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Lactogenesis 11
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.
After signing up at the registration table, Chris and Sherri were
hustled backstage to a overly small dressing room where about ten other
women of varying ages, degrees of sobriety, and bust size were milling
about, waiting for the wet T-shirt contest to start. During this time the
alcohol they had consumed had fully taken hold, and Chris in particular
was feeling the effects to the full. Absently she wondered whether her
altered biochemical balance had affected her tolerance level. She didn't
remember getting this tipsy the last time she'd had four drinks. She
looked at the T-shirt the man at the registration table had thrust at her.
At least a size too small, of course, thin material, of course, and
white, of course, so that it would become transparent and attach itself to
her skin when it got wet. It was a tank top, like a man's undershirt.
Chris giggled when she remembered how the registration guy had stared at
Sherri's ample cleavage but hadn't even given Chris a second look. He'll
notice me in *this*, she thought.
Sherri was already beginning to pull off her top. "Hurry up and
change. They're getting ready to start." In a flash Sherri was naked
from the waist up. Even though she and Chris had been sexually intimate
only a few hours before, this was the first time Chris had seen Sherri
undressed. Her breasts were nowhere near as firm as Chris's, but they
were at least fifteen years older, and they weren't lactating (yet, but
that would change if Sherri had anything to do with it). Her nipples,
however, were still years away from pointing to the floor. A line
connecting them would have been almost exactly halfway between her
shoulders and her bush. The left breast was slightly larger than the
right. A faint sprinkling of freckles spread downward across her chest
and between her breasts. An even fainter line of downy hair, the same
color as that on her head, traced its way south from her navel to
disappear into the waistband of her slacks. Her armpits were unshaven.
Chris suppressed a naughty urge to reach out and tweak Sherri's nipples,
and instead began unbuttoning her outfit. It was then that she realized
that her clothing was in one piece. Removing it would leave her
pantsless! That thought concerned her for only a moment, however, as she
stepped out of it. She giggled again when she remembered
the age-old parental admonition regarding wearing clean underwear. She
had on a pair of red satin tap pants which showed off her toned thighs to
great advantage. Maybe this little edge will help me win, she thought.
As Chris removed her bra, she noticed that her breasts didn't move at all
under the force of gravity. She stole a quick touch to one and felt the
heat, the
stretched skin, and a swelling that even pressed back into her armpits
slightly. Man, I'm really full, she thought. The alcohol must be
affecting my control a little. She felt Sherri's eyes on her and looked
up.
"Damn, hon, you look even bigger now than you did this afternoon,"
Sherri said. There was a slight slur to her speech. "You're going to
knock that crowd on its collective ass."
Chris wriggled into the T-shirt. The front of it stretched taut,
pressing tightly against her bosom. Chris had to use a mental exercise to
keep from leaking as a result. The armholes of the shirt were too large,
so that fully half of her breasts were visible from the sides. The
snug fit felt good, and her nipples responded appropriately, forming
well-defined 3/4" peaks through the thin fabric. Sherri was shaking her
head and muttering something about not having a chance against a rack like
that. Suddenly the music out front stopped, and was replaced by feedback
by an ill-placed microphone.
A balding, bearded, overweight man in a too-small T-shirt emblazoned
with the words "LET'S GET WET" had taken the stage. He motioned offstage
for someone to turn down the gain on the mike, then shouted
(unnecessarily), "All right, people, it's time! Are you ready to get
wet?!" Chris was surprised at the volume of the yell that followed. The
club must be packed. The man continued, "Outstanding! OK, will those
lucky gentlemen who won the drawing earlier tonight please come up
onstage!" As four men practically fell over one another to climb the
short stairway, the announcer yelled, "These guys have won the coveted
honor of getting to wet down
our contestants!" He gestured to one side, where a small table held four
seltzer bottles. "Don't worry, ladies, these are at room temperature!"
As the contest winners each took a bottle and assumed positions equally
spaced along the width of the stage, the M.C. reminded the crowd of the
prize money and made a few announcements about upcoming events. He
started getting booed, so he wisely stopped, turned to where the women
would enter the stage, and shouted, "Let the games begin! Our first
contestant..."
Chris was seventh in line, Sherri sixth. Most of the contestants
turned out to be rather poor dancers, or almost too drunk to even stand
up, but the crowd didn't care. As soon as the seltzer hit the shirts,
causing them to effectively disappear, the din became a continuous roar
whose decibel level rivaled that of a jet engine. The heat of the lights,
the deafening sound, and the alcohol were combining to strengthen Chris's
resolve with each candidate who left the stage. I'm going to win this
thing, she said to herself. I'm going to blow these amateurs away. Never
mind that Chris was an amateur herself...
It was Sherri's turn. She turned and winked at Chris, then
practically slithered onto the stage. Within seconds it became obvious
that she had done this before. Sherri launched into a gyrating,
cock-stiffening dance, sometimes skillfully dodging the blasts of water,
sometimes seeming to drape herself on them. She regarded the crowd with a
scalding "fuck me" look as she paraded up and down, her breasts bouncing
freely to the beat of the music. The noise level increased even more as
she moved to the edge of the stage. She bent down low so her boobs swung
to within millimeters of the faces of the men in front. They screamed
their approval. Just as her music was ending, Sherri grabbed the T-shirt
at the neck and ripped it down the middle. Her breasts sprang free as the
crowd bellowed. She cupped them, pointed them at the audience, blew them
a kiss, and skipped off stage. The room went up for grabs. No question
who was in first place now!
<<to be continued>>
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