Chapter 7: Pouting and Expanding
The click of the front door closing was a gunshot in the quiet apartment. Mark was gone. To work. Oblivious. Samantha stood in the center of their bedroom, breathing hard. The air felt thick, cloying, saturated with the scent of her own arousal and something else… wet hay, animal musk. It clung to her skin, heavier than the sweat beading between her swollen breasts. Her reflection in the dresser mirror was a stranger. Her belly, once flat, was a taut, heavy curve beneath her sleep shirt, straining the fabric. Her hips had widened, pressing insistently against the waistband of her panties. And her tits… Jesus. They were heavy sacks, resting low on her belly, the nipples dark and engorged, aching with a deep, persistent throb that echoed straight down to her cunt.
Frustration, a wild, snapping thing, ripped through her. The dream – the milking stall, the groping hands, the terrifying, intoxicating scent of bull – still pulsed behind her eyes. The need was a physical pain, a desperate, gnawing emptiness low in her gut that the dildo alone could fill. Needed to fill.
With a guttural sound caught between a sob and a snarl, she lunged for the bedside drawer. Her thick fingers, clumsy with urgency, fumbled the brass handle. She yanked it open, the wood groaning. Inside, nestled on a silk scarf, lay the Bull’s Pride. Even untouched, it seemed to radiate heat. The thick, veined shaft, the obscene flare of the knobbed head, the heavy, pendulous balls sculpted beneath. Her mouth flooded with saliva.
She grabbed it. The silicone was unnervingly warm, almost alive, yielding slightly beneath her grip. It felt… heavier than before. More substantial. Like holding a piece of that primal power she craved. She didn’t bother with lube. Her cunt was already slick, dripping down her inner thighs, the wetness soaking through her panties. The scent of her arousal was thick and musky in the still air, mingling with the phantom aroma of the barn. Her swollen belly bumped against the nightstand as she stumbled backwards towards the bed, the extra weight making her waddle slightly, making her cunt clench and spasm with each step.
She dropped heavily onto the edge of the mattress, the springs groaning under her increased bulk. Without preamble, she shoved her panties down her thighs, kicking them off. She was soaked. Glittering strands of her slick connected her pussy lips to the fabric as it fell away. She spread her legs wide, the soft flesh of her inner thighs jiggling. The cool air kissed her wet folds, making her shudder.
Her thick fingers, trembling now with anticipation, not clumsiness, wrapped around the base of the Bull’s Pride. She angled the thick, tapered head towards her slick entrance. The cold silicone pressed against her swollen outer lips. She inhaled sharply.
Then she shoved.
"Fuck!" The gasp tore from her as the massive head stretched her open. It wasn't gentle. It was invasion. Her tight cunt resisted for a split second, burning with the sudden, brutal stretch, then yielded with a wet, sucking sound. "Oh god… oh fuck yes… stretch me…" she moaned, her voice low and rough.
She pushed harder, forcing more of the impossibly thick shaft inside. Her cunt muscles fluttered wildly, trying to accommodate the girth. The veins on the dildo caught deliciously on her inner walls, sending jolts of electric pleasure-pain through her core. She pulled back slightly, savoring the drag, then slammed it home again, deeper this time. Her belly shook with the force, her heavy breasts swaying.
Clank-hiss. The sound wasn't real, but it echoed in her mind as clearly as it had in the dream. She could smell it now: stale hay, warm manure, the pungent tang of fresh milk. The bedroom walls seemed to dissolve, replaced by rough-hewn timber. The soft carpet under her feet felt like cold, damp straw. The buzzing of the fluorescent lights morphed into the drone of flies.
Shadowy figures coalesced at the periphery of her vision. She couldn't see their faces, just the shapes of men in dirty overalls. She felt their presence, their hungry stares. Felt a rough hand, cold and calloused, slap her hip hard. "Look at that cunt take it," a gravelly voice muttered from the swirling shadows beside her. "Built for breeding, this one."
