I - Arrival

It had all happened very fast. From the moment the alien flotilla had breached the security perimeter around Neptune, crushing the small Saturnine Auxiliary Fleet, they had quickly and with purpose descended upon every orbital weapons platforms, and Earth itself, like locust from the ancient texts. The CTDD – the abbreviated form of the Combined Terran Defence Directorate, the umbrella command encompassing all of Earth’s fighting forces – had been far too spread to the winds to mount a proper counterstrike.

What forces had mustered and sallied forth to meet this new, hostile threat from beyond the Sol System had been butchered without contest. The remaining spaceborne forces had, wisely – but to the mounting horror of those left on Earth – pulled out of the system to consolidate and regroup.

Earth itself was surrounded within hours of the initial hostilities, and alien forces were on the ground in force, sweeping cities and fighting units aside like so much dust upon their terrifying armour.

One of the units that had some initial success against the alien aggressors was the ISAR – the Independent Scandian Assault Regiment – whom had been ready for the aliens’ landfall and sucker-punched them so hard they reeled away from the area of operations under ISAR’s jurisdiction, far north of the Arctic Circle.

The success against the alien invaders were not without cost, however. The ISAR had taken casualties – on paper, these number were “acceptable”. Still, it was an operational force that remained in the fight, and one that had given the alien invaders something to contemplate.

Sadly, the same could not be said for all forces of the CTDD still on Earth. Most of the Asian Commonwealth had succumbed, Austral had been bombed by thermonuclear devices from orbit and was a burning husk, and South Amer was in full retreat. The only places where the front was holding, for the moment, was in North Amer and Northeastern Europa.

But there was no denying that the aliens were gaining ground wherever they landed, and still the skies were streaked by pods plummeting through the atmosphere to unleash even more invaders upon the land.

Earth had to hold on until the main fleet of the CTDD could gather in force and conduct a devastating counterattack. However, whenever that attack could come to pass was still being theorized.

The 2nd Assault Company of ISAR had been in the middle of the heaviest fighting against the alien invaders since first contact. With their plethora of bipedal tanks, missile-equipped APCs and more conventional tracked fighting machines, they had stopped the enemy assault dead, supported by ISAR’s 3rd Artillery Company and its auxiliary bombardment units.

When the loathsome aliens advanced, heavy infantry clad in bulky purple armour marching behind squat, quadruped war-machines with some kind of energy-weapons held in claws like crabs’, the snow and trees around them erupted when the defenders opened fire, shattering their energy-shields under the relentless bombardment and smashing the invaders, mowing them down as the falling snow and debris covered their smoking bodies.

In turn, the odd energy-weapons of the aliens had vaporized a good twenty soldiers of the 2AC and destroyed three machines, but the company was still ready, willing and motivated to take on the invaders in another test of firepower. For all their clear superiority in overall tech, the aliens were not invulnerable to traditional, pounding kinetic force.

One of the soldiers of ISAR’s 2AC was Kayven Nord, currently hunkering behind tightly packed snow. Like all the soldiers of ISAR, he wore the traditional black and grey Mk. 3 Theyan Armour – the Mars-pattern one – an all-encompassing suit of powered armour that was among the least bulky fielded by the CTDD. It was more like thick clothes than a huge suit of armour, but the metal protected adequately against projectiles, shrapnel and some forms of energy-blasts, and it offered superior mobility to the more hulking suits worn by other units.

Kayven’s dark brown hair was being squeezed tightly against his scalp under his helmet, the faceplate and visor having caught the passing embers of a streaking ray of blue energy fired by the aliens, so his HUD was buzzing and obviously disturbed, forcing him to keep knocking at his faceplate to stabilize it.

His brown eyes peered over the brink of the snow, trying to catch a glimpse of the aliens somewhere in the deep, snow-covered forest ahead of the line. The aliens’ sophisticated systems hid them from thermals, so the soldiers were forced to rely on their own eyes to find the aliens and act accordingly.

Next to Kayven, currently cursing and swearing over her jammed battle-rifle, was his fellow soldier and partner, Tara Engen. Her helmet had taken a hit from a burst of energy that was fired just high enough to miss taking her head off, but had still impacted the top curvature of her helmet and torn it off her head, making her long, brown tresses spill over the pauldrons of her armour and ISAR’s wolf-emblem on the shoulder. Her dark green eyes promised bloody murder for the jammed cartridge unless it vacated the upper receiver post-haste.

