Story 2 continue

A pre-dawn blanket of stars stretches out overhead, the sky gradually lightening to a deep navy as I wake up to a knock on my door, my heart pounding in my chest.

Jesus Christ, my breasts are throbbing, a demanding part of my body that's far too prominent to ignore. I'm so fucking full it's making my head spin. My massive tits feel like they're about to burst, a vision of engorged balloons pushing against my over-stretched skin. It's appalling, the relentless pressure, the way they jiggle with the barest movement, the milk sloshing inside them.

"Maddie, it's time," Mrs. Peterson's voice calls out from the other side of the door.

Time for what? I think bitterly.

Oh wait. Right. My answer's leaking out all over my bed. My sheets are soaked with milk, my large nipples dripping with the warm liquid. It's a perverse alarm clock, reminding me of my new reality.

My legs swing over the side of the bed, my bare feet landing on the cold wooden floor. The chill travels up my body, nipping at my engorged breasts and causing goosebumps to break out on my skin. The sensation sends spurts of warm milk gushing from my nipples, shooting out and soaking the remaining dry patches of my bed.

The sensation sends a jolt of pleasure through my body straight to my pussy, igniting an unfamiliar heat deep within me. God, I can't believe I'm turned on by this!

"Coming!" I yell out, forcing myself out of bed. I gather my heavy tits in my hands, cradling their weight. Each step I take causes them to jiggle, milk sloshing around inside them. I can hear it, feel it, my engorged breasts demanding to be emptied.

My outfit is laid out, fresh and clean.

With a resigned sigh, I reach for the blouse, my slick, milk-stained fingers brushing the soft fabric. I struggle to button it up, my fingers clumsy, the fabric straining around my large tits. The feeling of the tight fabric against my nipples triggers another flow of milk.

Next, the skirt. It fits snugly around my tiny waist, the gingham pattern flaring out over my curvy hips. The look is complete with a lace headband, perched precariously on my glossy black hair.

The image I see in the mirror feels like a distasteful joke - a big-titted milkmaid ready for her milking. I can't help but let out a dry chuckle, shaking my head at my reflection.

What a sight I must be, an 18-year-old gamer turned lactating Dairy Queen, barely awake and leaking milk like a faulty faucet. If only my old buddies could see me now.

Well, no use stalling the inevitable. I square my shoulders, the movement causing another minor milk explosion, and open the door to meet Mrs. Peterson.

The pre-dawn chill nips at my skin, making my nipples hard and causing another spurt of milk to shoot out, staining my blouse. In the distance, the cows are mooing, ready for their milking. And I'm jiggling along with them, my humiliation complete.

"Let's get this over with," I mutter under my breath, heading for the milking parlor.

—

The fully-assembled Milki-Max X5 is a terrifying beast of stainless steel and medical-grade rubber, gleaming ominously in the early morning light filtering into the barn. The accompanying aroma of hay and the distant lowing of cattle is a stark contrast to the cold, mechanical contraption waiting for me.

Jack is there, a manual in his hands. The look on his face—an uncomfortable mixture of embarrassment and barely concealed desire—sends both a chill and a flush of heat coursing through me. My huge, lactating breasts feel even heavier under his gaze, the nipples leaking a fresh cascade of milk into my life-saving bra pads.

"Uh, you need to... uh... get them out," Jack mutters, his gaze flicking away from my heaving chest. The tension is palpable, our breaths the only sound in the otherwise silent barn. My heart thuds loudly in my ears, the intense ache in my breasts almost unbearable.

Turning my back to him, I fumble with the buttons of my blouse, the tight fabric straining over my tits. With a final pop, I let them free, the cool barn air peppering my skin with goosebumps and making my nipples harder. I cradle them in my hands, their overwhelming warmth seeping into my palms. Drips of milk fall from my swollen nipples—nature's agonizing reminder of my desperation—for relief, for release.

Then comes the real nightmare: positioning. Getting onto my hands and knees on the padded floor of the milking machine is anything but graceful. My enormous tits swing free, jiggling obscenely with each movement, milk spraying erratically as they sway beneath me. It's utterly humiliating, but the relief it offers—that slight alleviation from the weight—is heavenly.

"S'okay, Maddie. Try to relax," Jack murmurs, his voice gruff as he crouches next to the machine to adjust the controls. I can feel his gaze on me, his eyes travelling over every inch of my generous, exposed form. The tingles his attention sends through my body, the insatiable thirst in his eyes—it all feeds into the not-so-subtle heat pooling in my lower belly.

Jack suddenly begins fastening restraints around my wrists. I feel the hard steel encase my skin, the cold biting into my flesh. The unforgiving brace clicks into place, muffling my hushed whimper as I look up at Jack, fear clear in my eyes.

"Do I- do I really need these?" I stammer out, tugging at the bonds futilely.

"Sorry, Maddie," he grunts, a faint blush creeping up his neck, "Says so in the manual. We gotta to keep you in place. Promise to let you out soon as you want, okay?"

His reassurances do little to ease my apprehension as he secures the ankle restraints, their cold steel equally unforgiving around my slender limbs. I'm trussed up like some piece of livestock, my bloated tits swinging obscenely beneath me.

"You see this switch here?" he asks, pointing towards a green button labeled 'Emergency Release.' "You can hit that anytime you want out. You got that?" It's just barely in reach of my shackled wrists, with enough play to hit it.

I give him a curt nod, my heart hammering in my chest. My mind races with disturbing fantasies of being trapped, milked indefinitely. I shake off the image, swallowing hard as I focus on the here and now.

He goes back to the manual, reading aloud under his breath, his features furrowed in concentration. The minutes stretch on, each one incredibly long as they add to the unbearable pressure in my chest. An embarrassing whimper escapes my lips as I shift slightly, the movement causing my tits to swing, milk spurting out and splattering onto the barn floor.

Finally, Jack sets the manual down, moving to stand in front of me. Squatting down, he reaches out, his rough hands cupping my engorged breasts. His touch is hesitant at first, his fingers tracing the curve of my swollen flesh. I gasp, the sensation ripping a fairly pathetic moan from my throat.

"Shit… sorry," he mutters, but doesn't move away. Instead, he lifts each of my breasts, aligning them under the attachment arm of the machine.

My entire body tenses as he guides the suction cups onto my nipples. The cold rubber presses against my sensitive flesh, sealing with an obscenely wet sound. I whimper as he secures the other one, the cups tugging at my nipples, the abrupt suction making my pussy clench with surprising arousal.

A shudder runs through me as I feel the first pull of the machine, my chest straining against the relentless suction. My body responds instinctively, my nipples hardening, milk beginning to leak in preparation for the onslaught to come.

Beside me, Jack's breath comes in ragged pants, his gaze not leaving my heaving chest. The raw lust in his eyes fuels my own helpless arousal, the twinging sensation in my pussy too intense to ignore.

I'm caught between two states - the humiliating situation I find myself in, and the undeniable desire coursing through my veins. It's a mindfuck of epic proportions, and all I can do is brace myself for what's to come.

A soft whirring fills the barn as the machine comes to life, the sound drowning out the distant call of the cicadas outside. I brace myself, every muscle in my body coiled tight in anticipation.

