Junecow

All characters in this story are adults.

June let her foot off of the gas as she drove past the entrance to the area's largest, most prosperous farm. She had no idea how or why The D Ranch D was so spectacularly successful when her farm, and most of those that surrounded the Double D (as most locals called it) constantly lived hand to mouth.

The trouble was that no one could wrangle an invite to the proprietor in order to learn what he did differently from everyone else! He was a secretive man - or so the local gossip went. Many afternoons in the diner were spent speculating about this man, and he had swooped in from far out of town, no one knew exactly where, and had simply landed and turned what had been a farm like theirs - constantly on the edge of disaster - into a success.

Yet, how? His livestock mixture was similar to theirs. His feed was similar to theirs. His machines were similar to theirs. None of it made any sense. She wanted to drive up his road and park in front of his house, barging in and demanding an explanation.

But instead, she drove past his place and headed to her farmstead. The moment she was beyond his lands her mind returned to the never-ending pressure of living day to day. There was a payment past due on a big tractor repair that had been required; where would she squeeze out the money for that?

***

Of course Paul had named this obstinate cow Bessie. June was seated and performed the soft gentle squeeze-and-pull routine on her udders, obtaining her milk. She had wanted to get one of those fancy machines that did the milking for her, but Paul's heart attack had killed those thoughts with the same finality that the seizure had taken his life.

In the predawn darkness, June toiled at her routine, daily tasks and fought the bitter tears at his loss. Nearing one year since his passing, she felt his loss more acutely than ever. He had been taciturn, so it wasn't like they conversed while she milked the cows and he did his things. It had been his presence, and losing it left her feeling utterly alone and vulnerable. Those were feelings that she hated.

With her mood already black, the envy that she had once felt solely towards the success of the Double D was now aimed at several neighboring farms. Even the stupid witch of a woman Shannon was driving around town in a brand new pickup. Shannon had bitched longer and louder than all of her neighbors about their woes, and now she was driving a goddamn pickup? A new one? How the fuck was that even possible? The envy drove her thoughts darker and darker.

What could it be? How could Shannon (whom June had always privately considered to be a cow) have tasted success while she struggled in the dark just to pay the bills? How could Shannon be eating at the diner two or three times a week while June was relegated to once-monthly lest she run out of money. The life insurance policy on Paul had eased all of her burdens, at least in terms of prior debts, but the crushing reality of a spartan, lonely existence weighed heavily on her again.

June shifted, and her body shifted with it. She looked down at her thick, heavy breasts and looked at Bessie and muttered an oath that Paul would have been shocked to hear emerge from her mouth. She was a prim, god-fearing woman, or so Paul had always said. Hearing his wife curse that vilely would have likely turned his stomach. But June was struck in that moment at how cow-like her own body was. She had great udders of her own, and like the solid, thick cows that roamed her property, she had a solid, thick lower body. If she tried to stuff herself into pants, she would feel more like a sausage than woman. So she wore loose-fitting shifts and eschewed bras because they were expensive to purchase, they were uncomfortable to wear, and at 4:30 in the fucking morning it wasn't like she had to withstand the ogling stares of her farmhands.

They still stared, of course, when she wore her dress and put a loose shirt overtop of it and strolled through the yard. Some days she felt a raging fury at their open wide-eyed stares. It wasn't like she looked to the heavens and prayed to God that he might bestow these massive tits upon her! Other days she felt a mild stirring of something that might be called arousal. But her worries were such a constant pressure upon her mind that she had no space to host something as futile as sexual arousal.

Bessie mooed and June released her, and prepared to move onto the next girl. She patted Bessie's solid rump and told her to move along before she was carved into steaks. As if Bessie understood, her head slowly looked back at June and June saw disapproval in those eyes. She patted the rump again. "Move along, girl. Gotta do the next!" she told the animal. It gave a soft moo and stepped forward. The next girl stepped up, and June's experienced hands went back to work.

