Mother Maiden's Milking Farm - Chapter 1: Orientation
Macie hadnât planned on ending up here.
A month ago, she was hunched over her laptop with a cracked screen, sitting on a lumpy futon that barely qualified as furniture, trying not to cry as her online banking app refreshed.
Tuition was due. Rent was overdue. And her roommate, Kaylee, had bailed mid-semester to go âwork on a start-upâ in New Hampshire. Some sort of diaper tech company, of all things. âItâs the future!â Kaylee had said, jamming a hoodie into her duffel. âSeriously, Macie. Ever since The Blowout, the demand is insane. Subsidies, medical grants, government contracts, all of it. What used to be a niche little kink and subculture is now an entire Regressive movement! The industry is booming for people that are making boom booms in Pampers!!â
Kaylee laughed at her own cheesy joke.
Macie rolled her eyes back then. She didnât understand how someone could get excited about adult diapers, let alone voluntarily sign up to promote them. But Kaylee vanished with little more than a goodbye, leaving Macie stuck with all the rent by herself.
To make matters worse, her car had sputtered to a permanent stop two weeks ago. The mechanic quoted her more than what was left in her account. She couldnât put it on her credit card because her ex-boyfriend had maxed that out with his gambling habits, his fantasy league buy-ins, and his new jet ski. She tried contacting him to get some sort of reimbursement, but his phone was disconnected. She tried looking him up on his socials, but those all went dark too.
She couldnât help but wonder, with a twist in her gut, if heâd been processed. That was the word people used now. Since the Matriarchy took over, more and more men were being âreassignedâ. Some said it was Re-Ed. Others blamed Pamper Patrol audits. Macie didnât know. She didnât follow all that stuff. The world outside was changing, but she could barely keep up with what was happening inside of her own.
All she knew was that her exâs debt had followed her, and now she was the one drowning because of it.
Sheâd scrolled job boards until her vision blurred. Waitressing gigs were gone. Most restaurants were down to skeleton crews now that a lot of male patrons were either padded, pacified, or prohibited from dining out unsupervised. The hospital internships sheâd applied to last semester had all been filled. Every posting redirected to closed applications or waitlists that stretched for miles.
Campus jobs werenât much better. All the TA slots had been scooped up by students in the new ABC Degree tracks. âApplied Behavioral Compliance,â they called it, but most referred to it as Adult Baby Care. Either way, de-potty-training grown men was a respectable academic field now. Adult Daycares were fully staffed too, thanks to generous salaries and a rush of applicants eager for stability. She couldnât blame them. Between state-mandated regression care and the endless need for hands-on supervision, those places had near-zero turnover.
MILK TECHS NEEDED â High Pay. On-Site Housing. No Experience Necessary. Join the Mother Maiden Initiative. Support National Stability through Compassionate Extraction!
She clicked, half expecting a paywall or another fake survey site. The page flickered once, then settled into a plain white screen with a few lines of text. No company banner, not even a company name that she could Google, nothing that told her who or what this actually was. She leaned closer, scanning for more information.
There wasnât much, other than:
âMust be comfortable working around Cows and Bulls. Bonus for High-Volume Extraction Techs.â
âIs this⊠veterinary work?â she muttered aloud. She was a nursing student. That counted, right?
None of the other options offered nearly as high of pay or benefits. Surely it had to be one of those fake ads designed by robots, but she didnât have much to lose. Actually, she had a lot to lose. She completed the online questionnaire, submitted her resume, and hit âapplyâ.
Twenty minutes later, her phone buzzed. Interview confirmed. Address attached. The facility was only an hour outside the city.
The compound sat at the end of a long service road, tucked behind a stand of pines and a chain-link perimeter lined with discreet cameras. From the bus stop, Macie had followed a narrow gravel path toward a set of white buildings that looked more like a medical research park than anything involving livestock. Flat roofs, frosted windows, everything symmetrical and sanitized. Not a single pasture or barn in sight.
A brushed-steel sign rose near the walkway:
MOTHER MAIDENâS MILKING FARM
Regional Distribution Center Unit #7
âLactation for a Stronger Nationâ
Macie shifted awkwardly, her backpack hanging off one shoulder as she stepped toward the glass entrance. A security laser scanned her from boots to bangs, humming softly. When it clicked green, the door unlocked with a soft hiss, and she slipped inside.
