Diversion

                                  DIVERSION—PART 5

 

 

 

 

Ben pulled the Mutabrok Berserker into the garage and shut off the engine, then climbed out and stretched.  The big SUV still smelled new, even with the door closed.  With its factory 35-inch tires, 12 inches of ground clearance, and ability to ford 42-inch deep streams, the massive vehicle was so much more than what he needed, but he’d wanted it, and for once in his life he could afford to buy what he wanted.  He walked out into the driveway, looking out at the new subdivision.  Some of the distant houses didn’t even have lawns yet, but the ones on his street had been occupied for almost two years.  Ben heard a hum, and looked over to see the back end of a van emerging form the garage next door.

When the front end of the van cleared the corner of the house, Julia rolled down her window.  “Hi, Ben,” she called out warmly, giving him a big smile.  She hit the remote to close the garage door.  He gave a little wave.

“Going to pick the kids up from school?” he asked her.

“They’re staying with Bill’s parents tonight,” she told him with a twinkle in her eye.  “So don’t be concerned if you hear any loud noises coming from the house tonight.”  She laughed and began backing down the driveway again, and he gave another wave.  He knew a few of his neighbors as well as he did Julia and Bill, but there were just as many who gave him hard stares as they drove by.  Such was life.

With that thought, a big smile creased his face, and he glanced back over his shoulder at the garage.  He noticed his wife’s car was gone, and checked his watch.  Four o’clock—he was home early, but she was on a schedule too, and should have been home. 

He’d only been out in the front yard a few minutes, studying the grass to see if he needed to fertilize it yet, when he saw his wife pulling up in her Camry.  She zipped into the garage, flashing him a smile, and practically bounced out of the car.

“You’re home early,” Angie said happily.

“I had to visit Lopton today, check out their new wing, and there wouldn’t have been enough time to head back to the office.”  He eyed his wife appreciatively. 

Angie’s blonde hair hung straight and not quite to her shoulders.  She wore a simple flowered print summer dress, with a pleated, calf-length skirt gathered at the waist with a belt.  Even the loose, patterned fabric couldn’t camouflage her figure, not that she was trying to hide it.  She never tried to hide it.

“Aren’t you running late?” Ben asked her, as Angie undid the belt at her waist.  She was standing between the two vehicles inside the garage.  The dress ballooned out, completely disguising her shape.

“Yes,” she emphatically agreed.  “It took longer at the mall picking out shoes than I thought, and then there was a huge accident on the freeway.”  She grabbed the loose fabric of her dress with both hands and lifted it over her hands even as she turned toward the house.  Other than her high heels she was nude underneath.  “Plus, I drank a huge Diet Coke,” she said, starting to walk away.  “I’m about to pop.’  Ben, watching his wife’s shapely backside disappear into the house, quickly hurried after her.

Ben knew very well that it was a combination of both luck and skill that had gotten him to where he was now.  Pickering’s half-baked scheme to buy milk from diversion program graduates and sell or give it to Third World countries had fallen apart just as fast as Ben thought it would.  Trust ex-cons to keep to a diet and a strict timetable of milking for mere pennies a day?  Not likely.  And when the dairy-belt senators found out the government was forcing their industry to house criminals, disrupting their day-to-day operations, they put a stop to that right quick.  Pickering was just one of many bureaucrats associated with the program who’d retired in disgrace, but Ben’s knowledge of the program, and the dairy industry, had helped him get his foot in the door with the FDA, which had been looking for a non-regulated source of milk when the diversion project came along.  Its sound failure put a hold on their efforts for a few years, until Ben’s well-researched proposal, drafted in response to the feelers the FDA had put out years earlier in search of ways to procure cheap milk, surfaced at just the right moment.

Inmates were rarely paid more than pennies a day for their labor, money they were only allowed to spend inside the prisons and jails anyway, on toiletries, magazines, or other small luxury items.  And inmates had nothing but time on their hands, every minute of their every day was already regulated for them, so in effect they were already on a diet and a schedule.  As a way of making money without having to actually work, it seemed every woman in prison under the age of sixty wanted to enter the new FDA/FDOC LactAid Program.  The FDOC administered it, and the FDA supervised it.  Even after weeding out those applicants who were either physically or emotionally unfit to participate, there were always more applicants than openings, even though the program seemed to be continually expanding.  He knew expanding the number of participants meant more money in everybody’s pockets, and that was the driving force behind everything, he’d known that forever.  LactoMax manufacturers were making a tidy profit off the program, as were the autopump manufacturers who had leased the pumps to the prisons.  FDOC paid the prisoners for their milk (at a fraction the going rate for commercial product, but it was still more than they could make working in the prison laundry, and with a lot less effort on their part), and then turned it over to the U.S. government, which either sold the milk at reduced cost to Third World nations or gave it away as part of foreign aid packages as a sign of American goodwill.  Everyone was happy.

