From trekfiend@aol.com Fri Mar 22 19:22:01 1996
LACTOGENESIS LX:  THE LAST STRAW

	A quilt with squares consisting of every conceivable shade of
green and criss-crossing geometrical shapes passed in slow review across
Chris's vision.  The quilt was a wrinkled one, shadows of the wrinkles
cast by a low late afternoon sun introducing even more shades of green
into the palette.  Yes, thought Chris peacefully, from this altitude the
countryside does look like a wrinkled quilt.  The merest wisp of cloud
passed near enough to touch but insubstantial enough not to register on
her fingertips.  The air was warm even though Chris knew she had to be
several thousand feet up.  She accepted this inconsistency as easily as
the fact that she was airborne without benefit of any plane, glider, or
other manmade device, with the calm belief in the impossible that comes
from being in a dream.  This was one of Chris's most common dreams, flying
slowly, soundlessly above a large expanse of bountiful farmland.  Her
brain, never having experienced floating in reality, concocted a
convincing facsimile.  She knew she was dreaming, and welcomed the
feelings:  the security that she would not fall, the peace of the total
silence.  She always seemed to awaken more refreshed from this kind of
dream than any other.
	As she floated along, admiring the landscape below, she became
vaguely aware that she was nude.  She remembered other dreams of being
naked in public places, but never before had that aspect crossed into her
current dream scenario.  Chris ran her hands over her body, for the
umpteenth time thanking whatever powers there were that had sculpted such
feminine perfection from the ruin of The Accident.  She spread her arms
and legs wide against the warm sky, and slowly spun through a lazy spiral.
 As she completed the turn and was again facing the ground, she felt a
strange sensation in her breasts, as if gravity had suddenly started
tugging harder on them.  She frowned as the sensation intensified until it
felt as if an invisible force was trying to pull her breasts off her
chest.  It was soon joined by a feeling of pressure inside, similar to how
she felt when becoming engorged with milk, but stronger.  To her horror,
she saw her bosom begin to expand as if being inflated.  The tugging from
outside and pressure from within continued to build, crossing the
threshold into pain.  Chris tried to cross her arms over her
now-basketball-sized tits, but something held her arms pinned to her
sides.  Tears stung her eyes as her breasts continued to expand, growing
beyond watermelons in length and girth, with nipples the size of jelly
jars.  Their huge bulk soon began pressing back on her rib cage,
shortening her breath.  Panic joined with pain as her bosom threatened to
become as large as she was tall.  Finally, her increase in mass overcame
whatever dream power was keeping her aloft, and she abruptly began
plummeting, screaming, earthward.
	Chris's eyes snapped open and her bed rocked with the spasm her
body gave as she jerked awake.  She was immediately confused by
conflicting sensory information:  she knew she was awake and lying on her
side, yet the feelings of pressure and pain she'd had in the dream
persisted, though greatly diminished.  It was like falling asleep with the
radio on, hearing a song in your dreams, and awakening to hear that same
song playing.  As awareness increased, she came to know that her sheets
were absolutely wringing wet.  For a startled moment she thought that
perhaps in her terror she had wet the bed (for the first time since
toddlerhood), but upon throwing back the covers, she saw that her
nightshirt, sheets, and pillow were saturated not with urine, but with
breast milk.  Her breasts still ached from fullness; she stripped off the
nightshirt to see them still running with milk.
	Chris sat on the edge of her bed, hugging herself hard across the
chest to slow the flow.  She felt tears well up as her fatigue and utter
frustration at having lost control over her lactating bosom caught up with
her.  She wept at the loss of the joy and satisfaction that having her
very special abilities had once conveyed.  Instead of getting superlative
sexual gratification from being able to lactate in quantity, of having a
shape worthy of the centerfold of any men's magazine you'd care to name,
of being able to ejaculate volumes of hot fluid in a burst of orgasm
rivaling the eruption of a supernova, of being able to fuck any and all
comers right into the ground, Chris now felt as if her body had betrayed
her, turning all that had made her special into a curse.
	Sobbing gently, Chris threw her sheets and nightshirt into the
hamper, stepped into the shower, and used the hot spray to help her empty
her breasts.  Her spirits were bolstered by the fact that she did indeed
still get a bit of a sexual buzz from doing this, but not enough to
overcome the shock of waking up drenched in one's own bodily secretions. 
After drying off, she surveyed herself in the mirror.  Her red-rimmed eyes
seemed to add years to her life.  Her swollen 40DD breasts were no longer
beautiful to her; even though still firm and well-shaped, they looked
somehow *old*, beaten up, as if a dozen babies had suckled from them for
years.  The average male would not have seen anything untoward; to him
Christine would still be a stunning goddess whose body defied gravity,
worthy of total sexual devotion and capable of being his ultimate wet
dream, but Chris knew her body better than anyone, and now had finally
realized that things had gone too far.
	It was still dark; her alarm clock read 3:40 am.  Chris was too
tired to make up the bed with fresh sheets, too tired even to put on a
fresh nightshirt.  She grabbed up the relatively unscathed bedspread from
the floor and headed out to the living room, intending to spend the rest
of the night sleeping on the couch.  As she lay back she became aware of
the weight of her breasts on her chest and realized that sleeping nude
might not be a good idea.  She fumbled in the dark back into her bedroom
and sleepily donned a nursing bra that she had pre-stuffed with pads.  As
she dragged herself back into the living room, she caught a glimpse in the
mirror again, nude except for a ridiculous nursing bra.  The sight
thoroughly disgusted her.
	"That is the last straw," she murmured as she lay down.  "Tomorrow
I start seeing what I can do to shut these things off."  As the enormity
of her decision started sinking in at the same rate sleep began to
overtake her, she added to the close darkness, "But not before I have one
last all-out..."  And she was asleep.

