Jane looked past the rusted iron bars of the gate in front of her,
peering into the tiny space between the bare concrete walls that
couldn’t have been more than three or four metres apart. A woman
who looked like she was in her early twenties lay asleep on top of
a pile of hay, naked except for a leather harness that clung tightly
around her torso, visually separating her breasts, stomach, groin,
neck and sides as well as providing a convenient array of metal
D-rings. Her oversized breasts raised and fell with each gentle
breath.
Her hands were hidden away in leather mittens that locked around her
wrists, and her ankles were encased in similar cuffs. Rusted iron
chains ran from the D-rings on the side of her harness to the four
cuffs, long enough to let her move around but short enough to prevent
her from standing upright or bringing her hands above her waist.
Another chain ran all the way from a small ring in the middle of her
nose to a larger ring set in the far wall, tethering her to the spot.
The room, if it could have been called a room, had no furniture.
Besides the hay that covered the concrete floor, it only contained
a steel bowl of some gloopy brown substance that must have been some
kind of food, a bowl of water, and a rusted grate in the far corner
of the floor, apparently for draining fluids. A transparent plastic
tube dangled down from the ceiling limply, a thick white liquid
dripping from its end, and a metal box was set in the wall, featuring
a green button and a red button.
“What do you think?” asked Mr. Peterman, his bald head gleaming in
the harsh flourescent lights overhead. He pulled a handkerchief out
of his crisply pressed suit’s breast pocket and dabbed his face dry.
Jane’s father had asked him to give her a quick tour of his milk
factory, a task that made him feel awkward. He didn’t want to have
to explain where milk came from to someone so young and innocent,
but then he couldn’t exactly say no to his boss.
“Her breasts are huge!” exclaimed Jane.
“Well, they have to be to meet its quota,” said Mr. Peterman as he
put his handkerchief back in his pocket. “Selective breeding,” he
explained.
“Don’t you mean _her_ quota?” asked the young woman.
“Here at the factory we generally find it’s best not to get too
emotionally attached to them,” he said. “They’re just cattle, not
real people like you or me.”
“Why don’t you want to get attached?” asked Jane.
“Let me put it this way,” said the old man. He wondered how he could
dumb the answer down so as not to hurt the poor girl’s feelings.
“Have you ever seen a cowgirl here over the age of thirty?”
The young woman thought about this for a second. “What happens to
them?” she enquired.
“We can’t afford to feed them once they stop being profitable. Most
of them start failing to reach their quota after their mid-to-late
twenties.”
“So what happens to them?” persisted Jane.
“Well, we don’t let them go to waste,” assured the old man. “See
that nice leather outfit it’s wearing?” He motioned to the woman
sleeping in front of them.
“You kill them?” Jane exclaimed.
Awoken by the noise, the cowgirl opened her eyes. She looked at her
guests with curiosity.
Jane stuck her arm between the iron bars, stretching it in front of
her as far as she could reach. She held the palm of her hand open,
as if trying to entice a cat to let her stroke her. The barely
clothed young woman blinked at her, then cautiously rose to her knees
and crawled towards her, the chains rattling as she awkwardly moved
along.
The cowgirl managed to crawl to within a few inches of Jane’s welcoming
hand when suddenly her chain snapped taut, having reached its limit.
A confused look on her face, the young cowgirl tugged half-heartedly
on the chain using just her head. After a short while she seemed
to lose interest, then crawled on all fours to the bowls and started
lapping up the water.
“Hello,” said Jane. The cowgirl looked up at her for a few seconds,
her face blank, then went back to her drink.
“It can’t speak, you know,” said Mr. Peterman.
“Why not?” asked Jane.
“Because it’s just an animal,” he said. “It doesn’t have parents
or go to school.”
“So what _does_ she do?” asked Jane.
“It just produces milk,” answered the old man. “Nothing more.
Talking of which, it’s nearly time for it to be milked. Why don’t
we go to the next building? I’ll show you how cheese is made.”
