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It takes Tim way too long to actually go to a doctor. The thing is, at first he just thinks he’s putting on weight. He doesn’t know why he would be-- he’s not eating differently, and he still goes to the gym about two or three times a week. He starts going to the gym five times a week, but it doesn’t go away. But that happens, doesn’t it? People just putting on weight for no good reason? Maybe it’s just age. He’s in his early thirties now, maybe he’s crested a hill, a flip has been switched. It’s just a little extra fat on him, not a big deal really.
At first.
It happens slowly, which is another reason why he didn’t immediately go to a doctor. It’s not overnight. It’s just that one day that he notices that his jeans are pinching at his hips a bit more than usual, that he has to struggle a bit to get them past his thighs. But he likes tight pants, it’s not weird. And then his shirts start getting a bit tight too-- right around the chest area. And then his chest starts to get sore, sensitive, his nipples always aching in a way that’s only soothed by him stroking them gently and carefully. Which, for obvious reasons, is not something he can do when he’s out of his flat.
It’s around that point that he probably should’ve sought out some professional help, but… he doesn’t know. He just put it off for some reason. Hoped it would pass, would turn out to be nothing. It wasn’t nothing. It’s only when the headaches started that he started seriously thinking about seeing someone. When he noticed growing bulges at the top of his temples, he called in sick and booked an appointment immediately.
“--headaches will pass soon,” the doctor is saying soothingly. “It’s only as the horns are first coming in that there will be some growing pains. I can prescribe you some pain relief--”
Tim, who’s been staring blankly at the doctor for the last five minutes, trying to take in her prompt and certain diagnosis after he’d rattled off his symptoms to her, interrupts her. For some reason, he can’t stand listening to her talk about this like this is-- like it’s a thing that’s just happening. Something to be dealt with in a practical and tangible way, like cleaning out a drainpipe or getting new glasses.
“I’m not a hucow,” he says. “My-- my parents aren’t hucows. My brother isn’t a hucow. No one in my family is.”
“Yes, I saw that in your chart,” says the doctor. “That happens sometimes. You see, I bet you that if we go far back enough in your family tree--maybe three to five generations--we’ll find a stray hucow there. What’s happened here is that those hucow genes have skipped the generations between you, and hit you a bit late in life. Most people are born with these attributes, but there is a rare condition known as Latent Bovine--”
“Is there a way to undo it?” he asks, because he really, really can’t stand listening to her talk about this whole thing like this. He’s not a hucow. He’s just-- he’s not. That’s not him.
The doctor pauses. Pushing her glasses up her nose, she continues more delicately, as if having sensed something amiss.
“I’m… afraid not,” she says. “Maybe we could have done some preventative hormone therapy if we’d known about it beforehand, but as it is, it’s far too late for that. The process is well on its way. Really, Mr. Stoker, there are plenty of other people who have gone through what you’re currently experiencing. I realize it must be a big shock, but--”
“What about a mastectomy?” Tim cuts in, because no, there has to be a way to undo this. “A double mastectomy? And maybe-- maybe the horns could be sawn off?”
The doctor looks blatantly horrified by this suggestion. “Oh, absolutely not. Hucow breasts aren’t like human ones, even if they might look like it. We can’t just cut them off and expect for you to get on as you used to. It will have serious repercussions on your health, maybe even lethal ones. And as for sawing off your horns-- most certainly not. They’re connected to your skull, Mr. Stoker.”
Tim sits there, and tries to take that in. This can’t-- he can’t--
“I know change is frightening,” the doctor says. “But this really won’t be as terrible as you seem to think it is. Now, you’re going to need to make bimonthly appointments with me during this growing process, so I can monitor it and make sure that everything is going well. You said this has been going on for a month? Have you noticed any beading at the nipples yet? We’re going to have to look out for…”
Tim’s horns come out, and the headaches stop. Two nubbly little horns, rounded at the corners, declaring to the world what he is. He tries to cover them up with his hair, a hat, anything. He’s not that, he isn’t. There’s nothing wrong with hucows-- they’re just people, even if some gross arseholes sometimes don’t act like it. There’s just something wrong with him being a hucow. This isn’t who he is, what he is. He’s Tim. He’s a human. He has narrow hips and a flat chest, no horns, no needs. He’s been himself for thirty years now and that can’t just suddenly change, without his input or permission.
