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.
