Morning Glory Milking Farm by C.M. Nascosta
Chapter 11
“You.”
His voice was accusing, and an affronted scowl creased over his broad, handsome face. Violet noticed immediately the absence of the ring in his nose, the unencumbered nostrils flared in indignation, feeling a pang of regret that she’d not been there to see him in the days following its removal.
You don’t need a one-sided infatuation, remember? The voice in her head was right, she reminded herself. The time away had been good for clearing her head of the cobwebs of senseless lust she’d allowed to spool and stretch, obliterating her good sense and professionalism. Being back under her parents’ roof and sleeping in her childhood bed for the preceding two weeks had done wonders for shaking thoughts of the messy-haired minotaur away, reminding herself of the bills she needed to pay, the career she needed to actually start someday, the plan she had for her life. Pining after a client isn’t part of the plan, especially one like this. She exhaled sharply, knowing the voice was right. He’s probably been out with a dozen different women since you’ve been gone. Putting himself back on the meat market, right? Glancing over her shoulder, she made a show of looking around, as if he might be referring to someone behind her.
“Where have you been? I had to practically twist someone’s arm off just to find out if you still worked here.”
Violet bit her lip, trying to imagine him cajoling information from the new girl, remaining as stiff and silent as all the other Clockwatchers during the two appointments that she’d missed. “They probably didn’t tell you much, it’s against company policy to divulge any information about employees. Especially to a client,” she added, reinforcing his status for his benefit as much as her own.
His scowl deepened and she very nearly laughed aloud at the deep crease between his narrowed eyes, his wide mouth pulling into an exaggerated frown. He’s adorable when he pouts. The thought came to her unbidden, pulling an invisible cord of tension behind her navel, unraveling her resolve like a kitten with a ball of yarn. It didn’t matter how many pep talks she’d given herself over the past week, didn’t matter what she told herself about the futility of her crush or the inappropriateness of harboring such feelings for a client—the instant the traitorous thought crossed her mind, all of her willpower went crashing to the ground. He’d been there with her for every minute she’d been away, imagining his arms coming around her when she cried and the warmth of his hide pressed against her at night, and it was foolish to attempt to persuade herself otherwise.
“Don’t give me that. I can’t believe you literally left me in the clutches of that amateur. I was chafed after the last time. Chafed!”
She was unable to hold in her laughter as she hooked the collection tank into the unit, ensuring the bottle rack was full and the hoses secure before turning to let him see her eye roll at his dramatics. It was the first time she’d laughed in what felt like ages, and the fact that he’d been the one to invoke it felt significant.
Despite it seeming like the week had already been endless, it was only her second day back to work after being absent for two weeks, and although she’d never be able to prove it, Violet was certain that Magda had given her the most challenging rotations since she returned. The very first client the previous day had been one of the most vocal of the good little cows, lowing enthusiastically as she stroked him, and things had quickly deteriorated from there.
“Ohhh, milk me, please milk me . . . you’re going to milk me dry,” the minotaur had moaned, bucking wildly against the padded stocks above her. She had begun to compare every minotaur she worked on to Rourke, comparing their endowments and the way they felt in her hands. That bull’s cock had been long and pink and thin, like a writhing tentacle. Her hands had missed the heavy weight she’d grown to prefer as she struggled to maintain a rhythm wringing the slippery, snake-like appendage, in between the constant encouragement they liked to receive. Catching hold of him once he’d begun to buck and thrust left her feeling like a rodeo clown, and Violet was certain she’d been less than gentle in jamming the sucking nozzle down his length, but she was past caring by then. It had set the tone for the rest of her shift as she handled one challenging client after the next, and today had not been much better.
It had been a long few weeks.
