Morning Glory Milking Farm by C.M. Nascosta
Chapter 4
If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well
How many times had she been lectured over the years by her parents and teachers with those words? Schoolwork, chores, a performance in the school play…Her mother would flap her hands and pace, repeatedly asking if she was ready for her quiz, knew her lines in the play, had checked over her choir robe. If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well, dear! Was it any wonder that she’d taken it to heart?
It had been more than three weeks since she’d completed training at Morning Glory Farm and each day she strove to do her job well—a metric that was easily measured in old-fashioned milk bottles, filled to the brim. A plentiful, speedy collection had become her mantra, and each day she sought to increase her bottle count from the day before, besting her personal record, week over week.
When she learned about the cash bonus to the most productive milking associate, awarded on a monthly basis, her competitive streak flared to life, making the calculations on how she’d be able to double her credit card payments with the winnings and vowing to take the top prize at least once. She’d encountered several of the Good Little Cows at that point, had become proficient at getting the Clockwatchers out the door quickly, and laughed with decreasing awkwardness as the predictable jokes and casual banter of the Earners. Her tips were modest but appreciated, a nice little bonus that she saved for groceries, allowing her paychecks to be reserved for rent and bills. There’d been no repeat of the heat that had gripped her after her first solo run, not so much as a shiver of desire as she worked on client after client, bull after bull, every day. That probably happens to everyone at first.
The daily commute had proved not to be so terrible, and Cambric Creek beckoned her with its odd little shops and plethora of restaurants, rolling park and quaint little bandstand. The previous week she’d stopped at a little green market set up in the corner of the big park she drove past, stocking up on some fresh fruit and vegetables for the weekend, ecstatic that she was able to treat herself to such a luxury. She had seen sleek-feathered harpies and towering lizardmen, bulging with muscles; shaggy-haired centaurs and more goblins and trolls than she could count, and she was busting to learn about each of them—their food, their cultures, how everyone seemed to get along so seamlessly in the vibrant little community. She was settling in, Violet thought happily. See? This job really was a lifeline. She should have known then that her blind optimism was steering her towards an unseen cliff.
“Hold on, Violet! This one’s yours . . .”
She turned with a furrowed brow as Magda held out an impatient hand, motioning to her stack of clipboards. The big orc was not her favorite co-worker. Brusque and somewhat impatient, Magda was in charge of organizing each day’s schedule: ensuring each appointment slot had a technician assigned, that there was room on the schedule for the occasional walk-in, rotating technicians around the rooms in a way that gave the janitorial department plenty of time to stay on top of cleanliness and the set-up team adequate time to have the rooms ready for use. Violet recognized it was an important job and likely a stressful one, considering all the moving pieces involved, but the beetle-woman who worked aside Magda in the same capacity managed to be friendly.
The morning had already been harried. She’d been trying a new method of washing her dark brown curls, which entailed not washing them at all. All of the websites said a gentle conditioning was all she needed, that her hair would thank her and she’d reap the benefit of soft, bouncy ringlets. Violet didn’t know how long it took to get to the soft and bouncy stage, but as she’d stared at herself in the mirror that morning: too-pale from never getting out of her apartment, slightly pear-shaped, the curls framing her face looking neither soft nor bouncy and an oily sheen at the top of her head, she determined that she seemed to be indefinitely trapped in the greasy bird’s nest phase, one which was not discussed on the websites, and she couldn’t abide leaving the house for one more day with an itchy, oily scalp.
The unplanned-for shower had set her back, forced to forgo breakfast as she hurried out the door, her wet curls still bound in the sodden t-shirt she used to dry them, arriving at the farm with only a few minutes to pull on a set of lavender scrubs and grab her files. She could still feel damp hair clinging to the back of her neck, as she returned to where Magda stood, wondering if the file being added was one of the Good Little Cows. That’s probably what she’s doing, adding one to your stack, and you won’t even have time to change scrubs. Violet watched in confusion as the stern-voiced orc shuffled through the clipboards she’d handed back, squinting at the files before pulling one out, replacing it with one that bore a purple sticker on the side of the client label.
“Koveh! Take this one.”
