Making Breast Milk
The pile of laundry scattered across the living room floor was slowly shrinking.
Jiyoung folded a running shirt and set it into the basket.
Whirr-click. Whirr-click.
The steady mechanical rhythm ate into the quiet of noon.
Every time the breast pump unit on the floor shuddered, Jiyoung’s breasts—tethered to it by the tubes—danced in time.
Inside the clear plastic flanges her nipples stretched long, then contracted, over and over.
“Nnngh…”
A soft moan slipped out of her unbidden. The hands folding the shirt paused for a second.
The pump’s suction wrung deep into her milk ducts; the sensation raced through her whole body in a sharp, electric tingle.
Her breasts had long since dried up, empty vessels, yet the machine’s relentless pull made her feel as if milk might gush out at any moment.
She scratched at the flesh spilling over the top of her corset and straightened her aching back. The tight waistband forced her chest to swell dramatically with every breath, and each time those heavy breasts swayed inside the flanges.
Ding.
A cheerful notification chimed from the smartphone on the dining table. Jiyoung’s eyes flicked to the screen at once.
Voice Recognition Authentication Request
Identification code must be read aloud for hormone synchronization
Reward: 5,000 points paid immediately upon authentication
Five thousand won.
The corner of Jiyoung’s mouth lifted. Getting paid just for sitting there while she folded laundry… The world really had gotten better, she thought—and at the same time she was already growing addicted to the neat little earnings this bizarre side job delivered.
She stopped what she was doing, dragged her slippers across the floor, and pulled herself toward the table.
A short sentence glowed on the screen.
I am ONA-HOLE-3.
Jiyoung frowned. Ona-hole? The word felt half-familiar, half-strange. Some English abbreviation? Some kind of term?
What a difficult name. They could just say Kim Jiyoung.
But the “5,000 points” written underneath smothered her doubts into simple grumbling. This was about filling the emergency fund her husband didn’t know about. Reading one little sentence was nothing.
She cleared her throat. Her mouth was dry. Maybe because the pump never stopped sucking at her chest; it felt as if every drop of moisture in her body was being pulled toward her breasts.
“I am…”
The moment she opened her mouth the motor noise seemed to grow louder.
Whirr-click. Whirr-click.
It wrapped around her voice like background music.
“Ona-hole… three….”
Her voice was dry, empty of feeling—exactly the tone of someone confirming their identity to a bank teller.
But the instant the words left her lips, something changed.
Whiiirrr—
The pump’s suction rhythm shifted, subtle yet unmistakable. The steady pull that had been drawing her in suddenly lengthened and deepened the moment she said “ona-hole,” swallowing her nipples more thoroughly than before.
“Aahngh!”
Jiyoung’s head snapped back. A sharp current shot from the tips of her nipples all the way into her armpits. She clapped her hands over her chest on pure reflex. Warm palms pressed against the plastic cups; the machine’s vibration traveled straight up her arms.
Hormone levels re-adjustment initiated.
A green checkmark appeared on the screen. At the same time a notification flashed that 5,000 points had been deposited.
Jiyoung stared at the display, breathing hard.
What was that just now…
Her chest burned. Through the clear plastic she could see her nipples, sucked deep into the flanges, harder and stiffer than usual. Her areolas had swollen until they completely filled the mouths of the cups.
She tried to turn her eyes back to the laundry basket, but the words she had just spoken kept circling in her ears.
Ona-hole three. The electric jolt that had run through her breasts when she said it was still vivid.
“Ona-hole… three…”
She murmured it again without thinking.
It can’t mean that, right?
At once a heavy throb rolled through her lower belly. The inside of her panties was damp. Not sweat. Something sticky and lukewarm was seeping between her thighs.
Jiyoung fanned her flushed face. It was the heat, she told herself. The pump was just too strong. Yet somewhere beneath conscious thought her mind was already accepting the word as her new name tag.
A name that brought in money.
A name that allowed her to feel good.
She shifted her hips and resettled herself. The wet fabric of her panties clung blatantly to her skin.
