The bottle hovered in front of my lips, milk sloshing heavy inside, beading and dripping out of the nipple. She looked down at me with a smile that was both indulgent and disdainful, like she couldn’t decide if I was funny or pathetic.
“Someone’s been quite the little whiny-pants lately,” she crooned, voice dripping with false sympathy. Then she pitched her tone higher, mocking me, almost sing-song.
“‘MoMmyYy!! My diapy’s icky, when are you changing meee?’” she parroted, jutting out her bottom lip in an exaggerated imitation of a face I must have done. She let the words hang, then shrugged, dropping her voice into a flattened tone: “You’d think you’d be used to them by now. That’s the whole point of pampers, sweet pea! You’re supposed to be shitting and sitting in them.”
Before I could answer, she pushed the rubber teat of the bottle past my lips, sealing it against my tongue. Warm milk rushed in immediately, thick and heavy. I gulped helplessly as she wiggled the bottle just enough to keep the flow steady, her mocking sing-song never missing a beat.
She continued with her mockery. “‘Wahhh MommYyYy!! My cage is too tight! wahhhhh wahhh wahhhhh!!’” She wagged the bottle in rhythm to the words, lips curling in a grin.
“‘Don’t make me wear pampers outside, everyone will seeeee!’”
“‘I don’t want mushy food, it’s yUcKy!'"
"Blocks and dolls are boring!
“Bedtime is too earlyyy!’”
And finally, with the bottle still lodged between my lips, she took her free hand and pressed it to her crotch in a pantomime of mock-desperation, bouncing up and down in exaggerated “frustration” as she whined, “‘Oooh, Mommy!! I’m so achey down thereee!! Poor widdle meee!! My pampy plums are turning blue!! Boo-hoo!!’”
Then, as if struck by inspiration, she plopped the nipple from my mouth with a wet pop, clutching the bottle dramatically to her chest with both hands. She fluttered her lashes in a false falsetto: “‘Please can I make stickies? Please, Mommy, just a few seconds with buzzyyy? I wanna make a goo-goo!!!’”
Her eyes narrowed as she shifted back to her normal tone. “Mmhm. Crying. Pouting. Bellyaching. Whimpering. Always something…”
Before I could even catch a breath, she shoved the nipple back between my lips, cutting off any protest as the milk rushed in again.
“Every time you start that noise,” she said firmly, sweetness turning sharp, “I’m going to assume you’re crying like a baby who needs a feeding. Not arguing. Not negotiating. Not ‘making a point.’ Hungry. For milk.”
Her smile bloomed again, saccharine and cruel.
“So here’s what we’re gonna do,” she cooed. “Every whine, every little huff, every pouty puff: another ba-ba. That’s how we’ll handle it. No more sulking, no more backtalk. Just bottles. And bottles. And more bottles… until my little loser's tummy is all round and noisy!”
She gave the bottle another shake, wiggling it in between my lips, milk sloshing against my tongue. I cringed at the taste, thick and cloying, but she only smiled down at me.
“D’awww!! What’s the matturr?? Hmm? Did you think it’s just plain ‘ole cow’s milk you’re drinking, buttercup? Haha! Oh no! This is special milk! Thick formula to keep that belly nice and heavy, a little fiber to keep you regular, and a splash of daddy’s milk, just so you never forget who you belong to.”
The formula poured steadily, rushing too fast. I struggled to keep up, swallowing in noisy gulps, my cheeks hot with effort. She chuckled, giving the bottle a firmer push against my lips. “That’s it, loser. Keep up. Keep sucking. “You will suck whatever I put in your mouth without protest. Pacifier, teether, bottle, Daddy's big fat dick...doesn’t matter. You’ll suck and swallow everything down like the good little cry-baby you are!!”
Then she started working the bottle back and forth. Almost like she was jerking it off. Right into my mouth. The nipple tugging at my lips and then roughly pressing back into it before sudden spurts of milk flooded my mouth. I gagged, scrambling to swallow, and she let out a low giggle.
