Fat. Phillip DeEarly was fat. At only five-foot-five, the nineteen-year-old college student weighed over three hundred pounds. How much over, he didn't really want to know but that's as high up as most home scales go.

His measurements were grotesque. A fifty-inch chest, plus man-boobs that added about six or eight more inches, a fifty-six-inch waist and the biggest indignity perhaps, a sixty-four-inch ass. Another inch and he'd be as big around as he was tall.

Of course, all these numbers were in his medical charts, metrically expressed, in the research office of the biomedical department at the university he attended. Including his accurate weight. How much was 167 kilograms in American? He didn't want to know.

Before joining the research program at the college, he'd tried everything to lose weight. Diets did nothing but make him sick, disrupting his endocrine systems and even circulation in his extremities. That's how he'd lost both his little toes.

They'd even proposed surgery to reduce the size of his stomach and intestines so he wouldn't be able to eat or digest as much. But other doctors vetoed this. Liposuction was also contra-indicated. It wasn't how many calories he took in, it was what his body did with them.

His personal doctor had put it succinctly, back when Phillip was still in high school. "Your metabolism is all screwy." Doctor Bluett went on. "You know what your average body temperature is? Ninety-seven degrees Fahrenheit. That's a degree and a half lower than almost everyone else's. All of your lab numbers are like that. Out of whack."

Phillip had always been heavy for his age and height but he'd really started ballooning up when he was twelve. He'd gained thirty to forty pounds every year since. "About a pound every ten days," Dr. Bluett said. It was depressing news. Phillip wasn't a genius at math but even he could see that in ten years, at that rate, he would double his current weight or more.

"Unless something can be done, I don't think you're going to make it to thirty, Phillip," the doctor had put it bluntly. His mom had had to hold his head while he wept right there in the doctor's office. She'd glared at the medico but later admitted that they had needed to know that.

It made it easier to commit to joining the research program when the offer came in from the university. And the insurance company almost insisted. Usually, insurance companies were dead set against experimental treatments but they whole-heartedly backed the proposed protocols.

Part of the problem was that Phillip's body seemed to make and store fat in preference to other metabolic activity. As he'd grown, this had resulted in him having several times as many fat cells in his body as normal people. Hungry fat cells that demanded most of his intake of calories.

And such a super-abundance of fat tissue had other metabolic consequences. For one, such cells produce estrogen. Enough that by age fifteen, excess female hormones had completely short-circuited Phillip's puberty. He'd stopped growing taller, his hips had widened, he'd grown breasts, his voice didn't change, he had no beard and almost no body hair.

Plus his male genitals had actually shriveled, testicles like raisins and a penis less than two inches long. He didn't get erections, either. He had almost no libido, which was fortunate since there didn't seem to be any girls anywhere that were interested in him.

A gay friend confided to him, though, that he might be very popular in some parts of the gay community. Phillip didn't know what to think of that but at any rate, he wasn't interested.

The research doctors were eager to get Phillip as a study subject. A lot of them were sort of nerdishly intense, not relating to the boy as a person but more as a series of fascinating numbers. But Dr. Amalie Isla de Pescaleone brought some humanity into the interactions.

"You see," she said in her charming accent, "there are three types of fat in human bodies. That's keeping it simple but it is a good start for discussion. The first type is white fat cells, they store lipids, fat, against the body's future need for energy. You've got too many of these and they don't release energy like they should, demanding more than they give out."

She made a cute Italiana face. "The second type is brown fat. Its job is to burn lipids up to keep the body warm. You have way too few of these which is why you are so uncomfortable when it's cold. You have to shiver to stay warm. It's as if your house had no furnace and instead you had to run around banging on the walls to keep the pipes from freezing."

Phillip smiled. He liked Dr. Isla de Pescaleone. She could be funny at times.

"The third major kind of fat cell in the body is pink fat." She waved a hand. "There are also tan fats, gray fats, beige fats, and blue fats, but nobody has very many of those kinds. But pink fats are usually only found in the breasts of pregnant and nursing women. They actually produce the milk that is secreted by other structures in mammary tissue."

"Is that..." he started to ask.

She nodded. "You have pink fat in your mammary glands which are over-developed for anyone who is not pregnant or nursing. Which is why there is sometimes a milky discharge."

