Guest blog: Milk made – my lactation journey

Image by Jenby

I almost don’t need to write intros for these posts, because I figure all I need to do is ring a giant bell and shout “HEY HEY! JENBY IS BACK!” and you know that what is coming will be fun, hot, and creatively kinky. Her most recent piece was an incredibly horny account of using the new hot pink Doxy to give her girlfriend ‘full-on eye-rolling, spasming, practically-levitating-from-demonic-possession’ orgasms. Today’s guest blog is especially incredible, because she is talking about how she came to get her body to do something that I’ve always been fascinated by (and never done myself) – lactation! Note before we begin that Jenby is going to explain how she managed to start lactating, and that involves certain drugs that help to stimulate milk production – nothing in this post (or anywhere on this blog) constitutes medical advice though, so if you’re hoping to go on the same journey yourself please do talk to a doctor before you begin. This post also contains ageplay and the use of ‘Mommy’ as an honorific – all participants are consenting adults.

Milk made – my lactation journey

I’ll be the first to admit that lactation is an odd one for me.

I’ve always very much fallen on the ‘lg’ side of MD/lg (Mommy Dom/little girl), so I was as surprised as anyone when, after asking one of my partners to suckle at my teat for a tongue-(and-tit)-in-cheek social media post one Mother’s Day, I realised that not only were my newfound chesticles nexuses of the most extraordinary, rapturous pleasure, having a sexy girl nurse on them awakened a latent desire somewhere deep inside me to be Mommy. Up until then I’d watch the exploitative Channel 4 documentaries about adult nursing relationships (ANRs) and think how cute and wholesome they were, but nothing more than that.

Sweet summer child…

HRT has given me so many things I didn’t expect, and that I simply wasn’t told to expect. Aspects of femaleness I never in a million years thought it would be possible for me to experience. Multiple orgasms, periods – the latest of which literally started midway through the last paragraph, hope one flow hasn’t compromised the other – and the way eating dark chocolate is now basically sex. But lactation wasn’t on the list. It wasn’t something I’d actively pursued, partly out of fear that I’d find I couldn’t do it. I knew anecdotally that trans girls could, and had, however.

And now I understood the appeal.

Cue eighteen months of progesterone to create the necessary ductwork in my burgeoning tits to be able to express, followed by the final step: domperidone, the magic ingredient.

While I found it very funny that I was literally about to start taking a drug called ‘dom’, it did give me pause. I’d been told to allow three to five weeks for it to take effect, and if after that period I had produced nothing, then it was ‘not going to happen’ for me. All those old fears came bubbling back to the surface, but in true trans fashion I shut out the noise and the doubts, and took my medicine.

Three to five weeks.

I’d been pumping my breasts on and off for some months by this point, and for the first few days I continued to do so, but all too soon the fog of defeat began creeping in. My boobs felt dryer than ever, not even the occasional discharge of the early days on oestrogen, and with a heavy heart, I laid down my breast pump, and gave up.

Ever the good girl though I continued taking the drugs I’d been prescribed, and on day fifteen, while absently doomscrolling on my laptop, I spotted the pump out of the corner of my eye and with nothing better to do decided to fasten it to my right tit and continue scrolling. I was so engrossed it took me several minutes to notice that there was a ring of sticky liquid oozing from the rim of the suction cup.

Righty was gushing.

I pulled off the pump, my whole breast now fully coated. I ran my fingers over it and brought them to my lips to confirm it was what I thought it was.

Fifteen days. Not only was I lactating, I was doing so a week ahead of schedule, smashing all expectations. I squeezed my boob to make sure it wasn’t a fluke, and beads of white, some creamy, some clear, began popping out of my nipple and merging into an enormous, quivering drop of milk.

It was quite possibly the most affirming moment of my life.

I immediately invited my girlfriend Star over and we lay in bed together while she wrapped her lips around my teat and sucked, and all became right with the world as my milk flowed down her throat.

The profundity of that sense of connection, the surrealness of hearing her mouth filling and those contented gulps and knowing that it was my breast producing that life-giving fluid, and the exhaustion of my inexperienced body burning hundreds of calories creating such an energy-rich substance caused me to become lightheaded, and I drifted into a blissful liminal space between sleep and wake as she nursed. Every fibre of my body was focused on feeding this woman whom I loved more than life itself. Thoughts ceased, time stopped, my contentment was absolute.

When she’d finished (and I’d come, probably, I can’t really remember), my Mummy informed me that of the few she’d tried, mine was the nicest breastmilk she’d tasted, which brought a fresh wave of euphoria, and we kissed, sharing in the exquisite flavour of my juices.

I was still very much her baby, but it seemed, in one small way at least, I would also be Mummy from now on.


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