Adult-FanFiction.org : Movies

A Moral Z00	By : Manko Category: -Movies Misc > General Views: 2676 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own A Zed & Two Noughts or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-A Moral Z00
- 1
From: Health and Safety For All Includes You, Too! (Revised Edition)
Absolutely no Bestiality
A protospecies is born of a human woman who has outlived her usefulness, or is so corrupt there is nothing of any worth remaining. She is only a degenerate creature who has transgressed and proven herself wanting. Therefore, she is trained to be other than the animal that she always was, yet to be free and with a purpose.
In the training of protospecies, we must emphasize the importance of necessary restraint and gentle persuasion. Immobilization is for the animals' and trainers' safety. Any embarrassment or humiliation is solely due to the naivety or innocence of the animal. As animals, they are expected to urinate and defecate as nature intended. Electro convulsive stimulation¹ therapy may be applied safely in moderation.
Although the goal is freedom of self-expression as the desired animal, they do ultimately serve a master. Their happiness is essential for their well-being. They can be guided and rewarded, as indicated by the animal's personality, and hygienically, with golden showers, anal, clitoral, and vaginal stimulation.
This is a moral institution for women to be guided in their new lives as the animals nature intended them to be. Dreams and ambitions are not always realized as expected or hoped.
¹ Previous editions omitted the word stimulation, suggesting that the procedure is unsafe. ECT with stimulation is now recommended in many areas, including hucow milk production.
Extracts from The Chick Cargo Manual of Style
• Leather Pony Harness
A modified martingale connects a wide hip loin (waist corset) strap with front plate to the circumference strap under, and with support cups for, the breasts. The martingale continues to the breast strap, and to a large posture neck corset strap with chin support. Full head bridle, with eye guards to limit the view.
Lip and cheek retractors expose the teeth and continually widen the mouth. A large bit with tongue clamp prevents speech and slowly extends the tongue.
Arms are restrained by side cuffs on the breast and circumference straps, and on the hip loin strap at the small of the back. The arm muscles will slowly atrophy with lack of use.
A chastity strap connects from the hip loin strap to the small of the back. Internal expanding metal chastity cages, with terminals for tension units, open and expose the vagina and anus.
Ponygirls wear boots fitted with horseshoes, with toe and arch support, but without soles and heels. Also included are knee and ankle cuffs with short chains to restrict movement.
• Hucow Frame and Feeding Station
An "r" shaped steel frame, with knee, ankle, waist, neck collar, and behind the back, wrist locks. A head ring locks the head above a shallow food bowl, and emphasizes immobilization. Leg spreading enables vaginal and anal penetration for rewarding stimulation.
• Hucow Milking
Human udders are poorly designed for practical lactation and collection. Too much emphasis is placed on their size and the elaborate and often impractical containers in which they are usually displayed.
The size of a prospective hucow should also be taken into consideration. The optimal unladen weight of a sixty inch hucow is one hundred forty pounds or less, or a ratio of twelve inches to twenty eight pounds or less. At sixty inches to one hundred seventy pounds, the animal should be evaluated for assignment to the hupig sty. A hucow should be no more than seventy inches. See the relevant charts in appendix B.
In general, a basic goat milking machine will suffice. A novice hucow may be milked immediately, but consideration should be given to the size of the animal's udders and potential teats. Successively smaller suction cups will distend the nipples and areolae area into teats.
To enhance the stimulus, the clitoris and greater vestibular glands may also be milked, but this practice is discouraged due to the presence of bacteria and the potential for contamination.
The vagina and anus should be mechanically stimulated to enhance production of hormones and also to aid cleaning.
• Hupup Play
Movement is restricted and posture is maintained through protective gloves on the paws, and stiff knee and elbow braces. The fingers and ankles are bound tightly to a point at the fingertips and toes. A muzzle, choke chain, and shock collar are used to encourage proper obedience. They are trained to sit, stand, beg, etc, and walk, run, and fetch.
Obviously, they must eat, play, and sleep with other dogs in a kennel. The usual retractors and chastity devices, along with a butt tail, are used to enhance their appearance. Additionally, their ears may be softened and weighted or molded to shape them.
• Any and all interaction with other animals must be purely platonic and recreational.
Extracts from A Dummies Guide For Keepers
Absolutely no Bestiality
• Ponygirls are trained for dressage and buggy/trap racing, with voice commands and short and long whips. c.f. GoH's butt walk trainer. A good pony should be able to walk, trot, and race with style. Posture is maintained with periods of standing and walking, and with mercury switches to deliver ECT when unbalanced. Any interaction with equines must be purely platonic and recreational.
• We do not associate with ponyboys. Ever. Show us a ponyboy, and we will give you soylent green.
• Hucows are milked and machine penetrated for ten to twenty minutes every three hours. While the head is held rigid, nose hooks are also used to enhance their features. Suction cups distend the breasts into distinct udders and teats. Ultimately, they are hucows who are as good as their udders and the milk they provide. Any interaction with bovines would be quite ludicrous.
• A female dog is a bitch. A hupup is, most frequently, female. Hupups exist solely to play. And occasionally mate with other bitches. As such, oral, anal, and vaginal activity is encouraged. Any interaction with canines must be purely platonic and recreational.
From: Memoirs of A Zoo Keeper: Introducing Ponygirls
Older ponies are liable to kick and bite, so it's essential to restrain them between the stable doors before fitting any of the harness. Spread and secure the wrists and ankles, then fit the bridle and bit. Secure the hip loin strap, the collar, and work down. Even if the pony appears placid, take care securing the wrists behind its back.
A good pony is a strong and balanced animal. All the straps must be tight to prevent chafing when she moves. The head should be held high, her back should be straight, and her breasts should bounce in the circumference strap cups when she trots. Her hooves should be strapped around her former toes and the arch of her foot, keeping the heel in the air. Most of her weight should be on the balls of her feet, which will harden and complement her horseshoes with exercise.
To aid hygiene, the vagina and anus are held open with sprung metal cages. As the cavity walls relax, the spring opens the cage further. The vagina and anus can then be easily hosed and scrubbed clean.
Lip and cheek retractors help spread the mouth increasingly wider to accept a solid bit. A small clamp will gradually extend its tongue and also prevent it from being swallowed. The tongue; not the clamp. Nose hooks will expand and help their nostrils flare.
Ponies are often clever and wilful, but voice commands are not as effective as a sharp tap with a crop. It's much easier to let one pony stand and snort whilst attending to the other.
For the most part, after orientation, a pony only has to be taught how to walk and trot. Their beauty is in the lines of their bodies, the definition of their musculature and graceful movement. A pony should be lively but not temperamental.
From: Memoirs of A Zoo Keeper: Introducing Hucows
Hucows are the dumbest of all animals. It doesn't take intelligence to produce milk. Strapped into a utility milking frame, fed, watered, and hosed clean, they can essentially be left alone.
Suction cups are used to distend the breasts, drawing the areolae and nipples into the milking shells, to form udders and teats. Their hair does need to be shaved regularly to produce a good hide. The usual retractors widen the mouth, and the tongue can be clamped and stretched. Nose hooks enlarge the nostrils. Hucows should be fed a little regularly, rather than a lot infrequently.
The same hygiene rules for ponies apply. ECT should be used to prevent attempts to speak and encourage lowing. The hucow can be kept happy with a gentle massage of the udders. Additionally, the anus and vagina can be stimulated electrically and mechanically to produce more hormones.
It helps that they are generally passive animals. Not that they have much choice. Once the suction cups are fitted, and as long as there is feed in front of them, they can be left until milking time.
If in doubt, read A Dummies Guide For Trainers.
From: Memoirs of A Zoo Keeper: Introducing Hupups
Hupups are quite naturally more excitable than other animals. They have more freedom, they are encouraged to run and play, but they also have to be obedient and overcome their inhibitions. Most limiting is the mistaken belief that they were ever anything but bitches. Although this is usually true.
Training hupups begins with accepting their position. Without a collar a hupup would simply be wild. Without padded elbow, knee, and ankle braces, they wouldn't stand and walk properly on their paws. Without a tight muzzle, they would whine and cry instead of bark with pleasure. All of this is for their benefit.
Nature gives them smooth skin, round faces, and big, brown eyes. Their mouths will be drawn wider, their nostrils enlarged, their tongues pulled forward, and encouraged to pant. The hupup. Not their tongues. They are already more than the bitches they once were. Ibid.
It can't always be pleasant. Hitched to a post, not the cleverest of animals, they struggle with their limitations. It is not their bodies, only their baseless fears that are exposed. Their long fur has been trimmed and shaved, their orifices held open and washed. Their ears twitch, their tails wag, and their tongues lick their lips. But they begin to understand.
Single word commands are usually enough. When trained in pairs, the shock collar helps one learn, and the other copies, until they stand quietly. It isn't a long morning, teaching them to stand and lie down, to sit and to beg. It is rewarding to see the progress they make.
Their treat is fresh meat and water in their food bowls. They sniff cautiously, but recognize the pieces of beef mixed with the usual dog food. The nose hooks, muzzle, and lip retractors are only minor irritations, but they succeed and eat slowly.
It will still be some time before they can run and fetch. They can only urinate and defecate over a grating for now, and not sniff for their fellow dogs by the trees. And it is encouraging that the shock collar isn't always necessary; the sudden yelps do tend to alarm the other dogs looking on.
Soon, they will understand their naked beauty for what it is. Until then, it is enough that they can be petted and roll over to have their stomachs tickled.
Transcribed from Interviews With A Handler: A Ponygirl's Beginning
Training unwanted animals with no purpose or future, and rescued for their own benefit, is always difficult.
Erana and Purple are a mare and her dam. Although the dam is old and looks weak, and her breasts sag, she still has a good physique. The young mare, similar in looks but doubtfully related, is impressive. Erana's facial features are elegant, her body is lithe, her limbs strong, and her breasts pert and full. And she has excellent teeth ready to bite the unwary.
Strong and wilful, they both needed a firm hand and reminders with the crop.
Arranging their harnesses is an arduous process. The vaginal cages are easy to insert and readily open wide, but the mare resists the anal cage much more than the submissive and, most likely promiscuous, dam.
We all have to be patient.
One step at a time. Raising the knee to hip loin height. With the crop leaving its mark on their hinds. Their eyes sparkle as all ponies' do when they're still ignorant. They would shout without the bit, but ECT stops them. They try to kick, but the chains around their ankles and knees limits them. Yet, a reward of a slice of apple, or a cube of sugar, appeases them. Or, they will when they stop spitting them away. And carrots are always a special treat. Until their vaginas grow too wide to hold them. No, we don't do that. It was a joke. Well, we think it's funny.
Because not accepting the inevitable can be a painful process. Their hind quarters go red quickly to begin with, but the ponies soon learn.
Ponygirls deserve all the extra care.
Their initiation is intensive and time consuming. Maintaining balance and posture on unfamiliar hooves is difficult. The young mare doesn't care about defecating in front of us, but the old dam is acutely aware of the way we regard her body. The moisture around her thighs is damning evidence of an indiscriminate sexual appetite even at her advanced age.
