Station 713
“Didja catch the latest Gladiators’ episode last night?” Clay asked, leaning against the examination table with his forearm. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the sound of low vibration and labored breathing.
Walter looked up from his work with a sour expression. He had a face like a very sad bulldog, with jowls sporting thick grey mutton-chops. “Feh. The first season was the only real season. Everything since has been dull repetition or failed attempts to ‘jazz it up.’” Walter failed to mention that his TV had not worked for the last three weeks and he could not be bothered to replace it. The job, working out, and Joann kept him busy anyways.
“Well there isn’t anything else on to watch.” The younger man responded defensively. The sticky flow was starting to get thin so he inflated the insert a bit more and adjusted the angle, earning a gasp followed by a whimpering. He checked the flow again - another fifteen minutes or so and it would run dry. “There we go. He was holding out on me. Trying to save a little something for later.” Clay ruffled his hair playfully.
“You shouldn’t be at home watching that TV anyways.” From his tone and posture, Walter was getting on his soapbox again. Clay made an exaggerated show of rolling his eyes, knowing that it would only goad the older man on more. “People! Relationships! Scenery! You need to get out and do things before you end up tired and full of regret.”
“Like you?”
“Like me!” Walter liked to think he was Clay’s dad, that his advice mattered, and that Clay would listen.
“Then I’d better get cracking right now!” Clay made a mock show of turning and walking for the exit-door. “Shit!”
Without his hand to hold it in place, the insert was forced out with a squelching noise - a stream of lubricant trickling down onto the table. Walter had to leap forward comically to catch the device before it fell onto the floor.
“Fuckin’ numbnuts!” He cussed.
“What, it’s not gunna break…”
“That’s not the point. We’ve got flack before for not deflating the insert before removing it. Some owners are super anal about stretching.”
Clay wanted to snicker at Walter’s word choice but quickly decided that it would not be received well at this time. So he apologized, turned off the massager, deflated it, inserted it, inflated it again, and turned it back on.
They’d worked this station together for a year now, longer than anyone else had expected them to. Walter was Clay’s elder by twenty-two years but somehow the two of them managed to be good friends. Walter was old-fashioned but had experience and a lot of stories. Clay was jovial and a bit of a prankster.
[big reveal, needs something more in here]
Both men stood in silence for a time, leaving the droning of the massager and the yapoo’s panting breaths as the only sound. Clay knew they were nearing the end when the teen they stood over tensed up and tried to squirm away out of his restraints, whining noisily. He was running dry and the sensation from the massager on his abused prostate had become a sensory overload.
Clay deflated the prostate massager. With a motion he had practiced over and over daily, he slipped the whole device out of the boy, who sighed loudly with relief. “Do they want us to dry climax him to make sure he’s on empty?”
This draw a pitiable look from the yapoo who undoubtedly had not been given a proper climax in months, if not longer. The milking station simply provided him with frustration and (as though it were possible) an increased level of salaciousness.
Walter looked at the work order. “Just a standard milking.” And then turning to the youth, “No happy ending for you, buddy.” He said in that special tone that was reserved for pets, the infirm, and children. “Cage him up and move him out. I’ll go see if there are any more.
“We might be able to make it home early for a change.” Clay motioned for the yapoo to roll over on his back. The boy obliged, tucking his hands up against his chest and parting his legs much in the way a dog would. Though he acquiesced, Clay could see the pleading look. This yapoo would suck his dick, let him fuck him against the wall, do anything he wanted, just as long as he got an end to the frustration.
They all gave him that look when it was time for the chastity cage to go back on.
Clay had been here long enough to know better. Though that did not mean that he wasn’t tempted every time. He found that putting their cages on quickly was the best way to escape losing his job. A quick slap to his balls immediately softened the yapoo’s raging erection enough that he could be forced into the small, tight-fitting device.
With that, he helped the teen down off of the table to the floor and led him to the exit. There would be an owner or a handler there waiting for him. The milking station was the last stop in a yapoo’s visit to the salon. Prior to arriving at Walter and Clay’s door the youth had already been cleaned inside and out, groomed, shaved, waxed, painted, dyed, and any number of a long list of other optional services.
No sooner had Clay ushered the first yapoo out, than Walter returned from the opposite entrance with another. “Someone dumped a lot of cash on this one.” Walter observed. Padding on the floor next to him, at a well-trained distance, was a gorgeous yapoo.
[description]
“Oh yea?”
Clay stood by the exit door and watched as Walter lead the yapoo over to the examination table and hefted him up onto its surface with a single arm wrapped under his lean abdomen. He was always stupefied by the money that their clients had to spend on what amounted to a living sex toy. By comparison he had more in common than the human cattle that he was paid to work with than with their owners.
“Seminal vesicle and testicle propagators.” The bigger man was reading off of the work order’s notes. “Prostate augment. Erogenous infusions. Vibrator implants. Urethral contractor. Self-lubricating colon. The fuck…”
“Jesus. That’s an expensive toy.”
“That’s a horny toy.”
[some more dialog, descriptions]
The boy issued a low, needy moan as Clay eased the insert into the youth’s colon. Sweat was already beading on his back and in his hair, which now clung wetly to his scalp lending him an even more sensual appearance.
“This has got to be a test.” Shaking his head, Clay said,. “Nobody gets a yapoo like this and then sends it to a milking station! They want to see if we fuck up and accidentally get him off or something.”
Walter nodded sullenly. He was starting to think the same. But why subterfuge? Had there been complaints? It was not like they were involved in trade secrets or banking or a profession which merited something like that.