By Anna Von Reitz
It's apparent from feedback that a lot of people on both sides of the Atlantic aren't quite getting the context of what Uriah's problem is -- and again, if you are squeamish about adult topics, there is nothing x-rated, but you might want to skip this.
Uriah is a working class man who got his entry into MI6 from an excellent academic record, excellent service record, immense linguistic talents, and athleticism. He had no silver spoons anywhere in his pedigree and grew up in a fairly squalid small agricultural fiefdom that specializes to this day in slaughtering animals for London's meat markets.
He met Bathsheba when they were both very young. He was twenty-two and part of my transcontinental bunch of Junior Woodchuck mathematics savants, hired as a tutor to teach her mathematics --- as hopeless a prospect as anyone might guess, as she had less than any interest in numbers and pouted at the mere mention of algebra, geometry or any other thing identified in her mind as "arithmetic".
Imagine a pouty, privileged sixteen year-old facing a plate full of canned spinach, and the guy tasked with serving it up, is a serious-minded, ambitious, and determined young man --- who despite all that, couldn't help falling truly, madly, deeply in love.
However, England at that time, forty years ago, and even now, was in the throes of recovery from the era of Victorian prudery and at the same time, it imposed a caste system society from birth. A man's social standing is written on his face and his haircut, his shoes, his speech -- and even those like Uriah whose native intelligence allows them to bridge the gap, the gap between working class men and aristocratic women remains.
The Grand Dames make jokes about "Yummy Plumbers" but it isn't really a joke. Social chasms remain. In some ways, it's even worse for someone like Uriah who is a white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant, middle to low class, without a shred of anything exotic about him. He's just a good man, and that's all. Loyal, faithful, and true.
Bathsheba saw that it in him and fell in love with him for it, but when she was young she was very impressionable and very beautiful, and over-awed by her domineering Mother who wanted a "suitable match" for her, and let's face it, girls with large and venerable Earldoms in their family don't marry below their caste. The whole game for them is to marry above their caste and bit by bit, generation by generation, claw their way upward in Britain's hidebound social strata.
When "King David" chose her, straight out of what counts as High School in Britain, there was no question that she would marry him. Her parents demanded it. Her friends demanded it. Everyone who cared about her -- except me -- demanded it.
Bathsheba had no idea what "the price" of marrying a man like Uriah could be, so she was led like a lamb to slaughter, straight to her wedding bed, complete with fresh rose petals covering the bedroom carpet. I met Uriah that night at a local pub where he was drowning his sorrow and we just sat there like two old campaigners, silent, and drinking warm beer. We stayed together in relative silence until dawn. Watched the sun come up.
"Well, that's it," he said. "The deed's done. He's had her good and proper, half a dozen times, and I am just a memory that needs to fade away."
He turned and walked down the road leading out of town without looking back. I knew how much it hurt him, but there was nothing I could say. I just marked the moment like a snapshot in my head. The red sun rising. The veils of morning mist. His hair, messed up from hours of running his hands through it.
A man like "King David" in that society has everything in the world at his feet, appointments to the high offices of government, posting in the Foreign Office, ranking military posts. The world, quite literally, was King David's oyster, and he could have, if he were a truly insecure and malicious man, done exactly what the real King David did to the actual Uriah in the Bible story. He could have gotten our Uriah posted to the front lines of enough international spats and worked enough chains of command and cashed in enough blue chips at any time to ensure that Uriah never came home again.
King David could have permanently extinguished any challenger for Bathsheba's attention with less trouble than a trip to the veterinarian with his Springer Spaniel, Maude, the Destroyer. So let's begin with the fact that our King David was a self-confident, energetic, and not terribly vengeful man. He was more than willing to look beyond any youthful kisses at the garden gate, so long as Uriah swiftly and permanently left town and left off all contact with Bathsheba.
So that is what Uriah did. He left, he went into foreign service, he never wrote, never went anywhere near her stately home. It was never over in his heart, but for all practical intents and purposes, it was over for this lifetime. Until King David died and left Bathsheba, now a wealthy widow in her early sixties and she may still be a prize but not in the same way. She's earned the right to have her Yummy Plumber and no harm done, because the family estate has two sons who will inherit, and there will be no more children. She can live with Uriah in sin or even marry him without upsetting the class order and foundations of British society, so long as she is discreet about it.
