Cowgirl

'm a cowgirl, in an almost literal sense of the word. Now I've never ridden a horse or hogtied a pig, but I think I've more than earned that title. It started a few years ago. I was dating this guy named Seth. He wasn't all that bright, but he was nice enough and very good looking, so I figured we could have some fun for a while. It didn't take him long to get into my pants, though truth be told he was a lot more interested in what was under my shirt. Seth was a boob guy, through and through.

This made for some damn good foreplay. He could easily spend an hour on my breasts, stroking them, massaging them, kissing them. I loved every minute of it. My nipples are more sensitive than most, and the extra attention was just what I needed to get off four or five times in a row. Sometimes he wouldn't even fuck me. He'd just lie in bed with me with his head at my breasts, lazily sucking at my nipples as I stroked his hair.

As it turned out, this had some unexpected consequences. All the extra attention my breasts were getting inspired them to do what they were designed to do, in spite of the fact that I've never been pregnant. After a few weeks, my breasts started to spill out of my increasingly confining collection of bras. One night I woke up to find my sheets were soaked with an unusual smelling liquid. My suspicions were confirmed the next morning as I tried to squeeze my swollen tits inside one of my undersized bras and a jet of milky white liquid shot out of my nipple.

I'd broken things off with Seth just a few days before, so I assumed that my little lactation would go away with him. Instead, it got worse. With no one suckling me a few times a day, my breasts became more and more engorged as the pressure built inside them. Every now and then the pressure would become downright painful, and I was forced to duck into a bathroom and squeeze the excess milk out of my tits. On top of that, I was leaking constantly. I never made it to the end of the day without having to change shirts.

I had a hard time keeping up with the growth of my breasts. I replaced my C cups with D cups, and a few weeks later I was having a hard time fitting in those. I broke down and bought a couple of maternity bras, accepting that my situation was going to be long term if not permanent. I picked up a breast pump as well, hoping it would be a more efficient way of milking myself.

I felt like it would be a waste to just pour the stuff down the drain. I tasted it. It was pretty good, considering it came out of me. Thinner than cow's milk, but sweet. I bottled the milk I pumped out and stored in my fridge. Sometimes I would cook with it; sometimes I would just drink it. There was an awful lot of it.

Over the next few months my milk production continued to increase. I had to pump every few hours, and even then I wasn't keeping up. I got fired from my job. Something about me being a walking health code violation. My rent was late, I was unemployed, and I was spending literally hours each day with a pair of suction cups attached to my tits.

Things were getting out of hand. I was broke, I couldn't get a job, and I was about to get evicted. I didn't know what to do. I sat in the park after yet another unsuccessful job interview, reduced to tears. I didn't have long to cry though. The familiar pressure in my breasts was starting to build, and I needed to relieve the pressure soon. I composed myself and started to head back to my apartment. Before I made it out of the park, a bright flyer caught my eye. It must have been fate.

Lactation specialists wanted. Nursing, production, and other positions open. Call (534) 555-1287 for more information.

Now, I had a pretty good idea what they meant by nursing, but I had no idea what they meant by production. Still, I was desperate. I wrote down the number and headed for a pay phone right away.

The next day I sat in a clean, sparse waiting room, looking through some literature. Apparently this company was sponsored by one of those crazy vegan animal rights groups. In addition to wet nursing, they specialized in mass producing human breast milk for use in their products. It seems hooking up a suction cup to a cow was cruel and demeaning, but doing it to a human was just fine. Whatever.

Still, the pay wasn't too bad, and the hours incredibly flexible. I decided to give it a shot. I followed an older hippie chick into the back. What I saw left me speechless. There were two rows of chairs filled with topless girls with suction cups attached to their tits. I was beginning to have second thoughts as I took my seat. As the hippie chick sterilized the suction cups, I took a look across the room. Directly opposite of me was a woman that was about seven months pregnant. She smiled as she caught me staring.

"First time?" she asked.

"Yes," I gulped nervously.

"Don't worry," she said kindly. "You'll love it."

"If you say so," I replied.

I was so overwhelmed by my circumstances that I failed to realize that my escort was attaching the suction cups to my breasts. I felt the suction immediately. Instead of a constant tug, it pulsed in intensity, causing my nipples to stretch and recede inside the cups. I didn't realize how stimulating the experience would be. As I watched my milk spray inside the cup and run down the hose, I found myself becoming wet in spite of myself.

