Facets of Love

To my faithful followers and new readers: This is the fourth chapter of a twelve-chapter story. The entire book is already written, and I will do my best to get each chapter published as quickly as Lit allows.

In this chapter, Mary, Robert, and Martha, each in their own way, deal with the sorrow of Frank's death and the trials of living with a newborn child.

All characters participating in or observing sexual activity are at least eighteen years old. The author is well over the age of consent.

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Facets of Love

Chapter 4

-

Robert Ryan Jones

September 2018

Frank's funeral was a tough one. It seemed so unfair that a man, who appeared to be perfectly healthy, would die a week after the birth of his first grandchild and a month before his fiftieth birthday. His memorial service filled the church with friends, relatives, and business associates. It was the first time both Frank's and Martha's parents had been in the same room together since Mary was born.

I tried to be the stoic one. The strong, dry-eyed man, who held everything together. And I was doing okay until Robbie started crying while James gave the eulogy. That's when I remembered Frank's last words to me.

"Listen son. If this goes south, I want you to promise me you'll take care of her."

At the time, I didn't realize the importance of his words. Hell, I didn't even know what he was asking. I first thought he wanted me to take care of Mary. Did he really think I'd abandon his daughter if he died? And even when he clarified it and said he wanted me to also take care of Martha, I still didn't get the subtle shift until the funeral.

That was the first time he called me 'son'. Before, it was always 'boy', 'rookie', 'new guy', or, when he was either pissed at me or in a joking mood, 'asshole'. But the last time he spoke to me, he called me "son". While James continued to extoll his brother's many virtues, I realized what I was going to miss. Frank was the dad I lost and the grandfather my son would never have.

So, I wept. I put my arms around Mary and Robbie and wept.

-

As much as we thought it might, the world didn't stop turning when Frank died. People still needed cardboard boxes, our workers still needed paychecks, and Mary needed to eat so Robbie would have milk to drink. Which still amazed me. How was it possible for Mary to put pizza, sweet tea, and brussel sprouts into her mouth and, an hour later, squirt milk out of her boobs. I don't care how smart computers got; no machine could match the human body.

Which is as good a segue as I'll ever get to the next shocking event in my life.

Like I said previously, once we put Frank in the ground, the best thing for all of us was to get on with our lives. James and I worked feverishly trying to figure out how to run the company without Frank's leadership. James obviously took over, but he had always been more of the marketing and political genius while Frank kept the assembly line open. James leaned heavily on me to help with the day-to-day grind of keeping the machines and people on task. We put in lots of long days and caught up with paperwork during the weekend.

Mary obviously had her hands full, finding out that Robbie was a hell of a lot easier to handle when he was in her tummy than when he escaped to the real world. Despite Robbie waking up three or four times a night, Mary seemed to have a handle on the motherhood thing and really didn't need much help from either Martha or me. Which was a problem.

Martha purposely cancelled all of her September client sessions so she would be available to help Mary with the baby. But, since Mary had everything under control, Martha didn't have anything to do except grieve the loss of her husband. To say she was acting strangely was a gross understatement.

Before Robbie was born and Frank died, our morning routine was fairly simple. Mary woke me up with a blow job. I went on a three-mile run and cooled down in the kitchen with a cup of coffee while Martha fixed breakfast in her night gown. Mary, Frank, Martha, and I all ate breakfast together. Mary and I showered together and then I left for work. I'm not sure what Frank and Martha did after breakfast, but I always got to the factory a half hour before Frank.

Things changed after the funeral. First off, I no longer got my wakeup blow job. It took Robbie a while to get his nights and days figured out so, after keeping Mary awake most of the night, both he and Mary slept in until well after 9:00 am.

Not a problem. Using an old-fashioned alarm clock to wake me up, I still went on my morning run and cooled down while drinking coffee in the kitchen. I told her she didn't have to, but Martha still got up early and fixed me breakfast, in her night gown, even though neither Frank nor Mary would be down to share it with us.

