lois333
TMF Novice
- Joined
- Jan 13, 2012
- Messages
- 61
- Points
- 18
Hey guys, here's the second and last part of the story. Hope you enjoy.
The room where Veronica had been placed was far from a simple dormitory. It exuded a strange combination of luxury and clinical sterility. The walls were a pristine white, devoid of any superfluous elements, except for the single bed in the center: large, plush, surrounded by metal rails, and perfectly suited to accommodate its future residents. A soft, diffuse light bathed the room, making it impossible to tell whether it was day or night.
When they placed her on the mattress, still panting from her production session, Veronica didn't even have the strength to protest. Her heavy chest, swollen with milk that still pulsed in her sensitive breasts, swayed gently with each short breath. Her blond hair clung in damp strands to her forehead, and a beatific smile still lingered on her parted lips, punctuated by laughter she could no longer fully control.
A silent assistant approached, placing a tray before her. On the tray, a carefully arranged plate: sliced fruit, delicate bites drizzled with a rosy sauce, and a glass filled with a sweet, milky liquid.
Veronica's eyes fluttered open, still hazy, her stomach knotted with hunger. Her tongue ran over her chapped lips, though she didn't quite understand why she was salivating so much.
— Eat, Veronica, whispered the calm voice of the assistant. You need to regain your strength for tomorrow.
Obediently, without thinking, she brought the first bite to her mouth. The taste was sweet, almost regressive. As soon as she swallowed, she felt a strange warmth slide down her esophagus, gently radiating in her stomach. She continued, without stopping. Each bite seemed more delicious, more addictive. The rosy liquid gave her a slight tingling sensation, like a shiver that ran between her thighs with each sip. She didn't leave a drop.
Over the days—or nights, she couldn't tell—the ritual repeated itself. Each meal was carefully prepared, and each bite contained a subtle dose of specific hormones. Her appetite had sharpened, becoming uncontrollable, and each meal left her feverish, her cheeks slightly flushed, her thighs unconsciously rubbing against each other under the sheets.
But that wasn't all. Every morning, without fail, two assistants entered the room. They said nothing. They approached, gently lifted her covers, and applied creams to her bare skin. Gloved hands, precise, lingering long on her heavy chest, her thighs, her feet.
The products were infused with components that enhanced vascularization, making every part of her body more receptive. She could feel it: her breasts seemed even more taut, sensitive to the slightest touch. Her nipples remained hardened constantly. Her feet quivered at the slightest caress.
Sometimes, the assistants would silently brush a soft brush under her toes, as if to "check" her reactivity. She laughed weakly, unable to control the spasms that shook her weary body, unable to hide that something within her awaited this stimulation.
At night, she fell asleep in a strange state. Her stomach felt heavy, her sex always slightly damp without knowing why. Her dreams were filled with laughter, shadows with elusive feathers, lingering sensations that made her tremble even in her sleep. She woke up in a sweat, the sheets stuck to her skin, her heart racing for no apparent reason.
One day, the assistant entered with an additional cup. A thicker liquid, slightly iridescent, which she handed over without a word.
— It's for your lactating glands, she whispered simply.
Veronica brought it to her lips. With the first sip, she felt a soft, almost sensual jolt run to her chest. A diffuse warmth settled in her breasts, as if something was slowly swelling inside her, making them fuller, heavier... almost painfully tender.
She moaned softly, her fingers involuntarily brushing her sensitive nipples under the thin fabric of the white shirt they had left her. Each day, this sensation intensified. Her stomach was tense with constant need, her breasts ready to overflow, her feet quivering at the slightest touch to her ankles. She had stopped thinking. Her mind floated, lulled between diffuse pleasure and hormonal torpor.
The treatment was no longer just physical. It was deep, embedded in her flesh, in her mind, like a slow but inevitable transformation. It wasn't just her chest that was growing, or her breasts becoming more sensitive. Her entire being was becoming more receptive to a kind of inner heat, an insatiable hunger that constantly manifested, disturbing her actions, her thoughts.
The permanent aphrodisiac contained elements specifically designed to stimulate her desire, her arousal. At first, Veronica felt only a diffuse warmth under her skin, a sensation that made her chest vibrate gently with each breath. Then, slowly, it became more pronounced. A tension she couldn't ignore, like a spark that kept growing in her veins.
Her body became a sea of sensations. She felt her stomach contract under constant pressure, a push from within. Each caress, each breath of air on her skin seemed to amplify this sensation. Her thighs became damp almost immediately at the slightest stimulation, whether from the mere touch of the sheets or an involuntary caress on her arms, her toes.
Her nipples were constantly hard, like a signal of this hypersensitivity. The slightest touch sent unpredictable waves of pleasure through her body. It was no longer just about physical pleasure; it had become an obsession. She sometimes laughed for no apparent reason, her hands trembling as she tried to control herself. The slightest contact with her toes, the slightest caress on her thighs was enough to make her jump, to make her heart race.
Her once clear and structured thoughts became hazier, more clouded. She couldn't think as well as before, as if each thought was lost in a whirlwind of unfulfilled desire. She found herself looking at her hands, her arms, the smooth skin of her thighs, seeking any excuse to feel that thrill course through her body again.
The aphrodisiac left no room for resistance. It was more than just a surge of excitement; it was an alchemy that stirred her body, compelling her to yield to the desires that constantly awakened within her. She could no longer resist, and with each bite of the food brought to her, each plate she devoured, she filled the growing void inside her. Her body became an insatiable demand, and her mind, gradually forgetting itself, began to focus solely on its own desires.
She woke up one morning, her hands trembling as she stood in the bathroom. A slight shiver ran down her spine as she looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes gleamed with a new, increasingly languid light. Her cheeks were flushed with the heat of the aphrodisiac, her lips slightly parted, her gaze fixed on her reflection. She turned and leaned slightly, observing the curves that were becoming more pronounced on her body, her breasts, her waist. She could feel, intensely, every part of her being. Every centimeter of skin, every muscle, every fiber was alert, reacting to every movement.
She had stopped resisting these changes. She felt them deeply, accepting each small transformation as an inevitable, almost necessary fact. The little voice that had initially whispered in her mind, advising her to fight, to stay herself, had fallen silent. There was no room for that anymore. There was only desire.
Sometimes, she didn't even know if she was laughing from pleasure or agony. Laughter had become a part of her, just like the need for more. She lived in this state, between unbearable heat and inextinguishable pleasure. Frustration was an old friend she no longer recognized. She no longer needed to push away this pleasure, no longer needed to tell herself that it all had to end. Now, she accepted every shiver, every contraction, every bead of sweat that formed on her body. The laughter was louder, closer, each cry a small sigh of ecstasy hidden under the bursts of her effervescent laughter.
And her body continued to react. The hormones had implanted themselves so deeply within her that they now seemed to control her mind as much as her actions. She no longer knew where she began and where the desire ended. Every moment was a promise of more, a promise of pleasure, a promise of transformation.
She sat down one morning, her belly swollen with desire, the scent of her own milk filling the room. She had no more doubts. No more questions. She knew what she had become. She knew that her body had reached a new stage, a stage where every pulse had become an obvious necessity.
