Milk Today (2/2): M/m; MtF; CBT; NC

Chapter Two

It’s impossible for Sam to doubt the process, because statistics don’t lie.

When the boy was taken into Bernadette’s care, baseline readings were accumulated over his first two days, proving that Sam shot 56 units of cum/milk from an average, unassisted orgasm.

Now, benefitting from Bernadette’s programme of ejaculation enhancements – tweaked every day in light of experience, to maximise the boy’s output – he’s shooting a reliable 64 units of the gooey stuff, each cycle, and pressing-on for 70 as an average. Here is the payback from technical investment.  

Beyond the Fantasia helmet, a suite of tools are available to Sam in support of his hands-free climaxing. With research showing that 34% of boys have nipples hard-wired to their dicks, Sam’s correlation was worth exploring, and a slight positive relationship between nipple stimulation and stiff prick was established. Consequently, Sam wears little suction cups over both tit nubs, every time he’s in the chair. Now, those cups are activated from their dormant grip and set to suckle at Sam’s teats – gently, at first – squeezing then releasing his delicate points, with a rhythm of work matching that of the piston around his cock.

This isn’t tit torture, but arousal. That’s the intention, though the boy’s responses to the opening of a second front in this fight for his orgasm, are pained:

‘Ahhh… fuck,’ Sam groans, his voice deep as his hips squirm in the chair. He’s uncomfortable with this, though it’s a familiar escalation for him.

The boy’s areolas look small, set on the gym-pumped chest they cap, but the suction cups extend those dark brown tit plates, tugging and nursing Sam’s nips whilst the bigger device gives the same attention to his dick. It doesn’t look like a turn-on, for Sam, but so long as the process is effective, the state of his pleasure – an emotional condition – is irrelevant.

Musk has lauded the ethical virtues of his Fantasia product, on the basis none of the action projected to the glasses, took place. The library is 100% AI-generated porn, therefore no girls were harmed in the making of the faux movie sequences. As we know, the porn industry is a sordid one; superficially attractive to a certain type of girl (or boy) desperate for funds to feed an addiction, or low in self-esteem. But it uses them and spits them out, and the career of the typical ‘star’ got shorter and less remunerative, in the PornHub era of plentiful choice.

The altruistic take, then, is that thanks to the genius of the Tesla Corporation, men can whack-off to whatever content floats their boat – every kink is catered to* – without a single performer needing to step into a seedy studio.

*No AI minors, though. There was a big legal battle on that, after the corporation pushed the boundaries of acceptance, too far.

Is it any good? Well, let me say that my Liberty Media group will continue to showcase real boys in peril, because there’s enduring demand to see pain in the eyes of youths, suffering for sadists. That said, Bernadette tells me the streamed content is of an excellent standard, with the AI processors having learned from millions of hours of original footage – which kind of detracts from the claims of morality, perhaps?

Sam is treated to a compilation of action sequences hitting his turn-ons squarely, every time. Charlotte – his smart love interest – is a prim white girl, but Sam’s visual treats are dominated by a different sort of chick: mixed race or Hispanic; soft eyes; big-breasted; sucking a cock of unreal dimensions – or getting fucked in the asshole by it. Sam’s sweet spot girls are younger than Charlotte – barely legal, even. And they shed tears when a brute of a man pumps them anally. He spanks them, hard, and they don’t appreciate that sort of encouragement, so they whimper, and Sam is triggered by that, too.

What works, in stimulation of Sam, is continually assessed and refined for his next orgasmic cycle. The sensors in Sam’s Fantasia headgear provide analyses of neural activity at his hypothalamus, as a proxy for sexual excitement, whilst those in his dick cylinder report the status of Sam’s schlong – the engorgement of the blood vessels; the erectness of that mast, and the dampness (with precum) of his uncut crown, as dirty movies are presented to the kid.

Crunching every dataset on Sam’s condition, live, the programme assesses the optimal time to premiere porn content he’ll find to be a 10/10 watch, and not ‘just’ 9.5/10.

There’s no intention to shame Sam on his raging hard-ons over olive-skinned girls, just out of high school, getting brutalised around big black cock. This is purely a matter of science.