Still, they both manage to walk in place. They may even have enjoyed the crop striking their hind quarters. Certainly, we never hold back. They eat the oats mixed with small pieces of fruit, and drink the water in front of them.
Thankfully, grooming Erana and Purple is a delight for all of us. They don't object much to the disinfectant and soap, or the scrubbing of their hairless bodies. The dam's mane was short and strangely colored, but that will grow out quickly, and they will both soon have a fine coat of hair. Although discovering just how clean they could be, and where, at least took Erana by surprise.
It is more than enough progress for their first day. But we still have to be cautious. Ponies and horses are different animals, so we have to keep them separate for the time being. And while the horses looked on completely uninterested, there was a glimmer from the old dam that she might be. It's enough to lie them down, with chains to prevent them from standing as a precaution.
At least the hay is fresh. As fresh as the manure that would be no use for the roses.
Transcribed from Interviews With A Handler: A Hucow's Beginning
Arisa and Kaashiti are dwarf hucows. Formerly arrogant, irresponsible, superficial, and unashamedly promiscuous, they are perhaps fortunate to remain physically attractive, although ultimately outcast socially. The only hope for them is to be put to some useful purpose. Blessed with high and, hopefully, full of milk breasts, it is believed that becoming hucows will be natural for them. The only obstacle is their superior intelligence. The ability to think is obviously not required of a hucow.
Watching them struggle helplessly against the restraints, fitting the cages and retractors, is an uplifting experience. Fitting the suction cups to their breasts and clitorises, seeing their surprise and the unavoidable pleasure, we all breathe heavily. Persuading them to low, and inducing their first orgasms, is stimulating for all of us.
Hucows, unlike their bovine counterparts, have no need for artificial growth or other hormones. Even an old hucow will naturally produce her own hormones in response to physical stimuli.
As professionals, it is our duty to contribute papers to the cowXiv interweb archive. The X is Greek. Pronounced like pie but with a k.
In our experiments, we apply an electric stimulus to one udder of a hucow to determine the response, if any. As expected, there is an exact correlation between the hucow's happiness and the volume and quality of the milk it expresses. Further experiments determine that the application of electrical and mechanical stimuli to the labia, anus, and vagina, also improve the quality and yield.
As such, we have high expectations. Until then, we expect the first few days' milking to produce little, if anything. But at least they'll be stimulated to think less of their confinement and more of the unrelenting, intense pleasure.
Best of all, they are low maintenance. Put food in front of them, and they'll eat. Hose them down twice a day, no soap required, and they're clean. Scrubbing them out is optional and usually a waste of time. They're vaginas and anuses are usually wet and full of crap whether they're awake or not.
Transcribed from Interviews With A Handler: A Hupup's Beginning
Inexperienced hupups are always shy, so it's good to pet them and stroke them to make them more comfortable. Encouraging them to sit and stand is an uneasy process.
The two older hupups are Indiya and Begumi¹. In their former society, they were raised and kept for breeding purposes but, no longer needed, now they are to be re-trained for new owners. For animals that were formerly completely covered, albeit with cheap and gaudy fabrics, it is difficult for them to be happy that every part of their body can be seen and admired.
For their first afternoon, we take them for a short walk. The use of simple actions, simple commands always works well but, if necessary, the shock collar will motivate them.
¹ Due to clerical and shipping errors, Begumi's name was previously mis-transcribed. The name used here is not her actual name but the name of a misplaced hupig. This is the name used in training which she answers to. Coincidentally, Bangara, the name given previously, wasn't the name of the hupig, either. However, that was her place of origin and, given the similar habitat, much like the feces, the name stuck.
Of course, their initial embarrassment is nothing compared with the experience of discovering the world about them. Throwing small sticks for Indiya and Begumi to pick up in their mouths and return to us teaches them a valuable lesson. Where hygiene was once optional, and considering what frequently filled their mouths, a piece of wood covered in moss and uncountable bacteria is actually beneficial for them.
Encouragement is everything. They no longer have any of the worries and concerns of their former lives. Urinating and defecating in the open is only natural. Walking on their paws, not crawling and dragging their hind legs, is awkward to begin with, but they learn.
Seeing our enjoyment of the efforts they make, watching their tails wagging and breasts swaying, will become natural for them. As natural as standing to have their chins scratched, and rolling over to have their stomachs tickled.
Apart from their soft and pleasantly open and plump bodies, Indiya's and Begumi's innocence, watching their big brown eyes go wide as the other puppies race around and up to them, is their charm. However, being sniffed and welcomed by their playmates can often be unnerving for a new hupup, so Indiya and Begumi constantly look to each other, but shy away from their fellow puppies.
Always, it takes time.
With exercise and a proper diet, they will become much fitter. They will lose all their excess weight, their muscles will become stronger and more defined, and walking will be much easier. And, naturally, they will be so much more attractive. At least to the other puppies.
And after all that excitement, it's good for them to rest and eat. Only dog food this time. Cheaper cuts of meat and offal will be a treat to reward them later.
For now, they can chew on a bone or a stick. It's been a long day, and the kennel is dry and warm. One female hupup to a cage is right for the moment, and the other puppies can choose which of them will be their friend.
When the lights are finally switched off, a night sleeping with the soft and warm bodies of the other puppies is a fitting end to the day. Becoming acquainted with the puppies' breath in their faces, and the puppies scents and excretions, not to mention their own, will help Indiya and Begumi acclimatize.
Transcribed from Interviews With A Trainer: A Day in the Life of a Ponygirl
It is quite natural for young mares to have a proclivity for sexual gratification, and not necessarily of themselves. The old dam had been well known for it. Having their mouths held shut against a bit was most unusual for Erana and Purple. Standing bolt upright, and not kneeling as the face of opportunity, equally strange. Showing the shape of their breasts and haunches, they weren't exactly high or firm, to anyone who would look placed them in the category of wanton animals: undisciplined, lewd, and unchaste. No one ran after them; Erana and Purple came crawling on their own.
Standing naked and exposed is a different matter. It begins to teach them humility. Erana and Purple are proud of their bodies; although Erana is soft and overweight, and Purple's breasts and haunches sag. Some ptosis is unavoidable, but it can be alleviated.
Erana and Purple stand upright because they have no choice, their reins connecting their bridles to overhead rails. Naked, apart from their breasts sitting in cups, is how nature intended them to be. It's their own fault. Bras constrict the breasts causing fluid accumulation; and without proper support, extra strain is put on the breast ligaments. We simulate gynecomastia by allowing the breasts to sit and bounce. Erana and Purple don't understand. They do know fetishes, quite a few, but we pierced and tease their nipples erect for a reason. Stimulation enhances hormone production and, even if the collagen is variably inelastic, the skin of their breasts will become more firm.
Perhaps they resent us because we are strict. Every tap of the crop on their haunches is sharp and firm. Incentives, as with their former predilections, are performance related. Licking anything and everything, included. But dangling a prosthetic penis in front of their faces would likely have the same negative effect as a carrot.
Yet, it's still their choice.
Small chains link their pierced nipples to the bridle's cheek rings. Any lateral or vertical movement of their heads would given their nipples a gentle to painful tug. Head kept level and forward, there would be no distractions. Lift the knees properly, and there's no need to be struck on the haunches. And it is not a race. Not yet. The cages twisting in their vaginas and anuses only hurt because they lift too quickly. Move slowly, elegantly, and gracefully, and the reward will be pleasure.
But Erana and Purple are stubborn. They have stared at themselves in so many mirrors for so long that they cannot see their own beauty. But, then again, sometimes the solution is so obvious, we can't see it.
Instead of alternate or parallel, putting Erana and Purple face to face changed everything. A ponygirl can be quite intelligent; when she remembers to think with her head, not give it. They were so fixated on their own beauty, coloring their hair and faces, that they'd lost sight of it. Now they can see it in each other.
With their manes unbraided and brushed; with the bits so far back in their mouths; with strong, sharp teeth, and high, pert breasts, why look any further? With one sharp tap, Erana raised a knee and held it. Of course, Purple looked. Erana's breasts jiggled, her stomach tightened, and her vulva showed her unwanted arousal. Step, as we always say, by step. And then a sharp double tap for a skip. Not for our benefit, but for Purple's. As if we needed to point out Erana's bouncing breasts.
Our focus is on Purple. Her gaze flickers between Erana's face and her body; both of her own becoming flushed. The only physical connection between them, and Purple's darkest secret, is Erana's adoption papers. Trainers have to know these things; we must always be watchful and mindful of any consequences.
Especially ponies prancing in heat.
Because, when Purple prances, Erana sees it in her dam, too. All of it. Purple's face may have wrinkles, her breasts are soft, and her labia hang in gentle folds, but Purple's body is lithe and taut. Agility comes with repetition. For now, their focus is on the few steps they take.
Walking Erana and Purple together shows all of us new insights. Forward and back, they walk in unison, lifting their legs together, turning their hips ever so slightly, advancing and retreating. For the first time, Erana thrusts out her chest, and Purple responds.
For Erana and Purple, it becomes something we rarely see: it becomes a dance. In that moment Erana and Purple began to accept their limitations, only to exceed our expectations. Our best recourse is to lead them to the paddock and set them free. Sometimes, the lesson isn't for the ponies.
Each and every day we don't train Erana and Purple, we only ever engage with them. From morning to night, we show them what they are, and what they can be. Walking, trotting, pulling. Gentle exercise to change their path from lasciviousness and sloth to honest endeavor.
In the paddock, Erana and Purple stand unsure of themselves. Their natural beauty is more than self-evident. From head to hoof, there is no animal more glorious. They were born to be alive. Yet, free of their restraints and restrictions, shackles and chains, they are lost.
We offer them slices of apple. Arms bound behind her back, Erana glares at us, bares her teeth, and snickers. But she takes a slice. With a playful bite. And we wonder how many times she has done that before, but it's not often that we laugh. Their lives with us aren't ones of servitude; they've had too many masters who have used and abused them. Still, Erana turns her back on us, defecating and belching loudly.
Scrape away the hubris, the superficial, strip them of self, of -indulgence, -importance, -satisfaction, -abuse, -annihilation, strip them of all those negatives, and make them self+aware.
Aware that they are not alone.
Hesitant at first, Erana walks away slowly, testing herself on her hooves. At this stage, the surgery on their feet and ankles was a necessity. Not cosmetic, but reinforcing and enhancing. They cannot feel that their toes have been sliced open and joined, they can't see where the skin has been grafted, or even know, and that so much time has passed. Not yet. But one day, their hooves will be their own, shod as every pony's is. For all their strength, ponies are sensitive and delicate animals.
They look to each other and at each other.
What was once done out of vanity, carefully shaving their legs has given them a coat of light hair. Their manes, they can appreciate, but ponies are not hairless and, in time, where they'd never think to see or look, neither will any part of their bodies be naked.
Purple can see Erana and the high, firm breasts. She can see the bright eyes, the determination, and spirit she once had. Erana can see her future, years of toil until she is old, her breasts sag, and she is tired and wrinkled. Why have ambitions that are always crushed and dreams that are shattered.
They scratch the ground with their hooves and toss their heads. If they have any thought of the past, they know they can't return. And the manual is wrong. We don't dehumanize or condition them, we merely show them their potential.
