Humiliated Milk Maid

All characters in this story are over the age of eighteen.

*****

It was a bad start to the day, but Britney could not honestly say it was the worst day of her life. That day had come to pass not too long ago when she had lost her one and only job at the diner last weekend. Britney was not an especially boastful person - she knew that she did not really amount to very much. Her school grades were average. Her intelligence was average. Her career ambitions were not exactly reaching for the stars. The only thing that was not perfectly mediocre about her was the size of her tits. They were F cups, they were balloon-like and they were generally in the way. Frankly it was all their fault that she'd lost her job in the first place.

Having such an ample chest put strain on her back. It unbalanced her sometimes. Sometimes it made her clumsy. East Peckham was not exactly a wealthy part of London, but the owner of the diner had put what little money he possessed on her being a good waitress. Britney had not lived up to his expectations. She wasn't his youngest member of staff - twenty, she supposed, was a bit of a late age to be leaving home and setting up on her own - it had still been her first job. She'd had no experience in paying her own bills, working ten hours at a time on her feet, and tending to people's needs with any particular haste or fluidity.

The owner of the diner had been forgiving to her for the first few months but when Britney had knocked over a full stack of plates with one misguided swing of her breasts, that had been the final straw. She had never felt so humiliated in all of her life. This kind man who had taken a chance on her and shown her such compassion despite her constantly letting him down, had been reduced to shouting at her in front of a diner full of customers. She'd fought her tears as best she could as she'd stooped to pick up the pieces of scattered china. She didn't want to make him feel worse, or humiliate herself further by being a crybaby. He had sniffed her breath and concluded that she must have had an alcohol problem - although he could not have smelt anything on her.

"Only a drunk could cause this many breakages in such a short amount of time!" He'd reasoned. Britney could not retort. She could only blush and stare at the ground by her feet. When he asked her to explain herself she could only shrug. It wasn't like the words came naturally to her - she could blame her titties for being so large and in the way. It was embarrassing! So she'd accepted her punishment. She was fired. And now she was behind on the rent.

That night she had cried all the way home. The rain had rendered her white waitressing t-shirt see through and her bra was quite clearly displayed through it, but she could not find the resolve to feel much more embarrassment about that. That's what everyone was looking at anyway. She could strap the things down with duct tape and she'd still have a bounce in her step. Her breasts were just born to move and jiggle around beneath the material of her clothing. What's worse is that movement stimulated her nipples against the soft cotton, and then she started to leak.

Yes - that was why she was so well endowed. Britney had milk jugs. She'd had them ever since she'd started pumping, two years ago. It hadn't been her idea. It was her father's. She couldn't recall the reasoning. She couldn't recall any particular conversation or argument over the matter. One day she'd just come home to a hospital grade breast pump on her bedspread and every morning at 5AM, before her mother got up for work, and every evening at 5PM before she got home again, Britney's father would hook her up and she would sit there, being pumped. Eventually it had just become normal. Britney never questioned it.

She knew that her breasts had been growing, but she hadn't thought it to be at a particularly accelerated rate. Until one day, after a few months, it wasn't just fruitless suction. There was liquid coming out of her. Warm, wet liquid, dribbling from her nipples. Her father had been elated. She remembered he had taken her out for ice cream to celebrate. She'd been made to feel proud. And although she was well and truly an adult, she hadn't fathomed that this wasn't something that all daddy's did for their little girls. He'd been so happy, and so Britney had been happy. She didn't know that it was... weird.

As the months went by and Britney was made to produce more and more milk, her breasts became swollen and tender to touch. Her nipples were sensitive almost to the point of pain, but her father had helped her through it. He always had warm hands and a pair of rubber gloves. He'd massaged creams into her mammaries, sometimes directly on the nipples until she could feel herself vibrating on her seat, leaking through her panties and panting heavily, without shame. He'd never said anything about it. He'd never tried to touch her anywhere else. He was only interested in her breasts and the milk that came out of them. He'd collected it in bottles but Britney never knew what he had done with it all. Her mother never knew anything about it either. Britney had been told, just once, not to mention it to her and she had remembered it for the rest of her life. She was a good girl for her daddy - she always had been. Now that she had finally been able to do something that seemed to make him genuinely happy, she did not want to do anything to screw that up.

Now that Britney had moved out of her parents' house and half way across the city, she had struggled to keep up with the demands of her overflowing milk jugs without her father there to help her. She tried pumping them twice a day, as usual, but she always seemed to produce more and more. She'd massaged her own breasts with cream to soothe their ache, but it never worked. Now, after several difficult months of independence, she was trying a new tactic - actively ignoring them. The milk would dry up eventually, right? It wasn't like she was doing anything with it. Most of it just went down the drain. Sometimes she'd use it in things like tea and coffee, but that was a little strange, wasn't it? She just had such little money, it seemed like the thing to do!

