Every day the youths were milked in this way, and every day each one swore that THIS time he would beat the machine, THIS time he would not allow his spunk to be extracted by such an emotionless, clinical and humiliating device.
But every day, once the farm hands had got him tied helpless, gagged and blindfolded, and the soft rubber-lined cylinder was sucking and massaging his horny, erect boy-cock, it was only a question of time. The milking machine was designed to be irresistable, and it was also tireless.
With a strangled cry, the first boy came. Thirty seconds later the second one shot his load, followed by the third. As each teenager lost the battle against his milking machine, the man leaned forward and switched it off, before once again going back to his paper.
After a while the man looked up, frowning. The fourth boy hadn't yet cum - he was holding out against the teasing, sucking machine. With a sigh, the man put his paper down, and picked up a sharply-pointed, stiff feather which he kept for exactly this purpose. There was an expression of intense concentration on the teenager's face - or as much of it as was visible beneath the shiny black leather blindfold. With practised skill, the man applied the feather to the boy's balls, tickling lightly and quickly - the feather dancing expertly over the young, sensitive testicles.
Instantly, the boy lost control - and with a cry that was half humiliation and half fury, shot his spunk helplessly into the hungry rubber mouth of the machine.
The man switched the device off and, yawning, went back to reading his paper.
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