From stephanie@nym.alias.net Fri Feb 21 10:35:07 1997
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.tg,alt.stories.erotic
Subject: REPOST TG: Milk Machines (1/3) by Lee Most
From: Stephanie <stephanie@nym.alias.net>
Date: 21 Feb 1997 15:35:07 -0000
From Stephanie's Transgender Collection
I didn't write this story. I'm just posting it to improve the
signal/noise ratio here.
You can find the stories that I have written at my website at
http://www.geocities.com/westhollywood/2525. If you are an author of
TG stories and you'd like to add a page to the site about yourself and
your stories, please send me an e-mail.
This is an adult story and should not be viewed if you are under
the age of eighteen.
======================================================================
This is a silly, semi-TG, science-fiction story filled with cliches like
a mad scientist who gets trapped by his own invention, and brainwashing
machines disguised as hair dryers. It has no sex, but it probably shouldn't
be read by impressionable minds under 18 years old, so if you are, go away.
Everyone else, come on in. Add to it if you want, but send me copies at
leemost@mail.sfpcug.org.
======================================================================
Milk Machines
Part 1
Copyright 1996 by Lee Most
Max Maxfield loved big breasts. The only thing he loved more than big
breasts was breast milk, and it was the cause of both his success and his
downfall.
He was a genius, a scientist, and a businessman. You might call him a mad
scientist, but not to his face; you could end up as one of his experimental
subjects. His first doctorate was in biochemistry, his thesis on the
endocrine systems of nursing mothers. His second doctorate was in psychology,
his thesis on the history and practice of brainwashing.
"Darling," he said to one of the other scientists in the lab where he was
renting space, "Would you try this hair dryer I've invented?"
"I'm not your or anyone else's 'darling,' Max," she sneered at the little
slimeball, "I'm a man-hating lesbian, and you know it!" However, she did
agree to test the thing. It looked like a normal hair dryer, a helmet
attached to the back of a leatherette-covered chair, but she had seen test
dogs, mutts he had picked up in the street, come out of his experiments with
fur like minks. In truth, she was eager to try it.
She sat down in the chair, let him lower the helmet over her head after
spraying her hair with water from a spray bottle, and the light show began.
"What are all these lights?" she started to ask, but only got the first
two words out before she began saying things like, "Oooh!" and "That feels so
good!" and then lapsed into silence, a pleasant smile on her pretty face.
Max lifted the helmet and asked her, "How do you like it?"
"Oh, Max, darling, it's wonderful!" she gushed. "I love it! Tell me, is
there anything I can do for you? Help you with your experiments? Get you
some coffee? Give you everything I own? You're so good-looking, will you
please spend the night with me? I'll cook you dinner. You know, it's funny,
but I have this incredible urge... Would you suckle my breasts for me? I
suddenly want them to give milk."
"You know, that's an amazing coincidence, darling, because I've been
working on a set of drugs that can start a woman's breasts to lactate."
"I love it when you call me 'darling,' you beautiful man. Oh, please give
them to me?" she pleaded. "I'll give you my patents if you do."
By the end of that week he owned the lab, and all the scientists were
working for him for free. By the end of the next week, he owned a factory
producing a hundred of the helmets a day. Within a month, his hair dryers
were all over the country, and other businessmen were giving him their
factories so that he could produce more.
An overnight success in the world of beauty, he then astounded the world
by sorting out the active elements of female hormones that made breasts
develop and grow and lactate. He combined them into a set of three different
drugs which he patented and sold over the counter. Watch-M-Grow could be used
as many times as you wanted, and could add as much as six inches or fifteen
centimeters to the size of your breasts with each use. It had several known
side effects, but no woman complained when her waist shrunk, other unwanted
body fat melted away, her back muscles became stronger without increasing in
size, her hips and buttocks got rounder without getting bigger, her legs got
longer and more slender, all un-feminine body hair disappeared overnight so
eyebrows became thinner, mustaches and other long body hair disappeared.
Men were pleased by the way their women's skin temperatures went up so
that women everywhere only felt comfortable when they wore fewer clothes and
showed off more skin so they could stay cooler.
Watch-M-Grow also had a set of hormones that would have no effect at all
on mature breasts, but which would cause the breasts of even a child or a man
to develop in minutes the way a teenage girl's breasts take all the years of
puberty to develop. The nipples and areolas became larger and the milk glands
formed, turning rudimentary breasts into real mammary glands.
His second drug, MilkStarter, activated the milk glands, tricking them
into reacting the same way a woman's breasts respond to pregnancy and the
birth of a child. They swelled up and started to give milk, needing to be
relieved every two to six hours to maintain production.
Max called the third drug LactoMore, and it was by far the most popular
(at least after his brainwashing messages were spread around.) It increased
the milk production of the human breast to its maximum possible output and
with regular use it not only kept it there but increased the upper limit.
It was a well-known fact that a nursing mother's breasts increased
production to meet demand. A mother of twins produced twice as much milk as a
mother of a single-born baby. As her children grew larger and needed more
milk, the milk production of the mother went up to match. LactoMore made the
breasts produce as much as possible, as if the mother had given birth to
quintuplets. Then LactoMore increased it still further as it convinced the
breasts that those fictitious babies were growing up.
As well as his ability to brainwash anyone almost instantly, his business
sense was terrific, and in only a few months he went from being unknown to
being one of the richest, most well-known men in the country. He was the head
of a company as ubiquitous as the phone company, and he then expanded it with
phenomenal success by using his other discoveries in mind control and
brainwashing to practically take over the world.
After using his drugs to enlarge women's breasts and make them produce
milk in incredible quantities, he started "Milk Farms," vacation spots where
women could go, and without surgery could come back with huge breasts and, as
his advertisements put it, "a free source of milk for your family. Real milk,
healthy milk, delicious milk, designed by Nature for the human body, not like
the milk produced by cows, which is best suited for -- you guessed it -- baby
cows."
With his other expertise in hypnosis, mind control, and brainwashing
techniques, he had no problem in making all of his drugs not only legal to be
sold over the counter, but popular.
The medical profession and the diet industry screamed that mother's milk
was designed by Nature for babies, and had too much fat for adults. The dairy
industry tried to use their pull with politicians and an army of lawyers to
close Max down, but it was hard to argue against a man who had made so many
women so buxom overnight, and their tit-loving husbands and boyfriends who
appreciated every extra inch and every tasty gulp.
One judge, confronted with a roomful of protesting women showing off their
oversized breasts with tight teeshirts, each emblazoned with a slogan for
Max's side of the case, gave up and disqualified himself. He said he couldn't
work under those conditions. The next judge was a woman with a chest the same
size as those of the protesting women, who held a recess every two hours so
she could use one of Max's milking machines. The prosecuting lawyers gave up
the case as impossible to win.
Max distributed -- at very low prices -- his brainwashing machines. They
were super-efficient hair dryers that could dry a woman's hair in only a few
minutes, while making her hair softer and more silky to the touch. Every
woman wanted to use only that kind forevermore after she tried it even once.
Women boycotted salons that did not have them, and since the hair dryers
really did work well, and were so inexpensive, with cheap weekly maintenance
by Max's army of buxom babes, no salon-owner could justify not using them.
When a woman used one even once, she not only got her hair to look
perfect, she also felt a compelling urge to use one of Max's milking booths,
and became susceptible to the secret brainwashing words and phrases Max
included in all his TV and radio commercials.
No one knew of or (thanks to one of their brainwashing instructions) even
believed in Max's brainwashing. Instead, everyone noticed the sudden emphasis
in breast size in all commercials, music videos, TV shows, movies, and the
latest fashions, but figured it was just another fad. Most men's reactions
were along the lines of "it's about time," and most women soon found it easier
to use Max's new over-the-counter drugs rather than protest.
His brainwashing messages also began to be included in movies and regular
television shows. Phrases he invented, like "as natural as mother's milk,"
and "better than a cow by far" became common phrases used in everybody's
everyday speech without thinking about it.
Men's barber shops and hair salons had a slightly different hair dryer,
which reversed male-pattern baldness if used regularly. As with the women's
hair dryers, once a man had tried one of Max's, he no longer wanted to go back
to his old method of "wait until it's long enough to look bad." Men began
scheduling once-a-month hair salon appointments. The men's brainwashing
programs were different, and made men more interested (if that's possible) in
women with large breasts, and made them listen to a different set of
brainwashing words and phrases in the commercials.
People came to hate older commercials, the ones without the special
messages, because they felt somehow incomplete if they watched a commercial
without those messages. They felt cheated. They called up stations and
sponsers and protested, and soon only the new-style commercials were on the
air, commercials that were processed with Max's special "Video Enhancement"
software.
Max first installed the men's versions in hair salons frequented by
executives of the largest advertising firms in the country and directors and
producers of the big commercials. Then, he targeted the politicians, and even
the areas which had large dairy farms.
It was not long before dairy farms began cutting back on the size of their
herds of cattle, and began soliciting women, paying them what they had
formerly spent on cattle feed, for exclusive rights to their milk.
They couldn't compete against Max though. He got women to pay him to take
their milk, instead. Eagerly, too. So the dairy farms began to sell their
services to Max, and he was just as eager to use them since they already had
all the equipment for processing milk, pasteurizing it, homogenizing it,
separating out byproducts, making low-fat versions and cream, and of course
the nationwide delivery system. It became a win-win situation. Even the
animal rights people liked the arrangement, since fewer cows were being
exploited.
Breast milk started appearing in stores. Brands such as "Mom's Milk,"
"Mother's Nectar," and "Maxine's" first appeared in health food stores, then
upscale corner groceries, and within half a year, supermarkets all across the
country.
How did Max collect milk from millions of women?
He (or the women working for him, actually) installed what he called "Milk
Machines" all over the country, which were small boxes on almost every street
corner that looked a lot like those automatic photo booths found in arcades,
except with a big milk can on top, and neon advertising all over it. (Milk
Machines in residential neighborhoods were more discrete, but not by much.)
