Diary of a Bimbo

At a certain point, you just have to accept that you're nothing but a dumb ditzy milk cow. A walking pair of udders, made to be teased and tugged and played with.

It feels so good to think about, doesn't it? There's no worry as a cow, no pressure, except for the pressure building up inside your udders, waiting for the overwhelming pleasure of being milked.

It's so satisfying to put those teats of yours on display. Low-cut tops, no bra, even just walking, and eventually crawling, around the house completely topless. It's just so much better for everyone to see your greatest assets.

Dumber and happier every time they're ogled, squeezed, massaged and groped. That rush of pleasure just washing over your brain so easily, irresistibly, and leaving you giggly and floaty as your udders only feel more and more arousal.

I wonder how long you'll try and resist? Will you fight these urges, struggle against the natural compulsion to keep your udders exposed and ready?

Or are you already clumsily tugging at your teats, pulling your shirt off to show off like a good cow?

Awww, silly heifer. Can't help but shake and bounce those udders, and can't resist giving me a nice, long...