Diversion

                           DIVERSION—PART2

 

 

 

Angie was beginning to think maybe she hadn’t thought long enough about volunteering for the new diversion program before deciding to sign up.

At the time it didn’t seem like there’d been that much to think about.  She’d just been arrested for shoplifting, third offense, and was looking at a mandatory two year jail term if convicted, and hell, they had her on video from the security camera, there was no way she wasn’t going to be convicted.

Sure, the idea of lactating and being milked and treated like a cowbelle was weird, but she didn’t figure it’d be that much different from being a convict in jail, and it was only for six months instead of two years.  And she wouldn’t be housed with other prisoners, or shadowed by guards, and if she stayed out of trouble there was talk of wiping their records clean.

Once she’d agreed she’d still had to undergo a physical, to make sure she was healthy, and then she’d started taking the drugs they’d given her.  That had been two weeks ago.  Two long weeks ago.

“Strip,” one of the scruffy, coveralled men instructed them as they filed into the small room.  There was a padded bench along one wall, a counter with a sink, several cabinets, and a doctor’s examination chair with paper covering the top.  Two other men filed in and closed the door.  Angie eyed them nervously, but they didn’t look threatening.  Their expressions ranged from bored to curious, but that was it. There was a window in the door, but the government overseer or whoever he was wasn’t even looking in.

Margaret, the oldest of their group, looked around the room and then at the three men.  “Shouldn’t there be a female present?”

The oldest of the three men, the bored looking one named Earl, looked at her, his face set.  “You’re not women any more,” he told them.  “You’re cowbelles.  Homo Lactilus.  Dairy cows.  Livestock, at least for the next six months.  I’ve got it in writing that that’s how I’m supposed to treat you.  And cowbelles are a different species now, it’s official, which mean you don’t have rights.  You’re property.  A car doesn’t get to pick its mechanic.  As far as I’m concerned you’re all a pain in the ass I don’t need, six headaches to take up my time when I’ve got a thousand head out there,” he pointed, “to take care of.  You’re just twelve more teats—and small ones at that—under my roof that I don’t want, so I’d advise you just to do as you’re told.  Wouldn’t pain me at all to tell that bean counter in the next room you’re being uncooperative, so he can send you back to jail where you belong.  So shut up, and when we want you to know something we’ll tell you.  You do what we tell you when we tell you, or else, and you know what the ‘or else’ is.  Now strip, because cows don’t wear clothes.  I’m not going to say it again.”

All the volunteers, before they’d been allowed to sign up for the pilot program, had been required to watch an informative video on life at a dairy.  They’d all seen pictures of cowbelles before, of course.  Selective, vocational breeding combined with genetic alterations and hormone therapy was a fact of life, and had been going on for centuries—in addition to cowbelles, there were breeders, soldiers, and exotic Academy-trained sex workers, not to mention several dozen other less common occupations.  At least half the females born and ten percent of the males had been genetically engineered to excel at certain tasks.  So the sight of multibreasted cowbelles milling around a dairy hadn’t been shocking to any of the volunteers, although Angie would bet they hadn’t thought through their decision to volunteer any more thoroughly than she had.

With varying degrees of speed, reluctance, and embarrassment, the women stripped off their jumpsuits.  They were naked underneath, and several made half-hearted attempts to cover themselves.

Randy collected the jumpsuits, staring frankly at the women’s nude bodies.  He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen a naked female who wasn’t a belle, producing or retired.  They looked skinny to him, and their having only one pair of teats instead of two or three, tipped with those tiny toy nipples, looked wrong.  And why were they acting so embarrassed?  He didn’t understand women, never had.

Even though the air inside the room was warm, almost hot, Angie got a little chilled when she took off her jumpsuit, and almost winced at the ache in her chest as her nipples tightened.  She’d had C-cups before she’d started taking the pills, and in two weeks her breasts felt like they’d doubled in size.  She couldn’t be sure how much exactly, since the state wouldn’t provide them any new bras.  They’d grown so fast they were now decorated with ugly stretchmarks, and her only consolation was that all the other women had gotten them too.

Her milk had come in, at first only a trickle, after a week of taking the pills, several days after her breasts had begun to blow up like balloons.  Even after a week the sensations still seemed alien to her—when her milk “let down”, as it was called, it was like releasing her bladder, only she couldn’t control it, and couldn’t stop it once she’d started.

