by Big Kahuna
“Straight from the cow, sister,” she said, doing her best to re-create the smile on the logo. “It doesn’t get any fresher than that.” Melissa bumped her escort backward with her chest, then turned and walked out of the trailer, her head held high the whole way.
Chapter 17
Dairy Tour
Melissa found Dr. Roberts in the milking shed, along with the rest of her sister cows. They were already being milked, as well as being fed.
“I offered to order them in breakfast,” the doctor explained. “There’s a diner a few miles down the road, but they seem to prefer….” she trailed off, not wishing to say anything that might be considered offensive, an altogether different attitude from the one that Melissa had just experienced.
“Hucow chow is just fine, Doctor,” she said, trying to put the attractive redhead at her ease. “Hook me up?” Dr. Roberts did just that, doing everything that Rance used to do for them, although slightly more gently, and without the enema afterwards. Too bad, mused Melissa. She had really grown quite fond of them.
After the morning milking, Dr. Roberts took them on a tour of the facility. “You need to know what has happened to you,” she explained, “why it happened, and how it was done.” She led them through the door of what Melissa had come to think of as Rance’s office. It wasn’t an office at all, but a largish room devoted to machinery. Tanks and chillers and bottling equipment; everything to do with dairy production once the milk had left the cow.
The doctor explained the entire process as though she were leading a class of third graders on a field trip. First were the cooling tanks. There were two of them, strictly for hobby farming, each of them having a capacity of one hundred liters. She showed them the stainless steel pipes that carried their milk from the milking shed and into the tanks, which cooled and kept their product at a constant thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit, consistent with industry standards.
Next came the homogenizer/pasteurizer machine. She showed them how it worked, using the milk that had been harvested the previous evening, even getting them to help. It was such fun, Melissa decided. This was precisely the therapy she needed. She carried a plastic tray of freshly washed and sterilized bottles over to Daisy, whose real name was Caitlin. Dr. Roberts had put her in charge of bottling, though they would all get a turn at it.
“May I keep this?” asked Melissa, holding up a filled bottle that she had just capped using Rance’s bottle capping tool. The milk inside was still warm from the pasteurizer. “I wouldn’t ask, but I left the milk that was in my refrigerator out last night, and—” Melissa’s fellow captives all spoke up at once, wanting their own bottles as well.
Dr. Roberts smiled. Melissa had to admit that she was quite pretty, but more than that she was nice, a far cry from the somewhat inhuman Agent Dillon. “No, I’m sorry, ladies,” she said, raising her hands for quiet. “That milk needs to be chilled now. But you have my word that a bottle will be delivered to each of your trailers before the day is out.”
“But what are you going to do with the rest of this milk?” asked Cinnamon, whose real name was Ellen.
“This milk, as well as the milk that you will produce while we are in the process of drying you off, will be donated to the local La Leche League. One day’s output from you girls is probably more than they get in a whole year.”
They all laughed. Dr. Roberts had a wonderful bedside manner, or perhaps shedside was a more appropriate term. Blossom, whose real name was Liu, spoke up next. “So what was Rance doing with our milk? Was he selling it all on the Internet?”
The others looked intently at Dr. Roberts. She had probably been expecting this question. Melissa estimated that the Lone Star Dairy had been putting out almost twenty-five gallons of milk a day, minus whatever Maggie the cat had been filling up on. Who was buying it all?
“We’re still going through it all,” the doctor answered. “Mr. Rifkin had a rather extensive client list, some respectable, others less so. Quite a lot of it was going to health-food fanatics, as well as bodybuilders and professional athletes, even a few movie stars.” Melissa’s fellow ex-captives started to speak up, wanting to know which movie stars had been drinking their breast milk, but Dr. Roberts gently waved them back down.
“Despite all the evidence to the contrary, Mr. Rifkin was running a legitimate business. None of his customers, so far as we are aware, knew that he was getting his product—your product—illegally. Their names are being kept confidential, as are yours.”
