Katrina's Taming

KATRINA'S TAMING (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 27 – Economic Production

The length of the night had never seemed so black: the darkness ever so long. By the way I was tethered I was forced to stand, and standing I could not sleep.

In the English summer dawn comes early. For me it could not come soon enough. As Heatherhoney and Angelin opened the top and bottom doors of my barn at the crack of daylight, they immediately saw that I had urinated and defecated down my gorgeous legs. In the particular interest of securing my faeces for the girlnure my bodily functions were contributing toward, Angelin used a bucket of cold water to wash my legs of my pee and my shit, as I still stood tethered in the straw of the barn.

I was then untethered and clomp, clomp, clomped in my tiptoe cloven clogs out into the open yard, where I was tied-up once more by a rope from my gag to a hoop in the wall of the barn. There I was hosed down more thoroughly all over with bitterly cold goose-pimpling water.

My gag having been removed, I was again surprised by having my nose held so that I opened my mouth and was made the enforced recipient of two more pills from the farm's vet.

For the joy of having my mouth free from the gag, I held my silence as my legs were foamed and shaved, and my teeth thoroughly brushed clean.

Nina appeared on the scene to check my progress, progress that was being filmed and thus necessitated, it seemed, strange stray announcements that would inform the future viewers of the DVD of the developing plot in what was to them, or at least could just as well be, a work of complete fantastical fiction, but was to me very real reality in the very real world.

"The pills will take two weeks or more to work, but she's to go in today," Nina announced to the twin angelic schoolgirls shaving the curvaceous contours of my legs.

"You know what to do, don't you?" Nina concluded.

I thought no more of this, I was so terribly tired. Then I heard an electro-mechanical buzzing noise. My gag had been refitted, and I was not only tied by a rope from my gag to a ring in the outside wall of the barn, but was also having my head held fast by Heatherhoney grasping the rope next to my gag.

The buzzing grew louder and closer, and closer and louder, and more insistent, and suddenly electrical shears were being run crudely over my head and I mooed out from my gagged mouth with all the horror I could express, which was no less than the horror I felt, as I became fully aware that my head was being shaved of all its lovely long light-brown hair: the hair I had only so recently re-grown.

I wiggled my sexy body as I tried unavailingly to fight off my head being shorn. My bottom swung and swayed and its deep-dimpled half-moons undulated, enticed, waggled, wiggled and seduced in my sexy fight. My body was all girl and anything it did was unavoidably deeply sexual: girl is deeply sexual.

I wiggled my sexy body as I tried unavailingly to fight off my head being shorn. My breasts swung swayed and silently bounced into and softly rebounded off each other in my sexy fight. My body was all girl and anything it did was unavoidably deeply sexy: girl is deeply sexy.

I wiggled my sexy body as I tried unavailingly to fight off my head being shorn. My lithe legs twisted and re-shaped from one fantastically curvy girlmuscular pose to another breathtaking orgasmically lovely pose, I was so leggy and girl in my sexy fight. My body was all girl and anything it did was unavoidably deeply girl: girl is girl.

I fought and fought in my unavoidably sexy way but finally stood with my hair cut down to short stubble, my tears dripping as my locks dropped to my shoulders and clung on my sweat sweaty breasts.

The hose was played over me again to wash off my loose hair and coincidentally the sweat I had built up in my frightened fight, and I found myself being returned to the barn, but there was something different about the barn.

There was something different about the barn, and I returned to my sexy wiggling enticing girl-sexual struggle when all the horrors of my truly terrible twenty-four hours in the girl-cage flashed in front of my eyes, as I found myself standing in my tiptoe cloven-hooves in front of a transparent plastic box.

"You will step into and fold yourself fully into the crate and you will do it now, or we will whip you" Angelin ordered in a completely emotionless monotone.

What choice had I got? I lifted a lovely right leg and stepped its exquisite shapely sexiness into the square transparent plastic box, to join it with my other very lovely leg.

I lowered myself down slowly, my arms behind where they were still in the single glove that wrapped them and laced them immovably tightly, I bent at my knees and jacknifed my body into the square-profile tube of strong plastic, horrified by the return of the memory of the girl-cage that this treatment seemed so much to parallel.

But this was different. This was to be different.

