CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN:  

THE ROAD TO NEGRIL

	Christine, carry-on in hand, came down the 
gangplank of the Carib Mermaid, blinking against the 
brutal Jamaican sun despite a pair of dark sunglasses.  
She was grateful for the cruise director's advice 
concerning the application of sunscreen; she was sure 
that without it she would fry in minutes.  Even with the 
blast-furnace heat, the bright day and sweet air were 
refreshing and stimulating.  As her feet touched the 
ground, she realized that she was standing on soil that 
was not part of the United States for the first time in 
her life.  She felt a thrill.  Chris could hardly wait 
to start the next phase of her vacation.  
	Clearing customs did not take as long as she had 
anticipated, but she did wish the customs area had made 
better use of fans.  If this heat keeps up, I'll have to 
consume my weight in pi¤a coladas to keep cool, she 
thought.  She was just beginning to wonder what had 
happened to the rest of her luggage when she happened to 
spot it at the curb, being loaded into a large van with 
the name of her resort emblazoned across the side.  She 
also saw three people, two men and a woman, waiting to 
climb aboard.  Chris recognized them as being fellow 
travellers aboard the Mermaid, although she had not 
formally met any of them.
	The fellow driving the van was a local, a man 
well-versed in the art of welcoming tourists.  He 
immediately put his passengers at ease, joking with them 
and giving them the nickel tour as he spirited them off 
to the west, away from Montego Bay, counterclockwise 
around the coastline toward Negril.  Chris couldn't get 
over how lush everything was.  She had no idea that 
there could be this many shades of green.  As they sped 
along the main highway, frequently passing run-down 
buses crammed with people and sloshing cans of spare 
petrol, Chris wished the driver would slow down so that 
she could better take in the scenery.
	The driver was busy admiring the view as well, but 
his was from the rear view mirror tilted down in Chris's 
direction.  At that moment the van struck a large 
pothole, almost throwing all four passengers out of 
their seats.  Chris's large unsupported breasts bounced 
sharply and heavily inside her tank top, reminding her 
of how full they were after having converted many of the 
calories she'd consumed in her last, undeniably decadent 
breakfast aboard ship into mother's milk.  The ache from 
the jolt partially disguised the beginning tingles of a 
let-down enough so that Chris could not prevent the 
leakage of a few drops of milk from her suddenly erect 
nipples before recognizing what was happening and 
mentally shutting down the process.  She stole a glance 
down at herself; sure enough, wet spots had appeared on 
the rose-colored fabric.  Chris hoped that they weren't 
noticeable.
	But they were.  As Chris returned to the window, 
she suddenly felt eyes on her.  She looked back to find 
the two passengers sitting across from her doing that 
trying-not-to-stare-but-can't-help-themselves look.  The 
woman appeared especially shocked, and was not hiding it 
very well.  She was a rather plain-looking brunette with 
an unremarkable figure and a poor fashion sense.  Chris 
had a feeling that this woman was probably not going to 
find what she was looking for on this trip.  The man in 
a straw hat sitting next to her was her male equivalent 
to such an extent that Chris figured they were brother 
and sister.  Teaming up on the great adventure, eh? 
Chris thought.  He was openly staring at her.  Chris 
covered her protruding nipples with her forearm in a 
practiced gesture, but this only succeeded in pushing 
the luscious roundness of her breasts up above the 
neckline of her top, widening the nerdy little guy's 
eyes even further.
	Chris was embarrassed, and she hated being 
embarrassed.  She was proud of her body; it was her most 
prized possession, and she resented anyone who made her 
feel otherwise.  "Something I can help you with?" Chris 
said with sufficient acid in her voice to startle 
"Frick" and "Frack" (as Chris had mentally named the 
brother and sister) into averting their stares to the 
passing scenery.
	"Forgive us," came a voice from the fourth 
passenger, a fortyish man with leathery skin and graying 
temples -- not extremely handsome, but certainly 
passable.  French Canadian, by his accent.  "I am sure 
none of us are accustomed to such sights."
	Chris managed a thin smile.  "I assume you mean 
the scenery."
	"Scenery, yes.  Of course."  He smiled back, then 
glanced at Chris's arm nestled deep within the twin 
wonders of her breasts.  "Are you in any discomfort?  
Shall I ask the driver to stop?"
	"No, I'm fine, thank you.  I apologize if I 
shocked you.  It's been a while since I last..." -- she 
paused to find an appropriate way to phrase it -- 
"...took care of this."
	"Shocked?  By no means.  I find it 
quite...intriguing, no?  But I embarrass you.  Let us 
speak no more about it, eh?"
	I'm filing this guy for future reference, thought 
Chris.  Polite, galant, and not altogether bad looking.  
And he's "intrigued" by breast milk...
	Suddenly Chris was seized by an urge to use this 
opportunity to make "Frick" and "Frack" very 
uncomfortable.  She allowed her arm to drop into her lap 
and even allowed a bit more milk to leak from her 
breasts and slightly widen the spots on her tank top.
	"No, I don't mind talking about it," Chris said.  
"In fact, I rather enjoy it.  But, if you'd rather 
not..."  She was talking to the Canadian, but her eyes 
were fixed on the brother and sister, who were staring 
out the window at nothing at all, trying to become 
invisible.
