The roaring and pumping of countless machines rumbles through the air. It's ever present in the walls of the factory, and for miles in all directions. The steady eb and flow of pistons, the rhythmic hum of rolling conveyor belts, and the surging pumps of tubes and piping of all varieties overwhelm the senses, but here in the central chamber, they comprise only the second most prominent category of noise.

GURRRRGLE SLOSH GLRRRK GROOOOAN CHURRRRRN

Somewhat grotesque, bodily sounds echo around the chamber. They overpower even the industrial clatter of the surrounding machinery, and they're a facet of the entire facility's end goal.

The source of the overwhelming gurgling, sloshing, and gulping is a feline sat perched in the middle of the chamber upon his own bloated testicles. His name is Slate, and presently his nuts are filling a space equivalent in volume to an entire industrial warehouse.

His long, thick shaft pulses with arousal where it lays over the front of the giant irregular orbs. Every second, a couple small lumps will slide through it with a loud slurping sound. The bulges slide down the length of Slate's urethra and join with the immense mass below.

SLOSH CHURRRRRN GLRRRRFK

The grey coated feline's family jewels are filled primarily with the expected spunk and much less expected bones. Countless bones. The shape of what must be millions of little skulls or more dot his bloated sack and texture it in irregular bumps and ridges.

What's more than bones, the ever growing topmost layer within, is still writhing and squirming. Small shapes struggle futilely in the giant sack. Nearly all of them are infants.

GLRRK SLRRRSH GLK SCHLRRRK

Winding in from every corner of the enormous facility is a conveyor line that converges here, in the central chamber. Babies of all species, varying in color and somewhat in size all come down the line the same, and the belt terminates at Slate's urethra.

Two per second is the strict quota, and production often reaches three at peak birthing hours. The conveyor is packed tight with small, innocent bodies. Smooth, high walls ensure there's no escape for the infants as they're shunted along.

No matter how they might flail or squirm or cry, the cacophony of mechanical noise the babies are born into never ceases until they're poured into the boiling cauldron of Slate's balls.

GURRRGGLE GLORP SLOSH CHURRRRN

And to Slate, there's no greater pleasure than the feeling of the countless infants being smelted down inside. Their soft, squishy flesh is reduced to white, sticky nut sludge, and their bones are left to collect by the million inside. It's an ecstasy beyond words, and though his ball snacks may disagree, as far as he's concerned, it's worth every young life mulched down to feed him.

GRWWWWWLLLLLL

Though he has more than just his oversized nuts to feed. The occasional hunger pang does strike him, and for that, he's never ill prepared.

The feline leans over to grip a small, translucent tube that dangles from the ceiling. He puts it to his maw and closes his eyes.

GLK ULP GLP GLRRRRGGGGG

The stretchy material expands drastically as a dozen infants pour down to satiate the gluttonous pred. Their frail little bodies slide through and land squarely in Slate's gullet. He swallows them down without difficulty or hesitation until his belly has bloated with his live meal.

UUUUUUUUURRRRRPH

And with that, he lets out a hefty belch and lets go of his feeding tube.

Slate leans back on his own giant nuts and kicks up his feet to nestle comfortably between his giant shaft and his squirming gut. Utterly contented, he allows himself to simply relax and enjoy the pleasurable sensations of ending countless lives before they even truly begin.

The factory is a cruel slaughterhouse for countless. It's true paradise for one.

Not more than a few feet from the central chamber, the mass of densely packed breeding stock begins. Women of all ages old enough to bear young are strapped in tightly. Each is held tightly in place by firm restraints. Most are simply bound to the production racks at the ankles and wrists. The more unruly of them have chains attached to the nubs where their limbs used to be.

Tubes hook into their bodies all over. A strict drug regimen is pumped directly into their bloodstreams of growth hormones, fertility enhancers, and lactation stimulants. Though their ability to disrupt production is next to none, those who try are also given some more targeted drugs that reduce their brain functions and encourage complicity.

