Not A Cow

Chris is not a cow, but everyone around him disagrees on that point, and so does his udder. Explicit.

Chris was not a cow.

But a droplet of milk seeped through Chris's shirt. There was a needle-sting jolt as it leaked out of him, then rolled down his chest. It left a small, off-white stain in its trail. By the time he'd lifted his hands from the keyboard and sat up in his chair, the wet patch had cooled. His nipple was stiff.

Chris was also not turning into a cow.

Which meant he had to explain why the milk he'd just leaked wasn't actually milk. Maybe he'd drooled on himself? Maybe pipe in the ceiling was leaking? Maybe he was actually just sweating?

At the very least, he could prove he wasn't lactating. Watch. With one hand, he prodded the dry side of his chest. See, he—

A small grunt died in the back of his throat. Just the warmth and pressure of his fingers through his shirt was enough to kickstart something in his chest.

His hands gripped the desk and he bit back a whine. The sting was back, and at his other nipple this time. A few drops rolled through his shirt, wobbled fatly, and then fell onto his desk. Plip-plip. It hurt, but it was the sort of pain that would be worse if he fought it. It was the sort of pain that relieved aching tightness.

He exhaled and looked down. Twin stains ran down his chest, with his swollen nipples poking against his shirt at the top of each. The wet fabric felt even rougher than when it was dry.

He needed to get home and fix this. He'd go to a hospital if he had to. He wasn't a cow, and he wasn't going to be a cow.

Chris stood stiffly and tried to grab his coat from the back of his chair. Lifting his arm shifted his shirt across his chest. The cotton sliding across his nipples doubled him over. He sucked a breath of air between his teeth, clutched the armrest, and dragged his coat over his shoulders. He pulled both sides in and folded his arms across his stomach. As long as he didn't move too much, the milk stains were hidden.

Mild panic made his head spin. He let his feet carry him to his boss's office. He tried to keep his breathing steady. Fresh drops of warm milk beaded down the front of his shirt. With every step, he felt the fresh soreness in his chest.

Chris shouldered his way through his boss's door. "Carol, I need to go home," he announced.

Carol glanced up from her desk, a stack of folders in her hands. "What's wrong, are you sick?" she asked.

He hadn't thought of an excuse. And he wasn't about to tell Carol that he was lactating, or she might think he was a cow. "Yeah," he said, voice soft. "I've got a fever and I'm feeling faint."

"All right. Be sure to call in if you can't come in tomorrow," Carol said, and moved to stand.

Chris breathed in to say thanks, but his breath hitched in his throat. He could feel his pulse against his tender nipples. They were engorged, squeezing against themselves for space, tenting out his shirt. From his pectorals to his waist, his muscles clenched, as if they could force the milk out of him. He doubled over. Quick drops of sweet milk spattered onto the floor in front of him. He was red-cheeked, panting for air, bent forward, with two wet stains running down his jacket.

Carol's eyes fell to the small puddle seeping into the carpet. Her concerned frowned deadened. Though she looked back up at Chris, she didn't focus on his face. It was like she was talking to someone just behind him, like Chris wasn't quite there.

"Excuse me," she said. She spoke slower and louder. "You do know cows aren't allowed in the building, right?"

A dry gulp. Chris furiously tried to cover up the damp spots on his jacket, but the pressure of folding his arms over his soft, modest breasts was too much. A wave of warm tightness rippled up from his core and out to the tips of his nipples. A fresh wave of warm milk leaked down his shirt. He felt the wetness pressed against his ribs.

"Carol." His voice cracked lightly. "Come on. I'm not a cow. you were just talking to me. I work here!"

Carol picked up her phone and propped it on her shoulder. Her finger hovered near the buttons. "You must be confused. I'm calling security. They'll help lead you out."

With one hand, he leaned on the edge of her desk, trying to shift the weight of his shirt off of his chest. "Call an ambulance! It's just lactation. They could still stop it."

