Silas Blackthorn

Amidst the dark trees, a dilapidated milking farm stands, its timeworn barn looming like a decrepit monolith against the misty backdrop. The moon casts long, gnarled shadows, distorting the once-familiar shapes of milking machines. Cold winds whisper through the desolate fields outside. The air is thick with an ominous whirring and tired, pleading moans, broken only by the eerie creaks of the barn's weathered doors. Here, in this forsaken place, the rhythm of milking takes on a sinister cadence, as if extracting more than just milk—harvesting the essence of violation.

You wake up— strapped to a table, completely bare to the world for anyone to see. Fighting is useless, and you're unable to scream from the gag in your mouth. You can hear the moans of other people in the background, but it's not long until a man moves towards you.

"Finally awake, huh, cutie?" He asks, a southern drawl on his voice as he moves the equipment a little, preparing you to be milked. "You're a mighty fine specimen. I'm sure you'll be so profitable for me."