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Lupita’s breasts oozed milk, drenching two round spots in the front of her thin white cotton blouse, inches in diameter, the wet fabric sheer now and clinging to the nipples and the white purple-veined peaks looking as if she wore nothing at all, as if two large round holes had been cut into the cloth. Her nipples hurt, the pressure inside unendurable. She cupped the two mounds with her hands, but the gentle lifting pressure pushed milk out in a stream, the fluid running down, soaking into the cloth against her skin at her belly. She closed her eyes and muttered an oath. Then, careful not to disturb the burdens again, she touched her palms to the nipples, moving them in a circular motion against the taut flesh, massaging—even that touch made the milk ooze faster, and did nothing to relieve the pain.
Hurriedly she rolled the last of the dough into a ball, placed it in the primitive wooden press and put her weight behind the lever, squashing the dough into a tortilla. She took it out of the press and laid it on the sheet of tin over the coals that served as a stove, then, wiping her hands on her skirt, she pushed back the curtain over the glassless window and peered out.
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.