Phillip nodded. He hated that he frequently soaked his bedding or even his clothes in the daytime with what seemed to be milk from his overly-endowed chest. It was never very much, a few ounces at most, but now he had an explanation. A very embarrassing one but an explanation.

"It's unusual but there are similar things in some of the literature," the lady doctor was saying.

He felt grateful to her for trying to minimize it. "Is there anything that can be done about it?" he asked.

She sighed. "Nothing that looks hopeful at the moment. Perhaps surgery eventually. Still, your other metabolic problems need to be solved first because they might actually be life-threatening. The production of a bit of milk might actually be helping to slow down your weight gain."

She went on. "We haven't been able to reduce your caloric intake much below about 2200 without bad effects on your circulation, enzymes and other systems. And at that level, your body is storing about 20% as fat. Which works out to a weight gain of a pound every ten days."

Phillip nodded.

"The milk production is probably another 100 calories a day, which means your body is functioning on what is left over, about 1100 to 1200 calories. That's astonishing. You have an amazingly efficient metabolism. That's pretty much a crash-diet level of nutrition."

Phillip felt his hopes sink. Was he doomed to be a 700 pound freak and die before his thirtieth birthday?

"Exercise seems to just increase your body's base demand, So if you exercise enough to burn 400 more calories a day, this simply increases your caloric demand by about the same amount. It's probably still worth doing but it isn't a solution."

Dr. Isla de Pescaleone took his hands in hers. "Brown fat may be the key. The different kinds of fat can change into each other. The difference is which organelles are active inside the cells. In brown fat, energy-producing mitochondria are switched on and the energy so produced is turned into heat by the cell. The mitochondria get larger and give the fat its brown color."

Interesting but Phillip felt like the doctor was about to give him information more relevant to a solution to his problem. "We've found a drug that seems to help turn white fat into brown fat. If we could produce more brown fat turning calories into body heat, we might at least reduce your weight gain."

Phillip readily agreed to a program of increased exercise and the drug that encouraged brown fat. After six weeks, he had still gained about a kilogram, or two pounds. So, he wasn't getting fat as fast as before but he'd still double his weight in fifteen years.

Back to the research clinic. Doctor Wilfort Parmenter looked like a gamer geek more than a doctor. He had long greasy hair and a pimply face, a slight overbite and thick glasses. He talked through his nose and he smelled of Pepsi and pizza.

"The key is going to be the pink fat," he whined. "We don't even need to give you drugs to encourage milk production, stimulation of the breasts will do it. Though there are drugs"

"M-m-milk production?" Phillip bleated.

"Ye-es-ss," said Dr. Parmenter, sounding satisfied. "I calculate that with frequent mechanical breast pumping, we can get your current production of about 100-150 ml a day up to 600-900 ml in only a few weeks." He peered at the boy like an owl examining a plump mouse. "That's about as much as a mother produces for a baby."

Parmenter beeped and booped on his tablet while Phillip absorbed the information. "Let's say we do bilateral pumping at two-hour intervals," Parmenter resumed talking, "if we can get 60 to 90 ml per pumping, we could make that goal. That's about how much a breastfeeding child consumes. Women lactating at that rate typically increase their calorie intake a bit but still lose weight at a kilogram or two a month."

He did the owl thing at Phillip again. "Would you like to lose weight instead of gain it, Mr. DeEarly?"

"Y-y-yes," said Phillip.

The doctor beamed at him. "Actually, that amount of caloric subtraction would just about balance your current weight gain. But its a goal we may be able to expand upon." He briefly glanced at his tablet and poked in a few more numbers. "To keep you from expanding," he added with a strangely high-pitched titter.

"O-okay," Phillip agreed.

"Let's do this here in the lab," said Parmenter. "We'll set you up with an apartment here, bed, bath and breakfast table," another titter, "and someone will be here to help you with the pumpings, day and night."

Phillip's parents, Nathan and Yvette, readily agreed, too. And so young Mr DeEarly took up residence in the lab. It was the summer and he had no classes he had to attend but enrolled electronically in a few he could do from his new living quarters.

