DIVERSION
The pickup pulled into the small concrete lot and circled around in front of the employee entrance. The building loomed over the truck, looking like a newly constructed warehouse clad in tan aluminum with stainless steel venting near the roofline. The tops of the huge roof-mounted HVAC units were just visible from the lot below. Regardless of its modern appearance, all the employees, even management, referred to it as The Barn.
The pickup’s passenger door opened and a plain-faced woman climbed out dressed in charcoal gray coveralls that were clean but showed signs of having been washed many times. The woman was big—not just tall, almost six feet, but thick—the baggy coveralls seemed to emphasize her wide hips and barrel chest. She had glossy black hair that hung in waves down to the middle of her back and had been gathered in a loose ponytail with a leather shoestring. Guessing her age from her plain, unlined face would have been difficult—she could have been ten years either side of 40.
The woman carried a one gallon cooler in one hand and a large lunchbox in the other. She turned and looked back at the driver before shutting the door. The man behind the wheel had a deep farmer’s tan and wore a stained CAT ballcap cocked back on his head. He glanced at the woman disinterestedly. Another woman sat beside him on the Ford’s bench seat. She had a round, plain face surrounded by short, frizzy, dishwater blonde hair. Her baggy coveralls were white, and at first glace she appeared obese.
The woman outside the truck closed the door with her elbow, and watched the truck pull away. She could see the blonde sliding over to make more room for the driver. Then she walked to the employee entrance and set down her cooler and lunchbox.
She reached around her neck for her employee ID card to swipe through the reader but it wasn’t there. She paused a few seconds in confusion, then grabbed the zipper up near her throat and ran it down between her two breast pockets, exposing a surprising amount of cleavage and the gleam of something that looked like plastic. The ID card was on a cord around her neck and she pulled it out of the front of her coveralls and ran it through the reader.
The door buzzed and the woman let her card drop and quickly bent down to grab her lunchbox and cooler. She pushed open the door and immediately felt the change in climate—outside the air still had a crisp, dry, early morning feel. Inside the building it was warm, almost hot, and humid, and she could instantly smell the cows.
The hallway to the breakroom was well lit but empty for the moment. The woman put her lunchbox on a shelf in the refrigerator and her gallon cooler jug on top of the appliance. Then she left the breakroom, continued down the hall, and punched in at the time clock, ten minutes early.
Earl Swindell, day shift supervisor, was striding past and stopped when he saw her.
“Sally,” he said. “You’re going to be mopping again today. I want you to start at the far end of the barn,” he gestured with his hands as he talked, making sure she understood, “and work your way back this way. Bobbi’s already out there, and Tink’ll join you as soon as she shows up. Try not to get distracted by the cows; remember, you’ve got a job to do. You won’t be able to get it all done today, but afternoon shift’ll take over where you three leave off, and then third shift’ll probably finish up. If not you’ll have a little more to do tomorrow.” He eyed her unzipped coveralls.
“You start mopping, your teats’re gonna fall right out if you don’t zip that up,” he told her, then strode off.
Sally started walking toward the supply room where the mop buckets were stored, glancing down at her coveralls. As she grabbed the zipper and ran it back up she glanced over at the office to her right. A sign on the door read Frank Vanderbilt, Chief Operations Officer, Vanderbilt Farms. There were two men inside, one of whom she vaguely recognized. The other one glanced at her through the window.
Ned Pickering saw the employee walk by outside the office and glanced at her briefly. Her face didn’t look fat, but her body underneath the bulky coveralls was barrel-shaped. She had that walk peculiar to fat women, where they seemed to lean back to counterbalance all that weight out front. He thought it was a shame how some women let themselves go.
“What the hell am I reading?”
“You’ve been chosen to host a new pilot program for the Federal Department of Corrections, only one of three such locations in the whole state.”
“Yeah, I can read that much. What the hell does it mean?”
Frank had no trouble understanding what he was reading; he was just hoping he was reading it wrong.
“Diversion?”
“In order to keep non-violent offenders out of jail, or prison, diversion seeks to provide alternatives to incarceration. Juvenile boot camps, halfway homes, probation, work release, community service and the like.”
“Okay. And that involves us how?”
“The purpose of diversion is to give first-time or non-violent offenders a chance to repay their debt to society in a way that, if not beneficial to them, at least will not in the end be harmful to them, as many argue incarceration would be. The hope is that the experience will show them the error of their ways. This new dairy pilot program—we hope—will do exactly that. Vanderbilt Farms, because of your size and on-site resources, was chosen as one of the beta testing locations of the program.”
Frank swore, still looking through the paperwork. “Can I assume because we fall under FDA jurisdiction and administration we can’t say no? Or that if we do, we’ll suffer some sort of draconian bureaucratic punishment?”
Frank flipped pages and then read for a while. “Christ,” he said, finally realizing he had little choice in the matter.
“You should be proud that we picked you,”
Frank Vanderbilt shook his head. “It was good publicity, and we end up making money when everything’s said and done. There’ve been some hiccups, but nothing we weren’t expecting or couldn’t handle.”
“The government is going to compensate you for your
participation,”
“That just shows that you or whoever thought up this hare-brained scheme doesn’t know anything about the dairy business. You want to bring in—how many women was it?”
“Probably just half a dozen at first.”
“You want to bring in six women, criminals, with God only knows what in their backgrounds, and have them mix with my cowbells and think there won’t be a problem? Even if they were used to dairy life their attitude problems alone’ll be enough to agitate the cows, and agitated cows don’t produce milk, at least not like they should.”
“I don’t think you understand,”
Vanderbilt snorted. “Hell, what women wouldn’t volunteer for it if the only other choice was jail? But volunteering ain’t the same as wanting to be here, and I betcha they still don’t have a clue what they’re in for. Not til they get here at least.”
“I don’t think you understand,”
“The words ‘better than jail’ don’t exactly bring to mind the image of happy females,” Frank said. “It says here they’re going to be hormonally induced to a production level ‘consistent with their assumed positions’. What the hell does that mean?”
Vanderbilt squinted at the man. “And they’re supposed to go back to normal after they’re out of the program?”
“I assume so,”
Frank grunted. “I don’t want to move them in with the rest of my belles. I won’t be able to sell any of their product—the government has strict rules about that, look it up—and I know we’re going to have problems with some of them when they see what they’re in for, for what, six months?”
“Yes.
There’ll be a liaison officer available 24 hours a day if you have
problems,”
“How about I segregate them?” Vanderbilt asked the government man. “Still treat them like belles, but keep them separated.”
Frank shook his head at what the government considered ‘constructive’. “And with the hormones and whatnot, they’re going to be on the same kind of milking schedule as, say, a Verheiden?”
“That’s the stated goal. Again, these first groups will be the….well, the first. I’m sure there will be a few bumps in the road, but nothing, I’m sure, you can’t handle.”
“And your scientists that formulated the hormone cocktails for them, they think these women will just be able to walk away after their six months are up? There won’t be any lasting effects?”
“That’s what I’m told,”
“Fine,” Vanderbilt said. “Thee government says so, fine. Six months of being a cow, of living like a cow? Okay, whatever you say. How about this, then. A separate sleeping area for these women. During the day, they can mix with the others all they want, get milked whenever they need it, but at night have them all together. That might even be better, I mean for your purposes. They won’t be able to carry on any kind of a conversation with any of the belles, but at night, talking amongst themselves—could keep ‘em calmer. Like they’re all in it together, you know?”
“A segregated sleeping area?”
“Not segregated per se. Just have all of them close together, off in a corner. They’ll be less disruptive, and probably happier. Dairy life is not going to be what they’re expecting, no matter what they’ve been told.”
“You want us to treat ‘em just like cowbells, right? We get belles retiring and new ones coming in nearly every week. If it wasn’t for having to change around some beds we could process them in right now.’
“Excellent.”
“But what the hell am I supposed to do with the milk?” Frank asked. “You say you want them to be doing something constructive, but then your papers say you aren’t going to be collecting the milk. It ain’t going to be much, I’ll bet, but I hate to just dump it down the drain.”
Frank shook his head. “It depends. Verheidens you sometimes had to, but not often; they matured slower, and when they were ready their milk came in. The new T/Gs, their teats ripen at such an accelerated rate, they tell us we need to induce them, and hard, I guess to jumpstart their systems.”
“Hmm,”
The FDOC Dairy Pilot Program liaison, a squirrelly annoying little man named Snyder, arrived fifteen minutes before the program volunteers. He’d already visited Vanderbilt twice before, examining the facilities in general and the volunteers’ designated sleeping area in particular, and deemed them acceptable. Frank knew he had some sort of background in diary farming, somewhere out-of-state.
Frank Vanderbilt waited beside Snyder, along with Earl Swindell, day shift supervisor-on-duty, and Marty and Randy, two experienced belle wranglers, known as “slappers” in the business. The two slappers looked curious, but Earl just looked pissed off.
“Hope they’re paying you good for this, Mr. V,” Earl said to him, shaking his head and glancing at Snyder, who pretended not to hear. “It’s got all the makings of a monkey-fuck.”
Vanderbilt had to laugh. “Earl, you’re a poet,” he said. He looked at Earl, then at the two slappers, who were looking on. “Let’s do everything we can to make sure it isn’t,” he said seriously. All three men nodded.
The air was warm and the afternoon sun was bright, and the men could catch occasional glimpses of a small group of belles being exercised in the yard behind the barn. Their pale skin looked milk white in the early June sun. The slappers had their hands full just getting the cows to walk in the same direction around the sheltered oval enclosure, and recalcitrant cows soon learned why their handlers were nicknamed ‘slappers’.
A few minutes later the large white windowless van pulled into the lot. Vanderbilt waved it over and then pointed at the sheltered loading dock at the back of the building. “Back it in there,” he told the driver, who’d rolled down his window.
Frank entered the building through a pedestrian door, swiping his card, and the other men followed. Marty and Randy rolled up the intake door in the processing area and the van was right there, inching slowly backward. The men motioned him back until the van’s bumper ticked the padded edge of the dock. There wasn’t enough room for the driver to slip between the van and the side of the protective arch over the dock, and Marty went out the side door and led him in that way. He was dressed in a grey FDOC uniform and looked around interestedly, even though there was nothing to see but bare walls. City Boy, Marty and Randy both thought at the same time.
