MAIDS OF CREAMTOWN
A Hucow Fantasy
By
Jaymee Pizzey
Copyright © 2016 Jaymee Pizzey
All Rights Reserved
Author’s Note
All acts are completely consensual. All characters in this story are fictional, 18 years and older, and not related by blood in any way.
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Table of Contents
Author’s Note
One: Engorged and Late for my Milking
Two: Sharing is Caring
Three: A Private Milking
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
One: Engorged and Late for my Milking
I was late for my shift at Creamtown, an old fifties style Milk Bar right in the center of Laiton Meadows, a small town in the middle of the dairy belt.
The folks who lived around here were either wealthy retirees come down from the city for the fresh produce. Or ranchers; the elite men and woman who owned the famous hucow herds responsible for that fresh produce.
Since my breasts had budded I had wanted to join a ranch or farm, but I had had to wait until I was twenty and considered developed, my milk mature enough, to suit the tastes of the market before I could start working.
I was from prime hucow stock, so as soon as I went to market, I got snapped up.
Admittedly, Jarrod, my handler, had given me pills to bring my milk in and improve my volume, but the thick, creamy texture and the strong, full-bodied flavor was all natural.
That I remained untouched while I worked as a hucow was the only downside to my dream job. God had gifted me with long wavy blonde hair, and a firm, tight body. Since I’d reach maturity men had pursued me. Men, who wanted more than a taste of my milk.
But no one would taste anything else until my career was over. Right now, it was just beginning.
I would remain untouched until my milk dried up.
I was twenty-one now, so that gave me four years or so on the top shelf and maybe after that another few years on the mature Milf market.
I was unconcerned with the future, I was young, engorged and focused on today.
Really, really engorged.
I was desperate to be milked. My teats soaked through my silk blouse, even the soft fabric abraded my nipples, my ducts throbbed and tingled from the swell of milk. My skin was stretched almost transparent, lined with veins and warm to the touch.
I hadn't been milked in two days because Jarrod wanted to sell my milk as aged.
Today was a very important day for him. For everyone at Creamtown, really. Jarrod was staging our first ever live milking.
Which hucow would be selected for the milking was a topic of hot debate.
Jarrod hadn’t said who was on his short list, what flavor or texture he was looking to promote. Nothing.
All I knew for certain was I would do anything to be that hucow!
That I was late today, of all days, was a total nightmare. I had never been late for a shift before. The line of customers waiting for their morning milk already stretched out the door.
“Excuse me,” I said squeezing passed them. A little yellow cream curled out of my nipples as I was forced against the wall.
I rubbed the mark away with my shirt, thankful Jarrod hadn’t seen, or those in line. I didn’t want to start another incident. That little yellow curl of cream was worth its weight in gold.
Jarrod would hand milk it from me before attaching me to the expressing machines and churn it into a special hucow butter only his top customers were allowed to buy.
If he knew I had smeared a good lump on the wall, I would be paddled at my next wash down for sure.
He would punish me if I wasted even a thimble full of milk, let alone cream. I snatched two parfait glasses from the counter as I went past, tucked them up and under my shirt and held them under each nipple in a vain attempt to limit waste.
The parfait glasses were not so perfect for containing over-filled breasts. I had to put them down to change into my latex cow-print jumpsuit. Jiggling to get the skintight fabric past my engorged breasts and then to pop through the cutouts in the fabric, was a nightmare. The latex fabric compressed my boobs, the holes way too small for my increased size. Only my puffy areola and nipples poked out through the space designed to fit my entire breast. The rest of the mound was bound by the latex.
The pressure in my milk ducts built up and up and, like two fire hydrants blowing their caps, my nipples blew. Spraying the racks of unworn uniforms, the walls and even the ceiling in twin geysers of milk.
I slapped my hands over my chest to stem the tide. Milk frothed up through my fingers as I twisted this way and that, somehow managing to wriggle my boobs into their correct position.
Finally, the torrent eased into a dribble, then a white drip, drip, drip from my cherry-red nipples.
I needed to be milked yesterday!
I couldn't be blamed for wasting milk, not when I was so full. More already replaced that which I had sprayed all over the shop.
It was Jarrod's fault, the pills he force-fed me the other day had come into full effect. I had never been so ripe.
Since the evening before my breasts had quadrupled in size. I glanced down and sighed in annoyance. The drip had become a stream again and drenched me in sticky, warm milk from waist to thighs.
“For God’s sake, don’t waste it, Mandy!” Jarrod barged into the room. “So many customers today. Big day! Why are you late?”
“Don’t even start.” I rounded on him, covering my nipples to avoid spurting him in the face. “This is all your fault. Do you know how many changes of shirt I went through just to get here? I had to pay the taxi double for soaking the seats. My nipples are on fire.”
I lifted my hands to show how red and distended they were.
“You’re milk’s really come in,” he said. He didn’t see nipples, he saw nothing but dollar signs. “He should have paid you.”
“Who?” I frowned in confusion.
