MADELINE, WIFE, 30's

Madeline had checked the oven three times while getting ready for her husband and his friends to come back from their boys’ trip. She couldn’t help herself. She checked the mirror, promising herself it was the last time, but damn it, she knew she would check again out of pure fear that a single splotch of makeup would be out of place.

There was a knock on the door. “Who is it?” She ran over and opened it.

It was Ricky, the nearby neighbor boy, dressed in blue jeans, a tank top, and a baseball cap. “Hi, Mrs. Darelli!”

“Hi, sweetie. I’m a little busy right now, but I promise I’ll buy some of your popcorn or whatever another day.”

“Oh no, Miss. I stopped being a Boy Scout when I graduated. I’m an Eagle Scout now and heading off to college, but you asked me if I could come by and cut the grass for you since your husband is coming home.”

“Right, sorry. I’ve been a little scatterbrained. Do you mind going ahead and cutting, and I can pay you afterward?”

“Yeah, no problem.” He stopped on his way out, turned, and said, “You look very pretty, by the way.”

“Oh, well, thank you.” She wasn’t used to hearing that. It wasn’t that she wasn’t pretty; she just never dressed for compliments.

It wasn’t that she was a girly girl. In fact, that was exactly the problem. Madeline had been raised by her father after her mother passed away, and he had no interest in teaching her anything less than he would teach any of his children: how to take care of themselves, how to change a tire, how to never ask for help. These traits, the good as well as the bad ones, had passed on to her. Even though she had developed her own feminine personality from her friends in high school and college, where she had met Josh, they had talked numerous times about how he never made her feel needed.

So this past weekend, while he was away on his boys’ trip playing in a recreational basketball tournament, she tied a small pink apron around her snatched waist, did her dirty-blonde hair up into some pretty braids, and set up a beautiful table. When the boys returned, they would be met with a delicious meal to welcome them home and a loving wife to show Josh that she could be more than just “the person you want in the room when you see a cockroach.”

The small mirror in the kitchen wasn’t enough, so she ran toward the bedroom and checked the full-body mirror. As pretty as the style looked, the braids had taken quite some effort and her head was starting to hurt like crazy. Before reaching for the medicine cabinet, she admired her well-toned body. Slender legs, a nice thin waist, and small breasts. Not tall enough to be a supermodel, and not curated enough to be of any note as an Instagram influencer. She was in good shape because of cross-country, but aside from her pretty face and successful job as a saleswoman, she wasn’t sure why Josh was so attracted to her. The headache came back worse than before.

Thirty minutes until the boys got home, and she wasn’t going to let this pain ruin her day. She went to her medicine cabinet and opened it. She sifted through the allergy medicine, some old pill bottles forgotten from former doctor visits, but no Advil. “Now where the heck did he leave it?”

She went to their bedroom where their unmade bed sat waiting for them. She made it quickly so as to truly fulfill that housewife role, then looked through his cabinet. Upon opening it, she came face-to-face with a pill bottle she had never seen before. It was pink with a white cap, and writing on the front that said “Designed to make brains go bye-bye-bye.” The company was called “DREAM.” Well, they certainly looked like a parody of anything she would ever want to try, but she did want her brain to go away right now, so she opened the strange bottle and popped one of the pills.

They were surprisingly yummy. In fact, they tasted sweet and then a little bit sour, like Sour Patch Kids. She laughed to herself. Of course, she figured, these must be some sort of joke pill—but at least they tasted good, so she popped back another handful and went to check on her oven.

She opened it and took out the beautiful cake. It was a perfectly golden-brown pound cake. She had the icing waiting in the fridge, so she set the cake on top of her island, admired her work, and thanked God for YouTube and the numerous baking tutorials that had led to her looking like a professional on her first try. She stuck in a butter knife and it came out clean; it was truly done. She clapped her hands together. Grabbing the bottom of the tray, she flipped the pound cake over onto a plate so it could relax in its intended state, then put the hot pan back in the oven. About twenty more minutes until the boys got home, so she had a perfect amount of time to get the icing done.

She looked out at the backyard where her lawn boy was hard at work, mowing the grass, taking care of business. For half a second she imagined herself out there, walking on that grass, feeling it with her hand. Maybe picking up a blade and putting it in her mouth, chewing on it. She did love her salads, and grass is kind of like a salad—just seasoning.

After breaking herself out of her stupor, she went to her fridge to open it and grab the icing, but she ran into a bit of a problem. She placed her hand against the fridge. She could see through the window that the icing was sitting there, but as her hand kept pulling at the fridge handle, she couldn’t quite remember how to open it. In one of her movements the handle got caught on her hand and opened for a second, then closed again. She started tapping the glass, hoping that it would open. Not seeing any other way around it, she pushed her face toward the glass, tongue colliding with the freshly cleaned surface, trying to see if she could taste some of it anyway. No luck.

