Show Us Your Tits
Spent the last couple of hours working on photo shoot with a friend of Mistress O'Mayhem's. The basic idea is expressed in this piece I read last night
Prolactin procures sobs sweet and salty, breasts and eyes both shed tears at orgasm and grief. Sitting in the warm bath, my breasts cry me a river in delight and distress. Breasts bared in mourning or lust or some intoxicating affective combination, weeping straight from the heart. Let-down and letdown. Drowning my sorrows and washing away my sins, drop by drop by drop…
Essentially, the pix ended up being very simple. Just me, my hands and breasts and tummy dripping with milk against a plain fabric background. Mostly black and white, mostly quite close up. I'm not the artiste, but I imagine that the milk will glisten, opulant and decadent. As I squirted milk on queue, squeezed drops across my belly and chest and licked it from my fingers, I felt like I was in a porn movie. As Fiona Giles once said about milk though 'it sprays farther, tastes better, and lasts longer' than boyjuice.
Maybe I don't need a boy to give me that pearl necklace after all.
(If anyone wants to read the full piece I have posted it on Galactablogue. As a teaser, here is the beginning:
Its warmer than fresh milk in here. My breasts are sweating white juice and my cream is turning sour as my internal temperature rises. Unrefrigerated, unhomogenised, unpasteurised, unprocessed. Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet/Turning to curds and whey. My solids liquefy and I am mozzarella oozing from my areole, my liquids solidify and I am lumps of cheddar wedged fast beneath my nipples. Its warmer than fresh milk in here. My blue-veins throb with exertion and heat-stroke and its all beginning to stink. )
Prolactin procures sobs sweet and salty, breasts and eyes both shed tears at orgasm and grief. Sitting in the warm bath, my breasts cry me a river in delight and distress. Breasts bared in mourning or lust or some intoxicating affective combination, weeping straight from the heart. Let-down and letdown. Drowning my sorrows and washing away my sins, drop by drop by drop…
Essentially, the pix ended up being very simple. Just me, my hands and breasts and tummy dripping with milk against a plain fabric background. Mostly black and white, mostly quite close up. I'm not the artiste, but I imagine that the milk will glisten, opulant and decadent. As I squirted milk on queue, squeezed drops across my belly and chest and licked it from my fingers, I felt like I was in a porn movie. As Fiona Giles once said about milk though 'it sprays farther, tastes better, and lasts longer' than boyjuice.
Maybe I don't need a boy to give me that pearl necklace after all.
(If anyone wants to read the full piece I have posted it on Galactablogue. As a teaser, here is the beginning:
Its warmer than fresh milk in here. My breasts are sweating white juice and my cream is turning sour as my internal temperature rises. Unrefrigerated, unhomogenised, unpasteurised, unprocessed. Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet/Turning to curds and whey. My solids liquefy and I am mozzarella oozing from my areole, my liquids solidify and I am lumps of cheddar wedged fast beneath my nipples. Its warmer than fresh milk in here. My blue-veins throb with exertion and heat-stroke and its all beginning to stink. )
posted by Zoo at 3:04 pm
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