by Big Kahuna
Buttercup_CowGirl: It tasted good. Sweet, with a hint of licorice.
DairyMan_Rance: That’s the fennel. How much did you get?
Buttercup_CowGirl: I’m not sure. It took me by surprise, while I was taking a nap. I didn’t pump any.
DairyMan_Rance: I would be surprised if you got more than a few ounces, though that will change. Keep up with your supplements and pumping, and you’ll be applying for federal dairy subsidies soon enough.
She laughed at this. Rance really did have a good sense of humor, causing her to wonder for the umpteenth time what he looked like. She put her fingers to the keyboard to respond, but another message popped up.
DairyMan_Rance: Speaking of which, what do you plan to do with your milk anyway?
Here it was, the question she had been waiting for. Rance was the only other person who knew what she was doing, and she had told him that she was doing it out of boredom. Would he think she was weird if she told him that she intended to sell her product? Then again, he seemed to know an awful lot about the subject. Maybe he could give her some advice.
Buttercup_CowGirl: You’re not far wrong about applying for subsidies. I’m thinking of selling it.
She held her breath, waiting for his response, her udders seeming to grow heavier in the silence.
DairyMan_Rance: Can I be your first customer?
She exhaled, pleased that her only confidant wasn’t writing her off as a space case, and also a little excited at the prospect of going into business for herself.
Buttercup_CowGirl: That would make me happy. I’m not sure how to go about it, though. How to pack and ship, and all that.
As it happened, Rance did know quite a bit about it. He texted her in great detail about what kind of boxes to buy, as well as ice packs, packing peanuts, what companies had the best shipping rates, and where to get a private mailbox.
She had never considered that. The last thing she wanted was to give breast milk fetishists her home address. Rance seemed okay, but the Internet was full of crazies. No point letting them in the front door.
There was also the matter of money. Rance was perfectly amenable to her price, had himself suggested it, but in what form did she expect payment? She hadn’t thought of that either. Personal checks were out of the question, and she was hardly set up to accept credit cards. She could run her little dairy business through PayFish.com, the online money transfer website, but she could hardly expect to remain anonymous with them.
And then there was the IRS. They would certainly want their cut, at which she could not help but feel outrage. It was her milk, made by her and pumped by her, yet Uncle Sam would expect a piece of the action as if he had milked her himself.
There had to be a way to keep this paperless, or at least without a paper trail. She could ask prospective customers to send cash through the mail, but would they? What about travelers’ checks? Money orders?
They settled on cash, Rance having no problem with it, though he insisted on seeing a blood test. She had expected this, it being a common enough practice, judging by the many ads she’d seen on the breast milk classifieds. She informed him that she would be only too happy to send him the results of her latest physical. Hell, for two-fifty an ounce she would send him her pap smear.
DairyMan_Rance: Let me know when your mailbox is in place, and I will send you forty dollars for your first pint.
Forty dollars for a pint! She looked down at the twin milk makers that were lolling upon her no longer quite so fat tummy, and raised one of the heavy dugs up to her lips. “Here’s looking at you, Rance,” she said, and took a quick suck. Creamy milk sprayed into her mouth, coating her tongue with the sweet liquid. She laughed at herself, letting the round udder slip back down to rest on her belly, the lower half of her face shining with expressed titmilk. “No more of that, girl. Gotta save it for the paying customers.”
Following his instructions, she set up an account for a private mailbox at a pack and ship store that was just a few blocks walk from her apartment. The fee was modest, only twenty-five dollars for three months, plus they also carried the kind of boxes necessary to ship refrigerated items. Rance said that he would put his money in the mail tomorrow.
They chatted until ten, Rance giving her helpful hints on pumping, storage, and udder care. He even gave her his secret recipe for a salve that she could apply to her nipples, a mixture of olive oil, vitamin E, and purified beeswax. Apply it after pumping, he texted, and your teats will stay supple and you’ll be much less prone to infection. A cow with sore teats is a poor producer, he warned.
Once she signed off it was back to milking. She watched in awe as the white gold from her tits drained into the little plastic bottles, feeling utterly contented, her nipples tingling with each pull. She pumped for a full ten minutes after she was empty, determined to get every last drop out.
“Not too shabby,” she said, once she poured her evening’s production into the plastic freezer bottle for storage. “Three and a quarter ounces.” Eight dollars and twelve cents worth. Hardly a fortune, but it was her first actual milking. She would set her alarm clock for 2:00 a.m. and pump some more. If she kept on schedule she would have her first pint by noon tomorrow, possibly earlier. She patted her milkers happily, feeling an almost sinful sense of pride at what she had accomplished. Rance said that the more she pumped, the more she would produce. He also said that given the size of her udders, she was going to break records.
She believed him.
Chapter 5
Milk Money
Melissa was wrong about having her first pint by noon—she had it at 6:00 a.m. She had awakened at two in the morning, her udders rock hard and tingling. Bleary-eyed, she pumped out five ounces of her sweet milk. She was awakened again at just before six, not by her alarm clock but by her tits, which felt ready to burst. She ate breakfast while she pumped, putting away two bowls full of oats while the little milking machine did its work.
