The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Present

The breasts of Laura, my nineteen year-old daughter, pull on her slender frame. They’re so heavy her back muscles are shaking. Blue veins bulge and throb, wormlike, around her areolae.

“Please, Daddy,” she gasps. “It hurts. I need you to do it.”

Six of us—my family and our two visitors—are in Laura’s spacious, pink-walled bedroom. Our home is saunalike, and Laura, my wife, my son, and I are all slippery with sweat. We’re dying in this cloggy heat, but our visitors require it. And unlike us, their skin is dry.

Laura rests on hands and knees on her vast white bed, her sex offered up to the dark and muscular man at her rear. She is sliding herself along the two thick, calloused fingers he slid into her moments ago. The motion gently knocks her breasts together. Such slight collisions might normally feel pleasurable, but for Laura it’s agony. Her massive boobs are engorged with milk, which makes even the mildest collision miserable.

“Please Daddy it hurts please, you can touch me, it’s okay, just please make it STOP.”

At my left is a groan. Stacia—my wife and Laura’s mother. She lays nude in a blue armchair, one leg slung across an armrest, long black hair flowing over her breasts. Her pudenda is shorn and pink, her labia glistening. She touches herself and gazes at our daughter’s purpled, pneumatic breasts.

I did say we had two visitors. In a chair to my right reclines another man—taller, lighter-skinned, and leaner than the dark man at my daughter’s rump. Before this second man kneels a fit, naked, and pale young man with a bob of black hair: William—my son, and Laura’s twin brother. He bestows on this caramel-colored man a tender and worshipful fellatio.

I can’t see William’s face, but the growing puddle of precum beneath him tells me he’s as lost in arousal as my wife.

The second guest flashes me a brilliant grin. He approves of my son’s work. I don’t think William is even gay.

And me? Well. I’m naked on the floor in front of my pleading daughter. My cock pulses out a beady and clear ooze. I cannot tear my gaze from the mesmerizing knocking of Laura’s breasts. I fancy I hear sloshing. Off each nipple dangles an opaque and elongated drop of milk.

Three Months Ago

“We got a package from Laura,” I said.

Stacia and I were in our living room. She was kicking off her heels after a week of corporate lawyering. I was bleary from 12 hours of caring for cardiac patients.

My wife snorted. “More trinkets for her ‘research?’”

“Maybe,” I said. “Except it’s not addressed to herself, like the rest of them. It’s addressed to you, me, and William.”

Laura was a college sophomore—an anthropology major with a minor in gender studies. She was spending the year trekking the Asian steppes, studying the Ut-Sark people. They were a tribe of cow-and-sheep herders, and their numbers were dwindling rapidly. Modernity, Laura told us, was overtaking them. Pushed off their land, pushed out of their way of life. Almost a Trail of Tears situation, she insisted. So their culture needed to be recorded, maybe rescued, before it vanished from the earth.

So, back in August, Laura had traveled to Asia to live among the Ut-Sarks. For six months we received monthly letters related to her travels. Then in March came this package: large, heavy, and addressed to all of us.

“Well, open it,” said Stacia. “Let’s see what’s she sent from the bushmen.”

“Nomads. They herd cows and sheep, and they—”

“Open the package, Arthur. I’m wiped, and the less I can think about Laura, the better.”

Reaching into the box, I ignored my wife’s bitterness. Part of me couldn’t blame Stacia, of course. She had clawed herself from trailer-park poverty into a law career pulling down seven figures a year. That was admirable, but her hard-driving life had left her contemptuous of any career that didn’t bring in the bucks. Laura’s academic pursuits—and Laura herself, really—she saw as self-indulgent and worthless.

But I was proud of my smart daughter. My little girl, traveling to a distant land to study a profoundly patriarchal culture. . . . I thought her independent and brave.

I reached into the box, pushed past the cushioning straw, and hoisted out a sculpture the size of a small microwave. A deep and beautiful bronze, it was a scene of two men herding four cattle. Grunting, I set it on the coffee table.

“It’s gorgeous,” I marveled.

“It’s expensive,” spat Stacia. “My money at work.”

“Maybe it was a gift,” I pointed out. “Not from Laura but from the tribe.”

That mollified Stacia. “Maybe so. It is rather pretty.”

I studied the bronze. “Two adults. A bull and a cow. And two calves, male and female.”

