The Slutcow and the Farmer's Son
Jake is having a midlife crisis. Back home at his father’s dairy farm, he encounters Iris the hucow.
Lucasville, Wisconsin
October 2026
Iris Terentina von Bauern und zu Hof
lay on her back in her stall,
her eyes half closed.
Around her, the steady breathing
of the rest of the herd indicated
that they had long since nodded off.
She sighed into the darkness. Sometimes —
all right, most of the time —
being the only hucow among the regular Holsteins
was a lonely business. Especially
when one wanted to talk
about the more human side of things.
Specifically about Farmer John’s son.
He had arrived yesterday
from a place called New York City
and today he had joined Farmer John
in the milking room. His name was Jake.
Jake was thirty-seven, according to Farmer John.
He was also, as Iris herself had noticed,
tall, dark-haired, and square-jawed
with blue eyes like the sky.
One might have called him handsome
if only he smiled more.
Farmer John always talked to his cows
as he went about hooking them up
to the pumps. This morning had been no different.
He had spent most of the time
telling them about his new exercise routine
and how all this running
affected milk prices, gas prices,
and grocery prices.
Iran, Iran, Iran.
Jake, on the other hand,
had said nothing except to tell his father
to take it easy and go back to the farmhouse.
He’d take care of things in the dairy,
he’d said.
But he hadn’t. Instead of reaching
for the copy of Where’s My Cow?
that Farmer John always read aloud to them
as the pumps suctioned out their milk,
Jake had just stood there
and fiddled with the dials. Then
he’d begun polishing the milk vats
with unnecessary vigour.
He made everyone nervous.
She’d shifted on her feet,
suddenly all too aware
of the pumps’ tug on her nipples.
As he strode past her, she’d arched her back
and then twisted from side to side, hoping
that movement might dissipate the tension
that his presence had introduced.
She’d frozen for a moment
as her tail swished against his legs,
but if he’d noticed her discomfort
— or anyone else’s — he ignored it.
Around them, the other cows
stamped their hooves and lowed,
to no avail. Iris had shot him
more than one baleful glance
as he ignored their entreaties
to remove himself from the room.
After milking,
Farmer John usually applied gentle pressure
to their behinds to urge them back towards their stalls.
Even the regular cows knew the routine
and rarely ever needed the reminder
of the crop.
His son, however, had chosen the crop,
and Iris, bringing up the rear of the group,
had suffered the brunt of it.
He knew how to wield it.
She didn’t know if his obvious skill
made it better or worse.
At first she’d thought
that he simply wanted her to hurry.
She’d quickened her step as he strafed her ass,
trying to keep ahead of the sting
but to no avail. His longer strides meant
that he kept up with her
regardless of her efforts to outpace him.
Not for the first time in her life,
Iris lamented the limits of her brainpower.
Her mind had objected
to the barbarity of his treatment,
but her body — well, her body
had disagreed with the idea
that Jake’s actions were in any way undesirable.
Nothing made any sense.
She’d held her breath in terrified anticipation
of his next stroke even as her pussy juices
threatened to spill down her thighs.
As she reached the safety of her stall,
she’d turned to look at him.
He had stared back at her,
his eyes unreadable.
A muscle jumped in his jaw as he raised his arm
and brought the crop down on her clit
with impeccable aim.
Iris cringed at the recollection.
She’d collapsed onto her knees,
moaning and mooing as the dreadful sting
subsided.
He watched her, his eyes narrowing
with an expression that she didn’t understand.
Somehow it had mortified her.
She had drawn her hands over her pulsing pussy,
her cheeks flaming, refusing to meet his gaze.
Meanwhile, his lips twitched.
He wasn’t smiling. Instead, it was as if,
upon seeing her writhe on the straw,
he beheld a job well done.
