Heather Stevens' face was a portrait of ecstasy. Her eyes were closed. Her head hung back and her blonde hair, gathered in a ponytail, brushed the chenille bedspread beneath her as she moved. Her lips were parted slightly and through them her breathing was punctuated by quick gasps. Naked, she held her shoulders off the bed with her hands below her, her fingers clutching the bedspread, shoulders rolled back as though holding a pose in a gymnastic exercise. Her feet were on perched on either side of a corner at the foot of the bed, and she easily held her boyish rear end off the corner of the bed with the strength of her well-toned legs. Her pink, puffy nipples pointed toward opposite corners of the room as she arched her back with her face toward the ceiling. Her toes curled tightly as she slowly rubbed her pussy up and down the ornately carved bedpost, savoring the bumpy texture as her clit traveled up and down the hard wood.
The bed was an heirloom inherited from her great aunt. It was a large, sturdy piece of furniture from the days when all furniture was made to last generations. It held the mattress so high off the floor that getting into it made Heather feel like she did when she was a little girl and had to climb up on everything. A tomboy from an early age, Heather never felt intimidated by things larger than herself. She saw a world that was, by and large, made for people much bigger than she, as a challenge, something to be climbed and conquered.
While the other children shot up to be tall, lanky teens, Heather did not. At 5' 1", she was always the shortest person in her class. Her weight stayed under a hundred pounds until she was in High School. Then, when she was fifteen, her breasts grew two cup sizes in only a few months. All the rest of that year, they continued to grow. By her sixteenth birthday, she measured a remarkable 39DD-18-28.
Her waist was so slender that it almost disappeared when she turned sideways, and her bottom was the same size as when she was 10 years old. On her diminutive frame, her breasts looked vastly out of proportion. As a sweet-sixteen schoolgirl with a double-D cup size, she had considered them her greatest asset, since they were a boy-magnet that made her competition envious. As she grew older, they had stayed high and firm. During her regular aerobic exercises, they bounced and swayed, but never sagged or flopped. Even so, she still had the same problems that girls with large breasts usually do, but magnified by her short stature. Seatbelts were irksome, she could never get one adjusted so it did not twist her breasts or strangle her. Walking became more hazardous, because she could no longer see things immediately in front of her feet. She compensated for this by changing her stride so that she kicked her feet ahead of her so she feel any obstruction before she tripped over it. This gave her a 'models-walk' and made her look like she was heading down the runway wearing the latest fashion.
Clothes were a major issue, because local stores never carried anything in her size. She would either make-do with something that did not fit, modify it so it did, or buy from a specialty-clothing site on the Internet. Many of the Internet places that carried the best-fitting clothes catered to women with exhibitionist tendencies. Their things were all low, snug, short, see-thru, form fitting, or all of the above. Heather began to see clothes less as coverings and more as adornments, the way most women view jewelry. Once you have that perspective, it is easy to adopt a 'less is more' attitude.
Underwear was one of the first casualties of this mind-set. She had a worse time getting panties than she did bras. Her small rear put her below the normal adult size Small and into the children's sizes, none of which fit properly, and most of which were styled for the pre-teen set. Eventually, she quit wearing panties, even under short skirts, since she would rather chance someone seeing her naked than wearing a pair of panties with cartoon characters on them. She avoided bras as well, except those that enhanced, rather then concealed, her twin assets.
She tried her hand at making her own clothes and managed to create a few simple dresses that were very flattering. Unfortunately, wearing the equivalent of a little-black-dress or skimpy party attire for everyday clothes was not practical. Heather learned that she could take in the seams of some garments much easier than creating something from scratch. For instance, she would take her father and brother's old shirts and cut them down or take them in to turn them into something she could wear around the house or in the yard. Her best results for less casual clothes were from working over maternity blouses because they were designed for large breasts and could be adjusted easily.
