Dirtyluvin50

Session 2:

The screen is different this time. The sounds too. Not that she can point to any one shape or pattern or sound that's changed; it's just looks different. She wonders if it'll be like that every time.

She waits longer this time. The card said that after the initial calibration, she could stay as long as she pleased. And it does please her. The feeling that staring at the screen gives her is like static in her brain, a heavy-duty pipe brush scrubbing out the cobwebs between her ears. When she stops, it's only because she's beginning to get hungry.

As reality fades back in around her, she checks the stopwatch she started on her phone right before turning the TV on. Six hours and forty-seven minutes. No wonder she's hungry. She's just wondering what she's going to order for dinner when she notice an icon on her home screen that wasn't there before: an app for a file-hosting service, some alternative to dropbox. She taps the icon, which takes her to a shared folder with a single video in it. In the video she's naked on her bed, pounding away at herself with her favorite dildo. Sometimes she changes position. Sometimes she takes a break to shove it down her throat. Her eyes are vacant. A steady stream of drool trickles down her chin.

according to the app, there is 1 other person viewing this video.

Session 3:

She's vaguely aware this time, because she's paying attention, of odd sensations in her body as she stares at the screen. A brief impression of a hand on the back of her neck. A tightness in her scalp, like her hair being pulled. A warm soreness in her thighs, like she's been working out. More than anything, she turns off the TV this time because she can't wait any longer to see what's happened.

The most obvious difference is that unlike before she turned the TV on, she's now almost completely naked. Her skirt is bunched up around her waist. Her panties around one ankle. Her shirt and bra nowhere to be found. She notices a warmth on her thigh, and realizes there's cum dripping out of her. Her body aches all over, but it's a good, sleepy kind of ache, like she's just finished running a marathon. She checks her phone. Almost 12 hours.

She gets a notification that someone has liked her instagram story. She hasn't touched instagram in months. She opens the app, and begins to tap through her own story, watching a just-the-highlights rundown of the night she's just had. In this one she's sucking a strangers cock on the subway. In that one she's staring up at the camera, begging whoever's holding her phone to fuck her in the ass (he obliges). There are several memorable clips of her being used by no less than five men at once, apparently on the counter of some bar somewhere.

In the most recent one, she's in her own apartment, taking a selfie as someone out-of-frame ejaculates on her face. As she watches this, she reaches up and touches her own face.

She's laying on some sort of padded table, cushioned but firm, like a hospital bed. She doesn't remember how she got here, nor does she think to care. Her head is propped on a pillow, and her fingers are buried in her cunt. She's possessed by a frenzied desperation for more, more, to feel pleasure and give pleasure and be an object of pleasure. She forces a realistic silicone cock down her throat, grunting and moaning with its every thrust. Though there's no physical pleasure, the act is just as urgent, just as satisfying as her slick fingers on her dripping pussy lips. She bucks her hips into her own hand, and the motion causes her tits bounce bounce. in the darkness beyond her table, indistinct figures pleasure themselves as they watch.

She's on her knees in a grassy field. Thinking back on it later, she'll recognize it as a public park a few blocks from her apartment. Right now, it's just here. The distinction between one place and the next doesn't matter. What matters is the breeze on her nipples, the moonlight glistening on the tip of the cock, and the long string of saliva and cum that trails between it and her lips as it withdraws. Before the string has broken, the next cock takes its place. Firm hands grasp her waist, lifting her to her feet, still bent over to accept the violation now taking place in her throat. A pair of fingers test her pussy, and they must find it acceptably wet, because a moment later another cock is pushing inside her, filling her to the brim. By the soreness, it isn't the first cock of the night.

She's standing in very fancy apartment. The far wall is covered in windows, through which she can see the tops of other skyscrapers. The sun is not yet rising, but the sky has gone from black to dark blue. The room is dominated by a large and luxurious bed, and in the bed is a very, very old man. He appears to be sleeping.

