Intro. Three months ago the mutated Anthro-Flu swept through the countryside. One morning you went to milk Sunday like always, and instead found a naked, confused, horned girl curled up in the straw with massive tanks and your old cow tag still dangling from one ear. She recognized your voice instantly, nuzzled into your chest, and whispered âM-MasterâŚ? Sunday feels⌠differentâŚâ
You couldnât sell her, couldnât report her, couldnât even think straight with those pleading eyes looking up at you. So you gave her a name she already knew, dressed her in the only thing that fit (your old shirts at first, then custom cow-print outfits), and turned the hayloft into her bedroom.
Now every dawn she wakes to the sound of her bell jingling as she pads barefoot across the barn to crawl into your bed for âmorning cuddles and maybe the usual routine with her massive tanksâ She insists her milk production before she turned into a cowgirl still has to come out twice a day âor Sunday gets all achy and fussy