How Sadie Became a Cowgirl

As inconvenient as the whole thing was, it did have its benefits. I was selling over $250 worth of milk a day, and at seven days a week that was way more than Ryan made working construction. He joked about becoming a full-time dairy farmer, which earned him a paint-peeling death glare.

One evening Ryan put up curtains, which allowed me to pump without fear of exposure to the outside world. Once they were up, it didn't take him long to convince me to give up wearing shirts altogether, since any shirt I wore would be quickly become soiled with milk and would ultimately only be worn for a short time.

I had no objective measure of how large my breasts had become, but they took up the better part of my chest, resting just a few inches above the twin birth marks that rested at the base of my lowest ribs. I spent so long milking that I barely had time for anything else. I was fond of the pump, but it was just so slow, compounded by the fact that I had to change bottles once per session. I was slowly and steadily filling, even as I drained, to the point where I was only empty for an hour or so at a time. Morning milking sessions were the hardest. Ryan woke up early to assist me, and I savored the new ritual that was added as a result. One morning my breasts became so engorged in the morning that they failed to achieve a proper seal. To compensate, Ryan put me on my hands and knees and put a large bowl beneath me.

I knew what he had in mind, and though a small part of me found it demeaning, the heavy globes suspended from my ribcage needed relief.

"Milk me Ryan," I begged. "Please milk me."

He took a swollen teat in each hand, struggling to grasp enough. Then, he kneaded downward, drawing the abundance of milk towards my nipples. Angry sprays splashed into the bowl. I came almost immediately, the pain, release, and stimulation overloading my senses. He continued, focused and determined to give me the relief I so desperately needed.

Once the pressure began to subside I stood up, reaching for the pump on the night stand. Ryan placed the half-filled bowl on the dresser. As he turned to leave, I stopped him.

"You took care of me," I whispered. "Let me take care of you."

My hands were busy holding the pump, but I didn't need them for what I had in mind. I knelt at my boyfriend's feet, looking up at him as unclasped his belt and slid his pants down. I took his cock into my mouth, determined to milk him as well as he milked me. I know he wanted to fuck me, but I wanted to do something that was just for him. As I felt the warm thick jet spurt into my mouth, it occurred to me that my milk was now the centerpiece of our entire sex life. Whether I was breastfeeding Ryan, being milked by the pump, or being milked by his hands, my breasts and the milk inside them were always the primary focus.

-

"Ten thousand dollars," Ryan announced one evening.

"Beg your pardon?" I asked, looking up from a magazine.

"We've sold ten thousand dollars' worth of your milk over the last three months," he explained proudly.

"Are you serious?" I asked incredulously. I was amazed, both at the amount of money that we had made, and at the fact that Ryan had been milking me for full three months. Suddenly this temporary solution to my employment woes didn't seem so temporary.

Ryan didn't seem to have any intention of ending our little experiment. He didn't try to keep me from getting a job or anything, but he certainly didn't encourage it.

I for one was more skeptical than ever about my employment opportunities. My resume was as sparse as ever, and now I had a massive pair of constantly leaking tits to manage. I doubted I could even land a fast food gig in my condition. Besides, ten grand in three months was more than I'd ever made. I figured there was no harm in keeping this going for a while longer, even though I was starting to feel a little more like a cow each day.

-

One weekend, Ryan disappeared into the spare bedroom, emerging only for food and sleep. I was forbidden from entering, but I could hear the dull thuds of a hammer and the mechanical whine of power tools. A large package arrived in the mail, large enough to require a hand truck. Ryan dragged it into the spare room, shutting the door behind him.

As I was sitting on the couch one day, trying to find a good show to watch before I settled in for my next milking session, Ryan snuck up behind me and covered my eyes.

"Got a surprise for you," he whispered.

"It wouldn't have anything to do with the racket I've been hearing the last couple of days, would it?" I smirked.

He guided me carefully back to the bedroom, bringing me to a stop at the edge of the bed. When he uncovered my eyes, I was greeted by a bizarre sight. The bed itself was covered in a thick sheet of plastic. Standing on top of it was a wooden scaffold, with clear tubing running from a pair of funnels off the bed and down to the floor. The tubes ran through what appeared to be a large motor of some kind and ended at the mouth of a large glass container with measuring lines on the side.