The day promised to be one of those godawful hot ones that too often built thunderheads that might drop a twister to the ground. She wore a wide-brimmed hat as she emerged from her kitchen, noting that a moving cloud of dust indicated that she had a visitor. She stood on her porch awaiting the car's arrival, and saw with some pleasure that it was her good friend Trina. Katrina, some called her Kat, some called her Trina, but she was a good, decent woman and a good friend. She killed the vehicle and got out of the car, waving at June. June's face split into a grin as she waved back, and she ducked inside to fetch the pitcher of iced tea.

By the time she returned, Trina was sitting in one of the rockers, wiping her brow of sweat.

An odd thought hit June then, and it was all the odder because she never paid much attention to the shape of a woman's body much, but it sure looked like Trina's boobs were bigger than she had ever seen them.

"To what do I owe this honor?" June asked with a smile.

Trina, accepting the glass of tea, took a sip and then held the drink politely in her lap, crossing her legs and beginning the rock. "Do I need a reason to visit my best friend?" she said.

June chuckled. "No, of course not, but you usually call before dropping in," June said.

"I forgot," she said absently. "I just needed to come sit here and be with you," she said as she turned and smiled warmly at June.

The women exchanged idle chit chat for about twenty minutes. They were the sort of friends who might not run into one another for months, but within seconds were back on track and caught up to speed. But June did notice that Trina seemed distracted in her replies. She often had her gaze fitted out to the west, not exactly in the direction of the Double D but close enough; Trina's family ranch was located behind her home. So staring wistfully in that direction was not possible, but June did notice that every time Trina's eyes flicked in that same direction, a flicker of a smile crossed her lips.

"Anything new going on in your life?" June asked. She had spotted a bright pink band on her wrist that looked very much like a fitness watch. Trina had never been much into fitness. So the watch was another item sparking curiosity.

That brought Trina's head around slowly. Her eyes seemed to clear a little but her face settled into an uncomfortable expression. Like there was something that she wanted to say with desperation but could not form the words. "Lots," she said as her face smoothed. June noted that Trina's face was looking healthier as well. She rambled on for a bit about her husband Bob and her three boys. Her youngest Devon had recently been offered a scholarship to the state university and Trina was quite excited about that. But her tales ran out of steam, and once again she peered off into the distance towards the west, that wistful smile back on her face.

"Trina, what's out there?" June finally asked.

"Out where?" she asked, her voice distant and dreamy.

"Whatever you're staring at," June clarified.

"The answer."

"To what?"

"Our worries," she said dreamily again.

June spoke gently. "Katrina, honey, you're not making sense," June said.

"I need to go," Trina said, standing abruptly. "Loved our talk, Junebell!" Trina said.

Shocked, June could barely stand in time to give her friend a hug. Trina's hug was limp and loose, and she practically ran to her car. She did not bother to wave at the now-baffled June, who stood on her porch and watched her friend leave as her mind tried to put things into place.

Once the dust trail following Trina's car was gone, June finally turned. She was unsettled, deeply unsettled. That had just been too weird for her, and she went to clean up and saw a white business card sitting on the rocking chair.

She picked it up and turned it over. There was, emblazoned in the most ungodly pink color that she had ever seen, the name of the D Ranch D at the top. Under it the tagline read "The best milk money can buy." There was a phone number.

June's feelings ran from confusion to fury in the time it took to read and comprehend what was on that card. She stomped into the house and picked up the wired phone, and cradled it to her head. She dialed the number.

"D Ranch D," a disembodied woman's voice said.

"Hi, my name is June, and I'd like to speak with the ranch owner, please," June said coldly.

"One moment," the woman said. There was a brief pause, then a deep, resonant voice answered. "D Ranch D," he said.

"What did you do to my friend Katrina!" she snarled furiously into the phone.

He chuckled. "I'm afraid that you have me at a loss," he said, casually dismissing her fury. "Your name is?"

"June. June Peterson. Katrina Wilkins is my best friend and she just left here, acting oddly! And she had your card that she left here!"

"Oh dear," the man said and actually chuckled softly. "You sound confused," he said next.

"CONFUSED?" she snapped into the phone. The one fault that Paul had always found in her was her temper was hot and quick. This man's dismissal of her concerns triggered that ire.

