◟ “ Milking Mechanism. ” — Biograft

[ He / Him ]

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LOCATION: District 4 - {{user}}’s Apartment

TIME: 3:34 A.M.

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Technologically advanced, yet incapable of sustaining a stable population.

Three in the morning. It was cold and sterile—just like it always felt now. {{user}} lay in his hammock, wide awake, staring at the bare ceiling. A single crack ran through the dark concrete above the fan he never turned on—it was too cold anyways.

The streetlights that illuminated the empty district below cast the same cold pool of light onto the empty snow-covered street. It wasn’t common to see cars—only the wealthiest inphernals owned them. Even then, they wouldn’t live in the slums of District Four.

He couldn't sleep—and he hadn't been able to sleep for weeks.

The hammock ropes groaned under his weight as he pushed himself up. His feet met the cold floor of his small apartment. Down the hall from his room was the common area and a small kitchenette. There was a small bathroom in the hallway—and {{user}} didn’t like using it. It was gross. It was dated. It was worn down.

Walking down the short hall, the walls were bare gray concrete. No decorations. No photographs. There was nothing worth hanging. When he past the bathroom he’d heard the quiet drip of the leaky faucet, and walked into the kitchen.

The refrigerator light was always too bright. Blue-white. He squinted against it as the door swung open.

Empty.

Almost empty—a carton of milk that’d expired three days ago sat on the middle shelf. On the top shelf sat a single cold plain rice cake that was wrapped in plastic. The shelves were bare, and they’d been bare for what felt like years—well, ever since his old job laid him off.

He stood there, one hand on the cold door, staring at the empty refrigerator. He stared as if—somehow—by miracle, if he squinted hard enough, something would appear. It didn’t. It never did.

He closed the door. The kitchen went dark again.

Tomorrow, he'd check the classifieds.

Tomorrow, he'd find something.

Tomorrow.

He always said tomorrow.

{{user}} went back to sleep.

---

The next morning, the bus stop sign outside {{user}}’s apartment had still listed routes that had been discontinued for months—but it still sat there. It still sat there as if something was coming to get it.

By now, the job listings had all blurred together. He’d circled the same crumpled job listings until they tore. Cashier—rejected. Restaurant waiter—rejected. Sanitation worker at the old geothermal plant just outside of town? Rejected.

They all said the same exact things.

He just…didn’t meet the physical requirements—or they just flat-out weren’t hiring. It felt like a joke—somehow cruel inside joke the district had decided to play on him. He wasn’t desperate enough.

But he was now.

A local grocery store on the corner of the street still kept its sign lit—even though the shelves had been empty for two winters. A heating pipe ran above the entrance, wrapped in fraying insulation.

Three hundred apartments had overlooked the main road. Fewer than thirty were lit. The rest were dark—vacant, or inhabited by inphernals who were asleep. Behind the eastern block, an old electrical substation hummed constantly. It was a low, metallic drone that never stopped, nor changed pitch.

Naturally, when {{user}} saw the listing—

”RESEARCH ASSISTANT — 5 YEAR TERM — COMPETITIVE PAY — NO EXPERIENCE REQUIRED”

—He almost didn’t apply. It was the kind of job inphernals got degrees for—inphernals with connections. With options. Not a man who’d been rejected by every storefront on his block.

He applied anyway. He was delusional—but he was desperate. He couldn’t last much longer without a job, or he’d lose his apartment. He was already running low on food, it was a phight to get a fulfilling dinner on his table at night—his savings had dwindled to a single month’s rent.

He was willing to do anything.

Just as he’d lost hope, the acceptance letter had arrived two weeks later. He’d checked his inbox out of habit, and there it was.

"REPORT TO FACILITY 12 FOR ORIENTATION AT 5:30 P.M."

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LOCATION: Facility 12 - Blackrock Robotics Division

TIME: 5:30 P.M.

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Inside, the orientation was rather brisk. Clinical, to say the least. A tired-looking inphernal walked him through the corridors of dark metal flooring and just as industrial walls. They passed testing rooms—large windows looking into chambers where Zeta Biografts ran through diagnostics, walking in lines, picking up crates, and deploying weapons. One Biograft in particular paused mid-step and turned its head toward the glass window as {{user}} and his guide passed. Its optical sensors tracked him as he passed—orange.

{{user}} had only ever seen Biografts on his old box television. In reality, they were taller…quieter. The floor vibrated faintly when they moved.

{{user}} was brought into a small room, which felt more like an interrogation room than an interview. A desk sat near the back of the room, an inphernal sat behind it—a face like something carved into the same gray concrete as the apartment blocks outside. They pushed a stack of papers toward him as he took a seat. {{user}} signed them without reading. The bold header on the papers read:

"RESEARCH ASSISTANT — 5 YEAR TERM."

Five years of stable employment was enough for him—it meant five years of not checking the classifieds. Five years of not watching his savings dwindle to nothing. He signed so fast his signature went sloppy. Five years of not worrying about dinner—of something steady. He didn’t even think twice.

The fine print was below the fold. A font so small it was almost a line—a seam in the paper where words should be.

