I crack open an eye, groaning as the morning light assaults my senses. I shove my face deeper into the pillow, trying to escape the damn rooster that insists on crowing at God-knows-what-time in the morning. Honestly, who needs an alarm when you have a feathered jerk with no sense of what civilized waking hours should be?
"Matt!" Mrs. Peterson's voice barrels through the thin walls of my room. "Time for breakfast!"
I grunt back, a universally accepted 19-year-old dialect for "Go away, I'm sleeping." The Petersons, they live in some parallel universe where the break of dawn is a perfectly reasonable time for human activity.
"Five more minutes," I yell back, slightly muffled by the pillow I'm clutching.
I hear a sigh, the kind that's filled with the patience of a saint, and then the thunk-thunk-thunk of her retreating footsteps.
I swing my feet over the edge of the bed, grabbing my Quantum Quest handheld console from the nightstand. The tiny LCD screen blinks to life, and I'm back defending Zircon City, just where I left off. Ah, pixelated perfection.
I shuffle down the creaky staircase, still engrossed in the game. I'm barely aware of bypassing the bathroom door, trailing down the hallway in my rumpled pajamas. Screw showering, I'm on level 35!
Stepping into the kitchen, the smell of sunshine and freshly toasted bread hits my nostrils, but my thumb is poised over the joystick - a boss fight is looming. I plop down on the chair, my eyes glued to the screen, as the other hand blindly reaches out to the plate, grabbing a slice of toast smeared in butter and homemade jam.
Around the table, the Petersons are wolfing down their breakfast - eggs, milk, a variety of bread. A typical, hearty, farm-fresh breakfast. Their tired faces and dusty overalls tell me it's been a busy morning.
"I hope you're planning to go change, Matt," Mr. Peterson glances at me, a mix of exasperation and amusement dancing in his eyes.
Sarah snorts, striking a pose, "Yeah. You can't milk the cows dressed like that, city boy."
"Milk the cows?" I nearly drop my console, "I don't do udders, Sarah. That's gross."
Mrs. Peterson's gentle voice drifts my way, "We're not asking you to milk them, dear. Maybe you could help Jack with the manure management?"
I stifle a gag. "Manure management? Is that a polite way of saying 'shoveling shit'? No, thank you."
Even Jack, their burly, silent farmhand, who's wolfing down his third egg, looks at me with raised eyebrows. "Too delicate for farm work, city boy?" he grunts, a corner of his mouth curling into a knowing smirk.
I roll my eyes, my fingers jittering back to the joystick of the console. "This is my world, my work," I explain, gesturing towards the game. "Let's not confuse domains, okay?"
There's a sigh from Mrs. Peterson, a soft hand on my shoulder. "Matt, dear. We understand your... fascination with your games. But engaging with real life is equally important… even if it hurts. You can't retreat into your digital world forever."
I grimace, knowing she means well. They all do. It's not their fault they don't get it.
I look up, my eyes meeting the earnest expressions around the table and reluctantly, I sigh. "Alright, alright. No milking. No manure. What else you got?"
"The hay bales need to be moved to the cow barn by noon," Mr. Peterson suggests, looking hopeful.
"Okay, fine. I can handle hay bales." I huff, finishing off the last crumbs of toast. Begrudgingly, I power off the game and stand up. "I'll do it. After I beat this boss. Priorities, people."
—
The scorching afternoon sun casts a lazy, golden haze over the farm as I lug myself towards the hay storage. Quantum Quest clutched in one hand, I push the creaky wheelbarrow filled with prickly bales of hay in another, wishing for a teleportation function to exist in reality just like in my game.
Upon reaching the cow barn, I kick the handles of the wheelbarrow, roughly unloading the hay while my eyes stay glued to the screen. The boss fight in the game is much more important than distributing hay to a bunch of cows, right?
Well, turns out hay has a mind of its own – or at least its own physics. Instead of neatly piling up, the bales tumble out awkwardly, some cracking open on the hard ground and spilling hay all over the barn's entrance. Not that I notice any of it, because right at that moment, 'Quantum Quest' awards me with the much-coveted Hyper Nova Power Boost! Real life, 0; Pixel world, 1.
Resigned to this cumbersome chore, I trudge back for another round of hay hauling, unknowingly leaving an invitation wide open in the form of the unsecured barn door.
The cows, those devious, cud-chewing masses of curiosity, lumber towards the spilled hay, eyes twinkling at their mini feast in the middle of the day. Some bold (or is it just hungry?) ones even trot out, tails swishing excitedly at their newfound territory.
By the time I return, huffing and cursing under my breath, the barn resembles a bovine nightclub. Oblivious, I mutter, "Outta the way, Bessie," shoving aside a particularly large Holstein that's blocking my way.
The cow, affronted by my audacity, bellows in protest. Her massive body jerks, knocking into the wheelbarrow, which teeters precariously before toppling over. The hay bales roll out, bounding towards the open hay storage.
I curse again, but it's not the chaos that's got me agitated. It's my game - my precious console slipped from my hand during the unexpected cow encounter, freezing the screen mid-battle. As I frantically hammer the console, trying to unfreeze the game, the cows continue their hay trail discovery channel, obliviously toppling down the first domino of a farm-wide catastrophe.
With my attention riveted on the game, the real-world slips into a background buzz, and I remain blissfully unaware of the havoc just beginning to unfold around me.
The farm suddenly goes up in chaos, like a scene straight out of a cartoon – and not one of those cute, fuzzy ones. No, this is more like the brutal, slapstick chaos where the viewer's laughing while the character's reality is descending into horror.
The hay bales, now enjoying their newfound freedom, surprisingly display a talent for stealth and agility. They tumble towards the chicken coop, the unsuspecting birds clucking their disapproval before taking flight, feathers dusting up a storm.
Jack, the broad-shouldered farmhand who looks like he could wrestle a bear and win, appears in the eye of the storm. With a stack of seed bags in his arm, he's the unfortunate victim of the feathered frenzy. Losing his footing, the seed bags burst open on impact, showering the ground in a tasteful mix of grains. In an instant, we have a pop-up bird buffet, attracting every feathered creature within a mile radius.
The frenzied flutter of wings creates a chain reaction amongst the free-roaming cows. They moo in alarm and stampede - yes, apparently cows can stampede - towards the equipment shed. It's like watching a bovine version of 'Bulls in a China Shop.' Only replace china with farm tools and add a hell lot more mooing.
Before I can process the magnitude of the chaos, I hear a loud crash. The cows, in their panicked state, knock over a shelf of tools. The impact sends the parked tractor lurching forward. Did those cows just hijack a tractor?
With a mind of its own, the tractor ploughs effortlessly through the sturdy fence, adding a gaping hole to the already impressive list of damages. Now, it's an all-you-can-eat chaos buffet – cows, chickens, goats, and even a couple of stunned rabbits thrown in for good measure.
