Monday morning I went to work, had my meetings, and then got on the internet, an "incognito" window in my Google Chrome of course, and started looking up this new iteration of Arlene's fantasy life.
I was, once again, surprised at the volume of literature out there on what I had expected to be a rare fantasy. Or perhaps fetish is a better word.
I learned a new term almost immediately, "hucow," a fantasy, evidently not uncommon, among mature women who were lactating for one reason or another. As sort of a research aside I found that it was much more common than I had ever imagined for women in their 40s, 50s, and in some cases even older, to induce lactation. Reasons ranged from being a wet nurse for a well-loved daughter or granddaughter or niece to pleasure for herself and her significant other. A surprising number of lesbians enjoyed nursing their partners it turned out.
The concept of a "stall," of being confined, seemed to play a big part in the fantasy.
And that, of course, led me to think of Thomas and Vivian's ranch with its barns.
So I called.
"Yes David," Vivian's voice came through on the second ring.
"And good morning to you too," I said.
We chatted for a few minutes, a surprisingly mundane conversation with "how are you," "gonna be a beautiful day," and the like.
"But I suppose there's a reason you called," she said after a few minutes of small talk.
So I briefly related Arlene's seeming fascination with being a hucow.
"Oh my," Vivian said with a surprisingly young-sounding giggle, "I did not see that coming."
"Are there, well," and I stumbled for a second and started over, "are there others with that particular fantasy in your, well, our I suppose now, group?"
There was that throaty chuckle this time.
"A few David," she said, "it's a better experience as part of a herd," she went on, "and we have a roundup scheduled for a week from Sunday. Will you be bringing Arlene?"
I hesitated.
"Nothing is required David," she said into the delay, "but you'll probably enjoy it."
I drew a deep breath and said, "what time?"
There was that throaty chuckle again, "the roundup starts early, around seven, so you'd better have her here by five to get ready."
I gulped and said, "we'll be there."
"Wonderful," she said, "and now, not to be rude, but I have to run."
When I got home my wife the seamstress greeted me in her latest creation.
She was in a pants suit loosely modeled on what Vivian tended to wear. This one was in a bright turquoise color that set off her blonde hair nicely.
Her breasts were supported by what I can only think of as collars, strips of the same material about two inches wide, constricting them tightly which forced the glands forward with enough pressure that her nipples and areola were distended. Her nipples were, I couldn't help but notice, dripping.
Her belly was exposed as well, a perfectly circular opening in the one-piece suit highlighting it with a band, similar to what supported her breasts.
When she turned her ass was exposed as well and the bright turquoise butt plug, matching the color of the material, was peeking out.
She did a slow turn and then assumed the classic pinup pose, left leg lifted slightly, back straight, right arm straight up with her wrist bent at nearly a perfect 90-degree angle.
I whistled.
She giggled.
"You like?" she said, holding the pose.
"Very much," I said.
Our week went like that.
The big difference was that she asked me to come home for lunch.
I would wake in the morning and nurse, then have her milk in my coffee and on my cereal.
For lunch, it would be a sandwich or something she cooked with her milk for dessert before sending me back to work smiling.
When I came home she would greet me in one of her new fashion statements, scarlet red, pale green, bright yellow, black, each more or less the same style with whatever embellishments she liked that day.
After dinner, I would go downstairs, to my workshop, and work on her surprise.
When I came up, tired and sweaty, we'd shower together and make love. It was always good and I gradually learned how to take her over that edge where she squirted like a garden hose.
I would drop off to sleep nursing with the sound of her humming a lullaby in my ear.
Thursday night's maintenance spanking was done in the kitchen with her on all fours. I used my belt.
By Saturday morning I was ready.
I rolled out of bed, peed, and brushed my teeth.
When I walked back in she had rolled up onto her side and was lifting a breast, dribbling a little.
"Not this morning," I said, putting on what I hoped was a mysterious smile.
She pouted prettily and rolled out of bed, very ponderous since she had been injecting another 100 ccs of water a day into the baby.
When she headed for the bathroom I caught her hand and said, "not yet."
"Honey," she said, "I neeeeeed to go."
I chuckled and held her hand, pulling her gently, saying, "not yet."
I led her into the kitchen and filled a glass with water, handed it to her along with the pill I had gotten from Vivian earlier that week.
"What's this?" she asked.
"Do you trust me?" I replied.
She giggled and said, "Yes I trust you but what is it?"
I sighed theatrically.
"It's a pretty high dose of Librium," I said.
She looked at me speculatively, one eyebrow raised, and then popped the pill into her mouth and swallowed it with a healthy drink from the glass.
"And now?" she asked, but I could tell she was getting excited with the mystery.
I didn't say anything, just took her hand and led her to the door to the basement steps.
The lights were bright and she stopped, taking in the scene.
In the corner was a wooden stall. I had built it carefully to her measurements. The bottom of the stall was lined with straw. Two breast cups hung from the upper rail of the stall.
"David, I...." and she trailed off.
I said nothing but took her hand again and led her to the stall.
"On all fours now," I said and she got in.
I moved to the front of the stall and opened the confinement bars.
"Head in here," I said.
She looked frightened but I could smell her arousal.
When her head was through the bars I moved them, not tight enough to hurt, but touching her neck on each side so she was locked in.
"Water here," I said, touching the straw hanging from a gallon of water hear her cheek.
"Feed here," I said, shoveling the feed I had made up into the trough in front of her face.
I dimmed the lights and put on the music I had prepared, calming music, something called a "Western Airlines" tape that a friend in the Air Force had given me years ago.
I hooked the breast pumps up, held in place with the harness I had fabricated, and set them running. The timer I had them on would operate them for 20 minutes and then turn them off for two hours.
"Okay Elsie," I said, patting her ass, "you're good to go."
"David, I," but I didn't hear the rest as I walked up the stairs.
I turned on my laptop and opened the four surveillance cameras I had installed. It's amazing what a couple of hundred bucks can get you at Best Buy these days. The pictures were bright and clear, with high definition even in low light.
As I made breakfast I watched as she, at first, looked around, and then I could see the surrender in her body language.
The music was soft and a very low recording of mooing came from another speaker, tiny, almost invisible, mounted on the outside of the top rail of the stall.
By the time I was done with my poached eggs her face was in the feed trough.
Her "feed" was mostly oats with honey and molasses as a sweetener and binder. It was laced with LSD though, another gift from Vivian.
I waited another half hour, going through my email on my Chromebook, before turning on the third player.
My voice was soft and low, almost subliminal, but it still came through the directional microphones on the cameras.
"Feel how wonderful it is to be a cow. No worries. Just beautiful sensations. Your body changing. Becoming more natural. Fulfilling yourself. Feel how...." I repeated softly on a loop.
As fascinated as I was, I didn't want to spend all day watching her so I went to the garage and fired up the lawn tractor.
We have a good size lawn in our upscale subdivision so it's an hour project to just do the basic cutting.
That done I went back into the kitchen, got some water, and watched the monitors.
Arlene was doing well. As I watched she would bend down to take a mouthful of her feed and chew slowly, working her jaws in an exaggerated way, looking for all the world like she was chewing her cud.
I checked the little timer at the bottom of the screen and saw I had about 45 minutes before the milking machine, and that's how I was thinking of the breast pumps by then, kicked on so I went back outside and used the string trimmer to finish my yard work.
I was hot and sweaty when I finished.
I went down the stairs, very quietly, to check on Arlene's "progress."
God, she looked sexy, locked in her stall, her belly and udders hanging free.
