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On the day of his 20th birthday, Rupert receives an official letter in the post from the Department of International Census Keeping. D.I.C.K, for short.

Like all males his age, he has been automatically enrolled into the Government's nationwide scheme for determining the fertility of the population. He is to make an appointment at the earliest opportunity with his local GP. There he will have his vital statistics noted, blood and semen samples taken, and then he'll be sent home with a registration form containing a questionnaire to fill in at home.

Please fill in the boxes.

What is the approximate length (in inches) of your erect penis? [15]

What is its girth? Please measure around the midpoint of the shaft while erect. [12]

The questions they ask make him blush, but he supposes it's all part of the Census. They need to know how many males reach maturity each year, and how many of those are physically able to statistically maintain the population's replacement rate.

On average, how many times a day do you masturbate? [4]

With births skewing toward a steady 90% female for at least the past 150 years, fertile males find themselves in incredibly high demand these days. His mother had explained some of this when he was younger, of course. She took care to impress upon him how important he was, how there would be questions asked and tests performed in his future. That he would be obligated to comply, but it wouldn't be as scary as it all sounded.

"In fact, most males end up enjoying the process very much," she had said, with a strange twinkle in her eye that suggested she knew far more than she was letting on.

Using a measuring cup, measure the amount of semen produced on your first ejaculation of the day. [212 cc]

Well, he was young then. He knows more about it all now, as an adult. The subject was difficult to avoid, especially as his body developed through adolescence and it became clear he was to be endowed with a rare physical gift, one that brought both envy and mockery throughout his school years.

But a lot of what happens during these mandated tests still remains a mystery to him. All he knows for sure is that if he doesn't prove fertile enough for the Government's liking, he won't receive any of the benefits afforded to so-called 'Breed Stock' males.

After all, society has little use for a male who can't sire children.

Please tick the response that you identify with the most.

I've never had a spontaneous erection. [ ]

I sometimes get spontaneous erections. [ ]

I often get spontaneous erections. [/]

I get spontaneous erections so often that I have to masturbate frequently for health reasons. [ ]

It doesn't help that his cock is, by all measurements, on the larger side of enormous. His libido, similarly, seems to have gotten stuck in overdrive ever since his adolescence. An uncommon side-effect of the low male birth rate, or so a doctor once told him. Sometimes, a male is born with an abnormally huge phallus, as if Mother Nature herself is overcompensating for the global shortage of dick. As if somehow being bigger means more people get to use it.

Well, nobody said evolution was smart.

And just because he has a big dick, that doesn't mean he's any more fertile than the next male--a fact that's been causing him some anxiety lately. By law, no male is allowed to impregnate a female until his fertility status has been officially confirmed. It's all very tightly controlled, and though he's had a few short-term mates over the years, he's never allowed himself to break the golden rule.

If he does turn out to be infertile, he would become an overnight pariah. He's seen it happen before: One of his school friends, Jake, a muscular bull a year older than him, had a cock that was almost (but not quite) as big as his. He got tested on his 20th birthday, just like everyone else, and was found to be utterly sterile--shooting nothing but blanks.

And oh, the names he was called. Friends and family alike turned their backs on him, his treatment was beyond cruel. What a waste of a good cock, they'd said, and how dare he be so selfish as to wield that monster between his legs and not even know how to use it? As if the poor ox had any choice in the matter!

Rupert hasn't seen or heard from Jake in months, not since he left town to escape the constant harassment from people who had discovered his status. Not that such information is difficult to find; it gets stamped onto every piece of ID, from the moment the test is completed. Fertility Rating: Breed Stock, Typical, Low, None.

Please specify your sexual orientation.

Asexual [ ]

Straight [/]

Bisexual [ ]

Gay [ ]

Other (Please specify) [_______]

Rupert finishes the questionnaire, seals it in the same envelope the government letter arrived in, and sends it away to be evaluated.

Fourteen days later, the results are given over the phone.

"Your fertility status tested 'Low', with a statistically insignificant 0.03% margin of error. You can of course request to be tested again, but I'm afraid the chances of the result being significantly higher is... virtually nil. You have our deepest sympathies."

Rupert takes the news badly, not leaving his house or answering the phone for a full week, terrified of what his family will think of him when they find out.

---

Eventually, the message arrives in person.

Rupert isn't even aware that an official D.I.C.K representative has come to see him, not until his mother tentatively knocks on his bedroom door, interrupting his daily existential staring-out-the-window.

"Dear, someone is here to see you. It's about your... status," she calls.

"Tell them to go away."

He would rather wither away in bed, jerking himself into oblivion, than speak to anyone. Especially about that. Why can't they just leave him alone? It's not like anyone cares about the cum he's wasting. Not like it's good for anything.

The door opens and the rep enters despite him. He looks over to find a sandy-brown Lioness of average height, around 8ft in shallow heels, closing the door behind her. She wears a pencil skirt and form-fitting suit jacket, and her full breasts stretch the fabric of her button-up blouse to its limit, dwarfing the size of her head several times over. Her ass is of a similar size, firm and round and tightly bundled under her skirt.

She stands for a moment, passively taking in the mess of his room that he can't even bring himself to feel embarrassed about; soiled plates and cups and wrappers strewn across his desk, dirty laundry stacked in the corner. The place must smell foul to her. The stench of depression, of self-pity.

Of Low.

"Hello, Rupert," she says, smiling politely from beneath a pair of square-rimmed glasses. "My name's <something>."

He looks at her, but can't bring himself to smile back.

Unperturbed, she steps closer to sit on the edge of his unmade bed, her breasts bouncing a little as she moves. The low angle gives him a generous view of her cleavage, and--dammit--he feels a stir of interest in his groin. It really has become that easy, lately. Irony upon ironies.

"I'll cut to the chase," she says, manicured fingers delving into the depths of the crevice between her boobs and somehow finding a small pamphlet hidden there. "We have a special program designed for the study and potential treatment of males whose fertility status tests in the lower ranges. You represent the perfect candidate for several of our latest trials. I'd like to invite you to take part."

She holds out the paper, but Rupert's mind barely registers it, hung up on the image of her hand as it disappeared between the pressing of her skin. It's impossible to not imagine his cock being wedged between those ample breasts, fucking up to meet her plump, painted lips. Not just a stirring, now; he's getting hard, and at the worst possible time.

"Uh, you want me to do... what? More tests?" He folds his paws across his lap in a poor attempt at concealing himself. With a cock as large as his, it's impossible to hide. He can only squirm uncomfortably in his seat as his loose-fitting pajama pants begin to visibly grow tighter.

"I'm sorry, but I don't see the point. It's not gonna change anything. I'm just..."

