“It’s true,” said Simon, smirking. “The entirety of a woman’s body is dedicated to the single task of becoming impregnated, carrying a baby to term, and feeding it until it can feed itself. You are, quite literally, nothing but a baby-maker.”
Yvette was wildly offended, of course. She hadn’t wanted to come to this university mixer in the first place – she always ended up with men staring at her large tits and telling her that she looked like a porn star. (She did, in fact look like a porn star – a specific and famous one – and that just made it worse.)
She *particularly* hadn’t wanted to get into a conversation with the creepy professor Simon Singer. Was he young, handsome and smart? Yes. Was he well-published? Yes. Was he the recipient of multiple high-value grants? Yes.
But his work was in the grossly named “Female Utility Project”. He was a well-documented misogynist, who had literally advanced the idea that female humans were a lower order of life than males. He had been lambasted in the media for his claim that women were biologically less intelligent than men – until a month later he had released solid, replicable, peer-reviewed research that appeared to show less activity in women’s brains when confronted with issues of mathematics and logic, but increased activity when thinking about babies, men, or sex.
Yvette hated him on principle – but she had somehow ended up backed into a corner with him, and Simon had casually said that it must be difficult for her to be here pretending to be an academic when all she really wanted was a man ejaculating into her cunt, and Yvette had taken the bait and started to argue with him. And now she was trapped in a conversation with the worst person she knew.
“How can you dismiss everything else that a woman is?” she said. “Our contributions to science, to politics, to the arts?”
He shrugged. “If your microwave oven is broken, you could use it as a small storage cupboard, perhaps. But it doesn’t change the fact it was designed to be a microwave, or that it’s a poorer cupboard than something that’s built for the purpose. A defective baby-maker is still a baby-maker, just a broken one.”
He deliberately stared at her crotch, hidden behind the cute pleated skirt she was wearing.
“When did you last use *your* baby-maker, Yvette?” he asked, still smirking.
“Fuck off,” she said. “Don’t pretend this is science. This is just misogyny dressed up in faux-evolutionary-theory.”
“Oh no,” said Simon. “It’s definitely science. Are you familiar with the concept of the biological clock? The instinctive drive in women to be impregnated at their peak fertility?”
Of course she was familiar with it, and it was patronising of him to suggest she might not be. She also knew it was bullshit.
“That’s the result of societal pressure, Simon,” she said. “It’s an effect of institutionalised patriarchy, not female nature.”
Simon laughed. “If that’s the case, then how did we isolate the gene responsible for it?”
She snorted. “You didn’t,” she said. “You’ve found the marker for producing arousal hormones, or something.”
He shook his head. “No, the full works. Fertility, arousal, psychological drive to find a secure mate, breast growth and lactation.” He smiled. “And we can turn it up or down. I think you’ll find that everything you thought of as your ‘thoughts’ and ‘your personality’ are just something that your brain does to occupy itself when it’s not working on getting you pregnant.”
“I think my brain is more than capable of regulating my body,” said Yvette dismissively. “All it takes is understanding that I’m still valid, whether I choose to have children or not.”
“Shall we make a bet?” asked Simon. “You take my treatment, where I turn up your biological clock. And all you have to do is go three weeks without having a man ejaculate in your pussy.”
“I’m going to be honest, I go three weeks or longer without fucking a man most months of the year,” said Yvette. “But if you’re just going to turn up my arousal or something, I don’t see what this proves.”
Simon shrugged. “You’re an independent woman. You have a Hitachi, I’m sure. You have fingers. If you’re horny, I’m sure you can take care of it yourself, without needing to actually fuck an actual man. Unless, of course, it’s more than just an arousal hormone, but instead your entire body reminding you of the only reason you exist…”
“If I win, you and your team can give up that research lab you have and turn it over to my linguistics researchers,” she said. “I don’t care where you go, just not there. Which won’t be a problem for you, of course, because you’re so sure you’re going to win.”
“Of course it’s not a problem,” said Simon. “And if I win, you quit your degree and take a full-time job as a test subject for my lab. Which won’t be a problem for *you*, because you’re so sure you’re not just a babymaker.”
She knew she shouldn’t agree.
But sometimes she just couldn’t help herself.
===
He gave her the injection that night, a small stab of green liquid that would rewrite her DNA to emphasise the biological clock gene. Simon insisted that it had to be injected into her breast, which made no sense, but the evil little prick clearly just wanted to stab a woman’s tits with a needle, and Yvette saw no sense in arguing. She gritted her teeth as the syringe went in, and moments later she had the drug in her system.
