The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Holly picked me up at the airport.

Bless her, she tried to hide her horror at what had happened to me. I was there in dark shades, to hide my eyes, and a headscarf, but my huge tits simply couldn’t be disguised.

“Mom,” she gasped. “Oh, mom!” She gave me a desperate, disbelieving hug. I hugged her back.

“Oh, oh, I can’t believe it’s you,” she said, tears running down her cheeks. “Oh oh oh oh.”

“Holly,” I said, running a hand along her cheek. I let a sob escape. “How I’ve missed you.”

“We all thought you were dead!” she cried, and grabbed me again, holding me tightly. “Oh, that horrible man!”

The company had spared no expense. A man was found, who lived by himself in Manitoba. He had no close relatives, no close friends, and whatever neighbors he did have were suspicious of his drinking and his habit of shooting off his guns.

He was killed, and a small room built in his cellar, and I was put in it. One of the workers beat me with a hose.

I am proud to say I stood erect and took the blows just as I was instructed to.

I starved myself for a few days, then called the police, who found me rail-thin and mutilated, in the house of a man dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. The cellar and the ropes I’d chewed through told the rest of the story.

I had chewed through the ropes. It was something to do, while I waited to be thin enough for my ‘starvation’ to be plausible.

Unfortunately, it was a media frenzy. “Woman kidnapped—held prisoner for over a year—forced to undergo bizarre sexual experimentation.” My tits, despite the fact that I wore only blousy clothes and lots of layers, were on the cover of every major newsmagazine. My pale skin glowed in every photo they took.

That was all they got, though. Although the doctors had told them about my eyes and my brand, I wore a bandage on my forehead and sunglasses at all times.

In the airport, someone with a camera had tried to tear off my bandage, but a mountie had stopped them.

They didn’t know much about my internal changes. The initial bloodwork confused the hell out of them, but after the ‘rescue’, I refused to let the doctors examine me further. “I just want to go home,” I told them. “I just want to go home.” And finally, much to their frustration, they had to let me. Canada’s a free country.

And now I was home.

Camera flashes went off as we walked through the parking lot towards Holly’s car.

“Oh, mother,” Holly said, tossing my suitcase into the trunk. “I’m so sorry about all these people.” She slid into the driver’s seat, and reached over to unlock my door.

“I didn’t believe it,” she said as I got down into the car. “I didn’t want to. But your skin—it’s so...” She swallowed. “And your... is it true, all the... did he...?”

I sighed. “I’ll show you at home,” I said. “Too many photographers here.”

We drove off in her Audi, while around us the media photographers shouted at me. “Hey, Miss Hill! Hey, Rebecca! Hey, over here!”

They had no idea how easy it was to not respond to that name.

The ride from the airport to the house didn’t take long. Holly told me that, a few months after I’d disappeared, she had moved back into the house. She’d gone on leave from college, because the life insurance wasn’t willing to pay out until there was proof I was dead. So she had decided to get a job, although the money I had left her would have lasted her through college.

But she didn’t want to spend it, in case I was coming back.

When we got back to Holly’s—my, our—house, the attention was even worse. White vans with huge dishes on top were waiting on the curbs, along with what must have been more than a hundred reporters of various flavors.

Thankfully, Holly had called the police, who were doing their best to keep them off of the property. There was a surge forward as she pulled the car into the garage, but then we closed the door on the flashing cameras, and were inside.

“I’m so sorry, mom,” Holly said. “I couldn’t keep them away.”

“That’s okay,” I breathed, looking around.

It was my garage. My old garage. There was my bike, and the rack of mason jars with nails in them that Bill had left, and the ladder we used to string the Christmas lights...

“Mom?”

“I’m... sorry,” I said, my eyes suddenly full of tears. “It’s just... home...”

We both started crying.

First, I took a long shower.

It was strange, bathing myself. Even when I was with one eighty, learning to stand erect and hold things again, we were cleaned as proper cows were, on our knees, with a hose.

Bathing myself was a lot more work. And I missed the attention.

But it was pleasurable to stand in the hot water. Holly hadn’t moved into my bedroom, and all the old soaps and unguents were still right where I had left them. Some of them had dried out, but most hadn’t.

It gave me pause. What do you do when your mother simply disappears, and doesn’t come back? When you just don’t know what happened?

Apparently, if you are Holly, you just keep on hoping.

A hour later, I emerged, smelling clean and vaguely citrusy from my once-favorite skin cream.

It was strange to see myself in the mirror, standing erect like a human. My beautiful udders, which hung so perfectly beneath me, looked so strange pretending to be human breasts. My nipples had grown with my breasts, and were now the size of dessert plates, a pale grey, just a shade darker than my skin.

I hadn’t seen them since my completion as a cow. One eighty and I had never had mirrors.

I fought the urge to drop to my hands and knees, where I was supposed to be.

Instead, I put on my old terry-cloth robe, which of course fit horribly. It wouldn’t close over my chest at all, but it did cover my nipples, so I cinched the belt tight and wore it. All the blinds were drawn anyway.

I would have to buy new clothes, if I was to stay here for any length of time. I only had the baggy things that the Canadian authorities had bought for me.

Out of habit, I put my sunglasses on, and stuck the bandage back over my name.

I felt slightly... nervous? as I went downstairs. Holly was sitting in the chair, looking at a magazine. I knew she wasn’t reading it.

“Holly,” I said softly.

She looked at me—her eyes couldn’t help but flicker to my tremendous cleavage. But only for an instant, and then she was looking at my sunglasses.

“Mom,” she said. “I don’t... I didn’t...”

“Let’s get this over with,” I said, crossing the room and sitting on the sofa next to her.

I inhaled, and took off my sunglasses. She stared into my eyes.

“Oh...” she breathed, eyes wide.

“I can see just fine,” I said. “They’ve just been colored.”

“Is it permanent?” she asked, staring at them, her eyes moving just slightly from side to side.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

Then I reached for the bandage, and watched Holly’s light blue eyes track my hand. Without flinching, I peeled it off.

She gasped.

“It’s a brand,” I said softly.