Uriah can easily be mistaken as a security agent, one of those very quiet men who lurk at the elbows of wealthy British women of a certain age. Hardly anyone would be the wiser and all the Old Grand Dames who pushed her into her early and profoundly weird marriage are all dead and gone. Once you are past sixty and have "done your turn" even the Brits don't bother to gossip about you, so long as you are quiet about your indiscretions.
That is precisely Uriah's problem, and Bathsheba's problem, too. Her very large, very firm breasts draw constant attention, and that attention has a sexual overtone to it, which makes people even more snoopy and alert.
Uriah is a man who has stayed alive against all probability in a very dangerous profession for forty years, even as the True Love of a very wealthy British aristocrat's wife. You don't do that by stripping naked and waving balloons. You do that by being very circumspect, very low key, keeping your nose to the homework, and considering a rare fishing vacation in Scotland the height of your personal expectations.
So now, bring on the rest of the story. Here he is in love with Bathsheba as she exists now, after nearly forty years spent as a living lactation experiment. When I tell you that her breasts are gigantic, I am not exaggerating. They are a cup size EE, which we measured. Next time you are in a department store, check out what that means.
Not only that, her breasts have been well-tended and trained and cared for and supported. They remain sensitive. The least bit of cold anywhere -- hands without gloves, a cold park bench --- any drift of cold air, and her breasts stand up at attention and swell, and her nipples, which are the size of a man's thumb down to the first knuckle also pop up like Jack-in-a-Boxes.
There is nothing you can do about this. Even packing the cups of her brassieres (not the fancy designer models -- real brassieres) with soft cotton and making a thick nipple snood doesn't help much.
Most men, especially British men hearing about this "problem" break out and smirk and think, oh, poor Uriah. His love of life pops out an enormous set, still milky and happy to see him. Poor chap. Our hearts bleed, positively bleed for him....
The fact remains that Bathsheba creates instant, unavoidable attention. Men, women, and children all stop and stare, a minimum of three seconds when they see her, and they aren't staring at her sweet face or her uncertain smile. Think Princess Di -- tall, slender, nowhere to hide her massive breasts. Bathsheba can't hunker down like a short girl with a big set, and somehow look like a mushroom wearing a hat. It's simply not possible.
When you walk into a shopping center with her, or just down the street, the pointed staring is unnerving. You can practically read what people are thinking, especially the men --- "Oh, Lord, she must be a famous porn star! Why haven't I seen her on the Big Uns pay per view?"
She tries hard not to notice the way people stare at her, or rather, at her breasts. She blushes. She tears up. She hurries along to her destination and is relieved with the street door closes behind her, only to face shop clerks who stop dead in their tracks and stare at her.
One day, quite recently, she snapped, "Yes, they are real. You want to touch them? Want to suck on them to convince yourselves?"
Needless to say, that put everyone back a step and caused a general fluttering of eyelids as the culprits glanced away, but to be fair, they can't help themselves and Bathsheba knows this, which in a way only makes it worse.
"I'm a freaking freak show," she whispered to me. "It's not their fault...."
Even I was staring as her double EE's responded to her sudden adrenalin rush and thrust their way forward, upward, and outward. Her tent-like blouse and trench coat were no match at all.
Big uns. Really, really big uns. All firm and perky and full of milk. I led her to a seat in her favorite tea room and listened helplessly to her very quiet sobs. Yes, it is a problem. It's a problem that men and some women would like to have, but only at their convenience.
I sat there thinking, wouldn't it be lovely, if you could pull a string and have them to play with, and then just put them away like a couple soccer balls until next time? But in real life, it's not that way at all.
I could picture Uriah sitting in my place and all the emotions and thoughts that must be his part in this situation. Here's the sweet, gentle, kindly woman he loves, through no fault of her own, sobbing in public and creating a "stir", complete with a waiter hovering at our elbows looking concerned.
He's a middle-aged man from Lebanon, proud father of seven, he has run this tea room since he was a youth. I know him well. His usually sparkling brown eyes are filled with concern, but he doesn't know what's going on, and I am sure he'd rather have the sound of laughter in his tea room.
He was the only one the whole afternoon who looked at her face, not her breasts. I shook my head and said, "She'll be all right." I hoped it was true. He looked shaken but took our order and hurried away. I was stymied. Thinking about her. Thinking about Uriah.