Stacia touched one of the creature’s flanks. “Oh, it’s warm. How is it warm? And what’s this?”

I looked around. A raised glyph of some sort—a circle pierced by a spearhead.

“A brand,” I suggested. “To mark ownership. Each animal has it.”

“Hunh,” said Stacia. Her long fingers caressed the brand. “Each one.”

“Look at the eyes,” I said. The animals’ eyes were small red rubies. The men’s eyes were brilliant green emeralds. All the gems flickered gently, as if from some inner light.

Stacia and I caressed the warm, soft bronze and gazed at the glittering gems for some time.

“I guess it is lovely,” she eventually said. “Lovelier if actually a gift.”

I dug through the box and drew out a small piece of paper. The top had a short message in Laura’s handwriting: “A new herd of the Ut-Sark Tribe of the Steppes, freely given.” The rest was covered in row after row of florid glyphs. We couldn’t read them, but they were so beautifully rendered that we couldn’t help but gaze at them for some time.

Eventually, Stacia said, “Their writing is beautiful. Like the sculpture.” Then her eyes hardened. “Maybe Laura can sell it all when her degree leads her into poverty.”

“Where should we put the bronze?”

Stacia considered. “Why not right here? Where we can all enjoy it?” She caressed it some more. “I don’t much care for art, but this one invites . . . contemplation.”

I nodded. “It’s relaxing. Soothing.”

Stacia’s cell phone rang. After a short conversation, she hung up.

“That was William,” she said. “He’ll be late again. The other busboy couldn’t make it.”

William—Laura’s twin—was nothing like her. As dim as Laura was sharp, as uninterested in the life of the mind as Laura was devoted to it. Still, he was a good boy. When he wasn’t working, he was at the gym. I worried about his future, but I was pleased with him nonetheless.

Stacia, who considered William unambitious, despised him nearly as much as she did Laura. But at least William wasn’t costing us money. At least William worked.

Stacia stroked the statue one last time. Then she stood. “Bed,” she said, reaching her hand to me. “Are you coming?”

I was startled. That was how Stacia propositioned me. But weren’t we exhausted?

I guess not. I took my wife’s hand, followed her to our bedroom, and made love to her for the first time in many months.

The Present

The drops hanging off Laura’s nipples are clearly breast milk, but it’s unlike any milk I’ve seen. The fluid is opaque, slow-moving. Her milk is like thick, white honey.

“Why is there milk?” I ask. “The milk . . . did you have a baby?”

“I’m their food,” Laura whimpers. “They feed me spices. It makes me make milk. The milk goes to their herds—”

“Their herds? Their cows? An sheep?”

Laura begins to weep. “Please Daddy it hurts so bad I need milking every couple hours or it hurts and they haven’t milked me for FIVE WHOLE DAYS and I can’t sleep please—”

Laura’s begging is wearing me down. My desire to ease her pain pushes aside any taboo. And I’m a medical professional. Just treat this clinically, I think. There’s nothing sexual about milking my daughter to relieve her pain.

Intending to do no harm, I reach for her breasts.

Stacia hisses, “Don’t do it, Arthur.”

I halt before I reach Laura’s breasts. “I’m just trying to help her. Medically.”

“Don’t you fucking do it, Arthur. Do not help her.”

Laura sobs, and Stacia smiles, and I realize what it’s about. Stacia’s not trying to prevent some sexual perversion. She couldn’t care less about that. No; Stacia wants Laura to be in pain. She wants Laura to suffer for what she’s done to us.

At my right, my son’s mouth is audibly making our other guest as happy as a man can be.

“Daddy,” begs Laura. “Daddy, please, I hurt so much.”

Stacia hisses yesss and amps up her fingering.

Two Months Ago

William ran into the living room, hair bouncing. “Another package from Laura. For the three of us.”

The new package was smaller and lighter than the one with the bronze—which Stacia, William, and I had taken to communing with daily. We also kept the note with the symbols nearby. We still didn’t know what they meant, but we enjoyed looking at them.

William shook the box. “Maybe it’s a dictionary. To tell us about their language.”

“Yes,” said Stacia, sipping chardonnay. “That’d be very lovely. What grunts and clicks translate to ‘Shithole Country?’”

William opened the box. The room bloomed with a tangy, sweet spice. He pulled out four aromatic wreaths, scrunchie-sized rings of purple leaves woven together with grass.

Stacia wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. Potpourri.”

