Title Page
MAID FOR MILKING
Vanessa de Sade
Publisher Information
Maid for Milking
published in 2014 by House of Erotica
an imprint of Andrews UK Limited
www.houseoferoticabooks.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © Vanessa de Sade 2014
The right of Vanessa de Sade to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Prologue
Firefly Summer
It was a summer of hot and searing winds. A summer of lean times and going a-hungry for most folks. A summer of flickering wildfire lighting in the red-and-blue-bruised evening sky, empty Coke bottles clinking against each other in the old tin tub at McIver’s Store, that day’s ice long-since melted. And it was a summer of small radio stations playing Woody Guthrie ballads and Robert Johnson selling his soul to Old Tom Devil down at the crossroads. But it was a summer of sadness too, and, for young Lizzie Ljunggren, it was the summer that both her folks got took with the cholera and she found herself sent to live with her stony-faced Aunt Em.
And the tragedy is that it could have been a summer like any other. Dull, hard-working, uneventful, and lost in the grime of memory along with all the others, like so many old photographs in a box that you look through one day and say, now when was that? Nineteen thirty-eight or thirty-nine? Except that it was that summer that Lizzie got her first serious attack of hot britches, and a devil got into her and took control.
And things might even have still worked out okay if it hadn’t even been for the presence of Tom Handley, that cock-sure strut-about farmhand that Em Ljunggren went and hired against her better judgement. Though there were some as said that even the Iron Em liked the way the boy looked, and maybe there was a little bit of hot britches affecting the old wife herself, even though no-one was going to come right out and say it out loud.
Anyway, that was the incendiary set up that tinder-dry and dusty August. Lizzie was in heat, and Tom was right there on hand to assist with his big cock all nice and obvious under his faded denims, sniffing around her like an old hound dog and ready to make his move at a moment’s notice. And so it wasn’t too long before she was sneaking out to meet him in the hot firefly sunsets, the air alive with the little glowing dots that served as fairy lanterns to her eager imagination and made it easy for her to believe him when he told her that he loved her, down in those warm and fragrant corn rows, far away from the lights of the house and her aunt’s ever-critical tongue.
And it could all still have passed harmlessly, because Lizzie knew what was what, having been a farm girl all her days, and she knew full well what the consequences would be if she took Tom’s big red-raw doggy dick right up inside her cute little pussy, like he wanted her to. So most nights they just lay and kissed and she let him put his hands inside her dress and stroke and touch, but she finally became lost to good sense that hot and balmy night when he pulled her panties right off and then lifted her skirt up to look at her sleek little cunt, all neat and furry and nestled like a quivering bird in the creamy vee-joint of her thighs. And then he made the clever move of not touching but going down on her, softly kissing and licking her at her tiny blonde minge until it was slippery, then splitting her glossed-down little pussy like it was a fresh Turkish fig, all gleaming and golden on the outside, but red and fiery within, and all wet with sap and begging to be kissed.
And, freed from the customary restraint of having her panties round her ankles, she just opened her legs for him like Moses parting the Red Sea, her hands in his hair as she pushed her pussy into his face, clit like a sap-slick pecan, bare ass grinding in the rustling ricepaper-dry corn stalks and dirt, begging him to lick right up and down her aching slit and then crying out and whimpering when his tongue-tip neglected her stiff little girl-cock for more than a few seconds.
And it wasn’t like she hadn’t come before or anything. Her friend Mabel Desmond had been playing with her own pussy for nearly a year before she showed Lizzie how to do it earlier this summer in the hay loft back home, and the two of them had spent a lot of happy hours up there, first of all with just their hands in each other’s britches, then graduating to stripping each other down to the last stitch and kissing naked, Mabel’s big white udders squashing into Lizzie’s beestings as they ground their cunts into each other’s thighs and experienced the joys of mutual orgasm that only two girls in heat can accomplish.
And even cock-sure Tom knew his way around a pussy pretty well, though you’d have expected him not to care, but the boy got a lot of satisfaction out of pleasing his women and it made his big fire-tipped dick extra hard when he felt Lizzie’s cunt start to convulse and he heard the profanities on her lips as she writhed in little-death agony under his skilful finger tip. Not that she was difficult to pleasure, of course, and her big corn cob of a clit poked up all red and obvious amidst all the soft wet pressed-ham folds of her slippery pink labia as soon as her legs were even slightly parted, so let’s not be giving the boy too much Casanova credit here.
However, the pussy licking was a work of inspired genius, and would make her come and come and come, usually three or four times in row, and it wasn’t long before they would both be naked and she have him straddle her, taking his big sticky cock into her mouth with none of the usual farm girl reticence that he’d met before, sucking at him hungrily and sometimes swallowing all his hot salty come; other times slipping him out just as she felt him stiffen and his big heavy balls tighten, taking the pyrotechnic shower of thick white semen on her face or all over her tiny little tits, the big pink nipples all hard and stiff like candy stalks.