“Good luck,” said Simon. “Three weeks. That’s all you need to last for.”
===
Yvette noticed no changes on the first day. And no changes on the second. When the third day came and there was still no noticeable effect, she assumed that the drug had been a squib, and that in three weeks she would report to Simon that his entire research project was nothing but snake oil.
But on the morning of the fourth day she woke up wildly horny. When she began to masturbate in bet she found that her pussy juices were extra thick, and that it took only a few minutes of shoving her fingers up her fuckhole to reach a mind-blowing, body-shaking orgasm.
Her breasts ached, too.
She was horny that night, as well, and she masturbated to two orgasms in bed and fell asleep with her fingers still between her legs.
Her dreams were filled with fantasies of being fucked by a strong, handsome man. His cock slipped between her pussy lips, and when he ejaculated inside her, she woke up to find herself orgasming.
She was horny all the next day, too, and her tits hurt even worse. She masturbated in the morning, and then she found herself masturbating again on the toilet at lunch. In the evening she used her Hitachi until it felt like her pussy was going numb, and with her free hand she squeezed her aching tits, hard. It hurt, but it felt good.
By the weekend she knew that she was going to have an unusual three weeks. She was clearly going to be very horny, all the time. But she could handle that. Like Simon said, she had fingers, and a vibrator. She cancelled her social engagements for the weekend and settled in for two days of lounging naked around the house, watching porn, and masturbating. It was certainly pleasant to find herself cumming so quickly and easily.
It was only on Sunday evening that she began to realise she was in more trouble than she thought. She was Googling something on her computer – the Bright Institute, a linguistics research cooperative a few states over – but when she typed “B” and “R”, the autocomplete suggested “breeding”.
She stared at that for a moment. Why would it assume she wanted that?
And then suddenly she realised what she had been watching all weekend. She had just been clicking from one link to the next as she browsed porn sites, clicking on the video or image that seemed hottest to her, without thinking about the pattern of her watching.
But now she realised that literally everything she had watched had been men ejaculating into women’s cunts. Often with explicit views of the semen leaking out afterwards, or the women using their fingers to push it deeper inside them. Sometimes it had been dubiously consensual, with the men forcing themselves upon the women. And many of those videos had had “breeding” or “impregnation” in the titles.
She had just spent two days masturbating to breeding porn.
And then another thought occurred to her. Her tits had been hurting all weekend – but a little less than they had on Friday. Why?
Well, she hadn’t been wearing a bra, of course.
She got out a bra then and tried it on – and found to her horror that it was a struggle to cinch it closed at the back. The cups pressed into her tits painfully, and her titflesh overflowed from the cups in a not-entirely-appealing way.
She took off the bra and found a measuring tape. A quick measurement confirmed that, yes, her tits were bigger. They had grown at least one cup size – maybe two.
She stared at them in the mirror. She had already looked like a porn star. Now she looked like – what? A cow?”
She squeezed her breasts experimentally – and to her horror, a drop of glistening white liquid appeared on each of her nipples. She squeezed again, and a tiny drizzle of milk leaked from her tits and ran down her titflesh onto her hands.
She was lactating.
===
She took the Monday morning off work and stuffed herself into one of her too-small bras as best as she could. She noted that her new tits made it difficult to choose other clothes, too. A dress with a low neckline that had looked demure on her only a week ago now seemed to show acres of slutty cleavage. A white business blouse was a struggle to button shut over her mammoth fuckbags. A sweater over the top only seemed to emphasise the size of the massive mounds on her chest.
She found herself masturbating in the car as she drove. It probably wasn’t safe to masturbate and drive at the same time, but it was an automatic, and she could mostly get away with it, and it just felt so good to have her fingers up her pussy.
She parked at the mall, and made her way to a high-end lingerie shop. She browsed their selection of underwear, but it became clear that her tits were now too big for any of their standard bras.
“Perhaps you would like to try a maternity bra?” asked the shopgirl.
Yvette panicked. The maternity clothes store was just down the other end of the store – but she couldn’t stand the thought of someone seeing her going in there. They would think she was pregnant. There would be questions. And then they would ask, “If you’re not pregnant, then why are your tits so big?” They would think she had had a boob job, that she had deliberately turned herself into a porn doll.
The shopgirl saw her panic and said, “We actually have a very sexy maternity line right here,” and Yvette almost collapsed in relief.
Except that their maternity line *was* sexy. There were two sets – and the shopgirl made it clear that they *did* come as a set, and she would have to buy the panties and the garters along with the bra.
The first set had a half-cup bra that supported Yvette’s tits and exposed her nipples, and the panties were transparent, clearly showing the cleft of her cunt through the material.
