The Milkin Station – Celeste B

March 29, 2026

I had three wet dreams last night. That’s good. That’s average. I pressed my padded hand to my face, trying to relieve an itch. The glove never does the trick.
        I normally wake up before the others. They are allowed to sleep as much as they want. The others and I sit in rows of long white chairs in a white room, with tubes attached to our nubs. And we do almost everything there.
        We sleep, eat, and work, all in the comfort of our chairs. At night, the sex headsets become sleeping masks.
        The others and I have no problems. Occasionally, there is a small fight in the bathroom, but nothing the security can’t handle.
        Plus, the hallways, chairs, and floors are all padded, including our hands.
        I pull the tube off—the one that collects the white—to go yellow. I am trying to be as quick as possible. When the tube is taken off, the counter starts and begins tracking the seconds you are unhooked. A couple minutes is fine. Sometimes the food here makes you have to brown so bad that you can’t help but be on the toilet for minutes, but the Ladies start to notice if you do it often.
        And I do it often. I think it’s because of my nubbin. Sometimes it feels out of place—like an extra finger. But they are useful, I suppose. The Ladies told us that before this, we were hungry. That we fought. That most of us died. And the Ladies decided to take care of us, saying it was better this way.
        I agree. I don’t like fighting, but it does get boring here sometimes. The headset sometimes feels too heavy. Sometimes I get sores on my nubbin. Sometimes I can’t make the white anymore. Then the Ladies sometimes get mad.
        I find them fascinating—the Ladies. Always in grey and blue, with long hair and colored eyes. The others and I are bald, with no color in our eyes or on our faces. We get the same nightgowns that we wear all day. I have no idea why the Ladies call them that.
        Every second I am away from my headset, I imagine I am going home as a Lady, dressed in that beautiful blue-grey, the only color in our white backdrop—and from our sex headsets. But the Ladies and the others in there always look so pink and sweaty. I don’t like to sweat. I don’t like the idea of what some of the others do to the Ladies, or what the others do to the others. It all looks like fighting to me. Pink, raw fighting. I am afraid of it.
        As I stood, one of the Others began to shake, the lights from his headset flashing.
        One of the guards stood behind the other, waiting for the body to stop moving. Another came over, then two more. They all just watched the body shake.
        And when the other didn’t stop, after the two-minute timer on his tube went off, the guards lifted the body together, still jerking in sync between them.
        Where he would go, I can’t say that I know.
        I never use the urinal. It’s not like I’m afraid—I just like the privacy. The only time I feel alone—unseen, untouched—is in the stall. I sit down and release from my nubbin. Yellow and white—that’s what my nubbin makes. Yellow isn’t useful. White is.
        I pretend to play with my nonexistent hair in the stall, flipping it back, turning, and giving a smile like all the Ladies do when you ask them a question. Sometimes I like to imagine what I look like. The others have described it to me, said I was tall and wide and pale. So were they. It wasn’t very helpful.
        I make my way out of the bathroom without washing my hands and immediately pause—the Ladies will know. They said even tiny bits of yellow—things we cannot see—will ruin the white. I don’t want to hurt the Ladies’ feelings. But I have to make it back to the machine before time runs out.
        I don’t think the Ladies will notice. And even if they did, they might not care. People who miss too much time in the tube just get sent to the Lady in the office. She is really nice. I’ve seen her twice before. She just asks you some questions, and then you are free to go back to your seat.
        And there she was, waiting right by my chair, toying with the sex headset, seeing if it was working.
        “It is,” I said.
        “Is what?” she replied, not making eye contact.
        “It is working. I just used it last night,” I said, taking in a breath.
        They know I didn’t wash my hands.
        “Oh, I know. Could you follow me into my room, please?” she said, wagging her finger at me, twisting it into a hook.
        I followed, keeping pace behind her, matching her walk—how she held herself. She looked beautiful, much prettier than the girls in those videos. The grey and blue pantsuit held her together perfectly, like it was keeping something in. I was so used to seeing the Ladies with everything out.
        She opened the door and held her hand out as I entered the office. Two security guards stood outside. I couldn’t see their faces, but their ponytails hung out behind their helmets.
        I sat across from her. The door shut behind me on its own. A small wooden desk. Grey filing cabinets. A sex headset dangling between us.
        “Hey, sweetie, do you think you could put those on for me? I have some questions to ask you,” she said, typing. The blue of her screen lit her face.
        “If this is about the bathroom, I am so sorry—”
        “No, no, sweetie. This isn’t about the bathroom. Just a standard questionnaire. You’ve been falling behind on time in the collection tube. You understand, right?”
        I think I did. They need white to make more of the Ladies. I want more Ladies.
        “Yes,” I said.
        “So pull on the headset, and respond as quickly as possible.”
        I pulled it down. The screen was black. Then a white bubble expanded.
        Five pictures. All different colors.
        “Which one do you like the best?”
        “Blue,” I said immediately.
        “Good. Next.”
        A stick with red on the tip. A yellow flower. A grey pole.
        “Uh… the flower?”
        She didn’t respond.
        Next: two photos. The same.
        “Which one looks friendlier?”
        “The one on the left,” I said.
        Her pen clicked.
        The images changed.
        “Last question. Which one is you?”
        A picture of the Lady. A picture of the others.
        “The Lady,” I said.
        I took off the headset.
        “How did I do?”
        “Oh, sweetie…”
        Four guards entered. They grabbed my shoulders and lifted me up. She raised her hand toward the door.
        “They will escort you back. Thank you for your time.”
        They pulled me into the hallway. I felt dizzy.
        Something sharp in my neck.
        I wiped it with my glove. A red dot.
        “What does this do…” I began, my voice fading into the padded walls.
        The guards didn’t respond.
        Through winding white passages, we reached a door with a large red sign. I lifted my hand to look at it again.
        Red.
        I didn’t know shades could be so different.
        The door opened.
        Cold.
        There was white on the ground.
        Oh.
        I was outside.
        I looked around.
        How could people ever think of hurting each other out here?
        I turned—
        A pop.
        Then I was on the ground.
        As everything dimmed, it felt like the headset again.
        I wondered if next time I would get to be a Lady.