Kayla couldn’t believe she had become a stereotype – teenage pregnant schoolgirl, knocked up from her first fuck. It had happened while she was blind drunk at a party – she didn’t even remember who had screwed her, and none of her friends were confessing.
She sought out teen pregnancy counselling… but at the medical complex she walked into the wrong room, and found herself in the waiting room of Dr Roberts, hypnotherapist, instead.
She didn’t have an appointment, but Dr Roberts decided to listen to the cute teenager anyway. She explained that she was scared – she had no partner, no money and no job skills.
“Well, I can help you with that,” said Dr Roberts. “If you consent…”
Unwisely, Kayla consented.
He put her in a trance and gave her several suggestions.
When she came out of it, he said, “Okay, Kayla. I’m going to give you a phone number. You can text that number up to once a day, and a lady will come to your door with a pill. If you take the pill, you will be paid $300 – just a little help for the cost of having a baby.”
“What’s in the pill?” she asked nervously.
“Pregnancy hormones, to keep you healthy,” he told her. “They will make your milk come in faster and make you produce more milk than you would otherwise. You’ll probably find your udders grow a bit, even more than they would otherwise in pregnancy.”
That word, “udders”, sounded strange to Kayla for a moment, but then the feeling passed. Of course, that was the technical term for her milk-balloons. Had she used to call them another word… “breasts”? Surely not – “udders” to be accurate, or “milk-balloons” or “slut-melons” colloquially.
“The hormones will probably make you a little aroused as well,” he told her. “Don’t worry about it too much.”
She thanked him for his help, and went home. She immediately texted the number he had given her, and shortly a cute smiling blonde lady with large fake slut-melons arrives at her house and offered her a pill. She took it, and a little later her bank account showed a credit of $300.
She felt excited by this new opportunity at first… but then all night her udders felt sore and hyper-sensitive, and her pussy was sopping wet. She spent all night masturbating, and was stupid and tired on Sunday morning.
Nevertheless, she immediately texted for another pill, and swallowed it in front of the buxom girl who delivered it. $300 appeared in her account. Her breasts continued to ache, and her pussy was needy. She tried to ignore it but ended up finger-fucking herself to orgasm twice in the afternoon.
She continued taking the pills all through the next week – a school week. No one at school knew she was pregnant yet, but they saw the change in her – her flushed cheeks, her erect nipples, the subtle odour of arousal from her wet cunt. She heard boys whispering that she looked “in heat”, and blushed. She masturbated every lunchtime in the toilets. On Friday she stayed home from school to just masturbate all day.
On Saturday her milk came in. She was squeezing her perpetually sensitive udders as she rubbed her clit in her bedroom, when the first colostrum leaked from her nipples. By Sunday, playing with her nipples produced a thin trickle of white milk.
She went to the mirror to see the milk better, and was surprised how much her slut-melons had grown in one week. And at the sight of them, her hypnotic triggers kicked in.
“Those are cow udders,” she heard herself say. “Girls with big tits aren’t people, they’re cows. They’re stupid animals that need someone to use them. Cows who pretend they’re not cows deserve to be humiliated and raped. Big udders aren’t for their owners to enjoy – they’re for men to enjoy. Udders need pain and milking.” She said that last part again. “Udders need pain and milking.” And something clicked inside her, and she found herself tugging hard on her tits, hurting them, expressing all the milk and then continuing to stimulate them once they were dry. She thought to herself, “I need to stop, this hurts so much,” and when she tugged her udders one last time and felt the pain shoot through her, she orgasmed.
Afterwards, she vowed to stop taking the pills. She assumed they were responsible for her thoughts and behaviour. She didn’t order any on Monday, or on Tuesday, and began to relax as her sexual urges normalised.
But Dr Roberts had left more ideas inside her mind. The first was a persistent idea that clothes that made her look *respectable* didn’t fit her, and were uncomfortable, designed to trigger once she stopped taking the pills. On Tuesday night she went through her cupboard in a fury, trying to find anything that *fit* her. Everything felt scratchy and constricting. She had nothing. She went to bed naked. The next morning she went to school without bra and panties, because they all felt too tight, and could only bring herself to put on her pleated school skirt after cutting three inches off the hem, which somehow helped.
She spent the whole day blushing – her bare cunt was visible every time she bent or sat, and everyone knew it. After school she went shopping for new clothes. She went from store to store, buying only the sluttiest and skimpiest clothes she could find. By the time she was done, she had spent all her money and more – she was $3,000 in debt.
Back at home, she dressed in a new outfit – a micro-bikini, completely inappropriate for an evening around the house – and looked at job ads. Her father gave her odd looks but didn’t comment.
