MILKING THE SYSTEM – Dominique Pleasant spends a day with busy businesswoman Lady Katerina Stern, Chief Laboratory & Industrial President of Seminal Inc.

I had been warned that my visit to the facilities of Seminal Inc, a wholly owned subsidiary of Male Byproducts Inc, would be a stimulating
experience, but nothing had prepared me for what I am about to describe. A reporter for Cruellan Woman’s Lifestyle magazine, I had asked for a tour of the factory as part of my research for a series of articles on the technology of male subjugation. Seminal is a company in the business of producing seminal fluid for industrial uses, and so has developed some of the world’s most sophisticated techniques for engendering and sustaining male sexual arousal. Its Chief Laboratory & Industrial President, Lady Katerina, had been kind enough to extend me an invitation.
“Come in,” she said warmly, as I passed through the stainless steel doors of the building into an antechamber, at the other end of which was a door with her name on it. On my right were three desks manned by secretaries, all discretely attired and all typing busily, men or former men dressed as women, no doubt, since no menial work was any longer performed by born women. Running the length of the wall to my left were a series of stainless steel blinds, closed. Katerina herself was dressed much as I was, in the fashion of the day for business, a tight spandex mini-dress with a plunging neckline and matching high-heeled boots.
I introduced myself as Dominique Pleasant, and we passed a few words about the events of the day, most notably a visitation to a young slave, tag branded GDQ, who had been castrated following an unsuccessful artificial genital growth experiment.
As we passed down a series of long, dank corridors, Katerina recounted how, the previous evening, she had injected the male with a hormone which she was refining. The desired effect of the drug was to enlarge the penis in breeders and stimulate growth and durability in the scrotal sacs of labourers, the latter for the purposes of manufacturing large handbags which were popular amongst fashion-conscious young ladies. Although such bags were already available – I owned three – I could see the good business sense of mass-producing bigger, cheaper and stronger reticules as style accessories, in an array of brightly dyed colours.
As we entered a small, grubby experimentation chamber in the Labcell block, Katerina warned me about the possible stench. Indeed, there was a smell of spirits and chemicals mixed with a stale, musky odour. Strung up facing us on the cell bars, the slave GDQ was hanging limp and lifeless. Which was certainly not true of his penis, a huge, erect affair which sprouted from his body like the branch of a tree. Inbetween his legs there was a conspicuous gap. And on the floor beneath him, I noticed a squishy red and pink pile of what looked like offal.
“That was the result of last night’s little – or should I say enormous – experimental cock-up.” commented Katerina as she took a pair of thin. plaited malehide whips from a hook on the wall. and handed me one.
“See if we can’t revive him,” she commented, stepping briskly towards the window. “Please…” she continued, indicating for me to have first crack at the specimen.
Keen to create a good impression, I drew back my arm and let rip a real stinger of a whack. A neat, hairline split appeared across his thighs. With her thumbnails, Katerina prized the skin apart and opened the wound. The slave didn’t stir and Katerina shrugged at me as if to say, “Is he still with us, or not?” Katerina now let loose her lash across his belly. Nothing. We continued stroking the lad alternately for several minutes, but there was no sign of revival. “Pity,” said Katerina, “I wanted to show you an experiment concerning these.”
She went to a small desk which was strewn with a variety of surgical instruments, and picked up a pair of what looked like decorative Xmas tree balls. As 1 rolled the gleaming, metallic spheres in my hand, I could hear them gently buzzing. “They’re nuclo-thermal,” I was advised. “Pop them down on the floor.”
Katerina went to an instrument panel and began clicking switches and pressing buttons. As the orbs began to buzz louder and louder, I could see them lightening in colour until, as they rattled and shuddered vibrantly, they started to glow red, then white, and finally became translucent. Just at that moment, a weak groan came from the direction of the window.
“Excellent!” enthused Katerina. “He’s still with us. Pop some of this in his welts, would you’?” she asked, handing me a bottle of clear lotion. “It usually wakes them up.”
As I gingerly tipped a little of the liquid onto my finger and rubbed into GDQ’s lashes, he strained violently against his bonds and looked as if he was screaming. However, he emitted no sound. “A result of the hormone drug,” Katerina said. Within seconds of applying the ointment to the slave, he was wriggling and writhing and fully conscious. We undid his bonds and he fell to the floor at our feet.
Katerina indicated for me to press his neck down with the sharp heel of my boot, as she sat astride him to prevent him flapping about. A few sharp cracks of our whips across his cheeks, and GDQ lay quiet and still.
