As always, the room smelled of leather and guys - a combination which never failed to get me hard. I stripped off completely, put my folded clothes into the locker and slid the tight, form-fitting black one-piece up my naked skin I loved the way the cool, smooth leather gripped my body as I pulled up the long, wide silver zip. Sitting down, I put on the dark grey-and-white carbon-fibre biker boots, snapping the quick-release fasteners closed; and finally, standing again, the studded belt with its mask and restraints, buckling it low around my hips. I checked my reflection in the full-length wall mirror and nodded. I didn’t know who had designed our uniforms, but he was good - fuck, they were sexy.
The door swung open with a clatter and Des and James came in, full of this evening's match. They knew I had absolutely zero interest in football, and so the bastards plagued me with it whenever they could. "Hey Simon! Why the long face? The Crystals are gonna win three-nil!"
I rolled my eyes to the heavens and shook my head sadly.
"Thought you liked football supporters," said Des, pulling off his jeans and boxers. His big, meaty cock hung in the air, already half-erect.
"I do. It's the game I can't stand."
The two guys chuckled. James looked at me and frowned. "You Ok Simon?"
I nodded. "Yeah I'm fine. Had a late night last night and I'm not really functioning properly yet." I wandered over to the day's schedule on the notice board, stifling a yawn. "Where are we today?"
"Where are we today? Where the fuck do you think we are?" Asked Des incredulously. "It's the Crystals / Blues match tonight! At a wild guess I'd say we're at FRYOC along with just about all the other Mobile Units in this bloody town!"
'FRYOC' - the Football Related Young Offenders Centre - was a purpose-designed facility next to the sports arena in the centre of town, to which all convicted football hooligans had to report for saturation milking before they could get admission to the game.
"Oh right," I said, unfastening bits and pieces from my belt and replacing them in my locker; FRYOC had full facilities and equipment of its own and I wouldn't be needing much of my own gear.
I watched Des and James pull on their skintight leather one-pieces and adjust themselves into the contoured crotches of the suits, settling their genitals into the sexy bulges the uniforms were designed to accentuate. The tight, shiny leather showed our muscles and slim waists off to perfection. The heavy grey-and-black boots, along with the chrome-studded belts around our hips completed the uniform except for our masks, which we'd put on down at the centre. The effect was of intentionally overpowering and intimidating sexiness we looked like superheros in films, but hornier.
Of all the various private sector law-enforcement units, we in the MEUs the Mobile Extraction Units - were regarded as by far the sexiest. The list of applicants always far exceeded the available vacancies, although additional units were being created all the time due to the surprising wild success of the two-year-old programme. Young men wanted to look like us. They wanted the respect and the sense of elitism that MEU operatives enjoyed. I never tired of the way boys looked at us in the street: the way they stared with a mixture of fear and longing when they saw us in our black leather uniforms, with the mask, leather hood, wrist and ankle cuffs, and black rubber gauntlets hanging threateningly from our waists, and the Extraction Units’ emblem - a hand gripping an erect cock - on the biceps of our shiny black leather suits. I loved the way their eyes always lowered to our bulging crotches, the way they licked their lips... "Hey mate, do me!" Was a greeting we were well used to.
The reality of our work was only slightly less interesting than those kids imagined it to be: we spent our working hours defusing physical assault offenders by milking them dry. The SEUs - the Static Extraction Units - were based in prisons, correctional centres, young offenders institutions, schools etc., but we mobile units could be called out by the police to demonstrations, riots, and to deal with football hooligans before a match. It was usually only us mobile units that the public ever saw, and so it was we who were perceived as the sexy ones. In truth we were sexy - that was the whole point - we were all over six feet tall; slim and muscular (compulsory gym five days a week); had over eight inches in the cock department; and each of us had undergone advanced training programmes which included sexual psychology, manual and mechanical milking techniques, the creative use of restraints, and five different types of physical combat. And I suspect the selection committees were run by gay guys because - although it made no difference as no subject ever saw our faces - we were all, to a man, drop-dead gorgeous.
Des stood up, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and smiled at me. "Come on Simon, get a grip." I cracked a grin at the very old joke.
"I'm all set."
He raised his eyebrows and stuck his head forward. "Mask? Gloves?"
I looked down at my belt - there was nothing on it. I'd put my mask and gauntlets back in the locker with the hood and the cuffs. I really wasn't with it today. With a chuckle I retrieved them and hooked them back onto my belt. "Let's go," I said.
