by Jolene Avonn
I went home that night and I realized I couldn’t stop thinking about Dr. Miller. I took a long bath and before I knew it I’d moved from caressing my strangely round belly to letting my slippery hand linger between my thighs. My fingers played across my pussy like Dr. Miller’s had touched my nipples: gently, almost teasing, testing. I smiled as I thought of him – the rigid lines of muscle in his forearms, and the just-rough-enough skin of his hands.
A moment later I’d grabbed the detachable shower head, spun the faucet on, and guided the rushing warmth right between my legs. I massaged my sore tits and begged for a few seconds of relief.
The entire time – from build-up to precipice to thigh-shaking finish – I had my eyes squeezed shut and a dirty movie with Dr. Miller playing across the backs of my eyelids. We were in a secret room in his office suite, and he was fingering me on an exam table. He moved his hand with great skill, plunging two fingers deep while he used his other hand to rub the back of my neck, then my breasts, then sliding down to circle a thumb against my clit with the perfect amount of pressure.
I was helpless under his touch. My legs fell wide open and I moved my hips in pulsing circles as he pleasured me. Dr. Miller spoke softly the entire time, his deep voice sending shivers up and down my back and making my chest and cheeks blush red in excitement.
I knew the old nurse was on the other side of the door. I’d have to be quiet, so quiet, or I’d ruin his entire practice...
I came with a cry that surprised me. It was sharp. Anguished. I splashed around, bucking uncontrollably and holding on to the edge of the tub for dear life. There was something extra intense about pleasuring myself with a Dr. Miller fantasy playing.
As I struggled to get comfortable in bed that night, I thought about how powerful it might be if Dr. Miller was actually with me.
And then I thought I might explode.
~~~
Flash forward to four months after little Jeff popped out. He was a hungry fellow, but for some reason my body decided to make enough milk for two. Make that ten. My breasts, which swelled enormously before I gave birth, continued to grow. I mean, they weren’t just “swelling” any more. They’d systematically destroyed every bra and shirt I owned. I’d morphed from having a perky, manageable pair of breasts to two round, constantly jiggling orbs of flesh that felt like they weigh ten pounds each.
I’m not a tiny woman. Before this all happened, I thought I was doing okay up top, and that I’d probably turn a few heads with the whole “radiant nursing mother” thing. But this got ridiculous. I was top-heavy, wobbly, and I honestly felt like my tits were on the verge of erupting. I could feel every ounce of milk, it seemed, flowing front-to-back or side-to-side. And more than anything in the world, I wanted it out.
Poor Jeff could only consume so much. Once I put him to bed, I’d try to follow some Internet advice I found – how to use a breast pump, how to milk myself, and how to massage myself to relieve a sensation of pressure.
That’s where the problem came in. For whatever reason, I couldn’t get the pump to work. In fact, it made things worse. I couldn’t squeeze anything out myself, and God did I try. I massaged and pressed my breasts everywhere and anywhere, standing over the sink like an idiot, begging the milking gods for help.
Nothing. Not a drop. Just dull pain and skin so tight you could see every vein in my chest. I was throbbingly full. I could barely sleep at night.
So, you see, I went to the one place I knew I could get help: Dr. Miller’s office. I wanted his advice before I did anything else.
I got a lot more help than I expected.
~~~
“Well, Kelsey, have you considered a lactation specialist?”
Dr. Miller studied my chart for a moment and then looked at me. There was something different in his eyes – a sparkle of sorts.
I perched on the edge of a fancy cushioned and heated table. We were in the nicest of his exam rooms, a pleasantly lit den-like space that connected to his private office. Dr. Miller sat on a leather couch across from me. He lifted his mug of coffee from an elegant end table. The carpeting was plush and lined with precise vacuum tracks. The room smelled of vanilla and something like spice or sandalwood.
I pulled on the belt of the light blue cotton robe a nurse had given me, feeling petulant.
“Yes, Dr. Miller,” I said. “But I really don’t want to go start over with someone new. Plus, it’s kind of embarrassing. I only feel like I can talk about it with you.”
