Milking It

I couldn’t believe it. My mom’s friend, Sarah, had left me in a copy of her body. I was just a 15-year-old boy. I was supposed to be housesitting for her, while she was away on a trip with her husband and newborn. It was both Sarah and Mom’s idea to turn me into her clone. It would be easier, so I didn’t have to pack my own clothes. Perhaps even educational. Now I was alone in their apartment. For the week.

The house was quiet except for the gentle hum of the fridge and, beneath it, the double-throb of my own—her own—heartbeat, pulsing in a sternum two inches higher than I remembered. My hands, small and narrow, shook as I raised them to touch my face. The cheekbones were sharp, foreign. The lips plump and glistening, even though I hadn’t put on chapstick. The brown roots of her hair were just beginning to show, a half-inch of rebellion against the honey-blonde. I ran my tongue over Sarah’s teeth, as if I could find a seam, a break in the magic. Nothing. I was her, right down to the taste of the last thing she’d eaten (something sweet, maybe a muffin).

And, as if that wasn’t enough, Sarah was still in the throes of postpartum. She’d given birth to little Moira only three months ago. The result was that my—Sarah’s—breasts were not only enormous but constantly on the verge of leaking, prickling with pressure, heavy as sandbags.

The upside was that at least I wouldn’t have to take care of the actual baby.

In the bathroom mirror, I stared at myself, at the bra straps digging into my shoulders and my breasts.

I slowly, nervously released her breasts.

I lifted them, and the weight surprised me. Each breast fit perfectly into my palm, impossibly soft, and yet there was this urgent density, a mass that seemed to concentrate right behind the nipple.

I could feel, vividly, the pulse of pressure. It wasn’t pain, exactly, but an insistent fullness, a prickling discomfort that demanded relief. I swallowed, hopelessly, and then, unable to help myself, I gave a gentle squeeze. It was so easy—too easy. A single, milky bead welled up at the tip, suspended for a second like a drop of dew, before gravity pulled it free, and it rolled down my thumb, leaving a faint, sticky trail. I stared, dumbstruck, at the gleaming evidence. I could feel the heat rise in my cheeks, a flush that crept all the way up to my forehead.

I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be horrified, so I did both, a choked little giggle that echoed against the tile. This was my life now, for the week. These were my problems. And I guessed it was my job to figure out how to deal with them.

I rolled my shoulders, braced myself against the edge of the sink, and, after a moment’s hesitation, cupped one of her breasts, guiding it up until Sarah’s nipple—my nipple, the word caught in my brain and fizzed there—hovered, impossibly close, to my lips. I stared at it, the dusky pink areola standing out stark and vulnerable. I pressed the soft skin against my cheek, just to feel the weight, the warmth. Then, driven by a strange fascination and a need to know what it would feel like, I parted my lips and drew it into my mouth.

The sensation was immediate and overwhelming. The skin was softer than anything I could have imagined, and the tip seemed to swell in response to the pressure of my tongue. I didn’t even have to suck hard—milk welled up, sweet and warm, and spilled onto my tongue. The taste was rich, almost buttery. The flavor was so unexpected that I nearly choked.

Heat leapt from my face to my chest. I shuddered with embarrassment and a strange, guilty pleasure. My body responded without my permission; my back arched, my hand squeezed tighter, and more of the warm, faintly sweet liquid filled my mouth. I swallowed, then drew a shaky breath, trying to steady myself.

It was getting messy. I hadn’t prepared at all: Milk was spilling out, warm and sudden, leaking across her skin and dripping down my chin, pooling in the hollow above her collarbone. I tried to stop it with my other hand but only succeeded in smearing it further: milky fingerprints across my chest, sticky and inevitable. The stream wasn’t a polite trickle, either. In the mirror, I watched myself, slack-jawed and astonished, as a second bead, then a third, blossomed at the tip of the other nipple and rolled down in synchronized paths, pale and glossy in the bathroom’s fluorescent light.

I pressed in, circled the areola with my thumb, and watched as the milk rose up, proud and defiant, and then, in a surge of embarrassment and desire, I bent forward and drank straight from my own nipple.

It was messier than before. It dribbled out of the corner of my mouth, down my chin, all over Sarah’s borrowed body. I couldn’t stop, not until I’d emptied at least a little of the fullness inside me.