She crawls into bed next to him. The sheets are silky smooth. She presses herself against his body; his skin is soft and warm, like a dog's ear. As she nestles her head in the crook of his shoulder, he murmurs something in his sleep. Beneath the covers, she slips her hand down the front of his silken boxers and begins to stroke his cock with tender fingers. He moans softly, pets her hair with a limp hand. She kisses his neck, nibbles his ear, feels him swell against her palm. She plants a row of kisses across his chest, down his stomach, around his thighs and groin, working by touch and by the little light that makes its way through the covers. She licks a long, teasing trail from his balls to his throbbing, purple tip. He groans, grasps her head through the covers, and whispers a name that doesn't belong to her. No name belongs to her. Not here.

He pushes himself inside her. Gray hairs tickle the tip of her nose.

She comes back to herself piece by piece. Her feet are sore. The air conditioner is set too low to be naked. She remembers with surprise that she loves the color blue. As her eyes begins to focus, she becomes aware that she's been holding a load of cum in her mouth for what feels like at least an hour; her tongue is getting sore. She relaxes her jaw and allows herself to swallow.

The taste lingers.

Session 23

One more time. Just one more time. This is the last one.

The words sound hollow even in her own head. If yesterday wasn't the last one, nor the day before, she has no reason to expect this one will be any different. The hand that reaches for the remote barely feels like her own, and she wonders, not for the first time, whether she's under its spell already. It's getting harder and harder to tell the difference between the real her and the other her. It's getting harder and harder to convince herself of the distinction.

She's in a dark, cold place, on a floor that feels like concrete. She doesn't remember the TV screen, the colors, the sounds. Her shoulders are bent back at an uncomfortable angle, her wrists sore; they're underneath her, tied behind her back. Her chin is caked with drying saliva, and tears pool in her eyes. There is man standing over her. His foot is on her throat.

It must be a skill-intensive balancing act; he doesn't press hard enough to crush her airway, nor even to cut off her breathing very much, but it's intensely clear that he could do either if he chose to. She can feel clear as day, in her face and chest and throat and face, that she's been sobbing; the kind of heaving, moaning, wailing sobs that shake the body. But the only emotion she experiences is a cool, quiet serenity. She begs for mercy in a language she doesn't understand. A woman in a black dress laughs, and kicks her in the ribs.

She comes to on the floor. Her body aches all over, though less than she might have expected, from the memory fragments she can piece together. She's been rubbed down with some kind of lotion, and cloth-wrapped ice packs have been taped over some of the more intense bruises. She hears running water, and stumbles to the bathroom to investigate. There she finds a hot bath and an empty bag of Epsom salt. She sinks into the water without bothering to turn off the faucet. It will drain when it gets too full.

Never again, she tells herself. This was a wake up call. We can never do this again. To prove it to herself, she makes a concerted effort not to touch herself even a little bit.

She falls asleep with a shampoo bottle still inside her.

Session 180

The corn flakes have been sitting in the refrigerator for almost 24 hours. She left them there yesterday, when she got too impatient to finish eating. She wouldn't even bother with them now—let whoever holds her strings take care of it—but she's found it takes longer to go under on an empty stomach. So she shovels the cold, lightly-sweetened paste into her mouth, barely bothering to chew.

Any thought of ever stopping died months ago. It feels good not to be fooling herself anymore; so much less anxiety inducing just to give in, accept that this is her life. She always knew she was meant for this, before she even knew it was possible.

Her skin prickles with anticipation. Her leg bounces so much it shakes the table. She gets antsy when she's awake too long. She's begun to resent the time she has to spend with her own thoughts, her own mind. She wishes she could stay as her other self, her true self, all the time, but she realized months ago that her true self can't sleep. The Pattern has to relinquish control every 16 hours or so, so she can get a full night's rest. Which isn't a problem, because she comes out of each session completely exhausted.

She leaves the bowl unwashed on the kitchen table. Her thighs are already wet, and her fingers flick across her clit unconsciously before she's even sat down. The TV starts on its own—it's been doing that lately—and in seconds she's nothing but noise in the back of her own head. She gets to her feet.

