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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