“Any luck?” Kayven asked, his eyes scanning the woods for signs of the enemy. Along the whole of 2AC’s line, the aliens had vanished from sight, but they were out there in the snow, planning their next move even as more reinforcements came plummeting from high orbit.

Every now and again distant explosions and gunfire told the assembly that other elements of ISAR was still in contact, and towards the far horizon, elements of the local atmosphere-fighters were locked in deadly dogfights with the enemy.

With a distinctly unfeminine roar and a tug on the cocking-lever that might have pulled a man’s arm right out of its socket, the culprit cartridge was ejected. “Finally!” she huffed, slamming the magazine back in and pulling on the lever again, a fresh round sliding into the chamber, ready to kill.

Human small-arms fire had proven to be marginally effective against the armoured aliens, but only when fired at the joints of their suits. Anywhere else, the projectiles merely pinged off like peas tossed at a window.

“Welcome back,” Kayven said mirthlessly, starring down the barrel of his weapon, tracer-bullets ready to direct the company’s larger weapons. “I didn’t think these rifles were supposed to jam.”

“Neither did I, but clearly the logistical arm of our fine army has yet again failed to deliver on their promises.”

Kayven could only nod. “Well, at least–“

A series of explosions ripped through the forward trenches of the 2AC, hurling burning soldiers skyward, limbs shooting through the air, blood spiralling from the severed parts. The enemy advanced again, this time under a severely improved rate of fire to keep the humans’ heads down.

The war-machines, the crew at least better protected than the exposed infantry, returned fire, unleashing salvoes of heavy-calibre bullets, shells, missiles and mortars towards the approaching aliens.

The aliens were yet again out in force, some elements advancing whilst other lay down suppressive fire, and the casualties they took from the return fire did not faze them in the slightest.

Kayven exposed as little of his head as possible above the snow, snapping of precision shots at the enemies’ joints. He did not assume he felled many, but at least he staggered them, leaving them open for bigger shells to blast them apart in gory glory.

Contact all along the line! We’re being overrun! We’re out of–

The comms died, but the crescendo of battle sure didn’t. Tara let fly from her rifle-mounted missile launcher, taking the limb off an alien that was but twenty paces from the line, sending it toppling face-first into the snow.

All around them, soldiers of the 2AC were being cut down, butchered under the relentless assault of a superior enemy, but still they held their ground. The tanks and APCs succeeded in exacting a heavy toll on the approaching enemy, but did not succeed in turning them back a second time. One by one, the fighting machines of the 2nd Assault Company were brought to heel, beams of energy burying under the armour and setting the vehicles aflame from the inside, cooking the crew at unimaginable temperatures before secondary detonations rent the heavy constructs apart.

Desperately trying to hold their own, mostly ignorant of the bloodbath taking place all around them, Kayven and Tara’s squad switched to automatic fire, accomplishing to saw down half a dozen aliens, but there were too many of them, and they were advancing too quickly.

One of the invaders tossed a small blue sphere into the trench with what looked like a thick, bluish liquid inside, and as soon as it hit the trampled snow it detonated in a hiss of expanding gas.

Kayven’s helmet shielded him from the intial blast of gas, but, for some inexplicable reason, the gas melted the reinforced glass of his visor, and like the others, he too gagged on it before he quickly plunged into darkness, falling on top of the already prone form of his partner as the aliens stormed the trench.

Head spinning and ringing, gagging on whatever it was he had inhaled, Kayven barely avoided throwing up on Tera, forcing back the bile as he tried to orient himself, tried to remember what he was doing. In his state of confusion, the sounds of battle around him, though close, felt like came from far away. Dull thuds of gunfire and explosions appeared insignificant, the cries of the wounded and maimed having no weight behind them. The air was choked with black smoke and the smell of cordite, the stench of death heavier still to those with their sense of smell still intact.

Trying to support himself on his hands, he found no purchase on the slipperly plates of Tera’s armour, and fell on top of her again with a groan. Despite his stupor, he could tell Tara was not dead, for her breath was misting in front of her face, and there was no blood on her.

Seeing his supine partner brought reality crashing down on him, but it did nothing to help his clouded mind. Again the desire to hurl overcame him, but his fright at knowing the alien invaders was in their midst forced him into action. Reaching for his rifle, he found the grip and tugged it towards him. With an inaudible curse, he found the rest of the weapon was missing, the metal melted in the place where a blast of energy had smashed through it.