The nervous young man that had been in her training class turned in panic as Magda barked, quickly catching the clipboard she launched at him as if it were a shot put challenge, hunching as he did so to keep his own files from dropping, scampering out of the prep room as soon as he recovered his footing.
“What–what is this?”
“A request.” The orc wrinkled her nose, as if Violet’s question was particularly stupid, despite the fact that she was only learning about requests at that very moment. “You need to check for those before you just take your stack, you know, that could have screwed up the schedule for the whole day if I didn’t catch it.”
“That’s not her job, Magda,” Kirime cut in, appearing from the locker room doorway. “That’s not any of our jobs. That’s your job. You didn’t catch the request. What you meant to say was ‘sorry I missed this, I’ll make sure to check the files over more completely!’”
Magda scowled, opening her mouth to reply, but Kirime had already linked her slender arm with Violet’s, turning them out the door before the orc could fully draw breath.
“She’s so full of it,” the black-eyed girl said cheerfully, once they’d turned down the cool blue hallway. “Don’t let her boss you around or blame you for stuff like that. Organizing the schedule isn’t our job and she knows it.”
“What–what does a request mean?”
Kirime shrugged, turning to go up a separate corridor with her own armload of files. “It means a client put in a request at reception. A request is just a request, it’s not a guarantee. You won’t get them very often, most clients don’t even think of doing so. They don’t know when we work and that information isn’t divulged by the desk, so it’s a roll of the dice for them, but they were happy enough with you that they asked!” She beamed, antennae twitching beneath her cap. “Don’t worry, you don’t need to change your schedule or anything. If you happen to be working when they come in, the request is honored. Otherwise,” she shrugged, making a ‘they get what they get’ motion. “If they go through the trouble of putting in a request they usually tip well, so that’s something to look forward to at least!”
Violet forced her lips into a smile, attempting to disguise the spike of nerves she felt at the revelation and the way her stomach flipped. There were more than a dozen clients who could have been responsible for a request, she told herself, any number of bulls who might have been satisfied enough with her clumsy, novice moves . . . but as they turned up their separate hallways lined with doors leading to the milking room floors, the apprehension within her grew, a wave of anxiety lapping at her heart.
“Have a good morning, Violet! Maybe we can grab coffee later!”
Kirime’s parting was bright and Violet waved, hoping the antennaed girl’s words would be prophetic as she tamped back the anxiousness she felt over that ominous purple sticker, but the already rushed morning proved to be anything but good.
Her first appointment of the day had been one of the Earners, straightforward and easy, but the second appointment was not. She had hooked the collection tanks into place more times than she could count at that point, and had mastered the twist-and-click motion needed to lock the heavy cylinders into the base, but as she stood beneath the upholstered bench, the minotaur waiting above, she could not make the tank cooperate. The minutes seemed to tick by as she struggled, the threading on the tank refusing to find purchase, her face heating. Don’t cry. Do NOT cry. If you cry, you’ll never be able to show your face here again.
“Does it need to go counter-clockwise?” he called out, leaning over the edge of the bench to peer down where she struggled. “You probably need to go in at an angle, sweetheart.”
“I am,” she gritted, not needing the extra sugar–baby–sweetheart bullsplaining that day. Turning with a grunt of her own, Violet pulled a fresh tank from the rack, holding her breath as she tilted it into place . . . feeling it click in immediately. “There we go,” she said weakly, attempting to channel some of Kirimie’s effortless cheer and failing utterly. “Sorry about the hold-up, we can get started whenever you’re ready!”
The incident seemed to have set her up for a free fall of bad luck the rest of the day. The bottle label was missing from the second appointment’s clipboard, something she should have caught at the beginning of the session, would have caught had she not been running late from the disastrous first appointment. Something Magda should have caught, she thought furiously, racing to the intake desk to retrieve the missing label once the minotaur had left, running back to the collection room to affix it to the bottle before jogging to her next appointment. The only constant had been the friendly understanding from the endless line of bull men. The minotaurs waved off her tardiness, assured her she was doing fine, that bad days happened. It had lifted her spirits, distracting from the bad day until the purple sticker on the next clipboard, her second last of the day, brought her nerves back to crash around her like a wave breaking on a rocky shore.