“What’s that smell?” the driver asked.
“Cows,” Marty told him. He remembered the first time he’d ever smelled the inside of a dairy. He’d been sixteen, applying for his first job at Brown Bell Dairy, who’d advertised they needed people for the cleaning crew. One whiff and he knew he’d found a home. The money maybe wasn’t as good as what he could make in some other fields, but after six years, he couldn’t imaging doing anything else, and it paid off in ways that didn’t show up on his payroll stub.
“No shit?” the FDOC driver said, eyebrows raised.
Randy smiled. “Like vanilla ice cream and pussy….cept it tastes a little different,” he said with a laugh. Frank shot him a look, and Randy saw the weaselly guy, Snyder, out of the corner of his eye, and remembered he was supposed to be on his best behavior.
“It smells like someone’s cooking dessert in a hot gym,” the driver said.
“Hey, that’s good, I like it,” Marty said. He and Randy were both in dark grey coveralls with the Vanderbilt Farms logo on the front.
“Can we get on with this?” Snyder said impatiently, looking at his watch.
The FDOC guard/driver shot him a dirty look but grabbed a mass of jangling keys and went to work on the oversize lock on the back of the van. After a few seconds he popped the lock and swung both doors open wide.
Inside, on two padded benches facing each other, were six women dressed in orange FDOC jumpsuits. They blinked at the sudden light, staring at the men. Earl hadn’t known what to expect, but somehow it felt different, knowing he was looking at women and not just cows. Cows were an entirely different species, homo lactilus, and were treated that way, no matter how much they looked like normal women who’d just been served an extra helping or two of tit. He wondered what these women might be thinking, which he realized he never did with cows. Of course, that was mostly because cows didn’t do much thinking beyond satisfying their physical needs. One or two of the women looked scared, but he also saw a familiar look in several of their eyes, and reminded himself that with the hormones they’d had to take it might not be that different from dealing with cows.
“Come on,” Earl said, waving them out. “Get on out.”
The women, one by one, stood, and walked out of the back of the van. Earl was surprised by the variety—he was expecting a bunch of ill-behaved, sullen teens. Two of the females looked like teenagers, and one of those definitely fit the sullen profile, but two of the women had to be in their mid-to-late thirties. And all of them seemed short and skinny to him, but compared to bred belles most human females were—excepting the new T/Gs, of course. It was taking him some time to get accustomed to their skinny butts, after a lifetime of herding the massive Verheidens and the like. Even with all the vaunted hormones they were taking, only two of the new arrivals had chests anywhere close to what a belle sported, although the uniform fronts of all of them were damp, soaked through from the inside. One of the big-chested arrivals had soaked her jumpsuit from collar to waist and looked miserable. Earl knew what to do about that. The crotches of a couple of their jumpsuits had been soaked through as well. Maybe it wouldn’t be so different from dealing with cows, no sir.
Normally they only processed one or two cows at a time, but seeing as these women weren’t really cows neither Earl nor Frank thought there would be a problem.
Frank pulled Earl aside as the last woman stepped off the van. “I want you to make it very clear to the guys on all the shifts,” he told Earl. “No cocking this stock. Anybody gets caught doing it is gone, no warnings, and no exceptions.”
Earl opened his mouth to protest, and Frank held up a hand to stop him. “I know what company policy is,” he told Earl. “I was also raised around a dairy. I’m not an idiot, I know what goes on. I popped my cherry on a Verheiden three times my age that weighed twice what I did, and once the genie was out of that bottle there was no putting it back in. There wasn’t a guy working here then that wasn’t putting it to the stock, and don’t try to tell me things have changed. Which is one of the reasons I won’t put up security cameras inside the barn—I don’t want to know, because if I know, I have to do something about it.” He pointed at the six women. “Nothing is going to happen with these women. I don’t want any of them calling the state police when they get out of here, claiming they were raped. I don’t want any of them pregnant. No contact, none. I don’t care how much they beg, and there’s no telling how they might start acting after they’ve been living with belles a couple of months. Are we clear?”
“Absolutely,” Earl said. “Hands off.”
Marty opened up another door. “In here,” he told the assembled women. He held the door open and the jumpsuited females began to file in.
“I need you to sign this stating that you’ve taken physical custody of them,” Snyder told Frank, holding up a clipboard. “You need to sign here, here, and here, and initial each page.” He glanced at the women disappearing through the door, Randy and Earl following them in. Normally they didn’t use so many people to process belles, but no one knew exactly how the volunteers were going to act once confronted with the reality of dairy life. “What’s you admitting procedure?” Snyder asked Vanderbilt.
“Have our doc examine them, then wash ‘em if necessary, shear ‘em, show ‘em how to use the automilkers, show ‘em where they’re going to be sleeping, and then leave ‘em alone to get acquainted.”
“I can assure you all the volunteers were given a clean bill of health.”
“I’m sure, but I’m still having Fred check ‘em out before I stick ‘em in with the rest of the herd. Besides, you said so yourself, even the docs who worked up the hormone mix aren’t quite sure how it’ll affect the girls in the long run, much less when we throw in the LactoMax. I want a baseline examination just in case there are any issues later on. It’ll cover both our asses.”
Frank suddenly had a thought. “Hey, we were planning on feeding them what we give the belles, LactoMax Blue. Two thousand calories a day, to start, and then adjust it up or down as necessary.”
Snyder looked impatient. “Yes?”
Frank resisted the urge to slap the man. “So their feed is stuffed full of hormones. The only hormones our belles get is what’s in the LactoMax. Did your docs plan for that when they worked up those hormone pills we’re going to be giving them? I’d hate for these volunteers of yours to double up. I don’t know what it might do to a regular female.”
Snyder brushed the idea away. “I’m sure they took that into consideration,” he said.
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.
DIVERSION—PART 3
“Okay, you’ve got those figures for me Ben?” Frank Vanderbilt asked.
Ben handed the papers across the desk and then sat down in one of the chairs and waited while his boss looked over the numbers.
Frank sighed. “Well, their production keeps going up, but they’re still not even close to doing half a gallon a day, hardly doing five ounces per teat five times a day. Disappointing numbers for a young belle, of course, but pretty impressive for women. I think,” he added. “Can’t remember the last time I was around a female that was milking that wasn’t a cow. Anyway, I hope Snyder sees it that way. I don’t really know why I care, except that we’re still storing the stuff in the deep freeze. Two weeks worth already, thirty-one gallons. Drop in the bucket really, but I hate that we can’t sell it.”
“You don’t need me to tell you you could just toss it, boss, “ Ben said. “I looked at our contract with the FDOC, we can do whatever we want with the milk we collect.”
“I know, but I hate to throw out milk, not when I could sell it.”
“Can’t sell it retail or commercially,” Ben reminded him. “Doesn’t leave much else.”
“I know, I know, because they’re not homo lactilus. And because of the hormones on top of the LactoMax we’re feeding ‘em the milk’s even more loaded with hormones that usual. I—“ Frank stopped, then grabbed his Rolodex.
“You get an idea?” Ben asked him.
“I just might have,” Vanderbilt said. “I just might.”
Ben stood. “Well, unless you need me any more, I’ve got to get back to work.” He paused. “How much trouble have they been giving you?”
Frank looked up. “Surprisingly little. First couple of days were rough, first week, but after the LactoMax hormones hit on top of the other ones they’re taking, and the cows started showing how friendly they can be, I think our guests sort of decided to get with the program, you know?” He smiled.
Ben laughed. “I bet.” He headed for the door, then stopped and turned. “Hey Frank? I know these women are on extra hormones and all, but the LactoMax isn’t exactly corn flakes. Anyone know what would happen to a normal woman if she was fed a steady diet of LactoMax, no extra hormones like these women but just cow feed? It’s unregulated, you can buy it off the shelf at any feed store or over the internet. It says on the label it’s not recommended for any use other than cows, but you know people.”
Frank looked at his accountant. He was young, fresh out of school, and had only been with them for eight months, but seemed like a good kid.
“Haven’t you ever heard the phrase, ‘Give ‘em grits
for breakfast and you’ll be happy all day?’ No?
You are a city boy,” he said with a smile. “The kibble tastes like dirt, and the effects
of the hormones are cumulative and take a while to set in, but never doubt
people’s interest in the unusual, especially when it comes to sex. You should see the mail order sales figures
of LactoMax to
“Really?” Ben looked surprised. This was his first real job, and he hadn’t wanted to mess it up, so he’d practically stayed glued to his computer screen. Apparently he’d missed a lot of the day-to-day workings of the farm. He’d only actually been in the barn, Adam House specifically, twice, and forced himself not to stare at the cows on the pumps, because he didn’t want to get in trouble. “I didn’t know you could do that. Well, I knew we sold them, I’ve seen the figures, but I didn’t know people could buy them, that we could buy them, private citizens.”
Ben knew that the going rate for a Verheiden retiring after the government-mandated minimum 20 years of production had dropped 30% in the past years, and likely would drop more. Dairy farmers, instead of keeping the Verheidens as long as they stayed healthy and kept their volume up, were now dumping them as soon as their twenty was up and replacing them with Thompson/Greens. The market had been flooded with Verheidens for the past year. Who exactly had been buying the retired belles, and why, Ben wasn’t too clear on, but Frank’s information about cow feed sales to big cities gave him a big clue.
Frank smiled at him. “Stop working so hard, and take a day off. Take a walk around the place. Talk to the guys, look at some cows. Free milk in the lunchroom isn’t the only perk of this job. Just remember what company policy is on fraternization.”
Free milk? Ben thought. He’d been eating lunch at his desk every day. What else around this place had he missed?
“And I’m telling you, I breast-fed two children for a total of fourteen months, and this is not normal.” Kelly sighed, almost invisible in the darkness.
“Of course it’s not normal,” Angie told her. “They’ve got us pumped full of hormones so we produce gallons of the stuff, like the cows.”
The six program volunteers had paired off on their own, Angie finding she got along with the young mother of two as well as any of the others. She’d never had a roommate before, but then she was doing a lot of things she’d never done before. They lay in their cubicle, not long after lights out, both staring up at the ceiling barely visible overhead. The faint, low muted sounds of two hundred cows settling down for the night filled their ears.