William pulled out a note and read it aloud. “‘In honor of the new herd of the Ut-Sark Tribe of the Steppes, freely given. Place at the four corners of your shelter.”

I frowned. “In honor of the statue?”

The rest of the note had more glyphs, different from the others but just as beautiful. We mulled them over as the scent of the spiced wreaths filled the room, the home.

“Maybe it’s okay,” said Stacia. “The scent. I’m getting used to it.”

“Yeah,” said William. “I like it.”

We sat there a time, breathing deeply. The statues’ eyes sparkled and thrummed.

Stacia said, “Arthur.”

“Hmmm?”

“The wreaths. Place them in the house. You know, at the corners.”

“Um. The whole house will smell that way, then.”

“Right,” said Stacia. “That’s the point.”

“Okay. Where?”

“Lord, Arthur. You’re a bright boy, I hear. Figure it out.”

One wreath went in Laura’s room, a second in William’s, and a third in my and Stacia’s room. I got clever with the fourth one, placing it around the neck of the bull in the sculpture. That way, when we spent time with the bronze, we’d also enjoy the spices.

The Present

The veins of Laura’s breasts writhe. “Daddy don’t listen to that bitch. She hates you, she hates me, all of us—please.”

I mumble something about respecting one’s mother. Stacia barks out a laugh.

The darker man audibly removes his fingers from Laura’s rear—she shudders, whimpers, humps air—and brings them near his nose. He inhales lightly, then smiles as if he has sampled a perfectly aged wine.

Then he leans forward, over Laura’s body, and jams his fingers up my nose. Wriggling his fingers, he slathers my nostrils in my daughter’s musk.

Her fluids: they are the same scent as the wreaths, but far, far more powerful. A muggy, cloying, mind-dulling, body-broadening scent. My senses mutate. The room grows brighter. Sounds come as if I’m underwater. My skin buzzes, detecting the lightest eddies of air produced by my wife’s busy hand, my son’s bobbing head, the breathing of the men. If I could smell something other than my daughter’s pussy, I’m certain I could detect the sweetness of her breast milk and the grass of the distant steppes on our guests’ feet.

In dizzy weakness, my arms buckle. I faceplant, and my ass bobs up in the air. Our guests laugh as I loopily try to regain my kneeling station.

The dark man sinks his fingers back into my daughter, works them around, and withdraws them. Over to William he goes. He quickly waves his fingers under the other man’s nose. The caramel man laughs, waves the scent away with a woo-ing sound, and utters appreciative syllables.

The dark man grips William’s hair and pulls his head back. My son puts up a tepid resistance. As with me, our guest snakes his fingers up William’s nose and deposits my daughter’s juices into his nostrils. All the muscles in my son’s body slacken, and he slumps to the floor.

The dark man returns to Laura and re-anoints his fingers. Over to my wife he goes, his fingers stringy and drippy.

One Week Ago

“Another letter from Laura,” said Stacia, tossing it on the table next to the statue. “Because she’s gone native. Because she doesn’t know how to call, text, or email like a human being.”

We’ve gathered in the living room, playing Scrabble, like a good family would. We’re spending more time together. Being together whenever we can.

William says, “It’s pretty amazing. Getting a letter all that way.”

“Amazing if you’re a savage,” said Stacia. “Amazing if you believe that Norplanting underaged black girls is a slow-motion genocide and African inoculations are actually sterilizations.”

Clenching our teeth, William and I ignored Stacia’s outburst. She’d always been mildly impolitic, but lately she’d gotten far worse. And we all seemed different. Stacia was angry all the time. William seemed . . . slower. Dumber. And me, I’d always been laid-back. Stacia called me passive. And now? It was like I was stoned from sunup to sundown. It made caring for my patients difficult.

William scanned the letter. “She’s coming home next week!”

Stacia tsked.

“And she’s bringing friends.”

Stacia laughed. “Friends? Moochers. Dirty-feet pot-smoking fancy college shits—”

“No,” said William. “Members of the Ut-Sark Tribe. She’s bringing two of them to the United States.”

Stacia sat up. William and I winced, knowing what was coming next. “She’s bringing grass apes into MY home?”

“Our home,” I reminded Stacia.

“I make the real money, Arthur. You’re just a fucking nurse. A bump up from candy striper—I’m surprised they don’t make you wear a skirt and give ‘special’ sponge-baths! If it were your home, this’d be a goddamned ranch house with only one walk-in closet and two bathrooms.”