As soon as I was folded into the box, Heatherhoney and Angelin rolled in a large rubber-wheeled trolley and, assisted by Nina, lifted me in my plastic square-profiled box, onto the trolley, all three girls showing surprising strength, turning the box in which I squatted, so that what had been its bottom on the ground, became its back once sat on the trolley, and so that I now knelt on what had been its side, but was now its base: a base with a grid of holes in it.

Once I was on the trolley, the former base of the square-ended box was removed. Now the lace in my glove, the glove that held my hands and arms tied, was being cut, and the glove taken off me. My wrists were then girlacled behind me, and the girlacle's linking chain hooked to the top of the now open rear end of the box. Straw was pushed into where I knelt on the grid-holed floor of the box.

The box was locked down to the trolley and the trolley wheels locked so they could not roll the trolley and me anywhere.

I watched thereafter in a dazed gaze as an inverted bottle was wheeled over on a frame like that used in old films when the heroine needs a blood transfusion. But the tube from this bottle was fed between my kissy lips through a hole in my mouth gag.

Then the delightful Angelin took my lovely right breast and inserted something into my nipple hole before letting go the opened mouth of a clip that squeezed my nipple and held the uncomfortable little insert plugging my nipple hole. This she repeated with my left nipple, and I was presumably ready: but ready for what?

With my wrists tied and my legs folded double, forced to crouch down because of the size of the box, escape was impossible, so that you will need little imagination to feel as I felt as I heard Heatherhoney's sweet soft moist mouthed schoolgirl lispy breathy-sexy announcement to camera.

"Practices on girlfarms must move with the times. The totally uneconomic and impractical 'organic' and 'free range' eras went out with the 2010s. Profitable productivity can only be ensured by intensive farming. As you will see, the whoreox is snug warm and happy in its crate, the crate in which it will spend the rest of its productive life. It will be fed a measured all-day meal that will enable it to produce its contribution to the girlnure, as its urine and droppings fall from the back of its box. The trolley will enable us to wheel the whoreox out once per day and hose it clean. It will therefore want of and for absolutely nothing. Indeed, what more could a whoreox ask for than fresh straw, food and shelter?"

All I heard of this speech was "…the cage in which it will spend the rest of its productive life……..……..the crate in which it will spend the rest of its productive life……..…….." as my head spun and I screamed in my head heart and soul at what I now knew was to be done with me.

The tube was being forced over my gag: the tube with which I had twice before been force-fed pills from the vet, and two more pills were forced down my throat by Angelin's sweet girl-breath.

The cameras lingered on my delectable face as the absolute horror of what I was to endure registered fully with me.

My life as a whoreox on an intensive farm, cooped permanently in my battery cell had begun.

………….

Thank heaven I had more room to move within my battery cell than I had in the girl-cage, but there was no generosity behind that. The movement I was allowed was not to show any humanity, but to keep the animal I had become in a healthy and productive state.

I managed to work the straw under my tight folded legs and to keep myself moving only just enough to avoid the cramps. I was hungry and thirsty, and drew on the tube that ran to my mouth to suck in the not disagreeable goo, with which I was being fed. I had no idea what it contained, but it satisfied my hunger, and to eat was my only comfort.

Of course I tried to escape: what girl wouldn't? But my wrists being chained up to the back of crate, and the tightness of the box I was in, prevented me from straightening my gorgeous legs and without being able to straighten my legs I was helplessly and hopelessly held hard.

Tears were torrential. I was so lonely and helpless. It was not that my crate was not visited though. Four times per day now they pushed the tube into my mouth and shot two pills down my throat. But there was no conversation. I longed for the human contact that conversation confirms.

I say that there was no conversation. There was, but not with me. I was ignored. I was just an animal. The two exquisitely sexy schoolgirls, twin sisters Heatherhoney and Angelin, came into the barn in their heelless tiptoeing shoes, flashing there lovely lithe lissom legs before my longing delighted eyes, to change my food bottle or to shoot the two pills into me. And they giggled and chatted musically sweetly and so sexily prettily to each other as they tossed their down-to-their-smackable-bottoms length kinky curled hair, acutely cutely, carelessly, excitingly enticingly, whilst paying no attention to me as a fellow girl.

And after they had carried out the tasks that farming me required, they would close the top and bottom doors of the barn and leave me bitterly lonely once again. My only entertainment was watching the daylight in the cracks between the top and bottom barn door, and at the bottom of the lower door, as day turned to dusk, then dark, then dawn, then day once again.

