BDSM Library - The Miss Daisy Chronicles

The Miss Daisy Chronicles

Provided By: BDSM Library
www.bdsmlibrary.com



Synopsis: The Miss Daisy Chronicles are a stand-alone group of stories set in the same universe as Cannibal 4H; a universe where, as the result of "The Great Disaster," humans are used as livestock and cannibalism is the accepted norm.
THE MISS DAISY CHRONICLES: MAKING MISS DAISY 
 
"I don't know what your destiny will be, but one thing 
I know: the only ones among you who will be really 
happy are those who have sought and found how to 
serve."  Albert Schweitzer    


FAIR WARNING:

The Miss Daisy Chronicles are a stand-alone group of 
stories set in the same universe as Cannibal 4H; a 
universe where, as the result of "The Great Disaster," 
humans are used as livestock and cannibalism is the 
accepted norm.  

The Miss Daisy Chronicles contain graphic descriptions 
of sex in many and varied forms, some of which 
selected people might consider deviant and perverse. 
It contains violence, death, family tragedy, the 
raising of humans as livestock and the consumption of 
human flesh.  

Be aware children are not spared in this tale!  They 
often meet a grisly end.   This series, like C4H, is 
not for the timid or squeamish. NOR IS IT FOR MINORS.

If you are a minor go away.  If reading this story 
would in any way violate the local laws, rules, 
regulations, morals or customs where you live go away.   
There are many other more edifying stories to be found 
elsewhere, stories that would be more appropriate to 
your age and legal status.

Let me restate this one more time: the story that 
follows this caution is intended for mature, 
consenting adults only and should only be accessed 
and/or downloaded if doing so would not violate any 
legal edicts adhered to in your locale or your own 
personal taste.

If you are a parent and you find your child has 
downloaded this story or other material you find 
objectionable, sorry but you need to do a better job 
of being a parent.

Consider moving the computer into a room where you can 
see what is on the screen.  Only let your children go 
on-line while you are at home or Google "parental 
control software" for a full listing of available 
filters and programs. If you don't know how to 
"Google," your kids will.

Previous chapters of Cannibal 4-H are available at

www.asstr.org/files/Authors/Eurytion/C4H/ 

And

www.bsdmlibrary.com.

Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is 
copyright with all rights reserved by its author 
unless explicitly indicated. Reproduction except for 
personal use and reposting without the author's 
written permission is prohibited. 

Finally this saga is for Miss Daisy. She knows who she 
is.

CHAPTER ONE: 
AGENT PROVOCATEUR

UNLIKE HER MUM, Tansy Jenkins had been an early 
bloomer. By age nine she'd already developed a woman's 
set of breasts; her mother outfitting her in "C" cup 
brassieres. "No sense in wasting money on Bs. You'll 
grow out of them before the year is old," Mum told 
her. "Money don't grow on trees."  The perilous state 
of the family finances kept her in restrictive and 
pinching C cups long after Tansy should have moved to 
Ds.

The family didn't really live on a farm, even though 
her Dad called it one, just a hardscrabble patch of 
land where mum grew some vegetables and kept some 
chickens for eggs. It was a hard life they led.

Scott worked on many of the farms and ranches in the 
area, pitching in when someone needed extra help, 
always available to do those jobs the landholders 
didn't want to do themselves. 

"No shame in an honest day's work Flo," Scott used to 
tell his wife. "No humiliation in doing what you need 
to do to feed your family. You best remember that. I 
might not be here forever, maybe I'll run away with a 
younger woman and then where will you be," he'd ask 
always laughing at his own joke.

The joke turned sour when Scott Jenkins died in a fall 
from the McPherson's silo. Tansy was 13, physically 
mature beyond her years but emotionally still living a 
life of dolls and dress-up. In a universe of three, 
her father had been the sun his women's worlds had 
revolved around. 

Tansy's Dad wasn't the only casualty to arise from the 
accident. The family that had been left behind was 
decomposing almost as surely as the corpse. Flo 
recognized her daughter's anguish but her own grief 
was inconsolable and dealing with Tansy's sorrow was 
beyond her. Nights in the house, once filled with joy 
and laughter, now echoed with the sound of heart-
wrenching tears and loss.

With little in the way of savings and few real assets, 
Flo felt overwhelmed by her new responsibilities as 
head of the family; each new bill arriving in the post 
adding to her sense of loss and abandonment. It wasn't 
supposed to happen like this. She and Scott were meant 
to live a long, full life, not alone but as a couple. 
Sure, there would be hard times, everyone had those, 
but they would overcome them together.  Now they 
weren't together and they never would be again. 

Scott had left her; left her to cope with troubles she 
was never meant to face alone. But she was alone; a 
young daughter was no substitute for a husband and 
partner, just an additional burden Flo had to shoulder 
by herself. She felt like an exhausted Atlas still 
struggling to hold up the world but certain that it 
would soon crash.

Then Morgan Dashwood appeared on the scene.

Local opinion was divided whether Morgan Dashwood was 
just a slick operator, a sharper who depended on his 
ability to hustle to earn a living or something 
darker, a storm crow who made his way in the world by 
living off on the misfortunes of others.  Whichever 
side of the divide a person stood on, there was no 
denying Morgan's ability to make the tides turn in his 
favour. 

Morgan was perpetual motion made flesh. When he walked 
his arms oscillated in the syncopated cadence of a 
soldier on parade. When he sat he fidgeted like a 
kindergarten student who badly needed to go to the 
bathroom.  And when he talked ... when he talked his 
hands and arms gesticulated as though he was Toscanini 
conducting the New York Philharmonic.

People said watching Morgan was almost hypnotic; you 
just couldn't take your eyes away from all that motion 
and got so entranced by the ticks and twitches and 
fluttering hands he could talk you into anything. Less 
than three months after her father's death "Uncle" 
Morgan had talked his way into Tansy's mother's bed. 
It only took another month to become a permanent 
resident in the house.

Morgan's presence in the house wasn't accidental. He 
had had a casual acquaintance with Scott and Flo; both 
men had been members of the Mystic and Benevolent 
Order of Samhin. Flo's voluntary service at the 
order's good works gave them a chance to meet and 
engage in some mild flirtation. Nothing at all 
serious, Flo really wasn't Morgan's type.  Her 
daughter Tansy was another story altogether.

Only nine years old at the time, Tansy's teats had 
already blossomed into a set many older women would be 
envious of. At the time Dashwood was working as a 
broker or "talent scout" for a local diary, his job to 
visit the auctions and propagation farms in search of 
new milkers. He was especially good at identifying 
potential converts, free human females who, if they 
became chattel, would produce enough milk to make 
their conversion worthwhile. Tansy was the best piece 
of talent he had ever seen.

Despite her potential, Morgan didn't see her as a 
realistic prospect for conversion.  Sure the family 
was poor and poor folk were often willing to rid 
themselves of a mouth to feed and make a profit in the 
process.  But the bond of love between the trio was so 
strong he just couldn't see them putting Tansy up for 
sale. Still you never knew and he kept tabs on the 
girl and her family; watching her grow up, each year 
making her conversion to chattel more desirable.

After Scott's death, Morgan knew his opportunity had 
arrived. He attended Scott's funeral, paying his 
respects to both Flo and Tansy all the while gauging 
the extent of their despondency and formulating a plan 
of action.  Morgan felt no guilt over his intentions. 
No man is a villain in his own mind and he justified 
his intentions with the rationalization that what he 
would do would be the best for everyone involved, not 
just himself.

He waited until three weeks after the funeral to begin 
his campaign. By then the condolence visits would be 
over. Family friends would have felt they had "done 
their duty" and returned to their normal lives. For 
Flo and Tansy the numbness would be wearing off, 
replaced by heartsickness and fear of what an 
uncertain future would hold.

Even so, Morgan began slowly; a "chance" meeting at 
the grocer, another at the post office followed by 
coffee and conversation as he encouraged Flo to 
confide in him. Coffee turned to dinner, with Morgan 
skilfully steering the conversation to Tansy and her 
reaction to her father's death. Dinner was followed by 
a formal date as Dashwood played on the woman's 
loneliness and apprehension like a virtuoso.

As he knew she would, Flo spread her legs for Morgan, 
welcoming him as a haven from the tempest howling 
around her; the few tears she shed afterwards in 
memory of her life with Scott wiped tenderly away by 
the new man in her life. They began to make love 
several times a week but never in the house, "Tansy 
just wouldn't understand."  Still Morgan's visits to 
the house became more and more frequent, his gifts and 
attentions to Tansy lifting her spirits as he moved to 
become the young girl's new friend and authority 
figure until, at last, Flo was sure Tansy has accepted 
his presence. 

The month he moved into the home, Morgan began to 
seriously seduce Tansy, passing his efforts off to Flo 
simply as an attempt to gain Tansy's approval.  

"I'm not trying to take Scott's place Flo. No one 
could or should, least of all me.  But, if we're going 
to have a future, Tansy's got to like and respect me.  
She's a young girl and she needs a strong male figure 
in her life. Someone to take her in hand, comfort her 
in her loss and lead her to her future. It's not only 
what's best for Tansy, it's what's best for all of 
us," Dashwood said, his hands soaring and swooping 
through the air like a pair of barn swallows. "I'm not 
her father. I'll never be her father. But I'd be 
honoured if she'd think of me as her Uncle."  

And so "Uncle" Morgan was born and Tansy given over to 
his care and tutelage. His goal was straightforward, 
convert Tansy from master to chattel, busty young girl 
to champion milker; the path toward that goal would be 
anything but.