But his body continues to gradually and implacably change, despite whatever he may feel about it. His hips broaden, and his chest grows soft and plump and heavy. He has to get new clothes, because he just can’t get into any of the old stuff any longer. Can’t button up his shirt over his chest, can’t pull his trousers over his hips. He wants to just ignore this, act like it isn’t happening, refuse to acknowledge it. He can’t.
Everyone notices, of course. He can’t hide it. He bought a binder, tried to put it on, and it hurt so much he cried. Dr. Dove says that his chest is going to be especially sensitive during his ‘growing period.’
“Ah, Tim,” Jon says, stopping mid sentence, blinking down at Tim’s chest as if he’s only just now noticed it. “Are you…?”
He trails off, obviously failing to find an appropriate way to ask ‘since when have you had boobs?’
He can’t stop himself from defensively crossing his arms over his chest, as if he could possibly hide them. He’d been an A cup at first-- and then a B, then a C. He’s at D cups now. He has to wear a bra, or else sparks of pain go off every time his nipples so much as brush up against his shirt. He’s still growing. He hates it.
“Have a hucow somewhere in the family tree, apparently,” he makes himself say. “So now I’m turning into one in my thirties.”
Jon looks alarmed by this news. “That-- that happens?”
“Yep,” Tim says, and forces himself to smile. It feels pretty humorless to him, wry and bitter. “Rare, though. Latent Bovine Growth Syndrome, it’s called.”
“I… see,” Jon says, massively awkward. “Do you… need any time off, or--?”
“No,” Tim says, and that’s that. Jon doesn’t bring it up again-- although it’s obviously on his mind. Now that he’s noticed Tim’s chest, he apparently can’t stop noticing it. Subtle, Jon is not. Every time they talk his eyes dart down to Tim’s chest over and over again, in an almost morbidly curious way. Tim grits his teeth and tries to ignore it, even though he hates it when people look, stare, remind him that they exist.
Later, Sasha will casually and matter of factly let him know that she’s put together a fully comprehensive request for a milking room that cannot possibly legally be rejected without the Institute opening itself up to a lawsuit, and has in fact already sent it off to Elias. Tim, who doesn’t even want to think about milking himself outside of when it actually has to happen, tells her that she didn’t need to do that, it wasn’t necessary, it’s okay.
“Nonsense,” she says, waving off his words with one flap of her hand. “You need to be able to take care of yourself, Tim. You can’t just hold off all day until you get home, there are health risks. I read up a bit on hucows. You should go and milk yourself whenever you feel the urge, apparently.”
Sasha’s done research on hucows because of him. Tim’s done zero research, and doesn’t intend to change that any time soon.
Martin, for his part, doesn’t noticeably change the way he treats Tim in any way. You’d almost think that he hasn’t noticed the two watermelon sized lumps stuck on his chest, except for how he’d have to be literally blind for that to be the case. He knows, he’s seen, he’s noticed. He’s just trying to be tactful, nice, and polite. Not making any comments, not staring. But he knows. Tim hates just that.
Elias apologizes to him personally for the lack of a milking room.
“We’ve never had the need for one before, you see,” he says. “An oversight on my part, clearly. We’ll be overhauling store room 3A and redesigning it into a proper milking room for you. We can shuffle things around, make space. It won’t be very large, I’m afraid, only just enough room and equipment for one hucow at a time. But that should do, shouldn’t it? Sufficient for our purposes.”
Tim tends to milk himself in the shower, teeth grit to bite back any noises, eyes closed so he doesn’t have to see anything, milk going straight down the drain. He doesn’t want a milking room at all.
“Thanks,” is all he says.
