Chapter 7: Sweet Leakage
It was sweet torture for Lana, week by week as Jessie swelled slowly larger. In his silly, vapid way he seemed to constantly bring attention back to his changing body.
The two dark circles spread across the pale blue cotton like spilled ink. Jesse froze, his hands still gripping the edge of the stainless steel counter. A cold, unmistakable wetness bloomed against his skin. He looked down, then at Lana, whose mouth had formed a perfect, silent ‘o’.
“Oh,” Jesse said, the word soft with a kind of detached wonder. He straightened up slowly, the fabric clinging to the now-damp, hardened points of his nipples. “Wow.”
Lana didn’t speak. Her eyes were locked on his chest, wide with a shock that seemed to short-circuit her usual shyness. The hum of the overhead fluorescent lights was suddenly very loud.
Jesse looked back down. He watched, fascinated, as the circles grew, the wet fabric turning translucent. He could see the dark areola beneath, could see the exact point where a tiny bead of moisture was seeping through the weave. A slow, silly smile spread across his face. It felt like a secret he’d been waiting to discover.
“Sometimes,” he said, his voice a dreamy murmur, “I just feel so… full. You know?” He brought a hand up, not to cover himself, but to press gently against the side of his left breast. A fresh, larger drop welled and darkened the fabric further. “Like a really good, really sexy cow.”
Lana finally blinked. A flush crept up her neck. “Jesse… you’re… that’s…”
“Milk,” he finished for her, nodding. He said it plainly, as if noting the time. He tilted his head, studying her reaction. “Meg says it’s a sign of perfect progress. She’s been… helping it along. With the shakes.” He puffed his chest out just a little, the movement causing another small trickle to dampen the already soaked spot. “Do you wanna see?”
Lana’s breath hitched. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
Jesse’s smile widened. He hooked his thumbs under the hem of his scoop-neck shirt—a shirt that had fit loosely two months ago but now strained across his bust and hips. In one fluid, confident motion, he pulled it over his head.
The classroom air, smelling of old margarine and synthetic vanilla, was cool on his skin. He stood before her, his breasts heavy and full, their weight palpable even in the stillness. The nipples were a deep, dusky pink, erect and glistening. A single, perfect drop of milky white fluid hung from the tip of the right one, catching the harsh light.
“Holy shit,” Lana breathed, the curse foreign on her usually timid lips.
“I know,” Jesse sighed, happy. He reached out and took her wrist. Her skin was warm, her bones delicate under his softer, pillowy grasp. Gently, he guided her hand to his chest. “Touch it.”
Lana’s fingers trembled as they made contact with the warm, surprisingly firm curve. She let out a shaky breath. Jesse closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. Her hand was so small.
“It’s real,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.
“It’s better than real,” Jesse murmured. He covered her hand with his own, pressing it more firmly against him. “It’s what she wanted. What I’m for.” He opened his eyes, his gaze soft and unfocused. “Suck it.”
Lana jerked her hand back as if scalded. “What? No. Jesse, I can’t—”
“Why not?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. His head tilted again, a gesture that had become habitual as his thoughts moved slower, with more deliberate simplicity. “It’s just milk. It’s good. It’s sweet. Megan says…” He trailed off, then his expression brightened with a new idea. “You’re so skinny, Lana. You could use it.”
The words hung in the air, cruel and innocent all at once. Lana stared at him, a storm of emotions tightening her face—horror, fascination, a sharp, painful envy that cut deeper than any insult. He was becoming everything she wasn’t: soft, abundant, visibly desired. And he was offering her a taste of that transformation, like sharing a secret recipe.
Her eyes flickered from his glistening nipple to his placid, expectant face. The confusion in her chest solidified into a sharp, aching want.
“Okay,” she said, the word barely audible.
Jesse beamed. He shuffled closer, his bare belly brushing against the counter’s edge. He cradled his breast in both hands, offering it to her like a cup. “Here.”
