Another incredible guest blog this week from Jenby, this time about a type of pet play that is genuinely new to me – more research into this required, because as soon as I read her post I immediately understood why this is so fucking sexy and compelling. ‘Hucow’ is a form of kinky pet play in which one person plays a dairy cow. Crucially ‘dairy’, because they are milked. Mmmmm… milked. Naturally, being able to literally produce one’s own milk is something of a bonus when it comes to becoming a hucow…
Note: contains ‘Mummy’ as an honorific. All participants are well over the age of 18. And also human, obvs.
Who’s the Bos – an udderly delicious hucow story
Hucow has always struck me as one of the cutest pet plays, possibly second only to reindeer (for real, snowmen aren’t the only ones in danger of melting at Christmas), but when I mentioned this to one friend of mine they looked on in confusion and said that for them there’s nothing cute about hucow play. It’s brutal and dehumanising. In the most delightful of ways, obviously.
I don’t know what it is about being vegan that seemingly gives my brain licence to find the brutal and dehumanising things we do to farm animals cute where my carnist friends struggle, but that’s probably a question better left to my as yet non-existent therapist to answer.
All’s I know is being treated like livestock is hot as fuck.
It’s the same across the board, whether I’m embodying a playful piggy or a clueless chicken. Being threatened with becoming bacon or getting overfed till I can’t move and pumping out eggs day after day cuts straight to my as yet non-existent coochie.
The difference is, with hucow, those threats do not have to be empty.
Because as regular readers of GotN will know, this time last year I successfully induced lactation for the first time, and since then I’ve been playing Mummy to any and all curious babs on the scene who fancy a taste of breastfeeding.
As a balls-to-the-wall sub however, I quickly discovered a far more fitting use for my newfound gift: getting milked.
Being less than spectacularly endowed in the chest department means I have a complicated relationship with hucow kink. Everyone else I’ve seen indulging in it has been fuller figured with ample breasts, and even though my perennial pet play of choice is pig girl, which shares a lot of the same stereotypes, it’s always been hucow I’ve felt peculiarly unqualified to enjoy.
I can tell myself that no body shape is wrong when it comes to kink, and know it to be true, but that little voice of dissent is hard to silence.
For me, it took being able to get milky.
And get milky I most certainly did. So committed was I to the idea of finally fulfilling my bovine purpose, I bought a cowbell from an actual farm shop, and got my ears pierced specifically so I could wear a set of bright yellow cow tag earrings from a vegan vendor in the US, who was utterly bemused as to why a product which had always been nigh-on impossible to shift was suddenly flying off the shelves (none of us had the heart to tell her the pet players had stumbled on her store and the hucows were absolutely losing their pats).
And as if to prove to myself and everyone else that I as a flat-chested trans girl could deliver the goods, I volunteered to participate in a lactation demo at a Femdom event earlier this month.
It was something of a gamble. I knew I could lactate on command, but whether I could do it while standing chest bared in front of an audience, in quantities that would read, when I didn’t know how tired or hungry I was going to be at that moment, was less certain.
Nevertheless, I slipped on into my cowkini, pulled up my cow print stockings and tied my agriculturally accurate cowbell round my neck with a pretty gingham ribbon, and dutifully trotted out onto the stage area in the tow of my Domme, Mistress Müller.
Wasting no time, she produced a set of wooden stocks, and locked them around my wrists and neck so my front hooves were well out of the way of the achingly full tits she now roughly exposed, untying my bikini top and tossing it to one side.
She announced to the crowd that it was time for my milking, and began to palpate my swollen, puffy nipples.
Nothing.
She leaned in with a concerned whisper, and I breathlessly stammered back, ‘harder’.
Almost as soon as the word had left my lips, an extra firm squeeze brought forth a massive, shimmering bead of cloudy fluid, and with the difficult part behind me I allowed myself to relax into the blissful humiliation of being reduced to livestock, which in turn caused a veritable stream of milk from both teats, cascading down over Mistress Müller’s cupped hands.
She brought a finger to her lips and languorously licked up the sticky liquid, as two other House Dommes joined in the milking, kneading and fondling my gushing breasts and encouraging more milk than I’d ever produced in my life.
My owner was taunting me now, telling me what a pathetic, desperate cow I was for agreeing to be milked in front of so many leering onlookers, but I was already miles away, the effort of producing such a generous yield taking its toll on my fragile, horn-addled mind, and as I floated blissfully beneath my superiors’ touch, completely unaware of whose hands were where, I just barely detected my handler for the day ordering me to moo for my adoring public.
A low, lazy moan escaped my lips, underscoring her smirking invitation to any audience members who fancied it to come up and sample my juices straight from the tap.
Cue a procession of kinksters filing up two by two to sup on my quivering breasts, like some delectably unholy communion, and a fresh wave of euphoria which sent me spiralling ever deeper into subspace…
The following weekend one of my erstwhile flock complimented me on the sweetness of my milk while obligingly stapling my lips together, as one does, during an extended torture scene.
‘Although,’ he pondered, ‘next time you perform a lactation demo you ought really to soundtrack it with “Express Yourself”.’
Now why hadn’t I thought of that?
Silly cow.