Fully thirty-two percent of this state’s female prison population was participating in the program, which had only been in existence not quite seven years.  Over fifty percent qualified for the program, but again, they had more applicants than openings.  Nationally the participating percentage was lower, closer to twenty-five percent, but the Midwest convicts didn’t have the same issues with disease, drug addiction, and mental illness that states such as California and New York did.

As the liaison between the FDA and FDOC for the Midwest Region, and one of the senior members of the advisory panel which briefed the Secretary of Agriculture on a regular basis, Ben pulled a lot of weight.  It had been his idea to separate the LactAid Program participants from the general population in each correctional facility.  He knew more than most how the hormones affected the women, and they needed to be around others who could sympathize and help them, not take advantage of their condition or belittle the choice they’d made.  That recommendation had got him noticed, and helped put him in the position he was now, driving a new car, living in a new house bigger than the one he’d grown up in.  It was the American Dream.

Ben found Angie lying across the full-size automilker, which they’d positioned next to the recliner in the family room.  She could watch TV while using it, if she so desired, and they covered it with a decorative tablecloth whenever they had family over so that it looked like a boxy endtable.  Apart from her chest, which no one with eyes could fail to spot no matter what she wore, Angie and Ben did their best to appear normal and fit into suburbia, shopping at the mall and going to barbeques at the neighbors.  But the truth was something else, and sometimes hard to hide.

Angie, true to her word, had continued on her diet of LactoMax after getting out of the program and moving in with Ben.  The hormone pills had stopped, and her milk production had dropped by a third, but her sex drive only decreased slightly.  That caused her some frustration early on, what with Ben at work during the day, but they’d managed.  She used a portable breast pump for several years, but never liked it as much as the stationary ones she’d first used at Vanderbilt.  If she’d stopped pumping entirely, and maybe gone to see a doctor, she might have stopped lactating entirely, but the thought never occurred to her.

One day Ben saw an advertisement for used industrial equipment, and on a hunch stopped by the place on his way home from work.  They had an old but quite serviceable stationary automilker.  It had taken Ben a few days to get it installed and wired correctly, with the hoses draining into a jug in the base instead of a central tank like at the dairy.  Ben had been afraid Angie would find it no different than her portable pump (thinking perhaps her memory was playing tricks on her), but she’d been ecstatic, and said it worked and felt so much better than the small, table unit.  It had to be serviced every six months or so, but the small hassle was worth it.  Ben had done the modifications to the machine himself.

Ben stood behind her in the family room, staring at her body lying across the autopump.  Angie had noticeably slimmed down since those days at Vanderbilt Farms.  Not that she’d been fat then, but time, a steady diet of LactoMax, and a turbocharged metabolism had trimmed the fat from her body until her arms and legs were long and lean and when she coughed she displayed six-pack abs.

Angie ate nothing but LactoMax Green Plus three meals a day, six and sometimes seven days a week.  LactoMax Green was a newer mix, specially formulated for Thompson/Green belles with their lower body weight.  Domperidone, prolactin, HGH—Ben couldn’t even remember all the drugs that enriched it, and the Plus formulation featured an even higher hormone content for belles who were having production issues.  She and Ben liked to go out on Friday and Saturday nights, but she found regular food now tended to upset her system after so many years on LactoMax.

“God, I’m so fucking hot,” Angie said, working her hips from side to side as she knelt across the humming pump.  She reached back with both hands and spread her asscheeks, and looked at him over her shoulder through a veil of blonde hair.  “What are you doing way back there?”

Angie had told Ben not long after they’d met that she’d been a shy, reserved, inhibited person before participating in the diversion program.  At the time, Ben could hardly believe it, but the fact that she’d been nude at the time, aroused, and smelling of sex had tended to skew his perspective.

Angie surprised herself quite a few times with Ben, those first months they lived together.  She’d thought at the time that having sex with the barn cows was a necessity forced on her by her own turbocharged libido, the daily milking schedule an inconvenience, but once out of the program and off the hormone pills . . . not much changed.  She found herself still wanting and doing things that before living in the barn she would never have considered.  She didn’t know if it was the hormones or the day-to-day life in the barn which had changed her, but she didn’t really care.  Originally she ate the LactoMax in part because she wanted to stay as horny as she had been in the barn, if only to fulfill her end of the deal she’d made with Ben.  She’d worried that once she was back in the outside world that, even eating LactoMax, she’d lose her sex drive, or most of it, but that had not been the case.  Whatever inhibitions she might have once had (she couldn’t really remember what they might have been) had been effectively killed off with six months of nudity, hormones, and group sex with the cows.  She kept eating LactoMax because she wanted to—she wanted to keep milking, it turned her on and satisfied her in ways she couldn’t describe, that were only partly sexual.  Being forced to live like a cow, a slave to her teats, aroused every part of her mind and body.  She kept a count of her volume, trying to think up ways to increase it.  As the years passed the percentage of LactoMax in her diet went up, until the amount of regular food she consumed dropped nearly to zero.  Then one day she heard Ben talking about the new synthetic hormone they were experimenting with at the FDA.