And she always let him take more liberties with her then, having surrendered her hymen to his curious fingers long since as he pushed insistently up there, one finger deep in her slit, a second made slick from her pussy juices and then pushed slowly but firmly up her ass, her little puckered pink orifice offering no resistance to his penetration, his tongue never leaving her hot hard clit until she came and then devoured him back, never wanting to indulge in simultaneous cunilingus with him but preferring to pleasure him once her own needs had been met.
And he was particularly hard tonight, his cock - normally like something that you’d see on a horny old hound dog, stiff as broom-handle and all red and purple like a ripe plum on top - more like a stallion’s dick today, all aflame against the dark animal fur of his pubic hair, his balls fat and heavy like a stud bull’s, strong muscular legs apart as she descended on him, looking like she was going to go down on him but licking her fingers instead and then taking his big monster cock in one tiny hand, the other reaching under his balls and finding his own tight hole.
“What the hell you doing, girl?” he muttered, sounding peevish but not resisting her.
“Ass-fucking you like the bitch you are,” she replied with uncharacteristic candour, probing deeper and feeling his tight heat as her finger slid inside, claiming him for her own. “Come on, boy, bend over for me and let me have my way with you. I’m hound-horny tonight and nothing else will do.”
And though Tom’s face first looked affronted it quickly becam
e, well, calculating; and he nodded and rose silently up on his elbows, clambering up to his knees and turning his back for her without a word and offering up his tight hairy butt.
And Lizzie thought that she was about to wet herself and come simultaneously as she parted his legs, saw his big hairy balls swinging and his tight anus all exposed. It was a like a sullen starfish, light ochre brown in colour, not sugary pink like Mabel’s or her own, and sleek and secret nestling between the light downy fur of his inner cheeks, and she bent quickly to lick him and make him slippery, like a pussy, and then pushed her finger up hard, taking his huge girth with her other hand as she fucked him remorselessly, imagining that her pleading clit was a huge heavy cock and that she was giving him the ass fuck of his life, coming like a gusher as he yelped like a stuck pig and his thick white jism shot out of him and onto the dusty ground, orgasming so hard that it looked like he was pissing jizz.
And it got her so horny that she never even noticed when he flipped her deftly over onto her back and climbed onto her, his cock slipping so neatly up her hot wet cunt that she wondered why there had ever been a day when he hadn’t been inside her.
And that was her downfall.
Chapter 1
Sargasso Sea
And so the hot and dry summer came and went, and soon the first icy winds of November blew bitter as the lush and fragrant days of Fall metamorphosed into a winter’s chill, the soft morning mists giving way to biting winds and a witch’s caress of early snow. And, as Lizzie’s belly fattened and grew with the child inside her, her body, too, began to change and lose its girlish dimensions. And, though she never grew any taller - there were some things that even God couldn’t change, after all - her hips filled out and her thighs fattened, and she began to develop a woman’s gait as she hobbled her big belly around the frost-caressed farm doing her chores.
But, perhaps most miraculously of all, her breasts began to bulge, not with the normal pregnancy swell of milk for the coming infant, but physically alter in character, going, almost overnight it seemed to the barefoot boys who swung in the old magnolia tree behind McIver’s Stores, from girlish mosquito-bite-sized poached egg tits to heavy womanly breasts, her big sugar-pink nipples darkening to a deep cranberry red, the already obvious areolas growing to the size of old British copper pennies. And when Tom Junior was born - she insisted on calling him that, even though Tom the First had vanished in the night and was last spotted crossing the State line - they flowed with such an abundance of sweet milk that mothers came from miles around just to watch him feed.
And that could have been our story right here and now, where Lizzie would bring up the little guy alone until some kindly farmer who needed a bit of warmth around his fireplace would have come a-courting, turning a blind eye to the boy that he’d eventually get used to calling his own. In fact, it was a tale often told around these parts, and it probably would have happened for Lizzie too if were not for Em Ljunggren and her scheming.
And her greed.
And Lizzie was such a trusting child too, so she didn’t seem to hear any warning bells when her aunt told her that they were all going out. Two women alone with a baby, late one night when the magnolias were in bloom and the heat was rising, the night alive with a brain-fever chorus of cicadas as a huge blood moon rose behind the skeletal silhouette of the rusty windmill that had stopped working many years since, but still creaked like an arthritic old woman in the summer breeze.
And the radio was playing plaintive Delta Blues songs as they sped along the deserted road and on past the sleeping town, where even McIver’s was closed and boarded for the evening, McIver and his young wife sitting on their stoop, taking the air before bed as Em drove sedately past, her face stony and her eyes front.
The baby was more or less asleep now, his little head heavy on Lizzie’s breast; though the girl was a trifle uneasy now as the old Ford truck ate up the miles across the vast ocean of gently undulating corn fields, where a hundred homesteads had once stood before the bank took the land and brought in tractors; but she still sat quiet, feeling his warmth against her skin, happy to accept whatever fate was going to throw in her path.
Though she would never have imagined what was about to be in store for her.
