The heavy ceramic jar of Holy Myrrh & Sandalwood oil in Mary’s hands practically caught the torchlight, and Clare’s fingers were still moving in that slow, hypnotic rubbing motion. Isabella was pinned against the stone pillar, her breath hitching as the two novices closed the distance, their eyes locked onto the massive, defensive protrusion currently lifting the front of her habit.
This is it, Isabella thought, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The cloister is going to become a den of sin, right under the stained-glass windows.
"Ah! Sister Isabella! And the novices! Marvelous, I caught you all together!"
The booming, jovial voice of Father Thomas echoed down the corridor like a choir of angels. Isabella’s head snapped toward the sound so fast her crooked veil shifted entirely over her left eye.
Thank God, she screamed internally, her soul practically weeping with joy. I’m saved! The church has intervened!
"Father Thomas!" Isabella gasped out, using the distraction to aggressively sidestep Clare and Mary. She practically lunged toward the priest, her hands clasping his robes with the fervor of a drowning sailor. "Bless you, Father! What a... what a timely, holy arrival! Please, tell me there is a pressing administrative emergency that requires my immediate, solitary attention!"
Clare and Mary both froze, instantly folding their hands neatly behind their backs and adopting a pair of perfectly sweet, innocent novice expressions with glowing halos attached. However, the glares they shot at the back of Father Thomas’s head were sharp enough to slice through a marble altar.
Father Thomas, as profoundly oblivious as ever, let out a heavy, worried sigh, adjusting the spectacles on his nose. "Alas, Isabella, it is a matter of great agricultural crisis! I have just received a frantic message from the outer estates. It seems the rescued cowgirls are in a state of absolute, chaotic revolt!"
Isabella blinked, a sudden knot forming in her stomach. "A... a revolt, Father?"
"Yes! Bessie sent word through the young stable boy," Father Thomas nodded solemnly, crossing his arms. "She claims that ever since your visit on Tuesday, the herd’s energy has been completely disrupted. They are refusing to graze, they are pacing the barn, and worst of all... they are giving sour milk in protest! Bessie explicitly stated that their lodgings are in desperate need of a thorough ploughing, and somehow you're the only person who has the proper equipment to fix it."
Down in the shadows of her habit, Isabella’s curse gave a massive, terrified throb. The memory of the barn—the heavy denim vests, the jiggling assets, and the relentless, primal milking session—flashed through her brain in vivid, exhausting detail. They didn't have sour milk; they were just running low on the "breeding stud's" supply and throwing a tantrum for a top-up.
Before Isabella could invent a medical excuse to get out of it, a freezing, dangerous aura radiated from behind her.
Clare and Mary stepped forward, their sweet novice smiles entirely failing to hide the absolute, predatory irritation rolling off their bodies. They did not look impressed. In fact, the idea of three voluptuous, unrefined livestock girls demanding Isabella’s "equipment" when they had been waiting with warm sandalwood oil for hours was an absolute declaration of war.
A friendly, deeply competitive rivalry had just been lit.
"Sour milk?" Clare murmured, her voice dropping into a tightly controlled, dangerously sweet register. "My goodness, Father Thomas. We can't have the convent's dairy supply suffering. As Sister Isabella's dedicated assistants, it is our duty to support her in her heavy labor."
"Absolutely," Mary chimed in, her fingers tightening around the jar of holy oil until the ceramic practically creaked. She shot a pointed, territorial look at Isabella’s lap. "We wouldn't want Sister Isabella to overexert herself handling such a... large, demanding herd all on her own. We are going to tag along to help. Every step of the way."
Isabella looked between the two fiercely jealous novices and the smiling, oblivious priest and realized her "rescue" was actually just a ticket to a much bigger gladiator arena.
The march to the outer pastures felt like a walk to an execution dock, except the executioners were wearing immaculate white novices' habits and the axe was a jar of warmed sandalwood oil.
Sister Isabella walked in the center, her head buried in her cowl, sweating bullets under the midday sun. To her left, Sister Clare kept a rhythmic, militaristic pace; to her right, Sister Mary scanned the horizon like a hawk tracking prey. The tension between the two teenagers was palpable, fueled by the sheer, unadulterated outrage that three unrefined farm girls were attempting to steal their scheduled "load-lifting" time.
Beneath her heavy wool skirts, Isabella’s curse was entirely unhelpful. The proximity of her two highly dedicated assistants—combined with the looming threat of the voluptuous bovine trio—had the colossal "shepherd’s staff" throbbing at full alert, making every single step an agonizing test of endurance.
"Remember, novices," Isabella squeaked, her voice cracking as the large wooden barn finally loomed into view. "We are here for... agricultural diplomacy. We must remain dignified. We are representatives of the—"
"Oh, look, girls! The church sent our stud back!"