Cold air. Stainless trim. Sterile tile. Not a whiff of hay, earth, or anything living. Just humming lights and a faint undertone of disinfectant.
So far, not much like any farm sheâd ever seen.
She hadnât expected literal barns or overalls, but she had expected something agricultural. She had expected animals. Cows. Maybe goats. A moo. A trough. Anything. Instead, she stood in a gleaming white corridor with lighting so bright it made her head hurt.
A door slid open to her left.
A woman appeared, heels clicking. She wore a crisp, white nurseâs outfit. Tight across the chest, cinched at the waist, with red piping and a little hat pinned into her auburn curls.Â
âWell hi there!!â the woman smiled with a southern drawl as thick as molasses, âYou must be one of the new girls!â
âYeahâŠuh, Macie.â She said, trying to return the smile.
âWell, câmon then, darlinâ! Changing roomâs down this way!â
Macie blinked, stumbling after her. âWhat? Uh..Thatâs it? IâI donât get an interview or anything?â
âYou showed up,â the woman said cheerfully. âThatâs the part most folks fail.â
They walked past numbered doors with tiny windows too dark to see through. Macie tried to glance anyway and caught only a flash of something padded, with restraints bolted to the frame. But the womanâs brisk pace didnât allow her to linger.
In the changing room, the woman handed Macie a neatly folded outfit. Not scrubs. Not even close.
It was a costume. A skimpy, ruffled dress that looked like a cross between a milkmaidâs apron and a slutty French maid uniform: low neckline, frilly hem, lace trimming. It felt soft in her hands but humiliating just to hold.
âThis isnât what the ad showed,â Macie said, staring down at the garment. Her voice pitched higher than she meant it to.
âMmh.â The woman tilted her head, that knowing southern smile both kind and cutting. âThey leave a lot out of the ads, sugarplum. Keeps folks from gettinâ cold feet.â
âIâm not worried about the job.â Macie said, puffing up her chest and trying to sound more qualified than she felt. âI actually used to work on a farm! WellâŠnot really, I guess.â Macie conceded, âMy grandpa had a few cows and Iâd go out and fill a bucket or two every now and then.â
The womanâs laugh came sharp and sudden. âOh, honey! Bless your little heart!! You thought we had dairy cows out here?â
Macie gave an uneasy smile. âI mean⊠yeah? Itâs called a milking farm, right? I figured some kind of alternative ag-tech thing. Maybe hormone-free artisanal stuff, or like⊠oat milk or something.â
The woman grinned, all teeth. âThatâs cute. Youâll catch on fast.â
Macie hesitated, then asked, âThe job listing wasnât very detailed, but it did say weâd be milking Cows and Bulls. I mean, I get the Cows part, but is there really a market forâŠbull milk?â
âOh, sugar, thereâs a huge market.â The womanâs eyes glittered. âYou just donât know where it ends up.â
Macie frowned. âBut that doesnât even make sense! Bulls donâtââ
âMm-hm.â The woman cut her off gently. In that patient, practiced way that said sheâd heard this question a thousand times. âYouâll learn soon enough what gets bottled around here.â
Macie swallowed hard, gaze falling back to the frilly uniform clutched in her hands. âIâm sorry, I justâŠmaybe I'm just not understanding. What exactly are we milking?â
The woman leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. âOh, sweetheart. You are milking Cows and Bulls. Theyâre just not the kind with hooves!â
Macie stared, gears turning. Trying to process what that meant. Goats? Camels? All of those had hooves. Her brain scrambled through possibilities. Exotic livestock? Bioengineered species? Something lab-grown? Nothing matched the context. Especially not with this uniform.
âOrientation will explain everything.â The woman said, reading Macieâs confusion. âYouâll see the whole process soon enough.â
âButâŠyou said no experience required,â Macie murmured, âI donât even know whatââ
âYouâll learn everything you need.â the woman replied smoothly. âJust remember to put on a smile, bat those lashes, and always pay attention to the tip.â
Macieâs mouth went dry.
