There are pieces that every collector has in their collection. Some are easy starter pieces, some great decoration pieces and others are just expected to exist in any worthwhile collection. A lot of the fun of comparing collections is to see differences in the common pieces.
Every collector keeps a hog about. A fat, sloppy pet that grunts and eats constantly. Some keep their hog pleasantly plump and neatly primped. Others fatten their hog to ridiculous extremes, wallowing in their own filth as they sit, immobilized by their own heft. A good friend of mine is partial to his hog and keeps her on a leash by him at all times. Her belly fattened to gently graze the grown as she follows on her hands and knees. Her nose cosmetically altered to have the slight upturn to give her a very authentic look.
Fruits are another common piece. They are a must for collectors who like to show off their shaping ability. Pears, apples, peaches, blueberries, etc. Again some collectors like extremes. I’ve seen berries so round they could be rolled, with skin dyed a deep blue. Their diet mostly liquid to keep their fat watery, like a ripened berry. Others go for subtle shapes with wide, sturdy apples and ripe, soft pears.
The hourglass is one of those pieces that is just expected in any collection. Whether big and cartoonish or dainty and less exaggerated every good collector has his own version of the classic female shape. Some go for the symmetrical look with the hips jutting out just as far as the bust. Others have hourglasses that look about to tip over or have all the sand run into the lower half. Some like solid and fit, other go for soft and jiggly.
Cows are another given and one of my obsessions. Again the varieties are endless, but I pride myself on having not just one or two but a herd of picture perfect cows. Perfect in my eyes anyway. I keep big, healthy heifers with fat bellies, sturdy legs and massive, heavy udders capped with thick nipples aching to be milked. Dumb, obedient creatures that exist only for their thick, sweet cream. No panting blobs leaking bitter, watery crud from udders that barely qualify as D cup. No chubby whores that happen to produce a little milk from their often groped tits. Come over for coffee and there will be at least two gorgeous cows flanking the espresso machine, hands bound behind their back, nipples primed and engorged, ready to dispense milk with the slightest rub of their puffy, throbbing teats. Although I hate using such quality for coffee creamer. True connoisseurs will gather to hand milk cows from my stable and sip the offerings fresh from the teat.
Now while collectors are prone to exaggeration, my reputation precedes any of my bragging. Buyers come worldwide trying to entice me to sell even one of my herd. Other collectors offer millions to learn my secret or even have me create a cow for their collection. I refuse them all. As I mentioned cows are my obsession and giving up one of my beautiful herd is unthinkable.
My dairy barn is a pristine facility. A large open building with comfortable cots, where the cows sleep 10 to 12 hours a day. There is a cafeteria where the bovines consume their 4,000 to 8,000 calories a day. A large pool is where the cows keep in shape without straining their joints or bouncing their udders. A hot tub allows them to relax afterward. Milking stations are scattered throughout the space as the cows need between 3 to 5 milkings a day. Soothing music combined with the sound of content cows mooing fills the air day and night through speakers up in the rafters.
I can start with just about any young woman. I feel it is the woman’s natural state to be a cow. That is what they are built for. And while evolution has strayed a bit, any woman can by turned into a fine cow. I’ve had dainty young women with flat chests blossom into wide heifers with udders too big for one hand to hold. I’ve turned mature, obese women into sturdy, round cows needing three milkings a day. Granted there are ideals. A blue ribbon worthy bovine will be about 200 to 350 pounds depending on her frame with udders big enough to stick out just past their fattened belly.
The first step is the liquid lobotomy. My chemists have created an elixir of bacteria that eats away portions of the subjects’ brain, limiting speech and making them susceptible to suggestion. It sounds simple enough but it is by far the most dangerous step. You can only administer the mixture once, so the amount has to be dead on. Too much and you’re left with a vegetable. Too little and the migraines that result are almost cripplingly painful. Try to go back with another dose and the bacteria will start attacking other major organs.
Next the hormones are injected. They work directly on the mammary glands, sending them into overdrive. In the next few days the cow’s udders will get sore and sensitive as they swell to 3 times their size, filling with milk. Meanwhile they are in the dairy barn, bulking up with high calorie meals and walking regular laps in the pool to strengthen those thickening thighs.