He began by gaining her trust, gifting her with small 
presents, looking seriously into her grey eyes as she 
talked about her day, sharing little jokes and 
secrets, developing a special intimacy between the two 
of them alone. 

Morgan also began to develop a physical relationship 
between them, one that would, at least at first, stop 
well short of actual sex.

It began with simple touches, the tickle of a finger 
here, the stroke of a palm there, a casual pressure of 
body against body as they sat together on the couch or 
passed each other in the hall. Kisses on the cheek 
that gradually crept closer and closer to the corner 
of her month. But never anything out of bounds, 
Tansy's burgeoning double-D breasts and shapely body 
were a treat only for Morgan's eyes, not his hands. 

To make sure Flo had no inkling of his real 
intentions, he took care to be seen as always going 
out of his way to give Tansy privacy when she was 
changing or unclothed, even going as far as to talk 
with Flo about more modest, less revealing, styles of 
clothing for Tansy. After all, she was still only a 
young girl, even if she did have the figure of a grown 
woman. Didn't Flo worry about Tansy attracting the 
wrong sort of attention if she dressed like the other 
girls did?  

Morgan made sure Flo didn't lack for attention either, 
both sexually and emotionally. It wouldn't do for her 
to feel abandoned or pushed out by her daughter, not 
at this stage of his plans. His lovemaking with Flo 
never slackened and, even though his tender 
ministrations to Tansy were obvious, they were always 
made to seem secondary to his amatory regard for Flo. 
The daughter might get a small bunch of daisies, her 
favourite flower but the mother always got a bouquet 
of roses.

In the deeper game of seduction Morgan was playing, 
conquering the body was secondary to conquering the 
mind. Again Morgan started cautiously; in his 
experience the old saying "Haste makes waste," was 
only too right. He not only had to change Tansy's 
perception of herself but Flo's perception of Tansy as 
well. Tansy had to be seen for what she was really 
was: two-legged livestock, a milker just waiting for 
conversion and a new stall at a diary farm not to 
mention a large source of income for a beleaguered 
family. 

Subtly poisoning the strong relationship between 
mother and daughter, breaking down their affection and 
replacing it with distrust and a sense of widening 
difference, all without either of the women realizing 
he was playing the puppet master, was the next step 
down the road. 

The clothes had been a test. In one of their talks 
Tansy had whined her Mum was treating her like a 
little girl. Didn't Mum know she was practically grown 
up?  Morgan had sympathized with Tansy, promised to 
talk with her mother about it and then, after 
encouraging Flo to stick my her guns, reported back 
that her mother's decision was final. The two women 
had been exasperated with each other for several days 
after, not openly fighting but each seeking Morgan's 
assurances they were right, assurances Morgan was glad 
to give each of them on the condition it be kept 
private.

Gradually the subject of his private conversations 
with Tansy changed, Morgan weaving threads of jealous 
unappreciative mothers taught real lessons by their 
daughters into their chats. He injected the first hint 
of sex into their relationship, complimenting Tansy on 
her appearance, how adult she was looking, joking 
about how she'd have boys chasing after her soon. And 
he took the risk of talking about his former job as a 
talent scout; how you could just tell about some 
girls, that the way they developed was a sign nature 
had meant them to be something other than a housewife.

With the last subject, Morgan was betting on a young 
girl's understandable curiosity about becoming a human 
cow to lead Tansy down the path he had selected for 
her. After all she lived in a society that owed its 
existence to the use of humans as nourishment; each 
meal she ate was proof of that. 

From preschool onward children were indoctrinated with 
civilization's need for human chattel. School trips to 
dairies and feedlots (but not abbitors) were a popular 
event for all grades.  Human economics classes in 
middle schools taught the selection and preparation of 
most cuts of meat while human agronomics classes and 
clubs could be found in high schools both rural and 
urban. 

Career counsellors touted conversions to the parents 
of a small and select portion of the student "body" 
while "dining drawings" were a standard feature for 
proms and end-of-the-school-year parties. Every paper 
ran the list of local conversions, voluntary or 
otherwise, and every community had its own lottery. 

Popular culture played its part in building 
unquestioning approval of the system as well. There 
were more cooking shows on television than you could 
shake a spatula at.  Bodice-ripping romances or B-
movies often ended with the woman, and once in awhile 
the man, choosing voluntary conversion after being 
rejected by their true love.

A few years earlier the number 1 hit TV show, "Natural 
Selection" involved transporting groups of humans to a 
remote location. Once there they were divided into 
clans, assigned tasks, and given a few rudimentary 
tools and supplies but no shelter or food. Successful 
completion of the tasks by a clan was rewarded with 
additional items to aid in their endeavours. 

The highlight of each episode was the vote as, after 
much discussion, each clan "selected" a member to 
serve as their food source for the next week. Not just 
a hit on TV, "Natural Selection, The Home Version," 
was the best selling game over the holidays. The show 
was so popular that knock-offs like "Survival of the 
Fittest" and "Who Will Be Served" soon appeared on 
other networks. 

Given all of the cultural mores Tansy grew up with, 
Morgan wasn't surprised when she took the bait he had 
dangled so carefully before her. His first sign of 
success was finding a series of pamphlets hidden out 
in the henhouse, simplistic propaganda with titles 
like "The Long Happy Life of a Dairy Cow" and "The 
Milk of Human Kindness" stuffed in an envelope behind 
the feed bin. His second came after he had agreed to 
serve as a chaperone on a school field trip to a 
dairy.


FAIR WARNING:

The Miss Daisy Chronicles are a stand-alone group of 
stories set in the same universe as Cannibal 4H; a 
universe where, as the result of "The Great Disaster," 
humans are used as livestock and cannibalism is the 
accepted norm.  

The Miss Daisy Chronicles contain graphic descriptions 
of sex in many and varied forms, some of which 
selected people might consider deviant and perverse. 
It contains violence, death, family tragedy, the 
raising of humans as livestock and the consumption of 
human flesh.  

Be aware children are not spared in this tale!  They 
often meet a grisly end.   This series, like C4H, is 
not for the timid or squeamish. NOR IS IT FOR MINORS.

If you are a minor go away.  If reading this story 
would in any way violate the local laws, rules, 
regulations, morals or customs where you live go away.   
There are many other more edifying stories to be found 
elsewhere, stories that would be more appropriate to 
your age and legal status.

Let me restate this one more time: the story that 
follows this caution is intended for mature, 
consenting adults only and should only be accessed 
and/or downloaded if doing so would not violate any 
legal edicts adhered to in your locale or your own 
personal taste.

If you are a parent and you find your child has 
downloaded this story or other material you find 
objectionable, sorry but you need to do a better job 
of being a parent.

Consider moving the computer into a room where you can 
see what is on the screen.  Only let your children go 
on-line while you are at home or Google "parental 
control software" for a full listing of available 
filters and programs. If you don't know how to 
"Google," your kids will.

Previous chapters of The Miss Daisy Chronicles: Making 
Miss Daisy are available at

http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/Eurytion/THE MISS 
DAISY CHRONICLES/MAKING MISS DAISY/

and www.bdsmlibrary.com
 

Previous chapters of Cannibal 4-H are available at

www.asstr.org/files/Authors/Eurytion/C4H/ 

And

www.bsdmlibrary.com.

Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is 
copyright with all rights reserved by its author 
unless explicitly indicated. Reproduction except for 
personal use and reposting without the author's 
written permission is prohibited. 

Finally this saga is for Miss Daisy. She knows who she 
is.

Eurytion@yahoo.com

THE MISS DAISY CHRONICLES: MAKING MISS DAISY 
 
"I don't know what your destiny will be, but one thing 
I know: the only ones among you who will be really 
happy are those who have sought and found how to 
serve."  Albert Schweitzer    


CHAPTER TWO: 
BEDROOM EYES


IT WAS A DAMP, CHILLY DAY as the bus pulled into the 
dairy yard, its tired wipers smearing the falling 
light mist into sepia lines on the windscreen. Dressed 
in slickers or holding umbrellas, the class slowly 
descended from the bus their excitement and 
nervousness obvious as they formed two lines, boys in 
one, girls in the other.  Their tours would be 
separate but equal. 

Experience had shown that better order was kept that 
way. Less sexual sniggering meant more open 
questioning during the tour.  Even with the boys in 
the back of the bus and the girls up front, divided by 
a row of chaperones, there'd be enough lewd talk and 
jokes on the bus ride home. No reason to encourage it 
during the class.

Greeting the visitors was Previn Shaw, manager of The 
Paladin Dairy, whose job included personally 
conducting all tours of the facility. With Shaw was 
Doc Anthony, one of the regular farmhands. While Shaw 
handled the girls' tour, the farmhand would shepherd 
the boys about. His earthy descriptions of the milking 
and the cows were more suited to the boys' ears and 
besides, he'd let each of the boys get a "forbidden" 
feel of a tit before the cows were hooked to the 
machine. He'd been young once too even if no sign of 
that youth remained in his craggy face.
 
There were more to these walkabouts than the obvious 
public relations benefits.  Each visit helped to 
identify and track potential human cattle, one reason 
why Shaw wasn't surprised to see Mrs. Patel the school 
counsellor in the group. After the tour was over 
they'd get together and compare notes on which of the 
female students showed the most promise for a 
different way of life. 

