"Hello, Betsy?" said a young man dressed like a gypsy as he vaulted over the stall railing and into the stall.
He scratched you behind the ear causing a wave of pleasure to flow through your body. "Granny, told me she got
a cow for me, and that I'd find you in this stall. He picked up your shredded boxer briefs and sighed, "But she
didn't tell me you were a were-cow. Oh, well, any udder in storm." He laughed, and searched the straw for
your other clothing and shoved everything into a backpack. Then he got you some oats to eat.
"I'll be back soon. Have to register us for the milking contest."
He gently pats your back and leaps over the rail and heads off to the registration booth.
You eat your oats, and watch his tight butt retreating. Strange you were into girls earlier, but now that
you're Betsy, well, males look kind of hot. Too bad you're not the same species anymore. Hm, werecow? Does
that mean you'll change back? You chew your cud, and your weighty udder makes you hope that the contest will
start soon.