Unprotected Zombie Dairy: A BDSM Menage

by Miranda Cougar

  My scientific team and I are trying our best to tweak the hormone profiles of the ancient Lacta-pump formula we use. We’re working hard to decrease the pill’s unwanted side-effects while maintaining its fertility benefits. But, I fear we’re fighting a losing battle. The hucows who live on The Farm are growing more milk heavy and lusty with each passing day.

  “Authorization, Chief Medical Director, Doctor Kale Craig. Close private diary.”

  Chapter 2

  “Yes, yes, oh…god, yes!”

  Swiftly, I angled my chin down in the throws of my pleasure. As I whipped my head from side to side, my long, loose, coffee-brown ringlets of hair flew in front of my face, temporarily blinding me. But, I didn’t care. I didn’t need to see or think right now. All I needed to do was feel — good.

  Oh, god, this feels soooo…good.

  I circled my finger faster. Around and around, and up and over my tiny nub, my finger flew. I gritted my teeth then cried out again as I pushed my solitary finger down hard and rubbed. I rubbed and rubbed…and rubbed until my climax peaked and my body shivered with pleasure. Then I laughed aloud my ecstasy as my clit first jumped up then settled down into a peaceful pulsing bliss.

  I panted — hard.

  “Howzit, Aurora?”

  Damn it. Can’t a woman enjoy a moment of pleasure, unmolested?

  “Howzit, Aurora?” My best friend Tita’s voice echoed loudly inside the tiny multi-purpose room of my living quarters.

  “Howzit, Aurora?” Her strong voice rang out again. Thank god, Tita wasn’t actually here. It was just my ancient earth-style ringtone pestering me again. It was letting me know I had an incoming telephone call.

  Oh, crap! I have an incoming call.

  Just about everything on this planet was ancient — and left me alone to engage in my private vices — except the medical technology and the artificial intelligence here at The Farm. If I didn’t answer my telephone soon, my apartment’s AI would sense I was home and answer the phone call automatically. I would be caught wet-fingered with my hand in the cookie jar, so to speak.

  With rushed motions, I propelled the fingers of my clean hand forward, searching blindly for the button that would return my spy-cam to me. Bang! Bang! My flailing fingers turned into one continuously smashing palm moving swiftly, pummeling the koa wood top of my antique coffee table, in vain.

  I lifted my head and brushed away the tendrils of hair blocking my vision. My eyes flitted from side to side, searching frantically until I found the flat pink switch.

  Got ya! With the dexterity of a woman used to working with her hands, I slammed my palm down hard on the emergency shut-down button. The holographic image of the very naked Dr. Kale Craig enjoying his morning shower vanished instantly.

  Now panting from exertion instead of bliss, I slammed my thighs shut and pulled down my long milking-skirt while saying the words aloud.

  “Authorization, Milkmaid Aurora Silver. Accept incoming call - now.”

  “Aloha, good morning, Aurora!”

  The hologram of my government handler, Napua, popped up curvy and tall in front of my eyes. I smoothed my long brown curls with my clean hand, hoping I looked presentable, knowing she could see me too.

  “Aloha! Good morning, Napua. You look as beautiful as ever,” I greeted her, thankful she had spoken her greeting in English. I’ve lived on this planet for five years now but still have yet to begin to master the language.

  My brain just can’t seem to grasp the meaning of the new words. Doctor Craig says it’s a side effect of my treatment. So, everyone at The Farm is extra kind to me and addresses me mostly with phrases I understand.

  “Mahalo hoaloha,” Napua said with a broad smile.

  There she goes again using words I don’t understand. I believe she said ‘thank you, friend,’ so I smiled back and nodded like I understood her exact meaning. While I was still grinning and bobbing my head up and down, she returned my nod with a half-smile that was clearly masking a concerned grimace.

  “Sorry for disturbing you before your morning milking,” she cleared her throat. “But, I don’t want you to forget that you have an appointment this morning with The Farm publicity department. It’s your turn to record this week’s promotional video.”