They’d provided the volunteers hand-operated breast pumps that either didn’t work very well or none of them could figure out how to operate correctly, because none of them felt empty even after the pumps stopped drawing out milk.

It had been a good four hours since Angie had used a pump, and a long bumpy ride in a windowless van hadn’t helped any.  Her breasts were so swollen they felt like rocks sitting on her chest, and they’d been leaking steadily for half an hour.  As she looked down at herself she saw white drops forming at the ends of her nipples now that she no longer wore a jumpsuit to soak them up.  And she didn’t know if it had anything to do with using the pump, or the hormones, or what, but she was horny all the time.  Really horny.

 

 

Earl watched the women with a combination of anger, irritation, and curiosity as they stripped down and tried to get their minds around their new position in life for the next six months.

It was obvious to anyone who’d ever seen a belle in person that these women weren’t—belles were raised nude, and usually only wore clothes for warmth when being moved between buildings or locations or exercising outdoors.  And he’d never met a cow that was self-conscious or got embarrassed.

Doc Fred came into the room with his usual bustling good cheer, wearing his white coat and pulling on latex gloves.  He made small talk and was constantly moving.

“Okay, everybody here?” he said cheerfully.  “Splendid.  Okay, boys, get ‘em all in a line for me, and I’ll make sure nobody’s got any major problems.”

Fred Greaver was short and smiling and always in a good mood.  He waited as Randy and Marty pushed two of the slower women into line and then began a gross examination, checking skin, eyes, teeth, hair, hands, feet, and breasts.  More than one of the women gasped as he prodded their swollen teats, and droplets darkened his coat as their milk let down.

“Excellent, excellent,” the doctor said to himself, as he moved down the line, his hands efficiently doing their business.  “Okay, now, boys, if you could get this first one onto the chair.”  Greaver was acting as if the women were belles, which seemed odd to the men, until they suddenly realized that that was what they were supposed to be doing.

The two slappers looked at each other, shrugged, and ushered the closest female into the examining chair.  Kelly had been moving that direction already, and got annoyed when they took her elbows.  “I can walk,” she said indignantly.  Both slappers acted as if she’d said nothing at all.

“Relax, nothing to worry about here,” Greaver said soothingly.  He quickly took her blood pressure, temperature, and listened to her pulse and respiration, then placed her feet in the stirrups and swung them wide apart.  He stepped between her spread thighs, his fingers moving quickly and efficiently.  Kelly barely had time to suck in a startled lungful of air before Greaver was backing away.

“Okay, next one,” he told the slappers.

Angie had been to the ob-gyn plenty of times since she’d started her periods, and the cheerful doc seemed completely professional, so getting in the stirrups, even with three other men in the room didn’t bother her.  For one thing, the men didn’t hardly seem interested in looking at her naked body, which made a weird kind of sense, given what they did for a living, but was still odd to experience.  For another, she was so horny that the idea of spreading her legs to a roomful of men excited her, which was completely unlike her.  What was unexpected was the surge of pleasure she felt when the doctor stuck his two gloved fingers into her wet folds.  They were only in her for a few seconds but still she almost came.  He withdrew the fingers, then slid one into her asshole and twisted it about, and then she did come, arching her back off the chair, quivering and crying out softly.  She was mortified.

“Next,” Greaver said, backing away, displaying no sign he’d even noticed his patient’s enjoyment of the procedure.  It was nothing new—at least half the belles responded to his examinations, which was one reason they were so brief.  If he tried to use a speculum or do any kind of thorough examination he usually had to strap their hips and thighs down.

Margaret Atkins was outraged.  Outraged at how she and all the other women were being treated, and outraged at herself for putting herself in this situation in the first place.  How she thought no one in the company would notice the missing $15,000 she’d embezzled was a question she couldn’t answer, but noticed they had, and it wasn’t long before the police were knocking on her door.

The thought of spending five years of her life behind bars was unbearable.  She was thirty-eight years old—by the time she got out of prison she’d be deep into her forties.  Who would hire an executive assistant in her forties with a criminal conviction for embezzlement?