Perhaps you’re wondering, why does this boy engage with the porn being fed to his eyewear? Surely he’d try the tactic of non-cooperation? Well, he finds resistance difficult, you see. The glasses monitor Sam’s eyelids, and if they’re found to be closed for five seconds or more, in any one minute, they snitch him up to the crank generator unit, linked to Sam’s balls by wires and two crocodile clips pinching his sac flesh.  

In short: if he tries to stop watching his porn – or dozes off – Sam is on the receiving end of shocks, through his scrotum, that get him thrashing in his bondage to the extent of muscular sprains. Sam ‘tested’ this behavioural remedy for Bernadette, in two of his earliest sittings, and it’s not an experience his wishes to repeat. So his eyes stay wide, tracking the sleazy action.  

Without operator intervention, the apparatus is building Sam’s erotic crescendo. The shape of his mouth, the slant of his neck, and the fidgeting of his torso on the chair speak of a tipping point, so near, beyond which his containment becomes impossible. Add to these signals his gasped frustrations, now frequent:

‘Ahh….fuck…Awww shit….AWWWW!’

There’s a 32” monitor on a trolley, behind Sam’s fun chair, and it’s displaying a confusion of numbers and graphs. The cursory run-through Bernadette gave me didn’t include an explanation of these statistics, and much of the screen is beyond my comprehension, though some of the statuses can be deduced. Prominent indicators relate to Sam’s dick tube and the vigour with which it’s masturbating him, deploying friction, tugging and tingling in any combination, to jerk him off. This intensity continues to rise, evidenced by the fast clicking and sighing of that udder-milker.

Another segment of the monitor confirms the sensations being relayed to Sam’s butt plug. With the porn stream really tripping the boy, the background passivity of his anal intruder has ended and it’s vibrating as well as buzzing with current, at a level tailored to maintain in Sam a high level of alertness, and engagement.

It was a contested decision, for sure, to take this 100% hetero boy and subject (or treat?) him to deep prostate massage. But it has continued because it was proven to work, in Sam’s case: not a game-changing intervention, but one which adds those few extra drops towards his milk quota, when he’s ready to produce. And as we know from studying the great Olympians, tiny advantages clinch marginal victories in critical competitions.

Stimulated via his boy cunt, unseen, there are grimaces from Sam as he twists at his hips instinctively, hitting his limits of movement to a soundtrack of jangled chains and stretched leather, creaking. He outpours chronic discomfort at the package of arousal being thrown at him:  

‘Awww Jeezus… FUCK!’

…but his dick sausage gets ever prouder in its cylinder – a fat sword of meat.

And then, the emotional sadism of his girlfriend, Charlotte, making cameo appearances in Sam’s goggles, between sequences featuring the teenage temptresses of his dreams.

Charlotte – her spectacles on, looking every bit the geeky girl who’s destined to date the football star, in any American high school movie – fingering herself, on the bed.

Charlotte, soaping her curves in the mist of a shower cubicle, then lingering at her pussy; flowing hair swishing across her back. 

Charlotte, standing full-frontal naked at the bottom of the bed; hair still wet and with a come-on look in her eyes, and in the pout of her lips, beckoning Sam to join her right now, for coital bliss.

Fragments of lovely, level-headed Charlotte from days gone, spliced between the crude scenes that do so much more to nurture his towering erection.

He’s moist with perspiration, now. This is taxing, for Sam – physically, and ethically. And yes, it hurts.

There’s a great deal happening, to support Sam’s focus. The cylinder pumps his dick harder than ever, as his tit nubs are suction teased. What’s building through Sam’s butt plug must be profound, judging by the stress he exhibits in the chair – toes curled; knuckles white.

He’s nearly there, in this programme of assisted ejaculation. The slabs of his pectorals almost steam with his sweat. Everything that can be scrunched or taut, is. It’s agony, this pleasure.  

 

‘Ahhh fuck!’

‘FUUUUCK!’

‘FUCK YOU!’

He’s been snuffed-out. Stamped upon. Denied, on his precipice.

His porn, turned off – cut, abruptly, to a black screen.

His dick-stroking machine, chugging away at speed – reverted to standby, with the flick of a switch.

The hated stimulation in the darkness of his rectum – halted.

And he’s raging mad about this edging:

‘Ahhhh no, no, no…. FUCK!’

‘Please, no… not again… FUUUUCK!’

