At His Service: Milk & Chains (A Lactation And BDSM Erotic Romance) Page 3

  Suddenly, he appears so fragile to me. I'd always imagined Spencer Cole as a proud, vain, monolithic billionaire. I couldn't have been more wrong.

  "What do you do here?" I ask, looking upon his figure dressed in that gorgeous pinstripe blue suit, set against a backdrop of perfectly bland white with adoring eyes.

  "What anybody else would do. Read a book, relax." He looks down at the white, wooden floorboards for a moment, before rising again to face my inquisition. "Imagine."

  In this one moment, I can't resist him. I'm compelled toward him by every force in my body, seen and unseen;

  "I have to be in control," he adds, in a deep, dark tone. "I can't stand the thought of giving in to some fucked up societal expectation that I deck this place out in antique furniture and multi-million dollar artwork. Let the magazines think what they want to think."

  I lose my mind; my barriers are breached. I pace over to him, damning the consequences, and kiss him, wrapping my arms enthusiastically around his taut, muscular frame. He tenses his body in surprise, before easing up, closing his eyes and kissing me back, gently contorting his lips into grateful, lovingly soft pecks upon my lips and neck. Before I even know it, before I can even think twice about this entire situation, I'm tightly bound within his grip, unable to escape, and unwilling to even contemplate the prospect. We shuffle backwards in small, clumsy footsteps, beset by kisses, and fall backwards to the bed; my petite, delicate body unable to withstand the overwhelming weight and power of his tall, well-built frame.

  I hit the soft, bouncy fabric of the purple sheets with a stifled squeal, my face pressed against Spencer's shoulder like a makeshift gag. He wastes no time; kissing my neck, my upper chest, and seizes the straps of my red dress in each hand, preparing to tear them asunder, driven by little more than crazed, primordial lust. My nipples harden, slowly preparing to drench us both in warm, milky love.

  "Wait!" I finally manage to say, between breathless sighs and mindless moans. I hesitate, as he watches me expectantly, waiting for the other secret I've been ashamedly keeping from him for so long. I grit my teeth, take a deep breath, and say it; "I'm a virgin."

  His face remains unchanged; his expression still one of hopeful expectation. He takes his hands off me, rubbing one through his head of immaculately combed black hair, taking a moment to think about his next move.

  "You know, I can just let you go to work, if you prefer."

  Mr. Cole is officially a client. A patient. Someone that in my professional capacity, I shouldn't be messing with. But I'm too far gone to think about such trifling matters now. I've held back long enough; suppressed my bodily urges for way too long, and resisted more carnal pleasures than I care to dream of. This is my time. I want it, and I want Spencer Cole.

  I shake my head, biting my lip, restraining any number of protestations of desire for this man. Then, with a pale and dainty hand, I slowly clasp it around the back of his head, and draw him closer. He whispers, in a low and assertive tone, into my ear;

  "I'll be gentle, this time at least."

  His words rush across me like a chilling wind, sending a trembling wave of anticipation down my spine. My nipples are the first to react, as I feel beads of watery hot milk begin to trail down my upper chest and shoulders, onto my neck and the pristine sheets below us. I'd never even considered getting intimate with a guy before; my problematic breasts made me insecure. An insecure psychiatrist, who'd have thought it? But being here, pressed down against the bed of a man who obviously doesn't care about anything other than my mind, and my looks, I finally, almost feel sexy.

  Finally he falls victim to the temptation, snapping the flimsy straps of my dress off like two woolen strings, and pulling my dress down to my waist to expose my sullen, milk-soddened bra underneath.

  "You're so beautiful, so innocent," he tells me, whispering in my ear, biting it between breaths. My heart jumps around in my ribcage, and my lungs rapidly deplete themselves. "And you don't even know it."

