thinking of a world where hucows like you are used as breeding bags for couples who can’t conceive. all the arrangements happen over your head. you have no say in who breeds you; you cannot refuse the injections that swell your breasts, slow your mind and increase your odds of fertilization; you will never see any of the money that your farmer makes from selling your womb.
you can only stare uncomprehendingly each time people stand outside your pen and discuss terms. you used to fight when the farmer came inside — you used to insist you were a person, a man even — but now you let him heft your heavy udders in his hands and brag about how much milk you produce each day. you allow him to position you inside the breeding stocks, your head and hands immobile until each session is finished.
the male clients in this arrangement get a cruel thrill out of fucking and impregnating something so far below them. they treat their wives kindly, but not you. they laugh as you moo stupidly through your breeding session, and they grab handfuls of your flesh — huge, eternally leaking udders; soft birthing hips — hard enough to leave marks.
most of the female clients consider it distasteful and a bit embarrassing to grow their babies inside something less than human, and they look at you with jealous contempt when they stop in for each appointment. some join in on their husbands’ mockery of you during the breeding. others insist on waiting outside, disgusted by the way your eyes roll back each time their man’s cock slips inside you.
once each pregnancy takes, the couples return periodically to check on their baby. they’ll rub your rounding belly and talk sweetly to the child growing inside, ignoring you completely. they’ll watch with looks of perverse satisfaction as your farmer reports exactly how much your belly and breasts have grown since the last appointment.
(often the men return alone to fuck you again, despite your pregnancy. it’s not cheating. you’re not human.)
and they laugh when they see you curled on your side, late in your pregnancy, flush-faced and moaning softly at each movement within your belly. sometimes you rub at it in a dumb attempt to calm the kicks, and they titter watching. how cute. it’s taking such good care of our baby. it’s almost like a person sometimes, isn’t it?
most prefer not to be there during the birth, but some of the real control freaks and perverts insist on watching you bring their precious family member into the world. when it’s done and you lie exhausted on the floor of your pen, they’re the first to hold the baby. they name it. they coo about their plans for its life, which will include school and playmates and every imaginable comfort.
funny, isn’t it. that a cow can grow a real human being in its womb.
your postpartum recovery is always the time you are treated best, given special food and a more comfortable sleeping space. still, sometimes you cry. you’re not sure why this happens anymore. probably — you think dimly —?t’s because your breasts hurt from swelling and you feel disoriented without a big, round belly hanging off your front. you moo pathetically throughout each gentler-than-usual handmilking, and your farmer sometimes takes enough pity to hold you for a moment.
and then it all starts again. you’re popular. over time, your farmer implements new treatments: ones that guarantee multiples, ones that lengthen and thicken your teats. some of the couples milk you themselves when they come in to see you for the first time. sometimes a farm hand will sneak into your pen and take a teat into their mouth, sucking and squeezing until you spasm with pleasure. they’re not allowed to fuck you, and you can tell it frustrates them.
and sometimes someone forgets you for a day or two, either lazy or distracted by another cow with a more complicated pregnancy. on these days you regain enough lucidity to realize what’s become of you. you are a tight, swollen womb and two dribbling teats and you will never be mistaken for human again, ever. even if you escaped from the barn and ran back to your old family and friends, they wouldn’t help you. they might not even recognize you.
if they didn’t, they’d withdraw in disgust from your senseless mooing and ruined body.
if they did, they’d laugh.
either way, they’d call the farm to come get you.
the thought makes you sob. the thought makes you cum.
and then someone remembers you haven’t been seen to in a while, and they’ve got a client coming. the next injection mercifully takes the thoughts away.
I don't even have words for how perfect this is honestly. Maybe I was snatched off the streets at random to join the farm, maybe I ran into some debt and thought this would help pay it off. Maybe the farmer saw my blog and realized what a good cow I'd be if he took the time to fix my mind. In the end it doesn't matter, it all ends the same way- my life is taken from me completely and I'm turned into something completely unrecognizable.
It's not bad, no matter how much I cry and fight in my lucid state, especially the first time. It only works because I was born a womb. Unlike the women and men who come in to use me to grow their children, I only had the illusion of an internal world, of a sense of self. Not even real self-preservation instincts, more like an object than an animal. At least, that's what the farmer tells the clients. Ultimately it doesn't matter- whatever they believe, the husbands still bury themselves against my cervix and cum deep in my cunt.
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