Page 61 of Daddy Erik
“You’ll be both our Prized Milk-Cow and our Prized Breeding Cow,” she says. “And the highest bidder will pay a fortune for you at our next auction. It’s a tremendous honor.”
My throat closes in raw terror. “No, no, please… please don’t…” I beg, voice cracking.
She only lifts the nighttime bottle. “Shhh. You need rest.”
I try to turn my head away, but a burly hand steadies me gently. The bottle touches my lips.
“Please…” I whisper.
“It’s okay, little cow,” she assures me softly. “Everything is unfolding exactly as it should.”
The thick sweetness coats my tongue. The sedative creates the haze I’ve come to recognize. The world darkens. My limbs grow heavy. My heart pounds desperately.
And as the blackness folds over me, one last silent scream tears through my mind:
ERIK! PLEASE FIND ME!!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Claire
I wake to the sounds I’ve become accustomed to, the pump humming as it works diligently at milking me. Somewhere in there I must sleep, because every time my eyes open, something feels different.
The first difference today is my clothes. I feel too foggy and sore, swallowed by the ache in my chest from constant suction. On what I assume is the second morning of week two, the seafoam-scrubbed nurse with the rope-braid hair and quiet eyes walks in, rolling a cart.
“Good morning, little cow,” she says cheerfully. “Time to change.”
She unclips the pump harness, and I feel the weight of my breasts immediately, heavy and sore, the skin feeling flushed and warm. The relief is so sharp I almost moan, but the air hits my skin and every nerve screams instead.
She helps me sit up slowly, propping me against raised pillows. For the first time since I got here, I see the entire front of my shirt.
It’s a pale, worn tank top I don’t recognize.
And it’s too small… again
The fabric stretches tight over curves that weren’t there before, clinging to every new swell. My shorts, also not mine, dig a little more into my softened hips and thighs, seams leaving slight marks in my skin.
“These aren’t my clothes,” I rasp.
“Your old ones no longer fit,” she says calmly. “This is standard facility wear. Easier to monitor your body this way.”
Easier to monitor, but not easier for me.
She unfastens the waistband, checks my diaper, and replaces it with practiced hands while I stare straight ahead at the ceiling.
“Good,” she murmurs. “No irritation. You’re tolerating the regimen beautifully.”
Her words strike me with a sudden shock. “Regimen?” I ask.
“The medication schedule, the nutrition plan, the pumping intervals. All of it. We’re seeing an exceptional response from you, little cow.”
Exceptional response… God, I want to get sick. She shimmies the new shorts up my legs, tugging them over my hips. They’re a little snug, too, but feel better than the ones that were just removed. Everything feels like it’s closing in.
“Why am I… feeling bigger?” My voice shakes. “I wasn’t like this before.”
She smiles, almost pleased. “Because your body is adapting. The diet and hormones are doing their work. You were undernourished before arrival. Now you’re approaching optimal condition.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” I whisper, my throat thick.
