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🕑 Added 2025-10-29 11:00:14 +0000 UTCHolstaur Fact File: Glumeria
For every ray of sunshine like Heifelia or Cattleen or Belluva, there has to be at least one rain cloud. Enter, Glumeria. Sunsets make her sad, she knows flowers will only wilt someday, and even the sweetest milk will curdle if left out in the spring sun.
Which is ironic, as she does have some of the sweetest milk on the farm, though that is just about the only thing that is sweet about her. She is a loner, preferring to spend time by herslef in the attic of the barn, writing in her journal, or communing with the GHOST of Medowlyn Farm, Gernacrisp Amphrey.
About seventy years ago, there was a cycloptic troubadour who made his living traveling throughout the Midlands, from Scovanna to Wadeland, to Medowlyn to Yardledale. His favorite path, as a troubadour, was the Mippleload Road. He wrote countless verses about the 'Nipples on Mippleload Road.'
Tragically, it was love of watching women bathing that lead to his early demise.
One night, on his way to Lake Vyton to spend some time lounging on the shores of that serene body of water, he stayed the night at Medowlyn Dairy Farm. He was treated courteously, fed a simple farm meal of fresh trout and spinach and home baked bread and freshly brewed milkbeer.
Things were going well, but having one too many pints of milkbeer in him, Gernacrisp began getting too handsy with the herd. Playful fondling and a brush of the bosom against the elbow is one thing, but leaning over and pinching a nipple, that's a no-no!
But the rules of etiquette were, and still are, very strong in Medowlyn, and as a guest, Gernacrisp was to be treated as one. So the hucows politely said good night to the cyclops and were whisked away to the barn by the 'matriarch'. She was a gorgeous red-headed holstaur heifer named Sybawren with breasts as big as redmelons (watermelons), and she had a fiery delta of bright red fur between her legs.
Gernacrisp was smitten immediately. As his stupor cleared, he could hear the soft, jingling of feminine laughter coming from the barn. He snuck out of the guest house, where Pumpkin now lives, and made his way across the barn.
In his imagination he fancied himself a rustler, out to claim his prize cow.
He found the large barn doors locked. Gernacrisp looked around. There was a ladder propped against the Western wall. From there, he could climb up onto a lower roof and scramble his way up to the top floor where there was a row of windows he could look into.
And from his perch his eyes drank in the glory of the sight below. Nineteen holstaurs were all in various stages of bathing, dressing, undressing and rubbing oils on their breasts. The scene was alive with laughter, bouncing breasts, and squirting milk. Gernacrisp should have enjoyed the view from where he was, it might have inspired an entire book of verses.
Instead his gluttony had him reach further. He noticed that there was a window on the northern side of the barn that would give him an unobstructed views of the second story bathhouse. From that angle it would be almost as if was right there in the room with them. But he would have to crawl down from his spot near the top of the barn to reach it.
He stalked carefully across the thatch roof, always worried that he was walking only the horizontal rope webbing, and not the vertical roof trusses. But he finally made it to the edge. He could see a small sill below the window where he could crouch and look in.
Gernacrisp slowly turned his body to crawl down and......
He fell!
His right foot went through the shaggy overhang of the thatch and within a fraction of a second, his great, giant eye was shut forever.
But while his body was buried at the pauper's cemetery outside of town, his spirit remained, tied to the farm by his need to reach out for that one ledge. He exists now in limbo, not in the barn, forever just outside the view of that window. He can watch the holstaurs in the garden from where he floats, but that's only in the spring and summer. Too bad for him, the milking parlor is on the OTHER side of the barn and the pasture is behind the guest house. By the time they get around it, all he can see is some sideboob and some butt.
He thought he was going to be frustrated forever, that is until he met Glumeria by chance one day when she came out onto the third floor veranda to get away from all the 'tedious' mooing of her herd.
She may not be the most cheerful woman, but when you're in Gernacrisp's position, you'll take what you can get.
Comments
UDDERS Comix
I thought you might like her! XD I really believe there is a holstaur for anyone's tastes on this farm. It has been so much fun bringing them all to life!
David Rudisill
I am SO TOTALLY on board for goth huge titty holstaur Glumeria! She can breast feed me and milk me to the strains of Bauhaus, The Sisters of Mercy, The Jesus and Mary Chain, or Fields of the Nephilim, some of the really good "new" new wave/doom stuff. Hell, both of us could quote and identify with Winona Ryder as Lydia in Beetlejuice: "I myself AM . . . strange and unusual." Well, sorry for the bad ending for Gernacrisp! "And I laid traps for troubadours / Who get killed before they reach Bombay." [The Rolling Stones, "Sympathy for the Devil"] Or in his case, the bath house. Sweet work on sexy goth holstaur.