Tim tries out the milking room when it’s finished, once. It’s awful. It’s small and intimate with a door that locks, some soundproofing around the door, and a small couch with a milking machine on a table beside it. He’s never milked himself with a machine until then-- it ends with him mooing, cum cooling in his pants, panting and flushed and half out of his mind.
The worst part is how he felt like someone was watching him throughout the entire thing. Probably because of that awful portrait that was hung up on one of the walls for god knows what terrible reason.
He determines to never, ever use it again. He doesn’t care if his-- his breasts feel heavy and full by the end of the day, his nipples sore and sensitive, aching for it. It can wait until he’s back in his own flat, completely private and alone where no one can possibly hear or see him.
This isn’t him. Maybe if he just ignores it, refuses to accept it, to budge a single inch, it’ll all go away. Back to the way he used to be, the way he should be.
Somehow.
Tim’s on his way home, and the sky is dark. He normally doesn’t leave work this late, but he’s been trying to avoid rush hour at the subway lately. Too many people there to look at him, stare at him, brush up against him. He just… wants to avoid people right now. He’d sunk himself into some really fascinating stuff about Robert Smirke, and by the time he came up for air he found that the only company he had left in the building was Jon’s voice from behind his closed office door, speaking in the cadences of a statement being recorded. He’d gathered up his things and left, suddenly keenly aware of how almost painfully full his breasts feel. It’s been too long since he last milked them. He needs to get home, get it over with and out of the way so he can stop feeling them so much, so urgently, so needily.
He can’t even close his coat over his chest, it’s so big. Fuck’s sake.
His tits-- his breasts really do ache. It’s all he can do not to touch them right now, try to alleviate that ache in some way, make it more bearable. But that would be a terrible idea, so he doesn’t. He’s… fifteen minutes of walking away from his flat at this point, maybe.
Fifteen minutes has never felt longer.
But-- maybe if he cuts through that alley he can shave off just a few minutes-- take a shortcut--
Tim takes a hard right into the alley. He walks narrow, winding streets, trying to focus on his mental map of the neighborhood. If he takes this turn-- and then a left--
He doesn’t really notice it when he hears footsteps behind him, not properly. Just someone else walking the streets, about a dozen feet behind him. Sounds like they’re on the phone, talking lowly to someone. They have a gruff voice. Tim focuses on his mental map.
Three more turns, and he’ll be out of this little maze of narrow streets and alleys, just a little bit closer to his flat. He’s sure of it. He takes a turn--
There’s a car parked in front of him, taking up almost all of the space in the alley. A van, the back facing him. There’s so little space left that he’s going to have suck his gut in just to get past it. Wait, no. His chest is going to be a way bigger obstacle. He scowls.
The footsteps behind him are getting closer. An idea occurs to him.
Turning around, he says, “Hey, is this your--?”
Before he can even get a good look at the person in the dark--tall, big, broad, male--there’s a fist in his gut, driving all of the wind out of him. He crumples over it, stunned.
“Now!” the man who’s just punched him shouts. Behind him, there’s the sound of the doors at the back of the van opening, feet landing on the ground, someone grabbing at his head-- tying something around it--
The world goes dark. Tim distantly realizes that he’s been blindfolded before he can even catch his breath. His body begins to struggle without any order from his brain, bypassing it entirely.
“Fucking-- get his legs,” the first one, the gruff one says.
“Alright, alright,” the other one says hurriedly, sounding smaller, slighter. Weaselly.
Hands grab at his arms, his legs, his shoulders, twisting and turning and lifting him. He fights against it, but he’s blinded and winded and confused, and the two strangers do the whole maneuver like it’s something they’ve practiced, hoisting him up deftly so that he dangles between them without any leverage.
He’s carried up into the back of the van. The doors slam shut behind them.
“What the fuck,” Tim gasps out. He sucks in more air, and shouts more loudly. “What the fuck are you doing? Let go of me!”
“Noisy one,” the gruff one grunts out. “Where’d you put the gag? Get it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the weaselly one says, letting go of Tim’s leg abruptly so that all of his weight hangs from the gruff one’s hold on his arms.
