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Lactogenesis XXVII: The Proposition
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
LACTOGENESIS XXVII: THE PROPOSITION
Candlelight flickered across the white tablecloth, dimly illuminating
two people seated across from one another as they simultaneously drained
their glasses of the last of a bottle of vintage Merlot. The waiter had
just cleared the table, and the couple was waiting for him to bring the
dessert tray. Jeremy's eyes caught the flickering light, glowing in
obvious adoration of his female companion. Christine d
felt herself blush slightly.
"You know," Jeremy said in a voice pitched so that only she could
hear, "We need to do this more often. I keep forgetting how fabulous you
look with your clothes on." Indeed, Chris was dressed to kill, or at the
very least maim. While not being particularly revealing (though some
cleavage was evident), Chris's form-fitting dress was engineered such that
wearing underwear would have ruined its line altogether -- and so she did
not. As Jeremy continued to gaze at her, Chris felt the fabric of her
dress trying to resist the pressure placed on it by her stiffening
nipples. She felt a wave of warmth sweep through her breasts, and she
immediately reined it in. This was a damned expensive dress, and she was
not about to stain it with milk. She had better control than that.
God, she thought. He can make me soaking wet with just a glance.
Shame on me for letting him do that to me. I promised myself I wasn't
going to let my glands -- any of them -- rule this relationship. She
hoped her bright smile disguised her discomfiture.
Since she and Jeremy had started seeing each other seriously, Chris
had noticed a moderate increase in the magnitude of her sex drive. There
was something about Jeremy that made a strong connection with her libido,
making her more sensually aware. Being with him was an aphrodisiac to
her. Her body had responded accordingly. She always had multiple orgasms
with him, often five or more per session. The feverishness with which he
suckled her stimulated her already high milk production to where she could
now put out close to three liters a day if she so desired -- as much as a
well-nourished mother nursing triplets. Her bustline had grown another
inch as a result, to where Chris was now wearing 42DD bras. Despite this
increase, she was able to maintain full mental control over her ability to
lactate. Her alabaster body still looked as if a stasis field enclosed it
so that neither time nor gravity could intrude. She could bring tears to
the eyes of any heterosexual human male, but for some reason Jeremy was
the only one she wanted. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but she
had a hard time envisioning herself being with anyone but him.
For his part, Jeremy was living a fantasy come true. His obsession
with lactating women went back to his fourteenth year, when he lived next
door to a girl who had had a baby at the tender age of 16. He would watch
her through the fence separating their yards as she nursed the child while
rocking in her back porch swing. Once she caught him at it, but rather
than yelling at him or covering herself, she taunted him, flaunting her
naked, dripping breasts, daring him to come over and taste her milk. Her
boldness had shocked him at first, but finally he took her up on her dare,
and from that day on he had been hooked. Now sitting across from him was
a woman who not only was the most incredible, perfect sexual partner he
had ever had, but someone whose gentle ways and fun personality he had a
hard time resisting. Jeremy was falling for Chris, hard.
The way Chris was dressed, Jeremy knew he would be unable to keep her
body off of his mind, so he decided not to fight it and steered the
conversation in an appropriate direction.
"Chris, do you still make donations to the milk bank?"
Chris wasn't surprised at the question; she had grown accustomed to
his obsession and was even occasionally thankful for it. "Oh, yes," she
replied. "Even with as much as you drink, there's still plenty left
over."
"How much do they pay you?"
"Pay me? Nothing. All of the milk at the milk bank is donated."
"Do you have any idea how much they charge women who use the milk?"
"Isn't it a charity deal? Doesn't it go to women who can't nurse and
can't afford formula?"
"Hell, no. These people make a lot of money charging mothers far
more than formula would cost. They gladly pay it because of the benefits
they feel they're providing their babies by feeding them mother's milk
instead."
"How much money?"
"Let's just say you'd be appalled."
"Then these aren't needy people we're talking about, I gather."
"I did some checking," Jeremy said. "Most of the women who buy milk
from this particular bank are wealthy society types who don't want to
'ruin their figures' by breastfeeding their kids themselves but still want
to give them all the benefits of it."
"How do you know this?"
Jeremy smiled. "I know a lot of them," he said. "You meet an awful
lot of people in my business. My clientele is predominantly upper class
folks, yuppies with six- and seven-figure incomes who are beginning to
feel an intense nesting instinct. Seems that a lot of these Type A
career-minded types suddenly get an urge to move out of their condos, buy
a big house and spit out a couple of kids before their biological clocks
run down. Naturally, I do all I can for these people. I charge
exorbitant commissions and I get away with it. In the process, one hears
a lot about how they intend to raise their kids in a healthy environment,
blah, blah, blah."
Chris was clearly upset. "Those sons of bitches," she spat. "They
had me convinced that my donations were going to low-income families in
need, not to cater to the politically correct whims of the rich and
famous. Well, that's the last drop they get from me!"
"What are you going to do with the milk, then?"
