Milk
by Dawn R.

I stand mesmerized in front of the bathroom mirror; five beads of milk have already fallen from my right breast. Leaning over the vanity, my sight focuses on the sixth droplet that is forming.

Pale and cloudy, with a slight bluish tint, the milk works its way through the small opening and gathers on the surface of my nipple tip until there is enough gathered to obey gravity and fall into the basin below.

I am ready.

Pulling the thin straps of my nightgown up, I cover the evidence of fourteen days preparation with the light cotton. I can feel the gown against my distended nipples, stimulating my nerve endings and signaling something within me to trickle more milk.

I want to surprise him and know that if I do not hurry, the wetness of the cloth I'm wearing will give away my secret. We have waited for this moment -- two long-term devotees anticipating a sweet reward for our patience with my body.

How this all came about is rather common, I believe. Lovers were sharing fantasies within the security of a soft bed: one night I told him I had an idea he might find intriguing. Good sport that he is, he asked me what it was.

"I have heard of women pumping their breasts to make them larger. Of course, that was before the days of implants. What do you think about me doing that?" Looking away, I felt an unanticipated tinge of shyness about my true motive. I didn't want to pump myself to make my breasts fuller, but for another reason I could barely admit, even to myself. I continued on; if I didn't follow through on my thought now, I might never have the nerve to broach the subject again.

"I could stop right before any milk comes in." I released a slow breath, having created for myself a sense of safety in my last sentence. Now, if he suggested I take myself to full lactation, that I purposely fill my breasts, then this would become a shared flight of fancy and not just a solo fantasy.

His response was immediate. "You could nurse me."

"Well, yes, I could," I admitted. No other words were shared on the subject that night, but I knew I had his support. I had this desire to feel his warm mouth against my skin, taking in the essence of my sex in liquid form. Hell, I wanted him to need to suck me, to develop a taste for what I could offer and to seek it out nightly.

The next day I purchased a breast pump. Barely inside the house, I took off for the privacy the bathroom offered, put the device together, and spent five minutes on each breast getting the feel of the pump. I had read that working the glands every two to three hours until lactation was achieved was the best method, but this was not something I could do. I would pump four times a day and extend the time until I could spend at least fifteen minutes per breast.

Although the pump was doing its job, the mechanical hum of its motor and the cold plastic pressed against my skin was a poor substitute for a pair of lips. To make up for the unnatural act I was committing on my body during the day, at night I would lead his head to my bosom, tempting his mouth to suck. He would take them in, work them, give them the attention they craved.

And then the fantasy was realized. I was pumping one morning when the first trace of a bluish liquid came from my right nipple. Encouraged and excited, I continued to pump until a stream developed. My eyes were riveted to the clear tunnel that held my nipple as it forced the breast to give up its watery endowment. It was official: my milk had come in.

By the time the house is quiet that night, I am beginning to be engorged. It is an arousing discomfort: the sensations caused by the inner pressure of milk wanting to escape affect my entire body. I need to alleviate the heaviness.

Here I stand in front of the mirror. The milk my body has made only for our sexual pleasure is ready for his taking. I slip on my short nightgown. I am swollen and leaking through the cotton material. Lifting the wet gown, I catch the sweet scent I remember from childbearing. But this time I'm not offering my milk out of necessity, but from pure carnality.

Entering the bedroom, I experience a moment of self-consciousness. After all, your average couple doesn't purposely prepare the woman to suckle her thirty-five year old husband. What would people (including my doctor) say? It is bad enough going for my yearly OB-GYN appointment with a freshly shaved pubic area.
Now I would have breasts that gave milk, too.

Thank God for that little voice inside each of our heads that says Who gives a damn what anyone thinks. I want this, and he has been waiting with barely contained excitement for it to happen. We are about to delve into a new realm of rapture.

I clear my throat. He turns. Allowing my gown to fall slowly from my shoulders, I wait until it is on the floor before I step toward him. Taking his hands in mine, I place them on my bulging breasts. They are radiating heat; I know he can feel it. His eyes light up. He knows I am ready for him.

