Milk Maids

When Verona MacNeil pulled her SUV to a stop in southern Bruxville, she hadn’t expected to see a chain-link fence hung with “Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted” signs every fifty feet. But the case of MilkMaids LLC™ had been a strange one from the very start, and this was just another wrinkle. As she watched from the front seat of her grey Tahoe, a section of gate slid sideways to allow the rumbling passage of an unmarked 18 wheeler.

“You’d think they were hauling plutonium,” she mumbled to herself, snapping a picture with her phone.

The entire day had been a shouting match, in a bunch of different directions. She’d spent the morning on the phone with law enforcement of the southern counties and then with the FBI, trying to get updates about the disappearance of her daughter, Ellie. Verona had refused to take no for an answer - a theme in her life and career - and eventually she’d come to understand that they had no suspects, no real leads, no nothing. Ellie hadn’t had a jealous boyfriend, hadn’t had acrimony with roommates or neighbors, wasn’t in the trouble with the law, had no history of drug or alcohol abuse, and was well-liked at her job and at college. In other words, her daughter had no goddamn reason to be missing. And yet, she was.

Ellie had disappeared from Mayfield, a town about 50 miles from Bruxville. Verona was no cop, but she was a USDA agent, and one of her colleagues had been running an audit around the area. Naturally she asked to switch cases with him, so she could work the audit and be in close contact with her daughter’s investigators at the same time. But the guy who was working the case, a douche Ray Motton, had said “no”.

“I don’t want you going to the boss and saying you’d do a better job on the MilkMaids case than I would,” he’d told her, running his eyes over her fit and well-groomed exterior as he seemed to always do while talking to her. “You can’t always get whatever you want just because you’re a woman, Verona. I’m tired of always caving in to you just because you’ve got a set of tits.”

Needless to say, Verona had hit the roof. Yes, she was a woman, a 34-year-old brunette with a penchant for trim jackets and pantsuits that flaunted her athletic ass around the office. Yes, she had ‘a set of tits’ as Ray had so indelicately put it - perfectly proportioned 34Cs. As yes, Ray had done her a number of favors, but she’d never asked for any of them. He’d just been trying to get into her pants. Once it became obvious that she thought he was a douche undergoing a mid-life crisis, she’d shut him down, and he’d changed his tune really fast. They’d been office enemies ever since.

“Fuck you,” she’d said, and her aquamarine eyes had dazzled like island shores as she’d said it. “I’ll go to the boss. And if you don’t want to get fired for sexual harassment, then keep your mouth shut!” Her last sentence had come out as a scream. She had gone to her boss at the Department of Agriculture, and requested to be put onto the MilkMaids audit. After another huge argument in which Ray had tried to pull every trick in the book to discredit her, including implying that she had “led him on” and was “sleeping around the office”, she got the case.

Ray got put on disciplinary leave. All this just because she wanted to be closer to the investigation into her missing daughter, for god’s sake. What an asshole.

“Fuck him,” she said to herself, opening the front door of her vehicle and stepping out. Her sensible (but not too sensible) heels clicked on the gravel beside the road. Pausing to examine her makeup (understated but perfect) and hair (a long cascade of styled brunette locks suitable for the office or the nightclub) in the side mirror, she again thought back to Ray being an asshole, and why he hadn’t wanted to just transfer the case. What was so special about MilkMaid? At first it had seemed to Verona to be a huge series of paperwork fuckups. Wrong addresses on application forms. Non-existent lawyers on incorporation documents. That sort of thing. But then, after receiving the files from Ray (or, rather, taking hard copies from his office, since he’d refused to cooperate with her), she’d started to see a strange and mysterious pattern.

- MilkMaids maintained it’s own private delivery service. Unheard of in this modern day and age. And the names of all the drivers were either incorrect, or fake. Verona hadn’t been able to track down any of them.

- MilkMaid’s official listed address for bottling operations was incorrect. She’d had to personally interview store owners and backtrace her way to find the Bruxville location by following delivery trucks.

- MilkMaids had contracts to buy from dairy farmers in the area, but several of these farmers were out of business, and others were unresponsive. Verona doubted they even existed.

