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Magemaid Milkmaid
🕑 Added 2023-03-02 01:42:44 +0000 UTCYou ever catch yourself thinking so hard about man tiddy that you need to write it out of your system? Yeah, same. Here's some NSFW about that.
Tags: F/M, milking, mpreg, male lactation, femboys, wizards, nipple play, barely comprehensible sentence structure, a semblance of story.....
1600 words
Though a man is not made by his husband or wife, strange talk always follows sorcerers half-wedded to devil lords; there is a stain on them by association, or elsewhere in the world a blessing, and it is difficult to imagine one as sovereign without the other, man without demonic consort. The moth enchanters of Nakhtish north are in everyone’s mind whores and property of lord Orianakht before anything else; in Khuras, the priesthood brands mages and their devassar children to clearly mark them family of the great and awful Devassago; king Manahri, who himself commands a great harem and greater power, is first and forever a bride of lady Ishtaroth. Where I was born, sorcerers are made deeply sacred by their marriage to the First Devil, and common folk - like me, or you, or any roving bastard of our kind - are so in awe of Bael that we consider it altogether taboo to speak to magicians without good reason. On more than one occasion, the bull-headed Baelmen that lead our tribes tried to make it steppe law that one could only look at magicians this or that way, but you know how it goes in the Baelands - laws live for only as long as chieftains do, and that is not very long at all. But I digress; back to sorcerers and their being in my homeland.
As you may know, I was not much of a warrior in my youth, nor did I aspire to become one. I was a cowherd’s daughter, and as a cowherd’s daughter - one content in her simple life, I should say - I had no good reason to speak to or even meet a magician. My tribe, the Sha-Ul, produced two or three sorcerers over the course of its existence, and they had all left before I was born, seeking out masters deeper in the Baelands. I knew sorcerers from stories, not experience; and when one came to speak to me, suddenly and unexpectedly, I mistook him for a prairie shamaness. He was small, and pretty, and lovely, and his red robes looked awfully garish in between my beige-brown cows.
“Baelbatu,” he greeted me, “are you the cowgirl of Sha-Ul?”
“Baelbatu,” I said, barely lifting from my warm spot in the tall grass, “yes, I suppose.”
“Do you milk your cows?” he asked. I looked at him more closely then, and saw that he was indeed a he - dainty and painted, but very much a he still.
“What else would I do with them?” I quipped back, not so sure whether the red boy was even real - or an idle daydream.
“I see,” he said and rubbed his lithe chest, “if you’re skilled, then I would like you to milk me.”
I said nothing. I stared him down, eyebrows raised, mind wandering.
“Come to the Ul grove this evening—no, this afternoon, and hurry,” he said, spun about, sang a song, and disappeared in a flurry of feathers. My cows grazed on, and I was left with no explanation or proof that I had been indeed visited by a sorcerer.
Knowing no better, I jumped to my feet and ran to my old ma. I told her everything, and she scolded me, then she smacked me for lying or daydreaming or not showing proper respect to a wizard, and then she sent me off to the Ul grove. Whether the red magician had been real or not, his being - dreamed or otherwise - was a sign, and signs were to be followed.
In the Ul grove, which sat five miles from where our tribe made camp at the height of summer, I found that I had not made up the mage. He was there, now without his red garments - or any garments at all - and he was waiting for me. My words cannot do his body justice, but I must try regardless to describe him to you as he was then, if only to honor the gods above and below who had made him.
His hair was a deep chestnut, and as it is with all sorcerers, it was the brightest part of him. It flowed in waves around his bare frame, thick like a well-tended mare’s mane, magical, beautiful. His eyes were a similar shade, only greener, inviting, welled with tears of strain. The reasons of his unease were immediately obvious: firstly, above his strong legs, his cock leapt hard and ready; secondly, higher up, above the line of his tense stomach, two little pink nipples swelled on his flat chest, so sharply erect it seemed as if he were freezing. Immediately, I wanted to bite them, to suck on them, to be a milkmaid to that little girlish man - and only him.
“You’re here,” he exhaled, relieved, and squeezed his little tits together, “thank you. Thank you. Help me.”
