His phone buzzed at eleven-fifteen, a number she didn't recognize. Rachel had been gone an hour, maybe a little more—long enough for the workshop to settle, for Thomas to wipe down the chair and make notes on the inflator calibration, for the kettle to cool and reheat once.
He almost let it go to voicemail. Then he picked up.
"Thomas Blackwood."
A breath on the other end. A pause that stretched just long enough to be nervous.
"Hi. Um. This is Aimee. Aimee Callahan? Rachel gave me your number." The voice was soft, a little breathless, the kind of voice that apologized before it asked for anything. "I know it's late. I'm sorry. I just—"
"It's fine." He leaned against the workbench, the phone warm against his ear. "Rachel mentioned you might call."
"She told me everything." Another pause, shorter this time. "About the chair. About the... all of it. And I want—" She stopped, laughed a little, a nervous sound that didn't quite land. "I want the same thing. Everything you did to her. I want that."
Thomas ran a hand through his hair, let the silence sit for a moment. "That didn't take long."
"What?"
"Nothing. Just—Rachel said you might be interested, but she didn't think you'd call tonight." He moved to the stool near the kettle, sat down. "Aimee, I need to ask you something before we go further. Do you have someone who can watch your daughter?"
The silence on her end was different now. Sharper. "How did you—"
"I do my research." He kept his voice even, gentle. "Rachel told me about you when she mentioned you might be interested. Not details. Just that you have a child, and that your time is limited. I wanted to make sure you'd thought about logistics before we scheduled."
Another breath, slower this time. "That's... yeah. That's fair. My mom can take her Sunday afternoon. She usually does anyway, gives me a break."
"Sunday afternoon works." He stood, walked to the calendar on the wall, penciled in the name. "I can have everything ready by two. But Aimee—"
"Yeah?"
"You said Rachel told you everything." He paused. "Are you sure about that?"
"She told me about the chair. The cycles. How deep it went. How she came more times than she could count." Her voice dropped. "That's everything, isn't it?"
Thomas didn't answer directly. "We'll talk more on Sunday. Bring a bag—comfortable clothes, something to change into after. And make sure your mother knows you might be late. Sessions can run longer than expected."
"Okay." She sounded smaller now, but determined. "Okay. Sunday at two."
She hung up before he could say goodbye.
Thomas set the phone down and looked at the chair. The inflator attachment sat on the bench where he'd left it after Rachel's session—the one he'd calibrated to four-point-two, the one she'd safeworded against. He picked it up, turned it over in his hands, and thought about what Aimee didn't know she was walking into.
Sunday came faster than either of them expected.
At one-fifty, Thomas heard a car pull into the gravel lot beside the workshop. He set down the tool he'd been adjusting—a thin rod attached to a silicone sleeve, something he'd been working on for weeks, something he hadn't tested yet—and wiped his hands on his apron. Through the window, he watched a woman step out of a small sedan, strawberry blonde hair catching the afternoon light, a bag slung over one shoulder.
She stood for a moment, looking at the workshop's corrugated metal walls, the single door, the small sign that read BLACKWOOD PRECISION in neat lettering. Then she squared her shoulders and walked toward him.
Thomas opened the door before she could knock.
"Aimee." He stepped aside, gestured her in. "Glad you made it."
She was smaller than Rachel, softer in the shoulders and hips, with the kind of full curves that suggested she'd recently carried weight she was still learning to shed. Her face was fair, her eyes hazel, and she was already flushing pink across her cheekbones.
"Hi." She stepped inside, looked around the workshop—the chair in the center, the rack against the far wall, the array of straps and bindings hanging from hooks. Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn't step back. "So. This is it."
"This is it." Thomas closed the door behind her. "Can I get you some tea? Water?"
"No. I mean—no, thank you. I'd rather just..." She gestured vaguely at the chair. "Skip the small talk. I've been thinking about this all week. I'm ready."
Thomas studied her for a moment. Her hands were clasped in front of her, fingers twisting together, but her chin was set. Nervous and determined, exactly where Rachel had been.
"All right." He motioned toward the chair. "Then let's get you situated. Do you want to change, or—"
"I brought something." She unzipped her bag, pulled out a loose cotton shirt and a pair of shorts. "Figured this would be easier than my jeans."
