[b][center]On The Job at the Bull Milkery[/center][/b]

[center]By Kaydrien Iceclaw[/center]



Working at the milking facility has its ups and down. You like the job itself. Good benefits, even dental. You like your coworkers. On the other hand, it gets you called a fag in your off hours. Or ‘animal-fucker’.

Not that they’re [i]wrong[/i]. It’s just presumptuous as hell when they start with the name-calling before you can out yourself by gushing over the gorgeous beasts you get to work with. 

Walking past the rows of stalls toward your first assignment, several of those gorgeous beasts are on display. Your eyes linger on muscular haunches that gleam in the electric light. Some of the feral bulls swing their tails upward as you pass, sure as hell on purpose, to give you a glimpse of their puckers and taints over the pen doors. 

A few of your coworkers are lobbying to get clear or mesh doors for those stalls so you can see everything. The only thing keeping your signature off the petition so far is that, if it goes through, you just know that workplace accidents will triple. Nobody will be looking where they’re going.

The smell is a bad enough distraction all on its own. Just walking into the building assaults anyone with the rank smell of hundreds of feral males despite the strong ventilation system. Canine workers have been known to come in early for the sole purpose of drinking in that sour musk with their powerful noses, bringing an extra pair of underwear to change into when the olfactory climax breaks them out of their spell.

It’s not just bull musk either. Non-bovines make up a sizeable minority of your ‘producers’, in fact, letting you supply specialty products. You mostly get the bulls (an arrangement you find entirely acceptable), but there are several dozen stallions, some big cats, and an assortment of other miscellaneous creatures to provide variety. Your workplace even boasts a couple of dragons as frequent volunteers. 

Almost nobody likes working with those guys. Their product sells for a pretty penny, but both of the regulars are stereotypical, arrogant, scaly asshats. The requisite ego stroking is a chore disproportionate to their genuine sexiness.

Too soon, and at the same time not nearly soon enough, the sightseeing tour ends when you come to stall number 86. This is your first assignment of the day, and the white speckling on the left flank tells you it’s going to be a good one. You know this bull. You think of him as Lil’ Speckle.

He greets you with a low moo, tail flicking, as you pull open the door and slip in. Speckle pushes back into the pat you affectionately give his rump. All of the animals you’ve ever met have enjoyed your visits, but Speckle is a real sweety. You give him the extra scritchies he loves so much, working up his back to end with a thorough massage behind the massive beast’s ears. 

He licks back at you, pressing into your chest. For some of the bulls that movement could impale you on sharp horns but Speckle’s are dinky, and further rounded off because everyone knows his tendency to nuzzle. The enthusiastic nudge to your sternum topples you into the side of the stall and drags his tongue over your face, leaving you sticky and laughing. 

You give him another friendly pat to reassure him you’ll be getting started right away, the big goof. Stepping back around you kneel by his back legs, extending one arm to get a handful of his meaty, furry, sweaty taint. With a moo, he leans back into that slightly as your hand trails down. You have to let go, pulling back and then reaching in again on the inside of his leg to get to his low-hanging balls.

There’s a reason you call him ‘Lil’’ Speckle. His nuts might be reasonable on you or one of your coworkers, but on a bull- if you can even call Speckle a proper bull with a straight face- the little things are ridiculous. You fondle them lovingly all the same. Even if this wasn’t your job, you find the walnut-sized gonads adorable on this gentle giant. 

You start in on his sheath with your other hand, massaging the tube. The flesh squishes enticingly under your loving grip. And soon, as is the point of the exercise, you feel the sheath’s contents firm up, Speckle obligingly growing erect from your attention.

At full hardness his cock isn’t any more impressive than his nutsack. Speckle barely extends beyond the outside of his own sheath, without enough of a manhood to mount anyone or anything without careful positioning. It’s why he sticks out to you: Of all the animals you work with here he has the least length.

He [i]might[/i] not be the smallest feral at the facility. Some of the cats are pretty damn small, and he’s not the only underachiever among the hoofers. If you count the length that’s always hidden away in his sheath he’s probably bigger than at least some of them. But if you go strictly by cockflesh that sees the light of day, he is in absolute last place for bulls, felines, stallions, everything.