Skirts could also be taken in to fit her small waist and hips, but shorts were still a problem. She mostly had to make-do with the selection from the children's department. This meant a lot of tight-fitting knit shorts that would have been 'cute' on a little girl, but bordered on pornographic on a girl with Heather's bust line. Since she refused to wear panties, it gave the term 'camel-toe' a new dimension.
When her breasts overflowed a D-cup, her gym teachers offered to waive some of the class requirements for her, fearing she might injure herself; but she insisted that she be allowed to participate fully, only allowing herself to be sidelined when there was no other alternative. Doing push-ups on the floor was one of the activities she avoided. With her arms extended in front of her and her hands on the mat, her breasts hung down almost as far as her elbows. Lowering herself face down to the ground was difficult and involved so much manual rearrangement that she was allowed to substitute using free-weights while lying on her back instead. She enjoyed swimming, but it was obvious that she could never be competitive in it. Diving was ruled out altogether, when her first attempt from the three-meter board resulted in the destruction of her swimsuit and embarrassment in front of the whole class.
Having large breasts had compensations other than turning heads. Heather found that when she was aroused, her two-inch diameter areolas would puff up like miniature muffin-tops and her nipples would stiffen and stand out like the plastic nipples on baby-bottles. They were very sensitive and she liked to pull on them to see how engorged she could get them. The larger she made them, the more sensitive they were, and the more stimulation they received, the larger they got. She also loved showing them off. Shortly after her blooming chest had altered her appearance so drastically, she began to wear the tightest blouses she could squeeze into to showcase her assets. Sometimes, the stares she received would tempt her to new heights of exhibitionism. With the rush of teenage hormones flooding through her, she would dash into a restroom stall and tease her nipples to attention, emerging with the clear outline of her erect nipples showing through her blouse. She delighted in the rapt stares of all the boys, and many of the girls, too. The attention they received, and some surreptitious tweaks and twists from her, usually kept her nipples erect through the final bell.
Even though she was out of school and a newlywed now, she still enjoyed showing off her body. Her collection of tight-fitting and skimpy clothes made her just as popular with the country club set as she had been in High School.
Her husband, Bill, was an excellent lover. He was patient and considerate and at just under eight inches when fully erect, his equipment was certainly adequate. At least, every time he put it in Heather he made her climax. In Heather's opinion, he was much better than average in bed and she was lucky to have him as her husband Heather's problem was that the first orgasm just got her warmed up. With continued stimulation, she could climax again and again, each time reaching new heights of pleasure, until she either collapsed from exhaustion or passed out in the middle of a spine-cracking, nerve-shattering orgasm. Bill was in awe of her sexual capacity, and he seemed to enjoy their frequent protracted lovemaking sessions during which he would participate in whatever way he could. After exhausting his own stamina, he would carry on using his hands, tongue, various toys, or sometimes just providing an audience for Heather's exhibitions of self-gratification.
It was her streak of exhibitionism and ultimately her scandalous behavior with Evan Kowalski, the owner of the largest company in town, and a notorious lecher; which resulted in her husband's swift promotion to junior executive status and membership in the Mars Hill Country Club. It certainly did not hurt that she had let Mr. Kowalski take certain liberties with her in the coatroom while Bill mingled and networked in the club bar. Her whispered negotiations on Bill's behalf had resulted in a nice raise for Bill, allowing them to buy their dream house much sooner than expected. Something of Mr. Kowalski's had risen quite nicely too, she recalled.
That was the night she had first worn her most elegant cocktail dress. It was a two-piece affair with a skirt made from two gold-lamé panels that hung down front and back from a string waistband, with a gap of a few inches on each side. The top was made from another thin string that hung loosely around her neck with strings of beads hanging from it in a loose net. The beads draped her breasts in front, just hanging low enough to cover her nipples — really little more than an elaborate necklace. The effect was stunning. Her back was completely bare all the way down to the crack of her boyish rump, as were her sides and the outside of her legs all the way to her feet. Her ample cleavage was displayed to excellent effect and the sides and lower third of her high, firm breasts were visible under the screen of beads. She had to be careful how she moved in it, because her large nipples tended to poke through the beads if she allowed her breasts to wiggle too much.