Carol tapped a button, then leaned forward and swatted at Chris's hand. "Hello, security? There's a cow in our office. No, I'm not sure why she's in here..."

With a groan of frustration, Chris shouldered his way back out the door. Maybe if he called an ambulance, they'd be willing to help him.

All the milk he'd leaked had left him less flat-chested than he was used to. Gritting his teeth and walking as stiffly as possible, he made a beeline back to his desk. He bent sharply at the waist to lean down and grab his phone. The weight of his chest hung underneath him and pulled the front of his shirt taut. With his breath coming hot and fast, he dialed 9-1-1.

"Hello, 911 dispatch, what's the nature of your emergency?"

"I need an ambulance," he said. "I'm...I started..." His breath slipped out from under him. He dropped the phone and grabbed onto the edge of the desk. His hips jerked backward, ass stuck into the air. Something pushed against the back of his shirt, wriggling, trying to slip free. Tiny drops of milk wiggled on the tips of his nipples, clinging to the surface of his shirt. He tore a hand free from the desk to reach behind him and yank his shirt up. His tassel-tipped tail sprung free. It flipped through the air and came down to dangle behind his back with a lazy swish.

"Mmh, mmmnh," Chris grunted. He muffled himself with his hand.

No, he hadn't just mooed. He was not a cow.

The voice on the phone was distant and tinny: "...sounds like a cow tried to call..."

Chris swiped up the phone and pressed it to his cheek. "No, I'm not! I just started changing. If you get here now you can stop it, I promise! I'm—"

There was no phone in his hand any more. Chris turned his head; saw the security guard setting it firmly back on the receiver. He was the one who was always at the front desk in the afternoon. Chris just now began to curse himself for never learning his name. David? Diego?

"Hey," Chris said, with a sheepish smile. He crossed his arms over his chest, covering up all but the very tops of the damp spots on his shirt. "Um, do you think you could make a ca—aah,." A little shudder balled his hands into fists. Two small spurts rolled from his breasts, slowed to a lazy trickle by his shirt. They ran over his arms and dripped onto the carpet.

"Come on," said the security guard whose name started with D. With a firm hand planted on the back of Chris's neck, he directed Chris out of the cubicle. Chris tried to pull at the guard's fingers, but they didn't budge an inch.

People's heads poked out of their cubicles. A low murmur rose: "How did a cow get into the office?" "Did someone let her in?" :So that's what smells like dairy."

Chris wrenched his neck around to shout, "Guys! Guys, someone, I need help. I'm not a cow. I'm not a cow, I'm anngh—"

His shouting was cut short by a broad brass ring. The guard had stuffed it up against his nose, and with a searing snap, it lodged tight. It wasn't some mall kiosk piercing, either. An eighth of an inch thick, big enough for you to stick your fingers through, and pierced high enough up that it wasn't coming out.

The guard gripped the ring and pulled. Chris stumbled along behind him, hunched forward to try to keep the ring from tugging and hurting him. His cheeks and ears were on fire. He tried to lean down and bury his face, not that anyone would recognize him now.

Lead by the nose, Chris staggered out of the office and down the hall to the front lobby. Out past the big glass doors were the street, the crowded sidewalk, cars bleating as they rolled by. The city didn't care about people on the best of days. Chris didn't want to know how it felt about cows.

In a last-ditch effort, Chris planted his feet on the floor and reared his head back, twsting his nose ring. The guard's arm jerked back, and he was forced to stop for a moment.

This was Chris's chance, if he could just convince one person. He looked the security guard in the eyes. "Look, Dan, you've got to remember me. I'm Chris. I'm not a cow. I need to go to the hospital, not..."

The brass ring tickled his nostrils. He wrinked his nose, mouth slack like he was about to sneeze. His eyelids drooped. He blinked sleepily.

"I'm not..."

His ears were hot. They were prickling. He batted at them with his fingers, at the peach fuzz and the tips growing outward from his head. His ears twitched, and swiveled, and slowly cupped themselves like an animal's. His nostrils flared. It felt as if the ring were forcing his nose wider.


