The trip to the Sales Commission office had yielded very little in the way of actual help in selling her own milk, as the people there had simply made her bottle 5 bottles, which had done little to nothing to sate the building pressure in her chest, and then show them to an evaluator. Upon seeing that the milk in each bottle was clean and cream white, he had given her a slip of safety, which she had been shocked by. The man had told her he’d seen fresh Holstaurus milk a hundred times and none of it ever came back contaminated, then told her to report to the local Dairyhand if she wanted to start making money off of her bottles.
When she’d proposed that she sell her own product, he had laughed her out of the building, and pointed her down the road. Apparently, according to him, no one would buy from some street urchin cow girl over the local dairy. Regardless of quality.
So Ambrose had taken herself and the four bottles left to her down the road to Anastasia’s Tap, a local dairy with a few bottles left in the enchanted frosted windows at the front of the shop. The logo on the front was that of a simple, pretty bottle half empty with the word ‘Yum’ on the side. The shop was much larger than she expected it to be, sitting at two stories with an open floor plan that implied she allowed people to stay in store for some reason.
Intrigued, Ambrose took a deep breath and walked into the building, taking hold of the handle and pushing the door in. The doorbell jingled and a slight chill of cold air flowed out of the building and into the night. The inside of the place was pleasantly cool, as though everything was refrigerated. From behind the counter there came a thud and then a stream of cute swears from a feminine voice.
“Ouch fekkin’ stupid arse wood boss on this fekkin’ counter’s gon’ crack me fekkin’ ‘orns!” someone cursed, thumping a fist against whatever they’d run into on the way up. Then there was a clearing of a small throat. “Er… One second, deary! Ol’ Anastasia’ll be right with ye! The next batch o’ frost cream is nay ready yet, so ye’ll have t’ come back in an hour if that’s what yer ‘ere for!”
“Umm… No problem?” Ambrose said, looking about at the tables placed along the walls for pairs and the pretty lighting set-up over crystal shaders that made it look as though sun was streaming down through snowflakes across an otherwise plain floor. The place seemed magical in the kind of way a child would never forget. If this was where dairy was properly sold, Ambrose had to admit, she had no hope of competing on the street.
“That a new voice I hear?” the person under the counter asked before a pair of curled back ivory ram’s horns and two long white hare ears lifted over the counter enough for Ambrose to see them.
“I’ve never visited before, if that’s your meaning?” Ambrose confirmed, now very curious just who was back there.
“Well, las, yer welcome and be welcome to Anastasia’s Tap. I be Anastasia, yer host n’ lover of all things heifer!” said the person, hopping up onto something behind that counter to reveal a snowy white furred satyr with dusky, ginger bread colored skin and big yellow eyes. The three foot tall woman had her hands up gesturing to the grandeur of her establishment as she spoke, her cute little white shorts, sailor’s blouse and lavender ascott adding all the more character to her appearance. “We provide the finest dairy in the kingdom, no exceptions, as well as the fine and frosty treat known as frostcream! Our cream is humanely harvested from the best girls ye did ever see. Most docile and innocent creatures in these walls. Now how can I help yeeeee… Dear gawds n’ aeons above, that is a rak.”
Ambrose was quite impressed with the little satyr’s spiel all the way up until her eyes locked on Ambrose’s horns and then her chest. Once there, it seemed that the small woman lost most of her brain function as she tried to grasp Ambrose’s immensity. For a long moment, the two women stood in silence. Then Ambrose cleared her throat, trying to dispel the growing feeling of awkwardness rising in her stomach.
“I’m here to see if you’d sell my milk in exchange for coin and potions?” she half asked, half declared, hoping the other woman would stop staring. She did, her eyes traveling to the bottles of milk held in her arms across her midsection. Her eyes twinkled with glee and she bounced on whatever it was she was standing on as she nodded.
“Yes, yes! Ye bring those beauties right this way n’ ol’ Anastasia’ll do right by ye gel,” the satyr woman said, beckoning Ambrose closer with both hands.
The Beastiary moved over to the counter and began putting down the bottles one at a time to make sure she didn’t drop them. As soon as her fingers left the first bottle, the satyr snatched it up, uncorking the bottle with a loud pop and leaning in to take a whiff. Ambrose blushed at the noise the woman made at the scent of her produce, then deeper when the woman took a sip and groaned.
