This is my first story in this group.
The Milk War
In the sleepy duplex sprawl of Gaithersburg, Maryland, where the lawns are clipped tight and the strollers roll like tanks, two women simmered in a feud so thick you could choke on it. Andrea, 35, a statuesque blonde with a body that once turned heads in modeling auditions, lived on the left side. Emmy, 32, a brunette with a mane like a goddamn lioness, held court on the right. Their husbands—Kyle the IT exec and Paul the med gear hustler—were ghosts, swallowed by long hours, leaving these two new moms alone with their infants and a hatred that burned hotter than a grease fire.
Andrea was 5’7” and 160 pounds of toned, post-partum ferocity. Her 32G breasts, swollen with milk, were weapons of war—hard as gourds when full, sagging into a mother’s droop after a pump. Her thighs and ass were sculpted from years of discipline, and that c-section scar? A low, surgical whisper, barely a blemish. Emmy, 5’6” and 150 pounds, was a different beast—36DD tits heavy with cream, a soft belly roll she cursed daily, and a meaty ass that jiggled just enough to piss Andrea off. Her hair, thick from pregnancy hormones, framed a face that sneered with contempt.
Their babies—Wade for Andrea, Henry for Emmy—were three months old, pink and squalling, fueled by the pride of their mothers’ exclusive breastfeeding. Each woman saw her milk as liquid gold, her kid as a genius, her man as a king. And each saw the other as a tacky, loud-mouthed bitch who didn’t deserve the air she breathed. The crying from next door? A personal insult. The way Emmy strutted in her low-cut tanks, nipples poking through like accusations? A declaration of war. Andrea’s tight leggings and sports bras, showing off that toned ass? A slap in Emmy’s face.
It all boiled over one muggy March morning at the Wegman’s in Germantown, a few miles from their duplex battlefield. Both women, babies strapped into car seats, rolled into the lot at the same damn time, their SUVs prowling for a spot near the entrance. Andrea spotted it first—a prime slot, steps from the sliding doors—and gunned her silver Acura toward it. But Emmy, in her black Jeep, swerved hard, cutting Andrea off with a squeal of tires and a smirk that could melt steel. She slid into the space, victorious, and flipped Andrea the bird as she killed the engine. Her thick, dark nipples stiffened instantly, pressing against her thin gray tank like bullets, a lusty mix of competition and triumph surging through her. She stepped out, Henry’s car seat in tow, her yoga pants clinging to her meaty thighs, the seam rubbing her just right as she savored her win.
Andrea slammed her brakes, her blue eyes blazing, and parked eight long rows back, Wade fussing in the back. She climbed out, slamming her door, her own nipples hardening beneath her tight black sports bra, swollen with milk and fury. Her gray yoga pants hugged her toned legs, and as she stalked toward the store, the fabric teased her, amplifying the tense, sexual edge of her rage. Inside, their carts met in the produce aisle—Emmy’s thick mane swinging, her nipples still huge and hard, jutting through her top like a dare; Andrea’s 32Gs straining her bra, her own peaks rigid with hate. They faced off, babies cooing obliviously, their mom’s voices low and hissing, a coiled spring of venom.
“You think you can just steal my spot, you fat-assed cow?” Andrea whispered, leaning in, her breath hot. “I’ll ram that shitty Jeep so hard you’ll feel it in your saggy tits.”
Emmy smirked, stepping closer, her nipples aching, her yoga pants seam pressing into her as she shifted. “Try it, Barbie. I’ll smash your bumper to scrap and leave you crying in that overpriced Acura. Kyle won’t save you.” Her voice dripped with menace, her body thrumming with a heady, sexual charge—winning felt good, and she knew Andrea felt it too, those tight pants rubbing them both into a froth as they glared.
They stood there, carts inches apart, milk-heavy breasts heaving, nipples throbbing, each imagining the crunch of metal and the other’s ruin. The tension wasn’t just anger—it was something darker, a primal itch they couldn’t name, stoked by the friction of their clothes and the thrill of the threat. Neither backed down, but they parted with a mutual, unspoken promise: this wasn’t over.
