Work Text:
Since she had woken up at six o’clock, Taylor had been fully engrossed in her latest job. A delightful woman named Becca needed an entirely new wardrobe of maternity clothing as well as onesies for her twenty-seven expected children. It was a large undertaking, but Taylor knew that Becca would never be able to find clothing sufficient for her unique situation without the tailor’s assistance.
For ten hours already Taylor’s mind had been focused solely on her work. Two arms held the large piece of fabric in place while a third hand cut around the pattern she had traced, her scissors glided effortlessly through the soft fabric. So it was quite a shock when she suddenly felt her wrist turn.
Looking down, Taylor saw bunched fabric caught in her shears. For a moment she was confused until she felt the fabric: it was damp. Suddenly Taylor became aware of where her free hand was. As naturally as breathing, Taylor’s fourth hand was gently squeezing her left breast; small trickling arcs of white milk sprayed through her already soaked shirt.
Taylor understood what had happened. She still wasn’t used to having to attend to milking herself. What had started as a “mere scientific experiment”—at least according to Taylor—had quickly become a need to milk herself every few hours. On a few occasions she had found herself peeling herself out of a milk-sopping top after forgetting to tend to the situation, but it seemed her subconscious had decided to handle the situation on its own this time.
Finally torn away from her work, Taylor suddenly became aware of the fullness she felt. A pulsing warmth which must have been building since she started working radiated from her chest. She could feel the cups of her handmade bra digging into the overfilled softness of her breasts. She realized that she could not continue her work like that, but more than that, Taylor suddenly realized that in that moment the only thing she wanted to do was milk herself.
Taylor pulled off her shirt with movements that were equal parts determined and eager, its long sleeves fighting her. It was unusual; normally Taylor did not struggle so much to get dressed or undressed, but she supposed it was because she was particularly distracted by the excitement of what came next. After a few moments of difficulty, Taylor was free of her top and could more clearly see the consequences of her forgetfulness.
When she had first begun to self-induce lactation Taylor was not surprised that it had come with some slight growth. When compared to the people Taylor surrounded herself with it was hardly significant, but it was nevertheless noticeable. She had made sure to stay vigilant, remeasuring herself each day—as a record of her experiment, she told herself— and ensuring her bras were sized properly no matter how often it meant replacing them.
That was why Taylor was certain her handcrafted undergarment had fit perfectly that morning. Yet suddenly she was looking down to see her tawny skin pressing firmly against the cups of her bra. With how much soft mass bulged out from the garment it looked as though Taylor’s chest had nearly tripled in size.
For a moment Taylor felt apologetic—sorry that she had not tended to the need sooner—but quickly she realized two things. First she realized she had no one to apologize to except for the mental personification of her breasts. And second she realized there was nothing to apologize for; it may have been more “responsible” to handle this situation sooner, but she could tell that it would be more than made up for in how much better it would feel after being ignored for so long.
Before she had even moved to peel herself out of her now undersized bra, Taylor felt her legs shudder as two streams of thick, creamy milk began to trickle from her chest. The flow was slow yet steady, trickling rhythmically as drops hit the floor. Taylor stood motionless, basking in the pleasure which already filled her from just the sensation of leaking and the sound of dripping.
After what felt like five minutes of idle enjoyment Taylor finally began to undress once more, fighting the now over-tightened clasps of her bra before, in a moment of lascivious disregard, simply pulling until the metal fixtures tore away from the fabric. At last without anything constraining them, Taylor’s milk-swollen chest was free. They rested heavy against her stomach, hanging lower than her hips and very nearly reached her thighs. Despite their new heft they seemed excitedly perky and moved with energy with just the motion of Taylor’s breathing; she could not believe the sheer sensation of fullness she was experiencing. Without the pressure of a bra the flow of milk slowed slightly, but now Taylor enjoyed the feeling of her milk running down the curve of her breasts.
She could take it no longer, and her hands jumped to action. Taylor was used to handling chests this size—and much, much larger—but it still felt quite unusual that it was attached to herself. With one hand each she gripped her swollen nipples, massaging the strawberry-sized nubs and the surrounded flesh. Already a dozen or so pale streams began to spray in all directions. With some difficulty Taylor’s two other arms began squeezing and kneading what they could manage, quickly settling on pressing her tits together from either side, working from the top to the bottom.
With each passing squeeze came another splash of milk against the floor. With what reason Taylor could still manage she turned and sat on her workbench, recognizing that the trembling in her legs was growing. She could hardly recognize each distinct sensation she felt, the simple vastness of the pleasure was overwhelming. She found herself simply recognizing why it was that Nyx seemed to enjoy this so much.
With an unexpected hitch in her breath Taylor’s hands—which had been squeezing her chest from the sides—suddenly moved, one gripping a handful of her curly hair, and the other pressing firmly over her mouth. She felt the crashing waves of pleasure washing over her, the sound of milk showering down grew louder and was joined by muffled moans. But as the pulsing ecstasy began to abate Taylor could feel that neither the fullness in her chest nor her desire were finished.
As she continued to coax more and more milk from her tits, Taylor moved one arm under the heft of her chest until she could lift it just enough for her other free hand to undo the button of her jeans and sneak between her legs. She felt the wetness of her panties and the eager warmth of her pussy as she began to massage her most sensitive part slightly less gently than normal.
It was a bliss not quite like any she had ever experienced. Her body felt more in tune with her desire than ever before, yet her limbs seemed to move without her focus guided by the instinctual understanding of pleasure. She felt her feet tensing and curling from the overwhelming sensation. She continued to massage her clit with growing intensity, her arm which kept her heavy breasts from pinning her hips did what it could to squeeze her chest from below, and she teased out more milk until soon the sprinkling arcs had grown into faucet like streams running down from her plump nipples. In the moment Taylor was not even certain if she felt herself emptying or still growing more full, but that meant nothing compared to what she felt in that moment.
Each sensation was in perfect balance, swelling in unison like some great crescendo towards a peak so high as to be unimaginable. As was often the case, Taylor did not know she had reached the summit until she was there. In a moment of carnal freedom Taylor let down her guard, and what felt like an explosively loud moan filled the workshop for minute after minute as Taylor’s climax only continued to grow in flush intensity.
Eventually after what could have been an hour, she began to come down. Taylor fell back, onto her workbench, every muscle in her body feeling completely spent of vigor. Her legs felt like pudding, and her arms swayed like the branches of a tree in a storm. She could not even imagine moving from under the weight of her chest which softly pinned her in place. Even after all of that she still felt so full, and she could still hear the sound of dripping milk over the rushing in her ears. Drifting off to restful sleep, Taylor barely recognized the touch of her own hands moving to continue the milking.