Chapter 3: The Lactation Clinic
The clinic smelled like warm milk and antiseptic, a combination that hit me the second I pushed through the glass door. Sunlight poured through the big front windows, catching dust motes in the air and glinting off the vinyl chairs where fifteen women sat in loose rows. Some held infants against their shoulders, others had breast pumps hissing softly at their chests, and a few just sat with their arms crossed, waiting.
I stood there a moment, heart hammering. Three days since the lecture hall. Three days of replaying the sound of my name being chanted, the feel of all those breasts against my dick. I hadn't planned this. I'd just woken up with the idea burning in my head, and now I was here.
I focused my will, the way I'd learned. Pushed out with that low-grade telepathy of mine, that subtle insistence that slid into minds like a whisper.
The fathers in the room stood up almost as one. They didn't look confused. They just gathered their things, kissed their partners on the forehead, and walked out the door. The children went next, toddlers slipping off laps and padding toward the exit, infants quieting as their mothers handed them off to the staff, who appeared from the back and took them without a word.
The door clicked shut.
I pushed again. The nurses at the reception desk turned away from their monitors, giving me their backs. The women in the chairs shifted, uncrossing their arms, loosening their grip on their pumps.
Offer your breast.
The compulsion rippled through the room like a wave. Fifteen women, all ages, all shapes, began unbuttoning their blouses, pulling down their necklines, lifting their shirts. And my god, the breasts that came out. Heavy ones, swaying with weight. Small ones with tight, rosy nipples. Big dark areolas from recent births, leaking drops of milk that caught the sunlight and glistened.
I hadn't thought this through. I'd just wanted to see. To be surrounded. To feel that power again.
Then one of them stood up.
She was young, maybe twenty-two, with a round face and lanky brown hair tied back. Her shirt hung open, and her breasts were huge, absurdly full. The skin was stretched tight, crossed with faint blue veins, and her nipples were dark and swollen, beaded with milk. She crossed the room in three steps and grabbed the back of my head with both hands.
"You need to taste me," she whispered, and pulled my face into her chest.
I opened my mouth to protest, but her nipple hit my lips first. Warm. Thick with milk. She pressed my nose into the soft give of her breast and I felt a jet of liquid against my tongue, sweet and slightly salty. I swallowed. She moaned, high and breathy.
"That's it," she said, grinding my face against her. "That's it, baby. Drink."
I drank. There was no other word for it. I sucked at her nipple, and she held my skull in her palms, rocking her hips against nothing, moaning with every pull. The milk came fast, too fast to swallow it all, and it spilled down my chin and dripped onto the floor. She didn't care. She just pressed me deeper into the heavy heat of her chest, and the room filled with the sound of her breathing and the wet, rhythmic sounds of my mouth on her.
Then her hands loosened. She pulled back, her nipple slipping from my lips with a soft pop, glistening. She looked down at me, satisfied, and jerked her chin toward the chairs.
"Your turn," she said. Not to me. To them.
I turned, wiping my mouth, and found the rest of them standing in a loose line. They'd arranged themselves while I was distracted. The older women at the front, the younger ones behind, all of them bare from the waist up, all of them waiting with their breasts out. Some held them up from underneath like offerings. Some had their arms crossed beneath them, pushing them high. One woman, maybe forty, with long silver-streaked hair and heavy, full breasts, was already leaking, a thin streak of white running down her stomach.
My cock stirred. Then hardened. Then ached.
The woman at the front stepped forward. She was the biggest of them, broad-shouldered, with breasts that hung low and swung as she moved. Her nipples were dark and crinkled, her areolas the size of my palms. She didn't say anything. She just took my hand and pressed it flat against her chest, and I felt the heat of her skin, the dense weight of her breast filling my grip. She guided me backward until I hit the front desk. Then she pushed me down onto the chair behind it and straddled me before I could breathe.
"Next," she said, settling her weight onto my lap, and the line shuffled forward.
The woman on my lap didn't move. She looked over her shoulder at the line, and the two women at the front exchanged a glance. Then the one on the left stepped forward, holding up a hand.
"Wait," she said. Her voice was thin, strained. "I need to go first."
