Every bottle she delivers is still warm from her body.
Explicit sexual content • lactation • taboo • rough sex • 18+ only
The barn smelled of milk and musk. Clara stepped inside barefoot, dress already damp with morning dew and something thicker between her thighs. Elias didn’t speak. He simply tore her dress open, buttons scattering like hail. Milk beaded instantly on her swollen nipples — real, warm, sweet. He fell to his knees and drank from her like a starving man. When he stood and spun her around, bending her over the hay bales, she was already dripping for him. One brutal thrust and he was buried to the root, fucking her so hard her breasts slapped rhythmically, spraying milk across the floor with every stroke. She came screaming his name while he flooded her cunt with thick ropes of cum.
Outside, her father loaded the truck, pretending he heard nothing.
Mrs. Harrow, forty-two and starving for touch since her husband died, always waited on the porch swing in nothing but a silk robe. Today she didn’t bother closing it. When Clara handed over the bottle, the older woman caught her wrist.
“It’s warm,” Mrs. Harrow whispered, pressing the glass to her own breast. “Just like you.”
Ten minutes later Clara was on her knees between silk-clad thighs, tongue buried in the widow’s soaked cunt while Mrs. Harrow milked Clara’s tits into an empty bottle. “Customers pay extra for this,” she moaned, filling it to the brim with Clara’s cream while she came hard on the girl’s eager mouth.
Elias tied her to the milking stall that night — wrists bound to the metal bars where the cows usually stood. He attached the suction cups to her leaking breasts and turned the machine on low. The rhythmic pull made her sob with pleasure. While the pump drained her, he fucked her from behind, slow and deep, until the collection jar was full and her thighs were shaking. Only then did he let her come, filling her a second time while the machine kept sucking, overstimulating her nipples until milk sprayed in frantic jets.
She thought he didn’t know. Until the night she came home late, dress torn, cum still dripping down her legs — and found him sitting at the kitchen table with an empty glass.
“Sit,” he said quietly.
She obeyed. He reached over, unbuttoned her dress with steady hands, and latched onto her breast without a word. The first pull of his mouth was gentle, almost reverent. The second was hungry. By the time he bent her over the table and slid into the mess Elias and half the town had left inside her, she was begging “Daddy” like she never had before.
Sunday market. They set up a small stand: “Fresh Dairy — Straight from the Source.” Clara sat on a stool behind a curtain, dress pulled down to her waist, while a line formed. Ten dollars a glass. Twenty if they wanted to drink from her themselves. By noon her breasts were bruised purple, nipples raw and dripping, cunt throbbing from the fingers and cocks that had paid extra to sample more than just milk. Elias counted the money. Her father stood guard at the entrance, eyes dark with something that looked a lot like pride.
Every bottle sold that day was warm. Every bottle tasted like sin.
The End… for now.