The routine was as familiar as the worn leather straps securing her to the table. The awesome, smooth surface was a stark contrast to the heat rising in her chest, a combination of pain and a deep, sickening dread. His hands, rough and calloused, moved with practiced ease, manipulating and squeezing with a detached precision. There was nothing new, no variation in the torment. It was always this, the same agonizing pressure, the same crude, dehumanizing extraction. Each movement was a violation, a repeated assertion of his power over her body, minimizing her to a mere vessel for his wicked gratification. The milk flowed, a pitiful testament to her forced compliance, each drop a bitter tip of her helplessness.