I find that I am eager for the release of Sweet Tidbits on June 14. It will close the chapter in my life of working on short story collections and revisiting old, forgotten, lost stories. It also makes me feel a little daunted by the prospect of writing something new that isn’t tucked into a collection.
Preorder Sweet Tidbits! It’s my last planned publication for the first half of 2024 and potentially the rest of the year. I’m not ruling out the release of anything else before the end of the year but two books in 2024 was a good goal for me that I met.
If you purchased and read Wicked Bites, please consider leaving a review or rating? Thank you!
What I’m working on: The two BDSM as religion stories. I’ve started thinking of titles…Twisted Rites for the first story (set in an Ancient Rome-esque setting) and Sweet Corruption for the second (modern day setting that follows two new initiates). I still need a title to house the two of these novellas.
Around the time that I joked about my spurt productivity in the month of March being my own version of March Madness, I started thinking about the idea of posting two stories each newsletter with an option to vote on which one should get continued in the next issue. Then the next issue would get part 2 of the winning story facing off with a new one in the bracket…that could get out of control, fast. Something to keep in mind for the future.
A tight race between puppy girl and hucow in my last poll but ultimately the latter never lost its lead. Which brings us to this issue’s exclusive erotica…
Stella [M/f]
“Um, excuse me. Excuse me, miss…?” Stella heard a voice say.
She turned from placing the bag of groceries into the trunk of her car to face a kindly-looking woman who was approaching her while offering a sympathetic look. “Yes?”
The woman lowered her voice. “I just wanted to let you know that you’re…” She gestured at her own front.
Stella glanced down and blanched. “Oh god.”
Through her gray silk blouse, two darkening spots, rapidly expanding in dampness, were more than evident. She pulled futilely at the front of the shirt, as if she could air it out.
“Good thing I’m on my way home,” Stella said, managing a wan smile.
“Don’t worry. It’s happened to all of us at one point or another,” the woman said comfortingly. “How long ago did you have yours?”
“Oh…not long,” Stella answered vaguely.
“Well, you look amazing. I was just admiring your figure and I couldn’t even tell you were recently pregnant! And don’t worry, it does get easier,” the woman reassured her.
“I’ll try to remember that. Thanks again.”
They exchanged quick smiles and then Stella got into her car while the woman continued on her way, into the store.
She took a deep breath, started the car, and carefully backed out of the spot. On the short drive home, she felt absolutely burned up with humiliation, feeling her blouse clinging to her chest, the unescapable heavy fullness of her breasts.
She imagined telling the woman, Actually, I haven’t been pregnant and I didn’t give birth. My husband did this to me because I’m his property and this is just another way for him to own and control my body. And it won’t get easier, because he likes that it isn’t easy for me to submit to him in this.
The involuntary letdown seemed to start and stop. By the time she got home, her breasts weren’t leaking milk anymore, but her blouse was noticeably wet.
Hunching her shoulders and wrapping her arms under her breasts, she hurried inside, avoiding eye contact with any neighbors who might be around.
She could hear her husband on a video call in his office, but she had no doubt that he knew she had returned. They had a smart house with notifications that went straight to an app on his phone. Not to mention the specially programmed smart watch she wore…it looked like a watch and it did tell time, but it did so much more than that. For all intents and purposes, it was a tracker. GPS tracker, health tracker, fitness tracker…it told her husband that she was following his schedule. Exercising, sleeping…edging… on schedule. Just like he stipulated.
Sure enough, it didn’t take long before he emerged from the office. By then she’d changed, was back in one of her at-home uniforms. A wispy, translucent peignoir, the material showing her full, swaying breasts, her shaved mons, and in bare feet. It remained only loosely fastened by way of a ribbon fastened in a bow at the collar.
“Hi honey, get everything you need?” he asked, giving her an approving glance.
“Yes, it’s just two bags in the trunk.”
“Sounds good.”
