Eric didn’t like his job much. He’d been at it for about a year, now, and he wasn’t really looking for another one, apart from some idle late-night Googles, but he didn’t like it much. He worked for the Department of Agriculture, specifically the Animal and Plant Health Inspection Service. It was his job to make sure animals were in good health and humanely treated, and crops were free of disease. In practice, it meant a lot of trudging around stinky barns, warehouses, and fields in his dad’s old rubber boots, and long and vigorous showers afterward, and it meant that his car had a faint but permanent odor of manure and chemical fertilizers. Not ideal.
“Got an inspection for you today,” Ted said. Ted was his boss, a middle-aged man who seemed to be trying very hard to not be middle-aged. “Gotta happen ASAP, yeah? Big industry, and every day this inspection doesn’t happen, they’re losing eight hundred grand.” He flicked a folder across his desk to Eric, putting just the right amount of spin on it so that it was facing the right direction when it reached its destination. Eric had been impressed the first time this had happened, but had quickly realized that it was a single carefully-perfected skill designed to give the impression of overall competence. Like most government agencies, competence meant very little in APHIS, but these little gestures were often appreciated by higher-ups.
Eric picked up the folder. A quick glance was all he needed. “I’m not certified for minotaurs.” He pushed the folder back across the desk.
Ted’s constant lopsided smile went all tight and awkward. He didn’t touch the folder. “You’re certified for cattle, right? Basically the same thing.”
“It’s really not. Minotaur production involves a lot of very specialized equipment, and I haven’t had the training for it.”
Ted leaned back in his chair, and Eric heard his shoes squeak on the linoleum as they fidgeted. “Well, you’re not really an equipment inspector, right? You just make sure the animals are okay.”
“Which involves making sure the equipment is functioning properly, so as not to cause them distress.” This wasn’t a conversation that Eric was particularly invested in. Sure, he didn’t really want to go out on an inspection today, and he guessed that it would be kind of bad if he signed off on an inspection that he wasn’t certified to do, but whatever. The fun part was watching Ted squirm. He knew what was going on, and the only interesting part of this little talk would be to see how Ted approached it.
“I mean… you’d notice if they were in distress, right? That’s your job.”
“Maybe,” Eric said. “I’m not really familiar with minotaurs. Might misread their body language. And I don’t know enough about their anatomy to notice bad confirmation, or enough about the process to know where to look for sores and injuries.”
“You’re an animal inspector,” Ted insisted. “You inspect animals. You would know an unhappy animal if you saw one. That’s all you have to do, check and see if they’re okay.”
“I’m not certified for minotaurs.”
Ted ran a hand through thinning hair. Then he leaned forward and steepled his fingers. “Okay. So you’re not certified for minotaurs. But you could be tonight. Take the course online, it’ll take you, what, two hours? Sign the paperwork then, and Bullseye gets to get production back on schedule tomorrow. Bam, problem solved.”
Damn, Ted wasn’t going to admit it easily, was he? “What if I realize that they fail once I’ve taken the course? They’ll want to know whether it was a pass or fail before I leave.”
“Just don’t tell them. Say you’ll get them their final results tonight. It’ll be fine.”
“What about the animals? What if I miss something?”
Ted put his head in his hands and groaned. “Look,” he said, putting his hands together again. “Do you know where this agency gets its funding?”
“Right, yeah, the government, but not just the government. We also get a lot of support from businesses. Bullseye is one of those businesses. We don’t get them inspected and ready to go again soon, they’ll cut off that support. That means downsizing.” He looked pointedly at Eric.
Damn, the guy wouldn’t even admit that his bonus came from outside corporations. He’d gone straight into threats. “Right,” Eric said. “Well, I guess I can have a look.”
“Great,” Ted said, plastering a smile back on his face. “It’s about an hour drive.”
The entrance to the Bull’s Eye Ranch—could they just not decide on the punctuation?—was a large gate set into a high fence, maybe fifteen feet. That sounded about right to Eric. Minotaurs were big, and they needed solid containment to ensure they didn’t wander off. The gate was impressive, with masonry pillars on each side, but that was pretty standard for wealthy farms, he’d found. They all had similar ideas about what an expensive gate ought to look like. He pressed the button for the intercom. “Eric Waldron, inspector for the Department of Agriculture.”
“Thank you, Mr. Waldron,” came a bored voice. “Opening the gate now. Please proceed up the drive. Ms. Rowley will be waiting for you.”