The woman tapped the dress. âThis partâs non-negotiable, by the way. Uniform is policy. Helps keep the Bulls excited. Keeps production up.â
It was black and white with frilly trim, like something a girl would wear to a Halloween party after a few shots of vodka. A short, puffed skirt. Stockings with bows. A ruffled apron. French maid cosplay, basically. Her parents would disown her if they ever saw her in something like this. Theyâd always warned her that girls who wore outfits like this werenât respectable. That modesty was a virtue. That the world only took you seriously if you took yourself seriously first.
She looked back up. âAnd if I say no?â
The woman shrugged, unconcerned. âThen you can rejoin the six-hundred-person waitlist for TA gigs and adult daycare shifts. Or you can put on the dress, clock in, and start making some real money. Your choice, honey.â
She thought of her student loans, the lab fees, the price of the MCAT prep she still hadnât bought, the medical textbooks she currently borrowed because she couldnât afford her own copies. Her clunker of a car that needed fixing. The rent increase coming next semester.
If the ad was to be believed, one week here paid more than 2 months at any of her other options.
After a long moment, she turned to the locker, peeled off her hoodie, and started changing.
Macie tugged the skirt down for the third time in as many steps. It still didnât help. She kept her arms crossed over her chest, trying not to draw attention to how snug the top was, how much cleavage it pushed up and out. The material was soft but synthetic, clinging to her hips and cutting tight at the waist. The bow at the small of her back wobbled when she walked.
Her name tag caught her eye in the mirror: Nurse Macie Monroe
For a moment, the title tugged at something deep in her chest. Nurse. The word sheâd practiced writing at the top of her class notes.The one that eventually would evolve to Doctor. The career sheâd imagined in blue scrubs and sensible shoes, hair pulled back, stethoscope around her neck. Not⊠whatever this was.
Seeing it here, pinned to a costume that pushed and hugged and swished felt surreal. Like a weird dream that leaks in the wrong details.
But it was still her name. And still the title she wanted more than anything.
She inhaled, lifted her chin, and nodded once to her reflection.
Youâre working toward it, she reminded herself. One way or another.
She stepped out of the locker room and followed the faded pink floor arrows toward the Orientation Room.
Seven other young women around Macieâs age were already seated in the pastel-colored orientation room, each wearing the same uniform she had just struggled to accept. It was oddly comforting. Seeing them dressed in the same outfit helped steady her nerves, made her feel like less of a sore thumb.
A soft hum of chatter filled the room. Two girls near the front were whispering.
âMy friend said sheâs clearing almost 3 grand a week! Swears by the wrist technique.â
Macie blinked. Three thousand??
âItâs all about output. Get them finished, cleaned, and reset. If youâre fast, the bonuses stack.â
âYea but you donât want to make them finish too fast.â Another one said, âGotta edge them a bit, get it all nice and built up, then you let them go. Bigger bang for your buck. OrâŠbullâŠâ
Macie blinked, unsure what to say. She hadnât even fully wrapped her head around the word Bull, much less what any of these girls were excitedly talking about.Â
Before Macie could make sense of it all, the door opened with a hiss. The same poised woman from the changing area stepped inside, now holding a slim tablet. She surveyed the group with a broad smile.
âWell, donât you all look precious!!â she said, flashing a bright smile. âIâd like to welcome you all to Mother Maidenâs Milking Farm! My name is Matron Misty, and Iâll be getting yaâll settled today!â
Her voice had that pitch-perfect tone, warm and professional, but with something faintly rehearsed underneath, like a cruise director or someone used to smiling for cameras.
âYouâre here because you made a choice,â she continued. âAnd it was a good one. You girls are about to become part of something very special!
She tapped the tablet, and the screen on the far wall hummed to life. The lights dimmed.
âNow, before you get started with your placements, weâre just going to show you a little welcome video. After that, youâll be off to milking and mending in no time!â
Macie straightened in her chair, fingers brushing the lace edge of her uniform. On screen, a pink crest unfurled: two teal hands cradling what she first thought was an udder, stylized and inverted, a single droplet suspended beneath it. But as the glow sharpened, the shape resolved into something else: a bottle, wide at the base, tapering toward a soft rubber tip.
The image pulsed gently, almost reverently, and then the voice came. Soft. Maternal. The kind youâd trust to read bedtime stories.
