Chapter 1

In the sun-drenched hills of their sprawling estate overlooking the Pacific Ocean, where the breeze mingled with the scent of blooming jasmine, Bill and Rebecca had carved out a life of opulent seclusion. At 52, Bill was a retired tech executive, his broad-shouldered frame a remnant of his athletic youth, now softened by years of fine dining and leisurely pursuits. His belly, a modest pouch that strained against the crisp linen of his shirts, was no longer a source of mild self-consciousness but a point of adoration for Rebecca. She, at 48, was a skilled nutritionist with a medical background, her slim, curvaceous figure a testament to her disciplined regimen—toned legs that curved gracefully, a narrow waist flaring into hips that swayed with confident allure, and large, full breasts that she accentuated with plunging necklines at her clinic. Those breasts, heavy and inviting, drew lingering glances, but they were for Bill alone.

Rebecca’s days were spent guiding new mothers through the wonders of breastfeeding, witnessing firsthand the miraculous efficiency of mother’s milk—a liquid denser in calories than any other natural substance, packed with fats, proteins, and sugars engineered by evolution for rapid growth. It was the ultimate elixir for fattening, promoting plumpness and vitality in infants. One sultry evening, as they lounged by the infinity pool, the water reflecting the fiery sunset, Rebecca’s fingers traced lazy circles over Bill’s belly, feeling the warm, yielding flesh beneath his shirt. A spark ignited in her mind: why not harness this power for their private desires? She craved to see his belly expand, to watch it swell into a round, dominant presence—a physical manifestation of their deepening bond, a canvas for her affection. Inducing lactation in herself, without pregnancy, could turn her body into an endless fountain of indulgence, calorie-rich and intimate, tailored just for him.

She kept her plan veiled at first, delving into her medical texts and discreetly consulting colleagues under the guise of professional curiosity. The process was feasible: a cocktail of hormone therapy, herbal supplements to elevate prolactin, combined with a strict pumping schedule and manual stimulation.

Rebecca began in secret, her mornings starting with the soft whir of the electric pump in the privacy of her bathroom. As the weeks progressed, her breasts transformed—swelling with a tender fullness, veins blooming blue beneath the pale skin, nipples darkening and elongating into sensitive peaks that throbbed at the slightest brush of fabric.

The first droplets emerged after persistent effort: warm, sticky beads that leaked during her showers, tracing wet paths down her abdomen and pooling between her thighs. The sensation was unexpectedly arousing—the rhythmic suction of the pump mimicking a lover’s insistent mouth, building a deep pressure in her chest that radiated southward, igniting a slow burn in her core. Her body flushed hot, skin prickling with goosebumps as milk expressed in hesitant spurts, her free hand often wandering to caress the slick heat between her legs, fingers circling her center in sync with the machine’s pulse, climaxing in quiet shudders that left her breathless and her milk flowing more freely.

One candlelit evening, over dinner Rebecca unveiled her secret. She leaned forward, her cleavage a tantalizing invitation under the low light.

“Darling,” she murmured, her voice husky with anticipation, “I’ve been thinking about your belly—how much I love its softness, how it makes you look so… commanding. I would like to see it grow, rounder, fuller, just for us.”

Bill chuckled, patting his midsection with a mix of amusement and hesitancy, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut. “Grow? I’m already bursting out of my belts, Becca.” Undeterred, she explained the science of mother’s milk—its unparalleled caloric density, its natural fattening prowess—and confessed her induction. “It’s for us,” she whispered, her cheeks flushing a deep rose. “Safe, intimate… and incredibly arousing to me and i think for you.”

Bill’s reluctance flickered—images of infancy clashing with his manhood—but Rebecca’s expertise lending an air of legitimacy.

He agreed, wanting to please her.

That night, in their expansive bed she guided him gently. The room was dimly lit by moonlight, casting ethereal glows on her curves. She straddled his hips, her slim thighs pressing against his sides, and cupped one engorged breast, offering it to him. “Just taste,” she coaxed, her nipple already beading with a pearl of milk. Hesitantly, Bill leaned in, his lips brushing the warm, velvety skin. As he latched on, a rush of milk flooded his mouth—thick and decadent, sweeter than honeyed cream, with a subtle richness that coated his tongue and throat like liquid silk. Each swallow sent warmth blooming in his chest, settling heavily in his stomach, a satisfying weight that made his small belly feel immediately fuller, the skin stretching just a fraction tauter.

Arousal pooled hot and slick between her thighs, her center pulsing in time with his swallows, the pressure building to an unbearable peak. She cradled his head, fingers tangling in his hair, moaning softly as waves of pleasure radiated outward, her free breast leaking in sympathy, the milk’s scent—a faint, sweet musk—filling the air.