*********
The moon was high in the night sky by now, a beneficent heavy-jowled old Wizard of Oz beaming down from amidst his personal Milky Ways of twinkling stars, and they had left the town and any familiar landmarks well behind by now, the battered truck like a tiny boat upon the vast sea of ripe maize that rustled like brittle paper in the hot night air.
An eyeless scarecrow leered at them like a hanged man left bound to a stake for the rooks to peck; a crooked gate momentarily made Em falter at the wheel; and then, suddenly, the truck’s headlights picked out the old wooden sign at the crossroads, its blistered white boards pointing this way and that, directing the unwary traveller to ghost towns which no longer existed, highways that had fallen into disrepair, farmsteads long since ploughed into the rich loamy soil and left without epitaph.
“What we doing way out here, Aunt Em?” Lizzie finally asked as she watched her aunt scanning the dark road ahead, as if trying to detect some trace of human life amidst the phantoms of the night and the vast sea of corn which surrounded them.
But the old lady didn’t reply and continued to peer out into the darkness, and suddenly, as if in answer to her silent beseeching, a pair of yellow headlights flashed on and off just once, and Lizzie could just make out the shrouded form of big black Buick parked in the darkest shadows as her aunt drove across the crossroads and pulled up along side.
***
Em got out of the truck, motioning Lizzie to follow her, the baby slumbering at her breast, and they walked silently over to big sleeping Buick, the night silent save for the swish of wind in the maize fields and the occasional hooting of owls on the distant horizon.
“Why we out here, Aunt Em...?” Lizzie started to ask, but her aunt shushed her and further conversation was halted by the Buick’s rear window sliding silently open.
“Is this the girl?” a woman’s voice asked. An old, tired voice that has seen and heard many things in its time and has lost all trace of emotion. A voice with a deep husky timbre from too many cigarillos and glasses of brandy, perhaps, but still unmistakably female in its tone.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Em replied, making a foolish gesture of obeisance, halfway between a salute and a curtsy.
“Bring her closer.”
Then the spark of a cigarette lighter and the sharp scent of gasoline. A face lights up briefly in the car’s inky blackness. A woman. Perhaps old, perhaps not. Her features powered into monochrome like a death mask; lips painted a red so dark it looks black, or perhaps the hue of dried blood; eyebrows plucked away and painted back on in a bold ballerina stroke; eyes hooded beneath the black widow’s vale that shrouds the top half of her face.
“Pretty,” the voice remarks as the light fades again and the air is filled with the pungent scent of tobacco smoke. “And she’s a milker? It’s sweet?”
“Like an old dairy cow,” Em agrees, scenting money.
“Bring her forward, let me taste,” the voice says, business like, and Lizzie is pushed against the side of the big black car. It has driven far to get here, and, despite the evening chill, its flank is still hot from the dusty road.
“Unfasten your blouse, girl,” the woman says matter-of-factly as her hand cups Lizzie’s big swollen tit, and though Lizzie tries to protest her aunt pushes her against the vehicle as the woman inside slips the girl’s fat breast out and squeezes the nipple softly, immediately feeling moisture and licking her fingers. “Good,” she pronounces, a hint of surprise in her tone.
“Told you,” the aunt agrees. “Told you this was a good ‘un.”
The woman in the car considers. “I’ll give you fifty for her,” she eventually
offers, “and the same again for the child. He’s a fair looker.”
Lizzie starts to protest but her aunt silences her, and, peering into the darkness, starts to haggle. But the woman within makes an impatient gesture and there’s a click of a pocket-book being opened and the scent of mint-fresh currency.
“Final offer, Em,” she says with weary patience. “Take or leave. Your choice.”
Em Ljunggren makes an impatient noise and Lizzie thinks with relief that the deal’s off, but then her aunt reaches into the car and snatches the bank notes. “They’re all yours, both of them. Lizzie, get into the car and do as the lady tells you. It seems harsh now, but you’ll thank me for this someday...”
And before the startled girl can make any reply her aunt is in the truck, starting the engine and driving off into the silently whispering ocean of corn without a backward glance.
Chapter 2
Heat of the Night
They’ve driven for many miles across the dark seas of waving corn - the big Buick like a Venetian water-hearse as makes its sedate way along the narrow dusty roads - and eventually pulled up at a big black colonial house in the shade of dense Cyprus trees that undulate like a heartfelt sigh as they alight as go inside to the woman’s private chamber.
It is a big and echoey room, painted in midnight hues and its heavy Victorian furniture is made of a leather that’s stained so deep a brown that it’s almost ebony. And it’s hard to make out the décor in the lamplight, but the deep tan walls are covered in multitudes of walnut-framed Daguerreotypes of old women in stiff dresses, children on nurses’ knees, moustachioed men staring blankly into the photographer’s lens. And, though there’s electric light, the whole room is dull and gloomy, as if a storm cloud sits hovering over the ceiling and blocks any rays of natural light from ever penetrating.
And Lizzie is exhausted and scared half out of her wits, but Tom Junior sleeps soundly, and they lay him down in a crib when they arrive.
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