Morning Glory Milking Farm by C.M. Nascosta
Chapter 5
“Pumpkin, I’m just so happy to hear you found something and you’re doing well. You know we worry about you all alone up there in the city!”
Her mother’s voice was tinny and distant through her low-quality Bluetooth headphones, and Violet considered that replacing them might need to jump the priority line over luxury vegetables. Her explorations around Cambric Creek had been tentative so far and completely restricted to her brief lunch break. There was a green market that set up on Wednesdays in the parking lot just up the road, which she’d taken advantage of several times since starting at the farm, relishing in the fresh produce, but not sounding as though she was having a conversation from the bottom of a well might be more important than fresh mesclun and radishes for dinner.
“You don’t need to worry about me,” Violet reminded her mother, knowing it was no use, as she was a worrier by nature. “It’s been going really well so far. I’m actually able to start paying back my loans now, so you know . . . light at the end of the tunnel eventually.”
She listened with half an ear as her mother made noises about her taking out so many loans, bemoaning the fact that it had been necessary in the first place. In front of her, a waifishly slender troll prepared her order of the barista’s special. The coffee shop was down the street from the farm, nestled between businesses in a strip mall, and she’d been overjoyed to find it, stepping over the threshold with her heart thumping in her mouth, nervous over her first official trip into a non-human business . . . but the shop had been empty, save for the bored-looking troll behind the counter, a satyr who never looked up from his cellphone, and a hunched, hyena-faced man sitting near the window.
The coffee was her reward for the messy start to the day, necessitating changing her scrubs after the second client and punching in the cleaning code for the very first time. The bull had been younger than the normal farm client, maybe a bit younger than herself, and had seemed jittery from the moment she’d entered the room. He’d fidgeted as she took her place beneath the table, his long cock already purple at the tip, twitching before she’d even lubed her gloves.
“That means he likes you,” he laughed nervously, and Violet sighed, assuming he’d be a Pop-n-Go client once the milking nozzle was applied.
“Just try to relax. Let me know if it’s too much pressure.”
He’d groaned when she slickened him with the oil, panting when she began to stroke. His pants had turned to whimpers as she brought one hand over another, reminding herself that this might actually be the least sexy job in the world, when only several minutes into his milking and without a single thrust of warning, he moaned long and loud, his cock erupting, coating her chest in ropes of his release, coming on her and on the floor, and nowhere near the milking machine.
“You haven’t even told us what you’re doing! Aunt Gracie was so excited to hear you found a good job, you need to call her and tell her all about it!”
She considered what her elderly great-aunt might say in response to hearing her surrogate granddaughter was professionally tasked with making minotaurs ejaculate, that she’d gone stomping back to the locker room that morning coated in a ridiculous amount of bullman semen, and decided it was a conversation best avoided. “It’s a pharmaceutical company, mom,” she cut in, attempting to quash a prolonged explanation. “I’m working with clients at a pharmaceutical company, it’s hardly glamorous. But it doesn’t need to be, because it’s going to pay the bills. Did I tell you it’s out in the suburbs? If I’m still here when my lease runs out, I might move closer to save on gas.”
Her mother’s exclamation of relief was expected, and Violet congratulated herself on changing the conversation’s direction. “That’s wonderful! We’re so proud of you, pumpkin, and I think moving out of that awful city is an excellent idea. I forgot to mention . . . Carson from the up street? The Tinsleys? Well, he’s just moved back home. His mother was just telling me last week how happy she is to have him while he gets back on his feet after the divorce, you know. He grew up to be very handsome, Violet. Maybe the next time you’re home for a visit the two of you could go for coffee and catch up.”
Violet didn’t need to tax her imagination to picture the smug look she knew had crossed her mother’s face, the same one she always assumed when she thought she’d come up with a fantastic idea, regardless of how ill-thought the idea actually was. Divorced before thirty and needs to move back home, as if that’s something to aspire to. The cup placed in front of her by the troll had a murky appearance, and she frowned. “Mom, I’ve got to get back, I’m just on my lunch break.”
“Oh, of course! We’re so proud of you, Violet. Call us on the laptop when you can, we want to hear all about it, okay?”
