Flashback: What happened at - or rather before - mass.

Mass had gone well. Pastor Nicholas Clarke, barely 35 and only priest of Eliphas Greene Church in the West of Bay Cove for about two weeks now, always gave it his all when preparing, so it was to be expected, really. God helpes those that helped themselves, after all. Now, Pastor Clarke was sitting in the kitchen of the parish house, reading the paper his housekeeper Sarah Wray had brought him as he enjoyed a glass of milk. Smiling to himself, Pastor Clarke barely noticed the faintly salty aftertaste.

Preparations for the next church service were going alright. Pastor Clarke was writing the sermon for next week, flipping through several theological works and of course the Good Book itself, trying to find appropriate verses to what he would be talking about - several members of his congregation had talked to him about strange rumors they had heard. According to some, there were black, eyeless demons stalking the streets, abducting helpless citizens who were then never seen again, others told of peoples' bodies being twisted and transformed into perverted shapes - together with their minds.

Of course, all of these were just baseless rumors; if they weren't, there would obviously be much more of an uproar beyond a few nervous citizens. Nevertheless, Pastor Clarke would do his best to alleviate his parishioner's concerns. Rumors or not, they clearly made the members of his church worry. He was thus searching for parables and verses to reassure them, absentmindedly scratching his chest; somehow, it felt a little sore.

Pastor Clarke hadn't sleept very well. He'd been tossing and turning in his sleep, even kicking off the covers. After awakening covered in sweat, the Pastor obviously had decided to take a shower, the warm water alone already making him feel better as it washed over his skin. It even seemed to make the soreness in his chest go away, replacing it with a faint, but pleasurable tingle. Pastor Clarke clenched his teeth as he felt his shaft begin to swell and decided to cut his shower short; he was clean, and he would not sink so low as to touch himself on a whim.

Toweling himself off, the Pastor took great care not to... excite himself further and was soon ready to continue his preparations for the next mass. Sarah had prepared a light breakfast, the tray holding it set beside the stack of books on Pastor Clarke's desk. A smile appeared on his lips as he rubbed at his left nipple, trying to massage away the soreness; Sarah was always so very reliable. She had been with him ever since he had been ordained, taking care of the house, cooking for him... without her, he would never have been able to focus on his work as much as he did.

Basically, Sarah was like a big sister for Pastor Clarke, even though she was almost 6 years younger than him. Sitting down, the pastor began to eat as he did his research, taking sips of milk every now and then.

Work was going rather badly. The soreness in Pastor Clarke's chest had grown worse, making him wonder if he'd pulled a muscle without realizing. But as he rolled his shoulders, trying to limber up, he felt his thin sweatshirt slide over aching nipples. They felt... swollen? Pulling at the collar of his shirt, Pastor Clarke peered down his front, and in the twilight under his clothes, he saw..."What in...?" Pastor Clarke's feelings had been correct - both of his nipples were swollen, almost erect, twin cones of sore flesh on his chest.

Bringing his free hand to his chest, Pastor Clarke pushed against his left nipple with one finger, seeing it bend under the digit - and a pleasant tingle ran along his spine as a tiny droplet formed at the tip, quickly absorbed by his shirt. The pastor gaped, mind blank as he pressed against his nipple again almost automatically; another tingle, another drop. Pastor Clarke's member pulsed slightly.

"Saraaah?!"

"Okay, I just got off the phone with Doctor Martens, Nicholas." Of course, Pastor Clarke and his housekeeper were on a first name basis. After all, they were as close as to people could be without being married or related. "He said it's perfectly normal for men to lactate - just very, very rare. We do have to take care, though: If we allow the milk to build up, it could lead to health issues."

"Really? I've never heard..."

"Of course! He explained it to me - some men develop milk ducts in the womb due to a hormonal imbalance, and under certain circumstances, they can activate, leading to soreness, swelling and, well, leaking. Now, would you like me to he--"

"No! No, thank you, Sarah." Pastor Clarke went beet-red at the thought of Sarah mil-- no, better not go there. "I'll... I'll be fine, thanks."

It was mortifying enough to produce milk in the first place, but showing his embarassingly swollen nipples to his housekeeper? They weren't that close. Face burning, Pastor Clarke turned back around to his desk and pretended to work. Of course, he could barely focus; he'd never heard of male humans giving milk. But... if the doctor said it wasn't dangerous and that the pastor would only have to let the... build-up out... Which brought a rather important question to mind.

"Sarah? Did he say anything about how long...?"

Sarah had already left the room to take care of other things in the house.

