Erotic short. An elf is processed at a breeding & milking facility.
1.8k. Trans M/cis M, an elf being processed at a facility where he’s going to be impregnated & used for milk. Manhandling, size difference, bondage, breeding stands, impregnation, aphrodisiacs, nipple play, anal, humiliation, penis gags, objectification, obviously the inherent sex work, mentions of belly bulging, belly riding, and come inflation.
A shiver of anticipation runs down Daylon’s spine as he steps hold of the threshold of the barn, stripped down to his tunic and leggings with no armour, no belt, no boots. He can feel the cool texture of the dirt under his bare feet, still taste the sweet astringency of the potion they’d fed down his throat lingering on his tongue, a tingling heat that sticks to the inside of his lips.
The barn smells of sweat and sex, and it’s full up with the sound of elves moaning and whining, of gasps and sharp whimpers. Heat is flooding downward, his cunt warm and wet, his cock half-hard.
The barn attendant, a strapping human with muscles so thick he threatens to ripple out of his shirt, has his hand on Daylon’s lower back, his palm warm and strong as he leads Daylon further inside.
When he looks to the side he can see a row of elves all hooked up to breeding stands, their wrists cuffed in line with their necks and their tits hanging low, hooked up to the cups of the milking machines. He stops walking for a second to look at one elf, fat and pregnant with tits the size of melons and a thick beard, who’s moaning with his eyes squeezed shut as the cups shift and vibrate on his nipples, sucking the milk out of him and pumping it into two glass jugs in front of him. Before his eyes, Daylon can see them filling up, hear the trickle and splash of thick, white milk inside them.
He’s begging, “Please, please, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me — ” and looking hungrily, desperately, at the attendant, but all he does is nudge Daylon’s lower back and keep him moving.
Daylon is so wet there’s slick on the inside of his thighs and there’s a heat burning under his skin, sweat prickling on the surface of it. Some of it is the potion, he knows, but so much more of it is pure desire, eagerness, lust, because he knew exactly what he was coming here for as soon as he’d seen the poster up on a city noticeboard, had been wet and eager just thinking about it, and now, now —
“In here,” says the attendant, and nudges Daylon with his big, strong hand into a side room, empty with a cold, stone floor. He doesn’t ask permission or even warn Daylon that he’s doing it, just grips at the hem of his tunic and pulls it over his head, and Daylon lets him, then obediently steps out of his leggings when the attendant unlaces their waist and pulls them down his thighs.
Daylon feels hazy and fluttery at the side of the attendant bending down like that, wonders if he’s going to put his big, square mouth to work by sucking Daylon’s cock into his mouth, by tonguing between his legs and fucking him with his tongue. His mouth waters at the thought, but the attendant just steps away, folding the shirt and leggings and setting them aside.
Daylon looks down at his own chest, at the gentle swell of his tits, little more than small buds — he’d never grown anything significant there, has always been slim with little tits to match, but now his nipples are throbbing, and he imagines that they’re a bit bigger than usual, that the first potion has already had an effect.
The breeding bench dominates the centre of the room, a raised table with cushioning on it for his knees and a leather brace he’ll be bent over, one part of the frame at his chest and the other under his hips, his wrists manacled to the edge of the table, his ankles at the other end. He’ll be bent forward like a bitch, free to be played with and manipulated, and the thought makes him throb, his body tingling.
The attendant doesn’t say a word to him, doesn’t even nudge him to climb up onto the table and arrange himself on the bench himself — he lifts Daylon around the waist and positions him himself, shoving his head forward. Daylon lets out a breathless noise as the shove of the leather against his chest, but there’s no space to breathe, to think, before the attendant manacles his wrists in place. There’s something painfully arousing about the way the attendant treats him, the way he manhandles and shoves Daylon’s body into position, shifting the brace under his hips.
Daylon hadn’t seen them at first glance, but there are straps for his knees, too, and Daylon shudders as the attendant silently pulls his knees apart and straps them in place, too, so that his legs are open now that he’s bent over. He can feel the cool air in the room kissing the wet, open lips of his cunt, and when he clenches on the empty air, he shivers, because he can feel how wet he is, feels himself drip just slightly down his thighs.
Daylon yelps when the attendant slides two fingers inside him and then a third — strapped down as he is, he can’t turn his head to look at him, but he imagines his face impassive and uncaring, unmoved by the sheer mundanity and routine of this situation, strapping a fresh elf down to the bench to touch and manipulate and play with, treating him as thoughtlessly as any other livestock.