“Come on, don’t make me beg,” Angie growled at him, still holding her ass cheeks apart.  Her pussy was a glistening oval slit, and above it winked the tiny pucker of her asshole.  Ben saw that the insides of her thighs were wet with her juices, and then the mouth of her pussy visibly clenched as she orgasmed.  Angie grunted, and her head bobbed, but her hands didn’t move. 

Cows were genetically engineered to mature early, and produce high volumes of milk no matter what their diet, but the hormones in LactoMax did boost their production by ten to twenty percent annually, studies had shown.  Studies and tests were always ongoing in an effort to boost milk production in cows.  These ranged from varying veteran cows’ fluid intake to see how it affected their production to testing experimental synthetic hormone derivatives on immature cows.

One such experimental drug showed great promise.  Unlike prolactin, which stimulated milk-producing teat cells, or domperidone, which tricked the body into producing more prolactin, this synthetic hormone actually created new milk-producing cells inside the teat.  The scientists were very excited, although as yet the trials had produced erratic results.  The younger the cow the more pronounced the effect of the drug, but the results were not yet consistent or predictable, and until the doctors could come up with something reliable enough to be recommended commercially they would continue to do more tests.  Some immature cows didn’t respond at all to the hormone, while others, who had years to go before they should have begun producing, immediately began lactating.  Ben had read the report—one sixty-two pound immature T/G who’d been administered the drug was shortly producing six gallons of milk a day—just getting her enough to eat and drink was tough, and her body temperature hovered around 103.  Angie had worked on Ben for months to get some of the hormone for herself.  He’d resisted, telling her that because she wasn’t even a cow, the results would be even more unpredictable.

“What do you want me to do?” Angie half-begged him.  “I’ll do it.”

“Oh, I know you will,” Ben said with a little laugh.  This was an old game for them, but one that neither of them tired of.  He began to undress.

Instead of shrinking as she lost bodyfat, Angie’s teats actually increased in size.  Because her body was so slender, under clothes her teats didn’t appear as massive as they actually were, but the fact was that when she was full of milk, her teats were as big as her head, and would overflow a G-cup bra, not that she wore many bras.  Not only did 34-G bras have to be custom made, when she was full of milk her teats were as firm as tire rubber, and when they were empty Ben liked to see them jiggle, and she did as she was told, wore what he said to wear, although her nipples were so prominent from the pump suction they got more attention than her teats.  After six months in the barn without wearing any clothes at all, Angie had gotten out of the habit, and never really gotten back in.

Ben figured that she had to have a lower fat content in her teats as well, because in the years since they’d first met her production had more than doubled.  Her teats were bigger, but they hadn’t doubled in size.  In the barn she’d been milking five ounces per breast, five times a day, but she’d been taking the hormone pills as well as eating LactoMax.  After three years on LactoMax Blue, and then two on LactoMax Green, her production had increased to seven ounces per teat four times a day—seven for four, as the dairy farmers liked to say.  And then Ben had given in to her, and gotten a sample of the synthetic hormone.

“You better stick that fucking cock in me soon,” Angie growled, her whole body shuddering as she came again.  She had dipped the middle finger of one hand into her wet folds and then slid it into her asshole.  She was working it side to side, stretching herself out for a second finger soon to come.

“Yeah?” Ben said with an evil smile.  He stepped to the back of the autopump and flicked the control switch from AUTO to MANUAL.  Now the nozzles wouldn’t cease their suction until the pump was manually shut off.  He then grabbed her free hand, laid it along her back next to the first, snagged the Velcro strap they’d installed on the machine and cinched it tight across Angie’s lower back.  Her hands were completely trapped.  Then he grabbed the cup where it sat between her knees, pressed it tight between her legs, and flicked the AUX switch.  The cup grabbed hold decisively, with no hiss of escaping air.

“Oh God,” Angie said, shuddering.