When the prosecutor had offered her an option—plead guilty, participate in the 6-month diversion program, and afterwards if she kept out of trouble for 2 years she’d have her record wiped clean—she’d jumped at the opportunity.

She still didn’t know that she would have made a different decision, opted for jail time instead, but every day, as she got deeper and deeper into this deal, she began to question her judgment.  The hormone pills had been bad enough—not only did her chest practically double in size, like some teenager’s dream, and start leaking…the indignity of having to pump herself out like her breasts were some sort of unseaworthy boats was almost insufferable.  And to add insult to injury she found herself unbearably aroused from the moment she woke up in the morning until she fell asleep, and masturbating only helped for a couple of hours at most.  Now this, to be treated like an actual dairy cow, like she had no mind, or feelings, was almost more than she could stand.  She knew she shouldn’t have been so surprised, they’d told them how it would be, and they’d all seen the FDA dairy documentary, but she had her pride.  Although she didn’t know what she could do about it, other than endure, unless she wanted to spend the next five years in a real prison.  This wasn’t prison, but she was beginning to think it wouldn’t be much different.  These men had made it very clear who was in charge.

She climbed into the chair, into the stirrups, knowing already from the hammering throb between her legs that it would take all of her self-control not to hump the doctor’s fingers like a bitch in heat, and cursed under her breath.

Greaver looked at the tangle of pubic hair between the woman’s legs and looked over at Earl.

“Do you have any plans for dealing with body hair?” Greaver asked him.  “It’s not much of an issue with regards to hygiene, but it never is, it’s done from a maintenance standpoint.”

Earl thought for a second.  “Let me check,” he told the doctor, and stepped out of the room for a minute.  When he returned he said, “We’re supposed to treat ‘em no different than belles, the FDOC guy said it himself.  When can you do it?”

Younger cowbelles were being bred below-the-neck hairless, and older breeds were treated with laser hair removal.  Greaver went over his schedule in his head.

“I can get ‘em all done by the end of the week,” he said.  Then he slid two fingers into Margaret, who had realized what they were talking about, what they were planning to do without her permission, and instead of the curses that were ready to fly from her lips all that anyone in the room heard was her gasp as her pussy clenched around the doctor’s probing, impersonal fingers.

 

 

Most of the women were totally out of sorts by the time the doctor peeled off his gloves and walked out with a wave, never having spoken directly to them.  Those who hadn’t climaxed from his fingers had nearly done so, and all of them were very overdue to be milked.

Mary’s milk had let down when she’d climbed off the examining table, spraying from her nipples in multiple fine streams for almost thirty seconds before tapering off to rapid dripping.  She was the youngest of the group, and had been arrested for crashing her mother’s car (which she’d taken without permission), while drunk (she wouldn’t be legal for almost a year), into a stopped police car.  She figured she was getting off easy.  Kelly, a thirty-two-year-old mother of two, who thought she’d been done with lactating forever (until she got arrested for writing bad checks), had suffered a sympathetic letdown, and could do little else but watch her milk spray out all over herself and the floor.

“Have Sally or somebody mop up in here when we’re done,” Earl told Randy, who nodded.  He’d seen letdowns plenty of times before, especially in young belles who’d waited too long to head to the pumps, and was surprised at how little milk the two women had sprayed out.  That second girl who’d suffered a letdown, she had the biggest teats of the group, almost as large as a Verheiden who hadn’t been induced yet, but he doubted she’d produce as much as half the milk a Verheiden would per teat.  He supposed that only made sense—belle teats were nothing like girl tits, they’d been worked on for generations by some of the finest minds on the planet to increase milk production.  You just had to look at one of those new Thompson/Greens to see the difference.  Cow teats were nothing more than high-volume milkbags, designed to be drained quickly by pump nozzles, not the tiny mouths of infants, and scientists kept trying to increase the amount of milk.  The dairy only had a few dozen T/Gs, but more were coming in every week—Frank had done the math, calories vs. ounces, and decided they wouldn’t be buying any more Verheidens, new cow purchases would be strictly T/Gs, at least until the docs developed something better.

“Okay, shear ‘em and then we’re done in here,” Earl told the men.

“Shear us?” Margaret said.  Earl looked annoyed at her for having spoken.