She had been on her way back from the ladies room when Kowalski waylaid her. He pulled her into the dark coatroom and backed her into a corner before she had a chance to object. She expected some groping and maybe an offer to meet her alone later. What she got was a direct business proposition.
"You have the most beautiful tits I have ever seen," he said in a hushed tone. "I'll give you $5000 if you let me cum on them, right here, right now."
Heather supposed she should have been shocked, but she had experienced some equally rude proposals from some of the jocks at school so this was nothing new to her. When she replied, she was just as blunt. "No," she said, "but I'll do it if you give the next available VP slot in your company to my husband, Bill." Heather pulled her top over her head and hung it on the coat-hook on the wall beside her. She put a hand under each magnificent breast and squeezed them to show Kowalski her counteroffer was earnest.
Kowalski was nonplussed. He thought of himself as a good negotiator, but Heather had just pulled the rug right out from under his opening position. He decided right then that if her husband was half the businessperson that his pretty wife was, then he would come out way ahead on this deal, regardless. Kowalski loved a win-win situation almost as much as he loved for someone else to lose. He said, "Done."
Instead of the usual handshake, to seal the deal, Heather put her hand out, unzipped Mr. Kowalski's silk-blend dress slacks, reached in and pulled out his cock. Holding it daintily in one hand she gave it a firm shake. Dropping to her knees, she continued to tug and stroke his already half-erect organ. In a few moments she had it standing tall.
Heather held his cock near the base as she admired the results of her effort. Kowalski had quite an impressive organ and, for a middle-aged man, it was remarkably stiff. The shaft was long, very thick at the base, and the head was large and dark-red. It looked much like a ripe plum in the grasp of a small child. While her small hand could just encompass her husband's cock, on Mr. Kowalski's she could only get it a little more than halfway around. Heather felt a rush of desire hit her as she wondered what it would feel like to have such a thing inside her. She wondered if the rumors she had heard about Kowalski treating the wives of his executives like his own personal harem might be closer to the truth than she had imagined. She knew that if she held onto this beast much longer, she might be tempted to go further than the terms of their deal. She was already very wet and beginning to feel the familiar light-headed sensation that she only felt when she was very sexually excited.
Releasing the large organ from her small grip, she placed her hands under her breasts with her nipples between her fingers. While pulling and twisting her nipples under the riveted gaze of Mr. Kowalski, she leaned forward and tried to take the head of his cock into her mouth. When she found she wasn't able to open her mouth far enough to get it in, she settled for letting it rest on her lips while she flicked her tongue across the sensitive area underneath. Clear liquid oozed from the gaping hole in the tip of his cock and it quickly covered her lips and ran down her cheek.
Heather looked up and met Kowalski's eyes with her own. At first, she hoped the strong feeling of lust she felt wasn't showing on her face. After a few swallows of his precum, she decided that she didn't care if he knew she was just as turned on as he was and she became even more wanton in her oral caresses of his cock.
She did not expect him to last very long and was not surprised when after only a few seconds of her onslaught, his cock began to bob and twitch. Leaning back into what she judged to be the target zone, Heather continued to play with her breasts, both for Mr. Kowalski's benefit and her own. Suddenly Kowalski's cock began to erupt and he moaned with pleasure. His cum splashed first on one rounded breast and then the other as Heather held them up to his prodigious stream. Both breasts were quickly drenched in glistening white cum. Heather waited patiently, cum dripping from her breasts onto the floor of the coatroom while Kowalski wrung the last few drops from his cock and replaced it in his pants.
"Here," he said, taking a garment from a hanger at random, "let me clean you up." He then gently and thoroughly wiped all of his cum from Heather's breasts with what turned out to be someone's cashmere sweater. The feeling of having her naked breasts rubbed with cashmere was exquisite and Heathers nipples responded approvingly, much to Kowalski's delight.
