Jock vs The Machine
The sterile confines of the Harvest Facility’s main chamber felt even more oppressive as the hours dragged on after the manual stimulations. Jake, Ryan, Tyler, Alex, and Brad lay exhausted on their examination tables, their naked bodies slick with sweat and remnants of their own releases, muscles aching from the futile struggles against the restraints. Their cocks, though softened temporarily from the multiple extractions, still twitched with residual sensitivity, the arousal serum ensuring that true respite was impossible. Balls that had been drained repeatedly now felt a subtle swell returning, the unnatural fullness creeping back as the injections worked their relentless magic. The athletes exchanged weary glances, their straight minds fractured by the humiliations they’d endured, the shared vulnerability creating an undercurrent of tension that none dared acknowledge. Jake’s sturdy shaft lay heavy against his thigh, the broad head still flushed; Ryan’s sleek length draped over his hip, the central vein faintly pulsing; Tyler’s brutish cock hung low, veins textured and prominent; Alex’s curved specimen rested against his abdomen, the delicate patterns visible; Brad’s substantial endowment dominated his groin, the bulbous head glistening faintly.
Dr Harlan reappeared, his footsteps echoing crisply, that sinister grin etched deeper on his face as he surveyed his captives. Victor and the handlers trailed behind, wheeling in sleek, humming devices on carts— the milking machines, ominous and gleaming under the lights. Each one was a marvel of engineering: a compact unit with a transparent sleeve at its core, lined with soft, pulsating ridges and suction ports, connected to flexible tubes that led to collection vials. The machines were mounted on adjustable arms, designed to latch securely onto a man’s most sensitive anatomy, capable of endless variations in speed, pressure, and vibration. At the base, digital displays flickered with quotas and timers, while beside each table, a clear vial was positioned at eye level, ready to capture and display the extracted essence.
“Gentlemen,” Harlan announced, his voice laced with mock sympathy, “the manual phase was merely an appetiser. Now, we introduce the real workhorses of the programme: our proprietary milking units. These will handle your extractions from here on, permanently edging and milking you until your daily quotas are met. Think of it as an efficiency measure. The sooner you reach your target volume— let’s start with fifty millilitres per man today— the sooner the machines deactivate, allowing you rest. Resist, hold back, and they’ll simply prolong the session, teasing you indefinitely. A delightful psychological dilemma, wouldn’t you agree? Your bodies crave release, yet your minds fight it. Which will win?”
Jake’s blue eyes narrowed, his broad chest rising with defiance. “You think machines can break us? We’re not your fucking cows.” But even as he spoke, his sturdy cock stirred slightly at the thought, the serum betraying him once more. Harlan chuckled, signalling Victor to begin with the quarterback. The burly handler adjusted the arm, aligning the transparent sleeve with Jake’s shaft. It was warm and inviting, the inner lining coated in a self-lubricating gel that shimmered invitingly. With a soft whir, the machine latched on, the sleeve enveloping Jake’s thick length completely, ridges pulsing gently to coax it to full hardness. Suction kicked in subtly, drawing him deeper, while vibrations hummed at the base, stimulating his swollen balls. A tube connected to the vial by his head, ready to siphon each load.
The machine started slow, a torturous edging rhythm: stroke up, pause at the broad head, swirl, then down, repeating endlessly. Jake groaned, his abs contracting into ridges as pleasure built unbidden. “Fuck… turn it off,” he muttered, hips twitching against the straps. But the display ticked up slowly, measuring every drop of pre-cum that trickled into the vial. His balls ached with fullness, the machine’s suction teasing them, urging production. The psychological hook sank in: cum faster, rest sooner. Yet resisting meant prolonging the ecstasy-torment. His straight resolve cracked as the sleeve tightened, ridges massaging his veins, bringing him to the edge only to slow, denying release.
Ryan was fitted next, his lean body arching as the sleeve swallowed his sleek cock, the central vein pressed against the pulsating interior. The machine calibrated to his length, stroking along the taper with precision, the flared head teased by targeted suction. “No… I won’t give in,” he hissed, green eyes fixed on the vial, but his pecs flexed as vibrations hummed through his shaft, balls tightening with that overfilled sensation. The edging was relentless, building him up, then easing off, the display showing mere millilitres collected. The dilemma gnawed: submit to the pleasure, fill the quota, or endure the endless tease? His straight conquests felt mocking now, this mechanical lover extracting what women once begged for.