A lance of cold fear goes through Tim, wild and panicked. He kicks out hard, doesn’t connect with anything. The gruff one gives him a shake, rattling, disorienting.
“Hurry up,” Gruff says. “Before he actually damages something.”
“What-- what the hell do you want?” Tim demands, frantic, bewildered. “Money? My wallet--”
There’s the sound of Weasel snickering feet away, where he’s rummaging through something.
“Yeah, we want money,” he says. “But you’ve got better than just your wallet on you.”
What the fuck does that mean? Are they going to cut out his kidney?
“You’re going to be alright,” Gruff says, in what might be intended to be a reassuring tone, but mostly just sounds menacing. “If you cooperate, it might even be pleasant.”
“Fuck you,” Tim spits, his voice wavering more than he’d like. He doesn’t know what the hell this is, but he knows that it’s bad, and he’s not going to fucking cooperate. He renews his struggles, trying to pull his arms out of the hold Gruff has on him. He doesn’t even grunt with effort as he holds Tim utterly in place. From the other side of the van--the glove compartment?--Weasel makes a sound of triumph and comes scrambling back into the back of the van.
“Found it!”
“About time--”
And then there are fingers in his mouth, prying his teeth apart, and he’s too shocked to react until something else is being firmly pushed into his mouth. The fingers slip out just before he bites down, hard-- but his teeth just painfully dig into something round and plastic. He feels Weasel’s fingers move deftly behind his head, cinching a strap in tight and snug.
A ball gag. He can’t talk. Terror spikes in his chest at that, and his struggling grows more frantic, uncoordinated, scrambling. Gruff moves Tim’s wrists to the small of his back with what almost seems like ease-- he’s been losing muscle ever since he started turning into a hucow, the bulk of his calories going into creating milk every day. Gruff holds Tim’s wrists pinned in place behind his back, and then Weasel’s doing something there too, touching his wrists. It’s only as Gruff takes his hands away and Tim can’t move his hands away from the small of his back that he’s realized what’s happened. His wrists are tied.
Tied up, gagged, and blindfolded by two strangers in the back of a van. All in less than ten minutes.
Holy fuck, he’s going to die. His chest heaves as he sucks in air through his nose, his heart hammering, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Shit, shit, shit--!
“Finally,” Gruff sighs. “I’ll get the machine warmed up. You get him warmed up.”
“Aye, aye, captain,” Weasel says, eager glee in his voice.
Gruff’s footsteps are heavy enough that the van slightly sinks with each step, and then there’s the quiet whirring of a machine firing up--
Breath wafts over his face. Weasel.
Tim flinches back instinctively, pushing away with his feet-- the back of his shoulders meets the wall of the van almost immediately. Weasel follows him, crowing him up against the wall, laughing under his breath.
“Calm down, calm down, shh,” he says, a hungry smile tracing all of his words. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. I know what I’m doing.”
Something cold and sharp and metal traces the corner of his face very lightly. Tim freezes.
Slowly, the knife travels down his face. Brushing against his throat. His collarbone. Tim doesn’t dare even breathe. Grabbing a fistful of Tim’s shirt collar and pulling it taut, Weasel drags the knife-- through his shirt. Cutting it right open in the middle. The open air prickles against the exposed skin of his stomach, the tops of his breasts. Weasel cackles.
“What kind of bra is that?” he asks. “It’s so boring. You’d look better in nothing!”
Unceremoniously, he grabs at the middle part of Tim’s bra that connects the cups together, slips his knife in underneath the gap, and neatly severs it. Tim can feel his breasts bounce slightly as they drop, released. He makes a small, muffled whimpering sound at the feeling of it, at how it aches.
“Oh, fuck yes,” Weasel says, hushed and awed. One of his hands immediately comes up and grasps at one of Tim’s exposed breasts, squeezing at it in a way that makes him choke. “Look at him! His tits are fucking huge! Shit, he’s going to produce so much milk. Imagine the payday. Fuckin’ jackpot.”
