Your frustration is rewarded in the same way it always is, a thick spray of milk into a badly stained sink.
When you started to lactate you didn’t know your tits would be such constant, relentless attention seekers.
It starts from the very first minute you wake up. They’re better than any alarm clock, and eight hours is just too long to go without pumping. You feel sensations filtering in, two swollen, overstimulated stress balls on your chest.
So you sigh, walking to the bathroom to start the process.
They’d been getting more and more sensitive, and even gentle pumps can be overstimulating. You gave up after two sessions led to you leaning over a table, frantically humping two fingers as you let your neighbors know exactly how much fun you were having.
The apartment smells of rich, creamy milk. It’s always tempting to dip your finger in and have a taste. Of course, you know full well what it’ll do to your figure, if you weren’t big enough already. It’s perfectly safe if heated, right?
By the time 10 am rolls around, you’ve extracted enough to fill 3 half gallon jugs, and your needy mounds have quieted enough to get a little work done.
The slightest thing can set them off again. Something brushing your nipples, through the fabric. A look or compliment from the right person. As you learned in a grocery store, a baby crying can send you into absolute overdrive.
You still don’t know how you got out of there without ruining your top completely.
Look at that, it’s 12:30, and after wolfing down some granola bars, it’s time to mind the girls again. So you sit back in front of the sink, painting the mirror white one drop at a time, whimpering softly as you massage the chubby twins. Praying you’ll still fit into your bra, even the custom orders are getting hard to find.
When evening comes, you’ll be too tired to do much. Probably settle on the couch, one hand still fondling a nipple as you read a book, before settling into exhausted, hazy sleep.
And the worse part is, you can always choose. You can stop pumping, suffer through a few weeks of bloated withdrawal, and get a boring office job. You can try to forget the experience, but it’ll never really leave you. There’ll always be a cowkini stuffed in the back of the closet.
You can continue as you are now. Spending a few hours a day tending to them, selling jugs of milk for $20 each.
Or…you can finally give into temptation. Fill a glass and tip it back into your waiting mouth…see how big you can really get. The true limits of human production.
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