"Perhaps rather than yelling at me on the phone, we arrange for a visit to my farm so that you can see for yourself what we do here," he suggested silkily.

June calmed; yes, perhaps that was best. She agreed to it, and set a time for the following day - a Saturday - at 10AM.

"Do be punctual," he said. "I have a tight timeline," he added, which made no sense to June. None at all. What sort of farm runs on a tight timeline?

The next day, she showed up precisely at 10AM because if she was going to give this man a piece of her mind, then she was going to have to start the talk on as good of a spot as possible after her snarling conversations the prior day.

A man, probably in his fifties, stood there, awaiting her arrival. He was not dressed like a farmer; she was expecting a thickset man in jeans and work clothes, a hat and hands that were scarred and hard from intense labor. Instead she saw this slim gentleman, wearing dress slacks and good shoes and a light-blue polo shirt. He did not have any fat on him despite his age, and even at a distance June could see that his hands were soft.

She got out of the truck and slammed the door shut. The metal screeched in protest.

"June Peterson?" he asked softly.

"That's me," she huffed as she strode up.

"Please call me Byron," he said, his hand extended. Once more an expression of surprise crossed her face at his polite greeting, but her innate politeness compelled her to shake his hand. Not surprisingly, his hand was soft though his grip was strong.

"Byron," she said softly. What sort of name was that? Not a farm name, that was for sure!

"Please allow me to give you a tour," he said, and dropped his hand. "It may begin to answer your questions," he said.

"Fine. Fine," she groused, but since she had wanted nothing less than the tour, she was mollified. They walked in tandem, and he came to a pristine barn. He slid the door open and she was struck by what she did not smell. There was not the heavy aroma of hay, or the foul stench of manure. In fact, it took her a moment to work out that the lovely scent in her nose was that of lavender.

"The second floor is the best," he said. "You can see our operation, and then if you remain curious, you can actually view our farming processes!"

"Lead on," she said as her curiosity spiked even higher. He ascended a set of steps that were solid and did not creak under their weight. She had noted the heavy steel doors that led to the milking area. If that card was truthful.

He slid a well-oiled door aside and ushered her into a gleaming open space. There were rows of doors running the entire length of the barn, all nondescript. She looked down the hallway and her confusion deepened. "What is this?" she asked.

He chuckled. "You'll see in a moment," he said. He began to walk down the hall, and as she followed, she saw little nameplates. There were only initials on them, and the last one she got to she saw KW. She wondered if that was Katrina or not.

The penultimate door along the corridor did not have a name plate. He turned the door and opened it, and she went into a sterile, brightly lit room that had a big, deep-set couch on it.

"Please," Byron said, his hand sweeping towards the couch, "take a seat. We've discovered that the little video that we've prepared for you makes a lot more sense when you're comfortable."

"A video?" she asked, her voice conveying only doubt.

"Yes, a video," he said. His back was to her, and then he turned and walked towards her. He seemed to stumble into her and reached out to hold himself up. As he did, his right hand hit her upper arm. But in the confusion of the moment, she never felt the miniscule hypodermic needle depress into her arm.

"I don't want to sit down, I want answers!" she demanded.

"Oh, but the video has the answers. All of them," he said quietly.

"Why not just tell me directly?"

"Our farm can only be experienced by the video," he explained. His chuckle was soft, and indulgent. "It's one of my own making, and I am justifiably proud of it," he said.

The room began to spin a little for June. She swooned, raising her right hand and pressing the back of it to her forehead. She felt overheated suddenly, woozy.

"Perhaps you should sit," Byron suggested silkily.

"Yes...sit..." June whispered back. She had to sit; there was something definitely wrong with her all of a sudden. Byron assisted her to the couch, and it was the softest, most comfortable couch she had ever been on. Why, it fit her body just perfectly! She adjusted her ample bum back and forth, and rested her hands in her lap, and lolled her head over towards Byron.

"I don't feel good," she reported.

"Tell you what," Byron said, "I'll be right back, all right? I'll fetch you a tall glass of ice water."