<<to be continued>>

From trekfiend@aol.com Thu Apr 04 02:44:54 1996
LACTOGENESIS LXI:  THE THINGS CHRIS DID

	Christine awoke and was greeted by a sharp twinge in her neck. 
She was unused to sleeping on the sofa.  The nursing pads in her bra were
sopping wet, despite the fact that she had crammed two into each cup
before going to sleep a mere four hours before.  She remembered hearing,
through her connections with the now-defunct Lac-Station, that some
overproducing mothers actually put entire disposable diapers into their
burgeoning bras.  She made a mental note to pick some up later that day. 
She thought about the mess in her bedroom and dreaded having to clean it
up.  That thought was immediately followed by a strengthened resolve to
have this over with and to pursue a means to dry her milk up --
involution, to use the formal term.  But this resolution was superceded by
a stronger one.  Before giving up the unique aspect of her sexuality that
her lactation ability provided her, Chris would have one last great
extended sexual indulgence, making use of her milk in ways she had not yet
experienced.  This would take some creativity; in the two years since The
Accident Chris's sexual exploits had been many and varied -- there was
little she hadn't tried in that time.  She would need some suggestions,
and there was no one she knew more sexually creative than her friend and
occasional lover Sherri.
	Chris strode over to the phone, unheeding of her rather comical
look -- nude except for a nursing bra whose cups were open and flapping
about as she walked.  She almost savagely punched out Sherri's number and
tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for Sherri to answer.  After
almost twenty rings, she finally heard someone pick up.
	"This had better be pretty fucking important, goddammit," came a
sleepy but angry voice over the receiver.
	Chris suddenly realized that it was only 7:30, on a Saturday
morning.  "Hello to you too," she said.  "I'm really sorry; I didn't
realize how early it was."
	"Baby, what's wrong?" Sherri replied, all traces of indignation
gone from her voice.  If Chris was calling this early on a Saturday,
something must be up.  In the background, Chris heard a masculine groan
and a rustle of sheets.  Oops, she thought.
	Chris hurriedly related her experience of the previous night and
her decisions both to dry her milk up and to go out in a blaze of glory
before doing so.  She was surprised at how close to tears she was. 
Deciding to shut down her magnificent milk factories was, in her mind,
tantamount to something as momentous and shattering as deciding to put a
pet to sleep.  There were the same feelings of loss and "necessary evil"
involved.  She didn't want to become sexually "ordinary" again, but the
price of remaining "unique" had become too high.
	Sherri was expectedly sympathetic.  "Welcome to the club,
sweetheart," she said.  "Losing your ability to control whether or not
your breasts made milk put you in the same boat with all of us 'normal'
lactating women.  We can't just start and stop like you could.  If you're
really serious about drying up, the best advice I could give you is not to
go cold turkey.  I tried that and was miserable.  I was so engorged that I
couldn't stand even the touch of a silk blouse.  I got a fever and had to
spend days with an ice pack strapped to my chest.  No, if you want to do
it, do it gradually.  Start by cutting back very slowly on your pumping
sessions, maybe eliminating one every other day and spacing the others out
appropriately.  Then eliminate another, and another, until you can just
quit without too much discomfort.  If it's true that whatever happened to
you in Jamaica made you into a just-plain overproducer, then your body
should respond normally to the old law of supply and demand."  There was
silence for a few seconds, then Chris heard Sherri sigh loudly.  "I know
that this decision was difficult for you, but I'd be less than honest if I
said I wasn't going to miss the fun of draining your breasts in all kinds
of interesting ways.  You tasted so sweet, too...I'm sorry.  I'm not
making this any easier."
	"Well, hon, you won't have to give it up right this second," Chris
said, and told her about the second part of her decision.
	"Well shit fire, lady, now you're talking!  You have definitely
come to the right slut.  Let me take care of a few things here and I'll
meet you for breakfast.  We'll talk about it over a couple of monster
cinnamon rolls."  There was another pause.  "You know, this could take a
while to exhaust all the possibilities."
	"I'm prepared to spend as much time as it takes," Chris said
firmly.  "I can live with these out-of-control boobs of mine for a few
weeks more."
	As it happened, a few weeks was an underestimation.
	*The First Thing Chris Did*:  Chris had only occasionally partaken
of her own milk, and then usually while masturbating.  Her lovers had all
mentioned that it was sweet and warm, rather like sweetened condensed milk
thinned out to the consistency of skim.  Chris decided that before her
milk was gone forever, she would drink as much of it as she could, or
until she got tired of it.  She took to saving out a couple of bottles
