Chapter 12: Double Equine Penetration
The lights didn’t just flicker; they died. A deep, resonant thunk from somewhere in the building’s guts shook the floor, and the screaming machines powered down into an instant, deafening silence. The only light came from the cracked tablet in Dr. Thorne’s hand, casting his face in a sickly blue glow that made him look like a ghost in the shattered observation window.
“Power grid overload,” Thorne muttered, not to them, but to the device. His voice was the only sound besides the steady, horrible drip of fluid and the ragged, wet sobs coming from Ben and Kieran. They were still locked in the machines, illuminated now by the weak emergency strips along the baseboards, their bodies twitching in post-shock spasms.
Jake snatched his hand back from the manual override wheel like it was red-hot. His palm was sweaty. “What did we do?”
“We crossed a threshold,” Leo said, his voice weirdly calm. He was staring at the analog gauge, its needle bent against the stop, broken. “We got a fucking reading.”
“Subject tachycardia is extreme. Neurological feedback loops are… fascinating.” Thorne’s voice crackled through the silent chamber, absorbed by the ruin. “But this environment is compromised. Extraction team to the primary chamber. Prepare the secondary observation suite. The ‘Stallion’ protocols are now viable.”
Secondary suite. Stallion protocols. The words landed in Jake’s gut like stones. He watched as a team in grey scrubs and biosafety masks flowed into the room, moving with a chilling, efficient silence. They didn’t look at him or Leo. They went straight to Ben and Kieran, releasing the complex locks on the restraints with soft clicks. The two boys didn’t fight. They collapsed into the arms of the techs, their legs useless, their cries reduced to whimpers. They were carried out like sacks of meat, leaving smeared trails on the floor.
Leo nudged Jake. “We’re supposed to follow.”
They trailed behind the procession, leaving the wreckage of the Protocol Chamber behind. The hallway was oppressively clean, white, and silent, a stark contrast to the organic mess they’d just left. The air here smelled of sharp antiseptic and something else—a clean, oily scent like new machinery.
Thorne walked ahead, his tablet now tucked under his arm. “Your participation was instrumental in achieving that data spike,” he said without turning around. “The manual engagement, the willing administration… it provided a control variable for autonomic response we’ve been unable to isolate. You’ve both earned your bonus tiers.”
Jake felt a spike of nausea that had nothing to do with the smells. The money. It was supposed to feel good. It just felt cold.
They entered through a set of double airlock doors. The Stallion Breeding Facility’s Observation Deck was a gallery of pure, sterile observation. One entire wall was transparent polymer, looking down into a large, circular room lit with a stark, shadowless fluorescence. Below, everything was gleaming steel and polished hydraulic arms. The machines here were different. Larger. More articulated. They didn’t look like medical devices; they looked like industrial equipment, their forms suggesting powerful, piston-driven motion.
Ben and Kieran were already below, being secured not to upright posts, but onto inclined tables of padded black leather. Their wrists and ankles were locked into wide cuffs. They were still crying, but it was a exhausted, hollow sound. They didn’t beg anymore. They just waited.
Two of the largest machines stood dormant on opposite sides of the room. They were vaguely equine in their powerful, silent stance, with broad, curved metal “backs” and complex joints. From their fronts extended not simple probes, but formidable, lifelike phallic protrusions made of a semi-rigid, flesh-toned polymer, complete with pronounced detailing. They were monumental in scale.
“Jesus Christ,” Leo breathed, his intellectual curiosity momentarily swamped by pure shock. He leaned closer to the glass.
Thorne stood beside them, his reflection austere in the clean surface. “The ‘Stallions’ are designed to test physiological capacity under maximum duress and simulate specific, high-intensity breeding dynamics. We’ve moved beyond chemical and neurological stimulation. This is about structural tolerance.”
A low hydraulic whir filled the room below. The two machines came to life with a smooth, terrifying grace. They paced forward on silent casters, positioning themselves behind the inclined tables. Ben turned his head, saw the machine looming over him, and started to scream—a raw, ripped-open sound that was muffled instantly as a tech secured a padded bite-gag in his mouth. Kieran just closed his eyes, tears squeezing out, his whole body trembling.
“Maximum aperture is necessary for proper biomechanical alignment,” Thorne said, as if commenting on the weather.
