I do not know who she is, or even where she is, and yet I know with all my being that she is there, only time and space keeping me from her.  She is the embodiment of my dearest dream and greatest wish, her breasts spoken for, her milk claimed.

Even now, I feel she is preparing herself for me, and as I draw ever nearer to her, she hastens and intensifies her preparations.  She is committed to inducing her lactation and proceeds with care and devotion, willingly conquering the tenderness as she stimulates her breasts for me.

I imagine that she dreams of me as I have dreamt of her.  I awaken in the darkness, breathing in the warm milk fragrance lingering from my dream world, the taste of her generous nipple still succulent in my mouth.

My dreams grow ever more vivid, compelling me to find her, to at last feed from her breasts made of real flesh.  The bond forged between us is already in place.  The milk flows from her  as she dreams of me.  She satisfies my hunger, awakening a I do with renewed resolve that we find one another.

Would that I could be with her as she prepares for lactation, to massage her milk ducts, to encourage her, to delight in the changes in her body, to pleasure her breasts.

Sometimes I dream, re-living our past journey, feeling even the physical pain of my wounds endured during those dark days.  Her sweet milk, my light, my salvation.  I was her warrior prince and she, my maid, my wife, my love.  She would send me into battle with the taste of her milk fresh on my lips.  Sometimes I held a little in my mouth until I had mounted my horse as if to take part of her with me for courage.  When I returned, she would take me quickly to her breast, even before tending my wounds.  Her milk strengthened me,  releasing the terror of the battlefield, quieting the pain.  She would express droplets of her healing milk into my wounds, and onto the long-healed scars of battles won and lost.

I never gave much thought in those days of what is was like or her to keep her breasts ready for me as we waged our fruitless wars.  Sometimes when death seemed near, I would picture her standing on the little hill near our cottage, watching for me to return to her, never doubting that her milk would always flow for me.

It was almost easier then, I had only to point my horse in the direction of home.  Our journey this time is different-the seeking intensifying the desire for connection.  My wounds are not inflicted by arrow and spear, but by more devious weapons.

I imagine our first encounter.  It varies little each time I replay it, willing it to be.  Our eyes meet and I know it is her.  In wordless recognition, she takes my hand and places it on her breast. We are home.  My quest for her never wavers- it is my mission and my path.  My arms ache for her, my thirst to be quenched by only her.  I feel her need for me growing stronger, our sacred reunion inevitable.  Let it be soon.