The Kindness of Strangers

"Is there a napkin in the glove box?" Cynthia rifled through it hoping to find something to help her. But being that the car was new, it was fresh out.

She kept her eyes on the snowy road, trying to stay positive. She had a half hour 'till she got home but the pressure in her chest was building up so dramatically she started to get some serious aches and pains. She was an Microsoft executive working in the mountains of Palo Alto and, due to an insane Christmas Eve work day, hadn't been able to lactate all day. She was scooted in and out of meetings by her boss until she looked at the clock and saw that it was 6:00 p.m. She should have drained herself twice since that afternoon.

A gas station up ahead could provide some respite. The soft cotton fabric of her shirt stretch tightly across her bosom, now unbuttoned completely to give her maximum room. Several times she thought she would almost get into a car accident from being so distracted. Driving around on a dark snowy night with her jacket unzipped and shirt undone made her feel horribly vulnerable but at the same time her swelling was so dramatic that something had to be done immediately.

She pulled into the gas station which practically seemed closed and got out of her car in a desperate daze not even sure what she was going to do. Suddenly, she arched her back involuntarily and bent over the hood of her car, milk spraying from her chest as the pressure had grown so great she couldn't hold it in any longer. She groped at the bottom of her breasts searching for her nipple which she found quickly because it had swollen large enough to fill up her palm.

"Why tonight? Tonight of all nights?"

A kindly gas station attendant, the only one willing to work Christmas Eve, spotted her from his desk and put down the lottery ticket he was scratching.

"Ma'am, ma'am. What are you doing!"

The pale-skinned woman was now milking herself onto the hood of her car with her winter jacket falling off her shoulder and exposing her chest to the cold winds of December.

"Please, it is too cold for this!"

Cynthia looked up to the man pleadingly. He was a tall, dark, older fellow with a big puffy jacket and his hands out. She was too dazed to question him and anyway felt a warm spirit from him as he ushered her into his store and turned over the "Open" sign to "Closed."

Clearly something was very wrong and the attendant, whose name was Terry, diagnosed her immediately as an engorged woman clearly far gone and in desperate need of expression. In his home country, there were many instances of macromastia and extremely heavy lactation so he was no stranger to the situation. "Miss, you need to be milked," he said frankly. He studied Cynthia as she wobbled over to the counter. He went to the other side and drew her distended breasts across it, positioning her so she leaned over. Her frozen hands felt good to be inside of a warm place.

"There, there," he said, caressing her breasts down and encouraging her to let them dangle over the counter. He pulled a bucket out and placed it under the counter, quickly but sensitively tugging at her round nipples to get the milk to flow. If she kept panicking, the milk would come out in spurts and make her pain all the worse.

Cynthia thought back to her husband who was probably wondering where she was and why she wasn't cooking dinner. He was going to be pissed when she got back.

Terry hadn't seen a women as big as Cynthia in years. Her chest was large enough to cover the counter and he estimated their weight, not including milk, to be close to 15 pounds each. He planned to get her icy hot cream for her back and shoulders which no doubt were aching but first he had to tend to her breasts and get them to relax. Milk sprayed out of them intermittently, sometimes in short trickles and other times in frothy bursts. He watched his hands cover in the white droplets and recalled how he had been through this many times before.

Cynthia's meager cotton blouse hung at her sides helplessly, far too small to be of any service to her now. She had felt it tightening through the day, inching closer and closer to popping while she gave presentations. She always hated working through her designated milking times especially when she had to present in front of others, but her boss was so hard on her about deadlines, she really had no choice.

As she left her building that evening, she noticed the door man staring at her with his jaw down. Once she got into the car, she realized her jacket zipper had burst in the center and revealed the obviously overfilled contents of her blouse. She tried to put her lactation pump on herself while driving but her nipples had swollen so big, the cups wouldn't adhere to her.

"It is too dangerous to be filled like this," Terry advised.

Cynthia was too tired to respond but agreed with him.

Terry had seen many women like her through the years. Palo Alto businesses liked to keep busty women like her around to keep up morale. Even the brightest women though had trouble since sooner or later their figures would get them in trouble. Not always from lactating, but the pressure to be a perfect model female employee made them overly self-conscious and these women were always coming in and out of the gas station panicking over some business obligation or dinner they had to attend.

"There it is." Terry excused himself from roughly tugging Cynthia nipples. He grabbed mightily, finally getting them to relax and let the milk flow. For a moment, the two strangers let out of a sigh of relief as creamy white started to pool in the tin container. His hand rhythmically milked her, more slowly now, knowing the worst of it was over. "Better, right? This will feel good now."

Cynthia's breasts were so big they slowly pushed around the gum and cigarettes around the counter. They were so over-swollen, she dared not dream of taking them off the counter as letting them be supported felt so freeing and good. The two could finally look at each other and take account of what was going on.

