Quick Trip To The Barn

Amanda turned another corner sharply. The downtown sidewalks were jammed with the usual lunchtime crowd of suits and casual tourists, waiting in line at hot dog stands and enjoying the spring weather. She pushed her way through as quickly as she could, mouth set firmly in a tight frown and eyes fixed down the street on her destination.

Come on, come on...

she thought, weaving past a woman walking a dog very slowly and squeezing through a group posing for a picture. As Amanda came to a reluctant halt at a crosswalk, she once again self-consciously tugged her jacket over her chest. The clock at the bank on the corner read 12:06.

Shops and food carts rolled past in a familiar blur, but not fast enough. On the last block, she picked up her pace to the best brisk walk she could manage. Even if she could run in these shoes, though, Amanda could not take the jostling and bouncing. She was resisting the urge even now to cradle her breasts, holding them still against her urgent pace and the hard downtown pavement underfoot. Every movement seemed magnified in the tender, swollen flesh, and Amanda was biting her lip by the time that she made it to the building.

--- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Frank glanced up at the clock on the wall again. 11:54.

It was hot in the conference room, stuffy from the long meeting and the palpable sense of exasperation. The developers from Mid-Atlantic were clustered down at one end of the long table around the window. Two were talking in corners on mobile phones, staring at nothing in particular and speaking in hushed tones. One was trying to look busy on a laptop, and the man obviously senior to the others was sitting in the chair at the end of the table, tapping a pencil and looking annoyed. The midday sun cast a dazzling radiance on the city laid out below.

"Look, we're not budging. I don't see how hard this is to get through your heads," said the head representative finally, tossing the pencil aside with a dismissive gesture. "There's no point in the hard line here, folks. You either give a little, and come up to thirty-two five, or we walk. We already have another buyer lined up, and they're willing to go to thirty-four, but our clients would rather we dealt with you." He gave a grim frown at his counterparts down the table, leaning forward. "So you either give a little, or we're done here." He caught the eye of the young man on the laptop, who quietly and hastily packed it away.

Frank looked over at Amanda. His partner in this negotiation was the classic ice queen, he had long since decided. A professional-looking age over thirty, professional-looking blonde hair, professional-looking grey jacket and skirt. Piercing blue eyes. Usually content to stand with her arms crossed and look severe, right now Amanda was uncharacteristically leaning forward on her elbows across the back of an executive chair. Her eyes held the same calculating glare, but her breasts, jutting forward prominently from the grey jacket, were piled casually on the headrest.

I swear those things get bigger every day

, Frank thought idly, permitting himself a quick corner-of-the-eye glance as he swept his gaze across the room.

What a rack.

The swelling mounds forced her jacket lapels apart, straining at the white blouse beneath.

Didn't used to wear tight clothes all the time.

He dismissed the thought, as usual. Frank was not fool enough to ever seem to notice, thanks to the cold menace of HR and the gold ring on his hand. Besides, the one thing everyone noticed about Amanda was her distant, unapproachable air. He knew nothing about her personal life, or even if she had one outside the office. Deep down inside that shell of ice, Frank suspected, there was probably a heart of concrete.

At the moment Amanda was looking less aloof and imperious, and more irritable and impatient. Her lips were pursed tightly in a frown. Frank cleared his throat, addressing everyone. "Look, I think that what makes sense right now would be a lunch break. I could get some sandwiches ordered up, if you --"

There was a glitter of confident amusement in the other man's eyes. "No. You've heard our final offer on this. No breaks. We stay here, and we get the deal done." He leaned back in his chair, apparently satisfied at making his opponents uncomfortable. "That's why it's called business, ladies and gentlemen. Sometimes you have to put in the hard work until you get it done."

"Good point," snapped Amanda suddenly, straightening up slowly and pushing in the chair. "We put in a lot of hard work on this end too. Such as finding out that your other buyer backed out last week." She fixed them with that familiar cold stare. "And that you and your partners have suddenly set up a secret investment vehicle on the side."

If the senior representative were surprised, he did not show it, but his confident expression was beginning to crease into a scowl. Frank looked out the window, masking his reaction to the outburst.

