The Farmer’s Wife & Daughters lll

The farmer’s wife eventually brought herself to her feet, the blacksmith’s cum still slowly oozing out of her pussy. She’s a mess of emotions as she reflects on the events of the last hour, assimilating the length and breath of her degradation, and more alarmingly, her incomprehensible submission to it. She could feel the thick cum smeared all along her insides, coating her violated vaginal passage. She shudders in disgust at her violation as it leaves its intended mark on her psyche, knotting her stomach with uneasy and no means to vent her overwhelming emotions.

She slowly regains her wits and as tears swell in her eyes, she begins to clean her kitchen, attempting to erase all traces of her night’s encounter, all traces but those left on and within her body, in her memory and in the memories of her employees.
Satisfied with sterilizing the scene of her attack, Julie turns her attention to cleaning herself after hiding her skirt and panty that had been soiled and tattered in the assault. Returning to her chambers with a bowl of water and a few rags she wipes the dried stickiness off her thighs and cleans her body, giving tender attention to her reddened, sore pussy that seemed to have no end to it secretion of semen.

She tried to expel the vile liquid from within her body, but as much as she tried she still felt heavy, burdened, physically and emotionally, with the load of spunk issued to her. She prayed she would not fall to another pregnancy following a rape again. Its torture on a woman to bare a child of your own flesh and blood, of your own womb that is yours and to be reminded with your child’s existence of how you savagely abused by his or her father.
Lost in her remorse, she was jolted by the baby who needed his feed. She picked up her daughter and took her darling bundle of joy to her bare breasts feeding him the last remnants of the milk that remained in her breasts, milk that she had been robbed of, all of which rightfully belonging to her youngest daughter.
Her year old baby sucking on her nipple alerted her to how sensitive her breasts had been rendered following being milked into the tin cup. She winced at the pain in her tits and gently caressed her free breast to ease her discomfort and found herself uncontrollably remembering the touch of the milkman, remembering that she had enjoyed the attention he paid to her enormous boobs.
She quickly banished the thought, put the baby down and went to bed.

The next morning she woke as usual and went about her morning almost oblivious to the fact she had been fucked the night before, it was like a dream that you could barely remember, but as she fully awakened, so too did her memory clear. She recalled every gritty detail even though she didn’t want to. Brushing her thoughts aside, she went on as normal so as not to alert anyone to her perplexed state.

Julie went about preparing the communal breakfast as she always did with the help of the kitchen hands. Almost everyone was already seated outside at the two long tables; the blacksmith was busy talking and laughing, she noticed, as she took out the tea. He paid her no attention and behaved as usual, it was as though he had not been her rapist the previous night. She couldn’t believe his nerve, he should have had the decency to stay away from her breakfast table.

She noticed the milkman was absent, but just as she had poured everyone their tea and made her way back to the kitchen she heard the milkman who had just arrived beckon her back asking for his tea.
She stiffly walked back towards him avoiding his smirking gaze, poured him his tea and made her way back to her kitchen. The man sitting next to the milker quickly grabbed the milk jar and finished the last bit, laughing at the fact that the milkman didn’t get any milk.
But the milker was prepared, saying “don’t you worry, I’ve got my own” as he produced a small flask from a pocket.

This exchange grabbed Julie’s attention and stopped her in her tracks as she looked back to watch him empty the flask’s contents into his cup. She knew what it was, the white nectar was hers. She watched in disbelief as he stirred her into his tea and shot a wicked grin at her, she turned pale and went limp as he raised his cup to his lips and drank a sip of her motherhood never breaking his gaze. Astounded by his impertinence, she turned in horror and rushed into the house not to emerge the rest of the morning.
She ran into her bedroom overwhelmed by the situation, thinking about everything that had happened within the last twelve hours, flustered she kept thinking about that man drinking her breast milk.
How could she have let him take it last night?
What had come over her that she gave in to such an intrusion of her feminine dignity?
She kept thinking about the milker drinking that sip of tea, playing it over and over in her mind, watching it in disgust and then thinking about him going on to finish his cup of tea.