At first it was quite strange but his little apartment had a separate entrance from a garden that he could enjoy. His parents and friends could visit without bothering the doctors and he could go for long walks around the entire hospital complex if he wanted. Or go into town with his folks, though he had to be back in the lab at specified times for pumping.

They settled on a schedule of every 2.5 hours at night and every 2 hours in the daytime, making for eleven pumpings a day. It meant sleep interrupted about three times per night but this turned out to be tolerable. Phillip would sleep for two hours or so; get up; deal with the pumping for about twenty minutes and go right back to sleep.

At first, they were getting only about 30 ml per pumping but after only three weeks, this had expanded to 90 ml per session, making just over a quart a day. By Dr Parmenter's calculations, this was a caloric subtraction of almost 2000 calories. With other factors, including the necessity to increase Phillips intake a bit to balance nutrition, Parmenter calculated that young Mr DeEarly should be losing weight at the rate of a kilogram every two to three weeks.

Success? In those very same three weeks, Phillip had, indeed, lost weight. Slightly more than a pound, in fact. That might just be normal fluctuation, they needed to run the experiment for even longer. Phillip's milk production still seemed to be increasing, too, which could only lead to greater success, right.

In three more weeks, it could not be denied, Phillip had lost three whole kilos, or seven pounds since the experiment began. And his milk production was up to 160 ml per pumping, almost two quarts a day!

"That's--that's a lot of milk," Phillip commented. "What are you doing with all of it?"

Some of it was being used for testing but there was still a lot left over. Some of it they gave to other labs but there was more than anyone needed for reasonable experimentation. One of the outcomes of all the testing was that they now knew that Phillip's milk was normal breast milk with measures like nutritional value within or exceeding established norms. It was, in fact, high-quality stuff.

So, they were giving the excess away to Milk Bank charities in the city that provided breast milk for infants whose mothers could not furnish them enough.

"Huh," said Phillip. "I don't mind but shouldn't you have asked me? It's my milk. You're giving it away, but is it actually worth anything?" It turns out that human breast milk sells retail for as much as $130 a quart. Wholesalers would pay $30 to $50 a quart, usually expressed in ounces as $1 to $1.30 an ounce.

"Holy Mother of God," said Nathan, Phillip's father. The insurance company found out somehow and wanted the milk sold to offset the costs of Phillip's treatment. "What treatment?" asked Nathan. "Hooking up a milking machine eleven times a day? The boy does that himself, now."

"Well, his apartment," said the hospital. "And he's got cable TV in there."

"We've got cable TV at home," said the elder Mr DeEarly. "Plus Netflix and Amazon Prime."

The fallout was that Phillip was discharged from the hospital, with his treatment being self-administered from home, pumping his breasts eleven times a day. He'd go to the clinic for a weekly checkup and weigh-in and it was arranged that one of the milk wholesalers would pick up his product in a refrigerated truck that came by every twelve hours.

"Really? Twice a day?" Phillip marveled. Freshness is paramount, the wholesaler assured him. One quarter of the milk would be donated to charity, and the rest sold to the wholesaler at $1 an ounce. And they were willing to buy as much as Phillip could produce.

Which turned out to be quite a lot! By week ten, Phillip was pumping milk at the rate of 240 ml each session or 88 ounces a day. Almost enough for three average size infants. And although his calorie intake had again increased, he was still losing weight. Sixteen pounds in ten weeks. And an income of $66 a day, more than he could have made working part-time in the fast food industry.

"Pump we must," said his father. "This money goes into your college fund," he told Phillip.

"Moo," said the boy.

Dairy Boy 2 - Home on the Range

Author:

Lulu Martine

Audience Rating:

Mature Subjects (pg15)

Publication:

Novel Chapter

Genre:

Character Age:

College / Twenties

TG Themes:

Reluctant

TG Elements:

Breast Feeding / Breast Pump

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Just a whole lot more to love...

Dairy Boy 2

Dairy Boy

Home on the Range

by Lulu Martine

In two more months, just nine weeks, production was up to 110 ounces a day, about a pint short of a gallon or five ounces from each breast at each pumping. "Is there a record for this sort of thing?" Phillip asked during one of his checkups at the clinic.

"Yes," said Dr Parmenter. "You've easily got the record for milk production by a male human, but you're not that close for record female production."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Nope," said the supergeek. "The record is 7.88 liters. Set by a Russian grandmother who had been producing milk continuously for more than thirty years."