“Okay, then,” he said, setting his mug down and standing up. “Let’s see what we’re working with. I might have an idea. Would you mind opening your robe?”
“No,” I said softly. My pulse started to race as he approached. I pulled the robe open, allowing my breasts to spill free.
Dr. Miller stopped a few steps away. For just a moment, I saw the shock in his expression. Then, recovering quickly, he pursed his lips and frowned.
“My goodness,” he murmured. “This is quite the situation.”
I cupped my breasts and lifted them, my hands overflowing. “And they hurt, Dr. Miller. Not like before...this is more achy. Full. They’re so heavy it’s almost unbearable.”
He stepped closer. “May I?” he asked, lifting his hands toward me.
“Yes,” I said, almost breathless.
I dropped my hands, lowering my breasts to meet his warmth and compression. He lifted and pushed gently until I was firmly in his grip. My nipples tightened under a draft of cool A/C and the thrill of Dr. Miller’s contact.
He studied me intently, pushing lightly, hefting, and running a thumb all around the dark brown of my areola.
“With the pump...nothing?”
I shook my head, afraid to speak because I knew my voice would quiver. His thumb felt like a butterfly perching on my nipple.
“And you’ve, ah, tried milking?”
“Yes,” I mumbled. “No luck.”
Dr. Miller pushed more firmly, sending a wave of heat through my chest and triggering the first serious sensation of wetness between my legs.
“How does that feel?” he asked softly.
“Good,” I said. “I mean, better.”
“The pain subsides?”
“Yes,” I said.
He continued massaging my breasts. He alternated squeezing each one in a light milking motion, watching my nipples swell tight and contract as the milk strained behind them.
I began to wobble on the table, leaning back more each time he pushed against me. The cushions felt like a giant, delightful heating pad supporting my bottom. The sensation of Dr. Miller’s large hands massaging my most sensitive flesh so tenderly transported me somewhere warm, calm, and deeply sensual. He murmured to himself as if he was taking mental notes. I listened to his soft breaths quicken as he worked. My eyelids started to close. My legs parted slightly, my body very in tune with the man standing inches away. I could feel my wetness now, my outer lips just parting as my thighs opened.
“You’re right, Kelsey. Not a single drop. Normally we’d have at least a small leak by now,” Dr. Miller said, slightly louder than a whisper. “But nothing.”
“I know,” I moaned. “But this is the best they’ve felt since...I don’t know when. Whatever you’re doing is helping a lot, Dr. Miller.”
He smiled slightly. “That’s good.” Then he gently released my breasts and backed away. In a louder, more confident voice, he said, “With your permission, I’d like to try out something a little, well, experimental. Unless, that is, you’d like that referral to a lactation consultant.”
“No!” I said, quickly enough to betray myself. “I mean, yes. Experimental. Well, wait, what is it?”
Dr. Miller paused, and then walked briskly toward a large oak cabinet in the corner of the room.
“It’s something I’ve created in my spare time. It’s kind of a hobby of mine – developing tools for cases just like this. I’ve never had a chance to test it. I had a feeling, even months ago, that it might come in...h
andy.”
He opened the cabinet and withdrew a large black plastic case. He carried the case over and set it next to me on the table, then flipped open the lid.
“What it is,” he said, withdrawing two clear rubber cups trailing plastic tubing, “is a machine-based pump. The pump kits you’ve already tried are too weak. This will hopefully get things flowing a little better.”
My eyes widened. I was, for a brief second or two, disappointed. I really thought he’d invite me to his private office for some special “therapy.” But then I saw how flexible the small cups were, and I started to think about how nice it would be to finally feel empty. To lose the sensation of bursting fullness. I’d seen these machines when I scoured the Internet for help, but they were always part of sketchy videos. Now there was one in front of me, and a skillful man operating it.
“Umm, okay,” I said. “I mean, it’s worth a shot. After all, I’m here and everything. Might as well try.”
“Exactly,” Dr. Miller said excitedly as he withdrew the lengths of tubing and set the case on the ground. “I really think this will work. See, once I plug it in and we get this set up, your milk will be carefully withdrawn and stored in these canisters, which I’ll chill so you can transport them home. Nothing wasted, and you’ll get relief!”
