by Big Kahuna
She mounted the platform, barely noticing the butt plug tail tickling her calves. It was almost like a dream. She crawled forward across the gray slate surface of her milking stand, noticing details she she hadn’t seen from the floor. It had a foot wide channel running along the center of it for most of its length, with a short stub of black tubing sticking up from the near end, which she assumed was used to hose down the platform, as well as a drain inset at its lowest point, evidently for the disposal of spilled milk. There were also two strips of the same kind of foam rubber flooring—dark gray to match the finish—epoxied or hot-glued to the surface on either side of the channel, presumably to protect her knees.
Well, aren’t you the considerate one, Rance? she said inside her head. Nothing but the best for your cows, eh?”
Rance continued waiting patiently, still smiling at her. He was in no hurry. The other cows must have sensed what was happening, as they had stopped their pained lowing, apparently aware that the newest member of the herd was falling into line.
Melissa continued forward, her breasts seeming to double in weight with every step she took. She was almost there now, her knees coming level with two more T-posts that sat near the edges of the platform, which she supposed were there to restrain her legs. Are those so I won’t kick you, Rance?
She rested the hollow of her throat lightly on the T-post, looking down over the front of the milking stand. Let Rance take it a sign of her submission. She didn’t care. She was just here to be milked. Once that was done, her priority would shift to escaping.
Melissa watched as he retrieved the U-shaped yoke from a hook on the front of her milking station, then a moment later felt cool metal against either side of her neck, followed by metallic scraping as the ends of the yoke were slotted into the the T-post’s holes and the bent nail slid into place, locking her in.
“Hodné děvče, Buttercup,” she heard him say, his deep voice reverberating through her, a hand running down her heavy breast and then patting it. He bent down again and produced two more U-shaped yokes, then unlatched the gate beside her and moved out of her line of sight. She couldn’t see what he was doing, but she could feel the metal ends of the yoke slide past her thigh, felt it lock into place.
“Dáš dnes hodně mléka?” he said. He was making conversation now, at least that was what it sounded like, his voice shifting around to her other side. She felt a hand at her right thigh, moving it into position and then securing it.
“Ty jsi šikovná holka, Buttercup,” he said as he came back around to the opened gate, which she noticed he hadn’t bothered to close, not that he needed to. They both knew she wasn’t going anywhere. Even if she weren’t bound by steel restraints, her addiction was holding her in place, an addiction that he had set into motion, and one which she lacked the strength to withdraw from. Escape would come later. For the moment there was nothing to do but close her eyes and wait to be milked.
“Jen se neboj, holka,” he said softly, running his hand along her suspended tit. “Rance se o tebe postará.”
She gasped lightly when his knowing fingers took hold of a distended teat and tugged downward, an answering spray of milk jetting from her tight udder. A moment later she felt the cooling sensation of a washcloth being dragged across the erect nipple, the rough texture causing her to reflexively press her lips together behind her mask.
He moved to the other tit and gave it the same treatment, the foreplay causing her to whimper. She kept her eyes firmly shut while he worked, the pain somehow fading despite the incredible pressure within, endorphins kicking in. He was making her feel good, making her want it.
When she was clean she sensed him pull away, anticipation building inside of her. He was going to milk her now. She could not remember ever wanting it more. A moment later a familiar sound reached her ears—the sound of suction—eliciting an immediate Pavlovian response from her pink teats, creamy milk leaking out of them and onto the the gray slate of her milking stand.
She moaned loudly when the teat cup latched onto her expanded dug, followed a few seconds later with the other tit, instant relief coursing throughout her body as her tight milkers were relieved of their contents.
But…how…is he milking me? she wondered. Where is the equipment?