The can had refrigeration pipes spiraling up the outside of it to keep the
milk collected in it ice cold. A woman entered the Milk Machine, put in a
quarter, bared her breasts to the two cups that extended out and while her
breasts were being pumped dry she watched a series of Max's specially designed
commercials on a small TV screen while electromagnetic pulses were sent into
her brain through the comfortable, wrap-around head rest, making her think of
it as one of the most pleasurable experiences she ever had. The compelling,
hidden messages in the commercials told her to go get more drugs to produce
more milk so she would be able to come back and give the Milk Machine more
milk with all the associated good and satisfying feelings she was feeling
right then.
Due to his unfair influence on them, women were loyal to Max Maxfield.
They loved everything about him, and rushed to defend him against any
argument. He always bragged that he needed no special security systems since
everyone loved him and he had no enemies. (How could he, when he had
brainwashed them all!)
Women worked for him for free, they paid him to give him their breast
milk, they spent huge amounts to come to his Milk Farms, and of course they
gave him their bodies.
He was incredibly well-endowed due to a discovery by one of the many
female scientists who freely gave him her services, and thanks to another
discovery, he had the stamina to keep going long after the average man would
have fallen asleep. Women surrounded him and constantly teased and pleased
him with their smiles, their cleavages, their breasts, and their words. He
could do nothing wrong in their eyes, so they dressed provocatively, gladly
showing off the bodies that he had given them, each hoping that she would be
one of the dozen women he would have that day.
All his employees were women. Women worked as his maintenance people,
putting new brainwash programming chips in all the hair dryers every week, and
keeping all the systems working. They worked as his executives, and they
worked as his managers. In his bottling plants all the machinery was
specially designed to be used by people with breasts so big they couldn't see
anything below their nipples. He had women lawyers, female accountants, and
most visible of all, the girls who drove the tank trucks that collected milk
from the corner booths. With their identical blond haircuts, identically
buxom bodies, and identical red, provocative uniforms, they were a familiar
and welcome sight in every neighborhood. Women liked them because they
serviced the Milk Machines, and men because of the spectacle they made of the
process.
Men fantasized about making it with Max's "Milk Maids", but Max had made
sure that anyone who molested any of his workers was found, caught, and
punished publicly, so men soon learned to "look but don't touch." That, of
course, enhanced the sexual value of Max's Milk Maids even more! It also had
the side effect on society of allowing women to feel free to dress more
provocatively without fear of being accosted, since the same laws Max had
pushed through to protect his employees also protected the persons of other
sexily-dressed women everywhere else!
The women's clothing industry had to adapt both to a suddenly different
female form and to women's new universal desire for scanty, sexy clothing that
could be opened in front easily and quickly for the Milk Machines. Clothing
that hid a woman's shape became as unusual a sight as women with flat chests.
As Max's influence expanded around the world, the average bra size suddenly
jumped in a few months from its hundred-year average of 34B to 38DD, and then
to triple and quadruple letters as entire cities full of women "discovered" in
a matter of weeks that they "loved" having breasts that could each deliver
more than a quart of milk every few hours. It seemed a coincidence to everyone
but Max that those "discoveries" always happened within a few days of Max's
companies taking over that city as a new territory.
Simple bras began to disappear from stores, replaced by special back-
supporting corsets with steel-reinforced cups for holding the ever-growing
masses of flesh, fat, and milk glands that modern breasts were becoming.
Training bras disappeared as eager teenage girls jumped from flat to full with
a single dose of Watch-M-Grow. There was a short-lived movement to prevent
the drugs from being used by minors, but a small change in the messages Max
included in his world-wide broadcasts caused everyone to think of access to
the drugs as a right to be shared among all the world's women. There was no
vote or public discussion about it. People simply knew it, and that was that.
It wasn't long before it became common for pre-teenaged girls to demand the
right to use the drugs their older sisters used.
Suddenly, the debate was not on whether it was right for kids to take
breast augmentation drugs, but on what was the proper breast size for a second
or third grade girl. No one noticed the debate had changed.
Teenage boys everywhere who had thought breasts the size of baseballs were
big were suddenly confronted with pairs of volleyballs thrusting out the
blouses and sweaters of not one or two but all of their female classmates, and
even on little girls six or eight years younger than they were. Due to almost
constant distraction and the threat of dire consequences if they acted on
their desires, the national average of school grades among boys went way down.
Curiously, among girls -- who were no longer insecure about the way they
looked or of being molested by men -- it went way up. One year the majority of
college applicants were boys, the next year only women applied. No high-
school boy had gotten higher than a average D grade in the whole country.
Milk drugs were sent to third-world countries as part of CARE packages.
One war was ended in Eastern Europe when one side volunteered to supply the
other side's women with the drugs for free in return for the other side's
armaments. Missionaries in Asia and Africa began to bring free television
sets, hair dryers and milk drugs to small, out-of-the-way villages as part of
their normal procedures.
The Pope banned the whole thing until a delegation of busty, nursing nuns
pointed out that they could now feed orphaned babies. Then, in a move which
shocked the world, the Pope declared that all nuns should use the drugs.
Later, after Max Maxfield had a personal audience with the Pope and gave him a
gift of a gold-plated hair dryer, the Pope announced that the hair dryers
should be distributed to every church, seminary, and monastery for free use by
anyone who wanted to use them because having such silky hair made people feel
closer to God. Max generously offered free service on any Milk Machine where
there was no charge for its use. No one at all protested or even found
anything wrong after several months of such free treatments, when consecrated
mother's milk was added to the Sacrament as a symbol of the milk the Virgin
Mary gave to the baby Jesus, and hence a symbol of the milk of life itself.
As one pundit put it, the idea was "as natural as mother's milk."
Max was making money hand over fist. He couldn't lose! He made money by
selling and maintaining hair-dryers, by selling milk-producing drugs, by
charging women to empty their breasts, and by then selling them back the milk
he collected as being much more healthy to drink than cow's milk. And no one
protested, because they were all brainwashed to accept it!
* * * * * * * * *
Max's downfall began one summer Tuesday morning when he misplaced his
special glasses which prevented him from being brainwashed by his own
commercials. He saw one of those commercials later in the day and like a
zombie, he went to a hair salon in a nearby town to get a shampoo.
By coincidence, that particular salon's Hair Dryer For Men was broken that
day. The barber didn't think about it too much. It couldn't hurt his male
customers to use the women's hair dryers until it got fixed.
His haircut over, Max wandered out into the street. There was something
he had to do, but he couldn't remember what it was. He kept thinking that
maybe he should get a ticket to go to one of those milk farms. After all,
that was where all the other women were going, and their breasts were always
so big and lovely when they got back. He found himself wondering what his
breasts would look like when they were so big and round.
He was not thinking very clearly, and his attention was grabbed by the
flashing pink and blue neon signs all over the outside of one of the milking
stations. One of the signs promised "Full Satisfaction" in flowing, feminine
letters that he had never paid much attention to before. Now, though, it
beckoned to him, calling him like one of the mythical Sirens.
"Full satisfaction. That's what I need. I knew I needed something. I
need to go in there and try it out," he thought.
His conscious mind began to wake up even as he opened his shirt and put
his flat chest against the huge rubber cones, but the Milk Machine's
brainwashing began to take over even as he tried to battle against it.
"How did I get here? What does that mean, my breasts are too small? I've
got to get out of here! I can make them bigger with Watch-M-Grow? I'll have
to try that. No, I have to get out of here, and go to the nearest drug store
and get MilkStarter so I can give milk to this nice Milk Machine, ooh that
feels good! No! It's the brainwashing. I have to look away. I have to go
away and get bigger breasts. No, resist, resist, resist any substitutes.
After all my breasts are my pride and joy. No, that's another mental hook.
I'm not a woman. I'm not, I'm not a full woman until my breasts are big and
sexy and full of milk. No, that's another one. I never realized how many of
those hooks I included. I never realized how good this could feel. I have
to, I have to, I have to do this again, but next time with milk to give. I
can give milk if I go to a drug store and get some MilkStarter. Now I'll
forget that I learned anything here except how much fun I had."
"Boy!" he exclaimed a few minutes later, stumbling away from the Milk
Machine. "I'm glad I got out of there! I designed that program to brainwash
anyone who got even close to the thing." He shivered with remembered
pleasure. "Damn that felt good, though. What am I doing here, anyway? I
should be back at my chalet. Man, I never thought about what would happen if
a man went into one of those places! It gave me the creeps to feel that good
about my breasts! And I don't even have breasts! Or do I?" He actually
looked inside his shirt to check. "Damn, that thing made me feel insecure.
My chest looks so, so, so flat. Ah, a drug store. I think I'll go in and get
some gum."
"Good afternoon, sir," said the pharmacist when Max brought his purchases
to the counter. "Boy! Now they've got you men getting this stuff for them.
You know, it's funny, but until today, only women have bought this stuff from
me, but you're the dozenth man who's bought both Watch-M-Grow and MilkStarter
today."
"Huh? Oh, it's for my wife."
"Yes, that's what the others said too. Each and every one of them." Then
he continued silently, "and none of them were wearing wedding rings either."
Dazed, aware that something was wrong, but nothing he wanted to think
about, Max went home to his chalet full of slave women.
"Slave women," he giggled to himself. That was his private name for them.
He had set up their hair dryers himself so they would be attracted only to
him, and want to do everything he told them to without question.
He thrust the bag from the drug store at one of them. "Here! Prepare
this and serve it to me immediately! I want it the fastest way possible." He
didn't even remember her name.
"Yes, sir. Immediately." She turned and wiggled sensuously over to a
table near the wall while he watched with appreciation.
She had huge breasts, like all women nowadays, and she wore only a tiny
apron and high-heeled shoes. Normally, he loved to watch how she and the
others bounced when they moved. Today, for some reason, his only thought was,
"Boy! Hers are huge! I'll bet she gives the Milk Machine a gallon or even
five liters out of each of those, lucky girl."
He found nothing wrong with that thought.
"Here you are, sir! Are you going to watch TV, sir? That's usually what
we do when we have it. Here, let me give it to you here, in your arm.
Trixie, will you give him this other one?"
Suddenly, she jabbed a hypodermic needle into his arm and injected its
entire contents into his bloodstream.
