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Lactogenesis 06
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.
Christine came through the doorway of her apartment, loaded down with
grocery bags. She went straight to the refrigerator, opened the freezer
compartment, and began loading pints of Ben & Jerry's into it. Four
different flavors this time. Blast those guys for inventing this
stuff, she thought. It's more addictive than cocaine. She smiled as she
remembered all the hours she had had to spend on the Stairmaster as a
result of her addiction. She still used the machine fairly often; she
still enjoyed the endorphin rush from it, but at least now she didn't
*have* to use it. One of the fringe benefits of her new ability to
lactate was that she could easily turn all those sinful calories back into
milk instead of wearing them as fat. In fact, Dr. Sheila had recommended
that she increase her calorie intake substantially to compensate for the
increased activity of her mammary glands.
In the weeks since the day when Chris accidentally soaked down the
desk in Sheila's office with her first blasts of milk, that activity had
increased considerably. She had found out early that the more often her
breasts were drained, the more milk she produced. She had had to graduate
from the small battery-powered breast pump she had bought at the drug
store that first day to a plug-in model that could do both breasts at once
that she rented from a medical supply house. The local milk bank had a
standing order with her; she had become their most prolific donor. On a
good day she could deliver close to two liters of fresh milk to them on
her way to work each morning.
She didn't mind the work involved in expressing all this milk; in
fact, the breast pump had replaced the vibrator as her main source of
masturbatory assistance. She couldn't get enough of the rhythmic pulsing
of the suck-release-suck-release cycle of the big pump, and the wonderful,
warm, tingling sensation of the milk letting down would always set up a
similar feeling in her crotch. She was grateful that her nipples had not
become tender and sore as a result of all the
stimulation. On the contrary, they had become her primary erogenous
zones, sending electric shock-like sensations through her even in such
non-erotic situations as being in the frozen food section of the grocery
store and having the cold air from the freezers bring on the inevitable
response from "nature's thermometers". She was coming so much these days
from the thrice-daily act of relieving the pressure behind her nipples
that she had taken to wearing maxi-pads most of the time to soak up the
gush of fluid that accompanied each orgasm. She had little other use for
them, as she had stopped menstruating -- Sheila had told her that was not
unusual in an actively lactating woman. Between her breasts and her
vagina, Christine amusedly likened herself to the goddess statues on the
big fountain in the park, who constantly spewed water from practically
every orifice.
Now that having milk had become such a big part of her life, Chris
decided to become an expert on the subject. In these last weeks, she had
spent a lot of time in the local college's medical library, reading every
treatise on lactation she could lay her hands on. She found
out about the close relationship between milk production and emotional
state: women who had a positive attitude about lactation produced more
milk. No problem there, Chris thought. It's getting so I can't remember
what my body was like before the accident. Conversely, she read that the
flow of milk can be stopped completely by relatively simple distractions.
Mind over matter, she thought, and was intrigued. Armed with this new
information and some stress control exercises she remembered from the
treatment she'd received for a bout of depression some years before, Chris
embarked on a program whereby she was eventually able to completely
control her milk production by force of will. By clearing her mind and
concentrating on her wondrous mammaries, Chris was able to summon up that
familiar pleasant burning sensation that always signaled letdown at a
moment's notice. Without even touching herself, she could, if she so
desired, shoot her milk several feet. On the same hand, if she knew she
was going to be in a situation in which she could not easily drain
herself, she could consciously halt her milk production at a state of
pleasant fullness until such time as she could be alone. Sheila had
called it the most remarkable case of conscious control she had ever seen.
Contrary to what Chris had read, occasionally halting the flow of milk
from her breasts did not cause a diminution of the supply. She had even
taken to occasionally sampling some of her own milk and had found it sweet
and really quite tasty, without worrying about depriving the orphans for
whom her donations to the milk bank were intended.
Chris had, in short, become master over this wonderful new ability of
hers. Gone were the painful episodes of engorgement when she felt her
breasts might explode from the pressure. Gone were the hideously ugly
maternity bras stuffed with always-wet nursing pads. She was able to wear
sexy lingerie again (and now that her bust had leveled off at 40DD, she
looked absolutely devastating in it) and with the extra firmness imparted
to her breasts, she often went without any underwear with no fear of a
sudden letdown causing embarrassing circles of moisture to form on her
blouses. Despite their enormous size, Chris's breasts stuck almost
straight out from her chest, resisting gravity in a most aesthetic way.
Sheila had said that somehow the supporting ligaments and musculature had
proliferated right along with the extra glandular tissue -- another side
effect of the hormonal treasure trove caused by the head injury. The
hormones had also imparted a new lustre and smoothness to her skin, and
with the veins barely visible under the taut skin of her bosom, Chris now
looked almost as if she had been carved from fine Italian marble.
Chris was a very lucky woman. Instead of her run-in with a reckless
driver rendering her a twisted lump of broken flesh, it had sculpted her
into a heartbreakingly beautiful definition of pulchritude. So why hadn't
she had so much as a date, let alone a sexual liaison, since the accident?
Surely the guys at work had noticed the change in her figure. She'd
gained six inches along her bustline; such a thing does not go unnoticed!
She'd felt the eyes on her in
stores, on the street...was it that her incredible new figure was actually
intimidating men? Did they think she had been artificially enhanced?
What was the deal here?
Chris was thinking just such thoughts as she sat alone at her kitchen
table, with an open pint of Cherry Garcia in front of her, when she heard
her doorbell ring.
<<to be continued>>
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