"So it sounds to me," Amanda went on icily, "like all this bullshit is a cover for you to spike the deal with us, and go to your clients with your own private lowball offer, complaining that it's the only one left on the table. You're wasting our time, and you're trying to defraud them." Amanda started to cross her arms, then paused. "We're not giving on the price. We do this deal our way, or we're done here."

The man said nothing for a moment, clenching his jaw until his face grew taut and pinched. Then he rose stiffly to his feet. "Lunch sounds like a good idea," he said to no one in particular. "We'll be back in an hour."

After the Mid-Atlantic team had spilled solemnly out of the conference room, Frank turned to Amanda with a raised eyebrow. "I thought we were saving the smoking gun for later," he said lightly. "That

was

supposed to be the plan, anyway."

Amanda adjusted her suit jacket, looking distracted. "I was getting tired of dealing with this," his partner finally replied, glancing out the window at the weather.

It's not on my head

, thought Frank. "Well, all right... Want to grab something at the deli?"

Amanda, however, was already on her way out the door. "Thanks, but I've got something to take care of."

--- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Calves aching from the brisk walk, Amanda slumped back against the wall of the old elevator. Impatient fingers jabbed at the control panel, pushing and holding "7" and "Close Door" at the same time until it gave a tiny click. As the grimy brass doors slid closed, Amanda finally gave in and cradled her painfully engorged breasts in her arms. She allowed herself a sigh. The bulging globes were tender to the touch where they strained against her blouse, but the relief from their weight was immediate.

With a rattle and clunk, the elevator began to slowly descend into the basement.

Her breasts had been achingly full for an hour, passing slowly from warm and ready to heavy and uncomfortable to swollen and dripping. The triple-absorbent pads in her bra had soaked through into the foam shields that concealed her constantly-stiff nipples. It had taken every ounce of concentration to wrench Amanda's mind away from the warm pressure in her breasts and focus on the protracted business negotiations.

Those stubborn fucks were supposed to be done hours ago. I feel like I'm going to burst!

Nobody there knew her secret. They would have to be blind not to notice, of course. She had caught furtive glances from most of the men, and a lot of the women, since they had begun to grow, swelling her now-buxom figure larger almost day by day. But if they noticed anything, of course, they would not dare to mention it. And nobody knew the reason why, anyway.

With a last shuddering bump, the elevator halted, and the door opened.

It was the Barn.

A double row of wooden stalls stretched from one end of the basement to the other, dozens in all. The walls were paneled in a rough grain, and the ceiling was cunningly decorated with what looked like criss-crossing wooden beams. Each stall was appointed with a name slate hanging outside on a wrought iron hook, and liberally strewn with fresh straw. Hung on pegs on the wall were brooms, rakes, and tin buckets, and with them various leather harness and tack of mysterious purpose. Empty glass milk cans were stacked up in a corner. There were always cowhands around, keeping the place neat and clean, but as for management Amanda knew only of the mysterious Farmer. Her eyes went to the nail where he hung his cap. He was not in today.

The air trembled with the subdued purr of machinery. The moment Amanda heard the constant vibrating hum her overfull breasts responded, letting down a thin, fitful stream of milk.

Got to hurry before I soak through!

Amanda made her way quickly down the row, passing stall after stall. Some were occupied, but everyone understood the unspoken rule that you didn't notice anyone else when you were in the Barn.

She glanced up at the slate outside her stall, on which was chalked the real, secret name the Farmer had given her. Aside from a couple simple hanging hooks and rails, the cubicle was appointed with a gleaming aluminum rack from which dangled two rounded, bulbous plastic cups. These were connected to a large box-shaped machine by long clear tubing, which passed into a tall glass jar, marked off in half-pint increments.

Impatient fingers fumbled with the buttons on her blouse. Her swelling chest had actually begun to force them apart very slightly, and they popped loose almost at a touch. Amanda folded the blouse gently and hung it and the jacket over the usual rail, then looked down at herself. The plump mounds felt crammed into the white padded bra, pale milkflesh spilling out over the top and crowding out the sides. Once firm and delicate cleavage was a deep gulf now, buxom and gently jiggling at the slightest movement. Had she really worn a 34B before she came to the Barn? It seemed hard to remember now.

