Hucowslut

You meet a guy at a bar who seems harmless enough, he tells you about his work in hypnotism — knowing where this is going, you bet him he can't do it to you. You think this will be a fun way to have a one night stand, that you'll probably get some suggestions to do something funny or sexy, and then move on to-

But the next time you wake up it's to the sound of your own voice crying out in mindless pleasure. Your body's hot, you're covered in sweat, your legs are spread apart, ankles high in the air, and your fingers are deep in your pussy. The trembles of your most recent orgasm still ripple through your abdomen and limbs, but past that you can feel something else, an ache in your nipples that makes you want to grope your own tits and a convulsing in your stomach that you've only ever felt after one too many orgasms — both are more intense than you've ever felt in your life. You look around to take in your environment but before you can, you take note of your body. Everything is the same, down to the color on your nails. But your hair is about two inches longer. What the hell-

And then the next time you're conscious, your wrists and ankles are bound. You're on your knees. There's a ball gag- no, a cock gag in your mouth. There's something heavy and cold on your sternum, and something similar around your waist. Your chest feels like you may have some kind of weight strapped to it, and in front of you, in a room of white walls and hard wood floors, is a boot — but the thing you notice before any of that is the fire in your cunt.

The horniest you've ever been washes over your body, starting in your pussy and then out to your toes. Your eyes water, you'd moan but for the gag down your throat. You can't get your hands down past your chest, and you can't situate your legs in a way so you can use your feet to get off. The boot though is right there, you just have to-

You fall to the ground, your mass slamming against the hardwood. Your chest feels heavier than usual, that cold feeling around your waist turns into pain. A moment of clarity passes over you as your squirm and writhe closer to the boot, closer to relief — there's a chain around your waist, another around your chest, both intertwining along your back and bound together between your tits by a heavy lock. Your tits though...

Something in the back of your head twinges, makes you cringe, and corrects you. Your *udders* are bigger, by a surprising margin. Before you could hold one in each hand, they were manageable, fun. These are both the size of bowling balls, and you'd be surprised if they didn't weigh the same too. As you inch closer to the boot, dragging your new found weights, you find a new sensation in your chest — pressure. With each heave, each breath, you feel pressure radiating from your sloshing chest. The veins in your titflesh have become more pronounced, your nipples wider and much, much longer. If it weren't for the heat in your cunt, you'd knead into your chest for the feeling of wanting there.

You're so close, inches away from relief, when alarm bells finally start going off in your head. Where are you? How did you get here?

That doesn't matter, you need to cum.

How long have I been like this? How did I get like this?

That doesn't matter, you need to cum.

Is anyone looking for me?

That doesn't matter, you NEED to CUM.

You wrap yourself around the boot. You manage to right your body despite the unbound mass of your chest. You push your cunt into the toe of the dusty shoe, only to hear a clink.

The chains around your waist. They're not just a harness. They're a chasity belt.

You can't scream, but something old and deep rises from your chest, past the cock gag in your throat. No matter how much you thrust into the toe, you can't feel anything. The fire in your cunt burns a little hotter. And then the black takes you.

The next time you wake up, you're on your hands and knees. The fire is still there, but it's spread to your chest now too. You can feel bindings around your calves and wrists, keeping you low. You can also feel the weight of your udders pulling against your chest even as they graze the dirt of the ground below, sending little twists of need down your spine. The dirt near your nipples and knees is damp, though near your hands and feet, if feels dry. The cow must leaking.

The cow?

That doesn't matter, you need to cum.

There is no boot this time, hell you can't even see, there's something covering your eyes.

But before long, while the bucking in your hips is still within your control, you hear a rattling, then a clanking, then one big boom. Door shut, the scraping of boots on loose earth, a click and then the whir of machinery. Something heavy dragging along the ground near your left.

And then, like handling an animal, rough hands grab a heap of your left teat and stuff it into something tight like a suction cup. Then the right. They don't even do you the service of standing you up right, they just pull your udders to either side.

That doesn't matter, you need to cum.

Another click, then bliss.

