Morning Glory Milking Farm by C.M. Nascosta
Chapter 3
The rest of the week passed in a blur.
She had memorized her training binder backward and forward at that point, had watched and re-watched the training videos available on the company portal until she was able to anticipate every twist of the smiling, fox-faced woman’s hands, could speak along with her verbal instructions, and knew exactly when the minotaurs on the video would groan and thrust, erupting into the nozzle of the collection unit. She had practiced setting up the rooms and running the autoclave, even though it technically wouldn’t be a part of her daily duties; knew how to hook the collection units into the machine and affix the labels to the fronts of the milk bottles with one hand. The additional knowledge passed on by her training partner was invaluable, information not included in the binders, and she now knew the difference between the Earners and the Clockwatchers and casual clients, and had been slightly horrified to learn about the Good Little Cows.
“Did you tell her about the scrubs?” asked a middle-aged ogress, towards the end of her first week. Violet had settled into a routine for each day—she’d make the drive to Cambric Creek, her stomach a tangled bundle of nerves, cursing herself for not leaving early enough to stop at the little black-awninged coffee shop she passed in the town’s center, arriving at the farm with just enough time to sit in her car and breathe herself back to a state of relative confidence. The job wasn’t so bad, she thought, if one overlooked the work actually being done. The co-workers she’d met so far were friendly and welcoming and eager to offer pointers, and she was grateful for their experience.
“You’ll want to check the file before you put on the scrubs,” the ogress advised, pulling her own lime green top over her broad shoulders. “Sometimes they make requests.”
“For the scrubs?”
“Mmhm. There’s a denim overall print and an alpine milkmaid…I’m not saying they’re all like that, but just, uh . . . be aware.”
Kirime groaned in disgust, shoving her powder blue backpack into her locker with more force than necessary. The antennaed girl had been her training partner the entire week, introducing her to the other milking technicians and the janitorial staff, remaining cheerful and upbeat throughout and Violet liked her immensely.
“I’m sad to say it’s true, Violet. You know how the Clockwatchers want to get in and out as fast as possible?”
Violet nodded with a gulp. The other techs had been teaching her the unspoken rules of the farm, the sort of information she’d not find in any of the manuals or videos. The Earners could account for every drop of semen they produced, practically earning a second income from their output. Nice work if you could get it, she thought privately. The Pop-n-Gos were the minotaurs who visited the farm infrequently, sometimes for the very first time, who were unprepared for the sensation of the sucking milking machine nozzles, ejaculating almost immediately and leaving the room just as quickly, unable to meet the tech’s eye, no matter how they’d blustered when their pants were still on. The Clockwatchers tended to be businessmen, always on their way to somewhere else. The milking process was a transaction to those bulls, and they rarely vocalized on the breeding bench, remaining as still as they might have during a prostate exam in the doctor’s office. They were brusque and slightly intimidating, and her least favorite type of client, she had decided in the few days she’d been observing on the collection floor.
“Well, there’s another type of client to be aware of.”
The ogress snorted, snapping the head-covering over her tightly-shorn hair. “The Good Little Cows.”
“The Good Little Cows?”
Kirime nodded, making an expression that Violet had come to decipher as her version of an eye roll, or at least, as closely as she could approximate with her solid black sclera. “They really like to really push the fantasy of being ‘milked.’ It’s a fetish thing for them, but they tend to be the very best tippers, so it’s just something to tolerate. But!” she went on, raising her thin eyebrows and pointing at the ceiling, “the suits are serious about keeping everything professional, so if any client ever tries to push the envelope too far, you can end their session and report them and they won’t be welcomed back.”
“You’ll get the occasional client who wants you to lick it,” the ogress added helpfully, and Violet felt her stomach clench as both women groaned. “They’ll be like ‘this will go faster if you suck it, baby,’ but it’s almost always the Pop-n-Gos who say that, like they’re not going to explode immediately anyway. And then we never see them again, so it doesn’t matter,” she laughed.
Violet echoed with her own weak chuckle, feeling queasy at the thought. She didn’t want to be a part of these men’s fantasies, wanted to be an invisible presence under the bench beneath them, wanted to tell herself she was performing a technical action no different than drawing blood—and more importantly—she wanted to believe it.