“Awww!!! Does this remind you of something, baby?” she cooed, eyes alight with mischief as she worked the teat back and forth, watching me choke on the spurts.
It did. She knew it did. Her holding Daddy’s cock, guiding it to my mouth the same way she does my bottles. Telling me that “the widdle baybee needs his milkies!!” The bulb of his head throbbed inside of my whimpering lips. How his dick tasted of salt and sweat. His gruff voice telling me this was the only way I was getting a change. Her maniacal laughter ringing in my ears as I mewled and sucked and slurped, humiliated beyond words.
“I still remember your sobs,” she crooned, then pitched her voice higher in a mocking whine: “‘pLeAsE dOn’T maKe mE sUcK hiM, Mommyyy!’”
She dropped back into cold indifference, lips curling. “Big deal. Get used to it. You’ll be doing it again. And again. And again. Every time Daddy wants. Did you like the taste of his man-milk? Because there will be a LOT more where that came from.”
I remember the way his cock felt when it pulsed in my mouth, pumping his warm, gooey, bitter load onto my tongue. The same way Mommy was pumping the bottle now.
The thought having to do it all again made my stomach churn. Before I could stop it, I let out a pathetic plea: “M-mommy please…”
It was small. Muffled but unmistakable. Her eyes immediately lit up.
“Ohhh, what’s this?” she teased. “Did I just hear a little protest?” She sounded angry, but she looked positively amused. “That counts as a whine, baby boy. Which means another bottle.” She laughed softly, delighted, then leaned close, her tone dripping with sugar. “Mmm, please? Please what, sweetheart? Please no more bottles? Or please don’t make you do your widdle cucky-suckies on Daddy??” Her fingertip brushed my cheek, mock-gentle. “Either way, it sounds like more fussing to me!!" She laughed softly, delighted. “Keep it up, silly goose!! You’ll drink yourself sick before long.”
She tilted the bottle higher, keeping the nipple jammed between my lips. I gulped desperately, each swallow heavier than the last, my belly noisy and tight. I tried to twist away, wheezing for a bit of air, but her hand pressed firm against my chest.
“Uh-uh, sugarplum! You’ve still got a little ways to go!!” She gave the bottle a another shake, thick white still clinging to the sides. “Don’t you dare leave Mommy’s milk unfinished! Drink it all down like a good little mushy moaner!”
I whimpered through the nipple as she tipped it again. The last warm mouthfuls slid heavy down my throat until the bottle gave a sharp whistle, a hiss of air sucking through the nipple. Only then did she finally plop it from my lips, satisfied. A low, miserable groan slipped out of me as I tried to squeeze a breath into a chest already stretched and aching
She immediately mimicked me in a singsong voice: “‘Ooooh Mommy, my tummy’s sooo full!! Poor widdle meee!!’” She chuckled and pinched my cheek painfully. “Goodness! So full, so whiny, and still trying to act like you’re not my baby. But I can hear those bubbles begging to come out.”
Before I could protest, she gripped my wrists and tugged me off my back and folded me forward towards my knees. The swollen padding between my legs squished as she lifted, warm and clammy from the last time she’d made me drink. My belly pressed tight against itself, round and stretched, the fullness sloshing uncomfortably inside me. I let out a pitiful squeak as both the soggy diaper and the gurgling in my gut shifted under the pressure.
“Tsk tsk, just look at you...” she murmured, lifting the end of the bib around my neck and using it to dab at my cheeks where milk and drool had dribbled out. “Messy face, messy pampers. Just what am I going to do with you?? When Mommy holds the bottle, you’d better keep up. No more dribbling milkies down your chin. If you don’t glug-glug faster, we’ll have to think about another punishment for our sloppy sucker!”
She reached behind her and plucked a cloth from the basket, draping the burp rag neatly over her shoulder. The gesture made my stomach drop lower than the milk had. One more babyish ritual, as if I were nothing more than a drooly infant in need of her care.
