The Farmer and the Holstaur

John wasn’t much of a physical man. Sure he has some muscle, although not as much as the soldiers or some of the lumberjacks or blacksmith. The man got most of his exercise working in the garden helping his parents constantly haul heavy baskets or sacks of crops from the fields to the storage barns. This is also how John’s family earned money: harvesting flowers and various other herbs and produce before selling them to the town apothecary or any trader willing to buy. This main source of income was sometimes supplemented by selling any excess vegetables his family managed to grow or the beautiful flower arrangements that his mother made. John and his father did most of the difficult work; plowing, seeding, and harvesting while his mother and younger sister prepared each yield for sale, usually trimming off or throwing away any undesirable bits or grouping different plants together based on appearance and quality.

At least that’s what it was like five years ago. When John were just sixteen years old, barely old enough to be considered an adult in the village, a particularly harsh winter season took the life of his sister, then mother, then father. The apothecary had told him that his parents and sibling had something called “pneumonia”, and that even with his great knowledge of salves and drinks, there’s nothing he could really do other than treat the basic symptoms. They all got worse and worse over the course of two weeks before their bodies gave up and they died in their sleep. For some cruel fate, John was spared and had to wait until the ground thawed in the spring before his family could be buried; sister in the middle flanked by the only two adults who really gave him any respect. It didn’t keep the other men from making fun of John though; they called him soft, a sissy, not a man. “You should get a real man’s job.” one person would jeer, “I bet no human or monster would want to be with a man who isn’t big and strong like me!” another would taunt. He mostly ignored them, figuring it was just better to deal with work rather than a black eye and bruised body.

That’s another thing. Some of the women in the world aren’t what a person would call “human”. There’s sometimes differences in their appearance from normal human women, at least from the waist up, but for the most part you could call them humanoid. As for below the belt, it’s anyone’s game. A monstergirl’s legs could either end in clawed feet, hooves, “normal” feet, or they could not even have any legs at all. John has heard tales of these women from veteran soldiers or illustrious traders while nursing a mug of ale in the tavern after a long day, but never had seen one with his own eyes.

As usual, John found himself sitting alone at a table in a dark room, sipping a drink after selling the meager harvest that day. Everyone else though has someone to talk to; voices permeating the oaken structure, any one conversation unintelligible except to the person who it’s meant for as the noise level sits at a constant buzz. Some people are staring off into space, engrossed in their own private thoughts; a particularly boisterous group of soldiers are huddled around a game of dice, yelling out when one of them apparently wins something; a lone bard sitting near the hearth is providing the soft music filling the room as he plucks away at his lute; everyone else laughing at jokes or stories.

Not John though, he kept to himself. The barmaids try flirting with him, leaning over to give John unobstructed views of their cleavage or purposefully “spilling” something, bending over to clean up the mess and showing off their shapely legs, but he ignore their advances until they stomped off in a huff looking for other easy tips. Tossing a few coins on the table to pay for his drink, plus one or two for the bard as John passed by the short man performing some nameless bar song, the farmer left the town proper to head for the small farmstead on the outskirts of the city. It usually takes the better part of the morning to walk from the house to the market and just a tad shorter going home after selling everything he could, but he still doesn’t get home until it’s almost sunset. The brilliant yellow and orange light reflects off of the river that runs near the fields and a calm breeze flows through the trees and grass; leaves murmuring in an unknown, made up language before history mourns its passing as the wind dies again. John sighs heavily when he walks in the front door of the small house, latching the ash-wood door behind him. Dropping the lightened sack near the door, he gets ready for the day tomorrow: visiting his mother’s, father’s, and sister’s grave, just like he’s have done every anniversary since that cold winter five years ago.

A noise causes John to wake up in the middle of the night. SOMETHING out there is making things bang together, and John reaches under his bed to grab the club he keeps there for occasions such as this. Stepping out into the chilly gloom, he looks around his farmstead.

“Hello? Anyone there?” John calls out. “I’m armed you know.” He shouts again.

The worn dirt path leading away from the front door towards the town is empty, and so are the open fields. Over towards the storage barn, the shadows play across the old wooden walls but no one, or no thing, is hiding there either. Content that it was just a stray coyote or something that got scared off when he yelled, the farmer walks back inside to rest some more but props up the weapon next to his pillow, just in case.

