Return to Feed Storage, load container G-9 for the cowgirls, and continue with the systematic feeding routine as ARIA instructed

Outside Catgirl Enclosure, Building Three, Paradise Breeding Farm, Rural Montana, at 10:43 AM on Monday April 3rd, 2024 (Day 1 of 7)

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I guide the cart back toward Feed Storage, my legs still shaky from the encounter with Raven. The morning air feels cool against my flushed skin, but it does nothing to ease the wet heat between my thighs or the cloying scent of catgirl pheromones clinging to my clothes.

The automated cart follows me smoothly as I retrace my path across the courtyard. My mind keeps replaying Raven's words—the promise I made, the way her cock looked fully erect, the absolute certainty in her voice when she told me I'd beg for it tonight. My pussy clenches just thinking about it.

Focus. I have a job to do.

The Feed Storage door slides open and I step inside, wheeling the cart to the proper bay. Container C-7 detaches with a magnetic click and I carefully return it to its designated slot. The labels are clear and organized—whoever set up this system knew what they were doing.

I locate container G-9: "COWGIRL FEED - CALCIUM ENRICHED BLEND." It's significantly larger than the catgirl container, which makes sense given cowgirls' size and milk production needs. I have to use both hands to heave it onto the cart, my arms straining slightly with the weight.

ARIA's screen materializes as the container locks into place.

"Eleven minutes for the return trip and reload," she announces. "Acceptable. The cowgirl barn is building seven—the one with the red stripe you can see from here. Fifteen residents total. Five are futas, and three of those have been waiting forty-eight hours for satisfaction. One cowgirl—Buttercup—is currently in heat."

My stomach flips. Another girl in heat.

"The cowgirls are generally more docile than the catgirls," ARIA continues, her tone taking on that commanding edge that makes my knees weak. "But don't mistake docile for harmless. The futas are large, strong, and when they're pent up, they get pushy. The alpha is a futa named Clover—massive tits, massive cock, and she's been fantasizing about the new owner since she heard you were coming."

I swallow hard, my mouth dry.

"Here are your instructions," ARIA says, and I find myself leaning forward slightly, eager for her direction. "Enter through the main barn doors this time—the feeding stations are integrated into their stalls. Three scoops per cowgirl. Do not linger. Do not make physical contact unless absolutely necessary. And for fuck's sake, do not let any of them corner you against a stall door. Clover will try. Resist."

"Yes, I understand," I breathe.

"Good," ARIA purrs, and that simple approval sends warmth pooling in my lower belly. "Now move. You're burning daylight and you've still got six more species to feed before noon."

The screen winks out. I push the cart forward, heading toward building seven with its distinctive red stripe, trying not to think about what "massive cock" means when applied to a cowgirl futa.