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How Sadie Became a Cowgirl

Category: Fetish
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It started out like any other day. I think it was a Tuesday in fact. I was reading the classifieds in yet another ill-fated attempt to find employment, while my boyfriend, Ryan, fooled around on the Internet. Every now and then he’d drop a random bit of web trivia on me, which often triggered a debate about the validity of said trivia.

“Hey Sadie, check this out,” Ryan said enthusiastically. “Did you know that an ounce of breast milk costs two and a half bucks?”

“Really?” I replied, surprised.

“Uh huh. There’s this woman in Texas who made like thirty grand just from selling her breast milk,” he continued.

“That’s insane, I scoffed. “Who would pay that much for breast milk?” I looked over Ryan’s shoulder skimmed the article. Apparently this woman had sold eighty-six gallons of breast milk over a nine month period. Indignant as I was, I had to admit I was kind of impressed.

“Rich people I guess. Apparently there’s a lot of demand for it,” Ryan mused.

“Well, it’s settled then. Let me just get these panties off so you can knock me up and I can start my new career as a human dairy cow,” I joked.

“You know, there’s other ways to get a woman to lactate. Hormones and herbs and stuff,” he said, a little defensively.

I sensed this conversation had another purpose to it. Ryan had the same look in his eye when he mentioned, off hand, the merits of owning a motorcycle. Two weeks later there was a used Kawasaki parked in our garage.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” I asked with a slight edge.

“It’s damn good money, a lot better than you could do slaving away for minimum wage in some fast food hell hole,” Ryan countered. A fair point, even if it was a little below the belt.

“Not to mention my tits would grow a cup size or two,” I snorted. I suspected that was a relevant motive. Actually, that part I wouldn’t mind so much. While my C cups were perfectly adequate, I always thought there was room for improvement in the boob department, a thought I chose not to share with my boyfriend.

“That is a perk,” he admitted.

“For you maybe. You’re not the one getting milked here.”

“You know,” Ryan continued, “the article says this chick was breastfeeding at the time. Since you wouldn’t have a baby to worry about, I bet you could sell twice as much.”

“Sixty thousand dollars…” I murmured. For an eighteen-year-old with not marketable skills, that seemed like a small fortune.

“Not bad for working at home, huh?”

I had to admit I was intrigued. As I read further into the article, I started to appreciate more and more how well this could potentially work out. Allison, the woman in the article, pumped about five or six times a day for about three hours total, and was able to multitask while doing it, since she used a hands-free pump.

I looked down at my breasts, imagining what they would look like as Ds or double Ds. I pictured myself riding Ryan’s cock, my swollen tits gyrating up and down, milk running down my chest.

“If we were to do this…how would we go about it?” I asked hesitantly.

“Well, I know a guy at the hospital. I’m pretty sure he can get us some hormones for cheap,” Ryan replied hopefully.

“And you’re sure about this? You’re not going to be freaked out by me lactating or anything?”

Ryan grinned sheepishly. “It’s actually kind of a turn on,” he admitted.

Of course it was, not that I needed any more convincing. “Call him.” I said, scared and thrilled at the same time. I just hoped I knew what I was getting into.

The next day Ryan came home from work late with a white plastic case in his hand. He popped it open, withdrawing a bundle of packaged alcohol swabs along with a very large syringe. I started to feel queasy. I was hoping for pills or something a little less like a giant needle.

“You ready?” Ryan asked gently.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I gritted, lifting up my sleeve to expose my upper arm.

“Um, it actually has to go in your ass,” Ryan muttered.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I moaned. I stared at the syringe, trying to will it out of existence. When that failed, I decided not to delay the inevitable. I stood behind the couch and unbuckled my jeans. I let my jeans and panties slide to the floor, then bent over the back of the couch.

“Let’s just get it over with,” I grimaced.

I felt a sudden chill as Ryan rubbed the swab against my butt cheek. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, I felt the firm pinch as the needle was jabbed deep into my backside. I yelped as I felt a burning sensation start to radiate, one that didn’t fade when he withdrew the needle.

I glared at my boyfriend as I pulled my pants back up. It wasn’t till after I buttoned my jeans that I realized I hadn’t actually seen what I’d been injected with. Not that I didn’t trust Ryan, but I felt a little foolish allowing him to drug me without seeing the contents.

“What kind of drug was that anyway?” I asked casually.

“It’s a hormone booster. Bill hooked me up with it,” Ryan replied.

I frowned. There was only one Bill in our lives that I knew of, and he didn’t work at a hospital. He worked at a veterinary clinic.

“Am I to understand that you got this from a vet’s office?” I asked as calmly and evenly as I could.

“It’s the same chemicals, just in a different dose. Bill said it would be better suited to what we were trying to do,” Ryan explained.

“You told him!” I yelled incredulously.

“I wanted to make sure it was safe. I mean, technically these are bovine hormone supplements, but they’re supposed to be perfectly safe for humans.”

“Bovine? As in cow?” I demanded.

Ryan just shrugged.

A few hours later, once I had time to cool off, Ryan and I sat down on the couch together to enjoy some of our favorite sitcoms. I had to sit favoring one ass cheek, since the other was still tender. As we followed the adventures of a dysfunctional, formerly wealthy family, which included a plethora of incest jokes and other cringe humor, I started to notice another uncomfortable sensation.