“He branded you...?”

I didn’t reply.

Her eyes came back to mine. “Oh, mother...”

Then she was in my arms, and I was holding her.

“I didn’t think you were ever coming back,” she sobbed. “I kept everything the way it was because I wanted you back—I wanted it so much—but I didn’t think you were ever coming. I thought I’d lost you forever. Oh, mother. I’m so happy that you’re here. I don’t care what he did to you—I love you, mom, and I don’t ever want to lose you.”

“I love you too, Holly,” I replied. I didn’t have to fake the tears.

We settled into a routine.

Holly was working at a local copy shop. She worked normal business hours, and was still scheduled for three extra shifts a week, at least until she could cut back.

I stayed home. Mostly I watched television, or read. I kept the blinds closed. I didn’t answer the door. I didn’t answer the phone.

I did clean house. With her schedule, it had been hard for Holly to do it, but I plunged into scrubbing the toilets and dusting the knick-knacks with verve.

It felt good to be on my knees again.

I wouldn’t cook. Holly did, if she got home in time, or else she’d bring home Chinese food or we would order pizza. I’d do the dishes, set the table, but I wouldn’t cook.

I used to love to cook.

If Holly found it strange, she didn’t say anything. I think she figured after what I had been through, I had the right to be a bit eccentric.

We made no plans. I was back, and that was enough for her.

As for me, my instructions were simple. I was to wait for the media attention to wane. Then, I would drug Holly, and the two of us would be picked up.

I did not know why my owners had chosen to obtain Holly in this fashion. I did not bother to speculate—thinking was for humans, not cows. And despite the familiarity of the house, the sense of it around me, the memories of living there, I was not Rebecca Hill. I was a cow, pretending to be her. I was five forty two.

That’s all I wanted to be.

A week and a half after I came home, I made a statement to the press. It was terse, and boring, and basically said that I needed time to get back in touch with myself, and that I wouldn’t go speak with Larry King, and I wasn’t writing a book, and although I was flattered by the invitation I had no intention of appearing in Playboy.

I let them see my brand, but not my eyes.

My appearance re-invigorated the interest in me, but only for a few days. Slowly, the trucks left, and the knocks on the door stopped, and the photographers left the hedges alone. Pictures of me vacuuming the house just weren’t that exciting, and the eye of the nation was moving on to the next big thing.

Not that the letters stopped coming. I got invitations to do all sorts of things, from the inspirational to the obscene. Lots of obscene things. I ignored them all.

I only really wanted to fulfill my mission, and go home.

A week after my last sighting of someone trying to take my picture, I waited for Holly to go to work. Then I sat down at the phone, and said my code phrase.

A number appeared in my mind, and I dialed it.

I ignored the automated voice that answered the phone. (“Hello. You have reached the Masumi Aerosol Company. If you wish to speak with a sales representative...") I entered the voice mailbox code that formed in my memory.

At the tone, I spoke. “Hello, this is Rebecca Hill. I am now available to speak with you.”

Then I hung up, and watched some teevee.

Mostly I watched the news. Music videos had never interested me, and I hated soap operas. (It was interesting to discover my tastes in those areas hadn’t changed.) I tried Animal Planet, but it made me envious.

And, for some reason, the cooking channels were right out. I just couldn’t watch them.

So I was watching the news, trying to puzzle out what exactly had happened to make us invade Iraq, when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Confirm, five forty two.”

My heart jumped. “Five forty two is listening and obedient,” I said.

“Wait.”

I waited.

Then I heard her voice.

“Hello, five forty two.”

“Doctor,” I breathed.

“Miss me?”

“Terribly.”

She laughed, lightly. “I miss you too. I haven’t much time, five forty two, so listen carefully. We will not be able to pick you up as we had planned.” Anger crept into her voice. “Some of the other... directors are questioning my choices, and are currently blocking the resources I need to finish this operation. But do not worry, five forty two, I will sort this out and then we will come get you.”

I simply listened.

“You are to remain at your daughter’s house until further notice. I have had a care package sent to you. You will know what to do with it. You will be contacted when there are further instructions. Do not initiate contact with us. Do you understand?”

“I understand, doctor.”

“Good. Be well, five forty two.”

Then she hung up.

I put the phone down, dismayed. I wasn’t going back soon? I looked down at the double extra large t-shirt I was in, that Holly had bought me. The shots that were keeping me from lactating would wear off in another week or so. What would I do about that?

What would I do in general? How long could I simply remain in the house without Holly, or someone, starting to ask about the future?

And, more worrisome, how long could I remain in the house without starting to turn back into Rebecca Hill? I could hear a very small voice inside me, a voice that wanted to cook, to see people, to maybe start work again—to get her life back—and it frightened me to death.

I was a cow! I would stay a cow!

I watched some more teevee.

The package arrived the next day.

It contained a veritable pharmacopoeia of drugs. None of them were labeled, but there were instructions on when to take which ones.

There was also a series of audio CDs, and a CD player with headphones. The headphones were also the message—they were exactly the same as the subliminal programming headphones from my stall.

My heart swelled. I would stay a cow.

My routine changed only a little. Holly would go to work, and instead of watching television, I would go upstairs, put on my headphones, kneel on the floor, and listen to the CDs. They were music, not white noise, but after only a few minutes I invariably sank deep into a trance.

When the CD finished, I woke to find myself masturbating, hands stroking my dangling breasts, or between my legs and covered in juice. Most times, I would be mouthing the obedience mantra that the headphones were feeding me.

Other times, I’d be sucking on a finger.

I’d stop masturbating when I woke. It was always very tempting to keep going, to reach orgasm—and sometimes I was very close—but I knew it was for the CD to reward me. The program knew when I should come, and when I should not. That was not for me to decide.

So I’d stand up and have a walk around the house. Check the answering machines for messages. If it was time to, I’d take some of the drugs that I’d been sent.

Then I’d get back on my knees and listen to another one.

When there wasn’t enough time to listen to a CD before Holly got home, I’d clean house. Then Holly would be back, and we’d have dinner, and talk, and watch whatever video she’d brought from the store, or the teevee if something good was on. I found that I still enjoyed the West Wing.

