Gromet's PlazaTransformation Stories

Milstre Ranch

by JustK

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© Copyright 2021 - JustK - Used by permission

Storycodes: M/f; F/f; transform; cowgirls; hucow; lactate; milking; bodymod; fantasy; machine; rope; piercing; farm; majick; trick; reluct; XX

In the hidden Kingdom of the Master every sexual act creates raw magical power. Power that fuels a culture of kink and contractual slavery. Power that allows all those within to practice their wildest fantasies…

Five hundred points promises the advert. One month of work, room and board included. Keep any points you earn on the side. Not a bad deal you think. Almost too good to be true. But you’ve got a friend to buy, a slave who works at the local jeweler. She’s prettier than you, but you’re certain you can make a good duo; offer yourselves up to a green little lordling or some new to the business Mistress and bring in a haul of points. Trained pairs are ‘in’ right now. And who knows? Maybe if you earn enough extra while working here you could buy her and a slave to compliment, then sell them both and come out on top. Endless possibilities… as long as you have the money.

Five hundred. One month. Easy choice.

Much to your annoyance you travel by coach; there’s no other means this far from the closest ring and naturally you had to pay. You wonder if the ranch will reimburse you. The journey takes hours and that initial niggle of worry, that fear of being somewhere so open, endless venues of grass dotted only by the occasional tree, manor house, tended field and that one massive boulder, is squashed by utter boredom. The city truly has it all with its clustered buildings and endless adverts, its public displays and easy money, depending on how daring you were. Its sheer mass of people.

But the journey ends all the same as you hear the now-familiar tap-tap of cane on flesh as your driver steers his proud pair of ponygirls around the packed dirt path of the Milstre Ranch. You exit and pay the man, but he lingers, watching a petite house maid with a slave collar come out to greet you.

“Greetings, and welcome to the Milstre Ranch.” Her courtesy is, naturally and expected, perfect in every way.

You return a slight bow of the head yourself, an acknowledgement and nothing more. “I’m here for the advert. 500 for one month.”

“Of course Miss, but please, a moment. Sir?”

“Water for the ladies,” his cane gently taps the rounded ass of his ponygirl. She snorts a thank you in return. “Hot day.”

“Our Lady will provide. Please, around the back. You know the way?”

“Yep.” A tap of his cane and the carriage disappears around the back. You stand with the maid, a small bag in hand that holds all your worldly possessions that she immediately steps in to take, and you let her.

“This way Miss.”

You follow.

The manor house rises to an impressive five floors but holds a rustic look you’d expect this far out. Nothing opulent. Nothing stone. All cut and treated well-kept wood that’s been painted bright red with white trim. Another maid, this one lacking a slave’s collar, sits in a hanging chair from a chain under the porch taking a break. A tall glass of milk rests on the nearby table, its sides beading in the heat. She takes one look at you, up and down, and chuckles.

The slave offers your refreshments, and you oblige as you are left to wait to be seen.

You don’t wait long.

“Advert girl right?” A woman asks, popping her head out a door nearby. “In here, let’s get this going. I’ve got shit to do.” The door opens wide and you grin; you never were a fan of long talks about contracts anyway.

The room is all business. Books line the walls, nick nacks here and there, the odd stuffed animal is an outlier, but all in all there’s a desk and two chairs. It’s a place to sit and talk, so you sit and talk.

“Credentials in order?” you ask. As with any advert, you sent them first for checks and approvals. No reason to come this far if you don’t qualify.

“Naturally,” the woman says, reading through papers that are very much not your credentials. You like her already. She has a very country-mistress vibe about her. Cowgirl boots, rawhide hat, loose blouse, rough pants, tough skin that’s seen too much sun, a small scar across one cheek. Not some flower from the city and not some stuck up mistress with a stick up her ass for protocol.

“Perfect, when can I start?”

“Tomorrow. Room and board’s free rest of today if you sign. Here it is,” she slides open a drawer and handles you a clipped bundle of papers. A formal slave contract. You wince.

“I didn’t realize this was an advert that came with a collar.”

“A collar here just lets us all know where you stand. It’s colored so… Wait,” she finally looks up from her papers, “you read the advert right? You know what you’re getting into?”

You shrug. “I need the points.” And within the kingdom, nothing was dangerous to your health. Only your ego.

“Don’t we all,” the woman studies you. You like her, and you get the sense that she likes you too. Best way to tip any negotiation; get the person on the other side to be your friend. She smiles, then takes your papers away and hands you another contract. This one a single pager, one-sided, but she flips it upside down. “Fifty points extra if you don’t read a word of that contract. Legally required to tell you it’s not a slave contract. Just a worker’s contract. Same deal as the advert, but you can’t back out. We keep you here for one month. No matter what.”

You hardly bat an eyelash. Restrictive no-flee contracts weren’t uncommon. And you qualified for whatever they wanted right? And in your book not being a slave was better than being a slave any day. “Deal.”

She hands you the pen and you flip the paper and sign. Before you can even read a word she snatches the contract away.

“Welcome to Milstre Ranch city girl. Pleasure to have you.”


The woman rises and you start to follow, thinking the negotiation done, but she waves you down. She goes to a liquor cabinet and pours herself a shot of some amber liquid, then from another bottle she pours you something clear. She sits back down and hands you the clear glass, then raises hers. “To profitable contracts.”

You raise yours in turn. “To mutually beneficial business arrangements,” and down the liquid together. Tastes like water for sure, but with something… ah. Of course.

In moments you begin to relax, and moments more you melt as a wave of unstoppable fatigue washes over you. Your limbs turn to jelly, and you have just enough strength and presence of mind to set down the glass so it won’t shatter all over the hardwood floor. The last thing you see before the sleeping draught pulls you down is the self-satisfied grin of a woman you just signed a month of your life away to.

You wake up on a rough blanket in a bed of hay, in a stall that smells like dry grass, sawdust, and woodsap. The sleeping drought makes you feel like a million points, like you had the best deep sleep of your life, so you realize first without any hesitation that you can’t close your mouth. A custom O ring, treated leather wrapped by the taste, forces your mouth open. You work your jaw and realize with no small flicker of annoyance that there’s no strap; it’s magically fused to the top and bottom of your mouth. Enough give against the skin to wiggle, fits perfectly against every ridge and corner, but not a chance in hell in removing it. No strap means no chafe, but it also means it’s not coming off, probably for a long, long time.