There was a strange tightness in my chest. It was like bloating, only it radiated from inside my breasts instead of my abdomen. A quick inspection revealed that I was starting to spill out of my lacy black bra, the seam of the cup digging painfully into my flesh. I ignored it at first, not wanting to interrupt our marathon, but after a while the pressure was too much to ignore. I slipped my hands behind me and unclasped my bra, slipping each strap around my arms. Finally, I reached down the front and pulled the offending undergarment out, breathing a sigh of relief as my breasts were released.

Ryan tried very hard to pretend he was still interested in the show, but I could see the hint of a grin on his face. I smiled myself, making a mental note to shop for a new bra in the morning.

I’m not sure when we fell asleep, but it was still pitch black out when I woke up. The slight ache in my chest that I felt a few hours earlier had increased in intensity exponentially. I instinctively reached for my breasts, trying to massage the soreness away. When my hands reached my chest, another unexpected sensation greeted me.

I thought it was sweat at first, but there was far too much of it and it far too sticky to be sweat. My shirt was absolutely soaked with it, the highest concentration radiating from around my nipples. “Ruh-Ryan,” I stammered, poking him repeatedly.

“Mmmhmm, what’s is?” he murmured, still half-asleep.

“Ryan, wake up. I need your help,” I said, trying to remain calm.

“What’s going on?” he yawned, rubbing his eyes.

“See for yourself,” I said, cupping my swollen breasts.

Ryan’s eyes opened wide, fixated on the dark damp circles that adorned my chest. Milk was starting to pool in the space between my fingers and my breast.

“Holy shit,” Ryan whispered.

“Ryan, they hurt,” I whimpered.

“Ok, ok. Don’t worry. Let’s get that shirt off,” he said confidently.

The lights were still on in the living room, and since we hadn’t gotten around to buying curtains, stripping down would give anyone outside our apartment a free show. Still, I was in too much discomfort to care. I slipped off my soaking t-shirt, exposing my engorged tits to my boyfriend and the rest of the world.

I pressed down on top of each breast with my fingertips, trying to release some of the tension. As my fingers slid down, twin jets of white liquid cascaded in the air. Most of the spray landed on Ryan, some on his shirt, some on his face.

“Sorry,” I cringed, mortified.

He just laughed, licking his lips. “Don’t be. It actually tastes pretty good!”

“Really?” I asked shyly.

“Uh huh. In fact…” Ryan trailed off as he leaned into me. What happened next caught me off guard. Ryan brought his lips to my swollen right tit, took my nipple into his mouth, and began to suck.

The release was instantaneous. I could feel the rush of milk flowing from my ducts into my lover’s mouth. I was overwhelmed by the simultaneous onset of relief mingled with arousal. Ryan suckled vigorously at my teat, pausing occasionally to tease my nipple with this tongue. After a few minutes, he switched breasts, latching on just as firmly to the left as he had the right.

I wanted to move onto his lap, desperate to grind my moistening slit against him. He refused to give up my breast though, although he obliged the additional stimulation, rubbing his fingers over my sex through my jeans.

Then, without warning he stopped. My breasts, though no longer on the edge of bursting, were still heavy with milk, and the orgasm that had been building inside me had yet to manifest. “Keep going. Don’t stop,” I panted.

“I have to Sadie. I forgot about the pump!” he grunted.

He leapt off the couch and ran to the dining room, returning with an opened cardboard box in hand. He withdrew a white bra, as well as a pair of clear bottles attached to plastic funnels. Clear tubing ran down towards a plastic casing adorned with various buttons and a digital display.

“Behold, the Mac-Daddy of breasts pumps,” Ryan proclaimed proudly.

I gazed at his trophies with a mixture of amusement and indignation. I was happy that he had the foresight to purchase these items before my milk came in, but I was annoyed that he had apparently opened them before he was certain our little experiment would bear fruit.

“How does it work?” I asked.

“Well, you put on the nursing bra,” he said, demonstrating the clasps at the top of the cup that exposed the nipple. “Then you just insert the funnels into the holes, switch it on, and you’re good to go. The pump has an automatic program, which you can adjust with these buttons. Wanna try it out?”

“Why not?” I shrugged. This was what I signed up for after all.

I slipped on the bra, noting, with a little pride, that Ryan had accounted for the increase in size. The bra was quite comfortable, so I made a mental note of the “34DD” on the tag. Damn, two cup sizes in less than twelve hours. Those hormones were potent.

I unclasped the cup Ryan hadn’t opened as he fumbled with the breast pump. I sat up with my arms at on my hips, allowing him unrestricted access. He slipped his finger into the hole, brushing my nipple as he did so. He stretched the opening, making room for the wide brim of the funnel to be inserted. The cool plastic made me bristle as it made contact with the sensitive skin. Ryan repeated the process on the other side, then did a final check of the hose and pump.

“Ready?” he asked. I nodded. With that, he pressed the bright green “START” button.

A dull buzzing sound filled the air, which alternated loud and soft. I could feel my nipples being stretched as they were pulled firmly into the cones, then released. After a few pulls, fresh streams of warm milked sprayed into the semi-transparent funnels, then dripped down into the clear collection bottles as the pressure subsided.

This new sensation wasn’t quite as nuanced and delicate as Ryan’s suckling, but it more than made up for it in intensity. I moaned as the machine slowly and steadily drained my breasts.