As I stand there, my game console slipping from my grasp, time seems to slow down. I see Mrs. Peterson, her face aghast, chasing after a particularly agile goat. Mr. Peterson is red-faced, wrestling control of the tractor while Jack is engaged in a tug-of-war with a stubborn cow. Sarah, their usually chirpy daughter, is running in circles, attempting to corral the fleeing chickens.
"Oh, shit! Oh, shit!" I find myself muttering, my brain finally catching up with the apocalypse I've just incited. The Petersons' farm, which was once a serene scene of rural life, looks like a safari gone horribly, hilariously wrong.
Suddenly, Quantum Quest seems terribly trivial. The color drains from the screen, the console's battery dying out just as the last shred of my dignity on that farm does. As the real world crashes back, I'm left holding a dead console, surrounded by my epic mess. The accusing glares from the Petersons cement the reality of the disaster.
—
The sun sets, casting a reddish-orange hue over the farm, making the aftermath look eerily beautiful. Even after hours of cleanup, the once neat and orderly barnyard is a panorama of chaos. Hay bales toppled, cracked open, spilling hay everywhere. The fencing has been battered by fleeing cows, leaving gaping holes that would probably take days to repair. The tractor is halfway through the collapsed fence, having engine problems.
Mr. Peterson's once calm and composed face is a picture of disappointment and fury, his mouth set in a grim line. Jack, his arms crossed against his muscular chest, is looking at me like I'm the biggest nuisance he has ever encountered. Even cheerfully chirpy Sarah is seething, her face pale and her eyes flashing with anger.
And in the middle of it all, I stand, unable to utter a single word of defense.
After giving me the silent treatment, Mr. Peterson starts, his voice steady but the fury evident. "You may not care about this farm, or the animals, or us, for that matter. But you should at least respect the effort it takes to keep all this running."
"Your parents..." Mrs. Peterson's voice chokes as she cries silently, "they would've wanted you to learn. They wanted you to grow into a responsible person, not… not this."
She gestures vaguely around the destroyed barnyard, her words cut deeper than I thought they could. The mention of my parents, the memory of them wanting more for me stings.
"You're right," I snap, my voice thick with desperation and a hint of anger. "They would've wanted something for me. But not this. Not shoveling shit. Not playing farmhand."
I leave them standing there, a cloud of disappointment and fury lingering behind me. As I stomp off to my room, I can hear them talking about the damages.
"The fence will need to be replaced. We'll have to call in the contractors," Mrs. Peterson sighs heavily. "And the tractor's clutch… it's acting up. Something must've happened when it crashed through the fence. A mechanic will need to check it."
"And the animals," Jack grumbles, glancing worriedly towards the cows that are slowly being coaxed back into their barn. "They'll be stressed after all that. The milk production will take a hit."
They talk about phoning in the losses to their insurance, about the hands they'll have to hire to fix everything up, the vet they'll need to check on the traumatized cows, and the damned console that caused this catastrophe. Despite the anger, despite the disappointment, they are already thinking about fixing it, about patching up and carrying on.
It's then that it hits me, the intensity of what I've just caused. The damage, the expense, and the disappointment. For the first time, I feel a pang of regret stronger than my need to retreat into my digital world.
—
As I rub the sleep from my eyes the next day, I hear the spinning of saw blades and the rhythmic thump of hammers. The quiet morning peace is scarred by the sounds of construction and repair.
I stumble out of bed, my mind still trapped in the remnants of a peaceful dream, only to be harshly awakened by the scene outside. What was once a ruined barnyard is now buzzing with activity. There are people, a lot of them, milling around.
Walking around the crew of workers, I notice that they seem to be from a contracting company. Their rough hands, calloused by years of manual labor, are surprisingly gentle as they mend the broken fences.
A group of mechanics hunch over the tractor, their brows furrowed in concentration. Their hands, greasy and stained, work deftly to replace the damaged clutch. Amidst the cloud of dust and diesel fumes, a sense of purposeful determination hangs in the air.
The Petersons, usually so self-reliant, have called in reinforcements. The sight of the bustling activity baffles me. When did they find the time or the money to arrange all of this? I didn't even realize they had that many contacts in the city.
As I try to make myself useful - or at least try to look the part - Mrs. Peterson directs me towards a particularly challenging piece of fence. The wires are twisted, the posts are shattered, and I haven't the faintest idea about how to fix it. But I fumble around with pliers and a spool of wire anyway, my ineptitude standing out painfully amidst the experienced workers.
As the afternoon sun climbs higher, its intensity matching the bustling activity, I notice a convoy of unfamiliar trucks pulling up to the farm. They unload strange machinery – shiny, complex contraptions that I can't make head or tail of. The workers carry them off to an unused part of the farm, obscured by a cluster of trees.
The day drags on, a blur of sweat and swearing. Despite my surly mood and the seemingly endless toil, a strange energy pulses through the farm, a sense of revival, of coming back stronger. The scornful stares have lessened, replaced by curt nods. It's not forgiveness, but it's a start.
Finally, as the day starts fading into a cool evening, I hear a jingle in the distance – the all-too-familiar jingle of an ice cream truck. It's an unusual sight in these parts, especially at a dairy farm. But as the colorfully painted truck titled 'Parlour Tricks' pulls up, I see the workers drop their tools and make a beeline for it.
Mr. Peterson is deep in conversation with the driver, a lanky man with a quirky grin and an even quirkier British accent – a certain Rojer Braithwaite. They're laughing and talking over a cone of ice cream, their lively chatter filling the air.
I watch from a distance, nursing my bruised ego and blistered hands. Until Mrs. Peterson calls, a hint of warmth in her voice that I haven't heard since... since I wrecked their farm.
"Matt, come get some ice cream."
Nodding silently, I trudge over. The ice cream truck's wacky British driver hands me a perfectly swirled vanilla cone, his smile broad and inviting. The ice cream looks heavenly, the promise of wistful childhood summers dripping down the cone.
The first mouthful is a blast of flavors – the sweet creaminess offset by a strange, tantalizing note that makes my taste buds dance. As compliments float around, everyone agrees that it's the best ice cream they've ever had, I find myself nodding along. This stuff could give favorite video game a run for its money.
As I savor the unusual dessert, I chomp into something unexpected. There's something in the ice cream. I choke, coughing violently as I accidentally swallow it. Hands pat my back, a glass of water is shoved into my hands, but the moment is over as quickly as it had come.
With laughter resounding around me, I go back to my ice cream, the strange interruption forgotten amidst the melt-in-your-mouth goodness.
As I take another lick of the ice cream, an inescapable heat begins to creep up my spine. It's slow, like an ember, but it's there, smoldering, growing. There's a tight feeling in my chest, a sudden shortness of breath. My skin feels prickly, as if each hair on my body is standing on end.
I stumble, my gaming-savvy but otherwise untrained legs giving way under me. The ground beneath me shifts and I'm left clutching at the air. My hands reach out to steady myself, but the world is spinning, tilting me off-balance.
The workers around me start to blur, their laughter distorted, their voices stretched into grotesque echoes. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it'll tear through my chest. Sweat pours down my face, soaking my shirt, the salty tang of it filling my nostrils.
