3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
The Milking Barn
Maeve
W e walk across the pasture together, a small herd of laughing, chatting girls, and make our way inside the large, red barn. I take a deep breath through my nose. The calming scent of fresh hay and lavender greets me.
“I swear, if Mister Thorne pulls too hard again, I’m going to kick him in the chin,” Beatrice mutters, tossing her golden hair over her shoulder. She sounds serious, but there’s a playfulness in her blue eyes. “I’m not a cow, I’m a lady, and these girls deserve to be treated gently. ”
I giggle, biting my lip. “You are a cow, technically.”
“Shush, Maeve.” She rolls her eyes but bumps her shoulder against mine in that fond, big-sisterly way of hers. “I’m a lady cow. There’s a difference.”
Annie, who has been quietly walking on my other side, clutches the edge of her apron with nervous fingers. “I don’t mind Mister Thorne,” she whispers, her brown eyes wide. “He always says please.”
Beatrice snorts. “Annie, you’d say thank you if someone tied you to a post and forgot you for three hours.”
Annie blushes furiously. “That only happened once. ”
I can’t help but smile. Annie and Beatrice couldn’t be more different.
Beatrice, with her fair skin and sassy attitude, commands attention, while Annie, with her rich, dark skin and soft-spoken warmth, radiates kindness.
And then there’s me, caught somewhere in the middle, neither as bold as Beatrice nor as gentle as Annie, but finding my place somewhere between them.
“The milking isn’t the worst part,” Annie adds, though she’s still blushing. “I mean…it kind of feels nice after a while.”
Beatrice raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Oh? And here I thought you were the pure one, Annie. I knew it!”
“Beatrice!” Annie squeaks, horrified, while I snicker behind my hand.
Beatrice winks. “Just saying. If someone’s going to be moaning during morning milking, I’d rather it not be me.”
We all burst into giggles as we file into our stalls.
I settle onto the cushioned bench, and Aunt Hettie bustles over. She’s an older, motherly woman with a sharp wit. She clucks her tongue and pats my shoulder. “Morning, darlings. Maeve, you didn’t finish your morning chores again. ”
I give her a sheepish grin. “You do look lovely today, Auntie.”
She snorts but shakes her head fondly. “Flattery won’t get you out of work, girl!”
The others are already settling into their places, making themselves comfortable for the milking.
Some chat quietly, while others rest with their eyes closed.
I slip into the rhythm of it, my muscles unwinding as Aunt Hettie adjusts the milk bucket in my lap.
I untie my dress, allowing my full, engorged breasts to spill free, the milk already beading at the tips of my nipples, ready to be released.
The milking process begins. The girls joke, but there is something sensual about it, the way Aunt Hettie's fingers press just so, coaxing the milk out in smooth, steady pulls of my nipples.
A warmth spreads through me with each tug, a gentle pressure that builds and releases in time with my breath.
My body knows the routine; it responds without me thinking, and the milk starts to flow.
The bucket below catches each stream with a soft plink.
I rest my hands on my thighs, fingers curling slightly as the familiar ache begins to fade. My thoughts begin to wander to things I know they shouldn’t. This usually comforts me, but lately, it’s been stirring something else, something I don’t quite understand, but I know is wrong.
Jacob is a good man, I know this. He’s kind and reliable. The sort of man Aunt Hettie says will make a fine husband. A safe choice. A good choice.
But when he has stolen kisses from me in the past, they’ve been sweet and chaste, and what I crave is…more.
I shift on the bench, my thighs pressing together as Aunt Hettie’s hands work my breasts. My skin prickles. My breath comes a little quicker.
It’s wrong, wrong, wrong.
I imagine hands that aren’t Aunt Hettie’s, larger, rougher. A touch that isn't gentle but gripping. A mouth that doesn’t ask, but devours. The thought sends a flush creeping up my neck.
This isn’t proper, but the warmth between my legs pulses in time with the milking, and for the first time, I wonder what it would feel like—to be touched there with the same slow rhythm, to arch against a man’s body instead of this bench, to hear him groan my name like a prayer.
The milk flows faster now, and my body is responding to thoughts it shouldn’t. The barn feels too hot and the air is too humid. I bite my lip, torn between shame and this strange, aching need.
Is this what desire feels like?
Aunt Hettie clucks her tongue. “Easy, girl. You’re tensing up.”
I force myself to relax, but the images don’t leave, a strong hand sliding up my skirt, a whisper in the dark, “ Let me show you what you’ve been missing .”
The milking ends too soon. As the last drops fall, so does my fantasy. The heat lingers, however, a secret throbbing between my thighs.
One day, I promise myself. One day, I’ll know what that feels like. But for now, I smooth my skirts and pretend my cheeks aren’t burning.