To her credit, the Lioness steals only a momentary glance between his legs. Then her gaze is fixed back on his face, carefully neutral, professional. She stands then, tail twitching with some hidden intent, and crosses the room to stand over him. The sudden waft of her perfume makes him feel giddy.

"Even a Low-cummer like you can still contribute to society," she says, not quite managing to keep the distaste out of her tone. "The least you could do for your fellow male-kind is to contribute to our scientific understanding of the condition."

"I don't see what you could possibly learn from me," he says, feeling suddenly vulnerable with her towering over him like this. The close scent of her (female, mature, fertile, fertile female, fuckable female) has his cock responding enthusiastically, clueless that it won't be getting anywhere near her cunt today. Or ever. He shakes his head, trying to clear it; he can't think straight with an erection. It steals too much blood away from his upper half.

"Disclosing that sort of information would invalidate the results of the tests." She bends over and places her arms on the back of his chair, framing him on either side. Her face draws close, her voice dipping low, almost resulting in a purr that makes Rupert's belly roil with arousal. "Rest assured, the data will be invaluable. And, for your cooperation, you will be adequately compensated."

He's not sure what to make of that. She's probably talking about money, but the way she's staring at him now, dark-eyed, positively predatory, is putting all kinds of filthy alternatives in his mind. Her tongue curls out over her lips, wetting them, and oh, that can't have been deliberate. Could it? Was that deliberate?

Maybe she's got a kink for this, he wonders. Maybe she enjoys the feeling of superiority she gets from making males like him feel oh-so-inadequate. Well, he can't say that it isn't working. But a big part of him--a very big, very swollen and trapped part of him--doesn't care one whit for how he might feel emotionally about it. For all his straining cock cares, she could ride him and look down her nose at him and give herself as many orgasms impaled on him as she pleases; as long as he got to cum deep into that damp, squeezing heat at least once, he could die happy.

His thoughts must be written all over his face, because she straightens suddenly, putting distance between them. Giving him room to breathe, or--Or perhaps, seeing that look on a Low fills her with pity, or disgust. Either way, he can't help but still be painfully, desperately aroused by it.

"Well then, should I pen you in for an appointment?" Tanya asks, her tone cool and businesslike, but Rupert could swear her eyes are still considerably darkened. "You can always back out later, if you want to. Not that you will want. For anything."

It has to be deliberate. There's no way she isn't getting off on this, on watching his cheeks flush and his pants swell at the promise of... whatever it is she's promising. He doesn't have the brainpower right now to figure out whether her teasing is real or merely a figment of his over-aroused imagination, but either way, his cock is the one in the driver's seat now.

He's taking the pamphlet and putting his signature in the little box before his brain has a chance to catch up to proceedings, to question why anyone would have this kind of interest in a Low like him, and then she's bidding him goodbye and closing the door behind her, and his hands have shoved his pajama bottoms down and freed the swollen purple weight of his cock in record time.

Rupert ignores the lick of shame that twists in his gut as he starts jerking himself to the mental image of his erect phallus fucking between the Lioness's heaving tits. It's disappointingly quick, chafing without lube, and he forgets to put anything in the way of the trajectory of his spurts when he cums.

He spends the next hour cleaning the stains off of the ceiling, carpet, and the TV screen 5ft away.

---

Rupert's first appointment at the clinic is on Monday, 10am.

He isn't sure what to expect, so he takes extra long in the shower making sure every part of him is inspection-worthy. He figures he might also have to get undressed while there, so he throws on a simple grey t-shirt and baggy pants for easy removal, but also takes with him a canvas jacket to keep warm. Spring is just around the corner, but the air outside is still chilly, and it wouldn't do him any favors to catch a cold now.

The bus deposits him outside the city hospital's main entrance with plenty of time to find his way to the correct department. He hurries inside into the warm, conditioned air.

Reception is a bright and welcoming place: Lily-yellow walls, shiny laminate floors, potted ferns in the corners giving the place a splash of verdant green. Like all hospitals, it smells faintly of antiseptic handwash atop a distant layer of vomit and stale coffee. He approaches the check-in desk and has to stand on his toes to see the receptionist sitting behind it.

He clears his throat. "Rupert Arctos."

"One moment, please," the young woman, a rabbit with smartly folded-back ears, responds.

He feels so out of place here. He's not sick or injured. He doesn't have cancer, he isn't dying. And yet, he does belong; he knows it as soon as he sees the look that comes over the lady's face the moment she finds his name on her spreadsheet. Her hazel eyes widen and she looks up from her screen, a face full of pity.

"You poor thing. Head for the east ward and follow the signs," she tells him, and he goes before she has a chance to say anything that would make him feel even worse.

The signs lead him through a maze of corridors and eventually into a small, square waiting room. He's the only one here. There are rows of cushioned seats neatly arranged across the room, and a low table in the corner is stacked with various magazines for passing time. The walls are mercifully bare; no flyers about erectile dysfunction, low sperm count, or whatever other reason one might find themselves here. Taking a seat, he lets out a shaky sigh. He feels sick with nerves. Maybe this was a bad idea. He could still change his mind, it's not like anyone would stop him from leaving.

Before he can seriously consider the idea, a buzzer sounds and his name is called over some kind of intercom speaker. A green light blinks to life over a set of metallic double-doors at the front of the room, and he hears a click, as if something came unlocked. His stomach swoops. This is it, then. Too late to back out now.

The doors give way with a gentle push and he heads down the sterile corridor beyond.

---

"Welcome, Mr. Arctos. If you would just take off your clothes and take a seat, we can get started right away."

"Oh, o-okay." Straight to business, then. Rupert swallows thickly and begins lifting off his t-shirt, eyes darting around the claustrophobic little room. There's a desk and chair in the corner with a computer underneath. Cupboards lining the far wall. A metal sink is tucked into the corner. Various display monitors are fixed to the wall to his left.

The mouse, Dr Morgan Williams, according to the nametag on her crisp white coat, regards him with a sort of detached interest while he strips in front of her. She's tall, like most women, with big, finely groomed ears and light brown fur that looks luxuriously soft. Her coat is buttoned beneath her voluptuous bust, giving her breasts room to swell out and sit atop it, like two giant beach balls barely contained by her shirt and what he supposes must be a bra hidden underneath for added support.

After pushing down his pants, he glances behind him for the seat she mentioned. The only thing that might qualify as a 'seat', besides her own, is a tall, thickly-padded contraption that looks for all intents and purposes like a dentist chair. He moves to hop up onto it (or rather, vault, it's a bit high off the ground), but a polite cough from the mouse stops him.

"Those too," she says pointedly, referring to his snugly-fitting briefs.

"Oh, yeah, of course. Sorry." He tries not to think about it as he shucks the XXL-sized underwear. The mouse flashes him a cheery smile and jots something down on her clipboard.

