Erotic short. An elf is chained about a minotaur’s neck and used as a sleeve.
Rated E, 1.5k, cis M/trans M. Continuation of Little Cow. Cumflation, breeding and impregnation, lactation, denial and overstim in turns, objectification.
When he’s first fully processed in the facility, they drop Daylon right into the bullpen where all the minotaurs are — they’re all warriors, born and bred, and the tavern at the facility is a members’ club, one that any of the members have to earn by either winning enough bouts in the arena or earning enough medals and crests completing quests for the crown.
There are a few different taverns attached to the facility, and the one they call the bullpen is all minotaurs — they’re the most fecund of any of the beast-men studs that come into the milking facility, and it’s standard to have a new cow bred by minotaurs before any of the other half-men do: a minotaur calf encourages a bred cow’s body to produce a much richer, creamier, more nutritious milk than any other warrior’s young will, and the modification done to them carries on even as they’re impregnated by further warriors — by orcs, by centaurs, by wolf men, cat men, and all the rest.
“Oh, this one’s a pretty one!” the first bull to fuck him says when he’s dropped into the tavern, and Daylon is hot and horny the whole of the time, is eager and desperate and needy, craves the sink of cock into his fucked-open arse, into his tight, hungry cunt, into his mouth —
And that’s precisely what he gets.
He’s left keening and writhing in their arms as he’s cleaved open and fucked and filled in every hole he has, made to bulge with cock and come, and then their tongues and fingers, and then more cock, more come —
He’d heard rumours of the part that came after. People had talked about it, about being strapped to one of the bulls to ensure that the pregnancy took, that enough seed was buried in him and a cock against his cervix, plugging the come within him, that his ovaries would be churning as his next egg was fertilised.
Chains link his wrists to one another before he’s lowered over the minotaur’s head, his hands up above him with the link behind the minotaur’s neck, and his thighs are chained up and out of the way. The bull man’s cock is deep within his cunt, a plug in his arse, and they’d pulled out another cock-shaped gag to keep him quiet. It’s long and thick and heavy on his tongue, pushed into his throat, and it’s hollow so they can feed him, so they can pour water right into his stomach.
Daylon had known about this, had known that he’d be made to bulge with come, known that after being fucked more of the tingling gel would be rubbed into his aching, throbbing tits, encouraging them to grow, encouraging them to churn out some milk.
Days, they’d said, the elves in the milking facility would be riding a bull like this, strapped to his breast, fresh come pumped into them on top of what’s already inside their wombs, a thick cock spearing them wide and plugging them shut.
They hadn’t said the minotaurs were allowed to leave.
His name is Privet, and he’s laughing with the other bull men as he straps a fabric kilt around his waist and drains his tankard after one of the attendants has hung Daylon off of him and strapped him in place, and then they leave.
Daylon is wide-eyed and humiliated as they walk from the facility into town, people are looking at him, laughing at the fact that Privet is walking around with a fresh elf strapped to his breast, warming his cock.
“Isn’t he a full one?” comments the smith as they move in, patting the side of Daylon’s belly and making him groan around the cock gag filling his throat, making him fidget and shift. “Hetty’s waiting for you next door.”
Hetty turns out to be a wizened old naga, her hair straw-like in texture and very grey, her eyes milky white and blind with age. Her hands don’t even falter, though, as she places two fat, fist-sized worms that wetly writhe and shift in her palms against Daylon’s breast, one against each of his tits.
They’re bigger than they were already, the flesh beginning slowly to fatten with the effect of the potions he’s been given and the amount of come churning inside him, the minotaurs’ magic working to make him all the more fertile, all the better as a cow to serve them.
The two grub-like things are mostly made up of their greedily suckling mouths, and as soon as they clamp down around each of his swollen nipples, he screams around the gag, and the pleasure and sharp, pricking pain are both so intense that he comes again, fidgeting where he’s impaled on the length of cock inside him, making his heavy, aching belly slosh and gurgle audibly.
Before his very eyes, the grubs are sucking his tits to greater fullness, heat radiating out from their mouths, and he can feel it. He can feel the churn inside him, feel the pins-and-needles ache as the flesh expands under their bite, with the potions working on him, and he can feel the shift in weight as what were tiny little buds begin to expand outwards into being real tits, real tits that swing, real tits that weigh on his shoulders, real tits that throb and feel so painfully, achingly full.
And then, after the old snake woman tugs each grub off of his tits with two wet popping sounds, they don’t even fucking milk him.
His tits hurt from being so full, and he can see the tiniest bit of milk showing on one of his nipples as Privet goes about his business, walks across the road, takes water from the fountain, carries the bucket home, and then attends his fucking farm. He hoes, he waters, he shears and trims his plants, and the whole of the time, Daylon is strapped to his belly.
Every time Privet leans forward, every time he swings a tool or reaches up onto a shelf, every time he moves, even, he can feel the shift of Privet’s ridiculous cock inside him, feel his stuffed belly ache with all that’s inside him, feels his newly swinging tits ache all the more at the motion.
His poor nipples are bright pink and puffy, begging for attention, begging to be suckled on, played with, pulled on, and Privet does not do so — doesn’t do so even as he sleeps with Daylon in his arms, unable to sleep himself because he’s so desperate to be pleasured, desperate to be touched.
Early in the morning, Privet rolls over and Daylon tries desperately to press and rub his aching tits against the bed beneath him, tries to get some sort of pressure on his swollen chest to work out the tension brimming beneath the skin, and he can’t quite reach it.
He’s not returned to the facility until the evening.
* * *
He’s trembling as the attendant straps him down to the milking bench as he’d been strapped in before, because his tits hurt so much he can’t think of anything else, can’t feel anything else. The cock is still stuffed down his throat, twin plugs filling his arse and his cunt, and he can’t count how many times he must have come in the past forty-eight hours — his cunt had been aching, but he can’t even feel that anymore.
It hurts.
It hurts, it aches, and he’s so dizzy with it, the whole of the world focused on the twin points of his swollen tits, and when the attendant presses the cups against his nipples this time, lubricated around their edges with a little cooling cream, he feels unspeakable, spinetingling terror.
Is it going to kill him, the pain? Is it going to split right through him, kill him dead, is the ache going to expand so much as to fill his consciousness to bursting, and leave his brain bleeding out of his ears?
And then the milking starts, and all he feels is relief.
Daylon’s vision goes utterly white as the two cups suddenly begin to suck him on each side, the suction squeezing and pulling on each of his sore nipples, and he feels impossibly light in the moment, the milk letting down from his tortured breasts and frothing white and bubbly down the tubing and into the waiting jugs.
He moans in relief, the sound soft and muffled by the gag in his throat, and it feels so delectably good, feels so perfect, feels like… everything.
“Told you,” says the attendant in his ear before laughing quietly. “Stupid sluts like you are addicted to this even before it happens to them.”
Daylon groans, suddenly exhausted, and he wonders if he could sleep like this, feeling the strangely soothing pull and tug on each of his tits, the pleasant slide and stroke of the attendant’s palm over his naked shoulders, which ache from his arms being above his head for the past two days.
“Good boy,” says the attendant, and Daylon sighs in faint ecstasy, melting further into the leather beneath him.
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