“Eight ounces,” she whispered, holding the bottle to eye level, stunned by what she saw. “And it hasn’t even been twelve hours!”
That was nothing compared with the other surprise: she had lost an additional three pounds overnight. She hadn’t expected more weight loss, but it made sense. Her body’s food energy was being diverted into milk production, turning her fat into milk to feed a mythical baby, or so she reasoned.
“Every woman should do this,” she said, looking at her reflection in the mirror. But then if every woman did, it would drive the price of her milk down. “Can’t have that,” she said to her slightly skinnier self.
The morning raced by, her mind constantly on her breasts. She could feel them filling up, growing harder and denser while she went about her duties. At her nine o’clock milking she broke into the double digits, pumping out exactly ten ounces. She washed her equipment in the Mothers’ Room sink, her mind awhirl. She had so far pumped out a little over twenty-six ounces—in half a day!—her production increasing with each milking. At this rate she would break the record of ninety-six ounces by the end of the week.
She put her gear in the locker and went back to her desk, making a quick stop at the vending machine to get a pack of cookies. They were okay, though slightly stale, not that it mattered; she was absolutely ravenous! She was also somewhat surprised at her choice of cookie. Chocolate chip would normally have been her first choice, but she had opted for oatmeal. She seemed to have developed a taste for them.
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“So where’ve you been, girl?” Janice asked, looking up from her inadequate lunch. “In the restroom, sexting with your mystery man?” She raised a dark eyebrow for emphasis.
Melissa huffed, rolling her eyes. “No, just a little behind in my work.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, but when the pins and needles feeling hit her seemingly never-empty bosom, signaling the let-down reflex, she’d headed straight to the Mothers’ Room rather than having lunch first, fearing that she might leak right through her nursing bra.
She let Janice do all the talking while she tore into her veggie wrap, hungrier than she could remember being in the longest time. It was as if she were now completely at the mercy of her body, having to follow its dictates rather than her own. Her body told her when it needed to be milked, when to eat, what to eat, hardly as if she were a thinking person at all, just a collection of animal reflexes whose sole function was to produce milk. And produce she had, a little over thirteen ounces at this last milking, her right udder slightly more forthcoming than the left.
Janice sniffed, looking around. “Do you smell olive oil?”
“In my wrap,” Melissa replied around a mouthful of food. Again not the truth, but she wasn’t about to admit that the scent could be traced directly to her teats. Rance had said to take care of them, and olive oil would have to do, at least until she could whip up a batch of his salve.
“...so anyway, I’ve got nothing on for tonight. Say, Mel, it’s Friday. How would you like to get together after work, for drinks, or maybe catch a movie?”
Melissa swallowed the last of her wrap, her lunch finished though she was hardly full. Janice had never asked her out before, always having something, or someone, to do after work. She was instantly taken back to her dream, warrior Janice leaping on her and sucking her tits into insensibility, the memory causing the pins and needles sensation in her udders again. She hoped she wasn’t turning gay.
“Can I take a rain check, Jan? I’ve got a full plate tonight,” which was the truth. She felt bad about declining her friend’s invitation, but she had received a courtesy email from the pack and ship place just before lunch, telling her that she had a delivery waiting for her, presumably Rance’s forty dollars. She would have to go there directly after work, and if it was his money, then she would have to arrange to ship him his purchase before they closed at seven.
Janice gave her friend a conspiratorial smile. “I get it. You’re gonna dump your lunch buddy so your can play hide the salami with Mister Right.” She dropped her gaze to the bosom that was resting on the tabletop across from her. “Christ, Mel, you could hide a summer sausage in there.”
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It turned out that it was indeed Rance’s forty dollars in her mailbox, two crisp twenties plus an additional dollar bill, which she presumed he had included so that she could frame it. There was also a note saying that she had an additional parcel at the desk. It turned out to be a shipping box, pre-paid and pre-addressed, the recipient one R. Rifkin. It had its own little cold pack inside, as well as an empty plastic bottle to replace the one that she would send him. Rance was making this whole process ridiculously easy. Melissa wondered if any of her future customers would go to this much trouble.
She shipped the pint bottle off, as well as a copy of her latest physical, any identifying information redacted, of course. She left feeling distinctly proud of herself. She had just made her first sale, with another thirty-four ounces in reserve, plus whatever was in her udders right now, the building pressure signaling that it was almost milking time.
She took the bus the rest of the way back to her apartment even though it was only a few blocks. Normally she would hoof it, but her udders seemed so much heavier now, wobbling about despite the support of her nursing bra. This did not escape the attention of her fellow pedestrians, their gaze drawn by her somewhat out of control milkmelons. The commuters driving past her on the street appeared to be noticing as well, the amount of horn honking going on around her being double what it usually was.
