Old-Fashioned

This erotic story features anthropomorphic (furry) characters, intelligent humanoid beings with both animal and human characteristics.

"Old-Fashioned"

SHORT STORY

Devon walked by the secluded driveway towards the house at the end of a copse of bushes and trees. The neighbourhood was quiet. Neat. Flower-beds escorted his march up the drive. A little on the rich end but not obscene. He held in his hand the paper printout of the job offer. An informal affair — found on a website for short-term work-for-hire. It would pay decently, if he got it.

And if it really was as odd as he thought...maybe the money wouldn't be his only compensation...

His finger pressed against the doorbell. A jaunty jingle bounced around the house until, muffled by the walls, it spread outside like a premature greeting. He heard soon after the pounding of heavy footsteps as his hirer reached the door.

The lock clicked and the heavy varnished oak door creaked open. If Devon had been wondering if it was true what they said about anthros, the height of the front door was an indication...but now the person revealed confirmed it.

"Hi-yah!"

That upbeat voice belonged to an eleven-foot-tall bovine woman clad in a beige-and-yellow apron with floral patterns, a necklace of large wooden beads painted dark red, two short bracelets on her forearms (with faint rings of colour along their length), and what was either a bikini bottom or V-shaped underwear that showed on either side of her apron. That was all she wore — a fact clear to Devon as he beheld an enormous bust heaving behind the upper half of said apron, struggling against the cloth. He swore he could spot a pair of tell-tale bumps on each, but kept his gaze averted shortly after seeing.

The large lady's arm extended, open-palmed and awaiting a shake.

"Muh-Ms. Maybelle Vick?" Devon stammered.

The woman's face glowed through her patchy tan fur. She made a happy sound, like a chirpy sigh. Then her soft words returned. The sweet siren-song of a Southern Belle:

"Please! It's Mrs...and Maybelle is just fine. You must be Devon."

"That's right," he said, taking her huge hand and shaking it (or trying to — she was strong!). "So, Maybelle, may I come in?"

Meeting her eyes, he smiled. Maybelle's bovine features did nothing to dampen her beauty, even to someone unfamiliar with her kind. A couple of piercings in her ears, one of which trailed a small flap of material like a tag, decorated her. Otherwise she was quite plain. Well, whatever counted for plain among cow-folk.

He watched her expression grow more gleeful. "Why ain't you the politest li'l gentlemen in town. Course! C'mon in and follow me!"

Maybelle jammed a stopper into the front door with a shiny hoof and turned to the side, giving Devon a profile view of her sumptuous body. As she stabbed the alarm console on the wall, her chest and ass jiggled. The apron did little to hamper the quakes that wracked her curves. Still, much to her guest's chagrin, it stopped everything from slipping out.

Devon whistled. "Nice place. Very, uhh, fancy."

"Thanks. Call me old-fashioned, but I like a rustic home. Now—"

Devon nodded as she beckoned him to enter. He took at step into the house and let Maybelle undo the stopper and close it behind him. Before he saw her from the rear she turned around and gestured for him to go further.

"Inside, please."

She led him through the front of the house, making conversation.

"So, Devon sweetie...you seem nervous."

"Oh, it's nothing," he said, chuckling quietly, "I've never been up close with an anthro before."

"That's what's got you full o' butterflies?" Maybelle cooed. "Well, what do ya think?" She stopped walking when they reached a far door, and faced him.

"Y-you're very tall," he blurted out, quickly running a hand across his shoulders as the embarrassment set in.

"You betcha I'm tall. Tall and strong too. Well...as long as that's all y'all think about me then we ain't gonna have any trouble. C'mon..."

They passed through another doorway.

Devon spoke: "so can you tell me more about this job?"

"Still nervous?"

"No, um, I mean...what made you wanna start your own business?"

"Well, I recently quit my corporate job. Was working for Baltone Dairy — ever heard? No? Well see they provide a lot of milk for the stores in this area, and I was one of their best girls! But my husband an' I felt it was taking too much from our life together — he likes havin' me 'round when he comes home, see. Ain't as fun to have the house empty 'cause I'm still at work!"

They arrived at the back of the house. In a room that resembled an old barn — one from way back when. At its centre sat what appeared to be a massage table, the kind you'd find at a professional parlour; it was big, big and sturdy enough to support the weight of someone like Maybelle. But more than that, it had modifications that left a gap in-between the upper and middle third of the bed. A gap that to any observer, suspiciously resembled enough room to fit an eleven-foot anthro's stacked cleavage.