  “I thought it was Tita’s turn again,” I said wrinkling my nose and searching my mind for the memory of which one of us was supposed to demonstrate our milking skills this week.

  “No,” Napua said, chuckling softly. “You’re the Milkmaid who has been awarded the privilege of representing The Farm this week.

  “Thank you,” I gasped, genuinely grateful she had reminded me. Publicity would be furious if I missed another recording session.

  I was The Farm’s second most popular milkmaid behind Tita, of course. Tita and I sold a lot of milk. Expensive, highly prized donkey milk — and human breast milk too.

  Milk sales were the engine that funded this medical research facility and working farm. We were all doing important work at The Farm; the milkmaids and medical staff alike. We were feeding the thirsty elite of the eight terraformed planets while simultaneously helping to save humanity from potential extinction with our vital fertility research.

  I was happy to do my part to keep the research facility profitable by filming another milking demonstration publicity video. Perhaps I would milk my favorite donkey, Alana for today’s demonstration. She and her newest foal were such loving animals. Alana was a fine mother who always produced the most deliciously creamy milk.

  “Aloha, happy milking,” Napua waved her goodbye before she disconnected the call and her hologram evaporated before my eyes.

  Happy for the reminder, but relieved to be alone again to continue my morning routine, I lifted my glistening index finger to my lips and licked its length. I savored the rich taste and fragrance. And with two twirls of my tongue and one long, deep suck, I cleansed away the perfumed feminine arousal coating my slick digit like I did every morning.

  Damn it. A rush of heat smacked my already flushed face — lava hot. Here comes the shame. It's crowding out my brief stolen moment of pleasure, again. Just breathe. Do exactly what the island elders instructed you to do. Just relax and let the uncomfortable emotion flow through you.

  I’m bad.

  No, I’m not bad – the correct word is wrong.

  I’m wrong. No, it’s wrong. It’s wrong,

  I know what I keep doing is wrong.

  The licking.

  The peeping,

  …and the lust.

  But, I can’t help myself. I’m a desperately craven woman.

  And no matter how deep my shame runs over what I do each morning, I continue with my lustful habits day after needy day.

  I remain ashamed, but I’ve come to accept the type of woman I’ve become here on The Farm. I’m the type of woman who spies on her doctor using a bio-engineered fruit fly spy-camera and watches him shower naked every morning. And I’m the type of woman who manually stimulates her clitoris with her finger while she enjoys the view of him lathering up his hot muscular body — in particular, his long, frequently hard and erect cock.

  Mmm…Doctor Craig’s erect cock.

  I licked my lips and swallowed hard, imagining what his creamy flavor would taste like savored inside my mouth. His flavor is the only one I’ve dreamt about relishing between my lips every day of my past five years living in this place.

  But, the flavor of his sweet cream in my mouth is the one delicious taste I fear I may never win the chance to drink down. He’s my doctor, and I’m his patient. It's simple. He’s off limits. His thick, creamy goodness can never be mine. Just like his love and affection, his delicious sweet cream is something I will forever be denied.

  Damn it, woman. Control your lust.

  I clenched my fists then allowed them to relax.

  No. No, no no. Lust can’t be controlled. But, it can be soothed away. Listen to the elders’ advice and allow your lustful thoughts to float away from the front of yo
ur mind. Let the swelling waters of passion flow outward, like the smooth rippling waves of the ocean flow naturally away from the seashore.

  I stood. My feet glided across the wood floor toward my kitchen. While dipping my head gently from side to side, I turned on the tap and hoped the sensation of the warm water on my hands would distract me from my lascivious thoughts.

  I had work to do. I needed to allow my obsession with Doctor Craig’s hot body to rest until the morning. I couldn’t let my lust for him distract me from my duties.

  Time was ticking by, and I still needed to perform my morning milking. Now would be a good a time to begin expressing my cream. I could relieve both my mind and my body’s tension with a good milking. My breasts were full and heavy with cream, and it would be a welcome relief to feel the suction of my breast pump working its magic on my sore bosom.

