I Dream Of Teachers Milk

A Student -- Ashley Parker

A best friend takes me to a small antique shop. She wants to buy a birthday present for her dad. My friend looks around and we make small talk. I do my best to give my opinion, but I don't have a clue about antique gifts. I'm a modernist, in terms of style and personal taste.

She thinks about purchasing a vase made over two centuries ago. The price is a hundred dollars, which according to the shopkeeper, is a great deal. The shopkeeper is retiring soon and everything is at a discount.

"Get something," my friend says when we have privacy.

"Maybe next time."

"There is no next time. Get something. You'll regret it if you don't. These are great deals."

She knows I'm on a student-loan budget. She has a part-time job on campus, I don't. Nonetheless, the shopkeeper is really nice and I have a personal policy to support small businesses. So I look around to see what I can afford.

There's a lamp which costs $50 and the label says it's from Tehran, made centuries ago. The label explains that the lamp has the power to grant one wish -- or so it's believed by the archeologist who uncovered it.

"Look at this," I say, pointing to the label.

"Nice. For $50 you can become a millionaire. Or a celebrity."

I laugh and gently smack her arm.

We make our purchases and the shopkeeper takes a few minutes to share stories. We're given a brief history of these items and what they represent, how lucky we are to have them, that sort of thing. I'm amazed by the shopkeeper's memory of these items, but part of me thinks it's just marketing.

Afterward we go to her car. She puts the gift for her father in the trunk and I hold onto my lamp, which would look nice in my dorm room, now that I think about it.

"Well?" she says, sitting in the driver's seat.

"What?"

"What are you waiting for? Make a wish."

"Are you serious?"

"You paid $50 for it," she says.

"Thanks to you."

"Come on, might as well. It'll be fun. What's the first thing that comes to mind?"

My mind goes blank because I'm put on the spot. I look around the neighborhood. Down the street a mother is pushing a stroller.

"Breast milk," I say.

She looks down the same street. "Why? Because of that mom over there?"

"Yeah."

"Think of something else. What do you want in life?"

"Right now, passing Advanced Calculus because I'm on the verge of failing. That's the only class where I struggle."

She smiles. "What are you waiting for?"

I indulge my friend and rub the lamp, following the shopkeeper's vague instructions about using this antique. It's a joke, of course. The shopkeeper only repeated information from an art dealer. My friend is an atheist who loves getting a rise out of me.

We head to lunch after. Cheeseburger, fries, and a soda. Our favorite.

At night I dream of swimming in a lake. I don't dream often. I sometimes dream of flying. For now, my subconscious is sending me under water.

I'm a believer in the power of dreams and their meanings, though I can't articulate how. I'm a religious person, though not a zealot. Spiritual would be the right word. Though the term 'spiritual' is overused these days and hard to define.

As someone raised in a city, I wonder what this dream is about. I'm in a forest and the lake is vast. I submerge in the water and then float on top. I realize that I'm naked. No, I've never gone skinny dipping before. I've never gone swimming in a lake, either.

Warm feelings come over me as the water turns white. A creamy color and texture of white. It even sparkles. This is one of the rare dreams where I can feel physical sensations as I swim in the whiteness, letting it slather my body. It feels good. Orgasmic, almost.

Then I wake up.

My body feels electric and I'm aroused in every part. I'm warm and my breathing is heavier than it should be. The sensation between my legs is begging me to touch, but it's 6:37 in the morning. If I masturbate, I won't be able to go back to sleep. I close my eyes and hope the feeling goes away.

*

It's early Tuesday morning when I'm sitting in my Advanced Calculus II course. The teacher's name is Professor Chen and she's strict, but I like her. She's a rail thin Asian woman in her mid-30's with short black hair that goes to her shoulders. Professors in the STEM field always dress the same. Plain. Simple.

The lights are off while she gives a lecture using the screen projector. I'm typing notes on my laptop, doing my best to stay away from social media. I'm usually good at math, but something about this class bores me. Maybe I'm burnt out after two years of rigorous academic work.

When the lights come on, my eyes remain on my laptop as the professor speaks. She concludes the lecture and talks about an assignment. Her voice stops mid-sentence and I look at her. Something caught her attention.

