At His Service: Milk & Chains (A Lactation And BDSM Erotic Romance) Read online

  "Mr. Cole," I say, a slight wavering in my voice, "I think I deserve an explanation."

  "Of course you do."

  And with that, he remains silent, pointing ever more aggressively to the chair. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and plant myself down, to discover him staring into me as intently as always. I can't help it; I admit, I feel warm just being here, being looked upon by those eyes. Dark, large, and looking right into me, as if I might actually matter in this crazy fucking morning, in this crazy fucking world.

  "I liked the look of this place, it's got a certain warm, homely glow to it, hasn't it?"

  Peeling wallpaper, stained ceilings, and filthy windows. Sure, it has a warm glow alright. Somehow I doubt him.

  "A lot of people are afraid for their jobs," I lean forward to tell him, placing my chin upon my palms, trying my best to look like the aggressive presence in the room. I already know it won't work.

  "And they shouldn't be, their jobs are safe. I've bought the building, and the business whole. Everyone's just fine, trust me, Miss Lacey."

  I try to think of an appropriate response, frowning a little too much, whilst trying to hide my palpably nervous excitement at the mere act of seeing him once more.

  "Why does no-one trust a billionaire?" he asks, raising one of those finely sculpted eyebrows high into his forehead, asking me a quite rhetorical question.

  "But -" I stumble, tripping over my words, hesitating to ask what I really, really want to ask, for fear of what I might learn. "Why? Why buy this place?"

  After a moment's reflection, I dig my nails into my chin, grit my teeth, and build up the courage to say it.

  "Why me?"

  Silence. We're back to where we started; him sitting defensively, staring right through me, each of us picking our words very carefully. The only difference is that we've switched seats. He's the one in power now.

  "You know, my business lacks honesty. No-one trusts me. And I can trust no-one. There's no truth. No truth at all in this city."

  Very profound. But I can't help but notice he hasn't answered the question. He bolts to his feet, causing me to recoil an inch or two in my position, before pacing around the room at full speed.

  "It's fucking pitiful. An entire city of people, and we can't even tell each other exactly what we're thinking anymore." He pauses for breath, and I quickly feel myself becoming absorbed by his impassioned tirade. Finally, Mr. Cole begins to open up to me; maybe I can do my job today after all. "My accountants, my managers, the politicians and the authorities. Even the therapists and psychologists. Shit, I was sure I'd find some slither of honesty amongst those people. It turns out I couldn't."

  He finally quits pacing, coming to a stop beside me. I look up, and see him peering down upon me like some thickly built demigod, the lighting fixture above him illuminating the back of his head like a makeshift halo, watching me with those warm and understanding eyes.

  "Until I met you. You can't even hide your body's urge for honesty."

  I feel it; the blood rising to my cheeks, the radiating, sweat-inducing heat beginning to permeate my skin. He's speaking about my breasts, betraying any hope I had of hiding the intense attraction I feel toward this man. They're honest, that's for sure.

  I don't know what to say. So I just stay quiet, watching him from below, as he paces back over to the door, and opening it slightly, sticks his head out into the corridor to call to my erstwhile workmates.

  "Thanks folks. You can go home. A day off, on full-time pay. Please come back to work tomorrow."

  And with that terse announcement, he blocks off the rest of the world entirely. Now it's just the two of us, looking upon each other with patiently expectant, yet dubious eyes. The blood courses through my veins; my heart beats as rapidly as I've ever known it. What does Spencer Cole want with me? He obviously finds me interesting, like I'm some billionaire's plaything. Does he think he can just buy me, and use me like this?

  "I want to give you a job, Elizabeth," he finally says, his tone deep and courteous, and his eyes scanning my every limb, every twitch and every motion. "I want you to be by my side. My own, personal, counselor. I want your advice and your assistance. I want your honesty."