“No,” insisted Jane. “I want to watch.”
“There’s really nothing to see,” said Mr. Peterman. “Just a bunch
of tubes and machinery.”
“Just let me watch, please,” said the girl firmly.
Mr. Peterman didn’t like the thought of explaining to the head of
the company why his daughter’s simple request couldn’t be fulfilled.
“All right,” he said, dabbing his face once more.
Jane and Mr. Peterman stepped back as a worker wearing dark blue
overalls and sporting a thick brown moustache unlocked the gate,
swinging it towards them with a loud creak that set Jane’s teeth on
edge. He carried a few strange contraptions into the room that Jane
couldn’t work out the purpose of.
Setting the other devices on the floor for a second, he took the
first item – a black leather head harness sporting a large rubber
gag – and started to strap it in place around the tethered cowgirl’s
face with the quick, uninterested motions of someone who had done
it a hundred times before.
The girl retreated to the corner of her room and squirmed her head
out of the way of the device. The worker pinched her nipples firmly
for several seconds, causing her to squeal and immediately stop her
writhing.
After that, she obediently opened her mouth, letting him fill it
with the large rubber gag. He fastened the leather straps around
her head and locked them into place without any more protest from
her. The head harness consisted of several parts, and when he was
finished, the cowgirl’s mouth wasn’t only filled, it was also securely
covered. Her moans couldn’t escape her lips, only her pierced nose.
“I thought you said she couldn’t talk,” said Jane, confused.
“It can’t,” answered the old man. Reluctantly, he added “but it can
sure howl, and we don’t want it disturbing the other cattle.”
“Milking her hurts her?” asked Jane.
“No, I’m sure it doesn’t mind at all,” assured Mr. Peterman. “In
fact, it hurts it more if we _don’t_ milk it every three hours – its
tits swell up even bigger and it gets all cranky. Being milked is
probably just a strong sensation, that’s all. Like sneezing.”
“Oh.” Jane sounded unconvinced as she looked on.
The worker roughly pinched the young cowgirl’s exposed nipples several
times in quick succession, and small beads of white liquid started
to form on them. He grunted in satisfaction, then took the largest
device left, a stiff leather bra with holes where the nipples could
peep out. He strapped it tightly in place around the cowgirl’s chest
so that it covered her painfully oversized breasts. It took a second
for him to align her nipples with the holes in the middle of the
bra, but the woman stayed on all fours and gravity did most of the
work.
Lastly, the worker took the remaining devices – a pair of transparent
tubes – and screwed them to the bra’s holes before connecting the
other end of them to the tube dangling from the ceiling. He pushed
the green button on the box set into the wall, and the young woman
let out a stifled yelp. A hidden machine somewhere nearby started
to make a loud whirring noise as the tubes started to suck greedily
at the girl’s engorged nipples.
Jane couldn’t tear her eyes away from the cowgirl’s blank face –
what she could see of it – as she made horrible sounds of distress,
quiet moans of discomfort. The cowgirl fell on her side and writhed
around frantically on her back. Finally, she scrambled back to her
hands and knees and desperately tried to claw at the bra and its
tubes, but it was no good. With the short chains keeping her arms
at her waist, she couldn’t even reach them, let alone grip and unscrew
the tubes or unfasten the bra. All she could do was moan in protest.
After a while, Jane finally managed to break eye contact with the
other woman long enough to see a trickle of an opaque, white liquid
being sucked up the bra’s tubes. As her moaning increased in loudness
and urgency, Jane regained eye contact with her again. The cowgirl
tried to walk back up to the young woman in between pauses with
closed eyes and gasps of pain, but again, the chain tethering her
to the opposite wall didn’t permit her to reach the only sympathetic
face near her. She let out a loud, anguished sound in frustration
as she pressed against the chain until she couldn’t take the pain
in her nose anymore.
That one sound haunted Jane. She turned to face Mr. Peterman.
“Let’s see the cheese,” she said, holding back a tear.
