Xmas Production Mode 2 (Patreon)

Support Tier Exclusive | Christmas Special🎄

A few days after Christmas, Barry’s apartment no longer looked like an apartment—it was closer to a facility. The tree was still in the corner, with the lights blinking stubbornly, refusing to follow the new vibe. Everything else looked chaotic at first glance, but made sense the longer you stood there.

Folding tables lined the walls in rows, each fulfilling a job. Boxes stacked in neat columns, labeled and color-coded, spaced just wide enough for Barry to move through without clipping an elbow or a hip. Cooling racks filled every open stretch of counter space, layered and crowded, but arranged so air could still circulate. It smelled like warm sugar and spice mixed with cardboard and clean plastic—sweet, busy, and faintly industrial, like a bakery that had learned to live inside an apartment.

Barry stood in the middle of it all, carefully shifting his weight so he wouldn’t knock into anything. He had gotten bigger over the days—much bigger.

His body was still solid and muscular, but his chest had gone far beyond anything he’d dealt with before, past the point where comparisons even helped. Each tit was enormous now, larger than a beach ball and still growing, round and swollen until they looked almost overfilled. They were packed too tightly for their assigned space. The skin stretched smooth and glossy, reflecting light in a way that made the tension impossible to miss, with faint veins standing out beneath the surface, branching wider and darker than before as they fed the demand inside.

His nipples had thickened to ridiculous proportions, set in darkened areolas that had spread outward with the strain, every detail exaggerated by the immense volume his chest held. His tits carried so much weight that his posture had shifted without him noticing; his shoulders rolled back, lifting his chest to keep everything balanced, like his body had rebuilt itself around the heavy load at the front.

Every movement made them sway. Every breath made the pressure shift. And the milk production hadn’t slowed down. If anything, it had doubled down.

The orders kept coming even though Christmas was over; instead, they were getting bigger. People were hosting New Year’s parties and wanted something special on the table. Offices were ordering for staff, sometimes in absurd quantities, adding notes like “everyone keeps talking about this” or “we had it once, and now we need it again.”

Word had spread far enough that Barry’s name was starting to mean something. Reviews piled up fast—five stars, glowing comments, people raving about how rich the eggnog was and how the cookies somehow stayed perfect even days later. A few messages were less polite and more desperate, asking if he could squeeze in one more order. Cookies and eggnog weren’t just seasonal treats anymore; apparently, people weren’t ready to let go.

He checked his phone and let out a low whistle.

“Okay. That’s a lot,” he whispered, checking a new order. “But let’s make it happen.”

The system he’d set up ran smoothly. Every couple of hours, a delivery guy stopped by, never stepping inside. Barry left bags and boxes outside the door, each one labeled clearly with addresses and pickup times. The guy loaded them, left a receipt, and vanished again. It was efficient and clean, and didn’t require awkward explanations.

What wasn’t clean was the scale of production.

Barry had invested in a large pump two days earlier, and now he couldn’t imagine functioning without it. Thick straps crossed his torso, locking the whole thing in place and anchoring the wide cups securely over his chest. Each cup sealed around his nipples with a firm pull, gripping tight enough that he could feel the pressure shift the moment the machine kicked on. Clear tubing ran downward from each side, trembling faintly as it carried an unstoppable flow into large containers that filled far faster than anything he’d ever used before.

The pump ran almost constantly. It worked on a steady pull-and-release rhythm that never stopped. Every cycle drew more milk out of Barry, and his tits responded immediately, staying swollen and taut no matter how much volume the milking took away. The sound of liquid rushing through the tubing had become part of the apartment’s normal noise, right alongside timers and ovens.

The milking wasn’t optional anymore. Stopping the pumps for more than a few minutes made the pressure climb too fast as the fullness rebuilt with almost alarming speed. When a container filled—and that happened often—Barry shut the machine off only long enough to unclip it, swap in an empty one, and brace himself. The pause was barely enough to catch his breath before he powered it back on, and the suction returned with an almost relieving force as the flow surged through the tubing again.

Three gallons an hour. That was yesterday’s estimated production. Today, it was already edging higher as the pressure inside increased, and Barry’s tits expanded.

Moving around the apartment took real effort now, not only because of the clutter but also because of him. He had to turn sideways through doorframes, with one hand out to steady himself and the other instinctively guarding his tits as they shifted with every step. Leaning forward to check the oven or reach a counter meant bracing against a table first, letting the edge take some of the weight.

Bottling was worse—bending, lifting, reaching—he had to plan each motion so he wouldn’t knock a container over or send a rack rattling. Packing boxes meant standing still for too long, and the pressure built until he had to stop, breathe, and reset his stance. His tits swayed when he moved, tugging at his balance, forcing him to work slower and smarter. They dictated how he cooked, bottled, boxed, and navigated the space. It was a constant reminder that every part of this operation literally depended on him holding it together.