From their breasts, mechanical pumps forcefully extract their breast milk. The substance is pumped away to holding tanks scattered throughout the compound, to be sold for profits to fuel the factory further or mixed in with their feed for additional calories.

Every woman in the factory is either pregnant or forcibly becoming such. Whenever one of them reaches term and births their young to be fed to Slate, a machine automatically penetrates them and pumps them full of Slate's own baby batter to ensure they're always producing more.

The women vary in their age, their temperament, and in how thoroughly they've been broken in. There's a certain life cycle to the breeders held throughout the facility. Those farther along have larger bellies, bearing more babies at a time and producing more milk. Large portions of them have atrophied from inactivity, while their breasts and reproductive organs are far better maintained.

Eventually, through erosion of age and continuous pregnancies, no dosage of fertility enhancers and other drugs can enable them to become pregnant once again. Their wombs are entirely used up, and their fertility runs dry. To waste nothing of them, fully used brood mothers are ejected from their restraints onto the line, where they'll join their young in melting down for Slate's pleasure.

A mile from the central chamber yet still within the cold, imposing walls, deep in the ever-turning factory, one such used up mother is released from her restraints. She's only in her early forties but well and truly spent already. Her atrophied limbs can't even hold her up as she slides along the conveyor, nestled between dozens of newborns. She made it to an older age than most.

The fully depleted breeding stock is rolled along with the stream of fresh infants and paraded past the still producing mothers as a grim reminder of their ultimate fate when they can no longer offer any offspring in their stead. She's far from an uncommon sight.

In her place, a new woman is slotted in.

Her name was Mary, but it's a name she'll never hear again. She's a vixen with silky silver fur and tears in her eyes. She's been stripped of her clothes along with her dignity and freedom like all the others, and she's currently eight months pregnant.

She's already bound up. An overhead rail slides her along and lowers her into place fully automatically. Her bondage slots into place, upright but leaned back against the rack, and immediately numerous tubes coil out to plug themselves into her. The cold grip of the factory has her tight in its clutches now, and it will never let go. Not until there's nothing left of her.

The vixen squirms in her restraints when the probing tubes attach themselves, but she doesn't fight for long. She's already exhausted herself struggling on the way in, and by now is forced to merely accept that any resistance is futile.

Tears steam down her face, but even her sobs are stripped away from her. A violating tube finds her maw and forces its way inside. It's where the ground up nutrient paste she'll be eating for the rest of her life will come from, though for now it serves simply to silence her and keep her compliant.

To her left and right, two skunks are bound as well. She can only glance at them through the corner of her eye, but right away she can tell they must be related. They look near identical.

Mary's pregnancy bulge is sizeable, but both of the twins, despite being noticeably younger than her, easily dwarf her in the scale of their own pregnancies. 

Their enormous bellies hang heavy in front of them and cast shadows over the line of infants rolling past where they loom silently. They're never quite still with the unborn cubs kicking inside. Their combined volume would easily fill a bathtub with more than a little to spare.

The grotesque size of their forced pregnancies is not the most horrifying part to the newly installed fox, however. What truly mortifies her is their constant births. While initially, she'd assumed they'd take many long months between babies as is the norm, she grows sick when the twin to her right births two little cubs only a few minutes apart.

SCHLRRK URK SPLRGH

With hardly any strain, a newborn skunk slides out and plops unceremoniously onto the conveyor to be carried away with all the others. A small mechanical apparatus slides in to instantly sever the umbilical cord, and from there the infant simply rolls on down the line.

The skunk twins have sunken-in eyes and utterly blank expressions that only change to express clear grief and anguish when they're forced to birth another sacrifice to Slate's insatiable balls. Each time they do, an insemination tube inserts itself afterward to fill them back up and ensure they're always in full production with as many babies as their extreme drug regimen will make their bodies handle.

Mary sobs around the tube in her throat. Her mind can't help but wander back to her home, where she was forcibly taken away. It's hard to say what troubles her more in this moment: the thought of the home she'll never see again or the hard suction pumping milk forcibly from her breasts.

