Lactation Support Protocol
Copyright© 2026 by Jessica Sloane
Chapter 2: Treat Her Like A Lady
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 2: Treat Her Like A Lady - 42-year-old COO. 22-year-old golden boy who took her job. Broken elevator. Full, leaking tits. She makes him suck. He makes her take it.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Humor Workplace MaleDom FemaleDom Humiliation Exhibitionism Lactation Masturbation Oral Sex Voyeurism Big Breasts Public Sex ENF AI Generated
OmniCore’s “Take Your Son To Work” Day Turns Into Live MILF Porn!
An elevator jammed. Two rival execs couldn’t wait it out.
Sources say the younger guy locked onto her aching, leaking tits and sucked. She grabbed his cock and stroked him while he nursed her like it was his job. Then he bent her over and started railing her from behind.
Ding.
When the doors finally opened, OmniCore’s dads and their college-aged sons got a front row seat to a reportedly very beautiful senior VP getting dicked down by her junior rival. Milk and all.
Although no one filmed anything, they didn’t have to. Within hours, it was the hottest story on every campus group chat.
OmniCore’s calling is a “personnel matter.” The internet is calling it the best workplace orientation of the year!
The meeting hit my calendar at 5:12 a.m. on Thursday:
Kessler/Rivers/Cross — 7:00 AM — CEO’s Office.
No agenda. No pre-read. Just the CEO’s name at the top like a blade.
I was getting fired today for sure. The only silver lining to this insane shitshow was that Julian Cross would be getting fired today as well.
Julian Cross with that big dick of his absolutely owning me in front of all those lesser men. God, I hated how much I had loved ever single fucking second of it. And I hated how much I wanted Julian inside me again.
I had spent the last two days doing the only sensible thing a prominent female executive can do after getting fucked on her hands and knees in front of “Take Your Son to Work Day”: I worked. I answered emails. I sat through a propulsion touchpoint with my blouse buttoned up all the way to my goddamn throat. I pumped in the official lactation room on the fourth floor with the door locked and my phone face down, because the alternative was looking at my DMs.
There were a lot of DMs.
Most (but certainly not all) of them were from accounts that still had dorm room lighting and/or college football jersey display pictures. Polite ... then less polite ... then the ones that just sent a time and a hotel. Charming. I didn’t answer any of them. I also didn’t open Instagram, TikTok, or whatever college or university campus social media forum had suddenly decided OmniCore of all fucking places was now some sort of a fun and sexy corporate personality after the “Take Your Son to Work Day” debacle. I told myself that if I didn’t look, it wasn’t real.
My breasts disagreed with the entire coping strategy. Heavy again by the time I made it to the office at 6:40. Furious by 6:50. I ignored them the way I ignored the manner in which people in the hallways had started looking at me ... too long, then not at all.
Julian was already standing outside Kessler’s office when I arrived, of course. Same Armani, different tie, the look of a young man who had slept peacefully. This motherfucker. He glanced at my face, then at the high collar of my blouse, and that almost-smile of his showed up like it had been waiting.
“Funeral clothes,” he said quietly. “Optimistic.”
“If I’m going down, I’m taking you with me, dipshit.”
“If Kessler fires us,” he said, “the applications will still be in the portal.”
I didn’t ask what that meant. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of being the only one of us who knew.
Dana Kessler did not stand when we walked in. Sixty something, her silver hair cut like a knife. This was the woman who had built OmniCore out of three patents and a willingness to be disliked. Two tablets sat on the glass table. A single printed page sat between them, face down.
“Sit,” she said.
We sat.
Here it comes. I had my speech ready. The incident on Tuesday involved a mechanical failure followed by a personal lapse in judgment. I take full responsibility. Dr. Cross was...
Kessler turned the page over and slid it across the glass.
It was not a termination letter. It was data. An executive summary dashboard...
What the fuck?
“I am going to be precise,” she said, “because I do not want either of you leaving this room under any illusions. What happened in the elevator on Tuesday will now be publicly acknowledged as part and parcel of our progressive, human-centric corporate culture here at OmniCore. The male college students who were present alongside their fathers during Tuesday’s “Take Your Son to Work Day” corporate recruiting event returned to their respective campuses all around the country and described the... unique ... corporate culture they experienced here at OmniCore Tower. Thank god every man there was either too stunned or too enraptured by Dr. Rivers here to take a picture or a video of you two horny morons.”
Ouch. She continued. “And that story has been sensationalized somewhat online, obviously, but it has also moved through both undergraduate and graduate networks with unusual speed. It has now reached a plethora of very interested, very talented and very promising young men and women. The consistent interpretation in those networks is that OmniCore is an innovative, compassionate and progressive workplace that does not behave like a typical legacy contractor. That interpretation is wildly inaccurate in several respects. But it is also commercially useful.”
She tapped the first tablet. Applications / Last 36 Hours:
MIT. Caltech. Imperial. ETH Zurich. Tsinghua.
Names we had been chasing with guaranteed signing bonuses for years and still losing.
“Inbound volume from target institutions is up several hundred percent. A material share of those applications are from candidates this company has failed to attract through ordinary channels. Talent density is the primary constraint on every single terraforming project and program we have. According to this data here ... that constraint has just been removed.”
