The Tour
by ApesMa
“You're about to tour Meadowdale Dairy. It's a bit unusual... no doubt that's why some of you are here. We are a major source of milk and other dairy products, and we take pride in producing healthy food, with low fat content in comparison with other dairies' products. We are a little different, though. We do all this with only one cow, and she gets rather more perks than the average...”
The road to the dairy comes over a crest and into the valley, and I deliver the punch line: “Moo.”
We charge a bit more for seats on the right side of the buses. They get the first glimpse of what looks like two blimps... though the Goodyear blimps are only two hundred feet long. I've considered getting tattoos of the logo, but lawyers are killjoys, and nobody is willing to do it anyway.
The communication is two-way. I like to hear the gasps.
“I'm the cow. You can thank me later for the ice cream you just had. You may have some mistaken impressions about me, so I'll start by correcting them: I'm only two hundred feet tall, and each of my breasts only covers one football field.”
Some models sue morphers. We encourage them. Instead of wasting time and money and making enemies, why not encourage better work by printing and selling the best morphs and giving their creators a share of the profit? We look at morphs as word-of-mouth publicity, and besides, I like what they come up with. (My favorite poster shows me trying to cram my right nipple into a WWII blimp hangar and failing spectacularly.) Once they prove their skill, we even give them high resolution images, and pose for them as requested, when it's physically possible.
The shutter clicks merge into a sound like surf (well, if surf beeped—more people use digital cameras these days). It's a lovely day, nearly overcast with cottony clouds, so they'll get good pictures without harsh shadows. I'm hard to light properly.
“Stay for the evening show—I wear lights to warn aircraft.” The sectional chart for this area is very popular. “Christmas is the best time to see me at night.”
Most people are already in place in the stadium, but to one side I see a man in a blue suit getting a little too enthusiastic. There's at least one in every crowd, and I always make an example of him to shame the ones I can't see into good behavior. “Sir, please save that for when you get home. We have a gift shop with autographed posters, post cards, magazines, and books with lots of pictures, and even dolls for sale to let you relive the experience.” I reach down, delicately grasp him between thumb and forefinger, and lift him to my eye level. “Hey... you're cute,” I say, and give him the full-length kiss. I feel the bucking of his involuntary reaction and gently set him down, covered from head to toe with lipstick. He doesn't even notice the crowd's laughter, or the ribbing from his buddies as he takes his seat. People tell me that they never wash the clothing.
“You all have a list of safety rules, but I'll remind you of them anyway. Stay behind the yellow lines at all times unless I give permission, and get back behind them when I tell you to. If you hear the alarm, move behind me and to the sides. OK?” Those not behind a camera nod, and all say “OK.” I hear the all-clear bell, and stand up.
I rise slowly—tripping would be catastrophic. I really don't think “Fanfare for the Common Man” needs to be playing in the background, but some overpaid artistic consultant recommended it. Maybe he was being ironic.
My breasts hide my legs when I sit; I only have a 125-foot inseam. The audience still doesn't get to see much leg until I turn around, again slowly, for maximum impact and to give the photographers a chance. Besides, I'm proud of the rest of my body, too. More gasps, and a few shrieks, rise from the audience as I complete my turn and my bosom swoops back into view, blotting all else from their sight. (They say the IMAX film has the same effect, but nothing beats the live experience.) Once I'm facing them again, I bend down... well, as far as I can... to give as many as possible a view of my cleavage, which the stretchy white top I wear is designed to maximize. Lots of shutters click. (One of the best selling posters is this pose, shot with a fish-eye lens to get me all in.) Once it subsides, I sit back down to applause and whistles.
With the turn-on of adulation, my nipples grow to their unaided maximum length of about fifty feet. (All my tops are stretchy.) I reach over to my left shoulder and slap the release button. Small shaped charges go off, releasing the snaps that hold the top together, and it falls to the ground. ”OK, it's time. Does everyone have the latex gloves on?” Gloved hands go up. “No shoving or pushing. Security is watching, and is among you. They will toss you out if you get out of line... so don't.” I don't like having to warn them like that. Lots of sad, shy guys who would startle and flee if a woman just looked at them are in the audience. They'd die of embarrassment if they even got close to the line. I correspond with as many as I can, and tell them to get to know some of us—we don't bite. (Much.) I've made a lot of friends that way, and have even been invited to some weddings. I wish I could attend.
I pause for the warning to sink in.”Approach at the first beep. Back to your seats at the second beep.” The beep sounds, and a line forms to my bosom. A thin line around my bust tickles as tiny hands massage it. Eventually they reach my nipples, and I have to restrain myself, for my dignity and their safety. A moan does escape my lips, though, and the crowd cheers at getting a reaction out of me.
Alas, we can only spare the ten minutes promised, and my turgid breasts demand a release I can't safely give with people in the way. Everyone files obediently back at the second beep.
“I hope you enjoyed that, too,” I purr. “Take the bra tour later. Bring comfortable shoes.” They chuckle. “Now, here's what you've all been waiting for...”
As a klaxon sounds, two cranes swing into position. A transparent tube—called a “shell” in the dairy industry—dangles from each crane, open at one end and holding a clear silicone “inflation” with a transparent hose attached at the other end. One man stands atop each shell, clinging to one of the chains that holds it and directing the crane operators via walkie-talkie. Each nipple is eventually secure within its inflation and shell, and the men ride the chains back away from my bosom as the cranes retreat.
Each hose leads to a pump, which in turn feeds a storage tank such as you'd see at a refinery, save that it's refrigerated, and a graduated transparent strip runs down the side in 10,000 gallon increments. The seventy-five foot shells seem far too big even for my distended nipples, but once the pumps start, they are soon filled with pink flesh. Milk rushes down the hoses. Levels rise in the tanks—as if anyone's watching them.
For me, milking is a half-hour orgasm. I'm always amazed that they pay me, but our sales and our standing in the industry must mean I'm worth it.
I start to get seriously into daydreaming. (Private tours are very expensive, but you'd be surpised who pays for them... no ex-presidents, thank you very much. My bosom is also available for meetings and concerts.) I'm reliving a scene from Don Juan de Marco when something goes wrong. My breasts start to tingle and grow. The shells break—thank heavens they're designed to avoid shrapnel.
A siren sounds. I shout “Move behind the stadium!” and rise to turn around, hoping some fool doesn't try to stay and videotape this. I barely manage to turn around, drenching everyone with torrents of milk as I move, before my breasts become too big to manage. All I can see is a wall of flesh split by cleavage.
The dairy is by necessity isolated, and it covers a lot of ground. I need the space for exercise and privacy, and no one living next to the dairy would get a moment's peace. I'm grateful for that isolation as I feel my bosom growing across the open fields. A chill mist dampens the tops of my breasts—how high are those cumulus clouds? 5,000 feet? I must cover several square miles now, and the siren is driving me crazy. I hear a voice—
“Sarah! Wake up! You have a lingerie shoot today!”
Huh? Oh...that dream again. I swear it's getting more vivid every time, and it's so weird to dream of being twenty-five times my real size. Yawning, I slap at the alarm clock and rise. My helpers walk the twelve-foot length of my breasts, wash my nipples, and attach the yard-long shells and inflations for my morning milking. Can't keep the customers waiting.