The pressure in your chest evaporates, pump by pump, the left, then the right, then back again. You can't help but arch your back, a moan escapes your lips, your tongue lolls between your stupid cow lips.

I shouldn't be enjoying this. I need to leave.

That doesn't matter. You need to cum.

But the fire in your cunt and udders doesn't get any better, in fact, it gets worse. Where before it was a constant burning, it rolls onto you, into you, in waves, crashing against your mind again and again.

I need to cum I need to cum I need to cum

The sucking against your teats is torture. The pressure gone, now the pumps just suck on titflesh alone, each pull pushing you right up against the edge, but never beyond it.

i NEED to CUM i NEED to CUM i NEED to CUM i NEED to CUM

And then a click. The sucking stops but the need doesn't. Your limbs are shaking, you can feel your cunt dripping between your legs. The pumps come off your udders, and the cover off your eyes.

The hypnotist stands in front of you, a grin stretched along his lips.

"you've got a choice."

While you look up at him, still on all fours, still rubbing your legs together in the hopes of any release, he throws a single key to ground. Then without a word, unzips his pants, take off his belt, and pulls out a hard cock.

Your tongue lolls. Your teats brush the ground below you, sending a twist of desperation up your spine. Your empty cunt drips against your leg.

You need to cum.

You push the key away and take his cock down your practiced throat. A click, more whirring, and something pushes into your cunt without you looking.

Finally, with a great moan from your chest, you cum.

But your cunt still burns with want. You feel empty despite being filled. Your chest is already sloshing with pressure again. And the cock down your throat feels soooooo good. The heat didn't leave you. And it never will.

Reblog if trans men are REAL, VALID AND HANDSOME MEN, NO MATTER HOW THEY CHOOSE TO PASS

Reblog if trans women are REAL, VALID, AND BEAUTIFUL WOMEN, NO MATTER HOW THEY CHOOSE TO PASS

And finally, because it's a part of my argument for this point, and also because they are,

The worst thing about capitalism, Caitlyn grumbled to herself as she plugged the neural interface jack into her cranial port and began to search for updates, was the way it made you a participant in the race to the bottom. No matter what you told yourself your ethics were, no matter what kind of principles you insisted you had or what kind of line in the sand you decided to draw, eventually the grinding quest to keep up with the cost of living forced you to erode your own integrity just to make enough money to get by. And because it happened so slowly, those moments of clarity when you realized exactly what you’d given up were always few and far between.

Take the cranial port, for instance. When the FDA first approved them, Caitlyn insisted she’d never get one. Not only did the surgery seem invasive, but just about every neurological expert who wasn’t actively involved in their design weighed in with hypothetical horror stories about getting your brain hacked and having malware installed in your head and being turned into some kind of brainwashed slave or other. And because it literally allowed for full reprogramming of your entire consciousness–perceptions, memory, the whole ball of wax–you wouldn’t even know anything had changed. You’d be convinced you were always living in the new normal. No fucking thank you.

Caitlyn’s train of thought was momentarily derailed by a ping inside her head and a brief squiggle of mental static as the latest patch to her workplace skillset began to download. But just the thought of learning everything she needed to do her job via cranial port got it back on track. Because that was the thing, wasn’t it? If you had one employee who had to be trained, slowly and laboriously over the course of months with numberless mistakes that cost the company time and money, and another who could simply plug into the mainframe and instantly know everything they needed to know to perform their job perfectly, well… who wouldn’t hire the one with the port? Oh, it was illegal to discriminate against jackless applicants. But everybody saw the interviewer’s eyes flick up to the prospect’s temple as soon as they walked in the room.

The download finished. Caitlyn sighed heavily, realizing she’d been reassigned and everything she thought she knew about her job was replaced by new knowledge and new skills. Of course the companies treated employees even more like disposable cogs in a machine now that they could simply plug and play them into new roles. Caitlyn had some mysterious inchoate qualification for this role, so she simply got a download that prepared her for her new function and what she wanted didn’t matter. They were too cheap even to add in a few lines of code to make her like it. All Caitlyn felt was numb acceptance as she kissed her baby goodbye and went to work.