I can hardly breathe, the anticipation of being milked by this cold, impersonal machine is overwhelming. My entire body trembles with nervous anticipation, the weight of my tits filling my chest with a strange mix of dread and excitement. The machine, a futuristic monstrosity of chrome and rubber, hums ominously as Jack begins flipping switches on.

I feel the machine stir to life, a low hum that sends shivers skittering down my spine. The sound escalates, the gentle whirring becoming a rhythmic pulsating that matches the heartbeat pounding in my ears. As the machine powers up, I can feel the suction cups latching onto my overfilled breasts, the vacuum seal causing a gasp to rip from my throat.

If I thought I was ready for this, I was so fucking wrong.

"Alright, Maddie," Jack's gruff voice echoes over the noise, his finger hovering over the last switch. "Here we go."

The switch clicks into place and suddenly I'm gasping, biting my lip to suppress the moan that threatens to escape. The pressure is intense, a tug that pulls at my tender nipples, milking me in a steady rhythm that has my body trembling. Every pull sends a jolt of pleasure straight to my groin, my pussy clenching in response.

"Shit," I breathe, my voice shaky. "That's – Fuck. That's intense."

I can hardly think, the pleasure coursing through me is so overwhelming it leaves me lightheaded. The sensation of my heavy breasts being milked is unlike anything I have ever felt, a maddening mix of pleasure and relief. I gasp as the machine tugs at my swollen nipples, each pull causing milk to be drawn from my breasts with a soft, obscene squelching sound that fills the air around me.

I moan, my breasts bouncing and jiggling in the suction cups as the machine does its work. Each tug is more powerful than the last, the rhythmic pulsing sending me spiraling into a haze of pleasure. I can feel the milk leaving my body in a steady stream, the sensation sending waves of pleasure rippling through me.

I whimper, my hands clenching into fists as I squirm against the restraints. The pleasure is too much, too raw. I can't control the sounds escaping from my lips, my body convulsing with each powerful tug. Through it all, I can see Jack watching me, his gaze dark, and I know he can see how the machine is affecting me.

"Shit, Maddie," he rasps, his hands shaking as he flips through the manual. His eyes flick back to my bouncing tits, his gaze heated as he watches the machine work me over. "You're fucking leaking like a tap."

Suddenly I can feel it, the milk leaving my body in a steady stream, flowing down the clear tubes and filling the collection vessel with a soft, splashing noise that echoes around the barn. It's a strange experience, seeing my own milk being pumped from my body. I can't tear my eyes away, the sight of my own breasts being milked a perverse fascination that only seems to heighten my arousal.

At this point, my mind is a blurry mess of sensations – the rhythmic pulling on my nipples, the obscene squelching of milk being drawn from my tits, the soft gurgle of it filling the metal jar. It's all too much, too perverse, and I can feel myself teetering on the edge.

With each pull, the machine sucks more milk from my breasts, leaving them slightly deflated but still overly full. My groans fill the barn; every tug of the machine sends waves of pleasure up my spine, making my whole body shudder.

"Looks like it's working just fine," Jack mutters, half to himself, half to me. His gaze is glued to my heaving chest, watching as the machine milks me, his eyes wide with fascination.

He kneels down, examining the point where flesh meets machine, the suction cups tugging relentlessly at my nipples. "You okay, Maddie?" he asks, his voice soft and concerned.

If I had the capacity to respond, I would. But the machine is drowning me in sensations, each rhythmic pull making my brain buzz with pleasure and humiliation. I can hardly think, all I can do is moan, my body writhing in the restraints.

Suddenly, the machine changes its rhythm, the suction increasing and the pull becoming more insistent. My back arches, a silent scream lodged in my throat as the change takes me by surprise.

"Shit—" I gasp, the pressure building in my chest. "Fuck, that's intense."

Jack's hand is back on the control panel, turning a knob that only increases the machine's relentless pace. "Just hang in there," he murmurs, but his eyes tell a different story, filled with a fascination that borders on arousal.

With each tug, I feel my sanity slipping further away. My breasts bounce and jiggle as the machine works me over, milk spraying from my nipples into the collection container. I watch, mortified and aroused, as the jar fills with my precious, sweet milk, the machine humming triumphantly as it drains me.

Suddenly the barn door creaks open, and Mrs. Peterson strides in, her gaze immediately drawn to me, on all fours, being milked by a machine. I can see the shock in her eyes, the disbelief. But there's also fascination, a curiosity that mirrors Jack's.

As she approaches, I feel a new wave of humiliation wash over me. My body is on full display, milk shooting from my nipples with each pull of the machine, my moans filling the air. I wish the floor would swallow me whole; anything to hide me from her appraising gaze.

She's carrying a tray. On it, a steaming bowl filled with something that looks part gruel, part alien sludge. The smell hits me before she's even closed the distance, an aroma that's a mix of wet earth and overcooked vegetables.

"Time for breakfast," she says, placing the tray on a rack, right below my face.

I crane my neck to get a better look, the sight confirming my worst fears. It's the same vile concoction as yesterday, the mere memory of its taste threatening to make me gag.

But something peculiar happens. As I gaze into the bowl, a strange sense of desire washes over me. My body seems to crave the slop, a primal urge taking precedence over my rational thought. The milking machine hums in agreement, tugging at my nipples as if in encouragement.

I dip my tongue into the bowl, tentatively tasting the foul brew. It's as horrid as I remember, a grimace marring my face as I swallow the first mouthful. Yet, as the mashed slop slides down my throat, I can feel a weird warmth spreading through my chest.

My nipples respond with an intense pulse, milk gushing out in response to the meal. This was no mere food. It was fuel, a catalyst designed to increase my lactation.

Mrs. Peterson watches me, her eyes avoiding my heaving chest and the milk splashing into the receptacle. There's a hint of bemusement in her gaze, a glimmer of triumph. Her mission is accomplished, the lazy gamer boy finally submitting to the farm routine.

"No more games, Maddie," she says simply, patting me on the head before stepping back and letting Jack take over.

The moment she's gone, he dials up the intensity on the machine. The shock of it jolts through me, breaking my concentration, making the slop in my mouth spill out in a messy dribble down my chin.

I whimper in protest, my eyes begging him to stop. "Please, it's too much..." I manage to stammer, my words swallowed by the obscene slurping sound of the machine.

He grins, his gaze fixed on my bouncing chest. "You'll get used to it, Maddie. Just keep eating."

And so I do, my tongue lapping up the disgusting paste while my breasts bounce in time with the machine. There's a perverse pleasure to all of this, the feeling of being milked and fed at the same time. I can feel my arousal surge, my pussy throbbing in time with the machine's rhythm.

It's humiliating and intense, but I can't deny the pleasure coursing through me. My brain is alight with the sensations, arousal drowning out my embarrassment. I'm transformed into a helpless, milking, feeding object.

As Jack cranks up the machine to full power, I moan uncontrollably, my body bucking against the restraints. I'm trapped in this decadent dance, my body betraying me, becoming a slave to the pleasure of being milked. I can't help but shudder as a fresh wave of milk spurts out of me, my nipples throbbing in sweet agony.

