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Lucy felt good being back at work part-time in her graphic design studio. Her second child, Rose, was 6 months old. Lucy had a wonderful live-in nanny Jill — a sensible farm girl. Jill had worked for Lucy and her husband since soon after the birth of their first child, Jack.
Lucy was ready to go back to work.
Lucy’s partner in the business, Monique, handled client and project management and “ran the business”. Lucy was the creative one. They usually had 4 or 5 people working for them.
Thanks to the 2 years Lucy had worked in Rome and the one year in Paris, Monique and Lucy’s client list had grown over the years to include several European companies. For those clients, Lucy and Monique designed materials for advertising and product launches here in Australia. Usually, they just tweaked and modified material prepared in Europe. But sometimes they suggested and developed new material. Some of their original work had done so brilliantly the happy client had used their material in other countries.
For the last week, Lucy had been in and out of the studio — just warming up. Today, was her first real day back at work. It was a big day — even though she was only going to be there from 11am to 2.30pm. The owner of an Italian boutique paper-products company was coming to see her — all the way from Italy. Renaldo wanted her to pitch for the work to develop the brand, and marketing material for the global launch of, he said: “Lucia, it is the world’s most beautiful range of recycled paper. Perhaps the most beautiful paper of all time. The colours, the feel of it. It’s provenance, the soundness.”
He had asked her to come to Italy for the briefing session and then again 6 weeks later for the pitch. When she pointed out she had 2 children under 5, he said he would come to see her in Melbourne for the briefing: she could do the pitch by “email and video interneto”. Charmingly, he sent her a hand-written note — such beautiful paper: so beautiful to see, so beautiful to feel — saying she was the only person outside Italy being invited to pitch, even his internal designers had agreed she should be invited (they admired her work, “and not just her early work”). In a PS, he added “Lucia, this time I come to you. But you must come to see us also. So 2 tickets to Milano are yours when you want.”
Lucy felt proud, flattered, acknowledged, and professionally fulfilled.
The briefing meeting with Renaldo went well. She was surprised and pleased to see how clearly she focussed on the work, how quickly ideas flowed. Her children were present in her head, but not distracting. They were safe with Jill.
In the meeting, Lucy had enjoyed the flattering — professional and personal — attention of Renaldo. She loved being called “Lucia”. It reminded her of her time in Italy and one of her boyfriends there — “the Milano boy”. Being called “Lucia” made her feel “young and fresh”. Maybe even “feel ripe”, she thought.
After the meeting, Renaldo departed to meet their Australian distributor for drinks and dinner. “Lucia” was invited, but declined. She would see Renaldo again for a follow-up meeting tomorrow. Then Renaldo would fly to a Thai beach resort for a week with his wife and then fly home.
As Lucy left the studio, she felt content and happy. She rang Jill. She and the children were visiting one of Jack’s friends, Ollie. Rose was asleep in the pram. There was still a whole bottle of milk left. Jack and Ollie were campaigning for them all to stay for dinner. That was fine with the wonderful Jill.
Suddenly, Lucy had potential time on her hands. An hour or 2, at least, alone for the first time in so long.
She contemplated ringing Renaldo and joining them for the drink, she’d leave before the dinner. Instead, she rang her husband, Don, and told him about how good she felt at the meeting and about Jack’s plans for dinner gay seks hikayeleri at Ollie’s.
Lucy and Don agreed to meet in the café where they regularly had lunch when she was working. The café — small and intimate, a step or 2 up from most —was in one of Melbourne’s arty laneways: a cluster of cafes, boutiques and shoe stores. Lucy and Don were close to being friends with the owner, Cara. At least twice a week, one of them went to her café.
Lucy and Don would have a glass of champagne to celebrate, then see: maybe eat out, maybe head home if Lucy was tired. They’d meet at the café “about 5”.
Lucy rang Jill to say she and the children could all stay for dinner at Ollie’s. She spoke with Jack. He said little more than “Love you mummy, Ollie’s cat is funny” and ran off.
Lucy was meeting her husband for a drink, she had an hour or so by herself, her children were safe and content. So she wandered through the arty, fashion section of the city, shopping on a warm spring afternoon. Feeling less like a mother: more like a successful young designer with a chance at a major global success.
She tried on a few summer dresses. Thinking she might buy one to treat herself for her “date with Don”. But she knew she looked good in the shirt-dress she was wearing. She chose it for the meeting, correctly thinking “It’s sexy and smart, but with the sleeves rolled up like this, it’s practical and a bit creative. Looks like I’m a doer: an elegant doer”. She might role the sleeves down before she met Don.
