Bovine Testing, Part 6

Bovine Testing, Part 6

Story by All These Roadworks (2023).

Author's Note: This is the final chapter of Bovine Testing! If you'd like to support its creation, and 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.

===

It had been many months now since Vicky had begun the “bovine testing” regime, and she barely remembered what it had been like to be an executive. The idea that she had once had dignity and authority, that she had commanded respect, that she had had a choice about when men hurt her tits and stuck their cocks into her, now seemed strange and distant.

That was why she was surprised when her paperwork came for the Excellence in Business Conference (EBC). It suggested that not only was she attending this conference, but she was *presenting* at it.

The paperwork was spread out for her to see on a nearby desk, and she stared at it dumbly as she stood outside the office she had once worked in, idly jiggingly her oversized milky udders for the enjoyment of the nearby male staff, like a good decoration should do. She didn’t understand it. What did it mean?

Allen clarified it for her a half hour later when he stopped by to check she was wearing her nipple and cunt clamps like a good girl. Allen clarified so many things for Vicky these days that she often didn’t bother even trying to think, preferring to wait for Allen to just tell her things.

“We have the results from the first phase of your testing program, Vicky,” said Allen. “We’re going to present them at EBC. I’m going, and you’re going as my co-presenter. Aren’t you excited?”

Vicky didn’t really understand what was happening well enough to be excited. It was so difficult to think when her cunt was always so wet, and her tits were always so heavy and painful. She just nodded.

“Good girl,” said Allen. “I want you to fill out the paperwork now, so they’ll have the right badge details waiting for you at the convention.”

Vicky became aware suddenly of a fullness in her bladder, and felt words welling up in her brain.

“Vicky needs to piss like a slut,” she heard herself say. She no longer wore her collar, and nor was it needed - the conditioning had been very effective, and the mere thought of *not* reporting the state of her bladder or her arousal out loud in demeaning terms made her flinch and cringe, remembering the shocks she had once received for non-compliance.

“Do the paperwork first, Vicky,” said Allen.

“Vicky’s bladder is very full because she was stupid and forgot to tell a man earlier,” Vicky whimpered.

“Then I suggest you finish the paperwork quickly,” said Allen coldly. “We all find it funny when you wet yourself in public - you make such cute humiliated whimpering noises - but I want you decorating the fourth floor today and I don’t have time for you to clean up your mess with your mouth and tits.”

He left, and Vicky did her best to complete the paperwork. It was actually very simple, but then Vicky was very simple these days too. She stared at it vacantly for many minutes, before realising that it was actually pre-filled. All she needed to do was change the name the form had for her. It used her old surname - the one from before Allen had made her change it to something more “truthful”.

Changing it had been humiliating. The clerk at the registry hadn’t wanted to let her use her new name because it was “obscene”, and Vicky had had to suck his cock, and then let him stick it in her pussy, and then finally cum on her face and tits. By the time his sperm was dripping from her eyelids, he had come around, and agreed that her new name suited her better.

Her new ID photos showed the aftermath of those efforts. On her driver’s licence and passport, Vicky could now be seen with her naked tits exposed, and her face and cleavage visibly smeared with thick, sticky dollops of white semen.

She crossed out the name on the form and wrote her new legal name - “VICKY FUCKTOY COW-TITS”.

And then she signed it, and added a love-heart next to her signature.

===

She wondered about the conference all week. If the testing program had results, did that mean she would be released from it? What would that mean? She had gotten so used to coming down to the lab to be milked and to be fucked and to relieve herself in the litter tray, while her male co-workers watched and laughed and took bets on whether she would squirt when she orgasmed.

But she knew not to ask. If she was meant to know, Allen would tell her.

Dr Giles had been training her to be more vocal with her mooing. He had told her she must be making her cow-like moo whenever her udders were milked, or whenever she a cock in her pussy, and if she forgot to moo he would cease milking her, and the fucking would stop, preventing her from reaching orgasm, until she started again.

She wasn’t sure she could *prevent* herself from mooing now. She had tried, a few days ago, just to see, and the noises had kept coming out of her mouth as if she had no control over her own voice. Even when Allen plugged her mouth with his cock while the fucking machine was **** her, she found herself making muffled moos as she allowed him to face-**** her.

The mooing helped everyone see her as an animal instead of a person, which Dr Giles said was important for the experiment. She didn’t understand how, and when she tried to ask, he just stuffed his cock into her mouth, and that reminded her that she was very stupid these days and wouldn’t understand even if he explained it.

