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Lactogenesis LXIV

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
