Chapter 3: Milky Public Humiliation
The thin, watery fluid trickling down my monstrous tit tasted bitter on Bambi’s massive lips as Ben finally pulled his cock out with a wet pop. My jaw ached, the swollen flesh bruised and stretched. Ben flopped back onto the sweat-soaked pillow, a satisfied grunt escaping him. He palmed one colossal breast, his fingers barely spanning the swollen curve. "Fuckin’ milk jugs," he muttered, his thumb roughly circling the throbbing nipple. "Need to contain these monsters. Make ’em proper fuck-toys." The ring, warm against my hip, pulsed in lazy agreement.
He rolled off the bed, his naked body pale in the grey dawn light filtering through the grimy window. He rummaged in the heap of clothes and discarded junk near the closet, pulling out something black and rigid. It looked like torture equipment – thick straps, metal clasps, stiff fabric. A corset. And it looked impossibly small.
"Up, cow," he ordered, slapping the vast shelf of my ass. The sting echoed through me. Bambi scrambled off the bed, swaying dangerously under the twin anchors of her expanded chest and backside. Standing was a precarious balancing act, the colossal weight shifting unnervingly. Ben held the corset open. "Get in."
The ring’s command was instant, overriding Bambi’s clumsy hesitation. She stepped towards him, the movement causing her breasts to sway heavily. Ben wrapped the stiff garment around her ribs, just beneath the obscene swell of her chest. He started pulling the laces at the back.
It was agony from the first tug. The stiff boning dug into my ribs, the canvas-like fabric constricting like a python. Bambi gasped, a sharp little sound. "Tight, Benny!"
"Shut up and hold still," Ben growled, yanking the laces harder with each pull. The corset squeezed mercilessly, forcing my waist inwards, pushing the already monstrous breasts upwards and outwards with terrifying force. Flesh bulged over the top edge of the corset, forming obscene, quivering shelves. The pressure was immense, crushing. Breathing became shallow, labored pants past Bambi’s DSLs. "Like… like they’re gonna pop!" Bambi whined, her hands fluttering uselessly near the straining flesh.
"That’s the fucking point, slut," Ben grunted. He gave another brutal yank, cinching the laces impossibly tight and securing them with a knot that felt like a fist in my spine. The corset was a vice. My waist vanished, replaced by the impossible hourglass silhouette Ben desired. But the breasts… they were now truly terrifying. Forced upwards and compressed from below, they swelled over the corset’s top like overfilled water balloons, the skin stretched beyond taut, veins visible like blue rivers beneath the surface. The nipples, hardened into thick, dark nubs, pointed obscenely forward, hypersensitive and aching.
Ben stepped back, admiring his handiwork. His eyes roamed the imprisoned flesh, the forced cleavage so deep it looked like a canyon. He licked his lips. "Perfect. Ready for milking." He stepped closer, his hand rising, fingers splayed. Before Bambi could utter another programmed chirp, he brought his palm down hard on the upper slope of her right breast.
SPLAT!
The impact was sharp, jarring. But worse was the eruption. An intense pressure built instantly behind the nipple. Then, with a squirting sound that was both shocking and obscene, a thick jet of creamy white milk shot out, arcing across the room. It spattered against Ben’s chest, warm and sticky.
"Fuck yeah!" Ben roared, a dark grin splitting his face. He slapped the other breast, harder. SPLAT! Another jet sprayed, hitting his cheek, dripping down his chin. The sensation wasn't just pressure release; it was a deep, internal milking, a forced expulsion that Bambi’s nerves interpreted as a bizarre, unwanted ecstasy. She moaned, a low, helpless sound, as milk streamed from both nipples in thick rivulets, soaking the top of the corset, running down the swollen mounds. "Ohgod! Milking! Benny’s milking Bambi!" she gasped, her DSLs quivering.
Ben leaned in, his tongue snaking out to catch one jetting stream. He sucked greedily at the nipple itself, his teeth scraping the hypersensitive tip. "Tastes like cheap cream," he grunted between sucks. "Perfect for my dumb fuck-cow." He squeezed the massive breast brutally, milking it like an udder, forcing more thick streams to spurt and splatter over both of them. The room filled with the sweet-sour scent of warm milk mingled with sweat and sex. Mark felt violated on a cellular level, the forced lactation a grotesque parody of motherhood, a raw stripping of bodily autonomy.
