Edgars family farm

The next morning she made coffee and eggs, silently cursing the enforced behavior as she caught herself wiping down the little counter top with a paper towel, putting egg shells in the garbage instead of a bowl to avoid extra cleaning, and in general predicting messes and counteracting them before they happened. Proof her blackmailer was starting to get into her head, despite her being the original author of this scenario.

Edgar's family farm was always more of a regional tourist attraction than a working farm, attracting apple pickers in the fall and Christmas tree hunters in the winter, and it sold milk. Delilah couldn't think of a single thing she ate from the farm aside from apple cider samples during October semester. She looked at the message from last night one more time.

She took a sip of her coffee. Sleep last night was more of an idea, the most delicate of touches enough to shoot her back into consciousness.

Delilah started her car and pulled onto the road. The farms weren't too far away, but it wasn't a quick drive either. The Edgar Family Farm sat three miles north of campus, nestled in a valley where the foothills began their rise. Delilah drove there in her car, miraculously tuned to perfection, the check engine light extinguished, the engine purring like it had never known suffering. "Do I call you Lazarus or Prometheus," she mused aloud, "A better name might be Kenny." She gave it a bit more thought. "Maybe not. I can't afford to have you dying in spectacular fashion." Her thoughts wandered aimlessly as she went along the grey roads until houses gave way to the campus, then gave way to the trees that caged the small college town.

She wore what had been laid out for her: a sundress in pale grey, cotton, more natural fibers than she was used to. A jacket for the breeze. No underwear. No bra. Just the dress, the belt, and the choker that seemed to pulse against her throat like a second heartbeat. Speaking of pulsing, Delilah's sex was still hotter than a house fire. Her free hand would thoughtlessly slide down to the side of her belt, probing for an opening close to her slit. It made a slow ride slower as her mind was stuck between her legs and her destination, not on the road. She arrived within a decent amount of time but more hot and bothered than when she left, the vibrations of the car on the road leaving her blushing a deep shade of pink.

The barn was bigger up close than it appeared from The Pines. Red paint fresh, the silo gleaming, the parking lot empty except for a single BMW that looked suspiciously familiar. Delilah parked beside it, her hands shaking on the wheel. The Edgars could be seen out by the barn, clipboards in hand. Out beyond them in the field were cows and handlers, very normal on the surface.

Mr. Edgar met her at the entrance.

He was sixty, maybe, with the build of a man who'd spent his life hauling hay and the smile of someone who'd found his calling. His wife stood beside him, equally weathered, wearing overalls and rubber boots and an expression of professional warmth that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Delilah Crowley," Mrs. Edgar said, checking a clipboard. "Yep, here you are. Just as promised."

"Yes," Delilah managed. "I'm... I'm here for the lessons."

Mr. Edgar's smile widened. "We know exactly why you're here, miss. Don't worry. You won't be the first... special case we've handled."

The way he said "special case" made Delilah's stomach flip. They knew. Of course they knew. It felt like everyone knew, except her. The question begging to be asked was why and how. And the Edgars didn't seem eager to play their hand.

"Come along," Mrs. Edgar said, leading her toward the big barn doors. "The second session is already underway. You'll start with observation, then move to hands-on training."

The moans hit her before they even entered.

Low, rhythmic, pulsing through the wood like the barn itself was breathing. Not pained moans—Delilah knew those, had made those in her darker moments. These were different. Helpless. Broken down into something base and animal. The sounds of women who had forgotten language.

Mrs. Edgar pushed open the door.

The smell was overwhelming—hay and sweat and milk and sex, the particular musk of female arousal multiplied by a dozen, two dozen, concentrated in the humid air of the barn. The lighting was red, soft, designed to soothe. And the stalls—

Delilah stopped, frozen. "Oh my god."

The stalls weren't for animals. Not technically. They were for women.

Each one contained a hucow, naked except for their harnesses and pumps, positioned on padded benches that kept them on hands and knees. The machines were industrial, medical, tubes running from suction cups attached to swollen breasts into glass collection jars. The pumps hummed, rhythmic, mechanical, and the milk—thick, white, copious—flowed in steady streams.

But that wasn't the worst part. Wasn't the part that made Delilah's knees weak and her mouth dry.

Between their legs, each woman was impaled on a mechanical phallus—some thick, some slender, all moving with piston precision, fucking the hucows in time with the milking pumps. The women weren't just being milked. They were being maintained in a state of constant orgasmic stupor, their bodies producing not just through hormones but through constant, relentless pleasure.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Mrs. Edgar said, her voice conversational, like they were admiring prize roses. "The Smith sisters—Daphne and Velma—produced three gallons each yesterday. And that's just their first lactation cycle."

Delilah stared. The women—Daphne and Velma, presumably—were identical twins with blonde hair and vacant eyes, their mouths open in perpetual, silent moans. Their bodies were plump, soft, designed for this now, their breasts swollen to grotesque proportions, nipples elongated by constant suction. She ran back through her mental catalog of the D.C. Embers stories. Hucows weren't a feature of this one, not even as background details. But there were hucows in one of her other stories, both as a focus on one and background as another. Her eyes went wide, discounting the very unlikely possibility that the Edgars were sex traffickers, before she had to accept that there was a strong chance that it was more than the Phantom Lover by D.C. Embers was part of the new fabric of the universe. Possibly all of her stories were at play, in a capacity she did not yet comprehend. Meaning that while she was the author of reality, Delilah had no clue what book or combination thereof she was in.