"That's--two gallons ten ounces!" said Phillip, who was quite used to such conversions now.

"Approximately," agreed Dr. Parmenter. "Perhaps when you've been doing this for thirty or forty years, you will break her record."

"Thirty...years?" Phillip was gobsmacked. It had not occurred to him that he was likely, perhaps even required by his medical condition, to continue getting milked every day for the rest of his life.

"But congratulations!" said Dr Isla de Pescaleone, who was glad for the boy even though her proposal had not contributed much to his treatment. "You lost twenty pounds in the last month and fourteen the month before that. Twelve more pounds and you'll be below 300! Are you going to celebrate?"

"I think so," said Phillip. "I'll turn twenty next month and I'm going to get new clothes."

"Good, good," said the doctor. "I'm sure you will enjoy shopping for them."

Dr Parmenter snorted. "Perhaps you should buy some bras," he said with his typical bluntness. "Your breasts now are almost all pink fat and they look bigger than before--the only part of you that's getting larger instead of smaller. Wearing a bra might be a smart idea. You're going to get pretty saggy if you don't."

Phillip stared at the socially clueless medico. That was another blow to his ego, though his masculinity was in tatters already from being treated as a milch cow. He left the clinic quickly, so no one could see him cry.

The worst of it may have been that he secretly enjoyed being milked. While it was going on, he felt calm pleasure with occasional spikes of something that was almost joy. Of course, he couldn't tell anyone that, it was so unmanly.

Back home, after his four pm milking (delightful as usual), Phillip considered his wardrobe. So far during his weight loss he had been simply retracing his steps through his advancing weight but he was mightily tired of shapeless jeans and balloon-like shirts. They didn't really fit anyway.

The truth was, while he had lost almost 20% of his peak weight, he had lost much more dimension in his belly than his hips or chest. He intended to order clothes from online so he would need his sizes. In about five months he had gone from gargantuan to merely huge. But his shape had changed as well as mass shrinking.

He measured around the largest part of his chest. Fifty-five inches, down from fifty-seven. He sighed. That didn't seem like a lot. His waist had been fifty six and was now...forty eight? That was better. But around his hips was only down to sixty-one from sixty-four. His neck size had shrunk almost that much, from twenty-six to twenty-four.

He had been measuring over his clothes. Now he did something he hadn't done since he left the clinic. He stripped off all his clothes and stood in front of his largest mirror naked. Being honest with himself, he did not see a fat man standing there. He saw a fat woman.

Large breasts and massive hips separated by a slightly smaller waist gave a womanly impression, along with his general hairlessness. And the only real evidence of his membership in the male half of the human race did not show, hidden by his fat. He spread his legs apart and tried to bring his member forward. Had it shrunk even more?

He'd given up more than a year before trying to piss while standing, it just wasn't worth the effort and cleanup he invariably had to do. He gave milk, he pissed sitting down, he had an ass like a hippo. What defined him as a man? A nubbin of flesh no one could see?

Weeping, he fell across his bed and almost broke it. He lay there sniffling and feeling sorry for himself. He hadn't gone out and around much in more than two years. He didn't have any friends. He hardly even remembered anyone from high school because he had already been a blimp and stayed by himself.

He glared at the clock. More than an hour before his next milking, which always brought relief from his depressions. He wanted desperately to massage his breasts manually, but that always caused premature leakage and feelings of guilt for wasting his milk.

Maybe he would have been better off just to eat himself to death. It was probably one of the more pleasant ways to go, he supposed. Now what did he have to look forward to? Feeling good while being milked? Thirty or forty years as a one-man dairy, probably alone? Who would have him? He was a freak. He even cried like a woman, he accused himself.

Someone at his door. He reached over and pulled the coverlet over himself just as his mother walked in. "Ma," he protested. It was quite obvious that he was naked under the cover but he didn't point that out.

"You've been crying," his mother said. She plopped herself down as close to his face as she could get. "Wanna tell me about it?"

He shook his head. Yvette reached out a hand to brush hair away from his face. "You're going to need a haircut. If we're going to celebrate you breaking 300, you want to go the barber. A new style to go with your new clothes?"

