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 left 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 left breast and settles in with my right…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.
Saturday morning, before sunrise. I float to consciousness before my eyes open. There is no sign yet of dawn through the blinds at the foot of the bed, and our room is dark and quiet. He sleeps peacefully beside me, his right hand possessively cupping the curve of my hip, his breathing gentle and even. I watch him sleep, marveling at the wonder he brings to my life. It’s been hours since he nursed, and my breasts are full. I kiss his face, stroke his cheek, draw him near to me. He finds my nipple in the dark, latching on and suckling gently. I like that he is tender with me in the morning. Skin to skin in our soft bed, apart from the world, we are at peace, two imperfect souls who’ve managed to find one another and share the exquisite intimacy that is nursing.
He is slow this morning, lazily suckling then submitting to sleep, then suckling again. I ache for more, needing him the way only a woman can need a man upon waking. With my palm I trace the corner of his jaw, dragging my fingers along his neck, behind his shoulder, firmly down his arm and across his chest, stopping here or there to knead away the tension left from his giving me pleasure before sleep yet denying his own. As I finally reach to take him fully in my hand, I know already that he is hard, desperately needing release.
I revel in his harsh gasp of breath as I wrap my fingers fully around him and stroke him gently, base to head then back again, a bit firmer on each of a dozen passes as he throbs insistently against my palm. He mirrors my touch with his tongue on my nipple, his suckling intense and firm when I stroke him fully, exquisitely gentle and slow when I lightly caress the head. Soon he is close, so I make a circle with my fingers, hold it tight against the base and let him rest before beginning yet again. My thumb finds the slick, milky drops forming at the tip, and I long to taste him. He doesn’t object when I gently pull my nipple from his lips and follow my hands with kisses, across his chest and down his stomach. I so want to tease him a bit, but the truth is that I’m too greedy. Tongue flat and lips wet, I take him deep into my mouth…his cock jumps and he inhales sharply. I love giving him pleasure like this, find sheer delight in nursing from him as he does every day from me. He can’t help rocking into me, wrapping my long hair in his fingers and pulling me to him as he thrusts gently. His senses are on fire, his breath ragged and his voice hoarse and trembling. He cannot take much more of this, nor can I.
I am wet, and ready. I straddle him, unable to resist the urge now to tease him, exploiting his erection by keeping just the tip of him there waiting to enter me. I lean forward so that he can take my nipple again in his mouth and the sudden intensity of his suckling combined with the pressure of his cock straining to open me is more than I can bear. Eyes on his, I slide down the shaft, surrounding him completely in one motion, lost in the sensation of being instantly stretched by him and full. I usually would sit up straight and push my hips forward to take that last fraction of a centimeter of him fully inside me, but this morning he won’t allow it. He holds my nipple firmly with his teeth to make sure it remains his, and I have no choice except to prop pillows behind his head to bring him closer to me, allowing him to recline half-sitting while he takes both breasts in his hands, massaging my fullness and greedily taking first one erect nipple into his mouth, then the other, then back again. I am beyond aroused, and when the let-down comes, it’s impossible for him to swallow it all, the sweet milky drops instead covering his chin and dripping down onto his chest and soaking us both.
I draw the covers around my hips and place my hands on the bed above his head for leverage, then submit to the ageless rhythm, riding his cock while suckles my sweet milk, each of us full with the other and release fast approaching like an oncoming train. When it hits, we are one. I’m overwhelmed with sensation, my nipples burning from the intensity of his suckling, full with his cock, the spasms so insistent that I curl into myself, into him, riding the swells of the breaking orgasm wave. That I am tight and throbbing around him pushes him over the edge, too, and he soon explodes into me, filling me with warmth, his body shuddering with the long-awaited release.
Together we come until we both are spent, and many minutes later, I rest on top of him, my sticky breasts against his chest and my face buried in his neck, his arms holding me tight. We are wet with sweat and milk and gasping for air, bodies intertwined, each completing the other, connected on a plane that only making love with one’s soulmate engenders. My body is his home, and his is mine.
For the remainder of the weekend, we share my breasts together. Sometimes the moments when he comes to me are exquisitely tender and vulnerable, other times greedy and passionate and a prelude to intense lovemaking. No matter, it is our anchor, the very foundation of our intimacy and our deepest longing made real.