top of page

Milk



It was hard to believe that you were your mother’s son. After all, you were shy and timid, weak and cowardly, short and messy-haired, with a bucked-toothed smile and the motor skills of a twisted marionette, and just as skinny. Your mom, in stark contrast, was gregarious and extroverted, strong and bold, tall and raven-haired, with an angelic smile and the grace of a figure skater, but too mouth-wateringly thick in the thighs to glide over ice majestically or to twirl carelessly through the air.


On top of all this, your mom had a giant pair of back-breakingly large breasts, as well as a posterior that was formidable in its own right. You used to nuzzle up close to those orbs of flesh, between them and a blue blanket, with brown nipples inviting you to come in closer and lap at the pure white milk that dripped from them like honey from a spoon. But you weren’t a baby anymore, and the milkwell dried up in the sun since then. But the knowledge alone that days like those, days that only existed back in some golden and irretrievable past, existed as real moments that could be touched, heard, felt, smelled, seen and tasted, and along with the premonition that the future had so little of that beauty in store for you, made you wish you were living your life in reverse, and your moments with those heavy things, unobstructed and large, were ahead of you, rather than small and shrinking in your rearview.


Your desire in this regard was so nagging and all-encompassing that you only half-guiltily ordered a giant pair of plastic breasts from Amazon with your newly acquired credit card, its upraised plastic digits feeling like they existed for no other purpose. You hid this monstrosity of cruel arousal under your bed the way one would hide a priceless painting in the event of a home invasion. This set of breasts was big. The exact size of your mother’s. You sat on the edge of your bed wondering at the moment, how near or far, when you’d be on your knees, kneeling at your bedside, sucking on those beauties, while using one free hand to kneed, tickle, and massage your thankful shaft and testicles.


You remember the day that totem to your colorful debauchery came in the mail the way a happy housewife remembers the moment her now-husband fell to one knee and reached into a pocket with a blushing smile on his face. You remember the air and the smell of flowers through the window. You remembered it especially because your mom, in her faintly revealing purple blouse, had almost opened up the package in the kitchen, invading your desires, and seeing what it was you, her perverted little boy, had ordered for yourself. The monstrosity, a beautiful one, you brought under your mutual roof. Her breasts would have felt heavy on that day.


She would have stood there, beautifully defined jaw agape, staring down at the rubber breasts, held out in front of the ever-present view of her own breasts, like their mirror image, grinning dopplegangers heavy in her hands. The nipples on all four breasts before her, whether plastic or flesh, would be the same color. The shade the same as hers. The shape similar enough to make it clear you ordered from tellingly-vivid memory as if you had measured them yourself with a ruler and notebook one fine Sunday as she sat on the couch watching TV and she had just forgot. The thing was, your mom would have absorbed this shock, mothers taking them with as much adaptability as car suspension, the most malleable creatures on the planet. A child she birthed, bathed, and milked into a young man, now a snarling goblin for her never-naked chest.


But what could have been ruined, if you weren’t just so happening to be heading to the kitchen for a large glass of milk when that box made its way to that white kitchen table within the wonderful embrace of your mom’s delicate hands, was your greatest asset. The element of surprise. Because within that very same box next to those very same fake breasts was two more important fake devices. One was a USB phone charger that doubled as a camera. The other a pen that did the very same thing. They sat there symbolizing, in clear focus, the cruel depths of your perversion, a cascading walk of slate rock, descending into a hidden crevice miles beneath, so deep they earned none of the sound from the bustling city above. And with these weapons you’d wage jihad against the privacy of your mom’s chest. With these, you’d conquer those things like hills, and use her nipple as the base to which you flew that flag, an Iwo Jima on softer, sweet smelling, ground, spilling only tears and cum to earn it.


When you ripped the box from your mom’s hands (before she even knew you were in the room), she smiled, finding it humorous that she almost saw whatever pornographic content you were probably ashamed to be revealed to her motherly gaze. She was still living in the past, a time of actresses with looks of artificial lust, with their giant fake breasts made bare, their bodies a harmless tool for toothless commerce, clean money in exchange for a harmless thrill in a young man’s spine and God knows where else. The new naivete.


