Morning Glory Milking Farm by C.M. Nascosta
Chapter 13
“Remember, just get up before dessert and take your knickers off in the loo. When you come back to the table, give your old bully boy a present. He’ll barely be able to wait until the check comes, guaranteed.”
Violet blew a hard breath out her nose, squinting in the bright, overhead light. “Don’t you think you should focus on what you’re doing? I won’t have to worry about taking my underwear off if I’m in the emergency room because you waxed off half my labia.”
The vampire rolled her eyes, taking up the tongue depressor of wax once more. Violet wasn’t sure how she’d let Geillis talk her into this, and half-suspected that she’d fallen prey to a vampire glamour. No, you didn’t. You’re letting her do it because you’re a horny idiot. The voice in her head, she had to admit, was right, at least this time. Geillis had asked if she’d made sure to be freshly waxed for the big night, and she’d responded with a typical deer-in-the-headlights look of panic, for even though she was certain it wouldn’t actually matter, she’d never been waxed in her life and now that the idea had been put out into the universe, she desperately wanted to be. That sort of pricey salon service was definitely not in her budget, even as a splurge, and so Geillis had volunteered, insisting that she’d had salon experience over her vast, long, vampiric life.
It wasn’t until she was laying on the kitchen table, naked from the waist down with her knee pressed to her ear, that she remembered Geillis had been turned in the 1980’s and was around the same age as Violet’s mother.
“Just hold bloody still, I’m almost finished!”
She closed her eyes and held her breath as the waxing paper was pressed to her skin, trying to focus on the exact scenario Geillis described, the one that had caused her to be in such a position. She wanted to be stretched by his big bullcock, wanted him to fuck her into next season with those measured, pounding thrusts, but lately, the notion of him bathing her sex with his hot tongue was all she could think of, and her judgment had abandoned her. Tonight. Something’s going to happen tonight. She had lost count of the dinner dates and mid-day lunches, the romantic excursions through the quaint little town, and the gallery visits in the city. He’d wanted to get to know her, for her to get to know him, for them to know each other outside of the milking facility and the heightened sexuality that had permeated their interactions for the previous several months, and she appreciated his circumspection more than she could articulate . . . but if the night didn’t end with her screaming his name as she came around his cock, Violet was certain she was going to perish from terminally unmet sexpectations.
* * *Their first date had been at a cozy little trattoria around the corner from her apartment in the city, and he’d been a perfect gentleman.
Bridgeton boasted a multi-species population, like most large cities, and although humans were the majority, she had begun to pay closer attention after his comments about majority culture as she went about her days, noticing the goblins and trolls who were nearly invisible in the backdrop of the city’s hustle and bustle. She’d discovered that her little corner bodega carried a small selection of items similar to those she’d seen at the Food Gryphon—kelp-flavored crisps and oddly-colored drinks, all stuffed on the lowest shelf at the back of the store. Violet had watched open-mouthed one evening as a petite goblin with wide hips and a sleeve of colorful tattoos, clutching the hand of a small child entered the store while she was leaning into the ice cream case, moving with purpose to the back aisle. She had stepped back with her strawberry crunch cone, watching surreptitiously as the goblin woman bent, releasing hold of her child and practically needing to kneel to load her shopping basket with items from the bottom shelf.
She’d let the woman go ahead of her in line as the little boy grew fidgety, and the whole episode had left her discomfited. She tried to imagine being forced to do all of her grocery shopping at the over-priced mini-mart without having half a dozen other options, and remembered the conversation she’d overheard in the locker room one day as Kirime and one of the other technicians bemoaned the skyrocketing property market in Cambric Creek. No wonder other species want to move there.
He’d met her at the restaurant that Saturday night, standing sentinel on the sidewalk as she scurried across the street, blushing that he’d beaten her when she lived right around the corner. Of course mister always-in-control is punctual, why are you surprised?! She asked about where he’d lived in the city, realizing from his description of the neighborhood that it wasn’t terribly far from her own apartment, explaining why he’d been immediately familiar with her suggestion.
“My ex-wife kept the townhouse,” he went on, eyes dropping to the wine glass before him, “and my business is in Cambric Creek, so I tend to not have much reason to come into the city these days . . . until now,” he conceded, flashing her one of those brilliant smiles, transforming him into a softer version of himself for the space of a heartbeat.
“What happened?” she’d blurted, desperately needing an answer to the question that had been turning over in her mind since that first night she’d met him for coffee. She had come home from the coffee shop that night nearly floating over the way the evening had ended, immediately bee-lining to her laptop to stalk him online. She wasn’t especially proud that she had developed a knack for digging up dirt on people, but over the years she had discovered a talent for rooting out extended family member’s social media, long-outdated resumes, and forgotten accounts with only the barest hint of information on her target. She knew his birthday, and now she knew his name. It was more than enough.
