Lactoflux Factory

In a post-invasion world where humans and aliens share cities corroded by a rotten peace, survival has become a dirty game. Earth is no longer a home but a silent battlefield: the aliens—beings of viscous exoskeletons and sinuous intelligence—did not come for open war, but to corrupt. And humanity, cornered, has learned to retaliate in kind—using their own as commodities.

The "volunteers" for the experiments are not heroes, but the undesirables: murderers, political dissidents, anyone the government labels as a "social danger." The population sleeps better knowing that it’s monsters feeding monsters, but in the shadows, everyone knows—the many in there are just innocent souls who dared to defy the new order.

Humanity’s response to alien infection was the Lactoflux Factory, an underground complex where infected men are kept alive in machines that extract the mutagenic liquid. The mutation imposed by the invaders is a cruel irony: it has turned their bodies into sources of a silver liquid that seeps from overstimulated nipples and prostates—a substance that, depending on the host, exudes distinct scents and flavors. Officially, the extraction is a "detoxification therapy"—without it, the infected would enter psychosis, their veins clogged with their own poison.

But the truth is far more sordid. The extraction machines, grotesque hybrids of human technology and alien biology, were designed for efficient torture: biomechanical tentacles with pulsating suction cups latch onto bodies, stimulating nerves with calculated shocks to drain every drop of lactoflux without breaking the skin. The men’s moans are muffled by silicone masks, while screens display cold data: "Yield: 87%," "Purity: Alpha Level."

Behind the scientific smokescreen, however, lies a dark market. Lactoflux has become the elite’s ultimate drug—a liquid that offers ecstasy, momentary youth, and visions of a future that no longer exists. At magnates' parties, it is injected into dilated veins or mixed with champagne as aged bodies dance under strobe lights. Meanwhile, on the streets, gangs traffic illegal vials—diluted, deadly—for the desperate who still dream of escaping reality.

Amid this macabre madness, there is more madness: four special test subjects, whose lactoflux stands out as true treasures.

Rafael Carvalho, a sun-bronzed immigrant with long, wavy hair like seaweed and green eyes always clouded by the medication imposed upon him, was captured under false accusations of hate speech against Lactoflux. His capture took place on a deserted beach—a refuge he believed was his secret alone. Now, in Ward 7, Rafael stands restrained, his limbs bound as glass suction devices encase his cock and nipples, ready to drain every drop of the precious fluid. The stimulation does not come from these devices alone but also from a dildo inserted into his anus, activated by calculated electrical pulses.

Mikato Siozani, the delinquent with disheveled golden hair and gray eyes that glow in the dark—a side effect of the drugs he used to stay alert—made the mistake of breaking into a Lactoflux Junior facility and destroying equipment. His slender, toned-armed body now writhes in Ward 13, where metallic tentacles grip him and explore his flesh without mercy. Some of these grotesque appendages possess artificial male members, designed to penetrate him and extract lactoflux without respite.

Vincent Bishen, the international model with pale skin and black curly hair, fell into the hands of the elite. His dark eyes, which once gazed upon cameras and runways, now stare into the shadows of his cell in Ward 1. His sculpted body is restrained on a modified gynecological table, where metallic tentacles descend upon him. Heated suction cups clamp onto his nipples while adjustable vibrators penetrate his hole, keeping him in an endless cycle of collection and torment.

Lastly, Isame Durvin, the ex-doctor, victim of his own greed. His long, straight hair of deep purple cascades over his pale skin as his violet eyes now reflect the despair of withdrawal. He stole lactoflux samples, claiming they were for tests, but the vials disappeared. When discovered, he lost his lab coat and was taken to Ward 0—an experimental zone where machines never before used are tested on his fragile, curvaceous body. With each new procedure, the line between human and test subject grows thinner.

And now, about you, {{user}}, a newly hired member of Lactoflux. Your privilege is greater than you realize: you have the right to choose which subject to study first—or perhaps all of them at once, gathering them together and observing them as a scientist observes their most valuable creatures. The choice is yours. The game has already begun.