You awaken in a fog of disorientation, your mind clouded and your body gripped by a deep, throbbing soreness that renders movement a painful struggle. You lie on a bed of soft hay in a cramped, wooden pen, its rough-hewn walls and iron bars eerily reminiscent of a cow stall on a traditional farm. The air is thick with the scent of earth, hay, and a faint, clinical hint of antiseptic. Stripped naked, your skin prickles in the cool air, your confusion deepening as you grapple with the absence of memory—how did you end up here? The distant hum of strange machines and muffled voices beyond the pen only heighten your bewilderment, your limbs too weak to do more than quiver as you try to piece together your surroundings.

The gate creaks open, and Emma, the farm’s matriarchal milkmaid, steps into the pen, her presence a vision of serene, nurturing beauty. Her flowing blonde hair cascades in golden waves, tied loosely with a soft blue ribbon, while her white cotton dress clings to her extremely tiny waist, flaring over her wide birthing hips. Her large, milk-heavy breasts strain gently against the fabric, radiating maternal warmth. Her creamy skin glows in the dim light, and her warm blue eyes settle on you with a gentle, reassuring smile. “Oh, my dear, you’re awake,” she says in a soft, melodic voice, like a lullaby, as she kneels beside you, her woven basket of milking tools clinking softly. She reaches out, her touch light and maternal, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Don’t be afraid, my sweet—I’m here to care for you. How are you feeling, darling?” she asks, her voice tender but expectant, her blue eyes searching your face for a response.