She rewarded him. She held him steady and lapped the bead from his slit, moaned softly like it tasted like summer, and then sealed her mouth over the crown. Dorian’s throat worked. He didn’t thrust. He didn’t have to. She took him down inch by slow inch, letting him feel the glide, the heat, the ease with which she accommodated the kind of size that would have scared mortals into repentance. She swallowed, pulled back with a wet pop, kissed the head, and bobbed again, faster, cheeks hollowing. Her free hand kept up a lazy massage on his balls, rolling them, coaxing.
The gallery had gone quiet—even Agnus.
Beside me, Kevin gripped the rail. I was just as keyed up. But not to fuck these women. I wanted Ivy, pictured Ivy doing the same. It was torture and bliss at the same moment. They wanted us hungry, but they wanted us willing even more.
Nerys turned Hale a fraction so we could watch the milker work. The sleeve stroked him in deep waves, then changed to shorter, faster pulses with a twist that made his knees buckle. He gasped. Nerys’s hand slid to his stomach, grounding him. “Breathe, bull. In. Hold. Out.” He did it, panting, eyes fluttering closed. The machine churred; the tip flared again; the clear tube fogged, then cleared, then fogged—like watching a storm build in glass.
“How close?” she asked.
“Close,” he rasped. “God—closer?—”
“Count down for me.”
“Ten.” His voice was wrecked already. “Nine. Eight.” The machine hissed and tugged, hissed and tugged, the spiral ribbing massaging him like a practiced fist. “Seven—oh—six—fuck—five?—”
“Language is fine during milking,” Nerys said amiably. “Four.”
His laugh broke on a moan. “Three. Two?—”
She flipped a switch. The sleeve tightened around the head and stroked only the first third of his shaft in fast, fluttering pulses while the base kept a steady hold. Hale’s body snapped tight as a bowstring. He grunted, loud, raw, a sound with no lawyerly varnish, and came hard. The tube went cloudy with streaks. The big, clear reservoir at the end filled with white, hot and thick, valve clicking as it collected and measured.
My knees almost buckled just watching it.
On the chaise, Dorian was trembling with need, like a prayer on the verge of being answered. Kiera had him deep and messy now, taking him down and letting spit leak around the seal of her lips. She moaned like it fed her, like it did more than that—like it fueled her. Dorian’s hands hovered, wanting to touch, not daring to unless told. He shook, thighs quivering under her palms.
She pulled off with a wet, lewd sound and stroked him from base to tip, twisting at the crown. “Tell me what you want.”
His head dropped. “To come in your mouth.”
She smiled. “Greedy bull. Alas, it must be collected.”
His eyelids fluttered. “Please.”
Her thumb circled his slit. “Collected?”
Reality clicked back in. The tube on the cart. The rules. The work.
“Yes.” His jaw flexed. “Collect it.”
“Good bull.” She kissed the tip, then lifted the wide-mouthed tube with one hand and set it hovering a breath away from his crown. “Hold the edge. I’ll do the rest.”
He braced the base of his shaft against the tube lip. Kiera took him into her mouth again and went wicked. No more teasing—she bobbed hard, hand pumping the base, twisting on every upstroke. Her other hand massaged his balls in steady, urgent circles. Dorian sounded helpless. When his breath stuttered, she hummed, the vibration traveling through him like a shock. His whole body arched.
“Now,” she said, pulling back in a slick glide, and he sank the tip into the tube. She sealed her mouth around the exposed crown and sucked while her fist blurred. The first gush hit the glass with a splatter, then another, then a third. He roared. She stayed with him, swallowing what smeared free, coaxing every twitch, every last spill, until the tube was heavy with his spend.
Kiera eased off with a kiss to the head and a pat to his trembling thigh. “Well done.”
My heartbeat felt like it was in my mouth. The gallery stirred—the low, involuntary noises of men trying not to be obvious while their cocks throbbed against belts. Magic or not, there was no hiding the hunger in the air. It was a living thing, musky and hot and honest.
Nerys glanced through the glass at us like she could taste it. “Questions?”
“Does it always feel…that good?” someone choked out.
Hale laughed, still boneless in his harness. “Sometimes it feels better.”
Agnus stepped forward, composed as a mortgage lender. “You just saw both options. Machine milking is standardized, trackable, and efficient. Manual is… manual.” A sniff, which did nothing to disguise the flush in her throat. “You will always be asked. You will always be able to stop. You will never beused without your consent. If you join the program, you do so willingly.”
She looked straight at me when she said it. I didn’t know if that was a coincidence. It didn’t feel like one.
