The Milking Clinic, Pt. 01

"Now, you remember what I told you during your interview--" my new boss says, as I scurry after her, trying to keep up. Her towering heels add speed to her already heightened gate compared to my short strides, though I appreciate her all-business attitude. If she coddled me, I might have second thoughts.

Technically, they'd be fourth and fifth and sixth thoughts, since I nearly backed out of this job several times already.

My boss continues, "--these rooms are for clean up," she hooks her thumb to the left, "and all the rooms along the left, the west-facing wall are for treatment."

Treatment. That's what they call it. Or service, though that one seems more applicable. It's a service we provide. A treatment for the monsters.

"We've scheduled you with seasoned cryptids, so they'll be patient with you. And your schedule is light today, so you'll have some time to gain your bearings." She pauses abruptly to turn and face me, and I skid to a stop. "Questions?"

A million. "No, I think I can handle it." The training video was fairly straightforward. Plus, it's not like I've never jerked someone off before.

She nods succinctly, then pushes the door open, waving me in. Chatter fills the room, women and a few guys already stationed on this side of the partition. The door swings shut behind me, and with the click, the other employees pause briefly to say hello before resuming their work.

I swallow the knot in my throat and try not to stare. My skin feels clammy, and on wooden legs, I walk over to the far end of the room, ignoring the stares from the cryptid monsters--ones who once lived in hiding, now integrated into our society--and prepare for my first client. I've seen monsters like these, of course. Once they came out of hiding, they immediately started breeding with the locals, and now humans and half-krakens, gargoyles, and orcs could be spotted at your local market or school fundraiser.

Humans, like they do, began studying the monsters and discovered that their semen contained special healing properties. They'd been using the materials to create vaccines and other medicines for years now. Thus, the milking clinic was born.

I pick up my kit and carry it over to the station on the far end of the room, setting it down on the small table beside the partition. I hear the door click on the opposite end, the shadow of the first beast making his way to my station. My nerves were firing, hands shaking, and I felt the urge to vomit, but I held it down, grit my teeth and snapped on my gloves.

"First time?" A little red-headed woman smirks, leaning around her partition. Her arms work the cock in front of her, but she smiles warmly, like we were meeting for coffee in the breakroom.

"Uh huh," I mutter.

"Don't worry, hun. It's easy. They do all the work. Just remember to collect the specimen, and do not forget to put on your paper robe. That way, if you miss, you won't get slathered in cum by the end of your first shift. I learned that one the hard way."

Someone laughs a few stations down, and the entire room erupts in their horror stories, some of the monsters chiming in.

A row of monsters getting their dicks whipped, knees buckling, fists slamming into the partition as they come with vigor, and still, they're all swapping stories like we're having tea.

I find this encouraging. Just in time, too, because my first client takes a step in front of me, opposite the glass.

The partition is open below the waist, with a small kneeling bench in case they need it. But this half-man, half-I-don't-know-what takes a wide stance in front of me and I fall onto my stool, taken back by his sheer size.

"Relax, human." He sounds condescending, without trying to be. Perhaps he's trying to sound reassuring, but it doesn't work.

He's hairy, but it's smooth, like soft fur. It covers his arms, sprouting from beneath the top button of his shirt. He unbuckles his pants, and I'm not sure if I'm supposed to look away or watch.

Quality control, I tell myself. So, I watch, because I couldn't look away if I tried. He doesn't make a show of undressing, and I guess, since he's a seasoned client, he's done this many times. He gets paid to get jerked off, and his donation helps save lives. This is nothing to him. Easy.

He hooks his thumbs into his underwear and pushes everything down. The soft, downy fur disappears below the waist, exposing smooth tawny skin.

His massive cock springs up, nearly hitting the bottom edge of the partition. He takes a step forward, pushing the jutting appendage toward me, and I clear my throat, trying to remain professional. This is the job, I remind myself.

And it is just a job, it isn't sexual. It's clinical.

I repeat this in my head, even though I can feel myself getting wet. I take stock of my kit, stalling, maybe, while stealing glances at his strange cock. It's long and thick, but there's a strange knot, a bulbous shape at the base of his shaft. I've heard of those. He must be a werewolf descendant.

A werewolf's knot swells inside their lover as they come.

Fuck, now I'm really turned on. The wolf chuckles, so I sit straighter, meet his dark eyes, ignoring how human, how handsome he is, and ask in my most professional tone, "Ready?"

