by Big Kahuna
She got up, groaning inside her false cow head, and crawled blearily through the pet door. The lights were on but it was still dark outside. All the other cows were already up, everyone on the same schedule, it appeared. Rance came through the door, yawning, dressed in boots, jeans and a Lone Star Dairy t-shirt. He was still wearing his baseball cap, the black hair escaping beneath it sticking out at odd angles.
The cows immediately mounted their platforms, after which Rance dutifully hooked them up, though not bothering to fix Melissa’s thighs in place. Apparently he no longer felt the need. Another change was that he did not give them food, just water. This suited Melissa, as she wasn’t hungry, nor were any of the rest of them apparently.
He retired to his folding chair, whereupon he pulled the brim of his cap down and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Melissa watched his head droop forward, the not quite tireless dairyman getting in a quick forty winks, she judged. She remembered thinking that being a hucow wasn’t much of a life. Evidently, being a hucow owner wasn’t much of a better one.
He woke up after a bit, just as she ran dry. Probably used to it by now, she thought. She watched as he got up and went to the end of the line, starting with Daisy, presumably. Melissa waited, the teat cups still dangling from her empty udders, the vacuum maintaining only enough suction to keep them from dropping off.
A high-pitched scrape of metal on metal came from her left, the sound of a yoke being removed from a T-post causing Melissa’s mind to race. What, no enema? She guessed she didn’t need one, having received six of them today. Neither did she need to pee.
But he’d always started with her first, and this time he was finishing with her. Did that mean it was her turn? She could feel the tip of her tail tickling her calves.
He mumbled something foreign as he came around the front of her and unstrapped and removed the drinking hose from her mouth. He bent down and unhooked the milking apparatus and inspected her teats. Melissa bit her lower lip inside her mask as he rolled an elongated nipple between his thumb and fingers and then gave it a squeeze, milk shooting out of her seemingly inexhaustible tits.
He spoke again, soft words, and came around and sat down beside her on the platform. She held her breath, waiting for the feel of his hand on her rump. Was he going to fuck her now? She knew she shouldn’t want it, but her body was betraying her, understandable after a day of too much stimulation combined with too much neglect. She could feel guilty about it later.
She felt his hand on her thigh, a gentle pat followed by a squeeze. A moment later she felt a hand on her teat again, warmth flowing through the fattened nipple.
“Mmm….” she murmured, despite herself. God, he was good at foreplay. His hand felt good on her teat, squeezing it and rubbing it, rolling it downward like a fat cigar, though with a gentle touch, his fingers slick with some kind of—she sniffed the air—olive oil?
She bent her head down to see Rance pulling his hand from her udder and dipping his fingers into a round, flat tin that must have been in his pants pocket, his salve. He slicked his fingers up and applied them to the other teat, sliding them up and down the shining nipple as though he were jerking her off.
“Mmm….” she repeated, clenching her fingers inside her hooves, silently praying to God that he would fuck her soon. She was readier than she had been in the longest time
He pulled his hand away and put the cover back on the tin, then slipped it into his jeans pocket and stood up. “Dobrou noc, holko,” he said, patting her rump. He reached over and removed the yoke holding her neck in place.
Startled, Melissa raised her head just as Rance walked by her, latching the gate behind him. He bent down and placed the yoke with the others on the hook in front of the milking stand, then continued on his way without looking back, through the office door and out.
Melissa knelt there on the milking platform, confused. But it was supposed to be my turn, she said inside her head. The lights clicked off then, plunging the room into semi-darkness. Dejected, she backed her way down the ramp and onto the padded floor.
He’s probably tired, she mused, ambling slowly in the direction of her stall, the disconsolate ringing of her cowbell punctuating her mood perfectly. After all, it couldn’t be her. She didn’t look any different from the rest of them, except perhaps a little lighter in the chest, though she couldn’t see what possible difference that would make at this point.
Then again he had poked six cows today. That was enough to wear any man down, and then to expect him to perform in the middle of the night? Perhaps that was expecting too much of someone who was working such long hours.
Then why did he kidnap me? she asked. Why add me to the herd if he’s not going to treat me like the rest?
But she already knew the answer to that. He didn’t want her for what she brought to the table sexually, but because of what he could bottle and put on that table.
Chapter 13
The Watchful Cow
The following day was more or less a repeat of the first one, although there were a few differences, the most notable being a lack of drama.
Melissa got up with the rest of the herd, exited her stall, and waited for Rance to come into the milking shed. When he did, she mounted the platform directly opposite her stall, laid her head on the T-post, and let him tend to her. At no time did she resist or protest any treatment of his. What would be the point? There was nothing she could do to him, and he could always withhold or delay her scheduled milking, the only bargaining chip he needed.
And she needed to be milked. There could be no doubt about that. Her udders were full and heavy, the skin taut. She stifled a whimper as he cleaned her teats with the rough washcloth, that whimper escaping her mouth when the chrome tubes latched on and began siphoning off her product. She endured it, her fingers clenching inside her hooves, enjoying the sensation despite herself.