“Stop scaring her, Ruga,” the antennaed girl admonished. “That almost never happens. And don’t worry, I checked the files already, we don’t have any Good Little Cows today.”
Almost as if the ogress had spoken it into existence, the first client of the day was one of the Pop-n-go bulls, full of swagger, commenting that he hoped the impressiveness of his member wouldn’t ‘scare off the new girl.’ When the nozzle was applied to his head, the green light on the machine illuminated almost immediately and the minotaur stiffened, shaking as though he’d been electrocuted against the bench above. He was silent as he dressed, thin tail swishing as he ducked out the door with his pants still unzipped, and she and Kirime dissolved into giggles, her panic over the morning’s conversation forgotten.
It’s fine, everything will be fine. At night, once she was back in her little Bridgeton apartment, she’d log onto the company portal and check her hours for the day, using the calculator on her phone to tally up each day’s earnings, deducting taxes and the cost of gas and adding it the previous day’s total, doing a giddy little dance around her kitchen at the growing balance. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d earned so much money, the last time solvency was an actual possibility, and would tuck into bed with her tablet, scrolling through home decorating sites and recipes featuring luxury ingredients she’d never been able to previously afford. You’re going to be great at this and you’re going to pay off your credit cards before the end of the year.
Her ebullient confidence lasted through two more clients, both Earners, both easy and fast, a good start to the day, leading her down a path of self-delusion, overconfident that everything would stay this simple and rose-colored.
“Okay Violet, you’re going to handle the next one, okay? I’ll be right here, so you don’t need to be nervous!”
All of her training, all of the videos and checklists and the handbook she memorized backward and forward, her confidence over the morning and her first week, the excitement over her future financial solvency and the fantasy shopping trips she’d taken in her mind; the promise of savings in the bank and her certainty that she’d be good at this job—it all dried up, blowing away like a scatter of leaves in an autumn breeze, leaving her legs as wobbly as a newborn foal as she entered the collection room at the other girl’s encouragement. Somewhere, in the course of the last week, she’d lost sight of the reality that she was the one who would be administering the milkings; that she’d be a passive observer no longer. She’d become very comfortable trailing after Kirime, carrying the clipboards and springing into action when the tanks needed to be clicked into place and the labels affixed as if that would be the extent of her duties. This would be the reality of the job, she gulped, the end of her innocence.
Violet wasn’t sure what she’d been hoping for as she entered the room, but her stomach sank at the sight of a broad, well-muscled back encased in a crisp, white dress shirt. The minotaur was already stepping out of his well-tailored pants and carefully placing them over the chair back, the glint of his heavy watch face catching the light, the clear markings of one of the Clockwatchers. Maybe he’ll be different, she thought, staring up at the minotaur dumbly from the lower level. The short, silky-coarse hide that covered his body was the same color as the shaggy, pecan-brown hair that fell messily into his face, with huge, roan-colored horns pushing through it like weeds, stretching outward and to the sky. He was already partially erect, she saw at once. Well, that’ll speed things up, if nothing else . . . Her jaw worked, a dozen different awkward greetings crowding her mind, leaving her tongue useless and her voice mute as the minotaur turned, the overhead light catching on the thick, gold ring spanning the width of his pink nose.
“I’m on my lunch break,” he announced in a deep, resonant voice, cutting off her failed preamble before it had a chance to fully draw breath.
Her hope that he’d be friendlier than the typical Clockwatcher fizzled away as she nodded silently, still unable to force words from the throat. Fortunately, Kirime was, as she’d promised, right there. “That’s no problem! We have a trainee working with you today, but I assure you we’ll have you out the door in no time.”