The road up to the facilities was fairly long, but immaculately paved. It wound through rolling green pastures interspersed with stands of trees. Eric ran a practiced eye over the high fences. He didn’t see any obvious signs of wear, and noted water troughs at frequent intervals. It would’ve been a good sign if he didn’t know that the pastures visible from the road were usually the best kept. He did see a few minotaurs lounging in the shade. One was actually right up by the fence, at a trough. It raised its huge head as he drew near. Vast, curving horns were set atop a bearded head, more like a bison than a cow. Water ran down its heavily muscled front as it watched him drive by.
As he rounded a bend, the pavement switched suddenly to concrete cobbles, set in an old-world fan pattern. Yeah, they were definitely going for a traditional vibe here. A couple more minutes of driving between little hills, and he finally reached a roundabout in front of a brick building, about the size of a large house and rather looking like one. Its walls were tastefully draped in ivy, and the lawn in front of it was rimmed with carefully-landscaped flowerbeds. A woman in a blazer and skirt was standing on the walk that led to the door, a tablet in hand.
Eric parked his sedan and got out, suddenly feeling rather self-conscious about his rubber boots, cargo pants, and cheap windbreaker. “Ms. Rowley?” he said.
She held out a hand to shake. She was tall and slim, with reddish-brown hair tied back in a bun. “Marissa Rowley. I’m the assistant manager of this facility.”
He shook. “I’m Eric Waldron. Care to give me a tour?”
“Of course.” She smiled politely. “Mr. Grady is eager to get back on our regular shipping schedule.”
“Right.” He followed her into the house. It was just as expensive and vaguely East Coast on the inside as it was on the outside, though in here it looked less like a house and more like a clubhouse. But, like… the kind of clubhouse that Sherlock Holmes would sit around and smoke in, not like the kind of club that Eric was used to. There were a lot of leather sofas and intricate fabric-shaded lamps and wood panelling and brick fireplaces. Marissa walked him past them, into a hallway, and out a back door into a large garden that was mostly lawn, but did feature a number of roses and some seating areas. It was surrounded by a high brick wall that was softened with tall hedges.
“Our primary income is from wholesale buyers, but we also have a rather lucrative side business in hosting private parties,” Marissa said. “We strive to make their experience as comfortable as possible.”
“...Right,” Eric said, more awkwardly this time. Private parties? That could only really mean one thing, but, uh…
She led him down a brick path to a heavy metal gate at the back of the garden that still managed to look very classy despite its obvious security, swiped a card on an unobtrusive digital lock, and opened it up. “Come on in, Mr. Waldron.” He stepped through, and she shut the gate behind them.
He found himself in a barnyard, but like no industrial barnyard he’d ever been in. This was more like an expensive private riding barn. The yard was gravel, and spacious, and there were potted plants everywhere, and a tasteful Romanesque fountain in the middle. Four large barns, all very classical in style, with green posts and golden-brown wooden walls, roof tiles that looked to be real slate, and wrought-iron electric lanterns everywhere, ringed the yard. Yeah, this was definitely straight out of someone’s fantasy of an expensive English foxhunting stable, except one door to one of the barns was half-open, and he could see that it was about six inches thick, with metal beneath the wood, and a lock that would keep out a truck. The whole area was fenced in, with more heavy gates that led onto wide dirt paths out into the hilly pastures. “Very nice,” he said, after a moment of silence. How much fucking money does this place make?
“Appearances are important, of course,” Marissa said, “but not nearly as important as the welfare of the animals. Would you like to tour a barn?”
Eric mentally ran over the checklist he’d read up before driving up here, and looked around the barnyard to give himself a little time. There was a cobbled grooming platform between each barn, equipped with heavy crossties, and he pointed to one of them. “I’d like to examine your grooming facilities first.”
“Of course,” Marissa said. “Actually, morning milking is due to start soon for Barn Two, so if you wait a few minutes, you should be able to see—ah, I hear one coming.”
Eric heard it, too, boots tromping on gravel, nearly drowned out by the sound of hooves. He looked over just in time to see a child on one of the paths, leading a haltered minotaur. Well, that was definitely a violation… no, wait. The child reached the gate, and he suddenly realized that she was a grown woman. It was just that the minotaur was about eight feet tall.
Okay. Okay. He’d known minotaurs were big, he’d been listening to an audio study guide on the way here, modern minotaurs averaged seven-six to eight-six, usually weighing in the neighborhood of three to five hundred pounds, but somehow, that information had entirely failed to prepare him for the reality of seeing a huge fucking bull-man next to an ordinary person. They were… gigantic. Just really, really fucking big.
