Page 177 of Wanting What's Wrong

He brushes his knuckles softly on my cheek as his eyes turn to nighttime black, jaw muscles standing out as he drops his hand, shaking his head, and stomps back through the doors to the front of the store.

I practically run toward the restroom door, hand on the cool brass knob, reading a hand-written sign taped to the wood.

“Employees and Customer Facilities. Knock first. The lock is broke.”

Shit, no way.

I can’t pump in here.

Panic closes around my windpipe. My panties are soaked and so is my bra and shirt. I need a place, somewhere a customer isn’t going to come knocking.

I shuffle down the short back hall, my fake Birkies sliding on my feet. There are doors on both sides, and when I desperately try the first one, it doesn’t budge.

Fuck. I swing around, both hands clasping the metal knob of the one across from it, twisting.

Click.

Thank the cowboyGods. It opens. I shoulder my way inside, feeling for a switch, flicking it with my fingers. A single dim bulb snaps to life in the back corner of the jail cell sized room.

There’s boxes and inventory. Clearly not bullets or firearms, that’s probably why the room across the hall was locked. This one is supplies and more backpacks and packs of paper targets.

But, oh hells yah, a chair. Not pretty, but it’s like an old cushioned office chair, and on the floor next to it, I see a vintage Playgirl magazine and a pint of Jack Daniels, half full.

Granny.

Right? No way Cal is reading a 70’s Playgirl, and he doesn’t drink, so yeah, okay, Granny’s got some vices.

I settle into the chair, fumbling with the pump, tugging a couple boxes next to me to set it up.

I wince and hiss as I pull the fabric of my cami to the sides. My bra is soaked as I unsnap the hooks at the top of my nursing bra and let my boobs free.

They are like chest boulders, so heavy and full that as soon as I pull them free, milk starts to spray into the air, landing indrizzly stripes on the brown cardboard boxes, falling onto my thighs as I thank my lucky stars the pump runs off a/c or batteries, because finding an outlet in this room is not on my agenda right now.

My hands tremble as I unzip my bag and pull out the pump I bought at the thrift store after I realized I was this crazy milk super producer and Morgan’s nursing wasn’t going to be sufficient, but then I pause.

It’s too much. The heat. The pressure. I manage to get the cups in place, holding one on with my hand, the other with my forearm, and push the pump button.

The suction makes me groan.

Relief. Bliss. Shame. Arousal.

That hissingpiiiisssst, piiiiisssst, piiiiissstsound of the pump, is like hearing your favorite song when it comes on the radio.

I close my eyes, letting my head fall back, gritting my teeth with each painful but relieving draw of the machine.

I’m lost in thoughts of Cal’s hands squeezing the milk from me. Spraying it on his cock and ordering me to lick it clean, then fucking my tits as milk sprays like the fountains at that big Vegas hotel all over us.

I wiggle in the chair, that tension building between my legs as I consider popping the button on my shorts and sliding one hand down inside—

Piiiiiiiissssstttt……then, silence.

The flanges fall from my breasts, the pump stopping dead. The battery indicator light flashes red.

“No, no,nononono…”

Milk is streaming from my nipples, down my shirt, onto my legs as heat explodes over my skin.

Plug.I have to find an outlet—

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