Love Potion #9

Molly smiled at me sweetly. "I would love that. Not yet. But soon, I think."

"That was ..." I faltered, catching my breath. "I mean—you know what you're doing. I had to come. You made me. I didn't even have a choice. It was like you forced it to happen."

Molly smiled again. "I really don't know what I'm doing, though," she said. "Sarah explained everything to me, and she made me practice on my toy. But that was actually my first time."

"No fucking way."

She nodded. "I swear it. First time. I was too afraid to swallow. Sorry."

I stared at her for a second. "That's—you were really good. Really good."

"I guess it's natural talent," she laughed. "I had fun. I like the way your thingy tastes." She cocked her head slightly and pointed a finger at me. "You should've told me you were so huge, though." She was mock-scolding. "You're, like, a big stud."

I grinned at her. "C'mere." I pulled her down so that we were laying together, and kissed her. We just lay there that way, kissing softly, my hand lightly caressing a plump breast.

"I really liked watching you come," she said. "I've only seen a guy come once, and I was kinda distracted 'cause he was inside me. I liked seeing it happen for you. I was watching your face." She kissed me softly, then spoke very quietly. "I liked how vulnerable you were. Like, here's this beefy, strong man, but you're having this moment where your guard is completely down, and you're whimpering and you're exposed, and then obviously when you came, I could tell it felt really good. And watching your come shoot out—I didn't know it would just explode like that!" She giggled a little.

I kissed her. "It explodes like that when I'm really turned on."

"I'm glad I can get you that excited." Then Molly scooted up to put her chest in front of my head. She cupped a breast and pushed it to my mouth. I sealed my lips around it and suckled; milk flowed.

"This was so fun," she said to me as I nursed. She was stroking my hair with her fingers. "It was even better than I hoped. Can we maybe go out again in a couple days?"

"Mm-hmm!" I grunted, not wanting to release her nipple.

---

Later, we just lay on the back bench seat, cuddling, sweating. Car windows were open; it was still sweltering. 1970 Chevelles do not come with A/C.

"I wish I hadn't started running out again," she said.

"I've had plenty."

"It's actually kind of a good thing, probably," she told me. "It's a signal to my body that I need to make more milk." She looked into my eyes. "I want to make more for you."

"Yum," I grinned.

"My boobs might get bigger. They did when my milk first came in."

"Really?"

"Yeah, like a whole cup size. I wasn't very big, before, not that I'm that huge now. But I'm bigger than I used to be, especially when I start getting engorged. And my nipples, they were these pointy little things, not all thick like this. They changed."

"Wow."

She was giggling a little: "Hey, if you're lucky, maybe my boobs will get as big as Sarah's."

I shook my head against the warm leather seat. "That—I mean, I hope that doesn't really happen."

"Oh, c'mon. You'd love it."

I shook my head again. "I think you're perfect now. I mean, Sarah's OK, but I like your size. If they get a little bit bigger, fine, but you don't have to worry about getting bigger for me. I like the way you look, just how you are right now."

Molly looked perplexed, which was cute. "I thought all guys liked big boobs."

"Not me. I mean, I like boobs—obviously. But I like your size. I think you're perfect."

I watched her blush. I gave her a kiss.

"So, it just knows to make more?" I asked her. "Your body?"

"Yup. It's like a trigger. The more demand there is, the more you make."

"That's just ... wow. It's like there's this whole magical world I never knew about."

She kissed me, her tongue pressing my lips open and exploring. She hummed softly while she did that. "I like being your magician," she said. "It's fun watching your mind getting blown up."

Molly looked into my eyes. "Sing me another song."

So I did; I sat up and sang "Ruby Tuesday."

"There's no time to lose," I heard her say

"Catch your dreams before they slip away"

Rolling Stones, one of my mom's favorite songs. Molly recognized it.

That night, I collapsed into bed and dropped off to sleep immediately with the fan blasting at me.

Molly told me (many weeks later) that she had shut her door and lay in bed naked, impaling herself with her penis dildo for about 45 minutes, in every position she could think of. "I came so many times; I had to bury my face in my pillow so no one would hear. I felt like you were with me, like we were there together, joining our bodies. And I realized that I was almost ready."