No, Tim thinks. No, this can’t be--
Gruff makes a noise of interest. “Tits look pretty firm, too. Swollen. Think he’s milked himself yet today?”
Tim hasn’t.
Weasel gives Tim another grope, lingering and thorough, pawing at his tit.
“Holy shit,” Weasel says gleefully. “I think he’s full.”
Gruff gives a pleased grunt. “Get him beading and I’ll hook him up to the machine.”
No, no, no, no. They’re rogue milkers. People who grab hucows off the street, milk them for all they’re worth, dump them, and then sell the milk to keep all of the cash for themselves. This can’t be happening to Tim, it can’t. He’s not a hucow. He’s doesn’t want to be--
Weasel pops one of Tim’s nipples into his mouth without any lead up or hesitation. Every muscle in Tim’s body seizes up immediately, and then he moans into the gag, muffled and filthy.
Tim hasn’t had sex in months now. Not since the changes started. He didn’t want anyone seeing his bare body, touching it, reacting to it, asking questions about it. He hasn’t so much as had a snog with anyone, new or familiar. Weasel puts his mouth to Tim’s nipple and sucks on it, warm and wet and hungry, and it makes a wave of heat so overwhelming and immediate wash over him that before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s arching his back, shoving his chest further against Weasel. One of Weasel’s hands comes up to grope at Tim’s unoccupied tit, thumb circling the nipple there in a way that feels unbearably close to what he wants, needs.
Weasel’s mouth leaves him, and Tim feels bereft from their absence. And then instantly following on the heels of that feeling, horrified, disgusted.
“I taste milk,” he says cheerfully.
“Good,” Gruff says. “Get out of the way.”
There’s the shuffling of Weasel moving out of the way, Gruff moving in-- Tim tries to recoil, to dodge. But there’s nowhere to go, and--
Something brushes against his tit, and then with a little sucking noise it suctions itself neatly into place over his nipple. The other one swiftly follows. Tim moans again, loud as he can possibly be, to the point that he knows that it’d be a scream if he wasn’t gagged. His back arches, curling up on his knees as the suction cups stuck to his tits suck and pull milk out of him. It’s such a terrible relief that he wants to cry from it.
“Good cow,” Gruff says. “Stay in that position, it’ll help your milk let down easier. Tits hanging down.”
Tim tries to sit back upright, but Gruff’s broad, calloused hand immediately clamps down on the back of his neck, pushing his head down. He whimpers.
“Aw, come on,” Weasel says in friendly ribbing tones. “Like you don’t want this? Why else were you walking around all on your own in a private little alley? Alone? Your tits all full? You were hoping for this, weren’t you? Practically begging for it.”
He hadn’t been. He hadn’t. He just, he--
He’s not the type of person who has to worry about stuff like this, that has to be careful about being alone out at night. He can’t be. He isn’t-- he’s not-- this isn’t him--
The milking machine works him, steady and merciless, wrenching milk and noises out of him. He twitches and squirms as much as he can, with Gruff holding him firmly in place by his neck. His shoulders shake with a gagged sob. His tits feel so good, his cock is throbbing. Please, please, don’t let him cum, don’t make him--
“Fuuuuck,” Weasel says. “This one’s actually pretty hot.”
Gruff grunts agreement.
“Hang on,” Weasel says, and then he crowds in close next to Tim again. He feels the cold blade of the knife brush against him again, and he trembles with what’s either fear of pleasure so overwhelming that it almost hurts. There’s the feeling of clothes pulling against him, the sound of tearing--
Swiftly and methodically, Weasel proceeds to cut every single stitch of clothing Tim has on him off his body. By the end of it he’s kneeling on the floor of the van wearing nothing but rope around his wrists, a blindfold, and a ball gag. And the suction cups clinging to his tits, inexorably milking him without pause or mercy no matter how he keens and whimpers. The air prickles against his skin, vulnerable and terrifying. Weasel strokes one hand up the line of Tim’s spine, slow and appreciative.
“Shit, yes,” Weasel says. “Can I fuck him?”
