[FICTION][02/18/26]Milking Myself (For All I’m Worth)
by Lucie Turkel
One of my earliest memories was of milk.
Standing in line at my elementary school’s cafeteria, I remember looking up and seeing a poster of a young woman: tight white t-shirt, hip bones peeking out of her pockets, a pretty pout; and, above the perfectly parted lips, but below the pert nose; a white moustache, made of milk.
I gasped, and dropped my lunch tray. My 2% spilled all over the linoleum.
That milk moustache awakened something within me. At night, my dreams turned to dairy, licking it off the upper lip of the faceless poster girl, dragging my finger across the spillage, painting her cheeks with it instead. The girl herself barely interested me. She was merely a vessel, an oracle that hinted at a future of frothy, white delight.
In real life, I became acquainted with its intoxicating essence as I dripped it across my body before bathtime, testing its curdled quality on my tongue. I even painted on my own milk moustache, mouth pressing against mirror, leaving behind a sticky imprint and thrill of satisfaction.
I started asking for more. My parents soon picked up on my strange addiction, switching to skim in hopes that it would help curb my disconcerting appetite. It did no such thing. Finally, my father put his foot down. No More Milk, he said one evening, after I asked for my customary post-dinner cup.
I cried, but he held firm. And just like that, to my utter dismay, the milk was missing from the fridge.
School lunch was the only place where I was still safe to indulge in my desires, collecting cartons on the elementary black market, bartering break-apart erasers and rainbow rubber bands in exchange for my preferred prizes. Though I was wise beyond my years in many ways, understanding refrigeration was not one of them; so I was startled by the sour smell that came seeping from the hollow of an oak tree, my chosen hiding place, mere days later.
Promptly I was reported to the principal. My parents were, predictably, upset. The school, assuming it to be some sort of compulsion, recommended countless cognitive-behavioral therapists renowned for their work regarding pediatric OCD, though none seemed able to make a dent in my dairy-laden destruction. Distraught, my parents turned from scientific specialists to the supernatural, dragging me to psychics and astrologers, reiki healers and shamans. Finally, as a last resort, they took me to a hypnotist, a strange man monikered Dr. P.
The doctor sat in an upright wooden chair as I walked into a completely carpeted room. He motioned for me to take the seat across from him, and my body sunk into brown pleather.
“So,” he said.
I looked at him, my Mary Janes kicking the air.
“I hear you have a problem.”
Silence.
But then: a flourishing of the most promising fruits. Like plump pomegranate seeds being placed in front of me, he pushed a tall, glistening glass my way, filled to the brim with the very thing forcing me into temptation.
“For you,” he said.
I sniffed the air. “Whole?”
He nodded in assent.
With that I snatched the glass from his outstretched hand. It had been days since I’d given in to my deepest desire, and I couldn’t get enough. I chugged, slipping and swallowing, creaminess spilling out the corners of my mouth, running down my chin, wetting my collar; I began gasping for breath, but I couldn’t stop until the final drop was spilled.
I belched, swiping at my milk moustache with glee.
Dr. P looked at me pleasantly.
And then my memory went black.
Everything felt wavy when I regained my senses. I was still in the pleather chair, with Dr. P still in front of me. This time, though, he was looking at me searchingly.
“You did very well,” he said, when he saw my eyes flicker, “here is your reward.” He held out a glass of milk.
I screamed in terror and swatted it to the floor, the carpet absorbing the milky mess.
I was deemed cured.
At first, the change was extreme. I cowered before cartons, shielded my eyes from cereal ads on TV; I couldn’t bear to walk down the dairy aisle at the supermarket. Little by little, however, such active panic plateaued into something more sedentary. And with that, it seemed my oddity had been erased.
***
Years passed without a sip of milk marking my lips. With my mind unoccupied, I began to excel in school, especially mathematics, numbers flowing through the fissures milk used to fill. I was top of my class, much to the surprise and excitement of my parents and teachers, and I went to a good college, where I majored in accounting. I did everything I was supposed to do, interviews and internships, all leading up to a permanent position at a prominent firm in the big city.