---

It didn't take many days before I became fully convinced that her breastmilk was, in fact, a love potion. I just couldn't stop thinking about it—and about her, all of her. I kept imagining her engorged nipples and puffy areolas, inflamed and ready for me, and I could imagine her face, and I could hear her soft, scratchy speaking voice, and the way she sounded when she was crying out in orgasm, and the way her round tits and bubbly ass filled out a dress, and the dense bush of blonde hair between her legs. I thought about things she'd said, stories she'd told me, the wonderful way she smelled, what it was like to touch her soft skin, what it felt like when she hugged me, and about that wonderful, intoxicating smile. I thought about all of that, and everything else about her that I could imagine.

I was just obsessed.

One afternoon on a day I had off, I decided to go find her. (I missed having a working cell phone; it really sucked that there was no cell service in the whole area. Not being able to just text her made me feel like I was living in the 20th century.) I knew Molly was supposed to work at the nursery during a late afternoon/evening service, so I drove over to the church.

I found her outside in the courtyard, talking to a woman I didn't know.

"Rob!" She grabbed me and hugged me, then turned and said "Sorry" to her friend.

Her friend—late 20s, dishwater blonde hair, pretty, very large boobs, thin—laughed. "It's OK. Is this your boyfriend?"

Molly glanced at me, looking scared. "Uh, well—"

"Yup," I said, and I introduced myself. Molly glanced at me again, looking relieved but slightly surprised.

The woman was Esther, and apparently she was the aunt of the famous little Shirley.

"Hey, I'll let you go so you can talk to your boyfriend," Esther said, smiling. She was lovely.

Molly and I walked over to some steps and sat down. We were quiet for a minute.

"So Rob, I've been curious about why you're here."

Shit. "I'm sorry, I really didn't mean to smother you." I got up to go. "Sorry."

"No, no, no," said Molly, her voice plaintive. "No, I didn't mean it like that." She started laughing in spite of herself, and stood up with me, grabbing me by the arm. "Stay, sit. I'm glad you're here right now. Seriously. Here, sit back down."

She sat down on the step and beckoned me. "I'm asking what got you here in town. Why you moved. Why Watley of all places."

"Oh," I said, grinning sheepishly, sitting back down. It was nice to be close to her. I took a breath. "Well, it's kind of a long story, but my dad fucking took off and moved to another country with some wh—uh, some lady he met. Fucking asshole."

"God, I'm sorry," she said.

"Yeah, it sucks. I'm trying not to think about it too much." I let out a sigh. "Anyway, so, my mom is from here. Actually, we lived here until I was seven." I grinned at her. "Maybe we knew each other."

She gave me a warm smile. "Yeah, same kinda thing for me, really. Except, I lost my mom. She died a few years ago. And my daddy is from here and he wanted to move back 'home.' And we lived here when I was little, too, until I was six. So who knows, maybe we did play together and stuff."

"I'm sorry about your mom."

"It's OK. It's been a long time." She gave me a warm smile.

"That's crazy that we were both here, though. Do you remember anything?"

"Well, yeah, I remember stuff, but it's kinda blurry. I remember kids, but I don't remember any names. I remember how the buildings looked, and how gigantic the church seemed. Everything was so huge! Now it's a lot smaller." She giggled.

We were quiet again for a moment.

Then, she said, "So, you're my boyfriend now?"

Oh, shit. "Uh, well, I was really just sort of trying to—"

"Are you really my boyfriend?"

I felt ice cold, without even really understanding why. I wasn't completely sure if she was trying to get to a point, or if she was chiding me. Was she happy, or annoyed? "I think I might be, yeah. I mean, that's really up to you."

"I think," she said, with a sudden mischievous grin, "that I might be your girlfriend. I don't want to scare you off, but if you already think you're my boyfriend, that would make me your girlfriend."

"I'm confused," I laughed, "but I'm pretty sure we just decided that we're a couple."

"We did."

And she kissed me to celebrate.

---

"So you've never had a boyfriend before?"

Molly shrugged. "Not really. I mean, there was one guy back in Santa Monica, but we were like 14. And it wasn't, like, a real long-term relationship or anything. I mean, I was 14."

I peered at her. "No guys here, though?"

"Not really. I dunno why." She sighed and stretched out on the steps. "Sarah and I have been trying to figure that out, like, for years. I mean, I don't think I'm ugly or anything—"

"You're hot. Really pretty."

