Page 5 of Milk For The Billionaire's Little

Relief. Dimmer lights. Quieter. And far fewer people.

But not entirely silent. Fuck. I wasn’t truly alone. Still better than where I was.

Two men were at the sinks, huddled over a phone and giggling like they were back in high school.

I kept to myself. Did my business. Tried to tune them out. But some things… some things were hardnotto hear.

“Can youbelievethis?” one of them said, his voice a cross between mockery and disbelief. “This app. You can rent a guy who lactates.Ew.”

“Wait, what?” the other one asked. “Why’s that gross? If I lactated, I’d be on there. Do you know how much money you could make?”

The first one made a noise of disgust. “No, thanks. Just keep your kinks out of this.”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t even look at them. But their conversation did two very specific things.

First—it affirmed, without a doubt, that Idid notwant the public to know what my body could do.

And second—it reminded me that I really,reallyneeded to get on that app.

When I finally got home and was finally alone, I loosened my tie and kicked off my shoes, headed straight to my bedroom, and pulled out my laptop. I had one tab open for emails, just in case anything exploded at work, and one for a private browser window.

It didn’t take long to find it.

Sure enough, there it was. The app.

Its interface was professional looking. It wasn’t some sketchy, “is this legit” situation. The platform connected people—men, women, nonbinary folks who lactated—with people who wanted to connect with them for a variety of reasons. There were privacy features, ID verification for both parties, even optional contracts for long-term arrangements. Whatever protections you were looking for, you could opt for… for a price, of course. Not that money was an issue for me.

It was intriguing. Tempting, even.

Of course, there werenosecurity measures once people met in person, which was the only thing to give me pause. That was something I’d have to handle carefully. But the clientele? They weren’t gawking. They weren’t mocking. They werelookingfor exactly what I could offer.

And it wasn’t like I had to post a profile saying, “Hi, I’m CEO Mr. Millerson, billionaire, top 40 under 40, surprise lactator.”

The site allowed faceless profile pics. And if I met up with anyone, I’d probably use a mask. Like masquerade ball type mask.

I clicked through a few profiles. Some were bold. Others soft. Some looked for play, others for quiet companionship. One man had a photo of just his hand holding a baby bottle with a caption:warm comfort, no questions asked.

I leaned back in my chair, eyes scanning the page.

This had potential.

And after a night of mingling, of small talk, of dodging conversations and smiling through it all, the thought of someonewantingmefor something real—even if only part of me—was more appealing than I expected.

Maybe I’d wait until next week. Maybe I’d draft a profile tonight. Maybe I’d keep it tucked in drafts and reread it three times before I sent it live.

But I was doing this.

4

JAMES

It was another hectic day at work, this time because the state had done a pop-in inspection.

That meant I’d spent the entire day giving tours, answering questions, signing forms, reviewing policies, signing more forms, and putting on my best professional smile while silently screaming on the inside. All the actual work I’d planned to get done? Yeah… none of that happened.

And to top it all off, it wasFriday Family Bingo Fun Night.

Normally, that part was a highlight. And honestly, it still was, just a highlight that came with a side of stress. Friday nights meant not only did we have our regular residents’ bingo game, but we also had a ton of visitors. Families came to sit with their loved ones, grandkids helped pass out cards, and everybody,everybody, got really into it.

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