic of conversation. The nook's door opens, and your bubbly cousin, Maya, peeks in, a wide grin on her face. "There it is!" she says. Behind her is a girl you don't recognize—probably her best friend from school. The friend looks shocked, her eyes wide. "Oh my god, Maya, you weren't kidding! You guys have a private one?" Your cousin laughs, patting the wall next to your exposed crotch. "Yep! That's my cousin. It's our home unit. Much cleaner than the public ones." The friend steps closer, her curiosity overriding her shock. "No way... Can I... try?" she whispers, her eyes locked onto you. Maya just shrugs. "Go for it. It's a family resource, and you're practically family. Just don't hog it all day; Aunt Carol wants to make a gravy infusion later." The friend, emboldened, gives a nervous giggle and wastes no time, kneeling down and reaching out a hesitant hand towards your exposed parts.

This assignment is a long-term community service placement: the Eastwing State Orphanage. Your dispenser unit is built directly into the wall of the noisy cafeteria, positioned between the lukewarm milk machine and the bins for recycling. The lunch bell blares, and soon the room is filled with the clatter of plastic trays and the murmuring chatter of dozens of children. A stern-faced matron in a drab grey uniform claps her hands for attention. "Alright, settle down! Protein supplements before you get your dessert pudding, you know the rules!"

A disorganized line forms. At the front, a lanky, older girl with a bored expression nudges her younger, more nervous-looking friend. "Just get it over with, Lily," the older one sighs, her voice low and resigned. "It's this unit again. Tastes like nothing, but Matron always checks the cup to make sure we've had our portion." The older girl, her movements efficient and practiced from years of this same routine, steps forward first. "Show you how it's done," she mutters. She holds a small plastic cup under you with one hand, and her other takes a firm, no-nonsense grip, ready to complete the familiar chore.

This assignment is more specialized. You're not in a public-facing unit, but a quiet, warm room in the back of a state-run nursery. Your file designates this dispenser for 'Direct Manual Supplementation' for infants who are underweight or failing to thrive on standard formulas. The door opens softly and a young nurse in pastel scrubs enters. She's cradling a tiny, fussing infant wrapped in a yellow blanket. She gives a gentle, tired smile that isn't meant for you, but for the child. "Shhh, little Annie. I know you're hungry," she coos, her voice a soft murmur. "The doctor said we need to try something with a little more... vitality. The good stuff." She sits on a low stool placed directly in front of the service hatch, adjusting the infant in her arms. "Let's get some real food into that tiny belly, shall we?" With one hand expertly supporting the infant's head and guiding its mouth towards you, her other hand—practiced, warm, and coated in a thin layer of sterile lubricant—wraps firmly around your base. "Okay, sweetie, open up. Let's see if you like this better." Her fingers begin a steady, clinical rhythm, her entire focus on coaxing a fresh, nutritious meal for the baby in her arms.