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“Thirty minutes after your appointment time for today would be my last spot of the day.”
“I’ll have to keep that in mind.” He nodded slowly, turning to pocket his phone. As he did so, he darted his tongue out as if he might be able to taste the musky-sweet, tangy smell tickling his nose on the air. “I hope my bad luck doesn’t follow you home.”
The receptionist smiled cheerfully as he left. It was a normal day, a typical day, a completely average, unextraordinary day. For everyone but him. She passed the sign out from the small window to him, the small cerulean envelope attached.
The hundred-dollar bill didn’t seem like enough of a tip. The girl was on the clock. She wasn’t being paid to be flirted with or to be harassed, and he would not overstep that unspoken boundary . . . But that hadn’t been a normal milking. If it had been, he wouldn’t be able to smell her arousal, practically tasting it in the air. She had finished him off so completely, in such a satisfying manner, it seemed unfair that she had to go on working, another client taking his place in the milking bench.
A better tip would have been for her to take his place, legs spread wide, letting him lap up her arousal directly from the source. He would be thrilled to lick her pussy as well as she stroked his cock every week, the tip she deserved, he thought as he stuffed the crisply folded hundred into the envelope. After all, nothing about this place was orthodox, and lines between proprietary and perversion were blurred as their business model. Giving the hard-working technicians a reciprocal tip seemed not so far outside the realm of acceptability, not when one considered what was being done behind each of the closed milking rooms.
She deserved more than cold cash in an envelope, he thought ruefully, pushing out the doors back to real life, where a hand job was not treated as commerce. Sadly for them both, the money was all he had to offer.
Chapter 5
TheBlackSheepBeanerybuzzed with activity from the moment it opened each morning until the last body was shuffled out the door each night.
There were few other places in town that could boast the same amount of traffic. The bars and restaurants in the business district catered to those with disposable income, while the triangle – the area around the university — was full of quick-service eateries and inexpensive pizza joints. They were all busy, but none saw the same amount of cross traffic from one side of town to the other the way the coffee shop did. It didn’t matter if one had an Oldtowne address or if one was picking up coffee to take back to the subdivision after Little League drop off; the whole town came through the Beanery’s doors at some point during the week.
Rourke pulled into the municipal lot that afternoon for his daily caffeine fix. He had his quarterly tax documents to drop off at the accountant’s office, needed to visit an in-town client, and wanted to pick up a new calendar of events for the following month at the community center before he forced himself home. For now, though, he was killing a bit of time before he was due in his accountant Kenta’s office, which meant he was going to sit and replay his last milking appointment like a movie behind his eyes, his only pastime for close to a week.
That had been the pattern since the previous Friday when she’d come into the room already grinning. He had dissected every moment of that appointment, every flirtatious word, puffing up like the strutting orc next door for several hours each time he did so because heknewthey’d been flirting, actually flirting! — and then deflating like a forgotten balloon at a retirement party when common sense finally kicked back in.She’s at work. She’s being paid to be nice to you.Youwere flirting, and she was just trying to do her job. Probably counting the minutes until she could get rid of you. At least you’re tipping her well for the inconvenience.He would then replay the whole appointment over again without the rose-colored glasses and wither completely.
She greeted him with a smile. Her face was covered in a surgical mask, it was true, but her luminous eyes had been bright, crinkling with the smile he could not see. As she chirped like a lovely little bird, telling him about her morning, he wondered what her mouth was like, if she had a small, pouty rosebud or a wide, tooth-revealing grin.
“Maybe you’re a good luck charm in this time slot.”
It was patently idiotic to interpret her words as anything other than polite small talk, but that hasn’t stopped his cock from jumping against his thigh, impatient to take over the conversation. He’d already been stiff during the short commute to the appointments, but talking to her was a wholly different sort of stimulant. Rourke was positive he could feel his shaft inflating with liquid steel, swelling and solidifying until he could use his cock as a battering ram, a sledgehammer, a blunt object with which one could commit felonious assault. It wouldn’t do to allow his turgid erection to do any of the talking.
