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Lactogenesis 05
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.
Dr. Ellis took a Kleenex, wiped off her chair, muttered something
about how long this was going to take to clean up, sat down, folded her
hands, and looked serious. "We need to discuss how you want to handle
this," she said.
Christine didn't like the tone in her voice, and instantly her brain
kicked into overdrive. She's right, she thought. What am I going to do
about this? Am I going to be making a mess everywhere I go, spewing milk
like a Guernsey cow? What if I'm traveling, or on a date, or in a store,
and I...what was the term Sheila used?..."let down" like that? Am I going
to be engorged all the time? Am I going to have to wear those ugly
nursing bras? Am I always going to be washing milk stains out of my
blouse? What are *guys* going to think about this?
At the same time, another part of her was almost panicked. Ellis is
going to suggest something like surgery again to correct this, or hormone
therapy. She remembered a friend of hers who had undergone hormone
therapy to treat endometriosis. The drugs had completely changed her
personality, transforming her from a pleasant, ordinary type to a weepy,
bitchy bundle of nerves. Chris shuddered at the prospect of becoming like
that. Her body was screwed up enough now; she didn't want Sheila or
anybody else compounding the problem. And did she really want to go back
to her old body? No doubt when the milk dried up, her breasts would
return to their previous 34B, maybe even less. They'd probably droop and
be covered with stretch marks. The calories that were going into making
milk now would redeposit themselves on her hips, and she would once again
be a slave to her Stairmaster. Hospital nurseries needed mother's milk;
perhaps she could donate hers. Lastly, dammit, she realized, she liked
it! *Really* liked it! Since her transformation began, her degree of
sexual fulfillment had been orders of magnitude greater than anything she
had previously experienced -- and she smiled inwardly when she realized
that this was in spite of the fact that she hadn't gotten laid in months.
Her orgasms were more intense, frequent, and yes, even multiple now. She
was beginning to open up to herself sexually, too -- would she have shaved
her pussy on a whim a year ago? She thought not. Being able to give milk
and to squirt at orgasm somehow made her feel like she had attained a new
level of physical and sexual development -- almost as if she had been in
"standby" mode all these years and only now was becoming a fully
functional sexual being. After all, weren't tits *designed* to have milk?
All the gushing, squirting, and spraying was an exquisite form of release
for her -- it felt so much more *thorough* than what she had experienced
before. She also liked her profile in the mirror; she liked the feel of
her big new breasts, new baby-smooth mons, newly talented pussy. She was
sure that most guys would kill for a night with a woman who could do the
things Chris could now do. Besides, hadn't she read somewhere that
lactating tits were less likely to develop breast cancer than the regular
models? The decision was quickly made: Chris would keep lactating as
long as her extraordinary pituitary and mammary glands would let her.
What Sheila said next made Chris wonder if she could read minds. "I
hesitate to recommend
doing anything invasive at this stage," she said. "It's possible that the
pituitary is damaged somehow -- we could do a MRI scan to see for sure --
but surgery in that area is a tricky prospect, and there's a good chance
we could do more harm than good." Sheila paused for a few seconds, then
continued. "Obstetricians have been giving 'dry-up' drugs like
bromocryptine to postpartum women who didn't want to breastfeed for
decades, but some new studies indicate that they can be very harmful, and
the FDA just recently banned their use for that purpose. That leaves us
with a third option of doing nothing. Normally, if a lactating woman does
not drain the milk she produces, the pressure produces a feedback
mechanism that signals the machinery to shut down, and she dries up within
a few days. It's an uncomfortable few days during which there's a lot of
engorgement. Some women even develop a mild fever. We could try that if
you want, but frankly, the way your hormones are raging, I doubt the
feedback mechanism would work. You'd just be miserable. Let me ask you
this: does the prospect of producing a lot of milk for the foreseeable
future bother you?" Chris pretended to mull it over for a while, then
shook her head no. Sheila went on. "In that case, I can put you in touch
with the local milk bank regarding donations if you'd like to do that.
I've already mentioned a breast pump; that will become one of your closest
companions, I'm afraid," she added. Yeah, right up there with my G-spot
vibrator, Chris thought with amusement. "I can also give you the number
of the local La Leche League chapter; they can give you a lot of tips as
to the daily care and feeding -- pardon the pun -- of those lovely breasts
of yours." She handed Chris a slip of paper. "I want to see you
regularly over these next weeks and months. I'll be honest with you. You
would make a terrific research project in lactation without pregnancy.
You are definitely a rare find. Would you consider helping out in that
regard?" Chris was mildly surprised but answered yes. "Great," Sheila
replied happily. "Call me if you have problems, otherwise, I'll see you
in...two weeks," she said, glancing briefly at her calendar. "Goodbye
now." Sheila briskly walked over to a paper towel dispenser, pulled out
several, and began mopping up the puddles of milk Chris had deposited on
her desk.
Chris mumbled some thanks and stood up to leave, somewhat perplexed
by the suddenness of her dismissal. She thought she had seen a twinkle in
Sheila's eye similar to Frankenmuth's when he had witnessed her sexual
uniqueness. For a split second she had imagined that there was more than
just a professional interest there, but evidently she was wrong. Chris
had never been with another woman before, but with everything that had
happened, it seemed nothing was outside the realm of possibility now. She
thought it might be interesting, and Dr. Ellis was actually fairly
attractive. She shook her head slightly as if to drive the thought out.
Boy, do *you* need to get your ashes hauled, she thought.
As she started to walk to the door, she felt a trickle of fluid run
down the inside of both thighs. Her panties were absolutely glued to her.
I guess I must have come after all, she thought. Thank God I wore a
skirt today. She stole a glance at the chair she had been sitting on.
Sure enough, there was a puddle there, too, and it certainly wasn't milk.
As she looked up again, she caught Sheila dipping a finger into some of
the milk on the desk, putting the finger in her mouth, and smiling
blissfully. Just then she caught Chris's eye and turned away as if
embarrassed. Chris smiled and left the office. I am going to have *fun*,
she thought as she approached her car.
<<to be continued>>
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