She was a bit off in her estimation of what porn was these days, lacking the vision, and the male mind, necessary to foresee its moonward trajectory. As she smiled to herself while putting the freshly purchased groceries in the cupboard, her bare feet earthily tapping on clean kitchen tile, lazy images of pornography of yesteryear, the then-shocking discoveries under the false bottom of her younger brother’s sock drawer a few decades prior, filled her smiling mind. All the while, you planted the technological miracles, of which your mom didn’t even have the imagination to possibly conceive of, never mind know, in their proper and longing place in her washroom.


Your mom smiled at the frantic, sweaty sounds of you ripping apart packaging, without entertaining the vulgar visual it implied, only connecting in the abstract the dots of a healthy young man’s Saturday afternoon. Her son, his magazine, and a pretty lady, one likely equal to her in form and worth as a human being, but differing in occupation and lifestyle. There was a pretty lady involved. A very pretty lady. Perhaps the prettiest. But that pretty lady was much more familiar to herself than she’d realize.




When her nipples found their freedom within the 8 by 11 embrace of Windows Media Player, you sucked in air and came all at once. It had happened. The cameras got nice intimate footage of your mom’s well-hid nakedness. It didn’t take long to destroy that well-hid adjective. It was as if you tore the top off of the mountain she was cowering in, a Hercules powered by the proud fuel you held in your testicles her tits jiggling after the tremor of her shock, at witnessing every woman’s worst enemy. Sunlight where it wasn’t wanted or expected.


Your mom’s oblivious breasts, beneath her oblivious face, poked in through the bedrooms of thousands of those shameless enough to search for such things. Those who were the least developed morally, the ones who in a just world would get no part of your mom’s naked self, were exactly the ones to be rewarded with it as a prize for letting their fingers wander across the face of their keyboards in unapproved ways. Your dream had been made real. Real, fleshy, and big. Your mom’s breasts, the nipples you licked for nourishment, would live on forever through the chaotic and rabid bandwidth that grasped the frothing collective beast that was the internet. On top of that, she’d be held within the golden-barred digital cages at the heart of every PC, her two giant breasts, shot clean in HD, as if they weren’t big enough, would take up space, multiple times over, cloned in their perfectness, multiplied over and over again within the vibrating techno chatter of cyberspace. Each breast a merciful island within that merciless sea of ones and zeroes which danced in conjunction, in every which combination to reproduce their perfect image. Math and science apexing to create this perfect moment of familial backstabbery, milking cum from its viewers, bucketsful in celebration of your little trot outside the boundaries of normal.


The frothing appreciation you received for this was more than the appreciation you had received for anything else in your life. You were being bathed, from the waist down, in the syrupy sweetness of “good jobs” and “keep it ups” “I came to this” which were then rubbed by soft hands into the soles of your feet, your inner thighs and your balls. You had lived a full life of events and actions, clothed in the jeans, socks and shoes that your mother had purchased for you, all coming to little more than blips on crowded radar screen, but now, naked from tummy to heel, you stood like a marble statue, hunched over like a goblin in your Legend of Zelda shirt, tugging your marble cock with one eye twitching for an eternity in a museum 3,000 miles from where you had been found. The accompanying statue discovered later and groped in private, your mom’s soft breasts captured by a genius in hard marble, her looks of naivete made goddess-like and strangely all-knowing by rough middle-aged hands in the public square, only to be dug up millennia later by the spades of a less sophisticated age. A great set of gorgeous titties to inspire the imaginations of eager museum goers, mostly teenage boys, open to the alien heroisms of a past peoples.


But like all markets, a flood of the goods meant a drop in value, as demand remained at the same, that being above and beyond the demand for all other things, men being unchanging in what they were and women being unchanged in what it was men wanted from them. Your mom’s breasts, through their gorgeous size, had become ubiquitous, as greedy for fame as they were for space, and by being ubiquitous, had become taken for granted. Good for a quick tug if one were to lose internet access and had to rely on a tried and true classic, but nothing more. The thrill had evaporated, leaving only small traces underneath their heaviness and along the sensitive areola of her nipple. The situation had gotten so bad that even voyeur threads on 4chan, where your mom was once the Queen of Hearts, Spades, Clubs, and Diamonds, had turned to ignoring your mom’s heavenly perfection in favor of naked forms half as attractive as hers, from women half her age and a third of her bust size. Her tits jiggled in vain. Your audience, insatiable piranhas that they were, needed something new. Something dangerous. Something as glorious on paper as your mom’s breasts on film.