“Not that, I know they want us making a lot of milk, although this is insane. I could feed five babies with what I’m producing. It’s the other stuff. Like I said, I breast-fed two babies, had two little mouths sucking on my nipples for months, and never once felt anything remotely sexual. Here—no, wait, even before we got here, when I started taking the pills in jail, it got me horny, almost before my breasts started growing, definitely before my milk came in. And then, since the second day we arrived here . . . .” Angie heard her draw in a shuddering breath.
“I know,” Angie said sympathetically. “We’re all feeling the same thing. I don’t know if it’s because of the drugs, or just partly, but does it matter? Do you want to go to jail? I know I don’t.”
Kelly took a deep breath. “No, but when I volunteered to be treated like a cow, I . . . well, this isn’t what I thought it would be. I thought I would start lactating again, sure, and I knew the cows didn’t wear clothes, but I thought so what? They’re all women, it’s no big deal. I guess I thought it would be like living in a big locker room, with breast pumps. Maybe that just shows how stupid I was.”
“You’re not stupid,” Angie told her.
“Maybe,” Kelly agreed. “But this isn’t just about being naked and lactating, either, is it?”
Angie took a deep breath. “No. The way I’m acting in here, that’s not me, that’s not how I was before I came here, but I can’t seem to help it, and I know that’s not my fault, because I see what’s happening to everybody else. Laura was the first to . . . go with the cows, but now . . . .” She sighed. “If it was just me, I don’t know how I would handle it, but it’s not, and to tell you the truth, I’m to the point now where I don’t care what other people might think. I’ve seen my options, and I’m not going to prison. Are things really that bad in here that you’d rather go to jail?”
Nearby, very close, they could hear the sounds of sex; muffled, indistinct moans, panting, and wet sounds. Angie had observed her fellow program volunteers enough, seen how the hormones had been affecting them, to suspect it wasn’t cows she was hearing tonight.
“No,” Kelly said. “I just can’t imagine, though, that this is a mistake. There ought to be a way to induce lactation without it affecting your sex drive, I don’t care if it is a lot of milk. I knew mothers who were naturally producing nearly as much as I am now, their breasts were like faucets, and their sex drives didn’t go all haywire.”
“Maybe,” Angie said after a while. “Maybe they did it this way on purpose. Maybe not. But we’ve only got two choices. Is this worse than the alternative?”
Spooned together tightly on Angie’s bunk, Angie’s arms wrapped around Kelly’s waist, she could feel the other woman’s heartbeat against her sensitive breasts. They’d both gotten pumped out just before lights out, but Angie wasn’t sure she could make it until morning without visiting the pumps again. Her milk was coming in more and more every day she was inside the barn. Kelly sighed, and shifted her body, and stroked a hand along Angie’s smooth thigh where it pressed against her flank. God her skin was soft.
“No,” Kelly said. “And it’s not that I don’t like you, or what we do together. It feels amazing. More than amazing. And I need it. I—I want it. I just want you to know . . . I’m not gay. What we do together, what I’ve done with the cows . . . it feels good, I’m not going to lie to you, but I’m not a lesbian, I’m really not. I know that sounds crazy, after everything we’ve done, but it’s true. I hope you’re not upset,” she said after a few moments of silence.
Angie gave a sad chuckle. She sighed, thought about it for a minute, then said, “I’m not gay either. I don’t know what’s worse, that I’m acting like this even though I’m not a lesbian, or that I like fucking you and getting fucked by you so much you never had a clue that I wasn’t gay.” She gave a little sobbing laugh.
“Oh, honey,” Kelly said, and turned in the bunk toward the younger woman, who was barely more than a silhouette in the dark. They hugged, and then kissed, and inside the space of three breaths both their mouths had opened and their tongues were writhing against each other, breath harsh in their ears. Kelly rolled on top of her, and Angie’s thighs opened of their own accord. Kelly began to pull her mouth away, to move it down Angie’s body, but Angie made protesting sounds and briefly broke the kiss.
“No, use your fingers, and keep kissing me,” she gasped into Kelly’s mouth, even as her fingers found their way into Kelly’s slick folds. A tongue wasn’t going to do it tonight, no way.
“
“Yeah, Jack, is that you? It’s Frank Vanderbilt, Vanderbilt Farms.”
“Why hello, Frank, how are you? Haven’t talked to you since the trade show in February.”
“Yeah, that’s sort of why I called. You got a minute?”
“Sure.”
“At the show you were talking about selling a cow or two to some frat boys. How’d that go again?”
“I’ve sold six, I think, in the last four years or so. Wasn’t so sure on the first one, you know, I was worried they might not take proper care of her, but I visited her about eight months later and she was happier than when she was in the barn. I think she finally found enough wood to keep her happy with all those young fellas around. That same frat bought another cow off me last year, and the boys said that first belle was still livin’ at the house, goin’ gangbusters, sort of a legend in her own time. I guess other colleges heard about her. I’ve had more frats calling me than I’ve got cows retiring, and had to refer ‘em to the wholesalers like you sell yours to. They tell me I started a new fad, all the frats want cows now. Bunch of city boys discovering what we knew a hundred years ago, but there you go.”
“You said they wanted the milk as much as the cows?” Frank asked him.
“Yeah. Well, you know how many hormones are in unpasteurized fresh milk, and what it’ll do to a girl if you give her enough of it, and the younger the girl, the more it’ll do, and quicker.”
“Don’t I know it,” Frank muttered.
“Ooh,” he heard Jack. “Sorry, I forgot about that, didn’t mean to . . . .”
“Not your fault,” Frank assured him. “Not anyone’s, really.”
“Right,” Jack said. “Well, I happened to mention that to the boys, and apparently they tried it out, and found out I was telling the truth. They wanted that second belle as much for the milk as anything, not like the first one, but I guess there’s a lot of girls on campus who will drink the stuff. Not sure why, but I never understood women, and it’s too late to start tryin’, I guess. Word’s got out now, about the fresh milk, and I’ve had no end of people calling me, seeing if they can buy some. I hate to tell ‘em no, but you know the law.”
“All milk from licensed, registered cows must be Pasteurized before being sold commercially, and the only milk that can be sold commercially, retail or wholesale, must come from licensed, registered cows.”
“Only exception I know to that is the government itself,” Jack said. “A lot of these folks don’t have the cash for a cow, or the facilities, they just want the milk.”
“I have heard about a blackmarket for baby belles,” Frank said, “but I think that’s more of a big city thing. Born to emancipated or retired stock and sold off, raised in private homes and used for whatever. They’re not registered or regulated, so you couldn’t legally sell their milk, but I hear there’s a big underground market for it. Big. Now that they’re officially a different species, there’s no hard or fast rules for raisin’ ‘em. Doesn’t affect us much, I don’t think, as we’re in the beverage market and I think they’re all about the hormones, but it does get some people in a twist. One of my slappers, he brought in a porno he ran across a couple of months ago, had to show me. If those girls in it weren’t on a heavy freshmilk diet I’ll eat my hat, and he said there’s a lot of ‘em looking like that popping up in porn lately. Not just porn, either, it’s happening everywhere. Not surprised, there’s been emancipated belles in porn for years.”
“Don’t doubt it’s the same people who dress up their women in those rubber and leather outfits that are buying the milk,” Jack said. “I just don’t understand city folk, that’s the problem. What’s the point of putting clothes on a belle?”
“Same as on a regular women, like putting wrapping paper on a present. What’s the government exception on fresh milk?” Frank asked him.
“The Academy girls are raised on fresh milk,” Jack explained. “Between that and the breeding and the training it’s a wonder they can keep their pants on at all. Not that they do, from what I hear, but you know what I’m sayin’.”
“I didn’t know that,” Frank said. “Listen, did you hear about the little government program I got shanghaied into participating in?”
“No, what’s this?” Jack wondered if it was something he’d be burdened with next. Frank explained the dairy diversion pilot program briefly to Jack.
“I don’t really see much sense in it,” Jack said finally. “If you can’t sell the milk, where’s the community service? I think we’d all be better off if they were out digging ditches, picking up trash along the highways or learning an actual job skill. I got grass that needs cuttin’.”
Frank laughed. “That’s what I thought, but we didn’t really have any choice in the matter. These women, they’re not even pumping out but three gallons a day total, but I can’t sell it. Between the drugs they have to take and the LactoMax there’s even more hormones than usual in the milk. I had it tested, and I think a couple of glasses of it would give me teats. But then I thought of you and your frat boys. I know I’ve got a bigger operation, but you’re the one who’s got the contacts with these college kids. I sell off my retiring belles to wholesalers who take ‘em to public auction. Don’t know who they sell ‘em to. Probably that leather and rubber crowd you were talking about. You know anybody who might be interested in about 350 gallons when all is said and done of fresh milk with more than the normal amount of hormones? I may not end up being able to sell it, but I’ll give it away before I throw it away. I’ll get you a finder’s fee.”
“Now don’t insult me by offering me money,” Jack said without rancor. “Three hundred and fifty, huh? How much do you have on hand now?”
“A little under forty, deep frozen. Like I said, they’re pumping out about two and a half gallons a day. Volume’s still inching up, but not enough to make much difference, between now and when they’re kicked out.”
“Okay. Let me think on it a bit, make a few calls, maybe I can get you in touch with someone. The problem ain’t finding people interested, it’s finding someone who can store that much frozen so it doesn’t go bad before it gets used up. How much you looking to make, if you can figure a way to sell it?”
“Anything close to the going rate would be fine. I’m not looking to make much of anything on this, I just hate the thought of throwing away milk when I don’t have to.”
“You and me both. Well, give me a day or two and I’ll call you back.”
“I’d appreciate that, Jack.”
“Hey Frank,” Jack said quickly. “I know you’ve got to have some Thompson/Greens by now. Hell, you probably bought some before I did.”
“Sure. Wasn’t too sure about them at first, thought they might be finicky, like the Stolzkirk’s turned out to be, but now every belle I retire I replace with a T/G.”
“Yeah? How long have you had them?”
“I don’t know. Got the first ones about . . . eighteen months ago.”
“Did you notice any increase in their production after you’d had them a year or so?”
