Stories

Just another morning for a chained milking slave in the barn.

 

I always woke first, before any of the cows, before the other chained mares, before Marcus or the sun.

 

The air in the stable stank so much of human body that I didn’t need to open my eyes to know where I was; I could taste my own salt on the boards of my little cell. Most mornings, I’d lie very still, clutching the sweet, blurry memory of Marcus’s knuckles on my thigh or his laugh - rare and dry and always at my expense - as he shoved the feeding-tube into my mouth. But today, the ammonia tang from the cows’ beddings hit first, and my eyes snapped open.

 

My cage was nearest the window, so the morning light carved out a band on my ribs and, when I stretched, stung my scarred hips like a switch. I licked my lips and ran my tongue over the gap in my side incisor, a little nervous gesture Marcus had called “adorable” the first month. That was many months ago. Now he never called me anything but “Onyx,” “bitch,” or, when I really pleased him, “number four.”

 

The chain connecting my ankle-cuffs to the back bar was just long enough for me to fold my legs and wedge my toes through the mesh toward the neighboring pen.

In the neighboring cell a new girl lay stretched out on the boards, naked and wearing fewer shackles than the rest of me. She breathed slowly through the ring in her nose, the soft sound echoing in the quiet barn. Her skin was brown like mine, though still clean, not yet marked by the dirt and sweat of this place.

 

I stretched my leg as far as the chain allowed and curled my toes, trying to reach her, but the hateful ankle chain stopped me short. She, however, could easily pull her freer legs away, and from the look she gave me, she clearly didn’t welcome the attention.

 

“Oh fuck off, you slut,” she hissed at me in a voice more hoarse than angry. 

“Morning, Bella,” I said, not even trying to keep the gloat out of my tone.

“Just making sure you didn’t choke yourself in your sleep because of your nose ring.”

She rolled her eyes, then, with the smallest lilt, “You wish.”

 

We’d been introduced only yesterday, and I’d already decided to love her or kill her by next week. If she made it past next week.

 

The far end of the stable held the actual cows-real livestock, white with brown patches, tails already swatting at invisible flies. Their sleepy snorts and the clanking of their chains sounded like ocean surf in the enclosed space. Marcus liked to keep us sweating until noon, said it made the glands more productive. The air shimmered in the sunbeams.

 

Some mornings, my sexual hunger started before the rest of me did, and this was one. I rocked my hips, letting my inner thighs stick and peel from the board, imagining the raw-sweet shiver of Marcus’s palm when he’d grab my ass to reposition me on the milking stand. That, or the taste of the salt from his shoulder when he pressed me into the wall. My fantasies were rarely elaborate - just the facts, ma’am, as Marcus himself would say. I considered trying to touch Bella again, but she was too alert now. So I twisted my torso, ran a hand under my left tit, and pinched the ring there, hard. The jolt was a little taste of real, and I liked it.

 

The sound of boots on the walkway snapped me back. My heart thudded, a small animal in my chest. I craned to peer down the aisle, my view limited by the grid of rusted bars. Marcus, just as I’d pictured: jaw unshaven, hair flopped over one eye, the collar of his shirt so stained with sweat it was almost yellow. He carried a galvanized bucket in one hand and, dangling from his other, a coil of black shackle.

 

“Up, sluts,” he said, in a voice that never needed to rise above a tired monotone. “Milking in ten. Piss now or hold it ‘til dinner.”

 

He started at the farthest pen, unlocking the latches with his hip and swinging open the gates one by one. Each girl stumbled out, hunched and sullen, their wrists cinched behind them with the ties before they were paraded to the milking room. I watched, more curious than afraid, as he worked his way up to my cell.

 

“You,” he said, and his gaze flicked up and down my body with the same bored thoroughness he used for fenceposts or cart parts.

 

“Stand up, turn around.” I did, knowing the routine. My arms went behind, palms out, and the metal cut into my wrists with the familiar ratcheting sound. He yanked me forward by the chain at my neck, not rough but not gentle, either.

 

“Spread.” I widened my stance, and he stepped behind, pressing the cold tip of the key against my asshole - he never missed an opportunity for humiliation, but I didn’t mind. I bent more, letting the morning sun pour over the seam of my back and ass. The steel plug in my ass clicked and slid out, and he slipped it into his pocket for later. I held my breath, but he didn’t touch me, just clipped a new leash onto my collar and walked me out. My toes left little crescents of sweat on the wood.