The woman on my lap slid off with a grunt, and the newcomer took her place. She was tall, with a narrow waist and shoulders that looked too delicate to carry what she was carrying. My eyes went to her chest and stayed there.
Her breasts were the biggest I had ever seen. Not full, not heavy. They were rigid. Spherical. Two pale globes the size of bowling balls, jutting out from her chest like they'd been bolted on. Her skin was stretched so tight it was almost translucent, and it was flushed reddish, crisscrossed with dark veins that stood out like roads on a map. Her nipples were flat. Just two pale discs of areola pressed against the curvature, barely visible.
"Look at me," she said, and I forced my gaze up.
I looked at her. It was hard to look anywhere else.
"Your son can't latch," I said. Not a question. I don't know how I knew, but I did. Maybe the telepathy, maybe just the obvious desperation in her eyes.
She nodded, a quick, jerky motion. "The shape. The size. He can't get his mouth around them, and every pump on the market just slides off the curve. Nothing pulls the milk out. It just builds up and builds up until I feel like I'm going to split open." She cupped the underside of one of the globes, wincing as her fingers touched the flushed skin. "I need someone to milk me by hand. Actually milk me. Empty me out, or I'm going to end up in the ER with mastitis by tonight."
Behind her, the line shuffled. A woman with enormous, sagging breasts that swung almost to her navel stepped forward, a thin stream of milk already running down her stomach and soaking into the waistband of her jeans.
"And I need to go after her," she said, her voice rough, almost apologetic. "I have gigantomastia and hyperlactation. I produce four liters a day. I was sitting here waiting, and just from watching everyone else, I got full again." She gestured at the puddle forming at her feet. "I'm dripping like a cow. I need to be emptied too, or I'm going to soak through my clothes before I get home."
The woman with the implants looked at her, then back at me. "You can do both of us. You're the one who made us all sit here with our tits out. The least you can do is help."
My mouth was dry. My cock was a solid bar of heat against my thigh, aching so hard it hurt to breathe.
"Okay," I said. "Okay. Show me how you want it done."
She stepped closer, close enough that the heat of her body rolled off her in waves. The flushed, tight skin of her breasts seemed to thrum with pressure, and I could see a tiny bead of clear fluid beading at the flat center of one areola, the only sign that milk existed at all beneath that rigid shell.
"Here," she said, taking my hand. "You have to press at the base, like you're milking a cow. The milk's all the way back, past the implant. You can't just squeeze the nipple, there's nothing to squeeze. You have to work the whole gland."
She guided my fingers to the underside of her left breast. It was hot. Hotter than I expected, and so hard my fingers barely dented the surface. But as she pressed my palm against the curve, I felt it: the deep, dense core of tissue beneath the skin, packed tight and aching.
"Start there," she said. "Work your way up. Push everything toward the center."
I curled my fingers into the base and squeezed. She hissed through her teeth, a sound that was half pain, half relief, and a thick, pearly drop of colostrum beaded at the flat nipple.
"More," she said. "Harder."
I dug my fingers in, feeling the hard, swollen lobes shift under the tight skin. Her whole body shuddered. I dragged my hand up the underside of the breast, forcing the tissue upward, and when I reached the areola, my thumb pressed into the flat disc and milk suddenly sprayed out in a thin, strong arc that hit the vinyl chair and splattered.
"Oh, god," she breathed. "Yes. Yes, that's it. Keep going."
I worked faster, alternating hands, squeezing and pushing and pressing until the milk came in a steady stream, splashing against the chair and pooling on the floor. The pressure in the breast softened under my fingers, and with each squeeze, I felt the hard, swollen tissue give way, becoming less rigid, more fluid. She sagged, bracing one hand against the desk, and let her head fall back.
"You don't know what this feels like," she said, her voice cracking. "You have no idea. This is the first time I've felt relief in days."
Her words hit me somewhere low and warm. I kept working, milking her like a cow, watching the milk pour out of her in thick, steady streams until the left breast finally hung softer, a heavy, malleable weight instead of a rigid globe. Her flat nipple had plumped up now, standing proud and wet, and when I touched it, she flinched hard and bit her lip.
"Too much," she gasped. "That side's done. It's too sensitive."
