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The Breeding Man

Part 1

For DuskCypher

By Draconicon

The low buzz of the machinery starting up in his cell woke George from a state too light to be called sleep and too heavy to be called awake. A doze, he supposed, was the best word for it. The bull groaned as he dragged himself upright, feeling the vibrations spreading from the cell door to the rest of the small, steel-lined chamber. The lights on the walls hummed to life one by one, charging before clicking on and beaming down with cold illumination, reminding him - as they did every day - of the cage that was his life outside 'work.'

He stretched, not out of comfort, but out of necessity. The tight blankets that had kept him pinned to the bed all night had finally retracted, but his blood flow needed some stimulation. He pressed his hands to his thighs, giving them as much of a massage as he dared, and hissed as the pins and needles began.

"Wake up, wake up, wake up," the bull muttered.

As his legs woke up, he stretched his arms over his head, feeling half-numb, but half was better than completely. His captors - his owners - would be more than willing to see some parts of him die off as long as the important parts stayed functional. Considering that they were more or less part of his core and very easily sustained, that was simple enough.

When he knew that his hooves would support him, George swung his legs over the side of the bed. Click, click went the tips of his hooves on the metal floor, so cold that he could still feel it. Another little hiss escaped his lips as he was dropped from warm - if constrictive - bed to cold room.

Up. He had to get up before the guards came. He forced himself upward, wobbled on one leg that was less awake than the other, then stumbled across his cell. It only took three steps to get from the bed to the door. Would have taken two to get to the toilet, but he didn't need that.

George slumped against the steel barrier between himself and the rest of the facility, huffing as he stomped one leg, then the other. Click. Clank. Click. Clank. Bit by bit, they obeyed, and by the time the panel opened in the door, his legs worked properly.

"Breedstock #77."

"Mmmph. I'm awake."

"Are you functional?"

"Yes," he grunted.

"Stand back from the door."

He did as he was told, and it opened with the speed that had taken more than one bull's fingers away. On the other side were two cows, both armed with stun guns and electric prods. Their eyes fixed on him, then glanced down. They took note of his morning wood, nodded, and then gestured for him to step out.

There was no saying no to that. If he did, they'd knock him out and he'd be taken to the breeding chambers, anyway.

As usual, his was the only lit chamber in this hall. George - or Breedstock #77, as was his official designation - remembered when he had been just coming into his teens and first brough there. There had been a dozen other bulls kept in cells down here. They'd been weak, drained, but they'd still been there.

The last one had disappeared six months ago. The guards told him that Breedstock #22 had been transferred to another facility, but George imagined that the truth was a little more gruesome than that. He'd heard the 'transfer' cart, but he hadn't heard #22.

The narrow hall had grown darker since, and now, his cell was the only one lit. The guards pretended that there were other prisoners - or rather, other Breedstocks - kept in the different cells, but George had never seen hide nor hair of them. The doors were never open, the windows never clicked to the side. There was no sign of food, nor any sign of guard passage that wasn't to collect him from his cell.

He sighed. They were disappearing, bit by bit.

One of the guards poked him with a hard-tipped finger. A muttered 'move' had him doing just that, walking down the corridor just ahead of them.

They left the 'Dorms', as the guards called the cells, and stepped out onto a catwalk. Below them was the garage, more than thirty feet down to discourage any escape attempts or thoughts of leaping into a hovercraft heading out. Nobody wanted to risk breaking their legs, or worse, breaking them and having the company replace them. The company wouldn't give a good pair, that was for sure.

He was the only male - the only Breedstock - in the garage. The workers down below were female, the guards were female, the drivers were female. They all looked up at him, but rather than staring or smiling at his rarity, they sneered.

He was used to that.

Across the catwalk to the far side and through another door, and they were passing through wider corridors. The company had a great many operations going on at this plant. Some of them involved using 'Breedstock' fluids to inseminate different embryos that would be sent out all over the world, while others involved studying the body of infertile males - of which there were many - and seeing what could be drained from him to cure them of their problems. And then...

