Interdimensional milking 9 – Rough waters

Recap: Max is a teenager from Earth in the distant future, who attends a boarding school where his seed is automatically harvested every day.

One boy, the school headmaster’s son Stan, has take a keen interest in Max.

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Interdimensional milking 9 – Rough waters

“Sho thish ish your room?” Stan asked, looking around the small room that Max shared with Sam.

“Ummm, yeah?”

Stan looked around with the same sense of marvel as a kid who discovers his big brother’s porn stash for the first time.

“It’sh really cool,” Stan said, his pronounced lisp turning every sentence into a linguistics puzzle. The lisp was one of the reasons Max felt sorry for him, and it was one of the reasons that he had allowed himself to be manoeuvred into a wrestling match with him.


Wrestling matches at Friedrich Krupp were primarily used as a way to release sexual tension. When your genitals spent the majority of their time on another planet millions of light years away, and you couldn’t just whip your dick out for a quick one during lunch-break or after classes, the boys became frustrated. It wasn’t as though they never got sexual release – far from it; even the least virile boy was milked a minimum of four times a day by the harvesting station on planet 1RXS1609 b, but sometimes, it was nice just to be in control of exactly when you got milked. Some boys resolved this by looking at porn on the school’s porn channel, and thus triggering a milking cycle. Others made out with the girls who attended the school, but whilst the guys at least got the feeling of dick stimulation, without an actual penis to penetrate them, it was very unsatisfying for the girls. The more creative and committed boys were sometimes willing to wear strap on dildos in the interests of satisfying girls they cared about, but this tended to make the entire experience feel unnatural and contrived, so instead, couples tended to wait until weekly skin time for sex.

Which still left 153.5 hours of each week when the boys could not physically touch themselves. As a result, those who wanted the stimulation of physical contact, without the complication of simulating intercourse, opted instead for wrestling. Wrestling had all the strenuous activity of the most vigorous sexual coupling, with none of the complications and frustrations of sex with a girl. As a result, most of the boys in the harvesting program developed a very liberal and dualistic attitude towards sex. There were male wrestling fuck buddies, and there were sex partners.

This resulted in a huge blurring of the lines between sexual attraction and arousal. Fuck buddies tended to be chosen for utilitarian reasons – they were people that the boys found attractive, and got on well with, but their primary purpose was as a partner to roll around, exert yourself, and get sweaty with. In the 21st century, the occasional wrestling boner was an embarrassment that went with the territory, but now, for many boys, it was the entire goal of the activity.


Throughout history, teenage boys have enjoyed shared jack-off sessions, and as long as it remained just a stage along their progression to manhood, it formed a perfectly natural part of their sexual landscape without changing their fundamental sexual nature. However, as with the wrestling, it was inevitable that after spending months, and even years getting sexually aroused by the same partners, many boys developed emotional and sexual attraction for each other, transitioning from the utilitarian bromance of being merely “prison gay”, to bisexuality or even homosexuality.

30 years after the introduction of wrestling in schools, the sexual balance of tech 7 cities drastically changed, with heterosexuality dropping to under 60% of the population. Initially there were protests and campaigns, until the heterosexual males realised that this left more females for them. Sexual tourism rose, as males from low tech cities travelled in on the near guarantee of non-stop sex. This resulted in a new sexual liberation, away from the cloying “morality” of religious values.


The harvesting program automatically detected any sexual arousal, and provided it was more than five minutes since the last harvesting, it activated the harvesting routine. If the boy was within his daily quota, the milking simply counted towards his daily allowance. If he had had already reached his quota of ejaculations, the arousal was used to calculate his increased milking capacity for the following week. Thus a boy who was usually harvested four times a day, but who became aroused at least once a day in addition to that, would find his quota the following week increased to five in order to take up the additional capacity.


“It’s just like everyone else’s room Stan”, Max said, putting his pad on his desk.

“Yeah, but it’sh your room Macksh,” Stan replied.

Max looked at him quizzically over his shoulder, as he picked up a hi-towel. He recognised infatuation when he heard it. He’d experienced it himself. Stan pressed the door release to the shower.

“Heh, heh. Bet you shpend a lot of time jacking off in here at shkin time,” Stan said looking inside.

