Excessive Indulgence - Part 1 (Commission for Surge)

TAGS: Boobtaur, Hyper/Hyper Breasts, Milk/Lactation/Hyper Milk

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Heaving herself through the door to the living room, or at least trying to, Veena made a mental note to start sending herself emails before she went anywhere that sold anything even remotely alcoholic. One would think someone of her size and girth would have a bit more tolerance to the stuff, but as both herself and her friends found out, she really, really didn’t. Everyone else was on their fifth shot before they even became tipsy; meanwhile, the Espeon had maybe half a glass of some of the cheaper stuff the bar offered and was already doing her best to make everyone in the establishment about as horny as she was, stopped only by the fact that she was fully clothed, fully drained, and thus unable to pull out the sort of nonsense she did when she skipped her proper draining hours. Unfortunately, this did mean she stumbled back home and somehow found herself a place to sleep in the middle of the foyer, apparently unaware that this would absolutely destroy her two backs by the time she awoke; when she did, and then spent a good ten or so minutes just trying to straighten herself out while grumbling about her poor life decisions, Veena then promptly noticed that it was eleven in the morning, she’d somehow slept for ten hours, and her head wasn’t even functioning properly, because her tits were not supposed to be that big. Clearly there had to be some sort of malfunction in between her optical cortex and the rest of her brain, since even with that long spent without having the suction cups on, she wasn’t supposed to be that full. At least, she didn’t think she was, unless her body had undergone a production alteration when she was out cold on a pathetically small amount of booze; it wouldn’t be the first time that one night had been the difference between herself and a brand new set of concerns, but really, had she not had enough? Was getting drunk off her ass and making a fool of herself in front of dozens of people not punishment enough for her poor decisions? Now she had to angle herself properly and spend about half an hour trying to find her new center of balance, half an hour where her breasts continued to fill and make life even harder for her. Veena sighed; she remembered a time when she was just a taur, where all she had was one pair on her upper chest and that was it. She remembered when she was only about six feet from pawpad to the tip of her head, and limber enough to be able to fit into most places. Most of all, she remembered a time when she didn’t have to be on a strict milking schedule just to keep herself from becoming immobilized, and though she knew better, part of her still believed that maybe if she got to the living room fast enough, she’d be able to avoid yet another size upgrade. Alas, it was not to be; just the night before, Veena had a lesson in how far she’d gone from early adult years, since, after all, going out of the house for once required her to get dressed. Perhaps the best part about that exercise was going through her wardrobe and discarding all the items that had fit her the last time she tried them, but had since become far too small, followed by taking the ones she had purchased several sizes above what she had been like at time of purchase only to find them to be absolutely perfect fits. She sighed far too much at that point, reminded as she was of her rather unique condition; others would kill for it, but herself, she… well, to be honest, she liked to pretend that it was a hassle, mostly because part of her needed to find something bad about it, but really, most of the time Veena was just ecstatic about being able to become something of a size icon. The issue was really habituation; much as the taur was something of a genetic abnormality with no equal, she still had to live with herself every day, and under those conditions, even the most fantastical of bodies became downright mundane from exposure alone. Thus, it wasn’t at all strange for the Espeon to look at herself in the mirror and see not the lithe quadruped she used to be, but a gargantuan, ten-foot tall, twenty-foot long miniature giantess with more rows of breasts than she knew what to do with. The first one had “sprouted” about a decade prior, and over time, she had filled out to the point where they ran down her front, stopping at her waist before resuming under her tauric half, counting up to a total of three rows up, and an astounding six rows down. More than enough to beat records the world over, and yet she nonetheless found it necessary to complement it with size as well; it wasn’t enough that she managed to have more tits on her than most people ever would, no, they had to be about three feet across each at their smallest, making it more than a little annoying when she had to walk anywhere: not only did Veena have to learn to move around while keeping all four of her legs locked in between cleavages, but she had to do so with an increased level of sensitivity as well. There was a very good reason why she didn’t leave the house often, and it wasn’t even because of her size; what was worse, the sheer degree of heft to those things wasn’t even the most exaggerated part of them, the milk was. It wouldn’t been enough if she were simply large, would’ve been enough if her tits were just big and that was the end of it; she’d need to readjust, change a few things around, maybe even consider physical therapy if it got too heavy for her to handle (literally), but that would be it. Unfortunately for the Espeon, the universe at large had different plans, and decided to bless her with a supernaturally hyperactive rate of lactation as well, because really, why not go the full mile? More than once she’d been called a cow, fully seriously and without a hint of an insult behind it, and more than once, Veena herself had agreed; the few times she hadn’t had mostly been because she disagreed with the notion that cows could ever reach her level, seeing as most bovines couldn’t even begin to hold a candle to the insane amounts of dairy production that went on inside her. This was, perhaps, the one aspect of her body that even Veena couldn’t pretend to dislike, as merely thinking about it was enough to get her cheeks to blush and her fur to stand on end; at the end of the day, it was a kink fulfilled free of charge, and even if she tried her best to pretend like that wasn’t the case, the Espeon had to admit that being able to produce fuck knows how many gallons of milk per day in each breast was… sublime was definitely a word, but she’d have to go with “oh god yes”, or some variation thereof, grammar was often difficult when one’s brain was too busy processing pleasure responses. She’d stopped counting when the number reached twenty, and that was a good year and a half prior; Veena was all-but certain that, if she hadn’t already reached triple digit production daily, she was close enough to it that it barely made a difference, and