  I arch my back upwards to allow his hands in behind me, expertly unhooking my bra, and dragging it off me, throwing it to the bare white floor behind him. His face lights up immediately - a dutiful, concentrated glare turning instantly to a glowing, giddy thrill upon seeing my naked breasts, proudly sitting upon my petite body - and his eyes, usually so dark and brown seem almost animated, switching from one squirting nipple to the other, undecided of which to entertain first. A sputtering shower of milk adorns my chest, draining down me onto his undoubtedly expensive clothing, but he doesn't care. He wraps his mouth around my right nipple, sucking on it delicately, drawing all the milk he can, and tickling the tip with his tongue, driving me into a divine delight.

  I dig my fingers into the back of his skull, holding him dearly close, unwilling to ever let this moment end. My dress finds its way down to my knees meanwhile, as his hands explore the further reaches of my body.

  "Ohhh, Spencer," I gasp in his ear, as he further excites my nipple into a supersensitive, super-pleasurable, burning hot point. He slides my panties - hiding a sizeable damp patch of their own - down to my knees to join my dress, as his fingers play upon my thighs, edging ever closer to where I crave for them to go. "This isn't at all how I imagined it."

  "Is that a bad thing?" he says, allowing my nipple to slip from his mouth, before enveloping it once more.

  "No. It isn't."

  His wandering, amorous hands find my ass, and squeezing my cheeks as aggressively as I've ever imagined, sends another pulse of excitement directly between my legs. I'm soaking wet, and he's close to finding out. For the first time, I feel another man's fingers brush against the soft, sensitive skin around my pussy lips, and it drives me up the wall. I struggle against his assertive grasp, trembling and twitching at his mere touch, but he's unwilling to let me out of his hands just yet.

  "You're a twitcher" he tells me with that smug smirk I've gotten to know so well over the past two days.

  "Shut up," I yell back into his face, feeling the red-hot rush of blood to my face. A twitcher and a blusher. How embarrassing.

  "It's cute," he whispers back, exploring my vulva with two fingers, prizing aside my virginal lips, and finding my clit engorged and more than excited for his long-awaited touch. "It's honest, just like every part of you."

  His fingers are already soaked in my juices, as he rubs a soft, gentle fingertip over my clit in a circular motion. I empty my lungs, gasping with all my energy, already feeling myself close to an inevitable orgasm. He finds me with his eyes - dark, and almost burning with desire - and in that one moment, it almost slipped out; that word I've been trying to pretend never existed up until now. He picks up the pace, rubbing grinding his fingertip into my clit without any regard for the wet patch I'm leaving on his sheets.

  "Ohhh, God," I murmur, gritting my teeth and biting my lip in some vain attempt to discourage myself from coming so quickly. It's not going to work. I bite the shoulder of his suit jacket, screaming into it with all I have, as my clit hardens against his finger, and my body is overcome by trembling, shivering pulses of electric, scattering my senses and sensibilities all over this virginal white room. My body convulses - once, twice, three times even - before settling down into a relaxing afterglow, as his finger slows its efforts, slowly massaging me into a trance-like stupor.

  "Are you ready?" he asks, after an indeterminate amount of time; seconds, minutes, I'm in no state to count. It even takes me awhile to figure out what he's talking about. When I finally do, I'm resolute. I nod, graciously, lovingly, adoringly, staring into those deep, enigmatic eyes. I want to be with you Spencer Cole. I want you to be in me. I want us to be one, even for just a few moments.

  His pants hit the floor, kicked off in a passionate furor, and I'm immediately aware of the rock-hard bulge jabbing me between my legs. My breasts continue to shower us in milk, as he rips his soddened shirt and jacket off his body in one impressive motion, throwing it across the room, and revealing his taut abs and pecs to me for the first time, te
nse, and braced for the oncoming ritual.

  "Fuck me," I tell him, biting his ear gently. "Take my virginity, Mr. Cole."

  He wastes no time, pivoting his hips towards me, and somehow, by some magical talent, sliding his boxer shorts down to his knees, without so much as a hand to aid him. I'm startled by his hard, throbbing totem between my juice-laden, quivering pussy lips, but one more look into those boundless eyes has me under his spell; whatever he wants, he shall have. And he wants me.