Yes, something was fishy about MilkMaids. But the brand had exploded in the the tri-town area, flying off market shelves in Bruxville, Horgrave and Pleasant Hill. Hell, it was like the stuff had crack cocaine in it. More likely? A fly-by-night dairy concern cutting costs and corners with illegal workers, insufficient safety precautions, and tax loopholes. Verona grimaced to herself as she approached the gate. Ray Motton had really half-assed it while working the case. Not only was he a creep, he was garbage at his job.

Verona steeled herself as she reached the security checkpoint, calling out to the guard through the linked fence, and pressing her USDA badge up against the wire. “Verona MacNeil, USDA. Let me in, I’m here to inspect the grounds.” She could be intimidating when she wanted to be, in a “modern businesswoman” sort of way. She didn’t wear skirts, much to the dismay of her male colleagues, who were interested in seeing as much of her squat-sculpted figure as possible, but she made up for it by wearing dress pants that clung tight to her ass like a second skin. Her medium-sized bust was typically locked up in a tasteful white button-up shirt, with a tie hanging through the middle and a jacket framing the entire operation. Verona didn’t have an extra pound on her - in a different life, she might have been a cop. She had the body and the brains for it, and had even taken the police exam.

Her mental discipline was considerable, and just what she needed to keep her missing daughter in the back of her mind, and do her job. Ellie had always been a rebel, and they’d often butted heads - Verona thought she’d probably left the country on some absurd adventure with a new guy. Or girl. That was the trouble with teaching a daughter to be independant and unapologetic. She would find Ellie, but for now, she had business to handle.

“Where’s Ray?” came the response from the guard, a somewhat tough-looking fellow with a foreign accent that made him seem somehow cold. Turkish, maybe? He was chewing a piece of gum and didn’t seem at all intimidated by Verona. She found this response odd in a lot of ways. One, small dairy concerns were usually scared shitless about UDSA inspections. Two, how the fuck did this guy even know who Ray was? There was no record in his files that he’d ever been to the site.

“Never mind where Ray is,” Verona eventually responded. “I’m doing an inspection, so you worry about me, ok? Now open up.” The man simply picked up the phone in his booth and put it to his ear, holding up a finger to her as if to say, “one second”. Verona began to steam under the well-kept veil of her brown hair. “Who are you calling?”

“The boss.”

It was fifteen minutes before the guard got off the phone and told her that ‘the boss’ would be out to see her, and Verona grew more angry the entire time. The place was just a huge, two-story industrial building with corrugated metal sides, surrounded by a security fence. Grey and drab. Who did they think they were? She pondered this impatiently as ‘the boss’ took another 15 minutes to actually arrive.

He was much younger than Verona, maybe 22 or 23 years old, wearing a T-shirt and jeans along with his jacket. Fresh-faced, but his eyes were filled with a sort of aggressive, arbitrage-seeking intelligence that made her want to cover herself up with both hands. He looked more like someone in the computer or music industry than agriculture, where the owners were usually farmer-types with hefty guts in their overalls. He’d brought someone with him, too - an unshaven Japanese guy in a lab coat. The kid motioned for the guard to open the gate.

“Let her in,” he said. And when Verona approached, he confidently held out his hand. “Jay Kanting. Owner of MilkMaid. This Dr. Yamashita, our chief food scientist.” She shook hands with both of them and gave her name. Kanting’s hand was dry and warm. Yamashita’s hand was clammy and damp, and his eyes were immediately investigatory. Verona sighed and crossed her arms over the fetching landscape of her upper body.

“I’ve been over every piece of paperwork and I’ve never seen either of your two names before,” she commented, getting right to the point. “Now, I want to see every inch of this facility, and if you want to have any chance of your product not being recalled, you better have a good explanation.” Verona was fairly tall for a woman, and she made sure to look the two men right in the eye. For emphasis, she held out her USDA badge.

Jay Kanting, the black-haired whelp who looked like he’d just left XBOX Live to talk with her, flashed her a smile. “We’ll show you everything,” he said. “This has all been a misunderstanding, Miss MacNeil.” His used car salesman vibe was already starting to annoy her. With the security guard in tow, the group started to walk toward the facility. Verona was already steeling herself for a bunch of bullshit explanations about how MilkMaids had come out of nowhere to capture a huge local market share.

“MilkMaid is a dairy company that’s all about one thing - quality,” Kanting sermonized as they walked. “We think people pretty much treat all milk as if it’s the same. We wanted to break that trend and really put out a product that’s recognized as the best tasting in the marketplace.”