Rupert perches tentatively on the chair-thing, legs and bare scrotum dangling immodestly off the side, and waits.

"Now, then. Today's just going to be a couple very easy procedures to get some baseline readings. We're not going to give you any sort of medication just yet. I want you to be relaxed, but alert enough to answer questions. So don't go falling asleep on me on that comfy chair, okay?" she winks.

Rupert chuckles politely. Relax? He has no idea how to. "So, umm... These tests, what do I..."

"Just sit still for me. There we go. Now, let's see it." Without a hint of shame, the mouse ducks down to inspect the impressive member hanging flaccid between his legs, viewing it from this angle and that angle, humming appreciatively to herself as she does. "So, this is why you're so heavy for such a little man," she says, shooting him a coy wink.

Rupert feels his ears turn pink, but silently allows the inspection. He prepared for this, after all.

The touch of her hand almost makes him jump out of his skin.

"Sensitive, are you?" She laughs.

"No, I... I just wasn't expecting--"

"Because I'll warn you right now, there's going to be quite a lot of contact."

"It's fine, your hand, it... it was just cold, that's all."

Her laughter is like a peal of bells. "That's the doctor's curse, I'm afraid," she giggles. "We all have cold hands. But not to worry." She presses a button on the padded chair and the back begins to lower with a soft, mechanical hum. "I'll be sure to get them nice and warmed up for you."

He's too busy feeling mortified by his reaction to comprehend her meaning.

The chair stretches out beneath him until it's more a horizontal bed, and the doctor pats the easy-clean pleather material, a silent instruction to lie down. Rupert obeys, uncertain how to feel. He hopes this 'contact' isn't going to hurt much. The material feels cold through his bare fur, especially where his heavy balls sit resting on it between his thighs.

The mouse attaches some sort of clip to one of his fingers, then begins reciting his vitals into a hand-held recorder. "Subject: Rupert Arctos. Age: Twenty-one. Brown bear. Height: Five-foot, four inches. Weight: 169 pounds. The time is ten twenty-one a.m. Test B-1 will commence now."

Rupert's heart rate spikes. A quiet beeping from one of the nearby monitors matches its speed. The mouse approaches the chair and smiles down at him. "Relax," she coaxes, and then begins to stroke her hands through his chest fur.

And, that's... quite relaxing, actually. He always has liked having his chest stroked like this. She's a genius. Well, she is a doctor. Her hands draw lazy circles through his fur, their path spiralling down to his abdomen. Her other hand settles on top of his head, fingers spreading through his hair and massaging his scalp.

"All good?" Morgan asks, still smiling. Rupert proffers a soppy smile of his own.

"Feels nice."

"That's great. You just keep telling me how it feels, okay?" Her fingers circle lower, brushing delicately through the thicker fur of his navel. She leans over him slightly, and Rupert feels her heavy breasts come to rest on his arm. She doesn't seem to notice. He tries not to think of their warmth, or the way they mould to the shape of him like soft putty, but then he steals a glance and can see right inside the gap between two of her shirt buttons, and--

Oh. She isn't wearing a bra, in fact. Those tiny plastic buttons are all that's keeping everything in place. And they're doing a heroic job of it, but if only one of them were to pop open, the full volume of her tits would explode out in front of his face like a pair of inflatable life preservers.

She isn't touching him anywhere sensitive. But his body seems to think otherwise, and that, combined with the runaway mental image of her breasts suddenly smothering him with their weight sends his pulse soaring and makes his cock twitch noticeably.

The mouse abruptly steps away and snatches up the voice recorder. "Test B-1 Result: First visible sign of arousal to non-stimulating physical contact, achieved in one minute, thirteen seconds. Subject is highly touch-sensitive."

"Um... Sorry," Rupert offers, anxious. Did he do something wrong? Did he already fuck up?

She returns and reaches under the chair to unfold a pair of metal stirrups, which lock into place. His legs are placed into them, feet lightly secured under velcro straps. The position leaves him shamelessly splayed out, his cock and balls on display like a tasty roast on a buffet table. One that, without a word of explanation, the mouse climbs onto and straddles.

Shuffling forward, she ends up sitting between his legs with her thighs mere centimeters away from his furless sac, her skirt having ridden up to accommodate. He can't see underneath it from this angle, but he can feel the heat of her. It's blazing, almost as if...

No, surely not. She has to be wearing underwear, right? Almost certainly. There's no way.

He squeezes his eyes shut. This is about to become highly embarrassing, if he can't stop his mind wandering like this.

"Give me just a minute," she says, her hands hidden somewhere beneath her. Exactly a minute later, he feels them gently cupping his balls. "Not too cold, I hope?"

To his credit, Rupert doesn't startle again. But her hands are warm this time, and she sets to work massaging his scrotum, rolling it around between her palms, lifting it and squeezing his balls together. She hasn't told him whether or not he's supposed to be aroused by this, but he finds he can't help it; this is one of the most intimate positions he's ever been in, and her slender hands are sending glorious spikes of pleasure through his nerves. Heat pools in his abdomen and spreads deliciously up to his cock, which is already starting to fatten up in front of her.

The beeping in the distance quickens again.

The mouse continues all the same, not seeming to mind his very obvious reaction to the procedure. She could just be being polite, he thinks, but that thought is demolished the moment her hands slide up to his shaft and begin massaging him there instead. Not accidental, then. Fuck. This is definitely what's supposed to happen.

But knowing that doesn't make it any easier to relax, because now even more questions are tumbling through his mind, chief of which being: Is she going to make me cum like this? Here, in her office, with her sitting right in front of me, watching every spurt as it happens?

He finds the idea helplessly arousing. A full-body shudder runs through him before he can stop it.

"Feeling good?" the mouse asks. He peers down the length of himself and meets her gaze. Her eyes are half-lidded, lips spread into a smile that seems almost cheeky. "It doesn't take much, with you, does it?"

He isn't sure if she means to compliment him, or something else. "Uhh, it's been a while since... I'm sorry, if I shouldn't be..."

"You must stop apologizing, Rupert," she says, cutting him off. "This is exactly what I'm after."

His head falls back against the padded chair. God, maybe she does want to watch him cum. Is this still part of the procedure? Either way, his cock is more than fine with this. Her hands move further up, circling his head, thumbs meeting in the middle to press and rub against his frenulum, and oh fuck, that felt almost too good. A groan escapes his lips, despite all his efforts to remain quiet.

"Ahh, I see," the Doctor muses, and does it again, pressing her thumbs into the soft wrinkle of skin tucked just underneath his glans, and the resulting bolt of pleasure makes Rupert's toes curl and his lungs rattle with another deep moan.

Her fingers have become slick. It takes him a moment to realise why, but he catches sight of another thick bead of pre-ejaculate as it spills from the tip of his member. The doctor swipes her fingers through it and spreads it all over his cock, head and shaft alike, until it glistens obscenely under the fluorescent office lights.

