Alka - Wet Nurse - I always get screwed (Images) Scene 1

[ashuezy2]

The auto-rickshaw stopped outside the iron gates of the Malhotra bungalow, and for a moment I didn’t move. The house was too large, too quiet. Places like this always made me aware of myself—of my clothes, my posture, the way my body occupied space that didn’t belong to me. I wiped my palms on my dupatta before stepping out.

The driveway felt endless. With every step, I became conscious of my weight, of the fullness I carried, of the tightness across my chest that no amount of adjustment could disguise. There was a familiar pressure there, a dull insistence that had followed me since morning. I kept my eyes forward and my pace steady.
Inside, the servant didn’t take me to a bedroom. “This way,” she said, gesturing toward a large room flooded with light. It was a yoga studio.

Mrs. Malhotra stood near the mat, stretching, her back to me. She wore fitted workout clothes, the kind I had only seen in magazines—tight leggings that hugged her sculpted legs and a sports bra that showed off a flat, toned stomach. When she turned, her gaze stopped me where I stood. She didn’t smile. She didn’t speak immediately either.
Her eyes moved slowly—over my face, my shoulders, the line of my arms, the way my dupatta sat too carefully across my chest. I felt exposed without having removed a single layer. My breath shortened without my permission.

“You’re Alka,” she said at last. It wasn’t a question. “Yes, Madam.” “Come closer.”

I obeyed. She circled me once, not touching, close enough that I could feel the warmth of her body pass behind me. I stiffened, suddenly aware of my back, of my spine, of how upright I was standing. “They said you were young,” she said calmly. “But they didn’t say you looked like this.” I didn’t know what that meant. I didn’t ask.
Her presence pressed in from all sides. I felt heavier, slower, acutely conscious of my breathing. She stopped in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head slightly to meet her eyes. “Do you know why women like me hire girls like you?” she asked. I swallowed. “For the baby, Madam.”

She studied my face, then looked down again—not rudely, but deliberately, her eyes lingering on the curve of my bust. “Yes,” she said. “For the baby. And maybe something else also—if you are capable.”

She reached out then, not to undress me, not to touch me intimately, but to adjust my dupatta where it had slipped slightly. Her fingers brushed my collarbone, light, precise. The contact sent a quiet shock through me. I hated how sharply I noticed it. “Sit,” she said, pointing to a low stool. I sat.

The ayah brought the child and placed him in my arms. I focused on the task, on routine, on professionalism. Still, I felt Mrs. Malhotra’s attention settle fully on me, like heat. She didn’t look away. She watched my posture, the way my shoulders softened, the way my breathing changed. I could feel myself becoming more aware of my body than I ever was in my own room at night.

“This,” she said quietly, “comes naturally to you.” It wasn’t praise. It was observation. I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. My hands trembled slightly as I reached under my kurti to unhook my bra.

As the fabric fell away, my heavy, swollen breast spilled out, starkly pale against the dark room. The cool air of the studio hit my skin, and the reaction was instant. My nipple hardened, standing erect and dark, the areola puffy and wide, textured with the pressure of the milk stored behind it. I could feel Mrs. Malhotra’s gaze snap to it—to the sheer volume of my chest, the blue veins mapping the surface, and the angry, aroused prominence of the nipple.

I guided the baby to me. As he latched, a sharp jolt of pleasure mixed with relief shot through my groin. I gasped softly. The milk let down immediately, forceful and abundant. I could see the white liquid leaking from the corner of the baby's mouth, sliding over my areola. Mrs. Malhotra stepped closer, her eyes glued to the connection, watching the rhythmic pull, the way my soft flesh deformed under the baby's grip, and the undeniable, erotic puffiness of my areola as it glistened with saliva and milk.

When the feeding was done, the baby settled, calm and heavy against me. I reached for the soft muslin cloth I had brought. Mrs. Malhotra watched as I wiped the excess milk from my skin. She watched the cloth glide over the wet, sensitive tip of my nipple, cleaning the milky residue from the dark, bumpy skin of the areola. She stared at the way my breast still looked full, heavy, and ready, even after feeding.

"He looks... drunk," Mrs. Malhotra whispered, looking at her son's sleeping face, and then lifting her eyes to my exposed chest again. "You filled him up so easily. My body... it refuses to do what yours does so effortlessly." She licked her lips, her eyes darkening. "It is such a waste on a girl who has no one to share it with."

“You’ll come every day,” she said. Not as a request. “At the same time.”

She held my gaze, and for a moment I felt something unfamiliar and something more as I saw her biting her lip—an unsettling mix of relief and apprehension and raw, unguarded hunger.
As I stood to leave, I realized my body felt different than when I had arrived. Not satisfied. Awakened.