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Lactogenesis 12
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.
Chris stood stock still, stunned by Sherri's performance. Her iron
resolve melted away. How in the hell am I going to top that? she thought
frantically. She felt a hand on her shoulder as the contestant behind her
gave her a gentle push. She was on! She cursed the alcohol for slowing
her thinking as she used a little go-go step to move out to center stage.
What to do, what to do?? Through the alcoholic haze and the wind-tunnel
sound blasting at her ears, Sherri's voice suddenly sounded in her head:
"You need to start feeling better about this gift of yours. If you've got
it, flaunt it, kid..." A sudden rush of adrenaline filled Chris as she
knew what she would do.
She glanced about her, gauging the positions of each of the men with
the seltzer bottles. They raised them almost simultaneously and took aim.
At that moment Chris stopped dancing, thrust her palm outward, and
screamed loud enough to be heard over the din, "NO!! STOP!!"
The men held their fire and glanced uncomprehendingly at one another.
The gleeful shouting of the audience turned to yells of displeasure. The
music stopped. Finally the M.C. took the mike and said, "Little lady,
this is a wet T-shirt contest. You got ta get wet!" The crowd thundered
agreement. Chris just smiled knowingly.
"Just keep watching!" she yelled back. She signaled to the D.J. to
start the music again. It was a slow, seductive number, perfect for
Chris's plan. She clasped her hands behind her head, thrust her elbows
out, and began to slowly move her hips in a circular pattern. The angry
shouts slowly began to transform back into wolf whistles as she continued.
Chris leaned her head back against her hands, interlocked behind her
neck. She began going through the now-familiar series of mental steps
that would unleash her own private biochemical miracle. It was more
difficult than usual due to the level of distractions around her, but
somehow she was able to put the crowd out of her mind. She concentrated
on the rhythm of the music, the oscillations of her body as she danced,
and of course, the increasing tingling in her teeming breasts. She
thought of a mountain stream, the trickle of rain down a gutter, water
pouring from a tap. Deep inside her head, brain structures responded.
Hormones flowed. Glands secreted. Milk ducts expanded. Mammary sinuses
filled. Tiny muscle cells contracted. "Let it come," she whispered to
herself. "Let it come..."
Some of the audience members started yelling at the seltzer
bottleguys. "Go on, let her have it!" one shouted. The man closest to
Chris raised his bottle again, took aim, and...stopped cold. "What the
hell?" was all he could manage to say.
For Chris's shirt front was beginning to get wet, seemingly of its
own accord. Round blotches of moisture appeared at her nipples, which
instantly became visible as the thin white fabric covering them became
soaked. The blotches expanded at amazing speed, spreading outward to
cover her entire chest. Within seconds the entire front of the shirt was
sopping wet and glued to Chris's torso. She continued to gyrate
belly-dancer style, her head thrown back, deaf to the drop in volume from
the audience as they gradually stopped their shouting to stare in
disbelief. Her fantastic breasts moved from side to side as she danced,
gushing away inside the T-shirt until the saturated fabric could hold no
more. As she flicked her upper body back and forth to the music, white
droplets began to fly free of the sodden cloth. As she always was during
a particularly powerful letdown, Chris was riding the crest of the
wonderful feeling of release, of almost orgasmic pleasure, that squirting
her milk provided. She was totally oblivious to her surroundings, taken
up completely in her own little pleasure dome.
"My God, that's milk!" someone near the front of the stage shouted.
A wild cacophony of
exclamations, some rapturous, some disgusted, filled the club. "I don't
believe it!" "Have you ever seen anything like that in your life?" "Oh,
God, that's disgusting!" "Oh, man, I'm in love!" You name it, someone
was shouting it. From the crowd's reaction one would have thought that an
extraterrestrial stripper with three tits had just come onstage.
The weird standoff between Chris and the stunned crowd lasted only a
few seconds more. Chris, in her reverie, felt the wetness covering her
upper body, smelled the musty sweet odor of her milk as the hot lights
tried to evaporate it. My clothing is wet, she thought instinctively. I
should take it off. She unconsciously grabbed the T-shirt at the waist
and in a swift motion pulled it over her head. With nothing to hold back
the flow, her bouncing boobs spouted forth, sending a white fountain well
into the first few rows of seats. People leaped up from their chairs as
if scalded.