The job was a joke, but I enjoyed the pressure it put on my mind, its capacity to fill my waking thoughts and then ship me off to sleep. I didn’t have any vices, I didn’t get drunk at happy hours with the other associates, or smoke sneaky cigarettes during break; weed made me paranoid, beer made me break out in hives. I’d get to the office precisely at 9:00 A.M., not leaving until the last manager shut down their desktop.
“It’s almost like you’re superhuman,” my boss once said to me. I carried the compliment with pride for at least a week.
But a few months in, strange dreams began to plague me.
I hadn’t dreamt once since Dr. P cured me of all unclean thoughts. I figured these resurrected reflections were due to the disconcerting rhythm of adulthood, its monotony and mundanity, disrupted only by work-related stressors and financial fire drills. I tried to keep calm, counting sheep until I was drowsy.
Then, one night, the cow jumped over the moon.
I had a delicious dream. I was in a barn, naked. Cows grazed in the fields outside, beautiful, bristling hair and lolling tongues; and, peeping beneath, pearly pink udders shuddering full of forbidden juice.
My hands began to sweat, my mouth salivating. I crouched down next to a cow and tentatively touched the quivering mass. Though my touch was light, I felt the cow shudder as my grasp closed around a teat. I was so close, I could smell it. Squeezing down, white goodness squirted onto sodden ground.
Then I positioned myself under her hide, a calf in hiding, and let my tongue trace along her warm teat. I sucked in, a surge of delicious dairy flooding my mouth. It tasted like nothing I had experienced in real life, and, selfishly, I sucked the heifer dry. I lay down in the grass, gazing up at her glory; and, as soon as I reached out to begin milking again, I woke up.
I was disoriented, and parched. I stood up in the dawn light and greedily gulped down one glass of water, and then another, while my mind replayed the subconscious scene, over and over.
It was the first day I was ever late to work.
As I stopped by the deli to hurriedly grab my daily black coffee, the carton of creamer caught my eye. I reached out, tempted…
But no! I heard the ghostly voice of Dr. P in my ear, and my fingers fled back into formation, ashamed that they had nearly broken rank in the first place. Whatever the doctor had done stuck to me. I couldn’t face a carton without the stubborn condensation of shame coating my throat.
Bottled milk would not get the best of me. But surely, I thought as I was paying for my coffee, there must be other ways to quell my craving.
***
I tried to indulge in other vices, but no matter how many illicit substances or silicone appendages I shoved into my various cracks and crevices, my dairy-dreams showed no signs of stopping. Sleep was no longer safe, and staying alert during waking hours proved equally perilous. I became distracted, dropping the ball, going from office pet to pariah, and one afternoon my boss threatened to put me on a performance plan if my output didn’t improve.
“What happened to you?” he asked, ushering me into his office after I was caught scaffolding a tower of paper clips for ten minutes rather than filing the urgent report that was due by End of Day. “You used to be so focused, so driven.”
I shrugged, my head almost too heavy to hold up, my eyelids closing on their own accord.
“You look tired,” he told me. “You should take better care of yourself.”
My puffy eye bags, greasy hair, and gaunt cheekbones agreed, though my brain knew the danger that came with my subconscious sojourns.
“Go home and get some rest,” he said.
At home, though I tried not to, I accidentally fell asleep on my couch, still fully clothed, until a particularly arousing dream involving myself, a cow, and a milkmaid squirted me back into consciousness.
I got out my vibrator to finish the job, feeling its electric buzz between my thighs and imagining milk gushing from my nether regions. I circled my left breast, cupping and squeezing, my finger sliding back and forth over my nipple as I imagined the maid from my dream and her large, bouncing breasts spilling out of a ruffled, white shirt as she bent forward to milk the cow. But instead of the heifer’s teat, she touched herself. With a moan and a gasp, a striking stream of liquid burst from her bosom. In real life, I came all over the couch.
I opened my eyes just in time to see a flood of milk flow out of me, running in rivulets to my belly button. Was I still dreaming? I squeezed my right breast, kneading the skin until it, too, produced a surge even stronger than the first.
I sat up, the newly-wet waistband of my white cotton underwear further proof of performance. My mind reeled. I wasn’t pregnant, so I never thought of myself as a possible source of pleasure. But my befuddlement over biology quickly faded as I realized a miracle had been bequeathed unto me. Holding my heaving breasts, I ran to the kitchen, where I grabbed a glass jar and placed it on the counter.
