Concept: Michael going "Do you want Mother's milk?" to feral RH who's eyes are focused on his swollen breasts
Swelling up his chest would be Michael’s favorite part of shapeshifting. He’d love seeing the soft flesh fill out, feeling his nipples stiffen and go tender, leaking from the tips. If he wasn’t careful, it’d ruin all his shirts. He’d have to start wearing undershirts to soak up any dribble that built up on the pebbled tips throughout the day. And there’d be plenty, because letting the milk back up would become a game. Like refusing to empty his bladder or ignoring his cock no matter how much it ached, it’d be a test of will, and he’d revel in the ache.
He wouldn’t open his jacket and paw for relief until they were full to bursting. By then they’d be heavy, singing sore under his shirt, and ready to squirt for anything. Even the softest bump against his desk would tease out a spittle of milk, and the brief relief it granted would finally crack him. After a full day of his focus continually narrowing down to the throbbing swell of his chest, the slightest drop in pressure would have him gnawing his lip. Once given a taste of it, he wouldn’t be able to resist.
He could do it himself, if he really wanted. Swollen as they were, they wouldn’t need much stimulation. He could cup his engorged breast and squeeze, watch the milk spurt, whimper as the tenderness peaked. Some would dribble from his nipple down his knuckles and belly, and the rest splatter onto his desk. It’d be like watching himself cum, and after a full day of refusing to pump, probably feel about the same. The rush of relief would tangle up with pleasure in his gut, and he’d have to cross his legs to resist reaching between them. Because that urge was less dire, and newer, besides. He’d want both hands working his poor breasts. One squeezing the sorest, and one teasing the other’s nipple: tweaking and tugging to simulate a mouth, teasing out a steady flow.
Which would be when RH wandered into the room, though what he’d come for, he’d forget in seconds. The sight of Michael at his desk, shirt open around his tender, swollen breasts would dry up the memory of whatever petty offense he’d come to report. It wasn’t important, anyway. Not like this. Not like the weak moans rattling through the room, snagging somewhere between relief and mounting desire; not like the way RH’s jaw watered at the prospect of replacing one of Michael’s hands with his mouth.
“Are you hungry?” Michael asked, voice smokey with need.
And he was, though he hadn’t known until that moment. His lips ached to wrap around the nipple being tugged raw, to soothe the sting with spit before suckling just as viciously. He was hungry: for the milk, and for how Michael would squirm under him, the pitiful sounds he’d make until he spent. He knew how to tease those out, and would do so mercilessly. It was rare to be given the upper hand so freely, and he wouldn’t want to waste it, or disappoint his boss. If he needed draining, RH would happily provide.
Careful not to snag the sore nipple with his teeth, RH would latch, tease the creases with his tongue. Pad the surrounding swell while he pulled to ensure no reserve went untapped, until the flow slowed to nothing but a dribble. He’d switch sides then, drain the other just as expertly, not caring that his belly was getting full. It was worth it to hear Michael’s anxious whimpers pitching down, and sweetening with relief only his trusted ally could give.
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dailybridgerton
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