Lactogenesis

[Leselampe]

Lactogenesis
Kapitel 31: In der Videothek

Christine beendete ihren geistigen Minirückblick der Ereignisse, die dazu geführt hatten, daß sie in der Lage war, sich dieses glänzende neue Auto zu kaufen, neben dem sie gerade stand. Mit ihren Gedanken wieder in der Gegenwart drehte sie sich um und betrat die Videothek. Sie war sich sofort des Starrens des pickelgesichtigen Jugendlichen hinter dem Tresen bewußt, das auf ihr lag, sobald sie den Eingang verlassen hatte. Trotz allem war sie für diese Zeit des Jahres ungeeignet gekleidet und das Material ihres kurzen T-Shirts genauso freizügig wie verbergend. Sie fühlte, daß die Erektion ihrer Nippel sich verstärkte, bis sogar die Höcker der Montgomerydrüsen, die ihre Warzenhöfe sprenkelten, durch den Stoff zu sehen waren.

Es muß das warme Wetter sein, dachte sie. Das gibt mir vorzeitige Frühlingsgefühle. Ich kann mich nicht daran erinnern, wann ich das letzte Mal wegen eines mich anstarrenden Typen, der halb so alt war wie ich, so geil wurde. Chris fühlte, wie sich ihre Brüste schnell füllten, und wußte, daß sie sich schnell entscheiden und nach Hause eilen mußte, oder sie müßte ihre geistige Kontrolle benutzen und ihre Milchproduktion schließen, um Unannehmlichkeiten zu vermeiden, etwas, das sie nicht mochte, es sei denn, es ist absolut nötig. Sie entschied sich, etwas besonders Erotisches zu nehmen, um sich durch die bevorstehende Melksitzung zu bringen. Daher lief sie in die geeignete Abteilung des Ladens und begann, sich die Auswahl anzusehen. „9 1/2 Wochen?“ Schon gesehen. „Two Moon Junction -- Fesseln der Leidenschaft?“ Nein. „Wilde Orchidee 3?“ Gab’s schon im Kabelfernsehen. „Bittersüße Schokolade?“ Verdammt, verliehen. Hier scheint es nichts zu geben, das heiß genug für das ist, was ich möchte ...

Ohne darüber nachzudenken, fand sich Chris, wie sie auf die Tür zulief, auf der stand: „Zutritt ab 18 Jahren“. Seltsam, dachte sie. Ich habe niemals einen nicht jugendfreien Film ausgeliehen, geschweige denn jemals gesehen. Ich muß geiler sein, als ich dachte. Sogar mit all dem sexuellen Erwachen, das Chris seit dem Unfall erfahren hatte, war die Welt des Erwachsenenfilms bisher nicht dabei. Sie hatte die Erfahrung gelebt, ohne sie auch auf dem Fernseher zu sehen. Ihre Neugier demgegenüber, was sich hinter der Tür vor ihr befand, kombinierte mit ihrer Geilheit, ein unstillbares Verlangen zu erschaffen, um den schmutzigsten Film zu nehmen, den sie finden konnte, und dann den Rest des Abends in ihrem Milkstuhl zu verbringen und den Film wieder und wieder zu sehen, dabei wild zu masturbieren und neue Milchertragsrekorde zu brechen. Alles, um den Waisen zu helfen, dachte sie ironisch.

Als sie die Tür öffnete, war sie überrascht, einen Raum vorzufinden, der größer war, als sie dachte. Reihe über Reihe von Kassetten mit lebendiger Aufmachung begüßte sie. Der Raum war schwach beleuchtet und enthielt einen schwachen Geruch von altem Zigarettenrauch. Es war nur noch eine andere Person im Raume. Es war ein junger Mann, etwa 22 oder 23, in einer Lederjacke und Jeans, der suchend aufmerksam auf die Regale schaute, als suchte er einen speziellen Film.

„Wie kann man wohl von all diesem etwas aussuchen?“, fragte sich Chris. Sie wählte eine Ablage willkürlich aus und schaute sich die Titel an. Sie bemerkte sofort, daß viele Titel Abwandlungen von bekannten Filmen und Fernsehserien waren. „Sex Trek: The Next Penetration“ „Wer denkt sich dieses Zeug aus?“, fragte sich Chris. Dann las sie einen Titel, der sie laut zum Kichern brachte. Der junge Mann drehte seinen Kopf in ihre Richtung. Sein Gesicht hatte einen betretenen Gesichtsausdruck.

Chris glaubte, sie müsse sich entschuldigen. „Tut mit leid, ich lache sie nicht aus. Einige der Titel sind einfach lustig. Das ist alles.“ Der junge Mann schien das zu akzeptieren. Er drehte sich und um fuhr mit seiner Suche fort. Chris bemerkte, daß er bereits zwei Kassetten hatte. Sie wurde auf einmal von einem starken Verlangen in Besitz genommen, in Erfahrung zu bringen, welche es waren. „Welche Art von Filmen erregen Männer?“, fragte sie sich. Wenn ich sehen kann, was er hat, hilft es mir vielleicht, etwas für mich zu auszusuchen.

Chris täuschte vor, ihre Suche nach einem Film fortzusetzen, und manövrierte sich dabei näher zu dem jungen Mann. Als sie näher kam, bemerkt sie, daß er richtig attraktiv war, nicht diese Trenchcoat-tragende Stereotype, die sie sich an solchen Orten verkehrend vorstellt hatte. Er hatte strohblondes Haar, eine schöne Nase und ein kräftiges Kinn, eine Hornbrille ... „Was macht ein Kerl wie er mit Pornofilmen?“, fragte sich Chris. Er sah wie jemand aus, der die wahre Liebe jederzeit haben könnte. Er sah wie jemand aus, den ich gerne ...

Sie stand jetzt fast neben dem jungen Mann. Sie bemerkte, als sie sich an ihn heranschlich, daß er mehr und mehr verstohlene Blick auf sie und besonders auf ihren Brustkorb warf. Dieses Wissen brachte ihre Nippel dazu, so hart zu werden, daß sie schmerzten, und ihre Brust, sich mit warmer Milch zu füllen. Schließlich war sie nah genug, um die Wörter auf den Kassettenhüllen, die der junge Mann in seinen Händen hielt, zu entziffern, und was sie las, brachte sie fast dazu, ihre Hosen naß zu machen. Der eine Film hieß „Milchmanie“ und der andere „Wunderbare Milchmädchen“. Der Kerl stand auf Laktation. Wer hätte das gedacht? In diesem Moment setzte sich der hormonelle Ansturm durch. Chris wußte, daß sie diesen Mann haben muß. Ein Plan entstand sofort -- unaufgefordert.

Sie wartete, bis er nach einer weiteren Kassette griff („Spritzende Brüste III“), und griff sofort zu der Kassette daneben. Als er noch einmal in ihre Richtung blickte -- sie wüßte, das würde er --, brachte sie durch Willenskraft ihre Brüste dazu, in ihr T-Shirt auszulaufen. Zwei dunkle Flecken erschienen sofort über ihren fingerdicken Nippeln und begannen sich schnell auszubreiten. Chris zog ihren Arm zurück und drückte ihn gegen ihre Brust. Sie hatte den Zwischenfall perfekt abgepaßt. Der junge Mann hatte das gesehen und starrte nun offen.

„Oh, verdammt.“, sagte sie Betroffenheit vortäuschend. „Das passiert immer in den ungünstigsten Momenten.“ Vorsichtig tupfte sie ihre Brust ab und brachte dabei bewußt ihre Brust zum Wackeln. Dann blickte sie in die Augen des jungen Mannes, die so weit aufgerissen waren, wie es nur ging. „Es tut mir schrecklich leid. Ich hoffe, ich habe dich nicht abgestoßen. Es ist nur so, daß ich manchmal soviel Milch habe, daß sie von selber herauskommt. Du meine Güte, sieh’ mich nur an.“ Sie begann mit dem T-Shirt zu flattern, um es zu „trocknen“. Dabei ließ sie die Unterseite ihrer Brüste ins sein Blickfeld springen und dann wieder verschwinden. Die zwei Flecken verbunden sich zu einem großen, der sich ausbreitete und fast die ganze Vorderseite bedeckte. Ströme von Milch begannen auf ihrem entblößten Bauch zu erscheinen. All das, während Chris vielmals um Entschuldigung bat, vortäuschend, über ihren „Unfall“ bestürzt zu sein und außer sich, daß er nicht zu stoppen war. Der junge Mann stand wie angewurzelt da und war unfähig, sich zu bewegen oder ein Wort hervorzubringen. Eine große Beule formte sich in seiner Jeans. Schließlich fragte ihn Chris unverblümt nach einem Taschentuch. Er zog eines aus seiner hinteren Hosentasche hervor und reichte es ihr mit zitternden Händen. Chris entfaltete es und schob es unter ihr T-Shirt, betupfte ihre auslaufenden Nippel, regte sich permanent auf und täuschte vor, verlegen zu sein. Sie mußte hier vorsichtig sein, ansonsten hätte sie auf der Stelle einen Orgasmus gehabt und das wäre in der Tat chaotisch gewesen. Sie stellte fest, daß ihre Show den gewünschten Effekt hatte und vollführte ihr geistiges Ritual, daß den Milchfluß beendete.

Sie wollte ihm das Taschentuch zurückgeben, überlegte es aber sich anders. „Meine Güte, ich habe das richtig naß gemacht. Weißt du was? Ich nehme es nach Hause und wasche es und schicke es dir zurück. Wie heißt du und wo wohnst du?“

Endlich war der Mann in der Lage zu reden. „Es ist schon in Ordnung. Du kannst es behalten. Ich habe noch andere.“ Seine Tenorstimme hatte einen schweren europäischen Akzent, den Chris nicht sofort erkannte. Der Kerl war offensichtlich nicht aus der Nachbarschaft.

„Nun, ich nehme gewöhnlicherweise keine Teil anderer Leute Bekleidung, ohne zu wissen, woher es kam.“, sagte Chris und lächelte dabei strahlend. Sie streckte die Hand aus. „Mein Name ist Chris.“

„Ich bin Uwe.“, sagte er. Sein Mund blieb leicht geöffnet, als er ihre Hand nahm und bemerkte, daß sie leicht feucht von der Milch war. Chris nahm von seiner Reaktion Notiz -- Erregung, kein Ekel. Gut.

Sie zog den Reißverschluß ihrer Jacke hoch, um sich zu bedecken. „Ich denke, es hat jetzt aufgehört. Ich entschuldige mich noch einmal. Glaube mir, ich treffe nicht oft Männer auf diese Art, besonders an einem solchen Ort!“

„Bitte sag’ nichts mehr. Du hast mich nicht beleidigt. Es ist ... natürlich, daß das manchmal passiert, ja?“

„Nun, ja, aber ich habe normalerweise mehr Kontrolle darüber. Etwas muß mich abgelenkt haben.“, sagte Chris und ließ ihre Augen glänzen. „Ich konnte deinen Akzent nicht überhören. Bist du schon lange in den Staaten?“

„Seit zwei Monaten.“, antwortete Uwe. „Ich komme aus Österreich und mache hier Urlaub.“

„Reist du alleine?“

„Ja.“

„Österreich, ja? Ich wollte schon immer Europa besuchen.“, sagte Chris. „Vergib mir, Uwe, aber dieser Ort hier ist doch nicht wirklich im Michelin Guide aufgeführt.“

Er muß die Anspielung verstanden haben, weil es schien, als errötete er, obwohl es bei seinem dunklen Teint schwer zu erkennen war. „Zwei Monate sind eine lange Zeit ohne ...“ Er ließ seine Stimme verstummen

Es gibt Zeiten, wenn es gut ist, eine Sprache schlecht zu beherrschen, dachte Chris. Dann bleibt nicht viel Raum für Feinheiten. Sie fiel in Uwes aufsteigende Verlegenheit durch Kichern. „Du mußt nichts erklären. Ich bin aus dem gleichen Grund hier.“, log Chris.

Uwes Augen weiteten sich wieder. „Entschuldige, aber ich denke, das ist schwer zu glauben.“, sagte er. „Eine so schöne Frau wie du sollte nicht ...“ Wieder vollendete er seinen Satz nicht.

