Chapter 1: Greta Olsson
The silence in the Minneapolis Central Library had a particular weight to it after hours, a dense, paper-scented hush broken only by the whisper of the climate control and the soft thud of Greta Olsson stamping due dates. Her fingers, pale and quick, moved with practiced efficiency. A long, thick blonde braid rested over one shoulder, the end of it brushing against the soft curve of her hip beneath her cardigan.
“You’re here late again, Greta.”
She looked up, a faint pink blooming across her fair cheeks. Ben from Tech Support hovered by the returns cart, holding a tangled knot of charging cables. He was nice. He was her age. He had mentioned his podcast three times.
“Just finishing up,” she said, offering a small, closed-lipped smile. “The new Patterson cart is a beast.”
“Tell me about it. Hey, a bunch of us are grabbing a drink at The Ladder. You should come. Shake off the dust.”
The invitation was kind. It was also a weekly ritual she had perfected declining. The thought of the noise, the forced laughter, the inevitable moment where someone would ask what she did for fun and she’d have to lie… Her stomach tightened.
“Oh, I’d love to, but I’ve got a… a manuscript to proof. For a friend. Romance writer.” The lie came out smoothly, coated in a librarian’s helpful tone. “Next time, maybe.”
Ben’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sure. Next time.” He turned, the cables sighing in his grip.
Greta watched him go, a familiar hollow feeling expanding behind her ribs. It wasn’t him. It was the whole script. The app profiles curated to show a woman who hiked (she didn’t), the first dates that felt like job interviews, the palpable shift when her soft, plus-sized body didn’t quite match the filtered photos. The last time, a man had patted her hand and said, “You’ve got such a pretty face,” and she’d spent the rest of the evening feeling like a failed cake.
She powered down her terminal, the screen dying with a soft sigh. The walk home was six blocks of crisp autumn air and falling leaves. Her apartment welcomed her with a deeper quiet, one she could control. She kicked off her sensible shoes, padded to the kitchen, and made a cup of peppermint tea.
Her sanctuary was the second bedroom, a cocoon lined with towering, overstuffed bookshelves. A worn, plush armchair swallowed one corner, a blanket draped over its arm. Her desk, however, was the altar. A sleek laptop sat centered on the oak surface, surrounded by chaos: stacked books, a jar of pens, a small, smooth river stone she liked to worry in her palm. A single desk lamp pooled warm light on the wood, leaving the rest of the room in comforting shadow.
She sat, took a sip of tea, and opened a folder cryptically labeled “Tax Documents 2037.” Inside were other folders. “Harvest Home.” “Silver Creek.” “The Headmaster’s Study.”
She opened “The Headmaster’s Study” and scrolled to the bottom of the document. The last line read: His voice, like gravel and velvet, stopped her at the door. “The matter of your discipline, Miss Hale, is not concluded.”
Greta’s breath hitched, just slightly. She read the line again. Then she saved the file, closed it, and opened a new one. She called it “Hucow Farm.”
Her fingers hovered over the keys. Outside, a car alarm whooped once and fell silent. The city glow tinged the edges of her dark window.
She began to type.
The memory of Ben’s polite, deflated smile lingered as Greta stared at the blank document. The cursor blinked, a tiny, relentless heartbeat. She’d paid nine dollars for a small block of artisanal cheese last weekend, a guilty, secret pleasure. The taste had been so sharp and complex it made her eyes water. Real cheese, from before the Livestock Welfare Act. Now it was all lab-grown protein and almond slurry that tasted of chalk and guilt. The ban was for the best, everyone said. Ethically incontrovertible. So why did she dream of cream?
Her fingers began to move.
The law was clear: exploitation of non-consenting consciousness was an abomination. But the Barns of Blessing operated under a different covenant. Every woman on the registry signed the forms, thick with legalese that boiled down to a single, sacred surrender. They came to be of use.
Greta’s breathing deepened. She could smell it, the fantasy barn. Not the clean, sterilized agriculture of the public feeds. This was ripe. Damp straw, sweet hay, the tang of sweat and animal heat. The warm, milk-scented air hanging heavy in a shaft of dusty sunlight.
They were kept plump, soft, endlessly lactating. Their bodies were their purpose. Troughs of nutrient-rich mash kept their curves full, their breasts heavy and aching for release. They moved on hands and knees across the bedding, their large, bare bodies a landscape of yielding flesh. Low, contented moans vibrated the air, a constant, bovine chorus.
