Page 3 of Milk
SEX TOYS
SOMNOPHILIA
SQUIRTING
TEASING
TRAUMA
VIOLENT SEX
VULGAR LANGUAGE
Read through the triggers once more, then decide if you should continue on with this book. The content within this book is heavy.
Your adventure awaits, daring soul. Turn the page and step into the labyrinth of my imagination.
You have been warned.
“To be milked is to be claimed, to be claimed is to be transformed.”
— Anonymous
For the good girls who were told to obey, led in on trembling legs, stripped of shame. Swollen with purpose, filled until they forgot their own name.
For the ones who learned to moo instead of scream.
This one’s for you.
Warm, leaking, and finally home.
You were made to be milked and now, you finally are.
For my love,
I began this story at one of the darkest points in my life, when I couldn’t see beauty in myself, when the mirror felt like an enemy, and the voices of cruelty around me drowned out my own. Through it all, you stayed. You held me, reminded me of my worth when I couldn’t, and loved me fiercely when I thought I was unlovable.
You have been my anchor, my safe place, my Carter. This book exists because you believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. For eight years you’ve been my light, my love, my home.
This is, and always will be, for you.
The sound of rancher boots scraping the raw concrete floor reverberated across the tight corridors. His rubber soles echoed in the absolute silence that came after the shot. The smell of gunpowder still clung to the air, though it was less than it would be if the gun hadn’t been suppressed. Adding a silencer to his nickel-plated Colt M1911A with stained mother-of-pearl custom grips had been a small compromise to ensure quiet success. His initials were engraved within the outline of a crest near the back slide, and he pressed on it with his white thumb. He pulled the slide backwards, feeling it glide until it clicked and the empty casing, still smoking, came flying out.
The leather gloved hand snatched it mid-air. Bare skin might have suffered some burns against the hot brass, but the leather endured it even if it singed. He lifted the casing, studying it with detached indifference made clear through his bright blue eyes. A gentle blow from his lips, before he made to pocket it inside hislong lab coat, but as he did so he looked down across his chest and legs. He noticed the blood stains on his attire; little droplets across the chest and the sleeve, especially on the right arm, which held the gun, and near the hem of the coat, closer to the ground. His expression remained unchanged. It held the same purposeful, deadpan look he’d worn when he pulled the trigger.
Lifting his weapon, he began unscrewing the silencer. His motions were slow, measured, and precise, enjoying the moment. Even through the leather, he could feel the heat from the suppressor against his skin. He placed the silencer into one of the larger pockets outside of the coat. His now free left hand pulled on the other side of the coat to expose the shoulder holster.
He took a moment to admire the gun, the way the stains on the mother of pearl grip resembled the pattern on the skin of a milk cow. The faintest curl of a smile formed at the edge of his lips while his gloved thumb gently caressed the textured grip. The weapon was a gift from his father upon his graduation. Beautiful in its own right, pristine white. Some people considered it gaudy, but most people didn’t have the faintest idea of what beauty looked like. Maybe they were afraid of their own tastes. He wasn’t afraid. He had not only seen hell but willingly stepped into it, and now, fear had no command on his soul.
Looking into the mirror polish of the flat slide of the gun reflected his handsome face, his slick combed back blond hair, the soft growth of his beard, and the mirrored aviator shades that concealed his sharp blue eyes. In each lens was the reflection of the gun in his hands. He sighed, and put the gun away, tucked into his shoulder holster. Some warmth lingered on it, bleeding through his shirt, much like the silencer and the cartridge. It was now all over. He allowed the bloodstained lab coat to close as he turned around.
He walked to the ancient metallic round blast door at the end of the corridor, now open. He stepped over the body of a man in a grey uniform with the same casual disregard he had for the rest of his environment. He tugged on the edges of his gloves to pull them taut against him and then gently pulled the sides of the lab coat together. The door was only open ajar and he had to push it a few inches and duck to pass through the opening without hitting his head.
The room at the end of the corridor was a large square room with a tall ceiling. In the center, there was a tall stainless steel cylinder, riveted and reinforced. It stood from floor to ceiling and was connected to old rubber pipe hoses. The floor was polished dark grey ceramic while the walls, like the rest of the facility, were raw concrete without any paint or adoration. The seams between the modular concrete panels were visible, highlighted by decades of slow moisture infiltration. The deep underground facility was dead silent except for a faint, constant buzzing rumble. The quiet was dense and felt almost sacred; the type of silence that felt intrinsically wrong to disturb. Yet, he spoke.
“That was the last of them, Susan.” His tone had no emotional inflection, a mere practical observation.
“Good.” The soft, deep female voice came from behind the tube as he heard the faint rhythmic tapping of something against metal - gel nails drumming. “Effective as always, Carter.”