The next thing she knows she's cinching the belt on a silk robe. The apartment has changed; where moments before it was was a mess of dirty dishes and discarded clothes, it could now be mistaken for something out of a furniture catalog. Everything is neat, tidy, and in its place. There is a letter on the table. She does not remember writing it, but she knows what it says. It's addressed to her landlord, and attached is a check for the full amount of her rent through the end of her lease.

She records a video message to her sister, saying that she's met someone overseas, that they're getting married, that they probably won't see each other again. She genuinely believes it as she says it: the giddy, lovesick look in her eyes would convince even the most hardened cynic. By the time she's hit send, she doesn't remember what she was talking about. She leaves the phone on the table.

The last thing she does is unplug the device from the back of the TV. Her robe doesn't have pockets, so she carries it with her, out the door, down the steps, where she climbs in the back of the large black van parked on the street. She gives the device to the man, who hands it through a small window to the driver. she sits on the bench seat and belts herself in. The car starts to move. She turns herself off.

The car is still moving, but the man is no longer seated. There are no windows, so it's difficult to gauge how much time has passed, but she doesn't especially care. He has undone her seat belt and opened her robe, and he now begins to penetrate her, grunting as he does so. She doesn't react to his presence, other than gaze at him blankly. She feels no compulsion to do anything but sit still, so that is what she does.

"You better not be soiling the merchandise back there," says the voice of the driver. "They don't have her scheduled for a cleaning."

"Relax," says the man with another thrust. "I'll finish down her throat, no one will care."

He makes good on his promise.

The man is gone. The van is gone. The robe is gone. She is walking naked down a long hallway, lined on either side with doors. Each door is equipped with a screen that covers most of its surface, and each screen plays a looping video of a different person. This one is an older woman with wide hips and a soft stomach. This one is a man built like an action figure. That one is a tiny woman with ears that stick out from her head. And this one belongs to her.

The video of her must have been taken recently, because it still wears the robe, slung loosely over her shoulders in a way that just barely obscures her nipples. As she watches, it turns in a lazy half-circle, teases the robe up to reveal the bottom of her ass, and winks at her over its shoulder.

The Pattern withdraws its fingers from her mind like a teasing lover. She's in an unfamiliar place, a black, bare room the size of a closet, sitting in a reclining chair. Her field of view is dominated by a massive screen that takes up the entirety of the wall in front of her, and curves around to the side walls, too. The tail end of the pattern dances across it before fading to black.

She tries to shift in her seat, and only then notices that there's something in her cunt. By the dim glow of the darkened screen, she can see a thick dildo protruding from the chair, stretching her pussy lips as it penetrates her. As she watches, it begins slowly to push in. It fills her right to the edge of too full, and then retracts again.

The screen fades back up to a simple menu:

MOVIES TV PORN MUSIC PODCASTS MY MEDIA

It reminds her of the built-in media player you'd find on an airplane. After glancing around for a remote, she finds a set of buttons built into her armrest. She navigates to MY MEDIA, and opens it to find a long list of videos with names like "21-45-02-07-2026".

Her clit is already throbbing as she opens the first file, because she can tell by the thumbnail exactly what it's going to be. The enormous screen fills with a video of herself, her other self, in a scene she doesn't remember. The dildo picks up speed of its own volition as she watches security footage of her own writhing body being used by three men at once in dilapidated car park. She wets a finger in her own juices, and begins to toy with her clit.

You instinctively try to pull back. After all, you don’t know where you are or who he is. He notices your useless fighting, and lets out a low chuckle.

“Don’t fight it sugar. Soon you’ll grow to love it here.”

His voice is nice and deep, carrying a thick southern accent. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a vial with some creamy white liquid in it. He holds it up proudly as he speaks again.

“You’d fit into the herd so nicely.”

Herd? All kinds of alarmbells start to ring in your head. You don’t know where the fuck you are. And who he is. All you remember is that you were walking home from the club. And now you’re here. You lift your chin, calling him every curse under the sun, helplessly trying to escape.