“Sure. Don’t see why not.”
There’s a wild, desperate denial trying to claw its way out of the overwhelmed chaos in Tim’s brain. That can’t-- he has to stop it--
The machine milks him. Tim moans.
There’s hands at the back of his head, pulling at the strap of his ball gag-- the buckle loosens. The round, hard ball is pulled out of his mouth, slick with his spit, leaving his jaw aching. Tim takes a deep breath to shout, to swear, something.
“Mmmoooo,” he lows, a noise of mindless, helpless pleasure. Hot, burning, scorching humiliation burns through him.
“Aw,” Weasel says, taking a moment to ruffle Tim’s hair. “Cute cow. Open up.”
Something bumps against his lips, pushy and demanding-- the head of a cock. Weasel’s cock. The machine sucks at his tits, milks him. His mouth falls helplessly open, another small moo slipping out, and Weasel takes the opportunity to shove his cock into Tim’s mouth.
Bite it, Tim thinks wildly, viciously. Bite it, hurt him.
Tim doesn’t bite Weasel’s cock. Instead, he sucks on it. Automatically, almost like an involuntary muscle response. Weasel gives a satisfied groan above him, twitches his hips to drive his cock further into Tim’s mouth, down his throat. Tim makes sloppy, desperate, eager noises, moaning around the mouthful like he’s never tasted anything better in his life.
“Yeah, you like that?” Weasel rasps out slightly breathlessly, his hand going to the back of Tim’s head to push him further onto his cock, grinding his nose into his pelvis. “Shameless little slut, aren’t you?”
Stop it, Tim thinks at himself, desperate and horrified. Stop sucking, stop moaning, stop acting like you like it. You don’t. I don’t.
Except for how his dick has never been this hard in his life.
Weasel rolls his hips, fucking Tim’s throat in slow, deep thrusts that sends heat pulsing between his legs, and he just sucks on it like he can’t get enough of it. Gruff lets go of the back of Tim’s neck, and Tim stays put. His big, rough hands go down to Tim’s tits, stroking them in rhythm with the milk machine’s pumping. He coaxes even more milk out of him, milking him with more practiced efficiency than Tim could possibly manage. Like this stranger knows Tim’s own body better than he does, like he’s a piece of equipment that he already knows inside and out.
He hates how good it feels to have someone’s hands on his tits, stroking them, milking them. His entire body feels like a tuning fork that’s been hit, overwhelming pleasure and ecstasy making his toes curl, his back arch, his cock ache. He thinks he can feel drool on his chin from where he’s sucking on Weasel’s cock.
Weasel’s thrusts are picking up speed, going faster and harder, entirely uncaring of choking or gagging-- which never happens. Tim sucks cock like he was made for it. Weasel’s fingers curl tightly in Tim’s hair, pushing and pulling his head to meet his thrusts, prickling pain at his scalp, his lips swollen with friction. He’s never been throat fucked like this before.
“Yes,” Weasel groans. “Fuck yes, fuck yes, love your hot little mouth. You want my cum in you? Want me to cum inside?”
Tim moans loudly around his cock as if in answer, but it’s not, it isn’t. He just can’t be fucking quiet right now. Weasel laughs at him.
“Do not get cum in the van,” Gruff says flatly, not pausing in milking Tim for even a moment. Tim hates how he can’t stop himself from arching like he’s trying to shove his chest even further into his hands, the milking machine.
“Wouldn’t--hah--wouldn’t be the worst stains the back of this van’s ever-- ever seen, heh.”
“I’ll make you clean it up.”
“Inside-- it is,” Weasel pants, and then he shoves his cock as deep as it will go down Tim’s throat, holding him in place there, grinding his dick into the back of his throat. Tim can’t make his throat stop working around the head of his cock, can’t stop swallowing around it. After a moment, Weasel goes tense and still, his grip on Tim’s hair going so tight it brings tears to his eyes, and hisses out a ‘fuck’ with a trembling voice. He cums down Tim’s throat, and Tim swallows it all up automatically.