“How’s it going?” Ryan smirked.

“Oh my gawd, you have no idea how fucking good this feels,” I groaned.

Ryan took the initiative, standing me up so he could slip my jeans and panties off. Once again, I was too turned on to care about the exposure. I sat back down and he knelt down in front of my slit, inhaling deeply before he plunged his tongue inside me.

The man knew how to eat pussy. He licked teasingly at my folds, working his way up to my clit. The moment he brushed the stiffened nub, my body began to spasm as the first orgasm took me. As the world came back into focused, I realized that the bottles were full already. I wasn’t sure of the time, but the whole process couldn’t have taken more than twenty minutes.

Reluctantly, I brought Ryan up from my sex so that he could see my handiwork. The milk regained his focus, and I could see that he was appropriately impressed.

“Sixteen ounces,” he murmured. “That’s forty bucks right there.”

“I didn’t think there would be so much. And to think, there’d probably be more if you didn’t drink so much of it,” I teased.

“True,” he admitted.

“Well, there’ll be plenty more where that came from,” I said as I slipped the funnels out of my bra. “But right now, I really need you to fuck me.”

He didn’t have to be asked twice. He dropped his pants to the floor and took a seat on the couch. I straddled him, naked save for the nursing bra. As I slid onto him, I idly wondered if the injection may have messed up my birth control. But that, I mused, was future Sadie’s problem.

I love cowgirl. I love how deep Ryan can penetrate me in this position. As an added bonus, it gave Ryan perfect access to nurse. He latched on immediately, suckling deeply as I gyrated on his cock. I felt Ryan tense, and, knowing he wouldn’t last long, I ground down as hard as I could into his pelvis, my legs quaking as he spammed inside me.

I sat there for a moment, his erect penis still inside me, enjoying the warmth as my own orgasm tapered off. He continued nursing at my breast, pausing only when I sat up. Sticky warmness ran down my leg, and I silently hoped my birth control was still in effect. The whole point of the shot was so that I could lactate without getting pregnant after all.

“Thank you,” Ryan said as he stood up and kissed me.

“For what?” I asked.

“For doing this. I know this is going to be a huge hassle, but I think it’s going to work out well.”

I smiled. “Ryan, if I had known that lactating was going to feel this good, I would have had you shoot me up with cow hormones a long time ago.”

A familiar ache greeted me when I woke up the next morning. Ryan was already on his way to work, so I was left to my own devices. The pump was on the night stand waiting for me, clean empty bottles loaded and ready. In addition to the engorgement, I felt slight irritation as the seam of my new bra was starting to dig into my flesh. I hoped that it was merely engorgement, not further growth, which caused the poor fit.

The bottles seemed larger than before, and on closer inspection I could see that they could hold sixteen ounces each. I was pleased with this, as I suspected there was far too much milk in me for the smaller bottles.

As pressing as the need to be milked was, I decided to get dressed first, determined to attempt to function as usual during the process. I slipped on a fresh pair of panties and jeans, but I decided against a shirt for the moment, fearing my wardrobe lacked anything that wouldn’t get in the way. Satisfied with being half-dressed at the moment, I slipped the funnels into my bra, then hooked the pump onto my belt.

Once I switched it on, I had serious misgivings about my mobility. The pump was fine. Even with the larger bottles, nothing was in my way. The problem was the effect the pump was having on me. Even without Ryan there, I was just as aroused as I was last night. I tried brushing my teeth, reading the newspaper, even thinking about baseball, but nothing helped slow the steady dampness that was collecting in my panties.

Eventually, when the dampness threatened to show on my jeans, I gave up. I slipped into the bathroom and discarded my soiled garments. I sat down on the toilet, hands on my knees, determined not to give in to the urge to touch myself. It didn’t matter. Within a few minutes I was crying out in agony as I succumbed to my first milking induced orgasm.

I never knew I could come just from stimulating my breasts, and I never suspected that the breast pump would be so…efficient at doing so. I hoped that as I grew accustomed to the sensations that my self-control would return. As it was, this was becoming addictive.

I milked myself three more times before Ryan made it home. I never managed to fill the larger bottles, but I came closer and closer each time, netting a total of eighty-one ounces. When I looked up statistics on the topic, I was a little alarmed. Apparently the average output was around twenty-five to thirty-five ounces per day. They day wasn’t over yet and I had already nearly tripled that.

Also, as I suspected earlier, the engorgement was only partially responsible for the problems with my new bra. My breasts were well drained after my most recent pumping session, but the cups were still painfully tight. I gave up on it and threw it on the bedroom floor. I slipped on one of Ryan’s t-shirts in its place, mostly because I had a feeling that my new tits wouldn’t fit into anything cute I owned and I didn’t want to deal with the prospect of replacing my wardrobe at the moment.

I jumped Ryan the moment he stepped through the door. Even though I was starting to fill up again, I refused to let him nurse, as I was curious what the grand total for the day would be without his influence. I hadn’t bothered putting on pants since the first fiasco, so it only took Ryan a second to expose me. I bent over the back of the couch, musing that I was the exact same position when this whole thing started. Instead of a needle though, I was treated to Ryan’s cock sliding inside my nether region.

We didn’t speak. The only sounds were our groans and the slapping of flesh on flesh. There was something raw and animal about the way he was fucking me. Like he owned me.