Sometimes her mooing would surprise and annoy the men of the office when they would corner her in the stairwell or the car-park for a **** session. Occasionally they would slap her face or tits to try and make her stop mooing as they **** her. It didn’t work, but it felt normal to be abused in that fashion now. Sometimes when they slapped her tits, a little squirt of milk would be **** from her nipples, and that made her giggle and moo louder.

===

On the morning of the conference, Allen came to Vicky’s house to pick her up - and to help her dress appropriately. The disruption to her schedule made Vicky miss her regular morning milking, with the result that she was in agony and **** to be milked.

“Vicky’s udders are full and she needs to be milked like a cow,” she heard herself whining, unable to stop herself. She was mooing, too, trying to alert Allen to her condition.

She was producing so much milk now. She was milked four times a day, and Allen had set her up with a machine that would milk her three times during the night as she slept. The machine came with a short stubby dildo that fitted into her cunt, and if she didn’t moo as she was milked it would shock her. At first Vicky would find herself waking to the electroshock in her cunt every milking, desperately struggling to understand what was happening to her before remembering to start mooing - but recently she had been sleeping through the milkings, which suggested she had learned to moo automatically and instinctively in her sleep.

Of course, the more she was milked, the more milk her breasts made, and now her tits almost always felt so full as to be painful. Her life revolved around the feeling of painful, swollen tits, and the need to have them milked.

On this occasion, Allen ignored her pleas to be milked. He dressed her in six-inch high heels, and a tight sheath dress, with no underwear. The dress was patterned in white-and-black cowprint, and was of a thin, stretchy fabric, that hugged her body lewdly. It only just came down below her cunt, and her tits bulged obscenely under the fabric.

Around her neck went a collar - not a shocking one, she learned, just a regular leather pet collar, but with a small cowbell dangling from the front.

“Hand by your sides at all times today,” said Allen. “I don’t want to see your hands straying anywhere near your udders or your pussy.”

Vicky was surprised and grateful that the outfit didn’t include her nipple or pussy clamps. It felt strange now to have her pussy unclamped during the day. It felt *wrong* - like going out without panties had once felt to her - and she felt absurdly guilty and slutty for having her cunt open and un-clamped.

Having her nipples unclamped was also dirty and slutty. Without clamps, her nipples *leaked*, and by the time Allen had driven them both to the conference venue in his car, there were wet milky circles in Vicky’s dress around each of her areolae. To her embarrassment, she found the dress turned semi-transparent when it was wet, and the dark nubs of her nipples were now clearly visible through the fabric.

“Mooo,” she said, distressed. “Vicky’s oversized cow-udders are leaking milk. Vicky needs to be milked.” She hated the infantile and demeaning third-person announcements, but the conditioning had left her unable to stop herself from making them. The mere thought of not speaking made her flinch with remembered punishment.

Allen still ignored her.

The convention venue was packed with people. They all wore sensible business clothing. None of them were dressed as slutty cows. None of them were leaking milk into their dresses. None of them had cowbells around their necks.

Vicky realised that she *recognised* many of these people. She had worked with them at previous jobs, or liaised with them in her executive position. They *knew* her. They were her peers - or at least, they had been her peers. Or possibly she had pretended she was their peer.

This awareness penetrated through Vicky’s confused focus on her tits as a lance of burning humiliation and shame.

She turned to Allen. “Please, sir - these people *know* me. Don’t make me be here. Let me go home.”

He ignored her and led her to the badge desk. Already people were looking at Vicky. Some had shocked expressions. Others were snickering.

Allen had to say who he was to collect his badge, but the lady at the desk knew immediately which badge belonged to Vicky.

“You must be Vicky Cow-Tits,” she said, covering her mouth with one hand to hide her laughter. She passed Vicky a badge with her new name on it.

Allen affixed it to her dress over her stomach. Vicky realised that anyone who wanted to look at her badge would be **** to run their eyes down over her leaking tits, and would be encouraged to not look at her face as they talked to her, but rather stare at her slutty outfit. They would have an excuse to look directly at her udders or pussy as they spoke.

An opportunity for just such an interaction occurred almost immediately after they left the registration desk.

“Vicky!” said a confused male voice. “Is that you?”

Vicky turned with dismay to see two people standing nearby - a handsome man with red hair, and a pretty blonde. She knew these people - she had worked with them in her last job. The man was Franklin Tarrant, and the woman was Naia Evans. They were her peers, her colleagues - and her friends.