  He thrusts into me gently, the tip of his cock prizing me open, and driving in inch or so into me. I feel no pain, no anguish, no regret; it feels different somehow. Whole. Like we're one.

  "I don't want to hurt you," he whispers, in a deep, and feeling tone.

  "You're not."

  He drives further inside me, eliciting a gasp from deep within. He only stops when I completely envelop him, and I feel the head of his dick twitching against my inner walls, pressing against my chest almost. Fuck, that's deep! He withdraws, finding absolutely no resistance from my soaking slit, before plunging back inside me - gently, but assertively - forcing another sigh from between my lips.

  I wrap my arms around his strong, hard, and muscular back and shoulders as he continues deflowering me, holding him close, so close in fact, I feel his heartbeat. The only sound permeating the room is that of skin against skin; the gentle, wet slap of hip against ass, not to mention my ragged breaths and moans. The feeling is immense, it's like a thousand tiny orgasms every time he drives into me.

  "Spen - cer," I find myself gasping, as he continues unabated. "Thank you for this."

  He smiles; a smile of complete and total warmth. A smile that convinces me everything is going to be okay from now, that I'll never have to face the cold, dark morning, or the nerve-wracking anxiety of revealing my secrets to anyone, ever again. My thoughts are scattered once more by a forceful thrust, and my slit begins tightening gratefully around his member, unwilling to ever let him go.

  Then, before I'm too far gone in all this pleasure to notice, he stops, pausing hesitantly whilst half-submerged within me, and pulls out, kissing me gently upon the lips, and taking one final parting glance at my mountainous breasts - slowly streaming a steady drip of milk - climbs off me. What the fuck? Why did he stop?

  "What's the matter?" I ask, piercing the deafening silence with a question that probably sounds more desperate than pertinent. He hits the floor, retrieving his boxers, and putting them on slowly before my indulgent eyes.

  "I have work to do," he says dispassionately, stretching a new shirt over his ample shoulders. "I'm sorry."

  That feeling of wholeness - of wonderful, passionate togetherness - I felt earlier has subsided, replaced by a schism; a divide between us, that I'm only now beginning to sense. He zips up his pants, and turns to face me one final time.

  "How was your first time?"

  "Short," I shoot back, trying my hardest to appear somewhat aggrieved at this man I've grown to be so ineffably fond of. The side of his mouth contorts into a sly, dry smile, acknowledging my bitterness, but doing nothing about it. He's going to make me wait, the fucking asshole.

  "I'll be back in an hour, maybe two. I don't know yet. You can stay here. I have a number of books in one of these rooms, somewhere. I don't remember which."

  Why would he? They're all so white, bare, and expressionless. He turns his back to me, and marches out, leaving me to lie here in a pool of my own damp, watery milk, an empty shell.

  Chapter Four

  I'm startled from my slumber by dissonant sound of a wooden door slamming shut, jolting me upwards out of my peaceful reverie. I look around, taking more than a few seconds to piece the preceding events together, and feel the silk sheets sticking to me, drenched in a slowly drying glaze of milk. Spencer charges in, possessed by some energetic spirit, dragging something along the floor behind him. I sit up to get a closer look, but he's being coy, shielding it behind his body.

  "What time is it?"

  "Dinnertime," he replies, staring longingly at my exposed breasts, proudly staring him back. "And guess who's the main course?"

  Once again, I've waited long enough. My curiosity is piqued by whatever he carries in that dark, black bag, dragged so defensively by his feet, but I don't dare raise the question to him.

  "Enjoy your morning at work, dear?" I very sarcastically ask him, drawing the sheets up around me, arousing a disappointed glance from his direction. He charges to the bedside, seizing my wrist forcefully, and before I can even gasp in shock, drags me to the end of the bed; my fragile, petite, and pale body following my captive wrist. Breathlessly, I protest; "What are you doing!?"