Lana had to stand on her toes. She hesitated for one last second, then closed her eyes and leaned forward. Her lips parted, and she took the stiff nipple into her mouth.
The taste was mild, slightly sweet, with a faint, earthy undertone. The warmth of it, the intimate, animal reality of the act, sent a jolt through her entire body. She made a small, muffled sound against his skin and began to suckle, tentatively at first, then with a growing, desperate hunger.
Jesse moaned, a low, pleasure-filled sound that vibrated through his chest and into her mouth. His hands came up to tangle in her short, dark hair, holding her close. “Yes,” he slurred, his head lolling back. “That’s it. Take it. You’re so good.”
For two months, this had been their unspoken ritual. The Home Ec kitchen, their sterile sanctuary. Jesse would arrive in progressively tighter, more revealing clothes: ribbed tank tops that showcased the shelf of his bust, low-rise jeans that sank beneath the soft swell of his hips. He’d talk less about class assignments and more about the consistency of his shakes, the ache in his lower back from the new weight, the way his tits felt when they bounced.
Lana watched, listened, and helped. She found recipes online for high-calorie, lactation-promoting foods—fenugreek cookies, oatmeal with brewer’s yeast. She’d bring them in, and he’d eat them slowly, meticulously, while she stared at the way his jaw moved. She was his silent witness, his conspirator. Her own body remained stubbornly narrow, a straight line next to his burgeoning curves.
And he teased her. Relentlessly.
“You’re like a little bird,” he’d say, pinching her flat waist with his now-softer fingers. “All bones. You need to eat some of this.” He’d push a bowl of heavy, cream-based pudding toward her.
Or he’d stretch, arching his back so his chest pushed forward against his shirt. “God, these things are so heavy today. Feel.” He’d grab her hand and place it on him, right there in the middle of the empty classroom, his eyes watching hers for that flash of bewildered desire.
Today, after the first shocking taste, it had become part of their routine. He would lactate most afternoons now, a slow, steady trickle that required thick pads in his bra. Today, with the classroom door locked, he sat on a cleared counter, his back against the cold cupboards. Lana stood between his spread thighs, her face buried in his chest, drinking from him with a fervor that scared her.
Jesse ran his hands over her back, down to her narrow hips. “You like that, don’t you?” he mumbled, his voice thick and dreamy. “My good girl. My little helper.”
Lana pulled back, her lips wet, her breath coming fast. A thin trickle of milk traced a path from the corner of her mouth down her chin. She looked wrecked, enthralled. “Jesse,” she panted.
“Shhh,” he soothed, guiding her mouth back to his other nipple. “Don’t talk. Just drink. You need it.”
She obeyed, her hands coming up to knead the full, heavy flesh as she suckled. Her own body was responding, a deep, unfamiliar heat pooling between her legs. She rocked her hips subtly against the air, seeking friction.
Jesse noticed. A slow, knowing smile touched his lips. He let his thighs fall wider apart, pulling her closer into the V of his body. One of his hands left her hair and drifted down her side, over her hip, and around to the front of her simple cotton shorts. He palmed her through the fabric.
Lana gasped, breaking her suction with a wet pop. “Jesse…”
“It’s okay,” he whispered, his fingers pressing down against the damp heat he found there. “You’re all excited from the milk. I get excited too.” He shifted, and she could feel the hard line of his erection against her thigh, confined within his own tight, pastel-colored jeans. “See?”
He unbuttoned her shorts with clumsy, eager fingers and pushed them, along with her plain underwear, down over her hips. They pooled around her ankles. The cold linoleum bit into her knees, but she didn’t care. She was exposed, wet, kneeling between his legs with his milk on her tongue and his hand between her legs.
“Touch yourself,” he commanded softly, his eyes half-lidded. “Let me see.”
Trembling, Lana brought her own hand down, replacing his. She was soaked. She slid a finger through her folds, a helpless whimper escaping her throat.