She saw their horrified reactions as they took in the full slutty effect of her outfit, stared at her oversized leaking tits (visible through the transparent material), and let their eyes travel down to read her name badge.

“My God,” said Naia. “Vicky, what are you *wearing*?”

Vicky opened her mouth to respond - but the intense humiliation she was feeling was having an effect on her, and instead of saying whatever she had intended to say, she instead said what she *needed* to say.

“Vicky’s cunt is getting wetter,” she heard herself saying. “Vicky’s whorish pussy is drooling. Vicky is a stupid slut who needs to be fucked.”

Her face went red with humiliation. She looked at Allen in a panic, hoping he would somehow fix this - and for once, he was merciful.

“I’m sorry, friends,” he said. “Vicky isn’t very smart these days, and she needs to get to the first session of the convention. Maybe we can catch up later?”

And he turned and left, leaving Vicky, grateful for the excuse, to follow along behind him as surely as if she were leashed.

The first session of the convention was a talk on the benefits of strategic workforce planning. Allen and Vicky sat in the back row of seats in the hall. As they took their seats, Vicky heard herself say, “Vicky’s udders are so full. Vicky needs to have the milk squeezed out of them.”

“That will be enough of that,” said Allen. “I can’t have you talking during the session.” And he fished a red ball gag out of his pocket, and stuffed it in Vicky’s mouth before she could react, binding and securing the straps behind her head to keep it in place.

She tried to talk anyway, announcing again that she also needed to pee.

“It’s easier to hold your bladder if you’re aroused,” he told her. He reached over and pulled up her dress to her waist, completely revealing her pussy. Vicky looked around wildly, but no one else was sitting in the back row, and nobody could see.

Then Allen passed her an object. At first Vicky didn’t know what it was - then her eyes widened in horror and humiliation. It was a toilet brush - admittedly a small one, with relatively soft bristles, but still an item designed for scrubbing latrines.

“I’ll give you permission to play with yourself, if you use this,” he said. “That will keep you horny and stop you pissing in your seat. But no orgasms, though.”

Vicky’s first reaction was to say she had no intention of fucking herself in public with a toilet brush - but she couldn’t say anything through the ball, and then as she thought about the pressure in her bladder, and the existing wetness of her pussy, her resolve faded. She took the brush, looked around again to make sure no one was watching, and then experimentally brushed her pussy with the end.

The wiry bristles hurt a little - but they felt good too. She pushed the end against her fuckhole, and felt it sink into her in a satisfying way.

“And this should keep your udders satisfied for a while,” said Allen. He reached over and grabbed her tits through her dress, one in each hand. Then he squeezed, hard, in a pulling, milking motion.

Milk spurted from Vicky’s tits, soaking into her dress. She couldn’t help but moo into her gag, and fuck herself harder with the toilet brush. It felt so good to have her tits milked. It felt so good to have her tits *abused*.

But one squirt was all Allen gave her. A tiny reduction of the pressure in her milk-factories. She wanted to be milked more - and harder - but there was no relief coming.

As Vicky continued to fuck herself with the toilet brush, she realised that she genuinely didn’t understand what the person on stage was saying. Only months ago she would have found it fascinating - but now it was so hard to concentrate on the complex concepts being discussed. She kept vagueing out, her mind drifting to slutty fantasies and the pleasurable feelings in her pussy, and when she tried to focus again she had no idea what was being said or what it meant.

She really was too stupid now to do her job, she realised. She was more suited for making milk than being an executive. She was a cow, and cows couldn’t have management jobs. It was the destiny she had been heading toward from the moment she had been conceived.

She had to stop playing with herself twice during the talk, to avoid orgasm. When it was over, Allen had her push the toilet brush deep inside her and leave it there, with the plastic handle sticking out. He pulled down her dress and removed the ball gag.

“Vicky needs to cum,” whined Vicky immediately. “Vicky is in heat and needs to be fucked to orgasm.”

“Sssh,” said Allen. He got her to stand up, and Vicky realised with shame that the end of the toilet brush came down lower than her dress, and would be visible to anyone looking at her.

Someone asked her about it as they were leaving the lecture hall. “Ma’am,” said a man in a suit, “I think you have something…” He trailed off, not knowing what to say.

“Tell the man what it is, Vicky,” instructed Allen.

Vicky didn’t want to. Vicky was also aware of the near-infinite control that Allen had over her. If she wanted to be milked that day, if she wanted permission to piss, if she wanted to be fucked, she had to obey Allen.

