The Milk Maid's Gift

I am awoken in the middle of the night, and again in the morning, by the familiar stimulation of my nipples and the pressure to express. I position the cups and let the pump do its work, suckling, drawing the milk from me, relieving the ache in my too-full breasts and stirring instead a different ache, the need to be touched, and more, to be driven to climax and beyond.

In the dark quiet of the night, I have only my fingers, and though they are proficient in their task they do leave me wishing for more. In the morning I get more, the general there always, naked and ready for action - standing at attention, so to speak. I part my legs willingly, and while the machine works determinedly on my breasts, I welcome the soldier below.

He is over twice my age, but still an ardent lover, though I know it's his wife that he sees whenever he closes his eyes. I do not mind. His cock is long and thick, filling me perfectly, and I have grown to love this morning ritual. The feeling of his creamy cum pumping into me even as my milk streams out from my nipples is always enough to trigger my orgasm, the walls of my vagina gripping his hard cock fiercely as we come together.

*

I was the only child of loving parents, and by all accounts a very pretty girl, always cheerful and laughing, and I do have a few clear, happy memories of that time. The town where I lived was one of the first to be targetted by bioterrorists with the Zalixali virus, and I was one of only a handful of survivors, and the only one to walk away without a major disability.

My reward for my immunity, aside from nightmares and endless tears and traumatic stress, was a deeply unpleasant year spent in a government research facility. Every day, hundreds of people around the world were dying in outbreaks of Zalixali, and somehow I was the sole hope of a cure. I was twelve years old, utterly lonely and sick of the endless needles that punctuated my life, and on top of that my body was going through puberty, changing every day, hair, breasts. I had been warned that I would start bleeding, but it terrified me all the same.

One day everything changed. I was moved to a new facility - a private one - with new doctors and new nurses, and heightened security. A much nicer bedroom, however, and high quality food and a range of entertainments. Nothing of the outside world, however; they didn't want anything to upset me. "We've found the cure," one of the doctors told me. "In your blood."

And they still took my blood every day, though they were gentler and I no longer suffered as before. Indeed, apart from being an effective prisoner in a gilded cage, I had no concerns. I read books and listened to music, and learned to be satisfied within my imagination.

Here and there I found descriptions of sex that aroused my curiosity so much that, despite the cameras that watched me day and night, I learned how to pleasure myself. If I was ashamed of this at first, after a while the possibility that people were watching excited a rebellious streak in me. Perhaps, I mused, I could provoke a young doctor or nurse to abandon their professional reserve and join me, so that I could have real sex instead of imaginary sex.

*

The general doesn't use protection. He says it's because I can't get pregnant, but I think he's wrong. It's true that I haven't ovulated in years, but it's true also that I no longer have doctors injecting me with mysterious cocktails of drugs and whatever.

I don't mind. The sex is good, and anyway I think I would enjoy being pregnant. Becoming a mother.

Summer is here at last. After a shower and a hearty breakfast, I take my book of Coleridge's poetry into the garden and sit beneath the apple trees.

*

After a year, a new doctor joined the staff. He sat with me in my room. He was attractive, with short dark hair and a smile whose warmth did quite not reach his intense blue eyes. His gaze lingered for a moment on my breasts, and I wondered if he wanted to hold them and kiss them. I wondered what his hands would feel like.

"Elizabeth," he said. "Your blood holds the cure. We've isolated it, and tested it, and it's effective - at least, it's effective at holding the Zalixali virus in stasis, so that a daily dose can hold the virus at bay indefinitely."

"But...?"

He nodded. "But we have been unable so far to synthesise the cure, and your body produces only a fraction of what is needed even for one person."

"So...?"

This time he laughed at my anticipation. "So we need to induce your body to produce the antiviral in larger quantities."

"How?"

"The natural way. Breast milk. It's full of defences against disease, and in time we can optimise the production of the specific antiviral."

I stared down at my breasts, trying to imagine them full of milk. "But don't I need to give birth before I produce milk?"

"Oh no. A series of injections and regular stimulation of the breasts will have them working soon."