Before going to sleep, I always gave myself a shot—or a few shots—from my drug stockpile. I told Holly that they were from the doctors who had treated me in Canada, and she believed me.

Heck, it wasn’t exactly a lie.

So things went for another two weeks.

To my consternation, I found that the drugs they had sent did not continue to inhibit my lactation. All of a sudden one day I was leaking into my shirt. I had to use maxi-pads to keep from soaking whatever I wore. That night, I pleaded illness, and went to bed early.

The following morning, I went out out (for the first time since coming home) and bought a breast pump. Everywhere I went people stared at me, although the clerk at the store was nice enough.

Of course I had on my sunglasses and bandage, but my skin was still unnaturally white, and my shirt couldn’t disguise how large my chest was.

It was a relief to get back to the house.

Pleasantly, I found that I could start the pump just before I surrendered myself to a CD, which became my habit. While I was in the pen I had no idea how much milk I produced, but only a week after I began to lactate again I was filling a couple of quart jars a day.

Most of it, I drank. Some of it... some of it I poured into the milk container in the refrigerator.

I don’t know why. Maybe it was the programming. I just wanted to share it with Holly. To share whatever drugs were in it. To start her on the road to being a cow.

Whenever I thought about that, about my daughter with milky skin and huge udders, speechless and on her knees, I got so wet.

It had to be the CDs.

Four weeks, and still no call.

The programming kept me happy. The little voice was entirely absent from my mind.

Holly, however, was getting restless. She’d never push me into doing anything, but she started to bring up things I might possibly want to do. Meaning, things that she wanted me to do.

“Mom, have you thought about going to a cosmetic surgeon yet? I mean, at least for your forehead. But I’m sure we can also get your breasts reduced.”

I managed to not flinch at the thought of having my breasts reduced. “Sure, honey. That’s a good idea. I’m just... not quite ready, yet. To have someone cutting me, you know?”

“Oh, of course, I understand. Take your time. You can just stay here as long as you like.”

Then, another night—“Mom, uh, have you considered seeing a psychiatrist?”

“Hm?”

“I mean, it might be good for you. Help you straighten out a lot of the stuff that you’ve been through. I’m not saying you need one, exactly...”

“No, you’re right, dear. I should see one. I’ve got a lot of... baggage that I’m carrying around. But... I’d like to let it fade a little, first, before digging it up. You know?”

“Oh, sure. Of course. Just let me know when you think you might like to talk to one. There’s no hurry or anything...”

Please, doctor, call soon.

I began to become more comfortable with going out. I had to, at the very least to buy clothes. But I had begun to accept the stares. There were strippers, who had huge breast implants, I figured. Their lives must be like this. I could shrug the ogling off if they could.

Then one day I came home to find Cynthia Morgan sitting outside my—Holly’s—front door.

“Hello, Rebecca,” she said.

I stared at her.

“Been shopping?”

The bags were in my hands. “Y-yeah,” I said. “Shopping.”

“Can I come in? I’d like to talk.”

“Uh. Sure.”

I let her in, and fetched her some tea. She sat on the sofa.

“So, Rebecca,” she began. “Have you thought about coming back to work?”

I put my cup down. “I... no,” I said. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Well,” she said, “I’d like you to. Think about it. You were one of our best salespeople, and, frankly, I miss you. I understand that you have a lot of issues to deal with, but if you do feel like coming back to us, we’ll have a spot for you.” She sipped at her tea.

“A spot for me?” I asked. I reached up and pulled off my sunglasses. “Do you have a spot for these?” I demanded, staring at her with my big cow eyes.

She winced, but didn’t look away. “Yes,” she said. “I’d heard that that... maniac had done this sort of thing to you. I don’t care. And if you do care, we’d still like to have you. You can work in the office, on marketing and promotions. You don’t have to make field calls.”

I couldn’t help it. I started crying.

Cynthia had never been good with that sort of thing. “There, there,” she said awkwardly. She was so uncomfortable that my weeping turned halfway into laughter.

“Oh, Cynthia,” I said. “You’re such a wonderful friend. I’m so sorry I didn’t call you when I got back.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I know you’ve had a terrible experience.”

“You’re so wonderful,” I managed, then cried a little more.

When she left, I’d promised that I’d be in touch as soon as I was feeling up to it.

But my heart really leapt when I went back into the house, and there was a message on the answering machine.

To my disappointment, it was Holly. “Hi, mom,” she said. “Cynthia Morgan called me, and asked if she could come by the house today. I thought it might be a good idea, so I said okay. If you don’t want to see her, call me, and I’ll tell her that you’re not ready yet. Love you, bye.”

It was happening. Holly was getting proactive.

Where was my doctor?

I went upstairs for my CDs.

When Holly came home on Friday, there was a man with her.

“Uh...” I said, rising from the sofa.

“Mom,” Holly said, “This is Dr. Kautz. He’s a psychiatrist. I asked him to come over and have a talk with you.”

He was looking at me, with a non-committal expression. He hadn’t even glanced at my tits.

“Uh...”

“You don’t have to, mom, if you don’t want to. But I really think you need to start thinking about getting back to a normal life. And it can’t hurt to just talk to him.”

“I... okay,” I said, sitting back down.

Dr. Kautz glanced at Holly, smiled briefly, then came over to where I was sitting. He sat down in the easy chair next to the sofa.

“I’ll go cook dinner,” Holly said.

So he was a professional—if he’d been a friend of hers, she’d have changed out of her work clothes first. I examined him as Holly went into the kitche—spear bald, rimless glasses. A small moustache.

He looked back at me. I wasn’t wearing my sunglasses, but he didn’t seem taken aback by my eyes at all.

“So,” he finally said. “Mrs. Hill. I’m Doctor Kautz, but feel free to call me Chuck.”

“You don’t look like a Chuck,” I said.

He chuckled, once. “I hear that a lot.” He ran one of his thumbs along the back of his other thumb. “So. You’ve been home, what, six weeks?”

