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?