âFor thousands of years, humanity was guided by the same hand. By the fist of the Patriarchy. Men led nations, waged wars, and called it order. They built monuments to their ambition, consumed every natural resource in the name of greed, and called it progress. But what did their leadership bring us? War. Famine. Corruption. Division. Endless conflict dressed up as glory. Generation after generation, power was hoarded instead of shared. Empathy was dismissed as weakness, compassion was mistaken for fragility or femininity. The world became a reflection of their image: loud, wasteful, toxic. We let them lead, and they led us into ruin. Until the Blowout of 2032 finally changed everythingâŠ
The imagery swelled: skyscrapers burning, crowds rioting, soldiers clashing in gray smoke. Then, in a single, sweeping cut, the chaos faded to calm. Rows of pink flags rose against a bright blue sky.
âFrom the ashes rose a new world. A gentler world. A wiser world. One where compassion governs, not conquest. Where nurturing defines leadership. And so, the Matriarchy was born...â
Women appeared: engineers, doctors, judges, police officers, each smiling into the camera. The voice grew more triumphant, swelling with warmth.
âBut rebuilding wasnât enough. The old ways ran deep. The damage needed correcting.â
This time it wasnât rioters or soldiers. It was the men who had profited from the collapse: Corrupt CEOs escorted out of corner offices in tailored suits now torn and disheveled. Toxic influencers and podcasters pulled from studios before they could broadcast another one of their angry, divisive rants. Politicians who had lied, stalled, and exploited now stood hunched and shaking as their indictments were televised nationwide, their polished smiles gone, their practiced charm evaporated now that they were finally being held accountable. All of them stood in front of a judge, all of them given the same sentence.
âThese individuals,â the narrator said as more and more powerful male faces plastered the screen, âfanned the chaos for personal gain. They manipulated followers, exploited families, destabilized nations. They made decisions that harmed millions,â the narrator continued, voice steady. âThey had every chance to act responsibly, but they chose not to. When given autonomy, they chose poorly, so their autonomy has been stripped. They will start over. From the bottom. From the beginning. Back in diapers. Where they belong.â
It was a regression ward dressed in deceptively gentle colors. Pastel murals, colored floor tiles, and soft lighting disguising the steel beneath. Padded stations lined the room in neat rows, each fitted with restraints, and the towering cribs with bars stretching to the ceiling stood like pastel prison cells along the walls. Everything looked warm and cutesy at first glance, until you noticed how firmly it was all bolted in place.
The camera drifted deeper through the ward, gliding past the bolted cribs and orderly supply shelves. One station was already occupied.
A disgraced shareholder who once bragged about âhaving his hands in every pocketâ now lay strapped to a table, reddening with fury as caregivers secured oversized mittens over his wrists. Thick, padded restraints that rendered his once-grasping fingers completely useless. The man who manipulated markets with a flick of his hand could no longer hold so much as a pen. Before he could protest, attendants lifted his ankles high and slid a thick white diaper beneath him in one smooth, practiced motion.
In another area of the ward, a representative who proudly voted down every womenâs rights bill for a decade stood trembling as attendants fastened him into a bright pink diaper with clinical indifference, they tied matching ribbons into what remained of his thinning hair.Â
The podcaster who made a career out of yelling into a microphone and spewing hate sure seemed to hate being strapped in a nursery highchair with an enormous, medicated pacifier stuffed and strapped into his mouth. His trademark rants had dissolved into wet suckles and whimpers as drool pooled on his bib, his once-booming voice reduced to gurgles and whining hiccups.
A tech mogul who profited from misinformation pouted helplessly as his encrypted phone was confiscated and replaced with a chunky plastic toy phone that chimed nursery jingles whenever he tried to speak.
âThese men spent years filling the world with noise and waste,â the narrator said coldly. âNow they will do the sameâŠin their diapers.â
A final shot lingered on a former Senator once full of arrogance and full of shit, now sitting in a playpen with a sagging diaperâŠalso full of shit.
âBut the system does not stop with just the rich and powerful.â
The music softened as new footage appeared.
âAcross the general population, the same standards applyâŠâ
A man with six restraining orders that spent years skirting the edges of the law was now in a skirt that did nothing to hide the bulging plastic panties put over his Pampers. The only women heâd be trailing after from now on were the ones holding his leash, their grips firm as they guided him toward the Time-Out Corner where heâd be staring at a blank wall instead of through anyoneâs windows ever again.
