Chapter 5 #2
I sob into the platform and keep my knees wide.
The contrast between the raw animal fucking I received in my training and this more gentle claiming makes me see what I love more than anything.
He fills me, claims me, murmurs that I can take it, that his special girl opens when she is told. I take it. I take all of it.
When he finishes, he brings me back to his cock by the hair and makes me choke on the pulse of it, deep enough that I have to swallow or drown, the taste of him thick on my tongue and running down my chin onto my tits when I can’t keep up.
He holds me there until he is done, then strokes my hair once, a small proprietary reward.
“Thank you,” I hear myself say. The words come out small, wrecked, and completely obedient. “Thank you. Would you like to come again?”
He laughs right in my face as I kneel before him. He looks genuinely shocked at my question, maybe even more than I am. It’s the sound of a man who sees exactly how far the fall has taken me and finds it satisfying.
“Not right now,” he says. “You need to transform more first. My special girl doesn’t get to stay this size. She gets to grow into what she’s for.”
Fear and terrible excitement rise through me in a slow, cold wave as he makes me suck his cock clean before dressing again. He leads me on the leash the short distance and I go.
The interior is padded where a body will press for days and unforgiving everywhere else.
Restraints wait in open loops, lines hang coiled and ready.
He lays me on the central rest and begins the plumbing with the same calm precision he once used to measure me for the first time, and the intimacy of that calm is its own kind of violation.
The throat tube comes first. He tips my head back, opens my jaw with gloved fingers, and feeds the soft, insistent length past my tongue.
I gag. He waits a little before feeding it further past the place that wants to fight, until it seats where nutrition will go and breathing will be managed around it.
Tears spill at once as I fight not to fight him.
The tube takes my ability to speak once again, so I can only look up at him while he tapes the line in place and secures the external fittings.
The humiliation of being prepared like this, of knowing I will not eat or talk or close my mouth like a person for days, sits in my chest like a weight I cannot shift.
My special girl, I think, and the thought is devastating.
His special girl, plumbed for convenience.
The ass tube is thicker. He lubricates with the same efficiency, presses against the hole he just claimed, and seats the line deep enough that it will not migrate.
The fullness is a presence that will carry everything away so the loading can continue without pause.
I whimper around the tube in my throat. He shushes me the way a strict daddy shushes a child who is making it harder than it needs to be.
“Easy. You can take this. You already took more.”
The last tube is the smallest and the one that makes my whole body try to curl in on itself.
He cleans me with impersonal care, finds the urethra, and works the thin catheter in with steady patience while I shake and try not to thrash against the hands holding me still.
The burn is sharp, intimate, impossible to interpret as anything but total invasion.
When it seats, the pain is not as bad as I imagined.
I am fully closed into the system. Fed in.
Emptied out. No part of the ordinary human cycle left private.
“Good girl,” he says, and the praise makes fresh tears run. “That’s my good girl. Taking all of it to transform into my perfect little pet.”
He straps me down so the lines cannot be twisted free.
A light harness across my chest that leaves my breasts free to swell and leak as the hormones demand.
Then he turns my head toward a small screen set into the wall of the chamber and switches it on.
The image that fills it makes the remaining air leave my lungs.
“I’m going to leave a little video for you,” he says. “This is what is going to happen to you in just a few days’ time as a reward for your perfect transformation. Watch carefully.”
The screen shows a hucow who looks too much like me.
Same dark hair, longer and damp with sweat.
Same heavy, veined, leaking breasts. Same stamped skin.
She is arranged on a rail in a larger, brighter hall.
Men and women move around her without urgency, the way people move around furniture they intend to use.
They milk her by hand into cups and by machine into lines.
They take her mouth, her cunt, her ass, her tits.
They pass her from one body to the next without asking her anything.
She is positioned. She is filled. She is emptied.
She is laughed over, marked, displayed, degraded in ways that make my strapped-down body try to shrink.
No one uses a human name for her. When she is permitted sound at all, it is only the stall-noise I was trained into.
The camera does not flinch. Neither can I.
The tube in my throat turns every sob into a limited, wet sound.
He watches my face, not the screen.
“This is what you want, isn’t it?”
I look up at him with my eyes wide and streaming.
Why am I going to nod? Why is my body still answering him even now?
Why does the sight of that future, public and used and finished, tighten something low in my belly even while I am literally stuffed with hormones for the pleasure of my future owner?
I should shake my head. I should fight. I should remember the girl who thought a stipend and a short study were the whole of the transaction.
Instead, under the weight of his attention and the memory of good girl and the fear of what happens if I refuse the last scrap of his approval, my head moves.
A small, broken nod. Yes. Because he asked.
Because I have learned that my true purpose is to be a hucow.
Because the part of me that got wet on the first examination table is still here, only louder, and is now answering fully in my place.
“That’s my girl,” he says as he pats my head like a proud father. “I think you deserve a little enjoyment while you grow.”
As a reward he fits a small vibrator over my clit and sets it to a very low, constant buzz.
Not the locked cruelty of the cradle night.
Just a soft, persistent presence that will nudge me over the edge now and then without ever letting my body settle into peace.
Occasional orgasms while the hormones push and the tubes work and the video loops on the wall. A mercy that is also a tether.
He checks every line once more. Checks the seal on the chamber. Checks the timer beside the door.
“Seventy-two hours,” he says. “By the time this opens, you won’t even recognise yourself. Grow for me. When I come back, I want more of you. More milk. More soft. More of my good little hucow who knows exactly who she belongs to.”
The door seals and the lock engages with a deep, final sound.
I’m alone with the low hum of the feed beginning to move through the tube in my throat, the constant full pressure of the lines in my ass and my urethra, the quiet, cruel buzz against my clit, and the screen where a version of me is being used by strangers without pause.
Milk already gathers and slips from my nipples.
My body, traitor to the last, begins to tighten toward the first small, helpless peak.
I stare at the video through the tears and wait for the girl I was to finish disappearing, one change at a time.