"More coffee?" Maybel lifted the pot,
looking at him quizzically.
Pulling at the neck of his shirt to loosen
the bow tie he was wearing, Buster shook
his head. "No thanks, but could I get a big
glass of milk?"
"Sure," Maybel said agreeably. As she
walked away, Buster blinked in surprise
at his order. One of the many secrets he
kept was that he hated milk. He even
hated to put it in his coffee. He was sure
it had something to do with being around
gallons and gallons of it all day long. The
vague odor of his truck even when it
didn't need to be washed out turned his
stomach. Still, it was bad for business for
him to not like milk, so he kept his
repulsion for it to himself.
He was salivating as he watched Maybel
approach him with a large glass of the
white stuff. She had barely set it on the
counter in front of him before he had
finished it off.
She put her hand on her hip and tilted
her head to the side. "Thirsty, Buster?"
He just nodded and suppressed his urge to
ask for another glass. "I've got to go," he
said instead. Standing up, he dropped
enough money on the counter to cover
his half eaten lunch and fled.
Not knowing why, he went back to work.
No one was there. The offices were at a
different location. Only Ernie, his boss,
was ever around at the garage. Both of
them worked the same hours, 4AM to
noon six days a week. Each day they had
to load the trucks, do their routes, wash
out the trucks, and then do any other
needed work like washing out returned
bottles, stocking the warehouse or making
commercial deliveries.
Standing in the middle of the truck bay, it
occurred to Buster why he was there.
That was where the milk was.
He found himself in the refrigerated
storeroom. There was an entire wall of
milk. In an orgy of consumption, he
chugged down a quart before he even
knew what he was doing. "Cold," he
gasped as he set the empty glass container
on the floor. Even as he wondered why
he had done it, Buster found himself
opening another quart and lifting it to his
lips.
As he drank the second quart down, he
could feel the blood racing through his
veins, propelled by the pounding of his
heart. It was like his body was an engine
that had turned over, and he could feel it
racing. Every swallow made the machine
inside his body rev faster and faster. The
cold numbed his throat. It even crept into
his chest, making his skin feel tight.
Finishing the second bottle, he set it on
the floor besides the first and opened a
third.
Buster wanted to sob, but he was too busy
drinking. The ache in his chest was
starting to burn. Like too cold hands
warming up near a fire, his skin prickled
and felt like it was swelling. When the
last drop entered his mouth, he opened
his hand and let the bottle fall to the
floor, shattering. Unable to stop himself,
he drank a fourth bottle, and then a fifth.
By the sixth bottle, he knew what was
happening. Every swallow was making
his chest swell larger. It was like his body
was using the milk to create breast tissue.
Impossible, he thought franticly as he
dropped the empty sixth bottle and
opened a seventh. Men don't have tits.
But he did.
They grew steadily as he continued to
drink. Eight bottles. Nine. Ten, and he
paused long enough to grab his shirt front
and tear it open, the tap, tap, tapping of
the buttons sounding loud as they flew
from the shirt and skipped across the
concrete floor. He clawed at his skin,
trying to scratch the burning away. It was
like a rash that was under his skin. No
matter how hard he dug his fingers in, he
couldn't reach the itch. The fact that
Buster had breasts that overflowed his
hands barely registered beneath the fire
that burned inside of him like miniature
twin volcanoes filled with lava.
Thirsty. Eleven bottles. Twelve. Why
didn't he have to pee? Thirteen. Fourteen.
Another pause to itch. He grabbed himself
by the nipples, pulling as hard as he
could. "AAAARRRRGGGG," he roared,
feeling the skin stretch like wet clay. He
let go. His nipples were larger, like stubby
pink fingers pointing at something he
couldn't see. His aureole were bigger too.
The palms of his hands might cover them,
but just barely. Not knowing why, Buster
grabbed each breast with a hand and
pulled again, leaving the skin stretched
and loose when he was finished.