The diatomaceous earth in the barista’s special gave the drink a chalk-like texture and mucky taste, even less appealing than the burnt coffee from the expensive chain near her apartment, and she only managed to choke down half the cup on her walk back to the farm before giving up. Her mother’s less than subtle hint about her old junior high sweetheart rankled in her mind as she walked, and Violet scowled. She didn’t want to move back home, didn’t want to go back to the cookie-cutter middle class human neighborhood where she’d grown up, regardless of what her mother wished. It had been a looming possibility before the job at the farm, but now that she was actually starting to turn the corner off destitution alley, she was loath to think of going back, and the milquetoast human with whom she’d made mud pies as a child did nothing to sweeten the deal, despite what her mother hoped for. You’re not moving back and that’s that. Time to focus on work.
There was a purple stickered file waiting for her, and her stomach had twisted and flipped from the moment it was added to her stack that morning. It had been two weeks since she’d seen the Clockwatcher, and true to his word he’d booked the last appointment slot of the day, giving her seven hours to think about what might happen that week—imagining how witty she’d be, what their conversations might consist of and if it might arouse him, as it apparently had the previous week, if they’d have another conversation at all. She didn’t make a habit of making small talk with any of the other clients, after all, and they never seemed inclined to do so on their own.
“I trust you’re having a better day this week? I’d hate to think I was a harbinger of bad luck for you.”
Violet didn’t know what it was about him—the rigid set of his shoulders or the way his voice reminded her of a thunderclap, deep and matter-of-fact, or maybe a combination of the two, encased in his well-tailored business attire—but a shiver moved up her back as her stomach flipped and her legs nearly turned to liquid, heated by the fire he ignited between her thighs. Hey, this isn’t a sexual job, remember? She’d always been a sucker for authority, eager to impress her professors and supervisors with quick compliance, and she suspected if this sharp-voiced minotaur barked an order for her to climb the short staircase and kneel before him, thick cock hanging obscenely over the unzipped fly of his pants, she’d have dropped to the ground without a moment of hesitation.
As it was, the big bull loomed from the center of the upper room, looking down over her. His shirt that day was a pale blue, well-pressed and tidy; his trousers a slate grey, and his hair as messy as ever. Violet did her best to suck in a slow breath through her nose, not betraying the butterflies she’d felt all morning and afternoon. “It’s been a very good day, actually. I had a cancellation earlier, so I finally had a chance to grab a coffee that didn’t come from our break room, and the rest of the day’s been pretty easy. Maybe you’re a good luck charm in this time slot.”
He chuckled at that, deep and rumbling, and the butterflies within her took wing once more. “Well, that’s a relief. I’d hate to go back to the other place across town, but I’d be forced to make the sacrifice if you were still slipping on banana peels and missing files every week.”
She sputtered in mock outrage, her laughter ringing through the circular room, raising her head from the tank she’d hauled off the rack just in time to see the corners of his mouth lift slightly, the barest hint of a smirk. “I don’t recall ever saying anything about banana peels.”
His shoulders lifted in a small shrug as his pants fell. “I used my imagination. In any case I’m relieved to hear it.”
The bench creaked overhead as she hooked the tank into place, quickly reviewing the readiness checklist. She tried to imagine him swinging a leg over the bench, his thick thighs squeezing the upholstery as he waited for her. She had only ever glimpsed the clients from the thighs up, and wondered what the rest of his legs looked like: if he had sharp, glinting hooves or if they were neatly filed; buffed to a shine or scuffed from activity.
There had been a satyr in line ahead of her that morning at the little coffee shop in the shopping plaza up the street from the Farm’s campus, and Violet had done her best to be discreet as she looked over his lower half, imagining that he would be at least close in composition to a minotaur. To her fascination, the satyr’s jeans had ended just above his jutting hocks, and she’d wondered if the messy-haired minotaur’s bespoke dress pants did the same. The satyr’s black hooves had been scuffed grey around their edges, and she’d been unable to imagine her unnamed minotaur’s looking the same. Everything about him seemed too controlled for that, too polished and austere. Well . . . except that messy hair. Besides, you’re acting like you know anything about him. And why are you trying to flirt with him!? It’s one thing to get off thinking about his junk, you don’t need to wind up with a crush. That’s completely unprofessional.
