Cowgirls stuck together (Cowgirl Conjoinment TF)

Arlecchino adjusted the stiff collar of her formal coat and tried not to sigh too loudly. The tour had been dragging on for nearly an hour, and every minute felt like three.

“…and thanks to our patented fermentation process, the calcium yield is nearly tenfold higher than anything you’ll find in a common barn,” the guide droned, his smile stretched thin as parchment. He gestured grandly at another row of spotless steel tanks visible through the glass wall. “It is truly the dawning of a new age in nutritional science!”

The gathered guests, mostly nobles, bureaucrats, and businessmen, responded with the same practiced nods and polite chuckles they’d given the last half dozen speeches. Small glasses of the factory’s signature product, that faintly shimmering milk, passed from hand to hand like communion.

Arlecchino swirled hers lazily, watching the liquid catch the fluorescent light. Bluish streaks clung unnaturally to the sides of the glass. She hadn’t taken a sip.

She wasn’t here to drink. She wasn’t even here because she wanted to be. Attendance had been expected of her as head of her House. Refusal would have meant raised eyebrows and whispered rumors, something she didn’t have the patience for at the moment.

But gods, the speeches. The endless, syrupy praise for “nutritional revolution” and “progress through milk.” If she had to hear one more toast to the factory’s visionary director, she might just put her spear through the floorboards out of sheer boredom.

“…and now, dear guests, if I might trouble you with just a few words on our filtration standards—”

That was the final straw.

While the guide launched into yet another technical sermon, Arlecchino drifted toward the back of the group. No one noticed. They were too busy raising their glasses for yet another ceremonial sip. When the guide raised his hands for emphasis, she slipped sideways into a service corridor marked “Authorized Personnel Only.”

The air grew colder the deeper she went, the cheerfully lit lobby fading behind her. The white walls stretched in sterile silence, broken only by the faint hum of unseen machinery. She moved soundlessly, her boots whispering against polished tile.

Finally… a moment away from the saccharine chatter.

And, more importantly, a chance to see what this factory was really hiding.

The further Arlecchino walked, the more the factory stopped resembling a place of business and started resembling something else entirely. The walls were still white, but not polished for show anymore, cold, functional, lined with warning placards and keypad doors. The air carried a faint chemical bite.

She slowed, senses sharpening.

Someone else was here.

It wasn’t just instinct, there were the faintest scuff marks on the floor tiles, and the distant metallic clink of something shifting overhead. Arlecchino’s hand twitched toward her polearm before she thought better of it. If this facility had secrets worth hiding, perhaps she wasn’t the only one interested in uncovering them.

A shadow moved above her. She tilted her head just in time to see a ceiling vent shift, screws rattling loose.

With a soft thud, a figure dropped from the ductwork and landed in a crouch on the hallway floor. Female, lithe, dressed head to toe in dark tactical gear. Wisps of pale frost clung to her like a second skin, curling into the air and dissipating. Whoever she was, she didn’t belong to the smiling tour group.

Arlecchino pressed her back to the wall, holding her breath.

The woman straightened, eyes sharp, scanning the corridor as if she knew time was against her. Arlecchino stayed very still. If she played her cards right, she might learn something without ever revealing herself—

A shrill klaxon split the silence. Red emergency lights flared to life, pulsing down the corridor in a staccato rhythm.

Bang! Heavy doors slammed down at both ends of the hall, sealing them in.

The intruder spun toward the sound, cursing under her breath. Arlecchino tensed to move, but then noticed a hissing vent opening in the ceiling. A thin, white mist began to pour downward.

Gas.

She pulled her sleeve over her mouth, but it made no difference. The mist clung to her throat, heavy and sweet, and each breath left her weaker. Her limbs trembled.

Across the corridor, the frost-covered woman staggered, reaching for her belt only to collapse to her knees. Their eyes met for the briefest moment, two strangers caught in the same snare.

Arlecchino’s vision tunneled, the sterile hallway spinning around her. Her last thought before darkness took her was that the factory tour had just gotten a great deal more interesting.