"Regular stimulation?" The thought of the doctor squeezing my breasts was enough to make my nipples harden, something that my shirt did little to conceal.

But he showed no interest in my nipples. "Electrostimulation, and a milking machine, designed for humans." I must admit to being disappointed - and yet, having my breasts stimulated regularly, even by a machine, would be some relief from the tedium of my days.

A dozen tiny gold-coloured beads were implanted surgically beneath the skin of my breasts, surrounding each of my areolae. Afterwards, all I could see were red dots, and these faded after a few days. Once my doctor was sure there were no rejection issues, he tested the implants by holding a device near my breasts. I didn't even need to take my clothes off. My nipples tingled with electrical stimulation, and hardened swiftly as the heat of arousal built between my legs.

He tapped a few buttons on the device, then put it away. "From now on, the implants will switch on for fifteen minutes every four hours. Enjoy..."

Enjoy it I certainly did. I whimpered with frustration every time my fifteen minutes were up.

*

Every four hours, like clockwork. At midday I make the first of my two daily visits to the quarantine zone. A zone that houses only six people, two of them in the bungalow that I make my way to. "Benjamin?" I call out. "Rebecca?"

"Elizabeth! Come in!" They were expecting me, of course, but there is such warmth in their welcome. I love coming here.

"Sorry I'm late," I say. "They're preparing for some event tonight. Some grand party."

"So I hear," Benjamin says. "And you are the guest of honour..."

"Why me?" I'm genuinely confused. No one has said anything about this.

"It is a year since you came to us," he says. "Since you saved my life."

"And mine," Rebecca says.

A distant clock chimes, and electricity surges through my nipples. I pull my top off quickly, freeing my breasts and my large, swollen nipples. Rebecca kneels down beside Benjamin's wheelchair, and together they look up at me, as eager and expectant as young chicks hoping for a worm from their mother. I bend forwards until my nipples are engulfed, the two adult mouths suckling, drinking my milk with enthusiasm.

Two hands tease their way up my inner thighs, under my skirt, tugging gently at my labia, teasing my clit, taking turns to penetrate me.

I love these kids. Only a year or two older than me, and both so damaged by the Zalixali virus. Benjamin's spinal damage will never heal, and Rebecca's scars conceal what must once have been a beautiful face. She's still beautiful, if you look past the scars. Over the past year I have witnessed their shared misery develop into a deep friendship.

And rather than resent their dependence on me, they have welcomed me as a friend and lover. It helps, perhaps, that they both prefer women. I myself have no particular preference, but I do love when Benjamin watches Rebecca and me.

I adore feeding them from my breasts, and the adoration of their fingers is heavenly. "I'm coming," I cry, and two pairs of eyes look up at me as I do, their lips and tongues driving my pleasure higher as much as their fingers below.

Once they have drained me of the milk that gives them life, Rebecca pushes me onto my back on the floor and drops down into sixty-nine. I am only too happy to give her pussy the same loving attention that she is giving mine.

*

Over the weeks, my nipples thickened, my areolae widened and darkened, and every day my breasts looked larger and certainly felt heavier. Once a day, my doctor examined them carefully, until one day drops of milk squeezed through my nipples. He collected these in a test tube, grinning delightedly. "It's time to start pumping," he said.

The breast pump had two large suction cups that emptied my breasts together. All I had to do was lie there and enjoy the wonderful suckling action while my nipples were stimulated from the inside. At first the amount of milk was tiny, a disappointing few drops that would hardly provide the quantities the doctors needed, but my breasts developed, adjusting to the demand of being constantly emptied, and after a month I was producing about a litre of milk each day.

It was fascinating to watch my breasts emptying into the collection jars while my nipples were being so wonderfully suckled and stimulated, and usually my clit as well by my restless fingers.

If I felt sometimes oddly like a human cow, milked by a machine and also constantly hungry and exhausted, often sleeping for three hours only to be woken by the need to express, at least I knew it was in a good cause. My doctor seemed delighted with the volume and quality of my milk.