Thomas nodded. "There's a screen in the corner. Take your time."
She disappeared behind the changing screen, and Thomas busied himself with the bindings. He'd set up the chair for Rachel's Saturday session—the one she'd come back for, the one that had pushed her to safeword. The breast bindings were already laid out, the inflator attachment connected, the vibration pad calibrated. He checked the settings again, adjusted the oscillation curve to a slower ramp, something he thought Aimee might appreciate for a first session.
When Aimee emerged, she was wearing the cotton shirt—loose, light—and nothing else visible beneath it. Her breasts moved freely under the fabric, fuller than Rachel's, and she crossed her arms over her chest as she walked toward the chair.
"So." She stopped in front of him, looked up at the bindings. "These are new. Rachel didn't mention these."
"They're for the breast binding." Thomas kept his voice neutral. "Part of the full session. Rachel experienced them on her second visit. I assumed she told you about everything, but—"
"She told me about the first time. The chair, the cycles, the orgasms." Aimee's flush deepened, spreading down her neck. "She didn't mention... this."
"They're optional. I can skip them if you're not comfortable."
Aimee looked at the bindings—the leather cuffs, the inflator, the small pump attachment—and bit her lip. Her hand came up, touched her chest through the shirt, and she winced slightly, a flicker of discomfort crossing her face.
"No." She dropped her hand. "I said I wanted everything. I meant it."
Thomas watched her for a moment, then nodded. "Then I'll need you to take off the shirt."
She did. Slowly, her movements careful, she pulled the cotton over her head and let it drop to the floor. Her breasts were full, heavy, the skin pale and marked with faint stretch marks. Her nipples were dark, slightly swollen, and Thomas noticed a sheen of moisture on the left one even before she was fully exposed.
Aimee's hands flew up to cover herself. "I'm sorry—I didn't—"
"It's fine." Thomas's voice was calm, steady. "It's completely normal. Your body is doing what it does. There's nothing to apologize for."
She didn't look convinced, but she let her hands fall to her sides. Her breasts swayed slightly, and the moisture was visible now—a thin bead of milk on each nipple, glistening in the workshop's light.
"I should have told you." Her voice was small. "I'm still nursing. Well, pumping mostly. I didn't think—"
"You didn't need to warn me." Thomas picked up the first binding, a leather cuff lined with soft fleece. "It's not a problem. If anything, it adds an interesting element to the session."
He stepped closer, and Aimee held her breath. He wrapped the first cuff around her left breast, just behind the areola, and fastened it snugly. Not tight—just present. Enough to feel.
"How does that feel?"
"Weird." She let out a nervous laugh. "But not bad."
"Good." He did the same to the right breast, cinching the cuff until it sat evenly. Then he attached the small inflator tubes to each cuff, the silicone hoses snaking down to a pump mounted on the chair's arm. "These will expand gradually over the session. It'll feel like pressure, like something squeezing. If it becomes too much, tell me. We'll adjust."
Aimee nodded, her eyes fixed on the tubes. A bead of milk had escaped the left cuff, running in a thin line down the curve of her breast. She didn't seem to notice.
Thomas guided her to the chair, helped her sit. The bindings at her chest shifted as she settled, and Thomas reached for the first restraint—a strap that would cross her lap, holding her in place.
"Before we start," he said, his hands pausing on the buckle, "I have something new I'd like to try. An attachment I've been working on. I think you'd be a good candidate for it."
Aimee looked up at him, her hazel eyes wide. "What is it?"
"It's a vaginal insert. Slim to start, but it can be inflated to a larger size over the course of the session." He kept his voice matter-of-fact, clinical. "It's designed to gradually stretch, to push against the walls from the inside. I've tested the mechanics, but I haven't used it on anyone yet. You'd be the first."
She blinked. Once. Twice. Her flush had spread to her chest now, the skin above the cuffs pink and warm.
"Rachel didn't have that, did she?"
"No. This is new."
Aimee was quiet for a long moment. Her hand came up again, touched her collarbone, and Thomas watched her throat move as she swallowed.
"Okay."
