by Big Kahuna
“Yup. We also get a lot of vegans who don’t wish to consume, um, animal products, and so, um....” He trailed off, his face turning a distinct shade of pink. Melissa suppressed a smile at his discomfiture. She wondered what he would say if she told him what she was planning.
“Um, here we go.” He indicated a row of shelves filled with products devoted to turning a normal, healthy woman into a dairy cow. “We’ve got fenugreek, blessed thistle, goat’s rue, fennel seed tea, and steel-cut oats.”
“Oats? You mean like oatmeal?” She pressed her lips together, fighting to keep from laughing. Well, it only made sense, didn’t it? After all, cows eat oats. Why should she be any different?
The clerk removed a bottle from the shelf and began explaining what it was. She listened intently, amazed that she was even considering this.
___________________________
Melissa sat at her kitchen bar-counter two hours later, an empty sherry glass in her hand, her purchases set out before her. She was naked, having doffed her clothes upon entering the apartment. Normally such impulsive behavior would worry her, but she had other worries at the forefront of her mind.
“I’m really going to do this, aren’t I?” she asked Maggie the cat, who was crouched near the edge of the counter, looking interestedly at a spot six inches above her roommate’s head. Melissa reached out and picked up the bottle of fenugreek capsules, remembering what the clerk had said. ‘Three capsules, three times a day. Cut the dosage back if your sweat or urine starts smelling like maple syrup.’ Maple syrup? Christ, this whole idea was sounding sillier by the minute.
Blessed thistle, same amount. Goat’s rue, one capsule three times a day. Fennel seed tea, three cups per day. And a bowl of steel-cut oats every morning for breakfast—or perhaps a trough might be better. Gahh, this was insane!
But the idea of it, of being milked like a cow, was too erotic to let go of. She let her memory drift back to the dream, remembering the feeling of Rance’s fingers tugging on her nipples, only vaguely aware that her own fingers were absently tugging away at a distended nip. She seemed to be doing this so often now, touching herself. She had brought herself off more often in the past few days than she had in the past few months, practically all of those orgasms breast induced or breast related.
She looked down to discover that her hand was now actively massaging her swollen tit, the fingers grasping at the straining nipple. I should stop this, she thought.
Why? she asked herself. Have you got any better offers? Has Johnny from Geology dropped by in the last few days to ogle your rack? Well, yes, he had, but nothing beyond that.
And then there was the money. She’d already spent a hundred dollars on supplements. What was the harm? She took another look at the bottle of fenugreek in her hand. “Might as well see if there’s something to this,” she said to her disinterested cat. “I can always laugh about it later.”
She got up and poured herself a glass of water. Seven pills now, and another seven at bedtime. “I must be crazy,” she whispered, and then swallowed the first dose.
Not wanting to have oatmeal for dinner, she made herself a turkey wrap and a glass of milk, eating on the sofa rather than at the counter, so that she could watch a little TV. She barely paid attention to any of it, her mind constantly shifting back to her breasts. Was it already starting? Were her milk ducts beginning to grow? Were her tits going to get bigger? Would her milk taste like store-bought milk? Would it be thinner, richer, creamier?
The clerk at the store had said that it could take several weeks for her milk to come in, as long as she kept with the dosage, as well as adopting a regular pumping regimen. She looked down at her breasts, lolling about across her stomach. Well, she didn’t have a pump, at least not yet, but she could make do in the meantime. Smiling crookedly, she raised her right breast and brought it up to her lips and began suckling. A tingly feeling immediately began washing over her, radiating outward from her much-used nipple. God, this feels so good, she thought. Nobody can suck my tits like I can.
She dropped a hand down to her blonde thatch and began letting her fingers do the walking. “Mmmf,” she moaned into her tit as her finger slipped inside her wet slit, the combined sensations of sucking and finger fucking driving her wild. Practically drunk on her self-induced pleasure, she opened her eyes to find Maggie the cat staring at her over the curvature of her breast. Melissa gave a muffled giggle into her swollen udder at the haughty expression on the feline’s face, and winked at her. Screw you, pussy. This is fun!