Devon knew that part. At least, he'd guessed it in some way from reading the job description.

Maybelle quickly broke his train of thought with a perky hop into the room. "Here we are," she proclaimed, skipping further into the room. Devon watched her backside shake and her tail swish.

"So, as I was sayin' sweetie, I need someone to help me with my own freelance dairy business! You're gonna be my assistant. If you like the job that is, an' boy I sure hope you do — I ain't got any other replies to my application."

"If I'm your only hope, then count me in."

"Aw shucks, quit talking all cute and help me set this up — go grab one o' them pails over yonder."

Devon complied and fetched a large metal cylinder that narrowed near the top. A pair of handles either side met his expectant hands as he hauled it over to the 'table'. Empty, so there wasn't a lot of weight. That would change soon.

"Now call me old-fashioned," Maybelle said, "but I prefer the traditional approach to dairy farmin'. Those machines were awful cold an' cruel. Eventually I couldn't take no more — not even for the money they paid."

"Was it that bad?" he asked, bringing his advance to a stop and grinding the base of the pail back-and-forth to slide it into position where she'd gestured.

"Didn't feel right." Maybelle slowed her speech with an accompanying sigh. "Ever get that 'bout something?"

Before Devon could answer, she started fiddling with the straps of her apron. "Had a hankerin' for doing things the natural way," she continued, "just like my ancestors! All natural. No machines."

Devon nodded and kept schtum. For a hot-blooded guy like him, there was definitely something deep down that drove him to enquire about Mrs. Maybelle Vick's job offer. And surely his attraction to the enormous lady currently tending to the knot that held her modesty in place came long before he'd even seen her. C'mon...did he really have to say this situation was kinda...sexy?

Maybelle, for whatever reason, didn't seem fazed by his interest — though he hid it well behind a mask of mundanity. He looked like this was just another job to tide him over 'til he found a better one. She knew it made a change to working retail, like he told her over the phone, even if she didn't dwell much on the sensual implications.

"Oh and Devon sweetie — can you go get that mount attachment and bring it over too." She pointed across the room to an extended piece of the massage table; it formed the shape of her bosom. Extra padding and support he guessed.

He brought it over and attached it to the prominent gap as per her directions. Then, Maybelle finally undid the knot of her apron. He saw the sides swing open, and a broad white ribbon flash in the sunlight on both her flanks. The previously form-fitting trunk of the apron loosened to a dangling sheet — suspended by the generous protrusion of her cleavage.

Devon suppressed a gulp.

Maybelle's hand ran over her neck and shoulder, then brushed up along her cheek and head. An innocent smile perked in the corner of her mouth as her nostrils flared and a huff of air spread audibly through the room. "Now," she said, "let's get started."

The bovine woman made Devon sit on a nearby stool while she turned around, standing between the makeshift milking 'bed' and her helper. He got a full view of her strong back: muscles contracting and expanding as she moved her arms out front. The lines of definition, hidden oft beneath soft fur and curves of fatty flesh, travelled with his gaze to her base of her spine. Her tail, long and swaying gently, mesmerised him. He ventured further — his eyes fixed on the bushy, conical tuft of wiry blonde hair at the tip.

A stomp — unintentionally assertive — from Maybelle broke his trance. He glimpsed those broad hooves supporting powerful legs and shook his head. Back to level with his eyeline, her buttocks inched closer as she leaned forward, inspecting something. The long, over-the-hip 'V' of her bikini bottom in flamboyant yellow glowed beside the dull, tawny fur of her hide as it clad her ass in its well-groomed coat.

Keeping her saucy lower half on, the anthro cow let the apron descend. From behind, Devon saw the reveal of her mighty mammaries only in parts — fleeting, blink-and-you'll-miss-it, glances. Side-boob galore.

Then, she turned around.

Devon struggled to keep his jaw from falling agape. All he could muster was a coy sentence:

"Those are some fine udders, Mrs. Maybelle."

"Thanks! And what did I say 'bout 'Mrs.'?"

"Sorry, Maybelle."

"Apology accepted sweetie."