My legs are weak, trembling under the strain of it all. My pussy clenches in arousal, soaking my panties, the realization only adding to my desperate moans. The taste of the slop in my mouth mixes with the smell of my own arousal, creating a perverse cocktail that sends me spiraling into a state of humiliating bliss.

The more I gulp down the meal, the more my body craves it, and the more my breasts seem to swell in anticipation. Every swallow and suckle sends a powerful pulse straight to my nipples, making my milk squirt out in a steady stream.

I let out a whimpered cry, my body convulsing in pleasure as my mind is overloaded. Each suck of the machine sends a surge of pleasure through my body, each mouthful of the gruel powers my lactation, and all I can do is moan, my voice bouncing off the barn walls, the sound echoing my ultimate submission.

—

The machine slows to a hum, gradually releasing the tight grip on my tits. I pant heavily, my body still thrumming from the relentless milking. My nipples are red and swollen, still leaking a few droplets of milk that lazily dribble down my huge, quivering tits.

Releasing a deep sigh, Jack reaches forward, his rough hands deftly unhooking each suction cup from my engorged nipples. The sensation of being released sends a shiver down my spine, the sudden emptiness a stark contrast to the persistent suction I had grown accustomed to.

The cup falls away with a pop, a dribble of milk following its path. I gasp, my hands instinctively trying to cradle my tits, the weight of them noticeably lessened but the sensitivity heightened.

My mind is foggy, body slack, my thoughts incoherent. All I can focus on is the warm rush of pleasure coursing through me, and the feeling of sheer relief that comes with being unhooked from the machine.

I fumble with my blouse, hands shaking as I try to button it up over my heaving tits. It's a struggle, my fingers slipping on the tiny buttons, the fabric not quite reaching around the circumference of my breasts. After two failed attempts, I'm left panting, blouse gaping open, tits exposed.

"Need a hand?" Jack's low, gruff voice breaks through my haze, a glint of amusement in his eyes. He steps forward, his large, calloused hands reaching out towards my chest.

I feel a blush creep up my cheeks, but I'm beyond caring. I give a weak nod, letting him take over. His fingers are surprisingly gentle, carefully buttoning up my blouse. I can feel his breath on my skin, his proximity sparking a flurry of butterflies in my belly.

I'm so drained, so spent, but feeling so good. I watch him, eyes half-closed in post-milk bliss, as he carefully rearranges my blouse around my heavy breasts. His hands are deft, skilled in handling things far more delicate than I'd have ever imagined.

As my outfit is finally straightened, I catch sight of the milk receptacle. It's full of my sweet, thick milk, collected over the course of an hour. A strange sense of pride settles over me, seeing the fruits of my submission, my embarrassment slowly being overshadowed by a sense of accomplishment.

I reach out to touch it, surprised by the warmth of the liquid inside. The sight triggers a peculiar sensation within me. Amid the discomfort, humiliation, and arousal, there's a sense of satisfaction, something I've never experienced before.

"Moooo," I mumble, giggling to myself. My voice sounds so silly, so delirious. I can't take my eyes off the receptacle, feeling weirdly proud of myself, of my body.

"You did good, Maddie," Jack tells me, a blush spreading over his cheeks. His tone changes, becoming more confident as he takes in my disheveled state: my swollen lips, the lingering glow on my skin, my damp panties, and the milk still glistening on my tits.

My body feels so heavy, my tits sagging from their thorough milking, my legs weak from having been on all fours for so long. Every step I take sends a jiggling quake through my tits, the sensation making me moan out loud.

The walk back to the main house is a weird mix of pleasure and exhaustion, the sting of my nipples and the sloshing of breakfast in my belly a constant reminder of my thorough milking. But despite the exhaustion, despite my soaked panties and trembling legs, I can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction.

Being milked, being filled, being drained—the sensation is intoxicating. I've been emptied and filled all at once, my body an obscene milk machine, my tits two overfilled jugs. Despite everything, I can't deny the sense of satisfaction bubbling within me. And the feeling of my sticky, milk-stained blouse against my swollen, tender tits, it's a sensation I won't be forgetting anytime soon.

—

The sun filters into my room, casting a warm glow on the undone bed and scattered clothes. I sit there, legs crossed, mind racing, body spent. Every pulse, every beat of my heart reminds me of the milking machine's rhythmic suction, a relentless echo that sends shivers down my spine.

My room, once a sanctuary filled with video games and comic books, now seems alien. I glance at the mirror, my Asian reflection gazing back at me with dark, almond-shaped eyes. The sight makes me shudder, a rush of conflicting emotions flooding me. This isn't me. This isn't Matt.

A knock at the door pulls me back from my thoughts. I turn, my big tits swaying heavily as I do so, Sarah standing at the doorway, an apologetic look on her face.

"Hey, Maddie," she says, her voice soft, eyes filled with concern. She steps inside, her hands clutching something. It's my handheld game, Quantum Quest. The sight of it brings a rush of forgotten memories, a pang of longing for my old life as Matt.

"I... I fixed it," she says, extending the game towards me. I see the familiar, pixelated cityscape lighting up its screen, the joystick wiggling slightly. "I thought maybe you'd like to have this back. You know, for a bit of normalcy?"

Overwhelmed, I take the console from her. It feels familiar, the buttons, the joystick, the weight of it in my hands. But as I press the buttons, my fingers fumble, my nails digging into the soft plastic, a stark reminder of my transformation.

"Thank you, Sarah," I say, my voice choked. I fumble with the game, the cityscape flashing in bright, retro colors. It feels different, heavier, alien, just like everything else in my life right now.

"I'm sorry," she says, sitting next to me on the bed. "I'm sorry about how I've been acting, about my mom and dad, about this whole messed-up situation."

"I just…" I trail off, not knowing what to say. I want to rant, to scream, to cry, but all that comes out is a weak, pitiful whimper.

"I know," she murmurs, her hand resting gently on my arm. "And I want to help. I want to be here for you."

We sit there in silence, her comforting presence a small reprieve from the agonizing reality that had become my life. Her hand is warm against my arm, gentle, a stark contrast from the impersonal touch of the milking machine.

After a moment, she clears her throat, "Tomorrow, Rojer has requested your presence in Summer City. For the unveiling of your new flavor." She frowns, her fingers tightening around mine. "I don't like that guy, Rojer. I don't trust him."

"What do I do, Sarah?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper. I feel scared, lost.

"I...I don't know, Maddie." Her admission hits me like a gut punch, but there's a quiet resolve in her voice that steels me.

Her eyes move to my milk-soaked blouse, the damp outlines of my heavy tits a cruel reminder of what I've become. I feel a flush spread across my face and chest. I am no longer Matt, I am Maddie, a walking, lactating spectacle, a source of amusement and profit for others.

"And what will I do there? Stand around while they hawk ice cream made from my milk?" The words taste bitter in my mouth.

"Maybe... maybe we can use this to our advantage," Sarah says. She's sitting up a bit straighter, the gears in her head visibly turning. "If Rojer is as sketchy as we think, he won't want the Partisans sniffing around his operation. If we threaten to expose him..."

"Blackmail him, you mean?" I say, raising an eyebrow at her. "That's crazy. "

"Sorry, I don't know what I'm thinking. I just want to get you out of this."

