He was dreaming of Vesse when they came for him. She was lying next to him on his bed in the dormitory, playing with his cock while he kissed her breasts. "Does this feel good, dear?" she was asking. He slipped her nipple out of his mouth long enough to tell her it felt wonderful. "That's good!" she told him, "Don't strain yourself! We've got all the time in -- "
Vesse vanished; he was awakened insistently, though not roughly, by someone shaking his shoulder. He looked up to see Sharina and three other docents, only one of whom he recognized, a tall African who had worked in this wing for twenty years. All three were muscular, beefy women. In the dim night-shift light of the dormitory he could barely see that they wore nothing but their uniform white skirts and white high heels. Their heavy breasts swung softly as they bent over and took hold of his arms. Did they have some kind of remote EEG sensors to monitor when his pleasure centers were stimulating him? He felt his hardon tenting his pyjamas. Was he still dreaming?
"Come with us," Sharina said soothingly.
Her voice did nothing to soothe his fear of them, but he decided not to scream or struggle. It was so disorienting, their firm holds on his upper arms and the soft warmth of their motherly breasts rubbing up against him as they walked.
He had been to Sharina's office only once before, for nothing more exciting than some forgotten paperwork, but he remembered there had been no milking bench. Today, one had been brought in. The women quickly removed his pyjamas and pushed him face-down on the soft padded surface, positioning his genitals over the opening in the middle and his head over the end, supported with cushions on bars at the forehead and chin. They had been adjusted precisely for him: no matter how he turned his head he was exquisitely comfortable, even face-down the pads were away from his mouth, nose and eyes, though there was nothing to look at but the grey and blue pattern of the carpet on the floor.
He waited, their strong hands holding his wrists, shoulders and ankles, the skin of their breasts caressing his back and thighs as they leaned over him. He expected warm, lubricated fingers on his still semi-erect penis. Would he try to resist? Could he get hard, the way they were coercing him? But there was only a finger and thumb holding his penis, just steadying it, not attempting to stimulate him.
Then the hands holding his ankles pulled, opening his legs. Other hands pried his arsecheeks apart, fingers massaged lubricant on his tense sphincter. He felt a touch on his backdoor entrance, then felt something begin to push in.