I turned to the right breast. It was still hard as a melon, the veins dark and distended, and she groaned as I sank my fingers into the base.
"Harder," she said. "Don't be gentle. I need it out, all of it."
I squeezed, and the milk came in a thick, violent stream that soaked the front of her jeans and ran down her thighs. She bucked her hips against nothing, her hands gripping the edge of the desk, her whole body trembling with the force of the release. I kept going, methodical, milking her in long, firm strokes, and the sound of the liquid hitting the floor was like rain on a tin roof. The women behind her watched, silent and patient, and I could smell the hot, sweet scent of fresh milk filling the room.
I stepped back from the woman with the implants, my hands slick with her milk. She swayed on her feet, eyes half-closed, looking lighter than she had five minutes ago. The woman behind her, the one with gigantomastia, was still dripping, a steady pat-pat-pat of milk hitting the vinyl floor beneath her.
"Come with me," I said, my voice rougher than I expected.
She followed without a word. I led her past the front desk, down a short hallway lined with exam rooms, and pushed open the first door. It was small and white, with an exam table in the center, a sink in the corner, and a single chair. She stepped in, and the room suddenly felt like a closet.
She looked at me, an eyebrow raised. The wet patch on her jeans had spread, darkening the denim from hip to knee. Her breasts, those enormous, horrible, magnificent things, hung down almost to her navel. They swayed with every breath, heavy and full, and the nipples were dark, thick, leaking in thin, steady streams.
"You got me alone in here," she said. "What's your plan?"
I swallowed. My cock was aching, hard enough to hurt, straining against my jeans. "I want to drink from you. Directly. As much as I can."
She considered it. Then she reached up and cupped one of her breasts, lifting it with both hands. The underside of it was veined, laced with blue and purple, and the weight of it seemed impossible. She aimed the nipple at me.
"Go on, then."
I stepped toward her, and the milk was already running down her stomach in thin, constant streams, soaking into the waistband of her jeans. She stood there with the enormous weight of her breasts cupped in her hands, aiming the dark, thick nipple at me like it was a faucet she was about to turn on.
"Open up," she said.
I did. She squeezed, and the milk hit my mouth with a pressure I wasn't ready for. It came out in a thick, pulsing jet, not a drip, not a trickle, but a steady stream that flooded my throat faster than I could swallow. I choked, pulled back, and she laughed, a low, throaty sound.
"Told you it was a lot. Come back here. You'll get used to it."
I stepped forward again, wrapped my lips around her nipple, and this time I didn't fight it. The milk poured into me, warm and sweet and impossibly abundant. I drank and drank, my throat working in long, desperate swallows, and she held the back of my head with one hand, steadying me, her other hand still lifting the heavy underside of her breast to give me better access. The pressure was incredible. It was like drinking from a garden hose, a fat, relentless stream that didn't slow, didn't stop, just kept coming.
"That's it," she murmured, her voice thick. "Drink it all down. There's more where that came from, believe me."
I drank until my stomach ached and my jaw ached and the milk still kept coming. When I finally pulled off, gasping, she laughed again and squeezed her nipple, sending a spray of white across the exam room floor.
"Full already?" she asked.
"Not even close," I said. "But I want the rest from the other side. And then I want to milk you properly."
She raised an eyebrow. "Properly?"
"Hands and knees. Tits to the floor. I'll milk you like a cow."
Her mouth curved into a slow, wicked smile. "You like that?"
"I want to hear you moo," I said, and my cock throbbed at the words. "While I drain you. Every last drop."
She stepped back, unbuttoned her jeans, and peeled them off with her underwear, leaving a dark wet trail on the tile where the milk had soaked through. Her thighs were streaked with it, her entire body glistening. She turned around and got on the exam table on all fours, then lowered herself until her chest pressed against the paper-covered surface.
Her breasts hung beneath her, enormous and full, swinging low enough to brush the edge of the table. The nipples were still leaking steadily, dark and thick, dripping down in thin white strands onto the paper.
"Like this?" she asked, looking back at me over her shoulder.
"Yes," I said, my voice rough.