The Tesla Fantasia tech package – with learned experience of boys generically, and Sam specifically – knows exactly the right moment to ruin an orgasm. As the oozing of precum is detected, the software poises to void a kid’s ready-to-burst ecstasy. No human practitioner, be they a girlfriend or a BDSM dominant, could judge the timing so acutely, to maximise male anguish.

This bundle of kit can shepherd a boy to his edge, then yank him back when his toes are already over the cliff, as often as his supervisor desires. There is, already, a thriving torture scene that subjects innocent boys to a whole working day in the chair, hooked to Fantasia, denying them half a dozen times with no relief before they’re crammed, traumatised, into a chastity cage for their evening and night.

Sam should have gratitude that perpetual denial isn’t his fate, though he fails to show it. No, in his case, the calculation is that one scotched climax adds strength to the next, permitted eruption, on which his spunk count will be measured for productivity. Not every cycle is edged, because time is another consideration, but the unpredictability piles on the frustration for this forced boy.

Getting extinguished at the cusp of something huge requires a re-building of his passion from embers, and that’s a hard slog for Sam.

He’ll be left in edged mode for six minutes, unmolested, before the apparatus goes to work again. I’ve been a silent witness, but I take advantage of the intermission to move my chair closer to his place of suffering.

‘What’s your goal?’ I ask him. ‘Huh? What’s obsessing you, right now?’

Sam couldn’t see me join him, with his glasses remaining on, but I’d been careful to make noise so as not to surprise him with this new intimacy.

‘I just wanna get off this fuckin’ chair, out of this fuckin’ room, and away,’ he says.

A perfectly modest ambition for a boy resigned, deep down, to his new role of serving: A purpose so limited in his eyes, yet so vital for his Madame.  

‘When did you last have a break, from this milking?’ I ask. ‘When was your last day off?’

He snorts. ‘Fuck… there was talk of me getting a Sunday off… ages ago. She said I’d get a break, if I….’

‘Worked well?’ I suggest, as his sentence finisher.  

‘Yeah, that was it. But it hasn’t happened… it’s been forgotten… and I’m in here every day… first for, maybe, three hour sessions… then a full afternoon, basically…. and obviously, it will become every evening, too.’

‘Frustrating?’ I ask.

‘Fuck, yeah. Immensely!’

‘Ever thought about – you know – just giving Bernadette what she wants, then?’ I say.

‘Fuck you!’ he says.

‘Hear me out, Sam. I mean – I’m confident you can achieve this! Next time you lactate from that thick hose, just squeeze out the number she needs, to get her off your back, right? Take the path of least resistance!’

‘I try!’ he protests.

‘I know you do, soldier,’ I say. ‘But, maybe you can try even harder?’

‘Fuck, man…’ Sam moans.

‘I want to help you,’ I assure him.

***

There is a strategy, beyond this rivalrous quest for high output.

The international players, including Bernadette, will soon pool their learnings and their boys. Competition will turn to cooperation.

A parlour will be established, populated by five trained ‘dairy boys’. In rotation those boys will sit for milking, ensuring at least one of them is getting drained at all times, 24/7 through the week.

In shared adversity the boys may find solace, but it will be short-lived. The pressure on those boys to give more, will be overwhelming.

After, perhaps, four months, their outputs will diminish irreversibly until they’re shooting dry, more or less.

With a barren boy being of no value to a milking parlour, their time will be up and they’ll be moved-on, making way for productive substitutes.

If they’re lucky, the newly infertile boys will find different work, with men focused on their assholes and pain thresholds, not their empty tanks. I may be interested in Sam when he becomes available, but his price would have to be low – an insulting sum of a few hundred dollars – because once they’re dry, the market considers boys to be washed-up, and past it.

The boys who aren’t picked-up for alternative sex work will have no future. Whatever they may be told during those excruciating shifts in the milking parlour, to buoy their morale, there is no way back for a cum slave.

***

Sadly, there have been cases of psychosis associated with the Fantasia equipment. The first lawsuits are already going through the courts. It seems that, for some men, too much pornography can be dangerous, but there’s more to it.

The way the package has better insight than the wearer, on the subtleties of their sexual arousal, can be disturbing when it starts to play on the mind. And the introduction of fetishes gives rise to questions of consent, if those kinks are interests that the man had chosen to block-out of his sex life, to prioritise his own moral code, or mental health.

