Lara Meadows, the forty-five-year-old CEO of The Nurture Clinic, sank back into the plush cream leather swivel chair, and she allowed herself a deep sigh of contentment. Spread across the expansive glass desk before her, the full diary of appointments and the annual accounts spreadsheet confirmed that not only was the business very much in order, it was positively booming. Her burgundy-red lips spread into a broad smile of satisfaction as she reflected on the fact that this was the tenth anniversary of The Nurture Clinic, and its success had surpassed her wildest dreams.
The Harley Street address, the dedicated staff, the international clientele, the industry award for excellence—it was a world away from its humble northern beginnings…
Back then it had been a dingy office unit in a concrete carbuncle on the outskirts of Leeds city centre. Lara had got it on the cheap as a weekly cash-in-hand rental with no questions asked because the building was slated for demolition to make way for a new motorway system. The clincher for Lara had been that the former tenant was a chiropractor so the office came in the perfectly formed layout of reception area, treatment room, and a w.c. with shower cubicle, which was exactly what she had planned for her clinic. And she also made full use of the furnishings that had been destined for the skip, which included a massage table, filing cabinet, desk and chair, pair of armchairs, telephone and an electric kettle. After a couple of days of hard graft and a gallon of bleach, she had the clinic up and running for the first client.
Lara had emptied her bank account to scrape together the money to cover the first month’s rent, along with the commission of a website to promote her special services, and the placement of a couple of advertisements in the classified sections of alternative publications. A custom-made cream leather chaise longue was charged to the credit card. A piggybank of loose change provided a packet of tea, jar of coffee, bag of sugar, and packet of digestive biscuits for reception—no carton of milk required as she had a daily supply, freely available, direct from source. Finally, the purchase of a bumper pack of toilet rolls for the w.c. reduced the contents of the petty cash box to the pitiful sum of thirteen pence.
The only real asset Lara had at that time, business or otherwise, was a pair of lactating 36J breasts. Yes, indeed, what Lara had considered at puberty to be an uncomfortable and embarrassing curse had, in fact, developed to monumental and highly desirable proportions over the years, and had proved to be her biggest and best asset in life. It had gradually dawned on Lara that her breasts were her fortune, in more ways than one. At 5′ 9″ and a womanly size 14, Lara stood tall and curvaceous, proudly bearing the bounteous gift from Mother Nature, with the support of a robust brassiere, of course. These wonders of nature truly had to be seen in the flesh to be believed—a pair of perfectly formed plump breasts with splendid areola and erect nipples, which demanded attention in every outfit she wore. Not only were they fulsome in form, they were also sensitive to the slightest touch. The orgasmatrons, she had pet-named them.
‘The stuff that dreams are made of…’ her first lover had uttered in head-shaking awe when she had unleashed her breasts upon him. He had developed an insatiable appetite for her breasts, and he quite literally worshipped them at every opportunity, day and night. And Lara enjoyed her breasts being fondled, kissed and licked, but what she really loved was to have the nipples sucked for hours until they were pleasurably painfully sore. A good, long, hard suckling of her breasts guaranteed to bring Lara to a mind-blowing orgasm. And over the years there had been many, many breast-lovers just like him—or sucklers, as she liked to think of them—all of whom she had trained to satisfy her breastfeeding needs.
The act, or the intercourse, of breastfeeding was like a drug to Lara. She was addicted to it. In fact, in her studies, she had learnt that breastfeeding was indeed a drug—the hormone oxytocin. This love hormone was found in the brain, the ovaries of women and the testicles of men, and it would be released during the act of sex, birth and breastfeeding.
Lara savoured and wielded the buxom power that had been bestowed upon her. Men were instinctively drawn to her. Men became compliant and submissive in her presence. Men begged to see her breasts. Men craved a mouthful of the nipple. She had come to the conclusion that the desire for the breast was an innate need, from cradle to grave—the breast was a universal and timeless pleasure, both maternal and sexual. And her personal experience was reinforced by her professional experience; as a state registered maternity nurse and a certified lactation consultant, Lara was regarded as an expert in the realm of breastfeeding.
Born from natural ability and medical know-how, Lara possessed a special talent: she could induce lactation. At the maternity hospital, she had helped to induce lactation for mothers who struggled to produce breastmilk for their newborn babies, and also for the adoptive mothers of babies. Contrary to popular belief, there was actually no pregnancy or baby necessary for a woman to lactate and breastfeed. All that was required was the desire, the commitment and the stimulus to do so. Lara’s modus operandi was multi-disciplinary—a combination of psychological, physiological and pharmaceutical methods. In the lactation induction programme she had developed, she utilised treatments of hypnosis, manual stimulation, mechanical pump, prescribed medications and herbal supplements.
The fundamental key to the success of induced lactation was the consistent and long-term stimulation by manual and mechanical means. Indeed, it was this steely determination, a steadfast routine and a hospital-grade breast pump that had Lara lactating within six weeks at her very first attempt at the age of twenty-six. And just a month later, she was producing a sufficient yield of breast milk to satisfy an infant’s daily requirement, or—as suited her very personal and peculiar proclivities—a sufficient yield of breast milk to satisfy the adult appetite at a single breastfeeding session.
