This is a Gay, Authoritarian story, you can use my email address, and I accept the nifty.org terms. I encourage everyone that reads and enjoys this story to consider supporting Nifty.org to support the archivist and keep the archive online. You can learn more here: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html
As a note to the reader, while characters in this story are over eighteen, the narrative contains descriptions of bondage, oral sex, body modification, and various forms of domination and submission. If any of these acts offend you or are illegal to read where you reside, please move on. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = =
The Orville Farm
Chapter 12: New Beginnings
Dees and Fours were in their chairs in their separate rooms. Their bodies bound to their milking stations in the cold, sterile room. They were naked and exposed, their cocks hooked up to section devices and testicles resting comfortably in specialized cradles. Attendants in their pristine white coats moved around them, calibrating machines and monitoring the progress.
The sensation of warmth started small, pulsing through their ass as the anal probes started the milking process. It felt good, too good considering the circumstances. The pleasure center of their brains lit up, betraying their resilience. This was what they were bred for, after all – to produce cum like stallions in heat. The suction on their tiny cock heads increased, and so did the pleasure. Moans escaped their lips, almost in unison, despite their best efforts.
"Just a few more minutes," a steer said to Dees, his voice robotic but strangely empathetic. "You're doing great. Just let it happen."
Dees clenched his jaw, his eyes squeezed shut. In the room down the hall, Fours, on the other hand, stared at the cold ceiling, his face flushing as orgasm after orgasm was ripped from his body.
At another building across the sprawling Orville Farm, A1 and Ninety-Two lay side-by-side in the infirmary, their wounds healing. They were still getting used to the loss of the mass between their legs. Now, only a scarred and shriveled sack remained, hanging so loose that it flapped around when they were forced to walk to keep up their strength. The pain had been unbearable for the first few days, but they were coping. They had just returned from an auction where both had been bought and sold quickly.
"It's going to be alright, A1," Ninety-Two said, attempting to console him. "We made it through this much, didn't we?"
A1 didn't say anything, his eyes red-rimmed and vacant. Ninety-Two patted his arm in a half-hearted gesture of comfort. He knew how futile his words were.
"At least you get to go to a nice estate, A1," he continued. "No more living in a sterile building out in the desert."
A1 turned his head to look at Ninety-Two.
"Yeah," He sighed, running a hand over his smooth face. "It is just not the life I envisioned for myself."
"Yeah, I am sure a lot of people out there envision having their testicles harvested," Ninety-two quipped. "I mean... I did all the time!"
A1 chuckled.
"And what about you, Ninety-Two? I heard the company bought you. Are you going back to that hellhole as an attendant?"
Ninety-Two looked away, unable to meet A1's gaze.
"Yeah. I am still trying to process it all."
"I still have nightmares of our harvest," A1 said as he closed his eyes and his hand drifted down to his absent organs. "The visions and the screams haunt me. I don't think I will ever sleep through the night again."
Both steers lapsed into a despondent silence, each lost in their miserable thoughts. They had finally reached the bottom of the barrel, and there was no way out in sight. Meanwhile, satisfied with their overall health, the attendant staff ordered their release.
A1's heart raced as he shuffled towards the exit, the cold metal of handcuffs biting into his wrists. A well-dressed couple walked ahead, their crisp outfits a stark contrast to his naked, hairless form. He glanced back at the infirmary, a lump forming in his throat.
"Keep moving," the guard growled, shoving him forward.
A1 stumbled, his groin still aching from the harvest. As he regained his footing, a wave of conflicting emotions washed over him. Relief mingled with crushing guilt.
"I'm getting out, but at what cost?" he thought, picturing Ninety-Two's face - the friend he was leaving behind.
A well-dressed woman was in a limousine. She rolled down the window to check out her purchase.
"Well, he does have a nice firm body," she said. "Put him in the trailer."
A1 was directed to a vehicle behind the limo that had an open cage in the back. He was pushed inside and the cage door was locked in place.
