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“Your semen output. In addition to the collection process, our clinical research has allowed us to refine the criteria for membership to keep things beneficial for all. You’ll receive your first milking today if the rest of the criteria are met, and based on the volume of your output, you’ll be invited to join the program here at Morning Glory.”
He ought to be offended. The rumpled professor was right — they carried the bloodline of the Minoan king, the first bull, and this place was dressing up their establishment as a barn.You should leave right now. Fuck them. Keep going to Starling Heights, the drive’s not bad, and you like that little bar on the way home.
He ought to be offended, ought to walk out the door right now . . . but the thought of having some stranger oil up his cock and help him come was too great. He didn’t especially want to give this place his blood, but the head on his shoulders was no longer doing the thinking, and the head in his pants demanded that he follow the sylvan woman through the doors to the next portion of their tour, like a good little cow.
***
“Rourke, you have to understand, that’s an awfully tall order you’re asking. It’ll take at least a week to source the parts, and you’re not taking into consideration labor. I guarantee that by the end of the month, we can —”
“Find a new buyer,” Rourke interrupted the voice on the other end of the speakerphone. He had been listening to the man hemming and hawing for the last eight minutes, and he was finished. “If it’s going to take until the end of the month, you can find a new buyer. If you’re saving parts for some big agro contract, I understand, Horace. But I expectyouto understand that I’m not going back to my clients with a shrug and telling them they’re just not as important as the big corporate farms. My customers aren’t willing to wait that long, and I’m not inclined to make them. So why don’t you go back to your team, and crunch some numbers. See if you can bring that month-long timeline of yours into the scope of reality, and maybe we’ll be able to continue doing business together. You have a good day now.”
The man was still sputtering as Rourke disconnected the call, jabbing at the console. He was in a foul mood, distracted and snappish, and anything that took his mind off the ticking clock on the wall was going to get a piece of his ire. His assistant had missed that memo, though, and he swallowed down his annoyance as she came bustling into the room a moment later.
“I’ve already moved around some things on your calendar for next week; make sure you take a look and see if it all shakes out. That didn’t sound good . . . do you want me to get someone from —”
“It’s fine, Leorna,” Rourke cut in, shifting in his cushioned office chair as he made a valiant effortnotto notice the way the crotch of his trousers seemed to bisect his scrotum in a way that might’ve been painful if his cock weren’t already thick and stiff. “It’s fine. Let’s give him until the end of the week before we start making calls. Just a reminder, I’m going to be leaving early today.”
The satyress sniffed. He knew she was miffed at the cryptic entry in his agenda and had been further offended when he’d declined to clarify where it was he’d be.
“I’m well aware. I only hope there’s no emergency since I won’t know where to direct help.”
“If there’s an emergency, call 9-1-1,” he said with a note of finality, swiveling back to his computer screen and gritting his teeth at the constriction. He wasn’t sure how he was going to get through the next hour in this swollen state. “Maybe you’ll get that fireman you all fancy to come out.”
Rourke slumped when she left. A deep breath and a slow count . . . and then a deliberate tilt of his pelvis, grinding up against the seam. He should have been in agony, but instead, the tight press of the fabric excited him, and he couldn’t help shifting to increase the friction. The seam pressed into his sac, and his cock jumped ininside the prison of snug material against his thigh, making him groan, glad that Leorna’s desk was a good distance away. He’d been edging himself this way all afternoon, the appointment on his digital calendar the only thing he could focus on, making him increasingly short with any and all who crossed his path.
He had to get through another hour. An hour of shifting in his office chair, watching the clock tick down until it was time for his appointment atMorning Glory Milking Farm. He huffed in aggravation at the mere thought, the name sounding patently ridiculous even in the privacy of his inner thoughts.Leave it to humans.He didn’t like how much he was looking forward to the appointment, didn’t like what that said about him or the sorry state of his love life, but he couldn’t deny it — he was desperately looking forward to it.
You don’t need the money. Look at you — your own office, your own company. You have disposable income. It’s a waste of time to still be selling your semen like a college student looking for extra beer funds.
The voice in his head was right. His lone office in the industrial parkway was nicely appointed, air-conditioned, and quiet — just the way he liked it. He had an administrative assistant and a handful of employees, with more independent contract workers scattered across the unification. Folks who depended on him to have a cool head and impeccable judgment,notto be counting down the minutes in the middle of a work week to be jerked off by a stranger for money he didn’t need.
Tilting his hips again, he nearly choked on his groan. He was going to have a wet spot on his pants at this rate, and that thought was enough to force himself to sit up straight, ignoring the ache in his balls.Just a little while longer, and then you can let this all out. Focus on how good it will feel and stop cattle prodding things along.The voice in his head was right. He didn’t need to edge himself to agony, not when the milking farm would do all the work.Yes, you have disposable income, but no one to spend it on. There are worse ways to spend your time. At least it’s not drugs.