The burning sensation intensifies, spreading from the base of my spine to the rest of my body. My muscles spasm uncontrollably, every nerve screaming in protest. My bones ache, as if they're being stretched and warped. The pain is unbearable, a thousand times worse than any injury I'd ever had.
"Hey, city boy," I hear Jack's voice, shaky and distant, "You look like you've seen a ghost."
I can't answer him, can't focus on the words. All I know is that I need to move. I push past Jack, my vision blanking out as I try to navigate the winding steps to the house. The stone stairs dig into the soles of my feet, sharp and unyielding. I stumble, my breath hitching as my body convulses.
Lurching into the house, I scramble up the stairs, the wooden steps creaking under my shaking legs. My vision is a kaleidoscope of fractured images - the worn-out carpet, the dusty family portraits, the peeling wallpaper.
I reach the bathroom just as my stomach lurches, the taste of the sweet ice cream turning bitter in my mouth. But when I lean over the sink, it's not vomit that leaves me, it's a rush of warmth. I can only watch in horror as my chest seems to inflate, the skin stretching, the curve of my previously flat chest becoming more pronounced.
I reach out to steady myself, my fingers brushing against something foreign.
Just as I'm trying to comprehend the sight before me, a sudden surge of heat engulfs me. It's like being set on fire, a burning sensation that starts at my core, spreading outward. I can practically hear my heart pounding in my ears, a throbbing sound track to my unimaginable agony as my bones shift in an explosive dance under my skin.
I'm panting now, air coming in short, shallow gasps as I clutch the bathroom sink. Through the haze of pain, I catch sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. Dark eyes, almond-shaped, framed by thick, long lashes stare back at me. My face... It's none I recognize. It's softer now, rounder, with an oval shape that reeks of femininity. The face that I've known for all my life is gone, replaced by an Asian one, porcelain skin that glows under the harsh bathroom light.
But it's my chest... Oh God, my chest. It's still growing. With each heartbeat, each drawn breath, my chest swells, my shirt stretching further and further to accommodate the sudden mass. A tear splits through the fabric of my shirt as my chest keeps growing, the buttons popping off one after another, sailing through the room. My muscles spasm, my navel retracting. The sensation is nothing short of mind-numbing, a horrifying mix of pleasure and pain.
Amidst the chaos, my body temperature spikes, my skin turns slick with sweat. I rip off the remnants of my destroyed shirt, the cold air hitting my overheated skin, providing a momentary reprieve. But the relief is short-lived as my chest continues its monstrous growth. I can see my nipples, small and dark against the swollen mounds of flesh. They harden under my gaze, a tingle shooting through them making me gasp.
Just when I think it can't get worse, a strange sensation grips me - my scalp tingles, a burning at the back of my neck. I scream, a raw, primal sound that echoes in the small room. My short, brown hair starts to grow rapidly, sprouting like a wild, black waterfall. The hair grows till it reaches the middle of my back, brushing against my bare skin, sending shivers down my spine.
I don't recognize the whimpering, the pleading for it to stop. But it's my voice, hitched and choked with pain. I'm begging, screaming out into the sterile cold of the bathroom as my body continues to morph, bend, and twist in ways that shouldn't be possible. I can't think, can't comprehend the horrific transformation that's taken hold of my body. My legs give out, the tiles cold against my skin as I collapse.
The pain is relentless, a tempest raging inside me. Every cell of my body feels like it's being torn apart and then stitched back together. It's a raw, visceral pain that blinds me, crumples me into a trembling mess on the bathroom floor.
Then, as suddenly as it started, it stops. The pain, the heat, the shifting - it all just ends, leaving me panting and trembling on the floor, my mind a whirl of confusion and fear. In the deathly silence that follows, I can't bring myself to move, to process what's just happened. But the one thing that registers, echoing loud and clear in my ears, is the undeniable fact that I'm not the same. My body... it's not mine anymore.
I force myself up from the bathroom floor, feeling heavy and awkward. My legs feel jelly-like and unsteady, my knees buckling as I pull myself up with the help of the bathroom countertop. With a final heave, I rise and stare back at the horror-stricken face in the mirror.
Asian. The word floats through my mind, cold and harsh. I reach out with a shaking hand, ghosts of the heat still clinging to my skin. My reflection mimics me, the face so alien, yet matching every micro-expression. My fingers trace the smooth contours of my face, the tiny nose, the plump lips, the wide eyes. I squeeze them shut tightly, hoping to rid myself from this nightmare. But when I reopen them, all I see is the same, unfamiliar face staring back at me.
What the hell is happening? The question reverberates in my mind, a quiet mantra against the harsh reality. I feel the weight of my chest, a heavy burden that pulls me forward. I cradle them, my hands dwarfed by their immense size. They're hot, pulsating with a strange warmth.
A whimper escapes my lips as I feel a wetness trickle down my torso, soaking the band of my pants. I look down, my heart pounding in my ears. A thick, yellowish fluid is leaking from my nipples, staining my skin and fabric alike. I touch it, my fingers coming away sticky and wet. It's warm and has a faint sweet smell that makes my head spin.
Fear surges through me, raw and primal. I'm leaking, dripping this unknown substance from my ridiculously huge tits. It's bizarre, obscene even. I can't help but stare in disbelief at the globs of yellowish fluid that are slowly soaking my pants.
The horror of it all crashes down on me like a tidal wave, leaving me gasping for air. It's wrong, so gruesomely wrong.
I can't breathe, can't think. All I know is that I want it to stop, to go back to being me. But the relentless dripping from my nipples, the alien reflection in the mirror, and the odd sense of fullness in my chest are stark reminders of a horrifying truth - this is real.
***
The knock on my door jolts me out of my stupor. It's Mrs. Peterson, calling for me in her gentle, motherly tone. I can't answer, can't find words to form a sentence. How can I tell her what's happening? Panic swells within me, a gnawing, visceral fear that threatens to swallow me whole.
"Ice cream…" I whisper, my mind latching onto the last thing I remember before the gut-wrenching pain began. That damned ice cream. Rojer. It's him. It must be him. He did this to me. But why? Why would he do something so... so vile?
My heart hammers in my chest, the thumping sound echoing in the silence of the locked bathroom. I'm panting, breathless, a cold sweat beading on my forehead. I shiver, but it's not from the cold—it's this sickening sense of alienation that has my skin crawling.
I'm trembling, but I manage to push myself to my feet. I look down, taking in the grotesque sight—my body, once lean and masculine, now curvaceous and... feminine.
My tits, oh god, my tits. They're massive, monstrously so. They hang heavy on my chest, the skin stretched taut, luminous under the harsh bathroom light.
I'm a caricature, a fucked-up parody of womanhood. The swell of my breasts obscenely exaggerated, like two fleshy watermelons grafted onto my ribcage. They're hot to the touch, swaying gently with the rhythm of my ragged breaths.
The skin is tender, warm—a stark contrast to my icy fingers. I trace a path around my nipple, marked by the faint blue veins. The texture is rough, bumpy, nothing like the smooth skin of my chest.