Sam is a user who can’t opt-out of his Fantasia sessions, so I think a human presence in the room with him must be a safeguard. It’s strong stuff that he’s binge-watching for hours each day, but this afternoon I’m beside his chair, holding his hand – metaphorically speaking. 

With Sam already in a state of latent horniness after that edged abort, his cycle when re-started can be compressed.

The apparatus busies itself with extra pace, tugging Sam’s dick with intent and suctioning away until he’s solid again, in his tube, and his mini-teats are erect in their cups.

In his goggles the porn sequences have been clipped further, down to a highlight reel of material assessed to hit Sam’s favourite predilections, over and over.   

Up his ass, the vibration in the butt plug has a fresh insistency. The trickle of electricity to Sam’s balls is stimulatory, now, and not a punishment zap for his inattention.

He’s overheating, in the chair. Unilaterally, I use the teal handkerchief from my pocket to wipe beads of sweat from Sam’s brow, in the slot above his specialist glasses but below his helmet.

‘You’re doing so well,’ I tell him.

‘Fuck my life!’ Sam complains, as machines jerk him along to his ultimate porn.

‘There’s too much hostility, between you and Bernadette,’ I say. ‘And that can’t be helpful.’

‘He’s such a freak!’ Sam says, misgendering my friend. ‘It winds me up… on top of… everything else.’

‘A-ha, fine. But, like, you’re not in the driving seat here, Sam? I think you need to leave the acrimony behind, and put your total commitment into performing as instructed. You want to get out of here… don’t you?’

‘Fuck yeah!’ he snaps back.

‘Because, mean people come in all ages, shapes and genders, right? That’s just a fact you need to deal with.’

‘Ahhh….’ Sam moans; his concentration drifting from my coaching chat.

‘Getting close, again?’ I check.

‘Mmm!’ he indicates.

‘Okay. I’ll shut up!’

I’m within touching distance of Sam’s right flank, and I reach through the space under his chair arm until my fingertips find his muscular thigh.

Sam gives a sparking jolt – though I flatter myself if I claim it’s a result of my contact: He’s undergoing a process of extreme arousal through all his sensual parts, whilst watching a festival of teenage nymphettes.

‘Please… don’t touch me!’ he whispers, urgent. ‘It doesn’t help me.’

‘Ssshhh,’  I say, relaxed.  

My fingers have advanced, wrapping over the top of Sam’s thigh meat and down the inner, close to his hooked-up sex.

I squeeze his flesh, appreciating the fine hair of his legs. It’s a premium masculine feel. I press into him with my fingertips as the kid bucks and groans, unable to escape this perversion of a happy ending.

‘I said don’t! It makes this harder for me.’ Sam implores.

‘Gonna serve me up some rich cream, yeah?’ I say, soft.  

‘Please…’ he tries again.

‘Time to spend all of your seed, huh? Give it all up, right? Show a bro what we can do, together, yes?’

My digits spider along his gym-bulked quads, approaching his groin. My touch is light, and ticklish as I disturb his dusty down with the circular motion of my tips. He feels a little sticky, up in his arch – nervous, and shamed.

I hear his tearfulness, though the quality of the seal on his Fantasia glasses denies me sight of that saltiness as it starts to roll.

‘Time for excellence, Sammy-boy. Time to push, hmm?’ I whisper, into his ear.

Scrunching into himself with such intensity he looks physically diminished, on his sex chair, Sam’s orgasmic convulsions begin.  

That prostate has a rocket behind it, discharging Sam’s cum in a torrent to the end of his cylinder trap, from where it will be extracted and measured – all automated, of course.

He spasms on his milking seat, vascular in great cords along his arms.

‘FUUUUCCCCCK!’ Sam protests his mega-climax with a roar. He’s white-knuckled; molars grinding; a string of drool hanging from his chin.  

‘C’mon, push hard!’ I encourage him. ‘Let’s shoot this out of the park, yeah?’

He gushes in barely broken squirts, pulsing his thick cream into the vessel as ribbons and scudding clouds. It’s an authentic, core-driven eruption.

‘And more?’ I purr. ‘Give-up what you’ve been holding back for too long, yes?’

My fingers travel to Sam’s on-fire nut sac, shrivelling before my eyes as he unloads in blasts of boy seed.  