Below, another device descended from the ceiling on a robotic arm. It ended in two gleaming, four-pronged clamps that looked like oversized speculums. With horrifying precision, it positioned itself between Ben’s splayed legs. With a soft pneumatic hiss, the prongs engaged.
Ben’s scream into the gag was a high, wire-tight keen. His body strained against the leather, every muscle standing in relief. Kieran’s turn was just as violent, his hips jerking involuntarily as the tool did its work, holding him open in a way that looked both clinical and brutally invasive.
Thorne manipulated a touchscreen on the observation deck console. “Initiating imprint sequence.”
The Stallion machines dipped at their powerful haunches. The polymer phalluses, glistening with lubricant, aligned themselves.
The first contact was slow, almost gentle. The tip pressed, then breached. Ben’s eyes shot open, wide and unseeing, a strangled grunt exploding from behind the gag. Kieran’s head slammed back against the headrest.
Then the machines began to move.
It wasn’t the jackhammer frenzy of the previous chamber. This was a deep, relentless, rolling piston action, a simulation of powerful, animalistic thrusts. The entire heavy frame of each machine rocked forward with each drive, the sound a steady, rhythmic thud-whirr-crush of hydraulics and straining metal. The tables shook. The subjects’ bodies jolted with each impact, driven up the incline only to be pulled back by the retraction.
Ben screamed into his gag with every exhale, a ragged, rhythmic accompaniment to the machine’s pace. His clamped nipples were bleeding again, thin trails of red mixing with sweat on his chest. Kieran was sobbing, great heaving cries that shook his entire frame, his own body betraying him as it rose to meet each punishing thrust.
Thorne adjusted a dial. “Increasing depth and torque.”
The machines drove deeper. The angle changed slightly. Ben’s scream cut off into a sudden, choked silence, his eyes rolling back white. Kieran’s sobs hitched, became a series of sharp, desperate gasps.
“Look at the physiological readouts,” Thorne said, pointing to a bank of screens flickering with vital signs. “Stress markers are off the charts. But the pleasure centers… they are lit up like a supernova. The brain is interpreting this extreme stimulus as ecstasy. The body is trying to comply, to facilitate the process. It’s beautiful.”
Jake felt his own breath coming in short, sharp pants. He wasn’t aroused. He was terrified. This was a dissection of the human will, a reduction of people to pulsing graphs on a screen. He looked at Leo, expecting to see his friend’s usual detached analysis.
Leo’s face was pale. He was staring, but his hands were clenched at his sides. “Thorne… they can’t take much more of that. Their spines…”
“The reinforced spinal supports in the table are preventing injury,” Thorne dismissed, his eyes glued to the data. “We are measuring the threshold of psychic fracture. The moment where the mind, to preserve itself, must disengage from the body entirely.” He turned to look at them, his eyes bright with a fervor that was almost religious. “You two helped bring them to the precipice. Now watch them fall.”
Below, the Stallions settled into a brutal, pounding rhythm. Ben was no longer conscious, his body moving like a broken doll. Kieran was gone somewhere else, his eyes vacant and fixed on the ceiling, his mouth slack around the gag. A dark, wet stain was spreading beneath both tables, a mix of fluids forced from them by the relentless, mechanical rhythm.
Leo turned away from the window, pressing his forehead against the cool metal of the door frame. His shoulders were tight. Jake just stood there, watching the destruction, the bonus money burning a hole in his soul. This was the cost. This was what they’d bought.
Thorne’s voice was a soft, triumphant murmur beside him. “There. You see? The encephalogram is showing a complete decoupling. Sensory input is being rejected. They’ve left the building.” He smiled, a thin, satisfied curve of his lips. “Magnificent. Now… we see if they come back.”
The machines kept pounding, a brutal, metronomic pulse in the silent, gleaming room. The only question hanging in the recycled air of the observation deck was who, exactly, was being broken.
The lights stabilized into a vicious, hospital-white glare. In that restored sterility, the mess looked even worse. Ben’s head sagged forward, his breath coming in wet, ragged hitches. Then he forced his chin up, his eyes finding the observation window. They weren’t pleading. They were demanding.
“Again,” he slurred, the word thick around a swollen tongue. “Do it… harder.”