What followed was quite remarkable. With consummate skill, Katerina surgically replaced GDQ’s exploded balls by testicularly implanting the shiny, metal orbs and encasing them in a thin, synthetic scrotum.
“By connecting the artificial balls carefully to each spermatic cord, it should be possible for him to ejaculate seminal fluid, but without risk of any trace of spermatozoa.” She then demonstrated, forcing the slave to lick her vulva by sending thermo-nuclear power through his newly hung bollocks until he let spurt a great mass of gooey, white sludge. She bade me to examine it. I rubbed a great slodge of it between my thumb and forefinger, and smelt it. It was smooth and had a pleasing scent.
“Not bad,” I said. “I wouldn’t mind some of this stuff whitewashing my ovaries.”
“Later,” Katerina laughed. “And not with this one. This experiment AND he are both history.” With that, she turned the dials to full. There was a terrific humming and GDQ’s back arched as strain and pain pierced every muscle of his body. Just as we were leaving, there was a terrific bang, and as the synthetic scrotal sac exploded, the two metal balls shot out and rolled across the floor. GDQ’s mouth was wide open, his face wracked with shock as he screamed in silence.
“Going to have to increase the strength of that scrotal material,” Katerina commented casually. And with that we left the chamber.
“Shocking, quite shocking,” avowed Katerina, and I could only agree with her. “Where shall we go next?”
“I would like to see your famous production facilities,” I said.
“Then perhaps we can discuss some of the techniques which have made your firm so profitable.”
“No problem at all,” she replied agreeably. “Maybe, then, we can lunch together. Our executive dining room prepares a delicious testicle shish kebab.” I thanked her sincerely for the offer, and followed her back to the room adjacent to her office. In the corner were located the controls for the blinds. She pressed a green button, and the blinds opened. My mouth dropped at what I saw on the other side of the glass.
In a room larger than a football field were hundreds and hundreds of men, all naked, each one standing, fully restrained, inside a cylindrical glass cubicle. Their hands were tied together and attached to a bar across the open top of the cylinder, while their feet were firmly bolted to a pedestal which raised them about two feet off the floor by padded ankle cuffs. The cylinders, or production cells, were about four feet apart and open on one side.
Between them scurried a swarm of black, semi-clad, female attendants, who busied themselves with checking fluid levels, replacing bottles, adjusting bonds and all the myriad other little things that needed to be done to keep production running smoothly. Anticipating a question, Katerina said, “We tie them that way to minimize the space they occupy.” Then she added, “We’ve got seven more milking sheds just like this one.”
I was flabbergasted. “They don’t stay in there all the time, do they?”
“Oh, no, of course not. We bed them down for a minimum of six hours each day. We did a lot of experimentation to find out what regime will produce the maximum quantity and quality of fluid. You should be here when the shifts change. It’s chaos.”
“You mean you run…”
“Twenty-four hours, around the clock, 365 days a year. Market demand for our product is enormous. It’s all we can do to keep it up.” Neither of us could suppress our amusement at her unintentional pun.
I understood what she meant by the burgeoning demand for seminal fluid. For many years it had been known that the salty secretion of the male was a wonderful leather conditioner, but only recently had the wrinkle retarding properties of creams containing the precious juice been discovered. Now, practically every skin care product on the market contained it in one form or another, and with the continued growth of the Cruellan female population al but assured, there seemed to be no end in sight to the profit potential for pro ducers such as Seminal. Still, it was clear that they were not about to let thei costs get out of control.
“Why don’t we take a walk around the floor?” suggested Katerina. “Could we?”
“Sure. You’ll enjoy it.” With the juices flowing in my tingling cunt, I knee that she was right.
Entering the huge hall through her office, the first thing I noticed was th overpowering musky scent of male sexual arousal. “Like it?” asked Katerina knowing exactly what I was experiencing.
“Mmm, I love it, I replied. I took regular advantage of the opportunities available to professional women to enjoy the services of breeder males. My current body servant was one of the best I had known, especially at the fine art of cunnilingus.
“Good,” said Katerina. “Me, too. Not everyone does, though.”
We walked between two rows of cylinders, listening to the moans of the secreters, or “cows” as the attendants called them. Most, though not all, were ungagged. All, however, had enormous hard-ons, most of their cocks spasming violently and irregularly. We stopped beside one cylinder and examined the collection apparatus. Neatly covering and tightly sealing the swollen, bulbous head of each cock was a bell-shaped plastic cup, to which was attached a thick plastic tube, obviously intended to collect the seminal fluid. Inside the larger tube could be seen a smaller tube, tinted yellow which, looking carefully, one could see emerged from the opening at the tip of the penis. It dawned on me that this must be a catheter, to prevent urine from contaminating the fluid output. At a point near the other terminus the two tubes diverged, the inner one exiting the outer through a tightly sealed portal. Each tube emptied into its own plastic bag, a large one for urine and a smaller one for the precious seminal fluid. The latter appeared to contain about a pint.
