Milk Maid To Order 2
When Caroline agreed to be the particular Mr. Grogan's personal maid, she had no idea just how personal things would get between them but she soon learned that Mr. Grogan's particular tastes were just a bit kinky — and she liked it. Now, she's his personal milk maid, always ready at his beck and call, but is she ready for what Mr. Grogan wants now? More
When Caroline agreed to be the particular Mr. Grogan's personal maid, she had no idea just how personal things would get between them but she soon learned that Mr. Grogan's particular tastes were just a bit kinky — and she liked it. Now, she's his personal milk maid, always ready at his beck and call, but is she ready for what Mr. Grogan wants now?
This 5,200 short story is intended for mature readers only. It features acts of lactation play that some may find objectionable. If you're not at least 18 years of age, please find something else to read.
A teaser taste!
He didn’t say anything, just pushed himself from the doorjamb and walked into the darkened room. The faint scent of his masculine cologne clung to his skin as he slowly peeled his crisp white dress shirt from his body. It was nearing midnight but Mr. Grogan often held odd hours. It wasn’t unusual from him to visit me when the rest of the world was sleeping. Sometimes I awoke to the feel of his questing fingers caressing the soft skin of my breasts, followed by the warm, wet feel of his mouth closing over my moist nipple.
A shiver of eagerness stole across my body as he stripped and walked toward me with that familiar hunger in his eyes. He’d always reminded me of a jungle cat, from the moment we’d first met. He was all sinew and strength as if he punished himself in the gym when he wasn’t behind his desk, brokering deals of epic proportion that I was never truly allowed many details.
He was filthy rich — he oozed cultured charm and grace from his tailored suits to the quietly understated wealth of fine furnishings throughout his mansion — but Mr. Grogan wasn’t one to flaunt his wealth with vulgarity, though he never spared an expense when it came to me.
He always provided whatever I needed or wanted as long as I gave him what he required.
He slid into the bed and without preamble and a smile curved my mouth as he climbed my body with his and his hands cupped my swollen breasts. With a barely audible groan, he pressed his face into the valley between my twin globes and nuzzled the warm flesh as he inhaled deeply. He liked the smell of my sweet milk as it lingered against my skin. “Exquisite,” he groaned seconds before slipping a nipple into his mouth and pulling hard. His hands squeezed expertly with just enough pressure to encourage my milk to flow into his eager mouth. I groaned, arching against the carnal feel of his mouth sucking hard, drawing the liquid into him as if it were perfectly natural. I’d ceased to care about the eccentric and mildly perverted nature of our relationship; I’d begun to crave his touch, his wild, unrestrained lust when it came to my body and all it gave him, be it milk or a bone-shattering orgasm.