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“You heard me. Say it.”
She looked around the table at the ranch hands. They watched her, waiting to hear her say the degrading phrase. In all of the videos, Trish had called Luke,Sir. To Veronica’s knowledge none of the other ranch hands had gotten titles. Veronica had been his slave for months, what was verbal acknowledgment in the face of everything else? Still, an old part of her—from when she’d lived in the city—rebelled against the idea. Accepting she was his slave was a different thing from being his slave. Somehow the former was worse than the latter.
Calling himSirhad been difficult at first, but it was no different than a waitress or somebody working customer service. It hadn’t been too demeaning to force herself to say, even though it had been hard to get used to.
Luke stood and unbuckled his belt. The leather zipped through the loops so loudly it pulled Veronica out of her hesitation.
They were only words.
“Y-yes, M-master.” She’d rather say the demeaning thing than have him throw her down on the ground and beat her in front of the ranch hands.
Luke nodded and sat back down. He folded the belt and put it on the table, as if he wanted to have it ready should he need to call it into action.
* * *
Several days passed,and Veronica was finally overcome by curiosity to taste her own milk. Luke caught her and whipped her for it, then lectured her for a good half hour about the evils of drinking or even tasting what belonged to him and his men. Despite the humiliation, she’d become aroused by his irrational demands.
As the weeks passed and her milk began to flow better, Luke changed her wardrobe. One Sunday, when the guys were off, he put her in jeans and a cupless corset to better support her heavy breasts. He circled her in the playroom, sizing her up.
“Since you’re our cow, I can’t have you covering those lovely tits up. We want to see them all the time. And we want easy access to your milk.”
In some way, it was a relief. Without fabric to cover them, they wouldn’t chafe. It had begun to be uncomfortable with milk-dampened fabric covering her breasts. Luke had begun to rub some of her milk into her nipples after each feeding—it helped some, but as long as she stayed inside where it was warm, freeing her breasts to the air would help more.
Veronica sucked in a breath as he cupped her breasts in his hands, no doubt feeling the heavy weight, knowing how engorged they were. She was desperate to have him drink from her. Titles were nothing now. She’d do or say anything to get him to release the pressure. Now that her body had finally responded to his training and the hormones, Luke wouldn’t allow her to squeeze any of the milk out herself. It had to be one of the guys or he’d punish her. After she’d tried to taste her milk, he’d installed cameras around the house so he’d catch her if she disobeyed.
Even after the cameras, she’d disobeyed once. She’d been too desperate to ease the ache. Her body had gotten used to a feeding schedule, and the men had worked later that evening than usual. Luke had easily convinced her that heavy pressure in her breasts was preferable to the searing pain of the cane.
“Please, Master...” Veronica rubbed her breasts against him.
“So eager to give milk,” he said, swiping his tongue over one nipple, causing a drop of milk to drip from the other as if it were jealous. “I like that. Between the brand and this, you’re hardly recognizable from when I first took you.”
She moaned and arched toward him, too distracted from the physical discomfort to contemplate his words. “Please, please please. It hurts, please.” Tears slid down her face.
“Not just yet.” He wiped her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “You’ve been such a good girl the past few weeks. So compliant and docile. I’m so pleased with you. Do you know how happy you make me, princess?”
He’d let her sleep in his room every night since she’d started giving milk. What he was doing should have upset her more, but it made her feel intimately connected to him, more dependent on him, more addicted to the myriad forms of release he could now offer her.
Release from the busy, loud city and the cramped feeling the place had always engendered. Release from her debt. Release from her fear of starving to death. And the physical releases he offered her when he fucked and fed from her.
She jumped when the door opened and Will walked in, followed by an attractive, slim redhead in her early forties. The woman was dressed smartly in a black suit. She crossed the floor and sat on the couch, crossing her long, elegant legs.
“Good, you’re here,” Luke said. “Ronnie, this is Frieda.”
Veronica’s mouth dropped open. Will’s wife. Here. She looked away from the woman, afraid she might see the guilt. Not that it had been Veronica’s fault. Still, the wife of Luke’s ranch hand might not see it that way.
Veronica tried to cover her exposed breasts, but Luke pulled her arms down to her sides and shook his head.
“Can I get you some coffee?” he asked the other woman.
“Coffee would be nice, thank you.”
Luke crossed the playroom to pour her a cup. “Do you take it black?”
Freida gave Veronica a long, measured look, her eyes flicking to her breasts in a way that made Veronica blush. “You know I take milk.”
He smirked. Luke came back to Veronica and squeezed her nipple over the cup of coffee. She couldn’t help the sigh of relief that came with the slight ease of pressure. He passed the cup to the woman, and without turning around, he said, “Veronica, take off your pants.”
Veronica froze for a second, still trying to catch her brain up to the fact that Will’s wife was here and didn’t seem freaked out by any of this.