"Take care, slave!" the attendant said as he waved.
A1 nodded mutely, fighting back tears. They took off down the road. As the facility's gates clanged shut behind him, he whispered a silent goodbye to those still trapped within.
Ninety-Two was being led down a familiar corridor, his stomach churning with each step. The processing plant loomed ahead, a place he'd only seen from the other side of the bars. Now, he was to be one of its operators. Weight appeared to meet him, his massive frame blocking the hallway. His empty scrotum swayed as he approached, a reminder of what Ninety-Two had just lost a few days ago.
"Welcome to your new life, steer," Weight's voice boomed. "You know your job. It is simple - keep the cattle in line, no matter what."
Ninety-Two swallowed hard.
"Yes, Sir."
"You were one of them," Weight continued. "Use that to your advantage. We expect you to be giving out demerits liberally. We want these testicles harvested as soon as possible. And remember, show weakness, and you'll be punished. I promise you the pain you will encounter will pale compared to the harvest."
As Weight outlined the brutal expectations, Ninety-Two's resolve wavered. How could he enforce such cruelty on those he once called friends?
After a brief orientation session, Weight let the steer get to work. From the side of the room, Ninety-Two saw PeeQue approaching, his empty scrotum swaying with each step. He offered Ninety-Two a tentative smile, his eyes reflecting a mix of sympathy and camaraderie.
"First day's always the roughest," PeeQue said softly, his gaze darting nervously to ensure Weight was out of earshot. "But you'll find your footing."
Ninety-Two's shoulders sagged with relief at the unexpected kindness.
"I... I don't know if I can do this," he whispered, his usual sarcasm replaced by raw vulnerability.
PeeQue placed a gentle hand on Ninety-Two's shoulder.
"We've all been where you are. It's about survival now, but that doesn't mean we can't show compassion."
"How do you manage it?" Ninety-Two asked, his voice cracking.
"Small acts of kindness," PeeQue replied, a sad smile on his lips. "A softer touch, a word of comfort. It's not much, but it's something."
As they spoke, Ninety-Two felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could navigate this hellish new reality without completely losing himself.
In another town, A1 stood naked in the scorching sun, sweat trickling down his muscled frame as he trimmed the immaculate hedges surrounding a mansion. A light coat of dark fur was sprouting on his chest, limbs, groin, and from his armpits. A beard was returning to his face, and his eyebrows were growing back. His mistress liked the rugged look and encouraged her husband to allow the working slaves to regrow their body hair, though she mandated their heads be kept shaved.
Between his legs, his scarred sack contained two extra-large neuticles – fake testicles twice the size of a normal human's. They sat very low in his stretched scrotum, paling in comparison to what had been harvested from him. But it gave him the look of having an impressive set of low hangers. They swung impressively with every move he made. His mistress had begged her husband for weeks to have it done. The master of the house thought it was a waste of money, but he finally relented and had the surgery performed on all four of the slaves that tended the ground. She called them her 'muscled bears,' and A1 could only smile at the reference.
He wiped his wet brow with the back of his hand and reached down to scratch his new balls. They had no feeling and were cold to the touch, but they made him somehow complete – surrounded by a bush of newly sprouting pubic hair that his tiny glans was hiding in.
"A1! The south lawn needs mowing," a sharp, shrill voice called from the veranda.
A1 suppressed a flinch.
"Yes, Mistress Adriana! Right away, Madam!"
"And when you are done, grab the other three and get your furry asses up here. I have something for you to attend to."
A1 nodded as he groaned to himself. The cost of his new balls was learning how to pleasure the mistress orally. She relished her 'orgies' with her slaves, especially since she didn't have to worry about their pleasure. They didn't have cock's anymore and could not orgasm anyway.
As a gay man, it took some getting used to, but she was kind, and he would be forever grateful for the gift she gave to him – a little bit of his manhood returned. As he quickly ran to get the mower to push across the vast expanse of green, his thoughts drifted. This is better than the farm, he reminded himself: no horrible food, no constant infusions of drugs, and no fear of danger. Yet the loss of his identity, his very humanity, weighed heavily.