It'd been a calm day like any other when she was taken from her home. She spent what would come to be her final months of freedom slowly putting her life back together after an unexpected pregnancy with her lover turned fiance. They'd finally pieced things back into the promise of a happy future for them and the child they were to have.

Her pregnancy, however, had brought unwanted attention. She had proven her fertility, and that was enough to make her a target for the factory. Just one of their plain clothes scouts had pinged her as a potential asset. The next day would be her last as a free woman.

"I never really thought I'd be raising a family," she said as she picked at the salmon she'd been craving, "but, with you.. I can't think of anything I'd like more."

"I mean, you make do with what you get, but I think I've been dealt a pretty good hand," replied her lover fondly.

"Could you pass the s-" the fox stopped mid-sentence when she heard a knock on the door.

"I'll get it," her fiance slid the salt shaker across the table while he got to his feet.

No kind visitor or inquisitive neighbor was waiting for him at the door. As soon as it opened, two men shouldered their way in and pushed him aside.

They closed in on Mary without a word. Everything happened so quickly.

There was nothing either of them could do. The aggressors were each far stronger than either of them. Mary had no chance to resist.

Her lover made some vain attempt to intervene, but in just a few seconds, the vixen was ripped from her home and shoved in the back of a van. It sped away, and there was nothing more to be done.

Mary spent the rest of the trip packed in with several others like her, all somber and collectively mourning the lives they'd just been parted from by force.

Days later, a steady convoy still trickles into the factory. Trucks and prison busses shuttle in one by one, as do plenty of vans identical to the one Mary had been abducted in.

Some of the vehicles carry new prisoners. Some simply bring industrial supplies: lubricant for the machines, feed for the breeders, and endless metal, brick, and mortar for expanding the facility ever further. Plenty of them carry a mix of both. They're all unloaded just the same. There's no difference as far as the factory is concerned.

It's many miles inward through winding tubes and conveyors and more women than the entire population of some entire sovereign nations to where Mary has been hooked up.

The fox wretches and sobs still, but her tears  have gradually begun to dry up. Over the past few days, it's only become harder to cry. Maybe she's shed all the tears she has. Maybe something vile inside of her has stirred and no longer wishes to cry.

Today is a reprieve from the mixed feelings, however, and a cruel plunge back into despair. Today, she's giving birth.

She had another month, give or take, before she was due. But despite her stay thus far being less than a week, the strict pregnancy enhancing drug regimen delivered directly to her veins has drastically expedited the process.

Mary makes a muffled wail into the tube probing her throat. The folds of her sex bulge and open as the cranium of an innocent little kit starts to appear and poke through.

The strenuous and painful process of birth is enough to bring near anyone to screams and tears. The horrifying thought of her own newborn being carried away on an assembly line, just to feed someone she's never met, however, is far worse.

She can't stop herself from going into labor. It simply isn't possible, especially not with all the substances flooding her body tailor made to induce it.

Mary is given sympathetic glances through the empty eyes of those plugged in around her. Fellow breeding stock are roused from a dazed apathy to a brief compassion as they witness the fox's first birth at the factory. For a moment, perhaps they remember their own lives that they were to have with the families they were to start before they'd been taken.

SCHLRRK

The infant comes into full view. Its high-pitched wails are unmuffled. The sound should fill her heart with love and joy, but instead it brings only grief and anguish. She begins to lactate intensely from the sound, however, and the pumps attached to her breasts don't waste the opportunity to harvest a greater yield.

SLUNK SNIP

Mary's kit falls onto the conveyor. The instant it's fully escaped her, its umbilical is sheared by the swift arm of a mechanism that Mary can't even see from where she's situated.

The would-be mother thrashes and flails in her restraints as she watches the newborn kit slide away down the line mixed in with hundreds of others. Her one desire to reach her child and rescue it from this hellish place is thwarted entirely by her bindings, and on the whole her body barely flexes in its tight confinement.

