Divine Milking System

Chapter 338: 338 | Stop Talking and Start Milking [GT BONUS]

I pulled Naomi up the steps and she came willingly, her bell chiming with each stair, her hand warm and trembling in mine. Not from fear. From the same thing that had turned her panties dark while she watched Belle lose the ability to form sentences.

Belle lay sprawled across the porch boards with milk pooling in the hollow of her collarbone, breathing like she’d just finished a marathon. She lifted one hand and waved it loosely in our direction.

"Don’t mind me. I’ll just be here. Dying. On wood."

I pulled Naomi past Belle and through the red front door of the farmhouse. The interior matched the exterior’s charm: a single large room with whitewashed walls, exposed beams, and a bed roughly the size of a small country positioned beneath a window that framed the impossible sunset. Clean white sheets. Pillows stacked high. A nightstand holding four empty essence bottles that I’d placed during the Sanctum’s design phase because I am nothing if not a forward-thinking pervert.

Naomi’s eyes went to the bottles first. Then the bed. Then me.

"You planned this."

"I plan everything."

"You planned the farm. The porch. Making Belle go first so I would watch. The bottles on the nightstand." She touched her choker bell with one finger. "The cow things."

"I designed the cow things because Belle wouldn’t shut up about them in the group chat."

"You designed them because you knew I’d look like this." Naomi gestured at herself in the cow-print lingerie that fit her tall frame like it had been sewn by someone who understood that long legs and dark brown skin and lace did something specific to the male brain that no amount of tactical training could override. "And you knew that looking like this would make you want to do things to me that you wouldn’t do if I was wearing normal clothes."

She wasn’t wrong.

The cow-print bra pushed her breasts up and together in a way that her regulation sports bra deliberately prevented. The panties sat low on her hips, the black and white pattern drawing the eye to the strip of brown skin between the waistband and her navel. The thigh-highs ended at mid-thigh, the lace bands pressing into the muscle she’d built from years of hauling fishing nets and running combat drills with Misato.

The bell on her choker caught the warm sunset light coming through the window and threw a tiny gold reflection onto the white sheets.

I walked Naomi backward toward the bed. Her calves hit the mattress and she sat, looking up at me with those enormous pink eyes that held more clarity and desire than they had any right to hold simultaneously.

"I need to fill the bottles," I said. "Two from you. Silver-tier. That’s four hundred points if I do it right."

"I know the math."

"And for your Gold buff to activate, I need to finish inside you."

"I know that too."

"And Belle needs the same. So I need to have enough left for her after you."

Naomi’s mouth did something complicated. The corner lifted like she wanted to smile. Her lower lip pulled in like she wanted to bite it. Her jaw set like she wanted to say something so honest that it scared her.

What came out was: "Then you should probably stop talking and start milking."

That word in Naomi’s mouth. Milking. The girl who apologized for taking a seat next to me on the first day of class, who wrote letters to her brothers in careful handwriting every Sunday night, who sent two thousand dollars home every month so her father’s boat could stay afloat.

That girl just told me to milk her while wearing a cow bell.

I was so attracted to this woman that my system notifications were going to need a content warning.

I leaned down and kissed her, and Naomi’s hands found my face immediately, her calloused palms cupping my jaw and pulling me closer with a strength that most people forgot she possessed because she spent so much energy apologizing for existing. Her tongue slid against mine, and she tasted like green tea and the mint she’d been chewing on the walk over.

I lowered her onto the white sheets. Her pink and black hair fanned across the pillows in striped waves, and the cow-print bra strained against breasts that had already started to swell.

That was the thing about repeat sessions. Naomi’s body had learned what happened when I touched her. The extraction trigger didn’t need physical contact with breast tissue anymore. Her body had begun responding to proximity, to the pressure of my weight above her, to the specific quality of attention I directed at her chest when I looked at her the way I was looking at her now.

Milk appeared at her left nipple before I even reached the bra clasp. A single perfect bead that caught the light and held it like a pearl.

I unhooked the bra and pulled it away. Her breasts were beautiful. Not the largest among the women in my life. Naomi was a 36D, shaped by genetics and the physical labor of her childhood, firm with the muscle underneath and soft where the tissue gave way to warmth. The pink of her nipples stood out against the brown of her skin, and both were already wet.

I grabbed the first bottle from the nightstand and held it beneath her left breast while I lowered my mouth to her right.

The first mouthful hit my tongue and the System sang.

\[You drink a mouthful of milk from a Silver-tier target. As a result, you get 25 points!\]

Vanilla cream and something underneath that was distinctly Naomi. Warm. Sweet without being sugary. The kind of taste that made you close your eyes and forget you were drinking from a woman’s body to avoid dying in fourteen days.

Naomi’s back arched off the sheets. Her hand found the back of my head and pressed, not hard, just holding me in place with her fingers threaded through my hair. Her bell rang softly as her chest rose and fell in deeper rhythms.

I drank and the System counted. Twenty-five points per mouthful. Eight mouthfuls per cup. The math ran itself in the background of my consciousness while my actual attention remained focused on the woman beneath me, on the way her stomach muscles tightened every time I swallowed, on the way her hips shifted against the mattress seeking friction that I hadn’t provided yet.

The bottle beneath her left breast filled steadily. Milk ran in warm rivulets down the curve, pooling at the base before dripping into the glass with a sound that was obscene in the quiet of the farmhouse. Each drop was survival. Each drop was another hour I wouldn’t spend dead.

Four mouthfuls in. A hundred points. One full day of breathing.

I activated Euphoric Feedback at level five.