LACTOGENESIS VI: 

THE ADJUSTMENT 
 
 Christine came through the doorway of her apartment, loaded down with 
grocery bags. She went straight to the refrigerator, opened the freezer 
compartment, and began loading pints of Ben & Jerry's into it. Four 
different flavors this time. Blast those guys for inventing this stuff, 
she thought. It's more addictive than cocaine. She smiled as she 
remembered all the hours she had had to spend on the Stairmaster as a 
result of her addiction. She still used the machine fairly often; she 
still enjoyed the endorphin rush from it, but at least now she didn't 
*have* to use it. One of the fringe benefits of her new ability to 
lactate was that she could easily turn all those sinful calories back 
into milk instead of wearing them as fat. In fact, Dr. Sheila had 
recommended that she increase her calorie intake substantially to 
compensate for the increased activity of her mammary glands. 
 In the weeks since the day when Chris accidentally soaked down the desk 
in Sheila's office with her first blasts of milk, that activity had 
increased considerably. She had found out early that the more often her 
breasts were drained, the more milk she produced. She had had to 
graduate from the small battery-powered breast pump she had bought at 
the drug store that first day to a plug-in model that could do both 
breasts at once that she rented from a medical supply house. The local 
milk bank had a standing order with her; she had become their most 
prolific donor. On a good day she could deliver close to two liters of 
fresh milk to them on her way to work each morning. 
 She didn't mind the work involved in expressing all this milk; in fact, 
the breast pump had replaced the vibrator as her main source of 
masturbatory assistance. She couldn't get enough of the rhythmic pulsing 
of the suck-release-suck-release cycle of the big pump, and the 
wonderful, warm, tingling sensation of the milk letting down would 
always set up a similar feeling in her crotch. She was grateful that her 
nipples had not become tender and sore as a result of all the 
stimulation. On the contrary, they had become her primary erogenous 
zones, sending electric shock-like sensations through her even in such 
non-erotic situations as being in the frozen food section of the grocery 
store and having the cold air from the freezers bring on the inevitable 
response from "nature's thermometers". She was coming so much these days 
from the thrice-daily act of relieving the pressure behind her nipples 
that she had taken to wearing maxi-pads most of the time to soak up the 
gush of fluid that accompanied each orgasm. She had little other use for 
them, as she had stopped menstruating -- Sheila had told her that was 
not unusual in an actively lactating woman. Between her breasts and her 
vagina, Christine amusedly likened herself to the goddess statues on the 
big fountain in the park, who constantly spewed water from practically 
every orifice. 
 Now that having milk had become such a big part of her life, Chris 
decided to become an expert on the subject. In these last weeks, she had 
spent a lot of time in the local college's medical library, reading 
every treatise on lactation she could lay her hands on. She found out 
about the close relationship between milk production and emotional 
state: women who had a positive attitude about lactation produced more 
milk. No problem there, Chris thought. It's getting so I can't remember 
what my body was like before the accident. Conversely, she read that the 
flow of milk can be stopped completely by relatively simple 
distractions. Mind over matter, she thought, and was intrigued. Armed 
with this new information and some stress control exercises she 
remembered from the treatment she'd received for a bout of depression 
some years before, Chris embarked on a program whereby she was 
eventually able to completely control her milk production by force of 
will. By clearing her mind and concentrating on her wondrous mammaries, 
Chris was able to summon up that familiar pleasant burning sensation 
that always signaled letdown at a moment's notice. Without even touching 
herself, she could, if she so desired, shoot her milk several feet. On 
the same hand, if she knew she was going to be in a situation in which 
she could not easily drain herself, she could consciously halt her milk 
production at a state of pleasant fullness until such time as she could 
be alone. Sheila had called it the most remarkable case of conscious 
control she had ever seen. Contrary to what Chris had read, occasionally 
halting the flow of milk from her breasts did not cause a diminution of 
the supply. She had even taken to occasionally sampling some of her own 
milk and had found it sweet and really quite tasty, without worrying 
about depriving the orphans for whom her donations to the milk bank were 
intended. 
 Chris had, in short, become master over this wonderful new ability of 
hers. Gone were the painful episodes of engorgement when she felt her 
breasts might explode from the pressure. Gone were the hideously ugly 
maternity bras stuffed with always-wet nursing pads. She was able to 
wear sexy lingerie again (and now that her bust had leveled off at 40DD, 
she looked absolutely devastating in it) and with the extra firmness 
imparted to her breasts, she often went without any underwear with no 
fear of a sudden letdown causing embarrassing circles of moisture to 
form on her blouses. Despite their enormous size, Chris's breasts stuck 
almost straight out from her chest, resisting gravity in a most 
aesthetic way. Sheila had said that somehow the supporting ligaments and 
musculature had proliferated right along with the extra glandular tissue 
-- another side effect of the hormonal treasure trove caused by the head 
injury. The hormones had also imparted a new lustre and smoothness to 
her skin, and with the veins barely visible under the taut skin of her 
bosom, Chris now looked almost as if she had been carved from fine 
Italian marble. 
 Chris was a very lucky woman. Instead of her run-in with a reckless 
driver rendering her a twisted lump of broken flesh, it had sculpted her 
into a heartbreakingly beautiful definition of pulchritude. So why 
hadn't she had so much as a date, let alone a sexual liaison, since the 
accident? 
 Surely the guys at work had noticed the change in her figure. She'd 
gained six inches along her bustline; such a thing does not go 
unnoticed! She'd felt the eyes on her in stores, on the street...was it 
that her incredible new figure was actually intimidating men? Did they 
think she had been artificially enhanced? What was the deal here? 
 Chris was thinking just such thoughts as she sat alone at her kitchen 
table, with an open pint of Cherry Garcia in front of her, when she 
heard her doorbell ring.