SMASH or PASS

The next three cowkins were almost the same.

[+7 SP]

[+6 SP]

[+8 SP]

It was a great SP gain, but I was getting way too exhausted.

Those Cowkins were way too fucking horny.

Whatever, there’s only one left for today.

◇◇◇

After a short rest, It was time for the fifth and last Cowkin.

The door opened.

"Hello! Are you the new breeder? The one from Brannock!"

...Hm?

The cowkin who walked in was, in some decisive way, different from the other four.

For starters, she didn’t seem... horny?

Our eyes met. Hers were golden and shiny. She had small horns curved gently out from her temples. And a milk-like skin. Her build was solidly cowkin, yet her movements were strangely light. They weren’t worn out.

The brand on her hip was 623.

"Della said a young one was coming! It’s true, you ARE young!"

"...Hi."

"I’m 623. Nice to meet you!"

She introduced herself using her number like a name.

"Six. Two. Three. Nice rhythm, right? Like a song. Six, two, threeee♪"

"Yes..."

If she likes it, I’m not going to be the one to say anything.

"Right? #624 thinks I’m weird for liking my number. She says numbers aren’t things you’re supposed to like. But she also named her pillow, so."

"Your friend named her pillow?"

"Mr. Soft. He’s very flat. He’s been Mr. Soft since we were twelve. She’s had the same pillow for eight years and it shows. The stuffing is basically gone. She sleeps on a cloth bag and calls it Mr. Soft and thinks I’M the one with attachment issues." She laughed.

"She’s your friend?"

"Yes! She’s in the stall next to mine. We talk through the wall at night. She does impressions of the farmhands. Her impression of Della is REALLY good." She lowered her voice to a rough approximation of Della’s enthusiastic bark: "’Two thousand Cowkin! Give or take! The stupid milk sluts!’" She giggled at her own impression. "But don’t tell Della I said that. She doesn’t like it when the girls do impressions. The last one who did it in public got sent to the..."

She stopped. The giggle faded. She looked at the wall for a second.

"Anyway. Did I tell you about Restdays? Restdays are nice because we get extra time in the recreation area. #624 and I usually sit by the window and she tells me stories. She’s been here longer than me. She remembers the old owner, before Della bought the farm. She says it was smaller then. Quieter with ess machines."

Then, she started talking without being asked. She wasn’t complaining or venting, just chatting brightly.

"The milking schedule is twice a day, morning and evening. If the machine is properly adjusted, it doesn’t hurt. If it’s adjusted wrong, it hurts. But that’s only occasionally!"

’So it hurts occasionally?’

"...What’s the training Facility?" I asked.

"The Training Facility? Oh, that’s where girls who don’t follow the schedule go. I’ve never been there. I follow the schedule. Schedules are great, aren’t they? You know exactly what’s coming next." She paused. "#624 says it’s where they teach you to be better at following the rules better. But I’m already good at following rules. So I’ve never had to go."

...The image of 664’s face from yesterday flashed through my mind.

It wasn’t that she failed to keep the schedule. Rather, the schedule failed to protect her.

I didn’t say anything. It wouldn’t have changed anything anyway.

"Oh! Right!"

623 suddenly picked up the cup from the room’s supply shelf, and poured milk from her breast into it.

Then she held the cup out to me in both hands, full to the brim with white milk.

"Here you go!"

"...This is..."

"Milk! You look tired, big brother. Milk’s good for tired."

"...."

"Oh, don’t worry! My milk’s good quality! The fat content was above average in last month’s test. ...That’s veery great, okay? I’m telling you because you might not know."

I didn’t know. Thanks for letting me know.

’And did she just call me big brother?...Well. Who cares.’

I took the cup. I tried to find a reason to refuse, but her eyes were so direct that I took a sip before I found one.

...It was sweet. Warm, rich, and certainly tasted like something that works on tired.

"Is it good?"

"...It’s good."

"Ehehe."

She smiled genuinely, looking happy.

For someone to smile so beautifully at something as simple as that...

Like it was the best news of the week or something...

I felt something strange in my chest looking at her at that moment.

At that moment, the system activated.

[SMASH / PASS]

[Target: #623]

[Tier: Uncommon]

[SP Cost: 25]

...Uncommon?

I double-checked the display.

The other four were around Common, around 10 or so. All of the dozens of cowkins I’ve passed on were Common too. every last one.

Only 623 was Uncommon.

’...’

PASS.

Reason one: she is registered stock, unit 623, and if she vanishes the Cowkin count breaks and an investigation comes.

Reason two...

Reason two dissolved before I could get it into words. The ledger of my calculations had no line item for it.

[Target: #623]

[STATUS: PASSED]

[System path permanently closed.]

I took another sip.

The sip of warm, sweet milk was heavy on my tongue. I swallowed, the rich fat coating my throat. It was undeniably good. Perfect, even.

"Very good..."

623’s face lights up as I took another sip and gave a mumbled praise, her golden eyes crinkling at the corners.