The power of the expulsion dials down, but it remains a confident stream of jizz. Emerging from orgasmic paralysis, Sam vocalises his tail-end discharge with a series of lowing groans:

‘Ahhh shit…. Ahhh, no… Awww fuuuucccck!’  

‘Keep working, until the end. Show me a boy who wants to go home, sometime, yeah?’ I say.

‘Fuck, yeah!’ Sam responds, self-motivating as though I had floated a real possibility. The manipulated orgasm is a moment of confusion and delusion, I suppose.

He’s twisting at his hips, squirming his thigh under my hand, still squeezing so diligently and he continues to produce. Sure, he’s down to droplets from that hose, now, but they’ll count. The tension in Sam’s square shoulders starts to ease, and he pushes back onto the seat.   

‘Every. Last. Drop.’ I whisper, and – as I conclude – I peck him with a kiss to his cheek, below the glasses. Then I remove my groping hand from his thigh.

‘Fuck,’ Sam moans, softly now, entering his comedown vibe.  

‘Do you feel you gave that everything you had, Sam?’ I ask. I’ve changed my tone, with that question, and perhaps he’ll notice my serious voice?

‘Fuck… that hurt!’ he whines. Okay – he hasn’t noticed, and hasn’t answered. He’s back to ME, and how he feels.

He’s dripping into the cylinder from that shrinking schlong, still.

‘Hurt you, more than it usually does?’ I ask, deferring to the boy’s preoccupation.  

‘Mmm!’ Sam confirms, struggling to find a position of post-orgasmic comfort on his hard chair.

‘You’re a good fit, for this,’ I tell him. ‘A natural, in fact. So much potential!’  

There’s a bead of milky cum, poised in the complex glans of Sam’s dickhead. If he could propel it off, and into the tube, it would be measured with the rest. But his focus has gone, and the opportunity is lost.

‘Not long to wait for your numbers, huh?’ I say.

***

‘78 units of milk! 78 fucking units of Sam seed. You know how blessed you are to have me as your friend, Bern? Will you be thanking me now, or later?’

‘You’re a lucky bastard, Ryan,’ says Bernadette, maintaining her unimpressed act with quite hilarious rigour.  

I shake my head. ‘No luck involved. Just my charm, and persuasion.’

I offer my palm for a celebratory high five,  and – after a pointed show of reluctance – she slaps it with hers.

The apparatus sucked-up the boy’s spent juice like a powerful vacuum cleaner, from his dick cylinder into an adjacent vial, where measurement took place. Analysis complete, the digital read-out confirmed a personal best from the 26-year-old. It’s gratifying, after the efforts made by all to morph Sam into a consistently high-yielding boy.

Sam has been told his score, and a burst of howling euphoria followed, though he’s been left on the chair whilst Bernadette and I chew over his situation, in her upstairs boudoir of… startling decoration.  

‘He’s deeply phobic about you, Bern,’ I say.

‘Obviously, I know,’ she says. ‘He’s been hard work – but fun.’

‘Off to the milking parlour for him soon, then?’ I ask. ‘Sam will fit sweetly into a team effort of milker boys, I think.’

‘A couple of weeks,’ says Bernadette. ‘Lots of practical stuff still to be finalised, amongst us dairy leaders.’

‘Sure,’ I nod. ‘But, I hope his remaining time with you, draining solo, will be memorable for him.’

‘Of course,’ says my kinky confidant, with a touch of irritation in her voice. My tendency to take-over, where the management of boys is concerned, is a habit I should learn to curb on social occasions. I just can’t help myself mansplaining, though.

‘Keep him writhing in that chair, whilst he still dares to hope,’ I say. ‘Have him explore – in deeper ways – how the connection between pain and productivity works, for him.’ 

‘He’s already doing four… five cycles, in the chair,’ says Bernadette.

I grin at her, stay silent, and she hates it. ‘What? Ryan… you’re pissing me off, now. Why are you always so know-all… so fucking arrogant.’

‘I think you should hijack Sam’s evenings, as well as his afternoons,’ I say. ‘Seven cycles in the chair… with three or four last-gasp edgings, along the way. 78 units will be his new baseline target, every time, obviously.’

‘You’re so unreasonable, you know? Please, leave my house now.’ Bernadette says, but her tone is humorous.

‘I’m ambitious for him!’ I protest. ‘But be sure to give Sam my love, and tell him, I hope to see him again… in a few months time.’

 

***