She recognized his broad back immediately.
The dress shirt he wore had a subtle mint striping, setting off the russet highlights in his messy hair, which still fell into his face, as it had that first day. He’d not yet removed his pants, giving her a view of the way the fabric strained around his bulging thighs and well-rounded backside, thin tail swishing as he undid his fly, pausing when he turned to face her.
“How are you today?”
She’d not had a chance to appreciate his voice on that first day, as nervous as she’d been, but now the baritone resonance of it made her quake, still on that unsteady shore, waves of anxiety forming foaming white caps, the crash of which would certainly send her off her feet. There was a sharp edge of control in that voice, present even in the benign greeting, as though he weren’t so much inquiring into her day as he was demanding she give him a report.
“I’m well,” she forced out a beat later. “It’s nice to see you again.”
Violet suffered a moment of heart-clenching panic, wondering if she’d broken some social contract of non-acknowledgment, but he’d only nodded, the scrutiny of his chocolate-brown eyes pinning her to the spot, in danger of being overtaken by the undertow in her mind until she turned away, moving to set up her station. Once again, she found herself glad for the paper mask that hid the heat burning up her face.
“Actually . . . I suppose I’m well enough,” she corrected, feeling marginally more secure once she had the shield of the breeding stocks between them. “This has been a disaster of a day. I had a piece of machinery that wouldn’t cooperate this morning, and it set me behind schedule for the whole afternoon.” His little huff made her bite her lip, and she listened to the rustle of him stepping from his pants. She wondered if his hooves ever caught on the hem of the legs, or if his tail ever got caught up in the seat, pressed against his round ass instead of slipping through its designated opening, questions that would go forever unanswered. “And before all that, your file almost didn’t make it into my rotation for the day.”
“So does that make me the origin of all your bad luck?”
Her eyes raised in surprise to the bench above her, but the Minotaur had not yet approached. I guess he’s not on his lunch break today. She never expected conversation from any of the Clockwatchers, and the slight levity in his deep voice was a curiosity. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” she laughed hesitantly, “but I’m crossing my fingers that the last client of the day doesn’t have any complications.”
“Well, then we’d best get started so you’re not late to your last appointment.” It was unmistakably a command, and she jumped to comply, pulling a tank from the rack and deftly clicking it into place. “I’ll try to time my inconveniences for later in the day next time.”
Violet held her breath as his shadow moved over the opening in the bench, his big leg swinging over, listening for the scrape of his hooves on the turf and anticipating the moment when he would fill the hole . . . but nothing happened. The light from overhead continued to shine down uninterrupted, the shadow of the minotaur’s horns casting down as he straddled the bench.
“Are you still in school?”
There was a slightly suspicious edge to the question, and she knew she ought not to answer it, despite the way her mouth opened to comply immediately. Giving out personal information to the clients was not advisable, blurring the edges of the professional distance the milking associate maintained from their lower level, but there was something about the way he asked, something in the way he held back from settling against the bench . . . Violet couldn’t decide if he was trying to determine if she was an actual adult, perhaps feeling guilty over the fact that he’d evidently enjoyed the way she’d milked him enough to request her again, or if he was subtly insulting her, implying that he hoped she was pursuing an education so that this sort of job wouldn’t be necessary. That’s what he thinks.
“I’m not,” she heard herself answer, sucking in a steadying breath before continuing. “I finished grad school over a year ago. Just waiting for a job in my field that actually pays the bills now.” He grunted in response, her answer obviously satisfying the unknown subtext of his question, for a moment later she heard the creak of the upholstery as he leaned forward, and her hands twitched in anticipation. She could still feel the weight of him in her palms, even now, despite the number of bulls she’d handled since then.
“It’s difficult out there right now,” he said, his deep voice a sympathetic murmur as he shifted against the bench until he was comfortable. “Especially if you’re just entering the marketplace. Entry-level isn’t what it used to be.”
“It’s definitely not. Fortunately, this place was hiring, and I saw the ad at the perfect time.”
