by Big Kahuna
Melissa leaned back, her milkers resting in place on the counter. Was Rance for real? It was difficult to believe that someone would spend so much time and money on something so bizarre. Then again, people spent time and money watching cars race around a track, or climbing rocks, or jumping out of airplanes, or even turning themselves into cows.
There seemed to be something wrong here, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. Rance wasn’t a creepy guy, despite her initial impression of him. He had proved himself to be caring and knowledgeable, and an exceedingly good customer insofar as his willingness to make it easy for her to sell to him. He had never made an improper suggestion to her, except for saying that she needed ‘to be milked,’ and he had been right about that, hadn’t he? He had never asked for pictures of her, something guys always did online, nor had he ever asked for her real name or address or telephone number. Rance had been nothing short of a gentleman, so why did she feel uneasy?
“Because he’s too good to be true,” she said out loud, surprised that she had spoken.
She looked down at her fat udders, already refilling with milk, milk that he had helped her to produce, and milk that he was willing to pay for, and quite handsomely too. If she wasn’t going to sell her product, then why had she started this whole project in the first place?
Buttercup_CowGirl: You have a deal. I’ll ship you six pints tomorrow morning, if I have that much. If I come up short, I’ll send the difference along with the shipment.
DairyMan_Rance: Excellent. Please take care, though. Overproduction can damage a cow, and I have no wish to kill the golden goose, if you’ll pardon the mixed metaphor.
Melissa laughed. Rance had a wonderful sense of humor. She signed off, assuring him that she would take care of herself, which she was definitely going to do, as the pins and needles feeling in her udders returned, announcing that they needed to be taken care of.
She grabbed her gear and set it all out on the coffee table and got everything connected. Sitting up, she watched her milk drain into the bottles, enjoying the pleasant feeling that milking provided. She was going to have to get larger bottles tomorrow, pint-sized at least.
Something felt wrong, though. She shifted about, trying to get comfortable, but lying back didn’t feel right, nor did lying on her side. Holding everything in place, she slipped off of the couch and onto her knees, then turned and rested her head and forearms on the couch, thus allowing her heavy udders to dangle free, the milk bottles lying beneath them on the carpet.
Yes, that felt better. More natural.
___________________________
Rance was true to his word. Inside her mailbox was an envelope containing twelve crisp twenty dollar bills, as well as a note telling her that she had a parcel at the desk. She collected her package from the clerk and took it to a courtesy table, her expanded bosom attracting stares from the other customers.
She smiled at their obvious fascination, not that anyone noticed her smile. Once upon a time this would have offended her, but not anymore. Her udders were now her pride and joy. Let people look at them if they wanted to. It didn’t cost her anything, nor could she blame them for their interest, considering how she was dressed.
She hadn’t worn this particular sundress in years, was surprised that she had even unpacked it and hung it in the closet, but when she saw it hanging there she couldn’t resist. The pale yellow dress clung to her every curve, better now than when she had bought it, her curves having shifted somewhat. Between her enlarged bust and her reduced waist, her simple yellow dress now made her look like a burlesque showpiece. Hardly a bad thing.
She packed Rance’s prepaid mailer with his purchase, humming to herself. Today was a good day, and they were only going to get better. She had money in her purse and money in her boobs, and more on the way. She felt good, she felt happy, and she felt fulfilled, and it was all due to her milk.
There was no denying it. Milk, or at least milking, certainly did a body good.
___________________________
Milk for Sale!
Healthy Texas cowgirl is a dairyman’s dream! Creamy and fatty. 100% safe! Price: $2.50. No Adult Wet Nursing, No Photos, No Videos, No Checks accepted, and No Scams. Blood test available upon request.
Melissa scowled at the preview of her classified ad. The cowgirl thing seemed to be a bit much, but she wasn’t a mother with extra milk to sell. Would potential buyers think she was weird for selling breast milk without there being a baby in the picture? Hmm, maybe she could bend the rule on photos. If customers saw the size of her udders, they might forget about everything else.
A notification appeared on the upper corner of her laptop screen, the Skype app telling her that she had a message from her one and only customer. This was good news, as she needed his expertise, not to mention his business, more than she could have foreseen.
DairyMan_Rance: Just got your newest batch. Do you have any idea what an amazingly good cow you are?
Buttercup_CowGirl: Funny you should say that. Yes, I do.
DairyMan_Rance: ?
Buttercup_CowGirl: Do you know what the record for the most milk produced by a woman in a single day is?
DairyMan_Rance: Can’t say that I do.
Buttercup_CowGirl: 96 ozs.
DairyMan_Rance: A respectable amount.
Buttercup_CowGirl: I tied that record at 2:30 this morning, and beat it at six o’clock.
DairyMan_Rance: Congratulations, darlin!
Buttercup_CowGirl: Rance, it’s only my second day of lactating, and I’ve already beaten the world record.
DairyMan_Rance: I said you were blue ribbon, and I was right.
Buttercup_CowGirl: But you don’t understand. I didn’t just beat the record, I blew it away. My last milking put me at 134 ozs for a 24-hour period. That’s more than a gallon in a day! I’m up to 23 ozs per milking now, and the amount I express keeps increasing with each pumping!