"I’m so glad!" she chirps, clasping her hands together. The movement makes her full, milk-heavy breasts sway gently. Unlike Bunny’s desperate, lewd jiggle, 623’s movement is soft, natural, like a gentle breeze moving through ripe fruit. "Making good milk is my job. It’s important!"

It is.

She glanced at the breeding bench, then back at me. There was no hungry leer or eager spreading of her thighs. Instead, she tilted her head, a small, thoughtful frown touching her lips.

"The schedule says it’s my turn for breeding now," she says, her tone matter-of-fact, like she’s discussing the weather. "But... you look like you could use a proper break, big brother. You’ve been working hard all morning. Your shoulders are all tense."

Before I could process her casual observation—or the strange tenderness in her words—she stepped closer. Her small, soft hand pressed against my lower back. Her touch was confident, professional almost.

"...?"

"Here. Lie down. On your stomach." She gently guided me. Not towards the breeding bench, but to a clear space of clean tile floor. There was a folded towel on a shelf; she grabbed it and spread it out. "Just for a few minutes. It’s okay. The schedule won’t mind."

Her presence was disarmingly calm. Unlike the other Cowkins, she didn’t smell of sexual fluids or frantic arousal. She smelled of fresh hay, warm milk, and clean skin.

Bemused, and frankly exhausted from the brutal pace of the previous four breedings, I lowered myself onto the towel. The cool tile felt good through the fabric.

’That’s... not bad at all.’

I heard the soft shuffle of her knees beside me. Then her hands were on my shoulders. Her fingers were surprisingly strong, kneading deep into the knotted muscles with a practiced, firm pressure.

...Woah. That’s... Really good.

"Mmm... see? All tight," she murmured. Her thumbs work along my spine, finding every point of tension and smoothing it away. It’s shockingly, profoundly effective. A low groan escape me before I could stop it.

"It’s like the milking machines," she continues conversationally, her voice was a soft, melodic hum near my ear. "Even when they’re adjusted right, they make your back sore. I know all about sore backs." Her hands slide lower, working the small of my back. "Being a good Cowkin means taking care of your body. So you can keep making milk. And calves. That’s what Della says."

Her touch was... nurturing. It’s a word I hadn’t associated with this place. Her fingers were gentle yet firm, her presence steadying. The contrast with the raw brutality and broken need of the last hour is jarring.

Here, in this sterile room designed for mechanical impregnation, #623 was giving me a... massage.

After a few minutes, her hands stilled. "Better?"

"...Y-yes."

I nodded with affirmation, my face was still half-pressed into the towel.

"Good." She shifted, and I felt her settling beside me, sitting cross-legged on the floor. I rolled onto the side to look at her.

She was just... watching me. Her golden eyes were soft and clear.

She had a soft, contented smile on her lips. "See? I told you it would help."

Then, she walked to the breeding bench. She sat on the edge, patting the space beside her.

"Della said this is part of the schedule for Breeders. A very important part! It’s how we make more little cowkin for the farm. It’s good work."

"..."

"Are you ready, big brother?"

It was very disarming. I approached her. Up close, I could see the texture of her skin. It was smooth and flawless like fresh cream. Her breasts, while full and heavy like all Cowkins, had a pleasing, round shape, capped with pale pink nipples that were already beading with milk in anticipation.

When I touched her, it was different.

I cupped one breast, and she let out a soft, appreciative sigh, leaning into the touch.

I leaned in, taking a nipple into my mouth. The milk that flowed was even sweeter than what was in the cup, warm and fresh from the source. She carded her fingers gently through my hair, touching it softly.

"Does it feel good for you too?" she asked, genuine curiosity in her voice. "I hope it does. It feels nice for me. A little tingly. Like when the milking machine is adjusted just right."

"It does."

I switched to her other breast, and she hummed softly, a tuneless, happy sound. Her hands moved to my shoulders, steadying me.

"I-I have an interesting trick..."

"Interesting trick?"

Without breaking eye contact, she dropped to her knees before me. Her boobs jiggled violently as she knelt, the sheer weight of them nearly pulling her forward. She reached for my cock, her fingers nimble and eager, but she didn’t grab it. Instead, she grabbed her own breasts.

"Let me show you what a proper Cowkin can do!" she whispered.

She pressed the two enormous mounds together, creating a deep, sweaty cleavage that stretched from her collarbone to her navel. She guided my cock into the valley between her breasts.

’Holy shit!’

The sensation was overwhelming. Her skin was impossibly soft, slick with her warm, creamy milk. As she began to pump her breasts together, sliding them up and down my shaft, the friction was enhanced by the slickness of her secretions. The smell of warm milk filled my nostrils. She moved with practiced rhythm, her eyes locked on mine, watching my pupils dilate. "Do you like how soft I am? How... meaty?"

Yes. Very much.

Although all I could give her at the time was a simple nod.

