Fourteen weeks had passed since the birth of my first child, and I finally reunited with my bull after a long hiatus during my pregnancy. I had missed our intense, thrilling encounters deeply.
Free cuckold community
Sign up now!
After numerous disappointing experiences, my husband and I had sought a regular partner for me, and Greg had answered our call. A college lecturer in his mid-forties from the Highlands, his rich Scottish baritone was as captivating as his striking appearance—fair hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and piercing blue eyes. Physically imposing with the powerful thighs of a competitive road cyclist, Greg was a perfect blend of strength and allure.
His impressive manhood matched his stature, but the true testament to his virility were his massive testicles, reminiscent of a randy ram’s sack—pure masculinity embodied.
Beyond his physical dominance, Greg’s natural assertiveness was tempered by wit, courtesy, and tenderness. In his presence, I felt utterly cherished and shielded. I was eager, ready to embrace my role as his devoted submissive.
Our weekend getaway to Greg’s flat felt like the perfect gift after childbirth. My husband took a day off to care for our baby while my mother-in-law looked after them both, freeing me to prepare. While a new Audi marked a friend’s postpartum celebration, for me, two nights with my bull was the most generous, thoughtful present imaginable.
On a sunlit May afternoon, I chose a delicate flower-print cotton dress with tan mid-heeled sandals, going braless for freedom and comfort—the ones I loved no longer fit.
When the taxi came to take me to the station, my husband knelt to fasten an anklet around me, then slipped my panties off beneath my dress with a tender kiss goodbye.
The hour-long train journey was a crescendo of anticipation. The heavy steel collar Greg had entrusted me with after my training rested safely in my bag, and the memory of earning it left me wetter by the minute.
At Greg’s flat, he greeted me with a thoughtful gift for our son and a bottle of bubbly. We toasted our little one’s arrival, then melted into a warm, eager embrace on the sofa. I craved his strength and, truthfully, to be thoroughly fucked.
Despite the escalating petting, Greg held back, the delicious tension building. Our encounters always carried a distinct theme, a dynamic power exchange that now naturally surfaced from my eager desperation. Stroking his hardness through his jeans, I finally pleaded with wide, imploring eyes, “Please?”
Greg’s triumphant smirk told me the game was on. “Stand and undress,” he commanded smoothly.
I sprang up, delight sparkling in my movements as I unbuttoned the dress, letting it fall and kicking it aside, standing naked save for my heels and “slut” anklet.
He shook his head, a mock disapproval in his voice, “No underwear?”
“No, Sir,” I admitted, feigning innocence. Freshly shaven, with my postpartum body change, my labia now fuller and more prominent, I unexpectedly felt proud of my new, lippier look.
“Inspection position,” he ordered, his tone sharp and commanding, sending a shiver through me.
I spread my legs and placed my hands behind my head. Greg rose, fastened the collar snugly, and circled me, inspecting.
“Bend at the waist,” he directed.
“Sir,” I obeyed, thrusting my backside outward.
He grasped my inner lips firmly, tugging them with a questioning glance.
“What happened here?” he asked, disdainful as if confronting careless work.
“My baby, Sir. He was nearly ten pounds,” I answered apologetically.
A dismissive flick at my stretched labia was his only reply.
“Kneel,” he commanded.
“Thank you, Sir,” I breathed gratefully.
I knelt before him, palms upturned, head back, lips parted. Greg unbuttoned his jeans, placing himself eager in my mouth. Though not fully hard, my worship soon coaxed him into firmness. Taking control, he held the base deep until I gagged, then withdrew to let me gasp for air.
With a snap of his fingers, he pointed toward the sturdy leather footstool in the corner—our familiar stage.
Nodding, I wobbled over in my heels, pushing and pulling the heavy stool to the center. Bare and trembling, I assumed the “table” position on all fours, ready for his command.
His hand roamed my bare ass before exploring my slick slit with gentle, teasing fingers. The light strokes made my skin prickle and my anticipation coil tighter. He eased a fingertip inside me, then circled my swollen clit with exquisite care. I bit my lip to stifle a moan.
“Why are you so wet, you dirty bitch?” he murmured incredulously.
“I’m excited for your cock, Sir,” I whispered honestly.
“And what makes you think you’ve earned that privilege?” he challenged.
My heart sank; I knew patience was required. He intended to savor our play, and I would have to earn his pleasure.
Kneeling behind me, Greg spread my cheeks wide and licked me with ravenous thoroughness, his tongue a relentless explorer. When he suckled my clit, I begged permission to release—only to be met with a sharp sting from his hefty hand. The sting ignited a thrilling humiliation I didn’t get from my husband.
Giving me a moment, Greg surveyed my changed body.
“Your tits have grown, haven’t they, slut?”
“Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir,” I answered, delighted that he noticed and loved my submission.
“Are you breastfeeding?”
“No, Sir. I tried, but it didn’t work out. He’s bottle-fed.”
