by Big Kahuna
The delivery truck driver’s eyes practically bugged out of her head when she saw the alabaster balloons that were practically falling out of the recipient’s bathrobe. “Um, Melissa DeVries?”
“Pardon me,” said Melissa, hurriedly clutching her bathrobe together at her throat while inwardly damning her out of control libido. “I, uh, just got out of the shower.”
“Sign here, ma’am,” the delivery girl said, obviously fighting to keep from laughing. She took a tablet computer from the top of the box she was holding and handed it to Melissa.
Melissa signed her name with her index finger, painfully aware that her nipples were straining at the thin material of her robe, apparently excited at the thought of what was in the box. The delivery girl took back the tablet and handed over the box. “Thanks, ma’am,” she said, smiling stiffly, and then turned and walked away.
Melissa heard the laughter in the hallway after she closed the door, but put it from her mind. She had more important things to think about.
“My first milking machine,” she said fifteen minutes later, when everything was unpacked and sitting on her coffee table. She felt a little lightheaded, thinking about what she was planning to do with it. “I really have lost my mind,” she whispered.
She looked over the vacuum unit, which came inside a black tote. It had little inputs for the clear tubing that came with it, which connected to the breast shields (teat cups, an echo in her mind said), little funnels that would latch onto her nipples, the outflow portions of which screwed onto little plastic bottles that were supposed to hold her expressed milk. There was also another smaller tote that came with an ice pack, to keep her milk cold all day, and a battery pack in case she was somewhere where there was no power.
“Quit dawdling, girl,” she said, trying to overcome her nervousness. “You’re committed.” With a resigned sigh, she set about putting her new toy together. Once everything was assembled and ready, she sighed again, and turned the little dial on the unit clockwise. The breast pump hummed into life. She could hear it pumping away, waiting only for a nipple to suck on. Pressing her lips together nervously, she gave it one.
“Mmm,” she moaned, as the breast shield fastened onto the stiff nipple, her mind briefly flashing back to the dream. She giggled, watching the expanding and contracting teat through the transparent plastic.
“God, this feels so good,” she whispered, her breathing deepening, the rhythmic sucking action hypnotic. “Every woman should have one of these.” Slightly dazed, she brought the other breast shield up to her neglected teat. With a slight ‘thup’ the funnel-shaped attachment latched on, the automated suckling doubling her pleasure.
She lay back and closed her eyes and let her mind drift, the constant sucking taking her to a peaceful place. She considered getting her Pocket Rocket out of her purse, but thought better of it. This wasn’t about getting off, this was about getting ready. At least that’s what she thought until the breast pump changed speeds.
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” she said, grinding her ass into the couch cushion in response to the slower, deeper sucking, an automatic feature designed to mimic baby’s suckling. Panting, she began pressing her breasts together, repeatedly mashing the fulsome funbags into one another, making sure to keep her fingers on the teat cups so that they maintained suction. Gasping, barely able to think, she reached frantically across the couch and into her purse and retrieved the little pink vibrator. She clicked it on and pressed it against her deprived pussy, praying to Jesus, Mary, and the disciples that the batteries wouldn’t die on her.
Her pleasure at the mercy of technology, Melissa allowed herself to sink into a place where conscious thought did not exist, only feeling and instinct. She let the vibrator rest on her excited clitoris, keeping just enough pressure on the little nubbin so that she wouldn’t come too quickly. Her body heaving, she rode out the pleasure coming from her mechanically stimulated erogenous zones, continuous waves of ecstasy washing over her, every suck of the breast pump claiming just a little bit more of her, until she came, hoarse screams of joy mingling with gasps of fatigue.
“And I’m...supposed to do this...eight times a day?” she said finally, panting with exhaustion. “It’ll be all I can do...to keep it down to eight times a day.” She looked up to find Maggie the cat lying on the back of the couch, the imperious feline looking down at her, Sphinx-like. “What am I doing, Maggie? I’ve gone insane.”
Gathering her available strength, Melissa raised herself to a sitting position, the teat cups still resolutely sucking away at her overused nips. She clicked off the machine, and then gingerly removed the breast shield from her right breast, pressing a fingertip into the soft flesh to break the vacuum. She then did the same thing with her left breast.
She inspected her nipples carefully. They looked longer to her, hardly surprising considering the amount of activity she’d been subjecting them to. She hoped she wasn’t disfiguring herself. There were red rings around both of them, but they appeared to be fading. No cause for concern.
Even though no fluids had been extracted, she cleaned the equipment anyway, diligently following the manufacturer’s instructions. Best to get in the habit now. That done, she made dinner, deciding on the spur of the moment to have another bowl of steel-cut oats rather than nuking a frozen dinner for one.
She checked her mail while the oats simmered, and was unsurprised to find a response from her favorite stalker:
From: [email protected]
Subject: I know what you need.
???
Are you pregnant?
She laughed at the simple message. Should I tell him? she asked herself.
Why not? she answered. It was his idea to begin with.
To: [email protected]
Subject: I know what you need.