You spent weeks walking around the edge of your bed, neglecting the plastic contraption that excited you so only a few weeks back, trying to cook up an idea within the bubbling kitchen of your mind. The heat within was atrocious but the recipe never came.


When it finally did come, it came external, as if falling from the sky for you. It landed in your lap one day when you received a fairy’s message on gmail that simply said “I know her. And I know you.” And below that, it had listed your home address. And then it said “Meet me at the Washington Mall food court. If you don’t come, I’ll call the cops.”


As terrified as you were, the earth a vibration around you, the fact that he knew where you lived, and he informed you about it, meant that he wasn’t a cop himself. If he was, you would have been in jail already, awaiting trial, torn from your mom’s hard nipple, remembering the exact moment its most extended part left the tip of your tongue. Your first interaction with him would have been on your doorstep, a proud enemy of your perversion. A proud enemy of all that was good. Restraining you by your wrists to limit the scope of your mind and cock. Punishing you in proportion to the joy you brought strangers. A martyr for a cause more noble than all others. You could breathe easy that this ugly outcome was not to be.


Second troublesome possibility, if he was interested in informing your mom, snitching to her as if a hero, but really pushed to do so by his own thrill, you would have found out about this through your mom gravely calling down the hallway saying she had to talk to you, followed by a terrible and unreal conversation with her in the terrible and unreal living room, with her big breasts ironically heaving in an erotic betrayal contrary to her sobs, a woman’s worst enemy always being her own body. As much as you would enjoy that visual, you could breathe knowing this was also not meant to be. Your mom’s tits sat smushed, stuffed almost, into her oblivious bra, underneath an oblivious shirt. That you were sure of. Just as sure as their jiggly dopplegangers sat under your bed.


The question then became, and it became it violently, what did he want? This was blackmail obviously, the only conclusion you could fish out from the deep cleavage of common sense. But for what? Was it for the smell and feel of money? Or was it for the smell and feel of flesh?


If it was for the former, you had no issue with withdrawing whatever this entrepreneur asked for from your mom’s savings account. She had slaved at her old job, under the dictates of her creepy fleshlight fingering boss, for that money, so making all that work, her breasts being ogled all the while, for naught would have been a quite a thrill, and quite a fitting lesson in fate being indifferent to the carefully constructed marvel of our plans. Very poetic. Your mom was more than worthy as a prospective protagonist within the too-real artifice of a Greek tragedy. As the worse of two outcomes, this one wasn’t too bad. And you knew you had ways to do it without your mom’s knowing, making your pokerface come easy as you watched the strange look of disbelief when looking at that number she knew and assumed to be much more full.


But that message, in all its enticing mystery, was for the flesh, fingers crossed behind your back as your mom whistles and cooks, that you had just stumbled upon the golden halls of El Dorado, or, more enticingly, dipped your mom, heel and all, within the last brook sprung from the now lost-due-to-wear-and-tear fountain of youth. Her titties jiggled as she scrambled eggs. Their fate being decided at this very moment, as malleable to the push and shaping of men as their spitting image lying under the darkness of your bedframe and mattress.


You arrived at the food court, floating, unable to contain your smile, ready to see your suitor and be his accomplice. The first man you saw that looked at you, as he sat over his big plate of fried chicken, was a fat, bald man, who only took his eyes off of you to get a look at one of the young women that passed. Oh, please let it be him, you thought. I’ll suggest him fucking her even if he goes for the money option.


But then he looked away. And he stayed looking away.


Then you caught eyes with a young man, Caucasian but a little dark, as if half or a quarter something else, scary as he was tall with a full head of black hair. He glared at you with rings under his eyes, wrapped in an antiquated leather jacket.


And then suddenly you felt a hand on your shoulder. You spun around and who you saw standing there caused your jaw to drop. The foodcourt had become silent in your mind.


