Chapter 20: Grocery Store Temptations
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, a buzzing counterpoint to the throb deep within Samantha’s pelvis. Each step was a careful negotiation. Her swollen udder, heavy and hot, strained against the reinforced pantyhose she’d layered beneath her loose sundress. Warm cream seeped relentlessly past the inadequate barrier, trickling in sticky rivulets down her inner thighs, leaving damp trails on her skin and soaking into the fabric. The scent of it – cloyingly sweet, thick with musk – felt like a visible cloud around her, though the bustling shoppers pushing carts laden with cereal boxes and detergent seemed oblivious.
She gripped the cold handle of her cart, knuckles white, trying to anchor herself amidst the overwhelming sensory assault of the supermarket. The glare off the polished linoleum floor hurt her eyes. The cacophony of beeping scanners, rattling carts, and overlapping conversations grated on her nerves, stretched thin by the constant, low-level ache and the mortifying dampness. She needed cream. Actual, normal cream. For… something. The thought evaporated like mist, replaced by the insistent heat radiating from her own burden, the phantom sensation of the Bull’s Pride’s throbbing presence back in the barn.
"Focus," she muttered under her breath, her voice thick, slightly slurred. She steered towards the dairy section, the cool air hitting her first. Rows of white cartons, glossy bottles of milk, tubs of yoghurt – a symphony of white and blue under the harsh lights. The sight, the smell of refrigeration, made her own milk-heavy breasts beneath the sundress throb sympathetically. She felt a fresh trickle escape down her leg.
"Sam? Samantha Parker? Is that you?"
Samantha flinched, nearly knocking over a pyramid of butter tubs. She turned, forcing a smile that felt like cracking plaster. Mrs. Henderson, her elderly neighbour with unnervingly sharp eyes, beamed at her from behind her cart. Her gaze flickered, almost imperceptibly, downwards to Samantha’s midsection, then back up.
"Samantha, dear! My, you look… healthy! Blooming!" Mrs. Henderson declared, her voice carrying a little too loudly. "Been enjoying the country air a bit too much, hmm? All that fresh milk?" She chuckled, a dry rasp.
Samantha’s cheeks flamed. "Oh, uh, hi Mrs. Henderson. Yeah. Fresh air. Good." She shifted her weight, acutely aware of the damp patch she was probably leaving on the floor. The pressure beneath her navel intensified, a heavy, foreign tightness that made her breath catch. Is it… growing? The panicked thought from the barn resurfaced, cold and sharp.
"Seen Mark lately?" Mrs. Henderson continued, peering at her. "He keeping well? You two planning on… expanding?" Her eyes darted down again, this time lingering.
"We're… busy," Samantha managed, her voice strained. She needed to get away. The carton of heavy cream she’d grabbed felt cold and slick in her suddenly sweating hand. "Just grabbing some things. Nice to see you!" She practically fled down the aisle, the cart squeaking in protest, leaving Mrs. Henderson staring after her with a curious, slightly disapproving frown. The word 'expanding' echoed in Samantha’s skull, merging with the rhythmic pulse inside her.
Back in the dim, perpetually warm fug of the converted barn, Mark lay sprawled on the thick layer of hay they’d strewn over the floor. Sweat glistened on his brow, plastering limp strands of hair to his skin. His once lean torso was softened by layers of yielding flesh, culminating in the four heavy, pendulous breasts that rose and fell with his ragged breaths. Milky droplets beaded at their swollen, darkened nipples, dripping slowly onto the hay beneath him.
His hand moved feverishly between his legs. Not over his cock – that was gone, replaced by the hot, swollen udder-sac. No, his fingers rubbed and pulled frantically at the small, sensitive cock-teat protruding from its center. The pain was there, sharp and bright, but it was submerged beneath a rising tide of something else – a deep, melting warmth that spread outwards, dissolving his thoughts, his fears, his very sense of self.
His eyes were rolled back, showing only the whites. His lips were parted, saliva slicking his chin. He wasn’t seeing the barn rafters. He wasn’t smelling the hay and musk.
Hands. Rough, large hands, smelling of tobacco and hay. Calloused thumbs brushed over his engorged nipples, sending shivers of electric pleasure-pain through him. He arched his back, moaning low, offering himself. "Good heifer," the voice rumbled, thick with approval. It came from everywhere and nowhere. "Look at these." The hands squeezed his breasts firmly, milk squirting in rhythmic jets, not onto hay, but onto a hard, muscular thigh clad in rough denim. The smell of male sweat, earth, and something animal filled his nostrils.
"Need dressing," another voice, smoother, colder. Hands – softer, but no less insistent – lifted him. Frills brushed his sensitive skin – lace, silk, impossibly soft against his thickened body. A tight corset was cinched around his waist, emphasizing the swell of his hips, the heavy curve of his breasts pushed upwards. A silky negligee settled over his shoulders, ridiculously feminine. He felt exposed, adorned. Degraded. Aroused beyond reason.
"Pretty thing," the first voice grunted. A hard, thick shape nudged against his lips. He opened obediently, eagerly, tasting salt and musk. He suckled, hollowing his cheeks, eyes fluttering closed as the phantom cock filled his mouth, stretching his jaw. Heard the low groan above him. Felt another hard pressure, blunt and demanding, pressing against the slick entrance between his legs – the place where Samantha had tried to milk him, the place that now ached with a desperate, empty hunger.
"Take it, heifer," the cold voice commanded. "Breeding stock needs filling."
He pushed back, impaling himself willingly on the thick, imagined intrusion, a choked scream of pleasure tearing from his throat as it stretched him impossibly wide, filling the terrifying void inside. "Yesss," he hissed around the cock in his mouth, drool slicking his chin. "Use me… breed me…" The hands on his breasts squeezed harder, milk flowing freely now, mingling with the sweat on the denim-clad thigh. The scent of his own milk, his own arousal, filled the fantasy barn – thick, sweet, and utterly submissive.
Back in the real world, Mark’s body jerked on the hay. His fevered stroking of the cock-teat intensified, his hips bucking erratically against nothing, against the phantom invasion. A guttural moan ripped from his throat, raw and desperate. Milky fluid, thick and pearlescent, oozed from the tip of the cock-teat, not a jet but a slow, shameful seep, joining the droplets from his breasts in soaking the hay beneath him. His glazed eyes remained rolled back, lost in the degrading pageant of his own mind, the words echoing in the warm, silent air: "Breed me…"