Before I could defend myself, William said, “There’s a coin in here,” and he slid it out of the envelope into his palm.

We gathered over it. Golden, brilliant, and about the size of a silver dollar. It bore glyphs resembling the characters on the letters and on the flanks of the cattle on our sculpture.

“It’s . . . lovely,” admitted Stacia. “Even beautiful.” She caressed it, and a shudder ran through her. “And it’s warm.”

Reflected light from the coin danced across her face, William’s face, and I’m assuming mine, too. Soothing, lovely shine.

William looked at the letter. “‘In honor of the new herd of the Ut-Sark Tribe of the Steppes, freely given. Mount at the entrance of your shelter.’”

“Our ‘shelter,’” snorted Stacia. “Like we live in a barn or something.”

“In honor of the new herd,” I mused. “So the coin is for the sculpture. Laura told me a little about this. Animism. Actual spirits in objects. Treating things as if they have souls.”

William said, “I guess they want us to put the coin near our front door. . . ?”

We stood around William’s hand, our senses soaking up the coin.

Someone in my head thought: This is not right. Something is wrong. The letters, the statue, the wreaths, this coin. These scents and glyphs. They’re doing something to us—.

Then Stacia spoke, decisively. “Mount the coin by the front door, Arthur. On the inside. Where we can see it when we leave for the day and when we come home.”

“But not too high,” said William. “Close enough to touch. I want to touch it.”

Stacia nodded. “That’s smart, William. Touching it, every day.”

The rightness of their directives extinguished my concerns. After deciding where to mount the coin, I retrieved wood scraps, screws, and a drill from the basement. When I was finished, the coin sat regally above the simple wooden cross by our front door, roughly at eye-level. We’d see and touch it every day, now.

I returned to the living room. William was kneeling at the sculpture, one hand on the bull’s back. Stacia was at the thermostat, changing the settings.

“The letter says they like it warm,” explained Stacia. “Really warm. So we have to be good hosts.”

“And Laura has asked us to take time off work,” said William. “So her friends can understand us properly.”

Stacia retrieved a spray bottle of water from the kitchen and liberally spritzed the wreath around the bull’s neck. “Refreshing the spices,” she explained. “They like the scent.”

I took this in. Ramping up the thermostat. Time off work. A coin above our cross at the front door. Intensifying the scents of the wreaths. And Stacia was agreeing to it . . . ? And participating in it?

What was going on, here?

Then the tangy, thick spice-scent reached my nostrils and into my mind and everything was just fine. All this stuff, it’s just what we had to do, now.

The Present

“N-no,” says Stacia to the dark man approaching her with goopy fingers. “Get away from me, you aborigine.”

He is at my wife, Laura’s secretions at the ready. With her one free hand—she can’t stop touching herself—Stacia slaps at the dark man’s ribs. She might as well be slapping bronze. “Arthur,” she wails. “For God’s sake you weakling, protect me!”

I should be angry. I should expend every last inch of my strength and rise up to defend my wife. But I can barely keep my own head up.

Clutching Stacia’s hair, the dark man wrenches back her head and lances two lubed fingers up her nose. She spasms as if jabbed with dozens of needles. Then her struggles cease, and the hand at her sex falls aside.

The dark man pulls his fingers from Stacia’s nose. Lifting her by her hair, he shows her off to his friend. Blood trickles from one of her nostrils—he must have broken a few capillaries. The men chuckle and converse. I can tell they’re talking about us. Then the dark man drops Stacia to the floor, where she twitches and moans, her blood christening the white carpet of Laura’s bedroom.

William rises shakily to resheath the tall man’s cock in his head.

Thirty Minutes Ago

They arrived just after 11 in the morning. Stacia, William, and I had been waiting in the kitchen for hours. Not moving, only sipping water, breathing deeply, and gazing at the coin. We were strung out. The moist blast heat of the house had induced days of sleepless torpor. Sweat beaded on us with the slightest motion. William and I were in our boxers. Stacia wore panties and a loose-fitting tank top.

Without a knock, without ceremony, they entered my home. First came Laura. My heart leapt to see my daughter. Despite a year on the steppes, she was still pale—pale legs, pale face. Maybe a few freckles. And she’d grown more slender. Except . . . except her breasts? At least from what I could tell. She was wearing her college sweatshirt. And even though it masked her form, I could tell that breasts were higher and rounder than they’d ever been before.