"Don't worry about Bill, "Kowalski told her conspiratorially as he rolled one between his fingers, "I'll take very good care of him."
Days later, Heather still wondered about the reaction of the owner of the sweater when they came to claim it and found it saturated with cum. She also wondered what she would have done if Mr. Kowalski had wanted something else and what it would be like to feel such a large cock push its way into her body. Would it be that much better than sex with Bill?
Heather and Bill had married right after his graduation from college. He was bright, handsome, came from a good family and seemed destined for a great business career. That he never complained about her flirting, teasing, or exhibitionism meant a great deal to Heather. He seemed very proud to have such a beautiful young wife and encouraged her to show-off whenever she wanted. He had even conceived a few of her more outrageous stunts, both before and after the wedding. The most memorable of these was the costume party last Halloween. Bill convinced her to let an art-major friend of his from college air-brush a cow costume onto her skin. She had been dubious about the idea until she saw some of the concept drawings that showed what she would look like painted white with brown splotches. Heather agreed to be the canvas for the project with only one small change to the design. She nixed the idea of painting cow's teats on her stomach. Instead, wearing her smallest g-string, she allowed herself to be covered from head to toe in paint, leaving bare only her own pink nipples.
At the party, Bill arrived wearing a farmer's overalls, carrying a milk bucket and leading Heather by a cotton rope around her neck, her nipples covered with brown tape to match the brown spots of her costume. Everyone at the party thought she was the cutest Guernsey they had ever seen. After the party was well underway, and everyone had downed several glasses of the high-octane punch, Bill announced that there would be a milking demonstration. He led Heather into the center of the room and had her get on her knees on the coffee table with her arms behind her back. He placed the milk bucket on the table in front of her and bent her over it with her large breasts hanging free. He then pulled the tape from Heather's very tumescent nipples and proceeded to pull one with each hand as though milking a cow, while Heather moo'd contentedly. The demonstration brought down the house. People whooped with surprise at the sight and fell over each other laughing uproariously. Everyone not in the room was immediately summoned so they could witness the audacious stunt for themselves.
To accommodate everyone, Bill continued to milk Heather while those who had been outside or in other rooms trickled in. This took several minutes, and Heather became highly aroused from Bill's rough manipulation of her sensitive breasts, but mostly from having a room full of people watching him do it to her. Her pussy felt like it was boiling and her juices had saturated the tiny g-string and were trickling down her thighs, threatening her custom paint-job. She was getting very light-headed and her breasts felt swollen and heavy, just as though they were real udders and she was really being milked. Her eyes began to roll back in her head as she felt the beginnings of a climax come over her. Suddenly, Bill stopped pulling on her nipples. The abrupt cessation of sensation made her eyes snap open. She looked down at Bill's hands and saw drops of white liquid dripping from his fingers into the bucket. They both stared at each other with open mouths. She had actually started lactating in response to the stimulation of her breasts.
A few days after the party, Heather confided the details of the event to her doctor. He told her that the condition was called galactorrhea and that it could happen to women as a result of breast-stimulation, especially women with breasts as large and firm as Heather's. He gave her a manual breast-pump to use if she found that her breasts became uncomfortably swollen due to her milk production. Heather went home and immediately tried to reproduce the event by fondling her breasts, pulling her nipples and then milking herself with the pump. She found that with the right amount of stimulation and the aid of the pump, she was able to get an ounce of milk from each breast. The next morning, she substituted her own milk for the cream that Bill took with his morning coffee. As he drank it, he commented on the rich flavor, but did not ask about its origin. Heather decided to keep the whole thing secret from Bill, but continued to feed him her milk surreptitiously.