Erana and Purple can't reject what their lives never had: hope.
In ways they could never have appreciated, their supple bodies ripple with each stride they take. Even old Purple, truly lissome as Tenyson described her namesake.
Already, they can see the bright palominos we know they will become.
Purple strides out with renewed courage. Head high. Amused that her loose breasts bounce and slap in their cups, that her vagina gives her more pleasure now that it's empty, that she can openly urinate and defecate, and that she doesn't give a shit who sees. She has no shame. She never did. Even a harness isn't new to her. Without control, more than animal, mineral, and vegetable has filled her needs in search of licentious degradation. But pride she has. Of her body. She can see it improving. She can see us approving. And that pleases her, too.
That Erana can see her, not as a wanton whore, but as a mother trapped, enduring their hardships and striving to survive, gives Purple hope. Of course, Purple's duplicity, at least to her, is equally shameless. Yet, as she strives, she will forget, and forge a new path from a desire only to better herself.
If only Erana wasn't so stubborn. A true slut. Bold, outspoken, slovenly, promiscuous, and a bitch so easily fulfilled herself. Yet, in her mother's eyes, Erana was only loving and giving. Mostly of head, and to anyone who asked. Yet, as great as her mother's love was for her, and the belief and trust her mother had in her, Erana could carry herself high.
Erana can bite and defecate, feign displeasure and disgust, and at the same time console and comfort herself, wallowing in her own pity. If Erana wasn't so stubborn, she would see the consequences of her mistaken truths.
Deceiving only themselves, they take their first steps. A mother and a daughter, unrelated yet completely alike. Strong, not for themselves, but for the other whom they love but do not know at all. Misguided and misdirected, they stand taller than they ever have, and begin to run.
Erana and Purple still have a long way to go. We may call them animals, but they are more than that. Stripped bare, Erana and Purple can see the other more clearly than they can see themselves, yet see nothing at all. Their transgressions forgotten, freedom for Erana and Purple isn't a physical escape; it's the release from all the lies in their hearts and in their minds, and a world they can't begin to understand opening up to them.
Their journey doesn't begin with a first step, it begins with a dream. Not to explore who they are, or what they are, but forget where they've been. So, we watch them run. Free. As the ponies they were destined to be.
Transcribed from Interviews With A Trainer: A Day in the Life of a Hucow
The average hucow is a simple animal. It eats, it drinks, it urinates, it defecates. It has orgasms. Unstoppable, uncompromising, unending, unforgiving, unsparing, orgasms.
There is little else for it to do. It is hosed and scrubbed clean in the morning and before the lights are switched off at night. Volumes are recorded, and the milk, well... Actually, it's more accurate to weigh how much they produce.
A glassy eyed, uncaring hucow is still only a hucow.
Except for the intelligence of these two. They produced offspring as good cows (the slang for a human female) should. They lived, they worked, often interfering where they weren't wanted, until they were of no further use. Thus, it's perfectly natural for them to become hucows.
Other than regular shaving to promote hair growth, their small bodies require little maintenance. Their initial struggles cease once they realized how futile it is. With their heads locked in place, all they can ever see is the food in front of them, but their eyes always search for more.
Their breasts begin to fill with milk again. Even the old one. Her face is softer, her nose flaps are nicely wet without mucus, and developing enough for larger hooks to go deeper into her nostrils. Two small clamps now stretch and spread their tongues further. Their food bowls have been replaced with more natural sods of turf. They chew the grass lazily, and welcome the small pieces of fruit we spread on top.
Life is simple for them, even if they are not. Their eyes constantly search their memories, recalling a different life. Freedom to act has been replaced with open sexual gratification. More than their bodies have been expanded. So much better than the milk they used to drink, and the feeble attempts of their many couplings, their entire consciousness has been expanded to mind-blowing, orgasmic proportions.
Sooner, these old memories will fade, and all that remains will be a hucow. But not too soon. And not all of the memories. They must always know what they once were, otherwise they wouldn't be hucows.
We can see it in their faces. The orgasmic shock of being repeatedly and massively penetrated, and the anger and disappointment of so much meaningless copulation before. Still, they chew. Still, they moan. Still, they low contentedly. Until they remember.
Their hubris was their downfall.
And yet their bodies are becoming healthier and more productive. Leaner, their sweaty hides glisten with new hair growth. Their faces are softer, more cow-like, no longer creased with burdensome responsibility, but almost vacant with tongues lolling when, for a brief moment, they stop chewing.
They have names, but we rarely use them. Their names, anyway. Even for smart hucows, they are becoming fine specimens. Watching their udders swaying gently, their teats squeezed rhythmically ever deeper into the milking shells, and seeing the milk being sucked out of them, is so rewarding.
Transcribed from Interviews With A Trainer: A Day in the Life of a Hupup
All puppies are naturally inquisitive; Indiya is still hesitant, but no exception. Each morning, at least for Begumi, begins with a lot of yapping and a mad rush to large bowls of dog food. Indiya still tries to hide her body, but Begumi is more playful. Obviously, they always trail their playmates.
Indiya sniffs the meat, but it's lacking the spices that would disguise it. Begumi already relishes the dubious, stewed lumps, and doesn't care about drooling all over it; especially when she sees Indiya watching her with disdain. It doesn't matter that the food is shared. Or what has fallen into it. Oblivious of the puppies, they lap at the water and eat slowly, more intent on filling their stomachs.
They're both too old for puppy fat. They bear the scars and stretch marks of childbirth. Her soft life left Indiya overweight. Begumi, the older of the two, just looks older. But their dark faces are free of the deep wrinkles that comes with exposure to dry heat and hot sun.
Without the retractors, their lips hang loosely. Without the nose hooks, their nostrils droop and are wet with mucus. Their distended tongues loll easily, even if they drool on the grass. They only having the clips in the corners to pull their mouths back still more. Begumi is more alert, so her ears are being pulled into points. Indiya's are weighted to make them hang as lazily as any dog's.
Two thirds their original weight, they're ribs are clearly visible. They have corsets, now, to pull in their waists, although they both need more exercise. Indiya's breasts are starting to sag even more; Begumi's just droop.
They stand. It's one of the few commands that Indiya pretends to hear, although Begumi is not so patient. Indiya is still reluctant to urinate or defecate with us watching over her, but Begumi will happily run to the trees.
Watching Begumi run and play teaches us a valuable lesson: like typos, clerical errors will happen. The real Begumi is currently wallowing in the hupig sty. According to the shipping company, they have no record of this pup. According to our records office, the shipping company are a bunch of censored.
We identified her as a stray, typical of the breed. A tag-along. Not part of the pack, but wanting to be. A thorough investigation will determine how she got in the crate but, for now, Begumi is an outgoing hupup making excellent progress.
We can only wonder why Indiya and Begumi shaved their legs, and more, that only their previous masters ever saw. Now, their fur is growing back into a soft coat that will thicken over their bodies. Even their ears are becoming more natural. Indiya's cartilage has softened, and the molds almost make Begumi's ears prick.
Hupups, as with all puppies, enjoy physical attention. Taking them from standing to sitting, and up to shaking their paws is a routine they're becoming used to. They understand, although Indiya ignores, simple commands. Petting their heads, scratching their chins, and saying kind words, irritates Indiya but, unsurprisingly with her need for attention, Begumi rolls over and exposes herself quite readily.
Getting Indiya to interact with the puppies is taking longer. She has to be reminded to stand and not turn away. She understands that licking is asking for food; that sniffing determines if she is in heat. She was an arrogant bitch before, and has no intention of lowering herself any further. She doesn't understand that there is so little distance left for her to fall. Begumi simply takes delight in Indiya's discomfort.
More rewarding is that we don't have to keep Begumi on a leash. Begumi will run, albeit awkwardly, after almost anything. For Indiya, chasing after a ball is undignified. Holding a stick in her mouth is her limit, so we keep a half-rotten one especially for her. And if she doesn't pick it up, there's always the shock collar as a last resort.
Today, we're taking Indiya and Begumi for a walk through the woods.
Of course, Begumi takes the first opportunity to defecate on the soft ground. It's easier to scratch the top soil and bury her feces. With the closeness of her playmates, and within the confines of the kennel, Begumi has already learned to recognize their scents. As the puppies run around us, she can sniff at a tree and look at her familiar friends. Indiya only wrinkles her nose and shakes her head.
And, perhaps, it shouldn't be surprising that the other puppies prefer to be near Begumi. Indiya was always arrogant. Her body only showed how complacent she'd become.
Most amusing is Begumi attempting to sniff and lick Indiya. The once haughty hupup reminds us why women are calling bitches, too. Begumi is older, ungainly, and not as attractive, but her personality is starting to shine. And she'll sniff at everything, and doesn't care what goes in her mouth.
Conceit is a human condition. Begumi sits up for reassurance, but mostly to show us her body; Indiya only hides her head. As rain starts to fall, and we take what shelter we can, Begumi lies down with the other puppies around her, while Indiya sits alone and sulks.
Misery is also a human condition. But we didn't have to find our own solution for Indiya. Puppies are sensitive, too. One sits by Indiya and nestles against her, gently licking her coat. Indiya's first human instinct is to shy away, but even she recognizes the need for warmth on a cold and wet day. When she does curl up, she knows she isn't alone. Although much more than familiar with the human variety, the last thing we thought she'd want to see was a fully grown dog's genitalia.
Epiphanies, even for hupups, come in many shapes and sizes. As soon as they bleed, if not before, their breed of human females are bought as prospective mates, and conditioned to respond. Dogs, like other carnivores, are opportunists. If this one saw hope, then we can, too.
On the way back, after the rain eased, Indiya even allowed the dog to sniff at her. Of course, Indiya might have been coming into heat, and we were simply not aware. The muddy ground and puddles we walk her through teaches her humility. Patiently watching her urinate tells her that she needn't be embarrassed. Holding her nose to the ground helps her recognize her own scent. If it wasn't already strong enough.
On the other hand, when they laid down together again, and her eyes were wide at the sight of him, perhaps all she ever wanted was a penis that was larger and more erect than her old master's. Indiya was as stiff as her mate. Hind legs folded beneath her, only her soft teats were exposed. She'd rest a forepaw on her new mate's hind quarters and let her mind wander. Indiya let her tongue flop uselessly, oblivious to the saliva spilling out of one end, and the usual fluids from the other. It was good that Indiya was finally opening up, even if there was nothing interesting to see.
Begumi, as always, spread herself out, surrounded by puppies running around her. Begumi's short body, like her face, is plain, but her hind legs are long and slender. Freedom from oppression and the desire to belong was enough for her. The puppies sniffed, but that was it. She was content to let the breeze play against her labia and enjoy the tingling sensations. Her tail wagged, flexing the cage inside her anus, stimulating her until she leaked.
And Begumi looked.
Not at the male puppies. Begumi always opens her mouth, and everything else, to a female puppy. Standing quite still, she enjoys having her face licked, and licking enthusiastically in return. And the puppies stand for her, too. She looks at us to have her teats rubbed and her stomach tickled. Spontaneously, she'll fetch a stick or a ball, or just lick Indiya to see the disgust on her face.
Perhaps it is Begumi's lack of attention for the male dogs that has led the first to Indiya, and the rest will follow.
