Side Effects

Being careful not to bump into anything in my tiny kitchen, I set the
two plates of pasta on the card table in the kitchen of my co-op
apartment.  Sitting down and looking at the stunning red-head, seated
across from me, chattering away about being fired from her job, I
reflected that often the only thing worse than not having close friends
is having them.  Lynda was beautiful, perfectly built, one of my best
friends ... and always complaining to me about of some kind of
disaster.

Lately, it's been money.  While I had to respect anyone who would try
to put themselves through Clear Mountain University, one of the
country's most expensive private schools, Lynda didn't seem to have the
foggiest conception of how to do it.  She had held a succession of
low-paying, odd jobs trying to make ends meet.  Yesterday afternoon,
she was fired from the drive-through window at Instant Burger, her
latest attempt at making ends meet, when she confessed to the manager
that all of her wrong ring-ups were because certain, um, anatomical
attributes blocked her view of the keys.  And, as always, I invited her
over for lunch and let her cry on my shoulder.

As I watched her wave her fork in the air to make a point, I wondered
why it was that I'd never made a pass at her.  She was 5 foot even,
with a slender, almost rail-straight figure and close-cropped red hair
which gave her triangular face an innocent, pixie-like quality.  She
had a blood-red, pouting mouth, and a small, upturned nose.  Her skin
was creamy pale and lightly freckled, her face set with huge green
eyes.  Her Irish blood showed clearly.

Except for her breasts.  On a taller woman, they would have been large;
on her, they were enormous.  She'd once told me that she couldn't find
bras the right size, since no one believed in an E cup for a woman as
petite as she.  Eventually, they'd sag and stretch, but at only 21,
they rolled and tossed like ocean waves, still high and firm and full.
She was pretty casual about nudity, so I knew her breasts were as
creamy and freckled as the rest of her ...

"Nice day, aren't they?" Lynda suddenly said, in the
pleased-but-chiding tone she reserved for people she liked who spent
too long staring at her tits.

"Oh, um, sorry, what did you say?" I sputtered out, feeling myself turn
bright red.

"I was saying, $200 is a lot for a two-month experiment volunteer, and
the test's almost done," she said, picking up the train of her
conversation.

She had volunteering for one of those human trials for experiments or
new drugs University Medical Center was always performing.  When she
first mentioned it some weeks back, I had gruesome visions of some of
the other experiments I heard of: not brushing your teeth for a month,
staying awake for hours, having sex with instruments up your ...

"And it was just a new birth control pill formulation," she finished.

"Did it work?"

"If it didn't, you're going to be a godfather," she giggled.

"Lynda!"  I'd known her since she was 12; I wasn't ready to be a
surrogate grandparent yet, not at only 27 and still working on my
doctorate.  Still, being a graduate student had its compensations: an
office (small and bitterly cold), a group secretary (stacked and frigid
as well), and being able to have lunch at home with a gorgeous premed
(stacked but attached).  Actually, she and her boyfriend both fooled
around, and she'd had flirted outrageously with me in the past.  So
what was stopping me?  Me, the computer science department's resident
breast fetishist?  (And was it just my imagination, or were her tits
even larger than usual?)

"So, any side effects from your little yellow pills?" I asked, trying
to tear my eyes and mind off her chest.

"First, they were little blue pills, and second, no, nothing much," she
said, shifting in her chair as if suddenly uncomfortable.  She didn't
sound convincing at all.  Her hands reached up, and through her sweater
momentarily fumbled with her bra strap before she realized I was
watching every move.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

"Oh, sure, fine," she muttered, running a hand through her hair and
squirming in her chair.  "Listen, I gotta use the bathroom.  Be right
back."  She jumped from the chair and almost ran out of the kitchen,
snatching up her purse as she left.

Minutes passed as I listlessly poked at my food.  My girlfriend of two
years had dumped me two months ago, and while I had recovered from the
emotional shock, the lack of female companionship was getting to me.
Lynda seemed like a logical choice for a fling.  On the other hand,
Lynda was an old friend.  I didn't want to risk the friendship.  On the
other hand ...

Just as I made up my mind to attempt a seduction, I noticed that she'd
been gone over 10 minutes.  Worried that something might have happened
(but what could have?), I went to the bathroom door and knocked.

"Lynda?" I began, but the door, which hadn't been closed all the way,
swung open with my knock.  She was leaning against the sink, her
sweater pulled up and the clasps on her front-closing bra undone.  She
was cupping her large, full (even larger and more full than I
remembered) breasts in her hands, pinching the nipples.  As I watched
with fascination (and quickly growing arousal), she milked herself into
the sink.  Her eyes were half closed, at first I thought with
concentration, but her swaying hips and moist, panting mouth made me
realize that she was tremendously aroused by her milking.