“Almost a full day’ s output for a normal producer,” said Katerina. “What’s that tube in his nose?” I asked.
“Feeding tube. They’re all connected to a central “kitchen”, each one through its own regulator. We control their fluid and nutrient intake carefully to get maximum production.”
Walking around the back of the cell, I noticed a flexible pole curving up from the base of the pedestal and disappearing into the secretor’s behind. “Prosthetic stimulator. Inside is a thick metal finger covered with rubber. It rotates like this.” She rolled her index finger around to massage the prostate. Crude but effective. You have to watch them, though; they have a tendency to slip out from time to time.”
“What about defecation?”
“We evacuate them once a week. Since they don’t eat much, that’s enough. We don’t do it on the floor, though. Too messy.”
“How do you keep them, you know, excited?
Katerina smiled. I’m glad you asked me that one. It used to be difficult. We had to rely heavily on visual and oral cues and manual and crude electrical stimulation, electrified scrotum rings and penile implants, that sort of thing. We’d be lucky to get a cup a day out of most of these cows, and we had to work at it. More often than not we’d have a perfectly good batch spoiled by ejaculate. The fluid’s useless, you see, if it’s been contaminated by spermatozoa. But with the development of computer-controlled hypothalamic electrodes, all that has changed.”
“Can you explain how it works?”
“Sure. In principal, it’s easy. Slender electrodes, no thicker than a pubic hair, are inserted into the skull and carefully guided to the centers of the brain which govern sexual arousal and pain. A carefully measured electric current can then be used to arouse the secretor at will and keep him aroused for as long as desired. In practice, it’s a little trickier than that, though. In order to get maximum output over a long period of time, the electrical stimuli have to be modulated, depending on the state of arousal in the genital organs. Over-stimulate at the wrong time and you will get emission; under- stimulate and you waste output potential.
So we have developed a system utilizing a computer chip implanted in the scrotum to gauge the arousal level and reduce or temporarily stop the stimulus if ejaculation is imminent. Works well, too; more than 99% effective. ‘Ninety-nine and 44 one hundredths percent pure’ as they used to say.”
“You mean these men – I mean cows – stay at a peak of arousal all day, every day, and never get to ejaculate.”
“Yes and no. They are tuned to be as close to the peak of sexual excitement as possible. Naturally, they’re more productive that way. But we do ejaculate them from time to time. For most, about once every two weeks is optimal. We’ve found that they are more productive longer if we do it that way.”
“But don’t they complain.”
“Some of them do, from time to time. Mostly they plead to be ejaculated before they’re due for it. We just gag the ones who mouth off and go on with business. Most of them are just happy to be of any service they can to greater Womankind. We’ve bred and educated them that way for generations now.”
“Indeed we have, I muttered beneath my breath.”
Behind us, the steady drone coming from one of the cylinders suddenly increased in intensity. We turned around and saw a young cow, handsome and athletically built (as almost all men now were) gazing fixedly at us. His cock, pointing almost straight up, was twitching wildly, and his sculptured abdominal muscles rippled rhythmically as he strained against his bonds. Then a loud groan, bordering on a scream, emerged from his lips and he hung limply by his wrists for a moment before beginning to writhe once again. From the end of the collection tube I could see a steady flow of seminal fluid filling up his pouch. “You can tell they’re really excited when their ass starts to ripple like that. You’re good for production. Let me know, I’ 1 1 find you a job here, maybe as a Cock tease. We’re always looking for good Teases. Seriously, though, you could see our computer system shut him down just at the peak of arousal. We can get some of them to within a split second of ejaculation and still shut them down. That’s dangerous, though. I’d better get an attendant over here to change his pouch. He’s really been busy. Attendant!”
The attendant, a nubile young woman with fashionably outsized breasts, entered the cylinder through the side opening. She wore a black leather catsuit from which the bra and panties had been neatly excised and spike heeled boots, a uniform carefully calculated to add to production. Working quickly, she changed the cow’s pouch, checked the urine jar and the settings on his feeding regulator, his prosthetic stimulator and his bonds. Then, before leaving, she ringed his penis at the base with her thumb and forefinger and milked a large globule of juice into the collection bell – priming him, it was called, as I found out later. The cow moaned loudly again and writhed wildly, his abdominal muscles rippling for a few moments before the computer shut him down. “The attendants love that part of the job,” commented Katerina. “Some of them are pretty good little Teases in their own right. What else would you like to see?”
