Dear Readers, this is an excerpt from one of the stories featured in my 1st erotica collection Adult Breastfeeding Stories: BOOK ONE. I hope you enjoy this milk-engorged teaser & that these words inspire you to buy the full book at Amazon for just $2.99, thank you!
Interviewing the Nanny
I was exhausted from interviewing nannies all day. My twin boys were about to turn a year old and it was time to get some help.
By 4 o’clock I’d seen three young women the agency recommended and wasn’t impressed by any of them. Maybe I was being a perfectionist, but when it came to the care of my sons it was hard to let just anyone do it no matter how qualified they looked on paper.
My breasts were full and starting to really ache. The boys were with my mother and I hadn’t pumped since lunchtime. But there rang the doorbell with the last nanny interview of the day, so I pressed against the sides of my breasts through my short turquoise halter dress for a few seconds of relief. The soft cotton was usually so comfortable and hugged my curves in a flattering way, but today I wanted to rip off every inch of clothing and soak in the bath suds ’til dusk.
I answered the door in bare feet, with my dark curls released from the tight bun style I’d worn since morning. Too tired and aching to care about having a more professional interviewer appearance anymore, I figured this last appointment would be a total wash. I would reject this one quick and then head for the bathtub before the twins were brought home by bedtime.
“Hi there. You must be Layla.” I said to the attractive blonde at the door. She was wearing tight black yoga pants topped by a tiny white v-neck t-shirt that read “imagine” across her perfectly round breasts. A little too perfectly round to be real, I thought to myself as I invited her inside the house.
“Mrs. Peters, right?” she asked.
“No, not Mrs. There’s no Mister here. I’m single.” Three years of fertility treatments and countless inseminations had made me a modern-day single mother who was on a first name basis with the staff at the nearest sperm bank. When I finally got pregnant I was overwhelmed with joy, in spite of the shock and fear of a single mother with twins on the way. The birth of my sons had made me deeply happy and dead-dog tired ever since.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Layla replied. “And good for you.” We shared a grin. “Thank you.” I said and asked her to sit down in my living room where the late afternoon light was streaming across the two overstuffed sofas and fabric-padded ottomans.
“No sharp corners in here! Very nice.” Layla said of the baby-proofed decor. I laughed. OK, maybe this interview wouldn’t be a complete wash. I was enjoying her already.
“So, Layla. Your resume is great, which is why you’re here, but tell me a bit more about you. What are your interests? Why you want this job?” I offered her some cool & fruity mint tea, but stopped in mid-pour while leaning over her glass. My breasts were officially engorged with milk now. I stood for a few seconds breathing through the pain.
“Are you all right?” Layla asked. She stood up and took the pitcher of tea from my hands, setting it on the round coffee table. I apologized and let out a long breath.
“I’m sorry, this is embarrassing. I’m nursing and I haven’t pumped all afternoon. I’m afraid I’m going to need to do that while we’re talking. Do you mind?” I pressed my swollen breasts together and kept breathing deeply as if I was in labor again.
“Of course I don’t mind. Yes, go right ahead. Let me help you with these pillows.” I’d grabbed my dual electric breast pump from the kitchen and was already setting up from the sofa. Layla propped some cushions behind my back and put one on each side to rest my arms.
“I think you’ve done this before.” I said, grinning up at her as I fitted the pump together and Layla plugged it into the wall.
“Yes, I used to be a doula. It’s on my resume.” She smiled and sat back across from me, sipping her tea and watching me with her kind blue eyes.
“Oh, wow, I’m so sorry. I did know that about you. Why did you stop?” I was delaying popping my painful breasts from my halter dress. Even though she seemed very open and comfortable, I was still a little self-conscious.
“Unpredictable hours. I loved it and miss it, but I needed a more stable schedule. I needed more sleep.”
I rolled my eyes and said “I can certainly relate to that.”
I liked her. I felt silly for hesitating. She was a doula. She’d seen a zillion naked leaking tits already, so I released my breasts one by one and tucked my clothing off to each side. Before the babies I was barely a C cup. Today I was a D cup and change. I secretly loved how my breasts had developed when I started making milk. I loved how they felt; soft but so firm, too.
I latched the two pump suction cups to my aching nipples and switched the pump on. Nothing happened. I flipped the pump switch on and off and on again. Nothing. No sound. No suction. I cursed and tried again and again. Still nothing.
“Oh, God.” I said in a panic. Layla jumped up again and sat down beside me. She tried the switch several times, too. “Let me check this for you. May I?” She held her hands in the air, ready to assist, waiting for my permission. I nodded, tearing up now from the pain and frustration. She gently touched the tops of my breasts and released each pump shaft from my thick nipples. She checked the equipment, taking it apart and putting it back together again. She turned it on again — total silence.
“Shit.” she said under her breath. Layla turned to me and saw my eyes get saucer huge with fear. She stuffed the pump back into its carrying case and scooted closer to me.
Layla thought for few long seconds and then rubbed her hands together to warm them. She spoke to me softly and directly.
“Ms. Peters, you’re in a lot of pain and your breast pump is broken. I know I’m a stranger, but I’m also a woman and a professional doula. Let me help you release your milk now.” She didn’t ask. She didn’t wait for my answer. She moved from the sofa down to the floor. She gently pushed my legs apart and moved in-between them. She pressed her warmed hands to my left engorged breast and firmly massaged me in a way that I knew meant she was helping my milk let down. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the sofa, fighting more tears from both embarrassment and the relief that someone was taking charge and touching me with such care.
Laya’s hands kneaded my left breast, then my right. Neither one of us spoke as she pressed my breasts toward my chest wall and rolled her C-shaped fingers in across my dark brown areolas. My nipples were now leaking milk into her hands. I was thinking it would take her all evening to release my pain at this rate, but I was focusing my mind on staying calm when I suddenly felt her wet mouth latch on.
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