Once per day, extremely early, I was wheeled out in my crate onto the cobbled forecourt. There they would hose me down, trim my head hair, change the straw on which I knelt, check my hooves, my girlacles, remove my gag, clean my teeth, check the plugs in my nipples, replace the tongue-imprisoning gag, and wheel me back into the barn for yet another twenty-four hours of extremely lonely hell.

Inevitably I must give way to my natural needs. As a girl in human society I would, of course, have been decorous and discrete about the functions that nobody discusses in polite company. In my crate I had become, though I did not realise it, I had become careless. I could pee or defecate at whim, and whim had replaced will. I no longer needed to retain and restrain my pee and my faeces, so I eased my beautiful body as far as I could to get my bottom out of the rear of my crate and shit unrestrainedly, or peed on the straw over the grill in the floor of my box and corresponding holes in the trolley my box was secured to. I was like an untrained animal, ashamed at the humiliation and degradation and disgusted at my smelly sweaty state.

I was, in some part, being farmed for my excretions. Accordingly, whilst one of either Heatherhoney or Angelin was hosing me out within my confining crate in the yard of a morning, I could see one of either Angelin or Heatherhoney in the barn with a pitch fork, mixing the turds of my latest droppings, into the top layer of straw, and laying down fresh straw for me to defecate onto, to produce the rich girlnure that the farm was famed for.

Those exceptionally outstanding very expensive roses in your local florist, the ones you long to buy for your girlfriend, almost certainly flourished and flowered in girlnure.

My thoughts, and I had endless time to think thoughts in my crate, went repeatedly back to my body and the shape I would be in, given endless confinement without exercise whilst they farmed me. But I did not seem to be gaining weight, so there must have been considerable science behind the food I was fed.

I say that I was not gaining weight. That is not strictly true. I was at the end of my third week of my horrible confinement. I had knelt doubled in my battery cage, being fed in the front so that my shit and piss could be farmed for girlnure at the back, for fully twenty-one or twenty-two days, when I first noticed it for sure.

I had expected to bleed during this time. A girl expects to bleed once per month, but I had not come on. I had not menstruated. I had not even felt the slightest sign of the beginning of that supremely feminine function. I knew I was due. I knew my cycle. I knew I was due to come on, even overdue my monthly bleed, but it did not happen.

I wondered if I were pregnant. Imprisoned as I was, my mind had endless hours days and even weeks on which to dwell on such considerations. In truth though, I had only been had by girls in the past few years. The only cock I had been penetrated with was Mi Li's, and Mi Li had used my mouth and not my slit in which to jerk and spurt her seed. I confess that the fantastical notion that my dog-shagging had made me pregnant flashed through my dreams, even though I had only had my bum and my mouth used by the huskies, and that had been well over a year ago.

There was something else too. I was gaining weight in two parts of my body. I had a new sensitivity and even a soreness about my breasts. My gorgeous breasts felt not only sore and sensitive but also decidedly heavier.

Within twenty-four-hours of my noticing the weight, only a little weight, but still some weight gained by my breasts, I began to have the strangest feelings within them. It came in my right breast first, but my left was not far behind. It was a feeling I had never ever felt before and for which therefore I could not account.

The feeling came on, on the eighteenth or nineteenth day. It lasted all day, and kept me awake all night. My breasts hurt. They really hurt.

It was the next morning that I found the horror of what the cause of my pain was. My whoreox coop had been rolled out of the barn so that it and I in it could be hosed out, and my contributions to the girlnure spread on the barn floor and mixed with fresh straw, when Nina had touched my right breast, and I had, because it was the noise my tongue-imprisoning gag forced me to make, mooed with the pain.

"I think we're there at last", Nina had pronounced to the camera and the curious Heatherhoney and Angelin.

At that, Nina had opened the clip holding the stud in my left nipple, removed the stud, put the palm of her pretty had below my nipple and gently squeezed the middle of my breast.

I gasped as I felt liquid squirt from me. I was horrified beyond horror. What was it? What was happening? What had they done to me? And then I realised what it must be: the only thing it could possible be. It surely it must be milk! It must be milk! I was producing milk!! It was milk! I was full of milk!! My breasts were full of milk!!! I was in lactation!!!!

The sealing plug was returned into my nipple and the clip squeezed it irremovably into place.

