His name was Mark, and he sat on the edge of the plush armchair, eyes fixed on me. My fingers, still a little swollen from pregnancy, adjusted the flange against my engorged boobs. It was a familiar ritual now, one that had transformed my body and, in unexpected ways, my life.
"Ready for the show?" I asked, a playful lilt in my voice. My blue eyes met his, a challenge, a promise.
He swallowed, his throat bobbing. "Always."
My blonde hair, usually pulled back , cascaded down my back. I unbuttoned my loose, sheer blouse, each button a small pop in the silence. The fabric parted, revealing the smooth expanse of my décolletage, then the swell of my breasts. They were truly enormous now, a testament to the tiny life sleeping soundly upstairs. Before the baby, they were a modest C-cup, but now… now they strained against any fabric, heavy and full, engorged with the constant demand of milk production. My skin held a decent tan from those rare moments I managed to snatch some sun in the garden.
Mark’s gaze followed the movement, his breath catching. My hands went to the front-clasp of my nursing bra, a sturdy, industrial-strength contraption designed to hold the veritable milk fountains beneath. Click. The clasp released, and my breasts, unbound, spilled forth. They were shockingly large, huge even, gravity pulling them, nipples already beading with tiny droplets of white. A sigh escaped me, part relief, part performance.
"God, Katie," he breathed, his voice a low rumble. "They’re… magnificent."
A small smile touched my lips. I picked up the double pump, the plastic funnels cool against my skin. I centered them over my nipples, the suction cups adhering with a soft thwock. The machine whirred to life, a gentle pull beginning, then strengthening. My nipples elongated, disappearing into the tunnels, and almost immediately, streams of milk began to spurt into the collection bottles. First thin, tentative sprays, then thick, steady jets, painting the plastic with white.
"It’s like a faucet," I commented, watching the liquid gold accumulate.
"Never stops."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his interlaced fingers. His eyes, dark and intense, never left the rhythmic pulsing of the milk. The bottles, graduated in ounces, began to fill with surprising speed.
Each day, I produced around 100 ounces, a staggering amount that often left me feeling perpetually full, perpetually leaking. My shirts were never truly dry, my bra pads always damp. But for Mark, it was a source of endless fascination, and for me, a strange, lucrative sideline.
"How much do you think we’ll get this session?" he asked, his voice hushed.
"Depends," I hummed, adjusting my position slightly, making sure the suction was optimal. "Between twenty-four to thirty ounces. These girls are always ready to give."
I watched the milky torrents, a faint aching sensation in my breasts as they emptied. The relief that followed was exquisite, a release of pressure that almost bordered on euphoria.
Minutes ticked by, marked by the steady shhh-thwock of the pump. The bottles were nearing the halfway mark, each holding about four ounces already. The milk was warm and rich.
"You really enjoy this, don't you?" I asked, my gaze drifting from the pump to his face. A faint blush colored his cheeks, but his eyes held no shame, only a deep, almost reverent admiration.
"More than you know," he confessed, his voice barely a whisper. "It’s… pure. Life-giving."
I chuckled, a soft, throaty sound. "It’s just milk, Mark."
"No," he countered, shaking his head slowly. "It’s your milk. It’s primal. It’s… everything."
I let the silence settle, allowing the hum of the pump to fill the space. The first bottles were nearly full. I detached them carefully, the plastic still warm from my body heat. They clinked softly as I set them on the small side table. I reached for fresh, empty bottles, reattaching them to the pump and then to my long, dark nipples. The stream of milk resumed almost instantly, a testament to the abundant supply.
"Time for your treat," I announced, picking up one of the full bottles. I uncapped it, the sweet, creamy scent of fresh breast milk filling the air. I poured the contents into a large, crystal clear glass I kept specifically for these occasions. The milk, thick and opaque, swirled as it filled the glass. It looked like the richest cream, promising sustenance and warmth.
He watched, mesmerized, as the glass filled to the brim. His eyes, wide and eager, followed every drop. I held it out to him, the glass wark against my fingertips.
"Here you go," I said, a faint smile playing on my lips.
He took the glass, his hands trembling slightly. He brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply, a soft sigh escaping him. Then, he tipped the glass back, taking a long, slow swallow. His eyes closed, a look of profound satisfaction spreading across his face. He drank steadily, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each gulp. The milk coated his mouth, his throat, a visible trail of white left on the glass as he lowered it, half-empty.
"Oh, God," he moaned, a sound of pure pleasure. "That’s… incredible. So rich. So creamy."
I continued to pump, the second set of bottles filling steadily. The sensation was less intense now, a gentle tugging as my breasts softened. The initial ache had subsided, replaced by a comfortable emptiness.
"Want more?" I asked, gesturing to the still-full bottle on the table.
He nodded, eagerly pushing the empty glass back towards me. I refilled it, the white liquid sloshing gently. He took it again and drank from the glass.
Finishing the rest of the milk in a few large gulps. A thin mustache of milk clung to his upper lip, and he licked it away with a slow, deliberate movement of his tongue.
"I could drink this all day," he declared, his voice thick with contentment.
"And I could make it all day," I retorted playfully. "It’s a never-ending supply."
The pump continued its work, the gentle suction a constant presence. My breasts, though still large, felt lighter, softer. The bottles were almost full again. I thought about the baby upstairs, the tiny mouth that depended on this very milk, and then about the man in front of me, who found a different kind of nourishment in it. It was a strange duality, but one I had come to accept, even embrace.
"You’re really good at this, Katie," he said, his voice soft, almost intimate.
"It’s just what my body does," I replied, shrugging slightly. "Nature’s way."
He reached out, his fingers hovering for a moment before gently tracing the curve of my left boob, careful to avoid the pump flange. His touch was light, reverent, sending a shiver through me. My skin was warm, taut, stretched over the milk-filled glands.
"It’s more than that," he whispered, his eyes meeting mine. "It’s a gift."
I didn’t argue. The pump whirred to a stop, the bottles brimming with milk. I detached them, the suction releasing with a soft pop. My breasts felt mostly drained, a pleasant ache settling in. I reached for a small, soft towel, dabbing at the lingering droplets around my nipples.
"Another ten ounces," I announced, holding up the two bottles. "Want me to pour these too?"
He nodded, his eyes still fixed on my exposed breasts, now soft and yielding. I poured the fresh milk into the large glass, the white liquid steaming faintly. He took it, his grip firm, and began to drink again, slowly savoring each swallow. The sight was strangely compelling, primal even. A man, receiving sustenance from my body, not for survival, but for pleasure, for a unique kind of fetish.
As he drank, his eyes met mine over the rim of the glass. There was a shared understanding there, a silent acknowledgment of the unusual connection we had forged. The hum of the pump was gone, replaced by the soft sounds of his drinking, the quiet rhythm of our shared ritual. My breasts, though empty, still felt warm, a lingering echo of the life-giving process. I watched him, a sense of quiet power settling over me. This was my body, my milk, and for now, it was his too. And in this strange, milky exchange, we both found something we wanted, needed.