Fifteen. Twenty. Thirty. His stomach
fluttered, shimmering like a sheet in the
wind. His whole body vibrated as his
chest grew ever larger. Buster stood in a
sea of broken glass. It was so tempting to
simply fall down. Forty. Fifty.
Fifty four, and his skin was tight again.
Even so, the weight of each breast was
enough to make them dangle from his
chest. He could easily have hidden three
fingers beneath the fold of skin at their
base. Four hands working together might
have covered one breast. Maybe. Six
hands would have had a better chance.
Fifty five. They weren't growing any
larger, but his thirst wasn't lessening. The
burning all seemed to run into his
nipples. His new breasts actually felt
good, like being kissed by a cool breeze
on a hot summer's day.
Fifty six. His nipples began to leak. They
still felt like they would explode any
second. Not even the white liquid oozing
out of their tips seemed to ease the
pressure.
Halfway through his fifty seventh bottle,
his thirst finally began to leave him. As
he drank the last of the bottle, he wept
like a small child. He wanted to believe
that his ordeal was over, but it wasn't.
His nipples were still burning, and they
were still leaking milk. Setting the empty
bottle carefully on an empty shelf, Buster
tried to stop weeping. His shoulders
shook up and down with his sobbing. It
made his new breasts bounce and sway,
which only fueled more tears.
Unable to break the cycle, he reached up
and pinched the tips of his breasts, trying
to ease the pressure. It worked, but not
like he expected. Milk geysered out of
each nipple. It splattered against the wall
in back of the shelves sounding rich and
wet.
Like a slap to the face, the wet sound
stopped his crying.
"Oh my God," he said numbly. "I have
breasts." He cupped each bosom with a
hand, testing their weight. He judged
them as being about the weight of two
gallons of milk, one gallon per breast.
Each one was easily as big as his head,
and possibly larger.
Buster stood like that for a long time
before the pressure in his nipples began
to bother him again. Another squeeze
shot out more milk. While the action
bothered him to see, it did relieve the
pain. Working slowly at first, he began to
milk himself. It took a lot of work and a
lot of milk before he felt good enough to
stop. The shelf in front of him looked like
he had poured out the last bottle rather
than drinking it.
With a start, he knew he couldn't stay
there. Aside from the issues of how he
would explain the missing milk and the
broken bottles to his boss, Buster had to
find out what had happened to him. That
meant talking to the German. It also
meant going out in public, which would
be a problem looking like he did.
Moving slowly, Buster managed to get out
of the pile of glass without cutting
himself. He shivered, finally effected by
the cold of the room. The door of the
refrigerated room had swung shut
unnoticed after he entered. He was also
standing around with his shirt open.
Whatever had happened to him had kept
him warm, but that was over. He began
to shiver, watching as the flesh at the tip
of each breast shrank and hardened,
changing their shape from a near torpedo
to a flattened globe. Like a fist clenching
tighter, his nipples also stiffened.
He tried to pull his shirt closed but the
added bulk on his chest made it too small
and the buttons were missing. Not
wanting to walk around exposed, Buster
tied the shirt's tails into a knot, turning
the shirt into a kind of long sleeved bra.
It pushed his breasts together and left a
valley of cleavage exposed, but there was
no help for that.
Buster's boss chose that moment to
appear. On the edge of stammering out an
explanation, Buster stopped when he saw
the German follow him in.
"Do not worry," said the German in his
thick accent. "Our friend here will
remember nothing after the drug I've
given him wears off. We should go now,
before he awakens." Turning away, he
walked out of the room, leaving Buster
alone with his boss. Not wanting to be
there when he woke up, Buster followed
the German into the parking lot. They got
into Buster's car. After three failed
attempts to put the key in the ignition,
they switched places and he let the
German drive.
"I don't understand," said Buster as soon
as they were on the road. "How is this
possible?" He rubbed the tips of his
breasts with the inside of each wrist. He
regretted doing that when two large wet
spots formed on the front of his shirt from
the resulting leakage.