She brought her hands up and gently supported the massive swell of her breasts. The beautiful coat of fur that blessed her bovine body fluffed up between her mounds, and ended in small circles around her chunky nipples. Not as pointy as a four-legger's, but big — just like the rest of her. A small damp patch was spread around by her palms as she rubbed her breasts all over, humming all the while.

"Looks like I'm leaking," she quipped, "no better time than now to get started. I hope you don't find this a li'l intimidatin' — big lady like me, very few clothes..."

"No. Of course not Maybelle. I'm nothing if not professional."

"Wonderful! See I wouldn't have got help if I could manage on my own with this," she said, with a sweeping arm gesture to the massage/milking table before returning to her tender breasts, "I need a human, see. Your teeny-tiny fingers'll work much better than my husband's. Bless him..."

It was only then he noticed the three fingers on each hand — not four. Large digits with a solid end — like a hoof split apart and filed down. No wonder she couldn't count on her husband to do the deed! With pokers like that, you'd be lucky to manipulate anything sensitive.

"And...your husband...he's okay with this?" he blurted, stifling another gawp at the pair of boobs on display.

"What?" Maybelle chuckled; a wondrous sound. "Of course sweetie."

The bodacious bovine sat down on the table, letting her weight depress the thick padding. The whole apparatus strained from her sheer size, matched only by the pressure in Devon's pants at the sight of her. But, like he said, he was a professional about it. No matter what kind of crazy cow lady shenanigans arose, he'd do his job and get paid. He wasn't in the business of ruining a good thing when he found one.

Maybelle lifted a leg of her table, straddling it. She then leaned forward gently, letting her bosom heave as she neared the padded gap, finding a snug fit. With her belly pressed firmly against the table, and her legs raised and moved onto it, she let her body settle.

"It's a good fit," she cooed.

"And I'm supposed to slide the bucket over and use my hands?"

She chuckled and affirmative. "Heh, call me—"

"Old-fashioned?"

"You catch on right quick sweetie. Now, kneel down 'sides me and reach under yonder."

Devon did as he was told. His hands first grazed the matting of the table, followed by a brush against her soft fur. Cupping as much of her real estate as he could, he found his fingers swaddled in warmth, and a nascent wetness from the first leaky trickle of milk. Carefully, he began to massage Maybelle's breasts — turning a leery grope into a tender caress.

"Let me tell you what to do..."

With her guidance, scattered 'mid groans of pleasure, Devon brought his full attention to her left breast. Maybelle's interspersed advice let him gradually work up his confidence, and soon he was rubbing his hands over her tit with just enough pressure to summon a stream.

The first splash of milk hit the base of the pail, spreading out into a translucent stain on the virgin metal. A second, and a third, arrived to join it. Devon's deft hand motions drew out longer and more voluminous squirts with each attempt. He then moved a hand to her other breast, applying the same technique — a light squeeze, and rolling tug; just like she explained.

"Ffffff...ooooaaahhh!" Maybelle exhaled with gusto as her new helper drained her swollen mounds. Each plink and splash that reached her ears told a story — a story of a woman who told the corporate world to go fuck itself and struck out on her own. This would be her triumph. Her victory against a mind-numbing role as an industrial dairy cow. Her hips wiggled as she felt strong feelings of pleasure spread from her aching bosom.

Whether Devon cared or not for the business side of things (a fleeting thought sprang into being during this time about if this solo venture was even profitable), he put effort into making sure he left a good impression. Physical and reputational.

"Ahhhh!" came another sated cry from Maybelle. She had let her body relax, and laid her arms straight on the table, satisfied Devon knew what he was doing after such brief instruction. The bovine babe flinched as he milked her, pangs rippling up her core and fizzling out at her extremities. She kept her cool, mostly. Letting out the occasional moan was no sin, was it?

"How does that feel?"

"Oh...oh, it's wonderful, Devon sweetie. Ah!" She bit her lip, straining her jaw as a mighty moan built up behind her barricade. To distract herself she flexed her hands and moved her ankles around. Whatever she could do to not blow her top in front of company.

Devon, meanwhile, was engrossed in the act. The hypnotic rhythm of his ministrations...the warm, silky feel of her furred breasts...the slick, bulbous feel of her nipples as they sprayed for him...

"God," she mumbled, finally killing her mounting scream, "that's so good! Keep it up."

A sizeable pool of creamy-white milk had been forming during this time. Its rich snow-white colour a sign of health and happiness in its originator. Maybelle, though her head rested in a loop at the top of the table, could see enough of her and Devon's handiwork that she was pleased.

