Professor Head Ch. 03 - Pamela

Pamela's Problem

Pamela stands out amongst my stories because she actually came to class, participated, completed assignments, and she managed to squeak out a low A by *gasp* earning it with class work. Her peculiarities involved her recently born daughter Miranda. Motherhood meant she occasionally missed a class, though she always made up any work, and she even brought her infant in one day. She apologized profusely, but Miranda caused no problems. Since the class largely contained boisterous conversation anyway, an occasional baby cry meant we included her in the conversation. Someone would declare an idea crappy because Miranda pooped in her nappy...or some such thing.

That group worked together supremely well, and most days the discussions about story grids, character development, and plot designs sparked lively debate and the creative juices flowed for all. Alas, one down side of Miranda's influence reduced me to reading about feeding a baby, changing a baby, babies never sleeping, and my least favorite subject that semester, The Adventures of Slimey, the Runny Shit Stream of Arghnoth. Think in terms of Mr Hankey the Christmas Poo, but without Christmas. Yeah.

She actually self published that crap. Fortunately for all of us, she was funny with a shitty subject matter.

These were good times.

Early in the semester, on a Monday, I think, Pamela entered class in a mood somewhere between thunderous anger and murderous frustration. The closest thing I could compare it to was when my kid damn near went psychotic from tooth pain (autism, here, meant he couldn't tell us the problem). I would've asked what vexed her, but class had already begun, and I didn't want to stop the flow of ideas. She largely kept to herself that day, and when she did add something it tended toward dark and, well, murderous.

Finally, just before the class ended, one of the others used a hilariously skewed segue from "speaking of french fries and the mating habits of blue whales, Pamela..." and he managed to remove all sarcasm and humor leaving only concern, "are you okay?"

She was clearly in no way okay. The other student simply wanted her to have a moment to share her troubles, and we all knew it. Pamela's arms remained crossed, however. She glanced around the room, took a deep breath, and replied, "well, no, obviously I'm not, and I appreciate all y'all's concern. Honestly, I do, but it isn't something I want to share, and there isn't anything you can do about it."

A chorus of assents and, "if you change your mind..." flowed around the room, and I returned us to the mating habits of blue whales. And french fries. Pamela smiled at me over her grumpy folded arms, I suppose, because I redirected everyone's attention, and we finished up our lines of thought on blue whale fuckery. We mostly decided that any such descriptions needed to be fanciful nonsense instead of What They Actually Do.

After that fucking whale of a class, I needed to run some errands before my next class several hours later, so I headed for the elevator and the exit. Pamela walked with me. She, also, apparently needed to get somewhere fast, and we shared a lift down to the first floor and the long walk to the parking lot.

Midway between the third and fourth floors, you can guess what happened.

When it lurched and the lights when out, she sounded off more of a micro shriek than a yelp. I didn't know if prior experience was fortunate for me or not, but this was far from the first time I'd been stuck in one of those ancient roman-era elevators. It happened often enough that I swapped out my nice shiny briefcase my wife gave me in my before times (a whole other collection of stories) for an old traveling salesman's case that easily doubled as a seat in and of itself. First things first, though. Pamela damn near began hyperventilating.

"Pamela, setting aside your pre-existing concern, are you okay, or are you claustrophobic, or do you have a darkness issue...?"

"No, I'm okay; I just..." even in the darkness I could tell she almost said 'really', "...need to..." she paused and almost told me something, but then she obviously changed what she was going to say, "...get home."

"I see." Well, no I didn't, but I didn't need to. Her business was none of mine until she decided to share it with me. "Well, I expect we'll be in here awhile. Last time for me was nearly six hours."

In a tiny voice she replied, "oh dear God, no..."

I pulled out my phone and used the ambient light to find the elevator's emergency phone. That call was way shorter than brief.

"How long did they say, Professor?"

"Eh, he didn't. That thing should be called a whenever-we-get-around-to-it phone." I checked my own phone but as with most enclosures around ancient-roman-era engineering, my phone detected no signal, but the ambient light illuminated us enough to see each other's faces. Pamela was absolutely not okay. She had I'm-in-pain written all over her face.

"Since we'll be here so long, please just call me Richard or Rich. Go with Dick if you want to be mean, but Professor seems too formal for trapped-together-in-an-elevator."