Her cries grow loud despite the muffling tube. Long, wet streaks stain the fur of her cheeks. Her last glimpse of her firstborn is the blurry sight through tears of the baby rounding a corner on the conveyor and being carried from view.

By the time her eyes are dry enough that Mary can see so clearly as to make out fine details, the flash of sympathy in the eyes of what peers are strapped in nearby has long faded. Even if she'd seen it, it'd be obvious from the brevity how broken the spirits of these women are. They express anguish during their forced births and little else.

The haunting expressions trouble her mind. She doesn't want to believe she'll be like them one day. It's hard to deny the notion.

The next month, she's wishing she were so empty and cold. The vixen wishes she could be a normal, rational soul and be broken and hollow like the others. Instead, she's found herself struggling not to give into her role entirely and bask in the cruel process of baking up babies to feed to the factory's beneficiary.

Those around her don't pay her or anything else much mind, and they wouldn't be able to act on anything they noticed if they did. To an observer who isn't so numb and apathetic, however, it becomes more and more obvious how much Mary is enjoying herself, despite her own moral judgements.

The fox orgasms hard whenever the thick tube probes inside her to inseminate her once again. It happens every time the system has deemed her womb to have less developing babies than the max it can hold, and rather than cry into the feeding tube, she moans into it and nods her head a bit as if to suck on it in her blind lust.

Her capacity has increased drastically. She's become quite the lively producer, and though she isn't as big as some of the truly grotesquely pregnant women around her just yet, her womb capacity is up to five babies at a time.

She bucks her hips at the air occasionally when she gets particularly needy. The thought of the babies she's making churning down and being smelted into bones and spunk always gets her going, and more than escape, she wishes she could move just so she could masturbate and not rely on the occasional insemination to get her off.

A larger part of her is glad to be restrained. She can't stop it from happening. She can't leave. And surely that makes it okay. The stark guilt that threatens her is kept at bay by her own lack of agency. Where she is now, she'll never have to confront it.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT

She's disturbed from her thoughts by the sharp hum of a buzzer. She looks over to see that one of the skunks beside her has a belly smaller than usual- much smaller- and no amount of forceful insemination is making it begin to grow again with more children. Barely a trickle of milk streams from her breasts.

Each birth leaves the twin more empty than before.

Throughout the day, a routine begins to form of the insemination tube forcing itself inside of her and pumping her full. Then after a moment, there's a loud buzzer, presumably when the machine detects the failure to conceive another child.

It might not be the end of the day when the skunk becomes completely empty. It's impossible to tell what time it is, and none of the women in the long row along the production line can clearly remember the sky.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT

Regardless, one last buzzer sounds with the twin now entirely empty with a flat belly that looks unnatural to Mary after all this time with herself and those around her so excessively pregnant.

The restraints across the skunk's body release, and the tubes and IVs hooked up all over her finally retract. None of the factory's breeding stock are clothed, but she looks especially naked to the vixen without the machine latched onto her.

For a moment, Mary wonders if she'll be released now that she's no longer fertile. It's a laughable thought, really. She should know by now that all the adult women who'd rolled by weren't troublesome or dissenting; they were simply run dry. 

The skunk is simply ejected forward onto the conveyor with all the infants. She'll go to the same place.

Her atrophied limbs can't even lift her weight, much less carry her off the conveyor. She has no will to save herself regardless. She rounds the corner and simply disappears to be fed to Slate somewhere off in the distance. This is the eventual fate of every woman ensnared in the factory.

The remaining twin cries out in horror and grief. She's roused from her tormented daze only by the loss of the one thing she still had. They'd been abducted together. The twins had endured endless torment and forced pregnancies together. Now the one who remains is forced to not only part with her sister and endure alone but recognize that it won't be long before she meets the same fate.

The horrible sight and atmosphere of grief should be humbling to the depraved fox, but instead it's only a further thrill. Her own young given up to this cruel place, and eventually when it's wrung every last birth from her, it will take her body as well. The thought makes her a little dizzy. 

