Tristan finds himself overwhelmed with his attraction to Doctor Mills’ bedside manner.
A bit more! This installment, rated E, 2.4k. This chapter featuring lactation kink, heavy medical kink, references to stuffing and weight gain under medical supervision, humiliation and praise kink.
Tristan had worked at the Mills house for some six months and had, over that time, developed something of a routine and an expected way his days progressed — he assisted Mr Horne in his duties, he did laundry, he polished boots, he cleaned, he set the fireplaces, and so on; in recent weeks, it’s all changed, and not at all for the worst.
The thing is, Tristan had never particularly wanted to be a footman — in Manchester, he’d almost been a sort of gentleman at leisure, except for his not being a gentleman. He’d worked in a café five or six nights a week, but much of that hadn’t really been work, so to speak — frequently, he would end his shifts on his knees or laid on his back on a chaise, or spend the evening perched in the lap of a customer, being plied with drink and most of all fine, pleasant touches.
It hadn’t been prostitution, not really — he hadn’t ever been paid for the sex, and while it was an underground sort of place, one that the constabulary might well have been interested in shutting down, it wasn’t a brothel, either. It was simply a place intended for like-minded gentleman, and of this mind Tristan had very much been.
It had just been unfortunate, really, that he’d been so foolish as to share the actual name of the café — The Blue Cat — and his mother had heard some rumour and suddenly, suddenly, he was being shipped away to some dreadful country house to live more honestly.
From what Tristan has discovered, living “honestly” consists mostly of living in boredom, and not having any sex at all, unless Mr Horne and Mrs Buckley are carrying on some secret tryst he hasn’t caught wind of.
With that said, these past few weeks, all that has changed. He’d never even considered that Doctor Nathaniel Mills, the doctor and master of the house, might be a gentleman tended to the company of other gentlemen. Of course, Doctor Mills is not much of a gentleman — not because he has a cunt between his legs (although that had taken Tristan by surprise), but because he’s really quite —
Horrid.
And deliciously so.
When he’d been called down to the old man’s office for his check-up, he’d been horribly embarrassed, had thought that certainly he would be able to simply tell that Tristan’s tits had been worked into their productive state by the men who constantly passed him between them in the Cat — but Doctor Mills hadn’t been able to tell, Tristan had just told him, and now —
Well.
Doctor Mills has of recent been summoning Tristan down to his office every evening, and it’s really quite wonderful. He’s already noticed that he’s been producing more milk in the past few days particularly — the doctor doesn’t just pull and squeeze at Tristan’s tits, like he does himself when wanking himself off or riding his fingers in the bath, but sucks on them, wraps his lips around the buds of his tits and mouths and squeezes just slightly with his teeth, and he gets out the most stubborn milk of all, the stuff that Tristan somehow struggles to work out himself because it simply aches too much. The hindmilk, Mills calls it, thicker and creamier than the rest.
He hasn’t been binding himself with the bandages, of recent, because Doctor Mills had rummaged in the back of a wardrobe and pulled out some sort of —
Well.
It’s an undergarment, certainly, but almost too indecent to be called a brassiere: it’s made of soft cotton and stiff fabric that keeps his chest supported without fully flattening it, but it’s got cotton padding inside to absorb any milk as he goes about his day. He’s settled each of the cups of the garments in place with buttons so that he can suck his fill from Tristan’s chest without even taking the thing off, just undoes one flap and then the other, and each time Tristan squirms and moans underneath him, but Mills doesn’t always let Tristan sink himself into his cunt.
Sometimes he comes before, especially after it’s been a long day where he’s been moving around an awful lot, when his tits are very sensitive from the rub and shift of the fabric against his sore and aching nipples, when Doctor Mills doesn’t see him until later in the day and he feels raw and overfull and almost plump with it, and on days like that he’ll come before he can even think of driving into Doctor Mills’ cunt, will come almost as soon as his chest is touched.
It’s been like that today.
Doctor Mills had told him last night he wasn’t to touch his chest this morning, and last night he hadn’t milked him to his completion, hadn’t taken any of the hindmilk at all. When he’d woken in the morning his tits had felt fucking sore, and after a day of working and going back and forth with the fucking bra on, they feel fucking huge.
They’ve been getting bigger.
He knows they’ve been getting a little bigger, the past few weeks, that they’ve been growing little by little as he’s been making more milk, but today? Today it’s unbearable. His tits feel so full under his uniform that he feels like they might just burst, and they’re big, and they’re heavy. He can feel the wetness against the cotton padding in his bra cups as he’s finally able to go downstairs to Doctor Mills’ office. They’ve been starting to leak just before he goes to see him, some sort of sympathetic response, but in this case it’s probably because they’re so packed full that they’re overflowing, like a cup left under a running sink.
“Clothes off, if you would,” says Doctor Mills without turning around from his desk, and Tristan jumps to obey, easing his jacket off his shoulders, his shirt and suspenders, his trousers. He’s in just the nursing bra and his cock is so hard his balls ache, wet at its head as though its leaking in concord with his fucking tits, and he undoes the straps at the back and takes that off too, drops it aside.
The cups are wet on the inside, and there’s white wetness around his nipples, almost dripping; he pushes himself up on the leather bed, and when the doctor turns to look at him, he shudders at the hunger in his gaze.
They look ridiculous on him, as large as they are now — they’re rounder and heavier than they’ve ever been, milked so religiously where before it was often just a bit of squirting out and a few men taking a taste here and there. He’s always been a skinny lad, has always been more interested in doing than in sitting and eating — Mrs Buckley has been in the habit of giving him smaller plates at dinner to make sure he finishes everything, to ensure he doesn’t waste anything.