Chris riskierte, Uwes Arm zu berühren. Er zuckte nicht zusammen. „Das ist wirklich süß von dir. Sind alle Männer in Österreicht so galant wie du?“ Uwe antwortete nicht, aber lächelte herzlich. „Weißt du, ich habe noch nie einen Österreicher getroffen. Wenn ich zu vorlaut sein sollte, sag es mir, aber ... ich wenn du Gesellschaft beim Sehen dieser Filme haben möchtest, wäre ich glücklich auszuhelfen.“

„Ich weiß nicht, was ‘vorlaut’ heißt, aber ich glaube, mir würde das gefallen.“, sagte Uwe. Sie lächelte wieder. Natürlich würde dir das, dachte sie. Welcher Liebhaber der Laktation würde nicht die Chance nutzen, seine tiefste sexuelle Fantasie auszuleben? Uwe war nicht so ängstlich, seltsame Frauen an seltsamen Orten zu treffen, daß er eine solche Gelegenheit, wie Chris sie anbot, kategorisch ablehnen würde.

„Großartig! Und ich dachte schon, ich müßte den Abend alleine verbringen. Ich sag’ dir was. Laß uns für diese Filme zahlen und dann zu mir gehen. Ich, äh, muß sowieso mein T-Shirt wechseln.“

Als Uwe ihr in den vorderen Bereich des Ladens folgte, konnte Chris nicht anders, als an einen jungen Hund zu denken, der ihr sabbernd nachlief. Einen Moment lang fragte sie sich, ob sie nicht etwas vollkommen Verrücktes tat, indem sie die Fantasie des jungen Mannes, die sie war, ausnutzte, aber ihre animalische Seite hatte die volle Kontrolle und ihr einziges Bedauern war, daß dieser junge Mann möglicherweise viel zu früh seinen Korken knallen lassen würde ...

[Leselampe]

Lactogenesis
Kapitel 32: Der Fremde

Christine bemerkte, als sie von der Videothek nach Hause fuhr, daß Uwes Mietwagen viel zu dicht an ihrer hinteren Stoßstange hing. Als sie an ihrem Gebäude ankamen, war er ihr den ganzen Weg hinauf dicht auf den Fersen. Das ist ein Übereifriger, dachte sie, und war belustigt statt genervt. Er wollte sichergehen, daß er mich nicht verliert. Nun, keine Sorge, mein kleiner österreichischer Strudel. Die Kette der Ereignisse hatte bereits den Punkt erreicht, an dem es kein Zurück mehr gab.

Sobald sie durch die Tür waren, zeigte Chris auf das Sofa im Wohnzimmer gegenüber ihrer Fernseh-Video-Kombination, auf dem Uwe Platz nehmen sollte. Sie eilte in ihr Schlafzimmer, um ihr milchdurchnäßtes T-Shirt zu wechseln. Sie erhaschte einen Blick ihrer nackten Brust im Spiegel und bemerkte sofort die sichtbaren Zeichen einer aufsteigenden Schwellung. Der arme Uwe wird überschwemmt, dachte sie. Ich hoffe, er wird der Herausforderung gewachsen sein ...

Sie wählte ein Bustier und eine aufgeknöpfte, durchsichtige Bluse als Ersatz für ihr T-Shirt. Provokativ, trotzdem leicht daraus herauszukommen. Ihre prächtigen Brüste drohten aus ihrer kaum angemessenen Halterung herauszuspringen, als sie in das Wohnzimmer zurückkehrte. Sie hielt am Wäscheschrank an und entnahm einen kleinen Stapel Handtücher, den sie auf einen leeren Stuhl legte. Uwe hat sich nicht von seinem Fleck auf dem Sofa gerührt, nicht mal, um seine Jacke auszuziehen. Er atmete tief ein, als er den Stapel Hantücher sah. Er ist fremd, nicht dumm, dachte Chris. In Uwes verkrampftem Griff waren die drei Videokassetten, die er in der Videothek ausgesucht hatte. Chris sah die Notwendigkeit, den nervösen Mann aufzulockern.

"Bitte, mache es dir bequem.", sagte sie sanft. "Leg deinen Mantel ab. Kann ich dir etwas bringen? Ein Bier vielleicht?"

"Tut mir leid.", sagte Uwe " Ich habe ... Motten im Kopf."

Chris lachte. "Wenn du meinst, du hast ein flaues Gefühl im Magen, dann sorge dich nicht. Ich beiße nicht, es sei denn, du möchtest es. Warum machst du nicht einen Film an? Das gibt uns etwas, worüber wir reden können."

Als sie aus der Küche zurückkehrte, erschien gerade "Squirting Boobies III" auf dem Bildschirm. Uwe war bereits von den Anfangsszenen gefesselt, eine schnell aufeinanderfolgende Montage von Einstellungen von Frauen, die Milch aus ihren Brüsten drücken. Eine blechernde, elektronische Musik startete, als die Szene zu einer einzelnen Frau überblendete, hübsch, aber sie trug noch Gewicht von ihrer Schwangerschaft mit sich herum. Sie streichelte ein Paar von mit Schwangerschaftsstreifen überzogene Hängebrüsten. Schließlich (nach einer, so schien es, ungeheuer langen Zeit) entlockte sie einen dünnen Tropfen Milch einer ihrer Brüste. Chris fand sich selbst in einer Art distanziertem, klinischen Interesse zusehen. Hätte sie mal vor dem Filmen nicht ihr Kind gefüttert, dachte Chris. Uwe -- im Gegensatz -- war fasziniert. Bei der Position der Beule in seiner Hose, nahm Chris an, daß es für ihn unbequem sein muß. Er versuchte, sein Gewicht unauffällig zu verlagern, um seine Erektion zu befreien. Chris entschied sich, ihm nicht zu helfen. Jedenfalls noch nicht. Wenn ihn das anmacht, muß er richtig auf Laktation stehen, dachte Chris.

Die Szene blendete zu einer anderen Frau über, eine schwarze Frau mit dem größten Paar natürlicher Brüste, die Chris jemals gesehen hatte. Ihre pechschwarzen Warzenhöfe, jeder mindestens 5,5 cm im Durchmesser, ruhten in ihrem Schoße, wenn sie sie nicht streichelte. Innerhalb von Sekunden, nachdem sie auf dem Bildschirm erschienen war, spritzte sie dicke Ströme von Milch in ihren eigenen Mund, während ein voll bekleideter Mann eine durchschnittliche Erektion streichelte, die aus seinem Hosenschlitz hervorsah. Die Szene ging mehrere Minuten so weiter, während in dieser Zeit der Fluß der Milch keine Zeichen zeigte zu versiegen. Das produzierte eine Reaktion in Chris. Eine Erinnerung an die ersten paar Tage, nachdem die Milch eingeschossen war, kam in ihr hoch. Sie erinnerte sich an den Geschmack der eigenen Milch, sie war tatsächlich in der Lage gewesen, ihren Magen durch Trinken zu füllen. Sie erinnerte sich, wie lange das gedauert hatte, und wie sie sich fragte, als Orgasmus auf Orgasmus sie durchschüttelte, ob ihre Brüste jemals aufhören würden zu spritzen. Sie fühlte, daß ihre Nippel drohten, aus dem Körbchen ihres Bustiers zu springen, daß die heiße Milch sich dahinter bildete, daß die Säfte zwischen den Lippen ihres Fötzchens durchsickerten. Sie sah zu Uwe hinüber, der noch immer auf den Fernseher starrte, jetzt geistesabwesend die eindrucksvolle Schwellung durch seine Jeans reibend.

"Sie ist so süß und warm.", sagte Chris, und durchbrach die lange Stille.

"Du hast nicht gelebt, bis du Muttermilch probiert hast. Ich habe mich immer gefragt, warum so viele Männer von Milchbrüsten angetörnt waren, bis ich sie selber probiert habe." Sie sahen sich die Szene noch ein bißchen länger an. "Oh, sie hat ganz schön viel ... fast so viel wie ich.", sagte Chris. "Genaugenommen hat das Zusehen dafür gesorgt, daß ich mich wieder voll fühle." Bei diesen Worten war Uwe endlich in der Lage, seinen Blick vom Fernseher zu reißen und auf Chris' Brust zu richten. Sie reagierte, indem sie das Stoff ihrer Bluse zurückzog und leicht die Hügel, die aus den Körbchen ihres Bustiers hervorschossen, streichelte. "Sie werden richtig heiß, wenn sie produzieren.", sagte Chris verführerisch. Spontan streckte sie ihre Hand aus und griff eine von Uwes zitternden Händen. "Hier, fühl mal.", sagte sie und platzierte sie fest über ihrer Brust.

Zuerst, zu geschockt, sich zu bewegen, tat Uwe nichts. Dann fing er an, seine Hand ganz sanft zu bewegen: über, herum. Er fühlte die Hitze, die als Nebenprodukt der Herstellung der Milch entstand, die sich gerade jetzt nur Millimeter darunter abspielte. Chris war durch die Unentschlossenheit seiner Bewegungen enorm angetörnt. Jeremy war darin ein alter Hase; seine Annäherung war direkt, während Uwe eindeutig erforschte, unsicher, was die nächste Bewegung sein wird. Chris fand das sehr erregend. Sie bewegte seine Hand kurzzeitig zur Seite und benutzte die Flächen ihrer Finger, um die Brüste hoch und dann aus dem Bustier zu ziehen. Ihre Nippel platzten hervor und ein einzelner Tropfen blau-weißer Flüssigkeit erschien an ihren Spitzen.

Auf dem Bildschirm hatte sich der Mann ausgezogen und die Frau tränkte seine Erektion mit Milch -- aus einer Entfernung von einigen Metern. Wieder kam eine alte Erinnerung in Chris hoch. Sie erinnerte sich daran, daß sie ihr Schlafzimmerfenster vollspritzte, während sie in der Tür zu diesem Zimmer stand, die drei Meter entfernt war. Sie verspürte plötzlich den Drang, das wieder zu tun. "Ich kann das auch.", sagte sie sich auf das Video beziehend. "Guck." Ihre Finger und der Daumen wußten instinktiv die richtige Position um und hinter ihren Warzenhöfen einzunehmen, sie wußten die Menge an nach innen gerichteten Druck auszuüben, um einen Haufen feiner, scharfer, kraftvoller Ströme aus ihren Nippeln zu produzieren. Ein Stöhnen der Überraschung und extremer Erregung entfuhr Uwes Lippen. Die Milch formte einen langen parabolförmigen Bogen, breitete sich aus und traf den Standspiegel auf der anderen Seite des Raumes. Wieder und wieder schickte sie Strahlen von Milch himmelwärts, als sie Uwe andeutete, wie gut es sich anfühlt, den Druck loszuwerden, wie ihre Nippel kribbelten, als die Milch durch sie schoß. Plötzlich hörte sie mit dem Spritzen auf, drehte sich zu Uwe und sagte: "Möchtest du kosten?"

Der Ausdruck auf Uwes Gesicht sagte ihr, daß sie ihm gerade seinen größten Wunsch gewährte. Sie positionierte sich neu, sodaß sie mit ihren Spritzern in seinen offenen Mund zielen konnte. Die Gewalt des ersten überraschte ihn, er erstickte fast, als er die Rückseite seiner Kehle traf. Chris spritzte weiter, Uwes Mund kam näher und näher, bis seine Lippen schließlich ihre Burst umschlossen. Er saugte hart, fast so hart wie ein Kind. Chris fühlte, wie sich ihr Letdown-Reflex intensivierte, und beugte schnell ihren Kopf nach vorne, um mit ihrem eigenen Mund die Ströme von Milch zu fangen, die spontan aus der freien Brust zu schießen begannen. Der vertraute Geschmack löste einen Orgasmus aus, der so schnell kam, sodaß Chris für ihn vollkommen unvorbereitet war. Sie fühlte ihren Fötzchensaft in ihre Hose strömen und in die Ritze ihres Gesäßes zu sickern. Der Fluß aus ihren Brüsten stieg an, bis Uwe nicht mehr zu saugen brauchte, um seinen Mund zum Überlaufen gefüllt zu haben. Die Handlung auf dem Bildschirn ging weiter, aber sie verblaßte bald im Gegensatz zu dem, was vor ihm vor sich ging.