His fat areolae squeezed his nipples against the wet cotton of his shirt. The slow swelling of his breasts dragged his shirt up until it came untucked. Every beat of his heart made his teats throb. His ears stretched to either side of his head, filling in with white and black fur. Free to move, they folded back against his head.

"Nnmoo," Chris groaned. His tail flicked. His nipples tightened. Heavy drops of milk trickled down his shirt and plokked onto the floor. It was all he could do not to grab his breasts right there.

The next thing he knew, he was stumbling out onto the sidewalk, nose ring bounding up and down, breasts shaking beneath his shirt. The guard pulled the door shut behind him. The thick clack of the door latching was decisive. He couldn't go back.

Chris crumpled against the glass doors. He slid down to the sidewalk, one arm clutching his chest, a whine in the back of his throat. A rivulet of milk weaved between his fingers and dripped onto his lap. He sat there, leaking and groaning and panting and waiting for the trickling milk to stop.

Feeling weak and wobbly, Chris forced himself back to his feet, Maybe it was the ring in his nose, maybe it was the ears, maybe it was the soaked white shirt, now nearly translucent, but he kept his head hung low. Chris started tracing his daily route back to the subway station. He had to get somewhere private. He had to get home.

He was not going to be a cow.

Cow. He could hear it from people around him. He could feel it in the wider berth people gave him. It was nothing overt; no one was stopping him or trying to call Animal Control yet, but he could hear it under people's breath and see the way people stepped around him.

"Why's there a cow in the city?"

"Is someone just letting her wander around?"

"Dude, check it out, free milk."

With vigorous blinking, Chris tried to fight back tears of frustration. He sniffled. His nostrils stretched around his nose ring. His tassel beat the backs of his thighs as he walked. He wiped at his eyes and pursed his lips. He was going to make it.

Chris was not a cow.

Every step down the station stairs made his chest list from side to side. Chris wasn't just pent-up, he was thirsty. He'd never considered how much water you needed to drink to make milk, and he must have already spilled close to a gallon...

The thought of a gallon jug of his milk sent a shiver through him that forced him to clutch the railing, though thankfully, he didn't start leaking again. With a careful breath, he slid down to the next step, then the next one.

It wasn't fair, being thirsty and needing to get milked at the same time. Yes, the thought had occurred to him of drinking his own milk, but not only did that seem like some kind of a paradox, there was no way he was putting his own lips around his own nipple. And absolutely not in public.

At least his shirt was snug enough that his breasts weren't bouncing around as much any more, but now there was a new problem: his shirt was pulled taut, and the buttons struggled to keep everything together.

Once Chris had made it to the bottom of the steps, he glanced around anxiously. He needed something to drink. With a look of apprehension on his softer features, he approached one of the small stores and grabbed a one-and-a-half-liter bottle of water from the cooler, then turned to pay. The cashier narrowed his eyes at him, but took the dollar fifty that Chris set on the counter and didn't say a word. As he left, he heard the man mutter something about how 'they're turning this city into a goddamn barn'.

Chris found an empty spot in the halls between the platforms and cracked open the water bottle. He tossed it back and drank in heavy gulps, ignoring the water that rolled down his cheeks or splashed onto his nose. The plastic bottle crinkled inward. With a gasp of air, Chris pulled the bottle away.

He needed more.

By the bathrooms there was a drinking fountain, and Chris pushed the lever, then shoved his face into the stream of water. He lapped up big mouthfuls and gulped them down. The water cooled his cheeks and chest and stomach, but at the same time, his shirt was straining harder against the buttons. His areolae were thick and swollen and the sore pressure of the milk inside him was back. The water he was drinking was going straight to milk, but he couldn't stop. Not until he had slaked his thirst.

Finally, Chris tore himself away. He panted for breath, as much as he could with a shirt that gripped him tighter than a harness. Water dripped from his chin. He dragged his sleeve across his face. There was too much of his face: too long and too broad. Still out of breath, he slipped into the men's bathroom.