“Sign me up,” I said. His enthusiasm was contagious. I sensed that the distraction of his pet project was helping him avoid something else – I could see the familiar hint of his excitement below his belt, if you get the idea.
Dr. Miller adjusted the table top so I could lean back, slightly reclined against the ever-present warmth. I left the robe open. He sat next to me on a stool and rested a hand on my thigh. I was very aware of that hand. It was heavy, and made me want to swoon.
“What we’ll do first,” he said, “is apply a little gel to your nipples to create a nice seal, and to prevent any abrasions as we adjust the suction on the machine. Okay?”
I nodded, struggling to stay composed. Dr. Miller was sliding his hand along my leg, meaning to comfort me, I suppose, but I was delightfully bothered by the pressure on my inner thigh.
He squeezed a few drops of gel on his fingers, worked them together until they were slippery, and reached forward. I yelped when he first made contact. The chilly electricity of his slick touch drove me nearly insane.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he murmured, ignoring my squirming and shifting. “Almost done.”
He circled his index finger around each nipple slowly, tantalizingly, until they were coated and teased stiff. My heart pounded in my chest and I shifted on the table, afraid that he’d somehow sense how wet I was.
“Okay,” he said quietly, “now I’ll need your help. We’ll place both cups over your nipples, and then I’ll activate the pump. I’ll need you to hold one while I turn it on.”
Turn it on, or turn me on? I thought. Jesus.
“Alright,” I said.
Dr. Miller placed one of the flexible rubber cups, about the size of a small teacup, over my left nipple. Its tube ran across my lap and down to the floor. He placed the second cup over my right nipple and nodded at me. I took the second cup and held it firm. They felt like large, rigid mouths opened wide against me. I shivered in anticipation, suddenly afraid.
“Don’t worry,” Dr. Miller said, stroking my thigh again. “I’m right here. It’ll start slow, just enough suction to attach.”
He reached down and flipped a switch. The black case began to hum and sigh, hum and sigh, the sound of a pump rising and falling. At first, nothing happened. Then, after about ten seconds, I felt a light tug on one nipple and then the other.
“Oh!” I said softly. It felt surprisingly good, like a lover’s lightly sucking lips.
“Good, good,” Dr. Miller said.
I could feel the cup I was holding latch on a little tighter with each pulse of the pump. When I saw Dr. Miller release his hand, I did the same. The cups were securely attached.
“How does that feel?” he said.
“Fine,” I said. “Not bad.” I rested my head against the table, angling my chin toward my chest so I could watch. The cups stood tall off my tits and gradually my nipples rose inside. It was surreal. The suction was like magic, pulling and thrilling me in swift tugs that quickly had me breathing hard and wishing that Dr. Miller wasn’t so close to my side. I already wanted to make low, dirty noises. Nasty noises. I was embarrassed.
I thought he’d smell me, that’s how wet I was.
I tried to breathe slowly through my nose, calming myself.
“I’m going to turn the pressure up slightly now,” Dr. Miller said.
“Okay.”
I heard a dial click two notches. The pump’s hum deepened, and within seconds I could feel the seal between the cups and my nipples strengthen. The machine pulled at me now, each tit quivering as the machine hummed and sighed. The tubes wobbled up and down with the pressure and my flesh rolled in waves in time with the motion.
“Oh,” I whispered. “Oh my.” It was starting to feel even better. I could sense the milk right underneath the tip of my nipple. I knew it was close, so close. Just a little more and I’d finally feel the intense pressure vanish.
“One more adjustment should do it,” Dr. Miller said, his voice deeper and slightly on edge. Two more clicks of the dial. “I can’t even imagine how sore you must feel. It must be so difficult.”
The suction seemed to double almost immediately. It was glorious. I stared as my nipple distended and stretched in to the cup and then...miraculously...a small stream of milk seeped forth. First on the left side, then the right. The milk coated the inside of the cup and then, with each successive pump, glided along the tube.
“Mmm-hmmm,” I gasped. “It’s really hard.”