“That’s fine, Mr. Kanting, but-”

“In order to do that, Miss MacNeil, we teamed up with Dr. Takahashi here, and together made his vision a reality. Isn’t that right, Nobuo?”

“MilkMaid is best company! Number 1!” said Takahashi, giving a thumbs up.

They entered the compound through an unassuming door. “Offices are upstairs,” said Kanting, pointing to a staircase off to one side of the small entry room. “But I thought I first I would show you our milking floor.”

Verona raised her eyebrow. “Milking floor?” She sniffed the air. Her nose as an exquisite blade in the center of her face, thin and perfectly fitted with her other features. There was a scent in the air, alright - and not just the industrial one she’d expected. The place had a barnyard sort of smell… the smell of animal feed and damp straw. But that would mean…

“You have actual livestock here?” she asked, incredulously. “This isn’t your bottling facility?”

“Correct-a-mundo,” said Kanting, smiling, and Takahashi gave another thumbs up, still staring at her breasts.

“Many livestock here! All-American! Foreigners make best livestock!” said Takahashi, revealing mouthful of grinning, uneven teeth. Like the facility itself, the potato-shaped Japanese man didn’t exactly smell like a bouquet of roses. His lab coat was unbuttoned, revealing what looked like a pair of pajama pants, slippers, and an ill-fitting T-shirt with an anime character on it.

Verona didn’t know what to say. As she was thinking, workers wearing white hazard suits and face masks rolled a metal rack out of a side hallway, and past their location, moving further on into the facility. It looked a bit like a coat rack, but instead of furs, it carried at least two dozen shining latex bodysuits, each one with the unmistakable black and white pattern of the Holstein cow. The suits were dripping with moisture.

“What the…”

Sensing Verona’s apprehension, Kanting ushered her on, toward main room of the huge, warehouse-like structure. “All will be revealed in time,” he assured. “We really are a very forward-thinking company.” The procession continued. Verona thought she was ready for anything, but as soon as she passed through the large doorway that led to the ‘milking floor’, she found herself utterly paralyzed with disbelief.

It was an obscenity.

There were women everywhere. Hundreds. Crammed into waist high corrugated metal stalls and kept bent forward at a near 90 degree angle. To facilitate this they were shackled at the wrists and placed in a metal stock at the waist, and each one was wearing a skin-tight latex bodysuit with a Holstein pattern on it. The bodysuits had twin holes cut into the chest area, so that the women’s breasts could fall free and droop to the floor - and all of their breasts were huge! Bouncing, dangling, flopping sacks of milk-loaded tissue hung enormous from the chests of every woman. Some were hooked up to milking machines with transparent gourds, into which their straining nipples were spewing copiously. Others were left to drip onto the filthy floors of their own enclosures.

Verona saw women with utterly empty eyes and vapid smiles. Hanging tongues. She saw women with feed masks on their faces. Women wearing cowbells. Women being raped by male minders through slits in their bodysuits, their cunts being pounded while their breasts exploded with white fluid. She saw women being beaten with sticks. And she heard women mooing! God, of all the dehumanizing filth… adult women were baying and caterwauling like actual cows, just to indicate their distress!

It was all too much to take in. What had seemed like an eternity of her mind devouring the sight had only been a few seconds.

There’s no way they’d let anyone see this and live, her mind suddenly warned her. She intended to run. But that was when the taser hit her in the ribs, dropping her painfully to the floor. A gift from her friend, the security guard. She felt a sting as a long needle was thrust into her neck, and something injected.

They’re killing me, her mind wailed.

But they weren’t. And in the last seconds before darkness claimed her, she heard Takahashi speaking in accented English.

“Breasts not too big, not much milk” he said, almost ruefully. “But, we fix!”

---

Verona’s eyes fluttered open, and her vision was blurry. Her memory too. Yet, she didn’t need either sight nor recall to understand that something was very wrong. Her back was sore, her body restricted in movement in strange ways. She tried to move her arms and could not. Her head throbbed.

“Hey, Verona-bird.”

That voice. Was a voice she knew. It was…

“...Ray?” she moaned, blinking, trying to clear the windshield of wooziness from her eyes. The speaking figure was seated in front of her, about three feet away. His voice was just one of a cacophony of sounds about her. There were moans, the rattling of chains, screams of pleasure both male and female. But there was no doubt about it. The voice was Ray Motton, her fellow USDA agent. “Ray, you have to get me out of here.”