Well, there were other operations, ones that he hoped that he wouldn't be subjected to today. All he wanted was to get his job done and go back to his cell. Regardless of the closed-in feeling that he got there, at least it was safe.

They went past the comparison labs and stopped at the draining labs. It would be embryo fertilization today, then. He stopped at the door when the cows called him to, and then turned to face it. One of them leaned in, grabbing him by the cock with one gloved hand. The rubber almost let him forget that it was a female holding him, at least until she leaned in.

"You know what you have to do, Breedstock."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Make sure that you don't stop. They can fix mild damage."

"..."

"Get in there."

He did as he was told. He always did what he was told.

The extraction room was simple. It always was, at the start. A single breeding post rose from the floor at the center of the room, one end tipped to look like female genitalia, the other attached to a hose that went back to the floor. George looked around, seeing if there were any observers - there were - and he sighed.

Always looking for a show.

He used to think that they just were interested in the science side of things, but that wasn't it. He'd learned the truth over time. They were just here to see the male. The freak. The thing that could still reproduce.

The Breedstock.

He walked up to the breeding post, knowing that this would only be the start of the whole thing. They would be milking him until his balls were dry, they always did. It was just a meager, half-hearted imitation of kindness to allow him to pretend that he was actually fucking something for a while before they went to the other stuff.

He still appreciated it. He got little enough.

Still, as he looked down at the post, he had other thoughts. There was no need for him to have those female imitations on the outside. If anything, it made his erection waver slightly. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to think of something else.

Beefy, hard, thick cheeks. That helped. He thought of the pucker that lay beneath it, and that helped more. Imagining that wrinkled hole rather than the slit that was offered to him here brought the stiffness back to his cock, and he breathed out slowly. Hopefully, they hadn't noticed that.

"Breedstock. Begin."

"Yeah, yeah..."

Stepping up to the post, he slapped his cock against it a few times. It had been pre-lubed, probably by some of the females that thought that he needed a little help. That males needed all the help.

That they were stupid.

Incompetent.

Needing a female to get them right.

He forced those thoughts out of his head. Those were the same thoughts that came during the bad dreams, the ones that they forced on him with the sleep-band when he was bad. The more that they did that, the harder it was to think of what he really wanted to think about. The thing that kept him hard.

The other males.

George dragged those thoughts back. He thought of the other Breedstocks that he had seen, the few times that they had been allowed to shower together, the easy comradery that they had enjoyed with one another, and the fun that had been simply being naked with other males. There was something missing from his life without them around. Something that he lacked, and something that he dearly wished to have.

Mostly in intimacy, if he was honest. As Breedstock, he could - and often did - have more females to breed than he knew what to do with, but it was impossible to get what he wanted.

After all, that wasn't actually profitable, was it?

As he forced the tip of his cock past the hole, he thought of what it felt like the one time that he had been able to sneak off and fuck someone that wasn't female. There'd been no hurry, no push to finish as fast as possible so he could breed-stud someone else. Oh, there'd been a little bit of pressure, just to make sure that the guards didn't catch them, but the actual desire there? That had been something else.

That had been so much better.

He grunted as he started bucking his hips, trying to replace the physical sensation of those ridged, velvety walls with the different, less-textured but tighter feel of that other bull's ass. He remembered that so clearly, knew the differences perfectly. It was like night and day, and the feeling of that little bump in the other guy's hole, that special spot to hit that made them moan so happily, to enjoy it -

He groaned, feeling his balls drawing up, and not entirely from the humping. The sucking at the other end of the tube started, encouraging him to go faster, to hump harder. He indulged it, knowing that the watchers expected that, expected the male to be grateful for the chance to put his cock in something that would grant it pleasure.

George closed his eyes tightly, only to receive a small shock through his shaft. It was little more than a warning, and he looked up.

"Breedstock #77. You will keep your eyes open."

"...Yes, ma'am."