Then came the texts—vicious, petty jabs about crying babies and superior milk. “Feed your damn kid, Andrea, so I don’t have to hear that wailing.” “Maybe if you weren’t such a cow, Emmy, Henry wouldn’t scream for real food.” It escalated over days, venom dripping through their screens, until Emmy typed, “Meet me at my place. Let’s settle this.” Andrea shot back, “Oh, I’ll be there, you saggy bitch.”
The Showdown
It’s a muggy March afternoon, the kind where the air sticks to your skin. Emmy’s living room is a battlefield—bassinets parked in the corner, Wade and Henry gurgling softly. Both women show up armed for war, dressed to flaunt and fight. Emmy’s in a black nursing tank, the straps thin, the neckline plunging to her navel, her 36DDs straining the fabric, nipples dark and hard beneath. Her shorts ride high, hugging her thick thighs. Andrea’s in a red nursing bra that barely contains her 32Gs, milk-swollen and taut, paired with gray leggings that cling to every curve. Neither bothers with shoes—bare feet slap the hardwood like a dare.
“You look like a slutty cow,” Andrea spits, hands on hips, her blue eyes blazing.
“And you look like a stretched-out Barbie who forgot how to model,” Emmy fires back, stepping closer, her brown eyes glinting.
The air crackles. They circle, breasts heaving, milk sloshing nearly audibly in their chests. Then Emmy lunges, hands darting for Andrea’s tits. “Let’s see how much of that precious milk you’ve got, huh?” Her fingers sink into the red bra, clawing at the swollen flesh. Andrea gasps, then retaliates, grabbing Emmy’s tank and yanking it down. Those 36DDs spill out, heavy and veined, and Andrea’s nails dig in, squeezing hard.
“Fuck you!” Emmy snarls, twisting Andrea’s left breast like a faucet. A jet of milk sprays out, splattering Emmy’s chest, and she laughs—a guttural, mocking sound. “Look at that! Already leaking, you overfilled whore!”
Andrea growls, shoving Emmy back and clamping both hands on her rival’s tits. She kneads them viciously, thumbs pressing into the nipples until milk streams down Emmy’s belly, soaking her shorts. “You’re the whore, dripping like a faucet! Henry’s gonna starve tonight!”
They grapple, bodies slamming together, milk flying in arcs. Emmy hooks a leg behind Andrea’s, tripping her onto the couch. She straddles her, pinning Andrea’s arms with her knees, and rips the sports bra up. Andrea’s 32Gs flop free, engorged and glistening, and Emmy grabs them with both hands, squeezing until milk shoots up to her forearms. Andrea’s face twists—pain, rage, and something darker, her lips parting in a half-moan.
“You like that, huh?” Emmy taunts, grinding her hips down. “Bet Kyle doesn’t milk you this good.”
Andrea bucks, throwing Emmy off, and pounces. She lands on Emmy’s chest, knees digging into her ribs, and seizes those 36DDs again. Her fingers work like pistons, milk gushing over her wrists. “Paul’s gonna need formula when I’m done with these udders!” Emmy’s head thrashes, her thick hair whipping, but she hooks Andrea’s leggings and yanks them down, exposing that toned ass.
They roll, crashing to the floor, a tangle of limbs and leaking breasts. Emmy takes the lead again, pinning Andrea face-down and straddling her back. She reaches under, clawing at Andrea’s tits from behind, milk pooling beneath them. “I’m draining you dry, bitch!” Andrea’s cheek presses into the hardwood, her breaths ragged, but she twists, elbowing Emmy off and scrambling up.
Now Andrea’s on top, straddling Emmy’s hips, her hands a blur on those 36DDs. She squeezes in rhythmic pulses, milk spraying her face, and she licks her lips, smirking. “Tastes like failure, Emmy. Henry’s fucked.” Emmy roars, bucking up and flipping Andrea onto her back. She grabs Andrea’s nipples, twisting hard, milk jetting out in thick streams. “Wade’s the one who’s fucked when these bags are empty!”
