Milk Barn Horror Pt 04

FIRST MILKING

A touch on her bare bottom wakes Tracy with a start. She tries to jump away but her limbs are locked in place; the muscles do not belong to her. Tracy is aware of someone standing close in the black night. Fabric brushes her leg and she gasps. Her breasts feel heavy, things beneath that are apart from her, pendulous shapes that pull her down.

Someone is near. Rough hands stroke her flesh, travel everywhere, missing nothing. She yawns. Must have slept. What a strange party, and her clitoris is humming again. She relaxes into the strange touch, hoping for a hard dick.

A clunk below her, something metallic hits the platform she kneels on. Hard fingers grip her swollen nipples, purposeful, assured. They grasp her teats, squeezing into the aureoles. The pleasurable stretching travels through her weighted breasts. The hands draw her teats downward in a steady rhythm. It is so black in the room she sees nothing. The steady pull at her swollen nipples. More yummy by the minute. Left. Right. Left. Right.

A faint, odd sound. Something metallic. Then she gets it. The most delicate spray of fluid against the bottom of a metal pan. Unable to move or turn her head, Tracy gives a little bleat. I am being milked!

She is glad that the pressure in her swollen boobs is diminishing, but the idea of being milked blows her fuses. How? A woman needs to be pregnant, doesn't she? Almost to term in fact, before milking is possible. Mind mazed in yummy-hot sensations, she looks beneath her. The dim light almost enough to make out shapes. She faintly sees the hands that manipulate her teats, follows their circular motion, pushing up into her stretched mammaries, pulling down hard and smooth, pausing as the milk sprays from her, pushing her breasts up again. The patient milking rhythm sends a warm glow to her sex in a rush of blood.

The wrists are thin, projecting from big soft sleeves. Tracy manages to turn her head. The figure kneeling beside her wears a hooded robe, the face in shadow. All she can see of the one caressing her teats are his hands, the hard fingers. As daylight comes up through weathered barn siding, she can tell that the hands are very skinny, as though there is no flesh on them at all. The milking continues at a slow, methodical pace. Her milk sprays into liquid now, the pan is filling. Her eyes fall closed. She hums in pleasure.

My milk.

A warm glow suffuses her chest. Her milk runs out, the hands leave her teats. Now the bony hands rove her flesh, down her back to her rounded rump. Her knees are pulled apart. Hard touches in her crevice. Tingling heat in her pouting weasel. She tries to pull away but her muscles do not respond.

A knobby finger slithers into her rectum. It's so odd to be violated in that way, so odd that she likes it, so sexy that it's such a dirty move from an unseen admirer in the dark of this strange barn. The finger remains still, unmoving, but Tracy is conscious of its hard presence. She squeezes her anus on it, trying to pull it inside her. She lunges back for more but her body does not respond. The finger pulls away. She has the feeling she is being examined closely.

It is then she notices the breathing. Like a death-rattle from empty lungs, the last gasp of a cadaver. The hands leave her flesh.

The final thing is a complete shock. A scraping of the metal pan beneath her. When she looks down, she sees. The hand that lifts the milk-filled pan from beneath her teats has no flesh. It is the bony hand of a human skeleton. The long robe brushes her as the figure shuffles away.

Trying to control her quavering breath, Tracy listens. Shufflings from other parts of the barn move away into silence. Tracy sobs, wretched fearful jerks of anguish shudder from her twisted mouth.

Minutes later she hears heavy footsteps, the slap of rough leather striking flesh. A woman's stifled cries.

"That was for you, new cunt." A woman's hissed voice nearby. "She's taking it for what you did."

"Keep your mouth shut," someone on the other side of her whispers forcefully.

In front of her Tracy can see through cracked barn siding the early day. Figures pass outside, walking to their farm chores. A pickup truck. A black cat hugs the barn opposite as it slinks among remaining shadows.

A loud horn blows. Muscles slack and limp, Tracy flops on her face. She is not prepared for the moment the frozen mobility is lifted. Laughter from the other cows, still on all fours and now making their way out of the barn. Tracy does not know if it's OK to move, until sharp teeth bite her on the softest inside curve. She screeches and jumps around. The taunting eyes are the same as before, the woman who had bitten her last night. Tracy charges, lunging forward with her head down, she head-butts the stupid cow in the face, and the girl goes down. Tracy is poised above her, ready to strike. On her back, the auburn-haired cow looks up at Tracy, considering the situation. The cow smiles nervously, defeated, and twists her hips side to side, a wagging puppy submitting to a bigger dog. Her overgrown breasts ripple.