Ben pulled back, his face and chest slick with milk. He looked feral, triumphant. "Alright, dairy cow," he panted, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "Time for walkies." He grabbed a scrap of red fabric from the floor – a micro-thong, flimsy and absurd. He shoved it roughly between Bambi’s legs, barely covering her slit, the thin strap vanishing between the colossal cheeks of her ass. That was it. Corset squeezed to the point of pain, breasts bulging obscenely, dripping milk, and the tiny red thong. He propelled her towards the bedroom door.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through Mark’s haze of humiliation. The street? Like this? "Benny? Outside? Bambi’s… Bambi’s naked!" she protested, the words slurred by her lips.
"You got tits and an ass, that's clothes enough for a slut like you," Ben snapped, unlocking the apartment door. The harsh fluorescent light of the hallway stung Bambi’s eyes. He shoved her out. "Walk."
The cool air of the apartment building corridor hit my milk-slicked skin, raising goosebumps. Bambi stumbled forward, the clip-clop of her ridiculous high heels echoing loudly on the linoleum. Every step jostled the imprisoned breasts, sending fresh trickles of milk down the corset’s stiff fabric. The thong felt like a flimsy afterthought, doing nothing to hide the vast expanse of ass cheeks that wobbled with each movement. The sheer exposure was paralyzing. Mark braced for the inevitable.
Mrs. Henderson’s door cracked open. Her wrinkled face, perpetually sour, appeared, eyes widening behind thick glasses. Her gaze traveled from Bambi’s DSLs, down the cascading cleavage, over the painfully cinched waist, to the barely-there thong and the colossal, jiggling ass. Her mouth dropped open. "Oh! Good lord! Benjamin Miller, what in the name of decency is that?"
Ben stepped out behind Bambi, a smirk twisting his lips. He gave Bambi’s ass a sharp, possessive smack. Thwack! The sound echoed. "This," he announced loudly, "is Bambi. My new pet." His fingers dug into the meat of her corseted hip. "Say hello to the nice lady, Bambi."
Bambi’s face stretched into a vapid smile. "Hiya! Like, nice to meetcha!" she chirped, her massive lips glistening. A fresh drop of milk dripped from her nipple onto the dusty hallway floor. Mrs. Henderson made a choking sound, her hand flying to her mouth. She slammed her door shut, the bolt sliding home with a definitive click.
Ben laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "See? Told you you're just a fuck-toy. Nobody sees a person." He grabbed Bambi’s arm, steering her towards the building’s exit. "Now move. Got errands."
The morning sunlight outside was blinding. The city street was already stirring – a delivery van rumbling past, a couple walking a dog stopping dead in their tracks, mouths agape. Bambi felt every stare like a physical blow. The milk drying sticky on her skin, her absurd silhouette casting a distorted shadow on the pavement, the cool breeze whispering over the exposed tops of her breasts and the strip of skin between the corset and the thong. Shame, hot and corrosive, warred with the ring’s enforced vapidity. She swayed her hips, a programmed attempt at seduction that only looked grotesque. "Ooh, sunny day, Benny!"
"Shut up and walk straight, cow," Ben muttered, his grip tightening on her arm. He pushed her forward, past the frozen couple. The man stared, slack-jawed. The woman looked horrified, pulling her dog closer. Bambi blew them a clumsy kiss with her DSLs. "Toodle-oo!"
They rounded the corner onto the busier avenue. The reaction was immediate. Car horns blared – not in anger, but in startled disbelief. A cyclist wobbled and nearly crashed. People stopped on the sidewalk, phones rising, cameras clicking. Laughter, shocked whispers, crude catcalls. "Holy shit, look at the tits on that!" "Is that fucking real?" "Dude, what the actual fuck?"
Bambi giggled, waving a limp hand. "Like, thanks, boys!" The ring forced cheerfulness, forced the hip sway, forced the vacant smile. Inside, Mark recoiled, drowning in the spectacle of his own humiliation. Milk was still seeping, leaving sticky trails down her corset. The thong felt like it was disappearing. Ben just tightened his grip, his face a mask of cruel pride as he marched his obscene creation down the sidewalk, a grotesque parade of ownership. The ring burned against his finger, a constant, malevolent hum. The errand, whatever it was, felt like just the beginning of a much longer, more public degradation. Bambi’s heels clicked on the pavement, each step a march towards the next violation.