"I notice you don't ask me why I did this.
That is good. It is important that you
know you brought this on yourself."
Buster wasn't so sure about that. "Please,
help me understand."
The German sighed. "You did with my
Betty what only a husband and wife
should do. I love my wife and I will not
leave her. So, since I can not punish her,
I will punish you. After all, my Betty is a
sexy kitten. She can not help herself.
You, on the other hand, should have
known better."
The car turned onto the main street at the
outskirts of town, but heading away from
the town rather than towards it. Buster
was glad that they weren't going to drive
though the middle of town with him
looking like he did. "I know. I'm sorry."
The German actually smiled at that. "I
doubt you are telling the truth. My wife is
a very attractive woman. She is very
desirable. I doubt you truly regret your
actions. Many men before you have
wanted to do what you have done. I
stopped them all, but you I did not
suspect until it was too late." He snorted.
"The milkman! Mein Gott, it is like some
bad radio drama."
They were well outside of town now,
travelling quickly. Buster wondered
where they were going. The neighboring
town was in the opposite direction. The
way they were headed, there was nothing
but farms, woods and a few scattered
stores for about forty miles. After that
there was a river valley that was pretty
well populated, but nothing before then.
"I couldn't help myself. She came on to
me." Part of him wondered if the German
was just going to kill him and leave him
in a ditch at the side of the road.
"She came on to you? That seems likely,"
admitted the German genially. "As for not
being able to help yourself, I do not doubt
that either. As I said, my wife is a very
attractive woman. I understand why a
man would want to lie with her. Still, I
am her husband. What you did was
wrong, and there must be a reckoning.
You must be punished."
They had already passed the last large
farm near the town. Buster was becoming
more and more convinced that the
German was going to take him to some
out of the way place and kill him. He
wasn't quite sure why the German had
gone to all the trouble of giving him large
breasts first, but there was no escaping
the evidence. "Why did you have to give
me tits? Why didn't you just kill me this
morning, you fucking Nazi!" Buster
hunched forward and began to weep in
terror and confusion. With his head
bowed, he pressed his breasts together as
if doing so would make them go away.
For the first time, the German appeared
angry. His eyes blazed like two miniature
suns. "I am no Nazi! I am a. . . I am . . ."
He took several deep breaths to calm
himself. Slowly the red began to leave his
cheeks. "I am opposed to everything
those monsters stood for. I am glad the
Allies destroyed them. As for you, what
little remorse I had for what I must do to
you is gone. Thank you for making this
easy for me."
Buster wasn't really listening. All he
knew was that he had breasts that were
as big as bowling balls, his nipples still
burned and leaked milk, and that now the
German not only wanted him dead, but
was angry with him too. Like the milk
leaking from his breasts, his tears
continued to flow, even if he managed to
do it in near silence.
The car slowed and then pulled into the
driveway of an abandoned farmhouse.
The brush and tall grass on either side hid
the car from approaching traffic on the
road, not that there was any. In this
direction, the road didn't get much traffic.
What little there was usually consisted of
trucks hauling goods to the scattered
stores that serviced the few farms and
houses that dotted the road. Pulling the
car behind the collapsing wood frame
house ensured that not even the
occasional passing car could see them.
They were effectively alone. The only
sounds to be heard after the German shut
off the car's engine was the whir of
insects and the wind in the leaves and
grass.
Buster risked a look at his nemesis. The
German's time worn face was relaxed,
almost serene as he looked out of the
car's dusty windshield. He sighed. "My
wife was not always beautiful," he said.
"Surely you have wondered why such a
desirable woman would remain with me?"
