The Farm

By DX

Copyrighted, 3/2025, all rights reserved.

 “Emma is demonstrating our new, Cowgirl line!”  

 Candice called out like a circus ringmaster and reeled in the meandering crowd.  “Take a look, folks!  Emma is happiest when she has a crowd to watch her get milked!”

 Emma smiled gently, and placed her teats, the size of her thumbs, into milking nozzles.  As the nozzles began to suck, Emma felt the thrilling, erotic sensation flow though her.  She masked her emotions with sheer will, and only smiled pleasantly at her audience.  She gave her head a shake to get her wild, red hair out of her face, as she cast her emerald eyes to the approaching gaggle of people.  She shrugged her shoulders back to help her back with the strain of her heavy, milk laden teats. 

 “First her nose ring,”  Candice went on.  “which not only insures obedience, just give a little tug and she'll follow you anywhere, but also insures her unobstructed breathing; which comes in handy when she uses that nanite enhanced mouth and tongue to keep the farm hands happy.  An O-chip at the back of her tongue keeps her coming for more!”

 Emma longed for a farm hand, or suitable cock, and her eyes searched the growing crowd for one.  As her teats were being suckled, her hormones raged, and only the smooth feel of a delicate skin against the back of her tongue could bring her the wild pleasure she needed to orgasm.  It was maddening!  

 She could only smile as the audience stepped closer for a good look.  There were no farm hands, or suitable cocks.

 “The collar around her neck insures her only sounds are gentle mooing.”  Candace explained.  “For her primary feature, her breast shield, nanites have surgically separated her nipples into four, then stimulated the breast tissue growth giving her four breasts.  The naturally occurring sugars in her produced milk can be adjusted to give each breast a different flavor: Regular, chocolate, strawberry and banana. These can be customized to your cow.  Other options include the above, plus: whole, 2%, heavy cream, and Beer.”  Candace brandished a sloshing mug of foaming beer and took a long pull.  “Mmmm!  You won't believe it until you try it!”  She exclaimed with her beer mustache. 

 Emma smiled, and nodded to the crowd, while she clenched her teeth and prayed that once, just this once, the milking machine would let her come, and not insistently tease her.

 “Of course, Emma's package is finished off with a Chasti-Permalock Vaginal Shield, so none of her pent up energies are wasted!”

 Emma couldn’t help but wonder if that were true; that an orgasm wasted a hucow’s energy.  It sounded silly, implausible, but they showed her the science, the research.  Every thing indicated that a chaste cow produced a higher yield and better quality milk.

 “Its our most productive Chasti product to date!”  Candace wrapped up her presentation.  “Order yours now and become the Cowgirl of your dreams!”

 The machine shut off and Emma pulled her teats from the nozzles.  She pulled up her bra and shifted it in place.  It was tight, and she looked lovingly down at her nanite enhanced breasts.

 They were getting bigger.  Much, much bigger.  With her arms outstretched, she could barely reach her hands around to touch her finger tips together.  Soon, she wouldn’t be able to do that.  Soon, she would be unable to reach her own teats and would need a farmhand to do it.

 Preferably a farmhand with a suitable cock.

 Assuming there was a farmhand with a suitable cock left in the world.  With a population of 1,331 to 1, female/male ratio, finding a male, with a suitable cock, (suitable; meaning still worked and wasn’t in permalock chastity) was like finding a unicorn. 

 Still smiling, Emma meandered into the crowd and took pictures with the potential customers, while Candace signed people up for orders.  

 Home hucow milk production was all the rage.

 When they announced the fair was closing for the day, Emma packed up as Candace took a couple final orders.  With a huge smile on her face, Candace took Emma’s leash and led her to their trailer.

 “We have exceeded quota, kid!”  Candace exclaimed stepping inside.  She smiled brightly as Emma closed the door behind her.  “And that is thanks to you!”

 Emma mooed.  Then mooed again, looking at Candace’s data-pad.

 Her face flashed with confusion.  “Oh, you want to see the numbers?”

 Emma shook her head.  She mooed, and looked at the pad.

 “Oh, you want to talk?”

 Emma nodded.

 Candace laughed.  “Well, why didn’t you saw so?”  She accessed the bio-lock on the pad and handed it to her.

 Emma typed.  “It time.”  The pad spoke her text to voice with a British accent.  “Tape, please.”