"This is part of your conditioning. You will be a good Breedstock. You will deliver product. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

A panel lowered, turning and twisting around to reveal a screen. A recording of a naked cow, hardly of age, was displayed and played for him. She was playing with herself, and he knew that this was supposed to be an incentive for him, a means of keeping him aroused and hard no matter how many times he came.

He knew because he could see the little flickers of words through the recording. He managed to keep the grimace off his face, but he saw them, read them, understood them.

Breed all females.

Dumb males breed females.

Dumb males focus on females.

Dumb males obey females.

Be a dumb male.

Be Breedstock.

Breed.

George kept humping, pretending to stare at the screen as he let his mind wander. He told himself to keep his eyes open, but he made sure that he didn't pay that much attention to the screen. He focused on the stimulation down below, on his memories of what was better, and just kept humping.

The squelching feeling of the breeding tube kept him from going soft, the perfectly adjusted warmth inside mimicking the feeling of cow cunt perfectly, reminding his biology what it was supposed to do, supposed to want. He thrust faster, feeling his balls bumping against the cupped bit at the bottom of the post, cushioned and shaped exactly to what his balls were like. They were not taking any risks with the calf-makers.

Thrust, thrust, thrust, the wet lube running out, imitating a real-life vessel in every way. He could feel the artificial clenches, the way that the post squeezed and pulled on his shaft, the way that it was trying to convince him that he was on the verge of climax, and so was the 'mate' that he was rutting just under him. It was convincing enough that he could feel his balls rising, his cock throbbing.

Then, another shock. This one was stronger, right at the base of his cock, right around the whole thing and down to his balls.

"NNNGH!"

No matter how many times it happened, he never expected it, nor did he ever get used to it. The harsh shock hit him right in the nerves that controlled climax, forcing his balls to jump, his prostate to spasm, his dick to squirt. He came, hilting with the breeding post.

Too long...took too long...

"You need to go faster."

"Trying...I'm trying, ma'am."

"Do better."

"I'll...I'll try..."

"Again."

As usual, no breaks. Didn't matter if he was over-stimulated, didn't matter that they'd just forced him to cum by e-stim rather than through a natural orgasm, they wanted more. They always wanted more.

George grunted, getting himself properly situated, and went back to thrusting. He whimpered, he even cried a little at the painful level of pleasure that came from thrusting away when he'd just orgasmed, but his hips were trained to obey. One did not disobey the executives of Daisy's Farm-Fresh Product, Inc.

#

George managed the breeding post for five more orgasms before the shocks weren't sufficient to get him over the edge in a timely fashion. He'd heard from the other males before they were 'transferred' that a bull used to only be required to rut his own herd of four or five females over the course of the day and be done. Not anymore. Those six orgasms took place over the course of thirty minutes, giving him scarcely five minutes to build up to a climax before he was expected to blow his load.

Of the six times, he managed four. The first and the last were taking too long, and he was made to step back from the breeding post. He knew what was coming next, and winced, hoping that he'd built up enough of a sweat to keep it from hurting too much.

The walls shifted, four panels parting to reveal the Chair. It was a simple enough thing, rubber in all places save for the tube that hung down from the head of it - it would come down later - and the metal rod that stuck out from the seat. Like everything else made by Daisy's, the conductive metal rod was measured to reach exactly to the sweet spots on his prostate when he was seated, and it would do what the shocks around the base of his cock no longer could.

"Sit."

George bit back the fear with a greater one - of being manhandled by the security team into the chair and damaged in the process - and walked over to the chair. It still smelled like him from the last session. He was the only one to use it, so the sanitation required was minimal. They didn't have to get his sweat out of the rubber unless it started interfering with his productivity, and so far, it hadn't.

He wondered if they'd eventually figure out that it helped him, reminding him of the smell of males and keeping him productive. He hoped they wouldn't.

He turned, sitting gingerly. The rod prodded his taint first, but didn't shock. It wasn't 'live' yet, but it would be soon. The bull shifted his position, pulled his hips forward, and felt the cold metal against his pucker. The feeling wasn't a pleasant one. He would have much preferred the feeling of a real male.

