The Billionaire's Milkmaid (BBW Lactation Erotic Romance) (2 page)

He held her at arms length, his warmth so powerful she wanted more, unwilling to pull completely away as she would have with any other man at work. "Ah, I see," he said, nodding. "You are worried about your job?"
"Who isn't in this economy?" she said, trying to pass it off as a joke. But he frowned now, as if he understood, as if the sight before him of a young, blonde woman with a baby at home, a mouth to feed, finally made more sense for him, and he realized that she was just a woman with a pent-up fountain of need...er, milk...that needed to be released.
"You have nothing to worry about, Jessica." He gestured to a conference room and opened the door. The room was tiny, with four cubicles, all mercifully empty. God, how she wanted his hands on her again, her clit tingling now, itching for release, a release she hadn't had with someone else's hands on her in months. More than six months, to be exact.

And she didn't want just anyone's hands. She wanted those tanned, smooth, cultured hands. The hands she stared at. Antonio cleared his throat and she looked up, alarmed, certain the heat of her desire was spelled out on her face like a Scrabble game. He winked, inhaled slowly, and let a smile spread over his face, a Cheshire-cat look that came just short of more.

What did he want to say? And was she ready to hear it? Her throat felt like sandpaper and she licked her lips, the air charged between them. He opened his mouth and paused, closing it slowly. Ah, how she wanted to take it with her lips, to press into him and against him, all friction and heat.

Instead she nodded slowly. “I see,” she said shakily, poking her head in the room, locating a wall outlet. She pointed. “That's all I need.”

“Oh, I am sure that is not all you need,” he said in a low growl. Startled, she jumped and turned to him, her own desire reflected in those dark eyes. And then he bowed like an aristocrat, hand hesitating on the door knob, and closed the door, leaving her trapped in the room she had so desperately wanted minutes ago, but that now felt like a prison.

The breast pump was her guard.

Tiny Sofia was the warden.

She set it on the desktop of one of the cubicles and, like a robot, began unzipping the case, pulling out the cord, and putting together the horns, the tubes, and all the other pieces that, when fit together, helped her to extract milk she would feed her kid. Her pussy was soaking wet now, panties so far beyond damp it was like a monsoon hit her down there, and if she were Anastasia Steele her Inner Goddess would be treading water in a 19-foot tsunami right about now.

That tingle in her breasts was no longer about milk that needed to be expressed. She was so turned on that as she attached the pump's horns to the tubes, then to the bottles that collected the milk, she felt a wave of need rise up in her that made the leaking start all over again. Quickly, she unbuttoned her wet shirt and unhooked the front-clasp bra she wore for easy access. Licking her finger, she ran the wet tip along the inner ring of the horn, the wetness helping to create a nice seal as she carefully cupped her breast with the horns and sat down.

Oh, no.

She was so wet she jumped up, afraid her dipping panties would make a wet spot on the back of her skirt. Ah, this was awkward. Shimmying out of her panties while holding one horn in place, she kicked the underwear off and sat down again. Not much better, but as she put both horns in place over her breasts and turned the pump dial to 2, she felt herself relax a little.

But not really.

Her body ached with a craving for that man. The new owner? How could she want someone with so much power over her? Her clit throbbed now, nearly leaping out of her body as the milk came in, this streams spurting against the side of the bottom of the horn's funnel, the thin, bluish fore milk trickling – then gushing – through the valve in the pump.

Whoooo – shee! Whooo – shee!
The pump's rhythmic wheeze and the pull on her nipples made a feeling build in her, like the beginnings of an orgasm, and she groaned. Oh, God. Not here. Not now. She glanced around, as if she were in public, but the door was closed. She was alone. A small thought flitted through her brain. If she just could come, could get rid of this craven need, maybe she could focus on work again and possibly rid herself of the burning want that now permeated everything.

Antonio.

She stood and locked the door, pressing the button slowly, hoping no one was in the hall to hear. Thankful for kicking off her panties, Jessica sat back down, keeping the pumps in place, and tried to figure out how she could pleasure herself. If she let go of one horn, she would spurt everywhere. But she needed a free hand to touch herself.

The agony was killing her as each wheeze of the pump pulled on her nipples, stretching them through the horns, sucking milk out of her at an alarming rate. She knew each bottle held up to eight ounces and she was already at four. If she didn't masturbate now, she would fill the damn bottles long before climax.

Her eyes settled on the pump.
Hmmm
. Turning the pump knob to four, the speed of the suction picked up.

And so did the pump's vibrations.

She let tucked one of the horns under her armpit and used her free hand to lower the pump to the floor, now hatching her plan. Straddling the pump, she lowered her naked, wet pussy to it, sliding on the black vinyl until she found –
ah, oh, oh, yeah
...that was the right spot. Her clit settled on on a slow, teasing rhythm that buzzed her to where she needed to go and she rode the pump like it was a Sybian, reaching down to crank the pump to maximum suction.

Pain! Her nipples extended suddenly and sharply, the milk spurting out down the valve, and while the first burst of tugging made her grit her teeth in shock, she was surprised to find it felt amazing. The pain mixed with the milking and her clit on the vibrations as she slid forward, then back, on her knees, pussy lips fucking the sides of the pump's top, her hips shimmying and rocking as if she were fucking a lover, coming on top, riding Antonio – yes, Antonio – riding his thick cock, riding his gorgeous tongue, riding, riding, riding...

The orgasm slammed her against the top of the desk, her body convulsing in a screaming clench as she fought her own sounds, careful to be silent, the need to be quiet making the orgasm that much more urgent. Mouth open, panting, hands clamped over breasts that were stretched into cones, then released, stretched – released – the milk gushing and gushing until she realized, in a half stupor, that one bottle had overflowed, her hind milk backing up into the tube, inches away from clogging the pump's motor.