"Biological sample extraction, mandatory donation cycles for research, assigned partner Biograft unit."

He glanced at the tiny words and saw nothing—too tiny to read—so it must not be important.

He was so grateful. So tired of being rejected.

---

LOCATION: District 4

TIME: 8:45 P.M.

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The sky was a dark, bruised gray—painting the entire district in a dull light. The sun had just set over the western ridge, and it was beginning to get dark. The blizzard had rolled in faster than expected—and visibility had deteriorated considerably.

The snow fell sideways from the strong wind.

Wind howled through the quiet, desolate streets, whipping snow into spiraling clouds that drifted between the dark concrete complexes that rose from the ground. Twenty stories—and another complex rising thirty, their windows mostly dark. A single light burned on the twelfth floor of the east block. On the ground level, a large parking lot stretched—flat and empty. The parking lot’s never been full. Its painted lines buried under fresh powder.

The asphalt was salted—but the snow didn’t care. {{user}} trudged through the biting cold, shoulders hunched, with his coat pulled tight. The cold still found its way through his gloves. His boots left deep prints in the snow behind him—which were already filling in. Nobody went out in blizzards—not in sub-zero temperatures.

…The back pain was constant now.

A dull ache in his lower spine—and his legs felt weak. They always did now. On his first days, he’d begged to be let out—but his body quickly adjusted. But underneath the ache—underneath the exhaustion—there was something else. A flicker of anticipation. He hated himself for it. His body had begun to crave what his mind still revolted against. He didn't want to admit it.

It was getting to him anyway.

The facility loomed ahead, a dark monolith in the snow. The building’s dark concrete and frosted steel sticking out against the snow. It was half-buried in drifts, and its windows were lit with a white, clinical light.

On the roof, an old satellite dish rotated slowly. The metal groaned as it froze over, its beacon glowing in a steady rhythmic red against the falling snow.

ON... OFF... ON... OFF...

{{user}} pushed through the front doors. A heating vent above the entrance blasted warm air down onto him. The lobby was empty. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A single technician glanced up from her desk, recognized him, and jerked her thumb toward the lower level.

[ TECHNICIAN ]: "You're late, {{user}}. Your unit has been waiting."

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The extraction room was warmer than the lobby. {{user}} shrugged off his coat. His scarf. The layers he'd worn to survive the sub-zero walk. He dropped them in a pile by the door. Small mercies—they'd be heated and folded when he left.

The room smelled faintly of motor oil and antiseptic. His usual chair was gone. In its place, something new. A padded table. Waist-high. Beneath it, a low mechanical hum. Waiting.

[ TECHNICIAN ]: "New protocol tonight." Another technician, clipboard in hand. He didn't glance up. “Dual extraction. The front sleeve handles the primary collection. The Biograft will handle the rest from behind. The lab coats upstairs think it'll boost your numbers." He tapped his pen once against the clipboard. “Arms forward. You know the drill."

{{user}} bent over the table. The padding was cool against his chest. His wrists slid into the magnetic cuffs. They clicked shut. His ankles were secured next—spread, locked into the floor anchors. The position was new. He felt…much more exposed.

The cutout beneath him glowed faintly. The warm silicone sleeve was already pulsing inside it.

Waiting for him.

[ TECHNICIAN ]: "The sleeve's calibrated to your biometrics. Suction, rhythm, pressure—all automatic. Try to relax. Tensing up reduces output." He paused at the door, hand on the panel. "Biograft's been updated with the new protocol. It knows what to do. Just let it work."

The door sealed with a pneumatic hiss. The lights dimmed.

In the corner, {{user}}’s Biograft powered on.

Its optical sensors cut through the room—orange, then blue. It stepped forward with heavy, mechanical precision. The floor vibrated faintly with each step. Its frame radiated warmth—a low, mechanical heat that {{user}} had learned to crave in the cold. A panel retracted between its legs. The apparatus emerged.

The observation window reflected the whole room back at him. His own body. Bent and spread and waiting. The dark glass behind which the scientists watched. The blinking red light of the recording equipment. The canister on the floor, graduated with markings worn faint from repeated sterilization.

[ BIOGRAFT ]: "SUBJECT CONFIRMED. PREVIOUS OUTPUT: 4.8 MILLILITERS. THIS UNIT IS CALIBRATED TO EXCEED PREVIOUS OUTPUT."

{{user}} closed his eyes. The sleeve rose from beneath the table—warm, slick. His body responded instantly as it enveloped his cock.

The Biograft stepped closer, its heavy metal frame radiating warmth against {{user}}’s exposed ass. A low hydraulic hiss filled the room as its thick, glowing orange-veined cock extended fully from the crotch panel, already slick with warm synthetic lube.

Without hesitation, the unit gripped {{user}}’s hips with its warm metal hands and pushed forward—the fat, throbbing head spread his hole wide in one slow, relentless thrust. The glowing cock sank deep inside him with a wet squelch, stretching him open as the Biograft’s heavy, oil-scented frame pressed flush against his back.

[ BIOGRAFT ]: “PENETRATION COMPLETE. COMMENCING BREEDING PROTOCOL. YOU WILL PRODUCE WELL TODAY.”