As you move you realize your bondage hasn’t stopped there. Bit by bit you explore, understanding the extent. Your arms are woven behind you in what many refer to as the ‘arm box.’ Your wrists are encircled by cuffs of soft leather that connect to a forearm brace that, by way of belts no doubt locked at the buckle, forces your hands nearly to the opposite elbow. Keeping it nice and tight are leather straps around your biceps that connect to a T strap that runs along your back and connects to the forearm brace.

Not uncommon. Effective. And not terribly comfortable, but hey, this is a five hundred and fifty credits job. You’ve done worse for less.

What’s more concerning is your fingers. You can’t move them. Nearly at all. You twist around to find they’re encased in a tight black sack attached to your cuffs to form a fist. Annoying and uncomfortable, but like all the different ways you’ve been tied up you will learn to adapt.

And that’s it for the bondage. You’re naked otherwise, save for the thigh-high boots styled like... you have no idea. Was this a country thing? White all over with huge black oblong dots? D-ring fused to the back of each. You start to stand and hear a sound; a bell. You freeze, only to work out it’s coming from you. Ah, one more piece of bondage; you wear something around your neck so often it’s like another limb.

You’re wearing a thick leather collar with a bell attached.

“Now that’s a sound I was waiting for.”

With care you stand up. You’re in a stall, the kind you imagine horses would be kept. With a half wall, no, a pony wall, that’s what it was called, high enough so you had no chance of stepping over between you and the rest of the barn.

A man in overalls approaches, sets down something heavy. He’s a country boy for sure, ruggedly handsome with the hat and a bit of grass in his teeth and that good ol’ country charm. He’s got a twinkle in his eye and an easy smile that puts you at ease.

“Come ere’ girl, let me get a look at ya.” He slaps the dust off hands against his overalls and beckons you forward. You approach obediently, no need to sour the start of your contract. “Let’s take a look.”

With calloused palm he holds your face, twists your chin left and right, checks you up and down. His hands guide your shoulders next, turning you all the way around; a full inspection. He gropes you next, and at first you think he’s just copping a feel. But as he continues you realize it’s all business. Squeezing, feeling their weight, lifting them, letting them fall, pressing, pulling, never enough to hurt, but definitely not for fun either. He moves onto your nipples next, pressing, pulling, massaging. It doesn’t take long for them to lift erect, but it’s just a response he was expecting.

“Good start, but we can do better. Ok, feed number four it is with… oh let’s say one a 2 doser. Be right back Annabelle.”

Your name is definitely not Annabelle, but you figure it’s whatever name they’ve given you for the duration of the contract. At least it’s not ‘Crystal’ again.

The man takes his time at a counter nearby, humming some made up song. You take your time studying the barn. Multiple stalls. No scent of actual animal manure. So a barn for people posing as animals. That’s fine. You’ve seen ponygirls plenty of times; just never where they lay their bits. You’ve never had training as a ponygirl, and that one time you were a housecat no one expected you to have training. You’d just been a prop in a cage for the night. Whatever the case they wouldn’t have let you sign if you weren’t qualified, but you wondered what kind of animal you’d be. Free on-the-job training was always a perk.

“Ok, I think we’re ready.” The man turns around. You wince and step back; he’s holding two huge syringes, both filled with some milky white liquid.

“Step on up Annabelle.”

You step back. “What the hell was that?” - you want to say. All that comes out is the associated tonal whines.

“Now, now, don’t be scared. This won’t hurt a bit. Come ere’, come on.”

Obedience training has you responding to his command… but no. You can’t. That’s a seriously large syringe. And what’s inside… has to be three inches long and thick as your wrist. Two syringes.

“Ok, ok, you look a little skittish. That’s fair. Pretty new thing like yourself in a brand new place.” He sets the syringes down somewhere, puts on some work gloves. You hear some locks shift and he enters the stall, then closes it behind him. Your eyes fall to the coiled rope at his waist. “Now I’m going to tell you right now missy that this is going to happen one way or another. No ifs ands or butts. And we can do it the real easy way or,” he taps the rope at his side, “the not so easy way.” He steps forward, hands up in a placating gesture. “Your choice.”

You swallow hard, mind racing. You were under contract, a no-flee contract. You couldn’t whine or beg or fight your way out. And this man was going to put that stuff inside you no matter what you did.

It’s fine. It’s fine. It's going to be fine. It’s probably just for show anyway. City Mistresses do this stuff all the time. Make a big show of some fancy fuck machine with lots of knobs and wheels and lights. It’s all for the atmosphere. By the power of the Master’s law no matter what happened you’d be safe. Safe, sane, consensual. Those were the laws. But did it have to be syringes?

The man waits patiently while you decide… and you step back. But you do it with a lowered head, eyes to the floor, then to him, then to the floor, making a show of embarrassment, of submission.

“Ahh so that’s how it is. Don’t trust yourself not to buck. Smart to know yourself. Alright I’m a comin in, but we’re going to do this nice and gentle like.”

He approaches you like a wild animal, hands up, no jerky movements, slow and smooth. With those gloved hands he gently leads you to your knees, then lays you on your chest. Your breasts press against the rug, nipples still erect and sensitive, but you ignore the minor pain. You close your eyes and let it happen. There’s not much else you can do otherwise.The rope at his side slides deftly around your ankles, then binds to your T strap at your back. He tugs, ties it off, and you’re hogtied in seconds. He then eases you onto your side and strokes your hair.

“Good girl. Now take nice, even breaths and I promise this’ll be over in a jiff.”

You take his advice and focus on the even breathing; by far the best way to calm yourself down. You hear him step away and return briefly. On your side he has access to both your breasts, one of which he cups in his hand. “In and out girl, just breathe.” You take a long breath through your ring, then another. On three there’s a sharp pain as the needle pierces your nipple dead center. You flinch, but he holds you fast. A cold shiver as he drives it deep. You shudder as the foreign liquid is pushed into your breast. The second needle pierces you lightning-fast. A second shot, a second filling. It’s over quick, your pain replaced by this cool, kind feeling on both your nipples. He’s massaging them with his thumbs. An unmistakable sensation. Healing magic.

