CHAPTER FIFTY:  

THE SAILOR'S SOIREE, PART TWO

	"Where is everybody?" asked Christine.
	"We be early a bit," Edward replied.  "My man 
Jonah here, he like being first to come and last to 
leave."
	"With any luck at all, good friend, I won't be the 
first to come," Jonah cracked.  Edward made the windows 
of the taxi vibrate with his loud laughter.  Chris was 
only mildly amused; she was still upset with Jonah for 
having spiked her margaritas with Valium -- or at least, 
as upset as her tranquilized mood would allow.
	"Come on, let me show you around," said Jonah, and 
with that he practically dragged Chris by one wrist out 
of the cab.  Chris was a bit concerned by the amount of 
time it took to get her feet firmly beneath her.
	The threesome did not directly approach the front 
door of the darkened cafe, but instead walked through a 
very narrow alley around to the back.  A particularly 
smelly dumpster almost completely occluded a ratty 
screen door over a heavy wooden one that marked the back 
entrance.  Jonah used both fists to pound out a 
complicated rhythm on the doorjamb which was clearly the 
entrance code.  The inner door opened a crack.  Chris 
couldn't make out specifics in the dim light beyond, but 
she could tell that whoever was guarding the entrance 
was a very large person indeed.  Jonah mumbled something 
incoherent, but which sounded like French, and the door 
swung wide to admit them.
	As Chris took the screen door from Jonah, who 
preceded her, she was not prepared for how strong the 
spring on it would be.  She let go of it too soon, and 
the door slammed hard into her right side, her breast on 
that side catching most of the impact.  Chris's eyes 
went wide with unexpected pain.  That hurt, a lot!  She 
suddenly realized that both of her breasts were very 
tender, and had swollen enough over the past hour or so 
to cause the straps of her bikini top to begin to cut 
into her shoulders.  At first she discounted it, 
thinking that while on vacation it wouldn't be possible 
to maintain her normal schedule of draining her breasts 
of their marvelous bounty, and so a little discomfort 
was to be expected.  Of course she hadn't been able to 
bring along her milking chair or any of the other 
accessories she usually used at home to keep her milk 
flowing freely.  All she had with her was a small hand-
held breast pump -- and that was back at the hotel.  She 
hadn't thought she'd need anything special; since having 
left home she had relied on her mental control over her 
lactation abilities to keep from becoming uncomfortably 
full.  It seemed now that her control was not doing the 
job, and she was becoming painfully engorged.  After a 
second or two of puzzlement -- the last time she'd been 
this over-full was that landmark first time in Dr. 
Ellis's office -- she attributed it to having been 
unknowingly pumped full of Valium, and so was 
unconcerned.  Besides, in her current condition, it was 
biochemically impossible for her to be concerned about 
anything.  When the Valium wore off, she'd regain full 
control, she was sure.  Until then, she'd just have to 
squirt hard and long at her earliest opportunity.  As 
she felt her right breast throb in time to her pulse, 
she hoped that opportunity would not be long in coming.
	As she entered the back room, she saw that indeed, 
the person at the door was huge.  He had to be close to 
seven feet tall, with the frame of a world-class 
bodybuilder.  It almost bowled Chris over, then, when 
she saw that atop this Arnold-like body was a head 
sporting a face painted with outlandish cosmetics, a 
beehive blonde wig, and baubles dangling from triply 
pierced ears.  Oh, brother, she said to herself.  I 
thought I was prepared for anything.  Something tells me 
this is going to be one weird night.  A transvestite 
bouncer.  What's next?
	She got her answer within a few seconds.  After 
greeting the bouncer, Jonah turned to Chris and said, 
"Leslie here tells me there's practically no one here 
yet.  Why don't we take this opportunity to grab 
something to eat?  Experience has taught me that one 
should not party on an empty stomach."
	The suggestion started a rumble in Chris's 
stomach, and so she nodded her assent.  Jonah turned and 
roughly slammed open a pair of double doors to his 
immediate left, making quite a racket in the process.  
