Last night I dreamt of the titty again.
Heaving, luscious pillows they were, limitless mountains I might climb at will. A devilish smile crept upon my face, and for a single fleeting moment, I was happy.
Then I woke from a deep slumber into my dark reality.
My eyelids lifted, my lips parted, and alas, a stark realization of the bleak present: I was awake, all alone, and with nary a single titty at all.

I grew immediately frantic, writhing and moaning in my bed, lest my sudden dissatisfaction remain unheard or, worse, unacknowledged by the lackluster cast of characters who surround me.
My needs were so simple, my wishes so clear. Yet here I was forced to dole out my only true desire once again: ?Titty!? I began to call, and yet I had no words. Instead, I let out a bloodthirsty scream. She lumbers over in the darkness, the woman who guards the titties, casts her tired eyes upon me. “Oh dear!” she says, mocking sympathy. “What’s wrong with baby"” She knows, and she knows I know she knows. Feigned ignorance demeans us both.
?Titty!? I cry again upon deaf ears. Titties and nothing else, you fool! It has been two hours almost, the milk-less seconds ticking by, practically a lifetime of starvation. ?Titty now!!!!!? I wail in desperation.
The woman fumbles in the darkness and in her hand appears a strange contraption, a titty-shaped torture device. “Where’s your binky"” she asks, so-called binky clear...