Here, her next suggestion affected her. She couldn’t bring herself to earn money in any way other than taking the pills, or performing sexually demeaning work. She scrolled past dozens of office jobs without seeing them, but stopped and stared at an ad seeking strippers and whores for a new club. She looked at it for nearly 30 minutes before moaning in misery, shutting the site, and texting to order another pill.
When the girl turned up, she said, “The pills will only pay $150 now. Do you still want it?” Kayla said she did. She took it, and soon her breasts were aching again and her pussy was soaked.
She took the pills every day for a week. Her tits grew bigger and her milk became fuller. Her mind was a murky haze of sexual need. Whenever she saw her enlarged tits, she would painfully milk them, or repeatedly slap them with her hands.
She went back to Dr Roberts in distress, and explained her disturbing behaviour. Dr Roberts offered her more counselling, and said that to save money she could pay by sucking his cock. Feeling dirty, but unable to pay otherwise, she agreed.
Dr Roberts had her strip and demonstrate how she masturbated and milked herself. He had her repeat the thoughts she had when she saw her tits – “udders need pain and milking”. He took off his belt and whipped her hard across her milk-balloons, to give her the pain, then stuck his cock in her mouth and face-fucked her until he was able to fill her mouth with cum. “Swallow,” he told her, and she did, like a good little cow.
Afterwards he put her into a trance, and gave her the “help” she had asked for: from now on she would be unable to masturbate, unable to milk herself, and unable to hurt her tits. He did nothing, though, about her urges. In fact, he reinforced the notion that those urges were all her own thoughts, that they weren’t caused by the medication, and that normal girls would be able to control themselves.
He sent her home with a little present – a cow costume, compete with ears, cowprint armbands and leggings, cowbell choker, and a cute cow-tail butt plug. “So you don’t have to pretend you’re not a cow.”
That was the end of her normal life. She couldn’t think about anything but her need to be milked, hurt, and made to orgasm. She went everywhere with the butt plug inside her, and most times she wore the cowbell and ears – anything to reduce the guilt she felt at pretending not to be a cow. It took some experimentation to find the right men to give her what she needed, during which time she let most of her school fuck her before eventually being expelled.
In the end she settled on four men to treat her the way she needed to be treated. One was Dr Roberts, who she visited regularly to have her tits whipped and her mouth filled with cum. He reinforced her conditioning each time, increasing her shame and humiliation along with her need to be punished and fucked.
Another was a boy from her school, one who had always treated her cruelly, and who had begun openly fingering her bare pussy between classes without even having to be asked. He took pleasure in publicly squeezing her now-massive slut-melons, squirting milk into her shirt and leaving a wet stain for the rest of the day that advertised her as the milk-producer she was. Most days he would fuck her after class in the gym locker room, sometimes letting his friends watch or have a turn. She wondered sometimes if this boy was the father of her baby, but decided it didn’t matter.
A third partner was a local police officer. He had stopped her on the street for public indecency one day when she had gone out wearing nothing below the waist but a G-string pulled tight between her buttocks and up between her pussy lips. One thing led to another and soon she was naked, handcuffed, in the back of a police van, being vaginally raped by his cock while fellating the barrel of his sidearm. After that he stopped her often, and he had a special talent for torturing her tits as he raped her, whether it was putting bulldog clamps on her nipples, wrapping the bases tightly in police tape before beating them with his nightstick, or just discharging his Taser into her titflesh for fun.
Her last partner was her father. There was only so long she could slut around him in her whorish new outfits before he could no longer help himself. He raped her in her own bed after a month of the pills, and fucked her regularly thereafter. She enjoyed this the most, because she hated it the most. The humiliation and degradation she felt fucking her own father was the only time her shame was intense enough for her to feel properly punished.
Her father built her a milking station too, in the garage, where he could lock her helplessly into place, arms bound, tail plug in her ass, cowbell and ears bouncing. She would be nude, bent at the waist, udders hanging downward heavily and fitted with industrial milking cups, and a vibrator stuffed snugly into her pussy. She could operate it herself – making loud mooing sounds started both the suction and the vibrator. Any sound she vocalised other than a moo caused the cups to shock her nipples. While the suction wasn’t running, a leather strap would periodically whip her pendulous milk-balloons. Her father would leave her there for hours, her tits being whipped, until either her udders became too full of milk, or the pain got too intense, or her need to orgasm too overwhelming, and she would start mooing and mooing and mooing, not caring that every milking further stimulated her milk production and made her tits bigger and sluttier, not caring that the neighbours could hear, not caring that the sound of her mooing started the cameras that broadcast her humiliating milking worldwide to a paying audience…
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