Chapter 2: First Encounter
The screen door of the farmhouse slapped shut behind Levi like a gunshot, the sound swallowed whole by the oppressive humidity. Mrs. Greeley, a woman with forearms like smoked hams and a permanent squint, didn’t look back as she strode toward the largest of the long, low-slung barns. Levi stumbled after her, his new work boots already chafing.
“You’ll start in the main parlour,” she said, her voice a gravelly monotone. “Just observation today. Get your bearings.”
Observation, Levi thought, clutching his lunch pail. He could handle that. He’d mucked stalls before, wrestled sheep. This was just a dairy, albeit a fancy, secluded one. The ad had promised ‘specialized livestock care’ and ‘a unique agricultural experience.’ The pay was triple what he’d made baling hay.
Mrs. Greeley heaved open a reinforced steel door, and a wall of sound and smell hit Levi with physical force.
The first was the noise—a deafening chorus of high, airy giggles, guttural moans, and a wet, rhythmic suction that echoed off the corrugated tin roof. Then came the smell: a nauseating cocktail of overripe fruit, cloying perfume, warm sour milk, and beneath it all, the stark, barnyard reek of shit and ammonia. Levi’s glasses fogged instantly.
He blinked the moisture away, and the world resolved into a nightmare of flesh and chrome.
The barn was cavernous, longer than a football field, lined on both sides with elevated stainless steel stalls. But it wasn’t cows that occupied them. It was women. Or something like women. They were colossal, each one a cartoon of fertility gone berserk. Their skin gleamed under the halogen lights, tanned and slick with sweat. They were restrained loosely at the waist by broad padded bars, their arms free, their backs arched over the edge of their stalls so that their heads lolled backwards, mouths open and eyes glazed.
Levi’s brain stuttered, trying to process the anatomy. From their chests hung not just breasts, but gargantuan, veiny udders, each teat the size of his forearm, dripping a steady stream of rich, yellow cream into churning automatic milkers below. Their hips flared out into monstrous, jiggling shelves of ass-flesh, wider than the stalls themselves, rubbing raw against the steel. And between their legs, where he desperately tried not to look, was a swollen, glistening pinkness, dripping a clear fluid that mixed with the milk on the concrete floor.
“Holy shit,” he breathed, the words escaping him like a prayer.
“Language, boy,” Mrs. Greeley grunted, though she seemed amused. “They’re pure. Sensitive. This is our premium line. Human-hybrid bovines. Hucows.”
One of the creatures nearest to him turned its head. It had a face that might have been pretty once—full, pouting lips painted glossy pink, huge blue eyes with spidery lashes. But the eyes were empty, vapid. It let out a soft, lowing sound, then giggled, a bubble of spit forming on its lower lip.
“They’re in permanent heat,” Mrs. Greeley explained casually, as if discussing crop rotation. “Optimizes milk production. Makes ‘em docile. But restless. Always need something to… focus on.”
To illustrate, she walked over to the giggling hucow and pulled a thick, veined rubber dildo from a bucket of milky water. Without ceremony, she shoved it into the creature’s open mouth. The hucow’s eyes fluttered, and she began to suckle rhythmically, a low hum of pleasure vibrating in her throat, her massive udders giving an extra, squelching pulse of milk into the pipes.
“See? Simple. Now, watch the others. Learn.”
Levi stood rooted, his knuckles white on his lunch pail. His gaze swept down the endless row. The reality of the operation unfolded in a series of brutal, visceral tableaus.
Two hucows in adjacent stalls were leaning as far as their restraints allowed, their planet-sized asses pressed against the dividing bars. They were trying to mash their swollen, meaty lips together through the gap, slobbering and kissing the steel with wet, smacking noises. Another was mindlessly twerking her gargantuan rear, the slap of flesh on metal a steady, jarring beat in the cacophony. She farted, a long, bassy rumble that stirred the straw and made her giggle harder.
