by Big Kahuna
“The hell with you, Rance,” she said, sneering at the TV. “I’ve already got everything I need.”
Chapter 2
Buttercup
Melissa sat at her desk the next morning, humming to herself. Had she ever felt so good? No, come to think of it, she hadn’t. Two breast orgasms will do that for you, she mused. She’d felt silly, at first, lying in bed, trying to recreate the experience with her neglected right tit only minutes after having had the first one. But hey, she had two tits. Why not have two orgasms?
And so she had, the second one even more powerful than the first, but it had not been without cost. She was paying that cost now, not with sore nipples, or hickeys on her milky breast flesh, but rather because they’d grown. This wasn’t exactly a new experience for her; they usually swelled up a bit when getting her period, but this was different.
The reflection in her computer screen showed the obvious, her already overlarge breasts overfilling her bra cups, a ridge of flesh spilling over the material designed to contain them, visible even through her blouse. It had made her quite unhappy that morning, standing before her full-length mirror, her big boobs having gained what appeared to be a full cup size due to the attentions of the night before. She hoped she wasn’t going to have to buy bigger bras. They already cost her fifty bucks apiece!
Then again it might be worth it. Many eyes had checked her out on her way to her desk that morning. She didn’t think it was due to her enhanced endowments, though. More likely it was the sway of her hips. Most men know a sexually satisfied woman when they see one, even if they don’t know who satisfied her.
Melissa sighed again, her mind still back in bed, still feeling her hands upon herself. “Stop it, you silly cow,” she said lowly. “Get back to work.” She followed her orders, working happily, humming to herself every so often.
___________________________
“Hey, girl. Mind if I join you?”
Melissa looked up at the leggy brunette standing on the other side of the plastic table from her, feeling slightly confused. “Of course, Janice. Why…?”
“Gee, I don’t know, Mel,” Janice said with a sly smile, “I was afraid you might already have a lunch date.” She took her seat, bending sideways a bit so that she could peer beneath the table. “Considering the rumors that are flying around this place, I half-expected to find some guy underneath the table, chowing down on your world-famous taco salad.”
“Janice!”
Janice laughed, digging an apple and a yogurt out of a well-used brown paper bag and placing them on the round table.
“I don’t see how you do it,” Melissa said, shaking her head. “I’d starve to death on your diet.”
“I do starve on this diet, just not quite to death. Though if I had a pair of boobs like yours I wouldn’t need to.”
“Shush, Jan,” Melissa whined, fixing her lunchmate with a stern glare that she knew she wouldn’t be able to pull off.
Janice snorted. “Hate to break it to you, Mel, but your secret’s out. Everyone at Masterson knows your hooters can be seen from space.”
Melissa rolled her eyes but laughed all the same. If there was one person at Masterson whose company she genuinely enjoyed, it was Janice’s. She was fun and vivacious, sure, but it was her beauty that set her apart from the rest of humanity. Where Melissa was round and curvaceous, Janice was long and lean, her tanned skin and high cheekbones courtesy of her Comanche heritage. Men worshipped her, and who could blame them? At five feet ten inches Janice was as tall as most men, and with the addition of her ever present high-heeled boots she positively towered over the rest. She was the Amazonian ideal incarnate.
Her most striking feature was her hair. Thick and lustrous, it was black as obsidian and shone with a deep gloss that was truly eye-catching. It hung down to the small of her back without the slightest kink or wave, and shimmered darkly with the slightest movement.
She worked in the other end of the building, in the cartography library, which she ran with an iron fist. She was the only female employee in that department, and woe betide the engineer who wasted her time with little flirtations. She had let it be known that she didn’t date her co-workers, and any male who didn’t respect that courted a lap full of boiling coffee. One former employee had learned this painful lesson personally.
“Okay, who was it?”
Melissa took a drink from her bottled spring water, certain that she knew where this conversation was headed. “Who was what?”
