Breastfeeding The Sitter

Aali Kali's hands work the pump, milking herself for the sitter she's never met. The door creaks. Abella walks in, sees the bottle filling with white, and freezes. She offers to leave but Aali waves her closer—women only, nothing weird. While instructions spill out about feeding times, Abella can't stop eyeing the milk, throat dry, curious itch under her skin. She's never tasted it. When she finally asks, Aali shrugs, hands her the bottle. Abella wraps her lips around the nipple and drinks, hungry, milk running down her chin. Eyes half-closed, she begs for it straight from the source. Aali hesitates—they've known each other five minutes—but Abella climbs into her lap anyway, peeling her own shirt off, pressing close. The door shuts. Fingers squeeze. Warm streams splash across Abella's face. Aali gasps when those same fingers slide between her thighs. Downstairs, knuckles rap. The husband. Aali barks an excuse, shoves him out with baby and diaper list. The lock clicks. Two women alone now, skin flushed, wanting, every filthy idea still on the table.