She watches as I try to de-stress by playing my game.

"Are you winning?"

"No," I mutter, my focus trained on the console. My tits are sprawled across my chest, the moist fabric of my blouse clinging to their fullness. The weight is unbearable, a constant reminder of the reality I've been thrust into. I can feel the milk sloshing inside them, the pressure a constant nag in the back of my mind.

The familiarity of Quantum Quest is comforting, a reminder of my old life. I navigate through the game, thumb slipping on the joystick as I try to beat the goddamn level 35. The monsters here are relentless, quick, their pixelated forms seeming all the more menacing. My clumsy movements aren't helping either.

The game pushes me, forces me to move faster, think harder, but my reflexes are not what they used to be. Each push of the joystick sends jolts through my overfilled tits, distracting me. They sway heavily, the faint squelching of milk inside them making me wince. The game shakes in my hand, my focus waning as the sensation of my massive mammaries threatens to drown out everything else.

"Doritos," Sarah announces, breaking my concentration. She holds out a bag of chips, a knowing smile on her face. "Figured you could use some gamer snacks."

The sight of actual food makes my mouth water. I eagerly grab a handful, the taste of the zesty cheese flavor exploding in my mouth is pure heaven after the morning's sickening gruel.

"We can't just let them do this to you," Sarah finally says, her voice dropping to a barely audible whisper. Her eyes are filled with concern, a spark of rebellion flickering in them. "We...we could run. And like I was saying before, I could take you to a Partisan office in the city. It's a few hours' drive, but..."

"And what about these?" I gesture to my chest, my heavy tits sloshing with the movement. "Even if I escape, I can't escape this. I'm stuck in this body, like it or not. It like… fills up. I fucking have to be milked. I need that stupid machine."

I slump back, the strain of maintaining an upright posture too much with the weight of my breasts. I gaze at the ceiling, feeling the pressure of my tits on my chest, the slow trickle of milk seeping through my blouse.

"Yeah. Well. You don't have to decide now," Sarah says softly, reaching out to squeeze my hand. "We'll figure something out. I promise."

The silence stretches between us, each lost in our thoughts. The drone of the game's theme music is the only sound filling the room. I stare at the ceiling, the possibility of escape and all its implications weighing heavily on me. My body feels drained, my energy sapped with each drop of milk leaking from me. I sigh, turning my gaze back to the game, my one remaining link to a simpler time, before lactating tits and milking machines became a terrifying reality.

—

Dinner has always been a quiet, contemplative affair at the Peterson farm. But tonight, as Rojer Braithwaite saunters in with a triumphant smile, it feels more like a stage than a dining room. His gleaming eyes fixate on me as he reveals a tub of matcha ice cream.

"My dearest Nyuho," he says, drawing out my new name with an exaggerated flourish, "I would like you to sample the fruits of your labor."

He scoops a spoonful of the green ice cream and extends it towards me. "Go on, don't be shy. Aren't you the least bit curious?"

Every instinct tells me to refuse, to push away the spoon and the man offering it. But I can't deny the morbid curiosity gnawing at me. With a reluctant nod, I open my mouth and accept the spoon.

The moment the ice cream touches my tongue, I'm bombarded with an assault of unfamiliar sensations. I've had matcha ice cream before, but never like this.

My milk, creamy and sweet, softens the matcha's traditional earthiness. The bitterness is there, lurking in the back, but it's more mellow, more forgiving. The texture is like a dream, the ice cream practically melting on my tongue, its silky softness coating every corner of my mouth. There's a latent warmth to it, a whisper of caramel that lingers long after I've swallowed.

Suddenly, Rojer's bombastic descriptions from earlier don't seem so ludicrous. My milk has transformed a familiar dessert into something... strange. New.

"Ah, I can see from your expression that you're quite taken, Nyuho," Rojer gloats, a smug grin playing on his lips.

He turns to the Petersons, completely oblivious to my internal turmoil.

"Tomorrow, at the unveiling, our dear Nyuho here will be the star. And of course," he adds, "her delightful milk. I can't wait for our customers to savor this unique delicacy."

The prospect of being paraded around as a 'flavor' sends another wave of revulsion through me. I push the thought aside, focusing instead on the unsettling sweetness of the matcha ice cream still lingering in my mouth.

Rojer's attention shifts to Jack, his gaze suddenly sharp. "However, we did fall a bit short on the quota today, didn't we?" Jack stiffens under Rojer's scrutiny, his jaw clenching as he holds the man's gaze.

"We'll need to figure out a way to increase production," Rojer says, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "I trust you can handle that, Jack?"

Jack's response is curt, his knuckles white as he grips his fork. "I'll do what needs to be done."

Rojer's smug smile returns, the seriousness disappearing as quickly as it came. "Excellent," he coos, turning his attention back to me. "And you, dear Nyuho, I trust you won't disappoint either. You'll be the star of the show, of course."

"What?" I blurt out, blinking at him. "Wait, show? What show?"

Rojer chuckles, drawing out the suspense. "Why, the ice cream parlor, of course!" he says. "And not just for the flavor. The whole experience! You, your... endowment and your sweet milk all on display. A true farm-to-table experience."

"But I...I'm not… I…" I sputter, the words slipping away in my shock. "I didn't agree to... to display…"

Rojer waves a dismissive hand at me. "Of course you did. Why else would you be dressed like this?"

"I agreed to produce milk, not to... to…" I trail off, mortified. His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I can feel my face burning, tears of embarrassment welling up in my eyes.

"Don't worry, Nyuho, my dear," he continues, utterly oblivious to my distress. "Our patrons enjoy getting to know their...ahem, producers. Some even enjoy a more... direct sampling."

The room spins as a sickening wave of humiliation washes over me. I shudder, bile rising at the thought of strangers… Sampling me? Me, on display like an object, like a… like a…

The giggles bubbling from Rojer's throat are the final straw.

"I won't!" I shout, slamming my hands on the table and standing up. The sudden movement makes my tits bounce, the squelching sound echoing in the silent room.

"Nyuho…" Mrs. Peterson begins, but I cut her off.

"I'll report you! To the Partisans! They'll shut you down!" I stammer, my voice shaking with barely contained rage and humiliation. The tears spill over, hot and bitter, streaking down my face.

"This… this isn't legal! This is exploitation! I am NOT a cow! I am NOT an object! I am NOT your… your spectacle!"

The room falls silent as my outburst hangs in the air. Rojer blinks, momentarily stunned. The smirk on his face is gone, replaced by a barely concealed fury.

Without a word, he rises, his chair scraping against the floor. He gathers the ice cream tub, his spoon and leaves. The door slams behind him, a chilling promise of his return.

Looking around the table, I see shocked faces staring back at me. Mrs. Peterson averts her gaze, while Mr. Peterson clears his throat, his face unreadable. Jack's eyes are soft, sympathetic, but it's Sarah who comes to my side, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder.

I know she's going to help me.

—

The plan was simple: get out of the farmhouse, get in the beat-up pickup Sarah's given me the keys for, and drive. Drive till we get to the Partisan precinct. What happens after? I don't fucking know. But it seems better than being on display for Rojer's asshole customers.