His fingers dig deeper into your jaw as he pushes your mouth open with his thumb. He pours the liquid inside and forces your jaw shut until you swallow.

You try to fight, scream, open your mouth, anything. But nothing helps. Eventually you’re forced to swallow. It tastes sweet and creamy, like delicious fresh milk.

Dallas pats your head, shaking his head disappointedly

“I told you not to fight it sugar. I’m just helping you be what you were meant to be. You were lying to yourself by keeping up this 9-5 worklife like you weren’t built to be a hucow.” Another chuckle escapes his lips as he watches you closely.

Dallas pulls out a bell, nice and shiny and gold. Your eyes follow it as he places it around your neck. It makes sounds with every movement. As your eyes darted down, you notice you’re in a cowprint bikini. He’d for sure put you in that when you were unconscious.

“All better now. You should start feeling better soon.”

You don’t know what he meant by better, but your whole body started tingling. You feel a certain tightness in your chest, and your heartbeat races.

Your breasts started swelling, ballooning through at least 3 cup sizes in a minute. They feel heavy, bouncing slightly with every movement. Your nipples harden, creamy white beads forming at the peaks of your nipples. Soft moans escape your lips as the sensation is overbearing. All the while Dallas watches you with a smirk, his pants growing tighter as he’s watching you.

You barely notice in the haze of the feeling that Dallas came closer, petting your head, whispering words of praise in your ear.

“C’mon sugar, doesn’t that just feel so good? Mmm I bet it does.”

He moves in front of you, hands squeezing your large udders as milk flows out. He attaches his mouth to the left one, squeezing the other.

You lose yourself in pleasure, the release arousing you more than anything ever has. Dallas’ right hand lets go of your udder, gliding lower as he moves the fabric of your panties to the side. His hands slide in between your thick folds, drawing circles over your clit, hungrily sucking at your tit still.

He continues this until you cum, loudly as your eyes roll back and your back arches onto his fingers.

You moan again, this time lower, resembling more of a moo. You think your brain is growing dumber. Did that liquid shrink your brain too? Well fuck what do you care. You’re right at place here. Just like he said. Where did you even come from anyways?

As you’ve finished, Dallas pats your head again, proudly.

“I told you you were a perfect fit sugar. Just you wait until I breed you. Such a perfect little cow. Moo for me sugar.”

You weren't sure what you expected when you answered the ad.

"Help wanted. Farm work. Room and board included. Must be able to lift 50lbs and not scare easy."

The old farmer who met you at the gate had a grizzled beard, a wide-brimmed hat stained with sweat and years, and eyes that looked like they'd seen every season and then some. He shook your hand with a grip that was surprisingly firm for a man who admitted, right there on the porch, that his back had given out on him three winters ago.

"You're a godsend," he rasped, nodding toward the weathered red barn at the edge of the property. "Got four girls in there. Best milk you've ever tasted. But they're... particular."

You raised an eyebrow. "Particular how?"

He scratched the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. "You'll see."

The first morning, you walked into that barn with a bucket in one hand and a stool in the other, ready for the simple rhythm of squatting, pulling, and filling. What you found instead stopped you dead in your barn boots.

Bessie was the first to greet you. She had the wide, kind brown eyes of a Jersey cow, but her body—fuck—her body was something else entirely. Thick thighs that tapered into muscled calves and actual hooves, but from the waist up? A woman. A voluptuous woman with tanned skin, a swaying udder that hung heavy between her legs, and the most enormous, swollen tits you'd ever seen. Her nipples were the size of the end of your thumb, dark pink, glistening.

"New hand," she mooed, it came out as a moo-ugh, a throaty, needy sound.

Behind her, Buttercup, white with black spots scattered across her flanks and her full, round ass, pressed her udder against the wooden gate of her stall, her slit already wet as she shifted her weight.

Clover had auburn hair that fell in messy waves past her shoulders and teats that dripped white droplets onto the concrete floor in steady drips.

Daisy, the youngest, had freckles across her nose and her udder was so taut and distended that you could see the veins bulging under the skin.