Melissa opened her eyes, not wanting to interrupt the blessed feeling of being emptied, but at the same time needing to know how he was doing this. She looked down at the front of her milking station and found the answer easily enough. There were loops of flexible hoses sticking out of the front of the platform, attached to her teat cups and sending her product through a stainless steel panel mounted on the front of the unit, gauges and switches adding to its high-tech look. In her mind she could see her milk being whisked away through pipes underneath the floor, perhaps into the office next door, into a waiting vat where the combined harvest of seven hucows would be pasteurized and homogenized.
Rance was tending to Moo-Moo now. Melissa could hear him dipping the washcloth that he had used on her into a plastic bucket, wringing it out, then her answering moan as he applied it to her teats. Then came the sound of suction, and another moan as he hooked her up. When this was done, he moved down the line to his next cow. He was nothing if not methodical.
Melissa closed her eyes again, allowing herself to drift off on the pleasurable sensation of being milked. This really wasn’t so bad, she felt, except for the hooves and the helmet maybe.
A shadow fell across her closed eyes. She opened them to find Rance standing in front of her again, smiling his usual smile. “Vede se ti dobře, holko?” It sounded like a question, but since she couldn’t understand him, she didn’t bother trying to acknowledge him.
He gave her a wink, and then raised a bottle to his lips and drank from it. It was one of the bottles from the cooler. It had the familiar hucow logo on the bottle, not painted, but cast into the glass. Rance was obviously a very detail-oriented individual.
She started to close her eyes again but was distracted by a clanging noise. Rance had put his half-empty milk bottle down on the corner of Moo Moo’s milking platform and had picked up a cylindrical canister, which he then upended and hung from a hook above and to the right of her head. There was a short length of black hose dangling from it.
What is that supposed to be for? she wondered. Is he going to give me a bath?
She craned her neck upward as much as the yoke would allow. The canister also had the cartoon logo on it, but this time the text above and below the image said something slightly different: Lone Star Hucow Chow.
What…is that supposed to be…food?
In answer to her unvoiced question, Rance brought the other end of the black hose that was connected to the canister into view. It looked like an elongated pacifier, was also black, about six inches long, and disturbingly penile. He held it up for her to see, and then inserted it through the front of her false cow head and into her surprised mouth.
“Unh—” she started, but was silenced as the feed tube was pushed past her teeth, filling her mouth like a giant cock. She raised a hoof, trying to push Rance away, but the weight of her udders forced her neck down onto the T-post, causing her to choke. By the time she regained her footing, Rance had secured the feed tube around her head with the aid of an elastic band, rendering her mute. Melissa twisted her head sideways, trying to shove the penile intruder out of her mouth with her tongue, remembering too late that it was locked in place by Rance’s bizarre piercing.
The good feeling of her milking forgotten, Melissa watched her tormentor, her eyes blazing with hate, as he reached up and popped the lid from the canister. “Ungh—” she started, but was immediately silenced as semi-liquid hucow chow began trickling into her open mouth, gravity assisting her forced-feeding, making refusal impossible.
Reflex took over as she began sucking her breakfast down, being unable to otherwise expel it due to the pacifier-like shield pressing against her lips.
God, how degrading, she thought. She continued fee
ding, having no other choice, relieved somewhat that her reduced peripheral vision did not allow her to see herself in the mirrored windows to her left. She could only imagine what she must look like, a giant-uddered suckling calf taking its breakfast from Mama.
But despite the indignity, whatever he was feeding her wasn’t all that bad, like thin sweet oatmeal, with just a hint of vanilla. She had swallowed worse things in her life, but at least it had been her idea.
Melissa settled into a rhythm, sucking in nutrition while her milk was being sucked out of her. She could even see the attraction, somewhat. The whole process was strangely meditative, even relaxing.
She opened her eyes, an idea occurring to her. Have I been hypnotized? How would she know if she were? She could not remember ever having been hypnotized, by Rance or by anyone else.
But I’m too calm, she continued inside her head. Calm. That reminded her of something. She closed her eyes and listened closely—and there it was, the familiar strains of Vivaldi.