I stepped behind her and took hold of her left breast from underneath. It was hot, heavy, impossibly full. I squeezed at the base the way I'd learned with the woman before her, and a thick jet of milk immediately sprayed out, hitting the paper with a wet splat. She gasped, and her hips arched up.
"More," she said. "Hard."
I worked her breast in long, firm strokes, squeezing from the base all the way up to the nipple, and the milk came out in powerful, rhythmic bursts. The paper beneath her was already soaked. I switched to the other breast, and the spray hit the wall.
"Moo," I said.
She laughed, then let out a low, guttural moo that vibrated through her whole body. Her ass lifted higher, and I could see the wet heat between her thighs.
"Like that?" she asked.
"Again."
She mooed again, louder, and I squeezed harder. The milk poured out in a thick, relentless stream. Her hips began to rock, a slow, rhythmic motion, and her hand reached back, fumbling for me.
"Your turn," she said. "I drain, you pump."
Her fingers found my zipper and freed my cock. It sprang out, rigid and slick with pre-cum, and she wrapped her hand around the base.
"You said mutual. So milk me, and I'll milk you."
She started stroking me in time with my squeezing. Each time I pulled a stream of milk from her breast, her hand slid up my shaft, and when I released and reset my grip, she stroked down. The rhythm built fast. The room filled with the wet sound of milk hitting paper and the slap of her hand on my cock.
"Moo for me," I said.
"Moo," she moaned, and the word came out thick and desperate, her face pressed into the table. "Moo, moo, moo."
I came first, a violent surge that spilled over her fingers and onto the floor, but she didn't stop stroking. She kept pumping, milking me through the aftershocks, and I kept milking her, squeezing the last heavy pressure out of both breasts until the streams weakened and the room smelled like warm milk and sex.
She rolled onto her back, panting, her breasts settling on her chest like two heavy sacks. Her nipples were still leaking, but softer now, the awful fullness gone.
"Not done yet," she said, looking at my cock. It was already stiffening again. "You said both of us empty. You're not empty."
She reached down and took me in her hand again, and I looked at her leaking breasts and knew we had a while to go.
The exam room door clicked open.
I looked up, still holding the woman's heavy breast in one hand, milk trickling down my wrist. A nurse stood in the doorway, mid-forties, with a sturdy frame and dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. She wore powder blue scrubs, and her arms were crossed under a chest that strained the fabric, full and heavy, the nipples visibly hard against the thin material.
She looked at the woman on the table, then at my cock still wet in the woman's grip, and her expression didn't change.
"Room five is supposed to be for consultations," she said. "Not for whatever this is."
The woman on the table laughed, a loose, satisfied sound. "He's a natural. You should see what he did with the implants in the waiting room. That girl's been miserable for weeks."
The nurse's gaze slid to me. "Is that so."
I opened my mouth to explain, but she was already stepping into the room and pulling the door shut behind her. She reached up and pulled the scrubs top over her head without ceremony, and her breasts swung free: heavy, full, with the kind of weight that came from years of nursing, the nipples dark and thick, areolas the size of saucers. A thin bead of milk pearled at the tip of one and ran down the curve of her belly.
"Mastitis risk is a real concern in this facility," she said, matter-of-fact. "And you've clearly got a gift for relieving pressure. I've been clocking in leaks since you walked in." She cupped one breast, lifting it. "Consider this a staff consultation."
The woman on the table grinned and scooted back, making room. "Told you. Natural."
The nurse settled onto the exam table beside her, knees apart, one breast cupped in her hand like an offering. Her gaze was steady, clinical, but her nipple tightened as I looked at it, and a second bead of milk joined the first.
"Well?" she said. "Don't leave a professional waiting."
I looked at the nurse's offered breast, at the bead of milk already pearling at her nipple, and I felt the pull of it. But something else was pulling too, something bigger. The waiting room. The line of women I'd left there, still bare-breasted, still full.
"Wait," I said, and the word came out with a weight that made both women pause. The compulsion bent around my voice, making my words feel like the most natural thing in the world. "Not here. We go back to the main room. All of us. I have a better idea."
The nurse lowered her breast, frowning slightly, but she didn't resist. The woman on the table rolled off the exam table, still naked from the waist down, her great breasts swinging as she stood. Neither of them asked why. They just followed me out the door and down the hall.