Frank laughed. “You bet your ass I did. I’m still having trouble believing the numbers when I see them. Over forty ounces a teat three times a day and their production keeps inching up. Don’t know how their skinny backs can take the weight. They can’t hardly walk when they’re full. Hope they age well, but I guess they’ve got all day to lay down if their backs are hurtin’ ‘em.”
Jack sounded relieved. “Well, I was wondering if it was just mine, maybe something I’ve got in the water over here. I’ve got one T/G belle, can’t weigh more than eighty pounds empty, she’s averaging forty-eight ounces a teat every seven and a half hours. If I sat down and did nothing but drink beer I don’t think I could make that much water. Who’d a thunk it?”
“Well, your kidneys and bladder and who knows what
else haven’t been worked on by the finest minds in science,” Frank told
him. “The wonders of
modern genetics. God Bless
Panting harshly, Angie reached down between her legs and pulled the cow’s hand out of her dripping folds. They never seemed to know when to stop, and if she came one more time she’d pass out. The pretty cow, one of the tiny ones who sported a freshly shaved head, had hands small enough to fit in places Angie never thought a hand would fit, but she was oh so glad she’d been wrong. The cow knelt on all fours, staring at Angie as she scooted away, blinking slowly, then the big Verheiden behind her bumped her hip. The small cow turned, found the busy threesome didn’t mind a fourth, and put her small hands to work. Angie had to pry her eyes away—she was overdue for milking, had put it off and put it off because she was having so much fun, and now her teats sat like over-inflated balloons on her chest.
They’d grown larger since she’d come to the dairy, however many weeks ago that way, but she’d grown accustomed to the sight and feel of them. The stretchmarks had begun to fade somewhat, although her nipples had swollen and darkened from the regular use of the strong pump nozzles. They still weren’t much larger than the last joint of her middle finger, though, nothing like the thumb-sized nipples of the cows she lived with.
Angie scooted back farther on the padded floor, seeing she’d left a puddle, and watched the cow she’d been playing with start uncontrollably humping another cow’s thigh. Angie knew the feeling. She’d never had a lesbian experience before coming to the dairy, and she still wasn’t even sure this counted. The hormones they had her on made her so horny she literally couldn’t think straight. The few male employees she saw around the barn refused to even touch her. She’d have fucked a chair leg if there hadn’t been any cows. If she could find a chair. It was more a matter of keeping her sanity than choosing an alternate lifestyle. She’d been reluctant at first, but the cows were so open about it, and it went on everywhere, all the time, that it was only a matter of time before all the program volunteers had surrendered to their hormone-induced urges.
Until she became intimate with cows Angie didn’t realize how they could be so different from her as to be a different species. Mentally they weren’t much quicker than dogs, and most of them barely spoke, but it was their unexpected physical strangeness that surprised her. Their teats, of course, were massive, and bulged with veins when full of milk, and shrunk and sagged flat and less than half their former size when empty. And their nipples—like thumbs made of leather. As for sex, it took rapidly thrusting fingers just to get their attention, and everything got wet.
It had taken Angie a while to realize that the big cows, the Verheidens, with their big, sense-dulled brains, didn’t much appreciate delicate or subtle techniques, and her hesitancy wasn’t doing anyone any good. And she’d never been able to get them to be gentler with her probing fingers, but after a few short weeks she found her body reacting differently. Her body became more responsive, and it was taking less and less time and effort for her to get off, not that it had ever taken her that long. She was practically becoming multi-orgasmic, and no longer reacted skittishly when a cow accidentally stuck a finger into the wrong hole. In fact, she had to admit to herself, she didn’t have a ‘wrong’ hole anymore.
She’d been aware of the other program volunteers adjusting to their new life, accepting the slow pace of dairy existence, and the main form of recreation the cows participated in. She and Kelly had turned to each other when their lust became too much to bear in those first few weeks, but as the strangeness of the dairy wore off they spent more and more of their playtime with the herd, until they were with each other only at lights out, on those nights they weren’t exhausted from spending hours in the play area. The other program volunteers had gradually been absorbed into the herd as well, although it had taken some of them more time than others to make the adjustment. Some had resisted much more fiercely than Angie had. Margaret had held out the longest of all. When they’d lasered off her hair she’d protested so much, not just about that but about the “culture of rampant, enforced homosexuality” in the dairy that she’d almost been thrown out of the program. One of the slappers had been about to make the phone call that would have sent her away for good when Margaret suddenly came to her senses, remembering just what her four weeks in jail had been like. When she’d finally become part of the herd, she’d gone all the way.
As Angie stood up on shaky legs, wincing as the weight of her swollen breasts pulled on her chest, she watched Margaret in the middle of the pile of cows on the padded floor. She was roughly corkscrewing her bony hand and wrist in the wet folds of a younger Verheiden, who was on hands and knees and humping her hips backward. Another Verheiden was on its back nearby, and had reached a hand out between Margaret’s legs. The teats of the cow Margaret was fisting hung past her elbows and swayed ponderously, the veins crisscrossing their surfaces as thick as fingers. The wet squelching sounds of Margaret’s fisting weren’t any louder than the noises the other cows around her were making.
“Yeah, fuck it, fuck it,” Margaret growled. Her breasts, small by dairy standards, barely more than D-cups even with all the hormones they’d been taking for weeks, were mashed against the cow’s fleshy buttock and thigh. Margaret turned and looked over her shoulder at the cow who was fingering her. “Give me another finger,” she told the cow, who was being licked enthusiastically by a T/G who was lying on its monstrous teats like they were built-in pillows. The cow around Margaret’s hand was mewling and squirted again, messing the already sloppy floor. Then the cow released its bladder, the stream splashing against Margaret’s lean thigh. Margaret ignored it, having learned the cows had sometimes tenuous control over certain bodily functions when excited.
Margaret noticed one of the dairy’s male employees out of the corner of her eye, a maintenance man with a tool belt around his waist walking by, comfortably out of reach of any of the cows in the play area.
“Bring that cock over here,” Margaret called out to him. Her corkscrewing hand never slowed. “You know you want to. Just pick a hole, any hole.” The man just shook his head and kept walking, a smile on his face.
“Goddammit,” Margaret said, without much feeling. Margaret was the only one among the program participants who still tried to entice the male employees to fuck her. The rest of the women had given it up as hopeless. Her hips twitched and bucked, and Margaret looked down at the thick Verheiden fingers twisting in her. “Christ, that feels good.”
Smelling of sex, Angie made her way to the row of automilkers. She smelled like sex most of the time, she realized, but what did it matter? So did everyone else. While most of the cows were infrequent bathers, none of them were dirty, and Angie didn’t hardly notice the smell anymore.
She found Mary on one of the pumps, eyes closed, her hips swaying gently as the nozzles sucked her teats dry. The other designated pump was occupied by one of the small cows.
The pump wasn’t working for the cow, and finally she climbed off the box. Angie was only five-four, and yet she towered over the Thompson/Green. The T/G had a body like a reed, but teats so huge they looked like balloons tied to a stick.
The belle looked like she wasn’t even old enough to have teats, much less ones that were nearly twice the size of Angie’s when engorged with milk, laced with blue veins that would in time bulge out obscenely. Angie knew from watching that well over half that teat volume was milk, as opposed to her own breasts, which were half the size but produced only a fraction of the milk of the genetically engineered cow.
The T/G moved down the row of milkers and Angie saw that she could see the cow’s teats sticking out to either side past her upper arms. The cow was so skinny it looked like you could put your hands around her waist and have your fingertips touch—how she didn’t have back problems Angie couldn’t say. The cow climbed onto the first unoccupied pump that she came to. Her grape-shaped teats were so large they barely fit into the openings in the top.
Angie climbed onto the pump the cow had vacated. She waited expectantly for the hum to start, the hiss as the nozzles activated and moved toward her nipples, the rhythmic vibration as the machine emptied her of milk. She found herself getting wet in anticipation, like one of those Pavlov dogs. She couldn’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t want to enter this program instead of going to jail, even though she knew she herself used to have reservations. Her only concern now was what would happen at the end of the six month program. But she found it hard to think too long about anything, and all thought entirely left her head as the nozzles sucked on.
Angie sighed, relaxed, and felt her milk let down, and even though she’d just been roughly finger-fucked to four orgasms and was still dripping wet, she could tell it was only going to take her a minute or two to come once again.
DIVERSION—PART 4
“What, you got a girlfriend that ain’t puttin’ out enough?” Randy said with a laugh. He leaned back in the chair and looked around the lunchroom. He and Ben were alone except for Sally, who ignored them as she came in to eat her lunch.
“No, I was just wondering,” Ben said. “I got to thinking about those women you’ve got in here with the cows, who are on hormones and LactoMax, and wondered what effect just LactoMax would have on them. Mr. Vanderbilt said I should talk to one of you guys.”
Sally set a brown paper lunch bag on the table and with it a large, empty plastic cup.
Randy nodded and took a bite of his apple. “Well, it’s an open secret what fresh milk will do to a woman, especially a young one,” he said, “if they drink enough of it. I mean, you’ve heard about Jilly, right?”
“Jilly? You mean Mr. Vanderbilt’s daughter? What about her?”
Jill Vanderbilt spent most of her time out of town, talking to wholesalers and distributors, finding new customers, and generally ensuring Vanderbilt Farms had a steady stream of customers wanting to buy its product. She was a tall, gorgeous young woman with a full head of long, auburn hair. She had some of the largest breasts Ben had ever seen on someone who wasn’t hugely obese or a cow.
Randy smiled, leaned close, and lowered his voice. “She was, I don’t know, eight or nine years old, a little squirrelly short runt of a girl, surrounded by all these cows with their huge teats. Mr. Vanderbilt had, I think, three retired cows living at the house, and at least two of ‘em were still producing at quantity. So Jilly, she heard the rumors about how drinking fresh milk will give you big teats, what every girl wants, so she starts drinking the milk herself. Not all of it, but at least half a gallon a day if it was a drop, and let me tell you, even a pint a day of fresh milk would’ve have paid off big rewards, girl her age. Mr. V, he doesn’t know, he’s at the office most days, he thinks the cows are drinking it themselves, he doesn’t find out until one day he realized his daughter’s got this massive rack and she’s not even eleven years old. So he makes her stop, but the damage is done, she was drinking it every day for close to two years. She got the teats she was looking for, all right, but no one had told her about the other effects.”
