Creamy Hucow Fantasies – My breasts ache with a strange, full tenderness. Milk beads constantly at the tips, fat white drops rolling down and dripping off in slow rhythm. I’m on all fours on the milking platform, back arched, presenting without being told. “You don’t just like it anymore,” Alex says behind me. “You live for it.” The silicone cups seal over my boobs with a wet sound. The machine hums to life. The first pull drags a broken moan from my throat as thick jets of milk surge into the tubes. “Good girl,” he mutters. “Give them everything.” He screws me slow and deep while the pump runs, hands kneading my swollen breasts.
“Going to keep you full like this. Every brother drinks from you when he wants.” “Yes, Sir,” I whimper. “Beg,” he orders. “Please screw me. Please use your cow.” His hand reaches under, pinching both boobs hard. Milk sprays harder. I come screaming, vulva clenching, body shaking. When I signed that contract, I thought I was saving myself from eviction. Now I’m producing three quarts a day. Now I crave the suction, the hands, the mouths. “I was never, ever going back,” I whisper. Alex’s thumb circles my boob. “That’s right, Amelia. You’re home.”
The Ad I sat cross-legged on my sagging mattress, the blue glow of my cracked laptop the only light in the tiny off-campus apartment. It was past 2 a.m., and the eviction notice taped to the front door felt like it was staring at me through the wall. Rent was three weeks overdue. The library had cut my hours again. My credit cards were maxed, my loans were screaming, and the next tuition payment might as well have been a million dollars. I refreshed the campus job board for the tenth time, scrolling past the same dead-end postings: barista, tutor, dog-walker. Twelve bucks an hour if I was lucky. Graduation was supposed to be a year away, but at this rate I wouldn’t even make it to midterms. Then I saw it. A brand-new listing, posted less than an hour ago. Position: Live-in Domestic Specialist Location:
Private residence, on-campus edge Compensation: $120,000 for one-year contract (paid monthly) Benefits: Full room and board, all utilities, complete debt assistance upon successful completion Requirements: Female, 20–24, discreet, healthy, able to commit to strict schedule and house rules. No experience necessary—full training provided. Interviews conducted via secure video link. Immediate start preferred. My heart actually stopped for a second. One hundred and twenty thousand dollars. For a year of housework? I’d never seen anything like this on the student board. The location linked to Theta Kappa Rho—the oldest, most secretive fraternity on campus. Everyone knew the house: that massive ivy-covered mansion on the edge of the woods. No wild parties, no scandals in the campus paper.
Just quiet, untouchable money passed down through generations of alumni who now ran Wall Street, law firms, and half the state legislature. I hesitated for half a second, then clicked Apply. The form was weirdly short: name, age, major, a line about current financial situation (optional), and a request for recent photos—one casual, one full-body. I attached the least awful selfies I had, typed a quick note about my double major in English and Biology, my 3.8 GPA, and—before I could chicken out—how I was one missed payment away from dropping out. I hit send. My phone buzzed almost instantly. Unknown number. Video interview in 15 minutes. Click the link when ready. —A. Harlan I scrambled. Hair into a messy ponytail, wiped the smudged mascara from under my eyes, swapped my ratty sleep shirt for the only clean sweater I owned. Hands shaking, I clicked the link.
The screen filled with a guy who looked like he’d stepped out of a luxury cologne ad. Early twenties, sharp jaw, dark hair perfectly styled, gray eyes that pinned me in place. Crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to show strong forearms. He was gorgeous in a way that felt almost unfair. “Amelia Thompson?” His voice was low, smooth, with a hint of an old-money East Coast accent that made my stomach flip. “Yes. Hi. Thank you for—” “Call me Alex,” he said, cutting me off gently. “I’m president of Theta Kappa Rho. We’re looking for someone very specific. The ad is exactly what it says. The money is real. The contract is binding. But the job isn’t ordinary domestic work.” I swallowed.