A repeat drunk driver whoâd shattered two familiesâ lives appeared next, crawling on all fours across a padded playroom floor. The only keys he was trusted with now were oversized plastic ones meant for teething, and the only vehicle he was allowed to âdriveâ was a bright blue Tonka truck that wobbled across the padded ABC tiles.
A man flagged for repeated domestic outbursts was having a little outburst of his own on the floor. The attendants only smiled at the pathetic tantrum, his mittened fists too soft and useless to do any damage now. They treated the scene like nothing more than a fussy Little overdue for a change, lifting him by the underarms and carrying him to the station while his filthy, sagging diaper swung heavily. From the observation window, his girlfriend watched with her arms crossed and the smallest, satisfied smirk.
âToxic behavior, chronic irresponsibility, and repeated endangerment of others all lead to the same outcome,â the narrator said. âWhen a man cannot function safely as an adult, he is reset to a level he can manage.â
A serial cheater caught with his pants down too many times now had them kept there as staff fastened a chastity cage onto him, then slid thick protective padding over it.
A Gym-bro who filmed women without consent now has his own changing sessions live-streamed 24/7.
A workplace violator who used to grope coworkers and interns now gets his own crotch squeezed and groped by every passing attendant in the ward so they can check for âpee-peeâs and poo-pooâsâ!
âEvery day, more and more adult males enter regression programs,â the narrator continued, âwhere they finally experience the boundaries, structure, and supervision they avoided for so longâŠâÂ
Macie blinked hard. The footage cut rapidly: pacifiers filling bearded mouths, pens and cell phones being pulled away from mittened hands and replaced with rattles and plush toys. Rows and rows and rows of grown men strapped into cribs, squirming in yellowed, soiled diapers while smiling female attendants strutted by.
Some were sentenced. Others surrendered voluntarily. All now benefit from a kinder, corrective approach...â
Macie glanced sideways. None of the other girls in the Orientation room reacted. Maybe theyâd seen this kind of messaging before. Maybe theyâd heard about it. Maybe they didnât care. The music softened again, almost playful.
âAnd it isnât just in institutions anymore. Women everywhere are learning the secret to harmony in their own homes. Aferall, a diapered husband is a docile husband...â
The screen showed a smiling woman in an apron spooning mush into her husbandâs mouth while he sat in an adult-sized highchair, bib snug beneath his chin. Another woman fastened a pacifier clip to a manâs collar and popped it in his mouth before taking a phone call, unbothered.
âSome partners embrace it. Others struggle. But every day, more and more households are finding peace through regression.â
The music shifted to a calm, reassuring melody as the narratorâs tone dipped with gentle gravity.
âFor those who refuse care or endanger others, intervention teams ensure compliance.â
Two uniformed women escorted a man sobbing quietly toward a waiting van. He was barefoot, wrists cuffed tightly in front of him, hem of his pants bunched around the swollen diaper beneath. His wife signed a handheld tablet, hand shaking. The officers guided him in, buckled him into a large carseat, shut the door, and drove away.
âFrom househusbands to high-level offenders, from reluctant regressives to willing volunteers,â the narrator cooed, her tone bright and confident, âeach one becomes part of a gentler, safer world. Step by step, household by household, the old chaos is being diapered, contained, and brought under control.â
News footage faded into the now-familiar sight: men lining up at public checkpoints, their pants dropped to their ankles for inspectors to confirm the presence of state-issued pampers. Men at bus stops, their bulging padding outlined under slacks. Men in grocery aisles, pushing carts beside wives who occasionally reached down to pat their huggied hips, a casual reassurance that everything was still secure.
Public changing stations dotted sidewalks like ATMs. Police enforced compliance through random checks, pulling them over and pulling down their pants, issuing citations to those who tried to go without their daily diapers. Most didnât. Most had long since stopped trying.
All of this was done in what were called âMotherlandsâ: self-contained zones built in the aftermath of the Blowout, where no children lived and no families were raised. Every person inside one of these areas was over eighteen. Every crib and every changing table was for an adult who had already been processed, stabilized, and reassigned.
A map of the continent filled the screen. Soft pink icons bloomed like petals across the surface. One, then ten, then hundreds, until almost the entire land seemed blanketed in them.