“Could I see one of the cows being masturbated?”
“Well, I’ll have to check the schedule to see if any of them are due. Follow me.”
We walked toward the center of the hall, past row upon row of secretors, each one doing his best – the electronics made sure of that – to contribute to the greater glory of Womanhood. A truly gratifying sight. Males doing what only males could do, doing one of the few things, in fact, that males could do well at all. Very efficient.
“Let me tell you about the computer imaging system we’re developing,” chimed in Katerina as we walked. “A long time ago we used to lobotomize unruly cows from time to time, in order to control them. But whenever we did, their output always dropped off dramatically. Eventually we figured out that fantasy has a lot to do with male sexual arousal.”
When we cut their wires, they couldn’t fantasize. So with this in mind we’re developing computer software that will “read” an individual secretor’s brain waves and interpret them into just those sensory images that have the greatest power to stimulate him. Different secretors have different fantasies, you see. In the past we’ve experimented with regularizing their fantasies – making them all into shoe fetishists, for example. With this new technology we hope to exploit their naturally occurring differences.
“Sounds marvelous. How far along are
“In preliminary trials. Results are very promising, so far. Secretors fitted with virtual reality goggles and exposed continuously to-images from their own sexual fantasies produce anywhere from ten to fifty percent more output. Of course, we don’t know what the long term effects will be. If their productive life is correspondingly shortened, we’ll have to step up breeding to compensate.”
“What is the productive life of a secretor?” “Five years or so, typically. We like to start them when they’re about eighteen or nineteen and work them into their mid-twenties. The longest we’ve ever had one last is nine years.”
“What do you do with them when they’re no longer productive?”
“Emasculate them, usually, and sell them for salvage or put them to work at menial jobs. My secretaries are ex-secretors. Of course, sometimes a Cock tease will take a shine to one of them, and then we might just let her have him as a pet. They don’t bring much in the market.”
The control room was a circular chamber, glassed off from the rest of the room to avoid distractions. Attendants buzzed in and out, along with other Women, exotically dressed, who I gathered must be Cockteases. A crescendo of noise arose unaccountably as we entered the room, for which Katerina soon provided the explanation.
“They know who I am, of course, and they know the masturbation schedule is kept in here. Wishful thinking.”
The schedule itself was computerized and arranged by date for convenience. Forty-seven cows were scheduled for the day shift, most of whom had already been done. A few, however, were still pending.
“Here’s a good one,” said Katerina. “Number 423; he usually puts on a pretty good show. Angela, has anyone been assigned yet to 423?”
Angela, the Chief Masturbatrix on this shift, consulted a clipboard. “Yes,” she replied, “Serena signed out just a minute ago to do him. If you hurry, you can catch her.”
“Thanks. Let’s go.”
We scurried toward the far end of the hall as fast as our tight skirts and high heels would allow. I began to feel a little bit guilty about upsetting their routine.
When we reached cell 423, Serena was just preparing to start. She was a Senior Cock tease; most of the masturbation work, I learned, was done by Teasers whose expertise enabled them to milk the last drops of the potentially harmful semen from their charges. Serena could perhaps best be described as an Amazon. She was well over six feet tall in her heels and had a surgically enhanced figure that would bring any male, even a proud breeder, to his knees. Today she wore a classic French maid’s uniform, complete down to the apron and the little hat. Cockteasers were known for their creative dress, in which they took great pride. “Like your outfit,” praised Katerina. So did I. And so, apparently, did 423, whose enormous cock was standing at attention, slapping against his belly as it convulsed. A copious stream of precious fluid flowed into his collection pouch. I could see why Serena seemed to be taking her time.
“Many of the cows are most productive right before their emission. That’s another reason we like to have the job done by experienced Teasers. They know how to milk the moment for everything it’s worth.”
423 was gagged with a penis-shaped plug attached to a leather strap which buckled at the back of his neck – simple but effective. Serena had no sooner released the buckle than 423 spat out his gag and began to plead for release. “Please, Mistress” he begged, “please, you’ve got to shoot me. I can’ t stand it, I can’ t take another minute! I’ll do anything, anything you want. Just let me shoot, let me shoot today, please. must be due. Please.”
Serena knew just what to say.
“You’ll do anything I want? But that’s just what you are doing, cow. You’re producing the precum we need to keep our skin smooth and enticing. Isn’t my skin smooth and beautiful? Don’t you like it that way?”
“Oh yes, Mistress, yes. You are beautiful, exquisitely beautiful. And I want to be masturbated by you more than anything in the world.” I noticed that the flow of seminal fluid had increased again.
