~~~ Present Day 2018 ~~~
This is the story of the supernatural, breasts that go beyond what nature had intended, and incest between loving sisters. This also serves as the basis for a potential memoir, which I'll publish under a pseudonym for reasons that will soon become clear.
My name is Dr. Hartford and I'm the mother of two wonderful daughters. I'm also a medical researcher. I'm an endocrinologist, which means I diagnose and treat disorders relating to hormones. The exact details of that aren't important, but it's relevant to my story.
Below are my journal entries that I'd written at night after important events had happened. I write in present tense because it gives a sense of immediacy. It also helps me relive my memories. As you'll soon understand, we were once a normal, everyday American family. None of this was ever planned. None of this was ever my intention. Had I known this would happen, I would have pursued a different career.
~~~ 1992 ~~~
My youngest daughter is waiting for me when I arrive home. I put my things down on the counter, my stack of folders and a handbag. I'm a research professor and Valerie plans on following my footsteps. At 18 she's like a younger version of myself, academic-minded and curious about life. She has an adorable look, with rounded facial features, a feminine style, and bangs with shoulder length hair.
It always touches my heart whenever she waits for me, which she often does, because I admire her innocence. Today she isn't smiling as she guides me to the dining room, where her bra is placed on the table for some inexplicable reason.
"Can we talk?" she asks.
"Sure, of course."
We sit across from each other, her face looking melancholy, confused, and she doesn't mention why her bra is there. She takes a moment to think, always the thoughtful girl, always precise with her words.
"I went into your room last week, maybe two weeks ago. On your glass-door cabinet you have this rock labeled,
'The Island'
and it intrigued me. So I opened the case and looked at the rock. And this morning..."
"You had milk?"
She nods. "How did you know?"
Right away I understand what's happening. In truth, the rock never should have been there. It should be in a laboratory for further research, or perhaps a museum, but not in my home. It's my fault. I should have known a girl like Valerie would look through my things whenever she's bored. My work fascinates her.
I hold her hand. "This stays between us, okay?"
"Yes, okay."
With my daughter's full attention, I start to explain everything.
-- In the summer of 1976 a meteor crashed within Colombia's island territory. Weeks later, many of the adult women began to lactate, even the ones who'd never given birth before.
-- The government sought help from American researchers and the university where I worked expressed interest in the matter. I was an assistant to Dr. Patel and was thrilled to follow her anywhere. We traveled to the island and spent a week collecting samples. Dr. Patel's main focus was the meteorite pieces, while I was in charge of the breast milk samples.
-- Officially the results were inconclusive. It was never solved.
-- What I don't tell my daughter, however, was that many of the women were secretly nursing each other. Younger women sucked on the breasts of older women as a sign of respect. It gave them immense sexual pleasure, to suck, to be sucked, and to share their newfound milk. They saw it as a gift from the fertility gods.
-- I also neglect to mention that Dr. Patel had experienced the same mysterious condition. Dr. Patel wasn't scared of it. It intrigued her. She had even joined the local women in their nursing relationships.
-- At one point Dr. Patel offered her dark nipples to me. I declined. To this day, I sometimes think about what would have happened if I had accepted. If I had the courage to nurse.
-- That was why the report was never finished or made public, because Dr. Patel refused to have endless tests performed on her breasts. And she felt a sacred obligation to protect those women. I'd since lost contact with Dr. Patel after I transferred to another university to pursue my current teaching job.
After giving the sanitized version of the story, my daughter sits there in wonder.
"You think that's happening with me?" she asks.
"It's impossible to say without further testing. We haven't established that it's even milk. It could be discharge of some kind."
"Believe me, it's milk."
"How are you sure?"
"The color," she says. "The taste. Texture. It has all the qualities of breast milk."
Valerie is smart and sophisticated for her age. She also used to be a sitter for her cousins, so she has a baseline experience with breast milk after learning how to use a milk bottle. I inspect the bra on the table, there are wet spots around the front of the cups.
"May I see it?"
Her eyes widen, then she calms down. I'd seen glimpses of her breasts before during fittings. The most recent time was helping with her prom dress.
"Okay, sure."
She pulls her tshirt overhead to reveal her soft white body. Her bra is white, breasts a medium size. Her face has an even expression as she prepares to reveal herself to me. She's always been an even-minded girl, she only ever gets loose when she's around her older sister, who has a rebellious heart.
When she reaches back to unclasp her bra, the bare breasts are exposed. They're soft, round globes, and they hang almost like small balloons. Not as perky as other girls her age. Most noticeably, one breast is naturally larger than the other, which has always been the case. The nipples themselves are tiny but the areolas are wide. Bright pink. Some of the pinkest nipples I've ever seen. Valerie sits there with her chest pushed forward. She isn't the least bit embarrassed about her breasts, it's the milk that's the issue.
I get up and stand beside her, wanting to hug her, but there's work to be done. I cup the bottom of her right breast with my gentle touch. Her breast is so soft, so round, so warm, it fits right in my palm. Then I squeeze. She doesn't flinch, then I squeeze again like a pump, and milk shoots from her nipple and lands across the table.
Tasting my daughter's breast milk isn't something I thought I'd ever do, but I bring my wet hand to my mouth and lick, tasting her natural fluid. The taste is so familiar and it makes my heart sink.
"You're right. It's milk."
"Oh god," she says.
