Plenty of time. I could enhance her mammary tissue gradually. Diet. Hormonal conditioning. Glandular massage, if needed.
She would produce.
She would adapt.
She would be perfect.
I lowered my gaze as she turned, pretending to scan the lower shelf. Her trolley wheels squeaked, and when she reached the end of the aisle, I followed.
Slow steps.
Eyes on her ankles.
My specimen.
I’d found her.
My future HuCow
???
I rummaged through her fridge.
She ate well. Balanced macros. Minimal processed or ultra-processed food. Excellent organ support. Clean gut flora.
She was neat. Methodical. I liked that.
Still, I kept my gloves on.
No skin. No hair. No prints.
I wouldn’t risk contamination. Not at this stage.
A few sentimental items were scattered through the living room—photos, knick-knacks. I didn’t stop to look. They were irrelevant. The day I collected her would be the day this life of hers ended.
The floor plan of her apartment was stuffed in my pocket.
I moved to the bedroom. Pulled out my phone. Opened my notes.
Clothing samples. Size estimates. Waist-to-hip ratio logged.
Hair strands retrieved from her brush—secured in a sterile pouch.
Her tail would match perfectly.
Lena Sidorova had no idea how fortunate she was.
How chosen.
I could’ve picked anyone.
But I picked her.
???
Within three weeks, I moved down the hall from her. The Pakhan paid me handsomely over the years, and I was putting it to good use. Between his salary and my insurance payout, I had every tool I could require—be it in my home or at work. The current apartment I acquired was only a pit stop.
The daily visits to her home were not enough. The strawberry blonde with clear blue eyes and mammary glands that made me thirst refused to let me sleep. It angered me, having to move between two homes and work every day. Then I began to use my time wisely in the new apartment.