Tyler roared as his brutish cock was encased, the thick girth stretching the sleeve slightly, the textured veins stimulated by the ridges’ grip. The machine twisted and pumped, exploiting the rugged surface, the blunt head sucked firmly. “Bastards… I’ll rip this thing apart,” he growled, his barrel chest heaving, arms bulging against the cuffs. But the vibrations targeted his massive balls, rolling them gently, the fullness making every denial agony. Pre-cum flowed steadily into the vial, but the quota loomed far off. Resist too long, and the tease intensified— the machine’s AI adapting, learning his thresholds. The psychological weight pressed: yield your loads quickly, or suffer the prolonged edging, body craving what mind rejected.
Alex whimpered as the device latched onto his curved shaft, the sleeve conforming to the arc, stroking along the delicate veins with feather-light precision. The tapered head was circled endlessly, suction pulling at the sensitive ridge. “Please… make it stop,” he begged, hazel eyes tearing up, his lithe abs quivering. But the machine edged him masterfully, vibrations humming through his neat balls, the swollen fullness demanding release. The vial filled drop by drop, the display taunting him. The dilemma twisted deeper: cum to end it, rest in peace, or fight and face eternal tease? His quick recoveries on the track now a curse, the machine ready to milk him over and over.
Brad’s substantial cock required a larger sleeve, the machine adjusting to encompass the long, veiny length, the bulbous head engulfed in suction. Strokes pumped firmly, veins bulging under the pressure, the wide slit teased open. “You won’t get shit from me,” he rumbled, grey eyes defiant, his massive frame straining. But the device vibrated his enormous balls, the heavy orbs churning with production, the ache building to fever pitch. The vial by his head began to collect, but slowly, the quota a distant goal. The psychological bind tightened: submit loads swiftly for reprieve, or resist and endure the machine’s unyielding caress.
As the machines hummed in unison, the chamber filled with moans and whirs, the athletes’ bodies betraying them. Jake hit his first edge, the sleeve slowing just as his sturdy cock pulsed, denying him, pre-cum trickling into the vial. “Damn it… just let me cum,” he muttered, the dilemma cracking his will. Ryan’s sleek shaft throbbed, hips bucking futilely. Tyler grunted, his brutish length leaking profusely. Alex cried out, the curve exploited mercilessly. Brad groaned, his substantial endowment straining.
Harlan watched, noting resistances. “If you persist in holding back, we’ll fit VR headsets— immersive simulations to break your focus, tailored to your straight fantasies, twisted to urge surrender.” For Tyler, who resisted fiercest, a handler approached with a sleek headset, slipping it over his head despite his roars. Screens flickered to life: visions of women, but morphed into relentless teasing, syncing with the machine’s rhythm, eroding his defiance. “Fight it, and it intensifies,” Harlan warned.
One by one, edges built and broke. Jake succumbed first, his thick cock erupting, thick ropes siphoned into the vial, the display climbing. Relief washed over him briefly, but the machine paused only momentarily, resuming to edge for the next load. “Quota not met,” the display read. Ryan followed, his long shaft spurting, vial filling. Tyler, under VR assault, yielded with a bellow, dense cum collected. Alex’s curved length released in arcs, tears streaming. Brad’s massive endowment flooded the tube, volume impressive.
But quotas demanded more. The machines milked on, edging, extracting, vials rising visibly by their heads— a constant reminder. Psychological torment deepened: cum willingly for rest, or resist and prolong the ecstasy. Bodies arched, muscles flexed, cocks throbbed in mechanical grips, balls emptying only to refill. The straight athletes, once conquerors, now captives to the hum, their essences harvested drop by drop. Harlan smiled. “Adapt or suffer, boys. The harvest never ends.”
As sessions stretched, resistances varied. Jake reached quota first, machine deactivating, allowing fitful rest, but envy stirred in the others. Ryan pushed through, vial full, collapse following. Tyler, VR breaking him, hit target with a shudder. Alex wept to completion. Brad, stubborn, endured longest, but finally yielded, the psychological dilemma claiming him.
The chamber quieted, machines idling, but tomorrow loomed with higher quotas. Bodies spent, minds fractured, the milking had truly begun, edging them towards submission, one load at a time.
