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Lactogenesis XLVII: The Road to Negril (mf)
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.
Subject: LACTOGENESIS XLVII: The Road to Negril {mfmf, milk, mast}
Reply-To: [email protected] (TrekFiend)
Date: Wed Jun 28 01:13:28 1995
LACTOGENESIS XLVII: THE ROAD TO NEGRIL
Christine, carry-on in hand, came down the gangplank of the Carib
Mermaid, blinking against the brutal Jamaican sun despite a pair of dark
sunglasses. She was grateful for the cruise director's advice concerning
the application of sunscreen; she was sure that without it she would fry
in minutes. Even with the blast-furnace heat, the bright day and sweet
air were refreshing and stimulating. As her feet touched the ground, she
realized that she was standing on soil that was not part of the United
States for the first time in her life. She felt a thrill. Chris could
hardly wait to start the next phase of her vacation.
Clearing customs did not take as long as she had anticipated, but
she did wish the customs area had made better use of fans. If this heat
keeps up, I'll have to consume my weight in pina coladas to keep cool, she
thought. She was just beginning to wonder what had happened to the rest
of her luggage when she happened to spot it at the curb, being loaded into
a large van with the name of her resort emblazoned across the side. She
also saw three people, two men and a woman, waiting to climb aboard.
Chris recognized them as being fellow travellers aboard the Mermaid,
although she had not formally met any of them.
The fellow driving the van was a local, a man well-versed in the
art of welcoming tourists. He immediately put his passengers at ease,
joking with them and giving them the nickel tour as he spirited them off
to the west, away from Montego Bay, counterclockwise around the coastline
toward Negril. Chris couldn't get over how lush everything was. She had
no idea that there could be this many shades of green. As they sped along
the main highway, frequently passing run-down buses crammed with people
and sloshing cans of spare petrol, Chris wished the driver would slow down
so that she could better take in the scenery.
The driver was busy admiring the view as well, but his was from
the rear view mirror tilted down in Chris's direction. At that moment the
van struck a large pothole, almost throwing all four passengers out of
their seats. Chris's large unsupported breasts bounced sharply and
heavily inside her tank top, reminding her of how full they were after
having converted many of the calories she'd consumed in her last,
undeniably decadent breakfast aboard ship into mother's milk. The ache
from the jolt partially disguised the beginning tingles of a let-down
enough so that Chris could not prevent the leakage of a few drops of milk
from her suddenly erect nipples before recognizing what was happening and
mentally shutting down the process. She stole a glance down at herself;
sure enough, wet spots had appeared on the rose-colored fabric. Chris
hoped that they weren't noticeable.
But they were. As Chris returned to the window, she suddenly felt
eyes on her. She looked back to find the two passengers sitting across
from her doing that trying-not-to-stare-but-can't-help-themselves look.
The woman appeared especially shocked, and was not hiding it very well.
She was a rather plain-looking brunette with an unremarkable figure and a
poor fashion sense. Chris had a feeling that this woman was probably not
going to find what she was looking for on this trip. The man in a straw
hat sitting next to her was her male equivalent to such an extent that
Chris figured they were brother and sister. Teaming up on the great
adventure, eh? Chris thought. He was openly staring at her. Chris
covered her protruding nipples with her forearm in a practiced gesture,
but this only succeeded in pushing the luscious roundness of her breasts
up above the neckline of her top, widening the nerdy little guy's eyes
even further.
Chris was embarrassed, and she hated being embarrassed. She was
proud of her body; it was her most prized possession, and she resented
anyone who made her feel otherwise. "Something I can help you with?"
Chris said with sufficient acid in her voice to startle "Frick" and
"Frack" (as Chris had mentally named the brother and sister) into averting
their stares to the passing scenery.
"Forgive us," came a voice from the fourth passenger, a fortyish
man with leathery skin and graying temples -- not extremely handsome, but
certainly passable. French Canadian, by his accent. "I am sure none of
us are accustomed to such sights."
Chris managed a thin smile. "I assume you mean the scenery."
"Scenery, yes. Of course." He smiled back, then glanced at
Chris's arm nestled deep within the twin wonders of her breasts. "Are you
in any discomfort? Shall I ask the driver to stop?"
"No, I'm fine, thank you. I apologize if I shocked you. It's
been a while since I last..." -- she paused to find an appropriate way to
phrase it -- "...took care of this."
"Shocked? By no means. I find it quite...intriguing, no? But I
embarrass you. Let us speak no more about it, eh?"
I'm filing this guy for future reference, thought Chris. Polite,
galant, and not altogether bad looking. And he's "intrigued" by breast
milk...
Suddenly Chris was seized by an urge to use this opportunity to
make "Frick" and "Frack" very uncomfortable. She allowed her arm to drop
into her lap and even allowed a bit more milk to leak from her breasts and
slightly widen the spots on her tank top.