Fresh milked sprayed as I climaxed, soaking through the t-shirt and dripping onto the floor. I felt Ryan’s cum, some if it oozing out of me, some of it on my ass. Not wanting to make a mess and waste precious milk, I hurried to the bathroom. The bra was forgotten, so I was forced to hold the cups to my breasts as I milked myself.

For the first time, I could see my nipples being stretched, see the jets of white fluid forcefully drawn from inside them. I cursed my lack of foresight. I desperately wanted to finger myself, but both hands were occupied.

“Sadie, are you ok?” Ryan knocked.

Suddenly I was ashamed. I didn’t want him to see me like this. I felt indecent, sitting on the toilet, a fresh load of cum dripping from my snatch, being milked like an animal. I closed my eyes as the door opened, biting my lip as I started to cum.

Ryan had to order my new nursing bra off the Internet. They weren’t stocked locally in that size. It took a few days to ship, so I was forced to rely on my hands to keep the funnels in place. When he was home, Ryan was kind enough to do it for me. Occasionally he would substitute for the machine, drinking deeply from me in an aroused stupor. Sometimes we made love, sometimes it was all about the milk.

My milk production continued to increase, and by the time my new bra arrived, I was well over a hundred ounces per day, just shy of a gallon. Hydration was key. I drank water constantly, and Ryan kept a steady supply of bread, rice, and pasta on hand. I was disappointed when I slipped on the new bra. The band size was perfect, but the cups were woefully inadequate. I didn’t blame Ryan. I thought a G cup was beyond the bounds of reason, but my breasts continued to surprise us.

As inconvenient as the whole thing was, it did have its benefits. I was selling over $250 worth of milk a day, and at seven days a week that was way more than Ryan made working construction. He joked about becoming a full-time dairy farmer, which earned him a paint-peeling death glare.

One evening Ryan put up curtains, which allowed me to pump without fear of exposure to the outside world. Once they were up, it didn’t take him long to convince me to give up wearing shirts altogether, since any shirt I wore would be quickly become soiled with milk and would ultimately only be worn for a short time.

I had no objective measure of how large my breasts had become, but they took up the better part of my chest, resting just a few inches above the twin birth marks that rested at the base of my lowest ribs. I spent so long milking that I barely had time for anything else. I was fond of the pump, but it was just so slow, compounded by the fact that I had to change bottles once per session. I was slowly and steadily filling, even as I drained, to the point where I was only empty for an hour or so at a time. Morning milking sessions were the hardest. Ryan woke up early to assist me, and I savored the new ritual that was added as a result. One morning my breasts became so engorged in the morning that they failed to achieve a proper seal. To compensate, Ryan put me on my hands and knees and put a large bowl beneath me.

I knew what he had in mind, and though a small part of me found it demeaning, the heavy globes suspended from my ribcage needed relief.

“Milk me Ryan,” I begged. “Please milk me.”

He took a swollen teat in each hand, struggling to grasp enough. Then, he kneaded downward, drawing the abundance of milk towards my nipples. Angry sprays splashed into the bowl. I came almost immediately, the pain, release, and stimulation overloading my senses. He continued, focused and determined to give me the relief I so desperately needed.

Once the pressure began to subside I stood up, reaching for the pump on the night stand. Ryan placed the half-filled bowl on the dresser. As he turned to leave, I stopped him.

“You took care of me,” I whispered. “Let me take care of you.”

My hands were busy holding the pump, but I didn’t need them for what I had in mind. I knelt at my boyfriend’s feet, looking up at him as unclasped his belt and slid his pants down. I took his cock into my mouth, determined to milk him as well as he milked me. I know he wanted to fuck me, but I wanted to do something that was just for him. As I felt the warm thick jet spurt into my mouth, it occurred to me that my milk was now the centerpiece of our entire sex life. Whether I was breastfeeding Ryan, being milked by the pump, or being milked by his hands, my breasts and the milk inside them were always the primary focus.

“Ten thousand dollars,” Ryan announced one evening.

“Beg your pardon?” I asked, looking up from a magazine.

“We’ve sold ten thousand dollars’ worth of your milk over the last three months,” he explained proudly.

“Are you serious?” I asked incredulously. I was amazed, both at the amount of money that we had made, and at the fact that Ryan had been milking me for full three months. Suddenly this temporary solution to my employment woes didn’t seem so temporary.

Ryan didn’t seem to have any intention of ending our little experiment. He didn’t try to keep me from getting a job or anything, but he certainly didn’t encourage it.

I for one was more skeptical than ever about my employment opportunities. My resume was as sparse as ever, and now I had a massive pair of constantly leaking tits to manage. I doubted I could even land a fast food gig in my condition. Besides, ten grand in three months was more than I’d ever made. I figured there was no harm in keeping this going for a while longer, even though I was starting to feel a little more like a cow each day.

One weekend, Ryan disappeared into the spare bedroom, emerging only for food and sleep. I was forbidden from entering, but I could hear the dull thuds of a hammer and the mechanical whine of power tools. A large package arrived in the mail, large enough to require a hand truck. Ryan dragged it into the spare room, shutting the door behind him.

As I was sitting on the couch one day, trying to find a good show to watch before I settled in for my next milking session, Ryan snuck up behind me and covered my eyes.

“Got a surprise for you,” he whispered.

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with the racket I’ve been hearing the last couple of days, would it?” I smirked.