that was per milktank last she checked. Really, cows wished they were as milky as she was, though admittedly this caused something of a strain when it came to emptying out. Most draining mechanisms were designed with certain ranges in mind, and having a taur packing eighteen milk factories operating at peak capacity at all hours of the day absolutely was not in anything’s instructional manual and best practices booklet. What she had installed in her home was less of a milking pump array and far more of a bastardized, demonic hellspawn of a machine, created by the sort of mind one dug out from retirement and then promptly shoved back into the box where it came from, lest it contaminate the world with its mad genius. Honestly, Veena had no clue how any of it worked, nor how exactly it had been built into her apartment home without sacrificing everything around it, but as long as she had the tubes and they still emptied her out, she wasn’t about to complain, or ask questions for that matter. All that was required of her was for the Espeon to lie down, slowly tilt herself to the side, and input a code in the keypad on the wall of her living room; from there, the automated mechanisms would take care of the rest, plugging her teats with the suction cups attached to the milking system and setting the whole thing to operate for anywhere from one to three hours, depending on how full Veena happened to be that day, or whether or not she had “forgotten” to milk herself on schedule. That was the main issue with her as well: it was not, again, that she was just milky, but that her productivity had a way of going into runaway territory and required very close monitoring if she wanted to keep it from escalating into unsustainable levels. She had no clue how she produced that much without a similar increase in caloric intake either, since as far as anyone was able to tell, she should be devouring her weight in food every day just to keep her body from dehydrating every twelve or so hours. Yet she still ate pretty much the same as she always had; perhaps a little bit more considering her main body had grown as well, and she certainly made up the difference through snacks in the middle of the afternoon (and morning, and night, and in between naps), but it was still not enough to justify having that much milk made, and especially not whatever happened when she either decided to skip a milking, or just forgot about it entirely. She was reasonably certain this was the root cause of her growing as well; while she was, for obvious reasons, not keen on experimenting with it, Veena was nonetheless convinced that it was her pushing her body to the limit that caused it to grow bigger permanently, almost as if her filling up more than usual caused her tits to “stretch out”, as it were, followed by the rest of her doing the same to compensate. Really, it would make about as much sense as the rest of her, and if that was the case, at least her growth trigger was something that was internally consistent with the rest of the nonsense happening with her; still, she didn’t know, and wasn’t about to try and find out… at least, not most of the time. Waking up with a hangover and tits that were about six feet wide thanks to how much milk they were carrying, however, had a tendency of doing wonders to one’s perspective and goals; more specifically, Veena really couldn’t care less about whether or not she was doing something stupid, because she couldn’t get through the damned door into her living room and, by that point, she no longer cared. Most of the foyer was just her by then, and the only way out was calling the emergency number the milking machine engineers had left behind and hope that they knew what to do; it was out of her hands, and frankly, Veena liked it that way. At least then she had the excuse that, whatever happened, it wasn’t her fault, nor was she to blame for anything that might happen to her surroundings; given the kind of noises coming from her tits, said “anything” was coming along nicely as well. On the other hand, she liked that house, and as much as a highly destructive, absolutely gargantuan milkgasm was absolutely on her to-do list, the taur couldn’t just ruin something that had cost an obscene amount of money that she didn’t have to pay a single dime of; hell, they might force her to foot the bill the next time, and she was more than certain her proceeds from milk sales weren’t going to cover whatever black magic was used to make the whole place work the way that it did. Sighing, and by then effectively rendered immobile by a whole carriage of tits that seemed intent on growing bigger and fuller by the second, Veena leaned sideways towards the emergency phone line the company installed for her. Back then, she wondered why exactly they build it near the ceiling; she couldn’t reach it without a ladder (and a platform for the rest of her as well), and she wasn’t planning on filling up enough to ever get close, turning the whole thing into a pointless exercise in overengineering. She thought that, and as she lay there, staring down at herself and at her perspective very slowly inching upwards, Veena felt like slapping her past self for ever thinking that something like this wouldn’t happen. Of course she’d eventually do something stupid and end up stuck on top of her milktanks without being able to move; it’d be ridiculous to think otherwise, and good on the construction company for having the foresight to install the last-resort communication line somewhere she’d be able to use it… then again, there still remained the question of how exactly she was supposed to report the issue, but she figured she’d bullshit something up on the spot and call it a day. Thankfully, there was only a single button on the phone, a massive red thing next to the receiver labeled, quite conspicuously, “HELP”; not knowing whether to sigh or chortle, Veena gently pressed it with a satisfying chunk sound, then held the receiver in her hand to listen to the onslaught of bland corporate waiting music. It was somewhat underscored by the increasingly aggressive gurgling coming from underneath her, but frankly, at that point, Veena would take that over the same ten-second loop she’d heard in minor variations a million times before… or would, were it not for the fact that the ceiling was getting dangerously close to her (or, perhaps, the other way around), leaving her with ever less room, the odds of her breaking through the foyer onto adjacent rooms going up with every second she spent not being milked. Even worse, a full minute had passed and no one had picked up the damned phone! It was supposed to be an emergency line, which stood to reason that it should have someone on call at all times in case of… well, an emergency?! There she was, grumbling, rubbing her temple with one hand and holding a receiver on the other, wondering to herself where everything had gone wrong, waiting for someone to pick up and let her know that yes, a technician was being sent her way. Instead, all she got was the same damned music and a-knock.