Discovering that she could actually make milk from her own body gave Heather a new perspective on life and sexuality and she found a new appreciation for the breasts that before she had viewed as exclusively sexual objects. She began to try to find ways to improve the quantity and quality of her milk. She changed her diet to include more whole grains and fresh vegetables, started taking iron and calcium supplements, tracked her weight, and recorded her daily production. She joined a local gym and signed up for aerobic and strength-training classes. After only a few days, she had increased her output to half a cup a day from each breast, almost half a gallon a week of sweet, high-fat milk. She found that because of her new regimen, she was also more energetic and felt better than she ever had before.
Encouraged by this success, Heather escalated her efforts. She exchanged her manual breast-pump for an electrically-powered, dual-cup model that allowed hands-free operation and provided stimulation to her nipples. She rearranged some furniture in the spare room so she could lie across two hassocks with her breasts hanging free between them with the pump attached. She set the pump on its highest speed and then lay down for 30 minutes twice a day while the pump ran. She found the pulsed sucking of the pump on her sensitive nipples to be both relaxing and sensual. She looked forward to her milking sessions for the feeling of tranquility and contentment they gave her.
In a matter of weeks, Heather was giving a pint per breast per session, which was a half-gallon a day or almost four gallons a week. One effect of this level of production was that her breasts expanded a whole cup size, from DD to E and her areolas were enlarged and made more sensitive. This pleased both Heather and Bill, although only Heather knew why it had happened. Another consequence was that they had more milk than they could use. Heather was concerned that it would be wasted, until she found that she could donate it to the Milk Bank at her local hospital, where it would be fed to sick and premature babies. The nurse she spoke to was skeptical when Heather told her how much milk she could deliver each week, but when Heather dropped off the first few gallons and the nurse saw the milk and the impressive set of mammaries that produced it, she became the biggest supporter of Heather's new pastime.
Heather did not want to tell her husband about her hobby. Even though it felt good, enhanced her bust, gave her a feeling of tranquility, and she was proud of her achievement and of her contribution to the community through her Milk Bank donations, she was still afraid he would think it strange for her to want to moonlight as a cow.
It was during a visit to see her parents that the situation changed. Heather and Bill had been invited to stay with them over the Memorial Day weekend and all the following week at their house in the country. They were to leave when Bill got off work on Thursday, drive the two-hour trip into the hills, and stay through the following weekend. They would be put up in the upstairs bedroom down the hall from Heather's younger brother, Hank. Heather's dad had also promised to take Bill fishing and Bill was looking forward to it eagerly.
The departure and drive up had been uneventful. Traffic was light, once they got off the main road. They arrived on time and the five of them had a home-cooked dinner that would have fed a dozen people. They all got along well, even 18-year-old Hank, who, like most younger brothers of beautiful girls, had annoyed Heather endlessly while they were kids growing up. They all sat up and talked about the upcoming fishing trip on Sunday, Mom's heart problems, and Hank's summer job working at old man McWhortle's farm.
On Friday the weather was wonderful, so they all went on a picnic at a nearby lake. Bill and Heather swam out to a diving platform several yards offshore while Heather's mom and dad sunned themselves on the shore. That evening, after another excellent home-cooked meal, Heather said she was tired and went up to bed early.
Saturday was the big local festival and the whole family drove over to a nearby farm where a small carnival had been setup for the celebration. The local people exhibited crafts and musicians played at each end of the main field.
They had been there for only an hour when Heather's mom noticed she wasn't feeling well and took her aside for a chat.
"Dear, are you alright? You look a little under the weather" her mom asked with more than a trace of concern in her voice.
"I'm OK, mom. Really."
"It's not your time of the month, is it? You look a little... bloated," her mother whispered behind her hand.
"I'll be fine, mom. I just ate too much and it's not sitting real well on my stomach. Let's get back to the others. I don't want to spoil the fun."
Heather's mom was dubious, but she did not want to press the issue. She had been watching her daughter walking around with her arms crossed over her stomach most of the day, so indigestion was a plausible explanation.
