Chapter 7: The Farmhouse Fantasy
The drip from the bathroom faucet had become a metronome, counting out the seconds of her saturation. Anith lay on her back in bed, a towel bunched beneath her shoulders. Even flat, her breasts didn’t spread; they were two firm, overfilled mounds that rested heavily against her chest, their weight a constant, breath-stealing presence. Her nipples, dark and perpetually beaded, leaked in slow, steady pulses that darkened the towel in two perfect, widening circles.
Her phone buzzed on her stomach, making the milk slosh inside her. Eve’s name flashed.
You awake, cow?
Before Anith could type, a video link followed. The preview was a blur of pale, stretched flesh. Her thumb, slick with a trace of milk she’d just wiped from her chin, hovered. She tapped it.
The video was grainy, shot in a dim, concrete-walled space. A woman was bent over a milking stool, her back to the camera, her arms bound behind her. Her breasts were obscenely large, dangling like swollen udders. Two men in rubber aprons stood on either side of her, their hands working methodically at her teats, pulling streams of white into stainless steel buckets. The woman’s head was thrown back, her mouth open in a soundless cry that wasn’t pain. It was ecstasy. The camera zoomed in on a man’s thick fingers pinching a distended nipple, milk jetting out in a forceful arc. The woman’s body shuddered.
Anith’s own body responded before her mind could form a thought. A deep, sympathetic throb echoed from her cunt to her nipples. Her hand was already in her panties, two fingers sliding through slick heat, circling her clit in frantic, messy circles. She didn’t think of the woman’s face. She imagined her own body in that position. She imagined Josh on one side, Carl on the other, their hands on her, working her, emptying her. The fantasy was a jolt of lightning up her spine.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she chanted into the empty room, her hips lifting off the bed, seeking pressure. Her other hand grabbed a breast, squeezing in rhythm with her fingers. Milk sprayed across her collarbone, warm and sweet in the air. The dual sensations—the rough friction on her clit and the deep, pulling ache of release from her breast—twisted together into a single coil of need.
The orgasm tore through her, brutal and short. She cried out, back arching, toes curling into the sheets. For a few seconds, the hunger was gone, replaced by a hollow, ringing stillness. Then the shame washed in, colder than the milk on her skin.
Her phone buzzed again. Eve: See? That’s the real shit. No more clinical handjobs from Creepy Carl. You need to be used. Properly. It’s the next step. The protein’s better. More potent.
Anith stared at the words. Protein. She knew what Eve meant. Cum. The craving was a physical thing now, a hollow pang behind her ribs worse than any hunger. The shakes and the milk weren’t enough. Her body was screaming for something denser, something that would cement the growth, fill the new space she was carving out inside herself.
She texted back, her fingers trembling. I can’t just ask Carl for that.
The reply was immediate. Who said anything about asking? I know a guy. Well, guys. They’re not like Carl. They don’t talk. They just… contribute. Think of it as a donor program. For your project.
Anith’s heart hammered against the undersides of her heavy breasts. This was madness. Real, dangerous madness. She thought of Josh, of his clean smile, his hands that had never truly gripped her. He would be repulsed. But he would also be mesmerized. He wouldn’t be able to look away. That was the goal. That was the only goal.
When? she typed.
Tonight. My place. 10. Don’t eat.
The day passed in a fog of preparation. She took a long shower, soaping her new body, her hands lingering on the vast curves, pinching her nipples until they ached and leaked into the steam. She put on the only bra that vaguely fit, a beige monstrosity that dug into her shoulders, and a loose black dress that did nothing to hide the shelf of her chest or the swell of her belly. She looked pregnant. She looked lactating. She looked, she thought with a spike of dizzy pride, like a functioning fertility idol.
Eve’s apartment smelled of weed and stale perfume. The living room was dark, lit only by a single salt lamp that cast a hellish orange glow. Two men sat on the frayed couch. They were older than Carl, thicker. One was bald, with a thick beard. The other had a gaunt, watchful face. They didn’t smile when she walked in.
“See? Told you,” Eve said, smirking from a nearby armchair. “Prime stock. Already in production.”
The bald man looked her up and down, his expression bored, appraising. “Yeah, she’ll do. You know the rules. No kissing. No marks. We finish where we want.”
Anith’s mouth was dry. She nodded.
The gaunt man stood up. “Take off the dress.”
Her fingers fumbled with the side zip. The dress pooled at her feet. The bra followed. In the orange light, her breasts glowed, their sheer mass shocking even to her. The two men stared. The bald man whistled, low and long.
“Christ. Alright. On your knees.”
The command was flat, impersonal. Anith sank to the scratchy carpet. The bald man unzipped his jeans, pulling out a thick, already-hard cock. It smelled of sweat and salt. He didn’t touch her. He just pointed it at her face.
“Open.”
She did. He shoved himself in, his hands tangling in her hair, forcing her head forward. He fucked her mouth with slow, deep, punishing strokes, hitting the back of her throat each time. She gagged, tears springing to her eyes. Milk leaked from her nipples in thin streams, dripping onto the carpet between her splayed knees.
“That’s it,” the gaunt man said, moving behind her. His hands grabbed her hips, yanking her ass into the air. He ripped her panties aside. He was already hard. He spat once, roughly, between her legs, and then shoved into her cunt in one brutal thrust.
Anith screamed around the cock in her mouth, the sound muffled. The stretch was immense, burning. It was nothing like Carl’ careful, dispassionate motions. This was being split open. The gaunt man set a relentless, pounding rhythm, his hips slapping against her fleshy ass. Each impact jolted her entire body, making her heavy tits swing violently.
The bald man in her mouth grunted, his grip tightening. “Gonna fill that pretty throat. You want it, don’t you? You want all that good protein.”
She did. God help her, she did. The humiliation, the rough handling, the sheer animal use of it—it lit up her nerve endings, fused with the hypnosis tapes looping in her memory. Your purpose is to overflow. Her cunt clenched around the invasion, and a fresh gush of milk sprayed from her nipples. She was coming, shaking, tears and saliva and milk smearing her face.
The bald man cursed, his thrusts turning jagged. “Here it comes, you hungry bitch. Take it.”
He erupted, a hot, bitter flood hitting the back of her throat. She swallowed convulsively, greedily, as he kept pumping, painting her tonsils. Behind her, the gaunt man growled, his pace becoming frantic. He pulled out suddenly, his cock slick and glistening, and aimed it at her back, at the rolling expanse of her skin. Ropes of hot cum splashed across her shoulder blades, dripped into the valley of her spine.
They both stepped back, zipping up. They looked down at her, panting, collapsed on the floor, covered in their spendings and her own milk.
“Good donor,” the bald man said, a hollow joke. He tossed a fifty-dollar bill onto the floor beside her. “For your trouble.”
They left without another word. Eve walked over, peering down. “See? Not so bad. You’re one step closer. You can feel it, right? It’s working already.”
Anith rolled onto her side, curling around the aching, full feeling in her gut and in her breasts. The taste in her mouth was vile and vital. She could feel it. A deep, settling warmth, as if the stolen essence was seeping into her follicles, her fat cells, her milk ducts. Making her more. Making her better.
She drove home in a daze, the salt and musk of the men still on her skin. In her bathroom, she didn’t look in the mirror. She stood on the scale. The digital numbers flickered, then settled.
She had gained seven pounds since yesterday.
A slow, cracked smile spread across her sticky face. It was working. It was all working. She fetched a glass, placed it on the edge of the sink. She bent over, took her nipple between her fingers, and aimed. The milk came out richer, thicker, streaked with a faint, opalescent blue.
She drank it down. It tasted like victory, and like absolutely nothing else.