The alley was a jagged scar in the city, all piss-soaked concrete and flickering neon. Javier, the iron-fisted leader of Los Cuervos, moved through it like a shadow, his broad shoulders hunched under a black hoodie. His crew ruled Eastside with blood and fear, but tonight, he wasn’t the kingpin. Tonight, he was just a man with a secret that could burn his empire to ash. His chest ached, heavy and swollen, the fabric of his shirt straining against the unnatural weight. His tits were full again, the milk inside them pressing hard, threatening to leak. He needed relief, and there was only one place to get it.
The unmarked door at the end of the alley creaked open, and Javier slipped inside. The room was dim, lit by a single bulb dangling from a frayed cord. It smelled of rust and sweat. In the center sat the chair—a custom rig of cold steel and cracked leather, built for one purpose. Two holes at chest height, padded with worn rubber, waited for him. Behind it, a wiry man named Rico leaned against the wall, his eyes glinting with a mix of greed and amusement. Rico was no saint, but he was discreet, and that made him worth every fucking dime.
“Back so soon, jefe?” Rico’s voice was a low rasp, like gravel under boots. He didn’t move, just watched as Javier stripped off his hoodie, revealing the swollen mounds under his tank top. The fabric was damp, stained with faint wet patches. Javier’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes burning with a mix of shame and necessity.
“Shut the fuck up and get it ready,” Javier growled, his voice thick with the weight of his secret. He stepped toward the chair, unbuttoning his jeans with practiced efficiency. His body was a paradox—muscled, scarred, every inch the warrior, but his chest betrayed him, heavy and feminine in a way that made his gut twist. And lower, hidden beneath the coarse hair and tattoos, his cunt ached, already anticipating what had to happen.
Rico didn’t argue. He never did. He moved to the chair, adjusting the straps and checking the two glass bottles hooked to the underside, their mouths aligned with the holes. Each bottle was marked with faint scratches from months of this ritual. Javier knelt on the chair, his knees sinking into the worn padding. He leaned forward, sliding his swollen tits through the holes, the rubber edges scraping against his sensitive skin. The pressure was immediate, his milk threatening to spill. He gritted his teeth as Rico secured the straps, binding his wrists and ankles, locking his chest in place. Vulnerable. Exposed. If his crew saw him like this, he’d be dead before sunrise.
Rico stepped behind him, and Javier heard the clink of a belt, the rustle of fabric. He didn’t look back. He never did. This wasn’t about pleasure—it was about survival. The only way his body would release the milk was when his cunt was filled, some fucked-up quirk of biology he’d never understand. He’d tried everything else—pumps, drugs, even cutting himself open once in desperation. Nothing worked except this.
“Ready, jefe?” Rico’s voice was mocking, but Javier didn’t care. He nodded, his breath short, his body tense. Rico didn’t waste time. Javier felt the blunt pressure first, then the sharp stretch as Rico pushed in, rough and unceremonious. A grunt escaped Javier’s lips, not pleasure but raw sensation, his body reacting despite himself. The chair creaked as Rico moved, steady and mechanical, knowing exactly how to trigger the release.
It started slow—a faint drip, then a steady stream. The milk flowed from Javier’s tits, splashing into the bottles below with a soft, rhythmic patter. His chest lightened, the unbearable pressure easing with every thrust. He hated it, hated the way his body betrayed him, hated the wet heat between his legs that he couldn’t fully ignore. But he stared at the wall, focusing on the cracks in the plaster, counting them to keep his mind off the act. This wasn’t who he was. This was just what he had to do.
Minutes passed, maybe ten, maybe twenty. The bottles filled, the sound of milk slowing as his tits emptied. Rico finished with a low groan, stepping back and wiping himself off like it was just another job. Javier stayed still, his breath ragged, his body slick with sweat. Rico unstrapped him, and Javier pulled himself free, his chest deflated, the relief almost worth the cost. He stood, yanking his clothes back on, avoiding Rico’s eyes.
“Five grand,” Javier said, tossing a wad of cash onto the table. His voice was flat, all business. Rico counted it, nodded, and pocketed the bills without a word. Discretion was the deal. One whisper of this, and Rico’s throat would be slit before he could blink.
Javier left without looking back, the alley swallowing him again. His chest was light, his secret safe for another few weeks. But as he walked, the weight of it all—the chair, the milk, the man—clung to him like damp cloth. He was still the king of Los Cuervos, but in that room, he was just a body, bound and leaking, praying the world would never know.
A continuing series. I’ll be uploading more chapters as I have the time to do so, donations are welcome :) just a guy writing stories in this economy.