The heavy barn doors swung open, and Bessie stepped out into the sunlight. The tall, exceptionally stacked leader of the cow girls was wearing her signature unbuttoned denim vest, her tail swishing with lazy victory. Flanking her were Daisy and Clover, both of them instantly locking their wide, hungry bovine eyes directly onto the unmistakable, rigid bulge stretching the front of Isabella’s habit.
"And she brought friends," Daisy purred, her jiggling, shortstack chest bouncing as she crossed her arms. "What’s the matter, Sister? Couldn't handle the milking schedule on your own?"
Clare stepped forward, her innocent novice facade completely dropping as she glared at the voluptuous beastkin. "Sister Isabella is a senior member of the cloth. She is not a 'stud,' and she certainly doesn't belong to a bunch of unwashed livestock. We are here to oversee her duties."
"Is that so?" Bessie laughed, a deep, mocking sound that rattled the novices' pride. She casually rested a hand on her massive, heavy hip. "Well, this pasture belongs to us. And if you think we're letting two little church mice hoard the best plow in the diocese, you've got another thing coming."
"She’s our responsibility!" Mary hissed, stepping up beside Clare, her knuckles turning white around her jar of holy oil.
The standoff was absolute. Three voluptuous cow girls versus two highly territorial novices, with poor Isabella trapped in the middle, praying for a sudden lightning strike to end her misery.
But the cow girls had no intention of playing fair. This was a turf war, and farm girls knew exactly how to handle intruders.
"Clover, Daisy," Bessie smirked, a wicked glint in her eyes. "Show these city girls how we handle a dispute on the farm."
"With pleasure!" Daisy cheered.
Before the novices could react, Daisy lunged to the side and grabbed a nearby wooden bucket filled with the morning’s rejected, unpasteurized yield. With a ferocious, sweeping motion, she hurled the contents directly across the grass.
SPLASH.
A massive wave of thick, sticky, aggressively pungent sour milk caught Clare and Mary dead in the chest. The foul-smelling liquid completely drenched their pristine white habits, turning the holy fabric into a translucent, dripping mess that smelled like a rotting cheese factory.
"Ah! My habit!" Clare shrieked, jumping backward in absolute horror.
But the assault wasn't over. Clover, the sweet-faced giant, let out a mischievous giggle, wound up her leg, and violently kicked a massive, fresh, wet cowpat right off the dirt pathway.
SPLAT.
The heavy, green-brown projectile exploded directly against Mary’s shins, splattering wet manure all the way up her thighs and ruining her pristine stockings.
"Oh, gross! It’s on my shoes! It’s in my hair!" Mary screamed, dropping her precious jar of sandalwood oil into the grass as she began to frantically scrape the stinky muck off her robes.
"You uncultured swine!" Clare wailed, her eyes tearing up from the combined stench of sour milk and fresh cow poo. "We’re telling Father Thomas! We’re telling the Bishop!"
"Run along back to your choir practice, little birds!" Bessie mocked, shooing them away with a wave of her hand.
Covered in stinky, curdled dairy and fresh manure, their dignity entirely shattered, Clare and Mary let out a pair of synchronized, high-pitched shrieks. Turning on their heels, the two novice devils fled down the dirt path back toward the convent, sobbing loudly as they tried to outrun their own smell.
Isabella watched them go, her last line of defense vanishing over the hill. She slowly turned her head back toward the barn, swallowing hard as the three cow girls closed the circle around her.
"Now then," Bessie purred, stepping into Isabella’s personal space and trapping her against the wooden fence post. The sweet, heavy scent of Isabella's panicked succubus pheromones was already making the cow girls' eyes glaze over with primal lust. "Where were we, Stud Isabella?"
"I... I have a bucket," Isabella offered weakly, her voice trembling. "For the milk..."
"Oh, we're going to get the milk, alright," Daisy giggled, dropping to her knees and aggressively tearing Isabella’s black skirts upward, exposing the massive, fully awakened, and furious "shepherd’s staff" to the open pasture air.
"Mmm, look how ready our bull is," Clover whimpered softly, her large, warm hands instantly gripping the thick, pulsing shaft and pumping it with a heavy, unrefined farm-hand grip that made Isabella’s head instantly throw back.
"Ah—nhg! " Isabella gasped, her hands violently locking onto the top of the fence post as her hips involuntarily bucked into the onslaught.
Bessie smiled a dominant, hungry smile, unbuttoning her denim vest entirely and pressing her massive, aching chest right against Isabella’s face, the intoxicating scent of raw virility completely overwhelming the barn. "Time to fulfill your pastoral duties, Sister. We expect a very thorough top-up."
An hour later, Isabella lay face down in the sweet-smelling hay, her limbs completely useless, her vision blurry, and her curse thoroughly, repeatedly milked to absolute exhaustion. She had survived the novices, but in the end, the pastures had claimed her anyway.