Shaw was surprised though to see Morgan Dashwood 
standing next to one of the students, a young female 
endowed far beyond her years.  A wry smile playing 
across his face, he reflected that Morgan hadn't lost 
his knack for picking them. If Morgan had an interest 
in this girl, Shaw would keep a close tabs on her. No 
one was better at nosing out prime stock than "Shaky" 
Dashwood.

Returning his attention to the class, the manger went 
into his well-practised spiel about the history of the 
dairy, one of the oldest, largest and most modern in 
the area with over 200 cows on milking status at any 
one time although only about 60 would be milked during 
the time the students were there.

On these tours, Shaw made it a point to answer every 
question he was asked, sometimes providing a response 
the more repetitious inquiries before they could be 
asked.  "Sorry to tell you this but while our herd is 
naked you won't see any cows being bred here." Audible 
moans of disappointment from both sexes were heard 
after this announcement. 

"Paladin is strictly a milking dairy, not a breeding 
farm.  While human cattle did need to be pregnant to 
lactate or give milk, it's easier for us to use 
regular injections of hormones to mimic pregnancy, 
rather than have a herd of swelled heifers milling 
about." 

Yes, the cows' teats were very large. Size, he 
explained, although not the only criteria, was very 
important to the quantity of milk a cow produced. No, 
the cows couldn't talk. These weren't humans, as they 
would see; just dumb farm animals.  Yes, some of the 
cows were converts of formerly free humans and no, you 
couldn't tell the difference and no, he wouldn't tell 
which was which, but don't worry about seeing someone 
you used to know. Right now, all our cows are from 
outside the area. 

That's right, the cows did get physical pleasure out 
of the act of being milked, which would be obvious 
when they saw the milking take place. If they weren't 
milked on a regular schedule, their udders would swell 
to the point they became very painful for the animal. 
That didn't happen at this dairy. Here all stock was 
treated humanely.

Sorry, the diary did very little hand milking, and 
none by volunteers. With the large number of cows they 
milked, mechanical milking was more effective. Yes, 
they would get a cup of fresh milk at the end of the 
tour and no they couldn't have it directly from the 
teat. 

"Did your mother wean you too soon son," Shaw 
responded to the laughter of the group.

Generally the average age of the cows at Paladin was 
from 16 to 28, although they'd had cows as young as 15 
and as old as 32. It really depending on how good a 
producer they were. But seven to ten years was the 
normal expectancy for a milker.

What happened to the cows after they were no longer 
producing milk?  Well, if they had dried up entirely 
they were usually slaughtered for food. If the 
production had just dropped off to the point it cost 
more to feed them than they brought back in milk 
money, and if they were good producers to begin with, 
they'd be sent to a breeding farm to produce the next 
generation of propagated cattle. 

Now, if there were no more questions it was time to 
start the tour. The boys would begin in the milking 
parlour, while the girls would go to the tank rooms.

As he began the tour, Shaw noticed that both Shaky and 
the counsellor were staying close to the kid with the 
big tits, not near enough that she would think they 
were hovering over her but close enough to gauge her 
reactions to what she was seeing and hearing. 

Shaw explained the workings of the tank room to the 
girls. All pipes and tanks were stainless steel as 
were the pipes in the parlour. Before and after each 
milking the pipes and tanks were disinfected by 
running water-diluted bleach through them, followed by 
a flush of fresh water to remove any traces of the 
bleach. Health inspectors made weekly inspections of 
the dairy for cleanliness, which meant that everything 
that touched milk was thoroughly sanitized on regular 
basis.

A pipe, running on the right side of a large glass 
window, came from the parlour into the tank room. The 
window, with an intercom box on its left side, allowed 
the tank room operator to observe the farmhands doing 
the milking and give instructions if necessary.  The 
pipe was movable. Depending on which way it was swung 
the pipe would attach to one of five tanks.

Each of the tanks was double-jacketed, a pump on the 
top of the tank circulating cold water between the 
skins to keep the milk cool. A motor on the top of the 
tank operated a paddle stirrer inside the tank, its 
purpose to keep the milk gently agitated to prevent 
the cream from separating from the rest of the milk.

Every other day the tanker truck came from the co-op 
to haul the milk to the processing plant.

As usual, most of the girls had a hard time listening 
to his lecture, their eyes drawn to the door into the 
milking parlour.  Several even bounced up and down on 
tiptoe to try and see through the window. Morgan's 
girl, for that was how Shaw had pegged her, wasn't one 
of them. Instead she had paid careful attention to his 
every word, even placing her cheek against the outer 
jacket of one of the tanks when Shaw invited them to 
see how cool they were.

The intercom buzzed twice, the signal that the boys 
had left the milking parlour and were helping to walk 
the herd back into their stalls.  As Shaw opened the 
door into the milking parlour, the next thirty cows 
were just being brought in for their turn on the 
machine.

The parlour was divided into fifteen milking stations 
on each side. A one and a half-inch pipe ran above the 
stations merging into the single three-inch pipe that 
went into the tank room. At each station a half-inch 
flexible transparent tube ran down from the larger 
pipe connecting with the stainless steel milking 
machine that sat on the floor of the station. 

As the girls watched the farmhands cleaned each cow's 
breasts with a washcloth soaked in light soap and a 
gentle antiseptic, the cows shivering at the rough 
touch of the fabric. This was the chore Charlie let 
the boys perform, under his close supervision of 
course so no real liberties could be taken. The 
washing was followed by a rinse of clean water. There 
would be no contamination of the milk at Paladin 
Dairy.

Milking vests were attached to the cows. Custom-fitted 
for each milker, the vests were made of a soft but 
strong white plastic with lined cut-outs in the front 
for the pendulous udders to hang through. Each vest 
had a series of three rounded ledges under each cutout 
to help separate the teats from the rest of the 
heifer's upper torso. The vests ended just below each 
milker's navel.

A single strap at the bottom of the vest and two more 
crossing shoulder straps secured with Velcro in the 
middle of the animal's back. D-rings attached to the 
top and bottom of each side of the vest allowed for 
the cow to be hooked to short chains that would hold 
her in place during the milking.

Guided by the farmhands, each cow made its way up a 
short ramp leading to the milking platform. Without 
hesitation, each cow took her position on the 
platform, bending over to place its palms flat in 
indentations on the front of the platform, knees on 
the back portion, spread wide apart to expose the 
pouch of its her hairless vagina. The platform itself 
was padded in several inches of high-density foam 
covered the same plastic as the vests.

As the cows were being positioned for their milking, 
Morgan observed Tansy as an anthropologist would a 
member of a newly discovered tribe. Ever since she had 
gotten her first good glimpse of the cows, Tansy's 
eyes had looked like those of a sheep gazing on a 
verdant meadow, waiting for the shepherd to lead her 
forward into the promised land.

The breasts of all of the cows hung low towards the 
platforms, most of them descending almost half-way 
below their elbows, engorged nipples distended ever 
further downward.  After carefully squeezing each 
nipple until the milk began to flow, the milking cups 
were attached, one on each breast.

The cups were of a standard design, although 
manufactured in a variety of sizes. A circular tube of 
flexible polymer centred in the cup surrounded the 
nipple while the remainder of the cup covered the 
lower fourth of the udder. The cups were held in place 
by denture adhesive, low-cost, effective, non-
irritating and easily cleaned. As the milking cups 
were stuck in place, the open nether regions of the 
female cattle began to soften with moisture, as were 
the pussies of several of the schoolgirls. 

After making sure the milking cups were securely in 
place, the pumps of the milking machines were powered 
up; each pump making a rhythmic pulsing noise, "shoop, 
shoop, shoop, shoop," as they began to suck the milk 
out of the grateful cows, the transparent tubing 
filling with white foamy fluid, breast collapsing and 
expanding in time with the pumps. While all of the 
women in the room, young and old alike, were in 
various stages of arousal, Morgan noticed that Tansy 
was the most affected of all of them.

Despite the warm temperature of the barn, kept in the 
high 70s for the comfort of the animals, Tansy's 
nipples were as engorged as if she was riding a 
snowmobile in a silk nightdress. Mouth gaping open, 
the child was rubbing her thighs together in time to 
the beat of the pumps. Her neck and face were suffused 
with a bright carmine flush of blood; her breath 
expelled from her body in a series of short bursts.

Leaning forward as though she intended to offer to 
take the cow's place on the platform, Tansy's body 
began to quake with involuntary tremors. Chest 
heaving, with a loud gasp she stumbled back, to lean 
shakily against an equipment locker while she tried to 
regain her composure. 

Morgan looked up from his observation of his niece to 
see Shaw smiling at him. With a nod of his head he 
returned the gesture. Looks like age hadn't dimmed 
Vin's eagle eye, the manager had clearly marked Tansy 
for special attention. 

The other girls had been too busy with their own 
stimulation to pay any attention to Tansy. Not so Mrs. 
Patel who had been scanning the sexual excitement of 
all the girls. Tansy was the only one to reach orgasm. 
She was also watching the interaction between the two 
men. Clearly Tansy's "uncle" had more than a passing 
interest in his "niece," one that the dairy manager 
seemed to be sharing.  Well, they'd all have a little 
chat before the bus left.

After the milking was done and the cups removed, Shaw 
continued with his exposition of dairy farming. 
Explaining any "dizziness" they might have felt was a 
perfectly normal reaction in healthy girls to watching 
a milking take place, Shaw explained the reddish-brown 
liquid each breast was being covered with was an 
iodine solution which would kill any germs and prevent 
the breast from becoming infected and took a few more 
minutes to talk about the need for hygiene at the 
farm. 