Then, from a stall further down, came a different sound. A thick, grunting push. Levi watched, horrified and mesmerized, as a hucow with platinum blonde hair piled high raised herself slightly on the bars, her face contorting in a blank, effortful expression. There was a wet, tearing plop, followed by a heavy cascade into the trench behind her stall. The stench that wafted down—feces, yeasty, and undigested grain—was profound. The creature sighed in relief, a blissful smile on its face, and went back to idly playing with one of its own teats.
Levi’s stomach clenched. He tasted bile.
“They need milking every four hours, around the clock,” Mrs. Greeley said, appearing beside him and making him jump. “The machines do most, but the taps need manual engagement. And they need stimulation to let down properly.” She pointed a stubby finger at the hucow with the dildo in its mouth. “That one’s name is Daisy. You’ll start with her. Hand-milking. Builds a bond.”
“I… I can’t,” Levi whispered.
“You can. Or you can walk back down that ten-mile driveway with no pay.” Mrs. Greeley’s eyes were flinty. “It’s just a teat, boy. Like any other. Just… bigger. Go on. She’s gentle.”
She gave him a shove towards Daisy’s stall. The hucow’s blue eyes rolled towards him, the rubber phallus still bobbing in her mouth. Up close, the scale was even more impossible. Each of her udders was larger than his torso, the skin stretched thin and mapped with blue veins. The teat she offered him, pulling it from the mechanical sucker with a wet pop, was warm, firm, and nearly as long as his hand.
His own hands were trembling. He set his pail down, the sound absurdly small.
“Easy now,” Mrs. Greeley called, not unkindly. “Firm grip. Pull down. Don’t yank.”
Levi reached out. His calloused fingers, which had pulled lambs from birth and fixed rusted tractors, closed around the slick, yielding flesh. It was fever-hot. The moment he touched her, Daisy moaned around the dildo, a deep, resonant sound that traveled up his arm. Her other teats pulsed in unison, jets of milk spattering the floor.
He squeezed, tentatively. A thick rope of warm, golden milk shot into the pail with a sound like fat hitting a hot pan. The smell was sweet, rich, heavy.
“Good,” Mrs. Greeley said. “Now the rhythm.”
Squeeze, pull. Squeeze, pull. A machine-gun rhythm of squirt-squirt-squirt filled his ears. Daisy’s breathing became a heavy pant, her hips making small, circular grinds against the stall bar. The air around them grew hotter, thicker with her musk. Levi kept his eyes locked on the pail, watching the white foam rise, but his peripheral vision was a hellscape of moving flesh.
The hucow across the aisle was now frantically licking the bar of her stall, her tongue a fat pink worm. Another was rhythmically slamming her mammoth tits together, splattering herself with milk, her cries rising in pitch. The symphony of farts, giggles, splashes, and moans became a single, oppressive drone in his head.
He felt a weird, detached numbness settle over him. This was the job. This was the unique agricultural experience. The milk in the pail was real. The pay was real.
Daisy suddenly squealed, a sharp, shuddering cry. Her back arched violently, and her udder seemed to swell in his hand before releasing a final, torrential gush that overflowed the pail, soaking his boots in warm, sticky liquid. She slumped forward, the dildo falling from her slack mouth with a clatter, a line of drool connecting it to her gleaming chin. She looked at him with those empty, grateful eyes and giggled.
“See?” Mrs. Greeley said, retrieving the dildo. “She likes you. First shift ends at six. Get a feel for the place. Don’t stare too long at any one thing. It gets in your head.”
She walked away, leaving him alone in the cathedral of flesh, the milk cooling on his leather, the fermented, honeyed stench of the place seeping into his clothes, his hair, his skin.
Levi looked down at his full pail. He looked at Daisy, who was now nuzzling mindlessly at the steel bar. He looked down the endless, groaning, jiggling line of stalls, a river of mindless, milk-laden appetite flowing into the dark at the far end of the barn.
His first hour was over. There were thousands more to go.