“Six weeks and five days,” I said.

“Right. Yet Holly tells me you just stay at home all day.”

I shrugged. “I go out. I went shopping yesterday.”

“Good,” he said. “That’s good. Tell me how you feel about your body.”

“My body?”

“Yes,” he said, and for the first time he looked at my breasts. “You have tremendously large breasts. Your eyes are discolored, and I assume from the bandage on your forehead that there is some sort of mark there.” Holly hadn’t told him! “Your skin tone is also almost unnaturally pale. How do you feel about all of that?”

“I... I hate it,” I lied. “I’m a freak. He made me a freak.”

“None of these things are irreparable,” Dr. Kautz replied. “Plastic surgery, color contacts—why haven’t you gone and had something done?”

“I... I don’t know. I’m afraid, I guess.”

“Afraid?”

“Of someone changing me. Again.”

He nodded. “I see. A logical answer.” He slid a finger along the top of the coffee table. “And is fear also why you have done your best to avoid the publicity your rescue engendered?”

“Yes,” I said quickly. “I just want to be left alone.”

He nodded again.

“Tell me about your captor,” he said.

I described the man, and repeated the lies that had been made for me. Dr. Kautz simply nodded, and didn’t interrupt.

After I was done, he threw me a curve. “So, if he were here now, alive, what would you say to him?”

I gave a short laugh. “I’d probably scream at him,” I said.

“Would you hit him?”

“I- if I could,” I said.

“If you could. Interesting.” He tapped the top of the coffee table, then stood up.

“Mrs. Hill, let me fetch your daughter. I’d like to speak with both of you.”

I waited while he walked over to the kitchen, and came back with Holly. He sat back down in the easy chair, and Holly sat next to me on the couch.

“Miss Hill,” he said, addressing Holly, “I’ve had only a short chat with your mother, but I think that I have a pretty good idea of what’s going on.”

He looked at me, then back at her. “You told me that your mother was a strong personality, driven, the epitome of the ambitious career woman. Yet I detected none of that while speaking to her. Instead, she was meek, not even bothering to ask who I was, and answering my questions quickly and honestly. Well, mostly honestly.”

He cleared his throat. “I think that your mother is suffering from a type of Stockholm Syndrome. She’s doing what she thinks her captor wants.”

He steepled his fingers. “Inside most strong individuals is often a submissive personality, a personality that wants to put down the burden of being strong and simply go along with what it is told. To take it easy. And I think, in your mother’s case, that this personality trait combined with the extensive—and terrible—mutilation to produce a person that at some level likes what she has been turned into. A person who likes doing what she’s told. Someone who likes not having to make decisions.”

He looked at me. “Mrs. Hill, when you told me that you hate your body, I didn’t believe you for a second. You are supposed to hate your body, and you know that. So that’s what you told me. But you don’t. I wouldn’t go so far as to say you like it, but I know you don’t hate it.”

I didn’t reply.

“So what should we do?” Holly asked.

“Well, happily, the answer to that is easy enough. Therapy. I am almost positive that your mother’s original personality, now that she is back in the real world, will eventually emerge. Frankly, I’m surprised it hasn’t already. But it should certainly do so with the right impetus. As I said, Mrs. Hill, your mother is not inherently unhappy with who you she right now. But if we can just get her past that, her old personality should come springing back.”

He reached into a breast pocket of his shirt, and handed a business card to Holly. “Here is my card. I would anticipate that only a few weeks of really quite gentle therapy could have your mother ready to face the changes that are keeping her from getting her life back.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Holly said, and they both stood up. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“My pleasure,” Dr. Kautz replied. “And if she doesn’t want to see me, take her to someone else. She’s like a rock, caught on a hillside ledge. She doesn’t want to move right now, but with just a little help, she’ll start moving in the right direction really quickly.”

Holly showed him to the door.

Dinner was quiet.

I had to disobey.

I had to.

The doctor had told me that I was to wait to be contacted, but I couldn’t wait. If Holly sent me to the psychiatrist, he might undo me. He’d turn me back into Rebecca Hill.

Somewhere inside me, Rebecca Hill wanted that very much.

At the very least, if I went to see him, he’d find out a lot about what I really was. About who had made me this way. I couldn’t let that happen. I had to protect my owners.

So I had to make the call.

I said the code phrase, and a different phone number glowed in my mind.

I called it.

“D’Amber eyewear,” the recorded voice said. I ignored it, and left my message.

Then I sat on the sofa, and waited.

And waited.

She wasn’t going to call. I was alone, and I wasn’t going to be able to carry out my mission.

Of course, I’d already disobeyed, by calling her.

I hoped she wasn’t angry with me.

And the house kept telling me that it was okay, that Rebecca Hill really wasn’t so bad. That it was good to be her.

But I didn’t want to be her. I wanted to be a cow, on my knees.

Didn’t I?

The phone rang.

“Hello?” I gasped into the receiver.

“Hello, five forty two,” she said.

I almost swooned. “Doctor. Oh, doctor, help me. My daughter has brought over a shrink, and he’s going to turn me back, and I don’t want to be Rebecca Hill, I’m a cow, and I’m so afraid of failing and I’m afraid even more of never coming back to you...”

“Shhh, shhh. Pretty little cow.”

“I’m so scared, doctor.”

“Shh. It’s going to be all right.”

“I love you, doctor.”

“I know, little cow. Everything will be okay.”

“Please, doctor, please, please, please come get me. I need to go home.”

“I can’t come get you, not yet, little cow. I have no sure way of getting you back here, not across four states and the border.”

Then it hit me.

“I’ll bring her to you,” I said.

“How is that, little cow?”

“I’ll bring her to you. We’ll fly there. I’ll tell her I need to visit the place where he held me, that I need to get closure. And then you can kidnap both of us.”

There was quiet on the line for a moment.

“Very... ambitious, little cow. Can you do it?”

“Of course, doctor. It will be simple. My daughter trusts me. I just have to convince her to come with me. Then you can capture us both.”

There was a light chuckle. “So decisive now, are you?”