The cup was made of heavy duty thick plastic with a rim padded with rubber.  In shape, it resembled a man’s protective sports cup, except for the black rubber hose leading from it into the pump.  The cup completely enclosed Angie’s vagina, and the intense suction from the pump, if he left the cup in place long enough, would turn her sex into a swollen ball of flesh the size of a scrotum, tingling and sensitive, that jiggled when she walked.  Once, she remembered, on her birthday, he’d kept her on the hoses like this for three hours.  Her pussy had stayed swollen for a day.

The synthetic hormone had more than doubled the amount of milk Angie produced.  Within two months she was going twelve for six, producing over a gallon of milk a day from her teats.  And they were her teats, she didn’t use the word ‘breasts’ any more.  Cows had teats.  She drank about half her milk, and Ben occasionally had a glass or two, in addition to what he occasionally drew directly from the tap during sex.  He didn’t want to drink too much—even though he was long past puberty, enough of the hormones could start to affect him.  He’d seen the confidential report about what large quantities of fresh milk would do to young girls, but there were no surprises there for him.  What was news was what it would do to young boys and children in the womb.  Pregnant women were told to avoid fresh milk, and for good reason.  It would turn normal girl fetuses into homo lactilus, although that little fact was a closely guarded secret.  Male fetuses exposed to fresh milk hormones in the womb experienced galactorrhea, spontaneous lactation, and hermaphroditism, and enough fresh milk could cause genital alteration in boys as old as eight.  Apparently, male-to-female transsexuals swore by fresh milk.  As much as Ben liked breasts, he didn’t want any of his own.

The hormone didn’t seem to have any affect on Angie’s sex drive, which was just as well, she was already more than Ben could handle, but if anything she seemed to get even kinkier.  She wanted to be tied down during sex, and while being pumped out.  She filmed herself masturbating, and copied the movies onto CDs for his laptop so he’d have something to watch when he had to go out of town for work.  She stopped wearing clothes around the house, and never wore underwear.  She insisted on drinking his ‘milk’, not wanting it to go to waste.  And then there was Mabel.

“Mister Ben?”

Hopping on one foot while he pulled off his socks, Ben turned to see Mabel walking through the kitchen toward them.  She looked like she’d just woken up, as the hair on the side of her head was flattened.

Mabel was the main reason Ben no longer worried about how Angie was handling her supercharged libido while he was gone at work during the day.  They’d bought the retiring Verheiden about three years earlier, and while she’d been pricey, they’d never regretted spending the money.  Most of the ‘Verhangers’, as they were called, were put up for auction and went for outrageous sums.  Ben hadn’t had to bid for Mabel, but he’d still paid double what a normal Verheiden would cost.  The curving, four-inch clit looked like a toy penis between her, thick, wide thighs, but Angie could attest that the big cow was more than able to get the job done with her little tool, which was hard more often than not no matter what the cow was doing.

“Fuck her!” Angie barked out.  “Fuck her in front of me!”  And then she grunted as she came again, her hips humping the air.  Inside the clear cup, her flesh had begun to swell and darken.

“Don’t make me gag you,” Ben half-scolded her.  She didn’t mind being gagged one bit.

“Time to play?” Mabel asked, reaching down to stroke her already hard clit.  It looked just like a small penis, and only the fact that Ben knew she was female, and could see her vagina just below the oversize clit, kept him from getting weirded out about it.  There was barely enough room for the three of them in the SuperKing-size bed, but Angie wouldn’t have it any other way, and Ben had to admit he’d come to see the benefits of sharing his bed with two horny females, although extra sleep wasn’t one of them.  He’d had some second thoughts about bringing another female into the house, but Angie had never displayed a second’s worth of jealousy, and the thought of the big cow keeping his wife occupied while he was at work didn’t bother Ben at all.

Mabel was still producing three and a half gallons a day, and her big, pale teats were crisscrossed with huge veins and hung down to her waist.  Most of her milk had been going to waste, until they’d moved into the new neighborhood and Julia had seen they owned a cow.

Cows were a rarity in suburbia, and many people not familiar with the rural way of life would look down on you or be disgusted if they found out you owned a cow, but stories about the magical effects of fresh milk on women had been around for centuries.  Julia had heard them, and was young and wild enough to want to see if they were true.  After six months Julia was ten pounds lighter, her breasts had grown one full cup size, and her sex drive had doubled to hear her tell it.  One thing women do is talk about diets, exercise, and men, and now Angie had a regular women’s group, eight local women plus Julia, who divvied up the four plus gallons a day she and Mabel produced.  Either they didn’t have the money to buy their own cows, were too jealous to have another ‘woman’ in their house, or too concerned with what other people might think, but all the women were happy with the results of their secret freshmilk diet.  Their husbands were greatly appreciative as well.