“But what is the news saying about us?” asked Moo-Moo, whose real name was Diane. Even without her plastic cow head she was still pretty much their leader.
“They’re not saying anything,” Dr. Roberts replied softly, her tone helping to keep things calm. “None of what has happened is being made public. This is something of a novel situation for the government. To date, no person has yet kept other human beings as actual production livestock. They are afraid that public disclosure might inspire copycat crimes. For what it’s worth, I agree with them.”
Everyone became silent at that point. What had happened to them had been horrific; there was no disputing that. But there was also no disputing the fact that one person had managed to hold seven women against their will, in a remote area, turning them into dairy cows for both pleasure and profit. If Rance’s activities ever came to light, people would want to know how he had done it, and God help womankind if that information ever became public.
“But how did he do it?” asked Dewdrop, whose real name was Annie. She held her arms out from her remade body. “How did he do all of this?”
Dr. Roberts had obviously been expecting this question as well. She sighed and crooked a finger at them, a gesture for them to follow her. In the room next door she showed them equipment that was not usually to be found in a conventional dairy. There was a three-foot tall rolling cabinet that Melissa recognized as a laser, the kind used to remove hair. Her hairdresser back home, Tony, had one in his shop.
“This is an alexandrite laser,” the doctor explained, “used for hair removal. It requires minimal skill and training to operate.” She paused here, making sure that she had everyone’s attention. “Its effects are permanent.”
No one responded to this depressing news. Most if not all of Melissa’s compatriots already knew this, having experienced a complete lack of regrowth during the many months of their captivity, though Dr. Roberts tried to hearten them by telling them that she would take care of scheduling them for hair replacement surgeries once they were released.
She then showed them the tattooing gear, which Melissa had only ever seen in pictures, not having had tattoos prior to becoming a branded Holstein. “As to the rest of your skin,” the doctor went on, passing around a plastic tub that Melissa could tell by its lack of scent contained the lotion that Rance had applied to their bodies after every bath, the same lotion that he had included with his payments to her, “a commercial skin lightener, combined with SPF 110 sunscreen, UV protection, and moisturizers. Perfume-free, of course. Your skin should return to its normal coloration in a few weeks.”
“What’s this gun for?” asked Daisy/Caitlin. She was standing next to a workbench that held replacement buttplug tails, extra screwdrivers, and various other bits of hucow-related paraphernalia. In her hand was a small gun, made of bright blue plastic. It reminded Melissa of an ear piercing gun, except that the barrel end of it had what looked like a fat syringe sticking out of it.
“Yes, I was getting to that,” said Dr. Roberts. She said this very carefully, sounding more like a psychiatrist than a physician. “That is a microchip implant gun. It is most commonly used for tagging livestock, specifically cattle, so that ranchers can monitor their herds remotely.”
The good humor that had developed during the milk pasteurizing and bottling was completely gone now. “Implant gun?” said Daisy, her high pitched voice cracking in emotion. “You mean…he put things inside of us?”
A wave of unreality swept over Melissa, not so m
uch at the news that Rance had tagged them, but that Daisy should be surprised by it. After all, Rance had been putting all manner of things inside them from the day they had become his hucows.
Moo-Moo was at Daisy’s side in an instant, putting an arm around her in comfort, though she was unable to do much more than that due to the boobage problem. She settled for putting the sniffling girl’s head on her black and white shoulder so that she could cry it out.
“Yes,” replied Dr. Roberts gently, in answer to Daisy’s question. She raised her right hand up to show them, pointing to the web of skin between her thumb and index finger with her other hand. “Just there, on each of you. It’s a small implant, slightly larger than a grain of rice. I’ll be removing each of yours later on today, in the medical trailer.”