She masturbated slowly, not trying to get off, but rather to reinforce the pleasure of her suckling; the more she enjoyed this, the more she would do it, the sooner her milk would come.
Breathing through her nose, she worked the erect nipple in her mouth, first lightly sucking, then gently dragging her teeth along the areola, and then pulling up on the nip with her lips. Again and again she did this, all but lost in the ecstasy of her self-suckling. After ten minutes she switched to the left breast, giving the neglected milker the same tongue lashing as the other tit. She did this for a further ten minutes, until she came, the heavy dug in her face effectively muffling her frenzied screams.
When it was over, she lay back on the couch, her abused udders lolling across her upper belly like a pair of flesh-colored beach balls. “God, this is...insane,” she said, panting slightly. “I’ve gone insane, Maggie.”
Maggie the cat responded by bending her head down and licking herself.
Melissa scowled at her roommate. “Well, at least I’m not the only one. We’re quite the pair, pussycat.” She looked down at the pair that she was still cradling in her right arm, her hand still absently caressing her left tit. “Stop that, you stupid cow,” she told herself, more convinced than ever that she was losing her mind, especially now that she was talking to herself. “Jesus, there’s more to us than our tits.” Considering how much attention she’d been paying to them over the last few days, she began wondering how true that statement was.
“And I’m supposed to do this eight times a day?” she said to the otherwise involved pussy. That was what the too-knowledgable clerk at the nutrition store had said. Eight times a day, twenty minutes per session, ten minutes per breast. There was no way she could keep up with that regimen—she’d be in for one hell of a sore neck if she kept up that pace! She could probably find no end of volunteers to do the suckling for her, starting with the apparently breast-obsessed salesclerk, or Johnny from Geology, maybe even old man Masterson himself. She laughed at the image in her mind, of the sixty-year old Texan lying with his head in her lap, nursing like a newborn. She’d definitely get a raise if that were part of her job description.
No, there was no way around it. She was going to have to get a breast pump. She reached beside her and picked up her laptop and placed it on her stomach. Being overweight might not be a terribly attractive quality, but at least you always had a desk when you needed it. She opened up her browser, her warm breasts jiggling as she typed.
She found what she was looking for quickly enough, but was dismayed by the price. “Two hundred and fifty dollars?” she said, her voice so loud that Maggie stopped what she was doing mid-lick. She couldn’t afford that, she was barely making ends meet now. Oh, she could put it on her credit card, which would just about max it out, leaving very little for emergencies.
No, she couldn’t do it. Two hundred and fifty dollars was just too pricy for a hobby, especially one you couldn’t tell anyone about. Maybe she could rent one. That might be more within her minuscule budget. Turning back to her laptop she googled ‘breast pump rental’, and found a slew of entries for hospitals and childcare organizations, most of which wanted breast milk donations. She made a Maggie the cat-like face at that. “Donate my breast milk? All that hard work and pumping just to give it away? It would make much more sense to sell it.”
She paused, her fingers on the keyboard. Sell it? Was such a thing possible?
Barely conscious of her breath
ing, she typed a new entry in the search box: ‘breast milk for sale.’
“Oh, my fucking God,” was her response. The top of the search page showed 10,100,000 results. Entry upon entry of women hawking their breast milk:
Non-smoking mother of six-week old girl has 120 ozs. of creamy breast milk for sale. Price: $2.00. No checks accepted and no scams.
Healthy mom makes too much milk! Creamy and fatty. 100% safe! Price: $2.00. No Adult Wet Nursing, No Pictures, No Videos, No Checks accepted, and No Scams.
500 ozs. of quality breast milk for sale. 0-2 months. Fatty and healthy, from non-smoker/non-drinker. Price: $1.50. No Adult Wet Nursing, No Pictures, No Videos, No Checks accepted, and No Scams.
