by Big Kahuna
“He tanked your project, didn’t he?”
The doctor nodded. “He was responsible for monitoring the mental health of the subjects, but I guess I should have had someone monitoring him. The project showed promising results at first, but then the test subjects began showing signs of depression, irritability, higher susceptibility to mastitis, all of which led to reduced output. After a year’s worth of tests it was determined that human women were not suited to be dairy cows. We folded the project a little over two years ago.”
“And then Rance went into business for himself.”
“Um-hmm,” confirmed the doctor. “We suspect the day-to-day contact with lactating women might have pushed a few buttons in his psyche, fed a few fantasies. Or maybe it was just the money. Either way, I know I won’t be hiring anyone from Montana again.”
Melissa laughed. The first real laugh she’d had in a long time. It felt good. “So did I get everything right?” she asked.
“Pretty much. You were correct about him employing a hacker to break into your cell phone and computer. He also shut off the power to your building. A pretty talented guy, a cyber-specialist who is at this moment manning a radar station in the Arctic Circle, which is where you’ll end up should you ever repeat this conversation to anyone else.” The doctor smiled cheerlessly, an expression reminiscent of Agent Dillon.
“You were wrong about using women on welfare, though. Not politically correct. The plan was to use illegal aliens under a ‘Milk for Amnesty’ program.” The doctor paused, amused by Melissa’s shocked expression. “You can say what you like, but there’s never a shortage of Mexicans in this country. You know, I sometimes think that we could lose all of our cows and get by just fine, but if we ever lose our Mexicans this country will be in deep shit.”
Melissa shook her head, the world now a stranger place than it had been only two minutes before.
“That was some brilliant detective work, Melissa,” the doctor said, breaking the silence. “It’s a pity you don’t work for me.”
“Not all that brilliant, actually.” Melissa removed her cell phone from the pocket of her blazer, tapped the screen a few times, then held the phone out so that they could both see the image that she had brought up. Dr. Roberts remembered the occasion well, a conference in Geneva, four years ago. It appeared that the Internet really was forever.
“You looked different then, Doctor. Rather smaller in the chest, wouldn’t you say? May I ask…?”
“Just shy of two gallons a day, at my peak,” the doctor said, blushing slightly. “I guess you could say that Rance wasn’t the only one affected by the project.”
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Two hours later found Melissa sitting on her couch, wearing a new silk bathrobe courtesy of Kat, watching TV. It was a movie about a career girl who falls in love with a handsome young billionaire whose hobbies included tying women up, blindfolding them, and having them lick melted chocolate off the back of a wooden spoon. Melissa wished that she still had her hooves so that she could kick the screen in.
She turned off the TV in disgust. “What’s to do, puss-cat?” she said to the fat cat lying on the opposite end of the couch. Maggie turned her head to look at her roommate, or rather at the area between her roommate’s waist and shoulders. “I’m up here, fatty,” Melissa said irritably, but then snorted. When it came right down to it, she wasn’t sure if she believed it either.
She looked about the room, long-forgotten feelings of boredom returning. Buttercup had never been bored. Her bovine better half had been able to lie there and do literally nothing for hours at a time, and yet the world remained a bright and interesting place to her.
There was an idea. She could invite some of her sister hucows over and have a girls’ night in. And do what, she wondered. Listen to them talk about their burgeoning porn careers? Paint each others’ toenails black? Inspect the undersides of their boobs for moss?
Okay, then she could go out. Put on that low-cut black number Kat had made for her, along with the hooker-length wig, and do the town—literally do the town. She could walk into any bar, lounge, nightclub, or library and have pretty much any man she wanted, provided that man wanted a woman who bore a striking resemblance to a Holstein. Not an insuperable problem, surely, but as she had just gotten out of a relationship with a man like that, it probably wasn’t the best idea to dive right back in.
That made her think of Billy next door. Not next door anymore, though. He was gone now. Gone to college, Texas A&M. She’d found the cards from him on the floor of her apartment when she’d walked in. There were two of them. The first one was a sorry card. It was kind of cute, a stuffed bear holding a balloon, a frown on his furry muzzle. There was no date on it, but she decided to be generous and assume that he had slipped it under her door the day following their aborted tryst. The other one was a goodbye card, another note of apology along with his new address and an invitation to call him if she liked. He’d signed it ‘Billy the Bull.’ The memory of it made her laugh.
Melissa shook her head and sighed, then reached back down for the remote and turned on the TV just in time to catch Little-Miss-Flat-Chested wrapping her collagen-injected lips around a chocolate-coated finger.
It was her first night of freedom, yet she felt more like a prisoner than ever.
Chapter 18
We Are What We Are
Melissa exited the taxicab directly in front of her former workplace at precisely 10:30 a.m. She was glad that she had ordered an SUV, as trying to exit a sedan with her massive endowments would have been next to impossible.
She made her way to the large revolving doors at the front entrance of the building, high heels clacking on the concrete walk, ignoring the multitudinous eyes that roved over her body as she passed by. She was dressed modestly, in a blue denim dress that nonetheless left a good twelve inches of cleavage available for public viewing. She would have liked to raise the outfit’s zipper a bit, but Kat’s design did not allow for this. Melissa was a work of art, as far as the little goth was concerned, and she wanted that canvas to be seen.