The moment was mere seconds, but it seemed to last for hours, staring
at her work first one large meaty dug then the other, with the splash
of the milk into the sink the only sound.  The flow of milk slowed to a
trickle.  Suddenly, she became of aware of my presence, and started
upright, a single pure white drop running down one huge tit from an
engorged nipple.

"It is not very nice at all to sneak in," she exclaimed, but her
expression was much more pleased than hurt.

"I knocked ... didn't you hear?" I said, barely keeping my composure as
I stared at her breasts, even more full and heavy than I remembered,
swaying back and forth.

"No, I guess I was preoccupied," she said, winking at me.  "I told the
clinic about this little side-effect of the birth control pill, so the
wanted some samples."  With that, she pulled a set of large vials from
her purse, and proceeded to carefully fill one after the other with the
remaining milk in her breasts.

"Hang on, I'll be done in a second," she said, her voice growing
huskier as her worked her tits again.  Hanging was one thing I was
definitely not doing: I was getting as hard as a rock from watching
this display, and was wondering how I was going to control myself for
the rest of lunch.

The vials filled, she capped them and carefully replaced them in her
purse.  As she started to cap the last, she looked up at me with a
mischievous gleam in her eye.  "Listen, I've always wondered what this
tastes like," she said with a conspiratorial tone.  She sniffed at the
vial.  "Hmmm, nice.  Nothing like you'd expect."  She held out the vial
in one hand, and I smelled it as well.  She was right: I didn't smell
like milk at all, even a woman's milk.  the scent was thick, heavy,
even musky, like perfume.  It smelled like sex.

Pulling back the vial, she winked at me.  "Well, here goes!"  And with
that, she took a long sip from it, her eyes never leaving mine.  The
reaction was sudden, and completely surprising.  She tilted her head
back, closing her eyes, slowly swallowing.  Her head still stretched
up, she gently placed the vial down on the counter.  Her breathing
became deep, making her breasts bob and sway even more enticingly than
before.  Slowly she opened her eyes and looked at me, with an
expression like none I'd seen before on her: hungry, horny, even
pleading.

"Listen, um ... " she began, her voice barely a whisper.  "Um ..."  She
ran her hands slowly up her breasts, cupping them, stroking the
nipples.  As she groped for words, she moved up to me, as I stood
paralyzed by what I was seeing.  "Um ... could we, like, fuck?  I
really need it badly," she panted, and with that her arms went around
me, pulling my mouth down on hers.

Her lips were full, moist and wet.  Her tongue dived into my mouth,
searching, probing, as if it was looking for something to put out the
fire between her legs.  Her body writhed against mine, one leg lifted
and stroking against my calf and thigh.

Somehow, we managed to get to the bedroom and get undressed.  I never
stripped so fast in my entire life.  As my underwear came off she sank
to her knees in front of me.  "You're so huge, I love the way your cock
feels.  I've got to suck you," she whispered, running her hands up and
down my shaft, staring at if as if hypnotized by it.  She bent forward,
running her tongue around the head, down the shaft, sucking lightly on
my balls before plunging down on it.  I gasped with pleasure as she
bobbed up and down on my cock, pulling it to the back of her mouth and
closing her throat down on it.  I'm still not sure how I kept from
coming in the delicious minutes while she worked me with her expert
mouth.

Finally, she pulled back and flopped down onto the bed, her breasts
rolling and swaying with her movements.  "God, please, put it in, I'm
so horny," she pleaded as she lay on her back, lifting her hips to me,
frantically masturbating as she writhed.  I didn't need any more
encouragement; I stretched out over her, and slid all seven inches deep
into her pussy.  She was tight, hot and very wet: her cunt felt like it
was on fire.

My first stroke brought gasps and cries of pleasure from her.  "Oh,
god, fuck me, please fuck me!" she cried out as I pummelled her again
and again with my rod.  I could feel my cock banging against her
cervix, but it seemed to excite her all the more.

"Quickly, do me from behind.  Shit, you feel so good!" she panted as
she pulled out from under me, rolled over, and lifted her hips up to
me.  I took a moment to appreciate the view: her eyes closed, mouth
wide open and gasping with pleasure, her huge tits swaying from side to
side in rhythm with her hips, which thrusted back at me, demanding that
I pleasure her dripping cunt.  Grabbing her massive breasts, I rammed
my hips up against her bottom, pushing deep into her.

She started to speak, but it became just an inarticulate cry.  "Oh, oh,
ah, please, OH!" she suddenly screamed, losing all control, bashing
back into me wildly, her nipples as hard as rubber erasers, her pussy
slick but clamping down.  It was too much.  I came in shots, in
buckets, filling her, matching her crazy thrashing ...