“Hells below n’ fires in me kitchen, is this yers, darlin’?” she asked, eying Ambrose with a near reverence that made the Hollam very self conscious.
“Yes. Just bottled less than an hour ago,” she said, averting her eyes.
“Oh this is the finest cream these tasters ‘ve e’er tasted! Las, you come work fer me. Ye let ol’ Anastasia do right by ye. I’ll make sure ye ne’er go sore. Mornin’ and evenin’ we milk our gels ‘ere. Like it should be. Food’s on the ‘ouse o’ course. With yer cream I’ll be mintin’ coin meself!” she said, her eyes wide with excitement before she took another sip and then shivered, wiggling her hips so that her little faun tail motored around behind her. The gesture was so adorable, Ambrose almost couldn’t bring her so say no.
“Unfortunately, I can’t be a stay in cow. I can come here maybe once a day to give milk in the evenings? In exchange for payment. And maybe twice a day on weekends if adventures permit,” she said, expecting the satyr to be disappointed. Instead, what she found on Anastasia’s face was worry and concern.
“Gel no! No, ye should nay be stressin’ n’ endangerin’ yerself. A heifer needs a good calm life t’ yield her best. A happy life. Stay here with me n’ my gels. I’ll take good care of ye. No more bein’ harrassed by street thugs n’ dirty humes. No more bein’ forced t’ fight! I’ll protect ye, feed ye, pay n’ house ye. Ye deserve that n’ so much better. With the coin ye can make jus’ lettin’ me treat ye’ right every day, by the time ye retire, ye can buy a mansion n’ live next t’ the nobles in town.”
The offer seemed genuine. Not only that, it seemed heartfelt. It made Ambrose genuinely wonder about the lives the other cows had led until they came to work for Anastasia. She obviously valued them if what she was saying was as honest as it felt. If Ambrose didn’t have greater prospects ahead of herself, she would likely have taken Anastasia up on that offer, especially with how that team had treated her back at the Adventurer’s guild. A more delicate girl would quickly tire of being groped and molested in public, and called a whore. Ambrose’s respect for Anastasia was high.
Still, she shook her head. “I have other business to tend to. I appreciate the offer, I really do, but I can only do as I’ve already said. If you can pay me fairly and make sure I’m milked properly at the end of the day, I’ll keep coming back out of trust,” Ambrose said, looking at the woman through her bangs.
She sighed but put out a hand. “Alright las. Fer cream this good? With a quality this rich? Ye’ll get yer coin, n’ I’ll make sure ye don’t go sore. We’ll work ye nice n’ empty, n’ I’ll give ye a fair rate for the amount ye give. Then another helping when ye return the next day as a portion of yer’ sales. I’ll e’en look into the potioneer f’r ye. If they can make good potions from this cream, I’ll make sure ye get one per batch. N’ if summun takes a likin’ t’ yer taste especially, ye can bet I’ll pay proper for ye. I treat me gel right. E’en if they’re cute, stubborn heifers who refuse t’ stay safe with ol’ Anastasia!”
Ambrose smiled and shook Anastasia’s hand.
“‘Ere she is. Give me a minute, las. I’ll close up fer a few, n’ then get ye in the back so we c’n get ye taken care of. Take off that jacket will ye? Blouse too. Ye’ll feel light as a feather once Anastasia’s done,” she said, hopping down and moving around the counter to the other side so she could manage the door. Shrugging her shoulders, Ambrose took off her uniform jacket, and then her blouse as well, leaving her standing there in her skirt and bra, the straps groaning under the stress of containing Ambrose in her nearly full state.
The satyress made an impressed “whrf!” noise when she came back and encountered Ambrose topless, eying her chest again before gesturing for the Hollam to follow her into the back of the building. “I’ll be honest, las, I’ve ne’er seen a cow like you. The fur’s too long n’ fluffy, plus yer short fer a heifer. But I know holstaurus cream. N’ yers is th’ best I’ve come across, so sweet n’ rich. So I can’t say yer not a cow. Not t’ mention those… tanks ye got there. No other demi-hume’s got those. Hells. Most cows arn’t that big. What stock ye from?” the woman asked as she led Ambrose into the back.