 Candace’s face drained.  “Are you sure?”

 Emma nodded as she typed.  “Tape.  You measure.”

 Candace hissed angrily and took the data-pad from Emma.  She held it up and tapped the screen, first of Emma’s front, then Emma’s profile.  Her face lost all emotion as she looked at the results.  “Yeah, you’re right.  You’ve made quota too, in a way.  Your contract was until you grew to a pre-determined volume size, and you have met that size.  Hucow stage 2.”  She looked up determinedly.  “Listen, we’re a good team here.  I can talk to the guys upstairs and get an extension…” 

 Emma shook her head, and looked at the data-pad.  Reluctantly, Candace handed it to her.  “It’s happening.”  Emma typed.  “I can feel it.  I can feel my mind slow, become hucow.  I would like to go to the farm now.”

 Candace wrestled with her thoughts.  “You have that right, but would you be happy as a hucow?  I mean, a real hucow?”

 Emma brightened.  “Yes!  It all I want.  It will soon happen and I am excited.”  She looked at her partner affectionately.  “Time now.  I feel the nanites are in my arms.  They will soon be gone.  Hucows don’t need arms.  Soon, real hucow.  Soon happy.”

 Candace conceded.  “Yeah, well you deserved it.  You’ve been an excellent partner.”  She sat on the couch and patted the cushion beside her.  When Emma sat, Candace took the data-pad and tapped on its screen.  “Well, let’s see where you are going.”  She brought up the address.  “Blah, kinda dark.  One of those industrial places.”

 Emma shrugged.

 Candace sighed sadly.  “Emma, you’ve become more than my co-worker.  You’ve become my friend.  I just want you to be happy.”

 Emma hugged her, as Candace’s face swept with tears.  

 Candace wiped her face with the back of her hand.  “Right!  Let’s do this properly.”  She announced, determinedly.  “I’ll contact the factory and…”  Her eyes focused on the web page’s publicity photos.  “Oh, oh.”  Candace murmured, pointing to the screen.  “Look at that set up!  Their milking machines only handle hucows with two teats.  Not four.”  Her fingers flashed on the pad.  “I’ll send them a text and ask if they can handle you.”

 Long seconds passed before a response came.

 Candace looked at Emma, her face slack.  “I’m sorry, Emma.  Our tech is so new…”  She brightened.  “I’ll search on line.  There has to be someone…  someone not so dismal.”  Her fingers flashed, and her head knocked back as she looked at a response.  “Novelty cow?”  Her fingers pounded against the board.  “You are not a novelty cow!  Argh!  They’re looking at only your milk production and not counting your other flavors.”  She tried accessing a real-person.  Failing that, she paused to think.  She looked back at Emma.  “We’ll get this sorted.”  She said reassuringly.

 “Moo.”  Emma said, smiling.

 As Candace tapped on the screen, a response popped up.  ‘Did you try Farmer Brown?’

 “Will try, thanks.”  Candace messaged back, and brought up Farmer Brown’s info.  There was a picture of a man with a graying beard spread across his chest like a bib.

 Emma peered in close, and Candace shooed her back.  “Settle down, you.  It’s just a logo.  I seriously doubt it’s a man running the farm.”

 “Moo.”  Emma said, excitedly.

 “The chances of him having a working penis is a billion to one, literally.”  Candace frowned as she fanned through the farm’s images.

 Emma and Candace watched a video tour.  Farmer Brown smiled and waved, his face a little embarrassed.  The narrator was a woman, who talked about the advantages of organic farming and free-ranged hucows.  She panned the camera and showed hucows walking through a shady glenn.  Their udders were magnificent!  Giant breasts tens of thousands of CC’s in size.  As the narrator made her way through the field, the hucows slowly approached her, mooing happily for attention.  Within moments, the narrator was holding the camera above her head and panned down, showing a beautiful, raven haired woman being surrounded by tit flesh and giggling hucows.  “Come to Farmer Brown’s farm!”

 The video ended.

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Justice

By DX

Copyright, 2/27/2025, all rights reserved.

 The prosecutor had given us a sweetheart deal.  My client, born Amelia Carpenter, Fugsbitch, as she preferred to be called, was an accessory to a string of homicides, but I had argued in preliminary that she was just a victim, forced through the brutal tactics of her gang to be complicit with their rampage of terror.

