The sleepy town of Cumcock was world-famous for its monthly Rutting Fair. What had begun as an annual tradition in the summertime, where the local men would breed the townswomen to keep their town alive, had transformed into a monthly event of the most carnal nature. Breeders now travelled to the mountainside town on the second Saturday of each month to breed as many bitches as they could. Ordinary men came along to watch or, occasionally, fuck the already impregnated yet still insatiable bitches.
The Cumcock Rutting Fair attracted all sorts of bitches - those single and in heat, desperate for relief; the happily married whose husbands got off on watching their wife be taken by another man; and the bitches who attended in secret, aroused by the opportunity to deceive their husbands and birth a baby that didn't belong to him.
Some of the breeders attended casually, though others saved themselves for this monthly rut, going so far as to isolate themselves from society to avoid temptation in between events. These breeders were the most volatile, most unpredictable.
Brock had waited five agonising weeks for this month's fair. Barricaded in his home, his memories of last month's ruts flooded every fibre of his thoughts: the bitches who'd only just reached breeding age; the bitch who'd organised her bachelorette party at the fair, begging Brock to breed her and the whole party; the teacher whose former student had escorted her to the fair, breeding her in retribution for his exam results; and, most enticingly, the bitch who'd given birth only a week before the fair, who Brock had bred while her newborn clung to her swinging tits for a feed. Her husband had been the one holding the baby while Brock bred the bitch.
When Brock wasn't reliving his memories, he was consumed by fantasies of what the next fair might present. He'd been breeding bitches for nearly ten years, and still each rut enticed him. The bitches were always described as insatiable, but Brock challenged that conception - really, it was his cock that was insatiable, always with a mind of its own.
Having come to the fair for a few years now, Brock had a routine that he always stuck to. He loved to start his day with sloppy fucks, breeding the experienced bitches desperate for a brutal fuck, even if it meant conceiving their twelfth child. After that, he'd take a break at the glory hole, where bitches got off on the thrill of never seeing their breeder, only finding out the most basic details from their microchip.
After refuelling at lunch, he'd take his cock to the deflowering tent, where the virgin bitches awaited. The cashed-up virgins would all be bred in the morning, but by the afternoon it would be only the desperate: parents bringing in their unmarriable daughters, or, more enticingly, the reluctant virgins who'd thrown a fit in the morning and had to be worn down before they could be bred. A little reluctance added such a thrill.
Sometimes, in the springtime, he'd have a go in the muddy pig pen, but it was usually more hassle than it was worth - Brock was happy to leave that to the breeders who took their identity more literally.
The breeders arrived early at the fair. Given the huge popularity of the event, officials had stepped in to regulate things. Brock merely tolerated the STI checks, while he looked forward to the sample ruts.
He waited in line for a few moments, watching as the officials signed in each of the breeders. All were women - some who were simply opportunists and loved a free fuck, others who knew this would be their only chance to feel a cock in their cunts. A few cunts were already bent over for the breeders to rut.
"Good morning," a busty blonde greeted him, pulling Brock from his trance as he watched a girthy black breeder take a petite redhead. "Do you have your registration details, sir?"
Brock licked his lips and handed over his ID wallet - it contained his breeder identification and a chip that tracked all of his breedings and offspring. While the blonde bitch scanned the card on her computer, Brock stared unashamedly at her tits.
The event organisers had gone through many revisions of the code of conduct for the Cumcock Rutting Fair - the clothing custom had had many controversial changes over the years. The purists advocated for a complete ban on all garments - they believed that breeders and bitches should be in their most natural form, ready for rutting in any moment. Others argued that breeders should have a choice to wear some level of clothing for their own discretion. Others demanded that bitches should be presented in delicate lingerie for the breeder's pleasure or, more conservatively, be presented fully clothed, for the breeders to remove garments to their own delight.