“The taxi driver, Mandy! Your milk’s top shelf. Everyone wants it. Everyone is waiting right out there for it.” He thrust a finger at the door. “I have advertised you has Blue Label. Now everyone wants a taste and my name, and your udders are on the line.”
“I know, Jarrod. Stop yelling and help me get into this thing.” I waggled the hoses for the expressing machine under his nose. “Because of you, my boobs are too big. I can’t get the suction caps to cover my nipples. I’m leaking everywhere.”
“We have to skim the cream first.” He pulled his butter tub out of his apron pocket and expressed my ducts from back to front by cupping my entire breast and squeezing in a rolling motion. Only the tiniest amount of yellow cream curled out of my nipples.
“Maybe it’s the pills.” He scraped the cream off with his butter knife and licked the edge, “Taste’s good but no quantity. Never mind. At least, your milk volume looks good. We’ll work on your cream production.” He shook his head as he took another taste. “Mandy, I got to tell you. I’ve tasted some hucow cream in my time, but yours is hands down the richest, creamiest, yellowest, I’ve ever had.”
He tucked his butter extracting tools away, s
eized the suction cupped hoses from me and pressed the two clear cups onto the tips of my breasts. Each plastic cone was supposed to seal just under the areola.
“I told you it won’t fit.”
Jarrod expressed some of my milk into each of the cups and swirled it around and tried again, but the machine would not latch on. He swapped out the suction-cups three times.
My breasts were simply way to firm and big to fit even the XXXL suction cups.
“You will have to be stabled until you leak out enough to fit on the industrial milkers.” Jarrod lifted his ice-cream man’s hat and raked his fingers through his thinning hair. “It’ll take at least fifteen minutes to warm them up. I hadn’t planned to use them today.”
“No, Jarrod, please. You know the machines are too rough for me. It curdles my milk. Please, can’t I hand milk myself?”
“You need to be let down quick, Mandy. Not mess around wasting milk. You know how important today is.”
“It won’t take me long,” I said. “I’ve been practicing. I know it has to be done. Believe me, it hurts. I’m going to bust but, please, not the industrial milkers.” I interlocked my hands under my chin and battered my long, dark lashes. I knew the effect my large light-green eyes had on men, even weird ice-cream men like Jarrod.
“Fine. You can work the floor as you do it,” Jarrod said. “I’m not wasting another second or cent of your milk in here.”
“I haven’t worked Top Up for months. It’s work for the new cows!”
“I don’t care. Do you see me complaining about mopping spilled milk? Do you think it’s the rancher’s job to do that?”
I shook my head still hoping to change his mind.
“I got news for you. In business the successful are ready to step up to the plate and do what needs doing.” He handed me a waitress uniform and tray. “Is this a game to you, Mandy, or are we a team?”
It was little more than a candy-pink skirt with a white frill along the thigh-high hem. The tray had two curved stands for me to rest my breasts on, and a space for a coffee cup under them. A little bowl of sugar cubes completed the look.
I was to be demoted to walking cream dispenser.
“It’s humiliating,” I said.
“Once you’ve made a couple of rounds the slower pace of hand expressing and the large quantity of coffee needing cream will reset your supply. Enough to get you on the machine, at least. Besides, it might be good for your career to mingle with your punters.”
I was beyond embarrassed to walk past the other heifers looking like this. I was a dairy queen reduced to the lowest of the hucow ranks. I had to go from table to table and ask the diners if they wanted cream with their coffee.
They knew from my poster plastered all over town who I was.
Word spread like wildfire and soon I was jostled from side to side as I tried to pick my way around the tables and through the forest of arms waving coffee cups in my face.
Some shoved their cups onto my tray and under my nipples and demanded cream.
“Go back to you seat, sir. I’ll be with you shortly,” I said for the tenth time.
A dairy queen, going table to table hand expressing was unheard of.
I did my best to keep up with demand, squeezing frothy white milk into each black coffee, expressing both breasts at the same time.
Under the constant demand, my milk did finally go down a little. The tight, hot sensation of stretched skin calmed to a dull throb.
The line of raised mugs wanting a top up was long, but I was getting through it.
Then someone started a whisper that I was running out of milk.
They no longer waited for me to come to them but rushed toward me. A man came from behind and seized my breasts for himself.
Before I could beat him off, he squeezed. Misjudging the force of my letdown, his cup sloshed all over my tray and splattered the floor and at least, nine pairs of leather shoes.
A hush fell over the crowd.
The tink, tink, tink of my milk dripping onto the tray was the only sound in the room.
Between one tink and the next, Creamtown lost its mind.
Hands came from everywhere, from the left and right, from above and below, from in front and behind. All groping and grabbing and what not, with no regard for me at all.
I was pushed back onto a table and fondled by rough hands and old hands, soft hands and long-fingered hands, all attempting, and many succeeding in stealing my milk!
Some aimed for their cups, others sprayed directly into their open mouths. Most just wanted to touch and squeeze and see for themselves what it felt like to milk a hucow.