"Okay, Richard, if that's what you like. Please call me Pam."

"Will do, Pam. Would you like a seat?" I set my case down, and began fumbling with the latches, but Pamela simply slid down the wall and leaned her back against it.

She sniffed through almost a sob, and she looked up as if addressing God in her dissatisfaction with the situation He put us in. Course, God didn't make the elevator... Perhaps she addressed the elevator itself....or the asshole not working on the elevator even though he should be.

I opened the case and pulled out my super duper Helinox chair and spent the next few minutes putting it together. Gesturing at Pam, I said, "I have another. Please, sit comfortably."

She snorted and mumbled, "comfort," but she raised up and gave the chair a try. A moment later she offered a surprised, "thank you, Richard." Whatever the confluence of her problems, the chair seemed to help.

It took me another few minutes to get my other chair properly set, and then I eased into it. Having done what we could, I said, "I think we'd better save this," and I shut off my phone.

Silence lingered for a few minutes. I tried to measure my breathing and remain calm because getting upset would do no one any good, but every half minute or so, with slightly increasing frequency and decreasing pauses between, Pamela let loose with a grunt or a groan; to say the least, she distracted me. I contemplated her situation, but I couldn't figure out what it could possibly be. After I heard a soft sob, I figured she might not get angry with me for asking again.

"Pam, I know you said you don't wanna share, but something is obviously wrong; is there anything I can do? Perhaps it might even help if you tell me what it is?"

She stopped grunting and moaning, but she gave me no immediate answer. After a good half minute of silence, she groaned again before she softly said, "Can you keep this to yourself?"

"Of course."

"I'm serious, Richard. I..." She broke into a tiny sob, "this is embarrassing."

I softly replied, "it is also apparently painful, and it's making you miserable."

"...yeah." She took a deep breath and finally told me. "It's called hyperlactation." Ah, okay. That's why it didn't occur to me. "Basically, my breasts have been overproducing, and right now they're so full they're painful. I should be home feeding Miranda, and now I'm stuck in here...where it'll only get worse."

"I see. That really sucks if you'll pardon the pun."

She snorted her lack of pardon.

"I'm sorry. I wish I could help."

She murmured something indistinguishable.

"We might be in here for hours," she moaned unhappily again, "do you have a pump with you?"

"Even if I did, they need power." I grunted assent that time. "Besides, no offense Richard, but I'm not sure I'm comfortable with you staring at my boobs."

"For what it's worth, I can't see a thing right now."

She offered an, "hmmm" in reply.

"...but I would definitely stare."

She snorted and chuckled; it sounded almost like a giggle. "Yeah, well, no pump, anyway."

Now, Pamela...she's a little older than most of the students at twenty-four. She married her high school sweetheart, he joined the army to support them, and they went out into the world. A few years later they realized military life comes with some profoundly difficult baggage, but they worked their way through many of their problems. Still, money, him often being away, and their son, five years older than Miranda, all pointed them toward needing to take another direction, so they decided Pamela would go back to school...which brought her to me. She stood as tall as I did, but that was usually with heels, so she was about 5'8" or so. Red hair, ginger features, and from several comments she made in class I got the sense that she used to be much more slender, but she developed some curves she was still getting accustomed to when she had her son at nineteen. Her tits were apparently full Cs normally, but they'd swelled to at least a D with all the milk in them. I expect her clothes likely weren't helping her current situation.

I let the silence go for a while as I struggled to maintain my own calm. I could at least fake it for her, but I fucking hate being locked in anywhere. I can get murderous over it if I let myself. As I focused on my own breathing and tried to let every thought slip from my mind, I kept hearing her moan softly. After only ten minutes she began softly crying. And the crying persisted.

"Wanna squeeze my hand and have me share some of the pain?" She immediately locked a death grip around the hand she could reach.

Her voice, so close, yet so soft, murmured through her tears, "Richard, this is killing me."

"Yeah. I can't exactly relate, but I, well...I hate enclosed spaces."

She replied with a soft, "Mmm?"

At least I can distract her momentarily...maybe even myself. "...being trapped. It riles up my anxiety and paranoia."

"...does it remind you of something?"

Well, at least her crying slowed to inaudible. "...yes. I had some seriously bad times when my wife died a few years ago."