More time than the topic deserved but he wanted to 
give the girls a brief time to settle down before 
showing them the final step of the milking process.

It's not enough for the cows to have their breasts 
emptied of milk, as nice as that felt to them. Dairy 
cows at Paladin also got to enjoy the simplicity of 
physical pleasure, something that not only gentled 
them down but also helped to increase milk production. 

Now, Shaw went on, this was something the boys didn't 
get to see on their tour. At their age they had enough 
ideas already without stimulating them to think up a 
few more. If any of the girls felt they didn't want to 
watch they could leave now and go over to the diary 
bar for some milk and ice cream. No one moved.

Shaw cautioned the girls if they did stay they had to 
remember that these cows were stock, not humans.  
Sure, except for the size of their udders they looked 
human but looks can be deceiving. These were farm 
animals with no sense of higher purpose than to be 
fed, washed, milked and pleasured afterwards. 

As the last of the farmhands left the parlour, the 
manager himself began the demonstration.  Normally, 
the hired help did this task and, if the girls had 
been older 17 or 18, the hands would have continued 
with a "special" break afterwards for the girls who 
desired more "personal" demonstrations. But 13 and 14 
year olds were, at least in this setting, off-limits.

On his walk over to Margo's milking station, Shaw 
opened a cabinet, removing three items, a jar of 
yellowish ointment, what looked like rounded blue 
flexible popsicle about 5 inches long attached to a 
wide base and, the strangest item of all, a purple j-
shaped device about 8 inches long with a square black 
box on one end. 

The main stem of the device had a dark purple egg-
shaped knob on the end, with a series of large ridges 
like an accordion underneath.  The protuberance at the 
base of the j looked like nothing more than a fat, odd 
hand and wrist with the thumb pointing perpendicular 
to the other four fingers. The box itself had two 
buttons, one with a triangle point forward and one 
with a triangle pointing back. Beneath each button was 
a rocker switch marked with a plus sign on one end and 
a minus sign on the other.

The girls giggled uneasily as Shaw placed the items on 
a bench next to Margo; one saying "I know what that 
is," as she pointed to the purple device. "My mom's 
got one of those hidden in her closet."  

The air of the milking parlour was fragrant with the 
scent of female secretions and not just from the cows. 
Many of the students were being to display the same 
signs Tansy did earlier, nipples making little, and in 
some cases not so little, tepees in their blouses, 
faces turning the carnation pink of a ten-year old's 
vagina, breath as shallow as an asthma victim. Shaw 
took a moment to single out Tansy, whose shining eyes 
were focused, not on the instruments, but on Margo.

Starting with the purple implement, Shaw described the 
devices to the fascinated girls. The purple monster 
was a stimulator, the strange mini-hand vibrated to 
provide direct stimulation to the clitoris while the 
main shaft not only vibrated within the cow's vagina, 
it also contained a motor to thrust in and out in 
imitation of a bull's penis. The buttons and rocker 
switches controlled the speed and intensity of the 
machine's actions.

The ointment was a mildly antiseptic lubricant.  While 
the cows' vaginas always got very moist during 
milking, a sign of the pleasure they received from the 
process; a little extra slipperiness never hurt and 
would make sure the movements of the stimulator 
injured no delicate tissues, which could be quite 
aggressive under high power.

The blue popsicle was an anal plug, designed not so 
much to give the cows sexual gratification, even 
though some seemed to enjoy it, as to keep them from 
having a bowel movement during their orgasms. As 
animals, they didn't have the same degree of control 
over their bodily functions as humans did. "We use 
these because I don't think any of you would enjoy 
being sprayed with cow manure and I know I don't."

Approaching Margo, Shaw spread the cow's legs even 
further apart; an action that raised its butt higher 
into the air and slightly separated the lips of the 
cow's vagina.  More than one of the schoolgirls 
discovered a new fantasy as his strong fingers gently 
applied the lubricant to Margo's rectum and birth 
canal.

Then came the butt plug. Margo shied away until her 
anal muscles stretched enough to accept the thick 
intruder as it slid its way into the puckered rosette 
between her ample ass cheeks.

Satisfied the seating of the butt plug would prevent 
any leakage, Shaw reached for the stimulator, slowly 
penetrating the cow with its length. A press of a 
button and the invader moved in and out with slow 
rhythmic strokes. Margo responded to the delicious 
sensation with shudders and a low moan, actions 
mirrored by some of the nymphets in the crowd.

A click of a rocker switch and vibrations joined the 
thrusting action of the machine, its hum growing 
louder, but not quite loud enough to block out the 
sound of excited women panting at the show. Shaw 
adjusted the machine to its maximum setting, causing 
Margo to twitch as though she was shaking off a swarm 
of flies.

Suddenly the cow tensed, its vaginal muscles 
swallowing the stimulator further into the recesses of 
its cunt.  Arching her back like a cat, the animal 
gave out an inarticulate bellow then sagged down as 
though bovine muscles had turned to gelatine, its 
wilting mimicked by some of the randier schoolgirls.

As the class toddled off, some quite unsteadily, to 
the ice cream parlour to restore their equilibrium, 
Shaw indicated to Shaky to stay behind.  The school 
counsellor also invited herself to the confab.

Caught out and believing Mrs. Patel at least could be 
a valuable ally in successfully completing his plan, 
Morgan came clean.  Within the year he intended to see 
Tansy standing on the auction block, fulfilling her 
destiny of becoming a champion milker. Patel nodded 
her agreement; after all she had had Tansy under 
observation for a number of years. Lord knows her 
grades were only average and while the world didn't 
need another slothful shop girl, premier diary cows 
were always in demand.

For his part, Shaw settled on being given first notice 
of when Tansy would be placed for sale Morgan refusing 
to give him exclusive purchasing rights. Still, if 
Shaky's instincts were as on target as before, this 
girl would be something special.

That night Morgan awoke with a badly distended 
bladder, the red digits of the bedside clock flashing 
1:20 am, mocking his efforts at getting a full night's 
sleep.  Careful not to waken Flo, he put on his night 
robe and quietly moved down the hall to the bathroom 
only to be stopped by a pale swatch of light coming 
from Tansy's bedroom.

The door to his niece's room was usually closed tight 
not only to provide the young girl with privacy but 
also to help muffle the noises broadcasting from Flo's 
room when they fucked. The woman might act at times 
like a timid little mouse, but she was as vocal as 
they came. Earlier tonight, as Morgan used her body to 
satiate the lust his trip to the dairy had aroused, 
he'd actually had to put a pillow over her mouth to 
silence her yelps. Putting his hand over her mouth to 
quiet her only got him a set of teeth marks on his 
palm, still throbbing from Flo's bite.

Cautiously he approached Tansy's bedroom as guttural 
murmurings reaching his ear; clearly they were words 
but words too muted to discern. The door to the girl's 
room was slightly ajar, a three inch gap between the 
panel and the jamb accounting for the faint 
illumination spilling into the hallway. Taking care 
not to be discovered, Morgan edged his way along the 
wall until he could peek into the room.

There, bathed in the cool celadon green lambency of 
her nightlight, Tansy was flat on her back, eyes 
closed despite being awake.  The daisy blanket and 
sheets covering her bed had been pushed down to just 
below her navel, revealing her nude upper torso to 
Morgan's carnal gaze. 

No longer restrained by a bra or concealed by layers 
of clothing, Tansy's mammaries were all that Morgan 
had envisioned. Full and heavy with areolas at least 
three inches across, the bulk of their still firm 
flesh overhanging the girl's ribcage without sagging. 
These were already the ripe tits of a prime milker, 
lacking only the hormones necessary to begin 
lactation, tits that would only become larger and more 
productive as the 13-year old child further matured 
into a proper piece of chattel.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Morgan was 
pleased to see that the visit to the dairy had 
affected Tansy as well. Her left hand was caressing 
her left breast, squeezing and moulding it in 
imitation of a cow being milked, thumb and forefinger 
pinching and pulling on the nipple while, under the 
bedding, the girl's right hand was vigorously moving 
between her thighs. 

Emboldened by the sight before him, Morgan crept 
closer until he was just inches away from the gap.  
Now the mumbled words became clear: "Give me your milk 
now, that's a good cow. Come on sweetheart, make sweet 
milk for me. That's the way. Empty those aching 
breasts and fill that bucket up to the top like a good 
cow should."

As her hands worked her body and her thoughts worked 
her mind, Tansy could feel the hot vibrations in her 
cunt, tart liquid fire coating her palm, spilling down 
her thighs, creating an ever widening puddle beneath 
her writhing ass.

The youngster now was certain she wanted to be a cow. 
Not a meat cow or a breeding cow, but a dairy cow, 
whose gift to the world would be giving sweet milk to 
the people of the town. She'd toyed with the idea 
before but seeing all those milkers at Paladin's had 
made her mind up for her. She longed for the suction 
of a milking machine as a fire craves oxygen. She knew 
he time had come to exchange her bedroom for a stall. 

Her pussy opening and closing around her thrusting 
fingers, Tansy shuddered violently as she came, her 
legs shaking as she pushed upwards against her hand, 
the sharp smell of her juices thick in her nose. Still 
she wasn't satisfied, visions of being on her hands 
and knees, foamy white fluid dripping from her hanging 
teats to splash with a metallic plink on the bottom of 
the bucket below her still excited her, spurring her 
on.

