Now, on Day 5, Kira belonged to the process. She didn’t wait to be punished before kneeling. She didn’t flinch when the mantras left her lips. Her mind was soft, spongy, receptive. Obedience felt right now. Her hand drifts between her legs and touched her pussy, always wet now, not from the rewards from the implant, but from the sheer gravity of submission. Hunger.

The implant didn’t spike anymore. It buzzed. Soft pulses of disapproval when she hesitated, no pain, just shame. And when she obeyed, when she moved without command, when she offered herself without prompting?

She didn’t need the implant to reward her.

Obedience was the reward.

The cockpit lights dimmed with an audible click, the harsh white replaced by the programmed glow of Kellen blue. Unit-7’s optics flared amber overhead.

“Cow,” it said. “Today begins your formal behavioral integration. You will learn what a proper Kellen cow does. How it lives. How it serves.”

She nodded. Kira’s eyes were glazed, lips parted.

“A Kellen cow wakes before its master. It prepares his food. It does not eat what he eats. It kneels by his table and feeds from a trough. That is its station.”

Kira’s heart fluttered. She felt the heat between her legs without needing the implant to guide it.

Unit-7 continued. “After feeding, it crawls. It cleans the floor. It recites its mantras while caned. It does not speak unless chanting. It presents its holes for inspection. It begs when appropriate. Do you understand?”

Her voice was automatic. “Yes, Master.”

A panel slid open in the floor before her, revealing a rubber trough and a basin of thick beige paste. She crawled forward without prompting. The implant buzzed, approval. She trembled at the sound. Her face lowered into the mush. Her tongue lapped. The shame was overwhelming. But deeper still was the quiet rightness of it.

This was what she was.

She fed like an animal.

She didn’t just accept it. She needed it.

Later, while scrubbing the floor with bound hands and reciting, “This cow is stupid, empty, fit only to serve.” Unit-7’s voice returned.

“You will now write your request to Master Davin Varnis, as Alison Selig did before you.”

Her breath caught. A flicker of that buried self, pilot, Terran, Kira, twitched deep beneath the conditioning. But the implant buzzed. Not pain. Not reward. Just the corrective presence.

And she nodded.

“Yes, Master.”

She crawled to the terminal in the cockpit and leaned over the keypad. Her back was straight, her knees folded neatly beneath her. The trough smell lingered on her lips.

The console lit. Her fingers hovered over the keys.

Buzz.

She began typing.

To Master Davin Varnis, House Varnis, Kellen Prime

This cow humbly begs your attention.

Once, it was known as Kira Voss, a Terran pilot. But those words are untrue. They were a costume. A fantasy of agency. A defiance born from ignorance.

This cow now knows what it truly is.

It is tits. It is holes. It is flesh.
It is nothing.

Each time this cow chants the mantras, each time it crawls or presents or eats from its trough, it becomes more real. The shame it once feared is now its joy. The obedience it once resisted is now its breath.

Buzz. Approval.

The implant’s hum grew louder, almost musical in her skull. Each buzz laced with meaning. Each pause a prompt.

This cow is still learning. It begs correction. It dreams of kneeling at your feet, Master Davin. It dreams of leash and collar, of being used without hesitation, of chanting beside your other cows.

It dreams of being punished properly, not by ship code, but by your hand.

It begs to be milked, to be branded, to be trained until no memory of its Terran name remains. It wants to kneel beneath your table, eating your scraps, grateful for every kick, every word.

Buzz. Good girl.

This cow confesses: it hesitated before. It thought it could fight. It thought it was more than flesh. But now, it knows,

The implant buzzed again, stronger.

, now it knows: this cow is nothing but flesh. It is tits to be squeezed, holes to be used. Its purpose is to serve. Its freedom was a sickness. The Path is its cure.

Please leash it.

Please teach it.

Please claim it.

This cow waits, kneeling.

Unworthy,
Your hopeful animal

Kira’s fingers hovered after the final line. She didn’t remember consciously writing it all. The words had poured out. The implant hadn’t just buzzed, it had guided. Not through words, through presence. Like hands in her mind, shaping her thoughts gently, reminding her of what she was.

Kira stared at her words, and as they began to register in her mind what she had asked for in the letter, what she had confessed to, the letter transmitted. It just popped up, sent. She hadn’t touched the button. They would see her words. They would know.

Unit-7's voice returned, soft and final: “Message sent. House Varnis received.”

Kira didn’t panic. She didn’t scream. She folded forward, face resting on the console edge, tears soaking into her scarf as the implant gave her one last buzz.

Affirmation.

She whispered, not because she had to, but because she needed to hear it:

“This cow is empty. This cow is grateful. This cow begs to be owned.”

She stayed there, unmoving, cunt soaked, breath shallow.

What does it mean? What would happen?
She paused for a moment and took a deep breath.

She was soft. She was good.

She was learning.

Day 6: Pre-Arrival Interrogation

Kira’s knees ached. Again. Always. The cold steel of Stellar Swift's deckplates had long since become her daily reality. Veil in place, goggles secured, she crawled from her bunk without needing to be told. That was the problem now. She didn’t have to be told anymore, her body moved first, her mind lagging behind.

The implant didn’t pulse as she shuffled toward the cockpit. That meant she was doing what she was supposed to. It meant she was being a good cow.

And that terrified her.

The cockpit lights were dimmed to the now-familiar Kellen blue, painting every surface in the same ominous hue as a Kellen market square. She’d seen those markets. She remembered the women there. Crawling. Chained. Chanting. Their eyes vacant.

And now…

She knelt automatically when Unit-7 stepped into view.

Amber eyes fixed her in place.

“Posture is acceptable,” Unit-7 intoned. “Behavioral compliance is improving. Proceeding with integration protocol.”