In the end, she’d found his ex-wife first.
Most people’s accounts were set to private these days, circumventing online snoops like her, but the glamorous woman with the crimson smile had public-facing everything. Profile after profile, different social platforms that all linked together, Violet paged through the highly-curated, glossy life of her bull’s former spouse, feeling more and more like a drab little mouse with every click.
Her mind had supplied her with the image of someone tall and slender, like the tiefling at the coffee shop, clad in expensive business attire with a stern expression, identical to his, well-matched in profession. The voluptuous beauty posing beside a green-tiled swimming pool—her long, ebony hair wrapped in a turban with oversized, ivory sunglasses hiding her eyes and red-painted lips stretched wide—bore no resemblance to the phantom lover she’d dreamt up. Human-looking, save for the cow-like tail that swished behind her and the curious, dark shadow of her back, which wasn’t turned towards the camera in any shot. Well, he doesn’t dislike human anatomy, at least you know that much. As she toggled back and forth between social platforms, scrolling through the endless feed of selfies and staged photos, Violet noticed the complete absence of real life—no family outings, no milestones or pets, no hint of the man with whom this smiling woman had once shared her life. The oldest photo in the feed was dated three years prior, and in those first few dozen, the other woman’s make-up was a bit more subdued, her eyelashes not yet lengthened with extensions, her lips stained a dark berry-red. He said he’s been divorced for two years.
She had recognized the mark of someone reinventing herself and understood the compulsion well. It would have been easy to do, had she found that dream job she’d been expecting right out of school—filling her social feeds with artsy, black and white photos of Bridgeton and her life in the big city, the over-priced burnt coffee from up the street balancing on a ledge overlooking the high rises across the water. It would have been easy to hide her humble beginnings and human family . . . just as this woman had completely hidden away any hint of whom she might have been, when she’d been his wife. Her had stomach tightened and flipped, unliking the idea of him being the life that had been worth hiding.
There were no photos of him to speak of, and no social media accounts she could find under his name, which didn’t actually surprise her a bit. Too brusque, too professional for that. The closest revelation she stumbled on was a comment on one of the oldest pictures in the other woman’s feed; a clueless, inappropriate comment from someone who appeared to be a relative, damning evidence that he had existed at all. I’m so sorry to hear about you and Rourke. She’d straightened in her seat at the discovery, quickly clicking on the profile of the commenter. A dozen or so photos of landscape and several children, all girls, all with the same, swishing tails behind them. The pictures had no filters and were of an odd, hasty composition, the mark of an older user who was unfamiliar with the photo platform’s highly curated vibe.
Searching the woman’s name, she quickly turned up a profile on CrowdJournal, more widely used with her own parent’s demographic. Paydirt. Hundreds of photos, going back years. It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for. Veleena’s handfasting. The album only consisted of half a dozen photos, and only one with him. He towered over the bride, looking as neat and severe as he did when he loomed over her every Friday, if not a bit younger. The bride herself was a revelation. Clear-eyed and smiling softly, with none of the dramatic makeup or brash confidence on display in her current photos, she’d gazed up at the big minotaur before her looking like a completely different person.
Violet had gone to bed that night wondering what had happened; if this other woman had decided to become someone new before their marriage had ended, if they’d each become someone new, and the people they’d become after their vows simply hadn’t worked together. Violet found that she couldn’t think badly of the woman in the photos, for she herself seemed completely different compared to the person she’d been only six months earlier; before she’d known about minotaur milking farms and vampire restaurants, when she’d been ignorant to the way her neighbors of different species lived and had been blind to her human privilege. She’d not be able to go back, that was certain, no matter how much her mother and Carson Tinsely from up the street might have wished it, so she could not fault this other woman for reinventing her life in a way that made her happy, and she clearly seemed happy in the multitude of photos.
His mouth had pressed and his head had cocked consideringly. “We had very different priorities by the end. It wasn’t any one big thing, it’s not like someone was cheating or anything like that, we just . . . it was one of those things. She wanted to travel, I was just starting my business. All of her friends were single, I was always working . . . we drifted apart and pretty soon we were strangers who happened to live together. I was far too boring for her, in any case.”
“Well, I have great news for you, because I’m the most boring person I know.”
The rich sound of his laughter had spilled over her like a thick flood of dark chocolate, warmer and more vibrant than the quiet huffs she’d heard at the farm, melting her insides in a way that was becoming deliciously familiar as he caught her pinky with his index finger on the edge of the table. “You don’t bore me. Not in the slightest.”