Lara was a confident and independent woman, in mind, body and spirit. She cared about the many breast-lovers in her life, yet she had no interest in settling down, getting married or having children, like so many friends her age had done. No. Lara had a radically different plan for her future: she envisaged herself as a pioneer. She held the deep-seated conviction that her vocation in life was as a proponent and practitioner of breastfeeding for life—the breastfeeding of adults for the mental, physical and sexual wellbeing of both breastfeeder and suckler.
Not only did breastfeeding provide an intimate and nurturing experience, it also had the nutritional benefit of breast milk. As breast milk contained fat, protein, carbohydrate, vitamins, minerals and trace elements, as well as antibodies and antitoxins, it was the most naturally nutritious mouthful one could receive in life. Indeed, Lara was so convinced of the health benefits of breast milk that she regularly consumed her own, usually express pumped, but she also suckled at her own breast on a regular basis too; it tasted good and it felt good. Furthermore, she applied breast milk to her skin as a natural skin cleanser and moisturiser, and a salve too. Pure and simple, Lara believed that breast milk was a divine gift from Mother Nature. According to her philosophy, breast milk was the elixir of life for a lifetime.
At thirty-five-years-old, and in the prime of her life, Lara had felt that the time was right for her to combine her personal and professional experience to establish The Nurture Clinic. She chose the name as a discreet reference to breastfeeding—the word nurture from the Latin nutritura meaning the act of nursing or nourishing.
Lara had taken a three-month unpaid leave of absence from her post at the maternity wing of Leeds General Infirmary in order to set up the clinic, which she considered a suitable timeframe to assess whether or not her proposition could be a viable business venture. Her aim was to provide a professional breastfeeding service for nourishment, comfort and pleasure to an adult clientele. She would do so initially by herself, but her long-term goal was to have a staff of breastfeeders, and also to conduct training courses to promote breastfeeding for life.
Within just a few months of opening The Nurture Clinic, Lara had been overwhelmed with the response by mail, email and telephone contact. She had to take on a receptionist. And then she had to employ another breastfeeder, and then another, and then another to help her meet the demand for the adult breastfeeding service. With this rotation of four breastfeeders, the clinic had been open for appointments in hourly slots from 9am to 5pm, Monday to Friday, but still the waiting list grew by the day.
By the time the bulldozer finally arrived at the concrete carbuncle, The Nurture Clinic had celebrated its first birthday, and it had already relocated to bigger and better premises in a Victorian mews building in the civic quarter of Leeds city centre. Within a year, the clinic hours had been further increased to open its doors from 9am to 8pm, Monday to Saturday, with home and hotel outcalls available to trusted clients. And as Lara had become more and more engaged with the administration of the clinic, in order to maintain optimum breast milk production, she had taken to pumping her breast milk using a custom-made device that would remain attached throughout the day as she worked at her desk. Her expressed breast milk was then bottled and made available for purchase at reception or via a home delivery service, as was the expressed breast milk of the other in-house breastfeeders. In the third year, she had added breast milk shakes and ice cream to the range.
Now, sitting in the Harley Street headquarters on the tenth anniversary of The Nurture Clinic, Lara recalled the arrival of her first client as if it were only yesterday…
Of course, she had been anxious that day, as was normal with any new venture, especially an intimate venture such as breastfeeding. But Lara was certain of her breastfeeding skills and, if anything, she felt that her breasts were heavier and her nipples more sensitive than usual that morning, as if in anticipation of the task ahead of them. And the moment the intercom buzzed, her nipples began to leak milk. Lara had never been more ready to breastfeed.
Mr Smithers had arrived on the dot for his Monday lunchtime appointment; smartly dressed in a suit and tie, quietly polite, blushing and fidgeting with nervous excitement. Seated in reception, throughout the preliminaries, Lara noted that his eyes were permanently lowered in reverence to her bosom. With a pat on his bottom, she directed him to the washroom with strict instructions to strip, shower, brush his teeth and gargle with the antiseptic mouthwash. Ten minutes later, she took him by the hand and led him to the treatment room. He was naked but for the large pair of transparent plastic pants that had been waiting for him when he emerged from the shower.
Lara had instructed him to climb up onto the examination table and to lie on his back. At his head, smiling down at him, she poppered open the navy blue nursing tunic from neck to waist to reveal a robust white lace nursing brassière with clipped cups. She unclipped each cup in turn and unleashed her magnificent mammaries.
The stuff that dreams are made of…
Mr Smithers gaped in awe at the magnificent vision of Lara’s breasts suspended directly above his face.
‘I want you to watch me and listen to me very carefully,’ she told him. ‘You can look, but you cannot touch unless I tell you to. Do you understand, Smithers?’
‘Yes, Miss Meadows,’ he replied, breathlessly. ‘Look but don’t touch.’
‘That’s right. I’m in charge, and you do as I say.’
Lara’s nipples stiffened as she exerted her mammary power over him. She noted that as she belittled him, his little penis stiffened too.