Anyway, none of the dresses she tried on in the shops were right. To a dress, they were tight across her breasts. Always big — inconvenient, heavy, and in the way — her breasts were now much bigger. But that was okay, they were fulfilling a purpose. And that purpose was “Lucia’s purpose”. By comparison, the chance at a major global success felt quite trivial.
A bit before 5pm, Lucy started heading towards the café. She was thinking about her breasts again. They were heavy and full. Rose was weaning. Usually feeding from the breast once mid-morning and once as Lucy went to bed.
Lucy’s breasts felt like it was bed time. The drama of the day, her heightened state, had accelerated the lactation. Perhaps trying on the dresses, adjusting her bra and her breasts — “the manipulation” — had caused her breasts to think it was time to feed.
One of the salesgirls — Lucy thought, “probably a university student, possibly law, working as a casual” —had helped Lucy, adjusting dresses, trying to see which size fitted best, could be made to fit. But always the breasts were too big. As Lucy was giving up on the last dress, Lucy half-cursed her breasts out loud, something she often did. Though this time, as Lucy was conscious of her breasts fulfilling their purpose (her purpose!), the half-curse was warmer, more playful.
In response, the friendly salesgirl looked openly — almost in awe —at Lucy’s breasts. The salesgirl, young and pretty, smooth and clean, lean and slight, had no breasts to speak of. She was standing close to Lucy, put her hand on Lucy’s side and smiled affectionately. The gorgeous sales girl said “You’re magnificent. You’re lucky with your curves, your breasts. I’m jealous. You make me feel like a runt.”
Now as Lucy walked to the café, her breasts were full. More than uncomfortably full.
She headed more quickly to the café. Her breasts responded to her quickened pace and quickened breath. They were swelling. When she got there, the owner, Cara, who hadn’t seen her for months, was pleased to see her, stepped forward, gave Lucy a hug with a kiss on the cheek, brought her a jug of water, a glass. Lucy sat down. Drank 2 glasses. Felt her breasts responding to Cara’s hug.
Cara said she usually shut the café about now. The staff had left. But Lucy and Don — her “best and favourite customers” (said with a fond and meaningful hand on Lucy’s shoulder) — were welcome to have a drink while Cara cleaned the coffee machine, tidied up, “did the paper-work at the little desk in the little store room downstairs”. The “closed” sign went up.
Lucy sat waiting for Don. She felt good. But her breasts hurt. She felt proud. She felt like a new stage was opening up. She rested her breasts on the table. That felt better. She closed her eyes. It did feel better. Less weight. But with each slow breath — in then out — her breasts moved on the table. Almost rolled away. Almost came back. It felt good. She went with it. Don would be here soon. Smelling strongly of man. She liked his smell. They would kiss. With nobody here but Cara, they might kiss properly. Where was Cara? Lucy could hear her downstairs.
She thought about Don. Her breasts were sore. She oh-so gently cupped one to give it some relief. A mistake, perhaps. A surge of milk. A surge of warmth in her groin. A tingle in her nipple. A different tingle. She ran with it. Cupped both breasts. The double surge again. The tingle balanced the hurt. If possible, her breasts swelled more. She looked down at them. They were enormous. For a moment, she was mortified. Then she was proud. Proud of her womanliness, of all women, of her sex, of her sexuality, of her huge, huge —”my god they are big, they are full, fucking full, they feel like they are going to split” — proud of her huge breasts. She almost felt she could see them swelling. She grinned and glowed with the pride.
She looked-up: her handbag on the table; out the window, across the laneway; a window full of women’s shoes. Brilliantly displayed. Strikingly expensive. Half of them “come fuck me” shoes. She squeezed her breast. She winced. Don would like her in those shoes. In any of them. She would like herself in those shoes. Renaldo would like her in those shoes. She wanted the shoes. All of them. If she won the Italy job — “my god it is a global job” — she’d treat herself, she’d buy “a window-full of shoes”. She squeezed again. Winced again. Smiled again. Surged again. She knew they were leaking. She squeezed winced smiled again. And gasped. The fullness in Lucy was starting to become too, too much. Don wasn’t here. Where was he? Where was Cara?
She squeezed her breasts. They were “Too big. No, that’s not it at all. It’s that my dress is too tight”. She undid 2 buttons. Felt a bit better. A man walked past the window. Not Don. “He might have looked in: seen my breasts. … Breasts? … My big, full, heavy tits.” Pause. Gasp. “I’d better go downstairs to the bathroom.”
She lifted her breasts off the table. Surge — “Fuck that’s strong”. Squeeze. Pleasure. Comfort. Squeeze. Flow. More thank a leak. “Fuck they’re flowing. Fuck, it’s good. How can this familiar, homely thing now be sexual? So supremely sexual.”
The adrenalin of the meeting, the flattery of Renaldo, the beautiful day, the shopping, the admiring salesgirl runt.