DairyMan_Rance: Relax, girl. Gentle down, now. How do you feel?
Buttercup_CowGirl: Worried.
DairyMan_Rance: Perfectly normal, given the circumstances, but how do you feel? Weak, hungry, tired?
Buttercup_CowGirl: Hungry. I’m almost always hungry. Apart from that I feel fine.
DairyMan_Rance: Then you are fine. How many times a day are you being milked?
Buttercup_CowGirl: Seven.
DairyMan_Rance: On the high end of normal, but still normal. Fact is that with a healthy diet and proper nutrition, a good cow can produce up to a pint per udder per milking, sometimes more.
She pulled up the calculator app, not trusting herself to to do the math in her head. One pint per breast, multiplied by two, times seven milkings per day, came out to 1.75 gallons per day, or 224 ounces, multiplied by $2.50 per ounce was—$560.00 per day!
Melissa leaned back against the couch cushion, her massy milkers rolling back along her rib cage. Five hundred and sixty dollars a day. That came out to a little more than two hundred thousand dollars a year. God, if she had four teats like a real cow, she’d really be rich.
Buttercup_CowGirl: I don’t know if I could produce that much.
DairyMan_Rance: I know you can, Buttercup. This is what you were made for. You once said that you wanted to see how much milk your udders could produce. Do you still stand by that statement?
Buttercup_CowGirl: I guess so. But what would I do with that much milk? I couldn’t possibly hope to sell 224 ozs a day.
DairyMan_Rance: Yes, you could. I’ll buy it all.
Buttercup_CowGirl: All? That’s an awful lot of milk.
DairyMan_Rance: That’s only the beginning. If you’ll let me, I can you show you how to increase your production beyond your wildest dreams. Better supplements, better equipment, improved milking techniques. Put yourself in my hands, and you could be a record breaker. Blue ribbon all the way.
Buttercup_CowGirl: Your hands? Just what are you proposing, Rance?
DairyMan_Rance: Buttercup, will you be my
cow?
Chapter 6
A Cow is Born
Melissa walked into the office the following Monday morning with a spring in her step. This was due to her feeling noticeably lighter up top, which was ironic since she was in fact heavier up there.
Buttercup_CowGirl: What do you want my measurements for?
DairyMan_Rance: Considering the changes your body has undergone, and will continue to undergo, you are going to need some new bras. I expect you need them already.
He had sent her that message within minutes of her agreeing to be his cow. His request shocked her at first, but there could be no denying that she needed new bras—her enhanced boobs were already straining the ones she’d just bought! But having a man she barely knew buying her lingerie…?
DairyMan_Rance: A good dairyman takes care of his livestock, Buttercup, and as you have consented to being my cow, I take that responsibility very seriously.
She knew she should be offended by that, but it made sense. Having accepted his bizarre proposal, could she really be considered anything else?
She’d sent him her measurements, a rather detailed list per his request. The bras were waiting for her at the pack and ship place the next day, along with some new plastic bottles, an extra-large measuring cup, and various other bovine-related accoutrements. There were new bottles of supplements, fennel tea, even more steel-cut oats. Rance was quite the conscientious dairyman, she had to admit, right down to making sure that his cow was fed.
The bras were amazing. They were longline bras, made for support but also somewhat slimming, the band extending down to just past her bellybutton, much like a corset. The shoulder straps were likewise a good two inches wide, giving the impression that she was wearing a harness rather than a bra. Attach some heavy leather straps to it, she mused while posing in front of the mirror, and she could pull a plow.
The best thing of all was the lotion. She presumed it must be French, judging by the name on the white squeeze bottle—Peau de Vache. There was a note attached to the bottle with a blue ribbon: ‘Apply this lotion twice a day all over your body, except for your lips (it tastes terrible) and your teats (it will adversely affect the flavor of your milk). Lactation draws moisture from the body, especially the skin, and this lotion will help to keep your skin hydrated and supple.’ She tried it. It was fragrance-free and tingled on her skin like no other lotion she’d ever used before. Rance was pampering her, she realized, but she enjoyed the way the lotion felt on her skin. She giggled, feeling like one of those Japanese cows she’d seen once on TV. Kobe beef, she remembered vaguely, cows that were treated so well they were even given daily massages. Now that was something she could definitely get used to.
Everyone at work smiled at her that morning, everyone except for old lady Masterson, who seemed to find Melissa’s outrageous bosom an outrage. “Miss DeVries,” she began, her two-pack a day voice grating on the ears, “Masterson International is a respected company. We are not in the habit of employing breast-implanted strippers.”
Melissa stood patiently before the old lady’s desk, trying hard not to laugh at that last pronouncement. Masterson had more professional escorts on their payroll than they had geologists. That was the price of doing business, or at least the oil business. She stood up a little straighter, sending her milkers that much farther out across the desk.
“With all due respect, Mrs. Masterson, my breasts are entirely real. I can prove it if you like.” She brought a hand up to the top button of her blue polka dot dress and let it linger there. “In fact, you might want to call in your husband. Goodness knows he keeps trying to examine them.” This last was true, as she had seen the old man bobbing his head in time with her rack when she’d walked in that morning.