extracted from her still multiple-times-daily milking sessions and keeping
a supply in her refrigerator.  She used it on her cereal, in her coffee,
and occasionally she would pour herself a large tumbler and just swig it
down.  After a few days of this she decided she liked it better warm than
cold, and so took to suckling herself when she felt full rather than
hooking herself up to her breast pump.  Over the two years she had been
lactating, her breasts, though still high, voluminous, and firm enough to
make any centerfold jealous, had softened sufficiently to allow her to get
her nipple and areola into her mouth.  She soon found a suction and rhythm
that drained her breasts most efficiently while providing the maximum
sexual pleasure.  Her biggest difficulties were A) keeping her nipple in
her mouth while orgasming (as she usually did while suckling herself) when
all she wanted to do was throw her head back and howl in pleasure, and B)
keeping the fountain from her free breast contained.  By the end of the
week she was hardly using the pump at all.
	*The Second Thing Chris Did*:  Chris remembered Janine mentioning
that she enjoyed cooking topless, particularly the feel of warm steam
rising from a pot of boiling water, for example, on her full bosom.  Chris
started doing this, and took it a step further:  she began incorporating
her breast milk into recipes.  She found that it made a superior pudding
and excellent cream sauces.  As an ironic twist, she even made a lobster
bisque with it.  Her only difficulties here were that the warmth from the
stove often helped trigger a hellacious letdown which would turn her on so
much that she would have to get herself off right then and there -- this
sometimes resulted in a neglected (and therefore burnt) entree as she
stood spurting into the kitchen sink.  There was also an unfortunate
incident involving spattering grease from frying bacon...
	*The Third Thing Chris Did*:  Sherri, well aware that Chris's
sexual status was about to change, began asking to bed her more often than
usual.  Although she had gone through involution several weeks earlier,
Sherri's pendulous mams still produced a small amount of thin fluid.  One
of her and Chris's favorite bedtime activities became assuming a position
in which the two women would lie with their heads facing opposite ends of
the bed.  They were each sufficiently endowed that in this position they
could suckle each other simultaneously while fingering themselves to
orgasm.  Chris would have to work hard to draw even a few drops from
Sherri, but the harder she sucked, the more Sherri liked it.  In Sherri's
case, satisfaction could only be obtained if her entire fist was buried in
her cunt, and on several occasions she would have a butt plug firmly in
place at the same time.  Chris, on the other hand, preferred a lighter
touch; her clit was so sensitive that she would be able to come just from
having a feather tickle it while Sherri slurped greedily at her
free-flowing nipples.  The only disadvantage to this practice was that
when Chris would come, as she did numerous times per session, her copious
ejaculations would soak harmlessly into a large towel specially positioned
for that purpose.  Sherri would have preferred getting them full in the
face, but she could not nurse and get squirted at the same time.  Chris
would occasionally compromise by sitting up and bending over Sherri as she
ate Chris out, squirting milk down onto her face and head.  This way when
she came, Chris would drench Sherri with milk and pussy juice
simultaneously, and this would almost always send Sherri over the edge,
often without her having to touch herself at all.
	*The Fourth Thing Chris Did*:  As might be expected, Sherri had
several ex-lovers who had been bitterly disappointed when Sherri had
decided to stop lactating.  With Chris's permission, Sherri gave her
number to these gentlemen, and within hours Chris started getting phone
calls.  She would get briefed on each guy from Sherri, finding out in
advance what kinds of things he was into.  The first gentleman, a husky
fellow named Jim, liked tit fucking.  Chris was rather surprised to
realize that in all this time she had never done that particular thing. 
She discovered that she enjoyed it very much.  Her generous bosom provided
more than enough of a tunnel for Jim's fat cock, and her milk provided
ample lubrication.  Her favorite aspect of this was when, in the throes of
passion, Jim would grab her breasts in an effort to wrap them ever more
tightly together around his pistoning pole.  This would invariably produce
a geyser of milk which would splash across his hairy chest and even
occasionally strike the ceiling.  Chris hadn't been used to much rough
handling of her precious mammaries, but she found that she rather liked
Jim's manipulations.  She enjoyed sitting across the room from him, trying
to hit his open mouth with her sprays.  It was a difficult target since
Jim was usually jacking off furiously at the time and so could not keep
still.  Chris was most gratified when she could squirt him while keeping
her hands on top of her head, with only the force of her letdown reflex
propelling the milk over the fifteen or so feet that separated them during
this exercise.