 No one believed that.

 But prosecution had eighteen other defendants and not enough resources to handle it all.  Any other day, Fugsbitch would not see the light of day for at least thirty years, but the deal they gave us was zero jail time, ten years supervised probation, and mandatory anger therapy.  To sweeten the deal, the State would pay for the laser removal of Fugsbitch’s tattoo, “Cum Dump”, from her face.

 All she had to do, was when the judge asked: “Do you agree to the terms and conditions of your release?” she reply, “Yes, your honor.”

 I coached her on it.  “Just say those words, and I’ll drive you home.”  I told her.  “No jail time, no tracking bracelet.”

 She gave a non-comital tilt of her head.

 “All rise!”  The bailiff called and the judge swept in.  

 Words were spoken, papers were shuffled, someone cleared their throat, and the deal was read into the record.

 We stood, and I held my breath.

 When the judge asked if she agreed to the conditions of release, Amelia “Fugsbitch” Carpenter went off script.

 “You mother fucking white piece of shit.  Fuck you and your fucking robe, I’mma gonna go to your house and take your daughter to my man so he can impregnate her with his man seed, then I will cut off her hands and feet and lead her around like a bitch dog, pooping out babies for my crew, and living off the cream she can suck from my pussy, your honor.”

 The silence in the court was horrifying.

 Judge Victor James Junior blanched, but didn’t change his expression.  “The court will accept the defendant’s comments as her acceptance to the pre-stated conditions of release.  Court adjourned.”

 The gavel sounded like a gunshot.

 “What just happened?”  Fugsbitch asked, looking around confusedly.  “Ain’t I goin’ to jail to be with my man?”

 “One, that’s not how jail works,”  I said quickly, grabbing up my papers and stuffing them into my case.  “and two, we’re leaving.  I’m taking you to your mother’s house.”

 “Fuck you, you ain’t.”  She protested.  “I wanna see my man.  Bitch, don’t you get it!  I will be ten times more powerful with my crew in jail!  I will own that mother fucker!  Take me to my man!”

 “Amelia, he’s in jail without the possibility of parole.”  I took her arm.  “I don’t believe what just happened, but they’re going to let you walk out of here, so we’re going.  Once I drop you off at your mother’s, you can do whatever the fuck you please.  Just meet with your probation officer on Tuesday.”

 “No I ain’t.”  She folded her arms across her chest.

 “Then do as you please!”  I barked.  “I’m in no obligation to do you any favors.  I’ve put up with your shit for months and I’m done with it.  I’m leaving.”  I turned and walked towards the parking lot.

 She ran to catch up.  “Wait!”

 I didn’t wait.  I wanted to be as far away from court as possible.  Judge James Senior would have had Amelia in contempt so fast it would have made her head spin.  Judge James Junior had a different way of doing things and I didn’t want to press my luck, nor remind him what I looked like.  My client humiliated him in his court room and I didn’t need him associating me with a memory that would not soon be forgotten.  A good lawyer knows the law, and great lawyer knows the judge, and Fugsbitch just made a new enemy.

 I did ask her if she wanted to change out of her prison jumpsuit and she declined, thinking them a badge of honor.

 I my car, Fugsbitch cranked my radio.  I turned it off.  She cranked it again.

 As I switched it off, a car slammed into us from behind, and with squealing tires and busting glass, pushed us forward into a van.

 The airbags exploded in our faces.

 Stunned, smoke everywhere, I remember something hit my car door and it wretched open with a hollow crumple of metal.  I turned to respond to the emergency service, ready to quip about how fast they had arrived, but I looked up into a face of terror.

 Worse, he had a knife.

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Brad's New Mistress

By Dx

Copyrighted 1997, 2/2025 all rights reserved.

 Brad winced as the crop lashed his nipple with a stinging welt. Pain racked his chest in layers, its warmth feeling its way into his heart, down his spine and out of his erect body in invisible sparks.

 His mistress flicked her crop again against the nipple, counting aloud: "48!" 

 Brad whimpered as sweat rolled steadily down his body. The iron shackles holding him to the x-frame dug cruelly into his skin. His lips trembled as spittle slipped from his mouth. A peanut was perched precariously between his teeth. He could hear the shout of "49!" as his blistered nipple shuddered against another skillful blow. A cry escaped his throat.

 One more, he chanted to himself, one more.