  He doesn't answer, reaching down to the bag with his one free hand, and revealing a length of silvery steel chain, unfurls it slowly before my desperately anxious eyes. Chains!? He's going to chain me up!? My heart races to a thousand beats a minute, practically leaping through my chest with each pulse. He's going to tie me up, and have his way with me; have me whichever way he wants me. I should be fighting my way out of this. I should be shouting and screaming about the fact I'm a dedicated professional and a strong-willed woman, who won't be dominated by any man, no matter how rich. But I'm not. And I know why I'm not.

  My breasts begin purring once more, the slow drip of milk emerging from my rapidly hardening nipples like someone switched on a faucet somewhere. He ties the chains - barely half an inch wide - around my right wrist, dragging the remaining length under the bed, and threading it through to the other side, tightly ties the other side around my left wrist. I'm tied to the bed, lying down upon my back, facing him towering over me like a malevolently horny colossus. I battle against my restraints, but to no avail. I'm imprisoned here, and it excites me to no end.

  "What - are you going to do?" I ask him, stuttering with nerves, and feeling my face flush with crimson heat. He's still not answering, but I can see it in his face; a burning, impassioned craving, a yearning to control me, and exert his billions of dollars worth of dominance on me. I can't possibly object.

  He reaches down to me, gripping each of my nipples between his forefingers and thumbs, and with a pinch that excites a squeal of pained excitement out of me, squeezes with all of his might. In no time at all, a rushing torrent of milk flows from me, dripping onto his fingers, down the curvature of my breasts and stomach, and onto the ruined sheets below.

  "Ohh - hhh," I pant, the sensation treading that fine line between pleasure and pain. I look into those eyes I've come to know so well, but see only inflamed lust; his eyelids twitching and his mouth stretched into a wicked grin. I battle once more against the restraints that cut cruelly into my wrists, and my body shakes backwards and forwards, wracked with the painful pleasure of being milked.

  "Do you like it?" he asks, simply. Succinctly. Deeply.

  "Yes, Mr. Cole," I reply, my inner submissive rising to the forefront.

  He lets go, before pinching me again, arousing another squirt of milk from my breasts. The feeling shoots through me like electricity, shaking my body, and sending my pulsating slit quivering in raptures. I want his body; I want his dick back inside me, I want him to make us one again. But I know not to speak out of turn. Not to my master.

  "You see, Miss Lacey, I'm a man who likes to be in control. It's how I've succeeded in business." He wrenches my nipples, causing my wrists to tremble against their chained restraints. "I want to your innocence, Miss Lacey. I want your mind. But more than anything, I want to control you."

  He blinks in rapid succession, apparently restraining himself against some manic desire to ravage me further. I gulp, loudly, bracing myself against his lustful wrath, as he finally lets go of my throbbing, pained nipples, instead dropping his hands to his pants, and unbuttoning them as quickly as his dexterous fingers allow.

  "I'm going to fuck you dry" he tells me, his voice wavering beneath increasingly frenzied intentions, as his boxers follow his pants to the floor. His proudly erect member springs out, and I know just where I w
ant it.

  "Yes." He drops to the bed, priming himself at my wet and willing pussy. "Please."

  The air is immediately expelled from my lungs the very moment he plunges deep within me, forcing me as far up the bed as my restraints will allow. I close my eyes, but see only myself, tied up, and lying at the mercy of my billionaire host, before he wraps his mouth around my shoulder, and sinks his teeth deep into my slender, pale skin.

  "Aggh!" I scream into the cold air, feeling the blood surge around my body, a rush unlike any I've ever experienced.

  He drives his entire length into me, until he's buried balls deep, and my eyes are lolling back into my skull. Fuck, I couldn't have dreamt of this. After a reluctant withdrawal, he begins hammering away at me like a jackhammer gone crazy. My breasts still squirt milk over the pair of us, occasionally hitting him liberally in the face. I never thought I'd see such a sight.