The man standing before you, as if the universe was, and always had been, on your side, and it chose at this very moment to reveal this to you, was the best person it could have conceivably been in every way you could possibly measure or categorize. He was rude, he was arrogant, your mom had known him for years and hated every second of it. He was crazy for her tits and had promised those who had known your mom for just as long that he’d get them one day, a claim as absurd as any that have ever been made in all of recorded mankind. He went to your mom’s school, knowing her since the first grade, teasing her early on, and then switching gears awkwardly, after hers and his puberty changed her for the better, and him, somehow, for the worse. He decided he had discovered God when he discovered which church you and your mom attended, but he never truly believed until the very moment he stumbled onto your video. He was earlier than you. You never did until the moment you stumbled onto him here.


“So,” he started in his usual irritating ways. “you going to make my dreams come true?”


“That all depends,” you forced through clenched teeth. “You going to make my dream’s come true?”


He laughed and shook his head. “Out of all the sons she could have had - out of all the mothers your soul could have been born to - you were born to her. I can’t believe I’ve gotten this lucky.”


Your smile reached each ear. “Out of all the creeps who found what I posted - out of every minor pervert I know and who could have conceivably seen it - you, the pervert I dreamed of most is going to be the one to rip her naked body out of my dreams and set her onto your lap.”


"Blue velvet?” he whispered.


“Yes,” you whispered back. “And lots of it.”


“When is the soonest you want to do it?”


“Yesterday,” you said, and grunted.


He, smiling in return, said “How about this weekend?”


"It’ll be the longest wait in my life,” you explained, staring him in the eye, “but if you make it worth my while.”


"I have the blue in my car. You want to do the honors?”


“I thought you’d never ask.


You followed him to his car. The familiar old blue Chevette somehow sunk the reality of what it was that was happening, which ostensibly took on the weight of that blue Chevette, to sink so deeply into the liquid of your acceptance, that it touched ground that you hadn’t even known was there, setting up a puff of sand. He pulled out a twisted-up baggie from the disaster area that was his back seat and handed it to you out in the open as if it wasn’t the public enemy number 1 of every cop and young girl in the country.


“You have to be careful she doesn’t catch you,” he said, suddenly seeming to care about being discreet. “You need to sink it in something that will hide any trace of the stuff. You got any idea?” he asked and handed you the bag.


You shoved it into your sweater’s pocket quickly. “Yeah,” you said as you wrapped your full palm around the bag as if you were afraid it would run away. “I think I do.”



--------------------------




“Why does this milk look blue?” your mom asked you, as she looked from the bottom of the glass.


“Sometimes milk gets a little blue when the cow eats too much grass,” you explained, and you looked closely at it yourself, as if empathizing with where your mom was coming from, not as if you were checking to see if the two pills inside had completely dissolved.


“Really?” your mom asked, looking baffled. “I’ve never heard of anything like that.”


“Yeah,” you said.


“You sure know a lot about milk.”


You looked down at her big breasts, then back up to her face “I swim in a milk called life,” you said.


Your mom’s face took on a comically surprised appearance. “Huh,” she said. “I never knew my boy was a little poet.”


“You don’t know a lot about me, mom.”


“Oh, please,” she said, and smiled. “I’ve raised you since the very beginning. I know everything about you.” She took a sip of the milk.


“Mother’s intuition?” you asked.


“You’re darn right,” she said and grinned. Then she downed the rest of the glass. “I know all your secrets, sweety.”


You decided to let her believe that, and you grabbed her empty glass, realizing only now how much you overdid it, the glass likely permanently stained blue. Either way, that residue was the minuscule leftovers of everything that was inside your mom now. The whole universe bounced and jiggled now at the rhythm of your mom’s breasts. A rhythm as old as time and as reliable as the pendulum on a clock.


Thanks for life mom, you thought. Thanks for the milk.


