Previous chapter:
One
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Harper couldn’t believe this was really happening. Only yesterday she had been a popular, wealthy young woman with the world at her feet. Now she was naked, helpless, gagged, and collared – and these insane men were telling her that she was going to be used as a prostitute… and a human cow!
But she had no options. These men had already demonstrated they could outrun her, and outfight her, and it was a long way to the edge of the farm property even if she escaped. And the fact of her collar remained – along with the metal pole it was attached to, which was firmly in the hands of her captors.
So she allowed them to drag her to a small building adjacent to the main farmhouse, which turned out to house something akin to a veterinary clinic. There was a man in a coat waiting here. He didn’t bother to give Harper his name, or speak to her directly – at least at first – but a badge on his coat identified him as “Dr Tarrant”.
Except he wasn’t a doctor, Harper realised. Cows didn’t visit doctors. They visited vets.
The farmhands forced Harper onto a height and weight station. The vet took notes. Then Harper’s breasts were lifted and placed onto a set of bench scales, and her “udder weight” was noted too.
After that, Harper was forced to take a position on a kind of gynaecological inspection bed. Once she was in position, the farmhands strapped her hands down, and then pulled her legs up in gyno stirrups, and strapped those in place too. Harper was even more vulnerable than before, in a position that gave full access to her exposed cunt.
The vet briefly removed Harper’s ball gag, and forced her mouth open to inspect her teeth.
“Please,” she begged, finally able to talk. “There’s been some mistake. I have friends. People will notice I’m missing.”
“As far as they’re concerned, you’re doing work experience for a season on a farm,” said the man holding the pole. “And by the time that’s over, they will have forgotten about you.”
The vet sighed. “Please don’t interact with the cow,” he said. “If she’s going to mouth off, simply replace the gag.”
“I’ll gag her with my dick,” laughed the second farmhand, adjusting his pants as if he really meant to take out his cock.
His friend with the pole swatted him on the shoulder. “She’s not tame yet. She’ll bite it off. Just use the ball gag.”
The second man sighed, and took the ball gag from the table where the vet had placed it. He slapped Harper across the face to make her pop her mouth open, and then pushed the gag back into place.
“What’s the cow’s name?” asked the vet, filling out details at a computer.
“Betsy Milkmelons,” said the first farmhand.
The vet nodded. He then stood again, and began taking various measurements of Harper. He squeezed her breasts – or her “udders’ as he called them – taking notes of their size, of her areolae diameter, of her nipple length.
Then he moved to her cunt, He stroked a finger across Harper’s clitoris, making her gasp, and then pushed two of his fingers up into her fuckhole.
“She is wet,” Dr Tarrant declared . “A promising sign.” He removed his fingers, and wiped them clean on her face . “Do you think it is the humiliation that arouses her? The fear? The vulnerability? All three? Or is she simply constantly hungry for cock?”
“Just a slut, probably,” laughed the second farmhand.
“I have a theory that all women with large udders know instinctively that their destiny is to be a cow,” said Dr Tarrant, “and everything that moves them along that path arouses them.”
He pushed his fingers back into Harper’s cunt and brought them out again dripping with fuckhoney. He then slowly wiped them across Harper’s left nipple, coating her breast with her arousal.
Unable to help herself, Harper moaned, and arched her back, pressing her breast against his hand.
“See?” said Dr Tarrant. “An instinctive response.”
He took a device that looked like a dildo, smiled, and pushed it up Harper’s pussy.
Harper moaned into her gag. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t know why she was so embarrassingly wet – but the thick device felt good, stuffing her pussy, and she couldn’t stop her body responding.
The vet fucked it in and out of her a couple of times – and then pressed a button on its base.
Harper squealed – a high-pitched sound of pure shock and pain. The device had stabbed her! Inside her cunt!
“Just a small injection, my dear,” said the vet. “A microchip, with your identity details, for tracking. And a few other functions, to help us monitor you. It will wirelessly report your location, your levels of arousal and fertility, your menstrual cycle, your heart rate and blood pressure, and when and where you piss.”
He paused and added, “It will also deliver a powerful electric shock in the event that you leave the farm premises without having it disabled. I am told it is quite overwhelming and likely enough to cause you to pass out.”
Part of Harper’s mind was still telling her this wasn’t truly happening. It was too insane. She wished that part of her mind was able to free her legs and arms, which were held in shackles that felt very real.
“And now to test the chip,” said Dr Tarrant. He began to fuck her again with the device that had implanted the chip, and with the other he started to stroke Harper’s clitoris.
It only took two minutes – and suddenly Harper was orgasming. She had been through too much, and her psyche had been constantly assaulted, and her body knew what it wanted. She felt herself shudder, and then pleasure was rolling through her.
The computer beeped, and the vet looked satisfied.
“It has registered your orgasm, Betsy,” he said. “Very good.”
And he turned to the farmhands.
“You may take her to the barn now.”
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Part of Harper had expected the barn to be a medieval rural archetype – made of wood and stocked with hay. But although it took the shape of a traditional barn, the exterior of the building was metal, the interior floor was tiled, and there was no hay to be seen anywhere.
