At His Service: Milk & Chains (A Lactation And BDSM Erotic Romance) (2 page)

I walk over to my chair, and pick up my notes, thumbing through them dejectedly. I really don't know anything about the man. Born to a family of stockbrokers, he made his millions from impossibly intuitive gambles and stocks. As for his billions, who knows, Wikipedia sure didn't. Even his past counseling records were veiled and obtuse; I only know that he jumps from psychiatrist to psychiatrist, never staying long enough to establish a functional relationship.

"
Fuck
," I say out loud, as I laugh a little to myself. I sure doubt any of his past therapists begin spraying milk at a mere compliment. At least it's home time, and since I had a client walk-out, there's no paperwork to be done. Silver linings.

I stick my shirt back on, and make for the exit without even saying goodbye. I've had enough of this shit. I just want to go home and forget about it all. Tomorrow I can go back and say Mr. Cole walked out of our session amicably, just like the thirteen others he's walked out of. I can forcefully forget about all our little meeting, and my embarrassing episode with one of the richest men in the world. All I might need is a few years of counseling to do it.

Chapter Two

My knuckles turn white as I grip the steering wheel, my mind in a far away place. I've been parked outside the office ten, fifteen minute perhaps. Just sitting here, holding the steering wheel as if it were a life reserve, saving me from the crashing tides of anxiety that threaten to sweep me far away. I'm wearing two bras today. Two bras, and no sense of dignity.
Fuck, just pull yourself together woman
;
it's not all bad
. Regaining a certain presence of mind, I let go of the steering wheel - the skin of my fingers and joints burning briefly with tension - and practice my breaths, trying to reach my calm place.

I finally leave the quiet tranquility of my car, and clutching my handbag close to my nervous body, make the five yard trek back to the office. I don't even know why I'm so anxious about all of this. It's not as if he's ever fucking coming back.

As soon as I make it past the foyer doorway I'm greeted not by Claire, our usual receptionist, or the coffee machine, my usual first port-of-call on a morning, but a procession of workmates sat around the reception wearing blank expressionless faces, each looking more pale and ghostly than the last.

"Elizabeth," says Dr. Benavidez, our most tenured counselor, gaunt of stature, and of expression. He rubs his palm along his bristled, grey beard anxiously, looking into me with bloodshot, sleep deprived eyes. "Where the hell where you, Elizabeth? I've been trying to call you all night."

"I uhm, wasn't exactly in the mood to take calls," I reply, tearing my eyes away from his for a moment to find the three or four other people I work with similarly downtrodden. For the first time, I actually manage to lose Spencer Cole from my mind for a moment. "What's the matter with you guys? Shouldn't we be prepping for the clients?"

"No clients," he says dejectedly. "No practice. We've been bought out."

Bought out? This place? A backstreet office in an area of New York City that isn't exactly pleasant, let alone desirable? Fuck, I'd laugh if there weren't so many people in this room so terrified of losing their job.

"What? This quickly? How did we get bought overnight?"

Someone from behind us - Joseph, the guy I shadowed for six months while fresh from college - stands up to extract everything he can from the coffee machine while there's still time, patting me commendably on the shoulder as he does so, and answering my question for me.

"I guess he just really wanted this shitty place, huh?"

"He's seeing us one by one," Benavidez adds, finally putting his yellowed, tobacco stained fingers by his sides. "We've all been already. Guess its your turn."

"He's here? The buyer?" For some reason, I can't rid the image of some consortium of property developers, or some deranged bar owner with too much money and too little sense from my mind, blissfully unaware of the truth. When Dr. Benavidez points me to my own room, the penny still hasn't dropped for me. Not until I find myself halfway down the corridor, and halting completely in my tracks, do I realize just who could be so rich, and so enigmatically, impulsively inclined to buy us out. I can see him through the frosted glass of the door; through the letters of my name, printed to the glass, he sits. Spencer Cole.