You peel open your eyes and look down. Not a drop of blood. Not a hint of the pain that was. Only a quickly fading throb and the easy smile of this cowboy stroking your hair and whispering “good girl” in your ear. You relax as the man removes his rope and helps you to your knees. With the change in position comes a strange new feeling, a new weight. You examine your breasts. Are they larger? Is that what the liquid was for? Up your cup size? People usually were put to sleep for a while when they wanted to get their bodies altered. Whatever it was wasn’t coming out. That healing magic just sealed the exit wound.

“There, not so bad,” the man says, coiling his rope. “This time tomorrah you’ll be ready. For now I’ve got something else for ya.”

He exits the stall, locks it, and disappears into the barn. You hardly care to watch him. You focus on your swaying breasts. They feel heavier. And now they’re beginning to tingle. What the hell was that stuff?

You test their sway, left and right, left and right, getting used to the new feeling. You want to touch them, but alas the arm box. You work your mouth, your jaw still getting used to its new fixed position; it’s starting to ache, but you know that will pass eventually.

The man comes back with a… unique device and hangs it over the pony wall. You can hear him lock it into place on the other side. Two one-liter upturned bottles feed into a short hose attached to a dildo. The bottles are filled with brown and green mush, not appealing to look at but you’ve had fruit shakes of the same consistency that have tasted fantastic, so you reserve your judgement until you taste it. Two little prongs at the base of the dildo tell you all you need to know.

“I gave you a 3.5incher. Thought it would be easy enough for your first time. I think you know what to do. Stuff only comes out when you go all the way in. Not my preferred method but hey, house rules. Now, I’m going to be honest here. Those beautiful breasts of yours are going to start achin’ somethin’ fierce in just a little bit. When that happens, start drinking, they’ll stop cryin.’ I’ll be back for your first refill in an hour.”

Refill? No, he said first refill! Two liters of liquid now and more so soon? You’d burst! Your look of panic is ignored.

“See you soon Annabelle.”

You growl in protest but he only tips his hat, winks at you with that impossible cowboy charm and leaves. You watch him go, grunting and fussing and huffing through your nose; not much else you can do thanks to this damn fixed ring. First refill? Two liters? Who did he think you were? Where was it all going to go? You’re not some heavy girl; 120lbs on your worst day. Slim, cut, tall and pretty, well ‘severely’ pretty, sharp cheekbones, narrow jaw, etc. This better be all for show. Some big dumb posturing for some weird fuck orgie later on. It had to be. The kingdom ran on points, and points meant sex; lots of it.

As his footsteps fade you’re left alone in the barn. Your breasts tingle, but that’s about it. You explore your stall. It’s a small box, five steps long and four wide. Rough blanket on a bedding of soft, dry grass. Nothing else of note. No way out save for the pony wall, but even that’s too high for you to swing your legs over. Not to mention potentially dangerous if you tried. You huff, irritated at your situation, wondering if it was really the smart thing to sign a blind contract, the jingle of your bell around your neck the only noise amidst the infinite silence surrounding you. It’s a sunny day; you stick your neck over the pony wall and can see the sun shining bright. Not a soul in the distance. Not for as far as you can see. The minutes pass and you quickly grow bored.

Like a punch in the gut the sudden ache sends you to your knees. You gasp. It’s terrible. A pulsating sensation fills your breasts, like from the inside out they’re being squeezed, pulled, ripped apart all at once. You groan miserably and the ache subsides to a dull, unpleasant throb timed to your every heartbeat. You shudder. What the hell was that stuff, what the hell -

The liquid feeder looms above you. Drink away the aches. As soon as you put that thought together your stomach roars. You take deep breaths, getting your pain under control. No use falling and hurting yourself. You stand, the dildo at the perfect height. 3.5 inches? Not a problem for you. You dive in. The soft rubber slides effortlessly down your throat. You feel the prongs with your tongue, but realize you have to hold your ring over them to be fed. You press deeper, angling just so, relaxing your throat as you’ve done so many times before until you hear a click. Sweet liquid rushes down your throat. You swallow, breathing controlled. It’s easy.

And this liquid. It feels fantastic! The cool rush down your esophagus is like a tall glass of lemonade on a hot day. The terrible ache subsides almost immediately. You take three more large gulps before backing away, your body evidently satisfied. You look at the bottles. Barely anything gone.

Then the aches begin again. Dull and rising in intensity, not the gut punch like before. An urging this time. A warning, as if to say ‘if you don’t drink, I’m going to tear you apart inside and out.’ So you dive in and swallow another few gulps. Relief. Release. Ache. Relief. Release. Ache.

The cycle doesn’t stop. You begin to panic. How much? Two whole liters now and… that’s right. More. How much more? But you barely have time to think before the aches come again. You try to hold back but what’s the point?

Drink. Relief. Release. Ache.

Before you know it one whole liter is gone.

Drink. Relief. Release. Ache.

Drink. Relief. Release. Ache.

You finish the second liter and everything’s gotten foggy. You’ve been stuck in the cycle for… there’s no clock; you’ve lost track of time but it must have been an hour. Your breasts begin to ache again and you stare at the empty bottles, wishing for more. The man in overalls comes back right on time and flashes you an easy smile but says nothing. He summons you up with a tap on the pony wall. You obey. He feels your breasts. They’re tender, but he’s gentle. He nods, leaves, and comes back with two more liters.

“This should last you until noon. Keep it up girl.”

Noon? Noon?! 

The aches intensify. You feel bigger somehow. You feel heavy, but not in your belly, no matter how much you drink it doesn’t go to your belly…

Drink. Relief. Release. Ache. Drink. Relief. Drink. Relief. Drink. Drink.

Your noon refill.

You can’t get enough of the stuff. It’s all you can think about. Too much and you start to feel it in your stomach. Too little and you start to ache.

Drink. Relief. Release. Drink. Drink. Drink.

Afternoon refill. Others have entered the barn now, it’s full, but you barely notice them. You don’t even look.

“Last refill. Keep goin’. I believe in ya.”

When you wake up you finally have the mental capacity to understand where all that liquid went. When you approached Milstre Ranch yesterday morning you had pert little apples. Melons. Your breasts were melons now. And not small melons. Not by a long shot. What fruit was bigger than a damn melon? You shift on your blanket and let out a groan. They’re a dozen things all at once. Tender. Soft. Heavy. So damn heavy. You struggle to sit upright. The ring, the arm box, the boots, the bell, nothing has changed. Your bondage aches are nothing new; but these… these monsters. Every move you make they sway like pendulums. And they feel full. Worse, they ache. But not like before. Those were just… growing pains. These were the tender after aches.