 Surely his nipples were cracked and bleeding.  She must have gone over board this time. Brad tried to force the idea from his mind and concentrate on the peanut in his teeth, but he knew what ever damage she had done, he would not be able to hide.

 "50!" 

 The last blow fell with a whistling snap and landed on target to Brad's inflamed nipple with an unequaled force, re-awakening pain numbed nerves and sending them into overload. Brad felt the tiny, fragile peanut shatter in his mouth.

 "You almost made it." Her voice, purring, cooing, flowing like syrup into his ear. "Your punishment is fifty more."

 "Please..." Brad whimpered, gasping. "My, my wife will..." Brad realized his mistake. He had mentioned the marks in last week's session. He had told his mistress that it was getting harder and harder to hide them from his unsuspecting wife.

 In response mistress whipped him harder, clamped his balls and nipples and laid into them with a tawse, screaming that he only had one mistress and he had better choose. 

 Brad trembled, feeling he was about to suffer, horribly.

 But this time, instead of fire and brimstone, she smiled, tenderly, sweetly, her eyes casting their spells of light. "But isn't that what you paid for?" She laid a leather clad finger on his raging erection. "I believe it is." Her finger circled about his loins, feeling his scrotum, moving the testicles about in their sack while pre-cum fluid oozed from his cock. “You're paying for the privilege of serving me. You are here for my pleasure, not yours. I think you've forgotten that. You can find a hundred mistresses to flog you like a dog, but not like I can." 

 The crop lashed suddenly at his engorged cock sending a rippling pain through him. Her arm was a blur as the crop lashed again and again. Brad screamed as his mind paraded images that he was being stroked with a plume of fire. He closed his eyes as he could feel the brimming orgasm within him push for release.

 She stopped suddenly, touching his raging member with her cold finger tips. "I don't want a slave who thinks me as his employee, telling me when to start and stop. I want a slave who will devote his body to me, his soul..." She let the thought trickle as she slipped the hot flange of the crop gently against the underside skin of his cock. "Give this to me." She whispered. "Do you want only one mistress? Then pledge your cock to me, so that I may own it and do with it as I please."

 She gripped his cock in her hand and felt its seizing twitch. Brad was drunk with pain, mad with pleasure, he had yet to cum and she wasn't going to let him. He forgot his wife and forgot his marriage as his hips thrust into her palm. "Yes my mistress!" He panted wildly. "I pledge my cock, my balls, to you to do as you please!"

 Her crop fell again, this time against the underside of his penis while her hand clutched the glands. Within seconds he spewed like a fountain. 

 He felt not pain, not guilt, only ecstasy.

 As his orgasm subsided, he looked up with blurry eyes at his mistress as she reached up to him and forced a large ball gag into his mouth and strap it closed. His addled mind wondered why she wasn't freeing him, why the session wasn't over.

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Cow

By DX

Copyrighted 12/06, 10/2024, all rights reserved.

 

 And that was it.

 My personal files were deleted. My clothes, what I couldn't sell and what I wasn't wearing, was dumped into the Degrader, to be broken down into molecular dust and re-fabricated into something new for someone else's use.

 Much like I was soon to be. I would not be broken down into dust, however. I would be hacked up into steaks for someone's consumption. 

 Waste not, want not.

 I repressed a shudder at the thought .  I took a moment and glanced out the window. The sun was rising, and lit up the white cliffs of Dover as the waves crashed endlessly against its craggy shore. 

 I turned off the window, and the room plunged into darkness like a felling blade.

 A fake view for an apartment that didn't have a view, or a window for that matter.  I could never have afforded a real view and now I couldn't even afford a fake one.

 My couch folded up into the wall as I rose.  This left a clear three meter by four meter space which was my apartment, my life. It was now empty.  Clean and clear, ready for the next guy. 

 I grabbed my jacket and headed out, shrugging the memories like cob webs. I always hated that apartment, never realizing it was my anchor in this world until I was cast adrift. It would be sanitized, reprogrammed and re-issued to someone else within the hour. All traces of my existence, memory, scents, bills, signatures, every bit of my history would be gone. 

 I was less than homeless.

 I was nothing.

 I made my way to the street and ducked under an awning to escape the freezing rain. As I waited for the bus, I watched people brush by, their faces down, lost in their own world. I was one of them just yesterday. A real person. It was time for the mid morning snack and I would be taking orders for a run to the cafeteria. 

