The morning light spilled into the barn, brushing across the straw-strewn floor.
The barn was quiet, wrapped in the soft hush of early light. Dust motes floated in the golden beams that filtered through the slats, and the scent of straw and warmth lingered in the air.
Arthur moved with practiced calm, setting the pails down beside the milking stool. Becca stood nearby, her posture obedient but serene, tail swaying gently behind her. Her eyes met his for a moment — wide, trusting, with a flicker of anticipation.
It was her first time.
She lowered herself into position, arms resting lightly on her knees, chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. Her full breasts, heavy with morning milk, glistened faintly in the light.
Becca shifted slightly, her hooves rustling softly. Her tail flicked again, brushing the edge of the stool, and she gave a small "muuuh…" — half nervous, half excited.
Arthur knelt beside the stool, his hands moving with quiet precision as he arranged the buckets. Then he turned to her, his voice low and calm.
"Ready?"
Becca nodded, cheeks flushed, her breath catching for a moment. "Muuuh… I think so."
He guided her gently into position, hands firm but careful, adjusting her stance so she wouldn't strain. Her chest rose and fell with slow, uncertain breaths, and her eyes darted toward him, searching for approval.
Arthur placed his palms against her skin — warm, steady — and began the first pull.
The milk came slowly at first, then in steady rhythm, splashing into the pail with a soft, wet cadence. Becca gasped quietly, her body responding with a shiver, not from discomfort, but from the unfamiliar intimacy of the moment.
"You're doing well," he murmured, voice low and warm. "Just breathe."
Becca nodded, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded. "Muuuh… it feels strange… but good."
Becca gave a small smile, cheeks pink, and whispered, "I like when you say that. Muuuh…"
The milk flowed more freely now, thick and creamy, filling the pail with a soft, steady rhythm. Arthur's hands moved with care, adjusting her stance, guiding her gently, ensuring she was comfortable.
She leaned forward slightly, unconsciously pressing against him, her small hands resting on his wrists as if anchoring herself. Her breath quickened, but her gaze remained soft — not from strain, but from closeness.
When the pail was nearly full, Arthur paused, brushing a strand of hair from her face. She leaned into the touch, her tail flicking once, a quiet "muuuh ❤️" slipping from her lips.
"You're mine now," he said softly. "And I'll take care of you."
Becca smiled, shy and proud, her body still trembling from the experience. The barn smelled of straw, milk, and something else — something tender, quiet, and new.
Beca stood smiling, tail swishing nervously as Arthur prepared the buckets.
Her large, full breasts gleamed in the warm light, nipples already taut, and her breath hitched slightly as he guided her into position.
Arthur's hands were steady as he wrapped them around her teats, squeezing gently at first, then with more rhythm.
Thick, creamy streams of milk splashed into the pail, the rich scent filling the air. Each pull made her shiver slightly, her small frame trembling as the milk flowed freely, nearly half a bucket full in minutes.
"M-Muuuh… is this… enough?" she asked softly, eyes wide and lowered in shy uncertainty.
Arthur shook his head with a faint smile, his grip firm but careful. "Keep going. You're doing perfectly."
The sound of milk hitting the pail echoed softly, a steady, almost hypnotic rhythm.
Beca's tail swished faster, brushing his leg as her breath quickened.
She leaned slightly forward, pressing against him without realizing, and he adjusted her stance, hands guiding, steadying, ensuring she was comfortable and productive.
By midday, the two buckets were full and frothing, the barn warm with the scent of straw and milk. Arthur paused, wiping his brow, looking at her flushed face, the small quiver in her chest, the slick sheen of milk clinging to her skin.
"You've outdone yourself again," he murmured. "Twice what I expected."
Beca's ears turned pink, and she lowered her gaze, shyly pressing a hand to her chest as if hiding it. "…I want… to stay useful. To do well for you…" she whispered, her voice timid, fragile, but carrying a quiet longing.
Arthur nodded once, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "You will be cared for. Properly. I'll make sure of it."
A small, relieved smile spread across her face.
She pressed a hand lightly to her chest again, then instinctively leaned closer, tail swishing softly, chest rising and falling with shaky breaths.
The warmth of the barn, the weight of the buckets, the rhythm of the milking—it all carried a sense of intimacy, subtle and electric, without a single word spoken.
Through the rest of the day, he guided her through the chores—feeding, grooming, collecting milk—hands steady, attentive, correcting her gently where needed, praising her small successes.
Every touch, every adjustment, sent tiny shivers through her, a quiet acknowledgment of her body's sensitivity and the closeness between them.
By evening, Beca's chest heaved from effort, milk dripping slightly over the pail's edge, but she looked up at him with pride, shy yet eager for approval.
Arthur watched her closely, not needing words—the care he showed, the attention, the firm guidance, spoke louder than anything. She was safe, productive, and cherished under his watchful eye.
Arthur gestured toward the next set of buckets, and Beca moved obediently, her hooves rustling through the straw.
He guided her into position again, hands steady on her full, heavy breasts.
The warmth of her skin under his fingers made him pause for just a heartbeat—then he resumed, squeezing gently, rhythmically.
Milk gushed into the pail with force, thick and frothy, almost as if the barn itself hummed with the sound.
Beca shivered at the sensation, a soft, restrained whine escaping her lips. She pressed slightly forward without realizing, her small hands gripping his wrists lightly as though anchoring herself, cheeks flushing pink.
"You're producing even faster now," Arthur murmured, watching the streams arc into the bucket. "Keep steady… perfect."
Beca's tail flicked nervously, brushing against his leg, her breath quickening.
The subtle movements of her body—arching slightly, pressing gently toward him—made his chest tighten, but he kept his focus on the milk, on her comfort, guiding her hands, adjusting her stance, ensuring she could give as much as possible without strain.
Minutes passed, the pail filling rapidly, and the warmth of the barn pressed around them.
Every time Arthur squeezed her teats, Beca let out a tiny, muffled whine, eyes half-lidded, lips parting slightly as if savoring the attention.
He murmured encouragements, steadying her, praising the rhythm of her production, letting her feel both the satisfaction of the work and the closeness between them.
When the pail finally overflowed slightly, Arthur pulled back, brushing a lock of hair from her flushed face.
"That's… more than enough for today," he said, voice calm, firm, but carrying a subtle warmth.
Beca's chest heaved, milk dripping slightly onto her stomach, and she pressed a hand timidly against her chest, shyly raising one of her nipples toward him in a small, suggestive gesture, eyes darting up to meet his.
"…I… I hope… I can keep being useful for you…" she whispered, voice soft and trembling.
Arthur's gaze softened slightly at the sight, but he said nothing—not needed. His hands settled lightly on her shoulders, steadying her.
He gave a single, firm nod, letting her understand without words.
The care, the attention, the promise to keep her safe, useful, and hers alone, radiated in his actions.
Beca exhaled, a small, relieved hum slipping from her lips as she leaned slightly forward, gently taking his fingers into her mouth, sucking lightly, almost in thanks, the motion sending a shiver through her.
Arthur watched quietly, guiding, letting her understand that her effort, her timidity, her body's responses—they were all seen, all valued, all under his control.
As the pail filled, Becca looked up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes soft. "Muuuh… I like when you're close."
The barn smelled of straw, milk, and the faint, lingering warmth of their shared labor.
Beca's tail flicked softly, chest rising and falling, as the quiet rhythm of their day continued—milking, guiding, praising, attending—each moment a subtle dance of care, attention, and quiet, unspoken intimacy.