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

BOOK: At His Service: Milk & Chains (A Lactation And BDSM Erotic Romance)
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At His Command: Milk & Chains

 

Ashley Spector

 

Copyright 2013 by Ashley Spector

 

Forbidden Fruit Press

 

(All characters depicted in this story are consenting adults)

 

 

Chapter One

 

 

He sits before me, unflinching, unyielding, having struck the same stoic pose since the moment he first planted himself down. One hand braced to his lap, his wristwatch facing upwards, and the other stroking his bristled chin pensively. All the while, he stares at me - through me, even - two dark brown eyes, scanning my every movement, searching for my every intention. I've had him sat here for five minutes already, and he hasn't said a word. But with every twitch of his eyebrow, and every scratch of his five o-clock shadow, I can tell he's hard at work.

 

"So," I finally breach the silence to say, leaning forward across the coffee table and matching his eye-line without so much as blinking. "What would you like to achieve from this session, Mr. Cole?"

 

His expression remains unchanged, even as he opens his mouth to speak, never averting his eyes from my own. He speaks in a cold, grey tone; unfeeling, and just deep enough to grab your undivided attention.

 

"I'm still making up my mind."

 

How he came to be here, sat across from me in the big, blue chair is something that astounded even me. I've been a psychiatrist for only two years, probationary still. Quite how I got this particular client still eludes me; the biggest question on my mind, the one I just know I won't be able to stop myself asking. Why me?

 

"You've been seeing a colleague of mine, Dr. Benavidez - "

 

" - And I asked to see you," he interrupts me to say. Still not so much as an averted eye, or a fidgeting twitch in that chair. Just a well-dressed, well-groomed man sat straight. I can't help but feel a little overawed. What the fuck am I saying? Of course I'm fucking awestruck.

 

"Why did you ask to see me?" I ask at last. It didn't take long.

 

"I'm still making up my mind."

 

This is going to be tough.

 

Spencer Cole was always one of those names that I'd heard on the tip of some newsreader's tongue, or read in the magazines. A man so far removed from the college lectures I went to, or the street corner our psychiatry practice calls its home, I never even considered the possibility of meeting the man. I always thought oil tycoons and investment bankers and billionaire CEOs moved in their own circles, high inside their own stratosphere, above the rest of us. I wasn't surprised to learn that Spencer Cole frequents therapy sessions - hell, I'm sure anyone with over a million dollars must have a hundred skeletons in their closet they can't wait to confess - but to find that he wanted to sit down with me?
Me?

 

Finally, he slowly closes his eyes, relaxing his arms onto the arms of his chair, and exhales loudly. I wish I could be so calm. I look down to my hastily-prepared notes - a few sheets of lined paper, covered in frantic scrawls about the nature of his business, his known family, anything I could glean from the internet - and find my right hand trembling before me. I quickly clasp my hands together, putting an end to any show of weakness. I'm a professional; I have to look the part.

 

"I'm sure you did your research on me, but why don't I introduce myself" I say, as he opens those dark brown eyes, and to my relief, allows a smile to breach his thin lips. "I've been at this practice for two years. I'm 28 years old, can't drive, and I'm a natural blonde. I just dye it brown."

 

"It's interesting you'd tell me that" he replies, in as deep a tone as ever, letting a little more of a playful grin upon that handsome face of his. "Why do you dye it?"

 

"Well, I guess I just wanted it to be different."

 

He sinks into his chair, letting the shoulders of his unspeakably expensive suit jacket ride high against the back of the seat, and finally, apparently feels comfortable enough to look around. After craning his neck left and right, while I watch shafts of light from the sunset outside dance upon his face, he stops upon my rather unkempt-looking desk in the corner, raising an eyebrow, and gesturing towards it with his chin.

 

"You have children?"

 

He must be looking at the picture I keep on my desk for company. He's sharp alright.

 

"My niece. I'm not a mother."

 

And we're back to silence, as his eyes find my own, and resume that deep, dutiful stare. You know, this is usually around the time I'd be bombarding my guest with questions - questions of past, of present, of motive, and of intent - but I can't help but notice it's not happening. I'm just sitting here, grasping my flimsy pages of notes tighter by the minute, as each uncomfortable moment passes, each more painful than the next. He's staring into me with those eyes, and all of a sudden, I feel so small. Not the professional I thought I was, but an overawed, overpowered little girl.

 

"Mr. Cole," I say, finally snatching the impetus and putting the words into the cold air. "What do you want to talk about today?"

 

He averts his eyes once more, looking down to the coffee table before us, suppressing a laugh or chuckle to himself, with a portent grin.

 

"What's the matter?"

 

"Dr. Lacey,"

 

"Miss Lacey, please."

 

"Miss Lacey, why did you become a shrink in the first place, if I may ask?"

 

Under normal circumstances, I like to follow strict rules. I ask the questions, I remain in control. Still, the easily-led, easily-awestruck girl within me will make an exception, just this once.

 

"I felt a compulsion to try to help others. It's been that way since I was a child."

 

He fails to contain the laughter this time, chuckling to himself in a deep, almost mocking tone.

 

"What's so funny Mr. Cole?"

 

"You're the thirteenth counselor I've spoken to this year" he remarks, holding his hands out in front of him in an almost conciliatory, pleading fashion. "And you've all said the same thing."

 

He's right; it is a rather easy answer. Again, I feel the atmosphere heating up, as I sit here underneath the scrutiny of his magnifying, searching gaze. Beads of sweat begin to form on my brow, and the trembling of my fingers goes on unimpeded, despite my efforts to steady myself before him.

