The Herdmasters

Hi all. I've experimented with writing for a long time now, but this is the first time I've shared something online so I hope you enjoy it. As usual, all characters in this story involved in sexual acts are legal adults.

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“Come on, open it!”

Jess was practically bouncing with excitement as she handed over my present, neatly wrapped in gold paper with a red bow and ribbon. It was obvious what it was without having to unwrap it – if the size and shape didn’t give it away, the curve of the spine and hard edge of the covers all screamed hardback book. Was I really that boring, that the only gift my last remaining friend could muster up on my birthday was a book?

I did my best to keep my ennui on the inside and forced myself to smile as I carefully unbound the ribbon, cut the tape, and folded the paper to use again later. It wasn’t Jess’s fault that my relationship had just gone down the toilet, taking happiness and my other friends with it. In every break-up the friends choose sides, I just hadn’t expected all of mine to choose my ex, especially when she was the one who’d cheated on me. People who I’d known since childhood now crossed the street to avoid talking to me and refused to meet my eyes in lectures. And the worst of it was I didn’t even feel angry, just... empty.

The book was old, the red leather cover beaten, scratched and stained, and thin enough to fit in a large pocket. The title was hard to read, the gold of the lettering mostly worn away and a gash carved through several of the words, but I finally made out “The Applied Anthropology Reader: Living Among the Myths”. That was all: no author, no publisher, just those eight words.

“Wow, thanks Jess! Where on earth did you find this thing? It looks a hundred years old if it’s a day.” I had to admit, I was a bit excited despite myself. The sad thing was, I liked rare and unique books. I adjusted my glasses and opened the cover. “You know, we’re doing Mauss and Malinowski at the moment, and it’d be fascinating to see how a less well known twentieth century work compares to the giants of the field. Were they really so far ahead of their peers in their approach to anthropological fieldwork, or were they just lucky enough to be remembered? This could be really useful for the end of module coursework...”

“I’m glad you like it!” She leaned in to hug me, then pulled my hand off the book and held it tightly. “Listen, Nick, you didn’t deserve what happened with Steph, not at all. And you certainly didn’t deserve being abandoned by all those dickheads you used to call friends. And I thought this...” she rested her hand on the book, which happened to be resting on my lap “... might take your mind off things a little bit.”

“The book’s more than you know, a lot more. It’s been in my family for generations, and it’s been my most prized possession since I first” she paused, searching for the right word “experienced it. But I’ve had my fun, and I think it’s time I gave it to someone who needs it more. There are just three rules I need you to promise me you’ll follow.”

“Rules? For a book?” I laughed. “Let me guess. Don’t get it wet, keep it out of the light, and don’t read it after midnight? Or is that gremlins?”

“No, doofus! I’m serious.” She took a deep breath, her chest shifting against me in interesting ways, and tried to look stern. “The first rule is, wait until you’re alone to read it. Go somewhere private, close the curtains, and lock the doors. OK?”

“Jess, it’s a book.”

“Rule number two. Protect it with your life. Don’t let it out of your sight until you’re finished with it. If it gets lost or destroyed then you’ll be in no end of trouble.”

“Jess, this is ridiculous.”

She punched me lightly on the arm. “Shut up. OK, final rule. The most important one. When you’re done, or if you get into any trouble, you need to turn to the final page and read it. That’s your escape. Don’t forget, OK? What do we do if we’re in trouble?”

“Read the last page.” I repeated.

“Great!” She got up and kissed me on the forehead. “In that case, I’ll leave you alone to enjoy your present. Why don’t you give it a go? And when you’re done I’ll swing round this evening and take you out somewhere nice. And don’t worry – even if it seems like a long time, time always goes faster on the page than in real life.”

“Well, that was weird...” I muttered as the door slammed behind her. What on earth was all that about? I opened the book again, and flicked to the table of contents. There were twenty three chapters, each with its own enigmatic title, and seemingly no introduction.

Chapter 1. The Herdmasters...................................5

Chapter 2. The Pearlcatchers................................11

Chapter 3. The Huntsmen......................................18

...

I slid my finger down the list, but since nothing stood out, I decided to start at the beginning.

"The herdmasters are primitive agriculturalists and ranchers of bovine stock, farming the rolling hills to the south of the Whispering Peaks. I first reached their territory in the summer, in the middle of mating season. It was impressive to witness the range of breeds the bulls ... developed... plough... village..."