What he didn't tell me was how few people benefitted from it.

*

At four o'clock, tick-tock, I'm back in my room and hooked up to the machine. My body's ability to produce milk in such quantity never ceases to amaze me.

The general sits beside me, massaging my labia with an idle hand. "How is my son?" he asks.

"He is as well as could be." I'm never really sure how much he knows about the three of us. I am the only person allowed to pass unprotected between the general's fortress - it really is a fortress, the old walls rebuilt now - and the quarantined zone, and even I have to get decontaminated on exit.

The world outside the fortress is no longer a happy place. There is too much death and distrust, and I cannot bear to watch the news. The general has built an oasis of civilisation, as safe and secure as can be, somewhere to live until the Zalixali has exhausted itself and vanished from the world.

If the price of that safety is to be the general's mistress and milkmaid to his son... well, it's not an unpleasant fate.

"So I'm the guest of honour tonight?" I say.

"That was supposed to be a surprise. What else did he tell you?"

"Only that he wished he could be there."

The general chuckles. "Yes, I'm sure he would enjoy it." Standing, he pulls his trousers down, revealing his cock to be as hard as I've ever seen it. "Just as I'm sure you will enjoy this."

And while the stimulation of my nipples continues, and the machine sucks the seemingly endless stream of milk from my breasts, I suck on the general's formidable cock, moaning with lust as I stare up hungrily into his eyes.

"Come in my mouth," I say, and it's not long before he does.

*

For four years I lived a hazy existence of ignorant bliss, and it helped that my self-sacrifice to save the world soothed the guilt at surviving when so many had died. I had my endless supply of books to read when not sleeping or yielding to milky pleasure, and when the weather was good they encouraged me to wander in the garden outside - although if I wandered too far I was swiftly met by guards or nurses.

But I was not so disconnected from the real world that I didn't sense the building anxieties towards the end, the gradual disappearance of staff, the increasing number of guards with assault rifles. "What's going on?" I asked my doctor.

"You are very valuable to us," he said. "To the whole world. But some people are unhappy that we produce so little of the antiviral. We are worried that someone will try to take you from us."

"How much are you producing?" I asked. "How many people am I keeping alive with my milk?"

It wasn't the first time I had asked that question, and his answer was the same as always: "Oh, many! Very many!" And, as always, he smiled, but on this occasion the smile lacked sincerity, and I feared to ask more.

The following week I asked him again. "Six," he said, and without smiling. The assault rifle pointed at his head clearly had something to do with this change of tune.

There had been gunfire all morning, helicopters, explosions, in the distance at first but drawing ever nearer to the mansion. I was, naturally, terrified, and though my milking continued on schedule I found no pleasure in it. "Stay away from the window!" my doctor cried, rushing into the room. "We must move you. There's a helicopter waiting on the roof." He barely looked at me, instead hurriedly packing the breast pump and other equipment into a canvas bag. "Come!"

Even as he moved towards the door, it burst open and in strode a man in army fatigues, rifle at his shoulder with a laser scope that quickly found the doctor's chest. My doctor dropped the bag and held his hands up. "You'll need me," he said. "Only I know how to isolate the antiviral."

The soldier looked around, studying the room, and me, all the while keeping his rifle trained on the doctor. "Has he told you," he asked me, "how many doses you produce each day?"

And so I had asked again, and trembling in terror my doctor said, "Six."

Six! I was appalled! I had thought there must be enough for hundreds!

"Six," the soldier echoed. "Currently selling for one million dollars per dose. That's two billion dollars a year. Millions have been killed or left crippled by this virus, but six rich men live thanks to you, and this doctor and his company grow fat indeed. My wife is dead. My son is infected and will soon follow her. I came to take you, against your will if necessary, but let me ask you instead. Will you go with this doctor" - he spat on the floor with disgust - "or will you dare to be mine? I can promise only that no more wallets will be fattened."

I looked at my doctor. "I really was just a cow for you, wasn't I?" He started to reply, but I shook my head. "I could never trust you again." I picked up the equipment bag and walked out the room, and felt nothing as a single shot echoed behind me.

