Real Estate Games Pt. 07

"Tell me why you're selling," Mark asked Laura. "From the looks of the place, you don't seem to be doing bad financially."

Laura looked relieved that Mark changed the subject. Little did she know...

"Not yet. But our taxes are going up in a couple of months. Way up. We're losing our non-profit designation, and with the plant closing, half of our milk donors are moving away."

"Won't the city council give you a break on the taxes," I asked.

"My ex, Carson, is on the council. He's the one that told them what we do out here, said we shouldn't be given any special favors. Before our divorce, he made sure we got every tax break imaginable. But, after I kicked his ass out the front door, he is bound and determined to bankrupt me. I hate to sell, but as long as the current council is in place, I could discover oil in the back pasture and they'd still find a way to kick me off the land."

"Just for spite?" I asked.

"He says he's doing it to keep his son out of trouble. But there's no doubt in my mind his motivation is pure revenge. Since the house and property is in my name, all Carson got in the divorce settlement was a monthly alimony bill... payable to me."

"Miss Moorehead tells me that your asking price is eight-hundred-thousand," Mark said after contemplating Laura's story.

"That's right. The property includes this house, all the outbuildings and a hundred sixty acres of prime pasture. In normal times, I could get well over a million for the place. But times aren't normal now and may never be again."

"How much milk does one of your donors produce each visit?" he asked.

"I thought we were discussing the price of my land," Laura said.

"We are. So how much does the average woman deliver. Five ounces? Six? A pint?"

Laura looked at me, like I would explain his strange behavior. I could only shrug my shoulders. Although I had an inkling as to where this would ultimately lead, I was still pissed about how I was treated in her basement.

"We're lucky to get four or five ounces per woman, per visit. We have a few ladies who can produce eight regularly. The record is sixteen, but she moved years ago."

"Would you mind standing?" Mark asked.

"Do you want me to leave so you and Miss Moorehead can discuss your offer in private?" Laura asked.

"No need to leave. Just stand, please."

She hesitated, then complied.

"Walk out from behind your desk."

Again, she did as she was told.

"Put your hands on top of your head and interlace your fingers."

"Why would I do that?" Laura asked.

"Two reasons. To help me buy your property and to keep Miss Moorehead from calling the police."

I wasn't sure if it was the bribe or the threat that convinced Laura to raise her arms. Maybe both.

"Are you a donor?" he asked while unbuttoning her blouse.

"Twice a day," she said.

"When is your next scheduled milking?" He cupped her brassiere covered breasts in his palms and lifted each one, as if getting a feel for their weight.

"It was supposed to be a half hour ago, until you two showed up."

"Excellent. Are you ready to hear my offer?"

"Can I put my hands down?"

"I'd rather we both keep our hands where they are until our negotiations are complete."

"Do I have a choice?"

"Only if you want to sell your farm and keep your son out of jail."

Laura grimaced, but didn't change positions. Which in Mark's world inferred tacit consent to what he had planned.

"I'll give you six-hundred-thousand for your farm..."

"It's worth twice that and you know it."

"Don't start arguing until you hear the entire offer. I'll give you six-hundred-thou plus an additional twenty thousand for each ounce of milk you can pump out of these beauties in the next hour." Mark gave her breasts a squeeze to accentuate his point.

Laura didn't immediately give in to Mark's demands.

She made several counteroffers. Mark refused.

She threatened to have him arrested. Mark laughed.

She even made a valiant attempt to defer to his humanitarian instincts, only to find the man didn't have any.

Once the woman realized Mark was an evil, egotistical, sex obsessed, chauvinistic asshole... who happened to have her entire future in his hands... she was in a hurry to get it over with.

"Since I apparently don't have any choice in the matter, can I start now?" Laura asked.

"You can start as soon as we get downstairs," Mark said.

"No need, I usually pump right here in my office."

"That may be true, but today you will perform your duties in the room where we first met... where Miss Moorehead was held captive. And this time, I get to participate."

***

The Fantasy Friday event was apparently over. The bondage / milking room was empty of people when we returned to the scene of the crime against my person. But all the props were still in place, and Mark remembered how to use them.