Amanda clawed at her back until all four hooks gave way with a sudden burst of elastic, then gingerly peeled the brassiere away from her tender breasts. No bra could comfortably minimize and support and hold the thick, spongy milk pads, and it was with an audible sigh that she let the heavy spheres tumble free.

For a moment Amanda cupped the huge, milk-swollen mounds in her hands, gazing at them. They felt even bigger than they looked, warm, throbbing, engorged with life and need. Tiny thin droplets, forced out by the pressure of milk inside, were already beading up at her nipples and dripping to the floor. Whenever she held them like this, the deep, deep desire became overwhelming...

But as she watched the leaking droplets fall a sudden shadow of self-doubt crept in.

What am I doing here?

she wondered faintly, hefting the warm flesh that now overflowed her hands.

I can't believe how big I am now. They're getting to be huge! I'm starting to even look like a -- I can't keep coming to... this is completely ridiculous. I can't let my boobs take over my life.

Amanda thought of evenings in her apartment, going over financial analyses while her small home machine slowly pumped and pumped. A tiny jet of milk spurted out of one nipple at the thought of being drained.

I shouldn't be doing this

, struggled the cold, analytical part of her.

I've got things to do at the office. I'm an assistant managing director, not a... Amanda bit her lip. I'm supposed to be... professional! I'm important. Not like this.

...is this really who I am?

But after an instant more of indecision, she could feel their warm, heavy weight tugging at her, and Amanda's will gave way to the base need inside. Her hands reluctantly let go. And slowly, slowly, her proud back bent under the weight of her milk-swollen udders, pulling her down.

As she sank down to her hands and knees, the whole world changed. Her work, her office, her life outside the stall rolled back like a curtain, fading away and revealing the secret truth.

Yes

, thought the cow.

Yes, I am...

She got down on all fours, blood thrumming in her ears. The warm straw felt scratchy on her palms. She shuffled slowly forwards in the stall, udders slowly swaying, towards the rack where the plastic cups hung. Milk was dribbling and streaming already from her erect nipples, and she could smell its rich, sweet scent. Numbly, the cow pressed her shoulder against a metal plate, and the machine began to rumble. The cups hissed, coming to life and vibrating gently. She stumbled forward, far too impatient now to be graceful, and stuffed her udders into the cups.

With a hungry slurp the milking machine latched onto her and began to drain. The cups filled at once with foaming milk, and a thin line of white shot back through the tubing towards the machine to drip creamy spurts into the clear glass jar. Relief was instant, almost painful, as the cow felt the dancing, shuddering cups squeeze and tug at her teats. She gave a long, lowing groan and settled in.

Thum-thum-thum-thum

hummed the machine, beginning to suckle. The cow drifted into a floating reverie, warmth spreading throughout her body as she became lost in the sensation of being milked. The painful engorgement was fading quickly, draining away as she watched her rich produce squirt into the collection jar. She could hear other milking machines humming, elsewhere in the barn, other cows like her on all fours in their stalls giving up their yield.

Everything else was a dream. She was a cow. Her crisp, professional clothes hid her secret -- her ever-filling udders, constantly growing warm and heavy with her rich milk. No one could know -- no one was allowed to know. After she had been relieved they were soft and comfortable, feeling plump and fertile packed away in her thickly-padded brassiere. But she never stopped producing. Drip by drip they would begin to fill again, slowly engorging fatter and heavier until they felt inflated and the slightest brush against them would force out a dribble of sweet pale milk.

But she was one of the Herd, and she knew the proper place to go when she needed to be milked. She couldn't remember how long she had been coming here -- every

thum-thum

of the insistent machine suckling at her teats seemed to make her mind hazier and hazier. Cows didn't need to think anyway, and she was content to gaze vaguely at the jar and revel in the feeling of giving milk. She hadn't even produced at all, at first, until that session when her then-pert breasts had finally yielded the first reluctant drops. After that, the Farmer said, she was a real cow. She had been given her own stall, with her real name on it, and about once every day, when she could no longer deny her nature, she had come down to the Barn to be relieved of her secret burden.

...and I need to be milked so badly...