The brunette mock-huffed. “Who sexed you up last night, girl? Is he free tonight? Does he have a brother? Is he hung like a bull?”
“Janice...!” Melissa hissed, looking about, making sure no one else was listening in.
“Come off it, Mel, that blush on your cheeks isn’t makeup. You’ve never looked so good. Christ, I’ve never looked so good.”
Melissa smiled at the compliment. “Not saying,” she said lowly, hoping to encourage her table mate to keep their conversation slightly less public. “I don’t need you horning in.” Boy, wasn’t that the truth.
Janice smiled back. “Seriously, whoever he is, don’t let him get away. I’ve never seen you looking so good. Though you might think about buying some bigger bras. I can recommend a good tentmaker, if you like.”
___________________________
Melissa returned to her desk to find more work piled up, which she made sure not to get through too quickly, lest she encourage some of the less industrious engineers to come over and look down her neckline, something they already did more often than she liked. It was something they did more often than upper management liked, too. She’d heard rumors of unnamed engineers having been warned about sexual harassment towards a certain large-bosomed employee. She hadn’t originally believed those rumors, not until Mrs. Masterson, executive vice-president and corporate busybody, had cornered her at the company Christmas party and drunkenly pointed out that breast reductions were covered under the company’s health plan. “They must hurt your back something terrible.”
She had never been so angry as she had been that evening, even more than when that little bitch had buried her head in her cleavage! She had simply smiled and said that was good to know, biting back the desire to blurt out that her own shitkicker husband had just minutes before grazed one of her boobs with the back of his hand while pointing at something. Accidentally, of course.
The truth was that she already knew breast reductions were covered, had looked into it from time to time, whenever her back was sore from a day of lugging them around, or when some man decided that anythings in public view gave him the right to stare at them. Yes, she had considered it, more than once, but they were her breasts, a part of her. Why should she have to change herself for the sake of the world? Why couldn’t the world just grow up?”
She decided to take a little mini-break, to check her webmail. There was the usual nonsense. God, there must be big bucks in the penis enlargement business, she thought. She scanned down the headers: nothing from Mom, nothing from Dad, nothing of interest, save for one sender she recognized.
“Well, Rance, you certainly don’t give up, do you?” She shook her head. If not for small penises and stalkers, the Internet would be a virtual ghost town. Perhaps the two were related. Curious if it was the same old, she opened it:
I know what you need—Rance.
Melissa sighed. She had hoped the first email was just the typical spam that made up so much of the Internet, but she was pretty sure she knew what this was—it was the result of alcohol and loneliness, and a night that she bitterly regretted.
It was the weekend after Thanksgiving, which she had spent in the company of Maggie the cat, watching the usual Christmas movies she’d already seen half a dozen times before. She would have preferred to spend it with a strong, handsome, well-hung man. Heck, he didn’t have to be all that strong, or even handsome for that matter. Out of sheer boredom she had decided to get drunk. She had never drunk alone before, except for a bit of
sherry. She went with rum and Cokes, figuring that if you were going to get blotto you might as well make it tasty. That was the evening that she discovered that alcohol and the Internet don’t mix.
It had begun with a bit of Web browsing, and ended with her posting a ‘selfie’ on Dallas After Dark. It was a singles website, primarily for denizens of the Dallas-Fort Worth area. In need of a little ego boost she had posted a picture of her best assets, a tight shot that a viewer might mistake for someone holding a pair of state fair winning casaba melons. She had no worries that someone might recognize her, her head having been cropped out of the shot.
For several hours she basked in the compliments of appreciative men, as well as a few derisive comments from women less fortunate than herself, plus some obvious closet types who resented her femininity. It was an evening of fun and flirtation that she thought she might do again sometime. When she woke up the following morning, she found that her head was stuffed with cotton and her inbox stuffed with email.