She’d never been under the table in the lead position before, Violet realized, feeling panicked claustrophobia grip her as the light above was blotted out when the minotaur swung his leg over the bench. His hooves scraped against the turf lining on the footrests as he settled himself into position, filling the opening in the bench with the thickest cock she’d ever seen, his wide hips sealing out the light completely. There’s a prime beef joke to be made here, I just know it. She sucked in a breath, holding it for several seconds in an effort to steady herself, exhaling through her nose slowly. You can do this, just remember the steps. Her hands were trembling by the time she took up the clipboard, ensuring all necessary bits of information was filled in, completing the sanitation sweep, and ensuring the collection bottles were locked into the milking station. All that was left, she read on the checklist, was to start the milking machine and lube up her gloved hands.
Pecan brown at the base, the same shade as his short hide, fading until it bled into pink at the thick swell midway up his shaft, her hand was unable to span the circumference of him, obliging her to use both to slicken him with oil, all the way to the tip, the head still shielded by his foreskin. You can’t put your hand around him and he’s not even really that hard, this is a chub for him! Her small hands were likely to be a detriment to the job, she thought as she reversed her motion, slowly pulling his foreskin back to reveal the bulbous, dark pink head, shiny-smooth with a deep, winking slit. One of the veins snaking up from the base was the same width as one of her fingers, and she traced it with the tip of her nail as she made one more pass with the lube, confident she could begin stroking him with no discomfort. Time to get to work before he gets impatient. Thinking of the training video, she tightened her grip. This bull was in a hurry, after all—she knew how to give a hand job, knew how to squeeze and stroke. You can do this.
The side of her pinky slid beneath the edge of his foreskin as she worked down the shaft, circling around his cockhead from within the protective layer of skin to ensure he was adequately slick, raising her head in surprise at the sharp intake of breath from above.
Violet paused, hoping she hadn’t caused any discomfort, bracing herself for rebuke as she quickly pulled her hand back, but none came and the minotaur remained silent . . . although it seemed that he was breathing a bit harder. He would say something if he doesn’t like what you’re doing, right?
“Please just let me know if I’m using too much pressure,” she called out hesitantly, having heard Kirime say similar things to clients brand new to the farm. “Or–or not enough pressure. Just, um, just let me know.” A short grunt was her only response, and she shrugged to herself, gripping the turgid length once more. He definitely responded to that, you weren’t imagining it. There was nothing on his chart, she read from where it was propped on the table before her—no preferences, no technician notes; nothing more than his initials and age and weight, followed by the eight-digit identification number and bar code, matching that of the adhesive label that she would affix to his bottle. No noted preference, but as she slipped her finger beneath the loose pucker of skin once more, the minotaur grunted again, his breath hitching when she circled around the flared underside of his still-sheathed cockhead, rubbing against the inside of the foreskin on another circular pass before sliding her pinky free and gently easing the skin back, exposing his head.
His cock had stiffened fully by then, a cord of steel within the solid length, and Violet marveled silently at his girth. It was not the biggest cock she’d seen over the course of the past week, but it was by far the thickest, fat and heavy in her slick hands. Using both, Violet pulled down his length, reversing once she reached the head, sliding her hands up his shaft to where his balls hung plump and full, tightening her grip and pushing into his root once she’d reached the base, an action that earned another one of those unexpected hitching breaths, and so she repeated it twice more. Once she’d established a stroking rhythm, she enclosed his cockhead in her fist, sliding over the pre-come he was steadily weeping by then, twisting and squelching until his hips bucked, a strangled hiss accompanying the action.
The Clockwatchers almost never displayed any tells, never showed anything but impatience and stoicism, and she knew it was inappropriate to feel a thrill over forcing a reaction from him, and even less so to register that thrill directly between her thighs, a tingle that ignited when he repeated the motion.
She’d lost track of how long she’d been pumping the huge cock by then, using one hand to twist over the exposed head, earning the occasional jerk from the big bull. The squelching of her lubed-up hands and the occasional sharp inhalations and stifled grunts from the minotaur above were competing with the sound of the milking machine, and when he began to subtly thrust his hide-covered hips against the padded legs of his chair continuously, Violet nearly missed the movement, expecting the over-the-top bucking that she’d witnessed from the other bulls all week. Subtle but unmistakable, the big bull pumped into her hands, chasing a victory she knew he’d catch. The thought of accidentally being splattered in a torrent of minotaur semen was enough to make her jump into action, briefly releasing the slickened, straining length to retrieve one of the sucking nozzles. Another half-groan escaped him as the bulbous head of his cock was sucked into the machine, the scrape of his hooves audible over the sound of the pistoning arm of the milker as she worked the nozzle down his thick shaft, knowing the hydraulic system would finish the job.