I'm ashamed to admit that, just like when Frank was alive, during the few minutes when it was only Martha and me in the kitchen, I continued to enjoy an occasional glance at the outline of Martha's unrestrained boobs as the morning sun made her diaphanous gown essentially transparent.

At the time, I thought it was a good thing. Not me perving over my mother-in-law's boobs. I'm talking about Martha fixing breakfast. She had been getting up early to prepare the morning meal for eighteen years. Sticking to old routines was probably a healthy way to heal from her loss.

All that changed the morning I came back from my run to find Martha in a robe instead of her customary nighty. And she wasn't fixing breakfast.

"Are you alright?" I asked.

"I... I need you to do something for me."

"Okay."

"It's something Frank promised me he'd do but-" a soft sob kept her from continuing.

"Whatever it is, I'll do it."

"No. I shouldn't ask. It isn't right."

"Come on Martha. This is a tough time for all of us. Just tell me what you need, and I'll get right on it."

"I need ... I need you to suck on my breasts." To emphasize her point, she opened her robe to reveal that all she had on underneath it was a pair of light blue panties.

"It isn't what you think," she continued as I stood immobile, not knowing what to do. "I've been taking hormones to trick my body into thinking it was pregnant so I could make my breasts lactate, but it won't work unless somebody starts sucking on them and Frank was supposed to help me but he's gone and I want to help Mary nurse Robbie so you and Mary won't have problems and the breast pump isn't working so I thought, if you sucked on them..."

Martha continued her monologue, but I pretty much quit listening when she showed me her boobs and asked if I would suck on them. Martha's breasts were the second best I'd ever seen, topped only by her daughter's. Full, round, well-shaped and, despite their age, with only a little sag. Her areolas were perfectly symmetrical with a slight caramel coloring. And her nipples, oh my god her nipples. They stood erect and proud, beckoning me to them like the sirens called out to Odysseus.

A stronger man might have said no. A true saint would have suggested she find somebody else for the task. I was neither. I was a man whose lips hadn't touched his wife's nips since his son was born. A man who was accustomed to going to sleep with hands full of breast flesh and waking up with a set of soft lips around his pecker, neither of which I'd enjoyed for a fortnight.

Like a zombie, I walked across the kitchen, knelt down, and latched on to my mother-in-law's breast like a wino with a bottle of five-dollar wine. I sucked, and kissed, and licked while Martha kept explaining why this wasn't what it seemed to be and how it was in all of our best interests. Sometime, when I was sucking and she was rambling, I thought I heard the words "Nipple Envy". I might have stopped to ask, "what the hell is Nipple Envy", but right after she said it, I tasted the first drop of milk and heard Martha moan.

-

Dr. Martha Spencer

It wasn't an orgasm. The first time Robert sucked on my boobs; I didn't come.

Admittedly, I probably let out a satisfied sigh when I felt my milk come down for the first time since I stopped nursing Mary. But it wasn't a sexual response. It couldn't be because we weren't having sex. What occurred that morning was a necessary step in a complicated medical procedure. Using Robert's lips to induce lactation was no different than a doctor using his finger to check a man's prostrate. Slightly embarrassing but completely normal.

I made the ultimate sacrifice. Instead of mourning the loss of my husband, I chose to devote the rest of my life to my daughter and grandson. Just like a nun devoting her body and soul to the Lord, I was eschewing any future chances of personal pleasure in exchange for the betterment of what remained of my family. Agreeing to let Robert touch my breasts, the man who literally stole away my daughter's future, was evidence of how deeply I was committed to my quest.

After he emptied my left breast and transitioned to the right, any sounds I made were also not the results of his inappropriate but necessary intimacy. If I whined, whimpered, or keened while he hungrily drank what rightfully belonged to my grandson, those noises were nothing more than an expression of my dedication to the cause.

To make it perfectly clear, I, in no way, enjoyed what Robert did to me that morning. I also didn't enjoy it when we repeated the process the next morning... and the five mornings which followed. I had no choice. If I was to help Mary nurse her baby, if I was to take an active role in raising my grandson, as unpleasant and demeaning as it was, I had to let Robert suckle my breasts daily. I considered using a breast pump but, to initially get the milk flowing, all the literature said "skin on skin" contact was the best.