‘All my livestock love Vivaldi,’ Rance had texted. ‘Keeps them calm.’ So perhaps she was hypnotized—or at least conditioned—to remain calm no matter what he did to her. It made sense really, especially when you considered that sedatives might affect the taste and quality of her milk.
Her musings were cut short by the realization that the forced-feeding had stopped, as had the the milking unit; no more hucow chow coming out of the nozzle, and no more milk coming out of her. Perhaps this ordeal would soon be drawing to a close. Then she could begin planning her escape.
Rance came around to face her, smiling his satisfied smile. “Líbilo se ti to, holko moje?” She didn’t bother trying to decipher his speech. Spanish was difficult enough, and it shared many common root words with English, which this language obviously didn’t.
He gently unstrapped the feed tube from her head and removed canister and all from the hook above her, then bent down and placed it on the floor at his feet. She opened her mouth wide, trying to relax her jaw, moving it this way and that, when he reached into his shirt pocket and produced what looked like a thin brown biscotti, which he shoved into her mouth.
“Urrk…” she started, but accepted it, thankful for something that resembled solid food, and further thankful that it wasn’t his dick. He moved off to the side, to Moo-Moo, she presumed, leaving her there to eat her dessert in peace.
It tasted pretty good too, peanut buttery, with hints of apple and coconut. It was very hard, sounds of crunching reverberating through her head. She continued chewing, a bizarre experience with her tongue locked down. The granular biscuit grated against her teeth as she chewed, practically scraping her teeth and gums, not painful, not unlike a toothbrush actually….
Melissa stopped chewing, the realization of what she was eating making her want to gag. He’d given her a fucking dog biscuit! Like those ones on television, designed to promote effective oral care for your pet. At least that’s how the commercials went.
Her earlier anger began welling up again at this latest indignity, but just as quickly died away, perhaps due to the Vivaldi. No, it wasn’t an actual dog biscuit, she realized. The ones on television were always stamped with a logo, whereas what he’d given her was homemade, but appeared to be fulfilling the same function. Even so, it was one more thing separating her from her old life, separating her from humanity.
Melissa hoped that he would at least give her something to wash it down with, which he did a minute later, when he stopped again in front of her milking stand and produced another penile-ended hose. He slipped this through the hole in her mask and into her mouth, and then strapped it to her head as he had the feed tube. She wished that he would stop shoving things into her mouth, but then reflected that most of her dates were little more than a prelude to that anyway.
She sucked on the tube, trying to swirl water throughout her mouth without the aid of her tongue. The water had a clean taste, much better than the water back in her apartment. Was this bottled water? Evian? She didn’t know what brand it was, only that it was the best tasting water she’d ever had. Despite it all, she had to admit Rance treated his cows pretty well.
She continued drinking while he attended to her, feeling his thumb pressing into her tit at the top of the teat cup, breaking the suction, then the familiar sensation of the chrome tube sliding off of her distended teat, the process repeated with the other tit. She unsuccessfully stifled a moan while he washed and inspected her teats, then failed similarly when he applied salve to them. When that was done he straightened back up.
Melissa raised her head, expecting him to undo the elastic from around her head and remove the water hose from her mouth. He did not do this, however. Instead he walked back around her, his hand trailing along her side.
“What is he doing back there? she wondered, her anxiety increasing when she felt his hand come to rest on her rump. A moment later she felt a tickling sensation on the backs of her thighs, her tail being flicked about. What are you doing back there, Rance? she asked silently, and then felt the material of her tail drop onto her calves, though her butt plug remained firmly in place.
Oh, no, she thought, dread seeping into her. Surely he’s not going to…fuck me, is he? God, haven’t I been through enough?
That question was answered a moment later as she felt something slip inside her, invading her rectum through the butt plug, and then warm liquid entering her, filling her up.
Her eyes widened in alarm. Omigod, no! He’s giving me an enema!