“Horny?” Ben asked. He’d only met Jill Vanderbilt a couple of times, and she’d seemed very friendly, but he’d been too busy to remember much else.
Ben idly watched as Sally unzipped the front of her coveralls down to her waist. She wore no clothes underneath, and Ben stared at her four big teats. Each was enclosed by a tight latex sheath very similar in design and purpose to a condom. One by one Ben watched as Sally carefully rolled and slid the milkbags off her teats and upended them over her big plastic cup. Each one held an ounce or two of milk that had leaked out while she worked. There were angry red circles around the base of her teats from the squeezing latex rings, and her teats looked sweaty from being clad in rubber for hours on end, but the retired belle didn’t notice such minor discomforts. Once she’d emptied all four latex sheaths into her cup she laboriously squeezed each of her four breasts, expressing her milk into the big cup.
“Looks just like she’s jerking off, doesn’t it,” Randy said, watching as Sally squeezed each of her teats with both hands from base to nipple, over and over again.
“I was just thinking that,” Ben said. He shifted a little in his seat to make his suddenly tight pants more comfortable. For all the attention Sally paid to them she might have been alone in the room.
“Yeah, Jilly got horny all right,” Randy went on. “As a cow, almost. Caused a lot of problems, a girl her age, you know? Let me tell you, Mr. V was none too happy, but it wasn’t like there was somebody to blame. She did it to herself.”
“Unknowingly.”
“Yep, sort of. I hear rumors that she’s running a string of studs on her property to help keep a damper on her fire, make some extra cash, but those are only rumors. She behaves herself around here, daddy made that real clear to her.”
“As for LactoMax,” Randy said, “you can’t really eat it and not know what it is and what’s in it, and I’ve heard all sorts of stories about women eating it, for all sorts of different reasons. I’ve heard how some will try a short-term LactoMax diet, to trim off some fat or get bigger teats, or both. City women do all sorts of things I can’t make hide nor hair of, fashions and diets and behavior that just don’t make no sense. As for what a steady diet of it would do to a normal female, I’m guessin’ it’s not that much different from fresh milk. I’m sure somebody’s tried it—I know for a fact they have with fresh milk. I wouldn’t be surprised the government’s done some studies or experiments somewhere.”
They both watched as Sally, done expressing milk, rolled new bags over her teats, zipped up her coveralls, and sat down to eat her sandwich and drink her milk. Ben guessed she had over twenty ounces in the big cup.
Randy nodded at Sally. “She ain’t even on LactoMax no more and look what she can still squeeze out.” He tilted his head back and thought. “I bet if you put a normal woman on LactoMax and then put her on the pumps you could get her producing, but just how much I couldn’t say, and really, what’s the point? Got cows for milk. Got cows for the other stuff, too, you get my meaning. Got everything you need, different species or not, and I ain’t sure I even buy that stuff about the species being different. I mean, I don’t know science, but if they’re a different species, we shouldn’t be able to get them pregnant, right? Like dogs and cats? But you can.”
“I don’t know,” Ben said honestly.
Randy shrugged. “I’m gonna do what Bill McGink is.”
“I’ve heard the name,” Ben said, “but I don’t know him.”
“Earl took his job when he retired. He’s bought Sally there,” Randy nodded at her, “and about half a dozen other retired belles so far.” Randy leaned close and lowered his voice. “Then he emancipated ‘em and put ‘em to work, here, Brown Bell. Thing is,” and his voiced dropped even lower, “he didn’t tell them he emancipated them, and they’re too dumb to even think about asking.”
Ben’s eyes went wide. “He didn’t tell them?”
“Well, he told them they were emancipated, but what the hell does a cow know about fancy words? He coulda told them they were fried cheese, all they know.” Randy shrugged, and his eyes darted to Sally. “Don’t see as it makes much difference. Word is they’re going to be getting rid of the whole emancipation process. If they’re a different species, then they’re not people, and there’s no need to free ‘em. Be like emancipating a cat. Doubt half of ‘em could take care of themselves even with some sort of training program, so if someone has to take care of ‘em, be responsible for ‘em, what’s the point of emancipation, you get me?”
“Why’d Bill do it? I mean, if they’re already bought and paid for?”
“Something to do with dependents or deductions or something like that, saves him thousands every year in taxes. He’s got all of ‘em working, scrubbing floors or emptying trash, whatever, all on different shifts, so there’s at least one around to poke if he wants. They do all the housework and he gets to pocket all that cash. That’s what I’m gonna do when I get out of here, I’m saving up the money now for my first belle. Once I put her to work, it won’t take long to get the cash to buy another, and another. You’ve got to have a long term plan,” he told Ben. “Retirement. I don’t trust that stock market.”
“Right,” Ben said.
“Until then,” Randy went on, “Sally here’s spoken for, and Bobbi, but Tink and the rest of the E-mans have no problems spending their breaks or lunch on their hands and knees. Or hanging around after work in the parking lot, if you know what I’m saying. Just as natural to them as breathing, and they don’t play favorites. Hell, most days it takes two or three of us to keep them happy, and I ain’t dumb enough not to help myself when I can.”
“Sure,” Ben said.
“They’re living in some sort of group home for E-mans near Riverdale, get picked up and dropped off by a bus. Got to wonder what they’re doing with all the money they’re making, what I hear is they don’t wear no clothes at the home, and none of ‘em knows what makeup is.”
“Who runs the home?” Ben asked.
“Some retired Academy woman. You should see her, sixty years old if she’s a day and still sex on wheels, I get twinges in my back just thinking about what she’d be like in bed. She could teach those cows a thing or two.”
“They’re all walking around naked, maybe she is,” Ben said. “Tink or the other emancipated belles been doing any new tricks in the parking lot after work?”
Randy’s eyes flew open wide. “So that’s where she got that!”
Leaving the lunchroom, Ben realized he’d left a computer disk inside his car that he needed. He headed towards the side entrance. If he used the side door it would save him a couple of minutes, but he’d have to cut through Charlie house. He’d still been avoiding the cows after all these months, afraid of doing something that would jeopardize his job—when he’d taken the job, he’d been paranoid about being around naked “women”, but none of the cows looked like normal women to him anymore. The Verheidens were too big all over (honestly, he found them a bit scary and intimidating), and the Thompson/Greens were built like grapes stuck on Popsicle sticks. He figured that as long as he kept moving he wouldn’t be able to get into trouble. He was looking back over his shoulder at the cows’ busy play area when he ran into a belle, sending her bowl of food flying.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said automatically, looking at the food all over the concrete floor.
“It was my fault, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” the cow said.
Ben’s head jerked up, and saw she wasn’t a cow at all, but rather one of the diversion program participants. She was young, with blonde stubble on her head and two breasts that were small for a cow but were huge and at the same time amazingly high and firm for a woman. She was looking at him with an interested expression, her mostly empty food bowl resting on one hip, and if she remembered she was naked she gave no sign.
Ben knelt down, avoiding her gaze, and began collecting the brown kibble. The young woman squatted down next to him and set the bowl down, and the two of them began tossing the scattered food into the bowl.
“Thank you. I haven’t seen you in here before,” she said, looking at Ben intently.
“I spend most of my time in the front office,” he said, keeping his eyes on his job. He could just see her feet out of the corner of his eye. “I was just cutting through.”
“What do you do?”
Ben was having one hell of a time not staring at her as she squatted next to him, totally unconcerned with her body. It shouldn’t have surprised him, he supposed—she’d been living naked with the cows for over two months already, and there was no such thing as privacy living in a barn
“I’m an accountant,” he told her.
“You look young to be an accountant,” she said.
Ben blushed, and risked a quick glance at her. She was smiling. “I’m twenty-three,” he told her.
“I’m Angie,” she said. “But you probably already know that, if you do the records.”
Ben stopped, tilted his head, and looked at her face. “I’m Ben,” he said absently, studying her. “Do I know you?” he asked. Her face looked familiar, but the stubble on her head and the trying not to look at her body threw him off.
She looked at him, not sure if he was serious or playing a game. “I don’t think so.”
“You look familiar,” he told her. “What high school did you go to?”
“
“Class of ’99,” he told her. “I must have seen you there. I’m not surprised you don’t recognize me, I spent the whole time with my face buried in books.”
Angie smiled a little sadly. “I guess I probably should be embarrassed,” she said, gesturing at herself, “that someone recognized me here.” She stayed where she was, in her spread-leg squat.
Angie remembered a life before the dairy, wearing clothes, being shy and embarrassed about everything, boys, her body, the awkward fumbling in cars, but it seemed like a half-forgotten movie. Right now she was hungry, and it was time to eat. When she was done eating, she’d find a cow or three that wanted to play, and tame the fire between her legs for a while. After that, she’d need to be pumped out, and then it would be time to eat again. It seemed like that had been her life forever, and she didn’t really mind it. She liked it, actually, although she got a little bored sometimes, and wished she had someone to talk to. This guy, Ben, he was something new in her routine. He was handsome, and smelled good, and obviously he was interested. If only . . . .
“What’d you do?” he asked her.
“You don’t know?” she asked him. He shook his head.
She made a face. “Shoplifting,” she told him. “And not the first time. I was such an idiot. I can’t even remember why I did it.”
“And how are you . . ?” He gestured in the general direction of her body, then around the dairy. He’d almost been too afraid to ask the question, but she seemed so open.
“I’m barely controlling myself from jumping on you,” she said honestly. “Every four hours turn on the faucet and I’m a milk fountain. Three times a day I eat. The rest of the time I’m like a bitch in heat, and all I can think about right now is the cock in your pants and what it would feel like inside me.” Her voice came out in a near growl. Angie shocked herself with her language, but none of it was untrue, and as she stared at him she didn’t regret a word of it. If he ran away, so be it, she wasn’t going to fake it, not in here. She stared at him intensely, daring him with her eyes. “You ever see a dog hump a leg?” she asked him. “They’re that horny, they need to hump something, anything? I’ve got it that bad. We all do.” She stared at the crotch of his pants, wondering what he looked like.
He cleared his throat and looked away. “Well, um, I guess I better go, then,” he said nervously, then looked back up into her eyes. He swallowed nervously, but didn’t move. He suddenly realized just how strong she smelled—not bad body odor per se, she just smelled like all natural girl, and pussy. Lots of pussy, with a milk undertone.
