The Pasture in Space - Revolution

Author's Note - This novel contains scenes of nonconsensual and nonhuman sex. As the description suggests, hucows, tentacle monsters, and centaurs are explored in a setting that aims to provide a science-fiction explanation.

This is a self-contained novel. My original submission, The Pasture in Space, could be seen to serve as a prequel. But it is not necessary to read these sequentially.

I would like thank Alex_Clayton for inspiring the novel through his own work and suggestions. I would also like to credit Amber Anxiety Garden whose artwork inspired my interest in hucows.

Due a medical condition, I rely on a talk to text program that isn't always accurate to dictate much of my work. If you like my work, please consider volunteering as an editor to help me produce more stories faster.

1

Come. Join. Create.

Breed.

The voice echoed in her head, pounding against her brain. There was no escaping. The dark purple tentacle curled around her leg. Her slender thighs forced apart, pried open for the creature. Long, rope-like appendages moved up her body, finding their way into every orifice. Her mouth, her pussy, her anus, no more than receptacles for the alien's seed.

Come.

She didn't fight. She didn't resist. The monster took her, spraying its fluid into and onto every inch of her. But she found the insidious thing intoxicating, enveloped in its foreign embrace. Her mind went numb, forgetting everything else, even who she once was in exchange for orgasmic bliss. Her body writhed, responding to ever touch, tingling with every new secretion as the thing dosed her skin with its ejaculate.

Completely covered. Completely controlled.

Possessed.

Gwendolyn woke up startled, her bed soaked in sweat. She and 12 of her peers occupied a select space, a privileged position on Epsilon 7. The colony existed on the backs of human suffering; with females selected ritualistically for service in one of three sectors. Those with the widest hips and the right genetic characteristics were designated as breeders. These women spent their lives producing the offspring of the more powerful men in the colony: the overseer and his council.

The majority of women, those with mammaries suited for the tasks, were taken as livestock. Human cows placed in 13 pastures produced milk through rigorously regulated hormones and psychological manipulation. Their bodies were used in service of the state. Breasts attached to hoses that milked out every last drop, their vagina and anus inserted with phallic shaped hoses that efficiently monitored every bodily function, keeping each subject suspended in a supervised state of overwhelming arousal. Every climax controlled, created only to serve the needs of the master caste.

Gwendolyn and the other milk maids stood apart from this system. They supervised the livestock, ensuring the milk yields regularly exceeded the quotas necessary to ensure the colony's survival. Epsilon 7 was little more than a barren rock in space. Their facility cold, plastisteel containers. Survival dependent on backbreaking labor from the surface. There, men worked 14 to 16 hours a day, trying to scratch out a living from an unforgiving surface.

For those noncompliant or physically unable to serve as breeders or livestock, life become short and squalid. These women pleased the laborers as simple service units, objects of unrestrained sexual satisfaction. Placed in various restraints, service girls were used up in weeks, wasted by the pent up anger of men toiling for untold hours in the hostile environment outside the shelters. No form of abuse was forbidden until every girl became completely broken, and of little enjoyment to the workers who engaged in her ritualistic ruin.

Only then came the end.

Inside the soil, creeping beneath the surface, lived a creature. Unseen, unspoken, yet rumors abounded about its origin, its desires. Even its existence was only a rumor, whispered amongst the girls before their selection into one of three castes.

But Gwendolyn had seen it. She had watched as the insidious tentacles carried off a used up hucow after first inseminating the pitiful girl with its phallic organs. Used for nearly twenty years as a cow, the placid, unresponsive woman had barely reacted to her end. The image burned into Gwendolyn's mind. Not because of the horror; a result of the fate that met any woman born on the colony. Because at the end, the women had transformed, her face, her features, realizing something entirely foreign on Epsilon 7.

Bliss.

Like the rest of the milk maids, Gwendolyn had momentarily escaped her fate. Her slender, pixie-like platinum blonde hair came attached to a petite figure. Her breasts barely pronounced, her waist narrow and almost unsuited for reproduction. Though pretty, her figure mattered more than her face. In the years past on selection day she would have been fixed into a plastisteel stockade, immobile, her tender openings presented as rewards to placate the men laboring their lives away on its desolate rock.