Her breasts, her skin, her thighs—all of it was now connected to one thing: production. Every fiber of her body wanted to fulfill its mission. Every movement she made seemed to trigger a new surge of milk, every smile an invitation for more. More pleasure. More tickles. More excitement. That was the only goal that mattered now.
The silence of the room, enveloped in this artificial warmth, was broken by her laughter, a soft, almost hypnotic laughter. It escaped her lips like a murmur, like a breath. A sound that, for her, was now just a part of her existence, a part of what she had become.
She could no longer deny that the aphrodisiac had taken control. She was there, vulnerable and ready, at the peak of this irreversible change, not yet knowing how far it would take her.
The pre-production treatment was slowly doing its work.
She laughed more easily, sometimes without reason, a crystalline burst that escaped her throat without her noticing. Her body, hypersensitive, reacted to the slightest stimulus: the caress of the sheets, the pressure of the mattress under her thighs, the breeze on her bare toes.
And every evening, when her tray was brought to her, her eyes gleamed with a new light.
An insatiable hunger.
Not just for food... but for something deeper.
It had been several weeks since Veronica Sweet had left her immaculate home, her cream-colored suits, and her perfectly controlled days. Several weeks since that seemingly innocuous signature, that stroke of the pen that had erased her old identity to create a new one.
She was no longer that elegant woman, a mother, an irreproachable wife.
She had become the pride of the center.
Each day spent within the sterile walls of Hucow Inc. had shaped her, refined her, remodeled her. Her breasts, once firm and perfectly proportioned, had taken on a new fullness, heavy, taut, hypersensitive, overflowing more each day under the eager suction cups. Her feet, which she had once meticulously cared for, nails painted silver, had become the favored terrain of the machines, her toes now conditioned to curl at the slightest stimulation. Her laughter, once so controlled, now burst forth unchecked, punctuated by involuntary moos that marked her orgasms and moments of abandon.
She laughed without realizing it. She mooed as soon as she was touched. She produced more milk than any other patient who had passed through the center.
The room she was taken to was slightly different from the previous ones. Larger, even more sterile. The walls were a glacial white, with no ornaments, no temporal markers. Only a few embedded screens displayed real-time data: muscle tension, milk production, heart rate. Everything was under control.
At the center stood the machine.
A metal monster, perfectly polished, with lines that were both clinical and perversely sensual. Its structure was sleek, functional, without frills. A steel frame, massive yet precise, designed for one thing: to immobilize a woman in a position of total exposure.
Two bars ran parallel a few centimeters from the floor, intended to accommodate Veronica's wrists. Padded cuffs awaited her arms, preventing any withdrawal, holding her shoulders taut and vulnerable at a calculated height.
Lower down, supports were provided for her thighs and knees, thick straps ready to hold her open, offered, unable to close her legs.
A central part remained open, revealing a series of folded mechanical arms, discreetly stored and waiting. Some bore long, fine feathers, others soft brushes, and still others transparent suction cups. There was even a retractable piston and a space arranged... for human intervention.
Veronica moved slowly, flanked by two assistants in white coats. Her steps were hesitant, almost floating, her body molded in a simple white shirt too short to hide the heaviness of her breasts or the persistent moisture between her thighs.
Each step made her swollen breasts sway, and her bare feet, nails painted silver, slid silently across the icy floor.
Veronica felt her stomach tighten. Not from fear. But from anticipation.
And facing this machine, like an apparition from an ancient memory, stood Bradley.
She stopped, her breath short, her eyes blurred with excitement and submission. Her gaze locked onto his, and for a heartbeat, her entire past surged through her veins: the first time he had approached her, his confident smile, his reassuring tone. But it was no longer attraction that she felt. It was no longer the curiosity of a woman facing a charming man. It was something else, something visceral, irremediable.
Bradley was no longer just a salesman in her mind. He had become the embodiment of her state: the one who had led her there, the one who had lit this fuse, the one who now pressed each of the triggers of her conditioning.
He approached without a word, his gaze steady, measured, almost tender. Veronica felt her knees weaken under her weight, a slight moo already escaping her parted lips, uncontrollable, shamefully instinctive.
—Veronica, he whispered, brushing her cheek with the back of his fingers.
His touch was light, but its effect was electrifying: her lower back arched, her hips stirred despite herself, and her heavy breasts seemed to pulse in time with her disordered heartbeat.
She wanted to respond. To say something. But what escaped her lips was an indistinct mix of nervous laughter, sighs, and raspy moans, interspersed with a new, plaintive moo. He simply smiled, as if he already knew the extent of her surrender.
Without him needing to speak, the assistants took her by the arms and guided her to the frame.
The machine stood, patient, ready to receive her. The controlled coldness of the metal bars contrasted with the overflowing warmth of her body. She knelt obediently, her skin almost sticking to the leather of the supports due to her sweat.
The padded cuffs closed around her wrists, holding her without brutality but with no hope of escape. Then came the thick straps, tightening around her thighs, holding them spread in a quiet obscenity, exposing her glistening sex, trembling with anticipation. Her knees, resting on the pads, gave her a false sense of stability.
Finally, her ankles were secured in the supports, and she felt the fine leather of the straps slide between her toes, spreading them, holding them vulnerable, offered.
Each fastening, each buckle, each tightening was like a definitive punctuation, a silent reminder: she was now just a body to be used, stimulated, made to produce.
Bradley watched, arms crossed, impassive.
When she was finally securely fastened, immobilized in that degrading posture, Veronica dared to look up at him, her neck arched. Her face was flushed with effort, her lips parted, her damp locks clinging to her cheeks. But there was no more defiance in her gaze. No more pride. Just that silent plea he already knew.
And as he approached her again, barely brushing her hips with his fingertips, Veronica let out a strangled laugh, interspersed with a trembling moo, her toes curling in their bonds.
She wanted only one thing. Not just to find the old Bradley. But for him to press all the triggers they had so skillfully implanted in her.
To make her produce, moo, come, cry, laugh... All at once.
The silence was broken by a soft hum. A mechanical sound, muffled but charged with an inescapable promise. Veronica felt the subtle vibrations of the frame awakening beneath her, as if the machine were breathing.
A brief glance at the tablet, where Bradley was lightly touching the screen with his fingertips, was enough to understand: the process was beginning.
The mechanical arms first came to life under her feet, the rotating feathers quivering slowly, almost timidly, barely brushing the soles of her exposed feet. She felt the first tickles slide over her arch, insidious, precise. Her breath quickened immediately, a nervous laugh already escaping her lips before she could control herself.
— Oh yes... she breathed, her voice already trembling, interspersed with little giggles.
But the arms continued their relentless dance, exploring the delicate arch of her feet, insinuating themselves between her spread toes. Each touch triggered an uncontrolled spasm in her legs, her thighs tensing with each reflexive movement.
— Haaahh... My poohoohoor fihihihihiht...! she laughed, her shoulders shaking with louder laughter, her forehead leaning against the leather of the support.
Then, without warning, two secondary arms positioned themselves against her ribs and armpits. The small soft brushes activated, running along her sides, amplifying the sensory chaos. She burst into a high-pitched, desperate laugh, unable to contain the violent spasms that now shook her entire torso.