He guided me carefully back to the bedroom, bringing me to a stop at the edge of the bed. When he uncovered my eyes, I was greeted by a bizarre sight. The bed itself was covered in a thick sheet of plastic. Standing on top of it was a wooden scaffold, with clear tubing running from a pair of funnels off the bed and down to the floor. The tubes ran through what appeared to be a large motor of some kind and ended at the mouth of a large glass container with measuring lines on the side.

“You were saying that the pumps were taking too long and filling up too quickly. I figure this baby should be able to keep up. Sadie, meet the mac-daddy of all breast pumps.”

“This isn’t a breast pump,” I said, exhaling slowly. “This is a milking stall.”

“Semantics,” Ryan bristled dismissively. “The point is, it’ll work a lot better than what you’ve got right now. Not only is it a lot more powerful, the position will let gravity do half the work for you.”

“Uh huh,” I said skeptically.

“Well, come on. Give it a try.”

Reluctantly, I climbed onto the bed and crawled into position. Ryan helped guide each breast into place, carefully checking the funnels and tubes. The rig was more comfortable than it looked. I was used to this position from our manual milking sessions. As Ryan moved to switch on the pump, I started to worry. Not that it wouldn’t work. I had plenty of faith in Ryan’s engineering skills. I was worried that it would.

My worries vanished the moment I felt the suction on my nipples. It was similar to the breast pump, but the intensity was indescribable. My nipples were sucked down into the funnels, tingling as the sensitive flesh stretched and yielded to the vacuum. I could feel the milk being sucked out from inside my breasts. Ryan nodded approvingly as I started to moan, the familiar mixture of milk and my own arousal clouding the room.

I barely noticed as Ryan slipped my shorts and panties off my backside, pulling them down to my knees. I came hard as he pushed into me, clenching down hard on his cock as I rode the wave. I felt thrust frantically inside me, and as much as I was enjoying the fucking, it was the milking that pushed me over the edge.

Eventually, the pump clicked off. Ryan must have built a timer into it or something. He helped me get off the bed carefully. As I sat down, the cook plastic crinkling under my ass cheeks, I took stock of what the machine had done. The jar was filled past the one hundred mark. I wasn’t sure what the increment was, but I assumed it was ounces. My breasts looked no worse for the wear. My nipples seemed a bit longer than usual, but the circular imprint around my areola where the flesh met the rim was fading quickly.

All in all, Ryan’s contraption worked like a charm and I knew that I would be spending a considerable amount of my day on this bed. Semantics or no, this was my milking stall now.

In spite of my initial protests, I grew quite fond of my milking stall. I spent a couple hours in it each day. Sometimes Ryan would fuck me during my milking sessions, other times I was left to my own devices. I climaxed either way, but it was nice to have a dick in my twat whenever the opportunity presented itself.

The intensity and consistency of the arousal provided its own challenges. I’d given up wearing shirts a while ago, but now pants and panties were becoming a problem. They started getting soaked as quickly and as thoroughly as my upper body garments.

“You know, there’s an obvious solution to this problem,” Ryan grinned.

“Trying to turn me into a nudist?” I asked knowingly.

“Just looking out for you. No sense in doing a load of laundry every day,” he retorted.

“Sure. Unfettered access to my vagina is just a fringe benefit,” I smirked.

“You have a beautiful cunt Sadie. No point in hiding it,” he replied warmly.

I was shocked. Cunt wasn’t a word I’d ever heard Ryan use. It certainly wasn’t a word I ever used myself. I certainly wasn’t a prude, especially now, but cunt seemed like such a vulgar, such a demeaning word that I was horrified to hear him say it, especially about me.

The thing is, he said it so lovingly, with such affection. Cunt. My cunt. Sadie’s cunt. When I thought of it that way, it seemed almost empowering. Vagina, pussy, snatch, cooter, gash, twat, none of these held the raw power of the word cunt.

“It is a nice cunt, isn’t it?”

My breasts continued to grow larger and larger as the weeks passed by. I tried to figure out a way to weight them. The best I could come up with was stepping on the scale and comparing the results to my pre-lactation weight. I immediately regretted my curiosity. Unless I had put on weight elsewhere, and all evidence indicated otherwise, than I had put on over thirty pounds of pure breast tissue.

The additional weight on my chest started to create a few problems. My back started to ache after standing for too long and my sense of balance was shot to hell. I made the mistake of bending over to pick up a shoe and ended up falling on my face.

“Jesus Sadie!” Ryan yelled as he ran over to check on me. “Are you alright?”

“I think so,” I muttered. My ego was more bruised than anything else. “My balance is all fucked up, that’s all.”

“Well, you are pretty top heavy,” Ryan smirked.

“No kidding,” I retorted sarcastically. “They’re not doing my back any favors either.”

“Have you tried walking on your hands and knees?” Ryan offered helpfully. I bit back a quip when I realized that he was serious.

“On all fours? Are you kidding?” I asked.

He shrugged. “You seem pretty comfortable with it when I milk you. Why not try it out? You’d be lower to the ground and it’d take some of the strain off your back,” Ryan explained.

He had a point, and it wasn’t like I had any pride left to defend anyway. I had fallen face-first as a result of being literally one third boob. I lowered myself carefully to the ground and found myself pleasantly surprised. It was easy enough to move this way and the smooth floors ensured that I didn’t get rub burn.