There was a new uniform waiting for her, but Caitlyn didn’t think twice about it. She couldn’t, not with her brain rewired to the expectations of her reassigned role. She’d gotten the cranial port to get ahead of all the employees who didn’t have one, but everyone else had done the same thing and now she was accepting the most invasive and intrusive reconfiguration of her brain just to keep up. Oh well. At least she still had her dignity. Nothing could take that away. With a sigh, she took off her clothes and put on the collar with the little clanking bell and the cow-print gloves. And finally, she reported to her stall and got on all fours, ready for a full day of being milked for the company.

“Shh, shh, there’s a good girl. Don’t struggle. Don’t fight it.” Bella squirmed and whimpered, although by that point she was no longer entirely certain whether she was disregarding the advice of the man behind her or simply too distracted by arousal to keep her body entirely still. She could feel his tanned fingers cupping her pale pink breast, tugging her nipple, pulling out her thoughts and her willpower with every teasing tweak until Bella could almost imagine it dripping out onto his hands.

Not just as a metaphor, either. She knew it sounded absurd, even to her, but somehow the stranger’s low, coaxing words and the potent imagery he wove inside Bella’s mind made her feel as though he was literally drawing Bella’s thoughts down into her pert breasts and then… and then… Bella’s head swam at the sound of his voice. “I’m just going to milk all that silly, fuzzy little mind out, pretty pet. Milk it out of those cute little titties until you’re nice and blank and empty for Master.” It didn’t seem possible. It sounded like some sort of sick, surreal joke. But she felt it nonetheless.

For a moment, Bella had the fleeting notion of pushing free of the man. It seemed like it should be easy; his arms encircled her, his hands held her breast firmly, but Bella didn’t feel pinned in place by his grasp at all. It should have been the work of a moment to shove him away, spin around, demand that he apologize for groping her and pulling her shirt open and playing with her… her nipples. Her tingling, throbbing nipples. Tweaking and tugging and drawing out her strength, her energy, her resistance. “Melting those slick, drippy thoughts down into slick, sweet syrup and milking them out for Master like a good, empty little slut.” Bella wasn’t quite sure when his words blended with her stream of consciousness, but she couldn’t seem to make it stop.

Her head drooped forward, jerking in little nods as if she was trying hard to stay awake in the middle of a dull lecture in a stultifyingly warm room. But the man’s words were anything but boring; they insinuated themselves deeper and deeper into her mind, commanding more and more attention as the rest of her thoughts slipped away into… out of… oh, fuck. She could feel it. It was really happening. He was milking her brains out, making them drip and dribble and drop out of her head until she was lost in his will. Lost in his power. Bella’s jaw went slack, her eyes went glassy, and she felt tiny droplets of drool spatter onto her chest as the stranger said, “That’s my blank, happy little cow.”

Things went a little bit… soft, after that. Bella found that in the absence of thought, her mind elided over stretches of time easier and easier for the stranger. She found herself drifting, not really thinking about the man’s words but simply accepting them in a vague, fuzzy sort of way. He sounded so sure, so certain, and Bella’s certainty and strength were dripping out of her nipples with every tug and tweak of… of Master’s fingers. Master. Bella couldn’t fight her new Master. She couldn’t resist him. She had leaked away all her thoughts, dribbled them away in slick, sweet streams until all she could do was pant and moan and whimper for Master. No. Not whimper. Master said there was a special word, a word she would say to him that would tell her when it was time to stop thinking completely and sink into his power. She could feel it getting easier to remember as all the other words fell away, leaving her blank and horny and milked out–

Of course! “Mooooooooo,” Bella moaned cheerfully, her body sagging into her Master’s arms as the last of her resistance gave out at last.

Lena’s nipples were rubbing on the carpet again. Not uncomfortably, or often–she’d just notice it every once in a while as she crawled around the apartment, when her heavy udders dangled and swayed a little lower as they began to swell with milk. The nipples would get stiff and distended, her gait would become a little lazier and her shoulders would slump a little deeper, and her nipples would drag on the carpet ever so slightly. It tingled. Lena had a little more trouble thinking when her nipples were tingly like that.