—Haaah! Ha ha ha! N-nooon... it's... too much!
Her wrists tugged reflexively against the cuffs, her heavy breasts swaying beneath her, their weight accentuating that feeling of helplessness.
But the climax came when the intimate module slowly approached under her pelvis: a fine, articulated feather, with surgical precision, barely brushed her dripping lips, caressing her clitoris in an almost imperceptible movement.
Veronica moaned, a guttural sound, a stifled mix of laughter and pleading.
— Hhhhn... Moooh... please... please... haaa... I'm... I'm just a cow... a good cow... please...
Her hips began to rock, vainly trying to escape or seek more contact, she herself unable to tell. The contrast between the light torment on her feet, her ribs, and the sweet torture under her sex drove her mad.
Bradley, still silent, watched impassively. But she felt his burning gaze on her, the weight of his role in her current state.
The transparent suction cups slowly positioned themselves on her taut breasts. She felt the cold contact of the silicone before the suction began, at first gentle, then intensifying into a deep, regular rhythm. A prolonged shiver ran down her spine. The first streams of milk appeared instantly, visible, pouring into the graduated reservoirs. Her lips trembled, a mix of shame and satisfaction reflected in her half-closed eyes.
— Oh... hahaha... I'm... I'm producing... hahaha... milk... hahaha... like a... hahaha... cow... hahaha...
The laughter, the moans, the mooing followed one another without logic, her toes curled, her pelvis rocking back and forth, her chest vibrating under the regular traction.
Bradley finally approached, his hand gently resting on her nape, encouraging her to lift her head. Their gazes met once more.
— You know what comes next, Veronica? To be a good cow, you must be fertilized. You must be perfect for me, and enjoy like a depraved woman.
He murmured calmly, and she nodded, her cheeks flushed, a fragile smile stretching her lips despite the tumult of her laughter and panting. Her eyes shone with a gleam of total submission, mixed with feverish anticipation.
She nodded, her cheeks crimson, a broken smile stretching her lips, even under the tumult of her laughter and gasps.
— MOOOOOOOOH... YEEHEHEHEHES... I want... BREEHEEHEED ME... I'm ready...
Her eyes were wide open, her gaze shining with total devotion. Every word she uttered seemed an exact reflection of her state: conditioned, hyper-sensitive, thirsting to be pushed ever further.
Bradley brushed the screen again. The suction grew stronger. The tickles on her feet intensified, the feathers spinning faster, exploring relentlessly. And Veronica exploded, a broken, saccadic laughter, interspersed with long, plaintive moans, her breasts gushing a continuous flow under the milking, her thighs trembling with exhaustion, her sex palpitating, deformed, swollen with pleasure and dripping, ready to receive the male's seed behind her.
Her voice was now a stream of disordered pleas.
— Haaa... more... please... fill me... I'm ready...!
A pure instrument of pleasure, production, and submission blended into a single abandon.
Bradley approached silently, the discreet click of his steps on the smooth laboratory floor resonating like a sentence. Veronica, panting, already undone by the methodical mechanics of the Tri-Stim Frame, felt his shadow loom over her, immense, inescapable.
Her wrists tugged weakly against the restraints, no longer in resistance but by reflex, her shoulders bent under the weight of pleasure and torment combined. The suction of the cups attached to her breasts did not waver, pulling at regular intervals, draining every precious drop from her swollen chest. The tickling arms continued their cruel dance, brushing relentlessly over her stretched feet, between her toes held apart, gliding over her ribs, her thighs, igniting fires under her taut skin.
And at the center, her sex pulsed under the precise caress of the intimate feather, already dripping, ready.
Veronica looked up, her pupils dilated, her cheeks flushed, searching for Bradley. But she didn't need to speak. He was already behind her.
His firm hands gripped her hips, held by the frame's supports, and this simple contact sent a violent shiver through her entire body, a choked moan escaping her throat.
— Hhhhmoooo... Bradley... she breathed, her eyes half-closed, her breath short, interspersed with uncontrolled mooing.
His fingers briefly caressed the taut curve of her pelvis, brushing her moist skin, feeling the incessant tremors of Veronica beneath his palms, as if she were vibrating from within, unable to stabilize. Each touch seemed to ignite a discharge, a spasm that made her oscillate between hysterical laughter and animal groans.
— You are ready, he murmured simply, his voice deep and raspy.
She nodded frantically, her eyes wide open, unable to articulate anything but an imploring sigh.
Then, without ceremony, he positioned himself, aligning perfectly with her. The frame had tilted her pelvis with cruel precision, exposing her glistening, parted sex, offered. Her thighs quivered, her silver-varnished toes contracting and spreading involuntarily under the relentless assault of the teasing feathers. Each brushstroke triggered a new wave of uncontrollable laughter.
— Hahaha... oh no... not my feet... hahaha... it's too much... hahaha...
The pressure of his sex against her was an electroshock. She screamed, a cry interspersed with tearing laughter, her back arched to the extreme.
— HAAAH! Ahaha... oh god... please!
With a slow but assured movement, Bradley thrust into her, causing Veronica to lose all coherence. Her scream turned into a long, guttural moo, her wrists twisting against the restraints.
— Moooooh... yes... hahaha... take me... hahaha... I am your cow... hahaha...
Her contracted belly, her hips rocking wildly beneath him despite the straps, she repeated, panting, between hysterical laughter:
— Oh yes... yes... I am a good cow... breed me... please... take me!
The tickling arms accelerated, as if programmed to amplify each spasm. Her feet trembled, her toes twisted under the stimulation, and with each thrust, her breasts burst with milk, gushing into the reservoirs.
Bradley increased the pace, implacable, his hands gripping Veronica's hips firmly. She laughed, cried, mooed without ceasing, her body overwhelmed by a whirlwind of uncontrollable sensations.
— MooHahaha... I'm going... hahaha... to go crazy... hahaha... it's too good... hahaha...
Each back-and-forth movement triggered a series of cascading orgasms in her, her muscles convulsing violently, her cries turning into delirious prayers.
— Oh yes... hahaha... more... hahaha... fill me... hahaha...
Her eyes rolled back under her eyelids, her fingers desperately seeking a non-existent grip. Tears of pure ecstasy flowed down her cheeks, testifying to her total abandonment to this animal state, with no possibility of return.
— Hahaha... I... I am yours... hahaha... completely... hahaha...
Until her last orgasm broke her: a long, guttural scream, her breasts exploding with milk, her feet clenched, her hips trembling wildly, her strangled laughter mixed with irresistible mooing.
— MOOHOOHOO YES!
The mechanical arms did not slow down: the feathers continued to dance over her feet, exploring relentlessly the tender, stretched skin, their tips insinuating between her still-clenched toes, while the brushes traced long caresses over her arches, causing an uncontrolled jolt with each pass.
The cups attached to her breasts intensified their suction, synchronized with each of Bradley's thrusts. The milk gushed in continuous streams, each suction wrenching moans mixed with laughter from Veronica.
— Oh... hahaha... I'm producing... hahaha... milk for you... hahaha...