She's looking down at the chest area of her green tshirt. I'm sitting several rows back in the lecture hall, so it's hard to see what's gotten her distracted.

Then I notice a wet spot forming on the left side of her tshirt. Right below the cup of her bra. My assumption is that it's sweat, but she seems startled, kind of bewildered. The wet spot grows a little bigger and she stands there wondering what to do about her perspiration.

"Class is dismissed," the professor says with an unusual, forced smile. "Don't forget, we're having a quiz Thursday."

In unison, the sound of students packing their belongings and making small talk fills the lecture hall. No one seems concerned about the professor because they don't notice anything wrong. Everyone is leaving.

Professor Chen usually hangs around at the end of class, like every other teacher, to field potential questions from students. This time she's packing her things, sometimes checking her tshirt to see if the wet spot is bigger. By the time half the students have left, the professor takes her things and goes back to her office.

The lamp. The lamp. I'm walking outside, thirty minutes before my next class, and I'm thinking about the lamp. Could it be? My dream. My wish. It's more of a feeling than a practical assumption.

I tend to overreact during awkward situations. And what I saw in class was most definitely an awkward situation. I know that if I ignore it, I'll be thinking about it forever. I'll be wracked with guilt and confusion unless I clear things up. It's probably nothing. It's probably sweat.

Carrying my belongings, I go back to the math building, towards the professor's office on the third floor. My plan is to pretend I have a question about something, but my actual intent is to check on her nipple status -- which makes me cringe to think about. Once I get the answer I'm looking for, I can have a clear conscience.

The door to Professor Chen's office is open, but she isn't there. I step inside. Her laptop and classroom supplies are on the desk. She was here a moment ago. She's probably in the bathroom or talking to another faculty member. I decide to wait, standing here with an uncomfortable vibe. I look around, she has a few awards on her desk and wall.

"Ashley, hi," she says, coming into her office at a brisk pace.

Professor Chen is wearing a thin gray blazer over her green tshirt, even though it's warm. There's a bulge in her pocket. Her face looks like she had been sweating, kind of panicked, but calm now. She's far from her composed self, though she does her best to act normal.

"Hi, I was wondering if you had a moment."

"Sure, what's up?"

My plan collapses when we're standing there and she's staring at me. The truth is, I have nothing to say. I'm only interested in the status of her breasts. Her face is pretty and her eyes are locked in my direction.

I glance down -- for a split second -- and notice that she's braless, even though her blazer covers her breasts. I can tell because the front of her tshirt isn't stretched the same anymore, as would happen when wearing a bra. Most people wouldn't be able to notice because her breasts are small. I notice, however.

For two summers in a row, I worked a part-time job at Victoria's Secret, so I know these things. I've fitted and sized enough women to become an expert on this topic.

My eyes go down further -- for a split second -- to check the bulge in her pocket. The tip of a small strap is sticking out. It's a bra inside her pocket. I can only conclude that she went to the bathroom to remove her bra and wipe her breasts dry.

Was it breast milk? God I hope not.

In the face of pressure, I decide to change course and lie to the professor.

"There's this medical issue," I say, preparing the lie. "Something weird... it's hard to explain... I'm not pregnant, but I'm lactating. You know, breast milk. I'm giving you notice, just in case something happens during class."

Her eyes widen, which reveals the answer I'm looking for. I pride myself on being an honest person but sometimes it's necessary to break the rules.

"You too?" she says in a soft, delicate voice.

The plan worked. My stomach twists into knots. The lamp? How could the lamp have done this? What have I gotten us into?

"Actually, no," I confess.

She's taken aback. "Are you having an issue or not?"

"No, I was trying to figure out the situation. There's something I have to tell you. And you're going to think I'm crazy."

"Ashley, this is the craziest morning of my life."

She closes the door and we sit down to talk. I explain everything to her. The antique shop. The lamp. I even tell her about my dream. A pragmatic woman, Professor Chen hangs on every word. She's analyzing my story in real time and I appreciate that she takes me seriously. But then again, what choice does she have?

When I finish, she sits back and thinks. It's a lot to process. Her analytical mind is entering a world that we're not prepared for.

"I've never been married," she says. "Never had kids. Never gotten pregnant. So imagine my surprise when I felt something towards the end of class. My chest had never felt so full. There was pressure and my breasts felt like they were growing. I thought it was all in my mind, until the incident happened and I felt wetness.

