by Big Kahuna
Melissa so wanted to tell her at that point, to blurt out everything that was going on in her life, but she quickly stifled that impulse. The fact was that everything Janice had said was true: her enlarged breasts, her resurrected wardrobe, and her newfound confidence were all a result of Rance’s involvement in her life.
Deep down she knew that she could never tell Janice what she was doing. She would never understand. She was strong. She didn’t need to milk herself like a cow in order to afford a better life. Not that she could, of course. Janice was beautiful and confident, but she certainly lacked where it counted, at least when it came to dairy production.
“Some women will do anything for their men,” Janice continued. “I hope you’re not that kind of woman, Mel.”
Melissa looked down at her improved chest, unable to see where she had put her pizza, or even her plate for that matter. “No, Jan,” she replied, bringing her head back up, “I think I can say that I am definitely not that kind of woman.”
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Six hours later found Melissa standing before her full-length mirror, modeling a silk boxer’s robe, another gift from her benefactor, included with his most recent payment. It was the first time she had worn clothing at home in weeks.
Her first thought upon seeing it was: He’s got to be kidding me. This was due in part to the large black spots that were all over it, but more so because it was cut so that it left her breasts absolutely bare. If it was a joke, Rance made no mention of it. There was no card, no explanation, no requests for her to model it or to send him pictures of her wearing it. It was ridiculously comfortable, as silk always is, and was as light as a whisper. It came down to the tops of her thighs, and was an almost perfect match for her complexion, being only slightly whiter than her pale Scandahoovian skin.
It wasn’t the cut or the cow motif that put her off, though; she thought the spots were rather cute. No, it was the intention behind it. Rance not only saw her as a cow, he wanted her to see herself that way too, perhaps in the hope of spurring increased production.
She shook her head at her bovine reflection, thankful that no one else could see what she saw. She suppressed a laugh, imagining the fire alarm going off, being forced to leave the apartment dressed as she was, seeing the looks on her neighbors’ faces, especially once they saw her tail. Sixteen-year old Billy next door would probably pop his zipper. His dad, too.
That image she laughed at.
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An hour later found her sitting on the couch in a blue funk. She was still dressed in her silk robe, her open laptop lying next to her, a spreadsheet showing on the screen. She had always liked accounting, often turning to it whenever she felt depressed or out of control. There was something comforting about the order and ritual of dividing your life into income and expenses, savings and spending. It had been a deeply held belief, passed onto her by her father, that if you knew where your money was, then you could truly say that you were in control.
The problem was that she knew exactly where her money was. It was sitting on the coffee table in front of her—in cash.
Rance’s four envelopes were arrayed before her in ascending order. The first envelope contained his original $40 payment, plus the dollar bill that she supposed she would get around to framing eventually. The second one contained $240, six pints worth. The third one held $463.75, and the fourth one $590. A damn good haul for four days mostly pleasurable work, and that didn’t include the $897.50 that would be waiting in her box tomorrow, for 359 ounces of grade A breast milk, almost a day and a half’s worth of milkings.
“Two thousand, two hundred and thirty-one dollars and twenty-five cents.” She said this slowly, as though trying to make sense of the words. It was such an unbelievable amount, and it was all thanks to her tits.
Rance had said that a good cow could produce as much as a quart per milking. She was producing more than that now at every milking, even having shot up to forty ounces at her 2:00 a.m. milking just this morning. But that was nothing compared to the numbers she had just totted up—293 ounces over the last twenty-four hours, more than three times the previous world record.
She hadn’t believed it at first, had double-checked that she had selected the proper cells on her spreadsheet. The number stayed the same. She triple-checked it. She had been in milk for barely more than half a week and she was already putting out more than two gallons per day, and her hyper-productive boobs were showing no signs of slowing. It was a good thing that Rance had sent her two more gallon jugs with his last payment. She was definitely going to need them.
Maggie the cat jumped up onto the coffee table, her feline eyes instantly locking onto the giant bags of milk that were sitting on the couch. She sniffed the air, perhaps hoping for another tit milk fountain.
Melissa shook her head at her carnivorous roommate. Even Maggie didn’t seem to know who she was anymore, except as an additional food source maybe, which she supposed she was.
“This is insane,” she said to Maggie, who was extending a hesitant paw out to her knee, trying to get closer to the source of the fresh milk she had scented. Melissa pulled her knee sideways, the idea of being considered a pet cow by her own fucking cat sending her already bizarre mental state that much further southward.
But I am someone’s pet cow, aren’t I?
That was it, right there, the ineluctable truth of the matter. It wasn’t the money. It wasn’t her excessive production. It was the fact that somewhere out there some unknown man was drinking her breast milk, consuming her essence, ounce by creamy ounce, and happily paying for the privilege.
‘Some women will do anything for their men,’ Janice had said. Melissa had to admit that that was also the truth. She had allowed a man she didn’t even know to turn her into a dairy cow because she was bored and lonely. What did that say about her?
And what was he doing with all this milk? He couldn’t be drinking all of it, surely. She hoped he wasn’t bathing in it. Ish!