The sun was shining outside it was a beautiful day. "How do girls react to you, knowing what you do for a living?" I asked James as we left the building. James was one of the few bisexual ops in the units most of us were gay.
"They’re usually fascinated, and assume you'll be brilliant in the sack. I don't know why, cos expertise with cocks doesn't necessarily mean expertise with pussies. They're very different things."
We climbed into the back of one of the black MEU vans and closed the door.
Ten minutes later we’d arrived at the arena. We pulled on our masks.
It was a regulation that no subject be able to identify the operatives who were working on him; it was ostensibly for our own protection it made subsequent personal revenge attacks less likely though the masks also made us look much more sexually dangerous. The thin black leather hoods covered the entire head, with grey steel mesh over the openings so that not even the ops' eyes or mouths were visible. The shiny black leather masks were designed with slanting eyes and a slightly downturned mouth to look efficient, intimidating and slightly sadistic.
A group of bikers were leaning against their machines in the car park. When they saw us get out, their conversation stopped and they shifted nervously. Des nudged me conspiratorially and led the way over to them. There were five of them, in leather jeans and jackets. "All right lads?" Asked Des.
We grinned under our masks - the bikers were looking more worried by the second. Two of them were avoiding our eyes but the rest were staring openly at our belts and crotches - and at our masked faces. "Nice machines," I said.
"Nice leathers," replied one of the bikers tentatively. He was a good-looking boy in his late teens.
"Yeah..." drawled James slowly, and gave his bulging cock a squeeze. The biker boy's own leathers quickly became tighter at the crotch. The thought of what we’d been trained to do to boys like him, was giving him an erection. He moved a hand over it to hide it, his face going red.
"Well, ride safe," I said. We left them staring after us. Des had a particular liking for bikers. So did I, actually.
We made our way over to the arena, passing several other MEU vans on the way. There was a line of youths by the doors of the extraction centre waiting to be processed. They couldn’t see our smiles under the masks as we passed them. The way they looked at us was different to how the kids in the street - the ones who had never been forcibly milked - looked at us. Unlike them, these guys knew what it was like: they knew the humiliation of being milked helplessly and repeatedly until their balls were dry - until they quite literally had no spunk left in them to enable them to cause trouble. But if they wanted to see the football match they knew that they wouldn't be admitted unless they allowed themselves to be processed here first. I could see the resentment and defiance in their eyes as they watched us enter the building.
We walked into a large room where horizontal restraint tables and leather slings alternated down the centre. Along each side of the room ran sixteen bays, each with a configurable restraint frame, and at the end of the room was an area with a couple of pads on the floor.
It would be ten minutes before the centre opened for business, and so the workstations weren’t occupied at the moment. The MEU ops were sat on the tables or leaning against them, chatting and joking in groups; now they were inside, some of them had taken their masks off for a few minutes.
This was the main extraction room, but it was probably not where I would be working. Each subject was brought in here by armed attendants, stripped naked, strapped down or tied up, and milked efficiently and repeatedly to dryness by teams of two ops usually a level two assisted by a level one.
There was, however, a second, smaller room: the 'Struggle Box', or just the ‘Box’ as it was known, next door. This room was for processing those youths who were known to resist either physically or mentally - it had special equipment and the more expert level three operatives. This is where I usually worked.
I stayed with Des and James, chatting to the lads from MEUs 5 and 6 - I'd be called if my services were required in the Box. The warning buzzer sounded and the groups broke up, the ops putting their masks back on and taking up positions at either side of each table or sling, as the doors opened and the subjects were escorted in by the attendants.
Each subject had an ID chip which had been surgically implanted in his arm the first time he was first convicted of an offence. It held a lot of data about him: name, address, codes and dates of committed offences, and also details which were of use to us, such as date of last milking; restraint positions and techniques which were most effective on that individual; codes for any fetishes or weaknesses that could be exploited; the degree of resistance he could be expected to put up; number of milkings that had been needed to dry him last time etc. The chip was scanned on entry to the centre, before the subject was escorted to the relevant workstation inside. It would be updated on the way out. All the data also appeared on the VDU by the appropriate table, sling, bay or pad, for the ops' use.
Each position held all the basic equipment: restraints, hoods, gags, rubber gloves, lube, vibrators etc., but there was also a central store of more specialized stuff like nipple clamps, electro gear, feathers, dildos, sounds... which the ops could use on a subject if he'd previously been found to have a weakness for them.