Veronica laughed. A high-pitched, disjointed, broken laughter. Not a laughter of control, nor even of conscious pleasure. Rather a pure, irresistible outburst that escaped her lips without her being able to contain it, rhythmically punctuated by the tickles that spared neither her feet, nor her ribs, nor the burning space between her thighs.
— Hahaha... oh god... I... I can't anymore... ahaha—!
And, amidst these outbursts, her mooing surged without transition, raw, guttural, as if her body itself no longer knew where the laughter ended and the animal sounds began. Her throat vibrated, oscillating between demented laughter and plaintive mooing, while her hips still trembled, her moist skin, her breasts endlessly gushing.
— Mmmmhh... mooooh... ahaha... hhnnn... please... mooooh!
The sensors on the frame subtly adjusted the pressure of the cups, as if seeking to synchronize each pull with the spasms of her contracted belly, exploiting the slightest jolt to extract even more milk. Her breasts became the true metronome of the scene, stretching, gushing, rhythmically punctuating her laughter and cries.
The intimate feather never ceased to graze her swollen clitoris, each brushstroke triggering a new contraction, an uncontrolled shiver that ran up her arched back.
Veronica was now a series of unleashed reflexes, uncontrolled undulations, laughter blending with her mooing like wild music.
Her toes vainly attempted to curl under the assault, but the straps held them perfectly spread, exposed, vulnerable. Each brushstroke under her feet provoked a nervous outburst, her chest gushing even harder, her hips instinctively seeking the contact that had just left her.
The scientists, behind the glass, observed silently, fascinated, their tablets displaying real-time metrics: muscle tension at its peak, racing heart rate, record milk flow.
But Veronica saw none of that. In her mind, everything blurred. Pleasure, pain, tickles, need. Her laughter became a sob, then a moo again. Her lips, parted, mechanically murmured:
— More... more... I want... mooooh...
She felt her own milk flowing down her sides, the warmth sliding between her legs, the feather ceaselessly titillating her raw nerves. Each gush of milk tore a higher laugh from her lips, each tickle triggered a raw moo, her fingers clenched in the void, unable to escape this sensory ballet.
She no longer knew if she was laughing, crying, or coming. Everything was fused into an endless torrent.
And all the while, Bradley continued to penetrate Veronica, sinking into her with calculated slowness, savoring each moment of this union. Veronica's body responded immediately, waves of pleasure washing over her, amplifying all the sensations already exacerbated by the relentless stimulations.
She tried to scream, but only a long moo escaped her throat, resonating in the room like the ultimate expression of her surrender. Her muscles contracted around Bradley, her hips instinctively seeking to follow the rhythm he imposed. The cups on her breasts seemed to redouble their efforts, the milk gushing in continuous streams, testifying to the intensity of her arousal.
Bradley gradually accelerated his movements, synchronizing his thrusts with Veronica's contractions, each push causing a new gush of milk, each penetration triggering a hysterical laugh or a desperate moo. The feathers and mechanical brushes continued their work, relentlessly tickling her feet, her ribs, her intimacy, making each sensation sharper, more unbearable.
The mechanical arms intensified their movements, amplifying each of Veronica's spasms. Her feet trembled violently, her spread toes twisting under the relentless stimulation. With each of Bradley's thrusts, her milk-engorged breasts burst, the white liquid flowing abundantly into the designated reservoirs.
— Hahaha... I... I can't anymore... hahaha... it's too much... hahaha...
Veronica was trapped in an infernal cycle of pleasure and torture, her mind floating between consciousness and total abandon. She no longer knew where she was, who she was, only the sensation of filling, emptying, stimulation mattered. Her body was now merely an instrument of pleasure, a milk-producing machine, an entity entirely dedicated to satisfying Bradley and the scientists observing her.
Her belly contracted, her hips desperately seeking more contact despite the restrictive straps. Panting, between hysterical laughter, she begged:
— Yes... hahaha... I am your good cow... hahaha... breed me... hahaha... please... hahaha... take me... hahaha...
As Bradley felt Veronica approaching the point of no return, he intensified his movements, his hands firmly gripping her hips to keep her in place. Veronica, feeling the orgasm building within her, tried to resist, to delay the inevitable, but her body no longer obeyed her. The stimulations converged into a single point, an explosion of sensations that overwhelmed her entirely.
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out for an endless second, then a guttural cry, a deep and prolonged moo filled the room, resonating against the sterile walls. Her body tensed, every muscle contracted, her feet desperately trying to escape the tickles, her hands clenching the void.
The milk gushed from her breasts in a continuous stream, the cups struggling to collect it all, the warm liquid flowing down her skin, accumulating beneath her. Her orgasm seemed to last an eternity, each wave of pleasure plunging her deeper into the abyss of submission and abandon.
Bradley, feeling Veronica's contractions around him, finally came, pouring into her with an intensity he had never known. He remained in her for a few moments, savoring the warmth of her body, the softness of her skin, the trembling of her exhausted muscles.
— MOOOOOO HHH AAAAA HAHAHAHA AAA
When he finally withdrew, Veronica collapsed against the supports of the Tri-Stim Frame, her body shaken by residual spasms, her mind floating between consciousness and unconsciousness. The machines gradually slowed, the stimulations decreasing in intensity, allowing Veronica to catch her breath, her body covered in sweat and milk, a symbol of her total transformation.
Bradley straightened up, adjusting his attire, observing Veronica with a mixture of satisfaction and pride. He turned to the scientists behind the glass, nodding in a sign of success. Veronica was ready. Ready to fully embrace her role as a producer, a breeder, a human cow entirely devoted to her function.
Veronica's frozen smile adorned dozens of icy displays, printed large on bottles lacquered in immaculate white. A mouth open in a perpetual laugh, eyes half-closed, a demented gleam mixed with a childlike spark. Between her sketched lips, one could discern a suspended moo, as if the photographed moment knew neither beginning nor end. A pure moment of pleasure become eternity.
Bimbo MooMoo™, the slogan proclaims in pastel letters just above her face. Below, a simple phrase: "Pure pleasure. Pure milk."
The advertising screens unfurled the same hypnotic scene in a loop: Veronica, kneeling in the Tri-Stim Frame, her engorged breasts connected to the cups, her feet bound, shaken by uncontrollable spasms. Feathers brushed her arches while she burst into laughter, her eyes shining with tears, her bust trembling under the successive waves of milking. Subtitles were unnecessary: her mooing, her breathless laughter, and her vacant gaze spoke for themselves. A satisfied cow, a model producer, a living symbol of conditioned happiness.
It was before one of these screens, in a crowded station, that Henry stopped. First intrigued by the familiar face, then petrified. He scrutinized the laughing eyes, searching for a trace of what she once was — the Veronica he knew. But nothing remained. Only this laughing, docile creature, her gaze emptied of all will, trapped in an endless loop of euphoria.
He then understood that Veronica would never return.
Miles away, in a white room, Veronica continued to exist — or rather, what remained of her. She laughed without apparent reason, her hips swaying gently out of habit, her docile body awaiting the next session, the next tickles, the next mating sessions. A simple touch, a breeze on her skin was enough to trigger happy mooing.
The walls echoed with her mechanical, regular laughter. She no longer needed to be stimulated to produce: she had been perfectly programmed. Each drop of milk flowed accompanied by a burst of laughter, each breath was a sigh of a satisfied cow.