 

"I guess I like to know more about people," I blurt out, quicker than my conscious mind can contain it. "I like to know what makes people tick, what motivates people, what people other than me think about certain things. Maybe that's not the correct answer a true counselor should be giving, but it's the beginning of truth."

 

He smiles. A smile that basks the room in a certain radiant glow, or perhaps that's just how I feel. My heart seems to sink lower and lower within me; I know I wouldn’t feel this way if it was someone else, someone less physically impressive. Someone less rich. Someone less powerful. I've got to remain strong.

 

He's not my type. A full head of jet black hair, with not a patch of grey visible - not bad for a man struggling under such an insurmountably large pile of money - and dark brown eyes, that sit high and heavy underneath a prominent brow. He has cheekbones you could cut diamonds on, giving him a certain eerie cuteness, and a set of expectedly shiny white teeth, maybe a little too small, but nothing I'd immediately notice if I didn't spend so much time staring into him this afternoon. Earlier I said he wasn't my type. I know, I lied.

 

"And what do you learn about people?" he pries, leaning forward to place his chin on those two pleading hands, widening his eyes, and looking like the giddy schoolboy, listening intently on.

 

"I don't know yet" I reply to his visible disappointment. "I still couldn't say. I'm relatively new to this job after all. What I do know is that people are guarded. They say one thing and mean another. Everyone thinks they're doing good, and everyone doesn't always tell the truth."

 

As the words leave my mouth, I realize I've very implicitly and succinctly described myself. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and try to relax in my chair, waiting for the next question.

 

"Very well put," he says, exciting a surge of confidence and excitement throughout my body. We endure a few more moments of silence, before he finally speaks again; "And do you ever find that people are more guarded, or more defensive around you, for a reason?"

 

"Reason? What reason?"

 

"Your looks."

 

In an instant, that confident surge turns to a tidal wave of excited fervor, crashing against my body, rendering me quite speechless. I shouldn't be so bashful - I can say I'm good looking without blushing - but to hear it from his lips is something different.

 

"I've - I've never thought about it," I say, stuttering a little, and picking myself up in my chair, putting my fingernails to my mouth involuntarily, before realizing and dropping them back to my lap. "It's not something that's covered by our training."

 

"Ah, your training," he says, leaning forward closer still. "You're saying you always follow your training?"

 

"Yeah. I mean, no - well…" I'm floundering and flailing wildly before his very eyes, feeling my face radiate to a newfound crimson heat, and my heart pound inside me relentlessly. This isn't how it's supposed to be; I'm supposed to be the one in control here. Instead, I've ceded the power to my impossibly rich client. I open my mouth to speak - to say anything to end this charade - but before I can even spit a single word out, he's beaten me to it.

 

"Please, I don't mean to fluster you Miss Lacey." He can see that I'm flustered; so much for showing no signs of weakness. "But I intend to seek the best counsel that I can."

 

I nod up and down, eagerly, before realizing the despondent and disappointedly deep tone of his voice.
Fuck
, we've been here for fifteen minutes, and I've already blown it with the highest-profile client I'll ever have? Immediately - and rather too enthusiastically - I leap out of my seat, staggering over to his position, to make some wild plea for the sake of my own professional livelihood. As I realize I look even more desperate than before, it's too late.

 

"Mr. Cole, I can assure you, I'm as committed to my job as anyone; It's what I love, what I do best!"

 

He's unmoved by my frantic protestations, following me across the room with those wide eyes, and yet diverting his attention from my increasingly scarlet face. It takes me awhile to realize, but he's staring directly at my breasts. I step back - looking upon him with accusing eyes - until I follow his eye-line, and find just what he's staring so gainfully at.

 

"Miss Lacey, there's something on your shirt."

 

I look down to discover two distinctly dark wet patches, growing in my debonair white shirt. My hand goes immediately to my mouth, as I recoil another few steps in horror. This can't be happening! Not right now!

 

"I, uhm, I need a washroom!"

 

And with that I turn my back to my billionaire client for the first time, and bolt energetically for the door, leaving him behind in my office, company only to the sound of the door slamming behind me.

 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I whisper to myself, unbuttoning my shirt between trembling fingers, and looking myself shamefully in the mirror. It's been awhile since I last confronted this problem; the icing on the cake of maybe the most important therapy session of my lifetime. And of course, the most absurdly terrible one. By the time I've rinsed the remnants of liquid out of my shirt and bounded back to my office, my client is gone, and I'm sat despondently against the door, holding my hands to my head, and cursing the day I ever consented to take on the ineffably handsome and assertive Spencer Cole as a client.

 

I haven't dated for years. In fact, I've pretty much put my entire romantic life on ice. I have - and I struggle for delicate ways to put this - a particular bodily impairment to the whole romance thing. One I've had for years, since the days of high school. There aren't enough thick, extra-padded bras in the world that could stop this mess.

 

Barring the door shut with my back, and wiping a tear of frustration from my eye, I whip off my soaking-wet shirt, and look beneath my bra. Two rock-hard nipples, predictably wet and uncomfortably rubbing against the coarse material, staring back at me as unhappily as I am. Why can't I meet a single guy, feel the inevitable twinge of excitement between my legs, and not immediately wet my bra with milk? Part of me knows I need to see a professional about this. A doctor, gynecologist, whatever. But then, another part of me knows that the moment any gorgeous young student doctor looks at my nipple, I'd instantly hit him in the face with a jet of warmly humiliating milk.

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