I shook my head. The words were blurring on the page, the ink of the black mono-space print shifting, running and evaporating like grey mist. I touched it and my fingers came back wet and black; whatever was happening wasn’t just in my head. The mist was streaming out of the book now, so dense I could barely see it. It started to spin around me, faster and faster, and then flooded back down onto the page, only this time it pulled me down with it. I fell into that well of blackness, and the cover of the book thumped shut behind me.

* * *

“We’ve arrived, my lord!” A man shouted, and something hit me in the back. I jumped, shocked, and found myself in an open-topped wooden cart parked on a dirt track. I was sitting in the back, along with several chests and barrels, dressed up like the village yokel. A cloth hat covered my head, my glasses had vanished, and the longest, itchiest woollen tunic ever hung almost to my knees, fastened in place by a belt. My lower legs were covered by what looked like stockings, and my feet were clad in soft leather shoes. And in my lap... in my lap sat the book.

The driver came round the back and held out his hand. “Do you need a hand, sir?”

“Me?”

The man clearly didn’t know quite how to respond respectfully to my question, so he tried a different tack. “We’ve arrived at the manor, my lord. If you’d dismount, perhaps I could announce your arrival to the steward?”

I nodded and scrambled down, slipping the book under my belt in my hand in line with rule two. Protect the book with your life. I didn’t know what was going on, but I’d play along just long enough to get some alone time with it and then I was out of here.

The manor was a hulking grey stone building, two stories tall with a slate roof. The ground-floor had a single main entrance, and the only windows were narrow slits under the eaves. Surrounding it, wooden stables and barns closed two of the three other sides to form a courtyard of compacted earth. The whole thing seemed like a scene from the middle ages, apart from the cow-girls walking around.

This is the point where English fails me. When I say cow-girl, I don’t mean a woman who herds cows. I mean a woman with the attributes of a cow. I mean women with little horns curling through their hair, little rectangular snouts pierced with metal rings, swishing tails, and skin covered in black and white hair, who walked upright on feet ending in cloven hooves. Oh, and let’s not forget the udders – the cow-girls were naked apart from a simple loin-cloth, and each had on display an expanse of wobbling, bare pink flesh occupying most of their front, split into four linked tits each with its own big drooping nipple. One walked past us, carrying a milk pail, and the sight of all that jiggling flesh made my cock stir despite my best efforts.

“Sir Nicholas!” A bull of a man swept out of the manor and bellowed my name, my man-servant in tow behind him. He was at least six and a half feet tall excluding horns, and with the horns he was closer to seven. He loomed over me, a wall of bare muscle and buff fur, and bared his teeth in what I guessed was a smile. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Gilbert, steward of these parts. We’ve been expecting you for several weeks now... I was beginning to think you weren’t coming! I’ve had the lads build a small homestead for you, as agreed with your man here, but before we get you settled in why don’t you...” He grinned again. “... enjoy my hospitality while we close the deal.”

He bellowed incomprehensibly, and two of the cowgirls carried a trestle table out in the courtyard, their hooves clopping on the hard ground. Two wooden benches followed, and then jugs of ale, platters of cheeses, loaves of bread, and wooden bowls of soup. The three of us sat and ate, with one of the girls hovering at my shoulder and one at his. As mine leant over to fill my cup with ale her fleshy udders pressed against my shoulder, and I couldn’t help but blush.

“Thank you, miss.” I shifted my arm away from her warm flesh and turned to face her. “What should I call you?”

“Her name is Maisie, and she can’t speak.” The steward answered for her. “And even if she could, I doubt she’d have much interesting to say. Heifers and cows... we don’t breed them for the brains. We breed them for this!” He wrapped his arm around the heifer behind him, pulled her into his lap and roughly grabbed one of her tits. She squealed gently, clearly not comfortable, but sat there docilely while he groped her. “One day they’ll produce the best milk in the world. And until that day they’ll help run the manor and look after their sisters who’re already calving and producing, under the command of their bull.”

“And that brings us to our arrangement. Last time your man came here, he said you wanted to ‘study our way of life’ for your ‘university’. He said you wanted to live as we live, and you were willing to pay your way. And in the interest of better understanding and cold hard cash I’m willing to accommodate you.”

“Here’s the deal. You and your man here will have all the rights and obligations of free-born bulls. The manor will provide you with a house fit for your status, and lease to you two virgates of good arable land, as well as access to shared grazing land. We’ll also provide to you some heifers for your little herd: four suitable for use under the plough, and an equal number for milk. For this you will pay an entry fine of £20, and an annual rent of 13 shillings. If you choose to leave permanently, the land will revert back to the manor but the cows are yours to do with as you please. Do you have any questions?”