“They treat you well here?”
He’d paused his movements again, and Violet huffed in slight impatience. He really was going to make her late for the next appointment at this rate. “They do. Very fair pay, full benefits. I couldn’t ask for more.”
“That’s good,” he mumbled, hooves scraping the back of the bench at last. “That’s good to hear. They’re extremely generous to clients, it’s a relief to hear they treat the employees as well . . . I suppose I should let you get started.”
Time seemed to move in slow motion as he settled his weight against the bench, his cock filling the hole and blotting out the light, heavy balls swinging. He was already hard, Violet observed, biting her lip. Hard hard, fully erect and already pearling pre-come. She wondered if their brief conversation had turned him on, if it was the knowledge that she wasn’t some barely legal uni student that put his mind at ease and made his cock hard, wondered if his erection had stiffened and grown in anticipation of her stroking him again as he sat straddling the bench, his big balls contracting in need with her just underneath. He requested you. Requested this. He’d enjoyed the way she’d milked his balls dry enough to put in a request for her at the desk, she reminded herself, and she wasn’t going to let him regret it.
The pearlescent bead of moisture glistening from the eye of his cocktip drew her like a magnet, her fingertip pressing into it, spreading it over the smooth pink of his head before pushing into the slit once more, earning a ragged breath from above.
“Just let me know if this is too much pressure,” she murmured, her thumb and index finger meeting in a circle, sliding over his head. The only response she received was a brief sigh as she began to massage over his head with the lubed ring of her fingers, his foreskin moving easily beneath her hands. The response to slipping her pinky into the loose pucker of his foreskin, pulled back over his head, was expected—a barely perceptible groan, but no pulling away. Like the last time, she slid the pad of her finger against the nerve-ending-packed sheath, circling his cockhead. He jerked when she rubbed against his frenulum, a choked groan escaping when she persisted, back and forth, slipping her pinky free and using the loose skin to twist over his head, a constant motion she kept up until he made a noise deep in his throat, a growl of pleasure that he swallowed down, his thick fingers curled around the edge of the bench above, digging into the upholstery as though it might help him keep his grip on his rapidly dissolving composure, and Violet wasn’t sure if she was elated that she’d been able to wring the sound from him or annoyed that he refused to give up control.
The weight of his cock was a delicious heft, heavy and solid in her hands as she began stroking his shaft from root to tip, pressing into the base on her downstroke and teasing his slit every time she twisted over his head, using both hands to move in a constant corkscrew, pulling him with increasing pressure, imagining that she’d be able to pull his big body right through the hole in the bench, her hands moving in a constant pattern, one over the other . . .
He was unable to hold in his groan then, deep and almost pained-sounding, as if he were dragging a burdensome weight uphill, lamenting the exertion of keeping it aloft, the sound sending a bolt of excitement to her own sex until her knees began to shake. She was unsurprised when he began to push against the bench, the same constrained movement as he’d displayed the first time, so different from the wild bucking she’d grown accustomed to from the other clients. Instead, this minotaur moved his hips in a deliberate, slow thrust, grunting as he did so, and rather than immediately releasing him to apply the nozzle, Violet loosened her grip slightly and spread her hands on his shaft, one around his head and the other around his base, flush against his big balls, allowing him to pump into the ring of her fingers.
She wondered if this was what it would be like to be fucked by the big bull: a slow, solid pounding, deep and exquisite, each slam of his wide hips filling her completely, a thought that made her face heat in mortification at the same time that she flooded with arousal. What is wrong with you?! This is a client! Violet knew her inner voice was right; that this train of thought was completely inappropriate, but she had no doubt that she would be dripping by the end of his session. You’ll be able to slide out of the room at this rate!
The minotaur continued to fuck into the tight ring of her hands, his heavy balls slapping the back of her wrist with every thrust, his deep moan a strangled, half-swallowed thing. Enough, you need to stop this. A plentiful, speedy collection . . . She remembered back to the very first client she’d observed when she was still shadowing Kirime and the way the antennaed girl had used the nozzle to tease the spotted bull, the braggadocios Earner. The minotaur above her jolted when she did the same, passing the sucking mouth of the nozzle over his streaming cockhead several times, jerking each time she teased over him, pressing his head in and out of the textured opening before pulling back.