Uriah is the soul of discretion. Not just the feet and hands. The soul. He avoids all sorts of drama and a situation like this is like kryptonite for him. It creates attention. It has vague overtones of public interest in private sexuality.
I could feel him squirming in his chair, even however many miles away, and God only knows where.
To make it all worse, he has to look at those gigantic breasts and know that another man made them, with endless hours of stimulation and purposeful manipulation carried out over years of round the clock massages, endless kisses, endless sucking, whole years spent squeezing, patting, prodding, coating with creams and oils, slathering with honey, even attaching the equivalent of milking machines to her breasts and letting them suck her dry like a milk cow.
I know Uriah. I know that messes with his head. It has to. It messes with my head on his behalf. He didn't have any golden afternoons lounging on a bed, sucking on her breasts and nibbling her nipples and massaging them with his own hands.
All that simple intimacy of a man with a woman he loves was denied to Uriah. He's left with King David's handiwork, and yes, it is a problem.
It's a social and privacy problem, because a woman with breasts that big and perky draws instant attention. It's a problem because people think she's a whore or a porn star or some kind of "freak" as she put it herself. Sometimes, men even cat-call as she walks by and say things like, "Hey, Mama, come to Daddy...." and when things like that happen, Uriah's natural instinct is to take his own well-trained body and bash the guy's voice box into the back of his head.
Thus far, in the flashpoint nanosecond it takes for his face to go white and then red, he has been able to stop himself, and think and say, as Bathsheba also said, it's not their fault. People see objects, huge breasts, huge nipples, and being sight-oriented creatures, that's all most people see. Something primordial rises up in them, a lust, a desire to touch and suck. They don't see her face. They don't see his face.
I'd point that out to Uriah and wryly observe that he doesn't have to worry about some assassin marking him because of any commotion Bathsheba creates, unless it's a blind, hundred year-old assassin without a single hormone left in their body, but like the Yummy Plumber jokes, it would be too close to the truth, and not really a joke.
Bathsheba and I drank our hot tea and ate our scones and talked carefully about pleasant things. I paid the bill and took her home, cursing rush hour traffic and left-side driving all the way, only to jolt back to reality and find her faithful Titty Team waiting for us. They greeted us with smiles and helped her out of her coat. It's a routine so well-established, I am pretty sure that nobody even thinks much about it.
Help the Mistress out of her coat, then out of her blouse, then out of her bra, stand there for a moment staring at the magnificent bare titties they've created, silent, almost in homage. They stare the standard three seconds like everyone else, but they get to see her naked, and they pause a moment before they guide her forward and get her seated in a specially built lounge chair --- built especially for "reclined massage" of her breasts.
They make it sound so clinical.
One guys sits at her head and holds her breasts up from behind, while two more swoop in with thick creams that have the consistency of shea butter and they begin to slowly, rhythmically rub the cream in, making little circles with their flattened fingers and then rubbing their knuckles over her nipples. There's a precise count for each movement, a hundred little circles on each breast, followed by a hundred knuckle rubs on each nipple, followed by two hundred "cupping" movements, followed by a hundred squeezes -- pretty hard squeezes of her breasts between their fingertips, followed by a hundred more wider, slower circling motions pressing down slightly so that her nipples are compressed and have to rebound....
I stood there and watched and analyzed the whole routine, watched as the two men -- the specialized masseurs, not the guy who simply sits there like a rock holding the weight of her breasts upward for the masseurs -- bent over her chest on a diagonal line so that both their heads could fit the limited space, and they began sucking on her nipples and squeezing her breasts in a slow upward, sweeping, scooping movement.
I tried to imagine Uriah standing there in my place. How would it feel to watch two professional masseurs work over your wife's breasts like that?
Bathsheba moaned softly. It was clearly somewhere between pleasure and pain for her, and clearly meant to be like that -- it was enough stimulation to make her really feel it and give her breasts a work out.
At the end, they put more cream on her breasts and slowly went through the opening moves again, gently kissing her nipples now, and finally, putting hot towels on her breasts -- just the precise right temperature. She sighed. After a minute she made the effort to sit up and blinked at me.
"And now," she pronounced, "I have to be milked, just like a cow."
There was something shocking about this, though of course, I know what has gone on here.