*

I rest, and bathe, and eat, and rest again, and suddenly it's nearly eight and time for milking again... except the pumping equipment is gone, taken away by someone while I slept. "It's time," the general says, appearing in the doorway behind me.

"I know!" I cry. "But where is it?"

The general laughs. "No, I mean it's time to start the evening's entertainment. Come." He holds his hand out to me.

I look down at my naked self - the afternoon had been so warm that I had slept nude. "I need something to wear."

He shakes his head. "No you don't." He catches me by the hand and tugs me after him, down the stairs and along the corridor to the grand hall. Every so often I spy people peeking at me from doorways, and can feel myself blushing, but my curiosity is stronger than my sense of shame. I'm used to people watching me.

That said, being propelled into a large hall full of people staring at me is a shock. I pull back, trying to escape, but the general's grip is firm and he pulls me to him. "Comrades!" he shouts, holding his other hand out for silence, and the whispers and giggles gradually fade. "Comrades," he repeats, no longer shouting but strong and clear, "A year ago today, I brought Elizabeth to live with us. She saved my son's life, and I will always love her for that. Tonight's feast is in celebration of her, but also about giving her a gift to show our gratitude."

Dragging me here naked is a gift? Exposing me to so many people at once? Half of them are staring hungrily at my breasts, that are achingly full once again, and the rest are looking lower down, where my hand is desperately trying to shield my pussy from view.

Two long tables, bursting with more food than I've seen in all my life, run the length of the hall. The general guides me between them, the murmuring crowd making way before us, until I find myself before a seat, positioned on a raised dais - almost like the throne in a castle, but this is no throne. It is some kind of machine, two padded leather slats forming a seat, and thrusting up between them is a dildo. The pumping equipment is set up next to it.

I grind to halt and refuse to go any nearer. "What...?"

"I've come to know you very well over the past year, Elizabeth. I know how it excites you to be watched."

"Not like th- Mmm..." My implants have awoken. Somewhere in the distance a clock strikes eight.

The general takes advantage of my distraction to manoeuvre me onto the seat. It rocks beneath me, causing the dildo to thrust up between my parted thighs and sending a thrill of excitement through me. My earlier hesitance is forgotten - it's funny how quickly a little current through the nipples can erode your inhibitions.

I adjust my seating carefully, until the dildo slips between my soaking wet labia. Its movement is so unexpected. Even a small movement of my hips translates to a significant thrust or withdrawal. Looking up at the general, I see everyone watching me experiment - I had forgotten about them. I would laugh if I weren't so completely absorbed with the dildo. It's almost like it has a mind of its own.

He hands me the cups, and I hold them in place until the suction kicks in and the tubes fill with my milk. I cry out in surprise as the dildo thrusts deep, and it takes me a few seconds to understand that I did it, that I'm fucking myself. To understand that I can stop if I want to - if I want to - but what I want is to feel that dildo driving into me. All I need is find a rhythm that works, to adjust my posture, like so, yes, yes.

Fuck, this is amazing. And they're all still watching me, the milk streaming from my breasts, the dildo pounding my pussy with each thrust of my hips. I can't believe I was so embarrassed earlier. I love the bright hunger in their eyes, the obvious bulging of trousers, the sharp points of nipples. I could fuck myself like this all day.

I close my eyes and concentrate on the orgasm I am chasing. It's easy to believe it's the general - or even that it's Benjamin fucking me. He did say he wished he could see this, and maybe I can take the chair to him. I would love to watch Rebecca fucking herself with the chair.

More than anything else, it's imagining Rebecca rocking herself to orgasm that brings me to my own climax. "Yes!" I scream, trying desperately to control the dildo while my whole body, it seems, convulses around it. "Yes! Fuck!"

And still the pump is working, sucking the milk from me, as the most intense orgasm of my life rocks me to the sound of an audience cheering and clapping.

"How do you like your gift?" the general asks.

I have to laugh. "It's fucking brilliant."