He headed out to carry them inside for her. She heard him greeting their next-door neighbor, Macy, who probably thought Stella had the most wonderful husband in the world. He never let her carry anything heavy inside, he always took the garbage and recycling bins out and then back in. He mowed the lawn like clockwork, and he took both their cars in to get serviced. When they went out together, he held doors open for her, made sure to walk on the outside of the sidewalk, pulled out her chair. At parties he brought her drinks and when they separated, he checked in periodically to see if there was anything she needed. More than once, her friends had commented on how solicitous he was. A dream husband, they said.
If only they knew, Stella often thought.
If only they knew that when the two of them went out, underneath Stella’s clothes she was wearing some sign of his ownership, that even when they weren’t standing next to each other, he held the end of her invisible leash. Remote control vibrators and brutally unforgiving butt plugs. Nipple clamps, or the clips at the tops of her garters that pulled apart her labia. When they went skiing last Christmas, he’d taped a diaper around her bottom every morning before they set out. At one point, he’d pressed her back to a tree and made her void her bladder while standing in front of him, holding her sweater up, while he squeezed her nipples in the biting cold.
If only they knew that his word was Stella’s law. That theirs was a household of strict dominance and sexual submission. That Stella was his slave.
More than that these days. She was truly his chattel now.
She quickly stored the groceries — he helped — and then found herself catching her breath as his hand clasped her hip like a brand.
“How’s my sweet cow doing?” he asked, eyes glinting. “Let me have a look at these big…beautiful…udders.”
As he spoke, he parted the front of the peignoir, his hands going to lift and weigh the heavy globes of flesh. Stella had gone up almost three bra sizes since she’s started lactating, and she was still adjusting to her increased size.
Her husband had made no secret of the lascivious enjoyment he took in her enhanced curves. He ogled her constantly, made a point of staring at her breasts instead of her face when he spoke to her.
Lifting her breasts in both hands, pushing them together, her husband bent his head and nuzzled the abundant flesh, running his nose and lips over the swollen globes. Stella’s fingers gripped the countertop behind her.
As he released her, one hand stole down her body to delve between her thighs. He smirked at what he found, slowly circled her clit with his slippery finger. His other hand, still at her breast, swept a thumb over her taut nipple.
“These beauties need to be milked, don’t they,” her husband remarked. “I can tell from how wet your cunt is, Stella. Your udders must be so sore.”
She nodded mutely. Swallowed hard. Wet her lips with her tongue. “Will you…please… milk me? Please, Sir?”
At his long pause and silence, she held her breath. Waiting. Hoping.
“I don’t know,” Stella’s master drew out. “I like you when these udders are full and hurting, Stella. I love fucking my slave when she’s whimpering and leaking…milk dribbling down these gorgeous slopes. Drooling for her fucking…making an utter mess of herself.”
She couldn’t help it. She whimpered at his words. Could feel her pussy throbbing. And then…milk beading at her nipple, and then a slow trickle. Which he saw. He saw everything.
His tongue was hot as he lapped up the trail of milk. It was so hot and deviant and she was so mixed up with arousal and need.
“Please, Sir,” Stella whispered. “Please use your cow. Please milk my udders.”
He loved it when she referred to herself as a cow. And her tits as udders. She could tell.
“I want to use my cow’s ass,” he said. “Go to your place and put yourself in position.”
Her “place” was the pillory he’d built in the finished basement. She hurried down the hall and down the steps, wishing she could cradle her heavy breasts to stop them from bouncing all over the place, but that wasn’t allowed.
In the basement, she rested her neck on the padded opening and placed her wrists in the slots on either side of her head. Her husband was there to lower the wooden top on its hinges, securing it in place and giving the lock a noisy rattle.
With her head and wrists imprisoned in the pillory, her body was bent over, leaving her tits to swing freely. She’d been held in this position many, many times. Before he decided to turn her into a cow, he’d often clamped and punished her breasts. He was gentler with them these days, not wanting anything to disrupt her milk flow, and having found that not allowing her to express milk was a more than sufficient method of punishment.
She heard the squirt of lube, felt it drizzle into her crack. Her empty, ignored pussy clenched.