 My stomach growled in the memory. 

 In my jacket pocket I found a snack bar, Soy Blue. I put it back for later. I had a long day ahead of me.

 On the bus, I watched the Ad-vid screen with a professional interest.  A woman just won the grand prize lottery, fifteen minutes of pure, filtered sun light.  Terrorists blew something up, the government knocked something down, and a very pretty woman suggested I could look very pretty too with a new face graft.

 Usually I looked at them with a blank, disinterested stare, just to have something else to look at than the blank, grey buildings that passed by. It was stuff I could never afford anyway. Today, a charming young woman was demonstrating the Jessica 3000.  I had seen her advertise things before.  She had a slim body, slinky and svelte.  She caressed the machine like a lover as she talked about its features. Then with her smiling dimples, stretched herself across it, and wriggled like an imp to take her place. With a smile she signals her partner who steps forward and straps her down.  As she is secured, she bids us farewell.  

 “A great end to a great ride!”  She said, but her smile doesn’t completely hide her nervousness.

 She winked, and blew us a kiss, then set her head in the cradle. Her partner secures her, puts a rubber ball in her teeth to stifle her screams, then throws the switch on the Jessica 3000. 

 We don’t see it, but we all know she is eviscerated, cleaned, stuffed and stitched back up in seconds. She's good at controlling her agony, focusing beyond the pain. I imagine for the commercial she was hopped up on stimulants. Nothing to ebb the pain, but she'll stay conscious.

 She regains enough composure and her gag is removed.  She gives a play by play and describes what it feels like as the motorized spit is slowly inserted into her, through her cervix. She gasps as it punches through her diaphragm, then gives some quick cooking techniques and how she would like to be served. She finally shuts up as the spit worms its way through her esophagus; but not without a final plug: "See ya at the barbecue!" She blows another kiss just moments before the spit slowly appears, rising up out of her mouth.

 Fully spitted, she gave a thumbs up as they lifted her off the machine and carried her away to be cooked.

 Now I'm hungry.

 I fish my lunch bar out of my pocket. Soy Blue, now made with 20% more people.  Mmmm.

 When I arrived at the center, I was surprised to see a line that snaked its way out the front door. I'd forgotten it was graduation day and all the women who didn't make the mark were here for processing. They were still, and somber. Most of them would soon be meat. A few might go as cattle or breeders, and a very select few would go to the brothels. I've heard of some going as living dolls and furniture, a horrible existence. 

 It was all a horrible existence: A non-future for young women.

 I joined the end of the line.

 Someone came by and checked my ID-chip to confirm I was in the right place and that I was on time.  Gosh forbid I would be late.

 But I wasn’t.  I was where I was supposed to be, standing tall at the end of the line to be processed.

 The line moved steadily, but turned even longer once inside. As we passed a bin, each girl stripped and dumped her clothes into it, then donned paper slippers. There was no talking now, enforced by a massive brute of a woman wielding a shock stick. Eyes front, keep moving. A woman with a scanner module walked the line, stopping at each girl and reading the chip embedded under the skin on the inside of the wrist. Then with an extractor the chip was removed and the girl was given a new ID which was written in big blue numbers on her right butt cheek. Her final task is to take a digital image of our faces to go with the new file.

 She looked up at me when it was my turn. She checked her scanner. "You're not a student?"

 "No, ma'am." I whispered.

 "No talking." She said, looking at her machine. "Tax deferment." She looked at me. "Couldn't pay your taxes?"

 “I was laid off." I answered.

 "Stop talking." She hissed, then glanced at where the guard was.

 "Stop asking me questions." I mumbled.

 "I'm talking to myself." She said tartly. "They've been a lot of you lately. You held out." She murmured, slightly impressed.

 I had savings. I also did some odd jobs when I could, but as the economy got worse, the jobs got fewer. Most of my former coworkers had already gone to the slaughter house.  I fell back on my savings, before sliding into the red. 

 I still had to pay rent and taxes.  Never ending, rent and taxes.

 In my darkest, bleakest moment, scored a new job, a decent job.  My first check went entirely to put minimum payments on each of my debts.  I had breathing room!  The incessant calls and texts and messages stopped and I finally had a good night’s sleep.

 Precious.

