by Big Kahuna
Despite the white skin, Melissa could see that this other woman was in decent shape, neither too fat nor too skinny. Even so her breasts were huge, at least the size of actual cow udders, and she had two of them! They hung down almost to the floor, which Melissa realized was indeed a gym mat, like the one in her high school Phy Ed class, except where that one had been blue and gold, this one had a straw pattern worked into it.
The other woman also had no hair. Not a one, anywhere that she could see, and she could see pretty much everywhere. Her pubes were entirely bare, as were her arms and legs. Had Rance shaved her, or used some kind of depilatory on her? Melissa shook her head, trying to ascertain whether she still had hair on her own scalp. The lack of tickling or sliding confirmed that she didn’t.
The human-looking cow began walking away from her, toward the other end of the large room. Seeing her from this angle, Melissa noticed two additional things about her. The first was the brand on her hip. It appeared to be a tattoo, a stylized double-R, one of the letters being reversed so that both letters shared a common vertical stroke. Melissa snorted inside her mask at the obvious symbolism, the brand looking like an outsized pair of tits on a stick figure, reminding her of Janice’s words about her own small breasts a lifetime ago.
The other thing Melissa noticed was her tail. It emanated from a black butt plug in the woman’s anus, and hung down to just above the bend of her knees. Like her own tail, it swished against the backs of her legs as she walked, a constant reminder of something that needed no reminder.
Melissa could not understand it. Were all of these women captives, Rance’s bovine sex slaves? Surely six women could overpower just one man, unless there was more than just one man. It was also possible that some of them, perhaps even all of them, were here voluntarily. She had seen enough of the Internet to know that this kind of setup would appeal to more than a few women.
The woman who had crawled off turned and headed back in the direction from which Melissa had come. Melissa followed her movements, turning in place until the back wall of the room came into view. It was glazed white brick, quite clean, the lower portion of wall broken only by the six doggie doors in a line next to the one she’d just come through. Melissa silently read off the names that were burned into the wooden plaques mounted above each door: Daisy, Bluebell, Dewdrop, Blossom, Cinnamon, Moo-Moo—and lastly, Buttercup.
She stared with wide eyes at the doors, and then again at the folksy woodcarvings. This was insane, beyond insane. What kind of sick, depraved human being kept other human beings prisoners like this, in some kind of demented petting zoo?
Something above the wooden doors tugged at her attention, that something dwarfing her former shock into insignificance: a large hand-painted sign, easily eight feet tall by twelve feet across, foot tall lettering in a Wild West font curving across the top proclaiming—LONE STAR MILK. At the bottom was more text—EST. 2012, and sandwiched in between the two lines was an image, one that would become as indelibly imprinted upon her mind as the name that was burned into the wooden plaque above her stall—a black and white drawing of her, or one of her spiritual sisters, in a pose very much like the one she was in now, a sunny smile frozen on her cartoon face.
“Ohhhh….” Melissa bleated pitifully, sudden realization dawning on her. This isn’t a zoo. It’s a dairy!
She instantly felt a weakness in her shoulders that wasn’t due to the weight of her breasts, the enormity of Rance’s deception—and her stupidity—suddenly dawning on her. ‘All my livestock love Vivaldi,’ he had texted. ‘I play it in the milking shed for them.’ She had thought then that he had been referring to actual cows, but all of his texts, all of his knowledge—bras and breast shields, supplements and schedules—had pointed to the two legged variety.
All my livestock, she repeated inside her head, closing her eyes and letting her head droop. That was what all these women were, livestock. Cattle, or chattel, owned and kept by right of conquest. But not in my case, she reflected. He hadn’t conquered her. She had given herself to him. ‘Will you be my cow?’ he had texted. And she had said yes. Rance hadn’t kidnapped her. He had merely rounded up a stray.
I’m such a fool, she thought.