What does it matter what he’s doing with it? she reminded herself. He was paying for it, overpaying for it, come to that. Perhaps he was hosting milk parties for other breast milk enthusiasts, having taste tests, comparing notes. Maybe they all had cows of their own. Was she the top producer?
“This isn’t healthy,” she said to Maggie, who was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, her green cat’s eyes fixated on the gently wobbling spheres in front of her, watching them intently.
“I’m a woman, Maggie. A human being. I’m not a cow.” She looked back down at her laptop, the numbers on the screen belying the truth of her words. “Oh, my God, what have I done to myself?”
She got up from the couch, the shifting weight of her udders almost causing her to overbalance and fall forward onto the coffee table. Cradling her heavy milkers with her forearms, she made her way to the bedroom and stood before the mirror, trying to see the woman she had once been. She could find no trace of her.
“This has to stop,” she said to her massive-breasted reflection. Thirty seconds later she was standing in front of the kitchen sink, the bottle of fenugreek Rance had sent her in her hand. It was open.
“Just pour it down the drain,” she said, panting lightly. She continued standing there, the water running, the pill bottle poised over the sink. One little movement of her forearm was all it would take. One little movement and they would be gone. She could start her life over again.
And just what will I start my life over as? she asked herself. What did I have before that’s worth going back to? She shut off the water and put the pill bottle on the counter, the knuckles of her hand almost white.
There was nothing worth going back to, that was also the truth. As Buttercup she was far more fulfilled than Melissa had ever been. Had she ever stood up to old lady Masterson before? No. Had she ever felt so desired? No again. Had she ever had so much money? She looked back at the coffee table where Rance’s money lay. No, not even close.
&nbs
p; Her life was better now, there could be no denying that. What did it matter if she could hold her own with a Guernsey? Where was the harm in having men admire you for your boobs? What was wrong with making a little milk money?
As if on cue her breasts began to tingle—milking time. Okay, so maybe that was a downside, the constant need to empty her udders, but she enjoyed that aspect too, almost as much as she enjoyed sex.
“Except you haven’t had any of that lately, have you?” she said aloud. That was true. But she could, though. She could walk right up to Johnny from Geology and say point blank, ‘Let’s do it, stud.’ He would probably say yes, if he could say anything at all after that pronouncement. He seemed to be tongue-tied an awful lot lately.
And what would Johnny say when he went to suck her tits and got a mouthful of cream? Would he like what came out of her? Would he swallow, or would he spit her milk out in disgust?
She didn’t like that visual, but she for damn sure wasn’t going to give up sex just because she was in milk, especially now that she was looking so good. But would any man want her once they realized that the funbags they wanted to play with were actually milkbags? Christ, even Rance wasn’t interested in her for sex, wanting her for what was inside of her tits rather than what was outside.
There had to be a happy medium, but she couldn’t see what it might be. Any man interested in her for her breasts would likely not be pleased at getting a milk shower every time he squeezed them, and any man interested in her for her milk wouldn’t want her selling it to someone else. Milk or sex. It seemed that there was no in-between.
Yes, there was, she realized. There was another option. It would involve some sacrifice on her part, as well as the possibility of losing her job, but the rewards outweighed the risks. In accepting Rance’s proposal, she had promised that he would be her customer exclusively. In return he had promised to purchase as much as she produced, no matter the amount, at the fixed price they had agreed upon. Rance was going to buy her a new life. He just didn’t know it yet.
Forty ounces per milking, multiplied by eight milkings per day, came out to $292,000 in a year. Would he pay it? She very much thought he would. And if not, there was always the breast milk classifieds.
Could she actually produce that much milk, consistently? She had done it once, she could do it again. At least she could if the dream she’d had was true, that sexual stimulation increased milk production. If that was the case, then she definitely had the means to do it. She wouldn’t even have to leave the apartment.
“You wanted a blue ribbon cow, Rance?” she said, hefting her tingling udders with both hands. “That’s exactly what you’re going to get.”
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The suction cup dildo took only a few minutes to set up. It was last year’s Christmas present to herself, purchased online as she hadn’t wanted to go by herself to an adult bookstore—how desperate would that look? She regretted her purchase the moment she took the monster cock out of its box. What had she been thinking?
She’d used it a few times since, mostly to wrap her breasts around while masturbating, or to test her deep throat skills, but she had never dared take the beast inside her. It would split her apart! It was now affixed to the footboard of her bed, an immense dong dangling out there in space, ready for its mate. God, am I really going to do this? she asked herself. Yes, she really was.
Everything was in place: the milking machine, the plastic milk collection jug, her iPod. The bedroom door was shut, denying Maggie the cat entrance to her private milking parlor. She didn’t like the way the watchful feline looked at her nowadays, her intent expression almost carnivorous. Melissa put the cat out of her mind.
She knelt down and began lubing up the pseudo-prick with some cherry-flavored massage oil, the nine inches of fake dick looking alarmingly large in her hand. When that was done, she wiped off her hands, slipped on the headphones, and got onto her hands and knees before the massive dong, her weighty udders swaying beneath her as she got herself into position,
A wave of surreality hit her when she backed up, the fake phallus nosing about her naked rump driving home the bizarreness of her life right now: I’m dressed like a cow and about to be fucked by my own bed. How decadent I’ve become, and in such a short time.