A knock at the door.

Her head turned, neck practically snapping when Veena heard the sound coming from behind her at about the same time as the music from the receiver stopped and was replaced by a dial tone. It wasn’t any better when the door opened all on itself, the Espeon wondering whether she’d just been the victim of the world’s most polite home invader, all while kicking herself that the emergency line didn’t work and lacked a standard panel so she could dial 911. All these thoughts and more coursed through her in the second or so between hearing the lock open and seeing who was on the other side, at which point her sunk heart rose back to the surface and she breathed a sigh of relief. There, looking up at her with an expression that carried the word “Seen it” stamped all over it, was a member of her extended “family”: a Sylveon. Even better, they were dressed in familiar garb, donning the uniform of the selfsame construction company responsible for having assembled the milking apparatus in the first place!

“Sorry I’m late!” the newcomer blurted out, squeezing through the barely-open front door and letting the encroaching wall of breastflesh close it for him, “I had to go get a sandwich and you caught me with my pants down. Sorry for that, the company will reimburse you for whatever damages were incurred during the wait.”

“You had to get a sandwich,” Veena repeated, incredulously.

“Yes, I know, I’m sorry!” the Sylveon replied, sounding legitimately apologetic, “We’re supposed to keep ‘round-the-clock surveillance on the whole thing, but we gotta eat at some point, and I forgot to bring lunch today, and you know how it’s like.”

“Well, I c-wait, what do you mean surveillance?”

The Sylveon blinked once, appearing thoroughly confused by the question.

“It was in the contract you signed. Part of it stipulated that LactCorp was allowed to maintain a team on-site for the purpose of surveillance and observation of the milking array, thanks to the, uh, unique circumstances” - the young man waved towards Veena in general - “As evidenced.”

“I was not aware of this?!”

“We apologize, Miss Veena, b-alright, listen, tell you what” - the Sylveon cleared his throat, taking a second or two to collect his thoughts and change the approach to the whole affair - “My name is Ark, I’ll be your assistant for this incident. Now, my job is to help you with your filling issue and hopefully get us both through this without having to go through the municipal fire department. Again, I mean. Now, is the milking array still operational?”

