Erotic short. A country doctor finds his footman in an unexpected condition.
Rated E, cis M/trans M, 3.3k. Featuring older!trans/intersex doctor/younger!cis footman; the footman is lactating and the doctor is really into it. Featuring lactation, milking, some mild sadism and humiliation, lots of praise, PIV sex, eagerness, D/s dynamics, age difference. There’s reference and implication throughout to feeding and weight gain as the younger man is skinny, but no feeding within the course of the fic.
It’s employer/employee and with the added doctor/patient aspect, plus the doctor is not thinking much about Tristan’s input, so the consent here can be seen as dubious, but the younger lad is enthusiastically consenting when he realises what’s happening.
Terms used for the cis boy are cock and also a lot of tits and breasts; terms used for the trans man are cock, no reference to his chest, vague reference to his hole.
It was a few months ago now that Horne had first come into Nathaniel’s room and advised, in polite but gently concerned tones, that he had reason to believe that the new footman had some manner of health issue he was for whatever reason unwilling to discuss.
Nathaniel remembered turning to look at him, frowning as Horne set clean clothes into the dresser. “Health issue?” he’d repeated, reaching up and touching through his beard.
The young man had seemed to him hale and hearty when he’d interviewed him — while a factor in Nathaniel taking Tristan on had been because he was the son of a good friend of Mrs Hardiman’s, the main reason he’d taken the young man on at all had been to aid Horne in his duties and ensure he wasn’t overtaxed. Mr Horne was by no means an ancient man, but he was past fifty and quite unwilling to retire, and while Nathaniel would keep him employed for as long as he desired to be, there was a limit to how much he would see the old man worked in the course of the day.
Tristan was often rushing between Mr Horne and Mrs Buckley, helping all over the house, and at no point had Nathaniel even considered he might not be the picture of health. He was naturally somewhat pale — his hair was white-blond and his eyelashes particularly prominent, and rather tragically for the young man he had a skin tone reminiscent of fresh paper — and Horne’s frequent prescriptions of time out of doors had done little to ameliorate matters; he was also very thin, but not so thin as to be infirm, and he was strong enough to go about his duties without any problems.
“What manner of health issue?” he’d asked as Horne had turned to look at him seriously, his lips frowning. “Is it interfering with his duties?”
“No, sir,” Horne had replied. “Merely that the young man is extremely shy about being partially undressed in front of me — nothing wrong with that, of course, we’re relative strangers, but there’s a certain frantic energy to his fear, and I caught a glimpse of bandages beneath his shirt.”
“An infection, you think?”
“I said if he were in any pain, that I could assist him, and that of course, you are a doctor, sir. He assured me it was of no consequence.”
“Keep an eye on him,” Nathaniel had said softly. “I wouldn’t like to invade his privacy, but if there is cause for concern…”
“Thank you, sir,” Horne had said, and that had been the end of it, for a while, but a few weeks ago Horne had walked in on the young man scrubbing at a shirt in the middle of the night, and he’d refused to speak about it to Horne directly.
Nathaniel is rather frustrated about it, honestly, that he should have the young man seeing him in the evening when his medical appointments ought be finished for the day, and he shudders to think what manner of infection he’s been nursing for these past weeks.
The boy is shy as he comes into Nathaniel’s office — with the house placed as it is on an incline, the surgery is accessible from the street at the basement level, shared with the servants’ quarters at the back, whereas the house proper is accessible from the other side at the ground level, through the garden. It means that as far as doctors’ surgeries go, the room is often particularly cold, particularly now that evening is setting in, and he’s eager to go upstairs to sit beside the fire before dinner.
“Tristan,” Nathaniel says crisply, washing his hands in the basin. “Do you know why Mr Horne has sent you down to me?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” says Tristan immediately, biting his lip and looking at him nervously — his pale cheeks have a delicate pinkness to them, and somehow it makes him look even paler. “I promise there’s nothing wrong with me, only — ”
“Tristan,” Nathaniel says tiredly, drying off his hands, “Mr Horne has informed me he’s seen you washing your shirts, and you’ve gone through a good many bandages. Whatever is wrong, young man, I am a physician, and I should rather we attend to it than let it fester. Shirt off, if you please.”
“Sir — ”
“Tristan Sunderland,” Nathaniel says, “if you will not permit me to attend this, I will refer you to a colleague — and make no mistake, we will be going immediately. I’ll bring you out to the car and we’ll drive into Preston directly.”
Tristan looks at him helplessly.