She quickly blushed. "The guys here have just never really shown a lot of interest, you know? And girls aren't supposed to ask guys out here—that's another thing that's sorta stuck in the past; they'd get offended. I've sorta messed around with a few boys, kissed them, but it never went anywhere. And meanwhile, Sarah's had, like, three serious boyfriends in the time I've known her. Sucks." Molly snorted. "It's probably her tits."

She sat up. "We think it's my accent, really. And the whole California thing. They're, like, intimidated because I didn't grow up here. Which is kinda bullshit because I was born here. But I guess they can hear it in my voice, that I'm not completely from Watley, and it kinda puts them off."

"Well," I smiled, "you have a boyfriend now."

"Yup!" She gave me a big, toothy grin. "And he was 100% worth waiting for! I just wish you'd gotten here sooner." She bumped my chest with her elbow. "Why'd you make me wait until I was 22?!" She leaned over to give me a kiss, and then glanced at her watch. "Hey, I gotta go in; we're gonna start soon. Wanna come and hang out for a while?"

---

She led me into a surprisingly large room lined with big, comfortable chairs, small cribs, and bassinets. There were a couple girls already there, sitting in the easy chairs—I recognized Sarah immediately, and she waved to us. No one seemed concerned that I was in the room, the only guy.

"You sure this is OK?" I said quietly, to Molly.

She just nodded.

Do you know the scent of cumin? I mean the cooking spice. It's not a bad scent, not at all, but it's something I would have associated with, well, cooking. I wasn't sure why, but the nursery smelled a little bit like cumin—lavender, too, and some other light scents. It was cumin that stuck out for me, partly because I could identify it, partly because it seemed out of place. Molly explained, later, that I was probably smelling homemade baby powder. Lots of stuff in Watley was homemade. It made sense to me, because a lot of the mass manufactured stuff was easy to replicate, and the homemade versions had to be better, right? Cheaper for sure, but also, heck, at least you knew what was in it. That's how Watley saw things. Also, making things for yourself was traditional. It was the old way, the "right" way.

Molly had settled herself in one of the large easy chairs and was opening the little bag she had with her. She motioned for me to sit next to her, in a slightly smaller chair, and I sat. There were little blankets spread out in the center of the room, and I figured they might be for babies who could roll or crawl a little. There was one toddler already there, wobbling as he stood, making attempts to walk.

A younger girl, around middle school age, appeared from a doorway; she seemed to be coordinating things, and with precocious confidence. A mom would walk in, and the girl would smile and take a baby from her and find a place for it (usually a bassinet) and then make notes about what time the mother was coming back from the service and the social gathering afterwards. I thought the girl was kind of pretty for a youngster—I mean that innocently, because I wasn't into perving on pre-teens or anything. I'm just saying: she had long, striking white-blonde hair, and the poise and pluck of someone older than her years—she was an adorable little thing.

"That's Shirley," Molly said to me in a low voice, over the drone of the electric fans in the room. "She's really good at this. She's the one I mentioned—the problem is that her boobs are coming in, so she's gonna start dry nursing soon. That's exciting for her, but it kinda sucks because she's so good at being the coordinator. We have to get some new girls. There's this one girl Eva who's like about nine, and she just started coming in sometimes, and she seems pretty good, too. Shirley, her days are pretty much numbered, 'cause her family, all the girls, they develop early"—Molly motioned in front of her chest to suggest cartoonishly large breasts, and gave me a silly grin—"and they all get their milk early, so she's probably gonna be the same way."

I just nodded. The whole scene, the whole idea still seemed very foreign and surreal to me. It was hard to get over the fact that I had always thought—assumed—that a mom got milk in her breasts by having a baby, and that this was the only way it could happen. And, it was for the mother alone to make milk for her baby. I had no idea that any woman, much less a very young woman still in her teen years, could just tell her body to start producing breastmilk. The whole idea was still surprising and amazing to me, even though I'd already enjoyed some of the milk myself. It made the girls (women, really) seem like they had superpowers. What I felt wasn't really envy, but I couldn't help but admire them and their abilities. It made me think about watching birds fly, or seeing dolphins gliding through waves.

I realized that it reminded me of various movies and shows I'd seen where a "mortal"—a regular guy—was in love with a witch, or a girl with mystical powers. The guy character always acted like he wasn't impressed by magic, but inevitably it would turn out that he was secretly in awe of his girl and her prodigious supernatural abilities. He didn't have any extraordinary gifts. He was left at home being ordinary while she was out casting spells and flying and other marvels.