“I’m sorry, doctor! It’s just so hard, holding on, down here...”

“Shh, shh. I understand, little cow. Very well. It will require some work on my part, but I think it can be done. Here is what I want you to do...”

It was a long flight.

Holly didn’t want to go. She said she didn’t want to take time off work, but that’s not what she was really worried about. She thought it was a bad idea for me to visit the cabin. She thought that it would reinforce my new personality, when she wanted that personality torn down.

But I pleaded, and said I needed someone to be with me when I was there, and that I needed to go back, to convince myself that he really was dead and it really was over. I said it would let me really get a new start on things. But I had to go back, just once.

And I promised to start therapy as soon as we got back.

So we flew to Winnipeg.

It wasn’t incredibly far. What made the flight long was Holly telling me her plans. About how she would re-enroll in college next year. About this guy she’d met.

About how proud she was going to make me.

I was already proud of her. Very proud.

But that didn’t matter.

With every plan Holly made, the little voice that was Rebecca Hill grew louder. She screamed inside my head, and cried, and railed at me not to do this.

But I wasn’t Rebecca Hill, and I refused to listen.

I was five forty two. I was a cow.

I would obey.

We landed in the early afternoon, and picked up our rental car from the counter. I was drawing attention, but there weren’t any media types around. We’d been careful not to announce our visit.

The cabin was several hours north. As we drove, I was watching for a gas station. A particular station, that the doctor had told me to pull in at.

Holly kept trying to draw me into conversation.

“So are you going to start working again?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I think so.”

“You don’t have to, you know. I’ve earned enough that I can put myself through college if I take a part-time job.”

I had nothing to say to that. It was too hard to make plans for what would never happen.

Rebecca whimpered.

Holly tried again a while later.

“So, uh, does any of this look familiar?”

I snorted. “I was in Ottawa, and then I woke up in a box.”

“Oh. Mom...”

“Yes?”

“Why are we here? Really?”

And then I saw it. “Let’s get some gas,” I said, and pulled into the right lane.

The gas station was seedy looking, only two old pumps, and situated on a frontage road. But the sign said “Love’s Gas”, and there was a smaller, handmade sign beneath that read “try our stuffed artichokes!”

I turned onto the frontage road, and rumbled down it towards the station.

“Mom? We have almost three quarters of a tank.” There was doubt in Holly’s voice.

“Yeah, but I want to be sure to top off before we reach the middle of nowhere.”

She gave me a strange look, but didn’t say anything as I pulled into the lot, and up to one of the pumps. A bell rang.

I was trembling with excitement. “I’ll just go in and pay,” I said, fumbling with my door.

“You don’t have to pay first,” she replied, but I was gone, leaving the door open, hurrying across the old asphalt, shoving my way through the door mirrored with peeling stick-on sunblock.

I was on my knees when Holly finally came in.

“Mom?” she asked, fearfully, looking around.

My poor brave Holly.

I leaned against the doctor’s knee, and she petted me.

Holly looked around the interior again. A few short aisles of candy and motor oil, an empty counter.

She stepped inside. Another step, and the door clicked closed behind her.

And then it clicked locked.

She heard it, and whirled, but it was too late. The men who were waiting in the back with us bustled out into the store. I watched through the one-way glass of the door as they grabbed her, one in front and one behind, just like they had grabbed me, although these were different men. At least, I thought so. I couldn’t really tell.

The other two pushed in from the sides, and then she was pinned.

The doctor pushed the door open again and stepped forward, and I crawled out at her feet.

Holly’s eyes widened when she saw the doctor, but the lids almost disappeared when she saw me.

I was naked save for a dog collar, and the leash that ran from it to the doctor’s hand.

Holly tried to say something, but the rag in her mouth turned it into incoherent noise.

“Is this your daughter?” the doctor asked.

“Yes,” I replied, although I was already trying to forget how to speak.

“How wonderful. She’s quite beautiful.”

The doctor took a few steps forward, and I obediently crawled along beside her. I could feel Holly staring at me.

The doctor bent down, and raised my chin with a finger. She looked into my face, then up at Holly. “Yes, I can see she’s yours,” she said. “She looks like you. Beautiful.” Pause. “Let her speak.”

The man in front pulled the rag from Holly’s mouth.

There was a gasp. “Mom! Mom, what’s going on?”

The finger was still under my chin, so I couldn’t look back down at the floor. I just stared into her eyes.

Rebecca Hill was screaming to get out.

I was focused on keeping Rebecca down, but then the doctor spoke to me. “Explain to her, five forty two. Tell her what’s going on.”

“Y-you’re being kidnapped,” I said. It hurt more than I expected. “All that I told you about the man who kidnapped me was a lie. T-there was no man. I was kidnapped by these people, and turned into a cow. They gave me my brand and my name and my beautiful udders. And I-I brought you here so that they can do the same thing to you.”

“Mom...?” she squeaked.

“That’s right,” the doctor said, “your mother is a most wonderful cow. I’ve never seen one more eager to obey. And although she is very sadly unable to breed, she has brought you to us, to breed for her. So that we can have generations of obedient milk cows, just like her. It was a wonderful display of loyalty,” she said, and patted my head.

“This can’t be happening,” Holly whispered. “Mom! Fight it! We... we’re family! You were getting better, and you were going to go back to work, and everything,” she was sobbing now, “and everything was going to be okay again...”

“Everything will be okay,” I said, unable to help myself. Suddenly everything was blurry. “You’ll see. You’ll love being a cow. It’s... it’s the most wonderful thing. I love you, Holly.”

“Mom, don’t let them do this,” she sobbed.

“I- I have to obey,” I pleaded. “I’m a cow.”

“Five forty two,” the doctor said, “stand up.”

I stood, and the doctor pressed something into my hand.

“Hold that under your daughter’s nose,” she told me.

I swallowed. The tears were making it hard to see, but I stepped forward, and reached out towards Holly.

Rebecca Hill made a last attempt to get through.

“Mom...” Holly whispered.

“I’m a cow,” I whispered back.