The technicians were already bringing the breast pumping equipment forward, rolling the whole set up silently across the floor, all gleaming stainless steel and black plastic, with gauges and air pressure cuffs that they fit over her breasts and tested carefully for calibration. It works like a blood pressure cuff, with the specially made air pockets squeezing and releasing, and a gizmo that looked like a large cap from a beer bottle that buzzed softly and vibrated visibly, and was placed like a little cap over each nipple.
This cap actually spins and shakes the milk droplets out of her nipples, sending a mild electrical current through each nipple and vibrating it at high speed.
"They have to do this," she explained, "or the milk builds up and I can't sleep."
The machine did its business and white vials of breast milk began filling up, one after another. Each vial held about two ounces. I wondered in rather vague terms, how much each vial sold for and who did the deals.
Bathsheba was told and she firmly believes that all that breast milk is donated to hospitals with neonatal care units, for premature babies whose mothers couldn't or wouldn't breast feed. I wondered if, instead, it went to dirty old men with the same kinds of fetishes King David had. She looked helpless and hopeless.
It was all very neat and clean and thoroughly professional. The machine droned on and on, the air cuffs filling and emptying; her nipples seemed to double in size and were a deep, flaming red. This was clearly quite painful, just on the edge of being enough to make her cry out. The machine was calibrated to extract every drop, and it left her breasts looking a little deflated afterward, but not as much as you might expect.
Anyone who has ever had a tight blood pressure cuff squeeze their arm can imagine having a contraption like this completely covering and squeezing both breasts in sync, and maybe imagine this vibrating nipple cap spinning and vibrating and then clamping down hard and spasmodically on each nipple.
This went on for half an hour, until the last drop was extracted, and the smiling technicians came to release her breasts and remove the machinery. The next-generation Mrs. Pam came in and slipped one of the designer bras on Bathsheba, one of those with open tips to expose the nipples. Wide padded shoulder straps settled on Bathsheba's shoulders. Gone are the days when her breasts could be supported with conventional bra straps. Her obviously sore nipples slowly returned to normal color and Mrs. Pam decided to lend a hand, gently rolling each nipple between her fingers to hasten the recovery process.
"I know it hurts, love," Mrs. Pam said, "but it has to be done."
Both these bra experts, two women both named Mrs. Pam, bear a striking family resemblance, as if they are not only members of the brassiere-makers professional guild, but literal family, too.
"In another three and half hours," Bathsheba said wearily, "we'll go through all this again, only harder."
"What do you mean --- harder?" All the whirring, bumping, twisting and squeezing looked hard enough to me.
"More pressure, more force, harder sucking, bigger hands," she said. "Different masseurs. Bigger guys. Bigger hands. A lot more powerful. They will wring me out and let me sleep for about six hours, before it all begins again."
It's its own kind of nightmare. She needs to be milked all the time, literally, just like a cow, or her breasts get swollen and painful. If she doesn't get milked on a very regular schedule, her milk ducts can clog up or get infected, just like a cow. She has to be milked every six hours, with no exceptions, just changes in the routines and the machines --- all of which were developed by King David as part of his "research" using Bathsheba as the guinea pig.
She sighed, "So I have to do this, four times a day, with massage sessions in between. And every day that goes by, my breasts get bigger from all this stimulation, which makes "the problem" worse. Mrs. Pam says I am going to need an even bigger cup size soon and I am already way too big. I've got hands and lips on my breasts for at least six hours every day, and when it isn't hands squeezing and lips sucking, it's these machines David built...."
It occurred to me then, that despite King David's light-hearted air, he meant for this to happen. He benefited directly and in multiple ways from it. He got to play out his own fetishes, got to suck her dry in front of people every day, and nobody questioned this. He got to invite guests, other men, and have them all suck her breasts like tag teams, and maybe he charged them for it. Maybe it wasn't just selling the breast milk for profit. Maybe it was a whole business proposition closer to a form of prostitution.
"I don't know how to stop this cycle," she admitted. "I have to do the very thing that makes The Problem with Uriah worse, and I have to do it, more or less, in front of him, with his knowledge. Every day, around the clock. It's like David is laughing at us, standing between us, even from the grave."
I nodded. "Do you want me to stay with you through the second Night Session, with the bigger guys with the bigger hands?"