"You don't have to say yes. You can take more time to—"
"No, I mean it." She met his eyes. "I said I wanted everything. So... yes. Use the new thing. I trust you."
Thomas held her gaze for a beat, then nodded. He reached for the attachment—the thin rod with the silicone sleeve, the small pump at its base—and positioned it on the chair's arm.
"Then let's begin."
He worked efficiently, methodically. The lap strap. The wrist restraints, positioning her arms at her sides. The ankle cuffs, spread slightly apart. By the time he was done, Aimee was bound to the chair, her breasts cuffed and ready for inflation, her body open and waiting.
She was breathing faster now, her chest rising and falling against the bindings. A thin trickle of milk had escaped both cuffs, running down her ribs, pooling in the hollow of her collarbone.
"I'm going to insert the attachment now," Thomas said, picking up the rod. "It'll be cold at first. Tell me when you're ready."
Aimee nodded, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. "I'm ready."
Thomas applied a thin layer of lubricant to the sleeve, then positioned the tip at her entrance. She was already wet—not from the lubricant, from her own body, a slick heat that surprised him slightly. He pressed forward, and she gasped as the rod slid inside her.
"Okay?"
She nodded, her jaw tight. "Keep going."
He did. Slowly, carefully, he pushed the rod deeper until it was fully seated, the pump mechanism resting against the chair's arm. The sleeve was thin, barely thicker than two fingers, but it would grow.
The inflator on her breasts was next. Thomas turned the dial to its first setting, and the cuffs began to tighten, a low hum filling the air as the pump engaged. Aimee's breath caught, her eyes widening as the pressure built around her chest.
"It's compressing," she said, her voice higher than before. "I can feel it. Squeezing."
"That's normal." Thomas checked the gauge—one-point-five, barely pressure. "We'll go slowly. Just breathe through it."
She tried. Her breaths were shallow, uneven, catching on the exhale. Milk was leaking now in earnest, the pressure of the cuffs forcing it from her nipples in thin, steady streams that ran down her stomach and pooled in her navel.
Thomas watched her face, waiting for the first sign of real distress. But she didn't ask him to stop. She didn't even look away from the ceiling. Her hands were gripping the armrests, her knuckles white, but her body was still, accepting.
He turned the dial to two-point-zero. The cuffs tightened further, and Aimee's back arched slightly, a strangled sound escaping her throat.
"I can feel—" She stopped, swallowed. "It's a lot."
"You can safeword at any time. Just say 'red.'"
She shook her head. "I don't want to stop. I want to see how far this goes."
Thomas noted that. Added it to the mental file he was building on her—the strawberry blonde who didn't flinch, who leaked milk and took pressure and said yes to things she didn't fully understand.
For the next hour, he worked her through the cycles. The breast bindings increased to three-point-zero, then three-point-five, and Aimee's body responded with more milk, more leaking, more flushing. The vaginal insert expanded gradually—the pump engaged in small increments, the sleeve swelling to the size of a fist, then a small melon, pressing against her walls from the inside.
She took it. All of it. Her breaths were ragged, her body trembling, but she didn't safeword. She didn't ask him to slow down. She just breathed, and took, and leaked, and let the machines push her.
But she didn't come.
"Phase two is almost done," Thomas said, checking the gauges. "How are you feeling?"
"Full." Her voice was hoarse. "So full. I can feel everything. The pressure in my chest, the stretch inside. It's—" She trailed off, her face flushed. "I can't come."
"That's not uncommon. Some women find the restraint itself prevents orgasm. The pressure can be too much, or not enough." He stepped closer, looked down at her. "Phase three will change that."
Her eyes met his. "How?"
"The vaginal insert deflates. Rapidly. And the vibration pad activates at full intensity." He pointed to the pad positioned against the chair's seat, just under her. "The combination often triggers a very intense release."
Aimee's breath caught. "Okay."
Thomas turned the dial. The pump on the vaginal insert reversed with a soft hiss, the sleeve collapsing in seconds, sliding out of her as it shrank. Aimee gasped, her body suddenly empty, her cunt clenching around nothing.
"And now—"
He pressed the vibration pad's switch.