Chris drückte Uwe zurück auf seinen Rücken, dabei die Schulter vor und zurückschwingend, sodaß erst die eine und dann die andere herausschleudernde Brust in Kontakt mit seinem greifenden Mund kam. Er hielt sie an der Hüfte fest, als sie ihren getränkten Schritt gegen den Hosenschlitz seiner Jeans rieb. Irgendwie öffnete eine Hand (Wessen?) den Reißverschluß, befreite einen nicht umschnittenen Schwanz, der zwischen den längsten einzuordnen war, die Chris jemals gefühlt hatte. Chris pausierte nur so lange, um sich die nasse Hose herunterzureißen, und sprang einfach auf Uwe. Sie schrie prompt auf und hüpfte von ihm herunter, weil die Wucht seinen Schwanz den ganzen Weg in ihr entlangtrieb und hart gegen ihren Muttermund stieß. Chris, die Uwes Mund nicht allzuweit von ihren spritzenden Nippeln wandern ließ, versuchte es wieder, dieses Mal ließ sie sich langsam nieder, fühlte Zoll für Zoll für Zoll für wunderbares Zoll hoch und hineingleiten, fühlte ihre Muskeln drücken und loslassen, als sie ihn tiefer hineindrückte. Sie stoppte kurz vor ihrem Muttermund und stellte fest, daß noch wenigstens 5 cm draußen waren. Jeremy war dicker, aber Uwe war länger. Ihr fiel in diesem Moment ein, daß Jeremys Schwanz der einzige war, den sie seit langer Zeit in sich hatte, und daß sie vergessen hatte, wie unterschiedlich sich verschiedene Männer anfühlen. Als Chris auf Uwe rotierte, fühlte sie jeden noch so kleinen Unterschied, der zu fühlen war, und als sie das tat, kam ihr Orgasmus stark und schnell. Sie richtete sich auf und warf ihr Kinn in Richtung Decke, als sie wie eine Thompson-Pistole kam. Es fühlte sich für Chris an, als ob ihre Gebärmutter neu positioniert wurde, während sie versuchte, Uwes eindrucksvollem Schwert aus dem Wege zu gehen. Uwes blaue Jeans färbten sich in ein dunkles Indigo, als sich ihr Ejakulat über sie ergoß. Ihre Brüste, die jetzt frei von Uwes Griff waren, schickten kurze Stöße von weißer Nachmilch im Rhythmus der Kontraktionen ihres Fötzchens über seinen Kopf. Uwe kam möglicherweise innerhalb von Sekunden, nachdem all das begann, aber bei der Menge Flüssigkeit, die hier war, war es schwer zu sagen, welche seine und welche ihre war. Alles, was er tun konnte, war durchzuhalten, sich selbst in seiner Muttersprache anschreiend, daß das alles war, was es jetzt in der Welt gab, während Chris sich selbst von ihm löste.

Als der letzte Orgasmus (Sechster? Achter? Wer zählt denn noch?) sich wie Lokomotive durch eine neblige Nacht eilend aus Chris entleerte, sah sie auf ihr Opfer herunter. Er lag bewegungslos da, die Augen fest geschlossen, seinen Mund weit offen. Er könnte für tot gehalten werden, wenn nicht sein keuchenden Atmen gewesen wäre. Er lallte etwas auf Deutsch, dann öffnete er die Augen, um Chris anzusehen. Dem Ausdruck auf seinem Gesichte nach war es klar, daß jetzt sterben könnte, ohne es zu bereuen.

Sie hatte einen solchen Ausdruck bei Jeremy nicht gesehen, seitdem sie anfingen, sexuell zu verkehren. Es begeisterte sie zuerst, dann stimmte es sie traurig, weil es sie zum Nachdenken anregte, daß vielleicht sie und Jeremy den Anfang vom Ende erreichten. Sie versuchte, nicht darüber nachzudenken. Stattdessen sagte sie: "Was hast du gesagt, Liebling?"

Er lächelte schwach: "Wenn der Putz steht, liegt der Sechsel in d'Erde."

"Das bedeutet?"

Uwe hielt inne, kämpfte mit der Übersetzung, als er sich aufsetzte und vergeblich versuchte, alles der Körperflüssigkeiten von seinem Gesichte und von seiner Bekleidung -- was davon übrig war -- zu wischen. Schließlich sagte er in einem sehr klaren Englisch: "Wenn der Schwanz aufrecht steht, geht der Verstand in den Boden."

Chris Trübsinn verschwand sofort und sie begann herzlich zu lachen. Die Bewegung diente dazu, die letzten Tropfen Milch aus ihren wippenden Brüsten zu schütteln. Dieser Satz muß ihr Mantra sein. War das nicht genau das Ding (jedenfalls die weibliche Entsprechung davon), das dafür gesorgt hatte, daß sie Sex mit einen ganz Fremden hatte, jetzt wie vor vielen Monaten auf der Halloweenparty? War Chris wirklich der Sklave ihrer Drüsen? Interessierte sie das?

Sie betrachtete das Durcheinander, daß sie aus dem Raum gemacht hatten und bemerkte plötzlich den Stapel Handtücher, der sauber gefaltet auf dem Stuhl lag. Ja, der Verstand geht auf jeden Fall in den Boden.

"Oh Gott, das ist nicht war.", sagte sie lachend und fiel auf Uwes wogende Brust und nahm ihm kurzzeitig die Luft.

Er erholte sich schnell.

Die anderen beiden Filme blieben an diesem Abend ungesehen.

[Leselampe]

Lactogenesis
Kapitel 33: Arbeitsbesprechung
Teil 1

Chris parkte vor Jeremys Haus (sie nannte es in ihrem Kopf noch immer „Anwesen“ -- sie konnte sich nicht an die Größe gewöhnen) zehn Minuten zu spät. Jeremy hatte eine Arbeitsbesprechung der Lak-Station für diesen Abend ziemlich kurzfristig einberufen, was ihm nicht ähnlich sieht. Es sieht ihm auch nicht ähnlich, die Besprechung im eigenen Hause abzuhalten. Ein Treffen aller sechs Mitarbeiter des Unternehmens ist sehr selten. aber wenn es passiert, war Chris gewöhnlicherweise die Gastgeberin, seit ihr umgewandeltes Gästezimmer als des Unternehmens Hauptquartier betrachtet wurde. Chris war nicht in der Lage, sich zu erklären, warum das so war, da Jeremy in seinem Haus verglichen mit Chris’ Wohnung, die im Vergleich klein war, so viel freien Raum hatte.

Chris war zu spät, weil sie noch eine Melksitzung beenden mußte, die länger dauerte, als sie dachte. Der Film, den sie währenddessen geguckt hatte, war ein recht gewalttätiger Thriller, der vieleicht ein paar emotionelle Reaktionen verursacht hatte, die kontraproduktiv zu gutem Milchfluß waren. Sie würde sich merken, daß sie zukünftig beruhigende Musik höre oder sich eine heitere Romanze oder einen heißen Pornofilm ansehe, wenn sie in Eile ist und ihre Brüste schnell entleeren muß.

Sie trabte die Treppen hoch (zu schnell -- ihre großen, ungestützten Brüste hüpften fast schmerzhaft) und klingelte die Türklingel, die eine Serie von tiefen, blechernen Tönen machte. Sie lächelte. Es schien nicht lange her zu sein, als das Drücken dieses Klingelknopfes eine Aufnahme einer schreienden Frau abspielte. „Wie viele Male war ich seit der Halloweenparty hier?“, fragte sie sich. Nicht sehr viele. Jeremy mag es gewöhnlicherweise zu mir zu kommen. Möglicherweise, weil ich besser ausgerüstet bin, um die Schweinerei, die wir normalerweise machen, zu bewältigen ...

Chris erwartete, Jeremys Willkommenslächeln hinter der Tür zu sehen and war überrascht, als eine Frau, die sie noch nie zuvor gesehen hatte, öffnete. An dem Gesichtsausdruck der Frau war zu sehen, daß sie Chris erkannte, aber sie schien nicht besonders erfreut darüber zu sein. Chris wußte sofort, daß sie im Nachteil war, aber hatte sich schnell unter Kontrolle. Sie erkannte, daß diese Frau die mysteriöse fünfte Frau sein mußte, die Jeremy eingestellt hatte, ohne die anderen vorher zu konsultieren, die Frau, die niemand in den etlichen Wochen, die seitdem vergangen waren, getroffen hatte, die Frau, über die Jeremy nicht reden wollte, auch wenn auf das Thema gedrängt wurde.

Nur ein paar Sekunden der Stille vergingen, in denen sich die Frauen gegenseitig musterten, aber in dieser kurzen Zeit lernte Chris eine Menge. Die mysteriöse Frau war recht klein, vielleicht nur 1,52 m, vielleicht sogar ein paar Zentimeter kleiner. Chris überragte sie. Sie sah aus als, als wäre sie Mitte 30. Sie hatte kurzgeschnittenes blondes Haar, das sich fest an ihren Kopf anschmiegte, fast wie eine Badekappe. Ihre Augen waren groß und fast türkisblau, mit der leichtesten Andeutung einer Mandelform, ihre Wangenknochen waren hoch und weit, ihr Mund schmal und dünnlippig. Ihre kleinen Ohren lagen auch fest an ihrem Kopf an. Sie war auf eine elfenhafte Art schön. Ihr Körper paßte zu ihrer Größe -- sie wog vielleicht 36 oder 40 kg. Ihre Hüften waren so schmal, fast wie bei einem Jungen, Brüste hatte sie kaum. Es sah wie übertriebene Brustmuskulatur aus. Recht markante Nippel zeigten durch den Stoff ihres weißen Kleides. Du meine Güte, dachte Chris. Hängt Flügel an dieses Mädchen und sie könnte Tinkerbell sein. Das ist es, denke ich, wie ich sie nennen werde.

“Komm herein, Chris.“, sagte Tinkerbell mit einer Stimme, die Chris erwartet hatte: Eine dünne und hohe Sopranstimme. „Der Rest von uns ist im Salon.“ Die Art, wie sie das letzte Wort sagte -- ein kleines Anzeichen eines französischen Akzents. Hmm. Was ist ihre Geschichte, dachte Chris. Wo hat Jeremy sie gefunden?

Tinkerbell führte Chris durch das Haus zu der geräumigen, hinten angeschlossenen Veranda, die sie „Salon“ genannt hatte. Sherri, Eleanor und Janine saßen zusammen auf einem großen, weichen Sofa, unterhielten sich liebenswürdig. Jeremy saß in einem großen, lederbedeckten Lounge-Sessel, der fast wie ein Thron aussah. Eine große Platte mit Canapés stand auf einem mit Messing verzierten Glastisch. Sherri und Janine tranken jeweils ein Glas Bier, Eleanor weißen Wein und Jeremy etwas, das wie Chapagner aussah. Ein zweites Glas Champagner stand auf einem kleinen Tisch neben seinem Sessel. Lippenstift war darauf. Tinkerbells.

Als Chris den „Salon“ betrat, lächelte Eleanor und nickte. Janine winkte kindisch mit einem großen Grinsen in ihrem Gesicht. Sherri stellte ihr Bier ab und schritt zu Chris hinüber und gab ihr eine große Umarmung, oder wenigstens eine so große Umarmung, wie es die beiden außerordentlichen Oberweiten erlaubten. „Da ist sie ja! Wie geht es dir, Süße? Weißt du, die einzige Sache, die ich bei diesem Job nicht mag, ist, daß ich zu beschäftigt bin, dich zu sehen. Dieser Kerl hält mich wirklich am Laufen. Oder sollte ich sagen: am Auslaufen!“ Sie lachte herzlich, was keine andere tat.

“Laßt uns beginnen, oder?“, sagte Jeremy in einen sehr geschäftlichen Ton. „Wir haben heute viel zu besprechen. In der Tat so viel, daß ihr, wenn ihr Pläne für später gemacht habt, diese besser jetzt absagt.“ Er zeigte auf das Telefon, das in der Nähe stand.

“Aber Jer, was ist mit meinem Termin heute abend?“, fragte Janine

“Keine Sorge. Darum habe ich mich schon gekümmert.“, sagte er barsch

“Aber wenn ich nicht ... weißt du ... Ich werde alles ...“

“Ich sagte, du sollst dich darum nicht sorgen, ich habe mich darum gekümmert.“, unterbrach Jeremy sie.

“Welche Laus ist ihm denn über die Leber gelaufen?“, fragte sich Chris.

“Scheiße, Jeremy, du weißt, heute ist mein freier Tag.“ sagte Sherri ungehalten.

“Ich weiß und ich werde es wiedergutmachen. Das hier ist zu wichtig.“

Eleanor ging zum Telefon und sagte mehr zu sich selbst als zu den anderen: „Ich sollte unser Au-Pair-Mädchen anrufen und ihr sagen, daß ich heute spät nach Hause komme, ihr sagen, daß sie das Baby füttern soll ... Wie lange, Jeremy?“

“Das weiß ich noch nicht.“

“Wunderbar.“ Eleanor blickte mürrisch drein und begann, die Nummer zu wählen.

