In a word, no

The clock is ticking, the vines binding your limbs seem to have lost some of their tremendous grip, and it's now or never. With your best effort, you tug against the leafy restraints, but to no avail. After all, you're a scientist, not a bodybuilder. Not to mention that the forceful breeding process has sapped what meager strength you once possessed. With a groan of pure despair, you hang your head in defeat.

From your new perspective, the change in your appearance is much more obvious, every inch of curvy flesh is now blatantly on display, including a rather enhanced bust. It must have been the pregnancy, shifting your hormones into overdrive. The swollen mounds ache, as if painfully full of something. Realization dawns painfully slow, it's milk.

As if on queue, two new tendrils creep into your line of view, but these seem different than those you've seen before. Slowly, they open out, like the spreading maw of a hungry serpent, it's four segmented mouth parts resembling some tainted flower. They wast no time, latching hungrily onto your stiffened nipples, before beginning a painful suction.

Another low moan tears from your lips, these horrid things are attempting to milk you! Despite your efforts to resist, the starved suckling causes your toes to curl tightly, and the telltale juices of arousal trickle down your thighs. The plants must have sensed it, as before you can even see what's going on, another of those mouthy tendrils has clamped over your drooling slit, eagerly guzzling down the sweet nectar.

It's unbearable, how can something so horrible feel so incredible? Your body writhes in it's restraints, the alien appendages sucking insistently at your sweaty flesh. Finally, you can't hold out any longer, and every nerve tingles with agonizing glee as you surrender, flailing helplessly in the grasp of your new masters.

Involuntarily, a jet of fluid bursts from each of your nipples, beginning a heavy stream down the throats of those strange tendrils. They drink for some time, pumping the thick, rich liquid through your tender nubs, until it feels as though they've drained you completely. At last they seem sated, pulling free of your womanly swells with a lewd pop, before retreating back into the jungle of vines.

With an exhausted sigh, you go limp, trying to recover from your experience, while steeling yourself for whatever will come next.