First Sap and Cum
Farm Morning
Containers rattled under fingers. Firepit smoked yesterday's ash. Table of rusted plates sat crooked. Morning was cold, fog crawled low across the ground of farm G2-77h, clinging to legs. It smelled of smoke, stale protein, and sweat, thick and sticky. Slave Chainbands clicked faint, catching morning signal, metal chilling necks.
Slaves lined up at the table, shoulder to shoulder, nobody sat. Rations held in palms, chewing silent or just gripping. Toe among them: sleepy, body still heavy from night, eyes sliding sideways, fixing faces, postures, dirt on skin. Sweat already beading from the tension of waiting. Chainband pressed his neck. Lockcage in his groin reminded itself with a dull squeeze.
Grip passed by, eyes catching everything: dirt on one's knees, slowness of another, wrong stance of a third. Chainbands reacted to his gesture, a short nod, and one clicked, another blinked red. Slaves froze. Breath held.
One was late with his step, didn't move right away when Grip pointed at the ration. "Faster, bitch." Voice level, no shout. Chainband discharged, hard, painful, body jerked, knees buckled, he dropped into dust, muscles seizing, a rasp tore from his throat. The rest stood still. Eyes forward.
Toe watched: body twitching jagged, like getting shocked, over fast. Slave curled up but stood, swaying. Nobody stepped in. Nobody asked. Inside something pricked: this is how order holds. Mistake means pain. Grip decides with one gesture.
Grip continued: "Ripe Mugroot, double containers, smaller plantations, you lot. No names. By roles." Short. No pause. Slaves nodded. Feet shuffled.
Gesture singled out Toe: "You. With me. Training, small ones only. Watch constant." Background: whisper of slaves, restrained, no laughing, somebody muttered "good luck, new kid."
"Cleanliness is the rule. Plants feel the body, nerves, sweat. Don't rush, and you'll live." Like a rule. No threat. Just fact.
Grip stepped closer, hand landed on Toe's neck, fingers squeezed the Chainband, then slid to the lower back, pressing down. Quiet, just for him: "Listen. Don't hurry. Don't lose control. I'm watching." Promise of supervision, no warmth. Fact.
Led him out first. The rest scattered to tasks. The punished one stayed by the table coming back to himself, body still twitching.
Sap Harvest
Jeep rattled along scorched ruts, dust swirling behind, Oldblood ruins looming ahead, rusted scanners poking from sand, rustling in shadows. Grip drove silent, hands on the wheel steady, body wide in a dusty vest. Toe in the seat beside him, body tense, sweat already pouring down his back from heat and waiting.
"Cleanliness is the rule. Plants sense nerves, arousal, fear. Wrong sweat and the sap hits your brain. Buddy of mine went down that way, jerked too early, sap got inside, three days shaking on the ground." Grip's voice was level. Like instruction. No tremor.
Toe nodded, body tight. "Got it, Sir."
At the plantation, wet air hit hard. Sour smell of sap hung thick. Grip nodded: "Strip. That's the clearance." Toe pulled off his crotchrag. Chainband and Lockcage caught sunlight. Body naked, exposed. Skin prickled. Cock twitched in the cage from the draft. Grip looked him over: "Good body, pup. Keep your hole steady. Don't flinch."
Mugroot stirred. Fleshy stalks, phallic in shape, coated in slime, reacting to heat: the small ones thin as fingers, reaching slow; the big ones thick as arms, pulsing in the shade. Sap yellow-green, viscous, glowing faint in the half-dark of the ruins. Hallucinogen. Euphoria with Oldblood visions. Small ones for beginners. Big ones for trade in Nexus.
Grip took a small stalk in hand, stroked it along its length: "Easy, easy..." Stalk pulsed. Drops of sap beaded up. "See? Calm it, and it gives."