At that moment, there was a wet crash as a seltzer bottle hit the
floor. Chris's eyes were closed, so she didn't see the man who dropped it
as he pounced upon her, his trembling hands grabbing for her bosom. She
suddenly felt a powerful arm around her waist, bending her backwards
painfully as it drew her forward. A probing, panting mouth sought out one
spraying nipple, while a hand like a steel trap closed on the other. For
a split second, Chris couldn't decide whether to scream or to give herself
over to the intensity of these additional stimuli. Her alcohol-induced
stupor cleared instantly, and she opted for the former. She brought her
knee up hard, but the man was bent over frantically trying to suckle her
and so it missed its mark. Her fingernails raked across the sides of the
man's face, but he was so far gone with lust that they had no effect.
After what seemed like an eternity she felt two more powerful hands on her
as one of the club's bouncers tried to pull her away. Another bouncer, a
huge beefy fellow, pried her attacker's hands away, picked him up like a
rag doll, and threw him off the stage. He landed on top of a table and
sprawled unconscious on the floor.
There were screams, people running, men shouting. Chris was unable
to sort any of it out as she let herself be half-carried off the stage by
the bouncer. She felt someone, Sherri maybe, throw a towel over her as
she was herded through the surging crowd toward the dressing room area.
She heard a door close, and relative silence descended. She felt her butt
being placed rather unceremoniously into a chair. She blinked away the
last vestiges of her drunkenness and looked up to see Sherri and the
bouncer bending over her, concern on their faces.
"Are you all right, miss?" he asked, in a voice pitched comically
high for a man that size. Chris nodded slowly. "If you don't mind, then,
I'd better get back out there." The bouncer left, leaving Sherri behind.
She slowly straightened up, hands on hips, and fixed Chris with a
withering stare.
"Jesus Christ, lady, what the fuck do you do for an encore?" she
demanded, partly in jest and partly in anger mixed with relief. Chris sat
mutely for a few seconds, then began laughing and crying simultaneously.
Tears rolled freely down into her open mouth as she tried to guffaw and
sob at the same time. Sherri held Chris's shoulders until she regained
control of herself.
"I don't know what came over me out there," Chris said incredulously.
"You had done such a
great job that I had to think of some way to top you, and letting go was
the first thing I thought of. I had no idea that would happen! I was so
drunk..." Her voice trailed off and she just sat there, clutching the
towel, shaking her head.
"You were cutting loose for the first time in God knows how long,"
Sherri said. "Who can blame you for getting a little carried away? You
were almost killed a couple of months ago, for chrissake. I think this
was just a subconscious attempt to yell 'fuck you' at the Grim Reaper."
"You think so? Maybe you're right. That certainly wasn't the old me
out there tonight, that's for damn sure." Chris sniffled and wiped her
eyes. "I was out there spraying milk on people! 'A little carried away'?
Jeez, I guess so! I think I'd better watch my alcohol consumption more
closely from now on. Gin and oxytocin don't appear to mix very well."
Sherri located their clothes and handed Chris hers. "I think we'd
just better get dressed and get out of here. The sooner we're clear of
Decade Eight, the better off we'll be."
A clean getaway was not to be, however. The two had just buttoned
their last buttons when the door opened again. This time the contest M.C.
came in, a jacket draped over his LET'S GET WET T-shirt. "I'd like a
word, if I could," he said somberly.
Oh, shit, here it comes, Chris thought. I'll bet he's called the
police. I wonder how this is going to get written up? She imagined
herself spending the night in jail, and felt her limbs go cold. She was
therefore very confused when the M.C. suddenly broke into a wide grin.
"I gotta tell you, that was hands-down, absolutely, no-bullshit the
goddamndest thing I ever saw." How many times have I heard that by now,
Chris thought. The man was still talking. "Most unique wet T-shirt
contest it's ever been my pleasure to have hosted. You and your friend
here really turned this place on its ear. First night open, too, wouldn't
you know." He reached into his jacket pocket and took out two wads of
bills. He handed the larger of them to Chris, the other to Sherri.
"Here's your prize money. Congratulations. I also have to tell you,
though, that the management has asked me to ask you never to participate
in a similar activity here again. You'd get us shut down for sure! Just
take the money and go home, please." He looked toward the door. "It's
pretty well calmed down out there, but if I were you, I'd go out the back
way." He started to leave, then turned at the door for a last long look
at Chris. "Goddamndest thing I ever saw," he said again, and was gone.
Chris and Sherri didn't say another word to each other until they got
back to their apartment building, and even then it was just a cursory good
night. Chris was already beginning to feel the beginnings of a hangover
as she collapsed fully dressed into bed, one hand still clutching her $250
first prize. She was going to have to think about what had happened at
Decade Eight this night, but later, later. She was so tired. Within
moments, she was snoring softly.
<<to be continued>>
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