The next morning, John has a light breakfast before painfully setting out to his village’s boneyard where his mother, father, and sister are buried. Everyone is nicer to John around this time for the most part, at least outwardly. No one really teases him for not having a proper job or not having his own woman to his face or around others, showing at least some sympathy for losing his only family and respecting him for “visiting” them every year. Right around noon John walks past the gate guard who gives him an empathetic nod as the soldier watches him pass by. John reaches the cemetery gate and opens it with a squeal before trudging through the overgrown path to his family’s grave markers. The stone is just starting to fade, and he sighs a bit as he clears a bit of weeds from around the base of his mother’s cenotaph. John kneels there in silence for a few minutes, idly staring at the text inscribed on each piece of granite before reaching into his bag to place a bouquet on each spot, the previous year’s flowers long since wilted. He silently prays for their souls before standing up to leave.

Wanting to rest a bit before heading home John heads for the tavern for yet another drink. The noise level dies down a bit when people notice the farmer enter, but it soon rebounds back to the usual shouting, laughing, coughing, and swearing. Taking a dark booth in the corner, a particularly voluptuous barmaiden brings John a full mug of his usual drink before he’s even decided on what to have. He looks in her eyes for a scant second and nods before peering back into the frothy drink to contemplate life. It takes far longer this time around for John to finish his alcohol, and he gets up to return the used mug to the front counter to pay.

“Nah my friend,” the barman says, shooing away the fist of coins the farmer is holding. “This one’s on the house. Here’s one for the road as well.” He says again, reaching under the counter to fish out a corked bottle. John smiles a bit at the gesture and tosses a few pieces on the stained wood anyway, claiming it’s a tip.

Halfway home, John remembered the bottle that was given to him and he retrieves it from his bag. With a pop, the stopper is removed and he knocks the glass back. Instead of the burn of liquor in his throat, John was given a bottle of sweet milk; fresh too judging by the flavor. Shrugging, he chugs the cool liquid down and stows the now empty bottle back in the sack. For some reason he doesn’t feel as tired as usual when he gets home, but opts to hit the hay early anyways.

Just like the previous night, John’s rudely awoken by more loud banging noises coming from outside. Grabbing his club once more, he runs outside into the night to confront the intruder.

“So you’ve come back, huh?” John calls out. The only response he gets is the wind rustling the grass and a lone cricket chirping. “Show yourself!” He shouts.With a bang, the front door to the house slams shut and John spins around, startled by the sudden noise. “Must have been the wind.” The farmer sighs.

Walking back to his home, John doesn’t notice the woman who snuck inside until after he turns around from locking the door.

She looks to be about the same height as him, if perhaps a little bit shorter. Her short wavy black hair falls to just above her shoulders and is stripped with gray and white, and John almost doesn’t notice the stubby horns jutting out from her forehead or the cow ears that stick out sideways from where normal “human” ears would be. Her face is soft, the skin a creamy pinkish-white as she looks back at him. Her eyes are a vivid brown, earthy in color and her smooth lips have a hint of red to them, parted slightly in surprise at the man standing before her. The woman’s shoulders are bare, as is the rest of her body. John’s never seen anything as big as her breasts, the jiggly flesh more akin to a full sack of jelly as it rises and falls in line with her breathing. The pink areolae are the size of large coins and the nipples extend about a single finger’s breadth forward. Moving his gaze down lower, John notices her trim stomach, completely flat but occasionally moving a bit as she inhales or exhales. Her hips are fairly wide, about the same as some of the more gifted women in the village and her thick thighs betray her gentle demeanor, easily capable breaking any bone her feet connect with, except she doesn’t have feet. Her naked legs extend downward past her fat butt, and they are covered in coarse black and white spotted fur before ending in thick hooves. “This must be one of those monstergirls the soldiers and traders always talk about.” John thinks to himself, and judging by her enormous bosom, hoofed feet, and cow-print fur, she’s a holstaur.

“What are you doing in here?” He asks, unsure of what to do. The holstaur just stares blankly back at him.

“Were you the one snooping around here last night?” John asks again. She simply nods. He starts walking back to his room, and the holstaur suddenly cowers on the floor, crying uncontrollably.

“P-please don’t hurt me!” The unnamed monstergirl pleads. “I-I didn’t mean to do anything wrong! I got lost wandering the country side, and when I found your house yesterday I-I couldn’t resist sneaking in! I hadn’t slept under a solid roof in ages and the barn looked so warm and inviting I couldn’t help myself! If you want me to leave and never come back I’ll go!” John tries to soothe the nervous holstaur, but she scrunches up into a ball even tighter.