âToday, nearly one-point-five million adult males wear diapers full-time.â
Macie swallowed hard. 1.5 million. It was an insane number to try to wrap her head around.
âFor the most difficult cases,â the narrator continued, âevery aspect of care requires regression. From how they relieve themselves, to how they are entertained, to how they take in nutrients. Bottle-feeding plays a vital role in that process. It is not only a means of nourishment, but of conditioning. It is an act of acceptance, dependence, and submission.â
The screen shifted from the map to a series of real-life scenes: suburban kitchens, pastel nurseries, sanitized care wards.
Men in all manner of attire, from onesies to business shirts to footie pajamas, cradled in the arms of their partners or caregivers, each one suckling obediently from oversized bottles. Some were wide-eyed and docile, others looked dazed, hypnotized. A few squirmed and pouted, but the hands holding their bottles stayed firm.
The music swelled as a montage built. The sloshing sound of bottles being tilted, lips suckling rhythmically, diapers crinkling under shifting weight.Â
Then came a flashing of images:Â
A graying man slumped in a highchair, eyes glazed, milk dribbling down his chin and soaking the bib that bore his name in pink cursive.
A row of recliners, each holding a swaddled man, caretakers rocking them in sync as the bottles drained.
A man curled up in his wifeâs lap, tear tracks visible as she whispered and coaxed him to finish every drop.
In another scene, a nurse stood over a man strapped into a mesh rocker, its pastel fabric stretched tight beneath his squirming form. He fussed and twisted, the belts across his chest and hips keeping him firmly pinned as his mittened hands flailed in small, impotent gestures. His diaper was visibly swollen, sagging against the curve of the seat with each fidget. With one hand, the nurse steadied the oversized bottle at his lips, coaxing the rubber nipple between them. With the other, she reached up and gave the dangling plush toys on the rockerâs arch a light tap. The little stuffed animals began to sway and jingle and spin lazily above him. Pointless distractions meant to soothe, though the nurseâs sing-song voice made clear the true intent was to patronize.
âThere we go, honeybee,â she cooed, nudging the nipple until his lips wrapped reluctantly around it. âFussy little guys get the extra bouncy seat, donât they?â
He let out a muffled whimper, eyes welling up as he sucked with short, pitiful bursts. The toys danced above his head. His cheeks flushed. The straps held firm.
âShhh,â the nurse whispered sweetly, brushing a bit of hair from his damp forehead. âDrink up now. You need every drop if youâre going to be a good boy today.â
Cut to a backyard, sunny and green. A man sat cross-legged in a playpen, bib fastened under his chin. His wife knelt beside him, smoothing his hair as he drank.
In another shot, a younger man rocked in a padded jumper suspended from the ceiling. The elastic cords bounced him lightly with every squirm, forcing him into an awkward rhythm that made the crinkle of his diaper loud and inescapable. His onesie had ridden up from the motion, bearing the weight of his bulging brown of his diaper with every bounce. He whimpered, his mittened hands swiping uselessly in the air as if trying to steady himself.
The nurse stood in front of him, bottle in hand, letting him flail for a moment before catching him mid-bounce. She gripped him firmly by the chin with one hand, guiding the oversized nipple between his lips with the other.
âCome on now,â she said, her voice syrupy and patient, âyou bounce, you drink. Thatâs how this works.â
He tried to twist away, but the cords brought him swinging right back into position. The bottle was waiting. Another bounce, another frustrated lurch forward, and this time, the rubber teat slipped past his lips. The nurse gave it a gentle squeeze as he suckled with a resentful grunt.
âThereâs my thirsty little kangaroo,â she cooed, lightly tapping his nose. âKeep bouncing and draining your ba ba!â
The next shot pulled back, and back again.
A massive regression room stretched out in rigid rows. Hundreds of adult Littles lay on thin padded mats or low cots, arranged like livestock stalls. Orderly, silent, uniform. Most stared blankly at the ceiling; others suckled lazily at their bottles without ever raising their hands. Caregivers moved between them with practiced efficiency, tipping bottles, wiping chins, and adjusting positioning wedges as if tending to a herd rather than men.
The sound thinned to nothing but suckling. No music. No narration. Just the wet, soft rhythm of hundreds of mouths drinking in unison.