"Watch your ass," Tracy growls. Quick as a snake, she clamps her mouth to an exposed breast, grips a chunk of it in her teeth. It is hot and soft. She doesn't bite, but snarls around the mouthful of girl flesh.

"Please, no. I'm sorry!" The submissive woman wags her tail harder.

"I'll take this off you, bitch."

"I'll lick your kooter!" The auburn-haired girl seems sincere. "Please! Let me lick you!"

Tracy doesn't have time to figure that one out. She's not into girls that much. A press of cows pushes in to see the girl fight, disappointed it's over in a blink.

"Maybe later." Tracy turns away and crawls into the milling cows. They part to give way, whispers of Lick your butt follow her.

"River," Tracy shouts into the room. "River, are you here?" There is no answer.

Joining the crawling cows in the bright doorway, Tracy is surprised to see those ahead rise on their hind legs. Fully erect, a crowd of lovely women walks toward a pasture, laughing and talking. Some trot, arms supporting overgrown bosoms. Faint red stripes on a curvy bottom.

Tracy stands befuddled, looking down at engorged breasts none of her clothes would fit. Not as huge as she dreamed them, but definitely a couple sizes. She lifts them in her hands, and starts to cry. The nipples stick out an inch, fat like grapes. Touching them makes her weasel ooze.

A girl stands by her. "Yeh, it's tough when ya first get 'em." She nudges the shocked blonde into motion.

Several girls walk with Tracy. "What's this," she asks, "the two legs bit? I thought..."

"Yeah," says one, a short redhead with a prominent bustline. "It's not practical. Beats up the knees too much. They need us to do other things besides giving milk and acting like cows."

"Do we have to moo?"

The girls laugh. "Hah! Never heard it mentioned."

FROZEN MOBILITY

As the group of happy cows pass the last of the faded buildings on their way to pasture, a lone figure waits beside a gate, watching them go through. It's the tall old man, so very thin, wearing bib overalls and a checkered shirt. His straw hat and dark glasses are incongruous against pale, smooth skin.

As Tracy nears the gate, asking her new friends question after question about life on the Farm, the tall man's bony hand lifts and she stops walking, incapable of motion. Standing naked before the gaunt figure she feels like a big, dripping sex organ. The other cows hurry past, not looking. When all have gone through the gate into the pasture, Tracy stands alone with old Ezekiel.

The girl cannot move. Conscious of her open rawness before him, her muscles lunge against invisible restraints. She urges her legs to run but they do not obey. He walks around her, very close, taking a good view of her sumptuous body in the morning sunlight. She can't turn her head. It's the same frozen mobility that held her in the stall all night long.

The man's words come from a gravelly throat. "You shall serve great purpose here."

Tracy does not understand her feelings. She watches with a lonely pang the backs of the cows now far out in the field. They run and play together. She is alone with this very odd character, a skeleton hung with ancient flab, who towers over her.

Her extended nipples feel it first, though no hands touch her. Tender pulls like those that milked her before dawn. Her fat nipples mist a fine spray on the morning air. She has only the feeling of it. Feels a light stroking over her hairless girl parts but his hands hang at his sides. She shivers. Insistent throbbing in her loins brings an overflowing orgasm that swims in her vision. She would collapse in the dirt if not held by this invisible force.

Now her body begins to move, she cannot prevent it. Eyes riveted on Ezekiel's face, Tracy's open-mouthed expression is of cumming without end. Her body kneels, hands on the dirt in the cow pose.

"You must be at all times prepared to Rear Present," Ezekiel croaks out.

Tracy scarcely understands his words. But the unknown force flexes her slender arms and lowers her breasts flat against cool ground. Her head lifts up, her graceful back arches, her knees part wide. The posture lifts her perfect genitalia in high relief, brightly lit in the rising sun. In this position, any visitor or farmhand could squat to inspect her most private flesh from the rear. Tracy trembles deep inside. Immobilized, anything could be done to her. By anyone. This she will not be able to tolerate. Being presented and inspected! Tracy feels like a slab of pork. But her contracting pussy soothes her fears.