Melissa looked up from her laptop, surprised by the results. Selling breast milk appeared to be a big business, though not a terribly profitable one. Two dollars a gallon? Heck, plain old cow milk was edging three dollars a gallon at the grocery store.
Fresh and creamy breast milk for sale! Not frozen! Healthy, non-smoking/non-drinking mom pumps 20-30 extra ounces per day. Blood screen results available upon request. Price: $2.50/oz. No Adult Wet Nursing, No Pictures, No Videos, No Checks accepted, and No Scams.
Two dollars and fifty cents per ounce? She must have misread it. No, there it was, this woman was selling an ounce of her fresh and creamy breast milk for almost the same price as a gallon of store-bought milk. Melissa read through more ads, sure that it must be a typo, but the pricing was consistent—breast milk was sold by the ounce. “Jesus Christ,” she whispered, “what have I tapped into?”
She dove into the message boards and online classifieds for a full hour, finding out as much as she could about this new possible business venture. Prices ranged from one dollar to two dollars and fifty cents per ounce, freshness of the milk and the health/lifestyle of the seller being the most critical factors.
“Two dollars and fifty cents an ounce, Maggie,” she said to the now-napping feline. This was unbelievable. That meant that the breast pump she wanted would cost one hundred ounces of milk. That was just a bit over three quarts. She quickly looked up facts and figures. The average mom, pumping at her peak, could expect to produce approximately thirty ounces a day. That was seventy-five dollars a day. And one woman even managed to produce ninety-six ounces per day. That came out to $87,600 dollars a year! That was more than twice her salary!
She looked down at her twin milkers, or twin moneymakers as she began to think of them. “I bet you girls could make ninety-six ounces a day easy.” She couldn’t afford not to buy the breast pump now. She quickly placed her online order, happily paying for overnight shipping. “Fuck the budget,” she said, patting her right breast, the fat tit wobbling beneath her hand, “I’ve got liquid gold in these puppies.” Feeling slightly giddy, she clicked the ‘Place your order’ button on the screen, amazed that she had ever hated her breasts.
What now? she wondered, but she already knew what she was going to do, which was to get up and make herself a cup of fennel seed tea. There was one thing she needed to do first, however. She went back to her webmail page and clicked on the blocked senders tab and deselected Rance’s name.
To: [email protected]
Subject: I know what you need.
You’re wrong, Rance. I don’t need to be milked, at least not for a few weeks yet.
~Buttercup~
Laughing, she got up to go and make the tea. Things were going to start getting interesting.
Chapter 3
Mammogenesis
Melissa woke up the following morning in a state of utter confusion. I’m going to be a professional cow. How very strange.
She had set her alarm an hour early, so that she could prepare her oatmeal, and also to get in a little pumping time. At least that was what she referred to it as. Someone else would probably call it jilling yourself stupid. Eight times a day, the man said, so eight times a day it would be.
After twenty minutes of sucking and frigging, she greeted the day in an excellent humor. She took a long hot shower, languishing beneath the spray, letting the water massage her breasts. From now on everything she did would be for the care and comfort of her funbags, or more accurately, moneybags.
Her head had been swimming with figures ever since last night, constantly breaking down her expenses into ounces of milk—rent: 260 ounces; cable bill: 20 ounces; cell phone: 16 ounces; food and drink: 80 ounces; bus pass...hell, she could buy a car, or better still a truck, something roomy.
She dressed conservatively, eschewing a bra again as she was definitely pooching over the top of the cups now, giving the illusion that she had four breasts. She laughed at that thought. Cows had four teats, didn’t they?
It took longer than she thought it would to prepare the steel-cut oats, requiring almost thirty minutes to simmer on the stove, but she had allowed sufficient time for this. They were good, with a slightly nutty flavor that she could grow to prefer. Hell, for two dollars and fifty cents an ounce she would eat them raw.
“Ninety-six ounces a day,” she confided to her wholly uninterested cat, who was sitting on the end of the kitchen counter licking her paw. If she could produce ninety-six ounces of milk per day, she could buy a nice truck, better clothes, maybe even a condo. She looked down at her breasts and gave them a little pat. Three quarts a day was a lot to ask. Could she really do it? She certainly had the desire, not to mention the capacity. She patted her breasts again and smiled. Yes, she definitely had the capacity.