She scowled at her inner monologue, shaking the sensible voice away. Shut up. We’re just having fun, it’s a conversation, not a proposal. The minotaur’s previous words had sparked a question in her mind, and she voiced it then, taking her place beneath the table. “There’s another place like this? These sorts of places are . . . common then?”
“Mhm. There’s one in Bridgeton, right by the history museum. I’ve been to that one and the one in Starling Heights, but that place doesn’t compensate enough to make the drive worth it.”
“I live in Bridgeton!” she exclaimed in awe, trying to imagine what building housed the milking facility, only realizing belatedly that she was sharing more personal information. “I go past the history museum a few times a week, I can’t believe I didn’t know it was there!”
He huffed again, that deep chuff that wasn’t quite a laugh. “It’s in the same building as the flower shop with the big window displays. I used to live in Bridgeton and it was convenient then, but I wouldn’t want to go back there now. Not as nice as this place, or as selective.”
“I don’t know why I thought this place was unique. So do all minotaurs know about this?”
“Oh, they know alright. Most bulls do it, and if they haven’t yet, believe me, they’re thinking about it. There’s no reason not to. Humans have commodified us, and the financial compensation for a natural bodily function is a no-brainer, especially once there’s a mortgage to think about. Family men? Forget about it. How else would they be able to afford to take the kids to Blinxieland? May as well get paid for what’s going down the shower drain every day.”
Heat flooded her face at the image his carelessly spoken words presented: him, standing beneath a spray of water, muscular arm extended to brace himself against the wall with one hand, while the other gripped his straining erection, stroking himself until he came with a moan, painting the shower wall with a torrent of his copious release. He was wide enough to completely fill the shower in her small apartment, and there would be no room for her to join him for the activity unless she was impaled on his thick cock, legs wrapped around his waist. Then there would be room, and he could give his arm a break. Wouldn’t want him to get a cramp.
“So just remember that,” he went on, shaking her from her filthy daydream, “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, run away, because he’s a liar.”
Her laughter didn’t travel around the room as freely now that she was ensconced beneath the bench, creaking once more with his weight above. Violet tried to envision herself flirting with another minotaur, another one of the clients from the farm perhaps or maybe some well-dressed stranger she might run into in Cambric Creek, visiting the farmer’s market or in one of those odd little shops, but her imagination came up short, unable to picture any minotaur other than the messy-haired one above her. “Well, I can’t say I have many conversations with minotaurs outside of work, but I’ll keep that in mind.” From the bench above, he harrumphed and she laughed again. “I mean, it’s not like there are minotaurs falling over themselves trying to buy me drinks when I’m out and about! But like I said—I’ll keep it in mind. It’s good to have a truth barometer. What do you mean this place is more selective?”
His hooves scraped on the footrests as he settled against the bench, and Violet depressed the pump bottle on her station, coating her palm with lubrication, her stomach flipping in anticipation.
“They have a health screening, and you have to meet certain criteria. Minimum height, minimum weight, they rate our production ability.”
There was something strangely intimate about taking his huge cock in her hands now that they’d laughed together, she thought as he filled the opening. Like the last time, he was completely erect, hanging stiffly above like a particularly decadent, juicy-looking fruit. It was an unspoken expectation for the clients to already be partially aroused, speeding up the time they were in the chair and making things easier for the technician, and most clients followed the social courtesy. Walking in to find the minotaurs stroking themselves had lost its shock value for her at that point and she appreciated their efforts when she stood in position beneath the table, but this . . . this was a step beyond the normal courtesy. Talking with you beforehand gets him hard. Very hard. Violet understood the reaction, for she was certain if she were to take a seat on the vinyl-topped stool at that minute, a trail of moisture would betray her own arousal when she stood again.
“Production ability?” she asked, running the tips of her lubed fingers up the thickest of the snaking veins in his shaft, pausing to tease over the mid-length swell. He sucked in a sharp breath as she thumbed over the tip of his head, only a small crescent of the shiny skin exposed as his foreskin retracted, and she smiled, once again feeling a thrill at pulling a response from him. “How do they gauge that?”