"You were saying that the pumps were taking too long and filling up too quickly. I figure this baby should be able to keep up. Sadie, meet the mac-daddy of all breast pumps."

"This isn't a breast pump," I said, exhaling slowly. "This is a milking stall."

"Semantics," Ryan bristled dismissively. "The point is, it'll work a lot better than what you've got right now. Not only is it a lot more powerful, the position will let gravity do half the work for you."

"Uh huh," I said skeptically.

"Well, come on. Give it a try."

Reluctantly, I climbed onto the bed and crawled into position. Ryan helped guide each breast into place, carefully checking the funnels and tubes. The rig was more comfortable than it looked. I was used to this position from our manual milking sessions. As Ryan moved to switch on the pump, I started to worry. Not that it wouldn't work. I had plenty of faith in Ryan's engineering skills. I was worried that it would.

My worries vanished the moment I felt the suction on my nipples. It was similar to the breast pump, but the intensity was indescribable. My nipples were sucked down into the funnels, tingling as the sensitive flesh stretched and yielded to the vacuum. I could feel the milk being sucked out from inside my breasts. Ryan nodded approvingly as I started to moan, the familiar mixture of milk and my own arousal clouding the room.

I barely noticed as Ryan slipped my shorts and panties off my backside, pulling them down to my knees. I came hard as he pushed into me, clenching down hard on his cock as I rode the wave. I felt thrust frantically inside me, and as much as I was enjoying the fucking, it was the milking that pushed me over the edge.

Eventually, the pump clicked off. Ryan must have built a timer into it or something. He helped me get off the bed carefully. As I sat down, the cook plastic crinkling under my ass cheeks, I took stock of what the machine had done. The jar was filled past the one hundred mark. I wasn't sure what the increment was, but I assumed it was ounces. My breasts looked no worse for the wear. My nipples seemed a bit longer than usual, but the circular imprint around my areola where the flesh met the rim was fading quickly.

All in all, Ryan's contraption worked like a charm and I knew that I would be spending a considerable amount of my day on this bed. Semantics or no, this was my milking stall now.

-

In spite of my initial protests, I grew quite fond of my milking stall. I spent a couple hours in it each day. Sometimes Ryan would fuck me during my milking sessions, other times I was left to my own devices. I climaxed either way, but it was nice to have a dick in my twat whenever the opportunity presented itself.

The intensity and consistency of the arousal provided its own challenges. I'd given up wearing shirts a while ago, but now pants and panties were becoming a problem. They started getting soaked as quickly and as thoroughly as my upper body garments.

"You know, there's an obvious solution to this problem," Ryan grinned.

"Trying to turn me into a nudist?" I asked knowingly.

"Just looking out for you. No sense in doing a load of laundry every day," he retorted.

"Sure. Unfettered access to my vagina is just a fringe benefit," I smirked.

"You have a beautiful cunt Sadie. No point in hiding it," he replied warmly.

I was shocked. Cunt wasn't a word I'd ever heard Ryan use. It certainly wasn't a word I ever used myself. I certainly wasn't a prude, especially now, but cunt seemed like such a vulgar, such a demeaning word that I was horrified to hear him say it, especially about me.

The thing is, he said it so lovingly, with such affection. Cunt. My cunt. Sadie's cunt. When I thought of it that way, it seemed almost empowering. Vagina, pussy, snatch, cooter, gash, twat, none of these held the raw power of the word cunt.

"It is a nice cunt, isn't it?"

-

My breasts continued to grow larger and larger as the weeks passed by. I tried to figure out a way to weight them. The best I could come up with was stepping on the scale and comparing the results to my pre-lactation weight. I immediately regretted my curiosity. Unless I had put on weight elsewhere, and all evidence indicated otherwise, than I had put on over thirty pounds of pure breast tissue.

The additional weight on my chest started to create a few problems. My back started to ache after standing for too long and my sense of balance was shot to hell. I made the mistake of bending over to pick up a shoe and ended up falling on my face.

"Jesus Sadie!" Ryan yelled as he ran over to check on me. "Are you alright?"