I held the vial up hard against her nose; she held her breath, but eventually—just like I had—she drew in a great, gasping breath, and passed out.

I rode in the van with her. She was such a beautiful girl. When we reached the facility, I went with her as she was locked into the box. I felt so sorry that she would have to go through that, but I knew it was necessary. Holly must become a cow, so that my owners could breed her.

Rebecca was gone.

Then I was on my knees in the old familiar corridors, walking along behind the doctor. What was going to happen to me? Would I be put back in my pen, with my herd? I hoped so. I didn’t want to remain a cowgirl, like one eighty. I wanted to go back to being a plain old cow, my value strictly in my milk, not in my head.

I wanted to forget.

Then I was crawling on carpet. I must have made some sort of noise, for the doctor said “Don’t worry, five forty two. I just need to do something, and then we’ll start re-integrating you back into the herd. Soon you’ll be giving milk and tonguing the other cows just like none of this had happened.”

Relieved, I followed her up some stairs, and through a door. We were in a large room, with a wooden table running down the center. A conference room. There was a meeting in process.

The man who was speaking stopped as the doctor walked in. I came in behind her. She stood at the near end of the table, her hands on her hips, and glared around the table.

“Get up on the table, five forty two,” the doctor said. I still had the use of my hands, so it wasn’t hard. Then I was on my hands and knees, naked on the dark brown wood of the table. I stared around at the people in suits, staring back at me. Then I dropped my eyes to the table top.

“What are you doing?” one of the men asked.

“Shut the fuck up, Frank,” the doctor said. “I’d like to introduce you all to five forty two. Known, until two years ago, as Rebecca Hill. Five forty two is the cow I sent back home, to fetch her daughter. Well, guess what. She’s back. With her daughter.”

There were murmurs around the table.

“Some of you thought I was wrong to send her back. When I told you what a natural slave she was, you didn’t believe me. You said I was sleeping with the livestock, that I had gotten too attached to them. Well, I have news for you. If you fuck the livestock, you just might get to know them.”

She put a hand on my ass. “Go on, five forty two. Tell them why you came back.”

I swallowed. “I... I wanted to. I’m a cow. I belong here.”

“And why did you bring your daughter?”

“Because you told me to, doctor.”

“Do you know what we are going to do with her?”

“You’re going to turn her into a cow.”

“And?”

“And b-breed her.”

“Five forty two, was anyone with you when you went home?”

“With me?”

“Did we send anyone with you?”

“No.”

“Did anyone from here come to see you?”

“No.”

“So you could have just stayed there.”

“I... I guess so. I didn’t want to, though.”

“I know that, five forty two. You’re a good cow.” Her hand moved. “And so, ladies and gentlemen, I believe that I have been proven correct. In every particular. And those of you who moved to stop me, who jeopardized this program, this entire fucking organization, because you wanted to see me fail, well, I’d tell you to pack your bags, but it’s too fucking late for that.”

She spun on her heel. “Cow, come,” she said, and I got down off the table.

The door opened, and men in police-like uniforms came in. The doctor pointed, her arm moving as she said each name. “Director Sandhurst, Director Macon, Director Trudeau, Director Vanonni. Take them away.”

Then men pushed past me into the room. There was scuffling, but the doctor was already leaving down the hall, so I followed her.

My rehabilitation took two months.

I only know that because the doctor told me. I spent most of it in trance, crouched in a stall, headphones on, IVs leaking the correct drugs into my system. Around me, for dozens of stalls on either side, new cows were recieving the same treatment. Undergoing the mental modifications that would make them docile, and happy.

Like me.

When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was that my skin was a pure, waxy white again, and my heart leapt with joy. Then I noticed that my breasts were heavy, and in serious need of milking.

And my nose ring was back. I could feel its weight on my upper lip.

I waited patiently for someone to attend to me. The headphones were still on, but I had no idea if they were hissing into me or not. I hoped so. I sucked on the water tube, and waited.

After a while, the door opened, and it was the doctor herself! I mooed eagerly as she walked over to me.

Her hand slid along my naked back, and I shivered. I felt her lift the headphones, and the room was suddenly quieter. I wriggled as she petted me.

“I see you’re feeling more like yourself, five forty two,” she said, stroking my head. “Are you happy?”

I mooed as loud as I could.

She laughed, and opened the front of the stall. “Come, cow,” she said, and I trotted after her. I wasn’t wearing braces, but my elbows and knees felt stiff.

Surreptitiously, guiltily, I tried to bend an elbow. It wouldn’t move. Neither would my calves lift back towards my ass.

My knees and elbows had been fused.

My happiness mounted.

We walked down a corridor, and into an examination room. The doctor gestured, and I scurried up the ramp.

Her hands felt good. She went right for my udders, squeezing, then she checked my eyes, my ears, my throat. As she checked my temperature at the other end of me, she slid a finger inside my snatch. I wriggled.

“Oh, the little cow likes that, does she?”

I mooed, and wriggled some more.

“Work first, play later,” the doctor said, and walked around to her table. She gave me a turkey baster full of the bitter liquid, and then a series of shots in my ass.

“Each one of these,” she said, from behind me, sticking a needle in my ass, “does something different to your body chemistry. This one,” and there was a sting as she said it, “is for your milk, to change the levels of various amino acids. This one,” sting, “alters the general blood oxygenation level of your body. And this one,” sting, “reduces synaptic activity—making it a whole lot harder for you to think, little cow.”

I mooed.

“And you remember these,” she said, coming around in front of me and picking up one of my forelegs. She injected my thumb, and then the rest of my fingers, and I felt my hand go numb.

I raised my other foreleg as she refilled the syringe.

She smiled at me, and deadened that hand as well. “One more for the backside,” she said, walking around behind me again, and I felt the sting as she injected me with something else. “This one’s experimental,” she said. “I want to see what it does to your output.”

Then she laughed lightly. “Okay,” she said, putting the needle aside. “Work finished. Play time.”

My snatch felt her breath, and then her tongue was on me. My legs slid apart; her mouth stayed glued to my cunt, sucking, and then her tongue slid inside me, and I had my first orgasm.

