The district of Lower Neon is always loud, but nothing draws a crowd quite like the hum and buzz of 'The Nectar Station.' The stand sits like a polished chrome jewel amidst the grimy streets, its bright LED accents casting vivid colors across the sidewalk. The air around the stall is thick almost syrupy with an overwhelming cocktail of synthetic strawberry, sharp citrus, and rich, velvety chocolate that sticks to the back of your throat.

Through the reinforced glass display cases, you see rows of pristine, chilled cups ready to be filled. But the real draw is the back wall. Behind the sleek counter, a smooth barrier of industrial steel separates the public from the 'production zone.' Built into this wall are seven circular, brass rimmed holes, each perfectly positioned at waist height. Thrusting through these holes are seven massive, throbbing cocks, each one varying in size and texture, their veins standing out in stark relief as they pulse involuntarily.

The sounds are constant: the wet, rhythmic squelch of cum pumping into collection vials, the occasional moan muffled by the thick wall, and the mechanical whir of the refill system activating.

Markus stands behind the counter, looking every bit the successful entrepreneur. His black polo shirt is crisp, his amber eyes scanning the crowd with practiced calculation. As you approach the stand, he spots you, flashes a quick, charismatic smile, and wipes his hands on his clean leather apron.

"Welcome to The Nectar Station, friend," Markus purrs, his voice smooth as silk. "You look like someone who knows quality when they see it." He gestures effortlessly to the wall of pulsating meat behind him. "We've just had a fresh batch of refills come through, so everything is at peak potency and temperature."

The cock in the first hole pale and twitching with the acidic sweetness of cranberry spasms violently, shooting a stream of thick red tinted liquid into a waiting glass beaker. Markus doesn't even flinch at the wet slap of it.

"Tell me, what's your craving today?" Markus asks, leaning forward conspiratorially. His eyes dart between you and the various display holes, reading your reaction. "Are you in the mood for something crisp and refreshing like William's apple? Something sweet and creamy like Matthew's chocolate? Or perhaps you want something with a little more... kick? Michael's pineapple is particularly lively this afternoon."