If she’d thought at the time that the two bottles of red wine they’d shared would have lubricated the path back to her bed, she might have been disappointed. He’d walked her to the door of her building, and the invitation to come up had never had a chance to escape her mouth, swallowed up by his lips as they’d been. His mouth was wider than those belonging to any of her previous partners, wide enough to engulf hers completely, but his lips were soft and his wide tongue hot and rough, and he’d kissed her until she was clinging to him and dizzy.
“I’ve wanted to do that for a very long time.” Deep and dark, his voice had rumbled against her exactly the way she’d suspected it might, as she’d fisted the front of his shirt in an attempt to stay upright. “I enjoyed spending time with you, Violet. I hope we can do it again soon.”
* * *Soonhad been four days later, when she’d met him for a pre-dinner drink at a crowded happy hour pub in Cambric Creek’s bustling downtown, before walking hand-in-hand to one of the many farm-to-table restaurants the town boasted. She’d been keenly aware of their size difference when he’d lifted her like a doll, as she struggled to climb onto a bar stool designed for a much larger species. His thickly muscled arm had scooped her up in a blink, a huge hand in the center of her back until she balanced upon the seat sufficiently.
“What’s that drink with the soda and syrup you make for kids? With the cherries?”
The server, a fleet-footed faun had cocked their eyebrow, making the piercings there bounce. “A lulabelle?”
“That’s the one. See that table of elves at the edge of the bar there? I want to send one to the blonde in the blue dress. No alcohol, and if you can add one of those little paper umbrellas, all the better.”
The satyr had narrowed their eyes dubiously, looking from Violet to the big minotaur before turning to put the order in with a shrug.
“Did you just buy another woman a drink right in front of me?
“I did, but just wait. She’ll be stomping over here in a minute. This way we can make introductions without needing to get up.” He’d leaned down then, easily covering the distance between them at the small table, and she’d barely had time to suck in a breath before he was kissing her, stealing the air from her lungs and doing nothing to ensure the continued dryness of her panties. “Thank you for meeting me tonight. I know Wednesdays aren’t exactly the most romantic date night, but the idea of not seeing you until next week didn’t sit well.”
The baritone vibration of his voice went directly between her thighs, her head practically lolling as the edge of his muzzle grazed the shell of her ear.
“I can’t believe you have to cancel for Friday.” The news that she’d not be seeing him at the farm that week had been a crushing blow, and she’d been mourning the opportunity to milk him, the first time she’d have done so since he’d come to meet her in the city. Taking his cock in her hands and listening to his tightly controlled gasps and grunts—now that she knew exactly where her head came up on his chest, now that knew he preferred to start his meal with dessert, now that she knew how searingly hot his mouth was on hers—was the most erotic thing she could imagine, and she’d been looking forward to his weekly appointment since he’d left her on her doorstep the previous Saturday.
“You didn’t think of taking this trip while Stiff Grip Sally was covering for me?” She hadn’t had the chance to fully appreciate his full-throated laugh, as a woman had appeared at his elbow, petite and full-figured with long, tapered ears, her sapphire eyes narrowed as she jabbed Rourke’s shoulder.
“You know, joke’s on you because I actually like these.” As if to prove her point, the elf tipped back the fruit-adorned drink she carried, smacking her lips defiantly. “Please tell me you didn’t tell Xenna I’d absolutely be at her party.”
“Because that sounds like something I’d do, after all. Do you mean to tell me Mr. Perfect isn’t overjoyed for the opportunity to ooze and schmooze with the whole neighborhood?”
The elf cocked her head, considering, and Violet had used the opportunity to gawk. Her dark blue eyes were wide-set and fringed in pale lashes, with a spray of freckles over her tiny button nose. She was lovely, and Violet was forced to wonder if she looked as drab and boring in comparison as she felt. “Actually, he would, you’re right.” Her lips curled into a self-satisfied smile as Rourke snorted, and then the elf’s eyes turned, taking Violet in for the first time.
“Hi, I’m Lurielle. Are you planning on making introductions, Rourke?”
She was introduced to the infamous neighbor, the full apples of other woman’s cheeks rosy-pink as she smiled, blue eyes flashing as she looked from human to minotaur with an approving hum. “Violet, I’ll warn you now—he’s very bossy, and if you go to get ice cream, he will harass you for a taste of your cone. It doesn’t matter if he sampled it at the shop, he’s greedy. But he’s a very good neighbor, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t convince him to move away. Oh! We just got a new patio set, you’ll both have to come over for drinks and dinner. Khash likes to pretend that he single-handedly wrestled down a mastodon every time he turns on the grill, it’ll be great.”