“Good girl,” Jesse purred. He unbuttoned his own jeans, wiggled them down just enough to free his cock. It stood straight up, thick and flushed against the soft, pale expanse of his lower belly. He wasn’t large, but in contrast to his feminine hips and full thighs, the sight was starkly, vulnerably masculine. He took himself in hand, gave a few slow, slick strokes. “Look what you do to me.”
He guided her head, not back to his breast, but down into his lap. “Taste,” he murmured, his voice losing its dreamy quality and gaining a coarse, hungry edge. “Taste both of me.”
Lana’s mind fragmented. The smell of him—sweet milk, clean sweat, and the musky scent of his arousal—filled her senses. She opened her mouth and took the head of his cock inside, her tongue flattening against the slit. He tasted salty, sharp. He groaned, his fingers tightening in her hair.
“Yeah, like that,” he grunted, his hips giving a shallow thrust. “Suck my dick while you think about my milk, you skinny little bitch. You want it all, don’t you? Want to be fat and full like me?”
The crude words, so at odds with his soft appearance, sent a violent thrill through Lana. She sucked harder, bobbing her head, one hand working furiously between her own legs. The rhythm was frantic, sloppy. Jesse began to fuck her mouth in earnest, his grip on her hair turning painful.
“Gonna come,” he warned, his voice tight. “Gonna come down your throat. And you’re gonna swallow it. And then you’re gonna finish your milk. You’re gonna take everything I give you.”
His thrusts lost rhythm, becoming jerky and desperate. With a choked cry, he shoved himself deep and held there, pulsing, as his release hit the back of her throat. She swallowed convulsively, tears streaking her cheeks from the intensity of it.
As he softened, he gently pulled her off, his own breath ragged. He looked down at her, her face flushed and tear-streaked, his spend on her lips, her fingers still working clumsily at her own clit. He reached down and pushed her hand away, replacing it with two of his own softer, broader fingers. He drove them into her with no preamble.
Lana cried out, her back arching, her body bowing over his thighs. It was too much, too rough, too exactly what she needed. He fucked her with his fingers, his thumb pressing hard circles on her clit. His other hand squeezed and pulled at his own milk-damp breast, pinching the nipple.
“Come for me, you envious little cunt,” he growled, his face a mask of focused intensity. “Come thinking about these.” He shook the breast in his hand. “Thinking about how you’ll never have them.”
The orgasm tore through her, brutal and shocking. She screamed into the empty classroom, her body clamping around his fingers, shaking violently. He held her through it, kept working her until she slumped, boneless and sobbing, against his legs.
Silence returned, broken only by their ragged breathing and the persistent hum of the lights. Jesse carefully extracted his fingers, bringing them to his mouth to lick them clean with a thoughtful expression. He looked down at Lana, a puddle of overwhelmed humanity at his feet.
He slid off the counter, pulling his jeans up, wincing a little as the denim brushed his oversensitive flesh. He crouched down, his large breasts hanging forward, and tilted her chin up with a sticky finger.
“You’re a mess,” he said, his voice soft again, almost caring. He used the hem of his discarded shirt to wipe the milk and tears from her face. “We should clean up. Megan’s picking me up soon.”
Lana could only stare up at him, at this beautiful, soft, monstrous thing she had helped create. He smiled, that empty, beautiful smile, and helped her to her feet.
He smiled, that empty, beautiful smile, and helped her to her feet. Her legs wobbled, the cold air of the classroom raising goosebumps on her exposed skin. He handed her the crumpled shorts from the floor.
“Here,” he said, his voice a soft echo of its earlier command. He watched her dress, his head tilted. “You look different.”
Lana fumbled with the button, her fingers numb. “Different how?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged, the motion making his heavy breasts sway. He looked down at himself, at the milky sheen drying on his skin, and a faint line appeared between his brows. Thinking was like wading through deep water now. “Softer, maybe. In your face.” He reached out and poked her cheek. “You should drink more. It’s good for you.”