"I hadn't anticipated your size," Morgan says, her voice fuzzy through the haze of his arousal. "We thought you might have been telling a lie on the questionnaire. Many men do, to cover their insecurities. So I may have to use my mouth as well. Is that okay with you?"

Is that okay?? The question alone threatens to tip him over the edge. He can only nod enthusiastically and watch her amused expression, before it dips down behind the stiff column of his cock, and--

"Uhn!" he gasps, his head hitting the seat at the first electrifying touch of her tongue against his skin.

Her breath is hot as her tongue glides over the slick surface of his shaft, and Rupert loses the ability to see straight. Her hands clamp around the base of his cock and squeeze it up and down, letting her mouth drift further upwards, plump lips sucking and kissing along his length as she goes.

His heart is pounding as if he were running a marathon, and his breaths have turned ragged. But he might as well have been asleep, compared to how much faster his pulse climbs when her lips wrap over the tip of his cockhead and give it an intense, heavenly slurp. He throws an arm over his mouth and mutters an expletive. This isn't going to take long, not long at all, and he doesn't know whether to panic or be ecstatic at the thought of being brought off like this in a doctor's office.

He can't believe this is happening.

When they had first invited him here, he had pictured maybe being asked to take a cup and masturbate in some quiet, private closet. They'd discuss treatments, he'd drink some foul-tasting medicine, and then they'd send home with a diary or something to jot down his bodily functions. Never would he have imagined he'd be laid spread-eagle with the doctor's hands around his cock and her mouth sucking at the tip.

His cock is far too large to fit inside her mouth, unfortunately, but that doesn't stop her making a valiant effort of it. With a bit of finesse, she manages to squeeze a generous portion of his glans past her jaw, pressing it against her soft palate while her tongue glides and flutters underneath. The sensation is utterly overwhelming. It takes all his willpower to keep his hips from fucking up into her, desperate to slide further back into the tightness of her throat. He's aware that he's making quite a lot of noise, and he has no idea how long that's been happening, but his entire world has narrowed to a single point of light and heat; his cock, her mouth, her hands, his balls, swelling and tightening, pelvic muscles twitching, pressure inexorably rising. He thinks he should warn her. If she intends for him to cum in his mouth--

"I'm... Careful, there's... It'll be a lot," he tries, a pathetic effort, his brain refusing to string together the words. But she seems to catch his meaning anyway. Another hard suck brings him so close that, for an alarming moment, he thinks she's going to ignore him and try to swallow it down anyway.

But while the thought is still hurtling through his mind, she pulls off, and suddenly there's something cool and tight being squeezes over his length, and he just manages to catch sight of what appears to be some kind of clear plastic tube enveloping him from root to tip. And then a switch is flicked, and the tube begins a rhythmic suctioning, and his stomach clenches with the first pulse of an orgasm that strangles a cry from his lungs.

The thing sucks at him relentlessly, hard enough to milk the load straight out of his balls, pulse after thick pulse of cum swallowed away through the tube, and his muscles struggle to keep up with the unreasonable demand. It seems to go on forever, the sheer power of it dragging him over higher and higher peaks, squeezing the air out of his lungs and not letting go, even when his body has nothing left to give and his cock is pulsing dry into the tube. It quickly becomes too much, too much sensation, too bright and too sharp. His eyes fly open, locking with his doctor's, pleading at her.

She draws him out another ten agonizing seconds, before flicking off the switch and finally, mercifully, letting him go boneless on the chair.

When she speaks, he can barely hear her over the rush of blood returning to his ears. "Very good. You responded perfectly. Thank you, Mr. Arctos."

Rupert swallows, unwilling to open his eyes just yet. He's not sure if he could ever look her in the eye again. That was... Jesus. More intense than he imagined it would be. He's going to be thinking about nothing else for days.

At some point she dismounted the chair without him noticing, and his clothes are dropped onto his stomach. Morgan picks up her recorder on her way out of the room. "Feel free to get yourself dressed if you want, I'll be back in a moment. We're done with testing for today, but I'm going to write you a prescription that we'd like you to start talking. Okay?"

"Okay," he responds, still breathless. He didn't miss that sneaky 'if you want' in there. He sits up and begins fumbling with his shirt.

He wonders what the point of all that was. Not that he didn't enjoy it immensely, but wouldn't it have been easier to just give him a cup and a dirty magazine?

He's fully clothed again by the time the doctor returns. She hands him a packet of pills and instructs him to take one in the mornings and one before bed. His next appointment is in two weeks. "Bring a snack," she says, enigmatically. "You'll be here a while."

He nods and takes the packet before leaving the office, feeling considerably lighter on his feet.

All told, if this is a taste of more to come, he finds he doesn't have any complaints.

---

He's been getting real thirsty lately. Must be the pills.

He forgot to note it in his log, but he'll just tell Morgan about it when he gets to the clinic. He's a lot less apprehensive today. As expected, the image of his cock stretching the perky doctor's lips wide apart hasn't left his mind for more than a few seconds. If today ends up anything like last time, he's going to need every drop from the bottle of spring water he brought with him.

The waiting room is empty again. He barely has time to sit down before his name is called and the doors unlock. He makes his way down the corridor to the office he was at before and sees Morgan waiting expectantly outside it.

"Morning, Mr. Arctos," Morgan greets cheerily. "Ready for today's testing?"

"I think so," he replies. "Same as before?"

"Not at all," she laughs, and beckons him inside.

"The pills made my skin itchy for a few days, but it's better now," he says as they enter, but his words die in his throat when he sees they aren't alone in the office. Another doctor is present, female, physically much the same build as her mouse colleague but considerably larger overall. Her tail is much longer and more visibly muscular, and her smooth scales shine mesmerizingly as she turns to meet him.

"Wow... I mean, hi," he says, transfixed by her gorgeously-patterned eyes.

"This is Dr. Ophidian. She'll be in charge today."

"Betty." The snake extends a hand to him. "And I'm always in charge. Don't forget it."

Rupert swallows and shakes her hand. She has a firm handshake, and everything about her screams physical domination. Hoo boy. He's in for it today, isn't he?

"So, before we begin," Morgan continues, "any other side-effects, besides the itching? Have you been using the logbook?"

"Yeah, here it is." Rupert hands over the record of his masturbation habits over the past two weeks. Morgan's eyes scan over it with interest. "Um, I usually... you know, a few times a day, but it's been more often lately, and usually it takes me about an hour in between each... uh..."

The snake, Betty, heaves an impatient sigh. "Don't tell me he's too prude to even talk about it without turning beet-red. Is his status confirmed? For real? Because he doesn't seem at all like a Bre--"

"His status is absolutely confirmed, yes," Morgan cuts in, shooting a warning glare at her colleague. Betty harrumphs, but keeps her mouth shut.