There’s something about him, pale as he is and so skinny with the dramatic edges to his jaw and cheekbones, that makes him look older than he is — he’s only nineteen, due to be twenty come October, but with his appearance, he could easily be somewhat older, could declare himself to be twenty-five or even thirty, and Nathaniel thinks he might believe it. His voice is soft and delicate, but its tone is rich and it comes from deep in his chest.
“Fine,” he mutters finally, with an attitude rather suited to his age, or perhaps a boy rather younger. Nathaniel presses his lips together, displeased, but he gestures to the leather bench to one side of the room and draws the screen across for him.
Tristan sets aside his jacket and his vest, and commences to unbutton his shirt, letting his braces fall about his waist. He’s not wearing a vest, but he is, as Horne had suspected, wearing bandages wrapped around his chest, and Nathaniel feels a shifting in his chest. For all the inconvenience of the situation frustrates him, how can he not feel compassion for the young man?
Is he, Nathaniel abruptly wonders, like Nathaniel himself? Somewhere between the lines of expected sex and gender, thought of as a young woman and electing to live as a man? Certainly, Nathaniel has never seen hair grow on his face, but his voice is deep, and he’s never had any reason until now even to suspect he was not a natal boy.
He hopes it’s only a flare-up of eczema or acne or some other topical irritation of the skin, even a rash, but he readies himself for pus as Tristan sits back against the bench, beginning to unwind the bandages from around his chest.
He realises, after a few layers of bandages come away, that he’s seeing a looseness in his chest. “Oh, is that all it is?” he finds himself asking out loud, and Tristan glances up at him, his brown eyes catching the fading evening light. “Young man, it’s not so unusual to have a little plumpness to your chest. It hardly means you’re growing breasts like a woman — there’s no need to bind yourself like this.”
He puts it forward gently, experimentally, wondering if he’ll see a jump or a flinch, but he sees neither. Tristan’s expression remains almost neutral as he finally strips off the last of the bandages, which are slightly wet.
Nathaniel immediately moves forward, looking for any wound that’s weeping or open, but he doesn’t see one — Tristan does indeed have breasts, plump and perky enough that they’re unusual for a young man, but not so large that they would be noticeable through his shirt.
And then Nathaniel sees it, the white droplet clinging to one of the young man’s nipples, and suddenly his mouth is watering and he feels a powerful thrum between his legs.
“Ah,” he says quietly. “Galactorrhoea is, of course, a rather embarrassing condition for any young person, but it’s not unheard of.”
Tristan stares at him, his lips parting. “You’ve seen this before?” he asks, sounds so wholly surprised that that Nathaniel’s heart gives a pang even as he tugs up his sleeves to touch.
“I have indeed,” murmurs Nathaniel, and he reaches up and touches the underside of each of Tristan’s breasts, feeling their weight in his palms. Tristan immediately gasps, arching his back, and Nathaniel fights against the urge to do what he’d very much like to do, immediately take hold of his nipples on each side and tug. “Have you always had fat around your chest?”
“Mm,” says Tristan. “Since I was — Since I was, ah, younger,” and oh, but he lets out such sublime, sweet sounds as Nathaniel shifts his hands under his breasts. He reaches up, taking one nipple in his thumb and forefinger and tugging and yes, there’s a lovely dribble of milk over his palm, and Tristan whimpers audibly.
“And the milk?” asks Nathaniel.
Tristan bites his lip.
“Tristan?” Nathaniel prompts him, and he reaches back for a jug. He’s wet and he knows it, can feel his cock throb under his trousers, and he would never do this with one of his female patients, would never betray their trust like this, but none of them are quite so handsome as Tristan is for all his pallid state.
“I didn’t,” he starts, and shivers, “Doctor Mills — ”
“Best tell me the truth, young man,” advises Nathaniel quietly, bringing the jug under one of his tits and taking hold of his nipple between thumb and forefinger, and what a pleasure it is, the way he suddenly yelps and shoves his chest desperately into Nathaniel’s fingers as he pulls down and milks him, white dribbling into the jug. Nathaniel craves to taste it from his fingers, wonders if it will be as sweet as it looks.
“My mother wanted me to come, to come north, so that I wouldn’t, ah, ah, please — ”
Fuck, Nathaniel doesn’t say out loud, but it’s a close thing. He can see the young man’s cock bulging in his trousers, see the little jumps of his hips — it’s quite clear that this condition by no means is poorly impacting the young man’s appetites.
