Offer to do the laundry

"I usually do the laundry around my house," you say. "I haven't ruined any shirts yet."

Mrs. Cleft smiles warmly.

"Alright, sweetie," she finishes her orange juice and you follow suit. "The laundry room is downstairs in the basement."

You follow her down a simple wooden staircase. Most of the basement is finished to look like a suburban tavern, with a small wet bar and a pool table, a TV and leather couches. Just to the right of the staircase is a door that leads to an unfinished area of the basement that houses the washer and dryer.

"Welcome to my dungeon," Mrs. Cleft jokes. "There are four hampers there. One for each of us. If you can clean and fold and sort I will pay you well."

"No problem, Mrs. Cleft."

"Have fun, Joy," she pats your shoulder. "If you need anything, just yell upstairs."

She heads upstairs, leaving you to the four hampers.

It's boring work. You start with Thomas, Mrs. Cleft husband. He wears a lot of polo shirts and boxer-briefs. The only really notable item is a pair of tiger-print thong underwear. You giggle and add that to the load of laundry.

Once his is done you move on to Melanie's laundry, Mrs. Cleft's daughter. Lots of high school uniforms and white cotton panties. You never really liked Melanie much, she always seemed pretty stuck up, but the raciest item in her hamper are a couple of thongs. You note, with satisfaction, that she only sports a C-cup, although she does a pretty good job of showing it off from what you have seen.

Thomas Jr.'s laundry is a little saucier. More school uniforms and shirts and jeans, but a fair number of his pairs of tighty-whitey underwear seem to have some crust around the front. The boy has been jacking off in his underpants. You giggle at that and throw them in for another load.

More than an hour has gone by, with all the folding and ironing and sorting, when you reach Mrs. Cleft's hamper. You pull out one of her huge bras and are impressed, but not surprised, to see that she has a double D cup. You're about to start throwing her stuff in the washing machine when you notice an unusual aroma. It's a little sour, but not just a dirty laundry smell.

You lower your nose to the bra and you realize, with a thrill, that it's the smell of sour milk! Mrs. Cleft is still lactating and her kids are your age!

You smell it again just to be sure and as you press the large cup of her bra to your nose you are startled to hear someone clear their throat. Caught sniffing Mrs. Cleft's bra!

Who is it? Are they mad or...?