Phillip sniffed. "Dr Parboiler said I should get a bra. Otherwise my tits will be hanging on the floor."

His mother stopped brushing his hair. "He said that?"

"Well, not the last part," Phillip admitted. "But it was implied."

"Okay then," she said. "Still, he shouldn't have said the first part either." She paused then said. "Parboiler." They both snickered.

Phillip sighed again. He could see the clock from where he was lying and he had another hour before he could hook up to the twin pumps again. His nipples ached, but they did so most of the time now. "Ma," he said, "do they look bigger than they did before?"

"Uh," Yvette hesitated. "Well, they get bigger and smaller all day long. Maybe not bigger but--fuller. Rounder. It...it's something that happens when you're lactating, giving milk."

"To women," said Phil. He lifted a foot and kicked at the wall.

"Stop that," said his mother. Then, "Do you want to try on a bra?"

He made a noise. "None of yours are going to fit me."

She agreed. His mother wasn't petite or anything, in fact, Yvette approached statuesque for someone who stood only five-foot-four. But she wasn't massive like Phillip. "You're unlikely to find anything to fit in stores, either. We'll have to order online."

"Hah. No bras for cows like me in stores?" Being rude and crude about his situation helped somehow. Anger had more energy than depression, at least.

"Don't put yourself down like that, honey," said his mom. “You're going to keep losing weight and...." She stopped. It had occurred to her too.

"And I'm going to keep getting more girly-looking. My boobs are going to maybe get even bigger and my waist is getting smaller while my ass stays enormous." He broke off in sobs. Even anger had failed to defend him.

"Girls don't call them boobs unless they are trying to be funny," she said absently while she resumed stroking Phillip's hair.

"I don't care," said Phillip. "I should just stop this--this milking--and let myself die." A stab of anticipated loss struck him in the heart. He knew he wouldn't be able to do that but the muscles around his nipples had contracted and he now had two growing wet spots on his chest, concealed by the duvet which was too thick to get soaked through.

"No, you shouldn't do that, honey!" his mom said, alarmed. "I--I--" She couldn't think of anything to say.

"Guys clothes are never going to fit me anymore," Phillip complained. "I'm turning into a girl. Even if I dressed as a guy, people would think I was a girl with these BOOBS and ass." That had already happened he realized.

People at the hospital who didn't know him had been calling him 'miss' for weeks. And the one time his parents couldn't drive him over to the clinic, and he'd taken an Uber, the driver had been flirting with him. He hadn't taken it that way at the time, but it was obvious thinking about it now.

An Uber driver with a fat girl fetish? So what?

And the worst thing might be that he never contradicted anyone when they did that. It always sent a tingle through him of equal parts pure embarrassment and embarrassed pleasure. I'm disgusting, he thought, morosely.

His mother asked, "You still have your, uh, little mister?"

"Lot of good he is." Phillip realized he was whining but didn't care. "Not much bigger than my little toe these days."

Yvette didn't point out that he no longer had his little toes, not since the circulation crisis precipitated by that crash diet four years ago. She made a decision. "Would it be horrible if you were a girl?"

"Ma!" he yelped turning to face her. But another frisson squeezed his nipples and a thrill went to his heart. He grabbed a pillow to hold in front of him, in case of a fire hose release of milk.

Yvette sat up, then stood, looking down at him. "You said yourself that if you kept losing weight, you'd just keep getting girlier. Uh--? The obvious result of that is you're going to end up looking like me. Same blonde hair, same blue eyes, same bubble butt." She glanced at his chest. "But maybe with, uh, bigger--boobs." She grinned.

He sniffed. "I duwanna," he lied, knowing he was lying.

"You don't want to--what? I hadn't suggested anything yet."

"You're going to suggest that I dress as a girl to see if I like it. I don't like it. That idea stinks." And everything smells like milk, he thought.

She tried to jolly him. "You even pout like me," she said. "Your dad always claimed I had the cutest pout outside of Angelina Jolie."

"Who?" he asked.

"Never mind," Yvette said. "Get up, let's go online and order you some clothes to try on."

"Ma," he said. "I'm naked here." He knew milk was running down his chest under the duvet, he couldn't let her see.