She recaptured a nipple with her fingers, nails 
pinching into its flesh, hardening it, making it swell 
even more and then flicked it with a fingertip, the 
short sharp pain making her gasp even as she tried to 
draw milk from a dry tit.

Her crotch had become a steamy swamp, damp mossy hair 
fringing the entrance to her gaping cunt. Lifting her 
ass up of the bed, Tansy slid her little finger into 
her anus, the middle three fingers working her vagina, 
the outer lips thick, the inner lips wide open while 
her thumb buzzed the engorged nub of her clit.  

Thinking of dairies and farmhands and milking and the 
purple machine used on Margo, she bit her lip to keep 
from screaming. Intense pleasure again flooded her 
body with spasms. Legs kicking, arms waving she rocked 
from side to side, the bedding toppling to the floor 
as she reached the peak of her orgasm, jerking upright 
as her flesh turned to electricity. With a long 
exhalation of breath Tansy slumped weakly back down to 
the mattress, for the time being her passion quenched.

In the hall, Morgan too was shuddering but his tremors 
came from the effort needed to stop from rushing into 
the room. Quickly backing away from Tansy's door, he 
walked stiffly down the hall to the bathroom, an iron 
rod protruding from the junction of his thighs.

Untying the knot holding his robe together, Morgan's 
hand flies to his throbbing penis. Unsure of which 
excited him more, the sight of his niece in the nude 
masturbating or the knowledge his plan was working to 
perfection, he is sure he can't go back to bed with 
this hard-on.

He closed his fingers around his masculinity, pulling 
back on his foreskin until the shiny red tip of his 
cock was exposed. Taking a firmer grasp, Morgan began 
stroking, sliding the foreskin back and forth over his 
slippery glans.  After just a few strokes, drops of 
pre-cum started to drip on the bathroom counter.

As he jacked off, Morgan relives the memory what he 
had just seen, his niece Tansy jilling in the bedroom, 
moaning about being milked.  He'd milk her all right, 
milk her good, and then give her the fate she wanted. 
Making a little money for himself on the side, that 
was just a bonus. He'd convert this heifer for fun.  

Pumping harder, Morgan felt his nut sack banging 
against the side of the counter, even as the cum 
swelled in his balls, anxious to break free from its 
confinement. His dick pulsed, once, twice and then, 
before he could reach for a tissue, the sperm shot 
violently from his cockslit, a vertical white 
waterfall splashing against the mirror a good foot 
away. 

Unable to stop, Morgan continued to pound away at his 
meat, coaxing two more strong spurts from his balls, 
before his ejaculations oozed to an end.  Hands sticky 
with residue, he did a quick rinse and dry before 
cleaning off the mirror, wiping away the snail trails 
made by his cum sliding down the glass.  Two more 
tissues did for the puddles on the counter. 

Opening the bathroom door, Morgan discovered a totally 
dark hall with no inviting glow radiating from Tansy's 
room. Just as well her door's closed, he thought, my 
pecker will be sore enough tomorrow, it'd probably 
fall off if I abused it anymore tonight. Pity to have 
wasted all that seed but at least that won't be 
happening any more. Tansy was ready for "the 
game."


TO BE CONTINUED IN 
THE MISS DAISY CHRONICLES
MAKING MISS DAISY
CHAPTER THREE: 
COMING CLEAN


FAIR WARNING:

   The Miss Daisy Chronicles are a stand-alone group 
of stories set in the same universe as Cannibal 4H; a 
universe where, as the result of "The Great Disaster," 
humans are used as livestock and cannibalism is the 
accepted norm.

   The Miss Daisy Chronicles contain graphic 
descriptions of sex in many and varied forms, some of 
which selected people might consider deviant and
perverse.  It contains violence, death, family 
tragedy, the raising of humans as livestock and the 
consumption of human flesh.

   Be aware children are not spared in this tale!  
They often meet a grisly end.  This series, like C4H, 
is not for the timid or squeamish.  NOR IS IT FOR 
MINORS.

   If you are a minor go away.  If reading this story 
would in any way violate the local laws, rules, 
regulations, morals or customs where you live go away.  
There are many other more edifying stories to be found 
elsewhere, stories that would be more appropriate to 
your age and legal status.

   Let me restate this one more time: the story that 
follows this caution is intended for mature, 
consenting adults only and should only be accessed 
and/or downloaded if doing so would not violate any 
legal edicts adhered to in your locale or your own 
personal taste.

   Pay attention to the story codes at the beginning 
of each chapter.  They will help you decide if that 
particular story is to your own taste.  Do not 
complain if you ignore these codes and discover 
material you don't enjoy or approve of. No one is 
holding a gun to you head to make you read this.

   If you don't know what the codes mean, go to:

http://www.asstr.org/~Uther_Pendragon/code/scfr.htm

   If you are a parent and you find your child has 
downloaded this story or other material you find 
objectionable, sorry but you need to do a better job 
of being a parent.

   Consider moving the computer into a room where you 
can see what is on the screen.  Only let your children 
go on-line while you are at home or Google "parental 
control software" for a full listing of available 
filters and programs.  If you don't know how to 
"Google," your kids will.

   The author does not endorse or advocate the 
practices found within these stories any more than 
Stephen King really believes people should move their 
families in to a deserted hotel in the mountains in 
the dead of winter and then try to chop them into 
kibble with an axe.  They are fiction, make-believe, a 
fantasy, a fabrication, not a promotion of the culture 
they describe.  But they are intriguing to write.

   In real life the author is considered to be a kind 
and gentle individual who likes small children and 
dogs, tips well in restaurants, holds doors open for 
ladies and senior citizens and even goes to the effort 
of catching insects in the house only to release them 
alive and unharmed outside.

   Previous chapters of The Miss Daisy Chronicles: 
Making Miss Daisy are available at

www.asstr.org/files/Authors/Eurytion/THE MISS DAISY 
CHRONICLES/MAKING MISS DAISY/

and 

www.bdsmlibrary.com



   Previous chapters of Cannibal 4-H are available at

www.asstr.org/files/Authors/Eurytion/C4H/

and

   
www.bsdmlibrary.com.

   Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is 
copyright with all rights reserved by its author 
unless explicitly indicated.  Reproduction except for 
personal use and reposting without the author's 
written permission is prohibited.

   Finally this saga is for Miss Daisy.  She knows who 
she is.

   Eurytion@yahoo.com

   THE MISS DAISY CHRONICLES: MAKING MISS DAISY

   "I don't know what your destiny will be, but one 
thing I know: the only ones among you who will be 
really happy are those who have sought and found how 
to serve." Albert Schweitzer

   CHAPTER THREE: COMING CLEAN 

(Caution, Human Cattle, no sex, plot development)

   THE HENHOUSE WAS A SMALL, rectangular building, its 
weathered grey walls flaking leprously.  A set of 
three uneven steps lead up to a battered screen door 
sagging on its hinges.  The inside was gloomy and 
damp, sealed windows on the north side letting in very 
little light and almost no air, except for what leaked 
around their rotting jambs.  The floor was a mixture 
of corncobs and chicken manure.  Two round feed pans 
flanked either side of a long but shallow zinc 
watering trough.

   The short wall directly across from the door looked 
like an avian jungle gym, studded as it was with 
wooden slats for the chickens to perch on.  The last 
wall was a collection of setting boxes, essentially 
cut down crates with a handful of straw lining the 
bottom for the birds to nest in. 

Chickens occupied some of the crates, some were empty 
and a couple had a forlorn glass egg in them, a 
reminder to the chickens of why they were there.  
Although the meat of the chickens was poison their 
eggs were one of the few natural animal products that 
could safely be eaten after the Great Disaster.

   Humming to himself, Morgan put down the toolbox he 
was carrying and began to stuff batting into gaps 
around the window frames.  That morning he had told 
Flo, he was going to do some repairs in the henhouse, 
repairs that did need to be done but which would also 
give him an excuse to be there when Tansy collected 
the eggs.

   After all he reminded Flo, aside from his income 
they had little in the way of cash coming into the 
farm.  Tansy was a growing girl, one who cost a lot to 
feed and clothe.  Maybe if the henhouse got fixed up 
the chickens would be better layers.  A tight as 
things were around the house, it couldn't hurt to have 
a little more egg money rolling in.

   He had just finished resealing the first window 
when the screen door creaked, announcing Tansy's 
arrival.  After exchanging pleasantries, Tansy began 
removing the eggs from under the hens, a task the 
chickens didn't appreciate and seemed to resent.

   Each day their resentment took the form of pecking 
at Tansy's hand as she slid it between the hens and 
the straw.  Most of the time Tansy moved fast enough 
that the peck didn't hurt.  Besides, the pointed beaks 
of most of the chickens had been clipped, a standard 
precaution to prevent one chicken pecking another to 
death.

   Most of the chickens but not all.  Tired from her 
nocturnal masturbatory exertions, Tansy was operating 
on autopilot when one of the unclipped chickens scored 
a direct hit on the web of flesh between her thumb and 
forefinger, causing Tansy to yelp and drawing a small 
bit of blood in the process.

   Acting concerned, Morgan made the young girl sit 
down.  After clucking over the wound, in reality just 
a small scratch, Morgan told his niece he was worried 
about her.

   "Honey, I know you're still having a tough time.  
That's only natural. But you're not yourself lately.  
Are you feeling sick because you looked pretty funny 
at the dairy, I thought you were going to keel over 
toward the end.  And then last night when I got up to 
go to the bathroom, you were making moaning noises in 
your room like you were having a nightmare.  You were 
quiet when I got out of the bathroom, so I figured you 
were sleeping OK but still."