I don't remember how many times we fucked that afternoon.  I lost
count.  Every time she thought I might lose my erection, she would push
me onto my back, and take my prick between her huge jugs.  Already
slick with her juice and sweat, it needed no more encouragement to be
swallowed up by her deep cleavage and, at the up stroke, waiting
mouth.  It never failed to bring me right back to life.  Finally,
though, even her talents and endowments proved insufficient: I
collapsed in a pile next to her, and drifted off to a nap.  Even then,
she was languidly fondling herself next to me, softly moaning, playing
with the rosy nipple of one breast.  I'd never seen a woman that
aroused before.

When I awoke a couple of hours later (having missed my office hours for
the day, but to a good cause), she was gone, leaving a note on the
kitchen counter: "Sorry to eat and run, but I had a class to catch.  I
may not walk right for days, but it was worth it.  Thanks for helping a
friend in need.  See you soon.  Love, Lynda."  Just like her, I
thought, tossing the note into the trash.  I went to the bathroom for a
much-needed shower.

As I toweled off, I noticed that that vial she had drank from was still
sitting on the counter, the cap beside it.  There was just a quarter
inch of milk left in it.  A sudden flash of inspiration hit me: her
sudden unexpected arousal had occurred right after drinking the milk.
Hmmm ...

The department secretary gave me her best
You-Grad-Students-Are-All-Flakes look when I walked in.  Which was
funny in its way, since Cynthia Hessel couldn't have been more than 26
herself.  More than one new teaching assistant, overcome by her deep
blue eyes, long blonde hair, perfect Nordic features, and (at least)
42DD breasts on a tall and slender body, had tried to get past her
repertoire of cutting expressions, all to no avail.  Ms. Hessel (even
the most lecherous of professors called her that) remained impervious
to conquest.  The perfect control for a most scientific experiment, I
thought.

"Mr. Davidson, you missed your 1:30 office hours.  I had to hold off a
hold of anguished undergrads single-handedly," she said, fixing me with
a glare of singular frostiness.

"I do appreciate your efforts in my behalf, Ms. Hessel," I replied,
affecting my most apologetic tone.  My downturned eyes also allowed me
to discreetly survey her desk.  I observed that her cup was empty.
"Might I make my amends by getting you another cup of tea?"

She seemed startled that I hadn't come up with some more arrogant
retort.  "Um, sure, OK," she relented, actually smiling broadly at me.
Well, well, I thought, perhaps ice water doesn't flow through her veins
after all.  "I take sugar and cream," she called after me as I made my
way to the coffee room.  No problem, I thought, emptying the contents
of the vial into the tea cup.

An hour later, I was most dissatisfied.  I had been grading papers in
my office, getting up once every few minutes to check on the status of
my experiment.  Cynthia was as businesslike as ever, her mass of blonde
hair in a severe bun, her small gold-rimmed glasses making her look
much older than her years.  Ah, well, I thought, looking at the clock:
5:45; everyone else is long gone, and I'll make myself absent soon
enough.

Ten minutes later, there was a tentative knock on my door.  Huh?  I
thought: no one, but no one, bothers to knock on a grad student's
office door before charging in.  "Come in," I called out, not looking
up from the stack of papers, only about a quarter graded.

Cynthia was standing in the doorway, framed by the light.  She seemed a
different person.  Her hair was down, her glasses off, and something
about her face made her features appear softer, more youthful.  Now,
she could pass for nineteen.

"Is everything OK?" I asked, looking concerned.

"Um, listen, I, like, um, need to talk to someone, or something.  I'm
sorry about the way I snapped at you," she finished, her speech
drifting off.  She sounded completely different as well.  Soft, demure,
incredibly feminine.

"It's alright.  I was a flake.  Come on in," I said, gesturing to the
ancient futon couch that was the only other place to sit in the room.

She shyly walked over to the sofa, closing the door behind her, and
plopped down.  I joined her, keeping my distance.  "What's up?" I
inquired.

"Well, it's, like, I don't know, I feel kind of strange.  I really need
something, but I don't know how to say it ..." she stammered, drifting
off again.  Her eyes, huge, luminous, and full, stared into mine.  Her
breathing was labored, and it made her huge tits rise and fall softly
from her deep blue dress.  Her nipples, large as my fingertip, poked
through.  I was obvious what she needed.

I leaned over, running my hand over her hair.  Her hand automatically
rose to stop me, but ended up pressing gently down on the back of my
hand, encouraging my caresses.  Her eyes closed, and her mouth opened
(was it just my imagination, or had she put on lipstick since I first
arrived?).

