Bovine Testing, Part 5

Bovine Testing, Part 5

Story by All These Roadworks (2023).

Author's Note: I'm bringing all six chapters of "Bovine Testing" to CHYOA in time - but if you want to skip ahead, or show your appreciation, you can buy the complete saga - plus eight more stories - in my e-book Bovine Testing and Other Tales of Hucow Erotica, available for $3.99 USD at AllTheseRoadworks.com. (Click here to view in store.)

Also, my kinks aren't my politics - I promote real-life respect, equity and positive enthusiastic consent.

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Vicky was **** for a way out of her new lifestyle.

There was a younger man called Brett sitting in the office that had once been Vicky’s, doing the work that she was supposed to be doing, and getting paid for it. Vicky’s job was to make coffee for him, and for the other men of her team, all of whom she had once been in charge of. When she wasn’t making coffee, her duties were to perform whatever odd jobs people could find for her, and - in the words of her hated nemesis Allen - to “look pretty”.

She didn’t even have a desk, so when there was nothing to do, she was **** to stand around awkwardly, like a mobile decoration.

Her breasts were producing more and more milk each day. When they became full, her nipples would begin to leak into her shirt, producing large visible wet patches on her blouse, and her collar would cut off her ability to talk, forcing her to go to Brett - five years her junior - and blushingly moo like a cow, until he either gave her permission to run to the lab for a milking, or chose to pull her tits out of her blouse and roughly milk her himself.

The other men of the office also helped out with relieving the pressure in her udders. They would always order their coffee with milk - even those that didn’t normally take it - and then **** her to pull one of her swollen tits out of her bra and use their hands to squirt milk from her nipple into her cup.

No one was ever gentle in milking her. Everyone liked to hurt her udders as they milked them.

After all, it was common knowledge that pain and humiliation made Vicky wet. If the smell of sex coming from her increasingly soaked panties wasn’t enough to tell them, the collar would make it explicit.

“Vicky needs to be fucked. Vicky is too wet to think. Vicky is stupid from arousal,” it would announce.

Often the men would follow her to the lab when her pussy became this wet, knowing she was going to submit to the milking-and-fucking machine, and they would all get to watch her being simultaneously machine-fucked and milked. Other times Brett would refuse her permission to leave her station, enjoying the spectacle of Vicky gradually becoming hornier and stupider with each passing minute.

From time to time a co-worker would simply corner her in a stairwell or an abandoned meeting room and **** her. She would be **** up against a wall or bent over a table, and her skirt would be lifted and her panties shifted aside, and then there would be a hard cock shoving its way into her, violating her again and again with each thrust until she felt her womb fill with hot, sticky sperm.

She knew she should hate these rapings, and part of her did, but mostly she was deliriously thankful for them, for the release they represented from the foggy stupidity of arousal, for the inevitable orgasm she always experienced as she felt herself being ****. She would thank her ****, and lick his cock clean, and of course that only encouraged everyone to **** her harder, and more often.

Worst of all was toileting. Her collar would announce when her bladder is full - “Vicky needs to piss now or else she will wet herself in public” - but she still needed to ask permission from Brett to leave her station.

He made her ask loudly and explicitly, in public, in front of the whole office.

“Please, sir,” she would say, in a clear and audible voice. (If she was too quiet, Brett would just make her do it again.) “May I go and piss in my litterbox like an animal?”

Sometimes he just said yes. Sometimes he made her rephrase it two or three times first. He had never yet said no, but Vicky was getting used to the idea that some day she may end up wetting herself in front of her co-workers. Somehow that idea seemed worse than when they all followed her to the lab and watched her piss in her litter tray.

When she had nothing to do, the men of her team delighted in finding pointless and humiliating tasks for her to perform. Sometimes she would be made to produce hundreds of photocopies of her tits, and she would stand there with her large breasts wedged between the glass and the lid of the copier as it printed out page after page of documentation of her oversized fuckbags. (Afterwards she would need to lick up the small puddles of milk she had left on the glass.)

Or they would tell her to sit at a desk and rub her tits through her blouse, and Vicky would sit there, rubbing her breasts with her hands as though that were real work that a former executive should be doing, until the stimulation left her nipples so hard and her cunt so wet that her collar began announcing out loud how badly she needed to be fucked.

They would give her paper and a crayon, and tell her to draw “porn sluts and bimbos”, only she had to do it with her eyes closed and her mouth open. She would sit there for hours, gasping sluttily as she doodled cartoonishly oversized tits and spread legs, her closed eyes giving her the artistic competence of a small child, and then her team would take the resulting drawings, meticulously label each one “Vicky”, and then hang them on the walls as if they were the best efforts of a precocious child. Sometimes they would put small gold star stickers on the pictures. When the pictures were particularly good, Vicky got a gold star too, affixed to her cleavage with a patronising “good girl”, and Vicky hated how much genuine pleasure she felt when that happened.

Eventually it was all too much for Vicky. And so at her next session, she begged Allen and Dr Giles for mercy.

“Please,” she wept, as the milking machine roughly sucked milk from her swollen tits while she knelt on all fours. “Please, I can’t go on like this. You have to help me.”

“What exactly do you see your problems to be, Vicky?” asked Allen. He was kneeling behind her, and he had his cock in her wet, eager pussy, casually fucking her as they spoke.

“My tits are leaking milk all the time,” said Vicky. “And my cunt is leaking too. And it’s humiliating to have this collar speaking for me all the time. And I hate being a… I don’t know, a decoration, when I know I’m supposed to be an executive.”