"Excellent!" Nina declared. "Keep giving it the pills the vet supplied. It'll be another week before we can milk it. Increase the grass content of its feed"

I mooed a cry of horror at the realisation that the pills I was having shot into me must have altered my hormonal balance to the extent that I was now effectively a post-natal girl. Even without the nine months of a pregnancy my bodily balance had been adjusted to make me lactate. This was so, so, so, so horrible!!

My fourth week crouched double in my confining coop had begun with pain in my now lactating breasts. It was the pain inevitable from the consequence of my nipples being blocked so my milk could find no way out of me.

If I had thought my breasts were painful on the first day of that week, that was as nothing to the agony they were causing me by the third and fourth day, as my breasts seemed to become stretched and enlarged by the huge pressure of milk building up behind my blocked nipples.

I was mooing with pain twenty-four-hours per completely sleepless day now, as they forced the pills down my throat but would do nothing to relieve me by letting my milk leave my hugely horrendously painfully breasts.

My breasts seemed to be swelling: it felt as if they must surely be swelling. In my mind, if not in reality, no longer was I a thirty-six-inch D-cup, I had gone through thirty-eight, forty, and was fast approaching forty-two EE-cup. My heavenly soft girl's foremost forefront protuberances were, in my tortured mind, massive hard balloons.

In fact I was just as beautifully proportioned as heaven had made me now that I was a grown-up girl. Even so, my poor bosoms were very hard, and a filigree of divine delicate blue veins showed within my distorted and stretched breasts, adding to the erotically supercharged beauty of my agony.

By the sixth day I was in so much pain that I was my breasts and my breasts were me!

I had ceased to eat on the fifth day. I merely nodded my head constantly and mooed and moaned feeling nothing but my pain, and my pain was my breasts, and my breasts were my pain, as I listened to the sweet kissable constantly moist lisping lips of Angelin explaining to the recording cameras as I was having my coop hosed through in the courtyard of the a barn that:

"The pain of the whoreox is extreme at this juncture. We share your distress at the horrible pain it suffers. However, the expression about 'being cruel to be kind' finds meet in what is happening here. For it to be a useful animal on the farm, the whoreox must be productive. In dairying, productivity means yield. The whoreox has been gradually transferred back from the meat-based diet it indulged when it hid itself among we humans. Its diet is now ninety-percent and will soon be one-hundred percent the grass that whoreoxen naturally feed upon in their wild state. But this whoreox is being provided shelter and must pay its passage. It may seem cruel to block its teats as we have. But if the whoreox is to pay its way, the ducts in its udders must be expanded so that it will produce the litreage of milk that will see it make profit for the farm. The quantity of milk the whoreox would produce without expansion of its normal productive capability and volume, would not be enough to balance the cost of its shelter and food. Accordingly, we must keep its teats blocked till we triple its productive yield so that it will pay its way on the girlfarm".

The seventh day dawned with Heatherhoney and Angelin bringing two small, bright shining, aluminium buckets into the barn, in which I had squatted tied by my wrists to keep me kneeling double within the horrendously cruel coop crate in which I had now knelt for approaching five whole weeks.

And the cameras were moving close in upon my tortured body. And Angelin's sweet soft exceptionally pretty hands were cleaning my hugely hard hugely beautiful breasts with antiseptic wipes. And then a broad leather strap was rested over my shoulders as I knelt bent double. And then the buckets were fastened to the ends of the strap and put, one apiece, under my superbly hard hellishly hurting breasts, and the buckets linked together with a chain to hold the buckets with my breasts just inside them. And then Angelin, sweet schoolgirl Angelin, put her perfect pretty fingers next my nipples. And then she squeezed and opened the clips that held the plugs in the milk-holes in my nipples, and they shot out of me: the plugs in my nipples damming my milk and damning me to agony shot out of me. And then I cried out with pain and the relief of pain in the longest inhuman gagged moo of complete and utter agony and relief from agony, as my milk poured from me into the buckets. And Angelin was joined by her identical twin Heatherhoney, and the two virgin schoolgirls with their oh-so-very-very-kissable but never-ever-kissed moist, ever moist mouths, licking their luscious lovely wet, ever wet lips, with their long lingering languorous pink pointed tongues as they concentrated on what they had to do, caressed my breasts.

And the hands of these girls, the hands of these schoolgirls, the hands of these innocents, the hands of these virgins, the hands of these unkissed untouched heavenmade angels were gripping the middle of my breasts. The gentle virgin never-ever-even-touched never-ever-even-kissed virgin schoolgirls, their sweet hands, their gentle hands were pressing my breasts and pulling my breasts down toward the buckets, the buckets I was filling with my milk. They were squeezing my breasts. They were squeezing and pulling my breasts. They were milking me. I was being milked.