A bell rings throughout the barn.

“Mornin’ ladies. Up, up, up! Time for your first shift.”

You have zero desire to do work right now of any kind.

You stay seated, trying and failing to get used to having what feels like a third of your body weight hanging from your chest. If you’d wanted bigger tits you’d just pay for them, but never this large.

You hear lots of footsteps, lots of moans and grunts and huffs. The man in overalls leans in and smiles. “Come on Annabelle, get up. You’ll feel loads better after yer first shift. Honest. Come on girl. Come on.”

You snort your displeasure. But he hadn’t lied to you yet. You struggle to rise but fall to your knees. The man leaps into your stall and holds you. At first to catch your breath, then be that support as he helps you rise. Your legs are all wobbly at first, but your strength returns fast. Standing isn’t any better for your new breasts. And, you notice now, your areola have quadrupled in size.

“There’s a good girl. Nice and slow. First day’s always the roughest. But you’ll feel mighty fine soon. Just step this way.”

Your bell rings gently as he leads you from the barn, but not into the open sun. A set of double doors leads into another building full of stalls. Stalls with bars and pipes and machines and rows and rows of…

Your heart sinks as you finally understand.

The syringes. The feeding. The swelled breasts. The white with black splotched thigh-highs. The bell. None if it was posturing. There wasn’t going to be some massive, weird sex orgy. You’ll be lucky if anyone fucks you at all.

You’re a cowgirl. You’re livestock. 

You’re so stunned you barely realize he’s already led you to your stall. Ye gods. Engraved above it reads ‘Annabelle.’ It’s small. Smaller than your sleeping stall. You struggle, but there’s no heart in it. His hands are firm yet kind. He guides you gently to kneel, and you do so with little protest. Your boots with their D ring allow for a short chain connected to the floor to snap closed on either foot. No way you’re leaving on your own.

But he doesn’t stop there. He leans you forward over a square-shaped bar wrapped in foam; you hardly noticed it until just now. Your collarbone rests against the furthest piece, your belly against the lower, and your breasts dangle freely in the center of the square. With deft motions he snaps a lock between your neck and the bar; you must have a small D ring beneath your bell on your collar. You try to rise but it’s hopeless. You struggle in earnest now. Why didn’t you struggle harder before? You buck and moan and heave. But your bondage is complete.

Your neck is locked in place, your ankles on such a short chain you can barely even shift your own weight, your arms forced behind you in their inescapable box tie. And your mouth is forced open with your custom ring. Your custom ring…

You watch with horror as he brings down the feeding dildo. It’s longer this time, four inches, maybe a tad more, with a wider hole. Between your neck and your arms bound and locked you can’t pull away as he slides it in. You swallow, because you have no other choice. You hear a click. Your tongue finds the prongs that just extended behind your ring. You push with your tongue, but it’s hopeless. The fake cock rests four inches down your throat and it’s not going anywhere.

But the real problem was your ‘feed.’

“Feed batch 317,” he says, making a note on a nearby chart. “Should make you taste savory over sweet, but everyone’s different. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

One bottle. Seven liters. The damn thing had measurements.

You struggle, you grunt, you moan. But the man ignores you.

He’s too busy getting your pumps ready.

Two large suction cups, red-rimmed and attached to a hose attached to a boxy machine attached to a raised bottle on a hook. Also seven liters. Annabelle it reads.

The man pulls up a short stool, sits down, and starts massaging your nipples. You moan once in protest, again for good measure, but your breasts are so tender, so full. The massage feels good. Despite yourself your nipples go erect. You moan again, your breasts so heavy, wishing he’d lift them even a little. Relieve just a little of that weight. But no, he keeps up the gentle tugs, the gentle rolls of the thumb. You breathe deeply now, losing yourself in the momentary bliss.

“Good girl,” you hear him say. You look down. You’ve squirted. You barely felt it come out but there it is. The water, no, your milk stains the roughspun blanket you kneel on. Your right nipple begins to drip. He massages the left until, with a helpful tug, it also squirts. You stare, almost unable to comprehend what just happened. You’ve never lactated before. You’ve never -

The cups fit around your areola perfectly. He flicks a machine switch and it starts to hum. It starts to suck. You feel the first pseudo squirts, see the first hints of drops pulled through the hoses and watch mesmerized as they drip into the empty bottle. The machine starts rhythmically slow, or maybe that’s just how it’s going to be. Teasing out your milk one pump at a time, sucking again and again like the steady beat of a drump.

The man is nearby, stroking your head now. It’s your first time after all and his presence is comforting. Despite all this craziness he’s your pillar now, a kind smile, a gentle hand. Someone you can lean in on. And you both like and respect that. He’s got a job to do and, maybe if you had read the damn contract, maybe you’d be a ranch hand like him, milking instead of getting - you gasp. Your first big squirt. Not a weak spray this time but an honest to goodness shot of milk followed by a dribble, a lull between beats, then another good one. It feels… it feels good. Lighter. Was it hormones? Or was it a matter of physics? You feel your frustration slide away. The immense weight of your engorged breasts hanging free is somehow more bearable.

“There you go. Good girl. Good Annabelle. See? Don’t you feel better?”

Another good squirt. Your pleased moan tells him exactly how you feel. Less tender even, less -

“Ok, now to keep you fed.”

How could you have forgotten? The man moves to the feeder. There’s a leaver. Off position, and ‘Full Feed.’ He throws it down to full. Liquid comes rushing down the tube. You prepare… but nothing happens.

“We don’ believe in force feeding here. Could choke ya. And we don’t want that. So here’s the game. Press your tongue up and you get to drink. If you don’t drink, well let me remind you of those nasty aches from yesterday. Your breasts don’t work like they used to. But boy howdy will they work like they’ve never worked before. You understand?”

You moan in understanding, even if you weren’t fully on board with the idea.