Once he got over the fact that the thing was too tall to fit into a horse trailer without crouching, and too broad to fit through most doorways, he took in some other aspects of its appearance. Its head was shaggy and almost too large for its body, its horns about two feet long each, and the fur continued down its hulking, sloping shoulders and onto its thick arms. Its hands, chest, stomach, groin—he tried not to look at the wrinkled folds of its sheath, attached almost all the way up to its navel, or at its sack, the size of a soccer ball—and the insides of its thighs were largely free of hair, leaving thick, dark, leathery skin exposed. Cloven hooves like platters tromped across the gravel, and an absurd little whippy tail with a tuft on the end flicked across its huge haunches. It was also covered in mud, absolutely caked in it, some of it dry, some of it wet and dripping.
“What on earth happened to him?” Marissa said. She sounded more amused than annoyed.
“The sensor on one of the waterers is broken,” the groom said. She was looking pretty muddy herself, from her rubber boots to her freckled face. “It flooded a corner of the east pasture, and this naughty boy’s been rolling around in the mud. I shut it off. Met Ralph on the way in, he said he’d take care of it this afternoon, after Barn Four milking. Who’s this?”
“Eric Waldron, inspector for the Department of Agriculture,” Marissa said, a little dryly.
“Oh, shit!” the groom said, her eyebrows flying up. The minotaur huffed and twitched its ears. “Sorry! I can take him back, ma’am, if it’s inconvenient.”
“No, that’s all right,” Eric said, getting his voice back at last. “I’d like to see your grooming facilities in use.”
“Oh,” the groom said. “Oh, okay.” She gave the lead rope a flick. “Come on, Brick.”
The minotaur was a little reluctant to move, but after a moment, it followed her onto a grooming platform and waited patiently as she hooked heavy steel-chain crossties to its leather halter. It watched her, its eyes partially covered by its rough fur, as she rolled over a little handcart full of grooming supplies with a coiled hose on the side. When she uncoiled the hose, affixed a spray nozzle, and tested the temperature on her hand, the minotaur leaned forward and wrapped its vast hands around a bar set at the height of its chest.
“Good boy, Brick,” the groom said. “He’s a real sweetie, this one.” She turned the hose on Brick’s hooves to get him used to the temperature.
“They, um…” Eric tore his eyes away from the beast’s immensely muscular torso. “They look like they get a lot of exercise.”
“Oh, yes,” Marissa said. “They get quite lethargic and dreary if they don’t exert themselves. Besides, we find that the exercise increases output. So we have them do a lot of the heavy lifting around the farm. They transport hay, straw, grain, bedding, industrial supplies… Once we even had a couple of them carry a broken-down four-wheeler back to the shed for repairs. It seems to make them happy.”
“Good,” Eric said, having no idea whether that was good or animal exploitation. God, he wished he knew more. He could tell, though, that the groom knew what she was doing, and cared about the animals. She wasn’t turning the spray up too high, just enough to knock out thick clumps of mud, and she was doing most of the work with a heavy rubber curry comb, rather larger than the ones he was used to seeing. Brick stood still for her, even turned a tree-trunk leg to let her get between the toes of a cloven hoof. There was obviously a lot of trust there, more like the trust you’d see for horses than for cattle. That sort of made sense, given what Eric knew about minotaurs. Rare, expensive, small herds, finicky harvesting process that necessitated a lot of close contact. They would have to be well-trained for handling.
Once she’d done Brick’s feet, the groom moved up to his head. That made sense, too; work from the top down so she didn’t just dump more mud on bits she’d already cleaned. She got on a tall footstool to reach his head, and he lowered it further for her. He leaned into the spray a little, was obviously enjoying it. “Good boy,” the groom enthused. “Who’s a good boy?”
Eric watched as she worked all the mud out of the minotaur’s heavy coat. The hair was as long as his hand in places, and there were heavy folds of furred skin along the neck, as might be found on Indian cattle. It mixed oddly with the shaggy bison head. The overall impression was of a creature that might have been from a variety of places, and would fit comfortably into all of them and none.
The torso was easier than the head. Most of its front was hairless, and the hair on its back was concentrated in a ridge along the spine. The groom started with that ridge and worked her way out, scraping mud off of muscles that would put a bodybuilder to shame. They looked somehow natural on the minotaur’s huge frame.
Less natural was the beast’s groin. Eric had seen plenty of animal cocks in his time, it was a fact of working with livestock, and the minotaur’s sheath was, while large, nothing extreme, but nature had never designed a creature with balls like that. He tried to remember the audio study guide. Minotaurs were selectively bred for bigger balls, better production, but they also typically received a variety of treatments to encourage them further. Something hormonal… To Eric’s surprise, the groom gave a quick cursory spray, getting the worst of the mud off, and then took the spray nozzle off of the hose and shoved the gentler flow right into the opening of the minotaur’s sheath.