What had happened to her?

Laura stood to the side and lowered her head as if in prayer. In came our guests. First the short, dark man, his obsidian skin gleaming, dressed in a long robe brightly colored in greens, reds, and blacks. Then the tall, caramel-skinned man, dressed the same way. Slung over the latter’s shoulder was a long leather pack and what sounded like metal poles rattling inside it.

Laura shut the front door and threw the deadbolt. With effort, I rose from the chair and reached out a shaky hand.

“Don’t,” said Laura. “Just sit, Daddy. It’s not what they do.”

The men sniffed the air, noticed the coin, and smiled. The dark man said something.

“The sculpture,” said Laura. “He wants to know where it is.”

“Our living room,” I said. “It’s—”

“Just show them,” said Laura.

We led them to the living room. The kitchen had been tropical; the living room was a wet furnace. The scent from the wreath around the bronze bull’s neck rose like steam. The red rubies of the animals’ eyes pulsed, while the green emeralds of the male figures’ eyes shone steadily.

The dark man stroked the bull’s head and smiled. He said a single syllable.

“He says you’ve done well, Daddy. Everything is properly prepared.”

Stacia began, “I also—”

The tall man barked angry syllables at my wife. Wide-eyed and fearful, Stacia stumbled back into a loveseat.

“Mother,” said Laura. “Women do not speak. Not before the Ut-Sark.”

“But you’re speaking,” said William.

“I have to translate. For now. But it won’t be for long.”

I frowned. “Why not?”

Laura began to speak, but the dark man said one syllable, and she dropped her head. Then the man closed his eyes, cleared his throat, opened his mouth, and—

And made sounds we did not understand. In a language that was . . . bigger than ours. More substantial. More real. Our language, by comparison, was the grunts and clicks of primitives.

Stacia, William, and I all bore the same stunned expression. We were all feeling the same thing. Laura had invited something awesome and terrible into our home.

The sounds of the man rang in our ears. Laura translated: “‘The customs of the Ut-Sark Tribe of the Steppes demand that those who host them be as nature intended. That they embrace their natural state, which is only right and just before the men of Ut-Sark.’”

Dumb confusion played across my face.

“The clothes, Daddy. We have to take them off. I freely gave us to the Ut-Sark Tribe of the Steppes. I didn’t mean to, but I did. So we aren’t allowed to wear clothes, anymore.”

Stacia bristled, anger burning away her awe. “You did this. You horrible little bitch. You turned us over to these apes.”

The light skinned man slapped Stacia, hard. She whimpered. I couldn’t move.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I thought they were making us honorary members of the tribe. I didn’t understand what I was doing to us.”

Stacia muttered “—aborted you—” but the light-skinned man slapped her even harder. Stacia cowered into silence.

The green gems glowed. The red eyes pulsed. The world turned hot and white.

From someplace outside of myself, I watched us remove our clothes. I saw my daughter’s hard, marbled globes for the first time. I understood the strain, the pain, in her voice.

Our guests led us up the stairs, to my daughter’s bedroom.

Now

The dark man repositions himself behind Laura. He forces her face into the comforter—I doubt she can breathe. He clears his throat, raises his arm, and beats Laura’s left ass cheek as hard as he can. And as he does so, he utters a syllable—not from any normal language, but something mightier than that. Vast, ancient, and true.

As the slap rings in my ears, I realize something. Laura’s hips are flanks. And so are Stacia’s. I’ve never thought of female hips as flanks, but of course they are. Flanks to caress, flanks to grip. Flanks to beat.

The dark man utters other words and slaps Laura’s other flank so hard my ears ring. Another realization strikes me. Our guests are as far above my family as my family is above the animals. That makes sense—I mean, look at us. Unclothed, kneeling, docile. No control over our lives. Me, Stacia, William, Laura—human animals all.

The man spanks Laura’s red, stinging flanks repeatedly, uttering new syllables. She writhes and screams into the pillow, but she stays put. I realize a new truth: We aren’t just human animals. We’re human livestock. And we have been, all our lives. Our upbringing, our schooling, our careers had rendered us all so docile—a domesticated bull, an unruly cow, and healthy, young calves.

And livestock has flanks. And snouts. And teats, and meat. Perhaps we have hands and fingers to serve our masters, but really our digits are no more than hooves.