She had then gently swung her pendulous breasts above his face. His eyes mirrored the movement of the nipples, to and fro. He literally could not take his eyes off them.
‘The breast hypnotises you, doesn’t it?’
‘The breast controls you, doesn’t it?’
‘You’re desperate to touch the breast, aren’t you?’
‘But you’re not allowed to touch yet, are you?’
‘That’s a good boy.’
She then lowered her breasts so that her nipples swayed within an inch of his face. A drop of milk dripped onto his cheek. His penis twitched with excitement. Lara reached over and tapped his plastic-wrapped erection. He had panted, like a puppy dog.
‘You can’t hide anything in those transparent pants,’ she teased him.
‘Yes, Miss. No, Miss.’ He struggled to think clearly.
‘Now, I’m going to explain how to latch on to the nipple.’
‘In order to latch on to the nipple, you must tilt your head back slightly, and open your mouth wide—like so.’ She tilted her head back, opened her mouth wide, and positioned her tongue, to demonstrate the technique. ‘And then, with your tongue beneath the nipple, you scoop up a big mouthful of the breast. The nipple goes right into the back of your mouth.’
‘Show me how you latch on.’
He copied what she had shown him.
‘That’s a good boy,’ she praised him, patting his head. ‘Hold your mouth just like that. And breathe through your nose.’
She repositioned herself to the side of the table. Then, with her hand cupping her right breast, she lowered the plump nipple to his eager mouth. ‘Now take it in, as deep as possible,’ she instructed.
The nipple entered his mouth, and he scooped it up with his tongue just as she had told him to. His face disappeared beneath the mound of her breast, but she felt his rapid breathing on her skin.
‘It’s the lapping motion of the tongue under the nipple that stimulates the let-down of milk, so, lap like a pussycat to get the milk.’
He licked the base of the nipple in long, wet strokes.
The moment he had latched on to the nipple, Lara felt the tingling sensation of the let-down of the milk into the nipple. In less than a minute, he was suckling away, and moaning with pleasure.
‘Oh! Is that nice?’ She laughed.
He mumbled in the affirmative.
‘Now stop,’ she ordered. ‘And open your mouth.’
He managed to suck one more drop of the sweet milk before he reluctantly did as he was told. She removed the nipple from his mouth and took the breast away from him. He was crestfallen.
‘Don’t worry, suckler, there’s more to come. We’re moving over to the breastfeeding seat now. We’ll be more comfortable there.’
Taking him by the hand, she led him over to the plush cream leather chaise longue. She settled herself and then gestured for him to join her. ‘I want you to lie down on here, with your head on my lap.’
He carefully positioned himself on the sofa with his face at her mammaries, and she cradled his head with her arm.
‘Now is the time for touching,’ she said. ‘Give me your hands.’
She had taken his hands and placed one on each breast. ‘Feel my breasts,’ she told him. ‘Play with them.’
With trembling hands, he tentatively explored Lara’s magnificent 36J breasts. He first caressed the milky-white skin. He then cupped the hefty weight of the orbs. He traced around the dark areola with his fingertip. Finally, he found the courage to squeeze the erect nipples, which released drops of milk into his hand. And all the while he touched the fulsome breasts, his erect penis strained against the confinement of the plastic pants.
Lara indulged his clumsy fondling, but her breasts were laden with milk and aching to release the pent-up supply. ‘Latch on,’ she ordered.
He immediately latched on to the left breast.
‘Knead the breast—like so,’ she said, as she demonstrated with her hand on her right breast. ‘Beg the breast for the milk, with your hand.’
He desperately kneaded the heavy breast and greedily sucked the plump nipple. And, like a tap opening, the breast released its milky elixir. It trickled and then it spurted into his mouth. It dribbled from his lips and spilt over his chin.
‘That’s a good boy,’ she praised him. ‘Suckle like a baby.’
And as the breast milk had flowed from Lara’s nipple, so had the semen from Smithers’ penis.
‘There, there,’ she whispered.
It had been far too premature for Lara’s liking, but typical of an adult breastfeeding virgin. He latched on well, but he had no stamina. She would teach him how to pace himself for her, just as she had taught all her breast-lovers.
Afterwards, in his sticky plastic pants, he had lain sleepily in her arms, his flushed face nestled in her warm breasts.
Mr Smithers had left The Nurture Clinic that day with the sweet taste of breast milk on his lips, and his manhood drained. He felt a newfound sense of calm and contentment. And he had booked his next appointment at The Nurture Clinic for the following week.
When Lara Meadows finally ceased her reminiscences and returned her attention to her paperwork, she noticed that her nipples were leaking milk again, which had soaked through her brassière and stained her blouse. So focussed was she on the administrative work, she had not made time that afternoon to express her breast milk with The Nurture Clinic trademarked breast pump, hence the spilt milk. She shook her head as she dabbed with a tissue at the telltale wet rings on her blouse. She decided in an instant that she would treat herself to two of her favourite sucklers that evening. She would summon them to join her at home in the jacuzzi for a long, slow, steamy breastfeeding session. One suckler at a time was no longer enough to satisfy her voracious appetite for breastfeeding.