Standing before a sink, Chris stared at his own reflection. His nose ring had forced his nose to spread wider and more bovine. Its constant weight swinging in front of him, had dragged his face forward into a short muzzle. He opened his mouth and prodded the flat teeth and long tongue and soft lip he now had. Fine peach-fuzz fur trailed down his cheeks and along the backs of his palms.

The face in the mirror didn't even seem like his own. His eyes were soft and wide and his cheeks were smooth and his shoulders slim. If not for the breasts straining at his dress shirt, he could have still passed for male.

Breasts that were aching worse and worse with each passing moment. Breasts he couldn't pretend to ignore any longer. They needed to be let out. Even putting aside the tender, overfilled feeling, he was going to hurt himself if he didn't get his shirt off. He went button by button, each snapping open and freeing more taut, jiggling tits. Once the last button was free, he tugged his shirt back, letting it fall open on either side of his chest.

His breasts sagged against his chest, round and heavy and full of so much milk. And they were big. They filled up the front of his ribcage, too large to cup in his hands, and tipped with garishly swollen nipples. A tingle traced along his nipples. He groaned deep in his throat and tried to hold back the urge to grasp his own breasts.

He was not a cow. Cows...cows had...

Splotchy Holstein fur. The pattern was clear, tracing up along his arms as it reached toward his shoulders, wrapping up around his thicker calves, and climbing upward from his waist. It was classic. Cute. Endearing. He shook his head and his ears flopped against his cheeks.

Not a cow.

"God damn it," Chris said into the mirror. His scowl looked like more of a pout. His voice was strange on his lips, having creaked up an octave or two to match his new look.

The tingle was back again. It buzzed around his fat teats and begged him to wrap his fingers around them. His long, dark lashes fluttered. His nails dug against the porcelain sink. His nipples throbbed and swelled fatter and longer and smoother. His fingers creaked against the sides of the sink. He was so ripe for milking, it was making him hard.

Dizzy and horny and desperate to relieve the soreness in his tits, Chris let go. His hands gravitated toward his breasts, naturally finding their place around his nipples. His thumbs traced from the outer edge of his areola toward his nipple. That touch was enough to coax the hot, tight milk from his breasts. Twin sprays shot into the sink and rolled down the train. His thighs clenched and his legs ground together. His tail lashed furiously behind him. Eyes half-lidded, he opened his mouth, took a deep breath, and—


The tugging of his thumbs pulled him down over the sink. There was so much milk. Each spray ended with beads of liquid dripping into the sink, a quick plik-plik-plik against the drain. His nipples stretched between his fingers, firm but pliable, and desperate for attention. No matter how much he spilled, the milk just kept coming. But god, it was such a relief. It felt so good just...


Chris gazed into the mirror with a vacant, bovine stare. The more he milked himself, the fatter and heavier easier to grab his nipples grew. The horny haze in his mind was thick and sticky. That stiff, swollen give-me-attention feeling was burning in his loins, but it wasn't what he was used to. Instead of firm against his pants it was humid and swollen between his thighs.

His knees locked and his tail flicked up into the air. His hips rocked slowly, pressing his chest into each slow stroke of his nipples. His thoughts sparked and fuzzed and only simple images squeezed through. Someone behind him. Something deep inside of him. Something fucking him wide open until he was lowing like a cow.

Chris's lips quivered. A few gasps left his slack mouth as his head tipped back. Then his thighs clenched and a loud moo echoed off the tiles and reverberated in his head. As his nipples spurted a messy splash of milk, his hands dropped to the sink for support. Steady trickles dripped into the sink from the bottoms of his breasts.

A few thick drops of something warm, damp, and not milk rolled down his thigh.

"I'm...a—" He caught himself, shook his head. "Not a cow. Not a cow." His ears flickered and he snorted around his nose ring. His pretty Holstein fur had reached up to his shoulders and down to the top of his chest. A black splotch lay over one of his eyes. He slipped his tongue from his mouth and licked his nose to wet it.