Next to him, Kieran twitched, a full-body spasm that rattled his restraints. He vomited, a thin clear fluid that splattered on the already soiled floor. When he finished, he gasped, “Don’t stop. You didn’t… finish it.” A broken smile touched his cracked lips. “Make it hurt right.”
From the shadowed wreckage of the gallery, Dr. Thorne’s voice was a study in flat amazement. “Subject request aligns with peak synaptic response patterns. Continuing past previously established safety parameters is… advisable.”
A new sound cut through the wet breathing—a pressurized hiss. From ports in the ceiling, two additional articulated arms descended. They were longer, more brutal in their construction than the penetration units, ending in smooth, tapered shafts that caught the harsh light.
“Oh, you have got to be shitting me,” Jake whispered. His hand was still clenched over Leo’s on the manual control wheel.
Leo just stared, his scientist’s detachment finally fissuring. “They asked for it,” he said, but it sounded less like an observation and more like a prayer.
The new machines moved with a predatory silence. They didn’t maneuver or adjust. They simply aligned their tips with Ben and Kieran’s open, waiting mouths and thrust forward. There was no slow, testing penetration this time. It was a single, vicious, deep-throating plunge.
Ben’s scream was instantly, perfectly muffled. His body went rigid, then limp, then rigid again as the machine established a brutal, piston-driven rhythm. Kieran accepted his with a shuddering, whole-body convulsion, his eyes rolling back to whites.
The original machines, still buried deep within them, reactivated in sync. The chamber filled with a monolithic, grinding rhythm—the sound of industrial forging. Jake could feel the vibration through the soles of his boots.
“Look at the readout,” Leo hissed, nodding to a shuddering analog gauge on the control column. A needle was dancing deep into a red zone labeled ‘DEPTH.’ “They’re… they’re going deeper.”
He was right. The machines pistoned with a relentless, hydraulic force, the units vanishing further into Ben and Kieran with each stroke. The boys’ stomachs, already stretched taut, began to distend slightly, oddly, with each inward drive. A terrible, impossible pressure was building inside them.
Then, Ben’s eyes flew open wide. A silent, shocked ‘O’ formed on his lips around the machine violating his throat. Inside him, the two synthetic lengths had finally met, tip to tip, a coiled knot of foreign machinery occupying a space that had no business holding it.
They began to spin.
It wasn’t a gentle swirl. It was a violent, corkscrewing rotation deep within his gut. Ben’s body bowed against every restraint, a guttural, metallic gargle erupting from around the shaft in his mouth. Kieran experienced it a moment later, his own torso twisting in a grotesque parody of dance.
“They’re grinding them up from the inside,” Jake said, his voice hollow.
The machines didn’t stop. Their relentless, spinning pistons served a new function. They began to lift. Ben’s body first, then Kieran’s, were raised incrementally off the blood-slicked floor by the sheer, upward force of the penetration. Soon, they were suspended entirely, held aloft only by the twin machines fucking their asses and their throats.
They hung there in the center of the chamber, grotesque puppets pinned on cruel, moving strings. Their limbs dangled, their restrained wrists and ankles the only points still tethered to the solid world. The rhythmic, drilling noise was the only sound, apart from the wet, choked cries trapped behind polycarbonate.
Leo leaned in close to Jake, his breath hot against his ear. “Look down.”
Jake looked. From the tight, punishing confines of their metal cages, a thin, clear fluid was weeping out. It traced glistening paths down Ben and Kieran’s trembling thighs, dripping in steady time to the machines' brutal rhythm. It wasn't the violent release from before. This was a slow, involuntary seepage, the body surrendering what little it had left under a torture it could no longer comprehend.
Ben’s head lolled to the side, his gaze finding Jake’s. There was no recognition there, no plea, no humanity. Just a vast, empty reflection of the white lights above. The machine in his mouth pumped on, and his caged cock leaked its pathetic, quiet tears onto the floor below.
The lights stabilized into a harsh, unwavering white that erased all shadow. The screaming pitch of the machines didn’t climb higher. It deepened. It became a subsonic vibration that rattled their teeth and made the fluid puddles on the floor shiver into concentric rings.