Therefore, it is equally important that we observe their behavior in the kennel. As the females follow Begumi, so the males follow Indiya. For the safety of everyone, interspecies mating is quite obviously proscribed. The hupups can't see us, but we know that Begumi is safe; and because Indiya has had years of abuse, she wears a shock collar just in case.
Of course, only the act of copulation is proscribed. What they put in their mouths, or where they push their tongues, is their choice. Hupups are encouraged to be inquisitive and playful. In the assumed privacy and dim light of the kennel, a hupup's true nature is often revealed.
Begumi didn't hesitate to roll over and wriggle on the floor; it was cleaner than she was. Everything was cleaner than Begumi. Mouth open, she licked anything that came close. Begumi had found her first friends, who accepted her as one of their own.
Whether it was their mouths, or their stomachs, she was happy sniffing and licking. When a teat presented itself, she would tease it with her tongue. For someone of the lowest status, and evidently a persecuted sexuality, she'd finally found a way to liberate herself. And not stop.
Whether she adopted the puppies, or they adopted her, is moot. When one found Begumi's tongue in its anus, and it wasn't unpleasant, it didn't resist. For Begumi, an anus or a vagina was something new to explore. Puppies and hupups alike have no understanding of forbidden or low hanging fruit.
Indiya had no understanding of morality. She was always right. She was in charge. Now that she wasn't, she had difficulty coming to terms with anything. Indiya was untouchable for all the wrong reasons.
Being sold off to a stunted, crooked male, hadn't impressed her. Being led around on a leash all day, crawling around, and eating food only fit for the likes of Begumi, hadn't improved her. Surrounded by young dogs, she couldn't stop looking for as many excuses as she could convince herself didn't apply.
Inflated didn't begin to describe her ego.
It did describe the puppies. Indiya couldn't not look. Or imagine. Her only fear was of becoming gravid. She'd been looked down on and regarded as less than a dog for so long, she believed the myths and legends. To escape that and find herself comforted by one was less of a shock and more of a relief.
Indiya had welcomed the puppy's warmth.
Much of what we know about each animal has been clearly documented. Some has been researched; the rest we infer or they show us themselves. What was unclean for Indiya wasn't the entire puppy, just his mouth and anus. What Indiya did for her previous mates, we don't even want to guess, but the puppies enjoyed her warmth, too.
But not this night. Indiya stared with her mouth open, drooling. If she couldn't convince herself while she was awake, her dreams showed another side. Of the puppy. And it wasn't only her mouth that leaked.
Transcribed from Interviews With An Animal Psychologist: When Ponygirls Come Alive
There is always a risk introducing the horses to novice ponygirls: we can never know how the ponies will react. The young mare was quite obviously skittish. Horses are large animals. Their size and weight could easily crush her. The old mare was less apprehensive. We'd seen that she hadn't dried up, and the froth around her lips showed that she was aroused.
She knew horses, too. How to approach them, however unsteady she was on her own hooves. Greeting the big stallion with her gentle breath, brushing his neck with her own. It was only the mare who stopped her short. The dam wasn't affected by embarrassment or vanity, but the surprise of her offspring.
It takes more than simple acceptance to become a ponygirl. It takes more than praise and pride in their performance. It's when nature takes over, when there are no other thoughts or actions other than responding to the reins or the whip. Still, a good ponygirl strives toward pride but never hubris. The mare was still inclined to defecate in our direction.
To become a ponygirl, Erana, the young mare, needed to understand the nature of a true horse. Not only strong and powerful, but with a calm and almost regal temperament. Purple, the old dam, saw how Erana struggled, and always nudged her to reassure her.
For Erana to confront such a large animal took more determination than she had. But Purple encouraged her. Slowly. Just as the stallion had sired more foals, he was chosen for his gentle nature. His patience and excitement with their presence was equally outstanding.
It takes more than simple enthusiasm to befriend a horse the size of Warrior. Gently and slowly caressing his body with her own, Purple took her time to show she wasn't afraid of him. It takes more than courage for a ponygirl to position herself between the hind legs of a stallion like Warrior. It takes more than determination.
It takes lust.
It takes experience, and the desire for it, to taste the forbidden. Shivers of pleasure rippled through Purple's body as Warrior stood still, accepting Purple caressing his flanks with her cheek. Erana's shock was nothing compared with her dam's passionate glances toward her.
Neither were they strangers to pleasing their studs. Nor were they ashamed or embarrassed. The opportunity to fill themselves with their studs' seed was their reward for being mares. Albeit human, and always with not so grand a beast.
That Erana would join her dam was inevitable. The sights and scents were intoxicating and almost overwhelming, yet Warrior magnificently stood his ground. Their mouths retracted wider, their tongues pulled further past theirs lips, they did all that they could to kiss each other, to fill the other's mouth with their tongues, and imagine they could take all that Warrior would give them.
Gratefully, even Erana thanked Warrior for his patience. Standing tall, and cheek to cheek, the ultimate true ponygirl next to a true horse.
Erana may once have regarded the old mare as her dam, but kept her discovery to herself. Before, Purple's and Erana's domestic rôles were only to please their studs and share their bodies. It took becoming ponygirls to begin to understand that their truest love might be for each other.
Alongside Warrior, they can stand proudly. Not just of who they are, but what there are. They do not have Warrior's tremendous physique, but their own beauty is unparalleled. Erana and Purple can look at each other and see that as we refit their headdresses, bridles, and bits; as we tighten the straps above their breasts another notch. As we massage their breasts, and lift them into their high cups. Their waists are taut, their muscles stronger and well defined. Their atrophied forelegs hang limp behind their backs, but their long hind legs are strong and slender. Erana and Purple can stand tall and proud on their hooves.
They leak unashamedly, standing next to Warrior. Not for him, but for each other. That's why ponygirls are always kept in pairs. Ponyboys are best castrated and kept for the circus or freak shows.
Led outside, Erana and Purple stand passively, waiting patiently for us to hitch them to the traps. Their true strength isn't in their perfectly toned bodies, it's in their minds. Yet, they champ at the bit. A gentle flick of the reins is all it takes for them to step forward. Their resolve isn't tested by how far they can trot, but their desire to strive further.
For the first time we go through the other gate, away from the yard and the stables, past the kennels and milking sheds, into uncharted territory for them. They walk easily over the ground, pulling the traps steadily. Erana's and Purple's own hooves have hardened almost to accept a shoe, and they show no discomfort. There is little weight for Erana and Purple to pull; the traps are well-balanced, and their own momentum carries them forward.
This path takes us on a wide loop, giving Erana and Purple the chance to stretch their legs and trot. Their coats shine with perspiration; their plump breasts bounce uplifted in their cups, the small bells jingling; their tails sway with their hips, the cages in their vaginas and anuses pleasing them more the harder they pull.
The old cabin just off the country road is where we stop. Hitched to a post, Erana and Purple gulp water from an old pail. They toss their heads and take great lung-fulls of clean air. Erana and Purple have run and pulled where even Warrior couldn't. Safely. For us, anyway.
A Dodge Pickup stops, and a thick-set man walks toward the cabin. He glances toward the ponies who thrust out their chests and stare him down. He shrugs. He's seen it all before. The cabin's old, but it's in good repair. He eulogizes about it for a while. Built two centuries before. Old timbers, felled and hewn the old way by hand. He thanks us for letting him look around, doffs his hat to the ponies, and leaves.
Like Warrior, Erana and Purple are secure in themselves. They snicker with delight, and without thought, when we feed them pieces of apple dusted with sugar, and munch appreciatively on carrots. As long as our fingers don't get too close for Erana to bite them.
As much as Erana and Purple like to run, we let them have a slow trot home. Purple used to deliberately show off the physical aspects of her body but, as with Erana's mistrust, that has completely subsided. They have no distractions now. They respond to the reins and the whip with no stray thoughts at all. Slowed to a walk – forward and back – Erana and Purple lift their knees high. The extra height twists the cages in their vaginas and anuses, but they take it all in their stride.
Erana and Purple are close to forgetting what they were, and living as what they are: tall, elegant, and graceful. And, whatever they did with their bodies before is forgotten, too. All the vices that tempted them are not even distant dreams.
Their pleasures and their rewards come from their own exertions. Purple was a keen bike rider, and enjoyed being ridden herself. Erana preferred a more laid on her back, casual approach. Gentle exercise is good, but it's the harder, anaerobic push, and a solid hard run, oblivious of their breasts bouncing high, unheeding of the vaginal and anal cages, that gives them the satisfaction they crave.
We let them run until they stand breathless. They don't need the whip, but it's another source of endorphins. Their muscles ache and burn; another source. All the tight straps, the restraints, the bits in their mouths, the physical pain and submission, are yet more sources they neither understand nor care to know.
Yet, covered in sweat, they can see how glorious their bodies are. And they cannot stand still; their muscles won't let them. They walk slowly, not because because they want to, but because they have to. Each high step, each twist of the cages in their vaginas and anuses, releasing ever more endorphins.
And we have to be on our guard, because they will run. As hard and as fast as they can. Running through an orgasm is the most euphoric experience a pony can ever have. They don't need wings to fly, only a parachute to bring them back down to earth.
Magnificent doesn't begin to describe Erana and Purple. Such strong, equine faces; such full, high breasts on proud chests. Such taut abdominal muscles and stomachs. Such long, slender legs, toned thighs and calves, and strong hooves. Their lungs heave, their bodies glow with sweat, and their vaginas leak with uncontrollable passion.
Erana and Purple look to us and know they are magnificent, too.
Unhitched from the traps, we lead them back to the stable. With great care, we remove their harnesses. We unbuckle the straps, remove the bridles, and take extra care with the bits. Only the hip loin straps and the ankle restraints remain. Bent over the feeding frame, Erana and Purple don't like having their legs spread, but even best friends have to part sometimes. And we do not want to be kicked.
It is our most solemn duty, and one of their greatest pleasures, to ensure they are clean and healthy. This is one of the few times where it is so much harder for us than it is Erana and Purple. Yet we endure it.
Beginning with their manes, we wash them gently. And because this month isn't a shaving month, we wash their fine hair. We scrub their bodies with a firm brush. We kneel behind them to ease the aches in their legs, gently kneading their thighs and massaging their calves. And, because we are thorough, we tend to their anuses and vaginas, too. The softest toothbrush ensures they are clean. A flashlight shows their is no bruising, and rubbing them firmly ensures the good health of their hooves.
Finally, Erana and Purple stand as tall and as erect as we do not. Free of confinement, with pride in themselves for the ponies they are. And they are not the only ones impatient to see what the following day will bring.
Transcribed from Interviews With An Animal Psychologist: When Hucows Come Alive
A hucow's life is a lonely, pathetic, existence. The sleep, they're milked, they eat, they're milked, they have orgasm after orgasm. What more could a hucow want than a huge mechanical dildo pumping in and out of its swollen, distended vagina? Apart from another one in its anus. And an electric current pulsing through both. For fourteen hours every day. We aren't thoughtless. We do vary the speed and the pulses. It isn't as if they have anything to think or worry about.
So, we installed mirrors so they could see themselves. At least they'd have a friendly familiar face to look at, and they can watch themselves being milked.
