Chapter 17: First Taste of Bull-Cream
The scream died in Mark’s throat, choked off into a ragged, bovine gasp as Samantha’s thick fingers closed around the small, sensitive protrusion nestled in the center of his new, pink udder-sac. It wasn't gentle. It was a possessive, testing squeeze.
A jolt of pure, electric shock ripped through him, far too intense, far too wrong for its size. It wasn't just pain. It was a violation so deep it bypassed thought and went straight to the core of whatever he was becoming. His vision swam, the cow-patterned posters on the walls blurring into a kaleidoscope of hideous brown and white.
Then it happened.
A thick, viscous stream, pearly white but shimmering with an unnatural iridescence, erupted from the tiny cock-teat. It arced through the hay-scented air, propelled by a violent convulsion of the udder-sac itself. Samantha was ready. Her broad muzzle split wide in a grin of pure, predatory delight, tongue extended just in time.
Splat.
The first hot jet hit her tongue dead center. She moaned, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through Mark’s very bones, amplified by the press of her lips against his trembling flesh. Her eyes rolled back, ecstatic. "Ohhhh, Marky," she slurred, her voice thick with saliva and the strange fluid. "Sweet... so sweet... better than milk..."
Agony and a terrifying, unwanted surge of primal release tore through Mark as the sac convulsed again. Another spurt, thicker this time, flooded Samantha’s mouth. She sucked greedily, her powerful jaws working, her thick neck muscles straining. The sound was obscene – wet, slurping gulps punctuated by her own guttural moans and his involuntary, shuddering cries that emerged as pathetic bovine bleats.
His reflection in the round mirror was a grotesque parody. A creature, massive breasts heaving, kneeling awkwardly, while the woman he once loved knelt behind him, mouth clamped obscenely on the teat protruding from his fused sac. Her own heavy udder swung ponderously beneath her, dripping cream onto the hay-strewn rug. Strings of thick, white fluid mixed with her drool dripped from her chin.
"St-stop!" Mark managed to gasp, trying to pull his hips away, but his body was leaden, unresponsive. The convulsions kept coming, rhythmic and insistent, each spurt seeming to drain not just fluid, but something vital from him. His head swam. "Sam... please... it hurts..."
Samantha pulled back with a wet pop, a thick strand of the iridescent fluid connecting her lips to his still-twitching teat. She licked her chops, a slow, deliberate swipe of her tongue that cleaned the stray droplets. Her eyes, dark and utterly focused, fixed on the tiny orifice. It glistened, slightly swollen now, pulsing faintly.
"Hurts?" she murmured, her voice rougher, deeper than he remembered, almost a growl. She leaned forward again, not to suckle, but to nuzzle the sensitive skin of the udder-sac with her broad muzzle. Her breath was hot, moist, smelling of hay and that strange sweet-musk of his own emission. "Nah, sugar-udder. That's just the good stuff flowin'." She gave the tiny teat another experimental, proprietary squeeze with her thumb and forefinger. Mark whimpered, another bead of the pearly fluid welling up.
"See?" Samantha chuckled, a low rumble. "Your body knows what it's for now. Just needs... encouragement. Practice." She glanced down at the small puddle of the fluid on the hay beside her knee, then to her own teats, still leaking cream. "Different flavor," she mused, almost casually. "Sharper. Nice kick." She looked back at him, her expression shifting to something possessive, covetous. "My special boy. My very own bull."
She released his teat, wiping her muzzle with the back of her hand. The casualness of it, the sheer domesticity amidst the horror, was paralyzing. Mark could only stare, trembling, at the grotesque appendage hanging between his legs. It felt heavy now, uncomfortably full again already, the skin taut and hot. The memory of the violent, involuntary spurts sent waves of nausea crashing over him, warring with a terrifying, deep-seated tingle that seemed to resonate from the very center of the sac.
Samantha pushed herself up heavily onto her knees, her movements ponderous but deliberate. She scanned the transformed room – the hay bales, the milking stool, the posters – her gaze finally landing on the Bull's Pride. It lay where she'd discarded it earlier, near the stool, its smooth, dark surface faintly humming. A low, possessive growl escaped her lips as she looked from the device to Mark’s pulsing udder-sac.
"Gotta keep the tap open," she murmured, more to herself than him. Her eyes glinted with a new, unsettling purpose as she looked at the humming device, then back at his vulnerable, altered form. "Keep it flowin' sweet..." She shuffled towards the Bull's Pride, her heavy udder swaying, leaving Mark kneeling alone on the rug, dripping, staring at his monstrous reflection with silent, tear-filled horror, the low hum of the device growing suddenly louder in his ears.