   Embarrassment as strong as last night's orgasm 
surged through Tansy. Uncle Morgan heard me last night 
but how much did he hear?  Does he know I was playing 
with myself?  Oh, I hope not.

   "I'm fine Uncle Morgan.  It was really hot in the 
milking parlour and I did feel a little funny.  I 
probably shouldn't have had that second ice cream cone 
at the dairy either; it upset my tummy something 
terrible.  I did have a stomachache last night until I 
massaged it out.  That's probably what you heard.' She 
looked away, finding herself unable to look Morgan in 
the eye.

   "Tansy, you know you can talk to me about anything 
don't you?  And I do mean anything.  I don't blush 
easily," he responded, taking her hand in his. "Mrs. 
Patel had a little talk with me at Paladin's.  She's 
concerned about you too.  Your grades have been 
dropping; your teachers say you're having trouble 
paying attention in class, that you spend a lot of 
time daydreaming.  If you're having a problem, I want 
to help you.  You can confide in me and your mother 
doesn't have to know a thing.  It'll just be between 
us.  I want to do what's best for you sweetheart.  
Tell your Uncle Morgan about it."

   Again, the young girl denied there was any problem, 
although not as strongly as the first time.

   "Well, I didn't want to have to do this Tansy.  I 
had hoped you'd open up and be honest with me." 
Releasing her hand Morgan walked over to the covered 
feed bin.  Kneeling down, he reached behind the wooden 
box and hauled out a well-worn manila envelope.  
Dropping the envelope in Tansy's lap he asked "Are you 
sure there's nothing you want to tell me?"

   For a moment Tansy sat as still and quiet as prey 
would under the gaze of a predator, hoping immobility 
would render them invisible.  Then, in an unconscious 
imitation of Morgan's mannerisms she began to turn the 
envelope end over end, her eyes filling up with tears.

   "I know what's in the envelope Tansy," his soft 
voice announced.  "You're not the first girl to be 
curious about becoming a convert and you won't be the 
last.  Believe me I've seen hundreds of 'em.  Hell 
kid, you wouldn't be normal if you didn't wonder about 
it; what it would be like to leave all your troubles 
behind, no more worrying about your Mom and how
hard she's working to keep food in your belly, clothes 
on your back and a roof over your head.

   "It's an attractive idea.  No more studying for 
tests, worrying if the boys are laughing at you after 
you walk by, making milking motions behind your back.  
No fretting about what you'll do after graduation, 
what kind of a job you could find, what you could and 
couldn't afford to buy.

   "Living a pampered life, every need you have 
fulfilled, no more decisions to make, no more problems 
to solve.  Cares and woes gone forever. Just warm 
contentment with your role in life and the knowledge 
deep down inside of you that you've done something 
good and noble for society, that you're helping others 
in a way far greater than you could have otherwise 
done."

   Now the tears were welling from the corners of 
Tansy's eyes, salty rivulets tracing their way down 
her cheeks to join into a waterfall at her chin.  
Morgan sat next to the crying girl wrapping his arm 
around her trembling shoulders.

   "Oh Uncle Morgan, I'm so ashamed," Tansy choked 
out, the words emerging in short staccato bursts 
between deep sobs.  "I want to be a cow so much but 
I'm afraid."

   "Afraid of what Tansy?"

   "Afraid of what Mom will think, about whether or 
not it's the right choice, about whether or not I 
could even be a good dairy cow.  Just so many things."

   "See that's why so many young girls think about 
becoming a dairy cow. Because with conversion comes 
freedom from being afraid." Morgan turned the young 
girl's head toward his, brushing the tears from her 
cheeks as he did so.  "Tansy, I don't know what your 
mother will think and I don't know if it would be the 
right choice for you, only you can decide that, but I 
can tell you you have the makings of a fine dairy 
cow."

   "I do?"

   "Of course you do.  You know that Tansy." For the 
first time Morgan allowed his hands to touch Tansy's 
breasts, drawing a startled inhalation from the 
sniffling girl.  Cradling their undersides, Morgan 
lightly bounced them on his palms, exhibiting no more 
passion that a green grocer would while weighing 
melons.

   "These have a nice feel to them, firm and heavy.  
Right now they're too small, too small for a milker 
that is but you're still very young yet. They'll grow.  
Question is will they grow enough.  Big tits aren't 
the only things a diary cow needs but they're pretty 
important.  These would have to be a good deal larger 
before you'd be considered a good candidate for 
conversion," Morgan lied.  Tansy would already fetch a 
decent price at auction but not as good as she would 
after the worked his magic on her.

   Releasing Tansy's tits Morgan continued his spiel.  
"Increasing the size of your teats to dairy cow status 
wouldn't be a problem.  There's several ways we could 
do that.  But there's no sense in even talking about 
that until you make up your mind about whether or not 
you really want to be converted."

   Tansy stood up and walked around to stand directly 
in front of Morgan. "Oh, Uncle Morgan, I do want to be 
a cow, I do.  It's all I can think about. That's why 
I've been daydreaming in school and why my grades are 
down.  Cows don't need to do math or diagram 
sentences.  At Paladin's it was all I could do not to 
pick out a stall, take off my clothes and stay."

   Playing the concerned relative Morgan told Tansy it 
wasn't unusual for girls her age to think they wanted 
to be cows, especially right after a trip to a dairy.  
Watching the human cattle being milked often led to a 
momentary infatuation, particularly if the girl had a 
troubled home life.

   Knowing nothing set a teenager more firmly on a 
path than to tell them they couldn't walk it, he 
explained to Tansy that she might think she wanted to 
be a two-legged bovine but it was probably a passing 
phase.  In another month, she'll feel differently 
about it, want to do something else with her life and 
be glad she didn't so anything irreversible.

   For her part, Tansy argued that she had thought 
about it, thought about it morning, noon and night and 
her mind was made up.  Nature had intended for her to 
be a dairy cow and a dairy cow she would be.  And 
since she was going to be a dairy cow, and her breasts 
were still too small for that role, it wouldn't hurt 
to work on enlarging them now.

   If she did become a dairy cow, she'd need the head 
start.  If she didn't, well that wouldn't matter 
because all the boys at school seemed to like big 
tits, the bigger the better.

   As Tansy congratulated herself on the unassailable 
logic of her argument, Morgan mused on how easily the 
rebellion of the young could be used as a means to an 
end.

   "I'm not sure you know what you're getting yourself 
into, everything that's involved" Morgan said 
explaining about the most common method of breast 
enhancement, the use of drugs and hormones taken by 
injection and ingestion.  He outlined how the 
treatment worked, glossing over the physical pain and 
the occasional bad reactions involved in the frequent 
shots so as not to scare Tansy off.

   "By themselves, the drugs aren't enough.  There's a 
whole range of nutritional supplements that you have 
to take as well.  They're pretty costly, not as 
expensive as the drugs and hormones but still pricey. 
It's hard enough now for your Mom & I to pay the 
bills, I just don't know where we could get the money 
from for this.  The one piece of good news is the
exercises you have to do are free.  "

   "Uncle Morgan, you said you'd help me," Tansy 
pleaded.  "There's got to be some way to get the 
money, maybe if I got a part-time job."

   "Sweetie, even if you got a full-time job, we'd 
still have trouble coming up with the cash.  I could 
get it; I have friends who would help.  I just don't 
know if you're grownup enough to make this kind of 
decision and stick with it.  And I don't want to 
involve my friends on a whim."

   Now Tansy felt insulted, just what Morgan had 
intended.  Here she was ready to become a cow and 
Uncle Morgan didn't think she was grown-up enough to 
make her own decisions.  Well, she'd show him just how 
adult she was.

   "Stop treating me like a small child.  I turn 14 in 
two months and I have bigger tits than practically 
anyone else in school.  They're way bigger than my 
Mom's or Aunt Dora's.  I'm an adult damn it.  Look at 
these if you don't believe me." Tansy pointed at her 
breasts, revelling in swearing in front of a real 
adult for the first time.

   Inwardly thrilled by her outburst, Morgan gave her 
a slow hard look before informing her it took more 
than big tits and a foul mouth to make a silly little 
girl into a woman.  If Tansy wanted to be treated like 
an adult, she had to act like one; otherwise she could 
forego his help.

   Abjectly Tansy broke into tears.  "I'm sorry, I'm 
sorry, I'll behave, I really will.  Promise Uncle 
Morgan, cross my heart and hope to die."

   "All right Tansy, I'm willing to give you a second 
chance.  But if you step out of line and act like a 
little kid again, it's over and I will go to Flo and 
tell her what you've been doing," a hollow threat 
Morgan had no intention of carrying out.

   As his niece sat meekly on the feed bin, Morgan 
resumed sitting next to her with his hands around her 
shoulders, letting her cry herself out before 
continuing their conversation.

   "Honey, you know I love you and that I only want 
what's best for you. Your mom feels the same way.  
Sometimes we think we know what we want but we really 
don't."

   "I want to be a cow, I want to be a cow," Tansy 
softly insisted.

   "I know you do Tansy and you'd be a good one too." 
Morgan pretended to be struggling to come to some sort 
of decision, hemming and hawing while kneading the 
girl's trembling shoulders.  Finally he stood up and 
moved in front of Tansy.