The amount of pre-come he was dripping was enough to cover her hands with no additional lube needed, and Violet considered that between the two of them, they might flood the room. What the fuck is wrong with you?! Just finish him off and be done! He hissed when she worked the nozzle down his cock at last, her hands immediately raising to his full testicles, unable to keep herself from cupping them and feeling their heavy weight against her palms, her fingers hugging them in greeting. His hips began to rock in earnest when she began to rub and squeeze, pulling her thumb and forefinger down the seam to separate them in their sac, pulsing them in time when they began to throb, his orgasm building in her hands.
He lowed as he came, a noise that could only come from a minotaur and one she’d never heard from any of the other Clockwatchers, deep and resonant in his rich voice as the green light flared to life on the machine, the hydraulic pump sucking on his head, slurping up his release more efficiently than any mouth could dream of attempting, and a fresh explosion of excitement exploded between her legs at the thought.She imagined the absolute mess his fat cock would make if it were permitted to erupt freely, for the twenty-four-ounce bottle was full to the brim when he sagged boneless against the bench, the machine clicking off and the motor whirring to a stop. He plopped wetly from the opening when she released the nozzle, swinging free and he grunted again. Not so in control now.
You shouldn’t work on him anymore, you need to ask Kirime what you need to do, what you need to say, how you can make sure you don’t get his file in your rotation. She knew the voice in her head was right, knew it was inappropriate to be thinking of a client this way, that it was unprofessional and likely grounds for dismissal . . . but when he spoke again, after she’d gently cleaned his spent cock and squeezed his balls one final time, Violet found herself pushing the voice aside.
“One more after this then? The slot after this one is your last for the day?”
“Yes,” she answered, peeling off her gloves, smeared in his pre-come and oil. She didn’t know how he managed to sound so collected and commanding already, his pants already on and zipped, pressed dress shirt tucked into the waistband neatly. Her legs were still trembling as she turned to face the upper level, taking in the broad set of his shoulders and the sharp cut of his horns through his messy hair. He was slimmer than many of the bulls who came through the milking room, and the lack of excess bulk made his sculpted biceps stand out beneath the material of his shirt, the tumble of pecan-colored hair over his forehead giving him a surprisingly boyish appearance. She’d never dated a non-human before, but it was impossible to deny that this minotaur was exceedingly attractive. “Thirty minutes after your appointment time for today would be my last spot of the day.” Who is it hurting? It’s just a fantasy. You haven’t gotten laid in forever, that’s all this is.
“Well . . . I’ll have to keep that in mind. I hope my bad luck doesn’t follow you home.”
It was just a fantasy, she told herself once the room was cleaned and the minotaur long gone, heading to her last appointment, now fifteen minutes behind schedule. But then again, she hadn’t had any inappropriate thoughts about any of the other clients. Not like this one.
Not like him at all, she thought, smiling at the black and white bull waiting for her in the last room of the day. The rest of the clients were a faceless void, and that was the way it was meant to be, she knew. It’s not like anything will happen. Just let things be.
Three cerulean envelopes waited for her at checkout, and she didn’t need to wonder which client had left her the sharply creased hundred dollar bill. That’s all this is, a transaction.Stop making more of things than they are. Once again, Violet knew the voice in her head was right, but as she dropped back on her bed, safely ensconced in her apartment, her fingers slid over her aching clit, her velvet folds still dripping in her earlier arousal. It was the big bull with the messy hair she thought of when she retrieved her vibrator from her nightstand, trying to approximate the slow, deep, deliberate thrust of his hips.
She wondered if he would still be as assertive as he fucked her, keeping his composure and rutting her slowly as she melted to a puddle beneath him, feeling the weight of his cock and the slap of his balls, falling to pieces, completely at his mercy. It was the deep moan he made when he came she thought of as she reached her peak, clenching around the entirely-too-narrow vibrator, wishing it possessed his astounding girth as she keened, trying to imagine the mess twenty-four ounces would make of her sheets.