—

Arlecchino’s eyes fluttered open to a sharp smell, antiseptic mixed with hay. The room around her was wrong, like two worlds smashed together. Stainless steel counters gleamed under bright lamps, humming with hidden machinery, yet the walls were lined with wooden beams, straw scattered across the tiled floor. A barn masquerading as a laboratory.

She tried to move, but her arms were locked in cold metal cuffs, pinning her flat against a padded table. Shoulders pressed against another warm body. It was Frost, still groggy but bound just the same.

“Wake them properly,” a voice commanded.

A guard in pale protective gear stepped forward, hefting a bulky canister. The nozzle hissed, and a fine spray of glowing blue milk misted across their faces and chests.

Arlecchino gasped, the liquid burned icy-hot against her skin, soaking through her clothes. At once her strength seemed to drain from her muscles, leaving her body slack and trembling. Worse, a molten heat coiled low in her belly, spreading out in throbs that made her bite down hard on her lip.

Beside her, Frost made a strangled noise, arching against her restraints. Their shoulders ground together as both struggled uselessly, overwhelmed by the same feverish weakness.

Footsteps approached.

A tall man in a perfectly tailored suit stepped into view, adjusting his tie with deliberate calm. His dark eyes glinted with something between amusement and disdain.

“Well,” he said smoothly, “I had been warned that some would bear grudges. But I must admit, I didn’t expect you.” He turned his gaze toward Frost. “The student of Sub-Zero himself. Frost, wasn’t it? I wondered how long before you came hunting.”

Frost bared her teeth, fighting to glare through the haze of heat clouding her mind.

“And the second one…” The man’s eyes slid toward Arlecchino, lingering. “Arlecchino. Head of the House of Hearth. A name that carries no small amount of weight in the upper echelons. To find you sneaking through my corridors… well, that was an unexpected pleasure.”

He chuckled, low and humorless.

“But what does it matter?” His smile sharpened into something cruel. “You broke into my domain. You will pay the cost. The cow-girlifying cost.”

At his signal, scientists in pristine lab coats rolled forward heavy carts fitted with hoses and chrome nozzles. Clear tubes snaked back into pressurized tanks brimming with the same glowing blue milk. The hiss of the pumps filled the barn-lab, a mechanical heartbeat.

Arlecchino’s throat tightened. Instinct screamed at her that whatever those hoses were designed to do, it would be far, far worse than the spray that already had her body betraying her.

The Director stepped closer, his shoes clicking against the tile. He looked down at them like a rancher surveying new livestock.

“Let us begin,” he said softly. “After all, it's important for our intruding future cowgirls to learn how to stick together.”

A pair of guards seized Arlecchino’s jaw, prying it open. Another jammed the end of a thick hose between her lips before she could bite down. The pump whined, and suddenly her throat flooded with glowing, sweet milk.

She gagged at first, but there was no escape, the torrent surged down, filling her in heavy gulps. It wasn’t like drinking water. The more she swallowed, the drier her throat seemed to become, as though each swallow carved out a deeper, hungrier hollow inside her. Her body craved more even as her mind screamed against it.

Beside her, Frost writhed in her own restraints, the same kind of hose forced down her throat. Her muffled protests dissolved into frantic swallowing as the milk poured endlessly.

The scientists adjusted levers on their consoles, and the tables holding them began to shift. Frost’s body was pressed sideways against Arlecchino’s, their bare shoulders grinding together slick with condensation and milk spray. The pressure didn’t stop. It increased, forcing them closer until the warm press of skin became something else entirely.

Arlecchino gasped around the hose as her shoulder began to sink into Frost’s. Flesh met flesh and didn’t rebound. Instead, their skin rippled like wax under a flame, melting and knitting together. She tried to pull away, but the guards only held her tighter, pumping more milk into her throat.

The fusion spread downward in nauseating, irresistible waves. Their collarbones blurred into one another; ribs pressed and merged. The sensation was unlike anything she had known — not pain, not pleasure, but a deep, dragging inevitability, as though her body had been waiting for this all along.

