He pulled up to the parking lot and stepped out of his vehicle, trading the air-conditioned interior for the blistering heat outside. It was the height of summer, yet Roy still wore his trademark Santa hat. He felt naked without it.
Six stories comprised the imposing building; its gray, undecorated walls nearly devoid of windows gave it a stark appearance of imposing authority over the patch of nowhere it sat in the middle of. At its blue door stood a lanky otter in denim overalls and brown work boots.
“Morning,” greeted Roy as he approached the otter with an extended hand. “You must be Otis Holt.”
The otter scowled. “That’s Mr. Holt to you, polar bear.”
“Roy, if you please,”
“Right.” Otis hastily shook his hand. “What’s with the hat? Isn’t it a little too early for Christmas?”
“I like the hat.”
“Sure…” He rolled his eyes and spun around on his heel to face the door. “Let’s get you to work.” In his mind, no further pleasantries were needed.
Frowning, the bear followed him inside.
Stepping through that door was akin to traversing a portal to a different world, one where the atmosphere was composed of a thick miasma of vaporized sweat accompanied by the constant sound of chugging pumps and muffled moans of every pitch, amplitude and length imaginable. One would think that, in Roy’s line of work, he would get used to it eventually, yet he did not.
Past the entrance was a short corridor with a door on either side and a bifurcation near the end.
“We got Canines on the right and vulpines on the left,” Explained Otis, “Up ahead we have hyenas, Mustelidae and Procyonidae. Six floors total filled with livestock.” There was a subtle hint of pride in his tone.
“And the reservoir?”
“In the basement.”
“Excellent. Let’s have a look at the canines first.”
He opened the door to his right, revealing a large room filled with dogs, wolves, jackals, and coyotes of every shape and size - all males, all muzzled and tied by their wrists and ankles to metallic chairs bolted onto the floor. Every single one kept an erection which was tended to by milking machines tirelessly chugging away. Two separate tubes connected to the machines: a clear, thin one that routed the liquid yield of each male’s ejaculations to a temporary reservoir at the end of the room and a black, thicker tube which connected to a central pump and provided oscillating air pressure inside each of the milkers resulting in a consistent stroking motion from knot to tip.
Roy scanned the room, peering at each of the milked males. Many were clothed, to his surprise. Most semen farmers stripped their livestock of their clothes as soon as they got them.
Gray wolf, Border Collie, German Shepard… Siberian Husky!
The husky seemed close to orgasm, clenching his eyes shut in preparation for the involuntary ejaculation that he knew was coming. When it eventually hit, his overworked bone managed only to produce a meager amount which was immediately sucked away into the reservoir with its unwilling donor being left to squirm in the throes of post-orgasm sensitivity.
Jackal, African wild dog, red wolf, coyote…
He nodded in acknowledgement to no one in particular and left the room just before the pump forced out the husky’s next orgasm.
“Is every room set up the same?”
“Pretty much. I bulk-bought the chairs and the milkers from another farm at their bankruptcy auction. Rigged the central pump myself,” explained Otis. “Milking time lasts at least sixteen hours a day with breaks for feeding and washing - got some farm hands to take care of that.”
“How many?”
“Eh… A dozen or so. I forget.”
“You don’t know how many people you’ve got on payroll?”
Otis shrugged. “Few enough that they don’t make too much of a dent in my finances.”
“And yet you’re underperforming.”
“These damn cum cows are underperforming!”
“And why is that?”
“That’s what I’m paying you to find out, bear!”
Roy’s growing frustration was starting to show. “For the last time before I turn around and leave this place: my name is Roy.”
“Fine. Roy.”
It was starting to become painfully obvious to him why this place was underperforming. Still, he was nothing but thorough, and thoroughness demanded that he examined the whole building before jumping to conclusions. He said: “Show me around, Mr. Holt. I want to see the rest of the livestock.”
Before moving on to the next floor, he took a peek at the vulpines chamber to find an assortment of foxes bound, muzzled and milked in the same manner as the canines.
Red fox, fennec fox, arctic fox…
The second floor housed felines, bats, horses, rhinos and bears. In fact, among the ursine cum cows there was a specimen who was rather similar to Roy himself. It might’ve even noticed the similar-looking polar bear enter the room if only his soul wasn’t being sucked out of him through his cock via repeated forced orgasms. The floor above that was divided in two main sections, one of them held the farm’s lagomorphs and rodents while the other held dinosaurs and elephants for which the chairs had been reinforced to compensate for these males’ above-average strength. One particularly large T-Rex was practically encased in straps, and even then, his chair bucked intensely his impressively-sized length was mechanically stroked against his will.
*Mountain lion, velociraptor, Clydesdale… *
The fourth floor was of particular interest to Roy. Besides an impressive selection of reptiles such as crocodiles, iguanas, snakes, salamanders and a veritable selection of dragons, there was a special chamber containing every creature of which there was only one or two specimens of their particular species. There was a minotaur, a sergal, a synth, a gorilla, and another smaller, hairless ape - a human.
Silverback gorilla, wyvern, caiman…
As he closed the door of the special creature’s chamber, and before heading to the fifth and final floor, he dared to compliment Otis on what was, truly, one of the most varied and well-rounded farms he had seen in his years.
“I must admit that your livestock is rather impressive.”
The otter smiled smugly, making Roy immediately regret his words of praise. “Oh, you ain’t seen nothing yet. I keep my prize cows upstairs.”
