It had been two decades since our last child and my wife’s body was less prepared for nursing than it had been then. We tried massage, breastpumps, everything, yet she remained dry as a bone. She'd been set on nursing, and it was obvious her inability to provide was bothering her, so maybe I should have been more tactful with my words.
“Face it. Everybody gets older.”
She didn’t like that. Not one bit.
I still can’t believe she sold me, forging my consent in a body trade. My birth body was hauled away to be who the hell knows where - worked to death on a construction site or taken apart for organs, and I'm trapped in this vat-grown, barely-human clone, a bovine-augmented wet nurse. I'm a milk factory, existing to lactate and nothing more.
These disgusting tits ache like they're going to burst, the skin tight as a drum, nipples desperate for release. Quadruplets couldn’t drain them fast enough. The longer I go without a milking, the worse the pain gets. My wife treats my agony only with mockery, her derisive moos following me around the house.
My savior got home from college today. He offered a shoulder to cry on and a chance to vent, but that wasn't the release that I craved, and it was his mouth, not his shoulder, that I cared about. In his defense, I had to beg.
If I look blissed out of my skull right now, this is what having two liters drained in a single milking does to a man.
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