  He walks closer to me, kneels by me, and puts his hand upon my leg, rubbing the soft skin of my thigh through the coarse fabric of my pants. I can feel it; the surge of electricity shooting through me, the twinge of excitement growing between my legs. My nipples harden to a rigid hardness, I can't halt the flow of honest milk for long. I look into his eyes - round, brown, and burning with a resolute desire, a desire for me. This is the moment in the movies where I'd kiss him. Unfortunately for me, this isn't the movies.

  I turn my head, unable to bear the heart-pounding, sweat-summoning intensity of it any longer. I can't stand this. I can't stand any of it. I feel my breasts begin to purr with satisfaction, and realize the inevitable showering of watery milk has begun inside the extra-thick bra I wear. I'm going to stain my shirt before I know it.

  "What are you thinking?" he asks, trying to read me with those eyes of his, prying deep within me, into my clothes, and inside my soul. Remembering his previously expressed penchant for honesty, my eager-to-satisfy tongue can only think of one thing.

  "I'm turned on." I say, giving up all pretense of resistance to this man I know so barely. Then, turning my face down to my bosom, I quietly signal to him the flooding, onrushing tide of milk that will give away the dark, lusty intentions of my inner conscious for good.

  He says nothing. Just grins from ear to ear; a lascivious, salacious smile, that implies every dirty, filthy thought a power hungry man like him must experience. The pressure of his fingers digging into the flesh of my thigh grows deeper, and the buzz between my legs grows more intense. But I'm stuck, paralyzed. I'm so nervous about all of this, I can barely move. I look back up at him with pleading, pitiful eyes, and he surely sees what he has to do.

  "You're honest alright," he whispers, as he leans in to me, his face mere inches from my own. I close my eyes yet again, and he kisses me deliriously upon the lips - a soft, gentle peck - before planting a series of impassioned kisses over my mouth and chin.

  "Ohhh," I exhale, powerless to contain myself any longer. This is beyond anything I could have imagined, I'm sharing lips with one of the richest men in the world; handsome, strong, rich. Rich.

  He pulls open my shirt, sending flimsy plastic buttons flying across the carpeted floor, as he yearns to get pry apart my clothing, exposing the wet, milky pale skin beneath. But throughout all of it - the flurry of hands, the possessed reigns of kisses, the magnetic urging for my body to join his, I can't rid my mind of one last dissonant chord, ringing out as loudly as my own exasperated breath. He's bought me.

  I pull myself away from him, seeing those eyes - impassioned and fiery - turn to a palpable grey disappointment. He puts a hand to my cheek, and as much as I want him to embrace me, I tear myself away.

  "What's the matter?"

  "You're buying this place, aren't you? Just so you can buy me?"

  I look down to my breasts, leaking milk from beneath my bra. There's no hiding what I feel for this man, but I at least still have my principles.

  "I'm a professional," I go on to say, "Before you turned up here yesterday, I was a psychiatrist, happy in my job. Now what am I? What job do you have lined up for me?"

  He looks almost hurt. His cheekbones sit low in his face, and he quickly strokes his rough, bristled chin with a hand, wet with milk.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Cole. I know I want you. You can see that I want you." Drops of milk begin to fall from my chest to my pants, leaving small damp patches where they fall. "But I'm not sure this is right. You can't control everything."

  "Can't I?"

  He sarcastically shoots that answer at me quicker than I can comprehend; as though he already knew what I was going to say, as though he'd been told the same thing a hundred times before. Jumping to his feet, he seems irritated, even angered all of a sudden
, pacing forwards and backwards as dictated by some profound frustration. You can't have everything you want, Mr. Cole.

  "I'm coming to work tomorrow," I say to him, rising from my seat, and buttoning up the remaining buttons on my damp, torn shirt. He turns to face me only slightly, hiding much of his face from me; that once gorgeous face seems contorted somehow. Every muscle in my body wants him; every drop of blood, every tensile urge, and every optimistic fiber of my being wants to run back to him, throw myself into his arms, and ask him to take me. But I know that I can't. As a devoted therapist, I should probably stay and calm him. But I know that I won't.