She turned the second tablet. A price chart. The line went nearly vertical Wednesday morning and had not come back down since.
“The market read the same signal the campuses did, only faster. OmniCore is no longer priced as a specialized equipment vendor. It is priced as a company that can hire the people required to leave the planet. That is the link I need you two perverts both to understand. The student narrative created a visible pipeline. That pipeline created a credibility event for outside capital. Three family offices and two independent sponsors with active Mars and orbital mandates opened conversations with us yesterday. All five cited recruiting momentum as evidence that the underlying work here is real. Two of them have already indicated they intend to take primary allocations if we open a round. Our sky high stock price this morning is the public version of that conclusion.”
Julian’s hands stayed folded. I could hear my own pulse.
“I expected,” I said, “that we were here to be fired.”
Kessler looked at me as if I had commented on the weather.
“If I fired the two of you this week, I would be removing the only viable explanation the talent market and the capital market currently share. Which is that you two nitwits were just following OmniCore’s standard ‘Lactation Support Protocol’. Dr. Cross here was simply trying to provide you as a new lactating mother returning to the workplace, Dr. Rivers, with some small amount of humane comfort during an intense crisis situation. Due to a gap in our maintenance controls, however, you two lovebirds were left alone for far too long and just went a little ... well ... overboard ... with what is admittedly a very human-centric wellness initiative. That’s all. But firing you? No. I will not do that to the cap table. Legal will send a document. You will both sign it before noon. It addresses personal conduct, elevator maintenance issues, and the fact that this company does not comment on internal personnel matters.”
A thin pause.
“Rebecca. You will use the lactation room on a published schedule. Facilities is not a rumor mill. Julian. If I have to convene this meeting a second time because the lactation room on the fourth floor has become part of your own personal sexual conquest folklore, I will do it with a small army of lawyers in the room.”
She continued. “For the time being, I will assume the title of Chief Operating Officer on paper and in name only. Dr. Rivers, you will continue your work reporting directly to me. Same work, of course ... but less perks sans the formal COO title. Welcome back. Dr. Cross, we certainly appreciate you holding down the fort so to speak as our Acting COO during Rebecca’s recent maternity leave. Your tenure in the role as one of my top lieutenants was brief but notable. Especially for someone with your relative youth and inexperience. That being said, I don’t want to lose a man of your obvious talents here in the c-suite or frankly remove you from my inner circle. As such, much like Dr. Rivers here, you’ll also continue reporting directly to me. As far as I’m concerned, though, the official job of Chief Operating Officer here at OmniCore is now unofficially wide open and up for grabs. I’ll be watching you two very closely over the next few months before I make any final determinations on which one of you will be awarded the COO role again on a permanent basis. Any more fuck-ups, though, and I swear to Christ I’ll use every power at my disposal to make sure neither one of you find gainful employment in this or any other field ever again. Do I make myself understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” we replied quietly, unintentionally in unison.
She turned both tablets face down.
“Good. Now follow me.”
Kessler led us down the hall and opened the COO suite with two fingers, as if the door itself had personally disappointed her.
“Despite my gut instinct to keep you two as far away from each other as humanly possible, I need to be able to keep my eye on you both from a practical, day-to-day standpoint. As such, this will just have to do for both of you until I make my decision,” she said. “One office. One desk. One view. I expect you two to look and act like professionals who can share a planet, even if you cannot apparently share an elevator.”
The job and the office were mine again ... and also not.
My old glass desk, my old credenza, a second monitor that had not been there on Friday, and — because Facilities had a sense of humor apparently — there were now two nameplates on the same slab of walnut, crudely butted up against each other like a threat.
DR. REBECCA RIVERS. // DR. JULIAN CROSS.
Julian stepped in as if he were being shown a luxury apartment he already owned. He set his palm on the back of my chair but did not sit. I watched him not sit. He watched me watch him not sit.
“Adorable,” I said.
“Think of it as a habitat study, Rivers,” he said. “Two apex predators. Limited square footage. Remember ‘Highlander’? There can only be one.”
Kessler rolled her eyes as her gaze moved from the dueling nameplates to the sofa to the small stainless fridge I already knew I was going to have to fight Julian for.
“Going forward, the lactation block stays on the executive calendar,” she said. “And the door to this office stays open. Always. Are we clear on those two points?”
“Crystal,” we said, again in unintended unison. Cross and I looked at each other, annoyed.
“Good.” Kessler smoothed a cuff that did not need smoothing. “Try not to break the furniture, kids. It is quite expensive.”
She left. The door remained wide open. The city sat there beyond the glass, expansive and unbothered.
Julian circled the desk once, slow, like a man checking sightlines. Then he patted his jacket. Inside pocket. Outside pocket. Trousers. A little frown arrived, scholarly and then not.
“Problem, Doctor? A missing personality, perhaps?” I said.
“My badge,” he said. “It was here.”
“Define here.”
“This jacket. This morning. The turnstile. Possibly outside Kessler’s office...?”