Nope, not preggers. Just trying a little experiment. Let’s just say this cow intends to find out how much milk her udders can produce. See ya, cowboy.
~Buttercup~
She giggled as she pressed the ‘Send’ button. “God, what is wrong with me?” she said out loud. “I’ve definitely lost it.”
Rance replied while she was eating her solitary dinner at her kitchen counter, her breasts resting on the formica, the bowl of oatmeal tucked between them.
From: [email protected]
Subject: I know what you need.
You’re really doing it? Can I ask how you’re going about it? I might be able to help. I have more than a little expertise in this area.
Melissa stared at the message on her cell phone. Should she go down this road? She certainly didn’t know this man, if it was a man—you never really knew on the Internet. Any man who talked about milking a woman like a cow could hardly be said to be normal, but then any woman who talked about milking herself like a cow could hardly throw stones. If she hadn’t wanted to correspond with Rance then why had she done so? What the hell, she figured. She’d blocked him once before, she could do it again if he got too creepy.
To: [email protected]
Subject: I know what you need.
I’m really doing it. I’m taking various supplements to encourage lactation, as well as pumping with a double breast pump. I just started yesterday, and was told I could expect to start lactating after a few weeks. What do you mean when you say you have expertise? Are you a doctor?
From: [email protected]
Subject: I know what you need.
Not a doctor. I’m a dairyman. My pop was, too. I guess you can say that milk is in my blood. Would you mind if we text rather than email? My Skype name is DairyMan_Rance.
Melissa sat back in her chair, idly wondering if he looked anything like the dream-Rance. He seemed okay, so far, and texting via Skype would be quite a bit less cumbersome than trading emails. In for a penny, she figured.
She started to send him her Skype name, but thought better of it. It took all of a minute to set up a new username for herself, a private one that was more apropos to her new calling—Buttercup_Co
wGirl. Not terribly subtle, but it was at the very least accurate. She sent the invitation off to him, reasonably certain he’d know who it was from.
His response came in just under a minute.
DairyMan_Rance: Thank you, Buttercup. What supplements are you taking?
Buttercup_CowGirl: Fenugreek & blessed thistle-3x3/day, goat’s rue-1x3/day, fennel seed tea-3 cups/day, plus steel-cut oats for breakfast.
DairyMan_Rance: You’ve done your homework, I see. What about pumping? How often?
Buttercup_CowGirl: 8 times/day.
DairyMan_Rance: Any soreness, pain, ulcerations? Sorry to be so personal, but nothing affects a cow’s performance like sore teats. Too small a breast shield can lead to plugged ducts and mastitis. Painful.
Buttercup_CowGirl: No pain. Slight redness afterward that faded.
DairyMan_Rance: Do yourself a favor and get a pair of 27mm breast shields. Any decent drug store will have them. About $12. I’ve seen your udders, and in my opinion you definitely need them.
Melissa looked up from her phone. Was she really corresponding with a man who referred to her breasts as udders? Then again, hadn’t she? He certainly seemed to know his business, though, and his admission that he knew what her breasts looked like pointed to his having seen them on Dallas After Dark. Like they say, the Internet is forever.
Buttercup_CowGirl: All right, I’ll try them.
DairyMan_Rance: Good girl. May I ask why you’re doing this? Is it because of my email?
Melissa thought about that for a moment. Should she tell him yes? It was his email that had kicked things off, but the last thing she wanted was to give him the impression that she could be so easily manipulated.
Buttercup_CowGirl: Not exactly. I guess I was just bored, and your email hit me at the right time.
DairyMan_Rance: Well, I guarantee you won’t be bored from here on out. BTW, music can be a very helpful tool. All my livestock love Vivaldi. I play it in the milking shed for them. Keeps them calm. Can I send you some?
She couldn’t see why not. Vivaldi was a touch flowery for her taste, but it might help to keep from diddling her brains out.
Buttercup_CowGirl: Sure. I’ll give it a try.
DairyMan_Rance: Great. Check your email later. Gotta run now.
Melissa clicked off the app on her phone. Well, that was certainly odd, but hardly creepy. Rance seemed like an okay enough guy, and his concern for her health was touching. He obviously knew more about the subject than she did.
She put her bowl in the kitchen sink and then put the teakettle on the stove. While the water came to a boil, she took her final dose of supplements for the day, swallowing most of a bottle of water as she did so. Goodness, but she was thirsty. She reached a hand down and cupped one of her massy milkers. It felt a bit heavier, and possibly a little fuller, but it was difficult to say. Perhaps she was retaining water.
When the water came to a boil she set the tea to steep, enjoying the scent of licorice wafting up from the cup. It had a calming effect. She smiled at the strangeness of it all, the bizarre course her life was taking. Being a cow wasn’t going to be so bad. So far it had been nothing but enjoyable.
And then there was the money. That would definitely make it all worth it.
___________________________
She liked Vivaldi, as it turned out. It was as flowery as she remembered, and had the calming effect Rance had promised. This was a good thing, because the changes that were happening to her body would normally be cause for concern.