Unfortunately, Robert didn't understand. I tried my best. I explained how the hormone treatments simulated pregnancy and why tactile stimulation was required to complete the transition. I went into great detail about both the physiology and psychology of my plan. But once I dropped my robe and exposed my breasts, his ears and brain shut down and his penis assumed control.

He did exactly what I told him to do. I asked him to suck on my breasts and he willingly complied. But his motivation was completely different than mine. I was making the altruistic sacrifice of a saint. He was following the instincts of his neanderthal ancestors. My conscience was clear. His cock was hard.

In retrospect, I shouldn't have been surprised by his response. His attraction to my naked breasts, his inability to resist my nipples, his appetite for my milk... they all reinforced my "Nipple Envy" theory. What used to belong exclusively to him was now dominated by his son.

Having identified the disease, my next step was to discover a cure. Specifically, how could a dedicated sex and marriage therapist, like me, guide my clients through the difficult issues of Nipple Envy? The answer to that profound question would only be found through additional research.

-

Robert Ryan Jones

Martha kept doing it.

I'd come home from my morning run to find her in the kitchen with a robe on. She'd give me a few minutes to cool down and drink a cup of coffee and then invite me to suck on her boobs. After the third or fourth time, I figured out the routine and, after drinking my coffee, walked over, and started sucking without waiting for an invitation.

I obviously didn't say much. Hard to talk when you're drinking milk. Surprisingly, after the first time, Martha too was uncharacteristically quiet. There were times when she'd ramble on about how what we were doing would not only help my marriage but also her clients. I half listened and never commented. In my mind, she was a widow who liked getting her boobs sucked and, if she needed a bunch of psychobabble to justify what she was doing, who was I to call her on it? She had the PhD, and I had my mother-in-law's tit in my mouth.

However, most of our morning activities were done in relative silence. And once we were done, we never discussed it, not between the two of us and certainly not with Mary.

This went on for just over a week. I got up early, went for a run, emptied both of Martha's impressive breasts, and then quickly retreated to the bathroom to get ready for the workday. Full disclosure. By the time I got in the shower, I had an erection that would make Godzilla proud. Martha may have thought we were doing medical research but try telling that to my poor neglected pecker. Some days, I took a cold shower and let the monster naturally subside. Others, I steamed up the bathroom with warm water and painted the tile shower walls with sperm.

On the eighth or maybe ninth day, Martha made a slight change to the routine. I'd just finished with her right tit...

For some reason, I always did her left boob first and then transitioned to the right. I'm not sure if that was the order my mom used when she breast fed me or if I was partially dyslexic. Not that I cared, but I bet Martha would eventually write a paper about it.

Anyway, I'd just finished draining her second tit and was looking forward to jumping into the shower when Martha kneeled in front of me and pulled my running shorts down to my ankles. Which put my body in a bit of a quandary.

A nearly naked woman was kneeling in front of me. The second-best pair of tits in Tampa hung tantalizingly close to my knees. Her hand was doing amazing things to my already hard cock. And her tongue, when not flapping in her mouth, was alternately licking the sweat off my balls, and exploring the tiny slit of my shaft. But, instead of getting to the good part, instead of spreading her lips and letting the horse run wild, she spent the next five minutes teasing my testicles while explaining the science behind what she was going to do next.

She was going to give me a blow job. I knew that as soon as she pulled my pants down. At least I assumed that was what she had in mind. But the lecture on why she was going to "perform the act of fellatio on my male member" and what it "signified in the context of a successful marriage" had a negative effect on my erection. Yep, she damn near talked my woody down to a twig.

If it hadn't been over two weeks since my last blow job and since I didn't want to reject my newly widowed mother-in-law, I would have been tempted to pull my shorts back up and head for the shower. But I didn't.

And when she got to it, I was glad I didn't turn her away.