“We’ve got a thousand head at this dairy, which is about nine-hundred and fifty too many to be worrying about hair care,” he told her, as the two slappers dug out electric clippers.

“Line up and get down on your hands and knees,” Earl told the women.  When Margaret looked ready to protest, he added, “or walk back out that door and tell the government man you want to go back to jail.  Now, that’s the last goddamn time I’m going to explain or repeat myself.  If any of you so much as looks at me funny, or causes trouble with my cows, I’ll send you straight back to jail.  And if for some reason I can’t do that, then you’re really going to find out what it means to be treated like a cow, and why we call them ‘slappers’.”  He pointed at Randy and Marty.

Several of the girls shot Margaret angry looks.  They all got down on their hands and knees, and the two slappers went to work with the clippers.  Earl looked at their feet all lined up in a row, every left ankle encircled by a thin band, their GPS-enabled electronic tether.  Typical lowest-bidder government junk.  All his cows had the same thing, only in small chips embedded in their hips.

In just a few minutes the six females sported bald heads.  They climbed to their feet slowly, looking at the pile of hair on the floor, hands reaching up to touch the short, prickly stubble.  Two of the women were bravely fighting back tears.

“Okay, c’mon,” Earl said impatiently to the women.  “Follow me.”  He was a little gruffer that usual, because the crying unnerved him—cows didn’t cry, except maybe if they got injured real bad.  He didn’t know how to react to it.  He opened a door and the strong smell which had nearly faded from the women’s conscious minds now came flooding back.  Several of the women flushed, and the women who were sobbing quietly suddenly found themselves distracted from their own misery.

Vanderbilt’s thousand head were housed in four separate rectangular buildings, connected in the center in the shape of a cross.  Each building had its own name—Adam, Brian, Charlie, and David.  The volunteers would be staying in Charlie house, which currently housed 231 belles—162 big Verheidens, 37 six-teat Stolzkirks, 26 new Thompson/Greens, and 6 mixed breed.  The barn had a high, echoing ceiling, and the strong smell of warm bodies and sweet, mother’s milk filled their nostrils as they stared about.  They caught a glimpse between some partitions of an open space in the center of the building filled with wriggling flesh, and the newcomers stared as they tried to understand what they were seeing.  In the past Vanderbilt had strictly segregated the belles, allowing them only a few hours a day to socialize beyond the few belles who slept nearby, but recent studies had shown that highly socialized cows were happier, and happier cows were more productive.  Vanderbilt Farms didn’t have room for the huge, well-equipped “play areas” some other dairies had, but the belles now had free rein to roam all of their wing, and one small area with a padded floor and some toys to keep them occupied.

“Ladies!” Earl said to get their attention, and to get them walking again.  He led the six women into Charlie house and walked them along the east wall.  A row of automilkers was on their right and the women just gaped openmouthed at the cows getting on and off the boxy machines.  Earl knew they seen film of cows getting milked, but pictures on TV and seeing things with your own eyes were two different things.

The cows as they lay across the boxy machines faced away from the women, and the sight of their bare rumps pointed at them was more than a little disconcerting, but not nearly as much as the sight of massive, authentic, Verheiden teats overdue for milking.  Film just didn’t adequately capture the size of the storied breed, and none of the women realized how much of a difference there was between their breasts and teats genetically designed to meet the high volume demands of the commercial dairy industry until that moment.  Many of the Verheidens had wormlike veins running across the taut sides of their milk-white teats, as their swollen glands left little room for anything else inside their teats, and their nipples looked more like huge fleshy nozzles than what the women were used to seeing when they looked in the mirror.

“C’mon, c’mon, you’ll have six months to get acquainted,” Earl snapped.  “Now look,” he told them, pointing at the end of the row.  “These last two autopumps are for you.  You are only to use these last two pumps.  We can’t sell your milk yet, it’s against federal regulations, so we have to keep it segregated.  The other cows have implanted ID chips, and we’ve programmed those units not to work when our cows climb on.  They’ll get on, but when nothing happens after a few minutes they’ll get off and move on.  After a week or so they’ll avoid the units altogether.

