At least having something in her mouth seems to have calmed her down.
She’s nearly ready.
I carefully lower a hand to the soft, taut skin of her breast.
Andromeda moans and whimpers.
I hook a finger under the silk binding her breasts. The silk releases and gently falls away.
Andromeda gives a muffled scream and bites down hard on my finger.
I shudder at the pain, pedipalps vibrating. She’s not the only masochist here.
Her heavy breath washes over my hand as she adjusts to the full weight of her breasts, which hang low and heavy and glorious.
I slide a leg under her just in time for a droplet of hot, creamy milk to splash against my chitin. She moans into my hand, relaxing, teeth releasing my thumb. As her head starts to hang, I quickly weave a sling for her to lean into.
“You’re ready,” I say quietly. “Let me go get the equipment.”
I slip away, quickly fetching the milking machine, ignoring how my abdomen aches and pulses. Assembling the equipment is second nature, which is good, because I’m not thinking the most clearly right now.
I soon press the milking attachment to Andromeda’s breast. Usually, that’s met with a sigh of relief.
But Andromeda recoils with pain.
“I hardly touched you,” I murmur, more confused than defensive. Maybe something’s wrong with the equipment. I test every attachment and setting, then press the soft suction attachment to my own pectoral. The pressure is the same as always.
I touch it to Andromeda’s skin, and her brow knits, groaning.
“You’ve very sensitive right now,” I soothe. “Give it a moment. You’ll adjust.”
Andromeda nods into the sling, jaw tensing.
I apply both attachments, and milk begins to flow. She should be relieved. But she’s silent, breathing deliberately. Then a low, quiet whimper forms in her throat.
“Does it still hurt?”
She nods.
“How badly?”
Her jaw tightens, determined. A shudder runs through her, and another whimper. “Bad,” she admits, and I can tell every cell in her body resists saying it aloud.
“Something’s wrong.” I immediately turn off the milking machine and remove the attachments.
She stabilizes, moaning quietly. “What’s wrong?” She tries and fails to hide her worry. For a human as feisty as Andromeda, this hormonal state must feel extremely vulnerable.
I look down at the milking attachment, then set it aside. “Maybe… notwrong. Just… different.”
I tuck my legs and lower down until my head is just below hers. “I’m going to milk you now, alright?”
“Please,” she gasps. “Please, I’m so full…”
I lower further until I can reach down for her hard, swollen nipples. I brush one with the lightest touch—and hot milk spurts out over my hand.
NowAndromeda gives a lowing moan of relief. She’sextremelysensitive. Even the gentlest machine was far too much for her.
I return my fingertip to her nipple, brushing the tip with a slow, gentle circle, rewarded with another gush of milk. The silk in this room is hydrophobic and canted to drain into a collection basin for exactly this reason. Usually, it just makes sure I don’t lose precious milk when things get messy. Today, it’ll likely provide for Andromeda’s full milking.