I leaned against the credenza and folded my arms, which did nothing for the situation in my blouse, but a great deal for my overall mood.
“So the former Acting COO of a terraforming company that has suddenly just become very interesting to billionaires who want to live on Mars,” I said, “has lost the only object on this planet that proves he actually works here.”
“Temporarily misplaced.”
“In an upgraded security environment. After our elevator incident. While sharing an office with the woman whose job you are openly auditioning for.” I smiled without warmth. “If I were writing your performance review, the theme would be asshole.”
He gently held out his hand.
I stared at it. Then back at him.
“I need to get through doors and checkpoints today, Rivers. Your badge will work just fine.”
“That is not a reason to hold my hand, you fucking weirdo.”
“How about I just walk three feet behind you instead and look tragic? The hand holding part is optional. You strike me as the kind of woman who appreciates having options.”
I badge-clicked the door open so goddamn hard that the glass shivered.
“You get to admire my ass,” I said. “Kiss it, maybe. You do not, however, get the part where today of all days looks like a fucking Valentine’s Day couple’s tour of OmniCore Tower. You heard Kessler. Trailing me through the entire complex like a lost golden retriever right now isn’t exactly going to help either one of us from an optics perspective.”
“Then walk quickly,” he said, falling in behind me anyway.
We started at Security, because I am a fucking adult.
Larry the front desk security officer looked at Julian, then looked back at me.
“Dr. Cross thinks his badge grew legs and walked away,” I said.
“I think I must have just set it down somewhere,” Julian corrected.
“He told me he thinks OmniCore bestowed his badge with the power of sentience and independent physical movement,” I said. “It appears everyone’s suspicions are true. Poor Dr. Cross here has clearly lost his mind. He should be escorted from the building immediately, Larry.”
Larry smiled and pulled camera stills of the lobby. Julian existed in six frames: arriving, smiling at no one in particular like a fucking psycho, touching his pocket, etc. No badge ever hit the floor. No helpful stranger picked anything up. Larry offered to print a temporary badge instead. Julian declined with the strange serenity of someone who had just realized that a temporary badge would mean he could leave my side.
“Print it, Larry” I said.
“Don’t,” he said gently. “If I am going to be useless, I would like to be thorough about it.”
I turned my head just enough to look at him.
“You are enjoying this.”
“I am enduring this in the spirit of scientific curiosity.” His mouth did the almost-smile. “Also, as I was admiring your ass, per your direction ... I couldn’t help but notice that you walk faster when you are angry. It’s great cardio. I am 22, after all. I require physical enrichment activities.”
“Say ‘physical enrichment activities’ again and I will have you badge-locked out of the fucking building.”
“You already have me badge-locked out of the fucking building, Rebecca.”
His use of the word fucking sitting alongside my first name in his mouth was a very small, very precise crime. I put it away to be dealt with later.
We did the obvious circuit one would take, I suppose. His old office ... already half boxed up ... as if he had somehow known he was moving up. The executive kitchen, where he stood in the doorway like a fucking vampire waiting to be invited in while I poured coffee I did not intend to share. The gym. The labs. The fourth floor lactation room (fucking finally ... I was about to burst!), which I opened with my badge and which he, to his credit, did not enter ... though his eyes did ... briefly ... traitorously, I believe.
Still no badge.
We stumbled upon Owen Briggs, the Facilities director, in the service corridor outside Lab 4, crouched beside an open floor panel with a tablet balanced on one knee like the world’s least glamorous altar boy.
“Dr. Rivers!” He stood way too fast, nearly dropped his tablet, then noticed Dr. Cross and his smile dimmed considerably. “Cross.”
“Briggs.” Julian leaned against the wall. “By all means. Don’t let us interrupt the glamorous world of Facilities.”
Owen ignored his slightly younger rival, which I respected, and turned fully to me. “How’s the little one? Settling back in okay? I saw the photos on the family channel. She’s got your eyes.”
And there it was. The thing that made Owen Briggs a completely different man than Julian Cross. He asked about my daughter. He meant it.
“She’s good,” I said. “Sleeping in four hour stretches now, which feels like a small miracle. Thank you for asking.”
“Anytime.” He hesitated the way he always hesitated, like he was lining up a shot he already expected to miss. “Listen ... I know I’ve asked before, and I know the answer’s usually no, but ... dinner? Maybe? Nothing fancy. Seriously Just food. I mean ... you just got back. You deserve one night that isn’t spreadsheets or a bottle.”
Beside me, Julian made a quiet sound that was definitely a laugh that he definitely wanted me to hear.
I looked at him. That infuriating little half-smile. The one that said he already knew the ending and was only sticking around for the credits. Two days ago that mouth of his had been gently suckling on my aching tits in that goddamn elevator.
I looked back at Owen.
“Yes,” I said.
Owen blinked. “Yes?”
“To dinner. Tonight, if you’re free.”
The grin that broke across his face was almost too painful to bear. Sincere. Unshielded. The kind of expression Julian Cross would have rather died than show in public.
“I’m free!” he exclaimed. “I’m so free. I’ll make a reservation. There’s that place on Fifth that does the whole --”
“Whatever you pick is fine, Owen.”