“Look at you,” says Mills softly, his expression focused utterly on Tristan’s body and not on his face as he steps slowly forward. He’s not an extremely short man, but he’s on the short side even without being compared to Tristan, is naturally compact. He stands in front of Tristan, looking at him, and then he reaches up and weighs each of Tristan’s tits in his hands.
Tristan whimpers, his fingers pressing down against the leather underneath him and his legs spreading, and Mills hums thoughtfully as he examines them. It makes his overfull tits throb, being pushed at from underneath and made to move, the sensation so overwhelming it’s almost dizzying.
“You’re not going to leave it, are you?” he asks, hearing the sob in his own voice. “Please, Doctor, you won’t make me sit with it some more, will you?”
“Oh, you poor thing,” says Mills. “Are they very sore, hm?”
His thumbs touch against the perked-up peak of his nipples on each side, and Tristan whines, leaning his chest into the touch, but Mills steps away, licking milk from his thumbs as he reaches into a drawer.
“What’s that?” asks Tristan, but he can put it together easily enough just looking at it, at the glass head of it and the pump, and he whimpers as Mills wipes some kind of lubricant around the edge of it, then sets it against the nipple. “Wait, wait,” he manages to get out, shivering at the cold kiss of it, “is it going to — ”
Then Mills squeezes the bulb, creating a sudden suction, and he cries out, shoving his chest into the sensation of it, the relief as liquid bursts out of his ducts and fills the pipe, dripping into the bottle attached.
The relief is incredible, but it’s not as good as the wet warmth of suckle of Mills’ actual mouth, of the pressure of his teeth; he gets a direct comparison when Mills leans in to suck hard at him on the other side, and Tristan sobs with relief and pleasure and sheer, overwhelmed stimulation as Mills milks him with the bottle on one side and with his mouth on the other.
The world narrows down to those two points, Mills’ suckling mouth and the incredible suction from the pump, and then Mills pops the pump off his nipple and swaps them around, Tristan whimpers at the strange sensation of the tight suction on the thicker milk still left in him on the other side, how much harder the pump is worked by Mills’ hand to coax it free.
He feels dizzy by the time Mills has actually stopped — at some point, during all this, he’s managed to come, and he looks dazedly down at the come painting his own belly, dragging his fingers through the mess and thinking how similar it is in colour to his milk, now bottled, no matter that the consistency is all-too-different.
There’s a half-pint bottle full on the counter, and he stares at it as Mills neatly stoppers it and sets it aside, looking back at Tristan critically.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles when Mills draws a handkerchief over his belly, and Mills gives him a small, easy smile.
After Tristan has wiped himself down, Doctor Mills keeps looking down at him with thought writ on his features, coaxing him to lie back on the leather couch instead of simply perching on its edge.
His chest is generous enough now that when he lies back, he sees his tits fall naturally to each side, nipples pointing outward — they no longer throb with painful weight, but a new, lighter soreness has set in, his nipples well-used, each tit almost bruised from the squeezing it has endured.
“Have you always been this thin, Tristan?” asks Doctor Mills.
Mills isn’t thin at all, not like Tristan is — he’s shorter and plump, square-built but soft to the touch. Tristan itches to see him naked, to explore his body as he has explored the bodies of other men — he has fucked Mills several times these past weeks, or to be more accurate, he has been ridden by Mills. He has not yet had the pleasure of sucking on the doctor’s little cock, or fingering his cunt or arse, or putting his hands on his chest, let alone bending him over or being over him or —
Or anything.
He craves to, aches to.
“Yes, sir,” he says obediently. “There’s nothing wrong with me — my father was always a beanpole too, sir, and my mother is slim.”
“Hm,” says Mills, in a tone that implies this is somehow a dissatisfactory answer.
“Sir?”
“Do you eat the full portion allotted you at dinner?”
Tristan’s stomach does a nervous flip. “Sir?”
Doctor Mills, who had turned away to make some notes, turns slowly back to Tristan. His expression is arch. “It’s hardly a complicated question, young man.”
“Yes,” says Tristan after a moment of hesitation. “But Mrs Buckley has been making my plate smaller.”
Mills’ expression remains frozen for a moment, staring at him, and then he says with a scowl, “I see. That, young man, will be stopping.”
“But I — ”
“No buts. I’ll advise Mr Horne and Mrs Buckley of the matter — if it takes you longer to finish your plate, so be it. We’ll try you on this for a week, after which I’ll prescribe an appetite stimulant if you’re struggling.”
As he speaks, his hands are on Tristan’s body, and he shivers at the cool palms sliding over his thighs, his waist, over his arms. Mills touches him clinically, professionally, and something about the distance in the touch makes his skin thrill.
“I’ve never been a great eater, Doctor,” says Tristan, trying to ignore the flushing bloom on his cheeks,
“The stimulant in a week, if you’re still struggling,” repeats Mills, and something about his uncaring, casual tone makes Tristan feel even hotter. His cock aches as it tries to flare back to life, too recently spent. “On the scales, if you will.”
Tristan goes on clumsy feet to stand obediently on the scale, and doesn’t pay much attention as Doctor Mills nudges the tiles across, instead asking, “Are you, um — Are you going to write my weight down? In that notebook?”
“I will,” says Mills, focusing on the scales and not on him. “Notes on your condition, the amount of milk produced, your weight. As the latter increases, so too will the former.”
Tristan’s cock is half hard, being spoken about, and examined, like he’s an exhibit, like he’s an object of study — all of a sudden, he imagines being Doctor Mills’ cow, and spoken about as a sort of veterinary study. He whimpers at the way his cock throbs, and Doctor Mills glances down at it with his imperious medical gaze.
“Please, Doctor,” says Tristan, breathless, “please will you ride me?”
“In a minute,” says Mills, making a note in his book. “There’s a good lad.”
Tristan shudders, and obediently stands up straight as Mills goes to take his height.
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