The pad roared to life, a deep, buzzy hum that shook the chair's frame and traveled through Aimee's body like an electric current. Her back arched, her head thrown back, and a sound tore from her throat—raw, broken, surprised.
It took three seconds.
Her orgasm hit her like a wave, her whole body clenching and releasing in a rhythm that seemed to have no end. Her cunt pulsed, wet and hot, a gush of fluid soaking the chair beneath her. Her breasts let go at the same moment, milk spraying from both nipples in twin arcs that caught the light and splattered across her stomach, the armrests, Thomas's apron.
She cried out—not a word, just a sound, something that might have been his name or might have been nothing at all—and kept coming, wave after wave, her body shaking against the restraints.
Thomas didn't move. He watched her ride it out, his hand still on the dial, the vibration pad steady and deep. He watched the milk run down her ribs, watched her cunt clench and release, watched her face go slack and then tight and then slack again, lost in a pleasure that seemed to have no bottom.
When she finally stilled, her head lolled to the side, her eyes half-open and glassy, Thomas reached down and turned the vibration pad to its lowest setting, then off entirely.
Aimee lay in the chair, trembling, her chest heaving, milk and sweat and arousal pooled beneath her. Her mouth was open, her lips dry, and she looked at him with an expression he couldn't quite read.
"That," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "was not what Rachel described."
Thomas cleaned his glasses with a cloth from his pocket. "No. It was adapted for you."
She stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, a smile spread across her face—not the nervous, tentative smile from before, but something fuller, something that reached her eyes.
"Can we do it again?"
Thomas's hand found the dial. He didn't answer her question—not with words. His fingers turned it counterclockwise, just a quarter rotation, and the vibration pad hummed back to life beneath her. Low. Barely there. A promise more than a sensation.
Aimee's eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. She was still trembling from the aftershocks, her skin slick with sweat and milk and the evidence of what she'd just become. The low hum traveled through her spent body, and she blinked at him, her lips parting.
"Are you ready for phase three?" Thomas asked. His voice was calm, the same clinical tone he'd used all afternoon, but there was something underneath it now—a question that wasn't about the machine.
She nodded. Meekly. Her chin dipped, her eyes dropping to his chest, and the gesture was so small, so unlike the woman who'd walked in an hour ago, that Thomas felt something shift in his chest.
"Good." He stepped closer, his hands moving to the inflator release on her breast bindings. The cuffs had held her at three-point-five for the last fifteen minutes, and her breasts were swollen above them, the skin marked with red rings where the leather had pressed. "I'll start phase three in a few moments, but first—let's get you ready."
He released the pressure, and the cuffs loosened with a soft hiss. Aimee's breasts sagged slightly, freed from the compression, and she gasped as the blood rushed back into the tissue.
Thomas didn't remove the cuffs. He left them in place, loose but present, and reached for a clean cloth from the bench. He wiped the milk from her stomach, her ribs, the hollow of her collarbone, his movements efficient and impersonal.
"I need to ask you something," he said, his eyes on the cloth. "Are you willing to trust me?"
Aimee's throat moved as she swallowed. She looked up at him, her hazel eyes glassy and dark, and for a long moment she didn't speak. Then her voice came, soft and certain.
"Yes, sir."
Thomas's hands stilled on the cloth. He looked at her, his blue eyes sharp behind his glasses, and for a heartbeat the workshop was silent except for the low hum of the pad between her thighs.
"Where did that come from?"
Aimee's flush deepened, spreading across her chest and up her neck. She looked away, her jaw tightening, and then she looked back, meeting his gaze with an effort that cost her something visible.
"That was the first orgasm I've had in over a year." Her voice was raw, honest. "And the best I've had in the last five at least. Maybe ever." She paused, her breath hitching. "I'll trust whatever you want to do."
She closed her eyes. Lowered her head. The gesture was deliberate, a surrender she chose with her whole body, and Thomas watched the line of her throat as she exposed the curve of her neck to him.
"If you're sure."
"Yes, sir."
He didn't hesitate. He pushed.
The dial on the vaginal insert turned first—not the deflation valve, but the expansion pump. The sleeve began to swell again, filling from the inside, pressing against walls that were still clenching from the aftermath of her release. Aimee's back arched, a sharp gasp escaping her lips.