   "Look at me sweetheart, it's OK I want you to look 
me in the eye." Tansy's red-rimmed orbs slowly rose to 
meet his.  "This is something I shouldn't do and we 
both could get into real trouble if your mother found 
out." Tansy stopped shaking and locked her eyes to 
his.

   "You know I was a talent scout for the dairies 
right?" Tansy nodded her understanding.  "Well, quite 
a few times brokers like me would find young girls 
like yourself, well endowed..." Hearing this Tansy 
straightened up her back and thrust her chest out, 
making Morgan smile.  "... and certain they were fated 
to be dairy cattle.  No talent scout wants to sponsor 
a youngster who will change their mind halfway through 
the legal formalities of conversion, so we developed a 
sort of test to winnow the chattel from the chafe.  We 
called it 'the game' and it worked pretty well.  I 
don't know of any one who liked and was good at the 
game who didn't make the grade afterwards."

   Tansy's heart began to beat faster as Morgan 
feigned reluctance.  Oh please Uncle Morgan, go on.  
Tell me about the game.  Tell me you're going
to let me play it.

   "I really shouldn't do this, honestly I shouldn't 
but it tears me up to see you like this.  You and I 
both need to be sure about you want before we talk to 
your mother." Squaring his shoulders and setting his 
face in a firm "Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead" 
demeanour he continued.  "Flo's going away later this 
month; the Mystic and Benevolent Order of Samhin 
women's retreat over in Fraiserton.  While she's gone 
I'll let you play the game."

   Squealing like a sow caught in a fence, Tansy 
leaped up to grab Morgan in a bear hug.  "Oh Uncle 
Morgan, do you mean it?  Really, you'll let me play?  
I love you so much.  You won't be sorry, you'll see.  
I'll be the best at the game ever.  And it'll be our 
secret.  Mum'll never know.  I won't tell anyone what 
we're doing.  Wild horses couldn't get it out of me."

   Morgan laid down conditions to the tear-streaked 
girl.  She had to talk with Mrs.Patel and if, and only 
if, the school's career counsellor felt she was a 
qualified candidate for conversion would Morgan 
introduce her to the game.

   Once she had the counsellor's written endorsement 
and if she did well at the game, then he would begin
sounding out Flo on the possibility of her daughter 
leaving home for the auction block.

   Handing her a handkerchief from his back pocket, 
Morgan told her to blow her nose and finish collecting 
the eggs and get on with the rest of her chores.  As 
Tansy was opening the screen door, he gave her one 
final command.

   "And Tansy?  Between now and when we leave I expect 
you to be the master of your own domain.  That means 
you keep your hands above the covers at night.  The 
only place you should let your fingers do the walking 
is in the Yellow Pages."

   Without waiting to see her reaction, he resumed his 
repair of the windows, whistling, "I wanna sex you up" 
as he stuffed yet another crack. If Flo thought she'd 
been ridden hard and put away wet last night, just 
wait until her got a leg over her this evening.

   
NEXT UP: 
CHAPTER FOUR: 
DEFINING MOMENT


FAIR WARNING: 
 
The Miss Daisy Chronicles are a stand-alone group of  
stories set in the same universe as Cannibal 4H; a  
universe where, as the result of "The Great Disaster,"  
humans are used as livestock and cannibalism is the  
accepted norm.   
 
The Miss Daisy Chronicles contain graphic descriptions  
of sex in many and varied forms, some of which  
selected people might consider deviant and perverse.  
It contains violence, death, family tragedy, the  
raising of humans as livestock and the consumption of  
human flesh.   
 
Be aware children are not spared in this tale!  They  
often meet a grisly end.   This series, like C4H, is  
not for the timid or squeamish. NOR IS IT FOR MINORS. 
 
If you are a minor go away.  If reading this story  
would in any way violate the local laws, rules,  
regulations, morals or customs where you live go away.    
There are many other more edifying stories to be found  
elsewhere, stories that would be more appropriate to  
your age and legal status. 
 
Let me restate this one more time: the story that  
follows this caution is intended for mature,  
consenting adults only and should only be accessed  
and/or downloaded if doing so would not violate any  
legal edicts adhered to in your locale or your own  
personal taste. 
 
Pay attention to the story codes at the beginning of  
each chapter.  They will help you decide if that 
particular  
story is to your own taste. Do not complain if you  
ignore these codes and discover material you don't 
enjoy or  
approve of. 
 
 
THIS CHAPTER IS CODED (CAUTION, HUMAN 
CATTLE,CANNIBALISM) 
 
If you don't know what the codes mean, go to: 
 
http://www.asstr.org/~Uther_Pendragon/code/scfr.htm 
 
 
If you are a parent and you find your child has  
downloaded this story or other material you find  
objectionable, sorry but you need to do a better job  
of being a parent. 
 
Consider moving the computer into a room where you can  
see what is on the screen.  Only let your children go  
on-line while you are at home or Google "parental  
control software" for a full listing of available  
filters and programs. If you don't know how to  
"Google," your kids will. 
 
The author does not endorse or advocate the  
practices found within these stories any more  
than Stephen King really believes people should  
move their families in to a deserted hotel in  
the mountains in the dead of winter and then  
try to chop them into kibble with an axe. They  
are fiction, make-believe, a fantasy, a  
fabrication, not a promotion of the culture  
they describe. But they are intriguing to  
write. 
 
In real life the author is considered to be a  
kind and gentle individual who likes small  
children and dogs, tips well in restaurants,  
holds doors open for ladies and senior citizens  
and even goes to the effort of catching insects  
in the house only to release them alive and  
unharmed outside. 
 
Previous chapters of The Miss Daisy Chronicles: Making  
Miss Daisy are available at 
 
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/Eurytion/THE MISS  
DAISY CHRONICLES/MAKING MISS DAISY/ 
 
and www.bdsmlibrary.com 
  
 
Previous chapters of Cannibal 4-H are available at 
 
www.asstr.org/files/Authors/Eurytion/C4H/  
 
And 
 
www.bsdmlibrary.com. 
 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is  
copyright with all rights reserved by its author  
unless explicitly indicated. Reproduction except for  
personal use and reposting without the author's  
written permission is prohibited.  
 
Finally this saga is for Miss Daisy. She knows who she  
is. 
 
Eurytion@yahoo.com 
 
 
  
"I don't know what your destiny will be, but one thing  
I know: the only ones among you who will be really  
happy are those who have sought and found how to  
serve."  Albert Schweitzer 
 
THE MISS DAISY CHRONICLES: MAKING MISS DAISY  
CHAPTER FOUR: DEFINING MOMENT 
 
Her chest tight and stomach roiling with anxiety,  
Tansy knocked softly on the cloudy white glass panel  
above Mrs. Patel's nameplate. She didn't know the  
school's career counsellor very well, having never  
spoken directly with her although she did hear her  
speak at the beginning of the school year about how  
her door was always open for students with questions  
or concerns. She guessed she'd find out if that was so  
now. 
 
Among her classmates, the view was that Mrs. Patel was  
"different" then the rest of the teachers. Not a weird  
and creepy different like Mr. Brumbaugh the science  
teacher who everyone knew lived in a house full of  
caged spiders which was why he was always out in the  
fields behind the school humming to himself while he  
chased crickets and grasshoppers with a little mesh  
net; not a humorous different like Mrs. Positano the  
English teacher whose round, plumb face was always  
split by a wide smile as she started that day's class  
off with a corny joke and who would always add a point  
or to the score of a student who made the day's most  
outrageous pun; more of a "not from around here"  
different. 
 
For one thing there was the way she dressed.  No one  
else Tansy knew wore clothes like Mrs. Patel's, so  
long and flowing, silky and colourful with all the  
embroidery and patchwork. And then there was that red  
dot in the centre of her forehead. What was that all  
about anyhow?   
 
She always had a sweet, smoky scent about her yet she  
told Jamie Roeser she didn't wear any perfume. Where  
did the smell come from?  Then there was the food she  
ate. Always vegetables, fruits and grains, usually  
with some spicy sauce and never, ever any meat. How  
could someone go even a day without eating any meat,  
let alone a whole lifetime?  Would someone who didn't  
eat meat approve of her being a cow? 
 
While Tansy pondered her questions, her knock was  
answered by the door swinging inward, a pleasant  
soothing voice inviting her to please come in.  
Stepping through the door, she discovered another  
difference about Mrs. Patel; her office was unlike any  
other in the school, more like a family room than  
anything else. 
 
In place of the usual stark black and chrome metal  
desks and chairs, there were soft over-stuffed chairs  
and a small love seat all surrounding a polished  
cherry coffee table whose surface was covered with  
various pamphlets. Real paintings of flowers and  
landscapes, not posters with trite sayings, adorned  
the walls. There was a small refrigerator, and a  
stereo system along with a combination TV/DVD player  
on top of a chest of drawers on one side of the room.  
The only really unusual thing about the room, aside  
from the fact it smelled like Mrs. Patel always did,  
was a triangular stand tucked unobtrusively away in a  
far corner.  
 
Accepting the counsellor's offer of a soda, and her  
suggestion she sit in the "big blue chair," Tansy  
turned an attentive eye on the counsellor, hoping to  
read something in her body language that would give  
her a clue of how to begin.   
 
What she saw was a relaxed woman in her mid-twenties  
dressed in a snug sleeveless top of shimmering shades  
of blues, golds and greens that hugged the contours of  
her modest bosom.  The top ended just underneath her  
naval, leaving a small gap between it and the blue  
jean pants, below it that revealed a flat, athletic  
abdomen of skin the shade of burnished chestnut. The  
pants were canted off to one side and held up by a  
longer than necessary khaki belt, which itself loosely  
extended a good six inches past the buckle. 
 