"What do you think you are doing??" He jumped up and grabbed her, but the
stuff was already pumping through his vein.
Just then, he felt another needle enter his buttocks, as Trixie held her
arm around his hips so he couldn't turn until the entire contents had been
emptied into the fatty tissue of his behind.
"This is the fastest way to give it to you, sir, and you did say
'immediately.'" Max had thought they would give him the standard preparation,
mixing it into the breast milk he loved to drink.
He had asked his chemists to make the chemicals quick acting, but this was
the first time he realized just how quick it was.
By the time Trixie let go, he could taste it in his mouth. By the time he
had chased the women to the other side of the room, he could already feel his
breasts tingling.
Someone had turned on the home theater system and the wall-sized screen
lit up with one of his commercials. Dimly, he thought he should have his
glasses on, but then his whole mind was absorbed by the three-meter or ten-
foot-tall images of huge-busted women thrusting their bare breasts toward a
dozen Milk Machines again and again, the smiles of orgasm lighting up their
faces with ecstasy.
He wanted to do that! He wanted to press his breasts into that Milk
Machine again and this time to give it satisfaction!
He was sitting now, like the half dozen slave women with him in the room,
staring at the screen and cupping his growing breasts with his hands.
It felt so good to feel his breasts growing under his shirt, to know that
soon he could go back to that Milk Machine and get the full satisfaction it
advertised by giving it milk. His milk.
But why did he have to go back to that Milk Machine? He had three of them
here in his mansion! He could go downstairs right now and use one, but he
didn't. Somehow, it felt right to be here with the other women, watching
television with them. They still thought of him as their one and only man,
and surrounded him, pressing their built-in cushions against his back and his
arms on either side. Besides, women should stick together, not try to stand
out from the group. It would be better to do things when the others did them.
He hardly noticed the show, which was a news show. The lead story was
something about a declaration by some odd-looking female Chinese officials
that all people in China, regardless of sex, should use the drugs to grow
breasts. There were long proclamations about everyone being equal in a
Communist society, and mother's milk being natural and healthy, and if
everyone had breasts, it would eliminate the sexual discrimination that caused
parents to give away or even kill their female babies so they could have a
male one.
Max knew there was another reason for the Chinese change in policy. Six
months ago, he had made a deal with their government to sell them millions of
his brainwashing hair dryers with the women's program in it to be distributed
to their general populace, so they all would get the messages about sharing
equally, being kind to others, and generally being what the Chinese considered
to be peaceful, obedient citizens. The heads of state would be the only ones
to get the men's program.
He found it amusing that the women giving the proclamation looked more
like his Milk Maids than like the typically flat-chested Chinese woman, and he
snickered, knowing that the men's program was just as imprisoning, knowing
that anyone who heard it would soon find it impossible to have sex with a
normal woman, and would be as addicted to having busty women around him as the
women who listened to the women's program would be addicted to having large
breasts, taking Max's drugs, and giving milk to his Milk Machines. (He did
not consider, even now, what had happened to all the men who had been given
the women's program.)
When the show was over, he followed the women out of the room, downstairs,
where they patiently waited for their turns at the three Milk Machines in the
basement. He thought briefly of commanding them all to step aside. They
would do it. He had brainwashed them all into obeying his every word. Then a
line floated into his consciousness, he remembered it as one of the commands
he had included in one of the many brainwashing programs aimed at women.
"I will never do anything that will cause conflict or bad feelings.
Patience is a virtue. We easily share everything."
He had no need to follow it, but somehow everything had such a rosy glow
around it as he thought it that it seemed a shame to disobey it, and it
couldn't hurt. Not this once.
The line seemed like one of his own thoughts the next time he felt a
desire to cut in front of the other women. ("Other women? When did I start
thinking of myself as one of the women here?") He almost said something to
the woman in front of him in line, but her face was so radiantly beautiful,
and her breasts so much bigger than his own small ones that he decided that
she should go first after all. Besides, "people with bigger breasts are better
people." There were three Milk Machines. It would not be that long a wait.
Finally, one of the Milk Machines was free and he bared his chest to it.
Just in the time he had watched the television show and waited in line, his
bust line had expanded so that he would need a C-cup brassiere when he went
back upstairs, but, "Ah!" he sighed, seeing the numbers climb higher on the
milk counter, "My breasts already have several ounces of milk. It feels so
good!"
The screen in his face blasted his mind with still more messages. By the
time he left, he knew blissfully that if he got more of the drugs, he, too,
could be producing a gallon or even five liters more every few hours of every
day, like Trixie and the others.
It was true that all the programs would eventually get old, and that the
brainwashing effect would wear off if he didn't replace them, but he no longer
wanted to rule the world. Let someone else do that.
His only goal in life was now to use that Milk Machine again, and make his
breasts grow more and more so he could produce still more milk to satisfy the
Milk Machines.
You see, Max Maxfield loved big breasts. The only thing he loved more
than big breasts was breast milk, and it was the cause of both his success and
his downfall.
The End
(Unless you want to take it further with your own additions to this story.
My fantasies always end where everyone else's seem to begin!)
P.S. Actually, I got to thinking about this story as I typed it up, and
began wondering about all those Chinese men who now had breasts, and what life
would be like for Max, and the societal implications, and I came up with more
of the story, continued in MILKMAC2.TXT
From stephanie@nym.alias.net Fri Feb 21 10:37:42 1997
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.tg,alt.stories.erotic
Subject: REPOST TG: Milk Machines (2/3) by Lee Most
From: Stephanie <stephanie@nym.alias.net>
Date: 21 Feb 1997 15:37:42 -0000
From Stephanie's Transgender Collection
I didn't write this story. I'm just posting it to improve the
signal/noise ratio here.
You can find the stories that I have written at my website at
http://www.geocities.com/westhollywood/2525. If you are an author of
TG stories and you'd like to add a page to the site about yourself and
your stories, please send me an e-mail.
This is an adult story and should not be viewed if you are under
the age of eighteen.
======================================================================
This is Part 2 of a silly, semi-TG, science-fiction story filled with
cliches like a mad scientist who gets trapped by his own invention, and
brainwashing machines disguised as hair dryers. It has no sex, but it
probably shouldn't be read by impressionable minds under 18 years old, so if
you are, go away. Everyone else, come on in.
Part 1 was a stand-alone story, but I wondered about those Chinese and how
all their men would react, and other societal implications, so I came up with
this addition. Sorry, I don't like writing sex scenes, and I'm not very good
at them anyway, so sex is merely suggested in this part. Add to it if you
want, but send me copies at leemost@mail.sfpcug.org.
======================================================================
Milk Machines
Part 2
Copyright 1996 by Lee Most
The next morning, Max awoke feeling light headed after a night filled with
dreams of milking stations, needles, and breasts. Even in the dreams he was
two-minded as to whether they were pleasant fantasies or nightmares.
Rubbing his chin, he realized that he would not have to shave. For the
first time since he was fifteen. The mirror above the bed showed him a woman.
He had to feel under the sheets to make sure he still had his masculine
equipment there. He did, but nothing else about himself looked masculine.
Even the bones and hard lines of his jaw seemed to have softened, and his nose
was smaller.
Jumping out of bed, he was surprised at how heavy his breasts felt -- and
at how light everything else felt. Overnight, his waist had narrowed and his
legs had become longer. Both his arms and legs were more slender.
His slave women had insisted that each room have at least one vanity table
if the hundred women who lived here were to be correctly made up at all times.
Now in the vanity table mirror he saw the details of his changes. His hair
was the same length, of course, but his eyebrows were thinner and all traces
of his masculine beard were gone. His skin was as smooth as a young boy's --
or a woman's. His neck was smooth, too, no Adam's apple. Testing his voice
he found that he now spoke at least an octave higher than the day before. He
even sounded like a woman!
He looked down at his small breasts and even while horrified at the sight,
he laughed at the idea that these C-cup breasts were considered small these
days. One of the dreams he had had as a young man was that the world would be
full of buxom women. Well, that dream had been realized!
"Heh," he gave a small laugh, hefting the new additions to his own
physique, "now even one of the men has breasts." He still thought of himself
as unique, that what had happened to him was a rare accident that had not
happened to anyone else.
One thing he thought he had been careful about in all his brainwashing
programs was to make sure that they only touched on that one area of the body.
He still could think as clearly about all his other projects, he still could
think about maintenance of the Milk Machines and programs, and he still could
think about having sex with the women around here.
He needed to test that last thought, so he called in one of the ever-
waiting slave women outside his door. "Do you know who I am, Bella?"
"Certainly, sir. You're Max Maxfield."
"Do you find me attractive this way?"
"Oh yes, sir! The question in my mind is if you still want me?"
They then proceeded to prove their mutual admiration to each other in a
most physical manner while Max learned that his breasts could provide pleasure
in ways other than by being milked by a machine.
Even after she had drunk her fill, and he had drunk his usual liquid
breakfast, they both still felt a need to use the Milk Machines in the
basement.
As he took the elevator down, he told one of the four women who had joined
them to take a note. "Have Janet Starr install more Milk Machines here.
There's no reason we should have to go down to the basement every time we need
to use them." No matter who else was in the room, there was always at least
one girl whose job it was to record his thoughts and go implement them.
Two of the women exchanged knowing glances behind his back, and one lifted
his special glasses slightly out of her cleavage. They both grinned.
After using the Milk Machine once again, Max ordered a girl named Daisy
to get him some more Watch-M-Grow and a large dose of LactoMore, but to
"prepare it with milk this time!"
Another girl watched her go, then asked, "Then, you like having breasts,
Mr. Maxfield? You want them bigger?"
"Call me Max. I've always liked breasts, uh," Max tried to remember her
name, but now he realized he did not recall seeing her before.
"Lin. Lin Mei Chu. I am new here." She bowed low, folding her hands.
Max noticed that she did look like she had some Chinese ancestry, but it
seemed to be mixed with a lot of other races as well. "Well, Lin, I've always
liked breasts, and the bigger the better."
"But you never had them before yesterday, right." It was a statement, not
a question.