She looked at the man and said, “It’s all right. I just have a toilet brush stuffed up my cunt because I’m a disgusting slut.”

The man’s horrified expression confirmed to Vicky just what a slutty animal she had become. She let the shame sink into her, and knew that she deserved it.

===

As it turned out, the very next session of the conference was Allen and Vicky’s presentation.

The lecture hall was crowded for it. Allen led Vicky down to the stage, with the front of her dress still wet with milk, and the toilet brush still stuffed up her pussy, and then he spent a few minutes at the podium fiddling with his notes and his laptop as Vicky stood awkwardly in front of the crowd of people.

Vicky felt the almost overwhelming urge to reach down and fuck herself with the toilet brush. Stimulating her pussy would let her tune out the crowd and focus on her arousal. But Allen had given her no permission to masturbate.

Finally, Allen began the presentation.

“Bovine Enhancement Agent 52-Alpha,” said Allen. “Or as we call it around the office, ‘the wonder ****’.” He clicked a button, and a slide appeared on the screen behind them, showing technical details of a ****. They were gibberish to Vicky. She was too stupid now to understand them, even if she had been able to before.

“It’s a variant of bovine somatotropin,” said Allen, “designed to stimulate milk production in female cows. Like bovine somatotropin, our tests confirm that it has no effect whatsoever on humans who consume milk from these cows. Even more importantly, it overcomes the key limitation of its predecessor. Whereas cows previously had to be kept in a state of constant breeding in order to produce industrial quantities of milk, the new **** works on animals who have never birthed a calf.”

There were some murmurs in the audience - but also some confusion, because this wasn’t an *agricultural* conference.

“But the real miracle,” continued Allen, “is the effect it has on *human women* who are given the ****.”

He pointed at Vicky. “This is Vicky Cow-Tits. That’s a name she chose herself to best reflect her identity and function. Six months ago, Vicky Cow-Tits was an executive in our company. Her co-workers almost unanimously described her as ‘difficult to work with’ and ‘a complete bitch’. She was unpleasant, she created an unpleasant work environment, she communicated poorly, and she was **** to take direction from men.”

He smiled. “Then we began administering the **** to her.”

He turned to Vicky. “Vicky, do you have anything to say?”

Vicky considered her immediate needs and chose the most pressing. “Vicky needs to piss like an animal,” she said. Her voice was loud - she realised Allen had stuck a tiny microphone to her collarbone using tape. “Vicky’s bladder is full and soon she will wet herself like a slut.”

There were gasps and laughter from the audience. Vicky blushed.

“As you can see,” said Allen. “Vicky can’t even urinate without permission. The **** drastically increases levels of obedience and suggestibility in women, making them easy to train and discipline.” He turned back to Vicky. “Vicky, go and piss in the litterbox over there. Lift your dress so everyone can see.”

She looked, and saw a large tray, about two feet square, filled with kitty litter. Blushing, she went and squatted in the tray. She hiked her dress up to her waist and spread her legs.

“That’s a toilet brush stuffed into her pussy, by the way,” said Allen. “She’s very fond of stuffing random things into her cunt these days.”

There was more laughter - and then gasps as Vicky began to piss, in front of the whole crowd.

“Vicky is pissing,” she announced. “Vicky is urinating like a naughty animal.”

Her mind was telling her that there was no coming back from this. She was urinating in front of a large segment of the business community. Everyone would know about this. She would never again have dignity or respect.

It just made her hornier. It made it harder to piss, but she persevered. She wished she could go back to fucking herself with the brush.

When she was done, she stood, and stumbled back towards Allen.

“Now, Vicky,” he said, “what else do you need?”

She knew what she needed. “Vicky needs her udders milked,” she said promptly. “Vicky needs the milk squeezed out of her fuckbags.”

“Of course,” laughed Allen. “Vicky, why don’t you take off your dress to get ready for milking?”

Vicky blushed - but there was no arguing with Allen. She pulled her dress up and over her head, before dropping it on the floor. Now she was naked in front of everyone. They could all see the thin rivulets of milk leaking from her nipples.

As she undressed, an assistant wheeled out a device. It was like a podium, with a high top - about level with Vicky’s tits - and a window above that. A person standing behind the podium would be looking out through a little window frame. And above the frame was a heavy, solid bar of metal. At the front of the podium was a shallow metal tray, with a front splash-catcher, with a drain in the bottom that led to a plastic pipe and eventually a metal tank below it. On each side of the podium was a leather wrist-cuff.

Vicky didn’t understand what it was for.

