George squirmed in his tuxedo, glancing at his wristwatch. They were meant to be at the opera twenty minutes ago. "Look, clearly there's been a miscommunication. We thought we were hiring a wet nurse for the evening, you understand? A nanny."<br /><br /> &nbsp; &nbsp;Hands on hips, Peter scowled. "And men can't be nurses? Is that what you're saying? Or are two litres of fresh cow milk not wet enough for you?" he huffed indignantly, lifting and bouncing his sloshing breasts for emphasis. "Look, pal, you paid me to bring the juice. I'm here. I delivered. What you do with it is your own business."<br /><br /> "We don't want it!" George bellowed. "What are you, some sort of stripper? You think we'd be caught dead drinking a drop from your body? Disgusting! So you can take your filthy... filthy udders and get out of my house."<br /><br /> Peter drew himself up indignantly. As a milkmaid for hire, he took great pride in his cleanliness, both in his own lifestyle habits and in the fastidious way he rinsed his internal chest sacks before and after each job. It had taken him hours of preparation for this job, heating the milk to just below boiling to ensure sterility, then waiting for it to cool to body temperature so that he could pump it along the hidden valves in his armpits, along the buried tubing to his plastic breast sacks. It was why he preferred dispensing alcohol - it sterilised itself.<br /><br /> But, whether he was squirting warm lager into the mouth of a drunk soon-to-be-wed at a bachelor party or making it rain chocolate milk and champagne over a hen party, his clients could drink safe in the knowledge that his nipples were FDA certified.<br /><br /> "Sir, I am not a stripper. I am a performer-who-disrobes. I have standards," Peter retorted. "I was paid to do a job. Now this liquid is coming out of me one way or another and, unfortunately, the valves only flow one way."<br /><br /> George's wife, dressed in an elegant gown, stepped into the kitchen. He could feel her glare burning into his back. It was the first night they'd had to themselves since the birth, and she'd entrusted the childcare to him. He'd searched online. Finding a site called Pair Rent, he'd taken it for an Au Pair agency and, finding a variety of women advertising their 'mommy milkers', had misjudged the services as hired wet nurses.<br /><br /> "I've called the agency. They're sending round an actual babysitter," said his wife acidly. "Just get rid of this creep and we might make the second act. Assuming you can at least arrange that."<br /><br /> Anger flashed across the milkmaid's face at being labelled a 'creep'. The man widened his stance, clearly not intending to go anywhere. George saw a vindictive gleam in his eye.<br /><br /> "I'll pay you double," George pleaded. "Whatever it takes, if you'll just leave."<br /><br /> Simon reaches up with the practiced flourish of an exotic dancer, tugging the velcro strap that held the latex costume together. His milk-engorged breasts tumbled free. "Like I said, I'm here to do a job. And I'm not leaving until I'm empty. Now open your mouth."