Recently, I had a conversation that led me to contemplate just what "nirvana" would encompass for me personally in an ANR. If I committed an entire weekend to focus solely on a lover...allowed uninterrupted time to nurse consistently every few hours...created a quiet space, intimate and sacred, separate from the everyday world...how would that fantasy unfold?

Perhaps the best way to compare this is with the young woman who dreams of her wedding day and describes her fairytale to the wedding planner to bring to life, down to the last detail...or a mother-to-be who envisions her child's birth and carefully crafts a birth plan to help guide those who will bring him into the world...or even the man who pictures his wedding proposal to the woman he loves and plans carefully to create a moment that is perfect and timeless. These life experiences, modeled upon every intimate relationship we've known since infancy, feed our souls and cement our memories until the end of our days.

All of that said...nursing is, for me, a transcendant moment, and, if I *could* create nirvana, if only in my mind, it would unfold much like this...

Friday morning. He will arrive home from work by four o'clock this afternoon. We've spoken often this week of our plans. I have errands to do this morning...first to the food market, then to my favorite boutique for sexy lingerie, last to the florist for a beautiful arrangement to grace our bedroom. Weeks ago I purchased exquisite nursing bras to surprise him. We're sending the children to their grandparents' house for the weekend, turning off the computer and the telephones, and locking the front door. Not one element of the outside world will intrude upon this intimate fantasy we create together.

Friday noon. Since he left hours ago, well before seven this morning, my breasts are beginning to feel very full. I call to tell him how much I'll need him this afternoon, how ready I'll be for his mouth. The refrigerator and cupboards are filled. Though he plans to nurse exclusively during the day, sharing dinner with me only at night, I know that my own body will demand constant nourishment because for him, I must make sweet milk. Yogurt is a favorite, fresh fruit...plenty of sparkling water and juices. Tonight, I am cooking for him, and soon I must begin preparing the meal. Tomorrow night he will cook for me...a feast for a goddess...we'll enjoy dinner in bed naked with my breasts as his dessert.

Friday 1:15 p.m. The sanctuary that is our bedroom is ready for tonight...freshly laundered and sun-dried sheets are smooth on the plumped feather bed, ample pillows are carefully arranged to support him as he nurses, and a soft down comforter waits to protect us from the early-morning chill. Candles are strewn atop the dresser, the mirror adjusted just so...my secret is I'm a voyeur at heart. Nursing him is a sacred gift, worthy of a divine temple, and I am the reverent but slightly naughty caretaker.

Friday, 2 p.m. I've begun dinner...carefully arranging each of his favorite dishes. The house is impeccable. I've put sexy, mellow music on the stereo, the curtains are drawn, and candles glow in every corner. My breasts ache, and I'm leaking a bit. It's been so very long since he suckled this morning and kissed me goodbye. I take a shower and luxuriate in the heat of the water and the steam, momentary sweet relief for the pain of near engorgement. I call again to tell him how full and ready I am...waiting for him.

Friday, 4 p.m. After the shower, I dry and brush my hair. The fresh scent of his favorite shampoo penetrates long copper strands. I create an elegant French knot, pinning my hair up for now...before bed, he likes removing the pins and taking it down for himself. My body is an anointed offering tonight, his to worship, and I'm immaculate...manicured and pedicured, meticulously waxed, perfumed lotion shimmering on satin skin, wearing only Chanel and a white nursing gown. Dinner waits in the oven while I wait in our bed, straining to hear his car enter the driveway.

Friday, 4:35 p.m. Sweet Jesus, I hear the car. He's late, and I'm on fire. Car door slams. Garage door closes. Back door opens. I wait for him...breathless...my nipples moist in anticipation with no stimulation beyond his footsteps drawing nearer down the hall. He turns the corner, catches my eyes, sees the need there and the pain, too, from breasts that are too, too swollen. I open my nightgown as he unbuttons his shirt...draw him to me...he's hungry and impatient, takes my right nipple hard in his mouth and suckles greedily as he lowers himself onto the bed. I pull his head nearer, impossible to get any closer, fingers in his hair and stroking him...wrap him in my arms, unable to speak because the milk let-down is so heavenly. The intensity of it takes my breath away. God, I need him. Only him.