In fact, Heather had not been holding her stomach but supporting her breasts. They had begun to ache the day before, but she had ignored it. Now, they were not only aching, but they were starting to sag, something they never did, and Heather was becoming concerned. Of course, Heather knew what the cause of her distress was. She had last used her breast-pump Thursday morning before they left, so she had missed four milking sessions in a row now. She had known this might be a problem when they planned the trip, but there was just no way she could have smuggled the pump into the luggage and no place for her to have used it in private if she had. She had deluded herself into believing she would not have a problem and now she was paying the price of that self-deception. As uncomfortable as she was, she no more wanted to explain her hobby to her parents than to Bill. She would just have to try to get through the rest of the vacation as best as she could.
Bill had noticed the hushed conversation between mother and daughter. He too, was concerned about Heather, but she had reassured him earlier that she would be all right, and he was willing to let her be the judge in the matter.
That night, Heather put on one of her father's XXL shirts and sat quietly all evening, curled up in an easy chair. Everyone knew this was odd, since Heather's tendency to be a clotheshorse was nothing new to any of them. She never wore baggy clothes since they hid the body that she was so proud of. Just before she went up to bed, she heard Bill and her father making plans to leave early to go fishing. Both men believed that getting up at 3am was the best way to sneak up on a trout.
At 4:30 the next morning, Hank was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of strong black coffee and trying to pry his eyes open before he had to leave for his job at McWhortle's farm. He heard a sound at the door to the downstairs hall and looked up, wondering whom else would be moving around at this hour. Heather had just her head stuck into the room past the doorjamb. She was bent over almost halfway to the floor. She looked like she had not slept all night and she still had on her dad's shirt. It looked like a tent on her.
"Psst, Hank," Heather hissed, looking around the room. "Anyone else up yet."
"No, Sis. Nobody here but us earlybirds. Dad and Bill left a while ago, and I guess Mom is still asleep. What are you doing up this time of the morning?"
"Hank, you have to promise me something," Heather said, still with only her head around the door. "Please?"
She looked so bedraggled and sounded so pitiful that Hank decided to put aside the years of bickering that had gone on between them and help her out. Of what, he had no clue. "Like what?" he asked with a suspicious tone in his voice.
"I have a problem you have to help me with, and you cannot tell a soul about it. Promise!"
"Ah, sure." Hank said in a noncommittal tone. He wondered what he was getting into. This was a little too conspiratorial for his taste.
"Promise!" Heather hissed again.
"Ok, ok. Whatever! I promise. Now what's the big deal?"
Heather crept around the door and shut it quietly behind her. The oversized shirt hung down to her knees and she was barefoot. She shuffled over to the table and stood next to him, still bent over. She looked at him as if trying to decide if his promise was good and then started to unbutton the shirt.
Hank stared at her as if she had lost her mind. Growing up in the same house, he had had plenty of chances to see his sister's body. Getting caught peeking at her was one of the best ways to get her goat. Even after the titty-fairy came and she changed from tom-boy to sex goddess, he was the last person in the world that she wanted to show-off to. Now, here she was, undressing in front of him in the kitchen at 4:30 in the morning. It was surreal.
Heather had finished undoing the buttons, but still clutched the shirt closed. She still looked hesitant and maybe a little afraid of what she was about to do. Then, having decided, with an obvious effort she stood up straight for the first time since she had come into the room. Striking a pose like a Roman statue, she opened the shirt, letting it fall from her shoulders and hang from her forearms, pooling on the floor.
Hank's breath slowed. His eyes slowly grew wider and wider. He blinked, and blinked again, not sure what to say. His gorgeous 19-year-old sister was standing naked in front of him, but the novelty of the event was trivial once he saw the condition she was in. Heather's once large but sag-free breasts had grown enormously. He had noticed earlier that her breasts looked bigger than when he had last seen her, but somehow, in the last three days, they seemed to have doubled in size. It was no wonder she had trouble standing erect. The weight of them must be killing her back. They rose slightly from her small chest and hung, swaying in front of her stomach. Her distended nipples pointed straight down. The skin over her huge breasts was stretched taut and a web of blue veins could be seen bulging under her tan. They looked like they might burst at any second. Her areolas were hugely engorged and had been stretched to almost four inches across. Her nipples were distended to two inches long.
