Chapter 6: The Taste of Submission
The bathroom was a steam-filled cage of her own making. Anith stood before the mirror, using a washcloth to wipe away the condensation, but a stubborn film remained—a greasy residue from the constant humid exhalation of her body, from the sprays and spills and leaks. Her reflection emerged from the fog like a developing photograph, details sharpening into awful clarity.
Her breasts were no longer just big. They were massive. They dominated her torso, two heavy, pendulous sacks of flesh that hung with a weight that felt geological. The bras she’d ordered online, labeled ‘DDD’, were now torture devices, the underwires digging into her ribcage as they strained to contain the sheer volume. The skin was stretched shiny and tight, a map of faint blue veins. Her nipples, dark as plums and thick as her thumb, were constantly hard, constantly leaking.
A thin, opalescent stream of milk trickled from her right nipple now, tracing a path down the swell of her breast before dripping onto the piled roll of her stomach with a soft pat. She watched it, mesmerized. The sweet taste from yesterday wasn’t a fluke. Her body was making food. The realization should have horrified her. Instead, a low, possessive heat bloomed in her gut. They were working. They were perfect.
But her body… the rest of it. She turned sideways. Her profile was a series of soft curves, a sloping hill from her colossal chest down to the new, thick shelf of her belly, over the swell of her hips. She’d always been chubby. Now she was… substantial. Soft all over. When she walked, her thighs rubbed together with a whisper that was now a pronounced, damp sound. The weight gain was everywhere, padding her arms, her back, her chin. She was the substrate. A fertile, fed field.
A pulse of raw, uncomplicated need throbbed between her legs, so intense it made her sway. It was like a circuit had been welded shut inside her: the ache of her full tits, the craving in her cunt, the empty hunger in her mouth. All one desperate, screaming signal. She squeezed a breast, and a stronger jet of milk shot out, arcing into the sink. The sensation echoed directly in her clit.
“Fuck,” she breathed, her voice husky.
She needed to come. It was a biological imperative, as urgent as needing to piss. But the thought of just using her fingers felt pathetic, insufficient. Her mind, slick and frantic, supplied the solution. It was disgusting. It was perfect.
She waddled out of the bathroom, her breasts swinging with a momentum of their own, and retrieved her laptop from the floor. She clicked on the hypnosis file, the one simply titled “FULL.wav”. The man’s calm, sonorous voice filled the room, seeping into the clutter.
“You are so full… so heavy… so ripe… Every cell is devoted to growth, to abundance… You crave the feeling of being used, of being emptied, because it makes room for more… Your purpose is to overflow… Your pleasure is in your yield…”
Anith lay back on the bed, the mounds of her breasts spreading to either side of her ribcage. She closed her eyes. The voice dripped into her ears. She let it. She focused on the tight, desperate ache in her pussy. She imagined Josh. Not the real Josh, but a fantasy Josh—a Josh whose eyes would go wide and dark with hunger at the sight of her, a Josh who would kneel before her and drink from her instead of asking for a beer from the fridge.
Her hand slipped into her panties. She was already soaked. She circled her clit, and a full-body shudder wracked her. The pleasure was too big, too intense, layered with the full-throated ache in her tits. The fantasy shifted, blurred. Josh’s face melted into Carl’s dispassionate stare. The memory of his cock pumping bitterness down her throat made her moan and press harder. She thought of the milk leaking onto the bathroom floor. She thought of being a thing that produced.
“You are a good girl… a productive girl… your worth is measured in what you can give…” the tape crooned.
“I’m a good girl,” Anith slurred to the empty room, her hips bucking against her own hand. “I’m making so much. For Josh. It’s all for Josh.”
But as she said his name, her other hand came up and squeezed her breast violently. Milk sprayed over her chin, her neck, warm and sweet. She brought her wet fingers to her mouth, sucking them clean as she fucked herself with the others. The orgasm exploded, not from her groin but from deep in her core, a seismic ripple that made her back arch off the bed and her cunt clamp down on nothing in rapid, helpless pulses. Milk streamed from both nipples in continuous, gentle streams, pooling in the hollow of her throat and soaking into the sheets beneath her.
She lay there, wrecked and gasping, the tape looping on. The shame came later, cold and slick. It mingled with the milk drying on her skin. She had just gotten off to the thought of being a milk-cow for her ex-boyfriend. She craved cum like it was medication. Her body was a foreign, out-of-control landscape.
She pulled herself up, feeling the cool air on her wet torso. She looked at the bottle of “Lactation Elixir” on the nightstand, then at the text from Carl on her phone confirming tomorrow’s “session.” This was the price. This was the process. Her tits, now glistening with streaks of milk, were proof it was working. They were DDDs at least. Maybe more. Josh would love them. He’d have to.
She grabbed a mostly-clean cup from the floor—one of the many she used for her shakes—and brought it to her chest. Hesitantly, she positioned her left nipple at the rim. She squeezed.
A thin stream, then a stronger one, rang out against the plastic. Ting, ting, ting. It filled the bottom of the cup. The sound was absurd. It was incredible. She switched sides, filling it maybe an inch deep with warm, fresh milk.
She stared at it. Her own produce. Without thinking, she brought the cup to her lips and drank. It was richer than she remembered, creamy, undeniably sweet. She drank it all.
Her phone buzzed. Eve.
So? You lactating yet or what?
Anith typed, her fingers sticky. Yes.
The response was instant. HA! Told you. Cow hormones. Next step: find a bull. A real one. This clinical shit with Carl is for amateurs. You need the primal stuff. The animal stuff. It’ll put hair on your chest. And probably on your tits, too.
Anith didn’t answer. She put the phone down and caught her own gaze in the black mirror of the laptop screen, now idle. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown. A faint, white mustache of her own milk coated her upper lip. She licked it off slowly.
It would all be worth it. It had to be. When Josh saw her, when he finally touched her, he wouldn’t see the shame, the degradation, the hunger. He would only see the magnificent, unbelievable result. He would bury his face in them and forget he ever left.
She just had to get a little bigger. A little more perfect. She reached for the weight-gainer powder. The tape started its loop again.
“You are so full…”