Professional wet nurse
My three–month–old son was always fed, but
my breasts were still painfully engorged.
Pumping hurt, and my husband, David,
refused to help, totally grossed out by the
idea.
Then, I stumbled upon an online ad: “Wet
Nurse Needed.” The requirements were
simple: abundant milk supply, able to satisfy a
hungry baby.
The pay? $300 a session.
I was ecstatic. Money and relief from my
discomfort? Sign me up!
One afternoon, after feeding the client’s baby,
Mr. Smith, the father, walked in, his eyes
fixated on my chest. I heard a gulp, like a wolf
eyeing its prey.
My name is Sarah Miller, I’m 26, married, and
my son, Leo, is three months old.
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My problem? Too much milk.
Even after Leo’s had his fill, I’m still painfully
engorged.
My arms stick out; I can’t even put them
down. At night, the throbbing keeps me
awake.
Forget cute nursing bras; my breasts are
constantly leaking, leaving noticeable wet
spots that draw unwanted attention.
Ironically, I haven’t gained any baby weight. In
fact, I’m curvier than ever.
“David, please help!” I begged my husband,
hoping he could relieve some of the pressure.
He just scoffed, “Sarah, are you serious? You
want me to suck on where our son eats?”
Then, his buddies called, and he went out for
a beer.
This wasn’t the first time David had rejected
me, but his coldness stung.
I tried using my breast pump, but it was
く
I squeezed my rock–hard breasts. No give, no
bounce, just pure firmness.
I sighed. Other husbands would be all over
this, but David couldn’t even look.
I tasted my milk. A little sweet, a little
metallic, not bad, actually.
Slightly relieved, I scrolled through my phone
and saw the ad.
“Wet Nurse Needed.” Must have ample supply
to satisfy a hungry baby.
$300 per feeding.
Bingo! This was the answer to my prayers.
I called immediately. The client asked me to
come over for a trial run. If the baby ate well,
I was hired.
I got the address and eagerly prepared for my
interview that afternoon. I chose a white
blouse and a wrap skirt.
Thanks to breastfeeding, my breasts were
bigger than ever. The top two buttons of my
blouse wouldn’t close, so I skipped a bra. The
outline was definitely visible.
I looked even sexier than usual. I grabbed my
bag, kissed Leo goodbye, and left him with
my mother–in–law.
1 gave myself a pep talk in the mirror and
headed out, feeling confident.
I found the house easily, took a deep breath,
smoothed my blouse, and rang the doorbell.
Mr. Smith opened the door, his eyes
widening, glued to my chest.
I blushed, tucking a stray hair behind my ear.
“Hi, I’m Sarah Miller. Are you Mr. Smith?”
He blinked, snapping out of it. “Yes! Please,
come in.”
