Milk Round

Vanessa de Sade

Description

Five sinfully sexy stories that lay it on with the lactation.A Simple Procedure by Vanessa de SadeIn a dark fairytale forest, voluptuous Gretchen discovers that she is the only woman in the land who has milk to save the royal baby. But the King and Queen have some other ideas, and then, of course, there's a wolf...Operation White Gold by Sybil RushBrigit is just an ordinary administrative assistant, bored at work and counting down the minutes until she can take a break to pump her breast milk, when two government agents approach her. They convince her to leave with them, and she soon learns that her milk is the key to a top-secret government operation. Will Brigit volunteer to donate her milk to save her country? And, if she does, can she handle the excruciatingly intense erotic milking that will be required?The Trickle-Down Effect by Jean RobertaDee is on maternity leave to care for her baby daughter by her boyfriend, Brian. Dee loves breastfeeding the baby, and secretly adds her milk to Brian's morning coffee. Brian wants to marry her, but Dee is reluctant to make a legal commitment which might make her feel trapped. Dee comes to realize that no one can predict the future and that Brian has shown himself trustworthy so far. She agrees to marry him. Welcome Home! by Maxine HooperIn Adrian's absence, Janice makes do with masturbation and in the process discovers the delights of her own breast-milk. She determines that when he comes home he'll be in for a special treat.Hot Milk by V.C.A wife surprises her husband by incorporating her breast milk into his most favorite meals and treats. While she's the one that has all the surprises, her husband has one of his own.

Sujets

• Erotic literature

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 28 juillet 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781783339587
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
MILK ROUND
A House of Erotica Collection



Publisher Information
Milk Round
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 © House of Erotica 2014
The rights of the authors have been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