I was being milked by the heavenly schoolgirls Heatherhoney and Angelin Heavenmade. I was being milked, and my milk was squirting into the buckets, as my titties were being pulled and squeezed, and squeezed and pulled, as they milked me, these schoolgirls milked me. And in my shock and pleasured excitement my pee shot from me and trickled to the cobbled floor behind my battery coop and turds of my droppings squeezed out of my anus and flopped stinkingly to the ground as I was milked and milked, and my breasts alternately squeezed and pulled and pulled and squeezed rhythmically, left and then right and then left and then right, and my milk spurted and squirted from my nipples, left and then right and then left and then right, bubbling the milk already in the buckets, as the schoolgirls milked me with both their perfectly pretty hands around the middle of one each of my tits, squeezing my tit firmly, and then pulling down on it to urge my milk to spurt from my nipple……. I was being milked. I was being farmed for my milk!

And this deepest of deep degradation and my helpless hopeless kneeling imprisonment in my confining battery-farm coop, my hands tied behind so I must live like an animal on a battery farm, was turning me wildly on. And my milk was squirted from my titties by the innocent schoolgirls pulling and squeezing my titties in turn: left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, as the schoolgirls rhythmically milked me… And I came, I gasped, and moaned, and groaned, and mooed, and screamed, and hollered, and mooed, and bit down on my unyielding gag with my joy and my come of comes, as they milked me… left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt… as these unblemished blameless schoolgirls milked me into the buckets… left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, …….and I orgasmed hugely heavenly heavily a second and a third time……. left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt…. as I was being milked by the innocent schoolgirls pulling and squeezing my beautiful breasts with both their dainty hands around the centre of one of my breasts, squeezing my tit and pulling down on it at the same time to force my milk from me…… left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt…… my milk shooting into the buckets from my nipples………

And I must live in my coop, kneeling in my coop, confined in my crate, being intensively farmed, being battery farmed for my milk. I was to remain in my battery cell eating and sleeping. I would live in my cruelly completely confining coop being hand milked twice per day. Twice per day having my breasts pulled and squeezed to squirt the girlmilk from me into buckets, so the produce of my breasts could be sold at market.

And twice per day, once in the morning before school, and again in the evening after school, Angelin and Heatherhoney would come to the farm to perform the irksome chore of milking the whoreox, to squeeze its titties for the abundant creamy milk. And twice per day I was milked: and twice per day I orgasmed as I was milked…a girl in heaven and hell: in the heaven of hell and the hell of heaven, as the tetchy impatient schoolgirls milked me, roughly, crudely, impatiently, but oh so rythmically…… left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt, left tit squirt, right tit squirt….. to squeeze my milk through my nipples into the buckets yet again, before closing the doors of the barn to leave me once more back in the dark crouched in my coop, kneeling bound in my cell, my nipples again blocked to store the milk that would build up in me, as the intact virgin schoolgirls Heatherhoney and Angelin wiggled naturally sexily, sexily naturally, away to school for the day or to their house to do their home studies………

……………

To use the term "rescue" to describe my release from the crate at the girlfarm would be to exaggerate. Understandably, dear reader, you will have found the description of the horror I was submitted to at the girlfarm, being farmed for girlnure and my milk, deeply upsetting. You may therefore consider the term "rescue" wholly appropriate to define my move from there. However, to call my transfer from the girlfarm "a rescue" assumes both that I welcomed it, and that what I went to next was freedom, when neither was in fact quite the case.

My imprisonment, there is no other word, as a human girl tied by her wrists to keep her helplessly crouched endlessly on her knees within a tiny coop in which she could barely move, so as to ensure that all her energies were concentrated upon the yield of her breasts, breasts transformed by daily hormonal dosing, now reduced to twice daily, to lactate fulsomely, was cruel, inhumane, vile even. But I was prepared to suffer it for the debts I still owed Jackie and the indescribable pleasure of being milked by the exquisitely lovely young schoolgirls: girls so adorably gentle with me, despite their clearly finding the task of milking me twice per day very bothersome.

