priestess milkies

so for a priestess milkies scenario i was thinking of how it could also have to do with the new year. ⛩

shinji’s first year as a priestess had a lot of challenges, but with the help of archer she feels like she’s finally becoming comfortable in her position. the harvest season was particularly hard on her body, but as the autumn progressed into winter, she felt like she had a made a smooth descent back into... relative normalcy. here the new year brought in weeks of celebration and tradition. for as long as she could remember, she had spent these days studying. she’s never really celebrated the new year before. (she’s excited, but she’s also hoping she will have some time to relax with archer as well.)

the commencement ceremony was beautifully decorated and while she was extremely nervous, shinji completed her performance with only a couple of slight missteps. this was her first time being present for the musical performances and countdown  — she didn’t even feel the biting cold, being so elated. is this feeling why she became a priestess? (no, it was because she had no other choice. but it’s never been a regret.) for some reason it felt like it. as if, right then as they lead in prayer high above the crowd, that she feels more connected to the village than she ever has before. the applause; the praise from her public felt like one of the things she had been working all of her life to hear. maybe she really was good at this.

as the villagers begin to depart the front of the shrine to gather at various stands, shinji was just about to ask if she and archer could take a walk around the festival as well when she was approached by the shrine kannushi and elders. there was an embarrassing amount of praise lavished on her, to the point where she looked for archer to try to make an escape. before she could begin to mention taking part in the festivities, one of the elders interrupts her, saying that her quarters have been “prepared”. the group quickly congratulates her again, commending her for taking such wonderful care of the village over the last year. they eagerly express how grateful they are that such a competent priestess will guide them through the next year. another elder suggests that she ought to get going, as “the new year has already started” and chuckling emits from the group with comments that she will be “very busy” and that the year of the ox is “the most important” to the village.

the year... of the ox...

oh.

with a hasty bow she leaves them, her head already full of frantic thoughts. clutching the fabric of her furisode over her heart, she wonders if the tightness she’s feeling is really or just a side-effect of the anxiety she’s experiencing. there are no coherent sentences from her when she reaches archer, already stumbling over worries in the couple of seconds between the two of them. the emotional whiplash of the last few minutes has left her spinning, but realizing that the tightness she felt was getting more real by the second. taking archer’s hand, she starts back to their living quarters. with all of the ceremonial dress she’s wearing though, she isn’t able to walk very fast. but it’s the same ceremonial dress that motivates her to move as quickly as possible.

the door to their room is opened and it’s very obvious that the space has been serviced — there are gifts everywhere, which is typical for a festival or holiday. flowers and fruit baskets; handmade blankets and candles. before she can even begin to think of how beautiful the space looks, she can feel something.

a single snap of thread. then, the strain of another. along the seam under her arm on the furisode. the ceremonial wear for events like this weren’t just ornate — they were historical. panicked, she starts to tug (delicately, but frantically) at the obi. she can feel more threads pop. the pressure in her chest is becoming more obvious, separating itself from the adrenaline and anxiety to become its own problematic force. she quickly asks archer to help, which she should have done earlier — it was kind of a difficult situation to articulate though, wasn’t it? not that archer hadn’t seen his fair share of oddities in just shinji’s lifetime. even with his size, archer’s hands and fingers are dexterous. the fragile pieces of her ceremonial dress are removed and she remains as still as possible, only whimpering a little at she feels several more threads snap at a quicker pace. as archer is finally able to remove the furisode, shinji looks dizzy. archer guides her downward and as she’s seated and she tries to calm herself by breathing deeply — the nagajuban and its sleeves are almost completely separated from each other.

she really thought after all of that she would at least get a few seconds to collect herself.

archer assists her in removing the remaining fabric from her body and it pools on the floor around her. shinji’s clenching her fist above her heart again, feeling both nerves and pressure collect in her chest as she continues to take steady breaths. she had been so happy to finally feel more properly proportioned after the harvest season that she briefly considered crying. more pressing, however, is the fact that her body is reacting differently than it had in the harvest season. this was much faster. she’s watching her chest get bigger — feeling it get heavier and tighter.

it hurts.
a lot.

that must have been obvious at some point because shinji looked up to find archer running a hand over her hair, fingers stopping at the base of one of her ears to slowly rub in a comforting, circular motion. he adjusts his position behind her, calmly offering her some words that would hopefully help her. he’s been with her through things similar to this before. she couldn’t ask for a better companion. if she buries her face into his chest, then she won’t have to look at her own.

he’s right: this is the will of nature.

rather than feel helpless, she ought to just place trust in what is guiding her here. even as she tries to bite back sad, strangled sounds and trembles while her breasts stretch and fill with a surreal heaviness. her spine eventually curves forward to accommodate it. her skin feels impossibly hot as weight continues to collect in her chest and every bit of exposed skin is overwhelming with sensation at once. more than once she feels as if she may lose consciousness. it’s when she’s dizzy and panting that she sees them.

crates and crates of shiny, brand new glass bottles stacked at the door. the year of the ox, huh. she doesn’t realize that she’s laughing until the sound hits her ears — tired and morbid in all of her surprise. so this was her new year’s assignment? instead of watching fireworks or eating a candied mikan, shinji will be milked enough for everyone in the village to have a drink? she doesn’t want to think about what her tits look like right now — she’s refused to look because she can feel how large they are and how heavy they are and she isn’t certain she’ll be able to function if this continues any more. she doesn’t know if she’s crying or sweating. maybe both.

shes’s leaning on archer a lot right now, her legs having fallen asleep underneath her. the small of her back is twinging angrily so she’s elected to put all of the weight of her chest onto him. she’s become so overstimulated though, that she’s whining and apologizing between mumbling nonsense and shivering. it’s a really inconvenient time to feel this aroused, especially when there are more pressing issues to attend to. shinji’s eyes glaze over as she looks up at archer, still unwilling to look down at the state of herself. little electric pulses light up her body and the last coherent thought she has for several minutes is wondering when her body will actually begin to produce milk. she can feel it, sure, but she’s being tortured with stimulation as she conforms to state nature needs her in. she shifts against archer, craving the feeling of his skin on hers while she’s dizzy with overstimulation. she takes a moment to marvel at the amount of punishment her body can handle before she starts to get worried about when the milk will actually. come out. her nipples are her biggest source of sensory overload. swollen and puffy; making her cry out whenever she can feel a surface so much as ghost over them. eventually the milk would come out, right? that’s how it had always worked before.

the pressure slowly lessens from the top of her chest and firmly settles in her nipples, milk beading slowly and stubbornly despite their size. she’s too drunk on stimulation to touch herself and figure out the problem. in the back of her mind she has an idea, but it’s buried too far underneath inarticulate nonsense that it would never be said. there’s no way she could feel more full than this, right? and yet, she tilts forward more as her composure disappears. she’s writhing now; begging archer to help her. she’s always troubling him like this and he never seems to mind it, somehow.