Chapter 2

Westbridge Community College – empty lecture hall after class

David sits alone in the back row, palms pressed to his eyes, breathing like he just ran a mile.

Inside his head it’s a war:

If I pin her down tomorrow while I’m drinking...
If I just shove her legs open and slide in while my mouth’s still full of her milk...
Would she stop me?
Would she cry?
Or would she spread wider and moan “Yes, Davvy, finally...”?

He imagines turning her into his personal fuck-cow.
Milking her whenever he wants.
Breeding her swollen again and again.
Making her beg for his cock the way she begs for his mouth.

He slaps himself hard (CRACK) across the face.
David (hissing): “Stop. Stop it. She’s in pain. That’s why you’re doing this. She’s in fucking pain, you sick fuck.”

Then the next thought hits:
What if she finds someone else?
Some random guy from a dating app putting his mouth on her tits.
Some stranger’s hands squeezing what’s yours.
Some other cock inside the woman who screams your name every morning.

His vision goes red.
His chest feels like it’s being crushed.
Jealousy so violent he can taste metal.

David suddenly screams at the empty room:
“WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING TO MEEEEE?”

The door bangs open.
Ravi and Alex freeze in the doorway, eyes wide.
Ravi: “Bro ... what the hell?”

Alex: “You okay, man? You look like you’re having a breakdown.”

David’s shaking, sweat dripping down his temple.
David (hoarse): “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

Ravi: “Bullshit. You just screamed like you were dying.”

Alex: “Seriously, take the rest of the day off. You’re zoning out worse than ever. Go home, sleep, jerk off, whatever—just get your head straight.”

David almost laughs. because if they only knew the only thing that would “straighten his head” is currently at home, leaking through another bra, waiting for him to come drain her again.

He grabs his bag with trembling hands.

David: “Yeah ... yeah, I’ll go home.”
He’s already hard again.

He already tasting her. already terrified of what he’s going to do the second he walks through that front door.

David drops his backpack in the hallway, cock already straining against his jeans.

“Mom...?”
No answer.

House feels empty. He figures she ran to the store, whatever; he just needs five minutes alone to jerk the poison out of his system before he completely loses it.

He heads straight for his room.

Then he hears it, halfway up the stairs: wet, broken sobbing from the master bedroom.

His stomach drops.

He pushes the door open without knocking. Sarah is on her knees in the middle of the bed, nightgown rucked up to her waist, legs spread. Both hands are clamped around her left breast, squeezing so hard her knuckles are white. Milk is spraying in thin, desperate streams through her fingers, splattering the headboard, running down her forearm in sticky rivers.

The right breast is untouched, swollen purple, dripping steadily onto the sheets.

Her face is crumpled, mascara streaked, red hair plastered to her cheeks with tears and milk.

Sarah (choked, frantic):
“It hurts ... it hurts so bad today ... I tried ... I tried to wait for you...”

David’s brain short-circuits.
Every filthy fantasy he’s been choking down all day slams into a single white-hot second.

He crosses the room in three strides, climbs onto the bed, and yanks her hands away.

David (voice rough, shaking):
“I’ve got you ... I’ve got you...”

He latches onto the tortured right nipple with a savage pull.
Milk explodes into his mouth in a thick, endless waves, so forceful he gags for a second, then swallows greedily.

But even after five solid minutes of nonstop sucking and spraying,
he can still feel the pressure inside her,
still hear the faint, pained whimper under her moans.

It’s never enough.
It’s never going to be enough with just his mouth anymore.

He knows it.
She knows it.

And the thought alone makes his cock throb so hard it hurts.

David pulls back slowly, mouth shiny with her milk, both of them breathing hard. Sarah’s nightgown is ruined, twisted around her hips, breasts still leaking in lazy dribbles down her ribs.

She gives him a weak, grateful smile, but her eyes are heavy with the unspoken: it’s not over.
It never is.

He sits on the edge of the bed, wiping his chin with his sleeve, cock still throbbing ignored in his pants.
How the fuck do we fix this?

Pumps don’t work.
Doctors gave up years ago.
He can’t keep drinking forever—he’ll explode or worse.

Then it clicks: Dad’s letter, the one from the will. Something about “research” on her condition.

“Alternative controls.” David bolts up, heart pounding.

David (muttering): “Where’s his MacBook...”

He digs it out from the closet shelf, dusty but charged.

Logs in with the old password—His birthday.
Searches spotlight: “lactate_project”.

Bingo.

A hidden folder pops up, buried in Documents.

Inside: scanned doctor notes, spreadsheets of “relief durations”, photos he doesn’t click (yet).
And videos. Dozens.

One jumps out: “tomyson.mov”.

QuickTime icon, screengrab thumbnail showing the garage workbench. He hits play, volume low, earbuds in.

He glances at the door—Sarah’s in the shower now, water running.