The noise level grew as lads, sometimes resisting, were prepped: most of them were being stripped naked but the odd one was being put into shorts, or leather, or rubber I even saw one being forced into a plastic nappy. They were restrained on the frames, strapped down to the tables and slings, or hog-tied on the pads, some being hooded if their ID chip had recorded that that had helped to make them lose control in previous milkings. The noisier ones were gagged. Then the ops put on their black rubber gloves and set to work on their helpless subjects.
I ambled over to a couple of ops who were preparing a very cute lad - according to his VDU display he was 17 years old and a first-timer. I smiled under my mask as I saw him recognise the three blue stars below my MEU insignia (which denoted my level). When a lad has undergone processing a few times, he usually gets an involuntary erection as soon as he sees our uniforms, but this boy had never experienced forced milking before, and his cock was shrivelled with fear.
The op who was strapping him down was talking to him gently, in a soothing but firm voice. "Nothing at all to worry about, boy. We're just gonna wank you off a few times. Best way is not to fight it, cos we're gonna do it anyway. Just lie back and enjoy it." He took the boy's soft cock in his rubber-gloved fingers and began to massage it expertly while the other op ran his hands over the lad's body, finding his erogenous zones, working on them. He pulled a hood over the boy's head briefly, observing the effect it had on him, then removed it - guessing correctly that in this lad's case, seeing the two ops working on him in their uniforms and masks would turn him on more than not being able to see anything at all.
I didn't take part, but just stood watching. The boy had his first orgasm in about a minute, and when I left them he was well on the way to his second.
I walked slowly down the line of bays, watching lads of all ages and sizes - some strapped with their legs wide apart, some with them tight together; some vertical; some bent over - one was having his bare arse beaten hard with a wooden paddle; there were guys having their nipples worked on; some squirming with pleasure in the slings as electricity jolted sensuously up their cocks; some laughing hysterically into their gags as their balls, armpits or feet were tickled lightly with feathers or much more sadistically with stiff, probing fingers if they were into that; others moaned as dildos were worked slowly into their arses - but every one of them was being milked. Most of them were being worked on by black, slippery, rubber-gloved hands, but some had their cocks gripped by the cylinders of tireless, irresistible milking machines.
At the end of the room were the pads. These were where subjects who got turned on by the feeling of being raped were hog-tied, gagged and blindfolded or tightly hooded, and who struggled and fought in their restraints as two - or sometimes three - operatives at once knelt there, their expert hands all over them, raping their cocks - and sometimes their arses. I watched one particularly violent subject - a big, naked muscular guy in his twenties - as he swore and thrashed about in his restraints between three leather-clad ops who were clearly loving every second of working on him. They whooped and yelled: "That's right, fucker, try to fight it...” And a few moments later: “Yeah! Got you again you bastard!" As his spunk arced into the air between them.
On the other pad an op was making a boy cum in his loose, sagging jeans. It wasn’t his first: there was a dark, wet patch on the blue denim crotch already. I saw a pair of underpants on the floor by his side the ops had clearly cut them off before they’d started on him.
Forcing guys to lose control was what it usually amounted to. True, some just lay there and let it all happen to them, but the majority - especially after their first milking - resisted strongly. They knew that if they allowed themselves to be milked dry, they would lose both the interest and the motivation to cause trouble for a few hours - and that was decidedly not what they wanted. The law said that they had to present themselves for extraction, but it said nothing about their having to co-operate. Every time, they were determined to resist the sexy, leather-uniformed operatives. But everything was designed to make it as difficult for them as humanly possible: we knew what turned each one on most; what techniques were the hardest for them to fight against; we restrained them in whatever position and by whatever means they found the most horny; and we knew exactly how to work most effectively and irresistibly on their hard, dripping cocks. Resistance was, indeed, futile.
The Struggle Box catered for those few who were more capable than most of resisting the usual methods.
My pager buzzed on my belt, and I didn't have to look at it to know that I was needed in the Box. I took a last look at the hog-tied guy, who was shaking his head desperately and begging, "no - not again. Pleeeeease...." as one of the ops re-commenced working on the guy’s cock, which was still slippery with spunk from his last orgasm. The operative was nodding slowly. "Oh yeah, you're gonna cum again. There's still spunk in those balls. We're gonna get it all… And there’s fuck-all you can do about it...”