“Aigoo, better finish this quick and get dinner started.”
She muttered the words as if nothing were wrong and picked up a pair of black socks. But her breasts, still locked in the pump, continued to heave violently to the machine’s rhythm, and she was already beginning to accept that stimulation not as the weariness of labor but as an ordinary sensation of daily life.
In the living room filled with the low mechanical drone, ONA-HOLE-3 diligently matched sock pairs.
The next day.
Jiyoung’s upper body filled the entire monitor, swaying. The same regular mechanical sound came through as well.
The feed was linked from her phone. She sat folding towels. Every time she moved her arms to square a corner, the pump units hanging from her chest danced along.
Moisture had fogged the insides of the clear plastic flanges, yet the shapes of her nipples remained sharp.
Whirr-click. Whirr-click.
Each time the motor sucked air her enormous breasts surged forward and then fell back. Those massive breasts overflowed the screen. Beneath skin thinned by repeated childbirth and nursing, bluish veins showed clearly.
I propped my chin on my hand and watched her chest with single-minded focus.
If Yunhee’s and Seo-eun’s breasts were fruit just beginning to swell, Jiyoung’s were already overripe, ready to burst—great heavy melons. The milk-duct tissue that had once been full was empty now, of course.
Jiyoung frowned and reached toward her chest. Sweat must have loosened the seal on the left flange.
Psshhk—
She peeled the cup free; pressure hissed out. Her swollen nipple was exposed to the air. The areola had spread to twice its usual size, and the nipple itself stood stiff and erect as if aroused.
“Aish, all this sweat makes it so slippery.”
She muttered to herself and cupped the underside of her breast with her palm. Heavy flesh bulged between her fingers. With practiced motions she centered the nipple in the flange again and pressed it home.
Sssuuuck—
Vacuum returned; the breast was sucked back into the machine. Jiyoung’s shoulders jerked upward, then sagged. In that brief instant her mouth fell half open and a dazed expression crossed her face—the blurred border where pain and pleasure could not be told apart. She herself seemed unsure whether what she felt was the ache of her ducts or the urge to empty them.
Watching her, I rested my hands on the keyboard.
The pumping training alone was excellent, but there was a more delicious method.
I need to add visual stimulation.
Something was still missing. She had a housewife’s habit of wanting to see results. Fold laundry and the pile grows neat; wash dishes and the plates shine. This labor needed a visible product too. But dried-up breasts would never produce milk.
So I would give her a fake one.
I scribbled a few ideas in a notepad.
1. Breast-milk simulation: use white lubricant.
If I had her smear white lotion or lube inside the flanges beforehand, every time the machine worked the white fluid would churn and smear around her nipples. Visually it would look exactly as if milk were coming out—tricking her brain. The moment she thought, “Oh my, is it really coming?” her body might actually start releasing prolactin.
2. Weight awareness: measure breast weight.
Make her consciously feel the mass of those huge breasts. Have her rest them on a scale, or hang small weights from her nipples and let them swing. She was weak against numbers. Once she confirmed in digits that one breast weighed over a kilogram, she would start regarding her chest as a special asset.
On the screen Jiyoung had finished the towels and was pulling the sock basket closer. When she bent at the waist her breasts spilled forward over the corset, toward the floor. The pump hoses stretched taut.
“Uuungh…!”
She let out a short moan and clutched her chest. Yet she neither loosened the hoses nor adjusted into a more comfortable posture. Instead she stayed exactly like that for a moment, as if savoring the tight pull.
A few strands of hair clung to the sweat-damp nape of her neck.
I smiled and prepared to type a message at the bottom of the screen.
Right now she was volunteering to become a dairy cow. As her owner, it was only proper that I make her look the part.
Milk… yes. Milk would be perfect.
I fleshed out the first idea. The milk in the refrigerator. Time to use it to turn her delusion into reality. I looked forward to seeing how the sight of white fluid flowing from her own body would stimulate this married woman’s flesh and feelings.
The cursor blinked, waiting for her next move.
The machine, tireless, continued to devour her breasts.