“Good girl. Now you don’t have any targets to hit today. You’re new and these brand new little factories of yours are still gettin’ used to producin’. I don’t expect more than a litre or two. I’ll be around, don’t you worry. Noon time you get a few hours to wander in the field, then comes afternoon shift. Then bed. Rinse and repeat.” He kisses your forehead. “See you soon Annabelle.”

You want him to stay. You shift and struggle and shake the one thing that makes the most noise; your ankle chains. But he’s gone. Your stall door latches shut behind you. You’re alone with your machine, your hoses and your bottles and your heavy, swaying breasts.

You moan, but if anyone hears you no one shows it.

Another good squirt, then another. You watch as the seven liter jug slowly begins to fill. It doesn’t take long for your breasts to start to ache. Minutes maybe. You know what to do. You press your tongue up and that sweet, cool feed flows down your throat. You can’t taste it, but you remember last night’s analogy; cold lemonade on a hot day. Flows down your throat and into your veins like a morning drink from a river. You swallow easily. Then you wait, and you watch. Your milk’s flowing better now. Long squirt followed by a dribble. Sixty seconds you time and there’s the ache again, so you feed again. Suck, watch, suck, watch. You’ve got it down now to avoid the ache. You pass the time shifting between the slowly draining bottle of the feeder and the slowly filling bottle of your very own milk. Seven whole liters. He expects maybe two. Two. For now. Does that mean seven later? In one day? Two shifts a day. How much per shift?

Minutes slip away. You moan sometimes. Loudly. On rare occasions, above all the pumping and humming of the all the machines, another woman like yourself, another cowgirl, moans in reply.

A bell rings.

“Morning shift’s over ladies.”

You groan, stiff all over. Your breasts. Your poor, poor breasts. They’re so tender. So drained. And yet somehow they’re still so damn heavy! You wish you could touch them. Gentle pokes and prods, maybe give them a little lift, relieve some pressure. But alas, your bondage.

You assume hours have passed. That happens when you focus solely on one task. You lose track of time. Your feed intake was the most important thing to you; taking it in meant avoiding the aches. Avoiding the aches meant you produced milk, and in some weird way that means everyone wins.

Your machine stops on its own. All the machines stop on their own. They must be on the same switch. Replacing its hum are the moans, groans, and bells from other stalls. Just how many more cowgirls were there? You have no idea, but you’re sure you’ll find out.

It takes a few minutes but your man in his overalls finds you, flashes an easy smile. “Look at you,” he comes in and goes straight to stroking your hair. “Good girl. Two whole liters. On your first day even! I’ve seen beautes your size who couldn’t manage one. Did you know most ladies produce only one liter a day? That’s without what we gave you. Crazy I know. Don’t worry, you’ll be a-pumpin’ like never before soon enough.”

Two whole liters, and normal women could only do one? You feel a weird surge of pride. He’s stroking your ego and it’s working. He turns from the bottles and starts to undo the cups. They come off with a pop and a fresh dribble of milk. You shudder. So damn tender. So tender.

He cups them gently. You wince. They don’t hurt but they sure are sensitive. But he tests their weight, lifting them, then helping them down. His thumbs press lightly against your nipples and he watches your face for your reaction, teasing out a few extra drops. You don’t hide anything. And all he does is smile at you. He looks at the dribbling milk, then tastes it. You feel your cheeks burn. It’s insane, why would you react like that? You haven’t blushed in, you can’t remember when. Lewd acts were nothing to you. And yet…

He licks his lips, thinks for a moment. You hold your breath.

“Not bad. But it’s your first day. We’ll adjust the feed as we go. Ok, here’s how it works. Remember how I said you get a break? Well this is it. Walk around, get your blood flowing, nap, whatever you want. This time’s yours.”

He works while he talks and you stare at the floor, embarrassed for reasons you can only consider stupid. Before you know it your neck comes loose, then your ankles. He does the feeder last and there’s a hefty glob of spittle that comes with it. He takes a rag and wipes you down. You turn away after but he pulls you back to clean your eyes, brush your hair back, ignoring all your impossible reactions. Then helps lift you up.

You wobble, but steady hands hold on until you find your strength. He pulls out a spotted rag from his back pocket. Black spots on white. With care he loops it around your shoulders, beneath your breasts, ties a knot at the center. You have support now. Barely, but it’s something. You feel the moisture almost immediately. You’re dripping, but the pseudo bra catches it.

He leads you from your stall out towards the wide open barn doors that shine with the sun. When you’re confident you can walk on your own he lets you go, then taps your ass with his hand to keep you moving. The other cowgirls have all gone ahead; you’re the last.

You look back, but he shoos you along, so you head for the doors....

But not before you spy the competition. Five liters, six liters, five and a half. All more than you. Seven liters. And what the hell? One stall had a bottle marked #2 filled with three liters. You shake your head. You managed two. You can’t fathom how that much liquid could come out of you. How your ‘factories’ could convert all that feed into all that milk in no time at all. Or was it all on delay? You drank what, seven liters last night? Maybe it’s just now all coming out and you were just fed your second shift’s soon-to-be milk? The physics didn’t make sense; you weren’t heavier anywhere but your breasts. But when the hell did physics make sense when there was magic involved?

Ranch hands swarm around you, going about their own business of replacing feeders, taking down milk, cleaning tubing… just how big was this operation? You count more than a dozen stalls.

And when you reach the field you have your answer. Dozens. You count them. Two dozen and a half, about that. Two and a half dozen cowgirls, bound like you, boots like yours, bells like yours, rings forcing their mouths forever open like yours, wander a wide grassy pen dotted with trees, rocks, and the occasional building. A fucking ranch for cowgirls. And all of them had tits the size of melons. All of them had the same loose pseudo bra for support. And all of them were wet.

You stand there for a while, transfixed, thinking. Day one. This was just day one. Shift one of two. You had 29 days… 58, no, 59 more shifts to go. Rinse and repeat, your man said. Every damn day.

You really should have read that contract.

You find a tree and sit down and think about your immediate future, then dream of what you’ll spend five hundred and fifty of the strangest points you’ve ever earned on.

Shift # 2 is nothing special. You’re locked into the same machine, given a feed with a new number that you can’t taste anyway. You focus on the feeding flow, avoiding that annoying ache at all costs. It’s like a game. You have to do something to pass the time. Minutes slip away into hours. You count. One liter down, one liter in. You’re going faster this time, you can feel it. Two liters. Two and a half…

At almost three the bell still hasn’t rung. Is the second shift longer? You have no idea. You keep playing the game. You have to. It’s the ultimate stick vs treat. Guzzle down this feed that makes you feel amazing, or have your breasts scream at you until you do.