Brick gave a huff that didn’t seem particularly surprised, and canted his hips toward the groom. The folds of his sheath smoothed out, and then water started pouring out the top as the skin filled, the swollen form of it like a heavy skin pouch, bulging out. “Come on,” the groom urged. “Let it out, let me in there.” Brick gave a heavy sigh, and then a dull purplish-pink cock poked out, slowly but surely. The groom helped ease it out, and then started digging around in the minotaur’s sheath with her fingers, removing grit and grime. “Good boy,” she said. “That’s a good boy.” The cock continued to unsheathe while she worked, until it was hanging out in its entirety, immense but flaccid. It was mottled with black splotches, and Eric had a very hard time keeping his eyes off of it. That thing had to be a foot and a half long…
The groom flushed out Brick’s sheath one last time before moving on to his balls. Here, she was much more delicate. As the crux of minotaur production, its testicles were obviously handled with care. It was… odd, watching the groom clean them. It was such a utilitarian activity, but her movements were so gentle and controlled. The minotaur’s cock thickened a little as she cleaned him, but he didn’t seem inclined to act on anything.
Eric watched with complete fascination. Huge, heavy balls, gently hefted and swung to the side as the back of the sack was cleaned… He realized belatedly that he was getting a bit stiff, and immediately slammed his mind back to the inspection checklist. Getting hard to an animal? What the fuck? Eric liked a little BDSM porn once he was horny enough, but he wasn’t that kinky. That was sex offender material right there, animal abuse. Disgusting.
Maybe it was the minotaur’s natural effect. Their primary product was aphrodisiac, though it was distilled and refined. Maybe just being around them was enough for that to kick in. God, he hoped so. Otherwise, he clearly had some issues to work through.
By the time the groom had combed through all the long hair on Brick’s legs, he’d gotten his dick back under control, and felt a bit more confident about his ability to inspect a barn. The requirements of a barn were pretty basic, after all. Nice place to sleep, no dangerous objects within reach, appropriate containment measures, ventilation… yeah, he could manage that. He’d inspected hundreds of barns for a dozen species of livestock. He knew his way around.
He made a bit of a show of writing a few things down on his notepad. “Looks good,” he said. “The area’s clean, no protruding nails or other hazards, decent safety measures… oh, can you point me to the nearest fire extinguisher?”
“Right here,” Marissa said, opening an unassuming cabinet mounted on the wall of a barn to reveal a clean new fire extinguisher.
Eric checked the tag to make sure it was within date. “Good. I assume that’s what’s in the other cabinets?” He jerked a thumb at similar tasteful cabinets on the other barns. When Marissa nodded, he made a mark on his pad. “I am going to have to ask that you label the cabinet, though, preferably with an image of an extinguisher. In case there’s a fire and no one here is familiar with the place.”
“Of course,” Marissa said immediately, and tapped something into her tablet.
“I’m also going to need to check for outdoor outlets and switches, make sure they’re up to code, but let’s have a look at a barn first.” Eric was starting to relax again. He was an inspector. This was what he knew how to do. No problem.
“Brick’s just about to head into Barn Two for milking,” the groom put in helpfully. “You can follow him in if you want, see the process.”
“Yeah, that’ll do,” Eric said. “Lead on.”
The groom unclipped the crossties, patted Brick’s vast elbow, and clicked her tongue. “Come on, then, Brick, milk time.” The minotaur rolled his mountainous shoulders before turning to tromp after her. Eric and Marissa followed, with Eric trying to take cues from the well-dressed woman as to proper safe distance for minotaurs.
“They’re more docile than I expected,” he said.
“Oh, we’re very careful with behavior training,” Marissa said. “The harvesting process is very… up-close and personal, and a badly trained minotaur is a very dangerous animal. They’re not as big as cattle, but they’re a bit smarter, and not nearly as docile. They also have a tendency to grab at things that catch their eye, and as you can imagine, a minotaur’s grip is extremely difficult to break.”
“They seem quite calm, too. Horses will panic at the drop of a hat, but I can’t imagine Brick giving a damn about a plastic bag.”
Marissa smiled, and for the first time, Eric thought it was genuine. “Well, they don’t have many natural predators. I’ve heard of tigers taking them down in India, and bears in Europe and America, but a minotaur is a much more difficult target than a cow, and there’s less meat on them. It’s usually just not worth it to a hungry animal.”
“You don’t have any trouble with wildlife, then?”
“No, not really. The perimeter fences have to be very secure to keep the minotaurs in. They don’t really intend to escape, but they can be quite single-minded when it comes to food, and if they see a good patch of grass or a berry patch on the other side of the fence, well… anyway, with fences like that, most wildlife doesn’t stand a chance of getting in.”