Friday, 4:55 p.m. He's emptied my right breast and settles in with my left...his urgency placated...gentler now, finding his rhythm and his calling. His mouth was made for my nipples. This intimate space we've created exists only between the two of us, a commitment neither can share with another. I need him desperately...my breasts ache for him, body and soul follow...and he needs me, too. Craves the sweet milk I offer, the tender touch and feminine softness that erase the harsh world, the oasis of comfort and acceptance found only at my breast and in my arms. He can be vulnerable here, and I love him unconditionally, love him even in his naked need...especially then. Completely relaxed and at peace, his breathing slows...mine, too...I gently nurse him to sleep.

Friday, 8:30 p.m. We wake in each other's arms...ravenous. We share dinner at the small kitchen table overlooking the backyard...our children's toys and stray soccer balls evidence of the loving home we've created together. He feeds me dinner with his fingers...brushes my nipples with the backs of his hands between bites and I am instantly aroused. They're insanely sensitive now, tender and a bit raw from the urgency of his nursing...a good pain. I'm covered in sticky milk and...after dinner...we light more candles and share the bath together. He massages fragrant soap into my breasts, miraculous that they're ripening again for him. There's no more pain now, only pleasure. Out of the tub he towels me dry, head to toe...follows the trails of freckles with his mouth, lingering here or there with sweet kisses, or sometimes gentle bites. My body is soft and warm and glows from the heat of the bath. Snuggled into our bed, skin to skin, he begins nursing once more...tenderly but with much passion and awe...the most exquisite foreplay.

Friday, late at night. As he nurses contentedly, I'm finally able to find my voice...murmur gently to him and whisper endearments...I stroke his cheek and stare quietly into his eyes. This moment is among the most intimate of my life, gazing down upon the man who holds my heart while he suckles the sweet nectar I offer. If breastmilk was wine, aficionados such as he would describe it reverently...highlights of apple, butterscotch, vanilla. Delicate notes of grass and honey. His expression is so peaceful, his body relaxed and nestled against me. He patiently empties every drop of milk, first one pale breast and then the other, and as he senses the heaviness diminish, he knows that I am fully aroused. His suckling becomes agonizingly slow...more breast play than nursing...his tongue circling each nipple insistently, paying homage to the tender erect flesh while his fingers move low, seeking my center. His thumb finds me there, as painfully swollen as my breasts were this afternoon, and gently he strokes and caresses me, opening me slowly, his mouth soon following. He scatters kisses across the flat of my belly, lightly along my hip, inside my thigh...his fingertips exploring every inch of soft skin and traveling down to the curve of my ass to pull me near and tight. I open myself to him.

Bliss. There's not another word for the way my body responds...to the heat of his breath, the softness of his lips, the shudder and moan that follows his tongue. He adores that I am smooth and clean and waiting, closes his eyes and allows my scent to surround him. I ask him...in the only ragged whisper I can manage...to slow down...go slow...so slow...as I am too close to the release I've anticipated all day. On that edge, though, I want to live and breathe in the feel of him there, exploring every fold and contour, kisses indistinct from my own wetness and holding me just at the brink. I like that he's patient with me now, lost in the way I respond to him, allowing time for the crescendo to build until it's impossible to hold back. Finally I can take no more, and when the wave begins, his arms tighten while his tongue insists that I submit, suckling my very core as he earlier was at my breast, allowing me to roll with the sweet orgasm tide over and over and over again. It's a place that words do not exist to describe...a sensation of losing one's skin while every cell is reduced only to the small space where his mouth joins my sex, until I beg him to stop, please, please...baby, no more, please stop. Exhaustion sets in and my body is spent...without asking, he reaches up to me, surrounds me in strong arms and holds me tight while I return to this world, safe, focusing intently on his breathing and heartbeat to guide me while I drift.

- mayfieldflowerrn, October 23, 2008

Reprinted with permission, please do not duplicate without the author's prior permission.