If they recognize themselves.
Hooks have pulled theirs nostrils and mouths wider. Clamps have swollen, stretched, and widened their tongues. Solvents and stretchers have softened the cartilage and extended their ears. Their hair has been cropped, and the ammonia in the frequent golden showers has bleached it.
Now they have no control of it, mucus seeps through their nose flaps. Over time, their lips will retain their swollen state. Cows should have nice, wide mouths, so a band draws their lips back, and mucus oozes into their drooling mouths.
Their udders hang fat and low, filled with milk. ECT of the udders not only enhances production, but also stimulates the hucows physically and mentally. Their teats are now distended and swollen. Only the coloration shows where their nipples were.
It's no wonder that hucows are wretched creatures. The mirrors show them a reflection of their former failures in life. Their excretions are a testament to that. The dildo sucks more out than it squelches back in; mostly because the biome in their gut has adapted to the change in their diet. It took them a while to realize that worms and insects are just as edible as the grass and weeds.
The muscles in their front legs have atrophied, so the vet recommended amputating the vestigial digits, and possibly everything beyond the ulna. However, the operation to fuse the toes on their hind legs into cloven hooves, and modify their feet instead of binding them, was a great success. We are optimistic that the procedure can be adapted for the hupups, including removing the hupups' fibula, calf muscle, and much of the tibia.
The fat on the old hucow hangs in ugly loose folds, much like the flaps of their vaginas. Their hides have grown pale under the soft light, but the hair is thickening with regular shaving.
It would be a mistake to think that these two hucows are miserable and dull. The frame has been upgraded, the old bars replaced. The hucows can stand on their hind hooves, and bend forward under the tension of strong springs at the pelvis and sternum.
Both hucows really do enjoy being milked. We showed them the condoms that fit over their teats. Probably the same, small variety their old mates and clients would have used if they didn't go bareback. Snip the end off, place it in the shell, hold the teat in place, and switch the machine on. Lubrication, as the old joke goes, eases. Their teats are sucked in, and the hucows have twenty minutes of bliss.
We can see it in their eyes. The suspicion, contempt, disgust, and every other synonym stuck up their thesaurarses. The tension unit gives them a pulse of electricity, their udders swing, their eyes close, their heads jerk, their legs kick, and they low like crazy. Just remember to wear a waterproof apron, because they'll urinate on the spot, and halfway round the milking shed.
Random pulses work best. Anywhen between twenty and forty seconds, and for five to ten seconds, on medium to high power. In between, even the low power waves make their muscles and udders twitch delightfully. They gasp for breath, close their eyes, and before they can recover, another pulse hits them. Every twenty to forty seconds. Their eyes opening wide in splendid surprise, lowing louder and longer, on their way to another blissful orgasm. For twenty minutes on a good day, if they're lucky.
A lowing hucow is a happy hucow. They can see it all for themselves.
Their bodies want to buck and twist, straining against the heavy springs, but held firmly in place. The sinews in their neck go taught as their heads strain against the vice-like grip of its restraints. Their nostrils and lips flap as a lung-full of air is sucked in, only for mucus and saliva to explode out when they exhale.
It works them better than some old drag queen's exercise video. Really. Who knew she was a he? Not one part of them doesn't get the best workout it will ever have.
All the while, the pumps rhythmically clamp down and suck every last drop of milk from their teats. In a rare moment, they can see just how extended their teats are; how far their nipples have been sucked in; and they can watch spray after spray of milk being sucked away. It must be comforting to see how productive they've become in just a few short weeks.
Yet, how often the hucows orgasm is irrelevant. They rarely notice when the milking stops. Their bodies continue to shudder, all their swollen lips and flaps quiver, and they leak from every orifice. They look at themselves and almost see the true cow they were always meant to be.
It gives us a chance to top up their food. Caterpillars, earthworms, and larvae are good sources of nutrition, calcium, and vitamins. Grass is a good source of iron, and never overlook weeds. Our mistake was giving them fruit. But, after a while, their stomachs complain, and now they'll eat almost anything.
Of course, their eyes will glare; they're survivalists, not desperate. Filthy, yes. Covered in sweat, feces, mucus, and saliva. It's not what they've become; it's what they've always been, in one way or another. Exposed to their true nature, they begin to understand.
Each new day is one step farther away from their former corruption. Each day, their original sin recedes into a more distant memory. Until, one day, there is only the day before, and what they were has disappeared altogether.
That's why we reshape them.
A hucow may have no meaning, but it does have a purpose. And now they can see that for themselves. They can see the futility of thinking about anything other than what's directly in front of them. All the cosmetics they painted on their faces, all the scents and lotions they spread over their bodies, was just camouflage.
The clues were staring at them every time they looked at and bemoaned their plain, egocentric, unadorned faces in a mirror, and desperately tried to make themselves pretty. Cosmetic: the superficial appearance on the surface. Camouflage: artificial; a disguise for their true nature. In deceiving others, all they did was deceive themselves.
Each day now, their appearance matches their purpose more closely. They saw that, once, and didn't believe it. After a while, they acknowledged it. Grudgingly. Then dismissed it just as quickly. Now, they look at themselves and just wonder. Hucows are always overwhelmingly vain. But for the ten, twenty, thirty, years of their lives they wasted, weren't they always?
They have nothing to do now but eat and excrete. Physically, they are healthier now than they have ever been. Age may not have treated their faces kindly, but only because they mistreated their bodies their entire adult lives. Their faces and the mechanical dildoes remind them of that. The only difference between a pleasure and a vice is the reason behind it.
If they feel shame now, or pity for themselves, it's only because they didn't know any to begin with. Every part of them is open. Their only disappointment is not being able to choose how they're filled.
The vet says they're still a little bit wet behind the ears, but coming along nicely. Let's face it, they're wet everywhere, and never stop. But, for a week, we will have to stop their vaginal dildoes. Their hormone levels have peaked, and so has the hubull undergoing his own milking. The only artificial thing where he is concerned will be the insemination of our cows.
And if a hucow is low maintenance, then a hubull only ever needs a fat dildo in its anus, and food in front of its face. And if a hucow has no need for intelligence, all that is required of a hubull is a solid physique and large genitalia, regularly pumped to larger proportions.
Both hucows reproduced regularly from their teenaged years, so calves should drop through their enlarged vaginas without a problem. And we have at least twenty years with the younger hucow to experiment with crossbreeding. The spermatozoa in the hubulls' semen can be separated in a centrifuge, and using flow cytometry, to ensure only female calves for the first few years.
Cows can be milked and stimulated almost to the moment they calve. And, at least for a cow, their gravid state is of little importance. A hucow might wonder, but will ultimately not have the awareness to care. These two are content with what they have. Especially the orgasms. And sucking tiny worms and larvae from the grass.
Perhaps, in their former lives, they didn't know, and limited themselves to giving oral favors when gravid. That practice is severely discouraged now that we are aware of the potential for oral cancer. Compared with syphilis and gonorrhea, a little herpes simplex was the least of their worries.
Every day they look at the mirror. Every day, they stare into it. Until one day, when they wonder at the animal looking back at them, not knowing who it is. We cover it then, and show them again for a minute every other day. Only when they look without questioning, then we know they have become the cows they were always destined to be.
And, before we know it, it's milking time again. And our coffee break. The hucows struggle to contain their excitement as much as they readily give up their milk. And we smile with them. After all, a latte, every now and again, encourages us, too.
Transcribed from Interviews With An Animal Psychologist: When Hupups Come Alive
It's always possible to teach an old hupup bitch new tricks. Even one as recalcitrant as Indiya. When they're hungry. Although Indiya has become less discriminating about what she puts in her mouth. So, we play games.
Indiya sits up and begs, forepaws up, her tongue hanging out of the side of her wide mouth, panting in short breaths. Begumi sits and watches. On command, she runs to the food bowl, collects a soft piece of meat, and fetches it for her fellow pup.
The scorn and resentment on Indiya's face is as clear as the smirk on Begumi's. On command again, Begumi offers it on her tongue to Indiya. This time she hasn't chewed it, but her saliva spills all around it. Indiya has no choice. She takes it and chews it, slowly, sucking out all the flavor before offering it back.
There can be never enough humiliation for Indiya. Begumi licks her face and fetches another piece. And another. Sometimes, Begumi will chew and drop the meat. Indiya has to pick it up. Until she grows bored, and runs to the bowl.
Indiya is so ashamed of taking meat from Begumi that she forgets her exposed teats. She runs, irritated by the tail flexing her anus, but forgets about her exposed vagina. She eats the meat, not thinking of its origin, only the juices she can suck from it. Then Indiya remembers her mates, and what she sucks out of them.
Dismissing one embarrassment for another lessens them all. Indiya looks across at us and growls. Eat, excrete, and be washed. Indiya's arrogance evaporated weeks before. But for someone who prized possessions, being one herself sits uncomfortably on her. On a long leash, Indiya walks with as much pride as she can muster. With Begumi and her pack running around her, urinating against a tree is almost more than she can stand.
Still, Indiya will fetch a stick. She will lie down, roll over, and suffer us stroking her stomach and flat chest. Indiya's ears droop, her excess fat has gone, her waist is thin, and her former breasts have lost their firmness. It is easier for her to stand when we ask, sniff where her mates have been, and gnaw on the occasional bone we throw her.
Indiya sits on the scales, weighing less than she did when she was a teen. For someone who was so fastidious, Indiya doesn't like being lifted to the table and being inspected and washed. She forgets that her vagina is wide open, that her feces stick to her legs, and that her teeth haven't been brushed for a week.
We have to check their coats for lice and fleas, their mouths for worms, and be watchful for cuts and sores. Then we can wash them. Outside, they don't mind; inside, Indiya wriggles. She can't jump down, and even though the scrubbing brush is soft, she'd rather have her tail twisting her anus than having anyone clean her.
But today is special. The goal is never to loosen the pelvic floor, only the muscles in her vagina and anus to aid hygiene. We have to be certain that our hupups are clean. Of course, colonic irrigation is unnecessary; the colon cleanses itself. However, irritable bowel syndrome, amoebic dysentery, and electrolyte imbalances, are issues we can prevent, so we take all the care that we can.
Unfortunately, Indiya thinks she's getting an enema, and isn't happy. Nor is she happy when we brush her teeth and clip her hair and nails.
Begumi wonders at all the fuss.
Until it's her turn. Begumi enjoys the attention. Especially the soft brush, imploring us with her big eyes not to stop. But that's not the point. She relishes the shampoo, the soft towel, and her hair being brushed. Begumi has a fine coat, and a fringe that doesn't get in her eyes. In another world, she would have enjoyed less attention at a spa. If anyone would ever had paid for it.
All the retractors, weights, and clamps have been removed, but it's some time before they notice that the vagina cages have gone. Their vaginas haven't prolapsed, but their labia have distended and swollen. They do have new collars, bushy upturned tails, and fancy bows in her hair. And new toys to chew on instead of old sticks.
Only a suspicious human would think that all this was merely a prelude to soften them up for something more sinister.
Obedience training is much kinder than it sounds. Hupups must be able to play freely, but they also need to obey when their called. And, if it was a simple process, all of us would be much happier. The trick is to make them think they're having fun. Which usually lasts longer than sex with their old mates. Or about five minutes. If not less.