Most of the fifth floor was allocated for office space and other employee faculties, but to the left of the stairs there was an unassuming door that led to the final chamber. Otis placed his hand on the door handle but stopped himself to flash that queasily smug grin of his.
“Before we go in, let me ask you this… How many farms have you been to that had sharks?”
Roy’s eyes damn near popped out of his skull.
“You have a shark?”
The otter grinned. “Not *a *shark…”
He opened the door.
What lay inside delighted the polar bear. No less than twelve sharks of all shapes and sizes, tightly strapped down and milked for every last drop of their ludicrously valuable seed. A salty fragrance permeated the air of that chamber - faintly reminiscent of the smell of sea breeze - very different from the intense musk that wafted around every other chamber where tired, sweaty men were physically and emotionally exercised all day every day. The interior also looked different… warmer and more… livable - at least in relation to the other chambers. Roy deducted that this room might’ve not been intended to be used as a milking chamber at all.
He stood there flabbergasted as the sweat-slick skin of those hunky men glistened in the artificial lights while the milkers dutifully chugged away at their painfully oversensitive cocks. It was beautiful.
The farm was undeniably impressive. Six floors’ worth of bound men having their seed forcefully extracted was nothing short of fantastical for any sexual sadist or otherwise entrepreneurial cum dealer. Which is why it was so strange that most of these men were, in fact, not naked. As Roy had observed, many of them were fully clothed and simply had their pants down to expose their genitals for the milker.
“Alright, I think I’ve seen enough,” the bear declared as he forced himself to exit the chamber. “How long have you been running this place?”
“Couple o’ months,” Otis said, frowning as if somehow annoyed by that question. “Spend a shit load o’ cash on the building and the livestock.”
“And how’s the yield?”
“Ten… twenty percent below projections. Not terrible by itself not good either if I want to make any sort of decent return on investment. The sharks alone burned a huge hole in my finances… Not to mention staff and livestock maintenance…”
“Was it any better at some point?”
“Used to be when I started out. But for some reason the yield keeps declining. I don’t know why but these fuckers keep producing less and less every month. I’ve tried increasing the pump’s power, feeding them stronger aphrodisiacs, even had my staff milk some of them by hand. Nothing works!”
Again, farm’s central issue became obvious to the bear, and it (or he, rather) was standing right in front of him. An inexperienced owner with unrealistic expectations who spent way too much and was in way over his head. But, somehow, he had a feeling that it would be tough to get through to the otter.
“Let’s discuss your methods, then. You mentioned milking time lasted sixteen hours every day?”
“Yup. With few breaks in between. After the normal sixteen hours are up, they get extra milking time if they didn’t meet their daily quotas. Then they can rest.”
“I noticed you milk everyone equally - why don’t you use different stimuli for each different cow?”
Otis shrugged. “They all have dicks that work the same. You stroke them for long enough and they cum. At least mine works that way…”
The otter’s lack of experience was painfully obvious. “That’s how it works when it’s you jerking off on a Friday night - not when you’re hooked up to a milking machine for sixteen hours straight. Stimulus variety is crucial for production - if all you do is stroke their dicks non-stop then they’ll become numb to that. I’d say that’s probably the main reason your yield keeps dropping.”
“Well, how the fuck was I supposed to know that?”
The otter was really starting to get on Roy’s nerves. Even still, he kept his composure.
“Alright, calm down. I know how to get your cows to produce more. It’s rather simple really… But before we get on with that, I have one more question.”
“Yeah?”
“Why are they wearing clothes?”
The question seemed to catch Otis off-guard, like it was something he had never given any real thought to before. “Why not? Should they be naked?”
“Preferably.”
“Why?”
“…You do realize men have erogenous areas other than their genitals, right?”
“Where?”
The otter really was clueless. Either that or he simply didn’t care. Both possibilities pissed off Roy equally.
“It’s easier if I show you.”
He turned and reentered the shark chamber, picking one of the males at random - a bulky tiger shark who was wearing an old t-shirt, beach shorts and flip flops. The shorts rested halfway down his legs to expose his slightly curved length for the milker. He knelt down in front of the shark and took off one of his flip-flops, baring one of his feet, webbed toes twitching in tandem with the milker’s movements. The shark didn’t seem to notice, such was the effect of the milking-induced stupor he was in. Then, Roy took a small brush out of his pocket and set it on the shark’s smooth sole, dragging it in circles.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Stimulating him.”
“You’re tickling him.”
“Precisely.”
“What could you possibly hope to achieve with that?!”
Roy didn’t have to answer that himself. The shark answered for him as he stirred from his stupor. The foot wiggled and a toothy smile appeared under his muzzle.
Roy smiled. He’d found a good one.
He broadened his brush strokes and gauged the shark’s reactions as he touched different parts of his sole. The center was nice and hot, the heel not so much, but not entirely dead either. The strongest reactions lay around the webbed toes and on the webbing itself. Yes, that was it! Roy bent back the three, bulbous digits and unleashed an all-out tickle attack on those sensitive webbings. The poor shark threw his head back in laughter as the sensations injected new life into his previously dormant muscles.
Otis looked on, incredulous, as he noticed the shark displaying all the tell-tale signs of an imminent orgasm. *It **can’t **be, *the otter thought. But his disbelief was soon replaced with amazement as the shark gave a mighty thrust upwards and fed the hungry milker an unexpectedly large load.
Satisfied, Roy ceased tickling the foot and left the shark squirm in his bonds.
“There we go,” he said as he slipped the brush back into his pocket.