“Yeah,” she said. Ben kept his eyes locked on hers. There was hunger in them, and loneliness. Neither of them made a move to get up. Finally she told him, “You’d better go. I know you’re not allowed to touch us, and I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
She grabbed the refilled bowl and forced herself to stand. She could feel the wetness between her legs, and wanted to touch herself, but instead just looked down at him. Ben took a deep breath, then stood. They stared into each other’s eyes.
“I miss having someone to talk to,” she told him. “No TV, no radio, nothing to read, sometimes it gets a little boring. If you want to, come by some time when I’m on the pump, then you won’t have to worry about me grabbing you. I won’t have to worry about me grabbing you, as long as you don’t stand too close. I try to keep to a schedule, every four hours starting about eight in the morning. It takes me about fifteen minutes to get pumped out.”
“Okay,” Ben said, his voice cracking. Then she turned and he watched her go. He finally remembered to breathe.
“Exactly how much milk are the program participants producing?” Ned Pickering asked Frank Vanderbilt, standing in his office.
“That’s what you wanted a meeting for?” Vanderbilt said. “You could have called on the phone.”
“I needed to check on the women anyway,” Pickering told him. “They’re due for their monthly appraisal, and Snyder’s out with a bad cold. I presume you’re keeping track, or your pumps do.”
“Sure,” Frank told him. “Between the six of them they’re producing about three gallons a day, almost sixty ounces apiece.”
Pickering looked surprised. “Really. That seems quite a lot. My superiors will be pleased.”
Frank shook his head. “They’ve made huge strides on the genetic side of things in the last decade or so. Occasionally they make missteps, but . . . .”
The government man didn’t like to hear that his employer wasn’t perfect. “Missteps how?”
Frank shrugged. “They were doing some hormone experiments quite some time ago, in utero, and I guess they did them too early in the pregnancy or something. I’m not sure, but what they got was a whole mess of Verheidens that had unremarkable production but remarkable attributes.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, instead of their teats, another part of their anatomy grew big, the kind that you could definitely tell if that cow was happy to see you.”
“What?” Pickering frowned, then got Vanderbilt’s meaning. “Oh! Really?”
Frank nodded. “Slappers call ‘em Verhangers. I didn’t get any of that batch myself, but I hear they’re very popular with the other cows. Going to be getting close to retirement age pretty soon. But anyway, in regards to milk production, I’ve got some Thompson/Greens that look like they’re going to be producing five gallons a day apiece by the time they’re done maturing,” Frank told him. “They’re already doing forty ounces per teat three times a day—that’s thirty pounds of milk. You cut their teats off and none of the T/Gs would break a hundred pounds. That means they’re producing their own weight in milk every three days. There’s no way your volunteers could compete with that. Why does the government care? I thought the FDA, FDOC, whoever, didn’t care about their milk, that it was only a side-effect of the lesson they were being taught, or something.”
Pickering chose not to answer the question, instead asking, “What are you doing with their milk? Are you throwing it away?”
“Well,” Vanderbilt said, knowing it was legally none of the government representative’s business, but no wishing to irritate the man, “actually, I’m donating it and using it as a tax write-off, since I can’t sell it.”
“Really?” Pickering seemed intrigued. “Donating it to who?”
“The local junior college. They buy all the milk in their cafeterias from us anyway, so we’ve got a relationship. Their cooking students are going to use the fresh milk to make ice cream, butter, cheese, that kind of thing. I don’t have that many options since it can’t be sold to consumers.”
Pickering nodded, took out a small spiral notebook, and jotted down a few sentences.
“Is there a problem?” Vanderbilt asked him, keeping the nervousness out of his voice. Pickering waved a hand.
“Oh no,” the government rep said. “It’s just that the program administrators are a lot like you—they hate to be wasting something they could be making money on. Admittedly, the pilot program volunteers don’t produce nearly as much as actual cows, but there are two hundred women in the pilot program in this state alone, which is sure to expand, and other stated are thinking of establishing similar programs.”
“I’d hate to think I’ve been helping the government figure out a way to compete with me,” Frank said, not sure where Pickering was going with this.
“No, no,” Pickering said absently. ‘You’re right, unless the laws change, and that’s not likely to happen, not with so many dairy-belt senators up for re-election, you can’t sell non-certified, non-pasteurized milk commercially in this country, homo lactilus-derived or otherwise.
“But here’s the rub: now that the pilot program’s actually been established, and it’s very likely to become a standard part of adult and juvenile diversion, my bosses have started to wonder what’s in store for the program participants once their six months are up. We will have provided them with no new job skills, only a distracting physical condition that will take some time to go away. In fact, some of the scientists are saying that some of the physiological changes might be permanent, which is not what they were saying before the program started. Something about the interaction of LactoMax with their hormone supplements amplifies some of the effects.”
“Which changes?” Frank asked.
“Breast size, sexual drive, that kind of thing” Pickering said. He didn’t seem too concerned. “And then there’s the bodyhair laser depilation most of them have undergone, which my supervisors are now thinking they should not have authorized. Be that as it may, from all the reports we’re getting across the state, from other pilot program sites, the females don’t seem to particularly mind their condition.”
“I wouldn’t exactly say that, and I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”
“What I’m saying,” Pickering said, “was that if there was a way to legally sell the milk they’re producing, some, perhaps most of these program participants might elect to continue lactating in quantity. Most of them are young, have no real job skills, have criminal records. A study has been commissioned, a survey, to ask the volunteers that very question. If, once their debt to society was paid, they could get paid for the milk they were making, would they continue? Not live in a dairy, of course, but go somewhere, like the milk version of a blood bank, and donate?”
“But it’s not legal,” Frank said. “And even if it might be considered, there’s no way the FDA would approve of selling that milk in the US—it’s so laced with hormones even after pasteurizing it’s got more than half as much as lactilus fresh milk. We tested it, just to see.”
Pickering nodded appreciatively at Vanderbilt’s gumption. “You’re right, of course,” Pickering said. “But at headquarters I’m hearing two words which just might solve every one of these issues.”
“What two words.”
“Third World.”
“The Third World?”
Ben nodded. “That’s his proposal, but it’s never going to work.”
“Why not?”
Ben looked down at Angie laying across the boxy automilker. If he looked close enough he could see faint tremors in her skin from the rhythmic thumpthumpthump as the machine drained her of milk. After five months without the sun she’d lost what little tan she’d had, and her skin was milky white. She’d head her head shaved again recently, and the short blonde stubble was invisible against her scalp. He was getting so he kind of liked it. He wanted to run his hand across her smooth skull, and had to clench them both into fists to stop himself. He was standing too close to her, again, but he just couldn’t stop himself.
“Economics,” Ben told her, refocusing. “One thing I know, it’s numbers, and unless they want to run the program at a loss, they couldn’t afford to pay the women more than five or ten bucks a day. For four or five trips a day to a milking center? Even if you were unemployed and had the time you’d still barely break even once you paid for your gas.”
“Oh.” Angie sounded disappointed, and depressed.
“What’s the matter?”
She laid her cheek on her forearms and looked up at him. “It’s just—I don’t know what I’m going to do when I get out of the program,” she told him, voicing her biggest fear. “I don’t have any job skills, and I’ve got a criminal record . . . when you started telling me about this idea, where I could get paid for my milk, it sounded perfect for me, at least for a while, maybe until I could get some money together and start taking classes at the community college.”
“Oh.”
Angie shifted on the machine, wiggling her hips a little. “God I’ve got it bad today,” she said. “I’m dripping down my thighs again. Do you know how horny you have to be, how wet, for it to start dripping down your legs? Can you just give me a couple of fingers real quick? No one will know. I’ll come in like two seconds. You could do whatever you wanted, you know. Until the nozzles let go it’s like I’m tied down. Whatever you wanted,” she repeated in a growling voice. She reached a hand out and squeezed his hard shaft through his pants. “You know you want to.”
Every time they talked now she begged him to touch her, or worse. Usually worse. Months of hormones, of living naked and playing with cows, had rid her of any inhibitions she might have once had. She couldn’t really remember if she used to have some. Now, if it felt good, cows did it, and she was a cow, so she did it too. She felt that way at least—she might not be producing as much milk as them, or have as many teats, but that was the only difference. It was liberating in a way she never could have imagined, and when she finally let go of whatever it was she was holding onto, the sex got even better, as impossible as she thought that might be. The other day she’d come so hard she’d peed all over the Verheiden between her legs, and neither of them had paused half a second.
Ben looked down at her. He didn’t think she was getting hornier, he doubted that was possible, but it seemed lately as if she’d finally shed the last traces of her human social constraints and sexual identity and reverted entirely to behaving as if she were a cow. It also seemed she’d begun to develop feelings other than lust for him, although maybe his own feelings for her were clouding his judgment.
Ben took a step back, so that her hand fell off the lump in his trousers. “I also want to keep this job,” he told her, and not for the first time. Not that she was wrong, it was torture to have to stand next to her, while she came no less, and usually more than once, and not be able to touch her. He jerked off every night to the mental image of her on the autopump, and he’d begun smelling the barn, and her, in his sleep. “You know I want to,” he half-apologized. “At least when you climb off you can go find a cow to play with. I’ve got to go back to work.”
“Do you jerk off thinking about me?” Angie asked him, her voice heavy. “About fucking me, spanking my ass, shoving your hard cock down my throat while I lay here? Huh?” She was panting.
Ben was startled at how easily she’d read his mind, and took another half-step back, but then decided it didn’t take a genius to figure out how he felt about her, his hard cock was practically in her face as she knelt across the boxy pump. He’d drop trou and bang her as she knelt atop the machine in a second if he thought he wouldn’t be fired. He cleared his throat. “Every night,” he said quietly. His fantasy life was quite extensive, and she was the star.
“This feels so good, I almost wish I didn’t have to stop milking when I get out of the program,” she said wistfully. It was true—she never felt more at peace than when she was lying atop the automilkers, having her breasts sucked. And she usually came at least twice—her nipples were directly connected to her clit now, and the change seemed permanent.
“You don’t,” Ben said. “If you keep eating LactoMax, I’m not sure how much, it’ll keep your milk up. Even without the LactoMax, as long as you kept pumping, your milk would stay in. I don’t think you’d be producing as much milk, even still eating the LactoMax, but I’m not sure . . . .”