The sermon for next week's mass was coming along terribly, that is to say, not at all. Pastor Clarke had tried to focus, reading scripture and his theological books, but his mind kept straying to what was happening to his chest. The soreness had gotten stronger, the pastor's swollen nipples feeling so tight that he feared they would burst, and even as he took notes with his right hand, Pastor Clarke caught his left straying to his chest again and again, always jerking it away before it touched the throbbing nubs on his chest.

It couldn't last forever, of course, the pastor's willpower. All it took was a momentary lapse, and one finger brushed against a puckered nipple, a squirt of milk seeping into Pastor Clarke's sweatshirt. The tingle running down his spine was much stronger this time, the pastor's member engorging slightly. But even worse - it helped. Even the small amount of milk this small touch had **** out had made the soreness that much more bearable. Pastor Clarke's face grew hot as he realized what he would have to do.

"Sa--..." Turning around, he was about to call for his housekeeper and ask her for a bowl or something to catch his milk, only to realize she already had set down one at the entrance to his office, together with a towel so he could dry himself off once he was done - and a tube of lotion to help with any irritation that might occur.

Good old Sarah...

The pastor's first milking was going well. Too well, if Pastor Clarke was concerned. He'd set up the bowl on his desk, pulled off his sweatshirt and then lightly tugged his swollen nipples. At first, there were only a few droplets of milk forming, but as the pastor rubbed and teased the pulsing nubs, they turned into streams and finally thin arcs of white that hit the bowl with embarassing tinkling sounds. Even more embarassing, though, was how utterly enjoyable it felt; with every tug, every shaky pull, Pastor Clarke found himself growing harder, pants soon feeling so very tight against his member.

It was also rather surprising just how much there was. Of course, the pastor's benchmark for milk he produced was 'none', so the fact that he was even able to fill the bowl half an inch deep was mindboggling to him. Breathing heavily, Pastor Clarke stared at the creamy, white fluid, fingers absentmindedly tugging his swollen nipples. He could feel his shaft twitch in his pants, tingling with every gentle pull on his nips. The milk glands behind them emptied of their burden, they didn't feel sore anymore, just... good.

"Very good, Nicholas!" The pastor jumped as Sarah suddenly appeared next to him - he hadn't even heard her enter. "Do they feel better now?"

"Y-Yes--I mean, Sarah! You..." Mortified, Pastor Clarke covered his throbbing nipples with his palms, wincing at their sensitivity. "You can't just... I-I'm naked!"

"Hm?" Sarah smiled at the pastor as she took the bowl with his milk and began to move towards the exit of his study. "It's not like I haven't seen you topless before. Well, I'll leave you to your work. Later!"

"It's still..." The door closed behind Sarah, leaving Pastor Clarke to stare at it dejectedly. He knew Sarah was only looking out for him, but she could have respected his privacy a little more. Then again, she'd always gone full mother hen whenever the pastor had been sick... "Embarassing."

With his chest thoroughly milked, Pastor Clarke found himself able to work much better. No soreness, no tightness, no throbbing. Even his awfully hard shaft had gone down again, leaving him distraction-free and fully focused. The pastor made good progress with his sermon until it was time for lunch - finishing the sentence he was writing, Pastor Clarke got up and went to the kitchen of the small parish house were he found Sarah had, as usual, set up the food. Today's menu was tagliatelle with cream sauce."Why cream sauce...?" Pastor Clarke winced. His experience in the study had made anything containing milk a touchy subject.

But then again, it smelled divine, and he didn't want to ask Sarah to throw everything out just because of a personal hangup - that would be more than rude, it would be ungrateful. And really, it wasn't like she would have used the pastor's own milk, right?

Sadly, the reprieve Pastor Clarke had been granted was rather short-lived. A few hours into the afternoon, he could already feel himself growing sore again, biting his lip as he tried to fight the need to milk himself. Focusing on the book he was reading, Pastor Clarke gripped the hard cover with both hands, to keep his hands from straying anywhere untoward. He didn't even make it through the remainder of the current chapter before he realized that he had read the last paragraph twice without remembering any of the contents. The incessant itching, this infernal soreness was just so incredibly distracting. And as Pastor Clarke took a shuddering breath, he felt a tiny trickle seep into his sweatshirt, the slight pressure of the fabric already enough to **** out a little milk from his nipples. With a sinking feeling, the pastor put down the book and turned his desk chair around, rising to go fetch a new bowl, only to find that Sarah had set down the old one by the door, cleaned and ready for the Pastor's next milking.