"Oh," she all but gasped in surprise, "I had no idea. I'm sorry."

"...no reason you should know. Thank you. Me too. Shit happens sometimes. It's especially horrifying when the police think you're the shitter."

"OOOoooooh..." Some realizations set in. She might have heard about it, I guess, but as far as I knew neither the incident nor the aftermath ever made national news.

"Yeah, sad times. I don't like to think about it, but this kind of situation brings it into stark focus."

"I bet." Her hand holding mine stopped squeezing, and she gently caressed my fingers with her thumb. I appreciated the reassurance, minimal though it was.

We sat for a few more moments of silence before she finally spoke again, but she mumbled so quietly I couldn't make out what she said.

"Hrmm?"

"I..." she paused. By now, I had an idea of how I could help, but I certainly didn't want to be the one to suggest it. "I...God...I need your help, Richard."

"Anything I can do, I'll do. Name it."

"It's probably going to be hours before we get out of here, right?"

"I'm sorry, but yes. The shortest time I've ever spent in here when it broke down was three hours."

"God, it's only been 15 or 20 minutes."

"Yep."

She took a deep and audible breath. "I need you to..." She lost her nerve and then expelled a deeply frustrated breath. "Ugh...I need..." She couldn't bring herself to say it.

"Let me see if I am interpreting correctly."

"Hrm?"

"You need me to nurse from you to relieve some pressure."

Her low embarrassed groan told me I was on the right track. She finished it with a soft, "mmhmm."

"You don't specifically want me to, but you need someone, and I'm the only one here with you."

"...something like that, and, Richard, I can't stress this enough." Her voice took on a serious intensity I had never heard before, and I survived a solid week of police interrogation. "NO ONE CAN EVER KNOW."

"You have my complete discretion."

In response she took another deep breath and released it heavily. She whispered, "Richard, if my husband found out about this, it could destroy my life..."

"I mean it. Complete discretion. If you prefer, I'll lock today in a box inside my brain, and we can act like it never happened."

"That...yeah. That'd be good."

"Okay, how should we not do this?"

"God, I haven't the foggiest idea. Should I lie down?" She sounded desperate, and I doubt she could think terribly straight through the pain. I tried distracting her, she tried distracting me, and now we would distract each other, but we'd simply wasted time, and her breasts overfilled all the more during every minute we let pass.

"Nah. You'll want your breasts to hang at least a little for this, so that means you over me. Let's have you sit on my lap; I'll sit on the floor. You'll have to lean over my belly, but it should work."

"Okay," She dared sound hopeful. I absolutely sympathized with her, but don't for an instant think I wasn't delighted to get my lips on her nipples. "Let's get to it. Sit on the floor, please."

I moved from my chair and sat against the elevator wall. As she moved toward me, "OWP!" I caught her sharpened knee to my chest.

"Oh shit, Richard, I'm so sorry!" I had my legs sticking straight out in front of me, and she wound up sitting on my knees as she reached for my face, I guess, and that's when she stuck a fingernail up my nose.

...not so much went entirely right that day...

"Ghunh! Richard, oh no, please....are you okay?" Getting her finger out of my nose meant she could actually wrap her hands around my cheeks, and that felt pretty damned nice. She also scooted forward on my legs a little. Her ass felt good on my legs. Really, very, a lot...good.

For an instant I wondered if she might screw around and fuck up her grades and....nah... I always let them come to me, and I don't think in those terms until they do. But damn...her ass. Nice and cushiony on my legs...

"Welllll...yeah. The shot to the chest hurt a bit, but I'll live. And I needed my nose picked, anyway."

"Oh God...I'm so sorry..." Illuminating my phone revealed her supremely embarrassed wide eyes as well as her hand covering her mouth. She looked utterly mortified, but she had scooted into almost the perfect position, straddling my legs, her breasts level with my face.

"Pam, I'm just teasing you a little to try to defuse tension. I'm okay, truly. Accidents happen." Her mortification eased, but her lingering embarrassment huddled behind her eyes. "And I think we've clearly demonstrated that we need at least a little light."

She took a deep breath with wide eyes looking down at me in grave fear. Maybe in the dark she could sort of pretend this wasn't happening.

"Once we get into the swing of things, we can put the light out again, okay?"