His hand fumbled at his hip, managing to free his sidearm, but if his battle rifle had barely managed to puncture the aliens’ armours’ weak spots, his sidearm wouldn’t do shit against them. Still, he would not go down without a fight. He had no desire to die, but if he did he would do so while resisting. Struggling to his knees, one hand protectively covering Tara’s head, he looked down the length of the trench at an appalling sight.

Soldiers of his company lay in heaps, dead. The amount of blood was so much that the packed snow was melting, the warmth of the leaking viscera steaming in the cold air. It was disturbing, to say the least, burning wrecks of machines crowning the carnage that filled his vision.

Alien soldiers were picking their way through the trench works, walking now instead of running, putting down the survivors with detached efficiency as they advanced. One of the aliens, clad in that hulking, brutish suit of purple armour came walking towards Kayven and Tara, its energy-weapon hanging leisurely at its side.

Kayven, arm trembling, lifted his sidearm and depressed the trigger. The bullets bounced impotently off the approaching figure’s armour, and he had dried the magazine before the alien came up to them. Kayven wanted to spit at the invader, but his mouth was dry, and he doubted he could have summoned the strength that was necessary to do so. Whatever it was he had inhaled, it was turning him all around.

The alien, cocking its armour-plated head as though curious about Kayven, reached for a stick mag-locket to its hip. It held it in the large, armoured gauntlet that could operate with far more delicacy than its size suggested, and pointed it at Kayven.

He expected a swift death, flinching as a dull, green light flashed from the tip of the stick. The light, reason dictating it should be a comfortably soft glow, nearly blinded him and took his breath away.

For a second time in mere minutes, Kayven was plunged into unconsciousness, but this time he would stay that way until the antidote was administered.

Later in the day, with all forces gaining ground on the planet of the humans, transports had begun shuttling prisoners into orbit for the waiting slave-ships that would transport the humans back to the Thelluloid Empire, where they would be integrated in whatever function the Empire required.

The three local species that made up the Thelluloids – the Ar’a, the Shix and the Hynger – had millennia ago conquered their own galaxy, and half a dozen more since. Now, the powerful empire had started the invasion of the galaxy designated SQ8, and the venerable Axxchin Strike Force had been ordered to the Sol System to subjugate the feeble race who, in their ignorance, declared themselves the masters of the system.

Yes, the humans had basic knowledge of space-travel, yes they had weapons that were capable of harming the Thelluloid ships and warriors, but they were numerically and technologically inferior. The master of Axxchin had estimated the entire system, and the planet that was the seat of the human empire, would be conquered within one standard month at the most.

Kyrah belonged to the Ar’a species of Thelluloids. She stood at the viewport of her private vessel orbiting the blue planet, caring little for the mathematics of victory and military stratagems. She only cared about getting her money’s worth.

Being a significantly wealthy Thelluloid with more time and money than she knew what to do with, she had centuries ago discovered that sponsoring the Thelluloid invasion-fleets granted her many advantages. Campaigns required money, and she had plenty of it. In return for a very, very significant amount, all Kyrah had asked for was an Exelles strike cruiser to be retrofitted and customized to her particular tastes and needs, and the opportunity to attach herself and her new vessel to any strike force, and then to have her pick of alien slaves.

Among the Axxchin, she was known as “the Collector”, for she travelled with the Strike Force to their destinations solely to collect slaves for her personal use. Not a patient woman, she had ordered the officers of Axxchin to capture two humans and bring them to her ship – the Goddess’ Hand – as soon as was doable, one male and one female, preferably warriors taken alive on the field of battle.

Kyrah had a thing for warriors. They had fit bodies and could take more punishment than the common slave. She wondered if humans would make good slaves. She had seen pictures and videos of them, but had never owned one before. However, what she had seen was more than enough to tell her that it was a race she wanted in her collection.

Smiling to herself, catching the glare of her luminescent, purple eyes in the reinforced glass of her viewport, Kyrah watched with pent up excitement as a slave-transport broke away from the main flotilla and headed towards her ship.

She intended to get to know her new possessions immediately, once the necessary alterations to their bodies had been made.

He saw a blue light in his mind’s eye, as if it shone from within him.

His head jerked when he regained consciousness, but his eyes felt glued shut. His jaw ached. He felt exhausted, every limb and joint screaming at the very fact of existing. It felt hard to move. In his current state where his senses were not yet turned on, he didn’t understand what was happening. He heard grunts, but were unable to make sense of what they were.