  "I'm sorry, I have to leave, Mr. Cole." I dart for the door, seizing the handle and pulling it open, and as I prepare to leave, to an uncertain future, I turn to him once more, and can't stop myself from saying it. "I hope to see you again, Spencer."

  One foot after the other, I painfully tear myself away from my office, defying every carnal desire I harbor. The door slams shut behind me, and soon all I can hear is the deafening beating of my own heart, thumping away inside my chest like an irresistible reminder of the chance I've spurned. I just hope I don't live to regret this.

  Chapter Three

  I'm beset by bright lights and tall structures. Monoliths rising endlessly into the sky, shielding me from a blinding light from beyond. Like tall skyscrapers, they surround me, and all of a sudden I feel very small, insignificant, even. I'm immediately conscious of being watched. Even as the sun is blocked from every angle, and my world gets progressively darker, I feel a body close to mine. I turn, and it is too late; I'm already within his strong, thick arms. My enigmatic billionaire. He grasps my shoulders, pulling me close, and I'm inextricably bound to him, unable to leave his warm, safe aura.

  The mechanical buzz of my alarm clock pulls me out of the dream, like a foreign hand yanking me violently from the peaceful tranquility of my mind. It's 7 AM. Time to get back to work. Back to the real world.

  I throw on a red dress - a departure from my usual preference for shirts and suits - and fly out of the house, failing to notice the rather garishly dressed man stood beside my car until he's already calling my name.

  "Miss Lacey?" He wears a grey suit and tie, with a matching hat. Already I know, how can this man be anything other than a chauffeur? "Miss Lacey, Spencer Cole offers you a ride to work this morning."

  A ride to work? I look at him quizzically, before my eyes wander down the street and see a limousine parked conspicuously close. That rampant beating of my heart begins in earnest; deep, deep down, I'm relieved. I knew he wouldn't give up on me so easily.

  I nod graciously, momentarily forgetting about my whole resistance to being bought. Fuck, it's a cold morning, and I've never rode inside a limo before. As the man walks to the back of the limousine with me, opening the door, I'm somewhat surprised by who I see.

  "Good morning, Miss Lacey."

  "Mr. Cole," I reply, instinctively turning my head away from him, trying to shield my threateningly puffy morning eyes from his judgmental view. He looks gorgeous as ever, dressed in a blue pinstripe suit, a white shirt, and no tie. His eyes widen upon seeing me, and the smile that spontaneously appears upon his lips warms me to the core.

  "Miss Lacey, please don't let the opulent surroundings fool you, I'm not trying to make some garish effort to seduce you here" he says, forwardly. I can already feel myself beginning to blush. "I just want to offer you a ride to work. An act of kindness."

  Sure. I close the door behind me, and we immediately join the inevitable New York City traffic.

  We don't speak. He makes small talk, I make small talk, but I find myself too nervous to initiate any meaningful conversation. I clasp my trembling fingers together before me, and stare out of the window - at the tall structures piercing the sky, and the Sun trying its hardest to appear from behind the morning clouds - and lose myself in reverie. Only when we're several blocks shy of the office, do I realize we're not going there after all.

  "Mr. Cole, we missed our turning. Several turnings, in fact."

  He turns to me, and speaks in a low, gravely authoritative tone. I haven't heard it before, and it almost sends a shiver down my spine;

  "When my driver told you I wanted to give you a lift to work, did he mention when?"

  My confusion is compounded. He looks at me, his initial warm smile replaced by a more assertive gaze, staring through me as though driven by a more sinister compulsion of lust.

  "Yesterday I offered you a job." He pauses, looking me up and down, from my sandaled toes, to my brown hair sitting so comfortably upon my shoulders. I feel like a piece of meat - like he's sizing me up, imagining all the things he could do to me in this undoubtedly soundproofed limo - and ashamedly, I rather like the feeling. "Today I want to show you what you're going to miss."