The smiling face of the fox-faced woman from the training video beamed from her mind then: I like to continue providing manual stimulation at this point . . . Violet swallowed resolutely, determined to do things right, before raising her hands to the huge testicles. Each one was the size of a large orange, the sac that encased them the same warm brown as his body. The seam that separated them seemed to draw in her finger like a beacon, and she traced it tentatively, earning a huff from above. The sound gave her confidence as she tested the weight of his balls, letting each rest heavily in her palms before rolling her slippery hands over them, squeezing as she did so. Another grunt as she squeezed, and then she released him for a moment, to ensure he appreciated the extra stimulation. Violet watched in fascination as his balls moved within their sac, tightening and pulling up to his body, her hands rising to meet them once more, tugging each gently, just a hint of stretch, and giving them another squeeze.
The reaction from above was immediate.
A groan he was unable to choke back, an increase in the movement of his hips, a telltale pulsing through his testicles as she pulled and rolled them, the sound coming again when the green light flared to life. She should have let go. Violet knew that; told herself she ought to do so immediately, but she was hypnotized by the way his heavy balls throbbed as he came, each spurt of his cock into the milking machine originating beneath her fingertips, and she began to squeeze them in time, helping him empty every drop.
The bottle was completely full when the light flicked to red and the suction of the machine quickly cut off. She was glad for the mask that covered the majority of her face, for she was certain she was flaming scarlet as she pulled the nozzle from his deflated cock, still fat and heavy, despite its softened state.
Taking care of the client so they could be on their way was the priority, she remembered, even over taking care of the collection bottle, and she turned to move into action before needing to be prodded. Warm cleansing wipes were used to remove excess semen from the clients’ dangling members, which she’d witnessed being done more than a dozen times at that point, but that didn’t prevent her stomach from somersaulting as she raised the wipe to clean the curiously responsive Clockwatcher, particularly when he shuddered as she gently tugged his retracted foreskin to swipe over his pink head, still sticky with his release. She didn’t strictly need to bring another of the cloths to wipe clean the big testicles, swinging looser now that they’d been drained, but she told herself she was just being thorough, before giving them a final light squeeze.
Kirime’s words about muscle memory taking over proved true as Violet deliberately turned her back on the upper level, not wanting to see the minotaur who’d caused such an inappropriate response as she squeezed her thighs together, focusing instead on the rest of her steps. Cap and weigh the milk bottle, place in cooler; unhook the collection unit and disinfect the workstation.
“First client down!” Kirime crowed once the used collection tank had been sent down the conveyor belt for disinfecting and Violet turned, relieved to see the upper portion of the room empty. “Congrats, the hard part is over!
The hard part indeed,she thought, her fingers still feeling the heft and weight of the minotaur. There was no time to reflect on the tingle between her thighs, as the next clipboard was pressed into her hands; one turning into six, and then she was pulling her last set of scrubs over her head, tossing them into the laundry cart in the locker room before she knew it. The rest of the day had passed in a whirl, several more Earners and a brand new client who seemed more nervous than she felt at that point. Violet blinked in surprise upon tapping her employee number into the tablet used for checking in and out for shifts, seeing a notation to visit the reception desk. She found herself in a short line behind two other employees, each collecting small, sky blue envelopes from the friendly receptionist. “Have a nice day!” the cheerful goblin called as she turned away from the counter, sliding the four envelopes bearing her employee number into her bag. She’d wanted to stop off at that little coffee shop she passed on her drive through town, wanted to peek into the intriguing shop windows and stroll around Cambric Creek’s little downtown . . . but she was too distracted that day, too preoccupied, shifting behind the driver’s wheel at a red light, unable to assuage the itch between her legs that desperately needed scratching.
* * *It had been easy to put her official first client out of mind with the bustle of the day, but as she entered her apartment later that afternoon, kicking off her shoes and shedding her clothes as she moved through the rooms, the remembrance of that impossibly thick cock came back to her.