The help gets each cow on a routine to eliminate confusion in their simple minds. Sleep, eat, milk, eat, exercise, eat, sleep, milk, eat, sleep… Of course in between the help keeps the cows cleaned and groomed. Once their cows reach peak weight and udder size they are fitted with a brown leather collar with their information tag and a gold bell. A supportive bra is also custom fitted to each cow. A cow figure is tattooed on their left ass cheek. Their nails are all painted pink. Their hair kept in pigtails that resemble cow ears and their skin moisturized daily. Even their heavier cows have nary a hint of cellulite on their soft, overfed bodies.
Affection is regulated for my cows. As much as I am often tempted to take a plump young heifer off to the penthouse for a weekend I force myself to limit contact to belly rubs and hand milkings. Sex negatively effects production and confuses the simple minded creatures. The cows get agitated when their routine is broken up, so even for showing off my herd I make sure the event is brief. But that doesn’t stop me from visiting often.
On a quiet evening I sneak down and find a small brown cow sweating through a milking, her fat udders hooked up to a unit near the entrance. The machine is almost at full power, but no milk flows through the tube yet. The cow is so full priming is taking a long time. Sweat pours off her chubby face as she writhes in the chair, her sagging belly forcing her legs apart. She moos excitedly when she sees me. The newer cows aren’t used to seeing men. She calms down as I rub her fat but empty belly. After she’s done she’ll get a belly busting meal meant to fatten her up. She’s already a porker, fat face and thick in the middle. Her thick hair forms puffballs on the side of her head as opposed to the pigtails. It’s cute and makes her look even chubbier.
I check the cow’s tag.
5’-5”, 237 pounds with GG cup udders.
Gently I knead at the base of her bloated udders. I can feel the swollen glands. With a little rubbing the milk starts to flow. Trickling at first and then a steady stream flows through the tubes. I turn down the machine to a steady pace. The cow settles. I keep rubbing her tits, feeling the dense flesh soften as the milk is pumped out.
It’s too much to resist.
I remove the cup from her right udder. The nipple is thick and dark, but smaller than most. This must be a newer cow. Her nipples will swell and stretch with repeated milkings. I lean down and suckle from the dribbling teat. The milk is thick and warm and sweet. I lose myself for a minute despite the fact I’ve tasted the product many a time. It’s only the sound of footsteps that breaks me away from the loudly mooing cow.
One of the help has heard the disturbance and wandered over to see what is happening.
“Can I help you, sir?” the broad shouldered blonde asked.
All the help in the dairy barn work hard and are lighter than most of the help at the estate. This one can’t be much over 175. She herself is big breasted and potbellied. I imagine her as a drooling 300 pound heifer with a belly that hangs to her knees and udders twice as big as her head. I shake the thought. I’m already over capacity for cows. My focus needs to be on diversifying my collection.
“I’m just looking things over.”
“Of course, sir. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help.”
The help heads back over to the cafeteria to feed a couple hungry cows. I notice her love handles peek out from her shirt and again drift off to tripling their size as I prep her for production. My mind instinctively plans a high carb diet to bulk up the solid looking woman as her udders ripen. She could mature into a very big, healthy cow. I make a mental note of the identifying number on the back of the help’s shirt.
I wander over to the pool where a massive-uddered cow splashes her way through her daily laps. Her udders float in front of her like buoys, pulling her off course as they float in different directions. She grunts and moos as she plods along, her large frame looking like a pink blob beneath the rippling water.
I wait for the cow to emerge from the water. The pale, brunette grips the railing hard as the full weight of her udders succumb to gravity. She’s a good looking cow. Not show worthy as her udders are far too big and saggy. I can see her tag has a big red dot, meaning she’s on a diet. For good reason. The 5’3”, 320 pounds cow with RRR cups udders is well beyond ideal for size. Likely macromastia has taken hold. I watch her shuffle to the hot tub and moan in relief as the weight of her hangers is off her shoulders and back. I slink up behind her and reach down to stroke her thick brown hair that has come loose from her pigtails as she flopped in the pool. I peel off the red dot. With an excess of cows they all don’t have to be within spec. My mind races to what her udders will swell to as she continues to gain weight. Her ducts will likely clog if she keep lactating. Of course if she were to stop producing the slowed metabolism could have her in a position to double her size with the right diet. She’d make an interesting hog or possibly a party decoration.
I continue on, lingering in the spa area as two more cows are moisturized by the help. A big red-headed cow giggles as her beach ball of a belly is rubbed with lotion. I stroke her head to calm her as I check her tag. 5’5”, 250 with MM cup udders. Her legs are sturdy but soft with curves. Her face round, but not overly fat. Her skin a glowing ivory.
