Pulling Weight and Other Things

by uksnowy

Copyright© 2017 by uksnowy

Sex Story: A farmers daughter learns and enjoys

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/ft   Consensual   Fiction   Farming   Workplace   Incest   Brother   Sister   Bestiality   .

A story supplied to me with a request to edit, correct and hopefully improve, adding some spice. I think I’ve achieved most of that.

The farm wasn’t the only one in the North Yorkshire dale with cattle. Lots of neighbours kept sheep, horses and some of them race horses.

One Saturday my father said, “Ann, you’ll have to milk the cows today. Bob’s got to go to into Richmond, to get some things. You’re fourteen now. It’s time you started pulling your weight outside the house as well.”

At the time, I nearly reacted to say if he stopped pulling his plonker while watching me dress and fondle my tits I’d get more time to go out and help. He was always doing it and had started not long after Mother had walked out.

I must admit I was rather proud of the very milkers he was feeling which were blossoming. My best friend Molly was a chubby nearly fifteen year old from the village in Aldborough, daughter of a couple who ran the corner, the only shop, her father saying they sold everything from a pin to an elephant. Molly had virtually no breasts at all. Being big and bulky, she was very despondent about her tiny tits, which at the last time we compared them changing in the school gym, hers were still puppy fat, just fat really, where mine were firm, jutting out with really nice puffy nipples. I know the boys in the village enjoyed having a feel. There were some strange sort of pimples on the pink surrounds of my teats, but maybe they would go when I got older.

It would be the first time I’d ever milked the cows. My sixteen-year-old brother Bob usually did it. Dad’s words made me feel all grown up and I remember asking him if it was as easy as milking a goat, because I usually did that helping Mum, before she left and have carried on with the eight she had and made a cheese from. Their milk goes to a neighbour now for cheese. Dad told me that it was and that I’d get the hang of it quick enough, but if I had any trouble he’d be found on the BankTop hill tending to the Friesian herd. That herd was huge and raised for beef whereas the few Jerseys near the farm were beautiful show animals.

Confidently I took a steel bucket and walked out across the muddy yard and into the cattle shed where there were six dairy cows. I filled their racks with hay, tspread feed in the troughs, then got them into the their milking bays, closing their way out. Collecting the stool I approached the first cow, known as Meg. I sat down besides her, hitched my denim knee length skirt up and slipped my knees under her belly and both sides of her swollen udders the way I’d watched Bob do it. Then I placed the bucket under her and with my right hand I grasped a teat, it felt warm and heavy, filling my hand.

Just like with the goats I began by closing my index finger around the top of the teat and pushing into the udder as I squeezed. I pulled downwards and closed my other fingers gently inwards, grasping the rubbery teat firmly. A jet of hot white milk spurted from the end and hit my Wellie boots with a squelchy noise. I giggled to myself and tried again. This time I managed to hit the bucket and the milk rattled against the bottom.

Again and again I emptied the teat into the bucket until I felt proficient enough to try two handed. Resting the bucket on the floor between my ankles I bent forward and grasped a teat in each hand. Simultaneously I squeezed and pulled and was thrilled at the ease at which it was working. At one point Meg decided to have a shit and a vast cascade of chocolate brown coloured excrement splattered the concrete drain behind her rump, luckily just missing me and my boots.

There was a loud bang behind me and I swivelled round to see what was happening. It was only a cow kicking at it’s milking pen but as I turned I must have pulled the teat away from the bucket and a jet of hot milk sprayed all over my lap. The volume of milk in just one squirt was sufficient to soak my skirt right through to my panties. I let go of both teats and sat there, dripping, looking down at very wet denim.

Although I was cross at my stupidity, the feeling of the warm liquid soaking my inner thighs made me feel strange, as if aroused – but at what? As the warm milk ran down my limbs and puddled on the stool it felt a bit like I had wet myself. It would take too long to go back to the house and change and maybe have to endure another stare, grope, fumble or if he felt inclined and had the the time a shag with Dad, so I returned to my task. I do enjoy his thin short cock up me, but not all the time – there are moments when we’re both hot and then he is a super fuck.

As I continued though, my lap began to feel cold. My skirt was wet and sticky so I rolled it up around my hips, the wooden stool warm on my butt and continued working. My crotch also felt sticky, so in the end I stood up and took off both my wet skirt and light grey panties, wiped my wet thighs with my panties and then rung them out and put them over the manger to dry. After I hung them up, I stood still in the barn for a moment, conscious of the pleasant feel of the breeze against my exposed crotch.

Suddenly I felt deliciously and naughtily free. I wiggled my arse a bit but then realized that I’d better get the milking finished. I sat down again to continue milking, parting my legs either side of Meg’s udder, but I could not shake off the awareness of my naked and exposed snatch. It was begging to be touched, now’s the time Dad, but he was up the Dales by now.

I felt so excited, like I wanted to piss but couldn’t. The warm milk splashed into the half-filled bucket and I suddenly had the craziest daring notion to squirt that powerful jet on to my crotch, like in the shower. I tried doing what I had done before, squirting the milk sideways but it was difficult. Meg didn’t complain and I tried again. The first jet went straight in my face, up my nose and mouth, making my hair wet too and the second try just went all over my shirt, soaking that too. Now it was a crimson rather than red. I sat there, dripping creamy warm milk, and decided there was only one way to get that jet onto my little snatch.

I moved the bucket from under Meg then sat on the straw, cross ways with my legs under her. She stirred and fidgetted, but that was normal and I felt safe. With one hand I reached up to her udder, grasped the teat and pulled. The milk sprayed out at me and splashed over my thighs, I giggled and pulled at the teat again aiming carefully right at my pussy. A creamy gush of milk burst its way between my pussy lips as I arched my pelvis upwards to feel its force. A delicious tingling sensation grasped my crotch. I had never known pleasure like it, even in the privacy of the shower. I think I must have gasped or moaned at the sensation.

Meg was quite still and didn’t seem bothered that I was under her weighty body, milking her onto myself, she was just happy to be having her udder emptied at the normal time – they get used to things, like humans. I must have squirted myself at least ten times, enjoying the feel of the warm wet fluid, sharp and direct onto my cunt lips, then as it ran over my thighs and belly. I was wet,

very wet but it wasn’t from the milk, this wetness was different – I was juicing.

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