You duck in to close your lips around it, sneaking a taste of Speckle’s dinky malehood. Strictly against company policy, but everyone does it. You don’t apply for this job if you aren’t fascinated by feral males. And the manager, bless him, knows it. You can even get the occasional bellyful or bestial fucking after hours, and if you make a token effort at [i]pretending[/i] to be discrete, he’ll carefully notice nothing. Probably because he’s taking a mouthful of bull cock on the regular too.

The first gush of salty, delicious pre wakes you out of your reverie. It’s a generous spurt of clear stickiness, and you pull away to swallow with relish. Time to get to work then.

Reaching over to grab the milking machine from where you set it on your way in, you screw the special nozzle needed for the least impressively endowed livestock onto the intake feed. Speckle’s oozing slowly onto the straw of the floor- a waste, but you found out the hard way that assembling the milker by touch while you kept suckling was beyond your abilities.

Really, you ought to set it up before getting started, but you keep forgetting in your eagerness to work over your charges. They’re just so masculine, so desirable.

Speckle is at least desirable.

You manhandle the nozzle cup onto his tip. His first sign of any restiveness is an uncomfortable shifting when you pull open his sheath to seat the intake properly. It bulges out his furry package further than his dick ever does. You can never tell whether he finds that uncomfortable, only obliging because he knows what’s coming next; or enjoyable, sheath finally getting the filling it deserves by right of species. Either way he’s so small it won’t seat properly on his small shaft otherwise.

A flick of the switch on the milker sets the pump mechanism to a hydraulic whirr, metamorphosing into a roaring hum as the air in the tube is replaced by Speckle’s steady stream of precum, which begins to drip into the collection tank. His exhalation is a throaty sigh of satisfaction.

You pat his side, standing up to walk back to the ‘ass-end’ of the stall. For a lot of the males- the bigger ones- this is where the job usually ends. Waiting for them to unload into the milking machine. A joy to watch, and they love it. Maybe stroke at any exposed skin, feel their balls twitch, enjoy the tactile sensation of their genitals as the ‘milk’ flows through them.

But the little nozzle, the one for the underendowed, doesn’t have the fancy, soft, slick, vibrating and mechanically squeezing features of the usual milking extension. It’s too difficult to get the tech into something that won’t fall off the little guys. So, without the benefit of the glorified high-tech sex toy, the smaller males need a little extra stimulation.

You could do this with the approved, company-provided palpation device. (AKA the official giant dildo.) Or, for the difficult cases, the electrostimulation device. (Read: the kinky cattle prod.) And later today, you will. Probably on some of the bulls that don’t strictly need it, too, because why the hell not? It’s just as good a way to get them erect as a good grope, or push them way over the top.

Right now, it’s the first milking of the day, and your pants started to get tight around the time Speckle’s laughable maleness showed itself. You can do better than a plastic replica.

So you lean over the stall door to snatch the stool off the equipment cart instead, setting it directly behind the panting bull. He shuffles back a fraction of an inch while you step onto the stool, fully aware of what you intend to do. Chuckling, you spit onto your right hand and smear the gobbet of saliva under his tail, onto the bovine asshole. You repeat the action, then work two fingers into the sphincter, which twitches in anticipation around your digits. 

While easing in a third, you fumble at your pants with your left hand. By the time your slacks fall down around your ankles, you’re vigorously fingerfucking the eager bovine. All of them love this. If not immediately, then after they’ve experienced it a few times. From what you’ve seen, ‘experienced it a few times’ usually means ‘halfway through the first time, they’re hooked’. Any allegations that some of the producers here can only get hard from something in their ass anymore are pure slander. Or at least, irrelevant to the business.

You’re packing more than most people. A hell of a lot more than Speckle is. The shaft is easily ten and a half inches long, not much shy of two wide. Outsizing your biggest coworker by an inch and a half, this monster has never given you reason to complain. You should pull him aside in the break room later, let him slaver all over it like the stallion you caught him suckling your first week.

You slap that length against Speckle’s backside, drawing an eager, dare you say sluttish, lowing out of the barely-qualified bull.  And then do it a few more times, just to savor how the meaty [i]thwack[/i]s sound. Bulky bodies shifting in nearby stalls tell you you aren’t the only one turned on by that, and you fancy some of them might be out of their sheaths by the time you get to them. 

