Page 6

JAMIE

This was torture. Mr. Hartley was so hot in his dress shirt with the top buttons open and sleeves rolled up. He hadn’t shaved this morning either, and his growing stubble called to me. I wanted to fucking lick it, feel the scrape of it against my lips and tongue…

After lunch, I’d felt the telltale pressure in my chest intensify and had to take precautions.

Now my nipples ached with those stupid pads on them.

I must have overdone the milking because my pecs filled out faster and heavier than the day before.

And my stupid body perceived the tingling in them as something sexual.

I was so horny it wasn’t funny.

In the state I was in, probably anyone would do, and I was stuck with my boss for three more days.

Who was I kidding? I’d always found Mr. Hartley hot. Now, he was irresistible.

I stared at his Adam’s apple. I wanted to suck on it.

Suddenly, Mr. Hartley stood and opened the window.

“I need air,” he muttered.

A cold breeze swept through the coupé, sending papers aflutter.

“Oh, sorry.”

We both fumbled to catch the printouts, our hands touching. I pulled back as if he had burned me. He collected the papers and put them into a folder.

“You can take the rest of the day off, Jamie.”

“It’s half past five already.”

He glanced at me, his eyebrows scrunched together. “I’m sorry. I lost track of time. Please, go. Be free.”

I smiled. “We’re on a train. Not like I have anything else to do than work.”

“Have you been to the skyline car? It’s going to be pretty during sunset. Have a few drinks and put them on my tab. Shoo. Go.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” I joked.

I should be running away from him, but now that he’d ordered me to leave, I didn’t want to.

He gave me a soft, self-deprecating smile. “I’m trying to keep you from hating me.”

God, he was so cute when he smiled like that. And his shoulders in that shirt… That stubble…

“All right. I’m going. But if I get drunk on twenty-dollar cocktails at the skyline car, you only have yourself to blame.”

“I take full responsibility. Knock yourself out.”

I backed toward the narrow hallway. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I won’t. Thank you, Jamie.”

“Okay.”

Nodding awkwardly, I finally tore myself away.

The skyline car was indeed lovely. I’d downloaded a book on my phone, but I’d only read a few pages.

Instead, I sipped an overpriced margarita and gazed at the sunset over the mountains.

The train passed through a wide valley along a meandering river, and the colors of the evening reflected in the water.

The natural spectacle briefly distracted me from my predicament, but as the night fell, my thoughts circled back to Mr. Hartley, the way he’d smelled today, and how much I’d wanted to run my nails through the stubble on his jaw.

My pecs tingled, and my hole felt loose. I’d better not have another drink. I briefly imagined stumbling into Mr. Hartley’s bedroom, drunk off my ass, demanding he suck my tits.

Nope. Not drinking.

Oh Lord, I needed to milk myself dry. The pads in my undershirt chafed my straining nipples.

After dinner—a pasta salad that I had barely finished—I hurried back to my room. I took a shower, brushed my teeth, and with my hair still wet, I settled on the bed. The milking machine and vibrator were fully charged.

This time, I used a clean undershirt as a gag. I crumpled a part of it into a ball and stuffed it into my mouth.

I didn’t have the patience to go slow. As soon as I had the suction cups attached, I shoved the vibrator into me to the hilt and pressed it against the mouth to my womb. The pleasure was immediate and devastating.

My head emptied, and I writhed, coming in waves. My groans were hopefully muffled by the gag.

I didn’t stop until I started shaking and twitching all over and lost my grip on the vibrator. My pulsating ass expelled it, and I bowed off the bed with one last jolt of ecstasy, biting into the soaked cotton stuffed in my mouth.

Covered with sweat, I slumped on the bed.

I spat the gag out and took stock. The towel I’d spread under my ass was soaked with slick.

The skin on my torso and thighs felt cool where it was smeared with cum and milk.

The silicone cups were nowhere to be seen.

They must have fallen off. The machine was quiet; the bottle attached to it looked full.

I gasped when I glimpsed the state of my chest. My pecs were soft, and my nipples stuck out, dark red and crudely enlarged.

White milk was still pearling at the tips.

Despite the chain of brain-melting orgasms, I felt vaguely aroused anew at the sight of what could only be described as teats .

I fondled my half-hard cock as I smeared the milk around my huge, oversensitive nipples. Why did I like that? I imagined someone, anyone, or maybe Mr. Hartley, sucking the big teat into his mouth, and I shivered. This was getting out of hand.

I’d never been this horny. Had the hormonal imbalance made me… hypersexual? That was the term, right? People who could never get enough. Had I turned into one of them?

I grew afraid. Seriously scared.

This wasn’t normal. I’d been masturbating morning and evening three days in a row, going through multiple orgasms every time, and I still felt a niggling ache deep in my core.

And the machine was making me lactate more and more.

My hormones were all over the place; I was lusting after my boss, goddammit! I’d even imagined him breeding me.

I was out of control.

My hands shook as I cleaned the sex toy and rinsed the milking machine. I took a cold shower.

Curled up on the bed, I stared at the landscape behind the window. The moon was nearly full, outshining the stars, and the contours of a black forest passed by. Endless rows of trees, with no man-made lights anywhere in sight.

I came up with a plan. I would set a timer and only milk myself for the shortest possible time to get relief.

I wouldn’t use the vibrator anymore, only my fingers.

One orgasm and done. I needed to regain control of my hormone-laden body.

And I’d book another appointment with the doctor.

If he didn’t know what to do with me, he could refer me to a specialist. There were sex experts out there, right?

Satisfied that I had something akin to a plan, I closed my eyes. I kept returning to Mr. Hartley in my mind, but my thoughts got tangled and blurry. The gentle rocking of the train car eventually lulled me to sleep.

I woke up gasping for air. Had I dreamed something scary? Was I sick?

My abdomen and lower back ached, my pecs throbbed, and my cock was hard.

I blinked into the darkness, disoriented.

What were those strange buzzing and swooshing sounds?

The train. I was on a train with Mr. Hartley.

I sat up.

Wetness leaked out of my hole, soaking my pajamas.

What the fuck?

I’d overdone it. I’d been so stupid. I’d been masturbating like it was a competition, and now I’d turned myself into a sex-crazed nympho.

Except the ache in my lower back felt familiar.

I kicked the blanket off me. I was hot all over. I fumbled for the water glass I’d left on my nightstand and chugged it.

The cold drink must have brought my brain back online because, suddenly, the puzzle pieces slotted together.

I wasn’t a crazy nympho.

It was heat.

I was going into heat.

Now?

Here?

Oh my fucking God!

I was screwed.