<<to be continued>>

From trekfiend@aol.com Fri Apr 05 22:05:29 1996
LACTOGENESIS LXII:  THE OTHER THINGS CHRIS DID

	*The Fifth Thing Chris Did*:  Realizing that her milk supply would
soon be gone, Chris indulged a certain scientific curiosity she'd had
about her abilities ever since she stopped helping Dr. Ellis with her
research.  One Saturday she retreated into her second bedroom, which was
still set up as her "milking room", made sure the refrigerator was stocked
with provisions, hooked herself up to her pump, and remained hooked up for
the entire day.  The pump threatened to overheat, but kept up a steady
rhythm, stopping only when Chris had to use the john, which wasn't often
considering that her excess fluids were being drawn off in other ways. 
She tried to keep tabs on her orgasms, but lost count after twenty.  She
soon became so disoriented from the constant high level of arousal she was
experiencing that after about six or seven hours she was almost
zombie-like, lying almost motionless, hypnotized by the cadence of the
pump, visibly trembling every so often as another orgasm hit, a steady
dribble of milk being extracted from her besieged nipples.  The pump
finally gave up the ghost and came to a noisy halt after thirteen straight
hours, at which time Chris had shattered her old one-day production record
by almost a liter and had produced God only knew how much ejaculate.  She
also had succeeded in dehydrating herself despite a steady influx of
protein drinks and spent most of the next day in bed trying to get her
electrolytes back in line.  Her peerless bosom also needed to recover; red
rings from the pump cups were visible on her breasts for several days, and
her nipples were so sore that she needed to apply lanolin cream to them
for almost a week afterward.  The experiment put her behind schedule with
her involution; her body, confused by the sudden increase in demand,
stepped up milk production again for a few days, and Chris became
painfully engorged on more than one occasion.  As for the excess milk, she
decided to make a gift of it to Connor, the fellow who had spied on her
and Sherri as they indulged themselves by the swimming pool.  Chris had a
soft spot in her heart for the constantly horny young man -- after all,
who wouldn't enjoy being the center of an adolescent sexual fantasy?  One
morning she substituted a gallon of milk left outside Connor's apartment
by the milkman with a gallon of her own milk, most of which had come from
that single session.  She wondered whether he would be able to tell the
difference.
	*The Sixth Thing Chris Did*:  Elliott was the second of Sherri's
referrals.  He preferred having sex at his own place, for one obvious
reason:  His bedroom was set up in an unusual manner.  Instead of a bed,
two loosely woven mesh hammocks, one above the other in bunk-bed fashion,
hung from heavy hooks set into the walls.  The hammocks were adjustable
such that, when both were occupied, the top person would lay suspended
only millimeters above the lower one.  Elliott enjoyed lying face down in
the top hammock, his penis protruding through the mesh.  When all rope
tensions were just right, he could penetrate his partner without having to
touch her with any other part of his body.  Chris turned the tables on
Elliott, requesting that she be allowed to be in the top hammock.  He had
to adjust the ropes so that the hammock was strung on a slight angle so
that Chris's cunt could envelop his cock properly, but the new arrangement
worked very well.  Chris's breasts were too large to poke through the
mesh.  The pressure of the web of rope that encircled her areolae when she
put her weight on it worked just like her own fingers with respect to the
manual expression of breast milk.  As she fucked Elliott from above, her
nipples, protruding down through the mesh, jetted milk at their maximum
flow rate, quite effectively drenching the hapless young man's top half
within seconds.  His bottom half became sodden mere moments later when
Chris's orgasm deluged him with hot pussy juice.  Chris enjoyed that