She had been plucked from her fate by one woman, who towered among the rest of the milk maids. Unlike her peers, Violet Nall stood apart from the diminutive frame standard to her followers. Her breasts burst out of the identical v-shaped part in their standard issue uniform, which exposed nearly every inch of her voluptuous body. Her hips, wide, curvy, sporting buttocks that bulged out of the thin fabric. Despite having lived nearly forty rotations, an impossible lifespan on the Epsilon 7, her appearance proved the product of many masturbatory fantasies.

Her hair stood as her final identifier, carefully chosen and styled to convey her status. Dark purple and precisely straightened, it shone as a stark statement of individuality.

She needed no such adornment. Her very presence, at just over two meters, proved both intoxicating and intimidating. Her speech, so often put forward in long, confident calls to action, inspired every female on the colony to dream of a life better than that of chattel. Her story, rising through the ranks to claim a status on par with the Overseer, gave hope to the masses.

It was Violet who saved Gwendolyn from selection as a breeder, human cow, or a service unit. It was Violet who taught her the importance of sexually stimulating the livestock, of keeping them tantalizingly close to orgasm day after day. And it was Violet who showed her the horror that lay lurking behind the pasture, bolted behind doors she never dared cross.

Since then, the creature with the wriggling tentacles reached out into her dreams, invading her every thought with the nightmare of the inevitable. One day, she too, like every used up breeder, human cow, and service unit, would be stripped naked and pushed through the airlock. Offered up as a sexual sacrifice to the miscreation lying in wait, able at any moment to rip through the plastisteel doors and take what would not be given.

Somehow, Gwendolyn knew it wanted her.

But she kept her mind on her work. Violet balanced her precarious position through several different administrations, surviving as the Supervisor of the Milk Yields. Her control, delegated to milk maids like Gwendolyn, depended on the systematic and sustained arousal of the human cow population through constant indirect and manual sexual stimulation.

Following the direction of her v-screen, Gwendolyn made her way to Pasture 13, near the outskirts of the hub. Under her direct management, one hundred human cows stood stretched out along the cold and methodically organized barn. Each girl stood separated by a .5 meter distance from each other on both sides of the enclosure. But to Gwendolyn, only one stood out as special. Like she did every day, Gwendolyn walked down to the stall reserved for H13-98.

"Good morning Annabell," Gwendolyn said brightly. "And how is my favorite girl doing today?"

Annabell let out a low, guttural moan of approval through her feeding tube. Her round butt cheeks shaking back against the phallic shaped devices that impaled her against the wall. Attached to each breast were two suction cups, leading to hoses that extracted the milk.

Like the rest of the specimens, Annabelle was stretched out between two parallel bars.

Once, the bright blonde haired girl had been known to her as Astra. She had been Gwendolyn's bunkmate, a girl with a beautiful body that warranted unwelcome attention from many males on Epsilon 7. Though it was officially prohibited, many males forced themselves on girls before their selection day. So common was the practice, that rape became a casual subject of conversation for female residents, who shared information the way one might take precautions against inclement weather.

Even abused as she was by the restless male chauvinism, Annabelle initially resisted every touch from Gwendolyn or the machine. It had been up to the newest milk maid to force herself on the poor animal, using her fingers, her tongue, and the twin hoses that doubled as dildos to create a perpetual state of arousal. So almost absently she stroked the human cow's hair, a part of her routine.

It would be wrong to say that some of this attention wasn't derived from favoritism. Gwendolyn knew the girl; she couldn't help but feel the faint twinge of guilt in the pit of her stomach every time she saw the poor thing. But Annabell was also one of her newest subjects, not quite accustomed to constant flow of nutrients and hormones. Her muscles still ached, demanding to be used, the same as her brain...

Given time, both would atrophy without use.

"I know you need some attention today," Gwendolyn said soothingly. "Were you a good girl yesterday? Did you give lots of milk?"

She looked at the small v-screen attached to her wrist. 3.8 liters, enough yes, putting Annabell towards the middle of the pack. But Gwendolyn needed improvement; Annabell would not last long without increasing her production. The colony was not short on suitable women, and those who could not keep up were unceremoniously thrown out of the airlock to be consumed by the creature.