A few Littles blinked slowly, unseeing. Some stared upward, glassy-eyed. One reached lazily for a mobile that wasnât there, another scratched at the edge of his swaddle, too weak or doped to do more.
None of them spoke. None of them resisted. All of them drank.
ThenâŠanother place. Somewhere else entirely.
A heavy latch clicked. The door of a large enclosure swung open. A rush of diapered men spilled forward on all fours, scampering like pigs from a pen. Pale limbs flailed, plastic crinkled, and the floor trembled with the frantic rhythm of hands and knees on tile.
They crawled toward the bars of a zoo-like cage, where a row of long, downward-facing spouts jutted out from oversized bottles mounted behind the mesh. Mouths found them.
Without hesitation, they latched on, suckling greedily from the angled nozzles like hamsters feeding from water tubes. Plastic squeaked. Milk gurgled. Some moaned softly as the formula began to flow.
The footage blurred into more scenes: men asleep in cribs, bottles still nestled in their mouths; women burping limp, milk-drunk partners against their shoulders; aisles of formula bottles glinting under fluorescent light, stretching endlessly down a warehouse corridor.
Bottles, bottles, bottles.
âBut where does all this formula come from?â the narrator purred, voice dipping into something almost conspiratorial. âArtificial substitutes can only do so much. Powders, stabilizers, synthetic blends⊠they help, yes. But they lack that deeper something. That innate nourishment our Littles respond to so well!â
A nurse held a glass bottle up to the light. The liquid inside shimmered, pearly and white.
âThey started their lives with a certain kind of milk,â the narrator continued. âAnd now that theyâre back in diapers⊠doesnât it make sense to return them to something natural? Something instinctive?â
Soft piano chords drifted in. Comforting. Warm.
A nurse held a glass bottle up to the camera. The liquid inside slid slowly along the glass.Thick. Too thick, almost silky.
That wasnât cowâs milk.
That wasnât goatâs milk.
That wasnât any milk Macie had ever seen in a grocery store.
âTrue nourishment provides what their bodies crave,â the narrator continued. âThe subtle things that soothe them, calm them, guide them. Something powders simply canât replicate.â
More bottles glided past on the conveyor.
All filled with the same viscous white. Some thin and pearly. Some so dense they barely moved when the bottle tilted. Some faintly luminous, strands stretching and snapping like spider silk.
Macie shifted in her seat. She didnât know why, but her stomach twisted. Like she was sensing something she couldnât yet wrap her head around.
âThe regressed require true milk. Real milk. Special milk. And thatâŠâ the voice brightened as the logo pulsed across the screen, â...is where YOU come in.â
Daylight flooded the screen.
A cheerful fiddle tune began. The exact melody her hometown used at harvest festivals, now warped under the clinical lighting. The camera swooped through the open barn doors of a candy-colored structure. A banner fluttered overhead:
COW WARD A: âWhere Every Heifer Finds Her Happy Place!â
She still hadnât seen a single animal since entering the facility. Not one hoofprint. Not one stall of hay. Not one udder. The whole âFarmâ had been nothing but tile and steel and disinfectant.
The camera glided deeper into the barn, the hum of machinery swelling with every step. Pumps hissed. Something strained. Something moaned. The air vibrated with a low, relentless rhythm.
The aisle narrowed. Shadows deepened.
Machines whirred. Grunting and mooing could be heard. Rhythmic. Relentless. Not animal. It almost sounded likeâŠ
No, no, noâŠthey wouldnât.
The camera stopped in front of a stall, and Macie saw her.
A full-grown woman, naked, on all fours in straw, arched her back like an offering. Skin slick with sweat. Breasts swollen, veined, impossibly heavy. Nipples dark and dripping. A pink ribbon tied in her hair like a prize heifer at the state fair.
An attendant in the exact same frilly uniform Macie now wore stepped into frame. She rolled a stainless-steel machine forward. Hoses hissed softly as they were uncoiled.
The woman in the stallâs smile cracked. A single tear slipped down her cheek.
The attendant snapped on gloves with a sharp crack.
Macieâs breath thinned to a single, sharp thread.
They werenât milking cattle at this place.
They were milking people.
This is a really hard story to write because world-building is tough. It's difficult to make things seem like they 'fit' without coming off too preachy. But I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you'd like to read more, Chapter 1 and 2 can be found on my Subscribestar!
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