Her great-aunt’s death had been unexpected. When her maternal grandmother had died when she was a child, her sister had filled the hole left behind for Violet and her mother both. Aunt Gracie had always been more like a grandmother to her—baking cookies on Sundays, there for all of her accomplishments, both great and small. The call from her mother had given her time to fly home to say goodbye, for which she was grateful, staying to help her parents with the unplanned-for arrangements. People who didn’t know her well didn’t seem to expect that the loss of great aunt or uncle would affect her much, and it was exasperating and uncomfortable to explain; she didn’t know any of her co-workers well enough to let them see her cry, and she knew that she would cry if she needed to explain beyond “there was a death in the family.” Adding on the frustration of two long, challenging days’ worth of clients had her on the edge, and all she wanted to do was collapse against the big minotaur before her, bury her face against his broad chest, and never let go.
That, she reminded herself with a swallow, was impossible, and she had a job to do.
“Poor thing,” she laughed, ignoring his question and flashing a grin back at his scowl before ducking beneath the bench. The sight of his cock was like greeting an old friend, and she had to fight the urge to lean forward and press a kiss to the tip. “We’ll have to be extra gentle on your delicate, chafed bits.”
The lubricant the farm supplied was far thicker than anything she’d ever illicitly purchased at the small pharmacy near her apartment, thick and viscous with a pleasing slip and slide. Pumping a bit more into her gloved palm than she usually used, she slickened her hands before wrapping them around his thick shaft, her sigh of contentment echoed from overhead. It was the end of the day, Violet reminded herself, and there was no other client booked for this room. A plentiful speedy collection was what she strove to achieve each day . . . but it had been a long two weeks, and she was tired. Tired and frustrated and there was no one working that would think to come to the collection room to see what was taking so long.
She’d earned this, and she wasn’t inclined to rush.
“The first client I had today was new. Like, new new. He’d never done this before.”
She tightened her grip slightly as she slid her slickened palms against him, running her thumb up the thick vein that snaked up his shaft until she reached the tip. Reversing direction, she worked his foreskin back, letting her palm press into his shiny, exposed head until he hissed.
“I take it things didn’t go well?”
She smiled at the roughness in his voice. She intended on enjoying his milking session and wanted him to as well. “Oh, it did not. Not at all.” Talking as she stroked him seemed to be a new, previously undiscovered level of intimacy, and she could easily imagine herself having the conversation in bed on a Sunday morning, curled against his side as her hands moved, feeling the hot huff of his breath against her. It was a cozy thought, a warm thought, and she closed her eyes, immersing herself in the daydream fully.
She could almost feel the silky-coarse hair that covered him, imagined rubbing her nose against his chest, right above his heartbeat as she moved her hands, could feel the weight of the blankets and the strength in his arms, casually curled around her. She held his cock with both hands now, her thumbs moving in rhythmic circles at the base of his head, pressing into his frenulum. Lazy love-making would follow, feeling the cool sheets at her back as he rolled her gently, his heavy weight settling over her in a giant bed, something designed for larger species, one that wouldn’t even fit into her little apartment.
“He literally had no clue. I had to instruct him to take his pants off, show him how to get into the chair.” The young bull had possessed the odd combination of cocky swagger and wide-eyed confusion, and she’d blown out an impatient breath, aggravated that she was being set up to have a repeat of the previous day’s annoyance. If he’d been a bit more humble, she might have gone easier on him, might have given him the practiced, cheerful smile she’d learned from Kirime and the fox-faced woman in the training videos, but he’d had a leering grin when she’d entered the room, his hands on his hips as he surveyed the collection floor.
“He lost his erection…twice!”
Rourke huffed, and she was able to see the edge of his horns as he shook his head. The minotaur from that afternoon had lost his cockiness the second his pants had come off, and he’d stood there expectantly as if she were going to climb the staircase to the upper lever and jerk him off right there. “And then . . . then! He finished with absolutely zero warning. Got some on my scrubs before I was able to get the nozzle on him. Half of what he was supposed to be paid for wound up in the laundry cart.”
“You’re not trying to one-up me, are you?” he demanded. “Because I got stuck with Stiff Grip Sally for two weeks and I thought she circumcised me at one point.”
Violet let go of him, hunching as she laughed, shoulders shaking, envisioning the new girl’s shake weight motion. “Oh noooo!” she cried, eyes streaming with her mirth. “Well, we can’t have that . . . tell me if this is too much pressure, okay?”