“It’s not getting the milk in, it’s pumping it out that’s the problem,” Angie told him. “What am I supposed to do, live here?”
“They sell portable pumps.”
“Those don’t hardly work at all. We used those at the jail that first week when our milk came in, before we came here.”
“Government issue?” Ben said with a laugh. “They probably didn’t work right even when they were new. Lowest bidder junk. They make good portable pumps that work just as well as these,” he said, nodding at the autopump she was atop. “They’re just not quite as quick. I’ve seen some of the retired belles that work around here using portables, and they don’t have any complaints.”
“Oh.” She was quiet for a while. “Would I stay this horny if I was just eating LactoMax?”
“I don’t know,” Ben said. “Would you want to stay this horny?”
Angie didn’t answer for a time, instead looking off into the distance. Then her eyes focused and she shook her head. “Oh, what am I thinking about? I’m going to have to get a job! I can’t be pumping four or five times a day. Especially when I’d want to fuck after every milking. During. Even women with babies can’t stay home all the time, what excuse would I use?” She sobbed, and Ben saw two fat tears roll down her cheeks. The pump shut off then, and she reluctantly pushed herself upright on her knees.
Angie’s nipples had enlarged from the pumps over the past few months, and they were an angry red from the fresh suction. They weren’t near as sensitive as they used to be, but that only meant they didn’t get sore after a day full of suction nozzles and pinching fingers. Even drained of milk her breasts were as firm as most young women her age, and jiggled nicely when she moved. When she was ready to be milked, her breasts felt and looked to her like volleyballs on her chest—if she wasn’t at least a F-cup Angie would have been surprised, although she could hardly remember what a bra looked like.
As much as he liked her, and wanted her, Ben was a realist—behind those big tits and incredible sex drive, Angie was still just a loser with no job skills and a criminal record. Making any commitments to her—which was just one of the many things he fantasized about at night, dick in hand—was risky. No, not risky, dumb. Thinking with the little brain, textbook definition. But so what?
“Well,” he said slowly, “when you complete the program, if this new Third World scheme is still up in the air, maybe you could stay with me.” He figured he was entitled to make his own mistakes in life, and it wasn’t like he had delusions about the nature of their relationship. Angie looked at him, surprise and hope in her eyes.
“I don’t know how it’ll work out,” he told her honestly. “Outside of here, when you’re out of the program, and I can actually . . . touch you, I don’t know if things’ll change between us. But I like you.”
Angie’s eyes were big and looked wet. She blinked, looked down, and then back up at him. “I like you too. I can’t even imagine what it’s going to be like for me when I get out of here. I can’t hardly remember what the outside world is like. I could stay with you?”
After a pause, Ben nodded.
Angie looked at him, swallowed, and said, “You probably should put me on a strict diet of LactoMax when I get out of here. To help keep me the way I am. To keep my milk up.”
Ben nodded. “Right. And I can lend you the money for one of those portable pumps, they’re not too expensive.”
“You’d do that for me?” she asked him. “You really would? Let me live with you?”
Ben looked at her, nodded, and a faint smile spread across his face. “Like you said, I’d like to keep you the way you are. In every way. And I wasn’t thinking we were going to be sleeping in separate bedrooms. Just because I haven’t touched you in here doesn’t mean I’m a Boy Scout. I want you to still . . . well, still act like a cow, and I’m not talking about lactating.”
Angie’s face lit up in a huge smile. “I can’t wait to feel what it’s like to be fucked while being pumped out,” she told him. “You’re going to get so much more than you bargained for.” A tear ran down her cheek, and then she impulsively leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the nose.
DIVERSION—PART 5
Ben pulled the Mutabrok Berserker into the garage and shut off the engine, then climbed out and stretched. The big SUV still smelled new, even with the door closed. With its factory 35-inch tires, 12 inches of ground clearance, and ability to ford 42-inch deep streams, the massive vehicle was so much more than what he needed, but he’d wanted it, and for once in his life he could afford to buy what he wanted. He walked out into the driveway, looking out at the new subdivision. Some of the distant houses didn’t even have lawns yet, but the ones on his street had been occupied for almost two years. Ben heard a hum, and looked over to see the back end of a van emerging form the garage next door.
When the front end of the van cleared the corner of the house, Julia rolled down her window. “Hi, Ben,” she called out warmly, giving him a big smile. She hit the remote to close the garage door. He gave a little wave.
“Going to pick the kids up from school?” he asked her.
“They’re staying with Bill’s parents tonight,” she told him with a twinkle in her eye. “So don’t be concerned if you hear any loud noises coming from the house tonight.” She laughed and began backing down the driveway again, and he gave another wave. He knew a few of his neighbors as well as he did Julia and Bill, but there were just as many who gave him hard stares as they drove by. Such was life.
With that thought, a big smile creased his face, and
he glanced back over his shoulder at the garage. He noticed his wife’s car was gone, and
checked his watch.
He’d only been out in the front yard a few minutes, studying the grass to see if he needed to fertilize it yet, when he saw his wife pulling up in her Camry. She zipped into the garage, flashing him a smile, and practically bounced out of the car.
“You’re home early,” Angie said happily.
“I had to visit Lopton today, check out their new wing, and there wouldn’t have been enough time to head back to the office.” He eyed his wife appreciatively.
Angie’s blonde hair hung straight and not quite to her shoulders. She wore a simple flowered print summer dress, with a pleated, calf-length skirt gathered at the waist with a belt. Even the loose, patterned fabric couldn’t camouflage her figure, not that she was trying to hide it. She never tried to hide it.
“Aren’t you running late?” Ben asked her, as Angie undid the belt at her waist. She was standing between the two vehicles inside the garage. The dress ballooned out, completely disguising her shape.
“Yes,” she emphatically agreed. “It took longer at the mall picking out shoes than I thought, and then there was a huge accident on the freeway.” She grabbed the loose fabric of her dress with both hands and lifted it over her hands even as she turned toward the house. Other than her high heels she was nude underneath. “Plus, I drank a huge Diet Coke,” she said, starting to walk away. “I’m about to pop.’ Ben, watching his wife’s shapely backside disappear into the house, quickly hurried after her.
Ben knew very well that it was a combination of both
luck and skill that had gotten him to where he was now.
Inmates were rarely paid more than pennies a day for their labor, money they were only allowed to spend inside the prisons and jails anyway, on toiletries, magazines, or other small luxury items. And inmates had nothing but time on their hands, every minute of their every day was already regulated for them, so in effect they were already on a diet and a schedule. As a way of making money without having to actually work, it seemed every woman in prison under the age of sixty wanted to enter the new FDA/FDOC LactAid Program. The FDOC administered it, and the FDA supervised it. Even after weeding out those applicants who were either physically or emotionally unfit to participate, there were always more applicants than openings, even though the program seemed to be continually expanding. He knew expanding the number of participants meant more money in everybody’s pockets, and that was the driving force behind everything, he’d known that forever. LactoMax manufacturers were making a tidy profit off the program, as were the autopump manufacturers who had leased the pumps to the prisons. FDOC paid the prisoners for their milk (at a fraction the going rate for commercial product, but it was still more than they could make working in the prison laundry, and with a lot less effort on their part), and then turned it over to the U.S. government, which either sold the milk at reduced cost to Third World nations or gave it away as part of foreign aid packages as a sign of American goodwill. Everyone was happy.
Fully thirty-two percent of this state’s female
prison population was participating in the program, which had only been in
existence not quite seven years. Over
fifty percent qualified for the program, but again, they had more applicants
than openings. Nationally the
participating percentage was lower, closer to twenty-five percent, but the
As the liaison between the FDA and FDOC for the Midwest Region, and one of the senior members of the advisory panel which briefed the Secretary of Agriculture on a regular basis, Ben pulled a lot of weight. It had been his idea to separate the LactAid Program participants from the general population in each correctional facility. He knew more than most how the hormones affected the women, and they needed to be around others who could sympathize and help them, not take advantage of their condition or belittle the choice they’d made. That recommendation had got him noticed, and helped put him in the position he was now, driving a new car, living in a new house bigger than the one he’d grown up in. It was the American Dream.
Ben found Angie lying across the full-size automilker, which they’d positioned next to the recliner in the family room. She could watch TV while using it, if she so desired, and they covered it with a decorative tablecloth whenever they had family over so that it looked like a boxy endtable. Apart from her chest, which no one with eyes could fail to spot no matter what she wore, Angie and Ben did their best to appear normal and fit into suburbia, shopping at the mall and going to barbeques at the neighbors. But the truth was something else, and sometimes hard to hide.
Angie, true to her word, had continued on her diet of LactoMax after getting out of the program and moving in with Ben. The hormone pills had stopped, and her milk production had dropped by a third, but her sex drive only decreased slightly. That caused her some frustration early on, what with Ben at work during the day, but they’d managed. She used a portable breast pump for several years, but never liked it as much as the stationary ones she’d first used at Vanderbilt. If she’d stopped pumping entirely, and maybe gone to see a doctor, she might have stopped lactating entirely, but the thought never occurred to her.
One day Ben saw an advertisement for used industrial equipment, and on a hunch stopped by the place on his way home from work. They had an old but quite serviceable stationary automilker. It had taken Ben a few days to get it installed and wired correctly, with the hoses draining into a jug in the base instead of a central tank like at the dairy. Ben had been afraid Angie would find it no different than her portable pump (thinking perhaps her memory was playing tricks on her), but she’d been ecstatic, and said it worked and felt so much better than the small, table unit. It had to be serviced every six months or so, but the small hassle was worth it. Ben had done the modifications to the machine himself.
Ben stood behind her in the family room, staring at her body lying across the autopump. Angie had noticeably slimmed down since those days at Vanderbilt Farms. Not that she’d been fat then, but time, a steady diet of LactoMax, and a turbocharged metabolism had trimmed the fat from her body until her arms and legs were long and lean and when she coughed she displayed six-pack abs.
Angie ate nothing but LactoMax Green Plus three meals a day, six and sometimes seven days a week. LactoMax Green was a newer mix, specially formulated for Thompson/Green belles with their lower body weight. Domperidone, prolactin, HGH—Ben couldn’t even remember all the drugs that enriched it, and the Plus formulation featured an even higher hormone content for belles who were having production issues. She and Ben liked to go out on Friday and Saturday nights, but she found regular food now tended to upset her system after so many years on LactoMax.