The mood in the room was somber now. Melissa looked into the faces of her sister cows, seeing sadness, disgust, numbness, but her own feelings were quite different. The implant in her hand had saved her life. She knew that now. That was how Rance had found her, the morning that he had shot those coyotes. If he hadn’t been such a conscientious dairyman she would be dead now.
Bluebell/Liu broke the silence, her voice slightly timid. “But that’s not all he put inside of us. He did something to our minds, made us want to be cows. How did he do that? Did he hypnotize us? All of us?”
“In a manner of speaking,” replied Dr. Roberts. She turned and walked over to the corner of the room, where stood a metal desk and chair. It appeared that the doctor had anticipated this question, and had everything prepared in advance, much like a performance.
There was a computer monitor on the desk, a keyboard and mouse in front of it. She tapped the space bar and the screen came to life. Everyone moved closer, to see what was on the screen. It was an email, that oddly enough was addressed to Bluebell.
“Yes, I remember getting that,” she said, looking around at her sister hucows, who were nodding, having received the same or similar emails themselves.
“You all did,” said Dr. Roberts. “This was how he got inside your heads.”
Melissa didn’t understand. Neither did anyone else apparently.
Smiling, the auburn-haired doctor pressed two keys with one hand, highlighting the entirety of the text on the page. Melissa cocked her head at the screen. Was she supposed to see something there?
The doctor then moved her hand to the side of the screen and began adjusting a dial on the side of the bezel. The contrast on the screen began to change, the blank areas of the screen darkening, faint letters beginning to emerge, growing stronger the more she turned the dial.
“It took us a while to find this, subliminal messages buried in the text. Come closer and you’ll be able to read it.”
They moved forward in two groups—three in front, four in the rear—massive breasts being sandwiched between the two rows. Melissa, standing in back, could make out the lettering now, could read what she hadn’t known she’d read in the first place, so many months ago:
youareacowyouwanttogivemilkyouareacowyouwanttohavebigtitsyouareacowyoulovebeingmilkedyouareacowyouwanttohaveyournipplessuckedyouareacowgivingmilkmakesyoufeelcompleteyouare
Melissa looked up to see that the doctor was watching them closely, prepared for tears, perhaps. Or maybe she was studying them. Melissa knew well enough that she and her sister hucows presented a unique opportunity for the doctor, but it wasn’t as if she could publish any of this information in a journal, could she?
Bluebell spoke up again, a distinct quaver in her voice. “Is…is it permanent? What he did to us? Will we always want to be cows?”
Dr. Roberts gave her a warm smile. “No. The subliminal messages were something like a key in a lock, giving him access. But now that you know how he did it, you can guard against those feelings. He also used other methods, including hypnotic commands buried in the music files on your cell phones and tablets. Mr. Rifkin had some serious skill and technology at his command, but he no longer has any power over you. You can be whatever you want to be.”
Cinnamon raised her hand, the action causing her left breast to slide up against Melissa’s right one, sending a shiver though her, though whether it was pleasurable or not Melissa wasn’t sure. “But what about our boobs?” she said. “What else can we be, looking like this?”
They were all looking intently at Dr. Roberts, seven black and white and bald women whose breasts were more appropriate to primitive fertility dolls. “I want you all to listen very carefully to me,” said the doctor, who Melissa could tell was trying to be mother/priest/friend to them. “You are not cows. The late Mr. Rifkin did many terrible things to you ladies, but the worst thing, to my mind, is to make you doubt your humanity. You are women, human women. Your skin will darken back up. Your tattoos will be removed. Your breasts can be surgically reduced. These things will take time, after which you can return to your previous lives at whatever pace suits you.
“Mr. Rifkin chose you all very carefully, lonely women with few ties, no families, and big boobs.” She looked down at her own comparatively small chest and made a face, which caused everyone to laugh, breaking the tension. “Most of you are financially well-off now, no families to care for, no one to make demands on you. There is no need to rush. My advice to you is to take a long vacation, go back to school if you like, and get therapy. I don’t know if Special Agent Dillon told you, but psychotherapy will also be provided for you, free of charge. I would be happy to arrange that too, if you like.”
