It was cool for July, but the sweltering between my thighs was all the heat we needed, and the fire we felt for each other kept us warm.
I lay on my back, eyes half-closed against the bright-on-dark chiaroscuro of the interior bedroom, reveling in the cool air kissing the sweat off my skin while my pussy trembled with pleasure.
He lay along my side, his stiff cock pressing against my outer thigh, his head resting on my breast.
And then, with a look of devilish desire, he plunged his fingers into my sex-slick cunt, put his mouth on my nipple…
My God. Even now – nearly three years later – just thinking about that experience makes my heart palpitate, makes my clit throb, makes my womb contract.
I had told him – well before we met, and in no uncertain terms – that I could give a fig about breast play. He, also in no uncertain terms, was definitely a Breast Man, so I had made my feelings clear, expecting to have to negotiate around the issue. In my mind it was a mismatch, but not an insurmountable one. We’ll come up with something, I thought. I wasn’t sure what that something would be, but I expected to negotiate… Something. Something that would be tolerable enough for me and pleasurable enough for him. Something that I’d write off as compromise. Something I could manage.
Not something I’d ENJOY.
But he turned my ‘meh’ expectation on its head when he turned the conversation to “What if I’m not interested in what playing with your breasts does for me, but in what it does for you?”
. . . oh.
And that led to a looong conversation. I told him… So many things.
How I used to be. How that changed. Why.
My protectivism. My emotional response to loss. How my heart was stuck – lodged – in my breast.
My complete and total inability, due to my reproductive health issues, to ever be able to nurse.
. . .
This time the “. . . oh” was from him.
And quickly became an Ohhhh…
In the weeks leading up to our meeting, he took an idea that started small and fed my mind until it was huge. With words and thoughts, feelings and images, he painted pictures in broad brushstrokes and fine detail. He described different ways he wanted to touch, to kiss, to lick, to lave, to suck. He gauged my responses and altered his vision, construing fantasies and defining desires until we were in synch. Until he wanted nothing more than to latch on to my nipple and feast, wrapping his lips around my areola and suckling, pulling my nipple up against the roof of his mouth with the flat of his tongue and…
I wanted – needed – desperately, passionately, to feel all of the sensations – leisurely laced with pin-pricking pleasure-pain – his description invoked. But also, more than anything, I was incredibly turned on by the idea of him feeding from me. It brought to the forefront of my imagination the long-latent and now screamingly obvious desire in me – a desire based in loss, a desire to take that emotional pain and build it into physical pleasure – to nurse.**
When he put his mouth to my nipple, there was no hesitation from me, no reflex protection, no shrinking back… Nothing. Nothing but the desire to feel him suck.
And he didn’t just suck. He suckled.
With his fingers buried inside my dripping cunt and his wet mouth nursing from my engorged nipple, I worked my fingers over my clit. I stroked his cock, slick from dripping pre-cum, milking him while he fed from me, all the while matching those stimulations with urgent fingertips against my clit, working in tandem with his fingers working into me. Pressing and rubbing and swirling, my body vibrated under the onslaught.
And, vaguely startled but too drunk on pleasure to question it, I started to… Swell. My clit grew under the pad of my middle finger and with panting breaths and a sense of unreality, I watched as my breast tissue expanded, swelling under his urgent ministrations.
When I looked down at his face…
“More” was the message he telegraphed when we locked eyes, and it matched my desire perfectly: More. Give me more.
And with a white-hot spark that shot from my nipple to my cervix, my slippery walls clamped down around his curling fingers. When he pulled the flesh of my breast up into his mouth, swallowing my nipple to the back of his throat…
And I came undone.
Twice during our relationship I experienced this kind of full-bodied oxytocin-bonded orgasm with him suckling – feeding – at my breast; the scene described here was the first.
It was a beginning. (One that made me all the more sad for our end.)
I began to see my breasts as a source of pleasure that day, after years of associating them with pain.
* * * * * * *
I am not a fetishist. Far from it. (Though if nursing is what you kink to, believe me: I GET IT.) When I read about adult nursing relationships,*** I am equal parts fascinated and horrified. But as fantasies go, there are things about nursing that are incredibly HOT.
Reality… Well, that’s a different story. (Isn’t it always?) The overlarge swollen breasts, the distended areolas, the sore nipples, the mismatched breast sizes…
The weight gain.
The leaking, the chafing.
No, it’s not those things that appeal. In the same way that the reality of having large breasts is not something that interests me, neither does the reality of actual nursing (especially not where artificially induced lactation**** is concerned, which is the only way I could do it anyway; a baby factory, I am not).
But the actuality of feeling my partner suckling as though to feed from me? To “nurse” in that way?
Oh, that definitely appeals.
And in a unique way…
** This is NOT related to age play or adult baby play.
*** Shock! Literotica is good for something.
**** This is, apparently, a thing. Though I doubt a doc would prescribe for condition: kink.