Otis stood in silent disbelief for a second before speaking.
“What the fuck just happened?”
“Picture this,” Roy began. “You’re strapped down and milked for days on end. It was hard to fight it at first but now your dick is kind of numb so you can resist for a lot longer. Now if you had some other sensation to take your mind off the milker on your dick… Say, someone using a brush on your ticklish feet, for instance. Now that’d make it a whole lot harder not to cum… Get it?”
“I guess that makes some sense… But tickling? Really? Why not just shove a butt plug up their ass or something like that?”
“You could, but there’s no guarantee that’ll work. Plus, plugs are intrusive and that’s not always practical. Trust me, I’ve been doing this for years and tickling is by far the best method.” He forced his very best salesman smile. “It’s fine if you don’t want my help but I should tell you I got cum farmers from all over chomping at the bit to book me and my services.”
It seemed ridiculous but the proof was undeniable - whether it was as Roy described or not, tickling did seem to aid in forcing the shark to reach climax much earlier than he would’ve otherwise.
“Alright. S’pose we go through with this. What next? Do I have to start making the rounds with a feather in hand, tickling everyone’s feet till they cum?”
“Ha! No, that would be ridiculous! We automate that part. When we get there, anyway… There’s still some prep work to do until then.”
“Like what?”
“Like testing. Lots and lots of testing. I got lucky with our shark friend here but he might not have responded well to tickling. Or, worse yet, he might not have been ticklish at all!”
“So, what if some of my cum cows aren’t ticklish?”
“Patience, Otis. We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” Roy smirked and threw an arm over the otter’s shoulder. He flashed the salesman smile again. “Just need to go over some paperwork and then we’ll tickle some feet!”
Despite his many questions, Otis decided to follow along for now - the memory of that shark being made to reach climax by a small foot tickling session still fresh in his mind. The bear left and returned a minute later with a briefcase and a sheet of paper. A contract. Standard-looking stuff, Otis thought. He signed his name and handed the document back to the bear.
“That was quick,” remarked Roy with a raised eyebrow. “Did you even look at my price?”
“Nah, that’s time better spent pumping up the yields. Besides, if this whole thing really works then I’ll pay you whatever you want. And you can do whatever you want to my cows - tickle them, beat them, fucking electrocute them for all I care. So long as they cum, I couldn’t care less.”
Roy shrugged. “As you wish, Mr. Holt - but tickling will be plenty, I assure you. No need to be that cruel to them.”
They headed back down to the ground floor and entered the canine chamber. Roy threw the briefcase open on the ground, revealing a neatly arranged collection of brushes of various shapes and sizes from which he selected two - a wide one with dense but soft bristles and a smaller one with longer, straw-like fronds which he handed to Otis.
They got to work.
“Hey there, puppy,” he said as he approached the quivering husky. “Are your feet ticklish?” The poor dog’s heavy-lidded eyes tore open at the mention of the word ticklish. He screamed into his muzzle as the bear undid the laces of his sneakers and slipped them off his socked paws. A few pokes and scratches through the damp, white fabric was all it took to make the dog give in prematurely to the milker. Satisfied, Roy jotted down the results of the test on his notepad. The husky was more than ready to spend the rest of his stay at the farm being tickle-milked!
Meanwhile, Otis wasn’t faring quite as well with his first test - no matter how hard he brushed the snarling jackal’s bare feet, he would simply not yield to the milker! No sooner than he usually did, anyway. He gave up and moved on to the red wolf next to the jackal, and this time he was able to make him cum after a few seconds of brushing his paw-pads - and so was the case with the white wolf, the German Shepard and the jackal. When they left the room, every male had been left barefoot, catching their breath after having their feet tickled and (in some cases) having to deal with the consequences of the orgasm caused by that.
The vulpines were next. Roy performed most of the tests while Otis busied himself with a particularly stubborn (and large-footed) arctic fox who he was sure he could force to orgasm if only he brushed underneath the toes a certain way.
He could not.
The next chamber’s soon-to-be-tickled cum cows were of the procyonid variety. Raccoons, red pandas, raccoon dogs and other long-toed critters, few of which could resist the combination of being milked and tickled at the same time. The impromptu duo of ticklers paid special attention the toes which revealed themselves to be common weak spots of their plantigrade peds.
True to their name, the hyenas laughed up a storm. Shrill giggles and ear-splitting screams echoed in the relatively small chamber as five spotted hyenas, two striped hyenas and an aardwolf were relieved of their footwear and introduced to the feeling of brushes on their soles.
Not one could resist the milker.
They cleared the two remaining chambers on the ground floor with a mild headache from the hyenas’ screaming laughter.
Both rooms contained mustelids of different kinds. Roy took the one with the ferrets, the weasels, the stoats and the skunks while Otis got the badgers, the wolverines and (somewhat ironically) the otters. Most of the men in Roy’s chamber succumbed to the tickling while few in Otis’ did. He was starting to wonder if he was simply not skilled as a tickler until he was faced with a pair of webbed feet belonging to a river otter and realized he was keenly aware of the most sensitive spots on those wide soles: the webs themselves.
Onto the next floor, they maintained their strategy of splitting up as Roy took to the bears and the perissodactyls while Otis was tasked with the bats and the felines.