“They measure our balls.” His voice still retained its matter-of-fact edge, even as he breathed out raggedly, his cock bobbing as she released it, considering his words. His balls hung fat and full, impressive regardless of the species, and if there was some sort of test they were required to pass, Violet had no doubt that his would have outshone any they were judged against. “The bigger the testicles, the higher the rate of production, so they want to know that we’re going to help them hit their acquisition targets.”
He grunted when her hands raised to cup the testes in question, gliding her nails over each swell before tugging them gently, smiling when he shuddered. “And obviously you passed the test.” She gave him another squeeze before moving back to his shaft, twisting her hands down to his head before she began to pump. His reply was lost to a choked groan as she stroked him, her entire upper body moving with her arms, the pretext of conversation forgotten for a moment as she lost herself in her task. “So are the other facilities similar in how they, um . . . operate?” She didn’t like the prickle of jealousy that twisted her stomach at the thought of someone else milking him, stroking his girth and making him groan. He’d requested her, after all—he was her client. Your big bull. The rational part of her brain kicked at her spinal cord in an effort to wrestle back sense, but she ignored the shudder, settling into the rhythm she knew he liked.
“They don’t have the same . . . personal touch this place does, and the personal touch is a definite perk.”
“I guess it depends on who’s doing the touching.” The brazen flirtation was out before she could bite it back, but the answering chuckle—dark and deep, like a ripple of black velvet—made her sex quiver.
“There’s no doubt about that. The ability to make requests is a perk of the perk, without question. Some personal touches are definitely more enjoyable.”
It was all she could do to not climb the steps and flip him on the milking table and climbing aboard his broad body, straddling his hips and showing him just how personal her touch could be. Violet wondered if he could smell her arousal, for her panties had long since left behind damp and were making their best effort to achieve dripping. “I was surprised to have gotten a request at all, I think I’m the only human here and thought my hands were going to be too small for them to even keep me on. Glad to know the personal touch makes up for it. Is that why you put in the request in the first place?”
“Well, that and you do have those perfect, tiny little hands.”
It was a relief being ensconced beneath the table, for he wasn’t able to see her beaming smile or the way she bounced lightly on her toes, giddy with euphoria at the playful flirtation. “Just let me know if this personal touch is to your liking.”
He grunted as she pulled his balls again with the hand not pumping his shaft, trying to stimulate every part of him to her best ability. If a job’s worth doing . . .
“I can’t think of a single way it could be any more to my liking,” he gritted out through clenched teeth, trying and failing to hold in another growl of pleasure as she tightened her grip around his thick swell.
She imagined what it would be like to be stretched by his girth, her legs splayed over his hips as he bucked up into her, the way his big mushroom head would drag against her g-spot, her inner lips rubbed by that mid-shaft bulge; or else, how he might like for her to be on her knees before him, sucking on the seam of his sac as he stroked himself for her, feeling that pounding pulse in his balls against her mouth. She wondered if he would fall apart for her in the privacy of his own bed, his tight grunts and groans opening to full-throated moans of pleasure, if he would say filthy things to her in that rich, dark-chocolate voice as she writhed beneath him, stuffed with his thick cock, every pump of his wide hips sending her higher and higher up the cliff of her peak, threatening to fling her off the pinnacle into the sun once he came inside her, filling her with his heat . . .
His hips had begun steadily hitting the bench in that same slow, solid rhythm, making her realize how long it had been and how close she was to losing herself in her daydreams. She was eager for him to erupt, to see the proof of his big testicles’ worth, a preposterous notion for her to be having, and the sensible part of her brain, which was shrinking by the week, stamped in disapproval. We are going to have such a lecture when we get home tonight, young lady!
When he released into the sucking nozzle once she’d worked it down his shaft, she quickly cupped his balls, feeling them pulse as they emptied in rhythmic spurts. She began pulling them, squeezing as she did so, milking them like udders, the way the Good Little Cows preferred, milking him dry. He was unable to completely swallow down his groan of pleasure as she did so, jerking once, twice, sagging on the third, spent at last. The tension within her was so tight, a stiff breeze would have sent her over the edge, the merest ghost of pressure against her clit enough to make her come, and when the light clicked off, she nearly sobbed in need.
