FSE

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It is Francis' first night in The Maetis Breeding Facility. He waits in a lobby wearing something similar to a hospital gown; Francis had been vigorously showered, dried and prepared once he signed in, and now on his very first night, he is to be bred.

The Maetis Breeding Facility is open to college graduates between the ages of 20 and 35, and offers room and board, as well as handsome payment, to those who are willing to act as vessels for the young of the more interesting populations of society.

Francis has not been told who, precisely, he is waiting for. He merely knows that the lobby is broad and high-ceilinged, that the floor is lightly padded, and that he's going to be fucked silly.

Francis, despite his nerves, is excited.

He waits in the middle of the room on the singular piece of furniture, a table in the middle of the room that is fastened down to the ground with bolts. Just the sight of those little fastenings had sent a shiver up Francis' spine - what would require, after all, a table to be bolted down?

There's a quiet noise as the door opens, and Francis turns to look. The man before him is six feet tall, though his antennae give him a further half-foot of height. He has large, round, black eyes and a set of dark mandibles around his lipless mouth, yellow and black fur covering his body and his four, thin arms.

"Hi," Francis says. The bee stares at him, tilting his head marginally to the side.

"Remove your gown," the bee says, his voice a quiet, resonant chitter. Francis does, his paws shaking slightly as he pulls it off and hands it over. His own burnished, copper-brown fur is fluffy from being dried so quickly after the shower he'd been put under coming in, and he feels the coldness of the room on him. "A fox," the bee says. "Interesting." He moves back to the door, folding the gown in his hands, and Francis stares at the thick, shiny wings on his back.

When he returns, it's with five other bees, and Francis looks between them all. Breathing in and out, he asks in a quavering voice, "So, uh, what now?" One of them comes forwards, grasps Francis by the hips, turns him around, and bends him suddenly over the table, chest pressed against the surface. "Oh, God," Francis whispers.

Bent over the table, his tail bushy and resting against his lower back, Francis' prepared entrance is open and slightly cold in the air of the wide, high-ceilinged room. One of them thumbs over the slick, open flesh of his open tailhole. The nurses that had washed him had been clinical in shampooing his fur and drawing their hairdryer over his fur, but with his backside they'd truly taken their time; two of them cooed over how open and pink he was, and Francis had all but crumpled in embarrassment.

Now, with one of these bees touching him, Francis has to force himself to breathe in slowly, evenly.

He wonders how many of the inmates at the Maetis Breeding Facility are here for the money, and how many are here for the same reasons he is - he just wants to be fucked, wants to be paid for getting fucked, and God, he knows it's filthy, but he's brought himself off so many times looking in those magazines.

These are the magazines so filthy that even in the porn section, they're right in the corner, hidden underneath this month's issue of Buxom Babes Love Balloons, the magazines about being bred, filled with cum, eggs, plant pods, anything!

Francis bites his lip and presses his cheek against the mercifully cool surface of the table, pressing his ass back into the searching thumbs of one of the bees as he pushes Francis' cheeks apart to peer at him, at the inside of him. How much will he swell, Francis wonders? They almost always seem to get swelled up in the magazines.

"You understand what this will entail?" One of them asks. His voice is higher than the first one's, but it vibrates in the same way, and Francis nods hurriedly, desperately. He hears several of the bees chuckle.

And then the first of their cocks is pressed against him.

Francis had noticed the thinness of their arms and legs, but it doesn't apply at all to the cock of the bee behind him. It's hard as a length of metal and thick inside his ass, slightly cool to the touch and not as yielding as cocks he's had before, and he grits his teeth and lets out a desperate little whine as the bee begins to move. He thrusts his hips inside Francis, pressing right inside him, and Francis clenches down around the length.

The bee moves fast behind him, canting his hips at speed and giving Francis no relief at all; his cock is pressed cold against the steel surface underneath him, and he has to gasp and whimper into the table as he's fucked mercilessly against it. The bee keeps up a hard rhythm, thrusting deep inside him again and again and again, and Francis feels the underside of his cock leaving a dribbled slick against the table's surface.