Five minutes later, the now naked dairy farmer was bent over the same bench that I occupied not a half hour before. Her wrists and ankles were captured in the same leather restraints that recently held me, and the same ball gag was stuffed inside her mouth and secured by a strap around her head. I'm fairly sure it hadn't been washed since it muffled my screams.

The only difference between my experience and what Mark had planned for Laura was the breast pumps. He didn't plan on using them.

"We're going to do this the old-fashioned way," he said and placed two plastic buckets under Laura's swollen breasts.

I certainly didn't think of Mark Seiman as a farm boy. If asked, I would have guessed that the man had never spent a second on a three-legged stool milking a cow. So, I was a bit surprised when Mark knelt down in front of Laura, took hold of her pendulum breasts and acted like he knew what he was doing.

He wasn't squeezing her boobs like a man crushing a beer can. It was a combination of stroking, compressing and pulling. His fingers started at the top of each breast and rippled the soft flesh with his fingers... trying to coax milk towards the downward pointed nipples.

"You need to relax," Mark said to Laura. "You told me yourself that a contented cow gives more milk. Just think how happy you'll be when I take this farm off your hands."

From the grunt that bypassed the ball gag, it was evident that Laura was neither content nor happy. The minute amount of milk in the pails confirmed her mood.

"See what you can do to help," Mark said to me after a few minutes of questionable results.

Not knowing exactly what he wanted, I moved behind Laura and started a gentle back massage. Mark was right. Laura's muscles were tighter than the string of an English archer's bow. I worked out several kinks in her shoulders and slowly progressed downward.

For a woman in her early forties, Laura had a remarkably toned body. Her upper arms were still mostly muscle. Her waist, while not waspish thin, certainly indented sufficiently to qualify for an "hour-glass" rating. As I reached around to give her tummy a little attention, my lips inadvertently touched the small of her back while my boobs laid gently on her butt. She would never be accused of having a small derriere, but who was I to talk. And even though it was a bit on the largish side, I confirmed with my eyes and hands that the skin was taut and smooth.

I didn't mean to spend an inordinate amount of time caressing her ass cheeks. My plan was to give them a quick pat and then move on. But the initial sound of milk dripping into the pails turned into a steady stream as long as I stroked her lily-white back side. So, I kept at it. And slightly increased the pressure. Which made her relax even more. Which made the milk flow even faster. A steady squirt, squirt, squirt sound as each stroke of Mark's alternating hands produced little tiny jets of milk from her engorged nipples.

Thinking that the milking could take a while, I sat cross-legged behind the now relaxed human cow. My hands still massaging her ass, my eyeballs level with her moistening vagina. Remembering what Laura had said earlier...

"-- women produce more milk when they are either perfectly relaxed or sexually excited --"

... I let my hands slide off her butt towards her upper thighs. She didn't seem to mind. Didn't grunt objectionably into her gag or try to move away. So, I gave her thighs the same treatment as her ass recently received... with a similar result... increased milk flow.

While I ran my hands up and down her nicely shaped thighs, I thought about what the woman in front of me had gone through. Cheating husband, delinquent child, near bankruptcy and now having to endure one of Mark's stupid, humiliating games. Despite my earlier unfortunate experience at the hands of her mother-in-law and son, I decided I liked her. Under different circumstances, she could easily be my friend, a person I could get to know and trust. And what she was doing at her farm -- providing milk for underprivileged babies -- was nothing short of heroic.

Anything I could do to help this woman would be helping a sister in need... and what she needed at that moment was more milk... out her nipples and in the pails... at twenty thousand dollars an ounce. So, I pulled my hair back, leaned forward and gave her neatly shaved pussy a kiss. And another. And then a slow lick.

She didn't scream into her gag. She didn't pull away in disgust. And once I got into a rhythm, she leaned into each subsequent tongue thrust.

Mark kept pumping and the milk kept flowing. I had no idea how much she had accumulated so far or how much longer she could keep it up, but I was determined to keep my tongue in her slit and my thumb on her clit until her boobs ran dry.

Or until Mark changed my plans.

"Miss Moorehead, I think it's time you and I changed places."

"Do you want me to milk her?"

"Please. And while you are, I'll continue what you were doing."

