The Milkmaid

He opened his eyes. He sighed with the satisfaction of a tiny victory. He had again managed to doze for a while. Across the room the clock counted down with cool, digital precision. Six minutes, twenty seven seconds. Too long. He wished he'd slept a little longer. The waiting was the worst part. No, it wasn't. What was the worst part? Possibly the itch on the side of his face that had slowly grown in intensity. How he wanted to scratch it. Was it the discomfort of being forced to stand upright when he longed to lie down on a soft, succulent mattress? Perhaps it was the fear. The absence of knowing how this would end. Or why.

Maybe it was the drip. The one thing he hadn't consented to. He mentally went through the sequence again. Drinks at the carefully selected bar. Perfect delivery of well-rehearsed dialogue that he knew would put her at ease. The respectful step back after the first goodbye kiss. The suppression of his smug satisfaction when she invited him in. The speed with which things got kinky and beyond his control. In here. The secret room of pleasure she had called it. Her removal of his clothes. Her strapping him to the upright wooden board. He lifted his feet obediently as she took off her white, cotton knickers and slipped them onto him. Very interesting. The pre-cut hole in them through which she gently teased out his cock. Wow! The tight snugness of her gusset against his balls. Fascinating. The pulling of the leather straps around his legs as she finished restraining him. The sensual feel of the wood grain pressed hard and intimate against the skin of his back and buttocks. At each step of getting to here she had looked up at him and tilted her head in a questioning pose. Mmm? Each time he had nodded. The final step she asked his permission for was the gag. A big, black silicone cock, strapped inside his mouth. Weird, but strangely exciting. In a totally heterosexual way.

He lowered his gaze and traced the dribbling strand of drool tricking down his naked front. It collected at the end of his aching, flaccid member and dripped onto the floor like an endless stream of clear, sticky semen. He hadn't thought of this side effect.

No. She hadn't asked if he was ok with the drip. Or the preceding cannula she had inserted into the vein in his arm. She'd just done it. His body and limbs were strapped so tightly to the board there was nothing he could do to resist. He had looked at her with his own questioning eyes and mumbled an incoherent protest. She'd ignored him. She slid the needle in with an expert tenderness. The words, you'll feel a little prick, played over in his mind. She'd gone to a fridge over by the sink and taken out a transparent pouch of fluid. The first one. He'd caught a glimpse of many other pouches before the fridge door shut with its clinical clunk. The only part of his body he could move voluntarily was his head, and he'd tuned it to watch her hang the pouch on a hook high up on the wooden board. She had then connected a tube to the needle in his arm and adjusted a flow rate thing. Then she had smiled at him warmly, like a parent would smile at a child who has done especially well at school.

Four minutes, twelve seconds. He'd spent some time trying to work out what was in the fluid. Saline hydration, no doubt. But there must be other things. Because of what was happening. Because of what she was able to get him to do. It wasn't normal. And that was probably the worst thing. The dull, chronic anguish of exhaustion in his loins. The feeling of being utterly and impossibly spent, over and over again.

Three minutes, forty one seconds. He was beginning to create his own ceremony of preparation. Would he need to pee when she offered him the plastic beaker? No. Was the discomfort of his leather restraints so unbearable that he would have to thrash against them, moan muffled agonies through the black cock and violently shake his head? No. Was he calm? Yes. Sort of. Did he feel able to deliver what she wanted? Accepted as an unknown. Again. Was he already feeling the biological murmurings of arousal? Yes. And this was a wonder to him. He remembered counting to eleven. After that he'd sort of lost his marbles to the repetitive intensity. Each time he would have an imbecilic certainty that she would fail in her endeavour to draw him forth. Then her hand. Oh, her hand. Handling him. And her other hand. Oh. Like magic. Or witchcraft. The tactile, endlessly drawn out spell of his erection. Her fingers recited it with slow, caressing inevitability. And the casting of it. Oh god, the casting of the spell.

The seconds counted away in blue, LED numbers. The moment zero was reached the door opened and his milkmaid entered the room. His eyes feasted on the look of her. She moved with a lilting rhythm that perfectly matched her lyrical Irish brogue. Her dark hair brushed the tops of her shoulders with silky caresses. Her lips. Oh, those lips. He'd wanted to kiss them the moment they'd met. Yet their mouths had only once coupled in that moment outside her flat when he should have left. When he could have escaped.