"Greedy slut," another voice chuckled, closer. A phantom hand, impossibly real in its touch, grabbed her left breast, squeezing brutally. Not the gentle fondling of a lover, but the rough assessment of livestock. Pain lanced through her nipple, sharp and bright. She screamed, but the sound was muffled, trapped in her throat. Instead, a thick, white stream sprayed suddenly from her nipple, arcing through the hallucinated barn air, splattering onto the straw-covered concrete floor she now saw beneath her. Real wetness slicked her real breast, dripping down her heaving flank.
The dual sensations – the brutal penetration of the dildo deep inside her spasming cunt and the phantom milking – merged into a white-hot torrent of sensation. Her hips bucked wildly off the bed, fucking herself onto the thick silicone shaft with abandon. "Yes! Fuck! Milk me! Breed me!" she shrieked, the words raw and guttural, barely human. "Stretch my cunt wide! Need it! Need the bull! Give me the bull cock!"
She rammed the Bull’s Pride into her depths with savage thrusts. The balls slapped wetly against her ass cheeks with each plunge. The pressure inside her built, a molten core expanding in her belly, radiating outwards. The farmhand shadows laughed, a harsh, grating sound. Another phantom squeeze on her breast, another agonizing jet of milk she felt rather than saw, just the searing relief and the deep ache. Her pussy was a sloppy, wet mess, stretched obscenely wide around the thick shaft, her inner muscles rippling and clamping down in desperate, involuntary spasms. The scent of her arousal, mixed with phantom manure and animal musk, was overwhelming, thick enough to choke on.
"Almost ready," the gravelly voice rasped. The shadowy figure leaned closer, his breath hot and sour on her neck. "Smell that cunt? Drippin' for it. Beggin' for a real bull to split her open. Gonna make her scream."
The promise, the threat, sent her over the edge. The climax detonated. It wasn't pleasure; it was annihilation. Her body locked, arched impossibly backwards, every muscle rigid. A silent, breathless scream tore through her as her cunt convulsed violently around the buried dildo, milking the silicone shaft as fiercely as the phantom pumps milked her tits. Wave after wave of raw sensation crashed over her – the agonizing fullness, the brutal stretch, the sharp pain of phantom hands, the deep, impossible emptiness screaming to be filled by something more. White light exploded behind her eyes, erasing the barn, the shadows, everything except the consuming, animal need.
She collapsed forward, gasping, the Bull’s Pride still buried deep inside her trembling body. Sweat poured off her. Her breasts felt heavy, tender, damp with the real milk she’d leaked. The phantom smells faded, replaced by the stale scent of sex and exertion in the bedroom. The rough wood was gone, replaced by their soft duvet. But the echoes remained. The deep ache in her stretched cunt. The persistent throb in her swollen nipples. The impossible weight of her altered body. And the certainty, cold and sharp as the milking clamps, that this was only the beginning. The dildo pulsed faintly against her inner walls, a reminder of its power.
She didn't pull it out. She lay there, sprawled and panting, feeling its presence, feeling the slow trickle of her combined fluids soaking into the sheets beneath her. Her hand drifted to her belly, the taut curve. Her other hand lifted, trembling fingers touching the damp nipple. She brought her fingers to her lips, tasting salt, sweat, and the unmistakable, unnerving sweetness of milk.
A soft, contented groan sounded beside her.
Samantha froze. Slowly, dreading and yet craving the confirmation, she turned her head.
Mark stirred in his sleep, rolling onto his back. The sheet had slipped down. Moonlight spilled through the window, illuminating his chest. Not flat anymore. Two distinct, soft swellings pushed against the fabric of his t-shirt. Small, yes. But unmistakable. Buds. Like hers had started. His breathing hitched slightly, a soft sigh escaping his lips as his own hand drifted unconsciously to rest on one small mound.
Samantha watched, her own breath catching not in horror, but in a surge of dark, possessive hunger. A slow, predatory smile curved her lips. It was working. Faster than she’d dared hope. She shifted slightly, making the dildo still lodged inside her stretch her sensitive walls, drawing a low moan from her own throat. Her gaze remained fixed on Mark’s sleeping form, on the nascent curves beneath his shirt. The Bull’s Pride hummed against her insides. The phantom scent of the barn, of bull musk, seemed to curl back into the room. Her fingers, sticky with her milk, tightened possessively on her own swollen breast.