by Big Kahuna
She stretched out her legs to reveal sheer stockings with vertical stripes, held up by straps that were attached to the base of her corset. Spreading her legs, she discovered that she was bare down there, ready for the next customer.
A footstep sounded to her right, a hard shadow falling over her. She tore her gaze from the mirror to see a male silhouette filling the frame of the open doorway. He was wearing a cowboy hat. “Rance?” she said, more curious than afraid.
His arms were above his head, his wrists resting against either side of the doorway, his relaxed body language clearly indicating that he owned the room and everything in it. She turned her body to face him, shifting her breasts so that he could see what he was paying for.
Rance moved into the room with an easy gait, boot heels clocking on the wooden floor. He was a tall man, his long legs covering the short distance in only a few steps. When he reached the side of her narrow bed, he tipped his hat up with a forefinger and looked down at her. She could see his face now. His skin was tanned, weathered from a score or more of Texas summers. He was smiling.
“Easy, girl,” he said in a drawling voice, bringing his hand back down and putting a finger to her lips. “There’s no need for words, is there?”
“Mmm,” she murmured. No, there was no need for words, not that she felt able to speak anyway. It almost seemed as though her lips were glued together. This should worry her, she knew, but for some reason it didn’t. “Mmm?” she said again.
He smiled a little wider, evidently pleased by her response. “Easy now, Buttercup,” he said in his slow drawl. He took his hand away from her face and placed it upon her full breast. “It’s time for your milkin, girl.”
“Mmm,” she replied. He was right. Suddenly her breasts did feel fuller than normal, heavier.
He brought his other hand into view, revealing a slim length of braided leather with a metal clip on the end. Reaching down, he clipped the lead onto the velvet choker around her neck and began pulling her forward.
“Mmm?” she murmured in surprise, not so much at his actions, but by the docility with which she was complying with them. She leaned forward, rolling onto her hands and knees, padding along the mattress toward the foot of the bed,
“There’s a girl,” he said, leading her gently along, his tone soothing. When he reached the foot of the bed, he brought his free hand up and reached through the brass oval, switching the lead so that he could pull her further along.
“Mmm!” she whimpered, quickly realizing what he expected her to do.
“Easy, girl,” he repeated, patting her lightly on her bare rump. “You need this.”
Trembling slightly, she allowed Rance to pull her forward. He was right, she did need this. She could feel her breasts, heavy and engorged, rolling around inside of her flimsy chemise. She placed her hands on the foot rail, and then bent her head and put it through the oval, not exactly a tight squeeze, but not something she would be able to get back through quickly without banging her chin or the back of her head. Not that she could anyway, as Rance had clipped the other end of the lead to the upper rail of the footboard, well out of her reach. She looked up at him, her heart pounding. Was he really going to do it? Was he really going to milk her?
“There’s a girl,” he said, still stroking her flank. Despite her fear, she could feel herself growing wet. “You trust ol’ Rance. He’s been milkin cows since he was old enough to grab onto a tit.” He smiled down at her, a reassuring smile, and then pulled on the brass rail of the bed. It rolled forward easily, the frame of the bed extending as he pulled. Having no choice but to follow, she crawled forward on her knees, the gap between the footboard and the mattress widening. When her knees were just about at the mattress’s edge he stopped, leaving her midsection suspended above the bare wooden floor.
Her heart thumping, she watched in the mirror as Rance bent down and retrieved the three-legged stool from beside the dresser and sat on it, his broad chest level with her suspended milkers. He reached out and pulled the gauzy material of her chemise down and back, allowing her pendulous udders to swing free.
“Mmm?” she whimpered, her fear and excitement mingling.
“Shhh, girl,” he said, running his hand down a heavy dug. “You’re full to burstin. Gotta milk you. It’ll hurt before long if I don’t.” And suddenly it did begin to hurt, a terrible feeling of compression building inside of her overfull tits. She hoped he would start milking her soon.
He reached under the bed and brought a wooden pail into view, which he placed directly beneath her softly swaying udders. Humming softly, he ran his hands up and down the nearer tit, massaging it, helping her pent-up milk to flow downward. He then did the same to the farther tit.
“Mmm,” she murmured, unable to stop herself. His hands on her tits felt so good, calming yet at the same time exciting. She could feel the wetness between her thighs double with each caress.
“That’s it, Buttercup,” he said, his low voice resonating through her. “You just let Rance do all the work.” He slowly drew his hands downward along the slope of her fat tits again, warming them, getting them ready. He was going to do it now, she knew. He was going to milk her.
With a sureness that comes from experience, his fingers found her engorged nipples, fingertip-sized teats that needed only a pair of strong hands to release the bounty within. Biting her lower lip, she hung her head down, bracing herself, her concentration fully focused on his fingers as they tugged gently downward on her right teat.
“Mmmh!” she whined, the sensation of milk spraying from her nipple causing her to almost climax on the spot. She gripped the bottom rail of the footboard tightly, whining again as he tugged down on the left teat, another mini-gasm ripping through her as he did so.