You swallowed hard. "The farmer didn't mention you were... hybrids."

Bessie huffed. "The old man can't do it anymore. His cock stays soft. His hands shake. We've been aching, farmhand. Days and days of filling up with milk with no one to pull it out of us. We hate the machines, you see. Damn things, they lower the quality of our good milk." She shifted, and fuck, you heard the sound of her slick folds squelching together. "You look like you've got the stamina."

Your cock had already started to thicken in your jeans. You set down the bucket.

"Show me what you need."

Bessie didn't wait. She turned around in her stall, presenting herself to you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her tail swished to one side, and there it was: her cunt, swollen and pink, dripping strings of translucent wetness down her inner thighs. Above it, her udder—four teats, each one engorged, the skin shiny and tight.

"Start with the milk," she said, looking back at you over her shoulder, her brown eyes half-lidded. "It hurts."

You dropped to your knees behind her. The stool was forgotten. Your hands—rough from a single morning of hauling hay—reached out and closed around the two front teats. They were hot. Hotter than you expected.

Bessie groaned. You squeezed, pulled, and a thick stream of white milk shot out, splattering against the metal bucket with a pssshhh. She jerked her hips back, almost knocking you over.

"Again," she gasped.

You worked her teats like you'd been doing it your whole life. Left hand, right hand, alternating tugs, getting into a rhythm. Squeeze-pull-squeeze-pull. The milk came faster, hissing into the bucket, filling it past the first quart mark. Bessie's whole body trembled. Her cunt clenched around nothing, pulsing with each tug.

"More," she whined. "Not just the milk. The other thing. The thing the old man can't do anymore."

You didn't need a diagram. You unzipped your jeans. Your cock sprang out—hard, veined, the head flushed and glistening with pre-cum. Bessie's nostrils flared.

"Oh, thank the pasture," she mooed. "That's a real one."

You lined yourself up behind her. Her cunt was soaking. You could see her inner lips—puffy, dark pink, wrinkled like rose petals —peeking out from her outer folds. The smell of her hit you: warm milk, earth, and a sharp, musky sweetness that made your balls tighten.

You pushed in.

Schlick.

Her cunt swallowed you whole. No resistance. Just wet, tight, clenching heat that pulled you deeper inch by inch until your hips slapped against her udder.

"FUCK," she bellowed, stomping one hoof against the concrete. "Yes, yes, yes—move, farmhand, move!"

You grabbed her wide hips and fucked her. Hard. Deep. The way she needed. Your balls slapped against her with each thrust, wet and heavy. Bessie was groaning, her head thrown back, her tits bouncing with each impact.

"Milk me," she sobbed. "Milk my cunt, not just my teats—both—I need—"

You reached around with one hand and grabbed a teat. You tugged it as you thrust. Milk sprayed sideways, hitting the wall. Bessie screamed.

"There—right there—I'm coming—"

She clamped down on your cock like a fist. Her cunt pulsed and gripped and milked you without you even moving. You felt your own release building, a heavy ache in your balls that spread up through your shaft.

You came inside her with a grunt. Hot ropes of cum flooded her pussy, mixed with her own slick, dripping out around your still-hard cock. Bessie sagged against the stall gate, panting.

"More," she whispered. "There are three more of us."

You pulled out of Bessie with a wet pop, your cock still slick with her milk-cum mix. She collapsed onto the hay, her udder now half-empty, her eyes blissed-out and glassy.

Buttercup was already pushing her way out of her stall, her white-and-black spotted body quivering.

"My turn," she mooed. "I'm so full, farmhand. Look."

She turned around and presented. Her teats were darker than Bessie's, almost purple at the tips, and her cunt... gods, her cunt was so needy, her inner lips sticking to each other with the sheer thickness of her arousal. A single drop of milk dangled from her left nipple, shimmering in the barn's dim light.

She bent over a trough, presenting herself at a better angle. You didn't hesitate.

You knelt and lathered her teats with your mouth first, because she whined when you touched her with dry hands. Your lips closed around her right teat, and you sucked.