“Please?” repeats Nathaniel, almost innocently. He’s pulling and squeezing down on Tristan’s teat at a regular rhythm, hungrily watching the drip of creamy whiteness into the bowl where the milk is thicker now, his little breast nearly drained — the other nipple is leaking in sympathy, and fuck, but what Nathaniel wouldn’t give to cover it with his lips and suck.
“I used to, I used to go — go with men, ah, ah, and they touched my ch… che — est, and it was so much that it just, ah, started, and I thought it would stop, but it won’t stop, I c — it feels so good, I can’t stop touching them when I touch myself, and I know I shouldn’t, but — ”
He trails off into moans as Nathaniel works the last of the milk out of his breast, squeezing it dry, and he’s so wet he can barely believe it, feels himself open and rather eager to sink himself down on Tristan’s cock, to feel him buried inside him as he dips his mouth and suckles at him.
“Good lord,” he murmurs.
“I’m sorry,” whines Tristan.
No pituitary condition, then, no illness or imbalance of his hormones — simply the effect of pure stimulation and debauchery.
“Are you milking yourself every night?” asks Nathaniel softly.
“Sometimes,” Tristan says, his breath hitching, his eyes fluttering closed as he grips tightly at the bench beneath them.
“You realise that the more you touch them, the more this will continue on, hm?” asks Nathaniel, and Tristan’s cheeks are a little dark with blood now, glistening with sweat. “Your body thinks it’s producing milk for a purpose, young man — the more you stimulate them, the more you use up that milk, the more it will do so.”
“It feels — good,” whimpers Tristan.
“Do you miss it?” asks Nathaniel quietly, looking down at the generous bulge in the young man’s trousers — he’s nearly six feet tall, and while his body might be slender, it looks as though his cock is generously thick. It’s been quite some time since Nathaniel’s enjoyed anything other than his own fingers inside him, let alone a cock like this young man’s. “Men’s touch on you, their fingers, their mouths?”
“I kn — I know it’s wrong — ”
“Oh, it’s natural to crave another’s touch,” says Nathaniel immediately, and stops himself from smiling when the young man’s eyes land on him, their gaze intense. “What did you think, young man, that I was going to disparage you for desiring the touch of men?”
Tristan’s throat bobs as he swallows. “It’s a — it’s an illness, isn’t it?”
“No,” says Nathaniel. “Not in my view.”
He oughtn’t do it, but he wants to, and he’s fairly certain, as eager as the young man is, that he’ll voice no protest, so he dips and sucks Tristan’s leaking nipple into his mouth. He whines desperately, legs falling open, and Nathaniel almost moans himself at the sweet, watery taste of his milk on his tongue, swallowing it down.
“Oh, oh, Doctor, Doctor, I can’t, I’ll — I’ll — ”
Will he really?
Will he come from this alone?
The thought spurs Nathaniel on and he sucks more greedily, leaning forward and putting his hands on Tristan’s thighs, gripping tightly at him; Tristan lets out a yelp that’s sharp at its end, thrusting his chest into Nathaniel’s mouth and making a wonderful burst of sweetness fall over his tongue. He sucks as hard as he dares, feeling the perfect peak of Tristan’s nipple under his tongue, between his lips — when he experimentally puts on a little pressure with his teeth, Tristan all but wails, and his cock is so hard now that it’s tenting the tight fabric of his trousers.
Nathaniel takes one hand off the young man’s unfortunately skinny thigh and puts it between his legs instead, cupping him just to see, and he’s gratified and delighted to find that he is indeed nice and thick, quite perfect under his palm.
“Please, please, Doctor Mills,” Tristan gasps out, and he must really be feeling something of a relief or perhaps a soreness at the moment, because Nathaniel’s already sucked down to the thicker, creamier hindmilk in him, and it’s more of an effort to work it out of him. He’s pressing and massaging at the flesh of his breast with the one not cupping his cock, and the boy is writhing desperately for more.
Nathaniel pulls back with some whiteness still clinging to his lip as he pouts his lips into a ring and blows out cool hair over the surface of Tristan’s nipple, still wet with Nathaniel’s spit.
The sound Tristan lets out is hoarse and ragged and full of want, his hips stuttering, and Nathaniel ignores the sound of loss he lets out as Nathaniel rapidly draws back his hand.
He sounds nearly ready to sob, the poor thing, as he goes, “Doctor — ”
“Shh, shh, that’s a sweet pet, don’t be a brat now, hm?” says Nathaniel, licking his lips as he undoes the young man’s trousers and shoves them down, making his cock bounce up for attention. Nathaniel undoes his own as quickly as he can, shoving the lad back, and Tristan goes back with a noise of surprise, staring wide-eyed between his legs.
