Page 1 of M!lked For His Pleasure

Milking His Lass

An Mf Alien Abduction Dark Romance

Vivian Murdoch

Chapter One

Fiona

Bright lights assault my eyes, sending sharp pain pounding through my skull. The shards fan out in a brilliant display, like starbursts. Ugh. How much did I drink last night? Normally, I’m the sober one, especially at work.

It’s the running joke amongst all my coworkers—weeFionacannaehandle her spirits like a true Scottish lass.It’s nauseating, really. It’s not as if I choose to get sick every time I drink.

Groaning, I tip my head to the side and force air in and out of my lungs. Someone must have slipped me something. Spiked a drink. If I find out who, there will be hell to pay.

Not only will I get HR involved, but I will personally make their life a living hell. A sigh ripples through my body at that thought. Wishful thinking. Granted, HR is a given, but I can’t be mean even if my life depended on it.

Unease slithers through my gut as the pain morphs into a dull ache. Again, that niggling feeling of concern slams against my rational thoughts, rendering them nearly useless. I’ve beenhungover before, but this feels different. I go to clutch my stomach as bile rises in my throat.

If I do imbibe too much, I usually have a pounding headache and sensitivity to light. Never nausea or disorientation. A slight groan slips past my lips as I turn my head. Something cool and metallic kisses my cheek, sending a wave of relief through my system.

It’s so nice, soothing even. Until now, I didn’t realize just how feverish I felt. Fucking alcohol sensitivity. How in all the world am I the only Scot unable to hold her liquor?

Maybe the American swill is just subpar? That’s a thought. But then, it’s not like I can handle a good Scottish ale either. So that can’t be it.

Again, my stomach tenses as everything churns. Another thought, one far more horrific nags at the back of my brain, going off like the loud, annoying sirens Americans turn on the first Wednesday of the month. Did someone spike my drink with something other than alcohol?

Not that I truly think anyone I work with would do that… but it’s not like I actually know anyone here. I keep my distance for a good reason. There’s no way I can allow myself to become enmeshed with them. Not when so much is on the line.

Again, that odd cramp twists my stomach until it’s hard to breathe. Did someone find out why I was there? Are they trying to pull information out of me? Granted, I just got started with my investigation, so no oneshouldknow anything about me, but that doesn’t mean something didn’t get leaked.

To my coworkers, I’m just a systems analyst, simply another cog in their well-oiled machine. However, to the man who hired me, I’m there for far more than that. My primary job, the one I get paid for, is to ferret out those set on sabotaging the company.

I hack into their computers and systems, looking for anything that might cause alarm. Thankfully, I haven’t foundanything yet, but it doesn’t mean it’s not there. And that’s why cold sweat beads on my skin as the nausea rises in my throat, threatening to choke me.

But it’s silly. Who would actually try to drug me to get me to talk? It’s preposterous. The more I think about it, the more idiotic it becomes. More than likely someone slipped me a roofie to try to get lucky.

“State your name.”

My blood runs cold as the stern voice vibrates through my skull. It doesn’t sound like anyone I know. There’s a hardened edge to it, a rough quality that I’ve never heard before.

Is it an accent? No. Not really. I can’t place what’s off about the voice, but it doesn’t sound American, that’s for sure. In fact, it doesn’t sound like any country I’ve visited. Perhaps whoever is speaking is disguising their voice?

That would explain that hint of metallic reverberation as he repeats the question. I lick my lips as I think through what he’s saying. It’s a simple question, yet loaded with numerous unspoken facets. If he wants to know my name, then he’s certainly not here to fuck me.

Though roofies don’t necessarily have to be administered by a known partner, I’m sure someone wanting sex would have fucked first and asked for my name later… That is, unless they’ve already raped me and now want to make small talk.

A frisson of fear slithers up my spine, freezing me in place. Nothing feels sore or abused. In fact, besides the splitting headache and aural disturbance when I open my eyes, I feel better than I have in a long time. Again, I open my eyes, snapping them shut as the bright light assaults me.

“Can you understand the words I’m saying?”

Yes, I think inside my head.But I don’t want to respond. Especially not if this is, in fact, an interrogation. Strong fingers brush the side of my head, causing a knee-jerk reaction.

I wrench my neck to the side to escape this foreign, unasked-for touch, but the person is insistent. They probe their fingers over a spot just above the back of my ear, causing a dull ache to run down my neck and into my shoulder.

“It seems to be functioning correctly. Check the systems.”

I understand the words floating around me, hovering just in the ether, but I can’t seem to comprehend the meaning. Systems. Functioning. Correctly. All these words seem to correlate to a computer. But what does that have to do with the man constantly touching the side of my head?

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