Madeline stood back up, hands on her hips. “What the moo is going on here?”

She didn’t remember buying a new fridge. She was pretty sure she had put this icing in the day before, and yet someone had put in some advanced system so that she couldn’t open her own refrigerator overnight. What a ridiculous prank that would be. Maybe it was Tommy. He was pretty smart after all. She looked out at him again on the grass. He wasn’t as grown as her husband, but he was still a man, and any man is smarter than a cow like her—woman like her. She corrected herself.

She didn’t even notice that her hand had started playing with her breast. She hadn’t even noticed that she now had breasts. Normally she could not grab a handful of her own flesh, and yet here they were. And they felt good to be massaged and played with. She allowed herself the luxury of tweaking her nipples, squeezing her own soft breasts gently as she looked out her window at the handsome boy and that beautiful, tasty grass. She was hungry.

She turned and made direct eye contact with her pound cake. It seemed to be tempting her, calling her forward as if daring her not to take a bite. She had spent so long on the dough, obsessing over every perfect detail so that it would sit beautifully when her husband and his friends came home, and yet now that seemed like an unimportant detail. After all, the icing was stuck behind the mystery of the refrigerator, so if it was missing the icing, would it really be that much of a leap to dismiss the entire pound cake in general? There were still chips and prosciutto and other wonderful things on the table for her husband to eat, so if there was no pound cake, it probably wouldn’t be that big of a deal. She moved closer to it, her knees wobbling.

Why was it getting so hard to walk? Well, duh—cows don’t walk, she figured. She smiled and giggled to herself, proud of figuring that out. But then again, she wasn’t a cow, right? She was a woman. A human woman. Or at least she was last time she checked, but to be fair she hadn’t questioned it in a while, so maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she could ask a man. A man would know. Men always know better than stupid cows and stupid women.

On her wobbly legs, she placed her hands on the table and reached for the pound cake. She brought it closer to her. It smelled of vanilla and caramelized sugar. A fork never came to mind as she let her face drop onto the pound cake, resting on it like a pillow. She enjoyed the smell.

Just one lick, she figured. She licked it. One long lick with her long tongue. She figured no one would notice a long lick, or even a little nibble. So she nibbled a little bit at the end, her ass in her dress sticking out as she left herself bent completely over the island. Before she knew it, she took a whole bite and munched on the cake loudly as crumbs fell carelessly down onto the table. She stood so she could breathe better, and stood for a minute like an idiot with her cheeks full of cake as crumbs fell to the ground.

She didn’t even notice that the more she seemed to eat of that wonderful cake, the more her small tits seemed to grow.

They were swelling under her dress now, heavy and warm, filling the cups of her bra until the fabric bit into the soft undersides. “Ouchie,” she exclaimed. Madeline’s fingers kept roaming without permission, cupping and lifting, testing the new weight. Every squeeze sent a dull, pleasant ache through her chest, and she found herself rocking slightly on her heels, pressing her thighs together. The dress, such a pretty little thing earlier, now felt tight across the front, the seams straining with each slow breath. She watched the fabric stretch, the outline of her nipples dark and insistent against the thin material, and a soft, confused sound escaped her throat. She didn’t look like a housewife, she looked like a slut.

BThey were getting bigger. The thought arrived slow and thick, like honey. She should have been alarmed. Instead she just kept kneading them, thumbs circling the stiff peaks, marveling at how much more of herself there was to hold. “Bouncy, bouncy,” she giggled. The pressure against her ribs made her feel full, almost swollen with something sweet and heavy. Her bra straps dug in; she hooked a finger under one and tugged, but it only snapped back tighter. The dress creaked faintly when she shifted. A tiny sound of protest from the stitches.

Suddenly, her knees gave another wobble. The floor seemed farther away than it should. She took a step back, still clutching both breasts, and the wall met her shoulder blades with a soft thud. She slid down until she was sitting, back pressed to the cool plaster, legs folded under her like they didn’t quite belong to her anymore. Both hands stayed locked on her heavy tits, squeezing, lifting, feeling them overflow her palms. They kept growing, she could feel it happening, the slow, relentless stretch of skin and tissue, the way the weight settled lower and heavier with every heartbeat. Her dress rode up her thighs. The neckline strained so hard the top buttons threatened to give. And it felt so good. She was sure that at one point she had small breast, and now she had these boobs, melons, udders. Big fat udders. Her stress returned, she wondered where she was and why she was on the ground, but those thoughts lasted only until she saw-

Crumbs. Little golden flakes on floor around her. Her stomach growled. The cake on the island called, but the crumbs were closer. She leaned forward letting the heavy weight of her tits falll forward with gravity and she let herself dumbly crawl on all fours, and she ate the crumbs up off the floor.

