He tells me to come in. I do. I’m feeling scared, defiant, and sorrowful. I spent too much money by an irresponsible error.

“I’m going to milk your nipples,” he tells me. I cried my arms over my chest and whimper. “You don’t have to like it,” he tells me. “But you’re going to do it.”

He sits, fully clothed, on the chair. “Take your clothes off,” he says. I do. “All of them.” I whimper and do.

“Sit here,” he gestures. I hesitantly approach. He gestures to his lap. My outer lips are already quivering. I’m afraid of what might happen if I mount those denim legs, so I start to perch ladylike on them with my legs to one side.

“No.” He is quiet but firm. “Face me. One leg on each side.” He flexes his fingers. "I'm going to milk your nipples, but I think that might milk you other places, too. We'll see what the good little girl has to offer as part of her punishment." I tremble and straddle him, once leg on each side, facing him. My breasts hang between us.

His hands find my breasts and begin to massage, warm, gently. "I know your mistake today was an accident. That's why I'm not doing to hurt you." The massaging moves to my nipples, where two fingers rhymthmically pull my aerolas and nipples out between his thumbs, stroking outward at the pace of a slow, steady heartbeat. My nipples get hard and my pussy tightens. I try not to gasp for breath.

"What does the little girl say?" Rhythmic hands continue to pulse me. It hurts, it's uncomfortable, and I want to pull away. At the same time, my nipples send signals like lightning down to inside by pelvic bone, and a dull throbbing starts up there, echoing the rhythm of the stroking. I feel like I am being milked. The shame makes the throbbing inside me pulse harder. I am torn, confused between pleasure and pain. I moan.

"My little girl made a mistake today, didn't she?" Pull, pull. "And she considered not telling me." As he pulls, he rolls my aereolas with his thumbs. I gasp.

"Yes" I gasp, and against my will my hips thrust, just a little, on top of his denim thighs. The friction both hurts and feels good. I will myself not to do it again.

But he is talking to me, lecturing me, telling me how sad and disappointed I have made him, and the rhymthic pulling on my nipples is now unmistakably mirrored in the slight pulsing thrusts of my hips. I don't know how to stop, I know I should, but I don't want to because it feels... good. I close my eyes. The hands on my breasts continue their inexorable pulling. I put my head down on his shoulder, and he continues stroking me, pulling my nipples, telling me how much he loves me and how disappointed his little girl has made him. Suddenly, my pussy gushes hot, flowing water onto his leg. There is no way he will not notice - I am situated on his lap, straddling him, soaking his jeans. After this session he will have his pussy-soaked jeans as a prize to show that his wife is a writhing whore. I writhe against this thought.

One hand trails down my breasts, over my soft stomach, and plays with the hair there. Swiftly, he strokes my outer lips, making them tremble and making me spread my legs, wanting more. He strokes the lips, always missing the clit. "Please.... make me sorry," I whisper.

He flips me over onto his lap, and this time he inserts my vibrator, the one that fills and stretches my pussy even while vibrating over my clit, and as it is both too full it hurts yet feels good. I strain against it, but he turns it on low and begins to spank me. Slowly. Rhymthmically.

My body is confused on how to respond. The spanks hurt, but between each spank is the light vibration of pleasure. The rhythmic pain confuses the pleasure but keeps in rhythym with it. The pleasure in the tissues around my clitoris increases.

I am his, and he is mine.