But ignoring the issue hadn't been working out well either. Her already mammoth breasts had ballooned to ridiculous proportions almost over night and the day that she had lost her job she had leaked so much tit milk that her breasts were practically swimming in her bra. It'd soaked through the cotton padding and leaked beneath the underwire, all the way down past her belly button and over the edge of her skirt waistband. Whenever her chest pressed up against something, especially on the crammed underground train, her bra had made this horribly embarrassing squelching noise and the warm, white liquid just spurted up until the droplets were almost reaching her neckline.

At least she could blame it moisture on the rain, although that did not prevent her cheeks from burning scarlet, surrounded by silent, stone-faced commuters. They all had jobs, they all had money and parents who were not as... unusual as hers. They did not have massive milk jug tits squelching against their chests every time she couldn't stop herself from falling forwards into the metal pole, or worse into somebody else's back as they were packed in like sardines, travelling through the city centre.

Where Britney lived, all alone in a studio apartment, was not the safest, nor the quietest of neighbourhoods. But the rent was low. It needed to be low - especially since she did not have any form of income. Not until she had gotten her new job. A job she was, indeed, supposed to be starting today and she was already running late.

So many things had gone wrong today, but she would not let herself get dragged down. This had to go well or she was going to be in big trouble. Her landlord, Tony, had gotten her this job. She wasn't under any illusions - she knew that Tony was not a nice man. She could tell by the way that he looked at her, or rather he looked at her tits. The jig was up, so to speak. The night she had come home from her waitressing job, crying and leaking to no avail, he had showed up for his rent money. Which Britney had been short on - again.

She'd managed to shower and make herself look halfway presentable before he'd arrived, but she couldn't charm her way out of this one. She'd been too depressed. Tony wasn't buying her tears though. He was watching something else leak out of her body, right through her clean t-shirt. Two gigantically obvious, dark wet patches right over her nipples.

It was like at that point Tony had decided that Britney was no longer a human being worthy of his etiquette. Something about noticing her hard, pointy nipples through the material of the shirt where her milk was drooling out unabashed, made him just... assume that she was a slut. His personality had switched faster than a lightbulb and he'd told her how it was gonna be. She owed him money. Oh, she still owed him every penny. But if she wanted more time to get it to him? He was going to need some compensation. He'd wanted to see them. Her titties. Britney was twenty-years-old and the only man who'd ever seen her breasts before was her own father.

It had taken a lot. Every bit of her courage. But as he stood there in the doorway, waiting expectantly, she'd approached and, without a word, she'd lifted her top and revealed the wet mess of swollen tit flesh underneath. Several seconds she had stood there like that. It had felt like an age. The air coming in through the open door, past his body, was freezing with winter draft. Her nipples became harder still and goosebumps broke out across the sensitive skin of her breasts. She couldn't see his face like this. The shirt was providing a barrier between them. He could observe her without her observing him. She was just a faceless pair of bare, leaking knockers to him and she did not lower her arms until he cleared his throat and thanked her for her time.

The application form had come through the door the next day - to be a cleaner as part of a professional maid service. The pay was good - better than it had been at the diner. And there was a uniform. She'd felt pretty excited about it and filled it out right away, handing it in at the post office to be delivered.

Now, of course, she was late. Her father had called that morning, asking her if she was looking after herself. Did she need anything? Did she want to come home? Britney got that phone call at least once a week when she'd first moved out. Now it was more like once every two weeks, but he was getting better. Then, naturally, she'd run into Tony who was there, apparently, to wish her luck on her first day. It was a good thing he had, she supposed, or he wouldn't have been there to remind her about the uniform. A classic maid's getup, if a little short in the skirt and a little low cut up top. It felt tight on her. Perhaps she'd ordered a size too small. Her breasts, after all, were always expanding. She didn't own any tights so she'd had to go bare legged. The air would be chilly but at least everything had been waxed and preened to her best standards the night before. She wasn't sure why, exactly. It wasn't like her new employer was going to be judging her merit as a cleaner by the smoothness of her legs.

Tony offered her a lift to her first assignment, which was nice of him, she supposed. He knew the resident of the large victorian manor personally and knew that he did not look kindly upon tardiness. The man, apparently, was the sort to pass that sort of thing on to her employer to let them know she'd done a bad job. Britney thanked him as they pulled up and vowed to herself that she would make a good impression on this man. She did her best to fix her uniform and trotted up the front steps. That was a bad idea, she realised as her massive jugs almost hit her in the face four times in quick succession. Britney really ought not to 'trot' anyway.

She rang the doorbell and it was answered almost immediately. He wasn't exactly an impressive looking man. He was of an average height. He had mousy, greying hair that curled a little at the ends. He had a small amount of facial hair and wore glasses on the end of his nose that made him look like a librarian or a professor. His comfortable-looking wool cardigan added to the image, but it was his expression that removed the air from Britney's lungs.

"You are very nearly late." He told her with piercing blue/grey eyes that cut right through her and saw into her soul. She swallowed hard and gathered her courage.

"I'm sorry, sir." She apologised with the most sincere expression that she could muster. "The traffic was appalling. It won't happen again, I will plan the journey much better in future."