Buster didn't dare answer, but the German
didn't seem to notice as he continued. "I
met her in Paris long ago. She's German
too, you know, though her family moved
to America just after she was born. She
was beautiful even then, but not like she
is now. We met and fell in love. We
married. We had children that grew up in
the Fatherland. Children and
grandchildren that two wars and the
Nazis . . ." His voice broke. Swallowing
thickly, he took a deep, steadying breath
before continuing. "There is only she and
I now. We grew old together, and faster
than two people should age with the
hardships that we have endured."
"But she's . . ." Buster began, not
understanding. There was no way that
perfectly formed young woman was old
enough to have been married before
World War I. "She's so young. Younger
than me, probably."
"She's older than she looks," said the
German with faint satisfaction. "During
the war, I worked with a team dedicated
to cleansing the ‘impurities' from those
whose Aryan blood was impure. We
succeeded, but only partially." His face
fell in on itself, all traces of his
satisfaction gone. "God forgive us, we
succeeded. We lied, telling the Nazis that
we were close but that we needed more
time. If we had told them that we could
only make perfect, blonde women out of
whoever took the serum, they would have
killed us or worse. How could they tell
Hitler that he could only be fully Aryan if
he was willing to give up his manhood?"
All of the German's talk about Aryan
purity made Buster nervous. He'd only
been a kid during the war, but his own
blonde hair had led to some pretty nasty
accusations from a kid whose father hated
everything, but especially Nazis. It
probably would have been worse if his
father hadn't been a war hero that gave
his life fighting to prevent a French town
from being recaptured.
It also didn't help that Buster was
beginning to suspect what was happening
to him. "So, I'm turning into . . .
into . . ."
"Not yet," was the German's brisk
response. "I've learned much since then
about things that academic scientists are
only just discovering. Our serum – my
serum now that the others are dead – is
much more versatile. I could make you
look like anything I want. For now, you
will remain as you are. Your
transformation is complete for the time
being."
Buster's stomach began to churn. The air
seemed suddenly thinner and he began to
pant. "You mean I'm going to stay like
this?" He grabbed the German's arm.
"Please don't do this! I'm begging you,
please, change me back to normal!"
The German turned on him, his nostrils
flaring. "So you want to be normal. Here
is my price: quit your job, tell the
husbands of every woman you have
committed adultery with the truth,
confess your sins in the town square for
all to see, and do it all as you look now.
Then and only then will I change you
back."
Moaning, Buster had to fight back the
urge to break the shriveled old man's
neck. With one arm pinned across his
chest to keep his breasts from moving, he
began to punch his leg. He didn't stop
until the ache in his leg was big enough
to compete with the hollow space that
had opened in the pit of his stomach.
"There's got to be a different way," he
found himself saying. "I can't do that.
Please, there's got to be a different way."
It would ruin his life. If one of the
women's husbands didn't kill him, one of
the women would for telling. Even if that
didn't happen, at the very least, he would
never be able to get another job. Who
would hire him after a scandal like that?
It might have been easier for Buster if the
German had been yelling, furious and
gloating instead of looking tired, vaguely
angry and hurt. It somehow made the
man's determination more frightening.
As if looking at Buster disgusted him, the
German looked out again at the tall, dry
grass. "So, telling the truth is not to your
taste. You want another way out."
"Please," begged Buster, clenching his
arms across his full bosom. "Yes, please."
All the old man did at first was nod. He
looked supremely unsurprised. Reaching
inside his suit jacket, he removed a
syringe. Placing it carefully on the
dashboard in front of Buster, he explained
what it did and the best way to inject it.
Pulling a paper bag out from under the
seat, he showed Buster what it contained,
then set it on the seat between them. He
also explained what would happen to
Buster if he didn't use the syringe within
the next few hours.
Stepping out of the car, the old man
began the long walk back to town. Behind
him, he could hear Buster's screams of
frustration even through the car's closed
doors and windows.
