Lunch:
• Another shake.
• Palpated abdomen to assess digestion.
• Carried to the bathroom if needed.
Afternoon nap:
• A large, thick white bottle with a sedative-laced comfort formula.
• My mind drifts under heavy clouds.
Evening:
• Another shake.
• Another bathroom trip.
• Pump reattached.
• Music cycling through soft piano pieces I begin to resent.
Night:
• Last bottle.
• Darkness takes me fully.
And throughout every hour of the day and, I assume, night, a man sits in the corner. Always watching. Always listening. Always rotating with another just like him. Not cruel. Just… devoted to their task.
By Thursday,the tension in my chest becomes unbearable. Engorged. Full. Tight. The harness strains under my breasts. Even the smallest movements cause the pump to fill faster and deeper.
By Friday, I notice my thighs. Fuller. Heavier. My hips, too. My stomach is softer.
By Saturday, my tank top feels too tight against my ribs. My shorts feel as if they are digging into my skin.
By Sunday night, I am sure. I am gaining weight rapidly. Something inside me breaks open in a silent scream no one hears.
Monday morning. The attendant tightens the harness with gentle hums under her breath.
“There we go, little cow,” she coos. “Such beautiful fullness.”
“My clothes don’t fit anymore,” I whisper. “They’re… too tight.”
She beams, actually beams. “Oh, that’s wonderful news! You were much too thin on arrival. A productive cow must have healthy curves for our next phase.”
My mouth goes dry. “What… what does that mean?”
“It means you’re nearly ready,” she says brightly. “For Phase Two.”
My entire body goes cold.
“Phase Two?” My voice trembles. “What is Phase Two? What do you mean ’ready’?”
She smooths my hair with clinical affection. “For breeding, little cow.”
I stop breathing. Her tone doesn’t change; it's still cheerful and still warm.