Grabbed Toe by the hips, turned him back to the plant, ass right on the tip of the stalk. Fingers dug into skin, marks going white. Toe tensed. Fear pricked. Arousal from the grip. Grip pressed his balls through the cage, commanding, not painful, other hand pushing down: stalk entered. Slime squelched. "Relax. Breathe. Flinch and you'll tear yourself. Don't fuck it up. Slide off in time, or don't."
Toe flinched at the grip on his balls, looked down over his shoulder. Grip's cock was hard under his jockstrap, twitching. Toe blushed. Breathing hard. Moaned quiet, "Grip..." Body yielded.
Grip watched: "Pupils normal. Not glazing yet." Showed a scar on his thigh: "My mistake. Rushed it back then. Sap got inside. Three days of hallucinations." Adjusted Toe's position, pushed deeper, hand on the lower back pressing.
"Small ones are weaker. Drycum, like a shock-orgasm. Big ones are for experienced. Sap burns." Toe nodded. Motive building, wanting to prove himself: "I want a big one, Sir." Grip growled: "Slow down, pup."
Toe worked the stalk with his ass. Muscles doing what Grip told them: clench on the way up, tighten the ring around the shaft as it withdraws; on the way down relax, let it slide deeper, faster. The rhythm found itself, body reading the plant the way it read commands. Slime squelched warm inside, sap pulsing against the walls, and the stalk swelled fatter as the milking continued, and Toe felt it, the pressure building, the plant readying.
"I feel it," Toe said. "It's filling."
Grip moved fast. Hands grabbed hips, yanked Toe off the stalk in one pull, and held the clay jug under the tip. Sap erupted, thick, glowing, filling the jug in spurts, the stalk jerking and pulsing as it emptied itself. The jug filled to the quarter line.
"Good pup." Grip's voice had something in it. Not warmth. Approval that tasted like fact. "Your ass is already catching the signal. Let's move to the next one."
He set the jug down. Led Toe to the next plant, smaller, thinner.
"Focus. Start milking. When you go up, squeeze. When you go down, relax so it goes deeper and faster. But feel it. Soon as the stalk starts swelling, say so and get off."
Toe nodded. Understanding spread inside, not in words, in the body: he was doing something important for his Master. Something useful. Pride bloomed, quiet and dumb, the pride of a pup who keeps his cool while the others panic. He wanted to get more, wanted to fill the jug, wanted Grip to say good again.
They worked three more plants. Toe's hole loosened and learned, ass sliding onto stalks easier each time, the ring softening, hips rolling in the rhythm Grip had taught him. Each time he felt the swell, called it, slid off, and Grip caught the sap. Clean. Efficient. Toe grinned with his mouth shut, body buzzing, proud.
On the last plant he pushed it. Bigger stalk, thicker, pulsing harder. Sap deeper inside, warmth spreading up the chute, tingling behind his balls. He should have called it. He felt the swell two seconds before he said anything, and in those two seconds the sap climbed further than it should have, soaking into the lining, and his eyes went glassy for a beat, and Grip saw it, grabbed him by the waist, hauled him off the stalk hard and fast, sap spraying.
"Greedy little bitch." No anger. Observation. Grip checked his eyes. Pupils were wide.
Rookie Overdose
Toe could barely move his legs. Body burned from inside, like the Mugroot had sent roots straight into his guts. Sap dripped down his thighs, sticky, hot. Hole pulsed on its own, clenching and opening, pushing out more of that shit. Eyes glassy. World swam. But Grip held him, guided him back to the farm. His thick, commanding arms wrapped around the kid and filled him with awe, body pulling toward his Master, legs folding on their own. Toe kept trying to press his ass against Grip's hard legs. "Sir... please..." Whimpering, licking the air, hand reaching for Grip's cock, lips smacking, catching the smell of sweat through the crotchrag. Cock jerked dry in the cage, precum smearing metal, but no orgasm came. Just the itch inside, burning.
