Milk-drunk

Chapter 1 - Milk-Drunk

He was so full by the end of our first session. It was the cutest thing I'd ever seen. He was so skinny, and his belly was completely bowed out and just a little red, skin gone shiny. Every time he moved even a little, you could hear it all sloshing inside him. "Look at you!" I gave his belly a poke and he groaned. "Someone was feeling greedy, huh?"

Not that I minded. I like greedy. It's kind of my whole thing. I like milk-drunk, too, and he was certainly that. It was right after I upped my hormone regimen to increase my milk production, and our date was kind of an experiment. A kink like this kinda limits your dating pool, but thankfully there's always a man with an empty belly and no shame. He wasn't the first to drink from me, but he was the first to be able to drink so much all in one go. I'd never made someone so round before.

I really liked it.

He liked it just as much, if not more. His cock was straining up toward the curve of his bloated little tummy, begging for attention. I straddled him, humming with pleasure as I guided him inside me. He tried so hard to thrust, but I pushed him back down, hand resting on his flat chest to keep him still. I wasn't about to have him burning calories when I was happy to do all the work. He practically melted into the pillows once he realized he could just lie there with a belly full of milk sloshing over him-something I knew he'd fantasized about a hundred times.

By the time I got what I wanted, he could barely walk. I had to help the poor man get dressed to get him out the door. He looked precious trying to tug his t-shirt over that evening's bloat.

I saw him a second time just a couple nights later. He showed up looking downright starved, so of course I had to fix him. Thirty minutes later, he looked even bigger than our first night. "I don't know where you're putting it all." I traced the solid curve of him with a fingernail, leaving behind a faint mark that faded as he shivered.

"I don't, either," he managed. Poor thing got the hiccups after that, and I got to rub that little ball belly and help him digest. We didn't do much else that night because he'd really overdone it, but I wasn't about to complain about getting to see someone huffing and puffing because they'd been too much of a glutton to pull themselves away from me.

I was surprised when he asked if we could see each other more regularly. Usually I didn't see anyone for more than a few dates. The novelty of living out the particular fantasy they all had of fucking the MILFiest non-mother to walk the earth, who also happened to have a lactation kink and tits bigger than their head, would wear off and they'd move on. Which was just fine with me. Part of what I liked about the whole thing was counting up just how many hungry bellies I'd filled.

But this one? He was like a bottomless pit. Always begging for more. I'd never been with someone exclusively before-not once I'd really gotten going with this kink. I was too much for one person, or so I'd thought.

He would take every opportunity to drink from me until he was nearly ready to burst. Any kink play has that pleasant illicit flavor to it, but our time together felt even more so. In the middle of the day on a Tuesday, he'd call me in the middle of his work day and ask if we could meet somewhere. "What, you're going to waddle into work after I stuff you full of 'lunch'?" I laughed the first time he said it. I assumed there was no way he was serious-that he just wanted to flirt over the phone.

"Yes." His answer was simple and threw me off a little. He teased me like I usually teased him. "I want to walk back inside looking twice the size I was when I went to lunch. I want to sit in a meeting trying not to burp, shirt buttons gapped over my belly, too full to feel embarrassed even though I really should be. I want to show up looking disheveled and fuck-drunk and like I'm about to pop."

It was easy to give him exactly what he asked for when he knew just the right words to say.

Seeing him go from skinny with a concave little stomach to massively bloated and still begging for more every time we saw each other was addicting. The rare days when we didn't see each other felt agonizingly long. Even so, I worried a little that I might get bored. How many times could we do the same thing and still have it be fun?

How lucky, then, that all those feeding sessions started to stick to him. I pointed it out as soon as I noticed one night when he was staying over, pinching at the little extra bit of fat that I noticed on his hips. "Oooh, what's this?"

He was so embarrassed by it, certain that I was pointing it out because I didn't like it. He stammered that he could start dieting if I wanted him to, or work out so his body didn't change.

"Don't you dare!" I half-joked, already salivating at the possibilities that little bit of puppy fat hinted at. "Unless you really want to. Do you want to?"

He blushed deeply, squirming like I was prodding at his deepest, darkest secrets. He mumbled something, and I felt my face splitting into a grin I'm sure was absolutely unbearable.

"What was that?" I dug a finger into his tummy.

"I want to get fatter," he whispered, just a little louder. "I want you to... fatten me up."

The prospect was intriguing. I'd always chased the high of seeing a partner sloshy-full with a purely liquid bloat. Somehow, weight gain as a consequence of that had never occurred to me, let alone that weight gain could have a similar appeal.

"Tell me more."

And he did-with some difficulty, because of course I couldn't resist making him come while he talked about how badly he wanted to turn into something soft and sweet, a plump little muffin with a belly to grab and shamefully wide hips. As the words poured out of him between whimpers and whines, his greedy, seemingly boundless appetite made much more sense to me. This was what he'd really wanted all along: to glut himself not only for the sake of it, but to render himself plush and soft and squeezable.

Once his secret was finally out, it was almost like he had more room to stuff himself. On the mornings after he stayed the night, we'd start with a long feeding session. A few times a week, he'd get puffed full of creamy, fattening liquid lunch. In the evenings, he would test his limits, drinking until nothing else would fit inside him, until he was so full he couldn't form words.

He blossomed and swelled, so much faster than I ever would've imagined. It seemed like every week I could see him change: a skinny stomach blooming into a little pooch, then a tummy, then a gut, and eventually a belly that overflowed my hands, lusciously soft to hold even when he'd drunk me completely dry and left himself reeling and impossibly full.

I think it helped that I started treating him to other things-all with a secret special ingredient, of course-that he could bring to work for lunch or enjoy at home: decadent savory pies with a creamy roux filling, thick sandwiches on homemade milk bread, cookies and muffins and pastries to snack on. Watching him fill out was a grand pleasure, and every new pound left me eager for more.

Now, it's almost funny to remember him as he was that first night: bony and hungry and so very eager, a full belly an alien thing on his slight frame. Such a marked difference from the consummate glutton I know so well. He's unrecognizable these days, body marked by indolence and his indulgent diet, rolls swelling outward, soft as the milk that made them, just the way he always wanted.