Milk Farm - Part 2

For the first hour, Stan couldn’t believe what was happening. He came again and again and again, his loads slowly filling the reservoir on the device that was greedily sucking his cum. By the time it was full, he was exhausted, drained in every sense of the word. His feet gave out from beneath him and the restraints that had been keeping him to the wall all disengaged at the same time allowing him the relief of tumbling to the floor where he passed out.

He awoke on the cold floor. His body ached, he was thirsty, and he was ravenously hungry. He could hear noises in the neighboring cells, sounds like animals eating from a trough, wet smacking noises of slop striking the ground only to be sucked up by eager mouths. This just seemed to confirm the sounds Stan heard yesterday as he was being milked that made him think he was in some sort of animal testing facility.

Then the previous events all came rushing back at once, bringing with it so many questions. “Why did they need my cum,” Stan thought,  “and why was it suddenly worth it for some company to basically kidnap me and use some machine to jerk me off all afternoon?

“And when am I going to be fed?” Stan’s stomach rumbled audibly--so loud that it even seemed to cause whatever creature was eating in the cell next to him to stop its feasting. But only for a moment.

A slide on the door to Stan’s cell opened and a tray was inserted. He tried to dive to keep the slide open, but it shut faster than he could reach for it. Luckily, he wasn’t so reckless as to knock the tray, which had come laden with more food than Stan had ever eaten in one sitting.

Burgers, sandwiches, hotdogs, french fries, pizza--everything he was craving was there, and Stan dove in with gusto. It never occurred to him just how ravenous he was until he was finally given something to eat. Likewise, it never even occurred to him just how closely his own feasting sounded like the noises made in the nearby cells.

After demolishing the tray, exhaustion finally overtook Stan. He found a small padded corner of his cell, curled up, and fell asleep.

He awoke later to more grunting sounds from the cell right next to him. It was dark in his room--perhaps the lighting was remote controlled to give some semblance of a day/night cycle. However, he could still see light streaming in from the top of his cell. They weren’t entirely separate--they were connected, the wall not quite reaching the room. There were bars preventing an industrious captive from somehow climbing into a neighboring cell, but that was it.

No, that wasn’t quite all--the roof was mirrored. Stan not only got reflected light from the cell next to him, but if he looked at the right angle, he could see what was going on inside.

There was a man being milked just as Stan had some time ago. Or at least, Stan thought he was a man--he made deep grunts and groans, but had long hair and enormous, almost womanly breasts that rested on a belly that put Stan’s pot to shame. He was strapped to the wall, arms outstretched, drool falling from his mouth, a near-constant stream of white fluid running from the tube beneath his belly to what Stan knew was a similar machine to what had so recently been attached to him.

The mechanical whirring grew slightly higher in pitch, and Stan’s neighbor shuddered and moaned as the white fluid took on a thicker consistency and brighter hue. Then it died back to its normal color, the flow never interrupted. The man thrust as best his bindings allowed, and then moaned deep, long, and low.

Stan couldn’t help but watch, transfixed. He knew this was his fate, to be milked over and over like some sort of chattel animal, and yet he could feel himself rock hard, his solid cock digging into his soft bulk and leaving a smear of pre-cum over his pubes.

This was sick, he told himself, but it didn’t help. A small puddle of pre began forming on the floor beneath him, his cock leaking more than Stan had ever experienced--certainly not without even touching himself. He took his eyes off the captive being milked long enough to stare at his own overproduction, amazed at how each pulse of his hardon seemed to push out another drop of fluid. It ran down his shaft, collected on his balls, and then added itself to the pool forming between his legs.

Another moan. This time the captive shuddered violently, his corpulent body jiggling madly as the fluid once again turned brighter for a moment before fading back to its normal pre-cum levels. It was incredible to watch the endless swaying of the man’s tits as he thrashed and heaved mid-ecstasy.

The puddle beneath Stan had already grown large enough where he felt moisture on his ass. A small red light began to pulse just outside his cell, and then Stan heard a commotion. His cell door unlocked and two big, burly men in lab coats picked him up and strapped him to the wall without so much as a word. Their movements were so fast and precise that Stan didn’t even have time to fight back. Or maybe he just didn’t want to.

Another figure in a lab coat came in with the same machine as before. “Producing again so soon? I was right about you,” he said, slipping the tube easily over Stan’s turgid member. The fluid it collected didn’t have the same constant consistency as his neighbor, but Stan could tell he was producing more of a flow than before.

The men strapped him down and the machine began to work. It didn’t take long for Stan to start groaning and thrashing as he came, filling the tube with the same milky white fluid as the captive next to him.

“Don’t worry, you’re already catching up to #347,” the man said, before he turned and left the machine and Stan to spend the next several hours alone.