And then, gently, I began milking myself.
My breasts acquiesced to my touch. Circling my softness, I squeezed, pressing down around my nipple; white elixir hissed out of me, along with a puff of pure bliss, all landing with a pleasant tinkle at the bottom of the glass.
I was able to fill seven cups, bubbling to the brim.
I placed six in my refrigerator, a flashback to the old oak tree reminding me of the importance of preservation. I eyed the one I had left out on the counter. Raising the glass to my lips, I took in its sweet scent. Then, eyes closed, I drank my milk.
Flavor exploded across my tongue, a chorus of angels sounding in my ears. My vision went black from unadulterated ecstasy. It was the most delicious dairy I had ever tasted, rivaling memories of even the creamiest of whole milks. There was something distinctly different about it, an aftertaste I couldn’t quite place, and I gobbled it up, drinking so quickly that the glass was empty in seconds. I fell back into my bed, dizzy with delight, and had the sweetest sleep I’d had in ages.
When I awoke the next morning, however, doubt distilled in me. Was everything that happened the night before simply an illusion, the result of my overactive imagination? But making my way to the refrigerator, I saw my six glistening glasses, the milk even more beautiful in the morning light. A seventh glass in the sink proved my nocturnal indulgence had been real.
I drank another glass as I got ready for work. The taste was just as titillating as I remembered. Washing my face, I studied myself in the mirror. The dulled, dehydrated girl was gone. In fact, my skin had never looked so good; my eyes were bright, circles gone; even my hair shone. I got dressed, ate a leisurely breakfast, and it wasn’t even 8:00 A.M..
I was early to work, finally, for the first time in months.
I was able to do my job with ease, my fingers clicking confidently across the keyboard, filling spreadsheets at record speed. I tripled-checked my work, even delivered my boss a coffee before lunch, along with my completed assignments, which were meant to last all week.
He was impressed. “There’s that superhuman,” he said as I left his office, all smiles. I couldn’t believe it. While I thought the milk would ruin me, it had become my saving grace.
All I had to do was indulge, in order to be my optimal self.
So I drank a glass of my milk each morning. Every Sunday eve I would prepare my potions for the coming week through mindfully-curated masturbation sessions. I had never looked better. I was the best in my class at the company. Everybody liked me. Life no longer lacked meaning; putting my pleasure on a pedestal gave me purpose.
I began craving my milk more often. At first, my breasts didn’t seem to mind. In fact, they delighted in the deed, swelling up and spilling out the delicacies, now indispensable to my livelihood. But as my body continued to churn out dairy, my fantasies became less and less vivid, until they turned black and white; not even the sultry milkmaid could brighten my dreams.
And then, one morning, I woke up dry.
I didn’t just wake up dry, but my diluted dream vision had invaded my waking hours. I wasn’t blind, though it was as if a blurring effect had been placed over my pupils, casting everything in slightly sunken shadows. I made my way to the kitchen, gripping the walls for support, and figured this was nothing a freshly-squeezed glass couldn’t fix. Using muscle memory, I awaited the satisfying tinkle.
But I didn’t hear a sound.
I kneaded my breast, pinching and pulling around the nipple, waiting for that familiar sensation. Nothing.
Trying not to panic, I fumbled through the fridge and found a lonely, half-empty cup. I guzzled it, and relief immediately flooded through me, though it didn’t last long. I looked at the time, eye pressed close to the counter to see the kitchen clock. Fuck. I was running late.
By the time I got to the office, I was a wreck. The sight in my right eye was next to nothing; my skin felt raw and itchy, flakes of fluff falling from my coat sleeves. Only my milk could fix this mess.
I prayed my defunct ducts would begin to flow freely again after work.
I swiped my badge and waited for the elevator. I could feel eyes on me, which I figured were due to my tardiness and unkempt state. The lady in the elevator with me discreetly held her coat to her nose. Did I smell? I sniffed the air, but all I could sense was its cool emptiness, devoid of any dairy.
I noticed coworkers staring in discomfort, even disgust, as I made my way to my desk. I couldn’t quite understand their cause for concern. I attempted to attack my workload, though my fingers were molasses across the keys, my lack of vision not helping. My mind kept slipping. I missed my milk. It was all I could think about.