"Do you feel any better?"

"A bit."

"This will take time." Terry saw the suction cup marks around her areolas. "It's better to do this by hand. Machines are not always the way. Hands do the job."

Cynthia had never had someone treat her breast so kindly or known how to milk them well. She'd only ever milked them herself and, despite having them for years, had never gotten it down to a science like Terry, likely because she had to reach so far out in front of her that her arms could not get comfortable.

"Now it is good." Milk filled up the bucket halfway and Terrys smiled at his work, watching the blue veins in her breasts squirm while the pale skin allowed the sloshing milk to flow freely. Such a large-breasted women needed to be milked almost all the time to be comfortable. Wearing suits and button-ups was horrible for her circulation, always keeping her tightly confined and her breasts pressed up into swelling cleavage.

"You must be a very busy woman."

On days were she was late to work because she could not find clothing that fit, Cynthia often fantasized about being able to sit on her back porch under the sun and take a few hours to milk herself instead of trying to do it on the way to work. "Thank you." She couldn't respond easily.

"No need to thank me. Thank god you drove by here tonight." Terry's respect for her body came from his religious beliefs. In his country, milk was sacred and symbolized fertility, abundance, and good health. Women blessed with large breasts and were revered for the nutrition they gave the community as well as their highly-desirable maternal appearance.

"These are still growing, you know."

Though she always had hope she would stop, Cynthia knew she was still slowly getting bigger. "Yes," she agreed. Her voice soft was accepting honesty.

"You will grow for a long time. These must be taken care of."

Cynthia didn't respond. She knew he was right but wasn't shy to talk about her secret like this.

"But I know you are a busy women. An American woman. Always rushing here and there. This time of year you are a breadwinner and chef, correct?"

Yes she nodded. "I'm late to making dinner."

Terry laughed. "American man do not know how good they have it." He caressed her breasts and admired the bright pinkness of Cynthia's areolas, a sign she was fertile and producing more milk than normal. He pressed into the sides of her breasts and watched in awe as milk streamed out. He pushed around, coaxing out more. It was a testament to how big she was that he could push around and find more milk. Most women could be milked from their nipples alone but Cynthia was bigger than that. He noticed under her breasts lay a crushed bra, around a K cup he estimated but she was closer to NN or larger.

The two continued milking for a half hour. Eventually Cynthia accepted her husband was going to be mad and that she couldn't help it. She had to sit and wait and be milked, and anyway, it felt very good. Terry was gentle with her and careful to milk every last drop. Walking around the counter, he rubbed icy hot on her shoulders and rubbed them as she relaxed. Her muscles were so tight from carrying her boobs all day and he even managed to make the indents in her shoulders soften up.

"How can I repay you? Cynthia asked. She turned to Terry when he was finally done and tried to button her shirt.

"Take this," he said, handing her a blanket to cover herself with. "You have paid me." He pointed to the bucket of milk. "Come back and give me more another day and that will be a blessing."

Cynthia agreed. She was happy to give him more because the treatment she got was the best she'd ever had. That he was a stranger in a gas station didn't matter because he was clearly a man of much experience and compassion.

She lifted her breasts into her bra as best they could, huffing as the big weights clearly could never fit. But she tried to cover up. Her breasts spilled out everywhere and still covered her whole body. Terry helped and patted her around, getting out every last drop. "You are going to be alright."

"Yes."

He helped her button her top. Terry pulled the small plastic fixture towards their holes delicately, trying to work them into each other but it was obvious it would not happen. Cynthia did not stop him and let him go on trying, noticing he was enjoying himself a lot. He rubbed his hands along her cleavage, pressing it around as he fiddled with the blouse. As much as he preferred the decorative dresses of his culture, he admitted that a women as busty as Cynthia had a special appeal when smartly dressed in a tight blouse, one that barely could stay closed.

"No. Go home before you are late." Terry shook his head and smiled and gave a few last touched to her boobs, admiring his work and giving her large nipples final caresses through the bra. "Take this," he said, giving her a snow brush for her window. He stuffed hand warmers into her coat pockets and sent her on her way.

----

Later that evening, Cynthia lay in bed, clad in pajamas her husband had bought her for Christmas. Not one to be thoughtful about details, he bought her a size Medium only and they stretched out mightily, suspending above her body by her boobs. She played with the buttons and remembered the experience from the day. The feeling of her boobs ready to burst and expose themself played in her head. She would need to be more careful if she was going to get by without showing her boobs to everyone she knew. But how? Her husband was snoring and asleep and she felt her self filling again. She wondered how late the gas station was open.

Quietly, she got out of bed and wrapped the blanket Terry gave her around hers shoulders. She got into her car and drove back into the snowy night.