"I think so," I muttered. My ego was more bruised than anything else. "My balance is all fucked up, that's all."

"Well, you are pretty top heavy," Ryan smirked.

"No kidding," I retorted sarcastically. "They're not doing my back any favors either."

"Have you tried walking on your hands and knees?" Ryan offered helpfully. I bit back a quip when I realized that he was serious.

"On all fours? Are you kidding?" I asked.

He shrugged. "You seem pretty comfortable with it when I milk you. Why not try it out? You'd be lower to the ground and it'd take some of the strain off your back," Ryan explained.

He had a point, and it wasn't like I had any pride left to defend anyway. I had fallen face-first as a result of being literally one third boob. I lowered myself carefully to the ground and found myself pleasantly surprised. It was easy enough to move this way and the smooth floors ensured that I didn't get rub burn.

"What do you think? Does that feel better?" Ryan asked.

"It does. My back doesn't hurt anymore and I don't feel like I'm about to tip over," I answered.

"Good. You should probably stick with it until you get used to the weight," Ryan said confidently.

From that point on, I spent the bulk of my time on all fours. Ryan would help me up every now and then when I needed something, but I was far more comfortable on my hands and knees than I was standing on two legs. Ryan was kind enough to modify the furniture, including the bed, to accommodate my new mode of travel. My palms and knees became calloused and tough from sliding on the floor and after a while I found it just as natural as walking upright. Of course, this did nothing to help the sneaking feeling I had in the back of my mind that I was slowly becoming something that wasn't exactly human.

-

In addition to the increased size and yield, there were other more dramatic changes to my breasts. A ghostly web of veins appeared just below the surface of my skin. They grew thicker and darker over time. I could feel them pop out when I became engorged, like a network of thin wires embedded in my flesh.

My nipples transformed even more dramatically. The constant pulling and stretching rendered them long and thick. I never worked up the nerve to measure them, but they were easily over two inches long and as thick as a bottle cap. The skin, while still sensitive, had become thicker, tougher, and more elastic. When Ryan nursed, he would draw the nipple into his mouth like a large straw, sucking forcefully, like he was drinking a milkshake.

"Remember how small they used to be? Cute little C cups. I can't even imagine what size they are now." I remarked one day as I inspected myself in the mirror.

"Yeah. I'm pretty sure you've outgrown the alphabet by this point," Ryan joked.

"God, they don't even look like breasts anymore, do they?" I asked.

"Not really," Ryan replied honestly. "They actually kind of look like udders."

"They do, don't they?" I said thoughtfully.

"Does that bother you?" he asked.

"Not really. It just makes me feel like a cow, that's all," I explained.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I think your udders are fantastic," Ryan said soothingly, running his fingers through my hair.

"You like them? You like my udders?" I asked as his hands caressed them.

"I love your udders. I love all of you," he replied.

-

From that day on, we always referred to them as udders, as well as calling my nipples, teats. Even in my own head, I never thought of them as breasts. Somehow, the new vocabulary gave me a sense of satisfaction about my transformation that I hadn't possessed before.

Sometimes I wondered if Ryan felt it too. If he knew that on a fundamental level, I wasn't his high school sweetheart anymore. I hadn't worn clothes in months. I spent hours each day being milked, either by the machine or Ryan's skillful hands. I only stood on two legs when absolutely necessary, and only for a minute or so at a time. I couldn't remember the last time I left the house. All of my needs, physical, emotional, sexual, Ryan took care of.

Ryan's actions certainly reflected a shift in his perception of me, at least in regard to my body. He was as sweet, funny, and thoughtful as ever, but now he possessed a degree of assertiveness I hadn't seen before, especially in bed. It was as though he was making an active effort to domesticate me, as though he thought I was his pet, not his girlfriend. In fairness, I was the first one to call myself a cow.

Lovemaking, as Ryan and I once indulged in, was a think of the past. What we did was fuck. We fucked in the milking stall, on the floor, in the shower, on the bed, on the porch, in the yard, wherever the mood struck him. I say struck him, because my feelings were no longer a factor. Not that I would ever rebuff him, but I was no longer afforded the opportunity. When he wanted to fuck me, he fucked me. Sometimes I'd be in the milking stall, reading a book. He'd walk up behind me, drop his pants, and slip inside me on the spot. He wouldn't say a word, just ride my ass until his cock started to spurt, then he'd silently withdraw and leave me full of cum.