Tearing the cone off her breast, she turned the pump off, her nipples leaking as she scrambled to stop her expensive machine from being ruined. Drained and suddenly overcome by shame, yet incredible blissful from what she'd just done, Jessica spent the next ten minutes cleaning up and praying she hadn't made anything such a mess that it would be obvious that she had just humped a breast pump at the office.

Panties were still soaked, so she stuffed them in one of the zippered compartments of the pump. She capped the milk bottles and slid them into the chilled compartment with the ice packs, then slipped all the pump parts into a large zippered bag she had. She couldn't salvage her wet shirt or bra, but buttoning her suit coat over them would do.

The thick scent of pussy that filled the tiny room and the slick covering her breast pump? She would have to hope she could get to the women's room before anyone saw her in the hall.

Opening the door cautiously, she made it four doors down before seeing a Women's Room sign. Grateful it was a one-person bathroom, she washed up, never so pleased to find perfumed soap in her life.

What in the
everloving
fuck was wrong with her? She didn't even recognize herself any more. An image of making love with Antonio on a yacht flashed through her thoughts again and she groaned, this time a sound of reproachment. No more. Look what that man had done to her already. Letting him invade her mind again was nothing but trouble.

Once she felt relaxed and in control, she stepped out into the hallway and went back to her desk, humbled, embarrassed and, a tiny part of her had to admit, a lot less needy.

Deep breaths, Jessica
, she told herself.
Deep breaths
. Ten minutes of answering emails helped. Who would have guessed that answering vendor questions and approving vacation for developers could kill desire so quickly? She made a sarcastic comment to herself in her head and smiled. If someone looked at her now they would think she was crazy. Which she was.

Crazy in lust.

An impulse hit her and she went into her Internet browser, pulling up a search engine. Then she typed “Antonio Bouskos.”

Holy shit.

The man's face was everywhere, pictures of him in Time Magazine, The Economist, People Magazine, OK! Magazine, and pretty much every major rag from the National Enquirer to The Daily Mail. He was seen with supermodels and princesses (real ones! With titles and bloodlines!) and in every photo he looked bored. His eyes were dimmed and although he smiled, his look was one of disengagement.

So different from the sparkling eyes and the laser-focused intensity she had experience this morning. As she read, though, she became more and more embarrassed for ever thinking he had even the slightest interest in her. He was a billionaire! He owned a home in Jackson Hole, a town home in London, a penthouse apartment of 23,000 square feet in Manhattan, a villa in Monaco, was friends with Prince Albert and the Koch brothers, and the list went on and on...

He wasn't just out of her league. He was in another solar system.

Galaxy
.

Why hadn't she heard of him? He wasn't really familiar. The article in The Economist explained it as she read: he was old, old money, from a Spanish-Greek family, one that was part of the southern European aristocracy. If he was dating princesses it was because his bloodline was just as regal.

Oy.

Working-class Jessica wouldn't cut it, the daughter of factory workers from Scranton, Pennsylvania who had scraped by to get into college and for whom a graduate degree had made her an oddity in her factory hometown. She and Antonio were worlds apart and, in some ways, that helped. A girl could dream – sure.

But this would just be a dream. All that had happened in the hallway was a wealthy aristocrat being nice, his polished manners mistaken by Jessica for flirting. He probably made in an hour what she made in an entire year. While she budgeted taxi rides, he flew helicopters in Manhattan. She might, someday afford a cruise. He owned an entire line.

This was a guy who wore watches as expensive as her car. So the warm eyes, the melting gaze, the scent of mystery and musk and spice – she could call on that when she needed a little push to get her to completion with her vibrator – she shot her breast pump a guilty look – or whatever device, but any thought of actually having a date – or a fuck – with Antonio Bouskos was about as real as winning the lottery.

And she never bought tickets, the long shot not even worth it. Better to focus on what was in front of her, what was tangible and solid, her picture of Sofia peeking out from behind a report she had shoved on her desk. Grimacing, she pulled the photo out and whispered, “I'll take care of you, my sweet girl,” then set the picture aside, delving into her work.

At 3 p.m. her breasts began tingling again. Mother Nature didn't recognize the work clock; her six month old would be waking from her nap right now and need to nurse, and Jessica's breasts were on Sofia time, not corporate time. Grabbing her pump, she reached for a bottle of water and walked back to the small room Antonio had shown her. Sounds from behind the door made her realize people were in there, on the phone.

Damn!
The tingling in her nipples continued. There was no way she could wait until work was over. The mid-afternoon slump hadn't been helped by that cup of coffee she had gulped at 2 p.m., and now she found herself in a bit of a brain fog, unsure of how to handle this situation, growing a bit uncomfortable and perturbed.

“Hello,” said a familiar voice, the melodic tones making her hot and wet again, her insides puddling. Where did he come from? How did he seem to know when she needed to pump? She smiled without looking at him, his body two feet away, in the threshold to the staircase, and then Jessica took a deep breath and met his eyes.

They hadn't changed. Deep and spinning, like an abyss she would readily leap into, she wondered if he weren't slightly wicked, a bit supernatural and omniscient.

“Hello, Antonio,” she said, her voice filled with whiskey and want, the sound so foreign she didn't know where it came from. If she had said “Come fuck me” it wouldn't have been as intense as her voice, and he reacted instantly, as if slapped. His eyes told her he liked it; the bruising dominance in those brown orbs scared and excited her. She wasn't sure which emotion was stronger, and frankly, didn't care much at this point.