Confused, Rupert glances between them for a few moments before cautiously resuming his report. "So, I've been... masturbating more often, as I said, and each time I do, there's been a lot more, um, semen."

"You can say cum, honey. It's all the same to us," Betty remarks dryly.

"Okay. Well, I eventually gave in trying to contain it, you know, so I've just been cumming into bed linens and clothing, and they end up completely soaked through."

Both doctors' eyes light up with interest at that. Their reaction gives him an odd feeling of pride, as well as a deeper rumbling of arousal. It's all it takes to start giving him an erection, and lately he hasn't been able to stop that once it starts.

Morgan moves to the desk and types something into her computer. "That all sounds within normal parameters."

"Take off your clothes then, Rupert, and we'll get started," Betty adds.

Rupert struggles out of his clothes, his erection making that increasingly difficult to achieve, and when he finally manages to maneuver out of his underwear, Betty's reptilian gaze drops to his cock and stays there. Her long tongue darts out to wet her lips, and--Holy crap, Rupert thinks. Even her tongue looks strong enough to wrap around his shaft and give it a good squeeze. The thought almost makes him whimper.

"On the table," she demands in a low, commanding voice. Rupert's cock responds by spilling a blob of clear fluid down the length of itself.

He might have been embarrassed about that two weeks ago. But he finds he doesn't care so much now. The doctors obviously want to see this, and he's more than happy to impress them, even if he can't think why they care so much. It doesn't matter if he could fill an entire football stadium with his cum. It's the quality that counts, not the quantity.

Morgan finishes typing at the computer and excuses herself from the room, leaving him alone with Betty. He lies down on the padded chair, noticing the stirrups from last time are folded away. His cock rests warm and heavy across his abdomen, pulsing visibly with every heartbeat. He's used to its weight, of course, but the strain it puts on his hips when he's aroused is prone to giving him a backache, so he's glad to be seated for these tests.

Betty peers down at him, her face barely visible beyond the eclipse of her bust. "Today we will be ascertaining the effectiveness of your medication, and making adjustments to the prescription as required. You will need to stay hydrated for the duration. I can offer you an IV, or you can drink from bottled water, if you prefer."

Rupert has never particularly liked needles, and he likes the idea even less in any context involving his erect penis. "If it's all the same, I'd prefer the bottle," he says. Betty nods and pushes the bottle into his hand.

"Then don't drop it," she warns, "because I'm not stopping to pick it up off the damn floor for you."

Rupert suppresses a frown. Of course he won't drop it. What kind of idiot does she think he is?

But then she begins removing her clothes, and Rupert's eyes go wide in shock. She removes her white coat and folds it neatly over Morgan's chair, before popping the buttons of her distressed blouse open one by one. The sight of her bust expanding, bursting free of its confines one ratchet at a time has Rupert crumpling the water bottle in his hand. He wouldn't have thought his cock could any harder, but then the blouse falls away and her braless tits flop out over her chest, golf ball-sized nipples hardening to suckable nubs in the cool office air.

"Don't worry, little bear," she says, noticing his stunned expression. "You'll get a good taste, I promise."

Rupert shudders. Betty turns around and bends over, lifting her tail and slipping her skirt and panties down over her ass, and the view it affords him is positively filthy. His mind has gone blank, all higher reasoning abandoned in favor of just absorbing the sight of her. His mouth won't stop watering.

"There is only one rule today," Betty says as she straightens, fully naked now, and returns to his side. "You are not to hold back. I'm going to ride you like a shire horse and I want you to fuck me like one, do you understand? And when you need to let go, I'd better feel those balls working overtime to fill me up, is that clear? I want you that cock of yours so deep that I taste it in the back of my throat."

"Fucking hell..." Her words alone already have his balls tightening up against him. Perhaps Betty understands how close he is, because in the next instant she's climbing over him and fingering herself open from behind. Rupert shuts his eyes, because he really could cum from the slightest encouragement at this point, but the doctor grabs a fistful of his hair and leans in close to his ear.

"I said: Do not hold back," she hisses, and suddenly her tongue is in his mouth at the same moment his cock is being engulfed in incredible heat.

The water bottle slips from the chair as his hands fly up to grab her ass. The stretch must burn, but she seems to want it, so he pulls her roughly down, letting instinct take over, forgetting all courtesy to her in that overwhelming need to thrust. He chases his pleasure with wild abandon and it takes mere minutes until his muscles tense and his orgasm slams through his body with the force of a jackhammer.

That was horribly, embarrassingly quick. Rupert opens his eyes to find Betty staring at him with an annoyed expression.

"Sorry," he offers sheepishly, "I should've... You didn't even get to..."

"You think we're done? Already?" Her expression shifts and she grins down at him like he's a delicious morsel and she hasn't eaten in days. "Don't you dare bore me, little bear. I told you to fill me up, and you think one-and-done is sufficient? What kind of woman do you take me for?"

Rupert's mouth flaps uselessly. She wants more? But he just...

Oh. He only realises that his cock is still lodged in her ass, hard as stone, when she begins riding him again. And it feels good, not over-stimulating, as if he hadn't cum at all. He's ready to go again. "Incredible," he wonders aloud.

The comment makes her laugh and her body clenches around him. Rupert's mouth falls open and he sets to fucking into her at a leisurely pace, enamored at the dirty sound of her ass cheeks slapping against his thighs. There's a heat deep inside her body where the first load of his cum is trapped, and it's slickening the head of his cock and smoothing its way along his shaft. It feels good, but the loss of friction seems to aggravate her.

"Are you even trying?" she growls. "This isn't a resort, you know. You don't get to just lie there and take it easy."

"S-Sorry," he stammers. He plants his feet on the chair for better leverage and starts thrusting harder, balls bouncing atop the padded seat as he does. The position is uncomfortable, already tiring him out. He can feel beads of sweat running down his temples. But he must be doing something right, because Betty's composure begins to falter, soft moans punctuating every solid snap of his hips.

"Yes, like that... Harder, you fool. I said harder! Fuck me, damn it!"

Panting with exertion, Rupert thrusts his cock as deep as it can reach, all fifteen solid inches pounding into her ass like there's no tomorrow. His thighs are burning, fingers scrabbling for purchase on her sweat-damp scales. His cock is throbbing almost painfully hard to the speed of his riotous heartbeat, and just when he thought it couldn't get better than this, Betty leans down again and lifts one of her giant breasts to his face.

"Suck."

He doesn't need to be told twice. Rupert sucks her enormous nipple into his mouth and groans, low and guttural in his throat. His balls have swollen again, somehow feeling overfull despite having just been emptied. As his second climax rushes up to meet him, Rupert distantly wonders if he might pass out from the exertion.