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If she hadn’t grown up around Mizz Shatterhorn, Ambrose might have taken offense to the question, as it kind of sounded like she was expected to be from some sort of breeding farm or something. But for holstaurus, asking their stock was simply a question pertaining to whether they were free raised in the herds away from human civilization, in a free family near kingdom towns, or if they were brought up by the city. City cows were usually orphans, all raised together by a charitable humanoid, or by a demihuman lucky and caring enough to have the money for an orphanage.
“I was brought up by Mizz Shatterhorn,” Ambrose said honestly, not sure if the name would mean anything to the satyr, only for her to perk up.
“I’ve heard good word ‘bout Shatterhorn! She sells t’ Grimwater nay? I’ve ‘ad a customer or two rave ‘bout ‘er somethin’ fierce when they came back t’ town. Had my gels jealous,” Anastasia said, guiding Ambrose into a large back room where there were several wood stalls with comfortable milking stands to rest the knees and body on while draining the girls. There were milk pails lining the far wall and a fire that radiated gentle warmth from a space in the back, fighting the natural cold of the establishment.
No other girls were back in this area, which confused Ambrose a little and made her wonder why not.
“The gels don’ come down ‘ere until after dinner, las. Tha’s not fer another hour or two. They eat late, bathe, ‘n then get milked ‘afore they go t’ sleep. Means ye got my attention all to yerself,” she chuckled.
“How did you-” Ambrose started to ask, feeling like the little satyr had read her mind.
“Yer face, las, ye paused n’ started lookin’ worried. Then yer ears went still. I know cows gel. ‘N yer a good cow. Now ye just go pick a stall ‘n get comfortable. Ol’ Anastasia’ll get yer buckets ‘n be right o’er t’ lighten ye up,” she said, putting on a cheery smile and slapping Ambrose on her ass before moving away to go get some pails.
The slap didn’t bother Ambrose at all, there hadn’t been any lechery behind it, and the satyr’s words had almost made her want to cry. She felt silly, and giddy, and like a little girl being spoiled by her mother all at once.
“‘N yer a good cow.”
Once again, Ambrose felt that welling of emotion in her chest. Just being recognized as like her real family made her so happy on a level she couldn’t define. It made her feel comfortable in her skin, and renewed her sense of confidence and calm. Without even worrying about it, she moved over toward the nearby stall, undoing her bra and hanging it on the wall, one massive cup on each side. Then she moved her knees into the placement and let her stomach and lower ribs settle onto the cushioned top of the milking stand, her breasts cupped by the cool wood which made her shiver a little. The stand was high enough up that even with her prodigious size, a pail could be placed below her for the milk to drain into. There were stools set up on either side for Anastasia or whomever was doing the milking to stand or sit on while the work was being done.
Having milked Mizz Shatterhorn herself countless times, Ambrose understood the gentle touch and attention involved in milking a holstaurus. She may have never been on the receiving end of the deal until that point, but she was ready to find out. Smiling, she relaxed and let her little stresses leave her. Then she heard the pails be placed and let her eyes flutter open. With her head facing the floor, her bangs were out of her eyes, and her rainbow irises met the yellow of Anastasia’s as the satyr smiled up at her.
“Such a beautiful heifer. Ye just stay right there and let me take care o’ ye,” she said, moving over to one of the stools and moving it forward before stepping onto it. Her hands moved with practiced ease to Ambrose's chest, beginning to press, caress, and stroke the plump, full, sensitive flesh there. She made no hurried movements and didn’t pull, just gently massaging Ambrose down toward the areolae. With how full she was, it only took a minute before heavy droplets were leaving her, and then gentle, natural falls of cream as she yielded to Anastasia.
When the dairyhand moved to her other breast, Ambrose found herself sighing in contentment, her hands gently squeezing the handles attached to the stand as she let herself be milked into those pails, the sound of liquid streaming into liquid the only other noise in the room aside from her own pants and occasional gasps. She was in a blissful and calm state even when gentle fingers tugged lightly at her or directed her. Nothing about the situation was uncomfortable in the least, and it felt as though the world were gradually melting away.
“That’s a gel. Yer doing fine,” Ambrose heard the other woman say at some point, but she couldn’t really think about it at the time. She was just lost in a haze as her chest sang songs of unending bliss and satisfaction. She knew the undeniable comfort of slowly losing all the pressure and weight that had settled in on her over the day, the tender relief of warm hands easing away her stress and letting her mind wander to small, meaningless things. Ambrose giggled when silly jokes came to her mind and sighed happily when memories of sitting on the porch with Mizz Shatterhorn or riding on Kayden’s back passed through her mind.