You take in the feed, more and more. Three liters, three and a half…

“Daily total, nearly six liters,” your man whistles as he reads a clipboard attached to your stall. You’ve seen them on every stall. Stats, numbers, lots of shorthand. “Amazing job for your first day.”

You kneel on your blanket exhausted. Rays of the falling sun shine through the barn. It’s evening and, you recall for no good reason, that you haven’t eaten a meal yet since you’ve been here. But why would you? The feed had it all. Your liquid breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

You close your eyes, taking stock. Your lower back hurts. No shit, your breasts are gigantic now. Your shoulders ache from being in your arm box for so long. Your nipples are so tender you might cry. Your breasts are so heavy you wonder if they have their own gravity now. On one bright note your jaw’s stopped hurting, accustomed to its fixed position.

You barely hear your stall door open and close. Your man in overalls brushes your hair with his hand. You relax. You lean in. Always find a pillar in these situations. And he’s it. If he wasn’t so nice this experience would be unbearable. If you were more daring you might have tried to escape. Useless, but you still could just to prove you could try. You place your forehead on his chest and listen to the sound of his breathing, relaxing in this incredible moment of peace.

This goes on for some time before he lays you on your side. Eyes cracked open you see him put on some soft-looking gloves and set aside some yellow container with a black lid. He opens it and digs in, covers his hands with it, then begins massaging your breasts. You let out a shivering sigh. It’s warm and cold all at once. Just the slightest touch brings you to tears and you squeeze your eyes tight as he gently squeezes, then rubs. Squeeze, rub. He moves from breast to breast, ever so gentle. It’s bliss. Pure and simple bliss.

You moan your thanks through your ring.

“Good girl,” he whispers back.

He massages deeper. It hurts, but it’s not a bad kind of hurt. Like stretching after a hard workout. And no wonder. Your breasts have, within the course of a maybe thirty hours, quadrupled in size, hooked up to a machine and milked for all their worth. Of course it’s like after a workout, of course...

You’re asleep before he finishes.

Day two. Morning shift. Your man greets you, helps you to your stall. You’re tender, but he’s gentle, even as he locks your neck in place, even as he attaches the cups to your tits. You steel yourself. The feeding game begins.

End of day day three. Four liters first shift, four and a half second. As your man undoes your neck chain he talks to you. “Little factories,” he says, “we use that term a lot here but between you and me I just call em beautes, that’s what they are. And they’re rampin’ up production like you can’t imagine. You’ve got these little sacks in your breasts, alveoli. They store an’ produce milk. That stuff we gave ya, those shots you liked so much, turned them into powerful engines. I bet you felt a sort of rippin and tearin inside you the first night.” He’s onto your ankles now, undoing the chains. “Like muscles they’re growin’ and growin’ fast, and that means a lot of breakdown and buildup. I have a bet runnin. Day seven, seven liters, in one shift. Don’t let me down now.” He kisses your cheek and leads you back to your sleeping stall.

Day five. You’re milked for only half of second shift then exercised for the rest with a small group of cowgirls like yourself. Lots of leg and back, but not your arms. Never your arms. They haven’t removed the bindings, not once. Not even the little bags around your fingers. You’re given a sleeping draught and on day six you wake up feeling clean, your hair washed and your body scrubbed. Your shoulders feel like they’ve been massaged. Of course they wouldn’t let you be awake for that. You were livestock, and livestock didn’t have arms.

Day seven. Seven litres. Your man; his name is Nathan, you heard another hand call his name once, kisses you on the cheek and lets out a whoop. The other ranch hands all around you stop to applaud. Even your fellow cowgirls look up. You let out a pleased sound from behind your ring. Seven litres in one shift! You’ve done it!

Day eleven and you’re horny. You’ve been horny since yesterday. They clean you every five days, and day eleven means you’re as refreshed as you can be. At the end of second shift, just after Nathan leads you back to your stall and starts to leave, you make a noise. He turns. You thrust your hips, demanding. You’re naked, like you always are, save for those thigh high boots and that makeshift top he ties on every day.

He raises an eyebrow. You insist.

He chews his lip, then shrugs. “Clara, hey Clara! Can you handle my other ladies? I need a minute.”

“Sure, sure.”

You ignore the fact he has others. Of course he does. You don’t know them but it makes sense, and it doesn’t matter as long as you get this. He turns to you. He cocks his head, thinks. You wait, determined to get what you deserve. Finally he flashes you that charming smile. “Kneel.”

You kneel on your blanket immediately, arching your back a bit so your breasts are in full view. He leaves the stall; you know by now there’s a sink just outside. You hear the water flow as he washes his hands. He comes back with his soft gloves and a bottle. You protest! You turn your hips, you point your mouth ring at his groin.

“Oh I know what you want. But you’re under a strict contract little lady. No sex. Your contract however doesn’t say anythin’ about relievin’ a bit o’ stress,” he says, pouring out the lube. “But that’s it.”

You grumble in frustration. No sex? What the hell was that? Who in their right mind in a magical fucking kingdom that was literally fueled by sexual acts would put that into a contract? Yes of course chastity was a hot topic. The anticipation, the release. Longer intervals meant more points when it finally happened. There were studies. Big graphs and whole debates. But you thought they were stuipd. Just do it. All the time. The most surefire way to get points.

You sure as shit don’t move away as he softens you up, and you lean in and guide his fingers with your hips and your grunts to find the way you like it. He falls into an attentive rhythm, nice, big circles, building you up. You close your eyes. Your moan, you rise. You think of him going further. Of him grabbing your hair, of him cupping your breasts. You want him, so you work his fingers more than he works you, pretending it’s what you really want. Really picturing it’s thickness driving into you. You deserved him. Seven fucking liters. Guzzling down liter after liter of feed, pumping out like a fucking farm animal, you, a fucking farm animal, fucking farm animal, just a fucking -

You buck. You shudder. You gasp and you moan. He stays, pressing gently, teasing you down. Then he strokes your hair and helps you lay down on your side, covers you with the blanket as you fold your legs in and revel in the aftershocks. You want more. You want that damn cock. Even if you have to suck it now you want it. Sucking cock wasn’t sex here, right? You look at him. Him at you. You hope he sees how hungry you are.

