‘Good girl,’ said my boss. He stroked my cheek while I fixed my gaze firmly downwards with embarrassment. Fuck, this was awful. I was a cow. I was his milking cow. ‘We’ll keep you in the breast pump for at least half an hour. To encourage milk production. I don’t expect much today though. But I do want you to start producing a lot of milk. My little dairy cow.’
Chapter 1 of Molly’s Cage is here.
Thank you for reading my stories!
My novel, Capturing Clare, is an erotic story of a Christmas gangbang with that leads to Clare’s enslavement… Read Chapters 1 to 6 here, and if you enjoy them, buy the book at All These Roadworks or Smashwords.
Molly’s Cage: Chapter 16
[Femsub maledom office erotica with non-consent, discipline, chastity belts and lactation]
I nearly left that night.
Even after Mr Hunter milked me again before driving me home, my breasts kept leaking, trickling small runnels of milk down across my body. My breasts felt sensitive, the nipples larger than usual and tender.
Mr Hunter’s voice kept ringing in my head.
Are you my milk cow, Molly?
I do want you to start producing a lot of milk. My little dairy cow.
We won’t have these obedience problems with you tomorrow, will we?
It was probably the only time I thought seriously about leaving. But I didn’t have anywhere to go. This town was my home, even if my family wasn’t around anymore. I wouldn’t get another job as good as this one, not without a reference from Mr Hunter. And I could just imagine what he would send as a reference. A long fake description of my slutty behaviour and copies of those old porn photos clipped to the back as evidence.
I looked out the window at the darkness before bed, feeling empty inside me where I had taken the dildo out. My cunt ached needily, desperate for penetration and stimulation.
I had told myself that I was staying because I didn’t have anywhere to go, but even I knew that wasn’t true. I told myself that I hated what Mr Hunter was doing to me, and that it wasn’t fair. But I was lying to myself.
I wasn’t leaving because what I really wanted was for him to fuck me. I wanted him to thrust himself into me, hot and heavy and needy, and I wanted to feel him cumming inside me. After weeks of constant arousal, I wanted to be able to cum, gasping as my body clenched in desperate need around his shaft.
I wanted to feel his eyes on my body and his hands touching me. Each time I felt another trickle of milk running down my skin, I flinched, remembering his fingers stroking my swollen breasts with satisfaction.
I didn’t know why, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him and what he might do to me next. I hated him but I couldn’t wait to see him tomorrow.
So I didn’t leave. The following day, when Mr Hunter’s car pulled up outside my house, I climbed inside, a hot blush reddening my cheeks. I went to work with him that day and the next day, falling back into our disturbingly comfortable rhythm.
I kept taking the pills whenever Mr Hunter told me to open my mouth and take them. He put two pills in my mouth every morning and night now, and it didn’t take long for my breasts to grow bigger and more sensitive than ever.
He gave me new clothes to wear too, and I hated it. The bras fit perfectly with large, lacy cups, but he had — deliberately, I assumed — brought me bras with peepholes for my engorged nipples to poke through. I felt so slutty wearing them, my full breasts filling the see-through lace and my ever-eager nipples straining out through the cutaway holes.
The blouses were even more low cut than before, and designed to show off the roundness of my breasts. I spent the days with the cotton of the shirt rubbing against my exposed nipples and it was almost more frustrating than the chastity belt rubbing against my pussy.
Just as I had gotten used to the daily ‘inspections’, I slowly grew used to Mr Hunter milking me. Each day, when he looked meaningfully at me after inspecting me, I would remove my shirt and bra without being ordered, and walk over to position myself on hands and knees on the coffee table. Stammering over the words every time, I would blush and tell Mr Hunter that I had been a good cow, and ask him to milk me.
He would stroke my breasts almost lovingly, clearly enjoying their warm, large roundness, their soft fullness. They were big now, probably three times as big as they used to be. Sometimes, I genuinely felt like a milking cow, my existence dominated by the large udders that never quite left my field of view, that brushed constantly against my arms no matter what I was doing.
I was embarrassed that the act of being milked always felt so good. It was a relief to feel the milk — more and more each day — flooding out of me, and I felt so obscenely grateful each time to Mr Hunter for giving me the release I craved.
He milked me every morning, and then again every night before we drove home. I kept my head down during the process, flushing hotly with embarrassment each time. He would take the mug of warm milk, fresh from my breasts, and sit drinking it in front of me, giving me points for how sweet it tasted each day.
Our evenings together were long now — Mr Hunter did not shorten his usual time in his lounge chair, working or reading while sipping his drink and groping my breasts. And then there was the long period where I would wait in the milking machine, while Mr Hunter either watched, or went back to his desk to work, or pulled out a newspaper and sat reading it, completely ignoring me.
One night, it was quite late. Mr Hunter had been reading for a long time, much longer than normal, and I was still kneeling at his feet, my blouse rumpled and pulled aside, my breasts feeling like putty under his roving hand. I remember I had been wondering when he was going to milk me because I needed to go to the bathroom, and I knew that I couldn’t until I got home.
Instead, there came a knock at the door.
No-one had ever knocked at Mr Hunter’s door before when I was in here with him. I was suddenly scared to know that someone else was in the building. I looked at Mr Hunter startled, breaking the rules he had set for my obedience.
‘Eyes down, Molly,’ Mr Hunter said firmly to me, his voice grim as he chastised me.
I looked down, flushing hotly, feeling so exposed with my breasts out and Mr Hunter’s hands on me.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Eyes on the ground. Remember your place, Molly.’
That’s all the warning he gave me, before calling out to the person who had knocked.
‘Is that you, Baldwin? Come in.’
I felt my face burning bright hot as the door opened and Mr Baldwin — presumably, I couldn’t see him — stepped into the room. He walked right over to us and I squeaked in involuntary fear.
What was Mr Hunter even doing? I felt so vulnerable here, semi-naked, my breasts gently trickling milk. I had thought that I was a secret Mr Hunter kept from the other partners and I had assumed that if I went to them for help, they would just laugh at me for lying.
‘Is this the girl?’ Mr Baldwin asked, looking down at me.
I flinched, and kept my eyes firmly on the carpet. My naked breasts felt like they were burning in Mr Hunter’s hands. How was he even here? Why had Mr Hunter let him in? I did not want Mr Baldwin — another partner at the law firm — to see me exposed like this. I didn’t like kneeling at his feet, I felt so vulnerable.
‘Yes, this is Molly. I’m guessing you’ve seen her around on the floor, when she’s trying to pretend to be a good girl.’
I flushed miserably. I was a good girl. I was! It was Mr Hunter who had forced me to be a slut, turning me into his cute sex object.
‘I’ve seen her around,’ said Mr Baldwin, his voice sounding amused. ‘She’s pretty hot stuff. I’ve enjoyed watching her breasts swell up like balloons — that’s your doing, I take it? She always looks like she’s got a big hard cock inside her — or as if she wished she had.’ He sniggered meanly. ‘I’ve been tempted to get her into my office on several occasions, to give her a good seeing to. I bet she’d like to be bent over my desk and rammed full of cock.’
‘Oh, undoubtedly,’ said Mr Hunter and I flushed again. ‘She’s coming along quite nicely. She’s almost obedient by now. Sadly, I haven’t managed to actually convert her away from her slutty behaviour. She learns quite quickly, I’ve found, but she is driven by her cunt and her desire for cock.’
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Pixie Isobella 