Each swallow seemed to push more volume into her breasts. They ballooned outward, heavy and round, the soft flesh spilling over the top of her bra and pressing hard against the front of the dress. The fabric stretched shiny and thin. One button popped. Then another. The neckline gave way with a soft series of snaps, and suddenly cool air kissed the tops of her tits as they spilled free, large and flushed and gleaming with a light sheen of sweat. The bra cups were useless now, shoved down beneath the heavy undersides, straps cutting into her shoulders.

Madeline barely noticed. She was too busy licking the last of the crumbs. She had such nice udders. She touched them, their nakedness, and saw a drop of milk forming on her nipple. Of course, a cow like her would make milk. Was she a cow? She couldn’t remember being anything else.

What do cows like? She thought to herself, and smiled as she ran to the door. Grass. Of course.

She sat back on her heels beside the glass door, the big sliding panel that looked out onto the yard. Outside, Ricky pushed the mower in steady rows, the grass falling in neat green lines. The sun made the blades shine. She stared, mouth slightly open, and imagined herself out there on all fours in that soft grass, the cool earth against her bare skin, the sweet green taste of a single blade between her teeth. Her tits hung heavy and bare against her ribs, the skin shiny with sweat, nipples tight and dark. Fully naked.

Ricky glanced toward the house. He stopped the mower. Then he wiped his hands on his jeans and started walking toward the glass door.

At the door was Mrs.Darelli, but it wasn’t the strong woman he had come to know, who had taken him to practices growing up and kicked his little league coach in the nuts when he had refused to play him.

No, the woman who crawled out on all fours with the huge tits, leaving drops of milk on the grass, and her dress bunched around her waist was not her though she looked just like her.

“Moooo!” She yelled out as she started chewing up grass with her mouth wide open.

Finally, Ricky’s brain came back to him. “Mrs.Darelli are you okay?” He kneeled down beside her.”

“No,” she looked at him with desperate empty eyes, “my udders feel so sore, please massage them for moooo.”

He didn’t know what else to do, so he reached his hands forward and grabbed onto the so-called udders which were big enough now that they almost dragged along the ground, and he squeezed them gently and even that small touch was enough to illicit a passionate moan, causing her to push her hind legs back, ass in the air, and squirt more milk onto the grass.

“Please… keep… going,” she said between ragged breaths. It felt wrong to use her when she seemed to be in such a sensitive state, but she looked desperate but he was a good kid but there was a hot lady with big tits begging to be touched.

He could have ripped his hair out, but he stood up and said, “I’m going to get you some help, Mrs. Darelli!” He started to run, but she yelled out a loud moo.

“Please, Master Ricky. I need this. Please. Moooo milk me, and I’ll do anything. I’m all yours.”

He was determined to keep going. To stay true to who he was, so he replied, “I’ll be back soon with help.

“I’ll suck your dick!”

He turned back to her, and took his pants off and sat his bare ass in the grass as his older neighbour crawled over to him and fellated him. Her mind felt so empty and sweet as if all she could think of was cotton candy, sex, and having her big udders milked. She pawed at his hands.

“Oh yeah,” he said, and he started milking her big nipples on her massive udders until there was a puddle underneath her, and her knees were weak from the pleasure. The sensation only made her head better as she drooled onto her masters cock.

Such a good cow, she thought as she let her mind melt completely.

* * *

“I’m telling you man, you’re complete ass.”

“Hey! Come on now.”

The boys trip had been exactly what he needed, but he was happy to come home to his wife though he was confused why she wanted him to bring his friends in too.

“I can’t stay too long, I got my girl waiting at home.”

“Yeah yeah, that’s fine. He opened the door to his house and it smelled wonderful and was cleaner than he had seen it in quite some time. To say he was impressed would be an understatement. Madeline had really outdone herself. It got better as he proceeded into the kitchen to find a selection of food. The only weird thing was the cake on the counter. Everything was perfect, but this one looked as if a dog had got into it with strange bites.

“I’m guessing we can just help ourselves?”

“What? Oh, yeah, go ahead.” he said to his friends at the charcuterie, though he was still a bit confused. Where was Madeline?

Then there was a moan. He looked around. “Did you guys hear that?” They nodded, and the moan sounded again, louder this time. It was coming from the backyard. He opened the door slowly and saw in the middle of the grass that Rickym their neighbour had his wife grabbed by the hips and was impaling his cock into her pussy. Though her hips were way widder, her ass was bigger, and those tits of hers could not belong to his wife as they were almost the size of basketballs as they swung around wildly.

“Who’s a dumb cow,” Ricky said, apparently not noticing them as he swatted her ass.

“MOOOOO!” She replied orgasmically throwing her fat ass cheeks back into his hips.

“Wow,” one of his friends said, “You’re wife sure knows how to welcome you home, huh buddy?”

Endtag:

Story 2, about a Principal who is getting ready to discipline her toughest student when she realizes she took some of the wrong medicine is already on Patreon! https://www.patreon.com/c/IvysFantasies