Jake's solo session
The hum of the milking machines faded into silence one by one as the athletes reached their quotas, the clear vials by their heads filling to the marked lines with thick, pearly essence. Jake’s sturdy cock pulsed one final time within the transparent sleeve, spurting the last ropes needed to hit his target, the digital display flashing “Quota Met” in cold green letters. Relief washed over him like a tidal wave, his broad chest heaving as the device retracted with a soft whir, leaving his shaft slick and spent, though the serum ensured a faint throb lingered, a promise of more to come. His balls, drained yet already hinting at refilling, ached with a dull, satisfied burn. Around him, the others followed suit: Ryan’s sleek length withdrawing from its mechanical grip, Tyler’s brutish girth softening at last, Alex’s curved specimen released with a whimper, and Brad’s substantial endowment finally allowed respite. The chamber echoed with their collective pants, bodies glistening under the lights, muscles quivering from the prolonged edging and extractions.
Dr Harlan stepped forward, his sinister grin unwavering as he surveyed the scene. “Well done, gentlemen. Your first machine session exceeds expectations. Yields are promising; we’ll adjust quotas upward tomorrow. For now, rest is your reward. Victor, prepare their accommodations.” The burly assistant nodded, signalling the handlers to unstrap the men. Jake’s cuffs clicked open, his wrists raw from straining, and he sat up slowly, his quarterback build flexing instinctively as he rubbed his arms. The others did the same, their impressive physiques on full display, cocks hanging heavy and defeated between powerful thighs. No words were exchanged; the shared humiliation hung thick in the air, but Jake felt a strange isolation settling in, as if the focus of this nightmare was shifting squarely onto him.
They were herded, still naked and unsteady, down a dimly lit corridor lined with reinforced doors. The facility’s underground chill seeped into their skin, raising goosebumps on Jake’s broad shoulders and chiselled abs. One by one, the others were directed into small, windowless bedrooms: Ryan first, his lean form disappearing behind a door with a metallic thud; Tyler next, growling as he was shoved inside; Alex, trembling, and Brad, his towering frame stooping slightly to enter. Jake was last, Victor’s large hand on his back guiding him into a compact room of his own. The space was Spartan: a narrow bed with crisp white sheets, a small sink, and a toilet in the corner, all under harsh fluorescent lighting. A camera blinked in the ceiling, a constant watcher. “Sleep,” Victor grunted, the door locking with finality. Jake collapsed onto the bed, his body exhausted, mind racing. The others were out there, somewhere close, but from now on, this felt like his story, his torment, with them fading into the background like echoes.
Sleep came fitfully, haunted by dreams of the machines’ hum and the unwanted pleasure they’d forced upon him. His sturdy cock stirred in the night, the serum’s effects lingering, balls refilling with that unnatural vigour. Morning, or what passed for it in this timeless lair, arrived with a buzzer, the door unlocking as a handler entered with a tray of food: protein shakes, supplements, and pills that Jake swallowed under watchful eyes. The nutrients were laced with more enhancers, he knew, designed to boost production, making his groin warm with anticipation. “Time for your session,” the handler said, leading him out. The others were nowhere to be seen; perhaps they were in their own routines now, bit players in this unfolding drama.
Jake was escorted to a small milking suite, a private chamber no larger than a walk-in closet, its walls padded and soundproofed, the air thick with that same antiseptic musk. At the centre stood a specialised restraint chair, ergonomic and unyielding, with padded arms and legs that splayed outwards, exposing the occupant fully. A single milking machine loomed beside it, more compact than the communal ones but no less intimidating: a gleaming unit with a custom sleeve, tubes snaking to a collection vial mounted on a stand at eye level. Digital screens displayed quotas, timers, and vital signs. Harlan waited inside, his presence making the space feel even smaller. “Ah, Jake. As our star quarterback, you’ll enjoy these solo experiences most days. Intimate, focused: just you and the machine. The others will join occasionally, but this is your journey now. Strip any illusions of escape; embrace the harvest.”