"No," she said uncertainly, "that will be late and you need your sleep. They get here at midnight."
I got up at midnight just the same. I watched the whole performance, and she was right, it was a lot rougher, big men, big hands, painful pressure, careful biting of her nipples, big, wide swirling motions that moved her whole breast and kept squeezing and flattening down on the core of her breast, making her yelp with pain.
These men were a different caste of characters entirely. No sly, careful, precise Asian guys. These were ham-fists with fingers that worked her breasts as if they were clutching soccer balls midair. They didn't use oils or creams. The milking machine was different, too.
No air cuffs this time, a different variation of the spider-like machine I observed years ago, with hard metal "fingers" ending in wide rubber paddles that closed around her breasts like robotic hands and squeezed the flat rubber panels deep into her flesh in a sequential order, firing like pistons in an engine, rapidly, and with short striking force-- but always at a different angle and in a spiral pattern, working her breast from the base to the nipple and back again, over and over.
It hurt to watch, but she was used to it and the milk poured out in gushes that were instantly captured by some kind of air vacuum system. Big bottles of milk filled up this time. I counted sixteen bottles, at least six ounces each, 96 ounces, times two --- three quarts from each breast.
I stood there wondering and calculating and adding in the two ounce milk bottles from the earlier session. Over eight quarts total. And that was just the evening milking. No wonder her breasts look so huge and taut! She carries over a gallon of milk in each breast....a fact that numbed my brain for the few seconds that I spent staring into space. Realizing, too, that they were harvesting the cream in the early session -- higher fat content, less volume. More gentle extraction.
It seems surreal, but it is what it is.
The late night team put the hot towels on her chest and used them to rub her down like a race horse, letting the rough towel surfaces rub against her skin and over her nipples like sandpaper, until both breasts emerged, reddened and visibly slack -- for the moment. One of the younger man bent down and kissed her nipples. It was the first hint of any tenderness or caring that I saw.
The rest was all business and hard core stimulation, stimulation, stimulation. Stimulation from every angle, bottom to top and top to bottom, in short jolts, in spiral patterns, with soft, wide paddles, with poking metal fingers that compressed and squeezed hard, with more rubbery finger-like protrusions that poked straight down on her nipples, compressing them, and pushing them painfully into the core of her breast, then rolling her nipples from side to side, and then, whirling around like a splay-fingered roto-rooter, plunging up and down, suddenly stopping and grabbing a whole hunk of her breast and squeezing it hard enough to make her gasp.
"I couldn't do this machine at first," she said. "The men have to warm me up with real fingers and suck on me, before I can relax enough for this."
The rubber coated metal fingers were pressed deep into her breasts, kneading and twisting them like bread dough. Next the machine started emitting jolts of low voltage electricity like a TENS machine, making her breasts -- still being kneaded like bread -- quiver and shudder and jerk uncontrollably.
"Has Uriah seen all this?" I asked.
"No, he can't bear it," she said shortly.
I tried unsuccessfully to compute what he might have felt, seeing these other men squeeze, suck, pound and pummel her breasts just short of black and blue, then hooking her up on this machine that pulled and squeezed and mercilessly kneaded each breast to extract every drop of milk.
She thinks she is saving the lives of premature babies. Remember that.
In the morning, it all begins again. The creams. The oils. The hot towels. The massages. The sucking. The milking. The designer bras that expose her nipples and provide all the extra support for the weight -- a full gallon of milk and more, in each breast. All the manipulations and stimulations will start again at six in the morning, but now, thankfully, she is sleeping like a child.
I stayed awake all night, keeping an odd vigil over my friend, letting my thoughts drift, not sure what to expect next. I am afraid that robotic human milking machines temporarily fractured my brain's ability to think coherently. All I could see were the robotic hands endlessly massaging her breasts and the hard efficient way they did it. There was method and order to it, a calculated sequence of movements used to strip every drop of milk out of her breasts --- and I do mean every drop.
The new Mrs. Pam showed up about four o'clock and put hot towels on Bathsheba's breasts, patting them in a friendly, familiar manner.
"Now, that's a glorious set of titties," she said to me. "You used to visit years ago when my husband's Mum worked here, the first Mrs. Pam."
I nodded.
"Things have changed quite a bit since the Master died. He would be so proud, seeing how her breasts have grown. He used to throw a party every time she gained a cup size."