“I told you you didn’t want this case, Verona,” replied Ray, and his voice was indulgent and smarmy. It didn’t take Verona long to figure out what was going on, and the situation was even more horrible than she could have ever imagined. It had seemed impossible to her that MilkMaid could get away with such an inhuman operation under the noses of the USDA, but now it was clear - Ray Motton had been their man on the inside. No wonder he’d fought so hard to stay on the audit!

“Ray, this is crazy,” she attempted, her vision clearing to let her see Ray’s impassive face. He was dressed in a suit and sitting in a simple metal folding chair. She could see him over the low front wall of her enclosure, which was perhaps six feet side by ten feet long. An animal pen. Her feet had been jammed into boots that made her wobble - Holstein mottled pony boots with hooves on the bottoms. And her tight, fit body was wrapped in a sweaty cocoon of Holstein-patterned latex. Her medium-sized breasts dropped out of holes in the front, the pink nipples puffy in the chill air. Ray’s eyes looked her over with sick satisfaction.

“MacNeil, you’ve been a bitch on wheels ever since you joined the department. You’ve taken pleasure in making me feel like an asshole just for asking you on a date. You’ve busted my balls over the smallest mistakes. You’ve spread the rumor to every woman in the office that I’m creep.” Ray’s face as he recited his accusations was a tight smile, a hunter who had finally caught his cherished prey. Verona only shook her head.

“No-” she began, but was interrupted as Ray angrily kicked the corrugated front of her enclosure, causing it to rattle. The sound boomed throughout the floor, and nearby women started to moo in alarm.

“Well, now you’re going to see what your attitude has earned you,” Ray finished. Takahashi was approaching from the other side of the floor as they spoke, and Ray seemed itching to do something mean. He was a medium-sized guy, not in the best of shape, a little past his prime, but at the advantage here, nonetheless. His eyes were stormy grey, and a mild belly hung over his belt-buckle as his hands rose to unzip his fly. Verona’s eyes widened.

“No!” she said again. “Please, Ray, my daughter is missing, I just wanted to work in Bruxville because it’s closer!”

He ignored her, then stepped into her enclosure. She had no way to kick him or hit him, not the way she was bound, with her hands in taut shackles that were connected to the barriers, pulling her arms wide, and her waist threaded through a metal stock that kept her bent forward so her breasts would hang. Takahashi arrived, accompanied by a guard with a taser. He’d brought a cart with him, containing all manner of strange equipment. Strange and alarming.

Ray stopped behind Verona and then slowly pulled down a zipper that was located in the crotch area of her latex cow-suit. She struggled, kicking her legs out behind her, whipping her hair from side to side, causing her gorgeous brown hair to fly to and fro in a tornado. But it was no use. Ray had all the leverage, she couldn’t generate any power. Her body made squishing, stretching noises in her suit. It was skin-tight, and Verona was sweating into it, causing her to slip and slide against the rubber. Because the 34-year-old was in such good shape, it was a very flattering outfit.

“Don’t rape me!” she bawled at last, but of course, that’s exactly what Ray intended to do. He produced his considerable cock and slid the head against her quivering pussy lips, teasing her. The head felt like it was the size of an apple.

“Not such a bitch on wheels now, are you, Verona-bird?”

He plowed into her then, causing her entire body to surge forward, shaking her restraints. They held fast, and Ray started to thrust in and out of Verona’s cunt, which was tight for a 34-year-old mother, perhaps due to her slender size. He reached forward and grabbed her by her hair, saying “I’ve always wanted to run my fingers through that long hair of yours, Verona-bird,” while pouring ten inches of meat into her twat. Verona howled at the pain and made sobbing noises as Ray’s fat cockhead punished her cervix.

“I’ll...f-fucking...k-kill you!” she called out, her voice staggered by the impact of Ray’s penetrations. She had never been so humiliated, being raped by such a disgusting pig of a man while wearing a latex cow costume, and pony boots. The entire place smelled like a barnyard, and her body squicked and creaked in the soup of her own perspiration, moisture that her skin-tight attire wouldn’t let escape. Verona had tired herself out quickly, trying to resist, and after a minute of receiving Ray’s fat cock, she simply hung limp, her expression one of utter misery. She was exhausted. Her nose was filled with the aromatic stink of the feed in her trough, and the musky scent of her own raped, sweat-soaked body in the Holstein skin.