"No, but everything changes, and I can't say I'm sorry."
"That is interesting way to look at it. Anything I can do for you now?"
She stood in front of him, her hands behind her back, twisting back and forth
so her breasts went from side to side right in front of him. In spite of the
changed standards of what were small and what were large, he thought hers were
exceptionally large.
He was so distracted that he did not see Daisy come back with a large
glass of milk. He wanted to respond, to Lin, but he suddenly could not resist
the mixture of hormones, enzymes, metabolism accelerator drugs, and a few
things he had never told anyone about. He downed it without stopping for
breath.
Lin looked at Daisy and Daisy smiled back. Their plan was working. Max
needed first-hand experience to understand what life with huge, lactating
breasts was like.
By noon, Max had ordered home and car versions of the Milk Machines. He
had finally realized that the average woman would have to travel to the corner
Milk Machine four times a day for relief from her swollen breasts, and that a
more convenient solution was in order. By the end of the day, he had ordered
the first of many city-wide milk pipelines to gather and collect the liters
and gallons of milk being produced daily in each home.
* * * * * * * * *
A week after he had first lost his special glasses, Max was
indistinguishable from all the women around him, except that he was far more
awkward than they, and still had male genitalia visible when he had no clothes
on.
Holding up his massive mammaries with both arms after breakfast that day,
he complained, "How do you stand up so straight, Lin?" She and several other
vaguely Chinese-looking women like Daisy and Carol seemed to be the only ones
around him lately.
"Oh, I was Milk Maid for some time. You get used to this kind of body in
very short time with that kind of training and exercise. You must try it,
okay?"
Suddenly Max felt odd. There was something about what she had just said
that had left an effect on him of some kind. He tried to sound casual as he
said, "Is that so?"
"Oh, yes. Is that not main source for all women who work here in your own
house? It is very good training."
"Maybe I will try it out. Tell me, since you are here. Why is it that
you have a Chinese name and accent, but you look so American. Were you born
here?"
"No. I am full-blooded Chinese. I only started to look this way when I
took your drugs. They are very popular back home," she said, and then added,
"Among both sexes. We all look this way now. You can't tell boys from girls
without pulling their pants down, or," she smirked as if at an inside joke,
"lifting skirt up." She added, "You must tell me what you are truly thinking,
okay?"
Again, that odd twisting feeling in the back of his head, like an
adjusting screw was being turned. What was that? "Hmm, alright. I was
thinking that I hadn't thought of the consequences of using the same drugs on
people of other races."
"Nor did you think of consequences of using on male gender. You did not
use only hormones and enzymes in your drugs. You had kind of DNA modifier as
well."
"True, but I couldn't tell the patent office that." Why was he admitting
that to a perfect stranger? He became more and more sure that Lin and the
others were not his usual "slave women."
"That is as we thought. We tried several times to duplicate your methods,
but only determined too late that you had not told the world everything. So,
we came here to find out how to do what you did, and we find out. You did not
say how you accomplished everything you do, but it is most effective. Much
more effective than our method. You seem angry. You must calmly continue
discussion, okay?"
Max wanted to be angry that these people had invaded his house, spied on
him, pried his secrets out, but his body became calm, his thoughts detached.
It was almost like he was an outside observer. With no trace of the intense
emotions he wanted to express, he calmly asked, "What do you mean, 'our
method'? What method do you use? What's the difference?"
"Ah. With yours, subject desires to do as you ask. The suggestions
become part of her or his psyche. We have not managed to do that, as you are
no doubt discovering. With your method, you say, 'Go out and make your
breasts bigger,' and subject says to herself, 'I think I want to go out and
make my breasts bigger.' It seems to her to be her own thought, her own
desire. There is no fighting against it."
"Of course," Max answered calmly, wanting to scream out "WHAT HAVE YOU
DONE TO ME?!?!" but instead continuing this impartial scientific discussion of
their difference in methods. "I found out early that if the subject knows she
is being brainwashed, she will eventually rebel against it and find a way to
either break the brainwashing or turn around and angrily attack the one doing
it to her."
"That is what we found too, but it was all we had to work with when we
first came here. Our deepest apologies. You must be tormented inside, while
not being able to show it. We will attempt to correct that. Your own
brainwashing methods will provide answer."
Then they HAD done something to him! Still, even knowing that, his body
would not react in anger. It must be their kind of brainwashing. "Who are
you people?"
"We are from Chinese Democratic Resistance Party, and had thought to use
your drugs and brainwashing methods to free our people from yoke of Communist
demagogues. We thought we would have year or even two from time we first
learned of you, but you were too fast for us. Our leaders made their deal
with you, and we now all look like this." She gestured at her bloated chest
and American/Chinese face.
"At first we hated you for dealing with our oppressors, but now, having
seen effects of your drugs and simple, effective brainwashing on our society,
and on yours, we no longer feel any animosity towards you."
"How? You've already made me into this freak. I'm a man with huge tits,
I hardly look like my old self, and I have an unstoppable craving to give milk
to my own machines."
Lin seemed amused. "Yes. That is ironic, is it not? You are not alone,
of course. My entire country has been changed that way, as have all the women
of your country."
"But I am a man." Max wanted to raise his voice, to scream, to rant and
rave, but he could only continue the discussion as calmly as if it was about
the price of hamburger meat instead of how he was being forced to live.
Now Lin's face changed. Her eyes opened wide in an intense glare, she
bared her teeth at him angrily at him, and she raised her skirt and petticoats
up, growling, "So am I!"
Max looked down at her crotch for the first time and stared in horror at
the very masculine bulge in her panties. For the first time he realized the
consequences of giving the female brainwashing to all the men in China.
The Chinese had all listened to messages telling them to share, to be
docile and obedient, and to respond in a positive manner to men. That much he
had known. What he had not considered was that they would also buy the milk
drugs, have their bodies changed to this voluptuous female form and want to,
even need to, give milk to the millions of Milk Machines he had sold their
leaders.
A stab of fear suddenly went through Max, although his body no longer
seemed to be aware of what he was thinking. His voice was calm as he asked,
"What are you going to do with me?"
"I repeat myself: we no longer feel any animosity towards you. We like
what you have done for our society. We all live in peace now, women are as
valued as men, since it is all but impossible to tell the difference, our
population control programs are finally working, now that boy and girl babies
are treated equally, and one by one, our leaders were replaced by people who
have been given your populist brainwash program. Quietly, without any
shooting, our society has truly become democratic. You are our hero now."
Max tried to digest that, in light of what they had done to him, and
failed. Suddenly, he wanted to cry, but again, his body remained calm. "I
don't understand," he said aloud. "Then why do this to me?"
"You will see. You will be happy. We know. I will give commands now.
You must tell people you want to be Milk Maid, okay? Since your appearance
not same as before, no one know you. You must give people new name. You must
tell everyone your name Maxine May, and you must not use old name, okay? You
must do nothing that make people think you are man, okay? You must act like
woman, okay? You must not tell anyone who you really are, okay? You must ask
for Milk Maid training and experience to help you get used new body, okay?"
With each "okay" she spoke, another screw seemed to tighten in the back of
his brain. He put his hand on the back of his head, but could feel nothing.
Was this her version of brainwashing? He could not detect any difference but
he knew she was doing something to him.
"I test you now. What is your name?"
Max tried to say "Max Maxfield," but what came out of his mouth was
"Maxine May."
"Very good. See how our system works? If we had known how to use your
system when we came here, you would now believe your name was Maxine May.
With our system, we can make you say it, but you still think of yourself as
Max Maxfield. Now I test you again. You must pull down your pants and show
me your panties. Now, okay?"
For the first time since she had started talking to him, Max felt his
heart race. She couldn't be allowed to see his male genitals! He felt fear,
while at the same time wondering what the big deal was. He had pulled his
pants down in front of lots of women before.
His hands released his belt buckle, unsnapped the snap at the top of his
pants, and pulled down the zipper. Then, he turned around and before he quite
knew what he was doing, his hand slipped inside his underpants and pushed his
cock and balls between his legs. Turning back, he slid his pants down,
keeping his thighs clenched tightly together. She saw only a flat front on
the women's underpants he had started wearing lately.
There he stood, while she smiled approvingly. "You see? You obey my
little command to prevent people from knowing you are a man. You are released
from my command to pull your pants down, okay?"
It was like one of those screws in his head releasing something. Max had
not realized until she told him he was released that he was under a command at
all. He had thought he was just doing what she had asked him to. Was that
what being brainwashed was like?
"Now we were talking about how beneficial the Milk Maids training was for
me and could be for you. Max Maxfield is owner. If you were to go there with
a letter from Mr. Maxfield, they would be sure to hire and train you."
Max felt himself turning, going out to see one of his secretaries.
"Please draft a letter of recommendation for one Maxine May to get hired as a
Milk Maid. Bring it in to me and I'll sign it when you're ready."
Within an hour he was in the employment office of Milk Maids, Inc. Lin
had somehow come up with a new driver's license for him with a picture of his
new self and the name "Maxine May." Thanks to the reference letter he brought
with him that he had signed with his old name (after which Lin made him unable
to sign it,) he was in the training school another hour later.
The "school" was simply a beauty parlor with modified versions of his hair
dryers in it. He had learned so much about how the mind works and how it
learns things during his study of the perfect brainwashing method, that he
could now teach anyone anything in almost no time. Now, in the time a woman
took to get her hair dry and her nails done, she could be completely trained
to do everything a Milk Maid truck driver needed to do to put on her special
show at every stop, and she would do it automatically, without thinking about
it. It was how Max assured himself that no Milk Maid would embarrass either
herself or his company. The routine went to the very edge of indecency, but
never crossed the line.
He had invented the whole idea, but now that he was here, getting the
makeover, getting the hair style, getting his nails done, he could not
remember any of it. Or was that part of the plan as well? If a girl didn't
know the plan, she couldn't mess it up by imagining variations. That is the
way he would have set it up.
Or was it just him? He knew that Lin had done something to him, but he
did not know what. How had she made him agree to this? He wished he could
remember, but it was like there was a cloud covering parts of his thinking.