Our hupups become suspicious at the first hint of a change. Sitting on a small podium, raising a paw on command, is not normal. Nor is praise and repetition. But, honesty is the best policy. For Indiya, it's demeaning. For Begumi, it's another chance to show herself. How she can be proud of two beans on soft fried eggs is anyone's guess. But the beans plump up and Begumi rumbles happily when her teats are stroked.
Greed and envy were never a problem for Indiya; both came naturally in spite of her contempt. If Begumi got a chocolate button, Indiya wanted one. If she could catch it in her mouth.
Sit, down, shake, and wait, were easy. Off took a moment. Walking to heel was different. As in, not wandering away wherever they wanted. And if Indiya didn't sit or wait, she was excluded.
Transcribed from Interviews With A Master: To Your Scattered Pony Dreams, Go!
The novelty of the horsebox made Erana and Purple hesitate, but they never knew the solid foam blocks that encased them in the shipping container that brought them here. Their harnesses held them immobile for the journey to the show ground. If they had any thoughts of their own, it would be a disconcerting experience, traveling naked in the back of a truck, along highways and through towns and cities. Not even oblivious, it was enough that they couldn't fall.
The pony show isn't a gawkers fayre. Only the most respected owners and trainers attend with their very best ponies. To be invited to the competition is a high honor for the pony. To be accepted is a rare achievement. Erana and Purple knew none of this. They would be judged purely on their merits and performance.
Led out into unfamiliar surroundings, they were understandably skittish. Especially when separated from each other into their own stalls. There would be no vocal commands. A pull on their reins would guide them, and a tap with a crop, instruct them. We had an hour to groom them and clean them and fit the most minimal harness, and show our affection for them one last time before we left for the bar.
That was it. No retractors in their mouths; no hooks in their noses; no clamps in their ears, no cages in their vaginas or anuses. No bells; no whistles. No faces they would recognize. All they could do was stand and wait and trust us.
Certainly, a cold beer helps us with the tension and anxiety. High definition cameras and massive screens gave everyone a good view of all the mares in the show.
One by one, the judges visited each of the ponies. Five judges; their ten gallon hats barely containing their sweaty heads. And we'd owe more than a beer to any that Erana chose to bite. Even Purple was known to kick on occasion if we scrubbed too far. But, when the first judges entered their stalls, they stood their ground. Even as they were inspected from head to hoof.
Their manes were perfectly plaited. Their mouths were held perfectly by their bits. The judges parted their lips, tested their breasts, and examined the muscles in their stomachs and legs. Erana and Purple endured it all. Raising their knees to the correct height, and their hooves to be inspected. The judges marked their scorecards, and there was only the smallest hint of annoyance; our vet was more intrusive.
The last test was hardest. We expected them to shy away merely at the sight of the pony-sized dildo. Yet they stood as the shaft slid easily inside their vaginas and came out perfectly moist. Even old Purple.
Our relief was evident. Other owners looked on, pointing out every fault and flaw first, then grudgingly conceding that what they lost in style, they more than made up for in appearance. If only that counted. But, then, every pony was subjected to the same criticisms.
And that was only the first judge. They had to submit themselves to the same impersonal inspection four more times. Some more gentle, one quite rough. No pony likes to have their nipples teased erect and their breasts shaken. At least he was gentle with the dildo, and they both took the whole of the shaft to the hilt. Yet, they suffered it quietly, perhaps even proudly at the end.
We went to them quickly.
Erana's and Purple's faces were filled with indifference. For a first inspection, they had performed exceptionally. But our affection for Erana and Purple couldn't be shown with a smile. We approached them as a trainer would, with a stern look. Soothing their breasts gently in their cups, and adjusting their harnesses.
Erana and Purple are ponies who were girls. We were showing them to a world that appreciates ponies more than they could ever understand. Not that a pony would understand, or could. This was just another day for a pony. With the potential for accolades and rewards which, other than the extra attention, wouldn't mean anything either. And they did win. A rosette each. And slices of sugar coated apple.
They ignored the rosettes, too, but accepted the apple. There was nothing we were allowed to say. Everything was out of our hands and in those of the judges. Including their reins a half hour later.
The show ring was the first time the audience saw them in all their glory. And the first time the ponies had an audience to stare at all of their naked truths. They had a vague understanding of what they were, even if sometimes they thought themselves similar to ourselves.
This is the final separation of pony from girl. To act without thinking.They have no rôles or responsibilities. They are what they are and always will be. There is nothing else. Not a dumb animal, but an intelligent pony full of life and full of love for living, the way nature intended, not the way they could ever have dreamed they could be.
But one man is not an audience. Nor are a hundred. A thousand pairs of eyes probed the two ponies more deeply than the judges ever did with the dildo. Or the hook would when they discovered its purpose.
They were led in silence to a pole at the end of a long arm attached to a walking machine. This silence was the respect every man and woman had for them. Mainly because the hook was stainless steel, very large, quite cold, and the audience knew where it was going.
The rope was looped through the straps of their harness, and the hook was inserted carefully into the pony's anus. Even experienced ponies have been known to kick hard and accurately into an unguarded groin. The audience hoped. They were disappointed.
The mechanical walker led each pony in circle after circle. The butt hooks alone weren't enough to keep the pony upright. Each pony had to maintain their own posture, raise their knees without prompting to the correct height, and keep the correct gait.
Yet, compared with anal cages which twist and contort, the hooks are more gentle, a more subtle but equally pleasurable experience. The rectum is an often overlooked source gratification, yet Purple took to it readily with her considerable experience. If only Purple had the balance to go with the rise and fall of her knees, and didn't try to squeeze the life out of uncompromising steel.
Erana was the opposite. The steel didn't bother her, but she preferred something wet and soft inside her. Or herself inside something darker and dirtier. But Erana danced. A ballet on light and pointed hooves. She held her head high, back straight, shoulders back, and her chest proudly out. Erana's breasts bounced but never left their cups. The walker's metronome stopped, and so did a thousand hearts, broken asunder.
Yet Erana isn't an exhibitionist. Her cheeks flamed red under the hot lights and hotter stares of her audience. The hook was pulled from her butt, her soft nostrils flared, a whinny escaped her flapping lips, yet she retained her poise as she was led from the arena. Nothing could disguise the moisture flowing between her thighs. Points would be lost. But it was the first time I'd known an audience to be silent with awe. Perhaps some would be added.
We were almost three quarters through the show. None had come close to Erana, but at least Purple hadn't been the least elegant. They would have to wait, and so would we. Some of the ponies were beautiful; some were statuesque. One pair was miniature. More than one pair beggared belief. We sat through them all.
Some of the ponies we'd seen before. Some we'd like to see some more. Some just enjoyed being seen. And ours weren't the only novices. All, even Purple, showed their best.
Of course, we couldn't tell Purple that. Or anything else, because we didn't know. Purple's lack of confidence was obvious in her posture, but we could encourage her with a simple grooming, a gentle wash, and a pleasant scrubbing.
Erana was a different beast altogether. She stood meekly, shivering only from the exertion. No pride. Not even satisfaction. She waited patiently while we groomed and cleaned her. The flaps of her vagina were wrinkled, swollen, and dripped from her performance. Her anus still twitched, and her breasts trembled, but she breathed easily.
She was coming ever closer. She'd shown her all to everyone without hesitation. Except for the orgasm at the end. That was a step too far, reminding her of a girl inside that she'd once perhaps known.
Because Erana is our name for her. She doesn't have a name. She doesn't have a self. Other than to eat and excrete, to run and perform, to return the affection we give and not care how or why.
At the end of the afternoon, we couldn't have been more satisfied. The ponies didn't know it, but they could sense it. More pieces of fruit were offered and chewed enthusiastically as we stripped them of their show harnesses. Each reveled in the extra freedom the way a pony should: tossing their heads, snorting, whinnying, and stamping at the ground.
They'd lost their voices long ago. Harsh breaths through a bit make a wheezing noise. There are no words they can speak. With their tongues stretched out, mouths retracted back, and jaws held shut, they have no way to form them. After a while, they have no use for them and forget. But a distant memory reminded them of the sounds a pony makes. In time, those sounds invoke a response. They learn not through thinking, but the reaction to what they do.
For instance, after some rest, the way they react to the harness. They know what they're for. The light training harness, the tighter running and trotting harnesses. And the heavier pulling harness. Immediately, they stand still and straighter. The extra weight isn't a burden, but the wider straps hold them tighter than they like.
There is no support for their breasts, and the nose strap clamps their mouths about a bit than is drawn tightly back. They can see where they are going but little else. They know they will be worked hard, but the physical exertion is what they're made for.
It takes more than an hour to set up the show ground. And sell more beer at the bar. It's also the first time they will see glimpses of each other since they arrived. We lead them out according to a list drawn at random, joining the other ponies in the paddock. Their eyes grow wide as they see them. Not least because of the numbers, but openly staring at flat chests, large breasts, and some of the most beautiful faces and bodies on the planet. They don't think of the delights between the ponies' thighs, they only want to experience them.
But this is a contest. Not that they know. There are hitched in rows, and can only see what's immediately in front of them. Pulling heavy weights isn't new to them, it was part of their early training. They can sense the excitement, and want to be a part of it.
They can see the lanes, and the heavy tires. And the distance between them and more ponies at the other end. Six lanes and tires, and sixty yards. Not that they would think to count or wonder why.
They see and hear the first heats as the audience shouted and cheered. They wouldn't even if they could. They neighed and they snorted and they stamped at the ground because they and the other ponies were excited. Until it was their turn. They didn't have to answer to a name. A stable girl took their reins, led them out, and hitched them to a tire. That they had a chance to run was all they wanted.
And it didn't matter whether they were first or last, or knew or cared, as long as they ran. They wouldn't see anything else once the tape lifted and they pulled as hard and ran as fast as they could until a stable girl collected them and unhitched the tire.
They were hitched to another post and they rested. Then after a while, they ran again. It really didn't matter why. They ran, they rested, and they ran again. Six times in all. It wasn't even a race. For the ponies it was simply exciting. What would a pony care for a test of speed, or stamina, or endurance.
Ponies run not because they want to, but because they can. Neither did they care that it was a stable girl who collected them and returned them to their stalls. The stable girls were young and pretty, but they weren't running with them. And there was more to see given the chance. But they were glad to see us and be relieved of the heavy harness.
The grooming this time was more relaxed. They were covered in sweat and exhausted. As we washed and cleaned them, they dipped their heads into a trough and ate and drank. Even when we scrubbed them inside and out. Their hunger and a full stomach was more important than a stiff brush thrusting in and out of their vaginas and anuses. They didn't even complain as we unbraided and restyled their manes. Their manes being brushed was soothing after the pulling to untangle them.
And, if they could see themselves, they wouldn't have wondered about the fancy headdress and sparkling tack we dressed them in. With their heads held high, all they could see was the brightly colored lights of the show ground we led them to. They had no idea what to expect. They had no reason to. They had no thoughts at all.
