Reaching the Limit

The pain in my breasts was Wagnerian.

It was such a simple, fundamental torture I wondered why at the Agency hadn't thought of it first. I had no idea if it had been used on other women before me (although I would soon learn), but it now dominated my thoughts in a way I never thought possible. All my training at resisting physical and psychological torture had not prepared me for this. Not at all. I could've withstood gang rape or electroshock, but this....

I sat in a solid, heavy wooden chair. Except for my black thong panties I'd been stripped naked while I was unconscious. Plastic ties bound my wrists to the chair's arms, and my ankles to the front legs. The room was small, with cinderblock walls and a low ceiling. I sensed the weight of multiple stories above me. The floor beneath my bare feet was concrete, and slick with condensation. The air was thick and still, heated to a point that I remained in a perpetual sweat. My hair, loose around my face, stuck to my shoulders and cheeks. Moisture trickled down my back, the insides of my thighs, under my arms.

Before me was a small, equally solid wooden table. I awoke with my head on it, in a puddle of saliva, and it took me several moments to realize what had happened. I'd been drugged in the locker room of my health club, zapped with a puff of sedating gas by a tall woman I didn't know. She knew I was a spook, though, and that I knew things many foreign governments would kill--or torture--to know. I slept without dreaming. I awoke here.

So as I sat up, looked around and took stock of my situation, one thing became immediately obvious: I was in constant pain. And my breasts were the source. They were incredibly tender and unbelievably heavy. It was the way they felt before my period, somehow exponentially ratcheted up. Their soft skin was stretched taut, and felt hot. That's when I noticed the second change.

Milk dripped from my nipples. Milk.

I'd never had children, so I'd never nursed. But of course I had friends who did, and I knew that somehow, while I was unconscious, I'd been made to lactate. The horror of this, of realizing my body had been changed against my will, quickly gave way to another horror.

I was full. And growing fuller. With no way to relieve the ever-increasing pressure. I couldn't reach my breasts to squeeze them, and there was certainly no one around to suckle me. Hence the unbelievable pain.

Whoever my captors were, they were in no hurry to question me, and I knew physical strength would not break the plastic ties holding me to the chair. I took several deep breaths, fought down the panic and examined myself as dispassionately as I could. When I looked down at my breasts I saw the veins sticking out in each of them. More, my milk ducts had started knotting up and there were a few large, swollen lumps at the top of either breast. My nipples were hard, erect, and milk slowly seeped from each. The drip, the slowness of it, was the most agonizing thing. My head dropped back and I growled in pain.

When I brought my head back up a drip of sweat trickled down my neck, between my breasts, and slid in line with a trail of milk on my stomach - mocking me. The room was hot enough for me to be more thankful than angry about my nakedness, but my incredibly vulnerable position left me seething.

At last the door opened, and he entered. I should've known. Conley.

"Hello," he said, and placed a plain box on the table before me.

My fists clenched and, despite everything, I strained against the ties holding me. It had to be Conley, that bag of traitorous shit who was let go six months earlier after an investigation led by me uncovered his sleazy double-dealing. For an instant I forgot my nudity and my throbbing boobs and wanted only to get my hands around his throat.

"By now you understand what's been done to you," he continued. "The situation is simple: tell me the pass code to get into the Agency database, and I will see that you're milked."

He opened the box and pulled out what looked like a pair of plastic bottles, each with a suction cup attached. I recognize it as a breast pump, and despite myself I leaned forward toward it. But I said, through teeth clenched in fury, "Fuck you, Conley. And the horse you rode in on."

He smiled, and I noticed he wasn't looking at my face. Suddenly I was vividly aware of my nakedness and felt a hot flush along my shoulders and neck. I'd never felt vulnerable like that, with my breasts so prominent it was like the rest of me was a mere attachment to them. A lump of shame swelled in my throat and, far worse, I felt a tingle deep inside. The part of me that enjoyed being tied up was responding to this, and I fought it with all my might.

"I suppose I'd have been disappointed if you hadn't tried some kind of defiance," Conley continued. As always he was overweight, unshaven and rumpled. I glanced at his crotch to see if he had an erection, but I couldn't tell. "That's okay. This is as much a lab test as torture session. The longer you hold out, the more we'll learn about how this method works."

I felt a chill despite the heat. Not only had they mutated me into some milk-producing human cow, I was a guinea pig as well. I looked up into his smug, jowly face and said, "You know I won't break. I've resisted worse than this in training exercises."

He smiled. "You think you have. But it's only been an hour."

I kept the reaction off my face, but a fresh wave of horror rose in me. An hour. And already my body was distended, overcome, wrenched into this new reality. In only an hour.

He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small squirt bottle, the kind that holds insecticide or bathroom cleaner. It rattled as it moved, and in a moment I realized why: it was filled with ice water. He squirted me twice, one spray on each breast.

The icy blast brought a sharp pain to each one. I cried out loudly, my voice echoing in the room. Conley smiled down at me, and I fought to get my emotions under control. It was just pain, I told myself. I've been trained to resist pain. But of course it was much more than that. It hardened my already-tight nipples even more, shutting off even the slight trickle of milk.

Without a word, Conley turned and left. Alone again, the room, impossibly, seemed hotter and smaller. I tried moving my legs around to ease their numbness but succeeded only in noticing a piece of grit digging in under one thigh.

