Page 15 of Dallas
“Yes, Sir,” I murmur.
He opens the door to the stairs and keeps a grip on my hand while we descend. After another hard kiss, he opens the outside door and steps out. “I want to hear the deadbolt before I walk away, Arianna.”
“Okay, okay. I’ve got it.”
He gives me a quirky grin. “Sassy girl.”
I laugh as I close the door and turn the deadbolt.
After taking the stairs two at a time, I lock my apartment door and head straight for my bedroom. The man cannot order me not to masturbate. It’s preposterous.
I should probably eat dinner, but it can wait. I’m so desperate to come that I need the release first. I won’t be able to think and make rational decisions until I have a good orgasm.
After stripping out of my dress, panties, and bra, I slide beneath the covers of my bed, spread my legs, and palm my breasts. I’m fascinated by how good it feels to touch my nipples, a fact I never knew until this week.
I strum them over and over, letting my arousal grow back to how horny I was as Dallas was kissing me. Or maybe I was more aroused when he stroked my clit over my panties or touched the undersides of my breasts.
My boobs are kind of big for my frame, and I squeeze the globes as I finger my nipples. I’m edging myself, letting my pussy get more and more desperate.
When I close my eyes, I try to picture Dallas kissing me, but my mind goes instead to the visual he painted of him expressing milk from my breasts. It’s so dirty and so hot at the same time. Would he really do something like that?
I’ve never let my mind stray to such an erotic thought, nor have I known lactation could be erotic. Suddenly, I find myself in his vision. I’m cradling a baby in my arms. I don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl, but it’s suckling hard from my nipple. My other breast aches for the same attention, but I can’t do anything about it.
Dallas is behind me, sitting against the headboard. I’m nestled between his legs. My nightgown is around my waist, leaving my other breast totally exposed. I cover my engorged breast with my palm and squeeze, trying to lessen the pressure.
Dallas circles my wrist and tugs my hand free before bringing it between his thigh and my hip. He tucks my fingers between us and pins my hand there.
I glance from the baby to Dallas just as he begins stroking my engorged breast gently with his fingers. I ache. I don’t know why I know this is even a thing. I just do. My milk needs to be pumped soon. It’s tight and almost painful.
“Hurts…” I whimper.
“I know, baby. I’ll fix it after you nurse the baby.”
Somehow, my breasts actually ache in real time as if I were truly engorged with milk. I grit my teeth, finding the sensation oddly titillating.
When the baby releases my nipple, he or she is milk-drunk and asleep. Dallas kisses my temple before sliding out from behind me. He takes the baby from me. “Sit on your hands until I get back,” he orders.
I lean back against the pile of pillows and obediently tuck my hands under my thighs. I stare at my breasts. One is empty and hanging looser. The other is desperate for attention.
Dallas is back in less than a minute. He straddles my legs, plants his hands on either side of my hips, and lowers his mouth to my breast.
I moan in real time as he suckles from my elongated nipple. He doesn’t drink enough, though. He enjoys circling it with his tongue over and over, teasing my achy breast between suckles.
I arch into him, whimpering. “Please… Hurts…” I need him to pump me. In my imagination, I know he does this often. Several times a day. He doesn’t let me pump myself. He decides when to relieve me and hooks up the machine himself.
Dallas decides everything, and I love it. I’ve learned to let him control me because the rewards are so unbelievable.
This time, he surprises me. When he releases my still-pulsing breast, instead of grabbing the pump beside the bed, he pats my hip. “Hands and knees, baby.”
I have no idea what he’s planning, but I don’t argue. I obey him, turning over and rising onto my hands and knees in seconds.
“Good girl.” He strokes my engorged breast where it sways beneath me. After leaning over the side of the bed, he produces a metal bowl and settles it under my breast.
I gasp. “Dallas…”
“I’m going to milk you by hand, baby. It won’t be as thorough as the pump, but it will give you some relief.” He strokes my tight skin again before wrapping his hand around the base, angling my nipple toward the bowl, and applying pressure.
I cry out at the sound of my milk squirting into the bowl. Why is this so hot?