___________________________
“Can I ask you a strange question, Janice?”
The lean brunette peered over her apple at her lunch companion. “Does it have to do with swallowing anything? Because I definitely don’t.”
Melissa rolled her eyes, thankful that no one was within earshot. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Jan. Not everything has to do with sex.”
“It doesn’t? I must be doing it wrong then.”
Melissa laughed. “No, I was just wondering...” she paused here, certain that she was making a mistake, “do you think cows enjoy being milked?”
Janice lowered the apple from her face. “That’s a strange question, all right.”
“It’s just...well, you grew up on a ranch—”
“Shhh,” Janice said, hushing her table mate. “Once guys learn that you’ve gelded a few horses, they never look at you the same way again.”
Melissa smiled crookedly. She never knew whether Janice was kidding her or not. “So do you think they do?”
“I’m not sure,” Janice said after a moment’s contemplation. “We only had the one cow, and we only had her for about five years, which is about average for a milking cow. After that they become steaks. Her name was Bossy, but my brother Randy always called her Debbie, as in Debbie Does Dallas, because she was getting her tits squeezed all the time. I should probably introduce you guys. You’re just his kind of girl, Mel.” She looked down at the breasts that were practically resting on the tabletop.
“Pop wanted us to understand the life,” she continued, raising her eyes back up to a more appropriate height, “probably so we wouldn’t be tempted to follow in his footsteps. It worked, at least in my case. Randy’s a vet now.” She paused, thinking about the past apparently. “I guess she probably enjoyed it, but it’s a cow, y’know? I think she enjoyed the feeling of being emptied. You have to empty them, otherwise they produce less. They also get agitated when they go too long between milkings, and can actually experience severe pain if they go without being milked for too long. We used to milk her twice a day.”
She narrowed her eyes at Melissa. “And why the interest, missy? Planning on getting knocked up soon? Having a calf of your own?”
Melissa made a tutting noise. “Hardly. I was just curious. Oops, I have to dash.” She didn’t like lying to Janice, but it was preferable to answering further questions. As she was about to leave, she turned back to her lunch buddy. “Just out of curiosity, what’s it like, gelding a horse?”
J
anice paused, seeming to consider her answer carefully. “Empowering,” she said finally, adding a wink for good measure.
___________________________
Melissa sat on her couch in her cotton bathrobe, waiting. She would much rather be naked, but the thin robe was as close as she could get and still maintain some semblance of decency. She had left work early, wanting to arrive home ahead of her purchase, delivery of her package being confirmed for 5:00 p.m. It was a quarter past that now.
“Come on, buddy,” she said heatedly, her outburst causing Maggie the cat to swivel her head in her direction. She instantly calmed down under the feline’s disapproving glare, feeling decidedly sheepish, or something very close to it.
“What is wrong with me, puss-cat?” she said, feeling the need to draw her taciturn roommate into the conversation. “I never used to be like this.” Maggie responded with a disinterested yawn.
It’s probably the supplements, she told herself, preferring to leave the cat out of the conversation. She’d been on them for slightly less than twenty-four hours, too soon to notice any real changes, at least that’s what common sense would say. So why did her breasts feel warmer, possibly even a little fuller? Perhaps the supplements were increasing the blood flow to them. Was it wishful thinking? Yes, it had to be, otherwise women all over the world would be hooked on the stuff.
She remembered Janice’s words from lunch. ‘They also get agitated when they go too long between milkings.’ Here she wasn’t even in milk yet, and she was already behaving like a cow.
The sound of the doorbell brought her out of her funk. She was up off the couch and at the door in a matter of seconds, her considerable cleavage heaving in the gap of her robe. She thought about pulling the robe tighter, but then reconsidered. Why not have a little fun? She opened her robe slightly, and then opened the door.