It’s only for very special occasions that Master orders me to have milk for supper. Only milk. None of the usual rich dishes, which settle weighty in the stomach, such as heart tartare or braised pork belly.
“You need only cook for me tonight, pet,” he’ll coo and run his thumb over my lips.
He serves the milk in a bowl so I must lap it up, licking it clean.
After dinner, Master strips naked. He is beautiful, with that fine cleft of his sternum, between the muscles, the freckles along his shoulders, his tender belly. But then, he is beautiful in every way to me. He is a fire, radiant and ever evolving.
He strips me naked next. His hands are firm and there is urgency, but he is never unkind. He will whisper to me what a handsome boy I am, how much he loves my wiry strength, enjoys my hands, and touches the scars on my chest with such reverence.
I love the heavy weight of the collar when he puts it on me, and the sound of the leash snapping on.
He leads me down into the basement. It’s not a dirty basement. It’s square and concrete, with tables and sawhorses and chairs and racks, some poles and hooks strung from the ceilings, and dark protuberances along the walls. Master gloriously hung me from my nipples through some of the hooks, my skin stretching, nearly tearing. Afterwards, he told me what a good boy I was as he cleaned the punctures. It was one of the best days of my life, pleasing him in that manner.
In the basement, Master ties me to a pole of his choice and makes me crouch on my hands and knees, ass facing the wall.
We have only a brief time when I’ve had milk for dinner, an hour at maximum. So there’s no pleading, no running his fingers through my hair and murmuring how beautiful I am, what a good pet. He merely presents his cock.
It is my pleasure to make it erect.
I take the soft organ into my mouth. Master has such a beautiful cock: the head lavender, the shaft itself pale and marbled with blue and purple veins. The way he thickens on the tongue and between the lips as I suck. The broad wedge of his head, and the fine crescent curve when he is erect.
I am adept by now, so it does not take me long to feel his shaft pulsing, and enjoy the salty taste of his pre-cum leaking through his slit.
“Good boy,” he’ll say.
He’ll caress my face while I suck, his hands clamping down, and I am stuck, his cock in my mouth. And ah, how wonderful what he does next: he begins to thrust inside me, with low groans. His gentle thrusts quickly deepen, pressing against the back of my throat. I am spectacular at suppressing my gag reflex. These initial taps are nothing. They warm my throat up for when the thrusts come hard, fast, and I feel my dinner churning its way up my esophagus. He’ll hold my head, his shaft embedded deep, my nose in his pubic hair, my throat spasming, the gag reflex finally inevitable, and milk bile oozing from my lips. He’ll pull me back so I can vomit, preferably on his cock. He enjoys the heat of the liquid.
Then he does it again: thrusting, all the while milk bile spills from me, hot and glorious. Sometimes he has me lie on my back so he can can thrust down into me, the white heat dribbling out of me as I gag.
Eventually he will stop and his burning hands will skim my skin: over my shoulders, down my back, smoothing my ass and pressing his fingers to my vulva, rubbing my cock.
“So wet. And hard,” he’ll say. “My, my, what should be done about that?”
Sometimes I do beg, because he loves to hear it. Other times I fall silent because I understand Master knows what is best.
“Get up, crouching. Then back up,” he often says. “Keep your legs spread.”
I do just as he orders. I stand up and crouch, backing up with his guidance, until I feel cool, hard silicone against my entrance.
“Good boy,” he’ll smile.
I’ll feel his fire inside me, his radiance.
“I think you know what to do,” he says.
And I do. Oh yes, yes I do. I open my mouth as I sink back onto the shaft, the silicone dildo in the wall. Some are hard and slender and strike that soft, sensitive spot inside, as though a thick finger were curling within. Some are ridged, rippling, making obscene and lovely wet sounds as I thrust back against it. Some mimic real cocks, spongy and with a little give, but a glorious, velvety slide. And there is one shaped like a cone, sharp pointed peak, ridges and scales, and a broad base. I haven’t gotten quite used to that one yet, but when I am aroused enough I can take it all the way, the base stretching me wide.
But now I’ll recall a simple one, smooth silicone. As I thrust back on the dildo, Master thrusts into me, so hard and deep I see red, like blood, and it pushes me even deeper onto the dildo.
So he fucks my mouth, and I continue to vomit, while I feel the slick jab of the dildo in me, making me harder, wetter.
Master is not cruel. Master adores me. So when I whimper around his cock, he withdraws. At times he does not even require me to whimper, but just knows my throat is sore because my attention towards him begins to flag. I don’t mean to, it simply does not feel pleasurable anymore. Master knows, and understands.
Pulling his cock out, he’ll wipe the milk bile from my face and lips, caressing me.
“You’ve been such a good boy. Stop fucking yourself and turn around.”
By then I will be sleepy, but elated. No matter how many dildos we have in the walls, no matter how he makes me use them, I always prefer his cock, with that thick head and neat curve. I prefer the rub of his skin against mine, and the feel of him inside me.
“Hands and knees, pet. Spread your legs,” he’ll say.
Then I’ll feel, like a hot darkness, the head of his cock against my wet folds. His cock, dripping with milk bile, which means this will sting, but I must have him take me, own me, possess me.
How hard and how fast he is depends on me. He’ll ask what his good little boy wants and I’ll tell him. Piercing, swift, hammering against that spot inside. Slow, undulating in circles, rubbing that same place. Rocking in and out of me, the wetness between us making slick sounds. All the while, he strokes my cock and tells me how handsome I am, how much he loves and desires me, how much he wants to hear me come.
And when I come, it is with light, with fire in my veins.
Sometimes he finishes before I do, sometimes after, sometimes around the same time. In any case, I have the honor of feeling his hot cum seeping inside me. I wish sometimes I had not had a hysterectomy, so that I could become pregnant with his child. But there is no use in dwelling on what cannot be.
We don’t lay on the basement floor long. The cement is too hard and cold for that. First Master rises, then tugs me up by the leash. Then he leads me up the stairs, and to the master bathroom. He takes the collar and leash off, the absence of it disorienting sometimes, like feeling odd in one’s own skin.
He draws a bath for us, and we lie together in the warmth. After the water has gone cool we wash ourselves. I am reminded, through the ceremony of the bath, through Will’s cum leaking from me, through stripping the crust of milk bile from my face and throat, through the way we towel one another off -- that I am not just Master’s pet, but that I am Hannibal, and he is Will.