“Ung—” she managed to say around the hose in her mouth, her pathetic response only serving to make her feel all the more subhuman. She put her head down and pushed her shoulders forward against the yoke, trying to get away from the liquid ass rape she was being forced to endure, but the flexible hose stayed with her, inexorably filling her up against her will.
More tears flowed behind her mask but Rance was not there to see them. Melissa had never felt more degraded in all her life. Wasn’t it enough that she’d been shocked, kidnapped, tattooed, breast-milked, force-fed, but was now being given a high colonic by this insane dairyman?
This isn’t happening, she told herself, clenching her fists inside her hooves, but her slowly expanding belly convinced her otherwise. She could feel the pressure on her lower spine increase as more and more fluid entered her bowels, her stomach expanding inexorably outwards. God, how much is he going to put inside me?
And yet despite the horror and indignity, she couldn’t deny that it wasn’t unpleasant. It felt good actually, warmth beginning to spread throughout her abdomen as the warm liquid filled her up. She felt so full now, could feel her skin stretching to accommodate the influx though there was no pain.
Curious, she jiggled her belly, and was surprised to discover that she could actually hear the liquid slosh around inside her, could feel her belly wobble from side to side. I probably look like a pregnant cow, ready to throw a calf. She snorted inside her mask, remembering how Janice had once asked if she were going to have a calf of her own. She missed her friend.
Hands on her distended belly signaled Rance’s presence at her side. “No to je ono, holka moje,” he crooned softly, his hands moving around her stomach in a clockwise fashion, massaging her. He pulled his hands away, and with his middle finger thumped her belly as though it were a ripe watermelon. It sounded like one, too.
Her stomach stopped expanding then, the flow having been cut off, she presumed. She looked up and around, but Rance was now kneeling next to Moo-Moo, probably thumping her tummy as well.
Melissa rested there, looking at the floor while he attended the others. How long was she supposed to stay like this; big ol’ belly hanging down, udders dangling side to side in her boredom, and besides that she really needed to pee.
She kept waiting for Rance to return, so that he could release her and let her go to the bathroom. She understood how he worked now, attending to each one of his captives in an almost circular fashion, but surely he must have worked his way to the
end of the line by now. Was Blossom holding him up, or perhaps Daisy? Well, whoever it was, she hoped he would finish with her quickly and get back down here, or else she might end up having an accident!
Minutes that felt like hours passed, her urgent need growing with every passing second. What is taking him so long? she asked herself. I can’t hold out much longer! But then a thought occurred to her: the channel running down the center of her milking station. Surely he doesn’t expect me to…oh, dear God, no.
But that was exactly what he must be expecting, she quickly realized. She had even read something about that recently, an article about Guantanamo Bay, prisoners being forced to soil themselves as a method of breaking them. Was that what he had done to these other women, broken them by the use of psychological torture, made them break potty-training? How long had they held out? How long would she?
“Ohhh…” she cried, the sound all but muffled by the hose that was lodged in her mouth. She tried pressing her thighs together, but the twin yokes at her knees were quite effective at preventing that. She began bouncing up and down, but that only served to set her expanded stomach to sloshing about again, multiplying her need even more.
It was going to happen, she realized, a feeling of hopelessness washing over her. She was going to do it. Her buttocks were shaking now, trying to clench her sphincter shut despite the butt plug holding it open. He was going to break her, make her piss herself like an animal, take away the last remaining shred of her humanity.
She felt a hand cup her suspended dug, caressing it lightly, and then a voice in her ear, singing softly.
“Červená růžičko, proč se nerozvíjíš?”
“Proč ty k nám, Buttercup? Proč ty k nám, Buttercup?”
“Proč ty k nám nechodíš?”
Melissa let go, shaking, sobbing as her urine began dribbling from her no longer private parts, halting at first, then finally streaming out of her to splash upon the platform, her most basic bodily functions entirely out of her control. At once, the pressure in her bowels began to subside, the tube in her anus apparently having been opened, allowing her to evacuate.