Chris was momentarily puzzled. Jeremy's eyes had taken on a
different kind of gleam, one she hadn't seen before. "I don't know, throw
it down the drain, I guess."
"You'd be throwing away a gold mine."
"How so?"
Jeremy straightened up in his chair. He hesitated a few moments, as
if carefully framing what he was about to say. Finally he said, in a
conspiratorial voice, "Promise you'll let me get all the way through this
before you say anything."
Chris's puzzlement doubled, but she said, "I promise." What was he
on about?
"A couple of hundred years ago, it was considered declasse' for a
woman of substance to nurse her own child. It just wasn't done. Many of
those women tried to feed their infants mashed grains and cow's milk, with
fatal results. Those with connections and a great deal of money hired
professional wet nurses, actively lactating members of the working class,
to feed and care for their infants while they were off being seen in all
the right places. Two centuries later, not much has changed. I've
noticed that there's a real market for mother's milk among these ladies
who are too busy with their social calendars to nurse their children
themselves. They pay top dollar. I figure, why should the bank be the
only institution to cash in on this? Chris, with my connections and your
talents, we could make a few extra bucks on the side providing this
service ourselves!"
Chris wasn't at all sure she liked that idea. It sounded like she
would be reduced to little more than a dairy cow, doing nothing but sit
around being milked all day. She told Jeremy her objections.
"I would make sure that the number of people involved wouldn't cause
you to change anything you're already doing. You're already donating --
what'd you say? Two liters or so a day? That's enough to keep about two
babies well fed, more if their mothers supplement with formula. By
offering a few things the milk bank doesn't, like anonymity for example,
we could command a premium. We're not talking quitting your day job here,
but it would mean a couple of hundred dollars a week extra, at the very
least. These ladies can afford it. They'd even prefer it, probably.
This way they'd know all the milk was from a single donor and so was of
consistent quality and was free of the possibility of contamination by
drugs and the like. I'm sure they'd jump at this."
Now Chris was intrigued. She had to admit that making a little extra
pocket money doing something that came naturally, and was something she
got nothing but pleasure out of doing, seemed like a no-lose situation.
"What did you mean, 'at the very least'?"
Jeremy's smile got wider. "In all my dealings with the upper class,
one thing I've noted is that they're all dying to be the first on their
block to do the 'new thing', the more obscure, outrageous, and maybe even
perverse, the better. People with money make up the most unbelievable
things to keep from being bored."
"So?"
"So...again, I've met all kinds in this business. There are people
out there, believe it or not, that have tasted breast milk and consider it
a great delicacy. I know for a fact of some guys who would pay hundreds,
maybe even thousands of dollars, in order to keep a couple of bottles of
mother's milk in their refrigerators at all times. We would cater to
those people as well, and make even more money than we would selling to
upper-class mothers!"
"So I would be some weird kind of prostitute, with you as my pimp?"
"Not at all. You would be a part-time, modern-day, professional wet
nurse, and I would be...gee, I guess I'd have to call myself a lactation
broker. You wouldn't be nursing these men personally, unless of course
you wanted to..."
Chris had to admit that the idea had a perverse kind of thrill to it.
She would finally be using her unique sexual talents to their fullest,
with men who would not only welcome them, but pay handsomely for them. A
far cry from her past experiences with men who considered sampling her
gift of milk as bordering on cannibalism, to be sure. She felt her crotch
dampening and the warm rush of milk into her breasts returning. She was
very close to saying yes to Jeremy's proposition.
Jeremy was still talking, trying to sell the idea. "You would still
have your job at the publishers; in fact, I'd recommend it at least until
we know what the market will be. We could bring Sherri in on this too; I
know she'd go for it. You would do as much or as little as you wanted.
You wouldn't have to meet any of the clients if you didn't want to; I
would handle that end. I'd set up all the clients, keep the books,
etcetera. We can negotiate my share of the profits later." He winked at
that, but backpedaled when he saw Chris scowl. "I wouldn't dare cheat my
sole supplier!" She smiled at that. "It would even be legal."
"Enough, already! You've convinced me it's worth a try. This might
even be fun. But I do still want to keep my job, and as soon as I start
resenting hooking myself up to that pump, I'm out. These little milk
machines are mine, not yours, not 'the company's'. I could have stopped
lactating at any time over these last months, but I have chosen not to
because I love it so much, and love how my life has changed as a result.
As soon as I stop loving it, that's it. The flow stops there. I'm not a
dairy. Do we understand each other?"
"Perfectly, my darling," Jeremy replied. "Just as long as you save
some for me once in a while?"
"No problem there," Chris answered. "In fact, I could use your help
in that department right now. All this stimulating talk has me ready to
burst right here, and I don't want to ruin this dress. Let's skip dessert
-- I'll serve you something nice and warm and sweet back at home."
Jeremy's lust was almost palpable. "You'd better stop talking or I
won't be able to stand up without embarrassing myself." His grin
threatened to split his face from ear to ear.
"Garcon, check please!"
<<to be continued>>
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