"Good grief, sis! What happened?" Hank could not keep the tone of worry and deep concern out of his voice.
Heather slowly leaned over the table and braced herself by stiff-arming the top of the table. With her other hand, she reached down and took the nipple of her right breast and pulled it over to Hank's coffee cup. Holding it between her fingers, she pulled on it, stretching it out even further than seemed possible. From the tip of her nipple, a stream of creamy white liquid squirted directly into Hanks coffee, turning the black liquid a light brown.
"I need," she said deliberately, enunciating clearly so there would be no misunderstanding, "to be milked." She slid into the chair opposite him at the table, leaning forward and resting her pendulous breasts on the table-top as she sat down. Having the weight off was clearly a great relief for her. As her breasts came to rest, small rivulets of milk ran briefly from both bloated nipples. Her breasts lay on the table between them like overfilled sacks about to split and spill. "Soon," she emphasized.
While Hank tried to come to grips with the shocking appearance of his sister, Heather sketched out the story of how she had come to be in this state. As she spoke, Hank absentmindedly took a sip of his coffee and then another before realizing what he had done and pushed the cup away. Heather smiled at this and asked, "Don't you like it?"
"It's..." Hank trailed off. He did not feel comfortable telling his sister that her breast milk was delicious. Instead he said, "Why didn't you want anyone to know?"
Heather sighed. "For the last three years I have been overhearing catty remarks of jealous women referring to me as a 'cow'. I thought that dressing as a cow for last year's Halloween Party would defuse some of the comments by showing people that I could laugh at myself. Instead, it got much worse. I don't think I could stand it if it got out that I actually give milk."
"Ah, right. But you say you have been using this machine to, ah, do the milking? Do you think you are up to the real thing?"
Heather looked at him hard, a faint hope beginning to shine in her eyes. "What do mean, 'real thing'?" she asked.
"Well, I have this summer job working for old man McWhortle. He has this little farm that where I help with the chores. On this farm he has some cows..."
"Well, E-I-E-I-O. And I suppose he has equipment to milk them himself, "she said, eagerly grasping what Hank was suggesting.
"Exactly. I'm not sure how this would work, but it's the only thing I can think of. If you want to try, you can ride over with me in the pickup. I really aught to be leaving now." Hank glanced at the wall clock, "You better get dressed if you want to come."
"This is going to be it, I'm afraid," she said, holding the shirt open like a bat's wings. "I don't want to risk sneaking by Mom's door again. If she saw me like this..."
Hank nodded. It would not do to let his mother see her daughter in this condition, even if the alternative was to have Heather running all over the county buck-naked. "Truck's out back. Let me help you up." Hank came around behind Heather, intending to help her stand under the weight of her breasts, but he couldn't think of what to grab.
Heather smiled to see his dilemma. "Thank you, Hank. Your chivalry is duly noted. Now help me up." And she reached behind her, took him by the wrists and guided his hands under her breasts. With his support, she was able to stand almost normally.
Hank was amazed at the weight of her breasts. They must have been ten pounds apiece. It was no wonder she had been bent over like that.
When she regained her feet, Heather thrust her arms under her breasts and crossed her wrists in her cleavage to give them support. Her nipples again sprung little leaks and drops of milk showered to the floor.
Hank withdrew his hands and opened the back door.
In the truck on the way to McWhortle's place, Hank saw that the bouncing of the truck over the dirt and gravel road was giving Heather a hard time. Each jarring movement was causing her pain as her breasts bounced in her arms. He slowed to give her a rest.
"No," she said through grit teeth. "Let's just get there the quickest way."