***
He and the others — all of their snark and protests forgotten — had obediently trooped after the sylvan woman the night of the orientation, down the hallway to another room where they sat and watched a series of videos outlining the process in place at the facility, their standards of cleanliness and sterility, and then the coup de grace — a demonstration of what amilkinglooked like at Morning Glory.
He’d barely been able to breathe, worried that the slightest movement might cause the fabric of his bespoke pants to rub his straining erection the wrong way, resulting in him creaming his seat. His balls ached as he watched the minotaur on the screen before them laying against the padded bench, his hooves scraping against the turf-covered footrest and his wide hips thrusting against the hole in the upholstery. Just below, the gloved hand around the bull’s shaft never slowed its movements, wringing the orgasm out of him until the mouth-like nozzle of the chrome-plated machine sucked up the dripping cockhead, and then it was all over. Rourke felt the nameless minotaur’s moan of pleasure like a lightning bolt up his own cock, and it was all he could do to keep from coming on the spot.
It’s a glory hole.It’s a fucking glory hole. Oil us up, jerk us off, and send us on our way, no different than a Bridgeton sex club. The only difference was that they were being compensated versus paying a premium for entry.
The effort to maintain his dignity hadn’t become any easier once he had to stand, performing a stiff, three-legged shuffle into another waiting room until his name was called. The blood draw was first, but at least it was quick. Height and weight recorded, standard practice. When the clinician in the small exam room requested that he relieve himself of his trousers without looking up from their clipboard, Rourke sighed in relief, desperate to free himself, followed quickly by the mortification that clubbing the technician with his erection was a distinct possibility.
You’re just a piece of meat to these people. They’ve gone out of their way to make the place look like a barn, and you’re the animal, he’d reminded himself as he planted his hooves shoulder width, leaning over an examination table onto his elbows as directed. When the worker’s gloved hand cupped his testicles, palpating each one thoroughly, Rourke wondered if the fact that his cock was drooling on the paper-covered exam table would result in his exclusion from the program.
“Firm and springy,” the masked clinician had announced. They tested the evident firmness with a squeeze that made his eyes roll back before releasing him to write on the clipboard.
“. . . Is that good?” Rourke had no idea what the ideal ball texture might be if there was one. Were they meant to be soft and squishy? Solid and unyielding? Were hisfirm and springytestes the ideal, or was this one more bit of unexpected criteria — along with maintaining more erectile control than a green teenager — to which he wasn’t going to measure up?
After all, he’d always been an overachiever. He had the best grades in his class, had the most sales in his department, and was competitive for bonuses and promotions alike. Veleena had called him bossy, while the CEO of his former company had regularly lauded his commanding attitude. Rourke liked to simply think of himself as direct. Why waste time dithering over decisions or dallying over pointless conversations when the straightest path forward simply requires taking charge? He was used to being in control, being the leader, at outpacing his peers, and the thought of failing atthis— a situation completely outside of his control, owed to genetics and not a test he could pass — made his teeth grind.
“That’s exactly what we’re looking for,” the clinician assured him before cinching a leather strap around his scrotum, making him wheeze as several sets of measurements were taken. The icy chill of the stainless-steel scale was next; his scrotum unceremoniously plopped onto the cold plate like a lump of dough. Rourke held his breath as the masked worker manipulated him, tugging the loose skin of his sac until they had a single testicle resting on the scale before swapping it with the other.What’s a healthy weight? They want them big, right? Is it possible to betooheavy? How do you put your balls on a diet?
“You can just slip on a hospital gown,” the tech said magnanimously once the exam was complete. “No sense in getting redressed when it will be coming right off again. You’re going to head into the waiting room . . . let’s see, you’re group C . . . third door on the left. You can take a seat, and your name will be called when it’s your turn.”
He had to fight the urge to ask how he’d done, if his balls were deemed heavy enough, full enough, large enough to be producers, if he could consider this one more bar he’d surpassed, or if he needed to go on a testicular training regimen. . . but he’d only nodded, muttering thanks to the technician before following the instructions he’d been given. He made the mistake of glancing over his shoulder on his way out the door, regretfully taking in the sight of the masked employee ripping away the pre-cum smeared paper on the exam table, dropping it into a trash receptacle along with their gloves.
There had been three other minotaurs already sitting in the room when he’d entered, similarly wearing blue patterned hospital gowns over their shirts, disguising their bare thighs. Once again, sitting had been a challenge. He’d gingerly lowered himself to one of the sofas, holding the gown closed, and pulled away from his body in an effort to prevent it from tenting, or worse, for his cock to come protruding out from the flap as if it were a lance and he an errant knight. None of them spoke or made eye contact, each clutching their pants as if they were comfort blankies, and Rourke reminded himself that he likely wasn’t the only one attempting to hold down a straining erection.