 

We trotted single-file down the service corridor, the other girls stumbling in front of me, their tits and bellies jiggling with every step. Bella was right behind me now, and I felt the hot pulse of her breath on my shoulder. She was shivering, either from the draft or anticipation. As we passed through the door to the milking parlor, the heat hit us full force, heavy with the yeast-reek of spilled milk and disinfectant. The sight of the chairs—the “thrones,” as Marcus called them - made my knees weak, but I knew better than to balk.

 

Marcus chained us in two at a time, sliding our heads into the stocks and locking our ankles to the foot-rails. Once we were secure, he knelt in front of the first pair and began to clean the udders. For the heifers, this meant sloshing icy water over our tits and scrubbing with a rough cloth until the skin was pink and numb. I bit my tongue to keep from whining.

 

“You’ve got a nice crop today, Onyx,” Marcus muttered, barely moving his lips as he ran the cloth over my right nipple. “Keep this up and I’ll cut you extra bread.”

He never lied about bread, so my stomach did a backflip. “Thank you, Marcus.”

 

He looked up, and his mouth curved in a ghost of a smile. “Don’t thank me yet. Wait until you see how I get it out of you.”

 

He attached the suction cups to each nipple with a pop and a twist, then flicked on the machine. The pulsing started slow, then built into a steady, wet-lipped rhythm, tugging at my chest with an insistent, lowing force. I could feel every drop trickle out of me, a weirdly meghanic relief that quickly edged toward pain. For the first few seconds, I held my breath and tried to focus on the pressure in my crotch instead of the ache. My clit throbbed in time with the pump.

 

The milking barn itself never changes, but the machines and routines always do. Some mornings they keep us standing, leaning forward in wide stances while the work is done. Other times they chain us into different positions, each arrangement designed to test our endurance in new ways. What I enjoy most is when they move me from one station to another, splitting the work into several stages. Each place offers a different mix of strain, sensation, and strange reward for my captive body.

 

The new girl, Bella, started to moan - high, panicky, embarrassed. Marcus didn’t miss a beat.

“Don’t be such a baby,” he told her. “You want to fill your quota, don’t you?”

 

She shook her head, tears running down her face.

He sighed. “Maybe number four can show you how it’s done.”

He stepped over to me, unplugged the machine, and knelt so his face was level with my tits. His hand closed around my right breast, squeezing until the skin whitened, then he flicked my nipple with his tongue. I shuddered; the sensation was so sharp, so specific, I nearly came.

 

“That’s a good girl,” he said, his voice almost gentle. “You like that, don’t you?”

I nodded, my face hot with pleasure and shame. He ran a finger down the seam of my thigh, then slipped it between my legs, pressing it into my slit. My hips jerked - there was no way to hide how slick I was already. He withdrew, held up his fingers, and smirked. “Thought so.”

 

The kneeling positions are the ones I prefer most. They are far easier than standing bent forward with my legs spread while the machines do their work. At this point, the gaza can do something with her fingers from behind that a slave can really enjoy, and even the milk squirts in a stronger stream.

 

He went back to Bella, massaging her breasts, saying things I couldn’t hear. Soon, her crying turned to soft whimpers, and the milk machine’s tank began to fill. Afterward, Marcus wiped us down with a chamois, then inspected the bottles of milk. My jar was nearly full, Bella’s less so.

 

“Number four, you always deliver,” he said.

“You ever think about what you’d do if you had real hands?” 

“Probably choke you,” I said, half-joking. He grinned. 

“Fair.” Then he leaned in and, without warning, kissed me on the mouth. His breath was sour and familiar. When he pulled away, he unbuckled the strap at his waist and let his cock out, hard and veined and already leaking.

 

“Want a reward?” I nodded, grinning, and knelt as far as my chains would allow. He slid himself between my lips, hands cupping my head as I worked him, tasting the sweat and salt, feeling the pulse of his blood through the skin. He never took long, and today was no exception. He came in three thrusts, hot and bitter, splattering over my face and tits. 

 

“Clean up,” he said, and handed me a rag. I wiped myself down, then licked the taste off my fingers for good measure. He smirked, then unchained me and led me back down the hall, the bottle of milk dangling from his hand. Back in the stable, he shoved me into my cell and reattached the chain. Before locking the door, he reached through the bars and stroked my cheek.

 

“You’re a good cow, Onyx,” he said. “Rest up.” He walked away, humming an old song under his breath. I flopped onto my side and stared at the ceiling, counting the seconds until someone came with bread. I was sticky and sore and more alive than I’d been in weeks.

 

Somewhere down the aisle, Bella was crying again. I grinned and closed my eyes, replaying the morning’s events in my head. Tomorrow would be the same, and the day after, and the day after that. I could live with it. Hell, I might even get used to it.

 

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