The waiting room was a tableau of bare flesh. The women had rearranged themselves into a loose semicircle around the center of the room, some sitting on the edge of the vinyl chairs, others kneeling on the floor. The woman with the implants was leaning against the front desk, her softened breasts hanging heavy and veined, a puddle of milk still glistening at her feet. The young mother who had first grabbed my head sat cross-legged on the floor, her enormous, blue-veined breasts resting on her thighs, still leaking.
They all looked up when I walked in. The nurse and the gigantomastia woman took their places among them, and the semicircle closed around me.
I sat down in the middle of the floor.
The vinyl was cool under my bare thighs. I was still wearing my jeans, but my cock was straining so hard against the zipper that it ached with every heartbeat. I looked around the circle. Fifteen women, all ages, all shapes, all bare from the waist up. Some cradled their breasts with both hands. Others let them hang, heavy and pendulous, swaying with their breath. A few were still actively dripping, thin white trails running down their stomachs and pooling on the chairs.
"Look," I said, and my voice carried. "I can't get to all of you in time. It's already starting to build again." I nodded at the young mother who had first tasted me. Her nipples, dark and swollen, had already begun to bead with fresh milk. "She's refilling. You all are. If I go one by one, we'll be here until the sun goes down."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the circle.
"So I want you to do it yourselves. Milk yourselves. All of you, at the same time, aiming at me. I want to be covered in it."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then the first woman, an older Latina with long, sagging breasts and dark, crinkled nipples, cupped one in both hands and squeezed. A thick ribbon of milk arched out, splashing across my cheek. She laughed, surprised, and squeezed again, hitting my chest.
That broke the dam.
The woman next to her, a redhead with heavy, high breasts and wide pink nipples, followed suit, lifting one breast and milking it in long, practiced strokes. Her milk came in a steady, powerful stream that soaked my shoulder. The lactation consultant from earlier, her nursing breasts still leaking freely, pressed both hands around the base of one and squeezed, sending twin jets arcing across the room. One caught my mouth, warm and sweet, and I swallowed as it kept coming.
The young mother on the floor lifted her huge, veined breast with both hands, her fingers working the swollen gland with desperate efficiency. Milk sprayed in a wide, fanning pattern, covering my face, my hair, my chest. I closed my eyes, and it kept coming, pattering against my eyelids, running down my neck.
The woman with the implants approached, holding a plastic cup she'd found somewhere. She pressed it to her flat nipple and milked herself into it with thick, rhythmic squeezes, and when it was full, she tipped it over my head. Warm liquid streamed down my scalp and dripped off my chin.
The gigantomastia woman had gotten back on her knees, her enormous breasts hanging almost to the floor. She worked them like udders, milk pouring out in thick, relentless arcs, and she mooed again, low and guttural, the sound vibrating through the room as her milk splashed against my thighs.
The nurse stood apart from the others, one breast cupped in her hand, milking herself with clinical efficiency. Her milk came in a tight, powerful stream, hitting my chest in the same spot over and over, pooling in my lap.
But she was watching, too. Watching the others crowd around me, milk flying everywhere, my face and chest drenched with it.
"This is inefficient," she said, her voice cutting through the chaos. The women slowed, turning to look at her. She nodded at my lap, at the tent in my jeans, soaked through with milk. "If we're going to do this, let's do it right. His dick is right there. That's the most efficient target. And I guarantee he'll get more pleasure from it too."
The women looked at each other. Then the young mother grinned, reached forward, and unzipped my jeans.
My cock sprang free, slick with milk and pre-cum. The gigantomastia woman mooed in appreciation. The redhead reached for my pants and dragged them off my legs, leaving me naked in the middle of the circle.
"Get closer," the nurse said, and they did, all fifteen of them closing in around me until I was surrounded by bare breasts and slick, milk-splattered skin. Some knelt. Some stood. Some leaned over me from behind, their breasts hanging directly above my face.
"Milk him," the nurse commanded, and fifteen pairs of hands went to work.