  We eventually pull up to an impressively large building, thick with stone and marble, built into columns like some imitation Federal Hall. Two rather stiff looking doorman stand beside the front doors, and I finally realize this is the NYC Plaza Hotel; a plush, extravagantly opulent den of millionaires and foreign dignitaries, that until now I'd only read about. Spencer jumps out of his side of the limousine, and I'm jolted in my seat by the alarmingly fast presence of the driver, opening my door to allow me to exit.

  "Come on, follow me. I want to show you my place."

  With a hand poised innocently over my chest, and another trembling by my side, I quietly follow him through the doors, into a palace of radiant golden light - a hundred chandeliers, all burning magnificently - and a floor of polished marble, stretching as far as my eye can see. Red-carpeted corridors abscond in every direction, and the ceiling is finely embroided with delicate plaster shapes, almost as if they were sewn on. He takes my hand, dragging me westward, to a conveniently close elevator.

  "This place was hemorrhaging money when I bought it," he tells me with a rather smug smirk, looking around with eyes almost as awed as my own. He straightens his posture, adjusting the lapels on his suit jacket, before adding "sorry, I shouldn't talk work, should I?"

  As it happens, I'm in another world - a victim to the glowing, irresistible and easily impressed warmth inside me - overawed by the unimaginably expensive and luxurious plaything that Spencer Cole apparently calls home. The elevator doors open, and with a deft tug he pulls me inside.

  "If you're trying to impress me Mr. Cole," I say, breathlessly, partially covering my mouth with my hand to suppress a smile. Thankfully, he cuts me off before I can finish that little admission of guilt.

  "I'm not trying to impress you. I just want you to see how I live." He presses a button on the elevator panel; a large, red cross symbol. Hmm, I always wondered what those buttons did. The doors close, and we go zooming upwards. "I think you'd like a look into my life."

  A look into his life. I feel like some smarmy journalist, excited to be given an exclusive look into the life of the rich and famous, or some giddy schoolchild who's been given the keys to the toyshop. I can't stop smiling, no matter how hard I try to maintain the cold, professional veneer I've worked so hard to maintain, even as I was rejecting his advances yesterday. The more I see of Spencer Cole's life, the harder it will be to lose it, I fear.

  The doors fly open, and he excitedly paces out, beckoning me to follow with a swift turn upon his heel, and an outstretched hand. I pause when I note the dapper-dressed security guard, comfortably sat in an armchair, quite contentedly asleep.

  "Oh, yeah, Sammy. He enjoys work" he whispers, while I silently wonder why any man as powerful as Spencer would abide such incompetence. He leads me - once more by the hand - to a wooden patterned door, ornate and at least a meter wide, and unlocks it with a thumbprint. "My penthouse."

  I follow him inside, tentatively closing my eyes and holding his hand until we're standing in the complete centre of the room. As I open them, I can hardly believe my eyes. The entire room is empty. Not a single decoration to be found. Only a black leather couch, looking rather lonely amid t
he multiple white walls surrounding it. No pictures, no paintings, no photos, only three perfect white walls and a set of wall-length windows, opening onto the balcony outside.

  I leave him behind, exploring the place on my own, but finding little but empty white rooms populated only by the occasional wooden armoire, and a large bed, draped in an extravagant purple silk sheet. So this is what a billionaires home looks like, is it? He follows me to the bedroom, a look of resigned dejection upon his face. That youthful, exuberant, giddy smirk that once graced his face is gone. He's bearing all to me, and he's far from proud. I see it now.

  "I didn't know how to furnish it. Three years later, I still don't know." He crosses his arms defensively, as though he's grown to expect derision and ridicule. "In truth, I kind of like it this way. When I wake up in the morning, it's just one less thing to think about. One less distraction."