Max turned to him with his hands on his waist.

“Do you EVER think about anything but sex Stan?”

“Nope, not really,” Stan admitted without a trace of embarrassment.

Max stared at him. The boy’s candour was disarming. Although the constant sexual undertone in EVERYTHING Stan said and did was tiring, Max couldn’t help but like the boy’s simple honesty. He shook his head and laughed.

“Come on then, you DO still want to wrestle yes?”

Stan’s eyes lit up.

“Of coursh I do!”


There were so many other couples already wrestling at the gym, that Max and Stan had to wait an hour for a space. Eventually, Max put his towel on a bench, and stripped down to his shorts. Stan quickly followed suit, then they walked onto the mat. They knelt facing each other and took a grip. Max had no sexual interest in Stan whatsoever, but he sensed that it was important to Stan that he became aroused as well. He just hoped that once they got started, his body might react on automatic. He was tempted to pretend that Stan was Brill, but he felt that that would be like cheating on Stan, so he decided to simply commit himself to the wrestling and hope for the best.

He tugged down on Stan’s arm to indicate that they had begun, and Stan pushed on his shoulder with his other arm.


There was an unspoken etiquette to these matches. The idea was to work up a sweat and exert yourself, all the while in hot and close proximity to the other boy. The sole purpose was bodies rubbing against each other; sliding, sweating, warm skin against warm skin. Positions and holds with legs wide, wrapped around the other person were favoured, especially if those positions placed their groins, or groin and rump together.

The human libido is triggered by sensuality, not by gender. The straightest man in the world can become aroused if another man rubs against him just right, and that was precisely the purpose of the wrestling. Sweaty chests and stomachs sliding against each other was usually enough to turn any boy’s light green.

Although some boys enjoyed a mildly competitive element, the idea was not really to beat the other boy. It was almost like role-playing a wrestling match. After a while, couples that wrestled regularly might fall into regular submissive/dominant roles if that was what each of them wanted, but with a new partner, one boy would allow himself to be dominated sometimes, and at other times, the roles would be reversed. It was only polite.


Because this was Stan’s ticket, and because he was the larger boy, after symbolically jostling for position for 30 seconds Max allowed himself to be rolled onto his back. Stan lay sideways across his chest, his arm wrapped around Max’s neck, before swinging a leg over so that he was sitting astride Max, their groins touching. Max struggled just enough to add a frisson to the exchange. Stan grabbed both of his wrists and held them to the mat, palm up, beside Max’s head. It was an extremely assertive position. Max struggled a little harder. Stan grinned, and there was a hint of something dark on his grin – no longer entirely the awkward kid. He lay on Max with his full weight, chests pressing together, and buried his head beside Max’s neck. Max struggled and Stan countered, to and fro for a minute or so, until Max twisted his body and managed to slip out from under Stan. As soon as he moved free, he pushed on Stan’s shoulder, and Stan rolled onto his back grinning hugely, an excited glint in his eye. Max dived on top, looking for the reversal, but Stan effortlessly rolled him off.

Max scrabbled back to his hands and knees, mildly irritated at how easily Stan had prevented him countering. Stan got up to his hands and knees too, and they charged together and locked shoulders, like two Billy goats trying to push one another backwards in a dusty farm yard.

They were facing each other, arms wrapped around the other’s upper torso, shoulders locked, heads beside each other. Stan was much stronger and he knew it. He tightened his grip and using brute force, he threw Max onto his back, falling down on top of him. But Max was not a first-year novice. As he fell, he continued twisting, using Stan’s momentum against him. Stan’s eyes briefly widened with surprise, and before he knew it, it was he that was lying on his back with Max straddling him. Max quickly scooted up Stan’s body, and wrapped his arms around the older boy’s neck and shoulders. Then he wrapped his legs around Stan’s torso. Stan was delighted that Max was getting into the match. It gave the event an edge that would have been absent if Max had simply gone through the motions.