He took a kind of sadistic pleasure in tormenting his own kind. While unsupervised by the otter, he spent unnecessary (if enjoyable) extra time exploring the feet of every Grizzly, Panda, Andean, Black, Brown and Polar bear regardless of if the test had already yielded its intended result and any further tickling was a mere waste of time. He feasted upon that smorgasbord of bare bear feet to the soothing symphony of roaring laughter emanating from the feline chamber where he guessed Otis was raining down ticklish hell upon a pair of lion, tiger or perhaps cougar feet.
In reality, the sounds were produced by a small tabby cat whose soft soles were being brushed with the ire of a thousand indebted semen farmers while the rest of the felines in the chamber looked on with their ears glued to their scalps, dreading their turn with toes curled.
Perissodactyl is a misleading term. It literally translates to “odd” and “toe” and is used to denote a family of species comprised of ungulates - hoofed creatures. Yet, as he bared the feet of the dozen-or-so horses, donkeys, zebras and rhinos, none of them exhibited even a hint of the same type foot as their feral counterparts. Large feet with broad soles, high arches and five toes were the norm for all - as was their explosive sensitivity. Unfortunately for Roy, most showed above-average stamina and few gave in to the milker no matter how vigorously he brushed their soles. He left the chamber somewhat disappointed but just in time to beat Otis who had just wrapped up testing the bats. It turns out that their supersonic laughter is beyond the hearing range of polar bears.
Otis was put in charge of the abundance of large-footed bulls, bison, sheep, goats, buffalos, deer, elk, moose and reindeer that made up the larger half of the third floor while Roy evaluated the remaining hippos, orcas, koalas, opossums, and kangaroos. Some came, some did not, all of them were left barefoot and out of breath.
The floor after that is where both ticklers ditched the brushes for their natural tickle tools. Roy went straight to the dinosaur chamber and used his tongue to sample the goods, starting from the velociraptor’s slender soles and ending with the T-Rex’s gargantuan stompers.
Meanwhile, Otis bared the feet of his impressive collection of lagomorphic cum cows before running his pointy claws along their soles. Surprisingly, no bunny, rabbit or hare could resist the milker for longer than five seconds while having their hypersensitive feet toyed with. Roy was halfway through the dinosaur chamber when Otis came out of the lagomorph’s and went into the elephant’s.
They cleared most of the penultimate floor in the same manner they’d cleared the previous ones - by splitting up and working on separate groups of males. Roy took the dragons, crocodiles and alligators while Otis claimed the amphibians, snakes and lizards - but, for the final chamber, they joined forces once again.
“Am I doing this right?” Otis said as he attempted to scratch the metallic soles of a synth who only gave him a puzzled look in response.
“Not sure. Synths are weird. Might have to look into its instruction manual for the foot sensitivity setting,” replied Roy as he fought with a gorilla’s toes for access to his sole.
“Is that even a thing?”
Roy shrugged. “I don’t know, I’m not a synth expert. We’ll put him under not ticklish’ for now. Move onto the next one.”
He planted a long lick beneath the gorilla’s toes and observed as the ape surrendered his load to the milker. Satisfied, he moved on to the human next to the gorilla, removing the man’s sneakers and licking his smooth sole in the same manner he had done the gorilla’s. Meanwhile Otis had found success tickling a sergal’s long toes.
For the final chamber - the shark chamber - they skipped the first shark Roy had experimented on and tested only his brothers in bonds, ensuring they each got a taste of what he went through.
After a tiring day of work, they had in their possession a detailed list of every male’s response to tickling in relation to how soon it made them orgasm.
They stood outside the farm as the sun set beneath the horizon as Roy studied his notepad.
“Well, the good news is that most of them are ticklish enough for the enhanced milking methods.”
“And the other ones?”
“Those need a bit more work,” Roy shoved the notepad in the pocket of his shorts and took a deep breath. “I’ll have my people bring the new collection pods tomorrow morning and we can get your people to start setting them up.”
“Wait. Pods? What’s wrong with the chairs?”
“Remember how I said we’d need to automate the tickling? That’s what the pods are for.” There was excitement in Roy’s voice as he explained his favorite part of the whole farm enhancement process. “Just like you don’t want to be jerking off every cow by hand, you also don’t want to be tickling everyone’s feet personally. The pods will.”
Otis sighed and crossed his arms. It was surprise after surprise with this bear.
“Fine. I hope this works.”
“It will, Mr. Holt,” smirked Roy in a very un-salesman-like manner. “It always works.”
The first shipment of pods arrived early the next day - two truckloads of them, to be precise. Otis’ staff worked through the morning to move the large apparatuses inside and begin setting them up while the livestock was given its first day off in a long, long time. They cleared out the milking chambers in the ground floor, removing the chairs and replacing them with stacks of pods.
Each pod was just big enough to hold a person lying down on it, and the interior was lined with comfortable, water-proof memory foam padding that was easy to clean or replace. Over the padding was a standardized restraint system comprised of adjustable faux-leather cuffs for the arms and legs, with mounting points for additional straps if need be. On the end of it there were two holes that functioned as ankle stocks and allowed the subject’s feet to poke through to the outside of the pod, where a set of toe-ties and an extensive array of automatic tickle tools and optional attachments awaited them. Below where the subject’s heels would rest, there was a small control unit with an LCD panel that displayed information about the person contained within.
After they finished plastering the first chamber wall-to-wall with stacks of empty pods, two burly men dressed in plaid shirts brought the first cum cow to its new working area.
The red panda gazed upon the rows upon rows of vacant pods, terrified. He wondered what the twin holes on each of them were for, but guessed he wouldn’t have to wonder for much longer.