She felt Frost’s heartbeat thrum against her own chest — and then it wasn’t separate anymore. Their waists knit together, hips folding and rippling until there was no line where one ended and the other began.

Arlecchino’s legs kicked weakly against the table, only for her calves to dissolve into Frost’s, nerves sparking as they tangled into a single, reshaping mass. Bone cracked, skin stretched, and something vast and heavy pressed outward, as if their combined body were swelling with a form it had been designed to assume.

When the haze cleared, Arlecchino realized she wasn’t lying next to Frost anymore. They were joined, fused completely into one torso, one monstrous lower body, two human heads rising side by side from the same form.

Milk still pulsed through the hoses, as if nothing had changed. Scientists scribbled notes while the pumps forced more of the glowing liquid down their throats, feeding their transformation.

Arlecchino wanted to scream, but all she could do was drink, her throat working helplessly in rhythm with Frost’s.

Then the pressure hit, much harder than before.

It began low, a deep throbbing heat between their legs that made both of them arch against their restraints. The sensation grew unbearable, swelling outward, stretching their shared hips until it felt like their very bones were groaning to make space.

Arlecchino’s toes curled… only to realize she no longer had toes. A numb, crawling itch overtook her feet as skin fused, toes knitting together into a single glossy mass. With a sickening crack, the ends hardened into cloven shapes. Black hooves gleamed where her feet had been, each stomp against the table echoing like hammer blows.

Frost hissed through clenched teeth, seemingly feeling the same overly strange sensations as Arlecchino. Their legs thickened, muscles ballooning as fur erupted along their calves and thighs. The pale coat spread quickly, replacing skin with the dense, coarse strength of a beast bred to bear weight. Their once-human legs bowed outward, remade into the powerful hind limbs of cattle.

A groan tore from both their throats as their buttocks surged behind them, swelling obscenely. Flesh pushed outward, reshaping into a broad, heavy rump designed to anchor their new body. Each pulse of growth left them gasping, pinned beneath the weight of themselves.

And then there was their chest.

Arlecchino’s breasts ached, tight and swollen, her clothes straining at the seams. The pain should have broken her, but the milk in her veins turned it into something unbearable and intoxicating. She could feel the ducts forming, filling, demanding more space.

With every forced swallow of milk, her breasts ballooned, the skin stretching glossy under the lab lights. They grew heavier, fuller, until each breath sent stabbing jolts through her chest. Beside her, Frost writhed in mirrored agony, just as helpless about the monstrous growth of their breast.

Their breasts just kept pressing together, filling and swelled all over again, rising beyond what a human frame should bear. The unbearable weight made their shared body tremble against its restraints.

The Director’s laughter rang sharp above the hiss of pumps.

“Magnificent!” he declared, arms spread as though unveiling a masterpiece. “At last our prototype strain, perfected. The most intensive formula yet. A catalyst designed to break down every limit of flesh and spirit. You’ll be the crown jewel of our herd, our most productive cow.”

His words echoed over the wet, obscene sounds of their bodies reshaping, over the hiss of milk flooding deeper and deeper. The pressure didn’t stop. If anything, it only built higher, swelling upward through their hips and downward into a strange, alien fullness that made their skin ache.

Arlecchino gasped as something heavy pressed outward beneath their fused belly. Flesh bulged and dropped, swollen and distended, until four soft teats dangled obscenely from a newly forming udder. The weight of it was shocking, dragging at their spine, demanding support their body no longer had.

The transformation was merciless. Their back stretched, vertebrae cracking one after another as their rump pushed further and further away, lengthening into an animal’s hindquarters. Each groan of bone left them shuddering, their buttocks ballooning to match the expanding mass, until the table beneath them creaked with strain.

Frost whimpered through the hose still crammed between her lips. We’re getting longer, Arlecchino thought, but even her inner voice was hazy, slipping into Frost’s as their minds throbbed together in the same rhythm as their bodies.

Halfway through, the next horror arrived.