In the back of his mind, he recalled the fighting, recalled an alien raising a stick at him.

His head jerked again and his eyes snapped open, his body resuming control of itself with the shock of recollection.

Then panic set in when he discovered he couldn’t move.

His legs where inserted nearly to the knee in odd sockets that kept them from moving at all. His arms were suspended in metal rings, equally as immobile as his legs. The rings were emitting strange, bluish lightning that was completely silent, linking the metal cuffs to an odd, red object he noticed was behind and partially above him. His neck was collared with a thing that also emitted the soundless lightning, and while he could not move is neck in any direction, he was able to turn the head.

His jaw ached because, as far as he could tell, there was some kind of tube placed in it that was secured around his head, keeping it in place, forcing his jaw apart. The material was only semi-rigid. He could bite it and it would give, but not by a lot. It tasted like rubber, but felt like plastic.

Then, with mounting fright, he noticed he was naked. Stripped of everything, his athletic body was presented like a wall-hanging. The emblem of ISAR, the “knife-wolf” was emblazoned proudly on his left pectoral, his CTDD mini bar-code ID tattooed on his right upper arm.

The only item left of his on his person was the death-tag, the small, translucent blue rectangle hanging over his chest by its leather strap which was meant to identify him in the field if he fell.

Frightened – feeling cold sweat running down his back – he turned his attention to the grunts that had assailed his hearing since waking, but that he had just now started to actually hear.

Eyes widening in horror, Kayven saw Tara restrained to an identical red “thing”, her legs inserted into sockets nearly to her knees. She also had the metal cuffs around her wrists, but her arms were fastened down her sides, behind her. Like Kayven, a thick collar was clamped around her neck, and it and the cuffs emitted the same kind of strange, silent blue lightning that connected the metal to the red object.

She too, was buck naked, apart from a ball secured in her mouth, and he noticed the way she was restrained with her arms down and bent forced her chest out, displaying her prominent, abundant bosom and stiff nipples.

Like Kayven, Tara also had a mini bar-code tattooed on her right upper arm, and she also had the ISAR-wolf on her skin, but hers was on the left upper arm. If she also wore her death-tag, it was hidden between the valley of her large breasts.

The source of her grunting, Kayven saw with trepidation, came from a series of reddish tentacles that protruded from the white floor as though it was liquid where the tentacles squeezed through it. The tentacles, looking like living things but mechanical at the same time, were thrusting a thick, long, pinkish-red phallus in and out of Tara, liquids dripping down it in voluminous amounts. There was another dildo-like thing that worked her asshole with equal force, penetrating her deep and making her squeal.

Tara’s eyes were watering, teeth clamping down on the ball in her mouth, her frightful eyes looking up at the figure standing in front of her which Kayven was just taking notice of. That it was an alien was not in question, and suddenly Kayven had an idea as to where he was, and it was not a joyous realization.

It was as blue-skinned woman, standing chest, shoulders and head taller than Kayven if the both of them had stood back to back, so she was quite large. She had sinister, purple eyes that seemed to shine, with dark slits instead of pupils that regarded Tara with interest.

Thick, white tresses swept back over her head hung down to the small of her back, set with black decorative items Kayven had trouble identifying. Wicked, pointed ears stood right up at attention, but the definite feature of her head were the thick, protruding black horns that swept forward, curving at the end where they narrowed into sharp points.

There was some kind of disc painted on her forehead with protrusions dancing over and across her dark eyebrows and down the sides of her cheeks.

For all of this woman’s frightening appearance, being a man, Kayven could not help but notice the alien’s very feminine features and the fact that she hardly wore any clothing. Her breasts, the largest Kayven had ever seen – and that included if the alien had been the same size as him – were pushed out, hard nipples presented with obvious pride, by some kind of half-corset that held the heavy breasts at the sides, pushing them up and towards each other. The remaining structure of the “corset” looked to be made of black vines that appeared as streaks of oil, forming a decorative structure by her ribs but which also showed as much skin as possible.

Above, seemingly a part of the corset, the woman’s shoulders bore wide shoulder-guards that swept up and out, ending in wicked tips. Her arms were draped in handless gloves, the material akin to latex, with purplish vambraces that looked as if they were cut from chitin-like armour.

Boots of the same latex-esque material ran the length of her legs up the the middle parts of her thick, womanly thighs, the front of the boots below the knee presenting the same kind of armour like her vambraces. The tall heels of the boots made the alien stand even higher than she was.