"See that you do." He replied sternly, then stepped to the side to allow her into the building. He only just gave her enough room to squeeze by. She had to sidestep some of the way.

"I wanted you here bright and early because there's a very specific way I like my house to be cleaned, which is also why I always book double appointments for all of my maids." He informed her as the door was slammed shut, hard enough to send vibrations rippling beneath her skin and she accidentally let slip a small gasp of shock. She coughed to cover it up and he went on as though he had not heard her, walking further into the expanse of the high-ceilinged, wooden-floored foyer. This was an expensive house, she found herself thinking. He must have been a very rich man.

"This is an old house and it is used to being treated in a certain way. The woods, the plastering - everything is as it was originally." He explained in a voice that could have been used to speak to a toddler. Britney did not resent it. She just tried very hard to listen. "As such you will clean things the old fashioned way, as they say. It is much slower than using your fancy vacuums and acidic furniture polish, but I pay you enough money to have things done the way that I like."

Britney's first day was a struggle. It turned out the man, whose name was Dr Parsons, liked everything done in a very specific way. He instructed her. He watched her. Then he shouted at her until she got it right. By the end she was close to tears. This was a big house. There were three floors. Six bedrooms. Three bathrooms. A enormous kitchen. A wine cellar. The dining room alone could have fit Britney's entire apartment inside of it. The only place she was forbidden from was Dr Parsons' office. Only his 'trusted' maids went in there, apparently. Britney could not muster the spare emotion to feel annoyed about that. She just wanted the morning to be over.

The man did not leave her to her own devices entirely until she'd reached the last item on the list - the floors, which she needed to scrub by hand with an old-looking metal bucket of soapy water and a scrub brush. All however many square feet that was. Dr Parsons booked his maids double appointments? Britney was going to need more time than that to get all of it done, so she worked fast. As soon as he left her she went into overdrive - she would not be here for longer than was absolutely required. She would not be late for her next appointment either.

On her hands and knees in the middle of the black and white tiled kitchen she scrubbed. Dr Parsons lived alone but for two very handsome rottweiler dogs, whom she had spotted out in the large back garden when she had been standing on two feet and was able to look out of the window. So Britney did not feel self conscious about putting herself in this somewhat compromising position. No one would walk up behind her and see her pink, cotton panties as her dress poofed out and rode up her bare legs. No one was standing in front of her, observing the obscene jiggle of her embarrassingly large milk jugs, spilling out of the dress as her arm moved side to side, spreading the water about and making sure to remove anything remotely looking like a paw print.

She worked hard. She crawled along with her bucket and her scrub brush until she started to notice the odd cloudiness of the water. Perhaps it was getting too dirty now, she thought, concerned. Would Dr Parsons object to her returning to the sink for a fresh bucket? He seemed like such a control freak, he had lorded over every little thing she'd done so far, it seemed risky. Then she realised it wasn't just the water in the bucket. It was the water on the floor. She looked around herself, and then she heard the dripping. Whiteness landed on the back of her sore hands and spilled out onto the marble that she'd been scrubbing. Oh my God...

Britney checked down to see that both of her swollen tits were hanging completely out of her uniform and had been swinging wildly from side to side, dripping leaking tit milk all over this terrifying man's expensive flooring. Oh God, oh God, oh God... She panicked, dropping the brush and sitting up to cover her titties with her already wet and soapy hands. The wetness of the floor made it difficult for her to gain her bearings. She could not stand. Her knees just slipped until she was forced onto all fours again, her breasts hanging loosely like cow udders begging to be manhandled and tweaked.

Her panties would also be exposed in this position. Bright pink and obvious under her skirt. Was she getting turned on? Would she be leaking through her underwear as well as through her long, hard nipples? She looked up. Fear shot through her. It was worse than she'd thought. Her mistakes had not gone unnoticed. Dr Parsons had never stopped watching her. He was at the far end of the foyer, sitting with one ankle folded over the other, observing her with cold, piercing eyes.

She had to get up. She had to get up or she was going to die from embarrassment. Oh what a stupid girl she was. She knew she had big titties. She knew they needed milking every morning and every evening. Why, why had she let things get this bad? Why had she ordered a uniform that she spilled out of in every direction? Stupid, stupid girl!

She had to crawl, absurdly towards him. There was nothing she could do about her nakedness. She just had to bear it - him watching her as her massive jugs slapped together like a happy seal with each movement of her knees. Then she got up to her feet. She didn't know what else to do. She was so overcome with embarrassment she needed to get out of there. She had to run! So that's what she did. She ran.

Her tits flew everywhere. She hit herself in the face. The milk sprayed in every direction, all over his walls, his expensive-looking oil paints - everywhere. And once she'd made it to the front door, past him, and outside again she continued to run all the way to the bus stop with her flopping tits hanging out and dripping down herself like she had two massive taps hanging out of her chest. She did not remember to cover herself again until she received one hearty SLAP right across the breast, making it jiggle like jelly from a passing lad in a large group of his friends.

They laughed and they laughed and Britney did not stop blushing all the way home.