I'm not a cow.

Behind him, the door creaked open. The rest of the bathroom, having faded into the background, leapt back into clear focus. He spun around just in time to see the suit and tie and spreading grin.

"Hey, cow," the man said. "You lost, or just looking for a bull?"

Chris was frozen, caught between human and bovine fear. His eyes were wide and dark and his breathing sharp.

The man in a tie stepped forward and hooked two fingers around the brass ring in Chris's nose. His eyes glazed over. He couldn't see the man's face any more, just his fingers and the gleam of the ring. It tugged against his nose. Chris leaned forward.

"Bend over, cow," a voice said.

N-not...a cow.

With a sudden bolt of energy, Chris ducked down and rammed his head into the man's chest, aiming right for the middle of his tie. There was a thick oof, and a clatter as he stumbled back into the trash can. Chris stood a moment, driving the fuzz from his head, then darted out the door before the man could haul himself back up.

His pants were so tight he could really only jog, and his breasts so tender that it slowed him further to stiff power-walk, but Chris put as much distance between him and the bathrooms as possible. Across the subway station, all the way over to the furthest platform. He found a place away from the stairs, hidden among the crowd, though less hidden than he would have preferred.

Especially with his big cow tits hanging out. His shirt was useless to try to cover them, so he tried to hold them back with an arm. Without even thinking about it, he began to grind one thick nipple against his elbow, while his fingers slipped around the other and massaged the warm flesh. He tore his hands away, balled them into fists, and stuck them down at his sides.

When the subway car ground to a halt in front of him, he climbed on with the rest of the herd. The car was too packed for a space to sit, so he had to reach up and hold onto one of the overhead railings. Thick thighs pressed together and tail swishing, he held on as the car pulled away from the platform.

There were slow, creeping feelings all over his body. His snout slowly growing longer, the fur prickling in, filling up the last patches of bare skin, the sense of his pants getting tighter and tighter around his fatter hips.

And the taut soreness pressing against the front of his pants. He didn't realize what it was at first; not until his hand brushed against the smooth, pink skin emerging from beneath his fur.

...oh, fuck.

Suddenly wide-eyed, Chris pressed his palm against his bulging lower belly, like he might somehow stuff his udder back into his body. With a fumbling hand, he forced his pants open and peeled them down his legs, freeing the lower half of his udder. He let out a gasp of relief as it sagged against his thighs, studded with four small, budding teats. Hefting the small sack with both hands, he whined and folded back his ears.

Just then, the subway car groaned to a stop. The force flung Chris forward, stumbling chest-first into someone's back. A wet gasp left his lips and his nipples throbbed. He grabbed them, trying to physically hold himself back, but he couldn't. A rising moo left his mouth and two thick squirts of milk splashed onto the floor. The person he'd fallen into made a small noise of annoyed disgust and hurried out with the crowd leaving the car.

Head hung and chest dripping, Chris grabbed the railing. He couldn't go anywhere, and half the car was staring at him. He mumbled "Sorry," under his breath and stared firmly at the floor.

"I didn't think they were that stupid..."

"Why do they even let a cow on the subway?"

"Ugh. I hate their udders. So gross."

The car began to move again. Chris leaned, holding tight to the railing, and his udder leaned too. His four new teats stretched thicker and longer, perfect for sucking, for grabbing and tugging until the floor was soaked with milk and he was a mooing, horny mess.

His cheeks burned. He took deep, uneven breaths, holding the railing with both hands so he wouldn't be tempted. Every time the car stopped and people brushed by him to leave, his udder ached and he whined and squirmed and held on tighter.

He wasn't a cow. He wasn't going to milk himself in public. Three stops until his apartment. Just hold on three stops, and he could milk in the privacy of his own home. But every minute he didn't milk himself, his udder grew thicker and heavier and rounder. It hung lower against his legs. It stuck out further, with taut, swollen teats that were just asking to be milked.