"Come on," I hissed to myself, "evaluate this. You're not...you're not a damn cow. If you'd been drugged, it will wear off. You can resist it."

My breasts tingled as if they knew what the pump was for. "Jesus" I muttered, as a new wave of pain rolled over me, "you girls can't possibly fill up any more."

At last I noticed that although I was tied to the chair, the chair was not tied to anything. My breasts, now impossibly loaded and painfully heavy, caused me to growl a low, long growl. With fierce determination, I used what little energy I had to hop the chair closer toward the door.

The first hop was the last one. My breasts flew up and I felt their hot, tight surfaces strike my chin. When they came down, milk squirted from me and I felt pain like I'd never imagined as their weight struck bottom. They jiggled for several agonizing moments, and I imagined the hot liquid sloshing in them. I knew somewhere in there I screamed, because it rang in the room after I stopped. But I had no memory of it.

"Oh, God," I whimpered, my spirit breaking. I couldn't fight this. I couldn't bear more. "Please, I need help, I need...."

I looked up. I hadn't heard Conley enter the room, but he was there, looking smug and triumphant. "Want me to milk you?" he said.

The word choice, the deliberate humiliation in it, caused my anger to flare up. "I want you to give me the antidote to whatever you've done to me, you asshole. Then we can talk."

He put one rough-fingered hand under my left breast and jiggled it. I whimpered, but kept my angry glare. He licked milk from his fingertips and said, "I will see that you're milked when you give me the password I want. That's the only agreement I'm going to make."

Could my breasts explode, I wondered? Could they fill up with milk to the point that it would spontaneously shoot out? Or was there simply a level of pain I could not endure, when the pressure reached maximum and my poor boobs, swollen and stretched beyond reason, made me admit that I'd do anything for some relief?

He traced a circle around my other nipple with his fingertip. I shuddered with the sensation, both painful and somehow, infuriatingly erotic. My nipples had never been this hard, never ached so much, and the steady drip of milk only added to their hypersensitivity. Worse was the complete feminine vulnerability; this was worse than the threat of rape, which I'd been trained to handle.

"Please," I whispered. "Please, do something...please..." And then I uttered the words that signified the moment my spirit broke. "...milk me."

"Tell me the password," he said softly, running his fingertip along the length of one nipple.

And, God help me, I did.

A woman in a lab coat, with a surgical mask in place, came in shortly and hooked me up to the breast pump. Her eyes told me she was Asian; they also said she felt no pity for me at all.

She put oil on my breasts, around my nipples. Her latex-clad fingers were slim and efficient. She turned on the machine and fitted the cups against me until the suction sealed them to my skin. Tiny rubber pieces opened and closed around my nipples, simulating a mouth and causing my milk to express.

When the machine truly began to suck, I cried out. It was not just physical relief; a wave of emotion stronger than any I'd ever experienced washed over me, leaving me limp in the chair as the bottles filled with my milk. I sat shuddering, tears running down my cheeks, until it finally hit me that I'd had an orgasm. I felt shame, and disgust, and insanely clamped my thighs together in hopes of experiencing another one. I watched the level in them rise, astounded that my body could hold so much fluid. But I did not come again.

When I was empty, the woman unhooked the cups from my breasts. I'd never felt as naked in my life. She cut the plastic ties at my wrists and ankles, but I was too drained, in every sense, to seize the advantage. I sat in the chair, whimpering, tears dripping from my chin.

***

Conley returned and gave me a white undershirt, like a wifebeater, and a pair of grey sweatpants. I was so spent that dressing took forever. Then he marched me out of the room, to an elevator that took us several floors down. The Asian woman met us there.

We walked past a row of barred cells. As we passed, I saw that the doors were open and all were empty, but they showed signs of recent habitation. There were televisions, magazines and books, but no clothes or photographs on the walls.

At the end of the hall was a final door. As we neared it I heard voices, unmistakably female. I couldn't make out the words, and when the door opened I understood why. They were moans.

A dozen women sat in chairs against the far wall, facing me. They were naked to the waist above gray sweatpants identical to mine. All were hooked up to milking machines, and milk flowed from them as hard as it had done from me. They were all American, all white, ranging in age from 18 years old to middle age. On a table near the door, new neatly-folded white undershirts awaited them.

"Rules are posted in your cell," the Asian woman said loudly, over the noise made by the milking machines and the women. "The only punishment for breaking a rule is not to be milked."

"I believe you know how effective that can be," Conley said.

I was already dripping from my nipples again, soaking the front of the undershirt. I turned to Conley. "But you said...the antidote....

The Asian woman smiled beneath the surgical mask. "There is no antidote. The change in your body is permanent. This is your new existence."

Conley shrugged. "I promised you'd be milked. And you will. Twice a day, from now on."

The chorus of moans, whimpers and sighs washed over me. One of the women, a thirty-something redhead with freckles over her shoulders and breasts, opened her eyes and looked at me. She was breathing heavily, and the red flush along her neck told me that, like me, she'd been overwhelmed by the eroticism of what was happening. I watched her come, silently but unmistakably. Inside the plastic milking cups, I could see the rubber lips massaging her long pale nipples.

I fought to breathe. Then I began to scream.