"A good cow remains quiet during inspection and pleasuring," the old man grits out. The voice seems to rise from a cavern of crushed boulders. Ezekiel is behind her, out of her vision, silent, merely looking. A finger's stroke along the underside of her bottom makes the warm flesh prickle.

Rough bony hands travel her flesh, taking inventory. She knows her weasel is swollen back there, glistening in sunshine. Her anus itches. That itching had tormented her all night long. The touching stops. Her body of its own volition rolls over in the dirt. On her back with knees lifted apart, her own fingers jerk her projecting nipples. Tracy arches and wags her rump at his feet as those shaded eyes look down on her feminine perfection, her breasts heavy on her ribs.

"This is how you always greet me," the old man grates through cadaver lips. "Whenever you see me, this is how you offer yourself."

Looking up at him, a strange feeling comes over her. In spite of the embarrassing position lying beneath the tall old man, she has a sense of being safe with him. Unbidden, her fingers pull apart her raw sex lips. It feels good to touch herself. Her weasel throbs. She feels another climax building. Her eyes close to hold the feeling, taste every scrap of it. Then comes to her a powerful volition, she wants to be completely open beneath his gaze, for him to watch her body throb in pleasure. But when her anus opens hungrily, Tracy feels the sting of shame.

Ezekiel turns and hobbles away toward the cluster of distant barns. She follows with her eyes, unable to move from her submissive position in the dirt. Only after he is out of sight do her limbs flop to the cool ground, and her body is again her own.

THE DAILY ROUTINE

A week after her arrival, Tracy's nighttime mobility is allowed to increase, by what means she cannot know. But alone in her stall between the eight metal posts, she is able to wriggle and arch, to lower her breasts to the floor and stick her butt way out. To stretch and move. Constantly aroused, she wants to touch herself but her hands will not obey. She thinks her wanton moves will bring a visitor. A hard penis. Please.

The flesh she displays would be arousing to any man, if the darkness did not cloak her. Still, she has the feeling that the robed beings, and Ezekiel who often stands near without touching, can see her. And smell her. Her only clothing is the leather collar with its shiny D-ring. She has forgotten about the party, the doctor and the precinct station. River is a vague memory. All she knows is being secretly milked late at night when her straining breasts want it most.

In Tracy's stall each night the frozen mobility levers her knees wide apart, her bottom high in the air, presenting smooth genitals to the darkened barn like a secret offering. She feels herself on high display, constantly wishes for one of the black bulls to visit her in deepest night. With her back arched and knees apart, she would present an erotic target for pleasuring, bathing, any kind of captive intercourse or inspection. She is certain those visits happen, hears furtive footsteps and muted pleasure sounds in the big room when the lights are out. But no one comes to her.

Every cow in the barn has admirers, is someone's favorite, and Tracy feels she should be attractive to some of the Farm's males. So why hasn't it happened? She gets seethingly horny listening to the urgent gruntings of cows in cloaks of darkness.

Some cows are fucked during everyday activities. While pasturing, during running games, having lunch in the cafeteria, where there are tables and chairs and everything normal except they are naked and wear leather collars. They have little to say about who they must open to, and something about the air or the water or the bucolic scenery saps their ability to resist. The little cows are constantly hot, bouncing breasts dripping with milk, swollen twats poking out behind.

A bull or a cowboy can pull a naked girl aside without warning, have her on her knees or on her back or some other humiliating pose, while he rams himself into whichever orifice interests him at the moment. Sometimes it is only to show off the bull's power over any girl. When it changes from raw animal lust to mutual passion, the air becomes electrified and all the naked cows feel it inside their tummies.

Tracy is sometimes ordered to Rear Present, meaning she must kneel and place her breasts flat on the ground. This is to allow any squatting visitor or tourist or farmhand to inspect her private area from behind. This she tolerates poorly, it brings out the fighter in her. But the revealing pose was trained into her night after night by frozen mobility until she got it right.

Since her first time meeting him on the way to the pasture, she has encountered Ezekiel numerous times. Each time, she does as he ordered her the first day, kneels at his feet, then rolls on her back and presents, knees wide and lifted to her melon breasts, wagging her bare little fanny, an excited puppy. Ezekiel never touches her, merely watches until he loses interest in her display and walks off. Tracy is embarrassed when he leaves her wiggling in the dirt, disappointed that her greeting does not hold him. Still in the grip of her conditioning, other cows close in and stroke her with tongues and fingers, forcing her to an unwilling erotic display, fevered, sweaty. Because they fear him, Tracy's total submission to Ezekiel brings astonished admiration from all of them.