My heart races as I pick my way downstairs, every creak of the wooden floorboards echoing ominously in the still night. The farmhouse is dark, drenched in a heavy, almost palpable quiet. I tiptoe, my breath held, my fingers gripping the banister tightly. The faint chirping of crickets and the sporadic hoot of an owl create a surreal soundtrack to my escape.

Sarah had lent me a button-down flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. The shirt is snug, pulled taut over my massive chest, straining at the seams. The jeans are a whole different story. My new, curvaceous lower body barely squeezes into them, the denim stretching skin-tight over my hips. She ties my hair up into a bun, an effort to make me look less...conspicuous.

My tits throb, the undeniable sensation of fullness gnawing at me. I bite back a wince, ignoring the ache. Not now. I can't stop now. There's too much at stake. My jaw tightens in determination.

As we creep towards the door, memories crowd in. Memories of a day when this farmhouse wasn't my prison, when it was just an escape from my grief. The echoing laughter, the smell of freshly baked cakes, the warm cookies and cold milk. All things I took totally for granted while I played my games.

Now, the darkness seems to swallow everything, the sweet memories replaced by the bitter taste of desperation.

Pulling the front door open slowly, the hinges creak, a ghostly sound in the otherwise silent night. I freeze, my breath hitching in my throat. The silence stretches, seemingly louder than the creaking door.

Outside, the farmhouse is bathed in a soft moonlight, the surrounding fields glowing in the faint light. The once comforting open skies seem ominous, the vast emptiness reflecting my fear. I tiptoe across the grassy yard, my heart pounding so loud I can hear it echoing in my ears. The gravel crunches underneath my feet as I make my way toward the row of old pickup trucks.

Glancing over my shoulder, I feel my heart drop to the pit of my stomach. Sarah is not behind me. Panic seizes me, my mind racing. I can't do this without her. I have no idea where she might have gone, the farmhouse looming imposingly behind me. Its once comforting familiarity now twisted into something twisted and foreboding.

"Sarah," I whisper, my voice hoarse. The name hangs heavy in the night air, unanswered by the deafening silence. I look around frantically, the vast fields stretching out in front of me, the gloomy farmhouse at my back.

I feel a cold dread taking hold of me. I'm alone. So horribly, helplessly alone.

"Sarah?" I try again, louder this time.

But the only response I get is the haunting call of an owl, a chilling echo fading into the oppressive silence.

"Sarah?" I call again, my voice stronger this time, throbbing with rising panic.

Nothing. The stillness hangs eerily, the sultry night air heavy and oppressive, as if it were muffling my calls.

Turning back towards the black silhouette of the farmhouse, I swallow hard, my throat dry. Maybe she went back. Hope, thin and fragile, flickers inside me, but it wilts under the weight of the grim realization. The farmhouse is abnormally quiet, its lifeless windows reflecting the pale moonlight.

My heart thunders in my chest, my breaths shallow and shaky. The fullness in my breasts aches, a stark reminder of my bizarre predicament. I clutch the front of my flannel shirt, my fingers brushing against the straining fabric. Beneath it, my tits are swollen and heavy, straining against the small bra.

Resisting the urge to curl up and cry, I square my feminine shoulders. "Fuck this," I mutter under my breath, steadying myself. I have to get out. I have to find the Partisans. They would help. They had to help.

So, with a determined grit, I turn back, focusing on the line of old pickup trucks. Sarah had said the one with the chipped paint and broken passenger-side mirror. I spot it, its shabby exterior a stark contrast to the polished ones lined next to it.

Striding toward the truck, I try to ignore the prickling sensation at the back of my neck, like I'm being watched. I tell myself it's the fear speaking, the nighttime playing tricks with my mind.

With trembling fingers, I unlock the door, the click unbearably loud in the silent night. Climbing in, I pause, glancing over my shoulder once more. My gaze roams over the eerily silent farm, scanning for any signs of Sarah.

Nothing.

Swallowing down a lump of anxiety, I slide the key into the ignition, when a sudden movement catches my eye in the rearview mirror. There's a dark shape in the backseat, shifting. Two gleaming eyes stare back at me.

"No..." The word falls from my lips in a whimper.

The next moment, a rough hand clamps over my mouth and pulls me back. A sharp pain stabs into my arm, and I gasp, the world tilting around me.

"Shh, Nyuho," a low voice rumbles, its tone sending chills down my spine.

The words hang in the air, the implication sinking deep into my foggy mind. My heart pounds painfully, and terror grips me as blackness swallows my vision. My lids grow heavy, and I fight back, but it's futile. The last thing I remember is the haunting glint in those predatory eyes, my scream silent in my throat.

***

"Welcome, one and all, to Parlour Tricks!"

I pry open my bleary eyes, only to be met with a blinding assault of artificial lights. I blink, the harsh glare bringing my surroundings into focus. Looking around, I instantly recognize the glossy interior if an ice cream boutique.

I'm suddenly aware of a roomful of anticipating eyes, dozens of eager patrons lined up against the glass wall, like hungry animals eyeing their next meal. It takes a moment for reality to crash over me like a wave.

I'm on display for these gawking strangers... completely naked save for a pair of cow ears perched awkwardly on my head and a bell, jingling mercilessly with each humiliating breath I take. My body is on full display, bared for the world to see in all its lactating glory.

My stomach churns. I want to hide, to vanish, to escape this despicable farce. But the drug swimming through my system turns my rage into a purr, my resistance into a sultry moan.

*This is not happening. This is a nightmare,* I scream inwardly, clenching and unclenching my fists. But out loud, I hear my voice, cooing in Japanese, a language I don't even understand, "Anata ga watashi no gyūnyū o shimeru tokini, watashi wa ureshii desu."

*"I.. I feel great pleasure when you squeeze my milk out,"* Rojer translates for the audience, his lips curling in a mocking smile. A ripple of laughter runs through the crowd.

I want to curse, to spit, to lash out at them all. But my body, my traitorous body, just smiles and nods, offering more obscene encouragements. "Watashi no ōkina chichi o miru to, watashi wa totemo ureshii desu." *Look at my big tits; it makes me so happy.* I suppress a gag, my insides curling in revulsion.

Rojer, all the while, prattles on about the quality of my milk, about its exquisite taste and high demand. He paints a vivid picture of exotic Japanese milkmaids, of my supposed heritage, of my supposed pleasure in my grotesque predicament.

Rojer then gestures to an eager patron, a smirking man with a greasy comb-over, beckoning him forward. "Care to do the honors?" he asks, gesturing towards a shiny red button affixed to the machine's control panel.

The man steps forward, an eager grin splitting his face. My heart slams against my ribcage, my mind a whirlwind of dread and humiliation as his fat finger descends on the button.

The machine springs to life, its mechanical grip clamping onto my swollen nipples, tugging... pulling. The sudden surge of milk leaves me gasping, my body jolting in the mechanical grip. I can't help but cry out, an obscene moan mixing with the machine's rhythmic hum.

My mind is a battlefield, the rational part screaming in rage and humiliation, while the physical part purrs in relief. The milk spurts forth, shooting into the transparent containers, filling them with a rapidity that has the audience cheering.