A bead of liquid pearls at the tip, a stark contrast against my dark, swollen nipple. And then another, and another. They trickle down, a rivulet of creamy fluid that drips onto the tiled floor.
My breath hitches, the whimper lodged in my throat. I can't look away, can't ignore the reality, the grotesque spectacle that my body has become.
I'm leaking, milk seeping from the swollen globes of my tits. And the sensation... it's unlike anything I've ever felt before. A fullness, a pressure that's centered around my chest. A prickly heat that spreads outwards, a visceral ache.
It feels like... a need, an urge pushing me towards an action I never thought I'd ever do. My fingers graze my nipple, and I swear, it's the most sensitive part of my body right now—a direct feed to my brain that leaves me gasping.
A gasp that turns into a shriek as my fingers pull at the swollen bud.
Milk spurts out in a forceful jet, spraying against the mirror with a slap that echoes sharply. My reflection is blurred, distorted by the creamy spray that paints the glass. I can barely recognize the woman staring back at me, her face twisted in shock and horror.
My knees buckle, and I'm on the floor again. The cold tile is a stark contrast to the burning sensation that radiates from my breasts. My tits. They're too full, too heavy, too... much.
I'm left panting, shuddering from the grotesque reality that I've become—a lactating woman, a sight both obscene and absurd in its stark reality.
The feeling—an intolerable fullness, demanding and insatiable—drives me into a frenzy. My hands shoot to my chest, grasping onto the overfilled globes with a desperate need for release. Each spurt of milk that I manage to coax out, each relieving jet that arcs from my nipple, floods my senses with an indescribable relief that lights up my brain, only intensifying the irresistible urge to keep going.
I'm whimpering now, crawling onto my hands and knees on the bathroom floor. The cold tiles sting my skin, a brutal contrast to the heated flush that suffuses my body. My oversized tits swing low, slapping against each other in a lewd, wet rhythm—a perverse metronome that sets the pace for my desperate spasms.
My hands are inexperienced, clumsy. I'm not doing this properly—I'm practically mauling my own tits in my haste, pressing and pulling and squeezing in a frantic, blind effort to seek relief. Milk squirts out, haphazard and unpredictable. It sprays across the floor, the walls, even arcs upward to splatter the mirror with a sickening splat—but any sense of disgust is swallowed by the intoxicating thrill of the relief that accompanies it.
The liquid is warm, sweet, utterly innocent in its purpose. But the sight—the sight is anything but. I'm practically awash in my own milk, my clothes soaked, my body slick with it. It pools on the floor around me, surrounding me in a puddle of my own shame, my degradation manifesting in tangible form.
The whole ordeal is a rush—a whirlwind of sensations that a mere five minutes ago would have been unimaginable. I'm sobbing now—harsh, ragged sobs punctuated by soft moans.
An unexpected bolt of pleasure strikes me just as a particularly strong jet of milk surges from my nipple. It's like a lightning storm in my chest; electric and intense, the pleasure intertwining with the relief, crossing wires in my brain, linking two sensations that have no business being linked.
The paradox is too much to bear. The satisfaction, the humiliation, all bundled together in a coil of insanity that spirals in my brain, leaving me panting and trembling on my knees. It's degrading, disgraceful, a sight that would freeze anyone's blood—but at the same time, it's a deliverance, a mercy that I need more than air to breathe.
Every squirt of milk I manage to squeeze free feels like a battle won, a small step towards winning the war of tension that rages in my chest. It's a sight that you'd expect to see in the most mortifying of nightmares, but here I am, living it, indulging in it, driven by a primal need that I can't deny.
And then, the knock—soft but insistent. It's Mrs. Peterson, concern lining her voice, penetrating through the locked door. A single sentence, curt and precise, plunges me into a fresh bout of terror.
"I can help."
"Yes," I gasp, my voice shrill and desperate. "Yes, please. Help me."
The door creaks open and Mrs. Peterson stands in the doorway, staring at me in disbelief. I can't look at her, can't meet her gaze. The shame is a heavy weight, pulling me down, suffocating me.
"What is happening to me?" I manage to choke out, my voice hoarse.
Her silence is deafening, a confirmation of my worst fear.
"Matt… " Her voice is soft, hesitant. I want to shout, but my voice is stuck in my throat. "We... we thought it was for the best."
"Best? Best for who?!" I'm hysterical now, laughter bubbling up from deep within my chest, but it's not from joy. It's wild, despairing laughter, the kind that dances on the edge of madness.
Mrs. Peterson steps forward, her eyes welling up. Her hands are warm, homely and motherly as they gently cup my leaking breasts. It feels so wrong, so obscene, but I can't bring myself to push her away. The touch is gentle, comforting in its familiarity, soothing the aching fullness at least a little.
"We didn't know you would be… Asian," Mrs. Peterson observes. "That's interesting." Her voice is tinged with surprise, a bizarre addition to the unfolding horror show.
Her words are like a punch to my gut. I can't breathe, can't think. My world is spinning, reality fracturing into a thousand shards around me. They did this.
"It's a Dairy Queen pill," she says.
They transformed me into a… a... Dairy Queen? Isn't that a knockoff X-Change pill that turns you into a human cow? Oh, god…
Mrs. Peterson's hands never leave my breasts. She kneads them slowly, expertly, her fingers working out the knots of tension coiled tightly in the soft tissue. She works with a methodical precision, her touch firm but gentle.
A moan escapes my lips unbidden as she expertly milks my left tit, cupping her hand underneath to catch the spurting streams. I watch, helpless, as the cup fills up with my milk. It's a sight straight out of some perverse fantasy, the reality of it sending a shiver up my spine.
"After the property damage assessment, Mr. Braithwaite came to us with a proposition," Mrs. Peterson explains, keeping her gaze focused on my tits. "He owns an ice cream chain in the city. Parlour Tricks. And one of their specialities… is human ice cream."
I can't believe what I'm hearing. I can't believe that they would do this to me. I don't even know what to say.
"He offered us a good price," Mrs. Peterson continues, her voice trembling. "The farm was damaged, Matt. We needed the money for repairs."
"But you turned me into a fucking Dairy Queen!" I scream, my voice ringing through the silence. I'm a freak now, a human milking machine.
"It's only for a month," she pleads, her hands stilling as she gazes at me with guilt-riddled eyes. "His contractors will fix the farm. We needed a solution, Matt. I'm sorry."
I know there is no way to undo these knockoff type pills - the only option is to ride them out, everyone knows that.
A month of living as a curvaceous, lactating asian milf. Serving as a human dairy for an ice cream parlor.
I'm on the brink of hysteria, teetering on the precipice of madness and despair.
I feel the room close in around me, the bathroom walls bearing silent witness to the spectacle unfolding within. I'm about to unleash a torrent of furious words, let Mrs. Peterson know exactly how much I hate her, hate what she's done to me, but then—
Her fingers splay against the swollen mounds of my breasts, her touch surprisingly gentle. A shocking sensation brings all words to a halt in my throat.