Allen and Dr Giles looked at each other. Dr Giles got a pair of noise cancelling headphones and put them over Vicky’s ears, so she couldn’t hear anything any more, and then he pushed his cock into Vicky’s mouth for her to suck on. The two men talked over the top of her as they penetrated Vicky’s holes, and Vicky knew she was being talked about, but she could hear none of it.

Eventually Allen ejaculated into Vicky’s pussy, and shortly afterwards Dr Giles filled her mouth with sperm (which Vicky obediently swallowed), and then they removed the headphones from her, and helped her out of the milking machine.

“Good news, Vicky,” said Allen. “We’re going to solve your problems.”

Vicky felt her heart swell with hope. “Really?” she asked, her eyes wide.

“Absolutely,” said Dr Giles. “Let’s see, now.” He went to a drawer and fished around in it, before returning with a set of large black document clamps. He opened and closed one a few times experimentally, looking at it with a smile - before placing it on Vicky’s left nipple. It clamped down with agonising ****, and Vicky shrieked with sudden pain.

“There you go,” said Dr Giles. “Now your nipple won’t leak. And here’s the other one.” A second clamp went on her right nipple, and Vicky clutched at her tortured tits in misery.

“After all, every milk container needs a lid,” smiled Allen, as Vicky sobbed with pain. She wanted to rip the clamps from her breasts - but she knew that she held no power here, and that they would just be placed back on her again.

“And this one’s for the other leak,” said Dr Giles. He pushed Vicky’s legs apart, and the clamp went on her pussy mound, crushing her cunt lips together and squeezing her entire vulva shut. It didn’t hurt as much as the nipple clamps, to be honest, but the humiliation made the pain seem worse.

“You’re to relax the clamps on the hour, every hour, for the count of fifteen,” said Dr Giles, “to make sure there’s proper blood flow. Your collar will remind you. You’ll find that relaxing them in this way probably hurts a lot more than putting them on in the first place. You may take them off at night before going to sleep, but you’re to put them back on in the morning.”

“They’re part of your work uniform now, Vicky,” said Allen. “I don’t want to see you without them.”

“And as for your collar,” said Dr Giles, “I’m going to install a little training program for you. From now on, when your collar speaks, you have to repeat what it says, out loud. If you don’t do it fast enough, the collar will give you a painful shock. Over time, you’re going to need to respond faster and faster, eventually saying the words at the same time as the collar, and finally anticipating the collar and speaking before it does. The aim is to train you to announce your cow-related needs without requiring the collar at all.”

The collar chose that moment to speak. “Vicky’s cunt is sluttily wet,” it declared.

A moment passed, and then Vicky squealed, as the collar shocked her.

“Vicky’s cunt is sluttily wet,” said the collar again.

“Vicky’s cunt is sluttily wet!” repeated Vicky quickly. There was no shock. She had done well.

“Good girl,” said Allen. “And finally, for that business about thinking that you’re an executive, we have a fix for that too.” He passed her a sheaf of paperwork.

“What’s this?” asked Vicky.

“A new position for you,” said Allen. “You’ll no longer be holding an executive position, even in name, so you won’t have to fret.”

Vicky stared at the paperwork. The job she was being offered was called “Office Fuck-Cow”, and it paid minimum wage. Her duties would include “having large udders”, “being fun to fuck”, “being an attractive decoration”, “producing milk”, “encouraging ejaculation” and “mooing”, and it made clear that she would be regularly assessed on her performance in these fields.

“No!” she objected. “I can’t - I mean, this isn’t enough to live on. And…”

“I’m sure you can make a little extra pocket money if you’re a very good girl,” said Dr Giles suggestively. “Or alternatively, you could move out of your expensive house into something more… appropriate for a cow with udders like yours.”

“I won’t!” protested Vicky. “You can’t - this isn’t….”

Vicky’s collar spoke. “Vicky is so wet she is stupid.”

After a moment, there was a shock, and Vicky yelped, and the collar spoke again. “Vicky is so wet she is stupid.”

Vicky whimpered - but, sensing another shock coming, she quickly said, “Vicky is so wet she is stupid.”

“Vicky needs her decisions made for her because her cunt is wet and she is stupid,” said the collar.

“Vicky needs her decisions made for her because her cunt is wet and she is stupid,” echoed Vicky.

“Fair enough,” said Allen. “Let me just help you sign.”

And he took her hand, placed a pen in it, and guided it to the papers. Vicky watched numbly as Allen guided her hand in a signature. Before she knew it, all the papers were signed, and Vicky had resigned from her executive role, and accepted a new job as a minimum-wage “office fuck-cow”.

Her tits hurt and her cunt hurt, and despite it all she was horny, just as her collar said. “Please…” she whimpered, even though she didn’t really know what she was begging for.

“Why don’t we get you updated on LinkedIn with your new job?” said Allen. “And on the corporate intranet. And you can send emails announcing your new role to the people in your contacts. Won’t that be nice?”

“No…” protested Vicky weakly.

“And we should have a nice new photo of you in your new role, don’t you think?” said Allen. “Something that really sums up who you are now.”

“Vicky needs to piss like a disgusting slut,” said Vicky’s collar.

And Vicky realised it was true. Her bladder *was* full. “Vicky needs to piss like a disgusting slut,” he said, blushing, but eager to avoid another shock.

“That’s perfect!” said Dr Giles. “Why don’t you come over here, and we’ll photograph you pissing in your litter tray while you squeeze your cow udders?”

Vicky cried a little as they took the humiliating photo of her, and set it as her profile picture on all her corporate social media profiles. But afterwards Allen took the clamp off her pussy for long enough to **** her again, and then the humiliation no longer mattered, and all that Vicky could think about was the fact that the pain in her tits somehow made her orgasm even faster and harder from Allen’s penetration.

(TO BE CONTINUED)