I couldn’t help it. I moaned at the pleasure of it all. Tears welled in my eyes – the strange, embarrassing eroticism of the moment was nearly overwhelming. With that last adjustment, Dr. Miller had sparked off what felt like tiny orgasm after tiny orgasm, each originating deep in my breast and spiraling along my spine and flooding my pussy. I moaned and moaned as the machine hummed and sighed.
“Ohhhh God,” I cried, gripping the edge of the table and shaking. I’d never felt anything like it. Not breastfeeding, not my own massaging, not Dr. Miller’s touch. It was a machine-based relentless pleasure that never subsided and never changed pace. Just a steady hard suction withdrawing every ounce of pain from my tits and replacing it with sheer bliss.
I slammed my head back on the table and squeezed my eyes shut. Milk flowed freely now. The machine’s humming changed, supplemented by a soft gurgling noise as a canister somewhere below me slowly filled.
“I can go,” Dr. Miller whispered. “If you want privacy, that is. I understand it can be...intense. I hope this provides some small amount of pleasure.”
“No!” I snapped. “Yes, I mean. Stay. Stay, please, Dr. Miller.” I realized I was thrashing my head side to side deliriously. I stopped, my hair plastered on my cheeks, and locked my gaze on his keenly interested brown eyes. “I want you here.”
“Okay.”
I watched him over my rising and falling chest. His cheeks were flushed, his lips parted slightly. I grabbed for his hand and held it tight, then placed it on my thigh.
“Please,” I whispered. I untied my robe and let it fall open completely, exposing the small tuft of brown hair that led to my eager sex.
Dr. Miller froze, eyebrows raised. I stared hard at him until he understood. He rolled his chair to the edge of the table. I spread my legs until they hung off the sides. He stared hungrily at what I’d presented – my soaked pussy, lips engorged and full and slick, my hips writhing and my breasts swollen and pulled under the milking machine’s suction.
“Please,” I said again, louder. “It will help.”
I truly believed that, too. The sensations the machine created in my breasts connected to something else, something tied to my trembling pussy. If he would just pleasure me at the same time...
maybe the discomfort of the past months would vanish entirely.
Dr. Miller stroked my smooth inner thighs, pushing me open even wider. Any embarrassment I felt vanished in the face of sheer desire. He slid his hands under my ass and tugged me toward him until I was right on the edge of the table. I hooked my legs over his shoulders and he dove forward.
Do you remember the first time your lover tasted you? The first time a pair of lips touched you, and the first time a tongue slid along your sex and coated itself with your wetness?
Multiply that by a million. With that machine pumping away at me and Dr. Miller’s lips pressed to my pussy, I completely lost control. I groaned when his firm lips found me, and I cried out when his tongue pushed forward and lapped at me from top to bottom. My legs clamped around his head, a reflex that I couldn’t stop and one that he didn’t mind. He grabbed my ass and pulled me closer, grunting with pleasure as he tasted and tongued me with abandon.
The machine filled its canister with slow splashes of milk. I couldn’t believe how much was surging from each of my breasts. I already felt lighter, and the intense pressure was subsiding. It was replaced by a new kind of tension – a pleasurable one – as Dr. Miller’s tongue plunged deeper and deeper. I could hear the sloppy sounds of his work, even above the hum of the machine, and the sheer joy evident in his efforts made me cry out even louder. He was lavishing me with that broad, wonderful tongue. That’s the only way to describe it. My thighs shook against the sides of his head. I sunk my fingers into his hair and pulled him hard to my pussy, grunting low and deep as his lips closed around my clit.
My head started to lift off the table as the muscles along my belly contracted in crazy intervals. My breath caught somewhere in my chest and I froze, half-upright, my mouth slack and my vision hazed over in red-white. My tits were still jerking up, one-two, one-two, in time with the pump. Milk spurted freely. Dr. Miller moaned against my pussy and he worked two fingers inside and began to piston them in and out rapidly. He could tell I was close. He sucked hard on my clit and finger-fucked me until I finally let go. I finally lost myself. I felt my pussy spasming around him and a new rush of wetness as I came in a silent, perfect agony.