Captives of Alien Milkers Bk. 02 Pt. 01

Karla Thrace walked carefully, as did all the other naked women in line with her. All of them had full, swollen breasts. Whitish liquid oozed from their nipples and areolas. At the moment, it was simply discomfort; if they weren't milked soon, though, it would be agony.

They were the blue group, scheduled for milking now. None of them spoke; there was nothing to say, no protest to make. If they didn't obey, didn't stay in line and go through the motions drilled into them every day, they simply wouldn't be milked that day. That was enough to keep even the most rebellious of them in line. No one wanted that sort of agony.

The corridor from the common room where the prisoners gathered to the milking room was long, narrow, and featureless. Light came from panels overhead, casting deep shadows under all the pendulous, swaying breasts. The tile was cool beneath their bare feet, while their discomfort caused them to sweat despite the breeze from the ventilation grates.

Karla was a major in the human military star fleet, captured a year before and brought to this G'Oran base along with a handful of other human women, to join those already here. The G'Oran were a race of genderless humanoids whose favorite intoxicating beverage was human breast milk. As a result, they skimmed stray human females from the space lanes and used them as cows, modifying their bodies so that they produced milk constantly, and voluminously. The few women who'd escaped or been rescued described horrific conditions and a life that revolved around their frequent sessions at the G'Oran's ruthless milking machines.

The milking room waited at the end of the corridor, filled with a hundred stations, in two rows that faced each other. Each woman settled onto the milking machine seats and aligned the suction tubes over their nipples. They also spread their legs to allow the vibrators that emerged from the seats to penetrate them. Once the last woman was in position, both vibrators and suction began working in tandem, and the rows of women began to whimper and moan with pleasure they'd long since given up trying to resist.

Except for Karla.

She nestled her engorged nipples into the artificial mouths waiting to stimulate them. She didn't resist as the vibrator slid into her. And she went through the motions, made the sounds, but inside she fought the endless orgasms that were the consolation prize for her captivity. She'd managed to last half the milking session yesterday before she came, and was determined to do the same today. If she could hold off, perhaps she could also break the psychological hold that they had on her, and the others. But resisting pleasure was more difficult than she first thought.

Won't come, she told herself, flexing the muscles in her thighs, clenching her ass cheeks and teeth, balling her fists. Directly across from her, a voluptuous redhead had her head back, eyes closed, sweat gleaming in her freckled cleavage. Won't come, she repeated, as the girl beside her, barely out of high school before being captured, writhed in complete abandon, almost shrieking her climaxes. Won't come, she kept saying to herself, as the tingling between her legs began, the delightful combination of chills and heat that would soon rush through her. Won't come, won't come, won'tcomewon'tcomewon't...

She came.

She let out a shuddering "Hnnnnnhuh," and tears came from her tightly-closed eyes. Defeated again. And after that, there was no stopping the orgasms, wave after wave that synced with the alternating pumps at her breasts.

But she'd made it further into the cycle than yesterday.

***

The line of naked women, their empty breasts now limp against their chests, filed silently into the common area. It was like the indoor rec room of a prison, with metal picnic tables and scatterings of human detritus taken from raided ships. The ceilings were low, and there were no windows. They might've been on a planet, an asteroid, or a ship; there was no way to tell.

There were easily five hundred human women kept here, and yet the room was almost entirely silent. What was there to say? They existed to be milked once a day, and what they did with the rest of their time was not the G'Oran's concern.

The returning women retrieved clothing from where they'd discarded it. Karla didn't bother to dress; she stayed naked, reasoning that modesty was a ridiculous emotion here. A few others did the same, but as with everything else, no one commented or even seemed to notice.

The blue light on the wall display went out when they returned; the next in sequence would be yellow, for the next milking group. They never saw the G'Oran at any point in the cycle. For all they knew, their lives were run by AI, with the G'Oran simply monitoring from their homeworld.

Karla bit her lip as she crossed the room, and tried to ignore the women around her. Their state of constant arousal led to many of the women pairing off, or forming carnal groups. It didn't matter if they were lesbian or not before they arrived; here, you took what comfort you could find. Karla had certainly not been celibate since her arrival, but right now she wanted nothing more than to be alone.

Unfortunately, that could never happen. The women were kept in three-bunk sleep cells off the common area. Karla's roommates were a sixty year old named Barbara, who'd been a college professor teaching advanced mathematics before being captured. That was all that she would discuss with anyone about her previous life, including her last name. She was on a different milking schedule, yellow, so she was still in their quarters when Karla returned, her breasts swollen firm and full. "So how did it go today?" she asked the younger woman.

"I lasted longer," Karla said. She dropped heavily onto her bunk. Her breasts sagged against her chest and dribbled the last of their milk.

"And if you can get through the whole thing, so what?" Barbara said. "You'll still be here, they'll still be milking you, you just won't get any pleasure from it."

"it's not pleasure," Karla said. "It's an addiction. And I'm no one's goddam addict."

Barbara wore gray sweatpants and a man's undershirt over her swelling breasts. Wet stains marked where her nipples leaked. "Rhoda didn't come back," she told Karla. Their third roommate had been a slender, almost boyish French woman, whose artificially engorged breasts had never fully adjusted to the changes needed to make her a reliable source of milk. "I guess she's gone."

Karla rolled onto her side, ignoring the way her breasts flopped. "It happens." She'd seen many women disappear, and couldn't waste the emotional energy on imagining their fate.

"They'll give us someone new. And then we'll have to listen to all the moaning about, 'what have they done to my poor titties?'" Barbara laughed coldly. She gently cupped her own breasts, lightly rubbing them through the fabric.

"Maybe not," Karla said. "Maybe they haven't been raiding anymore."

And as if on cue, Lavergne walked in.

Lavergne was six feet tall, with jet black skin and a short afro. She looked about forty years old. She wore only white panties and a gray tank stop. Her breasts, of course, were enormous and pendulous, her protruding nipples dripping white fluid. Her ass was also gigantic, making her look like she'd been put together out of nothing but round shapes. But she was wasp-waisted, as if an invisible corset confined her middle. She was spectacular, a woman and half in all directions.

"My name's Lavergne Hankins," she announced. "I'm from an asteroid that got raided. They took a dozen women and killed all the men. And you are—?"

"I'm Barbara."

"Karla Thrace."

And what Lavergne said next made Karla sit up straight.

"So either of you cows up for trying to get off this milk farm?"

To be continued...