Grip spun sharp, shouldered him off: "Get off me, bitch. Not here. Walk straight." Hand went to Toe's forehead, hot as noon dust. Looked into his eyes, pupils stretched like holes in the ruins. Kicked the crotchrag fabric aside with his boot, checked underneath: hole clenched on view, sap squirted, glistening in the sun. "Fuck. Overdosed. Sap went deeper than it should. Body's fucking itself. Need to vent the pressure, or he's gone by nightfall."
Dragged him to the farm. Toe stumbled, rubbed his ass against Grip's hand, whined, tongue out, catching air. Slaves around whispered. Some at the well, some hauling sacks. Grip barked: "Stump! Here! Now!" Stump popped out of the shed, tongue with its bolt glinting, thick silver ball on a chain that dangled. Chainband sat dull on his neck. Lockcage bulged under the crotchrag. Gave Toe a brotherly nod: "I see you got loaded up, rookie. It's all good. You'll get used to it."
Grip snarled: "On the buck with him, tie him down! Fuck him with the dildo, steady, deep, or he's gone by morning. Need the hole intact, clear?" Stump nodded, grabbed Toe under the arms, dragged him to the wooden buck in the center of the yard. Slaves glanced but didn't come near. Legs spread wide, straps clicked on ankles, ass up, hands behind his back strapped to the post. Toe didn't fight. Just whined. Hole dripping. Body shaking. Stump slapped his ass, steadying: "It's alright, bro. First time's always rough. Plant juiced you up, sap's buzzing in your skull. We'll vent it out. It'll get easier."
Stump lubed the dildo, thick, ridged, veined, pressed it to the hole. Toe howled when it entered: steady, deep, squelching with Mugroot sap. Body jerked in the straps. Legs shook. Hole squelched. Walls burned inside. Prostate pounded in waves. "Ahhh! Fuck! Deeper!" he screamed, drycumming the first time, cage jerking, body seizing, waves rolling up his spine. Stump didn't slow down, fucked methodical, bolt in his tongue clicking: "Come on, push it out, bitch. One more." Second drycum hit harder. He screamed "thank you! fuck! fuck me harder!" howling grateful, drool running down his face. Slaves around the yard froze, soaking their crotchrags with precum. Every one of them wanted to be in the kid's place. Every one of them wanted something in their ass and to cum.
Half hour later the body went slack. Eyes cleared. Pulsing in the hole died down. Only an aching emptiness left. Stump wiped the hole with his own cock, out of the cage, untied him, gave him water from a flask. "Drink, bro. Better?" Toe nodded. Legs humming. Ass burning.
An hour later Grip came back, rested, sweaty from the fields, nipple ring glinting. "Good?" he grunted at Stump. Stump grinned: "Drycummed about five times, screamed his ass off, you heard him, Sir, whole yard did. Hole's intact." Grip grunted satisfied, patted Toe's cheek: "Good, little bitch. Taking you home tonight. You'll feel a real body, not rubber." Hauled him to the house, metal container on the edge of the field. Toe walked obedient, smiling. Eyes shining. Body pulling toward Grip's back.
Night in the half-dark. Slaves behind the wall heard everything: Toe's moans, slap of meat on meat, squelch of hole under Grip's thick cock. "Mouth open, bitch." Spit into the mouth. Swallowed greedy. Slap across the face, cheek burning, hole clenching tighter. Cock pushed deep. Balls slapping. Prostate pounded. Drycums rolled in waves. He screamed "Sir! Yes!" Body jerking under the weight. Grip choked with his hand. Nipple ring rubbed against lips. Toe licked, sucked, pulled with teeth. Cum flooded inside, hot, thick. Grip held deep until every drop was milked out. Again, and again. Body gave out, pressed against a sweaty chest.
Before dawn he fell asleep, pressed into Grip, wrecked, satisfied. Hole ached full of cum. Cage wet. In the half-dream he understood: he was in now. Mugroot sap had settled in his brain. No way back. Only this: body, Sir's cock, dependence sweet as Rush.
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