Lactation Issues 1

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Grant Dorian was the kind of man who knew how to run a business meeting with ruthless grace. He was 43 years old, with a clean-cut jaw, salt-and-pepper hair, and a closet full of navy suits. Grant was the executive vice president of development at one of the city’s most prestigious private financial firms. He had closed deals across continents, chaired strategy summits through hurricanes, and once negotiated a merger while on antibiotics for bronchitis. Nothing had ever shaken him until he reached six months pregnant with quadruplets.

Grant was one of the few men born with the ability to conceive and carry children. He had known about it since his early twenties, after a routine scan for abdominal pain revealed a second, functional reproductive system. The doctors had been astonished back then, and Grant had been terrified. He had hidden that part of himself away for years, certain no one would take him seriously in the corporate world if they ever knew he had a womb.

But then, during the company’s New Year’s Eve gala, something cracked. He had worked late that evening, not planning to attend the party, but showed up at the penthouse ballroom out of duty. He wore his finest tuxedo, acting like he owned the world. The drinks were flowing, and the music was loud enough to blur inhibitions. Grant was beyond reckless that night, for the first time in ages, sneaking into a suite with a man he couldn’t remember.

His memories of that night were blurry—short flashes of what had happened. He remembered being firmly pinned to the suite door, with the man’s breath on his neck. Their making out left him breathless as they undressed, and Grant felt the man’s hands cupping and squeezing his firm butt. Grant remembered being in bed, looking straight into bright blue eyes while a monster cock stretched him and rearranged his guts with the power of an earthquake. The encounter had been heated, intense, and louder than he expected—his lips couldn’t contain the loud guttural moans coming out.

The next morning, Grant woke up alone. And a month later, a test confirmed what he’d feared: he was pregnant with quadruplets. He didn’t tell anyone, not even HR, because there was no such thing as maternity leave for men. He had no idea who the father was. Grant assumed it was someone from the firm, but it was impossible to know who it was. The babies were his burden to carry alone. However, it wasn’t the belly that broke him. It was the chest.

At twenty-eight weeks, Grant’s body had transformed beyond recognition. His belly was colossal for his stage—a high and stretched orb of tight skin that seemed to defy physics as it pressed forward with four large, active babies. Each shift, each hiccup, and each lazy roll inside left him breathless and sent sharp pressure through his back, hips, and thighs. But the true torment was his chest.

His pecs had ballooned into enormous, weighty masses that jutted out painfully from his torso. He once had a lean, modest chest, but now it had been replaced by two overfilled globes of milk-laden tissue, heavy enough to pull at his spine when unsupported. The skin was taut and glossy. His nipples had grown thick and dark, achingly sensitive, and so prone to stimulation that even the brush of his shirt buttons sent tingling sensations through his nerves.

And the leaking was relentless, constant, and sometimes so maddening that Grant could barely stand it. There was always a warm trickle, like the slow leak of a faucet. Other times, it hit in unstoppable torrents, soaking through two layers of pads, darkening his undershirt, and spreading through his neatly pressed dress shirts like ink on blotting paper. He had awoken on more than one occasion lying in a wet patch so large it had soaked into his mattress.

Pads helped, at least barely. Grant layered three at a time, changed them in the private stall of the executive restroom, and still, by midday, the fabric clung to his chest with damp, sour-smelling weight. His blazers were ruined. Even compression bands couldn’t contain the fullness, which pulsed hotly every few hours with the aching need to release.

The worst moments were during meetings. Grant would sit still while a meeting dragged on, feeling pressure mounting beneath his shirt, soon followed by a sudden gush so powerful it left him gasping. Once, while speaking to the board, both nipples released at once in a synchronized stream that soaked through his tie, his shirt, and the lining of his tailored vest. The humiliation had stolen his breath.

He had slipped from the room with a cold apology and locked himself in the restroom. He had watched milk pour in thick streams from his chest into the sink as he tried to relieve the burning fullness with his trembling fingers. He could only groan softly throughout the entire episode, which lasted much longer than he had anticipated. He cried as he milked himself with trembling hands. It was exhausting and relentless, and it was only getting worse.

Then, the care packages started appearing randomly. First, it was a box of extra-absorbent pads in Grant’s drawer. Then a soft support band appeared on his desk, with lactation tea in ceramic mugs and kind notes. The handwriting was the same on each note. He wondered if it meant something—maybe it was the father of the babies—or if people were only trying to help him out of pity. Whatever the case, he appreciated it.

One late afternoon, after a particularly long day of soaked shirts and swollen feet, he stood by the window in his office, pressing a hand under his pec and trying to discreetly handle the ache. He heard the door opening and turned around, taking a deep breath and trying to compose himself before facing a young intern who worked right under Grant’s assistant.

Jonah entered silently, holding a folder against his chest. He paused in the doorway, smiling and making his boyish face look even cuter. At 24, Jonah was the definition of clean and charming. He was tall and slender, with enough definition beneath his button-down to hint at fitness without bulk. His tailored slacks hugged his lean hips and accentuated a big bulge that left some people breathless. His white shirt was tucked in neatly beneath a navy sweater vest that hugged his chest. The sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing long, graceful arms.

