Page 65 of Daddy Erik
The nurse smiles, unaware of the conversation I had. Or perhaps she is aware and choosing not to care.
“Open, little cow,” she whispers. My lips part, and the bottle tips. The sedative flows in, sweet and thick.
As the darkness rises to claim me again, one thought claws its way through the fog, sharp and bright and desperate: I want Erik...
Time moves like thick syrup.Slow. Heavy. Sweet in all the wrong ways. Pump cycles. Bottle feedings. Diaper changes. Vitals. The hum of my pumping machine. The straps are always being adjusted.
The week begins for month two the same way the last one ended: my breasts aching from constant suction, my limbs too soft to fight, my mind sliding between fog and panic.
But there is something new this morning. The nurse with the rope braid stands at the foot of my bed with a folded set of clothes in her hands; again, not mine, but looser, softer, and pale peach in color.
“Good morning, little cow,” she says, her voice serene as always. “Today’s a special day.”
Nothing good starts with those words. I swallow tightly. “Why… is it special?”
“You reached a milestone overnight,” she says, glancing at my pump bottles. “Your output is now, at one point seven liters.”
My breath catches. “How… how is that possible?”
“Your body is responding beautifully to the priming regimen. You were always meant for this.”
Meant for this.I want to scream, but the sound stays lodged behind my teeth. She places the clothes beside me.
“You’ve outgrown your current garments,” she explains. “Your body is preparing for Phase Two. We need to accommodate your development.”
Development.“What does that mean?” I beg.
“You’re fuller,” she says gently. “Softer. Your hips are widening as expected. Your thighs are filling out even more. All normal and all very beneficial.”
Beneficial.For whom? She doesn’t actually answer my questions, yet her eyes say everything.
The breeding program. My stomach twists so violently I almost gag.
She unclips the breast pump harness, and the sudden release makes my breasts feel unbearably heavy. My shirt strains visibly, the seams whispering their protest. The blush-colored top she replaces it with fits better as it flows all around me and yet seems to cut off right at my belly button.
They expect more growth with how flowy the top is. She helps me sit up. The room tilts slightly. A full month of sedatives and enforced stillness has made my muscles weak.
The burly man assigned today steps forward. I know them all by their builds now: Broad Shoulder Guy, Tattoo Man, Cold Eyes Dude, and Shaved Head Man. Today’s is Deep Voice Man, the one who barely speaks, but watches everything.
He lifts me easily and carries me to the bathroom for my shower. Everything is the same as before: warm water over limp limbs, slow shampooing, and the inevitable moment on the toilet where I can’t even close the door, but something is different.
My body. It’s even curvier. My hands hover over my soft belly and rounder hips, stunned by the increased softness there.
The nurse notices. “Lovely,” she murmurs. “You’re almost at the optimal threshold.”
Optimal?!This is not for me, and it is certainly not okay with me.
The shower ends. I’m dried, hair brushed, face washed, teeth cleaned, and diapered. Then carried back and strapped in again. The new top flows, accentuating every curve, and the new-sizedshorts stop mid-thigh because my thighs fill them differently now.
She lifts my chin with a single finger.
“I know this is difficult,” she says softly. “But you’re doing extraordinarily well.”
“I don’t want this,” I croak, tears dripping down my face.
“But your body does,” she answers, serene. “And your body never lies.”
I flinch. She adjusts the straps and attaches the pumps again. The new bottles, larger still, click into place with a sound that feels like doom.