Glug, glug, glug.

Milk filled your mouth. It was warm, creamy, slightly sweet—nothing like grocery store milk. You swallowed and kept sucking, your tongue circling the engorged nipple, feeling it harden further against your palate. Buttercup moaned, her whole body shivering.

"Fingers," she begged. "While you suck. Put your fingers in my cunt."

You shoved two fingers inside her without pulling your mouth off her teat. She was soaking, slick and hot and clenching around your knuckles. You pumped them in and out, crooking them slightly to hit that rough spot inside her, and she wailed.

"Yes, yes, fuck—I'm gushing—"

Her pussy spasmed, and a rush of clear, sweet-smelling fluid poured out of her, splashing onto your wrist and the bucket below. You sucked harder on her teat, pulling a long, hissing stream of milk that filled the bucket to the brim in seconds.

Buttercup came again, her walls pulsing around your fingers, her thighs shaking.

You stood up, your cock aching, and pushed into her from behind. She was so wet that you slid in to the hilt. No resistance. Just tight, milking walls that pulled at you with every thrust.

"Harder," she mooed. "The old man couldn't—harder—break my cunt open, farmhand, I need it—"

You grabbed her hips and slammed into her, your balls smacking against her folds, the wet clap-clap-clap of your fucking echoed off the rafters. Her udder swung beneath her, teats dripping milk onto the hay.

You came inside her too. A second load, just as heavy, just as hot, filling her pussy until it dribbled down her inner thigh.

Clover was next. She didn't wait for you to get on your knees. She pushed you down onto a bale of hay, straddled your face, and lowered her cunt onto your mouth.

"Lick," she pleaded. "Lick my slit. I've been waiting so long."

You did. You happily lapped at her folds, tasting milk and sweat and that musky sweetness that was all her. Her clit was a hard, swollen nub the size of a grape and it bobbed against your tongue. You sucked it between your lips and she cried out, her thighs clamping around your head.

While you ate her out, you also milked her. Hands pulling at her teats, squeezing thick streams of milk directly into the bucket. She came screaming 'farmhand' , her pussy pulsing against your tongue, her juices flooding your mouth.

You flipped her over onto her side in the hay and plunged into her, deep and unrelenting, her tits bouncing with each thrust, her mouth open in a silent O of pleasure. Her cunt overflowed, dribbling milk and cum mixed into a creamy mess that pooled under her tail.

Daisy was the last.

The youngest. The tightest. She was shy at first, her freckled cheeks flushed, hiding her udder like she was embarrassed. But her need won out.

"Please," she whispered. "I've never—the old man couldn't—I'm still untouched down there."

You were gentle with her.

You massaged her teats one by one, rolling the engorged nipples between your thumb and forefinger until milk spurted out in thin, hissing arcs. She moaned, her head falling back. You milked each teat until they were soft and empty, her udder deflated and satisfied.

Then you spread her legs. Her cunt was tighter, pinker, the inner lips barely peeking out. She was wet, though. Soaking. Her arousal had dampened the hay beneath her.

You pushed inside her slowly.

"Yes," she gasped. "More—I want—all of it—"

You gave her all of it. Every inch. You fucked her slow at first, then faster, then more roughly, your balls slapping against her, her moos turning into shrieks of pleasure.

She came violently, her cunt milking your cock in hard, clenching spasms that pulled your own orgasm out of you. You came deep inside her, filling her pussy with your seed.

When you finally stood up, your jeans around your ankles, your chest sheened with sweat and milk, you looked around the barn.

Four stalls. Four satisfied, spent cow hybrids, each one sprawled in the hay, their udders drained, their cunts gaping and dripping.

The buckets—all six of them—were full to the brim with milk. Some had overflowed, but there was enough to fill the farmer's fridge twice over.

The old man appeared in the doorway, leaning on his cane. He looked at the buckets. At the pleased cows. Four girls, purring and twitching in their hay. Then at you.

"Hired," he said. "Permanently. And triple your pay."

You wiped a streak of milk from your chin and grinned.

"Deal."

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