And then he's there, cumming even harder than before. The nipple slips from his mouth as he cries out, cock pulsing inside her with such shocking intensity that he sees stars behind his eyelids. Betty is moaning loudly somewhere above him, her thighs squeezing either side of his hips while her passage rhythmically milks the hard column of his cock through every earth-shattering wave.

"Don't stop now," she says, a tone of urgency in her breathy voice. "Again! Quickly!"

The last waves of his orgasm haven't even subsided yet, but Rupert dutifully obeys, snapping his hips against her again like a man possessed. Maybe it's just his imagination, but he could swear her belly looks fatter than before. He would never have believed it possible, but he could cum again like this, soon even, and by the sounds of it he's not alone.

"Yes, yes! More, harder, faster!"

His physical limits forgotten, Rupert fucks her with desperate, sloppy movements, his limbs turning numb, his throat parched. He remembers the water bottle and curses having dropped it. Even if he still had it, he doesn't think he could stop long enough to drink. He's already toppling over the edge of another blinding orgasm, shouting, his voice hoarse and broken. His upper body leaves the chair with the force of it exploding through his pelvis, and his face ends up smothered between Betty's heaving tits. His aching balls squirt another half-load of semen into her, the action seeming more difficult now, her body under immense pressure with the sheer volume of his cum already trapped inside.

He must pass out for real then, because he's only distantly aware of himself until another orgasm drags him back to consciousness. It happens twice more: brief, glorious bursts of heat and light and sound, endless rolling waves of pleasure, then sinking back under. Time loses all meaning. Hours might have passed, or days, he doesn't know. Can't find the will to care.

At some point, it stops.

Rupert wakes with a groan. The room feels decidedly colder. Slowly, he peels open his eyes and looks around. He's alone. His hips are no longer being slammed into the seat under the weight of his exceptionally horny doctor. He feels oddly bereft. The clock on the wall suggests he's been here four hours, but how much of that time he spent in the throes of orgasm, and how long he slept after, he couldn't say.

A note sits on his chest and his water bottle has found its way back into his grip. He opts for the water first, downing the entire thing and wincing at the raw pain in his throat.

Next, the note: "The test is concluded. Please collect your new prescription at reception. Next appointment 2 wks. You are not to ejaculate again under any circumstance until your next visit."

His blood runs cold. He can't masturbate for two weeks? At all? That sounds like torture. He doesn't see how that will even be possible.

Dressing himself is an exercise in agony. He can't remember the last time he got any exercise of that intensity. How many times did he climax? Five? Six? He wasn't even awake for some of them. His muscles burn and his groin feels raw and bruised. He hopes he didn't disappoint Betty. She was very... demanding.

Picking up his next pack of pills from the pharmacy, it doesn't escape Rupert's notice that the dosage has been doubled. The revelation makes him lightheaded, and he has to sit down for a while to recover. Later, on his way home, he picks up a 2L bottle of water from a convenience store. It's empty by the time he arrives home.

---

Torture is an apt name for it.

The next 14 days of his life feel like an eternity. He was painfully hard again only thirty minutes after he got home from his last appointment, and there it stubbornly remained all day. He could do nothing about it. Cold showers, squeezing it the base, nothing worked. Jerking off might, but he felt compelled to stick to the rule his doctors set, even if it didn't mean much in the end. He didn't want to disappoint them.

He even tried slapping it, but even pain wasn't a deterrent. The urge to touch himself grew so maddening that he tied his own wrists behind his back with a zip-tie, a move that he regretted almost immediately. Turns out you can't do much for yourself in that position, like eating or washing or changing clothes.

Still, there was no way he could prevent the inevitable. As difficult as it was to fall asleep with his hands tied behind his back and his cock jutting out and leaking over his bedsheets, he did eventually manage to drift off. And he dreamed of Morgan, on her knees, swallowing him whole. And of Betty, standing over her colleague, pressing her boobs into his face, smothering him with them until he couldn't breathe, his lungs spasming for air, the lack of oxygen numbing everything but the feel of his cock plunging ever deeper down Morgan's throat--

He woke in the middle of a thunderous orgasm. Cum shot up onto his pillow in thick strands, landing across his face, squirting against his lips. In his half-asleep daze, he curled down and placed his mouth over his own cock, lapping at it, groaning as the salty taste coated his tongue.

But if he thought that might give him some relief, he was mistaken. The pills had made sure of that: his recovery time was basically non-existent now, and even as the waves of one orgasm faded, the residual sensations teased him inexorably toward another.

He spent the next two weeks trapped in that helpless cycle. His mother, bless her, had to make sure he stayed fed and slaked. It was humiliating, needing her help. Having her see him like this, a quivering, debauched mess. But she seemed to understand the necessity of it, and didn't ask questions. She only stayed in the room long enough to make sure his needs were tended to. And then he would be alone again for long hours, whimpering, thrusting against nothing through feverish nights where dreams mixed with reality.

On the day of his next clinic appointment, Rupert was distraught. He couldn't possibly take the bus this time, not like this. It was his mother who came to the rescue once again. She took him in her car and dropped him off at the hospital, where he got plenty of odd looks from staff and patients alike as he ambled awkwardly through the halls. His massive, unabating erection stood tall beneath his t-shirt, leaving nothing to the imagination.

Finally back in that small, empty waiting room, he breathes a sigh of relief. Privacy, at last. In a moment they'll call him through and take care of him, and this nightmare will end. Or at least, he hopes so. As good as these orgasms feel (and really, he'd never cum so hard in his life as he has been for the past several weeks), his health and hygiene would be suffering if not for his dear old Mom.

When they don't immediately call his name, he sighs and takes a seat.

---

The light over the big grey double-doors flashes green and buzzes loudly, startling Rupert out of his daydream.

He rises automatically, but the voice over the scratchy intercom invites one 'Chester Thornton' through to his appointment. In the seat ahead of him, a muscular timberwolf uncrosses his legs and stands up. The doors swing open with a gentle squeal and he disappears inside, leaving Rupert alone in the waiting room.

He sinks back into his chair, aching and miserable.

It's been hours since he arrived. For the first time since he started coming here, they've kept him waiting long enough to see the room packed with males. The air has never smelled so laden with the scent of testosterone and sweat. He keeps to himself, thankful that at least for the moment he wasn't having more uncontrollable orgasms. He has the handful of thick rubber bands wrapped around the base of his cock to thank for that.

One by one their names are called, until he is the only one remaining. Now the metallic chairs, arranged so orderly when he first arrived, sit askew from the careless comings and goings of their occupants. Magazines have migrated from the low corner table and found themselves scattered about the room, some fallen to the floor, others left open and abandoned on padded seats. The air has cooled, the odor softened. He can hear the ticking of the clock on the wall again. 3:23pm.