The final piece of clothing she wore was a slim thong, also looking to be of the same material as her gloves, the straps riding high on her broad, sensual hips, dividing her large, fit and shapely ass-cheeks. Her athletic, muscular belly was bared for all to see, and Kayven noticed the slithering markings rising from her thighs below the boots, arching up over her hips and nearly coming to a head above her navel.

If not for the present situation, Kayven would have called this alien improbably sexy. Alien and strange she was, but she still had every single thing his primal nature demanded he find attractive.

The alien, standing straight-backed, chin held arrogantly high, stood with one hand on her hip, the forefinger of the other tracing circles around her belly-button as she watched, with a tight-lipped smile on her blue lips, Tara grunt and pant and beg under the biomechanical rape.  Then her eyes, gliding like a sailboat, slid over to Kayven, noticing that he was awake.

She said something in a language with pronunciations impossible to form with a human tongue, tapping her fingers on a screen next to Tara that slid into the red object she was restrained to when the woman was done with it. In its place, more tentacles slithered out of the red object, at the top this time, two of them slinking down, attaching the mouth-like ends to Tara’s nipples and started an automated sucking-action.

Sliding her hands up Tara’s body to squeeze and grab her breasts while the tentacles got settled, she released them and walked towards Kayven, her hips swinging sensually as she strode. Stopping in front of him, her grand stature seemed ever greater up close. Speaking that unintelligible language of hers, she produced a small, slim square, no larger than an Earth-sized pea. She reached the arm around Kayven, and, with an insisting push, shoved the thing into his neck.

He yelped, biting down on the gag as sharp pain radiated from his neck through his bound body, but as soon as the pain had surfaced, it dissipated.

“There,” the woman said, suddenly speaking his language. “Now you can understand what I am saying, and I will understand you, whenever I deem it necessary for you to address me.”

Hidden behind the large, blue woman, Tara grunted and moaned.

“I will make this short.” She placed her hands on Kayven’s chest, flicking her thumbs against his nipples. “I am Kyrah. You are aboard my ship, and from this day, you belong to me. You are my property, and just another part of my collection of slaves. Do you understand?”

Kayven was breathing raggedly now, quivering eyes looking up at the looming alien, the bottom slopes of her breasts nearly brushing against his forehead.

She grabbed the hair at the back of his head and yanked it back. She glared with those frightening purple eyes at him. “Do you understand?”

He nodded on instinct, some part of him realizing that to fail it a second time would yield nothing well.

“Good,” she smiled mysteriously.

A console appeared next to Kayven, as if it had slit right out from the red object the silent lighting bound him to. The alien woman – Kyrah – punched a sequence of keys, and a tall-backed chair rose from the floor in front of him, pushing through it like the solid matter of the floor had momentarily liquefied.

The red chair settled on the floor, the back showing to Tara. Kyrah sat down on it, in front of Kayven, making their eyes more or less level. She draped one shapely leg arrogantly over the other as she straightened in her seat.

“You see, I am a particular woman. I do not join these invasion fleets to make war or kill. I come for one thing and one thing alone; to acquire slaves. I have many slaves on this ship, a pair of every race our Empire has conquered. You and the woman behind me are my first humans. I look forward to learning your bodies.”

The hand closest to Kayven gently trailed the knuckles up his abdominal muscles. “You, however, are special among my slaves. You are the only male. You are not my first male, but you are, currently, my only one. You see, I have a particular craving, and I am insatiable for it, and I know enough about xenobiology to know that all males, no matter the species, can provide me with what I crave.”

Her hand dropped down, cupping Kayven’s testicles.

“Semen,” she said with a wicked smile.

“And therein lies the problem.” She removed her hand, tracing the features of his torso with a finger. “To get the semen, I need to milk the male. And when I milk the male, I always, eventually, go too far, and the male’s heart shuts down. I know I should not, but like I say, my desire for semen is so demanding that I cannot stop myself. I certainly hope you, a human male, will prove to be the one who will outlast all other males.”

She keyed in another sequence on the screen and, Kayven realized to his horror, his cock was hardening, going from limp to fully erect in a matter of seconds, and he had no idea why.

As a trio of stemless glasses floated over to Kyrah from somewhere, the pair of them heard Tara’s gagged howls, louder and fiercer than before.

“Seems like my new mare climaxed. Wonderful, I hope that makes her more sensitive, for the machines won’t stop until I shut them off.”