Every now and then the hippie chick would come and offer me crackers and water. I took full advantage, watching in awe as the bottle my pump was attached to steadily filled with milk. Before I could stop myself, I was crying out as my first orgasm hit me. As my spasms began to subside, embarrassment started to creep over me. Who the hell gets off from being milked?

"Told you so," the pregnant girl smirked.

In spite of my embarrassment, I could feel my excitement start to build again. Abandoning all pretext, I started to massage my bare breasts, barely resisting the urge to start fingering myself right then and there. Unfortunately, before I could get my rocks off again, the old hippie lady came back and turned off my machine.

"Impressive. I've never seen a girl produce this much on her first day. You could make a career out of this," she remarked with surprise.

No kidding. Turns out there was fifty bucks worth of milk in that bottle. I guess vegans were willing to pay top dollar to protect the poor little cows. I kind of felt like a cow myself, but fifty bucks in less than three hours went a long way to put me at ease. I pocketed the money and headed home.

When I woke up the next morning, my breasts felt painfully engorged. I took a quick look at my old breast pump and decided it just wasn't enough. I wasn't planning on going back to the diary farm the next day, but necessity dictated otherwise. Besides, I could use the money.

After I signed in at the desk, I immediately strode back to my chair. I silently urged the one of the workers to hurry up. I needed to be milked badly. After what seemed like an eternity, a skinny young guy that smelled distinctly herbal flipped on the machine and placed the cups on my eager tits.

"You know man, you can set the thing up yourself if you want," he said.

"Good to know," I sighed.

I didn't really care about anything at this point. It felt so good to have the pressure relieved. I surrendered myself to the sensation of the rhythmic sucking of the milking machine. I felt my panties grow damp as the painful pressure gave way to arousal. I made a mental note to find a way to push the threshold of this experience. I honestly felt sad when I was finally drained dry. Still, I'd made fifty bucks before noon. Not bad at all.

Turns out, my day wasn't over yet. A few hours later I was leaking into a new camisole. That just wouldn't do. I headed straight for the farm. Three hours later I was sore, but satisfied, and another fifty dollars richer.

I started going every day, twice a day. My breasts were emboldened by the challenge to produce more milk and started growing again in order to keep up. I had to order custom made maternity bras online. I was concerned that my boobs would get so big that there wouldn't be a bra on earth that would fit them. I felt like I was already half boob as is.

Though the held up nicely, they were so massive that they covered the bulk of my ribcage coming steadily closer to my belly button. I quickly learned that the process was smoother the more turned on I was, not to mention more pleasurable. A week after my first visit, I smuggled in a little something to help enhance the experience. I didn't bother wearing panties anymore, since they were always soaked anyway, so it was easy enough to slip a hand under my skirt and turn on the vibrator I'd stashed away in my pussy.

Over the next few weeks I brought in a variety of toys, becoming bolder with each visit. It paid off too. I ended up producing more milk in less time, which meant more money. Jackpot.

Within a month I was going to the human dairy farm three times each day. I was spending hours each day getting milked. It seemed like everything I ate and drank instantly turned into breast milk. I ate a lot too. I was easily eating enough for three people, yet the only place I put on weight was in my breasts. I was a freak of nature.

The real kicker was that I still had plenty of milk by the time I went home. I used it for just about everything. Cereal, pancakes, waffles, cakes, you name it, I put breast milk in it.

One day as I sat in my beloved chair, smiling dreamily as my mechanical milker sucked away at my massive tits, I accepted the fact that this situation was permanent. I guess it was kind of a strange career choice, but I was happy. I was making good money, I loved my job, and I felt strangely fulfilled. I was a real-life cowgirl, and I couldn't have been happier.

Don't get me wrong, I still get out from time to time. Though all my girlfriends look at my obscenely large tits with a mixture of envy and disgust, they still seem to like having me around. Of course, the guys are all over me. Big tits is a pretty popular type for guys, which is fine by me. Plus, they all love my cooking. I wonder why.

A few months ago, my formerly flat belly become started to become significantly rounder. Once it started to stick out even further than my breasts, I finally realized what happened. Forgetting to take your birth control tends to have side effects.

Oh well. Looks like my breasts are finally going to do what they were meant to do. I'm not worried. After all, there's plenty of milk to go around.