by Big Kahuna
She knew it was her turn when he didn’t release her first. She waited, her softened udders rising and falling a little more rapidly than normal. When she felt his hand on her rump she moaned, anticipating the feeling of being filled up. And he did fill her, his cock gently but firmly pushing its way inside her, giving her what she needed most, fulfilling her. He was giving her exactly what she wanted. She was a hucow, and that was just fine. She was doing what she was meant to do. Was a better life possible?
Buttercup decided that it was not.
___________________________
The last hucow ambled into the milking shed just as the sun went down. Rance watched them come in, amused as always by the way they moved, immense udders wobbling side to side, full of the white gold that was making him a wealthy man.
Buttercup was last, of course. She was always last. Hardly surprising since her milkers were the biggest and heaviest of them. He flashed back to the first time he had seen them, on Dallas After Dark. He knew then that she would be his masterpiece, his Moo-na Lisa. Rance smiled at his little joke. He smiled often.
It had taken work, though. Considerable planning, practice and skills developed over years, six hucows worth of experience. The hypnotics, the hormones, learning how to remove hair with a laser, searching out the best milking techniques, pasteurizing, bottling, packing, making their food, making their teeth-cleaning biscuits, cleaning, mopping, maintaining the equipment. So much work!
It would be great if hucows could look after themselves, but that was not possible. Sure, they could be taught to work the equipment, milk each other, make their own feed, and bottle their own product. That would make their labor essentially free, making them cost-competitive with actual cows, and certainly more eco-friendly.
But hucows could never be self-sufficient. Any animal that was smart enough—or in this case self-aware enough—to run a dairy would not do so out of the goodness of its heart. A hucow’s life was not a good one. It was dullness, punctuated by constant feeding, watering, and a once-a-day fucking. Okay, that part was probably pretty good.
He got to work, cleaning Buttercup’s teats and then hooking her up, letting modern vacuum do the work of hands. It always reminded him of milking the family cow when he was a kid. That had been work too, but pleasant work. Squeezing tits was always pleasant work.
He worked his way down the line, then came back up to Buttercup and inserted the feed tube into her mouth. This was probably his favorite aspect of hucow husbandry, next to fucking them, as it promised a bit of peace and quiet. He did the same for the remainder of his livestock, giving each of them a pat or a soothing word. He knew they couldn’t understand him, nor would they ever, not unless they somehow learned Czech, which he was certainly never going to let happen.
The dairyman came back around to check on Buttercup. He wasn’t supposed to have favorites, but it couldn’t be helped. She was by far his best producer, but it was more than that. Even before she had been broken she had been the most bovine of them all. The subliminals in her email and music were just technology. He probably could have just walked up to her on the street and said, “I want to milk you, Bossy.” She probably would have been down on all fours without him having to buy her dinner first.
He bent down and patted an udder affectionately, the ponderous milkbag barely moving due to its weight. He frowned when he heard the sucking noise coming from the teat cup. This was the the second time today; the grossly expanded nipple within the chrome tube was getting too big, not seating properly. She was the only one with this problem, but even so he would have to address it. He would replace it with a larger size tomorrow.
He bent down to remove the teat cup and reseat it, not needing to break vacuum since it wasn’t maintaining a proper one anyway.
“HOMELAND SECURITY! FREEZE, ASSHOLE!”
Surprised, Rance turned and stood up just in time to see two men standing in the doorway to his office. They both had guns. He quickly brought his hands up, the chrome tube still in his hand when the first bullet smashed into his chest. The conscientious dairyman was instantly thrown backward against the gate, the massive drop in blood pressure sending him into shock.
Kicked by a horse! he managed to think, which was the last thing he thought before a second bullet plowed into his brain, blood and gray matter spraying out of the back of his skull to rain down upon the rubber mat behind him. Rance’s body sagged, limp legs giving way as he twisted and fell onto the sealed concrete floor. He lay there, sightless eyes staring up into space, the blood seeping from his chest wound pooling about him, mixing with the milk dripping from Buttercup’s untethered teat.
The man who had fired first holstered his weapon, though his partner did not. As if in a dream, he walked further into the room, his open-mouthed expression not terribly dissimilar from that of the dead man lying on the floor. The seven women—women?—kneeling on the platforms were agitated, frightened. They had tubes attached to their tits, cow masks hiding their faces, and…were those fucking hooves?
The cow/girl/whatever on the right, the one nearest the body on the floor, seemed to be the most agitated. Her head was locked onto some kind of post, and she was raising her hoof, almost as if she were gesturing to him. He went up to her, skirting the pool of blood on the floor. There was a U-shaped piece of metal keeping her neck in place, a bent nail securing it to the post. He reached up to remove it but she shook her head vehemently. He backed away, at a loss as to what to do. In his twelve years in law enforcement he had never seen anything like this. What the fuck was going on here?
Movement caught his eye, the cow/girl/whatever was raising her hoof and bringing it down, repeatedly tapping the chrome tube that was lying amidst a puddle of milk on the platform, the tube that the dead man had been holding before they’d shot him. He picked it up.
“Is…is this what you want?”