"Enrique, you old son of a bitch, are you in here?" he 
yelled simultaneously.
	A thin reedy tenor voice immediately rebounded 
from the large kitchen beyond the double doors.  "Hey!  
Fuck off, you gas-bloated spawn of a venereal wart!" it 
said.
	"Good to see you too, you spirochete," Jonah said 
as he caught up in a bear hug a skinny, thickly 
mustachioed man who suddenly appeared from behind a rack 
of hanging pots and pans.  Chris made a mental note.  
She was seeing quite a transformation starting to take 
place in her young Jonah.  The veneer of the polished, 
polite second officer was peeling away to reveal an 
earthy, beer-swigging hedonist beneath.  So far she was 
intrigued by what she was seeing, but wasn't sure she'd 
continue to like it as the evening progressed and the 
party got wilder, as it was certain to do.  She'd 
already decided to blow Jonah off for having drugged her 
-- she was beginning to see that she might have to do so 
earlier than she'd originally thought.
	Jonah broke the embrace and turned Enrique to face 
Chris.  "Enrique, this is the milker I told you about," 
he said.
	What the hell kind of an introduction is that, 
Chris thought.  If I weren't so full of happy juice, I'd 
be pissed.  She was therefore surprised to hear herself 
laugh.  She extended her hand.  "I've never been 
referred to quite like that before," she said.  "I think 
I prefer Christine."
	"Of course," Enrique said, kissing the back of her 
hand.  His mustache tickled.  It was all Chris could do 
to keep from drawing away in reflex.  "Leave it to Jonah 
to start getting crude before the first beer has even 
been spilled."
	"We're starved," Jonah complained.  "Have you got 
anything back here we can nibble on before the party 
gets going?  Besides Christine, I mean."
	Enrique encircled Chris's shoulders with one arm 
and was openly staring at her breasts.  As always, when 
she felt eyes on her bustline, her nipples became 
instantly erect, pushing against the material of her 
bikini top and making the straps dig deeper into her 
shoulders.  Without glancing up, Enrique made a vague 
motion with the other hand and said, "A tray of stuffed 
shrimp just came out of the oven.  Help yourself."
	Jonah promptly disappeared deeper into the 
kitchen.  Chris tried to follow, but Enrique held her 
fast.  "I'm wondering whether you could do me a great 
favor before joining Jonah."
	"That depends greatly on what it might be," 
replied Chris.
	"I am currently working on a lobster bisque that 
is already the best in these islands, but I'm looking 
for something that will make it absolutely unique.  I 
have run a bit short of cream, and I was wondering if 
you might be able to provide the missing ingredient."
	Where Enrique was still staring left no doubt as 
to what that ingredient might be.  Chris tried to be 
appalled at Enrique's forwardness, but the Valium and 
her reconsideration of what this evening was all about 
prevented her.  In fact, she was surprised to feel the 
mere suggestion of releasing her milk trigger the 
familiar tingle which signalled a pending letdown.  The 
tingling grew rapidly in intensity until Chris knew that 
her top would soon be soaked if she didn't try to close 
down the letdown mentally.  She invoked her usual 
procedure and went wide-eyed when to her dismay it 
failed to lessen the building sensation.  She realized 
that she had better do something fast.
	She smiled and said, "I've always wanted to be 
part of a culinary masterpiece.  Lead the way, Monsieur 
Chef."
	Enrique responded with a lecherous grin and led 
her through the large kitchen to a huge stove, atop 
which was a large pot.  The unmistakable smell of 
lobster bisque steamed from it.  Jonah was nowhere to be 
found.
	Enrique handed Chris a glass measuring cup and 
indicated the door to a pantry off to one side, 
suggesting that she could go there and express the milk 
privately.  Chris knew there wasn't time for that, and 
decided to give Enrique a show.  Wordlessly, she pushed 
away the offered cup, reached behind her neck, and 
untied the straps to her bikini top.  As soon as it fell 
away, her nipples grew to full erection and immediately 
began dripping milk at a fairly rapid pace.  Enrique's 
lips peeled back from his teeth in shock at the view 
before him.