The groom opened the door to a barn and led Brick through. Eric followed at an appropriate distance, and Marissa closed the door behind him. Inside, the overall impression was much the same as the outside—clean, well-kept, expensive, and extremely English—but it was brighter and more spacious than the exterior suggested, and it was supplemented with properly 21st-century equipment. The center hall was cobbled, and well-lit from above by warm yellow wrought-iron lamps that could have come out of Edwardian London, and the stall doors were golden-brown wood on the bottom with dark metal bars on the top, but Eric could tell that the bars were anodized steel, not iron, and the doors were too thick to be only wood. He glanced inside a few stalls as they made their way down the row, and got a vague impression of large, clean spaces that contained bright, shiny, and very out-of-place machines.
Then the groom opened a stall and led Brick in. “You’re welcome to come in,” she said. “There’s plenty of room, and everything happens in here.”
Eric hesitated briefly, but stepped inside. There was no bedding, he realized, only clean cobbles and, in the center, a black rubber mat, about half the length of his mother’s yoga mat but several times thicker. The minotaur’s hooves clomped on a heavy drain cover as the groom led him onto the mat and turned him around. She climbed up on a footstool to clip on the crossties, and then set the huge, hoof-nailed hands into thickly padded cuffs. The minotaur seemed unperturbed, and spread his legs a little wider on the mat before the groom secured his ankles, too.
“They’ve got to be well-restrained,” she explained. “It’s a pretty intense process for them, but it’s also delicate, and it takes a while, so it’s really important that they can’t get loose and hurt themselves. I know it looks barbaric, but it’s as comfortable as we can make it, and it’s for their own good.”
Eric nodded and made a few notes, but he was busy steeling himself for what came next. Minotaur come. It was the only thing worth keeping minotaurs for, except maybe their horns, and there was only one way to get it. Normally, this didn’t bother him. It was just another product, and it really wasn’t that much weirder than milking a cow, was it? Except he’d just gotten hard earlier while watching an animal get a bath, and he wasn’t at all sure how this might go.
The groom wheeled a machine over from where it had been waiting patiently in the corner. It was on industrial casters that moved easily over the cobbles, and most of it seemed to be a tank, a transparent tank with gradations that looked like they measured up to about five gallons. Sitting atop the tank was a thick, glossy Plexiglass tube, maybe eight inches across and more than two feet long, open at the top, and at its base was a mass of pistons, cables, and tubing. The inside looked to be full of something clear, maybe soft rubber, or even a firm gel. The groom fixed it into place on the floor with steel hooks, hefted a large bottle, and squirted copious quantities of fluid inside of the tube. Then she turned to the minotaur, bent over between his legs, and began rubbing his sheath. “Come on, Brick, let’s get you in.”
Okay, that was a little heavy. Eric did his best not to think about how he was watching a fairly pretty woman masturbate a minotaur, but he couldn't get away from it. She was just… going for it. She kept one finger at the tip of his sheath, hidden in the folds of skin there, and the others were moving the skin up and down, playing with it at a good pace, but very gently. Brick shifted in his ties, making his chest flex oh good lord, and after a while, the pink head of his cock began to emerge.
“Good job, Brick,” the groom said encouragingly. She helped ease it out, not going too fast, and then she guided it forward and began to press it into the tube. She drizzled more fluid from the bottle over it as it went in, so that it was slick and shiny and dripping and steadily hardening. And oh, God, was it hardening. It had been a big cock hanging out soft, but now it was swelling, and Eric tried really hard to avoid thinking about how it might feel. It would be hot in his hand, and he’d feel it growing, getting harder and harder and harder, and…
The end of the tube pushed against the minotaur’s groin, and the groom ran a padded strap around the minotaur’s waist to secure it in place. “Good boy,” she said. Then she wheeled over the second machine.
This one was different. There was no tank, just a little gas canister and what looked to be a pump mechanism, but the top was… odd. A large Plexiglass bowl, almost, quite wide at the top, but with a short, thick rubber tube affixed to the opening. No, less of a tube, more of a… valve? Maybe. The groom put it in front of the first machine, and then she very gently took the minotaur’s impressive sack in hand and began to ease it past the rubber. It seemed to be a very delicate process, one ball at a time passing through the stretchy opening, and they each had to be carefully worked in, massaged and pressed and cajoled into the bowl. Brick didn’t seem to mind much, though his tail swished occasionally.
