Free At His Service: Milk & Chains (A Lactation And BDSM Erotic Romance) by Ashley Spector
Authors: Ashley Spector
At His Command: Milk & Chains
Ashley Spector
Copyright 2013 by Ashley Spector
Forbidden Fruit Press
(All characters depicted in this story are consenting adults)
Chapter One
He sits before me, unflinching, unyielding, having struck the same stoic pose since the moment he first planted himself down. One hand braced to his lap, his wristwatch facing upwards, and the other stroking his bristled chin pensively. All the while, he stares at me - through me, even - two dark brown eyes, scanning my every movement, searching for my every intention. I've had him sat here for five minutes already, and he hasn't said a word. But with every twitch of his eyebrow, and every scratch of his five o-clock shadow, I can tell he's hard at work.
"So," I finally breach the silence to say, leaning forward across the coffee table and matching his eye-line without so much as blinking. "What would you like to achieve from this session, Mr. Cole?"
His expression remains unchanged, even as he opens his mouth to speak, never averting his eyes from my own. He speaks in a cold, grey tone; unfeeling, and just deep enough to grab your undivided attention.
"I'm still making up my mind."
How he came to be here, sat across from me in the big, blue chair is something that astounded even me. I've been a psychiatrist for only two years, probationary still. Quite how I got this particular client still eludes me; the biggest question on my mind, the one I just know I won't be able to stop myself asking. Why me?
"You've been seeing a colleague of mine, Dr. Benavidez - "
" - And I asked to see you," he interrupts me to say. Still not so much as an averted eye, or a fidgeting twitch in that chair. Just a well-dressed, well-groomed man sat straight. I can't help but feel a little overawed. What the fuck am I saying? Of course I'm fucking awestruck.
"Why did you ask to see me?" I ask at last. It didn't take long.
"I'm still making up my mind."
This is going to be tough.
Spencer Cole was always one of those names that I'd heard on the tip of some newsreader's tongue, or read in the magazines. A man so far removed from the college lectures I went to, or the street corner our psychiatry practice calls its home, I never even considered the possibility of meeting the man. I always thought oil tycoons and investment bankers and billionaire CEOs moved in their own circles, high inside their own stratosphere, above the rest of us. I wasn't surprised to learn that Spencer Cole frequents therapy sessions - hell, I'm sure anyone with over a million dollars must have a hundred skeletons in their closet they can't wait to confess - but to find that he wanted to sit down with me? Me?
Finally, he slowly closes his eyes, relaxing his arms onto the arms of his chair, and exhales loudly. I wish I could be so calm. I look down to my hastily-prepared notes - a few sheets of lined paper, covered in frantic scrawls about the nature of his business, his known family, anything I could glean from the internet - and find my right hand trembling before me. I quickly clasp my hands together, putting an end to any show of weakness. I'm a professional; I have to look the part.
"I'm sure you did your research on me, but why don't I introduce myself" I say, as he opens those dark brown eyes, and to my relief, allows a smile to breach his thin lips. "I've been at this practice for two years. I'm 28 years old, can't drive, and I'm a natural blonde. I just dye it brown."
"It's interesting you'd tell me that" he replies, in as deep a tone as ever, letting a little more of a playful grin upon that handsome face of his. "Why do you dye it?"
"Well, I guess I just wanted it to be different."
He sinks into his chair, letting the shoulders of his unspeakably expensive suit jacket ride high against the back of the seat, and finally, apparently feels comfortable enough to look around. After craning his
Ashley Spector
Copyright 2013 by Ashley Spector
Forbidden Fruit Press
(All characters depicted in this story are consenting adults)
Chapter One
He sits before me, unflinching, unyielding, having struck the same stoic pose since the moment he first planted himself down. One hand braced to his lap, his wristwatch facing upwards, and the other stroking his bristled chin pensively. All the while, he stares at me - through me, even - two dark brown eyes, scanning my every movement, searching for my every intention. I've had him sat here for five minutes already, and he hasn't said a word. But with every twitch of his eyebrow, and every scratch of his five o-clock shadow, I can tell he's hard at work.
"So," I finally breach the silence to say, leaning forward across the coffee table and matching his eye-line without so much as blinking. "What would you like to achieve from this session, Mr. Cole?"
His expression remains unchanged, even as he opens his mouth to speak, never averting his eyes from my own. He speaks in a cold, grey tone; unfeeling, and just deep enough to grab your undivided attention.
"I'm still making up my mind."
How he came to be here, sat across from me in the big, blue chair is something that astounded even me. I've been a psychiatrist for only two years, probationary still. Quite how I got this particular client still eludes me; the biggest question on my mind, the one I just know I won't be able to stop myself asking. Why me?
"You've been seeing a colleague of mine, Dr. Benavidez - "
" - And I asked to see you," he interrupts me to say. Still not so much as an averted eye, or a fidgeting twitch in that chair. Just a well-dressed, well-groomed man sat straight. I can't help but feel a little overawed. What the fuck am I saying? Of course I'm fucking awestruck.
"Why did you ask to see me?" I ask at last. It didn't take long.
"I'm still making up my mind."
This is going to be tough.
Spencer Cole was always one of those names that I'd heard on the tip of some newsreader's tongue, or read in the magazines. A man so far removed from the college lectures I went to, or the street corner our psychiatry practice calls its home, I never even considered the possibility of meeting the man. I always thought oil tycoons and investment bankers and billionaire CEOs moved in their own circles, high inside their own stratosphere, above the rest of us. I wasn't surprised to learn that Spencer Cole frequents therapy sessions - hell, I'm sure anyone with over a million dollars must have a hundred skeletons in their closet they can't wait to confess - but to find that he wanted to sit down with me? Me?
Finally, he slowly closes his eyes, relaxing his arms onto the arms of his chair, and exhales loudly. I wish I could be so calm. I look down to my hastily-prepared notes - a few sheets of lined paper, covered in frantic scrawls about the nature of his business, his known family, anything I could glean from the internet - and find my right hand trembling before me. I quickly clasp my hands together, putting an end to any show of weakness. I'm a professional; I have to look the part.
"I'm sure you did your research on me, but why don't I introduce myself" I say, as he opens those dark brown eyes, and to my relief, allows a smile to breach his thin lips. "I've been at this practice for two years. I'm 28 years old, can't drive, and I'm a natural blonde. I just dye it brown."
"It's interesting you'd tell me that" he replies, in as deep a tone as ever, letting a little more of a playful grin upon that handsome face of his. "Why do you dye it?"
"Well, I guess I just wanted it to be different."
He sinks into his chair, letting the shoulders of his unspeakably expensive suit jacket ride high against the back of the seat, and finally, apparently feels comfortable enough to look around. After craning his
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