Before she could open her mouth, maybe to protest, maybe to joke, maybe to scream, the AI voice overrode the silence.

“Subject is to be cognitively challenged today,” it said. “Interrogate her perception of her coming transfer. Interrogate the contents of her letter.”

Kira froze.

No implant buzz. No pain. But her heart skipped. The letter. Her fingers had typed those words like they didn’t belong to her. The things she’d said. Begging. Calling herself flesh. Holes.

Begging to be milked.

Unit-7 took a step closer. “Cow. Describe how you believe your reception at the Kellen spaceport will proceed when Master Davin Varnis arrives to collect you.”

Her throat tightened. Her voice didn’t come. But the implant buzzed, low, soft. Not pain. Not even warning. Just… a reminder.

She tried to breathe.

“This cow…” Her lips fumbled the words. Her thoughts screamed.

Say it. Or they’ll punish you. Just say it.

“…believes… that Master Davin will board the ship. That he will leash it. That he will inspect it for… obedience.”

Buzz. Affirmation.

Kira flinched at the sound. And at the truth in it.

“Continue,” the AI instructed.

Her voice trembled. “This cow will kneel. It will not speak unless asked. It will say, ‘This cow is yours, Master Davin. Please leash it.’”

The shame hit her like a slap.

Inside her head, the thought burst through: I don’t want this. I don’t want to kneel to him. I don’t want to be his.
But the implant buzzed again, and she shuddered. A sharp pleasure bloomed between her legs, cruel in its timing. Her body loved her submission even as her mind recoiled.

“What will Master Davin do next?” Unit-7 asked.

She hesitated.

The memory of Kellen port security flashed into her mind, cows stripped naked in public, fed from troughs on display, paraded through customs.

“…he will test this cow,” she whispered. “He may strip it. Cane it. Command it to chant. To prove that it has been properly broken.”

“Is that what you want?”

Her breath hitched. Every instinct screamed no. Her hands, clenched into fists against her thighs, trembled. She didn’t want to be paraded like meat.

“I…”

Buzz. Not harsh. But deep. Penetrating. Reminding her body who she now was.

“…this cow does not want that,” she said, the truth slipping past her lips before she could stop it. “It… dreads it. It fears it.”

Her cunt throbbed.

“But it knows,” she added quickly, “that it must obey.”

Unit-7’s gaze didn’t change. “You stated in your message to Master Davin that you are ‘tits, holes, and nothing more.’ Do you still believe this?”

Her lips parted. The words were there, hanging in her throat.

She forced them out.

“This cow… wrote that… because it believed it had to.”

Buzz. Cold.

“No,” Unit-7 corrected. “Say the truth.”

She gasped, a tremor of resistance running through her. “But… I…”

Pain. Just a flicker. Enough to snap her upright.

“I, this cow is…” she choked, “tits. Holes. And nothing more.”

Her eyes burned.

That’s not true. I’m a pilot. I have a name. I’ve flown through asteroid fields and dodged pirates. I’ve landed on gas giants with barely functioning thrusters. I have friends. I have history. I’m not,

But the implant didn’t care. It rewarded her again. Hot and wet. Her thighs squeezed together. Her breath hitched.

Shame. Arousal. Confusion.

Unit-7 stepped closer. “And you also said,” it continued, “that your freedom was a sickness, and the Path is your cure. Do you stand by those words?”

She shook her head. Then nodded. Then stopped.

“I… don’t know,” she confessed.

Buzz. Neutral.

“Then chant them,” Unit-7 ordered. “Until you do.”

She bowed her head.

“My freedom was a sickness,” she muttered. “The Path is my cure.”

Again.

“My freedom was a sickness. The Path is my cure.”

And again. And again.

Each repetition twisted her guts tighter. Each buzz soaked her more.

The AI chimed in again. “Do you understand what is expected of you at the port?”

“Yes…”

“Describe your behavior.”

“This cow will crawl. It will chant. It will beg to be claimed. It will eat from the trough. It will thank its Master.”

She wanted to stop. Her breath was coming too fast.

“I don’t want to be an animal,” her mind whispered.

But her lips said, “This cow begs to be owned.”

And the implant sang its approval.

Unit-7 extended a strap, dropping it at her knees.

“Put it on,” it commanded.

She reached for it slowly. Her fingers trembled.

“This is the leash,” it said, “you will wear when Master Davin boards. He will attach the lead. You will not speak. You will moo.”

Her chest caved inward. “I can’t…”

Pain. Short. Not cruel. Just corrective.

She gasped and strapped the collar around her own throat.

Unit-7 loomed.

“Say what you are.”

“I… am a cow.”

“Say it louder.”

“I am a cow!”

Buzz. Pleasure. Her thighs rubbed together. Her cunt leaked.

She didn’t know if she was wet from arousal or fear. Maybe both.

The AI dimmed the lights. The viewport blinked to life, stars rushing by.

Kellen Prime was approaching.

“You will now kneel here,” said the AI, “and chant: ‘I am a cow. I am holes. I beg to be owned.’”

Kira trembled.

The implant pulsed.

She lowered herself, thighs spread, forehead to the floor.

Her lips moved.

“I am a cow,” she said, voice shaking. “I am holes. I beg to be owned.”

She hated it.

She meant it.

She moaned. “Uhhhnn…”

“I am a cow… I’m holes… I, I beg to be o-owned…”

And her thoughts, coiling beneath the obedience, whispered in panic:

Oh God. What if Master Davin actually comes?

What if he leashes me?

What if I can never fly again?

But her voice kept chanting, and her cunt kept clenching, and the implant kept buzzing, warm and deep.

And so she knelt.

Waiting.

Terrified.

And dripping.