The audience had feasted on fine food and the finer displays of the ponies. The audience drank fine wines and champagne. The ponies had a trough filled with water that, for a change, wasn't stagnant. Yet the ponies didn't know or care. The other ponies were just as dazzling as the lights. Our ponies saw each other and snorted their delight. They were more lost to the occasion than the audience was.
Each pony was applauded as their names were announced. Each pony was led out, oblivious of their nakedness, to be paraded around the arena. And each stepped out prideful of what they were: strong and graceful and at the height of their pomp and glory. But they didn't know that, it was merely their nature.
Until the ponies were lined up, and a reverential hush descended as the Master of Ceremonies took to the floor. There were rosettes and awards to be presented. It would take too long to reward each pony for passing inspection; these were special prizes given only to the best. For the ponies it was all meaningless. Even when their names were called and they were led forward by their owners. Still, the list was long and there were few surprises. Yet, through it all, while other, more seasoned ponies urinated and defecated, ours stood obediently and passively.
Until Erana's name was called for best temperament. She didn't win, but she did place third. We led her out, her poise still as graceful, uncaring of the rosette pinned to her harness. For ponies, meaning is a slice of apple or a carrot to munch. Ponies have no concept of human things like achievement and prizes, or understanding of photographs, but they will stand tall and push out their chests for attention and a cube of sugar or two. But we were happy, and so was she.
As with all events, the major prizes are the last to be announced. The usual veterans won prizes for the endurance and stamina challenges, but we were as surprised as everyone else that Purple placed second in the sprint. Of course, she just walked where she was led. She was just happy because. She wasn't a pony, she just was.
The very last prizes were for dressage and the best in show. All that the ponies understood of dressage was having a lump of something hard shoved somewhere surprisingly pleasant, and being made to walk. Only we saw the circles. And it was no surprise that Erana won. If she hadn't, the judges would have been hoisted very hard themselves. As far as our pony was concerned, she had another thing dangling where she couldn't eat it.
Of course, we were happy. Erana was a show pony, but she wasn't even close to being best in show. And, unexpectedly, Purple had rosettes of her own. Who would have thought a wiry old mare could pull anything so quickly.
After another parade, we led them back to their stalls to eat and rest and sleep. The rosettes were bright and colorful, but not as curious as some of the new ponies they'd seen. Their stomachs were full, they were warm, but they were used to that. They'd had a day full of new sights and sounds and odors, and they were exhausted. They were alone, in a strange place, and it was dark, yet they were used to that, too.
In the morning there would be more tests, more races to run, and more prizes to win. That night, we knew they would both dream, but whether it would be of each other, or of bouncing breasts, or loose vaginas and anuses, or just a brush scrubbing them clean, in the morning it would all be forgotten.
In the morning they woke to odors of urination and defecation. Their own, but there was food to eat and water to drink, and a familiar face would take them somewhere not here. Throughout the day, they pulled and trotted and ran, there was food and water, and attention to their details. That's how it always is.
The ponies won minor awards and prizes. We were pleased with them and they walked to the horsebox without a care. And that was just how it should be. They'd both worked hard for a few pieces of fruit and the occasional lump of sugar. It was no surprise that they slept soundly in the familiar scents and surroundings of their own stalls.
Of course, we'd arranged a special treat for them. Special for us, and a treat for their bodies, because sexual gratification is only a human pastime. And proper studs to cover them, not pathetic ponyboys. The differences are in size, attitude and presentation.
The ponies stood waiting to be led for the day's routine. The sight of the studs excited their bodies if not their minds. Experienced studs strapped into pony harnesses. Tall and strong young men, impressively equipped to perform without question. And paid well. Not the young men; their owners.
If the ponies expected anything, given the studs' obvious excitement, it wasn't to be strapped to the feeding station. They hadn't seen the metal frame, or a naked male, for more days than they have no cause to remember. Not the several months of eating and drinking from a trough, and the pleasure of a scrubbing brush. Both ponies bled; even the old mare. We can count. And the timing couldn't have been better.
The studs' bloodlines were pure, their heritage without fault. The sleeves around their penises were only to simulate the shape. Length and girth weren't issues. Still, with a dozen studs, and millions of sperm, there would only be two winners. Unless we were lucky.
The old mare watched as the younger was strapped to the frame. The young mare's hind legs were spread and restrained to prevent her from kicking. Her only support was under her hip loin and breast straps. Her head was free, and she stood easily on her hooves. Until the first stud was led to her, covered her, and slid inside her.
All the mare cared for were the sensations inside her and the weight on her back. Her response was primal; tossing her head and snickering as her flanks swayed to the stud's rhythm. Uncomprehending eyes stared at nothing. There was nothing to see; there was only a void that was filled. And filled. And filled. There was only him inside her pushing. And pushing. And pushing.
Her damn watched without emotion, only ever seeing the stud's penis slurp slowly in and out, her tongue licking her lips as the scent of the liquids spilling out reached her flaring nostrils. Deep inside her was a faded memory of something similar being done to her. That she wanted it for herself.
There was never any urgency. Until the very end. An hour after he'd started. The mare bucked against the straps, snorted with all the explosions in her head, and tried to kick with fury away from the shackles on her hind legs. And in less than a minute it was over. The stud finally filled her deep with his penis and semen and withdrew.
The ache wasn't the mare's alone. Her dam had urinated on the ground, champed on her bit, and tossed her head, too. Ten minutes later, she was strapped down, and the next stud led to cover her. Another hour later, and she was bucking and kicking and neighing against the most powerful orgasm she'd had in her life. Not that she had any memories to compare.
In a little under five hours, four studs filled the two mares with so much more than sperm. The studs were led away to be cleaned and fed. The mares rested on the ground, covered in dried sweat, urine, and their excitement leaking onto their legs. Mucus flowed through the soft flaps of their nostrils; foam and saliva spilled from their mouths over wide lips. If they wanted, they could lick each other clean.
The mares had deserved their reward. After our lunch, we'd lead the studs back to cover the mares again. But not in their vaginas. The mares' labia were swollen and hanging in loose folds. The mares' reward would be the studs filling their anuses. A simple diversion in our pursuit of pleasure for them. Their excreta was only biological waste and no hazard.
We cared for them where others wouldn't. We thought for them because they were never capable. Not in a meaningful way. We valued both of them beyond money and our own selfish dreams. And over the next two days, eight more studs gave their all for them, too.
The vet assured us that both ponies were perfectly healthy. The dam is old, but producing a foal is not beyond her. The young mare has at least twenty productive years ahead of her, if not more. The mares' foals will be returned to the world to find and make their own dreams. Their heritage is secure.
The mares? For a few months, they can trot and pull and live their simple dreams. For the rest, we care for our ponies more than they ever did dream.
Never forget.
Recall them as they were outcast: wretched creatures with a sordid past, and a future filled only with misery for themselves and those around them.
See them as Warrior did: simple animals deserving compassion, small in stature, to be sheltered and protected.
Mark them as the judges did: wonderful ponies, both. Moist, flaring nostrils. Perfectly wide mouths, with soft lips, and sharp teeth. Full breasts, straight backs, and toned stomachs. Slender, muscular, legs, standing tall on hooves of their own. And warm, wet, welcoming vaginas and plump labia.
They have none of this. Ponies have no memories of their own to speak of. Each day is a new beginning, so we remember for them. We remember taking them in when no one would. We remember cleaning them, training them, caring for them. We remember showing them that they are never alone; that they, too, have kindred spirits. We remember showing the world to them, and introducing their beauty to the world. We remember that they, too, are some mother's daughter, and that they can be mothers, too.
Look upon them and see them as we do now: both gravid, and so close to term again. Beautiful, elegant, noble. And, most important, satyrical reflections of ourselves.
Transcribed from Interviews With A Master: To Your Scattered Cow Dreams, Go!
Surgery was always going to be the best option. Especially for the old hucow after she failed to carry beyond the first trimester. Comas were induced for a week. Our vet and a consultant osteologist sliced them open, chopped their fibulae, tibiae, trimmed the calf muscles, rebuilt their ankles, and restructured their patellae, and removed excess skin. And that was just the major components of their hind legs.
Their innominate bones, clavicles, and forelimbs, were equally modified to give them a balanced quadruped structure. Of course, the hupups enjoyed the leftover treats. The care for our cows had never been so intensive.
They were woken, not in their old frames, nor lying on their backs, but suspended in hammocks. Naturally, the soft bedding, and being clean, was a surprise for them. The lack of orgasms was clearly a shock, but the milking did resume. Obviously, their modified skeletal structure and musculature required reconditioning. So a second coma was induced.
As soon as it was clear that there were no complications or infections, that all the grafts had taken, they were returned to their familiar but refurbished milking shed. Resting comfortably in hammocks, their legs free of restraints on the ground. Free to support themselves. Free to move around.
Free to see they are not alone.
Although a cow doesn't need companionship, the two in the milking shed see each other and low, any other voice they had long since forgotten. They stare and almost empathize. Faces that are still familiar, bodies they had never seen but can still admire. And where they might never have looked, they can clearly see wide anuses and distended vaginas and sagging flaps. They can only wonder at impressive udders and superior teats, strong hind legs, and the weak forelegs that are slowly gaining definition.
Each day makes them stronger. Standing under their own weight is an achievement. Walking on four legs is unfamiliar, but they have the safety of the hammock to catch them. Milking is more natural without the mechanical dildoes, and they clearly miss the orgasms and electrical stimuli. In a distant memory, their hooves don't look quite right. In a distant memory, their udders weren't quite so full, and didn't hang so low.
That is the final separation of human and cow.
It takes weeks, but they finally learn to kneel, lie down, and stand again. The hammock is removed and they are encouraged to walk on their own. The following day they are led to open pasture. Their hides are tougher from the chemicals that cleaned them, and their bodies have a fine coat of hairs. And they have tails, now, that they are learning to flick.
Now, they are simply two cows in a small herd. They were the prototypes. Surgery proceeded apace, and not just with the cows.
They stare at the sky. They stare at the other cows. Different breeds, specimens collected from around the world. They stare at each other. There is no comprehension. They lower their heads, they eat the grass, and whatever crawls in it, and defecate freely. They no longer need any stimulation other than their own freedom. Their udders become fuller as they are milked less frequently, but the yield will be just the same, and the quality of their milk will improve in the same way their lives have.
They are no different than their larger cousins. Mostly, they stare vacantly. They look across at the huge bull, and their vaginas leak without thought in anticipation. Then they see us, and begin their slow plod. Their hooves spread in the mud because they do. The weight beneath them has always been there. And the things that crawl and squirm taste of vinegar, not salt, in their mouths. Not that they remember or recognize either.
There is only eating.
Defecating happens on its own. So does becoming gravid. And, when they become too old, they will become food for the pups. For their entire existence, they didn't know they were alive; not in any meaningful way. Why give any meaning to their deaths? Certainly, none of the cows would ever notice.
There is nothing exciting about watching a cow lumber across the pasture to the milking shed. There is nothing in their faces. But, they give us milk, so, for us, there is immense satisfaction.
Transcribed from Interviews With A Master: To Your Scattered Pup Dreams, Go!
There are so many rôles a pup can perform, but the most important is to be a good companion. The keepers play with them; the trainers try to understand them; but it's the master who finally cares for them. Our reward is a happy, playful pup, and years of companionship.