"Lookin' good," she sighed, though Devon wasn't sure if she meant him or the product. He kept his head down and worked, drawing out another suffocated moan from her while he squeezed.

Maybelle grimaced as he carried on. A tightness in her stomach had formed...a peculiar itch that refused to let go. She pressed her thighs together, clamping her thick muscles against one another. She felt her heart skip when she realised what it was. Quietly, and with great stealth, she moved her arm on the far side of Devon and slid it underneath her resting body. With a curious finger, she pulled aside her bikini bottom and pressed against her womanhood. A hissing inhale was all she let out as her inflamed pussy was probed. She removed her hand, and shifted in-place.

"Shit!"

"What was that?"

"Nuh-nothin' sweetie, just lying on my arm wrong is all."

A sigh of relief, masked by the constant milking, announced the end of her exploration. She had no intention of ruining this arrangement by making strange advances — not least of all when she was mostly naked on a home-made milking table with a human she barely knew fondling her boobs! It was already enough to ask him to do this...she couldn't risk him getting scared.

So she let him work. Over time, the painful pressure on her breasts alleviated. She felt lighter, airier. Free from the volume of milk that had been building up over the past week. "Thank God I found you, Devon..." she said, lifting her head from the loop and glancing at the man kneeling beside her, "felt like I could burst 'afore you came along."

"Mm-hmm."

Devon took a moment to admire the apt surroundings; the barn-like facade of the room, its walls furnished with old wood, dark brown contrasted against the straw-coloured seats of a nearby chair or bench...

"Ffff...ssss..."

...and the low-moans of its wannabe animal inhabitant...

"Mmmmuuhhh."

...gave the place an eerie magnetism.

His thoughts wandered. Devon began to fondle more sensually, ignoring the primary directive of eking out whatever droplets were left in Maybelle. He palms cupped her full breasts and rolled across them — traversing the great mounds as they hung partially-supported from her body. A dance of digits took place. Delicate, tender motions...designed to pry out strong sensation — a piece of his subconscious egging him to excite.

"That's it," Maybelle grunted, "use those fingers right proper! Gotta...ah...milk 'em good."

For her, the torment had been long-building. Her pussy ached, but she refused to indulge herself. Her limbs were like jelly, but she refused to collect herself. Her head leaned back, rising far from the loop-rest, and she refused to settle back down.

A tense moment of release...prickled by a pinch from Devon on her nipples...slower...slow...swifter...approaching...

"Eehhh, ahhh!"

She erupted.

"MOOOO!!!"

The massive bovine pulled away from Devon's touch, and threw her upper half back in a deep throe of ecstasy. The quake of her climax wracked her — thundering through her from head to hoof. A million un-muttered curses drowned in a sea of pure pleasure as she buckled under. Her legs quivered, her arms wobbled as she tried to hold herself up. She bellowed mightily with every ounce of air in her lungs.

Devon leapt back in his stool, in awe of her orgasm.

A throb, a twitch, a temporary reprieve...then, the eye of the storm passed. Spears of painful pleasure pierced her hide. Jettisoning modesty, she grabbed her breast and squeezed, feeling the last spurts of her milk spill on the table and floor. Her wood-bead necklace flicked up-and-down in the commotion, tossed by her bouncing cleavage. Her other hand gripped the table-side, tightening around the padding. The material split open, torn by her nails. Shredded stuffing fell in small clumps. Her teeth grit in her steely jaw. The whole assembly shivered with her massive motions.

It would not last.

As her orgasm subsided, turning into low thrums of satisfaction, Maybelle gasped and fell forward. Before Devon had a chance to respond she caught herself, and planted her arms firmly against the milking table, squishing her damp breasts between them. Her breathing ragged, she drew in-and-out through great cycles, stealing air in vast quantities. A frayed woman rose from the table, sitting upright as she looked at her surprised helper, a mote of shame seared deep into the subtleties of her face.

He was the first to speak: "whoa..."

She held an arm across her bosom, a hopeless gesture too late to hide anything with. Instinct ruled her thoughts in the moment. Clarity would soon return, but not without a heaping of regret.

Devon watched the anthro cow, heavy breaths sucked down as soon as she could get them. "Did," he began, trying to think of something to say, "did...did I do something wrong?"