She no longer thought of Henry. Nor of herself. In her hazy thoughts, there was only one certainty: She was Bimbo MooMoo, the perfect tickle cow. And she was finally content.
When they placed her on the mattress, still panting from her production session, Veronica didn't even have the strength to protest. Her heavy chest, swollen with milk that still pulsed in her sensitive breasts, swayed gently with each short breath. Her blond hair clung in damp strands to her forehead, and a beatific smile still lingered on her parted lips, punctuated by laughter she could no longer fully control.
A silent assistant approached, placing a tray before her. On the tray, a carefully arranged plate: sliced fruit, delicate bites drizzled with a rosy sauce, and a glass filled with a sweet, milky liquid.
Veronica's eyes fluttered open, still hazy, her stomach knotted with hunger. Her tongue ran over her chapped lips, though she didn't quite understand why she was salivating so much.
— Eat, Veronica, whispered the calm voice of the assistant. You need to regain your strength for tomorrow.
Obediently, without thinking, she brought the first bite to her mouth. The taste was sweet, almost regressive. As soon as she swallowed, she felt a strange warmth slide down her esophagus, gently radiating in her stomach. She continued, without stopping. Each bite seemed more delicious, more addictive. The rosy liquid gave her a slight tingling sensation, like a shiver that ran between her thighs with each sip. She didn't leave a drop.
Over the days—or nights, she couldn't tell—the ritual repeated itself. Each meal was carefully prepared, and each bite contained a subtle dose of specific hormones. Her appetite had sharpened, becoming uncontrollable, and each meal left her feverish, her cheeks slightly flushed, her thighs unconsciously rubbing against each other under the sheets.
But that wasn't all. Every morning, without fail, two assistants entered the room. They said nothing. They approached, gently lifted her covers, and applied creams to her bare skin. Gloved hands, precise, lingering long on her heavy chest, her thighs, her feet.
The products were infused with components that enhanced vascularization, making every part of her body more receptive. She could feel it: her breasts seemed even more taut, sensitive to the slightest touch. Her nipples remained hardened constantly. Her feet quivered at the slightest caress.
Sometimes, the assistants would silently brush a soft brush under her toes, as if to "check" her reactivity. She laughed weakly, unable to control the spasms that shook her weary body, unable to hide that something within her awaited this stimulation.
At night, she fell asleep in a strange state. Her stomach felt heavy, her sex always slightly damp without knowing why. Her dreams were filled with laughter, shadows with elusive feathers, lingering sensations that made her tremble even in her sleep. She woke up in a sweat, the sheets stuck to her skin, her heart racing for no apparent reason.
One day, the assistant entered with an additional cup. A thicker liquid, slightly iridescent, which she handed over without a word.
— It's for your lactating glands, she whispered simply.
Veronica brought it to her lips. With the first sip, she felt a soft, almost sensual jolt run to her chest. A diffuse warmth settled in her breasts, as if something was slowly swelling inside her, making them fuller, heavier... almost painfully tender.
She moaned softly, her fingers involuntarily brushing her sensitive nipples under the thin fabric of the white shirt they had left her. Each day, this sensation intensified. Her stomach was tense with constant need, her breasts ready to overflow, her feet quivering at the slightest touch to her ankles. She had stopped thinking. Her mind floated, lulled between diffuse pleasure and hormonal torpor.
The treatment was no longer just physical. It was deep, embedded in her flesh, in her mind, like a slow but inevitable transformation. It wasn't just her chest that was growing, or her breasts becoming more sensitive. Her entire being was becoming more receptive to a kind of inner heat, an insatiable hunger that constantly manifested, disturbing her actions, her thoughts.
The permanent aphrodisiac contained elements specifically designed to stimulate her desire, her arousal. At first, Veronica felt only a diffuse warmth under her skin, a sensation that made her chest vibrate gently with each breath. Then, slowly, it became more pronounced. A tension she couldn't ignore, like a spark that kept growing in her veins.
Her body became a sea of sensations. She felt her stomach contract under constant pressure, a push from within. Each caress, each breath of air on her skin seemed to amplify this sensation. Her thighs became damp almost immediately at the slightest stimulation, whether from the mere touch of the sheets or an involuntary caress on her arms, her toes.
Her nipples were constantly hard, like a signal of this hypersensitivity. The slightest touch sent unpredictable waves of pleasure through her body. It was no longer just about physical pleasure; it had become an obsession. She sometimes laughed for no apparent reason, her hands trembling as she tried to control herself. The slightest contact with her toes, the slightest caress on her thighs was enough to make her jump, to make her heart race.
Her once clear and structured thoughts became hazier, more clouded. She couldn't think as well as before, as if each thought was lost in a whirlwind of unfulfilled desire. She found herself looking at her hands, her arms, the smooth skin of her thighs, seeking any excuse to feel that thrill course through her body again.
The aphrodisiac left no room for resistance. It was more than just a surge of excitement; it was an alchemy that stirred her body, compelling her to yield to the desires that constantly awakened within her. She could no longer resist, and with each bite of the food brought to her, each plate she devoured, she filled the growing void inside her. Her body became an insatiable demand, and her mind, gradually forgetting itself, began to focus solely on its own desires.
She woke up one morning, her hands trembling as she stood in the bathroom. A slight shiver ran down her spine as she looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes gleamed with a new, increasingly languid light. Her cheeks were flushed with the heat of the aphrodisiac, her lips slightly parted, her gaze fixed on her reflection. She turned and leaned slightly, observing the curves that were becoming more pronounced on her body, her breasts, her waist. She could feel, intensely, every part of her being. Every centimeter of skin, every muscle, every fiber was alert, reacting to every movement.
She had stopped resisting these changes. She felt them deeply, accepting each small transformation as an inevitable, almost necessary fact. The little voice that had initially whispered in her mind, advising her to fight, to stay herself, had fallen silent. There was no room for that anymore. There was only desire.
Sometimes, she didn't even know if she was laughing from pleasure or agony. Laughter had become a part of her, just like the need for more. She lived in this state, between unbearable heat and inextinguishable pleasure. Frustration was an old friend she no longer recognized. She no longer needed to push away this pleasure, no longer needed to tell herself that it all had to end. Now, she accepted every shiver, every contraction, every bead of sweat that formed on her body. The laughter was louder, closer, each cry a small sigh of ecstasy hidden under the bursts of her effervescent laughter.
And her body continued to react. The hormones had implanted themselves so deeply within her that they now seemed to control her mind as much as her actions. She no longer knew where she began and where the desire ended. Every moment was a promise of more, a promise of pleasure, a promise of transformation.
She sat down one morning, her belly swollen with desire, the scent of her own milk filling the room. She had no more doubts. No more questions. She knew what she had become. She knew that her body had reached a new stage, a stage where every pulse had become an obvious necessity.
Her breasts, her skin, her thighs—all of it was now connected to one thing: production. Every fiber of her body wanted to fulfill its mission. Every movement she made seemed to trigger a new surge of milk, every smile an invitation for more. More pleasure. More tickles. More excitement. That was the only goal that mattered now.