"No, I don't mind talking about it," Chris said. "In fact, I
rather enjoy it. But, if you'd rather not..." She was talking to the
Canadian, but her eyes were fixed on the brother and sister, who were
staring out the window at nothing at all, trying to become invisible.
"Not at all. I just did not wish to seem rude. I am a bit
confused, though. I don't see a baby with you."
"My daughter is with her father in Europe," Chris lied. Hell, she
thought. I can be anybody I want to here. "I breastfed her until she was
four. I enjoyed lactating so much that I decided to keep my milk after I
weaned her. I've been publicly campaigning for the cause of breastfeeding
ever since. Breast is best, you know. Anyway, that was two years ago."
She glanced at the two across from her. "Frack", the sister, was now
doing nothing with her facial expressions to hide her distaste.
"Forgive me again, but you do not appear to be old enough to have
a six-year-old daughter."
"You're sweet, Monsieur.."
"Please, call me Jean-Claude." The Canadian extended a slender
hand.
Chris swiveled in her seat to face the Canadian, took his hand,
pressed her shoulders back slightly, and let her nipples come to full
erection, pulling the fabric of her top with them. She wanted to tease
these people until they begged for mercy. God, this was fun!
"So you enjoy having milk, eh?" Jean-Claude continued.
"My, you *are* intrigued, aren't you. Yes, I enjoy it very much.
There's no feeling quite like it. I like what it's done for my figure,
and I love how it makes me more aware of my own body. It's very sensual,
very earthy. It makes me sort of special, as my lovers would be the first
to say." She smiled inwardly as a snort of disgust came from the
direction of "Frack".
Jean-Claude cricked an eyebrow. The beginnings of an erection
were becoming visible in his khakis. "I remember when my ex-wife nursed
our son. She dried up as soon as she stopped. How is it you are able to
keep -- what was the word you used? lactating? -- for so long afterward?"
"Oh, you have to keep things stimulated," said Chris. Unless you
get your pituitary scrambled by a speeding car, she added silently. "My
lovers do a lot in that department. Also, I belong to a sort of club with
other women like myself. We keep each other's milk flowing as well."
Strange that this last part, the most outrageous of this story, is the
truest part, she thought. For a second she wondered what the other
members of the Lac-Station were doing, then immediately put the thought
out of her mind. No thinking about work! she scolded herself. She looked
again at "Frick" and "Frack" and almost started laughing. Frick's fixed
stare out the window was beginning to glaze over. He had removed his
straw hat and placed it in his lap, where he had one hand in a shorts
pocket playing a rousing game of pocket pool. "Frack" was practically
squirming in her seat.
Jean-Claude's eyebrow seemed permanently stuck in the "up"
position. "Even more intriguing. Isn't it a lot of bother, though? My
ex-wife always complained about being uncomfortable, having to wear pads,
leaking at bad times..." He was placing an inordinate amount of emphasis
on the syllable "ex". Was he getting interested?
"Yes, there are those things," said Chris. "Like what just
happened, for instance. But the pleasure far outweighs the
disadvantages." She leaned forward, which deepened her cleavage and
accentuated the wetness of her top. Was Jean-Claude beginning to
perspire, even in this air-conditioned van? "The men I've been with say
there's nothing to compare with making love to a lactating woman. It
makes for some, shall we say, interesting variations."
"I can only imagine," replied Jean-Claude, as he wiped absently at
his upper lip. "I have never had the privilege, myself. My ex-wife never
let me come near her when she was nursing."
Chris sat back in her seat and made a show of plucking the damp
cloth of her tank top away from her skin to help dry it. Poor
Jean-Claude, she thought. I'm doing this to get at "Frick" and "Frack"
over there, and you're getting caught in the crossfire. I may need to
reward you for playing your part so well. She smiled seductively. "A
pity. Well, you might still have a chance, some day. You can never tell
what fate may have in store." She allowed more milk to leak out, and the
circles grew. "Oh, dear," she said with mock surprise. "We should stop
talking about this. It's making things worse. Sometimes just thinking
about my breasts is enough to bring on quite a downpour..."
"All right, that's enough!" blurted "Frack". "Don't you have any
shame whatsoever? My word, the nerve you have! That's...that's
*disgusting*! And you're upsetting my brother!" She looked nervously at
"Frick". She obviously could not tell that he was in the middle of an
orgasm he was not doing well concealing. He grimaced rhythmically, his
straw hat bouncing happily in his lap.
"Forgive me a third time, but it appears he is not at all very
upset, unless it is about the condition of his underwear," Jean-Claude
said with a comical grin that was intended to match the silly one that was
slowly spreading across "Frick"'s face. Chris laughed heartily, letting
her milky jugs jiggle invitingly. She stifled it down to a chuckle after
an angry growl and a withering glare from "Frack".
There was no more verbal conversation in the van for the rest of
the trip to the resort, but enough body language was used by Chris and
Jean-Claude during that time to fill volumes.
<<to be continued>>
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