💞pretty boy💞

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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