I needed no further encouragement. I crawled through the glade shrubs and sat with the sorcerer by a deceptively deep pool. We were surrounded by sounds; cricketing, the rustling of leaves, the whispering of high grass; but it was all quiet background noise next to the sorcerer’s deep heaving. I took him gently by the waist, forcing a louder sigh out of him - and an explanation.
“There is an egg in my womb,” he said, lightly touching his abdomen, “in four or five months, I—I will birth a Baelman - but that needs not concern you.”
I pretended to understand. My lips met his stomach, his ribs.
“My body readies itself for nursing,” he continued, squirming, whining, “but it is not easy—it is never easy. Help me, would you? Tease milk out of me, girl.”
I kissed his navel deeper than I’d ever kissed anyone or anything. It tasted of his syrupy sweat.
“Please,” he added. He sounded so desperate, the poor thing, that I had to obey - that I had to relieve him.
His chest, not feminine or curved in the way of an expectant woman, held a strange, irresistible appeal; it was boyish, soft, smooth, and a beautiful peculiarity. Where’d it fit the sweetness I was called to tease out, I wondered? With my hands, I felt about it, cupped what little of breasts the manling had, and found no heavy sacs to squeeze and unease and unload. Curious, my thumbs moved to his nipples, over them; I felt their hardness and I was wet from the touch, wet between my legs, as I’d never felt anything so lewd - so erotic as that man’s straining nipples. My touch made them red and tender; he moaned when I rubbed over his nubs, and then again, louder, when I pinched them.
For whatever cruel reason, I imagined them pierced. I pictured those buttons giving under the weight of bone links, or gold rings; I imagined tugging a chain binding the two of them together, twins enslaved.
“Harder,” the sorcerer mewled, and I concluded that my hands were not a fine enough tool for the job, and I moved to work the boy’s teats with my mouth. My saliva was like balm on his skin; it soothed the boy, pleaded with his little tits to yield.
“I don’t know,” he whimpered, almost cried, and arched his back so that I held him like an exposed doll, still sucked tightly onto him. The pull of my lips brought him pleasure, but not comfort.
I understood that he needed my teeth.
With care, I ground the boy’s nipples between my incisors, and then clamped onto him with the zeal of a starved kitten. He winced, and so I held him tighter, and I abused him; I bit his teats so sharply I threatened to pierce them for the rings I’d dreamt; I pulled on them as if they were a dog’s chew toy; I braced them oppressively and demanded they let my tongue inside. And under that assault, the magician’s udderlets gave, trickling milky white onto my tongue.
There’s no sweeter drink in the world than the fatty sap from a sorcerer’s tit, I promise, I swear. I was so taken by the taste that I forgot a little about my pledge to help the boy and grew aggressive in my pursuit of his sugary produce; he begged me to stop sucking on his tits even, and I didn’t hear him, not until he came from the milking.
He was an awful mess after. His groin was sticky with a gush of pent-up come; his chest was glazed over with spit and thin cream. Sweat glued long strands of his hair together and made him seem a filthy thing, a juiced whore, rather than a devil lord’s mighty consort.
“Thank you,” he stammered in tinny voice, spent and panting, and fell entirely limp in my arms. Kind soul that I was, I rinsed him in the chilly pool nearby, and I swore him my service, and I told him my name. He did not return the last courtesy, and once he could stand by his own on his wobbly legs, he spun about - sang a spell - and disappeared as he did before.
We met again after, far later, far east in the devassar city of Nhandu, and he did not beg my aid again. We spoke over dinner, and we shared a cot, and we parted ways in the morning. He went back to the Baelands, whereas I wandered on, forever in pursuit of the Taste. No longer a simple milkmaid, but the Mercenary Midwife, I now walk the world to ease the laying pains of sorcerers, and to steal sips meant for their strange young. That is the story you wished to hear, friend; now that you know the origin of my calling, let me warn you just briefly against letting man milk on your tongue. You might grow to crave it more than anything in the world.
edit: have a little extra of my boyfriend going into reading this out loud entirely unprepared