Their applause reverberates around the room, a cruel parody of an achievement. I want to curl into myself, to hide my face and my body from these prying eyes. But the drug, the fucking drug makes me sway, the machine in sync with the rhythmic melody of extraction, my body reduced to a human milking spectacle.

Rojer announces, "And there we have it, ladies and gentlemen, the freshest milk straight from our delightful Dairy Queen. Now, let's churn some delicious ice cream!" The crowd bursts into applause, their anticipation tangible in the air.

I want to scream, to protest, to fight against the binds that hold me captive. But my voice is reduced to demure Japanese sounds, my body swaying in the rhythm of the machine, my mind imprisoned in a hellish, milky nightmare.

Giddy clapping echoes around the ice cream parlor, the customers' greedy eyes lapping up the debauchery on display. Under the influence of some sort of highly illegal compliance drug, I'm a sexy, lactating puppet, my body swaying to the rhythmic pulse of the milking machine.

Rojer, basking in the applause, declares with theatrical flair, "And there we have it, ladies and gentlemen, the freshest milk possible, straight from our delightful Dairy Queen. Now, to our pièce de résistance; let's churn this milk into some delicious matcha ice cream!"

Muted clapping and murmurs of anticipation fill the parlor. My mind reels in the echo of their giddy excitement, my body shamelessly jerking to the pace set by the milking machine.

My lips, however, are reduced to a humiliating, high-pitched timbre. I utter words in a foreign language that I don't understand. The Japanese phrases are flung from my lips without conscious thought, my mind too trapped within the milky haze to process the humiliation.

"Sugu ni watashi o shinu kudasai! Motto... Motto shibara naide!" Desperation laces my voice, every word a plead for more robust milking.

Rojer, delighting in the spectacle, translates for the audience, his words both an explanation and a mockery. "Our Dairy Queen is requesting… no, demanding that we milk her harder. She can't seem to get enough, folks."

Laughter booms through the room, blending with the steady hum of the machine. I am their source of entertainment, a circus freak on display, my obscene satisfaction feeding their sadistic pleasure.

The patrons, their eyes wide as saucers, look on in intrigued anticipation as Rojer begins his show. With one hand, he lifts a polished steel bowl filled with my fresh milk. With the other, a whisk and a shiny tin filled with the finest matcha powder.

Rojer begins his presentation, whisking the matcha powder into the bowl of milk. The crowd murmurs their approval, their eyes darting between the ice cream preparation and my body in the throes of milking.

I want to scream, to rail against the injustice of it all. But all I could do is moan, my body writhing in the throes of an impending climax. Each tug of the machine sends a powerful shudder down my spine, my mouth opening to release low, wanton groans.

As the machine dials up its frenzied milking, the intensity hits me like a freight train. I'm helpless, my body eagerly succumbing to the relentless rhythm. My body shudders so ferociously that the bell around my neck clinks in a staccato rhythm, the sound echoing through the parlor like a perverse symphony.

My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I hear myself shrieking incoherent Japanese phrases. "Motto... Motto... Mama! Ah... Ah... Iku... Ikuyo!" My voice rises into a shrill crescendo, echoing through the parlor. My eyes roll to the back of my head as my senses implode, detonating in a blinding release.

"Everyone, hold on to your scoops! Our Dairy Queen is about to cream!" Rojer announces over the loudspeaker. I can hear him laughing, a triumphant, gleeful sound that sends sparks of humiliation through my body.

As if obeying his command, the machine kicks into a brutal higher gear. The suction cups grasp my nipples tighter, the milk shooting out of me in thick, white torrents.

The pleasure detonates inside me, the force of it ripping a loud, obscene moan from my throat. My vision blurs, cum squirting violently out of my twitching pussy, splattering across the inside of the milking chamber. The vulgar sound of it splashing against the glass drowns out even the hum of the machine.

At the same time, milk gushes out from my massive tits, the force of it almost painful. I feel every pulse, every squirt, a rhythmic throb that mirrors my climax. It's too much, too intense, my world shrinking down to the obscene sensation of being milked dry.

The crowd bursts into applause, their cheers and whoops blending with my lewd moans. I'm blind to them, my world reduced to the machine, my body, and the relentless orgasm. My sensitive flesh writhes, the machine's grip driving me to new heights of pleasure, rippling shockwaves of ecstasy through my body.

Through teary eyes, I watch the crowd, their faces lit with ghoulish delight. Their tongues dart out, tasting the first samples of the matcha ice cream made from my milk. Their obscene satisfaction is mirrored in their moans of approval, their eyes lingering on my heaving breasts and the obscene spectacle of my orgasm.

Rojer's attendants deftly gather the milk squirting from my massive tits, whisking it into a fresh batch of ice cream. The sight of men enjoying my milk, licking their lips in satisfaction, sends yet another gut-wrenching wave of humiliation through me.

"Y...yes...yes...drink it...it's sooo...aaaaahhh...gooood!" My voice sounds foreign, choked with pleasure and mortification as I beg them to enjoy my milk.

Suddenly, everything narrows down, the noise, the lights, the laughter, all dulled by the climax tearing its way through me. A second orgasm explodes within me, even more potent and louder than the first.

"Motto... Motto... Iku... Iku... Yabai!" My Japanese dissolves into incomprehensible babbling, my mind too far gone.

Customers clamoring for a taste of the orgasm-infused ice cream heightens my climax, their greedy hands slipping bills into Rojer's grinning hands. The sight of men eating my green matcha ice cream as they watch me convulse in orgasm sends me spiraling down a vortex of degradation.

The pleasure is unending, the machine gnawing at my sanity, my body reduced to a writhing, moaning mess. Profanity stems from my lips, the Japanese words sounding increasingly obscene and self-demeaning.

The humiliation is overwhelming, washing over me in brutal waves, churning my insides, turning me into a squealing, thrashing wreck. But the machine just keeps going, grinding out orgasm after orgasm, reducing me to a moaning, lactating shell of a woman.

There's the sound of the crowd burbling excitedly, the clatter of spoons scraping against bowls, the jangle of the cowbell around my neck. But all of those noises fade away when I hear Rojer's voice ring out, a harsh command cutting through all the other noise.

"Let's bring a lucky audience member to help with this next part, shall we? How about you, sir?" he says, pointing to a man in the crowd. Terror seizes me as the chosen one, a chubby man with a salacious grin, steps forward.

The milking machine suddenly halts. The metal clamps release, causing my engorged tits to swing free. The suction cups plop off with a wet, lewd sound, and my swollen nipples leak a steady stream of milk, dribbling down my taut skin.

My heart races, pounding painfully against my chest as the man steps up to the platform. His eyes are filled with a dark hunger, his gaze roving over my on-display, dripping breasts. I feel a strange tingle of dread mixed with anticipation.

Then, the door to my glass chamber is swung open, inviting him in, inviting him to defile me. I draw in a sharp breath as the cool air of the parlor hits my exposed, wet skin.

"Here you go, sir," Rojer says, handing the man a grid-free milk bucket, "Get as much milk as you can."

The man grins - a predatory, delighted grin that sends my heart into a wild frenzy. He steps closer, his sweaty hands reaching out towards my throbbing, leaking tits.

"I'm gonna enjoy this," he whispers, his voice raspy, as his greedy hand latches onto my left tit, making me squeal.