“What do you think? Does that feel better?” Ryan asked.

“It does. My back doesn’t hurt anymore and I don’t feel like I’m about to tip over,” I answered.

“Good. You should probably stick with it until you get used to the weight,” Ryan said confidently.

From that point on, I spent the bulk of my time on all fours. Ryan would help me up every now and then when I needed something, but I was far more comfortable on my hands and knees than I was standing on two legs. Ryan was kind enough to modify the furniture, including the bed, to accommodate my new mode of travel. My palms and knees became calloused and tough from sliding on the floor and after a while I found it just as natural as walking upright. Of course, this did nothing to help the sneaking feeling I had in the back of my mind that I was slowly becoming something that wasn’t exactly human.

In addition to the increased size and yield, there were other more dramatic changes to my breasts. A ghostly web of veins appeared just below the surface of my skin. They grew thicker and darker over time. I could feel them pop out when I became engorged, like a network of thin wires embedded in my flesh.

My nipples transformed even more dramatically. The constant pulling and stretching rendered them long and thick. I never worked up the nerve to measure them, but they were easily over two inches long and as thick as a bottle cap. The skin, while still sensitive, had become thicker, tougher, and more elastic. When Ryan nursed, he would draw the nipple into his mouth like a large straw, sucking forcefully, like he was drinking a milkshake.

“Remember how small they used to be? Cute little C cups. I can’t even imagine what size they are now.” I remarked one day as I inspected myself in the mirror.

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure you’ve outgrown the alphabet by this point,” Ryan joked.

“God, they don’t even look like breasts anymore, do they?” I asked.

“Not really,” Ryan replied honestly. “They actually kind of look like udders.”

“They do, don’t they?” I said thoughtfully.

“Does that bother you?” he asked.

“Not really. It just makes me feel like a cow, that’s all,” I explained.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I think your udders are fantastic,” Ryan said soothingly, running his fingers through my hair.

“You like them? You like my udders?” I asked as his hands caressed them.

“I love your udders. I love all of you,” he replied.

From that day on, we always referred to them as udders, as well as calling my nipples, teats. Even in my own head, I never thought of them as breasts. Somehow, the new vocabulary gave me a sense of satisfaction about my transformation that I hadn’t possessed before.

Sometimes I wondered if Ryan felt it too. If he knew that on a fundamental level, I wasn’t his high school sweetheart anymore. I hadn’t worn clothes in months. I spent hours each day being milked, either by the machine or Ryan’s skillful hands. I only stood on two legs when absolutely necessary, and only for a minute or so at a time. I couldn’t remember the last time I left the house. All of my needs, physical, emotional, sexual, Ryan took care of.

Ryan’s actions certainly reflected a shift in his perception of me, at least in regard to my body. He was as sweet, funny, and thoughtful as ever, but now he possessed a degree of assertiveness I hadn’t seen before, especially in bed. It was as though he was making an active effort to domesticate me, as though he thought I was his pet, not his girlfriend. In fairness, I was the first one to call myself a cow.

Lovemaking, as Ryan and I once indulged in, was a think of the past. What we did was fuck. We fucked in the milking stall, on the floor, in the shower, on the bed, on the porch, in the yard, wherever the mood struck him. I say struck him, because my feelings were no longer a factor. Not that I would ever rebuff him, but I was no longer afforded the opportunity. When he wanted to fuck me, he fucked me. Sometimes I’d be in the milking stall, reading a book. He’d walk up behind me, drop his pants, and slip inside me on the spot. He wouldn’t say a word, just ride my ass until his cock started to spurt, then he’d silently withdraw and leave me full of cum.

It didn’t matter if I was in the middle of another task. One time I was watching TV and he set an empty bowl beneath me, kneading my udders just enough to draw out a dozen healthy squirts. For a moment I thought he was planning on cooking, but when I felt him push his way into my cunt, I realized he just wanted to make sure I was properly lubricated.

There were some perks to his increased control. My udders made some tasks considerably more difficult, particularly grooming. It made it difficult to see my cunt without moving them out of the way, which took both hands, making shaving next to impossible. Fortunately he noticed the stubble right away. He followed me into the shower, knelt down in front of me, and proceeded to lather and shave me without a word. I bit my lip as he carefully manipulated my folds, trying not to quake as the razor glided over my skin.

In addition to assuming control of my body, he also took control of more mundane aspects of my life. He quit asking what I wanted to eat, always choosing for me instead. He told me he had put together a special diet, designed to maximize the quantity, quality, and flavor of my milk. It was pretty good, lots of rice, vegetables, and protein in it, but whether I liked it was never a topic of discussion.

My hormone injections were under his control as well. Once a week he’d bring in the familiar swab and syringe.

“Time for your hormones,” he’d say cheerfully as he injected them into my backside. At least he was considerate enough to announce it.

I started to wonder if he preferred the docile pet whose body he had free reign over to the girlfriend I once was. He certainly treated me like I meant the world to him, even though it was obvious he no longer thought of me as his equal. I shuddered when I realized that I too preferred our new dynamic to the old one.

One day, I came into the bedroom to find him boxing up my clothes.

“Whatcha doin?” I asked, more curious than anything.

“Boxing up some old clothes. You don’t wear them, plus it’s not like they’d fit over your udders,” he replied nonchalantly.