Two stops. Chris chewed on his lips and whimpered. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. He was already imagining what he was going to do: climb into his shower, turn the water on, and squeeze everything until he passed out. His heavy breaths were fogging up the metal of his nose ring. A swollen vein throbbed along the side of his udder.

"That cow looks like she needs to be milked," a woman's voice said..

"So? It's not your problem."

Chris's ears perked. He twisted around, trying to find who was talking, but the crowd was too thick to see. "N-no, I'm fine! And I'm not a cow!" he said. No one seemed to hear him.

"You call Animal Control. I'm going to help her."

"Agh, fine."

Warm fingers brushed against his udder. Chris tried to swat them away, but an involuntary shudder shook his body and left him hanging limp from the railing. The fingers laced around a teat, gripping snugly. His eyes glazed and his pussy clenched and he melted against her hands.

Chris could see a face, but his eyes refused to focus on it. It was warm, and human, and saying something while those hands stroked his teats. They knew what they were doing. They could have been a veterinarian's hands. In no time, the milk began to flow from his udder, squeezing hot and tight through his teats at first. The more the milk flowed, the easier it became, and the hands encouraged him with slow lengthwise strokes.

Chris squirmed and mooed heartily. With each touch, he felt again how fat his teats were and how tightly filled his udder was and how big and heavy he was growing. That touch made being full and overflowing with milk feel good. The puddle of milk underneath him grew larger and larger.

His thoughts were a milky haze. He wanted to milk, he wanted to make more milk and keep milking and not have to stop. His pussy was insistently tender and each wriggle made his breasts and udder slosh back and forth.

A warm burst popped in his head and his ears drooped and more slick juices ran down his thighs. In the silky white afterglow, he barely even noticed that the hands were no longer holding his teats, or that he was numbly following his herd out of the subway car.

From behind him, he heard someone saying, "Yeah, I want to report a lost cow. She's getting out at the station on 65th right now."


With staggering, sloshing steps, Chris made it to the far wall of the subway station and leaned back against it. His mind was an udder mess until the last drops had dripped from his teats. The bovine haze lingered, even once his thoughts had grown more sober.

At the stairs out of the station, each step was a challenge. He had to haul his udder up along with him. It was like trying to carry a bowling ball, except fatter, and if he groped it too much, he'd start leaking and go all cow-brained again.

He kept one hand on the railing, leading him forward. He looked at his fingers as he heaved his bovine body up the steps.

I'm not a cow. Look at those fingers. Not a cow. Not a cow.

At last, Chris stepped up onto the sidewalk, and paused to catch his breath. His bovine prey instinct tickled the back of his neck, and just as he noticed the van beside him that had 'ANIMAL CONTROL' printed on the side, a black band was flung around his head and pulled tight around his neck.

"Got her!" a woman in a khaki shirt shouted.

Chris gagged and grabbed at the band. "Hey!" he gasped out, dragged off the sidewalk and toward the back of the van. "Hey! Stop, I'm not a cow!" With a violent jerk, Chris tried to throw off the lasso, but the woman holding the grip twisted effortlessly and pulled Chris toward the steel ramp propped against the back of the van.

"Don't worry, we're going to make sure you're safe!" the woman shouted,as she tugged Chris bodily up the ramp. The back of the van resembled an ambulance, though kitted out with straps and caged for holding unruly animals. To Chris's broad bovine nose, it smelled like fear.

"I'm not a cow, I'm a person! You can't just—"

A sharp hiss stung Chris's neck. He lifted a hand to his fur and felt a tiny drop of blood. He looked up. The woman held an injection gun in her hand, raised triumphantly. A perfect shot.

Everything was getting heavier and heavier, dragging Chris down to his knees, down to the floor, dragging his eyelids shut, and dragging him to sleep.


The smell of hay and dirt brought Chris to his senses.

