Leave it as “I am a ma.”

You sigh in defeat. Hoisted on your own petards. You look down at your body as your bra changes in design, your rounded breasts swelling, your nipples becoming suddenly much more sensitive. But the bra... it’s odd. Your frown deepens as you realise your bra is wet at the nipples. “What the... oh god. A maternity bra?” Then you hear a baby crying. The cries are disturbing. Insistent.

You glance around the room. It’s changed. But the cries are stronger. You head out, down a corridor into a room decorated for a baby. You approach the cot and see the child within. Maternal instincts take hold and in a few fumbling uncertain movements you have your nipple free, baby in your arms, sitting on a recliner, mouth pressed to your milk swollen breast. You sigh in contentment as the baby suckles. It’s pleasant. Blissful.

You stare at the barcode on your breast. Property. A breeder evidently... why did you think that. Because you are a mother. A baby making woman. Girl actually. Your breasts are heavy and huge. Once the child is sated the other aches and you realise you should have fed from both sides. The other still hurts pleasantly and you realise you’ll need to express. You return your child to the cot then look around. A breast pump sits nearby and you quickly attach the suction device to the aching nipple and sit back as the machine hums. You sigh in relief.