“Ohhh…” Melissa moaned as she eased herself onto the giant cock. It was the same long, low noise that she made whenever she felt something pleasurable nowadays. She sometimes wondered if the upstairs neighbors thought she might be learning the bassoon.
She stopped after a few inches, her breathing already heavy, so that she could get used to the feel of the massive dildo. It was time now, time to put it all together. Using one hand to support her upper body, she used her other hand to switch on the milking machine, which was already set to setting number three, the slowest setting. The machine hummed to life, causing her already expectant udders to begin leaking in response. “Just call me Pavlov’s cow,” she muttered, and then brought the chrome tube up to her tingling udder.
“Ohhh…” she whined, as the teat cup latched on, the machine automatically siphoning her pent-up milk away, the deep sucking action almost causing her to come on the spot. Barely able to think, her body already beginning to shake in ecstasy, she reached down and grabbed the other chrome tube and held it up to her leaking dug.
“OHHH…” she moaned again, louder than before, the double suction causing her slick pussy to involuntarily clench around the giant dildo inside her. Slowly she began shifting backwards, taking the monster cock deeper and deeper. She was breathing heavily now, her pendulous milkbags wobbling as she crawled backwards, impaling herself further on her surrogate lover.
“Unnh,” she grunted, when she could take no more, feeling well and truly spitted on the massive dong. She rested for a few seconds, her fingers gripping the nap of the straw-colored shag carpeting. When she felt she could continue, she began rocking back and forth, ever so slowly allowing the disembodied dick greater access to her body.
God, this is heaven, she thought, the combination of being filled while being drained dwarfing any previous sexual experience she’d had. Would she ever be able to go back to normal sex after this? Did she want to? She stole a look at herself in the mirrored closet door; an unmistakably bovine creature crouched on all fours, disproportionately large udders hanging down, milk flowing out of the chrome tubes and into the plastic hoses. Only one thing more was needed to complete the picture.
Steadying herself with one hand, she reached up and pulled the hood of her robe forward, the black and white cow’s head woven into the silk effectively screening her head from view. Her metamorphosis complete, she reached out a shaking finger to her iPod and tapped the ‘play’ icon.
Once the Vivaldi began playing all conscious thought ceased, her mind instantly giving over to feelings and impressions. There were no worries to worry about, no anxieties to be anxious about. Life was good. Life was simple. She was exactly where she was supposed to be, in her milking parlor, being milked.
There was music playing. It sounded pretty. Buttercup decided that she liked the music.
There was also a giant bull’s cock in her cunt. It felt good. She liked being fucked almost as much as she liked being milked. It was what cows were for.
She looked sideways to find that there was another cow in her milking parlor. It was being milked, too. This other cow was white, like her, with big black spots on it, and udders that looked about the same size as her own. That was all right. She didn’t mind sharing.
A shadow fell over her. She looked up to see someone standing in the open doorway of the milking parlor. It was a Man. He stood there, his arms above his head, his wrists resting against either side of the doorway, his relaxed body language clearly indicating that he owned the room and everything in it.
“How’s my best girl?” the Man said, smiling down at her. She couldn’t understand what he was saying, but she found his tone soothing. She decided that she liked the
Man. He walked further into the room and knelt down beside her.
“Gettin big, girl,” he said, taking the nearer udder in both of his strong hands and hefting the fat dug up and down. “Not much longer now.”
Buttercup answered by way of leaning sideways and rubbing up against him. Was this Man her owner? She decided that he must be.
“There’s a girl,” he continued, reaching further in and testing the other dug. “So who’s my blue ribbon cow?”
Buttercup responded to his incomprehensible speech by raising her head, an invitation for him to pet her. He stroked her head and neck, crooning softly to her while she mechanically fucked herself on the fake dick attached to the bed, the combined sensations putting her in a state of bovine bliss.
Rance scratched his cow’s head for a few more seconds and then stood up. According to the display on Melissa’s iPod, there was still twenty-five minutes of music left, twenty-five minutes in which to conduct his business.
Of course it wasn’t really her iPod. He’d cloned that months ago, along with her cell phone, her laptop, and her home network. There wasn’t an email or a phone call or even a keystroke made with her technology that he wasn’t aware of.
Because that was the first thing you learned about managing livestock, that they must be carefully monitored. His father had taught him that when he was just a young dairyman, milking the family cow by hand every morning.
He went back into the living room and placed the folding stepladder he had brought under the forced-air vent that overlooked Melissa’s sofa. It took him a few minutes to replace the dying battery in the Bluetooth video camera that resided inside the air duct with a fresh one. He then put the vent cover back on and repositioned the camera inside the duct using a pair of chopsticks, so that its view through the vent cover was unimpeded. He was able to tell this with the aid of a little tablet computer he’d brought with him, the image on its screen showing the couch where Melissa usually sat when she was in her apartment.