"Over there," Mrs. Edgar said, pulling Delilah out of her latest spiral, pointing to a spot, "we have the Comedy batch. Came in together from a sketch improv troupe out of Chicago. Didn't pan out, career-wise, but they make excellent producers." It was hard to see in the light, but as she was saying this Mrs. Edgar rolled her eyes like she was amazed they were able to get as far as they did.

A cluster of stalls held women with names written on chalkboards above their heads: StageLeft, StageRight, Chorus, Understudy. StageLeft was red-haired, freckled, her body shuddering through what looked like her fourth orgasm of the hour. Chorus was dark-skinned, beautiful, eyes rolled back, milk spraying into her jar with such force it splattered the sides.

"They respond to the names now," Mr. Edgar explained, walking past, checking gauges. "Conditioning. The machines keep them at peak production: fifteen minutes of stimulation, five minutes of rest, and repeat for eight hours. By the end of the day, they're so pliant they'll do anything for the next orgasm. Makes them easy to manage. Easy to sell, when the time comes," he finished with particular pride, cleaning off the nameplate like men undergoing midlife crises clean their cars. Meaning the names were his idea, in Delilah's mind. Mrs. Edgar rolling her eyes at her husband's behavior basically confirmed that. It was rather odd for her, as dominants were classy, professional, sexy, clad in black in her stories, and usually serious. She didn't consider they could be rough and, in all honesty, kind of corny.

In spite of the rising dread in the pit of her stomach, Delilah was definitely wet now, the warmth spreading, but she couldn't move, couldn't look away from Understudy, a pale brunette who was currently screaming into her harness, the machine between her legs moving at double speed, milk arcing from her nipples in synchronized rhythm with her convulsions. Mrs. Edgar wasn't done with her yet; the tour had one more stop before the end. Going to a separate spot from the other groups, Delilah was pointed to a cage. She peered into the darkness to see brown eyes staring at her, hungry and angry.

The woman's mouth was gagged, her teeth had clenched the leather like a vise grip. She was tan, supermodel-tan, with hair shaved down into a single thick braid that went from the top of her head down to the back of her neck like a tail. Between her legs was a rock solid rod. Delilah felt her blood run cold and her loins heat up. The figure was six foot five, nude save for the collar around her neck and the chain holding her to the other side of the cage. "That's my bull, Violet," Mrs. Edgar said with a pride reserved for the fattest hog at the county fair, not the amazon snarling from the other side of the bar. "You wouldn't last five seconds if she got out. A young face like yours, she'd fuck you into unconsciousness." Then Mrs. Edgar did something Delilah was not expecting. Simply reaching her hand out into the cage, the snarling Violet became as docile as a mouse. She walked over, nuzzling Mrs. Edgar's open palm with affection that was honest and unrestricted. "That's my gal," she said, her other hand gently rubbing the bald spots of Violet's head, the amazon making affectionate noises. The lesson was delivered on both ends. "Now I'll be back a bit later and we'll go out for a run," she promised Violet, before Delilah was led back to another part of the main barn.

"Your stall," Mrs. Edgar said, leading her past the others, "is special. It's a reward from our mutual friend, since you behaved so well. Honestly so soft sometimes, but kindness ain't a sin." The stall at the end was larger, private, curtained with heavy plastic. Inside, there was no milking machine—not yet. Instead, a Sybian sat mounted on the floor, black and gleaming, the attachment a thick, ridged dildo that glistened with lubricant. Above it, a harness hung from the ceiling, designed to hold a body in place, to prevent escape.

"Training wheels," Mrs. Edgar said, patting the machine. "What our friend wants you for. The hucows out there—they started here. Learning to associate submission with pleasure. Dehumanization with orgasm. After a few sessions, they beg for the stalls. Beg for the pumps." She turned, her eyes sharp. "Will you beg, Delilah?"

"I... I don't know," Delilah whispered.

"You'll learn," Mrs. Edgar said, holding up a key Delilah knew right away was for her. Delilah's heart skipped more than a few beats as Mrs. Edgar lifted up the dress, then undid the lock, freeing Delilah's blooming flower. Mrs. Edgar then helped her out of the dress, the belt, leaving her naked except for the choker. The barn air was cool on her skin, raising gooseflesh. "The Sybian is... persuasive. We'll record your first session. For later review."

She positioned Delilah over the machine, the dildo pressing against her entrance, not yet inside but promising, threatening. The harness descended, straps across her chest, her hips, holding her suspended, unable to rise, unable to escape.

Mrs. Edgar stepped back, reached for the control panel, her finger hovering over the switch that would activate the Sybian.

"Welcome to our world, Delilah," she said. And turned it on.

The machine roared to life beneath her, the dildo surging upward, filling her in one smooth motion, and Delilah threw her head back and screamed—not from pain, but from the sudden, overwhelming, inescapable pleasure of being exactly where the stories said she was meant to be.

The recording light blinked red above her, capturing everything, sending it to her owner, and Delilah stopped thinking about names, about college, about freedom. She stopped thinking at all.

She just came.

And came.

And came.