Melissa turned her body slowly around, craning her neck upward as much as her Holstein helmet would allow, needing to take it all in. The room was quite large, hardly a shed, and was brightly lit, almost cheery. It was about fifty feet long by twenty-five feet wide, with a high ceiling, from which hung banks of fluorescent lights. The walls were white-glazed brick all around, with long rectangular windows on the wall opposite her that were set approximately six feet above the floor, soft sunlight filtering through. It looked more like an industrial kitchen than a dairy.
Except for the milking stations. She presumed that was what they were, seeing as there were seven of them. She had noticed them earlier but hadn’t paid them much attention, there being other things to occupy her mind. They were rectangular platforms, made of wood, and covered with a gray slate material that looked more like a kitchen countertop than something you would find in a dairy. The platforms were all approximately two feet in height, and were just wide and long enough for a woman on all fours to be milked comfortably. There was a ramp on the nearer side of each one, for easy access, and a short T-post at the forward end of it, presumably for the cow to rest her head upon while being milked.
Each milking station had a walkway between it and the one next to it, allowing enough room for Rance—or whoever did the milking—to tend each member of his herd without having to sidle awkwardly between cows. Lastly, there was a four-foot tall hinged gate at the front corner of each station, connecting each platform to the next, a deterrent to prevent wandering cattle.
Melissa crawled forward slowly, feeling as though her breasts were becoming heavier, the pressure within them growing. They feel so full, she thought. It would be such a relief to be milked, to feel the weight of her udders lessened, if only by a few pounds. Except that was something she could no longer do for herself, the hooves locked onto her hands making her dependent upon someone else, making her a slave.
She padded between the two leftward milking stations, doing her best to ignore the discomfort of her over-inflated breasts, until she reached the gate connecting them to each other. The floor on the other side of the gate was not padded, being sealed concrete, and was scrupulously clean and shiny. It had little bumps in it, a non-skid surface of the kind that were used in wet areas, which was confirmed by the presence of floor drains every ten feet or so. It would be murder on unprotected knees.
The portion of the room beyond the gate was surprisingly sparse. There appeared to be no milking equipment of any kind, no pumping machines or other paraphernalia involved in extracting milk from one’s livestock, whether human, bovine, or somewhere in between. There was only a folding chair and a little wooden table against the far wall.
There was one piece of equipment, she realized: a glass-fronted cooler, like those found in convenience stores, except where those were usually filled with beer or soda, this one was completely stocked with old-fashioned glass milk bottles, full and sealed. There had to be at least a hundred of them in there, the combined bounty of his herd, perhaps even some of her own.
There was nothing else of note. There were two doors on either end of the room. The one to her left was set in a wall that had mirrored windows across much of its length. Rance’s office, she presumed. The wall on the other end of the room had a nondescript gray metal door with a stainless steel knob. It also had weather-stripping at the base of it, marking it as an exterior door. That had to be the way out.
But not on her hands and knees. It would take forever to get anywhere, and besides that she was a woman, not a four-legged beast of the field. The bovine-looking women all about her might have accepted their roles, even embraced them, but she was not going to go along with the herd. She would walk.
She backed out from between the milking stations, there not being enough
room to turn around, until she was a good five feet away from them; she wanted an unobstructed area to practice in lest she fall. She bent sideways as best she could, so that she could examine her rear hooves. They looked like elongated versions of the ones covering her hands, like high-heeled shoes except without the heels. Walking on them would be difficult at best, but she had to try.
Having made up her mind, Melissa settled back onto her haunches so that the undersides of her heavy breasts came to rest against her thighs. She then brought her left knee around and forward, placing the front of her left rear hoof on the mat. So far, so good. She did the same with her right rear hoof, having to lean so far forward that her udders compressed beneath her upon the mat, actually supporting her upper body while she got into position.