As with ever other visit she had changed her clothes. In the early hours of his ordeal he'd had the thought that this was some perverted way of showing off her wardrobe to him. Now he was sure it was part of her obsession. She was using what she wore to help him produce. During one session she had worn tight, blue shorts. The milking had taken ages that time. Now she had learned his preferences. His twitching, ejaculating cock had been her tutor. This time she'd picked a short dress made of fine fabric, probably cotton. Blue, with a white floral print. Not overtly sexy, but to him very, very sexy. The hem floated loosely above her knees. It complemented the seductive poetry of her movements.

He couldn't take his eyes off her as she went to the pouch and inspected its fullness. It was always the same routine. Check the flow of fluids into him. Cater to any basic needs he had. Then slowly milk him of all the fluid he could give to her. Now she came to him. Did he need the plastic beaker? He shook his head. She put it down and picked up a soft cloth which she first moistened in the sink. With it she dabbed and wiped at the encrusted dribbles around his lips. His tongue had come to know every ridge and vein of the hard, rubbery penis that permanently violated his mouth. Why a cock gag? Apart from this, she had given no sign that she was into ritual humiliation of men who tried to date her. In fact her administrations of him felt devotional, as though she was as much a slave to his orgasms as he was. As ever, he tried to lock eyes with her while she was close to his face. But her gaze never dwelled upon his. She glanced up and smiled. She continued to mop away the dry traces of saliva that had trickled down the front of him. She rinsed the cloth and came back to do his dangling, passive member. He felt the now familiar tingle of sexual response even before she touched him.

She knelt down in front of him to clean this most precious part of the process. The touch of the cool, wet cloth was soothing and gentle. She pulled back his foreskin and cupped the end of his penis in cold, feathery fabric. Her wiping became a rhythmic back and forth motion. Her strokes were infinitesimally short, unbearably arousing. As the heat from her hand warmed the cloth he felt his inevitable and involuntary hardening, and with it, the deep wasting ache of spent muscles. Muscles that had pumped and pulsed again and again in desperate obedience to her.

She was finished. She put the cloth next to the sink. Ready for the next time. The next time. He felt his Adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed. How many next times? How much more? She pulled the high stool over towards him. He allowed himself his one, now habitual thought of bitterness. Oh yes, pretty, sexy thing. While you force me to stand and deliver you can sit nice and relaxed on your perfect little bottom. But the stool served more than her comfort. It had a small tray attached to the side. She would put the things on that tray. The things she needed. Just two things. The lube. The glass laboratory beaker. The beaker had become an object of fascinating and fearful torment for him. He was sure it had a capacity of 500ml. It was now around one fifth full. It was a terrible and impossible answer to his question. How much more?

And here it was. Retrieved from the fridge along with the squeezy bottle of clear lubricant that would ease her slow, incessant pistoning of his cock. Something else too. Something new. A black thing about the shape and size of an egg with a wire coming out of it. Another thing. A small black box with a red button and a silver knob. He absorbed every detail. The long hours of silent waiting deprived his senses. Made his mind wander. Anything new was a reward.

Now she was close to him, kneeling down with the black egg. In all her tending to him she had never removed the knickers that held tightly against his hot, emptied balls. He felt her pull back the gusset and slip the egg behind his balls. It pressed into them. They were aching from their repeated expulsions of seed and the hard, cool egg felt comforting, simply from the relief it gave them from having been squashed inside the cotton prison of her underwear for so long. She sat back on the chair and plugged the wire from the egg into the black box. Are we ready? She always asked it in the same bright, breezy way. Are we ready to go shopping? Are we ready to play Scrabble? Are we ready for Aunty Barbara's visit? Are we ready for me to pump another agonising and unattainable climax out of you?

Yes. We are ready.

He was still half hard from her washing of him. She held his cock in the palm of her hand and squeezed out a cold, viscous emission along its length. The lube would soon grow warm, then hot, but that first refreshing chill was heavenly. Then her soft, languid stroking began. Pulling back his foreskin and running her fingers and her palm along his length. Back and forth. Slow and easy. All the time in the world. He stared down at the union between her hand and his helplessly rigid member. The pressure inside his cock brought pain. Skin had been stretched too tightly too many times. Yet the sensation faded as he sank into the hypnotic rhythm of her massage. She varied her tactile dance with his erection. Now she was cupping and courting the swollen purple anger of his tip. Now she was sliding back, back down the full length of him. Now she used one fingertip on the underside of his glans. Now she twisted and rippled her fingers against him.