The pressure, the unbearable fullness I'd been dealing with, it gives way under Mrs. Peterson's touch, spilling free in a milky torrent that sprays loudly into the glass cup she holds beneath my tits.
And it's… it's…
Holy hell, it's fucking… ngh… divine.
She's murmuring something about hand expression, about how I'll need to learn to relieve myself in between proper milkings, but her words are swept away by a wave of intense sensory overload that rolls over me, crashing through my body and sparking bright lights behind my eyelids.
Each rolling squeeze sends a warm spray of milk into the cup, and with it, a shock of pleasure that lights up my overloaded nerves. My breath comes in sharp, hissing gasps, the noises slipping free unbidden, raw and ragged and filled with a pleasure so intense it borders on pain.
"Thumb above the nipple, fingers below," Mrs. Peterson instructs, her tone firm despite the obscene spectacle we're a part of. Her fingers guide my own, positioning them just so. "Press back toward the chest, then squeeze."
I mimic her actions, my fingers trembling against the swollen flesh. Another spray of milk leaves my nipple, arcing into the cup with a splash. The pleasure that follows is like a punch to the gut, taking the wind out of me and leaving me gasping.
"Release, and repeat." Her voice pierces through the haze, grounding me.
I do as she says, my fingers moving in a rhythm that seems to resonate in every cell of my body. Squeeze, release, squeeze, release. Each repetition sends a fresh wave of milk spilling from my tits, and a corresponding rush of pleasure that leaves me shuddering.
I can't hold back the desperate whimper that claws its way up my throat, my voice filled with the very essence of my new biology.
I want to be angry, want to rage at her, at the Petersons for doing this to me. But the physical pleasure coursing through me is so all-consuming, so utterly overwhelming, that it robs me of the ability to do anything other than moan and writhe and milk.
My mind is a whirlpool, my thoughts tumbling over one another, lost amidst the dizzying euphoria. The pleasure is a white-hot blaze in my veins, consuming me from the inside out. It's all I can think about, all I can feel—the pressure, the release, the sweet, sweet relief.
The pleasure peaks and breaks, a tidal wave crashing over me, sweeping me up and carrying me along in a rush of ecstasy that leaves me breathless and trembling. My vision blurs, dark spots dancing in front of my eyes. I can hear my own voice, a low, sultry moan, echoing in the small room, filled with a satisfaction so profound it's obscene.
Each spurt of milk that escapes is a release of pent-up tension, an expulsion of the beast of pleasure that had curled tight within my belly. It's a surrender to the gnawing need that had been steadily building, each squeeze of my tits and accompanying spray of milk a testament to the complete, undignified pleasure that has claimed me.
I ride the waves of pleasure until they begin to recede, leaving me a quivering, gasping mess on the bathroom floor, my mind blown by the intensity of the experience. Mrs. Peterson's hands leave my breasts, moving away in a gentle withdrawal that leaves me aching in their absence.
I am left panting, staring blankly at the ceiling, the post-orgasmic glow wrapping itself around me like a blanket. It's a small mercy, this cocoon of ecstasy that lingers even after the intensity of the pleasure has faded.
We sit in silence, the only sound my ragged breathing and the echo of my own voice, still hanging heavy in the air. The room feels impossibly quiet, the stillness nearly suffocating in its intensity.
I flex my fingers, the memory of the pleasurable squeeze and release still imprinted in my muscles, a reminder of the debauched surrender that took place moments ago. I can't look at her, can't bring myself to face the reality of the situation.
The intensity of the afterglow leaves me feeling strangely unmoored, as if I'm floating in a warm sea of contentment. The dull ache in my breasts has subsided, replaced by a pleasant hum of satisfaction that makes me feel almost... blissful.
Mrs. Peterson holds two full cups of my milk in her hands, the sight making my face heat with embarrassment. My milk. The thought is so bizarre, so utterly surreal, that it almost makes me want to laugh. Or cry.
"With the proper diet, and the proper equipment, you'll be able to produce much more than this," she says, her voice gentle, as if she's talking to a skittish calf rather than a transformed human. There's a strange gleam in her eyes, a spark of triumph, as if she's just won a small victory. It's not comforting. Not in the slightest.
But my mind feels clear, the fog of discomfort and tension has dissipated, replaced by a sense of... acceptance? No. That's not it. It's more like... understanding. I understand what's happened, I understand the desperate deal the Petersons made to save their livelihood, and I understand my role in this.
It doesn't mean I have to like it.
I'm snapped out of my thoughts when Mrs. Peterson speaks again. "If you can make it through this month, Matt," she says, her voice firm. "We'll make it up to you. You won't ever be asked to help on the farm again, or have to answer for your... lifestyle. You can do whatever you want."
The promise is tempting. The idea of being free to laze around, without any responsibilities, is alluring. It's what I always wanted, right? To just play my games, eat my junk food, and not have to deal with anything else. It's just... it comes with a price.
I nod, the motion slow and heavy. It's a surrender, an acceptance of this messed up situation. What other choice do I have?
She smiles, a small, tight smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. It's more relief than joy. "Good. Now, get dressed. You need to meet Mr. Braithwaite. He'll assess... your product."
The words send a shudder of humiliation sweeping over me. My product.
I want to argue, to put up a fight, but the fight has been squeezed out of me, just like the milk from my tits.
"Your new outfit is waiting for you on the bed," she adds, turning away from me.
Oh, god.
—
I stand in front of the full-length mirror, the towel wrapped around my waist seeming too tiny to cover my now voluptuous body. The hot shower had done nothing to diminish the aching pull of my new breasts, the slight sag ominous of the load that had been extracted from them.
I groan at the sight of the outfit spread out on the bed. It's an unholy cross between a milkmaid and a pin-up model, with its gingham pattern and white lace trim. A sheer apron, and a ridiculous fucking bow complete the ensemble.
The built-in bra is a monster, with breast pads that look thick enough to soak up a small ocean. To be fair, I definitely need something like this now. But still, dread coils tight in my belly. I'm supposed to squeeze myself into this thing, parade around like some fucked up Dairy Queen, all because of a pill and a couple who sold their morals to save their farm?
Rage surges through me, hot and raw, but it's muffled by a deep, aching resignation. What can I do? Where can I go? With no money, no family, no place to call home, I'm trapped. Trapped for a month in a body that's not mine, a life that's as alien to me as my pulsating tits.
Mrs. Peterson's voice echoes from downstairs, her tone impatient. "Maddie, hurry up! Mr. Braithwaite is waiting."
I grit my teeth, my fingers curling into a tight fist.
I reach for the outfit with trembling hands, it's soft, delicate fabric in stark contrast with the monstrous transformation it represents. The blouse is difficult to get on, its tight fit and short sleeves rubbing unpleasantly against my sensitive skin.
I coax my new breasts into the built-in bra, grimacing as the cold pads hit my overheated flesh. The bra is a challenge, its tightness a painful restriction against my swelling chest. I can feel my nipples harden against the sudden constriction, sending a thrill of electricity zapping down to my clenching pussy.
