The auction block is cold under your bare feet. You stand there, shivering and naked, arms wrapped around your small chest as men in heavy coats examine you. The gavel falls, and a man with rough hands leads you away.
You’re taken to a farm, a long, low barn smelling of hay and animal musk. They put you in a stall with a concrete floor and a drain. The gate locks behind you. They don’t speak to you. Each day, a slot opens in the stall wall and a bowl of thick, chalky liquid is pushed through.
You’re forced to drink it. The hormones burn in your stomach, then spread through your body like a slow fire. Within a week, you feel it.
A dull, constant ache in your breasts. They begin to swell, tender and heavy, the small buds of your nipples darkening and becoming painfully sensitive. The ache spreads lower, too, a deep, unfamiliar throb between your legs that makes you shift and whimper against the concrete.
The day they bring the milking machine is the day the men start coming. Leather cuffs are fastened around your wrists and ankles, chaining you to the stall floor on your hands and knees. The posture is humiliating, your back arched, your growing breasts hanging down. The machine is cold metal.
They fit the suction cups over your nipples, and with a mechanical hum, it begins to pull. A rhythmic, tugging pressure that sends sharp jolts of sensation straight to your throbbing core. You cry out, but the sound is lost in the barn.
That’s when the first man arrives. You hear the stall gate open, but you can’t turn your head to see. You only feel his hands on your hips, the blunt press of him against your untouched entrance. He pushes inside with a single, tearing thrust.
You scream, the pain white-hot, but the machine keeps pulling at your breasts, the stimulation mingling with the violation until the pain begins to blur into a shocking, shameful pleasure. He fucks you with steady, deep strokes, grunting as he uses you. You’re so wet, your body betraying you, clenching around him.
When he finishes, you feel his release flood you. He leaves without a word. It becomes your life.
The hormones keep working, your breasts growing larger and heavier, filling more of the milking cups each day. The men come, one after another, sometimes more than one in a day. They take you from behind while the machine drones on, pulling streams of thin, sweet fluid from your nipples into waiting jars.
Your mind grows foggy, your world narrowing to the cycle of the machine’s tug, the stretch of your body being filled, and the relentless, building heat that never gets a chance to fade. You are just a thing here, to be bred and milked, and your body learns to crave it.