The town buzzed for months
afterwards. Gossip about Buster Johnson's
strange disappearance was on everyone's
lips. They questioned his boss about the
broken bottles, curious about the fact that
all the milk had been poured out before
the bottles were smashed. They wondered
about the significance of the sheriff's
news that his missing car had been found
near town behind an abandoned
farmhouse. They puzzled over the fact
that the keys were still in the ignition and
the clothes and empty wallet that were
found on the front seat. They scratched
their heads over the clothes that were all
still folded and put away neatly in the
bedroom that he rented and wondered
what it all meant. Searches for a body
were conducted. No more clues were
found.
Wives looked at husbands out of the
corner of their eyes and wondered what
they really knew, and if they could kill a
man and hide the body so well. Husbands
looked at wives and wondered why they
seemed so sad and distant. Everyone
wondered if Buster Johnson had run off
or if he had gotten himself killed.
Everyone, that is, except the German and
Buster Johnson.
Buster found refuge in the anonymity of a
small town where no one knew who he
was, just that he was a stranger. He
arrived at night wearing the grease
smudged, ill fitting dress and women's
undergarments that the German had
provided for him. If the people there
thought his appearance was odd, it was
because of the late hour and his
disheveled appearance. No one
questioned why a man was wearing a
woman's dress.
Why would they? Buster Johnson was
now a woman.
He had been given three options, all of
which terrified him. The first option was
the path of honesty, shame, and almost
certain social suicide. The second was the
syringe. The German had left it behind,
explaining it would turn Buster into a
drop dead knockout of a woman. But he
had also explained that if Buster did
nothing, his thirst for milk would return.
It wouldn't be as strong, but it would
ensure that milk remained a vital part of
his daily diet for the rest of his life, with
results that echoed what had already
happened. Within a month, his breasts
would double in size. In a year, they
would be so large that the weight of them
would cripple him. He would never be
able to live a normal life. Everyone who
saw him would label him as a freak.
His only viable options were to own up to
what he did and be a man, or to use the
syringe to keep his secrets and be a
woman. To make matters worse for
Buster, delaying a decision wasn't an
option. The serum was only potent for
about a day from the time it was made,
which the German explained gave him
until about sunset to make a decision.
After that, the German told him it would
only result in a partial transformation, if
it worked at all.
Whatever Buster decided, the German
would never need to worry about his wife
cheating on him with Buster ever again.
Buster struggled to think of some other
option, any other option, but he was too
afraid to think with anything like clarity.
His panic grew as the sun approached the
horizon, welling up within him like his
earlier thirst, making him desperate to do
something, anything, to end the
uncertainty.
As sky turned red and the sun kissed the
hills, Buster chose. Better to be a woman
than to be a freak, or a pariah. He
dropped his pants, turned on his left side,
and injected himself in the right butt
cheek. Watching the sun finish setting, he
prayed that he hadn't waited too long. He
cursed himself for not making the
decision sooner, hoping that he hadn't
negated any of the serum's potency.
He knew when the changes started. He
could feel the same pain and urgency as
before, only spread over his whole body.
While far from being an instant process,
by the time he put on his new clothes and
walked back to town, the transformation
was complete.
No one recognized him. He told
everyone his name was Barbara Jones,
and within a few days everyone was
calling him Babs. He made his way at first
by charity, and then by hard work. He
took whatever jobs he could find to pay
for his small room at the cheapest
boarding house in town. As a woman,
cooking, cleaning, baby-sitting and doing
errands seemed to be the limit of what
anyone thought a "young girl" like Babs
was capable of. It was honest work, but it
didn't pay well.
Transformed into a blonde looker with
wide hips, narrow waist and the
extremely full bosom he had acquired
during his milk orgy, Buster avoided any
man or boy over the age of thirteen. He
saw the way that they looked at him. He
knew from personal experience what it
meant.