It wasn't as good as Mary's morning blow jobs. My wife did things with her tongue, lips, and tonsils that defied the laws of physics and anatomy. And, while Martha made a valiant effort to take my entire length, unlike Mary, Martha's nose never quite made it to my close cropped manscape. But once Martha got my dick in her mouth, my cock quickly came back to a rigid position of attention and, despite her ineffective verbal foreplay, the end result was just what the doctor ordered. I came like a pent-up geyser, and, to my great surprise and delight, Martha swallowed like a dehydrated camel.

Forgive me for what I'm doing Frank, but thanks for training her well.

-

Dr. Martha Spencer

As soon as I swallowed a load of Robert's sperm, I knew I had crossed the line.

No, I wasn't instantly addicted to his cum. That only happened in the online porn stories that fed my male clients' unrealistic fantasies. The border I crossed was the ethical boundary between objective scientific observer and active participant. And it wasn't the possible negative reaction of my professional peers that worried me. I had always pushed the frontiers of what was acceptable in the field of sexual therapy. My concern was, "what would Frank think of my actions"?

In my mind, my motives were pure. I had already observed Robert's positive reaction to a Nipple Envy therapy technique. He was upset when he no longer had access to his wife's boobs. I gave him a temporary replacement and, from what I observed, he responded well.

The next logical test was to provide a suitable substitute for something else his son had temporarily taken from him. Sexual release.

After my morning milking, I performed fellatio on Robert and again, he responded positively. Extremely positively. So positively, I thought he might suffocate me with his cock and then drown me in his cum (which, now that I think about it, was rather tasty).

It took me a while to think through my moral dilemma. Which wasn't an issue because, without Frank by my side, I didn't have anything better to do with my time. After several stress filled nights of tossing and turning, I concluded that the benefits my research would bring to society more than offset the shame of giving a young man a couple of blow jobs. So, I continued my project, comfortable in the knowledge that, if Frank were still alive, he would understand my reasoning and applaud my conviction.

Robert and I repeated our new routine every morning for another week. He sucked my boobs. I sucked his dick. I know that sounds crass. Taken out of context, it might be text lifted directly from a trashy sex story. But the truth is just the opposite. What I did to him and let him do to me was all in support of my daughter.

He drank from my nips to keep my milk flowing so I'd be able to give Robbie his evening feeding which would let Mary spend some quality time with her husband. But, knowing it would be a while before Mary would want to have sex again, I selflessly gave her husband an occasional blow job so she wouldn't have to until she was ready.

And that led directly to the next stage of my program. There would eventually be a time when Robbie started sleeping through the night, when Mary was no longer chronically fatigued, when her body recovered from the trauma of childbirth and her libido returned to whatever she considered normal. When Mary was comfortable with me giving her son his evening meal and ready to resume having sex with her husband, I wanted to make damn sure she got what she deserved.

The last and final step in my plan was to teach Robert how to properly pleasure a woman.

Unorthodox? Certainly.

Immoral? Possibly.

But we're talking about my only daughter's happiness.

I had no idea what went on in their bedroom. For all I knew, Robert forced himself on Mary, had his way with her, and was sound asleep before she got even slightly aroused. The sad truth is that, to make a baby, only the man has to have an orgasm.

Not on my watch.

Not with my daughter.

I didn't care how long it would take, how many times I'd have to be with him. No matter what it took, I was determined that my daughter would always cum before her man.

-

Robert Ryan Jones

A couple of weeks after Martha changed my breakfast menu from ham and eggs to freshly squeezed breast milk, a fortnight after she changed her choice of morning attire from a flimsy night gown to an easily opened robe, seven days after she swallowed her first load of my cum, Martha again surprised me with yet another wardrobe adjustment.

On that particular morning, she was completely naked underneath when she opened her robe to offer me her breasts. No panties. At first, I thought she had simply forgotten to put them on. Not that I could remember a day in my life that I neglected to put on my underwear, but Martha was going through a lot, so, I figured it was a possibility and tried not to stare at her nicely trimmed pussy. Instead, I gave one boob a gentle squeeze while I took her other nipple in my mouth and started sucking.