The cow/girl/whatever nodded her head, the hose sticking out of her mouth bobbing as she did so. The man bent down and slid the open end of the tube onto the longest and fattest nipple he had seen in his life, which was nothing compared to the giant tit that it was attached to. The tube latched on, firmly seating onto the teat, its silent operation indicating that it was working perfectly.
Buttercup closed her eyes and went back to feeding.
Chapter 16
The Debriefing
Melissa walked along the dirt road toward the big trailer that was parked opposite the milking shed. A woman was escorting her; a federal agent. She was one of many—all agents, all women. There were absolutely no men on the scene. Even the doctor who had examined her had been female.
Agents and technicians watched Melissa as she passed by, an understandable response considering her mode of dress, which consisted of a pair of white panties and some battered deck shoes that someone had rolling around the trunk of her car. More modest clothing had been offered, a rain poncho, which was the only thing they had that would fit her. She had politely declined. One of the agents, a sallow-faced brunette with no breasts to speak of, had offered to go into the city and get her a muumuu. Melissa just stared at her until she went away.
The sun was just coming up, the morning’s first rays of light warming her bare skin. Agents were going hither and thither, many of them with cell phones plastered to their ears. They were older cell phones, lacking any form of camera. In fact all personal cameras were banned from the site, by order of the head honcho of this entire gymkhana, the woman she was about to see.
Melissa watched the agents as they went about their duties. She supposed they had been working all night, securing the scene, gathering evidence. She shook her head at the strangeness of it. So much of law enforcement seemed to consist of closing the barn door after the horse had gone.
The agent ahead of her sprang up the aluminum steps to the deck that fronted the entrance to the command trailer and waited, one hand out in offer of help. Melissa ignored the hand and took hold of the rail, pulling herself up one step at a time.
It was a difficult climb, not so much because of the weight of her breasts, which were extraordinarily heavy, but because she was still getting used to walking on her own two feet.
The agent held the door of the trailer open for her. It was an extra-wide door, about three feet across; whether that was luck or foresight Melissa didn’t know. Even so it was a bit of a squeeze, her overgrown breasts scraping the aluminum frame as she went through.
The agent skirted around her and took the lead again. Melissa followed, uncaring at the surreptitious glances the agents talking on their cell phones were giving her as she passed by. She didn’t blame them. If she saw a Holstein walking on its hind legs she’d probably stare too.
They reached the rear of the trailer to find a harried-looking woman sitting at a wide desk. She was typing furiously away on a laptop, a cigarette burning in the ashtray to her right, a cobalt-blue coffee mug sitting on a warming pad to her left. She continued typing, seemingly unaware that there was a barnyard animal in her midst. Melissa sat down in the folding chair on her side of the desk without waiting to be asked. Her feet were killing her.
The agent cleared her throat. The harried-looking woman did not look up but merely nodded, which the agent took as her cue to leave. Melissa waited, her breasts in her lap, her hands on her knees, fingers moving restlessly, working out the stiffness in her joints. It had been eight hours since her hooves had been removed, the longest amount of time her hands and feet had spent outside of their plastic-encased confinement since she’d been captured.
The harried-looking woman looked up and said without preamble, “You are Melissa DeVries, also known as Buttercup?”
Melissa nodded.
“Allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Special Agent Marsha Dillon.” Melissa nodded again. She already knew this, having seen her the evening before.
Agent Dillon narrowed her eyes at Melissa. “Are you having trouble speaking? I was told that Dr. Roberts had removed everyone’s tongue studs last night.”
“She did,” Melissa replied, her tongue still feeling foreign to her. Agent Dillon seemed to be expecting more by way of a response, but Melissa sat there patiently. She was an expert at being patient by now.
Agent Dillon leaned back in her office chair, her eyes still narrowed. It seemed as if that were their normal state. She took her dying cigarette from the ashtray, puffed on it, and then stubbed it out. “Please forgive me, Ms. De Vries. It’s been a long night on no sleep and bad coffee, and I don’t expect that I’m at my best. How are you feeling? Dr. Roberts says that you are in excellent physical health despite your, um…” her eyes roved over Melissa’s bizarrely colored and proportioned body, “…experiences.”
Melissa remained silent. Yes, she was in perfect health, despite still needing to be milked every three hours. As to her experiences, she found the recent ones more unsettling than the ones she’d had while in captivity.
The previous evening still seemed like such a blur. Shortly after the two male agents who had shot Rance had reported in via cell phone, the Lone Star Dairy had become a beehive of activity. An ambulance arrived first, originally for the deceased, but the EMT’s—male EMT’s—made their first priority releasing the cows from their multi-layered confinements. They were very gentle and professional about it, though Melissa couldn’t help but hear the low whistle of amazement as her EMT slid the teat cup from her greatly expanded nipple. It looked to be at least as large as a cow’s teat, hardly surprising considering their daily use.
It was at this point that the rest of the Department of Homeland Security showed up. Whether this was standard operating procedure or not, Melissa didn’t know. Privately she felt it was likely that word had gotten out about the human cows near Dallas, Texas, and everyone wanted to see the giant tits for themselves, as well as getting a few pictures. Purely for documentation, they’d said.