He turned and shuffled to the deep stainless steel sink, turning on the faucet. The water hissed, steaming in the cool room. He soaked a paper towel, wringing it out with his pudgier hands. He brought it back to her and began wiping her chin, her neck, with a detached, clinical care.
“My back hurts,” he announced, as if continuing a conversation. “Right here.” He took her hand and placed it on the small of his back, just above the swell of his hips. The flesh was warm and dense under her palm. “Megan says it’s my center of gravity shifting. All the weight’s in front now.” He guided her hand around his side, over the soft curve of his flank, and onto the shelf of his belly. It was a gentle, undeniable swell. “And here. It’s storing up, she says. For later.”
Lana’s hand rested on the softness. She could feel the faint, hard curve of his pelvis beneath the layer of new fat. “For what?”
“For everything,” he said simply, smiling again. He dropped her hand and patted his own stomach. “It’s getting hard to see my… you know.” He glanced down past the roundness. “My thing. When I look straight down. It’s just tummy.”
He said it with a faint, perplexed pride, like commenting on a curious weather pattern. He soaked another paper towel and dabbed at his own chest, cleaning the dried milk from his nipples. They remained pert and darkened, seemingly permanently aroused.
“They’re always like that now,” he said, noticing her stare. “Kind of itchy, sometimes. And heavy. When I walk to class, they bounce.” He demonstrated with two small, deliberate hops, a jiggle that started at his chest and rippled down his body. He giggled. “It feels weird. Good weird. People stare.”
Lana leaned back against the counter, her energy spent. She watched him, this enormous, simple fact of a person. “Does that bother you? The staring?”
Jesse considered this, wiping under the full undercurve of one breast. “No.” The answer was immediate, clean. “Megan says stares are just compliments you can’t hear. They stare ‘cause they want it.” He tossed the wet paper towel towards the trash can. It missed. “You stare.”
Lana looked away, heat rising in her cheeks again.
“It’s okay,” he murmured. He moved closer, the warmth of his body radiating. He put a hand on the counter beside her, caging her in. His scent—milk, salt, vanilla extract from their abandoned baking—enveloped her. “I like it when you stare. Your eyes get all big and dark.” He used his other hand to lift one of his breasts, weighing it in his palm like fruit at a market. “Bet you wish you had a pair of these, huh? These fat, leaking tits.”
She couldn’t speak. The bluntness of the words, the crude ownership he had over his own body, stole her breath.
He lowered his face to hers, his lips brushing her ear. “You could,” he whispered, a secret. “Megan has these pills. They’re little and pink. They make you hungrier. They make your thoughts all fuzzy and nice. They make you grow.” He pulled back, his eyes searching hers. “You’re so little, Lana. You’re like a twig. I was like a twig. Look at me now.”
He took her hand again and placed it firmly on his chest, over his heart. The beat was slow, steady, a languid rhythm beneath the soft, abundant flesh. “I’m better now. Everything is simpler. My head is so quiet.” He leaned in, his lips a hair's breadth from hers. “Don’t you want your head to be quiet?”
Before she could answer, he kissed her. It was nothing like before. It was slow, deep, and probing. His tongue pushed past her lips, tasting of the metallic classroom water and his own peculiar, milky sweetness. He pressed his body into hers, pinning her against the counter’s edge. The hard ridge of the stainless steel dug into her back, but the front of her was enveloped in a shocking, pillowy softness.
He grinded against her, a slow, rolling motion of his hips. She could feel him, hard again already, straining against his jeans. His hands came up to cup her face, holding her in the kiss. When he broke away, they were both breathing heavily.
“See?” he panted, his forehead resting against hers. “It’s easy. You just feel.”
His hands slid down her body, over her ribs, her narrow waist. He gripped the hem of her t-shirt and pulled it up and over her head in one rough motion. Her small, bare breasts were exposed to the chill air. He looked at them, then down at his own, and a smile of pure, uncomplicated superiority touched his lips.
