Chapter 2
Two
The stall door seals and the last thin idea that this is still a study dies with the sound of the locks.
There is no tablet here. No white coat. No voice calling me Bianca as if I am a student who wandered into the wrong room.
The air is hotter and wetter than the examination suite, thick with disinfectant, warm milk, rubber, and the heavy animal smell of a body that has been working in here all day.
Drainage grooves cut the floor so nothing that comes out of me has to be treated as a mess that matters.
A milking rail waits in the center, padded only where a handler needs a cow still, steel everywhere else.
A trough sits under the head of it like a promise.
Overhead rings. A hose coiled on a hook. A board already holding a blank card.
The bull doesn’t look at me the way Dr. Rust did. Rust looked like he was collecting a person into data. This man looks like he’s receiving stock.
He clips the lead short to a floor ring so I cannot sit back, cannot kneel up, cannot pretend I still have a student’s posture.
Then he starts processing me. The gag stays in.
That’s the first cruelty. I can’t ask what he is doing.
I can’t bargain. I can only make wet, ruined sounds while he treats my body like equipment that arrived dirty from another department.
He pulls the vaginal plug without warning, forcing me to squeal around the gag deep in my throat. The emptiness feels like I’ve just had my coat ripped off in a snow storm. I leak in a warm rush onto the floor and the humiliation of that sound makes my face burn around the straps.
The replacement is a wide, hollow speculum-sleeve, stall hardware meant to keep a cow open for inspection whether anyone is using her or not.
He holds it in one hand and pushes me down to the floor with ease.
I yield to his strength, not even fighting, and he forces my ass up, presenting my pussy to him.
He pushes his bare foot onto my cheek, pushing my face to the floor.
Then, he shoves it in until the lock seats and cool air reaches places that should never feel air.
He cranks the levers, opening my hole little by little as I moan in a mixture of pain, pleasure, and violation.
I can feel myself dripping through the hollow center.
A former honors student, dripping through a keeper sleeve onto a barn floor, and the worst part is the way my clit throbs against nothing as if my body has already taken the new job.
The anal plug comes out next. I clench on reflex, a last stupid piece of the girl who used to think she could refuse. He ignores it. What he puts in me is not the clinic’s careful training plug. It is thicker, ridged, and meant to cause pain and pleasure.
He sets it against my hole, already slick from earlier use, and drives it in with one long, punishing push that forces a broken scream around the gag.
My drool hits the floor as tears well in my eyes from the burning stretch filling my rectum.
It fills me so completely I can feel it in my stomach.
When the base slams home and the lock turns, a short, coarse tail slaps the backs of my thighs.
The weight of it changes my whole body. I’m tailed, opened, and carrying something in my ass that makes every shift a reminder that I do not get to close anymore.
My hands go last. The chain comes off only so he can force my fingers into hoof-mitts, thick, clumsy shells that steal the last ordinary human shape I had.
They make me even less of a human than before, unable to do the most basic of tasks.
When he recuffs me, it is to the rail points, wrists forward, head down, ass high, tail hanging like I was built for this room.
He stamps me while I shake. The ink is cold and the press is hard on my left ass cheek, then my right ass cheek.
He hefts each heavy breast and stamps the inner swell where a handler will see the number every time the udder is lifted.
Stall Three. The black marks look filthy against flushed skin still wet with milk.
He slides a yield card into the collar tag and writes without asking me a single question.
Incoming stock. High physical yield. Mental lag. Process as animal.
I want to disappear. I also want the pump.
Both things are true and that is the part that ruins me.
My tits are so full and need to be properly milked.
The doctor’s light pumping only left me ravenous for more.
That’s how he designs my treatment. I am never satisfied, always craving to be degraded by my own desire.
He weighs me on a floor plate while I stay on all fours, tail dragging, sleeve holding my cunt open, milk dripping onto the scale in thin white threads. The number is just another way of saying I’m not a person on a chart anymore.
His hands are huge and completely uninterested in whether I am frightened.
He works each breast with long, hard pulls, stripping milk out of me in thick pulses that hiss against metal.
It hurts in a deep, used way. It also makes my empty-open cunt clench and drip.
I hate the sound I make. I hate that I am soaked.
I hate that the girl who used to sit in lecture halls and roll her eyes at men is now shaking on a rail while a stranger empties her tits into a farm trough.
When the metal holds a shallow white pool of what my body just gave, he takes the back of my collar and shoves my face down.
The smell hits first. Warm. Sweet. Animal.
Mine. I try to turn away and the collar and mitts make it pathetic.