Nobody would think that, to look at this innocent little waiting room, it was anything other than a typical GP's office. That through those plain-looking doors, males of all configurations spent hours upon hours fucking and cumming their way through countless procedures, every detail of every ejaculation being recorded and analyzed.

Except, for once, not him.

Have they just... forgotten him?

Surely not. But then... he's not that important to them, is he? Not like a Breeder would be. He's a Low; they invite Lows here more out of society's guilt for their existence than anything else. It would be bad PR if the officials in charge didn't at least pay lip service to helping out unfortunate males like himself. It's a wonder they spent even this much time on him.

Maybe he's already been dismissed from the program, and they just didn't bother to tell him.

The thought scares him. He can't live like this. This is how Breeders live, except they get taken care of by teams of professionals around the clock. Breeders have the perfect life: fucking and breeding while their every need is met. When they're hungry, they eat five star meals. When they're tired, machines take over, keeping them thrusting and cumming through the endless lines of females waiting to receive their seed.

For Breeders, the experience is nothing short of endless bliss. This bastardized version of that ideal almost feels like a mockery. It's as if they're teasing him, making him hate the idea. Maybe that's what they do to Lows like him: turn him off the idea of sex entirely, so he doesn't pollute the gene pool with his poor fertility?

The realization sinks like a heavy stone in his stomach. He wraps his arms around his painful erection and squeezes. He hates this. He hates his stupid, useless, good-for-nothing cock that won't go the fuck soft, for fuck sake. He should just go home and wank himself into oblivion. At least it will feel good for a while, to disobey instructions. Not that they'd care, either way.

Just as he's gathering the courage to leave, the buzzer sounds and a familiar voice calls his name. Rupert sits up in surprise.

Oh. They still... Really?

There's a spark of fresh hope, but it's dim, buried under layers of doubt. He takes a deep, shaky breath. Then with a foreboding sense of finality, heads on through the doors to hear the verdict in person.

---

Morgan meets him outside the usual door. But rather than head inside, she leads him further down the hall, to a much larger room that reminds him of an operating theatre, except there's no dangerous-looking tools laid out for a surgery. No trolleys, no defibrillator. There doesn't appear to be any kind of monitoring equipment, either. The room appears to have been cleared out, and a single, plain hospital bed positioned in the center beneath a series of bright spotlights.

Betty is there. Next to her stands a third doctor, a lioness whose face it takes him a moment to recognize.

"You've met Betty, of course," Morgan says, "and this is our director, Tanya Marula."

Tanya steps forward and shakes Rupert's hand, smiling as she does. "We've met. Good to see you again, Rupert."

Is it? He wonders what she's doing here. In fact, it seems odd that all three of them have brought him into this empty room just to deliver the news that they'll no longer be calling him back.

Morgan quirks an eyebrow at him. "Shall we get started? You look positively ready to burst."

"Really?" he asks, incredulous. "You mean, you still want...? I'm not being dismissed?"

"Oh, little bear," Betty coos, already helping him out of his shirt and pants, "you have no idea what's going on, do you?"

He thought he did. Not so much anymore.

Rupert is stripped in quick order and guided to the bed. He lies down, but finds it difficult to remain still, agitated and painfully horny as he is. When Morgan and Betty both strip off their clothes in front of him, he has to bite his lip so hard it hurts.

Both of them, at the same time? Or will they be taking turns?

Wrong on both counts: Tanya is the one who climbs on top of the bed with him first. He didn't even see her get undressed. He stares up at her, slack-jawed, as she wriggles into a sitting position. Her fur is as gorgeous as he'd imagined, ever since that first afternoon she visited him at his home: all golden-brown, with a wide strip of cream down the middle, breasts and mound included.

"We haven't been entirely honest with you, Rupert," she says, hefting up his throbbing penis with both hands and pressing it to the warm, wet folds of her labia. Rupert shivers at the contact.

"Oh?" he manages, more breath than voice.

"You've been led to believe that you're a Low. That you're here for fertility testing and treatment. That's not actually true."

"Not true?" His eyes dance between all three of them gathered around him. "Then wha--uuuhhn..."

Tanya presses down, forcing her body to accommodate him. He feels it stretching wide for him, the shock of heat and pressure grinding his thoughts to a halt. He would be cumming already if not for the rubber bands.

"You're here because you scored among the top 2% of any male on record in terms of suitability as a Breeder," Morgan explains, her lips suddenly close to his ear. "We've been getting you ready for your new life. When we're done here, the government is going to rehome you at one of our top Mating Houses."

Betty flicks her tongue teasingly against his other ear, her breath warm through his fur. "Technically, you're already ready," she explains, cupping his face with her hand as if he were something precious. "But we wanted the first go at you."

Tanya, having bottomed out on his shaft, lifts herself back up slowly, her cunt squeezing around him as she goes.

"B-But, the others... The other males...?"

"They get given their placebos and sent home again," Morgan says, her hand smoothing through his chest fur. "You're the only one who's been getting special treatment here. Not all Breeders have your physical attributes, you know. The fact that you tick all the boxes is rare enough to put you at the top of everybody's list."

"T-Then... You mean I..." He can barely form the thought, let alone the words. Morgan and Betty laugh, but it's soft and kind, their eyes full of affection.

"So you know what to do," Tanya's voice cuts in from above him. Rupert peers up at the sight of her riding his cock, breasts bouncing with every smack of her ass against his thighs. And he would have, several times over by now, except...

"The bands," he says, embarrassed, reaching down to claw at them. "I-I can't--"

Betty snatches his hand away and pins it above his head. "I think you can manage it with them on. Don't you, Morgan?"

Morgan copies her, pinning his other hand, giggling as she does. "Something has to give eventually, doesn't it?"

Rupert's eyes fly open. But I can't, he thinks desperately. He tied the bands too tight. It was the only way to get to the hospital without the friction of his clothes causing an explosive mess in his Mom's car. But the three doctors aren't giving him any other choice. Tanya's hips slam down hard, again and again, the tip of his cock nudging at the entrance of her cervix, and his balls are so ready to burst he can barely stand it.

He needs to cum, but it's not happening. The pressure of the bands isn't letting him tip over the edge. Betty steals his mouth in a deep kiss, her long tongue wrapping around his own. Meanwhile, Morgan's hands leave his chest, and a moment later he feels them cupping his swollen balls, rubbing them in encouraging circles. Rupert shivers, his moans trapped in his throat, Betty sucking on his tongue while his cock valiantly throbs and twitches against its binds, his muscles wound tighter than piano string.

"Don't you want to fill me up?" Tanya purs, her brow tense with concentration, fingers dancing around her clit. "I need you to cum, Breeder. Cum in me and don't stop until I'm pregnant with the biggest litter a woman can carry!"