“That will be all, Miss DeVries,” the harpy snapped. “Get back to work.” Melissa smiled and left, pleased that she had scored on the old crone, and also glad that she hadn’t had to drop her top. The last thing she wanted to do was spray down the old biddy with her milk. Well, maybe not the very last thing.
She hit the Mothers’ Room at nine-thirty, her breasts ready to burst. She set everything up and then knelt before the rocking chair, her heavy udders wobbling as she got into position. She switched on the machine, which was a new model, one of two that Rance had included along with everything else. Her first instinct had been to send them back. It was all too much!
With a pronounced thoop! thoop! her engorged nipples were sucked into the teat cups, four-inch long chrome tubes that replaced the breast shields and bottles system that she had been broken in on. The new units appeared to be home-built, judging by the lack of any label or trademark on the housing. They also had at least twice the suction of her original breast pump.
‘These milking machines will empty any cow in just ten minutes,’ read a handwritten note that came with the twin units. ‘Use one at work and the other at home. For best results you should increase your milkings to eight times per day.’
“Mmmh!” she whined, pressing her lips together to keep her moans down, the suction driving her wild. It worked as Rance had promised, emptying her udders far more efficiently than her previous machine, at least on setting one. Setting two employed a slower, deeper suck that took twice as long, and left her a panting, quivering wreck after twenty minutes. She hadn’t even tried setting three yet.
“Mmmh!” she whined again, the draining of her milk making coherent thought all but impossible. She prayed to God that no one would walk in and catch her like this, on her hands and knees, attached to a machine that was extracting her milk from her and collecting it into a half-gallon plastic bottle. But what if someone did? What if some man did? If Johnny from Geology, or even old man Masterson himself, found her in here she would do nothing, except maybe spread her legs a bit and wait to be fucked. It’s what cows are for, she recalled from her dream—to be milked, and to be bred.
The machine slowed its pumping once it decided she was empty, and then after a few seconds clicked off. It was a thoughtful feature, the gradual lessening of suction rather less jarring than an abrupt shutoff. Panting, she rolled over onto her rump, her slightly softened milkers practically in her lap. She hadn’t climaxed. It had been a close thing, as it always was, the machine driving her just that far and no farther. She wondered if Rance knew what a tease his little machine was. He probably did. The sadistic dairyman had probably designed it that way on purpose.
She gently removed the teat cups from her engorged nips, sliding the tubes away from her elongated nipples. “Bigger,” she said dully, inspecting her teats carefully. They were beginning to resemble cow teats, long and thick, about the size of her thumbs now, though they would soon shrink back to their normal size, or at least the normal she had gotten used to. They shone with her expressed milk, waiting to be cleaned off. There being no one else available she did it herself.
“Mmm,” she murmured, sucking on her still engorged right teat as though it were a miniature penis, the vibration of her moan going through her sensitized nipple straight to her clit. She cleaned it carefully, making sure to get every last dot of milk from the depleted udder. When she was done she switched to the left one.
That done, she quickly cleaned herself off at the sink, applied some of Rance’s homemade salve to her abused teats, and then cleaned her equipment. She had never realized how much work was involved in being a human dairy cow, but considering the ninety dollars worth of white gold she had just extracted from her tits it was definitely worth it. Eat your heart out, Bossy.
___________________________
“Can I ask you a personal question, Mel?”
Melissa smiled mischievously across the plastic table at her lunch buddy and put down the slice of cheese pizza she had been about to dig into. It was her second slice, not that it mattered anymore. Counting calories was a thing of the past, as anything she ate would just be turned into milk.
“Does it have to do with swallowing anything?” she replied. “Because I definitely do.”<
br />
Janice smiled back, though somewhat pensively. “Did you get breast implants?”
Melissa’s smile instantly vanished. “What? Breast implants? Me?”
“I know. Seems kind of superfluous, what with your rack already qualifying for its own zip code, but maybe you’re thinking about a career in porn. I’d say you passed up Melony Cox-Zucker about four cup sizes ago.”
Melissa was taken aback by Janice’s sarcastic remark. Her first instinct was to burst into tears, but a rising anger tempered that reaction. “Why do you ask, Jan?” she said, looking across the table at her friend’s inconsequential bosom. “Thinking about getting a pair of your own?”
Janice smiled at the cutting remark, almost as if she’d been expecting it. “Hardly. Can you imagine me with some silicone bags stuffed in my chest? I’d look like a two-by-four with a pair of softballs glued to it.” She paused, still smiling, but then continued. “Sorry if I was blunt, but it seems that your boobs are all anyone at this company can talk about lately.”
Melissa was stunned into silence. People were talking about her? What were they saying?
As though having read her mind, Janice answered her unspoken question. “They’re saying that you’ve snagged yourself a millionaire, Mel. The new boobs, the new clothes, the new attitude. They all think you’re well on your way to being some rich man’s trophy wife.”
“And what do you think?”
“I’ve got a higher opinion of you than that. I can’t say that I see you being some fancy man’s pet, but you’ve changed. Something’s going on with you.”