Both were fair points, but I found it odd that he didn’t bother asking me about it, especially when I saw him load the boxes in the back of his truck. They weren’t there when he returned. It occurred to me that he referred to them as “some old clothes,” as opposed to “your old clothes.” I guess he didn’t think they belonged to me.

It was just as well. The next change to my body rendered conventional clothing completely impractical. The twin birthmarks that adorned the base of my ribcage started to become more pronounced. They became rounder, darker, and thicker, and eventually started to emerge from the skin. The skin around them started to swell, distending outward from my abdomen. One day as I was probing them in the mirror, I saw them visibly stiffen, reacting to my touch.

Ryan confirmed my suspicions. “Those are nipples, not birth marks,” he asserted.

“How is that possible?” I asked, amazed and slightly disturbed.

As usual, Ryan asked the Internet, and the Internet provided. Polymastia/polythelia was the answer. Not only did I have, and apparently always had, an extra pair of nipples, but I was starting to develop an extra set of breasts to go with them.

It was sort of exciting, once I knew what it was. It was like going through puberty a second time, albeit without the red tide and lunchroom drama. They grew quickly, matching, and then surpassing the size of my former breasts, striving to catch up with the udders that hung above them.

When the milk started to flow from my new udders, Ryan quit his job. He explained that we were making far more money in the dairy business than he could ever keep up with in construction. I had to admit, taking care of me had become a full time job. Milking me, feeding me, grooming me, maintaining the equipment, and selling my milk took a considerable amount of time. Add to the fact that he could barely go more than a few hours without fucking me, and his day was pretty much devoted to taking care of my needs.

Ryan modified the milking stall with a second set of nozzles, lining them up perfectly with my new mammaries. They continued to grow fat and heavy, and within a few weeks bright blue veins adorned my second pair of udders, with long thick teats to match. They were significantly smaller than the original pair, but they improved my milk production considerably.

Ryan was thrilled. He was amazed that my body had adapted so perfectly to producing milk, even going as far as to grow a second set of fully functional udders. I enjoyed the new intensity my new udders provided to my milking sessions. When all four udders were being milked, it was as if every nerve in my body was firing at once.

Ryan took his time with me, allowing me to adapt to the new demands on my body before he mounted me again. I gave up on reading when I was in the stall. I couldn’t concentrate on anything but the sensations coursing through my body.

The first time, I didn’t even hear him enter the room. I remember a vague sensation, something familiar at my backside. Something hard and warm and pulsating.

Then he entered me. Slid deep into my cunt like a hot knife through butter. My mind was gone. I wasn’t like an animal. I was an animal, being fucked like it was the only thing in the world that mattered. When I came, I made a noise I never thought I’d ever hear during sex. A woman would never make. “MMMMMMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!” I bellowed, the deep guttural sound resonating from deep inside my diaphragm. If it freaked Ryan out, he didn’t show it. He continued to pound away at my cunt, harder, deeper, harder, deeper.

I couldn’t form words in my mind, let alone my mouth. I mooed over and over again, not caring what anyone, not my neighbors, not even Ryan thought of me. My udders sprayed forcefully into the funnels of their own volition, the suction barely keeping up with the free flow of milk. One last desperate moo escaped my lips as I felt Ryan explode inside me, gripping my rump with all his might.

I’m not sure how long we stayed her. I felt him slowly soften and slip out of my cunt. The air was thick with steam, sex, and dairy. I closed my eyes, trying to piece together a coherent thought. One that wasn’t cunt and udders and cock and milk, milk, milk, milk, moo.

“Sadie? Sadie? Are you ok?” Ryan asked, shaking me softly, concern lining his face.

“Moo Ryan,” I said with a tired smile. “Just moo.”

After what we would later refer to as “The Mooing,” Ryan sat me down for a talk. While I wasn’t sure where it would lead, I was pretty sure I knew where it would start.

“Sadie, you’re not the same woman you were since we started the hormones,” Ryan stated. No accusation, just a statement of fact.

“No, I’m not,” I admitted. “In fact, I’ve had a hard time thinking of myself as a ‘woman’ for a while.”

“I know,” Ryan replied. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, preparing his next words carefully. “Women wear clothes. They drive cars. They have jobs. They go to the mall. They leave the house.” He paused, gazing intently at my udders. “Women don’t get milked. They don’t spend all day naked on all fours. They don’t have udders, they have breasts. Two of them, not four. Two, ordinary, normal-sized, run of the mill breasts.”

I closed my eyes as the last, most damning part surfaced in my mind, “And they don’t moo.”

“No, they don’t,” he sighed.

“Ryan, what do you see when you look at me?” I asked.

Ryan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I’ve been trying to come up with a name for it. You’re not a cow, not exactly. You’re not a girl either, not anymore. I’d say you’re a little bit of both. A cowgirl. Sadie the cowgirl.”

“A cowgirl?” I asked.

“Has a nice right to it, doesn’t it?” Ryan said with a smile.

He understood. He understood what I’d been struggling with, what I’d been trying to tell him, only I couldn’t find any other way to express it than to moo at him. He knew what I was, what I’d become, what he’d made me into, and he accepted it. Loved it. Loved me.

“I like it,” I said shyly. “Sadie the Cowgirl.”