When you came back to the living room, putting your phone back into your pocket, your mom stared, not at you, or through you, or even passed you. The blacks of each eyes were a different size oasis. Her breasts remained the same. The same size they were when you used to suckle on and lick at them. Your mom’s beauty was the same. Her ass was roughly the same. It was only you that had changed. You were bigger. Not just in the body, but in the brain. The little erection you would randomly pop in the shower with your mom was now a lot bigger. Your penis nicely formed, it the same shade as your mother’s face, except for at the curve of your balls, which resembled the rings under her eyes.


Your dreams got bigger too. You were the only man whose dreams got bigger with age. The only man who never got the memo that men shouldn’t dare to dream this big, as if their necks got weaker with age and could no longer support a head swollen with what-ifs. And now here you were, standing there, looking on as your mom babbled incoherently into a void, unbelieving in the sweet, soft reality that you were always right to dream.


The living room had become like a womb, shielding you from the cold-hard reality that existed in all directions outside of itself. And you were just about to pull your mom’s breasts out of their cage, and see what you haven’t for 18 years when that sleepy wonderland was penetrated by something from outside. A sound.


The doorbell was ringing.


You opened the door to see him for a second time in the last few days. And just as you reached out to grab him and pull him in, cops jumped out from around every bush and car, as if it were the opening of a musical number. They grabbed the two of you and slapped on handcuffs. And you spent weeks in jail, and then sat in front of a jury of disapproving faces, some only half believing, looking like the twelve disciples and then sitting on a bus pulling up outside a prison, the walls as grey as you felt. And your mom in all black, weeping into a tissue through glass, and you begging her to lift her shirt and press her lovely breasts, the only things you’ve ever wanted, against the glass in full view of the CO. And her denying you. And you weeping in turn, knowing that you were in a building full of men who wanted her, and were willing to take her, but that thin layer of bullet proof glass was there to stop them. And if it wasn’t the glass, it was the concrete and the barbed wire and the riflemen tower, all evil and sick and vengeful against beauty. And then you were ushered back to your cell, and you stare up at the roof as you jerk off, and suddenly the roof split open, and blinding light comes through. And you scramble for the light. And you grasp it and you pull yourself through. And you see an image. Something strange. Something beautiful. Something that you need.


And then your eyes finally focus.





You wake up from the most frightful nightmare you had ever had, ironically spurred on by a pleasure at seeing him standing there so intense it caused you to pass out as if you had been the one to drink your mom’s glass of milk, and you awoke to the most beautiful dream. But this dream was real. Your mom’s nipples like irises, staring at you in disbelief, googly-eyed. The skin of her breast erotically aged since you seen them last, as if this so happened to be their highest moment now, with everything before a buildup, and all after their decline. Your mom, the only woman whose breasts improved with age the way some women’s asses do.


“Yeah, man. She’s right here,” he said into his phone. “Look. Let me show you.” He turned on his camera and began filming. You had no idea who he was talking to and you didn’t care. You were just happy he could show off. You removed your pants and pulled them down, and began tugging your prick, which was all the way hard, as he filmed.


“Am I in the shot?” you asked, face flushed and desperate.


“No, man,” he said through trembles. “Don’t worry.”


“No!” you said. “Get me in the shot. I want them to see me.”


Your pride was warranted. Your mom’s huge tits bouncing for the two of you, like two twenty-somethings giggling on trampolines. Real. No longer just her digital and plastic dopplegangers. They were right here. No longer just a forgotten memory or desired fantasy.


He stripped him and her completely nude just as you stripped yourself. And the three of you were now a naked mess of surface, flat or round, smooth or with grip, bodies feeling and giving pleasure in all directions, with only knees, hands, bottoms and feet to keep your on the floor, as if if you didn’t, you’d all be weightless, gliding slowly through the etherealness of it all, your mom’s breasts slowly turning in opposite directions, or against and into one another, making contact, rippling, and then going their own separate ways, her hair like Elvira’s.


As if in celebration of your birth, he kneeled down to her most sacred place.




His tongue penetrated and probed it, as if trying to know and understand it, spelunking through it and its particularities, as if home in its own claustrophobia. Its walls loosened with age and procreation, but still tight enough to put up a fight. His tongue occasionally drawing back slightly to touch guch and butthole. Her entire nether-region a saliva-soaked mess, the place where her thighs became her ass wet with the same piece of him he used to seal envelopes and wet his thumb to turn through the pages of his dad’s old playboy magazines.