“Not everyone does this, though most do,” Marissa said as the groom did her work. “But we’ve found that the pump treatment encourages production. The minotaurs don’t mind. Some of them quite seem to like it, actually. Here, have a seat.” She pulled two rolling stools a little out from the wall, and Eric sat on one and hastily put his notepad on his lap. He wasn’t hard, exactly, but he definitely wasn’t soft, and he was grateful for the chance to cover up in case of any further changes.
The third machine wasn’t much of a machine at all. It was just a long, thick, floppy silicone rod with a cord on the end plugged into the wall, and it oh God was liberally coated in fluid and slowly worked into the minotaur’s ass.
“I know it looks… odd.” Marissa sounded a little embarrassed for the first time. “This is our own technique. We find that stimulation of the prostate greatly increases volume. We don’t use it on every minotaur. We test it with each one, see how they take to it. If they don’t mind it, we continue. If it distresses them, we remove it. Brick here enjoys it.”
Eric didn’t trust himself to speak.
The groom switched on the second machine, the one that enveloped the minotaur’s balls, and there was a low hum of a well-tuned pump. Eric watched breathlessly as the dark, swollen sack began to grow, urged larger by the growing vacuum. Each heavy, oval, mango-sized ball was slowly growing. The skin of the beast’s sack was being stretched further over them, tighter and tighter, revealing the way they were round on the bottom and bumpier towards the top, where cords branched out across them. Oh, they were incredible, and they were only getting better.
A few beads of moisture began to form on the inside of the bowl. The minotaur’s balls were… God, they had to be half again as large as they’d started. The right ball hung a little lower, and the bottom of that one hung about halfway down the bowl. As he watched, it continued to descend, lower and lower, growing fatter and fatter. Brick shifted a little, huge hooves scraping the mat, ears dancing, and then gave a quiet snort. The groom reached out and flicked something on the machine, and the pump held steady.
Eric was unbelievably hard. He hated it. This was an animal. You couldn’t get off to animals. But those huge, bulging balls, God, they were more than twice the size they’d started at, and so fat and heavy, sagging low in the machine, leathery skin stretched taut over two vast, swollen balls, each the size of his head, and growing, growing, oh, fuck, he wanted to press his face up into them, feel their immense weight on him, their heat seeping into him, their scent filling his nostrils, their pulse throbbing against him…
The groom pressed a button on a remote, and Brick lurched. “Easy, boy,” she said, but the minotaur was already settling back down. “This is the stimulation phase. The rectal probe applies vibration to the prostate, which encourages it to produce more seminal fluid. These are also capable of electrostimulation, but we don’t often use that, only if the minotaur gets really desensitized. We avoid that if at all possible, of course, don’t like to overwhelm them.” She tapped the bowl that contained those heavenly balls, no longer growing but visibly pulsing. “The decrease in pressure in and around the testicles increases blood flow, which in turn increases sperm production. It’s not evident in the first few milkings, but after a week or so, you really start to see an increase.”
Eric nodded politely. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh—
“This will go for a few minutes,” the groom continued. “Then the milker will come on, and we can start collection. It doesn’t take long then, he could probably finish up now if I turned it on, but we like to give the prostate a while to warm up. The vibrations are set to ramp up, and they’ll reach their peak in… four minutes.” She turned to the stall door. “I’m going to start getting the others set up. Everything’s automated, it should run through the program just fine. I’ll be back in a bit to decant the harvest and take him back to pasture.” Then she was gone, and Eric was in a room with a panting, grunting minotaur, a very pretty and very professional businesswoman, and a raging erection. Joy.
“I imagine you’d like to see the program run its course,” Marissa said. “Make sure that he’s not distressed or in pain at any point during the process.”
Eric nodded mutely. Brick was really starting to move now, hips twisting, hands clenching and unclenching. His vast chest was heaving, and the bulge of his muscular stomach tensed and relaxed repeatedly. It was incredible, really, the interplay of muscles across the beast, they way they flowed and flexed. Incredible. It was like art. Really, really hot art.
“Minotaur semen is best known for its aphrodisiac properties, as I’m sure you know, especially in its refined form, but it has a variety of other uses.” Marissa tapped something on her tablet. “Our biggest buyer is actually a plastics company. They use it as a stabilizing agent, increase the lifespan of their products, and they’re working on developing a biodegradable plastic from it. It’s still a work in progress, but we’re hoping that it’ll take off. Apart from decreasing plastic waste, it’ll bring more attention to minotaur conservation.”
“Conservation?” Eric said, startled out of watching Brick’s ass being fucked. The machine’s constant buzzing, muffled a little by huge haunches, went straight to his cock. God, he was hard.