My swollen, tender breasts still reminded me of the early days, and I longed for them to return to normal.
He laughed darkly, “Nonsense. Look at those lovely big udders.” He patted my heavy breast. “You’re full of milk.”
I knew Greg’s rural upbringing—milking goats had been his chore—and I understood his intent.
“No, Greg, please don’t,” I whispered, flushing with shame over my feeding struggles.
A sharp slap silenced me. Collared and owned, my obedience was mandatory. He allowed no argument.
Kneeling beside me, he gripped my left breast above the nipple, squeezing and pulling with slow, rhythmic pressure.
“Yes,” he pronounced with confidence, “just like the goats.”
His other hand soothed my backside with gentle strokes and soft murmurings.
“Shh, relax. Let’s see if we can fix this. Good girl, goood girl.”
His patronizing tone stung, stripping away my pride to expose the posh girl beneath. Frustration brewed—I just longed to feel his cock inside me again.
But to earn that, I had to play his game, pleasing him before gratification.
I recalled the prenatal classes, the midwife’s words about the let-down reflex triggered by stimulation. Though I’d struggled alone, Greg’s confident touch was different.
With one hand still coaxing my breast, his other caressed my intimate folds, stroking softly to ease me.
My breath slowed, settling into the rhythm of his deep Scottish voice comforting me.
“That’s the girl, good girl. There there, it’s alright.”
Something in Greg’s presence—his strength, charisma, command—helped me surrender fully. I relinquished control, embracing my submission.
Milked like the goats of his youth, I felt my body soften, every muscle loosening under his skilled hands. His left hand worked my breast while his right explored my wetness.
The endless stimulation left me whining, craving release. Sensing my readiness, Greg cautioned gently, “Easy, girl, not just yet.”
He let go of my breast and stroked my hair. “I think it’s time for your cock now, isn’t it?”
I lowered my head in relief.
“Oh yes, Sir, please.”
He stood, shedding clothing behind me. My sex glistened, eager and dripping, my swollen nipples throbbing dark with lust.
Looking back over my shoulder, I admired his full erection—thick, veiny, the bulbous glans shining proudly.
He slapped my ass, then squatted to position himself carefully. The heat of his tip nudged my eager entrance.
With firm hands on my shoulders, he slid fully inside me in one fluid motion.
A low moan escaped as I welcomed the fullness.
“There, that’s a good slut. You needed that, didn’t you?”
I groaned my agreement, adjusting to his girth.
Peering down, I saw the muscular flex of his thighs and his heavy balls swinging like pendulums. Grabbing a handful of my hair, he drew me into long, slow thrusts before plunging deeply, gripping my breasts firmly, squeezing and tugging my nipples hard to awaken the milk ducts.
“Good girl, that’s the girl,” he murmured hypnotically.
I clenched around him with practiced strength, yearning and relief flooding me. “Oh Jesus, I’ve missed this,” I thought.
Squeeze and pull. Pump and thrust. Greg’s intense rhythm sent waves through me, his cock finding just the right angle to stroke my aching clit.
My sounds filled the room—moans, grunts, yelps, and gasps, conveying pleasure and disbelief, perhaps audible even to his neighbors.
Veins blossomed on my breasts as they tingled and warmed, the telltale sign of the let-down reflex.
“Oh my God, oh my God!” Panic seized me as my body betrayed control.
“Here it comes, good girl, just let it flow,” Greg urged.
My climax crashed over me in wild waves as I cried out, arching and convulsing beneath him.
“Go on, girl, go on!” he encouraged, struggling to stay deep as I writhed.
My breasts pulsed in time with his milking hands, and suddenly, from my left nipple, milk squirted out with force, splattering loudly on the leather footstool. Jets sprayed repeatedly as he continued his relentless squeeze and pull.
Half-degraded, half-delighted, I gasped, “Oh my God… you’re milking me! Oh fuck!”
The sensation was electrifying, my whole body tingling as waves of wellbeing washed over me. Then my right nipple joined in, ejecting creamy milk in steady sprays.
My breast milk pooled in the creases of the stool, overflowing, trickling to the antique oak laminate floor below. I watched in awe, feeling detached from myself.
I was a happily married, successful professional woman—a new mother with a law degree, former head girl, champion debater. And here I was, kneeling naked on a footstool in a modest Manchester flat, being milked like livestock by a Sociology lecturer twelve years older, whom I’d met through an ad.
Tears welled—hormones, exhaustion, the intensity of the moment, and gratitude for all I had. I sobbed quietly in contentment as Greg’s cock continued to gently pound me while he milked my breasts.
“There, there, girl. You’re alright. Good girl. Look at you and your lovely milky tits. You’ve done so well! Who’s a clever girl, eh?”
I sniffled, nodded, embraced his praise, and felt more feminine, more fulfilled, and more blissfully content than ever before.
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.