At His Service: Milk & Chains (A Lactation And BDSM Erotic Romance) (3 page)

"I'm sorry, I have to leave, Mr. Cole." I dart for the door, seizing the handle and pulling it open, and as I prepare to leave, to an uncertain future, I turn to him once more, and can't stop myself from saying it. "I hope to see you again, Spencer."

One foot after the other, I painfully tear myself away from my office, defying every carnal desire I harbor. The door slams shut behind me, and soon all I can hear is the deafening beating of my own heart, thumping away inside my chest like an irresistible reminder of the chance I've spurned. I just hope I don't live to regret this.

Chapter Three

I'm beset by bright lights and tall structures. Monoliths rising endlessly into the sky, shielding me from a blinding light from beyond. Like tall skyscrapers, they surround me, and all of a sudden I feel very small, insignificant, even. I'm immediately conscious of being watched. Even as the sun is blocked from every angle, and my world gets progressively darker, I feel a body close to mine. I turn, and it is too late; I'm already within his strong, thick arms. My enigmatic billionaire. He grasps my shoulders, pulling me close, and I'm inextricably bound to him, unable to leave his warm, safe aura.

The mechanical buzz of my alarm clock pulls me out of the dream, like a foreign hand yanking me violently from the peaceful tranquility of my mind. It's 7 AM. Time to get back to work. Back to the real world.

I throw on a red dress - a departure from my usual preference for shirts and suits - and fly out of the house, failing to notice the rather garishly dressed man stood beside my car until he's already calling my name.

"Miss Lacey?" He wears a grey suit and tie, with a matching hat. Already I know, how can this man be anything other than a chauffeur? "Miss Lacey, Spencer Cole offers you a ride to work this morning."

A ride to work? I look at him quizzically, before my eyes wander down the street and see a limousine parked conspicuously close. That rampant beating of my heart begins in earnest; deep, deep down, I'm relieved. I knew he wouldn't give up on me so easily.

I nod graciously, momentarily forgetting about my whole resistance to being bought. Fuck, it's a cold morning, and I've never rode inside a limo before. As the man walks to the back of the limousine with me, opening the door, I'm somewhat surprised by who I see.

"Good morning, Miss Lacey."

"Mr. Cole," I reply, instinctively turning my head away from him, trying to shield my threateningly puffy morning eyes from his judgmental view. He looks gorgeous as ever, dressed in a blue pinstripe suit, a white shirt, and no tie. His eyes widen upon seeing me, and the smile that spontaneously appears upon his lips warms me to the core.

"Miss Lacey, please don't let the opulent surroundings fool you, I'm not trying to make some garish effort to seduce you here" he says, forwardly. I can already feel myself beginning to blush. "I just want to offer you a ride to work. An act of kindness."

Sure. I close the door behind me, and we immediately join the inevitable New York City traffic.

We don't speak. He makes small talk, I make small talk, but I find myself too nervous to initiate any meaningful conversation. I clasp my trembling fingers together before me, and stare out of the window - at the tall structures piercing the sky, and the Sun trying its hardest to appear from behind the morning clouds - and lose myself in reverie. Only when we're several blocks shy of the office, do I realize we're not going there after all.

"Mr. Cole, we missed our turning. Several turnings, in fact."

He turns to me, and speaks in a low, gravely authoritative tone. I haven't heard it before, and it almost sends a shiver down my spine;

"When my driver told you I wanted to give you a lift to work, did he mention when?"

My confusion is compounded. He looks at me, his initial warm smile replaced by a more assertive gaze, staring through me as though driven by a more sinister compulsion of lust.

"Yesterday I offered you a job." He pauses, looking me up and down, from my sandaled toes, to my brown hair sitting so comfortably upon my shoulders. I feel like a piece of meat - like he's sizing me up, imagining all the things he could do to me in this undoubtedly soundproofed limo - and ashamedly, I rather like the feeling. "Today I want to show you what you're going to miss."