I walked through to the Box, into the small partitioned-off part which allowed us to familiarise ourselves with the subject's special requirements before actually meeting him. I nodded to the armed attendants who had brought him in and were waiting for me, then read the screen. "Who've we got?"
"Brian Thompson," smiled one.
I nodded. "Ah," I said. Brian and I were old sparring partners, although of course he never knew who it was who was working on him. An ugly, muscular brute of a Hell's Angel, Brian had been arrested half a dozen times for physical assault before the forced extraction programme had been inaugurated two years ago. He not only had to present himself for extractions before events like the game today, but he was also forcibly given regular antiandrogen injections to lower his body’s ability to use testosterone. Since then he'd had no further trouble from the Police - a testament to the effectiveness of the programme. His frequent complaints that the injections and the milkings had ruined his sex life with his girl, were ignored.
“Ok, thanks guys.” They turned to leave and I walked through into the main part of the room. The biker had already been prepped, and was tightly enclosed in a body bag which was securely strapped down to the restraint table. He also had a leather-lined hood strapped on tightly, with a rubber oxygen mask over it, from which trailed corrugated tubes connected to a full ventilating machine. The black rubber bag at the side of the machine rose and fell in time with his chest. I could control precisely how much - and what - he breathed.
Under the hood he was ear-plugged. He wasn't in complete sensory deprivation, but he was in a state of very reduced sensory input. All he could feel inside the hood and body bag was black leather in contact with every inch of his body except for his cock which, along with his balls, was sticking out of a hole. He was in his own world, unaware of anything beyond the extremities of his body. Very soon I would cause that awareness to contract even further - to just his cock.
Brian was a hard case in that he was able to resist the usual milking techniques, and so over the weeks we'd tried various other things until we'd found this - the one susceptibility he was unable to fight against. The biker’s one huge weakness was an intense fetish for leather. The arrangement he was in now was designed to exploit that to the full. The inside of the body bag was lined with lots of leather. It was around his legs, between his thighs, over his feet, in his armpits everywhere. And the mask could limit his air intake to make the leather lining of the hood cling to his face all over.
I switched off the milking machine which had been chugging away gently and removed the cylinder from his cock. He was well able to resist its insistent sucking, and it wouldn't make him cum - but a few minutes on it eroded his willpower sufficiently to allow a skilled op to milk him by hand.
I sat down by the side of the restraint table and switched the ventilating machine to poppers for a moment, giving him a good strong hit. He moaned and moved under the straps, knowing what was coming, and gathering his concentration to fight against it. I smiled - the odds were as much against him as it was possible to make them.
With Brian, I'd only have one chance to make him ejaculate. After that he'd be un-milkable for several hours whatever we did to him - so the objective was to empty his balls as totally as we could that one time. But simply making him cum now wasn't going to do that.
Taking a small leather strap, I tightened it around his balls and the base of his cock. Immediately it stiffened even more, the purple head glossy and engorged. I pulled on rubber gloves and spread a thick film of lube over them. Then I lightly gripped his shaft with one hand, holding it gently, and pulled it downwards slightly. At my touch his body became suddenly rigid, and he began to thrust his hips, trying to fuck my hand. He knew that ultimately he probably wouldn't be able to resist me, and so in his mind he was torn between fighting not to cum at all, or cumming as soon as he could, so that he could retain some spunk (which he knew I wouldn't be able to get out of him subsequently) and which would give him enough drive and energy to be able to enjoy himself by causing trouble at the game later. Determined to thwart both of these objectives, I began to edge him.
Ninety percent of us ops were gay (the rest being bisexual) for the simple reason that the more turned on we got while milking a subject, the more effectively we were able to work on him. And keeping a helpless subject on the very edge of orgasm was both my greatest skill, and also what I got off on most of all. It was my talent for edging which had gained me my Level Three rank.
Over the next thirty minutes or so I used a few different devices on his cock, but as always I did most of my best work with only my rubber-gloved fingertips.
Normally thirty minutes was all the time we could allow for a subject like Brian as there were usually others waiting for similar - or different - specialised treatment, but today no more subjects had come up on the screen yet, so I continued to work on him.
Every so often I'd give him poppers. In his isolated world of ear-plugged leather blackness where the only thing he was capable of thinking about was trying to control his increasingly urgent need to cum, poppers were an extremely useful weapon (the units got through a lot of amyl it was ordered in by the gallon). They encouraged subjects to lose their inhibitions; they made resisting much more difficult; they made fetishes even more intense; they made subjects more and more horny and, most importantly, they made them want to fuckingcum .