The fingers of your right hand are squeezed hard by the needy Speckle, and you chuckle, pulling them out to watch him contract around empty air for a dozen heartbeats before you thrust your hips forward to fill that cavernous orifice again.

He’s tighter than you’d have thought, before getting your job here. Tight for such a large animal, and an ass-slut on top of that. Then again, most holes are tight on your raging erection. 

You don’t bother to take your time. Last time you tried, Speckle lost patience and shoved backward hard enough to send you toppling. Which didn’t get either of you what you wanted, since you were on your ass on the floor instead of deep in his. 

It’s one hard dive into his bovine butt, ramming halfway through the motion into a bulging lump in his rectum wall that gives partially under the invading hard-on, but ultimately forces your maleness upward to grind against it. His ecstatic vocalization at that is filled with animal joy, anus tightening around you. Glancing down at the milking machine, you see the first streaks of white traveling through the collecting tube. You’ve hit his prostate.

Someone outside this business would probably wonder why an underendowed sissy like Speckle is tolerated here. You collect jizz for a living, so surely the tiny balls on him and some of the others would be a detriment? They don’t understand that most of the volume comes from organs inside, from prostate and seminal vesicles, not balls. Balls only make the swimmers. Which is why every feral male here is given treatments to make those internal glands swell large and productive, for volume.

Speckle, and others like him, are the source of your certified 2% ‘milk’. 

And that’s why, right now, you have a downright sissy of a feral bull wrapped around your dick, and if anyone sees you fucking him you’ll only get praised for your enthusiasm in pumping him dry. You thrust hard and steadily into the blissed-out bovine, every hilting pumping another gush of cum into the sucking machine. 

He’s hot and tight enough to make this heavenly, loose and slick enough for you to keep going for ages. The first ‘assisted’ milking of the day is always an awesome experience. You slam and thrust and hump, periodically changing your angle to coax a little more cum out each time. That anus, the hole that, in the past, you’ve fisted when the urge to just punch the cum out of him hit, welcomes you on the in-thrust and on the way out drags against your cock to beg it to stay.

The heat and friction build slowly and inexorably, sending you higher and higher into pure raunchy pleasure. Finally, you can’t hold it back any more and your own internals start to pump your load out into Speckle. You can only force yourself on for half a dozen more thrusts before the sensitivity overwhelms you and you can only wrench your hips to put you as deep as possible, spurting against his monstrous prostate.

Sensitive organ that it is, it reacts to that by twitching to life against your oversensitive cock. Your cum is the last straw in drawing out this anal whore’s load, and he tightens and spasms around you until you see stars, both of you moaning at the maximum volume allowed by your respective lungs.

When that’s over, you nuzzle against his back before gingerly pulling out. The motion sends little flares of sensation over your tender organ, still spurting the last of your own load as you clear his tailhole. A miniature torrent of your cum pours out after you, spilling down to splatter against the stool you’ve been standing on.

You and a few buddies might have swiped a bit of the hormones they use to augment the bulls’ production, once upon a time. The bulls seem to approve.

Speaking of, you look down to see the two-gallon tank of the milker reaching the three-quarters mark, and counting. Speckle in particular can take a while to finish cumming, because he can only force so much volume out of his little pricklet at a time. You lean against the stall wall to watch it fill up, glancing now and again at the still-dazed bull who’s leaking your load out onto the ground. 

To your surprise the tank reaches capacity, and, on running out of storage space, the suction cuts off. Your eyes widen, watching his sheath swell with his continued ejaculation for another five breaths before the pressure forces the nozzle off his cock (or, more relevant, out of his sheath) with a lively [i]pop[/i], leaving the remainder of his cumshot to join yours on the ground.

Huh. He’s getting more productive. You’ll have to bring a three-gallon collecting tank next time.

You pat the still-dribbling Speckle on the side, praising him for a job well done, before hauling the heavy tank of jizz onto your utility cart and consulting your day’s schedule.

Several steers up next, to milk for their water-clear ‘skim’. You’ll need the official dildo for them. Odds are you’ll be ready for another go yourself before you get through all of them. And after that, it’s on to heavy cream. Perfect. Just in time to spend your break laid back in one of [i]those[/i] bulls’ bean bags, for comfort.

All this and you get paid, too.



[center]The End[/center]