“Wir haben vier Dinge auf der Agenda des heutigen Abends.“, sagte Jeremy. „Das erste ist recht trivial, deshalb werde ich es jetzt loswerden. Ich wollte euch allen das neue Firmenlogo zeigen.“ Er stand auf und ging hinter das Sofa, wo eine Staffelei aufgestellt war. Er nahm ein großes, stoffbedecktes Plakat, das auch dort stand, und stellte es auf die Staffelei. „Ein Freund von mir von Graphic Descriptions hat es erstellt.“ Aus dem Augenwinkel sah Chris, daß Tinkerbell lächelte und leicht nickte. Sie hatte sich auf dem Boden, am Fuße von Jeremys Sessel, niedergelassen und schlüfte ihren Champagner. Der Künstler war möglicherweise einer ihrer Stammkunden, der sich revanchierte, dachte Chris. Aber wer zum Teufel ist SIE?

Mit einer schwungvollen Bewegung zog Jeremy das das Plakat verdeckende Stück Stoff weg. Das enthüllte Logo hatte große weiße Buchstaben auf blauem Hintergrund. „DIE LAK-STATION, LTD.“ trompetete es in großen runden Blockbuchstaben. Darunter, in kleinerer Kursivschrift, stand: „Wenn es nur nach Art der Natur sein soll.“ Chris starrte darauf. Dann versuchte sie, sich das Lachen zu verkneifen, als sie bemerkte, daß die As von „LAK-STATION“ durch Milchflaschen ersetzt wurden (auf denen tatsächlich „Milch“ stand), und daß kleine gezeichnete Tröpchen Milch aus den Stämmen der Buchstaben „L“ und „M“ kommen.

Sherri kommentierte, wie zu erwarten war, als erste. „Herrgott , Jeremy.“, sagte sie spöttisch. „Du machst wohl Witze.“

Eleanor war die nächste: „Ich werde nicht eine Visitenkarte mit diesem Aufdruck mit mir herumttragen. Auf keinen Fall.“

Janine meldete sich zu Wort: „Ich finde das irgendwie süß.“

Jeremy sah Chris in Erwartung ihrer Meinung an. Ich kann ihm nicht sagen, wie lächerlich das aussieht, dachte sie. Ich will seine Gefühle nicht verletzten. „Ich weiß nicht.“, sagte sie zögernd. „Das sieht nicht wie ein Logo eines Unternehmens aus, das ernstgenommen werden will.“

Jeremy und Tinkerbell sahen sich lange an. Chris verstand die Bedeutung dieses Blickes so, daß die beiden schon für alle entschieden hatten, daß das Logo das Richtige sein werde. Sie hatten zweifellos keinen Widerstad erwartet. Jeremy sprach schließlich langsam: „Vielleicht hätte ich ihn noch daran arbeiten lassen sollen.“

Tinkerbell starrte ihn wütend an. Falsche Antwort, dachte Chris. Woher kommt das Weib, daß sie versucht, hier hineinzukommen? Warte einen Moment, warte einen verdammten Moment. Sie studierte Jeremys Gesicht, beurteilte sein Unbehagen und plötzlich traf sie die Erkenntnis wie ein Blitz. Er ist fötzchengesteuert. Chris schrie zu sich. Die Schlampe hat ihn komplett unter ihrer Kontrolle! Was zum Teufel geht hier vor? Wut, Enttäuschung, Traurigkeit -- alles überkam Chris auf einmal. Kein Wunder, daß sie Jeremy in letzter Zeit nicht oft gesehen hatte. Sie dachte, es wäre seine zwei Geschäfte, Immobilien und die Lak-Station, die ihn fernhielten. Plötzlich wußte sie den wahren Grund -- ihr Mann war in der Gewalt der kleinen Männerverarscherin, die einen Körper wie ein Junge und Haare wie ein Helm hatte.

“Das sieht wie etwas aus, was ein Kuriositätenladen benutzen würde.“, sagte Sherri ungeachtet des stillen Dramas vor ihr. „Ich stimme dagegen.“

“Ich werde daran denken, wenn das eine Demokratie wird.“ schoß Jeremy zurück. Sherris Augen weiteten sich. Sie hatte das nicht erwartet. „In Ordnung, laßt uns das erst einmal zurückstellen. Wir können dafür jetzt nicht noch mehr Zeit aufwenden.“ Er nahm das Plakat wieder herunter, dabei vermied er absichtlich Tinkerbells vernichtenden Blick, als ob sie versuchte, die Luft um ihn herum mit ihren beunruhigend schönen Augen einzufrieren.

Jeremy setzte sich in seinen Sessel zurück. Als er das tat, stand Tinkerbell auf und bewegte sich zu einem leeren Stuhl am anderen Ende des Raumes, nicht ohne ihr Glas zuvor gefüllt zu haben. Er versuchte, sie zu ignorieren, machte es aber nicht besonders gut. Chris konnte sehen, wie seine Körpersprache „Es tut mir leid.“ telegraphierte. Während er niemanden speziell ansah, sagte er: „Für den zweiten Punkt auf der Agenda möchte ich eure aktuellen Berichte über die verschiedenen Treffen, die ihr die letzten paar Wochen hattet, haben. Ihr wißt, ihr sollte die seltsamen Typen herausfinden, egal, ob wir jemanden aussortieren müssen oder nicht, egal, ob es euch noch Spaß macht, egal, ob viel vor sich geht oder nicht etc. etc. Ladys, es ist Zeit, Geschichten zu erzählen.“

Chris öffnete ihren Mund, um zu sprechen, aber Sherri schlug sie dabei. Sie stellte ihr Bier mit einem lauten Geräsuch auf den Tisch und sagte: „Oh, das machst Du nicht. Nicht so schnell, mein Freund. Ich bleibe keine Sekunde länger hier, es sein denn, es wird etwas geklärt.“ Sie drehte sich in ihrem Sitz, um Tinkerbell anzusehen und sprach sie direkt an: „Wer zum Teufel bist Du? Was machst Du hier und wie kommt es, daß es aussieht, daß du übernommen hast, ohne drei Worte zu reden?“

Gott segne dich, meine teure Freundin, dachte Chris.

Tinkerbell antwortete nicht anders, als Jeremy erneut einen wütenden Blick zuzuwerfen. Jeremy erhob sich aus seinem Stuhle, ging zu Tinkerbell hinüber und stellte sich hinter ihren Stuhl. „Natürlich, wie dumm von mir, sie nicht von Anfang an vorgestellt zu haben.“ Er legte beide Hände auf ihren Schultern ab. Sie verkrampfte, als er das tat. „Ladys der Lak-Station, erlaubt mir, euch Monique Marcoux vorzustellen. Eure neue stellvertretende Vorsitzende.“

[Leselampe]

Code: Alles auswählen

LACTOGENESIS XXXIV:

THE STAFF MEETING, PART TWO
 
   Despite her irritation at Jeremy, Monique managed a thin smile upon her
introduction to the rest of the staff of the Lac-Station. It was not
returned by any of them. The predominant emotion evident on most of the
faces was confusion; on Chris's it was open hostility.    "'Executive vice
president'? What do we need one of those for? We aren't IBM, for
Chrissake," Sherri said.    Eleanor joined in. "To bring in a total
stranger without consulting any of us and elevate her to a position of
such authority was rather presumptuous of you, Jeremy. If there is
indeed a need for such a position to be created, then the post should
clearly go to our co-founder, Christine." Chris, even through her anger,
was surprised. Eleanor was the last person she expected to come to her
defense.    "Yeah, what makes this Ms. Marcoux so qualified, besides the
fact that you're fucking her?" Sherri said venomously. Again Chris was
surprised; she thought she had been the only one to notice that aspect
of the situation.    "I'd appreciate it if you didn't talk about me like I
wasn't even in the room," Monique said. Chris immediately took note of
the fact that she made no move to deny the accusation.    "All right, calm
down, everybody," Jeremy said sternly. "One of the major reasons I
called you all here tonight was to make formal introductions. I didn't
want to make a big deal out of appointing Monique until we were sure it
was going to work out for her. The truth is, the Lac-Station has
succeeded beyond my wildest expectations. Even I had no idea how many
people have a thing for mother's milk. The demand for our services is
beginning to outstrip my ability to handle it. I'm sure you've certainly
noticed the steady rise in business." The women slowly nodded. Come to
think of it, it *has* been a while since I've had two nights in a row to
myself, Chris noted. I guess I've been having too much fun to notice how
hard I've been working on this. Her breasts actually tingled at the
thought.    Jeremy continued. "A couple of weeks ago I realized that I
needed somebody to take over for me. Now Chris, I want you to know that
you were the first person I considered for the job. But think about it
for a minute. First, it would require you to quit your job at the paper.
Would you want to do that?" Chris shook her head no. "I didn't think so.
Second -- and don't get pissed off -- you don't have the necessary
connections to make this work. I'm sorry, but you don't. You have to
have a kind of a dark side to make a business like ours run profitably,
and sweetheart, you have a naughty side, not a dark one. That's to your
credit."    Janine raised her hand. "Can I ask, then, what Monique's
qualifications are?"    "You may indeed," Monique said, rising from her
chair. "First of all, I've been a group leader with the cross-town
chapter of La Leche League for five years. I've also worked as a
lactation consultant at two hospitals and a free clinic during that
time. Up until about a year ago I also worked part-time in the very milk
bank that precipitated the formation of this company in the first place.
I think that qualifies me as an expert on the subject. Also, I have been
lactating for the past six years, even though my daughter was weaned
over three years ago. The simple fact is, I love the feeling of having
milk in my breasts; it makes me feel special, more... complete, perhaps
you'd say. In fact, I was getting worried that perhaps I was allowing
that aspect of my life to control my life to too great an extent. I was
finding myself excusing myself from my desk eight, ten, twelve times a
day to go express more milk, just for the rush I used to get from it. I
was concerned that I'd have to finally give it up, until I met Jeremy."
   What has this turned into, a meeting of "Lactators Anonymous"? Chris
wondered scornfully.    "How exactly *did* you meet?" Sherri asked.
   "Jeremy, resourceful fellow that he is, found out where several of us
meet for coffee after our LLL meetings," Monique explained. "He
approached our table, introduced himself, and began talking about the
Lac-Station. As he talked, I realized that it was exactly what I needed.
We talked about it over the course of several meetings, and about two
weeks ago he asked me to work for him."    "But why as executive VP?"
Eleanor asked    "Jeremy thought it would be a good idea if you had someone
you didn't know well take on the supervisory chores. Don't you agree
that it's usually more difficult to suddenly start taking orders from a
friend who's been promoted over you than it is to do so from a stranger
who comes in out of nowhere?" Chris had to admit she had a point. One
avoids a lot of resentment and loss of friendship that way.    "More
important than that, however," Jeremy added, "is that Monique has that
dark side that I mentioned earlier."    "That's right," Monique said, now
avoiding eye contact with the others. "It's not something I'm proud of,
but I think it'll help me help Jeremy run the company. I was -- and am -
- actually addicted to lactation, much as some people are addicted to
sex. At one point I was... excuse me, I didn't realize how difficult
this would be to say out loud... I was actually prostituting myself just
so that I could never lack for eager men to suck the milk out of my
breasts. It got to where I would do almost anything to feel that rush,
the tingle of the letdown, the release of the milk squirting out. I
began to develop some rather unsavory connections in what I now call my
'shadow world' to keep this going. As a result, I've learned a lot about
the secret desires -- yes, and perversions -- of the 'normal', everyday
person on the street. Jeremy seems to think this aspect of my
personality will help maintain a high level of activity for the
company."    "And my job will then be to act as a filter for the people
Monique brings to us," Jeremy quickly assured his staff. "I'll make sure
the true perverts, the criminal element, etc. never get through. I still
want the Lac-Station to be a high-class operation."    "Dammit, Jeremy, you
never let us have any fun," Sherri said sarcastically. She seemed to be
warming up to the situation.    "I'm not trying to take over, or bust up
what you have going here," Monique continued. "I'm hoping to be able to
help take us to the next level, that's all. I also hope to get to know
all of you better in the process. I really need this. All I'm asking for
is a chance and your cooperation." She sat down again, speech apparently
over.    "You *are* fucking him, aren't you?" Sherri asked point-blank.
   Before Monique could answer, Jeremy interjected, "That's none of your
goddamned business, Sherri."    "Okay, okay. Just curious. Easy there,
tiger," Sherri said soothingly. She aimed a wicked grin in Chris's
direction.    It's my business, though, Jeremy, Chris thought. She had to
restrain herself from saying that out loud. She didn't want to open that
particular can of worms at this time and place. This was something she
and Jeremy would have out privately later.    Janine, ever the camp
counselor, was determined to lighten the mood. "Well I for one am glad
to have another person on board. I was starting to spend too much time
away from my kid! Welcome, Monique." Her infectious good humor began to
spread among the others. Smiles began to appear. Monique relaxed
visibly.    "If you don't mind me saying, though," Janine went on, "you
don't really look like you could be making very much." She was referring
to Monique's figure, which more strongly resembled a barely pubescent
12-year-old than that of an actively lactating woman who had borne a
child. A quick review of the others showed them all to be fairly well
endowed. Sherri led the pack with her F-cup chest, followed closely by
Chris, who only looked as large because her breasts were extraordinarily
firm. Janine's rack was a solid 36D, while Eleanor's, although somewhat
smaller, was still fairly impressive. Monique sported mosquito bites by
comparison.    She only smiled. "That's a common misconception, Janine,"
she stated authoritatively. "People think that large-breasted women must
automatically make more milk. In reality, larger breasts usually contain
more fatty tissue, not necessarily any more glandular
structure...although from what Jeremy's told me, our own Christine is
probably a rare exception to that rule. Small breasts can make just as
much milk as large ones. They all respond to the law of supply and
demand. Since my personal demand is quite high, so has my output been.
You might be surprised to know that these can easily produce over 1500
cc per day."    Sherri snorted. "Bullshit," she said. "Those aren't big
enough to hold anything!"    Monique replied, "I probably empty my breasts
far more often than any of you. That's how I'm able to make as much as I
do. But you're right, Sherri, it doesn't take much for me to become
engorged. In fact," she said, looking down at herself, "all this talk
has got me going pretty well." Sure enough, the small swells under her
tight-fitting dress did look larger than they had when Chris had first
seen her. There might even be some dampness there, but it was difficult
to tell with the white material. She rose. "Will you excuse me for a
minute?"    Jeremy frowned. "You haven't forgotten the rest of the agenda,
have you?"    "Oh, for heaven's sake, don't worry, Jeremy," she said. "I'll
be full again in fifteen or twenty minutes."    "Hang on there a sec,"
Sherri said to Monique as she prepared to leave the room. "I don't know
about the rest of you, but I think we're being handed a tall tale here.
I just can't believe those itty bitty titties can make a drop, let alone
a quart. I'd like to see you express right here, in front of all of us."
   "Well, I don't know..."    "C'mon, La Leche leader. Don't you people do
this sort of thing all the time?"    Monique considered for a few seconds,
then sat down. She drained her champagne glass in one gulp, then said
with a smile, "All right. In the interest of better employee relations,
I'll do as you ask. Then will you get off my case, Sherri?"    "Deal."    "And
the rest of you. Would such a demonstration be sufficient to prove to
you that I am 'worthy'"? She said the last word while crooking her
fingers as if to simulate quotation marks.    All eyes in the room swung to
Chris. So it's up to me, huh? she thought. I could tell this girl to
screw off, but I can tell she's gotten under everybody else's skin. It
almost seemed to Chris as if their common bond of having milk-filled
tits had created a kind of sisterhood among the women in the room. This
must be why LLL is such a strong organization, she said to herself. I
wonder why I don't feel that connection to the others. She scanned the
others' faces. Jeremy's was practically pleading; Janine's and Eleanor's
were silently saying "We could use the help"; and Sherri's wore an
expression of "Oh, what the hell, why not". Monique's face held a look
of earnestness, of genuinely wanting to be a part of this group.
Suddenly Chris knew that she couldn't deny Monique that, even if she
were the person directly responsible for the growing chasm Chris knew
had formed between herself and Jeremy. She slowly nodded her assent.
   Monique smiled widely, showing her perfect teeth. Without another word,
she started wriggling out of the top of her dress.