He remembers that he’s still holding a large hunk of wood and sighs before setting it down on the floor a few feet away.

“Relax, it’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you.” John speaks softly, crouching down to the holstaur’s level.

“R-really?” She asks, teary-eyed. “You’re not mad that I broke in to your barn and slept there?”

“Not at all. I mean you didn’t really break anything and I don’t see anything wrong with someone wanting something over their head when they rest, other than not asking me first.” John replies. “If you want, I can find something so you can sleep in here instead, that way it’ll be less drafty and you’ll have a fire too.”

“Oh thank you mister! I don’t know how I’ll be able to repay you!” The holstaur cheers, leaping up to hug John tightly. She wraps her arms around his torso and her breasts are compressed against him, making his shirt a bit damp. She pulls away before speaking again. “T-there’s something else. I can’t really do it well myself and since you seem like such a nice person, can you help milk me?”

That was unexpected. John’s never really had any experience with women before, much less a monstergirl. He’s certainly never milked a normal cow before either. Fumbling for a response, John goes to find something that can hold the liquid as the cowgirl watches him intently. Coming back a few minutes later with a large jug, he sets it down on the table before turning back to the holstaur.

“I’m not entirely sure how I should do this, uh.” He begins. “You never told me your name. Mine’s John”

“Oh. It’s Lana.” She responds.

“Well, Lana, I’m not sure how to milk you. I’ve never done it with a normal cow since I work with plants and not animals, and I’ve never been with a woman before either.”

“It’s not hard at all. You just squeeze ’em a bit until the milk comes out.” She instructs, thrusting her chest out for emphasis. “But I don’t think that something that small will be able to hold everything.”

Lana says as she points to the now inadequate-looking pitcher. Unperturbed, John sits down in a chair facing the table before asking Lana to sit in his lap facing the same way. She practically smashes her considerable ass into his pelvis, and he grunts in pain a bit. Shaking off her concern, John reaches around to hold the cowgirl’s full tits.

They’re incredibly squishy, and the smooth flesh feels warm in John’s hands. He gingerly feels around for the nipples before finding the sensitive skin. The monstergirl gasps in surprise when his relatively cold hands touch them, and she wiggles in his lap. John begins slowly rubbing Lana’s chest, rolling the spongy orbs around in his hand, eliciting a faint sigh from her. Like she instructed, he beings to delicately stimulate her breasts, and soon small trickles of milk start appearing. John aims her modest buds into the top of the jug and it starts to fill up rather quickly. It is stuffed so fast in fact that in only a minute or two it’s already full and the John is forced to let the milk flow freely into his tunic and trousers, and judging by the amount coming from the holstaur’s chest there’s still a lot more left. John’s pants are completely soaked now as he finishes helping the monstergirl ten minutes later.

Lana’s legs are also wet, but they’re more shiny than John’s own, and she’s breathing more heavily than when they started. The cowgirl stands up and when she turns around, John notices that her skin is extremely flushed and her eyes have a different kind of look to them. “Uh, you okay?” He asks, worried that he may have done something to her.

“Y-yeah, fine. Perfectly fine.” The cowgirl pants. “Looks like you need some help though.” She smiles, quite lewdly in fact.

Surprised, John’s unsure of what she means until he notices his trousers are tighter, and he looks down to find that the wet fabric is now tented. His gaze shoots back up right as the monstergirl jumps onto his lap, kissing him hard. His shirt and pants fly off and his cock somehow finds it’s way into the horny cowgirl. She starts bouncing wildly, moaning harder and harder as she works John’s virgin shaft. He can only gasp in bewilderment as he unconsciously reaches around to hold Lana’s generous bottom as she viciously rides him, destroying his pelvis. He cries out as he ejaculates inside the monstergirl, bucking his hips violently as he coats the inside of her walls as she too orgasms, squirting her cream all over the farmer’s face.

“S-sorry.” John pants. “I couldn’t hold it in.”

“N-no problem. It actually felt k-kind of nice.” Lana responds breathlessly. “It looks like there’s still a bit left. You thirsty?” She asks, offering up one of her gigantic tits, milk seeping from the pink tip. John leans forward to take the orb in his mouth, sucking gently on the tender skin, making the monstergirl moan again. Almost immediately, the farmer’s cock stands to attention back inside the holstaur as he drinks from her breast before pulling off.

“Mind if we go again?” John grins. Lana kisses him again, and he starts to think about how he should propose to his new companion as they move to the bedroom to properly make love.

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