“Oh, honey,” he sighed, not unkindly. He palmed one of her breasts, his hand almost enveloping it completely. He thumbed her nipple, which peaked immediately under his touch. “They’re so cute. Like little buttons.”
He bent his head and took her other nipple into his mouth. He didn’t suckle gently like she had to him. He bit down, just on the edge of pain, then soothed it with a rough, lapping tongue. Lana cried out, her hands flying to his hair, not to pull him away but to hold him there. The contrast was everything: his immense, soft body against her slight frame, his brutal mouth on her tender skin.
He switched to the other breast, repeating the action. His hands were busy at the button of her shorts, popping it open, yanking the zipper down. He pushed them and her underwear down her thighs. He didn’t wait for her to step out. He simply turned her around, bending her over the cold, flour-dusted countertop.
“Stay,” he commanded, his voice dropping into that coarse register again.
He kicked her legs wider apart. She heard the rasp of his own zipper, the rustle of denim being shoved down. His body covered hers, a suffocating, warm blanket. He wasn’t gentle. He guided himself into her with one hard, sure thrust.
Lana gasped, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth steel. He was thicker than she’d imagined, stretching her brutally. He didn’t pause. He set a ruthless, deep rhythm, each thrust slamming her hips against the counter’s edge. The sound was obscene: wet flesh slapping, his low grunts, her choked whimpers.
One of his hands wrapped around her throat, not squeezing, just holding, a blunt claim. The other hand slid around her hip, his fingers finding her clit. He rubbed rough, fast circles, the friction almost painful.
“You feel that?” he growled into her ear, his breath hot. “You feel how fucking deep I am? Your little body’s so tight. Mine’s all stretched out and soft.” He punctuated his words with sharper thrusts. “You’ll never be this full. You’ll never have this much.” His hand left her clit and smacked her ass, once, hard. The sharp crack echoed. “You’re just my little skeleton. My jealous little skeleton who gets fucked by a goddamn milk-cow.”
The words were a violation as profound as the act. They stripped her, reduced her to bone and want. The pain in her back, the ache of his penetration, the crude mantra in her ear—it fused into a white-hot coil in her gut. She came with a silent, agonized scream, her body clamping around him in violent waves.
He fucked her through it, his pace never faltering. His own climax built with a series of ragged, pig-like grunts. He pulled out of her suddenly, his hand a tight vice on her hip. He spun her around, her back against the counter, and dropped to his knees.
His face was level with her cunt, glistening and used. He didn’t hesitate. He plunged his tongue inside her, lapping at her own wetness and his, his nose pressing against her clit. It was a crude, animal tasting. He groaned, the vibration shooting through her.
Then he looked up at her, his lips slick, his eyes clouded. “You taste like me,” he slurred. He stood up, his cock bobbing, flushed and angry. He fisted himself, stroking twice, three times. His other hand grabbed her by the back of the neck, forcing her face toward his groin. “Clean it up.”
She opened her mouth. He came across her tongue, over her lips, in hot, bitter stripes. She swallowed convulsively, the taste of salt and iron and her own sex filling her mouth.
He held her there until he softened, then released her. He looked down at himself, at his soft belly, his deflating cock, the milk still faintly gleaming on his massive chest. He seemed to be putting himself back together in his mind, piece by simple piece.
He pulled his jeans up, wincing as the denim chafed his sensitive flesh. He found his shirt and pulled it on, the damp spots from his milk now cold against his skin. He looked at Lana, still naked, covered in the evidence of him, leaning against the counter for support.
He walked over to the abandoned mixing bowl on the counter. He dipped a finger into the raw, sweetened butter-and-powdered milk mixture they had been preparing before everything derailed. He coated his finger and offered it to her lips.
“Here,” he said, his voice back to its normal, placid tone. “It’s good. High calorie.”
She looked at his finger, then into his eyes—clear, blue, and utterly vacant.