The other a bigger, rounder blonde. Her tag reads 5’5”, 295 with P cup udders. She’s developed a wide rear. Gobs of ass flesh hang over the sides of her chair.
I squeeze their udders. Both are firm and heavy. Almost ready for another milking. I poke their bellies. Both are drum tight. They’ve been stuffed with as much food as their stretched stomachs can hold.
The cows moo and grunt as I grope them. They smile and stare off into space, content and oblivious.
Both are the very definition of what I try to create for cows.
I make my way to the far corner of the barn where I know my special project is sleeping soundly. The rare exception to my many rules about size and care of cows lies on a special cot snoring loudly. Again, having an overabundance of ripe cows allows me to have a little fun. And I have had quite some fun with this one.
I won’t bore you with too many details of the oversized cow’s backstory. But rest assured she deserves her fate. The once slender auburn haired beauty was once a news anchor who started doing pieces on a unbelievable story about a league of wealthy men who keep women as collections. It was crazy and few believed her, but the story gained headlines and attracted attention so other collectors became worried. I made sure the stories stopped before they got too much traction while at the same time adding to my collection. A win win.
I don’t have to check the tag. 380 pounds with SS cup udders that hang heavily off the cot. My project is stuffed with fattening foods every waking minute and milked at minimum 6 times a day to keep her udders growing. She’s excused from exercise to allow as many calories as possible to fill in her blubbery form. Originally meant just as an example to other potentially stubborn women the project has swelled into a mammoth, producing cow.
I brush the bottom of her pink feet that have been barely used in weeks. The big cow titters in her sleep. I poke her thick calves. All fat, no muscle tone as in the other cows’ sturdy gams. I run my fingers along the crease where her belly overlaps her thighs. It’s damp with sweat. Her belly is taut, she’s recently been stuffed full. My hand slides between her full belly and plush thighs, searching for her plump treasure. The cow groans, her eyes fluttering open when I find it and teasingly rub. I withdraw my hand and give her bloated, tender belly a slap to fully wake her up.
She moos loudly. The help looks over. They know this one is my special project and go back to their work.
I grab the feeding mask.
The cow is far from immobile, but slow and cumbersome, especially on her back just waking up. The feeding mask goes on with little issue.
Panicked moos escape the hole where the tube goes. The cow is already painfully full.
I connect the tube and turn on the pump. A stream of thick, fattening sludge makes its way through the tube. The cow’s moos fade as she is forced to swallow gulp after gulp of the specially made goo.
I cup as much as I can of one of the cow’s fat udders. It’s almost as firm and taut as her belly. She needs another milking. It takes only gentle rubbing of her teats to engorge them. I hunt for her swollen ducts under layers of her breast fat and the rolls that form under her arms. Soon she’s trickling cream. It’s hard to tell if her moans are from the overfeeding or release of pressure in her udders.
As she leaks on herself the sight is too much. I lift a heavy jug up to my mouth and suckle. Her quality has dropped but she’s producing like a healthy 250 pounder and I’m suckling like a hungry baby.
Her elevated grunts shake me out of my own feeding. I look over to see her massive mound turning pink as the skin stretches shiny. It feels like a balloon about to pop.
How long was I distracted by her milk?
I slam the pumps off and gingerly rub the cow’s belly. She squeals in agony. I slide my hand through the crease again, finding her pussy still damp from my earlier teasing. I gently stroke her, hoping to distract her mind from the pain of being fed to near bursting.
Slowly and gently I rub until her squeals soften to moans of pleasure. Steady streams of milk flow from her primed teats.
“Sorry, girl,” I say as the near 400 pounder quivers at my touch. “Got a little carried away.”
I let the cow have a mild orgasm. It can’t hurt. Her milk’s not bottled anyway. She’ll just be for show once she gets big enough. Originally I had envisioned a 500 pounder who could be milked once, maybe twice a day. But watching her leak like a spigot as I fingered her made me think I could go much bigger. A 750 pounder with actively producing udders would be a very unique showpiece for sure. Quality would be less, but I could see her on a thrown in my east kitchen as a permanent creamer. Before company arrives the help could pump her full of syrup to distend her belly to jaw dropping roundness that would force her udders to roll off to the side. Her teats could be primed so a little pinch could get enough cream to sweeten coffee or tea.
The cow’s groans and moans, faded as the big girl drifted off to sleep.
I flag down some of the help.
“Give her an hour than I want another feeding and a thorough milking. This project needs to move along. I got big plans for this one.”