Feedings were the only evidence of the passage of time Priscilla had and these were frequent and blended into the endless cycle of milking and fucking. And many of these activities happened simultaneously. Priscilla felt abandoned by her higher power, the Vulture of Blood, who was somehow okay with this fate for her and had yet to intervene. She spent much of her existence asleep and dreaming or awake and dreaming, until the bench pressing into her guts became noticeably more uncomfortable and her milkings yielded actual creamy fluids.
I'm pregnant, she thought. And terror filtered in through the haze of her drugged food.
Weight pressed her into the bench and she whimpered in discomfort as a farmhand took her without warning, as always. As the farmhand took their pleasure from her, the one milking her from the front chuckled triumphantly.
"I think this one's ready for pasture."
After a few grunts, she felt their seed gush into her. The bench creaked as they stood and she heard them fix their pants. The minotaur clip-clopped to inspect her from the front and the one milking her stopped and stood, showing off the creamy liquid to both her and his companion.
"Look at what you made, sweet girl." He cooed.
The other one lifted her head by her hair and her eyes fluttered closed from the pain. She didn't want to look at them anyway. Nausea roiled in her stomach. The minotaur let go and her head collided limply with the bench with a smarting slap.
"You're right. I'll tell Grigur." They stomped off.
The remaining farmhand knelt back and continued milking her. His rough hands squeezing her swollen, sore tits made heat rise in her cunt even as pain radiated out from her nipples. Milk poured into the pail in thin streams. Once his strong grip failed to produce further liquid, he set the bucket aside and lifted a pitcher of slop to the tube opening resting just outside her lips. She gagged as the first of the gunk hit her stomach and he stopped pouring to wait her out. Once she stilled, he emptied the remainder of the pitcher into her tube.
"Enjoy the quiet while you can, girl." He ruffled her hair. She groaned in response as the feeding tube prevented her from forming words.
After the farmhand left her to her misery, Priscilla drifted into her thoughts. It was the only way to escape the reality of being bound to a bench for what had to be weeks if not months. She pictured the wide plains and steep mountains she'd trekked and the fierce dragons and mad snow wolves she'd fought. Her mind returned over and over to the lusty barmaids she'd taken to bed and the warm food she could taste and chew on.
All too soon the sound of hooves on the stone floor brought Priscilla back to her body. The new farmhand bent by her front and began unstrapping her from the bench. Her unused muscles ached as she shifted her arms and then her legs, but the tube in her throat dissuaded her from moving further.
"Alright, girl, brace yourself." The farmhand said not unkindly as he gripped her head between his knees.
She gagged several times as he slowly, carefully, dislodged the tube and removed it from her throat. As he stepped away, she allowed herself to slip from the bench onto the floor. She savoured the feel of the cool stone against her skin even as another gag raised her body heat and her sick spread across the floor.