Milk her for all she's worth

"I'm not here to pay the rent, Bossy" I informed her. "I'm here because it's time for your milking!"

"My milking?" she exclaimed, wide-eyed. "But you...you can't..."

I could see she was struggling with the idea, but the docility I had programed into her very DNA made it a useless struggle. At the very idea, twin spots of wetness appeared on her ruined blouse.

"Inside now, Bossy!" I said, patting her on the cheek. "That's a good cow!"

"Moo..." she said helplessly and retreated into her home before me.

I directed her towards the kitchen and found a big ceramic bowl. I set it on the floor in front of a footstool, then proceeded to remove the tattered remains of my now-bovine landlady's blouse and bra. She tried to protest, but I patted her gently and she mooed and resigned herself to her fate.

"On your knees, cow," I said. "That's a good girl."

She knelt in front of the bowl. I sat on the footstool and took hold of her prominent, protruding nipples. I began squeezing and creamy, sweet-smelling milk went streaming into the bowl. After a few squeezes, I got into a rhythm and Mrs. MacArthur relaxed and mooed contentedly, leaning against my chest and nuzzling me appreciatively with her bovine muzzle.

The bowl was about half full, and the flow of milk slowing, when there was a knock at Mrs. MacArthur's door.