After his indoctrination under the hair dryer, he was told to go down a
hall where he would receive his uniform.
The Milk Maid uniform looked like a French maid's uniform, but in red. It
had a short skirt and lots of frilly petticoats that showed off her long legs
in specially designed high-heeled boots that she could wear all day without
the usual pain of high-heeled shoes. (Of course he had sold the design to the
nation's shoe makers to the delight of women all over the world.)
Max was soon glad of that, for he spent many days wearing those boots and
the other shoes based on the same design. He was also glad he had designed
the rest of the uniform to be comfortable as well as sexy.
Lin was there to watch him get dressed, and he felt deeply embarrassed at
her presence. She kept telling him she was doing this to reward him for
helping her country, but he felt humiliated to be seen with this body, putting
on these clothes, especially to be seen by her, since she knew who he really
was.
You would think that a uniform designed by Max would show off a lot of
cleavage, but instead the bodice went right up to his neck where it ended in a
small collar. Instead of the black of a French maid, this uniform was shiny
red Spandex. It hugged his every curve, lovingly showing off the immensity of
his bosom and just how tiny the smooth, built-in corset (and Watch-M-Grow) had
shrunk his waist, adding gleaming highlights which accented everything about
his body. Also accenting his small waist was a small, but practical, lace-
trimmed apron tied around it. It had enough pockets to hold his keys,
salespad computer, and a thin wallet, but was designed so it appeared to be
nothing more than decoration. The similarity to the French maid look was
achieved by having the upper part of the white apron as part of the design in
the Spandex of the uniform.
A waist-cinching corset built into the bodice supported both his back and
his gigantic bosom which was so big that no ordinary bra could hold it. Using
a special half-cup design, it supported and molded his enormous breasts
without enclosing them, so only the bottoms were supported as if on a pair of
curved shelves. The half cups shaped his breasts into missile-like
projections that many had quipped were more deadly than any missile of the
Cold War. (Now, considering the Chinese, he wondered whether that quip had
more truth than humor in it.)
The flexible elastic of the Spandex top allowed his breasts to stand out
from his body, while also letting them move and wiggle with his every motion.
Since there were no full cups for them to sit in (or pop out of,) he could
bend over and straighten up and still have them exactly where they were
supposed to be.
When he had finished dressing, he checked his appearance in a full-length
mirror with little reminders painted on it. For instance, there was a line
pointing to the place in the mirror where his hair was reflected, and the
words, "Check hairstyle and any combs, barrettes, and pins." He was amazed to
see that he now had long, blond hair when he had awakened this morning with
short dark hair cut in a men's haircut. It was hard for him to remember what
they had done to him in the hair salon only a few minutes before, but he did
vaguely recall someone saying something about "bleach" and later pinning falls
into his hair to make it longer. Patting the mass of hair lightly to check
it, he realized that he now knew exactly how to take care of it, thanks to the
helmet's complete training program which it inserted directly into his memory.
There was no doubt about it. He looked like the standard Milk Maid from
blond head to long, red fingernails to his booted toes.
Satisfied with his appearance, he went out to his truck, started it, and
drove it out of the yard. "I'm glad Lin stayed behind," he thought to himself
as he drove toward the city where he was supposed to collect milk from the
Milk Machines. "It was awful to know I was being watched like that."
Each milking station could hold a week's worth of collected milk in its
refrigerated tank, but to maintain freshness it was collected every day. As
with all the other equipment Max had designed, both the truck and the milking
stations were designed to be used and maintained by women with enormous
breasts, but his excellent sales sense had made him design both of these
highly public pieces of equipment for the maximum enjoyment of the men who did
not get to participate in the milking process itself. Thus, the filling tube
on the truck and the coupling on the milking station was well below waist
level, while the controls were well above eye level. They were very easy to
use, since everything was standardized, so the driver only had to swing out
the filler tube, connect it to the coupling, insert her salespad into the
control panel, hold down the button that kept the valve open, and keep an eye
on the machinery to make sure everything was working.
The collection process was easy, but each "Milk Maid" was trained to put
on a show every time she stopped her truck and got out to collect her milk. In
fact, they were all (except for him, he thought now,) hired from the ranks of
actresses, dancers, and showgirls, not professional drivers.
Max pulled up to his first stop about an hour later and slid over to what
in other trucks would have been the passenger seat. Instead, each Milk Maid
truck cab had a full vanity built into the passenger side of the dashboard,
complete with lighted mirror, and a full collection of cosmetics, hair care,
and manicure supplies. Max slid over and checked his makeup, hairdo, and
nails. He applied a little more lipstick, then slid back over to the driver's
side, where he opened the door and carefully extended his left leg out and
down onto the step below the driver's door. Arching his back, he kicked his
other leg out and then bent his first leg down, allowing the rest of his
voluptuous body to lean forward until his right leg was touching the street.
(Ostensibly that part of his performance was to warn other drivers that he was
about to leave the truck. "Well," he noticed, "it did stop traffic!")
Everything else he was trained to do also had a reason that was supposedly
for safety or security, consideration or cleanliness, but which he knew was
mainly to add to the show. Once standing on the street, he carefully closed
the door of the truck and then, keeping his feet together and his legs
perfectly straight in their high heels, he bent at the waist to lock the door
(so no one would steal the truck) with the key (so he would be sure to have it
and not lock himself out.) The lock was down at the bottom of the door (for
handicapped access) which meant that he had to bend way down, giving other
drivers a good view of the many layers of petticoats under his skirt and of
his ability to perform such a supple feat. Again, that was deemed more
attention-getting, and hence a safer method than merely bending his knees to
lower himself to the level of the lock.
The multiple layers of petticoats under a Milk Maid's uniform provoked as
much speculation as to the presence of underwear as did a Scott's kilts --
with about as much chance of finding out the truth. Since the material of the
petticoats shimmered in the light, they also provided a bright white
reflective surface which would act as a warning to approaching cars (a
superfluous warning in this case since all nearby cars had stopped to watch
his show.)
Bending down to lock the door in the manner he had been trained to, Max
was extremely conscious of all the drivers and passengers of the cars that had
stopped for him. He could feel their eyes on his bare legs, and he imagined
that all of them were seeing through the shiny layers of petticoats to his
male genitalia making his panties bulge under his micro-miniskirt.
Then, incongruous thoughts invaded his consciousness, and he thought, "If
I do this right, every man seeing my legs will admire me. Men love to see a
woman in this position." It was the words of the training program, coming
back to haunt him.
"Well, I am doing it right!" he shouted silently back at the programmed
thoughts that had been loaded into his brain. "Every man does admire me, and
they do all love me in this position!" He did not, even later, realize that
those thoughts were exactly what Max had intended his women to think in
response to the programming. Part of the brainwashing process was to stop
critical thought about the brainwashing process itself.
After locking the door, Max walked around the back of his truck with a big
smile on his face (to show that he liked his job and to make the public think
well of the company) holding his hands out a foot or a third of a meter away
from each ear while wiggling his fingers (to be more noticeable to approaching
cars and to protect his nail polish and help dry it if he had needed to renew
it in the cab.) He also had to take steps that were no more than nine inches
or twenty-three centimeters apart (to avoid tripping on any irregularities in
the street's surface) and to walk quickly (to get out of the street faster.)
That had the effect of making his breasts, which were completely supported
underneath, to wiggle like jello in his uniform's bra cups. It also, he now
noticed, made the multiple layers of petticoats under his short skirt bounce
and flounce around, which (thankfully, in his opinion) hid the way his rump
was doing much the same thing as his breasts. The shimmering red Spandex did
nothing to hide all that movement, and on a sunny day like this one, the sun
glistening off the material could be seen several blocks away. The safety
reason behind that was that the jiggling and the shimmering made him more
visible, which meant that he'd be safer because other drivers on the road
would see him and be able to avoid him.
Now he could see the other drivers' smiling faces, and he hoped that the
fear he felt did not show in his eyes. He was a man, not a real Milk Maid.
Would one of them see through his disguise and realize that in spite of his
jouncing, jiggling jugs he was not the opposite sex of those men who watched
him so avidly?
Again, he found his mind filled with words he had only learned that
morning (although he had written them long ago as part of the brainwashing
program, he could not now recall them until the programming let him, and then
only for a few seconds.) "I love to wiggle this way! It teases these men so
much! I'll smile more so they know it's all in fun!" He also felt a surge of
naughty joy at his playfulness.
Once around the back of the truck and on the other side, Max again bent at
the waist to swing the filling tube away from the truck. With his breasts
hanging straight down, they flowed up out of his bra cups and swung freely,
giving pleasure to several men on the sidewalk watching him. In that
position, he had to twist sideways several times to get the tube attached to
the coupling, making his melons swing from his chest like twin pendulums on a
giant clock.
Here was a new set of eyes upon him, and this display was in many ways
worse. Max could do nothing to change his actions. The training was really
another form of brainwashing, and he could no more have stopped what he was
doing than change the law of gravity. He made his breasts sway as he was
supposed to, and he even thought the thoughts the training had made him
associate with this process. He knew it was the brainwashing, he knew that
they were thoughts from the outside, but still, his conscious mind's fears and
worries were pushed aside by the words, "Gee, I hope those good-looking guys
like the way I'm swinging my breasts for them. The way they're watching me,
I'd better put on a good show. I love showing off this way, and someday I'll
show off this way for my one true love." Also in spite of his fears and
worries, he felt a tingle of joy and satisfaction run through his body when he
looked up and smiled at the men, because he saw that he had their full
attention.
The tube attached, he then had to stand up and reach well over his head to
insert his salespad computer into the slot in the control panel and hold in
the button that would start the flow and record the quantity of breast milk
were being collected. He had to hold in both the button (so the operation
would be sure to be constantly monitored) and the computer (for security,
since only Max's employees had those computers, and the electronic interface
not only recorded the milk flow but also acted as a key,) while looking
through a special viewfinder at the inside of the building at the machinery
and the display screens inside (to make sure everything was going right)
giving all those onlookers a good view of his tiny, cinched-in waist, his long
legs, and also allowing them the fantasy of imagining what they could do to a
pretty, buxom woman who had to keep both her hands occupied well away from her
breasts and crotch and who could not see what they were doing.