Once her baby was born, Lena thought, getting rid of her excess milk wouldn’t be such a problem. Maybe then she could stand up again. Somewhere around the… fourth? Fifth? Lena’s head fuzzed again as her nipples brushed the soft shag fibers, and time became something of a blur for her both in the sense of remembering the passage of months and in the sense of recognizing how long she was swaying back and forth on her hands and knees, enjoying the sensation of her udders dragging against the carpet. Once her belly began to swell, she had a hard time thinking. Almost as hard as she did standing. She thought maybe both would come back after the baby was out.

Until then, though, Lena knew exactly what to do. She crawled to the bedroom, her pale, creamy thighs rubbing together with each halting step, and looked up at her boyfriend. “…moooo?” she asked querulously, after a long pause where her mind groped for words and found to her consternation that they all seemed to be just out of reach of her bewildered brain. She knew she’d talked once, just like she’d known how to wear clothes and how to stand up and how to do any number of things that now seemed like absurdities to her simplified intelligence. Sometimes it frustrated her. But mostly it made her so fucking wet.

Her boyfriend knew what to do about that, though. He walked her over to the side of the bed where the milking machine lay, and attached the pumps to her heavy udders before putting on the virtual reality helmet. “Time for my good girl to reinforce her programming,” he said, and Lena smiled lazily as the world around her faded away into a soft spiral of purple on black. She could feel the tug tug tug of the cups on her nipples, and the careful thrusts of her boyfriend’s cock into her dripping cunt, but her mind was already sinking into the swirling colors. She didn’t need anything else. She only needed to sink and obey.

Once the baby was born, though, maybe her mind would begin to come back. Maybe she would remember who she was before she was a breeder cow for her boyfriend, before all her words were replaced by ‘moo’ and her body naturally sank to all fours. Maybe she would regain her free will. It seemed like a vague and distant fantasy to her now, an abstract goal without any particular urgency or need attached to it. She couldn’t remember what was so special about free will anymore. She just knew it was a thing she had and lost. Perhaps it wasn’t important after all.

She was so lost in the hypnotic spiral that she didn’t hear her boyfriend’s wife come in. She didn’t hear her say, “She’s looking pretty close. Two, three weeks? Only the Olsens are asking when they can adopt, and….” Lena didn’t attach any importance to the silence, any more than to the speech. She just stared and drooled vacantly as the spinning disc took her thoughts away and the pumps milked her with the most exquisite bliss.

“Two, three weeks is about right,” Lena’s boyfriend nodded. “Then a month of recovery, and we can get started on the Andersens. They’re asking for a girl, right? She’s been breeding mostly boys, so we’re probably about due….” Lena’s baby was going to be born soon. But there would always be another to fill her belly.

“Honey? Is everything alright?” Felicity stood in the doorway with her hands on her belly, looking at him with worry in her deep blue eyes. Milo opened his mouth to reassure her, to find something to say that would allay her anxieties about his recent strange behavior and long silences and awkward, averted glances whenever she entered a room, but… but what could he tell her? How could he say to his pregnant wife that of course he still thought she was beautiful without giving her the explanation that he knew he would have to keep unspoken forever? And so he sat there. Watching her. Struggling to find words that didn’t make him into a liar.

“I, um, I was….” He was thinking about her on her hands and knees again, that’s what he was doing. He was looking at his beautiful, intelligent, witty and self-possessed wife and daydreaming about her sparkling blue eyes going dull and vacant and cowlike while she crawled around the room with her wet pussy exposed to his possessive gaze and her full, heavy tits practically brushing against the floor as she mooed mindlessly for attention. He was thinking about using his skills with hypnosis to systematically erase everything that made her human and leaving her every bit as docile and domesticated as some farm animal. He was imagining all those things and it was making him fucking hard as a rock.