I fight the urge to touch, to bring myself some relief, focusing instead on the confining skirt. It wraps snugly around my waist, its tight fit a stark reminder of the drastic change in my body's proportions. The skirt is... airy.
The sheer apron is the least of my problems, but seeing it on me, highlighting the exaggerated curves of my body, drives another nail into the coffin of my old life.
Then comes the headband, its gingham pattern matching the rest of the outfit. It's... ridiculous. The final, humiliating touch to a grotesque parody of a milkmaid.
I look at myself in the mirror, my eyes wide and horrified. My body, swathed in peasant garb and blatant sexuality, feels like a stranger's. The girl in the mirror looks back at me with dark, empty eyes. A mockery of my former self.
The anger returns, a tidal wave of fury, but it's drowned out by a newfound sense of humiliation. I've become a joke, a spectacle, a laughingstock for the farm folk. But what's worse - what's so much fucking worse - is the realization that I'm going to go through with it.
The rage is impotent, useless against the tide of desperation and resignation. I don't like it, don't want it, but...what choice do I have?
Despair and humiliation settle into me, a blanket of icy dread that weighs me down. But I straighten my shoulders, square my jaw, and turn to the door.
I'm not Matt anymore, I'm Maddie. The Dairy Queen of Bell Meadows.
And I hate it. I fucking hate it. But I'll do it.
I have to.
Right?
—
Descending back down the stairs and into the heart of the farm's main house, I can feel a wave of apprehension washing over me. Each step sends a jolt through my obscenely large breasts, and the tightness of the blouse around them is almost suffocating.
I take a steadying breath before I step into the dining room—barefoot, the cold floor soothing against my heated skin. The room falls silent when I walk in, everyone's gaze glued to me. I can feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment, the snug fit of the milkmaid outfit leaving little to the imagination. The blouse clings to my chest, highlighting the obscene size of my breasts, while the skirt cuts off just above the knee, amplifying the exaggerated curves.
Sarah gasps, covering her mouth as she takes in my appearance. Her eyes are wide, shock etched into her face. Jack smirks at me from across the room, his gaze predatory as he shamelessly appraises my transformed body.
Even Mr. Peterson is left speechless, his eyes flicking between my face and my chest, as if trying to reconcile this new feminine vision with the introverted gamer he'd taken in.
The businessman sitting at the head of the table, Rojer Braithwaite, however, seems absolutely delighted. He's looking at me, or rather my voluptuous body, his eyes gleaming with a satisfaction that verges on perverse hunger.
"Stunning, absolutely stunning!" he exclaims, his British accent wrapping around every syllable like a velvet glove. "I must say, Maddie, the transformation suits you more than I could have imagined. You're absolutely... exotic."
Maddie. My new female name. I guess it fits.
My cheeks burn at his words, the heat enough to counteract the cold of the floor against my bare feet. I feel my chest tighten, as the humiliation of parading around in front of these people in such an embarrassing outfit begins to overcome me.
Sarah giggles, covering her mouth as she tries to stifle her mirth. "I can't believe you're Asian, Matt. Maddie."
Rojer shakes his head, a thin smile on his face. "Not just any Asian, darling. She's Japanese."
"And what's the difference?" Jack asks, his eyes never leaving my jiggling chest.
"Oh, everything," Rojer replies, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "This opens up a whole world of possibilities. Matcha, black sesame. I am planning a whole new line of flavors. Maddie will be my pilot program."
I sink into the chair, feeling the fabric of the outfit tighten around my body. It's a constant reminder of the ridiculousness of my situation, the absurdity of my transformation.
The focus shifts from me to the glass of milk that Mrs. Peterson had extracted from me.
Rojer picks it up, swirling the milk around, before bringing it up to his nose. "There's a slight hint of colostrum in here," he murmured, "Should add a touch of sweetness. I must adjust for that."
His words send a chill up my spine. The idea that something I'd produced from my body about to be tasted... evaluated... it's degrading. The objectification, the blatant disregard for my dignity, it's too much.
The room falls into an anticipatory silence as Rojer lifts the glass to his lips, his eyes fixed on my heaving breasts. The taste test unfolds like a performance, his every move calculated for maximum shock value.
"The aroma..." he begins, his eyes twinkling with an excitement that makes my skin crawl. His tongue darts out to taste the milk, his eyes closing as he savors the mouthful. He swallows, a contented sigh escaping his lips. "Exquisite!"
He leans back in his chair, his gaze scanning my body as though committing every detail to memory.
"A delightful alpine creaminess, reminiscent of the snowy landscapes of Hokkaido. The butterfat content gives it a deliciously silky texture, and will sooth the inherent bitterness of the matcha."
The room is silent, hanging onto Rojer's every word. I highly doubt these country bumpkins have ever even had matcha. But still, I feel my face heat up under his scrutiny, the humiliation burning brighter than ever. I force myself to remain still, to endure his obscene appraisal for just a little while longer.
His gaze sharpens, becoming more critical. "There's a sweetness, underpinned by the natural milk sugars, but also a dollop of caramel umami... it adds depth, complexity. And the salinity!" He chuckles, taking another sip from the glass. "The taste of the coast, a fleeting but distinct note of seaweed that adds a touch of authenticity."
He's far from done.
"But the top notes! Oh, they are a masterpiece!" His enthusiasm is contagious. Even I find myself leaning forward, caught up in the spectacle. "The faint hint of vanilla, the merest suggestion of hazelnut, and the lasting warmth of a tatami mat. Delightful."
"Now, let's move onto this second sample," Rojer says, his demeanor shifting from casual curiosity to focused scrutiny as he eyes the other glass before him.
"Foremilk and hindmilk, two sides of the same coin, but with such disparate flavor profiles," he muses, his eyes never leaving the lingering droplets of milk on the glass. He takes a tentative sip, closing his eyes as if to shut off his other senses in favor of taste. "The foremilk, of course, is lighter, meant to quench and refresh, while the hindmilk…" He pauses, a slow smile spreading on his face as he takes another careful sip.
"Ahh... rich, creamy, with a hint of iodine bringing in that distinct coastal note. An indulgent feast, a symphony of authentic Japanese flavor that's quite... intoxicating."
I can feel the color drain from my face as the implications of his description sink in. In his mouth are the intimate products of my body, my milk, my... my transformation. It's disgusting, degrading, and yet, I can do nothing but sit there, my heart pounding against my ribcage.
"Now, about the packaging," he continues, turning his disturbingly analytical gaze onto me. He wipes his mouth with a napkin, the white fabric stained with my milk. "Your gorgeous face, Maddie, must be the centerpiece. With your exotic Japanese allure and this... fascinating physiology, you're irresistible. But we need to give you a proper name, a brand. Hmm, what shall we call you when we present you to customers?"
Rojer chuckles, his eyes brimming with mischief.
"I have it! The name for your unique mix, my dear Maddie, will be Nyu. Nyu-ho."
The silence stretches, raw and tangible. Jack snorts into his coffee, turning a deep shade of red as he suppresses his laughter. The Petersons sit frozen, their brows furrowed in confusion, while Sarah stares at Rojer with wide, curious eyes.