  Chapter 3

  Thank goodness milking myself is a simple and hands-free process. It’s far simpler than milking a donkey. Donkey milking is hard work. Satisfying, but hard work.

  Damn it, I’m already horny again.

  I wasn’t always so lustful and ravenous for man meat. But, the current bizzare circumstances of my life have made me this way.

  This wanton woman took a chance and made a deal with the doctors at The Farm five years ago. Now I must own the consequences of that decision.

  Five years ago— what now feels like a lifetime ago—I signed a legally binding contract. My fingers had gripped my pen, and I’d scribbled my signature in the presence of a roomful of government lawyers on the morning of my eighteenth birthday.

  And the worst part was I’d signed that contract willingly. I’d signed away a part of myself that day— a part I had no experience with and didn’t think I would miss — that first day I was officially an adult and free to make my own choices.

  On that morning, I made a promise. I promised the government lawyers and Dr. Kale Craig, that I wouldn’t have sexual relations with any men. It was a requirement of my admission to the experimental fertility program. And I’d agreed to it willingly not knowing how difficult a promise it would be to keep.

  At the time, I didn’t even consider what I was giving up. I would have traded anything to become a mother – even any hope of ever becoming a sexually fulfilled woman.

  Damn them for making me promise not to have sex. They knew how hard it would be for me once I started the hormones, but they made me to promise to stay chaste anyway.

  Sexual abstinence wasn’t a requirement included in any of the other milkmaid’s contracts – only mine. I guess that’s the unfortunate penalty I’ve paid for being the first woman to participate in this successful medical experiment.

  At least I’ve been rewarded for my participation in the experiment. Dr. Craig kept his promise. He made me a mother – twice. And, oh how I’d always longed to live my life as a mother.

  For as long as I could remember, I’d wanted more than anything to be the mother of many children. And I’d wanted to raise them on a lush, green planet like New Maui.

  Dr. Craig kept his promise to me when he brought me to live here on one of the most beautiful and family friendly planets in all the eight colonies.

  New Maui is the newest of the eight terraformed planets. And it is still a gorgeous and practically untouched world in search of a population. My beautiful new home holds open and free spacious scenery, unlike the cramped industrial metal satellite city I was born on.

  Curse that wretched metal orb. The harsh and unnatural conditions of that satellite were what had made me barren in the first place. Like all the young women who lived on that metal globe, I submitted myself for fertility testing in the months before my eighteenth birthday. And like so many other women before me, I tested infertile.

  But, ever since I was young I had always imagined myself as a mother. It was what I knew I was born to be. So, when I found out I would likely never bear children, I felt as though my heart would break in two. And it probably would have if one of the staff members at the local, rarely successful fertility clinic hadn’t told me about the new experimental fertility research being conducted at The Farm.

  That’s why I signed up for this experiment. It brought me to a planet that I had long adored and had always dreamt of visiting. And it gifted me with the two loves of my life, my children.

  Although I’m a sexually starved woman — my life is good. I’m mother to a daughter and a son. And I hold important and fulfilling work. I’m a Milkmaid. I help to nourish the universe.

  Damn this. I’m so horny, and my breasts feel so heavy and full with my milk. I can’t delay my morning milking any longer. I must submit both my body and mind to the ritual of the milking immediately.

  Chapter 4

  I leaned forward and shook my bosom loose from my bra the way I always do before I allow my milking machine to perform its function.

  As vital parts of the milking ritual, my breast pump and milking machine work in tandem to gently pull the cream from my heavy tits.

  I can’t delay any longer. This milking rite must occur at least every eight hours, or my breasts will overfill. They will grow large and painfully stuffed with milk.

  To prevent discomfort, I, as well as all of the other four hundred Milkmaids at The Farm empty our breasts of our milk completely every six hours. The artificial intelligence in my living quarters even performs a slightly altered version of the ritual for me while I’m asleep at night so I can awake refreshed, not burdened down with the stretched soreness of breasts overfull and heavy with rich cream.