He tried again, but all that came out was, “It’s just that I was….” Then he trailed into another lengthy silence, struggling to find some way to tell his wife that he wanted to dissolve their joint psychiatry practice so that she could devote herself full-time to emptying out her tame, foggy mind and becoming his personal breeder slut. He tried and failed to put into words that of course he respected her, of course he thought that Felicity was one of the most brilliant and respected professionals in the field, but he wanted her naked and crawling so that he could take her from behind and dump a massive load of semen into her pussy whenever the mood struck him and force her to kowtow until it dripped down to her cervix and impregnated her again.

“Y-you see, I….” The sentence sputtered and stalled like a car in cold weather, turning over and over and never quite getting started. Because once he said it, Milo knew it would be out there forever. Felicity would know that he wanted to take her hanging, swaying, watermelon-sized udders into his strong hands and tug on her stiff teats until he milked her dry, then put down some food and water on the floor to help her make more. He–he wanted to turn his wife into a fucking cow. To hypnotize her and make her forget she was even a person, regardless of her own desires. You didn’t need to be a psychiatrist to know how wrong that was, and Felicity had all the same degrees he did. She’d doubtlessly be horrified.

Milo sighed. “… never mind,” he finished weakly, turning away to stare out the window. She no doubt thought he was unhappy with her weight gain and her swelling belly, but maybe that was for the best. As long as she didn’t know the truth. As long as she never found out–

“And sleep,” Felicity murmured, moving into the room to sit next to him. Milo’s stare became fixed and glassy, seeing not the view outside their house but the shimmering depths of the crystal pendant his wife had shown him not long after she announced her pregnancy. “It looks like you’re still fighting it, aren’t you, sweetie? Don’t worry. We’ll get your mind all right soon enough.” She reached down and began to stroke his cock, whispering in his ear as her pleasure slowly eroded his resistance. “You want to turn Felicity into your breeder slut. You want to milk her pretty udders and make her mindless. You want to erase her identity and make her a blank, horny cow for you to fuck….”

“I, I’m sorry.” Kim’s fierce blush went all the way down her neck and spread across her chest, only growing brighter when she realized that Mrs Symington could see every square inch of her embarrassment. She stumbled and stammered, trying to get the words out despite the sudden shyness that threatened to choke them off completely. “It’s just, I… it’s kind of awkward to talk about, you know? I just, I feel like I’m kind of a failure. I have these, um, these… you know….” She gestured at her hanging breasts, a pair of tits the size of small watermelons with big brown nipples practically two inches in diameter. “And I can’t give milk.”

Mrs Symington smiled reassuringly. “I don’t think it’s going to take much,” she said, clambering onto the bed behind Kim and giving the young woman’s breasts an appraising squeeze. “Most of the time this kind of thing is purely psychosomatic. These feel like they can be very productive under the right circumstances; you just need the proper inducement to lactate, that’s all.” Kim tried not to squirm. The whole thing felt very weird–clandestine meetings in hotel rooms, under-the-table cash payments to women without any official medical qualifications, and now a lengthy examination that felt less like a professional inspection and more like a lesbian grope-fest. Part of her just wanted to walk out that door and never look back.

But if she did, she’d never be able to give milk. She couldn’t think of anyone else to go to, anything else to try. If this ‘unorthodox treatment’ Mrs Symington had really worked, Kim would thank her for it, lesbian grope-fest and all. “Often, the key is relaxation,” the older woman said, her hands moving confidently to massage Kim’s soft pink breasts. “You need to get your mind onto something else, shift your focus away from your big udders and onto something happy and comfortable. Just listen to the sound of my voice and let your thoughts drift to a calm meadow, with warm sunshine and the soft scent of flowers. Just relax and let that peaceful pleasure take over for me, okay sweetie?” Kim nodded. She tried to close her eyes and do what she was told.

“That’s it, there we go,” Mrs Symington purred, her fingers sliding down to tug rhythmically on Kim’s tight nipples. She wished she didn’t notice the slow, sexual heat building between her thighs–it was purely a physical reaction, she told herself, just her body responding to the stimulation of all those nerve endings. But the more the older woman described the peaceful meadow and the calm, soothing sounds of nature all around her, the harder it got to think about why she was so turned on. Kim’s fingers drifted down to her pussy with absent-minded lust, and once they started rubbing, they refused to move away.