A button was pressed on one of the pods, causing the inner portion to fully slide out, revealing the extensive restrain system. The red panda’s heartbeat accelerated as he was forced to lay down on the pod and strapped in. The end panel opened like a pair of stocks to accommodate his feet before being snapping shut. The milker was placed over his cock and connected to a collection port on the inside of the pod. Before closing the pod, they fitted an electronic collar around the red panda’s neck which contained a plethora of sensors with the purpose of transmitting his vital sign information. With that, they pushed him in, effectively shutting him inside the wall of pods with nothing but his wide feet poking out.
As per Roy’s instructions, his toes were tied back and mechanical arm attachments with pointy claws were used. Ten tiny, metallic claws digging into the exposed soles of the red panda, driving him insane as the milker collected an unprecedented quantity of seed in mere minutes.
He was the first of many.
By the end of the first hour, most of the marsupial population had been transferred into the pods and suffered the same claw treatment on their soles, forming eight (!) floor to ceiling walls of feet divided between the two dedicated marsupial chambers, all being relentlessly tickled for their seed.
While the staff took care of filling the remaining chambers on the ground floor with pods (and populating them with canines, vulpines, and hyenas), Roy and Otis occupied the basement where they prepared to work on the subjects who were not yet ready for their new lives inside the pods.
“So how long will this take?” Otis asked, curiously eyeing the large table covered in straps.
“That depends,” Roy replied as he set the control unit of the milking machine on the floor beside the recliner. “We’ve got forty-six total subjects who need to be trained. Each one could take between a few minutes to a couple of hours, so I’d say we got a couple days’ worth of work ahead of us.”
Otis groaned. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Isn’t there any way to speed this up?”
“Do you want do it fast or right?”
The otter leaned against a shelf filled with the cumulative semen deposits produced by each chamber and noticed that the marsupials had markedly increased their output that morning. He sighed.
“Fine,” he said, straightening himself. “We’ll do it your way, but when we’re through I want these fuckers nutting like there’s no tomorrow.'
The first subject in line was a tall, well-built Arabian horse. He arrived wearing a muzzle, a blindfold and a pair of earmuffs.
With the help of the staff, they worked the hulking equine into the table and strapped him down. Roy examined his feet. They were large - even for a horse. His toes curled shyly in preparation for the ticklish torment that he knew was sure to befall them. But, to the horse’s surprise, Roy didn’t tickle them. Not yet, anyway. Instead, the bear slipped a rubber ring down his cock before fitting the milker over it.
The horse huffed and whinnied as he was quickly brought close to release. The mere minutes since he’d been disconnected from his usual milker and taken down to the basement to be hooked up to another one was long enough to make him pent up once more, as if it was all his body knew how to do. After all, horses were among the farm’s most productive livestock.
With quivering hips, he steeled himself for the oncoming burst of pleasure only to find it taken from him as the milker halted.
Just as the machine stopped administering stimuli, Roy began dishing out his own in the form of quick strokes of a harsh horse brush to the Arabian’s soles, driving him ballistic. Otis merely looked on as the bear did what he does best. The basement echoed with muffled laughter and the sound of squeaking straps until Roy decided the horse had had enough and re-enabled the milker, not even allowing the poor mess of a man time to catch his breath before being overloaded with pleasure once again.
“I see what you’re doing,” said Otis, “You’re trying to teach him to associate tickling with pleasure, right?”
“Close! I’m trying to teach him to cum from having his feet tickled alone. The cock ring measures how close he is to orgasm and tells the milker to turn off just as he’s about to cum - once he’s at that point I tickle his feet. We keep going until that bit of foot tickling is enough to push him over the edge while his dick gets nothing.”
“So, you give them no choice but to cum from being tickled,” completed Otis.
“Right-o! Either they cum from it or they don’t cum at all!” The milker shut off once again and Roy took over. “It’s also a great way to find out the best way to tickle them. For instance, horsey boy here really hates it when I brush his soles up and down like this.” He illustrated his words by quickly dragging the brush from the horse’s heel to toes several times, throwing him into shrieking laughter and manic struggling. “In fact, if I can keep doing this long enough, I’m sure he’ll-” As if on cue, the horse finally gave in, surrendering his load to the milker with nothing but the feeling of the brushes on his feet. “Yeah, that.” Roy said, stepping back.
“Ha! Look at that! This little fucker will make me a lot of moolah,” the otter said as he stroked the horse’s quivering thigh. “Who’s next on the list?”
“A rhino, but we’re not done with this one yet.”
Otis cocked an eyebrow “Why not?”
“Can’t expect the lesson to stick with a single orgasm. We’ll need to make him cum a few more times before he’s ready for the pod.”
And so, they did.
The Arabian wasn’t let go until they were sure without a shadow of a doubt that he was ready (eager, even) to donate as much of his precious semen as possible from having his long soles tickled for the rest of his days at the farm - and when they did release him, they did so into the custody of the staff who guided him to his new permanent home with instructions to set it up to tickle him the way he hated the most. And as the horse went out, the rhino went in to undergo the same agonizing treatment.
Roy and Otis spent the next few days in that basement, “treating” each and every under-performing cum cow until they were up to the collection pod’s standards, at which point they would be transferred to one. Permanently.
On the first day, they had already made numerous observations that would be of use to tune each man’s pod for maximum stimulation - such as the fact that rough soles like rhino’s or elephant’s benefited from being cleaned and oiled prior to a tickle session and that dragons could not cope with cold things on their naturally warm soles.