This time, I savored the sensations.  We kissed for what seemed like
hours, encouraging her from a slow slide of my lips across her cheek to
a full, wet, open kiss, her tongue exploring my mouth.  My hands began
to freely explore her body, feeling her breasts, enjoying her gasps as
I thumbed and softly pinched the nipples.  Finally, as if in a dance,
we undressed, first my shirt, then her dress, then my pants, then her
bra.  Her tits swung free from their confinement, and I nearly lost my
control.  Huge, full, but still firm, they rode high and proud on her
chest, jutting out from a slender torso.  The nipples were bright pink
in very pale circles; her skin was perfectly pale, not a blemish or
mark.  (As I cast the bra aside, I couldn't help but read the label:
42DD.  At least I haven't lost my touch for estimation, I thought.)

Finally, our underwear.  She was a natural blonde, with a perfect
honey-colored snatch.  She was already glistening and wet from her
arousal, and I was quite hard from our foreplay.  Her hands slid
tentatively along my shaft, as if it were something unfamiliar to her.
I let her play with me for a while, enjoying the sensations of her long
fingers on my cockhead and balls, before lowering my mouth to her
waiting tits.

Her pants became harsher.  "Oh, yes, please, suck on them, lick them,
that feels so good," she gasped between moans.  I licked and sucked
them like candy, flicking my tongue over her nipples, gently biting,
running my mouth all over her swelling mounds.  Pushing her breasts
together, I plunged into her cleavage as she egged me on.

Finally, I rolled off, laying down on the couch, my cock standing at
attention.  She looked at it with huge eyes, finally glancing up at
me.  "Would you like me to, like, you know, lick it?" she asked, the
last two words barely a whisper.  I nodded and smiled in
encouragement.  She leaded over it, kissing the head.  "I've never done
this before," she shyly admitted.  "Tell me what to do."

So I did.  Under my guidance she licked all around and over the head,
paying special attention the sensitive spots behind the glans.  Her
tongue descended my shaft, licking, sucking, and kissing, finally
taking my balls into her mouth, one then the other, her tongue and hot
lips dancing over the surface.  Finally, with a word from me, she took
me full into her mouth, sinking deep over my rod, drawing out with
exquisite suction.  Faster and faster, moaning deep in her throat as
she did so, she milked me into her mouth, her hands fondling my balls
and the base of the shaft the whole time.

I could stand it no more.  I guided her head off of me, and laid her
back, spreading her legs wide.  My tongue plunged into her, probing,
searching, tasting her musky juices and sucking and licking at her
clit.  She writhed and thrusted, mindless now with passion, almost
screaming with pleasure as I worked first one, then two fingers into
her, probing deep into her.  Her first orgasm made her nearly fall off
the couch, but I rode with her, finger-fucking her, sucking at her
clit.

Before she had a chance to recover from her second climax, I
straightened up, and guided myself into her.  Her hips rose to meet me,
and we thrusted together in perfect time.  Her pussy was wet, hot, and
incredibly tight: if she wasn't a virgin, she was very close.  Her
orgasms came one after another, building in intensity each time.  As I
looked down at her face, eyes closed in passion, mouth pouting and wet,
her breasts heaving and swaying with my thrusts, covered with sweat, I
could not believe that this beautiful creature who had been lusted
after for so long by so many was actually fucking me.

That revelation brought me just to the edge of my own climax; she must
have felt it too, because her eyes snapped open and bored into to me.
"Yes, yes, please!  Come inside me!  I want it, I need it, please!" she
begged, and that was more than enough to push me over the edge.  I came
endlessly, frantically, filling her blonde pussy with what seemed like
gallons of cum ...

We lay together and talked for hours after that.  She shyly admitted
that she actually wanted a lover badly, but couldn't get past her own
reserve to hunt one out.  Then, this afternoon, as she sat at her desk,
she started to get hornier and hornier, until finally she couldn't help
it.  She had been thinking about me since the quarter started, and then
fantasizing about me, and finally, when the unexplainable (to her, at
least) arousal hit, there was only one thing she could do.

I called Lynda later to find out what had happened to the experimental
drug.  Unfortunately, they decided the side effects were too severe to
warrant further human trials, and the last session in my apartment had
drained Lynda dry of her special milk.  Hours of phone calls and
investigations into the labyrinth of the campus medical system to find
out who might still have samples of the drug provided completely
fruitless.  After a month or so, I gave it up.  So much for the first
aphrodisiac in history to really work, I thought wryly.  On the other
hand, perhaps it was just as well: I'm not sure what social panic would
result if every woman using the Pill could produce something that
potent.

In the weeks that followed Cynthia and my first liaison, when the other
department members saw us arrive arm in arm, her hair down and her eyes
like sapphires (no glasses anymore, but contacts), they all wanted to
know what had happened.  How had the department's ice queen been
thawed.  The secret of the milk was safe with me forever, so I just
told them, "Sometimes, it's good to have friends."