Her knees wobbled as she capped the bottle, weighing it and affixing the label, unhooking the used tank and hose. He’d not left the room yet, and she listened to the rustling sound of him silently redressing, turning at last to watch his broad back flex as he smoothed his re-tucked shirt, admiring the curve of his ass before he turned, dark brown eyes capturing her immediately. Nothing about this is appropriate.
“Where did you go for coffee?”
Her mouth ran dry, her jaw hanging open dumbly for several interminable moments before she was able to speak again, not expecting further conversation from the big bull.
“Um, there’s a little plaza up the street, I don’t even know what it was called. It’s next to—”
“Next to the gym,” he finished, making a sound of disgust at the back of his throat, his pink nose wrinkling around the burnished gold ring cinching it. Violet smiled at his reaction, following the ring as he shook his head. He’s just stupid handsome. If you ran into him on the street, you’d be following him home like a stray. “That’s terrible. You need to go to Black Sheep, they’re over on Main with—”
“The one with the black awnings,” she continued, nodding. “I’ve wanted to try it, but I never have time in the mornings and they always look so crowded when I pass on my way home.”
He shrugged, his hand landing on the doorknob. “Find the time, you won’t regret it. They roast their own beans on-site and age them in bourbon barrels, there’s nothing better. I make a point of pulling away every afternoon for a caffeine fix. I expect a full review of your experience when you make it. Well . . . until next week.”
She wasn’t expecting the small smile—a brilliant flash of white teeth, his liquid brown eyes crinkling behind his untidy hair, leaving her utterly frozen—before he pulled the door open, horns ducking through to the hallway beyond, pulling it shut behind him. The collection room seemed to echo with his absence, the thud of her own heartbeat overloud without his bulk to absorb the evidence of what their sessions together did to her. Violet turned slowly, moving mechanically to complete her cleaning checklist before dragging her feet back to the locker room, collecting her little blue envelopes at the desk as she left.
* * *She drove past the little coffee shop on Main Street without slowing; past the eclectic little shops and cafes until the signs for Bridgeton loomed ahead, leaving Cambric Creek behind for another day, her arousal forgotten as she entered her apartment, slumping into a chair. He looked younger when he smiled, she thought, less severe. She wondered what his laugh was like, if he shook with unrestrained mirth or if that too was tightly controlled, stifled like his pleasured moans. She wondered what she had done to earn the gift of his smile that day, what particular moment of their banter had he deemed charming enough to allow her a glimpse of that other, softer version of him she was certain existed. She was still sitting there when the room began to grow dim, the sunlight outside waning as the evening rolled in, but she had no desire to get up and start dinner, no desire to count the money from her collection of blue envelopes, already knowing what she’d find there.
She ought to get up and call her mother back, ought to video call them so she could talk to Aunt Gracie as well. She’d evade the truth or make something up, she’d already decided. They didn’t need to know precisely what she was doing for a living, only that her bills were getting paid and she liked her co-workers. A pharmaceutical company had a nice panache to it, one that she knew would impress her mother and great aunt enough that there would be no need for further questions. She’ll probably go bragging back to Carson Tinsley’s mom, letting her know how well I’m doing. The thought of going for coffee with the human she’d known her whole life left her feeling oddly unsettled, imagining doughy-soft skin and middling height, exactly the same as every other guy she’d ever been with. Tomorrow you’re going to go to that little cafe in town for the good coffee, make the time, like he said.
The thought did little to cheer her, and she slumped further into the corner of her chair. There was no real reason for her melancholy, she knew, no reason to mope. Her plan for solvency was coming together, her ability to catch up on her bills and begin paying down her debt becoming an attainable reality. She ought to be celebrating, ought to be continuing to revel in her reversal of fortune, despite the oddity of her new job. There was no reason for the bubble of despondency that had taken up residence in her chest; no reason she could think of other than one, and once the thought occurred to her, Violet knew it was true, a fact that boded poorly for the future.
It would be a whole week before she saw him again.