[Leselampe]

Code: Alles auswählen

LACTOGENESIS XXXV:

THE STAFF MEETING, PART THREE
 
   Monique's dress was soon bunched about her waist. In sharp contrast to
the women sitting around her, her breasts could barely fill an A cup. It
was doubtful she had ever worn a bra in her life. Yet they seemed to fit
her diminutive frame perfectly; if she had been more heavily endowed, it
would've ruined the pixyish line of her figure. Her areolae were barely
darker than the surrounding skin which looked as if it had never seen
the sun. They were large for such small breasts, about three centimeters
in diameter. The most striking feature were the nipples, which were not
particularly long, even when erect as they were now, but which were
quite fat, almost as thick as a man's thumb. They were crisscrossed with
tiny fissures that were brimming with a liquid that was quite undeniably
mother's milk.    Monique showed no hesitation in baring her breasts before
a group of strangers. Chris suspected that such activity occupied a
substantial part of Monique's waking hours. I must try to sneak into a
La Leche League meeting sometime, she thought. I wonder if this kind of
thing goes on during them as well.    Monique held her empty champagne
glass under one breast. With the other hand, she stretched the skin on
either side of one areola, then pressed inward toward her chest wall
while squeezing and rolling her fingers and thumb forward. What little
breast was there was so incredibly firm that her fingers hardly dented
the tissue. The other women gasped as an amazingly thick stream
(actually the consolidation of at least a dozen tinier streams) of milk
gushed into the glass, filling it almost an eighth of the way just from
that one squeeze. She had to repeat the motion only a few more times
from each breast before the glass was completely full, and even then it
was clear from the rate at which her nipples continued to drip that
Monique herself was nowhere near empty.    When Chris could tear her eyes
away from Monique's display, she noted with some amusement that every
other woman in the room except herself had their forearms pressed
tightly against their bosoms in a classic move designed to stave off an
uncontrolled letdown reflex. Monique's squirting had undoubtedly
triggered a similar response in each of them. Chris, of course, had the
advantage of superior subconscious control of her reflex. She did notice
a little more fullness in her own tits, however.    When the other women
finally noticed their collective reaction, they all began laughing. It
was as if all the girls sharing an apartment suddenly realized that
their periods were synchronized. In that moment the bond among them
strengthened. Monique instantly ceased to be an outsider as she laughed
with them. Even Chris was not fully immune to the effect she was having
on the group.    Sherri, who was clearly aroused from this (Chris
remembered that hers had been the only other set of lactating breasts
Sherri had ever seen besides her own), whistled and slowly shook her
head. "I'm ready for a piece of humble pie, girl. I would never have
thought in a million years that those little things could make so much.
How is it possible?"    "My doctor tells me that I have an unusually dense
concentration of glandular tissue in my breasts," Monique replied as she
casually dabbed her nipples dry with a napkin and began pulling up her
dress. "In fact, my breasts are almost all gland. Very little fatty
tissue. That's why my nips are so big -- there are a lot of ducts that
connect to them." She offered the glass. "Anyone care to taste?" There
were no takers, so Monique promptly drank her milk herself. Eleanor's
lip curled slightly in disgust. "That's why I've never considered
implants. There's so much intricate plumbing and innervation in there
that any attempt at surgery would probably sever the necessary
connections and dry me up for good, and I wouldn't like that." She stole
a quick wink at Jeremy, who smiled back.    Chris suddenly understood how
Jeremy could prefer Monique to herself. Her tiny stature made Jeremy,
who was small himself, feel taller. Jeremy was also absolutely obsessed
with lactating women -- he wouldn't have started the Lac-Station
otherwise. While Chris enjoyed her special talent very much, it was not
something that controlled her life. Although it had enriched her sex
life immensely, she knew she could live without it. One of the side
effects of The Accident had been her ability to completely control her
ability to lactate, down to shutting it down completely if she wanted to
(although she hadn't tried to do that for quite some time). As a result,
Chris never felt as if her breasts ran her life. Monique's very
existence, on the other hand, appeared to rotate about her milky boobs.
No wonder Jeremy was so enamored of her. Chris's anger toward Jeremy
gradually melted into indifference, perhaps tinged with a little pity.
There is more to life than milk, she thought. These poor people don't
seem to know that. I wonder if Jeremy could ever get off with a woman
who wasn't lactating. Probably not. For Monique's part, I'd be willing
to bet that she's one of those women that, if she were ever diagnosed
with breast cancer, would rather die than have a mastectomy. They're
made for each other. In that moment, Chris realized that her affair with
Jeremy was over. She was mildly surprised to be feeling relief rather
than sadness. It had been that way with Carl, too.    When she snapped out
of her reverie, Chris realized that the meeting had gone on without her.
The others were regaling the group with reports of recent encounters
with their various clients. Eleanor started off, speaking with pride
about her experience wet-nursing an infant who had recently had surgery
to correct a cleft palate. Its mother had been unable to keep her own
milk going while the baby recovered. Despite its disadvantage, the
little boy had thrived from Eleanor's rich milk. Chris smiled when she
spotted Sherri fidgeting. Her body language was clearly saying "Fine,
fine. Now let's get on to the juicy parts."    Sherri didn't have to wait
long. Janine was next. Her most recent assignment had been as a private
dancer for a bachelor party. The young men in question were the spoiled
progeny of very well-to-do parents.
 They lived in a very exclusive fraternity house of a private university
outside of town.

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LACTOGENESIS XXXVI:

