I think one of the things that draws me so much to lactation as a kink is the cycle of fullness and emptiness, and how they intersect with my switchiness.
I can absolutely get behind the submissive, docile hucow idea, don't get me wrong, but often the thought of having my breasts grow and swell and fill with rich creamy liquid feels so powerful somehow.
As my udders bloat and engorge, I get more forceful and demanding. Of course I do. I'm a fucking goddess, I'm a provider of precious bounty. You should feel privileged to bear witness to the sheer magnificence of my tits, and you should beg for the gift of my milk.
Go on. Beg. Get down on your knees and plead with me.
But you're not getting any yet. My milk is too precious for you, and I'm not nearly big enough for my liking yet. I make you strip for me, dance for me, wait on me hand and foot as my tits grow ever more massive, until the next time I make you kneel before me and kiss my feet and the sheer jutting bulk of my rack puts you in shadow. You're so desperate for my milk it's pathetic.
But the thing is, there's a tension here. A friction. The euphoric emotional feeling of power as I grow huge is matched by growing physical discomfort. My beautiful, magnificent tits grow ever more tender and painful; I get you to gently massage them for me to relieve it but it becomes harder to bear. The weight of them too; it's blissful, but it's harder and harder to be a goddess when you're having trouble standing unassisted, and every time you move or turn liters of milk slosh from side to side and threaten to throw off your balance.
Of course, that shouldn't be my problem. It should be yours. I demand you hold my tits up. You swallow nervously; you can only imagine how much they weigh. I get more forceful; you're here for my pleasure, after all, and my pleasure right now is supported tits. I'm far too big and magnificent for my bra now after all, and indeed who could make a bra to handle these? No mere mortal, surely.
You kneel on the floor, putting a hand under each mammoth mammary, and heave with all your might. For a brief, beautiful moment I'm no longer having to support my own chest, and I only now realise how much my back has been hurting when I'm nearly overwhelmed by the feeling of relief. And then your puny strength gives out and you let my divine tits fall; the sudden resumption of weight is intense and I only barely stay on my feet, but I'm most incensed when the jolt makes my nipples briefly squirt. Your failings have squandered some of my priceless treasure! How fucking dare you?
You open your mouth for what I assume is a pathetic excuse; I don't give you the chance. I slam my massive bulk into you and knock you to the ground, then lean forward and put my tits on top of you, pinning you down and relieving some of my burden in the process. You try to speak again and I shift my balance, smothering your protestations in my enormous cleavage. I consider leaving you there to think on what you've done, but you probably do need to breathe so I do eventually release you, allowing you to gasp in ragged breaths.
By this stage though I'm even more full and my tits are tender and aching with the task of accommodating the volume of milk required of them. I condescend to let you suckle from my teat as much to relieve the mounting pressure as to satisfy your desperate thirst; it's pleasant enough, but of course as a mere pathetic mortal you're not capable of draining me faster than I fill, even before factoring in the entire second tit going unserviced. I'm far too big to reach my erect nipples, so I wrap my arms around my enormity and attempt to milk myself that way, but at this stage I'm so tender I can barely handle it, and can't get up enough flow. I will not show weakness in front of you. You are beneath me.
At last I shove you off my nipple, gently reprimanding you for your failure. I have of course got a contingency for this. I direct you to go fetch the industrial milking machine I keep; what else could handle my bountifully productive bosom?
As the machine begins to work the relief is nearly immediate, mixing with the pleasure on my nipples. It's hard to retain composure, and so I push you between my legs to service my throbbing cunt; you cannot help but glance up at my ponderous tits shuddering just above your head before you get to work.
This is wonderful. This is what I deserve. You are here to service me and I accept your service as the act of worship it is. My eyes roll back, my moans soft under my breath, and I allow myself to sink into the ecstasy of the moment.
Alas, as always, I lose track of things. I'm rudely brought back to myself by the milking machine sucking on nothing, making a sound like when one tries to get the last dregs of milkshake up through a straw. I quickly pull it off my nipples - which are well within reach now - but the damage is done.
This is what I mean about being a switch. When I'm full, I feel powerful. Strong. Dominant. But when I'm drained? I'm pathetic. My tits are empty and pendulous, two huge deflated bags of skin hanging from my chest, drooping down to my waist.
