The Milkman Made Her Taste More Than Milk

The doorbell rang at seven on the dot, just like every morning of the week. Mariela opened the door with her cup of coffee still warm in her hands, wrapped in the burgundy silk robe she reserved for those hours when the house was hers alone. Rodrigo had already gone to his office half an hour earlier, and the silence he left behind was the only time of day when she felt she could breathe.

There he was on the doorstep. The milkman. A young man, broad-shouldered, with well-worked arms and a slow smile that always seemed to hide something he never quite said.

—Good morning, ma’am. I brought you something special today —he said, lifting a glass bottle that was not the usual one. The liquid inside was a yellowish white, thick, almost viscous against the glass.

—What is that, Damián? —she asked, leaning on the frame.

—Fresh milk. From an unusual cow. Thicker, more… substantial. To really taste it, I need to warn you of one thing: it’s a bit temperamental. Sometimes it overflows and splashes. I wouldn’t want to stain such a pretty robe.

The warning sounded sincere, but there was a glint in his eyes that said something else. Before she could answer, he had already crossed the threshold and was heading into the kitchen as if he knew the house by heart.

—So you’re comfortable and don’t have to worry about your clothes, put this on —he said, taking a carefully folded apron from his bag. He unfolded it in front of her. Mariela caught her breath.

It wasn’t work cloth. It was pink lace, fine, almost transparent, with two satin ties hanging from the shoulders.

—Damián, this is… this is for play, not for a kitchen —she protested, with a laugh that trembled in her throat.

—It’s so you don’t get dirty, ma’am. And to properly taste the milk, you need the right setting —he insisted, holding it out to her—. Put it on. And this too, in case anything spills.

He handed her a pair of shiny yellow rubber gloves, brand-new. The scene was absurd, ridiculous even, and yet the calm with which he gave her orders completely disarmed her. She felt a low sting in her belly, a dangerous curiosity she did not want to name. With a sigh that was more surrender than refusal, she tied the lace apron over her robe.

The rough fabric brushed her nipples through the silk and a shiver ran up her spine without asking permission. Then she slipped on the gloves, feeling her hands become something foreign, instrumental, ready to obey.

—That’s much better —he murmured, looking her up and down with an approval that made her blush—. Now you really look ready to serve.

The word struck her somewhere she hadn’t expected. It didn’t offend her. It lit her up. She felt her cunt wet all at once beneath the silk, her nipples hardening until they ached against the lace, two hard points he watched without even trying to hide it.

—Let’s begin the tasting —Damián said, setting the bottle on the kitchen table. He uncapped it slowly, with an almost theatrical solemnity. A sweet, warm, almost animal smell slipped into Mariela’s nose—. Sit down and open your mouth.

She obeyed without thinking, and that automatic obedience was what frightened her most. She sat in one of the wooden chairs, gloved hands still on her lap, tilted her head back and parted her lips.

But he didn’t tip the bottle. Instead, he unbuckled his belt. The sound of leather sliding through the loops echoed in the silent kitchen. Mariela’s eyes flew wide, a mix of surprise and an anticipation that sent her pulse racing.

—First we taste the milk from the milkman —he said, his voice lower and deeper—. The one that comes straight from the source.

He freed himself from his trousers. His cock was already hard, thick, veined, exposed a hand’s breadth from her face. It was bigger than she had ever imagined, broader, with a swollen head shining with a clear drop trembling at the tip. Mariela swallowed without meaning to. He took hold of it at the base, firm-handed, and slowly dragged it across her half-open lips, still parted in astonishment. He painted her mouth with that warm drop, rubbed it along her cheek, her chin, marking her as if signing her face. The protest stuck somewhere between her throat and her mind. And then he pushed, just a little, and slid it into her mouth.

It was warm, heavy, with a clean salty taste that flooded her tongue. The head filled her palate all at once and tore a moan from her, muffled and obscene. Mariela stayed still for a second, sitting in her own kitchen, lace apron tied over her chest and yellow gloves on her hands, being used that way, in her own home, while her husband signed papers fifteen minutes away. The thought of Rodrigo flashed through her mind like lightning and, instead of stopping her, drove her deeper. She swallowed another inch, feeling the hard flesh open her throat, feeling tears spring to her eyes from the effort, and still she did not pull away.

She started to move. Slowly at first, with her tongue, exploring him, measuring him, discovering him. She traced him underneath with the tip of her tongue, followed the thick vein running along him, lingered at the frenulum until it made him twitch, then went down to his balls and sucked them one by one, holding them between her lips as if they were ripe fruit. Shame and desire mixed together until they became indistinguishable. She moved back up the shaft, licked him from bottom to top with her tongue flat, and then swallowed him whole again, closing her lips around him, burying her face until her nose pressed against his pubis and filled with the clean masculine smell of him.

—That’s it, ma’am —he said, burying his fingers in her hair—. Taste it properly. Let’s see if it’s as substantial as I promised.

He gripped the back of her neck with both hands and began fucking her mouth himself, setting the pace, thrusting deep and pulling out shining with saliva. Mariela let him use her, jaw relaxed, gloved hands resting on his thighs, tearful eyes looking up at him from below. Each thrust pulled a wet noise from her, glup glup glup, echoing through the spotless kitchen like an impossible obscenity. Saliva dripped down her chin, fell in thick drops onto the pink lace, and she didn’t even try to wipe herself clean.

He yanked her away suddenly, leaving her gasping. A bright thread hung from her lower lip to the tip of his cock, a strand of spit that broke when he stepped back. Mariela swallowed, dizzy, cheeks burning and chin soaked.