Lucy stood up. The weight. The fullness. The flow. The flow in her breasts. The flood in her groin. A hand cupping each breast. A strong flowing freeing ache. “How can it be an ache when it doesn’t hurt? What a fabulous fuck of an ache!”
She went to the stairs, down to the bathroom. The bathroom door was shut red, engaged. Cara. Lucy stood at the bottom, squeezing hard, both hands both breasts — “What else can Lucia do?” She giggled at the thought of calling herself “Lucia”. Rhythmic squeezing. “My god that boy in Milano was good. He loved my tits. To suck on them. So good to fuck him”. A button popped.
She lost her self.
She undid more buttons, to her waist. She lifted her right breast free of her bra: it always went first. She undid her bra. Held the breast. Felt the weight in her hand, pushed gently with her finger tips at the extraordinary tightness. Squeezed a dribbling flow. Squeezed and gasped. Past smiling or wincing. Shocked and proud at her daring, at the reach of her lust, extending all the way to milkiness — to her big full breasts, to her life-giving milkiness.
She closed her eyes. Slid her arm out of her dress and bra. The bra fell to the floor. The dress dropped to her waist. She leaned back on the wall.
She lifted her left breast. So heavy: so full. She smelled Don near. He’d seen the “closed” sign. He’d looked in. Seen her handbag: pushed the door: entered. He’d heard a sound from the stairs. He walked to the top, saw Lucia. He was instantly excited, went down. She breathed, smelled him, opened her eyes. Unbelievably — to him and to her — she offered him the breast.
She was a goddess.
He knelt. He lowered his mouth and licked, then lapped then sucked, from nipple to nipple and back. He slid a hand across and down her belly, pulled thin cloth aside and held her wet heat. She pushed down and towards him, her knees bending, her legs parting: up on her toes. His fingers entered her. His arm and shoulder — his mouth — half-supporting her.
His mouth filling with Lucia’s milk. He sucked and sucked. Lucy flowed everywhere. She started to come: a series of short, sharp gasps. Each a minor peak on a long, climbing ridge. Some of the peaks bigger and sharper, some of them longer and slower.
Then red engaged became green vacant. Cara had heard, had understood, had waited. Now she came out, saw what she had been hearing, what had made her wet. Lucy and Don looked at her. Cara was glowing. Lucy, doubly so. Lucia held her hand out to Cara, who took the hand and knelt before Lucia’s flow. Lucy’s one hand pulled Cara to her flowing breasts. Lucy’s other hand lifted her breast to Cara’s open mouth.
Two mouths, two breasts, two pairs of hands. So many peaks.
Lucy slid to the floor, shifted her rump on to the bottom step, leant back on the stairs. Don wriggled away to remove clothes, tried to keep a hand on her. Cara sucked twice as hard. And squeezed Lucy’s other breast.
Don pulled his rampant cock from his pants. Ripped off his tie and shirt. Pulled out his belt, threw it away. He slid hard into Lucy. Don in Lucy. Mouth on mouth. Cara suckling and squeezing. Lucy pulled her mouth from Don “Cara darling? water please.”
Cara — caring Cara — fetched a jug of water; pushed a pile of clean table cloths behind Lucy’s back to cushion Lucy from the stairs. Then Cara held the water jug to Lucy’s mouth, tipping gently, reassuringly holding the back of Lucy’s neck. Don eased. Lucy lay still, opened her mouth “It isn’t drinking, it isn’t swallowing, it’s refuelling.” Two litres of clear, life-giving freshness. Not a drop spilt.
She was a double goddess.
The jug to one side, Cara was doing beautifully back on the breast. Don and Lucy increased their tempo.
Again it was Don in Lucy. Mouth on mouth. Cara suckling and squeezing Lucy’s breasts. Now Cara was curving her spine and parting her legs to straddle Lucy’s thigh. Cara humping.
Lucy loved it all — she loved the double rhythm of the dual humping. One pushing in to her, the other gripping and grinding her thigh. She could feel Don’s orgasm approach, she sensed Cara was close too.
But Lucy needed more, she needed a mouth for her other breast. She had double humping, she wanted double sucking. She needed it. She needed Renaldo, his affectionate verbal flattery transformed to wanton suckling. And that wouldn’t be enough. She needed a queue of willing mouths. The dress shop salesgirl “Where the fuck is that gorgeous little runt? Get her. I’ll feed her. Shell grow and she’ll glow.” She said it out loud. Guttural, strong, unintelligible.
Then to herself she said “More people. Then Milano Boy. Last in the queue. Waiting.”
Then out loud, as clear as the water “Fuck it! I’ll feed them all. I’ll feed and fuck the world!”
One immense communal peak, then Lucia flowing down the other side.
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