"And when you've impregnated her, you'll do the same for us," Betty whispers into his gasping mouth. "You'll father an entire generation. Countless women will feel that wonderful moment when you spill your children inside them."

He lets his mind run away with the image. He wants that life. He wants it so badly, and this is the moment he proves himself worthy to be a Breeder, to have an endless parade of wombs eager to receive his seed. To spend the rest of his life just like this, smothered by milk-laden breasts, listening to the wet slap of skin against skin. He feels an intense series of contractions as Tanya brings herself to orgasm, and somehow, it's enough.

His free hand grips the bed painfully tight as his cock swells impossibly larger. A series of ping! sounds signal the snapping of the rubber bands, and suddenly the pressure is released all at once. Then he's shouting against Betty's lips, pulsing hard against Tanya's cervix, squirting his seed into the deepest part of her and riding the most intense orgasm he's ever felt in his life.

"Yes, that's it!" Tanya cries, still slamming her hips down onto him. "Give me your babies, stuff me full of them!"

As if he has a choice, but he can think of nothing better than this. His balls barely seem to be emptying, even though he can feel thick cum pulsing out of him with every wave, and fucking hell, it's not letting up. It doesn't feel like a single orgasm anymore, but a constant stream of them, each peaking higher than the last. He can barely breathe, can't hear a damn thing other than his own gasping lungs.

Tanya's belly grows until she could be mistaken for pregnant already. It's so big that her breasts bounce on top of it, flesh-colored nipples pointing outward. But he's cumming so hard it doesn't matter; no amount of pressure could put a stop to this now. His pelvic muscles have grown massively in strength over the course of the past month.

His cock is still pulsing when she lifts herself off him, but Morgan swiftly takes her place. The momentary cold followed by the plunge back into wet heat draws a strangled cry of pleasure from him. His series of orgasms continue, his balls fat and hard as stones as they work overtime filling up another womb. Soon, Morgan looks just like Tanya. She fingers herself to orgasm for good measure, milking as much cum from him as her body can carry, before sliding off to give Betty her turn.

"How about it, little bear?" Morgan says teasingly. "Think you have enough left in you to make me swell up, too?"

"I'll d-do my best," Rupert stammers. He feels hot and sweaty, but no closer to emptying his reserves.

"Well you're going to have to try harder than that," she says, angling herself in such a way that his cock presses even harder against the entrance of her cervix than it did with Tanya. "Because I'm not letting a single drop go to waste."

The look in her eyes tells him exactly what she wants. He nods, determined. Mustering his remaining strength, Rupert thrusts up as hard as he can, the force of it shoving the head of his cock inside her womb. Betty's eyes slip closed in satisfaction as hot cum starts to flood inside.

"Yes... Ohh, you are such a good little Breeder! I'll have to pay you a visit next year, when you've been settled into your new home. I'm going to miss this."

Her words float above him like fluffy clouds. Rupert feels a swell of pride to have given all three of them what they wanted. Once Betty's belly is as large as the others, she rises up, his cock slipping out of her cervix with a muffled pop. He's still shivering with waves of pleasure until they lift him to sit upright, and Morgan pushes a strangely pink drink into his hands.

"Drink this," she instructs. "It'll let you rest. For a while, at least."

It goes down bitter, but in a few minutes the orgasms recede, and to his amazement (because he had started to think it was permanent), his cock softens, blood and heat returning to the rest of his body. It feels like waking from a dream, except that he could fall asleep now, let his overworked muscles rest. But he can't stop looking at the doctors, at what he did to them. They look incredible, bellies full of his potent sperm, like ancient fertility carvings brought to life, glowing with warmth and satisfaction.

"Thanks," he says. "For everything, I mean."

"No, thank you," Tanya says, holding her protruding stomach with a look of amazement. "You've done so well. Women from across the globe are going to line up around the block to have you be the father of their babies."

Rupert lets a smile spread across his face. That sounds good to him.

---

EPILOGUE

The frame supporting his upper body is padded. The straps around his thighs and midsection are warm and comfy. In tandem, they hold him in position day and night, awake or asleep. His erect purple cock juts out, huge and proud, waiting for its next customer. The pistons at his back are idle. They don't turn on until he gets too tired to thrust on his own.

A helper enters the room. He's a Low, a stag, one of the males the government has put to work, both for their own protection and as a means to make some use out of them. He isn't allowed to speak, nor could Rupert respond if he did, not with the feeding mask pressed over his muzzle, his tongue pinned flat by a long, smooth nipple-like structure that he sucks on for a steady supply of liquid nutrients. The helper seems to look at him with pity in his eyes. Rupert can only offer him the same look: the idiot doesn't know what he's missing.

In the helper's hands is a jar of lubricant, half-empty. Rupert has learnt to judge the time of day from the fullness of that jar. It's mid-afternoon, or thereabouts. Not that it matters. Nothing else matters anymore, only this. The helper curls his fingers inside the jar and scoops up a generous glob of lubricant. He then rubs the slick goo all over Rupert's cock, making sure it stays thoroughly coated for the next series of matings.

The touching, though strictly clinical, would be enough to send Rupert over the edge, if not for the tight silicone band fitted around the base of his shaft. He finds it amusing that the home-made solution he came up with during his testing days was the same concept used by the professionals. His wasn't as sophisticated, though. Here, a control device clipped to his support frame controls when he is allowed to release, a decision left entirely in the hands of his customers.

And every woman wants something different.

Those with a low budget, or who simply want to be impregnated, generally press the button as soon as his cock is wedged snugly against their cervix. But others want to draw it out, paying extra to ride him through multiple orgasms while his balls grow tighter and tighter, denied release, sometimes for hours. Those are the ones Rupert secretly enjoys the most. He loves the ache of denial, loves being so utterly controlled, being forced to wait until they've had their fun with him.

But most of all, he enjoys the spectacular flood of heat that shoots through his cock once they finally press the button. Those are the ones that rattle his frame, pull at his restraints and moan ineffectually around the nipple stuffed between his jaws.

It's a weird life, he has to admit. But it was always his destiny to be bound like this. His previous life feels so distant now, his worries from before forgotten, meaningless. He is a Breeder, and he will live out the rest of his days in this room. Warm, sated, happy and horny, forever enjoying the most intense pleasure a fertile male can feel.

The Low leaves, closing the staff door quietly behind him. A few minutes later, a different door opens, and a female enters the room. It takes him a moment to recognize her, but when he does, he can't stop the smile spreading across his stretched lips.

"Well hello there, little bear," Betty says, sidling up to his frame and smoothing her hand down his chest. "Told you I'd be visiting. Now then, shall we have some fun?"

Rupert nods, his balls already hardening in anticipation. Today's going to be a great day.

END