A flush spread from Greta’s chest up her neck. She shifted in the plush chair, feeling the brush of her cotton skirt against her thighs. Her own breasts, full and soft, felt suddenly heavy, constrained by her practical bra. In her mind, she saw them: hundreds of her, a herd of big, blond, blue-eyed women, their braids undone, hair tangled with straw, their skin flushed and dirty. No shame. No appointments. No podcasts.
The Milker was an older man, his face a roadmap of long seasons. His hands, gnarled and strong, knew every inch of the herd. He didn’t speak much. His touch was his language.
Greta’s typing grew faster, the keys clacking a staccato rhythm. She was no longer describing a scene; she was descending into it. The ‘she’ on the page became ‘I’.
His shadow fell over me, blocking the sun. I kept my head down, nuzzling at the trough. His calloused palm, rough and warm, settled on the back of my neck. A whimper escaped my throat. Not a word. A sound. A moan. He pressed down, a firm, undeniable pressure, and I lowered my torso, my full tits swinging, nipples tightening in the cool air. The straw prickled my knees and palms.
“Good girl,” he rumbled. His other hand closed around my left breast, weighing it, squeezing gently. A thick bead of milk welled up at the tip, pearly against my skin. He caught it with his thumb, smearing it. “Full up, aren’t you?”
Greta’s free hand slipped between her own legs, over her skirt. A pulse of heat answered the pressure. She was wet, already. She didn’t stop typing.
He guided the suction cup over my nipple, the rubber cool and insistent. A switch hummed. The pull was deep, rhythmic, a relentless, pleasurable draw that went straight to my core. My cunt clenched on nothing. I rocked back against the air. As the machine pulsed, he moved behind me. His hands ran over the broad swell of my hips, the curve of my ass, spreading me. The air touched my slit.
“Dripping here, too,” he grunted. A thick finger, slick with my own wetness, pushed inside me. I cried out, back arching, pushing my tit further into the machine’s sweet, sucking mouth. He added a second finger, stretching me, scissoring them. The dual sensations—the relentless pull on my nipple and the rough fuck of his fingers—shattered my thoughts. I was just a body, being emptied and filled.
Greta unbuttoned her skirt, shoved it and her underwear down to her ankles. She kicked them off. She spread her legs wider in the chair, the rough fabric of the seat catching against her thighs. Her fingers found her clit, slick and throbbing. She circled it, keeping pace with the story in her head.
He withdrew his fingers. I heard the rustle of his overalls, the clink of a buckle. Then the blunt, hot pressure of his cockhead, nudging against my hole. He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. This was the purpose. He drove into me with one long, deep, brutal shove.
“Fuck!” The word was torn from me. He was so big, splitting me open, a burning, perfect stretch. He didn’t move for a moment, letting me feel all of him, buried to the hilt in my soft, willing flesh. The milk machine throbbed. His hands gripped my hips, his fingers digging into the fat. Then he began to fuck.
It was a steady, pistoning rhythm, no romance, just use. The slap of his balls against my clit with every thrust. The creak of the milking stall. My own choked, ragged moans. “Yeah, take it,” he growled, his voice rough in my ear. “Take that cock, you fertile bitch. Gonna breed you up good. Gonna keep you full of milk and calf.”
The obscenity, the sheer crude possession of it, pushed me over the edge. The orgasm ripped through me, violent and mindless. My cunt clamped around his driving cock, milking him as the machine milked my tits. A raw, guttural sound came from my throat, not human. A low. He swore, his rhythm faltering, and with a final, deep grind, he emptied himself inside me, hot and endless.
Greta’s back arched off the chair. A sharp, silent cry tightened her throat as her own climax hit, a sharp, shocking wave that turned her vision white at the edges. Her fingers worked frantically, drawing out the pulses until she was oversensitive and shuddering.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of her ragged breathing and the hum of the laptop fan. The words on the screen blurred.
Slowly, she came back. The cozy, book-lined room. The desk lamp. The empty teacup. The wetness between her thighs, cooling on her skin.
She looked down at her body, soft and pale in the low light, and for a fleeting second, she felt a profound and unsettling disconnect. Not shame. Something emptier. The ghost of the trough, the straw, the man’s hands, seemed more tangible than the memory of Ben’s face.
She pulled her underwear back on, the cotton damp against her skin. From the kitchen, she retrieved the last precious square of the nine-dollar cheese. She ate it slowly, letting the complex, forbidden flavor dissolve on her tongue. It tasted of grass, and salt, and a life she would never know. Outside, a siren wailed, a sharp mechanical sound that tore through the quiet night. She didn’t hear it. She was still listening for the lowing of contented beasts.