“Yes. Wild minotaurs are extremely rare. They used to have a vast range, you know, across most of the world, every continent except Antarctica, but now there are only a few known herds. It doesn’t help that the bulls travel widely once they leave the herd looking to form their own. They come too near to population centers, run afoul of roads, get caught eating from granaries. The folklore around them makes human contact even more dangerous for them—they’re often judged to be demons.” She sounded genuinely sad.
God, he needed to think about something else. He was so hard. All he wanted to do was watch those gorgeous balls tremble and pulse, the vibrator stimulate Brick’s prostate. He wanted the pump to turn on, suck that huge, fat cock until it shot thick spurts of come into the waiting container, he’d drink it down like water— for the love of God what the fuck was wrong with him what the fuck. Minotaur conservation, minotaur conservation. “So are there any breeding programs aiming to conserve the wild phenotype?” Breeding programs. Yeah, he wanted to see that. A minotaur fucking naturally must be even more incredible than this, the beast free to act as it wanted, put that muscle to use, fuck—
“No, unfortunately, not that we know of. All registered minotaur farms breed for domesticity and production. There might be an heirloom farm or two out there somewhere, but minotaurs have always been a very niche animal, and farming them only really took off in the last hundred years or so. Any attempts to increase the wild minotaur population would rely on capturing wild specimens for a breeding program.”
The buzzing was getting louder, and Brick was straining. Eric watched in awe as he writhed, muscles bulging. He had no idea what a vibrator in the ass would feel like, not really, but he could only imagine it as pleasurable. And listening to the frequency steadily increase was really getting to him. He could almost feel it piling on, more and more pleasure, stimulation ramping up constantly, more and more and more and more. What must that be like? Eric couldn’t imagine. He’d never done anything particularly interesting in bed, though he’d certainly enjoyed what he had done, but this was… God, he was going to have to buy a vibrator. Where did you even get one of those? Would he have to actually go to a sex shop?
There was a heavy mechanical clunk, and Eric nearly fell off of his stool when Brick roared. Nearly pissed himself while he was at it—there was something absolutely, primally terrifying about being in the same room as a gigantic beast when it made a noise like that. Of course, hard as he was, there wasn’t too much danger of actually pissing.
When he recovered from the shock, Eric realized that the pump had come on. The insides of the pump, whatever it was, was obviously moving, squishing back and forth along Brick’s cock inside the tube. Brick’s hips were pumping, but with the machine fixed to his hips, there was nothing he could do to make this go any faster, or any slower, or in any way other than what the machine wanted.
It didn’t take long, but Eric was mesmerized. He could hear it, under Brick’s loud grunts and the buzzing of the vibrator, the wet sounds of the pump slopping on Brick’s cock. It sounded like the wettest, messiest blowjob on earth. The pressure went up and down, up and down, up and down, sucking the fat animal cock further in and letting it slide back, in and out, in and out, in and out, at a measured, steady pace. Brick was flailing, or would have been if he had more give in the restraints. As it was, that huge, heavy, gorgeous body was twisting and shifting erratically, balls swaying weightily as they throbbed, far too large.
Eric’s cock had recovered from his fright, or perhaps had never been affected. Whatever the case, it was painfully hard, straining against the notepad. Oh, God. This was really… oh, God. Oh, fuck. He found himself gently shifting the notepad back and forth, just for a little friction, fuck, anything, God, he was close, why, why—
Brick lurched violently in his restraints, hips bucking, and the pumping slowed dramatically. Then the minotaur bellowed, and Eric saw his vast balls visibly pulse, expanding and contracting repeatedly like an obscene heartbeat, and was fixated on that stunning sight for a moment before he saw heard and saw the come being pumped into the collection tank. It was thick and white and there was an incredible amount of it, on and on and on like a fountain, splashing into the tank, rapidly sloshing up the sides. He wanted to put his mouth there instead. Brick’s cock would be hot and hard and twitching in his mouth, and his come would be hotter and settle deep in his belly, and it’d fill him up and up and up and he could feel that hot cock against his tongue and he’d lick and suck and drool all over it and he’d take it all the way down his throat until he could bury his face in the folds of that sheath and press himself up against those magnificent, heavy balls and he’d swallow—
Eric came in his pants, hard. He kept his lips tightly together, but his eyes closed, and he felt himself flush dark and his hips twitch, and he was sweating. Brick was still coming, but Eric felt a little more in control of himself now. Not nearly as much as he usually was post-orgasm, there was still hot lust running all through him, but he at least had the presence of mind to uncap his pen and make a note when the minotaur’s monstrous climax finally finished: approx. 2.75 gal ejaculate produced, collection time incl prep approx 8 min. Damn it, he’d come out of this with something useful written down.