Her legs tremble in their small amount of wiggle room, and she nearly climaxes as she enters labor again. This is her one purpose, the only thing she's still alive for, and it couldn't arouse her more.

Slate meanwhile hasn't budged from his position at the center of the factory, though on his end, it's entirely voluntary. For the gluttonous, sadistic pred, there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

GLRRRRG GLORP SLOSH

His massive, swollen balls have only grown and continue to grow evermore. The giant pit carved into the ground where his nuts remain is starting to reach its maximum capacity, and careful excavation is ongoing through every inch of it to make more space. Specialized tools with laser precision carve away the stone and push back the walls to ensure the pred can comfortably grow ever further. The only conveyor line in the facility not dedicated to feeding him newborn infants is carrying away excavated materials to make room for him to swallow more.

In every way, the factory is always expanding, and to Slate, this comes with the simple matter of increased production and heightened pleasure. His constant indulgence of innocent lives only grows and grows steadily. He isn't one to tire of stuffing people down his cock, but the consistent increase doubly ensures he'll never grapple with diminishing returns.

Down the line comes the discarded husk of a teen skunk with her ovaries fully used up. Where Slate lounges on his nuts, he barely notices her coming down the conveyor. She amounts to a sharp peak in his constant drone of pleasured moans and huffs at the extra large snack sliding into his sack.

Then she's gone, lost to smelt down in Slate's balls with all the infants the pregnancy mill produces.

Awash in pleasure, Slate leans forward and begins to stroke his shaft, at least as much of it as he can reach. His hands only cover a tiny portion of his enormous intake chute, but it's regardless far more stimulating than masturbation with a more proportional member could ever be.

The pred loses himself in the rhythmic motions and accompanying pulsing pleasure. Gentle, wide strokes of his hands overwhelm his senses in all the best ways, accompanied by the incredible fullness of his gargantuan balls, packed to the brim with bones and jizz.

PLAP RUB PAT

He leans into it further. His own stimulation combines with the constant flow of befuddled newborns into his waiting urethra into a total sensation that overtakes his whole world. This profound bliss grows and grows as he continually strokes himself, and it mounts with a slow, yet unstoppable intensity akin to glacial might.

RUB PLAT RUB

The uneven noise of moving machinery around him and continuous fluid noises of sloshing and gurgling nut sludge from within rings loud in Slate's ears, but there are occasional lulls in all the sounds. Small low points where the turning of pistons and churning of people hit simultaneous pauses in winding up for another mechanical hiss or wet splash.

In these brief moments of relative quiet, another droning sound is able to make itself heard for only a split second. Screaming, wailing, crying, sobbing. The sound of an amount of innocent lives Slate couldn't bother to count calling out in anguish as they melt down inside of him to satiate his lust and hunger. Their protests are heard, but far from heeded. The occasional moments of wailing infants and a few screaming, used up breeders audible within spur Slate on and get him ever more drunk on his own sadistic vices.

PLAP PLAT RUB

He lets his tongue hang loose out of his open maw as his eyes fog slightly with the intense feeling. For a moment, deep within the swirling pleasures and cruel delights in his mind, Slate no longer sees the industrial equipment in front of him or hears the constant workings around him. His world stands still as he is consumed and enveloped wholly by the pleasure he's slaughtered so many to bring himself.

PLAT RUB RUB

And in the next moment he snaps out of it. He hasn't broken pace with his heavenly strokes of his shaft, though he's only now becoming again aware of the motion of his own hands. The feline is tantalizing close now, and a twitch of his cock as he approaches climax signals this to the machinery around him.

A small barrier flips up at the end of the line at the same time that a bar raises the tip of his cock up a few feet and a tube positions itself at his urethra for collection.

SPLRRRRRT

Slate shoots an enormous load of spunk into the tube, though his growing collection of bones remains undisturbed within his balls. The nut sludge is carried off to a holding tank, where it will be used in the insemination process. So much jizz is ejaculated inside so quickly that the translucent tubing bloats slightly and groans with the strain of holding it all in.