Stan rubbed the thumb knuckles of both hands up and down the side of Max’s ribs. Had it been a match, the move would have been illegal, and Max would probably have endured the feeling a little longer, but as it was, 20 seconds of rib grinding, and he flinched up and away, lifting his body laughing at Stan’s dirty move. Stan saw his chance and hooked his legs around Max’s. Straightening and splaying his legs apart, it created an irresistibly painful hip lock, allowing him to drag Max’s body downwards. Max winced, but there was nothing he could do, as his groin was brought down on top of Stan’s.

He noticed that Stan’s light was green, and then suddenly Stan was doing a reversal of his own, lifting his right leg and twisting Max’s lower body right off him. Max fell onto his back, and Stan was on his knees between Max’s legs. Max wrapped his legs around Stan’s waist to prevent him from climbing past his legs back into a mount. Stan clambered up onto his feet in a low quarterback squat and tried to roll Max back onto his shoulders by driving forwards, but Max resisted. Stan worked his elbows between Max’s thighs and his waist, forcing Max to loosen the grip with his legs. The second Stan felt Max’s grip ease, he wormed his arms in between Max’s legs and his own body, then lifted Max’s legs clear of his body. He changed his grip so that he was holding Max by the back of the knees, then he forced Max’s knees to the mat either side of his own head. Max was now lying on his back with his butt in the air, in a similar position to the first time he’d wrestled Brill. Stan was grinding his groin up and down in a completely undisguised fucking motion. Max glanced to the side, and he could see a couple of other wrestlers had stopped and were watching with bemusement. Max felt as though he was nothing more than Stan’s fuck-toy, and he was getting angry now, unhappy with Stan making him his bitch.

He struggled to free himself, but Stan had a strong position. Stan was hovering over him, his face just inches away, but his focus was a billion miles away.

“Okay, Stan, I yield,” Max said.

Stan continued fucking his ass without missing a beat.

“OKAY Stan, enough now. Stop!”

Stan continued humping without acknowledgement, so Max reached up for the boy’s face. It would have been easy to gouge the lanky kid’s eyes, but Max didn’t want to hurt him, so he pushed Stan’s head back. Stan resisted briefly, then in a flash, Max found himself lying on his face with his own heels digging into his bottom. Stan had used Max’s lower legs to flip him. Before Max could even fight back, Stan grabbed him by the pelvis and dragged him up onto his knees, with his butt up. Without so much as a pretence at wrestling, Stan started butt fucking him. The feeling Stan experienced didn’t perfectly match the actions his body was performing. In his mind, the implant made him feel that his cock was being rhythmically milked and HIS hole was being reamed, or rimmed, or something. It was sex that was impossible in the real world. Too many things happening at once. The movements incompatible with each other. But that was the beauty of the implants. They could produce erotic sensations that defied the laws of biology and physics.

Stan leaned forwards, and wrapped his arms around Max’s shoulders, pulling them closer together.

Max felt Stan bite his shoulder, and it made him furious. Although there was no actual penetration, it was clear that what Stan was doing was tantamount to rape, and to make matters worse, it was right in front of all the other wrestlers.

“Stop. Fucking stop!” Max shouted, struggling against Stan’s grip.


At Friedrich Krupp, violence inhibitors were an important part of school discipline, but of course, the physiological responses that triggered the aggression neutralisation system couldn’t distinguish between the hostility of an actual conflict, and the controlled aggression of wrestling. So, the monitoring system was automatically turned off in each boy’s brain implant as soon as he entered the wrestling gym.


The supervisor looked up from his pad. He was in the gym just in case any of the boys used it as a place to settle vendettas away from the disabling effects of the monitoring field. He was extremely rarely called upon to take any action, and as much as he enjoyed sex, watching 40 horny teenagers grinding against each other whilst they delivered a load on another planet was not something that particularly interested him, so he spent most of his shift studying, or watching vids on a pad.


Max elbowed Stan hard and managed to break free, wriggling away. As he went, he looked over his shoulder and delivered a vicious heel kick to Stan’s groin. If Stan’s balls were in the same location as the rest of his body, it was a kick that would have left him writhing in agony. As it was, the kick knocked him back off his haunches and deposited him onto his butt a few feet away. He looked at Max genuinely surprised, but Max was no longer sympathetic to the boy’s socialisation or behavioural problems.