At the same time, Thomas reached for the breast inflator and turned it to its first setting. The cuffs tightened around her breasts, compressing the tender tissue, and a thin bead of milk escaped from each nipple, running down the curve of her chest.
"Phase three is different," Thomas said, his voice steady over the hum of the machines. "It's not about building toward a single peak. It's about maintaining a state—a sustained edge, without release. We'll hold here for as long as you can take it."
Aimee's eyes were wide, her pupils dilated, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The vibration pad was still low, a steady thrum beneath her, but the combination of the expanding insert and the compressing breast bindings was already pushing her toward a place she hadn't reached before.
"Hold," Thomas said. "Don't come."
She nodded, her jaw tight. The insert was growing now, pressing outward, filling her in a way that was different from before—deeper, wider, more insistent. Her cunt clenched around it, trying to push it out, but it stayed, swelling against her walls.
The breast bindings tightened another notch. Milk leaked in thin streams, running down her ribs, pooling in the hollow of her navel.
"Breathe," Thomas said.
She tried. Her chest rose and fell against the constraints, her ribs expanding as far as the cuffs would allow. The vibration pad hummed beneath her, steady and low, and she could feel every pulse of it through her clit, through her thighs, through the base of her spine.
"More," she whispered.
Thomas turned the dial. The insert swelled further, and Aimee's hands gripped the armrests, her knuckles white, her body taut as a drawn wire.
"Tell me when you're close."
She shook her head. "I'm close now. I'm—" Her voice broke, a thin sound escaping her throat. "I'm right there."
"Hold it."
She nodded, her teeth gritted. The vibration pad hummed beneath her, and she could feel the orgasm building, coiling at the base of her spine, ready to release. But she held. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, unseeing.
Thomas watched the gauges. The insert was at four inches of expansion, the sleeves pressing against her walls from every angle. The breast bindings held steady at three. The vibration pad was still low, barely a whisper against her flesh.
"Good," he said. "You're doing well."
She let out a shaky breath. The orgasm receded, just slightly, the edge dulling as her body adapted to the constant pressure. She sagged against the restraints, her head lolling to the side.
"Again," she said.
Thomas turned the dial on the vibration pad up one notch.
The hum deepened, traveling through her bones, and Aimee's body went rigid. The orgasm surged back, faster this time, and she gasped, her hips pressing against the pad.
"Hold."
She held. Her breath caught in her throat, her whole body trembling. The insert pressed against her from the inside, the breast bindings squeezed, and the vibration pad hummed at her core, and she held the edge for five seconds, ten, fifteen.
"Let go."
She came with a broken sound—not a scream, not a moan, something between the two. Her body bowed against the restraints, her cunt clenching around the insert, her breasts releasing a fresh spray of milk that caught Thomas across the chest. Her whole body shook, wave after wave, and when it finally receded, she was gasping, her face wet with tears she hadn't noticed.
Thomas reached down and turned the pad off. The workshop fell silent except for her breathing, ragged and uneven.
He didn't speak. He reached for the cloth, wiped the milk from his apron, then from her stomach, her chest, her thighs. She let him, her eyes half-closed, her body limp against the restraints.
"Phase three is over," he said quietly. "You did well."
Aimee opened her eyes. Looked at him. And for a long moment, neither of them spoke.
"Again," she said. Her voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.
Thomas looked at the gauges, the dials, the spent body in the chair. Then he met her eyes.
"Not tonight."
He said it gently. Not a refusal. A boundary.
Aimee’s face crumpled for a second, a flicker of something raw crossing her features—disappointment, a child’s denied want, a hunger that hadn’t been sated so much as awakened. Then she smoothed it over, nodded once, and looked away.
Thomas unfastened the breast cuffs first. The leather peeled away from her skin, leaving deep red rings. Her breasts were swollen, the nipples dark and tight, still beaded with milk. He wiped her clean again, the cloth moving in slow, methodical strokes.
The insert came next. He turned the release valve, and it shrank with a soft sigh. He withdrew it slowly, watching her face. She winced, her body clenching around the emptiness, and a fresh trickle of arousal escaped her, mingling with the milk on the chair.
