Chapter 3
Three
I have no idea what time it is. The trickle pumps have been pulling at me through the dark in shallow, mean sips that never empty me and never let me swell in peace.
Every time a little fullness builds, the lines tug and I wake with a jolt, milk moving whether I want it or not.
My ass still burns around the locked tail-plug.
The hollow sleeve in my cunt has been humming on that low vibe all night, not enough to finish me, enough to keep me slick and sore and unable to pretend I am sleeping like a person.
The bit gag has left my jaw aching. Drool has dried on my chin and mixed with the milk that escaped the seals.
Stall Three is stamped on my skin in numbers I can feel even when I can’t see them.
Suddenly, bright lights blind me so hard I have to crinkle my eyes shut.
The bull unclips the night-lines without speaking.
The sudden stop makes my breasts throb so hard my eyes water as I force them open to see my next torture.
He takes the lead and pulls me off the rail.
My knees hit the slats badly. The hoof-mitts make me clumsy.
I’m shaking from denial, from fullness, from the simple fact that I want the pump back the instant it is gone.
That want is the most humiliating thing in the room.
He sets a metal bucket under my chest and lifts my left breast like it’s a tool.
His grip is hard enough to hurt and I wince as he squeezes my swollen breasts.
He strips milk out of me in long, punishing pulls that make my nipple burn and my milk shoot into the bucket with a thin ringing sound.
I try to twist away but the strong finger in my collar brings me back.
The bucket gathers what used to be a private bodily function and turns it into a task.
“Present.”
The order hits me like a jolt of electricity.
Hours locked on the milking rail have made me extra obedient, almost mindless.
I turn, drop my chest, and push my hips back so he can see the tailed ass and the open sleeve.
A gloved hand shoves two fingers through the hollow keeper and hooks hard against the front wall of my tunnel.
It hurts in a deep, inspecting way. He spreads me, checks that I’m still wet, still open, still usable, then drags the same glove back to the tail-plug and twists it until pain flares bright and my thighs jump.
I moan around the bit and hate how soaked the sleeve is when he withdraws.
Then the trough again. He points to it and I crawl because the lead and the mitts leave me no dignified option.
The trough holds a slop of grain mash cut with the milk he just took out of me.
No hands. Face down. I have to bury my mouth in it and take what I can around the bit, messy, choking, eating like an animal.
He pushes my face in when I don’t go fast enough, almost suffocating me in my own humiliation.
Milk and mash smear my cheeks, my nose, the stamps on my tits.
I’m so humiliated I feel tears start, and I’m so aroused that my open cunt drips onto the slats while I eat.
My jaw seizes around the bit. I gag on the mash and wrench my face aside, coughing, trying to be a person who doesn’t eat from a trough. Milk slop hits the floor instead of going down my throat. For one stupid second I’m Bianca again, disgusted, refusing to take this treatment any longer.
The bull doesn’t give one solitary fuck, though. He knows why I’m here and what I am deep down. He has the same information Dr. Rust has and knows what he can do to me even when I get bratty.
He takes the lead and drags me off the trough so fast my knees scrape.
There’s a frame at the side of the stall I had been trying not to look at: a low bench with ankle straps high on an upright bar.
He throws me onto my back, naked, stamped, leaking, and folds my legs over my head until my ass and open cunt are pointed at the ceiling.
My hamstrings stretch impossibly, but he keeps me in place as straps cinch my ankles beside my ears.
My own weight locks me there along with the cuffs, folded, helpless, tits falling toward my face, milk running into the hollow of my collarbones.
I can’t close my legs and both holes are gaping and presented like never before.
I start to beg and apologize in a panic, but he twists the tail-plug out only far enough to replace the stretch with something worse, a thicker, ridged intruder that he shoves up my ass in one brutal stroke until I scream into the bit, pleading for the pain to stop.
The second object slams into my cunt through the keeper’s absence, filling me until I feel both shafts crowding my body from the inside.
He picks up the cat of nine tails made of real leather and drool starts to flow from my mouth as I beg him with moans and pathetic whimpers.
He just smiles as this towering, naked bull lands the first stroke across the backs of my thighs and the exposed curve of my ass so hard the world goes white.
The second crosses the first. The third catches the sensitive seam where the objects hold me open and the pain is so sharp I cry outright, ugly wet sounds around the bit, tears running into my hair.
He works the whip in heavy, precise blows until my skin is on fire and I’m sobbing with the regret of disobeying him, folded in half, stuffed in both holes, milk jumping from my nipples with every impact.
I try to twist but there is nowhere to go.
I try to speak and the bit turns it into animal noise.
I cry because it hurts and because I know I earned it by wanting to be a woman and not a cow at the trough.
When he stops, the silence is worse than the whip.
He releases the ankle straps. My legs drop, shaking and useless.
The objects stay buried in me. I don’t wait to be told what the apology should look like.
I crawl as my whipped ass screams with every movement.
I reach his bare feet and put my bitted mouth on them, ‘kissing’ tanned skin with my open lips, kissing the floor beside them, shaking so hard the stuffed holes ache.
I moo the shape of please. I moo the shape of again.
I beg without words to be put back on the circuit, to be allowed to do the trough right, to be used as stock instead of punished as a failed student.
He looks down at me and pulls me up by the chin, staring directly into my eyes.
He spits in my face. The warm smear lands on my cheek and eyelid.
I flinch and keep my mouth closed, absolutely horrified by the treatment, Bianca screaming at me to fight from inside, but my pussy telling me to orgasm on the spot.