Inside Ben, the hammering piston reached a hard, unyielding limit. It stopped retreating. It held, a solid, immovable column of alloy and hydraulic pressure, buried to its housing. The face-fucking unit in his mouth did the same. Kieran’s machines followed suit a microsecond later. A profound, shuddering silence fell, broken only by the whine of overloading capacitors and the wet, strained breathing of four trapped boys.
“What’s it doing?” Jake whispered, his hand still frozen on the control wheel with Leo’s.
Leo shook his head, his earlier bravado gone, replaced by the pale stillness of shock. “I don’t know.”
From the gallery, Thorne’s voice was a frantic, staticky burst. “Terminate! Manual disengage! The structural feedback is–”
A new sound cut him off. It was a low, hydraulic thrum, the sound of immense pressure building with nowhere to go. It emanated from inside Ben and Kieran. The skin over their abdomens tightened, then distended in a slow, grotesque bulge. Not from fluid. From something solid moving beneath.
“Oh shit,” Leo breathed.
The prostheses inside them began to rotate. Not in and out. A slow, inexorable turn, the grinding torsion transmitted through the taut flesh of their stomachs. Ben screamed, a raw, tearing sound that had nothing left of pleasure in it. Kieran’s cry was a high, silent keen, his eyes wide with a terror that was finally, purely human.
The rotation increased. They could see the shapes of the machines moving against each other inside the boys, a brutal, internal wrenching. The metal carcass of the main apparatus groaned in sympathy. Bolts sheared with sharp pings.
Then, with a final, deafening shriek of torqued metal, the machines pulled.
They didn’t retract. They lifted.
The entire massive unit, pistons and housings and articulated arms, rose from its base mounts. Ben and Kieran were lifted with it, their bodies completely airborne, held aloft only by the relentless, internal anchor of the devices buried inside them. Their full weight dangled, suspended by the brutal meet of the machines within their guts. Their arms and legs hung limp, swaying slightly, toes brushing the filthy floor.
They looked crucified on an invisible axis.
“Jesus Christ,” Jake said, stumbling back from the control column, his stomach heaving.
Leo just stared, jaw slack. “They’re inside them. They’re holding them up. The fucking machines are… touching.”
Indeed, the tips of the two primary pistons, having ground through the last barriers of tissue, had found each other in the shared, ravaged space. They pressed tip-to-tip, a cold, mechanical kiss amidst the heat of ruined viscera. The vibration concentrated there, a bone-deep hum that made Ben and Kieran’s suspended forms tremble like leaves.
A weak, bubbling sigh escaped Kieran’s lips. He wasn't looking at anything in the room anymore. His gaze was turned inward, fixed on the impossible internal collision. A strange, serene emptiness washed over his face, as if the core of him had simply evacuated, leaving room for the machinery.
Ben’s head lolled forward. A thin line of drool, pink-tinged, descended from his mouth to the floor far below. He made a small, gurgling sound. “Feels… full.”
Thorne’s voice was gone. The speaker emitted only a low, steady buzz. The power lights on the main unit began to cycle down, dimming from a feverish red to a cool, steady green. The lift mechanism held, hydraulic locks engaging with a final, definitive thunk.
The chamber was silent. The machines had finished. They simply maintained their gruesome, airborne embrace, a monument to the experiment's logical conclusion. The hum stabilized into a barely perceptible background drone, the sound of a system satisfied, having perfectly achieved its awful, unthinkable function.
The light didn't just brighten; it sharpened, etching every detail in a sterile, surgical glare. The scream of the machinery ascended beyond sound into a realm of pure vibration, a physical pressure that made their teeth ache and their ribs resonate. Ben and Kieran were no longer recognizable as individuals, but as a single, shuddering organism wired into the machine’s final, catastrophic pulse.
Then, with a sound like a gunshot, a primary piston sheared.
A jet of superheated steam hissed from the rupture, scalding the air. Sparks fountained from overloaded conduits, raining down on the slick floor. The system didn’t gracefully power down; it fractured. The face-fucking units stuttered to a halt, retracting with a pathetic whirr. The main pistons froze, deeply embedded, leaving their subjects strung up in mid-convulsion.
The sudden silence was a physical blow.
It was filled with the drip of fluids, the hiss-crackle of dying electronics, and the wet, ragged sounds of two people remembering how to breathe. Ben sagged, a marionette with cut strings, his head lolling forward. Kieran was staring blankly at the ruptured piston, a thread of golden fluid tracing a slow path from his slack lower lip.