“Now,” said Allen. “Vicky’s milk production is exceptional. She’s milked seven times every twenty-four hours, and her total output actually rivals the lower end of what we might get from a traditional cow. But the real delight is just how eager she is to be milked.”

He turned back to Vicky. “Vicky, dear, would you stand behind the device? Nice and close now. Put your tits on the countertop.”

Vicky did as she was told, pressing herself up against the podium, poking her breasts through the window frame and resting them on the wooden platform. Pressing up against it in this way pushed the toilet brush slightly further into her pussy, and that felt good.

“Vicky was always a bit of a cow,” said Allen, “but under the effects of the **** her breasts have grown four whole cup sizes. None of her old clothes fit her anymore. The value of this **** to women who want a natural breast upgrade alone are incredible.”

He came over to Vicky, took each of her arms, and placed them into the wrist cuffs, securing them shut. Now Vicky couldn’t pull away from the podium, even if she wanted to.

“Vicky,” he said, “we normally milk you with a standard milking machine, but this is a rather unusual one.” He pointed at the metal bar above Vicky’s tits. “When I turn on the machine, this bar will begin to smash repeatedly into your tits, crushing them against the wood. It will roll forward slightly once they are crushed, squeezing milk from them which will be caught in the basin. Then it will raise and repeat the process.”

He looked her in the eyes. “I’m told it is excruciatingly painful,” he told her, “and it will leave bruises on your breasts - although no permanent damage.” He paused, and then said. “You do not have to be milked this way. If you say no, it won’t happen, and your next milking will be in the traditional way - but it won’t happen for another six hours. You’ll have to wait six hours to relieve the pressure in your udders.”

Vicky trembled with fear and humiliation. She looked at him for mercy.

“Do you want to have the milk smashed out of your tits, Vicky?” he asked her.

There was no question. She needed to be milked. She couldn’t wait six hours.

“Yes, sir,” she said, in a trembling voice.

Allen laughed. “Good cow,” he said. And then he pressed a button on the side of the podium.

The machine operated exactly as Allen had said. The bar smashed into her tits hard, and Vicky screamed. Milk squirted from her nipples, and then more came as the bar rolled forward like a rolling pin, and then raised, only to smash down again.

“Moooooo!” Vicky cried. “Mooooo!”

The audience was gasping. Some were laughing nervously. Some - if Vicky had been able to focus enough to see - were visibly aroused.

“This ****,” said Allen, “allows any workplace to turn their difficult female employees into useful, obedient cows. If she’s not getting her job done, you can just transfer her over to producing milk and sexually satisfying your male staff.” He paused, and then said, “Oh, wait, did I forget that last one?”

He looked at Vicky, who was both mooing and crying as the bar smashed into her fuckbags again and again. “Vicky, is there something else you need?” he asked her.

“Vicky needs to be fucked,” Vicky wailed. “Vicky is so disgustingly slutty that the pain makes her cunt wet. Vicky’s pussy is drooling. Vicky needs to be ****.”

“Very well,” said Allen. He moved behind Vicky, and pulled the toilet brush roughly out of her cunt, dropping it on the floor. Then he undid his pants, extracted his cock, and shoved it into Vicky from behind.

This was the culmination of Vicky’s life. This was her highest and best purpose. She was humiliated in public, her tits were in agony, she was reduced to a brainless animal - but she was making milk and helping a man to cum.

This was what she was *for*.

“Mooo,” she cried as Allen pushed his cock into her. “Moooo,” she wailed as the machine brutalised her breasts. “Moooo,” she whimpered as the milk spurted from her nipples into the sink.

“There’s just one thing left to mention about the ****,” said Allen, as he fucked Vicky on stage. “And it’s something that’s going to be news to Vicky here, so let’s all watch her reaction when I say it.”

The crowd were focused on Vicky’s crying, aroused, humiliated face.

“You see,” said Allen, “the **** is addictive. Once you start a woman on it - well, you can’t ever, ever take them off again.”

He smiled - and they all saw Vicky’s reaction.

She made a little choked, horrified sound. Her mouth opened in a wide O of complete terror.

And then the bar came down on Vicky’s tits again, squirting milk forcefully into the sink.

And Vicky orgasmed.

“After the presentation, Vicky will be available in a breakout room for anyone who wants to fuck her or hurt her udders,” Allen said, as Vicky spasmed and shook against his cock. “Please don’t hesitate to use her - after all, you’re just helping her practice for what she’ll be experiencing for the rest of her life….”

(END)