The other was more practical – it not only covered Yvette’s breasts properly, but had a padded insert to catch milk leakage. The cups could be detached independently for breastfeeding. But the pads had a cost – they made Yvette’s tits look even bigger than they already are, and the overall effect of them, when she saw herself in the mirror, was of a woman who had accepted her role as a milk-producing cow.
And the panties that came with that set were, for some reason, crotchless.
She decided that buying them was less embarrassing than visiting the maternity store, and she walked out wearing the padded bra and the crotchless panties.
On the way back to her car, a man called out, “Holy fuck, look at them titties!” and laughed, and Yvette went bright red, and walked faster.
But only for a little way. Because as soon as she had heard those words, her cunt had gone into overdrive. It was so wet Yvette couldn’t think straight. And so she found herself sitting in a corner of the food court, her skirt around her waist, desperately hoping no one would look at her – or look under her table – as she frantically masturbated to orgasm while thinking of the man squeezing her tits as he fucked her.
===
There was a package waiting on her front door. She took it inside and opened it. It was from Simon, and it contained a nasty-looking metal machine with hoses and cups. A picture of Simon had been stuck to the machine, for some reason.
“By now your udders are probably producing milk,” said the note from Simon. “It’s unhealthy to try and pretend they’re not or to ignore them. It’s important for your health to milk them three times a day. This machine will help, and let you get other things done while it drains your udders. Good luck on not fucking anyone.”
The device was a milking machine. Simon had taken a bet that Yvette didn’t know much about such machines, because this was not the sort that a new mother would normally use to express milk. Instead it was a semi-industrial device, with far more power than was needed, which would actively hurt Yvette’s tits as it sucked. The intense suction and stimulation, combined with a three-times-a-day milking schedule, would also encourage Yvette’s body to produce more milk, more often, leading to further breast growth, leaky nipples, and a constant painful pressure in her milk glands.
Luckily, while Yvette knew many matters of women’s health, she had avoided learning about lactation and nursing, out of a general fear that knowing about it would somehow lead to her having a baby herself, and so Simon’s words seemed plausible to her. She had a worrying vision of milk somehow growing stale and sour in her breasts, and the idea of expressing it regularly seemed sound.
So she connected the machine’s cups to her tits and activated it.
At first the suction wasn’t much of anything. Then it was pleasurable, and she sighed, and began to rub her pussy, as she watched a thin trickle of milk being drawn out of her nipple and into the plastic tubing.
And then it began to hurt. A lot.
She moaned and mewled, and fingered her cunt harder. As long as she rubbed her pussy, the pain felt good. In fact, it made her masturbation better. It hurt a lot – but soon she was cumming, and cumming again, and then finally the machine was done.
Her tits had produced barely any milk – maybe a few tablespoons – but it still felt good to have it out of her.
She milked herself again before bed, orgasming twice in the process, and this time it produced a little more milk.
===
On Tuesday, she woke up fumbling for the milker. She needed that pain in her tits, so that she could finger her pussy and cum. She set the cups on her nipples and sighed as the painful suction began. She began to finger her cunt, and moaned happily. It was only as her orgasm was nearing that she actually opened her eyes properly to the morning – and saw the picture of Simon that had been stuck to the milking machine.
She couldn’t help it. She had a sudden vision of Simon in her bed, his cock inside her pussy, his hands squeezing the milk from her tits. She pictured him ejaculating inside her – and then *she* was cumming, her whole body writhing at the disgusting, hateful thought.
God – Simon cumming in her pussy. What a terrible thought. She disconnected herself from the milking machine, and fumbled frantically for her purse, to take her birth control, a precaution against the idea of Simon ever getting his cum into her womb.
Except that the box of birth control pills in her purse was empty. All the pills were gone. In a box that should have lasted another fortnight.
Now that she thought about it, she didn’t remember taking birth control yesterday. Or the day before. Or… was it possible the last time she had taken it was Wednesday of last week? And where was it?
Suddenly she had a vague memory of standing at her toilet, late at night, and popping out all the pills, and then flushing them down her toilet. And masturbating.
Was it real? Had she done that? But the pills were definitely gone.
She needed to get more. Soon. She would go to the chemist today.
But she didn’t go to the chemist that day. Or the next day.
In fact, that was the last time she thought about birth control pills until it was far, far too late.
===
You can read the entirety of “The Ticking of the Clock” in my e-book The Milk Industry, available now for only $4.99 USD at AllTheseRoadworks.com! Plus your purchase helps keep the lights on so I can keep writing! (Click here to view in store.)
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