AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The Black Sheep Beanery hosted live music on Thursday evenings, he’d learned, and the Man-O-War had random trivia Mondays, tiny things that forced him out of the house, forced him to actually talk to his neighbors, forced him to be open. He hadn’t met anyone that made his heart kick up, no one that sent a frisson of lightning up his veins, but he was having fun, he supposed.
All well and good, but now he had a business trip to pack for, his standing milking appointment a perfunctory chore on the day’s agenda.
Ergonomic pillow. Headphones. Probably that mouthguard; you’ve been grinding your teeth again. Definitely a tub of that dragon’s breath balm for your back. Maybe a tin of mushed peas, just to complete this feeble geriatric thing you’ve got going on.
His stomach muscles clenched suddenly, an unexpected intrusion into the most sensitive bit of his anatomy that made his toes curl. His mouth dropped open at the feeling of something in his foreskin, a tickling curl within the thin membrane of skin that made him gasp.
Beneath him, the voice of the milking technician floated upward. “Please just let me know if I’m using too much pressure. Or . . . or not enough pressure. Just, um, just let me know.”
The trainee, he thought. Her voice was hesitant, uncertain as if this was the first time she was addressing the client, and Rourke assumed it was. He said nothing, sucking in a slow breath through his nose. He closed his eyes, determined to refocus on his packing list, when it happened again. His jaw dropped open as if it were hinged, the press of a small, human finger into the loose pucker of his foreskin making his eyes roll back.
Her finger moved with intent, the tip of her nail tracking along the flared edge of his cockhead, still within its protective sheath, and his abdominal muscles jumped again. A groan pulled from his throat, the first sound of pleasure he’d made during a milking in months, as the invading fingers below eased his foreskin back, rubbing over his tip before tightening around his shaft in a snug ring. She pushed up his length, coating him in lubricant necessary for the completion of the job she’d be performing. But Rourke was positive that it didn’t require pushing into the root of his cock, stimulating the hidden bulb in his groin, making him grunt in pleasure once more.
When she began to stroke him at last, he felt as if she might pull him right through the hole on the milking bench. The tech’s grip was firm but steady and fluid, rubbing over his glans in just the right way, catching all of his most sensitive spots as if she’d come armed with a map. The slippery squelch of her partially closed fist over his cockhead made it sound like a deliciously messy fuck, and his hips began to hitch nearly without him realizing it.
That was the point the nozzle was applied, normally. Once he began to thrust, to buck against the bench, the whirring noise of the machine tightening his balls in expectation . . . but the buzzing hum he expected never came. At least, not for several long moments. Instead, he continued to thrust against the bench into the technician’s tight grip, another grunt of pleasure before the familiar sound of the machine whirred to life. The nozzle would be worked down his shaft, the hydraulic arm of the machine doing the rest, what he was used to . . . but nothing about this particular milking was typical, he realized.
The girl’s hands cupped his balls, squeezing them, rolling them, giving him the stretch he liked once again, as if she’d come armed with a list of his kinks and fantasies and a detailed chart of his erogenous zones. He groaned as she pulled his scrotum, separating his balls in their loose sac, her hands leaving him momentarily — only to regrip his testicles as if she were picking fruit, and then it was all over.
He moaned as his control tipped over the edge, his muscles tightening as he came, the first spurt into the machine almost painful. The girl still gripped him. Her hands still cupped his balls, pulsing him in time with the way he erupted down the nozzle. It meant that she could feel the way he throbbed, that shefelthim coming, and still didn’t let go, ticking off the exhibitionist kink on his fantasies card as he went boneless on the bench.
He felt wrung out and empty, barely able to lift his head from the padded upholstery when his cock swung free, andstillthe girl wasn’t done with him. Rourke shuddered as she took up his deflated appendage, gently easing his foreskin back once more to clean his cum-smeared head, and the gentle intimacy of it nearly made him queasy. Another soft squeeze to his scrotum, and then he was meant to be getting up, was meant to be hastily redressing, escaping this room as quickly as he could, but that day he felt clumsy and lost, his head foggy, lolling on his shoulders as if the weight of his horns were too great for his neck to support.
Rourke barely remembered getting dressed, shuffling woodenly down the hall until he reached the door that led back to the receptionist’s desk. His arm weighed a ton as he raised it to sign out, fishing a crisp hundred-dollar bill from his wallet. It was far more than he normally tipped, but then again, he had never before had anything like that happen to him on the milking bench. For the first time that he could remember, he realized he was entirely present for his milking — no substitute fantasies playing before his eyes as they once had several times a week, no forced work scenarios he often thought about now, attempting to make the time he spent at the facility as usefully accounted for as possible.
