The operator sounded much too cheerful. “P.J. Factory! How may I direct your call?”
Mick Stiff nearly hung up on her. He was looking for regular employment, willing to try a different line of work, but he wasn’t ready to hit an assembly line, especially not in a sweatshop that produced pyjamas. Mick was more the sleep-in-your-undershirt type. But the guy who’d told him to call didn’t sound like he was offering a clock-punch Joe Lunchpail type of job. The guy had stars in his eyes. Mick held the line.
“How soon can you get over here?” It was the guy.
Mick was used to being asked how many inches he had, or if he ever had a problem getting wood. This was refreshing. He got the address and made it over to the P.J. Factory in under an hour.
“Thing is,” the guy said, “most guys don’t even wanna look at their old ladies after they’ve delivered. But that’s where you come in, baby. I saw your loop–the fuck was it called–Milkin’ Mamas. You were brilliant.”
“Thanks.” Mick Stiff shuddered. He’d shot that lactation stroker under severe economic duress.
“You’re a natural, kid. Most men never realize that milkers are the richest source of the most precious substance on Earth.”
“Yeah? You can get crude oil from ‘em?”
“No, you…well, actually, sorta…kid. Sorta. I’m talking about pussy juice.”
“That’s our motto: We got a use for pussy juice.”
“Uh, OK, but what’s this job you were telling me about?”
“Well, that’s our other motto: We milk it out of ‘em!”
“Milk out of ‘em…what?”
“Why, the pussy juice, you…Look, I’m gonna give you a shot. Ready to work hard?”
“Working hard’s never been a problem, mister, but I still don’t…”
“Maybe it’s better if I show you, kid. Let’s hit the production floor.”
The P.J. plant didn’t look like the usual factory. Mick Stiff’s first glimpse of industry was what sent him screaming into the porn biz. But the porn biz had changed. There was too much competition. Stud fees had sunk to laughable levels, but there was no shortage of young guys who wanted a spot on the wet screen. The PJ Factory looked soft. The light was low, the heat was on high, New Age muzak oozed from concealed speakers. There were nude women spread all over the place, leafing through magazines. They looked as though they’d been run through a stretching, softening machine. The P.J. Factory boss saw how Mick stared at them.
“Big tits, that’s our motto!”
“You sure got a lot of mottoes here, Mr…”
“You wanna be a wise-ass, kid? Or do you wanna milk pussy juice?”
“Show me what I’m supposed to do.”
“The job’s a hands-on affair.” The boss grabbed a soft blonde and gave her ass a swat. “Right, toots: assume the position. You’ll be working with Nick, here.”
“Mick. Mick Stiff.”
She didn’t bat an eyelash. She’d never heard of Mick Stiff. She got on her hands and knees on a padded coffee-table, spread wide and looked back over her shoulder at Mick. Her nipples leaked. “Ready when you are, gorgeous,” she said, in a husky voice. “Shouldn’t take me long.”
The signs of recent motherhood were all there. Mick tried to put the traumatic images out of his head: the blood, the smell, the screams. The big blonde swayed her hips. Mick dropped his pants, grabbed her ass and discreetly drooled down her crack. “Courtesy lube” is the professional term.
“Uh-unh, kid. You got the wrong idea. You’re starting off at the wrong end. Remember our motto: We milk it out of ‘em!”
Mick Stiff shuddered again, but his co-star didn’t notice. He moved around to her front end. She lunged, hoovered him in. He breathed on his hands, rubbed them together. “Courtesy palm prep”. Slowly, gently, he milked her.
Jets of cream spurted into a hole in the milking table. There was a barnyard sound as the fluid hit the metal container.
“That’s the way to work her, kid! What’d I say? You’re a natural. Keep goin’ while I get the Extractor.”
Mick kneaded her nipples, squeezed them down and closed them off the way he’d watched his Uncle Olaf do on the farm in Wisconsin. She squirmed, bucked her hips. Mick had been in the porn biz long enough to sense an impending gusher.
There was a squelching sound.
“Yah! Just in the nick of time!”
The blonde groaned and took Mick deep into her throat. He kept on milking.
The liquid spurted. Mick couldn’t believe she wasn’t pissing. He looked at The Extractor: a black rubber accordion hose that ran into an atomic vacuum cleaner. The hose was attached to the blonde with a suction cup. Lights blinked and needles jerked with sounds from a doomsday pinball machine.
“Whoa, stud. You got her going full throttle in no time flat. But here’s where we separate the men from the boys. Now, you do her tits.”
Mick withdrew. No need for further courtesy lube. He mounted her cleavage and got to work.
“Wuh!” she said. “Wuh-uh-uh!”
“Wuh! Wuh-huh-huh-uh! Nnnnngh—GOD!”
The Extractor blew like an air raid siren. Machine and lactating female went Woop! Woop! Woop!
“Kid! You filled the tank! With one milker!”
The other nude women on the production floor drifted over to see what Mick Stiff was doing to their colleague.
“Don’t crowd him,” the boss said. “Everyone gets a turn. We’re gonna run double shifts, if the new kid’s up to it. How you doin’ there, by the way, Rick?”
“That’s Mick. And I’m doing fine. Ready for another, if you think this one’s had enough. I can handle two, if it’s not against company policy.”
“Mick…Mick! Where you been all my life?”
After brief two-way preliminaries, Mick arranged the milkers belly-to-belly on the Extractor Table and worked them hard.
“You’re a genius, kid! You’re the fucking Mozart of milk! You are the Marcel Proust of pussy juice!”
“Boss, I’m gonna shoot. Can’t hold off much longer.”
“Go ahead, boy. Girls, get in there and help my new partner cum, for chrissakes!”
Mick Stiff vanished in a pink cloud.
The P.J. Factory’s executive lounge was a pair of stained recliners near a fridge that contained several six-packs of beer. A black-and-white TV showed an ice hockey game with the sound off. The silence bothered Mick.
“Uh, whuddaya do with all that pussy juice, boss?”
“What do I do with the pussy juice? What…why you…what the fuck do you care what I do with it?”