THE RELUCTANT ONE

   Jeremy finished scribbling a few notes and set his
pad aside to address the group.  "I realize that the
assignments over the last few weeks have been, shall we
say, tedious to say the least."  Sherri snorted.  "I have
just received a new assignment that involves all of you,
and it's one I think you'll all get a kick out of."
   "It's about goddam time," Sherri said in her
inimitable fashion.  Chris silently echoed her
sentiments.  She had told herself at the outset that she
would be involved with the company for only as long as it
was still fun.  Lately it hadn't been, and she was on the
verge of quitting.  She had decided that tonight would be
Jeremy's last chance to inject a little fun into the
proceedings; perhaps now that chance had come.
   "Shall we cut to the chase, Jeremy dear?" said
Eleanor.
   "Let me state at the outset that the coffers of our
little enterprise will be increased by a hefty five-digit
figure tonight," Jeremy said gleefully.  "Our new client
is of the kind who hires people to wipe her ass with
hundred-dollar bills."
   "A woman, then?" Eleanor said.
   "Yes.  She's here tonight, in fact, in another part
of the house, waiting for this meeting to end.  I can
tell you nothing about her except that she is a well-
known figure in the entertainment business -- well enough
known that she wishes to keep her identity a secret, so
she'll be wearing a veil when you meet her, and she won't
speak at all.  I don't want to hear so much as a snicker
out of any of you about that, clear?"  He was looking
directly at Sherri, who shrugged assent.  "She told me
she'd thought she'd done just about everything sexual
there is to do, so she was practically falling over
herself to contact us when she heard of our service. 
What she's proposed for tonight is quite...unique, shall
we say.  I think it could end up being our crowning
achievement so far."
   "Wait a minute," Eleanor said.  "Did you say
tonight?  She wants to do whatever this is tonight?" 
Jeremy nodded.  "Jeremy, you know how I feel about this
sort of thing.  I don't do kink, and you know it.  I'm
leaving right now."  She stood up.  So did Jeremy.
   "Don't you dare," Jeremy said, a pleading note
creeping into his voice.  "The deal is for all of us, or
none.  If you leave, you'll be responsible for losing us
a hell of a lot of money, as well as tarnishing our
reputation from here to kingdom come.  This woman knows
everybody!"
   "I don't care!  I don't like you bringing us here
under false pretenses!  This is not why I joined this
group!"
   "There weren't any false pretenses!  I told you
earlier to cancel your plans for tonight, and you all
agreed to do so, even you, Eleanor. Please, it's not that
kinky anyway!  It's not like she's asking us to bite the
heads off bats or anything like that."
   "What exactly are we being asked to do, Jeremy?"
Chris asked calmly but with ice in her voice.
   "Throw her a shower," Jeremy said.  "Literally."
   That took a couple of seconds to sink in.  Then: 
"Oh, my God," from Eleanor, Sherri, and Janine
simultaneously.
   "That's sick," said Eleanor.
   "Far fucking out," said Sherri.
   "Cool," said Janine.
   "I have to admit, it sounds like fun," said
Monique.
   Chris was pleasantly surprised at her own reaction. 
It was immediate and visceral, as if someone had planted
an electrode directly into the pleasure center of her
brain and sent several volts through it.  She was
reminded of the early days of her metamorphosis, when the
hormonal cascade precipitated by her damaged pituitary
gland was bombarding her unacclimated body with a flood
of new sensations, most of them thrilling.  She
remembered how, when faced with a new sexual situation,
her reaction had been just like this instead of one of
uncertainty or disgust, as it would have been before The
Accident modified that aspect of her personality.  Over
the following year, as her experience base grew, that
primal rush, the feeling in her gut and pussy and breasts
that she had likened to what one feels in the pit of
one's stomach when zooming down a roller coaster, had
happened less and less frequently, until she had almost
forgotten what it was like.  Upon hearing the mystery
client's proposal, however, that old sensation resurfaced
like a bubble bursting as her endocrine system poured a
fresh batch of the hormones of arousal into her
bloodstream.  It was enough to make her forget the
negative emotions that had weighed heavily on her since
her revelation concerning Jeremy and Monique earlier that
evening.  Her enhanced libido decided it was time to have
some fun.  What was it Uwe had said?  Wenn der Putz
steht...  For Chris, it was definitely time for the
female equivalent.
   A memory of she and Sherri playing in her shower,
squirting milk all over each other while giggling in
orgasmic bliss, prompted a familiar dampening in her
crotch and a rush of blood to her tingling breasts.  She
vigorously nodded her approval of the mystery client's
proposal.
   Now all that was left was to change Eleanor's mind. 
Chris knew what button to push.  "You say it's sick, but
you don't mean that at all," she told her.  "In fact,
I'll bet you're more turned on by the idea than any of
the rest of us."
   "That's absurd.  I find the very idea repulsive." 
Eleanor's voice dripped with revulsion, but she made no
second move to leave.  Chris took that to indicate that
she'd struck a nerve, so she proceeded.
   "Then why did you join us in the first place?"
   "To help the women and children who were being
cheated by the milk bank."
   "That's the reason you're most comfortable with,
but it's not the main one."
   "What are you talking about?"
   "You were our first client, Eleanor.  I still
remember your reaction when I first began to suckle your
son that night at your house.  You were the very picture
of control, but as my own excitement grew, I could tell
that you too were extremely aroused by what you were
seeing.  Your husband was creaming his pants, and you saw
the look on his face and it turned you on.  When I
accidentally squirted all over your carpeting, your own
letdown kicked in and soaked your blouse.  You pretended
to get all huffy about it, but I could see it in your
face -- you were close to coming yourself.  The truth is,
Eleanor, that you joined us because you loved that
sensation and wanted more.  You wanted to escape the
plain-vanilla sexual existence you felt trapped in. 
That's why you didn't let yourself dry up in order to go
on playing your social butterfly role.  You saw in me the
sensual side of lactating and wanted it for yourself. 
You've been waiting for an opportunity like the one
Jeremy's just given you, but your white-bread upbringing
is getting in the way."  Chris could tell by the deep
flush spreading upward from Eleanor's throat that her
words were hitting home.  She decided to be less
adversarial.  "You're with us, Eleanor.  It's okay to let
go a little.  We're all together in this; we share the
common experience.  Everything we discuss, everything we
do here is held in the strictest confidence."  She stared
at Jeremy during this last sentence, her glare saying,
Isn't that right, Jeremy?  He nodded in response.
   Chris crossed the room to sit next to Eleanor,
whose hands were now fumbling about in her lap.  She was
clearly undergoing the classic internal conflict which
the media so often depicts as an angel on one shoulder
and a devil on the other.  Chris lowered her voice to a
conspiratorial whisper.  "I'll bet that since you've kept
your milk, sex with your husband has never been better,
isn't that right?"  Eleanor nodded yes.  "You feel more
in touch with your body now, don't you?"  Another nod. 
"Not too long ago I was just like you, afraid to try new
things.  It took an altercation with a car to broaden my
horizons.  It'll be tougher for you, but the rewards are
definitely worth it.  Your improved relationship with Mr.
Overstreet is a step in that direction.  Woman does not
live by superego alone, you know.  You've got to let that
id out once in awhile, or you'll just explode."  Chris
patted Eleanor's hand.  "And if that's not enough
incentive, just think of how this'll supplement that next
trip to Neiman-Marcus."  That got a weak smile.
   "It's not like I'd be cheating on my husband,"
Eleanor said.
   "Probably no more than your husband's getting into
a circle jerk would be considered cheating on you,"
Sherri interjected.  A puzzled look from Eleanor caused
her to add, "I'll explain that term later."
   Eleanor looked at Chris.  Her face was now so red
from embarrassment that she almost looked sunburned. 
"I'll admit that the idea has its appeal," she confessed. 
"I just didn't want anybody to think I was a pervert or
anything."
   The other women smiled, and Chris said, "Do you see
any of the rest of us bolting for the door?  How can
perversion exist where all are of the same mind?"
   This last bit of logic appeared to cement the
argument.  Eleanor looked up from her lap as the redness
drained out of her face.  She turned to Jeremy and said,
"Well, love, how is this supposed to go?"
   Impulsively the others leapt up from their seats
and rushed to give Eleanor a group hug.  Jeremy slapped
his knee and exclaimed, "That's my girl!"  When the
mutual displays of affection had subsided, Jeremy said,
"Our client is waiting in the spa at the rear of the
house.  I've drained the jacuzzi to a little less than
knee-deep.  That's where we'll be.  Everybody ready?" 
Enthusiastic nods and murmurs in the affirmative.  Jeremy
picked up a house phone, dialed an extension, and after a
few moments said simply, "We're on our way."  He hung up,
stood up, and gestured toward the door.  As the women
filed out, Chris felt Eleanor take her hand and squeeze
tightly.  She squeezed back reassuringly, as much to
quiet the butterflies in her own stomach as in Eleanor's. 
She felt her breasts heat up with a fresh supply of milk
as she packed her own superego away for the night and
prepared to let the id monster out to play.


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LACTOGENESIS XXXVII:

THE PREPARATION
 
 The five women of The Lac-Station walked down a long hallway toward the
back of Jeremy's huge home, with Jeremy himself leading the pack. As
they walked they exchanged excited speculations about who their mystery
client might be and what exactly they would be asked to do to earn the
five-digit sum Jeremy had mentioned they would be paid this night.
Eleanor remained mute, her grip still tight on Chris's hand. This small
crowd exuded excitement; one could almost smell the pheromones in the
air or the sweet warm smell of the milk that had already begun leaking
from several of their breasts in response to the mutually elevated
hormone levels they were all experiencing. It was as if their separate
endocrine systems were galvanizing into a single entity that would
synchronize their upcoming actions and transform them into a unified,
purely sexual being. Even Jeremy was not immune to this; he was as
aroused as he could ever remember being, and was having trouble walking
because of the tumescence in his crotch that was so intense that it had
actually become painful. He was the victim of a chemical siren song that
his body was finding impossible to resist.
 They reached a part of the house that was all tile and light colors.
Jeremy indicated a door. "Through there is the locker room and showers.
Our client has requested that you all disrobe and shower there, then put
on the robes she's left for you and go through the door at the far end.
I'll join you in the room beyond. Don't take too long!" He winked,
turned on his heel and continued off down the hallway.
 Sherri pushed open the door and the rest followed her in. They entered
a miniature version of a well-appointed shower/locker room like one
might find in an upscale health club. At the front was a changing area
with roughly a dozen lockers, padded benches, and an area with two sinks
and a large mirror (fogged over at the moment). At the rear was a large
open shower area with four gold-plated shower heads, two on each facing
wall. The walls glittered with a mosaic of tiny turquoise and white
tiles flecked with gold leaf. The air was warm and thick with humidity;
it smelled lightly of disinfectant. The lockers were assigned, so each
went to her own and opened it. Inside each found a thick white towel, a
fluffy floor-length white terrycloth robe, a pair of sandals, hangers
for their clothing, and a small case containing various toiletries, each
tailored to the individual taste of their owner.
 Sherri whistled. "Man, whoever this is sure did her homework." She held
up two small bottles from her toiletry case. "These are my favorites!"
 "Feel these robes!" Janine marveled. "I'd love to cuddle up next to a
fire dressed in nothing but this."
 "I'm sure you'll have that chance," Chris said. "Let's not keep our
benefactor waiting, shall we?" The high humidity caused Chris to want to
get out of her restricting garments, so she began disrobing. The others
followed suit. As they finished removing their last vestiges of
undergarments, something made them all stop cold. They realized that
this was the first time they had all seen each other in a state of total
undress. They gazed in mutual admiration at each other. To a woman their
skins were flushed with their arousal; their pussies glistened with
moisture; and nipples were erect and in most cases tipped with a droplet
of milk.
 "My goodness, will you look at us!" Janine said.
 "Indeed, I am impressed," Monique added.
 This gathering was indeed one of superlative feminine architecture. The
added bonus of their all becoming engorged only added to the splendid
combination of curves and hollows. Breasts thrust out proudly, stretched
tight with the liquid within; shapely buttocks tensed with excitement.
Seeing themselves naked had only served to kick the level of arousal in
the room up a notch.
 Chris walked into the shower, her own fantastic breasts so full and
hard that they didn't jiggle one iota with the slapping of her bare feet
on the tiled floor. She went from one shower head to the next, turning
them all on and directing the sprays toward the center of the room. Soon
steam filled the area. The women ran headlong into the downpour,
giggling as the needle-hard streams struck their bodies, which had been
made sensitive by their arousal.
 Instead of soap, small crystal bottles filled with a golden liquid sat
in the soap trays. Chris poured the contents of one into her hand, and
instantly a warm, earthy, wonderful smell greeted her. The lotion's odor
was like that of wildflowers crushed beneath and mixed with the juices
of a couple wildly fucking in a green secluded meadow in early summer.
As she rubbed it into her skin, the fluid erupted into clouds of thick
lather that felt like liquid silk. The feel and smell of it had a strong
aphrodisiac effect; Chris felt her skin grow more sensitive to her touch
as she lathered herself up. She felt herself begin stroking her breasts
and pussy, but she also felt oddly detached, as if someone else were
controlling her hands. The effect was scary and incredibly erotic at the
same time. She couldn't help but go with it.
 The mysterious potion was having the same effect on the others. They
had their heads thrown back and eyes closed as their hands roamed over
their bodies, turning the lotion into foam. Soon hands began moving from
their own bodies to others, and within moments all five women were
exploring each other with their fingers. As the rushing water rinsed
away the lather, mouths fell upon the newly exposed skin, licking and
kissing, occasionally playfully nipping. Hands caressed breasts, teasing
nipples and coaxing the occasional spurt of milk from them. Fingers
separated labia, briefly sliding across erect clits and causing their
owners' thighs to quiver and jerk involuntarily. A chorus of moans
formed a rich polyphony that reverberated from the hard walls of the
room. The warm water was causing many of the women to let down their
milk; it flowed and even sometimes spurted from their hard nipples,
mixing with the water and often disappearing onto an outstretched
tongue.
 Soon Janine had Chris in a tight embrace, her hands each firmly
gripping a buttock, her face lost in the expanse between Chris's
breasts. Her muffled cries of disbelief at her own horniness were lost
in the sound of the rushing water and the moans of her colleagues. One
of Chris's hands was firmly ensconced in Sherri's pussy, capturing her
clit between her fingers; the other was doing the same to Monique.
Sherri and Monique were leaning across Janine's back, wildly French-
kissing while their trembling hands tugged and twisted each other's
nipples, sending jets of milk across Janine's body that were quickly
washed away. Eleanor flitted around the outside of this tight knot of
squirming pulchritude, stealing kisses and caresses, licking or stroking
any projection or orifice that would come into view, all the while
masturbating with abandon.
 The groans, laughs, and shrieks of their mutual passion rose to a
crescendo that drowned out even four shower heads at full blast. Five
women came, amazingly, at exactly the same moment, for a few seconds
almost mimicking the Buckingham Fountain as milk shot from their nipples
and juice flowed down their legs. In Chris's case, the water on the
floor beneath her was completely displaced by her ejaculate, which must
have been a record for sheer volume. Their orgasms (or was it a single,
achingly drawn-out one shared by them all?) fed off of each other --
each woman was even more turned on by the sights and sounds of passion
emanating from the others, and so their cumming continued far beyond
their normal experience, until they collapsed in a heap on the shower
floor, gasping for air and coughing as water found its way into their
open mouths.
 Chris was first to recover. "I knew we were horny, but this was beyond
horny," she panted. "I never believed in aphrodisiacs before, but I'm
willing to bet that whatever is in those bottles is the real thing. I
felt completely out of control of myself as soon as that stuff touched
my skin."
 Eleanor nodded her agreement. "I never act that way. I felt like
something had taken over my body. Something wonderful, I might add."
 "I hope our client will let us take some of this stuff home," Janine
said, as she fingered one of the exquisitely carved bottles.
 "I would use it very sparingly, if I were you," Monique said. "We
emptied all the bottles, and look what it did to us."
 "I think we've kept the lady waiting more than long enough," said
Sherri, pulling her wet hair back out of her face. "Even with what we
just did, I can't wait to get in there." She pointed to a door at the
far end of the shower room whose outline was just barely visible in the
pattern of the tiled wall.
 They turned off the showers and padded back to the locker area, their
bodies dripping with water and a little milk, their skins reddened by
the heat of the shower and the aftereffects of the aphrodisiac lotion.
As they toweled themselves off, they continued giving each other looks
of affection and admiration of each others' assets -- no doubt a
lingering effect of the lotion as well. On impulse Janine stretched her
hand into the center of the room in the gesture sports teams use before
going out onto the field. One by one the women put their hands one atop
the other into the center of the circle, which they then broke with an
enthusiastic yell.
 They hurriedly donned their robes and sandals, dabbed their pulse
points and cleavage with their individual perfumes and, with Sherri in
the lead, tentatively and with almost palpable excitement walked through
the shower area and opened the tiled door to the room beyond.