He’d made a passing mention of other milking joints then, and her follow-up question had forced him to disclose the truth — all bulls did this. Jerking off for money— or being jerked off, in the case of Morning Glory — was a part of minotaur life.
“May as well get paid for what’s going down the shower drain every day.”
His throat had closed, his sense of proprietary kicking in, but not soon enough. The words were out before he could swallow them down, and now he had alluded to jerking off in the shower in the same breath he had told her that all minotaurs patronized milking establishments.Great, perfect. Real smooth, so professional. Big CEO, man, casually talking about beating off before breakfast, like that’s okay or something. You’re as bad as Cal. Maybe when you pick up your dry cleaning this week, you should ask the manager how often they jerk off, ask the letter carrier about her vibrators, since you apparently have no filter to speak of anymore.
He had, in fact, done exactly what he’d told her. Gone were the stoic days when he thought about work during his milking sessions, all thanks to this technician’s uncanny ability to play his body like a musical instrument. He had been turned on thinking about his appointment the evening before, masturbating before turning out the light, not that the ache in his groin had lessened upon waking.
He had stood beneath the spray of his shower the morning of the appointment, one hand braced against the wall, the other wrapped around his engorged shaft, his hips snapping. He’d fucked into the ring of his own fingers, trying to re-create the sensation of fucking into her perfect, tiny hands, wild and erratic, his balls swinging haphazardly. When he’d painted the shower wall in broad stripes of white, thinking of nothing but her soft voice and the pressure of her fingers, Rourke had suspected he might have the beginnings of a problem.
It was beyond inappropriate to be fantasizing about one specific milking technician in such a way. He ought to cold turkey this place again, he had thought, give himself some distance . . . But his cock hadn’t agreed to the plan and had tugged him along to his appointment,And now you’ve talked about masturbating in front of her. Just perfect. You’re going to be banned from ever coming back, and that’s probably for the best.
“So just remember that,” he’d gone on, his traitorous tongue refusing all warning alarms from his brain, “the next time a minotaur tries chatting you up, ask which facility he uses. If he swears up and down, he’s never been to a place like this; he’s a liar.”You’ll need to resign from the Minoan Society as well. Probably move. Jack Hemming will personally come to your door to notify you that he’s seizing your property. Probably bulldoze your house and build another statue with his name on it. Lurielle can forward your mail if she’s still speaking to you.
Somehow, though, she had not taken offense to his clumsy words. “I can’t say I have many conversations with minotaurs outside of work, but I’ll keep that in mind.”
Her laughter had been a balm on his embarrassment, his mortification heating to lust as he settled against the bench, slipping himself through the opening, already agonizingly hard.
“What do you mean that this place is more selective?”
Like another out-of-body experience, he had watched himself as if from afar, telling her about the health screening each of the farm’s clients had completed, the blood test, up to and including weighing and measuring the circumference of their scrotums.
Thatwas the point at which he found it nearly impossible to divorce his fantasies from reality. He could convince himself that he was acting wildly inappropriately, that he was the worst sort of lecher, and that if he wound up being featured in some whisper network of perverts to avoid, he would likely deserve it. But as he told her that the farm measured their balls, her hands raised, cupping each of his as if she were picking fruit and squeezing.
She played with his balls during every appointment. It was not something any other technician had done, unique only to her. If he were to decide to rejoin one of the dating apps at this point, after a handful of milking sessions with this girl, he thought it was likely that he would add to his list of wants in a partner someone who would give him a ball massage at the end of each day. He hadnotimagined the way she squeezed him as he spoke, the way she lightly scraped at his skin with her glove-covered nails, the slight stretch and tug she administered to each testicle, giving them one last squeeze before releasing them to refocus on his swollen shaft.
“Next in line.” The voice seemed to be coming from far away, an unwelcome intruder into his daydream, and he batted it away like a gnat.
“C’mon then, luvvie, next in line.”
“Next!”