“Oh, no,” she groaned, upon seeing the damage. Hundreds of messages from admirers, all of them addressed to Melissa Melons, her online screen name. She shook her head in disbelief at the sheer volume of email. What had she been thinking? Thankfully the damage to her reputation was minimal, as Dallas After Dark ran their email through a blind system, acting as an intermediary between users. None of these people knew who she was, unless she had given out her email address, which she feared she might have done by about her fifth rum and Coke. She deleted all of her admirers’ emails without looking at them, and then unsubscribed from Dallas After Dark, praying that Melissa Melons’s Internet debut would soon be forgotten. That was five months ago, and though there had been no further emails from breast-obsessed strangers, she occasionally worried that someone might attempt to contact her.
Judging by Rance’s emails, it appeared that she was not quite so anonymous as she had thought. On any other day she would have trashed the message and added Rance to her list of blocked senders. Today was not any other day. She clicked on the reply button, amazed that she was even considering responding to him:
Oh, yeah? What do I need, Rance?
She clicked the ‘Send’ button before she knew what she was doing. “Shit,” she muttered, quickly looking about to make sure that no one had overheard her, not that it mattered. This was Texas, where swearing was a way of life.
What was she doing, responding to an Internet stalker? She quickly put Rance on her list of blocked senders, inwardly berating herself while she typed. Christ, she thought, looking at the reflection of her overflowing bra cups in her monitor. What kind of stupid cow are you anyway?
___________________________
A few hours later found Melissa on the couch, naked, watching TV. It really was more comfortable, being without clothing. It also made sense, considering that she didn’t have to turn her air conditioner as high as she normally would. She was saving the planet!
That wasn’t exactly true, though. How long had she spent in the shower after getting home? Most of an hour, she guessed, not being terribly anal about time. She’d mostly just stood there, letting the water caress her, caressing herself, letting the water massage her breasts. A decent enough substitute for a lover, and certainly cleaner.
She’d had a light dinner afterward, a turkey wrap and a bottle of water, settling down to watch TV after that. The usual boring crap was still on. She sighed, wondering if she shouldn’t use the money she was saving on air conditioning to splurge on satellite TV, that way she’d have fifty times the amount of boring crap she already hated. God, she needed a hobby.
Maggie the cat jumped onto the glass coffee table in front of her, fixing her roommate with an expression that clearly said, ‘Why aren’t you petting me?’
Melissa fixed her furry roommate with an equally haughty stare. “Because I already have a pussy that needs attention, that’s why.” She emphasized her point by blowing a raspberry at the disdainful feline.
“Gahh!” she said, picking up the remote and plunging the room into welcome silence. She picked up her laptop from the coffee table and opened it up. Maybe she could find some interesting porn. Yeah, right.
Boring news, boring tweets, boring world. She clicked on the bookmark for her webmail—more penis enlargements. Would men never be satisfied until their pricks were as big as Thermos bottles? Probably not. Then again, women probably wouldn’t be either. She started selecting the headers for deletion, happening upon one that surprised her.
“I thought I blocked you, Rance.”
The header simply said, ‘Re: I know what you need.’
“Okay, Rance,” she said to the empty room, “why don’t you tell me what I need.” She clicked on the header.
You need to be milked.
“Oh, ish!” Melissa looked with disgust at the message, all previous disgust in her life having been dwarfed by this new and improved level of disgust. She closed the message window and re-added Rance to her blocked senders list. Made sure to double-check that she’d done so.
Milked. God, what a disgusting notion. Did men really think of women that way, as cows whose sole function was to give milk and make babies? Not all men, surely. Then again, that was exactly what some women were, weren’t they? She’d seen them in the park, or at restaurants, blankets over their shoulders, nursing baby. Well, that was okay. She had been breastfed, so her mother had said. They even had a Mothers’ Room at Masterson for nursing moms.
Except that wasn’t what Rance was talking about. Rance was saying that she needed to be milked, like a cow. On all fours in a stall, her heavy udders slung beneath her, masculine hands grasping at her distended teats, pulling on them, white milk streaming out of them and into a galvanized bucket, the hollow sound of liquid spraying.