The bus wasn’t much better. This wasn’t due to the multitudinous eyes that were seemingly glued to her expansive bosom, but because of the baby. It wasn’t the same baby as a few weeks ago, but rather the typical baby, the ever present baby that is always on the bus, or at the movie theater or the restaurant. She knew the moment it began crying that she had made a mistake, that walking would have been preferable. The pins and needles sensation instantly returned to her twin milkbags, an automatic response that grew in intensity every second that the child cried. Of course that meant that the bus was going to stop at every intersection, which it did, the pressure in her tits growing along with the need to release.
Could anything be more painful, she wondered. She pressed her lips together against the desire to moan out loud, half wishing that someone would just grab her teats and start milking her right there, anything to relieve the building pressure. She got off at her stop, acutely aware of the weight of her udders. Putting dignity aside, she brought her left arm up to support her overfull milkers as she walked the half a block to her apartment building, feeling doubly burdened at having to carry her tits as well as her purse and the breast pump.
She dropped to her knees the moment she entered her apartment, kicking the door shut behind her once she was inside. Barely able to think, she opened her blouse and released the flaps on her nursing bra, allowing her heavy udders to tumble out, milk already leaking from them. Fingers moving quickly, feeling as though her tits were about to explode, she opened the front flap on the breast pump’s tote bag, attached the hoses, plugged the unit into the wall outlet, and put the teat cups up to her milkers, the plastic funnels latching on instantly.
“Ohhhhh….” she moaned, a long, low vocalization that any dairyman would recognize. It was the sound of bovine satisfaction.
For several minutes she did not move, resting on her hands and knees while the little machine drained her milk jugs of their contents. She didn’t bother to think about how she looked; she knew how she looked. All that mattered was the relief.
It took fifteen minutes for the machine to drain her dry, plus another five to ensure that she really was empty. Once she was done, she unhooked herself and took her harvested milk into the kitchen and poured it into a clean plastic bottle. “Sixteen ounces,” she said, still slightly out of breath. “Another forty dollars.” At this rate she’d have her truck by the end of June.
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She made a little veggie fajita platter for dinner, though kept the spices to a minimum so as to avoid detrimentally affecting the flavor of her milk. She ate at her kitchen counter, feeling a little wistful that she hadn’t been able to accept Janice’s invitation. Perhaps next Friday, after she got things a little more under control. But how would that work? She couldn’t drink alcohol now that she was lactating, for fear of affecting the flavor of her milk, and she could hardly sit through a movie, not with her all-important breasts on the verge of exploding every two hours.
What if she told her? Janice was a practical sort of person, one who might understand what she was doing. Melissa could see the scene playing out at lunch. ‘You’ve turned yourself into a cow, Mel? For money?’ She shook her head at the image in her mind. No, perhaps Janice wouldn’t understand.
She was interrupted from her reverie by a ping from her cell phone, the Skype app demanding her attention.
DairyMan_Rance: OMFG! Please tell me there’s more!
Melissa laughed, surprised by both the speed of his response and by his apparent approval of her product.
Buttercup_CowGirl: There’s more. Loads more. I’m glad you like it : )
DairyMan_Rance: Like is too tame a word, Buttercup. I’ve never had better. Your milk is far and away the tastiest and creamiest I’ve ever had. Take it from someone who knows.
Her udders seemed to swell as she read his words, a bizarre feeling of pride washing over her. Yes, her milk was tasty, not that she could afford to drink it any more. That was reserved for paying customers.
Buttercup_CowGirl: How did you get it so quickly?
DairyMan_Rance: The pre-payment on your package was for delivery upon receipt, a service Ultra-Pak provides. Expensive, but well worth it. In the case of your milk, very well worth it.
Again she flushed at his effusive praise. Rance must be pretty well off to blow money like this on breast milk. She wondered if he was good looking, but then put that thought out of her mind. Rance was a customer—if she marr
ied him, he’d end up getting the milk for free.
Buttercup_CowGirl: Stop it, you’re making me blush. So would you like more? I could ship you more tomorrow.
She hoped she wasn’t being pushy, but forty dollars didn’t even begin to cover what she’d spent so far.
DairyMan_Rance: More? I’ll take it all, if that’s okay. How much have you got?
Buttercup_CowGirl: 50 ozs.
DairyMan_Rance: Three pints? You produced half a gallon on your first day?
Buttercup_CowGirl: Yup. I take it that’s not normal.
DairyMan_Rance: It’s adequate, for a Holstein. My God, Buttercup, you could earn blue ribbon at the next Texas State Fair. You must be drained, in more ways than one. How are you feeling?
Buttercup_CowGirl: Feel great. I guess I’ve found my calling.
DairyMan_Rance: I guess you have. Like I said, I’ll take all you’ve got, if you’re willing to sell.
Buttercup_CowGirl: Great! I’ll ship you the three pints tomorrow morning. Do you think you can have $120 there by nine o’clock? No problem if not.
DairyMan_Rance: You misunderstand, Buttercup. I want to buy your entire stock, what you’ve got now, and whatever you can produce tonight. I expect you’re probably good for another 48 ozs by morning. You’ll find $240.00 waiting for you in your mail box tomorrow morning, plus 2 one-gallon plastic jugs waiting for you at the desk. I expect you’re going to need them.