“Stella’s being such a good, sweet cow,” her husband groaned, slotting his cock to her ass and pushing in. His hand stroked her cunt, rubbing and teasing the folds, not penetrating. “You’re so wet from having me in your ass, Stella. I think I need to get you a tail.”
Her breasts…her udders…jounced and swung with the force his of his thrusts, making her groan from the painful fullness. She gritted her teeth and clenched her ass on his dick, hoping she would feel him come soon. Eager to have his hands on her breasts again, tugging her nipples, draining her of milk. She dreamed of that even at night in her sleep. Cow dreams.
She felt the hot jet of his come as he emptied himself in her ass while her pussy twitched and her clit pulsed. She kept her feet spread even though she longed to squeeze her thighs together, to exert even a meager bit of pressure on her pussy.
After he used Stella, her husband arranged the milking pail under her and dragged the stool close. As his come leaked from the gape of her well-fucked ass, he began letting down the milk from her udders.
Stella’s eyes almost rolled back into her head, the milking felt so good. Her husband’s practiced fingers were rough and firm as he kneaded her nipple from the root, drawing forth the milk until the liquid squirted into the pail. The only way she was allowed to express her feelings was what she did, unable to suppress how wonderful he was making her feel, the sheer relief of releasing her milky burden, and that was to give verbal shape to a plangent, unmistakable moo. Guttural, as if pulled from her soul.
He spoke to Stella through her milking, his deep voice a low, comforting murmur of humiliating praise.
“What a prize cow you are, Stella, yes, you are,” he said in his brightly encouraging tones. “Giving up so much milk. I’m so proud of you…having such a fine milk producer on my hands. Your udders are just glorious, Stella. I know you think they’re too big, but there’s no such thing for a cow like you. You should be proud of having such fine, fat udders that can hold so much milk. This summer I think I’ll bring you to a very, very private farm where you can roam and graze in a penned pasture. I can’t wait to see your udders, so full and swollen, leaking milk into the dirt and grass…you’ll meet other cows there, too, but you’ll take home the blue ribbon prize for being the best cow, won’t you. Oh yes, you will, my sweet Stella-cow.”
Eyes wide, Stella mooed. She couldn’t help herself. When he milked her, she was a cow. A cow with come oozing from her stretched bottom hole, her pussy so wet, her nipples so sore, trapped in the pillory by her wrists and neck.
Stella shifted her feet restlessly as her husband slid a finger up the inside of her thigh, wiping up the glistening trail of her arousal. She clenched on the tip of his finger, stirring just inside her sex. Her mooing increased in volume as she desperately tried to communicate her need to him.
Her husband smiled, his other hand still busily working her nipple. He had switched to the other udder, even though she still had milk to give; he didn’t like for her to be completely drained and empty of milk. She was trying to hump his finger, trying to entice him to brush her clit. Just one touch and she would surely go off…
Her mooing dissolved into moaning. The sounds of her milk, spraying into the pail, of his finger sluicing in and out of her sopping sex, of her panting when she wasn’t remembering to fucking moo like a cow, of the lock rattling in the pillory, the only thing keeping her contained and upright…
This was Stella’s secret life. Her real life. Her forever life.
What I’m listening to: “Two Weeks” by FKA Twigs. My thighs are apart for when you’re ready to breathe in…thinking of new ways to do each other…get your mouth open. The silken threat in the sexual vows of this song, uttered in the sexiest voice, will make you want to writhe in the bedsheets.
What I’m reading: Edging and orgasm denial stories by rovingstatic. Read “edges are their own reward”, “maintenance day”, and “the reassignment.” The mind fuckery, the gaslighting, the ruins. Did you ever think something so masochistic and fiendish could be so hot?
What I’m wondering: Years ago on Tumblr I asked where my followers hailed from and it was fun to see all the responses. Today I am wondering about the gender diversity of my readers because I realized I have no sense of this and I’m curious to learn more about who is reading my writing. I hope you’ll share in the poll.