He presses until my gagged mouth is in it.
Milk coats my cheeks, my chin, the bit, my nostrils.
I have to drink or choke on it. I drink.
I drink my own milk out of a trough like stock, gag stretching my throat, tail heavy in my ass, cunt leaking through a hollow plug, and the humiliation is so complete I feel a fresh let-down start in my chest as if my body is proud of the degradation.
Only after I have swallowed what he took from me does he attach plastic cups to my leaking tits and start the pump. I thank him pathetically despite my gag.
Already the first wave rips a sound out of me that doesn’t belong to a student.
Milk slams up the tubes. My nipples feel raw inside the seals.
The brutal plug in my ass makes every jolt travel straight through my pelvis.
I am scared. I am dripping. I am being milked like a machine that arrived behind on its training.
“You want it to keep going, you moo.”
I try to form a word around the gag and fail.
The suction drops to a mean idle that leaves my tits aching and swollen and furious.
The need disgusts me. My own need for this treatment makes me feel small, but I need it all the same.
I moo for the first time in my life, pushing through the burn in my cheeks of falling so low.
I used to think that the worst thing a woman could do was ask for sex. Here I am mooing to be milked.
The bull gives me a pat on the head in approval as I continue to scream moo, saliva dangling down my chin.
The pump answers at once, hard again, stripping me in rhythm.
I moo when it slacks. I moo when the burn spikes.
I moo because orgasm is not part of intake and the only relief I am allowed is the same relief a dairy animal gets: empty the udder, keep the animal working.
He never touches my clit. He lets me stay swollen and wet and denied while the bottles climb.
That denial is part of making me unhuman.
A person gets to finish having sex, gets to be satisfied. I get to be used however my user wants.
When he’s satisfied with the first-stall yield, he deals with my throat.
The dildo gag tears out of my mouth in a thick, wet string.
I drag one ugly breath and his hand is already in my hair, huge, using my skull like a handle.
He inspects my mouth with his fingers first, stretching my jaw, pressing my tongue down, seeing how much of a service hole is left after Rust’s bit. Then he uses it.
There is no gentleness in him. He pushes his massive, stiff cock directly into my opened throat.
He takes me deep until my eyes water and my mitts scrape the pad and the tail-plug in my ass feels even bigger because I can’t get enough air.
I relax my throat like I have been reminding myself to do all morning when the dildo gag got too uncomfortable.
I breathe through my nose like it trained me to, as he fucks my face like a cocksleeve.
When I gag, he holds me there and pushes even deeper. When he pulls out, I throw up a little on the floor, but he just laughs and lifts my head up with his hand and brutally stuffs it back in despite me shaking my head. He forces it into my throat and keeps fucking for what feels like hours.
Mercifully, he finally pulses his hot, heavy load over my tongue and down my throat.
I struggle to swallow and breathe at the same time as he pulls my hair in his fist, forcing his cock in and out.
He saves the last pulses for my face as I gasp for air, coating me in his seed like I’m his personal fuck doll.
He wipes my face with a dirty rag from the floor as I try to breathe in deep. Milk. Spit. Him. No clean towel. No dignity.
He produces a ball gag from a nearby table and it slams back into my mouth and buckles tight. I can moo. I cannot say doctor. I cannot say stop in a language that still belongs to me. But I wouldn’t stop this for the world.
He clips night-lines to the flanges on my breasts and sets them on a trickle so I will not burst and will not be empty enough to remember lectures, rent, the version of me who thought she was slumming for a stipend.
Inside the speculum-sleeve he seats a slow, low vibe that doesn’t climb and doesn’t stop.
It just keeps my open cunt awake. The tail stays locked.
The stamps stay on my skin. The lead stays short.
The main lights die. Amber observation glow. Another pump working somewhere beyond the seal. The sound makes my own lines twitch and pull as if my body is already answering the building instead of a man.
I am face down on the rail. Tailed. Numbered. Mitts useless. Ass still burning around the thing he shoved into me. Cunt held open and humming. I can’t believe he has left me here like this. When will he come back?
I’m terrified of how helpless I have become, but I am wet enough that I can hear myself when I manage to move my hips. I was a college student who used to manipulate men, now reduced to a leaking, stamped, tailed animal asking a machine for the next pull with a sound that is no longer a word.
I realize that I will be here for as long as my Master wants and there is nothing I can do but suffer the frustration of no release and the quiet pleasure of my slow milking. Never satisfying enough to come, but pleasurable enough to keep me on edge, always wanting more and more.