Fuck this. I'm not going to fucking dance on a string for him. I charge through my door, finding him sitting in my chair, greeting me with a warm smile, cheekbones jumping energetically in his face, and motioning with his hand for me to sit in the patient's chair. What the fuck is all of this?

"Mr. Cole," I say, a slight wavering in my voice, "I think I deserve an explanation."

"Of course you do."

And with that, he remains silent, pointing ever more aggressively to the chair. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and plant myself down, to discover him staring into me as intently as always. I can't help it; I admit, I feel warm just being here, being looked upon by those eyes. Dark, large, and looking right into me, as if I might actually matter in this crazy fucking morning, in this crazy fucking world.

"I liked the look of this place, it's got a certain warm, homely glow to it, hasn't it?"

Peeling wallpaper, stained ceilings, and filthy windows. Sure, it has a warm glow alright. Somehow I doubt him.

"A lot of people are afraid for their jobs," I lean forward to tell him, placing my chin upon my palms, trying my best to look like the aggressive presence in the room. I already know it won't work.

"And they shouldn't be, their jobs are safe. I've bought the building, and the business whole. Everyone's just fine, trust me, Miss Lacey."

I try to think of an appropriate response, frowning a little too much, whilst trying to hide my palpably nervous excitement at the mere act of seeing him once more.

"Why does no-one trust a billionaire?" he asks, raising one of those finely sculpted eyebrows high into his forehead, asking me a quite rhetorical question.

"But -" I stumble, tripping over my words, hesitating to ask what I really, really want to ask, for fear of what I might learn. "Why? Why buy this place?"

After a moment's reflection, I dig my nails into my chin, grit my teeth, and build up the courage to say it.

"Why me?"

Silence. We're back to where we started; him sitting defensively, staring right through me, each of us picking our words very carefully. The only difference is that we've switched seats. He's the one in power now.

"You know, my business lacks honesty. No-one trusts me. And I can trust no-one. There's no truth. No truth at all in this city."

Very profound. But I can't help but notice he hasn't answered the question. He bolts to his feet, causing me to recoil an inch or two in my position, before pacing around the room at full speed.

"It's fucking pitiful. An entire city of people, and we can't even tell each other exactly what we're thinking anymore." He pauses for breath, and I quickly feel myself becoming absorbed by his impassioned tirade. Finally, Mr. Cole begins to open up to me; maybe I can do my job today after all. "My accountants, my managers, the politicians and the authorities. Even the therapists and psychologists. Shit, I was sure I'd find some slither of honesty amongst those people. It turns out I couldn't."

He finally quits pacing, coming to a stop beside me. I look up, and see him peering down upon me like some thickly built demigod, the lighting fixture above him illuminating the back of his head like a makeshift halo, watching me with those warm and understanding eyes.

"Until I met you. You can't even hide your body's urge for honesty."

I feel it; the blood rising to my cheeks, the radiating, sweat-inducing heat beginning to permeate my skin. He's speaking about my breasts, betraying any hope I had of hiding the intense attraction I feel toward this man. They're honest, that's for sure.

I don't know what to say. So I just stay quiet, watching him from below, as he paces back over to the door, and opening it slightly, sticks his head out into the corridor to call to my erstwhile workmates.

"Thanks folks. You can go home. A day off, on full-time pay. Please come back to work tomorrow."

And with that terse announcement, he blocks off the rest of the world entirely. Now it's just the two of us, looking upon each other with patiently expectant, yet dubious eyes. The blood courses through my veins; my heart beats as rapidly as I've ever known it. What does Spencer Cole want with me? He obviously finds me interesting, like I'm some billionaire's plaything. Does he think he can just buy me, and use me like this?

"I want to give you a job, Elizabeth," he finally says, his tone deep and courteous, and his eyes scanning my every limb, every twitch and every motion. "I want you to be by my side. My own, personal, counselor. I want your advice and your assistance. I want your honesty."