This much will last the entire factory over a full day of operations. With Slate's own continuous enjoyment of his situation, there will never be a shortage.

The pred himself, however, is hardly paying any of this his mind. Instead, he simply lounges, still leaned forward over his own cock. The intensity of the orgasm floods through his body and washes over his mind like a tidal wave. It takes several long seconds for him to fully recover his own mental faculties from his climax.

SCHLRRRK GLRK

Before those seconds are even up, however, everything has been set back into place. The barrier has been removed once more, and the brief build up of newborn babies that'd come down the line during the interruption all enter the feline's shaft at once.

The larger, denser cluster of writhing young prey slipping into his urethra and taking the plunge into his balls all at once to resume the flow of infants is more than enough to immediately spur Slate back to arousal. He leans back, stretches his arms, and basks in it.

GLRRRGGGGLE SLOSH SLRRRSH

He's content to enjoy the sensations of senseless devastation for now, though he'll no doubt be so aroused as to start masturbating again soon enough. 

There must be no one so satisfied in life, not from riches or power or fame, and in this position, Slate has plenty of those as well. This is the life Slate leads, and it's all he could ever ask for.

Days drone on in homogeneous lust and exploitation. It's been an amount of time now that still bound Mary couldn't possibly count, even if she could see the Sun.

It's been months at least, though even that estimate she's barely confident in. It's a thought that scarcely crosses her mind these days, however.

The vixen is chained now by the stubs where her limbs have been forcefully amputated. Countless of the factory's breeding stock have received this treatment, but unlike most, Mary hasn't received it due to any attempt at resistance.

SHLRRRK SLOP

Her body groans and spasms as she births another newborn kit onto the line. Her grotesquely bloated abdomen is supported by a metal support structure to keep it from sagging so low it obstructs the conveyor. Her amputations are merely a measure to make restraining her easier without constricting the growth of her obscenely pregnant midsection.

Her ballooned out belly bulge squirms and writhes with the kicking unborn within. It's easily over a dozen gestating at any given time, and they grow so quickly now she can at times feel them expand against the walls of her womb.

Her overwhelming pregnancy is larger than the mass of the entire rest of her body, and would be even if she still had limbs. She's taken the fertility enhancing drug regimen extremely well, both physically and mentally. She's the very model of an ideal birther, and this she couldn't be more deeply aroused over.

Behind her dull, spaced out eyes is a warm stare devoid of life but ripe with pleasure. Moans and slurred half phrases of sexual indulgence sputter out into the feeding tube over her lulling tongue with each convulsion of her body and each newborn ejected onto the line. 

Each labor and subsequent reimpregnation drives her further mad with lust, and she frequently orgasms and gushes moisture over the conveyor as it steadily rolls past.

The enamored vixen hasn't even noticed that the second of the skunk twins had been unceremoniously ejected and replaced some time prior. She doesn't even consider that she'll be long gone before her newly abducted neighbors see the same fate. It'd only make her hornier if she did anyway.

These days will be what she eventually considers the peak of her life. They are the pinnacle of her production with her womb the largest and most full it will ever be and her repeat impregnations the most frequent.

Time marches ever forward as the factory churns on. By the next year, Mary has undeniably faltered.

Time does not grace the flesh as is does cold steel. While the factory's hum is steady as ever, the vixen has had her body and production capacity diminished. Her pregnant belly is a fairly small bulge with only one or two kits within at a time. The pumps hooked to her breasts are only able to squeeze a trickle of milk from her.

She still moans and rolls back her eyes in feral, decadent pleasure with each birth, but the time between only grows. It's all too clear that she's running dry.

"M-More..." for the first time in over a year, Mary makes an attempt to speak.

She lets out a pathetic murmur into the feeding tube still firmly in her maw, "More drugs, for... babies..."

Her slurred, muffled pleas go unheard by the fully automated systems around her. She's entirely unaware of the reality that she's already on the highest dosage possible without near certainly killing her via overdose.