She understood what needed to be done. She stared straight into those desperate eyes, watching as the human cow tried to shake her body back into the twin phallic devices. Her mouth sucked greedily at the hose in her mouth. In her first few days, when she still was Astra, Annabelle had been pumped full of calming drugs to induce a docile state. Sucking at the spigot, shaped similarly to the phallic hoses on either end would produce a small doses of dopamine. As the days went by, she was weaned from the substance, until the action only produced a placebo effect. For most the hucows, this act was enough. After years without any mental stimulation, the act of simply sucking on a new device proved sufficiently soothing.

Annabelle was not at that point.

She needed to adjust, and quickly. If she couldn't comply and produce enough to justify her existence...

It would fall on the milk maid to offer her up for replacement. And Gwendolyn would have no choice but to push her out through the plastisteel doors, and watch her last friend devoured by the sentient sexual monstrosities waiting on the other side.

She reached down, adjusting one of the knobs. Relying more on her intuition than the biometric readings, Gwendolyn decided to overwhelm her subject with the most powerful vibrations known to the machine. She turned away, wincing as Annabelle let out a loud bellow, a stifled scream of overstimulation.

Her whole body thrashed, her breasts bouncing, shaking, flailing as she futilely fought against her restraints. Her eyes rolled back into her head, the tiniest bit of drool escaping from her lips as she bit down with force on the pliable bit in her mouth. She vibrated along with internal pulsing, unable to do anything but accept the relentless pounding against her pussy. Her legs tried to close, only to have the sheer strength of the machine force their thighs apart.

Turning around, Gwendolyn watched almost absently, trying to cull the last vestiges of pity from her humanity. Her arms, her muscles bulged until they displayed veins. Her breathing became frantic. But her moans... they would have been blood curdling screams had the bit not stifled any sound. Her vagina and anus, in perpetual use and kept pliant and lubricated through the ends of the nozzle, tried to force back the invaders with every internal muscle. Her resistance only made it worse, compounding these convulsions. Her entire body contracted with each relentless thrust, so fixated on the fatigue of being constantly fucked in every hole that seemed she would no longer bear it.

Only Gwendolyn knew Annabelle would take it. And she would have to endure these extremes, not because of her own sadism...

But to survive.

She bent down in front of Annabelle, looking her directly in the eyes as she stroked the matted blonde hair out of her face. The girl's beautiful blue eyes rolled back inside of her head, then darted to the side, frantically unwilling to even acknowledge her tormentor.

Gwendolyn had been prepared for this. Almost every woman selected at livestock needed to develop a form of Stockholm Syndrome. The other alternative was a false, fleeting sort of hope, a dream of escape that time would inevitably crush the soul slowly through each passing day. Better the captive identify with her caretaker. To see her as the giver of pain and pleasure, the inscrutable goddess of this world.

She waited until Annabelle tired of the game, letting the machine grind its way at full forced into both of her cavities.

Look at me.

The thought ricocheted around her head with such an intensity that her temples burned. More than anything, she did not want to resort to discipline. Aside from often reducing the hucows yield, Gwendolyn personally knew the girl. She did not want her to suffer.

As her mistress thought it, Annabelle acknowledged her presence. Her eyes turned to Gwendolyn, pleading with her to make it stop. Only then did Gwendolyn speak.

"Annabelle... Astra... I know there is a part of you still there. Part of you who wants to be free. But there's nowhere else to go."

Gwendolyn spoke softly, as though understanding her immutable anguish.

"Let go. Let me take care of you. Let me be easy on you. I want you to stop thinking about the pain. Let go. I want you to stop thinking about your old life. Let go. Decide that this is going to be pleasurable once you allow the pain to happen. Without sometimes having too little, or too much, you would never feel just right. Let me decide. Let me stimulate you. Let me milk you. Let me decide when you cum."

She looked right into Gwendolyn, tears streaming down her face. It was almost as though a little bit of her individuality, her identity, had been pounded out of her body. Still, with the last ounce of strength in her body, that will held on, fighting to the end. Her legs did little more than twitch, her behind wriggling as though she might squirm free.