The bee's movements are utterly merciless, and it seems like an age of Francis' cock hard and slightly leaking as it's rubbed against the table before the bee behind him comes. Francis feels the hard rod inside him pulse, thickening slightly at the base as it pulses wet and hot inside him - the pulsing liquid is heavy and as thick as syrup, and Francis feels its heavy weight within him as the bee comes again and again within him. It doesn't stop until Francis is whining and gasping, pressing his cheek right against the table and scrabbling at the surface, and with a final pulse, the bee draws out of him.

Francis feels the cool air not just on the puckered skin of his asshole, but also just inside_him, against the wetted walls of his entrance, and he feels like wailing. The wetness inside him is astonishing, seeming to fill his squeaky-clean bowels completely, and he wonders - if he moves, will he hear it? Will he _slosh?

The second bee lines up against him, and Francis remembers that there are _six_of them to satisfy.

Francis does wail, now, and when the second bee enters him, he goes in smoothly, easily. Francis is as open as anything, and this one is even thicker at the base than the first. He feels himself nearly lifted from the table by the first thrust, slamming into him at an angle that drags hard over his prostate and makes him keen like he's caught in a trap.

It's too much, it really is: he feels his own cock growing stiffer and stiffer, pulsing with the attention at his backside, and he knows he won't be able to resist - and resist, he does not. With a gasping whine, his mouth open and his tongue pressed against the sweet coldness of the metal table beneath him, Francis comes. He spurts white over the metal beneath him, but the insect behind him is only cheered on by the desperate clench of Francis' hole around his cock: he drives into Francis all the harder, leaving him clawing at the table.

This bee has more in him than the first had: when he comes, Francis feels the pulse inside him, thicker than the first one had been. He feels his walls pressured by the weight of him, and it seems to move slower within him, the liquid much heavier and stretching out his walls: Francis hitches in gasps as he feels his skin seem to stretch with the pressure, and the position grows more uncomfortable the bigger he gets.

His belly is pressed against the table, after all, and he tries to lift himself up off the table and receives a swat on the ass for his troubles; with a _thwick_sound from beneath him, a panel is removed from the metal table, and Francis groans with relief as his belly is allowed to fall freely. Now, his thighs are leaning against a metal bar, his chest rested on the other end of the table, but his belly swings down between the two: craning his neck, Francis can see the slight curve of his own belly, feel the _weight_of gravity pulling him down.

"Eek," he whimpers to himself, and the third bee takes his place.

It all becomes a blur: Francis feels too much pleasure at once to possibly be able to know exactly what's going on, to remember where he is, remember his own name, even: all he can think of is being fucked again and again and again, and with each fuck, his belly stretches. It's painful, now, it truly is: Francis looks like he's pregnant and about to pop, and he feels the strangeness of the liquid in him. A hard thrust doesn't make him slosh, exactly, because the liquid is too heavy: he just sort of sways, like a swell moves within him but doesn't have the ambition to splash.

He feels heavy with it, fat with it, and when he is nudged to move, he wails.

Francis feels himself pulled, but he cannot support his own weight. His own belly heavily sways and weighs him down, and he puts his own paws on its strange, bulbous stretch as two of the bees support him by each of his shoulders. He feels like he's touching a water balloon filled up with honey, and he whimpers at the very thought.

"Are we finished?" he manages to grunt out.

"No," a bee replies. He is lowered slowly into a chair, lined up against his leaking hole, and he wishes he could see what that sticky liquid looked like, but he cannot see a thing past the desperate swell of his stomach. The thing he sits on is thick, but once they release him he cannot escape it - his belly is just too heavy, and forces him down all the same!

"Ah!"_he cries out: the rod must be half a foot long, and it is so thick inside him, _so thick.

"Now, the eggs," another bee says sagely. Francis tilts his head back, gasps, and feels his cock pulse again, trapped beneath the heavy balloon of his own body.

This, he thinks, this is awful. This is paradise.