	Chris turned to the pot, which Enrique hurriedly 
uncovered.  The warm steam rising from it curled about 
Chris's burgeoning boobs, which her height placed just 
above the edge of the pot.  The moisture and heat acted 
just like a hot shower, kicking the letdown reflex into 
high gear.  Milk began streaming from Chris's nipples 
even before she had a chance to begin milking herself.  
The force of the twin blasts striking the inside surface 
of the pot made the same sort of sound that milking a 
cow into a metal bucket makes.  Her milk made white 
swirls in the bubbling surface of the bisque as it 
poured in from above.  Chris closed her eyes against the 
rising pleasure of the release and began tugging hard on 
her nipples, feeling her fingers grow slippery and milk 
running along her hands and down her upper arms as she 
worked.  Somewhere in the fog of her building orgasm -- 
Boy, this is a quick one, she thought distantly -- she 
felt another pair of hands on her breasts and dimly 
realized that Enrique was standing behind her, gently 
trying to replace her hands with his own.  She let her 
arms drop to her sides as Enrique took over the task.  
He was surprising adept at coaxing jet after jet of milk 
from her throbbing breasts, squeezing and tugging as 
fast as he could.  The flow continued unabated for what 
seemed like forever and was probably actually a good ten 
minutes before Chris finally gave in to the orgasm she 
had been trying to keep at bay.  Enrique felt her 
buttocks tighten and tremble against him as she 
whimpered and shuddered and came, her breasts giving up 
a final, amazingly long, solid arc of milk as her climax 
reached its peak.  The maxi-pad Chris had donned before 
leaving the hotel just barely was enough to contain the 
force and volume of her southern squirt.  It was now 
completely soaked and completely useless.
	Chris came down quickly from the orgasm, blinked 
her eyes open, and noted with some satisfaction that the 
liquid level in the pot had risen appreciably.  Her 
wondrous, milk-slick breasts gleamed proudly in the dim 
light of the kitchen, her nipples refusing to lose their 
thick erection.  Enrique, oddly, was now completely 
ignoring Chris and was instead staring down into the pot 
of lobster bisque, stirring it almost as if caressing 
it, and frequently sampling it, his eyes closed in 
gastronomic bliss.  Chris knew then that Enrique's was a 
food fetish, and vaguely wondered what other "unique 
ingredients" might be in his other dishes.
	Seeing Enrique's fixation on his bisque, she knew 
that trying to communicate with him was pointless, and 
so as she corralled her bosom back into the bikini top 
(which miraculously was still dry), she looked around 
for Jonah.  She found the tray of stuffed shrimp Enrique 
had mentioned, untouched.  She wolfed a few down.  There 
was a tang in the stuffing she could not identify and 
wasn't sure she wanted to.  A quick inspection of the 
rest of the kitchen could not turn up her escort.  She 
realized with a start that she was now on her own.  
Briefly she considered using the opportunity to make a 
strategic retreat, but remembered that had no money with 
her.  She would be alone at night in Montego Bay trying 
to hitch a ride to Negril.  Not a good idea.  Besides, 
her animal side, boosted by the lack of inhibitions the 
Valium was still providing, was still growling within, 
telling her not to miss the party but to become the hit 
of it.  She could already feel her breasts refilling.  
The night was young.  She decided to make it even more 
memorable than it already was.
	Chris found the double doors marking the entrance 
to the rest of the cafe.  She stood there for a few 
seconds, then suddenly reached into her slacks, removed 
the soaked maxi-pad, and threw it into a corner, where 
it landed with a soggy splat.  She took a deep breath, 
stripped off her bikini top, and stuffed it into the 
pocket of her windbreaker, which, unzipped as it was, 
now only barely covered her upper body.  Her tightened 
nipples pointed the way as she stepped through the doors 
and into the heart of the Sailors' Soiree.  "Geronimo," 
she whispered.