Gwendolyn grabbed her by the chin, looking into that once pristine face, forcing her to look past her resentment.

"Let go."

Her head burned badly as it subconsciously willed her subject to stop.

Annabelle quit fighting, even as the machine ravished every inch of her insides. She relaxed, opening up, letting each hose drive its way without clenching or squeezing against the invader. Astra was finally, completely and thoroughly broken, tamed and domesticated into the docile Annabell. With this acceptance, the pain started to subside. Without her resistance, the tools worked their way into her easily, buzzing loudly, their mechanical whirring balancing pleasure and pain.

Gwendolyn made another unseen adjustment, maximizing the machine for pleasure. To Annabelle, her mind weak from the endless cycles of stimulation and climax, that change seemed entirely based on her own compliance. All she needed to do was obey, and gone was the rough, rutting from before, replaced with the delicate twisting and turning of devices designed to more thoroughly please than any penis. They pistoned themselves at a precise pace, causing her to let out another loud bellow, muffled into a moo by the bit in her mouth.

"Do you want to cum?" Gwendolyn said.

Her hands reached all over Annabell's body, touching her wide, bubble butt. Though it was unnecessary, she made a point to nearly removed the rubber cock from her ass, only to shoved it back with a force that elicited another animalistic whine. She did the same to her pussy, only to remove the device entirely, watching with a cold sense of satisfaction as the cow's gaping hole squeezed open and shut almost involuntarily, trying to fill that gaping hole now accustomed to the shape of the hose.

Gwendolyn rubbed her hand up and down Annabelle's clit. Her fingers coming tantalizing close to entering the hucow's aching cunt. Her body contorted uncomfortably, trying to lower her abused lips down on Gwendolyn's hand. Like every other unit of livestock in the pasture, Annabelle was so keyed up that she would have done anything to experience another orgasm. Only Gwendolyn could not have Annabelle depend on her hand. She had a hundred specimens to serve each day; and not nearly enough time to devote this sort of attention to everyone. She re-inserted the tube, driving it back and forth with her hand for a few moments, before letting go to make a quick adjustment on her v-screen.

Patting Annabell on the rump, she watched absently as the throes of orgasmic bliss overtook her. The hucow rocked against the very devices that kept her prisoner, her whole body overwhelmed with intense satisfaction. Had she continued on the same setting, indulging her pet indefinitely, every nerve in her body would eventually fry, limiting or even preventing future pleasure. It was important to be precise. To know how much to push each of these animals. To know when to dispense pleasure after days or weeks kept helpless on the brink.

It wasn't an exact science. Being a milk maid required a sense of empathy and compassion where such concerns were ritualistically stamped out by their totalitarian society. Relationships between mistress and hucow were invaluable, not only in ensuring compliance (a happy cow makes better milk) but also in relaying important information that may not be recorded through the instruments.

As Annabell contracted again, Gwendolyn knew that the next impending orgasm would disabilititate her subject, causing an intense discomfort until the refractory period passed. Many of her hucows would require multiple orgasms to reach the same state. A few needed only a few scarce orgasms every rotation to break up the monotony - it all depended on the subject.

Responding in accordance with her training, Gwendolyn again punched the correct calculations into her v-screen. The machine slowed down imperceptibly, giving its target just enough stimulation to tease, keeping Annabell pumped and primed for the next release. And through this terrible task, each orgasm proved neverending, compounding upon the next, creating an endless cycle of lust that confounded and controlled the senses until the mind became soaked in so many natural endorphins that it ceased to truly function.

Through this distributing process, in time, a few days, a few weeks, or even a few cycles, a woman became truly domesticated.

She moved on to her next subject, attempting to be passionless, but unable to avoid the stirring of shame at being a party to this horrible practice. Choiceless, her hand again adjusted the dials on the v-screen.

2

The hallway was barren, a lifeless gray plastisteel wall decorated only with the occasional piece of propaganda. These were rarely posters or artistic endeavors. They were little more than sanctioned station graffiti, scrawled out across the way by uneven and almost illegible hand.