"Hmmm," Ms. Morrigan mused from her seat on the sofa, across the great room. "I just had a thought."
"Oh?" I inquired. I was standing at the dining room table, polishing her silver. Naked, as she preferred me to be when I did service tasks for her.
She cocked her head and raised her chin, so she was looking slightly down her nose, with seductively lidded eyes, at me. Or, more precisely, at my penis. I immediately took notice and got even more rigid than I usually was when I was in her presence but occupied with a task.
"I was just picturing myself as a milkmaid."
"A milkmaid?" I repeated. I looked at her quizzically, sitting there with her feet tucked up under her shapely thighs... which were clad in new black leather pants. "You don't really... look like any milkmaid I've ever seen."
She laughed, but then she raised her right hand and observed it, as she curled her fingers slightly, forming an invisible cylinder between fingers and palm.
"Just thinking about soft, supple, pink udders, waiting to be milked."
"Umm..." I stuttered. "My, um, udder isn't very... soft right now."
"I could still milk it." She began to slowly flex the loose fist she was making, moving it slightly up and down.
I felt my heart skip a beat, then quickly double its pace. Ms. M had never discussed providing pleasure to *me* before; beyond the pleasure she expected me to get from serving her.
It had been almost a year since my relationship with Ms. M had begun. For most of that time, it had consisted of trading lengthy erotic literary exchanges online, in between those rare but intoxicating invitations to come to her home to clean her kitchen or worship her feet.
Then recently she had taken our relationship to the next level, sexually. By asking me to surrender all my orgasms to her.
"Ummm," I stammered. "You know if you did that, I may... experience... something that I promised not to..."