We eventually pull up to an impressively large building, thick with stone and marble, built into columns like some imitation Federal Hall. Two rather stiff looking doorman stand beside the front doors, and I finally realize this is the NYC Plaza Hotel; a plush, extravagantly opulent den of millionaires and foreign dignitaries, that until now I'd only read about. Spencer jumps out of his side of the limousine, and I'm jolted in my seat by the alarmingly fast presence of the driver, opening my door to allow me to exit.

"Come on, follow me. I want to show you my place."

With a hand poised innocently over my chest, and another trembling by my side, I quietly follow him through the doors, into a palace of radiant golden light - a hundred chandeliers, all burning magnificently - and a floor of polished marble, stretching as far as my eye can see. Red-carpeted corridors abscond in every direction, and the ceiling is finely embroided with delicate plaster shapes, almost as if they were sewn on. He takes my hand, dragging me westward, to a conveniently close elevator.

"This place was hemorrhaging money when I bought it," he tells me with a rather smug smirk, looking around with eyes almost as awed as my own. He straightens his posture, adjusting the lapels on his suit jacket, before adding "sorry, I shouldn't talk work, should I?"

As it happens, I'm in another world - a victim to the glowing, irresistible and easily impressed warmth inside me - overawed by the unimaginably expensive and luxurious plaything that Spencer Cole apparently calls home. The elevator doors open, and with a deft tug he pulls me inside.

"If you're trying to impress me Mr. Cole," I say, breathlessly, partially covering my mouth with my hand to suppress a smile. Thankfully, he cuts me off before I can finish that little admission of guilt.

"I'm not trying to impress you. I just want you to see how I live." He presses a button on the elevator panel; a large, red cross symbol. Hmm, I always wondered what those buttons did. The doors close, and we go zooming upwards. "I think you'd like a look into my life."

A look into his life
. I feel like some smarmy journalist, excited to be given an exclusive look into the life of the rich and famous, or some giddy schoolchild who's been given the keys to the toyshop. I can't stop smiling, no matter how hard I try to maintain the cold, professional veneer I've worked so hard to maintain, even as I was rejecting his advances yesterday. The more I see of Spencer Cole's life, the harder it will be to lose it, I fear.

The doors fly open, and he excitedly paces out, beckoning me to follow with a swift turn upon his heel, and an outstretched hand. I pause when I note the dapper-dressed security guard, comfortably sat in an armchair, quite contentedly asleep.

"Oh, yeah, Sammy. He enjoys work" he whispers, while I silently wonder why any man as powerful as Spencer would abide such incompetence. He leads me - once more by the hand - to a wooden patterned door, ornate and at least a meter wide, and unlocks it with a thumbprint. "My penthouse."

I follow him inside, tentatively closing my eyes and holding his hand until we're standing in the complete centre of the room. As I open them, I can hardly believe my eyes. The entire room is empty. Not a single decoration to be found. Only a black leather couch, looking rather lonely amid the multiple white walls surrounding it. No pictures, no paintings, no photos, only three perfect white walls and a set of wall-length windows, opening onto the balcony outside.

I leave him behind, exploring the place on my own, but finding little but empty white rooms populated only by the occasional wooden armoire, and a large bed, draped in an extravagant purple silk sheet. So this is what a billionaires home looks like, is it? He follows me to the bedroom, a look of resigned dejection upon his face. That youthful, exuberant, giddy smirk that once graced his face is gone. He's bearing all to me, and he's far from proud. I see it now.

"I didn't know how to furnish it. Three years later, I still don't know." He crosses his arms defensively, as though he's grown to expect derision and ridicule. "In truth, I kind of like it this way. When I wake up in the morning, it's just one less thing to think about. One less distraction."

Suddenly, he appears so fragile to me. I'd always imagined Spencer Cole as a proud, vain, monolithic billionaire. I couldn't have been more wrong.

"What do you do here?" I ask, looking upon his figure dressed in that gorgeous pinstripe blue suit, set against a backdrop of perfectly bland white with adoring eyes.

"What anybody else would do. Read a book, relax." He looks down at the white, wooden floorboards for a moment, before rising again to face my inquisition. "Imagine."