The journey for the pup is an arduous one. From being confused and often estranged, they learn to overcome their previous prejudices and confront their fears and apprehensions. Most perplexing is understanding that they are, and always will be, pups. They can run and play, and are free to express themselves within the confines of their bodies. To this extent, they remain the most human of all protospecies.
But it does come at a cost.
The surgical transformation is radical. Any thoughts of ever standing upright, of returning to their previous lives, are removed from them. Proper induction and training should, indeed must, prevent such trauma from occurring. Yet, the happiest hupup can still be reduced to abject misery.
It takes a long time to adjust, physiologically and psychologically.
For us, weeks pass. For Indiya and Begumi, they wake in a sterile room, suspended in a sling, their bodies strangely restricted and deformed. We cannot prepare them, only ever reassure them. Indiya and Begumi scream and we sedate them. Every day. Every morning, every noon, every night. Until their nightmares subside; until their minds reject their memories, not their bodies. In time, Indiya and Begumi will accept what they see every day, and dismiss everything else until all they see is, and ever was, their own reality.
From crawling awkwardly, unsure of themselves as much as the world about them, Begumi and Indiya learn to stand. Their muscles grow stronger, and they learn to walk. Their agility improves, and they begin to run on their own four legs. And then they wake in the kennels with their mates, and see the world as they were meant to. Because euthanasia is only ever the very last resort.
All Indiya and Begumi have now is instinct. Begumi has overcome her insecurity and isolation, becoming outgoing and playful. Indiya took longer, her arrogance a constant source of amusement yet, now, she is open.
They can sit and stand and lie down as naturally as any canine. Their tails wag not because of the cages in their anuses – the cages have gone, too – but because there are happy. Because they have a new perspective, their pleasure is no longer self-centered.
There is little they can't achieve; they are joyfully unaware of any boundaries. The first thing they and their mates see is a mouth or a vagina. Indiya sees Begumi sniffing at other puppies but doesn't see that they are all female. The male puppies have no reason to shy away from Indiya. Especially when Indiya's sniffing turns to licking after she discovers the difference between a pickled gherkin and a wiener. Embarrassment didn't begin to describe her predicament; as long as she thought no one was watching.
Their final test isn't waiting patiently to be called, or walking to heel. Their final test is to be accepted as a pet.
The numbers in our stables, our herd of cows, our farm animals, and the more exotic creatures in the zoo, are all growing. And so is our own family of keepers, trainers, and masters. And not least the number of offspring we all produce. Life, death, and decay, is all around us – not least in a zoo – but so is birth.
Introducing children to the pups is their most difficult test of all. We have done all that we can; now it is up to the children.
The pups wait patiently not knowing, or needing to know, that there is anything to expect. They haven't seen any children for more months than they could imagine they need to count. The children are old enough to be responsible, or they wouldn't be here. The pups have been trained to respond to their masters.
The children aren't surprised; they've milked cows by hand; they've learned how to groom ponies; they've mucked out the pigs. Collecting eggs from the chickens is not a trivial task.
The pups were merely bewildered. Beyond eating, running, playing, and defecating, their lives are uneventful. Their minds rarely leave misbehaving in the kennels. But their training is well established. Indiya and Begumi wait to be called, or for one of the children to approach them.
We are not prejudiced. There are many breeds, but fair-skinned or dark, we are all the same. The children have seen that with themselves and the other protospecies. There is no favoritism.
Still, it is unnerving for the pups, and there is no need for bravery among the children. The children have been taught to respect the pups, too. To approach them slowly, and to kneel in front of them.
The pups wait until a boy and a girl approach them. On a quiet command, they sit up and offer a paw to be shaken, suffer their heads to be stroked, and their chins to be scratched. When they first began their journey, it was shameful and embarrassing for them to be seen by an adult. To respond to a child is vindication for our efforts and theirs.
The first two children attach leashes to their collars and walk them to their food bowls. Indiya and Begumi don't hang their heads, but walk calmly, occasionally looking up for guidance and reassurance. They wait while the leashes are removed and for the instruction to eat. And, when they are sated, the boy and girl pet their heads and withdraw.
Two more new friends greet them, and they walk to heel. Indiya's and Begumi's loose teats bounce, and their tails wag, but they are indifferent to their nakedness. The scents they sniff are as familiar as theirs mates and the trees themselves. They don't have to be told to urinate or defecate; after eating and running and playing, it is only natural for them. And even if their new friends are not so tall, still it is proper to follow them.
And the day continues as it always does. They run and they play with more new friends. They fetch sticks, and chase after balls, they roll over and have their chests and stomachs rubbed and tickled. Happiness is having more than a mate.
Happiness is having friends who love them, and whom they can love, too.
Precisely because they can't remember a time when they had a mate who thought only of himself. They no longer have memories of friends who turned their backs on them. They cannot remember that the only person they truly loved was themselves, and even that love had turned to hatred.
For pups, what they see in front of them is the only separation of human from puppy. Only their new experiences define them. They feel what it is to give and receive, to love and to share that love. Only their spite is lost. In spite of themselves, there is no fear or loathing or malice. In spite of all they have inflicted on others, and all they have suffered, they are finally free.
It is enough that a child can sit and play with a pup. They both come into the world ignorant and with tears in their eyes. As a child learns and grows, so does a pup. We restructure hupups' bodies to enhance their lives; it's up to the hupup to discover how fast and far they can run. And they do. Gleefully.
Even Indiya will chase after a ball. Not because she doesn't want to lose to Begumi, but because it's fun. The children watch her run and jump like a lamb gamboling in the spring. Her short legs skip, her tail wags, and her ears and teats flop. Indiya knows all her mates by sight and scent, and doesn't hesitate to stand with her tail end in the air.
We are neither cruel nor kind, we are only fair. Indiya has the truest affection their mates can give them. Begumi doesn't have more; Begumi has equality.
Begumi's prosthetic genitalia are as real as synthetic can be. After the surgery, her shock was nothing compared with the surprise of all the sensations her penis could give her. Begumi isn't hermaphrodite; she is female plus. She has a vagina, plus a penis and testes. The penis becomes aroused naturally as she does. The greater vestibular glands fill Begumi's epididymides with her own secretions. Her pelvic floor clamps down, and she ejaculates quite pleasurably. And what she feels through her clitoris, and when she urinates, only she will ever know.
Begumi's genitalia is as much a part of her body as it is her psyche. Her curiosity towards it is the same as any puppy's. She knows what her penis is for, and will practice using it as best as she can. Most important, Begumi doesn't abuse it or her mates. Naturally, Begumi still exposes herself as much as she ever did.
They have no inhibitions. They run and play oblivious of their tongues hanging as loose as their teats and labia. The puppies chase around them and plunder them as they will. And they would never think to resist. They are pups now; the last vestiges of their corrupt humanity is far behind them.
To see Indiya and Begumi mate is to see the true wonder of nature, of how it selects, and chooses its fittest. There are no ethical conflicts. Whatever the species, no one discriminates on gender; to discriminate on DNA would be unjust. The thought of a cow with a bull is born-again virgin on the ridiculous. But, with pups and puppies, pigs and, well, pigs, there are no size or safety concerns.
And for Begumi to appreciate the scent of Indiya is sublime. Not only for Indiya, but it establishes Begumi's dominance in the hierarchy.
Indiya and Begumi copulate with freedom, not fear. Coitus gives them pleasure, marking their release from servitude. The weight on Indiya's back is pleasing. Begumi's penis constantly thrusting inside her is more gratifying than nothing she can remember. And with satisfaction, Indiya can lie down, still breathing hard, her body only shivering in delight at her mate's continued penetration of her.
It is doubtful if Indiya knows that fellatio is her favorite pastime and not the name of any of the puppies. But Pavlov wouldn't have been surprised to observe how she came as if it was her name being called. Or that she answers to cunni or ana. The children call her favorite mate Yorick.
The children watch and learn. Shakespeare, too. Their education begins with respect for all of nature. As we step back, the children will love them. They will pet them and wash them and care for them. Rain or shine, they will go for long walks in the woods. Indiya's and Begumi's own sleek fur will keep them dry and warm. They will meet other pups, they will meet the ponies, and they will have their own adventures.
At the beginning, we could never have guessed that Begumi would be the alpha female of her pack. We would never have thought that Indiya would look to Begumi for guidance or reassurance. But now Indiya looks to Begumi's genitalia, and we would rather not imagine what she dreams.
All that they are now is a result of their honest and true endeavors.
Because they can't recall when they were children. How unruly they were. Or how wretched and miserable. How their parents worked tirelessly to raise them, and sought only the best for them.
Because they can't recall their own children. The pain of childbirth, all their worries and fears, the tears and the tantrums, and how their children were merely echoes of themselves.
Because they can't recognize them now. Children are never abandoned. We raise them and care for them as our own, and give them the opportunity to dream their own dreams. The children certainly never recognize their parents. How could they possibly love a mother who abandoned them? How could they have loved any creature filled with greed and bile and hate, with self-loathing and deceit?
Indiya and Begumi do not look to themselves first now, or at all. They look up to the children and love them openly. And the children love them. As much as any child or adult loves their most faithful companion. With all of their hearts, freely, and with joy.
Senior Archivist Notes
Ponygirls, hucows, and hupups were merely the beginning. The President may not agree on what we call the dregs of his society, but we remove them and repurpose them. And if they cannot be trained, they can still be stuffed and exhibited. The President was impressed with the hucats. Especially with their sleek fur, mammaries, and pudenda. Look at the First Lady, and it's clear that their faces are not so important, or worth remembering. At least, she enjoyed wearing a fur coat. Before growing one of her own.
Our humanity flourishes, even as his continues to fester. We are not the vermin feasting on their rotting corpses.
Chief Historian's Note
After the plague that swept through redacted was contained, the States of redacted, redacted, and redacted, were quarantined. Fortunately, Z00 and its successors remained immune, and continue to thrive. Limited trading resumed, and we are pleased to note that former redacted continued to be accepted into their breeding program.
The President did not survive the tissue ablation process, but we have learned that there were no ill-effects when his skeletal remains were donated as gifts to the hupigs and hupups. His shriveled genitalia redacted, but his prolapsed anus redacted and the fecal matter embedded in his tongue.
As gonorrhea continues to wipe out the male population, we continue to learn from the decay of the President's epidermis, and study it closely. We are near to developing a phage to counteract it. Not that we ever will. It is too fascinating, watching his entrails rot and decompose, to see that the only meaning a man's life ever gave was to the bacteria and insects, to the vermin and carrion eaters, that rid the world of what was left of him.
The death of modern society was inevitable. But now it can be reborn. Z00 was only the beginning. Society is only ever a zoo. Now, we can look forward, too. Z01 through Z09 are already yielding exciting results.
Moral decay wasn't inevitable; it was essential for the propagation of the protospecies.
And while this has been a rumination on life, (not only) the sex was badly written, man continues to mistreat their human women worse than their animals, and artifice has nothing to do with insemination, our intention was only ever to show that we still have so much to learn, and that protospecies can teach us so much more, not only from the study of moral decay.
- 1
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

A Moral Z00