Page 3 of The Minotaur's Milkmaid
“The milking isn’t the worst part,” Annie adds, though she’s still blushing. “I mean…it kind of feels nice after a while.”
Beatrice raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Oh? And here I thought you were thepureone, Annie. I knew it!”
“Beatrice!” Annie squeaks, horrified, while I snicker behind my hand.
Beatrice winks. “Just saying. If someone’s going to be moaning during morning milking, I’d rather it not be me.”
We all burst into giggles as we file into our stalls.
I settle onto the cushioned bench, and Aunt Hettie bustles over. She’s an older, motherly woman with a sharp wit. She clucks her tongue and pats my shoulder. “Morning, darlings. Maeve, you didn’t finish your morning choresagain.”
I give her a sheepish grin. “You do look lovely today, Auntie.”
She snorts but shakes her head fondly. “Flattery won’t get you out of work, girl!”
The others are already settling into their places, making themselves comfortable for the milking. Some chat quietly, while others rest with their eyes closed. I slip into the rhythm of it, my muscles unwinding as Aunt Hettie adjusts the milk bucket in my lap. I untie my dress, allowing my full, engorged breasts to spill free, the milk already beading at the tips of my nipples, ready to be released.
The milking process begins. The girls joke, but thereissomething sensual about it, the way Aunt Hettie's fingers press just so, coaxing the milk out in smooth, steady pulls of my nipples. A warmth spreads through me with each tug, a gentle pressure that builds and releases in time with my breath. My body knows the routine; it responds without me thinking, and the milk starts to flow. The bucket below catches each stream with a soft plink.
I rest my hands on my thighs, fingers curling slightly as the familiar ache begins to fade. My thoughts begin to wander to things I know they shouldn’t. This usually comforts me, but lately, it’s been stirring something else, something I don’t quite understand, but I know iswrong.
Jacob is a good man, I know this. He’s kind and reliable. The sort of man Aunt Hettie says will make a fine husband. A safe choice. Agoodchoice.
But when he has stolen kisses from me in the past, they’ve been sweet and chaste, and what I crave is…more.
I shift on the bench, my thighs pressing together as Aunt Hettie’s hands work my breasts. My skin prickles. My breath comes a little quicker.
It’s wrong, wrong, wrong.
I imagine hands that aren’t Aunt Hettie’s, larger, rougher. A touch that isn't gentle but gripping. A mouth that doesn’t ask, but devours. The thought sends a flush creeping up my neck.
This isn’t proper, but the warmth between my legs pulses in time with the milking, and for the first time, I wonder what it would feel like—to be touched there with the same slow rhythm, to arch against a man’s body instead of this bench, to hear him groan my name like a prayer.
The milk flows faster now, and my body is responding to thoughts it shouldn’t. The barn feels too hot and the air is too humid. I bite my lip, torn between shame and this strange, aching need.
Is this what desire feels like?
Aunt Hettie clucks her tongue. “Easy, girl. You’re tensing up.”
I force myself to relax, but the images don’t leave, a strong hand sliding up my skirt, a whisper in the dark, “Let me show you what you’ve been missing.”
The milking ends too soon. As the last drops fall, so does my fantasy. The heat lingers, however, a secret throbbing between my thighs.
One day, I promise myself. One day, I’ll know what that feels like. But for now, I smooth my skirts and pretend my cheeks aren’t burning.
Chapter Four
Claimed by the warlord
Maeve
Night comes like any other; I finished all my chores, and now, warm in my bed, I’m beginning to drift off to sleep as I listen to the gentle chirping of crickets outside the small cottage I share with Beatrice. Until there’s a sudden thunderous crash of something falling in the distance, followed by a low, growling noise that doesn’t belong to any farm animal.
At first, I think I’m dreaming. I rub my eyes, trying to shake off the fuzziness of sleep, but then the earth beneath me trembles, and screams begin to fill the air.
I jump out of bed, my heart pounding so hard I think it will burst from my chest. The sound of breaking wood and shouting only grows louder and closer. It finally dawns on me that the village is under attack. Panic rushes through my veins like wildfire. I rush to the window, my breath catching in my throat when I see them.
The shapes are huge, monstrous forms moving through the darkness. Minotaurs. I’ve heard the stories, of course, but to see them for myself…it’s beyond anything I could’ve imagined.