It would be fantasy only, since Max had made sure that anyone who molested
any of his workers was found, caught, and punished publicly, so men everywhere
had learned to "look but don't touch," but in spite of that protection, Max
felt nothing but fear as he held his eyes to the viewfinder, wondering if
anyone was going to choose today to risk all that punishment, and touch him,
grab him, or -- worst of all -- reach between his legs to find out if Milk
Maids really don't wear underpants under all those petticoats.
At least he felt feat until the programmed thoughts kicked in. Then he
found himself thinking with pleasure, "I wish someone would come up behind me
and squeeze my breasts while I'm in this helpless position." He could almost
feel hands on his huge balloons and the only thing that saved his sanity was
his imagining that they were a woman's hands.
When he was finished, he basically repeated the show in reverse,
uncoupling the filler tube, wiggling and bouncing around to the cab of the
truck, and provocatively slithering into the driver's seat, only to repeat the
whole show at the Milk Machine on the next corner. And then again and again.
Milk Maids all claimed to love their jobs, since they got plenty of
exercise with all that bending and stretching, and as actresses and dancers
looking for work, they got plenty of exposure. Max had to constantly replace
his drivers, as the attrition rate from marriage and hiring by other
industries made the average employee only stay a few months. One other effect
was on the teenage dance world, where stylized versions of the Milk Maid
routine became a popular dance to a tune called "Milk Machine."
The entire filling process, show and all, took only five minutes at each
Milk Machine. With driving time, he emptied between six and eight stations an
hour. By the time he pulled back into the yard the first day, he had only had
time to do it fifty times. He had checked his makeup fifty times, wiggled
around the truck in each direction fifty times, swung his breasts at admiring
men fifty times, stood in that vulnerable position fifty times, and thought
and felt all the things he had been programmed to think and feel fifty times.
The program had a lasting effect. Theoretically he was free of the
brainwashing as soon as he pulled into the yard and got out of the truck.
Other women emptied the milk, took his salespad computer to the accounting
department, and refueled and parked the truck. All he had to do was check out
and go home.
He laughed when he saw the driver in front of him get out of her truck and
do the "Milk Maid wiggle" as she walked into the building, complete to the
wiggling of her fingers with her arms held up and elbows at right angles.
Then he found himself doing the same thing. He hoped it was not permanent,
and tried to remember if his slave women had walked around that way. They
were almost all former Milk Maids. With a sinking feeling, he remembered that
some of them did walk that way.
He kept his uniform on after work, while he waited for Lin to come pick
him up. It was much more comfortable than any of the commercial bras his
slave girls had picked up for him while his breasts were growing, and after a
day of repeating all the feel-good phrases of the brainwashing process in his
mind, (not to mention a few breaks when he used one or another of the Milk
Machines to drain his own breasts and getting doses of that form of
brainwashing as well,) he now found that he really liked looking this way.
After an hour of waiting for Lin, he began to get a little nervous. He
called his home, but his voice had changed so much that no one he could reach
would believe that he belonged there, and the Chinese brainwashing prevented
him from telling them he was really Max Maxfield. Well, although he did not
have any credit cards with him, he still knew his account numbers. He could
still sign a bank voucher. It was only when he tried to rent a motel room
that he discovered how thorough Lin's brainwashing had been. He could not
sign his own name!
Dejected, he walked along the street wondering about the sad turn of
events his life had taken, when he passed a noisy bar. He had a little cash,
so he almost stepped inside to get a drink and try to think this out.
Then he stopped himself. Bars were places where men picked up women!
What was he thinking of, looking like this? What if some guy picked him up,
looking for a good lay and discovered that he was not what he seemed? He
couldn't go home, he had no money, he was dressed in an outfit that showed off
every female curve he had recently grown, and he dare not go anywhere that a
man might pick him up. What could he do?
End of Part 2
* * * * * * * * *
What indeed? Tune in tomorrow for the exciting conclusion... (Okay, so
I'm uploading it now instead of tomorrow, and it isn't exciting. At least it
has a happier -- though not necessarily more believable -- ending than either
parts one or two!) It's called MILKMAC3.TXT.
From stephanie@nym.alias.net Fri Feb 21 10:41:43 1997
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.tg,alt.stories.erotic
Subject: REPOST TG: Milk Machines (3/3) by Lee Most
From: Stephanie <stephanie@nym.alias.net>
Date: 21 Feb 1997 15:41:43 -0000
From Stephanie's Transgender Collection
I didn't write this story. I'm just posting it to improve the
signal/noise ratio here.
You can find the stories that I have written at my website at
http://www.geocities.com/westhollywood/2525. If you are an author of
TG stories and you'd like to add a page to the site about yourself and
your stories, please send me an e-mail.
This is an adult story and should not be viewed if you are under
the age of eighteen.
======================================================================
This is Part 3 of a silly, semi-TG, science-fiction story that started off
filled with cliches like a mad scientist who gets trapped by his own
invention, and brainwashing machines disguised as hair dryers. I wrote a
sequel, but that one left our hero trapped even more than the first part, so I
wrote this one to sort of rescue him from his predicament. As with most of my
stories, it has no sex, but it probably shouldn't be read by impressionable
minds under 18 years old, so if you are, go away. Everyone else, come on in.
Sorry, I don't like writing sex scenes, and I'm not very good at them
anyway, so sex is merely suggested. Add to it if you want, but send me copies
at leemost@mail.sfpcug.org.
======================================================================
Milk Machines
Part 3
Copyright 1996 by Lee Most
He stood uncertainly outside the bar wondering what to do next, and then
realized that the noise he was hearing was the sound of dozens of female
voices. Cautiously, he peeked inside and saw not one, but several dozen women
dressed exactly as he was, and hardly any men.
This was where all the Milk Maids went after work!
Inside, he found a convivial atmosphere, with women dancing the new Milk
Maid dance, women chatting in groups, a few women drinking beer, but most of
them drinking milk drinks. There was not a man or even a brunette or redhead
in sight. Even the bartender seemed to belong to the group.
The Milk Maid dance was based on the show that Milk Maids always put on
when they filled their tank trucks with all the breast milk from the Milk
Machines, and the girls were having a ball while playing at imitating
themselves.
Egg nog had become popular as a year-round drink, and every liquor company
had come out with mother's milk versions of every creme drink it made, but the
major discovery of the past year was that mother's milk, unlike cow's milk,
had enough sugar in it to ferment into a new kind of liquor. There were
several brands, none very refined since the availability of the raw material
had not been around for long, but this bar seemed to stock all of them.
He was not feeling very adventurous, so he got an egg nog made with
mothers milk. At least his brainwashing had not removed his taste for that!
It also had not changed his taste in women. He looked around for the ones
with the biggest boobs and sat down at a table full of them. It was amazing
how much they each resembled each other. Well, it wasn't all that amazing now
that he thought about it. His drugs all had genetic material in them that
modified the DNA of the women taking them. The men, too, he admitted to
himself wryly.
He had used DNA from a number of different women so as not to draw
suspicion, but it seemed that the ones who were likely to become Milk Maids
all came from only five or six genotypes, all with blond hair, much larger
than average breasts, longer legs and a much more pronounced hourglass figure.
He doubted there was a waist in the room larger than twenty two inches or
fifty-six centimeters.
They all had long blond hair, big bustlines pushed up and displayed in
their shiny red uniforms, and they were each sitting so that their arms were
leaning on the table pressing their breasts together and trapping the stretchy
material in their generous cleavages. He instantly discovered that by resting
his breasts on the tabletop he took a big weight off his shoulders and back.
Soon, he was in the same position as they were, just to get his hands around
his glass.
"Hi," he ventured nervously. "I just started today and don't know
anyone."
"Oh, that's alright," grinned one of them. "We can't tell each other
apart either."
"That's right," agreed another, "and you know why? It's because" and then
everyone at the table joined in, "WE ALL LOOK ALIKE!" Then they all broke
down into a giggling fit which broke up the tableau.
"I'm Honey, honey, and this is Gena, and Fran, and Nick, and Becka.
Nick's new, too. He's a guy, but you can't have him. Becka got to him
first."
Max told them the name Lin had given him, while he stared at Nick in awe.
His breasts were easily the biggest at the table, and Max thought back to
Lin's, which were also much bigger than average. Could Watch-M-Grow affect
men even more than it affected women? He tried to surreptitiously check out
his own breasts as to size, but they seemed more or less average by the
overblown standards of the women at this table.
Honey noticed his comparison and grinned, "Yeah, he's pretty big for a
guy, isn't he?"
"I'm pretty big for a woman, too, Honey," Nick spoke up, and Max was
amazed that the man's voice was a soprano.
"Uh, how did you, uh, did you change willingly or by accident?" Max felt
a flash of guilt that his brainwashing programs were now suddenly affecting
men.
"Willingly, of course. It was kind of sudden though. I mean, I never
wanted to look this way before last week, but one day I went into one of those
Milk Machines, you know, just to see what it was like? And it felt so good, I
figured I'd get some Watch-M-Grow and MilkStarter, and get, like they say,
better than a cow by far!"
"Yes, Nick," giggled Gena, "but they never said bigger than a cow by far!"
and again the whole table was a confusion of high-pitched giggles. "Say,
Maxine, have you got a place to stay yet? My roommate just got married, and
I've got plenty of room. I even have a car so we can car pool. I think I
work near where you do." That set off another round of giggles.
As he spent the evening with them, Max began to notice the subtle
differences that set each woman (and man) apart from the others. Honey was
the oldest, and while his drugs made each person who took them look like she
was in her twenties, Honey was the only one who seemed to be in her late
twenties. Fran had the shortest bangs, and a larger nose than the others.
Max thought of her as the least good-looking, but she had a sweet, infectious
laugh that made everyone else at the table laugh whenever she did, whether or
not it was funny. The lovers Nick and Becka had very similar faces and looked
like sisters, giggling at the same time and completing each other's sentences
the way identical twins did. Gena was the prettiest girl at the table. He
loved her pointy nose, the way her cobalt blue eyes sparkled with life, and
everything from the shape of her forehead to the curve of her jawline. He
could not stop looking at her.