With all the arguing and debate, the committee decided to remove any customs on clothing - breeders and bitches could decide however they wanted to dress. There were now zones of the fair where clothing was strictly prohibited, and other tents with more specific clothing mandates.
The busty blonde who was signing Brock in was one of the purists - she stood at her computer completely naked, in only her black stiletto heels.
Brock watched her tits bounce and sway as she typed on her computer, deliberately arching her back so that Brock could see their weight and fullness.
Her nipples were bright pink and fully erect, elongated like a milker's. It wasn't uncommon for bitches to get themselves bred so that they could work at the dairy. These bitches only had to be bred once for official purposes, but it wasn't uncommon for them to present themselves for additional opportunities, especially given the population crisis.
"I just need to do the screening now, sir," she winked, pulling on latex gloves and taking a swab kit from the drawer.
Brock released his cock from his grey sweatpants, already rock hard. His cock was thoroughly engorged with a vibrant flush, the head dripping precum.
With perfectly manicured nails, the blonde traced the swab all over his cock. She knew what she was doing - the bitch applied the faintest of pressure, barely touching his cock at times. The feather-like tease drove him wild, so much so that he started to buck his hips involuntarily.
"Oh my," the bitch marvelled with feigned surprise. "Aren't you quite the bull?"
Instinctively, Brock reached his hand forward and grasped the bitch's throat. He squeezed threateningly until she gasped, "Sorry, sir." Brock released her. "I do apologise, sir, I forgot my manners. My cunt started gushing at the sight of your glorious cock, sir, and I lost my mind for a second. Thank you for your reminder, sir."
Brock barely grunted an acknowledgement of her apology. He was a true, instinctual breeder, but he was also a stickler to tradition - the bitches needed to know their place. They did that by showing submission and respect to the breeders at all times.
The blonde bitch finished her swabbing tease of Brock's cock and plugged the sample tray into her computer. It took ten seconds for the system to process the sample and flash green - Brock had the all clear to rut to his cock's content at the fair.
The bitch turned a sweet, coquettish smile to Brock. "That's the sign in done, sir." She handed back the ID wallet to Brock after stamping it with a receipt from the STI check, then immediately turned around and bent herself over. Her hands gripped her ankles and her cunt was fully on display. "Now we just need the sample-"
Brock didn't give the bitch the chance to finish - he simply took a step forward and impaled the bitch. Right to the hilt.
He released a guttural moan of relief and relished in the bitch's agonised squeal. She'd taken many monster cocks in her cunt at the dairy, but a true breeder's was something that couldn't be replicated.
Brock held the bitch's hips and let his mind take over. He needed his first few ruts to be senseless, instinctive - he needed to save his mental strength for his virgins at the end of the day.
Brock grunted and huffed as he fucked the blonde bitch. She was practised in rough fucks and held her ankles tightly, but relied on Brock's grip to keep her up. Brock watched as her milking tits swung aggressively, spilling droplets of creamy milk on the concrete floor.
A few photographers came over to assess the scene - some took still photos while others captured videos to upload to the event's social media pages. Brock didn't spare a moment to try to look good - he wanted the raw, messy reality of the Rutting Fair on display.
The photographers stayed to watch Brock finish. He reached a hand around to massage the bitch's elongated clit - a clear sign of her milking role - which contracted her cunt and elicited his release. Brock drove himself to the hilt, holding the bitch's cunt hostage as he caught his breath.
She felt ropes of his cum enter her cunt, which finally drove her over the edge to orgasm. As part of their training, milkers were required to cum on command to only two things - cum being shot into their cunts and milk being extracted from their tits. They were desensitised to everything else, though it took a few years for that to take effect. It was clear that this bitch was a veteran milker.
The bitch's cunt drained Brock's cock. As he finished, he took his microchip pen from his pocket and inserted his first chip of the day. He pierced it into her asscheek, knowing she'd feel it every time she sat down for the next twelve months. A permanent reminder that she had been bred by him.
