Who knew the Old West was alive in a two-bit girl bar in Oregon? The bartender told me the girl's name was Dani and everyone here thought something of her one way or another.She had a small frame, not much more then 5' 5" and 115 lbs. She could flash a smile that all the girls seemed to adore. Next thing I knew she was standing beside me asking why I was in her bar. I smiled and told her to have a drink in peace."You don't look like you belong here sister." It was Dani marking her turf. I took a sip of beer and ignored her totally.Then she said, " That's my seat your in."I looked up at Kiss, the bartender. She simply shook her head and mouthed, "No fighting." I winked back and turned, giving this Dani a good looking over. She was petite and I thought if it got ugly I could probably make the door. I wasn't too worried about her, but had no idea who might be hiding a knife of club. Besides, Kiss seemed nice and I didn't want to make trouble for her. So I just smiled.I looked at Dani. No one could know -- no one was allowed to know. After she had been relieved they were soft and comfortable, feeling plump and fertile packed away in her thickly-padded brassiere. But she never stopped producing. Drip by drip they would begin to fill again, slowly engorging fatter and heavier until they felt inflated and the slightest brush against them would force out a dribble of sweet pale milk.But she was one of the Herd, and she knew the proper place to go when she needed to be milked. She couldn't remember how long she had been coming here -- every thum-thum of the insistent machine suckling at her teats seemed to make her mind hazier and hazier. Cows didn't need to think anyway, and she was content to gaze vaguely at the jar and revel in the feeling of giving milk. She hadn't even produced at all, at first, until that session when her then-pert breasts had finally yielded the first reluctant drops. After that, the Farmer said, she was a real cow. She had been given her own.
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