A wide central corridor – almost a plaza – ran down the centre of the barn, with a rail running along the middle of it, and long shallow troughs below the rail. Drains were space in intervals along the corridor, and it was lit overhead by bright fluorescent lights.
Worryingly, there were what appeared to be flexible rubber dildos fixed to the floor in an even pattern running down the length of the corridor.
Along the sides were doors, leading into what could only be described as cages. These cages were mesh on the side facing the corridor, but had metal walls between them on the inside, so that the occupant had privacy from the cages on either side but not the corridor at large. Each cage had a metal door, which was fitted with two locked hatches – one at floor level, and one about 70 centimetres above the ground.
There were enough cages in the barn to hold maybe 70 girls, Harper thought, but most of the ones she could see were empty. She couldn’t tell how many girls were stored here, but she thought at least 10 but not more than 20.
“Here you go, Betsy,” said the second farmhand, opening a cage on the left about a dozen doors down. “In you go.”
Harper didn’t want to go in, but she had little choice, as the farmhand with the pole was using it to push her into the cage by her neck. Once she was in, he told her to turn around. Then he reached out and removed her ball gag, before disconnecting the pole from her collar, and locking the door, with Harper inside.
Harper immediately realised that the ceiling within the cage was only four feet high – enough for her to sit, or crawl, and more than enough room to stretch, but not nearly enough for her to stand upright.
“Three rules, Betsy,” said the first farmhand. “Number one, no talking. I know you’re going to want to get cozy with the other heifers, but we just don’t permit you to make human sounds in the barn. If you need attention, you moo for it, just like a good little cow. But make sure it’s important, because we don’t take kindly to bratty little cows making a nuisance of themselves. Can you moo for me, Betsy?”
Harper blushed and turned her head away. She had no intention of degrading herself for these men.
“That wasn’t a request,” said the farmhand. “Give me a nice little moo. Be a good cow.”
Harper squeezed herself against the back of her cage.
The farmhand sighed. “Get the prod,” he said.
His colleague shuffled away, and returned a moment later holding a long, black stick. He pushed the end of the stick through the mesh of the cage, and it was more than long enough to reach Harper even at the back of the enclosure.
ZZAP.
The pole touched her left breast – and discharged an electric shock.
Harper screamed, and slapped at the horrid thing. Her body had seized up and spasmed. She felt like she might wet herself if she was shocked again.
“Moo for me, Betsy,” said the first farmhand. “Be a good little cow.”
“Stop!” cried Harper. “Please, stop.”
The farmhand made a tut-tut sound. “No human noises in the barn, Betsy,” he reminded her. “You need to learn that.”
And the pole touched her tit again.
ZZAP.
She did wet herself a little, then. Only a little, and it quickly ran down the drain in the centre of her cage, but it contributed to her humiliation.
“Moo for me, Betsy,” said the farmhand. “We can zap you all day, you know. When we get bored of your udders, we’ll start on that sweet little pussy of yours. Would you like a zap down there? In your pussy?”
Harper clenched her legs together involuntarily at the thought of having the hateful thing used on her sensitive cunt.
“Mooooo,” she said, quietly.
“What was that, Betsy?” asked the farmhand. “Louder.”
“Mooooo,” said Harper – and when she saw the electric prod approaching her again, she raised her voice in a panic. “MOOOOOOO!”
And as she did, she heard her cry echoed from some of the other stalls. There were other girls in there, even if Harper couldn’t see them – and they were mooing, just like her.
“Good girl,” chuckled the farmhand. “That’s rule one. No human noises, only mooing. Rule two is no aggression. Don’t try to damage the cage. Don’t try to damage yourself. Don’t try to damage the other cows, or the handlers. Remember that the only bits of you we really need are your tits and your cunt, and we will do what it takes to protect the farm, its staff, and its property. One of the cows down the end there doesn’t have any teeth, because she kept trying to bite Farmer John’s dick. Don’t be like that cow, Betsy. Be good.”
Harper quivered in fear at the cold, threatening tone of the farmhand’s voice.
“And rule three, no orgasms,” said the farmhand. “I know there’s not much else to do in your cage, and a slut like yourself is probably going to want to rub your cunt. That’s fine. But you’re not allowed to cum without permission. Your chip will tell us if you do, and you *will* be punished. Cows need permission to cum, understand, Betsy? Moo for me if you understand.”
Harper didn’t really understand why there should be such a rule, but she was exhausted, humiliated, in pain and defeated.
“Moooo,” she said.
“Good cow,” said the farmhand. “You get cozy now. We’ll see you next for your afternoon milking…”
And just like that, they left, laughing, and Harper was left alone in her demeaning cage, in a barn full of human cows.
When they told her that she was probably going to rub her cunt, she had told herself that it was a ridiculous thing to say, that she would never demean herself like that.
But there really wasn’t much else to do. And the only time she had felt good today was when she was cumming on the vet’s gyno chair.
And so slowly, surely, her hand crept between her legs, and began to rub…
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