Takahashi produced a syringe, then, filled with some sort of yellow, mucous-looking liquid. Verona’s eyes went wide, and she tried again to struggle. “Get the fuck away from me!” she screamed, and tried to pull hard enough for the entire flimsy enclosure to collapse. It held fast. The women on either side of her mooed with curiosity. Verona could hear the nasty sounds of her own pussy as Ray fucked in and out of her hole - wet, fleshy sounds. Ray had lubed up with the moisture from inside her humiliating cow costume, and with each sloppy thrust he caused her to jostle and her tits to sway… until Takahashi grabbed one, steadying it, and readied his syringe.

Verona uttered the loudest scream of her life, loud enough to startle the Japanese scientist.

“Shut that bitch up!” ordered Ray, and the security guard stepped forward and tased her right on the underside of her right breast. There was the horrible sound of electric current, and then he stopped. Verona hung limp. “Awww...fuck… it feels so good when she’s getting zapped!” Ray said, and his tone of voice was filled with relief, as if he were taking a much-needed piss. It made her feel like a urinal. Verona whimpered, and then the security guard shocked the fuck out of her again. Several seconds more of shuddering and clenching later, she fell limp once more.

The next ten minutes were like hell on earth. Verona was raped the entire time by her arch-enemy, and tased repeatedly. Ray called her a cunt, and a whore, and told her that she was a dyke who deserved to be raped. He told her that maybe he’d let her keep her job at the USDA if she sucked his cock three times each day. He slapped her ass, causing her tight behind to jiggle in its latex prison, and he pulled on her hair. She was shocked five, six, seven, eight times. Verona began to drool, and her eyes rolled back into her head. She lost track of the minutes.

“Fuck!” Ray moaned at last, his fat cock sawing into her pussy, scraping it out, punching her womb. “Gonna cum! Enjoy your baby, dyke! Don’t worry about your lost daughter, I’m gonna give you another one!” He surged forward and came inside Verona, hosing down her insides with stream after stream of his dirty cum, twitching with each shot, letting her know just how much cock-vomit he was blasting into her baby-ditch. The guard shocked Verona one final time, turning her cunt into a vibrating sex toy.

When it was over, all she could do was hang in place, held up by her restraints. Ray zipped her Holstein suit back up in the rear, and his heavy creampie slopped out to join the sweat and lubrication that was already making a mess of her crotch inside the latex. Verona’s head hung down, causing it to be obscured by her luxurious hair. She could hear nothing but a ringing in her ears and the mooing of hundreds of other women. She was in brutal pain. Her confidence had turned to fear.

“Bitch,” commented Ray, pulling asde her hair and spitting in her face before walking away. It dripped down to her mouth, leaving a snail trail of wetness. Takahashi stepped forward again, and lifted her chin up.

“You be quiet now,” he said. Verona was too weak to reply. Then the security guard, who had already tased the fuck out of her more than a half-dozen times, stepped forward to help restrain her upper body, holding her head up. Takahashi brought his syringe forward, and gripped her breast, squeezing it, handling it roughly, digging his fingers into the pliant flesh, as if wanting to feel every bump and duct inside. Then, he poised the needle at the tip of her conical nipple bump. Verona tried to resist, but she had no strength left in her raped, electrocuted body. The guard covered her mouth with one gloved hand. Takahashi jammed the needle into her left breast, and depressed the plunger. Verona shuddered with horror as a large amount of yellow sludge was pumped into her quivering tit tissue.

“It b-b-burns!” she moaned, into the glove in her mouth. Takahashi only shrugged, and produced a second syringe for the opposite member of her 34C’s.

“Vasodilator, intra-muscular dilator, hormone, aphrodisiac,” explained the scientist. “Combination formula, very good. Japanese design, very good. Best for American women. Give most milk.”

Verona could only sob pathetically into the guard’s glove as Takahashi gave her second injection, just as painful as the first. Her breasts became throbbing balls of fire hanging from her chest. It felt like her insides were being dissolved in acid. Ray Kanting arrived then, the downy-cheeked little bastard who seemed to be in charge of the whole thing. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans again, and had foregone the ceremony of a suit jacket.