She pulled me in close, sliding me into the hollow of her lap until I was nestled between her thighs, my body folded forward against her. Her arms wrapped around me in an embrace that almost felt intimate, almost tender—if not for the rag tucked against my cheek, the rocking, the humiliating way she handled me like I was nothing but her oversized baby.
She swayed us gently back and forth, chest to chest, her chin resting atop my hair. One hand rubbed broad circles up and down my back while the other patted rhythmically at the thick, sodden seat of my diaper. With every dull, squishy pat, she reminded me that I wasn’t in control of anything. Not my feedings, not my bladder, not even the air trapped in my belly.
“Shhh. Big rubs for my little gasbag,” she cooed, the sing-song lilt twisting the knife. “You’ve got a balloon belly and a soggy bum, and Mommy knows just how to fix both.”
My stomach lurched with every rock, every pat, the bubbles climbing higher in my chest. I clenched my jaw, mortified, refusing to give her the satisfaction. If I just held on, maybe I could keep it in, along with at least some of my dignity.
She chuckled softly, as though she could hear the war inside me. “Mmm, I can feel it rattling. Poor stubborn piddle-pants, trying to hold it back like a big boy!! But you’re not, are you?? You’re Mommy’s gassy little feeder, and Mommy always gets her burps.”
The pats grew firmer, timed with the rocking, her palm pressing through the thick bulk of my diaper with each bounce. “Come on now, sweetheart. Don’t fight it. Big burps for Mommy! Let’s hear them.”
My gut gave a noisy gurgle against her chest, and I bit down harder, cheeks puffed, eyes squeezing shut.
“Ohhh,” she crooned mockingly. “Trying so hard to keep it in. Look at that pouty mouth. Look at those red cheeks. Doesn’t matter, baby boy! Because Mommy will just keep patting. And rocking. And waiting. Until—”
The pressure finally surged too high, and a loud, wet burp tore free against her shoulder, muffled into the rag. I sagged instantly, humiliated.
“There we goooo…” she cooed, triumphant, kissing the top of my head. “Knew you couldn’t hold it forever. My noisy little stinker!! All better now, hm?”
My stomach still felt heavy, but the sharp edge of the gas had eased. Against my will, I mumbled, “A… a little.”
“Mhm. A little relief for my overstuffed tummy-tot.”
Her steady rocking and pats finally wrung another noisy belch out of me, followed by a hiccup. She grinned like she’d claimed a prize. “There we go. Mommy knew you had more in you.”
She kept rocking me, her palm giving a few more pats against my back before she eased me down onto the mat again. I sank into the rubber, limp and dazed, milk still sloshing uneasily in my belly, but glad that at least it was all over.
But then she wagged the empty bottle between two fingers, her smile sharpening. “Now then,” she said sweetly, “Mommy will be right back… I’m gonna go make another one.”
My eyes flew wide, a startled noise catching in my throat.
“Awww!! What’s that face for?” she teased, crouching to plant a kiss across my forehead. “You didn’t think I forgot, did you? That little whined you tried to whisper through your ba-ba about having to be a little cocksucker? That already earned you another. And that groan just now? That sealed it.”
She rose, bottle dangling casually from her hand. “You know the rule: whining means baybee must be hungee!! And you, sugarplum, just can’t seem to help yourself. So Mommy’s going to fill up another, and you’re going to drink it alllll down. Because we wouldn’t want our widdle baby going hungries now , would we??”
The urge to whimper caught in my throat, trembling there, but I swallowed it back down. For a moment she smiled, as if pleased I was finally learning. Then her hand dropped to my middle, giving my bloated belly a slow, patronizing pat that made it slosh in protest.
“Don’t worry, buttercup! If your tummy’s too full, we’ll just burp you again. And again. And again. Until alllll that bellyaching is gone!! Maybe then all those widdle fussies and whiny noises will finally disappear for good.”
