Terri Factory-Fucked and Flowing
“Yeah,” Zane chuckled. “She was shakin’ like a loose washer when I clamped those suckers on. Milk started comin’ out ‘fore the vacuum even kicked in.”
Bootlegger’s Taproom, Cedar Ridge – Next Week
Colton Ray slid into the booth, dust still clinging to his boots and a pack of chewing tobacco tucked behind his ear. He didn’t bother with greetings.
“So?” he asked, eyes glinting. “How’s our lil’ dairy queen up at Three Pines?”
Zane Puckett grinned like a man with a secret too juicy to keep.
“You wanna see?” he said, already pulling a fresh polymer sheet from his pocket. It was still warm—fresh from the glovebox printer in his rig.
He laid it on the table with a slap.
Terri, naked, face twisted mid-cry. Arms bound behind her, milk tubes snaked from her swollen breasts into a pair of clinking glass jars, already half full. A man—some dark-haired technician or guest, unknown—was hammering her from behind, one hand gripping her ass, the other steadying her like a workpiece under pressure.
Colton let out a low whistle. “Now that’s some fine goddamn engineering.”
“Yeah,” Zane chuckled. “She was shakin’ like a loose washer when I clamped those suckers on. Milk started comin’ out ‘fore the vacuum even kicked in.”
He made a sucking gesture with his mouth, then laughed. “Told her, ‘Damn, girl, you leakin’ from every hole now.’”
Colton leaned closer, tracing the air above the image. “Look at that arch. That’s a bred-in pose. Natural now.”
Zane nodded proudly. “She was moanin’, whimperin’—not the good kind. Said her tits were too full, it hurt. So I slowed the pump down. Just a bit. Let it drag.”
Colton smirked. “Now you speakin’ my language.”
Zane tapped the photo again. “Thing is—she still looks at you like she remembers bein’ somebody. That’s what gets me. She knows she’s livestock, but her face ain’t caught up.”
Colton gave a dry grunt. “That’s the best part. Watching ‘em try to hold on. Like a fly stuck in syrup.”
Zane laughed again, but this time a bit quieter. “Told her she oughta be thankful. Not every girl gets to be useful twice at once.”
Colton leaned back and stretched. “You oughta get that one framed. Put it in the Carmichaels’ office—Productivity in Motion.”
Zane grinned, sliding the print back into his polymer sleeve with care. “Might do that. Got a few more pumpin’ sequences on file. Gonna sort through ’em tonight.”
Colton slapped the table. “Hell, let’s get another round. You’re practically an artist now, Z.”
The bartender brought whiskey in chipped mugs, and the two men clinked them together, their laughter mixing with the crackle of the jukebox and the dull hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Outside, the fog rolled heavy over Cedar Ridge, and at Three Pines, the pumps hissed in rhythm.
Povel Vieregg
