Page 39 of Milk
“What now?” I asked, biting my lip in anticipation.
He was so hard he was nearly ripping through his pants. There was no way he could turn me down now. He’d fuck me hard, ruthlessly, just like we needed.
“Now, I’ll make sure you know what happens with calves that don’t behave,” he replied.
He pulled something from behind the headboard and guided it over my head. He was … dressing me. I was stunned. He pulled it down, tightening the fabric around me, restraining me.
“What the hell is this?”
“A gift,” he said. “For a naughty calf who runs when she’s told to sit.”
It was a straitjacket. It bound my arms against my stomach and chest. It was my size too. I fought, but he was faster. He fastened the buckles behind my back and looked at me with a smirk. I squirmed, but it was pointless.
“Carter! Why? Why won’t you fuck me? Haven’t I been good?” I asked. My voice cracked, high and needy.
“Youweregood,” he said. “Then you weren’t. That’s how it works, Tiff.”
The aching need between my legs disagreed. I shifted my hips, spreading my thighs a little.
“Please,” I begged. “I’m horny. I’m so horny.”
He ran his fingers up my leg, slowly. He stopped just short of where I wanted his touch. I knew he wanted it, but something was stopping him.
“I know,” he said. “But not tonight.”
The burn of embarrassment hit me first, then the sting of rejection. I curled onto my side, the fabric of the jacket pressing in close. My breathing shallowed. He tried to touch my face, but I turned away. I couldn’t bear to look at him. He was playing games with me. I didn’t have the emotional space to process all this either. I just wanted to be fucked. If I couldn’t, I wanted to be left alone.
“Please,” I whispered again, but it was softer, more hollow. “Leave me alone.”
“I-I understand,” Carter sighed. “Do you want me to find you somewhere else to sleep?”
“No,” I said. I still wanted him close, even if I couldn’t look at him. “I just want to sleep. In a bed.”
“Of course.”
He was gentle this time. He pulled a blanket over me and adjusted the pillows. I didn’t open my eyes as he crawled in behind me, but I felt his heat…
No groping. No force. No words. Just the weight of him against me. I stared into the dark and let myself cry silently. Was this kindness or a game? Had I already lost?
God. I’m such an idiot, I thought.I ruined that date. I had the perfect date. And I ruined it.
Tiffany was asleep next to me, still restrained by her straitjacket. Somehow, she had fallen asleep quickly despite the restraints. I couldn’t sleep at all.What a fitting fucking metaphor,I thought. She was a prisoner, but free in a way that I, who could go anywhere, simply wasn’t. She was tied to me by chains and bars and padlocks. I was tied to myself by ontological determinism.
I was the man who ruined everything I claimed. I could blame my father for it when he was alive, but he wasn’t anymore. Now, it was all on me. I was beating myself with guilt. My balls ached from my own denied arousal. I wanted to fuck her more than I could express. No matter how bad the need got, I couldn’t. If I did, she’d know.
I couldn’t bear anyone knowing. Not since Pria.
I sighed and looked at Tiffany in the dark. She looked beautiful in her dress, so beautiful that I was sure I didn’t deserve her. Not her smile. Not her trust. Not her warmth, even when it came laced with sass and defiance. I’d ruined her night. Maybe I ruined everything.
Which meant I wasn’t getting any sleep. The past was too loud, so were my mistakes in the present. I slipped from the bed quietly, careful not to wake her. Her breathing stayed steady. I hovered a moment longer than I should have, one hand aching to reach out and touch her face, the other clenching into a fist.
Instead of touching her, I turned and walked out of the room. The hallway lights were dimmed for the night cycle, casting everything in soft grey. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and cattle feed. I padded barefoot across the cool floor toward my office — the only place in this compound where I could still pretend I had control over anything.
The door shut behind me with a quiet click.
A dozen screens, each showing a different quadrant of the underground facility, lit the room. The feeding chambers. The breeding stalls. The milking atrium. Most of the women were asleep or sedated, curled in their pens like livestock. The others stirred, some murmuring, some twitching as they dreamed.
I flipped the camera view to the bedroom. There she was, Tiff. My calf. She slept on her side, the blanket tucked up around her shoulders. Her straitjacket glinted in the wall light, the white softened by shadow. The bell at her neck barely moved.