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LACTOGENESIS XXXVIII:

THE MYSTERY CLIENT, PART ONE
 
 The room into which they walked was small and cubical. Every surface
was covered with the same turquoise, white, and gold tiling as was in
the shower room. The main feature here was the jacuzzi, which was large,
round, deep, and recessed into the floor. Several levels of concentric
steps, wide enough to sit on, ringed the tub, which was only partially
filled. The jets were turned off. The air hung heavy with steam. It was
imbued with the odor of the aphrodisiac lotion, at just above the level
of detectability. As the women filed in silently, the vapor tickled
their brainstems just enough to restore their previous level of arousal.
Chris rolled her eyes when she felt her genitals and breasts start
tingling again, despite her best efforts to use her mental control to
suppress it. What are we letting ourselves in for? she asked herself.
 Seated on cushions in the two far corners of the room were Jeremy and
the mystery client. They were both dressed in the same white robes and
sandals as the women. Jeremy smiled at them as they took seats along the
top step, completely encircling the jacuzzi. The client was sitting
rigidly in lotus position. Her head was completely covered with a wide-
brimmed white hat below which hung a dense white veil, gathered at her
throat, that totally obscured her facial features. The adornment looked
completely out of place among the bath attire everyone was wearing.
 Chris tried to keep from giggling. The woman looked like a beekeeper.
How the hell can she see or breathe in that thing? she thought.
 Despite of or because of its appearance, it was a perfect disguise.
There was no way any of them could even tell their client's hair color.
For now the voluminous robe hid her body well enough to not give
anything away. The client could be Dolly Parton and they wouldn't be
able to tell.
 The women sat quietly while Jeremy outlined the "rules". It was all
right for them to talk amongst themselves, but they were not to ask the
client any direct questions. They would allow the client to touch any
part of their bodies, but they were not to touch her unless she
specifically requested through Jeremy that they do so. There were to be
no attempts to reveal her identity. Jeremy would remain in the room to
answer any questions or clarify any of the client's desires. Evidently
he and the client had worked out a series of signals ahead of time.
 "And now if you would, ladies," said Jeremy, "Please remove your
clothing and stand in a circle in the jacuzzi."
 They did as they were asked. They stood facing each other in their
glorious nakedness, nipples tight, skin beading with new moisture, the
aphrodisiac roiling in their nostrils and stimulating the most primal
areas of their brains. They tried to read the expressions in each
others' faces. Eleanor and Monique were standing almost at attention,
their chests rising and falling almost in unison with rapid breathing.
Janine was fidgeting like someone waiting for her doctor to come in and
start an examination, but she was smiling. Sherri was so worked up that
the muscles in her thighs were quivering; milk was already beginning to
run from her distended nipples, dripping into the water around her
shins.
 Chris was experiencing mixed emotions: certainly strong arousal, but
that was induced; curiosity about the client; exhilaration at the
newness of it all; but there was also an undercurrent of humiliation, of
feeling as if she were reduced to being a slave to this mystery woman's
every whim. She had never had to be this submissive before, and though
most of her didn't like it, a small part of her was enjoying it because
it was a new aspect of her sexuality -- and discovering new aspects was
one of the main reasons why she had decided way back at her first visit
to Dr. Sheila's office to retain her ability to lactate rather than have
her initiate treatment to dry her up.
 For what seemed like several minutes the client did not move or make
any sign of even being conscious. The women began glancing at each
other: why isn't anything happening? Let's get this show on the road,
said Chris silently. She was having to use her mental control to keep
her over-full breasts from becoming uncomfortable. Then she realized
that this was what the client was waiting for -- she wanted to make sure
that everyone was full of milk to bursting before beginning. She was
waiting for whatever weird chemicals she had put into the air to
complete their work on the women's bodies. The others weren't faring as
well as Chris. Some of them were beginning to use the palms of their
hands to wipe away errant drops of milk that were appearing at the tips
of their seemingly spring-loaded nipples. Sherri was flowing freely now,
twin rivulets of milk running down her stomach and legs. Her arousal was
so intense that she looked as if her legs would give out any minute as
she fought to keep her hands away from her enflamed clit.
 Evidently the client realized Sherri's predicament, for she chose that
moment to stand and slowly walk down into the center of the circle. She
did a slow 360, facing each woman in turn, then opened her robe and let
it drop into the water. Her skin was a bronze color, not quite a deep
tan, but clearly darker than any of the others'. She appeared to be
about 5'5". She had a body that spoke of hours in the gym and a
percentage of fat in the single digits, with muscles that almost could
define her as a bodybuilder. Her breasts were of moderate size and stuck
straight out from her body. Tiny lines along the lower half of deep
brown areolae indicated implant surgery. No tan lines were evident. Her
buttocks were of carved granite, adorning hips very wide for the wasp-
waisted torso that rose from them. A wide gap showed between her lithe
thighs. Her smooth cunt looked as if it had never had hair. Her clit was
so large and erect that it almost looked like a tiny penis. A small gold
ring pierced it right through the middle. It was flushed deep red and
stood out proudly from its hood and the surrounding labia, which also
sported gold rings. This was one turned-on lady.
 Janine and Eleanor raised their hands to cup their laden breasts. "No,
not yet," Jeremy said, and they lowered them again. The client went
clockwise around the circle, closely examining each of them in turn. Her
fingers, adorned with long nails (some set with small jewels) traced
their jawlines and collarbones, gently circumnavigated breasts,
collected droplets of milk from the tips of nipples, traced the V formed
by thighs and crotch, toyed with ringlets of pubic hair.
 When she reached Sherri, she tarried a bit longer. She traced a webwork
of patterns over Sherri's quivering body, causing her breathing to come
in shudders. She crouched in front of Sherri, leaning so close that
Sherri could feel her breath on her hot cunt through the veil. She
reached around to cup Sherri's buttocks and trace a finger along the
crack of her ass, down to where she dipped into the moisture of Sherri's
honey pot. She stood and wiped the finger along a dent in the veil that
marked her mouth. "Oh, for the love of God," Sherri whispered, her eyes
pleading for release. The client seemed to understand. She reached down,
clamped her hands onto Sherri's weeping nipples, and pulled hard,
lifting the pendulous breasts clear from her body, rolling the nipples
as she pulled. Sherri immediately let out a long groan and came, her
knees wobbling from the impact of her orgasm and her hands trembling as
she fought to keep from pulling the client into an embrace.
 The client lifted her hands, whose palms were laced with Sherri's milk,
to her face and inhaled deeply. One hand moved toward her cunt, but
stopped halfway. It was clear that she was not immune from the effects
of the vapor either.
 After a few minutes of examining the others, the client moved toward
Chris. She stood before her, then glanced over her shoulder and gestured
at Jeremy in a complicated movement. "She wants you to know that she
thinks your body is absolutely magnificent," he translated. Indeed, it
sounded from inside the veil as if the client's breathing had quickened
slightly. Her hands hovered over Chris's incredible breasts, her flat
hard stomach, her voluptuous but still-slim frame that had been sculpted
by the miraculous combination of hormones her own body had produced as a
result of The Accident. Chris was intrigued by the fact that the client
did not touch her, but it seemed as if her own arousal were being
intensified almost more than if she had. The client's slender hands were
so close to Chris's breasts that they could feel the other's body heat,
but still there was no contact. Suddenly she straightened and dropped
her arms to her sides. Although it was difficult to tell through the
veil, it appeared as if she were looking straight ahead, eyes closed,
chin tilted upward slightly. It also looked as if someone had hit her
"off" switch. She was completely immobile.
 Chris took that opportunity to lean in close, trying hard to peer
through the dense cloth. She could hear air hissing in and out of flared
nostrils, but even at a distance of a few centimeters she could not make
out any features of the client's face.
 "What am I supposed to do now?" Chris asked Jeremy.

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LACTOGENESIS XXXIX:

