With the old switcheroo

"You've got an idea, huh?" you ask, grinning ear to ear. She swallows. "Would you rather try it out now or risk it not working as intended tomorrow?" you ask. Admittedly, this question's cheating. You know she is bound by a previous decision to start every day with a milking for breakfast and the risk of her not being able to do so is metaphysically abhorrent to her. The answer is therefore predetermined, something which takes the sport out of the exercise, but which gets you the pleasing answer of: "I... I think we have to test it first." You see her blush, as if lying half naked next to you in bed, having you suckle her nipples (which are now just as firm and sensitive, but unyielding of milk) is somehow not embarrassing, but what she is going to say next is.

"Son..." she stammers, "can I... can I try milking you?"

You feign surprise. "Milk me? Why, I'm not lactating, mom. Although you're right that this would solve the predicament, it's simply not possibly: How could you milk a man?"

You see her face run red. What she is doing right now, the thoughts she is having in this moment, are not ones implanted in her by a direct question and therefore absolutely necessary for her to have. Rather, they are her own, albeit guided and somewhat ****, conclusions, and so are meeting the resistance in her mind which a mother would reasonably have against speaking out loud to her son what she is thinking right now.

"So I'll get up without the milking, I guess." you say, pretending to get up, knowing that she already has commited to doing it right now. Almost panicked, she grabs on to you to keep you from escaping, and you, in turn, pinch one of her sensitive nipples.

"Son!" she exclaims, ridiculously. But instead of admonishing you for the inappropriate touch, she is internally compelled to explain herself. "I think there is a... a way for me to milk you." she gulps, shuffling around. "Namely... So, I've seen a documentary recently on prize horses. And to, to breed such horses, they buy horse semen from a breeding stud. To ge that seemen, they extract it from the stud with a pump. And they called this milking."

You remain quiet, letting her say it all for herself.

"So... Maybe I can milk your... your penis."

You light up and cannot keep yourself from beaming ear to ear. This worked out brilliantly, you think. You've **** her to ask for this by her own volition. Now it's just up to you to develop.

"It seems like that is the only option." you agree. "But I'm not really sure I want a handjob right now. I think I'm good." again, you make a weak attempt to stand, again she keeps you down, this time more forcefully.

"You must!" she insists. "We agreed!"

"You agreed" you correct her, brushing aside her hand. "But I see this is very important to you. Maybe there are other ways of milking me than with your hands?"

"I suppose I could get an implement..." she starts, and you cut her off. Time for another question, you think. "As I see it, there are only two options: Would you rather milk me, every morning, until I ejaculate, in your mouth or in your asshole?"

She looks at you shocked.