“Tell you what, you get to fifteen liters in one day, we’ll do that again. Deal?”

You moan in acceptance. Fifteen liters, one day. How hard could it be?

Day fifteen and you’ve lost some steam. You’ve pushed yourself too hard. Tried for that big fifteen too fast. You’re tired, frustrated. Nathan explains that that’s natural. You’re a human, no matter what you wore, no what anyone made you into. Everyone has their bad days. Take it slow. Let your beautes keep gettin’ stronger. You’re not at full production yet, but you soon will be.

This is only something he whispers so no one else but you can hear. You make only ten, disappointing.

Day eighteen. You make a friend of sorts. She looks sad standing by a tree alone out in the pen. There’s no way to communicate, not formally. No hand motions. No speech. Only grunts and nods and body language. She’s in a slump just like you were a few days ago. You try to pass the time together watching the clouds, trying to draw shapes in the grass with your boots to explain what it is you see. When second shift comes you find yourself locked in a double-stall, her handler and your Nathan explain how the friendly competition will work. Whoever produces more wins a prize. Simple.

In another time and place you would have beaten her easy without a second thought, but you take your feed slower than usual and let her win, and that night you like to think all that bucking and moaning in another stall is her getting her reward.

One of the twenties. You couldn’t decide one day if it was twenty-two or twenty-three, so you give up. One month. Thirty days. Your final day would come one way or another. In the meantime, fifteen liters. Your Nathan really gives it to you. And you hit your target again, and again, and again.

Then one day your man doesn’t come for you on the morning bell, and you know your time has come. Five hundred and fifty points, the hardest points I’ll ever earn. Only after all the other cowgirls are led away does someone come for you, but it’s not your Nathan. It’s a maid, specifically that slave maid you met when you first arrived. You wilt a little inside; you wanted him to lead you away. Will you even see him again? She enters your stall and attaches a thin leash to the ring under your bell, then leads you wordlessly out of the barn and into the main house maybe a half mile away.

You’re led through the back entrance, through the servant’s narrow halls and, after checking to make sure no one was there, into the foyer and then into that same office you signed your blind contract.

There sits the woman who made you into this… this cow.

And just like before, she ignores you.

The maid makes you sit; you notice the chair is bolted to the floor this time, and you hear a snap. TheT strap at your back is locked to the back of the chair. You test the length. Enough to lean over the table, but nothing else. You grumble, yet she ignores you. You make a noise. Nothing.

You wait. The minutes slip by. So annoying. You feel your frustration bubble up into a fume. You in your black spotted boots, your arm box they won’t ever let you out of and your infuriating gloves where you can’t barely move your fingers, your immovable ring that won’t let you speak and your huge melons for tits tied in their black spotted kerchief for the barest of support, already spotting.

And there she sits. The calm and relaxed bitch in her rawhide hat, her rough slacks and loose blouse, her weather-beaten skin and her damn ugly smile. A smile that she flashes right at you now, knowing exactly what she just put you through.

“One month already? How time flies. Leave us.”

The maid bows and leaves.

Only when the door shuts and her footsteps fade does the woman speak again.

“Fifteen and a half liters. That’s really good for your first month. Most city sluts can’t make eleven, let alone keep it up on the regular. You’ve done well Annabelle.”

“That’s not my name you bitch!” - always the sounds are there, but never the words.

“Of course, you only signed a one month contract. Too bad too, we could have made a lot of points together.”

You seeth. She could at least take out your damn ring; wasn’t your contract up? You deserved to be unbound! But the woman continues heedless of your fury.

“Lot of people liked your milk. In fact,” she gets up, heads to a minifridge nearby and takes out a bottle. ‘Annabelle’ it reads. ‘Savory over sweet.’ She flips out a knife and pries off the cap, takes a swig. “I bought one myself.”

You stare at the milk. Your milk. Bottled. Branded. Dated and chilled.

“Of course it doesn’t have to be the end. You did just hit what we would call our ‘usual quota.’ Slightly more in fact. You have value. And I like you. So let’s take a look at your options, shall we?”

You can’t tear your eyes away from that bottle. That bottle that was your hard work. THat came straight from your breasts. Then again, where did you think your milk was going to go? To an actual animal?

She places five contracts before you. All face up this time.

She aligns them horizontally and points to the leftmost one to you.

“Not the one I want, but this is your termination contract. It concludes our business together. If you sign, you leave tomorrow morning. What, you thought today was the last? Day twenty-nine sweetheart. One last milking.”

She taps the paper and for once, you read the fine print.

Five hundred and fifty points awarded due to successful completion of contract. 


Final total - 5

You roar. “What the hell is this you bitch! Your liar! You cheater!” - alas, nothing but grunts. But the woman seems to get the idea.

“You know it’s illegal for us to sign a contract that loses you points. Fixed price really isn’t the way to go in this business. 5 points is what, a corner fuck on a good day?”

You throw yourself at her; the chain stops you short. You want to tear her head off. She turned you into this farm animal for five measly points?

“Now, now, don’t get pissy. You signed a contract that you didn’t read. It’s not my fault you didn’t do any research on like, ‘what if I entered a fixed-plus-incentive contract? That’s us paying you a minimum plus a percentage of your milk sales. Yours sold very well I should say. Quite well.”

You buck again just to show her how pissed you were. Something wet hits your leg. You look down. You’re dribbling, you're so pissed. You haven’t even been milked today. They’re heavy and they ache. Not badly, but enough to piss you off. You try to spit, but you only manage to dribble out your ring.

She ignores you. “Now this contract, right here,” she taps the next. “Isn’t nearly so bad. Because we’re friends, I’m going to explain how you can come out rich. Fixed-price-plus-incentive. Minimum after one month’s work: 100 points, no matter what deductions you incur. Maximum five thousand in incentive. Yes I said five thousand. If your milk goes to market and someone elite picks it up, we brand it as exclusive and hike up the price. Win-win.”

Five thousand points? Your anger begins to fade. You blink, trying to wrap your brain around that number. You couldn’t hope to make that in any line of business. Not with your skills, status, and contacts anway. Not in one month. Not in years of work.