THE MYSTERY CLIENT, PART TWO
 
 At Chris's words, the client emerged from her mannequin-like state and
made a few more gestures to Jeremy. Chris wondered if she were speaking
in sign language.
 "She wants you to touch her as you saw her touch the others," Jeremy
said. "Use a gentle touch, and don't get too carried away."
 The former request would be no problem, but the latter might prove to
be one. Now that the client stood only inches away from her, Chris could
detect a higher level of the aphrodisiac scent, as if she were using it
as a perfume. Chris's breasts began to ache as her glands fought to
produce even more milk against the pressure that was already inside
them. She wasn't used to that sensation, since she had always been able
to keep her production level under tight mental control prior to this.
She winced as her nipples, already at maximum erection, tried to become
even harder. She could feel her cunt juice flowing freely down the
insides of her thighs as she hovered on the edge of orgasm without even
having been touched.
 Chris began tracing the curves and lines of the client's body as she
had seen her do with the others, using a touch just barely perceptible.
The client remained as motionless as she could, but Chris could detect a
faint trembling under her goose-pimply skin. As she used her fingers to
trace circles around the margin of the client's artificially enhanced
bosom, she was amazed to actually feel it swell beneath her touch.
Fascinated, Chris continued to caress the client's breasts, watching
them slightly inflate and become flushed until they were roughly a cup
size larger than they had been when she started. The nipples were also
amazing; under Chris's touch they had grown to an incredible size--
almost the length of her pinky from second knuckle to tip, and about as
big around. They pointed not straight outward from the surrounding
breast, but downward, as if they had been trained to do so by having
weights hang from them. Chris wondered absently if that were indeed the
case; she wouldn't put anything past this veiled mystery woman.
 At one point, as Chris lightly traced the client's collarbone and
progressed upward along her throat, the woman must have thought Chris
would try to unveil her, for as Chris's hands fluttered upward along her
neck, the client's own hands flashed out and took Chris's forearms in an
iron grip, jerking them away from her. Chris was shocked by the strength
in the woman's hands and the pain of her grip, which felt as if it would
crack the bones in her arm. She heard a soft whimper escape her own lips
and felt her knees buckle slightly. Chris's level of arousal remained
high despite the pain, making her wonder through the haze that washed
over her brain whether that was due to a heretofore unrealized streak of
masochism within her or just the aphrodisiac continuing to wield its
chemical influence over her glands.
 "Hey!" Chris yelped. "I wasn't trying to see who you were! Honest to
God!" The client's grip did not lessen. "You're hurting me! Jeremy!"
 "That's enough!" she heard Jeremy shout. "She was only carrying out
your instructions!" The pain in Chris's arms lessened only slightly.
Chris heard Jeremy rise from his cushion and begin moving toward them,
with the intent to physically remove the client if need be. He was
heedless of the fact that such an action would probably end the
evening's events then and there with no money changing hands. Chris
looked up at the client's covered face, read her body language, and
realized that the woman was in the throes of an intense, silent orgasm!
As it began to fade, so did her grasp.
 "Jeremy, stop! It's all right," said Chris as the client released her
wrists, allowing her to stand up straight. Another two seconds and it
would have been too late. Chris rubbed her arms, where white streaks
that marked where the client's fingers had been were already turning
red.
 The client turned to Jeremy, who now stood directly behind her, and
made a complex gesture. Again Jeremy translated. "She's just indicated
that she is now sufficiently turned on for us to continue. Ladies, take
your positions, please."
 The client moved back into the center of the circle and stood with legs
spread and her arms extended above her head. The woman was so aroused
that it was actually possible to see her accelerated pulse in the
vibrations of the ring that pierced her clit. The five women surrounding
her moved closer, to within two feet or so, and cupped their breasts,
pointing ten swollen milk spigots at the client.
 After what seemed like forever, the client nodded once, quickly. Jeremy
also did so. Sherri immediately planted her index and middle finger of
each hand on either side of her areolae and squashed her overloaded
breasts into her chest, releasing a high-velocity spray against the
client's body. She flinched as the milk splashed across her torso. Chris
followed, squirting with abandon with jet after jet of white ambrosia
arcing across the two feet separating her from the client, to join
Sherri's milk in growing droplets forming paths down her belly.
 The other women joined in, completely enveloping the client in a shower
of milk, spouting from ten different directions, five different shades
of white mixing in rivers flowing down the client's body. As they
continued to loose their bounty upon the woman's trembling figure, moans
of varying pitch and intensity began to fill the room. The client's head
was thrown back, one arm dropping down, fingers seeking her pulsing
clit. Rather than diving directly into her pussy, they sought the rings
hanging from her pubes. Deftly, the client threaded her thumb through
all three rings and began tugging on them, stretching her labia and clit
in a way that had to be quite painful. The four free fingers formed a
cone which the client curved around, into, and up inside her gaping
vagina. She began pistoning her hand while continuing to diddle the
rings. It was a very unique masturbation technique.
 Watching the client doing this caused renewed vigor in the other women,
who were now expressing milk as fast as their nipples could deliver it.
Milk flowed, poured, gushed, jetted, surged, streamed forth. The
client's veil soon became soaked and began to cling to her face. A
rather prominent nose, large mouth, and high cheekbones became
discernible, but the veil itself remained opaque. She gasped, screeched,
yelled, and howled as orgasm after orgasm shook her. She began to slowly
turn about in place to make sure every exposed inch of her became wet
with mother's milk.
 Sherri now was using her upper arms to press her breasts together; the
pressure was sufficient to keep her nipples spurting. Her hands went to
her cunt where they fought themselves for entry into her dripping hole.
 Monique continued to fire thick white ropes of creamy fluid at the
client long after her tiny breasts should have been empty. Janine was
giggling continuously as she expelled her milk, occasionally stopping to
tug hard on her nipples to keep her breasts stimulated. Eleanor's flow
had slowed to a trickle, but she seemed not to care as she continued to
squeeze and knead her breasts so hard that she had to be causing herself
pain.
 Jeremy was leaning against the wall of the jacuzzi, his eyes
unblinking, his fist a blur as he pounded away on his cock, the glans a
deep, angry purplish red. Not content simply with his hand, he came up
behind Monique and began caressing her shoulders. She responded
instantly, pushing her ass back against his throbbing member. Jeremy
reached around to cup his hand in front of her breast, withdrawing it
when it was full of milk. He used this to grease his prick which he then
unceremoniously plunged into Monique's anus. She winced and grunted, but
did not miss a squirt. Jeremy fucked Monique's ass like an animal,
uncaring that the others were staring at him or that he might be causing
Monique discomfort. He wasn't though; she was clearing near coming from
the onslaught. Jeremy made some noises that sounded like a gorilla in
heat, then went rigid as he dumped his load into Monique's rectum. He
then staggered backward, his pole glistening and still dripping semen,
and sat heavily on the lowest step of the jacuzzi. Monique was hardly
affected at all. Chris's admiration for this wee slip of a girl
increased when she saw how deftly she had handled Jeremy's attack with
hardly an ill effect.
 Finally, after probably fifteen minutes or so, the flow of milk
decreased in intensity to a point where it no longer drenched the
client. The shin-deep water in the jacuzzi was now indistinguishable
from the fluid still spraying (though not very far) from Chris's and
Sherri's breasts. The others had long since slowed to drops and
dribbles. The client had been masturbating throughout this period, and
had had probably a dozen or more orgasms. Jeremy had been able to rally
and take Sherri from behind as well, causing her to hit what had to have
been her sixth or seventh. Finally the aphrodisiac could do no more; all
the sensory nerves had been completely desensitized; there was no more
metabolic energy available for either sex or milk production. Exhausted,
the client fell to her knees with a loud splash; the women collapsed on
the stairs of the jacuzzi.
 When Jeremy could finally catch his breath, he asked the client if she
was all right. She could only nod weakly, but she nodded yes. At that,
Jeremy turned to the others, thanked them, and requested that they all
leave, clean up, and help themselves to any bed in the house they
wanted. Chris found herself unable to argue; every cell in her body was
screaming for sleep. The time had come to pay the piper.
 "What about her?" Sherri managed to say, pointing weakly at the fallen
client.
 "She wants to take a milk bath now," Jeremy replied simply.
 Chris and the others slowly climbed up and out of the jacuzzi; filed
silently back into the main body of the house (all too tired even to
shower again -- the thought of re-experiencing the aphrodisiac in the
lotion soap actually made them a little nauseous now); and collapsed on
the nearest soft surface they could find. They all slept for several
hours, awakening only with a loud pounding on the front door. It was the
police, responding to a call made by Eleanor's husband after she had
failed to return home the previous evening. Jeremy, ever the smooth
talker, defused the situation without the officers having to actually
observe five bedraggled, robe-clad women whose faces and bodies were
covered with a whitish residue that looked like dried milk.
 As the officers departed and Eleanor rushed for a telephone, Chris
wondered how they would have phrased their reports had Jeremy been any
less of a bullshit artist.

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CHAPTER XL: 

THE VOYEUR, PART ONE

   Young Connor first noticed her in the laundry
room of his apartment building, sorting clothes from a
large basket into three open washing machines.  Her
familiarity with the surroundings indicated that she
was a fellow resident, and there was something
maddeningly familiar about her face, as if he had seen
her before but could not recall from where.  But he was
sure he'd not seen this particular woman before; he
would have remembered a body like hers.  She was
wearing high-heeled sandals, short shorts, and a form-
fitting ribbed cotton-blend bodysuit that was tight
enough to create a bas relief of any underlying
garments that might lie beneath on its surface.  There
were none.  Even though he was only in his early teens,
Connor had become an expert on whether any given
woman's figure was receiving support from beneath,
regardless of the nature of the overlying outfit.  The
protuberant nipples easily visible through the cloth
and the slightly raised areolae around them that would
not have been discernible to a less trained eye were
also a dead giveaway.  In fact, it was their perfectly
centered position at the apex of each firmly rounded
breast and the degree to which they defied the pressure
created by the overlying fabric to stand as tall as
they did that initially drew his eye to her.
   He drank in her image as a connoisseur of fine
wine might sip a classic vintage.  She was absolutely
exquisite; the stuff of wet dreams.  Smoothly sculpted
calves blended with muscular, but not "bumpy" thighs. 
A deep crevasse in the material of her shorts marked
where the back of each thigh met with the wide, strong,
teardrop-shaped buttocks that so magnificently filled
out her backside.  In front, the muscularity of her
quadriceps crisply defined the V that hid her southern
femininity.  Her shorts climbed almost to the bottom
point of that V, yet even with his sensitive vision
Connor could not see even a glimpse of a wayward hair
peeking out -- she must shave often, and fairly
closely.  No sign of panties either.  Hips that one
could easily rest hands upon flared out from a narrow
waist.  A ribbon about that waist would form a perfect
ellipse with a circumference of no more than twenty-two
or twenty-three inches.  The bodysuit showed a
perfectly flat stomach; a well-placed dimple in the
fabric suggested a navel that was an innie rather than
an outie.  Directly above two faint ridges that defined
the lower margin of her ribcage dwelt two breasts the
likes of which provided inspiration for sculptors and
artists.  His initial reaction to them had been --
implants.  How else could they ignore gravity like
that?  Especially as large as they are -- each rivaled
a cantaloupe sizewise, but on this tall drink of water
they not so oversized as to invite snickers and pointed
fingers.  Upon further examination, however, he was
forced to recant.  They were too perfectly shaped.  He
was convinced that no plastic surgeon in the world
could have created such beauty.  The way they sloped
out and down on top, up and out on the bottom, with
those fantastic nipples capping the junction of those
two curves -- that had to be the work of a divine hand. 
The way they moved with her was perfect, too; they
didn't look like two hemispheres that were glued to her
chest, as he had seen so many implant jobs look.  No,
this girl was 100% natural, right up to her broad,
mildly curved upper chest, well-defined collarbone,
long neck, and short-coiffed head sporting eminently
nibble-able ears (he liked ears).  Eyes to get lost in,
breasts---wasn't he just looking at her breasts?  Yes,
but his eyes kept being drawn to them.  There was
something special about them besides their splendid
shape and size.  What that could possibly be he didn't
know, but it added to his fascination.
   Connor became instantly, strongly obsessed with
this woman, as teenaged boys are sometimes wont to do. 
He would make it his goal in life to see what she
looked like naked.  It never occurred to him to try to
pursue her sexually.  He was a voyeur by preference,
and so was perfectly happy to get his jollies from
afar.  Besides, she was too old for him -- she would
only laugh at him.  So he would be content to follow
her whenever he saw her, to try to catch a fleeting
glimpse of the curve of her breast backlit through a
thin blouse, the outline of pussy lips through a
particularly tight pair of slacks.  Maybe he would even
be resourceful enough to be in the right place at the
right time when she was in the changing room of their
building's swimming pool.
   He found out what apartment she lived in
(although, dammit, her mailbox didn't have her name on
it), and made it a point to be in the area when she got
home from work.  He didn't get many chances to see her,
however; she seemed to spend a lot of time away and
often got home quite late at night.  He had been
content with sideways glances in the common areas of
the complex and the occasional passing by in the
hallways (God, how he loved the way her boobs jiggled
when she walked!), until one day when he had happened
to be in the hall when she dropped an armful of
groceries she was carrying.  With his heart in his
throat, he made the decision to assist her.  She was
wearing a very loose blouse scooped low at the neck. 
When she stooped to begin gathering the errant items,
the material gaped far enough to reveal the inner curve
of her right breast, all the way down to the nipple. 
He felt the blood leave his head and gather in his
crotch as he dropped down next to her and lent a hand,
gathering cans while getting a complete eyeful with the
practiced veiled stare he had perfected years before.
   This was as close to nirvana as Connor had gotten
in a long time.  What fantastic knockers this girl had! 
She could shame every centerfold that resided in the
footlocker at the back of his closet.  The shape, the
size, the color, even the...what the hell?  As he
continued to look, he saw the woman's eyes momentarily
widen, and then the most amazing thing happened.  At
the tip of that perfect nipple he saw a droplet of thin
whitish liquid form, then disappear as it rolled down
the lower half of her breast, out of sight.  He had
seen this in one of the raunchier (and more dog-eared)
mags he had under his bed -- this girl must have milk! 
This was better than his wildest fantasy!  As he was
reeling with this revelation, the show suddenly ended. 
She hurriedly collected the rest of the spilled goods,
murmured some quick thanks, and promptly vanished into
her apartment.  It was several more seconds before
enough strength returned to his legs to permit him to
rise and go off to his own room, where he spent the
remainder of that afternoon frantically beating off
while his mother wondered whether he was feeling well.
   Today Connor happened to be in another part of
the building when he spotted his dream girl knocking on
the door of a neighbor's apartment.  She was dressed
for the swimming pool, with a thin robe over what he
hoped was a skimpy bikini, flip-flops on her feet, and
a towel thrown over her shoulder.  He hid at the end of
the corridor and watched as she continued to rap on the
door, growing impatient until she finally yelled, "Come
on, Sherri, the sun isn't going to wait for us!"
   "I'm almost ready!  Keep your shirt on!" he heard
a muffled voice behind the door say.
   "That's not what I'm planning!" replied the
woman.
   He watched the door open and her friend come out. 
She was shorter, older, red-haired.  Her robe could not
hide a very large chest.  Wow, her friend's stacked
too, he thought.  What was that she was holding?  It
looked like a sign which said "Pool closed for
maintenance".  Why would she have that?  Then it hit
him.  They were going to hang that on the gate to keep
other people out!  The gate and fence surrounding the
pool were high and effectively sheltered it from
outside eyes -- omigod, they were going to sunbathe
nude!  He was sure of it.  He had to beat them to the
pool and find a place to hide there.
   He took an alternate route and to his relief
found the pool abandoned.  He squatted down behind a
group of bushes that formed part of the landscaping
around the inside of the fence, found a place to get a
good view unobserved, got comfortable, and waited.