particular orgasm in that it was the first time in two years she had been
able to lie on her stomach while making love.  In a normal bed the
pressure on her milk-filled boobs from the weight of herself and her
partner was usually uncomfortable enough to be distracting.
	*The Seventh Thing Chris Did*:  Figuring that her figure would
return to its pre-Accident proportions once she stopped lactating, Chris
decided she would show it off more during her Last Fling (she was taking
to thinking of those words as being capitalized).  The weather cooperated
beautifully, growing steadily warmer as the weeks passed into summer. 
Chris stopped wearing her nursing bra and went back to being sans
underwear.  She began wearing shorter skirts and lower necklines.  Her
perpetually erect nipples turned heads with increasing frequency.  She
still suffered from occasional inappropriate letdowns, but instead of
hiding them or acting embarrassed, she tried to make the most of the
situation.  Once while walking briskly through a park, the jiggling set
off a letdown which drenched the front of her tank top.  As she continued
to walk, the breeze began evaporating the milk, causing her nipples to
harden even more.  Overtaken by the feeling, she simply sat down on a park
bench, closed her eyes, and masturbated by performing Kegel exercises, not
touching herself in any way.  Needless to say, her clothing was saturated
above and below when she finally came.  She camouflaged the huge stains on
her clothes by joining a small group of people who were cavorting in the
park fountain, wetting herself so thoroughly that everyone who saw her
after that simply assumed she had fallen in.  On another occasion she was
sunbathing nude on the balcony of her apartment, uncaring who might see
her.  She felt the sun warm her breasts, stimulating them to release their
bounty.  She allowed it to happen, spraying milk over the railing to the
walkway below.  She heard a surprised yell, and realized that someone down
below was getting sprinkled.  Recognizing the voice, she got up from her
lounger and went to the railing.  Peering up at her was young Connor, who
was still acting as her constant shadow whenever she was in the public
areas of the apartment building.  His face was dotted with white.  Her
physical assets in full view of him, she leaned over the railing and waved
to him, her superlative breasts still dripping with milk.  His eyes
threatening to explode from his skull, Connor raised his arm and weakly
waved back.  He licked off some of the droplets of milk that had landed on
his lips, and instantly recognized the taste.  The realization that he had
recently, and quite unknowingly, consumed a gallon of Chris's own milk was
too much for him.  A dark spot appeared on his khaki shorts over the lump
that marked his straining erection just before he fainted dead away.
	*The Eighth Thing Chris Did*:  Chris knew that Sherri enjoyed
being wetted down with all manner of bodily secretions during sex:  semen,
female ejaculate, mother's milk, and lately, those of the "golden"
variety.  Although Chris could not bring herself to indulge Sherri in the
lattermost fetish, she did suggest that the two of them get messy in a
different way.  One night, instead of bringing honey to drizzle over her
nipples, Chris brought two huge bottles of vegetable oil and a large
plastic dropcloth to their lovemaking session.  The sensation of all that
mammary tissue sliding over and around itself was new to Chris.  The
*lack* of friction was exciting in that it caused her to focus more
strongly on the feelings in order to get the same level of arousal that
she was used to without the oil.  It took her longer to come, but when she
did, the orgasm lasted much longer than usual, rolling up to a high but
rounded peak before dying away over a period of what seemed like minutes. 
At session's end, the two women were coated with an emulsion of mother's
milk and vegetable oil that Sherri jokingly commented could be made into a
servicable salad dressing with the addition of a few spices!