Over the course of that week, the staff worked tirelessly to fill the pods with occupants, working from the ground floor’s dogs, foxes and hyenas to the last few floors’ crocs, lizards and sharks. Each time they approached the entrance to the basement they could hear a different man’s desperate moans and muffled laughter echoing from it as Roy and Otis worked around the clock to train them for the pods.
Some were ready in minutes while others who were either too stubborn or not ticklish enough required multiple sessions and additional conditioning until they could be brought to orgasm with foot tickles. The final specimen left before their week-long endeavor came to an end was none other than the synth which they thankfully found easy to reprogram. Literally. They hooked the poor robo-lizard up to Otis’ laptop and messed about with his settings until he was screaming from a simple feather sawing between his toes. It was almost disappointingly quick, and he was the last of the batch, so Roy decided to keep him down in the basement for a bit longer as a reward for himself for a job well-done. If synths could cry, this one surely would have.
By then, every last cum cow was in its pod. Laughing. Cumming.
Endless pairs of ticklish feet covered every chamber from wall to wall - each enduring their own highly customized torment while the men they belonged to unwillingly donated their seed, unable to resist the overwhelming sensations. The soundproof interior ensured their shrieking laughter and desperate cries for help could not be heard from outside the cramped compartment. Most were left unmuzzled except for a few which posed a biting risk to their handlers in the rare occasions on which their pods might be opened. Their new torment proved orders of magnitude more unbearable than the old one, breathing new life into many of them as they did their best to resist, but, one by one, they inevitably fell into the same apathetic acceptance (usually in a matter of hours), offering no resistance, limply allowing their minds to be racked with pleasure and tickling, and their semen to be collected.
Roy paced through the facility, satisfied with another job well done. The pods indicated growing yields from each of the males in tandem with distressed but acceptable physical and mental states. Days of training the cum cows had given him intimate knowledge about their feet which he used to fine-tune the pods to deliver the most intense tickling they possibly could.
In the canine chamber, the various dogs and wolves were treated to buffer brushes that secreted oil and spread it evenly around their impossibly soft paw-pads while giving them a maddening tickle. When every nook and cranny of those paw pads was thoroughly oiled and sensitized beyond their earthly limits, the soft brushes were switched out for much rougher equivalents to brush away at those rows upon rows of husky, wolf, coyote, German Shepard and Border Collie feet until the oil was gone, at which point the soft buffers would administer another coating.
Jackal, African wild dog, red wolf, coyote…
Like the canines, the foxes also started out each tickle session with a generous application of oil over their lithe soles, but instead of the rough brush treatment, they received a constellation of smaller brushes on every nook and cranny of their feet which would cycle between spinning statically against their assigned spots and zigzagging madly for random intervals of time.
The only chamber that actively stress-tested the pods’ soundproofing was the hyena’s, whose bare soles were constantly blasted by high-pressure jets of water. Roy especially enjoyed watching one particular spotted hyena’s toes tremble in fear as the jets approached them, thinking of it as punishment for the headache that that hyena’s screeching screams had given him a just few days ago.
Red fox, spotted hyena, aardwolf…
All the badgers, ferrets, weasels, otters and wolverines within the pods of the mustelid chambers received the fake tongue treatment on their feet, tickling and pleasuring them in equal amounts while the raccoons, red pandas and tanukis in the procyonid chamber dealt with an array of purpose made, plastic tools of various bothersome shapes poking and prodding at their soles.
For the majority of all felines, the lightest touches to their feet were enough to drive them insane, so for each leopard, tiger, lion, jaguar and domestic cat, high-intensity bullet vibrators were lodged between their toes and fixated with rubber bands that squeezed them between the sensitive beans, only coming off whenever either Roy or one of the staff members desired to get hands-on with them. Given that the state-of-the-art life support system inside the pods handled most of the livestock’s earthly needs, this made the staff a lot less occupied, meaning that they could busy themselves with what mattered most - making sure every drop of cum was tickled out of the livestock. Whenever a cow’s yield dropped below its desired value, the staff would personally override the pod’s controls and try a number of things on the male in order to get him producing again. One such example was a large grizzly bear that had no less than three staff members brushing and scratching his huge feet while trying different milking patterns.
Mountain lion, black panther, grizzly bear…
Just as he’d observed during his training of the Arabian, horses were especially susceptible to the very same brushes used to groom their coats, and so were rhinos after having their rough soles exfoliated and oiled. The procyonid chamber was a particularly productive one.
The bats received the standard feather treatment. It was more than enough to wring out supersonic laughter and powerful ejaculations from the poor mammals.
Rather ironically, the implement used to tickle the bovid’s feet was none other than the veritable cattle prod. But instead of painful electric shocks, these small prods were tuned to deliver small, tingly jolts that directly triggered the nerves on the soles of the feet, resulting in an unbearable tickling that bypassed any and all skin resistance.
*Fruit bat, Appaloosa, Alpine goat… *
Kangaroos, rabbits, rodents and other large-footed marsupials enjoyed (read: endured) a mix of metal claws and spiky pinwheels on their long feet. The staff quickly found out that additional leg restraints were a necessity for the kickers among these subjects.
During their testing, Roy and Otis could not find a common weak point shared by all of the facilities dinosaurs, so each subject of that variety received their own specialized torment. The large-footed T-Rex’s toes were heavily secured and polished by rollers of coarse fibers while the much more tender-footed Velociraptors received the feather roller treatment. All other dinosaurs lay somewhere in between.