 I worked my ass off.  I made bonuses.  I lived entirely on tasteless soy, wore the same dress every day because I had nothing else.  Zero entertainment, zero frills, zero life, just work, pay, work, pay, work, pay, and I paid and paid and paid.  

 I was going to claw my way out of debt. 

 Then, just as a tiny, faint, happy light appeared on my horizon, some bureaucratic wage slave with a hornet lodged in their asshole, pushed a button to make a very expensive super-computer do some big brain-brain think math and calculated my wage earning potential, and tabulated that even with wage raises, promotions, and sucking my boss’s dick, I would never be able to pay off the accumulating interest on my debt. 

 That was when I got the message to report.

 When my chip was removed I felt truly naked standing there in the buff with only paper slippers on my feet. It was a bit of a comfort when my new number was printed on my butt. I strained to look back at it. My new name was 8659.

 We shuffled forward to another girl with electric clippers. She grabbed a fist full of my hair, bent me over a bin and shaved my head quickly and efficiently. My scalp tingled from the peach fuzz that was left behind.

 Another girl walked by with a box of gags. It had an inner ball that sat deep in my mouth. It's face shield wrapped tightly across my lips, hiding my face in a swath of black rubber. To further hide my identity, a black hood was draped over my head. I could look down and follow a line on the floor. It was important to hide us now, so that begging, pleading and tears would not influence the Magistrate. The woman who would decide our fate.

 She didn’t actually decide anything.  She had a monitor in front of her which told her what to say.  It was based on the needs of society: if they were low on protein, we went to slaughter, low on baby production, to breeding, low on entertainment, the brothels.

 I plodded along, listening to one woman reading out a number, and a second saying where she was going. The first would then instruct the girl to follow a different color line on the floor. Any girl that freaked and didn't do as told was shocked repeatedly and dragged off, being shocked all the way. Her screams made a very chilling deterrent to resistance.

 They called out my number. 

 "Last one your honor." The first said. Rough hands gripped my breasts, hefting their weight. "She's a nice one."

 "Prime cut." The magistrate said quickly. "Meat line. Next!"

 Although it was no surprise, her voice stings and I tremble at the thought, but I can only think of the chirpy girl in the ad selling automatic spitting machines; her smile, and “See y’all at the barbeque!”  I almost shout it out, but I have no voice, that and my mouth is packed full of the gag.  As I bit of self inspiration, I congratulate myself for being prime cut.  I would not be ground up and mixed with soy to make tasteless nutrition bars, but cut up, grilled up, and served with a side of soy potatoes and soy cauliflower.

 See y’all at the barbecue.

 I find the strength to move my feet, but the first woman is still holding my breasts.

 "She the last." The first complained. "Your honor, look at these!" She hefted my boobs again, presenting them, then patted my ass. “Mmmm, this is nice. And look at her picture. I think she'd do well in the brothels."

 The idea used to revolt me; to be a on call whore to munch bush for fat elderly magistrates and politicians, I would rather die. Now faced with death, I'd kill for the chance.

 "She's too old." Magistrate said sharply.   "Meat line.  Prime cut.”

 "She's quite a fine little thing." The first said, still holding my breast.

 "She's twenty-three and too old.  They'd only send her right back here and our quota for whole roasts are full.  She's steaks.  Green line, please."

 The last was directed at me because she was too tired to argue with her subordinate any further and hoped I could do what her lackey couldn’t, follow orders.  I looked to my feet and found the green line and shuffled along it.  I was to be loaded on a truck and driven to a slaughter house where an air hammer would knock me senseless and a laser would slice me into neat cuts before I was dead.

 Despite my best efforts, I sank into despair.

 Then, unexpectedly, my luck had changed.  

 It did not improve, it just changed.

 My knees buckled, but I walked.  I moved along, head down, until I bumped into the girl at the end of the green line. We shuffled forward into the truck, but when I went to step up, a hand stopped me. "We're loaded." The voice said.

 "She's the last." Another said.

 "I'm loaded and I can't risk another fine for over-loading."

 "Well, you'll have to come back."

 "Do you know what time it is? I'm not coming back here for one cow." Again a hand cupped my breast. "Look at these, she should be a milker. Fuck, with these she should be in the brothels."

 "I think she's too old."

 Light flared as someone peeked under my hood to see my face. "Oh, she's not old at all. I'd like that face between my legs."

