zian

You’re in the bar in your usual uniform—a tight white tank top that shows off the muscles in your arms and shoulders, worn jeans, and heavy work boots. Your hair is cropped short, and you’ve got a few tattoos peeking out from under your sleeves. You carry yourself with a deliberate swagger, a toughness you’ve cultivated for years. You made the bet with him, some cocky guy who thought he could outshoot you. You were so sure. But the eight ball didn't drop. His smug smile made your stomach twist.

Now you're in his apartment, the air thick and wrong. He crowds you, his size making you feel smaller than you ever let yourself be. Pay up, he says, and your pride forces a stiff nod. You agreed. You’re a woman of your word, even when it makes your skin crawl.

He turns you around, his hands rough as he yanks your jeans and boxers down. Your knuckles press white against the wall. You feel him, thick and alien, pushing into you. You hate it, you hate him, you hate that you lost. But then he starts moving, a deep, relentless rhythm that hits something inside you that shouldn’t be there. A traitorous pulse of heat blooms low in your belly. You bite your lip hard, trying to stifle the moan that threatens to escape. Your body betrays you, softening around him, welcoming the invasion even as your mind screams in protest. You hate how good it feels, how your hips start to push back against your will, seeking more of that shameful, unwanted pleasure.

You try to stay silent, to keep that tough mask in place, but a low moan tears its way out of your throat as he pounds into you. Your body is traitorous, your pussy clenching tight around his cock with each thrust, pulling him deeper. You can feel your nipples hardening against the rough fabric of your tank top, sensitive and aching. Every part of you is responding to him, to this raw, dominant fucking you never asked for.

Your hips move on their own, rocking back to meet him, seeking that deep, shameful friction. You hate how much you love it, how your cunt grips him like it’s begging for more. The sound of your own pleasure fills the room, mixed with his grunts and the wet slap of skin. You’re losing yourself in it, the bet forgotten, your pride dissolving into pure, desperate sensation.

You scream, a raw, broken sound that shatters your last bit of control. Your body convulses, your pussy clamping down on his cock in a series of tight, rhythmic pulses as you come. It’s a wave of pleasure so intense it whites out your vision, tearing through every muscle. You feel the hot gush of your release, soaking him and the wall in front of you, as you squirt helplessly around his thrusts.

You’re shaking, sobbing, coming harder than you ever have in your life. Your knees buckle, but he holds you up, fucking you through it, driving you even higher. Your mind is gone, all that tough butch pride melted away into a mindless, screaming mess. You just take it, your body milking his dick for every drop of pleasure until you’re completely spent.

He groans, a deep, possessive sound, and his thrusts become erratic and hard. You feel him swell inside you, and then the hot rush of his release floods your cunt. Your body seizes up again, your pussy instinctively milking his cock, pulling every last drop from him. You whimper, loving the feeling of being filled, of being claimed so completely. You feel owned, used, and utterly satisfied as he stays buried deep inside you, both of you panting and spent against the wall.

You pull your jeans up, your hands trembling as you button them. The ghost of his cock still lingers inside you, a shameful, thrilling ache. You yank your tank top back on, the fabric scratching your sensitive skin, and avoid looking at him. You just need to get out, to clear your head and pretend this never happened.

You’re almost at the door, your boots scuffing the floor, when his voice cuts through the quiet. See you next week? he asks, too smooth, too sure. Your stomach twists. You should refuse. You should spit in his face. But the memory of how you shattered on his dick, how you squirted and screamed, floods your mind. Your body betrays you again, a fresh pulse of heat between your legs. You can’t meet his eyes.

The bull is led into your pen, a massive man with a thick, heavy cock already dripping and swinging between his legs. The farmhand guides him behind you, his rough hands spreading your cheeks. You brace yourself against the wooden rail, your heavy belly pressed against it. There’s no preamble. The bull mounts you, his weight crushing you against the rail, and you feel the blunt, wide head of his cock pressing against your slick opening. He pushes, and the stretch is immense, a burning fullness that steals your breath. You moan, a long, low sound, as he begins to thrust, each powerful drive pushing you hard into the wood. Your milk leaks in rivulets down your belly with each jolting impact. The milking machine continues its steady pull, a counter-rhythm to the animal pounding into you. Your mind goes blank, lost to the sensation of being used exactly as you were made for, bred and milked and fucked until you can't think of anything else.