A cool breeze caressed his skin, a brief respite from the heat. For a moment, A1 closed his eyes. He reached up and felt his beard and the comfort of his body hair. Much of him was gone, but there was still a lot of him that remained. He thought of his friends. He hoped Ninety-Two was doing ok. He smiled at the thought of Fours and Dees having multiple earth-shattering orgasms every day.
"I love you guys," he said. "And I am ok."
He gritted his teeth as he pushed on.
"And that's more than many can say."
Ninety-Two's hands trembled as he approached the first holding pen. Inside, a group of newly arrived captives huddled together, their eyes wide with fear and confusion. He swallowed hard, PeeQue's words echoing in his mind.
"It's... it's time for your initial health assessment," Ninety-Two said, his voice barely above a whisper. He winced at how official it sounded, how cold.
One of the captives, a young man with a pale body and a nice set of balls suspended under his metal cock cage, stepped forward. "What's going to happen to us?" he asked, voice quavering.
Ninety-Two felt his throat constrict. He wanted to warn them, to offer some comfort, but the weight of his new role pressed down on him.
"I... I'm here to help you through the process," he managed, hating how hollow the words sounded.
As he led them to the examination room, Ninety-Two's mind raced. How could he reconcile his position with his desire to protect these men? Each step felt like a betrayal.
"Line up against the wall," he instructed, his voice cracking.
As the captives complied, their vulnerability on full display, Ninety-Two's stomach churned.
"I can't do this," he thought desperately. "But what choice do I have?"
Across the city, in the plush interior of the Orville Restaurant, two well-dressed women covered in diamonds and sapphires settled into their seats. The soft clink of fine china and the murmur of discreet conversation filled the air.
"Oh, Marjorie, I've been dying to try this place," the younger woman gushed, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she perused the menu. "I've heard their specialties are simply to die for."
Marjorie, a silver-haired matron with an air of refined indulgence, smiled indulgently.
"Indeed, my dear. The Orville name is synonymous with the finest quality. Have you decided what you'll have?"
The younger woman bit her lip, hesitating.
"Well... I've always been curious about their famous Pacific Beef Truffles. But I'm not sure I'm quite daring enough."
Marjorie leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Trust me, Cecilia. It's an experience you won't forget. The texture, the flavor... it's unlike anything else."
Cecilia's eyes widened.
"Really? Well, in that case... why not? When in Rome, as they say!"
As the waiter approached, neither woman thought about the true nature of the delicacy they were about to consume or the suffering behind its production. Their world was one of privilege and pleasure, far removed from the grim realities of places like Orville Farm.
"What will we be having today, ladies?" the waiter asked.
"Two orders of the Truffles," Marjorie replied. "And do you have any that are Grade A and top shelf? I have heard that those have the best taste."
"I believe we do, mam," the waiter replied. "But they cost extra."
Marjory laughed.
"Money is no object, dear."
"Yes, mam," the waiter replied.
Chef Raoul's eyes gleamed in the restaurant's bustling kitchen as he retrieved a sealed bag from the refrigerator. He glanced at the label: Orville Farm - Steer 32F45A1 - GRADE A - PRIME PACIFIC BEEF TRUFFLES – HERD 2610 TOP PRODUCER.
"A1, eh?" he said. "And a top producer. Man! Look at the size of these suckers! Some of the largest cuts of meat I have seen in a long time!"
Inside, two massive, perfectly shaped testicles were nestled.
"Magnifique," Raoul whispered, his fingers tracing the contours of his prized ingredients.
He laid them reverently on his cutting board, mind already racing with preparations.
"Antoine!" he barked. "Prepare the marinade. Equal parts soy sauce, mirin, and sake. And fetch me the sharpest knife we have."