He freed her wrists. Her arms fell to her sides, limp. He undid the ankle cuffs, the lap strap. She didn’t move to cover herself. She sat there, naked and marked, milk drying on her ribs, her eyes fixed on some point on the floor.
“Can you stand?”
She tried. Her legs shook, and she caught herself on the armrest. Thomas took her elbow, steadying her, and helped her to her feet. She leaned into him, her weight against his side, her skin warm and damp.
He guided her to the changing screen. Her clothes were where she’d left them, folded on a stool. She dressed slowly, her movements clumsy, her fingers fumbling with the buttons on her shirt. She didn’t speak.
When she emerged, she looked like a different woman. The cotton shirt hung loose over her shorts. Her hair was damp at the temples. Her face was pale, washed out. But her eyes—they were dark, focused, alive in a way they hadn’t been when she’d walked in.
“Sit,” Thomas said, pulling a stool near the workbench. “I’ll get you some water.”
She sat. He filled a glass from the sink, handed it to her. She drank it all in one go, her throat working.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice still rough.
Thomas pulled up another stool, sat facing her. The apron was stained with her milk. He didn’t take it off.
“How do you feel?”
Aimee looked at her hands. They were trembling. She curled them into fists, pressed them against her thighs. “Empty.”
“That’s normal.”
“No.” She shook her head. “Not empty like… spent. Empty like I could do it again right now.” She looked up at him. “Is that normal?”
“It can be.” He watched her face. “The first session is often the most disorienting. The body doesn’t know its own capacity yet.”
“I didn’t think I had a capacity.”
“Most people don’t.”
“I didn’t safeword.”
“I noticed.”
“Does that mean something?”
Thomas leaned back, crossed his arms. The workshop was quiet now, the machines still, the only sound the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. “It means you have a higher tolerance for sustained pressure. Or a different relationship to your own limits.”
“Or I’m just desperate.” She said it flatly, without self-pity.
“Maybe.” He didn’t argue. “Does it matter?”
She thought about it. “No.”
“Good.”
She finished her water, set the glass on the bench. Her eyes drifted to the chair, then to the inflator attachment lying beside it. “When can I come back?”
“I’ll need to check my schedule.”
“Soon.”
“Soon,” he agreed.
She stood, her legs steadier now. She picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulder. At the door, she paused, her hand on the knob. “Thank you,” she said again, not looking at him.
“You’re welcome, Aimee.”
She opened the door, stepped out into the afternoon light. Thomas watched her walk to her car, her steps slow but sure. She didn’t look back.
He closed the door, turned to the workshop. The chair sat in the center of the room, stained with her sweat, her milk, her release. The inflator attachment lay on the bench, the silicone sleeve still glistening. He picked it up, turned it over in his hands.
She hadn’t safeworded. Not once. Not even at the edge, not even when her body was shaking apart. She’d asked for more.
He set the attachment down, walked to his desk, opened a notebook. He wrote her name, the date, the time. Under “observations,” he wrote: No safeword. Sustained pressure tolerance high. Lactation appears to intensify sensory feedback—milk release coincides with orgasmic peaks. Requested repeat before session concluded. Emotional baseline: determined, post-orgasmic emptiness replaced by immediate hunger. No apparent limit found.
He closed the notebook. Looked at the chair again. The silence in the workshop felt heavier now, charged with what had just happened and what was coming.
His phone buzzed on the bench. A text from Rachel: Thinking about Tuesday. A lot.
He didn’t reply right away. He picked up the inflator attachment, carried it to the sink, began to clean it. The water ran hot over the silicone, washing away the evidence of Aimee’s body, of her capacity, of her hunger.
He thought about Tuesday. About Rachel, who had safeworded. About Aimee, who hadn’t. About the data point he’d just added to his set—the woman with no bottom.
He finished cleaning the attachment, set it on a towel to dry. Then he picked up his phone, typed a reply to Rachel: I know.
He sent it. Put the phone down. Looked at the chair one more time, its leather straps dark with sweat, its metal frame gleaming under the lights.
Then he turned off the lights and locked the door behind him.