After a second egg nog, Max was giggling at the slightest attempt at humor
with the rest of them, and a few hours later, went home with Gena, and Honey
and Fran who lived together in another apartment near her.
Gena showed Max her apartment, which indeed did have plenty of room,
showed him his bedroom, and asked him if he wanted anything else.
"Well, there is one thing," he said, grinning nervously. "You don't have
to do it, but every time I was holding in that computer and pressing that
button, I only had one thought. Could you do me a really big favor?"
"You want me to fondle your breasts, right? Hey, don't look so shocked.
We all do. That's one of the reasons we Milk Maids room together. I think if
we didn't we'd all go find some stupid guy just so he could rub our boobs
every night. Assume the position and I'll show you what I like done to me.
You tell me if you want anything different."
Max stood up against a wall with his arms stretched high over his head and
closed his eyes, thinking of her use of the term 'stupid guy.' Perhaps it was
just as well that he couldn't tell her his true sex.
Each Milk Machine was built to the exact same blueprints, so as he stood
there, he even saw the pump and the screens in his mind's eye exactly as he
had seen them fifty times today. The thought even came on cue, "I wish
someone would come up behind me and squeeze my breasts while I'm in this
helpless position."
This time, however, there suddenly were hands on his breasts. They
touched lightly at first, sliding over the silky material, feeling the shape
of him, even sliding underneath, pressing the material under his breasts into
the half cups of the built-in corset. Then they pressed more firmly, always
sliding around and around, not touching his nipples, but getting closer and
closer.
Involuntarily, he moaned with pleasure. Gena then repeated the same
strokes using the tips of her long nails. It did not feel like scratching so
much as a more intense finger pressure, and Max moaned again. Then, she
pressed in hard, sending sensations to nerves deep inside his heavy masses of
flesh, squeezing and kneading him like huge lumps of bread dough, and still
she did not touch his nipples.
His cock was hard now, straining against the tight panties he wore, and
his nipples were almost as hard, with much less to hold them back.
"Take down your top," she whispered in his ear, "or you'll leak all over
it."
He had the sinking feeling that he had not used a Milk Machine on the way
home from the bar. With one simple motion, the top part of his uniform was
hanging off the rigid upper part of the corset, and he could see drops of milk
forming on his erect nipples. She whispered again, "Move your feet back away
from the wall."
When he obeyed, he saw her put a clean, white plastic bucket on the floor
below him. Then she took his right breast in both hands and squeezed it from
his chest out towards his nipples, sliding her hands until she was rewarded
with a long stream of milk that she aimed straight down into the bucket. She
repeated the motions with the same results. By the time no more milk flowed
from his right breast, it was noticeably smaller. She repeated the process on
his left breast until it, too, was empty.
Max noticed that the process took considerably longer than the Milk
Machines, but having her hands on his breasts was incredibly satisfying. It
was stimulating, too, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He was not sure how
the Chinese had brainwashed him, and he was relieved knowing that just because
he looked like a woman did not mean that he wanted to be with a man.
Gena poured his milk through a funnel into a couple of two-liter milk
bottles, only half filling the second one. "These are mine," she told him.
"I always feel queasy drinking my own milk, don't you?"
He had never tried, but he imagined he would, so he nodded yes.
Next, it was Gena's turn to lean her hands against the wall, and he tried
to repeat what she had done to him, and with much verbal advice whispered in
her sexy voice, he succeeded. With his love of large breasts, it was exactly
what he had thought it would be. Wonderful!
He had always loved breasts, but in spite of having drunk a lot of milk
from a lot of nipples, he had never tried to milk a woman as one might milk a
cow. It was an entirely new experience for him and he couldn't get enough of
it. He could feel her swollen milk glands inside her soft flesh and they were
each as big as grapefruits inside her when full. Her nipples filled his hands
like cow teats and were as satisfying to milk. He squeezed the milk out,
sliding and pressing his hands from the base of each breast out towards her
nipple, expressing a squirt of milk with each such motion. He missed the
bucket the first couple of times, but soon figured out how to aim the streams
so they landed inside each time. He also got a secret thrill from knowing
that this milk he was forcing out of this kind, beautiful stranger's huge
breasts would be his to drink whenever he wanted. It was a good thing the
uniform was made of such strong elastic down there, or his erection would have
been plainly visible.
When he had finished draining her breasts, he was surprised by her
suddenly turning and kissing him full on the mouth. He wanted her, his balls
ached with desire for her, but when her hand slid down after fondling his
breasts for a time towards his groin, Lin's brainwashing was too strong for
even his desire. He grabbed her wrist and roughly pulled it away, backing
away from her embrace.
His mouth worked, but nothing came out. He wanted to tell her to resist
his denials of her, that he was a man and she a woman and that they could be
very happy together, but he could not say a word. He just stood there, mouth
gaping open and closed like a fish.
"I understand, Maxine. I won't touch you down there, if you don't want me
to. Do you have any objections to touching me down there?"
Unable to speak, he shook his head and they were soon lying on her bed,
with his hand doing to her what his cock ached to do. She was soon satisfied,
and after locking himself in his new bedroom, it did not take very long at all
to bring himself off as well, although it was unsettling for him to look down
and see the big breasts he loved so much growing out of his own chest and
flowing out onto his slender, girlish arms.
During the rest of the week Max's life settled into a routine of working
all day, relaxing with the other Milk Maids in the evening, and breast massage
and making out with Gena before going to sleep at night. They did not milk
each other every night. She only did that when they were low on milk, which
turned out to be almost every other day.
Max's milk production was still going up, and he was so pleased that he
was able to give the Milk Machines an entire gallon or four and a half liters
in each session of the six he had one day that he bought drinks for the entire
bar, which blew half of his second paycheck.
His muscles ached everywhere starting his third day as a Milk Maid, but
after only one more week, he did not even notice all the exercise he was
getting. True, it only exercised some of his muscles, and except for his
waist, almost none of them with full range of motion, but by now, walking with
tiny steps and his arms sticking out sideways, his forearms straight up and
his fingers wiggling like some bimbo, seemed so natural to him that he did not
understand when a new girl asked him about it. The question was as
meaningless to him as asking why he wore a bra to support his breasts or a
corset to cinch in his waist. He had this figure, and that's what people with
this figure did.
His first paycheck went towards rent, the second to that one round of
drinks and some groceries, and the third and fourth mostly towards clothing.
The next two went again for rent and food, but he splurged with the one after
that, taking Gena far away for a weekend excursion. After that, he saved
almost every penny he made, hoping to find some way to get back into his
mansion.
Gena and he talked a lot about being a Milk Maid, although he did not
believe half of what she said.
"You can't just stop being a Milk Maid," she told him one Saturday while
they were eating breakfast and talking about stuff. "It isn't like quitting a
job at Burger King, you know."
"Sure you could. Plenty of women do. Look at your ex-roommate. She got
married and quit, didn't she?"
"No, she got married and taken away from here by her new husband. There's
a difference. You can't quit."
"Why not?" Although he knew about the brainwashing he had built into
almost every aspect of being a Milk Maid intellectually, the brainwashing
itself prevented him from thinking it had been done to him. Also, Lin's
Chinese version had made it impossible to tell anyone else about it. On the
other hand, it did not prevent him from asking other people.
"Your clothes, for one thing. Have you noticed that everything you wear
either looks like or is based on a Milk Maids uniform? Not the colors, of
course, but the built-in corset, the high heels, the short skirt with all the
petticoats, the Spandex top. You can't even go out of the house with a
different hairstyle than the one they gave you."
"Sure I can," he stated firmly, and tried it. He tried going braless for
one day, wearing only a teeshirt and blue jeans. He wore no makeup and tried
to tie his hair into a ponytail. The ponytail was the first victim. He
looked in the mirror at the door and automatically removed the hair tie,
finger-combing his hair into its usual style.
Walking around with his breasts so loose and unsupported, bouncing and
wobbling all over the place felt so weird, so unnatural to him that he went
home after only three hours and came back wearing a black corset, a silver,
Spandex top, and a black, knee-length skirt with lots of petticoats. The feel
of pants against his shaved legs also had been too strange for him to endure
for long. Besides, what woman wore pants these days? That was a guy thing.
After that one experience, he never again tried to wear clothing that was
too far from the Milk Maid uniform. Gena told him that everyone had tried to
break away once -- and only once -- and never tried again. This time, Max did
not try to argue with her. Instead, he rationalized it.
He had come to love petticoats. At first, it was because they were the
best protection he had against people discovering his true sex, and then he
learned that he liked the feel of them, and even the sound they made rubbing
against each other. The more that he wore them, the more he came up with
reasons to wear them, never once thinking that as a man he had never before
thought of them as anything but an obstacle to a woman's panties.
He also told himself that he loved to wear high heels. He had gotten used
to walking in them during the weeks at work, and thanks to the messages
running through his brain which were renewed each time he got a "touch-up
makeover" before his daily runs during the first month, and once a week
thereafter, he was unable to feel comfortable in flat shoes, or indeed
anything with heels smaller than three inches or eight centimeters on the
weekends. Again, he did not question his need to wear them, or even consider
putting on shoes like the Oxfords he had worn every day until that fateful
Wednesday when he had become a Milk Maid.
* * * * * * * * *
"Do you ever think about marriage, Gena?" he asked one evening after their
mutual massages about three months after he had started his new lifestyle.
"All the time, Maxie." She had wanted to abbreviate Maxine to Max, but he
had refused that, thanks to the Chinese brainwashing, so she had come up with
Maxie instead. "Every day I go out in that truck, I see all those men
admiring me and wonder if any of them would care enough about me to take me
away."
"I would," Max said, and then he sat up, amazed that he had said that,
amazed that he COULD say that!
He tried an experiment and said, "I am a man."
"I know," she said simply.
"You do? No, I mean, I can say it! It wore off! I'm free again!"
"Free? Whatever do you mean?" she asked.