The silence of the room, enveloped in this artificial warmth, was broken by her laughter, a soft, almost hypnotic laughter. It escaped her lips like a murmur, like a breath. A sound that, for her, was now just a part of her existence, a part of what she had become.
She could no longer deny that the aphrodisiac had taken control. She was there, vulnerable and ready, at the peak of this irreversible change, not yet knowing how far it would take her.
The pre-production treatment was slowly doing its work.
She laughed more easily, sometimes without reason, a crystalline burst that escaped her throat without her noticing. Her body, hypersensitive, reacted to the slightest stimulus: the caress of the sheets, the pressure of the mattress under her thighs, the breeze on her bare toes.
And every evening, when her tray was brought to her, her eyes gleamed with a new light.
An insatiable hunger.
Not just for food... but for something deeper.
It had been several weeks since Veronica Sweet had left her immaculate home, her cream-colored suits, and her perfectly controlled days. Several weeks since that seemingly innocuous signature, that stroke of the pen that had erased her old identity to create a new one.
She was no longer that elegant woman, a mother, an irreproachable wife.
She had become the pride of the center.
Each day spent within the sterile walls of Hucow Inc. had shaped her, refined her, remodeled her. Her breasts, once firm and perfectly proportioned, had taken on a new fullness, heavy, taut, hypersensitive, overflowing more each day under the eager suction cups. Her feet, which she had once meticulously cared for, nails painted silver, had become the favored terrain of the machines, her toes now conditioned to curl at the slightest stimulation. Her laughter, once so controlled, now burst forth unchecked, punctuated by involuntary moos that marked her orgasms and moments of abandon.
She laughed without realizing it. She mooed as soon as she was touched. She produced more milk than any other patient who had passed through the center.
The room she was taken to was slightly different from the previous ones. Larger, even more sterile. The walls were a glacial white, with no ornaments, no temporal markers. Only a few embedded screens displayed real-time data: muscle tension, milk production, heart rate. Everything was under control.
At the center stood the machine.
A metal monster, perfectly polished, with lines that were both clinical and perversely sensual. Its structure was sleek, functional, without frills. A steel frame, massive yet precise, designed for one thing: to immobilize a woman in a position of total exposure.
Two bars ran parallel a few centimeters from the floor, intended to accommodate Veronica's wrists. Padded cuffs awaited her arms, preventing any withdrawal, holding her shoulders taut and vulnerable at a calculated height.
Lower down, supports were provided for her thighs and knees, thick straps ready to hold her open, offered, unable to close her legs.
A central part remained open, revealing a series of folded mechanical arms, discreetly stored and waiting. Some bore long, fine feathers, others soft brushes, and still others transparent suction cups. There was even a retractable piston and a space arranged... for human intervention.
Veronica moved slowly, flanked by two assistants in white coats. Her steps were hesitant, almost floating, her body molded in a simple white shirt too short to hide the heaviness of her breasts or the persistent moisture between her thighs.
Each step made her swollen breasts sway, and her bare feet, nails painted silver, slid silently across the icy floor.
Veronica felt her stomach tighten. Not from fear. But from anticipation.
And facing this machine, like an apparition from an ancient memory, stood Bradley.
She stopped, her breath short, her eyes blurred with excitement and submission. Her gaze locked onto his, and for a heartbeat, her entire past surged through her veins: the first time he had approached her, his confident smile, his reassuring tone. But it was no longer attraction that she felt. It was no longer the curiosity of a woman facing a charming man. It was something else, something visceral, irremediable.
Bradley was no longer just a salesman in her mind. He had become the embodiment of her state: the one who had led her there, the one who had lit this fuse, the one who now pressed each of the triggers of her conditioning.
He approached without a word, his gaze steady, measured, almost tender. Veronica felt her knees weaken under her weight, a slight moo already escaping her parted lips, uncontrollable, shamefully instinctive.
—Veronica, he whispered, brushing her cheek with the back of his fingers.
His touch was light, but its effect was electrifying: her lower back arched, her hips stirred despite herself, and her heavy breasts seemed to pulse in time with her disordered heartbeat.
She wanted to respond. To say something. But what escaped her lips was an indistinct mix of nervous laughter, sighs, and raspy moans, interspersed with a new, plaintive moo. He simply smiled, as if he already knew the extent of her surrender.
Without him needing to speak, the assistants took her by the arms and guided her to the frame.
The machine stood, patient, ready to receive her. The controlled coldness of the metal bars contrasted with the overflowing warmth of her body. She knelt obediently, her skin almost sticking to the leather of the supports due to her sweat.
The padded cuffs closed around her wrists, holding her without brutality but with no hope of escape. Then came the thick straps, tightening around her thighs, holding them spread in a quiet obscenity, exposing her glistening sex, trembling with anticipation. Her knees, resting on the pads, gave her a false sense of stability.
Finally, her ankles were secured in the supports, and she felt the fine leather of the straps slide between her toes, spreading them, holding them vulnerable, offered.
Each fastening, each buckle, each tightening was like a definitive punctuation, a silent reminder: she was now just a body to be used, stimulated, made to produce.
Bradley watched, arms crossed, impassive.
When she was finally securely fastened, immobilized in that degrading posture, Veronica dared to look up at him, her neck arched. Her face was flushed with effort, her lips parted, her damp locks clinging to her cheeks. But there was no more defiance in her gaze. No more pride. Just that silent plea he already knew.
And as he approached her again, barely brushing her hips with his fingertips, Veronica let out a strangled laugh, interspersed with a trembling moo, her toes curling in their bonds.
She wanted only one thing. Not just to find the old Bradley. But for him to press all the triggers they had so skillfully implanted in her.
To make her produce, moo, come, cry, laugh... All at once.
The silence was broken by a soft hum. A mechanical sound, muffled but charged with an inescapable promise. Veronica felt the subtle vibrations of the frame awakening beneath her, as if the machine were breathing.
A brief glance at the tablet, where Bradley was lightly touching the screen with his fingertips, was enough to understand: the process was beginning.
The mechanical arms first came to life under her feet, the rotating feathers quivering slowly, almost timidly, barely brushing the soles of her exposed feet. She felt the first tickles slide over her arch, insidious, precise. Her breath quickened immediately, a nervous laugh already escaping her lips before she could control herself.
— Oh yes... she breathed, her voice already trembling, interspersed with little giggles.
But the arms continued their relentless dance, exploring the delicate arch of her feet, insinuating themselves between her spread toes. Each touch triggered an uncontrolled spasm in her legs, her thighs tensing with each reflexive movement.
— Haaahh... My poohoohoor fihihihihiht...! she laughed, her shoulders shaking with louder laughter, her forehead leaning against the leather of the support.
Then, without warning, two secondary arms positioned themselves against her ribs and armpits. The small soft brushes activated, running along her sides, amplifying the sensory chaos. She burst into a high-pitched, desperate laugh, unable to contain the violent spasms that now shook her entire torso.
—Haaah! Ha ha ha! N-nooon... it's... too much!
Her wrists tugged reflexively against the cuffs, her heavy breasts swaying beneath her, their weight accentuating that feeling of helplessness.