“Stay the fuck away from me, you goddamned valve! This is why you’ve got no fucking friends Stan. Stunts like this. I was trying to be nice to you. I fucking felt BAD for you. Not anymore. Just stay the fuck away from me in future!”

Stan looked horrified.

“But Macksh…” he started, but before he could try to explain himself, Max continued ripping into him.

“Don’t fucking “Macksh” me you lisping freak. Just stay the fuck away from me!”

Max was not usually a spiteful person, and when he calmed down, he’d regret the attack on Stan’s speech impediment, but right now he was livid. Max glanced at the bench and saw Shaun sitting watching. His eyes were bright with interest, but what especially disturbed Max, was the boy’s light: it was green.

Max rose to his feet, and stomped over to the bench. He grabbed his stuff, putting on his boots. Without towelling off or pulling on the rest of his clothes, Max stormed from the gym.

Stan sat on the mat and watched him go, mortified that he’d misjudged the situation so badly. Dozens of eyes were staring at him, and he just wanted to disappear into the mat. Many genetic conditions were cured in the future, but because his parents had been travelling when Stan was conceived, his mother was never scanned, and the embryo that became him was never DNA cleansed of the aspergers that caused him so many social problems. Stan just didn’t quite understand the rules of social interaction, but he certainly felt the pain of his failures. As he stood up and shuffled off the mat alone, he felt like he wanted to cry.


Max returned to his dorm room fuming, ready to destroy Stan’s reputation as soon as he spoke to Sam, but as soon as he opened the door, his own problems evaporated. Troye was sitting on the bed looking thoroughly forlorn. His wrist was in a brace, he a black eye and a split lip, and he was wearing normal clothes. Sam was kneeling at his feet consoling him, and Brill and Bryan were sitting on Max’s bed looking at Troye with concern.

“What happened?” Max asked.

“He got EV jacked,” Bryan answered.



As Max left the group at the Shay, Troye stood up and announced that he was going to return to the city after all. He waved away the offer of company from Bryan, saying he just had a couple of things to collect, and he’d be back within an hour. The truth was, he wanted privacy to buy a birthday gift for his little sister, and he didn’t want to look too soppy as he did so.

45 minutes later, he’d chosen a gift and was returning to his twister for the ride home. The city was generally pretty safe, so Troye had little concern about the route he took from main to the aeromat where he’d parked the hoverbike. He passed down a back street, then along a quieter street still. Away from the bustle of city life, he allowed his thoughts to turn to sex and his light turned green.

“Help, can you help us please?”

Troye heard the call coming from a cluttered alley and he turned to see who was asking for help. It was teenager, a little younger than him. The boy was dressed in streets, which is what all EV wearers called normal clothes. He was leaning over another boy a year or two younger, also dressed in streets.

It was unusual, but not exactly rare to see boys wearing streets. Offworlders, visitors from low tech cities, nulls, and chromo-deficients were all exempt, as were a very small number of boys whose parent were wealthy enough to buy their exemption. These boys were not wearing expensive streets. Troye briefly wondered as he always did when he saw boys in streets, why they were exempt.


When the Human Expansion Program was initially calibrating the harvesting plants, they determined that an average teenager could comfortably ejaculate four times per day, and still deliver a full capacity load each time. Of course, younger teenagers had a lower number of motile sperm, but they were more than able to ejaculate. For a while, the frequency was simply set at four milkings per day, until a tech-head came up with the genius idea of adaptive harvesting. Why limit the collection to four times, if some boys could deliver a full load six, eight or even more times in a day? And so, each time a boy became aroused, he was milked. His weekly average was calculated, and that became the new frequency for the following week. Of course, under this system, the frequency could only remain the same or increase. It could never go down. For this reason, most boys tried to control their arousal so that it fell within their quota.

However, because sperm was such a valuable resource, the harvesting stations used testicular massage, and ultrasonic stimulation to maximise testicular output. This had two effects, one desirable, and the other, not necessarily. The less desirable effect was that every boy’s testicles grew significantly in size. After 8 years in the harvesting program, at the age of 21, most men when finally freed, were hung like young bulls. Some young men liked it, whilst others found the testicular size unwieldy.