"They brainwashed me so I couldn't tell anyone I'm a man, to tell anyone
who I really am, and it wore off. Do you know who I am? I'm Max Maxfield. I
invented all of this." Gena seemed skeptical. "Well, I got caught by my
system the same way Nick did. I used Watch-M-Grow and MilkStarter and
LactoMore and the Milk Machines, and then some Chinese dissidents took over my
mansion and brainwashed me, and made me take a job with Milk Maids."
"Do you know how crazy you sound?"
"Well, it's true."
"Maxie, I've lived with you for three months, made love with you almost
every night, (although we've never actually had intercourse,) I love you and
would trust you with my life, and I don't believe you. What makes you think
anyone else would?"
"I don't know, Gena, but I have to try."
"If you say so."
"Let's take tomorrow off and go up to my mansion. I just know I could get
in."
"Not tomorrow. We have to work tomorrow."
"Are you kidding? I have a billion dollar fortune waiting for me, and
you're concerned about losing a day's pay?"
"Who said anything about money? I said we have to work tomorrow. We'll
go on Saturday."
"Saturday? But it's only Tuesday. Saturday's half a week away."
"Have you ever tried to take a day off before?"
"Uh, no," he said with a sinking feeling. Had his training program
included a directive about that, too?
"Right. We'll go Saturday. Right now, I want you inside me, you buxom
man, you! I've been dreaming about that giant cock of yours every night, and
if you're going to marry me, we're going to have a dress rehearsal of our
wedding night right now!"
She was right. As soon as he awakened the next day, and the next and the
next, he went through the motions of putting on his face, doing his hair, and
getting into his uniform. Then, like an automaton, he and Gena picked up
Honey and Fran and they all went to work together. He thought of going after
work, but somehow they all ended up in the milk bar where they wasted the
evening drinking mildly alcoholic beverages and giggling until it was time to
go home.
"How do women ever get out of this?" Max asked on Thursday evening.
"They find some guy who's willing to take them away," and she smirked,
"someone who's not a Milk Maid. I don't see how Nick and Becka will ever get
out, but most women get picked up by some man after only a few months. Me, I
had to fall in love with you."
"When did you figure out that I was a man?"
"Are you kidding? The first night! When you were laying next to me
massaging my clit, that thirteen-inch snake of yours was pressing against my
leg, throbbing, and then you went into your room and your whole bed started
shaking when you jerked yourself off. It didn't take a Sherlock Holmes to
figure it out. I lay in bed that night creating fantasies of things I could
do with those thirty-three centimeters, and I tried to imagine your little
hands working on that thing. I like your hands," she said in an aside, taking
one of them and stroking his fingers and palm using both of her hands.
"I rationalized it," she continued, "figured that you had some reason, you
were married, or had another girl somewhere and were trying to figure out how
to tell her you were as chesty as she was, or something, and that you'd leave
someday. After the first month, I thought maybe I was wrong, and after the
second month, I figured out that you had some other reason, but that whatever
keeps the rest of us here had trapped you as well. I don't know. I had a
dozen theories, but your story tops them all. You know, if you go out to that
mansion and can't convince the people there that you're really Max Maxfield,
I'll still be in love with you? In fact, I kinda hope that you fail, so I can
keep you all to myself. I heard that Maxfield has a harem up there, and I
don't like competition."
"Oh, it wasn't a harem so much as a secretarial pool with fringe
benefits," Max reminisced, "but you marry me, you'll get first dibs, I
promise."
"Is that a proposal? If so, you'd better have a ring and get down on your
knees."
His eyes shifted left and right as he did some quick thinking. "I'll be
right back," he said and went into the bathroom, coming out in a very few
minutes. Getting down on one knee, he held out a ring-shaped object and said,
"Gena, will you marry me?"
"Yes, you fool. What is that? Hey, it fits! What is this?"
"It's part of the aerator nozzle from the faucet. I'll get you a real
ring Saturday after I get my house back."
Saturday morning, figuring that no one with breasts bigger than D-cup
could even try to dress as a man, Max dressed in his sexiest outfit. With his
breasts well-supported in a corset with three-quarter cups and back support,
they seemed even bigger than he remembered Lin's being. To heighten the
effect, the corset separated his breasts, holding them out in mid-air, leaving
a gap wide enough to stick a fist between them. He had found pantihose with a
stretch top helped to keep his masculine member under control (it was too big
to comfortably put between his legs, so he simply stretched it sideways around
the curve of his leg and relied on masses of petticoats to hide the bulge.)
Today, he put on sheer hose with sparkling Lurex threads woven through it to
accent the shape of legs that had worked and stretched as many as eighty times
a day on his Milk Maid route.
He put on a green satin gown that he had originally sewn using patterns
from the latest Spiegel's catalog intending to take Gena to a ballet or
something in it. The neckline showed off everything above his nipples, and
stretched straight across the gap between his breasts making his cleavage seem
big enough to dive into. Thanks to the months of the side effects of Watch-M-
Grow and daily corset training in the Milk Maid uniform, his waist had shrunk
to less than twenty inches or fifty centimeters, and the bodice of the dress
hugged that small dimension like Saran Wrap. He had, as usual, several
flouncy petticoats to fill out the skirt and hide his manhood, so the effect
was of a prom dress for a silicone addict.
His matching green shoes had golden spike heels about five inches or
thirteen centimeters high, and left the sides of his feet bare while encasing
his toes in points so sharp you could cut glass with them. Again to accent
his small waist, he wore a golden belt (it was plastic, since he couldn't
afford real gold, but the effect was good.) He also wore a faux gold necklace
and earrings, bangle bracelets and an ankle chain that Gena had given him.
Gena wore a matching outfit, from corset out to jewelry, but in royal blue
material for the dress and shoes.
In her car, they kept the top up and the air conditioner on. It was
blistering hot outside, and they did not want to open the window even a crack,
lest the breeze ruin their carefully coifed hair styles.
To Max's surprise, one of his original "slave women" was at the gate doing
guard duty. He had thought the Chinese had gotten rid of all of them.
"Hello, do you know who I am, Bella?" he asked, remembering their previous
conversation.
"No, miss. Should I?" She seemed amused, which wasn't surprising. Max's
chalet was visited by several thousand people a year, and many tried to get
into the grounds each day.
"I'm Max Maxfield. Now, do you remember me?"
She stared at him, looked into the huge, dark space between his breasts,
his blond, Milk Maid hairstyle, his tiny hands on the steering wheel, and then
said, "Oh! That's right! They said you'd be back around now. I'll have to
tell the others. It's good to have you back, sir!"
"Do you find me attractive this way?" he asked her, once again remembering
their previous conversation.
"Oh yes, sir! You look beautiful in that outfit." She then grinned
broadly, obviously remembering her own response in that conversation.
Repeating her response to his previous asking, she asked, "The question in my
mind is if you still want me?"
"That depends a lot upon my fiance. Bella, meet Gena, soon to be Mrs.
Maxfield."
"So that's where you've been. Congratulations, sir. I'll tell the
others. We've been waiting for you for quite a while."
"You have? What happened to the Chinese people?"
"Oh, they left soon after you disappeared. I believe they left some
packages for you in your bedroom. They said you would need them when you got
back. Don't worry. We've been running things just as you would have while
you were away."
"Bella, I may have to give you a promotion."
"What could be better than working for you, sir? I already have
everything else I want, thanks to you."
"Hmm. Well, think about it, okay?"
"Yes, sir. I think they are waiting for you by now, Max."
Max and Gena were welcomed back into his mansion with open arms by his
entire staff. The presents from the Chinese turned out to be beautiful silk
dresses, blouses, and other things to wear. Max spent the entire weekend
rewriting his brainwashing programs for both sexes and especially for the Milk
Maids. With the advent of home Milk Machines and milk pipelines laid
throughout most cities, the need for Milk Maids would seem to have gone down,
yet just as many women wanted to "join up," and thanks to Max's new programs
for men, there were a whole bunch of men who wanted to become Milk Maids as
well.
The process became much more voluntary, now that society was set up for it
all. Many men chose to have the huge, lactating breasts that fed the Milk
Machines, but many other men chose not to, just as there were many women who
chose not to give milk after a while. Max never lost his love or obsession
with large breasts, so he never removed that part of the commands from any of
his programs. He did not do what the Chinese had done and make everyone use
his machines and drugs overnight, but there were other factors that came into
play that made it a moot point.
For one thing, with every woman on the planet having a figure that far
exceeded the wet dreams of every man, men everywhere developed a huge
inferiority complex. They stopped being productive members of the work force.
Women, however, had found new strength in their new figures and easily took
over where the men had left off. They were not particularly smarter, but any
new blood in any industry will generate new ideas, improvements to existing
systems, and better ways of doing things, and these women were suddenly coming
into every industry.
The only men who were not affected by the general male malaise were the
ones who accidentally got caught in the women's brainwashing loop that
entrapped Max. They got women's figures, developed women's optimistic
attitudes and got that new "feminine" confidence that all the women had.
Before long, other men began taking the milk drugs just to get that feeling of
"can do" that women had.
Max knew more about biochemistry and brainwashing than anyone else on the
planet. That meant that he had done things that no one else knew how to undo.
He had not only modified the way people thought about large breasts, he had
used DNA-modifying compounds in all of his drugs. So, while the current
generation had a choice as to whether or not to have large breasts, the
children of anyone who had ever taken Max's drugs almost instantly developed
those huge, working mammaries regardless of their sex as soon as they hit
puberty, and they all began to give milk soon afterwards whether or not they
had any children.
Max had successfully separated the genes for huge, lactating breasts from
the genes that encoded for gender, and the human race would never be the same
again.
The End
====================================================================
You know, having written this, I have a much greater respect for the time and
effort of all the authors of the other stories I've been reading from the
Internet and Usenet. I thought I could jot this down in a weekend and it took
all my free time for more than six weeks. I also notice that I didn't use the
obvious reference to all those milk-producing women as "Milk Machines," which
was one of the reasons I chose that title in the first place! Oh, well.
If you have comments, don't expect me to read them in alt.sex.stories.d, since I
don't get that.