But the climax came when the intimate module slowly approached under her pelvis: a fine, articulated feather, with surgical precision, barely brushed her dripping lips, caressing her clitoris in an almost imperceptible movement.
Veronica moaned, a guttural sound, a stifled mix of laughter and pleading.
— Hhhhn... Moooh... please... please... haaa... I'm... I'm just a cow... a good cow... please...
Her hips began to rock, vainly trying to escape or seek more contact, she herself unable to tell. The contrast between the light torment on her feet, her ribs, and the sweet torture under her sex drove her mad.
Bradley, still silent, watched impassively. But she felt his burning gaze on her, the weight of his role in her current state.
The transparent suction cups slowly positioned themselves on her taut breasts. She felt the cold contact of the silicone before the suction began, at first gentle, then intensifying into a deep, regular rhythm. A prolonged shiver ran down her spine. The first streams of milk appeared instantly, visible, pouring into the graduated reservoirs. Her lips trembled, a mix of shame and satisfaction reflected in her half-closed eyes.
— Oh... hahaha... I'm... I'm producing... hahaha... milk... hahaha... like a... hahaha... cow... hahaha...
The laughter, the moans, the mooing followed one another without logic, her toes curled, her pelvis rocking back and forth, her chest vibrating under the regular traction.
Bradley finally approached, his hand gently resting on her nape, encouraging her to lift her head. Their gazes met once more.
— You know what comes next, Veronica? To be a good cow, you must be fertilized. You must be perfect for me, and enjoy like a depraved woman.
He murmured calmly, and she nodded, her cheeks flushed, a fragile smile stretching her lips despite the tumult of her laughter and panting. Her eyes shone with a gleam of total submission, mixed with feverish anticipation.
She nodded, her cheeks crimson, a broken smile stretching her lips, even under the tumult of her laughter and gasps.
— MOOOOOOOOH... YEEHEHEHEHES... I want... BREEHEEHEED ME... I'm ready...
Her eyes were wide open, her gaze shining with total devotion. Every word she uttered seemed an exact reflection of her state: conditioned, hyper-sensitive, thirsting to be pushed ever further.
Bradley brushed the screen again. The suction grew stronger. The tickles on her feet intensified, the feathers spinning faster, exploring relentlessly. And Veronica exploded, a broken, saccadic laughter, interspersed with long, plaintive moans, her breasts gushing a continuous flow under the milking, her thighs trembling with exhaustion, her sex palpitating, deformed, swollen with pleasure and dripping, ready to receive the male's seed behind her.
Her voice was now a stream of disordered pleas.
— Haaa... more... please... fill me... I'm ready...!
A pure instrument of pleasure, production, and submission blended into a single abandon.
Bradley approached silently, the discreet click of his steps on the smooth laboratory floor resonating like a sentence. Veronica, panting, already undone by the methodical mechanics of the Tri-Stim Frame, felt his shadow loom over her, immense, inescapable.
Her wrists tugged weakly against the restraints, no longer in resistance but by reflex, her shoulders bent under the weight of pleasure and torment combined. The suction of the cups attached to her breasts did not waver, pulling at regular intervals, draining every precious drop from her swollen chest. The tickling arms continued their cruel dance, brushing relentlessly over her stretched feet, between her toes held apart, gliding over her ribs, her thighs, igniting fires under her taut skin.
And at the center, her sex pulsed under the precise caress of the intimate feather, already dripping, ready.
Veronica looked up, her pupils dilated, her cheeks flushed, searching for Bradley. But she didn't need to speak. He was already behind her.
His firm hands gripped her hips, held by the frame's supports, and this simple contact sent a violent shiver through her entire body, a choked moan escaping her throat.
— Hhhhmoooo... Bradley... she breathed, her eyes half-closed, her breath short, interspersed with uncontrolled mooing.
His fingers briefly caressed the taut curve of her pelvis, brushing her moist skin, feeling the incessant tremors of Veronica beneath his palms, as if she were vibrating from within, unable to stabilize. Each touch seemed to ignite a discharge, a spasm that made her oscillate between hysterical laughter and animal groans.
— You are ready, he murmured simply, his voice deep and raspy.
She nodded frantically, her eyes wide open, unable to articulate anything but an imploring sigh.
Then, without ceremony, he positioned himself, aligning perfectly with her. The frame had tilted her pelvis with cruel precision, exposing her glistening, parted sex, offered. Her thighs quivered, her silver-varnished toes contracting and spreading involuntarily under the relentless assault of the teasing feathers. Each brushstroke triggered a new wave of uncontrollable laughter.
— Hahaha... oh no... not my feet... hahaha... it's too much... hahaha...
The pressure of his sex against her was an electroshock. She screamed, a cry interspersed with tearing laughter, her back arched to the extreme.
— HAAAH! Ahaha... oh god... please!
With a slow but assured movement, Bradley thrust into her, causing Veronica to lose all coherence. Her scream turned into a long, guttural moo, her wrists twisting against the restraints.
— Moooooh... yes... hahaha... take me... hahaha... I am your cow... hahaha...
Her contracted belly, her hips rocking wildly beneath him despite the straps, she repeated, panting, between hysterical laughter:
— Oh yes... yes... I am a good cow... breed me... please... take me!
The tickling arms accelerated, as if programmed to amplify each spasm. Her feet trembled, her toes twisted under the stimulation, and with each thrust, her breasts burst with milk, gushing into the reservoirs.
Bradley increased the pace, implacable, his hands gripping Veronica's hips firmly. She laughed, cried, mooed without ceasing, her body overwhelmed by a whirlwind of uncontrollable sensations.
— MooHahaha... I'm going... hahaha... to go crazy... hahaha... it's too good... hahaha...
Each back-and-forth movement triggered a series of cascading orgasms in her, her muscles convulsing violently, her cries turning into delirious prayers.
— Oh yes... hahaha... more... hahaha... fill me... hahaha...
Her eyes rolled back under her eyelids, her fingers desperately seeking a non-existent grip. Tears of pure ecstasy flowed down her cheeks, testifying to her total abandonment to this animal state, with no possibility of return.
— Hahaha... I... I am yours... hahaha... completely... hahaha...
Until her last orgasm broke her: a long, guttural scream, her breasts exploding with milk, her feet clenched, her hips trembling wildly, her strangled laughter mixed with irresistible mooing.
— MOOHOOHOO YES!
The mechanical arms did not slow down: the feathers continued to dance over her feet, exploring relentlessly the tender, stretched skin, their tips insinuating between her still-clenched toes, while the brushes traced long caresses over her arches, causing an uncontrolled jolt with each pass.
The cups attached to her breasts intensified their suction, synchronized with each of Bradley's thrusts. The milk gushed in continuous streams, each suction wrenching moans mixed with laughter from Veronica.
— Oh... hahaha... I'm producing... hahaha... milk for you... hahaha...
Veronica laughed. A high-pitched, disjointed, broken laughter. Not a laughter of control, nor even of conscious pleasure. Rather a pure, irresistible outburst that escaped her lips without her being able to contain it, rhythmically punctuated by the tickles that spared neither her feet, nor her ribs, nor the burning space between her thighs.
— Hahaha... oh god... I... I can't anymore... ahaha—!