The dark man releases my daughter’s skull. She gasps hugely and is red and sobbing and snotty and miserable. I have to help her. I have to help my baby girl.

I climb on the bed in front of my daughter and caress her hair. She mewls in misery. My baby girl. I’ll take care of you. I take her chin in one hand and lift her head. She gazes at me, beaten and pleading.

And I take my cock in my hand and begin to guide it toward her mouth. I don’t know why. I just know, somehow, that sucking on my cock will make my baby girl feel better. Will take her pain away. It will sooth her.

Then something terrible happens. Laura’s mewling turns into words.

“Daddeeeeeeeee . . . nooooooooooo. . . .”

In her eyes, I now see horror.

“No Daddy please don’t do this don’t please fight it please help me—”

My balls crawl up. My erection melts. This is not right. My daughter, my baby, whom I’ve raised, protected, and adored. My wife—my son! What are we doing, this is horrible—

Stacia sobs, pushes herself up. William screams around the other man’s cock, tries to push himself off, but the man grips his in head in place. We’re struggling—

Both men speak as one, booming out sounds that obliterate us. Goodness washes into us. Calmness. Love. Acceptance. My fear is wrong. Everything that’s happening is normal, and right.

I gaze into Laura’s distraught eyes. I stroke her hair. My eyes say, It’s going to be okay, baby. Daddy understands what is happening. Daddy will say and do the things to make it right.

Laura looks up at me, waits for my words.

“Cow,” I say to her. “Daddy’s baby is a cow in heat.”

Laura’s eyes roll back to their whites.

“My horny baby cow,” I say. “Look at you, all grown up. In heat, and ready to breed.”

My daughter grunts, grits her teeth, and pushes her aromatic, juicy sex up against the dark man’s groin. She humps air, and both men laugh. The dark man isn’t ready. He’ll enter my cow-daughter in his own time.

My cock inflates and strings of precum pulse out. “Daddy will train you,” I say. “To be a good cow. Now suck daddy’s big bull cock. Be a good—uuuhhhhhHHHH.”

Laura, letting go of herself, anoints my cock with her saliva. Then she takes it into her head and bobs on it. My cock is so big it distorts her face. She looks snouty, now. Snouty, and dumb.

“Good cow,” I say, stroking head firmly. “Good little cow.”

I love her so much.

The pink walls throb like my wife’s inflamed cunt. The air beats in time with the pulse in my ears. Slurps and groans and moans and moos. The man spanks my daughter’s ass and speaks more words.

Oh. I see. Twenty years ago I mounted the cow Stacia. From our rutting the cow had whelped two calves, female and male, a cow and a bull.

Well, this I already knew. But now he spoke another word. They aren’t even our calves. We don’t own them. Stacia and I don’t even own ourselves. We belong to our visitors. No, not visitors. Owners. We belong to our owners. We don’t even have names. Names are for humans. We are livestock, and livestock don’t have or need names.

I sense a movement behind me. The older cow, once named Stacia, spreads my bull asscheeks. Something wet and hot circles my anus. My mate’s tongue. My mate-cow is reaming me.

My mind blows up. My balls do not. I don’t understand. I should be filling the girl-cow’s mouth with sperm, but I’m not. The girl-cow grunts and gags as my meat pulses. She looks up with dumb, broken, happy beastliness.

The dark man instructs us. The girl-cow releases my cock, rolls over, and rests her face beneath my pelvis and licks my balls. I lean forward and put my face over my girl-cow’s bare pussy. The old cow at my rear now has better access and forces her tongue up my anus. I shove my nose into the girl-cow’s cunt and inhale her spices. Tangy juice soaks my sinuses.

“Good girl-cow,” I mumble. “Feed daddy-bull your cunt juice.”

Hot tongue at my balls. Hot tongue up my ass. Young pink pussy at my face. I lick. Girl-cow moans and re-engulfs my cock.

Another word. No, not right. I no longer hear words. Pulses and throbs. The boy-bull pulls himself off our other owner’s cock. He mounts the bed in front of me and places it at the girl-cow’s mating place. His cock smells like mine, but fresher. Another pulse. I take the boy-bull’s cock into my mouth. With my free hand I sink fingers into the girl-cow’s mating place. I ready the girl-cow and boy-bull for mating. Like a good daddy bull does.