<<to be continued>>

From trekfiend@aol.com Fri Apr 05 22:07:32 1996
LACTOGENESIS LXIII:  THE REST OF THE THINGS CHRIS DID

	*The Ninth Thing Chris Did*:  One evening, while fucking Jim's
brains out, Chris suddenly jumped up out of bed and went to stand before
the full length mirror in her bedroom, beckoning Jim to join her.  She
instructed him to penetrate her from behind as they watched themselves in
the mirror.  As Jim drove into her ass, he reached around and grabbed
Chris's breasts.  In a flash of inspiration, Chris guided his hands as she
allowed her milk to flow, quite legibly writing "Chris was here" in milk
on the mirror.  The quickly melting words were soon obliterated by the
white shower which followed as Jim's talented tool propelled her to yet
another double explosion of fluids.
	*The Tenth Thing Chris Did*:  Chris never forgot the intense
stimulation she received from actually nursing a baby.  Suckling adults
was one thing -- they were doing it for their own pleasure and so did not
have the urgency that an infant, who does it out of the primal urge for
survival, did.  She was amazed at the powerful suction (and incredible
orgasms) such small mouths could produce.  Once she'd gotten past the
awkwardness of being sexually stimulated by a baby, she'd grown to enjoy
breastfeeding.  One evening she had an opportunity to babysit twins, about
four months old.  Their mother, an acquaintance of Chris's from work who
was unaware of her abilities, had left bottles of her own breast milk in
the refrigerator for Chris.  Aware that the twins might not take to a
strange pair of breasts, Chris anointed her nipples with some of the
bottled milk so that they would recognize their mother's unique chemical
signature.  Chris had never nursed two babies simultaneously, and being
unused to handling two at once, had a little difficulty at first.  Using
the "football hold", where each baby was essentially tucked under an
armpit, she was able to position them appropriately.  Smelling their
mother's milk on Chris's oozing nipples, they latched on with a vengeance.
 Chris almost passed out from the intensity of having two little
powerhouses pulling away on her at once.  It felt as if her nipples and
areolae were being stretched out like rubber bands by the action of the
hungry twins.  It was all she could do to keep the babies positioned
properly while she trembled with orgasm after orgasm, completely drenching
the bath towel she had shoved under her skirt.  Her reverie was broken
only when one of the twins started to splutter and cry, the victim of a
torrent of milk she could not swallow fast enough.  Fortunately the twins'
parents were out for most of the evening, and the little ones had ravenous
appetites, so Chris had an opportunity to repeat the experience before the
parents came home.  She made sure to dump out the bottles to give the
proper illusion.  
	*The Eleventh Thing Chris Did*:  One of the toughest decisions
Chris ever had to make regarding a sexual activity was with respect to
whether or not to try bondage and discipline.  While assertive, Chris did
not consider herself domineering, and ever since her near-rape at the
Sailors' Soiree' and her experience with Drs. Ellis and Frankenmuth, the
idea of being restrained during sex had not held much appeal.  However,
her resolve to try more new things before her Final Fling was over was too
strong, and so she sought out Sherri for some advice on the subject.  Her
response was to bring in two more "referrals", and the four of them went
to town.  Sherri lent Chris some latex outfits, which, because they were
too small for Chris, lent outrageous proportions to Chris's body when
cinched up tight.  The men brought their own.  Much as she tried, Chris
could not get into disciplining these fellows.  The most pleasure she was
able to derive from the experience was when she would stand over them, her
breasts protruding from cutouts in the rubber outfit, as the men groveled
at her feet, begging to catch the drips of milk that the tight outfit were
squeezing from her breasts on their tongues.  She found that the most fun
she had was being tied to the bed, helpless to stop the other three as
their hands and tongues explored her body.  Sherri, knowing what buttons
to push better than anyone, waited until she knew Chris was so engorged
that she was ready to explode, then stimulated a letdown that almost
brought the house down.  Chris squirmed on the bed, her breasts erupting
skyward as the other three simply stood back and watched while
masturbating lustily.  The geyser of milk continued for a full two
minutes, waving back and forth as Chris writhed under Sherri's
ministrations, before slaking off to a dribble, like magma from an
underwater fissure.  Then one man took to each breast while Sherri buried
her face in Chris's bald cunt.  Not being able to use her hands suddenly
caused an image of Sheila Ellis to reappear in Chris's mind.  She was
again in the NMR examining room, strapped down on the table, with Sheila
standing over her, her body glistening with Chris's dual secretions.  The
memory of Sheila's inch-long nipples being moved teasingly back and forth
across her lips triggered a fresh flow of juices, surprising all three
people working on her with the volume of it after all that had already
transpired that night.
	*The Twelfth Thing Chris Did*:  Sherri's apartment, being in the
same building as Chris's, was laid out in very much the same way.  Chris
knew that the balcony off of Sherri's bedroom had a sliding glass door on
it, just as hers did.  One early evening, as the two were about to make
love, Chris darted out onto the balcony, stark naked, and slid the door
shut behind her.  As Sherri stood in front of the door, wondering what she
was up to, Chris began a slow, sinuous dance out on the balcony.  As the
tempo of the dance increased, Chris began to stimulate herself, slipping a
finger into her pouting pussy and licking off the dripping juices,
squeezing drops of milk from her diamond-hard nipples.  Sheila reached for
the door handle, but Chris gestured for her not to.  She then began to
press her naked body against the glass, spreading her full hot boobs
against its coolness.  They began to release their contents forcefully. 
The milk squirted out and around her flattened bosom and cascaded in white
sheets down the glass.  Chris ground her mons against the door, smearing
it from below with her sticky secretion.  Sherri pressed her body against
the other side, her tongue flicking out to trace patterns along the glass.
 Separated by only those few millimeters, the two women undulated against
the door, each daring the other to be the first to pull the handle open. 
Sherri finally succumbed, jerking the door open and grabbing Chris's wrist
in one quick motion.  She practically carried Chris to the bed and went at
her with unusual vigor.  They almost wore out the double-headed dildo that
night.
	*The Last Thing Chris Did*:  ...was to notice a discharge from her
vagina one morning.  The nature of it was sufficiently different from her
normal almost constant state of moistness to cause her concern.  A visit
to her gynecologist confirmed it:  Chris had contracted a sexually
transmitted disease from one of Sherri's referrals.  She had been pretty
careful in the past to insist on her partners' wearing condoms, but in
these last weeks of total sexual abandon she had abandoned caution as
well, and was now paying the price.  One aspect of her treatment was
complete abstinence, and so, quite against her will, Chris's Final Fling
ended as abruptly as it had begun.  Fortunately for our heroine, her
program of slowly cutting back on the frequency of draining her breasts
was coming to a close at the same time, even having been delayed by her
recent "experiment".  To Chris's immense relief, her body responded as
expected, slowly reducing its output of her ivory ambrosia over time. 
Within three months after her initial decision, Chris's days as the most
amazing milkmaid in recent medical history had come to a quiet end.