I felt like a shell of myself.
Forcing focus, I queued files to the printer so I could be prepared for my 11:00 A.M. meeting. I stumbled on my way to the printing station, and for a second it felt like my calves might crack in half. I gripped the closest cubicle wall for support. Its inhabitant looked at me, stricken, and though I waved their concern away once I regained my balance, I could sense they weren’t sold, but instead openly ogled me even more. Eventually, I made it to the printer in one piece.
A shadowy figure stood there, I figured another coworker shaded by my lack of sight. “Are these your papers?” I asked politely, pointing to the printing tray.
They didn’t respond.
Raising my voice, I asked again. Heads in other cubicles turned, but still I was met with silence.
“Okay,” I murmured, turning away. “Weird.” When I looked back up, they were gone, like I had blinked them in and out of existence. My brow furrowed, but I didn’t have time to wonder. Gathering the printed pages, I wound through the office before knocking on my boss’ door.
“Good morning!” I said breezily, wind from the A/C whistling through what felt like cracks in my teeth. “Sorry, no coffee today. But I have that deck you needed.”
I looked up, finally close enough to make out his face, and froze. Instead of my boss, I found myself face-to-face with Dr. P.
“Hello,” he said pleasantly.
I stumbled back, tripping into a chair. It felt like pleather, sticky against my itchy skin.
“What— What are you doing here?”
He folded his hands. “I hear you have a problem.”
I kept my hands in my lap, not wanting him to see me shake.
“There’s no— No problem at all.” I ran a hand through my hair in hopes of making it more presentable; instead, a tangled clump clung to my fingertips. I stuffed it into my pocket, hoping he wouldn’t notice. “I— I haven’t had a glass since I saw you.” The lie caught in my larynx.
He didn’t seem to hear, or care. Instead, he pushed a tall, glistening glass my way.
“For you,” he said.
Was this a trick? Tentatively, I tiptoed famished fingers forward and gripped the glass.
It was empty.
I held it up to the light, and, like looking through a kaleidoscope, I began to make out an image at the bottom. Something ghastly met my gaze: a face, half fully bone, the other half a landscape of decay, with rotting flesh falling into eye sockets. The nose was flattened, green, and scaly skin crowned around the forehead. The bits of hair stuck to the skull were brittle, and sparse. Bald patches poked through the bruised scalp.
I pushed the cup away queasily.
“Why are you showing me this?”
In response, when Dr. P lifted the glass, I saw the reflection was his own. He pushed it back toward me, pleasantly.
“For you,” he said again.
I raised a hand as if to wipe the bottom of the glass clean, and, to my horror, the creature on the other end of the kaleidoscope raised one, too; its palm translucent, nearly blue, showing the bones beneath. A stench like rotting meat rolled its way through my nostrils. Lifting the sleeve of my coat, I saw more skin hanging off brittle bone. I could no longer deny it. The monstrosity in the milk glass was me.
And then, just like all those years before, my memory went black.
Everything felt wavy when I regained my senses. I was in my boss’ office, but Dr. P was nowhere to be seen. The cruel glass still sat empty on the desk.
Milk. The image flashed through my mind, and instantly my thoughts grew cool. I knew what I needed to do.
I ripped off my top, buttons flying fast, and unhooked my bra, expecting my breasts to buoy up, but I looked down and gasped. My wretched body was fully done for, the final straw broken. It was one thing for my sight to go, my skin to sag, my bones to break; but now, my very source of life had been snuffed out.
Sagging airbags hung like flaps from my chest, the limp tissue ripped and rotten, falling out onto the floor. Ducts disconnected, lobules no longer loaded with nectar, areolas blackened and bitter.
I was empty, inside and out.
Despite knowing better, I forced my hand to feel for any signs of life. Curdled powder pathetically puffed out of the place my nipples should have been.
That was it, then, I was finished; milked dry, I disappeared into dust, my ashes not even concentrated enough to be considered a dried alternative.
LUCIE TURKEL is a writer based in Brooklyn. Her stories have been published in Hobart, Verdict Magazine and Long River Review. More of her writing can be found at: https://pr0zacprincess.substack.com/