These schoolgirls, though seventeen by the time my year in the coop came to an end, seemed so innocent that they did not seem to realise the unconfined joy I had at their touch, and that I would orgasm twice per day without fail as they squirted the milk from my nipples into the buckets they dangled my swollen breasts into.

The filming of my torture and humiliation had stopped with my first milking. Thereafter, I had simply been farmed. I crouched on the straw at the bottom of my confining coop for a whole year, sucking in the grass-based feed I was continuously provided with, with my milk building up behind my plugged-up nipples, and my pee and faeces dropping to ground on the straw strewn floor to produce, over the months, abundant girlnure.

I had resigned myself to the fact, the seeming fact, that I was now a whoreox and would be farmed as a whoreox for the remainder of my milk producing days. I cared not to think, I dared not to think, about what might happen if ever my milk production began to fall-off.

We were in the 2020s now, and the discipline of girls could be and was savage. Society had lost the very end of its tether where naughty girls were concerned. Whether they willed it or not, girls were being disciplined in all manner of ways.

The need for population control: birth control: had encouraged the encouragement of girls to practice lesbianism. Girl-girl marriage had been made legal as early as 2010. Only wealthy and influential men had wives now. All other men had to be content with the brothels, and many a pretty girl underwent training on the use of her three orifices to satisfy men in the minimum time necessary to keep the turnover of the "hen-houses", as they were known, lucrative for the owners.

And that was just for the better class brothels. In the cheaper ones, the girls spent all of their days bent over so that men could use their three orifices. Quite often their mouths and their bottoms or their cunts would be being used my two men at once, as if the girls were a production line, for indeed they were.

Because the world's oil supplies must be rationed, the famous London cabs had long since been replaced by girl-gigs. The prettier the girl the more custom she would attract of course, but to spend one's day, every day all day and late into the night, all seasons of the year, pulling a rickshaw was exceedingly hard work for these poor creatures.

And the rickshaw girls had only committed misdemeanours. For really naughty girls, girls who indulged any sexual practice before they were eighteen for example, and when married if they indulged solo sex, or sex outside marriage, the sentence was often the coalmines. Naked, sweating, exhausted, and black with coal-dust in the terrible heat, these girls swung a pick or wielded a shovel for their twelve-hour shifts, under constant threat of the overseer's whip.

Nor was the countryside any escape for naughty girls. My situation bound and confined for a whole year as a dairy whoreox for my debts was by no means exceptional. The employment of naughty girls as whoreoxen, to pull ploughs, or rotate corn grindstones, or to endlessly pedal generators, was also entirely commonplace.

Girls were damned this way, because upon girls had been heaped the supposed responsibility, indeed the entire responsibility for the world's overpopulation. To re-deploy girls in ways that would keep them from breeding, whilst making use of their other productive capabilities had been the aim of successive legislatures, and matters were getting ever tougher for the girls of the world, or at least those lacking money, power, or influence.

You can therefore imagine my fear at one morning overhearing talk of "restaurant" and "meat" in clear reference to me, or "it" as I was now referred to without exception.

Fortunately, with this, I also heard Nina say, for it was Nina's side of a conversation I was overhearing, "I know it's done, but we are strictly a dairy concern. I am vegetarian myself, and have no wish ever to taste it, though some friends who have dined on it, say it is absolutely delicious".

Nonetheless my fear festered and feasted on itself, and grew to massive magnitude in my mind as I crouched in my coop praying that my lovely breasts would continue forever to produce a satisfactory milk yield.

My fear mounted as a week later, the farm's vet, a stunning blonde girl, with the dreamiest creamiest complexion and huge natural ringlets in her sweet-scented hair, opened the door of the barn in which I was crouched in my coop, and with no concern for me whatsoever as a fellow girl, held my neck so as to paralyse me, and then pushed a tool up my nostrils to punch a hole through my septum, the division in my nose between my nostrils. It hurt dreadfully, and I bled, but she still ignored me, as she fed a stainless steel ring through my septum and proceeded to squeeze the open ends of the ring together, so as to secure it permanently through my nose.

A week later still, two lovely black haired, straight black haired, Chinese girls were being shown me as I obediently knelt in my crate.

"She's very pretty", said one of these girls, and my heart melted. Had she really called me "she" and not "it"? Had she really and truly looked at me and smiled at me as if I were a girl, albeit a girl who must behave and perform as a whoreox?

"It's very hairy too!" Nina cruelly interjected. It hasn't had its legs or armpits shaved for a year now."