His head bobbed up with a sharp snort, squinting and blinking in the dim light. He pushed himself up on one knee, then began to stand. All of a sudden, his nose ring pulled tight, and he was jerked back down to his hands and knees. His breasts and udder hung heavy underneath him, teats still gently aching. There was soft straw on the ground under him. His eyes focused, and he could see the stout rope knotted around his nose ring, tied off to a metal pole.

Grabbing the rope, he lifted his head to look around. "Hey!" he shouted, "Hey, where am I?" There was no answer, so he had to make his own. He was tied up in a wooden stall, flanked by a trough with something green and flakey and grassy-smelling in it, and a large water feeder mounted on the wall.

His thirst overcame him and he pushed his face up against the feeder, lapping and slurping desperately. The more he drank, the stiffer his teats got, and the harder it was to keep his hands on his thighs and not on his udder. Six teats was a lot of temptation, and before long, a hand had slipped down to stroke one of the top teats on his udder.

Above his faint groaning, he heard a door swing open, then the latch to his stall click. He tugged his hand away from his udder, but his heavy breathing and the milky puddle on the ground were dead giveaways. In stepped a young woman with overalls and a tanned face and close-cut hair. "Hi, girl. You were lost, huh?" she asked, reaching out to scratch under Chris's chin.

Chris shuddered and folded back his ears and flicked his tail, but bit back the urge to moo. He looked up into the woman's eyes with his big, sweet bovine stare. "You've got to let me go. I'm not a cow. Please," he said.

"Real shame, too—dairy cow like you needs a lot of care. But don't worry, we'll take care of you till we find what farm you came from," she said with a smile. She stepped out of the stall for a moment, then came back carrying an assortment of long cups tipped with red rubber rings, each attached to tubes.

He knew what that was.

Oh no.

"No, don't—!" Chris yelped, glancing around quickly, searching for anything he could write with. She couldn't ignore writing, right? His eyes fell on the dirt floor of his stall, and he quickly brushed away the straw and started etching out letters with a finger.


With a cup in each hand, the woman slid her arms underneath Chris's udder and neatly slipped the cups around his teats. They made a soft slork as the suction pulled tight against his skin. Chris mooed out loud and jerked his hips, squeezing his udder down against the straw. The tubes quickly filled with milk, flowing in thick waves from his lower teats. His upper pair began to trickle small, excited spurts of milk.

Chris's eyes clouded over and his jaw fell slack. His pussy clenched, bare against the air. The fact that they'd taken his clothes was something he was only dimly aware of. He fought to keep his focus, gripping the ground with his left hand and writing with his right. His fingers grew stiffer, the tips turning back and numb, while behind him, his toes became less nimble, more bulky.


The next cups slurped down his top two teats. The milking machine tugged with a steady rhythm, sucking harder, then weaker, then harder, simulating the stroke of being manually milked. He groaned happily and dragged his tongue across his snout. His udder gave milk as fast as the hoses could suck it up. Getting used so efficiently felt amazing after being pent up for so long. He didn't need a tender touch right now, he just needed to be emptied.

Chris planted his hands against the ground and pressed his udder against the soft straw. A drop of moisture ran down his swollen folds, dripping onto the straw, while milk beaded on the tips of his nipples. His fingers were growing together, growing bigger and thicker, turning into a pair of smooth black hooves. He could almost wiggle each hoof on its own, but anything that required a careful touch or a thumb was beyond him now. Letters were particularly tough.


The nice, wonderful woman with the machine that Chris loved leaned in, slipping the last two cups on top of his breasts. A flood of milk rushed out of him as soon as the cups had settled against his areolae. His breath hitched, coming faster and deeper. His legs went weak and he slumped onto his side, letting his swollen udder and breasts lean against the straw. It was such a tight, aching relief to feel the milk flooding out of his body.

But...but he wasn't...

The woman shifted, sitting up like she was ready to leave.

"Wait, hold on, look!" Chris said, pushing himself up with a hoof, gesturing toward the ground he'd been writing on. He was only two letters away! But the woman didn't look down at what he was writing. She smiled and started rubbing the fur on his head and...