The doctor’s phone beeped. She removed it from her pocket, looked at it, and smiled. “Now if we’re all done being a bunch of sad Sally’s, I have a present for you in the milking room.”
___________________________
The present, as it turned out, was a person. Her name was Kat, and the look on her face as she watched the seven strangely proportioned women march into the room was priceless. Melissa wished she had a picture of it.
Kat was tiny, almost pixie-like in stature, at least a full head shorter than Daisy, who was the smallest of all of them. She was the oddest mixture of goth, glam, and gangsta that Melissa had ever seen, the disparate styles of dress, makeup, and tattoos blending into a style all her own. Melissa liked her on the spot.
She stood before them, looking like a little girl on the first day of school, her hands clasped in front of her slim belly, holding a tablet computer. “Hi, I’m Kat,” she said, the piercing above her upper lip sparkling in the light. “None of you know me, but you all know my work. I’m the one who made your bras. The government has contracted me—drafted, more like—to be personal dressmaker to each of you.”
Everyone gasped. This little girl had created the complex foundation garments given to her by her late owner, and in less than a day? She looked barely old enough to vote! Melissa glanced over at Dr. Roberts, her pleased smile making it quite obvious that this act of kindness had been arranged by her. Melissa strongly doubted that Agent Dillon’s generosity would extend this far. Burlap sacks seemed more her speed.
Kat was a little bundle of energy, a blur in motion, who was not only pleasant, she was also extremely determined to put her new clients at their ease, which she did by shedding every article of her clothing. She did this naturally, as though she were going skinny-dipping with friends, depositing her clothes into a cavernous purse that sat next to her on the floor.
She had a waifish body, and clear skin that was almost as white as her new clients’, at least where it wasn’t tattooed. There was a snake around one ankle and a vine around the other, Celtic knotwork from wrist to elbow on her right forearm, a mermaid on her left bicep, and a blood rose just above her shaved pubes. There was also a tattoo on her back. It took up the whole of her back, from her neck to the swell of her hips. It was a figure of a woman from the waist up, nude, the hair style and pose reminiscent of a 1920’s flapper, save that no flapper ever had boobs that big. It was quite a work of art, the combined effect making Melissa feel a little less self-conscious about her own tattoos.
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br /> And then there were her piercings. Three on each earlobe, with several up high on both ears, two in each brow, a small gold hoop in her right nostril and a stud in her left one, the jewel above her lip, barbells through both nipples, a ring in her navel, and a small something in her clitoris that sparkled when the light caught it.
She came up to the group of them and began chatting, as familiar as a sister, her own nudity and bizarre body art not discomfiting her in the slightest. She asked them their names and where they were from, taking their personal information and tapping it into her tablet, telling them that she would be visiting each of them in their trailers so that she could take measurements. She giggled often, her laughter infectious, even remarking at one point, “You had buttplug tails? That’s so cool! Can I get one of those?” Coming from anyone else, this would be offensive, but Kat’s enthusiasm made it charming. In fact, it made Melissa feel less strange, less violated. Kat was quite a tonic.
She then took photos of each of them, one from each side, which was done with the blessing of Dr. Roberts, the only clothed person in the room. When this was done, she asked all of them to stand in a chorus line, arms around each other, for a group photo. Melissa was surprised by this, but gladly complied. For the first time in a long time, even before having moved to Dallas, she felt like she belonged. It was a good feeling.
Kat took the picture, but she was not done. Moo-Moo, having decided that Kat should be inducted as an honorary hucow, came forward and pulled her into line, sandwiching her between Blossom and Cinnamon, the little goth’s head all but disappearing between the massive milk jugs that rested upon her shoulders. Dr. Roberts took the photograph, after which everyone group-hugged their adopted sister hucow, glazing her tiny body with their expressed titmilk.