(All participants depicted are consenting and of legal age).

I at all times looked forward to my milking. It was never a daily occurrence, but those times when my Mommy Domme deigned it necessary were a source of delight.

Our arrangement had evolved over many months of trial and error – mostly error and shortcomings on my part, I must say. But we had found a qualified method of posturing me in a way that was convenient to Mommy: a pair of large, firm, square sofa cushions I would rest my tummy on as I crouched on all fours, a thick terrycloth towel to soak up my excess, and a ball gag to limit my vocalizations to only the most primal and urgent.

Mommy’s signalling was never subtle. “Go get your cushions,” would be the most normal instruction, delivered out of the blue and with no prompting. I would take them from her sofa, stacking them like pancakes on her king-sized bed (one I was forbidden from sleeping on; too much luxury spoils a boy, she argued). A towel would be fetched from the linen cupboard and placed over the towels, cascading down them and covering her sheets.

Then, standing patiently, knock-kneed and with hands behind my back I would await further instruction.

“Strip down,” would be her next command. There are few methods to confirm the pecking order than for one participant to be nude, exposed, and vulnerable while the other was fully clothed, and Mommy knew this. My nakedness gave her additional power and she clearly relished it, as she would never deviate from her fully clothed manner of dress.

Occasionally I would be deemed responsible enough to attach my own ball gag, but more commonly she took its fitting upon herself, cinching the harness just tightly enough to cause a bit of discomfort. That fitted, she would prowl around me like a cat stalking prey. Eyes darting up and down, evaluating me, occasionally shaking her head or tut-tutting in resignation at some perceived (and no doubt real) flaw.

Satisfied, or rather tolerant, of my status, Mommy would point dramatically and I would clamber atop the cushions, my belly planted flat against the cushions, head down, Ass up. My cock, by this point already engorged with arousal would be tucked in neatly behind me, ready to be milked like the livestock I imagined myself to be.

What came next was at all times a shiver-inducing sound: the gentle snap of thick nitrile gloves Mommy would enclose her hands in. The wondered of my filthy stickiness clinging to her fingers was naturally abhorrent to her, and any contact was at all times moderated through those gloves. The sensation of that plastic touching me, the denial of actual, real human contact, and the resulting disconnect would make my cock tremble.

She of course knew this. Dommes at all times do, and I was transparent in my reactions. Big. Dumb. Livestock.

If Mommy was feeling especially generous, her entry would be preceded by a generous dollop of lubricant, its cold evanescence coating my tight knot before dripping down my scrotum. Glossy, I would feel the insistent pressure of one digit (or two, if I was very lucky) onto my hole as she claimed what was hers. Resistance? I offered not a bit. It was not my place, and she would brook none. Her entry into me would be accompanied by a satisfying grunt as her fingers penetrated deep inside.

If I was fortunate the first moment of penetration would be a single one of her elegant digits to loosen me and coax me to tumescence. If she wasn’t feeling so generous though the first finger would be twinned, and none too subtly. This time was the latter. I still never offered a lick of resistance, instead lowering my head further – as livestock does – and exhaling loudly in compliance.

“You like that, don’t you?” Mommy would ask. My reply was inconsequential to her. It was a rhetorical question, my answer given no greater significance than one might to a glance at a wristwatch during a boring, overlong office meeting. What mattered was not the quality of my response, but the mere act of affirmation.

“Ye…Yes….” I would stammer. Foolish. If I could look round I know she’d be rolling her eyes. Of course I liked it. I had no choice. I was hers. Her plaything, her self-indulgence.

Her two fingers made a slight “come here” motion inside me, stroking my Ass with an almost playful gesture. My cock, useless under me and pushed backwards by the position of the cushions, twigged like a cat’s ears, flicking with each stroke from her fingers. I could already feel my precum daub smearing against the insides of my thighs.

“That’s just not enough,” Mommy exhaled with obvious exasperation. “Dumb livestock should be more productive than this.”

And with that utterance I heard the drawer beside her bed slide open as she rummaged about for something to truly open me wide.

(To be continued)