She was losing weight.
It hadn’t been a sudden thing, just a few pounds, but it was a few pounds in the right direction. By the middle of the following week she had dropped eight pounds, all the more amazing since her bosom appeared to have grown somewhat. Her first reaction had been elation; she had never been able to lose weight before, and certainly not without some form of exercise. But then reality set in. Could these changes be entirely due to the supplements she was taking? She didn’t think so, otherwise someone would already have patented the drug combination and written a book called The Lactation Diet.
Having no one else to turn to, she asked Rance. He was unsurprised by her weight loss, and reassured her that what was happening was perfectly normal.
DairyMan_Rance: Your body is preparing itself. The swelling of your udders indicates that mammogenesis has kicked in, the milk-secreting ducts expanding, getting ready to make milk. Have no doubts, Buttercup. When it comes to cows, you’ll be blue ribbon.
She didn’t know why, but that last comment gave her a distinct feeling of pride.
All of a sudden work didn’t seem quite so boring, now that she had something to look forward to, namely her pumping sessions. She was able to do this three times during her workday, spending her breaks in the Mothers’ Room, though still managing to squeeze in her lunches with Janice.
She had worried at first, about using the space, which would lead to awkward questions if someone discovered her in there. It was located at the end of a short hallway, sandwiched between the women’s restroom and an emergency exit. This meant that she could take care of business without anyone being the wiser, since anyone seeing her headed that way would simply assume that she was using the bathroom.
She had been in there a few times since having come to work at the firm, whenever she’d felt the need for a little privacy. There was never anyone in there, and with the recession having depleted Masterson’s already underrepresented female workforce, the chances of anyone walking in on her were slight. Janitorial had even taken to using the room as overflow storage, judging by the cases of toilet paper stacked against one of the walls.
She had been nervous, the first time she used the room. The single door had a deadbolt that operated from the inside, but even so she had been fearful that someone might walk in and catch her pumping her tits. The main area had a small couch and a mismatched pair of rocking chairs, plus what looked like somebody’s old coffee table. This portion of the room was undoubtedly for the more exhibitionist moms, but there was also a small curtained alcove for those who preferred privacy. As a bonus it also had a sink with a drainboard, so that moms could wash their equipment afterward, and even better it contained lockers, which would enable her to store her milking machine in the room rather than lugging it back and forth to her desk.
She giggled when she’d slid the alcove’s curtain open the first time, the narrow confines of the space barely large enough for the cushioned rocking chair and the little side table within. Well, that’s fitting, she’d thought. After all, cows are milked in stalls, aren’t they?”
Which was exactly how she’d come to think of it. Every workday, several times during the day, she would come in, throw the deadbolt, set up her equipment, pull the curtain shut, then sit down in the chair for a little milking practice.
Melissa hummed to herself while she unbuttoned her blouse, vaguely wondering how much Johnny from Geology would enjoy the sight of her newer, larger boobs. She hefted them a bit, gauging their weight. Yes, they were definitely getting a bit heavier, something her back muscles were already painfully aware of. Giggling, she slipped the fasteners on the cups of her new nursing bra and allowed her expanded milkers to plop out.
“Hi, girls,” she said, not bothering to whisper since no one would hear her. “Time for your workout.” She then brought the breast shields up to her expectant nipples, and with a pronounced thip-thip, felt her teats being sucked into the plastic cups.
“Mmm,” she moaned, her nervousness washing away. God, it felt so good to be suckled. She couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to have milk come out of them, or more amazing still to see the little bottles attached to the cups filling up with her milk. She could feel herself growing wet again, as she always did whenever she thought of being milked. Overcoming the temptation to slide her fingers down to her slippery quim, she quickly put the earbuds into her ears and started the music.
The Vivaldi immediately began doing its work, putt
ing her into a relaxed frame of mind. She sat there, unaware of the passage of time, her nipples repeatedly lengthening and contracting within the funnels while the little machine worked them. This was her happy place. There was no thinking, no cares, no worries, just a state of being so pure that she had come to prefer it to masturbating. Well, mostly.
After ten minutes the machine clicked off, the loss of the suckling sensation bringing her out of her meditative state. She opened her eyes, feeling refreshed and relaxed, better even than if she’d climaxed.
These were her days now, regular bouts of pumping broken up by work or eating, practically the whole of her existence focused on her tits. She knew, somewhere down deep, that there was something wrong with this, but she couldn’t deny that she had ever felt better in her life. There was also the money. People always said that it was important to have a goal, and ninety-six ounces a day was hers. One could do worse.
That said, the suspense was killing her. Her milk was going to come in, she just knew it, but the changes to her body were becoming noticeable. By the middle of the next week she had dropped an additional eight pounds, despite having gone up another full cup size.
“Okay, Mel, give it up,” Janice said one day at lunch. “What’s going on?”
Melissa paused over her almost empty bowl, wondering how to respond. Stalling seemed like a good gambit. “What do you mean?”