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Lactogenesis 10
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 stood in the hallway outside Sherri's apartment. She rang
the doorbell, then checked her watch. 9:07 pm. She glanced down at
herself to take final stock of her appearance. She and Sherri were going
to a nightclub to drink and talk; she wasn't in the mood for cruising the
place for cute guys. She was dressed accordingly: an understated outfit,
characterized by loose-fitting fabric that de-emphasized her figure. She
didn't want some drunk asshole slobbering all over her chest tonight.
God, she thought, I feel like I'm going on a blind date or something.
Relax! It's only Sherri; this is only going to be a couple of girls out
on the town. She reconsidered. It was never again going to be "only
Sherri", not after what had happened in Chris's apartment earlier that
day.
The door opened to reveal Sherri brushing her hair. Chris's eyebrows
arched when she saw what Sherri was wearing. The phrase "hunting outfit"
came to mind: high heels, sprayed-on slacks, a form-fitting short-sleeved
striped top cut to reveal roughly a mile and a half of cleavage, lots of
jewelry, and just slightly exaggerated makeup. The two of them looked for
all the world like a librarian and a hooker going out together. Sherri
motioned Chris inside.
"Before you say anything, this is how I like to dress when I go out,"
Sherri said. Chris was beginning to realize just how good Sherri was at
reading facial expressions -- hers must have been telegraphing "slut".
"And don't you dare dash off to change. You look nice. I figured one of
us would have to look outrageous so that we can get into this place." She
checked her watch. "Better get going. I'll bet this place will be
filling up fast about now."
A fifteen-minute ride downtown, a half-block walk from the parking
garage, and a ten-minute wait in line at the door later, Chris and Sherri
were sitting at a small table to one side of a stage in a club called
Decade Eight. The band onstage was doing eighties covers at a volume that
did not exclude the possibility of conversation. They weren't bad.
Almost before she knew it, Chris was on her third gin and tonic, and
was working on a decent buzz. She hadn't been on a night out since well
before the accident, and she realized that she had sorely missed her
social life. Sherri was terrific company. She kept the conversation
light, regaling Chris with tales of horrific-then-funny-now sexual
encounters with members of both sexes that left Chris's sides aching with
laughter. Sherri's storytelling was as colorful as a sailor's.
"I remember going down on this girl once," she recalled. "She was a
squirter too, though I didn't know it then. I was down there munching
away when without warning she came like a freight train. I thought I was
going to fucking drown! Juice went up my nose, down my throat, hell, into
my ears! For a while I thought I was eating out Buckingham Fucking
Fountain!" Sherri stopped to take a swig of her Manhattan, and went on
almost without taking a breath.
"Oh, God, speaking of eating. I once made it with this guy who was
into food during sex. I remembered getting turned on during the
refrigerator scene in '9-1/2 Weeks', so I was game. Son-of-a-bitch
practically covered me with whipped cream and chocolate sauce. Licked it
all off me, all up and down. Really fucked up the sheets. Anyway, when
it came time to finally get down to it, he had such a stomach ache he
couldn't keep it up! Can you imagine? I'm lying there, all hot and
bothered and sticky as hell, and he's in the john popping Rolaids!"
Chris was howling, but her imagination was working overtime. How
*would* it feel to have somebody suck a maraschino cherry out of my pussy?
she thought. She'd had no idea that Sherri was this sexually
rambunctious; it was no wonder her husband had left her. Sherri seemed to
prefer the single life, and was living it like a woman fifteen years
younger. Chris's own age, now that she thought of it. Was there a hint
somewhere here?
Chris had been so engrossed in her conversation with Sherri that she
hadn't really taken a good look at the club. As the fourth round arrived
and Sherri excused herself to use the restroom, Chris had an opportunity
to check out her surroundings. Not a bad place, she thought. I've been
to better, but this place has a nice ambience. What's that banner over in
the corner say? Her jaw dropped slightly as she read it. She had just
finished when Sherri returned.
"Sherri! What the hell is this?" Chris pointed to the banner, which
now seemed to scream out, OLD-FASHIONED WET T-SHIRT CONTEST *TONIGHT*!
FIRST PRIZE $250, SECOND PRIZE $100, THIRD PRIZE $50. COME GET WET AT
DECADE EIGHT! How the hell had she missed it?
Sherri laughed and clapped her hands together. "Isn't that a hoot?
I haven't done one of these in years! I wonder if I've still got a shot
at some of that money?" She looked at her watch and had to blink a few
times. She was getting drunk. "Oh, shit, we almost missed the
registration. Come on!" She grabbed Chris's wrist and tried to pull her
out of her chair.
Chris pulled loose from Sherri's grasp. "Now wait just a damn
minute," she said, then stopped briefly as the room swam around in
response to her rapid movement. She knew then that she was also half in
the bag. "I came here to talk and have a couple drinks, not prance around
onstage in front of a bunch of strangers."
Sherri made a razzing sound. "Oh, lighten up, Chris. I get a kick
out of these contests. Musta won a couple of grand over the years. Great
way to vent frustrations, too. Besides, I've always been a breast woman.
Like to check out the merchandise. Why should the guys have all the fun?"
She winked. "Come on, it'll be a blast! You do community theater, don't
you? It's not like you've never been on a stage before. Believe it or
not, Chris, you need to do something like this. You've been locked away
in your apartment, just you and your breast pump, for weeks now. I'm
willing to bet you're still a little intimidated by your recent...
developments." She waved a hand drunkenly at Chris's torso. "You need to
start feeling better about this gift of yours. If you've got it, flaunt
it, kid, and believe me, you got it! You're a lock on first prize! Take
it from somebody who's been there!"
The three and a half drinks, the ever-present pituitary hormones, and
Sherri's exhortations proved to be a deadly combination for Chris. She
had already started down the road of sexual exploration as the result of
her new abilities, and now here was somebody willing to be a guide. The
gift horse, and all that. And hey, the $250 would be nice. Her last
inhibitions vanished with Sherri's persistent tugging on her arm. She
grabbed her drink off the table and downed it almost in a single gulp, in
classic movie cliche fashion. Banging the glass back down, she even
quoted a movie as she said defiantly, "'Sometimes you just got to say
'what the fuck.' So, what the fuck!"
"That's the spirit! Come on, registration's over here." Giggling
like girls a fourth their age, the two headed for the table at the back of
the club.
<<to be continued>>
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