I had a lot, it turns out, just none I could ask. Questions like “what’s a virgate?”, “do I even have £20?” or “can I go home now please?” didn’t seem like the right thing to say, and neither did turning down the beefcake with the large, pointed horns growing out of his head. So I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and shook on a deal that I may or may not be able to honour. Hopefully my man-servant, the guy who negotiated this deal, knew where the damn money was, because it definitely wasn’t in my non-existent pockets.

“Excellent. Would you like to start choosing your herd? Let’s find you some milkers first, shall we? We can get you a team of oxen some other time. A lot of the unmated milkers work around the farm, so I’ll call them out for you to inspect. Tell me, sir Nicholas, do you know what to look for in a good cow?”

“N-n-no, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Well, let me give you some tips then. Maisie! Get over here.” He got up, waited as she sedately wandered over, and then slapped her roughly on the behind. “Stand up straight!” With a baleful moo she forced herself more upright, eyeballing him with one of her big, sad widely spaced eyes.

“Right then, let’s start from the bottom and work up, shall we? The first thing you want is good feet and good arms and legs. A milker has to bear a lot of weight when calving. The legs should be strong, nice and straight, wide apart, and the feet should be at a slight angle. Here, feel.” He grabbed my hand, positioned it on Maisie’s bare thigh, then looked at me expectantly. Unable to refuse, I knelt and ran my hands slowly up and down her legs... her smooth skin covered in fine white hair spotted black. Her thighs were big, chunky and muscled, widely spaced on massive hips. I couldn’t resist shifting my hand up towards her groin, until my palm touched the rough fabric of her loin cloth, and when I reached that heat between her thighs she shifted nervously and swished her tail.

“Excellent, sir Nicholas! The next thing to look for is indeed the pelvis. A good heifer should have good child-birthing hips, and be biddable and willing to mate. See how she’s moving her tail? She’s excited by your touch. Here...” The steward pulled the loin-cloth aside, revealing a mound covered in the same fine white hair and big pink pussy lips, glistening with moisture. Fascinated, I touched her wetness with my finger and teased it slowly between those lips, along her slit, until her gyrating tail swatted my hand and broke the spell.

“Sorry girl, got a bit carried away.” I said as I stood up. What on earth was I doing? By any standards, this was somewhere between weird and completely evil. If she were truly a cow it would be fine, but she wasn’t. Despite her alienness, there was something so human about her, and I was treating her like a piece of meat, like livestock. I knew in my heart it was wrong, but at the same time it was so incredibly arousing. My cock was rock solid against the rough fabric of my stockings, and I longed for nothing more than to bend poor Maisie over and shove myself into her sopping wetness.

“The next thing you want to look at is the udders.” Gilbert continued, oblivious. “In a heifer, the udders should be a good size but don’t need to be huge. They’ll grow once she’s in calf. They should be pliable, silky, and strongly supported.” He cupped one of her lower breasts. “See? Soft but firm. And the teats should be the right size and shape for nursing and milking. Maisie’s look good.”

I copied him. I reached out both hands and cupped her upper pair, squeezing the overflowing flesh between my fingers then playing with her teats. They were an odd shape, longer, more rounded at the tip, and less erect than a human’s nipples, but clearly sensitive from her heavy breathing. I tugged on them and Maisie let out a strangled moo.

“And finally, sir Nicholas... don’t neglect your own tastes. The healthiest, most productive cow in the world is no good if her bull doesn’t want to mate with her. Take a good look at her colouring, her shape, the nice plump rump you’re going to be fucking, and make sure that she gets you going. Oh, and the mouth... if you can, see if you can get her to lick or suck on your fingers without biting. It’s not strictly necessary... but if you train heifers you don’t want to breed yet to do something else with that cock of yours it can help prevent accidents. Maisie here’s already an expert, aren’t you?”

I ran one hand up from her lovely tit and presented my fingers to her lips. Those big eyes stared at me for a second, and then she opened her mouth and licked them. The sight of that big, rough wet tongue caressing my fingers, of her slobbering and drooling over them, was almost enough to set me off. I wanted to own one of these creatures more than anything now, these dumb, docile, obedient breeding machines, morality be damned.

In the end, choosing my four milkers took me a good hour or two. All the candidates had to be carefully inspected, of course, with particularly thorough inspection of any nice wet cunts, nice big rumps and tits. What can I say? I’ve always been a fan of the curvier ladies.

Somehow, opening up the book and going back home was rapidly moving down the agenda. Just another day or two, I thought, as we herded the four heifers behind the wagon in the direction of their new home.