I remembered. Cakes and champagne, golden honey on her nipples, sunlight pouring in the high salon windows, but later, things subtly took a darker turn. There wasn't as much art and color, the bras got bigger and more industrial as her nipples got larger and larger.
"Tell me, Mrs. Pam, you are quite an expert--- why keep her nipples exposed all the time?"
"Oh, you have to do that. Have to keep the nipples open and exposed so they can be touched and sucked and in the open air. Hiding them away in a bra doesn't get them going. So you have the bra for support, but you leave the cups open, so a girl gets stimulated."
That word, again. Stimulated.
Mrs. Pam was rocking back on her feet the way some older women do, staring at Bathsheba's breasts and getting some more hot towels ready.
"And the hot towels?" I asked.
"That's for blood flow. Takes a lot of blood moving around to produce milk and get it to flow, too. That's one of the first things we discovered about bringing a girl into lactation. She needs her titties to be hot, really quite hot, so the blood gets moving all through her breast tissue, and then, cold. The cold shocks the nipples and makes them form up--- big, beautiful nipples only form when you give them plenty of hot and cold. First hot, then cold." Mrs. Pam said. "So, we get her ready with two rounds of hot towels, and then, I'll splash some cold water and Witch Hazel on her nipples and watch them. If they aren't going quite right, I use my fingers and encourage them along."
Sure enough. Two sets of hot towels, one dish of cold water and Witch Hazel, and just before six o'clock, Mrs. Pam carefully poked and prodded Bathsheba's nipples into proper shape, ready for a long day of sucking. It was weirdly fascinating.
All these people have become breast and lactation experts over the years. They cracked the code and know exactly how to bring a woman into lactation, how to train her nipples and her breasts to make them beautiful and productive --- meaning milk producers. Even Mrs. Pam, who doesn't seem to have any gender at all, routinely sucks on Bathsheba's breasts.
"It's the suckling that makes it all work," she assured me. "It tells the breast that a baby needs to be fed, so the more you can suck on a girl's breasts, the bigger and more beautiful they become and the more milk she produces. It's all in the technique and how much exercise you can give her nipples and teats over the course of the day. We started out with four long massages a day, but found that it really needs six. Every three hours, the bra comes off and the titties come out to play...."
"That doesn't seem very do-able in the modern age," I said politely, imagining what would happen if every three hours all the office workers stripped off their tops and bras and demanded their male co-workers to suck, suck, suck and rub, rub, rub.
It struck me as really funny. Ben and Jean, hard at work, making a beautiful set of milky breasts behind the water cooler, a sort of pastoral pastime brought forward to today, but Mrs. Pam was adamant this was not only a good idea, but highly desirable.
"Playing with titties leads to sex, and sex is a good thing," she said firmly. "If more men got more sex -- a lot more sex --- and learned how to give better sex to women, it would be a better and more peaceful world. You'd be surprised, how such a simple thing as a good brassiere can change your life, and that goes double for having a good man to suck you dry."
I looked at Mrs. Pam's breasts for the first time, seeing the familiar soccer ball shape and size. It must be a hallmark. Hard round breasts the size of soccer balls with big nipples and a woman with a winning smile. I wouldn't contend with her wisdom.
Bathsheba woke up the instant the men on her team grabbed hold of her breasts and started massaging. She really woke up, full awake, when they started prodding her nipples with their tongues and biting her nipples very gently, but firmly, like very polite babies. Another day, another breast massage, four men engaged in the task, one to hold and massage and one to suck, a team of two for each breast. She stretched her back and lifted her arms and as fast as a striking snake, Mrs. Pam had her all trussed up, "fully supported" with her nipples fully exposed and engaged.
I have always said the Brits are crazy and kinky, and they are, and yet, they have a wisdom from the Green World. Who else would spend lifetimes and fortunes discovering all the nuances of bringing a woman into lactation--- and keeping her there? Who would devote so much time and energy to learning precisely how to nurture beautiful functional breasts and nipples? Not with surgery and bags of silicon, but the Old Way, hours and hours of a man's hands and lips on a girl's teat.
You have to respect that, and as strange and surreal as all this has been, the early morning crew were all stout British lads, none above the age of thirty--- and they all weighed in with gusto and discipline, accepting Mrs. Pam's instructions and admonishments. It struck me that they were there to learn --- really learn, a useful skill. They were workmen, and Bathsheba's breast was the construction project.
