Good Girls Get Milked
A quick escapist VR cowification sketch. Mature.
It's one of those days that stretched on way longer than it should have, from rushing out in the early morning to driving back under an unpleasantly gray sky, bundled up in a coat I'm sick of wearing, after staying late for a job I'm sick of having. By the time I finally get home, it's dark. I manage to get off my shoes and coat and stick some frozen chicken in the oven, but after that, I'm spent.
Still in my shirt and slacks, I slump down onto the futon and just sort of hang there and stare at the ceiling. I stare over at my TV. I stare down at my VR set. It's been a week or two since I've used it—just too busy. But I need it, even if I feel like I'm not too far from passing out. The metal contacts in the strap settle against my neck as I slip the goggles on. I lay down, and flip the switch.
There's a half-second of nothing, then the sensory drivers click on, and suddenly I'm standing. Then, chunk by chunk, the grass loads in under my feet, and the sky rolls blue and bright above me, and a light wind brushes over my shoulders, carrying the scent of hay and warm dust.
I take a breath, then exhale so deeply I feel like I'm deflating. I flop down onto the ground. It's soft underneath me, and the blades of grass are cool and slick under my fingers. As I sit up, I realize I didn't even get my socks off. I bend down, tug them off by the toes, and pitch them over toward the nearby tree.
With that taken care of, I spread myself out on the grass, look up at the summer sky, and start to smile. A tickling numbness grazes along my toes and fingertips, so I splay my fingers, spread my toes, and give them plenty of room. They cling together in pairs, merging from the tips down into black cloven hooves.
It's just as they're finishing forming up that I realize I forgot to take my shirt off, too. And it's a button-down. Well...darn. My nose tickles and I hold back a little titter. Can't even swear. I guess I'm already starting to feel fuzzy.
And not just in the head, neither. Caramel-brown fur melts its way up my arms and calves. It feels almost snug, like stockings and gloves wrapped around me, hugging my slimmer arms and softer thighs. My eyelids droop but I blink them back open a few times, and make a lame attempt at opening one of the buttons on my shirt. Doesn't really work with hooves, so I'll just have to do it the hard way.
I'm on the edge of dozing off when the fur meets my torso, and I start to feel the real shifting going on. Hips first—got to have hips—thickening up so quick they snap the button right off my pants. I push myself up on my hoof-tips and wiggle my butt until I squeeze my slacks down around my knees, then kick them off completely.
Warm and soft is what becoming a cow feels like, warm and soft all over. The gentle ache of my udder starting to grow between my thighs, and the deeper warmth between my legs, and the slow, mounting, tender feeling washing across my chest. My shirt's getting tight. I tug at the bottom, pulling it up, away from my udder. I can't do much about the top, though. My breasts squeeze against the white cotton, pushing back against my ribs. They fight for space with every breath. Gaps stretch open between the buttons.
A voice calls out crisp and clear, "Bessie!" and just the sound of it sends my ears sprouting out to either side of my head, laying flat against the grass. My nose tingles again. It's stretching wider and rising outward from my face. I feel giddy, almost drunk.
"Over here!" I call back, in a voice that's too sweet and gentle and perfect to be my own.
The first button snaps off my shirt—not the top one, mind, but the one right in the middle between my breasts. I'm almost sitting up, but the milky slosh sends me thumping back down against the dirt. My horns take that opportunity to spring up, short and white, from my forehead.
I can only see her hooves clopping toward me through the grass upside-down, but I'd recognize Miss Anna anywhere—though she's Ma'am to cows like me.
By the time the donkey gal leans down over me, the fur's wrapped me up snug and tight, but not as tight as my shirt. It's popping buttons off like popcorn on a griddle, but it's still got me bound up tight.
"Aw, got yourself stuck, didn't ya?" Anna asks.
I nod and say, "Yes, ma'am." I can feel the fresh weight of a brass nose ring at the tip of my snout as I move my head. My teats—udders and breasts both—are starting to get proper full, and they're making it real hard to think about nothing but Anna's tender hands.
But first, she's got to straddle my waist on her knees and work open each of the buttons on my shirt, which ain't an easy task, given how tight they are. "Been a while since you've been milked," she says, cocking her head as she plucks my shirt open and drags it off above my head. "I was starting to think maybe you didn't wanna be a good cow."
Finally free, I take a big, deep breath and wriggle underneath Anna. She's got her thighs right up against my udder, and her hands on my chest just beneath my breasts. "I wanna be a good cow, ma'am," I tell her.
"Good cows get milked every day," she says, lifting her hands and setting them right on the top teats of my udder. "Do you want me to milk you every day?" I'm already starting to cream against her palms.
"Y-yes," I say, trying not to shiver. "I need to be milked every day."
Anna leans down until she's only inches from my snout. "Then y'all better ask nicely," she says.
I can't think about nothing but her hands and my udder. "Please milk me, ma'am," I say.
With that, she leans down to meet my lips and her hands start working my teats like they were made for it. I won't get rude or nothing, but we spend a good long time there under the apple tree, until I catch something funny in the air.
"My chicken," I whisper. The thought tumbles slowly through my fuzzy head, until it finally clicks why I'm smelling fried chicken. "The oven!"
I sit up from the couch and whip off the goggles. The whole apartment smells like slightly burnt chicken. I shove myself off the couch and scrabble over to the stove, tugging on an oven mitt on the way. The chicken's only lightly burnt, though, so I breathe a sigh of relief and set the tray on the stovetop to cool.
Then I hear some dripping. But it ain't the faucet, it's coming from somewhere...closer?
That's when I look down, past my teats and my udder, and see the puddle of milk forming between my hooves. I chew on the tip of my hoof and mutter, "Oh, drat..." in Bessie's extra-sweet voice.