Leo’s hand was still clenched on the rheostat. He slowly pried his fingers open. “Well,” he breathed, the word tasting of ozone and adrenaline. “That’s a new data point.”
Jake pulled his hand back as if burned. He stared at the ruin of the machine, then at the ruin of the boys. A cold, clear shame washed through him, clean and sharp. “What the fuck did we just do?”
“We completed the protocol,” Dr. Thorne’s voice cut through the silence from the gallery. It wasn’t triumphant. It was hungry. “Look at them. Vitals are stabilizing already. Neurochemical cascade is… beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.” He was talking about the boys like they were a stunning graph.
Ben whimpered. It was a small, broken sound. He tried to speak, but only a cough came out, followed by a trickle of that same opalescent fluid. His body gave one last, involuntary tremor.
“Leo,” Jake said, his voice low. “We need to get them down.”
“The manual release is probably jammed after that,” Leo said, moving towards the central apparatus with a cautious, almost professional curiosity. He examined the seizure-locked restraints. “Probably need a crowbar or something. Or a power saw.”
“A power saw? Are you out of your mind?”
“You got a better idea? These cuffs are titanium.”
From his perch, Thorne interjected, calm and utterly dismissive. “Disengagement teams are en route. Do not attempt manual extraction. You could skew the recovery metrics.”
Jake stared up at the shattered observation window. He could make out Thorne’s silhouette, backlit by monitor glow. A raw, stubborn anger, buried deep under layers of rationalization and financial desperation, finally broke surface. “Screw your metrics.” He strode to a wall panel that had been shaken loose, grasped a bent strut of aluminum, and yanked. It came free with a screech.
“Jake, what are you doing?” Leo asked, a hint of real concern cutting through his detached facade.
“What you should be doing.” Jake walked to the central pillar where Kieran hung. He ignored the scientist’s warnings blaring from the speaker. He wedged the metal strut into the seam of the chest restraint. “We broke them. We help them.”
He threw his weight onto the lever. The metal groaned. Kieran’s eyes, glazed and distant, slowly focused on Jake’s straining face.
With a final, resonant crack, the restraint gave way. Kieran collapsed forward, but Jake was there, catching his naked, slick weight, staggering under it but holding him up. Kieran gasped, his arms trembling violently as they tried to support himself after hours of immobilization.
“Leo,” Jake grunted, struggling to lower Kieran to the relatively clean floor. “The other one. Now.”
Leo watched for another second, then gave a slight, acknowledging shrug. “Recovery data will be fucked anyway.” He found another piece of debris and went to work on Ben’s restraints.
As Jake eased Kieran down, the boy clutched at Jake’s forearm, his grip surprisingly weak. His voice was a raw whisper, shredded from screaming and the machine. “It’s… it’s still in me.”
Jake understood. The final piston was still fully extended, locked inside him by its own mechanical failure. He looked at the pathetic, flaccid unit, a piece of industrial junk now fused to a human being. A wave of nausea hit him.
Thorne’s voice became a command. “Leave it! The extraction team will handle it surgically. You are compromising everything!”
Leo finally popped Ben’s restraint. Ben crumpled into Leo’s arms, sobbing openly, shuddering. Leo held him awkwardly, patting his back. “Yeah, yeah, you’re okay. Mostly.”
Jake ignored Thorne, looking into Kieran’s frightened eyes. “This is gonna suck,” he said, his tone softening to something almost conversational. He positioned himself behind Kieran, wrapping his arms around the boy’s chest. “On three. One… Two…”
He pulled back sharply on three, bracing his feet. Kieran screamed, a short, sharp burst of agony, as the malfunctioning piston suddenly disengaged with a wet, terrible sound. It retracted into its housing, dripping. Kieran went completely limp in Jake’s arms.
The chamber door hissed open with finality. Two figures in crisp grey biosuits entered, moving with efficient, unemotional speed. The extraction team.
Thorne’s voice was ice. “The study is concluded. You will be debriefed and compensated. Leave the subjects.”
One of the biosuit figures approached Jake, hands outstretched to take Kieran. Jake hesitated, looking down at the boy’s unconscious face.
Everyone’s over 18