Story: The Milk Girls, Part 1

Tybalt Star was a terrible man to work for.

He was a billionaire, owner of a million questionable niche businesses and weird start-ups.  A few of them had turned out to be incredibly profitable, and they funded his strange researches and dubious products elsewhere.

He was openly a member of the Mars Esoteric Lodge, a men’s club for ultra-wealthy misogynists that advocated for legalised rape and lawful enslavement of women.  At his personal offices, his secretarial staff occupied an entire floor, and they were all women, and all – very obviously – women with large breasts.

He could likely have chosen willing bimbos who were willing to fuck their way to the top – but he seemed to take pleasure in employing only women who would be *humiliated* by knowing that their tits had got them the job, and who would be ashamed every day to turn up to the office, knowing what the casual observer would assume about them.  

The entire secretarial staff were blushing, insecure, quiet women who longed to dress in a way that would hide the size of their bosom, yet worried about the possibility of being fired if they didn’t look as big-titted as every other woman on the floor.

In addition to their insecurity, they were also desperate.  Every woman in Star’s secretarial staff needed the money – otherwise they wouldn’t have agreed to provide a signed nude photograph as part of their induction process, to be held on their file “in case it was needed”.  Nor would they have agreed to install apps on their phones that gave Mr Star access to their phone cameras, social media and email accounts, banking apps, browser histories and home networks.

It was never said out loud, but every secretary knew the implication – if they displeased Mr Star in their job, the consequences for them would be worse than being fired.

He occasionally announced demeaning corporate activities for the secretaries.  The first of these had been a bikini competition, with a small cash prize for the girl who modelled the sexiest bikini, and a note that the girl in the *least* sexy bikini would “meet with his disapproval”.

The secretaries had immediately gone out to purchase micro-kinis, that were little more than string, in many cases not even covering the nipple and vanishing between the cunt-lips.  They had stood, practically naked, blushing with humiliation, as Mr Star had inspected their bodies.

The one girl who wore no bikini at all and spread her cunt lips for him with her fingers got the cash prize.  The girl who had worn a regular bikini was fired.  And when she started applying for jobs, and prospective employers would contact Mr Star for a reference, Mr Star made it public knowledge that his response to such requests was a copy of the girl’s nude photo, along with the text, “She is very stupid but she makes a pleasantly cow-like noise when you penetrate her cunt.”  Eventually, a rumour circulated around the office that the girl had been forced to take a job as a stripper.

Fiona was one of Mr Star’s secretaries, and she had been there for a year.  Early in her employment she had been furious at the degrading treatment of the women on the secretarial floor.  She had entertained fantasies of quitting, or complaining to the media, or to a union.  But she had not done any of those things, and she had continued to turn up to work every day, and when the business with the email address happened she finally had to accept that she was never going to rebel.

She had gone without a work email address for a month.  IT had said there was a problem in creating it.  And then one day she found a printed letter on her desk from IT saying that she finally had an email address.

The address was “giant_fuckbags [at] t-star-corp.com”.

Fiona had complained.  This wasn’t her name, and it was degrading.  

IT told her that Mr Star had recommended it for her personally, and that if she didn’t like it she could complain to him.

Fiona looked at the door to Mr Star’s office.  She tried to imagine storming in angrily and objecting to the email address.

She remembered the girl who had worn the normal bikini, and what had happened to her.

She returned to her desk, and just started accepting email at the “giant_fuckbags” address.

But passivity just flagged her as an easy victim, and a week later Mr Star appeared at her desk in person.

“There’s a problem with your email address, Fiona,” said Mr Star.  

Fiona’s heart leapt.  “Yes, sir!” she said.  “With my work address…”

He frowned.  “No, not with your work address,” he said.  “With your personal address.  I had some work for you to look at at home, so I tried to send it to giant_fuckbags [at] gmail.com, and it told me that address didn’t exist.”

“Well, that’s not my personal address, sir,” said Fiona.

Star frowned.  “Why not?” he said.  “Having a different address is confusing.”

Fiona opened her mouth, but didn’t know what to say.  It occurred to her then that Mr Star might not even know her real name – that in his head he thought of her only as “Giant Fuckbags”.

“Start that address at once,” he told her.  “I want it to be the only address you use for personal communication.  Close any other accounts you have.  You have until the end of the day.”

And with that, he left, and Fiona could only stare after him in horror and despair.

She should have quit.  She should have refused.

Instead she started a new email account for “giant_fuckbags”.  And sent a message to everyone she knew, advising them of the new address.  And then closed her old email account.

That night, at home, she went through every subscription and membership she held and advised the companies that they could now contact her at “giant_fuckbags”.  And she ordered new business cards with the new email.

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It got worse when Sweetmelons arrived – 20 years old, blonde, pretty, and a newly single mother of twins.

Sweetmelons was not her real name, they learned later.  She told them eagerly that her name was Lenore, as if she expected them to use it.  But Mr Star had introduced her as Sweetmelons, and her email address was “sweetmelons [at] t-star-corp.com”, and none of the secretaries dared to call her by any other name.

“I’d like to introduce you all to our newest secretary,” Mr Star had said, leading the attractive, shy blonde girl onto the floor.  “Her name is Sweetmelons, and she’s qualified for making coffee and doing filing.”  He laughed . “Well, actually she used to be a junior lawyer over at Star Electronics, but then she seduced her boss like a little slut, and got knocked up.  Didn’t you, Sweetmelons?”