She looked nervously about, ready to make her attempt, fearful that one or more of the other women might try to stop her. None of the them made a move, either not noticing or not caring that one of their own was trying to make a break for it. They all sat or kneeled wherever they were, placidly waiting for whatever they were waiting for. Stupid cows, she thought scornfully.
All right, she said inside her mind, coaching herself, here goes nothing.
She heaved herself upward with a grunt, cradling her almost spherical udders in her pale forearms. But it worked! She was up on her hind legs, albeit shakily. The tension in her calf muscles was enormous, the contours of her prosthetic hooves forcing her up on her tiptoes.
But she was bipedal now. Walking would be tricky, but she could probably do it. All she had to do now was walk over to the gate, open it, then across the concrete floor to the gray door, open that, and leave.
If she could unlatch the gate. If the exterior door wasn’t locked. If she could even operate the doorknob, something to consider since she lacked opposable thumbs.
And if Rance didn’t catch her. That was the funniest thing about all of this. Where was he? For someone who was supposed to be a conscientious dairyman, he seemed awful lax about tending his herd.
As if in answer to her unspoken question, a ‘moo’ sounded to her right. Melissa turned her head in the direction from which the sound had come. She could see the cow—woman! she reminded herself again—that had uttered the bovine bellow, but didn’t know if it was Daisy or Bluebell or one of the others. Probably Moo-Moo, she decided. Probably how she got her name.
Another moo sounded from further away, slightly higher pitched this time, followed by another, and another still. Melissa felt a brief surge of panic. Her first thought was that they were raising an alarm, trying to prevent her from escaping, but then noticed that none of them were looking in her direction.
They’re calling out, she realized, probably due to the agitation Janice had mentioned. They needed to be milked, and since they couldn’t do it themselves they had to make their needs known the only way they could.
No! Melissa screamed inside her head, the insistent lowing of the human cows blending into a barnyard cacophony. Be quiet, you stupid cows! If he hears you, he’ll come! She looked quickly about the room, weighing her options. Rance was probably going to come into the room at any moment, milking pail in one hand and a three-legged stool in the other. It was time to quit fucking around. If she didn’t escape now she might very well end up like these other cows, a domesticated creature whose sole purpose in life was to be exploited by its owner. That was not going to happen. It was now or never.
The moment she lifted her leg she knew it was hopeless. The bizarre shaping of her rear hooves caused her to immediately topple backwards, forcing her to throw her arms wide so that she might catch herself on the mat. Physics, however, decreed that this action would cause an equal and opposite reaction, which it did, the weight of her massy milkers instantly pulling her forward.
“OHHHH…!” she cried as the full weight of her upper body slammed down upon her bloated udders, her long, loud moan outstripping those of her bovine compatriots. Melissa, now in pain from the pressure within as well as the trauma without, raised herself up off of her compressed mammaries with shaking arms, an almost translucent puddle of milk spreading out beneath them as they hovered a few inches above the mat.
“Dobré ráno, hucows!”
Dazed from the pain, Melissa looked up to see a pair of scuffed cowboy boots on the other side of the gate, faded blue jeans, checked shirt. She raised her gaze higher to find Rance’s suntanned face looking down upon her. He was smiling.
“Dobré ráno, Buttercup.”
Chapter 10
The Morning Milking
He was exactly as she remembered him, the man in her dream, the same man who had come to her door and shocked her into unconsciousness using a cattle prod. He wasn’t wearing his cowboy hat, though. Today he was wearing a baseball cap, white, the front stitched with the same logo that adorned the rear wall of the milking shed, right down to the insipid cartoon smile on the human cow’s face.
Rance stood there, leaning against the gate, smiling down at her. It was the smile of a man who has everything and knows it. He winked at her, darkly amused, and then straightened up and clapped his hands.
“Čas na dojení, hucows!”