In what could have been minutes, or could have been an eternity, Anastasia was patting her thigh. “Come on back t’ me gel. Thaaat’s it. Good gel. It’s o’er n’ ye did amazin’. Ne’er seen a gel do three pails on her own before.”
“Three… wha?” Ambrose asked, coming back to herself and gently shaking the blissful haze from her mind. She leaned back and stood up, a little confused for a moment before she remembered what all was going on. Milking herself that morning had felt nothing like what she’d just relaxed through. It had been frustrating and a little tiring to empty herself into the little bottles, which felt like they weren’t really meant to hold anything at all. As she stood, her chest was singing happy praises and telling tales of the wonders of being empty and light. What soreness she felt in her nipples was pleasant, like the soreness of a well worked muscle, healing and growing stronger.
Looking down to where the satyr was struggling to shift the pail over, Ambrose balked. She had seen the pails when they were empty and knew the things were meant to hold several gallons. But standing next to the struggling satyr now, she saw how large the things were, and how each of the three were filled to the brim.
“Oh! Oh I didn’t know I had that much,” Ambrose said, moving over to help Anastasia move the pails. The satyr seemed grateful for the assistance and directed Ambrose over to the cooling room, where the milk would be kept until Anastasia could bottle it and put it out for sale. Once the milk was stored away, the two headed back to the stall so Ambrose could dress while Anastasia started counting coins from a little purse she’d kept tucked away in her belt.
“I normally give me gels a pair o’ silver fer half a pail, but 3 full ones is truly sumthin’ else. ‘N with yer quality, I’m gettin’ my money’s worth. So you can ‘ave these 15 silver so long as you guarantee me ye’ll come back ‘n keep yeself fed,” Anastasia said, holding the fifteen coins to an Ambrose who was wide eyed with wonderment.
She had expected mere coppers, perhaps a silver or two if her quality was up to par with her expectations. To receive 15 was… more than she could make off of a full wolf pelt in Grimwater, It was enough to eat well for weeks, off of grains and market vegetables. The sheer amount left Ambrose stunned.
“I told ye, Ol’ Anastasia’ll treat ye right. I meant it. ‘N don’t ye go fussin’ ‘r worryin’ ‘bout me. The money I make offa these louts in the city ‘n their ‘noble selves’ is more than enough t’ make up fer what I gave ye’. I daresay, come t’morrow I might find out I owe ye some coin if the quality is what I think it is. We’ll see.”
Ambrose could only nod, dumbstruck with how much she’d made in one milking. With that amount of money, she almost reconsidered joining the shop. If she could relax, eat and rest all day just to produce more, she could make that same amount morning and night, if not more. At 30 silver a day, she could send money home monthly and still retire in a few years, not that she’d want to with how she’d just been treated.
She glanced down at the woman who was in the middle of cracking her back and dusting off her hands from a job well done. This woman was a dangerous temptation indeed, and Ambrose would have to be careful not to fall for her talents.
“O I’ll get ye yet, my pretty,” the satyr said, looking back up at Ambrose, who panicked a little. The satyress had surely read her mind that time. “No. Not mind readin’. Jus’ know me cows, gel. Jus’ know me cows.”
—
Ambrose stumbled out of the tap with a little paper bowl of a sweet delight known as frostcream in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. Apparently the treat was made from milk like hers and the other girls who worked for Anastasia. It was cold, sweet heaven on the tongue and melted away into awesome flavors on her palate. Apparently it was flavored with local berries, which only enhanced the lovely flavor. Ambrose moaned as she took another mouthful. She would come back to Anastasia’s tap as long as she could stay in Diestol. Treats like frostcream were worth almost any hardship the town could throw her way.
She walked down the street with a confident, contented sway in her gait and a swish to her tail as she headed toward the gates by moon and lamplight. She had an appointment with the night shift captain of the guard, and she intended to take care of that before she returned to the dorms for the night. The beginning of the evening had been a bit of a struggle, but getting her milk sold had been wonderful.
Ambrose couldn’t help but wonder what other wonders this night held for her as she wandered down the moonlit walk.