	"Not at all.  I just did not wish to seem rude.  I 
am a bit confused, though.  I don't see a baby with 
you."
	"My daughter is with her father in Europe," Chris 
lied.  Hell, she thought.  I can be anybody I want to 
here.  "I breastfed her until she was four.  I enjoyed 
lactating so much that I decided to keep my milk after I 
weaned her.  I've been publicly campaigning for the 
cause of breastfeeding ever since.  Breast is best, you 
know.  Anyway, that was two years ago."  She glanced at 
the two across from her.  "Frack", the sister, was now 
doing nothing with her facial expressions to hide her 
distaste.
	"Forgive me again, but you do not appear to be old 
enough to have a six-year-old daughter."
	"You're sweet, Monsieur.."
	"Please, call me Jean-Claude."  The Canadian 
extended a slender hand.
	Chris swiveled in her seat to face the Canadian, 
took his hand, pressed her shoulders back slightly, and 
let her nipples come to full erection, pulling the 
fabric of her top with them.  She wanted to tease these 
people until they begged for mercy.  God, this was fun!
	"So you enjoy having milk, eh?" Jean-Claude 
continued.
	"My, you are intrigued, aren't you.  Yes, I enjoy 
it very much.  There's no feeling quite like it.  I like 
what it's done for my figure, and I love how it makes me 
more aware of my own body.  It's very sensual, very 
earthy.  It makes me sort of special, as my lovers would 
be the first to say."  She smiled inwardly as a snort of 
disgust came from the direction of "Frack".
	Jean-Claude cricked an eyebrow.  The beginnings of 
an erection were becoming visible in his khakis.  "I 
remember when my ex-wife nursed our son.  She dried up 
as soon as she stopped.  How is it you are able to keep 
-- what was the word you used?  lactating? -- for so 
long afterward?"
	"Oh, you have to keep things stimulated," said 
Chris.  Unless you get your pituitary scrambled by a 
speeding car, she added silently.  "My lovers do a lot 
in that department.  Also, I belong to a sort of club 
with other women like myself.  We keep each other's milk 
flowing as well."  Strange that this last part, the most 
outrageous of this story, is the truest part, she 
thought.  For a second she wondered what the other 
members of the Lac-Station were doing, then immediately 
put the thought out of her mind.  No thinking about 
work! she scolded herself.  She looked again at "Frick" 
and "Frack" and almost started laughing.  Frick's fixed 
stare out the window was beginning to glaze over.  He 
had removed his straw hat and placed it in his lap, 
where he had one hand in a shorts pocket playing a 
rousing game of pocket pool.  "Frack" was practically 
squirming in her seat.
	Jean-Claude's eyebrow seemed permanently stuck in 
the "up" position.  "Even more intriguing.  Isn't it a 
lot of bother, though?  My ex-wife always complained 
about being uncomfortable, having to wear pads, leaking 
at bad times..."  He was placing an inordinate amount of 
emphasis on the syllable "ex".  Was he getting 
interested?
	"Yes, there are those things," said Chris.  "Like 
what just happened, for instance.  But the pleasure far 
outweighs the disadvantages." She leaned forward, which 
deepened her cleavage and accentuated the wetness of her 
top.  Was Jean-Claude beginning to perspire, even in 
this air-conditioned van?  "The men I've been with say 
there's nothing to compare with making love to a 
lactating woman.  It makes for some, shall we say, 
interesting variations."
	"I can only imagine," replied Jean-Claude, as he 
wiped absently at his upper lip.  "I have never had the 
privilege, myself.  My ex-wife never let me come near 
her when she was nursing."
	Chris sat back in her seat and made a show of 
plucking the damp cloth of her tank top away from her 
skin to help dry it.  Poor Jean-Claude, she thought.  
I'm doing this to get at "Frick" and "Frack" over there, 
and you're getting caught in the crossfire.  I may need 
to reward you for playing your part so well.  She smiled 
seductively.  "A pity.  Well, you might still have a 
chance, some day.  You can never tell what fate may have 
in store."  She allowed more milk to leak out, and the 
circles grew.  "Oh, dear," she said with mock surprise.  
"We should stop talking about this.  It's making things 
worse.  Sometimes just thinking about my breasts is 
enough to bring on quite a downpour..."
	"All right, that's enough!" blurted "Frack".  
"Don't you have any shame whatsoever?  My word, the 
nerve you have!  That's...that's disgusting!  And you're 
upsetting my brother!"  She looked nervously at "Frick".  
She obviously could not tell that he was in the middle 
of an orgasm he was not doing well concealing.  He 
grimaced rhythmically, his straw hat bouncing happily in 
his lap.
	"Forgive me a third time, but it appears he is not 
at all very upset, unless it is about the condition of 
his underwear," Jean-Claude said with a comical grin 
that was intended to match the silly one that was slowly 
spreading across "Frick"'s face.  Chris laughed 
heartily, letting her milky jugs jiggle invitingly.  She 
stifled it down to a chuckle after an angry growl and a 
withering glare from "Frack".
	There was no more verbal conversation in the van 
for the rest of the trip to the resort, but enough body 
language was used by Chris and Jean-Claude during that 
time to fill volumes.