Later that day, Ryan drafted a contract. While its words were by no means legally enforceable, it gave me a sense of peace and contentment to know that our relationship was defined in writing. Essentially, I became Ryan’s property. I ceased be to Sadie the Woman and became Sadie the Cowgirl.

I was a little nervous when Ryan announced that he intended to brand me, but fortunately the brand consisted of an adjustable tattoo stamp. It consisted of thousands of tiny needles that could be configured into a bar code and serial number, courtesy of Ryan’s morally dubious vet friend. It stung when the needles slid into my skin, but I was proud of what the mark on my rump represented.

I was no longer able to speak when being milked or fucked, but Ryan learned to interpret my moos fairly quickly. My milk afforded us a very comfortable standard of living and eventually Ryan was able to buy the entire apartment complex with his earnings. As each tenants lease expired, the building slowly became vacant, until eventually only the two of us remained.

One day as I crawled from the milking stall to the bedroom, I overheard Ryan talking on the phone.

“Hey, it’s Ryan. Yeah, we’re ready. I’ll see you in a few minutes. Later,” Ryan said, snapping his phone shut.

“Going somewhere?” I asked, disappointed at the prospect of my owner leaving.

“Nope,” he grinned mischievously.

“Then, is someone coming here?” I asked. No one but Ryan, at least, no one that I knew of, had seen me since my transformation.

“You’ll see,” Ryan replied vaguely.

As promised, a few minutes later there was a knock at the door. I wasn’t sure what to do. Ryan didn’t mention who was coming or why he had asked them to come here, and I knew that it would be futile to ask him. If he wanted me to know, he would have told me.

I sat quietly on the couch as he went to the door. A small voice inside me whimpered for me to hide in the bathroom, the closet, anywhere. I ignored it. Cowgirls aren’t ashamed of their bodies, I told myself. Cowgirls have nothing to hide.

I was surprised when I heard the voice was female, and a familiar one at that. Erica, a friend from high school. Like so many, we promised to keep in touch, but divergent paths made for fewer phone calls and trips to the mall. It was just as well. Not like I’d ever shop for clothes again anyway.

“Sadie? Is that you?” Erica asked. From the doorway she could only see the back of my head.

No sense delaying the inevitable. I slid to the floor and crawled towards her, causing her to gasp at my now obvious nudity. If she thought me being naked was a shocker…

I looked up to face her. I still had another hour before my afternoon milking, but my udders had already started to swell. My teats jutted outward aggressively, partly from the cool air, and partly from the excitement of being seen this way for the first time. While Ryan had seen the process, Erica only witnessed the result.

“Holy cow…” she murmured. Fitting.

“Told you,” Ryan said proudly.

“Long time no see Erica,” I said, trying to break the tension.

“You weren’t kidding. I mean seriously, I thought you were full of shit, but she really is…” Erica spluttered.

“A cowgirl, yes.” Ryan finished.

Erica approached me, her head tilted to the side, eyes filled with curiosity and…something I couldn’t quite place.

“Four breasts. You really have four breasts,” she murmured.

“Udders, actually,” I said gently.

“Right. Of course,” she replied, transfixed.

“So, what do you think?” I asked coyly, trying to keep things light.

“I…I think you’re amazing,” Erica said in awe.

“Really?” I asked, a little amazed myself.

“I’ve always had something of a submissive streak in me, but this. You’ve taken it to a whole new level,” she said excitedly.

“Well, it’s about her milking time. Would you like to stay and watch?” Ryan asked.

“Really? God, that would be awesome!” Erica said gleefully, biting her lower lip.

I was a little proud as Ryan guided me to the milking machine. While I was never ashamed of being a cowgirl, I never thought it was something that anyone would admire. I mooed contentedly as the familiar suction drew the milk from my teats. Erica stared in rapt fascination as the milk continued to flow. I was a little surprised when I felt a familiar pressure against my slit, but I mooed gratefully as Ryan’s cock drove into my cunt.

I mooed approvingly as Sadie began running her hands over her crotch. She tried to be subtle about it at first, but eventually abandoned the pretext and slipped her hand inside her jeans. As I let out a long, satisfied moo, Ryan withdrew from me and advanced toward Erica.

“Sorry. I just couldn’t help myself,” Erica flushed.

I watched with idle fascination as Ryan leaned Erica against the wall, pulling her jeans and panties down to her ankles. She braced herself and jutted her rump toward him, begging him to fuck her. As he pushed inside her, he grabbed something shiny from the nearby table. I smiled to myself as he carefully gripped the syringe.

The moment Erica came, Ryan plunged the syringed into her rump, the pleasure all but drowning out the sensation of the bovine cocktail entering her flesh.

“Is that what I think it is?” Erica moaned as Ryan withdrew the needle.

“Figured it would be better if I begged forgiveness rather than asked permission,” Ryan grunted, still balls deep inside her dripping cunt.

“Does this mean that I’m going to be like her?” Erica asked, gesturing toward me. I still couldn’t speak, too caught up in the milking process to form words.

“That part’s up to you,” Ryan panted. “It’d be nice to have another cowgirl around here. Sadie could use a friend.”

Erica’s face screwed up in concentration. Ryan continued to fuck her as she looked at me, starting intently at my udders as they ebbed and swelled from the suction.

“Moooo?” I asked, my voice barely audible over the sounds whirring metal and smacking flesh.

“Mooo!” she cried, legs quaking as her transformation began. Welcome to the herd.

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