As his sous chef scurried to comply, Raoul began his meticulous process. With surgical precision, he removed the outer membrane that contained the succulent meat. He then sliced each testicle into thin, bite-size slices. The sheer mass of each testicle, the size of his entire hand, would ensure they both could serve several entrees.
"The secret," he murmured to himself, "is in the slice. Too thick, and it's chewy. Too thin, and you lose the essence."
Raoul's hands moved efficiently, arranging the delicate slices in a shallow dish. As Antoine returned with the marinade, the chef poured it over the meat, his nostrils flaring at the rich aroma.
"Now," he said, "we wait. But only for a moment. Any longer, we risk overwhelming the natural flavors."
While the meat was marinated, Raoul prepared a light tempura batter, his mind wandering. Who was Steer 32F45A1? What life had he lived before this exquisite delicacy was harvested? How did he get those balls that big? Modern science was still amazing. The chef shook off the thought. It is best not to dwell on such things. Obviously, this steer had been processed well, and the resulting product would be incredibly tender and juicy.
"I bet that sack of his is really floppy now," he said with a laugh to himself.
Minutes later, Raoul deftly coated each slice in batter and then in breadcrumbs. He lowered them into shimmering hot oil. The kitchen filled with a sizzling symphony as the testicles transformed into golden, crispy morsels.
"Perfection," Raoul breathed, arranging some of the slices on the finished dish on a bed of microgreens. "And now for the special sauce!"
He retrieved a jar from the refrigerator that contained a thick, creamy white fluid. Opening it, he could distinctly smell the unmistakable scent. It had been processed, and many different preservatives and additives had been added, but it smelled like cum. The 'milk' of many Orville Farm stallions. However, that would not do for his guests. He poured the mixture into a bowl and then added two sauces. One was reddish, and the other clear. The resulting mix thinned but still had a slight viscosity to it.
"And now a dash of pepper!" he said. "And Voila!"
A sprinkle of pink Himalayan salt, and it was ready. As the waiter whisked the plate away, Raoul allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction – another masterpiece, courtesy of Orville Farm's finest.
Cecilia and Marjorie leaned forward eagerly in the dining room as the waiter presented their order with a flourish.
"Ladies, your Pacific Beef Truffles. Grade A. Bon appétit."
Marjorie inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma.
"Oh, Cecilia, you're in for a treat. The presentation alone is exquisite."
Cecilia hesitated momentarily before spearing a golden morsel with her fork. She took a delicate bite, her eyes widening in surprise.
"Oh my," she breathed. "It's... incredible. So tender, and the flavor is unlike anything I've ever tasted."
Marjorie nodded knowingly, already working on her second piece.
"Didn't I tell you? The Orville name truly stands for quality. I simply must compliment the chef."
As the two women continued to indulge, praising each bite with enthusiasm, they remained blissfully unaware of the dark truth behind their meal. The stark contrast between their pleasure and the grim reality of Orville Farm hung in the air, unacknowledged and unseen.
The dusty road leading to Orville Farm stirred as an unmarked truck rumbled to a stop. PeeQue stood at attention, his empty scrotum swaying gently in the hot breeze. Beside him and two other attendants, Ninety-Two shifted nervously, his hairless skin prickling with sweat.
As the truck door swung open, PeeQue leaned close to Ninety-Two, whispering, "Remember, stay calm. We can help them through this."
Ninety-Two nodded, his throat tight.
"I'll try," he murmured.
Grant Orville dusted off his jeans and lowered the tailgate of his truck. He looked over at the attendants and waved.
"Get over here!"
PeeQue looked at Ninety-Two, and he and the other two attendants quickly moved to the truck.
Grant reached into the cage in the back and pulled out the first naked captive, which was blinking in the harsh sunlight. Three more followed, a sea of confused and terrified faces. The two other attendants grabbed the first two captives, PeeQue grabbed the third, and Ninety-Two put his hands on the shoulder of the last one.
"Welcome to Orville Farm," PeeQue said as they led the captives to the facility's front door. "We are here to guide you through processing."