His rectangular glasses couldn’t hide the piercing clarity of his blue eyes that shimmered when he smiled and softened when he focused on Grant. His lips were naturally pink and plush, a soft contrast to the sharp lines of his jaw. His hair was warm chestnut, tousled enough to hint at hurried fingers through it. There was something quietly radiant about him, something that drew the eye again and again.

Grant could feel the tension in the air shift when the young man entered—Jonah had that effect on him: effortlessly disarming and making the older man gasp in awe. It was something Grant couldn’t comprehend. Jonah looked like a dream come true, dressed in soft neutrals and too much intelligence.

“Mr. Dorian,” Jonah said softly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Grant sighed as milk visibly soaked through the light blue shirt he’d foolishly chosen that morning. “Don’t worry. At this point there’s not a moment when I’m not busy with these,” Grant said, cupping his massive tits before moving his hands down to his belly, where the babies kicked up a storm.

Jonah looked at him, then slowly set the folder down. “Can I help?”

Grant wanted to say no, but his chest throbbed. His belly felt impossibly tight. His nipples were leaking like faucets. He nodded before having a second thought.

Jonah stepped forward, slipping off Grant’s suit jacket and slowly unbuttoning his soaked shirt. The fabric clung to Grant’s chest like a second skin, plastered by the milk that had been leaking for hours. Each button came undone with a sticky pull, revealing more of the bloated, veined flesh beneath. Finally, Jonah removed the damp fabric, exposing the enormous, heaving expanse of Grant’s chest.

The sight alone made Grant shiver—both from the shock of cool air and from intense overstimulation. His pecs jutted forward impossibly round, the skin was flushed and glossy, and the nipples were stiff and visibly pulsing. Jonah reached out and cupped one swollen tit. It was hot and firm beneath his hand, and the simple touch drew more milk out of the nipple. He moved his hands over both tits, and Grant could barely stand the sensation.

Jonah pressed gently, and Grant gasped. “Oh, fuck… nghh… I can’t hold it anymore,” Grant said, tilting his head back as the young man continued.

Jonah grinned, squeezing the overfilled tits, and Grant exploded. Milk gushed from both nipples in twin jets that flew through the air and hit the tile floor with splashes loud enough to echo. Jonah flinched, blinking as a stream hit his forearm. Then another. And another. And another. It wasn’t a leak anymore; it was a torrent. It poured like someone had opened a tap too wide, soaking Jonah’s sleeves, pooling beneath their feet, streaming down Grant’s sides, and soaking the waistband of his pants.

Grant let out a strangled moan as his knees trembled and his hands gripped Jonah’s shoulders for support. “Nngghh—oh damn, it won’t stop—!”

Jonah could only blink and smile. He pressed more firmly, now actively massaging both tits, helping express the relentless pressure. Milk sprayed from Grant’s nipples in forceful pulses, splashing across Jonah’s hands and wrists, soaking the floor beneath them. The tile glistened with it. It dripped from Jonah’s sleeves and splattered across his chest. They stood in a puddle, and still, it didn’t stop.

Jonah leaned closer and applied more pressure to the mounds, intensifying the geyser-like torrents and leaving Grant in a barely conscious state. “You’re absolutely bursting. No wonder you were miserable.”

“Ugh… please! Don’t stop!” Grant moaned out, struggling to stay on his feet.

“You know, Mr. Dorian. I have something to tell you. Something important,” Jonah said suddenly, leaning in to whisper into Grant’s mouth. “I remember everything, New Year’s Eve, the hotel suite, and that tight hole of yours. You moaned so loud all night long. I stayed until morning, but you were sleeping.”

Grant blinked at him, stunned. “You’re the father,” he whispered.

“I’ve known for months. But I didn’t want to pressure you. I’m only an intern and you’re my boss,” Jonah said, brushing his lips against Grant’s and making him moan. “But I want to be here. I want to help you,” he added, playfully grinning and leaning lower to kiss Grant’s tits.

Grant stared, unable to respond as milk poured from his chest like rivers, his belly trembled with baby kicks, and his cock stirred in his pants. He finally realized why Jonah had such an effect on him. He remembered everything. While Jonah’s lips explored his tits, Grant remembered how the young man had playfully sucked on his nipples that night and how it had sent him into a frenzy. And more than anything, Grant remembered Jonah’s massive cock that he could barely believe was real.

****

Hours later, they lay together on the couch in Grant’s apartment. Jonah helped the older man strip and sit on pillows, with his chest fully exposed and his belly cradled in blankets. He firmly massaged the massive tits again, and milk continued shooting until the pressure eased.

When the babies kicked, Jonah leaned and talked to them. “Hey there, kiddos! I wanna ask for your permission to drink some of the milk your daddy’s producing for you all,” he whispered, playfully grinning as the babies kicked harder. “Don’t worry. He’ll have plenty when you’re ready to come out in three months,” he added and quickly moved up to lock his lips around Grant’s right nipple and sucked hard.

Grant cried out in pleasure, and the sensation made his cock explode in his pants. “Oh fuck, boy! Keep doing that and I’ll call in sick for the first time in twelve years,” he said, caressing Jonah’s hair as the young man kept drinking. “You better be ready, because once you’re done with my tits, I want a ride on that monster cock of yours,” he added, and Jonah sucked harder, ready to satisfy Grant’s every desire.

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