Having read extensively through the hucow genre, I have wanted to make my own contribution. But I must pay thanks to writers like Katie Smith and Carl Bradford and other writers of the StripSearch forum, because they have influenced me as well. This actually started life as a Tracey Smith story, but I quickly realised there was no part for the usual supporting players — this is all about the central character and her experience.

CHAPTER ONE — THE BIG DAY

It was her 18th birthday today, and Gemma Faulkner bounced out of bed, willing to get her special day underway. But today there was one big difference with Gemma’s birthday this year. It was not presents she was looking forwards to, because there would be none — the family had agreed that — and nor would there be any particular celebration. But regardless of all that, this day was the most essential day in Gemma’s life. Nowadays a girl’s 18th birthday not only made her a legal adult, but that in turn meant that now she could freely enrol herself into the National Resource System.

Actually, her enrolment had not been an problem for anyone in her family. Ever since Gemma’s breasts had started developing at the age of 10, when she was already masturbating each night, rubbing furiously between her thighs, she had realised that she was fated to become a hucow. With each year her body became more fecund, more curvaceous; and if to cement the deal, she was streamed in the lowest class in school when she arrived there.

Girls with larger breasts could still avoid being drafted into the Resource System if they showed academic aptitude, but Gemma had known all along that her fate lay elsewhere, and she was happy with that. So she readily accepted the special sport and training courses that the school presented for girls who accepted this route, together with the slave training modules that they shared with girls who were drawn to slavery indenture, and her family had supported her. Thinking realistically, she felt deeply that they would likely otherwise be supporting her financially as she progressed through life, rather than receiving the incentive payment that the Government made to families of hucows, acknowledging their sacrifice to society.

She was absolutely looking forwards to being transformed into a pampered, constantly-horny, beastette, with absolutely no responsibilities or worries. She would end up not only producing milk and little ones, but would spend her days completely naked, probably just pooping or peeing anywhere, and likely restrained daily while her breasts were tormented by suction cups, and that wondered alone blew her mind and made her tweak her nipples, making her her panties so sticky that most afternoons in the months before her significant anniversary she ended up going without any underwear at all under her cheerleader skirts.

She knew everything in her life would be taken care of; food, shelter, warmth, her health, and of course her sexual needs. She would experience a full and satisfying sex life without the anguish and tribulations of ordinary relationships. In return she would give society both milk and other little hucow candidates in due course. The advertisements and posters had been clear on this.

So with this knowledge, Gemma had applied herself to becoming the perfect candidate. She had not bothered with boyfriends, preferring to attend to her body’s needs herself, relentlessly plunging her favourite dildos into her pussy and rosebud month after month until they both were accomplished performers.

However she had, with great control, stopped playing with herself about a fortnight ago, and now even the delicious sensations that the shower head made each morning caused her cunnie to tingle alarmingly. She had found it very difficult to concentrate on anything at all in the last few days, not only from anticipation, but especially because she had stopped expressing milk around the same time, and gradually her breasts had become engorged and tight. But she wanted desperately to present as an excellent candidate for the resource programme; she wanted to feel proud of her achievement, even though there was no diploma for this like other academic subjects at her school. So she had even prepared herself by getting her hair cut into a shorter style that looked clever, and had spent some of her allowance on hair removal down below, before going across town to a photography studio and getting a nice portrait for her family to remember her by.

As her father pulled into the crowded carpark of the receiving centre, Gemma could see that the working day was already well underway even though it was only 8.30am, with lots of activity around the entrance to the admissions office. She had deliberately worn older, comfy clothing, assuming that it would be returned to her automatically at the end of her career as a hucow, but not wanting to risk her best clothes becoming musty in some locker, because the clothing would most likely be dated by then.

But surely her family would surely bring fresh clothes at the end of her duty period. That was one piece of information she had not seen. Over the years she had read everything she could on the subject of human cows, and had watched all the advertisements for the NRS showing happy girls being milked, relaxing in their quarters, and mooing happily while being inseminated, all while the voiceover explained what a valuable contribution each girl made to society and to the national economy. Each ads finished with the mantra, “Realise your dreams, and help your world!”

Walking into the reception hall with her father accompanying her, Gemma could see a queue of girls already waiting at the main desk, and several attendants standing on each side, waiting with a pile of equipment on their trolleys. Some girls were fully clothed, others were just in skimpy sports clothes or even bikinis, and there were a few who had turned up completely nude. These naked girls all had ready-shaven vulvas, just as Gemma had prepared herself, knowing that they would end up being that way in any case. A few days ago, she had visited the local beauty salon and had her thighs, legs and armpits completely waxed. Her reasoning was that not only would she be properly presented, but perhaps if they gave her hormones to promote milk production, then her hair might not grow back.

Those girls who are waxed are looking forwards to this for sure, wondered Samantha. Like me. We’re the naturals.