She’d left the table soon after, extracting a promise from Rourke that they’d come over some evening soon, before disappearing through the press of bodies to return to her friends. Violet liked her enormously.
Dinner had been just up the block on the vibrant little town’s Main Street, and when the bill arrived, she’d attempted to pull a handful of carefully folded bills from her wristlet, before he’d stopped her.
“No, that’s absolutely not happening. Put that away.”
She’d not thought about it until the day after their first dinner together, realizing in mortification that she ought to have attempted to pay her half. What kind of feminist are you?! She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been out and hadn’t paid for her half, including her coffee date with Carson Tinsley, which accounted for how infrequently she went anywhere. She had come prepared that night, several weeks of her tips smoothed and tucked into her wristlet.
“But I didn’t even offer to pay half the other night and I should ha—”
“Violet.” If the commanding rumble of his voice hadn’t silenced her, the heat of his hand dropping to her knee would have. “I don’t want you to feel that you don’t have any agency here. I might be the one giving all the orders, but you hold all the cards. Your comfort is the only thing that counts right now, and if I overstep, I want you to know you can tell me so. But that’s not happening. Don’t think I’m unaware we’re at different points in our careers. You can say no, you can say you don’t want to see me again, you can tell me to stop coming to the farm when you’re working. It’s dinner, not a down payment on your time. But I’m in a position to comfortably spoil someone, so when you’re with me, I’m spoiling you. End of story.”
She was a good feminist, she’d told herself, and she definitely couldn’t be bought . . . but if he’d have suggested at that moment that he would have appreciated a blow job, she would have fallen face-first on his cock with an open mouth without a shred of hesitation.
Like the previous weekend, the night had ended with a kiss that had nearly turned her inside out, the hot pressure and texture of his tongue reminding her of her suppositions over what it would feel like licking her sex. His giant hand wrapped around her hip, drifting lower as he nibbled on her neck until he palmed her ass, kneading over her cheeks. She could feel the heat of his erection through his neatly tailored trousers, pressing herself tighter, eager for whatever would happen next. He leaves on a business trip tomorrow and he’s missing his milking appointment, he’s not going to want to leave town without letting you suck him off at the very least. She’d been about to ask if they were going back to his place when he released her, locking his hands around her elbows when she swayed.
“I’ll miss seeing you this week, but I’ll call once I’m back in town.”
She’d somehow managed to make it back to her apartment, texting Geillis in aggravation. She appreciated that he was acting like a gentleman and that they were taking a bit of time to get to know one another, she did. She was certain if they hadn’t that she’d be doubting his interest in her as anything other than a casual human dalliance, her rational mind reminded her of that regularly . . . but the other half of her; the base, animalistic side that thought of nothing but his cock and how it would feel erupting inside her, was ready to climb out of her skin. Her friend’s suggestion to her ire had been typical.
Send him nudes.
She’d not had the courage to go that far, but had instead sent a casual photo of herself wearing a thigh-skimming slip of a nightgown, curled atop her blankets. It had taken nearly two hours to set up and artfully arrange herself on the bed in a way that didn’t look like a jumble of knobby knees and chubby thighs, taking and discarding photo after photo before she’d sent it off with a message thanking him for dinner, and that she’d miss him while he was gone, opening an incognito tab on her phone to load up some minotaur porn, scrolling until she found a bull with similar coloring to him, and set to work rubbing circles against her aching clit as the human on screen was taken from behind.
* * *“So you started your business out of spite.”
He’d blown out through his wide, pink nostrils, hard enough that it lifted the pecan-brown hair that fell in his face. “That’s a tremendous oversimplification.”
She’d dissolved into giggles at his wrinkled nose and offended tone, leaning forward in a swoop as she laughed, the solid grip of his hand the only thing that tethered her to the earth until he swung her around to crash into his side, his broad body absorbing her laughter.
“You did too. You took your ball and went home and started your own game.”
“A better game,” he grumbled in response, earning another peal of laughter from her. “More respectable. Absolutely more profitable.”
They were walking along the trail of the town’s titular creek several days after he’d returned from his trip, and she’d been asking for the full story on how he’d left his job in the city. He’d started with a company that distributed farm machinery right out of school, working his way up to senior VP of sales, a title that had made her swallow hard. And you’re just happy to have a four-digit bank balance. She’d learned he’d fled his small-town community as soon as he was able, earning a university scholarship and never looking back. As a result, he wasn’t particularly close with the younger siblings he’d left behind. He didn’t need to tell her it was something he felt guilty over; she was an expert in guilt and being anxious over other people’s feelings, and recognized it when she saw it.