Two bulges rose from the stretching length of their spine, pushing outward as though their very bones were budding. At first small, alien nubs. Then joints, then fetlocks, then glossy black hooves burst from pale fur. Another pair of legs sprouted from their elongated body, unfurling into full, powerful limbs.

Their lower body quaked under its own growing bulk, a grotesque mixture of human and cattle until the last bones settled into place. Their new legs stamped against the floor, reflexive, clumsy and strong.

The udder swelled again, grotesquely full, so heavy it dragged against the restraints, fat veins pulsing across its surface. It pulled them forward, the weight impossible to bear.

With a final heave, their restraints snapped under the sheer mass of their own body. They collapsed forward, the last of their humanity yielding as their new four-legged stance slammed against the tiles.

Clop. Clop. Clop. Clop.

The sound of hooves, four of them, feeling disturbingly natural now.

They lifted their heads in unison, Arlecchino and Frost side by side, panting, breasts heaving, their grotesquely engorged udder swinging beneath their massive bovine lower half.

Only then did the hoses sputter and die, the endless pumping ceasing at last. Their throats were raw, their bellies sloshing with milk, their entire body trembling on the brink of collapse.

And at last, silence.

The scientists scribbled frantically. The Director applauded slowly, his laughter smooth and triumphant.

“There,” he said, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Perfection.”

For a long moment, the only sounds in the barn-lab were the hiss of the pumps winding down and the twin, ragged breaths of the new cowtaur. Frost’s and Arlecchino’s heads sagged side by side, their enormous chests heaving, their udder swaying heavily beneath them with every tremor.

The Director clapped his hands once, sharp and commanding. “Enough gawking. Unshackle them. Fit the new restraints, then march them to the farm. Their first session of productivity awaits.”

A pair of scientists hurried forward, fumbling with keys to release the heavy cuffs pinning their human arms. The locks clicked open, cold metal falling away.

One reached for a fresh pair of restraints, only for his breath to freeze in his lungs. A sudden sheen of frost spread across his sleeves, up his shoulders, and in a heartbeat he was entombed in glittering ice, his expression frozen in panic.

The others shouted in alarm, dropping the restraints. Arlecchino didn’t hesitate. Her fist slammed into the nearest scientist’s chest, sending him sprawling into a pile of spilled tubing. Their massive, newly formed body lurched forward with surprising speed, hooves clattering against the tiles as she barreled across the room.

Her eyes locked onto a familiar glint at the far wall. Her polearm.

With a guttural roar, she seized it, the weapon springing open in her grip with a comforting metallic click. The weight was perfect, grounding her even as her udder swayed dangerously beneath her.

“Ready?” she snarled through gritted teeth.

“Always,” Frost shot back, crystals dancing at her fingertips.

They moved together. Arlecchino’s polearm slashed in a wide arc, scattering consoles and sending a pair of scientists crashing to the ground. Frost unleashed a burst of icy shards that peppered the remaining guards, knocking them sprawling across the straw-and-steel floor.

The fight lasted seconds. The sterile barn stank of spilled milk, shattered glass, and ozone. Their oversized form, unwieldy as it seemed, smashed through opposition like a living battering ram.

On the far side of the room, the Director’s eyes widened. Without a word, he turned and fled into a side office, slamming the heavy door behind him.

Arlecchino snorted, chest heaving, sweat slicking her collarbones. She spun her polearm once in her grip. “Running?”

Frost’s lips curled into a vicious smile, mist already gathering around her hands. “Not for long.”

Their four hooves pounded against the floor as one, the massive cowtaur body lunging toward the office door with grim, furious purpose.

The office reeked of chemicals and fear. The Director stood in the center, sleeves rolled back, gripping a sloshing bucket filled with milk that glowed a deep, dangerous red. The light from it painted his face like a demon’s mask.

Arlecchino and Frost filled the doorway, their massive cowtaur body blocking any chance of escape. Their breasts heaved, their udder swayed heavy and full, but their eyes burned with grim purpose.