He starts kneading my breast, his thick fingers pressing into my tender flesh. He's rough, uncaring about the discomfort or the pain he might be causing me.

"Squeeze, sir... squeeze the shit out of my tits," I find myself moaning in Japanese, shocked by the obscene urge tumbling out of my mouth.

His hand tightens, pulling my breast downward, forcing out a spray of milk that arcs into the bucket. The sensation is intense - a painful tug that shoots straight down into my core. My body jolts, a strangled moan tearing from my throat. I'm losing my mind with pleasure, every ounce of my dignity dissolving into the milky froth collecting in the bucket.

"Motto...gutto shimeru..." I gasp, pleading for more, harder. I feel a twinge of humiliation creep up my spine when I realize I'm actually begging this stranger to milk me, to degrade me further.

He complies, grunting with effort as he tugs my nipple, forcing more milk to gush out. The sharp pleasure-pain sends a jolt through me, my pussy clenching rhythmically. I buck against his hand, my body responding instinctively to his rough touch.

"Good girl," he grunts in between my moans, his hands manipulating my breast with practiced ease. Each squeeze, each tug forces out more milk, fills the bucket faster.

Laughter and cheers fill the parlor. The men are guffawing and hooting, some of them clapping loudly, encouraging the man to be more brutal, more obscene. And all the while, they're still enjoying the matcha ice cream made with my milk.

The cacophony of Parlour Tricks grows louder, the crowd's energy contagious, as Rojer, with his ever-present showman's flair, prepares to make the ice cream. Amidst the clinking of spoons and hum of conversation, the gleam of scientific marvel catches every eye. The liquid nitrogen churn, all shiny metal and billowing vapor, sits at the center of the parlor.

"Right then, ladies and gents," Rojer declares, his chipper British accent cutting through the din. "Let's turn this fresh milk into the creamiest, dreamiest matcha ice cream you've ever had, shall we? But first, we need more of our Dairy Queen's special ingredient!" His booming voice is as smooth as velvet, his smile as wide as the Thames is long.

He turns to the burly man, his eyes twinkling with mischievous excitement. "Squeeze harder, my good man! We've got a lot of eager customers waiting!" The audience cheers, their faces alight with a twisted glee.

The man's hands on my tender flesh comply with a renewed vigor. "Motto! Motto shimeru!" I shriek out the words, hating the eagerness in my own voice. My skin flushes with shame as I feel the warm trickle of milk respond to the painful tugging, my swollen tits overflowing into the waiting bucket.

Rojer's spectacle is far from over.

"Now, now, Nyuho here has a little secret for an even more bountiful yield," he announces, his voice taking on an exaggerated tone of confidentiality. "She's particularly productive when thoroughly... enjoyin' herself, if you catch my drift!"

My internal alarm bell clatters wildly, though outwardly I bat my eyelashes and nod eagerly, my vast breasts swaying as if to the beat of some silent tune. The crowd leans in, their eyes gleaming with anticipation.

"Fakku shite! Fakku shite kudasai!" I wail, my head thrown back, my voice a wanton song. My plea is loud and clear: *Fuck me! Please fuck me!* As the words leave my lips, the reality of what I'm inviting crashes into me like a tidal wave, but it's too late to take them back.

The sight of a thick-set man stepping into the chamber sends a ripple of fear through me. His hands, the size of dinner plates, easily span the width of my waist as he positions himself behind me. With each step he takes, my oversized tits jostle and sway, beads of milk flying off to patter against the glass like rain on a windowpane.

Inside, I'm a storm of panic and humiliation, a tempest that's raging against the walls of my drugged mind. Outwardly, however, I'm all smiles and purrs, a cow-eared caricature of Japanese porn fantasies.

Rojer, seizing the moment, adds a splash of liquid nitrogen to the churn, coaxing the crowd with grand gestures. The nitrogen reacts immediately, creating a dramatic, smoky effect that sends a murmur of awe through the gathered patrons.

"And off we go!" Rojer exclaims, pouring more of my fresh milk into the mix, the steam rising like a Broadway smog machine. The liquid nitrogen churns the concoction, a magical, misty dance that captivates onlookers.

"Motto, motto, gyunyu o dase!" I continue to cry out my encouragement through the act, a mantra sung through moans.

As the man's hands grip my sides, the cold bite of fear cuts through the pleasure-addled haze of my brain. I brace myself, suspended in a mix of dread and sick anticipation.

The telltale jingle of a belt being undone sounds behind me, the clinking metal a harbinger of what's to come. My breath hitches in my throat, my mind reeling. This can't be happening. Not really. Not me.

Then I feel it—pressure against my sensitive, swollen sex. My body instinctively tenses, but the drug coursing through my veins turns my tension into a twisted eagerness.

As he pushes into me, a high-pitched squeal escapes my throat. It's a lewd, animalistic sound that echoes through the ice cream parlor. My body convulses, the sensation of being filled so suddenly and completely is overwhelming. My mind rockets between pleasure and shock as the man begins to move.

The squelching sounds are obscene, loud enough to be heard over the cheers and chatter of the parlor crowd. The wet, lewd noises punctuate each hard, jarring thrust.

"Motto hayaku, motto tsuyoku!" I cry out, my voice a siren song of debauchery, begging for him to go faster, harder. My Japanese pleas sound over the top, even to my own ears, but the drug and the sheer intensity of the moment make them impossible to lock down.

My tits, these massive, milk-swollen things, are slapping against one another in a lewd ballet, each heavy thud accompanied by a spray of milk. It's violent, hot jets that reach almost comical distances, shooting out in time with the rhythm of the man's rough pounding.

With each thrust, the milk surges from my nipples, filling the air with the sound of my liquid essence splashing into the bucket below. The sensation is excruciating, an endless gush that feels as though it's wrenching the soul right from my chest.

"Look at this slut's tits squirt!" the man growls, his voice leering and full of mocking praise. "So damn tight... and wet," he grunts, and the low chuckle that follows is like a blade against my psyche.

I'm nothing but a milking fuck toy—a spectacle for these people. My old life, my identity, is melting away with each punishing drive into my trembling body. I can't imagine what Matt would think of this, of who I've become. But Matt is gone, and all that's left is the Dairy Queen, the Nyuho, screaming in unwanted ecstasy.

The man's hands are relentless, squeezing my breasts so hard I can feel the bruises forming. But the milk doesn't care; it gushes out even faster, the force of it so strong it's nearly tearing me apart. It's a frenzy of flesh and fluid, an overcharged engine of production that won't be stopped.

"Konna ni ooi gyūnyū o!" I hear myself screaming. "Aa, subarashii! Mō, tomarenai!"

*So much milk! Oh, it's wonderful! I can't stop!*

The man's leering comments, the cheers of the crowd, the cold machinery—it's all becoming too much. A tidal wave of sensations crashes over me, drowning me in a sea of over-stimulation. I'm being milked, used, and thrown into total overdrive by this stranger's cock, and my world blurs into a singular, shameful point of existence.

My breasts are a pendulum, swinging with reckless abandon with every violent thrust behind me. The milk slaps out of me in rhythm, the heavy, wet smacks filling the space between the jingle of my bell and the grunts of the man using me.

