S1 NNF Tyler EP 109

S1 NNF Tyler EP 109
Today’s gruel tasted like victory. I scraped the bowl clean with my fingers, licking every last drop of the bland, gritty paste from my skin. It wasn’t food. It was fuel. It was ammunition.

Alice’s message resurfaced in my mind, and a smile spread across my lips.

Alive. It was a secret promise. A declaration of war.

When I first arrived, I had fought them with my teeth and my nails and every curse word I knew. I had spit and kicked and screamed until my throat was raw. And what had it gotten me?

Not a goddamn thing.

A smaller cage. More bruises, perhaps. A deeper pit of despair even. Fighting them on their terms was a losing game. They had all the weapons, all the power. They expected me to fight. They had protocols for it.

So, don’t. Don’t give them a reaction. Instead, I’d show them a version of the docile cow they expected.

The thought was cold, sharp, and clear, cutting through the haze of my rage.

Don’t fight the sick bastards. Join them. Become the best goddamn hucow they had ever seen. The most docile, the most productive, the most broken little toy in their entire collection.

I would swallow my pride, choke down my fury, and wear their humiliation like a fucking tailored suit. I would smile when they tried to break me, obey when they ordered me, and offer myself up on their altar of perversion until they stopped watching me so closely.

How hard could it be?

They were arrogant pricks, every last one of them. Reddy, with his smug pronouncements and Dr. Rios’ bullshit science. The handlers, with their casual cruelty and their tiny, shriveled dicks. They believed in their system. They believed they could break anyone. They would see compliance and call it victory, never once looking for the Trojan horse inside.

They wanted a mindless animal. I would give them one. And while they were patting themselves on the back, I would be watching. Listening. Learning. Every humiliation would be an intelligence-gathering mission. Every forced touch a lesson in their weaknesses. Every moment of degradation… a step closer to burning this entire fucking place to the ground with them inside it.

Alive. Alice was fighting her way. This would be mine.

The rattle of the bolt on my stall door was the starting gun. I didn’t tense up. I didn’t shrink away. I stayed where I was, draped over the bench with my ass in the air. I kept my head down, my hair falling forward to hide my face. A performance. The curtain was up.

Jake stopped just inside my pen and gave me a once-over, and then, to my surprise, he slid a key from his pocket and removed my cuffs. First, those on my wrists, followed by those on my ankles.

“On your feet, cow. Milking time.” His voice was the same bored, contemptuous drawl it always was.

I rose slowly, deliberately. No sudden moves. No defiance. I kept my eyes fixed on the floor as he swung the gate open wider. He grabbed the leash dangling inside the stall, and then, without a word, clipped it to the collar around my neck.

He paused. I could feel his surprise. Usually, in the past, this part involved him dragging me out, my heels scraping against the concrete.

“Well, look at you. All ready for a milking, huh?” he grunted. There was a flicker of suspicion in his tone.

He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging in, and I forced myself not to flinch. His grip was a test. I went limp, letting him pull me out into the aisle. He shoved me forward, and I stumbled but caught my balance, then started walking toward the milking station at the end of The Barn.

The place hummed. The machinery was a constant, low thrum that vibrated up through the soles of my bare feet. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic and something else, something sweet and cloying that was meant to cover the scent of milk and sweat and fear. It never did.

The milking station was a monstrosity of stainless steel and cold, padded vinyl. A chair, but not a chair. It was designed to hold a woman open, tilted back, her legs spread and locked into stirrups, her arms secured at her sides. A piece of human farm equipment.

My stomach turned, the old, familiar nausea rising in my throat. I swallowed it down.

This is a weapon. This is a tool. Learn it.

Jake pushed me toward it. “Get in.”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t fight. I turned, backed up to the cold vinyl, and sat. The material was slick and cool against my bare ass. I lifted my legs, one by one, and placed my ankles into the padded stirrups at the end of the long supports. I let my knees fall open.

Exposed. Vulnerable. I hated it more than I could put into words.

Jake watched me, his mouth a thin line. He was still trying to figure it out. Figure me out.

He moved around the machine, his movements practiced. He took my right wrist, buckled it, and then placed the cuff into its port on the armrest. The metal clicked shut. He did the same with my left. Then he moved to my legs, securing the stirrups. I was locked in, spread-eagled for anyone to see.

I focused on the ceiling, on a water stain shaped like a screaming face. I cataloged the feeling of the air on my skin, the cold bite of the steel restraints, the low hum of the pumps.

Data. Just data.

“Someone’s finally learned her place,” Jake muttered, more to himself than to me. He sounded pleased now. His suspicion was melting away, replaced by the smug satisfaction of a bully who thought he had won.

Good. Fucking idiot.

He picked up a wet cloth from a tray and began wiping my breasts with a cleansing antiseptic. The solution was cold, and the rough cloth scraped against my nipples. They hardened instantly, a traitorous response my body had learned to have to this specific violation. He was methodical, wiping them down until they were raw and tingling. Then he tossed the cloth aside and reached for the pump apparatus.

“Let’s see how much creamy goodness we get today,” he said. “And if you’re a good cow, I might even fuck ya.”