In this one moment, I can't resist him. I'm compelled toward him by every force in my body, seen and unseen;

"I have to be in control," he adds, in a deep, dark tone. "I can't stand the thought of giving in to some fucked up societal expectation that I deck this place out in antique furniture and multi-million dollar artwork. Let the magazines think what they want to think."

I lose my mind; my barriers are breached. I pace over to him, damning the consequences, and kiss him, wrapping my arms enthusiastically around his taut, muscular frame. He tenses his body in surprise, before easing up, closing his eyes and kissing me back, gently contorting his lips into grateful, lovingly soft pecks upon my lips and neck. Before I even know it, before I can even think twice about this entire situation, I'm tightly bound within his grip, unable to escape, and unwilling to even contemplate the prospect. We shuffle backwards in small, clumsy footsteps, beset by kisses, and fall backwards to the bed; my petite, delicate body unable to withstand the overwhelming weight and power of his tall, well-built frame.

I hit the soft, bouncy fabric of the purple sheets with a stifled squeal, my face pressed against Spencer's shoulder like a makeshift gag. He wastes no time; kissing my neck, my upper chest, and seizes the straps of my red dress in each hand, preparing to tear them asunder, driven by little more than crazed, primordial lust. My nipples harden, slowly preparing to drench us both in warm, milky love.

"Wait!" I finally manage to say, between breathless sighs and mindless moans. I hesitate, as he watches me expectantly, waiting for the
other
secret I've been ashamedly keeping from him for so long. I grit my teeth, take a deep breath, and say it; "I'm a virgin."

His face remains unchanged; his expression still one of hopeful expectation. He takes his hands off me, rubbing one through his head of immaculately combed black hair, taking a moment to think about his next move.

"You know, I can just let you go to work, if you prefer."

Mr. Cole is officially a client. A patient. Someone that in my professional capacity, I shouldn't be messing with. But I'm too far gone to think about such trifling matters now. I've held back long enough; suppressed my bodily urges for way too long, and resisted more carnal pleasures than I care to dream of. This is my time. I want it, and I want Spencer Cole.

I shake my head, biting my lip, restraining any number of protestations of desire for this man. Then, with a pale and dainty hand, I slowly clasp it around the back of his head, and draw him closer. He whispers, in a low and assertive tone, into my ear;

"I'll be gentle, this time at least."

His words rush across me like a chilling wind, sending a trembling wave of anticipation down my spine. My nipples are the first to react, as I feel beads of watery hot milk begin to trail down my upper chest and shoulders, onto my neck and the pristine sheets below us. I'd never even considered getting intimate with a guy before; my problematic breasts made me insecure. An insecure psychiatrist, who'd have thought it? But being here, pressed down against the bed of a man who obviously doesn't care about anything other than my mind, and my looks, I finally, almost feel sexy.

Finally he falls victim to the temptation, snapping the flimsy straps of my dress off like two woolen strings, and pulling my dress down to my waist to expose my sullen, milk-soddened bra underneath.

"You're so beautiful, so innocent," he tells me, whispering in my ear, biting it between breaths. My heart jumps around in my ribcage, and my lungs rapidly deplete themselves. "And you don't even know it."

I arch my back upwards to allow his hands in behind me, expertly unhooking my bra, and dragging it off me, throwing it to the bare white floor behind him. His face lights up immediately - a dutiful, concentrated glare turning instantly to a glowing, giddy thrill upon seeing my naked breasts, proudly sitting upon my petite body - and his eyes, usually so dark and brown seem almost animated, switching from one squirting nipple to the other, undecided of which to entertain first. A sputtering shower of milk adorns my chest, draining down me onto his undoubtedly expensive clothing, but he doesn't care. He wraps his mouth around my right nipple, sucking on it delicately, drawing all the milk he can, and tickling the tip with his tongue, driving me into a divine delight.

I dig my fingers into the back of his skull, holding him dearly close, unwilling to ever let this moment end. My dress finds its way down to my knees meanwhile, as his hands explore the further reaches of my body.