She rolled her eyes. "Like I haven't seen you naked."

"Ma!" It came out as a squeal and Yvette had to retreat to keep from bursting into laughter. She stepped into the hallway and closed the door, tempted to pop it back open and catch her son in the altogether but she didn't want to piss him off. He needed to work with her, and he'd have to be in a good mood for that. At least she had gotten him off a depressed zero.

"Just throw on your bathrobe," she called through the door.

"Uh huh," she heard him grunt.

Eventually he called out to her. "C'mon in."

She entered and found him dressed, sitting at the computer. He'd called up Amazon already and even had a page open on women's sizes. She walked up and looked over his shoulder. In a smaller window, he had the measurements he'd already taken. Wow, she thought, and this is after months of shrinking.

"According to this chart," he said in a flat voice. "I'm a 3x in tops and a 5x in pants." He was right, according to the chart.

"You want to wear pants?" she asked.

"Ma, I'm a guy. Guys wear pants."

"We could probably find guy pants that would fit you. Maybe even in stores. But this isn't about that, is it?"

He sighed.

"This is about whether you're going to wear a bra." She laid it out there.

He nodded. "I don't know..how to find a size?"

She grabbed up the measuring tape he had used. "We'll need another couple of numbers. Stand up, turn around."

He groaned as he did so. As Yvette retook all his measurements she realized that they stood eye-to-eye. He was barefoot and she had on shoes with a one-inch heel. "We're nearly the same height," she commented.

He wasn't looking at her. "I quit growing up five years ago, Ma."

"Hold your arms up, I need to get the tape inside. There. Now let me sit at the computer and you sit on the bed."

"It's my computer," he said mildly but did as she asked.

Yvette added some new numbers to the little window.

"What's 46J?” he asked.

"That's your bra size," she explained. "You have a 45 chest and a 55 bust measurement, that's ten inches. So that's the J. And bras come in even band sizes, so 46 instead of 45."

"Oh."

"You're going to need a nursing bra," she observed, typing, "nursing bra 46J” into Amazon's search window.

"Fuh," he said when the screen filled up with women wearing colorful bras.

She ignored that, checking the sizes on likely looking bras. Amazon search was much more like throwing horseshoes than shooting basketball. She found two that actually went up to size 46J. One wired and one wireless. She considered and decided to get one of each.

"You got a preference on color?" she asked.

"Ugh," he grunted. "Not pink or black."

"Nude?"

"Nude!?"

"As a color, skin color."

"Yeah, that. Maybe no one will notice I have it on."

Fat chance, thought Yvette. She added one of each style to the cart.

"What's it mean, nursing bra, anyway?" he asked.

"It means you can get to your nipple without taking the bra off."

"Oh."

"Now we need to get you some nursing tops. Unless you want a nursing dress."

"No dresses," he said.

At least, not yet, she thought. Yvette didn't look but she was sure he was blushing. She did a new search for nursing tops. "Long sleeve, short sleeve or sleeveless?" she asked.

"Uh?" He thought about it. "Short sleeve, I guess."

She picked three of the plainer styles and let him pick non-flowery, non-pink colors. Into the order box they went.

"Now pants," she said. "Men's or women's."

He sighed. "Men's pants are never going to fit in the waist and the hips at the same time. So..." He trailed off.

She searched for women's pull-on pants in 5x. They ordered two pair, one in jeans-look stretch denim, the other black. "You want any shorts?"

"No. Not...just no."

She paused to look at him. "Underwear is going to have the same fit problem as pants."

He nodded, not even looking up. She ordered a multipack in assorted colors. She glanced in the corner where lay a shapeless pair of deck shoes. Phillip wouldn't be able to wear nice shoes until he got some more weight off his feet, so skip it. She hit the order button. "Most of it will be here tomorrow."

"I don't know about this," he whined.

"It's all pretty plain and not feminine," she pointed out.

"Except the bras," he grumbled.

"Which you need," she said.

"I guess." But he did look like he had more interest in living now than he had earlier. Maybe she should look into getting him some counseling. Of course she should, she chided herself.

She got up and sat beside him on the bed to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "It'll be okay, honey," she said. "I've been wearing girl's clothes all my life and I think they're great."

"Ha," he said. But he smiled.