“There’s a girl,” he said, his low voice comforting. “Feels good to be milked, don’t it?”
God, yes, it feels good! she wanted to scream, but didn’t. Even if she could speak, she didn’t want to ruin the moment with words. All she wanted to do was enjoy it. The sensation of being milked was more intense than any she had ever known, like a thousand little needles poking her fully distended teat, sending a thousand little shocks directly to her overloaded brain.
She opened her eyes as he tugged down again, watching in the mirror as her fat tit stretched downward with the pull, her milk spraying into the bucket beneath. He was really doing it. He was really milking her. She watched, fascinated, as her white milk jetted out through his fingers, the spray of what felt like hundreds of little ducts coalescing into a single stream, the audible sound of liquid gushing into the bucket adding another element to her overburdened senses.
Again and again he pulled downward on her teats, never missing a beat, each involuntary expression of her milk lessening the pressure within her udders, yet at the same time filling her with a sense of the utmost satisfaction. Rance was right—she needed to be milked.
He continued his pleasant work, humming softly while he did so, his low crooning soothing her while at the same time exciting her. She leaned forward slightly, letting her collarbone rest against the cool brass of the footboard, reveling in the sensations from her tits. She had never known such bliss. She was a human cow now, and that was just fine. She’d had her boobs played with before, mostly in college, by guys who’d just wanted to use them for their own selfish pleasure. She’d obliged them, knowing that access to the twins was the price of admission for a good humping, or at least the promise of a good humping.
But Rance wasn’t getting anything out of this, except for a bucket full of milk. He had so far treated her gently, knowing what she wanted, giving her what she needed. He was the best lover she had ever had, and he hadn’t even fucked her yet. She whimpered again as his strong hands continued their gentle work, each spray from her teats like an ejaculation, her toes curling in ecstasy as he expertly relieved her fulsome udders of their creamy contents.
She closed her eyes and hung her head down again, no longer desirous of seeing h
“That’s a girl, Buttercup,” Rance drawled, the up and down rhythm of his hands hypnotizing her. “Just relax.”
He went back to his humming. Gradually she let go, lost to the rhythm, lulled by both his touch and his low crooning, which slowly shifted over to song. She listened, trancelike, her breathing slow and deep. It was a mournful ballad, a cowboy’s lament. She could recall having heard it before, but could not remember when. Perhaps when she was a child?
Rance’s deep voice resonated through her, setting up vibrations within her. She could feel herself giving over to it, to him. She so wished that he would fuck her, but then who would milk her? Cows needed to be milked.
With each line of the song she could feel herself slipping away. There was only the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands on her tits, the gush of milk into the bucket. And joy. The joy of understanding your place in the world, your purpose. She was a cow, and cows gave milk. Milk to feed the babies, milk to help little boys and girls grow up big and strong, to develop strong bones and teeth.
The bucket was almost full now, her tits feeling just about drained. Was he going to fuck her now?”
“Looks like you’re just about empty, girl,” he said, pushing his hands upward against her udders, gauging their weight, “but there’s still a mite left in there. Don’t you worry. Ol’ Rance knows a thing or two.” He let go the farther tit and reached his arm back and around, his fingers lightly sliding along a chubby hip. There was no doubt in her mind where those fingers were headed.
“Mmmh!” she cried behind closed lips, the feeling of his fingers slipping into her slippery cunt making her want to cry out. Instantly her tits seemed almost full again, more milk having let down. Rance tugged downward on the teat in his hand, more of her essence gushing into the bucket. With practiced skill he alternated between udders, first right then left, never skipping a beat, the fingers of his free hand deftly manipulating her G-spot.
“That’s a girl, Buttercup. Happy cows give the most milk, and you certainly are a gusher.”
She heard his words, but her mind was in another dimension entirely. Had she ever known such bliss, such ecstasy? All she could think about was the hand on her tit and the fingers in her cunt. With every tug she could feel her pleasure increasing, driving her ever closer to unparalleled rapture.
A final pull drove her over the edge. “Mmmh!” she screamed, her eyes closed, the sound of her voice loud in her ears. She screamed again as a finger brushed her clit, sending further shockwaves through her already overwhelmed body. Breathing raggedly, she rode wave upon wave of euphoria, only to find that she was awake and lying in her own bed, one hand tugging on a painfully erect nipple, the other buried in her sodden twat.
“Well...?” Janice asked, her dark eyes crinkling in expectation of a juicy tale.
Melissa looked across the table at her friend, wondering if she should. Finally she said, “Oh, it was just a stupid dream. So what did you do last night?”
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But all during the rest of the day she could barely focus, the dream at the forefront of her consciousness. That and the sensation of her still sore nipples. Several times during the day she’d gone to the bathroom, just to look at them. They seemed puffy, and longer too, scribing the air like pencil erasers, wanting more attention it seemed. She’d even tugged on one of them once, half-expecting a gush of milk to fill her hand, but nothing came, except for a shudder of pleasure that went straight to her perennially soaked slit.