The face above the top was inviting and friendly with  
a smile as warm as the summer sun. Two black eyebrows  
arched over deep velvet caramel eyes themselves set on  
either side of a pert upturned nose.  A forest of  
thick shiny ebony hair brushed straight back from the  
crimson-dotted forehead and tied into a stubby  
ponytail completed the ensemble.  
 
Aware of the ongoing inspection, Mrs. Patel lowered  
herself with an easy fluid grace into the chair  
opposite Tansy, waiting a few moments more before  
breaking the ice. She knew she had a reputation of  
being somewhat odd among the school's students; what  
kind of counsellor would she be if she weren't aware  
of the undercurrents? It was best to give first-timers  
a few minutes to adjust and get comfortable before  
beginning a session; a little social chitchat was  
never amiss. 
 
"Good morning Tansy. I know we're here to talk about  
you today but I thought it'd be nice if I started out  
by telling you something about myself. Now I know the  
name on the door is Mrs. Patel and that's probably  
what you should call me when you see me anywhere else  
than this room.  But in here I want you to call me  
'Jay." That's short for my full name Jyeshtha which  
means 'eldest daughter.'  I have three sisters, all of  
them younger than me so that's part of where my name  
comes from. 
 
"I was born in this country but my grandparents  
originally came from India. Heritage, culture and  
tradition are very important in my family, which is  
why my first name is so unusual. It's also a real  
tongue twister, so that's why my nickname is Jay.  The  
only time I get called Jyeshtha is when my mother's  
really mad at me. 
 
"I'm married, which is a good thing 'cause otherwise  
the Mrs. would be pretty silly. My husband's family is  
also from India and his name is Chiranjeev, which  
means 'long-lived.' Everyone calls him Charlie,  
though.  The only time he gets called Chiranjeev is  
when I'm mad at him. Charlie's an engineer down at the  
electrical plant. We don't have any kids yet but we do  
have a dog, a mutt with the normal name, at least for  
a dog, of Scoundrel. 
 
"The big red blotch in the centre of my forehead isn't  
a pimple or a scar. It's called a Tilak and it's a  
sacred sign in my religion, one that is intended to  
help awaken the wearer's spirituality. It's not red  
paint either; it's a spice, red turmeric, that we call  
'kumkum'." 
 
A quick smile crinkled Tansy's mouth as she heard the 
other name for the spice. She knew about having cum  
on her face; her cousin Swen had taught her all about  
that, although his was a pearly white, not red.  
 
Taking the student's grin as an indication she was  
comfortable, the counsellor moved on to business.  
 
"Tansy,' Jay said leaning forward and looking  
earnestly into the young girl's eyes, "I want you to  
know that this is a safe room. You can tell me  
anything you want in this room, ask any questions you  
have in this room; laugh, cry or swear in this room  
and it's OK. Nobody makes any ethical judgments in  
this room. Nobody tells you whether or not something  
is good or evil, right or wrong, moral or immoral.   
I'm here to help you to make informed decisions and to  
help you to get to where you want to be. Now why don't  
you tell me a little bit about yourself and what you'd  
like to do?" 
 
After days of practicing this conversation in her  
head, what she would say and how she would say it,  
Tansy found herself uncertain of how to start. All the  
rehearsed phrases and polished arguments to defeat any  
objections Mrs. Patel might have to her becoming a cow  
had fled, leaving her tongue as dry as a cornhusk in  
October. Say something, her brain screamed. It doesn't  
matter what, just let her know you can speak. 
 
"I want to be a dairy cow," Tansy blurted, her eyes  
widening in shock at the way those fateful words had  
escaped her vocal cords.  Committed to this new course  
of action, she went on with her explanation, a rapid  
torrent of speech unleashed by the broken dam of her  
silence.  "I really do. Uncle Morgan says, even though  
I'd be a good milker, it's just a passing fancy. Being  
at the dairy put thoughts in my head; this month I  
want to be a cow, next month I'll want to be a nurse.   
But that's not true. It's not just some silly girl's  
whim. Just because I'm only 13 doesn't mean I can't  
know what I want. And I do know it; every fibre of my  
being knows it. I think even Uncle Morgan knows it,  
he's just afraid of what my mother will say. He says  
he won't even let me consider it or talk to mum about  
it unless you say I should be a cow. So here I am.  
Jay, please tell me I should be a diary cow," she  
finished, her verbal flood diminishing to a trickle. 
 
Stunned by suddenness of the girl's request, the  
counsellor found she was uncertain about proceed. A  
lot of girls who wanted to be a cow, or who hadn't but  
should have, had sat in the same chair as Tansy. None  
of them had attacked the subject so directly or with  
so much passion.  Her previous decision at the dairy  
reaffirmed, Jay decided to return the girl's  
directness with equal candour.  
 
She began by talking with Tansy about her religious  
beliefs. "Tansy, I told you my family came from India.  
Did you know India is one of the few places in the  
world that still has cows? I don't mean human cows; I  
mean the actual four-legged animal that doesn't exist  
here anymore." Tansy shook her head no. 
 
"Well, it's a fact. Cows weren't allowed to die off  
India like they were in almost every other country." 
 
"But if you can't drink the milk the cow gives or eat  
their meat why keep them alive? Why waste precious  
food on livestock that can't give you anything in  
return?" 
 
"Cows are sacred in my religion; even after Ahriman's  
Curse caused the Great Disaster, even though we can no  
longer accept their offering of milk, they remain a  
symbol of life, a gift from the gods. To kill a cow is  
the same as killing one of our holy men. To allow our  
cows to die when they could be saved would have been  
the same as killing them.  We couldn't do that and  
many sacrificed much to preserve this species."  
 
Pointing with a tapered finger to the stand in the  
corner, the counsellor continued to describe the  
tenets of her beliefs. The stand was a shrine and the  
young woman with four hands depicted in the painting  
was the goddess of wisdom; the one who endows human  
beings with the powers of intellect, wisdom and  
learning. "Those of us who work towards spiritual  
progress attach great importance to the worship of  
this goddess." 
 
The deity's four hands represented the four aspects of  
human personality in learning: mind, intellect,  
alertness and ego. Those were the sacred scriptures in  
one hand and a lotus, the symbol of true knowledge, in  
the second. She was using her other two hands to play  
the music of love and life on a string instrument  
called the veena. Her flowing white raiment symbolized  
purity. 
 
The three sweetheart roses in front of the painting  
meant Jay had offered her heart to the deity while the  
water sprinkled on the roses stood for purification.   
The golden lamp on the right side of the shrine was  
lit to dispel ignorance. Incense was burned in the  
small jade holder on the left, the sweet scent going  
everywhere, including her clothes, to symbolize God as  
being everywhere. The silver bell was rung to awaken  
the deity and also to block out other disturbances. 
 
"Here at school I only burn perfumed incense," Jay  
offered, smiling. "At home Charlie and I burn camphor  
at the shrine to signify the destruction of our egos.  
It doesn't smell as nice, in fact it smells pretty  
awful so we're careful to keep the door closed and the  
window open and we never wear those clothes out in  
public." 
 
There was more to worship than just veneration before  
the shrine. "Any activity we do that takes us closer  
to the gods can be called worship including the  
voluntary obliteration of the ego in service of  
mankind." 
 
Seeing the confused look on Tansy's face, Jay tried to  
simplify her explanation.  "We hold human cows, and  
their offering of milk, to be as much of a gift from  
the gods as natural cows. Human cows are just as  
sacred to us, more so since in order to become a dairy  
cow a person has sacrifice their ego in service of  
mankind. We'll drink the bounty of their milk but we  
will not eat the meat. Killing a human cow is a sin  
and we will not participate in that crime. 
 
"You've chosen to worship in a very special and holy  
manner. I cannot stand in your way." 
 
"Mrs. Patel, I mean Jay, I'm not sure I understand.  
You're not going to try to talk me out of it? You'll  
sign the recommendation; I can be a cow? " 
 
A tinkling laugh flew like a fairy from Jay's lips.  
"Yes Tansy, you can be a cow. And it really doesn't  
have all that much to do with my religious beliefs. As  
your counsellor, I have to look at being a dairy cow  
just as I would any other career. Every career has a  
set of optimum profiles you need to match up against.   
From your first day of school on, your permanent  
record contains information we can use to match you up  
against these profiles. At the beginning and end of  
every school year this information is updated to help  
us help you make the best career decision. 
 
"After you made the appointment to see me I pulled  
your permanent record and ran it through our profiling  
software.  I wasn't aware you wanted to be a cow," a  
little white lie the gods will forgive me for Jay  
thought," yet that's exactly what the computer said  
your career choice should be. You scored anywhere from  
the 90th to the 98th percentile on every one of the  
career diagnostics. I don't think any student has ever  
had such a clear-cut indication for any career choice  
in the three years I've been here. Your feelings are  
right Tansy. You were meant to be a dairy cow." 
 
Practically skipping down the hall, Tansy couldn't  
wait until she got home and gave her copy of Mrs.  
Patel's recommendation to Uncle Morgan, a sprightly  
sparkling happiness rushing through her like bubbles  
rising in a champagne flute. Another barrier to her  
becoming a cow had been victoriously stormed. Now all  
she had to do was succeed in playing the game. 

NEXT UP:

CHAPTER FIVE:

EXTENDED FAMILY


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