She put herself on automatic pilot, letting it all happen: the milking, the feeding. Rance ate while she ate, she noticed. He sat on the chair against the far wall, digging into a bowlful of some kind of sugary cereal, a bottle of hucow milk beside him. Maggie breakfasted with him too, lapping up the breast milk from her saucer as though she were royalty.
He released her first when the morning milking was done, which didn’t surprise her. Melissa decided that he was playing some kind of game with her, perhaps employing another means of breaking her. Well, she was not going to play. She wasn’t going to beg or moo for him to fuck her. At least not today, she hoped.
She lazed in the barnyard afterward, the morning air cool on her skin as she lay upon the green mulch. It occurred to her that she could sit instead of lie down, but the mental picture didn’t look right, a black and white hooved creature sitting on its haunches in a barnyard. Besides, lying down took the stress off of her back muscles, which were being sorely taxed by the increased weight slung beneath her.
Anyone looking at her might think that she had accepted her fate, given in to her inner cow. This was not the case—Melissa was watching. She watched everything that everyone did, noted when they did it, and wrote it all down in her mental notebook. Rance had a system, an order in which he did things, and the same held true for his hucows.
Despite having been attacked by Blossom, it appeared that Moo-Moo was their leader, the alpha cow. Whenever a group of cows approached the trough, she always drank first, and always from the center penis. The same held true at milking time, when she would get up and amble through the pet door first, the others following at a respectful distance.
Over the course of the day, she managed to match her sister cows’ names to their markings, which were unique to each one. Cinnamon had a large, diamond-shaped splotch on her left shoulder, whereas Bluebell had one in the shape of the state of Maine on her right thigh. Melissa memorized them all, as well as learning how each one ambled, lay on the mulch, or drank from the trough. She studied them like a high school senior cramming for her S.A.T’s, until she could tell who was who, up cl
ose or from across the barnyard. It might come in handy.
That was not all she studied, having ample time on her hooves. She began putting Rance’s routine together as well. She noted that after every milking—and fucking—that he would collect the external tubing from each milking station and take it into his office. He would return a minute later and hose down the platforms, making sure that all bodily fluids were flushed down the drain. He then treated each drain with some kind of chemical taken from a green bottle, drain cleaner or disinfectant, she presumed.
She also began trying to establish time of day, something she had always taken for granted, having been ruled by the clock for most of her life. Now she was ruled by a different clock, one that did not require a cell phone, a watch, or even an electronic billboard for her to know the time of day.
Taking the previous day as typical, there were seven milkings per day, six of them interspersed throughout the normal waking day, plus another in the middle of the night. Assuming that Rance was keeping to a fixed schedule, which she presumed he must be in order to maintain consistency as well as sanity, that meant that he must be milking his cows approximately every three hours.
That became the basis of her schedule. 7:00 a.m. was the first milking, she decided. It could be 6:00 a.m. or 8:00 a.m. for all she knew, but it was a place to start.
She did not see Rance between the first and second milkings. He was probably pasteurizing or homogenizing his cows’ product, she presumed, or perhaps washing his semi-pornographic milk bottles.
Neither did she see him after the ten o’clock milking, at least until she found him in the milking shed proper, removing the quart bottles from the cooler and placing them in large cardboard boxes bearing the Ultra-Pak logo. Once this was done, he took boxes and all back into his office.
She saw him again a short while later, walking from the milking shed to his trailer, where he stayed for what felt like a half-hour or so. Melissa deduced that it must be his lunchtime, having noticed when he returned for the one o’clock milking that he had a bit of dried mustard on the corner of his mouth.
The delivery driver came during that milking, just as he had the previous day. Melissa did not try shaking her bell again. The driver would just assume that Rance had an ornery cow, which she had to admit was not far from the truth.
The rest of the day unfolded just as it had the previous day: the same milkings, the same no-fuckings. Bluebell, Daisy, Blossom, and Cinnamon, had all gotten theirs today, yet he was still denying her the same sexual gratification that he was giving his other cows.
I don’t care, she told herself, lying back against the fence while she watched the sun set. It was a lie and she knew it. She did want him to fuck her. There it was, the plain, unvarnished truth. She wanted him to treat her just like the rest of his cows. God help her, his plan was working. She still wanted to escape, still wanted her freedom, but she couldn’t deny that what she wanted most right now was a really deep dicking.
She had considered masturbating in her stall, to take the edge off. Even without hands she could do it. Just rub her thighs together for a few minutes and she could give herself a quickie. It was something she’d done before, both at work and at school. Once while on the bus. But she was not going to do it here. She was not going to give Rance the satisfaction, nor herself apparently.
Bluebell ambled out through the pet door, the sway of her hips announcing that she had just gotten hers. Melissa stuck her tongue out at the satisfied cow, tasting the plastic inside of her Holstein helmet.
She was therefore surprised when the door to the milking shed opened, Rance stepping out into the barnyard. He looked around, but then stopped looking when his gaze fell upon her. “Pojď blíž, Buttercup. Je řada na tobě, holko.” He gestured with his head toward the pet door.
This startled Melissa. Was it her turn now, so soon after Bluebell had gotten her innings? Rance must be taking double doses of Viagra, she decided. Even a porn star would be hard put to it to maintain this pace.