She continues, "I'm not sure I agree with your assessment, but I don't dismiss it, either. What happened to me earlier, and I think what's still happening, is certainly unusual. My body has never produced this before. At the end of class, I thought I was losing my mind. In the bathroom, I thought I was going crazy, that my imagination was uncontrollable."

"To be clear, was that actually milk?" I ask.

Professor Chen reaches into the pocket of her blazer and takes out a thin white bra. Exactly as I thought. She shows me a cup, holding it out so I can see a faint wet stain. She looks at it. Rubs the wet spot, as if in disbelief.

"You can still smell the lactate," she says. "I thought about washing it in the bathroom sink, but I wanted to preserve the DNA evidence."

"I'm sorry this is happening. It's my fault."

She shakes her head. "That hasn't been established yet. This could be a cosmic coincidence. I'll schedule a doctor's appointment for a check-up."

My paranoia envisions a future in which we're taken to a lab against our will. Strapped to a bed. And I'm forced to explain the existence of the lamp to government agents. As I mentioned earlier, I tend to overreact.

"Wait," I say. "Let me find a solution. You know, something where this remains discreet. I'll talk to the shopkeeper and see how we can resolve this."

Professor Chen understands, giving a slight nod to show her agreement of this delicate situation. Neither of us wants to become lab rats.

*

Later that afternoon, I convince my best friend to drive me back to the antique shop. She doesn't believe me. Yet she's responsive to my frantic state of mind. Consistent with my luck, the shop is permanently closed. Everything inside is gone

We sit in the car and I run my fingers through my hair. Why can't life ever be simple? All I want is to finish my degree and get a job I'm content with.

"What other details were in your dream?" my friend asks.

"Just what I mentioned. A lake of white fluids. It was vivid, like I could feel it washing over my body. And then the arousal. Oh god, I woke up like a hot bitch."

She thinks. "If it's a lake, the problem should be finite. At least it wasn't an ocean. Give it a few days, it should blow over. Or you can try wishing again?"

"I already used my one wish, apparently, but let's try it again."

The lamp is in the backseat, wrapped in a towel, and I reach over to grab it. Once uncovered, I rub the smooth surface and wish. Doing this in front of my friend is cringe-worthy, but I'm desperate. My friend doesn't make fun of me because she knows I'm in distress.

I wish in careful terms. I'm cautious of the power that I wield. One small mistake can trigger an even bigger crisis, assuming the power is real. As the professor stated, this could be a 'cosmic coincidence' where the lamp is actually useless and she had a legit medical issue. Maybe she's pregnant and doesn't know it? Perhaps milk produced early.

Nonetheless, I wish for things to return to normal.

"There," I say. "That's all I can do."

"While you were praying, I was thinking about your story."

"Tell me."

"If you truly believe that you caused Professor Chen to lactate, then you owe a moral duty to provide assistance, assuming the problem isn't resolved yet."

I look at my friend. Sometimes it's hard to tell if she's joking or not. Right now, it's anybody's guess. She has a great poker face and a dry sense of humor. Most of her jokes are dirty, I should add.

"Assistance?"

She purses her lips together and makes a sucking/slurping sound, pouting her lips in different shapes, simulating the act of nursing.

"Yes, assistance," she says.

"First of all, if anyone is giving the professor 'assistance,' it's you, because you're the one that took me to some random antique shop. Secondly, you're the one who needs extra protein. Not me."

She laughs. "Touche."

My friend starts the car and drives. I wrap the lamp in a towel. Hopefully there will be good news in the days to come.

At night I have the dream of all dreams. I rarely dream the same thing twice in a row, but here we are. I'm swimming in the lake again. Milk Lake, we can call it. The sky is orange, either sunrise or sunset. The liquid feels warm against my skin and this is the fountain of youth.

I'm swimming toward a naked woman who's facing away. She's skinny with short black hair. As I swim closer, she turns around and looks at me. It's an Asian woman with big, dark nipples. I'm captivated by her ethereal beauty. It takes me a moment to realize that it's my teacher and she's waiting for me.