He walks closer to me, kneels by me, and puts his hand upon my leg, rubbing the soft skin of my thigh through the coarse fabric of my pants. I can feel it; the surge of electricity shooting through me, the twinge of excitement growing between my legs. My nipples harden to a rigid hardness, I can't halt the flow of honest milk for long. I look into his eyes - round, brown, and burning with a resolute desire, a desire for me. This is the moment in the movies where I'd kiss him. Unfortunately for me, this isn't the movies.

I turn my head, unable to bear the heart-pounding, sweat-summoning intensity of it any longer. I can't stand this. I can't stand any of it. I feel my breasts begin to purr with satisfaction, and realize the inevitable showering of watery milk has begun inside the extra-thick bra I wear. I'm going to stain my shirt before I know it.

"What are you thinking?" he asks, trying to read me with those eyes of his, prying deep within me, into my clothes, and inside my soul. Remembering his previously expressed penchant for honesty, my eager-to-satisfy tongue can only think of one thing.

"I'm turned on." I say, giving up all pretense of resistance to this man I know so barely. Then, turning my face down to my bosom, I quietly signal to him the flooding, onrushing tide of milk that will give away the dark, lusty intentions of my inner conscious for good.

He says nothing. Just grins from ear to ear; a lascivious, salacious smile, that implies every dirty, filthy thought a power hungry man like him must experience. The pressure of his fingers digging into the flesh of my thigh grows deeper, and the buzz between my legs grows more intense. But I'm stuck, paralyzed. I'm so nervous about all of this, I can barely move. I look back up at him with pleading, pitiful eyes, and he surely sees what he has to do.

"You're honest alright," he whispers, as he leans in to me, his face mere inches from my own. I close my eyes yet again, and he kisses me deliriously upon the lips - a soft, gentle peck - before planting a series of impassioned kisses over my mouth and chin.

"Ohhh," I exhale, powerless to contain myself any longer. This is beyond anything I could have imagined, I'm sharing lips with one of the richest men in the world; handsome, strong, rich.
Rich
.

He pulls open my shirt, sending flimsy plastic buttons flying across the carpeted floor, as he yearns to get pry apart my clothing, exposing the wet, milky pale skin beneath. But throughout all of it - the flurry of hands, the possessed reigns of kisses, the magnetic urging for my body to join his, I can't rid my mind of one last dissonant chord, ringing out as loudly as my own exasperated breath. He's
bought
me.

I pull myself away from him, seeing those eyes - impassioned and fiery - turn to a palpable grey disappointment. He puts a hand to my cheek, and as much as I want him to embrace me, I tear myself away.

"What's the matter?"

"You're buying this place, aren't you? Just so you can buy me?"

I look down to my breasts, leaking milk from beneath my bra. There's no hiding what I feel for this man, but I at least still have my principles.

"I'm a professional," I go on to say, "Before you turned up here yesterday, I was a psychiatrist, happy in my job. Now what am I? What job do you have lined up for me?"

He looks almost hurt. His cheekbones sit low in his face, and he quickly strokes his rough, bristled chin with a hand, wet with milk.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cole. I know I want you. You can see that I want you." Drops of milk begin to fall from my chest to my pants, leaving small damp patches where they fall. "But I'm not sure this is right. You can't control everything."

"Can't I?"

He sarcastically shoots that answer at me quicker than I can comprehend; as though he already knew what I was going to say, as though he'd been told the same thing a hundred times before. Jumping to his feet, he seems irritated, even angered all of a sudden, pacing forwards and backwards as dictated by some profound frustration. You can't have everything you want, Mr. Cole.

"I'm coming to work tomorrow," I say to him, rising from my seat, and buttoning up the remaining buttons on my damp, torn shirt. He turns to face me only slightly, hiding much of his face from me; that once gorgeous face seems contorted somehow. Every muscle in my body wants him; every drop of blood, every tensile urge, and every optimistic fiber of my being wants to run back to him, throw myself into his arms, and ask him to take me. But I know that I can't. As a devoted therapist, I should probably stay and calm him. But I know that I won't.