She got up and ambled through the pet door into the milking shed, the bell around her neck announcing her compliance. She moved at her normal speed across the mat, not wishing to make it appear that she was in a hurry for her fucking. Yes, she wanted it, but that was no reason to give the impression that she was easy.
She mounted the milking station, her fake cow head held high, at least until she laid it on the T-post. She allowed him to lock her head into place, fully expecting that she was about to be inducted into his bovine harem, but discovered that Rance had an entirely different activity planned for her, namely a bath.
He already had a cart waiting: on it were towels, washcloths, and various plastic bottles that she presumed were liquid soaps or lotions or other such accoutrements that were part of hucow husbandry. There were also two plastic buckets filled with steaming hot water, the memory of such a simple pleasure making her heart leap a little bit.
Rance removed her head and hooves, and then her cowbell, after which he gently extricated the buttplug tail from her rectum. She contracted her sphincter muscles, trying to remember what it felt like not to be filled with a foreign object. Being empty down there felt decidedly weird now, abnormal, and that was only after a day or so. How would she feel after several weeks, or even months? She had never been a fan of anal sex, but it appeared that Rance had expanded her options along with her anus.
The hot water felt glorious. He began with a wet washcloth, gently scrubbing every inch of her tattooed hide. She let him do it, reveling in the feeling of being pampered, which he knew how to do, having perfected his technique on her six bovine sisters.
It was all she could not to moan out loud when he began soaping down her body, the feel of the rough washcloth sliding across her skin better than any spa treatment she had ever experienced. He worked methodically, never groping her, which only served to intensify her arousal. He avoided her breasts entirely, soapy water sliding down the vast acreage of her immense udders and onto the composite surface of her milking station.
Melissa bit her lip as his strong hands roved over her voluptuous body. She knew he could see her face now, not having a mask to hide behind. She no longer cared. He had undoubtedly been through this many times. He was the owner of six hucows, seven now, and knew better what to expect than she did.
She moaned out loud when he began washing her breasts. They were no longer udders now, but sexual objects, objects of pleasure for her owner and for herself. They felt so heavy, and so huge compared to his hand—hands, she realized, for he had a washcloth in each hand, requiring both of them in order to accomplish the gargantuan task.
Melissa let herself go, no longer concerned about what she was or who she had been. She was his property now, taken by right of conquest. He had been doing as pleased with her for the better part of two days, longer than that, really. There was no reason for him not to fuck her now.
He began singing then, a low ballad that was pleasing while being entirely incomprehensible to her. She didn’t know why his singing affected her so deeply. He had obviously conditioned her to associate his voice with pleasure. Was it hypnosis, drugs, some kind of subliminal programming? It might be all three. Rance was obviously a genius. When it came right down to it, she was probably as smart as a cow when compared to him.
He had finished soaping her breasts and began moving rearward. Melissa’s earlier moans were now gasps as his hands worked her thighs, the washcloths getting into every crack and crevice, a very thorough cleaning that she hoped would graduate to just as thorough a fucking.
Oh, Jesus, just stick it in me now! she said inside her head. Please, God, let him fuck me now!
She knew that she was broken now, her resistance entirely gone. He could pick a hole and fuck her at his whim. There was no part of her body that he didn’t have access to, and no part that she could deny him.
Instead, he denied her.
She groaned when his hands left her body. He came around to face her and began wa
shing her bare scalp. She looked up at him, uncaring that she might get soap in her eyes.
“Moo?” she said simply, her locked-down tongue unable to form any more eloquent plea.
Rance smiled down at her, but otherwise ignored her as he reached out for one of the plastic buckets and began rinsing her off. Melissa knelt there, wet and shaking, not with cold but in frustration. What was he waiting for? What more did he want from her?
She didn’t move while he dried her off. When he was done, he locked her false cow head back into place, followed by her hooves, her buttplug tail, and finally her cowbell. She waited patiently while he applied more salve to her teats and lotion to her body. Then he turned her loose.
Melissa went to her stall rather than outside. She lay down on the rubber mat, not knowing what to think or feel. She wanted to go to sleep but she wasn’t tired, and there was still one more milking before bedtime anyway.
What does he want from me? she wondered, but she was sure she already knew the answer. It wasn’t what he wanted from her, but what he didn’t want from her. He didn’t want her to want it, he wanted her to accept it. However much she might resemble a cow on the outside, her mental makeup was still that of a woman, a human woman. Women were complicated. They wanted things. They expected things.
But cows were quite the opposite. They didn’t want things, nor did they expect things, but rather merely accepted them. They weren’t active participants but passive recipients. A warm pussy you could stick your dick into, but without the bothersome nonsense of dates, relationships, or even marriage.
When it came right down to it, it appeared that a cow was the ideal sex partner for a man.
___________________________
Despite being denied what her sister cows were receiving daily, Melissa continued her vigil. Rance evidently didn’t see her as one of them, and that was just fine with her. She watched him go about his business, noting every little thing he did, storing it up, collating the data, keeping her mind alert in order to combat the banality of her life.