CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO: 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

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