Once I make it to land, I step out of the milky lake. The white fluids drip from my body and she approaches me. Our feet make crinkling sounds on the grass, our toes dig into the dirt. She tucks my hair back and then kisses me. God she's a great kisser. We lay on the grass and make out. Her hand goes between my legs.

When I awake, it's 5:43 a.m. with total darkness outside. There are tiny beads of sweat on my forehead and chest. My clit aches. Sore, almost. My panties are wet. Did I piss myself? I reach beneath my panties and touch the wetness, then bring my fingers to my nose to smell.

The scent is obvious. Not piss. The fragrance is my cum.

*

It's early Thursday morning and I go to Professor Chen's office before class starts. About an hour beforehand, because we need the time alone. We'd been in contact and unfortunately there's no luck. Nothing to suggest that the milk situation is going away.

She hasn't arrived yet, so I wait outside and reflect on the downward spiral that is my life. Or maybe this is an upward spiral? Either way, my life will never be the same after this. How will things change? It's too early to say.

My teacher comes to the office after I've been waiting for almost 15 minutes. She's wearing a blazer over her tshirt. Jean pants. Her hands carry her supplies and laptop case. To anyone else, she appears to be a professor getting her day started, but only we know the truth.

"Good morning, Ashley," she says, with a subtle tenseness.

"Morning, professor. Can we talk privately?"

"That's the appropriate choice."

We're awkward in the hallway and she rushes to open the door so we can go inside. She locks the door. No one can enter. It's one thing to communicate via text message, but for an emergency like this, face-to-face meeting is ideal.

She puts her things down and removes her blazer. Her face looks a few years older, as if she hardly slept from the stress. I look at her chest. I swear her breasts are a size bigger, making her a firm b-cup. Once again, I used to work at Victoria's Secret, so I know these things.

"Any update?" I ask.

"I should be asking you that question. But to give you an answer, I'm officially a lactating woman."

"How about the pregnancy tests?"

"I've taken three so far," she says. "Including this morning. All negative. I'm a monstrosity of science, it appears. If things don't get better, I'll see a doctor."

The thought of us becoming lab rats frightens me. The professor has the same fear, that's why she looks so stressed.

"I've done what I can, you know, with the lamp. I hope things will get resolved soon."

"You still believe that?"

"It's the only plausible explanation," I reply.

"Sadly."

"What are you doing about your breast milk?"

Professor Chen reaches into her laptop container, where she stuffed a breast pump and small cup. She holds it out. There's a content look on her face, as if she'd accepted her fate already.

"This is my solution," she says. "A pump in between classes."

"I've read they can be uncomfortable."

"What choice do I have?"

This is where my plan (and my wet dream) comes into play. It may not be the ideal solution, but it makes sense, at least to me and my friend who suggested it. And if I'm being honest with myself, it's the only solution that appeases my newfound, mysterious desire.

"We both know this is my fault," I say. "So it makes sense that I have to resolve the situation."

"Fault hasn't been established. And I have the breast pump."

"I should handle it for you. It's my fault. My responsibility."

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"I'll nurse from your breasts. It's more comfortable than using a pump."

Professor Chen is speechless from my proposal. I think deep down, she's tempted by the offer, but refuses to entertain it for ethical reasons. I can tell that this option had never crossed her mind. Apparently this fantasy is something that only I had -- not her.

The look of confusion goes away, replaced with an expression that seems angry. She might consider my offer to be an insult. As if I'm jeopardizing her career as an educator. She still refuses to speak, though I can tell she's going to be careful with her words. I can see her thinking.

"You know that's inappropriate," she says.

"Give me one chance. If it works, I'll keep doing it for you. If not, we'll pretend it never happened."

Her silence speaks volumes and she looks away. It's the universal expression of feeling shame as her head faces down.

I stand in front of her, determined, but respectful of her boundaries and authority. My goal isn't to make her uncomfortable, but to help her. Professor Chen knows this, which is why she doesn't kick me out.

My fingers pinch the bottom of her tshirt, and when she doesn't scream at me, I view this as a tepid form of consent. I lift her tshirt. Her stomach is white and her waist is narrow. I lift higher and see her nursing bra. It has absorbent material and an opening latch for each cup.

"I bought these yesterday," she says. "It'll prevent another accident in class."