She moaned and groaned with obvious pleasure, even lifting her own breasts up with her own hands, so they could get better angles on her nipples. Mrs. Pam nodded approvingly. "That's the way it should be," she intoned. "Good lads, doing right by a woman's need."
She was referring to Bathsheba's need to be milked again. After a half an hour session of doing everything by hand and mouth, another machine came out of King David's closet. This one had two sets of soft coiled plastic cords that were wrapped securely around each breast and pulled tight enough to make Bathsheba lift her hand -- and then the sucking began. Her breasts got the full electric shock treatment, jumping and bouncing around like jack rabbits for five minutes and then, the cords tightened and began pulling and squeezing inward at the same time.
The physics looked impossible and painful, but Bathsheba looked blissful. I didn't immediately see the milk-harvesting potential of this machine, but it worked like Archimedes' Screw, and with a few deft squeezes from the boys, her breasts soon began pouring milk in spurts. Even more milk than last night. At least ten quarts total, not counting the milk her team consumed.
I hate to say it, Uriah, but maybe "the problem" isn't a problem. Maybe it's our heads that aren't screwed on. Bathsheba's titties are huge, and wet, and require a lot of maintenance, but they are also beautiful and sexy in a way that can't be duplicated. Maybe the answer is to just stay at home with her in her beautiful salon and take care of her breasts. Kiss them. Milk them. Massage them. Suck them. And kiss them some more.
Go full boat into your retirement and what else do you have left to do, that's better than enjoying -- simply enjoying -- Bathsheba's body?
It's what King David intended, and maybe -- just maybe, he wasn't wrong. Maybe it wasn't a fetish or even a science project. Maybe he and these people here are just hearkening back to an older world, where breasts and nipples were divinely important and where men had time to lay down with their lovers and massage their breasts and suck them dry at least six times a day? What if -- this idea of "inducing artificial lactation" isn't artificial at all?
What if constant lactation was once commonplace, because men paid attention and did the work to make breasts flow with milk ---and dabbed on honey? Somehow it makes sense and rings true.
Induced lactation would provide a fair-to-good contraceptive benefit, as we now know; maybe our ancestors knew it, too. And David wasn't wrong about the benefits of breast feeding babies, but where do you find a true wet nurse nowadays? We think it would have to be someone who recently had a baby, but Bathsheba has proven that that is not necessarily true.
She has proven that with care and stimulation, a woman can be kept lactating continuously for over forty years. Think about that and think about the prodigious quantities of milk she is producing? Eighteen quarts in less than twenty-four hours?
I know that you and I naturally suspect that David was selling her breast milk to a bunch of nasty old rich men into breast milk fetishes, but what if we are wrong? What if he was donating it to neonatal care units, exactly as Bathsheba believes? Maybe she has been preserving the lives and improving the health of premature babies for decades?
It turns out that Mrs. Pam has been delivering Bathsheba's breast milk to the hospitals ever since David died. So. Count me humbled. I've been thinking about things I observed here back in the day when all this got started and thinking about things I am seeing now.
Consider staying home in her quiet private world, letting her stay home, too, letting everything continue just as it is --- only add yourself into the picture. Put your lips on her nipples. Put your hands on her breasts. Learn to suck. Learn to taste. Learn to live again.
We've all spent so much of our lives dealing with war and prejudice, death and destruction, money or lack of it, but look into Bathsheba's eyes. She didn't pay attention to any of that. Instead, she is deeply in tune with life. It flows through her every moment of every day.
I wish you could have seen Bathsheba this morning, and seen her team working on her breasts, how happy she was, lifting her breasts up to be sucked and kissed, how joyous and natural this was. All the sex and love any man could ever dream of, right here, waiting for you, with her bra off.
Are we stupid, or what, in this modern world? Chasing around like fools, lying to ourselves, trying to avoid a thermonuclear war.... when you could be here, instead, caressing her breasts and sucking her dry, having all the sex you want, morning, noon, and night. Isn't that close enough to paradise, to be with the one you love, to be in her body, in her eyes, to have her beautiful nipples between your lips and her milk gushing in your mouth?
What are you waiting for? Come home. Leave the dead to bury the dead. We've all been idiots.
Granna
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