No one knew who he really was except
the German. Whenever they passed in the
street, or in the grocery store, the man
would nod and smile. "Good day, Miss
Jones," he would say, keeping up the
pretense, while the twinkle in his eye
revealed his self-satisfaction. By either
design or fate, Buster never seemed to
able to catch the man alone long enough
to confront him. Even going to his home
was fruitless; the man always had his
wife answer the door. While she had been
the one to cheat on her husband, she was
still a very jealous wife. She hated "Babs"
at first sight, convinced she was trying to
steal her husband. She was a very
different Betty from the one that had
opened her robe and her legs for him.
After the first few weeks, Buster stopped
trying to confront the German. He was
too busy trying to adjust to being a
woman while making ends meet.
When baby-sitting led to an opportunity
to became a wet nurse and nanny for one
of the town's richest couples, he didn't
hesitate to take it. Not only did Mr. and
Mrs. Williams pay well, but they also
provided room and board.
They were in the process of starting a
large family and had just been blessed
with twin boys. With the mother busy
with society obligations and taking care of
her husband's needs, Buster's ample assets
were just what they needed to keep up
with the boys' large appetites.
What they didn't know was that Buster
needed the job as a wet nurse almost as
much as they needed him. His breasts
continued to produce milk at a prodigious
pace. Without the boys to feed, he would
have had to milk himself by hand several
times a day just to relieve the pressure in
his breasts. It didn't help that his thirst
for milk had not ended with his
transformation. If he didn't drink a big
glass of milk at least once a day, a thirst
would seize him that could not be
quenched by any other liquid. Drinking it
made his nipples ache and his own milk
flow.
Part of his job was to run errands and
shop for the household. Each time he
went out, half the town seemed to greet
him by name and ask how the new job
was going. Everyone in town called him
Babs. At first, it seemed fake, like a prank
that everyone had agreed to play on him.
As days turned into weeks, it seemed
more and more like a real nickname.
When those weeks turned into months, it
became the only name he used or
answered to.
By then, he had adapted to his new role.
His employers expected him to dress well,
which meant wearing the skirts, blouses,
shoes and undergarments that Mrs.
Williams helped pick out. He also had to
master his own hair and makeup. "Aunt
Flo" came to visit each month, which was
weird, messy and uncomfortable, but he
adapted. Only the first time was really
awkward, when he had to turn to Mrs.
Williams for help. It was dumb luck that
she assumed it wasn't ignorance, but
poverty that was the real issue, as he had
no sanitary products of his own. As for
breast-feeding, any embarrassment he had
initially felt over feeding the boys from
his breasts had long since faded with
repetition, aided by the relief it provided,
easing the pressure and the pain of
engorged breast tissue.
One day, about five months after being
hired, he had to run an errand. The local
grocery store was especially busy. Even
with the third register they had put in,
there always seemed to be a line.
Resigned to waiting while holding the
large bag of flour the cook needed, a
semi-familiar man in line allowed a space
to open up in front of him. "Go ahead,
Babs," he said. "You've only got the one
thing, and it looks heavy."
Babs smiled while stepping into to
proffered place. "Thank you."
It wasn't until she was halfway home that
several things crashed in on Babs. First
came the recognition that she never
would have taken the offer if she had still
been a man. It hadn't even occurred to
her to not take the offer. Why wouldn't
she? If a man offered a kindness, it
wasn't really polite to refuse. Plus, that
bag of flour really was heavy. It only
made sense that she should go first.
Fast on the heels of that thought, it
occurred to her that the man had
probably wanted her in front of him so he
could enjoy the view without looking like
he was staring.
Still walking down the street, she felt a
surge of quiet satisfaction. Well, why
shouldn't the man enjoy looking at her?
Babs knew she had an excellent body. It
was obvious to anyone with eyes. If
looking in the mirror wasn't proof
enough, there was always the way men
stumbled over each other to pay her
compliments. Some of them were barely
decent, making her blush so much that
she could feel her neck get hot. Even
women looked at her like their eyes were
made of measuring sticks, judging her on
the basis of her looks.
