The Stable



In the centre of the hay-covered floor of the stable sat a man in blue jeans, cowboy boots and checked shirt. He was leaning against a straw bale and reading a newspaper. At his feet, lying side by side in the straw were four naked youths. Each was gagged and blindfolded, each had his wrists tied behind his back and his ankles strapped together, and each had the black rubber mouth of a milking machine enveloping his cock. There was a quiet chugging sound as the machines rhythmically worked, the cylinders riding up and down very slightly as the vacuum caused sucking waves to run along the soft rubber sheaths inside. The boys were moaning into their gags and, as always, struggling to resist the mounting pleasure the machines were inducing.

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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