But if there was a real male available, he would have been hooked up to the same machine. They would not waste valuable product in someone else's hole. Either it went into a high-paying cow that wanted the 'real' experience, or it went into the milking machines, where sperm would be collected and separated, then sent on to the artificial insemination labs, where the embryos would be created and then shipped out.

He was responsible for...he didn't want to think about how many offspring, or how fucked the whole line was. All he knew was that he was responsible for more calves than any bull should be.

And he was only in his twenties. Late twenties, yes, but twenties.

He gritted his teeth as he sat down, feeling his flesh part for the rod, feeling it settle in deep. The feeling wasn't...unpleasant, but it wasn't good, either, particularly with a lack of lube and using only -

"NNNGH!"

It went live without warning, and he gasped for breath, gripping the rubber arms of the chair desperately. He knew that if he pulled away, they'd strap him down, and then there'd be no mercy. He'd be dragged further against the metal rod, forced to take it deeper, and the current would be charged higher to make up for all the other things going on. He couldn't adjust himself, couldn't shift around to get the shocks to hit right. He'd be punished.

Stay down, stay down.

The buzzing, not-quite-burning but not-quite-painless current against his prostate forced his cock to rise. He remembered when he'd felt a vibrator once, back there. It had been a very different feeling, getting his cock up rapidly, but not like this. Not so fast. Not in a way that felt so wrong. His cock started stiffening again, but it felt more like someone was ramming a steel rod through the underside, pushing it through his urethra and forcing him to stay upright.

Somewhere deep down inside, he knew that this was fucking with him. He knew that this was ruining his ability to get hard on his own, all for the sake of more product from him so that they could keep selling it. But it didn't matter. They were seeking profit, and he was just seeking a way to stay alive.

Buzz, buzz, ZZZT!

The sudden sharp shock left him gasping, the breath torn from his lungs as he arched his back. The lightning against his prostate was so harsh, so hot, that he wanted to scream.

But he still came. The tube had managed to kiss the tip of his cock just in time, and the plastic with the metal tip at the very end sealed against the base of his shaft. He saw the lightning jump through his cock to the far side, and he shivered, biting his lips, trying not to scream again.

There was no luck there. This was torture, a means of getting everything that they could out of him, all while ensuring that he didn't hold back on them.

The screen came down again, playing more of the female porn, more of the cow girls that were just waiting to be filled with his seed.

As he felt the charge building up again, he wondered if there were any Breedstock that actually enjoyed it.

#

His milking shift lasted a total of ninety minutes more, for a total of two hours. After that, the security guards entered the room. He couldn't drag himself from the chair, so they had to pull him off it. They dragged him by the arms through the hallway, his legs no longer obeying him, his hooves scraping along the floor.

"Bulls. Useless."

"Nearly useless," the other cow said.

"Heh, we're getting closer, though."

"Artificial pregnancies still need sperm."

"Only for now. Sooner or later, we'll figure it out."

"But until then - hey, watch it!"

George groaned, a grimace pulling at his muzzle as one of the guards grabbed his balls. They were shrunken, shriveled, but they were still sensitive. He huffed, whimpering under his breath.

"Hey. Keep an eye on the merchandise," the one that seemed half-decent said.

"Hey, he's lucky."

"How do you figure?"

"He'll never have to do a day's work in his life. All he's gotta do is cum his brains out every eight hours."

"Then make sure that you don't fuck with his ability to do that."

"Come on. He loves it. See? He's still half-hard."

That was due to the residual pain and sensitivity, not any attention from the female. He didn't say anything, though. If they heard what he was thinking, if they had any inkling of what was going through his head...

But the cow did stop squeezing his balls, something that he was thankful for. It was better than nothing, though not as good as he would have liked.

They took him back across the garage to his cell, tossing him into it and letting him hit the floor without a worry. The one that had enjoyed groping him walked off, while the other looked down at him for a moment.