The Tide Turns, Again and Again
The fight’s a brutal dance now, each woman seizing control, then losing it. Emmy shoves Andrea against the wall, one hand gripping her throat, the other milking her left tit like a farmer. Milk runs down Andrea’s leggings, her face flushed, eyes wild. She breaks free, tackling Emmy onto the coffee table, wood creaking under their weight. Andrea’s fingers sink into Emmy’s breasts, nails leaving red welts, milk soaking the table.
Emmy kicks out, catching Andrea’s thigh, and rolls them off. She straddles Andrea again, ripping at her bra until it’s a shredded rag. Her hands clamp down, squeezing until Andrea’s milk sprays in twin fountains, her groans loud and raw. “Give it up, you saggy cxnt!” Emmy yells, her own tits swaying, leaking from the pressure of her own grip. Her thighs rub against Andrea’s, thick and meaty against toned muscle, and a jolt shoots through her—a raw, sexual thrill at having this bitch pinned and leaking beneath her.
Andrea surges up, flipping Emmy onto her stomach. She straddles her ass, yanking the tank off completely, and digs into those 36DDs from behind. Milk squirts sideways, hitting the couch, and Emmy’s cries are half-fury, half-something else, her body trembling. “You’re done, you fat-assed bitch!” Andrea snarls, her own breasts slapping Emmy’s back, leaking freely now. Her thighs press into Emmy’s hips, grinding down, and she feels it too—the heady rush of dominance, her rival squirming and dripping under her control. It’s intoxicating, perverse, her breath hitching as she squeezes harder.
Emmy twists free, rolling Andrea onto her back and climbing atop her again. She pins Andrea’s wrists with her knees, her hands working those 32Gs with ruthless precision. Milk gushes, soaking her shorts, and Andrea’s face contorts—discomfort, shame, and a flicker of unwanted heat as Emmy’s thighs slide against hers. “Feel that, huh? You’re my bitch now,” Emmy hisses, her voice thick with arousal, reveling in the power as Andrea’s milk stains the floor. The friction of their legs, slick with sweat and milk, sends a shiver up her spine, and she leans in, pressing harder.
Andrea bucks wildly, throwing Emmy off and pouncing onto her chest. She straddles Emmy’s ribs, her hands clawing at those 36DDs, squeezing until milk sprays her face again. “Not yet, you cow!” she growls, her thighs clamping around Emmy’s waist, rubbing deliberately now. The sensation hits her hard—winning feels filthy, primal, and she grinds down, her breath ragged as Emmy writhes beneath her. Emmy’s milk coats her fingers, and the sight of her rival’s discomfort—those gasps, those leaking tits—fuels a dark, sexual edge to her fury.
Emmy hooks Andrea’s leg, flipping her onto her side, and scrambles to straddle her hips. She grabs Andrea’s tits, twisting and pulling, milk jetting out in painful spurts. “You’re emptying out, slut!” Emmy taunts, her thick thighs pressing into Andrea’s, the contact electric. She feels it—the dominance, the control, the way Andrea’s body shudders under her grip—and it’s a rush, her own nipples hardening as she milks her rival against her will. Andrea’s moans are sharp, desperate, but she fights back, clawing at Emmy’s breasts in return, milk streaming between them.
They roll again, Andrea taking the lead once more, pinning Emmy face-down on the rug. She straddles her lower back, hands sinking into those 36DDs from behind, squeezing with a vengeance. Milk pools beneath Emmy, her thick hair matted to her face, and Andrea grinds her thighs into Emmy’s ass, the friction sparking a twisted thrill. “You’re leaking out, Emmy—pathetic!” she spits, her voice trembling with exertion and something hotter.
Emmy’s body bucks, her groans muffled by the floor, but she twists, throwing Andrea off and lunging back into the fray, their legs tangling, their dominance teetering.
The Babies Cry, The Milk Drops
Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen times they trade dominance, a relentless storm of grabbing, squeezing, and spraying. Their bodies are slick with milk, hair matted, clothes torn to scraps. Then it happens—Wade and Henry start wailing from their bassinets, a piercing duet that cuts through the chaos. Both women freeze, mid-grapple, Emmy’s hands on Andrea’s tits, Andrea’s on Emmy’s. Their milk drops unbidden, leaking in steady streams—nature’s cruel reflex to their babies’ cries.
