Push the cart to building seven immediately and feed the cowgirls as instructed, trying to be careful to avoid being cornered by Clover

Feed Storage Building, Paradise Breeding Farm, Rural Montana, at 10:54 AM on Monday April 3rd, 2024 (Day 1 of 7)

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I push the heavy cart across the courtyard toward building seven, the large red-striped cowgirl barn looming ahead. Container G-9 rattles slightly with each bump in the path, and I can smell the calcium-enriched feed—a sweet, grain-heavy scent that's actually pleasant after the overwhelming pheromone assault in the catgirl enclosure.

The barn doors are massive, designed to accommodate the cowgirls' larger frames. They slide open automatically as I approach, and I'm immediately hit with the warm, humid air inside. It smells like clean hay, milk, and something musky that makes my pulse quicken.

The interior is spacious, with fifteen stalls arranged in two rows. Each stall has a feeding trough built into the door at chest height, and I can see movement in several of them—large bodies shifting, heads turning toward me.

"New girl's here!" someone calls out, her voice deep and carrying.

A chorus of responses follows—mooing sounds, surprised gasps, excited murmurs. I wheel the cart to the first stall and unlatch the feed compartment, scooping three generous portions into the trough as instructed.

The cowgirl inside is brunette, maybe 5'10", with enormous breasts that are visibly leaking milk through her nipples. She presses against the stall door, her brown eyes wide.

"You're the owner?" she asks, her voice breathy. "You smell... different. Really different."

I move quickly to the next stall, trying to maintain the efficiency ARIA praised earlier. Scoop, scoop, scoop. The feed hits the trough with a satisfying sound.

"That's the catgirl pheromones," another voice says—this one from further down the row. "She smells like she rolled in heat-scent. Fucking hell, that's potent."

I keep moving. Third stall, fourth stall. Some of the cowgirls are reaching through the bars, trying to touch me as I pass, but I sidestep smoothly, using the cart as a barrier.

"Where's Clover?" I hear someone whisper.

"End stall. She's waiting."

My stomach tightens. I'm halfway through the feeding now, working down the left row. The cowgirls are restless, shifting in their stalls, some of them openly touching themselves. One—a blonde with massive, swollen breasts—is outright moaning, her hand between her legs.

"Please," the blonde whimpers as I pour her feed. "Please, I need... I'm so hot..."

That must be Buttercup, the one in heat. Her pupils are dilated, her skin flushed, and she's producing an incredible amount of milk—it's literally dripping from her nipples onto the stall floor.

I move on, forcing myself to stay focused. Tenth stall. Eleventh. Twelfth.

And then I reach the end of the row, and there she is.

Clover.

She's enormous—easily 6'2", with a body that's simultaneously soft and powerful. Her breasts are absolutely massive, each one larger than my head, with dark nipples that are semi-erect. Her hair is chestnut brown, falling in waves past her shoulders, and her eyes are a warm amber color that's currently locked onto me with predatory focus.

And between her thick thighs, rising from a nest of dark curls, is her cock.

It's semi-erect, already at least nine inches, and thick—so thick I can't imagine how it would fit inside anyone. As I stare, it twitches and swells another inch, responding to my presence.

"There you are," Clover says, her voice a low purr. "The new owner. The one who smells like she's already been claimed by catgirls and is dripping wet under those clothes."

I fumble with the feed scoop, trying to pour her portion quickly.

"Look at me," Clover commands.

And just like with Raven, I feel that pull—that irresistible compulsion to obey. My eyes lift from the feed container to meet hers.

"Good girl," she breathes. "Now come here. Just for a moment. I want to smell you properly."

She reaches through the bars, her large hand extended.

Every instinct screams at me to step back, to follow ARIA's instructions, to avoid being cornered.

But my body is already moving forward.