My first of many.

Later, the doctor led me to my new pen.

I was eager, and a little anxious. The doctor had said that my old herd had been filled again months ago, but that I’d like my new herd. I knew she was right, but that didn’t make the butterflies in my stomach any quieter.

“Well, here we are, five forty two,” she said, opening the door. “Say hello to your new herd.”

I crawled into the pen. There they were, four of them. They all turned to face me.

They were beautiful. Twelve oh two had been black, and was now a pale brown color like a new fawn. She was fully a cow, her udders almost reaching the ground.

Nine seventy five was not quite fully developed—her skin was only the color of bone, and judging from her blonde hair she had been fair-skinned as a human. Of course, she had the deep brown eyes of a cow, now.

Fifteen thirty was also beautiful—they all were—though even less developed than nine seventy five. Her breasts were barely out of an E cup, and her skin almost that of an untanned woman. And then there was...

Five forty.

Natalie.

I recognized her with a start—and realized that she recognized me in the same moment. We stared at each other, taking in the changes—the new eyes, the paper-white skin, the heavy udders.

Then we were together, face to face, her licking my cheek and me licking hers before our tongues slid into each others’ mouths.

We were cows. Cows didn’t speak.

This was how cows loved each other.

I was vaguely aware of the doctor saying “Well, I see you’ll feel right at home here,” and the door closing behind me, but I was loving my friend.

I french kissed five forty for a long time. We stared into each others’ eyes, communicating our love and friendship, and our joy at being reunited. Natalie—five forty—was in my herd! My heart sang.

Behind my head, Twelve oh two, nine seventy five, and fifteen thirty began to lick and rub up against me. With only a little regret—because we’d be together forever, now—I released five forty’s mouth, and turned to greet the rest of my new herd.

We made love to each other for hours.

My life finally became what it was meant to be.

In the mornings, we woke to the chime and scrambled over to be milked. We mooed eagerly as the technician hooked us up, and sighed as the suction began and we fulfilled our purpose. The insertion of the vibrator into my already juicing snatch was almost irrelevant.

But the vibrator was tuned to the programming in the headphones, reinforcing the messages that structured our minds. So, hips twitching and eyes glazing, we drifted happily into trance, headphones hissing truth into our ears.

Later, we were fed slurry. I loved the slurry. It was all I wanted to eat—wet, white sludge. It made me think of my skin, and my milk, and my bovinity. I could taste the drugs in it, though maybe that was only wishful thinking.

It would stick to our faces, since we fed from a trough. But although cows had no hands, we had very eager tongues.

In the afternoon, we made love, or simply stared off into space, our dulled brains not needing any thought to occupy them. Often, I would wake to find myself in a thought-loop, repeating “I am a cow” or “I must always obey” over and over. I knew it was the subliminal messages that had been piped into me during my milking, bubbling to the surface of my mind. When that happened, I only smiled, and kept repeating until my mind glazed over again.

I loved being with five forty. Loved seeing her so complete, so totally transformed into a cow. Her huge udders—just like mine—hanging beneath her, her skin a waxy white, her eyes brown and dumb. I could barely look at her without crawling over and tasting her pussy.

Not that I restrained myself, whenever I got that impulse. And five forty never seemed to mind.

Our other cows slowly developed. Nine seventy five became so pale that she almost glowed; her eyebrows, like the hair on her head, was so blond as to almost be invisible. Often, licking her, I would wonder what her pussy had looked like when it still had hair.

Both her and fifteen thirty changed, blossoming into cows. Their breasts were soon like ours, heavy udders. When they were nearly complete, each of them were taken away, and returned without their braces, joints fused into permanent immobility, like the rest of us.

We were all true cows, now. Complete. Aside from nine seventy and twelve oh two marking the ends of our color spectrum, we were as interchangeable as peas in a pod.

Sometimes the doctor would come to see me. Usually, when she did, she would take me away for more shots. Sometimes we would make love. Sometimes we would not. I felt no anxiety about it. I was a cow. Things simply happened.

Everything was the way it was supposed to be.

One day, the doctor came to see me, and brought a visitor.

“Come, cow,” she said to the cow trailing behind her, and in came a pretty cow, with milk colored skin and heavy but not fully grown udders. Twenty thirteen.

It was Holly.

I gasped, and then I scuttled towards her, stopping only inches away. It was her, it was. Holly. My daughter.

A cow.

Her brown eyes looked into mine. My heart, which had been numb for so long, was fluttering.

Holly. Twenty thirteen.

Did she remember?

Did she hate me?

I stared at her, and didn’t cry.

Slowly, she crawled forward, until she was close enough to breathe my breath.

Tentatively, she licked me.

Then we were kissing, my tongue swirling around hers, conveying my love in the only language we had. Holly! My daughter! How much I love you. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I’m so sorry. I love you. I love you so much!

But now you understand.

Holly.

My beloved calf.

My herd came over, but at that moment I was past caring. Holly. Twenty thirteen. I kissed her so hard that I drew blood, then, startled, I pulled back.

She looked at me, tasting her cut lip.

Then she smiled, opened her mouth, and said:

“Moooo.”

Twenty thirteen.

My calf.

We kissed some more. Then the idea to make love to her blossomed in my head.

A small voice said ‘don’t—not with your daughter!’, but something much stronger said ‘this is just another cow, that you love’, and then I was crawling around her.

From the side, I could see how pregnant she was.

I stopped, and mooed in surprise and joy. The other cows, happy and smiling but perplexed, just looked at me.

“That’s right,” the doctor said. “She’s breeding perfectly. I pulled her eggs, matched them with the sperm I wanted, and put ‘em in her back almost six months ago. And she accepted them perfectly. There are three wonderful little girl calves growing in there.”

Three?!

I was a grandparent!

My daughter was having babies.

And twenty thirteen was fulfilling her purpose.

I felt awestruck.

“That’s why she’s not got your udders, five forty two. She’s not a milker. She’s a breeder. That’s as big as they’ll get.”

I just stood there, marvelling at the belly hanging beneath my child.

Three calves.

