Mature Woman → My Prized Cow-Woman / Exit: Paul the Dairy-Farmer

I give up. It's official. I finally admit it; I finally acknowledge it. My mother's been reduced to a human dairy cow on a farm somewhere, if she's even more mother at all anymore. But hey, at least she's a prize-winning cow right? I can't think of any way to fix this anymore, so... at the very least, I'll stake my claim before I let things go. I can't make her turn back, and I don't think I deserve to call myself her son anymore, but I'll at least take responsibility for her.

Thus, 'Mature Woman' is replaced with 'My Prized Cow-Woman' and--

--the camera hiccups and--

--something, somewhere inside me twitches and--

--the camera resolves once more.

The cow-woman who was once my mother - Penny - is still in her stall, moo'ing at the camera as if she expects me to talk back through it. I don't see her tail anymore - it's probably flat between her legs - and instead there's large jar where it used to be. It should probably be bigger, honestly, if it's meant for milking.

I'd shake my head, but I'm still in the prompt. Anyway, my Penny's right eartag is gone, and the left seems to have turned into another bell. She does have a little stud in her right human ear, though. Probably a tracker for if she gets out when we take her to pasture.

Alright. I think we're just about set now. I don't particularly feel like doing Penny's hair, but I still could, I suppose...

(my prized cow-woman, dumb horny cow, huge milky udders, long purple hair, tidy ponytail, lactating, cow bikini, "Most Fertile" prize-cowbell, cow tail, kneeling in a milking stall)

Exit: Paul the Dairy Farmer

No. I'm... I'm done with this. I Exit. A confusing mix of expertise and awareness starts filtering through my mind as I examine and inspect my prize- er. My woman. No, my mother? The... woman who was my mother, anyway. I can feel my grasp of memory of her previous self fading. I suppose this is what I get for directly including myself in the prompt?

It feels strange - surreal, even - to own a woman like this. Like, sure, I inherited the farm from dad but I thought we were the more modern type with, y'know, actual cows. Turns out we've just got the one cow, and she's a more classic 'human' variety: Which is to say, a woman bred to take it up as a profession.

You don't see many of those these days: It's kind of a niche thing. There's a lot of debate online about the ethics and morality of it - which makes owning such a good woman less profitable than one might expect - but she's happy the way she is so... Honestly, they can bite it. I'm not going to let my father's business die just to appease remote crusaders who think they know what Penny wants better than Penny does.

Anyway, it turns out Penny's quite the high stock woman: Her milk's good and she hasn't failed to yield a child from any bull-man I've introduced to her yet, and I've even managed to give her a few myself on, er, on the side. So she's officially been labeled - and marketed - as the "Most Fertile" cow-woman on the market.

Hopefully her kids're take well after her. Honestly, it'd probably be better for them. If the ones I gave her take after me then... Well, as much as people cry about it being demeaning for a woman to grow up like Penny has, they don't give us much choice with the way they treat her particular subspecies when they're out and about in public. I don't want that for my kids any more than I want it for their mother.

Nope, they can just stay right where they are: Safe away from the scrutiny. Maybe in a better world, they'll be free to go out and try living like a "normal" human. Maybe those activists will make enough headway that my grandchildren will get to, but until then I'll do what I can.

Call me what you want: I love this farm, I love my kids, I love my woman, and I'll do what I can to make them happy.