#cowposting

sometimes i get put off from calling myself cowhearted because i feel it just doesn’t convey how entirely much i feel about cows.

Imagine again, being back at the salon. Sitting in the nice, comfy chair. Letting the nice stylist run her hands through your hair and scalp. Feeling like you’re getting a nice, comfy message, that melts you right into your chair. And she’d ask you all sorts of small talk questions. How’s your day going? How have things been lately? Small questions, that are so disarming. So mundane and uninteresting, that you can give default answers. Just shutting your brain off, and giving half assed answers. Not really thinking too much about your responses. You’d just answer so effortlessly and automatically. And after a while, you’d let her voice fade into the background. Not important enough to worry about her voice among the other noises in the shop, but important enough to keep responding absentmindedly. And, once you’re well and completely into the rhythm of mindlessly answering, she’d ask you more personal questions. “What’re your sensitive spots?” “Where do you live and work?” “Would anyone come searching if you left one day?” Between her massage and soft voice, there’d be nothing in your brain but a nice, dull buzz. So much time would pass without you noticing. You wouldn’t notice when the hair cut is over. You wouldn’t notice when she led you to the back. And you certainly wouldn’t question when she shows you that flashy spiral, that just blue screens your brain. And you wouldn’t resist when she puts the headphones playing subliminals being placed on your head. You wouldn’t notice the barcode being tattooed on your inner thigh. Or the small golden earring being put in your ear, that oddly resembles an earmark. The next thing you’d remember is exiting the shop, with your hair done, completely oblivious to any of the other changes. But core things about you would change. Your feed on tumblr would be more centered around sapphic pet play and objectification. More of your clothes would have white with black spots and splotches as their color schemes. Your stims changing from meows when you’re flustered, confused, or need to fill the airwaves, to moos. The women and places you hook up at gradually going further and further away from your house. And not in a random direction, they seem to be going in a specific direction. And the things you do during your hookups shifts as well. From your regular sheep play, gets turned on you being insistent on being treated like a cow. Sometimes wearing cow print. Even changing your social media and vrchat avatars to something bovine-coded. Aggressively seeking out petplay trainers to make you into a better pet. All of these changes culminating in the important moment, of an underground kink party on the opposite side of town. A nice butch dressed as a cowboy, complimenting you on your appearance. Telling you that you’d make such a good girl. Melting you down into a puddle. But that bright, predatory look in her eye is a little too knowing. Too sinister, almost like she was watching you for more than just the party. This seemed a little too convenient, this meeting between the two of you. But that doesn’t matter at the moment, she decides to push you down and part your legs. But then she does the oddest thing. She takes out her phone and scans a barcode, nestled in your inner thigh, that you have no recollection of getting. It shouldn’t have been visible from where she was standing, watching you, so how would she even know? But that question becomes a moot point, because after scanning the barcode, she flips the screen around, and on it is a series os letters and numbers. Reading and processing this jumble of code causes you to shift. Like an executable file finally running in your brain. Memories come rushing back. The flashing lights, the subliminals, the slave commands, all sweeping through your brain like a hurricane. Washing away everything that made you you. Once this process completes, you finally look back at the girl currently in between your legs, a look of adoration in your eyes that could be considered blasphemous and pet like.

one of my fantasies pre-transition was being able to suck on my own tits. 2 years into HRT, i've achieved that goal and it's so fucking cool... having tits fucking rocks and i just keep wanting to touch them. i'm approaching D cups at this point but i honestly hope they keep going, especially since my wide-ass ribcage makes them look a bit smaller. i haven't started prog or anything yet either so hopefully that helps? if it doesn't i might look into implants, though that's years down the line. i need massive fucking tits, okay.