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Fiona looked around the floor full of beautiful buxom secretaries, and tried to work out which four were best suited to being a “lactating cow”.
She didn’t even really know what she was recommending. What did Mr Star intend to do with her report? Was it just a theoretical exercise? Or did he intend to actually cause these women to lactate? Would he ask them for consent – give them a cash bonus to participate, perhaps? Or did he intend to bully and blackmail them into lactating, whether they wanted to or not?
And how, precisely, did he intend to get their tits to produce milk? Sweetmelons had had a baby. Surely Mr Star didn’t intend to impregnate these women? Would he merely stimulate their nipples? Or give them some drug?
Was Fiona going to be complicit in causing four women to be humiliated, to have their bodies transformed against their will, and possibly to be sexually assaulted or even impregnated?
It really didn’t matter, because she knew she was going to do it anyway. She didn’t want to lose her job.
This was all Sweetmelons’ fault, in a way. If she hadn’t fucked her boss and gotten knocked up like a slut, she wouldn’t be here now with her milky tits on display, and Mr Star wouldn’t be so focused on the idea of lactating udders.
She remembered what Mr Star had said about women’s breasts being *intended* for pain, and she understood that she would therefore not get in trouble from hurting Sweetmelons’ tits, and so when it was her turn to breastfeed from Sweetmelons that morning, she took the opportunity to grab Sweetmelons’ udders at their base in a painful grip, and practically chewed on Sweetemleons’ nipples as she sucked the sweet milk from them.
Sweetmelons tried to say something to protest, but the de-barking collar just played loud mooing over the top, and Fiona heard none of it. It was fun, really, to hurt another girl’s tits, and it helped her ignore the guilt that was lurking at the back of the mind for her daily role in abusing Sweetmelons, and for the betrayal of her fellow women that Mr Star had forced her to engage in.
What made a woman suited to being a “lactating cow”, she wondered. All of the women on the secretarial floor were buxom. They were all attractive. Should she simply choose the women with the biggest tits? Or the ones who were the most submissive and likely to accept that treatment? Maybe the ones with the worst work performance, who could most easily be spared to a new role as milk-producers?
She stared at each co-worker in turn and tried to picture them topless, their tits swollen with milk, their nipples dripping, their words drowned out by cow moos. Her pussy got wetter and wetter as she stared at her co-workers’ boobs. Eventually she took Mr Star up on his offer and accessed the HR files, which contained topless photos of every woman on the floor. She scrolled through page after page of naked fuckbags, and her arousal only grew.
She wanted to go to the toilet and masturbate, but she knew if she orgasmed then the fuzzy haze of arousal that she was floating in would dissipate. Currently it was helping her ignore the moral implications of what Mr Star had asked her to do. If her cunt sobered up, the guilt might be overwhelming and prevent her from doing what she needed to do. So she ignored her wet pussy and simply let it continue to become warmer and needier.
Eventually she googled “turning women into cows”, which delivered a range of pages. Many of them were pornographic, but she sensed that Mr Star would not mind her accessing them at work for this purpose. She looked at photos of naked women kept on all fours in cages, with pumps on their nipples. She looked at small herds of nude bitches huddled in cattle pens or in barns. She read tracts that were frankly misogynistic on why women were basically animals who deserved no rights.
She was so horny now that her hand kept going unconsciously to her waist, and she had to keep yanking it away to avoid masturbating right here at her desk in front of the whole office.
But she had realised what the answer was to Mr Star’s question. It was a horrible answer, a cruel answer, and it made her pussy throb to think about it.
She looked over the topless photos of all her co-workers one more time, and took notes.
And then she wrote her answer to Mr Star:
“All women are equally suited to being a lactating cow, by their nature as women. Therefore every woman in your office would make a good lactating cow. I have selected four women on the basis of three criteria:
- Whether I personally would enjoy sucking milk from their nipples;
- Whether it would be funny, deserving or cruel to make them lactate; and
- Whether they particularly deserve to be treated like a lactating cow.
Therefore the women I have selected are:
Britney Penders (blonde, 20 years old, F cup tits), who is young and pretty and naive and who I believe is a virgin, because she will be the most humiliated by having other women suck milk from her tits.
Samantha Faulds (redhead, 27 years old, G cup tits), who is a bitch who has always been unpleasant to me and who deserves to have her udders painfully milked and her words drowned out by cow moos.
April Wessex (blonde, 24 years old, E cup tits), who is devastatingly gorgeous and whose tits I confess that I would love to suck on.
and
Fiona George aka Giant Fuckbags (myself, 21 years old, G cup tits) because I deserve to be treated like a lactating cow for betraying my fellow women.”