The positive effect of the stimulation was a constant low tingling feeling in the testicles caused by their massive metabolic rate and the ultrasonic treatment, which literally functioned like a low-pitched, high-frequency vibrator that gave every boy a pleasant and constant reminder of his testicles.


Troye felt sorry for the boys, knowing that they would never have the huge dicks that resulted from wearing the Envirosuits for years. Personally, he took it as a matter of pride to get milked as often as possible. He wanted to be hung like a rectyne monopod by the time he was free of his EV suit.

By careful management of his arousal, Troye had managed to increase his daily milkings to 27. That meant that approximately every 45 minutes of his waking life, he was harvested. Some days it was tough on him, and he felt really drained, but his capacity had largely risen to match his contributions.


“What’s wrong?” he asked the boy.

“It’s my brother, he’s sick. We both have Vidal’s.”

“Chromo-deficients” Troye thought to himself, without judgement. He walked towards to the boys, and as he approached he said, “What can I do to help?”

A voice behind him said, “I think that suit should do just fine.”

Troye span around to find that three older youths had appeared in the alleyway behind him.  Adrenaline dumped into his blood stream. He looked for another way out, but there wasn’t one. His eyes widened as his flight or fight instinct kicked in. If he could just get back to the street, he’d be visible on one of the sec-cams. He ran towards the youths, veering off at the last second towards a small gap between them and the wall. The youth nearest him extended out an arm to clothesline him but Troye ducked under it, but he couldn’t avoid the foot that the teen also stuck out. He tripped over it and sprawled onto his face, knocking out a tooth and splitting his lip.

The eldest of the youths looked about 19. He jumped onto Troye’s back and rolled the boy over. Troye’s mouth was bloody and his expression fearful. The youth punched him hard to take the remaining fight from him and to quiet him down, then they dragged him back deeper into the alley.

The boys worked together and pulled the top of Troye’s EV suit down. His light was still green. The  harvesting program didn’t care about the wearer’s mental state once the harvesting sequence was running. There were only three circumstances under which the arousal process activated: for control, harvesting, or reward. Each boy got to set his own hi-stim milking day, and Troye was not the kind of physical kid who would ever need the control of a Max Stim. Right now, in spite of his situation, he was being harvested.

The youths pulled his boots off, then peeled the remainder of Troye’s EV suite down. As the portal panel came away from his groin, Troye’s rigid, 11-inch, finger thin erection sprang free.

“Fucking hell!” one of the younger youths exclaimed.

“Damn, you’re a goddamned mutant. We’re doing you a favour. That suit has messed you up boy!” the leader said.

Troye was groaning and holding his eye.

“Please don’t. Give me my suit back,” he pleaded.

“Not happening. These things are worth far too much offworld. Sorry.”

“But I’m gonna get a stun, please don’t,” Troye persisted, his teeth red with blood.

“Not my fault you let them put that stupid fucking implant in your head. Just be happy it’s not a Max Stim!”

As the leader spoke, his cohorts were securing Troye’s right wrist with a flex-tie to a metal railing. It was already swelling where he’d unsuccessfully used it to break his fall as he was tripped.

Troye struggled to break free, but without warning, semen started spraying from his hard penis as the milking program reached its conclusion. It bounced off the arm of one of the boys tying him down, and the other one recoiled away.

“Ah, you fucker!” the one with the wet arm grunted, and punched Troye hard in balls the sizes of two large chicken eggs. Troye grunted and doubled up in pain, but ejaculated harder, as the cum seemed almost to have been punched out of his nuts.

The boys left the alley carrying Troye’s EV suit, and Troye continued to beg them until they were out of sight. Then he was alone. He shouted for help, and struggled to free his arm. Nobody came.


Removing the EV suit once you’d been designated to wear one, was a crime anywhere within the influence field of the harvesting transmitter.

The solution was easy. Rather than punishing transgressors, they were simply incapacitated by sending them to sleep. There was a two-minute grace period, and another ten seconds during which the implant created the illusion of a countdown sound, just in case the person needed to get to safety, then it simply shut down their consciousness until enforcers from the Expansion Bureau could arrive.

Troye heard the ticking of the countdown, and then darkness…


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