“You’re — You’re a woman?” he asks, and were it not for the fact that he’s mewling it like a confused cat, perhaps Nathaniel would be irritated by the sheer display of stupidity — as it stands, it merely strikes him as rather sweet, even as it betrays a certain dull-wittedness.
“No,” says Nathaniel patiently, climbing to straddle his waist, and Tristan gasps headily. “I’d tell you to use your head, but I’d rather use this for now.”
He moans quietly at the sensation of Nathaniel’s blunt, thick head prodding against him where he’s open, and he allows himself a moment just to enjoy it, to grind down against him where the skin is soft and slick and plush.
“Can’t you — Can’t you get pregnant?” asks Tristan.
“Young man, I’m very nearly fifty years old,” says Nathaniel. “What do you think?”
Tristan looks up at him stupidly — although, Nathaniel supposes, he is a bit distracted — and instead of waiting for him to answer, Nathaniel sinks down. “Oh,” he moans to himself as he feels himself spread wider, his lips forced to part by Tristan’s cockhead as Nathaniel eases his weight down onto him. “Oh, you sublime thing,” he gasps out as he sinks further down, feels how thick he is, and the length of him is jerking and jumping in place, his pretty mouth open in what seems like shocked awe.
“Fuck, fuck,” he whimpers, “Doctor, you’re so — you’re so wet — ”
“Yes, lad, and you know why that is, don’t you?” asks Nathaniel, almost laughing as he feels the sweet friction of him, sinks further down, further down; his breath hitches in his throat as his arse cheeks touch against Tristan’s thighs, and he lets himself drop down all the way, feels that final inch of the boy sink into him. “Because you are just delectable.”
Tristan is whining from low in his throat, and Nathaniel soothes him with nonsense noises and clucking sounds as if he’s a spooked horse, reaching for his tits and massaging and squeezing them under his palms.
“Sore,” gasps out Tristan, and Nathaniel laughs, because for all his protests the movements of Nathaniel’s hands on him are coaxing the loveliest jumps and twitches of the boy’s hips and his cock, and Nathaniel just wants to swallow the sweet noises he’s letting out. “Ow, aaah, aah,” he moans, and his hips stutter up against Nathaniel’s as Nathaniel rolls his own down to meet him, tugging his hand to touch Nathaniel’s cock.
Tristan is breathless and flushed but he’s obedient to his core, and he immediate takes a clumsy hold of Nathaniel’s cock, squeezing and tugging gently on it. Nathaniel keeps pulling and squeezing at his spent tits, wondering if he might work out one or two more pearls of milk from him even as he rides the boy to his own contentment, quick and rough. His arse is slapping down against his thighs, and Nathaniel can’t help but think that the young man needs to be pressured to eat a little more so that these thighs will be a plusher pillow for him to sink himself down on — and that will be nothing, of course, to how much his tits might be encouraged to grow with the right attention in conjunction with a more robust meal, nourishing the buds into blooming.
Nathaniel chases his own orgasm, and Tristan might not be familiar with Nathaniel’s anatomy but he manfully tries his best with it, pulls and tugs on his cock, and when he finally feels himself coming he rewards Tristan with a hungry kiss, taking command of his mouth and shuddering at the beautiful noises that eke out of his throat once their lips are crashing against each other.
“Going to come for me now, darling thing?” he asks as he rocks his hips down against him, and Tristan almost cries, asks, oh, Nathaniel is never going to let this boy go, “Can I?”
“Yes, you can, of course you can,” Nathaniel purrs, and he lets out a noise of surprise at the way Tristan surges up and into him, grips suddenly at Nathaniel’s hips instead of the leather beneath him, slams into him so hard that Nathaniel is winded and blown away by it, throbbing with overstimulation and already thinking when he can next enjoy this delight again.
Tristan moans desperately as he comes, and Nathaniel shudders on top of him, leaning over him as Tristan drops back on the bench, staring up at him wide-eyed and really quite lovely.
“Beautiful boy,” murmurs Nathaniel, tracing delicate fingers over his sternum, between the swell of his tits on each side.
“You’re gonna — ” starts Tristan, uncertain. “Are you gonna make them dry up?”
“Oh, no, I don’t think that’s necessary,” says Nathaniel, easing himself off. “I think we can make the most of them together, hm?”
Tristan isn’t paying attention — he’s looking greedily, with a single-minded focus, at his own come mixing with Nathaniel’s slick between Nathaniel’s thighs.
Nathaniel smirks to himself, and reaches for a cloth.
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