“Go on,” the doctor said. “It’s okay. Show her your love.”

I started moving again, crawling around behind her. I paused, then buried my face between twenty thirteen’s ass cheeks, seeking and finding her smooth, beloved slit. She was a breeder, not a milker, but her cunt was as smooth and waxy as mine.

She mooed softly as I tongued her.

“She’s really taken to the breeding,” the doctor said. “Just like you, she’s a natural slave. Once she had been processed through the pen, she was just as docile and eager to obey as you were.” The doctor stroked my ass, as I sucked on my daughter’s pussy. “She even mooed when I first ate her out, too.” She sounded wistful. “It was wonderful. Like mother, like daughter, I guess.”

I wriggled my ass. Three calves! Twenty thirteen was just as good a cow as I was!

I was so proud.

The doctor knelt down behind me, and then her hand was on my crotch, stroking. I arched my back, opening myself to her caress.

Then twenty thirteen came, and I tasted my daughter’s cunt juice for the first time.

I swallowed, and slowed my pace, licking her slit, savoring the texture and the taste. I looked forward between her legs, and under her belly (three!), and could see that five forty had come foward, and she and my daughter were kissing.

Welcome to my herd, my love.

After a while, the doctor took us to the room with the bed.

It felt strange to make love to my daughter on a bed, but that passed quickly, and we licked and fucked each other for hours until we finally collapsed onto the bed, limbs entangled.

The doctor had played with us for an hour or so, then left. She returned to find us lying on our backs next to each other, legs spread and entwined. I was gazing at twenty thirteen lovingly, while she suckled at my left udder.

“Oh, my,” the doctor said, the door swinging closed behind her. “That just makes me feel all squishy inside.”

She walked to my side of the bed, and petted my head.

“I see you’ve forgiven your mother,” she added, and twenty thirteen lifted her lips from my udder to moo enthusiastically. I licked the top of her head, and she raised her mouth to me for a long tongue kiss.

The doctor sighed happily. “It fascinates me how quickly your minds adapt to having sex as the way to show affection. Both you and your daughter, of course, submitted at once. Your minds soaked up the truths we fed them like a sponge, and begged for more. But even the hard cases, the ones we have to keep in the programming stalls for four months or more, are willing to eat each other out after only a few weeks, despite never having even seen another woman’s pussy before we captured them.”

She rubbed my head, then picked up the case she had brought in with her. “But I’m a biologist, not a psychiatrist. And now it’s time for your shots. On your knees, both of you.”

We scrambled to our knees. The doctor started with me—I looked at twenty thirteen as I felt the familiar sting of the needle in my ass. She looked back, then licked my shoulder. Then she leaned over to kiss me.

After half a dozen shots, the doctor moved to twenty thirteen. By that point, we were both giggling, sneaking sloppy kisses to each other while keeping our asses dutifully presented to the doctor.

When she was done, the doctor slapped twenty thirteen’s ass. “Okay, girls, it’s back to your pens. Five fourty, are you ready to rejoin your herd?”

I mooed happily.

“How about you twenty thirteen?”

My daughter grinned, and mooed.

“I suspected as much. Don’t worry, I’ll be sure you two get to see each other. But I can’t put you in the same herd. Breeders aren’t kept with milkers. Too much work keeping their feed straight, and the breeders have different milking requirements, and recieve different programming.”

The doctor stroked twenty thirteen’s back. “For instance, you’re looking forward to having calves, aren’t you?”

She mooed enthusiastically.

“It’s her purpose,” the doctor said, looking at me. “Just like giving milk is yours.”

I mooed.

“So we can’t keep you together. Besides, the workers expect to be allowed to fuck the breeders. I can’t have them fucking milkers, but with properly impregnated breeders, no harm done. Twenty thirteen gets it what, three, maybe four times a day?”

Twenty thirteen mooed enthusiastically again, and winked at me.

I smiled at her, and licked her cheek.

The purpose of a cow was to obey.

“Okay, cows,” the doctor said, “come.”

We scrambled off the bed.

The doctor visited often, every couple of weeks, usually bringing twenty thirteen with her. My heart sang whenever I saw her and her ever-swelling belly.

Then, one day, the doctor brought her in, and behind her pushed in a stroller containing three beautiful little calves.

I stared at them in wonder. Pink, and soft, and beautiful. Twenty thirteen glowed with pride.

“See how pretty they are?” the doctor asked. “Among the first of the cows we are going to raise domesticated. I’ve already started them on their drugs, though of course they won’t be breeders or milkers for years.” The doctor grinned. “But I can guarantee they will be obedient little girls.”

I stared at the calves. My grandchildren. How soon would their skin be a waxy white like mine? Like their mother’s?

Twenty thirteen mooed, and licked me. I kissed her.

The doctor smiled. “And twenty thirteen here is already pregnant with three more. She’s a wonderful breeder.”

I mooed in surprise, then looked at my daughter, who was grinning at me, and mooed in affirmation.

“And she’s so young,” the doctor said. “We’re going to breed whole herds from her. I’ve put a boy in the next batch. Frankly, with your genetic predisposition, who knows what we will achieve?” She petted twenty thirteen on the head.

Twenty thirteen mooed in enthusiasm.

I was filled with swirling emotion. My daughter. Herds. My grandchildren, raised domesticated.

I was a cow. They were cows.

It was... right.

I took another look at the three calves, sleeping peacefully in the stroller. Then I crawled along the length of my beautiful daughter’s white, waxy body, and pushed my face into her crotch.

She felt like a cow under my tongue. Tasted like a cow should taste.

Mooed in appreciation.

But something....

No.

Nothing.

I was a cow.

I loved being a cow.

And twenty thirteen’s pussy tasted so perfect.

The last of my doubt fell away. My daughter could sense my sudden vigor, and mooed in appreciation.

I was a cow, and loved it. My daughter was, thanks to me, a cow, and she loved it. My granddaughters, of which there would be very many, would love being cows. And their daughters, and their daughters.

We would be a race of slaves.

Exactly what we should be.

Thank you, doctor.

I love you most of all.