And, amidst these outbursts, her mooing surged without transition, raw, guttural, as if her body itself no longer knew where the laughter ended and the animal sounds began. Her throat vibrated, oscillating between demented laughter and plaintive mooing, while her hips still trembled, her moist skin, her breasts endlessly gushing.
— Mmmmhh... mooooh... ahaha... hhnnn... please... mooooh!
The sensors on the frame subtly adjusted the pressure of the cups, as if seeking to synchronize each pull with the spasms of her contracted belly, exploiting the slightest jolt to extract even more milk. Her breasts became the true metronome of the scene, stretching, gushing, rhythmically punctuating her laughter and cries.
The intimate feather never ceased to graze her swollen clitoris, each brushstroke triggering a new contraction, an uncontrolled shiver that ran up her arched back.
Veronica was now a series of unleashed reflexes, uncontrolled undulations, laughter blending with her mooing like wild music.
Her toes vainly attempted to curl under the assault, but the straps held them perfectly spread, exposed, vulnerable. Each brushstroke under her feet provoked a nervous outburst, her chest gushing even harder, her hips instinctively seeking the contact that had just left her.
The scientists, behind the glass, observed silently, fascinated, their tablets displaying real-time metrics: muscle tension at its peak, racing heart rate, record milk flow.
But Veronica saw none of that. In her mind, everything blurred. Pleasure, pain, tickles, need. Her laughter became a sob, then a moo again. Her lips, parted, mechanically murmured:
— More... more... I want... mooooh...
She felt her own milk flowing down her sides, the warmth sliding between her legs, the feather ceaselessly titillating her raw nerves. Each gush of milk tore a higher laugh from her lips, each tickle triggered a raw moo, her fingers clenched in the void, unable to escape this sensory ballet.
She no longer knew if she was laughing, crying, or coming. Everything was fused into an endless torrent.
And all the while, Bradley continued to penetrate Veronica, sinking into her with calculated slowness, savoring each moment of this union. Veronica's body responded immediately, waves of pleasure washing over her, amplifying all the sensations already exacerbated by the relentless stimulations.
She tried to scream, but only a long moo escaped her throat, resonating in the room like the ultimate expression of her surrender. Her muscles contracted around Bradley, her hips instinctively seeking to follow the rhythm he imposed. The cups on her breasts seemed to redouble their efforts, the milk gushing in continuous streams, testifying to the intensity of her arousal.
Bradley gradually accelerated his movements, synchronizing his thrusts with Veronica's contractions, each push causing a new gush of milk, each penetration triggering a hysterical laugh or a desperate moo. The feathers and mechanical brushes continued their work, relentlessly tickling her feet, her ribs, her intimacy, making each sensation sharper, more unbearable.
The mechanical arms intensified their movements, amplifying each of Veronica's spasms. Her feet trembled violently, her spread toes twisting under the relentless stimulation. With each of Bradley's thrusts, her milk-engorged breasts burst, the white liquid flowing abundantly into the designated reservoirs.
— Hahaha... I... I can't anymore... hahaha... it's too much... hahaha...
Veronica was trapped in an infernal cycle of pleasure and torture, her mind floating between consciousness and total abandon. She no longer knew where she was, who she was, only the sensation of filling, emptying, stimulation mattered. Her body was now merely an instrument of pleasure, a milk-producing machine, an entity entirely dedicated to satisfying Bradley and the scientists observing her.
Her belly contracted, her hips desperately seeking more contact despite the restrictive straps. Panting, between hysterical laughter, she begged:
— Yes... hahaha... I am your good cow... hahaha... breed me... hahaha... please... hahaha... take me... hahaha...
As Bradley felt Veronica approaching the point of no return, he intensified his movements, his hands firmly gripping her hips to keep her in place. Veronica, feeling the orgasm building within her, tried to resist, to delay the inevitable, but her body no longer obeyed her. The stimulations converged into a single point, an explosion of sensations that overwhelmed her entirely.
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out for an endless second, then a guttural cry, a deep and prolonged moo filled the room, resonating against the sterile walls. Her body tensed, every muscle contracted, her feet desperately trying to escape the tickles, her hands clenching the void.
The milk gushed from her breasts in a continuous stream, the cups struggling to collect it all, the warm liquid flowing down her skin, accumulating beneath her. Her orgasm seemed to last an eternity, each wave of pleasure plunging her deeper into the abyss of submission and abandon.
Bradley, feeling Veronica's contractions around him, finally came, pouring into her with an intensity he had never known. He remained in her for a few moments, savoring the warmth of her body, the softness of her skin, the trembling of her exhausted muscles.
— MOOOOOO HHH AAAAA HAHAHAHA AAA
When he finally withdrew, Veronica collapsed against the supports of the Tri-Stim Frame, her body shaken by residual spasms, her mind floating between consciousness and unconsciousness. The machines gradually slowed, the stimulations decreasing in intensity, allowing Veronica to catch her breath, her body covered in sweat and milk, a symbol of her total transformation.
Bradley straightened up, adjusting his attire, observing Veronica with a mixture of satisfaction and pride. He turned to the scientists behind the glass, nodding in a sign of success. Veronica was ready. Ready to fully embrace her role as a producer, a breeder, a human cow entirely devoted to her function.
Veronica's frozen smile adorned dozens of icy displays, printed large on bottles lacquered in immaculate white. A mouth open in a perpetual laugh, eyes half-closed, a demented gleam mixed with a childlike spark. Between her sketched lips, one could discern a suspended moo, as if the photographed moment knew neither beginning nor end. A pure moment of pleasure become eternity.
Bimbo MooMoo™, the slogan proclaims in pastel letters just above her face. Below, a simple phrase: "Pure pleasure. Pure milk."
The advertising screens unfurled the same hypnotic scene in a loop: Veronica, kneeling in the Tri-Stim Frame, her engorged breasts connected to the cups, her feet bound, shaken by uncontrollable spasms. Feathers brushed her arches while she burst into laughter, her eyes shining with tears, her bust trembling under the successive waves of milking. Subtitles were unnecessary: her mooing, her breathless laughter, and her vacant gaze spoke for themselves. A satisfied cow, a model producer, a living symbol of conditioned happiness.
It was before one of these screens, in a crowded station, that Henry stopped. First intrigued by the familiar face, then petrified. He scrutinized the laughing eyes, searching for a trace of what she once was — the Veronica he knew. But nothing remained. Only this laughing, docile creature, her gaze emptied of all will, trapped in an endless loop of euphoria.
He then understood that Veronica would never return.
Miles away, in a white room, Veronica continued to exist — or rather, what remained of her. She laughed without apparent reason, her hips swaying gently out of habit, her docile body awaiting the next session, the next tickles, the next mating sessions. A simple touch, a breeze on her skin was enough to trigger happy mooing.
The walls echoed with her mechanical, regular laughter. She no longer needed to be stimulated to produce: she had been perfectly programmed. Each drop of milk flowed accompanied by a burst of laughter, each breath was a sigh of a satisfied cow.
She no longer thought of Henry. Nor of herself. In her hazy thoughts, there was only one certainty: She was Bimbo MooMoo, the perfect tickle cow. And she was finally content.