She laughed at the image in her mind, her disgust having been tempered by the stupidity of it all. “Is that what you want, Rance, to milk me?” She reached down and tugged on her own distended nipple, rolling it as she did so. “So sorry, Rance,” she said, hissing faintly. “Looks like this cow isn’t producing. Tough titty, Farmer John.”
___________________________
“Hello? Anybody in there?”
Melissa looked up from her half-eaten sandwich to find Janice looking back at her, the expression on her face one of bemusement. “Sorry, Jan. I was, uh, thinking.”
Janice smiled. “About your mystery man? Goodness, Mel, it looks like he’s got you all a-twitter. Come on, girl. Give it up.” She sat down at the table and began emptying her little brown bag of its meager contents.
Melissa opened her mouth to reply, but then just as quickly closed it. Should she tell Janice what had happened last night? Janice wasn’t exactly a friend, not really. She was a work friend, someone she knew and liked but would probably lose touch with if either of them got a new job. The truth was she didn’t have any real friends, not in Dallas anyway. Plenty of them back home in Wisconsin, though.
“No, it isn’t that,” she said quietly. “Not exactly.”
Janice cocked her head. “Ooh, this sounds interesting.”
Melissa started to open her mouth again, but stopped. How could she say what was on her mind? She wasn’t even sure if she knew what was on her mind. “Janice, what do you think about...dreams?”
“All depends,” the brunette replied around a mouthful of apple. “Are we talking about the dream where you’re running naked through a graveyard with a bunch of slow-moving zombies shambling after you, or the one where your ex-boyfriend is holding you down and doing you from behind? Not much difference between the two, I suppose.”
Melissa laughed. “No, nothing like zombies or boyfriends, or zombie-boyfriends. Just, well, disturbing dreams.”
“Disturbing? Like how?”
“I don’t remember, really. Just vague images that faded away when I woke up. I remember that they disturbed me.”
That was a lie. She could remember every last detail of the dream as though it was something she had
done on vacation. Yet she couldn’t possibly tell Janice what she’d dreamed about; she’d think she was weird. Hell, she’d had the dream and she thought it was weird.
It had started simply enough. She had been reclining on a bed in a room that looked like something out of the Old West. It was a small room, almost claustrophobically so, the only furniture being the bed, and a small wooden dresser and stool across from her. The lighting was soft, kerosene lamps giving the room a warm glow.
The bed she was lying in went with the room, an ornate brass bed like the ones in those shitty teen vampire books. It was a maid’s bed, or a maiden’s bed to be more precise, made for just one person to sleep in, and a very skinny someone at that. It had a high footboard, with a vertical oval in the center of it, through which she could see herself in the mirror over the dresser. She had never looked more beautiful.
She was made up to look like a prostitute, the twenty dollar a night variety. Her full lips were painted a daring red, sure to catch a cowboy’s attention, and her blue eyes had been lined and shadowed with meticulous attention to detail. Her cheekbones looked high, an illusion created by rouge, and her blonde hair was curled and arranged high on her head. Oh, yes, twenty dollars a night easy.
Her lingerie was suited to her profession, risqué finery that she had often fantasized about, but had never been able to bring herself to try. The black and white striped corset around her middle, one that obviously wasn’t designed for support, was a lovely piece of engineering that compressed her waist down so that she was merely pleasantly plump. This had the added effect of pushing her already sizable bosom up and out, so much so that she would be unable to see where she was putting her feet when walking, but considering her attire it was unlikely that she would be doing much of that. The corset didn’t cover her breasts, but merely presented them, two outrageously sized globes that were all but visible through a gauzy chemise, stiff nipples poking through the filmy material. Above this gaudy display of milky flesh was a cameo, attached to a velvet choker that ran around her neck, an innocent touch that made her outfit all the more deliciously naughty.