But of course I made very sure that the subject couldn't cum. Every time he got close enough, I just stopped. And I am very, very good at doing that. If I ever did feel that I’d got him too dangerously close, and there was a possibility that he was actually going to cum, I could hit the foot pedal which gave him an electric shock through his buttocks - enough to break his concentration and take his mind off cumming for long enough to stop him ejaculating. I knew Brian so well by now, however, that I hadn’t needed to resort to this for a very long time - but it was a foolproof method of controlling him if it became necessary.
The pre-prep notice for the next subject didn't come up on the screen for another fifteen minutes, and by that time the big biker was half-insane. Gradually, as a session with him progressed, I'd loosen the straps holding his body bag down to the table, so that by the time I was ready to milk him, he could struggle and writhe about and reallyfeel the leather against his bare skin all over his body, creaking and getting into every crevice. This worked well on his leather fetish and made his eventual orgasm a lot more intense, and a lot more complete.
Knowing I had to finish Brian off now, I pressed the button to call for the second op.
The door opened and a level two came in - I didn't recognise him in the mask, and I briefed him on the routine.
I took off my rubber gloves, reached into the cool box by my side and took out a pair of thick, shiny black leather gauntlets. I pulled them on, the leather cool against my hands, gripped the biker's balls with one hand, and gave him a huge hit of poppers. He knew that this signalled milking time, and his body tensed: fighting the amyl, he was summoning every bit of his remaining willpower to resist what was coming next.
At my nod, the second op removed the rubber mask from over Brian’s hood and clamped his gloved hand down hard over his mouth and the air holes, putting his body weight over it, gagging him, pressing him down hard onto the padded table, and cutting off his air completely.
I wrapped my leather hand around his cock and began to wank the big biker off in the way I knew he couldn’t resist: increasingly rapid, firm strokes, mainly sliding my leather fingers up and down the shaft but also occasionally rubbing the head on the way as well. He started to struggle - the body bag and his head bouncing on the table under the other op’s hand, as much as the straps would permit. He was desperately trying to get his cock away from my fingers, to get his head free from under the gagging hand, and to stop himself from cumming. But he was flying on poppers, helpless, gagged and hooded; he couldn't breathe; his biggest fetish black leather - was touching and stroking every inch of his body with each movement; and his cock was being milked by yet more leather: the cool, shiny gauntlet of an op who was getting off big-time on breaking his resistance. My own cock was rock-hard and I could feel the tight leather of my uniform rubbing against it edging a guy usually works both ways: you get almost as horny yourself as the subject but you mustn’t cum otherwise you lose much of your motivation.
Brian was close to passing out, but with a roar which was audible even under the hood and the op’s hand, he finally lost control. Thick white spunk pumped out of his cock as he came into my milking hands. It landed on my shiny black thigh, on the body bag, on the table, and on the leather gauntlets. His cock was bucking up and down insanely, as his muscular body arched off the table. His ejaculation went on and on, and I continued to milk him until he collapsed back onto the padded surface, exhausted and almost unconscious. His cock was still jerking but there was no spunk left in his balls to get. Brian was dry.
I needed a drink after that, and I met Mike - another level three - at the water dispenser in the corridor. He was from MEU 5, based over the other side of town. I knew it was him even with his mask on I’ve never seen him naked, but he must have an enormous cock because the bulge in his leathers is obscene. We said ‘hi’ but I couldn’t stop my next guy was already being prepped in the Box. This one was into nipple pain and very large dildos, apparently, and humiliation was his biggest weakness. That was fine we were very good at humiliation.
After I’d worked on three more specials in the Box we were done for the day. We could hear the roar of the crowd in the arena as we took our masks off in the van. Shortly we were on our way back to the station. As usual there was a lot of banter about today’s more resisting boys and how they’d been made to lose it.
After a shower I put my street clothes back on but packed my uniform to take home with me (this is not encouraged, but lots of ops do it). I was even more horny than usual today, and I’d decided to go to one of the clubs tonight. I knew I’d only have to walk in wearing my uniform and I’d be able to take my pick of the boys there. I chuckled I often had to fight them off.
Tomorrow I might be sent to one of the correctional facilities or, more probably, just be working on daily extractions in the station - but tonight I was going to have some fun: I intended to find the cutest, sexiest boy I could.
I’d let him wear my uniform for a couple of hours and do me .