She slid the tightened ring of her fingers down his fat shaft, relishing the familiar weight and heft in her hands before stretching her fingers and tickling at the underside of his sac. He would press into her slowly, letting her adjust to his insane girth; would seat himself fully with a grunt that would sound very much like the one he’d just given as she cupped his balls, pulling them slowly, giving him a bit of the stretch she knew he liked. He would fill her entirely, stretching her far beyond what she thought capable, but she would be used to the feel of him by then, the heavy weight of him, and when he would begin to move within her, her head would drop back in ecstasy, her hands tightening around his wide shoulders or gripping his broad horns.
“You’re perfect.”
The domed head of his cock seemed extra appealing that day, the tips of her fingers grazing it gently, teasing his foreskin back and forth, up and down, caressing the inside of the sensitive sheath until he groaned. Circumcising this would have been a crime, she thought, sliding the loose skin back until his full head popped free, like an especially delicious mushroom sprouting from the earth, beckoning her tongue to lick away the pearlescent moisture at its winking slit. She would enjoy tonguing him slowly, licking against his frenulum in a constant movement, the same movement her thumb took then, back and forth, over and over, sucking him into her mouth when he grunted in pleasure.
She would enjoy tasting him, but that would be later; a different time, she thought, returning to her daydream in progress. She began to twist up his shaft, running her hands one after another in a continuous flow, constant stimulation. Above her, Rourke groaned. His wide hips began to cant lightly against the padded breeding stocks, the same way his hips would thrust against her body, slow and deliberate and deep, always so in control, his rough, bovine tongue tasting the salt of her skin as he kissed her neck. Violet was able to hear her own cries of pleasure, the mindless begging that would fall from her lips; the baritone of his own deep groans and animalistic grunts as he fucked her, pounding into her with the same deliberate, measured force with which he rutted against the breeding bench. His heavy balls would hit her skin with every thrust, the percussive slap of them an obscene music that would fill the room, fat and full to bursting as he fucked her into the mattress, chasing his release and making her see stars.
She’d missed him, missed him so much, and seeing him—talking with him, flirting with him, hearing the sharp bark of his voice and feeling its reverberation down her back—felt like coming home. The realization hit her like a punch to the gut; the knowledge that while she’d been home with her family—mourning their loss, going through old photo albums and helping her mother clean out drawers, wishing she’d called more often and had come home sooner—she’d been thinking of him . . . but not like this. She had envisioned going back to her room with the little undersized bed every night and collapsing into his arms, losing herself in his calm control, feeling the heat of his mouth as he kissed away her tears. She hadn’t missed this, but she had missed his stern voice and deep huffs of laughter, missed their banter and his messy hair and shining chocolate eyes. In her fantasy she would make breakfast together, feeding each other bites of chocolate croissants or blueberry-stuffed muffins, sipping gourmet coffee from the Black Sheep Beanery. They’d go back to bed to snuggle and talk and watch nostalgic movies as the sky outside darkened, but first . . . first he would fuck her until they were both satisfied, filling her with spurt after spurt of his extremely valuable seed.
His deep groan brought her back to the present, his solid, heavy thrusts against the padded breeding bench an echo of her daydream, and she worked the buzzing nozzle over the head of his cock with no time to spare. He continued to rock against her hands when the green light clicked on, lowing as he throbbed in her hands, and gods how she’d missed him. She wanted to know everything about him—how he liked his eggs and what he would feel like pressed to her side at night; the roughness of his tongue, how he took care of his horns, if he was close to his family and if he would turn her over his knee, as Geillis had suggested. Following the pulse of his balls as his thrusts began to weaken, she found and pressed her thumb against the visibly throbbing point behind his sac, massaging into his prostate, her pussy clenching when he bucked in response. His hooves scraped for purchase against the footrest and he groaned again, filling the machine with a fresh torrent of semen as she pressed against his sweet spot, squeezing her thighs together in time to the ropes of white splattering the glass. A click and whir from the collection unit made her jump, and she turned sharply, just in time to see the second bottle rotating into place.
