The warmth of a sponge. The gentle lift of my breast. The pads of his fingers, stroking. Pressing. Rolling the nipple until it leaked for him.
He always spoke to me.
Sweet things. Dark things.
I’d stopped listening weeks ago.
My thighs were already parted. My body was always ready. Loose. Open.
He touched me between them.
Slick fingers. Circular motions. Whispered praise.
My sweet cow. Good girl. So full this morning.
The suction cups latched onto my breasts, drawing milk in rhythmic pulls. My body responded on its own. Always did.
I floated somewhere above it. Somewhere clean.
But then—
Then something shifted.
His thumb pressed deeper. Firmer. The circles tightened. My clit throbbed. A sound escaped me—small, involuntary. My hips twitched.
He noticed.
“Ahh. There you are, my sweet.”
His fingers moved faster. His mouth latched onto my nipple, suckling hard, timed with each pulse of the machine.
It was too much.
Too warm. Too wet. Too close.
My tail—God, the tail—shifted behind me, tugged by something I couldn’t name. Nerves I didn’t want. A response I didn’t own.
And then I broke.
I came.
Hard. Violent. Milk sprayed. My thighs spasmed. My cunt clenched around nothing. My tail twitched once. Twice.
My eyes snapped open.
I saw the ceiling. The beams.
His mouth still latched to my breast.
My body—heaving.
My face—wet.
Tears?
My voice cracked from my throat, hoarse and unused.
“No…”