Tim’s cock stands erect between his legs, so hard that it aches with need, that he’s sure it must be leaking with precum, that he’s helplessly twitching his hips into the air in a search for friction, even though it hasn’t been touched even once. At the same time, there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as Weasel pulls Tim off his cock because he won’t go away on his own, his jaw sore, spit on his chin, his lips tingling. Hot with shame and cold with horror at the same time.
Defeat.
“Fuck,” Weasel says, sounding pleasantly winded. “You trying to suck my cock clean off or something? Settle down.”
“Moooo,” Tim lows pitifully, almost whiningly, and he feels himself lean forward, as if he’s trying to chase Weasel’s cock. Gruff tugs him back into place with a noise of disapproval.
There’s the sound of Weasel chuckling, settling somewhere nearby, the rustling of fabric as he gets himself back into order, tucking himself away. Gruff continues to stroke his tits encouragingly, deftly handling him like a piece of machinery. For a few moments the only sound in the back of the van is the whir of the milking machine pumping at Tim’s tits, and Tim’s own plaintive mooing. He’s not even trying to hold it back any longer. He can’t.
“He’s beginning to slow down,” Gruff reports. “Less milk coming in.”
“Hmm,” Weasel says. “Hey… you know I heard that they produce more milk if they’re being fucked during?”
“Sounds convenient,” Gruff says dryly.
“No, really. I didn’t even hear that in a porno, I think I read it somewhere.”
“And you’ll volunteer yourself?” Gruff asks, still sounding unimpressed.
“Nah, I’m good. Won’t be able to get it back up again for a bit. It was like he was trying to suck my soul out of my dick, it was great. You could do it, though.”
There’s a moment’s silence.
“Fine,” Gruff finally says. “It’s worth a try.”
Weasel cackles. “That’s the spirit!”
Gruff’s hands move away from Tim’s tits, and he moos with upset, like he wants them, misses them. There’s the sound of movement, and then Gruff’s hands settle on Tim’s hips instead. There’s the sound of a zipper being undone. Gruff won’t have to slick him up. Tim’s body does that for him now--when he’s being milked, when he’s trying to jack off without mooing or paying attention to the weight and heft of his breasts, when he thinks too hard about being milked, or fucked--yet another little profoundly violating tweak to his biology that apparently exclusively exists to make him more fuckable.
Tim doesn’t feel any panic clawing inside of him, somehow. Of course this is happening, too. Of course. It’s just like Weasel shoving his cock down Tim’s throat, and Gruff hooking him up to a milking machine, and him being dragged into the back of a van, and him becoming a hucow out of nowhere with no warning, no preparation. It’s all more of the same.
Maybe he can just close his eyes and ride this out, ignore it until it’s over.
Then Gruff’s cock is nudging at Tim’s entrance, and he has a split second thought of it can’t possibly be that big-- and then he enters him. He slides into Tim in one smooth, slow, steady stroke, feeling like he splits Tim open along the way. Tim moos. The only noise Gruff makes is a quiet sigh of contentment, as if he’s had a good sip of coffee.
“Noisy little cow,” Weasel remarks, amused. “Should I gag him again?”
“Don’t bother,” Gruff says. “Just sounds like a hucow having a good time.”
“True. Is he tight?”
“Yes,” Gruff says simply, then he draws his cock half out of Tim, and slams it back into him. The only reason Tim doesn’t fall flat on his face is because Gruff keeps him firmly in place by his grip on his hips. He moos. The milking machine pumps him. His cock aches. He can feel sweat pooling at the small of his back, his arse clenching up around Gruff’s monster cock, his skin hot and flushed, his wrists chafing from the rope, the muscles at his shoulders sore from the struggling. If his hands were free, he’d be touching his cock. Tim knows this to his bones.
Gruff pulls his cock back, and slams it back into place into Tim, hitting his prostate as he does. He sets a rhythm, steady and measured as a machine, as the milking machine, powerful, merciless thrusts that make his entire body sway with the force of them, even as Gruff keeps him in place. Noises spill out of Tim like milk from his nipples, humiliating and filthy and completely out of his control.
