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Lactogenesis 18
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. Sheila Ellis, Christine's endocrinologist, had sounded excited on
the phone. Her research on Chris's hormone-induced transformation was
nearing completion, she had said. She was putting the finishing touches
on a scientific paper she was entitling "Spontaneous Galactorrhea and
Increased Graefenberg Spot Secretions as the Result of Head Trauma in a
24-Year-Old Nullipara" that was bound for the New England Journal of
Medicine, but was missing some key MRI data. Could Chris come down to the
hospital for one last series of tests? Chris had grudgingly agreed. The
only reason she had acquiesced to be Sheila's guinea pig was her hope that
the sexual tension that had existed between them ever since Chris first
anointed Sheila's office with her milk as the result of an uncontrolled
letdown would finally result in something. To Chris's disappointment,
however, Sheila had been the cool professional throughout the several
office visits Chris had made in support of Sheila's research.
There had been the time when Sheila was collecting Data on Chris's
milk output. Chris had spent the better part of a day in the office being
milked repeatedly with a breast pump, filling bottle after bottle with her
sweet secretions. She had never received that kind of constant
stimulation before, and the result had been quite illuminating. For hours
Chris had been poised on the edge of orgasm, occasionally sliding over the
brink, and always coming back down not all the way, but to a state of
agitated arousal from which it was very easy to come again. Over and over
this had happened. Chris was virtually writhing in the examination chair,
moaning and cooing as wave after wave crashed over her. After a few hours
of this Chris was ready to start begging Sheila to join her, or shut down
the machine, or *something*. But Sheila had maintained her professional
detachment throughout, measuring the volume in the bottles as Chris filled
them, jotting the numbers on a clipboard, and feeding Chris protein shakes
through a straw to keep her from getting dehydrated. Chris had slept for
twelve hours that night.
On another occasion, Sheila had wanted to get some information on the
intensity of Chris's letdown reflex. She'd placed a topless and fairly
heavily engorged Chris on a chair in front of a black background and
instructed her to go through the mental exercises that would release her
milk at top velocity. High-speed cameras recorded the tiny jets as they
emerged and arced out across the room without Chris having to touch
herself at all. Tiny sensors attached to Chris's breasts had noted the
almost imperceptible electrical pulses associated with the contraction of
the muscle cells lining the milk sinuses that propelled the precious
liquid along. Chris had set a new distance record that day, and Sheila
had been notably impressed. As Sheila stood at the instruments, watching
their readouts, Chris was sure that she saw desire on Sheila's face -- in
the way her blink rate slowed, her pupils dilated, and the number of times
she'd moistened her lips. Just like that fateful day that was now months
in the past. It's all right, Sheila, I want it, too, Chris had
telegraphed. Alas, Sheila was not telepathic, nor did Chris wish to put
an invitation into words for fear she'd be wrong.
Then there was the incident with the moisture sensor. Sheila's
purpose that time was to follow the course of one of Chris's ejaculatory
episodes by means of a moisture sensor inserted in her vagina. Chris
remembered feigning vaginismus during the insertion process, contracting
her vaginal muscles so tightly that Sheila could not get the probe in more
than half an inch. She pretended to be extremely uptight about having a
foreign object inserted into her, something that couldn't be further from
the truth. Chris had relaxed only after Sheila had massaged her mons
while speaking soothing words. Her face had been only inches from Chris's
pussy, and she had to have smelled arousal in Chris's odor. Still, she
showed no outward sign that anything was out of the ordinary. Chris
remembered treating the probe like one of her vibrators, trying to make
herself come merely by rhythmically tensing and releasing the muscles
surrounding it. She had succeeded. The resulting torrent had pegged the
instrument and had even shorted it out when a blast of her ejaculate
struck the front of it. Sheila had been quick to unplug it; otherwise,
the experiment might have ended unhappily.
Chris had had tubes in her arms from which blood was taken for
hormone profiles during a lactation event. Sheila had been less than
expert in finding a vein, and the resulting discomfort had interfered with
Chris's mental control over starting and stopping her milk production.
The results of that experiment had been inconclusive. In that instance,
Sheila had seemed to warm up a bit, apologizing profusely for causing her
pain and taking extra care to dress the puncture wounds. Their eyes had
met briefly, but there was nothing but a doctor behind Sheila's.
Pulse monitors, oxygen meters, even tiny pressure sensors in tiny
collars that had encircled her nipples to measure their erectile response
-- in these last weeks Chris felt that she'd been probed by every type of
medical instrument known to man. In all that time there were several
instances where Sheila had stroked her hair before beginning a procedure,
soothing her anxiety. There had even been a quick hug or two when a
result showed particular promise. But it had all been within the
boundaries of professional decorum.
Now Sheila wanted to finish up with a magnetic resonance imaging scan
of Chris's thorax. Something about studying the distribution of glands
and ducts within the breast tissue, she'd said in her phone call. She'd
had to trade a favor or two for the use of the MRI instrument off hours,
which was why she'd asked Chris to come down to the hospital so late at
night.
The clock on the dashboard read 10:48 as Chris pulled her car into
the hospital parking lot. As she parked, the same thought she entertained
every time she went there resurfaced. Sheila wants me, she said to
herself. I can tell. Why doesn't she do anything about it? Doesn't she
know it would be all right?
Due to the lateness of the hour, most of the lot was empty. She'd
pulled to a back entrance, following Sheila's instructions. She'd said
the MRI lab was in that part of the building. Chris was puzzled at the
lack of lights that showed in the windows. Had Sheila forgotten their
appointment? Chris walked up to the large double door, tried it, and
found it locked. Should she knock? She peered inside, down the length of
a long corridor, which was empty. Chris began to feel uneasy. I can't
just stand out here, she thought. One hand went to her breasts, which
were beginning to feel uncomfortable. "Come good and full", Sheila had
said. "We want to get before and after pictures from this."
Just as Chris was about to turn back to her car, she heard the
unmistakable sound of high heels echoing from a side corridor.
<<to be continued>>
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