Bill’s hesitation dissolved into hunger; the primal act stirred something feral within him, his erection straining as the milk’s warmth spread, bloating his belly with a gentle swelling.

They made love with renewed fervor, his hands roaming her curves—the soft swell of her hips, the fullness of her breasts—as he thrust, his belly pressing firmly against her taut abdomen, the slight give creating a delicious friction that heightened every sensation.

Rebecca’s climaxes came in multiples, triggered by the lingering ache in her nipples and the feel of his expanding form, her inner walls clenching around him as she whispered, “i can feel you swelling for me already, so full…”

From that night, their ritual blossomed into an all-encompassing obsession, weaving through their days. Mornings dawned with Rebecca awakening Bill in their bed, climbing atop him with a predatory grace, her breasts hovering like ripe pendants above his face, nipples already erect and glistening. “Drink deep, my love,” she’d purr, guiding him to latch. The milk gushed forth—often a pint or more per breast—its taste evolving with her diet, always velvety and addictive. Bill suckled eagerly, the liquid filling him until his belly distended noticeably, a firm dome pressing against her core as she rocked gently, the bloat sloshing with each movement. He’d rub its newly forming sides absentmindedly, aroused by the tautness overlying the softening fat, his fingers sinking up into the plush underside.

The enlargement fascinated Bill, becoming a private erotic fixation. In the shower, under the cascading warmth of multiple jets that mimicked tropical rain, he’d stand alone at times, soap lathering his skin in frothy suds.

His hands would glide over the upper curve of his belly—now a prominent swell after months of indulgence—the skin stretched smooth and sensitive, water pooling in the shallow navel before trickling down. The sensation was intoxicating: the heat amplifying the fullness, the gurgle of remnants echoing softly. Lower, he’d explore his underbelly, where fat had folded into a deep, warm, velvety crease- moist and slick under the spray, yielding like plush velvet to his probing fingers. Pressing up into the fold sent shivers up his spine, arousal building as he imagined Rebecca’s touch, his erection throbbing in response to the weight pulling downward, the jiggle with each shift a reminder of his transformation.

Her nipples, hypersensitive beacons, throbbed with each pull, sending electric pulses straight to her clit, building contractions that left her thighs trembling. The psychological thrill amplified it: watching Bill’s belly inflate under her gaze, her hands kneading the layers—taut bloat over yielding fat—the power of her milk reshaping him stirring a dominant heat within her. Sensory details layered on: the soft gulps of his swallowing, the creamy scent mingling with their sweat.

One sultry afternoon by the pool, Rebecca lay topless on a chaise, her breasts glistening with leaked milk that evaporated slowly in the heat.

Bill knelt beside her, his mouth enveloping her nipple, sucking with increasing fervor as milk jetted forth, filling him rapidly. His hanging belly ballooned, pressing against the lounge, a visible swell that Rebecca couldn’t resist. She slipped a hand under his swim trunks, fingers delving into his deepening underbelly fold—a warm, hidden crease of soft flesh that enveloped her touch like a secret embrace. “Feel that depth,” she whispered, her fingers probing, massaging sensitively, sending Bill into shudders of pleasure, the fold’s tenderness amplifying his arousal as his gut swayed softly.

In the shower later, she surprised him from behind, her naked body pressing against his back, breasts molding to his skin with their heavy warmth. Her arm snaked around, hand sliding again into that intimate fold, lifting, fingers exploring the plush, moist weight as water cascaded over them. The sensation was electric for Bill—the lift and release of weight, the teasing proximity to his erection—while Rebecca ground against him, her own arousal peaking from the contrast of his softness against her firmness.

Over the ensuing months, Bill’s body underwent a dramatic metamorphosis, gaining nearly eighty pounds, his belly evolving into a commanding, swaying dome that jiggled with every step, resting heavily on his thighs when seated. The fat dimpled under her touch, stretch marks silvering like erotic tattoos. Their evenings in the shower or oversized tub became symphonies of sensuality: Rebecca reclining with Bill’s head in her lap, milk flowing leisurely as she climaxed from the prolonged stimulation alone, her body convulsing in waves of pleasure. In the huge tub, submerged in scented bubbles, she’d float atop him, breasts buoyant and leaking cloudy swirls into the water, his belly rising like an island as they made love slowly, the sloshing amplifying their rhythms.

Rebecca’s triggers deepened: the sound of his contented gurgles, the taste of her milk on his lips during kisses, the visual of his paunch as a cushion during straddled feedings. One twilight in their bedroom, she mounted him, feeding him while kneading his underbelly, the dual pleasures pushing her to multiple, shattering orgasms, milk surging in response.

Their love, now unbreakable, was etched in every curve and sensation—a testament to growth, ecstasy, and the milk that bound them in eternal desire. As the Pacific waves crashed below, there echoed moans of fulfillment, promising endless expansions of passion.