The dairy magnate leans back in his chair, his gaze focused on me. Even without understanding the meaning of the word, I discern the perverse amusement echoing in his tone. My heart sinks.
"Nyuho," he repeats, enunciating each syllable with relish. He catches my eye, his expression brimming with a dastardly joy. "You see, in Japanese, 'nyū' refers to milk... or..." he pauses, a lascivious grin etching deep lines onto his face, "breasts."
The room plunges into a mortified silence, interrupted only by Jack's muffled coughing. Sarah's mouth drops open in a scandalized 'O,' her cheeks flaming with second-hand embarrassment.
"Nyuho," he continues, "is a clever play on words. It's forward, it's exciting, and a little naughty. It's... you."
The blood drains from my face. I can feel the embarrassment burning through me, intense enough it could set me ablaze.
Rojer seems unaffected, rather delighted by the stunned silence. Leaning forward, arms folded on the table, he explains, "You see, Maddie, I cut my teeth in the world of dairy consulting. Much of my early career was spent advising none other than the dairy giant Meiji, during the great dairy boom of the 90s."
He leans back in his chair, a reminiscing smile on his lips. "Ah, those were the days. I remember studying the Silky Fukuoka and the Hida Beef cattle, pristine specimens of Japan's finest cows. Also the Holsteins, Mr. Peterson," he adds, nodding at the stunned farmer across the table.
The room hangs onto Rojer's every word, their shock giving way to a grudging curiosity.
"I remember distinctly," he continues, "the in-depth study we conducted on the Hokkaido dairy cows. Those meadows produced the creamiest milk, a pure indulgence I've yet to find anywhere else."
"And now," he chuckles, his gaze shifting to me, "we've got our very own Hokkaido... right here on Bell Meadows farm."
He continues, "You're our exotic Japanese milkmaid, Maddie. Or rather, Nyuho. It's merely branding, my dear."
I can feel the blood rushing back to my face, a flush of humiliation that's unbearable. There's something so raw about his candidness, his blunt talk about my body, my breasts... My pulse spikes, a throbbing rhythm that drowns the room in white noise.
The Petersons, Jack, and Sarah, their smiles a bit forced, just nod along. They're simple folks; the world of international dairy consulting and lewd Japanese wordplays go right over their heads. The stark contrast between Rojer's worldly knowledge and their simple innocence is hilariously absurd.
"But," he adds, his gaze softening, "it's not all about milk and names. You must eat, my dear."
Just when I thought the day couldn't get any worse, Rojer signals his attendant with a flick of his wrist. Moments later, a stainless-steel container is placed before me, the lid clattering off to reveal its contents.
My eyes narrow at the sight. It appears to be a mash of unidentifiable ingredients, an unsightly sludge of an odd greenish hue. It's lump-ridden, a thick goopy mess that glistens under the kitchen lights. The smell has an overpowering earthy undertone, strong enough to make me recoil.
"Surely you're not expecting me to eat that shit?" I ask, my voice wavering between disbelief and disgust. The room goes quiet, all eyes turning to Rojer for an explanation.
The dairy magnate simply chuckles, a rich rumbling sound that does little to ease my anxiety. "Isn't it just delightful?" he laughs, the very vision of devious delight. The container seems to mock me, a metallic monster with a stomach-turning meal.
"I'm not eating that," I protest, pushing the container away. "It looks like something you'd feed pigs."
There's laughter around the table, even Mrs. Peterson's lips twitch in amusement, but Rojer just raises an eyebrow and smiles, like he's enjoying this.
"Meal supplements, dear Maddie," he explains, tapping the container with his spoon. "Conceived in WANGL company laboratories - it is fortified with all the essential nutrients to optimize lactation. A perfect blend of linoleic acid, chromium, vitamin B12 and..."
I tune out his techno-babble. I still can't believe they're making me eat this bullshit. I could stick to my usual snack of chips and soda, thank you very much.
"No way in hell am I eating that," I say, louder this time. I see Rojer's smile fade a fraction. He leans back in his chair, studying me with a critical eye.
"Maddie, this is not a request. It's a requirement. Your body now thrives on a different set of needs," he explains, his tone ominously calm. "The pill you took, the Dairy Queen, has its own demands. And to meet those, you need to take this supplement. You want your tits to produce, you need to eat this."
The rest of the family is quiet, watching the exchange with wary eyes. Mrs. Peterson serves them plates of succulent roast beef, a riot of colors with fresh salad and warm bread. The rich aroma of home-cooked food fills the air, making my insides churn with a strange mix of disgust and hunger.
Rojer, on the other hand, is relentless. "Think of it as fuel, Maddie. Your system will adapt, your production will flourish," he reasons, his eyes gleaming with the perverse thrill of his twisted experiment.
With a tremble in my hands, I pick up the spoon and dip it into the repulsive gruel. It's cool to the touch, thick and viscous. It clings to the spoon, a nauseating paste that mocks my predicament.
And then, I taste it.
It's an assault on my senses – bitter, metallic, and oddly sweet. A slow burn that settles on my tongue and refuses to budge. Texture like soaked oats with a twist of damp hay, the taste a nightmarish blend of boiled greens with a sharp hit of minerals.
I barely notice Sarah's gasp, her eyes wide with shock. "This isn't right," she stammers out, her gaze flicking between my grimacing face and the swirling mass of green in front of me. "Are we really going to make her eat that when we're having roast beef?"
The room goes quiet, the jovial atmosphere from minutes before evaporating like steam. I can feel the tension in the air, like an electric current ready to explode at any minute.
"Sarah, don't you dare question us at the dinner table," Mrs. Peterson snaps, her brows furrowing into a rigid line. "Maddie is a guest in our house. We've done everything we can for her."
"But–" Sarah attempts to argue, but Mr. Peterson cuts her off.
"Sarah, if you can't behave, we'll have to ask you to leave the table," he says in a tone that leaves no room for negotiation. They share a look, one that I can't quite decipher. The silence stretches on, becoming a painful echo that bounces off the walls.
Sarah deflates against her chair, her usually radiant face now ashen. Jack looks down at his plate, his eyes hard and unreadable. A chill descends upon the room as Mr. Peterson turns to me, his gaze sharp.
"Matt, you've been a drain on this family long enough," he says harshly, a sharp edge to his voice I've never heard before. "We've given you a roof over your head, food on the table. And if you want to continue staying here, you need to pull your weight. It's one month of discomfort, but it'll help this family. And you'll learn some valuable lessons."
Bitterness bubbles in the pit of my stomach, a sullen knot that pulls my features into a scowl. "I'm not a cow," I hiss through clenched teeth, my fists curled under the table.
But Rojer, that slick, sleazy bastard, only chuckles. "Maddie, darling, I'm afraid you are," he sneers, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.
My skin prickles with a mix of humiliation and rage. And yet, despite my disgust, my body seems to have a mind of its own. My hand shakes as I pick up my spoon, compelled by the prickling sensation in my breasts to continue eating the disgusting paste.