These girls, these young women, the ones sitting in the big chairs, the ones who were casually chatting with each other at that moment—they would be feeding babies with their breasts momentarily. They had the power to make milk—real food—in their bodies, and they could do that simply because they'd chosen to. It wasn't exactly like waving a wand to perform miracles, or bewitching people with spells, but it seemed almost as magical.

The girls even looked supernatural to me. There were a few electric fans placed around the room, humming away (air conditioners were rare in Watley, even though I thought they were much-needed). Columns of breeze were blowing around, and I could feel enough air to know that it was indeed helping to cool us off. The air was blowing the girls' long hair around somewhat, making it drift and hover with dramatic effect. They all had long, glorious hair that ran all the way down their backs—just like all the women in Watley—so the light gusts of air fanning it around gave them an enchanted look.

Molly explained at one point that the long hair was a local religious thing. All females were limited in how much and how often they could cut their hair. Little girls weren't allowed to have their hair trimmed at all until they turned 10. This being the 21st century, I found those restrictions on women ridiculous, but the town straddled bygone centuries right along with the modern era. In a way, it was still the 1600s in Watley, except without witch burning—in fact, more like the opposite.

Women in Watley seemed to be held in high esteem; I had come to realize that they were viewed as more than mere equals to men. They were seen almost like divine beings, worthy of great honor and respect. It had been that way as long as anyone remembered, before any news of the women's rights movement came from the outside world. "Remember where you came from"—I'd heard men in town say that in deference to women, even when there were no ladies around to hear. It wasn't virtue signaling; they meant it. The Watley womenfolk were truly venerated, and not just for their reproductive powers, although that was certainly a factor.

Oddly enough, it was the women who seemed to place those odd hair restrictions, like strictures on hair cutting, on themselves. It was apparently done out of a kind of religious reverence, a form of devotion.

Anyway: the girls in that room had all taken on the appearance of graceful, fairylike enchantresses, their lovely hair lilting in the breeze. All of them were so pretty. The whole scene had taken on a mystical quality.

Then the real magic began. Shirley arrived in front of Sarah's chair with a crying, squirming infant, and Sarah started preparing to do something about it. The baby's shrieks made me uneasy, even a little stressed. Sarah seemed unfazed, though. She moved her hair out of the way and lifted her green patterned top, which had apparently been held down at her waist by a hidden elastic band. Two big bra cups, light green, bulged away from Sarah's otherwise thin frame. A latch at the top of a cup came undone easily enough, and Sarah pulled the cup completely down to bare a large, round breast with a long, engorged nipple. The nipple was dark red and stood in high relief against her pale skin. I swear it was as thick as a thumb, and stuck out about half an inch. It looked primal and potent—which made sense, given what she was about to do with it. Would that big thing even fit in a baby's mouth, I wondered.

Shirley passed the infant to Sarah, who cradled it gently with one arm. I watched as Sarah cupped her breast from underneath and guided her gigantic nipple to the baby's lips. It took some teasing and coaxing, but soon enough the baby's mouth opened wide and the nipple and large areola completely disappeared. The baby was now urgently feeding from her. Sarah settled back into the chair and relaxed.

Meanwhile, here I was, just sitting there watching the display. Sarah showed no indication of modesty or bashfulness about her naked breast being exposed in front of me or the others. She was all business.

I glanced in Molly's direction, and she gave me a knowing smile. I was feeling a mix of things, a combination of unease and sheer awe.

Another girl in the room, a pretty, pixieish teen with brown hair whose name (I was told) was Maggie, called to the wobbling toddler to come to her. While he teetered his way over, she casually unbuttoned her wine-colored blouse and shucked it off completely. She seemed very nonchalant about it, as if taking off her top in front of other people (including a guy she didn't even know) was no big deal. Next came her black bra—she unclipped it between the cups, and it loosened and fell away from her breasts. Maggie was clearly younger than Molly and Sarah, and while the rest of her body appeared less filled out and developed, she was quite buxom: her boobs were full and womanly, with large, ripe areolas and red knobby nipples. Maggie's breasts were somewhat teardrop-shaped, not quite as round and proud as Sarah's, but very impressive. As she pulled the bra completely off, I thought I spied some hair under her arms—odd.