He takes the leash and hauls me back to the trough while I’m still packed full, still striped from the whipping, spit and tears on my cheeks. He puts my face in the mash again.
“Do it properly,” he commands in his impossibly deep voice.
I do it. I bury myself in the trough and eat like I’m afraid of being thin, which I am.
I swallow around the bit. I keep my ass up for what feels like an eternity as I lick and suck, trying not to gag.
Only when the bucket of slop is lowered does he reach between my legs and pull the objects out of me in two hard, humiliating tugs that leave me gaping and dripping onto the slats.
The tail-plug and sleeve go back in after, because the stall does not leave holes unemployed.
Then he picks up a hose and runs it over his hand, testing it.
Cold water hits my whipped skin and I cry out again.
He walks around me and watches milk and water sheet off the stamps, off my raw thighs.
He hoses me down like an animal on the farmyard.
When he shuts the hose off, he takes me back to the rail as if the whipping was just another station on the loop.
Present the udder. Bucket. Hurt. Strip.
Present the holes. Glove. Twist. Check.
Crawl. Trough. Eat what came out of you. Do not fail.
Hose. Inspect the milk on your skin. Rail.
I move through the rest of the circuit like my body has learned a new law.
The welts throb but I somehow stay wet and horny anyway.
Even the fatigue and messiness will not cure my sexual sickness.
The punishment only made me obey faster.
I was already obeying out of my insatiable craving to be my Master’s hucow.
When the circuit ends, he doesn’t let me rest. He takes me straight to the breeding bench.
Or at least that’s what my mind tells me it is.
A drop-away pad for the chest. A bar that locks the hips up.
Cuffs for the mitts. A spread for the knees.
A stand in front of my face holding a large tablet already live on a close image of me: bitted mouth, wet chin, heavy leaking tits, stamped skin, whip marks on the backs of my thighs.
He straps me into it with the same economy he used on the rail.
Head down. Ass high. Tail locked. Then the pump flanges go back on, sealed, ready, so I will be milked while I endure what comes next.
He starts the pumps on a working pull and my whole body jerks. Milk slams up the tubes in time with my pulse. On the tablet I watch it happen to a cow that used to be me.
“Look.”
I look because when I drop my eyes the suction dies and the ache becomes torture. I lift my gaze. I moo because that’s the only sound that brings the pull back. The camera keeps my face and my udder in the same frame so I can’t separate them.
Without even a word, he takes my hair in his hand and positions himself behind me, his muscular frame jostling as his left hand takes my swollen hip in its hard grip.
I already whimper from the strength of his pull even before he starts to fuck me.
The first hole is my cunt and he is laughably massive.
The stretch is immediate and brutal, thick drive that slams my hips into the bar and lights up every welt he put on me.
It hurts and stings while pushing my walls into the realm of pleasure.
It fills me until I can’t tell pain from the wet clench that tries to pull him deeper.
The pumps keep stripping my tits in heavy waves.
On the screen I watch milk jump in the tubes every time he bottoms out.
“Moo, whore,” he commands with one slap to my ass as the pumps continue to drain me. I obey immediately, the whip still fresh in my mind.
He pulls out of my cunt after he’s done using it, leaving me gaping and dripping, and takes my ass in the same long working rhythm. The burn is white-hot this time. I scream into the bit still choking me as he violates my once-pure hole.
I pray to whatever God might exist when he finally stops railing my ass, before I see his feet in front of me.
Without warning, my head is pulled up by my hair and suddenly the head of his cock is at my lips.
He looks down with dark, grey eyes, not an ounce of mercy in them.
I stare up, pleading with him not to reduce me even further, but he pulls out my bit, making saliva drip to the floor, before immediately stuffing his shaft down my throat.
I taste the earthy taste of my own ass immediately, and gag around his pulsing cock.
“Clean it, filthy cow,” he commands, once again in that same matter-of-fact tone.
I swirl my tongue around, trying to pleasure him, but he takes my hair in both his hands and fucks my throat like I’m a toy, fucking me until I almost throw up all over him.
The next moments pass in a delirium as every hole is used one after the other for what feels like hours.
Cunt. Ass. Throat. Milk. Watch. Moo. Repeat.
I lose count. Sweat runs into my eyes. My nipples feel flayed inside the flanges. My whipped skin screams against the bench. I’m scared of how much I leak when the pain spikes.
The free-use window opens while I am still on the frame.
The stall door unseals. I hear voices of strangers. A second massive bull, this one with long hair. Someone else with a clipboard. A staffer who smells like soap and latex.
“She was too attached to the doctor and needs to learn her place. She has no name. She’s Stall Three.”
They use me like a fixture fitted into the room for their pleasure. I struggle against my bonds, but nothing will move them. I’m naked, tied up on all fours, free to be used by anyone who wants.
One works only the udder, stripping by hand into a sample cup, twisting a raw nipple until I moo and milk squirts.
One takes my mouth around the bit and does not care that I choke.
One uses the already-stretched cunt while the pumps run.
I am the equipment in the room. Every thrust, every pull, every cold comment about yield lands on the last piece of me that still wants to be Bianca, and that piece gets smaller.
When they’re gone, the bull doesn’t clean me up like a person who has been through something.
He hoses the worst of it off my welts, checks the stamps, twists the tail-plug in place until I cry out, reseats the open sleeve, and puts me back on the rail.
He writes on the yield card. Numbers. Times.
Holes used. Milk taken. Correction administered.
No note that this free-use hucow slut used to have a future.