Rising from his chair, he kisses me like I haven't been kissed in a very long time. A deep, probing invasion of his tongue into my mouth brings a strong, wanting moan out of me. I rub against his leg, leaving a damp trail of sexual readiness. But his hands still do not move. He is holding pleasure for his mouth only. Several minutes pass in this passionate envelopment, I nude and he fully clothed, before he leads me to the bed.

He undresses, exposing his erection. Anticipation trembles through his entire body and he starts caressing my body with his wide hands. There is no reason to rush except that I am ready to scream in impatience! The thought of him drinking from me makes me wet. The throbbing centered between my legs only increases the ache in my breasts. Squeezing my thighs together, I come abruptly, without any other stimulation. It isn't a mind-blowing orgasm, but one of those that leaves me wanting more. The look on his face tells me that he knows what I have just done.

I place my trust in his capable hands. Closing my eyes, I feel the path he takes as he makes his way up my body from the foot of the bed.

Concentrating on my waxy-smooth mount, he gently works my legs apart with his hands. The air hits my vulva. I can smell my own sex as the scent drifts up and fills the room. Breathing it, I feel my heart race, pounding out a rhythm that fills my ears. He bows his head to open my thick outer lips, to tongue the wet flesh hidden between them, but I press my thighs together before he can touch me.

"Not tonight!" As much as I desire him to work his magic, I want him to experience his milk unmixed with the musk from between my legs. These are the words I think: his milk. He is in control, not me. He can take my offering or leave it, but I need him to empty me. The proof of my dependency is the warm droplets falling from my tender nipples.

He lies down with his head even with my nipples. We turn to face each other and I feel his warm breath clinging to my skin. His lips are but centimeters away. Why he has paused I have no idea, but just as I am about to reach out and pull his head forward, he cups the bottom of a breast and runs his rough tongue up and down the length of it. This brings 'let-down.' I feel the milk move forward to the tip of the nipple. He parts his lips.

Taking the tip inside his mouth, he stops when it reaches the midpoint of the roof of his mouth. It is not as flexible as it is empty, but he adjusts his tongue so he can begin drinking me.

The first suck takes my breath away, sends shock waves through my body. The pull and release renders me mindless. Jets of milk fill his mouth; he hardly has to put forth any effort to receive his bounty. At first he allows it to trickle down his throat, but after a while he is forced to swallow because the flow does not allow itself to be controlled.

I begin to squirm as he increases the intensity of his pull. It isn't long until I am crying out for him to suck me harder. God, I don't want the sensations to end. Every nerve, every fiber in my being is on fire. I feel him consuming me.

It is beyond my wildest imagination. There isn't one damn thing maternal about it -- it is pure eroticism. My other breast began to protest its denial of his ravenous mouth by wetting the bed without any direct stimulation.

Every draw on the breast brings me closer to coming. Instinctively, my fingers seek out my clit. I begin to rub myself in a fury. Ten strokes and I am pulsing and contracting. Pushing as much as of my hand inside me as possible, I come as he switches to the fresh breast. The jolt of the swap has surprised me.

I am knuckling my g-spot, reaching new heights in climax, when he abruptly pulls my hand free from my cunt and pins it to the bed.

I have never seen him act like this before. He calls out "Oh God" as he rolls on top of me and plunges deep inside me with his swollen cock. Using his shoulders, he pushes under my legs until I am bent in half, knees at my head. The assault is incredible. Thrusting madly, the milk dripping from his lips onto my face, he pushes his full weight onto the backs of my legs and tries to crawl inside my flesh. He can't get deep enough, or drive hard enough, to satisfy his urge. The jarring of his pelvic bone against my bloated clit brings me another round of orgasm. Feeling me come brings his release, strike after strike against the back wall of my vagina.

After the last bit of semen is expelled, he opens his eyes to find me looking up at him. Words don't come easily for him, and it is clear that he is having difficulty talking about what has just happened. I wait in silence while our breathing returns to normal, hoping he will give me some verbal indication of approval. It never comes. He rolls to his side and pulls me close, covering us both with a blanket. We fall into peaceful slumber, arms and legs twined in a lovers' embrace.

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