The cow closed her eyes. Her plump udders jiggled and swayed as the plastic cups continued to empty her, warm now from the heat of her body. On hands and knees in her milking stall, the cow wriggled in the voluptuous pleasure of submission, surrendering up her pride and tension to be pumped out pint by pint.

The milking machine thrummed into a lower gear, and its suckling grew slower and a little stronger. The cow felt mostly drained now, warm and relieved all over. She had been milked. In the collection jar was a thick layer of rich, creamy white, joined by a few steady spurts as her udders steadily yielded her hind milk. She couldn't really tell if she was producing more -- it looked like it, anyway -- but her udders had grown steadily under the hungry demand. Gone were her, pert, almost girlish breasts, now developed into the heavy, swollen jugs fit for a producing cow.

They feel so good big

, she thought, opening her eyes and letting them swing back and forth gently.

There were just a few minutes left on the milking cycle, the cow knew, as a sense of the outside world began faintly to return. She struggled to put her thoughts back in order.

I should be back in time for --

Her hazy consciousness suddenly became aware of a distant sound. From somewhere down the row of stalls came the sound of whistling, faint and high above the steady, mechanical thrumming of the milkers. It came nearer.

Must be one of the farm hands

, thought the cow sluggishly.

The whistling came closer, and stopped for a moment. Someone wrestled with one of the milk jars in another stall. Then it started again, coming closer and closer.

The farm hand paused as he came to the doorway of her stall and stood, watching. She could not see behind her, but the scent of cigarettes and soap now mixed with that of fresh straw and the softly sour notes of spilled milk. The cow was long past blushing at being caught in her stall, down on all fours with mechanical cups suckling away at her swaying breasts. Though the farm hand lingered, she did not even bother to give a faint moo in acknowledgement.

A long moment passed, then the man gave a deep grunt and set down his milk can. There came a quiet rattle, then the buckles on the farm hand's overalls clinked faintly as they released.

The cow realized what was going to happen.

Her pussy, already puffy and moist from the sensation of her long milking, began to feel flushed and swollen.

I shouldn't just... I mean... not again...

It was hard to think.

I can't... I shouldn't just let anyone who comes by cover... I mean, fuck me...

The cow bit her lip nervously, but her whole body seemed to ache with a new need. She stared into the collection jar, watching the fat droplets of rich milk as they spurted out of the tube, splash after splash of creamy white slowly filling the jar. The sight did not help her resist the urge to submit. With every pumping stroke the milking cups seemed to suckle out the cow's concentration and will, leaving only a warm, passive contentment.

It seemed almost like joining the Herd had changed her body in more ways than one. Her pussy had been a tight, trim, dainty thing, almost prim in its delicacy. Now she could feel the warm blood pulsing in her fat cunt lips, already slightly parted and slick with eager hunger.

I've been ripened

, thought the cow, swaying her hips faintly back and forth. Beads of dew began to form droplets, until a thin stream of warm, spicy juices trickled slowly down her thigh.

I never used to get this wet...

Straw crunched beneath the farm hand's boots as he stepped into her stall. Without saying a word, the burly man crumpled up a handful of her skirt and pushed it into a bunch around her waist. His hands were coarse and calloused, faintly scratching the smooth skin of her thighs. With one swift tug he tore away her panties, discarding the moist, tattered scrap in a corner.

Helplessly, she gave in to the compulsion. As the heat grew in her, the cow slowly arched her back and raised her hips submissively into a breeding position.

The farm hand gave another wordless grunt as he pulled his cock free of his clothes. She could hear a quiet slap as he hefted his member for a moment, weighing it in one hand. Then the cow felt his big hands roughly seize her hips, pulling her towards him. She trembled, the rhythm of her pounding heart echoed by the constant hungry tug of her milking.

The steel-hard cock head pressed against her for a moment, and then with a sudden plunge he was inside her.

Her swollen, dripping cunt gave no resistance to being mounted. As the thick cock stretched her suddenly open, sinking all the way down to the root in its first frantic thrust, the cow threw her head back and gave a long lowing moan.

The farm hand felt enormous inside her, filling her body completely with his huge, bestial member. Without pausing to let the cow get used to him, the man gripped her firmly by the shoulders, and began to satisfy himself in her with fast, hungry jerks.