“Whatever you’re planning,” Arlecchino growled, lowering her polearm, “you won’t leave this room.”

The Director’s smile was thin and trembling. “Oh, but I will leave something behind.”

With a sudden motion, he heaved the bucket forward. The glowing liquid arced through the air and splashed across their faces. It burned like fire and ice all at once, soaking into their hair, dripping down their throats, searing their skin with a heat that spread instantly inward.

Both of them cried out, staggering. Their vision spun.

Through the haze, Frost thrust her hands forward, channeling every shred of her power into the polearm in Arlecchino’s grip. The blade flash-froze in an instant, white frost crawling along its edge until it gleamed like crystal.

Together, they hurled it. The weapon spun end over end, a streak of icy light, before embedding itself in the Director’s chest.

He had only a second to gasp before the frost spread, engulfing him from head to toe. In the blink of an eye, he was a frozen statue, a monument in the middle of his office.

But victory felt hollow.

Arlecchino swayed, her head pounding. Frost groaned beside her. The red milk was working too quickly. Their bodies trembled, their throats convulsing as if choking on words that weren’t theirs anymore.

Their necks strained toward each other, drawn by some terrible magnetic force.

“No—” Arlecchino tried, but the word slurred.

“I—” Frost whispered, her voice breaking.

Their temples pressed together. Flesh softened, blurred, melted.

Thoughts bled across the divide, memories tangled into one another until there was no telling whose they were. Childhood lessons, bitter training, noble obligations, stolen nights in cold alleys, all of it sloshed together, indistinguishable, impossible to hold onto.

The last edges of self dissolved.

Two voices became one.

Two minds became one.

Two faces merged into a single form.

And then, in the stillness after, the new being opened her eyes and drew her first breath.

“...Frost Chino,” she murmured, tasting the sound of her own name, a perfect blend of what had been lost.

She looked around, blinking at the frozen Director, at the wreckage of the office, at the blood-red streaks drying on her skin. Confusion prickled at the edges of her mind, but beneath it was something else certainty.

“Wow… Look at this cool place…” Frost Chino let out, unbothered by the fact that she remembered very little about how she came here. Instead, she was more interested with everything around her. “I wonder what they were doing here…”

—

By the next morning, the facility looked different. The official reports framed it as the dismantling of a cruel experiment: a den of corrupt scientists exposed for enslaving women and twisting their bodies in the name of “progress.”

And in a way, it wasn’t untrue.

But the story that spread faster, the one that stuck, was that a hero had risen from the ashes. Frost Chino, the cowtaur girl who had shattered her captors’ hold, liberated the herd, and reclaimed the place for herself.

The rebranding was swift. Where once had stood sterile white labs and propaganda posters, now there were banners in warm pastel colors. The new signs proclaimed it a sanctuary for cowgirls: a safe haven where those already transformed could come for relief, companionship, and a sense of belonging.

And, of course, to share their milk with each other and everyone else.

Inside the reworked halls, the atmosphere was almost festive. Frost Chino walked proudly among the others, her oversized udder swinging heavily beneath her massive form, her chest full and aching, but never for long. Every cowgirl who wished could “donate,” hooked up to the humming machines for sweet release. They laughed together, swapped stories, and drank from gleaming glasses of the milk that flowed freely.

It felt like home.

No one mentioned the fact that, despite the scientists being driven out, more and more cowgirls seemed to appear at the gates each day. Some swore they had come willingly, curious to see the new haven. Others couldn’t quite remember how they’d gotten here at all.

Frost Chino didn’t ask too many questions.

Surely it wasn’t her milk. Surely not.

She giggled when the thought came, brushing it aside, patting a new arrival on the shoulder as she led her into the parlor. It was probably nothing. Just good fortune.

And if the glasses of milk that left the facility were selling faster than ever before, and if entire villages started showing up in matching hooves and udders weeks later… well.

Frost Chino just smiled wider, convinced she was giving the world a gift.

—

How did the cases of spontaneous cowgirlification suddenly go up like that?