“Fuck,” Emmy mutters, her grip tightening, determined to finish this. Andrea smirks, twisting Emmy’s nipples harder. “Hear that? They’re hungry. Too bad you’re empty.” But her smirk falters as she feels her own breasts soften, the weight lessening under Emmy’s relentless hands. “No—no, stop!” she moans, panic creeping in, but her fingers keep working Emmy’s tits, desperate to drain her too. Milk sprays between them, a chaotic mess, and Andrea’s voice cracks. “Don’t take it all, you bitch—I need it for Wade!”
Emmy laughs, shoving Andrea onto her back and straddling her chest. She clamps down on Andrea’s 32Gs, squeezing with savage intent, milk gushing over her wrists. “Too late, Andrea—you’re drying up!” she crows, her thighs pinning Andrea’s arms, her hands relentless. Andrea thrashes, her face twisting in horror as her breasts yield less and less, the streams thinning to trickles. “Please—fuck, stop it!” she pleads, but her own hands dig into Emmy’s 36DDs, milking her rival with merciless fury, unwilling to surrender even as she feels her loss mounting.
The babies’ cries grow louder, and Andrea’s desperation peaks. “You’re stealing it—you’re stealing my milk!” she wails, her voice raw, tears pricking her eyes. Emmy’s hands don’t stop, wringing every last drop from Andrea’s tits, and the blonde’s body trembles, her pride crumbling as her breasts sag, emptied against her will. Yet she fights on, twisting Emmy’s nipples, milk still flowing from her rival, and snarls through her sobs, “I’ll drain you too, you fat cow!” It’s a hollow threat—her own defeat is dawning, visceral and humiliating.
Emmy senses it, her grin widening as she shifts her weight, pinning Andrea harder. “Listen to that—your kid’s gonna starve, and mine’s gonna feast,” she taunts, milking Andrea’s now-slack tits one final time. The last drops fall, and Andrea’s groan is guttural, a mix of rage and despair. She claws at Emmy’s breasts, but the brunette’s supply holds strong, leaking steadily, a testament to her victory. The babies’ wails echo, and Emmy shoves Andrea off, standing triumphant as Andrea collapses, chest heaving, her emptied breasts a stinging betrayal.
Finally, after this brutal, drawn-out war, Emmy lands the decisive blow. She straddles Andrea one last time, hands clamping down on those 32Gs, squeezing until nothing comes. Andrea’s tits droop, red and sore, utterly spent. She slumps, defeated, while Emmy rises, her own 36DDs still dripping slightly. “That’s it, bitch. You’re dry,” Emmy says, her voice thick with gloating triumph.
The Aftermath
Emmy struts to Henry’s bassinet, scoops him up, and plops onto the couch. She pulls him to her breast, and he latches hungrily, sucking down her milk. “See that?” she gloats, staring at Andrea. “Plenty left for my boy. You’re done.”
Andrea crawls to Wade, tears streaming, and lifts him. She presses him to her chest, but nothing comes. Her nipples are raw, empty. She chokes back a sob, her pride shattered, her breasts—once her glory—now useless bags. “You fucking cow,” she whispers, voice breaking.
Emmy laughs, loud and cruel. “Aw, poor Andrea. Need formula? Oh, wait—” She shifts Henry to her other breast, then beckons. “Bring Wade over. I’ve got enough for him too.”
Andrea’s jaw drops, fury and humiliation warring on her face. But Wade’s cries pierce her, and she stumbles forward, handing him over. Emmy takes him, grinning, and guides him to her nipple. Wade latches instantly, drinking deep, and Andrea collapses, gutted. Her son, feeding from her enemy.
“Guess my milk’s better,” Emmy says, stroking Wade’s head. “No formula run for me. You, though? Better hit the store, loser.”
Andrea’s fists clench, her voice a low growl. “This isn’t over, you smug bitch. I’ll make you pay.”
Emmy just smirks, cradling both babies, her victory absolute. “Sure, honey. Next time, bring more milk.”