But she has learned how to properly present herself for Ezekiel's inspection, and feels successful at it. Sometimes she asks herself how she truly feels, wiggling on her back, her bald girl twat open and her filled breasts jiggling. One time a little voice came, that she likes him to see her that way. She feels at her most natural with him inspecting her body. But she is not attracted. He's far too old, probably cannot get it up. A stray thought comes. Kissing him. It makes her gag.

VET VISIT

One morning after a particularly pleasurable milking which left her breasts sore from the energetic bouncing, Tracy is led easily by her leash into an examination room. Forced to crawl onto a high table, the frozen mobility takes her, bending her back into a deep arch, raising her soft bottom into the air. Her ankles swing up and grip the outsides of her glutes, a move impossible without help. It's as if she has no feet. Her knees are far apart as a frog slithering in mud.

Tracy has come to enjoy frozen mobility. It never hurts her in itself, when it begins she can simply relax, unless something torments her. Even in that, she is training herself to submit more deeply. Always while in frozen mobility, the naked cow who once called herself Tracy Ransom is curious and ready to be violated. She wouldn't mind. She never gets sex the regular way, she must settle for the insane fealty lickings from other cows.

On either side of the exam frame, large mirrors make her realize how helpless she is. From the preparations being done around her, she assumes she's to be examined by the vet. From overhearing the bulls, she also learned that she will spend a good deal of time in this posture, until it is trained into her, like breathing.

She has no idea how frozen mobility operates. At first she thought it came in the stalls, from the round posts that flank each cow at night. Then she met Ezekiel, and was manipulated in the open by the same mysterious, invisible force. She does think it more sophisticated than ropes and chains, and sometimes with the old farmer, her body floats in captive poses through the air.

Two large black bulls stand behind, between her flattened thighs, until Ezekiel approaches her head. She notices again how very tall and thin he is. She is attached to nothing, she notices calmly, balanced on her knees with her elbows together behind her. Tracy's shoulders are not supported, yet her back is parallel to the ground and deeply curved.

Ezekiel is taller, or maybe he seems so because she's on her knees. What skin she can see hangs loose, such as wattles at his throat. And always, although they are indoors, he wears the straw cowboy hat and the dark, round sunglasses. He does not have much of a nose, two narrow slits beneath a misshapen hump. But Tracy is surprised when he speaks to her. It is not the first time he has done so, but he was so terse before it was almost in code.

"Tracy, there could be pain in what the vet does to you today. But I will be here to take care of your pain. Serge will make it as pleasant as anyone can."

The vet comes in, walks around to Tracy's face and says hello with a nice smile, looking right in her eyes. Tracy likes him immediately. He is the first person on the Farm who right off treats her like a human being, in spite of her lewd pose. But always, she soon comes to notice, he calls her a cow.

There are instruments and different veterinarian things, like blood pressure, and he takes her temperature under her tongue. But then he goes around back and slips a glass bulb thermometer into her rectum. She can feel it in there quite a long way, and when she checks in the mirror, there it is, sticking several inches out between her cheeks. Tracy flushes in hot shame.

To be spoken to like a human one minute, then to have a long thing slipped up her rear without being asked or even warned is degrading. And the black bulls are close by, out of her vision. She feels she deserves better. She's glad that the next thing that happens, Serge does warn her first.

"Tracy, now I have to do a rectal exam. I know you have had these, so it won't be anything new. Are you ready? Here I come."

Serge winds one well-lubed finger over the next, and firmly pushes against her starfish. It opens with difficulty, Tracy whimpers as the invading fingers violate her raised and presented anus. Serge keeps the pressure on until his first knuckle is inside. He likes the pulsing throb on his fingers, it calls to his stiffening dork as her muscles flow around the humiliating presence of his knuckles.

"Shall we slacken the mobility some? I would like to see how she reacts on her own."

Freer now, Tracy tosses her head and snorts a little, shaking her breasts and hips in reaction to the vet's marauding fingers. It is so dirty nasty to be probed back there with others watching, body reflected in all these mirrors.