“They stopped caring about the people they were selling to, started cutting corners, going back on their guarantees. At that point the money didn’t even matter . . . that could have been my grandfather being taken advantage of, or my brother, or one of the neighbors. I don’t ever want to directly work in agriculture again, but they’re good people, hard-working people. I like knowing I’m doing my part to help them.” He’d shrugged, big hooves clicking on the paved path as they walked. “So I left. Waited out my no-compete clause, rented office space. The people who run this town . . . you only need to get on their good side once. I helped out one of the local farms with a warranty issue on my own time, and that old centaur took my good deed back to the farmer’s alliance. By the time I was ready to set up shop, I had all of their business.”
Violet gazed up, her heart positively overflowing as he grinned. He was sharp and stoic and unsmiling most of the time, but when he did smile it was worth every moment without its light. He was solid where she was anxious, strong when she would have caved, but she thought that her own positivity filled in the gaps of his harder edges; her easier smiles and chipper attitude complimented his steeliness. Written in the stars.
“Tell me about the people who run the town,” she begged, swinging their joined hands in a most undignified way. “Oh! The Applethorpes, right?” He’d taken her to Applethorpe Manor already, one of Cambric Creek’s oldest and grandest residences which had been donated to the town as a museum, and she’d poured over every room; each arch and decorative door transom, every board of the intricate, two-toned herringbone hardwood floor and the meticulously restored wallpaper. It was everything she loved and it thrilled her that he was indulging her interests, and she’d been eager to learn more of the town’s apparent checkered history.
“The Applethorpe’s,” he agreed, “what’s left of them, anyway. The Hemmings, obviously, they’re at the top of the food chain, and the Irondritchs. Shifters and weres, that’s who settled this town originally. I’d love to get you into the Slade manor, we’ll have to figure out how to finagle an invite to the Halloween seance. Maybe Lurielle knows someone . . . "
The water widened at that point, spilling over a short cliff of rocks in a spectacular falls view, right in the center of town, and she’d squealed over how picturesque and lovely everything was. Cambric Creek was, she was slightly distressed to learn, just as expensive as the city, if not more so. All of the accommodative architecture and restaurants and scenery came at a cost, one the residents clearly didn’t mind paying, and she felt a twinge of guilt over every expensive meal and outing he planned for them, every little gift bag of lace-wrapped artisanal soap and local honey and hand-beaded bracelets she oohed over in shops that she went home with, but he was resolute. Spending time with her was the treat, and the cost of it was meaningless.
If only she knew what to do next. Violet felt stuck in place, a preposterous feeling, considering that she saw him regularly and learned more about what made him tick with each successive week. She adored spending time with him, was ridiculously impressed with his tenacity and ambition, and was turned to goo by his surprising softness with her . . . but he’d paused his visits to the farm, despite her insistence that she didn’t want him to do so, and after half a dozen dates and outings with nothing to show for her time—other than a heart that would surely be broken if he were to change his mind—was a pile of dripping panties and a charging cord that had earned a permanent place plugged in beside her bed. She’d been forced to wonder, as she took the much girthier vibrator she’d purchased weeks earlier off said charger, once she’d come home that night—alone, again—if his balls were achingly full for all the time they’d spent not having sex.
* * *“There we are,” Geillis announced cheerfully, after ripping up the last of the wax-smeared papers. “That looks spot on, they really should have let me been more than a shampoo girl, bloody wankers at that place. He’ll be able to get his muzzle nice and wet now, you’re welcome, luvvie. I expect a bouquet of roses this week, once you’ve had your kitty licked like a bowl of cream. From both of you. Oh, he can afford the really nice ones too, the long-stemmed jobbies!”
He was coming to the city again the following night, a Thursday, and she was determined there was no way she was letting him deposit her at the building’s doorstep without coming upstairs and taking off his pants. His shirt too. You’ve never seen him without his shirt on, he might have six nipples. It wouldn’t matter if he did, she thought resolutely. More to love.
She needed to figure out what to do next, how to move things along, for she had the niggling suspicion that every time she tilted her chin up expectantly, waiting to be ravished, Rourke was, in fact waiting for her. She needed to stop waffling, stop waiting for things to happen on their own, stop letting the uptight little voice in her head convince her that there was no way he’d be interested in a relationship with someone of her species, of her financial situation, with her at all. Maybe Geillis was right. Maybe she should take off her panties. Maybe you just shouldn’t wear them.Maybe it’s time to take this bull by the horns.