Jake’s defiance flared, his blue eyes locking on Harlan’s. “I’m not your plaything.” But the handler forced him into the chair, straps securing his wrists, ankles, and torso, his powerful thighs spread wide, sturdy cock dangling vulnerably between them. The broad head bobbed slightly as blood flowed, the serum awakening it anew. His balls hung full and heavy, swollen overnight, ready for extraction. Harlan adjusted the machine’s arm, aligning the sleeve with Jake’s shaft. It was warm, the inner lining rippling with anticipation, coated in a gel that tingled on contact. With a hum, it engulfed him, the ridges conforming to his thickness, veins pressed deliciously as suction drew him in deep.
The session began slowly, an edging prelude that made Jake’s abs clench, his pecs heaving with each breath. The sleeve stroked upwards, pausing to swirl around the broad head, teasing the slit until pre-cum beaded and was siphoned away into the vial. “Quota today: sixty millilitres,” Harlan murmured, watching from a chair nearby. “Reach it swiftly, and you return to your room. Resist, and it edges you for hours.” The psychological bind tightened; Jake’s straight mind rebelled, but his body craved release, the fullness in his balls an insistent pressure. The machine ramped up, vibrations humming through his length, ridges massaging every vein, the suction mimicking a perfect, unyielding mouth.
Jake groaned, hips bucking against the restraints, his quarterback build quivering as pleasure built. “Fuck… no,” he muttered, but the sleeve tightened, stroking faster, bringing him to the brink. It held him there, edging mercilessly, the timer ticking while the vial remained nearly empty. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his chiselled jaw, his blond hair matted. The dilemma gnawed: give in, fill the quota, or endure the tease? His cock throbbed within the grip, the broad head swelling, veins pulsing visibly through the transparent material. Harlan leaned in, his breath warm. “Feel that? Your body’s betraying you, Jake. Straight as an arrow, yet here you are, milked like prime stock.”
The edging continued, waves of near-climax crashing over him, balls churning with overproduction. Pre-cum flowed steadily, the vial inching up, but not enough. Jake’s resistance cracked; he thrust into the sleeve as best he could, chasing release. Finally, the machine allowed it, accelerating to a frenzied pump. Jake roared, his sturdy cock erupting, thick ropes pulsing through the tube into the vial, splattering the glass with pearly white. The display climbed: fifteen millilitres. Relief flooded him, but the machine didn’t stop, resuming its edging rhythm immediately, coaxing him back to hardness. “More,” Harlan said. “Over and over, until quota.”
The second round built quicker, Jake’s sensitivity heightened post-orgasm, every ridge and vibration exquisite torture. His abs rippled, thighs straining, the chair creaking under his power. He came again, harder, the vial filling further, his essence swirling visibly at eye level: a taunting reminder of his submission. By the third extraction, Jake was panting, body slick, cock hypersensitive yet unyielding thanks to the serum. The machine milked him dry, or as close as it could, each load thicker, his balls contracting with effort. Harlan noted it all, occasionally adjusting settings for deeper stimulation, the sleeve’s patterns shifting to exploit new sensitivities.
Hours blurred; Jake lost count after the fifth climax, his quarterback build reduced to quivering muscle, spent yet perpetually aroused. The vial neared sixty, the final spurt pushing it over. The machine retracted with a satisfied whir, leaving Jake’s shaft red and glistening, balls tender but emptied. Harlan stood, patting his cheek. “Well done. Rest now; tomorrow’s quota is higher.” The handler unstrapped him, leading the exhausted athlete back to his bedroom, where he collapsed, body humming with aftershocks.
In the quiet, Jake thought of the others: Ryan, Tyler, Alex, Brad, wondering if their sessions mirrored his, but they felt distant now, shadows in his solitary ordeal. The milking was his alone, a private hell of pleasure and submission, the machine’s hum echoing in his dreams. The harvest continued, chapter by chapter, his straight world crumbling under relentless extractions, one vivid, erotic load at a time.