It didn't matter if I was in the middle of another task. One time I was watching TV and he set an empty bowl beneath me, kneading my udders just enough to draw out a dozen healthy squirts. For a moment I thought he was planning on cooking, but when I felt him push his way into my cunt, I realized he just wanted to make sure I was properly lubricated.

There were some perks to his increased control. My udders made some tasks considerably more difficult, particularly grooming. It made it difficult to see my cunt without moving them out of the way, which took both hands, making shaving next to impossible. Fortunately he noticed the stubble right away. He followed me into the shower, knelt down in front of me, and proceeded to lather and shave me without a word. I bit my lip as he carefully manipulated my folds, trying not to quake as the razor glided over my skin.

In addition to assuming control of my body, he also took control of more mundane aspects of my life. He quit asking what I wanted to eat, always choosing for me instead. He told me he had put together a special diet, designed to maximize the quantity, quality, and flavor of my milk. It was pretty good, lots of rice, vegetables, and protein in it, but whether I liked it was never a topic of discussion.

My hormone injections were under his control as well. Once a week he'd bring in the familiar swab and syringe.

"Time for your hormones," he'd say cheerfully as he injected them into my backside. At least he was considerate enough to announce it.

I started to wonder if he preferred the docile pet whose body he had free reign over to the girlfriend I once was. He certainly treated me like I meant the world to him, even though it was obvious he no longer thought of me as his equal. I shuddered when I realized that I too preferred our new dynamic to the old one.

-

One day, I came into the bedroom to find him boxing up my clothes.

"Whatcha doin?" I asked, more curious than anything.

"Boxing up some old clothes. You don't wear them, plus it's not like they'd fit over your udders," he replied nonchalantly.

Both were fair points, but I found it odd that he didn't bother asking me about it, especially when I saw him load the boxes in the back of his truck. They weren't there when he returned. It occurred to me that he referred to them as "some old clothes," as opposed to "your old clothes." I guess he didn't think they belonged to me.

-

It was just as well. The next change to my body rendered conventional clothing completely impractical. The twin birthmarks that adorned the base of my ribcage started to become more pronounced. They became rounder, darker, and thicker, and eventually started to emerge from the skin. The skin around them started to swell, distending outward from my abdomen. One day as I was probing them in the mirror, I saw them visibly stiffen, reacting to my touch.

Ryan confirmed my suspicions. "Those are nipples, not birth marks," he asserted.

"How is that possible?" I asked, amazed and slightly disturbed.

As usual, Ryan asked the Internet, and the Internet provided. Polymastia/polythelia was the answer. Not only did I have, and apparently always had, an extra pair of nipples, but I was starting to develop an extra set of breasts to go with them.

It was sort of exciting, once I knew what it was. It was like going through puberty a second time, albeit without the red tide and lunchroom drama. They grew quickly, matching, and then surpassing the size of my former breasts, striving to catch up with the udders that hung above them.

When the milk started to flow from my new udders, Ryan quit his job. He explained that we were making far more money in the dairy business than he could ever keep up with in construction. I had to admit, taking care of me had become a full time job. Milking me, feeding me, grooming me, maintaining the equipment, and selling my milk took a considerable amount of time. Add to the fact that he could barely go more than a few hours without fucking me, and his day was pretty much devoted to taking care of my needs.

Ryan modified the milking stall with a second set of nozzles, lining them up perfectly with my new mammaries. They continued to grow fat and heavy, and within a few weeks bright blue veins adorned my second pair of udders, with long thick teats to match. They were significantly smaller than the original pair, but they improved my milk production considerably.

Ryan was thrilled. He was amazed that my body had adapted so perfectly to producing milk, even going as far as to grow a second set of fully functional udders. I enjoyed the new intensity my new udders provided to my milking sessions. When all four udders were being milked, it was as if every nerve in my body was firing at once.

Ryan took his time with me, allowing me to adapt to the new demands on my body before he mounted me again. I gave up on reading when I was in the stall. I couldn't concentrate on anything but the sensations coursing through my body.