  Often times the old ways are the best. The ancient ways. At least, that’s what the elders on this planet are always telling me. And they seem to be adventurous, joyful people full of the wisdom of living on this beautiful, lush green world. So, I’ve taken their advice to heart.

  I’ve chosen to complete my frequent daily milkings in the ancient earth way. The Hucow way.

  Every morning, I sit on the edge of my bed and slide my skin-tight virtual reality hood over my face. I breathe in the musky scent of tuberose and jasmine. And I relax. I give myself over to the sensations enveloping my body as the milking rite begins.

  I am floating. My body floats face down over an ancient farm. It’s an old earth farm with cows and horses and tall muscular bodied Hawaiian paniolo cowboys. As I float toward the milking barn, a bronze-skinned cowboy gazes up and tips his hat to me.

  “Aloha, little lady,” the shirtless man greets me and I blush. In real life, I’m known to be a feisty woman like my best friend, Tita. I rarely blush. But, here in the virtual world, I’m a swooning, red-faced young hucow eager to be milked.

  I’ve spoken to Napua about the stark difference between my persona within the virtual world and the real one. At first, I was worried something was wrong with me because the two sides of my personality were so different. In real life, I would never allow a man to handle my body as vigorously as my pretend cowboy does in the virtual world.

  But, in the make-believe reality of this ancient Hucow farm, I crave the hands-on treatment. I shamelessly allow my cowhand to manipulate my breasts in all sorts of stimulating ways.

  Napua tells me my experience is typical. She says the virtual world allows a woman’s mental defenses to lower. The artificial intelligence embedded within the milking pump reaches into the mind and pulls out the fantasy that is guaranteed to stimulate the production of the most milk. And it just happens that having my bosom manipulated by a handsome cowhand while I fuss and fawn over him like a complete imbecile is what stimulates my mammary glands most intensely.

  My subconscious mind always invites the same cowboy to milk me, time after time. The tall, muscular farm hand is an exact replica of Dr. Kale Craig. From his short midnight black mane to his dimpled cheeks, to his wide muscular chest, my virtual reality cowboy is a dead ringer for Kale.

  Clearly, I have a strong subconscious desire to be sexually pleasured by the good doctor over and over again while he squeezes and milks the cr
eam out of my full, aching tits.

  Napua and the island elders have told me for years to stop overthinking my desires and just go with what feels good. So, now I try. Every day I try. I try my best to relax into the rough pleasures my sunkissed cowboy gifts me four times a day, every day of my life here on The Farm.

  I’m still floating. As my mind relaxes into my virtual reality fantasy, I float right into the uplifted arms of cowboy Kale. I focus my vision down on the chiseled angles of his jaw as he catches me mid-air and holds me up in his strong arms.

  “Poor baby,” he teases, jutting out his bottom lip while eyeing my full bosom. “Your tits are too round and full with milk. Your boobs and especially your teats must be painfully sore.”

  I bob my head up and down in agreement with his assessment of the overfull state of my breasts. Then I swipe my moist pink tongue across my lower lip wetting it.

  “Please cowboy,” I beg. “Please milk me. My tits are too big and round for their own good and they need to be milked.”

  Kale’s dark brown eyes catch the bright light of the sun and glisten up at me.

  “Damn, you’re a sexy cowboy,” I moan as I feel a familiar wetness moisten my pussy lips and slip down between my inner thighs.

  My strong farm hand inhales deeply.

  “You’re overdue for a milking, sweet thing,” he remarks in his husky cowboy drawl.

  I stare down at his rugged handsome features and feel the tight buds of my nipples tingle in anticipation of what I know is about to happen.

  “Poor, sweet hucow,” he laments while shaking his head. “You need to come into the barn to be milked more often. Just look at these swollen tits of yours. They’re already leaking cream.”

  I tilt my head down and gaze at my naked breasts. Sure enough, I see drops of white cream pooling at the tips of my nipples.