Ninety-Two's captive was a chubby young man with chains on his arms and legs and a large metal codpiece secured over his groin. He lunged forward, breaking from the steer's grasp. His gagged body growled as it hit the dusty ground. Ninety-Two bent down, placing a firm hand on the young man's shoulder.
"I know you're scared," he said softly. "We all were. But fighting won't help. You are in the middle of a desert. Calm down. Let us explain what's happening."
The young man's shoulders slumped.
"Having a problem there?" Grant asked from his truck.
"No, Sir!" Ninety-Two said as he helped his captive to his feet. "The cattle just had a stumble."
Grant shook his head as he returned to the driver's seat, and Ninety-Two guided his captive inside the processing center.
"We're here to help you adjust," Ninety-Two said.
As they walked towards the intake room, Ninety-Two's mind raced. He remembered his arrival, the terror and confusion. Now, he was on the other side, trying to offer comfort where there was none to be found. The irony wasn't lost on him.
When they entered the next room, the attendants directed their captives under a series of chains hanging from the ceiling. The captive's wrist restraints were attached to the chains, and PeeQue walked to the wall and raised each captive till they were on their tiptoes. The chubby boy looked over in horror at Ninety-Two, feeling betrayed.
"It will be ok," Ninety-Two said quietly.
A man with a short white beard wearing overalls and a crisp white shirt then appeared with a clipboard. Beside him, a naked attendant followed close behind.
"Well, look at what we have here," he said. "I have to say those are some nice-looking nuts. Don't you think Thirty-Three?"
PeeQue nudged Ninety-Two's arm as the intake process started.
"Ninety-Two, there are some forms to fill out. Can you help me with them?"
"Of course," Ninety-Two nodded, forcing a reassuring smile for the new arrivals.
They walked into a side room, and as they looked through the paperwork, Ninety-Two caught PeeQue's eye. They shared a moment of silent understanding – a shared resolve to be the buffer between these new cattle and the harsh reality that awaited them.
When the speech by the supervisor was over, and the last of the new arrivals had been taken down and led into the processing center, Ninety-Two and PeeQue took a moment to return to the front entrance. It was near sunset, and the desert air was dry and warm. The first few stars of the night were starting to appear. Ninety-Two gazed at the sky, his chest tight with a mix of emotions he couldn't quite name.
"Do you ever wonder," Ninety-Two murmured, breaking the silence, "about the people who eat what we... produce?"
PeeQue's face twisted in a grimace.
"I try not to," he replied softly. "It's easier that way."
Ninety-Two nodded, his mind drifting to the wealthy diners savoring their "Pacific Beef Truffles" in upscale restaurants, blissfully unaware – or perhaps willfully ignorant – of the human cost behind their delicacy.
"Sometimes I think about escaping," Ninety-Two confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "But, then I realize, where would we go? The whole world seems to be built on... this."
PeeQue placed a hand on Ninety-Two's shoulder.
"We do what we can. We make it bearable for the others. It's not much, but it's something."
Ninety-Two nodded.
"I know you are out there somewhere, A1 – I hope you have peace," he said quietly to the wind. "And you too, Fours and Dees – you lucky stallions."
PeeQue smiled.
"Remembering your friends?"
"I promised them I would," Ninety-Two replied.
He stood there for a moment. His gaze fixed on the distant horizon where the farm's electrified fence cut a harsh line against the sky. Beyond it lay a world that had allowed places like Orville Farm to exist, a society that valued luxury over humanity.
"Another herd is assembled," Ninety-Two sighed, turning back towards the compound. "Another harvest looms. The wheel keeps turning, doesn't it?"
PeeQue's reply was lost in the mechanical hum of the facility, a never-ending sound, a constant reminder of the relentless cycle they were all trapped in – captives, attendants, and consumers alike.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = =
As with my other stories on Nifty, I accept and love to get constructive feedback and criticism from my readers. You can contact me at slavebear1976@gmail.com