“Fuck, this is hot,” Weasel says after a few minutes, voice purring and admiring. “Love the way his tits bounce as you fuck him.”
“Is his-- milk output any-- higher?” Gruff gets out, his voice only slightly unsteady as he fucks Tim unwaveringly.
Weasel laughs. “Is that the only thing you can think about? Even as you’ve got your cock buried inside one of the hottest hucows we’ve ever had?”
“Answer,” Gruff says, voice hard. He snaps his hips, cock sliding in and out of Tim, and Tim can feel his tits bouncing with each thrust.
“Alright, alright… shit, I think it actually is back up again. Huh!”
“Good,” Gruff says, pleased. One of his hands slides up to Tim’s back, the other one gripping his hip even tighter, and then he really puts his back into fucking Tim. He moos, and gets fucked, and gets milked, because there’s nothing else he can do.
It feels amazing.
It’s awful.
“I’m going to film this,” Weasel says. “I’ve gotta.”
“Just-- make sure not to catch my-- face in it,” Gruff responds.
“Yeah, yeah, of course. Fuck, look at you, cow. Just taking that cock like a champ, aren’t you? You’re having a good night. Getting treated so well. Don’t worry, we’ll wring you dry, just like you want.”
Tim moos. Gruff huffs quietly with effort and pleasure, fucking Tim like he thinks he can fuck every last drop of milk out of him with his cock, and Tim takes it, his knees spread wide, his hands tied behind his back, the machine pumping and sucking at his bouncing tits, the only reason he’s not face down on the floor of the van being Gruff’s hands on him.
“Mmmooooo.”
Tim cums. The orgasm is torn out of him, rolls through his entire body, fogs up his brain. Euphoria tingles in every fiber of his body, but especially in his tits.
“Ha! Look at that. You’re really having a good time, huh? You’re welcome. Look at that, man. Looks like you got cum in your van after all.”
The man fucking him huffs with slight annoyance, but continues to pound into him without pause. The machine keeps milking him just as hard, just as relentlessly.
He moos, and tries to spread his legs wider, to lean even further into the tugging sensation at his tits. It feels good. He wobbles, unbalanced, and ends up with his face on the floor, arse in the air. He stays there, content and happy as the man behind him keeps fucking into him, as he keeps getting milked. There’s laughter and words, but he doesn’t really take them in. He just floats in the sensations being pushed onto him from both sides, soaking it all up.
After drifting in the feeling of being fucked and milked for what feels like a long time, the cock inside of him buries deep inside of him and stays, and the man behind him grunts and goes still. He’s cumming inside of me, he thinks contently. He clenches up around his cock encouragingly. The man pulls out of him after a minute, and he makes a protesting moo, wiggles his arse to try and get him to come back. The man claps his arse approvingly once, and then moves away. He squirms and struggles unhappily, but his legs are still weak and trembling from his orgasm, and he doesn’t want to move away from what’s milking his tits.
“Damn,” the man says. Gruff, he thinks distantly. That’s his name, right? Gruff. “This is… a very good haul. I think we’re going to make more than we did all of last week.”
“He’s still going,” the other one says gleefully. Weasel.
“Do you still have that dildo?” Gruff asks. “Stick it in him.”
There’s words and rummaging and movement, but all he knows is that he isn’t being touched, isn’t being fucked. He moos plaintively, trying to make them come back to him, stuck in place by the milking machine. It feels so good.
What’s his name now again?
He’s distracted when suddenly there’s a hand on him again, placed on his thigh. He moos encouragingly, needily. He’s shushed. Someone laughs at him. Something gets pushed inside of him and it goes in easily, his arse slick with cum and more, and he makes happy, eager noises, presses up into it.
He gets milked. He clenches around the thing pushed inside of him. He moos.
“Great job, cow,” someone says, a sharp smile in their voice.
Cow. That’s who he is? Cow.
It feels right.
Cow gets milked, and he moos happily. He’s exactly as he should be.