A Simple Procedure
Vanessa de Sade
In a dark fairytale forest, voluptuous Gretchen discovers that she is the only woman in the land who has milk to save the royal baby. But the King and Queen have some other ideas, and then, of course, there’s a wolf...
“Count backwards from ten,” a voice whispers; an icy needle sending spider webs of cold kisses down her arm...
The long winter had been hard on their tiny village, blighting what was left of the meagre crop before the harvest was even fully brought in and turning the normally placid waters of the lake to iron so that no fish could survive.
And throughout November the bitter north winds continued to blow icy and without respite, their deranged wailing the hysterical keening of wild-haired mad women; and the dark came uncomfortably early each evening, the creaking forest echoing to the baleful howling of rabid wolves throughout the dark hours, the hungry humph-backed beasts circling the barricades in ever-closing circles.
“Alright, she’s going under...”
A dispirited fire still burned in the mayor’s house, skeletal frost-scarred sticks spitting with rage and belching black smoke up into the starry sky, but most of the other huts were without any heat other than their meagre cooking stoves, and the villagers shivered under the cured furs of the bears that had been hunted that summer and should have been sent to the Christmas market in Beiderhoff had not the snows and freezing weather made the roads impassable.
The extremity of weather had even prompted the Mayor to order the strengthening of their barricade with thorny branches, and the high gates were shut and bolted nightly at dusk, their new bone-white spikes glinting maliciously in the early quicksilver moonlight. People tended to stay indoors most of the time, and would only gather in the square around the giant carving of the rampant grizzly when the gates were bolted; to barter grain or tallow candles for skinny squirrel carcases downed by boys with slingshots that morning, and already stiff with frost and ice.
The giant effigy that so dominated the clearing had been begun by Karl the Woodcarver in the first blush of last Spring, a score of strong men dragging the huge trunk of a storm-blasted oak into the square and helping him to position it, the tap-tap-tap of his chisels a familiar sound throughout the voluptuous gloaming of the summer evenings when he had completed his daily quota of dancing bears and pecking chickens for market and would commence work on his labour of love.
And they had all stood around drinking tankards of foaming, slightly-warm, hop beer, watching transfixed as the great beast emerged from the lightning-kissed oak wood, its huge jaws permanently wide in a perpetual roar of defiance as first its head and neck, and then powerful arms, appeared; looking as though the tree were giving birth to a huge furred-and-clawed infant. They had even been planning an official unveiling to mark the Harvest Festival when the cellars would be packed full-to-bursting with grain, and tables laid with starched white cloths in the square, groaning under the weight of preserves and freshly baked gingerbreads, blush-pink hams and tureens of steaming stews.
But then, in the heat of a balmy Indian Summer night, Karl had disappeared just as the hunters returned with the flayed carcases of mountain bears strapped to their wagons, and while lovers slid naked into the cool emerald waters of the lake, search parties combed the dark woods for him without success.
“OK, we’re in...”
Some said that he had been abducted by bandits, others that he had met with the black witch of the Great North Caves and been stewed alive for sweetbreads; or, most popular of all, that the ancient woodland gods had been so offended by his carving that they had cursed him and his village. A theory given much verisimilitude by the early blizzards and long unending dark.
And there was still talk of this months later when the evening sky was turning from fiery red to a bruised Prussian blue and the King’s riders came, their regal white horses galloping into the square like snorting dragons just as the men of the watch were preparing to shut the tall gates for the night.
“Citizens! We bring urgent tidings from the royal palace of King Ludwig,” they called to the curious faces that were peeping from windows and darkened doorways, their rasping breath like steam in front of their flushed face, hot with exertion and blue with the cold simultaneously. “The infant son of their majesties is starving and in dire need of a wet nurse, and any woman volunteering for the position will be richly rewarded. So, who among you is with child or nursing?”
A murmur rose, but, after the first flurry of excitement weary heads were shaken. A rich reward meant food, but there were no swollen bellies or maids with tiny tots in the village that winter, and so there would be none amongst them who could be sent forward to bring them salvation.
But then someone whispered an unfamiliar name, a low hungry sound, like an ill wind rustling dead leaves in a winter’s grave yard. “Gretchen, Gretchen the new girl. She has milk. She will go with you and save the village!”
And, like a demon’s chorus the whole township took up the chant: “Yes, Gretchen, Gretchen the new girl, send for Gretchen,” and she found herself being pushed, protesting, from her hut to the hard earth of the square where the huge horses stamped and steamed in the shadow of Karl’s unfinished effigy.
“My people, you are mistaken, I cannot perform this task,” she began, but the king’s men only looked at her coldly, and, following their gaze to her own bodice, she saw two wet stains where her large white breasts were unmistakably leaking milk.
***
A fast outrider had been sent ahead and fat serving women awaited their arrival at the castle, where great fires burned in the huge inglenooks of the tall flint tower, and the scents of rare Arabian coffees wafted from the great kitchens in the basements as Gretchen was propelled up endless flights of winding stairs and deposited in a round turret room full of windows that looked out across the entire kingdom. Frozen rivers stretched like great pewter snakes across acre after panoramic acre of snow-bound woodland, while smoky hamlets clustered defiantly in their clearings, the brass weather vanes on their wooden church steeples glinting like fire in the early morning sun.
“We need no boundaries stones here in Gondal,” a soft voice said from behind her, “for our kingdom is for ever defined by what can be seen from this tower. My God, you’re shivering girl, have they not brought you anything to warm you after your ride?”
Gretchen turned, though her legs were weak, and attempted to curtsey. “Your Majesty,” she blurted, looking at the floor and the rich tapestry of animal skins covering the cold flagstones.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop acting like a peasant and stand up,” the Queen chided, and Gretchen looked up to meet the ice blue eyes of a slim woman about her own age with a long braid of flaxen hair and snow-white skin, so tall and slender that she looked like a Viking longship’s figurehead.
“We are all cursed. My child is starving and I cannot feed him,” the Queen said, circling Gretchen like a predator, “and already there are whispered plots to have me banished and some fat Bavarian princess put upon the throne in my stead...”
“But surely there are women of your court who may feed him,” Gretchen interrupted. “Young and fecund noble women, well fed and heavy with children of their own?”
The Nordic queen laughed, but it was sad and mournful sound, like a midnight foghorn on the stillness of a desolate lake. “That is why we are all cursed,” she whispered, “for there are none in all our land who can nurse him, and only you, a stranger who has no offspring, with the promise of milk in your breasts. But, come, we must hurry, the child is in need of sustenance and I can hear the whispered plotting of the nobles in every corner. They have already dubbed me the Snow Queen, let us have the heir healthy before they can conjure up a name for you.”
She clapped her hands and serving women appeared and quickly drew heavy velvet drapes across the ring of windows, and the room suddenly became muffed and womb-like, the cold blue-grey palette of the winter daylight replaced by the warm tones of the dancing firelight, and firm hands guided Gretchen to the centre of the chamber as a divan drenched in Indian silks that gleamed with the glints of golden threads was placed by the warmth of the roaring fire.
“Come,” said the Queen, “we have very little time. Show your breasts to me before the child is brought in.”
Gretchen swallowed in embarrassment but shucked off the hooded scarlet cape they had given her for the journey as she was bidden, letting it fall to her feet and form a huge blood-red rose amidst the wolf skins on the flagged floor. Then she