"You have six hours until the next milking. Get some rest."

"Nnngh..."

"Don't know what you're complaining about, really. You work for two hours, we work for ten."

She shut the door, leaving him alone. George looked at the wall, unable to bring himself to move yet. His body still hurt. Still ached. Still twitched, sometimes, what with the random discharges still working their way through his muscles.

Eventually, he managed to move one hand without the fingers clenching into a fist so tight that it made him want to chop his own hand off, and he stretched his arm out to test it. It mostly worked, though the muscles up near his shoulders were cramping like mad. He dragged himself across the floor, hooking his fingers into the gaps between the panels and pulling himself along.

"Nnngh...nnngh..."

He grunted as he pulled himself along, taking slow, deep breaths to try and keep his heart from racing. It was a familiar sort of movement, something that he did at least twice a day, once per sleep. It was easier to think in 'sleeps' sometimes, because he never had a normal day. Eight hour shifts, of which it was one quarter being milked, three quarters sleeping. It was not a good day. It was not a good life.

But he was Breedstock, and that meant that he didn't have a choice.

"Nnngh..."

Grabbing the edge of his mattress, he pulled himself off the floor. Settling on the side of the bed, he heard the hum of the electronics in the small cell already shutting down. He wasn't allowed - like most Breedstocks in the last three years - to actually own or enjoy anything in his cell. He wasn't given books, nor the more modern tablets. He wasn't allowed to enjoy a movie, or see films. He wasn't given music, nor allowed anything to make things of his own. If he wanted entertainment, then it was assumed that he was physically well-enough to be milked and made to produce again.

The bed would pull him down to sleep again soon enough. He had until the charge faded from the door and the walls before the blankets would come up in their own sort of bondage. Avoiding that brought their own penalties, and he had only defied that once, just to see if they'd really insist on it.

They did.

They insisted hard.

But until then, he had time to sit up and think, to put his mind toward things that weren't breeding, cum-producing, or being a good little Breedstock. He could think of the other males that he used to see, and...

And he could think of #31.

George was ashamed that he had never asked #31 for his real name, just like he had never given the one that he'd given himself. He remembered that they had been friends, and even closer. Hell, #31 had been the one that he'd made love to, enjoyed the body of, managed to find his true self with.

#31 had been the male that had convinced him that he was gay, that he had no interest in females. He'd always tried to fake it, and mostly had, but #31 showed him what the difference was between what was expected and what was real. The pleasure, the love, the downright difference between the two had been something that he'd never have discovered on his own, and it had changed his life.

Not always for the better. It meant that there were times during his 'production' hours that he had to work extra hard to keep from going soft. Knowing what he preferred meant that he had a greater distaste for what he didn't like, but it was still worth it.

But #31, like all the others, wasn't there anymore. He hadn't gone in a bodybag, like the fake transfer of #22, but he had gone nonetheless. George remembered sneaking to the garage catwalks to see him being loaded up, having left the gossiping pair of guards that had been standing over him behind to make sure that he saw the black bull off. He'd seen #31 for the last time...

Well, years ago, now. It was hard to remember just how many shifts, how many sleeps it had been, but too long now. Too long.

I wonder if he's still alive, out there...

The thought almost hurt too much to bear, and he stopped thinking about it. It was a hard life for a Breedstock.

He'd been a kid when it all went down. Twenty years ago, something hit the world. A disease that was later called November-Y, but at the time most people just called it the White Fire. It was almost exclusively males that caught it - though anyone with a more active Y chromosome was at risk - and most of the male population had burned up from the inside, losing all pigment as they went. By the end of it, they were ghostly, pale and white and featureless.

Those that survived were not left untouched by November-Y, either. 99.8% of the male population were stricken with infertility, and part of the research that Daisy's company went through was ostensibly trying to find a way to fix that. He remembered that there were some males outside of the company that had hope that it would eventually fix their balls, that they would be able to rut their females once more.