A tentacle slithered from behind Kayven, taking him by surprise when he felt the warm, metallic snake slide over his hip. The tip hovered over his exposed manhood and, the “mouth” opening, expunged a warm, viscous liquid over the full length of it before retreating.

Kyrah gripped the cock, her large hand covering it from base to head, stroking it, coating it with the lubrication. Her other hand cupped the balls, gently massaging them in tune with her stroking.

“I approve of your human cock, slave,” she purred, looking down at it, still sitting straight in her chair. “It looks nice. It feels nice. I wonder, will you taste nice?”

She quickened her strokes. It had been many months since her last male, a black-skinned Feronian from the SQ7-galaxy, perished due to heart failure during a mechanical milking session. A pity, for his seed was delicious, but in the end, he had failed to survive.

She looked forward to tasting cum again. Each race had their own distinctive taste, but the common denominator was that all of them filled her need, no matter their origin. Many had suggested to her that she should just acquire more than one stallion to sate her needs, but she never would keep more than one. In her mind, the seed of a single stallion, cared for and thoroughly milked and exercised every day, would satisfy her far more than if she hooked them by dozens, milking them industrially.

No, she would only keep one male, but females she had no limit for. Her ship, the Goddess’ Hand, could accommodate its crew and a total of three-hundred and twenty slaves. Currently, including the two newcomers, she had one-hundred and sixty-two slaves, one of them male, eighty-one species in total.

Mouth watering and the prospect of finally tasting male seed again, her luminous eyes gazed at the stallion’s, relishing the look of confusion in them. New slaves were always confused as to what Kyrah wanted of them, but they would learn their place soon enough. Any slave, after a month aboard the Goddess’ Hand, were obedient little pets who knew to satisfy Kyrah’s every desire whenever she desired them.

She pumped his cock hard and fast, the hand gliding on the lube, making wondrously lewd and wet noises as it slid over the shaft. Her other hand felt up his testicles, gently tugging on them, gently squeezing.

A male’s cock, no matter the race, worked in the same way. It was all about stimulating the sensitive spots for long enough, and no matter the resilience, the stallion would eventually have to succumb to the sensations and release his semen.

By the looks of things, this human’s resistance was wearing away fast. He was unable to move much in his bonds, but his breathing had quickened, and the output of sweat had increased as well.

Letting go of his balls, still stroking his cock as quickly as her hand could move, her free hand hooked a finger into one of the levitating glasses and pulled it closer. Freed of her hand, the human’s testicles were bouncing and jostling at her stroking action, and seeing the cock, smelling its aroma and knowing it was about to spew, made Kyrah very wet between her thighs.

She held the glass in front of the tip of the cock. “Let me sample your seed, pet.”

As if on command, Kayven came. Head rolling back and eyes squeezing shut, he groaned into the gag as the alien forced him to orgasm, her strong hand stroking his lubed manhood so fast it was nearly unbearable. His cum, shooting out of his cock with impressive velocity, splashed against the curvature of the glass and filled it up nearly half way. He could not believe how potent the force of the orgasm was.

“Meagre amount,” Kyrah commented dryly, making Kayven grunt in disbelief. He had never cum that much in a single orgasm ever before. The glass looked to be filled with a week’s amount of seed.

“But you are still untrained.” She brought the glass up to her face. She stuck her nose into it, taking a deep breath, savouring the luscious, salty aroma, her hand still pumping the cock, a string of thick cum hanging down her thumb.

She noted how he jerked when her hand focused on the cockhead. She had had a slave with similar reactions before. Not all the males of the different species became hypersensitive after orgasm, like women did – no exceptions – but it amused her that the human clearly did. Hypersensitivity could, in some cases, be tamed, but it also made prolonged milking-sessions far more interesting.
She just loved it when they groaned and protested during the powerful sensations of post-orgasm.

Postponing it no longer, she put the glass to her thick lips and drank. Her head spun at the taste, and she nearly climaxed herself. With a long, sensual moan, she voided the glass in seconds, her insatiable nature disallowing her to savour it. She needed to drink it all.

When the glass was empty she removed it from her lips, gasping for air as if she had been under water for too long. The taste was exquisite. It made her dizzy, made her feel good all over. This was the high she had longed for after the last stallion had perished. In her rapture, she did not even notice the mare’s pleading grunts as she came again, her pussy, ass and nipples relentlessly stimulated without end.

This semen was delicious. But she needed more, she thought as her eyes locked with the male’s.

Much, much more.