The elephants had the roughest soles among all subjects, so their pods gave them a near- constant, sole smoothing pedicure that sensitized and tickled their huge, meaty feet in equal measure with everything from pumice stones to water jets. A less intense version of the elephants’ program was applied to the crocodilians whose feet, although rough, were a lot more sensitive right off the bat.
Chinchilla, Spinosaurus, caiman…
The dragon chamber was highly varied with each subject being physically very distinct from the next. Regardless, their kind all shared a crippling weakness to cold things on touching their warm soles. Big and broad or small and slender… it didn’t matter. No dragon paw could cope with a frozen feather or a cold pinwheel. The same was true with their slightly less magical reptilian counterparts.
By far the most diverse chamber was that of the special creatures.
The previously not ticklish synth was now being driven insane by a set of lasers aimed at his feet that emitted a frequency which his synthetic skin had been reprogrammed to interpret as maddening tickles - though on any other living being it would be fully imperceptible. A gorilla had had his long toes imprisoned in purpose made cuffs lined with vibrating bristles, tickling them while preventing them to curl over the center of his soles which were tended to by a large, circular brush. Similarly, the human’s toes had been tied back and his entire soles oiled in preparation for an endless torment of plastic-bristled hairbrushes. The minotaur received a throughout brushing on his feet while the sergal’s were plastered with electrodes that delivered ticklish jolts of electricity.
Blue drake, monitor lizard, eastern sergal…
Roy smiled gleefully as he hopped upstairs to the last floor and into the shark chamber. At the end of the rows of tickled shark feet, he found Otis in front of the soles of the same shark he’d demonstrated his methods on.
“Who’s a ticklish little sharky? ~” the otter cooed as traced a feather around the male’s toes, seemingly unaware of Roy’s presence.
“Enjoying yourself?”
Otis calmly stood up and faced the polar bear, unfazed. “To an extent,” He adjusted his denim overalls. “Yield is over 300% up from last week and rising! I must say I was skeptical but you sure delivered.” He strained to throw an arm around Roy’s shoulder - a gesture of apparent friendship that the polar bear regarded as wholly uncharacteristic and even a little alarming.
“Erh… Right, thank you,” he shimmied away from the otter and cleared his throat. “I ran some projections and we should cross 400% sometime this month. Keep ’em healthy and keep ’em stimulated and they’ll produce for you,”
“Right, the staff seem to love the changes too. Caught two of them getting a bit too hands-on with a reindeer - if you know what I mean.”
“You could always give them a day or two inside the pods,” Roy smirked. “We have plenty to spare.”
“Ha! Now that doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” he laughed. “Anyhow, I guess you’re leaving now, huh?”
Roy nodded. “Just need to go over the payment and I’ll be on my way.”
“Right. How much do I owe you?” The bear presented him with a sealed envelope, which he tore open with his claw to remove the folded paper contained within. “Huh… W-what?”
“Something the matter, Mr. Holt?”
The otter swallowed nervously. His good spirits replaced by nervous fidgeting as he read and re-read the paper in hopes that that might somehow remove a couple zeroes from the number printed in bold.
“I… I can’t pay this. Not now, at least. Can you give me a couple of months? With how much my yield is going up I’m sure I’ll be able to pay you back in… three months?”
As if on cue, Roy pulled up another sheet of paper carrying both their signatures. The contract. He pointed to a specific line.
“Mind reading this here?”
He did, and he was not happy. “Y-you’re going to take over my farm?!”
“Only until you can pay me back. Keep reading.”
Otis’ pupils shrunk to pinholes as he finished reading the clause. He was shaking - scared and flustered.
“I… I can’t do this. I-I mean, my staff would never-”
“I warned you to read the whole thing. You may choose not to go through with this, but then you’re legally obligated to give me the farm. Forever.”
He wanted to punch the bear square in the face - better yet, to throw him in with the other males in the ursine chamber and profit off of forcing him to cum for the rest of his life… but, sadly for him, he couldn’t. He read over the contract clause again and cursed himself for not reading through the whole thing before signing it. He handed it back to Roy, defeated.
“So?” asked the bear.
“…When do we start?”
They were back at the basement where the table was still set up surrounded ever filling containers of semen. Otis’ boots and overalls lay discarded next to it as Roy fastened the last strap binding the naked otter to the table. Otis squirmed uncomfortably, now painfully aware of the dread his cum cows felt as they were brought to the basement one-by-one. He winced as Roy began gently massaging his webbed feet.
“Are you ticklish, Mr. Holt?”
He didn’t answer; couldn’t answer.
“You’re not going to tell me? That’s okay. You can show me instead.” he swiped a claw across the otter’s arch and observed him flinch. “Oh, you’re ticklish alright! I can already tell you’re going to be a great cum cow! Let’s hook up the milker, shall we?”
Otis panicked.
“Please! Look, I promise I’ll pay you back in three- No, two months! If I don’t, you can have the farm, just please don’t put me in with them!”
“Too late for that,” Roy said as he slid the monitor ring down Otis’ semi-erect length before enclosing it within the milking sleeve. “Should’ve read the contract. If it’s any motivation, the more you cum, the faster I can sell it off to cover your debt. So be a good cum cow and don’t resist.”
He was going to say something but was cut off by the feeling of the milker coming to life. He had never noticed up until now that it self-lubricated. Come to think of it, Roy never lubed any of the subjects before milking them on the table…
It started slow. No more than a gentle caress of his meat to coax it to reach its full length. Though he was still apprehensive, Otis dared to relax and allow himself to take in some of the pleasure. He knew it wouldn’t last long. The milker accelerated to a rhythmic pumping that he knew would not result in release, oxymoronically filling him with excitement and dread. He’d been on the giving end of too many of these training sessions to be oblivious to what comes next.