“God, I’m so fucking hot,” Angie said, working her hips from side to side as she knelt across the humming pump. She reached back with both hands and spread her asscheeks, and looked at him over her shoulder through a veil of blonde hair. “What are you doing way back there?”
Angie had told Ben not long after they’d met that she’d been a shy, reserved, inhibited person before participating in the diversion program. At the time, Ben could hardly believe it, but the fact that she’d been nude at the time, aroused, and smelling of sex had tended to skew his perspective.
Angie surprised herself quite a few times with Ben, those first months they lived together. She’d thought at the time that having sex with the barn cows was a necessity forced on her by her own turbocharged libido, the daily milking schedule an inconvenience, but once out of the program and off the hormone pills . . . not much changed. She found herself still wanting and doing things that before living in the barn she would never have considered. She didn’t know if it was the hormones or the day-to-day life in the barn which had changed her, but she didn’t really care. Originally she ate the LactoMax in part because she wanted to stay as horny as she had been in the barn, if only to fulfill her end of the deal she’d made with Ben. She’d worried that once she was back in the outside world that, even eating LactoMax, she’d lose her sex drive, or most of it, but that had not been the case. Whatever inhibitions she might have once had (she couldn’t really remember what they might have been) had been effectively killed off with six months of nudity, hormones, and group sex with the cows. She kept eating LactoMax because she wanted to—she wanted to keep milking, it turned her on and satisfied her in ways she couldn’t describe, that were only partly sexual. Being forced to live like a cow, a slave to her teats, aroused every part of her mind and body. She kept a count of her volume, trying to think up ways to increase it. As the years passed the percentage of LactoMax in her diet went up, until the amount of regular food she consumed dropped nearly to zero. Then one day she heard Ben talking about the new synthetic hormone they were experimenting with at the FDA.
“Come on, don’t make me beg,” Angie growled at him, still holding her ass cheeks apart. Her pussy was a glistening oval slit, and above it winked the tiny pucker of her asshole. Ben saw that the insides of her thighs were wet with her juices, and then the mouth of her pussy visibly clenched as she orgasmed. Angie grunted, and her head bobbed, but her hands didn’t move.
Cows were genetically engineered to mature early, and produce high volumes of milk no matter what their diet, but the hormones in LactoMax did boost their production by ten to twenty percent annually, studies had shown. Studies and tests were always ongoing in an effort to boost milk production in cows. These ranged from varying veteran cows’ fluid intake to see how it affected their production to testing experimental synthetic hormone derivatives on immature cows.
One such experimental drug showed great promise. Unlike prolactin, which stimulated milk-producing teat cells, or domperidone, which tricked the body into producing more prolactin, this synthetic hormone actually created new milk-producing cells inside the teat. The scientists were very excited, although as yet the trials had produced erratic results. The younger the cow the more pronounced the effect of the drug, but the results were not yet consistent or predictable, and until the doctors could come up with something reliable enough to be recommended commercially they would continue to do more tests. Some immature cows didn’t respond at all to the hormone, while others, who had years to go before they should have begun producing, immediately began lactating. Ben had read the report—one sixty-two pound immature T/G who’d been administered the drug was shortly producing six gallons of milk a day—just getting her enough to eat and drink was tough, and her body temperature hovered around 103. Angie had worked on Ben for months to get some of the hormone for herself. He’d resisted, telling her that because she wasn’t even a cow, the results would be even more unpredictable.
“What do you want me to do?” Angie half-begged him. “I’ll do it.”
“Oh, I know you will,” Ben said with a little laugh. This was an old game for them, but one that neither of them tired of. He began to undress.
Instead of shrinking as she lost bodyfat, Angie’s teats actually increased in size. Because her body was so slender, under clothes her teats didn’t appear as massive as they actually were, but the fact was that when she was full of milk, her teats were as big as her head, and would overflow a G-cup bra, not that she wore many bras. Not only did 34-G bras have to be custom made, when she was full of milk her teats were as firm as tire rubber, and when they were empty Ben liked to see them jiggle, and she did as she was told, wore what he said to wear, although her nipples were so prominent from the pump suction they got more attention than her teats. After six months in the barn without wearing any clothes at all, Angie had gotten out of the habit, and never really gotten back in.
Ben figured that she had to have a lower fat content in her teats as well, because in the years since they’d first met her production had more than doubled. Her teats were bigger, but they hadn’t doubled in size. In the barn she’d been milking five ounces per breast, five times a day, but she’d been taking the hormone pills as well as eating LactoMax. After three years on LactoMax Blue, and then two on LactoMax Green, her production had increased to seven ounces per teat four times a day—seven for four, as the dairy farmers liked to say. And then Ben had given in to her, and gotten a sample of the synthetic hormone.
“You better stick that fucking cock in me soon,” Angie growled, her whole body shuddering as she came again. She had dipped the middle finger of one hand into her wet folds and then slid it into her asshole. She was working it side to side, stretching herself out for a second finger soon to come.
“Yeah?” Ben said with an evil smile. He stepped to the back of the autopump and flicked the control switch from AUTO to MANUAL. Now the nozzles wouldn’t cease their suction until the pump was manually shut off. He then grabbed her free hand, laid it along her back next to the first, snagged the Velcro strap they’d installed on the machine and cinched it tight across Angie’s lower back. Her hands were completely trapped. Then he grabbed the cup where it sat between her knees, pressed it tight between her legs, and flicked the AUX switch. The cup grabbed hold decisively, with no hiss of escaping air.
“Oh God,” Angie said, shuddering.
The cup was made of heavy duty thick plastic with a rim padded with rubber. In shape, it resembled a man’s protective sports cup, except for the black rubber hose leading from it into the pump. The cup completely enclosed Angie’s vagina, and the intense suction from the pump, if he left the cup in place long enough, would turn her sex into a swollen ball of flesh the size of a scrotum, tingling and sensitive, that jiggled when she walked. Once, she remembered, on her birthday, he’d kept her on the hoses like this for three hours. Her pussy had stayed swollen for a day.
The synthetic hormone had more than doubled the amount of milk Angie produced. Within two months she was going twelve for six, producing over a gallon of milk a day from her teats. And they were her teats, she didn’t use the word ‘breasts’ any more. Cows had teats. She drank about half her milk, and Ben occasionally had a glass or two, in addition to what he occasionally drew directly from the tap during sex. He didn’t want to drink too much—even though he was long past puberty, enough of the hormones could start to affect him. He’d seen the confidential report about what large quantities of fresh milk would do to young girls, but there were no surprises there for him. What was news was what it would do to young boys and children in the womb. Pregnant women were told to avoid fresh milk, and for good reason. It would turn normal girl fetuses into homo lactilus, although that little fact was a closely guarded secret. Male fetuses exposed to fresh milk hormones in the womb experienced galactorrhea, spontaneous lactation, and hermaphroditism, and enough fresh milk could cause genital alteration in boys as old as eight. Apparently, male-to-female transsexuals swore by fresh milk. As much as Ben liked breasts, he didn’t want any of his own.
The hormone didn’t seem to have any affect on Angie’s sex drive, which was just as well, she was already more than Ben could handle, but if anything she seemed to get even kinkier. She wanted to be tied down during sex, and while being pumped out. She filmed herself masturbating, and copied the movies onto CDs for his laptop so he’d have something to watch when he had to go out of town for work. She stopped wearing clothes around the house, and never wore underwear. She insisted on drinking his ‘milk’, not wanting it to go to waste. And then there was Mabel.
“Mister Ben?”
Hopping on one foot while he pulled off his socks, Ben turned to see Mabel walking through the kitchen toward them. She looked like she’d just woken up, as the hair on the side of her head was flattened.
Mabel was the main reason Ben no longer worried about how Angie was handling her supercharged libido while he was gone at work during the day. They’d bought the retiring Verheiden about three years earlier, and while she’d been pricey, they’d never regretted spending the money. Most of the ‘Verhangers’, as they were called, were put up for auction and went for outrageous sums. Ben hadn’t had to bid for Mabel, but he’d still paid double what a normal Verheiden would cost. The curving, four-inch clit looked like a toy penis between her, thick, wide thighs, but Angie could attest that the big cow was more than able to get the job done with her little tool, which was hard more often than not no matter what the cow was doing.
“Fuck her!” Angie barked out. “Fuck her in front of me!” And then she grunted as she came again, her hips humping the air. Inside the clear cup, her flesh had begun to swell and darken.
“Don’t make me gag you,” Ben half-scolded her. She didn’t mind being gagged one bit.
“Time to play?” Mabel asked, reaching down to stroke her already hard clit. It looked just like a small penis, and only the fact that Ben knew she was female, and could see her vagina just below the oversize clit, kept him from getting weirded out about it. There was barely enough room for the three of them in the SuperKing-size bed, but Angie wouldn’t have it any other way, and Ben had to admit he’d come to see the benefits of sharing his bed with two horny females, although extra sleep wasn’t one of them. He’d had some second thoughts about bringing another female into the house, but Angie had never displayed a second’s worth of jealousy, and the thought of the big cow keeping his wife occupied while he was at work didn’t bother Ben at all.
Mabel was still producing three and a half gallons a day, and her big, pale teats were crisscrossed with huge veins and hung down to her waist. Most of her milk had been going to waste, until they’d moved into the new neighborhood and Julia had seen they owned a cow.
Cows were a rarity in suburbia, and many people not familiar with the rural way of life would look down on you or be disgusted if they found out you owned a cow, but stories about the magical effects of fresh milk on women had been around for centuries. Julia had heard them, and was young and wild enough to want to see if they were true. After six months Julia was ten pounds lighter, her breasts had grown one full cup size, and her sex drive had doubled to hear her tell it. One thing women do is talk about diets, exercise, and men, and now Angie had a regular women’s group, eight local women plus Julia, who divvied up the four plus gallons a day she and Mabel produced. Either they didn’t have the money to buy their own cows, were too jealous to have another ‘woman’ in their house, or too concerned with what other people might think, but all the women were happy with the results of their secret freshmilk diet. Their husbands were greatly appreciative as well.
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