More oozing, cold lube. Oh god. It made sticky, squishy sounds as her hand worked him. She murmured soft little mmm sounds as she enslaved him with in her silky, frictionless motion. He felt himself slipping into a primitive simplicity as her milking grew more urgent. He was not near, not ready, yet his cock was as hard as marble. Primed and ready to penetrate. To fuck endlessly. He wanted to fuck her so badly. His conscious thoughts dropped away. He dragged his transfixed gaze away from the endless oscillation of her hand to her cunt. Or where her cunt must be, under her dress. He arched his back, straining against the straps that kept him totally immobile but for that one unyieldingly rigid organ. She glanced up at him as he grunted with muffled, bestial need. She shuffled on the stool, opened her legs, pulled back her dress. She began to trace the forefinger of her other hand against the front of her knickers. Plain, fine white. The same as she made him wear. Her masturbating finger moved in perfect sympathy with the hand that milked him. His crazed eyes narrowed at the fulfilling sight of dampness from her juices. He began to thrust against the restraints. Fuck. Fuck. I need to fuck you. Now. I want you. Now. His fierce utterings were corrupted into baying animal cries by the big, black penis in his mouth.

But she wasn't ready for him. Her pumping and self pleasuring slowed. Now came the second wave of need. Don't stop. Don't you dare stop milking me. You're my milkmaid. My cumslut. You need to hand fuck me, harder, harder. I need sex. Your sex. The terrible threat of frustrating denial caused his blood to pump harder still. His cock was so big and hard it felt like a long iron rod hanging off him. He could feel every heartbeat along the length of his swollen, enraged arousal. Milk me. Milk me dry.

She withdrew her hand from the front of her knickers. He felt a sudden stab of fear. She was going to stop. He writhed against his straps with frantic urgency. No. Her hand was going to the box. Clicking the button. Turning the knob. Oh god. Oh GOD! The egg pulsed with a sequence of strong, hard buzzes against his balls. She turned the knob, adjusting the timing of the pulses. Each momentary vibration made his loins coil and contract. Her stroking, rubbing hand moved to the same constant rhythm. And now her other hand returned to that place he so longed to be. She slipped it inside the front of her knickers. He could not last much longer now. The sight of her fingers moving inside the white fabric membrane of her knickers inflamed him. She began to moan. He echoed her sounds with his own gagged groans. They sounded bovine. She came. On the stool. Shuddering and thrusting in waves of release.

Now her eyes locked onto his. She withdrew her fingers, glazed by the honey of her sex. She picked up the glass beaker. She knew. The stroking, fondling touch of her hand never changed on him. He felt the flow of liquids in his core. He felt the involuntary approach of inevitable surrender. He stopped his moaning. He stared into her shining blue eyes as the inner wave grew. He was lost inside her mastery of him. His existence was to serve her. To be milked by her. To give her what she wanted. Now.

Oh god, oh god, oh god. At his point of release he had the urge to close his eyes and come into black infinity. But he could not break from the intimate union of their locked together gaze. His body roared with violent, throbbing expulsions. On and on. Spasms of spurting, jetting fluid. He needed her eyes to widen at the wonder of him. He wanted to come forever. Oh, fuck, oh fuck! His final milky emissions dripped into the beaker.

Silence. A surge of barren, draining fatigue rushed through his body. Her hand withdrew. She switched off the egg. It had done its job. Ensuring his total emptiness. He slumped against the straps. Oh to lie down and sleep. To lie with her and kiss. To know that he didn't have to give anymore. Not ever. Oh to make this stop. Please make it stop. Please don't milk me. You have emptied me.

He heard the clink of the glass beaker being returned to the fridge and then the clunk of the door being closed. His seminal work had been put away once more. He was vaguely aware of her cleaning him, with the same gentle care as she had used during the preparation of his milking. He dimly sensed that she was changing the pouch of fluid. Replacement for what had been taken. She tucked the egg tightly back in place. He roused himself to consciously consider this. If she made him do this again he would surely die. He felt like a husk that had been sucked dry.

She approached him. Asked him the same tender question as every other time. He nodded without thought or hesitation. Her eyes dwelt on his for a moment as if making sure that he really meant it. Then she turned away with a playful, deadly swish. She set the digital timer. Sixty minutes. He closed his eyes and let the blackness of waiting envelop him. He was dimly aware of the door closing behind her. His exhausted body sagged. Sleep smothered him like a soft, cloying blanket, and with it, the same hypnotic dream as always. Being pumped, slowly and endlessly. Being milked by her tactile tenderness. Being pulled into the agonising oblivion of emptiness.