She acquiesced with a nod as she reached for the buttons on her blouse. The fabric stretched tight across her breasts, and even unbuttoning that first button caused her to wince in pain.

"The pain is wrecking you, isn't it?" I tried to keep my face concerned rather than giddy with anticipation. I figured she'd prefer Concerned Professor Richard rather than the Lecherous Dick Head.

"Yeah....they're throbbing. It's never been this bad before." She freed the first button and moved on to the second with trembling hands, "and I'm afraid you'll get one taste, spit it out, and refuse to go on."

"Ah, I know that syndrome well. It's anxiety and your own brain using your insecurities against you."

She lifted her eyes slightly from her buttons and looked into mine.

"How about you let me suck on your breast, and then I'll decide for myself if I want to stop, okay?"

She closed her eyes, smiled ruefully, and began chuckling, "oh God, don't make me laugh; they hurt when they bounce, too."

"Okay. Let's take care of the problem, then." I reached for the next button, and by the time she got the second one open, I'd gotten through the other three without her objection.

She grasped each side of her unbuttoned shirt before taking a deep breath, letting it out, and pulling her blouse out of her slacks. As she began shuffling it off her shoulders, she inadvertently displayed her bra-covered breasts for my up-close inspection.

"Good grief, Pam! I'm no fashion expert, but that bra looks...WAY too constricting."

She nodded. "You're not wrong, but bras are expensive."

"I see..." Again, I didn't see, but I recalled my wife having said something about the expense years ago. No doubt they haven't gotten cheaper.

"Yeah, you're about to..." She draped her blouse over one of the vacated chairs and pulled the flap from the left cup on her nursing bra. Her strangulated breast popped out of it, the entirety swollen and distended, the pink nipple also swollen and actively leaking, and I could see how horrific it must feel. Even her freckles looked painfully swollen.

"Good Lord, Pam, do you want to take that off? It looks like it's choking your breasts!"

She looked down, nodded in agreement, but then said, "maybe after you deflate them a little..."

I nodded as she rotated her breast to my mouth and leaned in. As gently as I could, I took her nipple between my teeth and wrapped my lips around her entire areola. With only the slightest suction, she absolutely sprayed into my mouth. I had little to zero experience with this, y'know, since I'd been sentient, but that seemed deeply unusual -- she must have been extraordinarily overloaded. She tasted, well, like milk but with a sweetness reminiscent of honey. My grandmother used to have me drink warm sweet milk when I had trouble sleeping as a child, and her taste reminded me of that concoction. I ran my tongue under Pam's breast and increased the pressure. Another spray flowed over my tongue.

I loved her milk, so no problem there, and I certainly had no problem with her titty pressed into my face, but Pam's reaction surprised me more than mine did. She kept her eyes closed as she cradled me against her breast, and she moaned with relief, even remarkable pleasure. She caressed my scalp, running her fingers through my hair sensuously, and if I read her skin flush and breathing correctly, she found the whole experience arousing. She sounded damn near like she had an ongoing orgasm. I drew several more swallows, and, each time, she moaned in, I guess, relief. I enjoyed every mouthful, and, as I couldn't help persistently flicking her nipple with my tongue each time the stream subsided, she enjoyed each mouthful I received, apparently, as much as I did.

As I began to wonder if I should move to her right breast, Pamela pulled the cup open while keeping me latched to her left nipple. Her arm came right back to my head to continue running her hand through my hair, but moments later her impatience, or the pain, overwhelmed her, and she twisted her body and shifted my face to her newly exposed breast.

She gasped in pain when my nose made contact, but I took over from there. I gently took her nipple between my teeth and grasped her areola with my lips just as I'd done with her left one, and my mouth refilled with honey flavored milk.

"Mmmmm..." I couldn't talk while I had a titty stuffed in my face, but I could a least express some level of appreciation.

Pamela continued cradling my head, caressing my scalp, running her fingers through my hair. She even lost her mind for a moment and kissed my forehead.

I looked up with my eyebrows raised in question, but she kept her mortified eyes closed, and her face blossomed an even darker shade of red.

I kept nuzzling and sucking on that tit; she tasted wonderful -- I love honey sweet milk, but her reactions thrilled me even more. Her hands were all over me while I sucked, and that's when a more full realization hit me: Pamela's hips ground in a circular motion on my lap!