Page 3 of A Little Spilled Milk

“Evening, Emory. Lost your key?”

I discovered I was standing in front of my door. My head had been full of Vinnie.

“No, Saul. I’m fine, thanks.”

Vinnie and I had never been introduced, but I’d heard Saul talking to him and that was how I’d learned his name. I longed to give him what I had, what I had an overabundance of and what I sold to a long list of needy clients.

An ache in my chest told me the second part of my day was about to begin, and I stepped inside the apartment.

Getting out a meal from the fridge I’d taken from the freezer this morning—I batch-cooked on Sundays so I didn’t have to waste time during the week—I stuck it in the oven and made a salad and dressing.

A wet stain appeared on my shirt because I’d been so distracted thinking of Vinnie, I hadn’t used any pads. Damn, I’d have to pump while I was eating, both for comfort and also because clients would be stopping by later, greedy for their milk supply.

I grabbed my laptop. The computer in my office was for my daytime work, and I preferred to keep both jobs separate. Not that I considered providing milk to Littles who didn't have a Daddy to suckle on a job.

It was a necessity and a calling. It was who I was, and it kept me separate from other Daddies, ones who provided comfort and a home but who had no milk supply of their own.

My mind went to the Littles who were so grateful for my milk. They stood waiting, their bottom lip trembling, hoping my supply hadn’t dried up. Some brought their stuffies with them for comfort. One sucked his thumb. They all needed a Daddy, but none of them were my Little.

That reminded me I had to drink. I couldn’t produce an abundance of milk if I didn’t drink a lot of water and eat nutritious, well-balanced meals. Guzzling water from my gigantic purple water bottle, I made sure not to dribble any on my shirt.

Growing up, my folks had laughed at how I hated mess, refused to wear clothes that had a smudge of dirt on them, made my bed with hospital corners and arranged the books on my shelf in alphabetical order.

But I was preparing for a life divided into two parts. I had to be meticulous in my planning for my outward-facing life and detail-oriented and scrupulously clean when supplying milk. If one of my Little clients got sick, I could be out of business. Still producing copious amounts of milk, but having to toss it down the sink because no one wanted tainted milk.

The oven dinged, and I placed the meal on a cork mat before scooping out a serving and adding salad, drenched in my favorite home-made miso dressing. With the pump attached to my teat, I ate my dinner and reminded myself not to do this in future.

I was kinda rigid about my routine. But as a Daddy, I had to be. I didn’t have a Little right now, but how could I look after a Little if my life and home were in chaos?

There had been no door slamming next door, so Vinnie was still out. Maybe he was on a date. I clenched my fork, my knuckles turning white as I contemplated him coming home with a guy. And not just any guy. A Daddy. While I didn’t know for sure if he was into the lifestyle, I’d scented milk on him in passing. And not the stuff that passed for milk found in the grocery stores that people put on their cereal.

Nope, he scented of some other Daddy’s milk, and I longed to tell him I had what he needed.

After switching the pump to the other side, I stabbed a piece of tomato and shoved it in my mouth. I had to calm down. Any stress would find its way into my milk supply, and my clients would be cranky and spend their nights tossing and turning. They’d spit out their pacis and wake up crying, fumbling for them in the dark.

Slow it down, I told myself. My thoughts, not the milk. That surged out of me.

When I was done, I put the dishes in the dishwasher and cleaned the sink before washing my hands and getting the sterilized mason jars. I filled them and placed them in the fridge.

I pulled up my orders and made sure I could fulfill them. Then I went to my website and clicked on the “No more milk today” button.

The Littles who bought from me usually arrived an hour or so after I’d had my dinner, so I showered. My chest was sticky from the milk leakage, and I tossed my clothes in the washingmachine. I turned down the bed, even putting a chocolate on the pillow, and went into the living room to watch TV.

I couldn’t get into my PJs or wear a robe. No one wanted to buy milk from a guy who looked like he lounged around his house all day and stank of stale milk. Not that I smelled bad.

I flicked through the TV channels, not concentrating and instead checking my phone for updates from my customers. The first would arrive in fifteen minutes, and there was a new client this evening, recommended by one of my regulars. It was always titillating meeting a newbie because there was always a chance that I’d be his Daddy. Though if I wasn’t, I’d experience that familiar disappointment.

But where was Vinnie and why wasn’t he home yet?

I’d never encountered him when I was handing over milk to a client. It had to be dumb luck that he was never around. If he had, maybe he’d become my client and more than that.

After looking at my app, I noted my first customer, Matt, was downstairs, and I got up and grabbed two mason jars from the fridge. He’d better have his cooler this time. A few days ago he’d forgotten it, and I told him no cooler, no milk. I refused to hand any over for it to sit in his car and be ruined while he went out to dinner.

He’d stammered and pushed out his bottom lip. I shouldn’t have gone into Daddy mode. He wasn’t mine, I wasn’t his Daddy, and if that fool wanted to pay for it, only to have to toss it out, that was his problem.

The door buzzed, and I opened it. Matt held up the cooler.

“Well done.”

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