But what made her stop walking and
almost drop the bag of flour was
recognizing that at some point, she had
flat out forgotten that she used to be a
man. Or was it that she was still a he on
the inside? Her head spun a little, trying
to remember the last time she had
thought of herself as Buster, or even just
as a man.
She couldn't remember. Days? Weeks? A
month?
It was an odd sensation. Thinking of
herself as a man was like putting on a
pair of shoes that had once been her
favorites, but that she had long since
outgrown. No matter how much she used
to like them, there was no sense in
pretending that they still fit.
It made her giggle when it occurred to
her that the shoes she was imagining had
high heels!
The rest of the walk home was strange.
People greeted her, and she replied in
kind with a smile, while inside she paid
close attention to what she thought and
felt. Every woman, even ones that she
disliked or barely knew, felt like a sister.
Every man made her slightly wary, like a
dog would. Even a good dog might jump
on you or steal food from you if you didn't
keep your eye on them. As for bad dogs,
well, they were just dangerous.
Babs knew about men like that. She used
to be one of them, even if she had left
that life far behind. For that matter, half
the women in town knew what kind of
man she had been.
Like the memory was a key opening a
locked door, it occurred to her that she
had far more in common now with those
lonely, urgently sexual women than she
did with the man she once was. It made it
wonder what those encounters had been
like from the woman's point of view.
She did her best to remember each
liaison, placing herself in the role of the
many housewives she had ravished. She
imagined herself in every position,
receiving every thrust. In her mind's eye,
she was the one moaning in pleasure,
echoing the nasty demands and guttural
pleas that had fallen from their mouths.
The greetings she gave to the people she
passed became more and more distracted.
Her mind was a whirlwind. The sexual
thoughts she was having made her
breathing quicken, while her pace
slowed. She clutched the flour to her
bosom, comforted by the pressure.
If she had still been a man, perhaps sex
would have been all she imagined. But
Babs went further, trying to envision
what came next. Were the women
embarrassed by what they had done?
Maybe they were, and compensated by
baking cookies or making the perfect pot
roast. What if they were angry with their
husband? Maybe they held on to the
memory of their infidelity like an invisible
knife, using it cut the man down to size.
Or maybe cheating was just a little fun on
the side for them, to fend off the boredom
and monotony of their married life. An
unsatisfied wife might use the memory of
genuine passion to endure a dull round of
lovemaking. An abused or neglected wife
might seek out physical intimacy to feel
loved.
She paused in front of the diner. The
large glass windows drew the eye like a
movie screen. There were many young
couples inside. It made Babs feel both
lonely and afraid.
She had toyed with the idea of finding a
woman that liked women, but the concept
held no real interest for her. Only the
thought of a man and a woman together
excited her, even if she had to be the
woman. No, for her, being with someone
meant being with a man. Could she do
that? Even acknowledging the possibility
made her nervous. And if she did date,
what kind of woman would she end up
being? A slut? A prude? The girl next
door?
Her thirst chose that moment to demand
attention.
She wanted to get home. Not only was
the flour heavy, but she had a vague urge
to lock herself in her room for a while
and do a little self exploration. Still, the
thirst was demanding, and she knew by
then that ignoring it would only make her
need worse.
Going inside, she took a seat at the
counter. She set the flour on the counter
beside her.
Maybel walked over with a smile. "Hi,
Babs! What can I get for you?"
"Just a glass of milk," she answered. "A
big one, please."
Maybel looked at her sideways before
walking off. "Sure thing. I'll be right
back."
Babs had to frown. It wasn't the first time
the thirst had struck her while she was
out. Maybel was pretty sharp, and no
doubt remembered the other times Babs
had ordered a big glass of milk.
True to her word, Maybel was back in less
than a minute with a large glass that was
filled to the brim with cold, white milk.
Without even a thank you, Babs drained it
in one go. She could feel it go right to her
tits. It made her nipples weep mother's
milk, but she had been wearing pads in
her bra to guard against leaks like that for
months.