 "She's too old."

 That line was getting old.

 "Well, with these udders, she'll pump milk like a champ." She then spoke to me. "You're a milker now. Follow the blue line." She took my arm and turned me around, then pushed me forward. "Follow the green back to where is branches off to blue and follow the blue line."

 I hesitated.  Under what authority would a truck driver, with demerits on their record I might mention, have the ability to over turn a Magistrate’s decision?

 “Go wan!  Git!”  A hand slapped my ass.

 Here’s something really funny: I was mortified.  Who the heck do you think you are, slapping my ass?

 Naked, ordered to be cold cuts, gagged and wearing a hood and how dare someone slap my ass as if I was a piece of meat?  

 Oh, wait.  I was a piece of meat.

 I turned and started walking.

 I found the blue line. There where other colors, and I wondered where they went.  I couldn't tell if anyone cared, but I trembled at the thought of shock sticks if I was found in the wrong line, so I followed the blue line. 

 I would live, sort of.  A Rad Gun would fire a pulse of radiation into my frontal lobe. It would pass harmlessly through skin and bone, but in the center of my brain the beam would focus and my brain would be cooked. I'd be alive, but higher brain functions, thought, creativity, speech, would all be gone. I'd have the I.Q. of a real cow, as if there were any real cows left on the planet.

 I would then be chemically altered to produce milk.  My breasts would swell to the size of zeppelins!  My arms and legs would be harvested, chopped off.  I wouldn't need them.  Not like I'd know or care with my deep fried brain.  I'd know nothing of what was happening.  I would be put in a stall.  Pumps would be attached to my teats and a food tube shoved down my throat.  I would then spend my days being milked.  In time, seven years if I was lucky, my production would dry up and I’d be sent to slaughter.

 I wasn’t quite sure about this new luck of mine.

 I found myself in a room and I waited where the line ended for further instructions. 

 "Where have you been?"  Someone shouted.  "I was told sixteen milkers, not seventeen!  I was only given enough battery charge for sixteen!  And look at the time!  I can't apply for another battery."  A heavy sigh.  "Alright.  We'll have to make do.  I'll just have to red line the battery.  I'll have to re-do all my paper work!  Thanks a lot!"  She grabbed my arm and pulled me along.  "Sit!"

 I felt guilty as I sat there on the bench. 

 The stench of piss and shit was overwhelming and I gagged.  I tried to maintain some decorum as I consoled myself that it would painless, and I would be blissfully unaware of my fate.

 It would all be over in just a few minutes.

 As I peered down, I could see the feet of a woman making her way along the benches, locking leg shackles to some of the women.  The shackles were neo-ceramic, indestructible. They were connected by a short, flexible cable which would allow the cow to hobble along, but running or kicking was impossible.  I flinched as she locked them around my legs.  There was no key. Once locked on, they were on for life.

 This made no sense.  Our legs would be harvested.  Why waste prime meat?

 We shifted nervously when the harsh grinding buzz of the Rad Gun sounded as a girl had her brain burned.  It was common for a girl to loose all bowel control after the radioactive lobotomy, and as the stench refreshed, burning my nostrils, I hoped I wouldn't be one of them. I didn't want to start my first day as a cow covered in my own manure.

 More zaps. I shivered as the gun came down the line, closer.  I wanted them to hurry.  To walk over and stir fry my brain and get it over with and end this miserable day, my miserable existence.  I didn't deserve this indignity!

 I started to cry.  I didn’t want to be ‘that girl’, bawling like a child, but I wasn't the only one.  We all were that girl.

 Thrashing. 

 Arms and legs flailing.  A girl went into seizure as the Rad Gun burned her brain. From beneath my hood I could see her spazing on the floor as piss spewed like a sprinkler. The attendant stepped over the girl, put the gun to her forehead, and pulled the trigger to fry her a second time.

 The girl moaned and fell silent and calm.  She panted as if she'd just run a hundred meter dash.  The attendant only shook her head and cursed and muttered to herself that she used another precious charge.  She then stepped over to the next woman in line.

 I closed my eyes and waited.  Soon.

 The woman beside me slumped and fell against me as if she'd just nodded off on the bus and not had her brain destroyed.  I cradled her, happy for something to hold onto.  I tried not to whimper as the gun rested against my temple. 

 I tried to be brave.

 And the sun exploded in my head.

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