Page 45 of Milked for the Holidays

Downstairs the other Ranchers mill about, setting bowls and cutlery on the table. Fiona kneels next to Antroli, her pale cheeks flushed. Her breasts jut out, high and firm, and just as swollen.

The only difference is mine seems at least double, perhaps triple, the size of hers. She bites her lower lip as she fidgets her fingers in her lap. The discomfort oozes from her, mirroring my own.

Once Antroli sees us, he beams at Vrokjan, his smile widening with every step we take. “I was getting worried. Fiona is desperate to be milked, but I didn’t want to start without you.”

Vrokjan claps his hand on his shoulder. “Next time, don’t make her suffer. I will understand. Just like if you’re ever running behind, I’ll take care of my own.”

The other Ranchers gather around, their eyes darkening as they look at us. As if I weigh nothing, Vrokjan hoists me up onto the table right alongside Fiona. Fear slithers down my spine as the other men come closer, their gazes hungry. Once they circle the table, they all bow their heads and place a fist over their heart.

“Celestials,” Vrokjan intones, his voice deep and serious. “We gather at this table to partake in the milk so graciously provided to us. May we drink it with the reverence in which it is given. Allow it to nourish us and strengthen us.”

Off to the side, a Rancher pipes up. “And make us more money than we know what to do with.” His irreverent tone inspires cackling and similar sentiments from the others, including Vrokjan.

I turn my head to glance over at Fiona, noting her wide-eyed stare. She’s just as confused as I am. For all his talk of reverence, everything he’s done to me so far has been just shy of sacrilegious.

Antroli and Vrokjan approach, their touch gentle as they lay us on our backs. Fiona’s head rests alongside mine, close enough I can hear her breathing. We angle our heads toward each other, taking solidarity in the fact that we’re not alone.

Reaching my arm up, I offer her my hand, just as she did to me the first time we met. She grabs on, her fingers trembling as the men take their seats around us. Fear laces each breath as they come close.

I don’t understand. Vrokjan said the others would never drink directly from me, and yet, they hover close, their lips glistening with spit as they lick them. My breasts heave as I struggle for breath.

“Shhh, my pretty cow,” he soothes, running his hand down my breast to tweak my nipple. “I’ve told you they will not drink from you. Trust my words. I have not deceived you thus far.”

Unfortunately, he’s right. He’s not given me a reason not to trust him. Closing my eyes, I focus on my breathing and Fiona’s hand clutching mine in a death grip. A slight shuffling rings out around me, and within moments, the familiar sucking sensation from the milking barn tugs at my nipples.

I crane my neck to watch as my milk fills the little tubes and travels down to the table. The men take their bowls with what looks like cereal and hold them in front of a spout. Beside me, Fiona quivers as she’s being drained as well.

The relief is immense as the milk leaves my body, causing a burning arousal to flood my system. Fiona’s hand grips mine even tighter as a soft, almost purring moo drifts from her lips. It’s so faint, I wouldn’t have heard it if I wasn’t so close to her.

Soon, however, my own cries of pleasure join hers as Vrokjan slides the machine back inside my pussy. This time, however, there seems to be an extra attachment I don’t remember feeling earlier. A bit of metal latches onto my clit, sucking ever so slightly as the bulk of the object pulses inside.

Both of us writhe on the table as the men take their breakfast, eating as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening around them. At the head of the table, Vrokjan watches me as he tips his cup back, drinking my milk as my body quivers.

He rests his hand on my ankle, grounding me as my hips buck and twist under the onslaught. The machine moves with me, changing up sensations based on how I react. It’s as if it’s part of me, feeding off of the pleasure coursing through my veins.

Desperate moos reverberate through my skull as Fiona and I twist about, panting and moaning. With my free hand, I grip at the table, my nails scratching into the wood. Cries of pleasure rip from my throat as I arch my hips, bucking up and down as my orgasm crests.

Everything goes taut as pleasure explodes through my body. I cry out until I’m hoarse, drowning out all other sounds around me. Crashing back down, I lie there, limp, as the machine comes to a stop.

I pant as I try to catch my breath, while aftershocks ripple through me. Still, the men eat their breakfast, not paying us any mind. Turning to Fiona, I gaze into her eyes, finding solidarity there.

Eventually, Vrokjan detaches the tubes and helps me sit up. His strong arms lift me in the air and carry me over to his chair where a soft pillow and a bowl wait for me. He eases me down and gives me a moment before letting me go.

Everything quivers as I kneel there on all fours. It’s not the same as yesterday, but I can feel that terrifying weakness threatening to creep back in. It slithers through my veins, making me shudder with every breath. Fear drips down into my gut like acid.

With soft, soothing praise, Vrokjan deposits some bits of green food into the bowl and sprinkles the powder on top of it, emptying my dime bag onto my meal. He pats my head and sits back down, ignoring me as he discusses the day’s objective.

Under the table, I watch as Fiona dips her head down and eats out of her bowl like an animal. Her fiery curtain of red hair keeps getting in the way, and I see the frustration in the tight lines of her body. She continues to brush it behind her ears before Antroli jumps into action.

As if he’s done this his entire life, he pulls Fiona back onto her shins and braids her hair, pulling it completely away from her face. He continues to talk as if not preoccupied with such a task. I’m so drawn into the scene before me, I jump when Vrokjan’s fingers brush the back of my neck.

“Are you needing assistance as well? I should have already braided you before we came downstairs.”

He doesn’t give me a chance to answer before his fingers rake through my hair, grazing my scalp as he gathers the strands together. His words never falter as he continues on about production and numbers. Like lightning, he fashions twin braids without so much as tugging or snagging on tangles.

My heart thumps as I feel the care he’s taking with me. Though this isn’t how I exactly wanted such intimacy, it makes me feel cared for, cherished somehow. Once he’s done, he pats my head and takes his seat.

Exhaustion beats at me as I stare at the food. My vision wavers as I sway back and forth. However, the moment my tongue touches some of the powder, my strength is renewed. Famished, I devour what’s in my bowl, not caring that I’m eating out of it like an animal.