Until a month ago Paul had been a gym instructor at a school in Herefordshire. That was until he’d been made redundant. He’d signed up to this programme for the cash, after seeing an advert for it online. It seemed simple enough: a department of Edinburgh University was researching into the possible anti-cancer uses of some of the constituents of semen. Sounded interesting, and the money was good. Probably all he’d have to do was lie in a bed and let scientists do tests on him. And he’d undoubtedly get to cum a lot. He could cope with that.
Once they’d finished vetting him and he’d got the email saying he’d been accepted, he packed a few necessities and took the train up to Scotland the following day. Admission into the medical facility was immediate – he hadn’t even had to find a hotel for one night.
Paul signed the papers and settled in. The room was small, but he had everything he needed. There were two windows, one each side: through the first he could see a factory yard across the street; and through the other he had an equally-riveting view of a semi-detached house.
There was test after test – and then more tests. Paul lay back and let them get on with it, mentally counting the money he was making just by being here.
For the programme, he was required to produce spunk every day. In the beginning he did it himself, collecting it in little containers they gave him, but that turned out to be not enough for them. They changed his diet: now in addition to healthy food there were pills and supplements to take, and liquids to drink. And there were injections, presumably to increase his production, or possibly his libido. He had to do four periods of exercise every day too.
He didn’t notice more spunk then usual, although he did find that the idea of a wank appealed a little more often – but it still wasn’t enough for them. The neurologists, engineers and computer experts came in, and shortly after that Paul was wired up to a computer.
He lay on the hospital bed watching as they wheeled in a large LCD screen and positioned it above him. Then came a trolley with an expensive-looking computer on it, and another with wires and electrodes hanging from it. These were stuck all over his body: on his cock, balls, chest, neck, and several on his head. There was even a small, curved metal probe that went up his arse – the doctor apologised as he inserted it, but Paul didn’t mind (it wasn’t as big as the butt-plug he used at home). Everything was plugged in, and the doctor smiled.
“Don’t worry – the electrodes are for gathering data, not for shocking you. You won’t feel anything at all. Now, we want you to keep looking at the screen. You’ll see various images. Some of them might disgust you, but go with it. Ok? You don’t have to do anything. Just keep watching it. Ok Paul?”
Paul nodded.
The doctor switched things on, made sure they were working, then left the boy to it.
He found himself looking at porn. Over the next hour, videos of just about every kind imaginable paraded across the screen: women with big boobs, wobbling them about while pouting at the camera; women being fucked; women playing with themselves; women and guys tied up, being fucked, beaten, sucked, tickled, teased; lesbian sex; gay sex. There were girls and guys in leather, in satin, rubber, denim, uniforms, nappies, and PVC.
Through this Paul became increasingly bored. Nothing on the screen turned him on in the slightest. His attention wandered. He looked into the living room of the semi-detached, counted the ornaments on the fireplace there; he gazed at the factory yard. Now and then something on the screen caught the corner of his eye and he returned his attention to it, but never for very long.
At the end of the hour the doctor returned, switched things off and removed the electrodes. He thanked Paul. Then he left, taking the flash drive from the computer with him for analysis.
The whole thing was repeated – with different images – that afternoon. At four o’clock, on the screen the video ended (it had been of a man being fucked by a leather guy with an industrial-sized cock) and changed to one of a boy in shorts, watching porn on his phone. A crowd of workers walked through the factory yard – Paul saw one who he thought was nice. Tall and good-looking, in a yellow hard hat. In the semi, a man in bright green corduroy pants sat down at the side of a cat who was also occupying the sofa, closed his eyes, and went to sleep. Paul gazed at him.
At the end of the hour the doctor returned. He took the electrodes off, made sure Paul was comfortable for the night, and left - again with the flash drive. More analysis, guessed Paul.
The images the following morning were all of boys in shorts. Paul’s eyes drifted away from the screen again. He looked at the factory yard, wondering if he’d see the good-looking guy. The yard was empty. The living room was empty too – no, the man in the corduroy pants came in again, but this time he was tidying the room. On the screen a boy in green shorts was lying over someone’s knee, having his arse spanked.
That afternoon, the monitor showed a succession of boys in green shorts, having their arses spanked. Paul yawned and looked out of the window. The good-looking guy was in the factory yard. He paused to chat to a mate, then disappeared from view. The man in the semi was doing exercises half-heartedly in front of the TV.
The next morning the doctor was back, accompanied this time by several others. They attached the electrodes again, but this time in different places. “Ok,” He said. “Now, we’re going to put something over your penis. Don’t worry – nothing painful – it’s for collecting semen.”
The bed covers were moved out of the way, then his cock was inserted into a metal cylinder. The inside felt soft and rubbery.
“Just relax, Paul, and enjoy the show.”
The screen came to life again and showed him a succession of more boys in green shorts – some of them were getting their arses spanked, others were shown working out on exercise machines. The doctor was watching from the far side of the room. After ten minutes, nothing had happened in Paul’s cock department at all. The rubbery cylinder had remained inert.
The doctor looked at his watch. “Perhaps if you’re alone… Hmm.” He nodded to himself, then left the room.
Paul looked at the screen again for a while, then his attention wandered. He gazed out at the empty factory yard, and then at the semi.
“YES” The doctor was delighted. “Well done. We’ve got it!”
At one point during the session the computer had emitted a single beep and the machine on Paul’s cock had suddenly come to life and started to vibrate. Waves of pleasure had coursed through him and he’d cum buckets.
“Excellent! We’ll have another session later.”
Shortly after 4 o’clock that afternoon the computer beeped again and Paul came for the second time that day. The doctor returned, checked everything over, and looked puzzled. He didn’t seem happy, and he was frowning as he examined the computer and talked over his shoulder to one of the other guys in white coats. “The masturbator worked fine – but his screen was blank when I came back.”
Another guy was called – presumably an electronics man, Paul guessed. He checked the fuses, prodded and probed the insides of the LCD screen with a meter, and then pronounced it to be deceased. “It must have gone shortly after you turned it on. Feel – the power supply is stone cold.”
“Odd.” The doctor was still frowning. Paul heard the factory siren go and looked out of the window. The workers came out but he didn’t see the good-looking one. The guys in white coats were poring over computer print-outs and talking gibberish, so he looked out of the other window. The guy in the corduroy pants was doing his 4 o’clock exercises again – and they were knee-bends this time. Paul watched the sexy corduroy of the man’s pants creasing and moving over his thighs and crotch as he went through a series of squats - motions that would have qualified as working out if they were being done by someone else. The green corduroy looked soft and sensuous. He stared at it, his mouth open, imagining running his hands over those beautiful, sexy green corduroy trousers, buying his face in the crotch, feeling the material sliding over his skin. Those bright green corduroy pants were pure fetish.
Suddenly aware again that the doctors were in the room, he wrenched his gaze off those pants and back to the screen – but it was too late: the computer beeped and the milking cylinder started to vibrate. Paul’s body went rigid – and he came into the machine on his cock, images of those corduroy trousers still in his head. The doctor looked up, startled. He’d seen Paul jerk his head back to the screen and turned his head to the window to see what the boy had been looking at. He saw the exercising man.
Comprehension dawned. “Aha! I understand!”
The next session consisted of videos of boys in green shorts, doing knee-bends.