What was wrong with her? She was carrying on like a teenager back home in Wisconsin, constantly playing with herself, her mind only on her pussy or her tits. More often on her tits in fact, something she could forgive herself for, considering that they seemed to have grown in the night, so much so that she’d been forced to eschew a bra in favor of an undershirt topped by a bulky sweater—on an eighty degree day!
Had Janice noticed that her boobs were bigger? If so she’d had the good sense not to say anything.
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The bus ride home had been odd, right from the start. Melissa hated taking the bus, especially during high summer, being jammed in with so many sweaty others like cattle in a crowded freight car. On a normal day her fellow passengers would be doing the usual things: playing with their iGadgets, reading books, staring at her tits. She had more or less grown used to this. She wished for the umpteenth time that she had a car, to get away from prying eyes, but parking in the city was expensive, and insurance was outrageous!
But today it seemed as though everyone was staring at her tits. They know, she thought, watching them watch her. They know I’ve been playing with them, that I’ve been sucking myself off. It was silly, of course; how could they know? Yet she couldn’t get over the idea that they were somehow aware of the inordinate amount of attention she’d been paying to her breasts.
She watched the Latino family facing her across the aisle: a young-ish mother, two small boys on either side of her, and a baby girl in her lap. The whole family seemed to be entranced by the wobbling of her semi-unrestrained bosom as it was jostled about by the herky-jerky motions of the metro bus. She thought briefly about pulling up her sweater and letting them see the bouncing funbags in all their glory, but quickly reconsidered. Heck, she’d probably stare too.
It was the baby that was the last straw, however. While the rest of the family was staring at her breasts out of a sort of distracted interest (they were, after all, the largest objects in view), the infant girl appeared absolutely fascinated by them. Her dark eyes were riveted on the bouncing boobies across the aisle from her, her chubby arms outstretched, trying desperately to reach out to them, wanting nothing more than to latch onto the industrial-sized milk jugs that were several times the size of the ones she was used to.
Melissa could probably have put up with all of this, but it was her own unconscious response that shocked her the most, an answering call within her own expansive bosom, a deep yearning to be suckled. Pressing her lips together, she tried to ignore the desires of her disloyal body, her aching nipples pressing against her undershirt, visibly poking through the material of her sweater as though trying to bridge the gap between them and the child. That was when she made the decision. She reached up with one arm and pulled down on the cord above her head, signaling the driver to stop.
The chubby baby watched, her mouth open in expectation, as the giant breasts stood up, turned, and exited the bus.
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“Can I help you, ma’am?” The salesclerk looked to be a few years older than her, about twenty-five, Melissa guessed. He also appeared to be the only employee in the store.
“Yes, I want to start lactating.” She instantly regretted her choice of words, the clerk’s eyes widening and his thin lips involuntarily pursing at her bold pronouncement. Great, she thought. I’ll bet he’s wondering whether he should offer to suck-start my milk flowing. As it happened, she was correct in this assumption.
“Um, lactating, ma’am?”
“Yes,” she said, quickly running back over the story she’d rehearsed outside the store. “My husband and I will shortly be adopting a newborn, and I’d like to nurse the child myself. I thought a nutrition store might have vitamins or supplements along those lines. Do you have something that will help me lactate, organically?
“Organically,” he echoed, his eyes dropping down to her already somewhat swollen bosom. She assumed that he was probably imagining her already large breasts filled with milk, sloshing about while she walked, hence his being so slow on the uptake. As it happened, she was correct in this, too.
“Yes,” Melissa repeated, already tired of the masquerade. She could just say, ‘Look, bub, I want to milk myself like a cow. The idea excites me, okay?’ but her Midwestern puritanism ran deep, the idea of admitting such things publicly, especially to a man, more than a little daunting to her. “I know there are hormones a doctor could give me, to put me in milk, but I’d rather find a natural alternative.”
“Um, yes, ma’am, there are,” the clerk responded, apparently over his surprise. “Hormones, I mean. But a growing number of women are turning to natural means to encourage or extend lactation, or achieve it without being pregnant.”
“Really,” she replied. It wasn’t something she had ever thought about.
“Yes, ma’am,” the clerk went on, turning and motioning for her to follow him. They walked down an aisle, past cardboard stand-ups and prints of sickeningly healthy people. Melissa reflexively compared herself to them, noting that they didn’t even look like the same species anymore.
“A lot of mothers are trying to boost their natural supply, to make sure baby has enough, and there’s a growing trend for family members to pitch in, sisters and even sisters-in-law. There are also women who are no longer nursing a child, but who want to give back to the community, La Leche League volunteers and so forth, as well as nannies who offer wet nursing as a part of their services.” They turned a corner and headed down an aisle filled with more pill bottles than she could shake a stick at.
“Really,” she repeated, more than a little surprised. The clerk was certainly quite knowledgable about practices for which he lacked the equipment, but then considering how often his eyes drifted down to her bosom it appeared that he had a keen interest in the subject.
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