"May I ask you a question?" Maybel asked,
her eyes locked on Babs' chest.
It made Babs wary, but how could she say
no? "Sure. Go ahead."
The waitress leaned forward, finally
looking Babs in the eye. "You've only
been in town a few months, but you seem
…" Her eyes descended once again to
Babs' breasts.
"Bigger?" Babs offered. She had noticed it
too. Coupled with her unnatural thirst,
she was certain that it was a lingering
side effect of her transformation. Perhaps
by waiting until the last minute to use the
serum, some of it's potency had been lost,
giving her the smallest taste of what
would have happened if she hadn't used
it. Then again, there were more natural
explanations, too.
Maybel just nodded, clearly relieved Babs
had been the one that had to say it.
"I'm a wet nurse," Babs told her, hoping
that what she was about to say was true.
"Every woman gets bigger during
pregnancy. If they don't breast feed, it
doesn't last. With me, I think the increase
in size is due to over-stimulation." She
made her smile as sweet as she could.
"The Williams boys have a healthy
appetite. It takes a lot to keep them fed."
That seemed to satisfy the waitress. "I
should have guessed that. So, can I get
you some pie before you go?"
Babs fished the money for the milk out of
her purse and left it on the counter, along
with enough extra for a generous tip.
"No, thank you. I have to get this flour
home." She picked up the bag, discovering
all over again how heavy it was.
"You have a good day, then." Maybel
turned away to pick up a coffee pot. "I
hear you, Bill," she called out to a man
that was rattling his coffee cup in a very
unsubtle way. "Stop the fuss."
On her way out the door, Babs almost
walked into a man on the sidewalk.
"Oops," she said, staring at the man's
chest, like a wall in front of her. Her eyes
drifted up until she could see his face. It
was Sam Jones, the town's new lawyer.
Like Buster had once been, he was tall,
muscular and handsome, only with dark
brown hair and tan skin instead of blonde
and fair. He had arrived in town just a
few short months before Babs.
"Mr. Jones," she greeted him.
"Miss Jones," he replied. His face
remained serious, but his eyes took on a
playful gleam. "You know, since we share
a last name, we really ought to get
married. It would certainly simplify the
paperwork."
Before that day, Babs would have fled,
mumbling an excuse, blushing and afraid
of being the target of a man's interest.
Instead, she met his faux serious look
with a smile. "Why, how forward,
proposing out of the blue like that! Don't
you think you should date me for while
first to get to know me? For all you know,
I'm a terrible kisser."
It was the first time Babs had flirted with
a man, though many men had approached
her since her arrival. The words were out
of her mouth before she really knew
what she was saying. Flirting, it seemed,
came as easily for her as Babs as it had
when she had been Buster.
She lowered her eyes to avoid seeing
Sam's reaction, only to end up looking at
his groin. Judging by the bulge there, he
was very well endowed. Babs wanted to
look away, but instead found herself
licking her lips.
Sam's face split in a wide smile. "Maybe I
should," he agreed with gusto.
Babs took a deep breath and looked him
in the eye. "No maybe about it," she told
him with a wink. "Let me know when
you've worked up the nerve to ask."
With that, Babs turned and walked away.
She was blushing, embarrassed by how
forward she had been. Even so, she
smiled and put a little wiggle in her walk
on purpose, knowing that Sam was
following her with his eyes.
For the first time in a long time, Babs
stopped worrying about the past, focusing
only on the future. This was her chance
for a fresh start. With each step she took,
she grew a little more sure of herself, a
little more proud of what she had
become. She was a young, beautiful
woman, and she was ready to embrace it.
A new road had opened up before her.
There were plenty of opportunities to
explore along the way. Her destination
might still be a mystery to her, but she
was ready to begin her journey. With
luck, Sam would help make sure that she
didn't have to begin it alon

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