“How long are you contracted, again?” asks the attendant, the question so unexpected, the fact that he’s being addressed instead of being treated like an animal, that Daylon doesn’t take it in right away, doesn’t immediately respond. Blinking a few times, he finally clicks that the question is directed at him, and turns his head to watch the attendant as he wipes a cloth around a glass cup.
“Uh, um,” he mumbles. “A year. Just one pregnancy.”
The attendant huffs out a low laugh as he comes over, raising his eyebrows and looking down at Daylon sceptically, a strap loosely dangling from one of his hands.
“New sluts always say that,” says the attendant, looking down at Daylon with a distantly amused expression on his face. “But you all sign up for the same reason — it’s not the gold. You’re fucking hot for getting bred by the bulls, getting your tits all fat, getting fucked. You’re horny at the thought of being a fucking cow, and now you’re gonna get what you want — filled up with dick. You’re gonna be here until your tits dry up.”
Every word hits Daylon with the force of a blow, and he wants to be indignant, wants to be angry, wants to protest, but his cock is throbbing and he’s so wet he aches, his body shuddering as he’s forced to stay strapped in place.
It takes him a few moments to pull himself together, and when he starts to say, “Fu — ” he doesn’t get any further, because the attendant shoves a toy cock into his mouth and straps it around his head. “Mmff, mmf — ” Daylon whines, his protests muffled by the gag that’s not just in his mouth but down his throat. He’s almost choking on it, but the pressure is just making him imagine a real cock in his mouth, weighting down his tongue, and fuck but he craves it, craves the salt and musk and heat, aches to have his head pulled down and a cock forced in him to the root.
The attendant in the meantime puts one of the cups against his tits, then murmurs a word charged with magic — Daylon yells as the cup suddenly sucks, squeezing his nipple and the swell around his small tit toward the tube before he fits the second one into place. His chest is throbbing at the hard suck on each side, but for all he struggles he can’t get free, strapped down to the table in six places.
They don’t even have a bottle attached to the pipe, because he’s not ready to milk yet, doesn’t have anything in him but the aphrodisiac and something to make it easier for him to lactate — but this will make it easier too, prepare him.
The attendant turns a crank, lowering the table down.
“Stupid fucking slut,” says the attendant, and then slides four of his fingers this time into Daylon’s cunt — there’s a stretch this time, slightly sore, and the pain makes electricity thrill through him, makes him moan.
How many hours until he’s in a bigger breeding bench, or until they bring in one of the bulls to breed him? A minotaur, an orc, a werewolf? A centaur even?
He moans aloud around the gag as the attendant scissors his fingers, imagining it — he’s heard that to make sure a pregnancy takes, they’ll strap you to one of the bulls after a bunch of them have had turns fucking you, so all day you’ll feel their huge cock crammed in you as they walk around with you hanging from around their neck, or under their belly if it’s one of the centaurs.
“Still half an hour ’til you’re due for processing,” says the attendant. “Might as well sample the goods, huh?”
Daylon moans eagerly, trying to tip his hips back against the attendant’s fingers. He doesn’t give a fuck if the guy’s an asshole, if he’s unprofessional, just wants to feel a hot cock inside him, and the attendant laughs as he steps forward, pulling down his pants.
He lines the head of his cock up, sliding back and forth against his open lips, rubbing against it, rubbing through the gathering slick, and Daylon whines, dizzied by how much he fucking craves it.
And then, because this guy is a fucking prick, he slides his slick cock not into Daylon’s hungry, desperate cunt, but into his ass instead. Daylon moans at the heat and pressure and feeling of being filled, but it’s just not enough, not what he fucking needs, what he wants, what he aches for.
“Calm down,” says the attendant, sounding bored as he slams his hips forward and shoves his cock into Daylon’s ass all the way to the root. “You can have your cunt filled in just a few more minutes — with a huge dick, too. We’ll drop you in the bullpen and let them pass you around, you’ll have all three of these holes fucked and filled, pump that womb of yours full. For now, a little fucking patience, yeah?”
The cups on his tits start sucking harder, and Daylon sobs around the cock in his throat and the cock in his ass as the attendant starts to thrust.
His orgasm hits him like a shot, dizzying and bright and full of lightning, and the attendant groans at the way his ass must clench around him.
“Oh, fuck, yeah,” he mutters, speeding up his thrusts as Daylon drops forward, limp, in the breeding stand. He feels suddenly exhausted with the pleasure that’s assaulting him on all sides, and can do little more than take it. “You’re gonna be real popular.”
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