"We'll take it" the Chinese girl who had called me "she", inadvertently it now seemed, concluded.

And so I was delivered, still crouched in my coop, to the restaurant in a very expensive quarter of London, owned by these gorgeous Chinese women.

After a year of kneeling, even though I had done all I could to exercise whilst confined in my crate, it was hell itself to get my legs straight once these girls had released me. It was all of a month before I could stand and walk for any length of time or distance.

During that time, I was treated with all kindness and gentleness by these restaurateurs. My hair began to re-grow more fully on my head, and I had my legs and armpits shaved. But I was not free. I was still a whoreox and I must still wear my tiptoeing cloven-hoof clogs, and the ring through my nose, though I no longer wore a gag.

I was also still being fed my hormone pills and consequently needing to be milked twice per day. But I was on trust now, and during my milking, as I bent over so that my breasts dangled over the buckets, I was under threat that if I ever showed the slightest sign of sexual arousal as a result, the girls would, however unpleasant it would be for them, whip me.

When I was not wanted for a milking, I roamed, with my hands girlackled behind my back. I roamed freely in a large warm barn (actually a former automobile garage), choosing when to eat the grass from my manger, or to lap up water.

I was also able to choose a spot for defecation and urination, rather than be forced to go wherever I was located. Even so, I was still a whoreox, and I pissed and shit as a whoreox must, on the straw of its barn; I was not suddenly back in the luxury of lavatories and running water to wash with.

I was still being farmed for the girlnure my faeces and urine mixed with straw on the floor of my barn so richly provided. My straw would be turned over daily. Once per month or two, a local market gardener took it in wheelbarrows at night. So highly prized is girlnure, she wished to make sure she moved it under cover of darkness.

Not only highly prized but highly priced, having paid what she had for it, she had no wish to risk being robbed of it. I heard, in fact, that she got it at a discount in exchange for supply to the restaurant of the superb potatoes, carrots, and parsnips she grew in soil enriched by it: a truly symbiotic relationship had sprung up there.

I knew that my milk was being served in the restaurant as milk itself, as well as being made into cheeses of the finest aroma and delicacy by the restaurateurs themselves.

And I knew that I was on trust that night, the first night that I was led-in, my hands girlackled behind my back, led-in by a chain attached to the ring through my nose, through my septum, freshly washed with soap and water for the first time in many weeks, rather than merely hosed down, and on trust not to urinate or defecate in the restaurant as I was led around among the customers, the naked animal, the whoreox I had been made and had become.

For this now was what the Chinese restaurateurs had purchased me for. By the 2020s, fresh girl-milk and aromatic girl-cheese were nothing unusual at London restaurants. After all, mass-produced girl-cheeses, girl-butter, and cartons of girl-milk, were on the shelves of every superstore.

What these enterprising Chinese restaurant owners wanted me for, was to offer their extremely wealthy and very discerning customers, milk fresh from the girl.

When a woman really wanted to impress some pretty girlfriend, I would be led to their table by my nose ring, and tethered there whilst I was milked by the waitress into a silver cup so that her customers at table could finish their meal by drinking milk straight from, and still warm from the whoreox's body: my body: my breasts.

For an extra fee, they would be allowed to suck milk directly from my breasts. I had grown used to, and secretly enjoyed, having my milk sucked directly from my breasts: my nipples being licked and sucked by girls and women who were complete strangers to me.

I had been providing these services for six-months, as well, of course, as milk to make the cheese my owners were to become world famous for. I had been providing these services for about six-months, when one night as I stood in my cloven clogs steeple-high on my beautiful legs: I was in a corner of the restaurant tethered by my nose ring, when I espied in a darkened corner something I could hardly believe.

In that darkened corner I thought I could make out, when I dared to look with my soulfully lovely dark-brown eyes, a gathering.

"We've got a surprise wedding party" I heard my mistress inform my waitress as my mistress wiggled hurriedly busily by us.

And I tried to look over and I could see, in the dull candlelight of the restaurant, I could see gathered around the one table: Mina, Nina, Mi Li, Belinda, Jackie, and Norna. I was sure it was they.

As time went by, a wave of their happy laughter drifted over: I was certain it was they.

And as time went further by, my waitress unfastened the further end of my nose-chain and began to lead me to their table. And, as I obediently wiggled over on my divine legs, a whoreox being led by its nose chain, I took in that the little schoolgirl, now a former-schoolgirl, Norna, was sitting next to Jackie and taking every opportunity to kiss Jackie adoringly, and that something gold was twinkling in the candlelight, the light from the candle on the table.

