Dr Hooters - Pt. LIV by the Road Dog MEET THE MISTRESS Paula Featherstone paused as she pulled her black fishnet stock- ings halfway up her shapely thighs. Damn!, she thought to her- self. How long is it going to take me to get used to having these great fucking tits? Finding that she could not reach far enough under her massive orbs to complete the job herself, she called for one of her slaves. "Jason!", she commanded. "You may approach!" A tall, well-muscled, dark-haired young man wearing nothing but a black bikini brief which covered, but did not obscure, his con- siderable erection, peeped in from one of the side rooms. "Yes, Mistress?", he asked. "You may assist me in attaching my stockings to my garter belt", she said imperiously. Jason knelt at her feet and worshipfully unrolled the stockings up her legs, carefully fastening the stays to the snaps in Paula's black garter belt. This exercise brought him eye-level with the bottoms of Paula's phenomenally large white breasts and her meaty pink nipples, pierced with silver nipple-rings and connected by a dainty silver chain.. "Mistress's breasts look merciful today", Jason said. "With Mis- tress's permission..." "No, Jason", Paula snapped. "You may *not* service them, not yet. I may have use for you later, though. Assume the posi- tion." Jason prostrated himself at her feet. Leaning over and reaching around her enormous boobs, Paula pulled her five inch black spike heels onto her dainty feet. Then, putting on her leather cap, her sunglasses, and throwing her leather motorcyclist's jacket across her shoulders, she stepped across Jason's back, grinding her spike heels into his flesh with each step. "Thank you, Mistress", gasped Jason in obvious arousal. "You may *not* wank, Jason, understood?", she barked as she stepped off him. "I want you in top form for tonight." "As Mistress wishes", he replied. The twin doors flew open as the tiny Paula stepped through them. On either side stood two identical black men, heavily muscled and naked to the waist, holding the door as she passed. "Gaston, Marcel, good day to you both", she greeted them in passing. "Good day, Mistress", they responded in unison as she sashayed down the hall to the room where Peter was waiting for her. Beau- tiful, stupid men for fucking and brilliant, cunning men for plotting. God, I should have left that soggy old island years ago, she thought. But then, I didn't have these. She twisted her left nipple-ring with her leather-gloved hand and shivered as this sent a jolt down through her abdomen and into her nethers. Peter bowed slightly as she entered the room, her black leather jacket swish! swish! swishing against the panties on her pert bottom. "Good day, Mistress Paula", he intoned in his clipped, upper-crust accent. Even though Peter was an American, he had been educated at Cambridge, and his imitation of the British gen- tleman was flawless, in dress as well as in demeanour. He was also one of the few men who looked her in the face as she talked. She appreciated that. "What have you found out, Peter?", she asked him impatiently, tapping her leather riding crop nervously against her left thigh. Peter unfolded a thick sheath of papers on the table. "With Mis- tress's permission", he began. "I would like to point out first of all that your initial suspicion was quite correct. The 'Dr Hooters' story that has appeared on the Internet for some months now is not a fantasy as first supposed. Nor is it merely an elaborate coding apparatus, although that element exists." "With the material we received from Candystripe concerning the research being carried out on their behalf at the University here, we were able to locate the two schoolgirls and their fami- ly. Now, with the additional information you've brought back with you from Britain and Herzheim Laboratories, we're able to identify all the major players." He threw three photographs on the table. Two were of extraordi- narily beautiful women, the other was a dark-haired man in his early forties. "This is Jill Clayton", Peter said, holding up the photograph of the stunning blonde. "She left the University in late March under very suspicious circumstances." Paula held the photograph at eye level. "J.C. in the story, right?" "Correct, Mistress. Now, the redhead is one Julie Heatherwick, also recently disappeared, and terminated from the project for personal reasons, never given. She, it seems, is the J.H. the story describes." "And the dark-haired gent?", Paula asked. "That is one supposed Captain Theodore Mourassi, given as retired from the Greek Navy. I've checked with both the Admiralty and the Greek Embassy in Washington, and they both insist that no one by that name has ever served in the Greek Armed Forces. Never- theless, a computer in Athens shows that a pension check is mailed to him every month to a post office box in, of all places, North Carolina." "What is his role in all of this?", she asked impatiently. "We don't know yet, Mistress", responded Peter. "We have agents out looking for him right now." "So, the girl we're looking for..." "Is between eight and fourteen years old, Mistress", interrupted Peter bravely, his enthusiasm besting his caution. "She would have the initials B.R., have either blonde or light red hair, and have about a forty-eight inch bust" Paula rubbed the sides of her own pair of eighty-sevens, thrilling as the rough leather of the gloves chafed and scratched them. "Ooooh! Fairly small, it seems. Almost flat-chested. Where do you think she is?" Peter unfolded a map of Florida on the table, and pointed to a large coastal town almost at the top of the map. "All our sources point to this town here, Century Beach, Mistress. I have a team at work there now." "Instruct the slaves to pack their things, Peter", she ordered. "I'll be leaving for Century Beach then directly." "As you wish, Mistress", he said, bowing slightly as he turned to leave the room. Paula sat down in the velvet-lined chair, the soothing fabric rubbing smoothly on the bare skin of her behemoth breasts and the bare spots between her stockings and her panties. God, what a sexual playground this city was! How easy it had been for her, flying madly from that fiasco in Britain, to establish herself here. Of course, her breasts helped. Paula vacillated between eighty and one-hundred-twenty inches of solid breast-meat on her tiny frame, depending on whether or not she was lactating, the result of her encounter with Jennie Walters' formula. What could ever have possessed her to think it was the formula she was seeking, the formula her unknown and immensely rich employer was also seeking? What tipped her off was the inertness of her breast milk. When she first found herself giving milk, she fed it carefully to a group of British schoolgirls, enlisted unwittingly for the exper- iment by the National Health Trust. She waited one, two, three weeks. Nothing, nada, zero. Her milk was simply that, milk. Disappointed by the results, she returned immediately to Florida. Formerly flat-chested, Paula, with her titanic new endowments, made a profound impact even on the jaded metropolis her employer had chosen for her center of operations. In a matter of weeks, she found herself, with her employer's knowledge and consent, enthroned as the reigning queen of a small coterie of lactophilic fetishists living in an elegantly appoint- ed mansion on Star Island. There were about forty of them, all counted, with a dozen or more in attendance at any given time. In exchange for the inestimable privilege of drinking at the fountains of her copious and inexhaustible breasts, they catered to her every whim. And Paula's whims had been getting quite demanding lately. No matter. The more outrageous the dark-haired Englishwoman became, the more they adored her. It was a vicious cycle. The more they fawned, the more contempt Paula treated them with. The more abuse they took from Paula, the more they loved her. All in all, it was a very comfortable symbiosis. She passed her leather gloved hands over the preposterous curves of her titanic breasts. Shit! she thought. This sure beats bloody hell even out of the two hundred forty quid a week I used to make as a flat-chested investigator chasing cars around with that loser Lee Tasker, or playing penitent sinner for that mealy- mouthed Jennie Walters. Still, one question bothered her above all others. If this all doesn't concern breast growth, what in hell is it all about any- way?