I feel my brain overheating, circuits frying one by one, leaving nothing but a primal, milk-driven creature in their wake. The ludicrousness of the situation is oddly numbing, the parody of my own existence playing out in front of a crowd that cheers and jeers for more.

I'm teetering on the edge, the crowd's eager eyes devouring the lascivious display before them. The man's thick girth pushes deeper, spreading me wider with every violent thrust, his pelvis smacking against my flesh with wet, heavy slaps. Each impact sends shockwaves rippling through my body, my overfilled breasts quaking, milk gushing forth in uncontrolled jets.

The sensation is maddening, the intensity of the pleasure rendering me senseless. My moans crescendo into high-pitched squeals, each one peeling away at the last remnants of my self-control. I can feel the warmth of the man's breath against my neck, each grunt signaling his primal enjoyment of my body.

I watch, almost detached, as line after line of customers step up with eager hands and greedy mouths, all clamoring for a taste of the matcha ice cream made with my milk. The buzz of their excitement is a chorus to my shame, yet it also fuels the swirling vortex of ecstasy within me.

My eyes roll back, my body convulsing with unbridled pleasure. I go cross-eyed, a milky haze descending over my vision. The world narrows down to the relentless pounding from behind and the ceaseless flow of milk that refuses to be contained.

"Motto! Motto gyunyu! Aishiteru! Aishiteru yo, gyunyu!" I squeal incoherently, declaring my love for the milk that betrays me. My Japanese is a garbled, senseless stream of lewd endearments and mindless babble. I'm drowning in an ocean of pleasure, my mind white-hot and fizzling out.

The crowd's voracious appetite is mirrored by the man's relentless thrusts. His hands tighten on my hips, anchoring me in place for his final assault. I can feel him swelling inside me, his hips jerking erratically as he reaches his climax.

With a series of loud, guttural groans, he slams into me one last time, releasing a torrent of hot seed deep within my convulsing body. The feeling of being filled to the brim sends me over the edge into a cacophony of squealing ecstasy. My voice is lost amid the wild cacophony of the parlor.

Milk sprays out in sync with each of his spurts, the buckets below now overflowing with my essence. The pleasure cascades through me, a relentless tide that washes away any semblance of the person I once was.

I'm lost in the throes of otherworldly bliss, my body a vessel of debauchery, a fountain of endless lactation. My brain is fully cooked, each nerve ending sizzling with overstimulation. I'm fucked out, ridden hard, and put away utterly spent. Every fiber of my being tingles with pleasure so intense it's indistinguishable from pain.

The squeals that escape me are shameless, the sounds of a creature utterly consumed by their basest desires. I'm a Dairy Queen, reduced to a blubbering milk-producing mess, begging, pleading for more, more, more...

Another man takes the previous one's place.

The room spins as the pleasure courses through me, relentless and all-consuming. The next set of harder, rhythmic pounding turns my mind into mush, each thrum of my bell serving as a reminder of my utter debasement. I'm a cow, nothing more than a source of milk, my only purpose to be milked and used.

With each jolt, the bell clangs, a mocking metronome that keeps time with the vigorous jerks of his hips. It's a sound that anchors me to the reality of what I've become—a bovine parody, a spectacle for these people's twisted delight.

As more hands knead and pull at my overabundant tits, milk squirts out in rapid-fire bursts, a never-ending deluge that splatters across the room. The sound is grotesque, a lewd symphony of liquid against metal, a wet testament to my primal condition.

The fervent bellows of the man behind me turn into guttural roars as he loses himself to his own climax, his rhythm faltering, becoming uneven and stuttered. My own cries rise to meet his—a crescendo of animalistic noise that drowns out the revelry of the crowd. I'm nothing but a beast now, my thoughts a distant memory swept away in the tide of overwhelming ecstasy.

My body flails wildly, instincts taking over as my rational self reels back in horror. My full breasts swing heavily, their torturous jiggle only adding to the relentless tide of milk that pours forth. The sight is something out of a lecherous dream, a corpulent damsel strung up and wrung out to the last drop.

The bell around my neck clangs louder, a jarring chime that punctuates my loss of control, a soundtrack to my final descent into bovinedom. The crowd cheers me on, their voices distant to my ringing ears.

The man's final thrusts are ferocious, his hands gripping me so tightly I can feel the imprint of his fingers. And then I feel it—the hot rush of his release inside me, a flood that sends one last surge of milk spraying from my body in a climactic eruption.

I thrash, my brain seared with white-hot pleasure, my vision narrowing to a pinpoint. The world becomes a bright blaze of light, of heat, of pure animalistic release. The bell tolls one last time before fading into the background as I lose myself completely, consciousness slipping away in a wet, shuddering exhale.

I topple over the edge, my entire being consumed by the firestorm of my own climax.

The stinging slap reverberates through the ice cream parlor, a loud clack that harmonizes with the carnal noises surrounding me. The man's hand crashes down on my flesh once, then twice, his voice a commanding rumble that vibrates through my bones.

"Moo for them, you dairy slut! Make these fine people hear the sounds of pure pleasure!" he snarls, his grip on my hips tightening with each punishing blow.

I obey instantly, my voice rising in a throaty, guttural moo that resonates through the air, thick with the scent of my milk. Each moo flows into the next, my mind vacating, leaving only a milking creature bellowing its compliance.

"Moo! Moo!" I cry out, a symphony of pained ecstasy. My voice, laced with unmistakable desire, cuts through the noise, a signal for the crowd to watch the spectacle of my ultimate degradation.

My Japanese pleadings mix with bovine bellows, a stream of lurid phrases that would make the most shameless pink films blush. "Moo! Kimochi ii! Moo! Gyūnyū o dase! Moo, moo!"

*"Moo! It feels good! Moo! Let the milk out! Moo, moo!"*

Rojer, the ever-chipper ringmaster, steps forward, clapping his hands with practiced glee as his voice rises above my humiliating moos.

"Yes, that's it! Moo for them, Nyuho! Show our guests how much you adore being their milky entertainment!" His polished tone drips with showmanship, his British accent adding a touch of sophistication to the crude proceedings.

His encouragement draws a fevered response from the patrons, their applause and cheers rising to a crescendo as I continue to vocalize my mortification, my sounds of fake delight interwoven with needy moos.

Milk gushes from my heavy breasts, a torrential outpour that defies all reason, the buckets below struggling to contain the rampant overflow. The liquid splatters everywhere, painting the milking stall, the floor, and my heaving body in a patina of cream.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you have enjoyed this tremendous unveiling," Rojer declares, his voice a resounding boom. "You've witnessed the birth of Nyuho and our delightful new matcha flavor! Let's hear it for our Dairy Queen, whose unparalleled service has brought us tonight's star attraction!"

Concluding his speech with a grandiose bow, he orchestrates the crowd into a fervid ovation. As I moo over and over, panting and delirious, my eyes roll back in sheer, exhausted, manufactured bliss.

The overwhelming, perverse pleasure of the scene engulfs me, my final, defeated moos dwindling to soft whimpers. As consciousness slips away, the last thing I register is my own milk spraying wildly, the applause of the crowd, and Rojer's triumphant, cheery voice fading into the distance.