The Feed Machine

Morning came not with light, but with pressure.

The latex sleep sack — sealed with magnetic locks — deflated slowly, retracting like a second skin peeling away. Ethan gasped as cool air hit his sweat-slick body. His muscles screamed. His jaw still ached. The tail plug? Still in. Still faintly pulsing. A constant, intimate reminder: you are not free. You are not whole. You are theirs.

Attendants entered without knocking.

No words. No greetings. Just hands — efficient, gloved, impersonal — lifting him from the floor, guiding him to kneel on a vinyl mat in the center of the room.

Dr. Lysandra Voss stood waiting.

She wore white today. Not latex. Not leather. A crisp, clinical lab coat over a pale pink corset. Her hair was pinned up. Her lips, glossed rose. Her smile? Bright. Maternal. Terrifying.

“Good morning, Gamma-7,” she said, voice syrup-sweet. “Time for your new feeding protocol. Say goodbye to bowls. Say hello to… efficiency.”

Behind her, humming softly, stood the machine.

It looked like a gleaming chrome, clear tubing, a padded mouth cradle, and a reservoir filled with a viscous, pearlescent liquid. A label on the side read:

“Serenity Blend™ — Nutrient-Rich Recycled Bio-Sustenance.”

Ethan’s stomach dropped.

“No,” he mumbled, voice hoarse from yesterday’s gag. “No, no, no—”

“Oh yes,” Dr. Voss cooed, stepping closer. She cupped his chin, forcing him to look at the machine. “You see, traditional diets waste so much. Calories discarded. Nutrients ignored. Here? Nothing is wasted. Every drop is cherished. Every guest… contributes his sperm.”

She tapped the reservoir.

“This? It’s filtered. Sterilized. Enriched. Packed with proteins, electrolytes - all harvested from our donnors. It’s perfect for you.”

Ethan gagged — dry heaves wracking his body.

One attendant held his head steady. Another guided the mouth cradle over his lips — soft silicone, molded to fit. It locked into place with a click.

“Open wide, kitty,” Dr. Voss whispered.

He clenched his jaw.

The collar beeped.

He flinched.

The cradle **** his mouth open.

A soft dildo of the machine slid between his lips. Cool. Wet. Waiting.

Dr. Voss pressed a button.

The machine whirred.

Thick, lukewarm fluid began to flow — slow at first, then steady. It tasted… wrong. Like tears mixed with protein shake and something deeply, intimately human.

He thrashed.

The tail plug surged.

The collar shocked.

He screamed — but the cradle swallowed the sound, the fluid pouring down his throat regardless.

“Swallow, Gamma-7,” Dr. Voss murmured.

He tried to spit.

Couldn’t.

Tried to ****.

Couldn’t.

His body betrayed him.

Hunger — raw, gnawing, animal — overrode disgust.

He swallowed.

Again.

Again.

The machine pulsed rhythmically. Filling him. Sustaining him. Binding him to those who came before.

Dr. Voss watched, eyes gleaming.

“That’s it,” she whispered. “Good kitty. Good, good kitty. You’re learning. You’re becoming. And some experimental hormones would add a bit femmine shape for you.”

When it was done — 500ml in 7 minutes — the nozzle retracted. The cradle unlocked. Ethan collapsed forward, coughing, drooling, trembling.

Dr. Voss knelt beside him, stroking his wig.

“You took it so well,” she praised. “No vomiting. Minimal resistance. All absorbed. All earned.”

She leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

“And don’t worry… one day, you’ll be in the reservoir too. Feeding the next Gamma. How poetic, don’t you think?”

She stood, smoothing her coat.

“Now. Dress him. Tail polish. Ears adjusted. We have outdoor circuit training in 20. And Gamma-7? Try not to think about what you just drank. Think about why.”

She smiled.

And walked out.

Ethan knelt there.

Fluid still coating his throat.

Tail still humming.

Mind screaming.

Body… obeying.