I was lifted from the table and passed around, from one customer to the next, they suckled my milk straight from my breast, my tray long tossed aside. I was handed down the line, from customer to customer, each drinking as much as they could before I was seized by the next.
I had never been nursed from before. Their lips hot and wet, almost soothing compared to the mechanical suck of the milking machines.
“Put my prize hucow down!” Jarrod stormed through the crowd, face a mottled purple. “How dare you treat my prime heifer like this?”
I had never seen him so mad, he plucked me from the arms of his customers, swept me up into his own and flung over his shoulder. My milk soaked his back in twin rivers and plastered his shirt to his skin.
Shoving everyone out of his way he strode behind the bar and took me to safety in the servers’ lounge. Door slammed and bolted behind us, he settled me on my feet.
Through the wall I heard the customers chanting for me to be brought back. Glass breaking and chairs being thrown.
Jarrod rubbed his hands together in glee. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
I shook my head.
“My nipples are sore and I lost a lot of milk.”
“Good, good.” He wasn’t listening to me. The sound of chaos outside nothing but the ring of the cash register in his mind. “This is going viral. We are going viral after this. Creamtown is going on the map today. But I have to get your milk out to them before they tear the shop apart.”
“I’m not going back out there!” I said.
“No, no,” He shook his head and waved Jo-Anne over. “You will but you won’t have to serve them. You’ll be safe.” He pinched her tiny breasts and stretched the skin, “These will be perfect.”
“Go get six empty hucows and get back here quick as you can, Annie,” he told her.
“No, Jarrod!” I crossed my arms under my breasts. “If you are thinking what I think you’re thinking, I won’t have it. I won’t do it. My milk is my milk.”
“As long as you work for me, Mandy, you’d be wise to remember your milk is my milk and my milk is money.” He rubbed his hands together again. “Never, ever forget it.”
Two: Sharing is Caring
“Not Jo-Anne, anyone but her. Don’t make me share my milk with her.” I held my crossed arms stance and scowled at the hucow in question. “She’s jealous of me. Her udders are so puny and hardly produce. She steals milk.”
Jarrod ignored me completely as he set up the reverse milker. He never listened to his cows, he did what he thought was best for his back pocket and that was it.
Not that he treated his herd cruel. On the contrary, we were probably some of the most privileged hucows in the Dairy Belt.
We got to live in our own homes and come in for shifts. Most ranchers kept their producers in barns, driving them in for daily milking, bottling their milk and selling it to the big grocery stores. Jarrod’s operation was an organic boutique affair.
When he first opened up shop twelve years ago, they had laughed him out of town, but he had preserved and now his organic, hands-on approach to dairy farming had made him an exceedingly wealthy man.
Wealth he shared with his hucows.
Even the itty, bitty, teeny weeny breasted, Jo-Anne.
“Where are the others?” he asked her.
“They are leaving the wash-stall
now,” Jo-Anne said. She looked gleeful to have such a central role to play.
“Send them out as soon as they arrive,” Jarrod said wheeling the reverse milking machine out the door with him. “Mandy, come with me.”
The door swung open on chaos of upturned tables and strewn stools.
Never one to miss a chance to play the showman, Jarrod jumped up on the counter.
“Beloved customers.” He waved them into silence and pulled me up on the counter beside him. “You want Mandy’s milk?”
The crowd answered with a roar.
A thrill of fear slithered down my spine, what was Jarrod doing?
“What if I was to tell you not one, but seven of my hucows have Mandy’s milk?”
A rumble of murmurs.
Jarrod waved his customers into silence again.
“If you gents clean up this place, I can show you how it’s possible. Long as you fellas behave yourselves, you’re in for a real treat. But, be warned. Another incident like before and I’ll press charges.”
The men murmured and kept their eyes on me, but set to straightening the diner as best they could. Lori came and swept up the broken glass, but no major damage had been done.
The diner was spick and span in a few moments.
Jarrod jumped down and wheeled the reverse milking machine out into the middle of the room.
“Close the blinds, boys.” He nodded to two men closest to the storefront.
He beckoned for me to come down.
I did so, gingerly, ready to run at the slightest sign someone made a grab for me.
The crowd ebbed and flowed with excitement as I walked past.
Jarrod whistled with his fingers, the sharp sound silenced the room.
“Now, I promised in exchange for your help and calm to give you seven sweet Mandys.” He wrapped his arm around me as if to be sure they remember me. “Seven times this, can you even imagine?”
Cheers and catcalls filled the room.
“How’s that then?” One of our regulars asked. “She a septuplet or somin’?”
The crowd tittered.
“With this old girl.” Jarrod patted the reverse milking machine. “She’s exactly what it says on the tin.” He pointed out her label.
Maids of CREAMTOWN (Taboo Hucow fantasy, Hucow Farm, Hucow submission, Forbidden Adult Feeding and Nursing Erotica): (Creamy Hucow short story erotica) Page 1