A Woman's Servant

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Milking Time

Nurse Devon concludes both lunch and her words of wisdom then departs, leaving me to supervise my first shift at the Institute.

I return to the cavernous ward. The donors are without sound... without movement... and my wicked imagination pictures the only motion to be that of spermatozoa, multiplying with gusto, thriving within scrotal sacs immersed in well tempered solution.

Such brawn, such virility, such massive organs... and all so well focused... on yielding. Produce for Nurse Devon... produce for me... produce for the Institute. Life boiled to one simple purpose... one objective... eat, breath, sleep and produce.

The notion of such well tamed fertility so much pleases. And to think women of my mother’s generation so much feared male fecundity... the constant dread of being placed in the so termed ‘family way’ by some priapic miscreant.

Well disciplined castrates stand at the far wall in wait, perched on heels, hands behind their heads, a picture of subjugation in their nakedness. But for breasts, one would suppose pubescent girls awaited my command. And in a way, perhaps Nurse Devon’s calloused snipping has indeed brought forth such a transformation.

“Time for the afternoon milking girls,” I proclaim in a stentorian voice of authority.

Collection vessels are handed out. Fortunately my little castrates are all experienced and not only know well their roles, but are well incentivized to maximize yield. Thus they each know to procure a tube of waiting lubricant. Yes, there is eagerness as tiny effeminate hands reach forth and the tapping of many high heels suggests no further commands are necessary.

Having spent time in the morning with Pattie, I decide to observe a castrate with the moniker ‘Toni’ neatly tattooed just as with Pattie, high on a right cheek of equivalent shape and feminine softness.

She tiptoes on heels to a prostrate donor, the chart suggesting the well restrained naked form being number 825.

Toni is cute, appearing somewhat exuberant as knowing hands work in preparation. Yes, there is definitely a bond. Toni can no longer play with her own testicles. Therefore those of 825 will accommodate a once male need.

Stepping between the parted lower portion of the Gurney, the milking begins with the removal of 825's scrotum bowl. I find myself smiling as a massive sac comes into view, I do believe larger than that of 629. Toni gently pats dry with adoring care then arranges the collection vessel. Meanwhile I see the p***s begin to firm and realize that though blinded, deafened and strapped to complete immobility, 825 is aware of the process. He endures the same day after day after day. Tedium, thorough subjugation, male fecundity brought to submission, the frustration must torment in being forced to yield.

Fingers of the left hand slip between the gluteal cleft and lubricate. This causes the p***s to more fully stir, hardening in welcome of the dainty fingers. I am amazed that it comes to full tumescence, slowly but steadily, without the touch of a single finger. Instead, Toni knows to prime the various organs, stooping to apply a long supple tongue to the hairless sac. She licks.

Yes adoration. Toni envies, but her sense of control, sense of ownership seems to compensate for her loss, Nurse Devon’s quick and calloused alteration. Her smile, one of delighted wickedness, betrays her thoughts.

‘I can no longer climax. Yet neither shall you. But I can make you give up what I want... and do so meekly, and at my behest.’

The castrates are empowered during the milkings, the realization occurs. I look around the room to see Toni’s neutered sisters also enjoying, each in some manner engaging in foreplay, teasing, tantalizing, and prompting the organs which will soon be oozing that which the Institute covets.

I join Toni’s smile when pre ejaculatory fluid beads at the tip of a now fully erect p***s. Toni’s right index finger touches for the first time, gently tapping at the top, coaxing the viscous goo into the waiting vessel. It slithers, drooling into the Petri dish, carefully captured, Toni knowing it will be measured and be credited to her output for the monthly tally, enhancing the chances of reward.

The licks continue and I can imagine the broiled male mind, so much in need, so much desiring to stroke himself. Yet other than hardening, there can be no physical response. All energy, all focus I assume, is on filling the Petri dish, docilely responding by secreting... slowly, steadily, obediently.

Within moments the clear fluid becomes a constant stream and Toni knows to return her left hand to the gluteal cleft. The index finger penetrates the anus and is joined by the middle finger. The former male knows to find the prostate gland, further priming the reproductive system by kneading the curious male organ.

Sure enough the flow increases. Beneath the hood, a low moan slips past the cruel gag and I wonder if Nurse Devon has ever given thought to stilling the vocal cords. Something within 825 can move! How lenient, I cannot help thinking.

Meanwhile the right index finger taps again to encourage the flow. Within a moment the clear viscous effluent turns cloudy.

Pay dirt! Sperm joins the flow.

Yet, the p***s has not really been touched and as much as Toni can vicariously sense the frustration of unrequited pleasure, I too begin to better understand the wicked protocol. There is no ecstatic spurt, there will not be an ecstatic spurt... there can never be an ecstatic spurt. Botox has immobilized the ejaculatory muscles.

Instead an amazing progression of cloudy essence flows and flows. And I note the minutes are many, certainly more, a longer interval than the male normally requires for copulation.

At last Toni seems to take pity. With tongue laps continuing, the right index finger shifts to the underside of the swollen p***s tip, to that comparatively tiny patch of flesh where the male is known to derive 80% of his s****l pleasure.

And this is where the castrates earn their keep. Only another male... former male... can know of the potential intensity of such a caress... the proper motion... the proper pressure... the proper friction... to drive the recipient insane with joy... joy never to be ultimately fulfilled.

And only the castrated male can feel fulfilled in so doing!

Yes, Toni’s one finger brings evanescent glory to a rock hard male organ in such dire need.

And the only possible response... produce more! And more! And More!

The wall clock suggests the first batch of afternoon milkings approach thirty minutes in length. Yet the dishes continue to be filled and filled.

“Do you ever stroke him, Toni?” I find I must inquire.

Toni’s tongue retreats as she turns her head to reply.

“Why bother? He gives me all I want without the satisfaction of full caress. Plus, diddling here with nothing more than a single finger keeps him primed for the next milking. Tomorrow morning he’ll be even more eager for me.”

I nod in understanding. The Institute has researched well, experimented extensively, and developed a protocol of model efficiency.

For me, it will be a long but joyous afternoon... the first of many.