Sperm bounty hunter looking to collect fugitive male cum cow.

Have you ever signed up to be a male cum cow? Maybe you made some deposits at the local sperm bank back in the ’80s or ’90s to help pay for grad school? What seemed an innocuous (albeit somewhat bizarre) enough a way to pay the bills actually still has you by the balls. Didn’t you read the fine print? That’s too bad. You should always read the fine print!

The sterilized experience of making sperm bank “deposits” left you with a lingering, unresolved sense of strangeness. The lube-free dryness of it all, the outdated, hardly sexy magazines there to “help” you. Then there are the funny looks from the nurse. The voicemails reminding you to abstain from masturbating all week because your “deposit” date was cumming up.

The idea of your cum being “needed” is hot to you. You like to imagine your cum having an urgent value.

I’ll show up when you least expect it. Maybe at your house in broad daylight, asking if you are so-and-so and if I can come in to ask you a few questions. Before you know it you’re serving me a drink and feel captivated by my feminine wiles.

All the easier for me to capture you.

Eventually, I explain that the Bank would still like to harvest a few deposits from you. I ask if you’d mind if I collected one now. We can go upstairs and have it done in just a few minutes. You almost can’t believe your good luck. You’re so tickled and incredulous, you foolishly agree to be tied up during the “procedure.”

Once you’re tied up, I get out the document you signed all those years ago again. I show you where it says in teeny, tiny print at the bottom: “cum cow for life.” That’s right, it wasn’t just a few voluntary, paid visits back in grad school. I own you now. The Bank owns you. And you have decades of backlogged sperm to make up for.

In this dystopian sperm Bank universe, I take you to court over your decades of owed semen. Much to your incredulity, I beat you and the judge just clucks his tongue and shakes his head at your insolence. Finally, it’s time to go to where you’re going to be living from now on: “The Ranch.”

I work for the Ranch. The Ranch owns you, as a male cum cow. You no longer have a name. You have a pod number, which corresponds to your number. And you have a handler, a woman, who knows how to arouse you best. She’s great at keeping you in heightened arousal and spends most of her day making sure your cum pump is properly connected or massaging your prostate.

We know all your masturbation rituals, as we’ve had access to your Pornhub algorithm. Your favorites play in Circlevision on every wall of your pod. Seems like there’s no getting out of this one. Is it your wildest fantasies cum true? Or torture?


In conclusion, sometimes a phone sex chat is the only way to discuss specific fantasies like being my male cum cow. What do you think about when you jerk off that you can’t tell anyone else? Probably it’s best to just cum tell me, ASAP. So, what are you waiting for?