Amidst all of this bedlam, Special Agent Dillon had arrived. She was the most average woman Melissa had ever seen. Mid-thirties, medium height, mousy brown hair, not fat, not skinny. She would blend into a crowd in a heartbeat, making her the perfect agent. The most notable thing about her was her clipped accent, which identified her as a native Texan. She had assumed authority immediately, her first action being to secure every cell phone of every person on the scene. She did not introduce herself to the victims, but merely gave them a cursory glance as she was escorted to Rance’s office.
Headgear and hooves had been removed by this time, as had Rance’s dead body. The EMT’s had wanted to remove their buttplug tails, but had held off, preferring to have a doctor present to witness them doing it. At least that was the excuse they gave, though judging by the erections that had been tenting their slacks ever since they’d arrived, Melissa wasn’t sure she believed them. They had also wanted to remove the studs holding their tongues in place, but Agent Dillon had left orders to leave them as they were, citing the need for additional evidence photography. Melissa felt it was more likely that the agent-in-charge didn’t want the human cows talking to anyone, at least not before she did.
It had been bizarre seeing her sister cows’ actual faces at that point. Rance had gone to a great deal of trouble to make sure this never happened, obviously done to reinforce their complete lack of humanity, which Melissa had to admit had worked. But with their headgear removed, she had trouble telling who was who, their lack of hair and the uniform whiteness of their faces making them look oddly similar. Blossom was the sole exception to this, her almond eyes setting her apart.
Agent Dillon returned, obviously miffed about something. Melissa watched the senior agent as she said something to one of her flunkies, who then came over and herded her and her bovine sisters over to the far corner of the room, where he had them sit back against the wall so that they would be out of the way until the medical trailer arrived.
Melissa could not remember the last time she had sat down like a human being. She looked over to see Cinnamon—at least she thought it was Cinnamon—sitting at the end of the line with her legs crossed beneath her breasts. She looked like a pair of yoga balls with a styrofoam wig stand perched on top.
Dr. Roberts arrived a few minutes later. She was a tall woman with rust-colored hair and deep-green eyes, and a bosom that in any other room would be impressive. She had been brought in at the behest of a director, so Melissa had overheard, and held no fear of Agent Dillon, nor apparently anyone beneath the rank of God. Her first action was to have anyone with testicles removed from the milking shed. This brought her into immediate conflict with Agent Dillon, who threatened to have her arrested for interfering with her crime scene, until Dr. Roberts shot back, “They’re not fucking cows, you moron!”
Agent Dillon gulped, evidently not having realized this. “Fine,” she grumbled. “Just make sure they don’t wander around outside.”
Dr. Roberts then led the group of them to an emergency medical trailer via the door to the barnyard. The normally chained up gate that had kept them from the outside world had not only been unlocked, it had been removed entirely, apparently to keep people from tromping through Rance’s office area. Melissa wondered what was in there, aside from her milk.
Once inside the trailer, the doctor personally removed each of their tongue studs. Such a task would normally be left to a subordinate, but having testicles he’d been sent home. Removing the studs from their tongues was not a difficult procedure, but without fingers and thumbs it would have been impossible. The doctor showed them how they worked. The stud was actually a flat circle, about half an inch in diameter. It depressed the tongue via a post connected to a length of surgical wire that ran beneath the tongue to wrap around the first molars on either side of the jaw. “Pretty nifty, huh?” she’d said. Melissa decided that she liked Dr. Roberts.
The doctor wanted to examine them separately, but the close quarters of the trailer made this impossible. She removed the buttplug tails from her patients’ rectums and found nothing amiss, but then put them back in, with tails clipped
off, telling them, “…you will need to continue to use some kind of anal block until such time as surgery can be performed to, um, rectify your atrophied sphincter muscles.”
She gave each of them a cursory examination, mostly focused on their breasts and genitals. She even used a pair of calipers to measure their body fat, much as Rance had done. While she was examining Melissa, the doctor asked if she ever experienced any pain in her breasts. Melissa replied haltingly, still getting used to her now functioning tongue, that her breasts never hurt, except whenever she went too long without being milked.
Dr. Roberts grasped Melissa’s breasts, almost groping them. “You need to be milked now, don’t you?” Melissa nodded. The doctor turned about, seeing the same expression on the rest of her patients’ faces. “Very well, then. Come along.”
She led her patients back out of the medical trailer. Melissa was surprised to see that an entire busload of female DHS agents had arrived while she and the others had been receiving their examinations. The agents had evidently been warned as to what to expect, but even so the surprise on their faces upon seeing the human cows was rather amusing.
They re-entered the milking shed, where Dr. Roberts ordered the equipment to be restarted, the cables and hoses to be cleaned and reattached, and then the room cleared.
“This is a crime scene!” said the exasperated senior agent, having realized what the doctor intended. “Can’t you milk your cows—them!—in the medical trailer?”
Dr. Roberts rounded on the smaller woman, putting her hands on her hips and pushing her chest out; a display of dominance. “Agent Dillon, DHS medical trailers come equipped with one dual breast pump, so unless you can get me six extra pairs of hands and twelve milking pails, I suggest you shut up and let me attend to my patients!”