Something gold, a band, a ring, a wedding ring on Norna's left hand was catching the candle glow as Norna used that hand, newly adorned, self-consciously, being unused to the heavy band of gold around her girl-girl wedding-ring finger.

And I knew for sure from the happiness radiating from that table, that gathering, that Norna and Jackie were now girl and wife, that Jackie and Norna had married: that Norna was now Jackie's wife.

And I wiggled submissively to the table and stood obediently lovely legged, steeple legged, pirouette legged in my tiptoeing whoreox cloven-clog-hooves, held by my nose chain.

"Milk straight from the whoreox?" my waitress offered.

"Speciality of the house" my waitress smiled in gentle promotion of her wares.

Nobody responded. Jackie and Norna were lost to kisses, fully the happy newlyweds. Mina, Nina, and Mi Li were telling jokes as they quaffed wine copiously. And Belinda had one forefinger pressing in an ear, with her mobile phone held against her other ear, trying to make herself heard on her mobile phone, whilst also trying to block out the din of the laughter from Mi Li, Nina, and Mina, and the general hubbub in the restaurant.

They chatted joked and laughed among themselves without troubling to turn around, to see me on the end of the chain from the ring in my nose, obediently following where the waitress led me.

Then Norna kissed Jackie full on Jackie's gorgeous lips for perhaps the thousandth time that day.

"Milk straight from the whoreox? It's the speciality of the house. The manager says you can have our speciality for free as our humble contribution to your joyous celebration!" my waitress coaxed once again.

"You may suck the milk straight from her lovely breasts at no extra charge. It's on the house!!" my waitress smiled, with all the politeness learned by that hardworking breed.

"Thank you, but no thank you", Norna's sweet and lovely voice then answered charmingly disarmingly, without her even turning away from kissing Jackie full on her willing mouth yet once again.

And I was led away, ignored, unrecognised: unrecognised and ignored, I was led away from that table, feeling no upset whatsoever at my rejection, because I fully and absolutely accepted my subjugation and was now a tame girl.

I had no recognition in myself of my arrival at long last at tame girl status. My lack of consciousness of it confirmed it. Had I had the slightest thought about my arrival at tameness, it would have proved of course that in fact it was not true. If I could think I was tame I was not tame. A girl who could think herself to be tame could resist her quasi-tameness and become unruly once more.

I had no thought as I wiggled away: no thought that the lack of concern I felt at my rejection by my former friends was the final evidence of my having been tamed. I just wiggled divinely girlilly supremely superbly femininely away from their table, and by doing so, by my doing so, so unconcernedly, I showed that I had arrived at long last at girl-tameness.

I was now tame girl. I had been thoroughly and for all time tamed. I was tame girl. Katrina had been tamed.

THE END

Epilogue - Katrina is still a dairy whoreox being farmed for her milk and girlnure. Jackie's recovered fortunes have enabled her long-time friend to buy her.

In reflection of the near lifelong friendship between Jackie and Katrina, Katrina now roams freely in green fields and can return to a warm cosy barn whenever she pleases. Of course she still wears her cloven-clog-hooves; but she is trusted to have her lovely arms free, and not compelled to wear a gag.

Her superlative body all-over bronze-brown like an autumn leaf, from long days in the sun, Katrina strolls around her field with her lovely light-brown hair fluttering in the summer breeze. Unusually for a whoreox, Katrina also enjoys being fed an occasional sugar lump: pupils passing on their way to and from a nearby girls' school cannot resist her restful beauty.

Jackie has plans for targeted artificial insemination in due course, so that Katrina will produce a heifer. Such is her comparative freedom for now though, that Katrina has been allowed to dictate her story in her own words to Mi Li and Jackie's delightful young wife, Norna. The lovely Korean girlboy, and Norna, taped Katrina's story day-by-day in Jackie's dairy whilst Katrina was dutifully bent forward to dangle her breasts over the milk-buckets for her twice-per-day milking.

The tapes have been published world-wide to make money for Jackie, and thus defray a mite, Katrina's continuously mounting monetary debts. A faithful transcript of the tapes has been published here at Katrina's express request, as a dire warning about the perils of being a wild wilful and naughty girl.

So, all would-be naughty girls please take heed!