Chris blinked heavily and slumped back onto the straw, letting out a deep groan of delight. Her hand kept rubbing while she reached for something. "You be a good girl now," she said. A snap of pain went through his left ear. He lifted his head and flicked his ear forward, catching a glimpse of a blue tag with 'AC#126' stamped into it.

The door to the stall swung shut.

Chris looked out past his fully bovine snout, at the knot that was wrapped around his nose ring. Untie it, he thought. Get out. You can do it. He tried to twist his hooves around it, but the rope slipped through them. He tried to wriggle the tip of one hoof into the knot to loosen it, but it wouldn't budge.

With a snort of anger, Chris began to thrash and wrestle with the rope, tugging and twisting his head, but nothing he did could dislodge the knot on either end. Finally, he flopped down onto the hay, exhausted, frustrated, and slipping back into the pleasant warmth of being milked.

He wasn't a cow.



Chris lay on his side, thighs squeezed together, grinding his hips mindlessly against the air.

It had hour? Hours? It was hard to tell, and he was learning that it didn't really matter so much.

The machines hadn't stopped. That was the idea. They were machines. They were going to suck and suck and suck all the milk out of him. They were such good machines, keeping him from getting painfully pent up with milk like before. In a way...he was kind of like a machine too. Food and water in. Milk out. And it just keeps going and going.

It was something to be proud of. He'd kept up a near-steady flow since being hooked up to the machine. And that wasn't all—he'd popped off one of the cups for a moment so he could get a taste of his own milk, and it was thicker and sweeter than anything he'd bought in a store.

He'd been decent at his old job, but it had turned out he was excellent at being a dairy cow.

No, what was he saying? He wasn't...wasn't...a cow...



Chris#126 was on her back, staring at the roof of the stall and chewing on a mouthful of feed. It was more relaxing to lie down to milk, even though the milker worked a little faster if she was on her hooves. Just how long had it been since she'd woken up here? She had dozed off a couple of times. Maybe a day? It was light out, she could tell that.

Right now, her legs were spread, and she was doing her best to rub her pussy with her hooves. It wasn't easy. Maybe if she mooed at her, the nice human woman could put something in her stall to help her take care of that. Or to help her find a bull.

Chris#126 smiled sleepily and wriggled on her hay. Her teats throbbed and her pussy clenched. The milking machine made the whirring sound it did when she started giving milk faster than it could pump it through the tubes. The juices from her pussy leaked down her damp thighs.

She'd given up on trying to talk to the human woman, and wasn't really worried about being tied up any more. She'd never had a job that was this easy or this much fun before. All she had to do was eat this tasty grass stuff and drink a lot and get the milk pumped out of her and get pats on the head from the human woman.

She was such a good cow.



Fresh from her second morning milking, AC#126 laid back in the sun and stretched out her neck so she could bite off another mouthful of tasty meadow grass. The little blades brushed against her fur and tickled her tender udder and teats. A bit of green juice rolled down the side of her cheek as she chewed, but with a quick flick of her tongue she lapped it up.

How long she'd been here, she couldn't remember. It was about a week ago that the human that always pet her head when she came by said she didn't need to stay hooked up to the machine all day any more, and she could go out into the pasture between milkings.

Just the thought of milking made her leak a few drops from her teats. AC#126 was a dairy cow, so milking was her thing. Even though this was her free time to stretch out in the field, she wanted to make sure she was grazing, because the more she ate, the more milk she made, and the longer she'd get to spend getting milked every day.

How many milkings did she get a day as a human? Zero. How many times did she get patted and rubbed on the head as a human? Zero. How much clovers did she get to eat as a human? Zero. How many teats did she have as a human? Two, and they weren't even very good ones.

AC#126 wasn't very good with math any more, not after all the milkings she'd been through. (They tended to leave her head emptier and fuzzier each time.) But between those numbers, and how much she loved milking, and getting to stretch out in the sun and graze, she had come to a decision.

She was a cow. She didn't want to be anything else.