By late afternoon, Barry finally admitted what he’d been avoiding. He needed help. He messaged two friends, briefly and vaguely, and didn’t bother explaining much. When the knock came an hour later, he opened the door carefully.

Nate and Lucas stared at him in shock.

“Damn—” Nate shouted a bit too loudly.

“Barry?” Lucas asked in disbelief.

His friends stood frozen in the hallway. They looked past Barry, scanning the factory that his apartment had become. Then back at Barry—at his immense tits. Then down at the pump, how milk filled them at an alarming speed.

“Dude,” Nate finally said. “You weren’t kidding when you said you needed some help.”

Barry snorted. “It’s not as bad as it seems.”

Lucas stepped closer, wide-eyed, hypnotized by Barry’s tits. He looked at the cups, tugging at the nipples, the tubing, the containers, and the milk flowing through them. His mouth was open, as if trying to convince himself it was all real. “That’s all you?”

“Unfortunately,” Barry said playfully. “And also very fortunately.”

Nate reached out, patting one massive tit lightly—and immediately pulled his hand back when it shifted under the touch, dense and heavy, and the sound of liquid sloshing inside became too loud. “Okay. Nope. That’s impressive and slightly terrifying.”

Barry laughed and placed his hands at the sides of his chest, squeezing them together, and the flow of milk thickened. “You get used to it.”

Once the initial shock wore off, Barry explained the whole operation and asked his friends if they would like to be part of it. Both guys only asked for free, unlimited samples of Barry’s products, and sealed the deal. Nate took over baking and cooking, efficiently moving trays in and out of the oven and following Barry’s recipe. Lucas handled bottling and boxing, labeling containers, and stacking them by the door while also helping Nate with the eggnog.

Barry, officially, was reassigned.

He lowered himself onto the couch, easing back inch by inch until the cushions finally took some of the load. The pump kept running, and as soon as he settled, he brought his hands up automatically, spreading them wide over his tits to support the weight. He pressed firmly, kneading in slow motions, trying to redistribute the pressure and buy himself a little relief. The mass under his hands was taut enough that it barely gave, and the sensation pulled a low groan from his throat. He adjusted his grip, slightly digging his thumbs in, bracing his fingers along the sides, and working on the heavy load that wouldn’t settle.

However, the contact triggered a response.

The pressure intensified all at once, and heat spread across his body. His tits began to swell visibly, not slowly this time but with alarming speed. The skin tightened further by the second. The glossy stretch deepened, and veins stood out as Barry gasped in surprise.

“Whoa—wait,” he said, instinctively digging his fingers in as if he could hold the growth back. “Ugh… I’m getting so full.”

The containers attached to the pump began filling faster, and the steady rush of milk turned louder and more urgent. The tubing trembled under the increased flow, and Lucas looked over in visible shock.

“Uh—Barry?” Lucas said. “Is that normal?”

Barry swallowed hard, and his chest heaved as he felt the pressure climb higher than it ever had before. For a brief second, there was real fear there—his pecs felt too tight, too overfilled, and the stretch was intense enough that his skin prickled. Then the sensation tipped over into something he could manage, something he could ride out.

“Okay—No,” he breathed out as the surge peaked. “This is new.”

His tits kept expanding until they rested on his abdomen and then settled heavily onto his lap as their own weight forced them downward. The pump struggled to keep up now, the tubing flexing and bowing as milk flooded through faster than the machine could handle. The milk filled the containers at a pace that made both of his friends stare in stunned silence.

“Fuck.” Nate stared. “This is unreal.”

Barry grinned through it, breathless but clearly delighted. “If I find a market for all this cream,” he said, strained but playful, “I’ll be rich in a few months.”

Lucas laughed, already swapping containers again. “Dude! We’re gonna need a whole dairy factory if you get any bigger.”

“Forget the apartment. This whole thing needs zoning approval,” Nate added.

Barry laughed with them as the operation continued around him. His tits were truly unreal, each swollen to the size of an overinflated yoga ball, round and impossibly taut. The glossy skin pulled tight to the point where it barely looked flexible anymore. His nipples were immense now, stretched forward by the relentless pull as milk poured out in what felt less like a flow and more like a cascade, filling the bottles so fast that they had to swap them almost as soon as they were connected.

Barry leaned back into the couch, bracing the sides of his chest with both hands, spreading his fingers wide to steady its mass. He let out a long breath, relaxing his shoulders despite the intensity of it all, and a crooked grin crossed his face as his tits filled another set of containers within seconds.

“Alright,” he said calmly as the machine struggled to keep up. “Looks like I’m ready to keep up with the demand now. But I need a new milking machine.”

The pump kept working. The oven timers chimed again, and boxes stacked higher by the door. Barry’s body would not slow down. If anything, it answered the challenge by producing more with each passing second, adapting as if it had decided this was its new purpose.

Barry realized that nothing in his body was resisting anymore.

THE END

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PS: A continuation to a plot submitted by a Support-tier member as part of the tier's benefits.