George closed his eyes. It wasn't anywhere close to discovered. Not anywhere close.

Once the overall plague was done, things got worse rather than better. Males were tested on a yearly basis, and any of them that showed any kind of sperm count were immediately labeled as 'Breedstock', no longer technically an individual with any rights, merely a corporate asset. They were shipped off to whatever authority ruled the area that they lived in - usually some sort of corporation that had stepped in and taken over when government and the overall economy completely collapsed - and were kept there for their new duty.

After all, if the population wasn't strictly monitored, if the resources of propagation weren't strictly controlled, the entire species could collapse. And nobody wanted that, right?

That was what the companies had said, and the world had agreed. They didn't know what happened to the Breedstock, and they didn't care, so long as the world kept turning and calves were born. The males even got to pretend that they were still studs, taking supplements and injecting themselves with preserved Breedstock seed to fuck into their cows.

Who cared what happened to those that were left behind?

Who cared about those that didn't have a choice?

It was all about preserving the species...

George realized that his eyes were watering, and knew that he didn't have much longer to ruminate. If he stayed as he was, he'd be covered in the most uncomfortable position imaginable, and then he'd be made to work while his entire body was cramping up.

Not ideal. He laid himself out, pushing his hooves towards the rubber blankets at the far end of the bed. Puffing up a pillow as best he could - it was dead and should have been burned two years ago - he tried to relax as the light faded from the lines on the wall, dragging further and further from the door. Just a few more minutes, and he'd be locked down for the next six hours.

He thought of #31 again, and imagined what it would be like if he had been able to be transferred with the other Breedstock. The world outside the corporate buildings was foreign to him, and he didn't know what was actually out there. Something dangerous, as far as the guards seemed to say. What little he heard as gossip implied that the world had gone to hell in the last twenty years, and certainly in the last fifteen since he'd started producing sperm.

But that would be worth it, if he was with a person that treated him like a person. If he was away from the people that would try and condition him into being someone else if they realized what he was.

Gay Breedstock were rare. At least, truly gay ones. Bisexual Breedstock were tolerated, though not encouraged. Gay ones, however, were seen as a danger to the continuation of the species, and were treated as if they were nothing less than diseased. Anyone that was discovered to have a preference for men - not even a lack of preference for women, just a preference for men - would be immediately seized, outed, and forced down a route of conversion. And those that didn't take to it...

George shivered. He'd heard the rumors. There were companies that had begun the process of removing more and more of the mind and replacing it with implants, turning the body into a half-mechanized thing that was nothing more than a sperm-delivery system, and those same rumors said that the technique was spreading through the different companies that had viable Breedstock.

He'd heard that Daisy's was considering it, but he was their only viable Breedstock as far as he knew, and they weren't preparing anything for him. The implants were said to make a Breedstock less personable, anyway, and considering that they made as much money off of him going to the female clients that paid for him as anything else, he doubted that they were going to take it that far.

Not yet, at least.

The bed hummed, and the rubber moved. He braced himself as it pressed down on his legs, creeping up his body inch by inch. Where it touched, it tightened, pulling itself closer to his skin and fur to the point where it dragged and scraped at parts of his body. He tried not to think about it, to just focus his attention on the ceiling as the rubber blankets climbed higher and higher.

Soon, he was completely encased and paralyzed below the waist. Then the stomach. Then the chest. His arms were pinned to the bed, the blankets form-fitted to him, and pressing down with more weight than they should.

Then it covered his face, and he could see and hear nothing. The usual sleeping gas pumped in, and he was out like a light.

The End

Summary: George, otherwise known as Breedstock #77, is a subject of a corporate breeding program. It's not good for him, or any male, for that matter.

Tags: M/solo, Technophilia, Bull, Sexism, Gay, E-Stim, Torture, Breeding Post, Humping, Sex Toys, Cock Milking, Forced Orgasm, Orgasm, Cum, Nudity, Female-Dominated, Corporation, Dystopia, Series,