She's maxed out, and her womb cannot keep up.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT

A loud buzzer startles her from her empty-headed bliss as the insemination tube probes inside her. It takes her a moment to realize that this time, the buzzer hums for her.

The dosage she's on, the most intensive fertility enhancing regimen possible, is not enough.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT

Another attempt at impregnation fails. Mary has never felt so empty. Her once enormous belly is now a flat flap of skin, stretched yet deflated.

She can't understand why they can't give her more drugs, so she can make more babies. More for Slate's balls. She won't get the chance to piece it together.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT

With one last blaring buzz, her restraints suddenly release themselves all at once and eject her onto the line. Mary feels naked with the needles removed from her bloodstream and the chains from the stubs where limbs once were.

She drops down with all the infants that are crying and being carried off to their undue end. Her only thought is that she wishes she could masturbate as she processes where she's going and what fate she is sure to meet.

Fur and scales and feathers of all colors become blots against the harsh greys of machinery and industrial architecture in Mary's blurry vision. They roll past slowly in an endless, stationary march.

The conveyor winds and turns again and again as it moves along. Not an inch of space is spared in the tightly packed rows of women reduced to breeding stock. They vary in the size of their pregnant bellies, but all are visibly expecting to some degree. Some are nearly as large as she herself was in her prime. Some have fairly normal baby bumps and are likely first time mothers about to lose their firstborns.

Her racing heart is given time to steady itself just slightly. She's far from the outskirts of the facility, but even farther from the central chamber that is her destination. It's miles either way. 

At this modest pace, she has a bit of time to think, but any coherent thoughts have long left her behind in her exploitation. The hour or so of gradually rolling along with all the infants being produced that is all she has left to contemplate her fleeting life is wasted away with only arousal at her predicament filling her head.

Uncountable faces pass that she barely registers. Most of them barely register her. Those that do are mostly fresher breeding stock not yet fully broken in, who are left with a grim realization upon seeing her slide along.

But her journey soon comes to an unceremonious end.

Miles from where she'd been initially plugged in, she finally arrives at the central chamber. Her eyes are barely able to focus to take in the majesty before her: the decadent monolith of soft grey fur covering monumental orbs with the lustful pred on top. This is where all her sacrifice has led her: to the urethra of a particularly horny pred with the keys to the world.

SCHLRRRK GLORP SLOSH

The fox's body disappears into the tip of his shaft between a dozen infants and becomes only a small bulge barely noticeable under all his girth. 

Her life amounts to a good moan from Slate and nothing more. He doesn't even glance down at her to see what she looks like as she slides in. He doesn't care who's going down his shaft, really. The little spike in pleasure is all that matters.

SLRRRSH GRUMBLE GROOOAN SLORSH GURRRGGGLE

The continually satisfied pred doesn't pay any mind to Mary being smelted into more bones for his ever-growing collection. He simply reclines on his own testicles, moans, and soaks in the feeling.

His balls are stretching out more by the second. They have been for many years and will be for many more. This he knows well, and this alone makes the clamorous facility his own personal paradise.

"The life~" he comments simply as he leans over for his feeding tube.

GLK GULP ULP GWRRRRGGG

He snacks on a deluge of excess infants to satisfy the hunger of his stomach while his nuts get the lion's share. His gut bulges out to be comparable in size and contents to some of the more burdened breeders in the facility. His balls meanwhile are downright mountainous.

An area most comparable to a quarry has been carved out for his orbs to sit in, and the crater is still being excavated by the day. More and more elaborate support structures for if not outright demolition and replacement of portions of the facility are carried out in the process, and many of the world's brightest engineers work round the clock to ensure the expansion can keep up with Slate's growth while the pred simply lounges and enjoys the sensations.

Amidst the mingled mechanical and organic churning sounds filling the busy air around him, Slate lounges in complete pleasure and satisfaction. One arm reaches down to lightly stimulate his cock while the other slips behind his neck to rest his head on.

And as Slate remains still and pleasured, the factory moves ever forward. Expansion will continue.