“I-y-yes, yes, I think it is?” Veena stuttered, taken aback by the sudden change in tone, “I haven’t actually been there today, so if you wouldn’t mind, feel free to come over me.”

It didn’t occur to Veena just what she was offering until it came out of her mouth, at which point it was too late to stop it. She absolutely did not expect her visitor to so shamelessly grab two handfuls of one of her tits in order to heave himself upwards, nor did she think it possible that he could climb up onto her with such alarming ease. It made it look like he’d done it before, a thought which Veena didn’t know whether to find terrifying, enticing, or just downright fascinating; regardless of anything else, the Sylveon seemed both at east and at home going up the milky titstack, even humming a tune without a care in the world as he did so. There wasn’t much Veena could do other than remain as she was, occasionally wincing as the weight of the technician bore down on her a bit more than expected, or when he accidentally tripped and had to plunge a hand into her to get his balance back. Her face was, by then, bright red, and not necessarily just because of the physical stimulation either; the thought of herself as a colossal bed of milk was something that caused a lot of ideas to go through her head, not one of which was anything remotely wholesome, and though she couldn’t see herself, she could still picture the way she looked: immense, room-filling, gurgling and slorshing, definitely leaking milk all over the place uncontrollably. It made her want to do a great many things which she’d regret almost immediately after, yet would do them regardless if she had the chance… except, of course, she was still stuck on top of herself with no recourse on how to get down. It didn’t help that the Sylveon gave her what was unmistakably a pat on the head when he squeezed through next to her upper torso, even if he did so in a way that could plausibly be excused as an attempt at gaining leverage to swing himself into the living room. Hard to tell, really; when one had one’s field of view mostly covered by boob, it was difficult to think straight about most things that didn’t involve the mental image of a dozen or so hands milking oneself to completion. It was honestly getting somewhat ridiculous, to the point where she couldn’t even see the living room without using both hands to push her topmost row down, and even then she had to go so far that it became… well, not painful, but certainly something. That it forced her to slorsh harder didn’t evade her notice, nor did the warmth exuding from her every pore, exaggerated to the point where it was making her sweat all over. She wanted to call for the Sylveon, maybe even ask him what he was supposed to be doing, but she supposed that listening to the clanking of machinery ought to suffice. At least it was something, even if she couldn’t be sure if this “Ark” fellow was actually setting things up or just pretending to work for the sake of keeping her calm; maybe he thought that if he acted that way, she’d stop producing so much milk, presumably by thinking that things were about to calm down and she needn’t worry about exploding out of her house. If that was the case, then the young man was seriously mistaken, because all Veena could feel were her many nipples pushing against hard surfaces all around her, and while it wasn’t yet so bad that she couldn’t think straight, it was absolutely getting there far too quickly for her liking, enough so that she had half a mind to call for the Sylveon and demand that he come empty her out manually. Then again, with her head just a couple of inches off from the ceiling, what good would that do? What could one person do compared to the tidal wave of milk coming down their way, when one breast alone was most likely outputting more milk by itself than most dairy cows could produce in a week or more? Or something or other, Veena had never bothered to look up production rates after it became clear hers was just “more than”, though now she was absolutely regretting this decision. It wouldn’t have done her any good, since knowing how much milk she was making didn’t magically make the milk go away, but at least she’d have some semblance of control over it; she could say that she was making so-and-so much, maybe even go so far as compare herself with some random statistics she pulled out of a website somewhere, anything really so long as it helped her get through the day without thinking about what was happening to her at that exact moment. Anything to distract her mind and keep it focused away from how stuffed she was feeling, how full she knew she was, how big she was getting, any of that thoroughly unimportant and most definitely not world-shattering stuff. No, more important things, like… rent. And food. And cooking or… whatever it was she did on a regular basis. Did she cook? She figured she might; not a lot of moving around if she didn’t eat properly, that much was for certain. Did she drink milk? She didn’t know; Veena was legitimately confused as to why she was even thinking about it when her tits were nearing on ten feet wide each and so heavy that she could actually feel their mass despite them being firmly anchored on the floor. Not much else to think about; the moment the taur let that one thought through, the rest of them came barreling right after, leaving her unable to actually process any information that wasn’t related to her tits, her dairy, or anything surrounding those two.