The groom came in after a minute or two. “All done?” she said. Without waiting for an answer, she starting unhooking the equipment, starting with the vibrator, which came out with a wet slop, and moving on to the milker, and then the ball pump, where the minotaur’s testicles were very cautiously pulled free of the vacuum. They were still swollen. “Two point six today!” She rubbed Brick’s ears while she was on the footstool to release his hands. “That’s a good one for him. Yes, a very good one, isn’t it, sweetie?” She unclipped his crossties. “I’m going to take him back to pasture and get the next one started before I decant. You could come see the pastures if you want.”
“Mr. Waldron wanted to check our electrical system first,” Marissa said. “We’ll tour the pastures after that.”
“Okay,” the groom said. She gave them a friendly smile. “Have a good day.” She lead Brick out of the stall. Eric was painfully aware of the heavy thomp of hooves on cobbles, and the sheen of sweat that covered the beast’s vast, muscular frame, and the slowly-retracting cock. Oh, God.
“Mr. Waldron,” Marissa said quietly, as the sound of Brick’s hooves faded, “it is very obvious to me that you are not certified to work with minotaurs.”
Eric flinched, and he got to his feet, tucking his notepad under his arm. “If you have concerns about my competence, ma’am, you’ll have to take that up with—” Oh, fuck, he’d worn the khaki cargo pants today. He didn’t dare look down, but he could feel the wet spot. Why hadn’t he worn the dark gray ones? Why?
One well-groomed eyebrow quirked slightly, and Marissa stood as well. “Don’t worry about it too much, Mr. Waldron. About fifteen percent of the population has a gene that makes them extremely susceptible to minotaur pheromones. It’s not a moral failing of yours, only a physiological one, and a relatively common one. If you were certified for minotaurs, you would have taken a simple blood test, and you would know this. There are pills to help. As is…” She gave the slightest shake of her head. “Bullseye has ample grounds for a lawsuit against you, you supervisor, and the whole of the APHIS. However, Mr. Grady has no wish for such a lawsuit. Apart from being an unnecessary expense, it would also further delay a proper inspection.”
Eric was beginning to feel a little out of his league. “What are you saying?”
“We’re prepared to compensate you for your silence, Mr. Waldron. Submit this facility’s inspection paperwork as a pass, and you will be rewarded. You’ll have to quit your job afterwards, of course.”
“Quit?” he said blankly.
She frowned a little, as if disappointed. “Your next employee evaluation would show that you performed an inspection you were not certified for. This would put Bullseye’s legitimacy in question. We would offer you a position, of course, or assist you in finding your own.”
“I… what kind of position?” God, this was getting weird.
She softened a little. Just a little. If only she didn’t look so smug about it. She had to know that she had him. “There are a variety of options open, from the bureaucratic to the practical. Bullseye would prefer a low-profile position for you, to avoid inquiries, at least until the next APHIS inspection in a year’s time. Some positions have travel opportunities—”
“Travel?” This was a farm, for fuck’s sake. What was going on?
“Bullseye is a diverse company, Mr. Waldron. We may be small, but we have interests in a number of industries, many of which involve overseas businesses. Private entertainment, for example, often involves setting up meetings with clients all over the world to arrange their stay at one of our facilities. Our breeding program also frequently uses outside stock. I believe I also mentioned conservation; we’ve been looking into establishing a branch dedicated to wild minotaurs. The options are extensive. If you agree to our terms, we can set up a meeting for a later date to determine the exact nature of your compensation and your future with Bullseye.”
Fuck. Eric’s mind was racing. Leave the Department of Ag? It’d get him away from Ted, at least. Of course, this was also now getting super illegal. But at the same time, it wasn’t like anything really wrong was happening. The animals were treated well, and he hadn’t seen anything hazardous or unsanitary in the way the raw product was handled. Bullseye seemed solid. Even if they did… private entertainment. He’d been a little puzzled by that earlier, but now, God, he could see the appeal. Close-up time with a minotaur, the opportunity to touch… fuck. Fifteen percent? Fifteen percent of the population is horny for minotaurs? Really? Well, that wasn’t exactly true, was it? He hadn’t known that he was horny for minotaurs, obviously. He wondered how many people in that fifteen percent did know. Given that it seemed to take physical proximity before you found out, probably not a lot.
“You can complete your inspection before you decide, of course,” Marissa said.
“I’ll do it.” He hadn’t really planned on saying it, but… “I say you’re doing great, you give me a new job and some money? It works for me.”
Marissa smiled. “Excellent, Mr. Waldron. I’m happy to hear it.”