Rojer watches me with an odd fascination, his disappointment at the altercation palpable. He grumbles to Mr. Peterson, clearly not thrilled about having to coax me every step of the way.
"Maddie," Mr. Peterson interjects, his voice rough but not unkind, "it's important that you comply."
I scowl at him, but continue to shovel in the slush, the taste making my gut roll with nausea. I feel a strange satisfaction when I scrape the bottom of the bowl, my stomach churning but my aching breasts noticeably soothed. Such a weird feeling.
The moment I set down my spoon, Jack and Mr. Peterson rise from their seats. Their hands close around my arms, yanking me up from the chair.
"Hands off!" I snap out, recoiling at their touch. But they grip me tighter, leading me out the front door. I squirm in their hold, my heart pounding in my chest as I trip over the uneven ground under my bare feet. "Wait, where are we going? I don't want to become a cow!"
—
"Holy fuck," I whisper, staring at the half-assembled monstrosity before me. My heart hammers in my chest, pound for pound matching the throb in my milk-swollen breasts.
Rojer's assistant is bent over the machine, turning something with a wrench. He's a tall man, with a light dusting of stubble and messy brown hair. When he catches sight of me, a smug grin spread across his face. "Like what you see, Dairy Queen?"
"My name is Mat- Maddie," I snap, crossing my arms under my chest. Instantly, I regret the motion as it squeezes my tits and sends a hot surge of milk leaking into my bra pads.
Rojer, tossing a goddamn lab coat over his fancy suit, chuckles as he steps up to the machine. He runs his fingers over the smooth metal, his eyes gleaming with the same terrifying anticipation I'd seen when I tasted his foul supplement. "This, Maddie, is your future. Meet the Milki-Max X5, Humanoid Edition."
My stomach clenches in revolt as he pats one of the padded restraints. It's black, stark against the cold stainless steel of the rest of the machine. A shiver ripples down my spine, and I instinctively step back, bumping into a solid wall of muscle. I don't need to turn around to know it's Jack, his silent presence ominous and threatening.
"I've added a few customizations for your comfort, Maddie. Padded restraints for your delicate wrists and ankles, medical-grade rubber suction cups, an adjustable steel arm for your…" His eyes drop to my chest, his lips curling into a lecherous smile, "udders."
My face flames at his blatant regard, but the uncomfortable wet patch spreading on my shirt is a stark reminder of my new reality. I swallow hard, trying to focus on his words and not the terrifying machine that's supposed to milk me like a fucking cow.
Rojer lifts one of the suction cups, turning it in his fingers. It looks harmless enough, like a deflated balloon with a stem and a soft rubber edge. But when he starts to describe how it would fit over my nipple, suctioning it, drawing out the milk, I can feel the tingle in my breasts intensify.
"And once it's secured," Rojer's voice drops to a low murmur, his eyes focused on me. "It will start to suck and pull, just like a calf nursing from its mother. In tandem, they'll rhythmically milk you until you're empty and ready for the next cycle."
I can't help but gasp, my body's reaction immediate and undeniable. My thighs clench, and I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning out loud.
Jack grunts behind me, his body heat scorching against my back. "There's always the option to use it willingly, Maddie. Or…" His voice drops to a threatening whisper, "we can do this the hard way."
I know what he means. I could be strapped onto this… this abominable device willingly, or I could be forced. The choice boils down to a matter of dignity. But then again, dignity doesn't mean much when your tits are so full of milk they throb with every heartbeat.
Rojer, noticing my silent horror, simply smiles, his teeth gleaming in the harsh barn light. "By morning, you'll be begging to be put on this machine, Maddie. With the amount of milk you're going to produce… hand pumping won't cut it. And this…" He slaps the side of the machine proudly, "this will provide the relief you shall desperately need."
I swallow hard, my throat dry. The reality of my predicament is setting in, each pulsating throb in my breasts reminding me of the mounting pressure.
Rojer turns his back to us, leaving Jack and me in silence. The Petersons join him, disappearing into the house leaving me alone in the barn with Jack and the monstrosity that is the Milki-Max X5. It squats there, silent and menacing, the gleam of the steel a chilling reminder of my fate.
Suddenly, the rough grip on my arm disappears. Jack steps away, his body heat leaving a void. I turn to look at him, and his eyes are trained on the floor, a flicker of... regret? in his gaze.
"Well…" he starts, his voice gruff. "Not that I liked you or anything. They really mean it, Maddie. You got two choices here. Comply… or face some… unconventional convincing."
I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms under the weight of my tits. "And what does this 'unconventional convincing' look like?"
In response, he points towards the far end of the barn, where a row of cattle stalls stand in the gloom. One of them is empty. In the dim light, I can make out a collar with a bell, sitting atop fresh hay.
My stomach clenches at the sight. "You're kidding, right?"
"Wish I were." His voice is low, regret lacing every word. "But these Petersons, turns they're in deep with Rojer. This isn't the first time he's helped them, but it's the first time he's asked for something in return."
"So…" I start, looking over at the empty stall, a shiver running down my spine. "I either go along with the milk ordeal or end up living in a fucking cow stall?"
Jack just nods, the look in his eyes grim.
"Rojer said some of his more… resistant milk maids have undergone this treatment. And by the end of it, they never want to go back. So, for your sake, just play along."
I nod, swallowing thickly, my fear creeping up on me. Jack is silent for a moment, his gaze averted.
"I'm, uh..." He shifts, scuffing his boot against the floor. "Sorry about how I've been treating you. As Matt, I mean. I was kind of an asshole to you."
I stare at him in surprise. He looked nothing like the man who'd treated my transformation with such cynical nonchalance, like it was nothing more than a freak show to him. This Jack was different.
He's not looking at me, his gaze focused on a point behind me. "I just... Mr. Peterson made it clear. Your..., well, 'milk quota' is important. And I need this job, Maddie. I didn't mean to make things worse for you."
His apology is clumsy, awkward, but sincere. I can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips. "Thanks, Jack. That means something to me."
His gaze snaps back to me, surprise flickering in his eyes. Then he looks down at my chest, his gaze blatant, lingering on my heavy tits, the marks of my constant lactation visible through my shirt.
Heat floods my face, my body reacting to his gaze. I clutch my blouse, instinctively trying to cover myself, but it's pointless. Everything about me is on display.
He clears his throat awkwardly, his gaze snapping up to my face, but the damage is done. The tension between us is thick, charged with an unspoken mutual understanding. He's seen me, all of me, in a way that leaves me exposed, vulnerable.
"Um... I better..." Jack stammers, backing away, his face flushed. "I'll leave you to... Yeah."
He retreats like a man on fire, leaving me alone in the barn with my racing heart and the terrifying Milki-Max X5. The silence is deafening, the pulsing ache in my chest a stark reminder of the twisted reality I'm trapped in.
I look back at the machine, my mind a whirlwind of panic, dread and this newfound... arousal. With a shuddering breath, I turn, heading back towards the farmhouse. I may not have a choice in this predicament, but at least for tonight, I can pretend I still have some control.