Serena paced up and down beside him, as much as the small size of the cylinder would permit. “If I masturbate you, will you keep producing fluid for me, so that I can stay beautiful? That’s all you’re good for, you know. You’re not good enough to be a breeder. Maybe we should get rid of that worthless seed of yours before it contaminates all that good fluid you’ve pumped out.” “Oh, yes, Mistress, yes we should. You’re right, Mistress, you’re always right.”
My glance followed Serena’s to the collection bag. The flow of fluid entering it had slowed to a trickle. Deftly, Serena removed the bell-shaped cup from the head of the cow’s cock. It was not as easy as it sounds, because the well-exercised organ was powerfully muscled and spasmed violently. This, I learned later, was the most delicate part of the job. Clumsiness here and the extra stimulation of a hand could upset the delicate balance enforced by the computer controls and cause the cow to shoot prematurely, spoiling a whole bag of fluid. Serena, however, worked smoothly and efficiently. She did not remove the catheter. Instead, she pinched it with a small clamp, undid the end from the urine collection jar, and pulled the loose end through the portal in the collection tube. Disconnecting the other end of the collection tube, she then discarded it. From a cabinet in the pedestal she removed a new collection tube. Through it she threaded the catheter, pulling it out of the portal in the new tube. Then she reconnected the catheter to the urine jar and fixed the new collection tube to an empty fluid bag. She was careful not to allow the bell cup near the head of the cow’s penis, which was still oozing, but only slightly; the fluid loss from this procedure was really quite small.
All during this procedure the cow had been relatively quiet, muttering “Yes, yes, Mistress” under his breath continuously, in anticipation of what was to come. But the instant Serena touched the head of his cock, he started to bellow loudly, begging her for release. Amused, Serena snickered, and began to work the tip and the underside of his tortured organ with her fingers. The cows in the surrounding cylinders, who had been enviously watching the unfolding events, had picked up 423’s call, now, but Serena ignored them.
“Squeeze me, Mistress. Oh, squeeze me hard, now, I need it now, oh please Mistress, squeeze me, milk me, milk me dry.” 423 was totally out of control. “You don’t want to do them too fast,” Katerina noted. “You might end up with some semen left in the urethra, which would contaminate the next batch.” Serena, it seemed to me, was certainly not working the cow too rapidly. Considering how aroused he was before the procedure began, it was amazing that he had not already ejaculated. Periodically she would stop, fingering him to weigh his testicles in her hand and palpate the thick muscle between his legs that controlled his emission. Then she would return to stroking the head and the underside of his cock, never fully encircling the organ.
Several minutes later she decided he was ready. She looked over at Katerina, who nodded approval. Serena then squeezed his cock hard, right beneath the head and slid her hand down the length of the shaft before squeezing again. The cow let loose his loudest bellow yet, and his entire body seemed to convulse, Serena holding fast to the root of his manhood. Then she let go.
The cow’s body became rigid. As he pressed backward against the prosthetic stimulator, his cock seemed to withdraw into him an inch or two. Then, emitting a loud, guttural roar, he thrust his hips forward. A thick globule of (which was still clamped), and quickly spilled over onto the shaft. This was followed by another surge, and another, on and on, for the better part of two minutes, until the cow was spent. 423 hung, limp and silent, by his wrists. Serena, who had been watching the display with clinical detachment, seemed pleased. Wrapping her hand around the base of his cock, she milked hire two or three times to extrude the last drops of semen. 423 did not move.
“They really can store it up, can’t they,” remarked Katerina matter-of-factly, “Good job, Serena. Get an attendant to clean him up and reconnect him right away. He’s a good producer.”
As we walked back to Katerina’s office, she continued. “The catheter helps to keep them from shooting spunk all over the place. That’s one of the reasons we leave it in. Of course, it would take time to remove and replace it, and we want to keep downtime to a minimum. That’s a consideration, too. All in all, the procedure went rather well, don’t you think?” I agreed that it did.
“Well,” said Katerina as we departed, “what do you say we get some lunch? I could sure go for some of those testicle kebabs right about now. We have our own private source of supply – some of the biggest, juiciest you can get anywhere. After lunch I want to show you some more of our laboratories. Did I tell you we think we’re close to synthesizing male seminal fluid? Then we’ll be able to put all these cows out to pasture, won’t we?”
“If you do, I guess you’ll be eating kebabs for breakfast, lunch and supper,” I quipped, as we joined the throng of sexecutives in the sumptuous dining room, and the sweet aroma of succulent, freshly charcoal-grilled meat-balls filled my nostrils.