These days, girls had more choices than just the NRS. They could indenture themselves into slavery, although most girls who ended up being slaves came through the judicial system, convicted of offences with a prison sentence, and compelled to do a plea bargain to avoid penal labour. Of course, in that case, there was no chance of any compensation to the family, unlike when a girl placed herself with the NRS, and the girl was fated to receive some heavy-duty obedience conditioning that did not include any calming medications, so they were essentially broken into docility. Even girls who self-indentured as slaves got no compensation, though obviously their keep was supported by their new owner or owners once they had passed through the auction market system, so their families didn’t have to support them.

But the NRS had more restrictive standards, insisting on girls who would be good producers. Frankly, they could afford to be picky, as many girls saw it as a good escape from the responsibilities of study and monotonous jobs. The NRS had guidelines on weight and height, on breast size, on some conditions that might affect fertility, and even more. So often, girls who were fortunate to pass these conditions actually ended up finally enrolling themselves because they had ended up in dead-end jobs or worse. They were probably the ones with the hang-dog looks, she wondered. Whereas for Gemma this was her calling, her role in life.

To each side of the desk were double doors leading behind somewhere. Every few moments a girl was led off through the automatically-opening doors by a chain connected to a collar around their necks, walking casually as an overhead gantry moved steadily them away, and Gemma got only a glimpse of a corridor leading away, nothing more. Back where the gantry entered the hall, she could see another chain hanging from the conveyor, waiting for the next girl. It didn’t look quite as glamorous as in the advertisements, but Gemma supposed that those videos had been shot in another facility.

Her mom had said goodbye back in their kitchen, not wanting to come to the processing centre, and had hugged her so tightly she could hardly breathe. Then her younger brother had the audacity to cop a quick feel of her breasts while he hugged her, and she cuffed him over the head the way they’d at all times horsed around.

“Cheeky arsehole!” she had exclaimed, before turning and quickly going out to the car, where her father had been waiting. Now there were tears in her dad’s eyes as he clutched her tightly, wished her good luck, pressed his lips to her forehead, and walked away quickly.

She was momentarily sad, but in all truth, Gemma was so excited that her full attention returned to her induction the moment she turned again towards the queue in front of the counter, impatiently waiting as the queue advanced one-by-one and eventually she would hand in her witnessed application papers. They had already been submitted online, but the NRS liked to match them up and verify her identity and that she had not misled them on facts within her application.

Almost in a hazy trance she answered the woman officer’s routine questions, so overloaded with emotions was she. Her nipples were as hard as little gemstones and her panties were soaking, her arousal aromas quite evident to her while she stood there. She hoped that the other girls weren’t aware of her state. Thinking back to her father’s reaction, she could figure out her family’s sadness — it was only natural — but they would all be reunited in a few years, so she wasn’t fretting.

Finally everything was completed. Gemma knew that she had no final control over how she would be used, and certainly some girls were evidently processed through to meat quite early. She’d heard rumours. But she already was sure she would be a good milk-producer. She had been expressing for several months, and had been taking the supplements that were recommended online.

The induction officer came around and fastened her wrists together in front of her with a plastic Ziplock tie. Then another attendant came over carrying a heavy leather collar, which she presented so that Gemma could see it. It was well-worn and stained, and stamped with ‘National Resource System’ on a metal band around its centre, and on which a number of thick D-rings were spaced along its length. It was very industrial looking, very functional. At the front was a big brass buckle which accepted the leather strap, which the attendant fitted snugly around Gemma’s neck, but she at least checked that it left a finger’s gap between it and her skin.

All good, wondered Samantha. It’s gonna be comfortable. Then the collar was clipped to the overhead chain that Gemma could see was in turn connected to the overhead gantry. It was her turn. The induction officer came close to her and placed a small remote in her bound fingers.

“Now this is ‘no going back time,’ Samantha. When you activate the remote, the chain will draw you through those doors and to all intents and legal purposes you will cease to be human. You will cease to be Gemma Faulkner. Your number on file will be 398P. Your life from here on will be just about producing milk and offspring.”

Her face brightened. “But on the plus side, you will be taken care of for the rest of your life. No need to worry about finances, your health, a career; nothing like that.”

She stepped in front and looked Gemma in the eye directly. “Do you, Gemma Faulkner, place yourself at the disposal of the National Resource Department, and of your own free will? If so, press the button on the remote. You need to be certain. If you are unsure, we will take you to one side and de-process you, and you will be provided with counseling.”

Gemma had already eagerly pressed the button when the officer started the legal patter with her name, and the chain gradually tightened and led her forwards as the remote was removed from her distracted grasp. Already another girl had been waiting to take her place in the marked circle marked on the floor to one side of the induction desk. The feel of the chain compelling her to begin walking brought another clench from her already over-excited pussy.

There was no arguing or struggling efficient; a girl just had to go along with it, and the wondered that a machine now controlled her totally was blowing her mind. Gemma’s heart was beating madly and she was wildly aroused now even as she walked towards the electronic doors, trying to look confident, her shabby old sneakers plapping softly on the hard flooring, her inner folds slippery, her nipples still hard and rubbing against her top; her breasts feeling very tight. She concentrated on pacing just so the chain tension remained steady, locked in synch with the machine.

This was what she had set her heart on. It was what she had worked towards ever since her puberty. It was her destiny. She felt like an actress walking on stage for the performance of her life, in front of the whole world.