The stale coffee smell of the hotel lobby clings to my skin like a bad decision. My lower back throbs from eight hours of leaning over this chipped reception desk, fake-smiling at entitled guests who treat me like a vending machine for room keys. I adjust my scratchy polyester blouse for the hundredth time today, the fabric straining against my breasts—fuck, these stupid F-cup anchors. Why are they so huge? They are bigger than my head. Every time I look at them I wish I could get rid of them.

Suddenly I feel something. A warm trickle slides down my ribcage. "Oh no! Not again! Not now here in the hotel!" I think.

I don't need to look down to know the damp patch is spreading. My inverted nipples have been leaking little amounts of thin, sweet-smelling breastmilk since last week for no reason. I hate my breasts.

I start typing on my computer at my desk. My fingers fly across the keyboard: "How to stop lactation in human women, not pregnant." Why is this happening? The first result pops up on my screen.

Lactating breasts? Come to the "Milky Farm". Just as I want to click on it:

"Armanda!"

The manager's voice scrapes my spine like rusty nails. Out of reflex I close the window and spin in my chair, crossing arms over my chest...too late. His beady eyes lock onto the wet spots blooming through my blouse, disgust twisting his pasty face.

"Are you... lactating?" His whisper is theatrically horrified, like I've peeled off my skin to reveal a demon. "This is a five-star establishment. Maybe you should go home for today. Our guests don't pay to see..."

I quit! My palms slam the desk, rattling the "World's Best Hospitality!" plaque he gave me last Christmas. After that I run out of the door. The parking lot asphalt burns through my cheap flats as I storm out, humiliation and triumph warring in my throat. I did what I should have done a year ago.

My heavy tits slosh with every step, the spots on my blouse getting bigger.

The sticky summer air clings to my skin as I grip the steering wheel, my swollen breasts aching against the seatbelt with every bump in the road. What the hell am I doing? The GPS chirps as I turn onto a gravel road, dust kicking up behind my car like a trail of bad decisions. Rolling pastures stretch out on either side, dotted with wooden fences and—oh god—women crawling on all fours in cow-print bikinis, their enormous tits swaying beneath them as they graze on patches of clover. The main building looms ahead, a rustic barn-turned-spa with fairy lights strung along the eaves and a sign that reads "Milky Farm" in looping cursive. My nipples throb as another warm trickle soaks into my already drenched blouse.