I'm not a goddess. How could I think that? I'm disgusting. A freak. I jerk away from you, rescuing your mouth from my unworthy cunt, and you behold the scale of my shame. You run an eye over the sagging ruin of my breasts, and sneer at what you see.
I frantically fumble for my long discarded bra; as I search the room I cringe every time I feel my tits slap against a chair or drape themselves across a table. At one point I bend over enough that you can see they reach the floor, almost pooling across it due to their complete lack of volume.
I finally uncover my bra and slip it over my shoulders, gathering my repulsive boobs in the cups before hefting them up and wrestling the front clasp closed. I stand up, shifting and adjusting in an attempt to make them look remotely appealing, but there's no way to hide their emptiness from more than casual scrutiny.
You look at me like I'm something you found on the bottom of your shoe. And then you reach forward, unclasp my bra, and what little dignity I'd managed to salvage vanishes as my deflated tits plunge south again, landing against my belly with a pathetic slap.
Finally I look at you. My face is crimson. How could I even dare treat you the way I have? I should be punished. You should treat me like the dirt I am. I'd say you should use me how you want but it would be ridiculous to believe that I'm remotely worthy of being used.
You grab hold of my right tit, yanking me to my knees, and squeeze it completely flat painfully at the base then running your firm grasp the full length of it. Like squeezing a nearly finished tube of toothpaste the small amount of milk I've managed to regain squirts out leaving it completely empty again; it's a mark of how worthless I am that you don't even bother to catch it in anything, just letting it soak into the carpet before repeating the process with the other.
You tell me how pathetic I am that this is all the milk I have to offer. You're completely correct. My milk is all I have to offer and I have none left. You grab my tits in one hand (could they really once have been too big to even get an arm around? I know they were but it's hard to remember) and pull me down, shoving me onto the floor face first with my ass up in the air, my face buried in the carpet, and my rack splaying out to either side. You tell me not to move; I would never dream of disobeying you. I hear you leave the room, and for a few minutes I think you'll leave me here alone to wallow in my shame, but then I hear you return. You roughly pull my tits down towards my feet, and then I barely suppress a squeal as you kneel on them, pinning me in place, and then slide your newly acquired strap on into my cunt from behind.
I whimper as you fuck me, every thrust accompanied by surges of pain from your abuse of my tits, your knees grinding them into the carpet. Pathetic bitch that I am I come embarrassingly quickly, but of course you're not concerned with my pleasure; I'm just a fucktoy for you now, and you continue to plow me until you're satisfied, and by the time that happens I've come so much I'm exhausted.
You have no mercy though. You remove your knees from my tits, and I have just enough time to sigh with relief before you step on them instead, pulling my head down between your legs. You first make me suck on your strap, and then service your cunt. I comply meekly. I'm here only for you, and at your sufferance. You finally come messily on my face, and then release my chest and order me to give you a massage. I'm forbidden from cleaning my face.
For the next few hours I'm your willing servant. I bring you things, do things for you, and let you fuck me however and whenever you want.
Here's the thing though. I'm still lactating, and as I slave away for you, degrading myself, slowly but surely my saggy rack starts to reinflate, and as my tits fill out and get more appealing my confidence starts to return. Eventually you make one demand too many of me, and I snap and tell you to do it yourself.
You turn to me in anger, but your words catch in your throat at the sight of my big, bulging, rejuvenated tits. You reach out to touch them, and I slap you. You do not deserve them, not after how you've been trying to treat me. Me. Your goddess.
Think about it. The neverending cycle of full and empty, dominant and submissive, goddess and slave. I could keep myself at a big but manageable size, strategically milking myself down when needed, if only my tremendous ego didn't demand I go as big as possible, to befit my divinity, until eventually I can't handle it any more and I again milk myself dry. Every time I let myself fill I end up stretched just a bit bigger than before, and each time I empty I consequentially sag ever so slightly lower.
There's a future in which my life is spent half with tits so huge and swollen I cannot move, my worshipper catering to my every whim, and half with my deflated udders dragging along the ground, accepting any degradation from you.
Just something to think about.