“I told you that MilkMaid is a new kind of company,” he commented, as Verona writhed helplessly in her bonds. “We have a vision - a vision that all women would live happier, more productive lives as livestock. I didn’t realize how much the idea made sense until Takahashi here brought it to me and asked for investment capital. Well, it was the best money I ever spent!”

Verona whimpered, and Ray Kanting walked forward and stood by her hung head. “Greeting each one of our Milk Maids personally is my favorite part of this job,” he said, conversationally. “You may be uncomfortable now, Verona, but that will all change once you’re on the proper regimen of meds.” He took a tagging gun from Takahashi’s cart and poised it at the top of Verona’s ear.

*KAKLATCH!*

Verona moaned with pain again as her left ear was punched by the industrial tool - the same sort used to punch the ears of cows for identification. Kanting then attached a laminated tag to her ear reading “Verona -132”, using an iron ring. It was a rather bulky thing, and utterly dehumanizing to feel against her head. She was caged like a farm animal, smelled like a farm animal, was dressed like a farm animal, had been marked like a farm animal... she’d even been bred against her will like a farm animal. Verona gritted her teeth.

“You’re fucking crazy,” she seethed, addressing everyone present.

Ray Kanting ignored her. Her reached up and popped a leather collar around her limber neck, fastening it behind her. From the collar was hung a cowbell, already making the low, hollow ringing sound it was most known for. Then, a hair barrette, with cow ears attached, the final cherry on top. Kanting and Takahashi nodded with approval at their new creation. Her body, ass raised by the platform hooves of the pony boots and bent forward through the waist restraint, was a marvel. The latex outfit crept into her every curve and delta, accentuating her figure. Her breasts were already swelling, hanging down below her horizontal chest, and dripping tiny rivulets of yellow-white liquid. Her face was that of a defeated goddess - regal and wrecked, with a wreath of flowing brown hair. Her eyebrows, lips, nose, and mouth were on point. Her midsection was tight. She smelled like cum, and soaking musk of her own armpits and pussy. The former Verona MacNeil was, all in all, one of their most beautiful cows.

"You should eat now," said Kanting, coldly magnanimous. Takahashi approached her with a feed bag - a bucket-like contraption that would hang from her face and allow her access to whatever ‘food’ was inside. Verona wriggled her neck away, but again it was no use, and she stopped struggling once the taser came out again, allowing Takahashi’s clammy hands to wander over her head and attach the leathery device. Verona moaned as soon as it was fastened over her nose and mouth. She didn’t have a long face like a cow or horse, so the feed bag worked by allowing her access to a tube that she could suck to receive nutrition. And the whole thing smelled terrible.

“Ground corn, silage, canola meal - very good for foreigner cow. Also Takahashi personal semen and pubic hairs. Japanese semen very thick - good for milk production. Also Japanese pubic hair much dietary fiber!”

Verona’s started dry heaving with disgust, her entire body shuddering. She could smell the pungent combination of liquified animal feed and asian nut custard. Kanting held the taser up against the side of her neck. “What’s it going to be, Agent MacNeil?” he prompted. He had a kid’s remorseless look in his eyes, and Verona found that scary. This was a young man with absolutely no human decency. This was all like a game to him. She whimpered into her feed bag and shook her head.

“Alright. Guess we’re going to have to shock you and bring in the security team to rape you until you change your mind,” Kanting said, shrugging. His finger twitched on the taser trigger.

Verona started crying in utter defeat, then. Fastening her shapely lips around the tube in her feed mask, she applied suction, per the wishes of her captors. A nasty, room-temperature burst of gruel filled her mouth. Kanting rubbed her taut, latex-clad belly in satisfaction. “Good girl,” he praised. “Isn’t it yummy? It’ll give you all the energy you need to be a Milk Maid!”

Verona’s throat hitched, causing her cowbell to utter a solitary *CLANK!*, and she swallowed the greasy filth in her mouth. She felt wirey pubic hairs sticking between her teeth and dry heaved into her feed mask again. Her body boiled in an ocean of her own sweat in its latex prison. She barely felt human.

“Moo for me,” asked Kanting, smiling even more widely. And the taser was jammed into her temple, right beside her eye. “Let’s hear you moo.”

Against every mote of self-respect remaining in her captive heart, Verona did.