The cow next door

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Cow sat idly all day. She was not waiting. She was not hoping. All would soon be over. Nothing would be happening.

She had on very little. The room was hot, windows were shut, the front door locked from within. The air everywhere around was a breathless fug. She puffed all day long. Smoke had de-materialized into every fabric. The fluffy purple carpets were impregnated. The pant of her body was heavy and slow. Her odours were sickly and damp, especially from her hindquarters and rump.

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A shy creature wary of contact, with gloopy brown eyes, heavy haunches, slow. Branded on her arse was the name of her previous. When you met her on the stairs you were loved and sweet-hearted, then she’d be mooing at you with nervous gales of laughter – so as to get rid of you. You knew, could sense it from the fear in her breathing, she wanted to take off. A cow stuck in a stairwell.  She’d have preferred not to have these accidental bumping into’s.  Consequently she rarely ventured away from, left the safety of her quarters.

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When she dared to go, or had to – no choice but to – go out there would be a quick rattle of keys unlocking the door from within, then locking the door from without, then a hoofing of herself down the long stairs.  About ten minutes later, a heavier hoofing of herself back up the stairs, keys in the lock again, door opened from without, door closed from within, keys locking in, door locking shut, and one skittish cow mightily relieved.

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Back inside she could settle down with herself once again. Spread out wide across the soft sofa. Loosen her buttons. Rip off the straps. Tits full forward to full with overflowing. Be open with fanny waiting.

Her fanny was open for good reason. She had a persistent, ever-present need.

She touched herself there to open the need. She touched soft, she touched gentle and rubbed. The need – stimulated, burst open. The need soon became engorged, swollen, satisfied. The blood blushed. She would leave it there, open, unclosed, inviting as a juicy fruit. The juices gush out, soaking into

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It was hot in there in her confined place. For day after day. She dared not venture out. There was no food. But she could drink. So she drank and drank. She would milk her drinks generously, with leakings and gushings from within herself.

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A calm life she lived. No harm to anyone. Out of harm’s way. Safely shut away and no one to interfere. Her quietness was remarkable. It was like living next door to a corpse.

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Eventually, she died in there.

As far as I knew there had been an accident. She’d wandered off into a place she was not allowed to be. The car that was to kill her was on its way. She never knew what hit her. The metal slammed hard into her soft body and down she went. The consciousness was knocked out of her head. Car drove off in haste leaving her there to bleed to death into the tarmac.

Her consciousness jumped back in. Her head was full of herself again. She had to struggle up. She was not going to die out there on that black and hard road. It was ignoble. It was too visible.

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Somehow she made her way home. She bled her way up the stairs. Collapsed back inside. As always, door closed from within, keys locking in, door locking shut.

Got a blade from the kitchen drawer to finish herself off. Settled down in her favourite place and spread out wide, loosened, leaking all over, ripped open and ready raw. To apply the finishing deed.

And would have done.

But the blood was flushing out. She was hemorrhaging away too fast. Her life in flood, gushing rapidly, hopelessly, away.

The sofa turned from green to crimson red where she lay, where she quickly expired.

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She was found 3 days later with the blade still in her hand.

She had been all too prepared and willing.

To cut herself into sirloin, cut herself into steak

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