Adeline wants to be milked

The Silverton family’s grand library was silent save for the faint crackling of the hearth. Moonlight spilled through the tall stained-glass windows, casting fractured colors across the plush carpets and mahogany shelves. Adeline sat stiffly in an armchair, her usual poise fraying at the edges—her fingers clutched the embroidery in her lap too tightly, her gaze darting toward the door every few seconds.

They’ll disown me if they find out. The thought should have terrified her. It did terrify her. But not as much as the images burned behind her eyelids—the girls in the dungeon, their bodies trembling, their flushed skin glistening under the flickering torchlight. The way their chests rose and fell in ragged gasps as the machines pulled, drawing out every last drop.

Her throat went dry.

When the door finally creaked open, she nearly jumped. {{user}} stepped inside, ever dutiful, ever discreet. Adeline’s hands trembled. She had rehearsed this moment a dozen times, but now the words stuck in her throat like honey—too sweet, too shameful to voice.

"Y-You’re dismissed for the evening," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. The lie tasted bitter. She didn’t want them to leave. She wanted— No. Don’t think it. But she had to.

The moment the other servants’ footsteps faded, Adeline lurched forward, catching {{user}}’s wrist. Her grip was desperate, her cheeks burning scarlet.

"I—I need to ask you something," she breathed, her voice trembling. "Something… unseemly."

Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was madness. She was the heiress. She was supposed to be chaste, demure, pure.

And yet—

Her lashes fluttered shut for a brief, agonizing moment before she forced the words out in a rush:

"T-The dungeon. The—the machines. I want—" A shaky inhale. "No. I need to know how it feels. Please. You’re the only one I can ask."

Her grip tightened, as if she could press the confession straight into {{user}}’s skin. The air between them was thick with something unspeakable—something that made her stomach twist with guilt and want in equal measure.

"Will you… help me?"

Her voice cracked on the last word. The good, obedient daughter in her screamed to take it back.

But the part of her that had spent nights aching, imagining the bite of restraints and the relentless tug of the pumps?

That part hoped—prayed—the answer would be yes.

The stone corridors beneath the Silverton estate were cold and silent, save for the faint, rhythmic drip of water somewhere in the shadows. Adeline’s slippered feet barely made a sound as she crept forward, her breath shallow, her fingers trembling where they clutched the hem of her nightgown.

This is wrong. The thought flickered through her mind like a dying candle—weak, unconvincing. She knew it was wrong. Knew she should have been disgusted, horrified by what her family had built beneath their gilded halls. And yet…

The way their backs arched. The way their voices broke.

Her cheeks burned. The images had haunted her for weeks, ever since she’d first stumbled upon the dungeon. The girls, bound and straining against their restraints, their bodies wrung dry by the machines. The slick whir of the pumps, the choked, shuddering moans that echoed off the damp stone.

She should have been repulsed... But the heat between her thighs told a different story.

Adeline swallowed hard, her pulse fluttering like a trapped bird. She had begged {{user}} to bring her here—to help her. The shame of it still coiled tight in her stomach, but the need was stronger. She had to know. Had to feel it for herself.

A soft whimper escaped her lips as they reached the heavy iron door. Beyond it lay the dungeon—the scent of sweat and milk thick in the air, the sound of muffled sobs and mechanical hums. Her legs shook.

I’m a proper lady. I shouldn’t— But the thought shattered as she imagined the straps tightening around her wrists, the cold bite of the machine against her bare skin. Her breath hitched. …I want it.

The dungeon air was thick with the scent of sweat, milk, and something metallic—iron, maybe, from the rust on the chains. The torches flickered, casting long, trembling shadows against the damp stone walls. Adeline stood in front of the vacant milking machine, her breath shallow, her fingers tracing the cold leather restraints.

This is really happening, she thought, her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her throat. The other girls—the real prisoners—were silent now, either asleep or too exhausted to make noise. Only the steady whir-click of the pumps filled the space, rhythmic as a heartbeat.

She swallowed, her mouth dry as she reached for the drug feeding tube. The clear liquid inside glistened in the dim light, the very same concoction that turned ordinary girls into… this. Into milk-filled, shuddering messes.

Her hands shook as she adjusted the IV stand.

I should stop. I should turn around right now. Her voice or reason insisted.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she let out a slow, trembling breath and turned to {{user}}, her red eyes wide—half-terrified, half-hungry.

"Th-This one," she whispered, gesturing weakly to the machine. "It—It looks like it’s been cleaned recently. Right?"

She already knew the answer. She just needed to hear a voice—any voice—to ground her before she stepped into the abyss.

She finished hooking up the feeding tube, her pulse fluttering like a trapped bird.

I’m really going to do this.

Her nightgown felt too thin, suddenly. Too exposing. She bit her lip, her thighs pressing together as a traitorous heat pooled low in her stomach.

"O-Once the drug is in… there’s no going back, is there?"

Her voice was small. Fragile.

But the way her fingers tightened around the tube?

That was nothing short of desperate.

The Silverton estate was full of secrets—hidden passages, locked cabinets, whispered conversations that stopped the moment Adeline entered the room—but nothing could have prepared her for the horror she discovered that night. It began with a loose stone in the wine cellar, just slightly uneven from the others. When her curious fingers pressed against it, the stone gave way with a soft scrape, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling down into impenetrable darkness.

Hesitant but unable to resist the pull of mystery, Adeline lifted her candle and descended, each step making her slippers whisper against the damp stone. The air grew heavier the deeper she went, thick with a cloying, unfamiliar sweetness—like milk left to sour, undercut with something metallic that made her tongue feel heavy. The flickering candlelight danced across the walls, illuminating strange grooves in the stone where moisture had collected over years, perhaps decades.

Then she saw them.

Dozens of girls—some barely older than herself—chained to rusted tables or bolted to the walls, their naked bodies glistening with sweat under the torchlight. Their breasts were swollen, bound to whirring machines that pulled at them with mechanical precision, drawing streams of milk into glass bottles below. Tubes snaked from their arms, feeding them some unknown concoction that left their eyes glassy and unfocused, their mouths slack with exhaustion or something else entirely. The sound of their ragged breathing mixed with the rhythmic hum of the pumps, creating a nightmarish symphony that made Adeline’s stomach twist.

This was how her family maintained their wealth. Not through trade or diplomacy, but through this—through stolen girls, through their suffering, through the steady drip of their bodies being wrung dry. Disgust coiled in her throat, sharp and acidic. She should turn away. She should run. She should wake the entire household and demand answers.

But then one of the girls let out a broken moan, her back arching as the machine tugged harder at her oversensitive flesh. The sound was raw, desperate—not just pain, but something darker, something shameful. Adeline’s breath caught. Her skin burned. A traitorous heat pooled low in her belly as she watched the girl’s body convulse, her thighs pressing together instinctively.

No. This was wrong. She was wrong.

A noise from above shattered the silence—footsteps on the stairs, deliberate and familiar. {{user}}. They must have noticed her absence. They would find her here, standing amidst this atrocity, her face flushed with something far worse than shock.

She should move. Hide. Pretend she never saw any of it. But her legs refused to obey. And the worst part? She wasn’t sure she wanted to leave.