She enjoyed it, though she wasn’t aware of it or would remember. Nor would she remember your grabbing the sole of her foot and kissing it out of affection for her and what she was doing for you now. Her toes wiggled against your cheek.




You then helped reposition her body so that he could enter her with the source of every man’s joy. You didn’t have to push for her to slide down nicely along the length of his shaft until reaching his balls, her own weight did it as it was the path of least resistance then, as if it had always been that way. As if that had been determined the first time he made her cry. The detracting voices in her mind, which all sounded like him, quiet now, as his real voice played the braggart below her without her knowing or being able to know. The strength of her womanliness against his manhood extracting praise from his big mouth, where once there was only cruelty. Watching this now, you would think that justice was a universal.


Her penetration a delight, the concrete chunk that sat at the lowest dip in your knowledge, that she was being raped. A beautiful word that one. Your mom another name on that ever-growing list. There was nothing more wonderful than deciding for a woman what should and shouldn’t go into her holes. Their decisions always being the worst. Their consciousness itself only a factor to make their violation more complete. After all, you can’t violate what doesn’t fight back. And you can’t truly enjoy what is as common as sand.


You sat on the floor, tugging yourself with power, your mom’s consciousness pinned between the triangle of your two butt cheeks and the carpet, screaming, and you happy to keep it there. You owed nothing to it. Maybe mockery. Maybe scorn. But that was it.




Her vacant body continued to live up to the wonder that her consciousness deprived it of. That’s all it took, was a healthy trick. Just a flick of the wrist and her body was free from its most evil part. Her tits bounced in his face and he licked at them, motorboated, and occasionally held the nipple in place between his lips as the rest of the tit accomadated itself around his chin, cheeks and nose. As he sucked on the breasts you wanted to suck on, he pushed deep into the orifice that you’ve wanted your entire life to crawl back inside of and sleep in.


It was as if he were trying to loosen it with his girth so you could crawl back inside her and live behind her giant breasts. Becoming her from within so that you could improve her life through the simple act of walking her down back alleys off skid row, and bending over for her so she could get fucked behind a dumpster by god-knows-who or what. Gobbling pricks with her mouth to completion and swallowing what they give her as if it were payment. Using her tongue to push gently into tender testicles, hitting their most sweet spots, with first-hand knowledge of where they are. Eating the ass of the homeless and obese and surviving off a diet of high-carbs, bread and pasta, and sweet glasses of investment banker urine.


Paying reperations in the innercity with her big white breasts and thighs, until her holes become so useless that you could make good money with her by filling them with comically large cylindrical objects. A complete menace running at men so sudden that they run at first out of instinct, before happily turning on their heels and secumbing to the universe’s first female rapist. Trying to force her entire D-sized breast in their mouths. Making Mother Mary look unmiraculous and Lady Godiva like a prude.




Your mom a stuffed wonder, you watched the improved her become one with your nondad. Her tits a phenomenon, and her crevices between thigh and crotch stretched open to breathe, as if those lines, the products of age, were being massaged out of her by the vibrations in her flesh.


“Oh my god,” he said as he pounded. “I don’t want to even think about how tight it must have been before.” You were relieved to learn that your birth hadn’t ruined her. But you couldn’t help but grieve for what she might have been without it, reflecting on the irony that whatever it was, he would never find out, as you wouldn’t be here to give her to him. But apparently it didn’t matter, because “she’s like a twenty year old. Ffuucckk! I’m going to cum!”


He pulled out his cock, which almost looked like it had gotten bigger since being inside your mom, and then her brought her to her knees and pressed it into her mouth. Just a second before getting it in, the first volley of his sweet nectar rocketed out onto your mom’s twtiching nose. And that was the last bit to touch anywhere outside of the humid home of her mouth and throat.


“Oh fucking titties!” he groaned as he came down her throat, filling her with the same wet, sticky fuel that she perculated within him when she assaulted his senses with her naked breasts over the internet. When his orgasm was complete, and his soul unburdened, he got up, looking satiated, and he put on his pants, zipped up, and moved towards the door while pulling his shirt on. When his head came through the neck of his shirt he asked “next week?” as if your answer were already determined.