She emailed the report to Mr Star – and immediately ran to the toilet to frantically masturbate to orgasm.
===
When the haze of arousal cleared, Fiona was horrified at what she had done. She couldn’t understand her logic. Was her brain that different when she was horny?
She had told her boss that all women deserved to be treated like cows. She had admitted to wanting to suck on the nipples of her co-workers. She had nominated three of them for sexual abuse and humiliation.
And, worst of all, she had included her own name on the list.
Why would she do that? It was insane! Had Mr Star… done something to her? To… affect her mind? With some kind of technology his companies were developing?
But she knew that he had not. She had done this all herself. Deep within her, there was a part of her that was cruel and slutty and submissive and self-destructive, and it came out when she was stressed and horny.
She waited with painful nervous energy for Mr Star to acknowledge her email. She didn’t know how he would respond. She could picture the look of amusement on his face at her self-nomination – a smug look that would convey his understanding that they both knew he had been right when he said that all women were bisexual sluts who were biologically intended to be breeding cows.
She couldn’t bear to look at the three other women she had named in her email. It had seemed so deliciously sexy to include their names when she had been horny. Now it felt like a disgusting act of immorality, a thing that only a monster would do. The thought of it made her hate herself.
On a whim, she called up the topless photos of the three women on her computer screen, and that made her feel better. Seeing their naked tits clinically documented on the workplace HR system made them feel less like real people and more like objects, and that made her guilt recede a little. Staring at their boobs also made her cunt begin to heat up again, and that helped too.
But in the end Mr Star did not respond to Fiona’s email that day at all, and she was forced to go home with that guilt and anxiety still nagging at her.
Maybe she had gone too far. Maybe what Mr Star had said to her had just been a joke – and then she had replied with the most wildly inappropriate work email ever sent by a woman to her employer. Maybe he was consulting with HR – or even with police – and she would turn up the next day to find herself fired, or arrested. Maybe there would be journalists to cover the story of the big-titted bimbo who had said that all women should be treated like cows.
She began to masturbate as she drove home, which was a stupid and dangerous thing to do, and which just made her feel even more like a whorish big-titted gender traitor. It wasn’t even that these thoughts were making her horny – they certainly weren’t sexy thoughts. It was that she knew that if she was aroused they would bother her less.
By the time she got home her cunt was dripping, but her guilt was still there – but now it was mixed up with fantasies of sucking on the tits of topless big-titted women.
She was a horrible slut. She should have quit her job long ago. She should never have let Mr Star make her write the things she had written. No normal woman would have done that. A proper woman would have told him he was a pig and stormed out. But she had agreed that three other women should be milked like cows, and volunteered herself to join them.
She stripped nude in her kitchen, sat at the kitchen table, and masturbated some more.
She looked down at her big tits. They were the tits that had gotten her her job. She knew that she didn’t draw a paycheque from Star Industries because she was competent, or intelligent, or educated, or skilled. She was paid money for her big tits. Her giant fuckbags. They were the only part of her that was valuable to Mr Star.
She remembered Mr Star saying that women’s tits were intended to be in pain. Women responded to tit pain with obedience and submission. He had said that Sweetmelons would start to be happy once she accepted that she deserved the pain in her swollen lactating udders.
Fiona got up from the table, still rubbing her pussy with one hand, and went into her backyard. There was the possibility of being seen by neighbours over her back fences, but she didn’t care. She picked up a large brick from the edge of one of her garden beds.
She went back into the house with the brick, sat at the table, and continued masturbating. She laid her breasts on the table surface, so the table was supporting them.
Then she lifted the brick above her tits with her free hand.
This wasn’t going to permanently damage her. It was just going to hurt. A lot.
Which was what she deserved for what she had done at the office today.
She thought about Britney and Samantha and April topless, their tits swollen, their nipples drinking milk, their human words transformed into cow moos by a cruel collar. She furiously rubbed her pussy.
Then she dropped the brick on her tits.
When it hit, she screamed. She had never felt such intense pain in her tits.
And at the same time, she orgasmed. Hard.
Afterwards, her tits bruised and tears running down her face, she left the brick on the table.
Part of her told her that she might need it again.
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You can find more tales of office lactation in my e-book Bovine Testing, available for only $4.99 USD at AllTheseRoadworks.com! Buying from my store helps me to pay the bills, keep the lights on, and keep writing for your entertainment! (Click here to view in store.)
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