The girl-cow’s legs spread wide. The boy-cow places his meat thing at her breeding place. In goes his meat thing, sliding into her breeding place. I can hear it moving, hear it pushing in and out of her. Girl-cow shivers and lows around my own meat thing.

Owners speak to me and old cow. I pull my meat thing from girl-cow’s face. Old cow and I move to sides of girl-cow. We are good parents to this girl-cow. She is in pain. We need to help her. Old cow and I lower our snouts to girl-cow’s big hard teats. Staring at each other, old cow and I begin to suck hard, suck deep.

Hot milk, thick and chunky, coats our throats. Spicy, so spicy, the milk spicier than the air. The girl-cow wriggles and groans in pain and relief as boy-bull ruts with her. The old cow sucks hard, chokes, gasps, shudders, keeps sucking. Milk leaks from the corners of our mouths. Old cow and old bull suckle at the teats of the girl-cow as the boy-bull pumps his meat thing in and out of her mating hole. So backwards, now, mommy and daddy drinking from the girl-cow and the boy-bull breeding his sister-calf and the sister-calf wanting more more more— but it sounds like moo moo moo—.

Our owners laugh. Cow and bull suck. Bull and cow calves breed. All is right, now. It’s right to empty teats of milk, milk that calms our heads. It’s right for boy-bull to empty meat milk up girl-cow’s mating hole. It’s right when old cow and bull clean boy-bull’s meat thing with tongues.

Meat thing warm and tasty. Meat thing taste so good. Old bull wants to breed with young bull, feed on young bull’s meat milk. Silly. Bulls don’t breed with each other. That’s sick. But all animals are sick and silly, and Owners are kind. Owners forgive bulls that breed with bulls, even though such bulls be sick and silly.

Boy-bull and girl-cow done rutting. Old cow and bull done drinking from girl-cow’s teats. Owners lead us from white room, down steep hard bumpy hills, into hot room by small brown cattle with beating red eyes, like us but not us.

Whole fleshy white herd family face one way side-by-side, raise rumps high. Owner sparks blinding blue light. Owner holds long, hard, dark stick with circle at end. Blue light touches circle on stick. Stick no burn, circle no burn. Circle gets red, then blue, then white. Owner walks behind old bull—

Pain. Pain at flank. Old bull bellows. Cries. Falls to floor. Then screams of old cow, young bull, young cow. All on floor crying.

Then comes Owner sound. One pulse, two pulse. Pain is okay. Pain will fade. Pain is the fate of animals, pain and pleasure. Owners grant both, free to give both, always. Animals grateful to take both, always.

Soon dark. Then comes huge thing, noisy, roaring, comes outside on round turning things, not legs. Comes during dark, dark time, no light in sky. Family herd frightened. Owners lead us outside home and into huge thing. A big empty room, smells of other cattle and spice milk and hay. Owners close big door. Very dark. And huge thing shakes, rumbles, and moves.

Cattle scared, huddle. Breed each other to make good feelings. Daddy bull mounts girl-cow while boy-bull licks daddy-bull’s balls. Daddy bull makes meat-milk inside girl-cow—so much meat-milk, daddy bull so proud. Old cow licks daddy bull’s meat-milk from ground while girl-cow and boy-bull lick daddy bull’s meat thing clean. Happy herd feels better, closer. Falls asleep, piled on top of each other.

Finally after long time, box opens. Bright light. Hot, hot, air is wet. Owners there, lead us out. Grass. Sun. Food. Fields. Dirt. Water. Water spicy, too. Spice and gleaming circles everywhere. All for cattle. Cattle happy here. And other cattle there, too. Other cattle, and other Owners.

Many light and dark and light times, round and round and round. More Owners come, all dark. More bulls and cows come, all white, all have circles on flanks. Herd healthy. Herd breeding. Herd growing. Cows breed with cows, bulls breed with bulls, bulls and cows breed with calves, calves breed with each other. Milk flow everywhere—teat milk and meat milk, so spicy.

Old daddy bull not know where old cow is, or cow-girl is, or bull-boy is. See them sometimes, mate with them sometimes, but then they go off elsewhere. Old cow have big, big belly, cow-girl also have big, big belly, big milky teats dragging on ground, drip drip drip. Bellies slosh full of milk, of teat milk, of meat milk.

They happy. We all happy. Old daddy bull happy, too. Owned by the Ut-Sark, as is meant to be.