Her hands moved lower, releasing my cock from her cleavage only to replace them with her mouth. She took me in completely, her throat working with shameless enthusiasm. She sucked with a desperate, needy force, her tongue swirling around the head while her hands reached down to stroke her own swollen clit. The sound of her wet sucking filled the room, a filthy, rhythmic noise that punctuated her soft moans.

When she finally pulled away, leaving me glistening with saliva and milk, she stood up, her legs shaking slightly. She turned around, bending over the breeding bench and presenting herself to me. She pushed her ass cheeks apart with her hands, exposing a pussy that was already dripping, crimson pink, and impossibly inviting.

"I want to feel you all the way inside, Big brother." she whimpered with a giggle.

I didn’t make her wait. I grabbed her hips. Her skin felt like heated silk. I drove into her in one devastating thrust.

"AAAAHHH HNNN!" 623’s scream was pure ecstasy. Her massive cups bounced so violently they nearly slapped her own face, spraying rivulets of milk across the bench. I bottomed out instantly, my cock stretching her to the absolute limit. She was tight, very tight.

She felt really good.

Her internal muscles seemed to wrap around me, pulling me deeper.

I began to fuck her at a slow pace. Each thrust was a wet, echoing slap that resonated through the chamber.

She felt really good.

The physical contrast was obscene. My muscular frame braced against her pale, over endowed body. With every deep lunge, her enormous breasts swung in wild arcs, their weight creating a hypnotic visual of bouncing flesh and spraying milk. The room grew hot and humid with the steam rising from her body. Her pussy was a furnace, clenching and milking me with every stroke.

She began to climax before I even reached my peak, her body going rigid as she screamed a long, high pitched moan. Her cunt spasmed around me in waves of milking contractions that threatened to draw my seed prematurely. "It feels weird! Oh god, Something is cumming big brother! Hnnn, Hnnn, NHNNN!"

I ignored her plea to slow down, increasing the speed until I was in a blur of motion.

She felt really good.

I wanted to reach her womb, to plant myself as deep as humanly possible. My cock hammered against her cervix, each impact sending fresh spurts of milk cascading down her thighs.

As my climax built, I reached around and grabbed both of her massive and round breasts, squeezing them hard enough to bruise, forcing more milk to spray across my hands. "I’m... coming !"

She felt really good.

I erupted inside her. I felt her cunt clamp down on me in a vice like grip as she screamed again, her entire body convulsing. I filled her deeply, My seed pumping into her in hot, thick waves that made her stomach visibly flutter.

623 collapsed onto the bench, her chest heaving, her massive breasts quivering as she tried to catch her breath. She turned her head to look at me, her eyes glazed with a post coital haze of pure, broken bliss. A thin trail of milk and cum leaked from her entrance, dripping onto the leather.

"Ohhh..." she breathed, a dazed, slutty smile spreading across her face. "That was... the best... I ever... Felt...."

◇◇◇

The session ended.

623 sat on the edge of the bed and swung her legs. She hadn’t stopped talking even after. She was telling me about the recreation area’s pottery kiln.

"It’s a communal kiln. We share it. There’s a schedule for kiln time, like everything else here, but the pottery schedule is the only one nobody argues about because most girls don’t do pottery. They do knitting. Or cards. Or they just sit. But I like pottery because you make something that didn’t exist before. Every cup I make is new. Nobody else has made that cup. It’s mine."

She held up the clay cup she’d brought. The one I’d drunk milk from. "This one has a chip on the rim because I was too impatient taking it out of the kiln. #624 says patience is a virtue."

"She seems like a great friend."

"Ehehe! Right?" 623 giggled.

She got dressed. Her shift went on in a practiced motion. Number 623 visible on her hip as she adjusted the fabric. She caught me looking at it.

"Do you think numbers are weird? As names, I mean. Some of the Older Cowkins think it’s weird. One of them said ’dehumanizing.’ But I don’t know what that means. I’ve always been 623. It’s just what I am."

"It doesn’t bother you?" I asked.

"Should it?" She tilted her head. "It’s a good number. I like the rhythm. And it means Della can find me in the records if she needs to. If I had a name, she might spell it wrong." She grinned. "Names are complicated. Numbers are easy."

I mean, if she liked it...

"Hey. Will you come again?"

’Inside of you? I hope so.’

"...The contract is three days. I’ll be here tomorrow and the day after."

"That’s not what I meant," she said, looking at me. "I meant after that. Will you take another contract here? Some breeders do. You could request me specifically. Della lets breeders request numbers." She was looking at me with her golden eyes. Wide, Bright and Completely Innocent.

’Fuck, I wanna say yes so bad...’

"I...I’ll think about it."

"Okay! Think about it. That’s okay." She hopped off the bed and walked to the door. She waved. "Bye, big brother from Brannock. I hope you come back."

The door closed.

I sat on the bed. The cup she’d brought was still on the nightstand. It was clay, misshapen, clearly handmade. A small dent on one side where her thumb had pressed too hard during shaping.

"...I’m keeping this." I said to no one in particular.