Sure enough, just as the first contractions of his pelvic floor muscles came about, they were detected by the monitor ring, killing the milker, and with it the pleasure. At that height of pre-orgasmic arousal, the gentle breeze from the basement’s AC felt like a powerful blizzard to the otter’s skin.
One could only imagine how Roy’s brush would feel on his feet.
He screamed before he laughed. Just as the tickling began, every fiber of his being fought for it to end. He tried begging, not because he thought it would work but because there was nothing else that he could do.
Roy smiled wickedly. “I don’t think so. I want you to laugh and cum like a good cum cow. In fact, I’ll make you the very best cum cow!”
Otis’ orgasm didn’t take long to hit. He understood Roy’s words about men’s erogenous areas, now. When he was on edge, sensations like those he felt on his feet were very easily interpreted as sexual in nature.
Of course, one orgasm wasn’t enough…
The staff took well to the temporary change of membership with some even inquiring about having a go at their old boss. Roy obliged, of course.
Otis’ personal collection pod was on the last floor, set up on a table just outside the shark chamber. Contrary to every other male, the instruments tickling him changed constantly. Like all otters, the thin webbing between his long toes proved to be his most sensitive spots, and as such were the subject of constant abuse from either the pod’s automated tools, Roy, or any of the staff members that felt like giving their old boss a piece of their mind.
Inside the pod, there was a camera/microphone combo that captured his useless pleading and streamed it to the display on the end of the pod.
Otis seamed to oscillate between empty threats and promises of good behavior and a quick payment. Of course, Roy was getting all the payment he wanted at that very moment as he ran his tongue over the poor otter’s toes. He could practically taste the man’s crumbling ego.
In addition to all the extra “niceties” he benefited from, Otis also got the honor of testing a new experimental milker that brushed his cock head as it stroked him. This increased his already significant yield by around 20%. Roy had already ordered them en masse, and when they arrived, all males at the farm would have their cocks tickled in addition to their feet.
“Who’s a good little cum cow?” Roy teased over the pod’s intercom.
“Fuhuhuck yohohou!”
“That’s not very nice. I think you’ve earned yourself another hour with the water jets.”
“No! No, please, I’m sohohorry!”
“I’m going to take a walk around the farm. Don’t worry, you won’t get lonely. The staff will keep you company. I heard some of them are dying to have a little chat with you. Something to do with late payments or something like that…”
He left as the staff eagerly set up the jets.
To no one’s surprise, it turned out that the farm was staffed entirely by the kinds of perverts who got off on forcing other men to cum against their will - and with Roy’s takeover and subsequent lifting of many restrictions Otis had in place, it wasn’t uncommon to see members of staff pleasuring themselves while indulging in quite literally every type of foot and penis imaginable. The polar bear had no qualms about this as long as they still fulfilled their duties - and the ones who didn’t quickly became familiar with the interior of the pods.
As weeks went by, both the livestock and the staff became more accustomed to the new modus operandi. None of the cum cows put up any sort of fight anymore beyond their unconscious physical reactions to being tickled, with many having actually begun to enjoy the process.
The farm turned out to be quite the breeding ground for hopeless tickle sluts.
The rough-soled elephants and crocodilians no longer required daily pedicures as their feet were already the softest that they could possibly be and a simple feather teasing their toes was often all it took to make them shoot their loads.
With the rollout of the new tickle-milkers, some adaptations had to be made for the canines whose knotted cocks provided a much more sensitive spot than the tip. Neither dog nor wolf could resist getting their swollen knot squeezed and stroked by soft brushes without immediately turning in to a whimpering puppy (albeit a very happy whimpering puppy).
The dragon’s routine now started with an intense heat blast to their soles from purpose-built space heaters, making it even more unbearable when the cold tools touched them.
The synth now had the company of another dozen or so of its kind along with four protogens that had all been reprogrammed to be as sensitive to that one specific frequency of light as possible.
Among the new acquisitions, Roy counted orcs, minotaurs, sergals, sharks, birds, exotic dragons and a borzoi; and plans were in course to build an annex to the farm to house all the new and upcoming subjects. An annex that was sure to be the first of many, at the rate that he had been purchasing new cum cows.
By all accounts, Roy’s new farm was quickly becoming the industry’s best.
But even with all this growth, no matter how many cum cows he bought, his favorite remained the little otter on the table on the fifth floor.
He unlocked Otis’ pod and partially slid out the compartment where the otter lay, tied and milked for days on end. Physically, he looked okay given the circumstances. The pod’s state of the art life support system included an all-in-one cleaning system that ran once every day, keep the occupant within at least semi-presentable at all times.
Mentally, it was a different story…
“How are you feeling, Mr. Holt?”
“G-Good cum cow! I’m a goohood c-cum cohohow!”
“Excellent.”
Roy slid the poor, mind-broken otter back in and planted a long lick on each quivering sole before taking his trusty brush in one hand and his rock-hard cock in the other.
It had been six months.
The farm had made enough profit to cover Otis’ debt a long time ago, but Roy figured rescinding back ownership of the farm with the otter in his current state would be plain irresponsible.
Perhaps after a few months of this he will have regained enough of his mental faculties to run the farm again.
Until then, Otis Holt was just another cum cow.