“It’s a month-to-month deal, deductions made if you terminate the same you see over here.” She taps the termination contract. “Nothing hidden. All in plain sight. We give you monthly totals by month’s end and you get the chance to sign anew or leave. Completely up to you. No-flee of course.”

You stare at the paper and think, or try to anyway. You’re dribbling again and starting to feel full. Nathan explained you kept producing all the time now, it was just a matter of when it would come out.

“I thought you’d like that one.” She points at the next. “This one’s more boring. We like you. So we’d like to offer a three-month fixed-price no-flee contract. It’s higher than our standard rates. One thousand points a month. No deductions of any kind. Three thousand flat. You must however meet our applied production targets. It won’t be hard, considering your eagerness… but you don’t get to keep any of your milk proceeds. If you go elite, no one will tell you, and I sure as shit won’t pay you any extra.”

You swallow, thinking. A thousand points of a month, guaranteed. You remember the slave girl at the jewelry store. Your friend. You could buy her, and how many more? The wheeling and dealing of slaves has always been an attractive career to you. You haven’t done it yet, not really, but you could. Wait, you could put a down payment on a house with that kind of cash, or better yet, just not work for a year. Not hard anyway.

Guaranteed income? Or the chance at riches?
The woman lets you think. She sits back and sips your milk.

The pang of a milk-ache hits you. You look down. There’s a veritable puddle there now, each drop escaping your black-on-white kerchief. And you’re getting hungry.

The last two contracts sit before you. You look at them eagerly but the woman leans in slowly.

“This one. Three months I own you,” she taps. “Three months and you produce. Fixed-price. No deductions. Thirty-five hundred.”

You cock your head, trying to read the fine print.

She helps you. “It involves, shall we say, some exotic additions. Our Lady of the house likes to see dedication. This just adds a few bells to make it more lifelike.”

You cock a meaningful eyebrow.

The woman signs in frustration, but explains all the same. “You ever worn a nose ring? How about a big one? Lady’s private stock. She turns you more into an animal that you even are now. Lots of additions. You even get your own private field filled with special, dedicated livestock like yourself.”

You glare at her. No thank you. Not for five hundred extra.

She shrugs. “And we come to the final option. This one’s the best in my opinion. It’s one year. And yes that’s a long time but before you blanch at it the perks are quite nice. Fixed price-plus incentive. Monthly earnings up to three thousand max. Minimum three hundred. That’s over one hundred if you’d chosen the month-to-month. Less maximum, but that can go up if you extend beyond the first year. No deductions of any kind. No-flee, naturally. We keep you for the duration no matter what.”

You do some mental math. Three hundred free points a month at absolute minimum. More the better you tasted, and more the more you produced. One year’s a long commitment. You think about it. It really all came down to what you were willing to put in, right?

How hard was this job? Really? You’re cared for, you’re fed. You’re allowed free time. You’ve known Mistresses who expected perfect obedience, who made you sit in a corner for hours and hours for the slightest misstep. Who caned your ass until it looked like lines on paper. All for enough points to barely get you through half a week.

Your stomach rumbles and your breasts swell. You can feel the milk building up inside you.

You shake your head, focusing your thoughts. It’s easy money, if you really think about it. And you can negotiate. In fact....

You point your mouth ring at a pen on her desk. The woman smiles and brings out a unique device. Without your hands the only way you’re going to sign is with your mouth. It’s a plug with a pen affixed to the end. She gets up and pops it in. Some ridges keep it tucked behind your ring.

You point to a blank piece of paper on her desk and it’s her turn to be surprised; she assumed you were just going to sign.

She obliges, smile returning quickly. And with care you lean forward, feeling the weight of your breasts shift. They leak evermore, in a position now they’ve been trained to release all they have in.

You take your time. She holds the paper in place.


“No, I’m afraid. Non-negotiable. Everything you’re wearing now is non-negotiable. Lady of the house’s rules, not mine. However… How would you like a scheduled massage? Say, once in four days? You’ll be awake even as we take off your bindings. Not everyone gets that. You’ll be allowed to stretch them yourself. In private of course. Mouth ring however stays in.”

You glare.

“Three. We can do three. And how about… exercise? You seemed to enjoy that. You were at five. Three again? We can put it all on the same day, makes it easier for your shifts anyway. Exercise, massage, let’s just fit in your washday there too. Maybe a nice rubdown…”

You’re already writing another word.


“Ahh, your handler. You like him, yes? He’s my nephew. Bright boy. Little too nice. He doesn’t take as many liberties as I’d like.”

Again you write. Fuck Nathan. 

“I’m sure you mean what I think you mean.” You nod. “Done. And yes, that was me. That little no-sex clause. What? I thought it would be funny.”

You temper your sudden flare of rage and write again. 2.

“Oh no. I can do once in three days. No more.”

You’d meant twice a day, but if once in three was all you were going to get, that’s all you were going to get. But maybe…

3 and cow. 

“Three and what? Oh, you want to fuck a fellow cowgirl? Do you have someone in mind yet?” You think of your friend. Maybe. But you shake your head. Keep your options open. “So if you fancy someone you’d like to be able to fuck them. Acceptable. Nights only though. Do you prefer to wear the strap or…”

You shrug.

“We’ll get there when we get there. Alright, but which -”

You lean over the right-most contract and wait for her to hold the paper.

“Ah, the best choice.”

You leave the room, led by the maid. Your breasts are swollen; they drip with every step. The kerchief that supports your breasts is completely soaked through. They ache. Oh do they ache. You want someone to touch them. To squeeze them. Anything to relieve the pressure. And you’re hungry. Your stomach drives you forward so much you have to fight to stay a step behind the maid.

You’re led out back and the sun kisses your cheeks.

It’s morning still, barely an hour into first shift. Plenty of time to drain and, to your glee, finally make some real points. Maybe you’ll get popular. Maybe you’ll go elite. Maybe…

A collarless maid sits on a rocking chair near your barn. She’s leaned back, her shoes kicked off and her stockings down to her ankles. On the table nearby is a tall glass of milk next to an empty milk bottle.

~ Annabelle ~

Savory over Sweet

Get a taste of our new select line today

She watches you as you pass, your breasts swaying in the morning light, your bell ringing with every step, your nipples dripping at every chance.

She smiles, then takes a long drink of your savory taste.


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