End: Lois Finds The Milch Cows

Curiosity warred with common sense—and when Lois Lane heard the technician Luthor was talking to mention checking on the "herd," curiosity won out.

Clad in nothing more than a labcoat, her back aching, tits the size of pillows leaking warm dribbles of milk between her fingers, armed only with a stolen security badge and her warm personality, Lois Lane did her best to shadow the technician. She ducked into doorways, feeling ridiculous as her utters seemed to stick out no matter which way she turned. At one point she tripped, unable to see an extension cord across the floor because she couldn't see her own feet for her aching, leaking tits.

All of which culminated in the technician walking straight up to the security doors, swiping their badge, keying in their personal code—and Lois Lane gave personal thanks to whatever deity that might be listening that so much of the security in this underground lab or hospital or whatever it was was passive. Electronic doors rather than armed guards. Because Lois had no way to get that technician's badge and code, no way to get into the room where the milch cows were kept—except by waiting for them to open the door.

Holding her tits in both arms, Lois sprinted down the corridor. Top-heavy, she could barely keep her balance as she cannonballed straight toward the technician. She caught a glimpse of him, just as the door opened but before he stepped through. A young Black man, with close-cropped hair. Gangly, pencil-necked, with thick glasses in front of dark brown eyes.

The impact of the reporter's body carried them both through the door. He was bowled over, Lois Lane's huge pillows pushed into his face and knocking him to the floor. His head hit with a crack, and an involuntary groan, almost sensual, hissed past his lips as the reporter's breasts half-smothered him.

When, groaning as her back and spine screamed at her, Lois managed to pick herself up, she saw the dribble of blood from the back of his head leaking out. She hoped he wasn't hurt too bad.

Then she saw where she was, and all concern for him vanished.

"Uh uh uh uh uh..."

The stalls were barely big enough to hold each woman. They sat in rows, hoses and pumps attached to their burgeoning breasts. Lois thought that she was big, but some of the "milch cows" were more tit than woman. The reporter's jaw dropped in awe as she saw one small Asian woman, a streak of blue dyed into her Black hair, who would have stood only five foot in her stocking feet...but her tits each looked like a woman full-term with octuplets. Lois recognized her as one of the women she had been seeking. Tonya Wong, 21 years old, a business major at Metropolis University.

Now, the tiny woman was nothing more than a life support system for her tremendous tits, moaning around the feeding tube taped in place over her mouth...and as Lois tip-toed forward, she soon saw why. The "stool" the woman sat on had a hole in it. A pumping dildo plunged up and down, an endless sex machine stirring the young woman's pussy into a froth, a vibrator taped to her clit providing whatever other stimulation was needed to keep the poor woman in a constant state of sexual arousal.

"Ah...ah...AH....AHH....AHHHHgggh..." The woman's eyes rolled into the back of her head, her frail body shivering. Regardless, the milk continued to pump.

Lois Lane couldn't understand it. She knew, logically, that the size of a woman's breasts didn't correspond to how much milk they produced. Most of them were fat, after all, not milk glands. Yet these women with their freaking engorged udders, mindlessly lost in climax after climax...it was perverse. A nightmare.

They were being farmed.

Lois Lane didn't know much about farms—but she knew someone who did. And as she looked around at the room, which seemed to contain several dozen women with tits ranging from the size of beach balls to beanbags, the reporter found what she had been looking for.

A phone.

It didn't take long to get an outside line. She hung onto the phone for dear life as it rang, thinking at any moment she might be discovered.

"Come on, come on, pick up—Smallville? Lois. Look, I don't have much time..."

Lois talked. Listened. Asked a question. Looked about...and then smiled as she found what Clark Kent had told her to look for.

This place was a glorified, high-tech barn—and any good farmer had ways to herd the cows out in times of emergency. Lois located the nearest alarm, and pulled it. Sure enough, a siren went off...and, Lois was sure, many electronic locks would automatically open. At least, she hoped so.

"Okay, ladies," Lois said. "Let's go home."

The Metropolis Police Department had already surrounded the club by the time Luthor's technicians burst through the door. Collapsible metal wheelchairs were unfolded, the technicians working to get the women unhooked and into the lightweight devices, each of which came with a shelf to help carry their enormous breasts—and some of the women, like Tonya Wong, were simply too big to fit.

Luthor, to his credit, had absconded by the time the Justice League showed up to help with the crowd control—and Lois felt a sigh of relief as a familiar face pushed its way through the crowd, carrying a folded, clean bedsheet big enough for Lois to use as a toga.

"Smallville, I think I love you!" Lois said as she shucked the labcoat and wrapped the cloth around herself. The normally shy and demure Clark Kent blushed, handing her bobby pins to secure the fabric in place—but she could see him barely able to keep his eyes off of her new assets. Even surrounded in a farm full of women with udders bigger than her own.

Which, Lois thought, was something she appreciated in a man. Almost as much as she appreciated leaning against Clark as they struggled to walk out.

"My back is killing me," she said. "And my breasts are just aching to be milked."

Clark coughed. "You know Lois, back home in Kansas, I was, uh...noted for how gentle I was milking." His face burned bright as he took the plunge. "If you'd like to come back to my place, I've still got some bag balm..."

Lois Lane wanted to laugh...but at the moment, she had to admit, a pair of strong, knowing hands massaging her tits sounded nice.

And who knows? Lois mused. Clark isn't unattractive...

"Alright, Smallville," Lois said. "It's a date!"

Which is how Lois Lane's night out ended...and her new career as the Daily Planet's milkiest reporter began.