milk maid

Wet And Messy (and satirical) Dairy Humiliation Torture

I open the door to the accessible toilet at the cheap and cheerful Canadian coffee shop on the corner and to my fiendish delight, you are still there where I left you, tied up with plastic string to the baby changing table, spider gag installed keeping your mouth forced open, your dribble pooling into an already rolled-up rim cardboard cup. It’s stifling and hot in this tiny room. You look up at me as best as your head will allow, bound in a web of packaging sting as you are, and inhale sharply when you catch sight of my pure white blouse, my starched cap, my braided hair shimmering under the fluorescent light. It is as though my splendid milky purity dazzles the linoleum tiles, and you must stop from swooning.

Without a word, I plop a package on my lap and slowly unwrap this first item. A heavy, warm wheel of brie, as big as my hand, thick and quivering with calcium and fat. You gargle piteously. I take it to mean, “please, sweet maid, all of it!” As you wish, little goose. I push the soft, squishy cheese into your mouth, liquid enough to simply open your throat and allow it to slip down.

Gravity takes its time, and so I get to unwrapping individual CheeseWhizzes from the bulk packet I found on the street. With great care I move the Cheeze sticks into your nostrils, your ears, and lovingly roll the remainder into your body hair.

Humming to myself, I set to work on filing a lump of aged parmesan into a butt plug. I dip it into your spit cup and apply a stiff twisting technique to fit it into your cavity.

You are quite a sight. I take out a sketch pad and pencil, and fuss over a smudgy little drawing for the time it takes all the cheeses to acclimatize to your body heat. Poor goose, restrained and force fed, plugged up and helpless. But that look on your bulging, sweating face tells me that you can’t get enough of being a dairy slut. I’ve captured the expression in my sketch; I’m rather pleased with how it turned out.

I open the door and prop it open. Your thick moans of embarrassment and alarm are drowned out by a restless crowd of men who burst in carrying buckets spilling over with yogurt, cheesecake, pavlova, and scrambled egg. They rush you, surrounding you in the clamour of dairy products. You gurgle and shriek; your brie gag bubbles. They are banging their buckets, waiting for my call. The mob of dairy men are consumed with feverish lust for the finale. You try to look away but I pull your eyes back, and I shout, “Pour!”

And the buckets flow. On your face, all down your neck and chest, your belly, on top of your head, trickling down the gutters of your body, pooling in your dips, seeping into the folds of your flesh. The entire coffee shop is watching, since there was so much noise.

The deed is done. The men discard their buckets and file out, an air of subdued satisfaction around them. I am the last one out, and before I turn the light out and shut the door I take a look back. Dripping with milkiness, chunks of dairy-rich edibles running rivulets down your body, your eyes meet mine. You look pathetic, abused, and absolutely dazzling.