Which was an outright lie. I knew exactly what he had in mind. I got the woman all hot and bothered. He planned to finish the job. But I was not going to let Mark force himself on her. So, when I assumed his previous position at her head and Mark made his way towards her tail... before I grabbed her majestic tits... I removed her gag.

"Thank you," Laura gasped as her mouth was finally free. "For taking off the gag... and everything else you have done."

"Do you understand what's coming next?" I asked her as softly as possible.

"Yes. I think so," Laura said.

"You're okay with it? Because if you aren't, I will make him stop."

"Please don't. It's been a long time... too long. Just don't let me spill the milk."

Mark chose that particular moment to begin. No warning. No "ready or not, here comes the biggest dick this side of the Rockies". He grabbed her waist, lined up his arrow and let it fly... six inches deep.

"Ayeee," Laura screamed. The force of Mark's surprise assault thrust her forward, boobs swinging, milk sloshing, pails tipping...

There was no way I was going to let Mark screw Laura out of her promised bonus. With reactions quicker than a ninja on Red Bull, I grabbed the milking pails, righted them without losing a drop of their precious contents and repositioned them under Laura's still lactating breasts. Her nipples resembled miniature shower heads, each spraying a dozen streams of milk under sufficient pressure to make a fire hose jealous.

Laura's initial scream died off, transitioning to a mixed mantra of "oh shit, oh shit, oh shit" intermingled with verses of "sweet Jesus, sweet Jesus, sweet Jesus."

I understood why Mark wanted to switch places. Her milk was flowing freely without his help and, since idle hands are the proverbial devil's workshop, he decided to put them -- and other parts of his anatomy -- to work elsewhere. Which left me struggling to keep the milk pails centered under her wildly swinging udders.

It was a losing fight. What started off as a robust fucking degraded to an unmerciful pounding. Mark slammed his cock forward with all his might while Laura absorbed each thrust the best she could considering her bound wrists and ankles. The only things not tied down or resting on a stool were Laura's considerable breasts, which bounced forward and back with each stroke. Except the strokes kept increasing in pace. Forcing the fleshy weights hanging from Laura's chest to get out of sync with the rest of her body. Making it impossible for me to guess where each boob was going.

"You've got to stop," I shouted. "I can't catch all the milk."

"Fuck the milk. Fuck the farm. Just don't stop fucking me," cried the temporarily insane woman.

I knew there was no way in hell I was going to convince Mark to back off. I also knew that once the moment of passion passed. Once Laura attained the sexual relief she had been missing for such a long time, she still had the rest of her life to lead. And I was damn sure it wouldn't be with the dickhead that was buried eight inches deep into her vagina at that moment.

Laura was squirting her future all over the floor and there was only one thing I could do. I grabbed the pails, lay face up under the orgasming dairy farmer, shoved each boob into a plastic bucket and held them there with all my strength.

Three times she screamed, with her mouth just inches from my ear. Three times she arched her back, nearly pulling the pails from my hands. Three times she begged him to keep going, which he was only too happy to oblige. It was only after her fourth orgasm, when her scream turned into a whimper. Her eyes lost focus. Her body slumped forward. When Mark mercifully came with her and stopped the sexual onslaught. Only then did I hesitantly lower the pails from her boobs... to discover that, despite her near unconscious state, she was still lactating.

While Mark and Laura recovered from their game, I placed the pails back on the floor and coaxed another ounce of milk, another twenty thousand dollars, out of Laura's talented tits.

***

Mark's final deal with Laura showed me a slightly different side of the man. Not because he paid forty thousand above asking price. There was no way he could have known that Laura's forty-year-old boobs could pump out nearly a pint of breast milk in a single sitting. It was what came after the price settlement. After the papers were signed and the deal sealed.

Mark made up some bullshit excuse about needing a caretaker for the property until he found another buyer. He offered to pay her ten thousand a month to remain in the house and hinted that he wouldn't mind if she continued operating her unusual dairy farm from the premises. That, in itself, showed a level of compassion he had yet to display. But when Laura asked what she should do if her ex-husband and the city council tried to close her down, his answer really gave me something to think about.

"I wouldn't be too concerned about your ex or anybody else on the council," he whispered in her ear, thinking I couldn't hear him. "They won't be in the picture much longer."