“Whenever you’re feeling full, just kneel there,” Earl pointed at the rectangular kneepad, “and lie across the top.  Drop your teats through those top two holes.  The nozzles will suck on automatically in a couple of seconds and pump you out.  When you’re empty they’ll sense it and automatically disengage.  For cows that takes about ten minutes.”  He glanced at their small teats with their tiny, delicate-looking nipples.  “Don’t have a clue how long it’ll take you.  Now let me show you where you’ll sleep.”

The women were stunned and overwhelmed, their brains having a hard time processing the information that was coming in, and the two slappers had to nudge them along to keep them moving.  Charlie’s high ceiling was painted a soothing cream color.  It was well-lit and hung twenty feet above their heads, just bare metal that echoed with the soft sounds of two hundred cows living their lives. 

Running parallel to the row of automilkers were rows cubicles.  Each one had three walls six feet high and was open to a central aisle, and was directly across from an identical cubicle.  Each one had two fold-out beds mounted on the walls and not much else.  The newcomers didn’t see any shelves filled with books, any TVs or radios, almost nothing in the way of personal items in the cubicles aside from—Margaret’s eyes widened and she looked away.  Just laying in the middle of the floor, right out in the open.  And the size of it!

“You’ve got these three,” Earl said.  “These two here, and the last one in the row on that side.  Two to a room, I don’t care who sleeps where, you work it out amongst yourselves.”  He pointed.  “Through those doors are the showers and the bathroom.  I hope you aren’t expecting walled stalls for when you do your business.  Privacy’s sort of a foreign concept when you’re living with a herd.  Use the liquid soap dispensers on the walls for everything, you’re not going to need shampoo or moisturizer.  Although I will tell you the soap’s kind of strong, so I wouldn’t go showering every day if you’ve got sensitive skin.  Once or twice a week’s about the norm in here.”  He cleared his throat.  “None of you should have any, um, periods while you’re here,” he added, a little hesitantly, “because of the hormones, but if that turns out not to be the case, let me or one of my men know and we’ll get you the necessary supplies.  And over there,” he waved vaguely, “you’ll find the play area.  Now look.”

He stomped into one of the rooms.  Against the inner wall two PVC pipes ran down from the ceiling.  They curved out and apart at the bottom of the wall above two bowls sitting on the floor.  Each bowl was halfway filled with what looked like dried kibble dog food.

“You get fed three times a day.  It’ll come down these tubes, so make sure you remember to put the bowl back when you’re done eating or you’ll have food all over the floor.”

“What is that?  Dog food?” one of the women asked in outraged horror.

“It’s cow food,” Earl told her, fixing her with a glance that indicated he thought she was perhaps the dumbest person he’d met in a long while, “with all the vitamins and minerals you’ll need to stay healthy and,” he paused, “productive.  I think you’re all going to be on two thousand calories a day initially, so you’ll have plenty to eat.  Just remember to drink a lot, more than you think you’ll need to.  There are drinking fountains all along the walls, and you should have cups in your rooms.  It ain’t steak and white zinfandel, ladies, but then again you ain’t at the Ritz.”  He looked around at the group.  “You get injured or sick, you let one of my people know, but otherwise shut up and do your time.  I want to be able to forget you’re here.  You’ve got no responsibilities other than to make milk and thank your lucky stars you’re not in jail.”  And with that he walked off, followed by the two other men.

The volunteers stood huddled in a group, shocked and uncertain. 

“I didn’t think it was going to be like this,” someone said.

“My breasts hurt,” someone else said.

“We don’t get any clothes at all?” another volunteer finally thought to ask.  “None?  For six weeks?”  One of the volunteers began to cry quietly.

“Jesus I’m horny,” someone muttered under their breath.

After only a minute of looking around, Angie turned and began to walk away.

“Where are you going?” Margaret demanded to know.

Angie pointed at her leaking nipples.  “I’m going to get milked,” she said, looking like she couldn’t believe what she was saying.

Her mouth set in a line, Margaret turned back to study her new home for the next six months, and found herself face to face with a cowbelle.