You nodded your head as you tugged on yourself more.


“Good,” he said, as he grabbed the handle to your front door. “I’ll make sure to bring friends.”


“Yes,” you begged. “Bring friends. Bring lots of them.”


As soon as he shut the door, you scrambled to your feet and approached your mom. Her face looked peaceful. Her breasts awake, one looking up at your face, the other at your hard phallus. You fell to your knees and looked at them up close. It was then that you realized that your mom perfumes them. They smelled like roses and look twice as sweet. You imagined her in her room lifting each breast, like a Lady Atlas, and sending a cloud of rose-scent underneath them to be locked within, as if she were preparing for this day without knowing it.


“They’re mine,” you said to yourself, aloud. And then you leaned in close and you opened your mouth. And suddenly you felt them touch your lips. You were so enthralled with the moment that you could have died on top of her like that.


Once you gained a grip on them, you let your tongue protrude, and you could feel the world fall away from you in all directions as soon as you felt that nipple on your tongue’s tip. You let your tongue drag across it slowly, as if you were afraid it would all disappear at the slightest pressure or noise. And when your tongue made its way entirely around its circumference, you suddenly began to laugh into your mom’s breast. Then you let your tongue dance and slide across the nipple until it got hard in your mouth.

And then you sucked. And when you did, you felt it. And your eyes went wide. You pulled your head back, distrusting the sensation and taste on your tongue alone and looking to your eyes for a second opinon. And you saw it dripping down from her nipple, white and pure.


It was milk.


You leaned in for more. And when you began to pull on it, the way one does on a cigarette, you felt your mouth fill with it gorgeously. It started to fill your mouth faster than you could suck it back, and lines of it rolled down her breast towards her center mass, between both boobs. You made “mmm mmm” noises as you sucked, and your mind was clear of all other things. Just the purity of that milk. No artificial preservatives, no steroids or gene editing. Just pure, motherly milk. You pushed your mom further into the couch as you drew milk into your hungry stomach. Then you crawled onto the couch with her without removing your mouth from her nipple. You only pulled your mouth off after a gulp to ask your mom if she wanted some. She just sat there, peaceful. And you sucked it from her until you had a mouthful, opened her mouth with your thumb on her chin, and you let it spill inside, bathing her pink tongue in it. You then kissed her on her lips, and closed her mouth again.


After you were satiated as a calf, you opened up your mom’s legs to see where it all started. Your first introduction into this world, wailing in terror, only for her to grab you and hold you there. After penetrating her with your fingers and then your tongue, a thought occurred to you. You leaned your head in and tried to press it through her lips, wondering, even hoping, that you could fit the whole thing inside.


After trying for a while, it became obvious that it wouldn’t be possible. At least not on this day.


To pay your mom for all the milk she gave you with her breasts, you gave her milk of your own with your dick, which you extracted from yourself through a thorough fucking of her face, which was rough uncompromising and noisy. And then you cleaned her up and dressed her up as if nothing had happened. Any man who walked in then would have seen her simpy as potential for endless pleasure, rather than what she was, a ground zero for the endless pleasure that had just occurred.


You had done such a great job that when she woke up the next morning, she hadn’t noticed a thing. She was as oblivious as someone who ws only born yesterday, and she remained as pure as rain, as if nothing had changed. For her it hadn’t. For you, nothing was the same. She was like the conquered soil of peasents who took no side in a conflict, farming and whistling before the war’s first cannon shot, and farming and whistling after its final route. Her titties like punching bags, utilized without concern or empathy, yet clean of all bruises or brands.


You had pulled it off. You did it. Did it without kaveat or blowback. And you were set to do it more in the near future. Those googly-eye looking breasts knew what the eyes on your mom’s face would never know.


And your pokerface stood firm, even as she asked you about the half a dozen unlabeled jars of milk now sitting on the latticed shelves of the fridge. And when she asked you why they all had a little bit of a blue tinge, you came back with the only answer you could muster: “It must be something they’re feeding the cows.”

3,258 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Comments


Post: Blog2_Post
bottom of page