She’d planned on hauling her laundry down to the machines in the building’s basement when she got home, wanted to make a recipe she’d found scrolling on the Thrifty Kitchen page, thought maybe she’d treat herself to ice cream that wasn’t purchased from the bodega on the corner, but like her desire to explore Cambric Creek, her plans were set aside for a greater need. Instead, Violet detoured to her bedroom, flopping down on top of her comforter and slipping her hand into her panties, the last item of clothing she still wore. She was unsurprised to find herself already wet, the tingling arousal she’d felt hours earlier returning full force now that she could address it.
The panties were kicked off, dropping to the floor beside the bed as she dragged her fingers through her folds, coating them in slick and rubbing the moisture over her tingling clit, teasing back and forth until the swollen bud protruded from its hood, needy for more stimulation.
The fingers on her other hand curved, approximating the way they’d stretched around the minotaur’s girth, remembering the way she’d tightened her grip to squeeze the rigid length. She could almost feel the heavy weight of him, the solidity and thickness of him, the way his cock hardened to steel in her hand. Violet gasped, circling over her clit in earnest then, remembering that sharp little intake of breath he’d made when she’d slipped her finger inside his foreskin, his grunt of pleasure when she’d squeezed his meaty balls. She arched, sliding a finger into herself, adding a second and a third, trying to imagine how a cock that thick would fill her, would stretch her far beyond what she’d ever taken before. She’d had a few well-endowed partners over the years, but she was hardly a size queen and couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to be that stuffed.
She thought of the slow way he’d pumped his hips, his groan when she’d worked the sucking nozzle over his cockhead, the way she’d been able to feel the building tightness and pressure in his huge testicles, the way they’d begun to throb with his orgasm just before the first eruption of his release into the milking machine. Her hips left the bed, thrusting upwards, remembering the way he’d continued to pulse as he came, each spatter of white against the side of the glass bottle felt in the way his balls throbbed in her hands. Violet clenched around her own fingers, reaching her peak as she remembered the way it had felt feeling his orgasm, and she was positive the rhythmic convulsions that gripped her shared the same pulsing cadence.
When it was over, she stared up at the ceiling, inhaling and letting out a ragged breath. What the fuck was that? She didn’t know why she’d been so affected by the Clockwatcher, why him, among all the other minotaurs she’d worked on that day, amongst all those she’d observed over her training? It made no sense, was completely inappropriate, and she shook the thought of him away as she struggled to sit, hands scrabbling at the bedding for purchase. He’s a client, just a nameless, faceless client, and you’ll probably never even see him again.
One head-clearing shower later, her Thrifty Kitchen recipe started and her laundry set for a double spin cycle, Violet remembered the cerulean envelopes slipped into the front pocket of her backpack as she’d left the farm. The family above her was doing another one of their stomping jamborees as she dropped into the chair at her battered little kitchen table. She’d had seven clients in total that day, four of them leaving her tips: a conglomeration of crumpled bills, tens and twenties, enough to justify getting that gourmet coffee and a guilt-free lunch to go with it . . . and one crisply folded hundred, perfectly smooth with sharp edges. There was only one client it could have come from, only one client that day who’d sported the tailoring and expensive accessories of the Clockwatchers. She could imagine the bill being pulled from a billfold or money clip that cost as much as her rent, could almost see the minotaur with the messy hair folding it in perfect thirds before grunting in response to the receptionist’s cheerful farewell.
She could pay her cellphone bill, Violet considered, without needing to carry the monthly late fee that had become her norm, the money saved from the late charge being applied to her student loan bill or the credit cards she’d been living off of, a tiny bit of ground made, but made nonetheless. An acknowledgment of being quick and thorough, that’s all. She’d trained hard, had watched her videos and studied her binder, and the tips earned were a result of her hard work and nothing more, she reminded herself repeatedly through the evening, pushing thoughts of the Clockwatcher aside. When she fell into bed, hours later, she pushed them away once more, willing sleep to find her without tossing and turning all night.
She needed to be fresh for work the next morning.