She’d never had reason to use both of the label stickers that came affixed to the files, but there was a first time for everything, she thought ruefully.
He said nothing as she cleaned him off, giving the customary squeeze with which she always ended things, and remained quiet as she tagged the two bottles, the second barely filled to the quarter line. Turning back to the breeding bench, she was able to see his wide horns still there, laying stock still.
“I feel like I should have paid for that,” he groaned, remaining slumped against the bench as she walked up the small staircase, coming up to his level for the very first time. She realized, freezing on the steps, that from this vantage point, she had a perfect view of his rounded backside and thick thighs, completing the fantasy of what it might be like to have him in her bed.
“I think you may have killed me.”
“You sure are bossy for a corpse.”
His messy hair tumbled into his eyes as he raised himself at last, keeping her locked in his gaze as he pushed himself from the bench, grunting as his back cracked when he twisted. His cock swayed between his thighs, soft and spent and still completely enormous, a hypnotic pendulum as he staggered the half-dozen paces across the room to where his pants rested over the hair back. She watched in fascination as he carefully guided his hooves through each leg, palming his tail and smoothing it through the small slit in the fabric’s seat, bending to fasten and secure each pantleg over his jutting hocks. Dress shirt tucked in and smoothed, cock tucked away and fly zipped, he didn’t look up until he was bucking his belt, and Violet could almost convince herself that they were in some cozy little domestic tableau together, dressing for work before he kissed her goodbye.
“It’s strange,” he rumbled, adjusting his watchband, the picture of brusque professionalism. “You see someone every week, you talk to them, they’re a part of your routine, your schedule. They become part of your life. You share a certain level of intimacy with them. You miss them when they’re gone. You can almost convince yourself you know them, because you start to fill in blanks on your own, but you never really know.”
A vice had fastened over her heart at his words, so similar to what she herself had been thinking over, and her face felt over-warm; the soft, hazy glow of her daydream giving the past hour and her cheeks both a rosy flush, her eyes pricking with tears.
“You never answered me. Where were you?”
In an instant, the rosy flush fled, leaving the tears behind. She remembered that he’d not actually been there to comfort her over the last two weeks and that he was right—he only knew her in the context of this place, of this job, and that wasn’t likely to change.
“I-there was a death in the family.”
His broad face sobered in a flash, his forehead wrinkling. “I’m so sorry to hear that. My condolences. Was it someone close?”
She had already turned, wondering what had possessed her to come up to the top level, robbing herself of the protective barrier of the breeding bench, where she could hide away with her fantasies and not face up to the reality that it was all they were. Tears blurred her vision and her voice seemed to stick in her throat as she nodded, and she jolted when his giant hand rested on her shoulder, heavy and warm, the way she knew it always would be. His eyes, when she turned, were filled with compassion.
“Let’s get out of here, come grab a coffee with me. You can tell me about them.”
He was close enough for her to feel the heat of his body. The pad of his thumb was velvety soft as he cradled the side of her face in his huge hand, catching one of her tears and smoothing it away against her skin. She’d not expected such softness from him, always so sharp and brusque, but her head tipped up all the same, willing to meet his mouth if he’d leaned down just a fraction more. She was still able to smell the coffee from her dream, the little local coffee roaster’s beans, made in his kitchen as she leaned against him, her face pressed to his strong back. His thunderclap voice too had softened, deep and comforting, with no hint of demand, and she nodded, wanting nothing more than to be there with him, be somewhere—anywhere—other than the farm.
“Go on then, punch out. I’ll get us a table. Probably going to need to flip over a booth of teenagers, but it’s fine, they’ll bounce.”
She could feel the weight of his hand on her back as she drifted down the steps as if the heat of him had burned an imprint on her skin, a glow she was certain the whole world could see as she collected her things and clocked out with her heart in her mouth. This is it, you can do this. Coffee first. Then tomorrow, you can lock yourself into his house and never, ever leave. It was, Violet was certain, a perfect plan.