At the farm, Heather sat in the truck while Hank tried to explain the improbable situation to Mr. McWhortle. To everyone's surprise, he grasped the problem immediately and was quite sympathetic. He walked over to the passenger door of the truck to reassure her.
"Happy to help, missy. I know it's gotta hurt. Weaning is as hard on the sow as it is the litter."
"Great," Heather thought to herself,, "First I'm a cow, now I'm a pig."
Both men helped her into the barn. Hank pulled together a couple of hay-bales next to the stall with the milking machine in it. He left a gap between them so the milker unit could be pulled though from the stall. This arrangement was familiar to Heather, since it was basically the one she used at home. She would not be able to lie down here, though. The milker unit was too big and her engorged breasts would hang down too far... She took off the shirt and folded it into a pad for her knees, then knelt on one bale and put her hands on the other, bridging the bales with her huge breasts hanging above the milker. Commenting on her nakedness, she said, "This doesn't seem to be a time for modesty. I'm ready when you are."
McWhortle was just about struck dumb at he sight of Heather perched naked on the bale of hay. "Finest piece of woman-flesh I believe I've ever seen," he thought.
Hank stood in front of her, leaning on the stall, ready to give moral support and watch Heather for signs of distress if this did not work out as well as they all hoped.
McWhortle checked the controls on the pump, adjusted the vacuum and the pulsator settings, tore the seal off a clean glass collection bottle and hooked it up. He then took a jar of salve from the shelf, scooped up a large glob in his hand and rubbed it into each of Heather's nipples and well up onto her breasts. "Keeps 'em from stretching so bad," he said, smiling encouragingly.
When he bent down to check the vacuum in the teat-cups, Heather realized that this was going to be very different from using her machine at home. Her machine had been designed for the anatomy of a human female. This one was intended for a different structure completely. Before she had time to ponder this, McWhortle slipped the cups into place on her nipples and let the vacuum take over. Heather's eyes got very wide as she felt the tender flesh of her nipples and areolas being slowly pulled into the teat-shell of the milker. It was quite a unique sensation, she thought, to have your breasts suddenly turned into udders and your nipples into teats.
McWhortle waited a minute for her nipples to adapt to the cups. Their sides were transparent and he could see her flesh slowly being pulled into the tube by the vacuum of the machine. Checking the seal once more, he went to the control panel and said, "I'm going to start off at a low speed on the pulsator. You let me know if you can take more, OK?" He pushed a button and the milker whirred to life.
Heather suddenly felt the throb of the pulsator as the machine began its cycle of suck and release, suck and release. "It's not too bad," she said, "You can turn it up."
McWhortle nodded and turned a knob on the panel. Gradually, the speed of the machine increased. When Heather showed no reaction, he turned it further. Glancing at the collection jar, he saw a pulse of white fluid shoot into it. He smiled. This was going to work. He hoped that the poor girl would not be permanently disfigured by the milking machine, but he figured it was more important to give her relief from her burden than to worry her pretty head about that.
Heather relaxed into the rhythm of the machine. As the speed increased, she began to feel the familiar sensation of tranquility and contentment that she felt when using her machine at home. As it sucked faster, the sensual feeling became more sexual and then became outright arousal. The pulsing of the milker was causing a sympathetic throb in her clit. As her pussy-juice began to flow, she closed her eyes and let the feeling of pleasure wash over her. She was too tired to fight it and the pleasurable sensation was a welcome relief from the discomfort of the last couple of days.
McWhortle and Hank watched Heather's transformation from a girl in distress to one in rut with amazement in their eyes. Bulges began to appear in their pants as the spectacle had its effect on them. McWhortle increased the speed of the machine even further and watched in fascination as Heather reacted by becoming more aroused.
The powerful pulsations of the farm-grade milker were nothing like the soothing effect of her own machine. She felt like she was being sucked deeper into the machine with each pulse. The boundary between her flesh and the metal milker seemed to blur. It seemed as if she had become an attachment of the machine.