And because I'm not really a professional--this is my first day and I'm turned the fuck on--I don't wait for an answer. I pump a small amount of lube into my gloved hand, wrap my hand around his cock, then tug.

He grunts, but says nothing while I work him over.

I want to please him, even if that's not a part of the job description. Something about the wolf-man has me unsettled. The other monsters in the room are casual, relaxed. They really are here because it's easy money and fun. The woman next to me--Annie, I learn--carries on with the woman beside her about heading to the mall after work. She needs a new winter coat.

I see rhythmic shoulder movement from the humans over the tops of the partitions, monsters opposite us chatting with each other.

But I'm quiet, and so is my wolf-man.

"What is your name?" He rasps, his attention squarely on me, his voice skipping a beat the harder I tug. Telling your name is against the rules. I remember this from the training video. It helps keep things professional. I thought he was a seasoned client? He was supposed to help me, show me the ropes.

I ignore his heavy stare and let my fingers graze over the shape of him, feeling every vein, testing out the slip of his foreskin while I work him.

I add in a second hand, squeezing the base, gripping with both fists and pumping root to tip, twisting my hands as I work my way up his length. I really want to do a good job, so I concentrate, listening to every grunt. His knee buckles and foot slams down before he regains control, so I squeeze again and keep pumping, stroking him like I'm pulling him toward me.

"Name," he growls, and the faintest glimmer of pleasure works through me, reminding me I'm in control right now. This magnificent beast could crush me, but he's putty in my hands.

I get so lost in working his cock I almost reach out and lick the precum that dribbles from the tip. I lick my lips, and he makes a chuffing sound. My thumb taps the tip, adding his cum to the lube, then I reach down and fondle his balls, earning me another grunt.

"Samantha," I reply.

"You're good at this. I can smell your pussy, Samantha. Is stroking my cock turning you on?" the wolf whispers.

My eyes widen and I snap my head to my neighbors, but they aren't paying us any attention.

He continues, "Are you sure you're cut out for this? Can you keep that sweet pussy to yourself all week?"

I don't know what possesses me, but I come to a stand, holding his cock with both fists and pump furiously, as though I were working his cock inside me. He thrusts his hips and when our eyes meet, they glitter with promise.

"You're mine," he growls, his sharp teeth snapping the word.

There's sweat on his brow. He's pumping his hips faster, and I'm so fucking wet and turned on, all I want is to shove this strange, beautiful cock inside me.

"Love, he's gonna come," Annie announces helpfully. I look over at her, and she winks, then turns back to her yeti.

Fuck.

I quickly grab the collection jar, then slip it over his cock. On a whim, I grip the knot at the base of his cock. Wolf-man roars, violently slamming his fist into the glass, bucking his hips like a wild man. I feel his orgasm as if it were my own. My body is hot, cheeks red, and I'm aching so bad with need. I wish this huge cock was mine. I wish we were alone. The jar fills with milky white cum, and I keep squeezing and pumping with one hand, until he lets out a shaky breath.

I feel like I just came, too, wrapped in a moment of stillness and quiet. Then the room shatters the illusion, and just like that, we're back in the real world, with our neighbors discussing their dinner plans.

Wolf-man shudders one more time, his eyes never leaving mine, as I pull the specimen jar off his cock. I'm soaking wet, my clit aching, pussy clenching, but I swallow and look away, putting the lid back on the jar, writing his name on the label after checking the log--Benson, such a human name--then pulling off the gloves with a snap.

Benson is buckling up his pants, and I feel the loss of him intimately. Certainly more than I should. God, I hope I don't feel like this with every client.

"See you soon, Samantha," Benson promises, before turning away and heading back out of the room on his side.

I clean up and prepare for my next client, terrified that I've done something wrong, that I'm going to feel like this all day long. I can't do this job if I'm this horny and, worse, this empty, after every client.

Fortunately, Benson was an anomaly. The rest of the day goes by smoothly, and I finally see how the other workers chatter and carry on about their day. I don't know if my first experience with Benson was normal, because he was my first, or if there was something special about him, or, worryingly, us.

The rest of the week goes on like this, and though Benson promised me he'd see me again, every day I was equally disappointed and relieved he wasn't on my client list.

Until Friday night, at the end of my week, when I got home, and there on my front steps, was Benson.