The first jet hit my cock and I gasped. It was warm, thick, coating the shaft in a slick white layer. Another hit, then another, from every direction at once. The young mother milked herself from above, her stream splashing down across my balls. The Latina squeezed her heavy breast, sending a fine spray across my thighs. The woman with the implants knelt in front of me and pressed her milk into my pelvis, painting a white stripe up my abdomen. The gigantomastia woman lay on her side, lifted her huge breast with both hands, and directed a single, impossible stream straight onto my glans.
The room filled with the sound of it: the wet, rhythmic hiss of milk hitting milk, the soft grunts of effort, the occasional moan of relief. It pooled in my lap, ran down my thighs, soaked the floor. I was drowning in it, covered in it, my cock a slick white pillar at the center of the storm, and I thought I might actually pass out from the sheer heat and pressure and pleasure of it all.
The streams slowed, one by one, until the only sound was the soft drip of milk from a dozen nipples and the wet, heavy rhythm of my own breathing. I was a mess. White ran down my face, my chest, pooled in the hollows of my collarbones, soaked the floor around me in a wide, shining ring. My cock stood up from the wreckage, slick and gleaming, painted in layers of milk that had dried in thin, sticky films and fresh ones still running warm down the shaft.
I looked up at them. Fifteen women, flushed and satisfied, their breasts softer now, some still beading at the tips. They looked back at me with that lazy, sated attention, the same look I'd seen in the lecture hall, the same hunger wearing a different face.
"One more thing," I said, and my voice came out hoarse. "The milk on my cock. Someone has to lick it off. I can't do it myself."
A murmur rippled through the circle. The young mother shifted, looking interested. The gigantomastia woman raised an eyebrow, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. But it was the redhead with the heavy, high breasts who moved first.
She crawled toward me on her hands and knees, unhurried, her breasts swinging beneath her with each slow step. Her nipples were still wet, wide and pink and glistening. She stopped between my spread thighs and looked at my cock like it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen, her lips parting, her tongue running across her lower lip in a slow, deliberate stroke.
"Let me take care of you," she said, and her voice was a low, honeyed murmur.
She leaned down. Her hair, a deep auburn, fell forward to brush my thighs. She started at the base, where the milk had pooled in the coarse hair and dried into a tacky sheen. Her tongue was flat and hot, and she dragged it up the underside of my shaft in one long, agonizingly slow pass, collecting the milk in a single wet stripe. She swallowed, her throat working, and made a soft, appreciative sound.
"Good," she breathed. "So good."
She did it again, slower this time, her tongue pressed firmer, tracing the ridge of the vein that ran up the side of my cock. My hips bucked, and she planted a hand on my pelvis to hold me still, her fingers digging into the slick, milk-covered skin.
"You stay right there," she said, and there was steel beneath the honey. "I'm not done tasting you."
She circled the head with her tongue, lapping at the milk pooled in the ridge, her eyes half-closed, her breath coming in warm, moist puffs against the glans. Then she closed her lips around me and took me into her mouth, slow, inch by inch, her tongue curling around the shaft as she went. The milk had made everything slick, and the slide of her mouth was impossibly wet, a soft, obscene sound that echoed in the quiet room.
The women watched. I could feel their eyes on us, hear the soft intake of breath from somewhere to my left, the quiet shift of knees on vinyl. The redhead didn't care. She was lost in it, her head bobbing slowly, her tongue working the length of me with a lazy, sensual thoroughness that made my vision blur. She pulled off with a wet pop, then licked a long, lingering stripe from base to tip, her eyes locked on mine.
"Delicious," she said, and she meant it. "I want every last drop."
She took me deep, all the way down until her nose pressed against my pelvis, and she swallowed around me. The vibration of it, the tight, wet heat, the sight of her heavy breasts pressing against my thighs as she knelt there, pushed me over the edge. I came with a shuddering gasp, my hands flying to her head, my hips jerking as I emptied into her mouth. She took it all, drinking me down with a series of slow, savoring swallows, and when she finally pulled away, her lips were slick, her eyes satisfied.
She licked her lips. "Now you're clean," she said, and sat back on her heels, smiling.
I collapsed onto the wet floor, chest heaving, milk and semen cooling on my skin, and the semicircle of women closed in around me, a warm, bare-chested ring of approval.