That was just fine with Melissa. She was what she was, and she wasn’t going to hide it. Even so, her makeup extended all the way down into her cleavage, and her long sleeves and opaque stay-ups (also provided by Kat) completely hid her tattooed black blotches from view. She had looked at herself in the mirror before leaving her apartment that morning, her medium-length blonde wig in her hand, thinking that she looked like a cow that was trying to pass for human.
She entered the building that she used to go into five days every week, and took the elevator to the fifth floor. Masterson did not have security per se, unless you counted the uniformed senior citizen who sat behind the desk in the lobby, said senior citizen having waved at her as he had every day when she was still employed there. He hadn’t even noticed her expanded rack.
“You’re making a big mistake, girl,” she muttered to herself as the elevator carried her upward. Yes, she probably was, now that she thought about it. She had lain awake all last night, wondering how Janice would react upon seeing her, and furthermore what she would say upon seeing her ridiculous body. The last time they had spoken, Janice had all but scolded her for being a man’s plaything. What would she say when she saw her now?
Which was why she had chosen to do it this way. Masterson wasn’t exactly neutral ground, but it was very public ground, even more so than a restaurant or a coffee shop. She was here to thank Janice for her concern and to renew their friendship, not get into a shouting match over how big her boobs were, something Janice would be loathe to do at her place of employment.
Melissa exited the elevator when the doors opened, her breasts preceding her as she entered her former workplace. Of course they had always preceded her. Nature’s joke on women, she supposed. Could you really blame men for being breast obsessed when the first things they saw were your tits?
It appeared that there had been changes in the last six months. Mrs. Hop
kins, the receptionist, was no longer at her desk, replaced by a vapid young thing who was sitting there tapping something into her cell phone. She looked up as Melissa clacked closer. “How y’all do…?” she began, but stopped, her mouth agape.
Melissa was unsurprised by this reaction, though she had to suppress a laugh when a wad of gum fell out of the girl’s mouth and plopped into the open bodice of her dress, where it bounced off of one of her obviously fake double-d’s and onto the desk.
“Good morning,” she said to the astonished piece of fluff. “Could you please tell Janice Parker that Melissa DeVries is here to see her?”
The girl sat there for almost half a minute, seemingly unable to look away from the denim-covered globes that hung suspended in space before her, everything else forgotten. Melissa cleared her throat, breaking the spell.
“Um, excuse me,” the piece of fluff said. “I’ll see if she’s available.” She picked up the office phone and punched a few buttons, sneaking occasional looks across the desk at the gravity defying bazooms.
Melissa snorted lightly. Things hadn’t necessarily gone downhill while she was away, but some things had certainly changed. Was old lady Masterson still here? She couldn’t imagine that old battle axe hiring this one, with her big ol’ fake boobs, her overdone makeup, her dyed hair, and her kiss mah grits accent. Was the old man fucking her? Melissa hoped he was. Not much point in being a whore if you don’t have customers.
Then again it appeared that some things never changed, as evidenced by the muffled whump followed by a pronounced thud a moment later.
“Are you okay, Johnny?” fluff-girl asked. She got up from her chair and approached the body lying face-up on the floor about ten feet behind her desk, Melissa following. “Are you all right?” she asked again, bending down beside him, her own saline-filled sweater puppies about to tumble out. “Do you want a glass of water or something?”
Johnny reached a shaking hand upward, glazed eyes taking in the twin visions hovering above him, the beatific expression upon his face akin to a religious fanatic looking upon the face of God. “Mil…Mel….” he stammered weakly, and then fainted.
“Looks like I was right,” came a voice from behind Melissa. She turned to see Janice standing there, looking coolly elegant in a white silk blouse, boot-length suede skirt, and dark leather knee-high boots. She was smirking.
“I told you your boobs would get someone killed someday, Mel.”
___________________________
They sat at the same plastic lunch table as always, though Melissa sat a little ways back, fearing that resting her breasts on the table might incur Janice’s wrath. She was also afraid that she might not be able to see her friend over them.
People came by to say hello, but Melissa knew that their interest was purely mammalian. Everyone wanted to see the big boobies up close. One of them even asked how they were doing, a slip of the tongue that the asker didn’t even seem to have noticed. It didn’t bother Melissa. She knew that to them she was like an animal in a zoo—a petting zoo, to be gut-wrenchingly accurate. What mattered to her was Janice’s opinion, the need for her respect, which was why she was lying to her.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you,” Melissa said, idly fidgeting with the cup of coffee that Janice had bought her. “I guess I just went crazy.”
“Uh-huh,” Janice replied, her hands in her lap, resting on her purse, her own coffee untouched. She was sitting back on her bench, almost leaning back, as though she were trying to keep as far away from Melissa’s bosom as possible and yet still be in the same room.
“What can I say, you were right. He was rich and I was stupid.”