There had been nothing but his body and the small hands of that tech, with only the thinnest barrier between them, the rest of the world dropping away. As he stared at the ceiling that night, attempting to force himself to sleep, he couldn’t put the appointment from his mind, unsure of what had happened and positive that he wanted it to happen again.
An Insufferable Foole
Chapter 4
“No,don’tputthemthere, let’s. . . right, but I don’t think we’ll have the space. The armor is going to need its own room for sure. I’ve already put in a requisition for marble plinths. I don’t think we should . . . mhm, I hear what you’re saying . . . you know what, that’s fine. Just put it in there; we’ll sort it out when the rest comes in. But if the bones show up first, I don’t want anyone touching them, understand? Tell Martens to keep his paws off my skulls.”
The one-sided phone conversation had overtaken the ambient music in the waiting room. The minotaur sitting in the end chair across from Rourke was the ivory bull from the night of orientation, the rumpled academic. He wasn’t any less rumpled just then and seemed oblivious to the fact that discussing the acquisition of skeletons wasn’t an average topic of conversation for most folks. He was unbothered and completely unaware of the stares he’d garnered from Rourke and the bull on the other end of the sofa.
Rourke didn’t recognize him. That in and of itself was not unusual — there were plenty of minotaurs in the area, and it wasn’t as if he was a social butterfly . . . but still. Everyone knew someone who knew someone else, but this bull didn’t seem as if he could at least boast that. His brusque demeanor and combativeness on the night of orientation, and even the way he sat now — scrolling through his messages with his eyes trained on the phone screen, but in a conscious way, as if he were holding himself tightly coiled, deliberately diverting his attention from his fellows in the waiting room, instead of simply passing the time.
He had worked in sales long enough to have developed the ability to read people quickly, and this minotaur struck him as an outsider.But one with obvious respect for the culture, the community . . . but he’s not part of it. New to the area, maybe. Shaky social skills and doesn’t know how to get involved.The grey-dappled minotaur on the other side of the sofa pushed to his hooves as his number was called, and Rourke waited until the door had clicked shut, leaving him alone with his ivory neighbor.
“So, what’s your story, professor?”
The other minotaur’s head swung up, his dark eyes widening slightly when he realized there was no one else present and thathewas the professor in question.
“I’m sorry,” Rourke went on, holding up his hands placatingly with a practiced, placid grin. ‘Break the ice first’ was similarly a concept he had long ago mastered. He was positive his assumptions about this peer were correct, and he sympathized somewhat — after all, he, too, had once been new to the tight-knit community at a time in his life when he’d been most vulnerable.
If one was not already accustomed to multi-species living, Cambric Creek was a mindfuck. Humans were the dominant species almost everywhere one went. Most other species tended to settle in groups. It never quite started out that way, but if one or two nagas moved into a neighborhood, two or three more would follow, and so forth, until the entire area became known as a nag municipality. It was the way he’d grown up as well — surrounded by other minotaurs, a bullish settlement sandwiched between two human towns for safety and necessity.
Cambric Creek was different. The town had somehow managed to attract varying species without one overtaking all the rest, the way humans did everywhere else, and it took a bit of getting used to. Becoming fast friends with Lurielle had been the only reason he even left the house those first six months after his move, so he was more than willing to extend a hand to a brother bull who was struggling.Or maybe he’s just a dick. Only one way to find out.In any case, it was a welcome distraction from the nerves he felt over his appointment. “I’m sure it’sDoctorProfessor, right?”
“It is, actually.” The ivory bull straightened in his chair with a huff, and Rourke grinned. “Although the professor part isn’t accurate. At least, not anymore.”
Rourke chuckled, smug in his correct assumption. “I knew it. New in town?”
The other minotaur nodded. “Two months in, moved here for a job. Left the professor behind.”
“Well, you’d never know it from the look of you. If you told me you’d just left your class with an exam and decided to swing by for an afternoon draining, I’d believe it. But you’re in the, uh . . . bone trade, is it?” Rourke couldn’t help his sardonic tone, grinning again when the other bull snorted.
“That sounds so nefarious. I work for a private museum, actually. We’re getting in an exhibit on the aquatic bog dwellers of the Bel’taire Islands, and that includes their funerary rites.”