Melissa couldn’t understand what he was saying, but she picked out one word well enough: hucows. That word required no translation. The other cows—women! she reminded herself yet again—appeared to know precisely what he’d said, for they all got up from where they were and began quickly padding over to the milking stations, their oversized udders wobbling almost comically. Melissa watched as they crawled up onto the ramps and then onto the platforms, laying their heads upon the T-posts with perfect docility, awaiting their morning milking.
None of them had chosen the far left milking station, Melissa noted, the one directly in front of her stall. Was that how this whole system was arranged? If so, that meant that Moo-Moo was the one on the platform next to hers.
She watched while Rance bent down in front of Moo-Moo’s platform and retrieved a U-shaped piece of metal, which he slipped through the ends of the T-post and secured with a bent nail, locking her head in place. “Jak se dnes máme, má sladká Moo-moo?” he said lowly, patting one of her suspended udders affectionately. “Plná, holka?” Melissa couldn’t believe that a woman would actually sit still for such treatment, but then decided that a woman who allowed herself to be called Moo-Moo would probably put up with just about anything.
But what language was he speaking? Was it even a language? It might be gobbledygook, but Melissa didn’t think so. It sounded vaguely Russian, but then considering her provincial upbringing it could be vaguely Polish or vaguely Icelandic.
She understood why he was doing it, though. Since cows couldn’t understand human speech, Rance spoke to his hucows in a language they couldn’t understand either. That meant they would have to infer meaning from tone of voice, or other non-verbal forms of expression such as the tit-patting she had just witnessed, every word and gesture reinforcing their non-human status, hobbling them every bit as much as their prosthetic hooves.
One by one, Rance made his way down the line, locking each of his cows into place, saying the same or similar things to them, his tone always pleasant, always soothing. When he was done he came back up to her unoccupied platform, looking at her expectantly.
“Buttercup?”
Melissa looked back at him, her expression defiant behind the placid exterior of her false cow head. Did he really think that she was just going to walk up and surrender herself as easily as all that? Well, he had another think coming. If he wanted her milk, he would have to physically drag her up there and take it, or else shock her again with his cattle prod. Janice would never willingly submit to such degrading treatment, and neither would she.
Rance did not respond to her noncompliance other than to smile a bit wider and fold his arms across his chest. He did not look in the least perturbed by his newest acquisition’s defiance. Melissa realized that he had probably been through this exact scenario before, possibly even
six times. Even so, she would not submit.
Her breasts seemed to feel otherwise, however. The pain from her fall had since subsided, only to be dwarfed by the ever present and ever increasing pressure within. She needed to be milked, exactly as he had originally emailed her. He had known it then, and he knew it just as surely now.
And nor was it just her. Moo-Moo turned her masked head sideways and voiced her disapproval at being made to wait. More mooing followed suit, the other cows, agitated, echoing their sister cow’s cries of discomfort.
This isn’t fair! Melissa whined inside her head. What was she supposed to do? Janice would never give in, but then Janice’s tits weren’t on the verge of exploding. The constant mooing, echoing off the glazed brick walls all around her, amplified their volume, filling her ears, amplifying her ever growing pain as well.
Rance simply stood there, watching her with amused tolerance. He could wait her out. He could wait all day if he had to. And he knew that she couldn’t.
Melissa could feel the tears falling behind the surface of her headgear, every bit as invisible to Rance as the pain in her throbbing breasts. This was a battle of wills, one that she suddenly realized she was going to lose. She remembered her ordeal on the stairs of her apartment building, the painful pressure in her udders driving her to the point of hallucinations, and that was without the added pressure of her sister cows voicing their displeasure at her.
She put a hoof out, unaware that she had done so, followed by the corresponding rear leg, then the other foreleg, then the trailing rear leg, all four legs carrying her forward, not to defeat, but to blessed relief.
She registered the hollow ‘clop’ of her hoof as she placed it on the ramp of the platform. I mustn’t do this, she thought, but she knew she was going to. Where else was there for her to go? She needed to be milked, and who else was there to do it for her but her owner—captor!—she corrected herself.