Kafka leaned back as he watched the three women—Abigaille, Camila, and Nina—sucking their own breasts in a trembling, milk-drenched frenzy. Milk streamed from their lips, streaking their chins and dripping down their quivering bodies, pooling on the floor in a slick, creamy mess.
But then, his brow furrowed suddenly, a flicker of realization cutting through his lust as he sat up straighter, milk dripping from his jaw. He swiped a hand across his chin, smearing milk across his knuckles, and fixed his gaze on them.
"This won't do." He suddenly said, eyes raking over their flushed, quivering forms. "If I just drink it all myself, I'll use up the whole supply and there'll be nothing left to sell."