“Uh-huh,” Janice said again, though whether in disbelief or disapproval Melissa couldn’t tell. Janice had said very little since their surprise reunion beyond asking her how she was and would she like to sit down.
“But he’s gone now,” Melissa continued, trying to fill the void in their conversation. She guessed that Janice was pissed at her, not that she could blame her. Janice had believed that something had happened to her—and something had. She was the only one to believe it, or at least act on it. And then to have that person show up, out of the blue, none the worse for wear and sporting a pair of hooters so large that they belonged in the Guinness Book of World Records?
“I see,” said Janice, looking Melissa directly in the eyes, as though her gargantuan boobs were no bigger than the last time she had seen them. No, that wasn’t it. She had acknowledged their existence back then. In fact, Melissa couldn’t remember Janice not kidding her about her breasts, or looking at them appreciatively, as if wishing she had a pair herself.
“Well, your job’s been filled,” Janice said, surprising Melissa, “but I’m sure you would be hired back. In fact, given your present look, I expect there would be a riot if you weren’t rehired.”
“Jan—”
“Hell, they might even get rid of Dee Dee, our lovely receptionist, and give you her job. She’s an odd one, you know? I can’t imagine someone having their breasts done to match their name, but I suppose people have done stranger things.”
“Janice, please—”
“Of course they would have to pad the outer office walls for safety, just in case someone tripped and went bouncing off of your tits, which would happen fairly often, I expect.”
Melissa could feel tears coming on. Janice was angry with her. No, not angry, contemptuous, and nor could she blame her. As far as Janice was aware, the person she’d thought she had known had run off and turned herself into some kind of sexual freak, an object for someone else’s gratification, precisely the kind of weak behavior that she detested.
But she couldn’t tell Janice the truth. Even if she believed her—and Melissa put long odds on that—her instinct would be to comfort her friend. An understandable enough reaction, surely, but beneath that emotion would be pity. Janice would be caring and understanding, but from that point onward she would never see Melissa as anything other than a victim, and that was a trade-off she was unwilling to accept. Perhaps it was a measure of how much her experiences had affected her, but she would much rather have Janice’s scorn than her pity.
Melissa stood up, purse in hand, resigned to the fact that she had lost Janice as a friend. There were no more bridges to her past life now. She would leave the building, call Kat, and tell her to set up an audition with the three biggest-dicked porn stars out there. If she was going to do big tit porn, she might as well be its queen. Melony Cox-Zucker didn’t know it yet, but she was soon to lose her crown.
“Thank you for your concern, Jan,” she said, anger and sorrow causing a slight quaver in her voice. “It’s been—”
“Leaving so soon, Mel?” Janice interrupted, craning her neck so that she could see over the mythic bosom that separated them. “I was hoping we could talk about old times over some milk and cookies.” Her piercing expression left Melissa in no doubt that she knew exactly what she was talking about.
“How…” Melissa began shakily, her legs feeling weak, heart beginning to race. “how do you…?
Janice inclined her head toward her friend’s massively overdeveloped chest. “You’re leaking, cowgirl.”
Melissa looked downward, but given the angle and the distance could see nothing untoward. She could feel it well enough, however, a slight fluctuation in the pressure within her breasts, growing again, pushing out more milk with each beat of her heart. Casting aside concerns about propriety, she placed a hand against each of her throbbing milkers. They came away wet.
“Oh, no,” she said, instantly forgetting everything else. She had milked herself before getting dressed this morning, but even so the emotional stress that she had been under since entering the building—further exacerbated by Janice’s treatment of her—had sent her breasts into overdrive, milk under pressure oozing through the layers of nylon/spandex, the Kevlar mesh, and finally the denim, making her predicament quite apparent.
Melissa turned away from th
e table, leaving Janice behind, instinct guiding her. She lumbered out of the lunchroom, oversized udders wobbling wildly despite the support of her custom-designed undergarments. It might still be in her locker, even after all this time. Before it had been a hobby, but now she needed the little machine more than ever.
She continued down the hallway, uncaring at the shocked expressions of those she passed. There it was, just past the women’s restroom: the Mothers’ Room. She banged into the empty room, thankful that Masterson’s misogynistic hiring practices made use of the space unlikely. The room was as it had always been: mismatched rocking chairs, scratched tables, cartons of toilet paper stacked against the wall. Her locker was just ahead, the lock still hanging from the slide bar. She reached into her purse and pulled out her keys and slid the key into the lock. It snapped open. Hurriedly, she removed the lock and opened the locker. It was empty.
“It took me almost three weeks to pick that lock,” came Janice’s voice from behind her. There was no scorn or hatred in her tone now. She sounded much more like the Janice she had known before. “That was some serious hardware, Mel.”
Melissa could feel her breasts throbbing, more milk being extruded through the fabric of her dress, but for some strange reason it didn’t seem to matter. She closed the locker door and turned to face her friend. Janice stood there, leaning against the closed door of the Mothers’ Room, arms crossed in front of her non-existent breasts.
“I felt like the world’s biggest fool, Mel, swearing out a missing persons report on a cow. Of course I didn’t know that then. No, silly me, I thought your fancy man had killed you, or maybe sold you to white slavers.”