—Now comes the second part of the tasting —he said, pointing at the floor with a sharp gesture—. On your knees. It’s time for dessert.

The order landed straight, without adornment or detour. Mariela hesitated for a fraction of a second. A voice inside her was screaming to stop, reminding her of the ring on her finger, the fourteen identical mornings with her coffee and her silence, the word wife. But her body had already set itself in motion on its own.

Just once. No one has to know.

She knelt on the cold tiles, the pink lace brushing her thighs, until she was exactly level with him. The robe had fallen open in front, revealing her breasts pressed against the lace, nipples hard and visible through the holes in the fabric. She looked up. He was looking down at her with a calm that made her feel small and, at the same time, strangely free. His cock stood stiff, aimed at her mouth, wet with her own saliva, visibly throbbing.

—Open your mouth and savor it slowly —Damián said, taking her by the nape and guiding her toward him—. I want to see you swallow every last drop.

Mariela looked at him one last time. In her eyes there was a strange mix of submission and hunger, both at once, without contradiction. Then she opened her mouth and took him all the way in.

She began to suck him with a surrender she did not know she possessed. She was no longer protesting. She was no longer the lady of the house, nor Rodrigo’s wife, nor the owner of that immaculate kitchen she cleaned every afternoon. She was the servant in the lace apron, the one in yellow gloves, and her only purpose in that moment was to suck him until she got the very last drop. She sucked him hard, with an appetite that surprised even her, feeling his cock grow even bigger against her tongue, hearing the rough groans he let out through clenched teeth. She hollowed her cheeks, tightened her lips, bobbed her head up and down with obscene rhythm, pulling back to the tip to circle his head with her tongue and then swallowing him whole again, gag after gag.

The gloved hands climbed up his thighs, held him, drew him closer. The rubber against his skin tore another groan from him. One yellow hand closed around the base and started to jerk him off at the same time she sucked, twisting the wrist, while the other searched for his balls underneath and kneaded them softly. She could feel the weight, the tension, how they were rising, tight, ready. Mariela closed her eyes and let herself go, gauging the rhythm by the sounds he made, speeding up when she felt him tense, slowing down to prolong the torment. Her other gloved hand left his balls, slid under the robe, and found her own cunt: it was soaked, dripping, slippery. She rubbed her clit with the yellow rubber and almost came right there, kneeling, with the milkman’s cock buried down her throat.

—Yes, like that, don’t stop —he panted, a firm hand on her nape—. I never imagined such a proper lady had a mouth like this. What a quiet little whore Rodrigo had at home and didn’t even know it.

The humiliation of the phrase ran through her body like an electric current and left her even wetter. She pressed her gloved thighs together, searching for relief, without stopping her movements. The yellow fingers kept working her cunt while she sucked him, two knuckles already sunk inside, finger-fucking herself to the same rhythm with which he was fucking her mouth. Every word that demeaned her seemed to push her a little farther from the woman she had been when she opened the door. Whore. Servant. Mouth. She repeated the words in her head and with each one her cunt clenched around her own fingers.

She felt the change before he said it: the shorter breathing, the muscles tightening, his fingers clenching hard in her hair. His cock went even harder inside her mouth, swelling to the limit, throbbing.

—Swallow it all —he ordered, voice breaking—. Every last drop, whore. Don’t waste a single thing.

And then he came. The first spurt hit her palate, thick, hot, abundant, and set off her own orgasm too, convulsing her on her knees with the yellow fingers buried in her own cunt, moaning with a full mouth. It was the milk he had promised her, substantial and copious, just like the rest of the promise. The second spurt filled her throat, the third landed on her tongue, the fourth still, and then another, spurt after spurt of thick semen she took without pulling away, without losing a drop, swallowing each wave while he trembled above her, holding her by the nape. She could feel it sliding hot down her esophagus, mixing with her saliva, some of it slipping from the corner of her mouth and running down her chin to drip onto the pink lace, staining it. When it seemed there was nothing left, he still squeezed the base of his cock and forced out two thicker drops that she licked from the tip of her tongue, obedient. The salty, dense, masculine taste clung to her tongue like a mark.

When he finally withdrew, she remained kneeling on the tiles, lips swollen and shining with semen, the lace apron twisted and splattered, her cunt still throbbing around her own gloved fingers, her breathing ragged and something in her chest completely shaken.

Damián straightened his clothes with exasperating calm, fastened his belt, and picked up the unopened bottle from the table. Before leaving, he crouched down, ran his thumb along the corner of her mouth, collected a white drop that had escaped, and put it back into her mouth. She sucked his finger without hesitation.

—Good girl —he murmured—. I’ll leave the fresh milk here too, so you can taste it on your own and compare.

He set it on the counter beside the now cold cup of coffee. Mariela was still on the floor, looking at him, unable to say anything that made sense, with semen still going down her throat.

—Tomorrow at seven, same as always —he added, already at the door—. And put the apron on again. It suits you better than the robe. And come to think of it, tomorrow bring me a clean, well-shaved cunt, because there are more parts of the cow to taste.

The door clicked shut softly. Mariela stayed a long while kneeling in her perfect kitchen, the yellow gloves still on and her heart hammering against her ribs. Slowly, she stood up. She took off one glove, then the other, and left them folded carefully beside the bottle.

She went upstairs to shower before Rodrigo came back. Under the hot water she scrubbed her skin until it turned red, as if that could erase what had just happened. She put her fingers in her mouth and could still taste the semen stuck to her palate, no matter how much she rinsed. But as she rinsed, she caught herself counting the hours until seven the next morning, and she knew, with a certainty that frightened her more than any guilt, that from that day on she would always be thirsty.