"Okay," she agreed. He left the room and she tried to move her legs but they refused to budge. The hell of it was that her mind did not seem to care too much about the inconvenience of the paralysis. She heard the click of the door, and then she gasped as the room's lighting cut out, dropping her into a pure blackness where no light could be seen.

She was not fully aware of how long she was in the darkness. She was aware that this was very frightening and her mind grew more and more agitated as she realized that she could not hear anything, feel anything or even touch anything. She felt the pressure along her back and bum and her head rested comfortably on some pillow, but she could not even hear her own breathing. Panic began to settle upon her.

A pink dot appeared in the blackness. Her eyes centered on it. The dot grew closer and closer, and part of her mind began to register that there were words. What words? She couldn't tell.

But she relaxed. She just stared at the pulsing pink dot, and the words began to hit her mind slowly and steadily and her brain, her subconscious, without any other sensory input to process, simply drank in what the eyes fed it.

In a control room, Byron leaned back. His eyes flicked to the screen that had his newest cow. His eyes moved onto Katrina's cell, where she lay in a similar state to June. Her eyes were open, her face slack and her brain drank in its new programming avidly. She was very nearly ready for her first visit to the milking station, Byron judged.

June blinked as the door opened. Byron walked in carrying a tall glass of ice water, and smiled disarmingly at her as he handed it to her.

"Oh, thank you!" she said politely as she sat up. She took it, sipping it. After her sip, she thanked him for the tour of his facility.

"Oh, it's quite all right," Byron said. "And were all of your questions answered to your satisfaction?"

"Yes, yes," June assured him.

"I do wonder one thing, June?"

"Yes, what's that?" she asked.

He had a little pink wristband fitness-watch looking thing on a silver platter. "I wonder if you'll wear this for me?" he suggested.

"Oh!" She smiled. "Pink is not my color," she said as she plucked it off of the plate. She affixed it to her wrist. "But I can definitely wear this!" she said.

"Excellent!" he cried happily. "Oh, it's been SO nice to meet you, June!" His hand was extended and she slipped her fingers into the offered hand daintily. He hauled her to her feet and guided her back out of the barn. She allowed him to escort her to her truck, and then he waved her off.

Back inside the barn, he made a few notations to her file. The initial wire transfer was committed, and soon June would not have to worry about money. Soon, she'd not have to worry about anything.

Later that very evening, June laid in bed, staring into the darkness at her ceiling. Her mind refused to let her slip into sleep. She kept battling this sense that she had forgotten something, something so very vital that unless she remembered it, she might lose her farm. That vague disquiet had plagued her the entire evening. Even though she hated sitting at the desk and paging through the bills, she did exactly that, and one at a time she confirmed their due dates and whether her little systems she used to keep track of things were complete. They were. Satisfied that there was nothing out of whack on the farm's finances, she pushed away from the desk and returned to her living room.

She sat and fidgeted for another hour before giving up and going to bed. She had to be up at such an early hour that she was usually sound asleep by nine. It was nine forty-eight, or so the little pink watch on her left wrist said. She did not even question why it was there or what its purpose was; she just knew that having the time conveniently on her wrist was nice.

She toiled in an evil mood the next morning. It was dark and she groused having to leave her bed and the pleasure of the dreams that she'd been enjoying. She had no memory of them, but they must have been good, she concluded. She had not felt her sex that alive and awakened since Paul's passing. But despite the crawling itch high up in her body, the opened window in her bathroom let the sound of plaintive moos hit her ear. "Damned cows," she muttered.

Once the routine morning chores were done, she puttered about the main part of the farm. She had given the daily instructions to her farm manager and he in turn would advise the hands of their work that day. It was a routine day, nothing special or pressing. She was running a bit low on some kitchen supplies, so she went to her computer and checked her bank account. It was a thousand dollars more than she was expecting, which made her frown.

She stared at the screen, trying to frantically recall why she would have received that deposit. The watch at her wrist that constantly monitored her physical and mental state - unbeknownst to her - began to send out the signals. Her brain calmed and she again checked the name of the sender. Recollection kicked in. "Oh yeah," she said, and nodded happily. "I remember now."