<<TO BE CONCLUDED>>


Subject:      FINAL REPOST:  Lactogenesis LXIV
From:         trekfiend@aol.com (TrekFiend)
Date:         1996/08/18
Newsgroups:   alt.sex.stories

LACTOGENESIS LXIV:  THE END

        Christine smiled tentatively at the woman standing in front of
her, and the woman smiled back in kind.  She allowed her gaze to move
slowly along her body, taking note of small details she didn't ordinarily
scrutinize.  Let's start at the top, she thought.  I like what she's done
with the hair, a very short style reminiscent of Major Kira's on "Deep
Space Nine", but a touch longer.  Thank God, no gray yet, but she's only
31, for crying out loud.  Eyebrows maybe a bit too thick, nose perhaps a
bit too long, eyes...now stop that, she caught herself.  I thought you
stopped doing that years ago.  Now start again, and be *nice*.  Where were
we?  OK -- face:  I wouldn't call her her drop-dead gorgeous, but she
hasn't broken the changing room mirror or anything...hey!  What did I just
tell you, she admonished herself again.  She'd been satisfied with the
repair work the surgeons had done, and God knows the opposite sex had had
no objections over the intervening seven years.  She was not here to
reminisce, however.  So let's get down to it, shall we?  She let her eyes
move further downward to examine the bikini she was trying on.  Summer's
on the way, melanoma be damned.  I've got to get some color into this
whiter-than-white skin, she thought.  Actually, I do look pretty damned
good in this...
        The spaghetti straps of the halter top moved smoothly over a
well-defined collarbone and down past a small mole on the left pectoral
and a tiny strawberry mark on the right to plug into the two triangles of
fabric which made the suit just barely legal in public.  Her lip curled
slightly as she thought of how difficult it had been to find something
that fit properly -- she hoped that this would have to be the last place
she tried.  Not exactly a plain old garden-variety 34B, with plenty of
matching suits around.  Depending upon the article of clothing, she could
be considered a very full C or just barely D cup.  She'd had to
concentrate on stores that offered separate tops and bottoms so she could
find something that fit.  Shouldn't complain, she said to herself.  Sherri
has an even worse time finding clothes with that enormous chest of hers.
Impulsively she removed the top and took a good long look at herself.
Back when I was a 34B I would have passed a pencil test, she thought, but
after all these have been through, they still hold up well.  The wine red
nipples still pointed straight out from her chest, and slightly away from
each other.  Thank God for good ligaments, Chris thought.  What will these
look like in forty years?  She cupped her breasts briefly, but withdrew
her hands quickly.  Boy, they're sensitive again today, she thought, as a
quick bolt of warmth shot from them to her groin and her nipples responded
with alacrity.  Almost like the old days.  She stepped back from the
mirror and completed the visual tour.  She noted in passing a couple of
extra pounds around the waist -- nothing some more time on the Stairmaster
wouldn't take care of -- if only she didn't love Ben & Jerry's so much.  A
slight look of chagrin crossed her face as she noted some wisps of pubic
hair peeking out of the sides of the suit.  If I buy this, I'll need some
Nair, she thought.  Hell, maybe I'll just go back to shaving it all off --
I actually liked being *completely* nude.  She didn't give a second
thought to her legs.  That same Stairmaster had sculpted them into a
perfect blend of bone, muscle, and just a hint of fat, just enough to
smooth the lines out.  Her legs and the firm butt they were attached to
used to be her best feature, but for the past seven years her bustline had
been what people noticed first.  And this suit made good use of it.  A
quick breath, a sharp nod.  She'll take the suit.  Good thing, since today
was The Day, and she had sworn to make a purchase before end of business,
so as not to break with tradition.
        Every year at this exact time Chris shopped for a new bikini in
order to acknowledge the anniversary of The Accident.  Seven years ago
today, after having bought a new bikini, she had stepped out of this very
mall, into a bright late spring sun, only to be mowed down by a speeding
car driven by a shoplifter trying to escape police.  Even after all this
time she wasn't sure whether to curse or thank that driver.  The side
effects of her injuries had caused her pituitary hormones to go crazy,
causing her breasts to grow and spontaneously lactate to an extent so
unusual that she had been the subject of a medical study that had won its
author a position as chief researcher at a prestigious medical center.
Sheila never did even so much as thank me, Chris remembered.  Chris had
also developed the ability to ejaculate upon orgasm, an ability which she
retained to this day, albeit without the spectacular volumes of fluid she
could generate in her heyday.  Her breasts had also decreased in
impressiveness once she'd stopped lactating, but they were still
considerably larger than their pre-Accident proportions and despite the
years, were every bit as firm.  The fact that she still retained most of
the advantages of the Accident was the reason she celebrated every year by
treating herself to a new swimsuit.
        She emerged from the revolving door of the main mall entrance and
smiled as the bright sunlight caused her to blink rapidly and begin
searching her purse for her sunglasses.  Even the weather's the same