Sweetmelons just blushed.

“Well, as you know, that should be a firing offence, but Sweetmelons here is so pretty I decided to give her another chance with our secretarial pool, once she squirted out her little twin sprogs,” said Mr Star.  “On the understanding that she was going to cooperate with one of our research projects.”  He laughed, as if this were a joke, and nudged Sweetmelons.  She gave a little, humiliated laugh as well.

“Now, as you all know, there’s no maternity leave at my companies, so she has her sister minding the babies,” continued Star.  “I’ve even generously arranged for her sister to have treatments to get her lactating, so she can breastfeed the little tykes while Sweetmelons is away.  And Sweetmelons is going to pay me back by doing a little overtime at the local brothel, aren’t you, Sweetmelons?”

Sweetmelons nodded, in a broken, humiliated way, and Fiona was shocked.  Even with what she knew about Mr Star, she couldn’t believe he’d convinced this young woman to prostitute herself to fund her childcare – and go back to work with two newborns.

But she was more shocked a moment later.  And that was because Mr Star casually reached down and lifted up Sweetmelons’ dress to expose her nude breasts.  She wasn’t wearing a bra.  And there was a little clear plastic cup fixed to each of her nipples.

“Now, we’re very health conscious here at the Star Group,” said Mr Star, “and we want the best for our employees.  Sweetmelons here is lactating, having just given birth, and it’s important that she keep lactating so that she can feed her babies when she goes home, before going out to the brothel, and when she gets home at night, and in the mornings.  And I’ve seen some very interesting new studies on the best way to treat lactating tits, and we’re going to make sure Sweetmelons follows that advice.”

“Number one is to keep the udders aerated!” he went on.  “No hiding them in bras or blouses.  They do best when they’re out in the open.  You’re all women here, and I’m sure you won’t mind Sweetmelons having her jugs out during the work day, will you?”

No one dared to answer.

“Number two is to prevent leakage,” said Mr Star.  “You can see these little suction tubes on Sweetmelons’ nipples.  I’m told they’re *quite* painful, and over time they may cause her nipples to become longer and more prominent, but they will collect all the excess milk leaking from her funbags, and stop that from being a sanitation hazard for the office.  She’ll wear them all the time when she’s at work, except during milkings.”

Fiona trembled when she heard “milkings”.

“And number three, Sweetmelons needs to be regularly milked,” said Mr Star.  “Her whole biology right now is aimed at putting milk into mouths, and seeing as her babies aren’t here, that milk needs to go somewhere else.  Now, in the past a new mother might have expressed milk into bottles for her newborns using a pump, or even hand-milked herself.  But the new science suggests that’s just not the best thing for a healthy udder – and besides, her sister will be providing that milk soon enough.”

He shook his head.  “No, the best thing for a lactating udder is to be used for the purpose it was intended.  And by that, I mean that the milk should be sucked from her tits by human mouths.”

He smiled.  “That’s where I expect you girls to help out.  There are 28 of you on this floor, and I expect each of you to take a 15 minute shift sucking on one of Sweetmelons’ udders.  If you go one at at time and alternate udders, that’ll keep her constantly milked for all seven working hours of her day.  Or you can double-team her and give her some rest time between milkings.”

He shook his head.  “Now, at first I expect that only some of you will be able to draw milk from her, but I expect that with constant suction her milk production will increase nicely, and fairly soon you should all be able to get a little milky treat from her.”

A girl raised her hand awkwardly.  Everyone looked at her, expecting that whoever was daring to ask a question would probably be fired – but it was red-headed Angela, and she had some of the biggest tits on the floor, so she might actually be safe.

“Won’t it hurt her?” asked Angela.  “To be… sucked on for seven hours straight?”

Mr Star laughed.  “Oh, I imagine it will hurt tremendously, but it will truly be the best thing for her.  If she starts to complain, I *do* expect you girls to hold her down.  It really is very important for her that this happens.”

He cast his eyes over the room, and his gaze settled on Fiona.  “You there,” he said.  “Giant Fuckbags.  Why don’t you come over and get the process started?”

Fiona trembled.  She didn’t want to suck on another woman’s tits – particularly not in public, and particularly not with a woman whose consent seemed to be extremely dubious.

But she imagined what her referee report might look like if she refused – a nude picture of her, and the text, “Adequate fuckbags and wet holes, a lot of fun if you don’t need your cows to have brains.”

And so she did as she was told.

She slowly approached Sweetmelons.  The girl looked like a deer trapped in headlights – frightened, humiliated, and with no idea of how to escape, no matter how much she wanted to.

Fiona wanted to say she was sorry about this, but Mr Star was right there.

So she leaned down, and took one of Sweetmelons’ large breasts in both hands, and pressed her lips against her perky little nipple.  

And she began to suck.

The milk came almost immediately, and when it did Sweetmelons made a cute little squeaking sound.  Fiona sucked harder.  The woman’s milk tasted a little sweet and fatty.  It tasted good.

And to her alarm, she felt a response to the taste of that milk – a response in her cunt.  A little warm, happy throb.

Mr Star reached down and stroked Fiona’s hair as she sucked.

“There,” he said.  “Doesn’t that feel good?  Doesn’t that feel normal?”

And when Fiona’s cunt throbbed again, at the touch of Mr Star’s hand, she knew, with a deep, sickening feeling, that this was only the beginning….

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