“It’s so easy not to think, Kimmie,” the older woman cooed, pinching and pulling Kim’s teats before releasing them again. “It’s so much easier to be milked than to give milk, to relax and allow yourself to be happy and mindless and blank in your field. So nice to let me take care of those big heavy udders now, to let that milk flow for me while you drift and relax and moo like a good cow.” Kim struggled to question the inconsistencies in the other woman’s smoothly flowing words, to assert herself in the face of the strange and condescending descriptions of herself as livestock… but then the milk began to flow, squirting out at last onto Mrs Symington’s fingers in a heavy, gushing spray, and Kim’s thoughts collapsed like a bad souffle. She let out a loud, lowing moo, her eyes staring sightlessly forward and her fingers rubbing harder, impossibly grateful to the expert for helping her to lactate the way she so desperately needed.

She didn’t realize this wasn’t her first time with Mrs Symington. And she had no idea that the desire to be milked stemmed solely from her hypnotist’s deep, inescapable control.

There’s nothing special about the day it finally happens for Candi–she’s long ago stopped paying attention to the calendar, and the perpetually sunny climate of Southern California keeps her confused about what season it might be outside of the small seaside cottage she shares with her Master. All she knows is that she’s halfway through her usual routine of morning conditioning, her glassy eyes staring vacantly at the screen as she watches a hypnosis file and humps a thick dildo suction-cupped to the wall, when she finally feels the sensation that she’s been craving for years. It’s almost unfamiliar at first, a strange ache in her heavy, dangling udders that she can’t quite place, but then she feels the liquid gather in tiny beads on her teats and she knows what’s happening. Candi’s finally giving milk.

Not much. Not this first time. But when she slowly reaches down and brushes her sensitive nipples, Candi can feel her fingers coming away wet… and when she puts them up to her lips, she tastes sweet milk that’s entirely unlike that of any cow. She reaches back down and gives a brief, experimental tug, and the liquid rush of heady pleasure that flows from her udders absolutely astonishes her. She feels tears pinpricking the corners of her eyes and realizes she’s about to literally weep for joy. It’s all she can do not to rear up and begin squeezing her tits as hard as she can.

But Candi is a good girl. Even though she’s been trying for years to get herself to lactate, pumping daily and massaging her pendulous breasts with skin cream and taking fenugreek religiously until her doctor told her to stop, she knows that the most important thing about turning herself into a hypnotized cow for Master is giving him the chance to milk her. And Master won’t be home for three more hours. If that means three hours of giving her udders the chance to swell up, three hours of discomfort that makes her ache and makes her horny at the same time, three hours that will leave her waiting by the door and mooing with her tits in her hands and her wide staring eyes gazing up at Master in pleading urgency, Candi is more than happy to do it.

Because this is… there’s no other term for it, it’s a dream come true. Literally–during the last few months of her conditioning, after they negotiated everything out and he put her into trance for hours at a time and tugged her teats over an empty metal pail until the power of suggestion made Candi’s tits ache with the desire to lactate, she had recurring dreams every night of the day when she would finally become the cow she always wanted to be. The day when all that stimulation, all that hypnotic preparation finally coaxed those first few drops of milk out of her boobs and turned her into what she’s longed to be since practically the day she discovered kink. She grinds hard onto the dildo, making her udders sway beneath her and scattering tiny droplets of fluid onto the carpet. She doesn’t care, she’ll clean it later.

There’s not much in her tits when Master finally gets home and cheerfully, joyously milks Candi’s udders in the little makeshift stall they designed. It’s barely enough to flavor his coffee the next day. But she knows there’ll be more every time, flowing freely from her teats with every milking session until her body is nicely conditioned to lactate and she becomes Master’s perfect cow the way she’s always wanted, and that’s enough to make the day special after all. Whatever day it turns out to be.