today, she said to herself.  She hadn't gone ten meters before she
realized she had forgotten where she'd parked.  Mall parking lots are the
bane of my existence, she thought.  She stood in the middle of the drive
adjacent to Section B, doing a slow 360, searching for the dented back
bumper that made her Miata easy to identify.  She clutched her tiny
package under her arm, only vaguely aware of it.  She was so intent on her
search that only the barest fraction of her mind heard the screeching of
tortured tires and the over-revving of an engine.  She had just completed
her full revolution when deja vu gripped her like a vise.  Panicked, she
spun about again, searching for the source of the sound, and was
infinitely relieved to see a car speeding away several aisles down.  "God,
that was too weird", she said aloud as she stood recovering from the
effects of an adrenaline surge.
        Back at her apartment, Chris tried on the bikini again, this time
to see how it would go with the other beachwear she had in her closet.
Her experience in the parking lot -- the certainty she'd felt that she was
about to do it all over again at the hands of yet another crazed driver --
had served to stimulate her memory, and she found herself going over those
two years during which her entire lifestyle had been ruled by the
incredible sexual urges and abilities The Accident had bestowed upon her.
Chris stood before her full-length mirror, resplendent in her tiny
swimsuit, but her mind was elsewhere:  Her living room, where Sherri had
suckled her for the first time.  Jeremy's palatial home, where a decadent
Halloween party was her first exposure to the world of sexual excess.  The
hospital, being a guinea pig for Drs. Ellis and Frankenmuth.  The creation
of the Lac-Station, and the recruitment of other lactating women into that
organization.  The mysterious first client.  The various seductions she'd
performed.  The pivotal trip to Jamaica where the dark side of sex caused
her to begin questioning her new lifestyle.  The decision to steer her
life back into some semblance of normalcy.  The case of VD that had
brought her promiscuity to a screeching halt.
        As her experiences of those two years marched across her brain,
Chris was surprised at the intensity of her memories of the physical
sensations involved.  Over the past five years she had grown so accustomed
to her post-lactation body that she'd completely forgotten how much higher
her level of arousal had been during that time, and how much more powerful
her orgasms were.  Now that she was plumbing the depths of those
experiences, her somatic memory surged forward, and she was swept with
sexual feelings that she had thought were gone forever.  She opened her
eyes and saw her image in the mirror, with face, throat and upper chest
flushed pink, her ribcage expanding with her quickened breath, nipples
poking smartly through the fabric of the bikini top, and a surge of
moistness becoming noticable at the crotch of the bikini bottom.  Before
she knew what she was doing, Chris was out of the swimsuit, the two
fingers of her right hand flying to her pubic region.  Suddenly the feel
of hair down there seemed wrong, alien somehow.  As she furiously vibrated
her fingers across her swollen clit, memories of herself squirting like a
fountain from breasts and cunt, drenching her lovers with sweet secretions
while lost in indescribable feelings of release, filled her head.  In
seconds she was coming with such force that her legs gave out from under
her, and she landed with a thump on her pussy juice-coated behind.  She
blinked uncomprehendingly at her image in the mirror, sitting splay-legged
before her, its quivering, drooling pussy still pulsing with each
heartbeat.
        I haven't come like that in years, Chris thought, when rational
thought was again possible.  Could it be that I've missed it that much?
Her next thoughts came to her in such a jumble that she was unable to sort
them out, and so she gave herself over to instinct.  She found herself
moving into the second bedroom, which had long since been converted into a
study.  She opened the closet, which had remained closed for years, and
therein found a stack of boxes.  Inside one, she knew, was the super-duper
breast pump that she had seen fit neither to repair nor dispose of.
Inside another was her collection of breastfeeding and lactation
treatises, untouched for half a decade.  She pulled that box out, opened
it, and started tossing books aside until she found the one she wanted.
Paging furiously through it, tearing pages with her urgency, she found the
chapter she was looking for, read it like an Evelyn Wood graduate, carried
the book to the phone, hit the speed dial button, and waited for an
answer.
        "Sherri?  Hi, hon, it's me.  Listen, are you sitting down?  I've
got a crazy idea for you..."
        She spoke excitedly, hurriedly, at times incoherently, for a few
minutes, hung up, got dressed, and left the apartment with such haste that
one would think it was on fire.
        The book she had so urgently consulted was left open to a chapter
that might casually interest a normal reader, but that for Christine had
ignited new passions and old dreams that were suddenly, tantalizingly
irresistable.
        Its title?  "Re-lactation and Induced Lactation".

FIN

**************************************************
Well, that's it, lactation fans.  Any further adventures of Christine will
have to come from your talented brains.  I will be signing off from
alt.sex.stories permanently.  Thanks for the mammaries!

TrekFiend