The Verheiden stood an inch over six feet tall, and had thick brown hair half an inch long covering her head, the only hair on her body.  Her four, massive, stretchmarked teats hung low on her wide frame, completely covering her torso from collarbones to hipbones.  Her nipples were dark red and the size of men’s thumbs, permanently swollen from the pump nozzles.  She stared at the new arrivals, openly curious, and scratched at one buttock unselfconsciously.  They stared back, this their first up-close look at a real cow.  She had to weight close to two hundred pounds, not including her four massive teats which, full of milk, were each larger than her head.  Her skin was almost pure white from a lifetime spent indoors, and the outsides of her teats were crisscrossed with thick blue bulging veins.  To the women they didn’t even look like they belonged on a human.  Her giant nipples looked tough enough to step on, and her hips and thighs had thickened with age, which contrasted with her face, which appeared young and unlined.  They could smell her, too—a combination of body odor, milk, and sex.  For some reason they couldn’t understand, none of the women found the smell offensive.            

“Good morning,” Margaret said to the cow, who cocked her head and stared at Margaret’s chest.  The sight of a cow with only two teats was a strange one to the belle, who’d been producing for twenty-two years and hadn’t stepped foot outside the barn other than to take a lap around the exercise yard in sixteen years.

“Mao?” the cow said hesitantly, as if unused to talking.

“I’m Margaret.  And you are?” she asked the cow, who got a confused look on her face.

“They’re cows, they don’t give them names,” one of the other women said.

Margaret had heard the same thing, but refused to believe it.  “That’s ridiculous,” she said.  “They’re people too.”

“Actually, they’re not,” Mary pointed out to her.  She remembered a documentary she’d seen on PBS recently.  “They used to be, but with the advances they’ve made in genetics in the last thirty years, they’ve turned cows into an entirely different species.”

“Mlurb,” the cow half-hummed at Margaret, massaging its lower two nipples absently.

Laura, a skinny twenty-six year old who’d been arrested for unlicensed prostitution, just shook her head and walked away.  Her tits felt like beachballs on her chest; she hadn’t pumped in five hours, and they hadn’t leaked a single drop.

 

 

Angie lay awkwardly atop the unfamiliar machine and lowered her breasts into the forwardmost two square holes in its top, separated by only a thin bar of padded metal.  The machine was designed with four holes for cows with four teats, and it felt odd to know that—at least in this one instance—she wasn’t normal.

As she settled across its top, feeling the unfamiliar weight of her swollen tits pulling on her chest, the machine began to hum.  She felt machinery moving beneath her, and tensed up.  She almost pulled away and straightened up, but controlled the impulse—it was bad enough bent over the thing with her ass sticking out.  She wasn’t sure why being naked wasn’t bothering her more; maybe it was the sight of all the naked cows, maybe it was because she was so horny, she didn’t know.

She heard a faint hissing sound, which abruptly cut off as the nozzles sucked onto her nipples, and then she did jerk, but the nozzles stayed firmly attached.  Too firmly, in fact, the suction seemed far too strong at first.  Then the rhythmic pulsing action began, the autopump humming with a faint thumpthumpthumping sound coming from it, and Angie’s mouth opened with surprise.  This was no steady, gentle suction—the whole of her tits were vibrating as the nozzles sucked at her in staccato rhythm, just as they were supposed to do, as it helped the milk flow.  Angie just hadn’t been expecting the sensations, which made her whole body quiver.

She wasn’t sure for a few seconds, wondering if the stronger-than-expected suction would hurt her.  It did, slightly, but then it became obvious that it was just what she needed.  She relaxed then, and felt her milk let down in what felt like a huge rush.  She shivered uncontrollably.

Angie laid her forearms on the machine frame in front of her, and rested her forehead on her arms.  Some time later, she wasn’t sure how long, something made her look up, and she saw one of the other volunteers, Laura, standing in front of the other milker set aside just for them.

“How is it?” Laura asked her, then saw the tears on Angie’s cheeks.

The pump Angie’d tried to use in jail had been irritating and inefficient.  This machine . . . she didn’t even have the words.  It sucked so hard it hurt, but in a good way, as weird as that was.  And her nipples seemed to have become directly attached to her clit—every time the nozzles sucked, her pussy clenched.  She had already come once without having to do anything other than squeeze her thighs together, and could feel the wetness dripping down the insides of her legs.  She’d never gotten that wet before—ever.  And it felt like she was going to come again.  What was going on?

“Oh my God,” she sobbed.